#the only thing that does rattle him is the Rain Master

[fortune-maiden]

*blink* is this… confirmation that Pei Ming didn’t help Ling Wen with her schemes?

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

Living with Luca Headcanons

Warnings: Mildly suggestive, references to violence, period-typical sexism.

Angst and Fluff ahead.

Domestic Hcs

Luca Changretta is a man of simple, yet refined, taste. He keeps a fine house for you, nothing too showy but comfortable and far from the poverty he grew up in. He will spare no expense at keeping you happy in his home, you only need to ask. If you want a garden, he’ll pay to build a greenhouse so you can tend to your beauties year-round. If you like to bake, he’ll pay for more ovens so you can bake bread while baking pies at the same time. If you like to paint, he’ll give you a room to do just that. Luca is never grandiose about it, no. He never drops these gifts on you among others or as a big gesture. You’ll be walked to your gift with his hands over your eyes at the most. 

When Luca comes home to you, it’s with slow, lumbering steps. All he does is run about the city, knocking heads and greasing palms. And this Devil gets up early, so he’s exhausted by the time he sits down in his favorite chair. However, even in his worst state he is not without elegance. Luca will sink into his chair and try to stop you as you pull off his jacket and shoes. He’ll relent in his attempts at shooing you when you offer to rub his shoulders. He can’t say no to that. Once you put your hands on him, all the weight just falls away. Your thumbs rub slow, deep circles, and his eyes close as a low groan rattles through him. He likes to take one of your hands and kiss the back of it as his way of telling you he’s grateful. 

He may pay the bills… but you’re the Lady of The House. That means that nobody is allowed to disrespect you when he’s around. You don’t often get to see Luca angry, but he gets very upset when male guests curse in your presence. He swears very little around you due to being rather traditional about what is and is not suitable to say or do around women. For a guest to act that way around you is to spit in his face and tell him it’s rain. There have been guests that were escorted outside by Luca never to be seen again…

When you’re feeling down, he likes to turn on the record player and pull you into a slow dance. Holding you close as he hums along to the tune. You can’t help but throw your arms over his shoulders and sway with him, breathing in the smell of his cologne mixed with tobacco and most likely a bit of gunpowder. Luca Changretta is many things, but he’s a gentleman and a romantic over all others. 

Relationship Hcs

With his trusted few (or men he’s about to kill) he likes to overshare about you. Take for instance a bookie that’s squealing to the cops. Luca and his men have busted into his apartment to interrogate him, when he sees the bookie likes to paint. Luca will take a few minutes to ask him, “What sort of paint— or medium do you prefer? Acrylic? Hm. My lady, she’s all about watercolor. What are your thoughts on surrealism?” 

Luca isn’t all glamour and big gifts, he likes the domestic life with you. Marriage to him isn’t the life ruiner that it is for other men. With how brutal his work is, the mundane feels like a sanctuary. Which means he treasures every little thing you two do together, including gossip. He’ll listen to you vent while reading a book or flipping through the morning paper and actually follow along. He’s a master at multi-tasking. Mr. Changretta never forgets important dates, or names. If you complain to him about Agnes from bookclub, he will remember her and her annoying dog the next time you bring her up. However, do be careful how upset you let yourself seem about people… Luca likes to “solve your problems,” for you.

As stated above, Luca is traditional. If you are to marry him, he expects you to stop working. You can have as many hobbies as you like! But Luca Changretta will not stand for the future mother of his children to be straining herself at some job. He would honestly be offended, as he would take it as you not trusting him to provide for you. It also goes without saying that he would be paranoid that an enemy of his might be able to hurt you if you were out in the open like that. But really, his first thought would be: “What would she want a job for?”

Another thing that will bother you about him is that he is a man of secrets. Luca will not tell you what’s on his mind if it involves his “work,” or any sort of violence. He doesn’t like to bring his bloody business home with him at all. So much so, if he so gets a drop of blood on his suit, he’ll go to one of his many apartments around town and change. In your moments of insecurity during the earlier stages of your relationship, you can’t help but think he’s changing his clothes after cheating on you. It takes time for him to let you know of the darker parts of him. That said, Luca will never fully let you in. When he’s grieving or furious, he hides it. Smiling in your face the whole time he talks to you about seeing some family in England for Christmas.

[hawnks]

Alpha!Nanami/Omega!reader

Word count: ~2,800

warnings: a/b/o typical sexism, abuse of authority (from side character), mention of leg injury

……………………………………………………….

He brings the storm with him.

You learn him in whispers, along with a bevy of myth and rumor. He drifted here from the East. His clothing has been mended at least a dozen times, but his shoes are sturdy, expertly crafted. He makes no noise when he walks — hardly any noise at all. Rōnin, not samurai. And you can’t trust a man with no honor.

He killed his old master, I heard.

No, he was exiled.

Maybe he killed his master because he was exiled.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow once the rain lets up,” the innkeeper says, cutting off all further speculation. “Now, mind your work, not the guests.”

Beside you, someone grouses, “He chose a funny season to wander, if he’s afraid of the weather.”

…

The rain does not let up.

It puts everyone in a sour mood. The streets turn viscous and tacky, the air brutally cool. You draw the short straw, sent to fetch the days meat in the early morning, a long trek to the fishmonger that leaves you drenched down to your underwear.

It takes twice as long as usual — you lose your sandal a few times in the muck — and when you arrive the stand is vacant. The old man had come down with pneumonia.

Frustrated, you take the long way home. They can wait for the bad news, and you’re so soaked a few extra minutes won’t make any difference. You catch the eye of a few of the daimyō’s men, leering at you from beneath awnings, snickering as you walk by.

“Wanna hear a joke about wet omegas?” one of them calls to you.

You grit your teeth and keep walking.

You deliver the news about the fish to the innkeeper at the door to her room, so you can dart out again before she has a chance to say anything. God forbid she sends you out on another errand.

Soaking, furious, you change into your uniform, and begin your shift at the tavern.

The work is tedious, but decently lucrative. You like to talk to travelers, learn what’s happening beyond the boundaries of your town. It’s hard to put into words what you get out of this, hoarding information like you’re starved for it. Maybe the sheer notion that there is someplace else. That this town and its people are not the only things in the world.

The comfort of knowing away is still possible.

You expect to ask the rōnin the same, starry eyed questions, regardless of how the other server is avoiding him. It might even be enough to salvage this shitty morning.

But you don’t get a chance to ask him where he’s from, what he’s seen. You open your mouth to say something, and choke on air thick with the scent of wisteria.

He meets your gaze.

He won’t look away.

Your wet hair drips on his table.

You can’t feel your fingertips.

Shoving yourself away from the table so hard it rattles against the floor, you excuse yourself in a mumbled tumult. You recruit the other server to take over your tables for the rest of the morning. You must look as awful as you feel, because she doesn’t even question it as you retreat back to your room, throw yourself under the quilt. Close your eyes and pray for your heart to settle.

The one thing the gossip didn’t prepare you for — an alpha.

…

Another day of storms. Another morning you draw the short straw.

Another day you limp home through the mud, empty handed.

The soldiers don’t leer today. Instead, the daimyō is waiting for you. It feels like he’s always waiting for you, that he could swoop in any moment, as quick and ruthless as a hawk.

He’s said he could follow your scent straight to you, no matter where you’re hiding. Sometimes you believe it.

He’s leaning against a wall under an awning, but you know the casual stance is deceptive. He can be fast when he wants to be.

He calls your name, an inferred order to come.

You pretend you didn’t hear, keep walking.

He’s standing straight now arms at his side. Ready. Your insides feel leaden. It takes all your willpower to keep moving forward. To disregard an alpha is one, painful thing. To disregard the daimyō is simple insanity.

Water blurs your vision. You can’t tell from the corner of your eye what expression he’s making. Sometimes he finds your insolence humorous.

Sometimes not.

Just a dozen feet further and you’ll be at the bend in the road.

“You should greet me,” he says. Quiet, but you’re so hyper-vigilant, there’s no way you could miss it.

“Good morning, My Lord,” you whisper to your feet.

He doesn’t step out into the rain, but his voice follows you around the corner. Teasing, condescending. “That’s a good omega.”

He could kill you for your bad manners. A servant, ignoring their lord. No one would question it, no one would dispute it.

But then — he would be killing the only omega in the whole town.

As much as he resents your disobedience, he would resent the loss of you even more. An alpha must have an omega, he told you. That is his right.

Chin tucked and scurrying, you don’t realize you’re on a collision course until you’ve already run into the man. The impact sends you tumbling to the ground.

Through the buffer of the downpour, it takes you a minute to recognize him. His scent.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says. “I apologize.”

He bends to offer you a hand up. You just stare at his outstretched palm. Silent. Reeling.

You wait for him to give an order. Demand you take his hand, or that you come to stand on your feeble legs all on your own. It’s simply an alphas nature to wield their power like a cudgel, to bend everything and everyone to their will.

And now you have two of them to deal with.

Another moment of stillness. Your breath steams. Your pulse drowns out all other sounds.

He kneels.

Like this, on the same level, you can see the color of his eyes. So perfectly brown they’re almost black.

“Are you alright?” he says.

His voice is staid and calm. Not demanding. Not cruel. It — confuses you. You don’t understand what he wants from you.

You rise to your knees, shoving him with all your strength. He doesn’t budge. He remains solid and upright beneath your hands. You can feel the muscle, the innate strength. He’s warm, beneath the wet clothes. So incredibly warm.

You wonder if he could soothe your chill. You wonder if the touch of his bare skin would burn.

With a gasp, you tear away, appalled and mystified by your own reaction.

He stays kneeling as you rise and step away. He stays as you rush home, the scent of wisteria heavy in your lungs.

…

The innkeeper is displeased with your performance, of late. She gives you a stern warning that you shouldn’t let your “licentious nature” interfere with work.

“I don’t know why I agreed to take an omega on,” she sighs. “Not like you’ll be around for much longer, anyway.”

You wince. “Am I fired?”

The old woman laughs. “No, no. Not yet, anyway.” She waves at you, a full body gesture. A reference to the omega in you. “You’ll be wed to His Lordship soon, anyway. You won’t have to worry about the toil of work anymore.”

You excuse yourself shortly after.

…

The days are a monotony. Even the fear is so commonplace you lose track of it. The daimyō grows impatient with you. He calls to you from the shelter of the awning, each time a little bolder, a little less demure about his intentions.

“You know, I have a bad habit of breaking my things when I get bored of them,” he tells you. “I wonder what other tricks you have to keep me entertained.”

You hang your clothes to dry every evening, and the drip becomes a steady cadence, like the ticking of a clock.

This is your life.

The rain.

The rain.

The rain.

…

The decree is issued that afternoon. Marriage.

You’re to report to the royal estate before sundown, along with everything you own. You will not be coming back.

You pack your bag; you take the road out of town. With the city at your back, you’ll have to pass through the outskirt woods. Then across the river, a dangerous gambit when the water is this high, but that just means you won’t be followed.

You can’t imagine the consequences if they catch you.

The path grows looser the further you go, the mud deep, silt as slick as ice. Arduous and exhausting. And dangerous, too.

You don’t realize your footing is off until it’s too late. You slip, land badly. You cry out before you can stop yourself.

You struggle to your knees, get one of your legs beneath you. A shock of pain has you tumbling down again.

You can’t stand. You can’t run.

Just moments after you fall, a shadow overtakes you. And a man, looming, familiar, crouches before you.

“I heard your voice,” he says. “Can you walk?”

You shake your head, timid, overwhelmed.

“Pardon me,” he says, before hefting you up into his arms.

The ease he does it with is startling. An alpha’s superior strength.

He brings you to a small hunting cabin. Clearly abandoned, but decent enough. It’s dry, and a small fire is going in the hearth.

There’s no furniture except for a rudimentary pallet, which he sets you down on.

“May I?” he asks, hands hovering above your stockinged leg.

He takes your silence as answer enough, unrolling the material gradually, trying not to disturb your injury. He inspects it briefly, pressing carefully. You wince, he stops.

He reaches for his bag, retrieving a small tin. “Your ankle is sprained,” he tells you. “You should return to town in the morning.”

“I need to leave,” you return absently. “I have to get past the bridge.”

He frowns.

“The bridge has collapsed. The river is impassable.” He had tried to leave that morning, only to face the same dilemma. He considers you leg. “Besides, you won’t make it very far.”

The reality of your situation dawns on you, a slow tide of dread.

You missed your chance. You’ve lost your only opportunity at freedom.

You yank out of his grasp, dragging yourself across the floor, to the corner on the far side of the cabin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you—“

“No. No.” You gnash your teeth at him, feeling wild with fear, unable to see past the dark curtain of it. “I have to go. I can’t be trapped in here with you.”

He raises a hand, a placating gesture, but all you see is motion, canting toward you. An alpha. A threat.

You grab whatever is closest. You throw it at him.

The stick doesn’t even hit him, but that doesn’t stop you. You throw everything within reach.

He just waits for you to give up, but soon enough he realizes how stubborn you can be.

“Enough,” he says. His voice fills the shack, not loud, but indomitable. The undeniable command of an alpha. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would appreciate if you would offer me the same courtesy.”

You drop the stone you were going to hurl at him, suddenly incapable of aggression. You feel — groggy, but less terrified now. Very nearly calm.

His pheromones, you realize.

The notion that he’s using them on you should incense you, but you can’t muster it. You close your eyes, exhausted.

Eventually, after long minutes of tepid silence, he murmurs, “I was here first, you are aware of that, right?” His tone is almost — sullen.

And for some reason, that very human show of petulance is enough to thaw you.

You laugh.

You can’t stop. You laugh so hard it’s hardly laughter anymore. It’s so intense it makes your ribs hurt, brings tears to your eyes.

It feels like the first time you’ve been able to think clearly in weeks.

When you finally calm to a few soft hiccups, you lay down and throw your arms out. Passive.

“Alright, swordsman,” you say, “Fix me.”

He’s slow to approach you, cautious of another rock coming at him. But you remain still.

His touch is gentle, so soft it’s like he’s barely handling you at all. He retrieves the tin of salve you kicked out of his hand, and begins to apply it. It’s cool, slightly astringent. Beneath that, the scent of wisteria.

His fingers are just as warm as the rest of him.

It’s over before you can get used to the sensation of him touching you. He pulls away, returns the tin to his bag. “That will help with the swelling. You should still avoid putting weight on it until it heals.”

“Thank you,” you force yourself to say.

You think you hear him chuckle.

…

Night blooms, full and dark.

Despite your anxiousness, the waiting has grown tedious. Unbearably so.

“Is there anything in that bag to alleviate boredom?”

He glances at you for a moment. Hesitating.

Finally he reaches inside, pulls out a small binding. He passes it to you.

A book of poems. You recognize the shape of the sentences, some of the words. You wonder what use a swordsman has for literature, but the swordsman is full of surprises evidently.

Th pages are worn, the edges soft from thumbing.

“I can’t read,” you say. You look at him. Expectantly.

You hold the book out. He takes it, slowly, gingerly.

He reads.

He’s not much of a performer, although you didn’t expect him to be. It’s clear he’s not used to reading aloud, but he knows these passages well. He’s tone is even, with little inflection. The words come out perfectly paced.

They’re love poems. Not flowery or decadent, but earnest, gentle.

It seems at odds with what you know of him, what you’ve assumed from his status, both as a rōnin and an alpha. You’re not sure what to make of him anymore, how to reconcile the image you built of him in your head and everything you’ve witnessed here.

His swords are leaned against the wall beside him, sure proof of a history of violence.

The question comes, unbidden. “Have you ever killed someone?”

He pauses, glances at you. He searches your face for something, the fear that should accompany those words. But your expression is blank.

Silence, fraught with the tense memory of how you ended up here. What were you running from? Why? He must understand, to some extent. No one reaches desperation without pretext.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

“If I asked you to kill someone,” you murmur. “If I paid you…”

The implication feels enormous within the tight confines of the cabin.

“I don’t believe that’s what you want.”

“What do I want?”

“To not be put in a position where you have to make that kind of decision.”

That makes something in your chest feel tight, on the verge of snapping. Another thing you can’t wrap your head around. Another emotion you can’t name. Uncomfortable, but not frightening. Not like before.

You feel displaced, unmoored.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice,” he says. “You need help. I’m in a position to provide it.”

And that seems wrong to you. Just because someone has the means doesn’t mean they’ll offer them, certainly not freely. Especially not when someone is a such a burden.

“I’ve never met an alpha who’s kind to an omega just for the sake of it,” you say despite his denial.

He mulls that over for a moment, head cocked as he decides how to respond.

“I didn’t know you were an omega until tonight,” he says, quietly. “I had my suspicions, but…”

“Were my bountiful charms not enough to tip you off?” You snort at his blank expression, too polite to disrespect you with an answer. “Why now?”

“Your scent. It’s…subtle. Easy to miss, especially under these circumstances.”

“What do I smell like?”

He smiles, for the first time since you met him. It softens his severe features, makes him look younger. Less world-weary. “You smell like rain.”

He continues reading as the sky continues to churn, until you can hardly keep your eyes open, just barely holding on to the soft thread of words.

“Sleep,” he says gently. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Despite yourself, you believe him.

[sparkbeast20]

Chaos outside the Bedroom!?! (Satan's and Diavolo's Part)

Summary: What happens, when you and S/o are doing and they loses control of their power?

While you don't have to answer that... but the others on outside the room does!

Note: these are separated headcanons and No actual smut.

Lucifer and Mammon, Barbatos, Simeon and Raphael

Warning: Swearing, Demonic/Angelic/Magic influences, and Mention/implied sexual content.

Satan (Fire and Heat)

Levi is a bit envious as he watch his brother take their human into his room and quickly close the door behind him.

Levi didn't want to get all worked up so, he went back to his room and distract himself with his games.

Half an hour later, Levi suddenly felt his whole room start to warm. Then he start to swear like he was in sauna. He start taking off some of his clothes.

But as soon as his jacket hits the floor, it instantly combust into flames startling him. He jump out of his chair.

But as soon his socked feet hits the floor, Levi scream when his feet start burning.

He rush out of the room only to bump into Belphie.

He and Levi argued before they both start burning up, they quickly rush down stairs and make there way to the Music room and head straight to the Planetarium

They both stop dead in their track when they saw Mammon, Asmo and Beel in the fountain panting like dogs trapped in a car under sun.

The two exchange looks before jumping into the fountain.

For a moment they all start to cool down.

But suddenly there was a roar that shook the walls and rattle the glass windows.

And before they could say something, All the furniture in the music room burst into green flames causing Mammon, Levi and Asmo to scream in fear.

But after ten minutes all the flames went out and house stopped shaking.

They all huddle together scared move, that's when Lucifer came home and saw most of house's furniture are burned and he walked around and spots his brothers. Calling back from the last time something burned down. He instantly assume is their fault.

Meanwhile in Satan's Room

You cuddle into Satan's side as he tuck you close to him while he was reading a book. After hearing him talk in such a demonic voice a moment ago, it was so soothing to hear him read to you.

Diavolo (Lightning and Earthquake)

Barbatos is slaving away in the kitchen. He was getting everything ready for Lord Diavolo. But he doubt that he'll see him anytime soon.

He did saw his young master swiftly scoop you in his arms before seeing Diavolo carrying you back to his room.

Barbatos was preparing dinner when suddenly he hard thunder, which was odd since there wasn't forecast of rain or thunderstorm.

But then the sky darkest and a string of lightning strike near the castle. Then it click.

He sighs and hex the entire kitchen. He pity the dorms connected to the castle to what's going to happen in the next hour.

Meanwhile at Purgatory Hall. Luke was awake by the loud thunder storm, he wasn't scared or anything, but he does notice the flash of lightning was much closet together with the thunder.

He quickly jump out of bed and rushes to Simeon's room, on the way he jumps and yelp cause each step he took, was followed by a loud boom of thunder and a flash of lightning where he saw strike by the front of the dorm.

When he did finally made it to Simeon's room he was in the verge of tears and quickly cling to the older angel.

Next an hour of this thunderstorm, the residence of House of Lamination complained that they had to stay home because they were bored since you were at the castle for night.

Satan shook his head in pity for his needy brothers as he took a sip of his tea. As soon he set his cup back to the table. The whole house shook with one big quake. It wasn't a continues shake like any regular earthquake. This one was like something big slam into the earth.

