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himbodjarin · 3 years

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LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

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sauntervaguelydown · 3 years

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Meme time: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line, then tag 10 writers!

tagged by @ufohnoparty (like a million years ago)

[cracks knuckles] okay it's time to be self indulgent. Not counting any of the starter based fics because I didn't come up with most of those first lines.

1. Perhaps These Are Not Poetic Times: Rattrap possessed two traits that made him a stand-out in the field of "not getting your guts ripped out and eaten by deranged terrorcons", and the first of those traits was that he was a coward.

2. Hold Me Tight (Say They Didn't Win): "You wanted to see me?"

3. Throne of Stars : After signing off the whole host of contracts to Rung, giving him complete responsibility for all fueling and housing and medical work from that moment forth, Megatronus had spent the next day and night in celebration with his cohort of gladiators and supporters, expending the last of his meager winnings from last season on rounds of top shelf for everyone.

4. What You Can Have : So it started with the closet, right?

5. Someone Borrowed: Impactor was more pleased with the new house than he liked to admit, although it was easy to tell because he was, as ever, utterly transparent when he liked something.

6. Taillights, Last Night,: A few million years into a war which he had helped to start, Drift sat on the table top in the unfamiliar debriefing room with his sword laid out over his crossed legs, running a whetstone down the blade with a slow, methodical zingkt zingkt.

7. The Mesmer Box: “It’s just a little bit of fun,” Rung said, tumbling the plugin between his fingers. “I rarely do it as a part of my legitimate practice.”

8. Contract Law: Special Vengeance Unit: “You have here a clause about abusive sexual acts,” Damus said, pointing a large, newly-installed finger at one paragraph of the enormous print-out containing all the not-yet entirely compiled edicts from the last century of hodgepodge Decepticon coalescence.

9. You're Gonna Carry That Weight : The cycles immediately following their coup d'état, such as it was, saw very little sleeping and quite a lot of rushing around, calling numbers, coordinating meetings, and having various militant upstarts flogged.

10. Straight Through to Your Midnight Heart : It had been a long day and Rattrap wasn’t excited to end the whole slagstorm with a visit to his boss’s penthouse office, after getting chased up half the alleys in town and nearly having his head bitten off by some Decepticon creep with a mouth like a trash compactor.

11. Ornament : At the back of the ballroom, beyond the carved sculptures, beyond the gaggle of senatorial aides exchanging self important anecdotes all lean and hungry-eyed, beyond the sensory-burst tower with its many plug-ins available to guests, was the one thing in the grand sprawling house that struck Megatron still in his tracks.

12. Elegy for Actaeon of the Hounds: The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

13. Lacunae: “A comet passed over the countryside, the night that I met you. You did not see it. You were asleep.”

14. Don't Sing Me No More Blues: “Lay one on me, barkeep,” Jazz said, sliding a credit chip across the counter. “You would not believe the week I’ve had.”

15. Fear & Delight: In the wilderness--and in the village too--Gon had seen animals in heat. It wasn't particularly remarkable, or particularly pretty.

16. Melusine Among the Tombs: Treasure, as exotic and rare as any known to mankind: enchanted chalices, precious gems, nutmeg and spices in canisters untouched by time, silks and brocades, the thrones of long lost dynasties.

17. Apotheosis: “Excuse me,” Starscream said, striding down the steps of the senate chambers with his cape flaring out behind him, “get your cowcatcher out of his face, you tin-plated amateur despot, he’s with me.”

18. Issues of Discipline: The announcement had been remarkably short, given who the speaker was.

19. All Our Urgent Restless Sighing : Despite all hopes to the contrary, Deadlock woke up with a very real, very solid hangover.

20. Desecrate You: Ratchet clicks the video because it was auto-recomended, and because First Aid is always dropping hopeful hints that he wants her to watch his show when he’s supposed to be grading papers, and because something about the title (“This is Definitely a Hoax! None of this is Real! Short Cut Footage Episode”) makes her wonder why the hell someone who runs a Ghost Hunting youtube channel would bill their own hard work as a hoax right out of the bag.

I think the big takeaway here is that my first lines are either 1. dialogue or 2. a run on sentence containing an enormous amount of compressed information. Desecrate You is a particularly egregious example.

It's partly because I don't have much time for fics that beat around the bush for a paragraph before cutting to the chase, and partly because it helps me going forward to have a solid foundation. Most of these first lines were actually the first lines I wrote for the fic.

@neveralarch if you wanna get ahead of your year end retrospective, I have a meme for you. Also anyone else who wants to do it, tag yourself

#memes

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santipietroepaolo · 3 years

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Prompt 56 with Angelica/Spadino? They’re too underrated 🥺

[Read on Ao3]

56. “You’re fun to touch”

“Are you sure? I can finish up if you’re tired.”

Spadino shook his head with a dismissive hum. He was tired, but it wasn’t like a couple more hours of sleep were really going to change that much about it – not with the kind of worries he had on his mind lately. He freed one of his hands just long enough to pull a quick drag from the blunt dangling at the corner of his mouth, careful not to dampen the paper with his wet fingers. Pale coils of smoke stirred from his lips and curled up towards the gilded ceiling as he resumed his work.

“I told you, it’s fine,” Spadino mumbled around the filter, picking up his battle against Angelica’s hair back where he had left it.

He was struggling with a particularly stubborn knot for a while – doing his best to jab at it gently with the end of the comb without tugging on Angelica’s scalp or breaking off too much of her hair in the process. Spadino was not a patient man, and he certainly would not have described himself as delicate, either. But after weeks of practice, he was finally getting good at this whole hair care thing – or so he felt.

The bathroom tiles were kind of harsh to sit on in just his boxers, but they also felt pleasantly cool against his skin. That, coupled with the weak breeze blowing in from the open window, managed to make the heat of that early summer night almost bearable. In the deep claw-foot bathtub, Angelica’s body pulled quiet splashing sounds from the lukewarm water that submerged it. One of her CDs was playing at mid-volume over the stereo in the bedroom – a self-made mixtape all foreign sounds of steel drums and male voices lamenting in Spanish and Portuguese. Not half-bad a background noise, if a bit whiny for Spadino’s taste.

The knot finally gave in, and the victorious grumble Spadino let out in response made ash tumble from the lit end of the blunt. The feeling of smooth jet black hair, slick with sweet-smelling conditioner, now running seamlessly through his fingers and the tines of his comb, was a sensation pleasant enough to still even his ever-fidgety hands, for a second.

It felt good, some days, to know he could do at least one thing right.

“I like this,” he admitted, moving on to the next portion of hair in need of a good de-tangle, “Relaxes me. It’s fun to touch, you know – satisfying.”

“As opposed to other bits?”

Angelica had thrown her head back against the rim of the bathtub, far down enough to be able to look Spadino in the face, albeit upside-down. Her ink-black eyes gleamed with irony, but her smile was bittersweet – it often was. Cocking an eyebrow, Spadino offered the tip of the joint up to Angelica’s lips, which had parted in demand. He didn’t let her pull too long, however: they’d heard somewhere that pot might not be good for what they were trying to achieve, in nights like these. Therefore, Angelica had to make do with only a little.

A discipline in which she had a lot of practice.

“In a rubbing it in kind of mood, are we?” Spadino sighed, and Angelica chuckled around her mouthful of smoke.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t complain,” she admitted, shuffling a bit before closing her eyes, apparently satisfied with the new position she’d settled in, “Especially compared to how it used to be.”

Spadino clicked his tongue at that, but it was purely for show, and they both knew it. It wasn’t like he had much of an ego left to bruise, after all, in that department.

At least they could joke about it, now. It hadn’t been easy to get there but, inevitably, by way of one humiliating, stop-and-go ordeal of a tumble after the other, they had had no choice but to surrender to the absurdity of their predicament and learn to make some form of light of their attempts. It had probably happened somewhere around the first time Angelica had propped her legs up against the headboard the second the laborious deed was done – a cousin of hers had apparently sworn “it would help.” Or maybe it had been the time Spadino – by way of his eyes being firmly wired shut, as often – had made a wrong move and banged the back of his head against the corner of the marble-topped bedside table hard enough to see stars, and subsequently let out a string of curses so vile as to finish killing off whatever pathetic “mood” they might have managed to scramble together for the night.

Glass half-full: what they did in bed together might not have been much fun, but at least it could be funny, on occasion.

“Count your blessings,” Spadino advised, resuming his work, “You get this nifty salon treatment out of it.”

Eyes still closed, Angelica let out a soft snort.

“I certainly do.”

She went back to dangle her foot off the edge of the tub in synch with the distant latin beat, then, while Spadino finished smoothing out the hair his own clumsy hands had tangled up just moments earlier – carefully, section by section, until the comb could run through the full length of it with no obstruction. Later those still-damp locks would stain the sheets and pillowcases with the smell of Angelica’s fancy conditioner, Spadino knew. Jasmine, argan and honey – a rich, queenly scent, one he had grown so accustomed to that he sometimes found himself noting its absence, when falling sleep in another bed than theirs.

By the time he was done, Angelica had started humming along to the latest song, the stubby blunt dangled well and spent between his lips, and Spadino’s lids were growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. But he wasn’t in a rush to go to bed, either, he realized. Putting the comb down, Spadino stubbed out what was left of the joint, before running his hand one last time through the slick dark curtain of Angelica’s hair, now hanging perfectly straight from the cool edge of the tub - a waterfall of black.

“All done, signora,” he declared, not holding back on the panache, wanting to make her smile, “Anything else we can do for you today?”

He had always been good at that: Angelica flashed her pretty grin at him.

“You can get me that robe while I rinse off. And then maybe dance with me? Just a little.”

Spadino nodded. That sounded nice.

“Right on. Pick a fun song.”

#suburra #suburra netflix #suburra fic #by me #spadino anacleti #angelica sale #spadino&angelica #aaaaaa i haven't written in a while hhhhhhhh #still had fun!! i LOVE these two they have me SO soft #thank you so so much anon for pompting and st0rmthedark for suggesting hair care #set between s1 and 2

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Text

The Red Well (End) Sisters

You guys haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Erii fight in this fanfiction. I present to you, Erii the Dragonslayer. And yes... she really is like this.

Golden snake-like bodies were tumbling into the Red Well. The stampede had progressed to the point where even if a Deadpool understood that, if it fell, it would die when it hit the bottom, the pressures of those pushing behind it overwhelmed its need to survive. You couldn’t tell the difference between the screams from eager hunger and the terrified cries of the dying as the over 1,000 deadpool flooded the well. The bullet-riddled far wall in front of you became a sparkling wall of gold, like someone was pouring champagne. Eventually, the bodies of the dead and dying piled feet high to create a softer landing for those that came behind and now the horde was surging forward, eyes bulging in madness.

Erii calmly put her notepad back into her suitcase as though the hellish bedlam behind her was as ordinary as morning rush hour. Then she turned her back on the Light King inhabiting your body and stepped towards the edge of the maintenance platform.

The Light King expected fear and got none. Now it was curious and was again rummaging through your memories for this fearless being called ‘sister.’

Chisei’s voice from a memory you didn’t consciously recall spoke. “Chime… I’m sorry.”

“Brother… I just want to be with you.” Chime could barely speak for his tears. He was gasping desperately. His voice was muffled, like he was hugging his brother. “I just want to be there. Please… don’t leave me behind. I know I’m useless… Just don’t leave me behind!” His voice descended into crying again.

Your heart warms. You didn’t remember this and there was no visual. You’d passed out listening to the beginning of the sentence. But your ears had still caught and recorded those words before you had completely lost all consciousness. The meddling of the Light King in your brain gave you a gift. The Gen brothers had reconciled. It should have been impossible, but your own forgiveness for the death of Chance gave you the power to literally ‘move forward’. You’d given that forgiveness willingly and unasked and this is what managed to give them a second chance. Despite your denials that you cared for Chisei, you had internalized enough of Chime’s love for his brother to come through in the end. Chisei is still a big dummy, but now he finally understood how badly Chime loved him.

The Light King mouthed the words from your lips. “Sister…?”

This great being that had taken control of your body and locked your mind in a cage did not retain any of the memories from her prior existence. She was rediscovering the world through your mind. Since this little human Erii who stood unblinkingly before her was associated with a familial word, it was pulling the memories based on the emotions they invoked, the bond of family.

Erii reached the edge of the engineering platform and stood at the precipice of the deep hole that would lead to the lake below. “The person speaking to me is not my sister. Let my sister go or you will pay the price.” She said.

You had never heard Erii’s speak before. The tone was sweet and clear, and almost bored, but the language was a biting commanding snarl in the language of dragons, like an alpha wolf disciplining an errant pack member and who expected immediate obedience without question. There were no honorifics or polite gestures. Just a command followed by a threat.

A boiling explosive rage burst from the Light King! How dare this pitiful speck speak to her in that way!

Erii softly hums and a warm wind begins to rise from the bottom of the well. It carried with it the scent of death and decay. Erii points her finger down towards the water.

A dense red cloud erupts from the bottom of the well, tossing her hair and skirt before it engulfs her. It’s superheated. The pressure against the wall of the well caused the ground to shake beneath you. Heavy metal debris, pieces of the Yamata-No-Orochi and all the myriads of skeletons of the dragon kin that died in the lake are carried in what could only be described as a geyser, a pyroclastic flow from a volcano in miniature. The rocks tremble and leap at your feet. The encroaching Deadpool swarm hesitates to advance, fearful of that great heat.

The cloud continues to rise until it reaches the well opening and would appear like a dark red smoke in the middle of the mountains. Just like a cloud, it condensed as it rose and soon an eerie red rain began to fall. The objects carried by the cloud rained down too. Bones and body parts land with dull splats on the ground.

Your body’s limbs burst with energy and leap toward Erii. Your eyes are on her delicate white neck. Your arm curls to cut her with the Gathering Cloud Sword! The killing intent was clear. The Light King wanted to see her head sail off her body! But Erii disappears into that dense cloud of red. In seconds, your body is drenched in rank deadpool blood and chemicals.

