#somehow. a man from the lower quarter knows. exactly where someone's room is. in the castle.

[goldentigerfestival]

Time to start sectioning my points off because they're so long! :D

Localization etc:

I feel like the dub didn't put as much importance in the fact that they've been friends most of their lives. Not textually, but by nuance. The text is all there - them always saying this that and the other thing that they know about each other, but it just sounds... more plain in English, like matter-of-fact speaking. Less heartfelt I guess? And yeah, half of their "arguments" in English are more just... them talking in JP. They're used to each other's behavior and habits enough that it really isn't that serious.

Oh yeah that was totally Rays lmao my bad. I sometimes get the two mixed up just on the sheer fact that I consumed content for them pretty much simultaneously. That doesn't change the fact that Asteria did give us Yuri and Flynn as knights together to start off Yuri's story though (and they literally fuckin' went "oh and here's Asbel... and Richard. in Yuri and Flynn's part." woof. real subtle, that one!), so Asteria still stuck to the usual guns. I can pretty much guarantee any side story Yuri would've gotten in Crestoria would've heavily involved Flynn and him being completely distraught over Yuri being a transgressor. I can't imagine there'd be any other way for that to go; it's more of a matter of what they'd do for Yuri from there, and I'm sure Flynn would come to an understanding with him.

See you having a degree in JP and me having very on and off understanding (you could say entire sentences I won't understand squat of, but then sentences I completely understand) makes it even more wild to me LOL. Just like, how much of a noticeable difference everything is, not just in tone but in text. Even someone a lot less proficiency in the language can pick up on how vastly different some stuff is. I'm sure some of it was due to crunch time originally, but the fact that they didn't go back and fix anything when they re-released the game from the remake is just pure laziness.

They also clearly didn't check with the original script at all, so things just don't match up (Flynn saying "good luck out there" after Yuri learns Final Gale is like... wait but you're going with us). That plus all the grammatical errors, textual dialogue not matching up with vocal dialogue, and the weirdly worded stuff that was almost certainly put in as a placeholder but forgotten about just tells me they really didn't put a whole lot of care into the DE localization.

It's been a couple years since I watched a walkthrough of Arise (my computer couldn't handle it even from the demo LOL, I had to watch it), but I recall some similar issues like that popping up there too? Apparently Berseria skits toward the end of the game very clearly used text to speech too and released as a final product that way? I don't know if it's been updated since I haven't played the game, but I feel like western Bamco's care for Tales games is pretty miniscule at best. Hearts R was a mess and it killed me hearing the vocal dialogue and seeing the nonsense text (it wasn't even grammatical etc so much as just... what were they even trying to do other than be quirky?), and that's on top of the fact that they didn't even bother giving it English voiceover period.

Part of me is glad for it if only because I wasn't locked into English dialogue (COUGHS ON GRACES which ironically had a pretty close tl/loc from my understanding (I started with a fan sub when it was out on the Wii, so it was only later that I watched a YT playthrough dubbed, and now there's a playlist of an undubbed version using loc text and JP audio) but the voice acting was sub par and the skits sounded like compressed audio files) where I couldn't hear the difference if I had been, but the other part of me is clawing chalkboards over the huge disconnect of what I'm hearing and reading.

I think all of that on top of the fact that they for some reason refuse to call voice actors back just puts me off so much more on localized Tales. Part of me wants a remake for Legendia, but I'm also like... there's no way they'd actually bring every voice actor back, so they'd either have to keep the dialogue like with Vesperia and just add new parts, or they'd change everything and all the actors (which the latter I think they'd do for all the new stuff anyway). Considering they literally replaced Shiloh Strong in ToS2 despite that he'd also recently voiced Moses in Legendia (and he, like Troy, told a fan they never even contacted him to return as Zelos), at this point I have no high hopes or faith in how much they care about bringing VAs back.

And really, that's a huge disconnect I think in how something like Vesperia is so differently understood in the west. Our VAs don't get the same direction or dedicated to their role (as in, they're not given the same life commitment someone like Toriumi has because he voices Yuri pretty much regularly due to gacha games and every other goddamn crossover he's been in LOL). With western Bamco in particular, other companies aside, it's especially bad. Vesperia got lucky with how many people they brought back, as absolutely jarring as Leblanc and Don are to listen to in the DE. ToS2 got like, one or two voice actors back.

I'm hoping something changes with that going forward (i.e. they actually make more effort to brings VAs back in a similar fashion to how JP VAs keep their roles almost permanently save for retirement/death/a huge scandal that doesn't get roped in quick enough - which like, Takahiro Sakurai broke my heart with that scandal having been a dedicated fan of his most of my life lol), but I'm sad to think Troy may be off the role for good.

Troy's direction was pretty much wildly incorrect in a lot of spots, but he at least did the part well and did it justice for what he had to work with. Grant George sounds extremely emotionless as Yuri and based on what I've heard of his acting in other roles, they really tried to force his voice to mimic Troy's and it... sounded like he was trying too hard, because he doesn't sound quite like that in his other roles.

I personally think his voice just doesn't work for Yuri (it's even deeper than Troy's and even more serious, and if we thought Troy was a giant step away from Toriumi's acting, Grant's is even further away), and if Yuri ever appears in anything dubbed again, I really hope they bring Troy back. It's ironic how First Strike brought Sam and Troy back only to replace every single other VA... and then do the exact opposite for the DE. Sam is the sole survivor lmao (and he's quite good at his role at least, and a lot closer to Mamoru like you said, than how Troy and Grant are with Toriumi).

I gotta be honest, if they won't bring Troy back, I'm probably never willingly listening to anything Vesperia related dubbed again LMAO. I won't be able to deal with Grant voicing Yuri, much less with the direction he was already given as a hint of how that would continue to go. I also haven't really seen any love for Yuri from Grant so like... it's a huge bummer. Troy at least loved his role and Toriumi's a lifer, but I've never seen or heard anything about Grant really just going through it as a passing job (which would be valid given his very limited time in the role and was more of a fill in, but we don't know if that would change and if he'd keep the role going forward if Yuri had more dubbed appearances). I guess for me Yuri is too precious of a character and memory for me (man was my resident idol as a teenager LOL) to have someone voicing him who may not really care about him as a role or have that same passion.

All that said about the localizations, I have no idea exactly who localized Crestoria, but they did a relatively good job with it (Mileena in Rays, at least from what I've heard in any voiced stuff I could find online, had some pretty big flavor text additions/changes and I don't know why or why they went so hard with it). Unfortunately I don't know that the same people would be localizing any main entries going forward, but I want to at least hope it's a decent sign that maybe they'll care more in the future... but again, since it was a gacha, I'm not so sure they'll have that level of commitment for a mainline entry that's going to have a lot more text to work on.

Queerness + modern Tales:

As for the queerness, I agree! Tales at least has kinda always had the queer coding (I would not consider Dhaos "manly standards" from his time, and they followed that up with Leon, eventually we landed ourselves a Zelos and arguably a Mao, had Jay thrown right into our faces, and so on... and eventually we ran into Richard which. Well. ...Wait most of my faves are queer coded I think I'm onto something LMAO), but Vesperia was a lot more front and center with it.

Funny thing is, when I first played Vesperia which had to have been like 2008/2009 because I was going into highschool/just starting out in highschool (mainly just that I'm not sure how quickly I got it when it came out), I was completely under the impression that Duke was in love with Elucifer. Looking back on it now, my impression is... still exactly the same LOL. For real though, seeing Duke and hearing him was the best whiplash I think I've ever experienced in my life (even in the dub I'd say they did well with the casting, because it's not too much deeper than his JP voice, which is still not what you'd have expected from a man THAT pretty back then LOL).

The NPCs are that traveler and guy from Zaphias, right? I remember some dude complaining right before you get Estelle back that he was "stuck there" or something and I believe that's the pair you mean that was traveling? I see them together in various inns so I am guessing that's them.

PISS I never even knew about that Heliord guy. Or I just completely forgot because I may have spoken to him in the 360 version and just missed him while playing the DE, but basically my sister lent our copy of Vesperia at one point to one of her friends who never gave it back who she is no longer friends with so our 360 copy is long gone and I haven't been able to play it since. I should still have my data since I have my save data hard drive for the 360, but I can't do anything with it without the game. OTL

Also on that note, when I was younger first playing the game, I went into it fully trying to prepare myself for the expectation that Yuri and Estelle were going to end up together, because every Tales I'd played prior went super hard on the main m/f pairs (including how awkward it was to have Senel/Shirley implications after he'd been with Stella and fully considered Shirley his sister, which JRPGs for some reason really love leaning into blurring the lines between sibling love and romantic love). I was pretty much trying to force myself to like their dynamic romantically out of the expectation that it would exist (basically Zelloyd existed and was technically possible but I was also aware they were trying to say your choices didn't matter all that much because Colloyd was still canon anyway, which thank god Innocence didn't pull) as early as the Quoi Woods.

Mind you, this was when I only had access to the dub, and that's what I mean by the original JP's context still got through to me/was still strong enough that even the localization couldn't erase it completely, because I still ended up walking away from Vesperia with Fluri-Determined-Canon. That's on top of me going into it having completely resigned myself to "I have to force myself to like this het ship because it's going to happen anyway". Blessed be when I walked out with Yuri and Flynn instead. I recently introduced a friend to Vesperia who is playing the DE dub and is still primarily recognizing Fluri as canon but likes Yuri and Estelle's dynamic too, so it seems like a tier of would ship Yuri and Estelle but recognizes Fluri as canon and ships them more.

Yeah see like, I truly do find it wild that nobody can write a man and a woman as siblings because of romance. Like, is it really so odd for an older brother to want to rescue his younger sister, be distraught about possibly having to kill her, or catching her when she's falling toward him? No, because that's actually quite literally what many if not most older brothers would do. It's not uncommon to have a protective older brother.

But since they're not actually related, you know, no such thing as found family if you're a man and a woman or the main gender leads in a Tales game (unless you're Graces where you still can't write romance where you try and can write it where you don't try). If you care about the opposite gender very strongly, you are only allowed to be romantically involved! No such thing as "best friends" when you're a man and a woman! ...But you know, if you're two men, there's no such thing as romance. If you're two women, it's just 'girl things". It's honestly crazy to me how people don't realize how extremely heteronormative those viewpoints are and how borderline if not outright homophobic they are.

As mentioned I only watched Arise because my computer isn't capable of playing it and I don't have the other systems for it. I didn't mind the main m/f couple this time since it wasn't poorly written, but then I had to put up with Law and Rin which irritated me to no end and was a purely trope based romance that seemed to only exist to pair another guy and girl (because for some reason Tales likes to pair as many m/fs as possible instead of just... not doing romance at all for some characters. Still to this day have no idea Zelos and Sheena are so popular as a couple when I literally never saw them romantically, and that's having literally grown up with Symphonia since like, grade school. It feels like another case of "pair the next closest guy and girl you can think of even if it's not romantic). No idea how he could fall in love with her when she treats him that way and she's one of the most vexing Tales characters for me to date, and that's not because of her pre-development personality, but because I just can't stand her by and large. The forced romance and how she treats her apparent love interest and how it's mutual was just the nail in the coffin for me.

Suffice to say I also have really no interest in more modern Tales games. I've been putting the newer entries off very hard since ToX2. I don't think Zestiria is inherently bad so much as it holds very little to no interest to me and I watched the anime (which I fully recognize is a big departure to game canon) without even completing the game, which I still to this day have not done. I know some major details about the game from looking stuff up intentionally, but... my interest just isn't there. X and X2 weren't bad but they were very mid for me (and tbh I like Ludger more in his non-canon appearances, probably due to the silent protagonist being really heavy with him. I think that was more an experiment on Bamco's part too). I didn't get too attached to the story or the characters.

Same with Berseria, which is in part because I'm so horribly sick of the "emotionless and/or revenge driven cool girl main character" trope. Again, I know some spoilery details, but it didn't help my investment and it's also hard to get through when I actively dislike the main character I'm dealing with (the amount of mental thundering applause and drunken slamming I did in Crestoria when Senel basically politely, in a sense, told Velvet off was one of the most interestingly wild things I've ever felt LMAO. Especially bc he's the lead of my favorite game, so that was... an experience).

As for Yuri and Estelle, did they have Arise cameos or something? That at least I'm unaware of as I only really watched the main story content and that was a couple years ago (so I haven't even watched the DLC story, which I'd been meaning to do but keep putting off in favor of the gachas LOL). But also, queer removal, especially to force het in, is disgusting and while I want to say that writer should be ashamed of himself, people who remove queer coding don't really seem to have the ability to be ashamed of themselves in the first place and there's a Very Specific Reason for that.

...Well, at least I don't have to be particularly polite about not liking Estelle here LOL. I don't... hate her on the scale I would easily say I hate other characters from other games, but she's a big ol' no from me. Most Tales games end up with that one female character I can't stand with very few exceptions and it definitely grinds my "stop writing females like this" gears.

Yeah, that's also how I see Estelle's crush on him. It feels to me like something that would wane over time. He's this slightly older cool guy who respected her and helps her grow and he's the first person she really met outside the castle (and Flynn half counts in that he didn't originally live there, but he also has a room there so he's technically a castle resident in some capacity. Yuri is fully hands off with any of the stuff Estelle was familiar with). Heck, I'd probably have a crush on him too if I met him.

Crushes can also be kind of complicated in my experience tbh, because having a crush on someone for me didn't ever necessarily mean I'd want to be in love with them, you know? Being in love is a lot deeper and a much more mature level of romance, and I feel like platonic crushing is very much a thing? I mean I guess it has to be if I've experienced it lol; I just don't know how "societally accepted/recognized" that is.

That's kind of what I see from Estelle though - a more platonic crush that would fade with time. I also would like to think Estelle would respect Yuri and Flynn and their relationship, and wouldn't have this kind of... but what about my feelings sort of attitude toward them, like trying to guilt Yuri or something for rejecting her but still being as he always is with Flynn.

Damn, is all this stuff on the Tales of YT channel where they upload stuff like that? I can't exactly go to Japan for any of the festival/anniversary things, so all I can hope for is that things will be recorded and put onto YT.

A summary of Vesperia:

Act 1: Yuri never ever shuts up about Flynn. There is something going on here.

Act 2: Yuri and Flynn broke up so we could force het into the game and ignore everything the previous writers set up.

Act 3: We're erasing everything the previous writers set up and trying to reconnect with Act 1. Just forget everything you just played in Act 2. That aside, anyway fellas, it's the end of the world and Duke is the antagonist!

Honestly, maybe if all the writers actually communicated in the first place, Act 2 would've been a lot better and Okuda wouldn't have wanted to write for it at all when he couldn't have his jolly ol' het way. Like, why do I feel like this guy is the type of person to rage quit if he was told "well you can't do that because we already had these two characters planned for each other". Realizes he can't shoehorn his favorite Vesperia ship in anymore and just walks out LOL.I need a time machine... I have a mission...

Yeah, the het stuff in Graces was a HUGE ol' "gotta put as many m/fs together as possible" (even Malik's backstory), which is probably why people tend to assume Richard/Sophie is canon/the direction they were nudging at, because at that point they're just the leftovers and everything else was het so why not (still not a good thing to do, mind, but I suspect that's a large part of it). I never, ever saw how Hubert and Pascal worked out as a couple. Like... it wasn't written in a way that would lead me to think they'd fall in love? It just... randomly... happened. It's one of those things where I just can't feasibly see it happening with the content we were given for it. Maybe if they developed it better? But like... they didn't, so... I just don't see it.

As much as I know and don't know about Zestiria, I do like Alisha. I also recall there was some kind of outrage at her treatment in the game and how she got sidelined from being the main heroine for Rose because of the writer (which apparently led to people hating Rose less for her actual character and more because of that internal staff stuff). I have heard a lot about how much of a mess Zestiria was, and that could be in part why I've been so putting it off for so long.

Vesperia was already a mess and I can safely say I wouldn't think about it anywhere near as much as I do now if not for Yuri and Flynn (both as characters and as a couple, though I can also say Yuri carries the whole game on his shoulders for me and is why I can play it several times in a row the way I can with other Tales games if I'm invested enough in at least one character). I'd say in Zestiria's case it's also because Alisha falls into "like her for what's available" versus my insanely large hyperfixation on Yuri.

looool so like, Abyss for me was the game I wished they didn't pair the main male with the main female and instead did what Graces did. I wanted Luke to end up with Natalia because the development from where they started went so well and I wanted Luke and Tear to be platonic m/f friends. Then Graces finally did what I wished they would goddamn do and not just pair the main male with the immediate main female... and then they completely botched it by giving them a poor romance and extremely awkward development as previously mentioned, as well as doing that in the worst possible game when they had Fluri 2.0 right there. LIKE. DAMN. I CANNOT WIN WITH THESE PEOPLE.

Yeah, I do feel like now that you mention it that I see people view Zestiria as more queer than Vesperia which is... very awkward lol. I'd have to guess many of them haven't played Vesperia or Graces (because regardless of what they did with Asbel, Richard never actually actively appears to have any interest whatsoever in women and seems more demiromantic toward Asbel). I mean, yeah, the dub for Vesperia could be part of the problem, but if my friend is playing the dub and still sees the queer coding everywhere and if I got past the forced het nonsense when I first played and had no access to the JP dialogue, I think it's pretty clear enough? And they tend to crank that up to eleven in the drama CDs with Fluri at every possible opportunity, or Toriumi and Mamoru will just do it themselves LOL.

I think that's part of why Vesperia still matters to me, aside from Yuri. As they say, I always "knew" I was bi-leaning-women as far as attraction went (basically like, as soon as I started having crushes on "cute girls" before my teen years, so really, I started having crushes on girls before I crushed on any guys). It was never a matter of "when did you realize", but that I kinda always just knew from the moment my brain recognized what a crush was.

That is very likely part of why I've always leaned to the queer rep in Tales. Like I said earlier here, I basically just put two and two together and that my favorites are mooostly the queer coded characters, and I include 13 year old Mao because I was younger than 13 when I first could have been defined as LGBT+. For him it's less outward romance and more his design/personality, but I count it (similar to Cumore in design).

So hey, this conversation made me realize something about myself that I've had going on since Symphonia first came out in the west, so thanks for that LOL. My brain always looked at Zelos and Zelloyd and went "that one. I want that one". Mind you, this was before "yaoi" and all that. It was never "hehe two guys together", because I was both too young to really get involved in that stuff and also, the internet was a fucking pea back then as far as fandoms went. Nothing influenced me except my own brain and interests.

Growing up and still having Zelos written this way is honestly so wonderful and relieving. Even the localization of Crestoria (which, as much as it shut down, is still relatively recent as far as Tales content goes) had Zelos making particular remarks at Lloyd (including "falling in love with me all over again?"). It's like, I guess little me at the time could recognize the relation to Zelos, the queer coding, and that there was something beyond "I like his story/backstory". That was in my formative years for recognizing romance I guess. Probably why I also put a magnifying glass on Mithos' interactions with Genis LOL.

And then in my teen years I had Yuri, so yeah, I totally get you on feeling like this about everything. I basically could say I grew up with seeing parts of myself in Zelos and Yuri, and between that I had Leon too. I was cosplaying the guy at right around sixteen so I have no idea when I got interested in him/Destiny, but evidently I got deep into Tales right fucking quick when the internet properly allowed, because at this point it's honestly a huge blur when I first knew of what game except that I know Symphonia was my first very young, then Legendia my second. Vesperia when I was going into highschool, and Leon happened when I sixteen or so LOL.

god wtf is time anymore

In Tales' case I'm the same way about defending the original content etc, though also because I always defend the original above all other releases/forms of release. Like, the reason I'll defend the JP dialogue in a JRPG or in an anime is because that's it country of origin. Similarly, I would primarily defend a western based TV series based on western related things (writers, actors, etc). For me the original writers' intentions matter most and I hate when things are changed in translation/localization without necessity (language and cultural differences are necessity for example).

That's not to say Tales doesn't have its hiccups in its own writing sometimes (Graces lol), but they at least try. Lowkey just waiting on a Vesperia 2 (no Okuda included, writers not sold separately) that's like, post Vesperia with the same characters and just cements Fluri. Give me like, Yuri when he's 25 or something. Some few years between the games. Make Richard and Asbel an arena cameo just to make a point LOL.

Also I could be reading into the Toriumi going off script a bit wrong here for this in particular, but it felt like kinda... not tense but...?? Like them being polite/professional but there being some kind of tension in the whole "but she's the princess!" (i.e. implication is that she should be Yuri's heroine and he should be in love with her) and Toriumi having to explain they're not like that? It just felt like... one of those, you're trying to be respectful in front of a crowd, but there's a clear spark of kinda-tension because of the blatant "but it's supposed to be this way"/"it's really not like that though". That could just be my read on it because of how I'd feel in that situation of course, but it was veeery awkward and I am so glad Toriumi went with the "fuck it" route and kept things to what they'd normally be. Also, I can't see Yuri ever being in love with Estelle. Even in the localized DE, Rita did say Flynn is Yuri's type and she's... right lol. Which... Estelle does not fit into. At all. I very much see "cute little sister" vibes from him. Makes sure his little sister is adjusted for the night and then goes out all night with his boyfriend and she's too innocent to know the level of trouble they get into it. That he gets into, really, that his boyfriend is bailing him out of. :')

anyway i think zagi and hasta should be romantic in a really violent-toward-other-people way

I am 100 percent with you on preferring the JP line in that cutscene if only because it does feel more powerful (and his voice is SO soft, which is something that frequently gets completely lost in the dub in general. Mamoru carries a much softer tone overall for Flynn, similar to how Yuri's playfulness and carefree vibe got lost in favor of the dub's aim for a more "cool adult guy").

That said, I was not even aware they left the whistle out!!! I haven't bothered with that sidequest because the outfit is readily available for free as DLC.

While I enjoy having Flynn present in the last battle, I wish they'd just had him look back up at the sky and say that right next to Yuri right before the very end of the cutscene (since imo that'd be the best placement for it). No reason not to stick that back in!!!

But removing the whistle is just an outright crime and I am owed a fee from the people who decided that for the devastation I've been inflicted with.

Big same 🤝

I used to be such a fan of the eng dub but tbh ever since I experienced the original japanese (back when we still called it the PS3 Version lol) I never looked back. The wording is so, so, SO much more layered and leaves little room to misinterpret subtleties and subtext. Like you, I've had many gripes about the localization because sometimes they just plain insert stuff that was never there in the first place - iirc Troy Baker admited that apparently they rushed the dub so hard, sometimes the voice actors themselves were asked to chip in for the translation...he said he loved that (I'll bet), but that might explain why so much of the OG english script was already full of weird phrasings and insertions...add to that the even more sloppy and lazy DE localization and you get only half of the richness of the original japanese.

Also yes Mamo and Tori *are* Flynn and Yuri more than anybody ever could be. Sam and Troy do a good enough job but I agree that Troy may have been directed to play Yuri closer to a traditional "cool bad boy", which is hilarious given how the original Yuri is a twist on that very trope. Unfortunately, Troy gave him this uncharacteristically cold/aggressive edge whenever he talks to Flynn that it makes it sound like he's always annoyed to see him, and it strips their relationship of so much of the softness and playfulness that Tori lends Yuri.

Anyway enough about me ranting because I could go on for about 10 more hours about this issue lmao. Honestly yeah they very well could've rearranged Flynn's cutscene to fit in there at the end, like hell if you can change the entire camera angles of whole scenes you can change that one background, no?? Knowing Tomizawa though that might have been more effort than he was willing to grant this remaster - won't be his last time.

Same for the wolf whistling!! They replaced it with a skit that is just as funny...

....but void of the insane flirting the original had. Idek why they went so far as to change it, it would've been less work to just leave it as it was 😭

[wrenhyperfixates]

If It’s Meant to Be

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: After you breakup, Loki regrets how he pushed you away. He can only hope that you’ll come back to him. Warnings: lots of angst and some fluff at the end A/N: Requested by the lovely @gaitwae​. Hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @lucywrites02​ @frostedgiant​​​ @lunarmoon8​​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​​ @lokistan​​ @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs​​ @gaitwae​​ @whatafuckingdumbass​​ @castiels-majestic-wings​​ @kozkaboi​​ @cozy-the-overlord​​

Disclaimer: Gif not mine.

It happened on a sunny day that Loki found out you’d moved on and started seeing someone else. It didn’t feel right that the world should be lit up by the golden rays when there was such a storm inside him. He tried his best to push his thoughts aside, he really did, but you kept popping into his mind. You and that boorish new boyfriend of yours. Loki didn’t know the man, but he already hated him. In reality, he hated himself far more for letting you go.

Loki had blocked most of the events leading to your breakup from his mind, but on the floor among the glass he’d shattered, it was coming back to him. He hadn’t even meant to break anything, not exactly. It was just that he was so angry, he wasn’t looking where he was going. Then the god bumped into the end table and, in a fit of rage, flipped it over. He hadn’t been thinking about the vase sitting on top of it. Or what was in it for that matter. Otherwise he may have been more careful as not to end up sitting among shards and your favorite flowers.

Back when you were dating, he had gotten nervous that he was no good for you. You had always been so understanding of his feelings, but it was different this time. He hadn’t told you how he felt, so you couldn’t help him through it. Instead, he started going on more missions, sometimes not even telling you. It hurt him when you confronted him on that.

“You’re just up and leaving without so much as a goodbye,” you said with teary eyes. “I keep finding out from Tony that you’re gone again. Is it something I did? I’m just... I’m just worried about you, Loki.”

He held you closer that day than he had in months. “I am so sorry, darling, please believe me. I will tell you from now on, you have my word.” He kissed the top of your head and rocked you back and forth. You buried your head in the crook of his neck and cried a little. “You also must know that this is not your fault. I swear it on my life, it is not because of anything you did. I love you, my darling, truly I do.”

“Then what is it, Loki?” you asked, raising your head and lifting your hand to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch. “What’s wrong? You used to tell me these things. You know you can still talk to me about anything, right? I’m still here for you.”

“I know. I just... It feels like something I need to work through myself.”

“I understand. Just, I’m still here, ok? We don’t have to talk, even. I could just hold you.” You paused, looking into his eyes. You saw it in that moment, his heart fracturing. “You know, like you used to let me.”

You were too pure for him, he knew it. He knew it as you spoke those words. He knew it as he let you hold him, the vile, venomous snake that he was. And you did it gently, so gently. Somehow he was still breaking. Loki kept himself together as much as he could manage, started telling you when he was leaving, though the missions only became more frequent. And longer, too. For your part, you held on as long as you could, were there for him as much as you could be. But it was too hard when he kept distancing himself from you.

“Listen, Loki,” you calmly said one night after he returned to the Tower, as tired and removed as ever. “I love you. I love you so much. But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t be in a relationship with you if that’s not what you want. And it seems like you don’t want it anymore. Your gone so much, and when you’re here, you’re so far away that you may as well have not come back. Just talk to me,” you pleaded. “I want to this fix this. Just talk to me.”

“I am sorry, darling. I can’t. I- I just don’t want to ruin you,” he replied, head bowed.

You took a deep breath, trying to quell your tears. Loki winced as your voice broke. “Then I’m sorry too, but I have to go. I wish you all the best, my love.”

For one final time, you kissed him. It was slow, it was gentle and tender. It was a goodbye. Still, you looked over your shoulder before you closed the door, silently praying for him to say something, anything, to stop you. He didn’t move, and so the door clicked behind you as he let the best thing to ever happen to him walk out of his life.

What was it that you Midgardians say? If you love someone, let them go. If it’s meant to be, they’ll come back to you. Well, Loki decided that was a load of rubbish. Because you most clearly were meant to be. Maybe the first part had some merit to it, though; he let you go because he loved you and couldn’t bear to let you chain yourself to a monster. He couldn’t help but wonder if he actually was one though, for surely monsters didn’t have hearts. But him? He knew he had one because he could feel it breaking.

After that day, Loki tried to hold on to the fragments of himself as he felt he was drifting off into space. He didn’t slow his pace on the missions, now a distraction to numb his pain.  Then one day, Tony made him take a break. He spent nearly a month moving around the Tower like a wraith, void of any outer expressions. Avoiding the lower floors at all costs, he mainly stuck to the private sections where he and the other Avengers lived. It was a precaution to keep himself from bumping into you, who worked in the Tower.

Two months later, he felt well enough to go outside again. He took the stairs down with Thor on one of the days he knew you wouldn’t be in. His brother looked afraid that he might turn to ash by stepping out into the sun for the first time in a while. Needless to say, he didn’t, but Thor kept throwing him worried glances as they went on their run.