Soon, this rhythmic quakes continue. Cause all things in the house like painting, chandelier, mount head decor and the shelves start falling.

All the brothers panic, with some of them clinging to another.

after thirty minutes of this strong rhythmic earthquakes. it suddenly stopped.

Asmo and Beel sighs in relief while trying to help Levi and Belphie up.

Meanwhile, Lucifer stood in the middle of his study where all of his books, papers, and bottle of Demonus are scattered on the floor.

Meanwhile in Diavolo's Room

You lay on top of Diavolo, fast asleep with a smile on your face. While the demon in question has his arms around you, hugging you tight. Both of you are naked with a blanket covering both of your lower half. sweat and afterglow.

Though Diavolo can't shake the feeling that he did something. But he shrug it for now and focus on you, he reach and run his fingers through your hair before leaning down and kiss your forehead.

Notes: I find it hilarious of the idea of the earthquake is in sync with Diavolo "Drilling" into MC. So basically the House of Lamentation felt what MC felt 🤣🤣🤣

This meme makes it more funny

If there’s grammar or spelling error, please let me know and don’t be shy to leave a comment or reblogging with cute tags. I just love to see you guys thoughts on this :3

[chickenparm]

Freak (Ghostface/gn!Reader)

oh hey merry christmas. this is my secret santa gift to @dad-dumpster my beloved.

---

AO3 Link

Ghostface/gn!Reader 3,663 Words - NSFW Phone sex, stalking, degradation, semi-public sexual acts, fingering, the mask stays on

---

For tenpin, these are all 8.5 inches in diameter & can weigh up to 16 pounds

“What is a bowling ball. Duh.” A pause, then, “Damn I’m good. Maybe I should sign up for this shit, huh?”

The cat says nothing. It doesn’t even look at you. Why would it? Felines have no perception of Jeopardy Masters, even while being in the presence of one. Their loss, you suppose. Yours as well, considering you get the next question wrong. 

With the rain rattling your window panes, the smell of a TV dinner and popcorn lingering in your apartment, and the thickest blanket you own wrapped around you, tonight’s shaping up to be a pretty good evening off. No plans with friends that you’d cancel at the last minute because they were made while you were in good spirits, no obligations, no work tomorrow-

Though, the blissful silence of your phone is interrupted by a phone call. The number isn’t familiar - its area code isn’t one that you recognize, but it’s not being marked as spam by whatever bullshit blocker came with the phone to begin with. So with a mouthful of popcorn and the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, you ask, “Hello?”

“Oh, you answered.”

“Thought about just letting it ring. Who is this? What do you want?”

“How rude.” As if cold-calling someone out of the blue wasn’t the definition of rude. But sure, go off mystery guy. He’s got a nice voice, even if his breathing is a little heavy and his words shake. It’s almost as if he’s nervous, but the quiet laugh that comes through the earpiece isn’t shuddering in the slightest. 

“Alright, I’m hanging up. Lose my number.”

“Wait-”

You do not. And while there’s a rush of satisfaction at how you’ve cut him off, it’s short-lived with how quickly the number flashes across your screen again - except the last digit is different. Odd. 

Answering with a sigh, you don’t get the chance to greet this person before he’s speaking quickly, “Let me just get… thirty seconds of your time. I’m not a telemarketer.”

“That’s exactly what a telemarketer would say, you know. It’s nearly midnight, don’t you have work in the morning or something?”

“Oh, sure.” The guy laughs again, and it’s almost sinister as it trails away. You can hear how his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he clarifies, “But there’s some business I’m trying to take care of, y’see.”

“Does that business involve bothering me on my night off? You still haven’t told me who you are.”

With a quiet grunt, you lift your legs up to prop your feet on the coffee table, nudging the popcorn bowl to the side so you could have room to cross at the ankles. The man’s breath hitches at the sound you make, and something just doesn’t seem right here. Clearing your throat as a sign for him to get to the point, he takes the hint. 

“Maybe it’s bothering. Who knows, we might have a good time together.” 

And if you were any less suspicious - and any more of an idiot - you wouldn’t have picked up on that sentence. It wouldn’t have put you on higher alert, and you definitely would not have been wary enough to listen closely and hear the slow wet sound that could be either someone rubbing their wet hands together, or someone stroking their dick. 

You’re certain it’s the latter. It takes only one hand to beat his meat, and conveniently he’s got one available while talking on the phone. With a scoff, you confront him without delay, “Are you jerking it right now?”

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Against your better judgment, you come to the conclusion that the sound he makes when he has to grind his words out in an attempt at nonchalance is at least a little attractive. But then there’s the whole stranger-calling-you-to-beat-his-meat thing, and any semblance of your sick arousal at the situation goes out the window. 

“You only asked for thirty seconds. Is that seriously as long as you can last? Loser.”

And he laughs. Full and from the back of his throat, the phone pulled away in an effort to keep himself from blowing your eardrums out with its volume. You don’t find it very funny, and with a grimace, you hang the phone up and block the number. 

What a creep.

—

The sun is barely over the horizon when your phone rings again, pulling you from the sleep you’d only just fallen into. The number - unfamiliar, but not remote similar to the one from only a few hours prior - flashes across the screen just long enough for you to read it and pick up the phone. 

“Hello?” A little more forceful than would be considered polite, except it’s just short of dawn and you’d been tossing and turning all night. 

“Oh, did I wake you? I’ll be quick.”

God forbid you ever find this man, you’ll catch a homicide case. Rolling onto your back with a sigh, you ask, “Thirty seconds again? Don’t you have a hobby or something?”

“What if this is my hobby?”

“One-sided phone sex? Touch some grass, dude.” Palm pressed to your left eye, you hold pressure until your growing headache starts to subside. Then, you ask, “Do you need me to google you the number for a phone sex hotline? 30 seconds would be pretty cheap. I’ll even venmo you the money for it if you leave me alone.”

“Yeah, but their heart isn’t in it. They’re just after the money.” You can nearly see the way he shrugs, hear the rustling of fabric. Is he in bed? At least he’s comfortable while he’s ruining your night. If you could just make him cry, that would be just about even for all the grief he’s causing you. 

A sharp inhale, held for a moment before he blows it out of his nose and confesses, “You’re just the right kind of mean.”

Oh fuck, okay. But also ew. Kinda hot though. A little. Mostly gross. He needs to know that was gross. It’s your god-given duty to call this dude out on being nasty.

“Are you shitting me right now?” Sitting up, sheets falling into your lap, you shiver from the chill in the air and the anticipation of what he just revealed. “You’re getting off on me degrading you? Making fun of you? No fucking way.”

“...yes fucking way.”

“You little freak!” Your laughter rings through the room, and you don’t pull away from the receiver like he’d done last time. You want him to hear this, to feel mortification at exactly how pathetic he just sounded. Whether he gets off on that too, you don’t care. “Is this a habit? Calling up strangers and getting them to tell you how much of a loser you are?”

“If it helps, no one’s been as thorough as you.” There’s a smile in his voice, the sound from the previous call is louder now. You’re on speaker phone.

“Did they know you were jerkin’ it? That you got off on them being disgusted at you?” An uncontrollable grin crosses your lips, spreading wide enough that your cheeks hurt from delight. Something in your gut twists, and you pointedly ignore it for the moment. “Pervert. That’s what you are. You’re out there taking upskirt shots of chicks on the train, I bet.”

The steady drag of his own hand pauses for a moment, before doubling-down and speeding up. A sick little thought crosses your mind that you want to see, to watch what you’re doing to him. His excitement spurs you on more, egging you further down the path he obviously wants you to take. And who are you to deny him, when it costs you nothing?

Chewing your cheek in thought, formulating the perfect words, you drop your voice a little and ask, “I bet you look real pathetic right now. Sitting there with me on speakerphone, touching yourself and begging for me to call you out on what a freak you are. A loser. Some lonely little pervert that can only get off when you’re humiliated.”

“Yes-”

“Do you think you’re going to get some reward for enduring this? As if I’d bother. If you were here, I’d kick you out the moment you were done shaking from getting off.” Sitting up on your knees, almost as if that would bring you to a position of power over your mystery caller, you jeer at him, “Or maybe I wouldn’t even let you. Maybe I’d bring you around just to watch you writhe like the nasty little worm you are, then leave you hanging. Perverts don’t deserve to cum.”

“Please,” his voice quakes, trailing off at the end into a breathy little sound that strikes you as almost pretty. Almost. A thick swallow comes through the line before he doubles back, “don’t do that to me. Pleasepleaseplease-”

“Jeeze, you’re a sad sack of shit aren’t you? Even your begging is lame.” The fingers that you hold your phone with are sweaty, nearly too slick to catch purchase on your plastic phone case. You grip it tighter, fingertips nudging the button that increases the volume until your ears are filled with the sounds of him frantically fucking his fist, his breathing laced with whines. 

There’s a steady groan of bedsprings that suggest his hips are bucking into his own hand, rocking to the sound of his fist over his dick. You could make him groan louder-

“Fine, but only ‘cause I wanna know how stupid you sound when you cum. C’mon then, give it up. I wanna go to bed and you’re annoying.” Nothing at first, only the steady sound of his strokes. Your fingers itch to move in time, to smack his hand away and do it yourself because he’s taking too damn long. 

Aggravated, you sigh into the receiver and push him further, “Well? I’m waiting. Get a move on, scumbag, I wanna go to bed.”

A choked-off curse comes over the line, and you can hear the sound of his release hitting something with its force. It’s likely the floor, but it sounded far too close to the phone and far too wet to be anything but himself. But, he’s already done, and he’s taken far longer than the thirty seconds he asked for. 

Heavy breathing is the only sound from his half of the call. Impatiently, you wait for him to say anything at all, but it takes nearly a full minute for you to break the silence. “You’re welcome. Ungrateful one, you are.”

A scoff, tired and without any bite to it, “Told you, you’re the right kind of mean. Give me a second to get myself together. Jesus Christ.”

“You had sixty. That’s double what you wanted to start with, not to mention all my time you wasted in between just to get your rocks off, creep.”

Weakly he laughs. If you close your eyes, you can almost see the way he must be sprawled across a bed. Probably some mattress without a sheet, scratchy blankets and lumpy pillows surrounding him as he no doubt uses some sock to wipe the cum off his stomach. Gross. 

What’s worse is you’re into it, throat closing at the thought of this pretty-sounding loser in some basement out there. There are probably ramen cups on his nightstand and a gaming computer in the corner that costs more than all of his belongings combined. Maybe you could ruin his life more - that’d be cool. Y’know, just keep him around for a while, string him along and take your frustrations out on this little weirdo. 

Your quiet musings of how badly you plan to fuck this guy up are interrupted by him asking, “You mentioned venmo. What’s yours?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Well, that was better than a phone sex hotline,” a grunt as he likely sits up. Shit, even that sounds pretty. You nearly miss him offering, “and I’ll pay you every time you get me off.”

What a freak. By the time you get the notification that a payment has been received, your opinion of this guy has completely turned around. Well, maybe a little. If you can get paid and be a complete asshole? Well, that’s a win in your book. 

Hell, you might be in love with the guy now. 

—

Four calls later, you’re pretty familiar with your nameless, faceless phone-gimp. 

While you’ve forgotten to ask for the payment each time, he hasn’t, and your bank account has never looked better for such easy work. All you do is listen to this guy jerk off on the phone while calling him a deadbeat piece of shit and you’re golden. Life has never been better.

But Forrest Gump said life is like a box of chocolates, and you knew it was too good to be true. One of the chocolates was swapped out for a turd, and you’re left speechless as your back presses against rain-wet brick, the world dark thanks to the figure that’s crowded you away from prying eyes. 

Of course you watch the news - it’s too lonely in your apartment to not have something going in the background. So recognizing Ghostface is a no brainer, even when your brain is a little addled after an evening out with your friends. The stark white of his mask is all you can see, your pupils dilating as if it were as bright as the sun. 

Terror is the smart thing to feel. And you’ve always been smart enough to be considered self-aware. So you’re terrified, shaking as your fingertips dig into the mortar between the bricks, as if having a handhold will save you. This guy is gonna kill you, and your little buddy on the phone is going to have to resort to phone sex hotlines because no one is going to put up with him like you have.

And then Ghostface speaks, and you realize oh, fuck. You’re not as smart as you thought. 

“You didn’t answer the phone.”

Oh. Throat dry, voice cracking, you answer, “Uh… it died.”

“But it rang. You just didn’t pick up.”

“I was busy. I have a life outside listening to you jerk off-”

The mask nearly smashes into your face with how close he gets. The eyeholes should be see-through at this distance, but it’s so very black that you lose track of yourself while looking for what’s beneath it. If you weren’t so in tune with how he sounded at this point, you’d almost miss the sound of him sucking his tongue quietly in disappointment. 

“I’m paying you, shouldn’t you keep yourself available in the meantime? I don’t think it’s too much to ask.” 

And you’re annoyed. Because of course it’s too much to ask, to expect you to sit around your phone waiting to listen to Joe-Schmoe-Ghostface over here fondle himself while you let him know how grossed-out you are. 

Or rather, lie about it. Really, you haven’t been that grossed out since that first time. And if your fingers travel elsewhere when he hangs up, he doesn’t need to know about it. That’s really not his business - the interaction ends with the venmo notification. 

The sound of his sigh is louder when it hits the inside of his mask. Next to your head, his hands cage you in, and one leaves the brick to grab your shoulder. It could be innocent, if not for how quickly it changes with the slide of his wet glove to the base of your neck. The space between his thumb and forefinger press firmly, not enough to cut off your breath but more than adequate as a lingering threat to do so. 

“But I’m not paying you now. So don’t think you can get away with being a brat. Consider this to be corrective action for poor performance in the workplace.”

Swallowing thickly, the movement difficult thanks to his hand, you watch with wide, stinging eyes as his other hand travels south. Across your collarbone, down your sternum, to the hem of your shirt where it dips beneath. Surely he can’t feel anything with the gloves on, but that doesn’t stop him at all. It makes little difference.

At your full-body shiver when his fingertips tease at the waistband of your pants, his head tilts to the side. Is it wonder, or confusion? The thickness of your thoughts aren’t able to be sifted into something coherent - only a constant thrum of excitement as you single-mindedly think about the potential for finally getting to see what’s been on the other side of your phone. 

Centimeters at a time, his fingers push further, beneath both layers of your clothing and against the slickness of your arousal. Despite the chill in the air, his gloves are searing-hot against you, each of your nerves hyper aware of the way he casually strokes. There’s a smile in his voice as he murmurs beneath his breath, “I knew you weren’t as cold as you seem. You must really like me, huh?”

You want to rail against him and shout the complete opposite, to tell him that you’re drunk and addled and any old person could get you this frazzled. But there’s a time and place for that sort of thing, and the dynamic that’s existed up until tonight is insubstantial to the point of nonexistence. While before you might’ve held control, the drag of his fingertips against you speaks volumes of how it has switched. 

And so, with a swallow and a shuddering breath, you nod your head and stare into the pitch black of his mask. What you don’t expect is his excited little laugh and the bump of his forehead against yours - cold and wet. It’s almost sweet, the closest thing you’ll get to a kiss while he wears that thing, and his middle finger pushes into you without preamble. 

At the sudden sensation, your hips rock down against him, and he coos at you, “There it is. Sweet thing you are, I knew you weren’t prickly all the time.”

Without a moment to craft a rebuttal, his ring finger prods inside  and your hand leaves the wall to wind into the fabric of his body suit, holding yourself steady when they crook just right. It happens with such ease that you’re unable to stop the whine of pleasure that bounces off the alleyway’s walls. 

Ghostface could taunt you, he could demean you for being so needy all at once, but instead he strokes along that pinpoint spot that has your eyes snapping shut. The sound of his voice is all around you, encompassing with its proximity, the tone low and musing. “I thought to myself - surely something had to give. Don’t get me wrong,  I love it when you’re mean. But knowing how you can be, it makes this so much sweeter.”

His head falls to your shoulder, mask digging into your neck as he lets you cling to him. The stretch of his leather-clad fingers is divine, perfect enough to satisfy as he works you closer to what you’ve pushed him toward so many times. 

His voice is muffled now, the rain picking up and soaking the two of you steadily. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you beg.” Laughter, quiet and pleased, interrupts him for a brief moment. Then, unbearable softness, “You’ve been so good for me this whole time. I’ll treat you nicely - it’s what you deserve, after all.”

The hand that had once been at your neck now glides down your side, pressing into the dip of your waist before pushing beneath your shirt. With it hiked high enough to accommodate his hand, you should feel more exposed as he thumbs your nipple that hardens when exposed to the air. But Ghostface is above you, below you, inside and out. The rest of the world may as well not exist for all he’s managed to barricade you away. 

The added sensation is nice, but it’s the speeding up of his thrusting fingers that send you into near-hysterics. Without a name to call, you can only bury your face against the side of his head and incoherently babble your appreciation for how good he is with his hands. For once, the only thing coming from your mouth is praise for him, and he positively preens beneath it as you clutch yourself closer. 

“That’s it, there we go.” He has no right to be this soft with you, but he takes the liberty with unabashed confidence. “Glad I waited to hear you make these sounds in person. Wanted it to be special, y’know.”

With slowed fingers, guiding you down from your high, Ghostface gives you enough self-awareness to speak through a thick voice, “This is what you call special?”

“A little impromptu, I guess. Should I have brought flowers?”

And there is that snipping tone again, where he throws your attitude back as easily as you dish it to him. Rolling your head against the wall, you steady yourself as he pulls away and absently rights your clothes for you. Cute, you remark as he pointedly avoids wiping his soiled glove on your clothing. The air of the alleyway isn’t the nicest-smelling, but the coolness of it feels soothing as you inhale and respond, “That would’ve been appreciated.”

“Go home. I’ll meet you there with whatever I can pick up from the Seven-Eleven on the way.”

How romantic. Maybe you are in love with him, just a little. Stumbling down the alleyway, you feel his eyes at your back. Pointedly, you avoid thinking about how he knows where you live. Perhaps it’s better if you don’t look into it too much. 

Just accept your flowers and try not to get lost in thought about how hard he’d been against your thigh, how badly you wanted to kiss him. Maybe he’s not the only creep here.

[dindjarinandlysakane]

The Sweetest Taste | Chapter 52 - My kar’ta

When Din Djarin meets a beautiful cake seller from Nevarro, do you think he’s just going to stand back and let her suffer at the hands of her abusive boyfriend? After a lifetime of heartache and pain, Lysa Kane realises she’s not on her own any more and finds an unlikely friend in the Mandalorian. And Din Djarin does not like men who treat women like that, not one tiny bit. Friendship/comfort and maybe something more…

Masterlist

Chapter 52 - My kar'ta

------

**This chapter contains brief NSFW content. 18+ only**

The night sky over the cool Nevarro desert was inky black, with every single star visible, twinkling overhead.

It was a stark contrast from the weather just a few hours prior, where a grumbling thunderstorm had belted down rain for over an hour.

The ground underfoot was still damp- the first thing Din noticed as he jumped from his N-1 Starfighter, and his boots hit the, normally, dusty earth just a little way from his small cabin.

Din and Grogu had been out since dawn. Having received a message on the wrist-comm from Carson Teva, who wanted to meet with them to discuss business in a quiet, back-street bar in Mos Eisley.

The meeting had been interesting, with Teva pretty much assuring Din that with the troubles the New Republic seemed to be having with bandits and outlaws on the Outer Rim, he would be kept well topped up with credits for the next Standard year at least!

On the long journey home, Grogu had fallen fast asleep against Din’s shoulder. Snoring softly.

Leaving Din eager to get home, pushing his Starfighter to its limits on the return journey.

It had been Din’s first trip off-planet since arriving back from Nar Shaddaa a little over a week ago. And the Mandalorian was keen to get home and see Lysa. Today having also been the first day that she had ventured into the city, since making her last delivery all those days prior.

Din had spent all of the previous evening showing Lysa how to properly use the speeder bike, which had been a fun couple of hours. At first Din had been rattled to see Lysa speed off, looking like she had little-to-no control over the vehicle in question. But he had been wrong to doubt her. And within just ten minutes she had mastered the precarious speeder easily, enjoying how exhilaratingly fast it moved compared to her sluggish and ancient old landspeeder.