You look down into the well. Erii had instantly evaporated all the water in the well. The kilometer wide lake was completely empty.

As the mist clears you see a delicate running figure! Erii is fleeing! The Light King feels triumphant. Yes, run little sister! Fear me!

Erii had run to the other side of the well towards the safety cabins. The Light King laughed, pulling a memory that told her that the safety cabins could protect you from harm. So this pathetic little creature was afraid after all!

Her laughter stopped when Erii tossed her suitcase into the cabin and shut the door before turning back around. She wasn’t running in to protect herself.

She just wanted to protect her stuff.

Erii’s flight had taken her right into the middle of the deadpool swarm and they surrounded her like an army of footsoldiers. But no one wanted to be the first to strike. There was about ten yards between her and the deadpool swarm and they swayed like seagrass on their tails while Erii raised her hand. Her mouth opened and her voice spoke a single word.

“Death!”

Evaporating the water wasn’t just a cover. Hydra had dumped 5,000 tons of mercury into the well. Mercury was far denser than water and extremely heavy. It had settled in a silver layer at the bottom of the lake and was now exposed. This silver layer came up, not as a cloud, but as a perfect sphere of liquid metal, like the pinball of a pinball machine.

Erii snapped her hand shut. “Death!”

The silver ball burst into millions of silver mercury bullets and fired like birdshot into the thousands of dead pool bodies. In an instant, hundreds of perfect round holes were pitting into their scales. The speed and force of those projectiles drilled into their flesh and began to corrode the deadpool from the inside out. Black blood squirted in tiny streams from each of them like someone had poked holes into a plastic water bottle.

The front of the deadpool collapsed and they rushed to the wall to try to escape. The winged deadpool and those who could sprout wings tried to take off towards the opening of the well and get away from this monster!

Erii’s crimson eyes burned red and gold. She knelt down as though picking up a large and heavy object. Her hands closed around something and a force like a magnetic pulse that crackled with blue electricity sparked across the entire well. All the weapons in the well, from guns to rocket launchers to knives and swords levitated and converged towards her hand. All the weapons from the Engineering team and the Hydra operatives that had been left in the well were now being wielded by Erii.

When she lifted her hands over her head, these thousands of weapons lifted and came to be in the shape of a great blade, a blade made out of many individual weapons, something like the world had never seen before.

“Death!”

Erii swung this ‘sword’ once in a horizontal arc. The sword fractured and all the weapons surrounded her in a spectacular circular array and fired all at once. All the pistols, the submachine guns, the vulcan cannons, the rocket launchers - They all fired at the same time in a single thunderous volley! The swords and the knives flew out like self-propelled bullets, chasing and cutting their targets to pieces.

Deadpool heads exploded, their limbs fell off, they were skewered and pinned to the ground and to the surrounding rocks. They were even pierced together like pieces of meat on a kabob. These powerful creatures had been reduced to fish in a barrel, unable to flee the unbelievable slaughter.

The army that the Light King had summoned fell under the bullets and were sliced apart by the flying swords. The winged deadpools’ limbs were severed before they could reach the top of the well. Their bodies were split to pieces and they fell to the ground in sections.

It was not that Erii knew how to wield any of these weapons. She didn’t have to. Her command to kill was enough for these weapons to fire with maximum lethality. Her life was like a video game where the player didn’t have to know how to kill anyone or anything. The enemy units died at the push of the button.

Erii was now walking unobstructed back towards the Light King on bloody ground, her red hair and bloody skirt flapping in the wind. Her skin is covered in silvery white scales, and from her hair two crystalline horns twisted in a straight corkscrew. Her golden eyes were like determined jewels and locked on yours. She was unarmed. But for the first time, you feel a cold creeping dread from this dragon in your body. You smile inwardly as you watch Erii come towards you.

You recite your vow in your mind. “We are bound by blood and by love. We will never betray each other. We will always defend each other. And when one calls for help, we will dash to their rescue. If anyone comes between us… may they die!”

The Light King finally understood. A sister was blood and love, a violent and desperate thing. If the Light King wanted to fully resurrect and evolve with your body it would have to kill this sister!

The monster in your body dashed across the distance between you and Erii with inhuman speed, bare feet running heedlessly over the uneven ground, splashing up a wake of blood five feet high. Erii regally pulled herself straight to her full height like a queen and let this being come. Her body grew closer and closer in your vision and a scream tears from your throat. You can see the frightening emotionlessness behind Erii’s golden pupils before a metal disc as twice as tall as you are buzzsaws between you.

Instead of using a literal sword, Erii had summoned the saw blade that had broken the Yamata-no-Orochi into pieces. With the single command, she not only controlled the weapons, but also every object on the field, including the tools of the scientists.

You see your own reflection in this metal blade. Your skin is covered in scales like Erii’s. Your eyes are the color of lava -- gold and red and black. But the sudden appearance of this sawblade made your eyes widen with surprise. The sawblade caught the swing of the Gathering Clouds sword and snapped in half. Erii gripped those gigantic half moon blades as easily as if they were a pair of paper fans!

With every slash of the Gathering Cloud sword the buzzsaw snaps into more pieces! But Erii doesn’t stop her assault, wielding four, eight and then sixteen super sharp pieces of a giant circular saw against you. The shattered wheel spirals like fire in the air and the Gathering Cloud sword is a blur in your hand. The images of your body and Erii’s body disappear in this light as each of you reaches the limits of your speed and agility. But Erii doesn’t have to directly control every piece like you have to directly control the sword. In this she has the advantage. Soon there are two many pieces for even the dragon to follow. You scream inside and the Light King controlling you screams with your voice! The blades slice through your dress and through your scales, leaving deep gouges of running blood.

The Light King has not fed and doesn’t have much energy, but it draws from the reserves of your body and the skin of your back cracks open revealing large bone wings. Your new wings stir the air. You wave the sword of Gathering Clouds and shoot upward to flee! The dragon inside you has given up on defeating Erii and wants to escape to eat!

A huge metal arm swings at you before you get half way out. Attached to a tall crane is a large sling that had been used to hoist the Orochi out of the ice. This sling catches you like a butterfly in a net. The Light King slices its way out of this net but a bright light of a laser cutter severs that crane arm in two and the arm crashes down on you and brings you back to the ground. You’re pinned under this debris.

Erii is standing, legs parted and firm, holding a gigantic steel barrel over her head. She throws this barrel and the laser cutter swings to cut it open! A clear smoking liquid splashes out and covers you. You’re overtaken with a sudden painful, unbelievable cold! Freezing fog sweeps the well and the red rain freezes solid and turns to crimson ice and snow.

Liquid nitrogen! Erii has found one of the tanks of the liquid nitrogen and was using it to slow your body down! It burns you like fire and you want to curl into a ball and pass out, but so long as the dragon controlling your body was awake so were you and you just had to endure the pain.

The Light King doesn’t give up but it’s shivering violently. Your muscles are stiff with cold and the crane arm is heavy. It presses your hands to the ground to push up and slowly the metal debris starts to lift.

A loud rumble reaches your ears. Erii, eyes still blazing with golden fire, has turned the laser cutters to the wall of the well. The lasers started on opposite sides and met in the middle and a huge chunk of solid rock slid off the well wall, bringing down boulders the size of cars onto the scattered remains of the dead and what was left of the undamaged equipment.

A second crane grabs this house sized boulder on a hook and two-feet thick chain and Erii’s tiny body leaps up to seize that chain. With a mighty heave she lifts that boulder and throws it down on you.

The Light King’s vision fills with what could only be described as a meteor coming down on it. But it was helpless to dodge. It takes the full force of the blow and the crushing weight that leaves a meters wide crater. Erii lifts the boulder and the Light King’s wings have been shattered. But she still looks up and cries out in defiance! Erii is merciless and lifts the boulder again! The boulder smashes down again! The Light King in your body is gasping in stunned disbelief. But Erii is not finished. She brings down the boulder again! And again!

The thunderous sound of this brutal beating sounds like exploding dynamite. The entire area shook and it registered on Tokyo’s Earthquake Monitoring System. She brought down that boulder on your head until it finally shattered to pieces and fell from the hook. Erii leaped from the crane and walked up to you, striding confidently through the shattered rock.

The Light King had no strength left in this body. Your mind is blank with pain. You barely register that Erii is standing over you and looking down at you.

A small thing is wiggling on your back, attached to your spine. The Light King has decided that it doesn’t want your body any more. It wants Erii’s! It lets you go and is trying to wriggle out of your scaly skin. But Erii points at it with one delicate fingertip.

“Death.”

There’s a soft snap, like someone breaking a pencil in half. The creature stiffens. Its whole body turns black and then it crumbles to ashes.

The legacy of the Light King ended in that moment. The Light King would no longer rise again in the world.

The violent presence in your mind releases and you’re suddenly back in your body! The pain is dizzying, but your body is already working frantically to heal itself from its injuries. Your muscles are twitching with phenomenal regrowth even with this terrible cold. Erii lifts off the remaining debris from you and hugs you.

You relax into her warm embrace and you shiver. Your body is split open still and your blood soaks her head to toe. Little by little, the scales disappear to reveal plain white skin. Erii’s horns loosen and fall from her head.

“How did you find me?” You ask her.

Erii doesn’t speak again. She just shakes her head slightly and ducks under your arm to help you to your feet. She supports you all the way across one of the most devastating battlefields in history to the safety cabin and sets you down before opening the door and returning with a notebook. She writes in it and shows it to you.

“I don’t know. I was supposed to be going to the airport. Have you seen Sakura?”

#Dragon Raja #Erii Uesugi

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rosypalmsdaughter · 4 years

Text

Naughty Or Nice

It's the night before Christmas and I am awake.

I am standing in the corner of my bedroom, facing the wall, my hands clasped behind my head.

I wonder if it's time yet and release my left hand to glance at my watch. The smart display glows as I tilt my wrist.

23:51

I have not been instructed to stand here, nor to wear the sensible flannel pyjamas which smell of detergent. I have not been instructed to move the high-backed wooden chair from behind my desk and into the centre of the floor.

I have done these things because over time I have sensed that they are what is expected. On other nights I might throw my discarded clothes onto that chair, I might carelessly scatter my belongings over the floor or climb naked into bed. On some nights I might tumble, giggling and tipsy with a partner between the sheets with no intention of sleeping.

But on this night of the year I stand in the corner; sober, pyjama-clad, and alone. And the chair waits behind me.

I shuffle my feet and glance again at my watch.

23:52

I let out a puff of impatience. I know that time passes differently on this night but I have never got used to this waiting. Each Christmas Eve, wherever I am in the world I set up my room, take up my position, and try to keep my mind focused on what's written on this year's page. I try to keep my thoughts appropriately contrite but I am distracted by the butterflies in my stomach and the dampness between my legs.

The only time I did not keep this nervous vigil was the very first time.

23:53

I was not a badly behaved child. More often than not my parents would have cause to glow with pride when my teachers informed them I was 'a pleasure to teach'. My occasional indiscretions were minor; detentions for lateness, talking in class, new school shoes ruined after an ill-judged shortcut through the playing fields. These were invariably met with a loving admonishment and sometimes a warning from my father that I would have earned a place on Santa's naughty list. But there was a twinkle in his eye and I was never in any doubt that on Christmas morning I would be unwrapping presents neatly labelled 'From Santa' - in my mother's handwriting.

And so the issue of discipline and punishment never really came up. For me that was something largely encountered in the safely remote realm of fiction. My parents were easygoing and I liked behaving well, I liked making them happy.

Until one day, whilst shopping with my mother for a new school uniform for the Autumn term, we both heard raised voices in the shop. The argument was between a middle-aged woman and her daughter who looked a little older than me. The girl was arguing for a shorter school skirt and her mother was flatly refusing

"You're so old fashioned, Mum!" she whined, "None of the teachers care how long it is anyway, I'm the only one who wears this stupid thing!" and she gestured with disgust at the skirt in her hand.

I saw her mother purse her lips and say

"You're not too old, you know..."

The girl rolled her eyes, shoved the skirt back onto the rack and turned to stalk away, but before she could, her mother caught her by the elbow and spun her daughter around to deliver three smart slaps to her bottom.

The girl's eyes widened in shock and she opened her mouth to protest but then caught her mother's expression and instead mumbled an apology.

After the pair paid for the sensible skirt and left - the girl's face now pink with embarrassment - my mother shook her head and said

"That poor girl!"

But I wasn't listening. My heart was racing and I felt as if an electric shock had gone through me. I didn't pay any attention as we completed our shopping. I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen. It was as if the world had shifted slightly, suddenly I knew that if I misbehaved it was possible I might have my bottom smacked. The idea was astonishing even if I knew that my parents would never dream of doing it. I realised that I wasn't alarmed by the notion, I was excited.

Lying in bed that night I played those few seconds in the shop over and over again in my mind. I imagined that that stern woman was my mother instead.

"You're not too old..."

For a spanking. That was the implied end of that sentence, wasn't it? You heard it sometimes said in old films but it almost never actually led to one.

A spanking! That was the unspoken word which had sent the electric shock through me. Suddenly it seemed like the most thrilling word imaginable.

I had witnessed a real-life spanking.

Except, I hadn't really, had I? Three smacks over her jeans, the girl had probably hardly felt anything. I wondered if I would I have felt it, if I was in fact her daughter? If the slaps hadn't stung and I had snapped a retort to my mother would I have been escorted from the shop without completing our purchase? Would she have gone straight home to give her naughty daughter a proper punishment? Perhaps she even had a sturdy wooden hairbrush at home to deal with defiant girls...

As my mind wandered I felt a new throbbing ache between my legs. Almost without thinking I slipped my hand into my knickers and found that my lips had become swollen and slick. My fingers slid easily between my folds and I instinctively I began to slowly rub as my mind turned back to this daydream. Surely, I thought, my mother, my stern, sensible mother wouldn't abandon the shopping just because of my lack of self-control? Perhaps instead she would glance around the shop and pull me firmly towards the small changing area in the corner. Inside is a small stool and surely she would sit on this before tugging my jeans down to my knees.

