#and you want that sort of thing when there's violent wind blowing around

[hug-your-face]

@airlocksandaviaries some tags for you 💜

he kinda ate with this outfit

[sillygoofyqueer]

OKAY OKAY OKAY I HAD A DAY OFF FROM EDUCATION BECAUSE THE ILLNESS HAS STRUCK ME DOWN. HOWEVER, LADS, WE'VE GOT MORE MAD SCIENTIST AU TO YAP ABOUT. Right, so, shenanigans may be going on during the war camp of the Sunshot Campaign, but there is still a war going on. Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen decide that it's the best time to start advancing to take back the land that was taken by the Wen and, while the battles are still gruelling as all hell, Wei Wuxian is a literal demon on the battlefield. The rumours say that he clambered up from the depths of the most uninhabitable place in the world and bloodshed followed every step he took. The Wen and Jin both cower at the mere mention of the Yiling Patriarch appearing to take back control over those that left him to a fate worse than death, and when the low, howling melody of a flute rings out across the battlefield, you can see them begin to falter, looking around in panic to try and catch a sight of the monster before the dead rise to follow his commands. He doesn't even deign to draw his sword once against them.

It's not just Wei Wuxian gaining popularity through these battles. Alongside the aggressive stance of Sandu Shengshou and the elegant but unyielding blows of Hanguang-Jun, there is a more surprising legend joining the ranks. An archer whose arrows always strike true, often burning with spiritual flame to cause even more damage to the unfortunate soul the man's eyes have landed upon in the fleeting moment. Fèng bǐ zhǔ (鳳匕主- Phoenix Dagger Master) is possibly one of the most skilled archers in the Sunshot Campaign, dark eyes sharp and observant to pick out the biggest potential dangers that have dodged the fierce blades of the battling warriors. Rumours say he has killed many men with a single arrow (yes it was being used as a dagger but that's still cool as hell), and his blade tipped bow has felled many souls without the requirement of arrows. The wind seems to follow his command with how he guides his arrows into the bodies of his enemies. Wen Ning thinks it's all a bit over the top, but how could his family ever just brush off such a thing?!

With all these legends in the making, the Wen and Jin are obviously getting more concerned about their chances of winning the war. They thought they had this literally in the bag because they weren't aware of the single teenager that had been thrown away, weren't aware of how easily he could change the tides of the battle. Even then, there's other teenagers gaining names for themselves that they didn't think would ever reach so far in life. Viewed as little brats who were just bits of dirt to be brushed aside for the main goal of power and control of the entire Jianghu. They're learning all of this information, Jin Guangshan is realising that he threw his lots in with the wrong guy and is severely regretting his decision. Wen Ruohan is getting very frustrated because FENGBI-ZHU?? You mean, his NEPHEW?? The one who was being held hostage?! So it's safe to say that he's pissed off. You know who he has within his possession? UH OH!! THE DAFAN WEN!!!

There is a suspicious lull in battle that nobody expected, one that has everyone braced for a sudden, violent attack of sorts. Wen Qing, who has been using Wei Ying's crows to get messages to the Dafan Wen for updates, suddenly loses all contact with them. These are warning signs for a very very bad thing happening. Wen Qing brings this information to Lan Wangji, not wanting to worry her didis about it, and he takes it straight to his gege at her request because his gege can help with this. They forget that there is a certain twelve year old who eavesdrops for fun around the camp, and one who will immediately tell his gege everything he hears, especially if it's explicitly linked to their family. Wei Ying tells Wen Ning, and they do what two teenagers who are extremely worried about their family would do. They sneak OUT of the war camp and INTO WEN TERRITORY.

Lan Wangji is the first to notice Wei Ying missing, of course he is, looking around and finding a strangely worried looking Xue Yang peering around the camp himself. He asks his new didi where Wei Ying is, and Xue Yang is actually sheepish and panicked because he's TWELVE and his gege is missing right after he told him about a potentially awful situation. He immediately spills everything to Lan Wangji because he honestly didn't expect both Wei-gege AND Wen-gege to go MIA the moment he turned his back! Lan Wangji is obviously like "oh shit fuck no" and goes to his gege because this is bad. Wen Qing goes fucking insane the moment that she hears the news that two of her moronic didis have seemingly gone into enemy territory without even letting her know, without even seemingly strategising. This is fucking awful, and she can't go running after them because she can't just leave Xue Yang without anyone - he is just as important as her other didis now, even with his stupidity sometimes.

Meanwhile, Wei Ying and Wen Ning are rushing to Dafan on their swords, obviously. The only reason they aren't immediately shot down by patrolling Wen guards is because the clouds are good cover and the crows are far too happy to assist in distracting the guards so they can get past denser populations. They didn't really think much before they went off, grabbing a few days' food and medical supplies in case of danger. Wen Ning's bow is heavy on his back, and Chenqing is practically buzzing in response to the resentful energy thrashing around in its master's chest with every breath that he takes. The boys don't talk much, brains flashing wildly between "this was such a stupid idea" and "our family is in danger and we have to help them." This urgency is what propels them faster, forgoing sleep as much as possible without losing their instincts - they don't have time to stop, they can't even think about considering stopping until they finally land in Dafan Village.

It is deadly silent. There is usually always something or other going on in the village, but there is nothing. There is familiar char upon the wood making up the usually lively homes, a scent of smoke filling the senses the moment they step into this ghost village. It's a silent, cautious walk through the streets, the damage only getting worse the further in they get. Wei Ying catches a much, much more familiar scent beginning to rise to the forefront of the smoke, and he shares a very panicked look with Wen Ning, who can't smell it, but can definitely see the blood splattering the stone stairs and soaking into the dirt beneath their feet. Wen Ning is the first to start sprinting, yelling out the names of his beloved family with every corner turned, and Wei Ying is close behind, all thoughts of secrecy gone as they hurtle towards the centre of the village, desperate to find them just roughed up as a warning or something. A threat, maybe.

Instead, they find a pile of corpses. Discarded like rubbish, left to rot away in the centre of their precious village, the one place they were supposed to be truly safe. Blood permeates the air, covering the scene like an almost morbid decoration, and there's a distinct smell of burnt flesh with every breath. Wen Ning can't look for even a second longer than necessary before he's stumbling away, emptying the contents of his stomach - he has seen shit from the war, but nothing hits like seeing his family like this - and a sort-of-scream, sort-of-anguished-groan escapes him. Wei Ying, however, cannot look away. He stares emptily at the sight in front of him, everything else fading to a distant, muffled mess. This is all his fault, he knows it. This physically cannot be happening. He stumbles forwards, hands reaching to - what? He doesn't know, but he's gently scooping up the first corpse he can get a proper grip on, going to get them out of an undignified pile.

Wen Ning is having a mental breakdown but starts trying to help out, not wanting to leave his family in such a state. Wei Ying is basically disassociating as he starts laying out these bodies on the floor, murmuring apologies for the indignity the whole time. He's worked with corpses before, he's very methodical with it, and he tries not to look too much at their faces as he gently rests them upon the blood soaked ground. He's so focused on being careful with everything he does that it's hard to realise that there's something shifting around in the pile of corpses. He actually thinks it's a possible walking corpse trapped within its confines at first, but then he scoops up yet another body one of his aunties and realises that its holding something in its arms, clutched to its chest. He goes about laying out the body, familiar red smeared upon his robes as he finally removed its arms from its chest and finds these big, blinking eyes staring out at him from within a dirty, mudded blanket.

[absolutelynotsanebaby]

Hey in you villian au I had a few questions about Kai if you don't mind.

First you talked about kai and him being a cult leader, whats the gist of that, something similar to chen? A death cult, a fire worshiping soceity, a volcano conclave?

And secondly, whats his relationship with his sister, ambivilance, getting along in the 'Oh lets go on a pilaging and raid together thats sounds like top tier sibling fun' sort of way or a bipolar could be fun or could be fatal depending on the way the wind blows kinda way?

Finaly (and sorry for being long winded) you talked about his main thread / power came from societal manipulations, is this more cloak and dagers or populism / manipulation, the steel in the dark vs the gilded spider web so to speak?

PS fun au, realy cool designs my favourts are probaly kai pixal and jay, all just fab :)

Disclaimer: long ass ramble about my Villain AU.

so many questions today, not that I'm complaining! I love to talk about my aus. Kai's an interesting one too.

Kai's cult doesn't actually have a big base or anything, at least not in it's fully developed form. It's not ironed out but, I have the thought that the basis is that by joining the cult, you protect yourself from the end of the world snake of fire (definitely not it's actual name lol). By joining, you get into it's good graces, it won't eat you when it returns to Ninjago. By worshiping Kai, who presents himself kind of like a human-form of the snake, you fully ensure your safety. It's a complete lie of course but by the time the AU officially starts, it been over 200 years since canon, so it's had a long time to marinate. That's another thing, because of that time span the cult is huge. Functions more like a society than a small-time cult. Whole generations of families have been born into the cult, it's really soaked into the population. One thing I like to think about how you could walk into a random, harmless looking town and be completely unaware it's cult territory. That everyone in it is a member. I like to call them snake-dens (also what they're called in story).

(also note: since you mentioned Chen, Kai's cult does actually have similar snake imagery if that isn't clear lol.)

As for Nya, well, that's kind of complicated. See, Nya isn't a villain in the same way Kai is. Most of the art I've posted about her have been of her post-reformation design. Essentially within the two centuries since sea-bound, she'd developed into a sea monster. More akin to a destructive force of nature than a traditional villain like Kai. A lot of her destructive stemmed from anger, people abusing and polluting the ocean. Namely, Zane's kingdom would throw a lot of oil, trash, and broken/old tech into the ocean before an event where Sea-Nya had thrown it all back over the walls of the kingdom down onto it through a huge wave (hugely destructive, had a death count, just plain disgusting). Sorry for the ramble about her but I thought some context would be important lol.

So, Kai and Nya didn't actually talk like at all during those two centuries. Pre-seabound but post ToE their relationship was -- very bad. Nya was very, very angry at Kai for leaving them behind and becoming so awful. They never resolved that before Seabound. Kai felt guilt about that, what happened to her and that he never went to fight for hr or save her. But he never changed, so how bad he really felt is -- up to interpretation. it's a big part of why he and Jay fight/fought so much. After Nya had returned to (mostly) human, their relationship is interesting. Nya kind of hates him but it's -- muted. She can't stand the person he's become, how he threw everything away and never changed. That he had a real choice when she didn't and he used it to be -- a violent, cruel cult leader. When he comes around, she doesn't tell him to go away. She thinks he's pathetic. Kai wants his sister back, but he's not willing to change. They're complicated.

I'm going to say it's a 'gilded web' type thing but it also is very shady. He has a lot of connections and is just a plain focal point within the underground crime scene (or overground because this ninjago is really fucked up and dangerous lol, the entire land. ninjago city itself is completely gone). For instance, in Zane's kingdom, up in the ranks an advisors runs a smuggling operation for citizens to 'escape' (before Zane was de-overlorded anyways, after that he opens up the borders). Only about 50% of the time would those citizens actually get out of the city, the other 50% of the time they'd be sold to someone/somewhere or killed. Kai's allies with them (I haven't figured out exactly who that is yet lol). Another ally is Wen Xia (oc talk sorry) who's just a general power. Usually runs a fighting ring(s) but does a bunch of other stuff. Very dangerous and very rich. Kai just has a lot of connections and a strangle-hold on a lot of ninjago. MAN this got LONG. thank you for the questions I love the chance to info dump, haha!

(and TY!! Jay's one of my favorite designs too)

[baronetcoins]

I feel like I win when I lose—Director's Commentary

In what is rapidly becoming a tradition of mine, I went on a research Bender for my Yuletide fic and there are so many details I want to point out and discuss—so I will. This year I wrote I feel like I win when I lose for @avengingmariner and I did loose my mind over it, but in a fun way. Join me in my descent into madness below the cut.

My brief was "you must put my man laurence in A Situation" and I somehow landed on the core nugget of "Napoleon finds Laurence in his darkest hour, instead of Tharkay"—mostly because NGL I haven't read further in this series than Victory of Eagles. I'm working on it, just not there yet.

From that point I just sort of... started writing and felt out where the story wanted to go, and then I kept falling into research holes. Here are some of the fun pieces of information I learned in rough order of where they popped up in the fic.

There was chicken set aside from the dinner he was supposed to have had hours ago, before an urgent missive had pulled him away—a simple roast bird, born out from what local provisions had been found

The WEEK I was working on this, Max Miller of Tasting History put out a video on Napoleon. I wasn't able to work in a lot of detail about the food here just because I couldn't make it flow into what I was writing, but there's so much I wish I could have talked about. The weird thing with chicken! Apocryphal stories about how dishes got their names! His drinking habits! The inherent whatever of breaking bread with somebody who's supposed to be your enemy! Now that I'm writing this paragraph I feel like I need to write another fic about food.

And then I Made chicken marengo the week after because I was curious. It was fine?

le mistral noir

Now this bit owes its thanks to Kangoo, my resident French correspondent. I was talking to him about what could be a nickname the French soldiers used for Temeraire, and he suggested "le mistral" which he described as "(very cold and often violent wind that blows into france from great britain, known for cleaning the sky of clouds and also wrecking your shit) (also the name of a fighter plane)" and I went "oh, that's Perfect". And I wanted to be able to explain that reference. Because it's So Good.

He blinked around at the courtyard of brick building before being hurried just as swiftly into a fine bedchamber where he was given a cold supper and the opportunity to wash himself. With little else to do, he fell into another restless sleep.

This was a fun bit of gamesmanship to think out—where would Napoleon want to set the treaty signing in order to send a message? And in order to think about that, I had to learn more about how the government of Britain worked in this timeframe (polisci major hat incoming).

In the US, authority to make treaties is vested in the executive branch, but the legislative branch has to ratify them. I did not know how that worked for the British, because their system mystefies me to this day. Luckily, I found this paper which explains how it worked in 1938, and there isn't much reason to expect it to have changed in that period, so the answer is "at least in theory, the authority rests with the Crown".

Based on that, I figured he'd want to make a point by holding it in a royal building as opposed to Westminster, so I went with St. James' palace which has been used for state stuff forever. Unfortunately, the details for the interior of St. James' are scarce. I was looking at 1860s watercolors to try and squint out a layout.

It was a dress uniform of aviator green, with gold braid and buttons as well as twin epaulettes. He dropped it as if it were a hot coal.

This was perhaps my longest diversion. I'm not intimately familiar with the internal culture of the military <understatement, but I knew having Laurence be present in any form would be read as a huge statement. So what kind of statement would you want to make? Ultimately I went with "the biggest 'fuck you' possible", so Laurence in a British aviator's uniform.

Then there was the question of fringe or no fringe. Which didn't even make it into the fic, but was an interesting diversion. You see, "captain" is a term that connotes a different level of authority in the Army vs the Navy. NATO has a standard rank scale I was able to squint at here, as it tries to standardize across branches and countries. Captain in the British Army is an OF-2 rank, but Captain in the British Navy is an OF-5 rank. What does it represent in those terms in the Arial Corps? I have no idea! This impacts nothing here other than if one or both epaulettes would have fringe on them.

He wandered the hallways, passing French soldiers who saluted him and English dignitaries who ignored him or glared at him in turn. In desperation he returned to seek refuge in the room he’d been left last.

The medal Laurence gets is that of the Légion d'honneur, and nominally military personnel in uniform are supposed to salute other uniformed personnel wearing it, regardless of ranks involved. That was too good of a detail not to gesture at.

The Wikipedia article

I picked Jacques-Louis David entirely because he's my favorite artist of this time period and location, though the fact he did official work for Napoleon was a bonus. I'm very interested in the uses of these really formalized displays of image-crafting as used for propaganda, and also it's just fun to think about. Spent ages looking at Wikipedia too to get the formatting and the style of writing right, which I think I did.

The Title

Really, it just made me laugh, so it had to stay. I mean the song is also fitting and I think it's the sentiment I wanted to gesture at emotionally, but it is also funny,

[himetsuri]

A Man’s Fight

It was because she believed in him. He would definitely come save her. He would break everything about this horrible situation to pieces. He might be in a bit of trouble now, but he definitely won’t lose. After all, he'd promised her as much–––"I'll never, ever die." That's why she wasn't scared. That's why she was smiling. “Jus’ look at me! Can’t believe I’m…what am I wussin’ out fer!?” Azumi believed that she was only alive due to her mother's sacrifice. There was value in experiencing death firsthand–––without that knowledge, it was difficult for one to truly know the value of life. But she was still young, and so she was scared, terrified of "losing something precious, and it was all her fault.” At this rate, Azumi would, in her fear of getting hurt, become unable to care for something ever again. "Azumiii! Jus’ lie dere a li’l bit longer, ‘cuz I’m comin’ fer ya!” Kagetora tossed aside all his hatred for Kurotaki and fear of being hurt. There was only one feeling driving him now. He wanted to let Azumi know. He wanted to let her know that "in this world, there are things that you don’t have to worry about ever breaking," that if a child like her was to splay her arms and legs out and fall back, someone would be there to catch her.

"Kurotaki! Yous only got five shots left in dat finger gun ya love so much…go ahead an' hit me wit’ all of ‘em!” He spread his arms out wide and egged her on; Kurotaki was, of course, apprehensive. "What…are you…" "I ain’t gonna dodge an’ I ain’t gonna run! I win if I’m still standin’ after takin’ dem all, an’ yous win if I bite da dust…howzzat, piece ‘a cake, right!?" He threw away his broken sunglasses and licked the blood dripping down from his forehead, a daring smile spreading across his face. (What is…he thinking?) Was it a bluff? Or did he have some sort of ulterior motive? Many thoughts swirled around in Kurotaki's mind, but she just couldn't understand what in the world Kagetora was thinking. "What sort of…such foolish…ah!?" She realized that Kagetora’s unfathomable yet intense resolve had caused her to unwittingly take a small step backwards. Kurotaki always wore a smile and an expression of unyielding confidence. It was always oozing with both her delight and just how much she looked down on her opponent. (Afraid…? Me? Of some foolish little punk!?) At some point, she had begun to fear Kagetora, and being forced to recognize this meant her pride took a severe blow. "Very well…I shall take you up on that offer with all I have…please, do not think my ability is a mere pistol knockoff!" When she raised her left hand, holding it level, all five of her fingers from thumb to pinky began emitting light. "Fifth Finger Bombs!!!" Five "Finger Bombs" shot out at the same time–––her Burst had been charged up into bullet-form, a synergy that caused an explosive spike in power that would be able to obliterate a person without a trace. Rrroooooaar!! Kagetora was engulfed in flames from the explosion, the blast whipping up a violent wind. "Ahahahahahahahahahaha!!!" Certain of her victory, Kurotaki burst out laughing, unrestrained. She would always cover her mouth with her hand when she smiled. It was to hide a smile brimming with malicious glee that seemed to reflect her twisted personality. However, there was no need to hide it any longer. That punk had just been blown to smithereens––– "Ahahaha–––eh?" The dust that had been kicked up was slowly starting to clear. And within it stood a man's shadow. “Impossible…such absurdity…” His suit was burned away, his shirt was in tatters, his skin was covered in burns, and he was bleeding from countless areas. But even so, Hyoudou Kagetora was still standing. “’Ey…looks like it's my win, huh…?” Death was something he no longer feared. Pain was something he could endure if he readied himself for it. But the one thing he could never do was betray someone who believed in him. If he did, "he was better off dead."

That fierce resolve granted his body a power that far surpassed Kurotaki's Finger Bomb. "Impossible…this is inconceivable…" Step Kagetora took one step forward. "Eek!" Kurotaki took a step backwards as if she'd been shot. Step Again, Kagetora took a step forward. "S-Stay back…" At this point, Kurotaki couldn’t care less about her pride. She was simply terrified of the man before her, slowly approaching, who resembled some sort of demon. That fear made half her body go rigid; she lost control of her legs and collapsed right where she stood. From this position, Kagetora was coolly staring down at her as he continued to come closer. "A-Aaah…forgive me…I-I lose…” The image of him closing in like the incarnation of strife, after powering through an attack that she put everything into, finally made Kurotaki let out a shriek as loud as she could. Kagetora had won without their fists meeting even once.

“‘Ey, yous okay, Azumi? Nuthin' hurts, right?" “Mm-hm…I’m okay…are you okay, Tora?" He helped her up and untied the rope binding her. "Ha ha ha, I'm good. One ‘er two more scratches means squat ta me by now.” Kagetora laughed heartily at Azumi’s concern for him. "Hey…Tora, what about…what about Kurotaki-san?” "…Aah." Kurotaki had acknowledged her defeat, her spirit broken, fear carved into her being. She was holding her head with both hands, curled up and shivering. Laws didn’t exist in the underside of society. In that world, it was “the law of the jungle,” “kill or be killed.” But that in itself was the reason why there was an implicit law. “Anyone who attempted to kill was fair game to kill”––– Kurotaki had killed four of the Shuueikai's members, at least that Kagetora had witnessed, and would've killed Kagetora himself ten times over if he'd been your average Joe. But above all else, she'd deceived Azumi and made her suffer. "Tora…I’m…I’m okay, see…?" Azumi, however, was looking at Kurotaki with a sad expression, as if she was looking at herself. "Ahh…nn…" The woman had to pay up for what she’d done. But Azumi was a kind girl. She took others' pain as if it was her own. She would never be able to accept using someone as a sacrifice in order to save herself, consider it “inevitable,” even if it was someone wicked. “Guess it would be…a bad lesson fer ya…” And in truth, raising a hand against a woman also left a bad taste in Kagetora’s mouth. Silently, he nodded an "All right" to Azumi. Perhaps a little reassured by this, Azumi went over to Kurotaki and politely lowered her head. "Kurotaki-san…goodbye, and…thank you very much for everything you’ve done for me.” It had been for no other reason than to get everyone to relax their guards, but Kurotaki was the one who took care of Azumi up until this point, ever since Azumi had lost her mother. It was unfortunate that their parting had to be like this, but Azumi tried to convey her gratitude and farewell candidly, even so. "Azumi-chan…" Kurotaki was trembling as she raised her head, her eyes open wide like she'd seen something unbelievable, and touched a hand to her mouth. Beneath it lay that smile filled with cruel joy. "–––!? Azumi! Get away from her!" Kagetora noticed it and shouted right away, but he was just barely too late. "Kyaa!" Kurotaki stood and grabbed Azumi's collar violently, pulled her close and pressed her right thumb to Azumi's head. “Might I have you refrain from moving…Hyoudou-san?" “Cut da bullshit…yous already outta ammo…!" Kurotaki had shot her "Finger Bomb" once to start things off, three consecutive times after that, once more to pierce Kagetora's gut, and then five times simultaneously to make ten shots in all–––she should have nothing left. "Now…Hyoudou-san…what makes you think that?" Upon hearing Kagetora's words, Kurotaki's smile grew even more smug, to the point he could practically hear it. "This is no third-rate novel…surely you do not believe your enemy would just tell you the limitations of her abilities?" A single charge would load all ten fingers on both hands one at a time. However––– "So dat was…another load ‘a bunk…” Kurotaki herself was the one who’d relayed that to him. “Are you aware of the concept of ‘reserves’?* A hunter will purposely leave her last shot unused in case of emergency…an ace in the hole remains concealed until the very end. This, too, is basic strategy.” "Kurotaki-san…why…" Azumi cared for Kurotaki from the bottom of her heart. She’d lost her mother and sunk into grief, and it was Kurotaki who comforted her and became a mother figure to her. “Do you…not like me anymore…? Though she was still young, it wasn't as if she couldn't understand that her grandfather’s “occupation” had something to do with Kurotaki’s deception. Despite this, she just couldn't believe that every smile Kurotaki had aimed at her up until now had been nothing more than fakes. She didn't want to believe it. "You read me picture books…" "Why, yes, you quite liked that picture book with the pig…I read it to you so many times, I now remember it word for word." "You made my…favorite hamburg steak for me…" "Why, yes, and you hated carrots…so I grated them up and mixed them in. You never realized." “You were…I…” The only reason Kurotaki had deceived her was because of that "occupation,” and in actuality Kurotaki cared for her as well–––Azumi was clinging onto that hope. "Azumi-chan…you truly are a kind child…but you are quiiiite the little fool…try thinking, if you would? Even should I survive, the ‘organization’ would not forgive me for failing my objective…and even should I escape them, my reputation has been tarnished; I have no means to live in the underworld…” Her “Finger Bomb" wouldn't work on Kagetora anymore. But it could still blow away the head of a young child like Azumi. Kurotaki was aiming an ability at Azumi that could steal her life in one shot. She was aiming it with a smile at a child who believed in her to the very end. "If you truly do feel so grateful towards me…then allow me to kidnap and take you hostage like a big girl. Honestly…for you not to understand something so simple…what a stupid little brat you are…” There were despicable, irredeemable people in this world. Kagetora had known this, yet he still let his guard down; even if it had only been for the slightest moment, he could not blame himself enough for that foolishness on his part. “Why you sonuva…how da hell d’ya think Azumi feels…" "Yes, that was also part of the plan." "What…was dat!?” Having considered the off-chance that things could go south and leave her in an unpredictable situation with her life in danger, Kurotaki had implemented a “slow-acting poison.” Her year-long infiltration was for the sake of getting everyone to relax around her–––but, at the same time, it was also so Azumi would grow attached to her and therefore “stick up for her” if that time came. "Just how…low can you be…yous irredeemable…” "The irredeemable ones are you and that brat. Would you not agree? To stand by the one who executed her mother…she must be an irredeemable little fool." “Exe…cuted? Bullshit, so yous sayin’ dat ‘er mother died…” "Yes, under the pretense of an accident, you see?" In order for her to make her entrance as a "kind lady" that Azumi could take a liking to, she first needed to eliminate the one preventing that from happening. If a professional was someone who completed their objective, even using others’ hearts and emotions to their advantage to do so, then Kurotaki was undoubtedly an exemplar. "Mama…you killed…my…" Azumi was trembling in a vortex of anger, grief, hatred, and countless other emotions. "My…no…nooo…" The torment from this preposterous fate wasn't something a five-year-old girl could bear, and her heart seemed as if it would burst. "Now, let us cease the small talk! Hyoudou-san? Would you kindly forgo any attempts to resist? Simply relax, do not utilize Rise, and obediently allow me to pierce your heart with my 'Finger Bomb.' If you do…I shall, at the very least, guarantee this child's life♪" "…I'll never…ever forgive you…" “Like I give a fuck about that, you shitty thug! If you regret how this turned out, then curse your own idiocy for not killing me when you had the chance!" He no longer had any means of resisting. Azumi's life was irreplaceable. He had to do as Kurotaki said. "Don't you dare…hurt Azumi…" He relaxed, lowering both arms and closing his eyes to signal his compliance. "Yes, that is perfect." Bang! A bullet of light shot from Kurotaki's thumb.

"God, are you an idiot? You die here and that kid'll be sad forever! You really think that'll count as protecting her!?"