They had made sure that the basket could easily hook onto the back, which it did, even providing Grogu with a fun place to sit, giggling and cooing happily as Lysa did laps of the cabin at a speed. As Din had chuckled beneath his helmet, watching them from the porch, muscular arms folded over his beskar plated chest.

But the basket had been unhooked for now, with Lysa informing Din that she didn't quite want to start back making deliveries yet. Instead wanting to take today to head into town and settle up with a few of the vendors she owed money to for their ingredients, and collect a few things she needed.

She had seemed to him over the last couple of days, a different person to that of a week ago, when she had first woken from her fever, upset and traumatised. Now it was as though that light had returned to her eyes. Her shoulders having untensed and that worried frown slipping slowly away as the days went on.

Din had savoured her closeness this past week, his chest constricting when he was near to her, unable to help the smile that slipped its way into his features when he looked her way. Knowing now that no matter what happened between them now, Din’s heart would forever be hers.

The lights were on inside the cabin now, but they were dimmed, signalling to him that Lysa was likely already in bed. With her having left the lights on low, knowing that he would see them as his ship circled overhead, welcoming him home.

As Din arrived at the top step of his porch, he approached the front door watching as it slid open.

Quietly he went inside only to find Lysa half way across the room, having returned from using the Refresher. Dressed in just her usual short, this time- pale green slip, that ended at her smooth thighs, and bare feet. Looking like an angelic vision to Din.

She smiled happily at their sudden presence, tucking a long strand of mussed-up long blonde hair behind her ear.

He noted that she must have been sleeping, likely roused by the noise from the N-1 landing just outside. The next time he was to arrive back so late he would make sure to park up a little distance away, as not to disturb her. But in a selfish way, he now was glad that he had interrupted her sleep, to allow himself the chance to look at her now, smiling back at him in the twilight.

Lysa’s eyes swiftly fell to the sleeping Grogu still nestled in Din’s arms and her face softened to one of adoration.

“Has he been sleeping long?” she said with a whisper.

Din angled his gaze down to his son as best he could with his helmet half obscuring his view.

“An hour or two,” he commented. “I’m going to put him down and then get freshened up. A Tatooine summer is no joke.”

He watched as Lysa offered him a smile, wrinkling her nose affectionately as she did so. Before she approached, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the very top of Grogu’s head.

Din felt a swell of pride as he gazed down at them both, realising then just how lucky he truly was.

Pulling back carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping child, Lysa gently passed the pair, heading into Din’s bedroom, as he watched her go for a lingering moment. Before strolling silently into the Sleeper just beside that one.

Less than ten minutes later Din emerged back into the living space, having showered, dressed in just his tunic and pants and helmet now.

He rounded the corner into the sleeper to see Lysa sat facing him from her position on his bed, a smile on her face, her head propped up with a pillow.

And from behind his helmet, Din couldn't help but smile back.

“How was Tatooine?” she asked gently.

Din gave an easy shrug entering the room, beginning to re-unbutton his tunic at the collar. 

Din was so used to covering up in front of others, he had not yet become accustomed to walking the length of the cabin without his tunic yet.

“Fine,” he replied tiredly, not having found his day interesting enough to expand on. “How was the city?”

Din was far more eager to hear how Lysa had found her first trip into town since everything that had happened.

“It was good,” she said brightly, her green eyes watching as his neck was revealed little by little. “Visited the market. Everyone was….sweet.”

At her words Din glanced her way, earning a small, but happy sigh from Lysa’s lips.

“Seems like news travels fast when the High-Magistrate comes to Nar Shaddaa to rescue you,” she explained.

Din pursed his lips. “Karga shouldn't have-”

“It’s fine,” uttered Lysa in a soothing voice, giving a small smile. “I don't think any of them had even met Crix, so I think it was all just a surprise to them that I’d put up with someone like that for so long without doing anything about it.”

She gave a small sniff now, her eyes drifting down to her knees for a moment, before she glanced up at him once more. 

“And I can see now how stupid I was, of course I can,” she said in a voice quieter now than before. “But…y’know…hindsight can be a funny thing. I think I’d accepted that that was my life. And that I had no choice.”

Din stared back at her for a long moment, as the room fell quiet.

Lysa swallowed harshly before she spoke again.

“I…uh…I also went back to my old apartment today,” she said with a nod, a soft smile gracing her lips once more. “Just to pick up a couple of things, and I…I bumped into my landlord.”

Din stared up at her instantly, his fingers slipping against a button at his collar.

“...and I uh…I asked about the lease…it’s under Crix’s name…” she explained, her face flushing slightly as she spoke, her eyes instantly dropping from his and instead becoming fixed to a loose thread on the white sheet before her. “...and um, well, he asked if I wanted to take it over…”

Behind his beskar Din Djarin suddenly felt his throat go instantly dry and his heart seem to skip a beat.

“...and, well, I told him I’d think about it…” she said, her unsure eyes drifting back up to Din’s, obscured behind his helmet. “...I just…”

Lysa swallowed hard again, offering Din a sweet smile, her wide green eyes full of uncertainty now.

“...I wasn't sure if I’d outstayed my welcome with you…here…” she explained, taking in a breath and seeming to hold it in place, waiting for Din’s response.

A frown slipped between Din’s brows, his brown eyes roving across her face, his breathing becoming suddenly shallow.

Din didn't want her to leave. Not now. Not ever. His heart aching at the idea of losing her.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, his voice sounding stark in the quiet of the room. “I want you to stay. We want you to stay.”

Lysa gazed at him, with eyes filled with a hopeful disbelief and she opened her mouth to speak, but Din did not give her the chance. Cutting across her now.

“After what happened in Nar Shaddaa,” said Din in a serious voice through his modulator. “...I don’t think I can bear to be apart from you again.”

His gaze remaining fixed on hers throughout.

“And I know this place might not seem like much of a home,” he continued, his voice earnest. “But to us…it is now that you’re in it. If you want it to, it could be your home too…”

At Din’s words, Lysa’s face seemed to warm in front of his eyes. A blushing smile breaking onto her pretty features.

“Ok,” she said with a beaming nod.

“Ok,” replied Din firmly, finally letting go of his breath for the first time in what felt like an age, a relieved smile flitting its way onto his face. His chest swelling with pride.

Din’s heart now ached for her. For the woman sat before him, looking like a vision in pale starlight.

And he knew now that he didn't want her questioning things between them again. 

He never again wanted to see her uncertain about how much love for her he had.

Never wanted to see her doubt how much she meant to him and how much he wanted to hold her close and never let her go.

As she stared back at him now, Din could see the love pouring from her. Her beautiful face a shining light even in the darkness of the room.

And feeling a lump settle in his throat, and a frown settle itself between Din’s brows, he gazed down at her knowing exactly how he felt about her now. 

How he’d felt about her from that first moment he’s laid eyes on her.

The ever-shining sunlight to his dark and pouring rain.

And without warning, Din, with that frown still there and chest rising and falling hard, unpinned his tunic and shucked it from his shoulders. Before reaching over and pressing a hand to the square button beneath the window.

And just before the room, plunged into darkness, he saw Lysa wet her lips gently with her tongue, a warm expectation set within her gaze.

A moment later the room became black, as Din dropped his knees onto the bed one by one, pulling off his beskar helmet as he did so. Throwing it onto the mattress beside them.

And almost instantly he felt Lysa’s hand on his chest, knowing exactly where he was even in the dark. Her palms sliding over his shoulders, as she pulled him close, her lips meeting with his.

Her kiss was soft and sweet and Din felt his chest constrict with the adoration he felt for her in that moment.

Lysa lay back, tugging him on top of her, her fingers threading themselves through his dark hair. Just as Din’s propped himself up with his arms either side of her, penning her in.

Wanting now to right every wrong that had ever befallen her.

Wanting to soothe every hurt.

Determined tonight, to kiss every part of her body that Crix had bruised her.

And moving his mouth from hers, he began to press gentle open-mouthed kisses to her neck, staring from the space just beneath her ear, and travelling down slowly to her collarbone.

Her heard Lysa let out a satisfied ‘mmmmm’, hearing now that she was smiling.

And how Din loved making her smile.

He dipped his head, dropping his lips next to her chest, inching lower, as his rough hands unbuttoned her pale slip slowly, revealing even more skin to him.

A moment later the fabric between them was gone, Lysa letting it slide from her shoulders, propping herself up onto her elbows for a second to toss it aside.

As her back hit the mattress once more, Din’s hands skimmed down her sides, coming to stop on the small of her waist, as his kisses followed, one falling between her breasts before his lips grazed her ribs. Peppering each side with brief and open-mouthed laps.

He knew that Crix had broken and bruised more than a few of her rib-bones over the years. And despite not being able to take those hard memories away from Lysa. Din wanted to do what he could to let her know that the hurt was now gone.

The noise of his lips gently kissing her skin, caused Lysa to emit several soft little moans that were enough to make Din frown darkly, his breathing becoming shallower within his chest now. Enjoying the sounds he was able to ease from her mouth.

Her stomach was next to receive attention from him, followed by her hips, one-by-one, as he slowly moved to her thighs. Positioning himself between them and using his hands to hitch up both legs and press soft wet kisses to those smooth inner-thighs of hers.

He heard her gasp out expectantly, the noise sending waves of arousal coursing through his body.

But he was not done yet. Nor was he ready to finish in kissing away the ghosts of the bruises Crix had once given her. His entire chest constricting, as his thoughts lingered on all she had gone through, and all she had survived.

With Din Djarin knowing that there was nothing she could ever do, for him to consider ever inflicting those same bruises on her.

And so sliding his body up and over hers once again, and propping himself up with one arm taught against the mattress, his face found hers in the dark.

Din pressed a gentle kiss to one cheekbone now, and then the other, feeling her smile instantly at that. Before his lips grazed her temples, once, twice then three times…

…before finally, moving to the space between her brows…

…to that frown line…

…to that place he had once promised himself, long before Lysa had even been his, that he would one day press his lips to.

And it was in that moment, that everything seemed to change. With Din pulling back, feeling his breathing become shallow and that frown that had graced his own brow, returning. As he stared down at Lysa, without being able to even see her in the darkness.

Knowing now that she completed him.

That his existence now felt utterly fulfilled now that she was in it. As though every moment of his life was leading to him meeting her.

And that was when Din Djarin made a decision. A decision which he knew now that he would not regret for the rest of his days.

And so breathing hard, he lifted his face back just an inch, staring down at Lysa…

…as his free hand moved to the window.

And in an instant, Din had flipped the switch…

… opening the shutters…

…with shining starlight illuminating the small room…

…revealing his face, at last, to the beautiful woman before him.

Din gave a harsh swallow, as he stared down at her. His heart thudding inside his chest, almost trembling with apprehension.

Unable to help the fear and worry that appeared in his brown eyes, as he stared wordlessly down at her.

Before him, he saw Lysa blink a couple of times, her green eyes wide, her lips parting gently.

Dank farrik.

What if she found him grotesque?

What if upon seeing his face after so long, she decided that he was not the man she thought he was?

Aside from Grogu and the Jedi, Din had not shown his face to another living being since he was a child, putting on the helmet for the first time.

To him now, this felt like standing naked in a room full of people, vulnerable, with nowhere to hide.

But before Din could worry further, Lysa had lifted her smooth hand to his face, her fingers lightly tracing over his cheekbones and down his jaw, grazing over his bottom lip. As her eyes followed the same path, taking in his every feature.

Before those marsh-green eyes of hers finally settled on his brown ones…

…for the very first time.

And awash in her eyes was a look that told him all he ever needed to know.

A look that told him just how utterly in love with him she was.

A feeling Din reciprocated now, so strongly in return, that he felt his heart might shatter in two if he were to ever lose her again.

A love so intense, he felt that no force in this galaxy could keep them apart any longer.

“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum,” he uttered aloud, before he could do a thing to stop himself. The words presenting themselves to her, as though she was always meant to have had them.

And for a moment, her eyes searched his…

But Din did not give her the chance to worry on their meaning. As he swallowed hard again, his gaze never leaving hers.

“It means- I will know you forever.”

Din stared down at her as a look of shining awe appeared like morning dew over Lysa perfect features.

“It’s what the people of Mandalore would say to those that they-” he paused, just for the very briefest of seconds, wetting his bottom lip gently with his tongue. “-that they love.”

Din watched, as the frown line between Lysa’s eyes deepended for a split second before her face softened completely.

“I love you,” said Din, with a slight shake of his head, his words honest in the quiet of the night. “I think I loved you from that first time you showed up outside in your speeder.”

A gentle smile slipped it’s way over Lysa’s face, her sparkling ocean green eyes still searching his in the starlight.

“I love you too,” she said breathlessly, reaching up and cupping at his cheek with her hand, as she lifted her head from the pillow behind her head, her lips gently meeting with his.

To Din, her lips tasted like golden honey. 

Like pure sunlight.

Her kiss sweet and delicious, and filled with love in its most truest form.

And like that they remained, kissing at one another languidly, hands sliding over skin.

Enjoying every inch of each other as the minutes slowly passed them by. 

Until those kisses of theirs became far more heated, the swirling vortex of their need for one another getting bigger and more powerful until neither of them could bear it any longer.

Thighs sliding over hips…

Hands fumbling between them, as Din’s dark pants were pushed from his waist and kicked to the floor.

They felt like magnets now, unable and unwilling to part, as they sought their pleasure, so wrapped in one another neither would have noticed if a StarCruiser had crashed into the planet right outside.

Their lips parted for a brief moment, huffing hot breaths into each other’s mouths, as Lysa’s hand found his erect length, hard and throbbing between his legs. Eager to seek its goal in that soaked aching slit between her thighs.

And a moment later, with mouths hanging open, both mirroring the other, eyes locked, Din was there, buried inside her.

Their pace started slow, with Lysa’s hand moving to his muscular bicep, now flexed taught beside her shoulder. Fingernails from her other hand raking through his dark hair.

And Din could only breathe out raggedly, as their hips began to move in sync with one another.

Moving faster and ever faster. 

Lips grazing. 

Tongue’s lapping. 

Both intoxicated on each other.

Lysa moaned into Din’s mouth, her eyes closing blissfully, as her back arched against the sheets beneath her.

Din’s hands skimmed up the bare skin of Lysa’s warm outer thigh, huffing a grunt into her parted lips, as he buried himself inside her time and time again. The wet, sinful noises between them, truly something to behold.

A moment later, her hand moved to his neck and she lifted her face to his again. Her green eyes seeking his in the pale light.

And their eye contact remained as Lysa fell apart first, gasping out, clenching around his hard cock, which now sodden with her juices.

The sensation enough to trigger Din’s own climax, a dark frown gracing his sweat beaded brow, as he came hard, groaning out as Lysa watched him from her own comedown.

“Dank farrik…” he murmured, as Lysa gave a hazy nod in response, her thumb grazing over Din’s bottom lip, as she leaned her lips in close to his.

“Yeah…” she responded breathlessly, as Din eased himself from her now, his trembling arm almost giving out on him. Settling himself down onto his back, onto the mattress beside her.

The two of them breathing hard, their chests both rising and falling hard in the pale light of the stars.

A few seconds later, Din felt Lysa turn towards him, shifting onto her side to gaze at his profile, feeling her eyes on him.

And shifting his own body, he came to face her.

The pair were silent for a long moment, with Lysa’s hand drifting up to Din’s face, her thumb drifting over the hollow beneath Din’s eye gently, where he bore the small marks of more than a few fights he had both won and lost over the years.

Din closed his eyes, even after weeks of removing his helmet in the dark and feeling her contact, he still cherished the feeling of her warm fingers touching a place he had not had touched by another since he was a small child.

“Won’t you get in trouble for removing your helmet?” he heard Lysa ask now, amidst the quiet. “Isn't it against the Creed?”

Her words were caring and soft. And as Din opened his eyes, he looked upon her face, full of concern and love for him, and only him.

Din’s hand moved to her middle, his fingers reaching the small of her waist as he caressed her smooth skin.

“You are part of my family now,” he said, leaning in and nudging his nose with hers gently. “My clan.”

He saw her green eyes seek his lips in the darkness, watching every word as they spilled from his lips.

“I have abided by the rules for so long. Sacrificing so much along the way,” he continued in earnest, knowing that every word was true.

Being a Mandalorian, he had missed out on so very much.

Missed out on what others sought so often. 

On that intimacy, with not only lovers but family too.

But now, Din Djarin was no longer on the outside looking in. For the galaxy had provided him with his own family. His own clan.

“These moments with you-” he uttered now, pulling her hips into his and pressing his hand to the dipped small of her back, holding her so very close. “-we are bonded. And I-”

Din gave a hard swallow now, gazing into the eyes of the woman he loved so dearly.

“I just….I don't ever want to let you go,” he said, letting out a huff of air through his nose, as he reached down, his hand grasping hers.

“You are my kar’ta…” he said, pressing her palm flat to his bare chest, as he translated in a low and firm voice. “...my heart.”

He saw Lysa tilt her head, and tears glint in her eyes in the pale starlight. But she did not let any fall now. 

A smile gracing her perfect face as she shifted closer to Din now and tucked her head beneath his chin. Her hand finding his once more, their fingers entwining neatly.

Both listening to the rain as it began to pitter-patter on the roof of the cabin, but neither allowing sleep to take them just yet.

The two of them, Din and Lysa, basking now in the glow of both the rain…

…and the sunlight.

………………………………………………………

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[writingmoth]

tortillon, a sunday afternoon, and cricut for the ask game 〜↗

for rowan:

tortillon: does your OC "blend in" with the people around them? Physically? Metaphorically?

no </3 rowan is very much an outcast in his village. kind of, i guess. people talk to him and they depend on him somewhat, but he is just Not Welcome since they believe he brings bad luck. physically, the only thing that separates him from everyone else are the marks the god of the forest's magic left on him when they saved his life, that is, discolored hair and eyes, and "crack" lines around his nose/cheek, etc. metaphorically... he is the first forest's invasion, basically. the first forest claimed him, never got him, but technically he still belongs to it.

fantasy romance wip:

A Sunday Afternoon…: pick one "little moment" from this fic. How representative is it of the fic's tone and story as a whole?

this is actually one of my favorite scenes bc it is a little moment but it translates (imo) well what fantasy romance wip's setup is:

No one sees him. He avoids the street, making his way through the sleeping wooden houses until he reaches the woods. The smell of rain and winter is stronger here, the bony black trees rising around him like a mural of  spiderwebs, the ground humid but hard, almost frozen over. The first forest inside his chest rattles against his ribcage in faint awareness - these woods belonged to them, a long time ago, and the roots under his feet remember their old masters. Their longing swells on the tip of his tongue, mixing with the first forest’s eternal, desperate hunger. He shivers.  The altar waits for him atop a small pile of stones, positioned almost carelessly by the trail as if forgotten by someone on their way to the village. It’s a small thing, a square of wood above rocks, the symbol of the god of the forest - curled antlers sprouting from a half mask, eyes nothing more than two holes roughly carved out with a knife - resting precariously above it. A few offerings are already placed at the altar’s base; Rowan recognizes Moira’s small cakes and Lorna’s flower crown, still looking fresh, and other, older offerings, untouched by anything other than time. The god never accepts them - they never did, not even before they saved Rowan’s life only to disappear never to be seen again - but that never stopped the villagers from offering a bit of what they had every week. For protection, and comfort. Reassurance. “I brought you this,” Rowan whispers to the altar, placing a chunk of bread and cheese beside Moira’s cakes. His breakfast. He takes a deep breath. “Something is not right. I can feel it. I…” He pauses, mouth going dry, heart beating inexplicably fast. The stillness settles over him, anxious, waiting.  Hungry. “Keep it away from the village,” he asks finally. “Keep Ada safe, if you are still out there.” Rowan rolls his shoulders, swallowing past the mess of thorns in his throat, and waits. The woods’ eerie quiet is a hollow answer that sinks deep into his bones, a feast for the first forest hungering inside his chest.   There is no response.

aka the god of the forest is gone, ppl still believe in them, rowan very much wants them to show up and fix whatever the hell is going on, but gets no response. loifa (said god of the forest) quite literally plugged the phone off the wall, they are Not Here For it. they get pulled into it anyway.