From there, Loki took things one day at a time. He still thought about you often. About three months after the breakup, he started visiting the floor where you worked, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Maybe if he saw you, he’d even get the courage to apologize. Then again, maybe it’s better if he just leaves you be.

He still hadn’t decided which was better when he got too careless one day, and you caught sight of him. He heard you say “excuse me” to whoever you were talking to before taking off in the direction where he was. Panicking, he fled the scene, but you still followed. At the end of the hall, he turned. But by the time you rounded the corner after him, he was already gone, having teleported back to his quarters.

Now he wonders what you would have said to him. Alas, he stopped seeking you out, so he’d never know. Plus, Tony was finally letting him volunteer for missions again, so he could fill his time that way. Even that began to hurt, though, as he realized he used to have your warm embrace to return to. These days, he went home to a cold, empty room. He’d lay on his bed and create small illusions of his memories with you until he realized it was doing his mental health more harm than good. Wasn’t that what had gotten him into this mess in the first place? His mental health? So, he sat up and stretched out, finally deciding to drag himself out of this slump he was in.

If there was one silver lining to come out of this, it was that his teammates actually became his friends. He wasn’t sure exactly when he began to think of them as such, but he did. It was in no small part due to the increased amount of time he was spending with them in your absence. You would have been proud of him if you knew. You’d always encouraged him to get to know them better, to not be such a loner. Satisfied with having you and his brother, he never did much listen to you on that matter. Well, now he was being forced out of his comfort zone. After all, he could only handle his brother in small doses, and he was all Loki had now.

Five months had passed since you’d left Loki, since he’d pushed you away. After weeks of trying, Loki’s friends had finally coaxed him into attending Tony’s latest party. So, he appeared in a full suit and tie with his fellow Avengers. Rather begrudgingly, he was enjoying himself.

He was laughing by the bar with Wanda and Bucky when he saw you. Despite trying not to look your way again, he failed and kept stealing glances at you. Eventually, he caught your eye, and you gave a shy little wave. He returned it along with an small but excited smile. Just as he was about to take his first step towards you, a man he didn’t recognize came up next to you. The stranger put his arm around you and handed you a drink. And then you kissed him, shattering Loki’s heart all over again. By the time you looked back over, the trickster god was gone.

Storming down to the ground level of the Tower, he pushed through the door and out into the world, desperate for fresh air. Suddenly feeling like he was being choked, he loosened his tie from around his neck before taking it off completely. It was too bright out, the sunlight blinding his eyes as he walked without direction. Just away, far away. He walked until the sun rose again the next day, the same thoughts circling in his mind the whole time. This was his fault. He’d let you go. He’d pushed you away. There was no one to blame but himself.

Loki slept all the next day, worn from his mindless wandering. It was like all the progress he’d made over the last several months were drained from his body. Still, he tried to carry on with his normal routine, and went for his morning run with Thor. Sometimes Steve and Sam joined them, too, but they were both on a mission at the moment. It was a good thing, too, because Loki didn’t think he could handle the embarrassment of the double take he did had they been there. Just as he and his brother were exiting, the man he could only presume to be your boyfriend entered. But you weren’t working that day, and sure enough, he swiped in with his own card. Now not only would Loki have to avoid you, he’d have to avoid your boyfriend, too, lest seeing his face threw him in a blind, vengeful rage.

Four more months passed, and Loki was doing an excellent job of not seeing you or Owen, which he later found out was your boyfriend’s name. And yet, he longed for you. Your gentle touch. Your kind words. The Avengers kept pushing for him to start seeing someone else, but he still didn’t feel ready, leaving him to pine for you from afar.

Loki walked into the elevator after quickly dropping off a file on the floor you worked on. Thankfully, he managed to avoid seeing you. As the doors began to close, he heard a voice asking him to keep them open. He obliged while the person quickly rushed over, the large stack of papers they carried covering their face.

“Thank you,” they said, struggling with the unwieldy stack, voice slightly strained as they desperately tried to keep from dropping it.

“It is no problem. What floor?” Loki responded, hitting the button that corresponded with their answer. “Would you like some help with that?”

“I’m fine. I-”

Loki caught the falling stack with impressive reflexes as the person cut out and dropped it. He looked at their now exposed face. It was you. Neither of you said anything for a moment as you both somewhat awkwardly balanced the papers between you.

“Oh! Hi, Loki. I, um,” you cleared your throat, “I guess I could use some help.”

“Yes. Very well, then,” he said, taking slightly more than half the stack. It was oppressively silent for another moment as you both stared at the numbers denoting what floor you were on dropping far too slowly for your liking. Loki swore the elevator had never been this slow before. “So, uh, how have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been fine,” you replied, diverting your gaze for a minute. “You know, same as usual. How about you?”

“Fine, fine. Same as always, really.” Another awkward silence. “I heard you were seeing someone. How is he doing, your boyfriend?”

“Do you mean Owen? We actually broke up a few weeks ago.”

“I am sorry,” Loki apologized. “I did not know.”

“It’s totally fine,” you laughed it off in a way that was music to his ears. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

As the doors opened and you deposited the papers where you needed to, Loki couldn’t help but think of that Midgardian phrase again. He’d loved you, and he’d let you go, completing the first part. Well, maybe it was time to make good on the second.

“I do not suppose,” he began, “that you would like to go out for a coffee sometime? Just to catch up, is all.”

You smiled at him softly. “I would love that.”

After setting your plans, you parted ways. Loki felt happier than he had in a long time. After all, you’d come back to him, even if it was just as friends for the moment. But he was certain it would turn into something more, sooner or later. Why? Because deep in his heart, he was sure he’d always known it. You were meant to be.

[clonecest-bin-account]

300 followers bingo - Fox/Wolffe | Pirates AU

(Oof this came out way longer than I thought, you’ll soon see why. Hope you like it!)

As Fox and the rest of his troops inspect the site of the wreckage, the only thing he finds are dead men. Whatever has caused the Dread Wolf to finally sink must’ve done a pretty good job at it.

He can’t help but to think that it’s a shame, despite the fact that the Dread Wolf, and especially its captain, have been a thorn to his side for years, hindering the commerce with their incursions. King Palpatine had even declared by law that any act of piracy will be punishable by death, but that never stopped the crew of the Dread Wolf.

Still, Fox won’t lie and say that he never enjoyed the thrill of the chase, that sometimes he even looked forward to the Dread Wolf’s incursions, so he’d get his chance to duel the only man who he could ever consider his rival.

And now…

 That lucky son of a whore.

 The man Fox has just found on the shore it’s the same man that he was talking about: here he is - alive and breathing - the master of the Dread Wolfe, captain Wolffe himself - Fox has always wondered which name came first, the ship’s of the captain’s.

How he’s still alive, this Fox doesn’t know, but in the end, it’s not like it matters: now that he’s found him, he will arrest him, and then he’ll be sentenced to death. Either that, or he’ll rot in prison if the king feels merciful - if that can be either considered a mercy.

It’s his duty to take him in custody, to make him pay for his crime… and yet, Fox still hasn’t moved a muscle.

He can’t, he just can’t…

 What’s stopping him from fulfilling his duty?

It’s his damn honor, that’s what it is: last time they’ve met, he and his crew had ambushed the ship Fox was in, but he let Fox go despite the fact that he could’ve easily taken him down, only taking the goods the ship was transporting before leaving.

He could’ve easily killed him, but he didn’t, and now Fox can’t bring himself to apprehend him like he’s supposed to do.

… Damn it all!

 Before he can be joined by the rest of the royal guard, he takes Wolffe’s unconscious body and drags him behind a group of rocks so that he’ll be hidden, then he goes back to the site of the wreckage, deleting every trace of something being dragged to safety.

Thankfully, both for Wolffe and himself because, if someone finds out, Fox will be hanged for betrayal, he manages to do it before everybody else arrives.

“Found anything?” Thorn, his second in command, asks him.

“Nothing of interest,” Fox replies. “Just other wrecks of the ship.” He truly hopes that Thorn will not see behind his lies; out of everyone, he’s the person who knows him the most.

Thorn nods, thoughtful. “Yeah… Most men must’ve drowned. It’ll take some time before all of them wash up to the shore, if the fish don’t eat them first.”

Fox frowns at the image, but he supposes that Thorn is correct, which makes it plausible that they wouldn’t see Wolffe’s body. And Fox didn’t even need to advance that hypothesis himself, so he’ll look less suspicious for it.

At that point he sighs, gaze moving from the wreckage to Thorn. “If we’re done here, let’s move out. The sun’s setting, we’ll get back tomorrow morning.”

At those words, they all snap to attention. “Yessir!”

 --

Once he can take advantage of the cover of the night, Fox comes back to the site of the wreckage, thinking about how dead he is at each step. He shouldn’t be doing this, and yet here he is.

He finds Wolffe still unconscious, which does worry a bit, but he’s well aware that he can’t exactly bring him to a doctor, so all he can do is to find him a secure place where he can rest, and hopefully get well. If he needs to, he can bring him medicine… Wait, why is he thinking so far ahead? And also, why should he even buy stuff for him? Isn’t it enough that he’s giving him shelter?

Oh well, he can think about this later. Now he needs to take him somewhere safe, which, he regrets to admit, could be only one location: his house.

 “Jesus how much do you weigh?” he mutters under his breath as he drapes one of Wolffe’s arms around his shoulders so that he can pull him up and drag him to what will be his temporary hideout.

The more he keeps going, the less he feels this is worth it, but he’s gone too far to stop now. He’s taken a decision and he’ll go along with it until the bitter end.

  --

When Wolffe wakes up, the first thing that comes to mind is how much everything hurts. He doesn’t remember going into a drunken blender the previous day, so that can’t be it…

In a flash, he remembers everything: the storm, their desperate attempts to stir the ship… the wreckage.

He jolts up, or well he would’ve done it if one of his wrists wasn’t bound to the headboard of the bed he somehow finds himself laid upon. Panicked, he raises his gaze to observe what is keeping him there; it’s a simple handcuff, but he knows by the looks of it that he can’t smash it, not without some dull object.

And yet, despite the knowledge, his mind is too fuzzy with panic for him to act accordingly; he tugs on the handcuff, then he tries again, and again, but to no avail.

He begins looking around for something he can use, when a weight presses against his shoulders, forcing him down. “Don’t. Move.”

 You can imagine his surprise when he sees that the man over him is Fox, commander of the king’s guard himself.

At that, he tries to shake him off, to free himself even harder than he was doing before, which ends up with Fox reacting by pinning him down by the wrists. “For fuck’s sake, Wolffe, I’m trying to help you here!”

“And how exactly are you helping me?” Wolffe growls back. “Looks like you took me prisoner!”

“Yeah, because I didn’t know what you would’ve done when you woke up!” Fox retorts. “I wasn’t going to leave you unguarded and alone…”

Silence falls between the two, tense at first, but then Wolffe - and consequently Fox - begins to relax, until Fox speaks again. “I found you in the midst of what remained of your ship, and since you spared me once, I’m returning the favor. If you promise me you’re not going to make a mess, I’m going to uncuff you.”

 Oh.

This is unexpected. Did Fox really do it?

No, it’s impossible, he must be lying!

… Right?

 And yet, for some reason, he finds himself inclined to believe him, because he knows that, unlike many of his companions, Fox keeps his word. It’s one of the reasons why he enjoys dueling with him and why he respects him despite the fact that he’s the king’s dog.

Despite everything, he nods, then. “I promise,” he tells Fox, intending not to betray his trust. If it’s true that he saved him, it’s the least he can do.

Fox looks at him for a moment, probably pondering if he should trust him or not, but in the end he decides to free him, so he slowly goes to unlock the handcuff that is keeping Wolffe to his bed with the key he was keeping in his pocket.

Once he’s free, Wolffe pushes him off, but otherwise he doesn’t seem to do anything else except sit and massage his sore wrist. Just how long has he been like this? He’s afraid to ask.

 Silence falls between them, even as Fox sits beside him. In normal circumstances, they would have nothing to do with each other, so it makes sense that they wouldn’t be exactly inclined to talk to each other, and yet, Wolffe has to ask…

“Was there any other survivor?”

Fox sighs. He was expecting this question. “Not that I know of,” he replies, then, figuring that for this kind of stuff, sugarcoating it would’ve been useless.

Wolffe lowers his gaze as a heavy silence settles between them. He looks so miserable but unwilling to show it that Fox almost feels the urge to try to reassure him, but he doesn’t, knowing that no matter what he says, it wouldn’t make it all better like some kind of magic.

Eventually, the atmosphere is so heavy that Fox can’t stomach staying there anymore. “I-I’m going to bring you something to eat,” he mutters. “Stay here.”

With that, he gets up and leaves the room, towards the kitchen. Watching the state Wolffe is in now makes him wonder if it wouldn’t have been more merciful to just kill him, but it’s not like he can go back on his decision now; it’s way too late for that.

  --

With time Wolffe’s body begins to heal, and he finds himself with more and more energy. The same can’t be said about his mind, however, not when this all still feels like a nightmare to him.

Did he really lose all his men? No, it can’t be, and yet he knows that Fox is not lying - what reason would he have to do that when he’s gone all the way to rescue him and not send him to prison immediately?

What should he do, now? What even is he anymore? A captain without neither a ship, nor a crew.

Why did he even survive? Why did Fox take pity on him?

He should’ve just let him die…

  --

Fox is… surprisingly cordial to him.

At first Wolffe found it weird, unnatural even - they’re supposed to be enemies, not this - and yet he can’t help but to be appreciative of the effort Fox is doing not to antagonize him, just as much as Wolffe tries to do the same, knowing that if he crosses him, he risks losing this safe harbor.

Once he heals more, he’s even allowed to explore Fox’s house, though of course he’s confined to his room whenever the commander has guests; it’s in their best interest that he remains hidden.

He still thinks Fox is a fucking dog, but… he’s not so bad, after all.

 Living in such close quarters has made him discover parts of him that he wouldn’t even have known about otherwise, like that he hates sweets except from honeyed stuff, that he’s very particular about what to wear - he has to appear perfect always - and that he has a secret soft spot for cats - he must’ve forgotten that Wolffe was inside when he took a weak stray inside to feed him and then let it go outside once it was strong enough to move again.

He supposes that Fox has found out some things about him as well, like the fact that he snores in his sleep, something that he complains about quite often, that he likes meat and that he’s unexpectedly good at flower arrangement, demonstrated when Fox didn’t know what to do for the guard’s doctor’s birthday; he suggested he could give her a bouquet that she could keep in her study, and even helped him arrange some flowers.

“Where did you learn?” Fox asks, dumbfounded by this. It makes him wonder why he didn’t open a flowers shop instead of becoming a pirate; at least he would’ve had an honest work.

“That’s a secret,” Wolffe replies, winking.

 They both freeze, at that. Did Wolffe just…

This easy camaraderie shouldn’t be possible between them, and yet here they are, acting like a pair of friends.

It’s weird, just… yes, weird.

Maybe they shouldn’t get so close to each other.

  --

Fox has lost count of how many nights he’s spent without being able to fall asleep because of Wolffe.

To be fair, he can’t exactly blame him for something that, after all, isn’t in his control, but this nightmare business hurts both of them.

He should do something about it, but what? He’s no expert in this matter, and he doubts he has what it gets to calm him down.

 A sigh escapes his lips as he gets up from his bed.

Before he can change his mind, he makes it to the guest room.

 He finds Wolffe twisting and turning in his bed without any hope of stopping soon.

Fox’s gaze is sad as he looks at him. If he lost his entire battalion, would he be the same? Would he be able to pull through? He doesn’t know…

He’s always had the feeling that Wolffe was pretty close to his crew, definitely closer than he is with the king’s guard, but it would still hurt, even though not as much.

 He almost reaches for Wolffe, before having a last minute hesitation; they say that you shouldn’t wake up people who are having a nightmare, so shouldn’t he just let it pass? But he feels bad not doing anything!

In the end he decides to put an end to his suffering, and he shakes him.

He was expecting Wolffe to jolt awake in a violent manner, but he wasn’t expecting him to actually attack him, though in hindsight he should’ve known this was going to happen - he would’ve probably done the same. Wolffe punches him, then he even tries to choke him, but Fox grabs his hands, keeping him still.

“Wolffe…” he says, voice weirdly soft, as he tries his best to keep the other at bay. “It’s me… Wolffe… Stop!”

At that, Wolffe freezes and let’s Fox go. “Fox…”

“It’s fine,” Fox hurries to say, trying to be reassuring. “It’s fine…”

 He doesn’t know how it happens exactly - he must’ve been so shocked that he barely registered it - but here they are with Wolffe held in Fox’s arms as he sobs quietly - or at least he tries to do it - while Fox caresses his hair in a silent attempt to bring him some comfort. He’d say something, but first of all he’s afraid of ruining things by running his mouth and potentially saying something that would turn out to be the wrong thing, secondly, he doesn’t even know what to say.

Saying something like “it’s fine” feels disingenuous at best, outright insulting at worst. No, it’s not fine, and who knows if it’ll ever be; he won’t lie to Wolffe like that, so he just keeps holding it, wondering if there even is a point to this, if this is actually helping.

 He wasn’t expecting Wolffe to drag him down for a kiss.

These last few weeks have been full of stuff he wasn’t expecting, but this has to take the cake. Most unexpected of all, though, it’s the fact that he finds himself returning the kiss, that when Wolffe falls down on the bed, taking him with him, he goes along without batting an eye.

He feels his hands on his body and he doesn’t push him away, doesn’t try to stop him. Actually, he welcomes every move.

Weirdly enough, he feels like he’s been waiting for this to happen, but he has not, hasn’t he?

  --

It’s not the first night they spend like this. After the first, it’s like something has changed inside them, a burning desire for the other that can be hardly satisfied.

In a way it’s not that different from when they’d constantly seek each other out in battle, only that now their duels are of a very different kind.

 With this, however, a feeling of dread keeps hanging over Fox’s shoulders: he’s aware of what would happen to him - and Wolffe too - if they get caught, and the more Wolffe stays with him, the more likely it’s to happen.

Eventually, he’ll have to let him go, and Wolffe, well, he’ll go back to what he used to do, he supposes. If he managed to make a name for himself out there, he can do it again - besides, it’s not like he doesn’t have allies in the pirating business that would surely help him out.

Despite this, however, he finds himself unwilling to let Wolffe leave. For once, he wants to be selfish…

  --

Things change on one night, a night that Fox has no intention of spending at home. He has too much to think about, and feels the need for some fresh air.

Besides, it’s been a while since he let himself be seen outside beside his duties; he wouldn’t want people to think that something’s up…

It’s weird, in a way, being so far from Wolffe…

 Eh, look at him. Some shitty king’s guard he makes.

 Before he has the time to react, he’s pulled into a dark alleyway, showed against the wall by two men that, on a more attentive exam, are two people that Fox didn’t even think were alive: Wolffe’s right-hand men, Boost and Sinker.

“Good evening, Foxie…” Sinker greets him with a grin, using the nickname that he knows makes Fox growl in fury, which in fact he does. He hates being called like that.

Boost, on the other hand, doesn’t share Sinker’s playful behavior. “Tell us where you’re keeping Wolffe locked up and we might not gut you like the dog you are,” he growls, pushing a knife against Fox’s throat, though Fox looks unimpressed.

“Very classy, like always,” he replies in fact, but that’s not all he has to say, even though he doubts it’ll help. “And, for your information, Wolffe is with me, and not locked in a cell.”

Boost and Sinker look at each other, and Fox knows already that this is going to be a looooong night.

  --

Somehow he’s convinced them to come with him and see with their eyes, though they’re still wary of him, enough that, if he makes the wrong move, they’re going to gut him. It’s fair, he would do the same in their situation, he supposes.

He can’t lie: he’s surprised to see that there have been other survivors, considering what they have found. It makes him wonder how exactly they managed to hide from them, but when he tried to ask they shut him down immediately. It’s fine, he doesn’t care about it that much - liar and hypocrite.

 At least Wolffe will be happy to see them…

  --

Just as he thought, as soon as Wolffe sees Sinker and Boost with Fox, he runs towards them, just like the other two as soon as they see their captain alive and well. They meet halfway, almost colliding into each other for the excessive speed.

“I can’t believe it…” Wolffe mutters, drawing the two into a tight hug. “You’re alive!”

“We are!” Sinker tearfully replies. “And you! You are…!”

“So he wasn’t lying after all,” Boost mutters, turning towards Fox, who sagely doesn’t say anything despite how much he wants to retort to that, since he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Actually, maybe he should leave, let them have a moment.

Before he can do that, though, he hears Wolffe scold Boost. “Don’t say that! He… He helped me quite a lot. He saved me, in fact.”

 Yes, they’re all surprised at that admission, even Fox, despite the fact that he’s gotten used to the idea that yes, he did save him. Still, it’s weird to hear it directly from Wolffe’s ears.

“I… I should go. Give you some time alone,” he’s able to mutter, before retreating to the kitchen.

 Coward…

  --

When he hears the sounds of steps, he pokes out to see Boost and Sinker on their way to the main door.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“None of your business,” Boost states, and after that, he walks out of Fox’s room, leaving Sinker lingering on the exit, but he still hasn’t moved.

He looks at Fox and he seems… hesitant, for some reason?

“Hey,” he begins, “… Thank you, for saving Wolffe.”

Fox’s old instincts push to retort that he hasn’t done it for them, but what would that accomplish? Nothing at all. If anything, it would be detrimental.

“It’s nothing…” he mutters, barely loud enough to be understood. Sinker looks at him, expression hard to read, then he leaves as well.

  --

He doesn’t go to Wolffe immediately, afraid of what he’d see in him once he lays his gaze upon him: the happiness he must be feeling for having found some of his old crewmates and… the desire to leave.

Here he is again, being a selfish fuck. He shouldn’t be like this, and he knows that eventually he will have to let him go - he can’t continue this charade forever, and it’s important for both their lives that Wolffe leaves - but he can’t deny that it will hurt having to do that.

To think that that feared day might come soon…

 He shakes his head, trying to get a hold of himself.

In the end, he got attached to Wolffe, something that he shouldn’t have done, something that is dangerous.

A sigh escapes his lips. Well, it’s not like he can do anything about it now, can’t he?

  --

When he goes to Wolffe, he does indeed look the happiest Fox has seen him since he’s saved him.

When Fox steps into the bedroom, he finds him sitting on his bed, but as soon as Wolffe notices his presence he walks up to him and he kisses him with a fervor that he never used before. Fox, although surprised by such an initiative, especially now, can only submit to the attentions, and so doesn’t object when Wolffe walks him to the bed and pushes him onto him, following suit.

He keeps him close and he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and takes him until Fox feels like he’s drowning, but eh, if he has to be honest, this wouldn’t be a bad way to go…

  --

“So… Are you leaving?” Fox asks. He’s waited until he and Wolffe were done, and what better way to ask than now, while they’re both still recovering lying one beside the other? Sure, he might sour the mood, but Fox needs to know.

“… Yes,” Wolffe replies, suspiciously cautious. Is he hiding something?

There are many things Fox would like to say, so many that it creates such a mess in his mind that he just nods without actually uttering a thing. He has much to think about after all.

Apparently, Wolffe is of the same vein, because he keeps quiet as well. It’s like all the enthusiasm from before has vanished, leaving space to quiet contemplation.

Fox would do anything to know what he’s thinking about; he could ask, but he feels like if he does, he’d only make Wolffe less willing to share. No, he’s got to wait, admitting that Wolffe will share the conclusions he’ll reach after this moment.

 He’s lucky, because soon, after a long sigh that doesn’t preannounce anything good, he turns toward Fox, a determined and serious look in his eyes.

“Come with me.”

Fox, taken off guard by such a request, can only reply with a “Where?” before mentally slapping himself. As if it’s not obvious where he wants him to go. “I can’t,” he quickly adds then, shaking his head.

“Why?” Wolffe asks.

Fox doesn’t know what to say; wouldn’t it be too easy to just leave his life behind, and for what even, exactly? No, he can’t do it, no matter how much he’d want to. “I…”

 He wants to leave.

The realization hits him like a punch in the gut.

This is his life, what he worked hard to obtain. He has friends, here, people he cares about… and yet, he wants to leave them all behind.

He can’t deny how tired he’s got of everything. The kingdom’s falling into pieces and he seems to be the only one who has noticed it. Is this why he wants to leave?

Yes, but also not entirely: these weeks spent with Wolffe have been special for Fox. He’s never felt more alive than in the company of the same man who’s lying down with him, at his side.

To be able to leave with him… It would be a dream…

 “What’s stopping you?”

 Fear, Fox realizes. Fear is what’s stopping him.

Leaving with Wolffe would be such a drastic change from his usual life that he can’t help but to feel paralyzed at the prospect. How could he even get used to it? And if he regrets the change?

On the other hand, however, wouldn’t he regret not leaving? Wouldn’t he regret not following Wolffe? Yes, he would.

He can’t lie: he feels a certain thrill at the idea of living a criminal life with his beloved, but could it really become more than just a fantasy? Could they make it work?

 He wants to make it work.

Yes, Fox wants this to work, he wants to be free and happy with Wolffe, and that won’t happen until they leave.

 He takes Wolffe’s face between his hands and he kisses him, then he kisses him again and again, but when they pull away, he seems to be talking more to himself than to the other.

“Yes… Nothing’s stopping me.” He can leave if he wants - and he wants it. Nothing’s stopping him…

He looks back at Wolffe and every shadow of doubt is gone from his face. If he lets this occasion slip through his fingers, he’ll never forgive himself, he knows it.

Wolffe looks at him expectantly. “So that means…”

“Yes,” Fox says, “let’s do it.”

  --

If you told Fox that one day he was going to find himself running away from the kingdom he’s served since he has memory, following his archnemesis turned lover, he would’ve laughed at you and then thrown you into jail. Funny how some things change, huh?

Here he is now, looking at his house one last time, before leaving it - and his previous life - forever behind.

There’s still some space - a very tiny one - for doubt in his head, but he’s made up his mind: he’s going to live his life to the fullest, and in order to do that, he needs to leave. Wolffe will surely show him a new side of life that he didn’t even know existed, Fox is certain of it.

 He turns around, looking at Wolffe, who’s standing behind him, waiting for him to say goodbye to his old life.

When he notices Fox’s gaze on him, he sends him an interrogative gaze. “Ready?” he asks.

Fox stays silent. He walks up to Wolffe, taking his hand once he’s close enough and raising it to his lips, kissing his knuckles.

“Yes, let’s leave this place.”

 He’s made up his mind, and nothing can stop him.

[michaelmyersmalewife]

the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat 2/?

- sephiroth/reader

- sfw

“You look like shit.” said one of your fellow 2nds - Devon - through a mouthful of food.

“Thanks.” you replied, sitting next to him like a bag of rocks.

By the time you dragged yourself out of the training room (not even bothering to hit the communal showers and heading straight for the cafeteria in an exhausted stupor), there was only pallid, unspecified meat and soggy leaves that might’ve been a salad once left in the reservoir. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either, uncomfortably sitting somewhere in the so-so region. Looking at the vaguely edible shapes in their cold, rectangular boxes, you figured they were more of an essence of whatever they labeled it as. A single piece of white bread had more flavor. You stacked your tray with what you could, and just before you left to grab a seat, you doubled back to grab a water bottle.

After finally having the chance to settle, the muscles in your arms and legs ached. Like someone had taken a hammer to your joints. It was nothing like the feeling of being a spunky 3rd just coming back from rigorous training - you had ached then, but it felt good. It felt like progress. Now you were just dead tired. You suspected with great indignation that the feeling wouldn’t subside in a good while.

You were about to shove a fork full of the essence of meat in your mouth when you couldn’t help but look up at the friend sitting across from you. He was staring at you with wide, bluer-than-the-sky eyes. His puppy stare (that you made sure never to call it that to his face).

“Vic.” you said, feinting a stern tone. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

You were dying to talk about it.

“You’re dying to talk about it.” said Victor and Devon in unison.

You groaned, hands flying to your face and tugging at your eyelids as you dragged them down. You had laid there in the training room for a good five minutes after Sephiroth left, half-expecting him to come back and further damage your ego. But he didn’t. And thankfully, no one else happened upon your battered form, for better or worse. Admittedly, you were feeling a lot less achy now that you were moving around, but where your back had collided with the floor now spouted an angry bruise in varying shades of yellow and purple.

“You sparred with Sephiroth?”

Victor - a 3rd and a few years your younger - always had at least one star in each of his eyes, but as you finished your lackluster retelling of the bout, he was twinkling like the night sky. “That’s so cool.”

“Oh yeah, real cool.” you picked at a clump of soggy leaves. “Ice cold.”