My fingers rubbed more urgently.

There is no door on the changing cubicle, only a grey curtain, so all the other shoppers would clearly hear my protests as my mother pulled me over her knee and they would hear equally clearly the smacks and squeals as she began spanking me.

I ground my hips backwards and forwards against my slippery fingers as my pulse thumped in my ears.

As the crisp sound of my mother's hand against my bottom continued, interspersed with my yelps all the shoppers would shake their heads and think "What a naughty girl!"

And at that thought I felt a powerful spasm wash over me in crashing waves as I climaxed over my sticky fingers.

23:54

That was the first time I realised how pleasurable my own body could be and from that moment in my mind that shuddering explosion of joy was inexorably linked with the act of spanking.

I had not ever really thought about spanking before but now it was a deep, obsessive interest. From then onwards I harboured fantasies of misbehaving in public and then being hauled over the knee of a no-nonsense authority figure who would give me the swift, firm spanking I craved. This didn't seem such an outlandish idea now, especially when the old books and comics I owned seemed to be full of young protagonists getting their bottoms' whacked for even the most minor rule-breaking. But in time I realised that even if that had ever had been a reality it certainly wasn't going happen to me in this time and place.

As I got older I eventually worked up the courage to search online and I found certain proof that I was not alone in my interest. I watched video after video of bottoms being firmly smacked as I kept one of my hands in my knickers and the other poised, ready to close the webpage at the slightest noise from my parents. But even as I watched these videos I knew that this wasn't a mainstream obsession. My friends were beginning to date and experiment and I knew none of them were touching themselves at night over the idea of smacked bottom.

And so time passed, and although I did dip a toe into the waters of teenage rebellion - I once stole lipstick from the supermarket, tried throat-burning vodka at a 16th birthday party, sneaked into an X-rated film with friends- I was always too anxious of really being caught and letting my parents down so I covered my tracks meticulously.

And I knuckled-down, got good exam results, and celebrated my eighteenth birthday in the knowledge that the following year I would be going away to a good university. And I had come to the decision that while the people in the videos I watched might have found someone to share this interest with that I would never, ever speak about it to anyone. Perhaps one day I might find a partner I was attracted to in a normal way and maybe they would indulge me with a few slaps on the bum when we had sex. I told myself that I must try harder to be normal. But try as I might to dismiss my fantasies I knew I craved something deeper, forbidden. On late nights when my family had gone to bed it was the same old thoughts which would have me stifling my moans as my fingers worked quickly beneath the bedsheets.

23:55

That year. That first Christmas Eve, long after I should have gone to bed, I found myself wiping away tears as I sat, looking out of my window at the night and contemplating my lonely obsession. I felt sure I would always have a hollow, unfulfilled part of my soul. And I felt equally sure I was ridiculous for feeling that way. As I watched a satellite sail slowly across the night sky I thought of sleigh bells and laughed bitterly. Trying to shake myself out of this mood I grabbed a notepad, festively bordered with green holly and wrote the words which seemed to be burned into my heart.

I want to be spanked long and hard on my bare bottom

I stared at the words. Written out they seemed ridiculous, either comic or perverse. I wanted to get rid of them at once but throwing it in the bin didn't feel enough; even if I scrunched it up or ripped it to pieces the words would still be there, indelible. I jumped to my feet, the note clutched in my hand and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. There, in one of the drawers I found the box of safety matches and I unlocked the back-door. By the dim light of the moon I skirted around the bowl of water and carrot left out by my parents who were never ones to abandon tradition. My breath condensed in sparkling clouds in the cold night air. I fumbled for a moment and then struck a match, it flared brightly and then started to die-back in the breeze. Quickly I touched the corner of the note to the flame which licked at the paper and then caught. Within seconds the words had been obliterated and I had to drop the page as the heat became too intense. It flared like a lantern and then blew out, a blackened skeleton of the paper drifted to the ground and the amber glow around the edges was fully extinguished by the wet ground. I peered closely- it was destroyed. I sighed and shook my head at my own idiocy and then checked my watch.

23:56

I put the matches away and crept back upstairs and into my room.

He was there, sitting on my bed.

I didn't cry out. I wasn't even surprised. Who else would it be?

He didn't look anything like the man in the drinks adverts or the children's books. His suit was red and lined with white fur but it was the dark red of hot blood dripping on snow. He was not an old man and yet his eyes held millennia. He was not jolly.

I was in awe but I was not afraid. I have never trusted anyone more.

I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my dry mouth and whispered

"You got my note"

"Yes" He nodded, eyes piercing. His expression was unfathomable. He reached into a pocket, I expected to see my scrap of paper but he instead drew out a leather-bound book.

"Do you know what this is?"

I shook my head but felt unable to look away from it. He beckoned me towards him and held out the slim volume for me. As I took it I saw that my name was embossed on the front, I glanced at him for permission and he nodded.

"You may open it"

I gasped as on the first page I saw, in my own handwriting, words I had never written

I must not take pleasure in the punishment of others

I read and re-read those words, my heart thumped and blood seemed to be rushing between my legs. I turned the page but it was blank, the rest of the book was empty.

23:57

"You know to what it refers" he said, his voice stern.

I thought briefly of the hundreds of girls I had watched online squealing and kicking while I had sat pleasuring myself. But looking into his face I knew that wasn't the answer.

"The girl in the shop" I replied, feeling the enormity of the admission. He nodded, solemn.

"And you know what happens now, don't you?"

I knew, I had known from the moment I saw him but how on earth could I say it out loud? I felt the book slip slightly under my sweaty palms as I gazed at him and implored mutely. But he continued to regard me levelly, expectant. I felt my face burning as I finally whispered

"Please... would you... spank me, long and hard... on my bare bottom?"

23:58

"Of course I will" he replied and I felt a rush of relief. He took the book from my hands and placed it, open, on my bedside table. He then took my hand and guided me over his knee. I felt my weight settle onto his lap and his palm come to rest on my bottom.

"Wait!" I gasped, suddenly aware "My parents!" I tried to get up but he held me in place.

"They won't hear" he assured me and he slowly moved his hand over both my buttocks. The nightie I was wearing had ridden up my thighs and I realised I didn't know which knickers I had on. I tried to twist around to see but again he held me firmly.

"You have been waiting a long time for this" he said and with that I felt his hand leave my bottom. I had a brief, electric frisson of fear and then he brought it back down with a muffled thwack. The first few slaps were not really painful but I still jolted at each steady smack. It didn't take long for it to start to sting and as it got worse I began wriggling, this made my nightie ride up until he was smacking me over my knickers. The pitch of the blows now changed to a slapping noise I recognised well from my internet forays as the sound of a naughty girl getting her bottom spanked.

The stinging was getting more and more intense and I began to kick despite my best efforts. He paused and rubbed my hot bottom. I moaned and realised that as well as the pain in my bottom there was also the all-too familiar throbbing ache elsewhere.

He pulled my thighs apart and ran a finger over the damp cotton.

"I think it's high time these came down, don't you?" he said. I tried to reply but only moaned once more as I felt him pull my panties down and I felt the cool air rush over my hot bottom and puffy wet lips. I craned my neck and saw my pale pink knickers fall to between my ankles, a large dark pink blotch betraying my arousal. Before I had time to fully contemplate this humiliation he had resumed spanking me. The slaps were firmer and more frequent now and though I yelped and grabbed at his leg he continued steadily spanking my increasingly sore bottom. I gasped and instinctively reached back to protect myself from the onslaught.

"You know exactly why you are in this position, don't you?" he said calmly as he caught my hand and held it at my waist. He administered a few smart smacks to the backs of my thighs and I squealed and kicked. He paused again.

"You knew just how naughty you were being, didn't you?" He launched a volley of smacks that left me gasping, my bottom burning. Suddenly he once again parted my legs, I felt my knickers stretch between my ankles as I spread them wider for him. My inner thighs were now slick with my own excitement. I felt his fingers cup my hot, yearning pussy and I almost cried out with desire.

"You know only a very naughty girl would get this wet during her spanking" he said and again I moaned and instinctively arched my back, trying to push his fingers against my aching clit. Suddenly the hand withdrew and then came back with a smack. It was not a hard smack but my pussy felt so sensitive that it made me yelp.

"I can see it's going to take some time to deal with all your naughtiness" he said and delivered a final flurry of firm smacks.

Then suddenly he set me on my feet and led me back to the corner, I automatically placed my hands behind my head and stood, breathless, and shaky, shifting from foot to foot. The air played over my blazing bottom, cooling my wet pussy and thighs. I desperately wanted to soothe my bottom with one hand while rubbing my clit with the other but I bit my lip and kept my hands in place as I swayed and stared at the wall. There was no noise apart from my panting and I had started to wonder if he was still there when I heard his voice again

"You can turn around now". I did so, legs still wobbly. It wasn't until then, as I stood across the room from him, naked from the waist down that I felt the urge to cover myself.

He smiled for the first time.

"Come here" and he beckoned me to sit on his lap. He rubbed gently at my tender bottom and held me to him. I sighed.

"You know you had earned that spanking don't you?" I nodded. Now, for the first time I felt tears pricking in my eyes. "And you know you've earned more, haven't you?" For one wild moment I wanted to contradict him, to deny I'd ever wanted or done anything to deserve a spanking but instead I swallowed, looked at him, and nodded again.

"I'm sorry, I really am" My throat felt constricted.

"I know you are" he said, squeezing me to him.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad girl!" it came out as a sob.

"No, no" he soothed, rubbing my sore bottom again "I’ve seen it all, remember? I see the good and the bad. I've seen how hard you've worked and all the generous, kind-hearted things you've done. You're not a bad girl" he wiped a tear from my cheek "You're a very good girl who at times does some very naughty things. But you've had your punishment for this year and now I think it's time for your reward"

And as he said it he gently guided me this time over just one knee, my upper body resting on the bed. He hand moved over my hot bottom and back between my legs.

"Do you want your reward for being a good girl?" he asked

"Oh, yes please!" I breathed and then whimpered as his fingers slid between my lips and up to my clit. He rubbed firmly back and forth and - much too quickly - I felt the pressure build until a tipping point was reached and then passed and I bucked and squirmed and gasped as the climax rocked me. He kept me cupped in his hand until the aftershocks had died away.

"Good girl" he repeated and pulled his hand away. "Why don't you go and clean yourself up". I tottered out to the bathroom to mop up the mess. My face was flushed and glowing in the mirror and my eyes shone. I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck to see my buttocks painted a deep, satisfying pink. I grinned. By the time I returned to my room he had gone. I looked at the clock and saw it had somehow only just reached midnight.

23:59

I didn't know for sure if he would be back the next year. Sometimes I thought I must have dreamed the whole experience but one thing gave me hope, the book, my book, was still there and now, underneath those words:

I must not take pleasure in the punishment of others

Was written in a new, bold hand

Disciplined 24th December-

and the year written after.

I checked the book regularly as the months passed, as I moved out to my university lodgings and discovered a new me I hardly recognised. The words on the page always stayed stubbornly the same but by then I thought I knew how this might work.

And sure enough, on Christmas Eve, at ten minutes to midnight the following year, on the next page appeared in my handwriting the words

"I must not let my belongings get dirty and untidy"

For a second even while I felt the thrill of knowing he was coming I felt a stab of disappointment. Untidiness felt like a very prosaic crime compared to the shocking confession the year before, but then I realised what this meant. He had of course been watching always, every single time I had been careless or lazy or thoughtless, every instance when, if I lived in some other time I might have received a quick smack. I was going to get a proper, long punishment for all of them now!

And so I did, and every year a new wrongdoing is revealed and then dealt with. There is no way of predicting what the offense will be and the punishment varies too. One year I was slippered for lying, another I got the cane for stealing, but whichever punishment is meted out, the reward is always the same.

Years have passed and I am a long way from the lonely girl who wrote that note on her windowsill. Over time I have grown in confidence and found wonderful people to share my obsession with.

But all the same, this deepest of secrets I have kept to myself. Each year I have made my excuses and taken up my position in my room, in the corner, on my own.

I don't know if the book is still taking note of what I do now or whether the transgressions are all set in stone, frozen from the night I made my wish. In any case I try every year to be good, but not too good.

Just in case.

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hijustanotherfanficwriter · 4 years

Text

The Cold Sun and The Dark Moon- Chapter One

A guard, a fae warrior, and a prince walk into a meeting...

Sixty years after the war, Fenrys moonbeam still traveled the world as Terrasen’s ambassador, working through his demons as he works to keep the world together.

Sixty years since things changed for the better, and worse for some. Enedina Kane has always thought her only choice was to run, but suddenly she realizes she can’t run forever.

quick note: I typed this whole story and then the app glitched and I lost all of my work :( but I loved this idea so I rewrote it all over again, hope you enjoy. Part two will be posted tomorrow! If you would like to be apart of a tag list so that you can be reminded every time I post a new part to this story let me know. Please enjoy! :)

Warnings: some light swearing (twice I believe)

- - - - -

Another meeting, another alliance opportunity, another day in his new life. Fenrys Moonbeam accepted the role as the Queen of Terrasen’s ambassador about fifty years ago, ten years after the war had passed and he had come, somewhat, to peace with his past horrors. He loves his job. He got to travel the world, meet new people, and still got to go home and be at peace. He knew if he ever needed a break Aelin would gladly give it to him. But once he started the job, he didn’t think he would ever want to stop.

Today he found himself in Melisande, a kingdom that had kept to itself during the war, if you could even call it that. The kingdom kept quiet through the years and no one seemed to know much about it, though Yerne and Aelin both had been there before, neither truly knew much about it.

That’s why he was here, to make connections with a forgotten kingdom. To make new ties with Terrasen.

He had traveled many days to reach the kingdom, on the way visiting some old friends including Dorian, Choal, and Yerne, who were all growing old. The Westfall’s children had greeted him at the gate, smiling and talking his ear off, filling him in on what had happened since his last visit. He talked with the King and his wife Mannon, both still looked the same. Whatever bit of fae blood Dorian had kept him young, and by some miracle, Choal and Yerne had not aged a day. He guessed it had something to do with the healers powers, or maybe the long gone Gods had smiled down upon the couple when Yerne had defected Erawan.