Cricut: are there any characters you've had to "cut" from a story? Are there any moments/chapters/stories you've had to "cut" entirely?

for fantasy romance wip? nope. fantasy romance wip came into existence from the idea of "i will do what >>i<< want just the way >>i<< want and i don't care if anyone reads it, ever" so i'm not cutting anything from this story lol so far at least. i havent had a reason to, to be honest. i'm being very self indulgent. it does create some problems. i don't think the book will be very marketable (it's in the idea, i know). i call it fantasy romance wip and by the name it should be a queer romantasy but it is so old that it predates the popularity of "romantasy" as genre (or my knowledge of it, at least) and does not fit within its conventions that well. i dont know if i will even try to self publish it. time will tell!

so nope, nothing i like is getting cut from this story if i can help it

thank you so much for the ask!!

[daisyswift3]

This is great! I interpreted this song in a very similar way. I think it’s directed at Scooter and she’s quoting many of the things she’s been told over the course of her career, maybe from her label—like how she should be careful when she’s out in public w her gf bc it could ruin her career—and she’s basically turning it around and warning him that now HE’S the one who needs to be careful w his secrets or else it could ruin his career. She tells him “cross your (thoughtless) heart” and the second part of the saying “hope to die” is implied which sounds very much like a threat in this context.

Remember last yr when there were all those articles that were released saying that a lot of really bad news was gonna come out abt Scooter soon, he was gonna leave management, and a bunch of his clients left at the same time? And then after all that it was just….silent. I think this is what the 3rd verse is referring to. I think it’s possible Taylor was the one who planted those articles and started those rumors and then pulled the plug on it and told the news outlets to stop -> “Devils that you know (Taylor and company) raise worse hell than a stranger, She's the death you chose, You're in terrible danger.” (x)(x)(x)

I think it’s possible many of these rumors weren’t even true but many ppl believed them regardless bc no one likes Scooter and everyone is praying for his demise -> “Wise men once read fake news and they believed it, Jackals raised their hackles, You couldn't conceive it, You were sleeping soundly when they dragged you from your bed and I tried to warn you about them.” So now Taylor can use this to her advantage to prevent him from trying anything funny so that she won’t have any obstacles in the way of her coming out this time.

The 2nd 🎃 message uses the same exact parachute metaphor to describe how Taylor had to pump the breaks on her 2019 coming out bc she didn’t feel adequately prepared to come out and probably knew there was a good chance her masters would be sold (and they were) (I explain this in more detail along w the wild wind/seed metaphor in this post). I think the parachute metaphor—which is abt pulling the plug on sth in order to save one’s reputation—is being used in a similar way in this song; plus it relates to the mastersheist which Scooter was a part of so it adds up. Taylor swept in and, like a parachute, saved him by putting a stop to the rumors -> “So I crossed my thoughtless heart, Spread my wings like a parachute, I'm the albatross, I swept in at the rescue.” BUT she can rain hellfire down on him at any moment so now he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop -> “The devil that you know looks now more like an angel, I'm the life you chose and all this terrible danger.” She’s telling him that he’s the one who started this so the only one he has to blame is himself. I really love the creepy eery instrumentation which sounds like sth out of a horror movie lol. It really adds to the vibe that she’s a ghost that’s coming back from the dead to haunt him. I think it’s possible she stopped the rumors bc she’s waiting for the right opportunity and timing to destroy him.

Many of the things she says in this song are reminiscent of Karma: “It’s coming back around, And I keep my side of the street clean, You wouldn't know what I mean…Karma's a relaxing thought, Aren't you envious that for you it's not?…'Cause karma is the thunder, Rattling your ground, Karma's on your scent like a bounty hunter, Karma's gonna track you down, Step by step, from town to town”

This is just how I interpreted it, I could be wrong. And maybe she actually does have dirt on him or sth and there are some actual unsavory revelations that are gonna be revealed. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

The Albatross decoded

(as requested by @asteracaea's anon, just wanted this for my records too. I hope you see it)

It starts with 'Wise men once said' so immediately we know it's some old white men wisdom, so probably some BS... "Wild winds are death to the candle" isn't a saying I've heard before but English is also not my first language. I'd take it to mean a wild unruly person will destroy something delicate and fragile, just like a strong wind will blow out a candle. As warnings are being issued here, I assume that they are warning the person about this woman because she's known for being a 'wild wind'. The warning then continues into the 'Rose by any other name...' line. Just to make it perfectly clear that it's the MEN who are saying it's a scandal, not Taylor. Taylor knows it's a rose. At least twice on this album does she refer to kissgate as a scandal and with such venom that I'm very sure that that's what the old white men at her label told her it was at the time. And she's still angry about it (as she should!).

In the chorus we have "Cross your thoughtless heart/ Only liquor anoints you" Crossing your heart means you're making a promise to tell the truth, similar to a pledge or a pinky promise. And adding 'thoughtless' would imply she wants the other person to make this promise without any fear or consideration of the possible consequences. So, basically, "promise me something sincerely without thinking too much about it". Only liquor anoints you - Anointment is part of religious ceremonies and is usually done with holy oil to either improve someone's health or make them a saint. It's also done when kings and queens are crowned and I think that's the meaning here. The other person is being raised up to be a monarch or a saint, but with alcohol instead of holy oil. Personally, these two lines convinced me that Taylor is talking to her lover here, because asking for a sincerely promise, almost like a vow, and in return making the other person your king/queen is all very soft and romantic. Very 'King of my heart'. 😉 (and note that she's not saying I'M here to destroy you, she saying OTHER people will tell you that I'm going to destroy you)

In the second verse we're back to what the 'wise men' are saying and this time it's the bad seed that kills the garden (kinda self-explanatory) and then "One less temptress, one less dagger to sharpen". First they were warning the lover and now they're clearly trying to keep them apart by saying that this woman (Taylor) is a bad influence or a temptation. Not sure if I would call this a literary reference, but it's noteworthy that lesbians in early media portrayals (the days of the Hays Code) were often shown as predatory or evil women who would seduce the good straight girls and turn them gay... bad seed/temptress indeed.

Then we have an add on chorus with "Devils that you know raise worse hell than a stranger". This is in fact a saying "Better the devil you know" which means it's better to choose the bad thing you already know over a new one, because you're already used to this one. But again, in this context it's flipped (she does this a lot). In this case, the devil you know is in fact WORSE than a stranger. So they're saying to her lover 'this devil of yours is worse hell and you'd be better off with a stranger' adding to the above warnings, and then they're also adding the warning "You're in terrible danger/She's the death you chose". Boy oh boy, they really didn't want them to be together, very Romeo and Juliet indeed...

Ok, the bridge: "And when that sky rains fire on you/ And you're persona non grata/ I'll tell you how I've been there too And that none of it matters". -> All these warnings are coming to fruition and the sky is now 'raining fire' on her lover. Something bad has happened and they are persona non grata, which is Latin for an unwelcome person, but more commonly used to say the worst person you can think of. So, her lover is in the eye of the storm and is seen as the guilty person, but Taylor tells her that she's been through the same before and it doesn't matter. Like she said in her Lavender Haze video, "We just ignore it and protect the real stuff."

The third verse gives details about what the fire storm mentioned above actually was (just for context, I know you didn't ask about that): some people read some fake news about her lover and came after her because they believed it. The "Jackles raised their hackles" and being dragged from your bed at night very much gives witch hunt imagery, which is a cool choice for two reasons: 1) like the 'witches' her lover is innocent and wrongly convicted of a crime, and 2) all 'witches' were women. 😉

In the last chorus, of course, Taylor's albatross becomes the rescuing angel that swoops in to save her lover from being burned at the stakes. The devil becomes the angel and the anti hero becomes the hero. She says "I'm the life you chose and all this terrible danger". This reminds me of peace: Yes, the life you chose with me comes with shit storms sometimes ('would it be enough if I can never give you peace?') but I will always rescue you if I have to.

(And this part hasn't happened yet, one reason why I love this song so much, it feels like such a sneaky insight into things yet to come, same as FOTS and the Alchemy 😊)

So, there you go, hope this helped, never ask long questions if you don't want long answers ;)

[dancing-with-the-madmen]

The Massive Aggression of Calico Jack, redux

Several kind souls have complained brought it to my attention that my failure to use cut tags is, in fact, not optimal. I don't have any good reason that I don't use cuts - mostly I'm just throwing these thoughts out here so they don't endlessly rattle around my brain. Frankly, I'm endlessly astonished anyone but me can be arsed to bother wading through them at all. So, after a truly epic tantrum thoughtful consideration, I've decided to edit my longer posts to add cuts. If you've already read them, (may endless blessings rain down upon you) there's no new content (vile lies and calumny. I'm going to take this opportunity to fix errors and add a line here or there, but nothing major). Just making it more scroll-friendly. You'll know it when you see the word "redux" in the title. So without further ado...

I’ve been trying for a while to put my finger on exactly what it is about Our Flag Means Death's Calico Jack that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and smother him to death with my own abandoned ecdysis.

I mean, I normally love me a spurned admirer/cock-blocking ex. Romantic comedies have their beats, and there’s obviously no serious danger the love interest will end up with anyone other than their intended, so I may as well sit back and enjoy the machinations. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth, and these bitches are here to rough some shit up for sure. I also love Will Arnett. Hands down favorite recurring character on 30 Rock. The second best Batman after TAS (fight me). I can even cheerfully bear his Reese’s commercials if I must bear commercials at all.

Real-life Calico Jack? One of my v. favorite pirates. He wore floral-printed cotton from India as a fuck you to the British tax man. He had an affair with Anne Bonny and offered to purchase her divorce when her husband found out. The two ran away together into piracy when Bonny’s husband refused to quit her and had her whipped for her infidelity. Mary Read was part of Jack and Anne’s crew, and possibly their lover. We love a hopeless romantic, possibly polyamorous king. 

So what is it about OFMD Calico Jack that makes him so acutely punchable?

I’ve rewatched the episode several times (oh my v. dears, I really hope this write-up is worth it. I am SO BRAVE to subject myself to this), and I think I’ve finally got it. It’s not just that he’s a loud, vulgar, hectoring, drunken jackass of a bird-murderer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have as little patience for his brand of mindless destruction and violence-for-violence-sake as Stede does, but that’s not all.  It’s that he’s also a master of passive aggression.

Jack does the little whisper-y “Sorry! Sorry!” when Stede wants to know what’s with all the cannon fire, but immediately starts grinning like an unrepentant varlet as soon as he drops his hands.

And then accepts Stede’s introductory handshake with clear derision.

When Stede says he wasn’t expecting guests and there’s only two settings at brekkie, Jack doesn’t wait for Stede to sort things out, and he’s already lowering himself into Stede’s chair by the time Stede invites him to take his spot. He then purposefully keeps steering the conversation to topics that exclude Stede from participating, and cuts Stede short when he tries to reign the conversation back.

He insinuates Stede is less of a pirate for being “store bought”

He refuses to get Stede’s name right, even when corrected. Twice.

And is just SO insincere when calling him back.

And, just, the whole pissing contest scene.

But so what? We’ve had other passive aggressive assholes on the show; Badminton with his cracks about Stede’s tiny dick ship, the French captain’s slurs, Gabriel simpering about Jeff the Accountant’s dining manners. I’m not shedding any tears for their respective fates, but none of them made me want to crawl through the screen and sew all their face holes shut. Because Jack isn’t just passive-aggressive (and aggressive-aggressive), he might just be the most savvy reader-of-rooms we see on the show, and purposefully and systematically leverages his passive aggression to manipulate the actions of those around him for the purpose of making Ed and Stede betray their better selves and make them do the work of driving a wedge between themselves.   That was a lot in one sentence.  Let me break it down.

Jack uses passive aggression to achieve one of four goals: to nettle, to undermine, (seemingly paradoxically) to reinforce connections, or to coerce. And, if he can manage to achieve different goals for more than one target with the same attack? So much the better. And he’s frankly just astonishingly good at doing so. Like, I’d admire him for it if it didn’t also make me want to make him swallow all of his own teeth.

The basic gameplan goes thusly (this is not a strictly chronological list, a lot of these tactics take place concurrently and recurrently): Stede is the primary target, so Jack nettles him with passive aggressive comments, which puts him on the back foot and undermines his self-confidence. He reinforces his relationship with Ed in ways that excludes Stede and undermines Stede’s relationship with Ed and Ed’s relationship with Stede. Jack uses coercive tactics with Ed and the crew, which undermines Stede’s relationships with them, isolating and othering Stede, which further tanks his mood, which leads him to self-isolate. When Stede eventually lashes out at Ed for falling for Jack’s bullshit, Ed has no idea what’s got Stede so out-of-sorts; Jack has so carefully lead Ed to making the choices that have alienated Stede that they seem like they were Ed’s ideas in the first place. And if Ed has made the choices to do these things, then they are clearly just a reflection of who he is, which, if Stede is lashing out against them, then Stede is rejecting him. Wedge set and match.

So let’s look at the specifics.

Jack’s interactions with Ed are like a masterclass in neurolinguistic programming for evil. First, he plys Ed with booze from the very start. Just look at the bottle in this shot from right after they blow up the dresser drawer.

That bottle or rum is over half gone, and the sky in the background is the peachy-pink of sunrise. This isn’t the bottle Jack had with him in his dinghy; that one he drained and then threw in the air and tried to shoot before coming aboard the Revenge. Which means that they’ve consumed over half the bottle between just the two of them in a very short amount of time.   Alcohol, of course, is a social lubricant - the physical warmth it produces mimicking the “warm, fuzzy” feeling of true comradery, and, more importantly, decoupling the decision-making process from inhibition (that is to say, Ed isn’t necessarily doing anything he absolutely wouldn’t otherwise do, but he might otherwise think twice).

But it’s more insidious than just having a few drinks with an old friend. Jack specifically gamifies the consumption of alcohol to reinforce the coupling of the feeling of inebriation with the comradery engendered by teamwork and excitement of success in order to encourage Ed to drink more than he necessarily otherwise would. Ed confirms to Stede during his apology that the idea to use the drawers of the armoire for target practice came from Jack, and we saw that a bullseye meant that Jack had to take a drink, but Ed didn’t. Presumably, there would have been some consequence for a “miss”, and it seems likely that it would be Ed has to take a drink and not Jack. In this way, Jack is able to exert a measure of control over how much Ed is drinking (by missing on purpose) while making it look like the responsibility lies with Ed and his skill as a thrower. This pattern of sneakily controlling Ed’s actions while making it seem like Ed is the one who made or is responsible for the decision will pop up again and again during their interactions.

After the apologies for waking Stede, Jack steps into the space where Ed is gesticulating to make himself readily available to be touched, reenforcing the bond between them, but letting Ed be the one to instigate the touching.

At brekkie, he pours rum into Ed’s teacup without asking or being asked while Ed’s attention is diverted by getting food.

Jack’s collaring of the conversation does not just function as a means of making Stede feel excluded, he’s also refreshing and reinforcing the bonds he and Ed forged under adversity. Talking over Stede also demonstrates that what he has to say is more important than anything Stede might contribute.

Note that just before Jack cut him off, Stede had referred to Ed as Blackbeard (“Blackbeard and I met on a ship”). This may be innocently explained away; if you meet a person from a facet of a close friend’s life with which you do not intersect, you might refer to said friend by their given name instead of a nickname that the other person might not know, for the sake of common frame of reference. But this is the opposite of that - referring to a friend by a nickname instead of the given name that you both presumably know. That suggests to me that the seed of the Ed/Blackbeard dichotomy has already been planted in Stede’s mind by the morning’s shenanigans. And when Jack invites Stede back into participating in the conversation by talking about something he knows Stede would find upsetting (the wanton cruelty of Ed purposefully trapping people to be burned alive, couched in what sounds like sincere admiration for his friend’s piratical prowess), Jack has picked up on that distinction and is leaning into it HARD. He WANTS Stede to see Ed as a collection of behaviors he finds palatable, and Blackbeard as a collection of behaviors he finds repulsive, and then coerce Ed into performing those “Blackbeard behaviors” in order to coerce Stede to drive the wedge by rejecting him. Fucking diabolical.

When Jack is calling Stede a “big girl,” or “store-bought,” or purposefully getting his name wrong, he’s not just throwing barbs that play on Stede’s insecurities (and with such harrowing precision, too; calling on the effeminacy for which he was tormented as a child, his body image issues that we’ve also seen him struggle with under the tender mercies of Badminton - both brain-ghost and original flavor - and the authenticity of his claim to piracy, which we’ve seen him confess that he fears he’s ill-qualified to claim to Jim, Oluande, and Ed. I mean,triple bullseye for this fucking guy). He’s also using these public declarations to undermine Stede’s authority in front of his crew, and establish himself as the real authority on things like piracy and masculinity. He further reinforces this idea by withholding the story of how he saved Ed’s life under the guise of false modesty; people never want something more than when they’re told they can’t have it. And what they’re being told they can’t have is the story of how Jack was so amazing that he even managed to save the life of the coolest, most legendary pirate they know. This withholding primes the crew to think even more highly of Jack and hang on his every word.

This puts Jack into a position where he can pressure the crew into things that sound fun at first blush (like diving off the yardarm or having a snowball fight, but with coconuts), but end up hurting more than anything. Of course, within this dynamic, no one wants to admit they aren’t having a good time, or don’t want to do it; to do so would be tantamount to admitting you are less of a man or not a real pirate. So when Stede refuses to participate, or admits his discomfort or disgust with the proceedings, he’s doing Jack’s work for him, and further alienating himself, and solidifying the roles Jack had put into place where Jack is the fun, cool guy, and Stede is the killjoy that no one should listen to.

Stede unwittingly plays right into Jack’s design when he tries to stand up for himself and wrest back a modicum of respect before things get too far out of hand. He’s well-versed in the world of passive aggression, and sees what Jack is doing. He also knows that you can’t call it out because passive aggression comes with a built in cover of plausible deniability gaslighting. So instead, he tries to push back with a little passive aggression of his own, suggesting that a real pirate has a ship and a crew. Sadly, Stede is not nearly so adroit at wielding passive aggression as Jack is. Jack uses the story (and we know that Izzy sent him, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole mutiny thing is just a story; I could even easily read that slight hesitation after Stede asks his question as Jack deciding on what would be the most effective cover story, instead of hesitancy to admit to something shameful) of his crew’s mutiny to casually re-sow the idea of mutiny on the Revenge. It’s played for comedy when the crew starts talking about how they almost mutinied on Stede and probably will again, but you can’t tell me this hasn’t been a major concern for Stede ever since the first episode. So Jack’s not only got the crew trying to buoy his spirits by assuring him that his crew mutinying on his doesn’t mean he’s a bad person; it’s just something that happens! He’s also got them low-key committing to a future mutiny WITHIN EARSHOT OF STEDE.

Additionally, while Stede is well-steeped in the ways of passive aggression, his crew and Ed are not. They are not particularly sophisticated at identifying passive aggression on its own merits as opposed to the reaction it provokes, which can make it look like they don’t care when it’s being leveraged against Stede, undermining his ability to trust they will look out for him. Stede stoically putting up with Jack’s jibes makes them even more difficult to identify as hurtful. Jack’s (fake) emotional reaction to Stede’s sally might make him look momentarily weak, but allows Ed and the crew to unequivocally identify who is in the wrong and react accordingly. By positioning himself as a victim, he villainizes Stede, further undermining Stede’s authority, and placing him in a position where he owes Jack recompense. Thus, Jack is able to manipulate Stede into the trap of Dead Man’s Cove and make it look like it was Stede’s own idea. I mean, the Xanatos Speed Chess of it all.

What’s heartbreaking to me is how Jack’s wedge-driving and othering of Stede is working so well that at this point we start to hear it from other sources. As they approach the island and Stede suggests going for a swim or taking a nature walk, Ed is the one who tells him, “I think with this crowd, I think they want something a little more…” Not Jack would want something more exciting, this crowd. Jack’s exclusionary rhetoric out of Ed’s mouth.

Which is exactly the time Jack decides to up the ante.

I want to take a minute to look at the immediate lead up to yardies, because I think it’s an excellent illustration of how Jack looks like a lumbering boor, but his actions are actually so carefully considered and nuanced. He runs up from behind Stede and Ed and throws his arms around them shouting “Yardies!” literally insinuating himself between them, which interrupts anything that was going on between them, puts them off balance, and focuses the attention on him. Then, when he says “Who’s up for yardies?” he makes eye-contact with Ed - the implicit social expectation being “You, Ed, are up for yardies.” When he turns to Stede, it is to literally laugh in his face. I mean, the absolute cheek.