“That bad huh?” Devon said, with all the concern of wet concrete.

Slouching back down from where he was practically leaning across the entire table, Victor pouted.

“C’mon, it couldn’t have been that bad! At least you’re not stuck doing drills every day. Do you know how many of these guys would beg to be where you are?”

“At least you have someone to tell you what to do. Sephiroth just..expects me to know. It’s so - he’s so-” you punctuated with a grumble in your throat and a stab at the chalky meat on your tray, but it was so tender that it flaked away.

“He trusts you - that’s a good thing!”

You paused, taking a begrudging swig of water. “I guess..you have a point.”

You were still feeling slightly bitter, but a childish smirk played at the corners of your mouth. “Okay maybe it wasn’t completely terrible.”

They both perked up, looking at you curiously.

“I might’ve cut his hair.”

Both of their eyes shot open. “You what?”

---

It was dark by the time you and your friends dispersed, drowsily heading back to your respective quarters. But as tired as you were, you still felt like gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe, so with a heavy sigh you hauled yourself to the showers.

They were empty, and completely quiet save for the tap-tap-tap of a few leaky showerheads. You tried to control your shivering as you turned the squeaky knob, a paralyzing chill washing down your body as cold water hit your skin like thousands of tiny icicles. The temperature evened out after a minute or two, though it was so late in the day that the highest it was able to reach was a tepid lukewarm.

You made quick work of your hair, combing out the last of the suds with your fingers. As you washed the rest of your body, your thoughts wandered back to the bout. It had only been a few hours since the training session, and you were already feeling a little better, if a little sore. But now the bruise was the least of your worries.

Sephiroth. Trusting you. You.

You wanted to laugh. You didn’t know why the concept was so unfathomable. To you, it just seemed like he was above that sort of thing. You knew of the other 1sts - it was almost impossible to avoid them, even if you wanted to - and how they were as thick as thieves. You knew your mentor was closer to them than anyone else, recalling brief memories of seeing them roaming the halls together, laughing and being..normal. You couldn’t imagine yourself in that sphere. You’d have better luck trying to catch a cloud.

Shutting off the water, you halfheartedly dried yourself off, your hair still slightly damp on your pillow as you faded into a dreamless sleep.

---

Waking up that next morning wasn’t as much of a chore as you thought it was. You were still sore as hell, but at least you could get up without complaining. Much.

You got dressed, your back popping as you threaded your arms through your sleeveless shirt’s armholes. Then, you rolled your shoulders, taking your wrist in one hand and pulling it across your chest, stretching and popping the joints in that socket. And then the other. Sliding your suspenders over your shoulders, you spied your reflection in the mirror in your bathroom. You could fit yourself inside it, with at least a foot to spare. But that foot was reserved for the door to swing open. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’ve stubbed your toe while opening the thing with both hands twice over. Brushing your teeth, you poked mindlessly at the dark bags under your eyes. You hadn’t noticed when they had gotten there, nor for how long. You spit into the sink.

Fixing your hair - which had somehow knotted itself in the back, making you look like you had gotten shocked by lightning in your sleep - with your hands, you were satisfied enough to leave your room. It was still early enough in the morning that the cafeteria was closed for at least another half-hour. Feeling restless, a prickling in your bones that couldn’t be quelled by sitting alone in your room - or anywhere else for that matter - you decided to go for a run.

The base’s outside training fields (that weren’t fields at all, but rather a series of cleared pads that weren’t completely overrun with crates of ammunition and other surplus supplies that had yet to be shipped to a warehouse somewhere) were a fair walk away, but you didn’t mind.

As you reached the end of the hallway, the elevator leading to the ground floor already in sight, the door slid open, revealing a figure that you didn’t quite register at first. You awkwardly stopped, your boots slightly skidding against the linoleum as if urging you forward. Which you did anyway, like a machine that had sputtered slightly before kicking itself back into gear. Sephiroth hadn’t seen your buffer, but the sound of it drew his eyes to you almost immediately. He stepped out, jutting one shoulder out first before the rest of his body followed. Trying not to meet his eyes, you waited for him to exit the elevator.

“Morning, sir.” you muttered, leftover grogginess on your tongue.

He nodded, a cordial expression flashing across his face.

As you passed him, one foot about to land in the elevator, you paused. There was a hand on your shoulder. You took a step back, straightening your posture without thinking.

His hand was gloved, always gloved, the leather not entirely warm - like he had just put them on. He wasn’t grabbing you in place, but Sephiroth had a gravity to him that made you want to stay there. It kind of scared you, but you were too busy shaking off the last vestiges of sleep that liked to hang around in the morning to care. If anything, you were just confused.

“Um.” you didn’t mean for the sound to come out, but too much silence made you nervous. You stayed quiet, too muddled to think of anything to say.

Sephiroth himself wasn’t silent for too long, but it was long enough to put a little seed of apprehension in you. You shifted your weight on your feet.

“Was this from yesterday?” he said in a notably smaller tone than usual.

It took you a full second to notice that he was looking at your shoulder, and another second to realize what he was talking about. “Oh - oh, that?”

You twisted your neck as far as it could go, bending back slightly even though the motion was more irritating than you’d like to admit. You gave the bruise a passing glance.

“I mean..yeah.” you said. “But I’ve had worse, can hardly feel it anymore actually.” you quickly added after seeing his brows crease lower on his face.

“Hey, man, seriously I’m over it. It’s just a bruise, you didn’t like, cut my arm off.” Though for a moment, you thought he would have done exactly that.

“I tend to get carried away with that sort of thing..it was unprofessional of me,” He almost seemed to shrink into himself, but he looked more like one of the droopy willows you saw once while patrolling a small village outside Midgar. He withdrew his hand like he had just stung you. “I apologize for causing you harm.”

“You..don’t have to, Seph, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“But-”

“Honest. It was just a fall, that’s how sparring matches are.” you waved him off. His concern was sweet at first, albeit strange and just a little uncomfortable. But now you felt like you were consoling a kicked puppy. “Besides, it was fun.”

“..Fun?”

“Well, yeah. It’s not every day you get to fight, er, you.”

“I see.” he said, noticeably relaxing a bit. “So you’re sure you’re alright?”

“Positive.”

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in..satisfaction? Relief? Something like that. He looked like he was about to leave, but before he could fully turn his back to you he stopped, turning his head.

“Oh, if you can, meet me in the briefing room in about an hour. There’s something I’d like to speak to you about.”

You could feel your stomach actively turning into a pit. “Aren’t we talking right now?” you said, feeling more than a little thick in the head and wanting very badly to slap yourself when you saw a crease form between his brows.

“It’s important. I requested a meeting with Lazard.”

The pit in your stomach was now a sinkhole.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay, uh...cool.”

Sephiroth snorted with some degree of amusement. “Don’t be late.”

“Sure!” you said maybe a little too enthusiastically. You never were good at masking your anxiety. “Sure.” you quickly repeated in a markedly more composed tone, doing an even worse job at sounding calm.

He was already walking away - thank god. You didn’t want to see his face. As the elevator doors severed you from him, you found yourself tapping your foot against the panels of the floor, arms crossed so tight they felt stiff and weird dangling at your sides as you walked outside to the training field.

You ran laps (you weren’t counting, but it felt infinite), your brain shutting itself off without you meaning to. There was too much to think about, but it was so early in the morning you told yourself, that you deserved not thinking about any of it. Just for a couple minutes, a few more laps. The apology, the hand on your shoulder, the meeting, the apology - nope. Not thinking about it.

---

By the time you reached the cafeteria, you found that you weren’t that hungry at all.

[drxwsyni]

Fault in Honesty︱Yandere Chisaki Kai/Overhaul x f!Reader

Anonymous asked: “Hi! I love your work! Do you think you could do a scenario with yandere overhaul and fem. Reader where she tells him she hates him?”

a/n: Ngl I’ve been having some writers block lately so doing a good ol’ sfw (or at least in yandere standards) oneshot was very refreshing. Also the section in italics represents a flashback! Thanks for the request babes <3

Warnings: implied stockholm, captivity

1.9k Words

_____

If you could hazard a guess as to where exactly you went wrong, it would be the day you let the comfort of his security first outshine the red flags. To an outsider, they’d be unavoidably obvious. But for you, someone experiencing a side of Chisaki reserved only to make appearances in your presence, they became muted. Vibrant and glaring warnings were but a momentary afterthought, given no more than a few seconds of contemplation before you returned to focusing on the ideal in front of you.

The ideal is still present now, only it’s being held together by the constricting realities that overlooking those red flags have brought about.

Walls seemingly inescapable, corridors twisting and unending. Perpetually trapping you underground, without an inkling of an idea as to which door would lead you to salvation. All coupled with the pain shooting up your legs with each time your bare feet collided with the tile, a dress airy and doing little to shield you from the deep set chill running past your exposed skin.

You shivered, both from the discomfort of the cold, and from the anxieties riddling your system.

By some form of chance luck, your frantic searching lead you to a stairwell, from one door to another, and into an all too familiar room.

The setting was by far more comforting than the bleak hallways below you. Once dull and sterile surroundings faded, your focus favouring the warmth. You spent many an hour in Chisaki’s study mere months ago, keeping the young boss company without question. Sometimes you’d simply exist alongside him, the copious amounts of work keeping Chisaki from indulging himself in conversation with you. Those moments were regrettable, as you could never stay with him all day. So you would leave him to his devices sooner or later, returning home while he continued to manage his ‘business.’

You suppose he detested the fact that you would inevitably take a leave of absence more than you originally perceived. And while his first move to initiate a more domestic closeness with you was endearing at the time, it only served to muddle your thoughts with regret now.

•  •  •

Your hand in his, seated close enough to him that your knees were touching. The leather couch situated in the study was always your go-to spot when waiting for your lover to fulfill his duties as a leader for the day. He managed to do so before you left this time, much to your appreciation.

“Anything you could possibly need is already in place, angel. With you living here we’d be able to spend more time together. And…” Pausing, as if to gather his thoughts while absentmindedly squeezing your hand gently in his, Chisaki soon continued. “...It would be beneficial if I were able to monitor your health more closely.”

You regarded the man with a warm and loving smile, finding slight humour in his predictable ways. For one, your wellbeing was always at the top of his concerns. It felt like such a passive occurrence at this point, Chisaki keeping those interests in mind like it was second nature. And you supposed, with how he so clearly treated you on another level of appreciation compared to everyone else in his life, that the quality would only be expected in a man who ensures such a high level of diligence in everything he does.

Chisaki also had a tendency to rush things with you. So naturally, his offer wasn’t something you were entirely surprised to hear. But unfortunately for him, there still resided some resistance in you.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be moving in together? Don’t get me wrong, Kai. I’d love to spend more time with you. It’s just―”

“This would be good for you. It’s dangerous for you to be living on your own, so you understand why I’m worried about you, right?”

Although he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what Chisaki was referring to. The unavoidable fact of your quirklessness. He would never say that it made you weak, but you knew it was the root of his anxieties. You living alone was far more risky than he was willing to accept.

But you loved him. So, perhaps the change wasn’t something you should fear?

You let out a small sigh, still unsure, but resigning yourself for now. “...I suppose, if you think it would be best.”

In an act of tenderness, Chisaki took your hand that he was still holding, raising it to his lips. He planted a feathered kiss to the back of it, maintaining a gaze filled with adoration the whole time. Your heart fluttered at the gentle affection, feeling your face warm with a certain bashfulness.

He was pleased with your acceptance, albeit hesitant and largely unsure. “You’ll come around to the idea.”

And with the way Chisaki’s words and actions―not only now, but also in times before―left your better intuitions molding to match his, you thought you’d come around to it too.

•  •  •

The heavy wooden door behind you, a dark oak cut hand carved and lavish, opened in a swift motion. The abruptness of it earned a startled flinch from your body, you quickly turning around to view the culprit of the commotion in fear.

Like a deer in headlights, your whole being froze in place. Chisaki stood in the doorway, only he didn’t appear to be nearly as surprised as you.

If anything, he was calm.

His eyes trailed up and down your form, taking in your uneasy state. Slowly, he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s not good for your health for you to be up so late, my love.”

The dismissal of the situation sent a wave of frustration through you. Knowing he didn’t regret any of his actions, what he had put you through, and the reason why you were here―it was infuriating. The possessiveness, withholding your freedom like it wasn’t a necessity, because to him wasn’t. None of your misgivings resonated with him.

You regarded the composed leader, feeling your resistance begin to crumble from his mere presence. “Is this what you wanted?” Regrettably, your voice cracked midways through the question.

He almost looked disappointed, the fact of your apprehension being an unwanted outcome of the decisions he’d made for you. But he was nothing if not steadfast in his ways, a quality outshining the sorrow he felt for finding you so distressed. “All I’ve wanted is to ensure your health and safety. That’s what I’ve done, and I will not apologize for it.”

Another bit of your resolve faltered, your lower lip trembling as you fought to hold yourself together. “Even though I’m a prisoner?”

Chisaki let the words hang in the air for a moment, more so to let you process them instead, hoping you’d understand as much as he did that the statement couldn’t be farther from what you were to him. He moved across the room, taking his black dust mask off while he spoke, placing it on an end table. “I could hardly call you that. You live quite nicely―comfortable living quarters, balanced meals―everything you need and more to get by.”

“Everything except for my freedom, Kai. I mean...can’t you see how wrong this is?” In truth, you knew trying to reason with the man would get you nowhere. It wouldn’t change his mind, and it certainly wouldn’t help you in your now failed attempt to leave him. The thought of the uselessness of the whole thing wore you down, knowing putting up a fight would be for nothing in the end. You’d lost not from the moment he’d stepped into the room, but from the moment you agreed to be his all those months ago.

He faced you once again, mask and gloves removed, able to expose himself in such a way to you only. “It’s dangerous for someone with your connections to live outside of my compound―you know that. There are people who wouldn’t hesitate to use you as leverage against me.” He drew closer, an approach slow, as if trying to ease your nerves. “Tell me, have I ever hurt you?”

You inwardly cursed the man for knowing exactly what to say. His words were meditated, aiming only to lead you into compliance. The question was doing exactly that, because there was no other answer than the one he wanted to hear. The fact that no, he hadn’t. At least not physically. He truly did care for all of your needs. And even when it came to the mental anguish you went through, he always gave you space when you needed it. So really, you had no other choice but speaking that admittance.

Quietly, you did, “N-no, but―”

“So, you can’t deny that everything I do has your wellbeing in mind?”

As he took steps forward, you took some back. Soon enough you were hitting the front of his desk, unable to put any more distance between the two of you as he came closer.

“I can tell you understand that, angel. All I wish is for you to accept it.”

You shook your head, saltine tears falling down your cheeks. Confliction riddled your body and soul, part of you wanting to keep up those feeble forms of resistance, while the other part yearned to finally give in. It would be so much easier if you did, which was the worst part about it. Before you found yourself trapped by him, you truly did love Chisaki.

And somehow, even after all he’s done, those emotions never quite vanished.

“I don’t...I don’t want to be okay with this. Or be okay with you…” Your gaze fell, sniffling through your words. “I hate you―or at least, I’m supposed to hate you. But I fail at even doing that.”

You didn’t have to look up to know he was standing in front of you. Not when the uncharacteristic sound of a softness in his voice was in such a close proximity.

“That’s not a failure…”

Carefully, Chisaki cupped your face in his hands, prompting you to lift your head. Through a blurred vision you regarded his piercing amber eyes. Those set intently on yours, concerned but stern, matching his words to a T.

“You know this is what’s best for you. It’s just taking a while for that to sink in, but you’ll come around to it.” He delicately wiped away your tears as he spoke, the action soothing the torrent of discouragement inside of you. “Now, I’ll get you something to help you fall asleep, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Like always, nothing he did was a simple offer. His statements were final, and you were forced to comply whether you wished to do so or not. Only now, the notion of yearning for free will against his demands was unclear in your mind.

As it stood, and would continue to stand forever, agreeing with Chisaki was the option that had been growing on you as of late. Tonight’s events happened in a spur of the moment. In all honesty, you were unsure of yourself the moment you stepped foot outside your room. It always lingered in the back of your mind that your efforts wouldn’t get you anywhere. So, now that you were faced with that truth, resigning yourself to his whims wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.

You let him guide you back to your room. You accepted the medication he gave without a second thought.

And soon you fell asleep, sorrows replaced with the calm and comfort Chisaki provided.

[flightrules]

Which Kind Do You Want to Be?

Summary: You’re from a deeply sex-positive culture. He hasn’t gone unarmored in front of another human in... It’s been a very long time.

Three days on board the Razor Crest featuring moments of angst, domesticity, kindness, explicit consent, and Din doing his best to be a conscientious parent in the midst of everything. Heads up for descriptions of canon-typical violence, mention of past dubious consent, and a moment of (unintentional) violence between our protagonists. Din/cis female OC, on the hetero end of the scale. Ending is bittersweet.

Rating: Mature? Explicit? Anyhow, grown-up sexy stuff in later chapters. Please be old enough to be reading this kind of thing.

Watch for upcoming chapters here, or read the complete story on AO3. 

Chapter 1

He's sitting there looking at you, head tilted, and it's like somebody needed an illustration of curiosity for a children's book so they drew this Mandalorian and stuck that on the page.

"Isn't 'stop' good enough?" he says.

"Sometimes people like to say that and not mean it. Having a different word lets you both know you don't want what's happening anymore."

"If I say stop, I'll mean it."

There's something about that voice modulator that makes everything he says sound final.

The two of you are sitting across from each other on the floor, in the cramped hold of the Razor Crest. You're dressed in your usual practical trousers and shirt, but you've kicked your boots into a corner and your rifle's propped against a nearby wall.

He's still wearing the beskar.

The child is spending the night with Peli, who took him delightedly, crooning about getting him some decent food and a nice soft place to sleep. 

She also spared a moment for you, looking you up and down before shooting a pointed look at the armored man beside you. "It's about time."

"Can you trust her?" you asked on the way up the ramp, as Peli and the child disappeared into her shop.

He shrugged. "With my life? No. With his? Yes."

How exactly does this man decide whom to trust with his life? 

You've known each other, what, a few days? The acid burn on your right shoulder is still raw, the skin still peeling away in shreds. Interesting lesson, that. Gark-vipers don't bite, they spit. 

The scar will be your souvenir from a three-day trek through the jungles of Silicaria. One day in to snatch the little green rug-rat back from the bounty hunters who took him, two days back on tired legs, without food and no idea if the water in the streams you passed was safe.

You were hired help at the beginning. 

By the end, between fighting off hungry jungle creatures, sharing watches through pitch-black nights, and taking turns carrying the kid, you and this man were something like friends. 

Not that you didn't still collect your credits. A girl's gotta eat.

But you also didn't turn down the chance to get cleaned up in his ship's refresher, or to bunk down in a corner of the hold for a decent night's sleep.

He got the baby to bed first, briskly bathing the yawning little creature in the galley sink, then wrapping him up in a clean blanket and tucking him into a hammock in what looked like the man's own sleeping quarters. 

Then he indicated the refresher and sonic shower for you to use. "I'll wait upstairs." 

It was nice of him to give you privacy to get cleaned up and changed, even if it seemed a bit odd to you. Where you come from the human body's nothing to be ashamed of. But not all cultures see things that way.

Clearly his did not. You'd think after what you'd both been through, he'd want to get into some comfy clothes and leave the armor in storage for a while. But no, he switched places with you in the cockpit, disappeared down into the hold, and came back up a little later smelling a heck of a lot better but fully decked out again.

"I promise I'm not dangerous," you said, teasing.

It was a little insulting how easily he said, "I know." But he added, "I have food. If you're still hungry," and that felt like something a friend would say. So you bit back the temptation to remind him that if you wanted to, you could be dangerous, indeed.

The Razor Crest's food stores were nothing to write home about. Your body was going to make good use of the calories though, whether they tasted good or not. You leaned against the galley cabinet and gnawed on a protein bar. He started working on cleaning weapons and putting them away in what looked like a small but impressive armory.

"So what's the deal with the outfit?" Curiosity wasn't a sin where you came from, either.

"What do you mean?"

"You're home, right? We've agreed I'm not dangerous. Who are you planning to fight?"

"I'm not," he said, settling a blaster in its place next to an array of grenades. 

"So?"

"Mandalorians don't go unarmored around anyone but family."

You were struck by a sudden image of him with the kid, the two of them playing tag or something down here among the crates and stowed weapons. The kid in his little brown robes and the Mandalorian in, what? A pair of soft trousers, maybe a shirt that showed his arms. Barefoot, maybe. Probably hair all a mess. If he had hair. Or would he shave his head?

You had to shake your own head to get the image to clear.

"Huh," you said in reply. "Really? I crossed paths with some guys like you, a couple years back. They didn't seem to have any issue."

You were surprised to hear a sigh. "There are different kinds of Mandalorians."

"Do you get to choose?"

He didn't answer. 

You finished up the protein bar and looked around for somewhere to toss the wrapper. There wasn't an obvious wastebin, so when he looked back your way again you held it up, inquiring.

"Behind the door, lower left," he said. And then, "You don't get to choose."

"Who chooses for you, then?"

He turned back to the armory. It looked to you like everything was in its place now, but he lifted out the grenades, turned them over in his hands, put them back. "I was a foundling," he said. "They raised me in the Way."

How he said "the Way," you could hear the emphasis, like it was a sacred word. "A foundling? Like your kid?"

"Yes."

"So, you're going to teach him to live like this, too?"

The answer came quickly: "No." He closed the armory doors. They latched with a clicking sound. "We should go."

"We?"

"The child and I need to get off-world. Someone knew we were here. Where do you want to go?"

What made him think you didn't already belong in the village where he met you?

"You're not from here."

No, you weren't. The place you're from isn't there anymore, though, thanks to the Empire. 

It wasn't a story you cared to tell right then. 

"Sure, yeah, wherever you're headed next." Anywhere you could find work would do. "I'll jump off at the next port." You indicated your shoulder, where the acid burn still stung. "As long as they don't have gark-vipers."

You slept cozily enough that night, wrapped in a blanket he gave you and using the bivy bag from your own pack as padding beneath. At one point you woke to the sound of the child fussing, followed by the man's voice softly singing. The child quieted down and you found yourself lulled back to sleep, too.

“Are you sure the kid’s safe down there?” 

“He’s safe.”

You’re picturing the dusty repair yard, the bare-bones shop behind it, the handful of repair droids who were probably great with wrenches but not so much with guns. Peli looked like she had some wiry strength to her, but she was on her own. “She a former soldier or something?”

“She has a safe-room behind a hidden panel with a ten-centimeter durasteel door. They’ll be fine.”

Your eyebrows go up. Mos Eisley looks like a shambling backwater town. 

“Tatooine has wildlife. Some of it has guns.”

You glance at your own rifle, leaning against the wall nearby. You’ve fought off some of that kind of wildlife before. 

What a strange family you’ve fallen in with. 

“All right,” you say. “Good. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

You expect him to nod, confirm, like he did when you said you weren’t dangerous. Instead, you see pauldrons and breastplate shift as his shoulders sag a bit. “Sometimes.”

This thing you’re doing now, or about to do. It started with a joke. Well, mostly a joke. A victorious mission, the child safe, the two of you safe now too, and alone behind closed doors. The sweat of the mission washed away, guns laid down, a chance to rest. Back home, you said, as you took the blanket he’d found for you, a man and a woman would celebrate. 

You hadn’t expected him to take you up on it, but you also hadn’t expected him to freeze like that, one hand still holding the blanket. Until this moment, he’d looked like that armor was part of him. Suddenly, somehow, the way he reached out to you looked awkward, pauldron and vambrace no longer in line, and that helmet turned the tiniest angle, like he didn’t know where to direct his eyes.

“Never mind,” you said, smiling to let him know it really was ok. “We’re not where I come from, are we.”

Something shifted back now, and the shapes of his armor made sense again. He let go his grip on the blanket as you took it. “No.”

As you went to shake the blanket out and make up your bedroll, you noticed that your shirt was sticking a bit to the burn on your shoulder. “One thing, though, I could use from you. Do you have a medkit?”

“Sure.” He turned in the small space, graceful now, broad shoulders under the beskar pauldrons shifting as he reached up to open a high cupboard. You couldn’t help noticing how trim his waist looked, even under all that steel and fabric. Oh well, some things were not for you. 

The medkit had burn ointment and bandages, but no bacta. You’d have been hesitant to use any, anyhow. It would heal that wound in a day, but you knew what it cost. You’d never had the credits to buy it yourself. 

He started to turn his back, to let you undo your shirt in private and get a bandage over the oozing burn. But the acid had dripped far enough down your shoulder blade that you couldn’t quite be sure you’d covered it. “If I promise to stay decent, can you help here?”

He made quick work of anchoring the gauze to your skin with strips of steritape, while never putting pressure on the places that still ached and stung. Those were hands that had bandaged up wounds before. You’d wondered already what was underneath the armor, but suddenly you found yourself wondering what pattern of scars you might find. On a man who clearly fought as easily as he breathed, maybe almost as often--and apparently didn’t have the credits for bacta, either. Unless he went through it so fast, he couldn’t keep it stocked. 

He flipped the medkit closed. He stowed it back on its high shelf, then crossed to the little room where the baby was still sound asleep, curled in that tiny hammock. “Sleep well,” he told you, before lowering the room’s metal door. 

When you woke in the morning that metal door was up and you were alone in the dimly lit hold. You took advantage of the refresher and used your fingers to comb down your hair, where you could feel it was standing on end. No mirrors in here. You’d been too tired last night to notice. 

Well, if you really wanted to know what you looked like you could check your reflection in that armor.

You made yourself at home in the galley, poking around until you found some caff powder and another of those protein bars. Then, mug in one hand and bar in your pocket, you climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

The Mandalorian was in the pilot’s chair, helmeted head framed by the lights of hyperspace beyond the windows. The little green child was nowhere to be seen. You made your way forward to settle into the passenger seat, meaning to ask if one of you should check on the baby. But there he was, after all, perched on one armored thigh, staring wide-eyed at the lights while his tiny hand held fast to the man’s gloved index finger. 

Neither of them looked over at you, but neither one seemed startled when you spoke. You addressed the child, because why not. You’d been through a lot together, the past couple days. You figured you’d reached an understanding. “Does he sleep in that armor, too?”

The baby looked your way for a second, cooed cheerfully, and returned his gaze to the sky. 

You took a sip of caff, appreciating the spark it sent straight to your brain. Caff was a rare treat for you at the best of times, and on that jungle planet, where every bean had to be imported, it had usually been out of your reach. “Well? Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Last night?”

“Last night you might have needed something.”

“But most of the time, you don’t have to. You said, family.” You gnawed off a corner of the protein bar and washed it down with another sip of caff. “So where are the rest of them?”

He reached forward to adjust something on the console, a smooth movement of arm, shoulder, and back that left the baby peacefully balanced in his lap. “This is my clan,” he said. “Until I find the child’s people and return him to them.”

“He’s your whole family?” You needed another gulp of caff to process this. “And when you’ve dropped him off you’re just going to--” That couldn’t be right. People couldn’t go their whole lives walled off like that, beskar steel and cloth padding between them and the whole entire world. “Are you sure you don’t get a choice, here?”

He was silent for a long time. During the quiet, the baby looked up at him, then looked your way. The man disentangled his hand from the baby’s grip and rested it on the tiller. “This is the Way,” he said. It was hard to hear emotion through that helmet and whatever the electronics were doing to his voice, but--he sounded quieter than usual. A little slower. He sounded sad. 

“Well,” you said. “There’s got to be other Ways. Those other Mandalorians I met, they sure had a different way. Pretty sure they weren’t flirting with the barmaids because they wanted to keep their armor on.”

“There are different kinds of Mandalorians,” he repeated, same thing he said the first time you asked. 

You wrapped both hands around the mug you were holding, enjoying the warmth against fingers that still ached a bit from the punches you’d had to throw. “Which kind do you want to be?”

For some reason, you couldn’t let it go. You didn’t push, exactly. That wouldn’t have been right. But there wasn’t much else to do as the ship sailed through hyperspace. He was making a couple jumps, he told you, right-angle turns at out-of-the way nodes, to make it harder for anyone to guess the ship’s trajectory and follow. 

In between setting the next course, there wasn’t much to do besides watch the sky, play with the baby, and talk. After a while, he started asking you questions, too.

“What’s it like?” was one of them. What’s it like to walk around exposed all the time, nothing between your fragile skin and the world but a thin cotton shirt and trousers. You’d never thought about it all that much, but he had a point. The knife scar just below your ribs was a testament to that. 