(Eh…?) He thought he was just hearing things. But when he opened his eyes, standing before him like a valiant and noble god of war was none other than Yagumo Matsuri, stopping the bullet of light from coming towards him. "Y-Yous…” "Hmph! What a lame peashooter!" In the blink of an eye, Matsuri effortlessly shattered Kurotaki’s bullet of light. Her "telekinesis" had forcibly canceled Kurotaki's "Finger Bomb.” It was an impossible feat, unless the difference in power between the two was as great as the distance between Heaven and Earth. "Wh-Who the hell are you!? S-Stay back…I've got a hostage–––huh?" Her “Finger Bomb” might’ve been used up, but a run-of-the-mill Psychicer like Kurotaki could still kill a child with her bare hands. But that little girl had disappeared from her grasp. "Is this who you're looking for?" And there, resembling a kitten with the back of her collar in Matsuri's grasp, was Azumi. "Wh-When did you–––!?" It wasn't just Kurotaki. Kagetora and even Azumi joined in. “What’s with the shock? I just snatched her up faster than your brains could process what was happening." In other words, she'd saved Azumi “faster than the eye could see.” "Anyways…so you're Azumi-chan?" Matsuri aimed a bright grin at Azumi, resembling the ladies on children's television shows. "Y-Yes…" "You're a good girl, huh? So kind, honest, and brave! Your big sis here loves kids like you. But…as things stand, a 'cute woman’ is all you’re gonna be.” "Y-You…tell me who you are! Which organization are you–––“ "Shut your trap! We're in the middle of class here!" "Eek!?" Kurotaki, who'd tried to interrupt, was silenced with just one lion-like roar. "Today's lesson is 'how to become a good woman.'" After saying this, Matsuri gave Azumi to Kagetora and slowly approached Kurotaki. “You listening? Now, in this world, there are foolish women who use the fact that they're women to their advantage, use devious means to get what they want, and sneer at people. For some reason, they think this makes them cool. They are, in a sense, the number one 'enemy of women.' You might say that leaving such idiotic women alone is a danger to the world as we know it! And that is when ‘the good woman steps in'!" Kurotaki could feel an aura of pure rage, or maybe something akin to a battle aura, welling up behind Matsuri and the terror broke her spirit. Her legs had already given out on her. "W-Wait! It is my loss! I shall return that child to you, yes? And then I shall never dare to appear before you again! So, please–––" The frantic pleas for her life only added more fuel to the fire of Matsuri's rage. Matsuri had appeared so suddenly out of nowhere for some unfathomable reason and Kurotaki didn’t truly understand the reason why she was so angry. As a fellow woman, Matsuri could never forgive Kurotaki for using a child’s yearning for a mother's love against her; for sneering at Azumi, who'd never forgotten how to be kind despite all the pain she was in, and calling her an "irredeemable little fool.” "Shut your fuckin' trap!!!" It was over in a heartbeat–––Matsuri's slap was enhanced to the utmost by Rise, launched as if to destroy the twisted reality that had spread itself before the young girl in its entirety. "Gwaughh!!!?" Kurotaki let out a foolish sound and flew back, hitting the wall like a pinwheel before peeling off and falling to the ground like a squashed bug moments later. “Make sure to finish things off with some flair, just like that! Just don't forget to hold back some." Kurotaki's arms and legs were twitching. It was undoubtedly an incredible feat, to use such tremendous strength and still hold back enough to not kill. "You got it? Little girl." "Y-Yes!" "All right, good answer!" Azumi's eyes were practically sparkling as she looked at Matsuri. Kagetora was of the opinion that “he just wanted her to grow up healthy and strong, even at the cost of a little mischief.” At the same time, he couldn’t help but think, “Did it really have to go this far?” "God, you're a dumb man. Can’t even launch a shitty woman like that into next week…well, you're still leagues better than the trashy men who hit a woman and then gloat about it." Matsuri drew closer to Kagetora and lightly poked his scarred chest. "Ah…" Kagetora had only exchanged words with her for a little bit, but long enough to tell that she was plenty holier-than-thou–––and now, it felt like she’d just acknowledged him. "Uh, what's wrong? Is there something on my face?" "N-No…I, er…" He'd fallen hard. For her striking and noble eyes. “…I mean. O-Oi…how didja manage ta sneak in here?" There should've been dozens of members, if not more, hanging around the "Dakugoukai's" headquarters. "Haah? 'Sneak in,’ what, are you trying to make me look bad? Do I look like a phantom thief babe to you? I didn't do anything out of the ordinary, for your information. I came in through the front door and walked here like a normal person." “Dat's impossible!" Flustered, Kagetora opened the door of the "Execution Room"–––and his mouth fell open as he found himself dumbfounded. "What…da hell…" What greeted him was a landscape of ruins. Aside from the "Execution Room" that Kagetora and Kurotaki had fought in, everything of the "Dakugoukai's" vast and vaunted estate had been reduced to mountains of rubble. Throughout the rubble, yakuza members lay strewn about, half dead. "Ha–Haha…hahahahaha…" On this day, the extensive criminal group, the "Dakugoukai,” enemy of the Kantou Shuueikai, had been completely wiped out by one self-proclaimed extraordinary pianist babe.

And so, "the organization's" plan of using the "Dakugoukai" as a stepping stone to further expand into Japan ended in failure. The underworld placed a heavy value on reputation. News of their plans being thwarted by only two people was fatal, and therefore it was impossible for them to be any threat to the Shuueikai–––in other words, peaceful days had returned to Azumi as well. And several days later… In a seafood restaurant in a certain port district, Yagumo Matsuri and Hyoudou Kagetora sat with a table between them. “So what’s up, calling me out to a place like this?" Kagetora had wanted to meet Matsuri, no matter what. He tried calling her a number of times, but it was clear she was pointedly ignoring him. With no other choice, he left a message of, “I know a place where y’can drink super rare wine not found easy in Japan.” He received a reply of, “Tell me more” immediately. “Ahh…well…dat’s…” With Matsuri gulping down her drink right before him, Kagetora was uncharacteristically, unusually, and extremely nervous. “Yous been…a big help ta me…” “I told you back then, too, but I didn’t do anything for your sake. It’s too much of a pain to have you feeling like you owe me. Well, I’ll have you foot the bill, though, since you were the one who asked me out here. He~ey, Mr. Waiter! Fetch me a bottle of this wine here with the nice six numbers for the price!”

After everything was over, Kagetora had asked Matsuri while carrying an exhausted and sleeping Azumi on his back. About why she’d come to save him after telling him, “See if I care” and, “Go ahead and die.” And Matsuri had replied to that question with an indifferent expression on her face. “Don’t get any wrong ideas. I really couldn’t care any less for you.” To Matsuri, those who “wasted their lives” were the epitome of idiocy. If people wanted to throw away their lives for some sort of moral code, then she’d let them do as they pleased and look the other way. “If you guys want to get excited over ‘Battles Without Honor and Humanity’ and go out in a blaze of glory, go right ahead. I don’t really care, I won’t stop you…however, this child is unrelated.” As she said this, she gently stroked Azumi’s cheek. “For her to be tossed about in an absurd fate…and then ultimately lose her life…who’d leave that be!?” For a brief moment, Matsuri’s eyes took on a grim shine, as if she was remembering something. “The reason I saved you–––the reason you ended up being saved was because this girl wished for it. Because she was scared out of her wits and still believed in you ’til the very end and I didn’t want to make her sad.” “Mmmnn…” Perhaps in response to the talking, Azumi began mumbling in her sleep. “Mmmnn…good woman…mmmnnmmn…flair…mmmnn…” “Ahahahahaha, reviewing in your dreams? She’s gonna become a fine woman. Kind, clever, strong, and extraordinary.” Azumi’s heart had sustained deep wounds because of Kurotaki. But Matsuri’s words and actions had, without a doubt, taught her “strength” and “fortitude.” In a sense, she had saved Azumi’s life and heart both. “Well…I may have said ‘I couldn’t care less,’ but I can’t deny that seeing you risk your life for a child made me reconsider you a little. You were kiiiiinda cool, just a little bit.” As she spoke, Matsuri smiled softly like a goddess.

“Dere’s somethin’…I gots ta tell ya…” “For the hundredth time, I don’t need your gratitude–––” Fwoosh! Abruptly, Kagetora whipped out the bouquet of roses he’d been hiding underneath the table. “I…I’ve fallen for ya.” “Huh?” “Yer noble, strong, cool…no…er, I mean…I’ve fallen fer everythin’ about ya! I love you…” Days after he and Matsuri had separated, he couldn’t get her face out of his mind. She was all he could think about whether asleep or awake, to the point he started wondering if something was wrong with him. Even just seeing “Sanja Matsuri in Asakusa” in a newspaper headline got his stomach doing flips. And then he realized–––this was love. “…” “…” Matsuri drank from her bottle with a cool expression, while Kagetora stared at her with sweat pouring down his cherry-red face. “U-Um…?” “Ah, excu~use me. I’d like more of this wine! Preferably the whole cask.” “Yer just gonna ignore meeeee!?” Kagetora fell right where he stood, the roses scattering into the air. “Sorry, but I’ve got no interest in guys weaker than me! That’s that, there’s your answer.” “N-No waaaay!”