Until this point, the crew of the Revenge have been passive participants in Jack’s hooliganry. They watched him perform whippies, and got whipped at without encouraging him to do so. They listened to his and Ed’s stories. But now Jack is cashing in on his established expertise of what real pirates do to coerce the crew into taking part in a dangerous stunt. It’s more of the “Blackbeard behavior” dichotomy he started sowing in Stede’s mind at brekkie, but now he’s extending it beyond Ed to the whole crew. He wants Stede to feel like he’s all alone in a sea of idiocy, but he wants him to come to the conclusion on his own by making it seem like Ed and the crew are doing things of which he would disapprove of their own accord.

Once we get to the island, we see the activities take a turn from the careless Jackass-ery of whippies and yardies to the abject cruelty of turtle vs. crab. There’s no saying that Jack organized the fight, but we do see the crew handing him various trinkets to be used in gambling on a winner, which certainly suggests he was the central figure in how the game was established. We also see that, though he has been presenting himself as a drunkard, there’s no bottle in his hand or around him in the sand. There is, however, one in Ed’s hand, who is directly to his side. I can easily see him handing it off so he could handle the gambling stakes, the real intention being to keep Ed readily supplied with booze.

And then we have the pissing contest. Jack’s got Stede literally and metaphorically isolated, and now it’s time to really drive it all home. Every moment of their interaction is designed to drive Stede to distraction; the amount of derision he lays on the phrase “Your good, close buddy,” the insinuation that he and Ed are just alike, and then being as rude and crass as possible. And because he’s read the room - the intimate breakfast for two, Ed’s little touches and the way Stede smiles at them, the way they keep going off together for little chats - of course Jack’s just got to twist the knife and allude to his and Ed’s former sexual history. So now that he’s got Stede primed, it’s time to name the fear: “Maybe you don’t know him at all.”

At this point, Stede is left to wonder: does he? Blackbeard’s reputation preceded him, after all. And he’s been acting so differently since the appearance of one of his oldest friends. It’s not the violence qua violence, per se; Stede is by turns delighted and impressed by the violence he’s seen Ed and his crew employ in the heat of battle in the pursuit of piracy. It’s the cruel and senseless violence that Stede objects to, and that’s exactly the brand that Jack has been peddling, and which Ed has gone along with so enthusiastically. And it’s not JUST the violence; Ed apologizes for Jack when he recognizes Jack has crossed a line in a typically agro way (destroying Stede’s belongings, and insulting Stede to his face), but it never occurs to Stede that his insistence on persevering with quietly aggrieved dignity in the face of Jack’s slights would make it nigh impossible for Ed to identify that Jack has crossed all sorts of other lines, and Stede is hurting because of it. For Stede, it must be frustrating and mystifying why Ed keeps letting his friend get away with his passive aggressive bullshit. Doesn’t he care? 

Is it any wonder that one more failure to notice how Jack has riled him, and one more act of coconut-flavored Jackass-ary is enough to break the dam, and for Stede to spill all that built-up hurt on Ed?  Is it any wonder that Ed is bewildered at where all this is coming from? I’ve talked before about Ed’s tendency to fawn on people, and how, as an emotional chameleon, he would have difficulty identifying when the motivation for his actions is self-directed or externally dictated. Jack has further confounded this distinction by manipulating scenarios to make it seem like participation in all the Jackass-ary he has instigated was voluntary instead of coerced. When Stede says “I don’t like who you are around  this guy” what he means is “I don’t like how this guy is able to manipulate you into acting on your very worst impulses”, but what Ed hears is “I don’t like you”. For who is he, if not the collection of behaviors he chooses to exhibit? And were those choices not entirely his to make? With the rift clearly established, if in its infancy, of course Jack is going to do everything he can to foster its growth. So again, he interrupts Stede, again implicitly signaling that Ed should pay attention to what he says and not Stede. By lobbing the coconut at Ed at that moment, he forestalls any possible clearing of the air between Ed and Stede, and causes Ed to literally turn his back on Stede, in the way Ed feels Stede has emotionally turned his back on him just moments earlier. Jack reinforces this idea of turning his back on Stede again moments later when he says “Don’t go!” and immediately turns Ed around by the shoulders.

I know that I’ve been laying it on a bit thick and prolly sound like the written embodiment of the red string conspiracy meme, but I’m about to get a whole lot worse, and I’m going to ask you to stick with me, oh my v. dears. I think Jack killed Karl on purpose.

I know, I know. It was an accident! He was flailing drunkenly! But was he?

Have we seen him take so much as a single drink since the cannon fire at the beginning of the episode? Even though he’d been drinking earlier, did he not have devastating precision and accuracy when he first demonstrated Whippies - shattering every glass, snapping the cards from the Swede’s fingers, and ball-tapping Ed without permanently maiming him or even splitting the leather of his pants? In fact, while nearly every other crew member on the deck has a bottle in hand, just like on the beach, Jack does not.

Jack knows he has to get Ed off the ship before the British show up, but he can’t just say “Let’s ditch these losers” and expect Ed to agree, especially since he’s spent most of the day roping the crew into his schemes. The most effective way to get Ed to follow is if Jack is rejected for just being himself and doing what he does, just like Ed feels he was earlier by Stede. I think the original plan was to goad Olu into seriously hurting the Swede, the fallout of which would be recriminations that Jack made them do it, and Jack getting aggrieved that he was just trying to show this ungrateful lot how to have a good time, skulking off and leading Ed to follow him and reassure him that he’s really a good guy - how could he have known it would turn out like that? But when Buttons calls a halt to the proceedings and it looks like everyone is going to pack it in, Jack has to think fast. If HE maims a crew mate, that would be a bridge too far, painting him as the bad guy. But Karl? He’s just a bird. And if Jack can get a little revenge on the weird bird guy who made him change his plan, so much the better. AND, as people with far fewer auditory processing issues than I have pointed out, Jack mutters that he expected there to be more feathers. Could the evidence be any more damning?

Of course the whole ship turns on him, and then here’s Stede to order him off, explicitly rejecting him the way he metaphorically rejected Ed. But when even that isn’t enough to get Ed to follow him, Jack pulls out one last, desperate manipulation - the debt of life.

Jack’s tragic flaw is that he can’t turn it off. Once he and Ed are alone, he turns his passive aggressive assault on Ed, pressuring him into drinking the morning away by sarcastically saying he didn’t know he had an audience with the pope when Ed expresses disinterest, and, ultimately, giving up the game when he mentions with casual derision how he’d heard of Ed shaking up with Stede, and then deriding Ed for his failure to spot Jack’s machinations.

Too bad Jack didn’t know that the punishment for passive-aggressive fuckery on this show is death…

[youvereachedpluto]

worship / a drabble / diluven

"what do you mean, 'no god,' I'm right here, pray to me, I'll be your salvat—" he breaks off to puke into the nearest trashcan. diluc groans, a headache already forming at the corners of his mind as he turns to grab a rag from behind the counter. he's already filling a glass full of water when venti re-emerges from the trashcan, face paler than before but a certain steadiness in his eyes that diluc never associated with drunken bards. "master diluc, it is quite rude of you to state so boldly, in the presence of one of the oldest archons that you fail to see a need to worship," venti stables himself on the stool. hair unbraided and ribbons of it flowing over his shoulder, under the dim light, they glowed blue and green, highlighting the sharp features of the god that diluc never saw before, features venti did well to hide away in his mortal form. "I never said I failed to see a reason to worship, I said it seems like a waste on you." with the way venti flinches, diluc knows he's gone too far, he's about to take it back, apologize to his god, when venti pushes the stool back, the wooden chair falling to the floor with a crash, his beret held firm between his fists, venti twists and turns the fabric in his hand, his knuckles growing white with the pressure, "you know diluc, there are days when these kinds of thoughts do nothing more but plague my mind, repeating the same horrid words over and over again till I can do little but pay attention to them." "venti---" "it's a scary thing really, to realize such a dreadful fact about yourself; to look in the mirror and see not a god, not an archon, not a being capable of divinity and power, but someone who doesn't deserve a speck of respect. what you say is true master diluc, I truly am not deserving of any of the praise mondstat likes to sing of, the church, the statue, all the festivals held in my name, none of it." diluc feels his heart sting, the thing beating hard and fast against his chest as he feels the wind pick up outside, heavy and thundering where it beats against the windows of the tavern, and venti--venti is a sight to behold. his hair, entirely undone now, falls long and fair over his shoulders, its ends glowing bright and blue, there are faint tattoos peaking through the fabric of his clothes, they glow the same bright teal as his hair and, oh archons his eyes, diluc can't look away from the anger raging behind them. the fear he feels in the presence of barbatos is nothing tantamount to the absolute awe he feels, so this is what it means to be in the presence of a god. "you are right master diluc. I really am unworthy. and the one who truly deserves the praise," he laughs, it's dry and forced, nothing like the airy laugh that usually filled the tavern, "well, he's not here right now, he hasn't been by my side for a while." the winds have grown stronger, and diluc knows a storm has begun to brew outside but he doesn't care. "do you know what the worst part is? though he's gone, I can never forget him, which, centuries ago, seemed like the worst of sins I could commit, how could I ever forget him? but now... now, I wish I could wake up each day and not remember, not remember how he looked like, what his smile looked like, what the sound of his laugh felt like against the wind. but I can't, and every time I am faced with my reflection he looks back at me and I--I--" rain beats down hard and strong, the tavern door rattles against its hinges and momentarily diluc wonders if it would break off. "why can't I forget? the more I drink, the louder his voice, the more I drink, the clearer the color of his eyes, but to remain sober would be to--diluc?" he doesn't know when nor does he remember moving past the counter, but he walks forward, arms wrapping around the slim figure of his god, his god. this close, he can feel the thrum of power that flows through venti, the divinity of the god that diluc was oh so foolish to doubt, "I don't know what you've been through, I doubt I could live through what you've lived through, it is lonely being immortal yes? but for

the time I have with you, for the rest of my days, I will give you all the comfort and warmth I can, and while I may not be who you so dearly remember, I hope I can be someone you dearly know." venti doesn't respond, the softest sobs are the only response diluc gets as he wraps his own arms around the taller man, his head pushing against the crook of dilucs neck, "would you like that barbatos?" diluc feels soft hair tickle his ear as venti shakes his head, "venti," he murmurs, "call me venti please, master diluc?" diluc laughs, and it is a soft thing, "all right, venti," he holds him tighter, "for the rest of my days, I will worship you, and I will love you." "and then? what about after?" "after? ah," diluc lets his heart swell as he thinks of after, "after, I hope you write a few songs about me."

[heliads]

Guns Blazing, Tides Rising (Part Five)

When Kaz Brekker announces that they’ll be working with a certain Tidemaker to help with the latest heist, Jesper knows it’s not going to end well. He and Y/N L/N have a fierce rivalry, although feelings may change over a night.

previous / series masterlist

a/n: it’s finally over 😭thanks once again to @underc0vercryptid​ for being my muse for all of this

It’s hard for Jesper to convince himself to leave the alley, to let his hands leave Y/N and return to their places by his sides. Inej and Kaz will be looking for them, that much is true. But there’s still a sound like a sigh trapped and rattling in his lungs when he leaves, a regret that he can’t quite excuse away with knowledge of what Kaz’s vengeance would mean if he found a single Dreg disobeying one of his most enforced rules.

Y/N understands, that much is true. She’s become more involved with the Dregs as time goes on. She knows Kaz Brekker in the way that they all do- the Bastard of the Barrel isn’t one that you cross unless you wish to lose your tongue and your life. It still seems wrong to give this up, though, to let Dirtyhands keep walking all over him for the one thing that matters. In the end, they would have had to leave the alley anyways. This is just the first excuse that passes Jesper’s lips.

He manages to turn off his mind for a little while, convincing himself that it doesn’t feel harder and harder to leave, that he can be emotionless and cold. Jesper’s tone is clinical when he tells Kaz and Inej of the successful mission, his hands for once unshaking and firm when he hands over the list of names to Kaz. However, even his attempts at being fine and calm draw suspicion- Kaz hadn’t seen them rejoin the rest of the party when the guests relocated from the main hall, and he wanted to know why.

Jesper has spent enough time running with the canal rats for lies to spring easily to his tongue. There was a difficulty finding the safe, he says, they had to dodge some guards and they didn’t quite get there in time. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? They got in, they got out, and they weren’t the reason the alarms were sounded. Kaz raises an eyebrow at this, but he doesn’t press it. Jesper might be well and truly hallucinating, but he swears he sees a tinge of unrest in Kaz’s eyes, like the boy is haunting himself over the fact that he may have made an error, one that could have gotten his gang caught like a too-clever fox in a trap.

Maybe this shift in Kaz’s usual ruthless demeanor is enough to unsettle him, or maybe it’s the gnawing knowledge that Jesper keeps walking away from the girl he might love that drives him to leave the Slat once more. It’s early morning now, dawn with its rosy-fingered hues, but a lack of sleep has hardly bothered Jesper before, and it certainly won’t now. He thinks as he walks, stretching his legs as he paces mindless circles around the city.

Jesper can’t shake the feeling that he’s been running for too long. He’s used to it, but for some reason, it feels different now. He doesn’t like this constant leaving, this weight on his shoulders like he’s holding true to a lie that will one day spiral out of control. Jesper is used to living life on the run, to being flamboyantly proud of everything that makes him, well, him. The skulking around back corners, stealing kisses only after he’s checked and double-checked that no one is watching? It feels like a noose is tightening around his neck.

In the end, Jesper finds himself climbing up a rickety fire escape and stretching his legs out over the edge of a roof, watching the golden dawn start to turn the waters surrounding Ketterdam bronze with light. It is not long before he is joined by someone else, someone with answering steps and a reassuring smile tossed his way. Maybe she could tell from how they’d left that he was still lost in thought. Regardless, Jesper is happy to not be alone.

Y/N sits next to him, carefully swinging her feet over the edge. Her heels kick up against the brick. “I like this view. I like being able to see the water. It feels like I’m more connected to it.” Jesper turns his head towards her, watching the way the early morning air toys with her eyelashes, her face. “Is it easy to be a Tidemaker here? I mean, you’re powerful enough that people don’t try to trap you with indentures. Does it ever get easy in Ketterdam?”

Y/N laughs quietly. “Not at all. I still remember when I first showed up and stepped off of the boats. My parents wanted to send me away from the disaster that was the Ravkan civil war. They guessed it would happen long before it did, and assumed Kerch would be safer. They sent me over first, saying that they’d follow soon after.” Jesper can hear the inflections in her voice, the way she casts her eyes towards the water with renewed vigor. He knows this means that they never showed up again.

She clears her throat, voice stubbornly loud as if ridding herself of doubts. “I was terrified when I first got here. Nothing made sense. In Ravka, Grisha were feared, yes, and there were always traders or mercenaries or even drüskelle out for blood, but we had a home there. If you had a home, people rarely came hunting for you. I had no such harbor here.”

Y/N looks out over the streets as if she’s never walked them before, as if she’s once more a stranger to the coal-choked airways always drenched with a spattering of rain and misfortune. “I had a friend. A girl who came with me. She was an Inferni, made the mistake of trying to summon up a small spark to keep her warm. I watched them take her right before my eyes, and I didn’t do anything at all. I vowed from that moment on that I would never be weak again, never hide in the shadows like I did on that night.”

Jesper’s heard bits and pieces of the story from here. He’d learned the most about her before he even liked her at all, actually, back when they still considered themselves to be rivals. Jesper had told himself that he was just collecting information on an enemy to best take her down the next time they crossed paths, but there was more to that, wasn’t there? Maybe that was a sign that even then, when Jesper had convinced himself that the only thing they could ever have was animosity, he still wanted something more. That was a gambler’s luck, after all- always reaching for a better deal, a shinier prospect. She was his best capture.

Y/N glances over at him like she can sense his thoughts. “That’s when you entered the picture, actually. I stopped being scared to hide my powers and started using them in bloodlust. I took up jobs, found this one really annoying sharpshooter who kept getting in my way.” Jesper presses a hand to his chest in mock indignation. “I think you can do better than just ‘really annoying’. Dashingly infuriating, maybe. Devastatingly attractive. A charming enemy who-”

Y/N cuts him off, laughing. “You’re awful. Utterly awful.” Jesper goes to protest, but she leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips that makes his heart swoop in his chest. Y/N raises an eyebrow at Jesper’s sudden silence. “Am I that good of a kisser? I don’t think I’ve seen you that awestruck in a while.” Jesper scoffs. “I can do better than that.”

He lets his hands find hers, lets the rising sun light the way his lips meet hers. They don’t leave the rooftop until the sun has fully ascended to its place in the sky, until the clatter of feet on cobblestones is the only reason for an exit. Not a gang, not its fearsome leader. Just the two of them, drowning out the whole world until there’s nothing left at all.

He is eventually found out, of course. All stories repeat themselves, all beginnings follow suit. When Kaz calls Jesper up to his office, he finds that he isn’t worried at all. Before, he might have felt his shoulders tense, hesitating at the door. When Jesper faces the oddly terrifying wooden paneling, however, all he can think about is the sun shining through Y/N’s eyes, the smile on her lips as his fingers laced around hers. If loving her is wrong, well, Jesper’s already been a criminal for quite some time. Why not add one more misdeed to the list?

Kaz waits for him in the office. He stands up, black gloved hands tapping on the familiar crow’s head cane. It’s all meant for a threatening display- Jesper’s seen this very posture used successfully on many a nervous trainwreck of a failed business partner or lackluster goon. However, Jesper’s still filled with the giddy rush of seeing his girl and he can’t quite force himself to care.

Kaz clears his throat, the metal hull of a ship scraping against jagged rocks. “Y/N L/N.” He doesn’t have to say anything else, just the name. Jesper nods. “Yes.” Kaz raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to deny it?” Jesper shrugs. “We both know your information is good. Yes, I’m seeing her.” Kaz’s fingers still on the head of the cane. “You know how I feel about that. It’s a weakness.”

Jesper should take it as a possible sign of insanity that he’s considering the path before him at all. He knows what Kaz expects of him- an apology, maybe, a promise that he won’t stray from the rules again, or at least not so long as they interfere with Kaz’s master plan for the Dregs. He’ll see Y/N out, do his best not to cross paths with her again. He might return to the gambling halls once more just to stave off some unsightly emptiness inside of him, and then he’ll be as good as gold.

Jesper, however, does not intend to do any of this at all. What good are the odds if he doesn’t have his girl? He’s stepped inside the Crow Club over the past couple of days. The rattle of Makker’s Wheel doesn’t have that same fervor, the excitement doesn’t spread over him in the same delicious rush. Simply put, it isn’t worth it. It isn’t a gamble worth his time, and Jesper’s lost mightier fortunes over lesser odds.

So Jesper shakes his head. “Not her. Not like this.” Kaz tilts his head just slightly, eyes calculating, looking for loopholes to exploit. “So you’d willingly break the rules?” Jesper leans forward. “We’re Dregs, Kaz. It’s what we do.” Kaz returns his level gaze. “Not like this. Tell me, what is it that makes Y/N L/N worth this much to you? You were enemies before, were you not? Is it the power? The chance that she may be like you?”

Jesper lifts a shoulder. “It’s not always about finding the best possible advantage, Kaz. We work well together. It was only a matter of time before it was more.” Kaz Brekker might understand. Dirtyhands does not. “Your goal was not to find some pretty girlfriend in the Barrel, Jesper, it was to complete the mission and move on. I knew from the second you held her bleeding body in your arms that this wouldn’t be worth my time or my energy.”

Jesper doesn’t realize he’s standing until he is. “Then say it. I’ve spent my time playing your games, Kaz, and Saints know I’ll keep on turning your tables, but not on this. We all break the wheel at some point. I’m willing to do it for her.” Kaz is silent for a time, a time that seems to stretch on into such an eternity that Jesper finds himself tapping his revolvers again, feeling that same itch for a fight. It’s well and good to go into a battle of the bullets and feel the adrenaline kick in, he could handle that. This, however? Waiting for Kaz to do something, anything? You can’t fight that, only wait for it to end. And Jesper’s never been particularly good at waiting.