“What’s it like,” you asked him back. He told you about the electronics in the helmet that make it hard for anyone to sneak up on him. He showed you a few of the hidden weapons, although you’re certain there are many more you haven't gotten to see. He explained the history of some of them, how he’s wearing not just the latest technology but a thousand years of Mandalorian history. He said, in a way, it’s like always having your own backup. Like never being completely alone. 

It wasn't until much, much later, when the ship was on its last trajectory, the baby was in bed, and the two of you were sitting side by side on the floor down there in the hold, a jar of bitter ale in your hand and him still stone-cold sober, that he admitted it was lonely.

And that’s how, after a couple more hours of talking and a night of much more restless sleep, the child’s ended up with Peli as a babysitter and the two of you are alone up here in the Razor Crest, sitting cross-legged across from each other, knees almost touching but with space and several kilos of beskar definitely still between you. 

“All right,” you say. “The word for stop is, stop. You sure you still want to do this?”

“No.”

You’re disappointed, but it’s got to be up to him. You start to scoot back, ready to stand up, to give him some actual room. 

A gloved hand closes around your calf. “Yes.”

You cover that hand with your own. When he doesn’t pull away, you lift his fingers gently from your leg, find the cuff of that glove, and slide it from his hand. 

His hand is trembling.

“You’ll remember? The word for stop?”

He laughs, short and sharp. It makes a faint sound of static through the helmet’s modulator.

Carefully, slowly, you use your own hand to guide his fingers to the bottom edge of that helmet. “How do I…?” He lifts his other hand to help you. There’s a soft, electronic sigh as whatever holds it in place loosens. And then, all on his own, he lifts the thing from his head.

He’s got curly hair. It’s the first thing you notice, as you run your fingers along his scalp and those curls, flattened by the shape of the beskar, spring back into ringlets. You’ve no idea what color his eyes are because they’re closed, and his head is bowed down as, fascinated, you wind one of those curls around a finger. You slide the other hand down to his neck and lean in to plant a single, gentle kiss against his temple. 

It takes him two tries to gasp out the word. “Stop.”

You drop your hands and rock back from kneeling to sitting, putting space back between you.

He huffs out a short laugh again, catches his breath, then raises his head to look at you.

His eyes are dark brown, almost black. Tiny lines at the outer corners hint at how old he might be. The paleness of his skin reminds you, it probably hasn't seen much sun. You might look the same age, but you bet he's got a few years on you.

"Was that a stop for now, or a stop altogether?"

"I don't know," he says. "No one's done that since…" His voice trails off. 

"Do you want to get put back together? We can try again later. Or not."

He's so solemn when he says, "There's no going back." He adds softly, as if to himself: This is the Way. And then, looking at you again, "Do you mind if I…?" He indicates the vambraces covering his forearms, moves as if to take one off.

You can't resist. "Can I help?"

The whole thing is more complicated than you might have thought. It's not just the individual steel plates. Each piece connects into an underlying electrical array, woven into the fabric of his clothing. He shows you first, on one side, then lets you follow his hands with yours to do the other. 

It's probably good you're helping, actually, because his hands are shaking again. By the time you get to the shin guards above his boots, he needs you to undo the catches. 

"No wonder you never take this stuff off." You're kneeling at his feet now, and you reach over to set the second boot next to the pile of beskar that has now joined your rifle against the wall. You worried briefly about just stacking it up like that, but he shrugged. The stuff was made to take blaster bolts. You weren't going to hurt it.

"How long does it take to put it all on again?"

He's watching the tremor in his hands. "It's faster when I'm alone."

"I can go," you offer. "Climb up to the cockpit for a bit and let you…" Let him what? This whole thing got started because he was tired of being alone.

"No," he says. "Stay."

All right. "You've still got a lot of… machine going on there. Am I going to break something if I touch you?"

He looks down at his own body, as if surprised to realize he's still wearing anything. 

"Where do we start?"

The bodysuit array turns out to be a single piece with a diagonal seam across the chest and down to his waist. You work together to undo the line of hook and loop tape that holds it shut. His hands, so capable with fists and weapons, have gone clumsy, and as you help slide the array from his shoulders you can feel the shaking has spread. The man's whole body is trembling.

Underneath, he's wearing a simple, soft shirt with sleeves down to his wrists and black leggings that you can't help but notice cling to slim hips and defined quads.

You knew he was fit. You spent three days fighting beside him. It's still fun to get to see, even if he also looks like he's not going to last much longer on his feet.

You step closer and reach a hand out, and although you can't see his face well now--he's still almost a head taller than you, even with you both now standing in stocking feet--you can hear his breathing quicken as you lay your palm against his chest. His heart is pounding like you've been in battle. 

He's proven he knows how to say stop when he wants to. You move closer again, thighs up against his, belly to belly, your chin against his collarbone, and wrap your arms around him. You're not sure if the sound he makes is a grunt, a laugh, or a sob.

Before long you've sunk to the floor and you end up half in his lap, tangled together, and usually by this point with a new partner you'd be laughing and reaching for bare skin beneath each other's clothes. Here, he's now holding you so tight you couldn't get free if you tried. His face is buried in your neck and there's no mistaking it now. He's absolutely sobbing.

Where you're from, the human body was nothing to be ashamed of. And that includes all the awkward things that bodies do. You slide one hand from his back, up his neck, to rest your fingers in those lovely curls again, and you let him cry.

When he finally winds down, the shaking has stopped too. Gradually his hold on you loosens, and you find yourself shifting against him so you can see his face. His hair's plastered against his forehead now and those warm brown eyes are lined with red. He looks awful, and the thing you want most in the world right now is to kiss him.

He doesn't smile, but he gives another of those short laughs. 

You bring a hand to his face, curving your palm against his cheekbone, using your thumb to wipe away some of the wetness below his eye. You lean in slowly to try a kiss against his temple again, and then his cheek, and then, gentle as you can manage, against his mouth. 

He's already warned you this would be new for him so you're careful, slow, pressure first and then tracing his lips with your tongue. One hand still caressing his face, the other against the back of his head, and you can't resist a gentle tug on those curls. 

But when you do, suddenly he's not responding, until he chokes out your safeword. Stop.

You do, of course, disappointed until you see he's gasping to catch his breath. "That good, huh?"

"It is." And then, he shakes his head. "I don't think I can. I don't know what to do with it all."

You've never been shy around men. Where you're from, a tumble is so normal you don't even count partners. This is new for you. Usually, they keep asking for more.

All you can think to do is say, "You got any more of that bitter ale?" It's not for him exactly, you wouldn't want him making decisions he'd regret. 

It's for you.

He does, indeed, have a whole stash of the stuff, although the dust on the lids suggests he doesn't get into it all that often. You end up sitting side by side on the floor again, backs against a row of cupboard doors. 

When you get up to get you both a second round, your own judgement's fuzzy enough that you plunk back down right next to him, hip to hip, and rest your head a moment on his shoulder. 

A little later his hand finds yours. 

You sit there, side by side, fingers twined together, until both your ale jars are empty. By now you're tired, you're a little bit drunk, and you're still turned on. And you can't do a damn thing about it because the last thing he said was, stop, and now he's probably a little drunk, too.

"I should get some sleep," he says beside you. "You should, too."

You end up back in your makeshift bedroll, while he's a whole two meters away in his sleeping quarters. You lie awake for a while, wondering if he's lying awake too, until the combination of ebbing hormones and the effects of good ale finally lead you to sleep.

It's easy to lose track of time on the Razor Crest, where sunlight doesn't make it down into the hold. But the ship's chrono wakes you with its loud, annoying buzz. 

He's already up. He hits a control panel to silence the noise, then takes the few steps from the galley to bring you a cup of caff. He crouches beside your bedroll to hand it to you.

He stays there a moment while you sit up, drag your fingers through your hair, then take the mug from his hand.

He's dressed now in a pair of black trousers and a black shirt that shows off chiseled arms. The color makes his brown eyes look even darker. Overall, the effect is making it hard for you to think.

"I need to pick up the child," he says. "You'll be all right here?"

You rub your eyes, trying to clear your head. "Give me a minute, I'll come with you. I need to figure out where to stay tonight. Look for some work. Maybe your friend can point me in the right direction."

You've gotten so used to having to read him through the armor, it's startling to see the expression of surprise on his face. Like he'd forgotten he only offered you a ride this far. I'll get off at the next port, you'd told him. Tatooine is it.

He settles down beside you, now, watching you sip at the caff. You're halfway through the mug and thinking you'd better get up and get ready, when he reaches out to rest his hand against the side of your head, then draw his fingers through your hair. 

"We didn't get to finish, did we," he says. "Will you stay?"

Tatooine's twin suns are making complicated shadows on the ground of the repair bay. You have to squint against the bright light as you and he make your way down the ramp. 

You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday--it's all you've got that's anywhere close to clean--but you've made yourself presentable, checking your hair in the shiny surface of the beskar breastplate that's still propped against a wall. 

You made sure he looks presentable too, finger-combing tangled curls into submission before you let him out the door. 

Peli emerges from the shop with the child perched on her hip. As soon as he catches sight of the man beside you, the little arms reach out and he's bouncing to be let down.

Peli looks up and lets out a whoop of surprise. "Well how about that! I always wondered what was under there." She finally notices the child's struggles and sets him gently down. "You go ahead to your papa."

The little creature toddles across the yard to be scooped up and examined. "Did you have fun?" He tucks the child in the crook of his arm and crosses the rest of the way to Peli. "What do I owe you?"

She's staring at him unabashedly. You can appreciate her appreciation for how that shirt fits.

"I don't know how you did it," she says to you, "but I'd say this is an improvement. Although," she confides, as if he's not standing right there, "there was something appealing about all that--" she gestures to her own shoulders, hinting at the shape of pauldrons-- "all that shiny.

"Now go on." She's waving the three of you back toward the ship. "I've got a freighter coming in here any minute, and he's actually going to pay me. If you can get that thing off the ground," she adds as if to herself, and then to you, "You tell him if breaks that thing again he better bring it here to be fixed. No more of that Mon Calamari nonsense."

You've got no idea what she's talking about, but it's nice to know that somebody else cares about this man and his odd little child. 

You'll go along with them for a while, you think, see where things lead. Offer to do what you can around the ship, help out wherever they're headed next. 

Mostly though, you're looking forward to seeing what happens tonight, once the baby's tucked in and you're alone together again.

[vercopaanir]

Of the Mudhorn

The Lovely Moons, Chapter 16

Masterlist Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: While Kuiil takes care to save the life of the wounded fathier, you and the Mandalorian care for the foundlings in the desert, and you learn the secret of the child.

Words: 5.1k 

Rating/Warnings: T, maybe for some romantic themes? I don’t know, man.

Notes: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read and left comments. I cannot believe how this story has grown so exponentially! It could not have happened without your support. I am currently planning another PP character story. I’m not sure when it’ll be published, but I may be posting a preview of it sometime in the near future!

Please check out the newest artwork for this story here!

AO3

Recovering from your injuries has kept you asleep for a day and a half, so you’re not remotely tired when Kuiil offers you, once again, the use of his sleeping quarters. He had prepared a humble meal for you and the two children, and the Mandalorian sat quietly across from the table, one boot resting on his knee as he helps the petal eared infant in his lap drink bantha milk from a small clay cup. The Ugnaught speaks of the peace that had come to the valley, the steady work of his moisture farm, and the temperament of the blurrgs while you fill yourself on warm food and safety.

You stand to clean the table, grateful that he has lit several lanterns in the spacious living quarters so you can see better. When you gather the dishes, you don’t miss the way the two siblings yawn, sinking their elbows onto the table, but what surprises you most is the sudden jerk of the Mandalorian’s helmet when his head begins to nosedive forward.

Rounding the table, you gently extract the baby from his arms and smile softly when his visor tilts up toward you. Laying a cloth over your shoulder, you pat the child’s back with firm thumps and whisper, “Why don’t you take the bed? I’m not going to sleep for a time.”

When he doesn’t even put up an argument, you know he’s exhausted his physical limitations. He pushes himself to stand with a weary exhale from deep within his chest, and he practically drags himself to the back of the tent. He pauses as you turn away, and you hear his deep baritone rumble, “Come on.”

Corde and Venka slip from their seats at the table, gratefully falling in line behind the bounty hunter and rubbing their eyes with chubby fists. You smile when their familiar shadows disappear behind the thick curtain partition, and you smother a laugh to hear the baby on your shoulder belch and giggle triumphantly.

“I will tend the fathier, now. You are welcome to join me,” Kuiil says with a shrewd look, and you slide the baby comfortably into the crook of your arm, letting your free hand rest upon the Uganaught’s shoulder. He leads you outside, across the small yard to the blurrg’s pen. He shows you the stool by his workbench, and you set the child on the ground to toddle near your feet, enjoying the cool desert breeze while Kuiil begins sorting through husbandry supplies. “Will you tell me where this creature came from, and the children, or will I be left to guess?”

“I would be surprised if you couldn’t,” you say, smiling when he snorts and sets himself to work. The animal seems too spent to be able to fight or fuss under the handling of the Uganaught’s care, and you begin to tell the tale of everything that had happened after your last visit to Avarla-7.

Kuiil is an adept listener, sharing that quality with the Mandalorian. He doesn’t interrupt you, and he only makes affirming noises to assure you he is listening while he washes, tends, and treats the animal’s wounds. When you get to the story of Canto Bight, of your time in the stables, he returns to the workbench to remove his gloves and sit across from you. 

“The children have burns on their hands, from what I suspect are brands. This is not uncommon in slave trade,” Kuiil says, and if he sees your face drain of color, if he notices the trembling that takes over your hands, he is too polite to comment on it. “I suspect, had the Mandalorian not come, you would wear a matching set.”

“Part of me will never let go of the guilt that he came back,” you confess, lowering your voice, and your chin to look down at your hands that were pristine beneath the lamplight. “So much could have gone wrong.”

“And do you think the small comfort you might have achieved would compare to the loss the Mandalorian would have taken?” 

Kuiil has never spoken to you unkindly, but the terse, unforgiving growl makes you feel rather sick. You turn your eyes toward the child that is currently hopping after a toad that is nearly as big as he is, and you bite your lip. “I-I don’t know.” 

“I do. And I suspect he does, as well.”

You watch the dim shape of the child at play, his world once again tilted decidedly in his favor without any knowledge of the hungry eyes following him from every corner of the galaxy. For something so small, so pure of heart, it overwhelms you, this knowledge that there is evil in the universe searching to snuff his little life out. Your hands curl in your lap, and you only realize you are gritting your teeth when your jaw begins to ache.

“I thought, when I first came here, that I was being traded a life of servitude for honest work,” you whisper, your voice beginning to choke with the tightness of contrition. A tear pearls in your eye, and when it falls to land upon your dress, the little child turns to look up at you as if he heard its descent. “I feel as if I somehow unwittingly cheated the universe. That one day the Maker will look down, see the excess of my happiness, and take it all back.”

The sounds of the frogs and insects and the quiet stream of the wind in the air is all there is to hear between two former slaves, for you know that Kuiil knows your fear first hand. There is nothing he can say, wise or brazen, that will ever quell the haunting in your heart of being a stranger without the yolk of servitude. 

“Perhaps, your reward is great because you have saved two more souls from the worries you yourself now carry,” Kuiil grouses, looking down at his workbench and beginning again the task of organizing it. You turn your pale eyes towards him as he begins sorting through parts, fishing out a dirty rag to wipe the workspace down with. “And should the Maker find fault in that, I would no longer wish to know them.” 

The child toddles up to you, gently hugging your ankle and pressing his face into the fabric of your dress. You lift him up into your arms, kissing his nose before pressing your brow to his. Six little fingers touch your cheeks, and you sniffle and smile. You stand slowly, the Ugnaught’s words going round and round in your head.

“Thank you, Kuiil. For everything.” 

He says nothing, and you sit quietly until the sky nearly begins to lighten on the horizon. You turn towards the tent, the child nuzzling against your chest and yawning sweetly. You step quietly, slipping your boots off near the door and hunching down as you part the partition back. Upon the bed, the Mandalorian is flat on his back dressed in full armor, snoring quietly through his helmet, which weighs his neck down at an odd angle. Corde is asleep beneath his arm, hugging his middle and burying her face into the fabric of his shirt. Venka is curled at the foot of the bed, and you cover your lips to keep from laughing at the sight. Tucking the child into his pram, you gently nudge it so it floats silently beside the bed, and turn to the mess of bodies you now face.

You gently begin to situate the small boy, lifting his head to slip a folded blanket beneath his cheek to serve as a pillow. Next, you remove the Mandalorian’s boots, taking care with every buckle and tie so you can set them quietly on the ground. Just as you brush Corde’s hair from her warm cheek, a gloved hand grabs your wrist on instinct.

“It’s still early,” you murmur, lowering yourself so you perch on the edge of the bed by his hip, feeling the strength give in his fingers where he holds you. “Go back to sleep.” 

His hand falls back onto the bed, and just like that, he’s out once again. You smile, gently laying down beside him, heat flushing your face at being so close. You’re on the edge of the cot itself, and you can’t help but remember his words from the hotel room when he took the space nearest the door. Your head pillows on his bicep, but you can’t be more comfortable than you are in that moment. You expect to be by yourself when you wake up, as is common with the bounty hunter you’ve grown to know and share your space with, but when next you open your eyes, there is an early morning light streaming through the hut’s meshing that catches on the beskar vambrace draping over your abdomen. 

Quiet breathing through the vocoder is nestled in your hair that’s strewn across the pillow, and when you shift just slightly, you realize that someone has covered both of you with a blanket. The light is enough for you to see that neither child that had been asleep the night before remains where you left them, and when you look at the pram and the open shutters, it also sits empty.

Raising a hand to your forehead, you slowly sit up, fighting a yawn, before gently moving the dead weight of the arm pinning you down. There’s a muffled snort from under the helmet sinking back into the pillow, and his hand flexes on top of the blanket. 

“Mphf-what’re you doing?” His voice is a rasp, scratchy and rough with sleep, and you wonder if he rested at all while you were recovering. You lay a hand on his arm soothingly, rubbing your thumb in circles. His voice is almost a plea, “Lay…lay back down.”

A smile dances at the corners of your mouth, and you whisper, “All the children are gone.” The utterly unimpressed grunt from under the helmet tells you exactly what the Mandalorian thinks of that, and your grin widens. “Sleep more if you like, but I would feel guilty leaving our host alone to mind all three of them.”

“As if they’d slow him down,” he mutters, but you feel him sit up behind you as you let your feet drop to the floor. You let your world settle upright, your balance and wakefulness coming together as the chill of the desert is chased away by the sun.

A gentle pressure between your shoulders inclines your head to turn, finding the Mandalorian pressing his helmet ponderously against your back. 

“Really, you can keep sleeping,” you whisper, your heart aching at the sound of such a deep sigh.

His helmet angles to the side, and you feel his vambrace tuck beneath your breasts as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you backwards against him. Your head falls back into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself go limp, enjoying being handled.

“A tempting offer,” the rough baritone rumbles quietly. “But will you make it worth my while?”

Instinctively, your legs press together at the same time your lips part to breathe. Your heart begins to pound, heavy and fervent when his other gloved hand comes up to cup the front of your throat. There’s only the barest tease of pressure, and you know he can feel how your pulse is singing beneath the leather of his glove. Your own hands fall, resting firmly on his thighs that crowd either side of you, and you swallow hard.

Your breath rattles in your throat, and you lick your lips, turning your face toward his helmet that presses gently to your temple. “I…I don’t have anything to offer.”

His hum is laced with the static of his modulator, and you feel it deep in your belly. His arm around your waist tightens, and you bite your lip near enough to bleed when he drags you back hard against his body, leaving not even air between you.

“Don’t underestimate yourself, ner Mesh’la.” His voice is a growl now, so quiet that you can only hear it from beneath the helmet, and your entire body shivers when the beskar nuzzles your jaw, just beneath your ear. “You could have me on my knees, if you wished.”

You open your mouth, whether to whisper a plea to continue or beg him to stop, but both of your attentions draw to the giggling coo near the partition of the sleeping quarters.

The child stares up at the both of you, large, dark eyes blinking sweetly, and one hand drags his stuffed bantha behind him on the ground. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, and you feel a warm flush when you can feel the Mandalorian’s own chuckle in his chest at your back. His arms fall away from you, and you push yourself from him and the bed to stand up. Immediately, the child toddles at full speed toward you, huffing excitedly and waving his free hand upward. 

Leaning down, you lift the infant up into your arms, and he drops his toy in deference to being up high, immediately grabbing tiny fistfulls of your hair in his fists. The Mandalorian moves around the small space, and you blow sweet kisses into the baby’s face until he falls forward, pressing his open mouth against your chin and gurgling happily. 

“He missed you,” the Mandalorian says, his voice quiet as he sits to put his boots on. You tilt your head toward the child, bumping foreheads with him and smiling when he tries to kiss your nose next. He achieves biting the tip and grinning up at you proudly. The warrior’s voice catches when he says, “I didn’t think he would stop crying.”

Your heart sinks, and your smile falls, looking down at the little one in your arms to his father who busies himself with the ties of his boots. His view changes when you step between his feet, and he looks up at you through his visor. You think you can see his throat shift when he swallows.

“You’re a good father, you know,” you murmur, one hand drifting to cup the chiseled arch of one side of his helmet. You hear him exhale, his breath shaking when you smile. “Whether I’m here or not.”

His glove comes up to cup the back of your hand. You linger a moment before you turn and duck from behind the partition, carrying the child through the modest living quarters. You know your hair is tangled and your dress is wrinkled, but you step into your boots and begin preparing a small meal for the baby that hangs in the crook of one elbow. You want to give the Mandalorian privacy to eat or drink before you take up more space and time in the tent. The sun is shining bright, and when you step outside, you can hear Corde giggling from somewhere in the distance near the blurrg pen.

You sit at the workbench on the same stool you occupied the night before, leaning the child back so he could hold the little cup full of cold bantha milk comfortably and feed in the shade. Heavy footfalls bring your face up, and you smile at the blurry shape of your host.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Kuiil greets, picking up a tool from the bench in front of you. He seems to linger over the child, who blinks owlishly at him. “He’s eating more these days.”

“He is,” you agree, patting the child’s tummy with affection. “I think he must be going through a growth spurt.” 

“Perhaps it is from his power,” Kuiil ruminates, rounding the workbench to the other side.

This draws your attention, and you blink slowly. “W-What power?”

Kuiil pauses, looking across the bench at you with a hard frown, his bushy brows lowering in confusion. “You do not know? The Mandalorian did not…tell you?” he demands gruffly, and you’re left feeling not unlike a fish, your mouth opening and closing helplessly. “Did he not speak of the mudhorn?”

You wrack your brain for any detail you may have missed from the story you’ve grown so fondly of thinking about, but you can’t recall anything about the child. He had simply told you the child had been present when a mudhorn was defeated.

Kuiil seems to interpret this misinformation from your face and throws the tool down so noisily, the child jumps and nearly drops the cup he drinks from. The Uganaught storms off toward the tent, and you flush with worry, sure you’ve just opened a door that was meant to stay closed. You heave a sigh, looking down at the little one you cradle, sighing, “I think I got your father in trouble. What could he be talking about, hm?”

The baby simply blinks up at you, his eyes falling slowly with drowsiness, and you can’t help the smile on your face. Movement out of your periphery draws your eye, and you see the Mandalorian stomping out of the tent, Venka trailing meekly behind him. The bounty hunter collapses near a small fire pit, his rifle across his knees with a cloth. The little boy sits near him, and Kuiil emerges a moment later, huffing up to you.

“That man is more muscle than sense, at times,” he growls at you, to which you blush and bite down a grin. “So I shall tell you the tale.” 

Just as he had listened to your story the night before, you spend the entirety of his recollection sitting quietly and attentively. You only move to set the empty cup aside when the child has finished his meal, lifting him to your shoulder to burp him. Kuiil pauses to offer you a cleaning cloth, and you grow still when he describes the Mandalorian’s experience with the mudhorn.

“I…I don’t understand,” you murmur, looking down at the little one who’s nuzzling against your neck sleepily. “How is that possible?”

“I have heard stories, myself,” Kuiil rumbles, watching the little one dozing against you. “But they are not answers. I do not know what is true, but I do know that the Mandalorian would not lie about this young one.”

You lay one hand against the child’s back, feeling him breathe softly and curl against you for warmth. It doesn’t seem real, like something out of a dream, but it begins to fall into place with what you do know. 

Why would the Empire seek out such a small innocent without something to gain? Something beyond what you could ever know. What does surprise you is how you feel no difference for the little one you cradle near your heart. He is still the same, sweet being you had given your heart to, and you press a kiss to his brow. 

“I’m going to lay him down,” you murmur, standing and crossing the yard to the hut. You can feel eyes on you, following your every movement, but your focus is on the child you tuck into the pram waiting inside the tent. You leave the shutters open, in case he cries or wakes up to find you, and you arrange the blanket so it keeps out any unwanted chill. 

Now with the sleeping quarters free, you take a moment to undress and change your clothes, sighing in relief at the feeling of clean, unrumpled fabric against your skin. You work the tangles out of your hair with a brush from your bag, and you splash cold water on your face from the faucet, taking care not to use too much. 

As you dry your face, you can hear a quiet, rasping voice just outside the tent.

“Kandosii,” the Mandalorian praises, and you step close to the edge of the tent by the door to listen. “Again.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and you frown, wondering if you perhaps can’t hear as well as you think you do. When you peek around the edge of the door, you can see Venka leaning close to the Mandalorian by the fire pit, but you can’t make out anything that they’re doing. You step outside, trying to keep your feet light, but both of them look up as you approach. 

When they lean away, there is nothing you can see, save for some scratchings on the ground in the rocky sand. The rifle still rests across the Mandalorian’s knees, the barrel pointing away from the boy.

“What are you two doing?”

You kneel down beside Venka, one hand brushing the boy’s shoulder companionably. He turns his face, still round with baby fat, towards the Mandalorian who nods encouragingly to him.

Venka reaches towards you and takes your hand, and you watch him curiously as he turns your palm upward. He uses one finger and begins tapping your palm in an uneven, stilted rhythm. You blink, glancing from his blurry outline to the Mandalorian’s shadow, which looks on silently.

The tapping stops abruptly, and Venka’s hands fall to his knees, now turning back to the warrior with the eagerness of a student. The gleaming visor nods once in approval, and the boy beams.

“I…I don’t understand,” you laugh softly, curling your fingers where they still hover upwards.

“It is called Dadita,” the Mandalorian explains, standing up with a ponderous sigh and rounding the fire pit to stand beside you. He uses the pronged barrel of his rifle to begin making long dashes and shorter nicks in the earth. “Every dash and beat represents a letter in Basic Galactic. It is a code we use in battle, to disguise messages so enemies cannot decipher our intentions.”

Your furrowed brows slowly lift up with understanding, and Venka takes your hand again, quickly tapping against your palm. The look of pure joy on the little boy’s face brings tears to your eyes, watching him tap earnestly to communicate with you. To speak and to be understood after so long of having no voice

The Mandalorian takes a knee beside you, watching as the boy taps his message quickly.

“What is he saying?” you ask softly, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“‘I love my sister. We are happy.’” 

Your hand not held by the child covers your mouth, more tears falling when you close your eyes. Venka holds your hand with both of his now, looking worriedly between you and the Mandalorian, and you feel a warm, gloved hand resting on your shoulder. He nods at the little boy once, and Venka stands up and wraps his arms around your neck. You gather him close, hugging him tightly, and cup the back of his head. He seems content to be held, so you embrace him until your tears dry salty tracks on your cheeks before you kiss his mop of fluffy curls. 

“You will have to teach us all how to speak it,” you whisper, turning to face the Mandalorian. His visor bows silently in agreement, and you pet the boy’s hair back into place where you’d mussed it. “Go on, don’t-don’t worry about me.” 

Venka hesitates, glancing between you both before running off towards Kuiil where he’s welding at his workbench. You sit beside the armored warrior silently, eyes closed and breathing deeply. You feel something shift within you that you had thought was unmovable, and now you can’t imagine what to do with yourself without those surrounding you.

“Why…why didn’t you tell me about the child?” you ask, your voice half a croak from the tears clogging your throat. You feel the Mandalorian sigh even though you can’t hear it. “About what he did? What he can do?”

The Mandalorian looks down at the rocky stand you both kneel in, resting the butt of his rifle on the ground and leaning on it. He’s quiet for such a long time, you wonder if he’s going to ignore your question, but you also know for someone who speaks so rarely, he chooses his words carefully.

Finally, he whispers, “I was…afraid you would leave, if you knew.”