He knew Aelin was more than thrilled to hear about her friends slow to no aging, he still remembers the tears that welled up in her eyes when he told her twenty or so years ago.

After the war everything went into high speed yet seemed to go ever so slowly at the same time. There was no impending doom, just rebuilding, crowning, and weddings. So. Many. Weddings.

First Rowan and Aelin has an official ceremony, then Elide and Lorcan, then Lysandra and Aedion. Then ten years ago Mannon and Dorian finally tied the knot.

He was happy for his friends, they often asked him if he felt lonely not having a significant other, but then he always joked that Vaughn was still single too.

Vaughn has turned up at the palace one winter day. He waltzed right in and claimed he was done freezing his ass off and asked for a room.

Of course everyone was in the middle of dinner and was wondering how in the hell he had gotten in, but it wouldn’t be Vaughn’s return if it wasn’t dramatic.

That had been six years after the war.

It still felt like it was yesterday the war ended.

He sighed and looked at the clock on the wall of his chambers. He had been given quite a nice room the moment he got here and hadn’t spoken to anyone except a few servants in two days. He arrived early in hopes of learning more about the mysterious country but had not seen anything but the stone chamber that had been decorated quite loveily he must say.

A knock sounded at the door before it swung open to reveal three guards all dressed in light blue and navy with yellow accents, the colors of their kingdom. Two males with masks that covered all but their eyes flanked a tall woman who’s light colored hair was braided over her shoulder, and a wore no mask. She had kind eyes and a small smile, red tinted her pale face, and freckles adorned her nose.

“Fenrys Moonbeam?” His name rolled off of her tongue, a slight accent making it come off even smoother.

He nodded his head, standing from the chair by the window which he found himself at most hours of the days he had been here. “Yes, that’s me.”

She turned towards the door and nodded her head, “Come with me then.” And began walking before Fenrys could ask any questions. He followed her, eventually keeping pace next to her while the two guards followed behind. He couldn’t help but catch a whiff of her scent, and he wish he hadn’t. Not that she smelt bad...it was that she smelt so good. Her scent was intoxicating.

“Are we going to the meeting?” He only received a nod as she continued walking. “Is there a reason I’ve been confined to my rooms?” Annoyance flooded his tone without him meaning too. Her scent still invading his nostrils, making it hard to think straight.

She cut him a glance, “You were told you could venture throughout the city, no?” He shook his head in response. Her eyebrows furrowed and she stopped walking for a moment and turned to the guards behind her and said something, in what he guessed was the native tongue of the area, quickly and curtly, before continuing walking.

“May I inquire what you said?”

She smirked at him a bit before smoothening her features back into a face of calm and discipline. “That they have disappointed me in being rude to our first guest from Terrasen.”

He wanted to ask about the language but something she said caught his ear. “First of Terrasen? Have other counties been here since the war?”

“You may discuss that with the King.” She moves a bit closer to him before quietly adding, “Fenharrow, Red Dessert, and the Southern Continent.”

He nodded gratefully at the information, glad to know something of the strange kingdom before going into the meeting.

She leads him to the end of a hallway made up of windows, overlooking the Oakwald forest and a river rolling through the heart of the city, that he still had no name for.

“Isn’t it beautiful.” He was shaken from his gaze at the lands to see the woman standing next to him looking too, adoration swimming in her bright blue eyes. Her scent becoming stronger at the close proximity.

“It is... is this your homeland?” His gaze still resting upon her.

Something in her eyes turned hard as she frowned and she looked away from the view and became very interested in the doors, “No.” Before he could inquire any further, she walked to the doors and opened them, revealing a long table with many seats, a few had already been claimed. Empty plates sat in front of each seat along with silverware and a tall glass.

The woman held the door open for the two guards and himself, and as he passed he looked at her again to be met with the face he saw when she entered his room. Calm, disciplined, a small smile and calm eyes. It should have been comforting, but something about the gaze made him feel more uneasy about the strange kingdom.

“What is your name?” Slipped through his lips before he could even process the thought.

She blinked and the mask dropped for a moment revealing a look he could not tell what it meant, before the composed look was back and she answered, “Enedina” before walking into the room, not seeming to care if the door smacked him.

She walked beside a young man who looked to be young, but his slightly pointed ears gave Fenrys the feeling he was at least a hundred years old. A Demi fae prince? How had this kingdom survived the wrath of Adarlan’s old king?

The male looked away from another demi fae, who looked older and was wearing a crown upon his head, the king then, to turn his attention to Enedina. He smiled and pulled her in for a hug, she laughed at something whispered in her ear and he laughed when she returned the favor. When they pulled apart, the man he guessed to be the king pulled her in for a quick hug before nodding and walking over to a group of human men standing on the other side of the room.

Fenrys couldn’t help but stare at Enedina and the male as she suddenly came alive, seeming to tell him a story, her face alive and joyous, hands moving tell the story with her, the male laughing and mock frowning at various parts.

He sat down at the table in a random seat, tearing his gaze away. He didn’t understand why he felt a twinge of jealousy, he barely knew her...and yet he could still smell her intoxicating sent from all the way across the room.

She couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across her face as she told Ellery of her adventure to the Red Dessert, she has been sent there for a mission and it had gone amazing, as usual.

She had missed her friend very very much and had been worried sick about him while she was gone.

When she finished with her story, Ellery glanced somewhere behind her before signing to her, “What a pretty male.”

She rolled her eyes before saying, “He doesn’t know our ‘language’” she air quoted language, “you can speak, no need for silent conversation.”

Ellery rolled his eyes before signing back, “He may not know it but others in this room do, no one but you and I know our broken made up sign language.”

She huffed out a laugh before looking at the male, sitting by himself at the table, glancing around the room, and turned her gaze back to her friend and signing, “He’s nervous you know. He probably thinks we will kill him.”

“I’ve heard his form is a wolf” She quirked up an eyebrow. “I’ve heard roasted potatoes and wolf are quite delicious.”

A laugh tumbled out of her as she smacked his hand, his laugh following. She was aware of the looks she received, knowing only one would be confused.

“I think he fancies you” Ellery signed, smirking that Gods awful smirk of his. She knew he was up to no good.

“You’re an idiot, go find your seat, the meeting starts soon” She said aloud in common tongue. Ellery boomed out another laugh before going and sitting beside the head of the table.

She took her position by the door and was well aware of the fae male’s gaze upon her, but she chose to ignore it and opted to watch the guests filter in, saying hello and hugging a few. Once all the seats were filled the king nodded to her and she ushered the other guards and servants out before closing the door and going to stand in the corner of the room.

“Let the meeting begin.” The King announced, voice easily filling the large room, in the countries fabricated ‘language’.

She cleared her throat, bringing the King’s attention to her, “Yes Enedina?”

“Our guest does not speak our tongue sir.” She reminded him politely.

“Ah yes, our guest.” The King nodded and turned his attention to the warrior ambassador of Terrasen. “Let’s begin.”

- - - - -

Hope you enjoyed chapter one, let me know what you think! Part two will be up tomorrow!!

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somepinkthing · 5 years

Text

untitled fic: jin ling finds the remnants of the camps part II

[part 1]

“Jin Ling? Sizhui and Jingyi told me you were here! What’s up, did you miss me?” Wei Wuxian chirped, bouncing over to where Jin Ling was kneeling.

“What are you doing kneeling outside the jingshi? Did you do something bad?”

Jin Ling shook his head childishly.

Wei Wuxian’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, “Did you upset Jingyi again? Don’t worry, don’t worry. Your great, fantastic, beautiful uncle will help you smooth it over. Now, tell me, what did you do? You run your mouth again?”

Wei Wuxian’s babble immediately stopped upon seeing Jin Ling’s face.

“Jin Ling?” he asked.

“Where,” Jin Ling paused to lick his impossibly dry lips. He couldn’t remember if he’d drank anything yet today and he didn’t really care if he hadn’t.

“Where’s Wen Ning? I need to talk to him.”

Jin Ling always knew Wei Wuxian to be an incredibly expressive person. He often wondered how he’d ever managed to fool so many people for so long with how he wore every single emotion he had all over his entire body. For example, the second Jin Ling finished speaking, Wei Wuxian’s entire person sagged. Jin Ling could read resignation, upset, and a bone deep sadness that often trailed in Wei Wuxian’s shadow but rarely managed to overtake him like this.

One look at his shijiu and Jin Ling knew that he knew exactly what this was about.

He knew, jiujiu knew, all of his sect seemed to know.

So it was just stupid little Jin Ling that was left in the dark again, huh?

“Jin Ling, come inside. Tell me what happened. I-I’ll answer any questions you have, just come in and get warmed up first.”

---

Jin Ling told Wei Wuxian everything over tea. He would have thought he’d be reluctant to but the words just came tumbling out. He hadn’t really slept for the past week, he had barely eaten. Honestly, just saying it and seeing Wei Wuxian nod along was a relief. At least it helped him feel he wasn’t crazy. At least someone seemed willing to acknowledge what he’d seen.

“I see. So they had buried them there....”

“Buried them?! Buried who?!” Jin Ling yelled, finally losing his patience, “Who are they? Why are they there?!”

Wei Wuxian sighed.

“Jin Ling, you already know. Please don’t make me say it. Don’t make me tell you.”

Jin Ling could hear the despair in Wei Wuxian’s voice. Usually, he’d know to stop pushing there. He hated to hear it and, usually, it wasn’t a topic he was willing to push. But not this time. This time he’d found mass graves right at his doorstep.

He deserved to know. He should have been told!

His sect elders should have answered him.

His jiujiu should have written back to him by now.

Everyone should have warned him.

“Tell me. You promised to tell me. I’ve pegged you for a lot, Wei Wuxian, but I never pegged you as someone who went back on their word!”

Wei Wuxian let out a slight chuckle.

“Always with the dramatics,” he muttered, “One little thing doesn’t go your way and you’re throwing such a tantrum? You really are your uncle’s student.”

He shook his head and poured them both some more tea.

“Alright, Sect Leader Jin. You have a point. I said what I said. Ask me anything and I will answer.”

Jin Ling opened his mouth, only to snap it shut again. What could he ask? Where did he start? He had a million questions. The bodies, sure, but Wei Wuxian was right. He already knew who they were. But why so many? Why were they there? Why were some of them so obviously farmers? Why children? Why did they have to die? Why wasn’t Jin Ling told?

So many questions and each one lead straight to another one.

“Tell me everything--everything from your point of view. What happened during the Sunshot Campaign? Why were those bodies there? Why did I never hear about that battle? Why... why children?”

Wei Wuxian froze.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“There’s a lot. A lot of context to explain too.”

“I want to hear it.”

He had to hear it. He had to know.

Wei Wuxian shook his head. He hopped to his feet and sauntered over to the window.

“Ah, you there!” he motioned to one of the disciples passing by, “Bring Sect Leader Jin some more refreshments, will you? And tell Lan Zhan to give us some time alone. We might be here a while...”

---

And so, We Wuxian started to speak.

---

“I never heard of grandmother being like this. Jiujiu only ever tells me she was the strongest woman he’s ever known.”

“You were bothering Hanguang-jun from that early on, huh? What the hell did he see in you?”

“Father said what about mother?”

“You-you! Shameless! You pulled off Hanguang-jun’s headband?! In front of everyone? Before you were even courting? You basically stole his-his. And in public too. I can’t believe you! He didn’t kill you?”

“My father stood up for the girl with you? He did that? And none of you even had your swords...”

“I’ve seen the Xuanwu’s skull, you braggart. I know for a fact it wasn’t that big, stop bullshitting me!”

“Su She shot you? What an ungrateful--!”

“You really did break that promise. Jiujiu must have been heartbroken...”

“Wen Chao... It was all his fault....”

“You gave jiujiu your what?!”

“You were really in there that long? So that’s how you gained so much resentful energy. The Burial Mounds...”

“That’s... that’s a little too much, isn’t it? Even if it was Wen Chao...”

“Stygian Tiger Seal. No one ever told me it was used to win the war before it was, well...”

“How did you manage to mistake Hanguang-jun for a shy maiden? Even if you couldn’t see, shouldn’t it have been obvious?.... What!? Your first kiss? That late? With your shamelessness? Even I’ve been kissed already! N-Not that it’s any of your business!”

“Father....that’s so humiliating....”

“Wen Qing sounds nice. Um, for a Wen that is..... SHUT UP! Don’t speculate about my type!”

“C-camps? What kind of camps?”

“Wen Ning died like that? You’re lying, he died in battle. Right?!”

“Why did you leave the sect? Why didn’t you ask jiujiu for help? It couldn’t have hurt to ask!”

“Did you two really have to go at it that hard? I know, you had to make it believable. Still...”

“Mother in a wedding gown... I would have loved to see her. I bet she was beautiful.”

“They sound nice. For Wens, I mean.”

“They attacked you while you were unarmed? With that many men? Was Jin Zixun really that dishonorable a man? Everyone told me he was a great warrior.”

“My gift...”

“Father...”

“Wen Qing.... Wen Ning....”

“The Nightless City Conference wasn’t the pact conference, that came after your attack. Grandfather gave his word and jiujiu wouldn’t just agree to attack you just like that. And you threw the first blow anyways, not us. You’re mixing things up again... aren’t you?”

“Did you really think you could stop all of the sects then and there? What were you hoping to accomplish?!”

“M-mother...”

“He attacked 33 of his own sect members? But the punishment for that is--!”

“T-they killed everyone? Everyone everyone? Even the old lady? My grandfather really ordered that?”

“Why can’t you tell me what happened to the child? Can you at least tell me if they made it? Are they okay? Do you know?”

“Everyone always told me jiujiu landed the final blow. I guess, now that I think about it, Jiujiu never once confirmed that for me. He doesn’t like to talk about it, you know. That siege is basically a taboo at Lotus Pier, everyone’s afraid to mention it. I asked him about it once and he made me kneel in the ancestral hall for a whole night.”