At last, Kaz speaks. “Then stay with her.” Jesper almost thinks that he’s started hallucinating. “What?” Kaz inclines his head. “She’s good for you. You’ve been more focused.” Jesper stares for a second, then shakes his head, fighting back the impossible urge to break into manic laughter. “Honestly, if it takes you considering the potential business opportunities to approve of us, I’m not about to challenge that.”

Something almost like a smile appears on Kaz’s face. Jesper is most certainly going insane. “I’m not completely heartless, Jesper. You’re a useful sharpshooter.” Jesper’s eyes widen. “That’s practically a compliment. Do you need me for a heist later? I can’t think of anything else to cause this.” Kaz tilts his head in acknowledgement of this surreal situation, pausing for a second as if listening to a voice that no one else can hear.

Then he gestures towards the door, allowing Jesper to leave. As Jesper walks towards the door, though, Kaz says something else. “Inej just left the roof.” Jesper nods in understanding. “Look at you. Dishing out the compliments for your Wraith to hear.” Kaz’s brow furrows, and Jesper decides to leave the office now before Kaz decides to take back his approval of Jesper and Y/N and hit him with his cane or something else overtly Kaz-like.

Despite his best efforts, Jesper is still teeming with anxious energy after the meeting, so he goes on a quick stroll around the crooked alleyways of the Barrel to calm the restless ticking of his hands and legs. When he comes back to the Slat, however, he notices that his door is slightly ajar. Jesper enters his room slowly, relaxing at the sound of voices.

The window is open, showing the faint drizzle of the streets outside. Y/N sits on the floor next to Inej as both girls consider a makeshift target of a few rags at the far end of the room. Inej tosses a knife up and down in her hand, then flings it towards the target. She hits it in the center, to no one’s surprise. Y/N’s eyes follow the path of the blade, and then she extends her hand towards the window, letting drops of rain fly towards her palm. She curls her fingers around the water, shaping it into a perfect replica of the knife Inej had just thrown, then directs it towards the target to slosh around Inej’s blade, another direct hit to the center.

Inej makes a scoffing sound. “That doesn’t count. You got to control the knife instead of just throwing it.” Y/N shrugs absentmindedly. “You got to pick a knife, I had to make mine myself. I think it evens out.” Inej glances up towards Jesper, smiling slightly. Somehow, it comes to no surprise that she’d known he was there all along. “Jesper, come tell your girlfriend that she’s cheating at target practice.”

Jesper shrugs. “As long as you hit the target I don’t think you can cheat. Also, I thought I locked this door.” Y/N grins up at him. “That’s the unbiased support I love to hear. And your door was locked, we just wanted to go in so we did.” Jesper nods. “That clears up everything.” Y/N laughs. “Good to know.” Inej stands up, stretching, and goes to retrieve her knife. She goes to climb through the window once more then pauses, turning to face them.

“I’m glad Kaz let you two stay together. I certainly did my arguing for you.” Jesper frowns. “How long have you known?” Inej sighs exasperatedly. “Practically since the start. You two are terrible at being secretive, you know that?” She doesn’t give them time to protest, just slips out the window and disappears into the roofline before you could even blink.

Y/N walks over to Jesper, a half smile on her face. “I suppose she’s right. We haven’t exactly been the most discreet, have we?” Jesper shrugs. “Maybe not. But we don’t have to hide anymore. We don’t have to leave.” Y/N smiles at him now, a true smile. “I like the sound of that.” Jesper hums thoughtfully, leaning down to kiss her. “So do I.”

guns blazing, tides rising masterlist: @kaqua​, @amortensie​

[littlekatleaf]

The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

Well wtf, it's a new fandom for me. Unexpected! I started watching D/imension20 RPGs and fell in love with F/abian Seacaster and G/arthy O'Brien from F/antasy H/igh and P/irates of L/eviathan. This takes place 20 years after the events of the games.

And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I’m dying Are the best I’ve ever had. ~ Tears for Fears, Mad World

It begins with nightmares - dark, heavy things Fabian doesn’t remember on waking. At least, not the first few nights. He’s left with nothing more than vague shadows and a lingering sense of unease. Everything seems wrong - his apartment simultaneously too big and claustrophobically small. He’s suffused with restlessness. He knows something’s coming, like a squall brewing just beyond the horizon. He might not be able to see the gathering clouds, but feels the barometric pressure plummeting.

At first he attempts to dance out of the way - to dodge and evade - but the dread wraps around him like his own battle sheet, tangling him tight. He tries to ignore the tension singing along his shoulders, the constant twist in his gut. It’s nothing, he tells himself, less than nothing. There’s no time for it to be something. Rumor has it the ship carrying one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw will reach the mouth of Leviathan in mere days. If he’s going to meet it, he needs to pull together a party. Barely enough time remains to cement plans once he knows the group’s strengths and weaknesses.

As he paces his living room, trying to outrun the apprehension, Fabian’s eye is caught by a piece of red string, like Riz always used in his conspiracy boards. In that instant he longs for them. The Bad Kids. No matter how many years passed since any of them were kids, it’s still at the heart of who they are. (Isn’t it?) They fit together in their roles. Like that movie Kristen made them all watch once - a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. The others had bickered good naturedly over roles that night - specifically who was the basket case. Kristen joked it was Gilear. Ragh said it was her. Fabian didn't need to argue because he knew the truth - Riz was the brain, Gorgug the athlete, Adaine the princess, Fig the criminal, Kristen the saint. Himself the basket case. Even in all the intervening years, he’s never found a group that connects as well as they had, before they all went their separate ways. Even if they hadn’t lost touch, none of the others adventure anymore. In their absence he needs to choose alternatives, like he always does, attempting to fill the holes they left behind - and failing.

He picks up his crystal, turning it over in his hands. The group chat is saved, they are all still members, but no one has used it in years. Maybe he’s wrong; maybe he needs to let them go.

He knows there’s no time for self-indulgence. But he still stalls, the trepidation casting a fog of doubt over every option. He cannot decide on even one person to trust. Perhaps this time he should go alone. He can defeat one single pirate himself. The rest - crew and spoils alike - is irrelevant. The Maelstrom’s Maw will likely bring in the boat and then he can attack. He rubs his forehead against a growing headache and puts the decision off again.

Two nights pass, with only the lightest veil of sleep and even that torn by disquiet. The intervening days feel equally foggy with a mix of exhaustion and dread. Fabian drags himself through the necessary tasks by his fingernails until he’s done everything he can without a crew. A crew on which he still has not managed to settle. In the midst of circling the problem for the five hundredth, or five thousandth, time his crystal flashes an alert. The ship’s been sighted just a few nautical miles off Harroway Bay and will reach Leviathan before dawn. He’s waited too long, he realizes. It will be a solo adventure, then. Nothing else for it.

Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that he’s made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadn’t considered that the pirate’s shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirate’s once before he hears heavy boots closing fast.

The pirate thrusts and he manages to parry, but only just. His body feels strange and disconnected, as though he’s a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly there’s a flash of light on another drawn sword and several more pirates surround him. At his best he can handle eight, maybe ten. He is not at his best, and light from the streetlamp falls on fifteen.

The pirate grins. “Yer goin’ down, boy.”

“Not a boy anymore.” At least he’ll die in battle, and if he’s very lucky he’ll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.

“That remains to be seen,” another says.

The battle is fierce. Swords clash, lunge and dodge, strike-parry-riposte, movements Fabian knows in his sleep, but something is wrong. His body won’t obey. His lungs ache and he can’t catch his breath. Sweat drips into his eye, burning. And then - an opening - the pirate attacking leaves his flank unguarded and Fabian darts in fast - too fast to pull back when he realizes it’s a feint.

I’m fucked, he has time to think, as the pirate whirls. A sharp blow cracks across his elbow, his fingers go numb and his sword falls, clattering to the cobblestone. One of the crew kicks the back of his knees and he stumbles forward and drops. He grabs for his sword, but just as his hand closes around it, the point of the pirate’s sword is at his throat. Should have known it would end this way. Alone. On Leviathan. Fitting for it to be here, tonight - on the anniversary. The way it should have ended if he hadn’t run like a coward, abandoning Alistair to Captain James. Fabian fumbles in his pocket for his crystal, wishing for just enough time to send a last message to the Bad Kids. “Do it,” he says from between gritted teeth.

The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. “Ain’t worth the world o’ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bim’s a right devil and yer marked as his. Can’t let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.”

A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls… and falls… and falls…

through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like he’s been swallowed whole and still he falls through freezing darkness until the ocean parts and he falls through fire and the flames crackle and whisper - What will you tell the Captain when you meet him in Hell? Have you written your name on the face of the world, Fabian? No, you have written nothing. Nothing to be remembered by. Even your friends have forgotten you. How does it feel to be a failure of a pirate and a failure of a friend? the whisper turns to choking smoke and

Fabian coughs himself awake, lungs aching like he’s been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where he’d fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His body’s not been hijacked. Not dropped here by imps. He blinks up at the sky for a long moment, struggling to orient himself. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even a sliver of moon. Fat drops of rain pelt down, edged with ice. He blinks the water from his eye and pushes himself to his feet. Once again he staggers through the streets of Leviathan, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. This time, however, there’s no Cathilda to wrap him in a blanket, no Hangvan to disappear into. No Kristen to slap sense back into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but the rain soaks his shirt and finds no warmth.

Those he passes take no notice of him, perhaps assuming he’s nothing more than another drunken pirate. Even so, he needs to find a place to lay low. Given enough time someone will roll him just to see if he has any coin. Or simply for the fun of it. He’s not even sure, at this moment, that he could defend himself against a single assailant. His head aches where the pirate hit him and his throat is unaccountably raw. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he sneezes. Once, twice, thrice, smothered in the sleeve of his shirt. He always sneezes in threes. Riz teased him mercilessly about it.

“If you’d just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, you’d be done in one, Fabiahn,” Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.

“It’s called being polite, The Ball,” he’d reply. “And what do you know about normal?”

“About as much as you.”

They’d laugh together and Fabian’s embarrassment would ease. He would give anything for Riz to be laughing with him now.

Suddenly a door slams open and a wash of warm yellow light spills over the ground in front of him. He glances up. Maybe Kristen sent Cassandra to watch over him, because his meandering path has brought him to the Gold Gardens. The exiting patron brushes past with a muttered curse, but Fabian barely notices. As the doors swing shut, Bob’s voice slips through, full of dream and promise. Fabian checks his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief at the comforting feel of coin.

He stands straighter, raises his chin, allowing the light to fall on his face, scars and eyepatch and all, as the Goliath guard regards him suspiciously. Though it has been some time since he’s been on Leviathan and longer since he’s sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation he’s built in the intervening years yet holds. “Good evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,” he says. “I have payment.”

The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. It’s likely that she’s seen worse. “Ah, Master Seacaster. Garthy O’Brien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.”

Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bob’s voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but can’t stop the inevitable. He’s barely inside before he’s sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!” He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.

“Blessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?” Garthy touches his shoulder gently and before he can stop himself, Fabian flinches away. His skin feels too tight, even the light pressure too much sensation. They take a step back, one hand raised in a calming gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Garthy,” Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. He’s not sure he pulls it off, because a small frown of concern still lingers between their brows. Somehow the expression does nothing to mar their beauty; the proprietor of the Gold Gardens is exquisite as always, the few silver threads in their black dreads the only indicator of years passing. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.” His mouth quirks. “Might there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?”

Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. It’ll only make them more suspicious. He concentrates on keeping his expression vaguely flirtatious, his stance loose and easy. At last Garthy gives the smallest nod, allowing him his ruse. “I have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.” They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.

Bob’s voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The Bad Kids always stayed in a room just off the main parlor, right in the midst of the action. Fig and Gorgug would take over for the house band and practically blow the roof off. Kristen would try to outdrink that biggest pirate she could find, and usually ended up drunk-best-friends with everyone. If Tracker had to pull her out of a fight or two, well, that just kept things interesting. Ragh and Fabian would drink too much mead and take too much snuff and Ragh would challenge the wrong people to wrestling matches and Fabian would beat the wrong people at dice and sometimes fists would be thrown. Good naturedly, of course. Adaine would watch them all over the spine of a book from the Compass Points and shake her head. Sometimes she had to heal one or another of them, but she never seemed to mind. Riz would disappear into the crowd for indeterminate amounts of time, only to suddenly appear at their table with a sharp-toothed grin and clues to whatever mystery they were trying to solve that he’d gleaned from overheard conversations. Fig and Kristen, especially, never wanted the nights to end. Sometime around dawn, though, Kristen and Tracker would peel off, followed by Fig and Ayda. The rest of them shared a room, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug, and Ragh all sprawled on a huge bed while Adaine tranced on a chaise nearby. Somehow Fabian slept better those nights than before or since, even though the room was never peaceful, or silent. Ragh and Gorgug snored. Adaine muttered to herself in her trance. Riz, when he slept, was restless, taking up more room than a three and a half foot tall goblin should. When he didn’t, his pen would scratch across his notebook for hours. None of it ever bothered Fabian.

A door creaks open, startling Fabian out of his thoughts. The room Garthy offers is a small and simply furnished space, just a bed, desk, and fireplace. Fabian crosses the room to a large window and looks out over the edge of the city to the black ocean beyond. It’s still raining, drops pattering against the pane. He should say something to Garthy. Thank them for the room, make a joke about another Leviathan brawl gone badly. He can’t find the words. Any words.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?” Garthy’s voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.

“No, thank you,” he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathilda’s voice in his head. I don’t deserve kippers. He didn’t. Doesn’t. Twenty men dead. Twenty innocent men. Worst of all, Alistair Ash. Still a child. Dead because he needed to prove that he was a true pirate, heir to his father’s fame. That he is worthy. Instead he left Alistair to the fate that should have been his. He rubs his hand over his eye as though he could rub away the ache. The failure.

Garthy whispers something Fabian doesn’t catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. “At least let me take your wet things,” they say. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized how cold he still feels, despite being out of the wind and rain, until Garthy points it out. He takes a breath to declare, again, that he’s fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. “H’ngxt! Fuck. H’Ntch! Ngxt!” He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. “Pardon me.” Before he can gather himself, he’s overtaken again. At least this time he has a handkerchief to mute the sound. The sneezes shiver through him hard enough to send drops of rain spattering from his hair.

“Bless you, darling.” Garthy draws him closer to the fire. With deft fingers they undress him, peeling sodden clothes from his body, then wrap him in a thick robe. He doesn’t resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like it’s happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. “Come, have a lay down. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

Fabian nods, even though he’s certain things will look just the same. He barely slides between the sheets when his eye drifts closed. He feels the bed dip slightly as Garthy sits beside him and, seeking warmth, he curls close. They smell spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and sandalwood and orange blossoms. Garthy curves a hand over his forehead. It’s strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthy’s hair, but instead he drifts out and out and…

floats in a strange grey emptiness. He can only identify his surroundings by absence. No color. No sound. No touch. He thinks he lifts his hands, or tries to lift his hands, or what should be his hands, but there’s nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. It’s like the Nightmare Forest, but worse because they defeated the Nightmare King. They defeated Kalina. Which means this must be real. This nought. Of course no one reaches out… you don’t exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.

“...safe…You’re all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.” Garthy’s voice coalesces from the cold, at first sounding sharp as ice breaking. But they know his name, beckon him back into form by shaping the word. “Come on, darling. You’re dreaming.”

“Should’ve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you don’t have a body,” he mumbles, and even though he has vocal cords again, he sounds nothing like himself. He clears his throat, sniffs.

Garthy laughs, low and kind. “Let me help you feel better, here in your body.” They cup his cheek gently, then urge him up and through a door to a bathing chamber.

A large bathtub stands in the center of the room, steam rising in soft curls. It is surrounded with dozens of candles and in their light Garthy glows, irises and tattoos molten gold. Fabian reaches for them, hesitantly. As if touching them might dim their shine. They smile tenderly, allowing him to trace the Zajiri script, the flowers and leaves with one tentative finger. He wonders what the writing might mean. Their skin is soft under Fabian’s own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until he’s finally warm. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. “I’m not w…” he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. “Ht’ngxt! Heh...ihh… Nxgt! H’tchh!”

“Not well?” Garthy suggests, steadying him. “Blessings.”

Heat rises in Fabian’s cheeks and he coughs a laugh. “That either. But no.” He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. “Not worth this.”

Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. “Oh, lovey, of course you are.” They press one finger to Fabian’s lips before he can continue arguing. “Shh. It’s all right.” They take Fabian’s elbow, guiding him into the bath.

Fabian sinks into the heat with a deep sigh as his muscles begin to relax. He slides down, submerging himself completely in warm darkness. The water closes over his face; he rests his head on the bottom of the tub, and the only thing he hears is the thump of his own heart in his ears, still beating, beating, beating. At last his breath runs out and he surfaces with a gasp.

Gathy’s pulled a stool up beside the bath and as Fabian wipes water out of his eye, they wet a cloth and begin to wash his back, humming quietly. The soap smells of eucalyptus and peppermint, cool and clean. Fabian shivers once, and only slowly eases into the touch, closing his eye as Garthy washes his hair, gently working his fingers over his scalp. A memory rises, unbidden - himself, in the bath, he can’t be more than five and he’s sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though it’s not even dark outside and he’s sick and scared. But then Cathilda’s there, as she always is, and she’s cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.

“What’s distressing you, love?” Garthy asks.

It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. “It’s been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldn’t it have faded?” He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I still see them, you know. My father’s warlocks.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.

Garthy hums a listening noise.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crow’s Keep - we’d gone there together, my papa and I. When I was little. It was the one time Mama got angry at him, for bringing me to Leviathan, when he wasn’t supposed to be interacting with pirates. But he’d taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said he’d bring me to the top of the world, that we could touch the clouds. If I was lucky, I might even bring some home in my pockets…

“He gave me cotton candy, told me it was one he’d harvested himself. I’d never imagined clouds tasted so sweet…” he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.

“I thought, maybe… somehow… if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.” Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. “Of course, Papa wasn’t listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.

“When the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what I’d done… and it wasn’t enough. I killed him and it wasn’t enough.” He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. “I thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for… everything.” He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He can’t get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclaw’s tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.

“It went so fast. So fast. If I didn’t run… if I didn’t… he would have killed me… with the others. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him… and I didn’t die, but he did. Because I fucked up.” Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.

“I thought the guilt would fade,” he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. “I thought the good I’ve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasn’t. It doesn’t. And they’re gone… I thought killing the last of Whitclaw’s men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.”

The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. “Am I forgivable?”

“Oh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.” They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. “Yes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your father’s footsteps; you found your own way. You have made a good man of yourself. You help those who are in need. You do not take advantage of anyone. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. Tales of your deeds are not spoken of as widely as Captain Bill Seacaster, but I have heard them nonetheless. Be proud of who you have become, Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And you should know that Alistair Ash lives again.”

A warm breeze whirls through the room and the candles suddenly go out. It’s as though the light has been transmuted into a seed of hope in Fabian, gold as the irises of Garthy’s eyes. Back in bed, Fabian curls into Garthy and they wrap their arms around him, holding tight until his trembling passes.

[chloelucia13]

Chapter 1: A Sweet Rain

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female!reader

Prompt: Your best friend is getting married, but it seems that you’re the one  who got lucky. 

Warnings: mostly fluff, language, a little angst, it’s pretty chill

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: So this is going to be the first part of a multi-part series! Enjoy this fluff, because this'll probably be all you’re gonna get out of this series! Anyways, buckle up and I hope you all enjoy! As always, my tag lists and requests are open!

Songs mentioned: “First Day of my Life” by Bright Eyes, “Samson” by Regina Spektor

Tags: @sojournmichael​

“Hey Pen, what’s up?” you hummed into your phone, fishing for your keys in your purse.

“Okay, I have big news,” she squealed, and you nearly had to pull the phone from your ear due to the pitch. “Like, really big news. News so big you couldn’t even imagine-”

“Out with it, Penny!” You chuckled before finally finding your keys, unlocking your car door.

“Okay, okay... JJ and Will are getting married!”

“Oh my god!” Your pitch now replicated hers, and your hands started to shake as you sat down in the driver’s seat of your car. “I have to call and congratulate them!”

“NO!”

You jumped at her sudden shout, furrowing your brow in confusion. “Why not?”