Whatever you were prepared for him to say, it was not this.

“What?” you breathe, eyes widening. You hear the man beneath the armor let out a deep groan, and he lets his helmet fall forward against his rifle, as if in pain. You sit forward, grabbing the lip of his helmet and pulling his visor around to face you. He tenses immediately, and you blink the tears from your lashes. “Tell me, p-please.”

He lets out a strangled, quiet noise that’s near a whimper, and his hand not holding his rifle gently wraps around your wrist. “I was afraid you would leave if you knew how dangerous it was to…to be close to him. To us.” There’s a heavy, loaded silence for a brief moment before he whispers over the strain of his leather glove that tightens around his gun, “I-I don’t think we can go back to that, Cyare. I don’t think I can.”

With the firm grip on his helmet, you draw him down to you, pressing his helmet to your forehead, and you whisper, “You will never have to.”

The Dadita lessons begin the next day, when the sun is bright in the morning without hurting your eyes. You think he must have prepared for it, as you direct Venka how to wash the dishes from breakfast when he walks back into the hut carrying the drooling infant in one arm, asking the three of you to come outside when you’re finished. 

You barely have Corde’s hair brushed before the two children are dragging you outside. The Mandalorian stands near the barn where the blurrgs are chomping upon great swaths of desert flora and vegetation, and the baby toddles after a rogue frog hopping about in the shade, giggling in its chase. 

His amban rifle rests in the crook of his arm, the barrel opened at the end where it hangs from his elbow showing plain for you and anyone else that it isn’t loaded. He uses the pronged tip of the barrel to draw in the sand the markings for every letter in Galactic Basic, only stepping away when Kuiil asks for his assistance with a task or chore. 

The code itself is not hard for you to master, but understanding it being spoken back to you is the true challenge. Venka picks it up with ease, tapping in your palm with rapid fire fluency. You huff, amusement and exasperation coloring your face as you shake your head.

“You are too clever by half for me,” you tell him, trapping his hand in yours and tickling his side. He wheezes, dancing away before coming back to you. “Alright, then, slower this time.”

Kuiil takes a break from farm work with you near the barn, watching as he eats a humble meal beside the Mandalorian of the children tapping various objects and upon different surfaces to speak to one another. At one point, Corde skips into the barn to tap through the wall, sharing secrets with her brother, and you move to sit beside the Ugnaught, your head beginning to ache from memorizing so many dashes and dots.

“Have you ever had to use this before?” you ask, folding your hands in your lap. Kuiil glances the way of the Mandalorian at your question, and you notice his fingers tapping along his cuirasse pause. “In battle or…otherwise?”

Venka runs from the wall of the barn around to the door to join his sister, ignoring your call to him not to touch anything inside.

“No.” He sounds like he’s frowning, thinking back to some memory he’d rather not bite into. “Though it would have been an advantage if I had.” 

“There are not many Mandalorians to use it with,” Kuiil says, by way of an explanation as he gathers up the small plate he was eating from. “But now you have some to speak it with.”

The Mandalorian watches the Ugnaught amble off, and you smile after him, feeling warmth from the words. When you turn back around, you find the bounty hunter kneeling beside you, and you suck in a breath of surprise at how silent and how quick he is. He doesn’t leave you room when he cups your chin with one hand and lifts the edge of his helmet to his nose, stealing a kiss as soon as you’re both alone. 

Your hands fly up to his helmet, holding the carved arches where his cheeks would be, and you can’t swallow the tiny moan that escapes you when he parts your lips beneath his. With one hand now free, he slides it to rest upon the flesh of your waist, the other drawing up your jaw to cup the back of your neck. You thought you had dreamed the sweetness you’d tasted upon the Razor Crest, and the urgency of his warm mouth leaves you floating the rest of the day.

He exploits his stealth around you more as the week passes. Stealing a kiss behind the barn or the curtain of the sleeping quarters becomes more sought after than water in the desert, always careful of his helmet or the light to protect his face. Your fingers find purchase somewhere new to titillate you-in the frothy, soft curls beneath his helm, on his slim waist beneath his cloak, even once, when the children slept in the mid-afternoon, upon the buckle of his belt to pull him closer when he crowds you behind Kuiil’s hut. 

It becomes distracting in the heat, so you busy yourself with teaching the children things to keep them from idling and to keep yourself from gazing too long at the armored bounty hunter never more than a few steps behind you. Venka becomes an accomplished tailor under your patient instruction, hemming the baby’s robe while Corde assists the Mandalorian in bathing the small child. You marvel at the tenacity the little children have, following their guardian’s shadow and watching him with all the admiration of students.

One evening, they both go out with the Mandalorian so he can teach them how to look for tracks in the desert terrain, and you help Kuiil feed the blurrgs. When they return, stained with dust and dirt and their eyes brighter than crystals, you can’t help but laugh at the tired slump in the warrior’s pauldrons. When you can’t help a giggle, he grabs you around the middle with greedy hands and wipes his dirty helmet against your forehead, smearing dirt all over your face as you shriek with laughter.

You watch him lumber away, tossing Corde over his shoulder without ceremony while she screams giggles of her own, Venka trailing after him as he heads into the hut. Watching them, you hold such a pain within your chest unlike anything else you have ever felt that it brings tears to your eyes.

How could something you have never had before become all you know?

-

Mando’a Translations:

Ner Mesh'la - My Beauty

Kandosii - “Well done.”

Cyare - Beloved

Dadita - A code used by Mandalorians, similar to Morse code.

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[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 8

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE NEXT MORNING

BJORNHEIMR, THE LONGHOUSE

Combing his fingers through his hair, Eivor finished tying the last link of his braid as beams of sunlight steadily began to seep through his window, signifying the start of a new day. He could hear birds singing in a chipper tone just outside the wooden walls, and in the distance, he detected the subtle sound of seawater crashing against Bjornheimr’s shores.

The weather today seemed to be much more peaceful compared to what they experienced previously. Eivor could still feel a cold chill blowing freely throughout the longhouse, but it wasn’t nearly as forceful as what they had to endure before. 

The fires they lit were more than enough to fend off the icy breeze that tickled their skin, and the sun’s warmth only added to the heat that was beginning to gather in their home. 

All-in-all, it was a rather serene morning to welcome the people of the sleepy village. Unfortunately however, what the day lacked in cumbersome weather, it made up for in altercations.

Not too far away from where he sat, Eivor could hear Sigurd and Styrbjorn’s voices booming inside the war room, echoing off the walls like a chain of thunder. Their words were somewhat muffled thanks to the many layers of wood that stood between Eivor’s quarters and the main hall, but even then, it wasn’t difficult for the young man to guess what was going on.

It sounded like they were arguing about the same thing that brought Dag to the docks yesterday. Sigurd’s tone was gruff with a familiar edge of annoyance, and the king himself seemed to reflect his son’s dour mood. There were occasional bouts of silence where the two of them would calm down for a few moments, only to erupt once again when someone’s anger got flared up.

Eivor just wished he could stop it somehow. It wasn’t difficult to see that Sigurd’s state of mind had deteriorated rapidly over the past couple days, and the young man wanted to help the prince before it became any worse. He cared about his new friend despite only having known him for a week, and the gradual rise in his frustration admittedly ignited a sense of worry in Eivor’s heart.

He just feared that Sigurd would be even more distant now that the Wolf-Kissed’s feelings had been made clear. The older man appeared to have no issues opening up about his emotions in the past, but his demeanor completely shifted as soon as Eivor confessed to his feelings during their short fishing trip.

He closed himself off in a way that Eivor had never witnessed before, and within seconds, it felt as if they were strangers again. It was one of the few conflicts that led the young man to wonder if Ingrida’s prediction had been correct all along, and if so, he feared what that would imply for the wolf that continued to haunt the prince’s dreams.

If someone really dared to turn traitor in the near-future, Eivor couldn’t even begin to imagine the chaos that would ensue. There was enough tension hanging over Bjornheimr thanks to Kjotve’s barbarity that something as severe as betrayal would’ve done nothing except cause it to snap. 

It was the last thing they needed in a time like this, and the easiest way for Kjotve to to get the upper hand. They couldn’t let it happen.

Taking his leave from the bedroom, Eivor finally decided to move on with his day and strode out into the main hall, only to find himself more intrigued by the argument as the longhouse’s structure amplified the men’s voices.

Sigurd was currently leading the conversation with an iron grip in his tone, and the level at which he spoke even frightened Eivor to a certain degree with how alarmingly calm it was. The anger seemed to have vanished entirely from the prince’s rotten mood, and left nothing but exhaustion and defeat in its wake. 

It was the intonation of a man who’d lost every shred of patience he once contained, and Eivor didn’t even have to see Sigurd’s face to know that he was at the end of his rope.

“...I can’t do this anymore, father.” The man said, barely speaking above a whisper. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? Every single day, the villagers of Bjornheimr ask me where their king is, and every single day, I have to come up with an excuse to explain your absence. Oh, my father’s just busy. Oh, he’s occupied with something else. Oh, don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”

A sudden thud emitted, leading Eivor to assume that Sigurd had just slammed his fist on the table.

“I’m done with it!” He exclaimed. “I may be next in line for the throne, but you are still the king. I can’t keep stepping in for you. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s alright. Kjotve continues to threaten our shores on a daily basis, and you’re struggling to even stand upright! What more do you expect me to do?”

Styrbjorn sighed deeply, entirely at a loss for words. “...My son, you know I am trying my best--”

“--Are you?”

“--Yes, Sigurd. I am. But it’s not as easy as you think.”

“We are at war, father,” the prince emphasized. “Nothing is going to be easy. But that’s no excuse to spend all your time sulking in the longhouse, drowning yourself in mead. Do you remember what you said to me the night before we left Fornburg? You told me not to worry. You told me this wouldn’t be an issue. You promised it.”

“And what did you tell me?” Styrbjorn countered. “You assured me that you would do everything in your power to make this marriage a success. And yet, I see you doing nothing except gallivanting around Bjornheimr with Eivor in tow, completely turning a blind eye to your betrothed.”

Sigurd’s irritation only escalated at the response. “I-- you know nothing of my relationship with Eivor. He is an honorable man, and he has helped me through many things as of late. He understands the necessity of this alliance, just as I do. Do not try to turn the blame on him.”

“And what would you have me do, exactly, Sigurd?”

The prince’s voice became hardened with steel. “Be the king these people think you are. Deliver the promises you made, and stop hiding in the shadows whilst I do everything in your absence! The whole point of this alliance is to rally an army large enough to snuff Kjotve out for good. How are we supposed to do that when our own king is constantly stumbling over his own two feet?”

“Your reckless behavior is hardly going to help defuse the situation either, Sigurd. Need I remind you that you nearly got Arngeir’s son killed? Where would we be now if Eivor had been slain in those woods? What do you think the state of this alliance would be? Have you ever considered that?”

“Of course I have! But unlike you, I intend to learn from my mistakes. Not repeat them over and over again.”

Sigurd let out a breath and stepped back from the war table, putting an end to their semantic circles.

“...Enough.” He muttered. “I’m done with this. I have my own duties to attend to, and I’ve wasted enough time arguing with you. If you must send Dag after me again, I’ll be discussing matters with Ulfar near the training yard. Otherwise... just leave me be.”

Shutting down their argument, Sigurd stormed out of the war room before Styrbjorn even had a chance to reply and marched into the main hall, practically leaving a trail of flames behind him with how aggravated he was. 

His brow was crinkled with a deep sense of fury, and in the silence that followed their heated conversation, Eivor heard nothing but the firm thumps of the prince’s footsteps echoing throughout the longhouse.

When the older man noticed the Wolf-Kissed standing outside however, he halted in his tracks and stared at his friend in a shocked manner, unsure of how to react. The veil of rage hanging over his expression suddenly disappeared, and a look of shame singed itself into his face once he realized Eivor had just heard everything.

“E-Eivor?” Sigurd blurted out, coming to a sudden stop. “I... I didn’t know you were there.” He lowered his head in embarrassment, dreading to hear how the man would respond to his next question. “...How long have you been standing here?”

Eivor softened the truth somewhat, not wishing to cause Sigurd anymore stress. “Only for a short while. Don’t worry, I didn’t hear much of your conversation.”

The prince didn’t buy it. “We were hurling our words at each other as if shouting across a battlefield. There’s no way you didn’t catch every single syllable.”

The young man gazed down at the floor. “...I don’t mean to pry, Sigurd.”

His companion waved a dismissive hand. “No, it isn’t your fault. We weren’t exactly being quiet. I just wish you didn’t have to listen to all that. I apologize.”

Eivor’s curiosity heightened. “What’s wrong, exactly? Is this about the ‘problem’ Dag approached you with yesterday? Is your father alright?”

Sigurd stumbled over his words, unsure of how to open up about the subject. “No. He’s...”

The man trailed off for a moment and crossed his arms in thought, pondering whether or not to be honest about what was going on. He may have been hesitant to share information as delicate as this, but he trusted Eivor. He knew the younger man would never pass undue judgement on him, and on top of that, his friend had already witnessed a good portion of the conflicts within their family. There was no point in keeping him in the dark any longer.

“...My father is a drunk,” Sigurd confessed. “His habit has been getting worse lately.”

Eivor glanced back at the war room. “The king? Truly?”

The prince’s tone lowered with indignation. “Much to my dismay, yes. It’s not something many people know about. A king has to keep his reputation, after all. Apart from you, Dag is the only other one aware of my father’s problems. Everyone else is oblivious.”

The Wolf-Kissed stepped closer to the other man. “Has your father always been like this?”

“No. Not always. He first developed the habit after my mother passed away. There have been a few times when he’s managed to put down the bottle, but in the end... it always comes back. Like a pair of shackles that just... won’t let go. And this war with Kjotve certainly isn’t helping him recover.”

There was a brief pause in Sigurd’s speech, and he gave Eivor an inquisitive look.

“Eivor...” he said, keeping his voice down, “...can I ask for your opinion on something?”

The young man nodded. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Sigurd’s expression slumped with guilt. “...Do you think I’m being a bad son?”

The question took Eivor by surprise. “No. Why? Do you?”

A somber sigh escaped the prince’s lips. “Part of me does. I just... feel like a failure.”

“Why’s that?”

Sigurd wandered over to one of the tables in the longhouse, speaking as he walked.

“You must understand, before my mother died, she was bed-ridden for a while due to her injuries. I spent lots of time talking with her during those days, and one of her last wishes was for me to take care of my father.” 

He took a seat at the table, resting a hand on the surface. “...I think she always knew he would become like this once she was gone. She knew he wouldn’t be able to cope. So I promised her I’d do my best to keep him safe.”

Eivor joined his side. “And do you not believe you’ve done that?”

Sigurd shrugged in discouragement. “Well, look at us. Two decades have passed since my mother left this realm, and my father is still in the same place where he began. His addiction is only growing worse, and I’m starting to lose my patience. I just feel like I’ve disappointed my mother. I feel like I’ve failed to keep my word.”

The younger man frowned in empathy. “No, Sigurd. If your mother was anything like you, I’m sure she’d understand. But if you wish to help your father overcome this, you must try to be more patient with him. It’s not so easy to get rid of something like this.”

“I know.” Sigurd replied, sounding sharper than he intended. “My father’s been dealing with this ever since I was a boy. I know it’s not that easy. But I’m at a loss for what to do. I keep trying to help him and he just... won’t let me. He shoos me away like a pestering fly, and ignores my words no matter how many times I repeat them.”

The prince brought a hand up to his temple, rubbing it out of stress.

“I wish he would wake up and realize the urgency of our situation. We are at war. This is no time to be idling around. Our clan needs him, and so do I. Why can’t he see that?”

Eivor cocked a brow. “What about Dag? Has he ever tried to help?”

Sigurd scoffed harshly. “Dag? Psh. That man has all but made himself scarce these days. He hardly speaks to me anymore. It’s like we’re complete strangers. I don’t know what’s happened to him, but he won’t come anywhere near me now. He acts as if he doesn’t even know me.”

The Wolf-Kissed’s heart ached for the man. “...I’m sorry, Sigurd. I know you care for him.”

“I do. But I suppose that never meant anything to him. Or to anyone else, really. Mostly everyone I know has either stopped listening to me, or simply abandoned my side altogether. I don’t know if it’s me that’s the issue, or them, but... in all honesty, Eivor, you’re the only one I can trust now. You always take the time to hear me out, and I know you’ll be there when I need you. It... it means a lot.”

“I just wish I could do more to help.”

The older man shook his head. “You’re sitting here speaking to me. That’s already more than what most people can say.”

Sigurd calmed down somewhat and shifted in his seat, taking on a gentler tone. “...Eivor, you know what it’s like to lose your parents. Did your mother or father have any final wishes before they passed? Any hopes that you find yourself constantly trying to fulfill?”

Eivor was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, truth be told. We never had the chance to discuss anything like that. Both of my parents were killed instantly when Kjotve raided our home. Any last wishes they might’ve had followed them to the grave.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Although...” the young man continued, “my father was always encouraging me to walk the path to Valhalla. His goal was to raise me as a warrior, and as a man of honor. I imagine if he were still here, he’d want me to pursue that on my own. So, I try.”

“A worthy pursuit,” Sigurd remarked. “Your father would be proud of you.”

Eivor beamed fondly at that. “...Thank you, Sigurd.” He turned away briefly and stared aimlessly at the view in front of him, thinking back to his childhood. “You know, when I was a boy, I actually used to be angry at my father. He sacrificed his honor in order to save me, and I once viewed him as a coward for it. I felt abandoned. Betrayed. I even almost threw away his axe one time. Thankfully, Ulfar stopped me.”

A puzzled look spread across Sigurd’s face. “What do you mean he sacrificed his honor?”

“Kjotve made a deal with him during the raid,” he explained. “He told my father that if he laid down his axe, he’d let the rest of our clan go, including me and my mother. She begged him not to listen to Kjotve, but... her words fell on deaf ears. My father complied in the end, and he allowed himself to die unarmed. As you can imagine though, Kjotve broke his promise. So ultimately, my father’s death meant nothing.”

Sigurd shook his head, leaning closer to Eivor. “No, not nothing. You’re still here. You still have a chance. Make use of it.”

“...Perhaps you’re right,” the Wolf-Kissed conceded. “I just hope I can reclaim my father’s honor before I die. He’s suffered in Helheim for long enough. I won’t allow myself to be killed like him. I won’t die without honor.”

The prince nodded in approval. “Good.”

Eivor took a second to gather himself and decided to put the topic to rest, proposing a new idea to the older man.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean for this to take such a grim turn. What say you to a quick walk around the village? I can show you some more places where I like to relax. It might help you take your mind off things.”

Sigurd sighed, lowering his head. “...Not today, Eivor. I have to see Ulfar soon, and frankly, I’m just not in the mood for it. I fear all this business with my father has put me in a rather foul state. I’d... rather be alone for now.”

Eivor was disappointed at the response, but respected it nonetheless. “It’s alright, Sigurd. I understand.”

The other man displayed a faint smile. “You always do.”

Sigurd stood up from the table and rolled his shoulders, attempting to wring the stiffness out of his body. He appeared to be feeling better than when they first started their conversation, but it was evident that he still carried a colossal weight on his shoulders.

“I should get going.” He said, sounding utterly drained. “Ulfar will be waiting for me, and I don’t wish to vex that man any further.”

“Is everything alright between you two?”

“Yes,” Sigurd reassured. “He just wants to discuss Bjornheimr’s defenses in case Kjotve shows up. I warned him about your suspicion that he might strike back in retaliation. That’s all.”

Eivor found some relief in that. “Well, tell Ulfar to let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist. I want to protect this village as much as he does.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sigurd took one last glance at the younger man and gazed at him warmly, unable to hide the affection shimmering through his eyes. He may have been restraining himself from taking things any further with the Wolf-Kissed, but that didn’t mean his feelings were wholly eradicated.

“Thank you for listening to me, Eivor. I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I’m not normally this irritable, but... things have been complicated, to say the least.”

Eivor nodded. “Of course. This war has taken a toll on everyone, I fear.”

“Indeed. Which is why I’m grateful that I still have someone I can speak with. You’re one of the few things keeping me going. I’m not sure what I’d do if I had to bear all of this on my own.” Sigurd gently cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll see you some other day, my friend. This next week is going to be chaotic for me, but hopefully, I’ll be able to slip away here and there. I’d like to spend more time with you before the wedding starts.”

“Likewise.”

“Then let us pray that the gods give me an occasional break,” the prince joked. “Odin knows I could use one. Goodbye, Eivor. I hope the rest of your day is more pleasant than mine. Don’t hesitate to approach me if you need anything.”

Eivor watched as Sigurd strolled away, wishing desperately that he could comfort the man somehow. He wanted more than anything to just give him a simple hug, but alas, he knew what would follow if he allowed himself to get any closer to the warrior.

So, instead, he settled with a friendly wave and remained seated at the table, keeping his eyes on Sigurd as the prince began to vanish in the distance. He wanted to say so many more things to his friend before his departure, but he knew it was no longer his place.

They had already decided that their relationship had reached its boundaries, and no matter how difficult it would be, Eivor intended to keep it that way.

“Farewell, Sigurd.” He whispered. “May you wander into calm seas... and may the darkness part wherever you roam.”

[daretosnoop]

Chapter 2: The Investigation Begins

Chapter 1

This chapter is more descriptive heavy. I changed the layout of the upstairs area to include a bathroom and another bedroom. 

At first, all Nancy felt was dizziness. It was strange. It wasn’t the first time she’d been knocked out by someone. But it was the first time it was done by a masked skull figure, and they didn’t exactly knock her out so much as throw, something, towards her face. Whatever it was, it was potent. She still felt woozy and would have gone back to sleep if it weren’t for the thunder and a woman’s voice.

“Here, drink this”.

The sudden smell of something bitter filled Nancy’s nose.

“Don’t give her anything strange, then I really will have to take her to the hospital,” came another, lower, voice.

“Oh hush now. Just get back to your work,” the woman snapped back. She turned towards Nancy and urged the drink.

“It will make the dizziness go away, dear”.

Ignoring all warnings of caution, Nancy reached for the drink and drank. It was bitter, not that she expected it to be anything else, but it worked. She quickly found herself coming back to terms with her surroundings.

“There’s a dear,” the woman said. “I’m Renee. Mind I ask what you were doing unconscious in the Bolet manor?”

“Someone attacked me”.

“Someone, attacked you?” Renee repeated, not understanding.

“Someone dressed as a skeleton attacked me. I’m Nancy Drew. I’m looking for Henry Bolet”.

“Girl, you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard? Should we take you to the emergency?”

“No,” the lower voice broke in. “No emergency rooms! I’ve already got enough to deal with, and this power outage doesn’t help matters!”.

Renee sighed and shook her head. She turned towards Nancy.

“If you need me, I’ll be out in my garden”.

Saying so, she got up and left out through some double doors.

“I’ll call them and put them on hold and see how they like it!” the low voice grumbled after Renee left the room.

Slowly, Nancy got up and looked around. The room was dimly lit. Candles were everywhere, decorating bookshelf after bookshelf. One bookshelf was oddly decorated by teeth, with each book depicting a tooth on its spine. Another had a stuffed lizard on it. Trophies decorated the other side of the room, and in the left hand corner a desk sat with a young man on a swivel chair.

“Uh,” Nancy called weakly, then cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Are you Henry Bolet?”

The swivel chair turned and she came face-to-face with an oddity of a man. He dressed sharply and was very fit, but he leaned into the red chair and slouched a bit. His crisp looks were contrasted with features that Nancy recognized as a goth look. Not quite one or the other, she thought.

“I am”.

“Uh, well. I guess I’m the woman who fell unconscious at your house. Sorry about that. Bad way to introduce yourself, though, I guess it could be worse.”

Henry looked at her perplexed. “How so?” he asked.

“Well, for starters, I could be all up in your face demanding why you kidnapped my friend”.

“Okay,” Henry drawled.

“Long story. I’m Nancy Drew. We have a mutual friend, Ned Nickerson?” She held out a hand towards him. “Pleased to meet you”.

Henry shook her hand firmly.

“Ah Ned,” he started but then dropped the sentence. He knew who Ned was, barely. They shared accounting courses. Ned Nickerson blended into the class and Henry would have never thought to approach him. But somehow Ned noticed him and stuck around to give a friendly wave and smile.

“He’s, persistent,” Henry concluded.

“Well, that’s Ned for you,” Nancy said, giving Henry a bright smile.

Ned was the only one to notice Henry being even more gloomy and withdrawn as usual. Perhaps he overheard the phone calls Henry had with Bruno Bolet’s doctor and solicitor. Henry didn’t know, but Ned asked him how he was coping with his uncle’s loss. When Henry said he was going to New Orleans, Ned insisted on having someone check in on him.

“I’m guessing he sent you here to check on me. I kind of come off as needy, but I’m fine, really. So you can just go on home and tell Ned I’m fine. Go out and enjoy New Orleans”.

Henry didn’t really understand why Ned would send some friend over. They barely knew each other, so this Nancy person would find things even more awkward. It was best to just get this over with. The sooner she left, the better it would be. The whispers were chattering amongst themselves. They weren’t loud, and they seemed at ease. It was a new sensation.

Skull… find… mask… skull… her…

“I can’t just leave! I don’t know how you’re doing. Plus,” Nancy started to shift her weight from one foot to another. “You see. I’m the type of person, well,” she sighed. “Look, I just can’t let go of what I saw”.

“What did you see?”

“The door was open so I stepped inside. When I entered the living room, there was a man dressed in all black with a skeleton mask. He threw something at me and I got knocked out”.

She’s really lost it.

“I have not lost it!” Nancy snapped, reading his face.

“Are you sure you didn’t just make it up?”

“I know what I saw, and I’m determined to figure it out”.

Well, at least she’s not bothering him about his feelings.

“Can I at least look around for some clues. I promise not to break anything”.

Henry sighed.

“Alright. But I better warn you. Uncle Bruno was eccentric and into all sorts of exotic pets and things. So be careful. Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean they are”.

Way to sound ominous Bolet. He didn’t mean to scare her, but also didn’t want to deal with a bigger headache than the one his uncle left for him.

But Nancy just smiled, thanked him, and left the room.

 Nancy really didn’t understand why Ned asked her to go and visit some classmate of his. He even acknowledged that he barely knew this Henry Bolet, but she’d be damned if she let the Nickerson charm fail now on account of her. Everyone became enthralled by a Nickerson. So she came down to the French quarters of New Orleans with a friend, Bess Marvin, for a week of good sights and good food, only to have it pour down rain for two days. Trapped in their hotel room, she and Bess called their friends, Ned and Bess’s cousin, George Fayn. It was there that Ned requested her to check in on Henry, and seeing as the rain had no intention of stopping, Nancy went alone.

She was expecting it to be a simple check-in, nothing longer than an hour or two. When she knocked on the door, on one answered. She learned from the concierge that most folks kept their doors open in New Orleans. It wasn’t just on account of friendly neighbours It was also to allow ghosts to exit the house after accidentally entering it. Apparently, ghosts became cranky if they get trapped in a house. Twisting the knob, she entered the manor and went to the foyer. Towards her right was a room and she walked towards it. A person stood in a black tailcoat and boots with his back to her. She called out to them and as they turned, a shiver ran along her shoulders. The person had no face. Or rather, their face was obscured with a skull mask. Before she could ask who they were, what they were doing here, why even were they wearing a mask, the electricity went out. Rats, she thought. Trapped in an empty house with a skeleton person, well done Nancy. A flicker went off and a flash of lightning lighted the room. Within that brief time, the skeleton person managed to tramp up to her, close enough for her to see the eyes underneath the mask. They threw some powder in her face and between her stinging eyes and choked coughs, Nancy lost consciousness.

Had she not been an experienced detective, Nancy knew she probably would have become one today. She went back to the living room and started to investigate. The skeleton figure was inspecting the model cemetery when she entered, so she headed towards it. It was really beautiful and Nancy could see why it would have won an award. This Bruno person clearly appreciated cemeteries from the intricate figures of each burial ground. She read the names. Sleeping Meadows, Terra Siesta, Crowing Crypts, Sorrow Park, Withering Roots Memorial, Forty Winks Mausoleum, all clearly meant for a final resting place. Each burial ground was uniquely decorated and had crypts that indicated how a person was buried. She followed each paths around the cemetery, anticipating any indication of what the skeleton figure was looking at. There was a swamp with an alligator in it, surely a creative addition. There was also a large mausoleum separate from the other burial grounds. It seemed randomly placed and as Nancy peered closed, she saw that there were four engravings on it.