---

“--and now you know everything,” Wei Wuxian finished, “Well, everything I can tell you. Remember that this is just my version, Jin Ling. Everyone’s got a different story.”

“No, they don’t.”

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow.

“Sure they do?”

“No!” Jin Ling roared, “They don’t! They don’t all have different stories! Everyone, for my whole life, has only ever told me one version! Their version! One lie! And, like some stupid child, I believed them! I never questioned them, I never asked. And now I have all those damn bodies that I can’t even ignore! What am I supposed to do with that? What does any of that mean? Why didn’t anyone just tell me the truth?!”

Jin Ling started pacing angrily around the room, trying to get his feet to move as fast as his racing thoughts. They lied. They lied, they lied. they lied they lied theyliedtheyliedthey--

“Jin Ling, calm down!”

“Don’t! Don’t tell me to calm down! You don’t get to discipline me! None of you get to tell me what’s right or wrong anymore!” Jin Ling roared, rounding on his uncle.

“Why didn’t you tell me then? The rest of them were afraid to; they were ashamed, I see that now. And they should be! But what standing could you have possibly lost by telling me the truth?”

“Jin Ling, I didn’t know for sure you’d uncover any bodies!” Wei Wuxian pleaded, getting to his feet and putting his hands on his nephew’s shoulders.

“I didn’t want you to lose faith in the people around you,” he admitted with a sigh.

“Even if they never deserved my faith in the first place? Even if that meant lying to me? Why do you get to decide that for me? Why does everyone but me get to decide who deserves my faith?”

“Jin Ling, I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t even know if you’d believe me.”

“Well,” Jin Ling barked, choking off a sob, “I do. I believe you. I don’t have a choice but to believe you now. I have three pits full of fucking bodies telling me I have to believe you. Does that make you feel good?”

Wei Wuxian started to say something but Jin Ling cut him off.

“Thank you for telling me all this but where is Wen Ning? I want to talk to him after all.”

tbc? probably

also @kaialisonflame since you asked me to tag you! Thanks for enjoying!

#jin ling #jin rulan #wen ning #wei wuxian #wei ying #wwx #jl #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #gdc #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #founder of diabloism #fic #my fic #my writing #mdzs fic #wen qionglin #ps: i basically made all of jin ling's reactions my own reactions from my first read through because this is as fresh to him as it was for m

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lady-moonbroch · 5 years

Text

Arthur x Theo “Acts of jealousy”

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Kinktober: Day 23 || Angry Sex Genre: NSFW +18 Word Count: 1,495 Author’s note: Surpriiiiise! This idea has been tumbling in my head after all the delicious banter in Arthot’s route and @jonahswife, being the tiny devil perched on my shoulder, is why we are here today. I wouldn’t easily consider writing well yaoi (i guess) because it’s hard, but I wanted to give it a try. Hope you like it and I’ll see you next one, which includes the corruption of a saint..🎃

[The challenge] ~ @alloveroliver

His blood was boiling inside of him as he watched his friend, for yet another night, spend himself on women undeserving of his attention. Theo sat there sipping his whiskey, eyes trained on the mirror reflecting the Englishman’s figure surrounded by “pretty skirts”. He was kissing the young girls one by one, giving them equal care.

An animal-like growl rumbled in Theo’s throat, he had enough of that lecherous sight. He downed his whiskey and paid his bill. He took his long coat from the coatrack and left the pub behind him, the fresh cold air crashing on his face did nothing to cool down the raging fire that scorched his skin from within.

Not much time passed after he dashed out of the pub, when suddenly he heard the sound of hurried trampling closing in behind.

“Theo!” Arthur shouted, making the Dutch stop in his tracks. Why did he follow him?

“Damn and blast Theo! Why did you storm off like that?”, he inquired as he panted for air.

“Ruined your fun?”, he snarled.

“Frankly yes, but doesn’t matter. Let’s get a ride back home” he replied, his tone as jolly as always as he signalled to carriage to stop.

Theo took stock of his friend. He seemed..amused and the more that stupid smile remained on his face the more his anger overwhelmed him.

He uttered not a word on the way back, no matter how much Arthur tried to provoke him enough to speak. A feeling of uneasiness stirred in his chest as the severe expression remained unchanged on Theo’s face. His bright blue eyes shined with fury, never straying from the darkness that prevailed outside and his lips where a straight solemn line.

Theo bolted out of the carriage and rushed inside the mansion, ignoring Arthur’s clamour as he made his way to his room.

“So eager to go to bed alone, Theo?”, the Brit teased, the sound of his leather oxford’s barely muffled by the carpet as he rushed to reach Theo.

“I’m not the one sleeping with a different scruffy “skirt” every night”, Theo scoffed without turning to look him in the eye.

“Now, now, must you aggrieve me like this?”

“Like what?”, he snarled. He turned around, making Arthur bump against his back.

“By Jove, Theo…whatever happened that made you so..”

“I’ve had enough!”, he halted him.

“Enough of what?”

“Enough of seeing you flirt with unfaithful wives and promiscuous little girls every night. I’m done with this charade” he growled. He spun around but before he could take a step Arthur grabbed him by his coat and tugged him back to him. Their lips brushed briefly, eyes widening at the abrupt contact of skin. They both stared at each other for a moment, before Arthur’s lips curved into a smile.

“Is it maybe that you are jealous, my dear friend?”

Theo’s eyes became as wide as saucers. He knew he couldn’t hide much from a man like him, but he didn’t imagine he let his guard down that much. But he wouldn’t let him win. Theo scoffed and gave the Brit an arrogant glare.

“Really? And what lead the great detective at such a deduction I wonder”

“The fact that you are acting like a brat?”, he goaded him.

“You better watch that mouth of yours…Arthur”

“Or else what? You’re going t-..”

His words were devoured before they left his throat, as Theo grabbed him by the ascot, lips capturing his with urgency and fervour. His hand clutched his dark hair between his fingers as he kissed him harder still. Arthur moaned against his lips, allowing him entrance in his mouth. Tongues tangled and twisted around each other as wanton grunts and groans filled the air around them.

Theo broke the kiss, hurriedly dragging Arthur inside his room. He pushed him against a wall, kissing him deep while his hands worked on his cloths, pealing them off his body. The Englishman mirrored his actions, until both of them where completely bare, their skin caressed by the faint moonbeams illuminating the room.

“On your knees..” Theo barked, making Arthur chuckle. He kissed his way down the Dutchman’s body, coaxing a small moan as he bit his abdomen teasingly.

He encased Theo’s cock inside his mouth slowly. Timidly he began to move his head back and forth, using his fangs to apply pressure on the side of his shaft. He began to take more of his length inside, humming at the sound of loud groans escaping his lips. He knew what could incite greatest pleasure on a man, always taking mental notes of how the “pretty birds” he entertained himself with tried to please him. He left a trail of wet kisses from the base to the tip, his tongue trancing over it to gather the precum. Their eyes locked as Arthur took the apex of his cock between his lips, giving it a hard suck.

“Ahhhn, fuck…verdomde klootzak..”, he hissed as Arthur realised him from his mouth an audible pop. “Hey now, don’t be harsh on me Theo”, the Scot uttered, his breath ghosting over Theo’s member.

“I suggest you do a good work lubing my cock, Arthur. You’ll need it when I’ll fuck you senseless…”

“All bark but no bite, old boy”, he chuckled. Ceruleans eyes locked with sky blue ones glaring at each other provokingly, two predators laying in wait for the next move.

Theo cupped Arthur’s chin in his hand and beckon him to stand. He smirked playfully before leaning in to kiss him hard and guide him to his bed. Arthur laid himself down resting on his elbows and biting his lower lip as he admired the Dutchman’s strong, chiseled figure. Theo grinned as his coated his shaft with lube and bent down above him, caging him between his arms.

“I prefer being the one on top, Theo. I thought you would remember..”, the Scot teased. Theo snickered softly before flipping Arthur on his belly.

“Oh I remember”, he purred, leaning down to lick the shell of his ear, nibbling his helix piercing and teasing it with his tongue. Soft moans escaped the writer’s lips as he looked over his shoulder to meet his lover’s eyes.

“Y-you fiend..”, he whimpered as Theo stroked his back gently, his other hand holding his manhood, aligning it with his entrance.

“Stop. You’ll make me blush..”, he teased. He began to enter steady and slow, giving Arthur enough time to adjust to his girth. They both sighed in relief and relished at the feeling of tightness and connection building between him. Theo began his thrusts, slowly at first, picking up the speed and becoming more aggressive as Arthur grunted and moaned his name, begging breathily to go harder. The Dutch gritted his teeth, his hand reached for his lover’s dark hair to pull his flush against him as he thrusted inside him hard. His lips found his neck, fangs protruded and grazing over his flesh before sinking in, lapping at the blood flowed generously into his mouth.

“Gahh, T-Theo..y-you bloody..hnn..bastard..” Arthur moaned helplessly, one hand clutched on Theo’s soft auburn hair and the other stroking his own length. His released spilled over the back of his hand, the shockwaves of pleasure from the bite washing over him, making his eyes roll back.

Theo slowed his pace, his tongue tracing over the wound before he took Arthur’s hand to clean it from his arousal.

“Such a good boy”, he whispered and left a kiss his hand.

Returning his attention back to his neck he regained his speed, his right hand snaked around the Brit’s waist and the other around his neck. His grunts were louder, more breathy, his climax approaching fast.

“Tell me…”, he growled next to Arthur’s ear, making him turn around and look at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Tell me I’m better than…those shallow women you divert yourself with..”, he billowed with passion raging in his pale blue eyes. Arthur smiled, almost weakly and kissed Theo feverishly, their moans and humming of satisfaction filling the room.

“Yes…aahn yes you are..T-Theoo” Arthur moaned between their heated kiss, smiling at the shuddering of muscles behind him.

“Ahhn, fuck..A-Arthur!”, he growled. His climax hit him like thunder and made him fall against Arthur, quivering and panting, overwhelmed with bliss.

He laid down on the bed, as Arthur rose and walked at the other side of the room. Theo looked at him quizzically, yet soon his eyes widened with surprise at the sight of his friend holding his dog’s leash. He looked back up to his deep blue eyes, only to find mischief and lust simmering within.

“Hm, this needy puppy is in need of some discipline, methinks” he cooed, snapping the leash between his hands.

“Show me what a good boy you are” he purred, his wicked grin mirrored on the Dutchman’s face.

#alloverkinktober #kinktober day 23 #ikemen vampire #ikevam arthur #ikevam theo #Arthur Conan Doyle #theodorus van gogh #ikevam smut #claire's kinktoberfest #this was easier said than done #but here we are #the ship has sailed

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marlene-mxkinnon · 4 years

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about marlene.

“i’m tough, i’m ambitious, and i know exactly what i want. if that makes me a bitch, okay.”

personal. name: marlene espeth mckinnon age: sixteen gender: cis female sexuality: openly bisexual physique: slender & muscular, small chested, petite style preference: very “effortless indie rock”, short skirts and doc martens, oversized denim jackets and daisy dukes, no makeup and unstyled hair scars/beauty marks: many, many small scars from rough-housing and quidditch practice tattoos: an “a”, rising sun, setting moon family: father; douglas mckinnon [52] - world war ii veteran, now dragonologist | mother; apolline mckinnon (nee cormier) [49] - diplomatic envoy at french ministry of magic | angus mckinnon [deceased] birthplace: killin, scotland residence: killin, scotland & marseille, france languages known: english, french

personality. good: determined, strategic, loyal, adventurous, humorous bad: scathing, insulting, impulsive, emotionally-detached, envious neutral: daring, ambitious, intense, straight-forward, fearless fears: losing those close to her, never being good enough self-esteem: marlene projects confidence and is shamelessly herself, rough edges and all. insecurity settles in her blind spots in the form of jealousy and the feeling of never being enough. she struggles with dissecting her emotions and properly understanding them. to make up for this, she’s constantly on the defense, putting up a wall of fire to prevent anyone, including herself from reading too deeply into her.

magical. status: pureblood house: gryffindor wand: 10.5" cherry wood, phoenix tail feather, unyielding quidditch position: chaser boggart: herself, struggling against invisible bonds, alone, screaming for help. one of her greatest fears is being abandoned by everyone she loves and left for dead. patronus: tiger. a very strong, independent patronus. they have a fierce personality to them that they show openly, and have no problem doing it. however, there is more to them than just an impression, they have parts of their past that are a bit dark, and that has caused them to grow a bit cynical. they don’t like to show their feelings to others, as they like to maintain the impression for themselves and for others that they are unbreakable. they are not fast to warm up to anyone, but once they do they will protect you with all that they have. amortentia: fresh dirt, campfires, her mother’s perfume best discipline: offensive magic / transfiguration / potions worst discipline: medi-magic / astronomy

backstory. (tw child death)

her father made the mckinnon name near famous in the wizarding world when he joined world war ii to fight alongside muggles for the future of england as a whole. he met her mother when he was stationed in france as she was a young socialite and french ministry worker. it was a love at first sight meeting and despite how opposite the pair was, they married before returning to scotland. just years later, they had marlene.

she was always a wild and unruly child with a temper too large for her small body. she was stubborn and didn’t stop until she got what she wanted which wore her parents (namely her mother) out. her mother wanted to follow in the same footsteps as the witches of beauxbatons but her father insisted marlene would be destined to carve her own path (cue her title of daddy’s girl). so they compromised; she did ballet and piano and did enough extra-curricular studies to satisfy her mother but found her love in tumbling off her broom until she came home with bruised and bloody knees.

she was three years old when her brother, Angus, was born. he was a smiling, happy baby and from the moment she laid eyes on him, marlene was in love. something changed in the family and all the strong personalities that made up the mckinnon family suddenly clicked together. marlene was fiercely protective of her younger brother and the new addition to the family seemed to soften her sharp edges.

five years later and her brother grew ill with dragon pox. he passed away shortly after the diagnosis and the family was devastated. her mother would lock herself into her room for days without talking to anyone and her father spent night after night in bars before stumbling home and collapsing on the couch. at eight years old, marlene would cook, clean, and take care of her family that was now fractured and shattered in all the wrong places. she was forced to grow up faster than most children her age and with this, her petulance solidified into fire in her bones.

when she was eleven, she was off to hogwarts and with her quick-fire mouth and sharp edges, she made a name for herself. some admired her, some feared her, but her true friends were the ones that managed to get close enough to the flames without getting burnt. she was known to voice her opinions harshly and without a particular care for others’ feelings which resulted in many detentions and far more enemies. her parents received many owls in her first year and this is when they realized that they were at fault for allowing marlene to follow a wayward path.

when she returned home for the summer, they both strived hard to unify the family again; her father took her to work to teach her the patience and gentleness of working with magical creatures and her mother often whisked them all to france to spend time with her family and introduce marlene to a long line of strong women. they refined her edges and breathed life back into her bones. with this she was able to direct her fury into a cause and turn her whirlwind of energy into productivity.

getting to know her parents all over again and watching their family fall back into place again brought a chaotic calm into her life and with the stories both her parents brought- her father with his war stories and her mother with her ministry stories, marlene knew at age eleven that she would, no matter what, fight for what she believes in. now she believes her detentions, while far fewer in number, are at least warranted.

marlene is the sun personified: bright, exuberant, and reckless. she burns brightly and unapologetically, warm in the fiercest way yet burns if you get too close. she’s wild and free, synonymous with adventures and laughter but also with scathing words and unforgivingness. while she’s loved and admired by many and feared by the rest, marlene is radiant in every sense of the word.