“So the thing is... We’re kinda throwing a surprise wedding for them at Rossi’s.”

“What?”

“Okay, so...”

She rattled off the details of exactly what was happening, about how Will was in a near-death situation and how he proposed to her in his hospital room, and how Rossi overheard their plans to just go to the courthouse and decided that he wanted them to have a proper ceremony.

“So, are you coming?” she basically begged after taking a deep breath, winded after her rushed summation of the events that had taken place.

“Of course I’m coming! I’ll help you guys get ready and everything! Just tell me when and where!”

“Okay, so it’s gonna be at Rossi’s mansion tomorrow-”

“Wait, tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she dragged out. “Sorry it’s short notice. It’s kinda short notice for everyone.”

You let out a silent sigh, licking your lips. “You’re all lucky that it’s my day off.”

***

You were clad in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt when you pulled up to the towering mansion that you were only slightly envious of. With your dress and makeup bag in the back of your car, you locked your doors before following the stone trail that led to the front door of Rossi’s house.

You barely knocked once when the door swung open, revealing an excited and frazzled Penelope. “Thank god, you’re here,” she sighed, grabbing your arm and yanking you into the door.

“What’s wrong, Pen?” you questioned, trying to keep up with her fast pace that was honestly alarming considering the 5-inch stilettos she was donning.

“Everything! The only other girl here is Emily and she does not have a clue on how to color coordinate! And the caterers said the food might not be ready in time and JJ’s mom might be late and-” 

“Penelope, take a deep breath! Everything’s gonna be just fine. Let’s see what you have so far.”

She nodded, taking a few deep breaths before guiding you over to the pair of French doors that led out to the backyard.

So far, all of the chairs had been set out for the ceremony and the wedding arch and already been placed, but sat bare. Table for the reception were out, but they were lacking decorations as well. The only thing that seemed fully completed was the dance floor, which had a mat of hardwood laid out on the grass with a sound system at the head of it.

“Okay, you’ve all got a good head start. It’s only noon, and they’re not supposed to be here until 6. We still have time,” you consoled, giving her a comforting smile. 

“Ah, is this the girl we’ve been waiting for?” a voice questioned behind you, and you and Penelope turned around to see three men walking in your direction. 

“It is!” Penelope replied, beaming and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Boys, this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, the head psychologist at St. Elizabeth Hospital in DC.” Penelope then shifted over to the boys’ side, standing next to the man you knew as David Rossi. “You already know this guy.”

“Of course, how could I ever forget,” you hummed, reaching out to shake his hand.

She then stepped next to a taller man with dark skin and strong eyebrows. “This here is Derek Morgan.”

You shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

She finally stood by the last, and the tallest, man in the group. “And this is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

You smiled at him, and he did the same in return. “I remember her saying you don’t do handshakes. It’s nice to meet you.”

“So now we’ve got two doctors to deal with?” Rossi playfully sighed, patting your shoulder.

“Seems like it,” you hummed, grinning at Spencer before turning to Rossi. “Though I doubt I’m half as intelligent as Dr. Reid right here. I’ve heard rumors of an IQ of 187?”

Spencer shrugged, a blush flooding his face. “I-I uh, I mean... Yes.”

“And that IQ immediately decreases threefold whenever he sees a pretty girl,” a voice behind you teased, and you turned to see Emily walking over to the group, a bright smile on her face.

“Is that so.” You beamed back at her, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. 

“Alright chatter-bugs, we’ve got a wedding to set up!” Penelope announced. “Hotch is gonna be here late, so we’re down a person for a while.” She grabbed your arm and began tugging you off. “I need you to help with flower stuff.”

You rolled your eyes and waved goodbye to the group before letting her tug you inside. Once you two were in one of the many living rooms, she turned to you with a big grin on her face. “What?”

“So?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, shaking your head slightly. “So what?”

She huffed, rolling her eyes as if it was obvious. “So, what do you think of the doctor?!” 

“Oh my god,” you grumbled, running a hand through your hair. “Penelope, I am not gonna date your coworker, no matter how cute he is.”

“So you think he’s cute!”

“Penelope!” You let out a breath. “Pen, you know I’m not good with relationships, especially with my job, I barely have time to do anything.”

“Neither does he! It’ll be perfect!” She pushed out her lower lip, clasping her hands together in a praying gesture. “Please, at least think about it!”

Another sigh left your lips. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

She squealed. “Yay!”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m for sure gonna date him!”

She smiled knowingly, nodding once. “Whatever you say.”

***

You were lucky that the florist you contacted had the flowers you needed in supply, and even luckier that they were able to have them all ready within the hour.

You were busy attempting to arrange the flowers and fake vines on the arch when you felt a presence to your right, watching from your peripheral as they gathered a handful of baby’s breath and began sticking them in the spots you needed filled.

“Thanks,” you hummed. “I was about to grab a step ladder for that, but you seem to have that under control.”

“It’s a gift and a curse,” Spencer joked, giving you a shy smile before turning back to his task.

You chuckled before grabbing a roll of sheer ribbon and holding it out to him. “Mind using your gift to tie that ribbon at the top of the arch? I can’t reach.”

He nodded, gingerly taking the ribbon from your hands and extending a length out to tie it to the top of the arch. You then took the roll from his hands and created a draping effect before snipping the length off from the roll and tying it to the side of the arch. 

As you moved to the right side of the arch to mirror the draping that you had just done, Spencer’s eyes followed your movements, his breath caught in his lungs and his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” he voiced, snapping out of his trance.

You smirked, handing him the roll. He grinned shyly back at you before mirroring the work he did on the other side. “I asked you where you’re from,” you explained as you took the roll back from him.

“Oh, uh, I’m from Las Vegas,” he rushed out, already feeling a burning in his cheeks.

“Really? What a coincidence. I’m from Reno, but I worked in Vegas while I was getting my masters.”

“Where’d you work?”

“The mental hospital there.” You shook your head, letting out a sigh. “God I worked there for like a year but I can’t remember the name for the life of me. Harrington, something like that-”

“Bennington?”

“Yes, that’s the one!” You turned to give him a smile, only to see a haunted look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, pursing his lips and casting his gaze to the ground. “I-it’s nothing.”

“Spencer.” You took a step forward before tentatively reaching your arm out, weighing the possibilities for a moment before placing your hand on his shoulder. “I know I’m not a profiler, but I can still read people. And I also know that we aren’t close, but you should know that you can trust me.”

He nodded, puffing a breath out through his nose. “I... Someone close to me is... Is one of the residents there.”

Your mind pondered for a moment, dots connecting right in front of your eyes. “Diana Reid.”

He tensed at the name, unconsciously giving himself away.

“She was one of my favorites.” You watched as his eyes lifted from the ground and flickered over your face, trying to decide if you were being honest. “God, she was so intelligent and kind and hilarious as all hell.”

He let out a small chuckle, relaxing slightly. “Yeah?”

“Oh absolutely. She’d crack me up all the time, my sides would hurt from laughing by the time my shift ended. And when she wasn't making me laugh, she’d tell me about her favorite author, read me some of her favorite passages.” A smile imprinted on your face. “Or she would read me letters that she got. Everyday she had a new letter, and her face would light right up when I handed it to her.”

Tears began to well in his eyes, and you moved your hand down to his bicep, locking gazes with him.

“She talked about you everyday. About her genius FBI agent of a son. She was so proud. And I could tell that you cared about her so much. Enough to get her the help she needed. Enough to risk your relationship with her to keep her safe.”

Spencer blinked back his tears and reached up to grab your hand, and for a moment you worried that you had crossed a line.

But that worry immediately faded away when he held your hand, squeezing it gently before giving you a kind smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

You just nodded, letting the moment linger for as long as possible.

“Hey guys, how’s the arch coming alo-” Penelope began as she walked over to you two, her face buried in her tablet. She froze the moment she looked up, seeing the strange and vulnerable scene in front of her.

“Yeah, yeah, It’s good. I’m uh, I’m gonna go get some water,” Spencer rushed out, giving you both tight lipped smiled before hurrying off.

Penelope gave you a look as she stepped over to you. “What was that?”

“I know his mom,” you stated incredulously, the shock still lingering in your system. 

“Wait, what?”

“She, she was one of the residents at the mental hospital I used to work at.”

“So you guys are like on a third date basis with info about each other?”

“Penelope!” You sighed, rubbing your eyes. “I think that was the deepest conversation I’ve ever had with a stranger.”

“And I bet he can go a lot deeper-”

Your face grew a bright red and you smacked her shoulder. “Stop it!”

***

Your feet were aching by the time you had finished decorating the backyard, immediately falling into a chair with a heavy sigh the moment you placed the last centerpiece on the tables. 

“Y/N I think you may be an actual saint,” Penelope breathed out. “Thank you so much for helping. I don’t think I could’ve gotten this done by myself.”

“I’m always down to help,” you replied, giving her a tired smile. “I should probably start getting ready though. The party’s gonna start soon.”

“I’ll come with you. My stuff is all in my car. We can use one of Rossi’s many bathrooms.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

The two of you gathered your makeup and clothes for tonight before heading into the first bathroom to the right on the second floor of the mansion. That room immediately filled with giggles as you two got ready, helping each other with hair and makeup.

It was almost time for the party to start when you two were ready, zipping your dresses up and slipping on your heels when there was a knock at the door.

“Are you two gonna give us a reveal anytime soon or do we have to beg for it?” Derek’s voice sounded from the other side of the door, his grin evident in his words.

“We?” Penelope questioned, smirking herself.

“Well you know there’s gotta be an audience whenever there’s two beautiful women. Now are we gonna get a show?”

You rolled your eyes, letting out a chuckle as Penelope stepped over to the door. “You ready?” she questioned.

You shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sighed in response before gesturing for her to open the door.

She pulled the door open a moment later, stepping out first and you stepping out behind her.

Emily let out a low whistle, motioning for you two to turn. You scoffed but obliged, waddling around in a circle before giving everyone a sheepish smile. Emily and Derek bombarded the two of you with compliments, boosting your confidence through the roof and making your cheeks burn bright.

Eventually, Emily and Derek and Penelope split off into their own group, chatting amongst themselves. That was when you noticed a timid body tucked away to the side, someone who had been there the whole time but had stayed silent.

“Hey,” you greeted, smiling up at him.

“Hi,” Spencer hummed in return, a shy smile on his own face.

From behind you, you could hear the group change their conversation from whatever mundane topic they were on previously to the topic of you and Spencer. The words seemed to blend together but you could pick up a few things. 

“What did I say, that IQ is gone,” Emily joked.

“Pretty boy’s got a pretty girl now,” Derek added, all of them giggling.

“You um... You look beautiful,” Spencer told you, blatantly ignoring the group’s playful comments.

“Thanks. You clean up well yourself,” you said, reaching up and straightening his bow tie for him. “I dig the bow tie.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. It’s very Eleven-esque.”

He smirked at that. “You watch Doctor Who?”

You shrugged. “Yeah, whenever I get the time. I’m not as big of a fanatic as Miss Penelope Garcia, but I certainly enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can watch the new season together sometime?”

You nodded, beaming. “It’s a date.”

You were so wrapped up in your conversation with Spencer that you failed to notice the peanut gallery wander off, evidently bored by the change of conversation. 

However, you didn’t fail to notice the blush deepening on Spencer’s cheeks from your words, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a nervous habit that (you hated to admit) had an effect on you.

“We- uh, we should probably head outside. I bet the party is starting soon,” he stuttered out, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

You nodded with a frown, glancing over at the bathroom. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I’m gonna clean up the bathroom and throw my stuff in my car, then I’ll meet you out there.”

A strange emotion, almost reminiscent of disappointment, crossed over his face for a moment before he nodded. “Alright. See you out there.” He gave you a small smile before stepping past you, leaving a lingering touch on your bare shoulder before retreating downstairs.

***

Luckily, the wedding ceremony had gone off without a hitch, every moment was perfect and extremely emotional.

Tears stains still lingered on your cheeks when dinner was over, and JJ handed you a tissue when she stepped over to you. “I’ve got a whole supply of them, my mom gave ‘em to me when I was breaking down up there,” she whispered to you, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Thanks, JJ,” you breathed, hugging her back just as tight. “I’m so happy for you two.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty happy too.” The two of you giggled, and she pulled away from the hug to give you a smile before looking around. “And I’ve noticed that a special someone is pretty happy to see you, too.”

You followed her line of sight, playfully rolling your eyes when you saw Spencer playing with Henry. “God, who put you up to this?” 

She scoffed, turning back to you. “Hey, I may not be a profiler, but I know a connection when I see one.” She reached out, taking your hand in his. “You should really give him a chance. You two would be amazing together, and you both deserve some happiness in your lives.”

A sigh left your lips, but you nodded. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

JJ squeezed your hand before rising to her feet and looking around for Will. “Well, we should probably do the first dance before Penelope loses her mind.”

You grinned at her. “Have fun, girly. Love you.”

“Love you too. And thank you for all this. It means so much to me.”

“Of course. Anything for you. Now go dance!” You shooed her off with a laugh, watching as everyone turned their attention to the bride and groom making their way over to the dance floor.

The music started playing, and everything moved in slow motion as JJ and Will danced together, both of them beaming with pure love in their eyes. People eventually moved to join them, everyone swaying together on the dance floor.

You had sat at the table for a while, watching everyone make idle chat and have fun on the dance floor. This feeling of warmth and comfort was one that was foreign to you, and you wanted to bask in it for as long as possible. 

“All alone?”

You looked up to see Spencer standing in front of you, a shy smile on his lips. 

You nodded, returning his smile. “I guess so. Dancing really isn’t my thing.”

He pulled a chair up next to you, sitting down and watching the crowd with you. “Yeah, me either.”

“Really? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe I saw you dancing with Emily. And Penelope. And JJ. And JJ’s mom.” He scoffed, and you let out a laugh, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Maybe you’re just a ladies man.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“I mean that sounds like some player behavior if you ask me.”

You both shared a laugh, wide smiles stretching across both of your lips. That laughter soon faded into a comfortable silence, the two of you returning your gazes back to the dance floor.

“I mean, there’s one girl I haven’t danced with,” Spencer spoke up, bringing your attention back to him.

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? And who would that be?”

Your eyes followed his form as he stood from his seat and walked around you, stopping when he stood right in front of you. “I believe that would be you.” He extended his hand out to you.

A small chuckle left your lips, gently placing your hand in his and pushing yourself to your feet. “You’re getting confident, doctor.”

At your words, his demeanor began to slip, a light blush blooming across his cheeks, glowing under the string lights. “Oh-I-”

“Spencer.” You squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough around me to be forward.”

He let out the breath he was holding, squeezing your hand in return before leading you over to the dance floor. You couldn’t help but notice the subtle glance Spencer shared with the DJ once you two stood on the hardwood mat.

The song changed, now playing a slow song you were all-too familiar with. “I didn’t peg you as a guy who listened to Bright Eyes.”

He shrugged. “I’m not. But I had Penelope look into your purchases to see what CDs you’ve bought.”

You feigned offense, gasping and shoving his shoulder. “You two were conspiring!”

He let out a laugh, beaming at you as he placed one hand on your waist. “Well we better get to dancing before this song is over. It’s only 3 minutes and 9 seconds long.”

You rolled your eyes but obliged, placing your free hand on his shoulder and stepped close to him, squeezing his hand once before you two began to sway, eyes locked in each other’s gaze.

“I’m, uh...” You sighed, pursing your lips. “I’m really sorry about bringing all that stuff up with your mom,” you whispered.

“It’s okay,” he whispered in response.

You furrowed your brow in frustration. “But I made you upset, I didn’t mean to do that. I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t upset me.” He let out a breath. “Honestly, it’s really nice being able to talk to someone who knew who she is. Who she really is. Not her illness, her.”

You nodded, searching his eyes. “I’m glad that you trust that I know who she really is.”

“I don’t need to trust you. You told me exactly who she is. She’s a kind, intelligent woman.”

A smile settled on your face. “With a kind and intelligent son.”

He returned your smile, his hand winding around your waist and pulling you against his chest as the song changed. 

You chuckled, searching his eyes. “God, did you guys just decide to play all the music I like.”

He paused to listen to the song. “No, I don’t recognize this song. Maybe Penelope chose it.”

“Of course she did.”

You listened to the lyrics, humming along to the melody as your eyes traced over his features.

Your hair was long when we first met. Of course.

Slowly, as the two of you swayed, you laid your head on his chest, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Peace.

[jengajives]

Look I have so many feelings abt Finrod’s death so I decided to rewrite it

Warning does be having blood, gore, and deaths but like that’s how it be. Stay safe folks

(Again pardon my shitty Elvish thx)

The waves pounded against the ice inside his skull, thrashing him with frigid whitewater, trying to tear away what little grip he had. Trying to drag him into the depths of the polar sea.

And he wanted to go. Wanted to sink away and be at peace in the depths with all those of his people who had been lost. But he did not deserve such an end.

Because he saw the blood on the limestone wharfs of Aqualondë and on his spear tip, and on the faces of the mariners he had murdered for their life’s work. He saw the bitter rocky coast and the distant horizon blood red with flame. He heard the Doom of Mandos echo in his head.

And he saw Barahir lying dead in a stinking, festering pool of blood and slime.

“Felagund!”

The voice shook him to awareness; the soft, gentle voice that achingly familiar to him. Kindness unspoiled by a lifetime of hardship, piercing him through to the core.

“Felagund, please!”

Finrod tried to raise a hand and rub his eyes, but there was only a rattle of chain and his movement stopped fast. It was then he realized the darkness was not that of temporary blindness, but of the ultimate and complete lack of light, somewhere deep beneath the earth. He coughed lightly and realized his throat was raw and spasmed when he tried to speak.

“I’m here, Beren.”

“You wouldn’t answer!” Beren was sobbing, somewhere to his left. “You wouldn’t move. I thought he’d- I thought he’d killed you!”

“No,” Finrod creaked. “I’m alright. Not too hurt at all...”

That wasn’t entirely true. There was a horrible ache all the way from his lips down to the depths of his diaphragm, and his mind felt sapped and paper-thin. He couldn’t remember why it hurt so much. Couldn’t remember why all he saw when he closed his eyes was blood.

“Where are we?” Finrod asked quietly. He got the feeling he should know the place, but in the dark he couldn’t possibly.

Beren sniffled. There was a strength to his voice, as always, but the despair set it on edge. “In the dungeons, I suppose. They dragged us down so many stairs...”

And Finrod promptly remembered Sauron.

He remembered his voice wavering as his power splintered. He remembered falling to the ground at the foot of that creature’s throne, and sobbing.

He remembered anguish after that, and nothing more.

Next to him, not so far away in the dark, Beren had started to weep.

“I’m never going to see her again. I’ve led you all to your deaths...”

The tiniest flicker of power waxed in Finrod’s heart.

“No, Beren. You will not die here in this darkness. You will not end hopeless and alone. Take strength; it is not over.”

And the words, for the moment, gave him the illusion of certainty that he couldn’t truly feel.

“The Elf, this golden-haired one, intrigues me.”

When Sauron spoke, Draugluin listened, as he was commanded, but rarely did he speak. Now he just growled lightly and pinned his ears, sitting huge and obedient at his master’s side.

“Surely he is one of the Exiles’ princes,” Sauron mused on, uninterrupted. “His power was great. But his face is strange to me. I don’t know him, Draugluin. It is essential that I know him.”

At last the Wolf spoke in answer, his voice a hideous snarl.

“And how would you have me discover this, master?”

Sauron settled back on his throne and smiled.

“Break him.”

Those valiant ten who had set off with them from Nargothrond screamed very little when the wolves came for them. Finrod could pretend, then, and hope beyond hope, that their deaths had been painless.

He could pray they had not suffered.

It happened one by one. In the endless black of the dungeon, there would be a glint of green eyes somewhere afar off in the shadow, and when less voice would answer when Finrod called out.

Beren was closest to him, and the Man suffered. The Eldar could withstand long darkness and captivity without thought of food or hope, but Beren was not so lucky. It wore him down. Finrod heard the weakness and despair grow in his voice every day, and when the hours seemed longest and darkest, he would speak of Lúthien Tinúviel and weep.

He asked once for Finrod to tell him about Valinor, in the utter throes of hopelessness, and Finrod had not been able to do it.