This––– “Don’t say dat, Sis! Jus’ gimme a chance!” “Who the hell is ‘Sis’!? ‘The hell are you even saying? *kick*” This was the very first of Hyoudou Kagetora’s “Thousands of Proposals.”

~~~~~~ [Notes: *The word used here is 命玉 (inochidama), the definition of which is exactly as Kurotaki goes on to describe: it is a bullet that a hunter has but never uses for the actual hunt, instead saving it in case he needs to protect himself

The ‘Sis (nee-san)’ that Kagetora uses to refer to Matsuri is specifically the one used in the yakuza when referring to a well-respected, high-ranked woman in the yakuza, like the boss’ wife for example]

← Part 2 |

[q-talations]

How to Eat Life LN Chapter 1-2 Translation (2/2)

1-2 Imaginary Borderline (Part 2 of 2.)

Read Part 1 of this chapter before continuing this part!

When Tobi went to school on little to no sleep, a teacher wearing glasses with black frames eyed him in front of the gate. This person always wore a suit that fit him as if it was tailor-made. He really didn’t want the neat black-glasses man to call out to him this morning, so he decided to make the first move and dropped his head in a small bow.

“Good morning, Sensei.”

“…Um, right. Good morning.” The black glasses-wearing teacher looked noticeably daunted. Ever since freshman year, this man had bothered Tobi almost every morning, but then he receives a simple greeting and suddenly nothing happens. Just saying ‘good morning.’ Was this enough all along?

“Where did the wind blow from?”* Baku asked as Tobi was changing his shoes by the lockers. 

*It is a common Japanese phrase used when something unexpected happens

“I dunno. I guess there’s no wind at all.”

“You’re having a change of heart? That is what caused it, isn’t it?”

“You’re making things up…” His slippers felt a little tight. Did his feet grow? When you’re going through a growth spurt, clothes stop fitting you, but having to buy new ones would hurt his finances a lot.

When he started walking towards the classroom, feeling slightly gloomier than before,  a girl with long hair suddenly appeared from behind the lockers. Tobi stepped back on instinct.

“…Shi-Shiratama-san.”

“Good morning, Otogiri-kun.” Those eyes again. Shiratama was staring directly at Tobi.

“…Wh, what?” Tobi covered the lower part of his face with his arm and looked at the floor. “You want something? It’s still really early…”

“Actually, I was waiting here for you.”

“Huh? …W, why?”

“I told you yesterday, did I not?”

“Oh…”

“I would like to hear your answer.”

“A—”

“A?”

“About…”

The phrase “eyes flashing white and black”* popped into Tobi’s head. He had seen it in a dictionary some time ago. The situation he’d found himself in then wasn’t one to make his pupils switch colors, rather, it made his eyeballs spin violently in their sockets. Tobi’s eyes kept moving restlessly. It was making him feel sick. Many of their classmates were coming to the lockers and whispering amongst themselves while changing shoes. They’re probably starting to suspect there’s something between him and Shiratama. They’re wondering “What’s going on? What are the two of them doing?” without a doubt. In all honesty, despite being one of the people in question, Tobi himself didn’t know the answer. 

*A Japanese phrase meaning being astonished, surprised, or shocked

“Hi,” If that wasn’t enough, a passing janitor just had to approach them and further amplify this predicament, turning it from complicated to chaotic.

“Good morning, Otogiri-kun. What are you doing here, Shiratama-san?” 

“Haizaki-san.” Shiratama turned around, and when she recognized who was speaking to them, she bowed politely. “Good morning to you too. Thank you for your work even at these early hours.”

“It’s nothing.” Haizaki beamed brightly. He was carrying cardboard boxes. Tobi couldn’t see what was inside, but whatever it might be, he didn’t give a damn.

It seemed to be different in Shiratama’s case, though.

“They look heavy. Shall I assist you?”

“No, no, no, there’s no need!” Haizaki shook his head vigorously. His almond-shaped eyes became almost perfectly round. “Don’t trouble yourself. It is a part of my job, after all. I come to this school to work, and you come here to get your education.”

“I may not look like it, but I am pretty strong.”

Shiratama raised her right arm and flexed it. A thin arm. Very, very thin. Was there really any strength in it? Tobi sincerely doubted so, but he felt they weren’t quite on the same page. It wouldn’t matter even if, hypothetically, she had some sort of superhuman strength. Haizaki was carrying the boxes as part of his duties. A middle schooler like Shiratama wasn’t obligated to help him with it. That’s what he was trying to tell her. Even Tobi, who Baku calls antisocial, understood that much.

Shiratama Ryuuko might bring him trouble.

Tobi realized that last night.

An ordinary middle schooler wouldn’t go about asking classmates of the Otogiri Tobi sort to be their friend.

Tobi was aware of the fact that he’s not the type of person others can feel close to. He’s not happy. He’s not nice. Not even funny. His past was difficult to explain. He also carries around Baku, with whom only he can talk.

And despite all that, it seemed that there were things he notices that other people don’t.

What would Tobi think if there was someone else that’s just like him?

He would probably consider them a freak.

That’s likely what everyone sees Otogiri Tobi as — a freak.

Shiratama Ryuuko’s probably not much better if she wants to befriend this kind of person.

He wants to run. Get out of there as quickly as possible. Shiratama is talking with Haizaki. That’s his chance! He’s going to run while he still can!

Tobi tried to get away from them. Unfortunately, even though he made sure to tread especially lightly, he was noticed.

“No,” Shiratama grabbed his right arm dangerously close to his wrist. “Don’t go, Otogiri-kun. At least give me an answer.”

“Oh no,” Haizaki had a perplexed expression, as if he was feeling guilty. “Did I interrupt you by any chance? I’m sorry. Forgive me. I should be kicked by a horse, or however that goes…”

What would a horse be doing here? He’s read that in a book before. There was a saying that went somewhat along those lines.

‘Those who interfere with other people’s love lives should be eaten by dogs.’

The dogs can also be replaced with kicking horses.

Haizaki seems to be misunderstanding something here. It would be best to correct him. Eh, it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not the time for that. Shiratama was still holding Tobi’s arm.

Will you let go already?

Tobi tried to express it with his eyes.

It’s not getting through. Shiratama just tilted her head curiously. He should be the one feeling curious.

Nothing to do about it now. Careful not to put too much strength into it, Tobi shook off Shiratama’s hand.

“So… About that, um, I’ll tell you when we’re walking, or something…” When Tobi timidly made this offer, Shiratama nodded. Should I start running at full speed? That idea came into his head, but he chose to ignore it. Shiratama was walking along on his left.

“I would like to hear your reply.”

“…Already? Isn’t it too early?”

“Are you still considering it?”

“Well… Considering, and, um…”

“He’s the indecisive type,” Baku said with a sigh.

“Does he have a hard time making decisions?” Shiratama asked.

“It’s more like he’s not used to expressing his thoughts or feelings with words. Never has been. Doesn’t talk to people.”

“What about you?”

“I’m different. And even so, he still tells me to ‘figure it out’ or ‘guess’ and stuff!”

“He expects you to understand him?”

“Something like that.”

“……Hey,” Tobi was knocking on his forehead with his fist. It started to hurt. “Can’t you talk normally? To others, it sounds like Shiratama-san is just murmuring to herself…”

“I apologize, I was careless,” Shiratama lowered her head a bit. “But would they not think that I am talking to you, Otogiri-kun? Or that I am trying to get your attention?”

“That’s just plain weird in itself…”

“Then talk back to me, please. Everything will be sorted this way.”

“……I’m talking to you right now.”

“So using this occasion, what is your answer?”

“I’m telling you I don’t know yet…” Tobi realized he was slouching. He couldn’t help but think he was attracting attention from the students passing by them in the corridor. “Besides…” Wait, they’re definitely staring at him. It’s because of Shiratama, clear as day. “Why?”

Shiratama’s eyes flashed when he asked that.

“Could you elaborate?”

“…Why do you want to be my friend? What’s the reason? Your motive?”

“It is because you are you.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you need me to explain?”

“If possible. If you can tell me in a way I’ll be able to understand…”

“To understand.” Shiratama nodded in agreement, and after thinking for a short moment with her eyebrows furrowed, she stopped walking.

In the middle of a staircase.

Tobi climbed one step farther than her and halted there.

Shiratama was looking at Tobi. She captured him in her gaze and wouldn’t let go.

“May I have some of your time? Preferably during today’s lunch break. This is a matter we will need to discuss in a place where people scarcely come.”

Those eyes were Tobi’s weakness. They’re impossible to ignore. He can’t look away from them.

“…Fine. Whatever.”

That was the only reply he could give. What else was there to do?

Right after lunchtime ended, the special classroom wing was empty. Tobi arranged to meet Shiratama on its outside emergency staircase.

He was waiting at the landing between the second and third floor, leaning against the railing when Shiratama opened the door and started climbing up the stairs.

Tobi had a strange inkling. It was because she was carrying a bag on her shoulder. Not the kind that’s normally used for school purposes. This one is small. Pretty sure they’re called pochettes.

“Hello.” Shiratama went up to the landing and gave a polite greeting.

“Yeah…” Tobi nodded back vaguely. Shiratama is so well mannered it takes him aback every time. “So… what is it? That motive? The reason why you asked to be my friend.”

“You know what they say, it is more suitable to present a proof rather than a theory.”

“…I guess. There was something like that.”

“With that being said, we came here together.”

“Together…?” Tobi frowned. From what he could see, Shiratama came alone. Didn’t bring anyone with her. She raised her pochette and opened it.

“Come out, Chinurasha.”

Did Shiratama just call out to someone while looking at the bag? If so, then she was presenting some eccentric behavior, to say the least. Tobi had always considered her to be quite the character, but not to this extent. He even started to worry about her. Was she alright? That question went for more than just this situation. Maybe there was a small pet, some sort of a rodent, hiding inside of the pochette? That would mean an entirely different issue with irrationality. You’re not allowed to bring animals to school. Even Tobi’s aware of that, and yet, it looks like that’s exactly what’s going on.

Something crawled out of the pouch

“Mmm…” Baku let out a small moan.

See?

It’s a tiny pet.

The little guy must’ve felt very cramped sitting inside that bag. Considering its size, it must have had to really squeeze in there to even just barely fit. Although, it looked like there was more fluff to it than most actual living creatures, so it was likely able to get into spaces much smaller than one might assume at first glance.

Is it a cat? A kitten? Probably not. Even saying ‘probably’ is a mistake in itself.

This creature has horns. It’s obvious that cats don’t have horns.

A small animal with two horns on its head—

Does something like that exist?

He hadn’t seen it in the animal atlas at the facility. The facility had also organized many field trips to the local zoo, and Tobi couldn’t remember seeing anything this size that grew horns during any of those. On the other hand, there might actually be a species like this living somewhere in this vast world that Tobi just doesn’t know about. Maybe it’s a horned animal’s young?

The creature left the pochette and started climbing up Shiratama’s body. It wasn’t particularly nimble but didn’t pause once on its way. It must do this regularly. When it reached Shiratama’s right shoulder, it turned its head towards Tobi.

It’s hard to tell if it has eyes or not. They might be buried under all that fur.

In spite of that, Tobi could feel its gaze upon him.

“Chinu, say your greetings.” The creature moved its head at Shiratama’s command, making a gesture resembling lowering it diagonally. Then, a teeny tiny mouth showed from within the fluffy fur.

Yuu—

Uyuu—

Kchuu—

That was what Tobi could hear coming out of it. Is this how this thing cries?

“……Hi.” Tobi bowed out of habit.

Shiratama scratched Chinu— or Chinurasha, whichever one it is— under its chin with her pointer finger.

“Good job.”

“Oi, Tobi—” Baku whispered, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“…Notice what?”

“This thing isn’t normal!”

“Well, it’s a… unique creature. Has horns and all.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Baku seemed quite irritated. Save for the fact that he can speak with Tobi, he’s nothing short of a regular big backpack. However, he can open himself at will when mad. It’s different from a zipper getting loose. Tobi is the only one who can see it, but it’s as if a part of his zipper opens just like a mouth does.

It’s doing it right now.

“Are you STUPID, Tobi?! Dumb as a doorknob, for goodness’ sake!” Baku’s speaking, flapping his mouth. He’s shaken rather than irritated.

“I am,” Shiratama drew her shoulders back and touched cheeks with Chinu. “the only one who can see Chinu.”

“……But—”

He can see it.

Tobi can see it clearly.

It seemed that Chinu had a soft spot for Shiratama. In response to her action, it rubbed its face against her cheek and closed its eyes in delight. It let out low-pitched cries, though they sounded more like noises it wanted to hold in but couldn’t than its actual voice. Its horns dig into Shiratama’s skin, but it doesn’t look painful. At least, she isn’t feeling any pain. They must not be hard enough to pierce through.

“It’s the same as me!” Baku spat out, almost like he didn’t want to. Could he not stand it anymore? “Up until now, you were the only one who could hear me. And only Shiratama Ryuuko could see Chinurasha, or whatever its name was. It’s not exactly the same, but really FREAKIN’ close!”

“…So, Shiratama-san can hear you, and I can see Chinu.”

“That’s it.”

“Huh?” Tobi’s shoulders dropped. He knocked his fist on his forehead. “…Then what— what does it mean? H-how did it… happen…?”

“Frankly, I am also clueless.” Shiratama said nonchalantly. “I noticed you were talking with Baku-chan a while ago because I could hear his voice. It appeared that I was the only one. Only you and I can hear him, Otogiri-kun. I thought it had to have a special meaning.”

“……Special—” Tobi shook his head, barely putting in any strength. “It could be some kind of a disorder…”

“Do we have mental problems?”

“Well… It’s more likely than thinking that only the two of us are sane…”

“Oh right, Shiratama Ryuuko!” This time, Baku threw in a proper reluctant interruption, “Quit adding chan to my name!

Shiratama’s expression was puzzled.

“Baku-chan?”

“THAT! It makes me all itchy. Can’t really find the words. It’s disgusting!”

“I apologize.” Shiratama shrugged and lowered her head in a gesture that was all but apologetic. Chinu mimicked her.

That’s adorable.

Tobi startled himself by having that thought.

For the record, he only thought that Chinu was ‘adorable.’ That it and Shiratama did the same thing at the same time, yes.

“How about Baku-san?” When Shiratama asked this, Baku cleared his throat.

“That ain’t really feelin’ right either. Why not just drop honorifics altogether?”

“You’re putting on airs…” Tobi wanted to fling Baku to the ground. Baku got back at him immediately.

“I’m not putting on anything! Just sayin’ she can be casual with me! I’m being humble! Isn’t that right, Shiratama Ryuuko?”

Shiratama nodded. Chinu followed through.

“I will start calling you ‘Baku’ from now on.”

“Sure. That’s great. I’m real bad with all that ‘formal’ stuff anyway.”

“I have no issues with you calling me by my first name either.”

“That’s a given! Something like ‘Oryuu’* could also be nice. Yeah, not bad at all. Whaddya think?” 

*Baku makes up a pet name by adding a hiragana character for “O” before the first and taking away the last syllable of the name.

“I do not dislike it, so you can call me whatever you wish.”

“Then I’m settling on ‘Oryuu’! Oryuu.”

“Yes.”

“……You’ve started to get along really fast.” Maybe Tobi should throw Baku towards Shiratama instead of smacking him to the ground.

“Ou? What’s thaaat? Are you jealous, Tobiii?” Baku giggled, “Worry not! Our relationship won’t change just because Oryuu’s here now.”

“The one where you’re… stuck with me?”

“Don’t call it that!”

“So what kind of relationship is it?”

“If you force words into it it’ll lose all its magic! But if you have to, then probably partners?”

“Chinurasha and I are also like partners,” Shiratama smiled brightly and turned to Chinu, adding ‘Right?’ as she did it. “It cannot speak like you, Baku, but it is always by my side. We have been together as long as I can remember.”

“…I want to ask something. What would you have done if I couldn’t see Chinu?”

“If that had happened, I would have—” Shiratama made all sorts of grimaces with her lips and puffed out her cheeks. “I would have been put in a difficult situation, to say the least. A pitiful middle school girl who claims to be seeing an invisible little creature, furthermore, behaves as if it were there with her…”

“It’s good that I can see Chinu then…”

“Honestly, I took a risk. Although I was quite convinced already that you could see them too, Otogiri-kun.”

“So you can say the results were alright?” Baku asked that incredibly lightly, but if Tobi were in Shiratama’s place, he wouldn’t have taken that risk.

Is there something wrong with me?

Tobi has had those thoughts a number of times. However you look at it, being able to talk with your backpack isn’t normal.

He can hear sounds other people can’t.

He can see things he’s not supposed to see.

Are those illusions? Is there something wrong with his brain? Is it some kind of mental illness? Maybe he should go see a doctor about it. He’s considered all of those options.

Tobi was so exhausted he might just fall off the railing. What had tired him out so much? One thing came to mind.

He’s not the only one. It’s relief he’s feeling. Those weren’t just products of his imagination.

Baku is there.

He’s not an illusion Tobi created.

He actually exists.

“…You can hear Baku just as I can, and I can see Chinu, just like you do. The things that other people can’t see…”

If that’s the case, maybe those ones as well?

Tobi decided to ask Shiratama.

“Does it mean you can see them too, Shiratama-san? Those… weird creatures other students bring here sometimes…”

Shiratama looked Tobi in the eye so that their gazes met.

After that, she nodded slowly.

Translated by Q-talations

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[untaemedqueen]

The Deal

Drug Lord!Yoongi x Coffee Shop Owner!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 32.

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Mentions of Drugs and Drug Deals, Blood, Smut, Emotional Damage, Love, Gunshot Wounds

Warnings For This Chapter: Firearms, Gunshot Wounds

Looking out the passenger side window, you watch as the autumn leaves blow through the chilly wind.

Your car is racing down the highway and the sound of your family screaming at the top of their lungs sounds like some sort of abysmal choir goading you on towards the finish line.

The small velvet box in your lap feels heavier than anything though and you know it's because the gold engraved bullet with today's casualty lies inside of it.

Even without looking at it, you can just feel the weight of it.

The leaves, as pretty as they are, can't distract you for even a second.

Your mind is solely focused on Hyunwoo, you're running through memories of this man that has only ever been kind and supportive.

You remember the date and how sweet he was when you were acting like a psychotic teenager. Even when you were shot, you can see how disgusted his face was that you were even getting hurt so clearly.

Yoongi won't listen to you when you say that it might not be Hyunwoo's fault, he's hellbent on the snake's destruction. And who are you to stop him?

Your boyfriend went away for months and to be taken away from his unborn daughter and his woman… that amount of anger cannot be rivaled.

When the drug lord's hand intertwines with yours, it pulls you back to reality.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks softly.

His voice is drowned out by the others yelling and only you can hear him.

You give him a small nod and he lifts an eyebrow at how convincing your action is.

"Don't do this to me, baby doll. You know this needs to happen."

You simply shrug and the scarred man sighs loudly.

You haven't debated him on the events that are going to transpire, you just freeze when the topic even gets brought up.

"Babe… come on," Yoongi breathes, taking his hand out of yours and putting it on your belly.

When you turn back to the window, the car begins to glide off the highway onto the dirt road beside it.

The cacophony of voices cuts short at the swivel and the father of your child exits the car scratching his gnarled scar the whole time.

You watch him stalk around the front of the car out of the corner of your eye.

Yoongi opens up the passenger side door and nods to the road beside him.

"Come on," he goads, taking the velvet bullet box off of your lap and throwing it at your little brother.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you fold your arms and step out of the car.

Your boyfriend puts his hand to your elbow and guides you away from the car and behind a large oak tree so prying eyes can't see a thing.

When the drug lord is comfortable, he places a hand gently beside your head as he leans against the tree.

"What's the matter, baby doll?" he inquires, putting his free hand to your side.

"Nothing," you chirp, looking down at your nails.

His eye roll is practically violent and his eyebrows knit accordingly. "Stop with that shit. C'mon. Talk to me."

"I don't have anything to say," you sigh.

Clicking his teeth, he taps his index finger to the underside of your chin until you look up at him.

"What's the matter?" Yoongi asks again, "you don't want him to die? You don't support what we're going to do? What? Tell me."

"I've said it before, I don't think this is Hyunwoo's fault. And I don't want to see him die," you admit.

The drug lord only nods thoughtfully, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you into an embrace.

He kisses your temple before whispering in your ear. "This motherfucker has wanted to be with you for as long as I can remember… you can't possibly believe that this was someone else. Seokjin told you what it is, the snakes stole that coke and got me locked up."

"I'm not disagreeing or agreeing with it."

Yoongi presses his forehead to yours and the scent of mint and cologne makes you feel at home and comforted.

"I can see the disagreement written all over this gorgeous face," he muses, running his thumb over your cheek, "I need to do this."

"I know, that's why I'm staying quiet. I support you all the time, you know that. I'm just not outwardly supporting this," you announce.

The father of your child closes his eyes and snorts gently. "What am I gonna do if our girl is born with her mother's hard head, hmm?"

You shrug once more and even though he can't see it, he feels it and he smirks.

"I love you," your boyfriend murmurs, lifting your designer shirt to caress the bare skin of your stomach.

"You know I love you too. We love you."

"And that's all I could ask for," Yoongi says, pulling away just far enough to see all of you.

"Let's just get this over with," you whisper, letting him kiss you once more.

"C'mon, sweetheart."

It's kind of unsettling to pull up to a compound that's not your own.

The snake compound looms large on the highest point of the city's closest mountain and just looking up at it sends a shiver up your spine.

You've been training with guns over the past few months and the shine that reflects from some windows automatically tells you that there are sniper rifles situated in the higher rooms of the mansion.

"Boss… you sure?" Jimin inquires, handing Yoongi the binoculars.

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow as he puts the binoculars to his eyes.

"Oh my God these scared little pussies," he murmurs, throwing the device over his shoulder.

"Go up to the gate, noona," your brother suggests.

Turning your head to him, you grimace.

There's no universe where you would draw out an unsuspecting man to his death, especially a man that's never personally done you any wrong.

"Shut the fuck up," you warn Guk and he complies almost immediately.

Yoongi clicks his teeth rapidly as he thinks and his fingertips softly glide over his scar. "All of them are going to die. So what order do you want to take them?"

The drug lord is so deeply consumed with his revenge that he doesn't care about the danger that he could find himself in within a matter of minutes.

Namjoon taps on your shoulder and points to the gate.

Yoongi pulls out his gun at the sight of Hyunwoo who walks out of his mansion with both hands up high in the air and a white handkerchief held between his index and middle finger.

"What the fuck is this goon doing?" your boyfriend hisses, grabbing the velvet box off your lap and opening it.

"He wants to parley," Seokjin erupts quickly.

The drug lord fumbles with the box as his adrenaline spikes and his fingers are shaky when he picks up the bullet engraved with Hyunwoo's name. "I don't give a fuck what he wants. Fucking scumbag."

You can see the caution written all over the snake leader's face and without pausing, you climb out of the car.

"Y/N!" Yoongi bellows, shoving open his door.

Hyunwoo holds his hands higher when your boyfriend positions himself behind the open car door and aims his gun at his head.

"Get back in the fucking car!" Yoongi grinds out to you.

"No one is going to hurt anyone," Hyunwoo promises loudly.

You approach the gate and the sound of your boyfriend taking the safety off his gun seems to echo through the air.

"No one in my family is gonna get hurt. You're all gonna fucking die!" the father of your child screams out into the air.

"Hyunwoo…" you gently warn.

"I just wanna talk. I need to talk to you. Make him see reason, Y/N, please," the snake leader pleads, grabbing ahold of the large iron bars that stand between you.

"Let me in and he'll have to follow," you suggest.

Hyunwoo contemplates this for a mere second and when Yoongi opens his mouth to bellow once more, he opens the gate for you. "It's just me here, the others have gone into hiding."

You step behind the gate and the father of your child curses so loudly that it echoes through the air for seconds on end.

"Follow me," Hyunwoo murmurs.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" Yoongi screams, slamming the car door shut and chasing behind you.

"Please sit," Hyunwoo begs, opening the door to his library.

You do as told, crossing your legs and angling your head to the door when you hear Yoongi rushing up the stairs.

"Y/N! What the fuck?!" your boyfriend screams, bursting through the door.

Hyunwoo pours two glasses of whiskey and casually sits down behind his desk with one hand up in the air as he sips his alcohol.

"Get up and go sit in the car," the drug lord hisses, narrowing his eyes at you.

"I know how the tigers work, I know there's a bullet in that clip of your gun that's meant just for me. I know you're fucking livid but I just need to say something."

Yoongi holds his gun up, stepping behind your chair and shaking his head.

"You don't even get to fucking breathe. I lost four months of my life because of you, I missed watching my daughter grow because of your petty ass!"

Hyunwoo presses his lips into a hard line and he can hear how fucking furious Yoongi is like there's a ball of venom lodged within his throat.

Folding your arms, you thought you were going to be a mediator between the two but you're aware that red is the only color your boyfriend can see.

You'd rather not be caught in between and nothing you could say would help the situation that you're in at this moment.

"Sit down," is all you can say.

Yoongi grumbles under his breath and he listens to you after a moment of weighing his options.

"Whiskey?" Hyunwoo offers.

"Suck my dick," the scarred man spits, holding his gun up and closing one eye.

You run your hands over your face and hunker down for the upcoming brawl.

"I need to say this and I can't say this enough or more sincerely. I'm so fucking sorry that you got taken in but I did not put that motion into place."

Yoongi scoffs but he continues to listen only because he has a gun trained on the man.

"I would never, ever do anything to upset Y/N. My admiration for her was and is very fucking real. If anything would upset her, I wouldn't do it and I know how much she fucking loves you. I know how badly that would have broken her."

The father of your child scratches at his scar before widening his eyes. "Watch your mouth."

Hyunwoo holds up his hands, looking away from you to your boyfriend. "I did not tell my men to steal your coke and I did not tell them to plant it. I did not call in the anonymous tip and I did not help your papers get lost while you were in jail."

Yoongi sniffs loudly, mulling over the new information. "Then who the fuck did? My men have your snakes all over the fucking place."

"Heon. He didn't like how quickly I fell for Y/N, he thought she was trouble especially when she showed up at the event with you and how I flocked to her."

Scratching at his chin, the scarred man beside you tilts his head. "Well, you're all going to die so it's no skin off my bare ass."

You sigh loudly, shutting your eyes.

"I'm fucking upset that you got to miss out on your kid growing but you know that a boss is never going to give his family away. You'd never do it. All of my family has gone into hiding and they're going to stay there."

"Oh, fuck off. I'm not listening to this bullshit anymore. Y/N, go get in the car."

You don't move and it only fuels the situation more.

"You won't find my guys. They're out of the country and they'll be staying there for a while. What I can do is pay for their sins."

Yoongi sits up, giving his full attention to the other drug boss. "Go on."

"Take my life and leave the others alone. Don't look for them and don't-"

"Wait. Just wait-" you begin.

"I accept your offer," your boyfriend cuts you off.

Taking a large inhale through your nose, you shake your head.

Yoongi stands and gently lays a pair of black latex gloves in your lap.

"Yoong-"

"Put them on, Y/N." Hyunwoo insists, nodding towards you.

With a shaky sigh, you put on the gloves and stand, wiping down the chair you and Yoongi both sat on.

You can't even say you're sorry to Hyunwoo because this is vengeance that has to be met.

"I appreciate you taking the hit for your dumb fucking family," your boyfriend announces, walking towards the desk.

The snake drug boss finishes his whiskey before taking off his tie and running his rough hands over his face.

"Baby doll, I really don't want you to see this."

You put the rag you used to wipe down your chairs in your pocket and you close your eyes.

"I hope you guys have a healthy kid," Hyunwoo whispers, closing his eyes.

Yoongi seems to have softened up after the brave display of the snake drug lord. The anger that has been boiling through his blood for days on end has since diffused even for a little while.

"We're getting out of this business and doing something legitimate after this… for our little girl but you're the last task left on the list," Yoongi muses, stepping around the desk and pressing the mouth of his gun to Hyunwoo's temple.

Swallowing thickly, you turn your head to look at the books stacked along the walls on the bookshelves.

"Treat her right," the snake boss whispers, closing his eyes.

"Always do," Yoongi chirps.

Your eyes scour the shelves and as the seconds continue to tick on you feel your nerves becoming tighter and tighter.

There's a thickness in the air that tastes of misery in this giant fortified mansion and you can't help but feel like you brought all of this on in some way.

What if Hyunwoo would have just gone to a different coffee shop? What if you never agreed to that date? Surely you wouldn't have still ended up here.

Maybe you shouldn't have gone to any events with Yoongi so early on. Maybe then this handsome snake boss would continue to live on another day.

But it's all pointless now.

"Any last words?" Yoongi inquiries.

"I have a cat, it's gonna need a home. Python doesn't do well without someone around." Hyunwoo whispers.

"Noted."

The gun shot is so loud that it makes you jump and all you can do is shut your eyes the same way Hyunwoo did on the night of the event where you were hurt.

The irony.

Without a word, you leave the home office.

It's sad to even think but something about what just happened makes you feel almost lighter in a way. Now there's nothing to offset Yoongi's plans.

Now you can begin anew.

And your boyfriend knows it all too well as well.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you both home," Yoongi breathes, putting his arm around your shoulders and exhaling deeply.

Now your life can really begin.

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[materlux]

I had an idea

Okay, so, we know the empowered population have different auras, dependent on what they are.

So i was thinking, what if does auras felt different, not just from power to power, but also person to person.

Maybe they feel different dependent on personality, or maybe peoples personalities reflect their auras.

While thinking of this, i came up with a couple of ideas for some of the characters:

Huxley: Being an earth elemental means his aura must reflect that; i fell like Huxley is hike in the woods (like the one audio), you've gone of the main path and are by yourself. The birds sing around you, the leaves rustle gently in the wind, gravel crunches under your shoes. The sun is high in the sky, shining down between the conopy above, it's calm and friendly, and sort of homey.

Imp!Huxley: Imp!Huxley's aura would be a stark constrast to Huxley's, and yet the same scene; your in the forest, you were just hiking down a known trail, when you somehow got lost. The woods are endless, sretching for miles. The sun has set, and know the moon watches over you, casting little light around you. Twings and branches snap all around you, you are being surrounded by something. His aura is unnerving, scary.

Kody: Kody's aura is violent and hostile, as a water elemental i feel his would be something akin to a raging ocean, dark clouds stretch over top tall white capped waves. The ocean roars arund you, threatining to drag you down, to consume you.

Lasko's listener: In comparison Lasko's listener's aura is much mor gentle and calming; it's a quiet stream deep in the woods. Gently running over rocks, and carring sticks and leaves. The sound of the water running drowns out any fear the woods hold. It welcomes you to run your fingers through it's cool water, to follow it as it bends.

Damien: Damien's aura is warm, that is a given, but it's not a burning warm. It's a campfire in the woods, warming the night and keeping animals away. It's a fireplace in a cabin in the dead of winter, keeping you warm as you curl up infront of it. It warms you to your bones, but it never burns. It feels safe.

Lasko: For a nervous guy, i think his aura would be relaxing. An endless field of grass with specks of colourful flowers. Wind blows over the grass, sending waves over the grass and making the flowers bounce. The endlessness of the field is eerie but the wind welcomes you, pushes you around the field. As his emothins vary so does the strength of the wind.

Xavier: We didn't see much of him, but i wanted to do a fire contra elemental just to explore the ideas. Xavier's aura, to me, would be an open snowy field, surrounded by a thick spruce forest. Snow slowly falls from the sky, the wind blows and howls around the trees. The wind is strong and chills you to your core, but it doesn't hurt, nor do you shiver. It's strangely welcoming and comforting.

Freelancer: This one is the hardest, because a freelancer can learn and control all elements, i think it would vary. Some times it's a mix of things, a forest fire, a sunny warm beach, a rainstorm with strong winds, and so on. Any combination is possible, and can be overwhelming, not only to the freelancer themselves but people around them. This one really is just up to interpretation, whatever feels right.

Gavin: Gavin is an incubus, but he still has an aura that others feel. To me it's soft sheets and scented candles. A marble statue surrounded by blooming roses, the smell is overwhelming. It's gentle touches and quiet words, that form into a sensation of love, lust and desire.

[tsuukirana]

𝟎𝟏 | 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐄

Teyvat was a weary place, battered and beaten by the history of war, mortals continue to feast upon dreams. Though only a few make it out to be heroes, many come and go as quietly as the wind. One woman stands against the story of time, destined to walk on the ground with nothing more but an outstretched hand. Darkness reaches her neck yet never did it quell her light. Her followers wish to be beside her as she veers to the land of defeated gods.

The Tsaritsa's right hand is a lonesome soul who wanders the snow-covered grounds of Snezhnaya. Those serving beneath her swear their loyalty, guided truthfully by the sound of her gentle voice. And though her youthful appearance shields years of pain, she chooses to continue forth her journey in overseeing the land's future, hoping that change will be brought upon her people.

Return to ���𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

Inspired by Aponia, the Third Flame-Chaser by Honkai Impact 3rd.

Pressing your thumbs together, you closed your eyes, letting yourself feel the gentle breeze of the wind guide your mind to a peaceful resolution. You leaned slightly against the carriage walls, the smell of pinewood traveling through the air. When you bring yourself to stare at the dark-tinted window, you see the lush, green forests that graze past the vehicle. Grasses dance alongside the soft winds, blowing ever so peacefully like there was no tomorrow. And while you may have preoccupied yourself with the sound of rustling leaves, your navy-haired companion only sighed underneath his breath, finding the prosaic task of researching a foreign object to be too mundane for the likes of him. He would have liked it if he were given missions that involved things other than simple debt and research collecting. But at last, he was left on a journey of a lifetime. What was more exciting than learning about a couple of rocks? He asked himself, his sarcasm dripping ever so poisonously. He scoffed, leaning into his open palm as he raised one leg over the other. Nevertheless, when he peers to look at your (e/c) eyes, he is reminded of why he accepted such a mediocre job. 

Your face was as young as the freshly blossomed flowers of spring, the color of your eyes bringing him back to the days in which he enriched himself in the beauty of Inazuman gardens. While dull and muddy, they hold a glimmer of light from deep within, something that he swore he could only bear witness to. Black sleeves contrast your battered skin, scars so jagged that it was violent. When he lowers his gaze, he notices your small, transparent wrinkle that glides across your hand, an elaborate constellation that functions as a map to your heart. And while you hide your glory behind a thin, white veil, you bear thorns so sharp that he fears being swallowed up by them. Flowers that grow upon your shoulders and collarbone reveal to him how difficult it must be to pluck them. They bloom alongside your snowy veil, dancing around the bottom and edges of your neck. 

You bring your hand to caress the gem that rests upon your collarbone, letting the cold, steel prick the thin layer of skin. For you, my child, You still remember the day the Tsaritsa gifted you such an elegant trinket, While the world shades itself in darkness, may your light never see to extinguish. The feeling of her frigid hands grazing the side of your cheek before pinning a colorful gem on your clothes, the loving gaze that she shared for you alone. You think that sort of service was. . . fleeting. You wonder if she was doing these favors out of the kindness of her heart, or if it was merely an obligation, a promise that she wanted to uphold. Shades of blue and purple intertwine with each other, mixing to create what you could only describe being an aurora. Anyone could get lost looking into the crystal, and at times you find yourself to be admirably beautiful in the mirror.

Let us celebrate the coming of a new nation, one birthed from the future itself! Members of the earliest Fatui gawked at such an extravagant gift, their hands unable to stop themselves from clapping in glee for your accomplishment. May her guidance lead us to succession! When you turn to look at them, smiling at them, you are reminded that they were your most loyal subordinates. If loyalty was built upon years of cooperation or existence remained a mystery. Though to you, you find either or sufficient enough, you suppose. Being loved felt. . . nice. To be supported and loved by so many people despite the blood that covers your hands. Was it because you established what could have been the fiercest of warriors, or was it out of care for you? Regardless, you choose to accept their love willingly, knowing well that human life was nothing more than passing time.

The navy-haired man nibbles slightly on the tip of his nail, watching as your fingers interlace with each other, a short and fragile barrier that keeps you at a distance from others. Your presence was so close yet so far from him, the gentle scent of vanilla only reminding him how short his relationship is with you. It was not common for any Harbinger to attend tasks with you, especially when it’s as simple as researching fallen meteorites in the city of Liyue. The Tsaritsa had always made you go on missions alone, and they were oftentimes too secretive for any of the others to know about. He presumes it involves your extraordinary vision, though such thoughts lead him to press his lips tightly together. It is a shame that between the two of you, neither shared enough words for him to feel remotely satisfied by your connection. Your distance keeps your associates away from you, and he is in no position to say whether or not you had to, however, the idea of you sitting along in the golden palace creates a sense of uneasiness inside. He thinks that it’s because he doesn’t like the idea of you not doing any work, but that might just be a lie.

He wonders if his poisonous tongue is what keeps you at bay. It wasn’t unusual to hear him mistreat his soldiers, so he felt as if you could have been weak-hearted to his attempts to rile you. Was he blaming you for being fragile, or was he bringing attention to his poor behavior when comparing his words to yours? You had always spoken with a voice so tender and loving that he swears that you were attempting to place a spell on him with how hypnotic you curved your vowels. Were you the icy witch that allures her victims with the promise of glory, or just a simple woman who carried herself with wisdom and humble nature? What sort of violence did you inflict on your soldiers to make them so obedient and keen? Did you even use any in the first place? Biting the side of his cheek, he hopes to himself that you were merely being cautious of your surroundings. 

He swears to his empty heart that he likes no one in the Fatui, he knows this to be true; so why does he feel deprived when you are not around? To him, being stuck in a palace so grand and empty with only the worst of humans made him sick to the stomach, and yet it changes when you are there. Your presence somehow makes it all the more bearable. It was a bittersweet emotion, he said to himself, biting the tip of his nail. This yearning feeling that he has brought forth into the world was something he loathed. He hates to admit that you were an extraordinary being whose heart holds no bounds, and he could have commended you for such a feat, though he feels sour at the way you drag your feet to the sound of somber drums. It leads him to think that you bore chains that were far too heavy to carry. Guilt was something no Harbinger expresses, so why must you hold it so freely in front of others? 

You and he were one and the same, he likes to believe. Two lonesome beings whose tears fall much too easily in the dead of night, hands too fragile and scared to create mistakes, blood too sacred to spill amongst the ground. Was it a curse for us to be restless? A burdensome existence is no life that one dares to live. Chains so heavy that you could feel your body break underneath the slightest pressure. It’s too easy for everyone to give everything in the search for something easier. The other side must have some sort of otherworldly spell to bring others to their knees. He tilts his head. You lived as a wandering question that has yet to be answered, a being lost in the space of time, unable to break through the guilt you’ve created for yourself. He calls you pitiful as he rests his hand against the side of the carriage, a small frown resting on his porcelain face. How pitiful, he repeated.

Though he resents the idea of being found like a stray, he still remembers the day your loving hand grazed his cheek. Where are you from, boy? Thin nails resting themselves upon his bones as gently as the wind. Do you need a place to stay? You, an unknown diplomat of the Fatui, had found him at the edges of Snezhnaya, beaten and bruised but well enough to say his name. He didn’t know who you were, yet the look in your eyes made him feel as if he had met you once before. Could it be that he found comfort in your presence, or was he simply appealing to your kindness so that you would keep him around?

One day, you will regain your strength, to claim what was lost, you said, pouring him a warm bowl. Perhaps then, you will find what you have been truly looking for. As he brings the wooden dish to his lips, he glances up to see you. The snow rested peacefully against your skin, melting ever so slowly as you stirred the rest of the food. He notices the look of tranquility on your face, and questions if there was something that you cherished so deeply within these woods. The cold may snuff your flame, but it may never tame it. He thinks of this as a lesson he keeps only for himself.

Your hands were as warm as the campfire that had been carved into the land, his skin growing warm as you led him through the dense forest. You were the first to offer him a smile, those pearly whites of yours shining underneath the glistening moonlight. The first that he sought after was the day of his coronation, with your hands full of what he could only describe being a gift for him. You will catch flies if you keep your mouth open, you laugh, And while we may not see each other as much, I wish you the best of luck in your journey. If he could, he would wish to be reborn at the very moment you pinned the Electro-plate on his chest. The piece weighs heavy on his chest. When he asks you about its origin, you only describe to him your harrowing journey of Inazuma, exploring the lands for the finest blacksmith that could carve the symbol of his power on tablets of gold. What a beautiful nation, it is fitting for someone like you. He calls you silly for going as far as to give him something so expensive. Yet when you called him Balladeer, he forgot all about it, unable to keep himself at ease when you brush your fingers against his shoulders. 

He would have chalked you to be a fool for your overwhelming kindness and love, but as he raises his hand to touch the golden plate on his chest, brushing his slender fingers across the smooth surface, he could only feel the way his heart beats a little quicker. What could this feeling be? Was it respect for you as a fellow Harbinger, or something more? What was it that made him feel this way? What could this feeling be and what would you call it? He finds it to be bitter and sweet that it hurts him. It hurts to say that he would swear his successes to you and no one else. It becomes difficult to breathe when his illustration of eternity is one he could share with you, the Tsaritsa’s hand. You will always have him trailing behind you as long as you allow it. The cold may snuff your flame, he says, but it will never tame it. You may experience a hundred years of grief, though he knows that you will always rise above it. And so will he. 

“. . . La Strega,” The Balladeer says, daring not to call you by your translated title as your service is more than just providing what he seems to be destructive. It is an insult to you to address you as a monster when your presence is far from the truth. And while he may be a hypocrite to some, he would be as truthful as he could with you. He will misuse the names of his other associates, but he knows when to hold his tongue when faced with your presence. You were not to be compared with the other Harbingers. At the call of your name, you respond to him with a faint hum.