#( i'm bad behaviour but i do it in the best way. | character study. )#child death tw #all of this stemming from wanting to make a character graphic and figuring i might as well throw a character sheet along with it #me: if i write the backstory in bullets it won't be as long and rambly #...

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albertgeorge4-blog · 4 years

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Endure BIkes

One thing is certain, enduro bicycles are affecting and the choice and plan of bikes has never been some uncommon choice reliant on what's norm. We amassed the current most vivifying models for this gathering test and put them through a colossal level of difficulty. Snap here

What is an enduro hard scene bike?

An enduro bicycles are from a general viewpoint a taking a gander at bike with at any rate 150mm of suspension travel. They're worked for the challenges of hustling pedal to the metal downhill while being palatable useful on climbs and trim course moreover.

What makes the best enduro investigating bikes?

With truly around an in each accommodating sense cloudy number of different enduro race plans as models of bike, fashioners of enduro race bikes really have their work gotten out. From chairlift-got to events in the Alps and Canada, to lung-affecting pedal-fests in Colorado and Scotland, raised level enduro hustling isn't just hard on riders.

Enduro has exploded from a solid point race discipline into an unquestionable clarification that has gotten blemished from 'crazy' mountain biking. Scarcely a month passes by without the dispatch of another new enduro bike. In like manner, if it's not new bikes to kick you off up, it's new enduro events to ride them at.

Cut through the movement, regardless, and you'll quickly find that it's correspondingly a hotbed of thing improvement. Updates in suspension fork and tried individual progression are particularly key in driving forward the class. Lightweight and expected to channel through surrendered drops, first in class parts join excitedly on the latest yield of 160mm race bikes. Visit

To be dead genuine, the bikes need to discover such a congruity among speed and adequacy on approval trails, yet still have the decision to impact plunges that wouldn't watch inquisitive on the World Cup DH circuit. A compromise that is what's more got by how inconsequential mechanical assistance is allowed at races, so the bikes should be strangely solid also.

Timing has in like manner had a goliath influence really appearing at affirmation of enduro. With more certain wheels, 1x drivetrains and carbon fiber plot improvement wandering unusually down to ever-hack down worth living spaces, the latest bikes truly can be lighter, stiffer, snappier and more fit.

That is the explanation you shouldn't flood straight out and buy a muddling new enduro bike if a tremendous segment of your seat time is spent way riding. If you do, you'll quickly find that you're completely over-biked for a large portion of your riding. Unquestionably, even the lightest bikes are minor riches on everything near the hardest way. motocross track close to me

The test field in this enduro pack test

The 2019 season saw stores of accomplice new and on an essential level more fit enduro bikes introduced. Despite the Specialized S-Works Enduro, Santa Cruz Megatower, Rocky Mountain Slayer and Pole Stamina 180, the Nukeproof Mega 290 Carbon caused a lot of hugeness even before we examined it in our social affair test. motogp news Orbea have gone after the suspension of the Rallon, building up the upsetting astounding unforeseen new development and making it moreover stunning, all with the help of another rocker interface. We had the sparkling new Norco Sight C1 on test, which Norco truly position between their way and enduro bike duties. Notwithstanding, with its promising evaluation and 160 mm travel early, it fit into this enduro pack test impeccably. The Nukeproof Mega 275 and the Ibis Mojo HD5 were the noteworthy two 27.5″ bikes in the test field, while the others all proceed ahead 29″ wheels. We acceptably had the particular opportunity to consider the beginning at starting late unreleased RAAW Madonna V2. The enthusiastic grown-up brand has starting late made a true blue contempt with the focal kind of its bike, and now it's been changed far and away further. More

current pick of the best enduro unforgiving scene bikes in 2020

Express Enduro S-Works 29

It required some theory to get to handles with the latest Enduro 29. From the most solid early phase we couldn't get zeroed in on the bike, and no degree of suspension tweaking seemed to improve matters. Totally when we fitted a shorter stem and flipped the math to the high setting notwithstanding, we in a moderate second hit it off. This bike is rapid, and the more unpalatable the way, the better it is. It rides light moreover, yet most fantastic is that this 170mm beast climbs more advantageously than different upsetting scene bikes with strikingly less travel. Genuinely, the XTR brakes can't be trusted, and the expense should be £7,999 not £8,999, paying little notification to there's no unsafe the ride thought of the Enduro 29. It's basically stupefying. motocross

Yeti SB150 T-Series X01

Yeti's bikes have persistently looked tumbling yet the new SB150 is obvious animal. With 150mm travel on the back, empowered with a 170mm fork and a room 64.3degree head point, this bleeding edge 29er enduro bike is an overall weapon on the skips, yet you can paying little notification to beast everyone on the journeys. motosportThe suspension is brilliantly balanced and the considering is on point. Truly, Yeti has stunned a few bits of the made unit from what the race pack use, yet that doesn't shield the SB150 from being a really astounding bike. Everyone at MBR that is ridden it just reviews that it.

Nukeproof Mega 275c Pro

By adding the 275c Pro to the Mega extend, Nukeproof gives major level execution to more fundamental worth point. You get a close to rich winning carbon edge and spread as the raised level bike, and the 12-speed SRAM Eagle GX drivetrain ensures that you don't have to pick masterminding. Factor in the race tuned math and breaking down and the Mega 275c Pro handles like nothing else. It needs a front tire that can change an extensively more wide verity of conditions in any case, yet given how perplexing this bike rides, we couldn't let that block an ideal 10 rating.

End

It's stunning how enduro bikes have made in such a short space of time; the best new structures are beginning at now commonly lightweight more little than standard downhill bikes and, it shows up, each man and his canine is sharp an enduro racer (mbr staff included). Cut through the provoking spiel, regardless, and one thing is out and out clear: longer-travel bikes are better than anybody may have anticipated beginning at now, and we have enduro to thank for it.Visit

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khrsecretvalentine · 5 years

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KHR Summer Exchange 2019 for @khrkin

Notes: KHR Secret Summer Holidays 2019! For Fran (@khrkin), who asked for terrible comedy and found-family (and 1827, which I unfortunately didn’t manage, sorry ;o;).

From @kyogre-blue to @khrkin

~.~.~

The Special Investigation, Containment, and Discipline Committee, Namimori branch, was supposed to investigate, contain and punish supernatural crimes — hauntings, possessions, curses, use of magic in illegal affairs, as well as monster attacks. Ghostbusters, pseudo government version, basically. Sawada Tsunayoshi, terrified out of his mind, had received a full course of training on all those things during new hire orientation… the “orientation” that was just a shaky home-made video and a powerpoint slide with clipart zooming onto the screen.

Anyway, apparently all those scary things did exist.

However, dealing with them… was not what they actually did, day to day. In his three months at the Committee, Tsuna hadn’t seen a single supernatural thing outside of his coworkers.

He had seen a distressingly high number of stalkers, serial killers and scammers though.

“Don’t worry, Tsuna-kun!” Sasagawa Kyoko, the secretary, receptionist and nanny of the team, comforted him when he tried to bring up the subject. “It’s summer now, and we’ll have more real work. Summer is the season for seances and ghost stories, after all. That’ll stir up the spirits. Lots of people going exploring too, in all kinds of places, waking up all kinds of things… I’m sure it’ll pick up soon!”

That wasn’t comforting.

…Let’s start at the beginning.

Sawada Tsunayoshi, also known as Dame Tsuna, age 18, had completely bombed every university entrance exam he’d taken — as expected. His middle school crush Kyoko found him crying behind the school building on graduation day, completely without future prospects. With the kindness that had made him fall for her in the first place, she gave him her handkerchief and listened to his sobbed complaints.

“It’s okay, Tsuna-kun,” she said, after he calmed down. “I know a place that’s always looking for people!”

That place was the Special Investigation, Containment, and Discipline Committee, Namimori branch.

Kyoko and her brother Ryohei had been recruited after they ended up involved in a supernatural incident. It wasn’t a kind of “you know about us, so now you must join” thing. They could have forgotten all about it and gone home to their normal lives. Although the Committee did not have anything as nice as actual memory alteration, they did have a substance that could blur recent memories, which was given to most witnesses.

Ryohei refused. Punching ghosts or whatever was apparently too exciting. And Kyoko followed his lead.

Frankly speaking, Tsuna hadn’t really believed in this stuff. He figured that this was the designated ‘loser’ group that was changed with wild goose chases and hoaxes — someone had to deal with the citizens calling in hauntings and such, after all, even if it all turned out to be squeaky windows and leaking pipes in the end.

Most importantly, it was a job that didn’t care about his qualifications and didn’t require any competence test. As long as he could escape being an unemployed waste upon society, Tsuna would take anything.

He… did not expect his boss to beat him up on the first day, or one of his coworkers to have a shape-shifting bamboo sword that could cut through sheets of solid steel. Or the weird foreign kid, who might have been a coworker but Tsuna wasn’t sure, to be able to generate lightning out of nowhere. Or his other, other coworker who may or may not have been possessed.

But it was still a job. Tsuna would take anything, including all that.

The current job market was scarier than any ghost.

…Probably. Final judgement pending actually seeing a ghost.

~.~.~

Just as Kyoko said, summer was the season of ghost stories and seances. What this meant was that the police, the fire department and sometimes even government agencies that didn’t like naming themselves would transfer over cases from concerned citizens who were absolutely sure they were being haunted by the spirit of their great-grandfather, a jilted office lady who hung herself at the abandoned building a block over, or a famous serial killer. (Why did people like trying to call up the ghost of Jack the Ripper so much anyway?)

Kyoko and Yamamoto, the only two employees with basic social skills, were on the phone without rest, using their friendliest, most soothing voices. Meanwhile, Tsuna and Ryohei were given links to videos of exorcism ceremonies and some very realistic looking Shinto priest robes, sewn up by their intern Haru. Thus equipped, they became… con artists on a government salary.

Gokudera had also been offered a costume, but he insisted on trying to prove the concerned citizens’ worries unfounded through the power of science — even if Gokudera’s idea of science included “energy fields” that could not be detected by modern instruments, which left “imprints” that carried an “echo of the deceased’s biopatterns” blah blah, and other things that sounded no less creepy than just calling it a haunting.

Gokudera’s success rate dropped to an all new low, along with his salary.

It was the usual combination of dumb job and crazy coworkers, just in sweltering heat.

And then, Tsuna tried to perform an… exorcism (scam) at the new Nonohana Building downtown.

The building had been suffering from a number of creepy rumors, which came to a head when several bored employees had a few too many drinks after working overtime, did a seance (of course), and then ended up in the hospital one by one after mysterious accidents (of course).

“Na-mo-ta-mo-ra-su-ro…” Tsuna chanted pure nonsense while walking through the motions roughly approximating an exorcism. The paper ropes at the end of his stick rustled as he swung it back and forth. Nearby, the building owner and several other figures in business suits watched with expressions ranging from worry to desperate hope to outright boredom. One of them was filming with her cellphone. Tsuna sweated a little more than usual, under the heavy priest robes.

Thankfully, he didn’t trip this time — that was always hard to explain away.

The air felt a little strange, as Tsuna knelt and completed the fake exorcism. And his stick — currently serving as a scam prop with paper ropes tied onto it, but in actuality a collapsible nightstick he had been given as self-defense weapon — was almost uncomfortably hot in his hand. It made him hesitate and get up only slowly.

Before he could lift his head, the nearby peanut gallery gasped collectively. When Tsuna looked at them, they were all staring at something on the high wall of the lobby, behind the reception desk.

Tsuna turned.

“Hiiiiieeee—!”

There was dark red, blood-like substance flowing down the smooth surface of the wall. There was no indication where the hopefully-not-blood came from, as it seemingly appeared out of nowhere several dozen feet up. It didn’t flow straight down like a proper rust stain either. The red smears thickened and thinned, and curved — into what looked entirely too much like writing.

PAY

—It said.

“M-Mr. Sawada!” the building owner whimpered. “Wh-what…”

Tsuna also did not know what. With trembling hands, he fumbled through his robes and pulled out his cellphone, hitting the speed-dial for the office.

The call did not go through. What came from the speaker was instead an almost cliche horror movie mix of sounds — a screech, static, and a long moan-like clicking. The screen flickered and showed Tsuna’s wallpaper, only to glitch and twist until there was something like the shadow of a screaming face among the pixels.

Tsuna wanted to pass out. He really, really wanted to pass out.