His power was shattered and the memory Valinor held only devastation for him in that shadow place.

Even in this most simple of things, he failed.

The hour at last came when the twelve who sat chained in the darkness had become two. Finrod and Beren alone remained.

It was only a matter of time before Felagund had to hear Barahir’s son die.

Only a matter of time before the son of Finarfin gave everything he had to keep this mortal Man safe.

He heard the claws clicking against the cold stone floor. He smelled the reek of blood and death, and at last, he saw the twin pinpricks of two cruel green eyes flashing to his left.

Beren whispered from beside him.

“I’m sorry I brought you to this.”

Finrod closed his eyes tighter and tighter until he saw the glow of the Golden and Silver Trees blazing in the heart of Valmar, and heard the horns of Oromë shake the earth, and Manwë’s eagles wheel beneath the stars, and he saw Nargothrond in all its strength and glory, and Barahir standing in the meadows of Dorthonion with laughter in his eyes.

The shackles burst, and when he again opened his eyes, he could see the face of the wolf illuminated by a grim white light.

Finrod threw himself upon the creature with the roar of the Valar in his throat.

The fur was thick and spiny. The claws sharp, and the teeth long. It was bigger than Finrod was. It was stronger.

But he dug his fingernails into the hide and locked his jaw upon its throat, and did not move as it howled and tore into him. The pain was dull. The rips it opened in his body easily ignored. He held on with the beast’s foul black blood filling his mouth, and his nails sinking into fever-hot flesh, and the dizzying frenzy of power and desperation turning his thoughts to a fog.

When it shook him from its throat at last, he got his hands into the wound he’d torn in it and ripped it wider as the fangs sliced through his belly to try and spill his guts. He didn’t feel the agony that surely must have been shooting through him. He didn’t feel anything at all.

The wolf cried and snapped at his hands, but he only managed to pull harder. Tearing the living flesh open like fabric.

A spray of blood rained on him and at last he lay still beneath the motionless body of the beast.

For a moment it seemed he would slip away just then, ripped to bits, but he wouldn’t have it. He could last a few moments longer.

Finrod stood. His legs might not have been the same length anymore- he couldn’t tell- but he managed to stumble to Beren in the dark, managed to find the chains in blood-slick fingers.

With the last of his strength, he pulled until the links burst open and snapped apart, and Beren was free.

Then Finrod put his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting against it, and listening to the strange gurgle in his throat grow quieter and weaker.

“Finrod!”

Beren sounded absolutely frantic. His hands fumbled in the dark, trying to check the wounds, trying to dress them- trying to do anything. Finrod sat gently batting his hands away until at last he managed to speak through the damage.

“Beren. Leave it. It’s over.”

“Finrod, no, n-no, you can’t-“

“You’re safe now.”

A horrific jolt of panic burst through him as he realized in the dark he’d never see Beren‘s face again and he struggled to push it aside. His voice faltered.

“I... I did everything I could for you, iôn.“ He tried to raise a hand and touch those familiar features, trace them into his mind’s eye, but he didn’t have the strength. “I’m only sorry I could not do more.”

“Don’t!” Beren’s breath caught. Suddenly he was sobbing, gripping Finrod’s hand and raising it to his cheek as if he thought he could stay him by will alone. “Adar, don’t go. Please!”

Finrod tried to say something but a cough interrupted, sending waves of agony through his spasming body, filling his mouth with blood. By the time he cleared it he could already feel himself fading.

“Beren,” he said, gripping the boy’s hands in his own. “Your father would be so proud of you. I will not see you again, but I... I shall never forget you.” His lungs wouldn’t work. No air came to him.

“Farewell,” he whispered on his last breath, and his eyes closed on Middle-Earth forever.

[droidrights]

For your writing prompt... A scene from always red or stay the black but in Cals POV?

 Ask and you shall receive! Thanks so much for the prompt, Anon! This was fun!

Sometimes Pink

This here is the scene at the end of Chapter 9 of Always Red where Cal first wakes up after the escape from Nur.

 2nd person/ present tense like the rest of Always Red except Cal is “you”. 

Inquisitor Cal Kestis x Jedi Reader

Words: 1918 

Warnings: Description of Injury and near death  

“Now you'll be what I make you.” Her voice rings in your head. Somehow over the roar of the flames, over the howling sea wind and even over the crash of thunder, you hear her claim you in a whisper.

Laid flat on your back, soaked through to your bones, you blink the raindrops from your eyes and through bleary vision you dare to take in the sight of her. Writhed in the towering flames that engulf the Fortress Inquisitorius she stands over you in victory; small strings of blue electricity blink between her flexing fingers. The memory of those fingers pressed on the side of your face, even to deliver a brain rattling Force blast, becomes something you find yourself clinging to. Those hands, you've thought, the things those hands could do.

It's the last thing you recall before things go black.

Fuzzy and indistinct, you imagine the brush of those deadly fingers over your forehead. Most certainly imagined, in a moment burst with brightness shining behind your eyelids. Blazing and uncomfortable before the comfort of the black seeps back in.

You've always hoped that when you died your spirit would scatter, made to rejoin the living Force. There would be a loss of consciousness surely, a kind of oblivion. Force users are taught to believe they live on through connectivity to the Force and they do but...not as they were. You consider that this could be death. The Black, this endless float peppered with visions of this and that. Her. Could be worse.

Later you are slowly stirred to consciousness by the astringent scent of bacta gel stinging your nostrils, and more gentle touching though less imagined this time. When your eyelids become unstuck you spy a world much different from the one you had been imagining.

In a heartbeat the comfort of the black is banished. The place that allowed you to drift carelessly and linger on your memories of thunder and lightning evaporate in an instant, replaced with an air of the urgency to live. In the here and now you are a prisoner, confirmed bu the metallic clank of durasteel cuffs at their limit. Blazing overhead lights are blinding and your instincts are the only thing you have, aside from an intense throbbing ache on the right side of your head. You have survived many times before by allowing your instincts to take control and so your rational mind takes a backseat to an animal impulse toward survival by any means necessary.

There is a muffled crack as you fold your thumb inward, making one hand more amenable to slipping its restraint. It hurts, of course it hurts but you tell yourself it doesn't.

A startled medic bounces from his seat at witnessing his patient wake so suddenly and commit violence on himself. With one free hand, you bolt upright and the twi'lek gingerly, mistakenly presses his hands on your shoulders. No touching.

“Be calm, you mustn't aggriva-!” the twi'lek's words are cut short when you raise your open fist. His breathing become raspy and short as you draw your fingers closer and closer together.

The decision to attack had been simple for you. It always is. What you hadn't known is that you had been asleep for the past four days in recovery from grievous wounds. Against his better judgment, Byt Ilan agreed to treat your injuries as best he could, despite the fact that he witnessed your role in the battle that had lead all of you to this point. Despite the fact that you had been an active member in the institution that tortured and imprisoned him, because he is good. Truly good.

Byt claws at his throat uselessly as you get to your feet. To you there is nothing, no one, other than this obstacle before you. The only sound that matters is the hiss and wheeze that escapes this twi'lek's lips.

It's not even that much pressure, honestly. To think that most living things have a soft little spot for you to squeeze and wrench the life from. It is both dazzling and intoxicating to exercise this power. Your vision tunnels and you move with the intent and purpose of a predator that has not been unconscious for days but waiting. Your trembling fingers, broken thumb included, curls into a tight fist as you move to cross the room.

In your battle fervor, you fail to release the restraint fastened to your other wrist. Your fervent pursuit of the medic causes the heavy metal gurney to overturn. Your balance is thrown immediately and the thing brings you back a ways. There is a loud and muted pop and you know right away that your arm has become dislocated from your shoulder. It's happened several times before, each instance more unpleasant than the last.

Byt's legs scramble in the air haplessly, far from the ground. He knows he's near finished when a darkness begins to creep in from the edges of his vision. Until he is suddenly dropped to the ground like a sack of grain.

Years of training within the Empire has given you the singularity of mind that allows you to pour your focus into your goals, and exactly nothing else, until they are achieved. Discomfort, pain, your very limbs are second only to your gain. In this moment nothing matters beyond dispatching the nearest jailer.

Byt uses the brief pause in your assault to scream for help, though the wracked sound produced by his broken throat is nothing like the alarm he had intended. When he cries out a second time it is for horror at watching you drag the overturned bed, dislocated arm and all, in his direction, renewing the fight.

Byt struggles to his feet in time to be hefted again into the air. When his back hits the opposite wall of the small cargo area the twi'lek loses a lungful of air he could not spare. Your pupils triple in size as victory grows nearer and your connection to the dark side spreads its wings inside you.

“Cal, no!” A voice cries out. Y/N arrives in a flurry and immediately places herself between you and your opponent. You don't see her. There is only you and Byt Ilan's final breaths.

“Cal, stop right now!” She roars again, this time with more menace.

You hear nothing, you see nothing. You are dead to the world but for the quiet symphony of blood vessels popping in the twi'lek's eyes. The hard thump of his heart against his ribs, so rapid and vital until the blessed moment of silence that will follow. Any second now.

A loud crack echoes off the walls of the hold and every nerve on your face lights up in a spark when she strikes you with the flat of her hand. You recognize the feel of that hand across your face instantly. A bright stinging throb blossoms across your cheek and the hard contact of skin on skin breaks the kill's hold over you. The things those hands can do.

Blindsided by the sensation, you loose your grip on the poor creature by unclenching your fingers. He hits the ground hard and his breath does not return immediately. The twi'lek's rosy pink cheeks and lips have turned gray

More and more of your surroundings come to light. Gathering crew and guests become shadows around this drama in the cargo hold. Someone rushes to the medic's side and slaps him hard between the shoulder blades until he gulps in a shuddering breath. Another figure moves in the space around you but goes unnoticed. Your tunnel vision has fixated on someone new.

After the dazzling white light clears your vision you still can't quite believe your eyes. You see her before you the way she looks in your memories, the way she looks in your dreams. Framed in fire, windswept, tired, bloody and gloriously furious.

“Y/N?” you whisper, confused. You blink hard and this time she is a more realistic version of herself. Still tired, still angry. Your hand stays hefted in the air, unsteady.  

You don't believe what your eyes are telling you. You died and this is a sick joke, which normally you might appreciate, but for the look on her face. You would never understand the combination of emotions you see there. Your shoulder, your head, your hand, they all pulse in various octaves of pain. It's disorienting.

It's not her, it can't be. You lost and she killed you. Shaky, you lurch forward keeping your hand outstretched. You have to be sure.

There is a swift movement from the shadow behind you and in a flash there is a sting in your neck. So minor compared to the other aches, throbs and stings but you were unprepared for the suddenness of it.  

A normally welcomed old companion, the blackness, creeps in again. Your heart cries out to wait, just one more second while you figure this out. While you reach out to her.  

Before you hit the ground the very tip of your longest finger connects with her chin, just below her lip, before trailing its way down her chest and belly. The hem of her shirt snaps up when the crook of your finger tugs and releases it.

As your head hits the metal flooring you decide it really was Y/N. You are indeed still living and for some reason she had decided to spare you in the rain on Nur. The fool.

You've tried to tell her since Zeffo that she's yours, from the second you saw her on Bracca, whether she knew it or not. When she inched closer to you step by step, siding against the Ninth Sister she was yours. When you touched her Master's lightsaber and saw her as a frightened and defenseless padawan she was yours. Hands and feet fastened together, jammed in the back of your TIE fighter she was yours. Until you handed her over to the Empire...and she was theirs.

What you had not anticipated were all the myriad moments that led to you belonging utterly and madly to her. Starting with the hard resolve in her face when she went for your throat in your first rain-washed clash. Again when she teased you in the industrial caverns of that Zeffo mountain. Especially when she was bubbling over with wrath and vengeance even lying weak on the floor of her cell, imagining the demolition of Imperial control. You were more hers then and completely when she made good on her promise by conjuring destruction from the air like a goddess. It's like you never had a choice.

That's a lie. It's a choice you've made repeatedly. You embraced it, fought it, misinterpreted it but you never denied it. Fool that you are.

Y/N will be your undoing, she makes you weaker than anything the Empire has put you through and nothing is scarier than to know that you will lose every time.

Yes, you tried again to kill her but it's only because you are the one who does what others will not. It was your final attempt at releasing you both from this thing. Y/N is strong but not stronger than what's between the two of you. You tried to be but it turns out you aren't either.

Now you are doomed to each other. For your part at least, you commit yourself willingly to the flames.

She really should have killed you.

[fallingappleshurt]

27 and 39 with mercenary techno and skeppy? and like skeppy is having second thoughts about their jobs? 👉👈

the miles and miles we ran ( and can keep in running)

“I don’t- I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” He said suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

“Do what?” Techno asked, lighting another candle.

“The jobs, the mercenary stuff, it’s not worth it- I don’t like it.”

———

TW: mentions of blood and death but nothing too graphic

Ao3 link: Hi!!

Para my beloved!!! /p I am sorry it took so long for me to get this out, burn out

Hope you all enjoy :>>>

————-

The rain battered against their threadbare clothes, speckles of blood flicked against his hands, the job was easy, in and out, it didn’t bother him.

But that was what was starting to bother him.

Techno brushed a few soaked strands of hair from his face, trying to push down the emotion swirling in his chest. They just had the final stretch then he could collapse and his emotions could settle.

But it was relentless.

His mind clipped back to the arena, the sweat running down his back, the howls of the crowd, the contorted snarl of the monster in front of him. He didn’t flinch as it launched itself forward or when he lashed at it with his blade-

Techno’s ear twitched against the wind as it pulled him back to reality, focus. Nobody was out now, too late and too cold. Skeppy stood beside him, rubbing the water drops off his goggles and sighing.

“So now what?” He asked, an unlying bitterness in his bored tone.

“What do ya mean?”

“Are we gonna keep doing this?”

“This job? Yeah, we need to report back so we can get paid.”

Skeppy opened his mouth to talk again but stopped and nodded, “Yeah- Yeah lets just go.”

They continued down the decrepit alley, the cracked ground dipped behind their feet and water flooded from the rusting gutters, some managing to slosh into his boots.

He and Skeppy ducked down a flight of stairs, fingers running along the rusted railing and entered the mildewy tunnels. Someone shuffled to their side, inspecting them with narrowed eyes.

“Are you those mercenaires?” They asked, lip curled, it was the only part of their face Techno could see, the rest cloaked by a hood in a vain attempt to look secretive.

Techno nodded, “Yes.” He said curtly.

“Did you finish the job?”

“This isn’t part of your affairs or I’d know your name, just show us to his room.”

“I’m not showing you anything unless you answer my question, freak.”

“Cut the shit and just tell him,” Skeppy hissed, “Stop dancing around the issue.”

Techno rolled his eyes, “We finished the job, however the details are not to be discussed with you.”

Their lips twitched briefly, a fleeting attempt at a smile, “That’s all I needed to know, this way.”

They followed, Skeppy leaning and whispering;

“Why are you always so on edge? Just give them a straight answer.”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“Cause it makes everything take so much longer.” A hint of a whine in his voice.

“Soley that reason then,” He said lightly, then added, “I don’t want him reporting us, the more he knows the more trouble he could cause.”

“So paranoid,” Skeppy rolled his eyes,“Since when are you scared of the law?”

“Never, since the law doesn’t exist.”

Skeppy snorted, “In your little dream world.”

They had stopped by Hatchet’s office, the cloaked figure cleared their throat, “If you are done rattling about then The Master is ready to see you.”

Techno and Skeppy gave each other a knowing look then walked through, Techno turned and looked back, hand resting on the doorknob.

“The word is ‘prattling’.” He said, closing the door, despite it’s thick and sturdy nature he could still hear the others gasp of indiginence.

Techno didn’t fear many things, he didn’t fear many people, just what they could do if they had power. Hatchet was one of those people.

Techno had never seen his face, he was just a silhouette that would purr out orders and seemed to have eyes everywhere. Techno felt glad he and Skeppy weren’t in his debt, the term business partners was already too close.

Hatchet sat in a massive chair, intricate carving in the otherwise smooth wood, he was leaning forwards, elbows on his knees and hands folded, chin resting against them. He looked like a cat, bored of its prey.

“Is it done?” He asked.

“Yes.” Skeppy answered this time, Hatchet grinned.

“Very good, you two always do excellent work. Oh and do tell me, did he suffer?”

Techno frowned, “No.”

Hatchet’s face dropped slightly, “Aw,” He paused, “No matter, here.” He tossed an envelope at them which Skeppy tried and failed to catch and had to scrape off the floor.

“Alright, off with you two.” He waved his hand and after they hurried out of the room, feeling the man's eyes burning into their backs, marking them.

They walked home in silence, Techno could tell there was something wrong with Skeppy but wasn’t sure how to approach it. Thunder clapped above them again and candle lights flickered in nearby windows as they crept into their little back alley apartment, the power must’ve been knocked out.

Techno slipped off his boots and tested one of their lamps, nothing happened. He sighed and shuffled into the kitchen, looking for their matches.

He found them quickly and set to work lighting up the house, Skeppy flopped down on the couch after shedding his attire.

“I don’t- I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” He said suddenly, staring at the ceiling.

“Do what?” Techno asked, lighting another candle.

“The jobs, the mercenary stuff, it’s not worth it- I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either but it’s the only reason we aren’t on the streets.” Techno said, this was all he had ever done, thoughts of the arena pierced his mind again, this was all he knew.

“We can find a different way to make money.”

Techno raised an eyebrow in a sort of humored disbelief, “Not here! We’ll be recognized or reported or something- there will always be people who will want another corpse and they’ll come right back to us.” He added darkly.

Skeppy glared at him, “Look, I don’t want to do it anymore, you can but I no longer want to be a part of it.”

“What- are you backing out now? Is this it?”

“I want it to be! This is too much!” Skeppy snapped, a hand pulling at his hair, “It’s all too much!”

“Oh yeah, ‘the weight of your sins bearing down on your shoulders’, I see how it is.” Techno snorted.

“I thought when we escaped the arena that we’d get to be free! No more fighting, no more bloodlust! Now we’re just the same monsters under another name!”

“It doesn’t work like that, our fates were set and sealed in stone the moment we were forced into that place, even then we are wanted for that and wanted for everything we’ve done since we’ve escaped.” Techno felt a familiar, buried, grief in his chest, he didn’t know what to do. The facade was wearing thin and it almost felt like his chest was going to cave in.

“We should just run away.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?” He cried, “We’ve done it before!”

“Everyone will know it’s us, it- it can’t be that easy.”

Skeppy was silent for a moment.

“This- this isn’t fair.” He stuttered out, a single tear of frustration slid down his face, running along the blue geode in his skin. “And don’t you dare say life isn’t fair, I know it’s not but that doesn’t mean I can’t be upset about it.”

“You can be upset about it but it won’t do much.”

“Helpful as always.”

“Look, a piglin and geode hybrid, we already stick out.” Techno rolled his eyes, “Do you even know where we’d go? I don’t have any other skills, I know my way around a blade but that can only get us so far.”

“Maybe if you tried harder you’d know more.”

Techno narrowed his eyes, “That is rich coming from you.”

“Sorry sorry, it was a cheap blow.” Skeppy rubbed the back of his neck and Techno sighed.

“I can’t really blame you, I don’t know what else to do, we can run but we’ve already run so far.”

Broken locks, bare feet slamming against concrete, hands tightly interlaced.

“We can keep running, the world stretches for miles and miles, there has to be something out there for us.”

“But what if there isn’t?” Fear simmered in his chest, he didn’t want to be alone again but he didn’t want to be trapped under someone else's heel again either.

The thunder clapped outside.

“Then we can make one, an actual home, just for us. We’ve sort of done it here, we can do it again.”

Techno nodded, a lump in his throat, “We don’t owe anyone anything right now, we can go whenever we want.”

“Yeah, we can leave first thing in the morning, there is nothing here for us.”

“So, are we really doing this?”

“If you’ll come with me.”

“Of course, on one condition.”

Skeppy frowned, “What might that be?”

“We take that dog from the alley with us, I don’t think anyone else will take care of it.”

Skeppy snorted, “Sure, sure.”

Techno knew the world was scary, he regarded it with caution for good reason, but he tried not to let it paralyze him. In this world, the only way you can make things better for yourself is by taking the first step, and it is better if you have a friend.

That’s how he got out with Skeppy.