“I ask why you have chosen to attend to such mundane tasks. It would have been easier to have left the job to someone else, especially if it's about the recent meteor strikes. Perhaps it could have been left with,” Tartaglia, “another Fatui member stationed in Liyue.” He chooses to leave the man’s name out of his mouth. He scrunches up his face as proof of his thoughts but does not let the image of him rile him. The idea of you bringing along that bastard man produced a sour taste in his mouth. He was sure that if you were to bring along the russet-haired man on your journey through Liyue, he would only cause you trouble. What could that man possibly do other than getting into mischief? He sighs under his breath, feeling exhausted at the mere thought of him. 

He finds working with him unbearable, so what could he possibly make with the two of you being together? He would most likely drag you all around the city of Liyue for something as simple as sightseeing when the two of you had nothing more than work. The man of battle was nothing more but a starving child who wanted to enjoy the fruits of life, so naive and foul, the Balladeer describes. He dismisses his thoughts as nothing more but a precaution or warning to you as a fellow Harbinger, though the stinging sensation that pricks his chest wants to tell him otherwise. “I believe that we could use our troops better by having them search the area for any samples. Having us dispatched to Liyue would only attract attention.”

You turn your head towards him, (e/c) eyes taking glances at him before you smile. He feels his hands grow clammy at the sight but he focuses on the way your lips slowly part themselves. “I think it is. . . a nice change of pace. Exploring the nation of Liyue with. . . such a noticeable guide would be difficult. He is too close to the Geo Archon.” 

“Nonetheless, Teyvat’s Traveler may also be researching the same meteorites as the Fatui. . . it would be wise for the two of us to scout them.” Squeezing your hands, you hold your breath for a moment, “I’ve already seen Tartaglia’s reports. . . he already formed a relationship with them. It would be unwise of us to have him involved in something so personal. We must disguise ourselves if we wish to blend in.” 

“As a vagrant of Inazuma and Snezhnayan Church goer?” The Balladeer raises his eyebrow in response, “Our attire would be a dead giveaway that we are associated with the Fatui. Inazuma does not have any Church system. Our reason for being with each other has to be vague enough for them to believe in it.” He huffs, leaning back against his seat, “We look too different to even work together. How could we possibly explain to them our reason for being in Liyue? What kind of business would a foreigner from Inazuma have with a Snezhnayan native?” 

“I suppose you have a point there. . .” You hummed, pressing your lips tightly together.

He was right in the sense that it would be indeed strange for you to mask as a Church follower in the city of Liyue. Having the Balladeer by your side would only draw even more suspicion. You brought your hand to touch the bottom of your chin, staring intensely into space. Inazuma has little to no access to any other religion aside from its own, so how could you possibly formulate a reasonable story for the Traveler? Peering up to glance at the man’s attire, you notice the Inazuman qualities in his facial structure. How troublesome it was, you say to yourself. You already predicted that the Traveler and their companion would identify the two of you as natives from different nations, therefore, your reasoning for being together must be stronger than ever. Before you could sigh, you hear the Balladeer clear his throat. 

“Would you like to say that we’ve recently engaged and that we were merely exploring Liyue to plan our wedding?” You bring your head up to look at the man, his lips curving into a prideful grin. He had no problem disguising himself as your husband if it means that you would be able to investigate the meteorite in peace. And if the Traveler were to ask you about your reasoning for investigating such strange rocks, the Balladeer would smoothly answer that you had found their glow to be beautiful. 

“This would be the most effective plan. This can easily explain our relationship with each other, and we can freely look around the city with less struggle for a place to stay. If we were to run into the Traveler, we could say that we were looking for a place for our wedding ceremony. They wouldn’t bat an eye to a married couple.” Waving his hand he gestures for you to reply, “What do you say, La Strega?”

“My. . . is this your way of proposing to me?” You chuckle, “Perhaps we can play along with that charade. It would be favorable if we can keep the Traveler from suspecting anything from us. . . at least. . . for a while that is.” You notice a bit of a pout growing on his lip, causing your laughter to fill the empty carriage. “You don’t need to act so poutily around me when you already know I trust your word, Balladeer.”

He shares with you an offhand comment, saying that his idea was merely out of convenience and not of favor. So when you turn your head away from him to gaze at the window, the navy-haired man presses a hand t his crimson cheeks, finding your words much too innocent and carefree for his liking. He was not used to such light-heartedness. Though he brushes it off, in favor of questioning how oblivious you must be to his advancements. Too naive to see the way his finger grazes past yours during meetings or the faint smile he offers to you when he is alone in your office. It was strange, he says, for a woman trained in seeing the future, you hadn’t once brought up the idea that he may have favored you a bit more than the other Harbingers.

At last, he finds himself thinking about what sort of future you might be brooding about. After knowing you for several hundred years, he has yet to understand the intent of your plan. Your reason for joining the Tsaritsa, the purpose you share with her, and the likes of her people. He bites down on his lip. For what reason did you assemble the Harbingers? And for what purpose may they serve to you? What did you see in the future, that you had found so deeply disturbing as to formulate an army of the strongest warriors? What could you possibly be defending if not for the Tsaritsa? Pressing his hand against the side of his head, leaning his weight against the carriage, he also looks to the open skies. Every Harbinger has a certain agenda to follow and while yours involves preserving the future, he questions whether or not your current path is something you truly wanted to devote your life to. And though he is in no position to question your line of work, he is left to wonder if you were already aware of his plans to deviate from the crowd.

Your journey with him will eventually come to an end, whether he or you liked it. But he cannot settle the uncomfortable, bubbling feeling of nervousness that he gets when he looks into your (e/c) eyes. It was not the usual warmth that he had grown slightly accustomed to, but a sense of frigid coldness that stops him from wanting to look any further than he should. He is unsure if he wants to look at his future through your eyes, especially not when he knows you will follow any sort of action it took to see it come true. And although he wishes that you could chase after him, declaring your desire to have him stay by your side, he knew that you wouldn’t. No amount of praying or dreams could make such a thing happen. It was you, after all. 

“It looks like we arrived.” 

He flinched slightly, forcefully dragged out of his thoughts as he looked up at you, seeing that you were already standing up to leave the carriage. Your long dress trails alongside your legs, a gentle smile still resting on your face as you look out to the grand view of Liyue. The Balladeer presses his lips tightly together as he decides to abandon his thoughts. Taking his hat from the other seat, he drops down to the floor with a slight ‘thump’ before placing it on top of his head, shielding his vision and skin away from the heat of Liyue. His bells jingle alongside his footsteps behind you, his hand never too close yet too far from yours. A tinge of misery follows him, his lips tightly held together as he peers up at your much taller form. 

He feels remorse pooling over the emptiness of his heart, but he chooses to dismiss such feelings in favor of seeing how far your kindness travels. Though he knows that his journey alongside you was nothing more but a fleeting, passing of time, he wishes that perhaps you’ll meet again in later life.

[leviiattacks]

May I request a Levi x Reader angst fic? Just barely any fluff, mostly angst going on lol. The reader is a traitor, formaly working for Marley, but betraying them in secret and putting their loyalty on Paradis. The reader is also a shifter and married to Levi for a couple of years. That love and care however is gone once readers identity is found. He truly despises them, insults them, maybe a bit violent with them, and outright tells them that they mean nothing to him anymore and hate them to bits. Readers punishment is to hand over her titan to Erwin, and they agree instantly, broken over everything, believing its all their fault. Once Erwin inherits Readers titan, he breaks down and screams, crying, because Reader was innocent the whole time. They never betrayed Paradis. Never killed anyone, never harmed anyone. They finaly know why they betrayed Marley, the abuse being to much for them, enough to just leave them behind for Paradis. Just... loving and caring as they all saw them. But now the damage is done. They wont come back, they're dead, believing that they died, hated and despised, with no one to mourn their death. Everyone regrets everything.

author note :: i was thinking of leaving this in my drafts but i already wrote it and may as well post it. it didn’t end up going the way i hoped but yeah i hope it’s ok anon. anyways ANGST. ANGST, ANGST. as always i love feed back :-) ⟹ all of the headings with the years are just meant to mean it’s a different moment from that year so those moments don’t happen right after each other i hope that makes sense!! word count :: 7.2k warnings :: canon typical violence, death

845, i.

Everything is falling in place when it shouldn't.

Sun never makes itself known in Liberio yet here it is shining down onto the bustling streets. You half expect for it to crash down and burn into the hundreds of civilians going about their daily business yet nothing of the sort happens. It's typical sunlight and you curse yourself silently for your sinister thoughts.

Secretly the voice at the back of your mind still whispers frantically but you don't wish to hear what it has to say. Instead you choose to drown it out with the sound of Zeke's voice. Finally deciding to pay attention to what it is he's been droning on about for the past ten minutes.

"Soon, soon, soon." He sighs dreamily looking a little delirious.

"Soon?"

Your question catches him off guard, he lightly shoves you with his elbow scoffing in annoyance.

"Did you sit here to not even listen to me?" He turns to take a sip of whisky and the hearty gulp he chugs shows his mild irritation. You assume he's been rambling on about Marley's plan to infiltrate Paradis. You have to admit that the idea of destroying those demons from the inside is amazingly well thought out. However it's all he's been able to discuss for the entire week now and frankly you're getting a little exhausted of it.

"I zoned out..." Quietly placing your glass back down onto the wooden counter you sigh closing your eyes. It's too early to be drinking and you don't trust Zeke enough to slip into ignorance and leave yourself vulnerable. Men are to not be trusted, especially Eldian men. The thought of Eldians triggers your flight of fight response, you want to shrivel up into a cocoon and never come out until the world is rid of the monsters. The lowest of the low, the dirt in between the crevices of Marleyan soldier's boots. That is what Eldian's are.

It's ironic coming from you, your entire family labelled as undesirable Eldians yourself but you, you know you're different. An honorary Marleyan is what you will become. What you are. The treacherous imps who are but an ocean away are the true evil.

Eyes flicking to Zeke he's lighting a cigar. Old habits die hard and he's yet to quit this self destructive custom of his. You couldn't care less if he chooses to cut his lifespan short by ten years, it's his own choice to make. A disgusting cowardly choice but it's a choice fit for an untamed man like him.

The Island Devils are said to be the bad apples but you can't help but stare at your fellow citizens from time to time and wonder what it is they could be hiding. If a demon slipped through the cracks you wouldn't be surprised. Sly in nature, persuasive in tone, that is how devils go about their daily lives alone The hymns they drilled into you all the way through elementary school echo and rebound in your mind.

Locking your bitter thoughts away you have to push yourself to not punt Zeke in the mouth when he teasingly blows a puff of hot smoke into your face.

Fingertips grazing with his he freezes at the sudden contact giving you the perfect opportunity to slip his cigar away and take it in between your lips. You allow for it to linger there but you aren't foolish enough to inhale its contents.

"Zeke, my dear friend. We shall soon be met with the fruits of our own labour but I assure you that discussing Marley's plan constantly will be of no benefit for you nor I."

The day you and Zeke had met had been at warrior training camp. Zeke was a miserable, unmotivated oaf. Always tripping and falling behind the rest of the warrior cadets. You felt rather bad for him, if you were born as unskilled as him you don't know what you would have made of yourself. Zeke, the only child of his parents ironically only ever ended up rising through the ranks after handing them over to the Marleyan government. His father and mother had been conspiring an escape plan but were executed immediately alongside their fellow team members once Zeke had outted them. Unexpectedly he was spared, the fact he turned on his own parents showed where his loyalties were. To his surprise, he was even allowed to continue his training with the other warriors - only this time everyone kept an increased distance away from him. The warriors weren't informed of what he had actually done but everyone had a gut feeling. Everyone apart from you stuck with that feeling. You thought strategically, If he were to become an enemy in the future you knew being close would come at your advantage.

The day you and Zeke had met your mother died, his mother passed away the same day. At least that's what he had told you.

The two of you bonded over the little things, told each other stories about your life at home. Reminisced about what it was you missed.

Then it all came crashing down the day Zeke confessed. The day he told you he killed his mother and father by handing them over to Marley. Your knees buckled underneath you, crashing the floor he tried to grab at you but you thrashed around in retaliation kicking and screaming not understanding why he did what he did. Yes, they were traitors but they were his parents and if the monster had the nerve to turn on the people who gave birth to him who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you or to Marley.

Zeke doesn't know it but ever since then you take the opportunity to sneak the occasional glance at him. Every single time you narrow your eyes in malice. If there's a man in Liberio who you don't trust in the slightest it's him, he must think the feud between the two of you from childhood has been put at rest but it hasn't.

Zeke takes another swig of his alcohol. On this occasion he downs it entirely slamming the glass down with vigour.

"ONE MORE GLASS BARTENDER!"

846, i.

Another day of extensive training is about to end, your back is layered in uncomfortable layers of sweat and the same can be said for your forehead. Kneeling down in the under layer of the forest you're hidden waiting to strike. Going up against the elites is nerve-wracking but you're sure you can pull it off so long as you stay calm during this game of hunters against prey.

It's simple enough if you can conceal yourself and stay out of sight. The robust trees that surround you act as decent enough camouflage and your green cape paired with them lets you veil yourself, keeping you further into the foreground, blending into the environment.

No one will be able to catch you if they can't see you.

All of a sudden your previous thoughts are thrown away when you sense something in the atmosphere has changed, the hissing of the wind behind you isn't natural.

Turning to your side you don't bother to cover up the sound of leaves rustling and branches cracking, your priority is slipping away fast enough to hide again, a tug can be felt at your cloak and your reaction time barely covers for you, your gear fastens itself to a low enough tree branch and the descent is mind numbing. Your breakfast churns in your stomach but you ignore the uneasy feeling, leaping and diving wherever you find a small enough gap. You believe you can outrun your huntsman.

That is until you sneak a glance back and your muscles nearly tense up in pure astonishment, you've been kicked in the teeth just by the man's presence. Captain, Levi slinks behind you weaving through the gaps with increasing speed, he's gaining momentum and all the while his face stays relaxed, this isn't even his full effort.

Terrified you dart upwards and then left, a corner comes into view - Levi should assume you've turned into it and so you rashly choose to dart back down. Much to your hard luck you find that his senses are well adapted, the direction of the wind is enough for him to trace your whereabouts.

The pursuit resumes, and he stays disturbingly relentless.

Arm shooting to the right you think perhaps making it look like you're aiming to fly somewhere else again will completely catch him off guard, he can't expect for you to pull the same trick twice.

Setting your plan into motion your finger pulls at the trigger but you startle when the cable doesn't come out, it's jammed. Panic seeps into you and to make matters worse your gas is running out.

Without warning you're thrust into the body of a nearby tree, the bark scrapes against you and scratches begin to form anywhere you've made contact with the jagged surface, you want to admit defeat but the warrior inside of you denies Levi the pleasure of seeing you beg. In its place you deliver a harsh kick to his thigh, you're aware he's injured it and you're certain there are no rules to say you can't play dirty. Your boots hammer against leg hard enough for him to give out and let go of your body, but then you realize you lost this game from the very moment your grapple hooks broke, you have nowhere to hold onto.

Before you can even let out a shriek of horror Levi's shot back to you, he frantically accelerates and by a miracle humanity's strongest is able to grab a hold of you again. This time you don't dig your heels into his leg and you allow for him to clutch you by the torso.

Within a minute the two of you descend towards the forest floor and Levi throws you into the dirt furiously.

"You could have died. Being foolhardy will only lead to an early death." He barks as he directs his blade towards your neck.

"Am I dead yet?" Whispering back your gaze isn't trained on the blade but right up at him.

His nostrils flare up, his hair sticks to his forehead haphazardly and the knuckles that hold his pointed blades are white in tangled dissatisfaction.

Grabbing you by the hips he flings you over his shoulder choosing to not continue with the confrontation.

"I know what you're up to." His voice is still rugged from the pursuit and it takes you a split second to register what he's said.

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches in your throat, no way, there's no way in hell he knows. He's sharp but he's not a mind reader.

Your position means he can't read your face seeing as you're facing his back, instantly steeling your features you let out a breathy laugh.

"And what may that be?" Silently you pray he's worded himself ambiguously to catch a slip up.

"Being gutsy, you think that makes you a good soldier. It doesn't."

Relief floods you. He doesn't know.

"Soldiers need to be brave." Your retort makes him grumble.

"If  you die with no meaning by being reckless what's the purpose of being a soldier?" His question has you stopping and thinking on what the correct answer is.

Unable to think of an answer you ask another question.

"Are you saying your previous comrades died without meaning?"

"No. Their deaths fueled me slay more titans."

"So if I died back there who wou-" He swiftly cuts you off showing no inclination of wanting to hear what it is you have to say.

"I'll cut your tongue off if it's stupid." He clearly isn't serious about the threat but he does mean it when he warns you to not overstep.

Despite the consequences you say what's on your mind. "I just wanted to ask who would give my life meaning if I ever died. I don't have siblings and my parents died long ago."

Silence follows and the crunch of his boots against the muddy leaves tells you he probably doesn't wish to answer your question.

"Sorry-"

"I would. I would give meaning to your life." He says it with such ease you almost want to admire the enemy but you know he's said it because he feels he has to.

"You barely know me but I hope one day you can stop thinking everyone has to rely on you." You say it with taunting understanding.

Another bout of silence follows. Only this time the two of you feel warmly comforted, he doesn't understand how you've seen through his facade but it's easy for you to spot another liar.

846, ii.

Brows drawn back you observe your surroundings attempting to mask your scrutiny. The place is running amok with uncontrollable Eldian folk. The stench of unadulterated sin makes itself known but you seem to be the only person able to smell it. Eren bumps against the table you're sat at and your face twitches a little but you say nothing. You're yet to get used to these people's lack of manners.

At least that's how you force yourself to think. To be truthful, you don't quite understand what it is these people have done wrong. Ever since you've arrived you've been nitpicking at every single minor inconvenience or possible issue. A girl stole a potato and broke it into uneven pieces to share and you attempted to twist the story in your head to make her look like an unfair, greedy voracious demon but... you found yourself finding very little to actually be angry at. These people are essentially normal in every way of the word, they aren't demons and you can't help but feel yourself slip away from everything you once knew as reality. You're finding it difficult to believe what years of Marleyan education taught you, the hymns that were once drilled into your brain permanently are but a vague memory.

You feel disgustingly under-dressed and out of place, you don't belong here not when you're meant to hate these people, not when you're meant to despise them. You should be fighting the urge to shove their heads onto pitchforks or to skin them alive and feed them to pigs. Everyone back in Marley told you to control your impulses but now you're here and you've settled down even having the opportunity to converse with these individuals, share their pain, share their loss, share their suffering, you wonder why you have no impulses to control. Have they brainwashed you? Or is it that you're the real demon in this situation?

Fingers mingling with each other on your lap you sit hopelessly alone. Interacting with the so called enemy is much harder than you expect. Worry consistently bubbles in the pit of your stomach and every night is spent tossing and turning evaluating then reevaluating who the bad guy really is. At first the task of daily interaction isn't a big deal, you find it easy enough to approach members of the team and fake interest in their lives until the original plan falls through. You do become invested in your team members lives and stories that it comes to the point where you don't have to force yourself to smile at their jokes or to sympathize with their tales of grief. You become one of them and you swear you're meant to feel like a traitor but eerily you feel like you belong.

Nevertheless you try your best to stick with what you know. You're nothing like Zeke, you're loyal, capable, faithful and trustworthy. Never will you turn your back on Marley.

Rising to excuse yourself from dinner you think you've just about made it and escaped finally able to hide away in the confines of your bedroom but your lips form into a straight uncomfortable line at the feeling of someone's hand latching at your wrist. You're halfway down the hallway just a few more steps away from your bedroom. You hope it's one of the rookies.

"Oi, come here."

Head shooting backwards your eyes land on Levi, his dark curtains fall in front of his eyes - you note that he hasn't trimmed them as he usually does. Despite his size his grip is firm and your wrist squirms around a little trying to manoeuvre out of his bruising grasp. He seems to notice he's underestimated his strength once again and loosens his hold on you. Narrowed eyes analyse your anxious form, they're grey and in this lighting almost glow appearing silver. For a brief second your mouth is left ajar by the delicate but rough manner of his face.

"Everything Okay?" He doesn't typically seem to care very much about anyone, the question activates your senses and you're on full alert but the eye contact you make with him seconds later slows down the gears in your mind, they only whir and hum in anticipation completely coming to a halt.

"Yes, yes everything is okay." You're playing around with the hem of your shirt and you silently question when you were ever this nervous around anyone. You're a Marleyan soldier for heaven's sake not an unrestrained, unsupervised child left to play in a park.

Despite your clear inability to cushion and shield yourself from your Levi's stabbing gaze you attempt to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"I'll be going I just feel a little —" At first you had thought to fake you were ill but at the feeling of a sudden strike of pain you hold onto your stomach, the ache burns into your abdomen and without permission it travels higher up towards your ribs. "A little unwell." You manage to wheeze out. Hand placed onto a nearby cement wall your thought process is hasty speeding up by the second. Have they figured you out and had you poisoned? No, you barely ate anything today.

You hunch over feeling the bile crawl up your throat, on reflex you clamp your eyes shut not wishing to anger a superior by acting insolent and disposing of your dinner in the hallway. Shaky palms reach hesitantly for your lips and you force yourself to keep it in. Levi would commit a murder if you heaved and gagged letting it all out in front of him.

You motion towards the door trying to emphasize that you can handle yourself in the privacy of your room. Tears bite at the sides of your eyes and your vision is so blurred you can only make out the faint outline of the man who was just in front of you.

"Relax. I'll clean it." Your hair is brushed away from your face securely held back and you can't hold it in any longer, the acrid storm surges through your throat, you retch at the harsh sting it leaves behind. Breathing heavy, perturbed and anxious you gasp in all the air you can get.

"I knew you looked ill." His hands hold your jaw gently, the pads of his fingers are calloused but his touch remains soft. A tissue dabs at your mouth wiping away the excess untouched sick.

Just like the sick which surged through you less than a minute ago you feel something else entirely tear into you. You can't put a finger on it but it's dangerous for you to not feel contempt.

847, i.

Your heart accepts what your mind has been ignoring for months on end when Levi looks you square in the eyes after a heart wrenching expedition. The vacant look on his face is enough for the guilt to consume you whole but he doesn't know that. He doesn't know of your sins.

The wagon of corpses reeks of death and desperation. It's rotten and the smell is sickening. Forcibly you  stop yourself from feeling any more grief. The despair isn't yours to go through.

Your first ever personal loss outside of the walls and you've learnt Paradis is not home to demons. Cheeks burning in mortification you can't formulate any thoughts on your own accord, instead they continuously emerge in bursts and finally a single thought sticks out from the rest - Are you aiding in the destruction of innocent human life?

The both of you are sat on guard duty with the corpses, half of the team has been wiped out in one sweep. Your trembling hands don't seem to want to steady any time soon and you sit there with your guilty conscience strangling you slowly, your airflow is getting shallower. Shorter, quicker breaths leave you. The imaginary gash in your chest is bottomless, and your lungs push and pull in a power struggle.

Levi's coarse hands abruptly hold onto yours and the floodgates open again, he doesn't know what you've done to him, done to his soldiers, done to his people. If he knew who you really were, would things be different?

"This was out of your control."

Do you tell him?

The question sits in your mind for a while until you shake your head. He takes it the wrong way and think you're responding to him.

"This was not your fault." For the first time in months you've heard his voice crack under pressure.

"Pe- Petra she- I could have taken one for the team and died instead of her." All that remains of your dear friend is her blood soaked cloak. Her body was one of the few that had to be hauled away earlier to decrease the carriage's load.

The fabric still smells of Petra, smells of honey and chamomile and the simple soap offered at the base, but it still smells of her.

Firm hands grab your shoulders and Levi's fingers dig sorely into your flesh.

"Don't."

"But I- I didn't contribute as much as her and she has family who are alive." Hiccuping you try to bare with the fact that you'll wake up tomorrow and not see her preparing breakfast for everyone else. You know you could have propelled her out of the way just in time if you hadn't been so taken aback by the entire situation.

"You were her comrade. She made the choice to die for you."

You want to reach out, sob into his chest and yell that you regret it all, scream and tell him about the secret you've been hiding. A sorry excuse of a comrade you are to let her die on the battlefield not knowing your true identity. The tears roll down your cheeks and Levi feels his heart constrict and squeeze as he comprehends the lack of regard you have for your life. "It should have been me." Is repeated over and over again, your eyes are raw and bloodshot, the vicious wind sinks its teeth into you.

"Then die."

"If you're willing for her life to have no meaning. Die." The words he spits out are as cutting as the bitter wind. He feels cheated and you're finally able to come to your senses.

He's faired much worse but you doubt he's ever acted out the way you have in front of another person. In this never-ending void of darkness locking away the dull ache caused by deafening loss is the best choice for everyone.

Much like the night you had been sick he takes a grip of your jaw and directs your face towards his, this time he's not as gentle as before but you conclude that it's because he's drained, completely exhausted from the battle. The eyes are the windows to the soul but Levi's window panes are shattered, completely crushed by the weight of the constant burden he has to carry.

"I'm sorry." You croak out the apology. He grits his teeth because he doesn't want you to apologize but he doesn't voice out his opinion. As a substitute he presses his arms against you, the terribly raw panic is murdering you. Levi's gruff voice is a mixture of faux irritation but mutual understanding.

"Cry." He allows for your head to loll against his shoulder.

As the dark envelopes both you and him the scent of the dead only becomes more and more pungent, recalling fond memories of Petra and the others you know your heart settles on a decision before your mind does. You're a two timing back stabbing traitor for this. What you hated Zeke for you have become yourself.

Disloyal, unfaithful and fickle.

That day you place your loyalties with Paradis.

847, ii.

Levi's wiping down one of the kitchen tables, you're kneeled on the floor scrubbing vigorously. The others have already given up, panting they've left using the excuse of fetching water from a nearby well. Your back aches but you find cleaning reassuring and somewhat of a decent distraction.

"Why do you like to clean?" You're used to Levi asking you abrupt questions by now, after all the two of you have been acquainted for well over a year now. Through that year he's learnt about you and you about him. When in the midst of what looks to be humanity's final year's, twelve simple months is enough to form a bond worth a decade.

"I'm not good at a lot but I am good at cleaning."

"You know that's not true idiot." The tone of his voice indicates that your answer doesn't please him.

"But I do think I'm good at cleaning? Maybe not as good as you but I am half decent."

"Not that. You're good at much more than half the people I've ever met." He sneers, his footsteps edge towards you. "Purely being a good person is a talent these days."

You suppress a flinch because you aren't a good person at all. Neither are you that middle ground between good and bad. Rough around the edges and uneven, you're shards of glass ready to slash and hack away at him if Marley somehow lures you back.

The confession, if you could even call it that catches you by surprise and anger fills you. You almost want for him to not trust you and call out your bluff. It's a little unnatural how badly you want for him to realize the truth.

Your head turns up to stare at the man who's a few steps away from you. "Or am I just good at acting genuine?"

You don't even mean to snap at him and you don't even realize you have until you see his eyes widen and mouth part in imperceptible surprise. Biting your tongue your attention is diverted back to the wooden floor. Driving your washcloth into the crevices and dips of the floorboards you ignore Levi's leather shoes which now stand right in front of you.

"Are you questioning my judgement of character?"

Be born in Marley, That's what you had done, trained to destroy people you thought to be devilish entities, foolishly chose to grow attached to the so called enemy. Your mind lingers onto a specific thought and you're deathly afraid to be thinking it in the first place but there's no more avoiding it.

Falling deeply in love with Levi is your worst mistake to date.

"What I did. It was out of my control." you reply, voice hard.

"Not disclosing what it was?" He asks.

Your silence is his answer. Kneeling down to where you are he disarms you, the washcloth is taken out of your hands and he places it onto a table.

"You are a good person." His voice is brusque and he states it like it's a fact, something you should know. Hot tears threaten to spill over, he's stupidly naive for not rethinking that opinion of his. Lips thinned and eyes watering you don't know how to feel.

"Levi. I'm sure you'd like to think that but I am not."

"You love the members of the corps unconditionally I can see it in the way you look at them."

"Sometimes you look a little sad when you stare." The last sentence he adds in has your pulse racing. He's right, you often feel miserable thinking about how everyone would react knowing who you really are.

"I'm not interested in bad people." He sounds distant saying such warm words and it takes a moment for them to actually sink in. You don't quite believe you've heard him correctly. The dread sinks to the bottom of your stomach and the feelings you've buried at the back of your mind hit you like a tsunami. The thought of him feeling the same way for you, is agonizing.

"Stop being ridiculous." The uncertainty is killing the both of you.

"Loving you is not ridiculous, if you don't feel the same way you can say that and I'll step away. We'll be back to normal."

"No, no, no. You don't get it. You're just saying that." Your voice quivers and the intensity of this new revelation is too large for you to cope with.

"Why would, you," He begins, voice just above a whisper, "ever think that way?"

"Why would you even look twice at me?" You reply.

"Because I worry for you."

"You worry for everyone."

"I worry for you the most."

Instead of letting you respond to him this time he carries on speaking.

"We both know we feel the same."

You already knew you were in love with Levi, you didn’t need for him to tell you. You knew you were in love when you tried to memorize his facial features, you knew you were in love when his laughter was the cause of your laughter, you knew you were in love when you threw yourself in front of that abnormal for him.

That's when you begin to understand what all his signals meant. You now knew why he'd let you stare so intently, you now knew why he laughed particularly hard when it was you who had made a joke, you now knew why he scolded you and nearly broke down at the sight of your injured arm after that specific expedition.

You know it. He knows it. You both know what this will lead to.

But you still lunge onto his lap, you still press your wobbly lips against his. You still choose to surrender yourself to him and he still reacts by taking a hold of your shaky hands which lay on his chest. He envelopes them in his warm grasp. Slowly but gradually the ice thaws and dissolves. Heartbreak, anguish and suffering when one of you loses the other will be the end of your romance, you're sure of it. Hell, the both of you are in the middle of a war but your heart flames up thinking of all of the possibilities.

Perhaps it'll play out the one way you wish for it not to.

Could your ending be in betrayal?

848, i.

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded hus-"

"Cut the crap and kiss me." Levi's crude interruption isn't appreciated by Erwin but everyone knows Levi doesn't care all that much for formalities and hates being in the spotlight for too long.

Gripping him by the collar of his suit your lips are a centimetre away, he stops you tightening the hold he has on your waist. His lips gently press against your collarbone and his breath meanders towards the shell of your ear.

"Swear you won't die on me."

Gulping you look away apprehensively. You know you can't promise that.

“Oi, I’m expecting an answer.” His voice flickers slightly.

Forefinger holding your chin up you see your soon to be husband close to tears, he valiantly blinks them away. Levi has never been one to make his pain public and your heart twists in your chest as you realize just how much of a hold his feelings for you have over him.

"I can't promise that, you know it'll only hurt more." The strange bitter taste in your mouth won't let you comply with his request and by measuring his reaction you see his eyes cloud in an unidentifiable emotion, you're sure it's nothing positive.

"We may not have a happy ending Levi but we'll always have a happy middle."

Levi scoffs in derision, he has to think your attempt at being meaningful is ridiculous.

You lean into him and it's all so heart-wrenchingly familiar yet foreign. His body sags comprehending that not everything will go the way he wants it to. One of you is guaranteed to leave first.

Hands finding purchase in the cloth of his white dress shirt Levi doesn't cringe at you creasing the fabric as he usually does. He allows for you to call the shots this time, your lips brush faintly against his before you nosedive into him. No resistance is felt and he replies almost immediately. Everyone applauds as his fingertips press into the back of your skull and you find that this is all incredibly hideous. The innate disloyalty you feel, you throwing your entire life away for this man but you find yourself not caring. To hell with that miserable life crammed with sin.

Levi smiles against your mouth, you assume you're meant to magically smile back but you can't make yourself. It's uncomfortable relishing in the undeserved happiness knowing it won't last forever.

The world you live in isn't ideal nor is it forgiving.

Momentary joy is all an antagonist can hope for.

849, i.

Jean can’t take his eyes off the newly weds.

You’re cooing into your Levi’s ear gently, his cheeks flush scarlet at the feeling of your hot breath against his skin and he scolds you for having the gall to rile him up in public.

Jean sniggers finding some sort of odd delight from the interaction - he’s never seen the Captain this content and at ease.

849, ii.

You don't know why you've dragged yourself out of bed just to stare at your husband's face but you have, despite the toll life has had on him he seems sound for once. His breathing peaceful yours is anything but that. When it's dark the weight becomes heavier, your skin tingles and your throat burns aching for release.

Eyes blurring your hands shake reaching out for him but you can't find the courage to make contact. Nothing will ever warrant plaguing him even more with your existence.

The memories become increasingly bitter.

"If we make it out of this alive we'll have children and they'll look just like you."

"I want them to look like you." had been your reply.

Levi winced not seeming to like the idea.

"No, I want them to look like you. You're beautiful."

How wrong he was for thinking that.

You, beautiful? He'd stab himself ten times over if he knew just who exactly he had said those words to.

850, i.

Zeke had betrayed you after finding out who you were to Levi but you half expected that he would tell him the truth at some point regardless of that fact.

Tear stains travel through the mud and grime on your face, Levi's eyes are indifferent as he twists his wedding ring off his finger flinging it into the surrounding rubble.

Without your permission he yanks your arm forwards intending to take your matching ring away but you hold on digging your heels into the dirt beneath you.

"You disgusting bitch. Give me it."

You scream, high and awful, he continues jerking at your arm the muscle throbs crying out for him to stop but he doesn't and no one steps in to put a halt to any of it. Levi having had enough grabs at your neck ruthlessly. In any other circumstance he'd be labelled callous or cruel but everyone on the battle field shares a similar empathy for their Captain. Neither they or Levi had expected your disloyalty.

"I said give me the ring if you know what's good for you." His fingers slide around your neck, his seemingly low words cling onto the little respect he has left for you.

"No." Your defiance has his eyes hardening in and posture tensing. "I'm not handing it over."

Levi says nothing, he only holds onto your throat tighter, if he really keeps at  it your windpipe will be crushed in no time. You know he's holding out on purpose, he's still giving you a chance. He expects for you to stand your ground, say you never deceived Paradis, say something, anything to make him let go of you.  

"Marrying you... It just happened somehow. I know it was selfish of me." He squeezes harder. "I know it was. I'm sorry Levi." Gasping and breathless you clench and unclench your fists finding it too difficult to explain.

Your mouth opens, you want to tell him you haven't seduced him like he thinks you have, tell him you dropped that plan of yours long ago but then you falter at the last second.  It's typically hard to tell when Erwin's infuriated but it's painfully obvious when you make eye contact with him over Levi's trembling shoulders. It's enough to tell you to give up. Enough to tell you that you're beyond redemption, you've ran and hid long enough.

"Hand over your titan." Levi says nothing to Erwin's proposition, the hold he has on your neck loosens but his silence is sickening. It means he agrees.

This is fate's idea of a cruel joke.

But you agree, on the basis of one condition.

"Fine but-"

Levi cuts in, all regard for you devoid from his system.

"You're in no place to be making demands." He snarls, his patience quickly running thin.

However Erwin urges you to continue speaking taking you aback.

"If it's not too much maybe we can accommodate your final wish." Erwin had always been thoughtful in nature and you thank him for even bothering to show you a sliver of benevolence.

Everyone's looking, all eyes are on you. Some are blinking away tears, others are disgusted unable to stare at you for more than a few seconds at a time. Levi falls into the latter.

Brazen with not an ounce of shame you mention the ring again. "Let me keep it." Your left hand covers your right and underneath the flesh is the last symbol left of your union with Levi.

Whispers and murmurs orbit you, none of them are kind and Levi loses it.

His reflexes are paralyzing, he's back at it clawing your neck mercilessly but you don't scream or shriek as you did previously. You take it, you let him unload his frustration.

"Levi. Let it go for the sake of humanity." Erwin says pointedly. Irritation pricks him, he wants this over and done with and your rebelliousness doesn't look as if it'll be tamed any time soon unless you're given what you want.

Levi's face is crimson, the fresh blood from the expedition still steaming. "Y/N, I'll saw your arm off if I have to." But, you know he's already given into Erwin's orders when he throws you to the ground letting you crash and wheeze for breath.

850, ii.

Levi's been appointed to guard you for your final night alive. The room feels wistful as you think back wondering if the life you lived was respectable.

"Why did you stare at me when I slept? Did you think of killing me?" Half commanding and half pleading his voice cracks. He coughs attempting to cover it up.

You jolt not expecting the interaction at all and you're not the slightest bit surprised that he had seen you all those nights staring so deeply. He'd always been a light sleeper. You turn your head up hoping he's looking at you.

He isn't.

"I wanted our children to look like you. I think you're beautiful."

It's now his turn to recoil, only he does so in repulsion remembering the familiarity of those words. They had left his own lips not too long ago.

"I'd never have children with the likes of you." He sounds tense then.

You understand. No one would want to have children with someone as hated and as despicable as you.

"I know." You whisper faintly.

850, iii.

When Erwin's eyes glaze over unable to focus on anything in particular Levi assumes it's him growing used to the titan powers. What he doesn't expect is for his Commander to bang his head against the floor unrelenting screaming your name.

Pairs of hands move to stop him but he thrusts them aside wailing. Levi stresses trying to figure out what it is you could have done in the wake of your death.

But Erwin Smith. Courageous, brave Erwin Smith, who never cracked at loss of life for the sake of humanity, who always eloquently spoke to everyone around him at all times, finds himself slumping down to his knees and weeping for you.

The warm blood from his self inflicted assault still trickles down his nose, a tremor shakes through his entire body when he thinks of breaking the news to Levi.

The edge in Erwin’s voice grows dangerous.

"We made the wrong choice."

Erwin can't word it any better than that.

But Levi understands right away, he wishes he didn’t, he wishes he was ignorant enough not to.

Hange sticks an arm out aiming for his shoulder but he stumbles away nearly falling back into the floor not wanting to be touched by anyone.

He finds that he is not human enough to cry. It’s that or he’s not human at all without your presence.

854, i.

Levi has grown old without you, lived to see months and new seasons without you by his side. Over time his eyelids have become heavier, the corners of his mouth naturally droop and he remains perpetually somber.

Sometimes you visit him in his dreams, each time you make a silly comment about how his grey eye bags make him look like he’s been punched in the face. “Levi Ackerman, I swear if you don’t sleep soon!” You cushion the blow by whispering sweet nothings, reassuring him that you still think he’s beautiful. 

Occasionally you add in that you don’t blame him for the past, but those conversations only last for a few seconds at a time.

“I don’t blame you.” It always starts off with the exact same phrase. 

“I should have listened to you.” Levi’s tone is stern and uncompromising .

“Lev, I was never going to tell you to spare my life. You tried to listen to me, I could tell you wanted me to deny it.”

Levi refuses to answer you, he still thinks he’s at fault.

Not a day goes by where he doesn’t think of that ring. He regrets throwing it away recklessly into the rubble.

Some day he’ll return to Shiganshina to find it. The idea sounds laughable but he has to find a reason to smile as he fights for his life.

That is what Levi thinks as two set’s of jaws snap shut onto his legs, a flurry of red surrounds him. His throat constricts at the feeling of his thighs being ripped away from the rest of him.

“I tried.” He whimpers to no one in particular, eyes blank and losing meaning.

“I know Levi, I know.” The same voice from his dreams soothes him.

“Do not despair. Find me again in another world.” The biting wind adds in.

Levi’s eyelids flutter shut unable to do much else.

He’s unsure if he has the courage to face you again in another lifetime.

[house-of-galathynius]

Milestones

Rowaelin Month, Day 4: Royalty/Modern Royalty AU @rowaelinscourt

Words: 2.9k 

A little fluff for day 4 of Rowaelin month. 

Warnings: None 