There were buttons that allowed her to change the engravings. Clearly this was some sort of locked box, but she didn’t know the combination that would open it. But she was confident that this was what the skeleton figure was looking at. Stepping away from the model, she looked around the room. There was a collection of portraits on the left wall. These must be the Bolets. They were quite unique in how their appearances overlapped. Guess, this must be where Henry gets his looks and style from. Each portrait revealed the personality of the subject. Oddly enough, they each held some object in their hand. One frame was empty and below it, Nancy saw a piece of paper. She picked it up. On it was an etching of a crow. It matched the engravings on the solitary mausoleum. Surrounding the crow was a detailed border. But Nancy remembered that only one of the engravings had this border. So, there must be three other pictures I need to find.

Nancy looked closely at the bird drawing. It looked like someone stenciled it from some surface. I wonder if this belonged to the Skeleton figure. The paper was slightly damp. So, that must mean the skeleton figure, must have stenciled this outside somewhere. I’ll have to take a look around outside.

Pocketing the paper in her trench coat she moved towards the fireplace. It was cold, but there were indications that it had been previously used. It’s too hot to be using a fireplace right now. She picked through the coals and found scraps of some paper. Most of it was too small and burnt off to be of any use, but she did find one piece with a name on it. Zeke. It looked to be the name of some business, but what?

Nancy stood up and went back to the study room. Henry was still typing away at his computer.

“Henry? I have some questions for you”.

The man swiveled around and raised an eyebrow.

Start small Nancy, you don’t want to scare him. He already thinks you’re seeing things.

“How well did you know your uncle?”

Henry shrugged. “Barely knew him at all”.

“Didn’t he raise you?”

“I guess. If you could call sending me to boarding school, summer school, military school as raising a child. He may have looked after me, but he never cared to spend any time with me”.

“Oh”. Great going Drew. She tried again. “Well, what about your parents?”

“They died in a car crash when I was eight. Then I got dumped onto my uncle. End of his bachelorhood I guess”.

Okay, that didn’t go so well either. She might as well rip the whole Band-Aid off.

“I think this skeleton figure was looking for something in this house. Is there some big object or hidden money or something that people might want to get their hands on?”

Henry looked at her, puzzled.

“Uh, maybe? There’s a lot of junk in this house, as you can see. Some of it might actually be worth something.”

“Well, I think they were after whatever is locked up in the mausoleum box in the cemetery model. It has a lock on it and this,” she took out the crow stencil. “This must have been left by the skeleton figure. If we can unlock the mausoleum, we can get whatever’s inside before the skeleton figure comes back. Do you know where the solitary mausoleum is located?”.

“Look,” Henry began and Nancy internally groaned. She knew that word and tone all too well. Distrust and disinterest. It was rare to ever find another person who had the same interest and excitement in uncovering mysteries. Most people didn’t care about the little odd threads that didn’t add up, only to cry when everything become unwound. It was times like these where she sometimes wished she had her friends and fellow detectives, Frank and Joe Hardy, to back her up. People were more willing to listen to a group than an individual.

“Why are you so concerned about this skeleton figure?” Henry asked.

“Why are you so calm?” Nancy countered. “Someone broke into your house and you’re calm about it? I clearly interrupted them which means they might come back, which means you’re in danger”.

“I got a lot of work to complete”.

Who doesn’t. Nancy sighed, “You don’t need to help me, just tell me a bit about the garden space. Is there a mausoleum that’s separate from other burial grounds?

Henry hesitated. There was such a mausoleum and he knew it very well. Too well.

“What do you need from that mausoleum? The door is completely locked. No one had been inside in years”.

“I don’t think I need to go inside. I just need to look at the building itself. There are engravings that could match the key for the model one”.

Henry nursed his head. “Alright. Once you enter the cemetery and go past the bent tree, the mausoleum should be to your left. Just keep heading that way. Hard to miss”.

Nancy beamed. “Great, thanks so much. She turned to go out towards the door, then turned back.

“Yes?” Henry drawled.

“Do you happen to have any paper?”

“Sorry. Ask Renee”.

Nancy nodded then headed out the door.

Henry watched her leave then turned back to his computer where an excel sheet filled with numerical data awaited him. God, I hope I don’t regret this.

 Outside the Louisiana heat infused into Nancy’s skin. She was not accustomed to the humidity and could already feel her back start to warm up and stick to her dress shirt. She turned to her left and saw a small alcove draped over by green vines. Tucked inside was Renee who was busy potting young plants.

“Hello,” Nancy called out.

Renee looked up sharply and Nancy wasn’t sure whether it was the heat or Renee’s grey eyes that initiated the sweat droplets down her back.

“Hello, dear. Welcome to my little lantern-lit corner of the world. Come in here where it’s dry”.

“What are you growing?” Nancy asked.

“Whatever I need dear”.

“Nothing like freshly grown herbs to add to your food, right?”

Renee looked hard at Nancy and her voice dropped.

“I don’t use these herbs for cooking, darling”.

Then what do you use them for? Nancy wanted to ask Renee this, but the older woman switched topics.

“Have you had a chance to talk to Henry yet?”

“Yes, I have. From your conversation earlier, am I correct in assuming you two are not on the best of terms?”

“My you’re forward aren’t you!” Renee laughed. “Henry is a very morose, very negative young man. Very cunning too”.

“How so?”

“I am almost certain he’s selling his uncle’s property on the sly. When he’s not supposed to, that is”.

“Doesn’t it all belong to Henry now?” Nancy asked.

“Absolutely not!” Renee exclaimed. “According to Dr. Bolet’s will, Henry is to receive thirty percent of the estate. Dr. Bolet’s physician, Gilbert Buford, is to get thirty percent. Our Lady of Route 57 Dentistry and Cosmetology gets thirty percent, and I am to receive ten percent”.

“Is the cemetery part of the estate?”

“Yes and no. It’s not legally part of the estate, but it technically belongs to the Bolet family. It all belongs to Henry now, along with his thirty percent”.

“Who is Gilbert Buford?”

“That’s Dr. Bolet’s heart doctor and best friend. Those two go long back. Thick as thieves”.

Nancy reflected on what Renee provided her with.

“Does Henry seem upset by only getting thirty percent?”

Renee drew her head up and stood tall. “Young lady,” she started. “The Bolet family is intrinsically connected to New Orleans. Henry is not only gaining assets, but also a name, title, and land. Thirty percent of the Dr. Bolet’s fortune is quite a tidy sum, never mind the Bolet family fortune and cemetery”.

“Oh”.

Renee looked towards her plants and slowly resumed her potting.

“I suppose I gave you the impression that Henry is greedy. While I cannot attest to it, Henry is nonetheless not someone you can trust. You best watch yourself around him”.

Renee potted some soil then paused.

“One more thing dear. That skeleton man, I’ve—I’ve seen him too. Now don’t ask me more questions, I don’t want to think about it. But just know, there is something in this house that’s just not right”.

Nancy nodded then switched the topic.

“Do you happen to have some paper?”

“Get the urge to draw something?”

“Yep!”

“Well, now. I know I have some paper in my room, but I won’t be able to go get it till after I’m done potting my plants”.

“I can help you pot the plants”

Renee laughed. “Impatient one you are! No. No. No need. Just take this key and go on up yourself. And while you’re at it. I’m feeling a bit hungry. In my cupboard there’s a stash of Koko Cringles. Be a dear and bring one down for me, and help yourself to one too”.

Nancy took the key and headed back inside. Henry didn’t acknowledge her entrance, so she continued out of the study and up the staircase. It was wonky and creaked a bit. There were four doors. One door was on a lower level and the other three were sequentially placed along the top most level.

She didn’t tell me which door was hers.

Nancy placed the key in the first door, but the handle had no lock. Curious, she pushed open the door and saw an empty room that was bare of anything save a drawer and bed. There was some clutter around the bed and she assumed it was Henry’s. Why would he sleep here though? It was so, lifeless. The rest of the house had character, but this room just looked sad. Nancy quickly shut the door and move up a floor.

The next door had a vase decoration near it, though Nancy didn’t recognize the plant resting within. This door had a lock and she tried the key. The door unlocked. She stepped inside.

 The room looked like a doll house. A creepy one at that. There was an elegant but simple bed with green bedsheets. The bedside cupboard. A vanity table was littered with all sorts of bottles and herbs, and a chest sat in one corner, opposite the bed. Nancy first went to the table.

A bottle with the label ‘hiccup powder’ sat at the forefront. Surely not, she thought as she picked up the bottle and opened it. But to her surprise the burst of powder caused a series of hiccups to come bursting out of her. She quickly put the bottle back, then began to rummage through the other bottles. There was nothing labelled sleeping powder or knock-out powder, though some of the bottles were unlabeled. She didn’t think it was wise to open them though. There was no paper on the table, so she went towards the cupboards.

Opening the top drawer, Nancy found the paper. She then opened the bottom drawer and found a stash of chocolate. Jackpot baby! She took one for Renee, and then ate one. The warmth of the melting chocolate felt good in the creepy room and Nancy couldn’t help but take one bar for the road. No telling when she would need to keep her fortitude up in this house. She got up and turned towards the door when something on the wall caught her eyes.

The wallpaper itself was old, faded and ripped in places, but clear as day in the centre were seven symbols surrounding a major rip. They contrasted a glaring red against the pale yellow wallpaper. Blood red. Nancy stepped towards the symbols and tentatively placed a finger on one sign. The colour was dry and odorless. Probably not blood. But she had no idea what those symbols meant.

Walking around the room, Nancy noticed a rocking chair and went towards it. Lightning flashed and as thunder rumbled, Nancy caught a glimpse of a doll. Not just any doll, but one she specifically saw with an old case of hers. A doll that belonged to a woman that died more than 200 years ago. Nancy had no idea how Renee could have gotten her hands on that doll seeing as the company closed a long time ago. She turned to her right and saw the chest.

Squatting down, she saw four abstract figures on each corner and a large blank circle at the centre. Surrounding the large circle were a multitude of buttons. Curious, she pressed one, and a line appeared on the centre circle. She pressed another and another line appeared. The centre image was now beginning to look like one of the corner figures. She pressed two more buttons but both failed to finish the image and the circle blanked out.  

Nancy looked back towards the wall symbols, then at the chest. Random symbol equals random symbol? She tried again to replicate one of the corner abstract figures. This time it worked and the figure turned blank. Curious lock, she thought as she solved the other three figures. Once all the figures turned blank she heard a click and the chest lifted a little.

Opening the chest, she saw all sorts of odds and ends and a book on hoodoo symbols. She opened the book up and skimmed through the pages. On one page she noticed that the symbols on the wall matched the one’s in the book. Beside each symbol a name was written. Bah? Boo? Dee? Mo? They didn’t spell anything, nor make any sense. Still, it was best to record it down. Nancy took out a notebook and pen from her trench coat and jotted down each symbol along with their associated name. She then packed everything up and headed out of the room and back towards the garden.

[lesdemonium]

royalty au for geraskier 👑

thank you!!!!

Geralt wasn’t exactly surprised to open the door to his chamber and find someone else there. He supposed he should have been, considering that wasn’t exactly what the king should come to expect. No one entered his quarters except his own servants and guards and, on occasion, the people Geralt invited to join him. But he had sent away his guards and servants, and Geralt was coming in alone, so someone being in his room should have been alarming. It wasn’t, and only because Geralt had grown accustomed to his attempts at solitude being thwarted. Of course someone would be in his room.

“I hope you’re not here to kill me,” Geralt said evenly, as the man froze and they stared at each other. “That would ruin my evening.”

The man, still bent over a case of finery, straightened up, and though Geralt could practically hear his heart pounding away in his chest, the man puffed himself up to look larger and jutted out his chin confidently.

“I suppose I could say the same back. I’m assuming this is the part where you call your guards and I face justice, and I have to say, I don’t particularly care for that plan. Can I make requests if I promise not to struggle?”

Geralt snorted and entered the room more fully. The man wasn’t armed, as far as Geralt could tell, aside from perhaps a small dagger hidden among his surprisingly fine clothes. Not what Geralt would expect from a thief. He still hadn’t moved from where Geralt had caught him, though he had snatched back his hands. His fingers twitched at his sides, and Geralt could see his eyes glancing down at the jewels and gold chains every so often, as if he was just itching to take one.

“You’re not really in a position to bargain, but I’ll humor you. What would you request?” Geralt asked, slowly beginning to divest himself of his robes and adornments. He kept his own weapons nearby, closer than he normally would have, in case the thief decided to attack, but Geralt wasn’t concerned. He hadn’t made any sort of move yet.

“Well, might as well shoot for the stars, first. That you just let me go, and we pretend this whole--catching me stealing from the King business never happened?” the man asked, smirking. He shrugged a little, then had the audacity, the swagger, to lean against a nearby wall and cross his arms casually. Geralt had to admit, he was impressed by his confident stupidity. “I suppose, barring that being an option. A swift death? Maybe one nice, extravagant meal before I go?”

Geralt snorted and, now in only an undershirt and trousers, turned back to the thief. “You’re bold. Or perhaps too stupid to be afraid. What’s your name?”

“A healthy mixture of both. With stupidity comes confidence, I’ve found. I figure you’ve already made up your mind about how you want to react; I might as well make my last free moments entertaining for us both.” The man shrugged, then seemed to consider Geralt’s question for a long moment. “Jaskier. I’m Jaskier.”

“Is that all? Just Jaskier?” Geralt asked, stepping closer to the man. They were almost touching when Geralt stopped, but Jaskier did not move. He still leaned against the wall, and had he been standing straight, they would have been nearly the same height. As it was, Jaskier had to look up at Geralt. Somehow, it didn’t make him look small.

“Jaskier’s the only part that matters,” he answered, shrugging.

Geralt hummed, then turned to the chest. He rifled through it as he asked, “How did you get in here?”

“I can’t reveal all my secrets, your majesty,” Jaskier said, and Geralt didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling.

“Here,” Geralt said, thrusting a gold chain littered with small diamonds at Jaskier. “This will make you a fair amount of money, but isn’t obviously royal.” Now, Jaskier looked surprised, and he took the necklace dumbly, before blinking at Geralt.

“You are going to let me rob you?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shrugged. “Not really robbing me if I gave it to you, is it?” he smirked, then moved closer to Jaskier, this time forcing Jaskier to move back up the wall until his back was pressed flush against the stone behind him. Geralt pressed a hand to the wall just to the side of Jaskier’s head and leaned in. “Try not to get caught on your way out.”

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath. His lifted a tentative hand to rest on Geralt’s chest, just for a moment, before tugging it back. “Can I come back?” he asked.

“I imagine I wouldn’t be able to stop you, given that you made it here almost undetected this time,” Geralt answered, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want an invitation, I give it." He ran his thumb over Jaskier’s lower lip, enjoying the way the thief’s pupils dilated, before pulling back completely and taking a seat on his bed.

Jaskier hesitated a moment, then pocketed the necklace and crossed the room to the window.

“And Jaskier,” Geralt called. Jaskier paused, one foot on the window’s ledge, and turned to look at Geralt. “Be quicker next time, so I don’t catch you again.”

Jaskier’s smirk brought heat to Geralt’s belly, and he almost called him back so he could taste it. “I make no such promises,” Jaskier answered, and then slipped out the window.

send me an au & i’ll write you a geraskier drabble

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 106

I know I’ve been on a fluff kick lately, and I’m not even remotely sorry. This chapter started out as an excuse to re-visit an offhand comment from a previous chapter, and ended up with Sophia having the kind of night off I wish I could have.

Thanks go out to @baelpenrose (beta and also creator of our favorite teacher-cum-warlord-cum-teacher), @charlylimph-blog (because no one else could have created the ball of chaotic friendliness that is Charly, nor her strong, silent, and charming partner), @werewolf2578 (because I will never not love Maverick), and @creakingcryptid (for donating faerself and Antoine early on to the cause, and putting up with me in real life.  This entire story, from chapter 1, would never have happened if not for faer, and I’m not even remotely exaggerating about that).

“Lift the right corner a bit more,” Tyche called out. “Yeah - Dammit, Arthur, that’s too high. Bring it down a bit more.”

“Do you want to swap?” he quipped, dropping his side of the large, white sheet to exactly where it had been before.

Ignoring him, Tyche asked Maverick to lower his corner instead, to much greater success. At least satisfied with the results, she turned to me and made a ‘ta-da’ gesture towards their work.

I shook my head at her. “And we need this why?”

“Movie night,” she reminded me needlessly.

“Eyeah. It was kind of my idea.”

“And none of us have been to a proper movie theater in ages.” She had a point there.

“Do we even have a projector?” Maverick asked, grinning, as he walked up.

Arthur, right behind him, grinned almost malevolently before Tyche cut him off with a glare. “I told Charly we were doing a movie night,” she offered by way of explanation.

“She insisted she had popcorn covered,” Arthur ventured carefully. “Do I even want to know?”

Eyes wide, I turned to him. “She didn’t tell you?”

He shook his head. “I asked what that meant, and all I got out of her was a maniacal laugh. By any chance, does she always carry around a cartoon-villain moustache in case she needs to twirl it?”

“And cat ears, yeah,” I confirmed absently. “She really didn’t tell you?”

“I just asked if she got the consoles to actually make popcorn that wasn’t better used as packing material,” he admitted.

Maverick erupted in laughter. “You are in for a treat.”

“Will it poison me?”

“Doubtful,” Tyche shrugged regretfully.

“Hmm. Pity.”

Trying to get somewhat back on topic, I pressed on about the projector. “So, you told Charly we were doing movie night this week, so she is going to… obtain? Steal? Jury-rig a projector?”

“I try not to ask, unlike some people,” Tyche arched an eyebrow defiantly. “Gift horses, mouths, you get it.”

“I doubt she’s stealing one,” Maverick offered. “She’s an engineer. Pretty sure she already had one she made, or is finishing one up as we speak.”

Fair. “What movie did we end up agreeing on?”

Maverick and Arthur answered in unison. “Star Wars.”

“Nuh uh. Nope,” my sister argued. “Repo! The Genetic Opera.”

“I’m with her,” I jerked my finger toward the person not insisting I watch a movie about a war in space while actually on a spaceship.

We continued arguing good-naturedly while getting non-popcorn snacks and drinks together. Arthur, to no small amount of surprise, was putting a very impressive amount of thought and consideration into the arrangement of blankets and pillows on every conceivable seating surface in my living room - some of which I didn’t even recognize and probably didn’t want to know where he got them.  At some point, Derek and Sam arrived, judging by the latter sitting happily next to a moving lump in Arthur’s careful construction and petting my cat.

About the time snacks were ready to be carried into the living room, the door opened to reveal Conor, who abruptly stopped to remove his work boots.  Unfortunately, he was knocked down by a clattering intruder behind him and saved only by the - no joke - knee deep ocean of bedding.  A hinged brass lid and a metal piece of something went flying past his head, revealing the intruder to be Charly. “Hi, guys!” she waved cheerfully. “Don’t worry. Coffey has the projector.”

White teeth flashed in a dark, handsome face as the man in question held up the device. “Her hands were full,” he shrugged before glancing past Conor. “You take movie nights seriously,” he added with an approving nod.

Charly, who I couldn’t remember having even seen wear shoes, had already scrambled over Conor’s laughing form so that she could grab the lid and basket, which she brought along with the enormous pot into my kitchen area. “Popcorn,” she declared, gently slamming the pot on a heating surface.  “As promised. I’m thinking green today.”

“That’s not popcorn,” Arthur pointed out, curiosity etched into every bit of his face.

“Duh, Mr. Farro,” she sputtered. “It’s how we’re going to get popcorn.  The consoles never season it, and it’s always stale, or soggy, or just… not good.  So. I made a whirlypop.” With a clatter, she patted her copper contraption. “It makes absolutely perfect kettle corn, every time. And I can make it whatever color I want, too.”

“It’s really good popcorn,” I confirmed. “She brought some to your fight with Jokul.”

“Of course she did,” he sighed. “I thought you said no selling tickets and no concession stand for that?”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t bring her own, screaming blue popcorn with her,” I held up both hands in surrender. “I couldn’t argue with the logic, and she was the only person there with popcorn, can confirm.” 

When I glanced back at her, I saw what I pretty much expected to see: her handy cartoon-villain moustache was pasted firmly on her face and she was twirling one end in what could only be described as a dastardly fashion. Arthur, on the other hand, was almost sputtering. “I - how? I was facing you, Charly. How?”

“Don’t ask, you probably don’t want to know,” I sighed with a wave of my hand. “Besides, I’m reasonably certain the answer involves a collective hallucination, blood sacrifice, or time travel.”

“Two out of three,” Charly nodded, sounding impressed but not clarifying any further. “So! Everyone ready for- oo! Mini pizzas! - popcorn and Master and Commander?”  A collective groan went up at a third movie being added to our ongoing argument over what we had agreed to watch. “What!? It’s my favorite!”

Maverick explained the conversation we had earlier to those who arrived after. Even having nine people voting now didn’t help: we were still split evenly across all three movies.  In the end, we agreed to take a run at watching all three, but that led to another discussion - what order?  We knew the odds of getting through all three were slim, and nobody wanted theirs to be left out.

Sam finally interrupted us. “If we don’t stay awake through all three, can we watch the last movie on another night?”

My jaw clicked shut mid-argument. Tyche tilted her head, “That makes entirely too much sense.”

With that anticlimactic resolution, we quickly took votes to determine which movies were most popular.  In the end, we ended up with Star Wars first, Master and Commander second, and Repo! last, much to my and Tyche’s chagrin.  At least we weren’t the only ones who voted for it, so I was mollified. Somewhat.

While we were hashing all that out, Charly somehow called upon the popcorn deities and managed to fill nearly every bowl and bucket she could find in my quarters with a rainbow of fluffy kernels. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure how she managed to make that much in roughly fifteen minutes, and when I asked, the only answer I could manage to get from her was “Two out of three, like I said.”

I wasn’t asking after that, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know if blood magic was involved, honestly.

Antoine arrived right as I was trying to figure out how to fit on the couch, where Maverick and Conor were cuddling and hogging the whole damned thing.  Unfortunately, between the immense quantities of popcorn, blankets, pillows, and people strewn everywhere - and somehow my Christmas lights were carefully hanging from the ceiling, which I had a sneaking suspicion was Derek’s doing - our poor resident therapist looked a bit confused.

I couldn’t help but grin as I waved at the chaos. “Welcome to movie night, apparently. You can sit anywhere except there,” I explained, gesturing at a particular pile of blankets.

“Why not - ah….” he trailed off in understanding as a hand darted out of the ‘pile’ to snag a mini pizza.

“Eyeah, only Mac can sit there, I think. And nobody better be feeding him pizza?” I warned. “Whoever does gets to keep stinky cat for the night while he has tummy trouble.” Turning back toward the couch, I stuck my lip out in a pout. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

“We’re comfy….” Conor whined, hiding what was probably a grin behind Maverick’s head. Rather than sitting up in any capacity, the two were laying down along the entire length of the couch, both their feet sticking off. There was maybe two inches of couch between them and the edge.

While my attention was focused on my boyfriends, two strong hands grabbed each of my arms and tugged me down. With a yelp, I fell across Charly and my sister, both of them giggling. Deliberately, Charly started to pet my hair as clumsily as humanly possible, and the scowl I directed at her set Tyche off in hysterics. When I opened my mouth to protest, popcorn was thrown in.  With another scowl, I surrendered to being draped across both of their laps, with a fluffy blanket spread over me from somewhere.

I still sulked, and ignored that I probably looked like a particularly perturbed cat.  With much determination, I managed to keep a scowl on my face until the first movie started rolling.  It was hard to stay even faux-upset after that, as what ensued was the most laid back night I had enjoyed in longer than I could remember. Seats were stolen every time someone got up for any reason, snacks were eaten and refilled, popcorn got everywhere….

It. Was. Glorious.

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[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Blackout | Random One-Shot Series, #2

Billy Russo x Female Reader

Second Billy Russo one-shot featuring one nasty citywide blackout. But really, it’s just a matter of perspective. 

Warnings: S.M.U.T., language.

Synopsis:  What happens when a major blackout hits the city of New York, and you find yourself stuck with Billy goddamn Russo in an elevator, your least favorite person under the sun? Well, you’re about to find out. 

Feeling cold winter wind bite at the bare skin of your calves, you mentally curse yourself for zapping that pair of tights, now peacefully resting at your place on the kitchen table. Pacing back and forth in front of a posh building, gleamed with secretive whispers of for-glamorous-crowd-only, you keep squeezing your phone, waiting on Karen to show up with a fervency of a Christian awaiting for the second coming of Christ.

Oddly enough, the metaphor quite fits: through the glass doors of the apartment complex you make out polished wood floors of a foyer that could accommodate hell of a lot of sinners and a graceful mirror-like doors of an elevator that probably go all the way to heaven. 

Why Karen has chosen this 12,000-square-foot executive lifestyle hub, a dramatic and tasteless atrocity, to hold Frank’s surprise birthday party is beyond your understanding. Even though you only arrived ten minutes ago you already miss your loft in Brooklyn, where everything feels warm, spacious and familiar. 

Karen is running late, but what else is new. As much as you want to help her with the finishing touches, there is no way in hell you’re going up there all alone. You frown as you wonder for a second if there are already people up at Billy Russo’s penthouse quarters, because you’d rather freeze to death than find yourself one on one with the man. It’s been so long it has become a running inside joke among your close circle of friends - with you and Billy locked in the same room, the only way either of you is getting out is in a body bag.

Still, despite of their big mouths, you love your friends. So you make an effort to care about almost everything and everyone they hold dear. 

There are, of course, exceptions. Tired of waiting outside in the cold, with a deep sigh, you enter the building. After a brief hesitation, you force yourself to push the elevator button and once it arrives, you step inside, inhaling a pleasant, sugary smell. Even if no one has arrived yet – in New York people tend to be late, just to make everyone think they have a life – you’d simply make yourself scarce and hide out in Russo’s bathroom until Karen or Curtis finally decide to show. 

Just when the doors of the elevator are about to slide shut, a deep, raw voice calls out to you : 

“Could you hold the doors for me please?...”

Driven by the sense of civic duty and by sheer curiosity, you press the necessary button. Little do you know, one look at the man’s face would make you want to singlehandedly shut them if needed, with his head smashed in between, his brain leaking out his ears and onto the floors. 

Here he is. Your almost everyone. Your exception.

The first thing you see is, of course, his toned chest, wrapped in a neat white shirt that probably costs more than this goddamn building, and a hell of a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. His eyes, deep bottomless black oceans with glimmering flakes of ice, narrow as soon as he spots you, the muscles in his strong jaw chiseling. 

“Y/L/N,” he breathes out in a badly masked annoyance, as he stumbles into the elevator, nearly slamming his right shoulder into your frame.

“Russo,” you retort, rolling your eyes. Out of all people attending the goddamn party, it’s with The fucking Pretty Boy that you somehow happen to share the elevator ride.  

The last thing you want is to deal with Russo’s narcissistic antics and inferiority complex. The last time you crossed paths with him, you ended up bitching at each other for thirty minutes straight, making nasty side comments to each other until the all-American self-made jerk has finally crossed a line and you smashed a huge chunk of Curtis’ birthday cake into his face. 

So yeah, Russo and you aren’t exactly buddies. And you remember exactly why. 

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine today,” surprised at the fact that Russo dares to attempt a small talk, you turn to stare at him blankly, second guessing how exactly he is expecting you to react. 

Russo meets your gaze head-on, his eyes nearly begging you to start an argument. 

Geez, you’re taken somewhat aback. Someone’s got their panties in a twist. 

Your last chance to escape a long, torturous ride with the person you dislike most in the world goes out the window just as the doors of the elevator finally slide close.  

“I was before you showed your face,” you fire back after sizing him up and turning away. From the corner of your eyes you notice Russo’s expression, like someone has just shit on his face. 

“If youl keep looking at me like that the lunch in my stomach will turn sour”, you add, your eyes stubbornly fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors. 

3 – 4 – 5…. 

Russo huffs contemptuously at your comeback, hatred that his body’s emanating hitting you in nauseating waves. 

“Charming, as usual,” Billy states bitterly, showing mercy for your lunch for some reason and immediately looking away. Choosing to ignore whatever his problem is with you today, you fish your iPhone out of the Balenciaga bag, wanting to check whether Karen has shown any sign of being alive. Lightening up the dim screen and steadily fighting your desire to spit in Russo’s face with a booming Fuck Off!, you dial Page’s number, silently begging her to pick up. 

“Hey, Y/N. What’s up?” Karen answers on the fifth beep, her voice a little too thin, betraying an emotion you can’t quite place. Page quickly clears her throat before continuing. “You’re….uh…. You’re at the party yet?”