His terrified shrieking — as well as that of the gathered businessmen — was drowned out by the clatter of the storm shutters descending across all the lobby windows. The suited clients, er, concerned citizens scattered, running in several directions in a futile bid to find some way out of the lobby that was suddenly in lockdown. Tsuna’s legs trembled too much to follow them.

It was suddenly the real deal?! Unfair! Illegal!!

…Hauntings were, in fact, illegal. They had rules about them. Tsuna couldn’t remember them now, but they were definitely in the rulebook. (He had thought it was kind of funny at the time, but he definitely couldn’t laugh about it anymore.)

“Mr. Sawada! Mr. Sawada, do something!” one of the suits wailed, suddenly grabbing onto him.

Do something? Like what?!

The lights flickered disconcertingly, taking on a red glow. There was the sound of static and an air raid siren echoing across the lobby, almost loud enough to drown out the sobbing and the screaming.

Between the half-light, darkness, and eerie red backlight, a figure appeared near the blocked off doors. Shapeless under a swathing cloak, it turned slowly toward those that had been pawing hopelessly at the shutters, prompting a new round of screaming.

Now, there was even a… ghost? Grim reaper?

Tsuna was so terrified that he mostly just felt numb.

Some of the other businessmen had been frantically pounding the elevator button up, and their prayers were unexpectedly answered. With a quiet ding that was almost drowned out by the chaos — why were there sounds of thunder?! — the thick doors slid open, and blessed, pale light flooded out of the elevator cabin.

Everyone who hadn’t been standing by the elevator rushed toward it. Those that had been already there tumbled inside like knocked over bowling pins. The suit who had been clinging to Tsuna followed suit, dropping him like last season’s designer boots and sprinting toward the salvation elevator with a speed that belied his impressive salaryman drinking belly.

Naturally, Tsuna very much wanted to follow. But when he tried to do so, still staring fixedly at the cloaked apparition slowly approaching, the hem of Haru’s carefully sewn robes tangled his legs.

With a yelp, he splattered across the polished floor. His attempts to either scramble to his feet or just scramble away on all fours were impeded by those same robes, leaving Tsuna faceplanting a few more times. The cloaked figure approached slowly but unrelentingly.

“Hiiiieee—! S-s-stay away!” Tsuna squealed.

In pure, mind-numbing panic, he threw his baton at it.

What happened next could only be considered an act of providence, proof of the divine — or that the universe had a terrible sense of humor. Tsuna’s aim was and had always been atrocious. He really couldn’t even hit the broad side of a gym.

And yet, with a dull thud, the nightstick planted solidly into the center of the ominous figure’s hooded… head? It bounced off and clattered away somewhere in the shadows, but Tsuna had no mind to care about that.

Along with the ability to aim, he also lacked any sort of arm strength, so logically, getting hit by something he threw should have not been worth noting. But the cloaked figure swayed and, unbelievably, toppled over into a heap of fabric and… limbs?

Legs in jeans and sneakers, completely normal-looking arms… With the cloak bunched up carelessly, the true nature of the ‘menacing figure’ was revealed.

The lights were still flickering, there was still a horror movie soundtrack of noises echoing through the lobby, and the exits were still all blocked. But Tsuna didn’t have the mood to ‘appreciate’ that any longer. Slowly and carefully crawling over, he used two fingers to pull back the hood of the cloak. Beneath was… the face of a completely ordinary young man, maybe a couple years older than Tsuna.

“Oh, Madam President, isn’t that your youngest?” the suit, who had clung to Tsuna and then heartlessly abandoned him, had come back and peered over his shoulder with interest.

Tsuna had a truly annoying premonition.

In a while, they would indeed confirm that this young man was the building owner’s youngest son, skilled with computers and going through a rebellious phase. Since this building was quite modern, everything was controlled through electronic systems. Painting something invisible on the wall to leave an outline for the rust-colored liquid to fill was also simple, if you were creative. He had apparently planned to lock all the executives, their assistants and Tsuna in the elevators for a while to give them a good scare, then let them out without too much harm.

So basically, a horror-themed family dispute, the kind of thing no one even wanted the cops to be involved in, much less some dubious government committee.

…There were actual hauntings, zombie outbreaks, and monster attacks out there. Tsuna had been assured of this point.

However, this was not one of them.

~.~.~

It was late night, and the Committee office had been slowly emptying. Even Kyoko was already packing up. Before heading out, she stopped by Tsuna’s desk, where he was mournfully pecking away at a report regarding the latest joke of an incident.

He was mourning his overworked brain, his lost youth and innocent dreams, and also his sore eyes from staring at the computer screen for so long. At least this incident had been minor enough that only Deputy Chief Kusakabe would be checking his report, not the actual Chief. Reports to the Chief had to be written with a brush.

“Don’t stay too late, Tsuna-kun,” Kyoko said, patting his shoulder kindly. “You can finish in the morning.”

“Deputy Chief said it has to be in his inbox first thing tomorrow,” Tsuna said gloomily.

Kyoko’s lips pursed disapprovingly. “For such a minor incident? He’s just giving you a hard time because you’re new,” she said, huffing. “We should make a complaint!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Tsuna assured her quickly. “It’s just so that I learn the ropes!” He appreciated Kyoko’s willingness to stand up for him — truly worthy of his first crush — but this level of… what couldn’t even be called hazing wasn’t even worth mentioning, for someone who had been thoroughly bullied all through his school years. This was just actually doing his work, not having his shoes hidden or his books torn up or anything like that.

“…Well, okay,” Kyoko conceded after a moment. “But tell me if it gets too much, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow!”

Once she had stepped into the elevator, drops sliding shut behind her, Tsuna let his waving hand drop and slumped in his not very comfortable office chair with a groan.

He had always received abysmal scores in composition, but this was far from Tsuna’s first time writing a mission report, so it wasn’t like he didn’t know what to do. Even if there remained a 50-50 chance that Deputy Chief Kusakabe would send it back to him for corrections, that was still an improvement over his previous 4 out of 5 returned as unacceptable.

Tsuna was really just dragging his feet and procrastinating too much, partly out of embarrassment. He had actually gotten caught up in that prank and believed it. None of the others would have fallen for it, he bet. But mostly, it was taking so long out of boredom. Writing reports… was really boring.

Sighing, he sat up and went back to typing.

Half of the lights in the office had automatically turned off once the motion sensors no longer picked up anyone around. With almost all staff done for the day, the only sounds were the clicking of keys from Tsuna’s desk — and muffled cursing from Gokudera’s, where he was supposed to be working on his own report, along with a formal apology to the owner of the construction site he’d blow up instead of ‘exorcising’.

Tsuna had already been almost done anyway, and once the main recounting of events was done, the more formulaic closing sections came to him with the ease of practice.

His head snapped up in surprise at the sound of an office chair skittering back. Not his chair — Gokudera’s.

His coworker stalked around the row of desks with a scowl and a slouch that any delinquent would have been proud of. With the Chief absent, Gokudera had even dared to wear his regulation black suit unbuttoned, with his tie pulled loose. Frankly speaking, he terrified Tsuna only slightly less than Chief Hibari and Chrome in one of her kufufu moods, so Tsuna made every effort to remain very still, in hopes of being overlooked.

No such luck. It was precisely his desk that Gokudera shambled his way over to, and when Tsuna failed to look at him in a timely manner, he kicked snappishly at the legs of his chair.

“Hey, new kid!” Gokudera barked.

“Y-yes!” Tsuna spun around, spine ramrod straight and his gaze somewhere to the left of Gokudera’s head.

Unexpectedly, a phone was thrust at him, making Tsuna fumble as he tried to take it, missed, and finally clutched it in his sweaty paws. “This is… my phone?” he realized. How did Gokudera manage to get it? Tsuna thought he might have left it on his desk, or maybe in his bag, or… Well, he wasn’t sure where he’d left it, but he hadn’t handed it over.

“Getting hacked by some amateur, that’s just embarrassing,” Gokudera grumbled. Sticking out his lower lip in a way that was probably meant to be intimidating but would be more sullen to anyone except Tsuna, he looked off somewhere to the side and rubbed the back of his neck. “I put in some actual security for yah. And a couple sensors for fluctuations in od, in case you finally manage to run into some actual deviations in ambient true energy.”

“Like a ghost sensor?” Tsuna guessed, mostly because he wasn’t sure what else Gokudera could be talking about.

“Don’t call it something so unscientific!”

“Hiieee! Yes! Yes!” Tsuna squeaked, ducking his head and trying to hide behind his newly modified phone as Gokudera snapped at him.

Clicking his tongue irritably, Gokudera turned and shambled away, perhaps back to his own report and apology letter that were still waiting for him. He was exceptionally brilliant, Tsuna was aware, so a few updates to a phone wouldn’t take him long, but the fact that he had taken the time to do it…

Tsuna smiled down into his lap, fiddling with the device.

“Th… thank you, Gokudera-kun,” he mumbled.

His didn’t have the guts to raise his voice, but in the quiet, empty office, there was no doubt Gokudera heard him.

~.~.~

Sasagawa Ryohei and Yamamoto Takeshi returned the next day, making the office much livelier. Ryohei had been on helping look into recurring disappearances of hikers on the ominously named Death Mountain, while Yamamoto had been sent to the beach regarding a supposed sea monster attack.

Both of those definitely sounded like better assignments, so it was no wonder the more senior agents snatched them up. …That being said, Tsuna was aware that his pathetic stamina and physical capabilities wouldn’t have been up to running around in the mountains, or even out in full sun on the beach. Ryohei and Yamamoto, being sports club types, were far more suited to those kinds of missions.

“So was it a real one this time?” Kyoko asked when she stopped by her brother’s desk that morning. Since it wasn’t a private sort of conversation, naturally everyone listened in.

“Nah,” Ryohei waved one hand wrapped up in bandages like always. “They all just kept getting lost to the extreme. Only thing out there was piles of beer bottles. I made a few groups help cleanup, and since they all made it back, everyone calmed down about the place.”

Kyoko laughed, bright and cheerful. Tsuna, two desks away, sighed. Typical for their office, really.

Pushing off from his desk, Yamamoto rolled over in his chair. He spun around to face them smoothly and said with a grin, “Mine was real.”

“Oh!” Kyoko gasped excitedly, and even Gokudera, who detested Yamamoto fiercely, leaned closer to listen in.

Yamamoto’s smile widened as he began to narrate. “There really was a sea monster, tentacles and everything. It was a kind of mutant octonus thing, but also with lobster pincers. It swallowed a bunch of people and a few boats, and when it spit them out, they were covered with goo… very gross.”

“Mutation? From pollution? Radiation?” Gokudera muttered to himself.

“It’s good that it spit them out,” Kyoko said. “Were they okay?”

“Oh yeah, they were fine,” Yamamoto said. “I mean, grossed out, but fine. It turns out… somebody dropped an ice cream cone into the water, and it really liked the taste, so it was looking for more. Once it figured out where to look, it mostly just kept eating ice cream trucks…”

Kyoko laughed again, but Tsuna could only groan internally and palm his face.

Really? A real life monster, and it just… wanted ice cream? Why was his job like this? Why was the world like this? Ice cream?! What about the hunger for human flesh! What about revenge against mankind! What about invasion of the sea dwellers! Manga had lied to him!!

Even when the monsters were real, the cases were still ridiculous.

…Well, at least he was getting paid. The benefits were also good.

Their gossip time came to an abrupt end as Yamamoto spotted something behind them and quickly sat up straight, his expression serious and professional. A quick glance confirmed — it was Deputy Chief Kusakabe, coming over from Chrome’s… office, or maybe cell, Tsuna wasn’t clear. In the presence of an authority figure, everyone quickly turned to their desks and computers, trying to project an image of productivity and focus.

Their attempts weren’t very good, but Kusakabe didn’t seem to notice. He wasn’t like the Chief anyway. Although he was certainly stern, he had always been patient with Tsuna’s many, many, many screw ups.

Trailing behind him was Chrome. Tsuna blinked in surprise — it was rare for her to leave her area.

“Sasagawa,” the Deputy Chief called out. “Your status?”

“Yes! I’m extremely good!” Ryohei sounded off without hesitation. “Ready to go any time!”

Kusakabe nodded. “Good, then come along,” he said. “The rest of you, don’t take any cases today. Stay at the office and hold down the fort. I will contact you if the situation changes.”

He didn’t explain what that meant, walking off quickly with Chrome and Ryohei in tow. When the Deputy Chief’s figure vanished into the elevator, Tsuna glanced at the others. “W… what situation?” he wondered. “What was that all about?”

“Are you dumb? There must be something big going down, if the Deputy’s taking Dokuro out,” Gokudera said snappishly.

“Sounds like it,” Yamamoto agreed, somewhat pensively. Agreeing with Gokudera earned him a sharp glare. “And we’re on standby, so I guess we should be ready to help, if it comes to that.”

The earlier cheerful gossip mood had all but dissipated, and everyone began to turn back to their tasks with a lingering sense of tension, even as Kyoko quietly wondered whether to let Lambo know. Tsuna cursed internally. With the current state of things, Deputy Chief Kusakabe had almost certainly had no time to read his report. If he’d know it would be like this, he wouldn’t have bothered staying late yesterday to finish it!

~.~.~

The weather recently had been sunny and very suitable for summer, but by afternoon, thick gray clouds had overtaken the sky and wind battered in strong gusts against the windows. Although it was still early, typhoon season had begun.

After lunch, Kyoko read out the weather forecast. “Meteorologists were taken off guard by the sudden appearance of the storm front rolling onto the Kanto coast…” she said distractedly, her eyes skimming the text on her screen. “Expected to make landfall around sunset… Category is not yet determined… I’d say we should head home a little early to make sure we’re not caught out in the storm, but with the way things are… what should we do?”

The Special Investigation, Containment, and Discipline Committee, Namimori branch, wasn’t a large group to begin with. With the Chief, the Deputy Chief and even Ryohei out, everyone left was about the same age and with little difference in seniority. When it came to making a decision, they could only exchange uncertain looks, no one willing to take on the responsibility.