~~~

Aelin was sitting patiently as one of her make-up artists worked on her face and the hair stylist did the same with her hair. The room was bustling with various people, all of them speaking in slightly rushed ways, whilst they frantically made the last touches to her outfit. 

Aelin remained silent as they all did their thing. Her gaze focused on the crowds of people who were beginning to gather outside the palace. Despite the dark clouds that were looming above and the strong gusts of wind that made the trees sway violently and leaves to blow around, the people were coming in their droves. 

When the first drop of rain hit the window Aelin flinched slightly. This day had been planned for well over a year and she had been constantly checking the weather apps to confirm that the sun would in fact be shining on her coronation day… but here she was, watching the droplets of rain fall harder and faster and the slow unfolding of umbrellas from the public below. 

“It’s good luck.” Aelin turned to the voice behind her, and Rowan smiled carefully at her.

The make-up artists finally stepped away and Aelin admired her work in the mirror. Her hair was still being neatly arranged and so she remained still as they worked. He moved to sit beside her and Aelin met his gaze in the reflection. 

“I think it’s only good luck on your wedding day, Rowan.” 

He shrugged and gave her his boyish grin that she had come to love so much. “This is essentially a wedding, is it not? You’re vowing to look after and cherish this country until you die.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. “I’m just concerned that every single milestone of my life, that the public get to celebrate has always had some sort of bad luck. I’m beginning to feel that the people of Terrasen will not want me as their queen.” 

Rowan scoffed. “Aelin. The public adore you. Today is an exciting day for them,” Rowan stood from the chair and moved to the window, “do you see how many people are out there? This is just a fraction of the crowds who are here to see you be coronated. The streets are lined all the way to the church, the police are having to turn people away. No one cares about the rain, Fireheart.” 

Aelin looked to the streets again. There seemed to be more people than a moment ago, lots of them with the Terrasen flags and banners, waving them excitedly as they waited for her to make her exit. She had never felt the pressure of her crown, not the way she had recently. With the death of Orlon, it had brought her one step closer to becoming queen; her own father passing away before he could take the crown himself; meaning she was to take that burden instead. But she had never felt the nagging feeling that had begun to plague her— the feeling that she was not good enough, that she was not ready for that step. The people had loved Orlon, they had worshipped him in a way that she did not think possible again. 

But she was not blind. 

She could see the people down there, sheltering themselves with her coronation memorabilia, umbrella’s with her and Rowan’s names on. Their smiling faces, despite the horrid weather. Perhaps it was the nerves of the day, or that she hadn’t been lying about how every milestone she had shared with the public had something go wrong— if it wasn’t the weather, then it was the car breaking down, or people protesting something. 

Rowan came to her, kneeling down in front of her. “Aelin, you need to stop worrying so much. You are more ready for this than you know. I have watched you these last two years as you have prepared to take on this role, you could do this with your eyes closed,” he kissed her hand, “you love Terrasen and you love the people in it. They can see that, and when you’re crowned Queen today, the people will rejoice.” 

She hadn’t even noticed that the room had emptied, leaving only the two of them in there. She managed a smile and Rowan helped her out of the chair. “You always know the exact right thing to say.” 

Rowan grinned. “I’m your husband, of course I do. I know you better than yourself sometimes.” 

Aelin playfully hit him on the chest and he grabbed her hands, then gently pulled her into him. They locked eyes and Aelin felt her heart do a flip as Rowan lent down and captured her lips with his own. She settled into his embrace and let her hand slip into his hair as they deepened their kiss. Aelin desperately wished that they could sneak into their bedroom and spend all day tangled in the sheets… but a knock at the door broke them apart. But the sparkle in Rowan’s eyes suggested he would spend the night doing exactly what she wished. 

“Come in.” Aelin said, albeit a little breathlessly as Rowan let his hands slide down her body and then loiter before stepping back. 

“We need to get your dress on. We’re behind schedule, your majesty.” The older looking man bowed to her and she nodded in reply.

She turned back to Rowan has was smoothing his hair down and trying not to grin as she felt her face go hot. “You should go and get changed too. I’m not sure jeans and a t-shirt are entirely appropriate for a coronation.” 

“As you wish, my love. I’ll see you downstairs.” He left a chaste kiss on her cheek and strolled out of the room. 

Within seconds, the hustle and bustle of the room returned and the hair-stylist was smoothing back her hair, clearly trying her best not to comment on how it had managed to get messed up so quickly. Soon enough, she was being buttoned into the custom-made gown, sashes and ribbons were being added and then the heavy jewellery was fastened around her neck and wrists and she was ready. 

With the help of her staff, they managed to get Aelin downstairs and into the car, where Rowan was also waiting for her. He had changed into a dark suit, pins from his time in the army stuck to the sash. He would also be crowned alongside her, although he would only have the title of Prince Consort, in Aelin’s eyes he was the King— but due to ridiculous rules and traditions, he would never be allowed to hold that title. 

Aelin calmed her breathing. She had prepared for this, she had spent countless hours over the last three months going over what she had to say and what she had to do. She had practiced her wave in the mirror and had perfected her smile for when she was crowned queen. Rowan had watched her and playfully mocked her each time, and despite that, she was eternally grateful for his easy-going, calming presence. 

“Let’s hope no one throws eggs at the car.” 

Aelin scowled at Rowan. “You know that’s not funny.” 

He squeezed her free hand. “It’s a little funny.” 

She didn’t reply as she watched expectantly as the gates from the palace opened and they made their way slowly onto the street and Aelin felt her stomach squeeze at the cheers from the crowds as they drove past. She kept her smile on the entire way, waving every so often to the thousands of people who were lining the paths. Rowan smiling and waving the other side of her. 

The rain pelted the metal and she felt awful for her people who would be getting drenched. But they didn’t seem to be dismayed at it, all of them excited to even get a glimpse of her. 

Aelin saw the ancient church building from the corner of her eye. The ornate building was one the oldest remaining in Orynth. It had stood the test of time, it had seen several generations of monarchs be married and crowned inside, and now it was her turn. 

She looked at Rowan, who was already looking at her. “Are you okay?” She asked. 

He nodded. “I’m more than okay.” 

Aelin sighed in relief. “I bet you didn’t think you’d be doing this one day.” 

He laughed. “I envisioned a much different life. But I wouldn’t change this one for the world.” 

When the car came to a stop, Rowan’s door was opened first and her gave her a secret wink before he stepped out to the cheering crowd. He waved to them and then made his way up the stairs and into the church where he would be waiting for her. 

The door to her side of the car was slowly opened too, and with the utmost care she climbed from the seat, taking the hand of the guard and attempted to not show her shock at the noise that awaited her. The crowd seemed to turn up an octave, their cheers drowning out the pounding rain. An umbrella was held above her and with a wave and a smile to the crowd, she ascended the steps and into the church. 

~ 

The ceremony had gone better than she could have ever expected. She had remembered all her lines and had not once faltered, Rowan too, had nailed his performance and as they exited the church once more— this time as Queen and Prince Consort— the nerves that had been plaguing her seemed to wither away, just as the clouds had too. 

The sun peeked through the wispy clouds above, it’s rays basking the city in it’s golden warmth. With that warmth came a sense of utter peace and Aelin could finally breath. 

Rowan had sensed the relaxed state she was in and had whispered utterly inappropriate things to her in the procession back to the palace. She had managed to school her face into neutrality even though her toes were curling in her shoes and she wanted nothing more than to whisk Rowan up to their room and let him have his way with her. 

When they had finally arrived back to the palace, she had stepped from the car and turned to wave to the people who were still excitedly stood waiting for them. They’d get one last look of them both when they exited onto the balcony high above the ground,  a few minutes later. And then her and Rowan would be pulled into a long and most likely tedious dinner where she will have to make a speech to the government officials and other important people. Although, after the coronation in the church, she wasn’t too worried about speaking in front of them. 

Aelin wished that the dinner would be the last thing she would have to endure that day. But then there would be more pictures and an evening reception where she would receive foreign royals and officials. There would be more speeches and more small talk. 

But Rowan was by her side the entire time. His hand reassuringly on the small of her back or brushing her hand as they walked around the room. All the while she was all too aware of his promises to her for when they were alone. Occasionally she would turn to look at him and he would already be staring at her and they would share a secret smile. 

When the time finally came to say goodnight, Aelin managed to drag herself up the stairs, Rowan trailing behind her. She almost groaned in relief when she slipped off her heels and gestured for Rowan to help unbutton her dress, until she was standing there in almost nothing but her jewellery and the tiara she had adorned for dinner. 

“You know, I would never complain you just walking around like that all the time.” Rowan grinned at her. 

She laughed and sauntered towards him, his arms slipping around her waist. “I’m not sure the staff would appreciate that.” Aelin rested her head on his chest and he tightened his hold. 

“Certainly not. But I would.” He kissed her head softly and she relaxed even further into him. 

They were quiet as they just held each other, Rowan occasionally kissing her hair, eventually pulling away. “I’m proud of you, Aelin.” He said gently. 

She swallowed as she found a bathrobe and pulled it around herself before sitting on the stool by her oak dressing table. She started to delicately remove the precious jewels she was wearing and place them in their respective boxes in front of her. When she didn’t reply, Rowan came over to her and started to take the pins from her hair and set them down. 

“Your parents would be extremely proud of you too.”

She paused and caught his eye in the mirror. “I know.” She choked out. 

He squeezed her shoulders. 

“It should have been my father getting coronated today.” She wiped a tear from her cheek, “he used to tell me about all the things he’d like to achieve as King. We’d talk about the places we’d get to see and the people we’d get to meet. He was so excited to be able to do some good in the world— and now he can’t.” 

“You can do it all for him, Aelin. In his name.” 

She wiped her cheeks once more and then smiled brightly at Rowan. “Today is meant to be happy. I shouldn’t be crying.” 

“You’re allowed to be sad, Aelin. Your parents were important to you and when milestones like this happen it’s hard to deal with their absence.” 

She nodded. “I’m just glad they got to meet you.” 

Rowan chuckled. “Your dad certainly gave me hell when I was trying to win you over.” 

She smiled at the memories. As the only child, her father was wildly protective of her. Any boy that came sniffing around was subjected to her father’s rigorous tests and his ‘talks’. And out of all the men who had come, Rowan had never faltered or feared Aelin or what being with her would entail. 

“He made you work for it.” She giggled, her mood brightening. 

She finished taking her make-up off and taking her hair down. Rowan had changed into his own nightclothes and he held out his hand, the two of them walking over to their bed. They snuggled down into the covers, Aelin coming to rest under Rowan’s arm, her head on his chest. 

“Your father gave me his approval the second time we met.” Rowan admitted. 

Aelin tilted her head towards him and rose a brow. “He did?” 

“He continued to vet me because he needed to wait the proper amount of time before allowing us to be together. But he knew. Just as I knew.” 

“Knew what?” 

“That you were the only woman on this entire planet that I could ever love.” 

She sat up to face him. 

“Aelin you are a force to be reckoned with, but it makes me love you even more. I knew I wanted to marry you the moment I saw you. But as a princess I had to go through the proper channels to ask you. But honestly, if it had been up to me, I would have stolen you away and married you in a tiny little chapel with only the priest and Aedion to witness it.” 

“My father really would have given you hell then.” 

Rowan laughed. “Don’t I know it.” 

She lent forward and kissed him lightly. “I have something I want to ask you.” 

He rose his brow in question. 

“How would you like to be a father?” 

Rowan froze. She could see the question going round in his head and she sat quietly, expectantly. 

It wasn’t just the nerves of the day that had been affecting her. 

No. 

She had found out only two days ago that she was expecting. It was why she had been overly emotional, why she had wanted to jump Rowan at any chance she got. But it’s also why the waiters had been supplying her with non-alcoholic drinks all evening without anyone knowing. 

“Rowan?”

He shook his head, “would I like to be a father?” 

Aelin nodded and took his hand and placed it on her stomach. “I’m pregnant.” 

In an instant Rowan’s face lit up and he was pulling her onto him so she was straddling him. Then he was kissing her and laughing and then pulling back so he could look at her, his hand going back to her stomach. 

“You’re sure?” 

She nodded. “I had the doctor examine me two days ago. He confirmed that I was about eight weeks along.” 

“Holy—“ he didn’t finish his sentence as he closed the distance once again, taking her lips and kissing her hard. “I’m so happy right now.” He kissed her again. 

Soon enough he had her beneath him and she was running her hands through his soft hair, his own hand combing through hers, then roaming down her body, stopping as he rested it on her stomach. They shared a look and Aelin found herself crying such happy tears, mixed in with laughs of disbelief. 

“You’re going to be such a wonderful mother.” He brushed her hair away, “I can’t wait to share this new chapter with you, Fireheart.” 

“I love you.” Aelin said with all the affection and love she could muster. 