“Hey to you too,” you raise an eyebrow in suspicion, worry digging a hole in your lower stomach. “So you’re not yet at the rave that you’re yourself throwing?... Classy, ” your eyes still glued to the switching numbers, you try to ignore the way your skin ripples, feeling Russo’s eyes piercing through your head. Surprised at your own angst, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to ignore the jerk’s presence entirely. 

“Gee, I take it you stumbled into Russo,” Karen’s guess seems all too perfect, and you give Billy a suspicious side look. “I asked him to go fetch candles for the cake because I am already late as it is... I sure as hell hope he did not invite any bimbos to the party tonight, because I know how much you…”

“…thank you, Karen, you’ve made your point!” you blurt out as you try to contain the blush you know is spreading across your cheeks. Every time Karen speaks, she’s loud and confident - there is no doubt Russo heard every single word. “Listen, we’re in the elevator, I’ll shoot you a text when we’re….”

…at his place. The words never leave your lips. What you do let out is a yelp when your entire body jerks, the world spinning before your eyes. Your iPhone falls flat on the floor as the elevator comes to an abrupt stop, the building’s lights all going out simultaneously just as you lose your balance. When you’re about to fall back on the cold and dirty floors, you vaguely register strong hands snake around your waist, keeping you in place. It all happens in what feels like a millisecond, smooth and so frustratingly natural, that without even thinking twice about it, you go with a flow. Back in the vertical position, you blink rapidly as a few emergency lights turn on, casting a dim glow on the confined elevator space and your palms, pressed against Russo’s rock-hard, lean chest. 

His scent immediately engulfs you, a subtle mix of oud and hickory spices, and you suddenly realize you’ve only been this close before once, save for the moment you smudged a piece of cake all over his face. 

As you catch on Karen’s distressed voice, coming from the phones’ speaker, you fight off the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. As soon as they’re dealt with, you use your hands to push away from Russo’s dangerously enticing body, uncomfortable with the thoughts that circle around in your head. 

And just like that, whatever it was that you shared just for a second, this moment, is gone. You pick up your phone, pressing it against your ear, as Billy backs himself against the wall, groaning and facepalming at the same time, the reality only starting to hit him from the looks of it. 

“Guys? Helloooo? What the hell happened?!” Karen’s voice comes and goes, the service shitty on whatever floor you’ve stuck.

“Karen!” you exclaim, low key panicking. “Hey, Karen, we’re alright, we’re just stuck in the goddamn elevator!”

You press your free hand against the other ear in an attempt to hear Page better. 

“She can’t do anything,” you flash Russo an irritated look, ignoring his words. 

“Okay, listen you two, I’m going to call the building’s security or the fire department or whatever so they can try and get you out before you bite each other’s heads off. Meanwhile, I suggest that you sort out whatever the hell is going on between you two, because I won’t be held responsible for two deaths when I barely had time to enjoy my relationship with Frank. Understood?” 

Something in Karen’s tone makes the horror of the situation finally dawn on you. 

“Fuck,” you groan, running fingers through your messed up hair. You can almost swear you hear Russo echo your words. “Yeah alright, it isn’t like we have much of choice anyway. I’ll see you later then,” you say before giving Russo one of your trademark glares. “If I’m not behind bars for a homicide by the time help arrives”. 

“Don’t worry”, Karen responds rather cheerfully. “I’ll bail your ass out.”

As soon as the call ends, heavy silence settles in, so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. 

“Do you think the dynamic duo planned it?” Russo finally speaks, referring to Karen and Frank, without any doubt, as he leans against the wall and crosses his strong arms across his chest. 

“Sure, they planned a fucking blackout. Your denseness never ceases to amaze, Russo”. 

Upon the hearing of your unceremonious comment, Billy narrows his eyes, watching you, sporting a glower fierce enough to put the fear of God in anyone. 

This is sure going to be a long wait. 

******

The silence in the elevator is deafening. It’s so quiet, Billy swears he can hear the dust move in whirls, its thin layers disturbed by your heavy and impatient breathing. With your cheeks red and your eyes darting all over the elevator, you breathe in and out. It probably takes every once of your self-control not to grab him by his hair and smash his head against the elevator panel, repeatedly, till the fucking thing can function again. 

Billy watches you fume silently in your corner, the question he’s been asking himself for ages threatening to fall off his tongue. 

He hears you sigh again, as you wipe tiny beads of sweat from your forehead, and he knows. He just knows that this is his chance to get some answers. Actually, he couldn’t have found a more convenient time and place to demand some kind of an explanation from you – at least, now, you have nowhere to run. 

“Why do you hate me so much, Y/L/N?” Russo’s voice cuts the silence like an nuclear bomb going off. He can feel your entire body shudder as you turn your head in his direction, your eyes widening a bit, as if you’ve just acknowledged he was here the entire time. 

Billy knows exactly what to expect from you, and as you confirm his expectations, he starts to regret his attempt at a heart-to-heart talk with you.

You roll your eyes before crossing your hands over your chest, your stare blank but determined. 

“Please,” you huff, “I don’t hate you, Russo. Hating is exhausting”.

“Exactly,” Billy picks up almost immediately after you’re finished talking. “Why waste all that energy?”

You look at him, chomping on your lips in annoyance. 

“I said I don’t hate you,” you repeat stubbornly. “In order to hate you I’d have to be emotionally invested. And I’m not. If you must know, you’re an asshole, and it’s just that I have zero tolerance for assholes”.

For some reason, your answer makes Billy chuckle quite heartily, as he turns away and slides down the elevator wall to sit on his ass. Spreading his legs some, he stretches his long arms and puts them on top of his knees, his head pressed against the cool wall. 

“Something funny?” still standing, you narrow your eyes at him.

Russo bites on his lips in order to keep his outburst of emotion in, and shakes his head, like you’re hopeless and he’s done with you. This makes your blood boil in your veins. 

Arrogant little fucker.

“If you have something to say, just say it,” your tone is dismissive and calm for the most part, but it suffices to wipe the smirk from Russo’s face. 

“Why bother?” he asks bitterly, his black eyes sparkling in the red light. “You probably have your head filled with bitchy comebacks that you’ve been preparing for this kind of situation. I’d rather you keep your mouth shut and we spend time stuck in this hot box in silence”. 

Before you even realize it, you push off the wall of the elevator, your eyes blazing.

“Excuse me?” you hiss. “You are the one asking me to fucking talk! And when I do, you’re surprised that I actually have balls to tell you the truth, unlike all those Barbie bitches you spend your time with, getting off at the sound of them saying how awesome you are”. 

Russo’s jaw drops open slightly. He definitely didn’t expect you to push back, but he should have known better by now.

A real Ballbuster, aren’t you?

“So this is why you’re always such a bitch to me,” Billy feigns revelation, his lips stretched in what can only be described as a devilish grin. “Is this because of that night in New York two years ago? When you had to ruin everything, without even telling me what the fuck was wrong?”

The way you watch him, unblinking, biting the inside of your cheek lets Billy know he has just hit a nail on the head. He doesn’t know what he’s expected from you, but it definitely wasn’t nothing; and that is exactly what he’s faced with.

You don’t speak. You blink a couple of times, hanging on to your composure, probably even mentally counting to ten... For a moment there, Billy thinks you really are going to kick him in the balls and thus justify the nickname that he’s long since given you. 

But it’s like you don’t even see him anymore. Turning your entire body away from him, you stare at the closed doors, peeling off your jacket, hot leather sticking to your arms. 

Billy’s watching your every move, taking in your body slowly and you can’t help but feel exposed – vulnerable. When his eyes meet yours, he asks:

“Why?”

His voice is stern, yet calm, and you bite on the bottom lip, your stomach churning. 

Both of you know exactly what he’s talking about. 

“It’s not important,” you finally speak, your voice steadier than you thought it’d be. “No one gives a damn anymore”. 

“I do”, Billy’s voice rolls over you like thunder, your skin tingling at the sound. “I give a damn. If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t take every opportunity to chew me the fuck out when I’m around”. 

He stands up in one gracious move, and makes a couple of steps in your direction, closing the space between the two of you. The smell of his cologne hits your nostrils again as he finally rests one of his arms on the wall behind you. 

Staring into his pitch black irises, you still hold your ground, not moving an inch. 

“What did I do?” Billy whispers, his lips itching closer to your face. 

“What didn’t you do!” you throw both of your hands in the air, making Russo back off instinctively. Your mind is reeling, and you suddenly realize that all the shit you’ve had brewing inside of your head because of Russo for so long has got to spill out. You’re a bit surprised when you see a flash of relief momentarily grace Billy’s stare, but you brush the thought away quickly. 

He wants to know why you hate him, well, the fucker is about to find out. 

Billy watches you in what can only be described as an awe as you push towards him, until it’s his turn to back right into the wall. He’s about to ask what the hell do you think you’re doing, but the question is caught in his throat when you start to yell, finally letting go of all the anger you had bubbling inside for so long.

“How fucking dare you pretend like this is all some huge surprise to you?”, you’re full-on screaming now, and tears are ringing in your voice. “I thought we shared something that evening. I loved spending time with you on the roof, after everyone’s left! And I made it pretty fucking clear that night that I wanted you. I fucking told you so. I was waiting for your ass for hours, and a fucking prick that you are, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you suck Madani’s face off the next day at the Homeland’s!”

God knows that this is a fucked-up situation. And as twisted as it is, your anger stirs something inside of Billy, causing his blood to flow south, straight to his groin. 

“Have you any fucking idea what that felt like, with Madani and the others talking behind my back, the girl who was ready to spread her legs in front of Billy fucking Russo, and he didn’t even bother to take what was offered? Of course you don’t, because you didn’t give a shit. You barely looked at me, let alone spoke to me for the last two years, and now you dare asking me what did you do?!”

“You are insane”, Billy can’t help the harshness in his tone as he hears your ridiculous lies. As the words leave his mouth, he instantly regrets them, but the damage’s done. You turn your head away from him, hugging yourself, ashamed of the tears slowly rolling down your cheeks. 

“I don’t understand,” he runs his fingers through his hair in desperation. 

“Of course you don’t,” you huff, and quickly wipe your tear-stained cheeks. “You are so used to everything being offered to you.”

“Not everything”, Billy bites back, feeling irritated and helpless, because he is just so confused. “I texted you that night after you left the party telling you how much I, too, loved spending time with you. I even asked you out on a date for breakfast next morning. You never fucking answered.” 

You stare at him like he’s grown a penis on his forehead. 

“Were you that drunk?” you let out a bitter laugh. “I told you I’d have loved to, and I said that we could order in, and gave you my fucking address! Drop the fucking surprised act, Russo, you wrote me you were coming over! And of course you never showed. You left me feeling like a stupid whore, more so when I saw you kissing Madani on the steps of the Homeland Security next morning, out of all people!”

Confused expression slowly fades from Billy’s face. Something clicks in his head, and he looks like he’s finally assembling a puzzle on which he’s been working for quite some time. 

“I’ve never gotten your texts. I checked twice that night… After Frankie brought my phone that I left at the bar, where Curtis, him and a couple of my Anvil guys were playing poker after the party…”

Silence is tense, and you can hear your ragged breaths join in an odd kind-of harmony.

“...Madani was with them, wasn’t she?” your voice is barely a whisper, when you finally figure it out.

“And Madani was there with them, yeah”, Billy repeats, still struck. “Unbelievable. The bitch hacked my phone.”

How dared she take his phone and violate his privacy like that? How fucking dared she meddle with something so important to him?

The next twenty minutes pass by slowly, the only sound coming from the confusion within the building. Both Billy and you don’t speak, letting this new discovery sink in, before he finally breaks and says: 

“I’m an asshole.”

You look at him questioningly, and he can tell you're distancing yourself from him. 

“I just saw you laughing with Curtis that morning when you showed up at Homeland, you looked so happy, and you didn’t even look at me, I was… hurt,” he confesses, staring into the ceiling. “I acted like a goddamn fool, and for that I am sorry”. 

“It’s fine,” you answer almost immediately, avoiding his gaze. “Whatever. What’s done is done. It’s been two years, I honestly couldn’t care less”. 

And there it is. Billy can see it now. The mask you wear whenever he enters the room. He isn’t going to buy it, not this time, when he’s finally gotten you to let your guard down a little, when you’ve finally admitted how hurt you were… When you’ve finally admitted you cared, for this entire time. 

“You’re lying”, you shiver as Billy reaches out, his hands sliding up your arm, until his fingers grip your elbow. He manages to draw you closer to him, his mouth nearly caressing your ear as he whispers the words to you. 

When you turn your head, ever so slightly, you catch his black eyes that burn into yours, and the rough grip of his fingers tightens on your hipbones. 

How…? For how long has he been touching you like that?

When Billy’s name escapes your lips, it comes out in a breath, your tongue and lips caressing every syllable. 

“I’ve been tortured for two years, thinking about how my name will sound falling off your lips,” Billy whispers, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face. “The way your pulse goes crazy when I touch you like that,” his lips hover over a sensitive spot next to your jawline as he speaks, “tells me you don’t mean it. Tells me that you care.” 

Billy’s lips press against the tender beating just below your ear, and the sensation is overwhelming. You moan involuntary, as your skin catches fire, your hips bucking into his. 

“I want it slow,” he says, his voice hoarse, but his hungry hands, running down your sides and squeezing your ass, tell another story entirely. “I want you to feel just what you have been missing”. 

Heat pools in between your thighs in answer to his words, bare millimetres separating your lips. You take a second to look into Billy’s eyes, glassy, his irises so dark they’re indistinct… Burning rooms filled with dense smoke. 

Billy meets your lips halfway, soft, full and demanding. He slips his tongue into your mouth, eliciting a moan from you, that he swallows greedily. His hands fist your hair, as he deepens the kiss, biting on your bottom lip. 

It’s a feverish and emotional kiss, and Billy could pass out from the relief of feeling your mouth on his. He even fucking dreamed about this moment. Granted, in his mind this was never happening during a citywide blackout in an elevator, but it wasn’t as powerful as it feels right now, either. 

He takes in every movement of your tongue, massaging his, every gasp falling off your swollen, reddened lips, and he’s so hard his pants might fucking split. The things get worse when you wrap your hands around his neck, your bodies pressed to each other in all the right places. Billy growls, something animalistic in the way he moves, when he grabs your hips again and lifts you up, pinning you to the wall. 

The friction that results from your movements makes both of you moan, and you are suddenly glad you didn’t put that pair of tights on. Billy’s calloused hands slide up your thighs, your dress a mop of chiffon around your waist. When he presses one of his thumbs to that pulsating spot in between your legs, you swear under your breath; then he pushes your lingerie out of the way and draws circles on and around that swollen bud, making you whimper and bite his bottom lip so rough it surely must hurt. 

“Please, Billy,” you gasp, and dig your nails in the back of his neck. 

“Please what?” he asks, his breath hitting your collarbone. 

When you don’t speak, grinding your hips on him, Billy growls again. 

“You want me to fuck you raw, is that it?” your eyes go wide at his words, but your thighs part further. “I know, baby, I want that too. I need to feel you”. 

Pressing your body into the elevator wall with his weight, Billy makes short work of his pants, letting them slide down his thighs. Quickly slipping a condom out of the pocket of his dark grey number, he tears the foil packet and rolls the latex on himself. Then he guides you gently as you lower yourself onto him, and you both gasp at the contact. 

He bucks his hips to meet yours, and the feeling is exquisite. Billy cups your ass in his large hands, pushing his cock deeper inside of you, and your mind is reeling, as his mouth sucks on your neck so hard it’s sure going to leave a mark.

Billy circles his hips slowly in an attempt to find that spot, the one that will have you screaming his name in seconds. He nearly makes himself tear his gaze away from your chest, beads of sweat rolling in between your breasts. The shape of them is fucking perfect. 

Your nails dig harder into his neck and that how he knows he found the spot he’s been searching for. His thrusting speeds up, and he can’t help but curse as your back arches into him. Your lips bite into his as you come undone, muffling your screams of pleasure. 

Two more thrusts, as deep as they would go, and Billy moans, spilling into the condom. 

Both of you are a panting mess, as you press your foreheads together. This is the moment the steady white light chooses to suddenly flick on. 

“Right on time,” you whisper against his lips. You smirk at each other, and moments later it’s a full-blown laugh. 

Letting you slide off him smoothly, Billy can’t stop picturing the way your body looked, pressed against his, as he wraps his silk handkerchief around the used condom and tucks it into one of the pocket of his trousers. He buckles his belt, never looking away. As you smile at him adjusting your dress, he cups your face and smashes his lips into yours, letting them linger.

Thank God for the fucking blackout, he thinks, lacing your fingers together, facing the elevator doors again. He turns his head to you though, because he can’t help the urge to stare at you, admire how beautiful you look with your wild eyes and smudged lipstick, still wearing the heat from his kisses and that rumpled dress…

Thank you for reading! Feedback and other blackout-related ideas are appreciated! 

[king-finnigan]

Could I request some cold calculating bamf Jaskier, like using poisons etc :O Thank you

CW: slight mentions of animal cruelty and domestic abuse. also straight-up murder.

Geralt doesn’t notice at first. It’s only when Eskel points out, one winter at Kaer Morhen, that the Count of Ironwick recently died in his sleep, apparently, that he starts to think that maybe something’s up. 

It’s because he’d recently passed through Ironwick, before he headed to Kaer Morhen. Hell, he’d even taken a contract from the count himself, and the man had seemed in perfectly good health. Sure, Geralt can’t say he mourns the count’s death - the man was an absolute bastard, making his citizens pay way more taxes than was considered reasonable, only to spend it on concubines and golden trinkets - but it is suspicious. 

But he decides it’s none of his business. It never is - he’s a Witcher, after all, and Witchers aren’t supposed to interfere with human politics. If he was, he would’ve run a sword through the bastard himself, but that is neither here nor there. 

So he brushes it off.

---

The Alderman of Salthold dies a few days after Geralt’s passed through town. His cause of death is a topic of heavy discussion in the surrounding towns, for the next few weeks - which is how Geralt found out in the first place. Apparently, the man had tripped over a rug in his room, and had fallen from his fifth-story window. 

A suspicious death altogether. When Geralt asks Jaskier what he thinks, the bard merely shrugs. “Don’t really care,” he says while he continues scribbling in his notebook. Got what he deserved either way.” His face darkens, and Geralt frowns. “I’m sure the horses in his stables are happy to have him gone.”

The shadow disappears from Jaskier’s face, and he smiles up at Geralt, changing the subject. 

---

The Baroness of Crowside falls ill on the second day Geralt and Jaskier spend at her court. She seemed in pretty poor health when they arrived, but nothing to warrant her sudden and untimely death, a few days later. Sure, he’s glad to know that her heirs will at least pay Geralt for ridding the town of a pack of Barghests - because clearly the Baroness wasn’t planning on paying him or any of her servants - but it sure is... suspicious.

---

He starts to notice this pattern more and more often, after that. People meeting their untimely death after it is revealed to Geralt and Jaskier that they’re horrible people who do horrible things. He finds out after a few months that it’s not just nobles this is happening to; he just knew about those because they’re public figures, so their death is more noticable. 

No, this is happening nearly every time they pass through a town and see someone hurting others or hurting animals, or something of the like. The farmer that malnourished his cows is found a few days later trampled by the very herd he starved; no one mentions the fact that his throat was cut. The healer in town who was using his position of power to take advantage of people dies in an explosion in his laboratory, even though he was highly-skilled and very experienced. The smith who beat his family gets crushed under the spare anvil he’d suspended from the ceiling, even though the metal chains were strong and brand new.

Suspicious death after suspicious death, in nearly a quarter the towns they pass through, only days after they left, sometimes even while they’re there, still.

It’s embarrassing that he doesn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together until he wakes up in the middle of the night in their modest campsite, and finds Jaskier gone. 

He looks around, frowning, straining his ears to listen for any sound of the bard. The worry grows when he doesn’t hear a heartbeat, footsteps, or soft humming. Which means that Jaskier isn’t nearby.

Geralt gets up, gathering his swords, and he walks around the clearing. Finally, he smells lavender and sandalwood, to the south - heading back towards the town they left earlier that day. 

He frowns again, quickly following the trail. 

Why the hell would Jaskier go back to the town they were in just now? Why would he do that in the middle of the night? And without warning Geralt? What could possibly be so important? Maybe he’s under a curse of sorts, something that’s forcing him to go back. But that can’t be the case - Geralt doesn’t smell the familiar ozone scent of magic anywhere, and his medallion stays completely still against his chest.

Eventually, he reaches the town, right in time to see Jaskier scaling down a wall. Ah, so it’s just another one of his conquests. But... usually he doesn’t hesitate to just tell Geralt about the fact that he’s meeting someone, he’s never been so secretive about it. Not only that, but the window he climbed out of is completely dark and devoid of any sign of life - as is the rest of the house. 

And, most importantly, this is the Alderman’s house. Geralt remembers it clearly because he’d been there earlier that day with a Drowner head to prove that he’d done his job. Even then, the Alderman had only paid him a quarter of what he’d promised Geralt, and had insulted Witchers straight to his face.

He remembers the outraged look Jaskier’d had, he remembers the bard asking him why he wouldn’t do anything about it - you’re ten times stronger than him, for goodness’ sake! 

And then he remembers the suspicious deaths that seem to follow them wherever they go.

He narrows his eyes, the realization battling in his head with the image of sweet, kind Jaskier, with his sparkling, blue eyes and his easy smile.

But Geralt had seen that smile turn into a sneer, those blue eyes turn icy, whenever someone had insulted either of them, whenever Jaskier saw someone who couldn’t defend themselves get hurt, whenever they stumbled upon an injustice and Geralt had told him that he couldn’t do anything about it because he’s a Witcher, and Witchers aren’t supposed to take sides.

When Jaskier reaches the edge of the woods, Geralt steps out of the shadows. The bard doesn’t even visibly startle when the Witcher suddenly appears in front of him, though his heartbeat speeds up for a moment or two, before calming down again.

“Ah, Geralt! I was just taking a lovely evening stroll.” He taps the side of his head, smiling at Geralt conspiratorially. “Insomnia, you see.” His heart picks up again, and if Geralt hadn’t already known Jaskier was lying, he surely would’ve, now. “I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

It’s then that he notices a bitter twang under the familiar scent of lavender and sandalwood, and he inhales deeply. Poison.

Jaskier starts to fidget a bit under his unrelenting gaze, and smiles nervously. “Everything alright, Geralt?”

He scoffs, but nods. “Yes, I’m fine. But the Alderman isn’t, is he, Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up again, and Geralt can smell the unmistakable scent of guilt and anxiety emanating off the bard. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Geralt.”

Geralt crosses the distance between them, grabbing Jaskier by the front of his shirt and pulling him closer. “I’m sure you do, bard.”

Jaskier laughs nervously, hands in the air in surrender. “Geralt, I really don’t-” He pales when Geralt’s hand disappears into the bard’s pocket, reappearing with a small, empty vial. He uncorks it with his thumb, holding it to his nose. He inhales deeply, his suspicions confirmed, and throws it over his shoulder.

“I know poison when I smell it, Jaskier. The Alderman is dead, isn’t he?”

Jaskier’s fearful face falls, his expression hardening into something that sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine - a pleasant one, though, surprisingly. “Look me in the eye and tell me he didn’t deserve it, Geralt.”

“You can’t just kill someone for simply not paying us.”

Jaskier scoffs, rolls his eyes, his hands lowering from where they’d been hovering next to his face. “Oh, please, of course I can. And I have. And I would do it again.”

Geralt studies his face for a few seconds longer, and Jaskier stares right back at him. “How many?”

Jaskier raises his eyes to the sky, lips moving slightly as his fingers twitch, counting under his breath. He frowns, looks back at Geralt. “Just the ones that didn’t pay us, or the others too?”

Geralt blinks. “The... the others, too.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, continues counting for a few seconds. “Do accidents count too?”

Geralt huffs in disbelief, looking to the side. “Sweet Melitele, Jaskier.” It doesn’t shock him as much as it should’ve - he feels like this is something he’s known deep down for a long time - but it doesn’t horrify him either, this knowledge that Jaskier has just been killing people left and right. If anything, it makes something hot and heavy settle in his gut. 

“I don’t know how many, exactly, but I think... about forty to fifty people.”

“Good gods,” Geralt mutters, his breath catching in his throat. 

He can almost imagine it, Jaskier with a poison vial in his hand, standing over an unsuspecting victim; with that cold look in his eyes as he pushes someone through a window; with blood spilling over his hands as he cuts a man’s throat. 

“Can... can you fight? With weapons?”

Jaskier frowns, seemingly confused, but indulges him. “Yes, actually. Sword, dagger, crossbow, you name it. Perks of growing up royal, I guess.”

His heart’s hammering in his throat, mouth suddenly dry. “Tell...” He swallows thickly. “Tell me not to kiss you. Tell me not to take you back to our camp and show you exactly what you do to me. Tell me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, his pupils growing ever larger, swallowing up the blue of his eyes nearly completely. “I can’t. I won’t. If you want to claim me, then claim me, Witcher.”

He pulls Jaskier closer, crashing their lips together in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, yet somehow absolutely perfect. He bends down a bit to grab at the back of Jaskier’s thighs. The bard gets the message and jumps up, wrapping his long legs around Geralt’s waist.

Geralt turns around and breaks the kiss, sucking red marks into the side of Jaskier’s neck as he starts walking back to camp, basking in the soft whimpering sounds Jaskier lets out.

Behind him, in the Alderman’s house, a woman screams.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

timeless - 05

PAIRING: medieval!james “bucky” barnes x reader

WARNINGS: mentions of wounds (bleeding)

A/N: today the only highlight of my day was spin class and whenever i get upset i just write, as hamilton would say, like i’m running out of time. enjoy xx

NEXT CHAPTER

Y/N decided that the best way to get her mind off her delirious daydreaming which would surely throw her straight into the deepest and darkest hole in Hell was to go and visit her mother. After all, she was almost sure she would still be upset over Odette throwing her out and Y/N would never dare to make her mother unhappy. Therefore, with a basket holding a few left over treats from the breakfast she had run off from, she made her way to her mother’s living quarters. Once she came in, unlike other times, her mother merely stared her down as if she was a misbehaving child, eyes so glossy and cold one would believe she were dead were it not for the misty fog coming out of her nose every time she breathed.

     - Mother... - Y/N started but Lady Catherine quickly interrupted her.

     - What did I clearly said when we left Arendelle? - she looked down at her daughter, eyes so cold and icy it could kill anyone who looked directly into it, something Y/N didn’t dare to do, choosing instead to look at her feet. - What were you not to do? Why could you not obey?

    - Mother, I am ...

   - What have I been to you? What would you have me be? - she dismissed her child’s pleas, instead returning to sit on her chair. - Ah, but I’m old and ugly and I embarrass you.

    - Mother no.  - Y/N held her hands tenderly. - You could never embarrass me. 

    - You’re ashamed of me. You are ashamed. 

    - No. - Y/N shook her head violently. - But I ... I want to see the world by myself, have my own experiences. 

    - The world ... - the woman sighed, almost disgusted at the word. - You don’t know what’s out there in the world and someone needs to shield you from the world. Men like the one who seems to caught your eye waits in the world but you must know what masks they wear for the world. 

   - I know, mother. I know I was just being polite.

   - Oh darling let’s just return with home. Stay with me who could love you more than I? No one can love you more than I and the world is dark and wild for someone like you. The world has nothing that I cannot supply. - Lady Catherine combed through Y/N’s locks with her fingers. - Stay innocent to the dark things of the world while you can. 

    - But I promised I would stay with Odette to help her throughout the engagement. I gave her my word. - the young woman looked up to her mother, the conflicting of interests clearly fighting in her head. - I ... We ... we can return after the wedding. 

    - Oh, darling ... - Catherine cupped her face, a soft smile on her lips. - You know all I do, I do to shield you from the bad things of the world.

Y/N merely stared at her feet as her mother combed through her hair. She felt guilty, no, guilt couldn’t even describe how she felt. It was almost as if a weight was placed on her consciousness. She remained still in her seating position as her mother continued with her “you don’t know what’s out there in the world” mantra. It was true, Y/N didn’t know what was out there in the world but she wanted to see it yet something always stopped her. Her mother. If Y/N left, she would have no one left and Y/N would feel way to guilty to leave.

Time seemed to stop whenever she was around her mother so the guilt seemed to linger and somehow kept lingering as she returned to the Princess’ quarters to help her prepare for the tournament. Between hair braiding and helping with the picking of the dress, Y/N was lost in her mind. Maybe her mother was right, maybe she needed to be shielded from the world, after all whenever she was left alone in it she had way too many ...  perverse thoughts. 