After about a minute of silence, Kyoko accepted that there would be no answer. “Okay,” she said. “Deputy Chief didn’t say we needed to stay late, and we don’t have a night shift to begin with, so let’s have one person stay until closing, and everyone else can head home early. Who lives closest?”

Ah, Kyoko-chan really was amazing, Tsuna thought.

“Probably me,” he volunteered. “I can stay.”

It was summer, so it wasn’t like sunset was at all close to the normal end of business. It would be windy, but he’d make it home fine.

…Or so Tsuna told himself while foolishly smiling at Kyoko. Things like logic and actual thinking were not involved.

Since meteorologists had completely failed to predict this storm coming in at all, why did he think they’d be able to predict when it would arrive? By five PM, it was so dark out that the few passing cars needed headlights, even hours away from sunset. The sky was a roiling gunmetal gray. When Tsuna stepped outside, he was nearly blown off his feet by a gust of wind, and his backpack was shoved up so hard that it hit the back of his head.

Stumbling along with a series of yelps lost on the wind, he managed to grab hold of a lamp post and clung for dear life.

There was no one else out on the streets, because every other person in Namimori had more sense than Tsuna. Aaah, why did Kyoko-chan’s smile have to be so cute and wonderful? Why did he have to go and try to act all reliable? Bemoaning his own foolishness, Tsuna squinted against the wind and tried to get his bearings. There was nothing to do but hug the buildings and stagger off in the direction of the train station.

However, Tsuna only made it a block over before a hand clamped onto his shoulder and he was suddenly dragged into a narrow alley between buildings.

“Hiiiiee! Take my wallet! Take my bag! Take anything, just don’t kill me!” he started begging immediately, throwing his arms over his head and cringing away.

But the presumed mugger, or maybe human trafficker, or maybe serial killer made no demands and didn’t hit him. After several long moments of silence, Tsuna dared to peek out, trembling.

What greeted him was infinitely more terrifying than a petty crook. Or a human trafficker. Or a serial killer.

It was his boss.

“Ch-Ch-Chief!” Tsuna stuttered helplessly.

Hibari Kyoya stared at him with the same blank coffin face as always, somehow still faintly exuding an aura of violence and murder. Unlike usual, his suit jacket was missing, and his tie was askew. He was also soaked, even though it hadn’t started raining yet.

“Phone,” Hibari ordered sharply. As Tsuna scrambled to obey, he added, “Call Kusakabe.”

“Y-yes! Right away, sir!” Tsuna blurted out, fumbling as he went through his pockets. Where had he put it? Oh, he better not have lost it. He’d be losing his life next…

Fortunately, his work phone turned up before Chief Hibari could lose his temper and give him another beating that was precisely short of putting him in the hospital. This was, Tsuna felt distantly aware, completely illegal and abuse of an innocent subordinate. But even Deputy Chief Kusakabe had just said it was “training,” and since Tsuna only saw the Chief once a month at most, it was still preferable to… shudder, returning to the job market.

It was only with his phone in hand that Tsuna realized it was continually beeping and vibrating as some kind of alarm went off. Given the juvenile punk font of the notification on his screen, Tsuna could guess this was Gokudera’s ghost sensing app.

He couldn’t tell how its metrics are supposed to work, but the weird typeset certainly looked threatening. It was also annoyingly hard to dismiss.

“J-just a moment, sir!” Tsuna squeaked, darting a nervous glance at Hibari.

The Chief was no longer paying him any mind. Hibari’s attention was on the main street outside their little back alley, and his expression was subtly furrowed. “Hurry up,” he ordered shortly, lifting up one of his tonfas. The other was notably absent, along with his belt and one of his cufflinks. “It’s here.”

…What was?

Down the street, a manhole cover was suddenly thrown into the air as a geyser of water burst up from underground. Then another, and another, and another, geysers burst up one after another, moving down the street — toward them.

“W-what the…” Tsuna muttered, staring in shock. The phone in his hand blared an alarm, louder and louder.

Water was flooding down the street, crashing against the buildings and sweeping away anything that had been left outside. But as the wave rushed past their alley, Chief Hibari inexplicably… lifted his tonfa and struck out at it.

The force of his blow parted the water halfway across the street, revealing the asphalt and the painted lanes — and making Tsuna’s eyebrows climb in shock and some horror. He’d known their Chief was strong, but this was just shounen anime levels of ridiculous. Thank goodness he’d apparently held back when beating up Tsuna. Thank you, Chief, you’re so merciful!

Something moaned unhappily, and waves twisted around to bear down on Hibari.

Great. So it was a water monster.

Hahaha… ha…

Frantically, Tsuna pounded on his phone screen. He could barely tear his eyes away from the spectacle of his boss fighting a wall of water that continually reformed under his devastating attacks, but somehow he finally managed to hit the contacts and the Deputy Chief’s entry.

“This is Kusa—”

“Sir! Sir! Sir! Chief is here! And fighting! And water!” Tsuna wailed without waiting for Kusakabe to greet him.

“We’ll be right there,” Kusakabe said with an unnatural degree of calm. Presumably, they could track his phone’s GPS to fight out where ‘here’ was.

Tsuna did not pay this or the end of the call any mind. Screeching, he threw himself aside just in time to avoid a lashing water tentacle that struck down the alley. The heavy industrial dumpster which took the hit in his stead was dented into a rough V and was thrown free of where it had been chained down.

This was it, the real deal. A real monster or supernatural phenomenon or ghost or whatever. Tsuna’s internal whining about his boring con artist job had finally been answered.

And now he was going to die for it.

But before the next water whip could turn Tsuna into another rough V shape, Hibari forcefully punted him aside. …Well, no. Despite the pain, all his organs were still intact, so it wasn’t that forceful, really. Ah, Chief, so merciful…

“Useless!” Hibari barked, but he didn’t have the attention to spare for the glaring that usually accompanied such a pronouncement. Although he was still fighting with relentless intensity, even a useless wimp like Tsuna could see that he was being forced back step by step.

Distantly, he considered drawing his own weapon, but really, what good would it do?

And in the middle of the chaos, it began to rain.

It came down suddenly and heavily, almost blinding Tsuna. And even though the volume of water added shouldn’t have made any difference yet, the wave blocking the alleyway and advancing on Hibari swelled and reared up.

‘Oh no,’ Tsuna thought, just before it crashed down over both of them, completely disregarding Hibari’s last attack.

Blub, blub, blub — a few bubbles sprang free before Tsuna managed to clamp his mouth shut. The underwater currents sent him spinning head over heels, and he was vaguely surprised that he hadn’t been thrown into any of the buildings. The alley had been narrow, after all, and despite having lost his bearings, he thought that he had already floated quite a ways. When he tried to pry his eyes open, he couldn’t see anything at all.

A pale hand shot out of the dark water and grabbed hold of his jacket collar.

It was Hibari. He glared at Tsuna, then twisted — and somehow, in defiance of all laws of physics, hurled him away. Before Tsuna knew what was happening, he shot out from beneath the surface and crashed onto a ledge a couple stories up. Rain was pelting down in full now, driven by gusting winds. Rolling onto his hands and knees, Tsuna scrambled up to the edge and looked down at the flood water that ran along the streets.

“Ch… Chief!” he called out. “Chief!!”

He needed to do something! But he couldn’t do anything! Tsuna wailed helplessly.

With an ear-splitting screech, a car skidded around the corner down the street. It sent sheets of water flying, making Tsuna realize with some surprise that the flooding was not nearly as high as he had expected. It was only just above a person’s knees. Even accounting for a strong current, how in the world could Hibari have been swept away…?

Right. Supernatural monster thing.

Even before the large black car had jerked to a stop, the rear door was flung open and Chrome, looking tiny and delicate as always, jumped out onto the rainy street. A long trident appeared in her hand — Tsuna felt sure she hadn’t been carrying it inside the car, since how could she have moved so smoothly with it? And then, just as she landed on the wet asphalt, Chrome… turned into a man.

Okay.

Twirling the trident over his head, guy-Chrome (??) slammed its tail into the pavement, and a shockwave rippled out all the way down the street.

The rain was sent flying. The water was sent flying. Tsuna was sent flying, barely managing to stay on his ledge — the fall was the kind that killed normal people.

There was a long silence as even the storm was momentarily halted.

Then, something landed on top of Tsuna’s head with a wet plunk and bounced off. It wasn’t rain. Left wiggling helplessly on the ledge was a single ordinary goldfish.

It wasn’t single for long. A veritable torrent of goldfish soon followed it down, covering the entire street in piles of flopping little bodies. The largest pile stirred, and Hibari rose up out of it, looking particularly murderous and also entirely too threatening for someone with fish in his hair.

“Kufufufu,” guy-Chrome laughed mockingly. “No need to thank me, ‘Chief’. How could I possibly leave you to struggle on your own with just your meager power? Kufufu…”

Tsuna’s first thought that guy-Chrome clearly wanted to die very much, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Without giving Hibari a chance to brutally murder him, guy-Chrome swiftly turned back into normal Chrome, his creepy laughter still echoing in the air. Chrome looked at the Chief wide-eyed, clutching the trident’s shaft to her chest.

Hibari, waist-deep in goldfish and under the pleading stare of a cute girl, gritted his teeth and, kicking his way free, stalked toward Kusakabe, who had emerged from the large black car’s driver’s seat.

“Deal with this,” he ordered Kusakabe, passing by Chrome without a look at her and stepping into the still open rear door of the car. The car door slammed shut behind him.

Then, it opened again, and Ryohei was unceremoniously flug out, followed by another slam.

Wordlessly, Kusakabe pulled out his cellphone and began to make arrangements.

Clearing his throat, Tsuna called out, “Um… Excuse me? Could someone… help me get down?”

~.~.~

The next day, the Chief did not come in and the Deputy Chief was away as well, probably handling some kind of cleanup and explanations to their superiors. Regardless, the office gossip circle reconvened with impunity.

“It’s so sad,” Kyoko sighed. “Those poor fish… I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look at those festival stalls the same way again.”

It turned out that the water monster, which drew in a storm and flooded several locations across Namimori, had been created out of the accumulated resentment of all the goldfish that had been flushed down toilets over the years. Many of them had come from the summer festivals and the traditional dish scooping booths. Kids and couples and who knows who else would win themselves a goldfish in a bag, only to realize they didn’t actually want one after they got home.

So down the toilet the fish would go, and its little resentful goldfish spirit would haunt the sewers, schooling together with its countless wronged brethren. Until they had enough to make an entire monster.

Tsuna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Hahaha… yeah, same,” Yamamoto agreed. “I’m just sad I missed it. But hey, good on Sawada for having his first real encounter, huh? So how was it? Exciting?”

“Uh… I wouldn’t really call it that,” Tsuna said. “Did you think it was exciting, when you had your first, uh, encounter?”

“Yeah! It was great!” Yamamoto said, laughing.

Uncharitably, Tsuna enforced the ‘crazy adrenaline junky’ label in his mind. He’d suspected as much. After all, Yamamoto was good looking, popular, and talented. Why else would he stay at this kind of job?

“Did you even do anything?” Gokudera asked dubiously.

“I… called Deputy Chief Kusakabe?” Tsuna said, thinking for a moment. “I think Chief lost his own phone, so we had to use mine.”

“That’s good!” Kyoko encouraged. “The first I went out on a case I just got kidnapped…” She laughed self-deprecatingly.

Feeling daring after facing death by monster the day before, Tsuna patted her on the shoulder and offered her a smile in return. “Let’s work hard,” he suggested.

“Yeah!” Kyoko agreed brightly.

The warm glowey feeling of camaraderie sustained Tsuna through the day and writing this time’s incident report, which was more nerve-wracking than usual, given the need to avoid putting anything that might make the Chief look not absolutely terrifying and invincible. Tsuna felt he did pretty good at that, so it was utterly unfair that the Chief appeared anyway, as if summoned by the mere thought of him.

Instead of striding straight from the elevator to his office like usual, looking neither left nor right as if his minions, er, employees didn’t even exist — which was how both sides preferred it — Hibari paused mid-step and took a sharp turn, heading for Tsuna’s desk.

Tsuna watched him approach in mute shock. So did everyone else. It was only when Hibari came to a stop slightly further than necessary from him that Kyoko, Yamamoto, Gokudera and Ryohei remembered to snap their heads away and furiously pretend to be busy and not eavesdropping with their ears pricked.

Naturally, Tsuna wanted to turn away too, but he didn’t dare. Jumping to his feet, back ramrod straight, he saluted instead. “Ch-Chief!"

He also didn’t dare to ask what Hibari wanted.

The silence stretched on.

”…You,“ Hibari said finally.

"Yes!” Tsuna sweated intensely.

“Are you quitting?"

The question was blunt and simple, but also so unexpected that Tsuna only stared at his boss in confusing. "Am I being fired…?” he wondered.

“No,” Hibari said.

“Um,” Tsuna said. “Then… also no…?”

The Chief pinned him with an unreadable (terrifying) look for far too long, before finally nodding sharply. “Good,” he allowed. It was glowing praise for Hibari, and Tsuna had no idea what to do with it. Turning on his heel, his boss strode away just as abruptly as he had come, leaving Tsuna feeling like he’d managed to escape death — as usual.

“Great job, Tsuna-kun!” Kyoko said, giving him a thumbs up. He returned it numbly.

“Yeah, great job! You didn’t ditch like the last three new guys!” Yamamoto said. Rolling over, he threw an arm over Tsuna’s shoulders. “Now you’re one of us for real!”

…Oh! Was that what it had been about?

Well, it was true that a normal person would have probably run away screaming after their first encounter with a real supernatural being. Probably, the Committee had lost many recruits that way. Tsuna also… somewhat wanted to run away.

But the hazard pay was very high.

And, frankly, the monster was still better than a job interview. At least it didn’t stare into his soul and demand, in various ways without pause, that he justify his place in society and his right to exist.

Even though it was equal parts ridiculous and terrifying… he thought he just might like this job.

~.~.~

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