Rowan’s eyes were shining, “I love you too, Fireheart.” 

~~~

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[analiza-beta]

Misha and Lyme

(A very late birthday gift for @lorata because I am a serial procrastinator, and could not for the life of me figure out the last section. It’s only *checks calendar* a month late! Set roughly half a year after Misha wins. I believe I read somewhere that Lyme took Claudius hiking, so loosely ties into that I suppose.)

In which Misha gets a tour of the Village, sort of.

The world outside Misha’s window is still asleep when Lyme rips off the covers of her bed. Abruptly cold, she shivers and kicks out to grab the blanket again, throwing it over her shoulders and nestling down to escape the freezing winds blowing through the room.

“Come on,” her mentor says, fondly exasperated, “you said you wanted to see the outside world, didn’t you? We agreed on today.”

Misha groans, and tries to melt into her mattress. Somehow, when she’d agreed to go hiking she hadn’t anticipated the whole waking up in the morning part.

“Any day now,” Lyme continues, and Misha doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s raising her eyebrows. Misha frowns, disgruntled at the prospect of getting up but throws her duvet off anyway, swinging her legs out of bed and onto the carpeted floor. Immediately regretting her choices, she flops back down and shivers.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” she whines, and wraps her arms around herself.

“You’ve been living in this district, how long exactly?” Lyme asks her, wryly. Misha wrinkles her nose, and pokes out a tongue. District Two is somewhat notorious for cold mornings. If you’re up before the sun, then you’re liable to freeze.

“I should probably get dressed, shouldn’t I?” Misha sighs, and rolls of the bed and up to her feet. Having opened her closet, she’s alarmed to find that there’s only three items hung up. Her confusion must show on her face, because Lyme snorts and gestures to the corner.

“If you hadn’t noticed, most of your clothes now live in the pile.” Ahh, so that’s where she’d put her leggings. She scrambles over, nearly slamming into Lyme in her sleep deprived haze. Snow on a shit-pile, she can’t believe she willingly woke up before eleven. Wasn’t the whole point of victory that you make your own schedule?

“Don’t diss Jeremy,” Misha tells her, pretending to be haughty about it. She cracks fast though, and she and Lyme share a laugh before Misha has to dredge out a shirt to wear. Satisfied that she won’t go back to sleep, Lyme moves toward the door again.

“I’ll go make us breakfast, you should probably find a jacket. Can always take it off, but just in case,” she tells her. “Anything specific you want?”

Misha considers, frowning in thought. “It’s gotta be quick, right?” After Lyme’s nod, she continues “can we have omelettes? The ones with the little bits of ham in them?”

“Sure thing. I’m assuming with a cup of far too much caffeine.” Lyme grins.

“Of course,” she snarks, and turns to frantically fish through Jeremy for a jacket. She could have sworn she had left one in there somewhere. Flinging aside a pair of old shorts, and some miscellaneous socks, she triumphantly raises her coat. “Aha! Fantastic.”

Lyme’s already downstairs, so Misha grabs her boots out from under the bed and pulls them up over her feet, tugging violently to avoid undoing the laces. Impatience is key to speed, Misha finds.

She frantically brushed her hair, suddenly invigorated by her earlier excitement the day before. She grabs it in a hunk and ties it back with an elastic, before bounding down the stairs, taking them three at a time.

The stairs creak beneath her feet, as she stomps down and jumps the final distance to the floor. “I’m ready,” she announces, shouting into the kitchen.

“Alright, I packed us lunch last night, can you fill up two water-bottles?” Lyme yells back to her, a yellow sheet busy frying on the pan.

“Sure,” Misha says ducking past her and over to the cabinets. Having successfully found the water-bottles — one blue and one purple — she slides over to Lyme, and head-butts her shoulder. It earns her a hair ruffle in return, and she smiles to herself as she turns on the tap. They stand in companionable silence, Misha screwing on the lids and Lyme flipping the last omelette onto its plate. When she’s done, Misha slips behind her and stealthily grabs her plate, making a quick getaway. She drops the water-bottles into the pack before unceremoniously stabbing her fork into the meal and stuffing it into her mouth.

“Careful,” Lyme calls to her, “it’d be a shame for a Victor to die choking on breakfast, huh?” Misha grins, until she has to catch the bit of omelette that fell out of her mouth. Lyme cackles at the sight, but still shakes her head fondly. Misha glares.

“Don’t say a word.”

Lyme rolls her eyes. “Drink your coffee and we’ll head off once we’ve eaten, okay?”

—————————————————————————————————

When Lyme pushes the door open at 5:35 in the morning, backpack slung over her shoulder, Misha winces. There’s a thin layer of dew on the grass, clinging to the gutter and dripping down the web that a spider made in the corner of her gate. It only reinforces the cold, which Misha can still feel beneath all three of her layers.

Still, it’s nice out actually. The village is different in the early morning. From what she can tell, most of the others aren’t awake yet. Despite the hint of sun rising from the east, it’s still mostly dark outside, a thin layer of mist and fog rising as the temperature increases. Odin’s puttering around his garden, and when he notices them leaving, he offers a wave. Misha waves back cheerfully, before jogging to catch up to Lyme.

“Where are we going?” She asks, still eyeing the various signs of life in the village. Hera’s light is on, and one of Callista’s cats is poking its way behind a curtain on the other side of the path. Sometimes it strikes Misha that she’s part of this community now, that she’s an active member of the village. It’s still a little jarring to see these idols in real life. It’s even more jarring to be one of them. Misha can’t quite wrap her head around it.

“Just out to the lake, it’s a ways up from here, but we should make it up there easily.” Easy for her to say, Misha’s pretty sure her mentor could climb a vertical wall with the amount of muscle she has. She wasn’t so lucky; at 5’11, she’s one of the shortest in the village.

“Where is it?” She asks, leaning forward to wrap her hand around Lyme’s elbow. Lyme points to a clearing up the mountains, a break between the forest cover. It’s surrounded by rocks and Misha can almost make out a shimmer of blue against the stone face.

“See up there,” she says, gesturing above it. “There’s a reservoir from before the Dark Days. It’s not functional any more, so it’s open to the village as a pool.” Misha can faintly make out what she’s talking about; one of the misshapen grey blobs she’d noticed earlier is larger than the others, stretching wider and farther. It mustn’t be a rock then.

“Are we going swimming?” Misha asks, and Lyme cocks her head to the side before answering.

“We can if you want. Though, I’ve never swum before.” Neither has Misha, though the both of them have been thrown into icy water before. Standard centre procedure to ensure that their tributes don’t die of accidental drowning. That probably doesn’t count as swimming, does it?

“Could be good to learn. Things are always more fun when there’s a threat of death.” Lyme gives her the concerned mentor look at that, cuffing her on the head.

“Sure they are,” she says sceptically, and leads Misha forward.

They continue to meander down the cobbled path, until they reach the high, metal gates that guard the village. Misha’s favourite guard, a woman named Vania with a wicked sense of humour, signs them out. She winks at Misha as they walk out the gate.

—————————————————————————————————

The mountains surrounding the village are bracketed with thick forestry and slippery, unstable rocks and by the time they make it to the top, Misha’s soaked in sweat that sticks to her hair to her forehead. Lyme somehow looks unbothered, which how. Lyme notices her incredulity, and grins.

“Girl, you’re only six months out, of course you’re not at your peak.” Misha wrinkles her nose. That may be true, but it’s no less annoying. She’s still the best with swords though; no matter how fresh from the arena she may be. Her skill with the sword never diminished. It’s like a muscle, the memory locked in her brain; a dance she can never forget, the steps ingrained as much as any other part of her.

She leans over her knees to catch her breath, inhaling sharply. By the time she stands again, her back aches from the sudden movement. Now that she’s in less pain, she can finally feel the extent of the sweat, her shirt stuck to her back.

“Gross,” she mutters, peeling it off and whipping it twice, before removing her jacket from her waist and chucking it onto the ground unceremoniously. She groans, arching her back to crack it. Lyme, whose busied herself with the food since they arrived, gestures to the area behind Misha.

“You can check it out if you want,” she says, and Misha narrows her eyes in suspicion. She’s curious, yes, but over the half year since moving to the village, she’s gotten used to Lyme’s mentoring tricks. She gives her mentor a once over, and - detecting no lies, she nods quickly.

“What’ll you do while I’m gone,” she asks, and when Lyme tells her she’ll set up lunch, Misha takes that as her cue to leave. Maybe it’s not a trick.

“Okay, can I go in the water? It’s way too hot,” she asks, gesturing to her burning cheeks. She shucks off her shoes to explore without waiting for an answer.

Lyme nods, shoulders shaking with a repressed laugh and that’s permission enough.

—————————————————————————————————

Hours later, Misha lies on the bank, dripping water and with her hair stuck to her forehead. Lyme, who’s divvied up the sandwiches and is cracking open a can, looks over at her. Misha glances back, raising an eyebrow. She’s not done anything wrong; there’s no reason for Lyme to give her the Mentor Look.

She twists her head back to look upward at the canopy, resting her neck on a log. The light is fading now, and they’ll have to head back soon, but Misha finds the scenery oddly charming. The leaves and brush are dark and curling, and bright spots of orange light dance across the clearing. Lyme had once told her they were sex demons, but she knows Emory and Brutus call them fireflies.

She digs her teeth into her sandwich, and the meat tastes like ash and freedom. When she notices Lyme watching, a complicated expression on her face, Misha just smiles.

[tennessoui]

for obikin, maybe pretending to hate each other au? (sth where their ages are a little closer, perhaps, so obi-wan can be intensely petty and not feel the need to Set an Example)

45. (Pretending To) Hate Each Other (raised as Sith!Anakin, salty!Padawan Obi-Wan)(1.6k)

Obi-Wan turns away from the training stalles with a barely suppressed sneer. Anakin, as he is to be called, has defeated his opponents. His fellow Padawans. Darth Vader has become a Padawan and everyone is just fine with it.

Obi-Wan marches out into the halls, not knowing where he’s going, but knowing he must get away from the smirk on Anakin’s face as he had lowered his training saber to his opponent’s neck. Does no one but Obi-Wan remember how just months ago Vader’s saber had been pressed against his neck and it hadn’t been a training exercise? Does no one remember the atrocities Anakin had committed, the sentients Anakin had killed?

And yet Obi-Wan’s master seems infinitely fascinated by the boy. And yet Obi-Wan, it seems, cannot step out of his own room without finding this Anakin underfoot, either taking tea with his Master, or dolefully skulking around the doorway of Obi-Wan’s quarters. What draws the boy, he has no lasting idea.

They’re approximately the same age, he supposes, although Obi-Wan has a few years at least on Anakin--it’s clearer to see now that Anakin has stopped wearing his helmet and armor into battle, now that the lines of his face are not hardened by scowls and snarls. Really, he’s a boy. His medical chart puts him at eighteen, making him four years Obi-Wan’s junior.

And, he supposes, Qui-Gon was the one to find Anakin wounded on the battlefield, the one to insist they treat the Sith, heal him, and give him shelter. But Obi-Wan was the one who had found the slave chip embedded between his ribcage, the one who had alerted the Council to its presence, so it could be used to find the boy’s master, to capture him or kill him, to end the war.

But surely, whatever small part Obi-Wan had played in the war’s conclusion, the Force should have known better than to repay him by gifting him with the care and keeping of a Sith Lord, Chosen One or not.

Although Obi-Wan can admit, even if only to himself, that it’s worse when Vader latches onto anyone else in the Temple. His master is too starry-eyed by his ideas of Vader’s midichlorians, his destiny as the Chosen One, to see the boy in front of him now.

And anyone younger than Vader is too easily swayed by his looks, his charm, his disgustingly transparent eagerness to know about the Temple, about the Jedi way of life.

Obi-Wan knows this. He’s fought a Sith at 20, fended it off after it dealt a nearly fatal blow to his Master. They cannot be reasoned with. Vader cannot be reasoned with.

Anakin exists only as a figment of their imaginations, their desire to have the Chosen One fly under the Jedi colors. He is not real, not anymore.

Gradually, Obi-Wan finds himself making his way up the stairs of the Jedi Temple. Of all the spots to hide--to sulk, as his Master would say--the rooftop is the one least likely to be checked. It is one of Obi-Wan’s favorite areas in the entire building.

But he had not thought to check for stragglers before arriving at his destination, had thought the thunderstorms of his own Force presence would keep others at bay. He hadn’t yet figured Vader into his calculations, hadn’t remembered the propensity Vader had for showing up right when Obi-Wan least wanted him to.

“You left,” Vader--Anakin--whoever accuses, as Obi-Wan sits down on the rooftop. The wind howls around them. Obi-Wan has the distinct thought that they’ve lived through this before, that last time Vader had cornered him on a rooftop, he had threatened to take a piece of his body home to his Master. Now, Vader is standing in his home.

Obi-Wan takes a very deep breath and banishes those sorts of thoughts. Anakin, he reminds himself. Anakin.

And just as importantly, the chip. There had been a chip. Not controlling Va--Anakin’s thoughts, but certainly controlling his actions. What he would do to survive is no different from what Obi-Wan had done to survive; they had just been on opposite sides of the war.

Is Obi-Wan weak for not being able to move past that? For not being able to greet the boy--the man--Anakin with open arms into the folds of his family?

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the city skyline.

Anakin steps closer. “Why?”

He turns to face him, takes in his sweaty appearance and messy tunics. He must have been looking for Obi-Wan’s reaction. He must have seen the exact moment Obi-Wan had turned, must have scrambled to cloth himself as he followed after.

“Why does it matter?” He asks instead of answering, always instead of answering.

“Because I wanted you to watch,” Vader says.

“I’ve seen you kill Padawans before,” Obi-Wan turns away and stands up until he can lean against the high protective walls of the roof. “I wasn’t impressed.”

Vader feels frustrated in the Force. No. Anakin.

Anakin. “It was a training exercise.”

“Now,” Obi-Wan points out. “Or do you mean then?”

“Would you hate me if I said both?” “I hate you now, Vader.” The other boy’s Force signature withdraws, flinching away from Obi-Wan’s ire. He hears him sit down. He’d rather throw him off the roof.

But: “Don’t call me that,” the boy pleads quietly. “I know I can’t--that I don’t--” he cuts himself off and grows quiet.

Obi-Wan would say something to break the silence, but he doesn’t want to engage the boy if he doesn’t have to. If he closes his eyes, he can feel and see the Force raging around them, violently buffering them as it demands some sort of denouement.

The boy inhales and stands again, stepping forward hesitantly until he’s a scant foot away from Obi-Wan. “My mom always told me she thought for ages about my name. That it had come to her in a dream after I was already a month old, that it was bad luck to have waited for so long to name me because infants on Tatooine can die as quickly as their mothers.

“And then I...I couldn’t use it or hear it or speak it for so long that I think I almost forgot it, almost lost it to Sidious and...and Vader. So even if you hate me, and I know you should hate me, I know I’ve never done anything to you that cancels out the bad I’ve done to you, but. Please don’t call me that. I think it would have made her sad."

Obi-Wan works his jaw as he stares off into the city. He doesn’t think V--Anakin has ever said so many words to him. If he gives in now, he’d be just as bad as the other padawans who had welcomed Anakin in amongst them because of his big eyes and soft lips and earnest enthusiasm.

Anakin seems to take his silence as permission to continue, which it isn’t. “And I know I’m not. That I can’t be--won’t ever be a Padawan, or a Jedi Knight, that. That I’ll never wear a braid or anything. I’m not--I don’t want another Master. I never want another Master.”

Obi-Wan turns his head just enough to look at Anakin. He’s spent an awfully long amount of time hanging around Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s quarters if he doesn’t want a Master. But...what he’s saying makes sense, and, more importantly than that, soothes the furious emotions in Obi-Wan’s chest enough that he can speak. “Then I can’t understand why.” Why you’re here, why you won’t leave me alone, why you chose to follow me if you’re not trying to dispose of me and take my Master for yours.

Anakin sighs, leaning his head on his hands as he looks out at the city. Obi-Wan finds himself annoyed with that as well, even though he’d just been doing the same thing. Now he can’t tear his eyes away from Anakin’s profile.

“You’re warm in the Force,” Anakin says eventually. “I think maybe I spent too long in space, because I’m always cold. Except when I’m around you. You burn. You always have. I used to think that maybe--it was hatred or disgust at me, when I met you in battle, and you were an inferno. But you burn when you’re on creche duty too. A different kind of fire, but still so warm. It’s just your soul. It’s just who you are.”

Obi-Wan blinks open-mouthed at him. He’s never considered the thought that Vader--Anakin--had been trailing after him for anything other than easy access to his Master. Now he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do or say.

There’s a part of him that still doesn’t understand what Anakin wants to get out of his tenancy at the Temple, a part that whispers that the Sith can’t be trusted, no matter how blue they can make their eyes look. But the Jedi part of Obi-Wan is bigger.

The Jedi part of Obi-Wan tells him to extend his hand just enough to brush against Anakin’s exposed wrist. It’s a point of vulnerability the boy doesn’t shy away from.

“Would you…” he asks slowly, forcing the words out of his tight throat. “Like to meditate with me?”

Anakin looks astonished, then hopeful, then disappointed, then dejected. “I’m no good at meditating,” he says, scuffing the point of his shoe on the ground. “It wasn’t a huge part of my...former Master’s curriculum, and the Force is just so loud in my head that it’s hard to do anything but react.”

He looks up at Obi-Wan through his eyelashes, biting his lip as if he’s afraid that he’ll be turned away for this.

Instead, Obi-Wan turns fully to face him and latches onto his flesh hand. “There are some things, I’ve found,” he murmurs, leading them away from the edge of the roof before pulling Anakin down to sit cross-legged in front of him, “that are much easier done with someone else. Done together.”

[andtheyreonfire]

the spring shall return with its fruit (1)

(Very late) Analogical Week entry for Day 4, Au/Home. Also, my first chaptered fic! Look out for chapter 2 in about uuhuhhh a week or so? We’ll see!

WC: 4085

Warnings: Past minor character death, grief, repression of grief, major character feeling like he's going to die, starvation, forcibly starving oneself, depression, fear, panic, food, blood, and like 3 swear words

Ao3

1. those who are far from home

Is a man who runs from the broken husk of his home a coward?

Is it a sin to want to forget the sun when he’s spent so long in darkness?

Is the chill bleeding into his veins from the winter cold, or from something clawing, aching, empty?

Sure, the snow crunching under his feet, the wind whipping through his hair, and the numbness of his fingers could all stem from a violent December afternoon. The lightness of his bags may hint at a harsh winter, the blisters on his feet an uncomfortable trek. All of this could be the season, or the fact that such a fool would decide to travel in the middle of a storm.

And yet, Logan Croft hasn’t felt cold in a long, long time.

It’s by a distant sort of static that he registers the weather, peering through a pair of thick lenses and vacant eyes. He’s looking at the harsh snow falling around him, but only experiencing it in a way a mystery enthusiast watches the victim getting bludgeoned with a steel pipe. He could tell you which way the wind was blowing, maybe give an estimate of the temperature, but if you asked him to describe the chill, the words would die in his throat.

Another thing, Logan hasn’t felt in a long time, either.

Between the endless months of travelling, the odd jobs he took just to make a buck, between preparing for winter as the Earth continued her unrelenting march around the sun, Logan’s been far too exhausted to feel cold. Like a thick, heavy cloud in his mind, the fatigue’s been perfect enough to drown his thoughts in condensation, for him to slip away and leave someone else in his place.

That someone else doesn’t need to care about the aching cold. The stress of finding something affordable, practical, safe is enough to distract from what creeps in the defiles of his mind. That someone knows that he won’t be walking in the snow long enough to contract frostbite, that the human body is more than equipped to survive a few days without food, that...

That he’s not in any danger when he wakes up screaming. He’s not drowning when the air around him grows thick and catches in his lungs. He’s not going to die because of something as stupid, illogical, painful as grie—

Nothing.

Absolutely, definitively, nothing.

There’s no one he yearns for, no one he misses like a physical blow. The hollow, aching thing was always supposed to feel deep enough to stick his arm through. He’s fine.

It’s so much easier to forget, than to remember the hole in his chest might’ve ever been full.

There's nothing left to stop him when he does.

Wiping the sleet from his glasses, Logan looks up. A painted sign stands tall against the white snow.

Pottsfield, New Neighbors Just Around the Bend!

Logan forces himself to move forward.

~

The wooden floor of the establishment creaks under his weight. He wipes his feet on the scratchy welcome mat, streaking the warm letters in mud.

“Hello,” he says, “I would like to buy a house.”

The woman at the counter—the owner, he presumes—locks him with a fixed gaze. She’s formless, bundled up in a pile of grey flannel and blankets. A scholar could write their senior thesis on debating where her mound ends, and she begins. She straightens up, letting the blanket around her shoulders fall down to her lap.

“A house,” she repeats, testing each syllable on her tongue, “...In the middle o’ winter?”

He nods, removing the satchel around his waist and to procure his funds. “Correct. I was under the impression that you had a number of vacancies, and after assessment, I've found this town to be the most satisfactory.”

“‘Satisfactory’.” She snorts. “You’re somethin’, aren’cha? Where you from? Jersey?”

Logan stiffens for a fraction of a second, before he slides a wad of cash onto the counter. “I don’t believe that’s necessary information. What is necessary, however, is the information regarding your available residencies.”

The owner unfurls, eyeing the wad of cash with jilted curiosity. She bites her lip, and pulls a stack of papers from her desk. “Alright, hun, I'll bite. What kinda house you lookin’ for? All our fancy ones are sold, but you don’t seem like the type. We can start touring near the town homes sometime after the weather calms—“

“That won’t be necessary,” Logan interjects. “I simply require something convenient, and preferably, secluded. We can forgo the tour.”

“I—“ The woman pauses, considering everything she’s done wrong in her life to end up here. Sellin’ a house to some lunatic who appeared in the middle of a snowstorm, talkin’ like a dictionary, and askin’ to skip the tour for an immediate purchase is on her list o’ things she’d thought hell would freeze over before she did. But...she gazes at the stranger's tattered cloak, his moth-eaten gloves, the exhaustion that radiated from every inch of him, and it clicks.

There’s no way this man is anything but acutely, achingly desperate.

“Alright,” she sighs. “There’s an old place down at Two Cat’s Lane.” She slides a file over to Logan, wiping the dust off it with a flick of her sleeve. “’S not a complete shitshack yet, but it might as well be. Still, it runs a good price for what ’s got. Open lawn, dense forest, nice property when it’s actually tended to. ‘S not wholly isolated, but the nearest house is still a ways away. I think you’d like that.”

Logan nods, inspecting the paper with interest. “Where is the estate?”

“Few miles from here. I'm assumin’ you got no family, right?”

Logan—

Logan shakes his head, completely calm and composed for what was a completely unremarkable question. The shopkeeper doesn’t seem notice him crack, doesn’t see him shoving old memories where they belong, six feet underground.

“I don’t,” Logan rasps.

“Then you’ll have more than enough room for yourself.” She smiles, almost genuine, before it slips off her face and something dark overtakes her features. “Although...”

Logan swallows, resisting the urge to bolt from the shadows covering her face. “Ma’am?”

“...You’re not one for superstition, right?” At Logan’s bewildered expression, she grimaces. “You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.”

“I—” Logan tilts his head, because surely he misheard. “Haunted?”

She nods, her grave expression deepening. “They say there’s something stalkin’ the woods, like a vulture would circle its prey—People have seen things, too! One day their tools go missin’ and the next a basket of skulls appear on their doorstep. Mysterious paths in the forest open up the second they turn their heads. Great shiftin’ and boomin’ soundin’ n the dark, like the Earth herself opened up and came to say ‘hello’. No one knows what’s out there, but whatever it is, it sure as hell ain’t human.”

The silence sits, settling into the air like an aroma, before Logan breaks it with a cackle.

“Oh—come on!” The agent flushes at the hysterical giggle bubbling past his lips. “I know it’s hard to believe—but I ain’t pullin’ your leg! I swear!”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” he wheezes, “b—but consider, for a moment, that I’ve seen far too much of this world to think that—that—”

Logan coughs, straightening himself out before he can dissolve into another fit. Something heavy and crawling settles onto his shoulders. “I’ve seen my fair share of ghosts. I severely doubt one more would do significant harm. I would like to purchase the house.”

The woman’s brow crinkles. After a moment, she hands a pen to Logan, lips slanted. “Alright, be that way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the wind starts howlin’ your name.”

Logan takes the pen, and the owner shows him to the dotted line. After the usual legal menagerie, she sticks her hand out, a rusted key glinting in the candlelight. “Good luck with it, hun. Take care out there.”

Logan takes the key, and his cold hand brushes against something still warm.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

~

The house groans when he steps inside.

The seller had called it a miracle it stood after all these years. The wood rots, the dust suffocates, and the furniture is decorated with a layer of cobwebs thick enough to supersede rope. Everyone who’s ever come here has given up, decided the shelter wasn’t worth the monsters, and left for something better.

Logan plops a sack down on the creaking floorboards, and nearly chokes when a spray of dust flies into his mouth.

He doesn’t have that luxury.

He’ll be fine. He’s never been one for painted wallpaper or crown moulding. If the walls need replacing, the forest will supply. If he can’t afford tools, he’ll make them. If the open space is too suffocating or the silence makes him want to tear off his ears, then he’ll...

Logan swallows, acutely aware of the stillness around him. There’s no laughter chiming from another room, no padding of feet on the stairs, no crackle of a fire under a brick oven. The emptiness claws at him, wrenching the hole in his chest open another yard wide. He shoves the flaps closed with a painful shudder.

He’ll get through it, just like he always does: perfectly stable, perfectly distracted, perfectly alone. It was always like this.

It was.

It was.

Logan explores his new house, and tries not to feel like he’s falling apart.

~

For the most part, winter goes well.

He spent his first night on a tarp in the living room, collapsing after a failed attempt to dust off what was once the master bedroom. From there, it was planning, sighing at the cobwebs covering the cleaning supplies, and thanking the stars the walls didn't need to be demolished. Cleaning indoors busies his hands, and the dust settles into his mind like a weighted blanket, smothering his dreams.

For a time, he’s at peace.

It all falls apart, of course, when he awakes one morning to find his rations torn apart, and a pack of rats scurrying away as his shadow falls over them.

Logan stares at the remains of his food, the resources he had meticulously organized, strewn on the floor in shredded residue. He does not breathe.

Only when panic clogs his throat and the walls close in does he move.

He lunges for his coat, fishing out his wallet with trembling hands. A quick glance and a lurch in his stomach confirms what he already knew; he’s out of funds.

Logan hisses through his teeth, shaking the wallet as if some missed bill would flutter out. This—this couldn’t be it. He couldn’t have been so utterly, monumentally stupid. Why hadn’t he hidden his rations better? Why hadn’t he gathered more before the move? Why, after everything, did he not take the steps to ensure he wouldn’t perish like everyone els—?

Logan takes a breath, deep and measured. If he’d given up at the first sign of death these past long, hard months, where would he be now? He wouldn’t have even made it out of—

Nowhere.

He yanks a knife off his dresser and dawns his dirt-caked boots. He's never hunted before, but he knows how to use a blade well enough. He’ll be fine.

He returns that evening with a damaged knife and a tattered cloak. Hunger, exhaustion, and something far blacker rips a hole through his stomach.

He sighs, collapsing into the torn armchair, and begins to ration.

The next few days are abysmal. A rabbit slips from his fingers, snow obscures the remaining fauna too much to read its edibility, and his supplies dwindle. The night Logan decides to make the trek to town, he wakes up to snow piled to his knees, and the road ice.

Logan is, for lack of a better word, completely fucked.

Tighter rations would give him, what? An extra week? Even if he did starve himself, he wouldn’t have the strength to do anything but shiver. He drools over the remainders in his ice box, pondering whether to wait for the snow to clear or give in to his hunger now. Every time, he walks away, having reached forward only to realize his skin was colder than the remaining scraps of meat.

He doesn’t sleep. It wasn’t as if he slept willingly before, but between the nausea and the tremors and the gnawing, aching want, Logan finds himself too exhausted to rest.

He’s sitting on his porch—not even his for a month—when it hits him.

Logan, by the cruel fate dictates his existence, survived all these months only to die when he was safe. He clawed his way out of a ruined home, dirty streets, an ocean of sweat and pain and heartache for what? For this?

To fight with everything he had, to hang by the thinnest thread, to fall when he finally, finally reached solid ground, makes something brittle and freezing settle into Logan’s chest.

He stares down at his hands, clenching his raw, frozen fingers. The tear that slides down his cheek mixes with the falling snow. At least, after this, he’ll be able to see his family agai—

A flash of fabric catches his eye.

Logan blinks.

There, at the edge of the clearing, is a sack; stark grey in the bleak, white snow.

Logan heaves himself up, trudging over to the object as curiosity prickles in the back of his mind. It’s large, a bundle of thick fabric tied up with twine and force. From the way it creaks into the snow, it’s heavy. Perhaps someone’s hiking gear? Who would even be out here in the middle of a storm? The object’s too large to have been carried by the wind, and Logan’s neighbors aren’t exactly a stone’s throw away. A wild animal? A lost traveler? Someone like him, caught in the cold?

You're not gonna believe me on this, but...I swear to you that place is haunted.

The dry skin on Logan’s hands cracks and bleeds.

It’s just a neighbor. It has to be. A lost traveler means at best new company, and at worst, a corpse. A neighbor was curious, that’s all.

He shakes himself, kneeling down in the wet snow, and opens the bag.

Hunger hits him like a freight train. Logan doesn’t notice he’s salivating until a line of spit freezes down his chin. Inside, stacked together and gleaming in the winter afternoon, is enough supplies to last him weeks.

Oil. Butter. Salt. Canned vegetables and beans and fruit. A block of cheese and a loaf of bread. Even the frozen blood of venison seeps into its own plastic bag. All right there, all ripe for the taking.

Logan bites his lip. Surely, whoever left these goods wouldn’t mind if—

The trees groan.

Logan, pauses, peering up into the snow-blanketed woods, only to throw himself back as the forest begins to move.

It’s a storm in motion. Trees whipping, bending under the weight of something. The violent rustling gives way to heavy, rhythmic booming, reverberating through Logan down to his core. It’s like the woodland itself has come alive, earth-shattering shaking and groaning pronouncing its newfound consciousness. Logan’s heart jams into his throat as for one, heart-stopping moment, the rumbling seems like it’s coming towards him.

Suddenly, the trees snap back. The resulting silence blares.

Logan has never quite felt so small.

He swallows down a mouthful of bile, pushing off the ground with frozen fingers to a shaky stand. He takes a step. Another. Blood roars in his ears.

The forest stays still.

Logan sinks to his knees and chokes on a scream.

He lost it. He’s completely lost it. Ten months of starving and two months of hell and he’s finally gone mad, because there is absolutely no way to describe the forest suddenly coming alive unless his mind’s as dead and gone as—

Logan slams his teeth down on his tongue. He tastes blood.

The fog and the trees and the eye-searing white are too thick to see anything, and even something as—as earth-shattering as that would have to be visible. It was an earthquake, or a hurricane, or a hallucination. People hallucinate from sleep deprivation. He’s had, what? A combined total of six hours this week? That's as good as three days, right? Right?

That’s all it was: a trick of the mind. Nothing a dreamless sleep can’t fix. He’s safe, he’s alive, and most importantly, he’s alone.

Logan shakes himself, shuffling backwards. The sack is someone else’s. It’d be wrong to take it in, even if the mere thought of reaching forward didn’t turn his stomach to ice. Perhaps a traveler left it, figuring it would be safe in the yard of a rotting house. Perhaps one of the locals dropped it, fishing for a debt to hold against him.

Perhaps it’s a gift, an aid someone gave him in good will.

He turns away and marches back to his house.

He doesn’t need it. There’s always a price to these things, and this time, Logan’s not going to be foolish enough to ignore it. He’ll figure—something out. His stomach may be burning a whole though his flesh but he’ll be fine. Fine.

All these months, and Logan knows his curse is to keep living.

~

Five days later, Logan’s storage grows bare, and his patience is running even thinner.

The bag stayed where he abandoned it, frozen in the early January snows. No one’s come to claim it—the thought that there’s no one to makes Logan’s stomach lurch—and it appears no one will. It sits, a dim grey against the snow around it. A hope of survival in a field of cold.