     - You’re quiet, Y/N. - Eliza mentioned, eyes glued onto the mirror as she applied more rouge to her cheeks. - It’s a tournament, get excited.

     - Y/N hates tournaments. - Odette had a cheeky smile on her face. - She thinks they’re blatant demonstrations of toxic male virility. 

     - Maybe you’ll change your mind, after all Duke Barnes is participating in the tournament. - she put her tongue out, a little childish like wonder in her face. The princess’ face however tensed and with a low tone she asked Eliza to leave her and Y/N alone. - I’ll see you in the boxes. 

The two nodded as the silent embraced the room birthed by the sound of the door closing. Odette sighed, getting up from her setting position with a tense face, every line clearly creased and marked on her normally beautifully young plump face which seemed to make everyone around her smile. Yet, now, it just looked ... worried even. 

The princess pointed at the chair she had been sat in, an unspoken request for having Y/N take her place which she did without much question. Grabbing the silver brush from the side, she started to brush her hair, pulling it up in one of the flower like hairstyles.

     - Rosaline mentioned Duke Barnes went after you after you cut your finger. Is there anything you want to tell me? - she carefully pushed some hairs in front of her face to rest on top of some lilies resting on her hair. 

     - He’s just being polite, Odette.

     - Y/N, you know I adore you like a sister and as such I don’t want to see you hurt. Duke Barnes has never, never shown affection towards anyone and the only person whom he seems to trust is Rosaline. I’m afraid that he might try to take advantage of you. - she settled down the brush, placing her hands on her shoulders before lowering down. - You don’t deserve heartache and disrespect.

     - I think you might be too kind to rule Genoa. - Y/N tried to break the atmosphere which seemed to work as Odette laughed. 

The two ladies took to starting to walk to their own box, outside in the rainy nature of Genoa. She looked down from her box, seeing the swarm of men interested in showing their abilities, willing to woe as many ladies as they could, yet Y/N seemed unfazed by it. However, her attention quickly shifted as James walked the field dressed in dark burgundy clothing with his sharpened long sword in hand. Had she been paying attention to anything else, she would’ve heard Odette’s warnings yet every single warning, every shred of common sense seemed to vanish into thin air whenever she looked at him. There was just something about him, a warmness, a sense of belonging, like seeing a very old childhood friend and while she couldn’t exactly understand it, she didn’t know if she wanted to understand it.

Just like Rosaline had said before, he was a skilled swordsmen, defeating his very first adversaries without breaking a sweat or even trying and she was completely enchanted by him. The way his body moved, how his perfectly tied back hair would come undone, she kept wondering what it would feel to brush her hands through it and as she lost herself more and more in him, the scent was back. The white rose scent. 

The scent itself was enough to throw her off her glare on him, instead turning around to try and find someone with roses in their hair but nothing. Lilies, baby’s breathes, tulips, but no roses. She had first thought that he wore some cologne with that scent but it would be near impossible for her to smell it with him being that far. 

Her mind was so wrapped around the white roses she didn’t realise that he had started to struggle. Standing against one of the king’s men, she noticed how he would overpower him by kicking sand into his eyes and her heart started to beat faster. Hands clutched at the stone of the box as she watched the match, the loud sound of swords making her eyes tear. Yet, she didn’t know pain until the clinging ceased and instead a loud grunt was heard. Things seemed to stop, go incredibly slow, the way his knees hit the ground, the dust that settled and her getting up, only being stopped by Odette putting a hand on her stomach. 

Her breathing speeded up before completely stopping for a few minutes, time running slower and slower until it speed up as he got back on his feet, disarming the man of throwing him into the ground which sent the crowd into a frenzy of applause. Y/N’s heart seemed to return to beating as the maidens presented the Duke with a crown of blue hyacinths. However, unlike other tournaments, they didn’t seem to crown him with it, instead handing it to him.

    - Why didn’t they crown him? - she asked Eliza, a hand in front of her mouth as not to call for much attention.

    - It’s a Genoan tradition. They don’t crown the winner, they allow him to pick a woman of the crowd whom he believes to be the Queen of Love and Beauty. Rosaline tends to get it whenever Lord Barnes wins. 

    - Queen of Love and Beauty? Don’t you think it’s a bit childish? - she smirked as she saw him walk towards Rosaline. 

    - It makes the Princess happy. - she shrugged and Y/N nodded, it wasn’t her place to judge their traditions. 

Her eyes lingered back to James who was standing in front of the King’s box where Rosaline was sat. Yet, instead of slowing down his pace, he continued to walk much to the crowd surprise until he stood in front of her box. Every single person seemed to watch intently, expecting the Duke to crown the guest, Odette, as the Queen of Love and Beauty. 

Y/N smiled, happy at the thought of her friend receiving the honour but instead, without much thought, the noblesman’s arm stretched to place the crown on her lap.

tag list: @lookiamtrying​​​​​ @kmuir1​​​​​ @anxiousdreamersworld​​​​​ @tinymalscoffee​​​​​ @navegandoaciegas​​​​ @cinnabanuxoxo

[stardustndice]

𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓅  𝒷𝓎  𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓅  𝒯𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽  𝐹𝑒𝒶𝓇

part one of an obi wan kenobi x senator!reader trilogy

summary: You save Obi Wan using the force, both of you are shook. You then strike a deal.

a/n: Surprise bitches it’s two days early!! This was based on this ask from a long-ass time ago and was reeeeally fun to write. There were a a lot of different routes I could’ve taken with the story, but I’m happy with where it went. Hope you guys are, too. 

wordcount: 2071 (WHEW)

warnings: mild violence, semblance of a panic attack

taglist: @karasong​ @kaminobiwan​ @snips-n-skyguy0501​ @captain-skytrash​(let me know if you’d like to be tagged in this work, future Obi Wan works, or overall!)

The moment was brief, and yet it changed everything.

Your eyes had begun to burn from staring at the quivering blaster shot. The only sound was the deep reverberations of the force and your heavy, shaking breath. The man whom you’d risked your life for scrambled up, taking out the figure behind the gun before carefully stepping over to you.

He held up his hands in the cautious way one does when approaching a frightened animal. “Senator, you can let go,” he whispered, and it was as if those were the only words holding you together.

Your exhale came out as more of a sob. The blaster shot resumed its path, leaving a scorch mark in the Coruscanti marble floor of your quarters. The only thing keeping you from crumbling into panic was Obi Wan’s hands gripping your upper arms. You thought you felt him soothingly tracing small circles into your shoulder and you shook your head slightly to better focus on the situation at hand.

“Where did they come from, t-the assassin?” you spluttered as Obi Wan approached the body. He knelt by the body and glanced at the window, a look of suspicion painted on his face.

“I don’t recognize him. Must be working on his own, but we can’t be sure. I’ll meet with the council.” he said. A lump was forming in your throat as you chewed your lip, unable to tear your eyes away from the new lifeless decoration on the ground. Footsteps tapped across the marble closer to you. Obi Wan appeared in your tear-blurred vision, brows knit in concern. You had trouble meeting his eyes. You felt ashamed for showing weakness and fear of death in front of such a practiced and skilled warrior. Not only that, but a handsome warrior you’d grown fond of over the past months you’d been on Coruscant.

“Senator?” The world snapped back into your brain. After taking a deep breath into your aching lungs, you met his gaze. “The council will make sure that you’re safe. I will make sure that you’re safe,” he half-whispered. You nodded, staying silent out of the fear that your voice might crack and then the lid would be lifted off your terror.

You didn’t want someone so strong to see you so pathetically weak.

Obi Wan straightened as a few clones entered. “Increase security measures around her room. Don’t miss a corner, window, or ,” he ordered. As the clones exited, Obi Wan trailed behind, but not before sparing you one last reassuring look. A smile managed its way onto your face and you jutted your chin out to show an illusion of bravery. Although, as soon as the pair of doors closed, your knees buckled and you hit the floor harshly.

This was never part of your plan. You’d come from a struggling planet, Nuca, in hopes of providing resources and protection for your people, who had been struggling with invasive Seperatist forces for many moons. It had taken a year for you to gain any kind of respect from many fellow senators simply because you came from a world that wasn’t nearly as gaudy as the rest of them. Homesickness had simmered in you during the first month. Coruscant bore no semblance to Nuca’s tropical forests and low-lying volcanoes dusted with brilliant wildflowers. Instead, you were cornered by far too many shades of beige. You’d tried to grow a few of Nuca’s native plants in your quarters, but the change of climate caused them to wilt and crumble.

You hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Now your world had been thrown off-kilter. The Force was never something you’d concerned yourself with. You’d always believed it was meant for the Jedi and the Sith, a weapon wielded only by a chosen group. Senatorial duties had taken up so much of your day-to-day life that the Force and its influence almost never reached you. The only thing that exposed you to the mysteries of the Force was the Jedi Order. You’d become interested in one of their members recently. More specifically, it was the one that had touched your shoulder and looked at you with borderline-ardent affection just moments earlier.

Obi Wan had strolled onto your path just a few months ago. You’d been on more diplomatic off-world missions recently, which meant you were often flanked by a Jedi, but you definitely weren’t bothered. You weren’t bothered when you were accompanied by Obi Wan, at least. Missions and high-stress visits became less stressful in his presence. His clever humor and sarcasm almost caused a break in your composure numerous times, but you weren’t angry. Upon arriving, you’d usually be nervous, but his calm demeanor helped you take a deep breath and negotiate. His presence helped you find your footing.

Sometimes he would come dangerously close to catching you staring at him. Whether it was talking to a member of the council or standing in a LAAT/i, you couldn’t help but focus on him in all his mystery. He was commanding yet gentle, always making sure that you were comfortable although letting you handle tense conversations. Perhaps that’s what drew you to him: his trust in your abilities to negotiate. It was high, silent praise coming from ‘The Negotiator.’

Your head fell back as you stared wordlessly at the ceiling. There wasn’t time to reminisce, to hide away from your discovery. For now, it would have to be set aside. You had a meeting to get to. Even if an entire squadron of clones had to drag you out for your own safety, you had to at least show up. It was common courtesy.

After a year as a senator in the Galactic Republic, you’d learned to keep your chin up in the winding hallways of the senate building. Despite the blood pounding in your head and the sweat on your palms, the mask of determination on your face remained intact.

Once you entered the sunlit meeting room, the chatter of the other senators fell quiet. You set your jaw and locked eyes with a fellow senator, one whom you held a tremendous amount of respect for: Padmé Amidala.

“Senators, good afternoon. It seems the party has already begun without me. Please, continue,” you said, attempting to ease the tension. You really just wanted to move on from the earlier incident. It seemed that your colleagues didn’t share your eagerness, however.

Padmé uttered your name softly before she stood, giving you a pitying look. “Take the rest of the day. After the attempt on your life, you’re not in the mindset to focus on diplomacy.” She looked around at her fellow senators. “No one would.”

Her resolve nearly angered you. She was one of the strongest people you’d ever met, and somehow it still shocked you when she would stand her ground. “Senator Amidala, I’m perfectly alright. I am uninjured and ready to resume my duties,” you declared, breaking her gaze and sitting in your chair. You made sure to keep your back straight. Any sign of weakness after an assassination attempt would mean an immediate exile to your quarters, likely for the rest of the week.

Luckily, she backed off, lowering into her seat and squaring her shoulders. The room’s tension sank back into nothingness and you exhaled quietly.

As the meeting inched along past the two hour mark, you became lost in your own thoughts. Thoughts of your home ricocheted in your mind until suddenly, the sound of breaking glass lurched you back into the room. Every pair of eyes in the room locked on you as you felt your heart struggling to slip past your ribs. Then you noticed that you were no longer sitting, your hands in fists on the tabletop. You hesitated, though, when you glimpsed confusion in the gazes of your colleagues.

On the far end of the table, one of the newer senators had dropped whatever cocktail glass they were sipping from. You furiously blinked away incoming tears, shaking your head.

It sounded exactly like the window just a few hours ago. You could’ve sworn…

“Excuse me for a moment,” you mumbled, nearly knocking your chair to the floor as you stumbled out of the room. Your ears rang as the hallway blurred in front of your eyes. Someone could help, you knew that. All you needed to do was find that person. That task was becoming more difficult by the second, especially because you had no idea where the person or their quarters were located.

With no clue what your body was reacting to, you swallowed and straightened to the best of your ability. Salvation finally offered you a merciful hand when you turned the corner.

Your favorite Jedi was a ways in front of you, practically gliding down the hallway, and beamed upon spotting you. His pace quickened, however, when his eyes flit over your exhausted frame. At last, it felt like the world gave you permission to let go. You slumped against the wall, deflated.

Obi Wan’s hands on your arms were enough to coax your gaze to his concerned expression. The sound of your name falling from his lips felt like it was worlds away. Something wet on your cheek pulled you partially out of your daze. You were crying. The tear vanished soon after its presence was known, a calloused thumb brushing it away.

Before you knew it, he was leading you through the hallways, a hand on the small of your back. Other figures strolling through the halls stared at the Jedi half-carrying a senator. Once you arrived at your quarters, he helped you sit on a simple chair by your desk with a surprising amount of gentleness. The wood was rough under your fists while he sat beside you.

“You’re safe, no one is going to hurt you here,” Obi Wan whispered. You managed to nod and take another deep breath.

“Someone broke a glass and I thought...it sounded just like-” you babbled. Obi Wan nodded, having put the pieces together. “I hate this,” you mumbled. “I don’t want to feel so weak. It feels like I’m not in control, that my life isn’t in my own hands. And now I find out that I can use the Force. Maker, it has been a long day.” The hand you were dragging down your face was plucked away and grasped by Obi Wan. A blush crept over your cheeks as you peered over at him. He avoided your eyes, focused instead on his hand encasing yours.

“The universe is never going to be safe for people like you,” he said. When you raised a brow and waited for him to elaborate, he sighed and finally locked eyes with you. “You’re trying to make things better for your people. There are always going to be people who want to snuff out the light you’ve brought here, to the Republic.” His soft smile lit what felt like a million candles in your chest.

“I represent Nuca in everything I do, in everything that the public and my colleagues see. I’ve been here for a blink of an eye compared to other senators. If I slip up even once, it could spell disaster. I can’t afford to be seen as a coward, even if I am.” More tears were forming in your eyes. Everything that you’ve worked for was crumbling around you. You could feel your heart start to pound again.

“I don’t see a coward. You’re struggling, yes, but being frightened does not make you a coward,” Obi Wan firmly declared. You smiled at him. It wasn’t faked this time, you truly valued his opinion. He took a shaky breath. “If I taught you how to use the Force...would you think more highly of yourself?”

You blinked. He wanted to teach you? “General Kenobi, I doubt you have time to-”

“Midnight tonight in the training arena at the temple,” he blurted, a grin quickly forming on his bearded face. You couldn’t help but smile at his eagerness. Perhaps he was right. Additionally, you’d get to spend some time with him. You’d come to realize that he was quite easy on the eyes, to say the least.

“Alright,” you agreed. His boots softly tapped on the marble floor as he traipsed to the exit. He gave you the same smile as he did the last time he left, and slipped out.

[regrettablewritings]

If youre still doing the fluff meme, can I please request C, g , J, and X for Cassian andor?

Sure, you’re not too late! Stuff’s below the cut!

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?):

In a word, terribly. It’s not as though the man has had plenty of opportunities to perfect the art (“There’s no room for cuddling in a war!” you could imagine him saying). You beat him to the punch, though, and insisted you try to squeeze in some cuddling time during the rare moments he was not on a mission, training, attending meetings, or whatever else his “captainly duties” requires of him. Unfortunately, Cassian wasrather avoidant of it; you dared to even accuse him of purposefully looking for ways to stay busy.

And then the Scarif mission happened.

After the injuries acquired, the remaining members of the “Rogue One” squadron were required to take time off to heal, regain their strength, and acquire more proper training. Cassian, to his dismay, was enforced by Mothma to do the former two. Even once he’d left the infirmary to continue resting in his own quarters, the scowl stuck; a stark contrast to the smugness you tried (and failed) to hide. Now he had no choice but to let you cuddle him.

“Hugs can release oxytocin; it’s good for healing!” you insisted to your mean-mugging boyfriend. The most you got was a bemused raise of a brow. “. . . I promise to be careful.”

“. . . You’re going to keep bringing this up, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

At the sound of his exasperated growl, you knew you had won. The careful positioning of your body against his made for an awkward experience, silently but knowingly worsened by the fact that you had to guide him on where to put his hands or what to do if he felt his arm beginning to fall asleep. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but the man was recovering from a wound; you both were on edge. Once he was further along in the healing process, you could count on the awkwardness decreasing as the two of you became more accustomed to one anothers bodies . . .

You counted wrong: He really is just not very good at it. He always felt tense, like he was trying to control everything down to his breathing, yet wasn’t able to control whatever it was necessary for him to loosen up. You made the occasional poke at this (“For a captain, you sure are more of a cadet at this.” “Shut up.”), but ultimately you knew not to give him such a hard time. Like you considered earlier: Cassian grew up in a war all his life; it wasn’t unsurprising for him to be uncertain -- even possibly uncomfortable with cuddling.

Except he’s not, actually: For as rigid as he can be, Cassian actually loves cuddles. He’s a touch-starved bastard, after all. But given how terrible he is at communicating -- especially communicating what he personally wants -- it’s no surprise he doesn’t outright admit to it. He pretends to go along with what you want, but closer to the surface than he would like to admit is the constant desire for your touch. Specifically, from the position of the little spoon. Sure, for the most part, he’ll be the big spoon; it brings about the least mount of suspicion, after all. But every so often, you’ll make a joke about how he needs to ease up on his arm tensing, or else he’ll cramp up. And that’s his golden opportunity.

“Then why don’t you show me how it’s done, Oh Almighty Cuddle Rat,” he scoffs, eyes rolling. He has to fight the urge to come off too eager when the two of you switch positions, with your chest against his back and your arms about his chest or waist. He’s glad you can’t easily see his face from this position, otherwise you’d be able to tell what sort of bliss he’s in. As the little spoon, he feels warm and safe: Two things he hasn’t felt much of in his life. But for as brilliant as it all feels to him, he’s actually not quite brave enough to admit to it.

But that’s fine: You already figured as much.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?):

Not especially. Cassian is trained more for fighting when not sniping: ginger fingers in the Rebellion more more reserved for mechanics or medics or people who specialized in acquiring fragile materials for varying purposes. As far as Cassian was concerned, the most careful he really needed to be with his hands was to make sure whatever punches he threw would break only his opponent’s nose and not his own fingers. But one could argue that technically, he was capable of gentleness.

Suffice to say, however, you weren’t entirely convinced: Watching the man you had unfortunately fallen in love with flip his sparring partner onto their back into the dirt with relative ease surprisingly doesn’t scream “thoughtful, careful lover with hands that can sew clouds together” to you. Regardless, you continued to love him, even eventually getting together with him romantically. But for as many things as you entered the relationship confident you could have an effect on, you simply left the expectation of gentleness at the door. Certainly, you didn’t expect outright roughness, but you weren’t exactly going to get your hopes up for him to suddenly have the fingers of an angel.

And for the first bit of a while, your expectations (or lack thereof) on that front were met. It wasn’t until you returned from a mission, however, that you found yourself questioning your ability to make assumptions. You had had a run-in with some Stormtroopers but thankfully managed to escape, albeit at the cost of receiving a cut on your forehead. But considering the alternative, you were grateful. Cassian, however, was less optimistic. His brow furrowed at the bleeding line streaking across the upper right bit of your face.

“C’mon, Cassian, it’s not that bad,” you insisted, trying to walk around him and to the infirmary. He didn’t seem convinced, judging by how he reflected your every side step. Eventually you grew tired of it.

“Seriously, I need to get to the infirmary, I just need stitches, that’s all --”

Calloused. His fingers were calloused. You already knew this, actually, given the few times you had held his hands in private, but feeling them on your face somehow seemed to really get that across to your brain. But in spite of their roughness in texture, the strength with which they held your face in place actually wasn’t especially firm at all. If anything, it was Cassian’s stare that was firm. It studied your every feature intently, their dark color managing to tell you one message from their murky depths: “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Every few seconds, they applied only the slightest bit more pressure to turn your head to a new angle. The inspection only stopped when you felt a new pearl of blood oozing down the side of your face, forcing you to bring about the end with a small cough. To his credit, Cassian did finally listen to you and let you go. You found yourself following the departure of his rough, careful fingers.

He exhaled with acceptance: “Go to the infirmary then; it’s not as bad as it could be.”

You blinked. That was all he had to say?! After all that?!

“Uh . . . But what --”

“I’ll check up on you this evening; I have a council to attend.” He gave you a nod and took his leave before you could even carry on, leaving you to your orders. The entire while the gentle and caring fingers of the medics touched your face, all you were craving were Cassian’s.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?):

Most wouldn’t consider Cassian a catch to your absolute surprise. That still doesn’t mean you don’t get a little nervous now and then.You know how sophomoric and primeval it is, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes whenever you feel Jyn gets a little too close and personal with your boyfriend. You want to boot yourself up the ass whenever you witness Cassian attempt (and shockingly succeed) at seducing somebody to help him while on an assignment. There’s just no reason for you to distrust Cassian’s loyalty to you. Once he’s committed himself to something or someone, there simply is no other for him!

As for Cassian . . .

No, according to him. It’s so frivolous to worry over things like that; there’s a war going on, he has far better things to do than worry if somebody’s eyeballing you!

. . . Is what he would say if one were to ask him. But if one were to ask K2? It becomes a totally different story.

“Cassian has assigned Corporal Gregginor to lavatory cleanup duty 30% more often than previous chore rotations, ever since he saw him trying to teach you how to improve your aim,” the towering droid reveals to you one day.

You blink before raising a brow. “But . . . He was trying to teach me how to better aim my blaster.” Even without facial expression, you could tell K2 was emoting mischievous intent.

“That’s not what Cassian saw; he saw Gregginor putting his hands on your waist and making you bend over ever so slightly --”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Your face burned (at the droid’s words, at what you realized in hindsight, at the fact Cassian saw), but decided to think nothing of it. Bathroom cleanup duty was a pain in the ass, certainly, but usually the task was reserved for those who had earned a higher ranking officer’s ire through use of inappropriate behavior or disobedience on a mission. There was just no way a captain like Cassian would use it as punishment for touching all over his woman . . . right?

Maybe not. But as the week wore on, you became less and less certain. For one, you barely saw Gregginor due to Cassian sending him all around base to deliver messages that arguably could’ve waited or been passed on to an even lower-ranking officer -- things like lunch orders or minute responses to words exchanged in earlier counsels. For another, when you did see Gregginor, it was usually at training -- and if he didn’t already look worse for wear, he would most definitely look that way by the end of it.

While it wasn’t unusual for a drill sergeant to call everyone to gather and watch him exhibit a move or attack with a sparring partner, Cassian deciding to fill in nearly every day was quite unusual. He insisted he had new tactics to show when questioned about his sudden decision to grace the group every day. And when questioned as to why he kept picking Gregginor as his sparring partner, he simply answered that he knew Gregginor could take whatever he threw at him.

“Besides,” Cassian would say just before wiping the ground with his opponent, “I’m going easy on him.” For the rest of every session, if your boyfriend wasn’t busy absolutely wasting Corporal Gregginor on the field, he was having him run laps or do an absurd amount of pushups. Finally, you had had enough.

“Okay, Cass,” you lightly glared following a particularly grueling session. “Is there any particular reason that you’ve been trying to make Greggi’s week an entire life’s worth of living Hell?”

Cassian, ever bemused by both unpleasant nicknames provided, responded with equal neutrality: “It builds character. He’s been slacking off, this is to make sure he stays on his toes.” You hummed a note that lacked conviction.

“Oh, really? You sure it has nothing to do with the fact that, in the process of helping me learn to better aim my blaster, he happened to place his hands on me hips to reposition my weight? Nothing at all?”

At the mentioning of the suggestive positioning that supposedly hadn’t gotten Gregginor into Cassian’s shit list, the latter’s eye dared to twitch. You caught it just enough and it gave you enough confidence to believe that maybe you had caught him as well. But, to your dismay, the captain didn’t come pouring out his confessions and regrets and apologies.

“Your aim needed work; who am I to get in the way of that?” he confirmed instead. Your mouth dropped in disbelief; was he really going to play like this?!

“And anyway,” Cassian continued, “stop being so ridiculous. Do you recognize how absolutely juvenile it would be to use my position for something so petty?” As much as you wanted to respond, you honestly weren’t sure how to. If you kept insisting, he’d probably just keep dodging. But if you left it alone, who knows how long he’d keep pulling this shit?

In the middle of your inner debate, Cassian flung his sweat-drenched towel over his shoulder. “Hit the showers,” he demanded. “Clearly, training’s done a number on you.” And with that, he turned to clean himself, leaving you to glare at his retreating figure. You swore you could sense him smirking the entire while.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?):

Two come to mind:

First and foremost is “See the World” by Gomez, though it’s mainly directed at Cassian. It’s soft and simple, just as Cassian can be unassuming in his desire to not be showy or processed. Plus, the lyrics simply fit:

Day to day, Where do you want to be? ‘Cause now you’re trying to pick a fight With everyone you need

You seem like a soldier Who’s lost his composure You’re wounded and playing a waiting game In no man’s land, no one’s to blame

See the world: Find an old-fashioned girl And when all’s been said and done, It’s the things that are given, not won Are the things that you’ve earned

Cassian has dedicated so much of his life wrapping it around the Rebellion: It’s practically a part of him at this point. The problem is, he doesn’t seem to recognize what a problem this can actually be. He doesn’t think about what this means when the war is over, who he’ll be, who he wants to be. He’s just spent so much of his time composing himself in a specific manner, even at the cost of having very few close relationships or making the ones he does get a bit difficult to navigate. With a song like this, he’s being reminded to reevaluate his stances, to remember that Rebellions aren’t just about fighting: It’s also about fighting for what you want in the future.

He needs to see the world, not just what he’s been assigned to see for recon. He needs to explore who he is or who he may want to be without the Rebellion. He needs to find a non-K2 companion to love and go off exploring with -- Actually . . .

He snaps out of his reverie and glances at you, huddled up beside him. The cot is far from roomy or comfortable, yet you don’t seem to mind it. And, when he thinks about it, neither does he . . .

The runner up: “Cold Cold Man” by Saint Motel. This song doesn’t exactly scream Cassian at first because what you initially hear being screamed is overly bouncy music you can easily dance to. Picture you flailing and jumping and twirling around with a stone-cold Cassian standing in the middle of it all. That’s this song in a nutshell. No, really:

Oh, my love I know I am a cold, cold man Quite slow to pay you compliments Or public displayed affections

But baby, don’t you go over analyze No need to theorize, I can put your doubts to rest:

You’re the only one worth seeing, The only place worth being, The only bed worth sleeping is the one right next to you

Cassian isn’t exactly the most openly affectionate person. He knows it, K2 knows it, everyone knows it. Even his friends poke fun at him about it. And even though you know it yourself, you can’t help but sometimes lapse into moments of doubt: Is he happy with you? Does he intend on actually being with you for as long as possible, or is it more like any port in the storm with you?

Of course, you feel awful for thinking these things: It’s not as though Cassian is purposefully withholding certain affections from you; it just isn’t really a part of who he is as a person to be as forward as the average lover. Repetitive as it might seem, growing up the way he did just doesn’t tend to fair well for one’s ability to properly emote. But he knows this isn’t fair to you. He can’t keep using his past as a crutch.

Hence why once, every bluest of blue moons, you’ll receive a reminder. He’ll awkwardly sway with you, even dare to smile as you dance goofily in your quarters. He’ll initiate the hand holding in a corridor, even if he knows there’s definitely other personnel around. He’ll join you at night to just watch the stars, even if they don’t especially astound him (why would they? You can usually see them on any given planet, especially if you’ve traveled as often he has). He doesn’t make any suggestion that he’s uncomfortable with you shitting between his legs, or that he has an issue with you playing with his fingers. You could’ve honestly called it a great night if it had ended there, with you leaning back against his chest, letting the nice, balmy night air soothe you to sleep.

But it’s the unexpected kiss you feel on your temple that yanks you back. You’re afraid to move, certain that if you do, the mood will be lost and your normally gruff boyfriend will no longer want to keep letting you sit there. It’s only when you feel his arms wrap around you with more certainty that you know there’s nothing to can do in this moment that will make him want to let go. There’s nothing in this galaxy that would make him want another.

You’re the only one worth it all to him.

Thank you very much for asking and for being patient!