The snow piles up to his knees. Once, he stepped outside in an attempt to forage, and almost collapsed with exhaustion. He can only spend his days indoors, chugging his last bit of bone broth, huddling under every blanket in the house in an attempt to keep warm.

Logan’s out of options.

Some part of Logan’s mind finds it funny he could think he ever had any to begin.

The bag slams against his back as he heaves it over his shoulder, the last of his strength dwindling away with every trudge back to his house. He can already feel his gut churning with hot, blazing, want. But...Logan stops, ignoring the roar his stomach lets out in protest, and turns to the woods.

He stands there, alone in the cold winter snow, and stifles the urge to throw the sack behind him and sprint somewhere safe.

“Thank you,” he says, voice reverberating through the clearing.

No one answers, and Logan shoves down the relief that threatens to clog his throat.

His legs carry him back inside. His hands find his stash of firewood. His arms bring the food out and onto the fire.

He eats.

Cranberry sauce and venison, vegetables and cheeses, stale bread that melts in his mouth. His self-control flies out the window the second his hands are on the platter. All these months, and he could never quite convince himself that good food was going to stay on the table the moment he turned his back.

Self-control seems like a funny concept, now, considering Logan crawled back from the brink of death, considering he doesn’t even know if he’ll see the morning sun.

A taste of adrenaline, one he hasn’t felt since his wounds were fresh, threatens to cloud his mind.

He lets it.

He scours the house, finding the sturdiest cloth he owns and tying it in a bundle. He gathers good fabrics, thick rope, old leather, soft wool, and a pair of shears. He heaves it all to the edge of the clearing, before setting it onto the ground, and facing the unknown.

“Thank you,” he says, and this time, it almost feels like someone’s listening. “I...believe you have just saved my life.”

Logan’s mysterious benefactor, whether it be a generous human, conniving Good Neighbor, or—Logan shudders at the memory of the forest groaning—that living earthquake, would hopefully be pleased with his offering. Gifts were always paid for, and though he didn’t have much, Logan would be a fool to ignore what people expected of good will.

At least after this, things might go back to normal, and Logan could continue his life the correct way: unbothered, uninvolved, and alone.

He turns his back to the forest, oblivious to the glowing violet gaze that watches him retreat, and hopes his payment will be accepted.

~

Of course, nothing in Logan’s demeaning existence could ever be easy.

He awakes the next morning to the offered bundle gone, and figures that’s the end of it. He replaces the pantries, triple-checking to make sure his rations are sealed, and freezes the perishables. All the while, he relishes in the warmth seeping through him, comfort enveloping his body from head to toe.

Life goes on.

With his new-found energy, he continues his work, stitching up the re-opened holes in his heart and furniture. All the while, the forest stays silent. It’s when he’s shoveling the snow from the dirt path that leads up to his house that he notices anything different.

Another bundle, this time wrapped up in a battered blue tarp, rests in the same spot as the last.

Logan walks over to it, feeling a familiar curiosity prickle his mind. He’s already explored one of these gifts, and despite the damage to his nerves, he’s still alive.

He peers inside.

It’s not a divination, or a bind, or any magical curse that reaches up and grips him, but the waft of fresh, juicy meat.

Logan blinks.

The display here is similar to the first, the only difference being the unfrozen meat and a few spices. Unlike the haphazard arrangement of the other gift—which Logan hadn’t noticed until after his first can of beans and few nights of good rest, anyways—every object here is organized, set in a way that feels almost...tender?

Beneath him, the bag begins to rustle. It takes Logan a moment to realize his hands are shaking.

There’s no heaving of the earth, trees cracking like thunder and the ground rumbling like the rolling of clouds. The only thing in the clearing is him, the bag, and the pounding of his own heart.

He doesn’t need more food. His rations are planned out to avoid making the same mistake. He’d be a little hungry, sure, and some days he might not have the energy to work, but he’d be fine.

He’s more than prepared to spend the rest of winter cold, hungry, and alone. Logan wouldn’t live, per say, but he’d survive. Isn’t that enough?

But...it’d be nice to have a back-up supply, just in case things another incident occurred and he found himself a few stumbles away from death. It’d be more than relieving to know he wouldn’t have to starve himself to make ends meet.

Logan tries to imagine leaving the bundle to rot, and his stomach churns.

It’s just a polite gesture, a courtesy he could decline at any time. He’d repay his debt again when the spring comes, and the need for a transaction will have passed.

And if his mysterious benefactor leaves a gift after this, wrapped up and waiting for Logan’s to offer his own then...He wouldn’t mind. Neighbors should be kind to another, shouldn’t they?

And if what lies deep within the forest, the rumbling that Logan grows more and more convinced wasn’t a hallucination, comes and reveals its true form with a howl and a tremor, then...

Well, he’d supposed he’d have an answer to the question keeping him up at night.

Maybe he should feel more than this, fear or anger or mortal terror at the thought of being so close to an end.

He twists the loose flaps of the tarp shut, heaving the bundle over his shoulder.

Nothing he hasn’t felt before.

It was good for the living storm to intervene when it did. Otherwise, Logan might’ve found some other way to make his own demise.

At least now, a Croft grave won’t come from an uncaring wind.

Logan carries the gift inside, and feeling a strange sort of peace wash over him.

He doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XVII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), trauma, some elements untagged.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: The reader and Zemo try to figure out what’s next.

Note: Hey, I banged this out quicker than expected. This part went longer than I expected to not as much happened as I thought hahaha. But here we go, again.(I will try to update the masterlist asap)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

MASTERLIST

Two Summers Later

The sun raised beads of sweat across your brow, even in the shadow of the tree. A gentle breeze rolled over the grass now and again, a soft sort of heat. You laid across the blanket in your thin dress, a subtle movement beside you, low babbling and grasping fingers. You breathed in the scent of pollen and watched the lush leaves sway above.

The footsteps were light but he was careful not to frighten you. The baby girl murmured, over a year old now. She stood, unsteadily, and he caught her before she stumbled too far. His shadow loomed above you as he lifted Elina and smiled at her round cheeks.

“How is my little baroness?” he cooed as he bounced her and her gibberish grew louder as she grabbed at his pale tunic, “my lady?” he peered down at you, “you look… serene.”

“She likes to watch the cloud but it’s much too bright today,” you sat up and grabbed your cane from against the trunk. Lord Zemo offered his hand and helped you to your feet, “so we have watched the bloom instead.”

“She is getting big. More agile,” he commented as she tugged at his beard. He’d grown it over the winter but hadn’t cut it even in the heat. She liked to pet it and you suspected that was the reason for his obstinacy, “how will you keep up with her?”

“I have learned,” you poked him with the tip of your cane, “still learning.”

“Very quickly,” he praised, “the accent is better,” he pinched two fingers together, “I almost believe you a woman of this land.”

“Sometimes I believe it myself,” you went to the bench and sat heavily. Your hip never healed quite as it had been before so you limped with the carved wood capped with silver and made the best of it, “bring her here,” you set the can aside and pulled the thin scarf over your shoulders, “she should eat.”

“I told you, a wet nurse would do her better,” he neared and handed her over after a final peck on her cheek, “and she is getting older. She eats at the table now.”

“She will have some proper food when we get in,” you covered her against your chest and unlaced the front of your gown, “I like having her close.”

He nodded and paced through the grass. He removed his silk cap and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He was anxious as of late, you noticed only because it was an unusual trait for him. He sighed as he tucked his hat into his belt.

“Would you tell me?” you asked sharply as Elina latched.

“Tell you what?” he tilted his head coyly.

“What makes you uneasy?” you urged.

The tugging in your chest calmed you as you cradled your daughter close. When she was born, that had been difficult. She reminded you of her father then but now she was yours. She was the only gift he’d ever given you.

“It is… complicated,” he said with a frown, “I think it best we put the child down before we talk on it.”

“If you wish,” you relented, “Werner says she is doing well. I went to him this morning.”

“And you?” Zemo crossed his arms, “does he say you are doing well?”

You kept one arm around Elina and unthinkingly brushed the scar that stretched from your hairline to your chin, a rippled line along your cheek, one of a dozen markers of that fateful day. You still dreamed of it but they weren’t so much nightmares as vague memories.

“I will need the cane so long as I live,” you said and dropped your arm back under the scarf, “the scars will fade but not entirely. I suppose none of that matters.”

He nodded and rubbed his chin as he began to pace again, “back from the dead,” he mused, “we have a legend here, about a woman, a queen…” he went on, “she married a king who did not love her nor she him. He wanted another and he was… quite intent on it. So he accused her of adultery and witchery and passed on her the harshest sentence; she was drawn and quartered, pulled apart by horses.

“We have since done away with such punishments, too savage, but the legend goes that they buried the parts of her and the king married his lover on her grave. The gods saw it as an affront, the lies, the trial held in their names, the death imparted in the same vein, and then a mocking marriage on the site of their sins…

“In her casket, her body reformed though she still showed the signs of her fate. She climbed out of her resting place and visited her king in the night. She’d never done that before you see because he had no love for her, he never even tried, and she tore him piece by piece, worse even then the horses. Fingers, toes, tongue… balls, every bit of him plucked little by little until he was nothing.

“The legend never did say where she went after that, her grave was found disturbed and her body gone. Those women who suffer with violent or cruel men, they pray to her, they burn candles for her, and even, they kill their men for her.”

“Why are you saying all this?” you interrupted as you wiped up your chest and clumsily tied up the laces of your dress as Elina slobbered down it.

“Because I see you are reformed like the queen but I wonder, where is your sense of vengeance?”

You were quiet as you fixed your dress and lifted Elina above the scarf to pat her back. Soon she would no longer take the nipple and you were stubborn to keep it up for so long but the time passed and the thought of separation frightened you. Soon she would be old enough to realise how odd everything was and she would ask questions. You weren’t sure if you could ever answer them.

“Take her please,” you held her out and he came to lift her. He set her down on her feet instead and held her hand as she took some steps. She grew more bold by the minute. He bent as he ushered her around. You planted your cane in the ground and stood, “vengeance,” you said carefully, “I remember you warned me not to trust you, is that why? Are you ready to use me against him?”

“I always knew you were clever,” he smiled as Elina bent her legs and bounced in place. He chuckled at her and suddenly scooped her up. He tossed her and caught her as she trilled in excitement, “the time comes closer but the path is not clearer.”

You watched him as he stilled your daughter and balanced her against his side, “I don’t know if I can ever face him again,” you confessed.

“That is not what I ask,” he said, “it is not what I intend but...the winds begin to blow and I must let them carry me.”

You followed him as he set off towards the castle, The Tower Zemo, a bastion of brick among the grasslands. It was so tall one could see for miles in any direction and it could be seen in turn from just as far. He was patient as your cane plunked down after each step and he made silly faces at Elina.

“You have bided me longer than I expected. And her,” you said as you approached the open doors of the castle. The stairs were another task but you’d learned to take them with your hip.

“Her? You think I forsake her her father? She is nothing like him,” he replied as he waited at the tip of the steps, “and she is all the good parts of you. All that he didn’t take.”

“I am indebted to you, I am aware of that, but you do not attempt to collect your dues,” you challenged as you came level to him, “it makes me wary.”

“Would it be too… ridiculous to say that she is payment enough,” he smiled at your daughter, “she has brightened many of my days here.”

“It is because I know how things are. How it works among you noblemen,” you countered, “there is something more you want.”

“Tess,” he called and the pudgy maid appeared, “she is hungry, see that she is fed before she is laid down.”

“My lord,” Tess took the child eagerly and poked her nose playfully, “come here, little poppy.”

You watched her go as she began to sing to Elina. Her voice carried through the corridors as her wide hips swayed and her white hair wisped from under her cap. The old woman had seen your daughter into the world and since helped keep her there.

“So what is it you haven’t told me?” you turned on Zemo.

“Wouldn’t you like to sit?” he asked slyly.

“You are welcome to recline, sir, but I would hear you now. I’ve waited long enough,” you insisted.

“Well…” he took a deep breath and walked ahead of you. He turned back and clapped his hand together as the summer flowed in through the open doors, “I must send you away.”

“Send me away?” you gulped and looked to the door which Tess had just taken your daughter through.

“You will have Elina, I am not heartless,” he said, “though I will miss the little baroness.”

“Where are we going?” you quivered in relief.

“I have a castle on the lake, Heinrich’s Creek,” he explained, “it is a lovely little place. My mother’s favourite of my family’s holds. It is far away from court, further than this, and safe. Only my blood knows where it lies and… so only me and those who I would have escort you.”

“And why? Why do we have to go? Why now?” you prodded.

“I have received a letter from your King Samuel, co-signed by my own king. A party is on the road already and I have been once more tasked with hosting the negotiations. Your people are persistent. They will come here and I will represent the kingdom in these meetings and hopefully I can appease them quick enough that I needn’t worry about them sniffing around,” Zemo bristled, “I have not been allowed the privilege to know of who I host but any in the capital for the tournament, they would know the woman who gave them such a violent finale.”

“And after?”

“We will see how it unfolds first. It will be a chance to gain a measure of the climate. I might even hear after your former keeper, then I will decide what needs be done,” his dark eyes narrowed as mischief ticked in his cheek.

“Why?” you asked, “why cling to it?”

“I am as stubborn as he,” he said carefully, “I was willing to set it aside but he could not. And, my lady, if you haven’t the fire left for your vengeance then I can simply take it upon my own wrath. 

“Perhaps it is low of me but how he treated me, how he chased me out even if it did prove convenient to my deceit, it cannot be forgotten. And your people, the war I fought against them, they come to us for help and yet they still boast of their victory. I was there, no one won those battles.”

“So it is all a game of war?”

“Oh, no, I do not long for another war but… retribution leaves few options for the wronged,” he said.

You lowered your chin and moved around him. You sat on the stool by the wall and leaned back against the stone. “And if it put Elina in danger?”

“That is the last thing I want to do. That is why I would send you away.”

“But you said it yourself, you will have need for me… what then?”

He sniffed and his sole scuffed on the floor, “I promised you Elina’s safety, her life. You knew yours wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“I know but… if you--”

“I have friends who can see to the girl. I have made arrangements for the little baroness.”

“But--”

“It was never a title I gave her lightly,” he intoned, “she has noble blood and I have no heir. She will grow, she will live, she will flourish.”

You gripped your cane tightly and ran your nails along your skirt, “when do we leave?”

“Within the month. The party will not be here so soon, their progress will be hampered by the heat. There are droughts in the west.”

“And we will be safe at the Creek?”

“Impenetrable,” he assured, “enjoy your time there with your daughter.”

“While it lasts, right?” you uttered.

He looked away grimly and brushed his knuckles against this beard, “we both knew this wouldn’t go on forever.”

“Yes, we knew,” you stood and held your hip, “but you can’t blame me for hoping it would.”

[no-droids]

Brown Eyes

Part Nine of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.1K dont. just dont

Warnings: Smut, AS ALWAYS.  Canon typical violence, verbal references masochism/pain kink (NOT ACTUALLY EXPLORED IN THIS CHAPTER MY DUDES, JUST HINTED AT/DISCUSSED), slight degradation, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, a bit of ass play (!!!), FLUUUUFFFFFF

***

“What?”

“Hm?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“I’m just…”  The helmet looks you up and down, considering.  You scrunch your nose at him and rock back and forth on your feet impatiently as he sighs.  “It’s going to be like teaching a foundling to read.  I’m just trying to figure out where to even begin.”

“Because it’s so fucking pretty here, I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” you say pointedly, looking around at the vast field of flowing grass surrounding the two of you and breathing in the warm, fresh air into your lungs.  “Your vibe is clashing, Din.”

“Because I don’t really know what that means, I’m also going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he returns, and the child’s giggles float up alongside the breeze as he chases after another, slightly smaller green reptile that you also currently have no name for.  He tilts the beskar thoughtfully at you, and you squint against the way the sun catches the visor directly in your eyes from this angle.  “What do you want to learn first?”

“I want to shoot a gun,” you blurt without thinking.

“Okay, hand-to-hand it is,” he nods firmly, and then pats his unarmored chest with one bare hand.  “Hit me.”

You blink down at the dark fabric stretched across his left pectoral, and then back up at the metallic visor staring back at you.

“Hit me,” he says again in response to your silence.  “Hard as you can.  Right here.”

“Are you sure?”  You ask, lifting your gaze up to him once more with a twist of your mouth, already out of your comfort zone.  “What if I hurt you?”

“Are you fucking kidding?”  He actually sounds… pissed off.  “Hit me.”

You immediately shove your hand up against his chest in response to the sharp order, and your palm makes a quiet slapping sound as it collides with what feels like solid rock concealed underneath black fabric.

Din says absolutely nothing.  Almost a… forced silence.  Like what he wants to say will very likely be vaguely mean and dismissive of your feelings, so he’s keeping his mouth firmly shut under the helmet.  He just pats his chest again, each one purposeful and distinct, easily making twice the amount of noise hitting himself as you did hitting him.

You ball your fist up this time and whack him with it, considerably harder this time and even making a solid thud against his pectoral, though he doesn’t even move a fraction under the blow.

“I am…” he tries to choose his words carefully after another moment of purposeful silence.  “…insulted.”

You grit your teeth and raise your arm up and back, swinging it out at him as hard as you physically can, but then the curve of his broad shoulder suddenly jerks back just before you can touch him and your fist is caught from the side with a gentle grip.

“Better.  You wound up that time, that gives you momentum.  But never come at someone like this,” he tells you, lifting your arm back up to the way it was before and then slowly hinging it down again against his chest.  “This is how you were going to hit.  See how your pinkie is taking the brunt of the punch when you come down at it from an angle like this?”  He pushes your fist against his chest a few times to demonstrate your pinkie squishing against the solid plane of muscle.  “No matter how hard you hit me, your hand is going to take that much force, too.  That attempt had about half the power you want, but you might’ve broken your finger if I let you make contact like that.”

“Half the power?”  You narrow your eyebrows at him.  “You’ll break my whole hand.”

Din angles your wrist straight and pushes your closed fist against his chest again, this time head-on instead of at a downward angle.  “Always try to use these first two knuckles to reinforce against the impact, they’re the strongest and best aligned with the bones in your wrist.  You should also physically brace yourself for it.  Flex your arm—create as much rigidity around your joints as you can, keep your fist clenched tight to maintain integrity of the soft tissues in your hand, and your body should protect itself against the blowback as long as you land right.  Try again.”

You diligently wind your fist up again and then go to snap your arm straight forward this time, but he steps up and catches your elbow before you can even move.  “Wait.  Look at this—see this chicken wing?”  He flaps your elbow back and forth while his other hand holds your fist in place next to your head.  “This is no good, this is where you’re losing half your power.  And having your arm up like this is making you open to rib and kidney shots.”

You squirm to the side when he taps the bend of his knuckle against your kidney, and the vulnerable spot is tender even though he barely uses any force.  “I’m winding up,” you inform him with a huff.

“You are,” Din acknowledges.  “But your movement is limited like this.  See where your elbow is compared to your center of gravity?”  He flaps it again, and your shoulder pulls uncomfortably when he pushes it back just a bit too far.  “You’re restricting yourself, look.  Your shoulder is in the way, this is as far as your body will let you go.  You’re also using up too much energy trying to swing your whole arm around just to make contact; it’s sloppy technique, it slows you down, and it’ll tire you out.  But, if you wind up like this—” Din lowers your elbow until it rests flat against your side, and then hinges it backwards instead of up near your head, “—see how much further away your elbow is from your body now?  Instead of swinging outwards, think of a slingshot forwards.  Use explosive, forward momentum that you generate from your shoulder—you’re aiming for a sharp, streamlined jab.  This way you conserve energy, produce twice as much power, and your arm now covers up all this important stuff under here,” he explains, trying to tap his knuckle against your side once more but being blocked by your forearm.  “Good?  Now go again.”

He lets you go and steps back, and this time you instinctually plant your foot behind you to give you a solid base foundation that’ll allow you more room to twist, your physics brain lighting up as soon as he said slingshot.  His helmet quickly drops to your stance and then immediately lifts back up to your face again.

You do exactly as he said—you wind back, keeping your arm tucked tight to your side, and then explode forward with a sharp spin of your shoulder and snap of your elbow, colliding your clenched fist into his chest as hard as you possibly can.

He grunts and takes two steps back.

You howl.

“FUUUUUCK!”  It gets lost in the giant field of grass as you clutch your fist, torn between cradling it to your chest like a baby and shaking it out violently at your side like… something distinctly not a baby.  You settle for just bending over and holding it tightly to your stomach, eyes clamped shut and screeching with such fervor that the back of your throat stings sharp with it.  “WHAT THE FUCKING—FUCKFUCKFUCK—!?”

“Good!”  Din encourages over your wailing.  “That was good!  How’d that feel?  Holy shit—that felt good.”

“What’s the point of hitting you when it hurts me and makes you feel good!?” You cry out over your shoulder, somewhere between genuine hatred and agony.

“That was perfect,” he tells you immediately, almost sounding vaguely… out of breath behind you?  “Don’t change a thing—that’s how you punch every single time from now on, okay?  That’s how hard you hit.  Fuck, that felt fucking good.”

The… something in his voice is enough to take your mind off your throbbing hand for just a second, quickly snapping upright and whirling around to face him with your eyebrows very, very narrowed.  He stands there in front of you and you continue to eye him with as much silent skepticism as you can express, until the both of you speak at the same time.

“What was that?”

“Let’s go again.”

Neither of you move, and you feel like your face is scrunched up as tiny as possible at him right now with dubiousness.

“Let’s go again,” Din suddenly grunts out, hooking an arm around your elbow and tugging you to face forward once more.

“Did that turn you on?”  You ask him bluntly, your battle wound completely forgotten by your side.

“I swear if you don’t—”

“You get hard when you get hurt?”  You ask dumbly, all sorts of lightbulbs suddenly illuminating in dusty, cobwebbed corners of your mind.  Maker, that would explain so much.  “Is that why you wanted a handjob immediately after I burned a knife wound shut on your back?”

“You wanna learn how to punch today or you wanna learn how to block?”  Comes through the helmet, thoroughly unamused at your antics, but you just break into a mischievous little grin in response and push just one more button of his, knowing he’s only mostly joking.

“I’ll punch you,” you purr.  “Hold your arms up, show me your ribs.”

There’s a split second of silence before he quickly snaps his fist to his chest once again, oh, but it’s enough.  Your shoulders do a little victory shimmy and have to bite your lip to keep from beaming at him, so unbelievably proud of yourself for being able to read him this well without seeing his face. 

But—for the very same reason, you also plant your foot behind you and wind your arm back once more, knowing you were already treading on thin ice.

“Am I gonna have to start calling you chicken wing?”  Din suddenly barks out, a split second into your forward launch.  You almost stumble into him with all the generated momentum and catch yourself just in time, eventually stepping back and resetting with a frustrated huff.  Purposefully tucking your arm tight into your side, you pull back once more.

He mmphs when you make equally hard contact in the very same spot but he doesn’t move this time, and you somehow forgot how horribly painful it is to slam your clenched fist directly against a solid object with all your strength—much less, the second time around.  You attempt to deaden your response as well, but he has the luxury of the helmet to shield his face.  Silencing your scream just makes yours contort unattractively in front of him while your eyes clamp shut and you clutch your wrist, trying to bite back the crippling pain.

“Other hand—use the other hand instead,” he tells you quickly.  “You have two of them.”

“I used to!”  You snarl through the way you can’t even flex it anymore, how your muscles aren’t working through the angry sparks of acute sensation jumping down your fingers.  “Your stupid fucking pecs just broke my good one!”

“Want me to kiss it?”  Din asks—quickly, almost like he can’t help himself, and the snarky tone of it through the modulator coupled with the throbbing pain makes you grit your teeth.

“I used to love your body,” you lift your head and growl up at him while you cradle your swollen claw.  “Why did you take that from me?”

“Give me your hand,” he says calmly, holding his palm out for you.

“No,” you spit, the pain making you stubborn and resistant to anything you don’t immediately offer yourself, but he’s not impressed.  Din easily catches your elbow and brings it up, his other hand gently lacing through your fingers even as you try in vain to pull it away.  “Stop it—”

He completely ignores you and looks back over his shoulder at the kid, dwarfed by the tall grass and continuing to hop around behind what will likely be his lunch, before the helmet turns back to you.  “Eyes closed.”

“This isn’t fucking funn—”

“Close your eyes,” he tells you once more.  “Don’t open them.”

You take a deep breath and grind your teeth, not wanting to be treated like a baby.  It irks you that he’s dedicating so much time and effort into just infantilizing you and your very real pain.  Though, the pain is so real that it makes it almost impossible to express the sentiment—it comes out sounding childishly short and bratty.  “It hurts.”

“I know,” is all he says, soft and lilting and quite possibly as gentle as you’ve ever heard him.  “Close your eyes, sweet girl.”

His tone of voice is the only thing that compels you to listen.  You finally do as he says and flutter your eyes shut, overly aware of the hard grimace on your face now that you can’t see anything.  One of his hands releases you while keeping your numb fingers laced between his, and then a few seconds pass, before you suddenly feel soft lips pressing against your knuckle.

You hiss and tighten up on instinct, more in fear of the pain than the pain itself, but he holds your hand steady as he carefully trails gentle presses of his lips against your knuckles.  After a moment, you breathe out shakily, your eyebrows lifting just slightly at the sensation—before his mouth opens and his warm tongue glides delicately across your sensitive skin.

You gasp and your fingers twitch in between his, suddenly able to move again.  They knock against cool metal as his tongue slowly drags down the valleys between your knuckles—but then Din abruptly drops your hand at the sudden sound of sunshine giggles coming from afar.  Your eyes pop open just as his helmet is yanked down over his jaw once more.

“Let’s…”  He clears his throat through the modulator, taking a small step back.  “Let’s go again.”

***

You collapse down into a pitiful little pile on the grass, trying to catch your breath.  This is ridiculous.  You somehow have tender bruises all over your body and yet you’re the only one who’s done any sort of hitting whatsoever.

“That’s fine, we can take a break,” Din says gruffly from above you, but you’re too tired to even comment on the sarcasm.  You just groan, flopping down flat on your back while he sits in the grass next to you and silently waits for you to start breathing normally again.

“I hate this,” you pant, resting your numb hands against your forehead and squinting against the late afternoon sun.  “I don’t like this.  My body hurts and I barely did anything.”

“You’re good at it,” Din is quick to respond, and the blunt sincerity in his voice takes you aback, making you glance over at him in shock.  “I know,” he nods once the beskar turns and he sees the look on your face, “I didn’t expect it either.”

His tendency to compliment you while simultaneously insulting you doesn’t go unnoticed, but if anything, you decide to take it as a testament to his honesty and comfort in your presence.  Clearly he’d have no issue telling you if you were terrible at this.

Instead of responding, you lace your fingers behind your head and continue to just lay there, closing your eyes against the warm sunshine.  It’s gorgeous here, you get why this planet is renown throughout the galaxy.  Perfect weather, stunningly green rolling hills for miles, the gentle breeze dancing through the tall grass, brilliant white clouds suspended against a beautiful blue backdrop.  The only thing that’s missing is—

“When can we go see the ocean?”  You blurt up at the sky, unable to stop the words before they’re out of your mouth.

“What ocean?”  Comes tiredly through the modulator, monotone and filtered as he shuffles into a more comfortable position.

“Any of them,” you immediately respond, shrugging your shoulders against the grass.  “The closest one.  I’m not picky.”

“…Naboo doesn’t have any oceans,” Din tells you blankly.

You startle slightly, jerking your head over at him.  “What?  But—but I saw it through the transparisteel when we dropped.  This whole planet is practically covered in water.”

“It is,” he agrees with a tilt of his helmet, following you with the visor as you finally scramble to sit yourself upright.  “But it’s all one big… body of water.  Locals call it the Abyss, it stretches across the entire planet through a system of underground caves and tunnels.  It only surfaces as rivers and lakes and swamplands, though.  No ocean.  Not really.”

“Oh.”  It’s blank, but it’s… lacking.  The sun glinting against metal gives you an excuse to subtly turn your head away from him, and you hold back your sigh of disappointment.

“What’s the matter?”  He grunts after a moment, somehow succeeding in sounding mildly disinterested while still bothering to ask.  He props his knee upright to rest his elbow on it, apparently able to read you better than ever as well.

“Nothing,” you say on instinct and shake your head, already knowing it’s dumb.  You’re being dumb, there’ll be other planets with oceans—you just haven’t had the opportunity to go to one yet.

Din doesn’t say anything after that, but he also keeps the helmet subtly turned towards you, like he’s just… waiting.  The quiet almost doesn’t sound quiet anymore, not when there’s such a loud unspoken question still lingering in it.

“It’s just,” you say after a moment, trying to smile, but it doesn’t feel real.  It’s nothing more than a movement your mouth makes and it feels at odds with the mild disappointment you’re trying to hide.  “I used to be a moisture farmer.  Back on Arvala-7, where we first met.”

His continued silence tells you nothing.  You don’t know whether he’s confused and you should elaborate, whether he understands and doesn’t need an explanation, whether he’s interested or disinterested.  Nothing.  So after another few more seconds of nothing, you decide to keep going.

“There's something about water that just… hits different when you spend your entire life on a planet without any,” you say quietly, picking at a few blades of grass by your knees instead of looking at him.  “When I was a little girl, I used to think it was as rare in the rest of the galaxy as it was where I was born.  A limited resource you had to farm from the atmosphere to drink, because it didn’t occur naturally in liquid form.  It was… valuable.  Delicate.  Crystal clear—never saw more than a few dozen gallons of it at a time.  Something to be cherished.  Something you’d never want to waste even just dipping your hand into, because the dirt on your skin would contaminate it.”

You smile once more, but this time it feels a little bit better.  “You know… the first shower I took on the Crest the day I left that Maker-forsaken planet was the first time I ever felt my hair get wet.  We only ever had sonic showers on Arvala-7.”  And stars, the memory of it makes you want to shudder.  Ultrasonic waves vibrating the dirt and sweat off your body sounds a lot more thorough than it actually is.  You never felt truly clean until you were soaking wet on the Crest with shampoo in your hair, giggling like a child in the fresher while you made yourself a soapy little beard.

It springboards into another memory—the moment you first reached for a towel after showering, catching a glimpse of your hands and startling at the sight of your wrinkled, pruny fingertips.  You’d never heard of such a phenomena before that point.  You thought you’d asked Kuiil about everything, but to be entirely fair, he might not have even realized it happened, not from the leathery texture of his xenospecies’ skin.  The questions he did answer for you were plenty though, and you suddenly remember something he said to you years ago that was so jarring and unexpected that it’s stuck with you to this day.

“Kuiil told me once that water was loud,” you suddenly hear yourself say, and though your soft laugh is nostalgic and sincere, you don’t know why, but you instantly tear up as soon as the words leave your mouth.  “Loud.  How could—could water be loud?  What… what noise would it make?”

You sniff and continue to pick at the grass, a bit more vigorously this time, purposefully keeping your eyes down and blinking quickly.  “He said… he said streams and brooks… b-bubble.  They bubble.  And rain… rain is like static—like white noise, but… natural.  Not generated by a machine.  He said the ocean is the loudest, though.  It roars.  It’s powerful.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat and glancing up, you try to distract yourself from the memory of your close friend by looking out at the wavy grass, trying to see if you can spot the kid being dwarfed by it.  You can’t, not from this low angle, but you can still hear him playing happily in the distance.

“I’ve seen all the others now, thanks to you,” you confess quietly.  “Rain, rivers, lakes—but I always wanted to see an ocean.  A big, scary one, where the sound would just be… deafening.  Water, tons of it, crashing up against rocks and filling the air with mist.  Used to dream about them.  Wanted to see something I used to think was rare fill my entire field of view.  Wanted to see something I always thought was precious turn into something formidable.”

Din continues staring silently at you through your peripheral while you keep picking at the grass absently.

“I just—I don’t know.”  You finally look over at him and sigh, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders.  “I just always dreamed of a place where I could go, a place where I could open my eyes and all I’d be able to see—all I could hear—was water.”

You stop talking after that, having run out of things to say and realizing you probably shared a little too much without ever being prompted.  The sunlight is gentle and easy, however, and it encourages you to close your eyes and just breathe, letting silent, eternal gratitude to the man next to you fill you.  You’d never know any sun that isn’t harsh, you’d never know the greenness of the tall grass in this sprawling field had he not found you, given you a chance to tag along the galaxy with him and his carnivorous little sidekick.

The sun begins making you sleepy the more you sit here in the middle of paradise, eyes closed and tasting the gorgeous air in your lungs.  But eventually, Din stands up and steps in front of you, opening both of his bare palms towards the setting sky and bouncing them up and down a few times.  “Up.  Come on.  I’ll teach you how to throw an uppercut before nightfall.”

You groan but lift your hands in his direction all the same, trying not to wince while you make grabby fingers at him, your knuckles slightly bruised and red.  He sighs and wraps his hands purposefully around your elbows, urging you up as he takes a few steps backwards.

It’s awkward.  You’re still feeling lazy and droopy-eyed, and the cool shadow he casts makes you even more sleepy.  You think he’s going to help more than you have to pull yourself up, and he clearly thinks he’s there to be your platform instead of your forklift.  What results is just you being dragged uselessly by your arms in front of him, until your torso and legs are stretched in an uncomfortable J-shape on the ground and your forehead bumps into his lower tummy.

He stops and holds you there, before grunting out, “Use your feet.”

“Just let me fall,” you tell him, your lips brushing against the dark fabric while your shoulders and spine pull tight at this angle.  “Just leave me here like this.”

The sigh he makes above you feels like he puts his whole entire being into it.  Din leaves you propped up against him for a second while he grumbles and readjusts his hold further up near your shoulders, before he maneuvers you until you’re gently settling down on your knees in the grass.

You think (hope) he’s going to release you and let you take a nap, but then you gasp when he shifts and the toe of his boot suddenly wedges itself between your closed thighs.  He lifts up on your arms just slightly, enough to take the weight off your knees so he can swipe his foot out and kick one of them open, before plopping you back down again and letting you go.

Up until that point, you’d been good.  You were content with being boneless for him and seeing how he’d deal, but then he gracefully crouches down in front of you and wraps one powerful arm around your back, hugging you tight to his chest.  Din’s open thighs frame your kneeling figure and you can feel his cock pressed against your tummy from this angle, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

For some reason, he decides to take this next part slow.  Maybe it’s because he can probably feel the way your heart is starting to kick up against his unarmored chest right now, but he drags it out.  Broad shoulder dropping and his helmet finding a home in the crook of your neck, Din braces you to his chest with one arm while the other slithers down the curve of your ass and then under—his forearm pressing firmly between your cheeks and then his open palm flattening tight along the length of your pussy from behind.

You moan softly next to the helmet while he works the thick muscles in his thighs to gradually lift you both from the ground.  Maker, the tips of his fingers are curved hard against your slit through your pants while he rises, pulling you up until gravity causes your thighs to slowly meet around his hand and your legs to dangle.

The feat of strength turns you on just as much as his choice of positioning does.  Fuck, you know you’re not the lightest person in the galaxy, but Din carefully sets you down on your feet without even so much as a grunt of effort, his hand staying tucked tight between your legs for longer than necessary.  Biting your lip and pressing your face into his shoulder does nothing to stop the quiet whimper you make when he decides to grind his strong fingers up into you just a bit.

“Din,” you whisper, wanting to melt into him, but then he’s instantly ripping his hand away and taking a step back.

You nearly fall over at the sudden lack of support after relying solely on him for it for so long, but you don’t even have enough time to open your mouth in upset.  There’s just a split second before a green blur bursts through the tall grass with a squeal and trips over the baggy potato sack around his body.

It’s like it happens in slow motion.  You both watch as he flies forward, skidding more than once on the ground and then landing face-down on your shoe, the little thump on your foot feeling so adorably anticlimactic after all the buildup.

Nobody moves for a second, except for the way your eyes flicker up at the visor currently tilted towards the ground.  You can tell Din is just holding his breath, just waiting to see if—

A hiccup.  You see broad shoulders tighten under the dark fabric, and then a sudden piercing wail is released against your shoe.

“Shit,” Din curses, already scooping the little thing up and bouncing him slightly to pacify him.  You bite your lip against the way his ears flop from the movement and he screams even louder.  “Hey hey hey, stop.  Stop it.  Stop crying.”

“Uh oh!  Where’d your little friend go?”  You ask while Din immediately turns the kid around to face you, your voice pitched soft and high in your register as you step closer.  “Did you eat him already?”

He just shudders out a cry, probably an affirmative, his mouth dropping and his little teeth peeking through while he sobs and his giant eyes well with tears.

“Shit,” Din curses again, this time in defeat, but you won’t give up that easy.

“Hey—hey goose, wanna see me beat your daddy up?”  You ask, lightly booping the little bump of his nose.  “Huh?  Wanna see me fight?”  You pull your top lip up into a ridiculous little snarl and flex your arms threateningly, and the sobs suddenly stutter to a stop within a few breaths.  “Op, yep.  See—he knows I’ll kick your ass, Din, he just got scared.”

“Please,” the modulator pfftts quietly, but the kid just blinks at you while you keep growling.

“I’ll hurt him real bad,” you promise him, putting your fists up in front of you and bouncing your weight back and forth like a prized boxing champ.  “I’ll, uh…” your list of trash talk repertoire is admittedly rather short, and both of them wait in silence for you to figure it out, the bigger one a lot less entertained than his miniature counterpart.  “I’ll punch him just.  So hard.  So hard that… it’ll bruise.  Yeah—I’ll make him bleed underneath his skin.”

“No, this is good, keep going,” Din encourages after a moment of awkward silence.  “Maybe you’ll be able to find your way there at some point.”

You ignore him, bobbing and ducking and then popping him one good in the shoulder with an accompanying vocal sound effect—except you quickly jerk your hand away and shake your wrist out, staring up at the helmet like he deeply offended you and mouthing, “Ow.”

A smile.  The smallest ghost of one, but you see it on the kid’s teeny green mouth when you flick your eyes down to him.

So, Din spends the rest of the lingering daylight teaching you the proper uppercut technique while he cradles an adorable little bug-eyed baby in one arm.  You keep making faces at him while throwing your fist up against his dad’s extended, downturned palm, until he finally starts giggling again.

***

Whelp, turns out you’re a fucking idiot.  Or maybe just a selfish bitch, either way.  Not a good look.

You thought, from the way the lovely afternoon went, that you were getting better at reading Din.  Knowing when to joke around, when to keep pushing, and when to stop talking, all from just his body posture and tone of voice alone.  But you’re also an idiot, as you’ve already established.

As you three headed back to the Crest through the dusky twilight evening, you remember telling Din that if there weren’t any oceans on Naboo, then you’ll at least be able to sleep in a bed on this planet.  A real one, one with a—oh stars, an actual mattress.  The word alone sent shivers down your spine, and the baby cooed while blinking his eyes slowly, well on his way to being tuckered out from the long day outside.

You don’t remember Din directly responding, but then again, that isn’t really all that rare in the grand scheme.  Granted, he was arguably more talkative today than ever before, and he did get a little bit quieter after that, but still, you couldn’t have known.  Only an incredibly hyper-observant person would’ve noticed in the moment—you’re lucky you can even recall this much in hindsight.

Though, this next part should’ve been more of a direct giveaway.  Once you were in the Crest, he put his armor back on.

You still didn’t think.  It’s such a normal thing, the beskar fitting tight to magnetic plates around his shoulders, thighs, and chest.  It’s normal, he wears it all the time.  Having him walking around in broad daylight sans armor and gloves today was odd, that was the outlier.

He flew the vessel to the nearest town, a quaint little village on the edge of a gorgeously full forest.  The ride was as gentle as possible—you were feeling soft and decided to hold the baby as he drifted off instead of placing him in the quiet darkness of his cradle.  The ears tend to make things a bit awkward, but after months of practice with it, you’re now a pro at rocking the little guy to sleep in your arms.

Din’s continued silence didn’t bother you—or really even register, considering you were trying to be quiet as well.  He slung your go-bag around his shoulder and pressed a few buttons on his vambrace to set the kid’s sphere protocols to follow behind him, before pressing a gloved palm to your lower back and leading you down the ramp, the sleepy baby tucked tight into your arms.

There were people in the village mingling while you three walked down the cobblestone path to the nearest inn, giving your ragtag group double-takes as you passed.  The innkeeper, however, was blind.  Not only did you not receive the same terrified courtesy the barkeep on Canto Bight had afforded you before, but he was clearly used to spotting and swindling newcomers, sightless or not.

“Only room left’s a suite,” he drawled, the cloudy whites of his pupils hovering just between your left shoulder and Mando’s right pauldron.  “Five hundred credits a night.”

The color drained from your face, your heart doing a giant flip in your chest and completely fucking up the landing.  You turned to Mando to reassure him that absolutely nothing about this was necessary, but he was already dropping the ridiculous amount of credits on the desk without a single word.

That should’ve been the nail in the coffin, to be honest.  His immediate willingness to hand over that many credits without the slightest protest, grumble, or sigh was the kicker—that’s how you should’ve known something wasn’t right.  He didn’t even allow you to split the cost when you offered to reimburse him on the way to the room.

But again.  You’re an idiot, so.

At least the suite is gorgeous.  Slightly old-fashioned and moonlit enough to skip even flicking the lights on, illuminated by large open windows with views of the village streets and sprawling mountains and forest beyond.  Everything inside is either cream or white, so clean and soft, and being able to feel the breeze billowing through the gauzy curtains is just.  After months of traveling in that enclosed ship, it’s restorative.  Almost nothing in here is made of metal.

So it’s not until right now—almost immediately after you settled the kid down into the incredibly large guest bed and walked into the master bedroom to find Mando sitting perfectly still on the edge of the mattress—now something feels off.  He looks so out of place as you quietly snap the door shut behind you.  The enormous floor to ceiling window decorating the far side of the room bathes him in pale light, highlights the blaster marks and bits of dirt clinging to the beskar as he sits on the bed.

“You’re going to get the sheets all dirty,” you, an idiot, tell him, your voice barely above a murmur.  “Take off your—”

“I can’t,” he rushes, though he jumps up from the mattress all the same.  You snap your mouth shut and freeze.  “It’s safe here but it’s… it’s still not a good idea, not if I want to sleep.  Not with people around, and all these… windows.”

The words send you reeling.  You had no idea, you thought… “Oh.  I’m sorry, that—”

You immediately go silent, feeling absolutely fucking awful.  You didn’t think.  All you could think about was that bed underneath you, and you maybe… blindfolded in some way?  And then of course, him, in it—completely naked, helmet off, and laying next to you.

“You’re okay,” Mando tells you with a shrug, not sounding like… anything.  He looks like he’s about to say something else—his chestplate lifts with an inhale as he turns to you, but then seems to stop right as he’s about to speak.

“Shit—please sit on the bed, I don’t care if you’re dirty,” you quickly say, just as he blurts out, “You can still take your clothes off though.”

You blink at him for a second, not sure you heard him right.  “…What did y—”

“You can, uh.”  His voice is soft.  “I can… lay down.  On top of the sheets.  In my armor, just like this, and then you can take your clothes off and just.  Rub up on me a little bit.  If you want.”

A shudder quite suddenly rockets down your spine at the tone of his voice, the quiet, slightly hesitant murmur through the modulator.  The gulp you take is audible through the room, the only other sound being the closest trees rustling in the breeze outside.  The spread curtains dance with it, but they’re too sheer and light to make a noise.  “O-Okay.”

“Yeah?”  He asks lowly, and you quickly nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your body beginning to tingle, “sit—sit back down.”

He goes to move but then abruptly stops, and you hold your breath while you watch the visor jerk just a fraction to pin you in place.  Something instantly feels… different about him, a silent shift taking place within just a singular moment.  Like he all of a sudden realized that he didn’t actually like that very much.

Instead of acquiescing, Mando slowly steps in front of you, straightening up to his full height and absolutely dwarfing you with it, and your palms start to sweat.  Maker, when he speaks, it sends shivers down your body and the last thing you hear in his voice is hesitation.

“Take off your clothes,” he tells you, a dangerous edge to his soft tone.  The quiet dominance in it feels like the floor beneath you rumbles from it.

On instinct, your eyes flick over his shoulder to the open window and the village outside.  It’s barely been a few hours since sundown—townspeople are strolling down winding streets in the distance, ghostly moonlight mixes with the warm glow from large oil lamps lining the pubs and street corners.

You look back at him barely a split second later as he stands there in front of you, waiting.

You startle and immediately move to grab at the hem of your shirt, and your fingers unintentionally tremble as they start to pull it up. 

“Stop.”

His voice breaks through the silence, the modulated order halting your movements immediately.  You blink up at him, letting your shirt drop back down again, and Mando takes a second to look back at you, studying you from under the beskar.

“Go stand by the window,” he suddenly says, lazily tilting the helmet to gesture at it.

Your blood pounds in your ears during the still moments following, the thrill of it making you nearly go deaf for a second.  After you recover from the visceral heatwave that rockets through you, you slowly walk over to the window and then turn your back on the ballooning curtains to look at him.  The beskar is still pinned to you over his shoulder, though the rest of his body hasn’t moved.

“Turn around,” he tells you, and you shakily do as he says, rotating to face the open window.  You’re close enough to make out people’s expressions from here—friends mingling as they stroll down the sidewalk, their mouths moving but their voices and laughter muted at this distance.  An outdoor restaurant serving local cuisine to patrons and out-of-towners, a violinist and cellist performing a silent duet on the street corner.

There’s shuffling behind you.  The creak of the bedframe as he lowers himself on it and moves around, before eventually coming to a rest in what you assume is a comfortable position.

“You can keep going,” eventually comes his filtered voice from the bed.

Your eyelashes dip and flutter as more hot sparks of arousal kindle deep in your floor muscles.  Lifting your shirt up over your head has never felt like such high stakes before, but even as the fabric falls to the ground, your gaze continuously searches for anyone outside who may catch a glimpse.  Though, you’re not sure if it’s in dread or some kind of sick excitement.

The breeze hardens your nipples while you work at your pants, and the hair on your arms stands up when you remember who’s behind you, silently watching you get turned on by this.  Along with your underwear, your pants are pushed down your thighs, but instead of moving back from the pool around your ankles, you take a purposeful step forward towards the open window.

“Fuck—you dirty little thing,” you hear him breathe out, and a shiver rolls through you.  “Tell me how many people you can see right now, count them.”

You try your best, but give up halfway through and provide a rough estimate.  “F-Fifteen.”

“Scanner says seventeen from here,” Mando challenges lowly.  “Seventeen pairs of eyes that can look up any second and see your naked body.  Stripped bare, shaking, vulnerable.  Your gorgeous fucking tits.”

As hard as your teeth dig into your bottom lip at the rasp through the modulator, your nails dig into your palms even harder.  Still, you don’t move, and the open drapes flick and brush against your thighs as you hold there, the gentle wind doing absolutely nothing to cool your flushed skin down.

And oh, he waits.  He’s good about that, especially when he can probably read your infrared signature through the helmet right now.  You’re surprised you haven’t outright blinded him by how white-hot your body feels.  But after what feels like a small eternity, he eventually murmurs, “Come over here.”

Once you turn around and see the way he’s just laying back on the bed, relaxing and enchanted with the show, it’s a miracle you don’t trip on anything with how quickly you hurry towards him.  You’re already standing next to the edge of the mattress by the time you even register his body is subtly tilted so that his boots are hanging purposefully off the side of it.

Regardless of the hard dominance he’s exhibiting, the symbolic gesture somehow feels like it flips a switch inside you and lights up pure, aching adoration for him.  But against every instinct screaming at you to just scramble on top of him and show him how much you appreciate his thoughtfulness, you wait.  You wait for him to tell you what to do.

His glove lifts, comes up to gently touch the side of your face and cradle your jaw, and you have to clamp your hands together to stop yourself from reaching for him.

“Are you wet?”  Mando murmurs, sounding like his lips barely even brush against each other when they move under the beskar.  You don’t trust yourself to say anything without it turning into a desperate plea, so you just close your eyes and jerk your head in a nod, feeling your cheek graze against the leather on his palm with the movement.  It’s hard to swallow when your mouth feels so dry, and he lets you just suffer there and tremble for him a little while longer, letting out a quiet hum through the modulator as his thumb carefully rides the line of your cheekbone.

Maker, where does all this fucking patience come from?  Under normal circumstances, Mando is probably one of the most impatient people you’ve ever met, and yet.  It’s like he stores it all up.  Hoards it and refuses to dip into it most of the time—perfectly content to have a quick temper in most interactions, if only so that he can keep it handy for moments like this.  If only so he can have a seemingly endless supply of patience to sustain him while your average-sized stockpile is gradually and inevitably being depleted.

“You want to get up here with me?”  He asks quietly, and stars, that’s still not a directive, no matter how much it could casually imply one.  The ridiculous thing is—he never even told you this was expected of you.  Not once did he tell you to follow his words like they're gospel, not once did he say there was something wrong with speaking directly to him without prompting, or acting without explicit instruction.  He never even implied anything like that at all, but you still hold your body completely rigid as you jerk a nod against his palm once more.

Stars, it just isn’t fair.  He doesn’t look any different from how he looks every single day—there’s no patch of golden skin to tease you, beskar is covering him head to toe, but you’re hotter for him than you think you’ve ever been.  He’s stretched out long on the bed, a portion of him darkened by your silhouette but the rest bathed in gorgeous moonlight, breathing slow as he takes you in.  You stare silently at the visor, and for some reason, you—you’re quite suddenly struck with how gorgeous he could secretly be under there and you’ll just… you’ll never know.  You know his hair is thick and dark, you know the softness of his mouth, the sunkissed color of his skin, the prominent nose and straight teeth on the rare but blissful occasions he’d let you kiss him.  His eyes, though.  They could be any color.  Your credits have been on brown for a while, but the thought of you not knowing for sure… the thought of you actually having to ask him something like that is just—it makes you ache to touch him even more.  To give him something tangible at least, when you know the only way to ever have a true visual connection with him is with a dark visor between you.

You try to let the sentiment transfer through your needy expression, hoping he can read it from there.  His cock is hard—you can see it in your peripheral, pressing up against the dark fabric of his pants, but it’s like you’re the only one who notices.  He’s still admiring your face, or fuck, maybe he’s looking at your body—you can never tell for sure, but regardless, you stare purposefully at wherever you think his eyes ought to be, silently pleading with him and starting to get desperate.

Finally—fucking finally, the helmet rocks to the side just slightly, just the smallest tilt of his head towards his body, but the nonverbal invitation is enough.  Air you didn’t realize was even in your lungs suddenly whooshes out of you as you all but launch forwards onto the mattress to try and climb on top of him.

—Except, then his hand quickly drops from your face to press firm against your thighs, blocking the way your far leg tries to lift to swing over him in a straddle.  Disappointment crashes through you with an audible whimper and you start to panic a little bit as you shakily plant both knees back on the bed, wondering what you possibly did wrong.  Was it because he didn’t specifically say it was okay?  Was he just testing your obedience?

The beskar vambrace feels cool against your burning skin, and you try not to let the trembling of your body manifest itself in your breathing as Mando lazily drags his glove along your thighs.  Neither one of you says anything as he eventually trails his hand back and around, leather fingers coming to a rest between your legs while his thumb rides high, just under the curve of your ass.

And then he slowly starts pulling, before he gradually leads the leg closest to him up and over his body instead, until you’re settling into a straddle on top of his hips.  Backwards.

Everything in you shudders violently as both gloves gently trail up the length of your naked back, letting you brace your hands on the beskar strapped to his thighs and settle on top of him.

“Look at that,” he hums, letting his hands fall back down to the meat of your ass, grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing hard enough to make you bite back a gasp.  “Fucking pretty.  Pretty girl.  Stars, I fucking love looking at you, know that?”

The praise makes you mewl quietly and spread your knees even further, dropping your hips down until the underside of his cock presses up tight into your aching pussy.  You arch your back and walk your hands forward just a bit, just until you’re holding onto his knees and you have the right angle to start slowly rocking your body back and forth.

“Maker,” you whisper, your head tipping back while you drag your pussy against his pulsing erection, and his hands keep massaging your ass while the words start falling out of you now that you released the floodgate.  “Maker, I love your body.  So big, and—and strong.  Fucking hard, thick cock.  Fuck, I love your cock.  I love how fucking hard you get—”

“Bend over,” Mando breathes out behind you, his hands suddenly releasing fistfuls of your ass to grab around your hips and bring you to a stop.  “Fuck, keep talking like that, but show me your—just let me… let me look at it.”

Your heart slams against your sternum, your clit pulsing against the hard ridge of his cock, knowing exactly what he’s talking about.  Slowly, you bend your upper body over until your tummy lays flat along the cool beskar shielding his thighs and your tits are pressed against his kneecaps.  Your arms are long enough to rest your hands on his ankles like this, and your thighs are spread wide to keep your cunt pushed up against his cock.  But stars, you know he has a perfect view right now.  The slick lips of your pussy smearing against his dark pants, both holes on full display for him in the moonlight.

“Keep—Keep talking,” Mando reminds you after a moment, sounding painfully turned on while his cock jumps against your clit.  “Keep going.  Use it, get yourself off.  Let me watch.”

“Fuck, I love your cock,” you hear yourself repeat, breathless and needy as your hips start grinding down against him once more, the words coming from you without giving them any thought whatsoever.  He grunts and pushes it up for you, letting you get at it easier.  “I think about it all the time.  Think about the first time I felt it, how you were already rock fucking hard for me when I touched you.  You came so quick, right in my hand, in your pants—it was so fucking hot.”

“I’d had—” he grits out in his defense, “—shit, I’d had a… a rough day, and your hands were.  Fuck, s-soft, and—”

“Maybe,” you concede, biting your lip and closing your eyes against the swirling pleasure spreading hot through your body, the heat that burns you alive hearing the familiar warble through the modulator when he’s starting to lose himself in pleasure.  “Or maybe it was because you were half-conscious with a brand new scar on your back.”

His filtered groan rolls down your spine and his cock pulses hard against your cunt through the fabric of his pants, making you spasm in delight.  Fuck, your head drops down completely, just dragging yourself back and forth on top of him as you chase your orgasm like this.  Shameless—your ass flexing in front of him with every roll of your hips, your lower muscles fluttering with every drag against his cock.

“Fuck—fuck, let me touch your asshole,” Mando whispers suddenly, lifting himself up on one elbow and dragging the other hand up the curve of your cheek.  “Just—just a little bit, I won’t pu—”

“Oh stars above, fucking please,” you gasp against one of his legs, nearly jerking back against his hand as your pussy fucking leaks through his pants with it.  “I’ll let you do anything you want, you can—can put your thumb inside it—”

His other hand leaves you for a split second, and you think he’s taking his glove off, except then it swings down to crack hard against your ass, making you gasp and instantly go still for him on his lap.

The smooth leather covering the pad of his thumb carefully glides down your crevice, and you hold your breath until it finally brushes over the tight ring of muscle flexing for him.

“That all you’ll let me put in here?”  Mando asks quietly, and you let out a complete mess of a whimper, trying your best not to move under the bold touches.

You get another firm smack on the ass for being rendered mute for too long.  “Tell me,” he growls, rubbing his thumb against the vulnerable entrance while his cock throbs against your cunt.

“I’ll—I’ll let you do anything you want,” you moan once more, and stars, you can’t help it.  Your hips start to grind down against him even harder than before, and Mando curses as he slowly rides your movements with his hand.

“Dirty,” he grits out.  “Dirty girl.  You ever take it back here before?”  And stars, the way his cock drags against your pussy starts to make you lightheaded, how casually he’s talking about this while starting to circle his thumb around it and press firm against it.  Not hard enough to push inside, but enough to feel the natural resistance give just a bit.

“No,” you breathe, starting to pant while you work against him.  “Boys have tried.  But I’d let you.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, suddenly rocking his hips up against yours.  You nearly choke and your legs start to lock up, making your movements stunted.  “Fuck.  I bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?  Right here in front of this f-fucking window, where everyone can see?  Let me flip you over and stretch you out, and then fuck your tight little—virgi—”

“Maker, get your cock out,” you gasp, heat burning at your center and beginning to spread outwards.  It tingles hot through your lower abdomen and you start to get frantic, knowing you don’t have much time before your orgasm hits.  “Please, just let me ride it, let me cum on it—”

“No,” Mando immediately grunts, and you make a small sound of distress that quickly turns into a high-pitched mewl against his leg when the very tip of his thumb just barely breaches the haloed entrance.

“But—but I’m so wet,” you whisper, “oh stars, can’t you see it?  I’m dripping.  You could just slide it right in right now, I’d take it so fucking easy—”

He rips his hand away just long enough to smack your ass once again, hard enough to ring through the room and make you gasp.  “Quit.  You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given and you’ll endure,” he snaps.  “Not here, not tonight.”

You bite back desperate protests.  He’d fuck you in a dark alleyway on Canto Bight but not here?  As if you haven’t already done so multiple times this evening, you immediately lament your stupid mouth and the thoughtless mattress comment.  You wish you could take it all back—you don’t care how nice this bed is, you want to sleep in anything he’ll fuck you in.  Nonetheless, your orgasm gallops forward and leaves your body struggling to keep up behind it—but Maker, you want so badly to feel him inside you when it finally hits.  You want to sink down on him and feel him break you open just as you start to cum.

“Oh fuck, please give me it,” you whine, sounding on the edge of delirium, the words pressed high and unintentional as your hands clutch at his legs.  “Oh Maker, please, please fuck me—fuck me in a real bed, please, just—fuck me right now and I swear I’ll sleep on fucking rocks for you every single night for the rest of m—”

A snarl rips through the modulator and he shoves your hips forward just enough, just enough to rip his waistband down—

You gasp in blinding relief and flip your head over your shoulder to watch, but then subtle movement catches in your peripheral.  You glance up just in time to see the doorknob slowly turning.

Thank your lucky stars you react on instinct alone, squealing and jumping off him before quickly shuffling under the covers.

“What the fu—” comes an enraged, filtered growl, metal clanking with how quickly he flips over to reach for you, but then he cuts off and the helmet whips to the door as it unlatches and slowly creaks open. 

The blankets are pulled tight under your chin as you shuffle down as far as possible, and though you can’t see the intruder from this angle, Mando is instantly reaching back to rip the pillow out from under the helmet and press it tight over his crotch, huffing out a sigh.

Soon, you’re able to spot one pointy little ear pop up, followed by the rest of the little gremlin scaling the treacherously tall comforter, pulling himself over the edge of the mattress with a determined three-finger hold and then doing a completely unnecessary little barrel roll once he’s on the level springtop.  The fact that it’s so fucking adorable just serves to irk you even more, and both of you silently watch the kid push himself up on two feet and then waddle slowly in between you two.

He finds a pillow he likes—one that happens to be placed directly in between you and his dad, before he settles himself down on it like a small bed on top of a much larger one.  The little stinker then flutters his abnormally giant eyes closed and seems to instantly fall back asleep.

There’s a few minutes where you just blink across from Mando, flicking your gaze between the chrome visor and the baby’s peaceful face.  Is this… is he serious right now?

“Were we being too loud?”  You eventually whisper, barely above a breath.  “Or is he just being purposefully annoying?”

He doesn’t answer you.  And, well, you suppose he has a point.  Regardless of why, it appears he's here now. 

You let out a slow breath and just try and relax, try and think beyond the flare of annoyance at the interruption, how close you were to feeling him fuck you into this mattress.  He’d still have the armor and helmet on, of course, but it would be just domestic enough to ruin you. 

But then again—you suppose this, if anything, is even more domestic.  Doing your best to calm your racing thoughts so you can eventually fall asleep directly across from him with his mildly aggravating, heartstealing little adopted kid snoring quietly between you.

Quite a while passes before you feel your eyelids growing heavy.  You spend almost the entire time studying every single inch of Mando while he faces you on the mattress.  The sharp angles and smooth curves of his helmet, concave in places but convex in others.  How fitting, you think.  To cover a man with a helmet just like him—sharp, smooth, contrasting, and deflective enough about what lies underneath to be reflective.

Then you find yourself thinking about what he’s hiding under it.  Once more.  You try to picture him, but it’s… it’s difficult.  You’re not used to translating things you’ve only touched into visual representations, it’s just not a skill you’ve ever needed to have handy.  And what about all the things you can’t, or haven’t been able to feel?  Freckles, or birthmarks?  Dimples?  Are his lashes long or short?  Do they stick out in a fringe when he clamps his eyes shut?  Does his nose scrunch up when he laughs?  Do his ears stick out?  Does he have wrinkles on his forehead, or around his eyes?

Maker, what color are they?

You continue to stare at the metal faceplate, blinking droopily at it but forcing yourself to stay awake just a bit longer.  Enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress underneath you while you still can, relaxing into the cool sheets and delaying your inevitable descent into dreams.  Savoring his extended presence here with you for as long as possible.

“Do you have brown eyes?”  You hear yourself murmur to him through the quiet darkness, lips barely touching and the words slurred from exhaustion.  You want to know.  You want to be able to color in the last paint-by-number of his face before you begin your work on the finer details.

Again, he doesn’t answer, and you figure he’s probably asleep.