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romanoffsbish · 2 years

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Our Sleeping Beauty

WandaNat x PregnantFem!Reader

Request | 1,347 Words

“We didn’t want to wake you up.”

Natasha—like always, was the first one of you three to wake up, and after a minute of ogling the both of your sleeping forms she went on her typical morning run. Only to return an hour later to an awake Wanda cuddling into your slumped form., “She’s still asleep?,” Natasha asked over a soft chuckle splitting Wanda’s attention between the two of you,“Yeah, and she’s just too cute to wake up.,” the witch mused with a raspy voice as she looked to her other wife with tired eyes full of love., “Then I say the two of us leave the sleeping beauty to rest while we run her errands.”

Wanda gently removed herself from your side, settling a pillow in her place as to not disturb you, and once she saw you were resettled she made her way over to embrace Natasha., “You’re absolutely right moya lyubov’, our angel is already overdoing it as it is, and she needs all the sleep she can get.,” Wanda confirms, then she leaves a soft peck to the redheads lips before scooting off into the restroom to get ready.

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Natasha sits down besides you, admiring how beautiful you were in quiet moments like this. When you’re not bustling around to keep the house in order, or to keep all the Avengers well fed. Being Tony’s assistant for nearly a decade sure had perks, but it also came with a hefty workload that your lovers see firsthand. They have repeatedly begged you to retire the job, to become their pretty little housewife, but you truly are a stubborn one. So for now they will just assist you as best they can, and allowing you to sleep while handling Tony’s ridiculous list is just going to have to do for the day.

Natasha just couldn’t help it as she settled a kiss to your forehead., “YA tebya lyublyu.,” a coy smile takes over her face when you stir ever so slightly in your sleep, the silky grey covers consequently fall and leave your pregnant belly exposed to your lover whose eager lips lean down to press another kiss to your bump., “Mama lyubit tebya.,” she gasps lowly when the baby shifts under her lips., “Ostavaysya yeshche malyutkoy. mame nuzhno pospat'.”

(I love you) (Mama loves you) (Stay still little one, mommy needs to sleep.)

Wanda quietly tiptoes over to the scene, her hand lays against Nat’s shoulder as she too leans in to press a loving kiss to your bump., “Be good little one.,” she whispers against your skin, then as she pulls back she turns Natasha’s body, carefully she pulls her off the bed as to not disturb you further, and then into a kiss., “This is going to be a long morning.,” she sighs against the older woman’s lips who then chuckles into the kiss., “Better get going then.,” and just like that the brunette was being pulled out of the room, and was off to collect your to do list from under the magnet on the fridge.

A significant amount of hours had flown by before you woke up with a start. The talons of one bored calico kitten had etched a mark into your thigh before the older black cat could stop her successor. Your eyes flew open to find the cat was now lying on your bump, purring loudly in what you assume to be a self soothing move as he awaited your likely scolding. Though it never came as you were too busy looking to the clock that flashed 11:00AM.

Panic etched its way into your very soul seeing as how Tony’s charity gala was tomorrow and you needed to get everything pulled together. You realize that in your pregnancy induced exhaustive state last night you’d forgotten to set your alarms, but the vacancy’s in bed that belonged to your lovers left you perplexed. They knew today was your important day set aside for pulling all the loose strings together for Tony, and it irked you that they’d leave you in the lurch like this knowing how much you valued your position with the billionaire.

You tried to get out of bed, but the process had only become harder the closer to your due date you got. Falling back with a huff you did the next best thing., “Hey Siri, call baby mama and baby daddy on speaker for a conference call.,” and after only a few rings you heard the sound of panting, and then a slightly panicked voice., "We didn't want to wake you up...,” Hearing Wanda in such a state amused you, and if you weren’t panicked yourself you might’ve tried to ease her worries., “Well I have a lot of work to do, and it was irresponsible to leave me sleeping well into the late morning.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at your tone, she was clear across the way from Wanda, and was nowhere near as worried about your anger., “Detka, we made a logical decision for the sake of your health, and you should be happy to know we handled all of your little tasks.,” Natasha’s face held a smug smile as you were silent, but Wanda’s held a grimace as she was almost certain you were planning their deaths., “So, instead of waking me up as you should’ve, you two went out and handled all of my work for me without any issues?,” your tone was level, and the words were clear as day, but still they found themselves at a loss for an answer.

The silence felt safer to your lovers, your question was simple, but it also felt like a perfectly crafted trap they didn’t wish to fall into today., “An answer would be nice.,” Wanda cleared her throat, deciding it was her turn to brave the storm that was a hormonal, unpredictable you., “Yes detka, we finished about an hour ago, now we’re actually headed to get some food for you—our beautiful angel.,” Natasha smirked at the brunette’s attempt to placate you, knowing that it was likely to work.

“What food?,” you asked just as level, though you had to fight off a laugh when you heard your wives gulp, because truth be told the answer they give now matters the most., “A BBQ Chicken pizza from Joe’s, loaded carnitas fries from Sal’s, and an Oreo shake from Jack in the Box.,” Natasha said without missing a beat, and she stared at Wanda through the car window with the aforementioned pizza in hand. Neither woman moved as they listened to your heavy breathing through the phone, they imagined you were likely sharpening your knives, but really you were just trying to sit up.

“When can I expect my lovely wives to return with my snacks then?,” they both sighed in relief when your voice was suddenly elated., “We’ll be there in less than twenty detka.,” Wanda cheerfully replied, the car was already thrown in reverse as Natasha was buckling up., “All will be fine just as long as we don’t forget my Coke from McDonald’s, because we all—.,” Natasha humorously cut you off, “There’s no Coke better than a McDonald’s coke. We know moya lyubov.,” she shook the icy drink near the phone’s microphone for emphasis and she could practically see your smile as you spoke., “Thank you Natty.,” and just as Wanda went to speak her displeasure you cut her off., “Thank you Wands, I know it was probably your idea.”

Wanda looked to Nat with a cheeky smirk., “Mhm, of course moya lyubov’, food was all me, but handling your day was all Natty.”

“Well, then you both have a good chance at receiving kisses for your efforts, but only if you’re on time.,” and you could actually hear the tires screeching., “See you soon lyubov.,” you giggled while snuggling the purring cats close., “I sure have your mommies wrapped around my finger.,” you mused with one hand on a cat, and the other lovingly rubbing your baby bump., “Gotta teach you now little one, because you and I are about to rule this castle if you get it all down now.”

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#natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #gxg #wanda x you x nat #wanda x natasha x reader #wandanat imagine #wandanat fluff #wandanat fic #wandanat x reader blurb #wandanat x female reader #wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x y/n #wandanat x pregnant reader

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digeethegenie · 5 days

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I want to be Your Canary

Day 18 - Hackneyed Stormblood 3.0 - Stormblood Stormblood Alience Raid - In Bad Taste

Yujo carefuly clambered up on top of the soft pillow that had been put on top of her seat. Fighting her embarassment, she carefuly got on top of the pillow and loosened up with a sigh.

It was an akward thing- being three feet tall- at the best of times, and when one of your favorite hobbies was going to the theater, it was all the more of an encumbrance.

Oh, she was told that could have easily booked one of the balcony boxes- useually reserved for the likes of royality, the moniterists, or visiting statesmen- but Yujo actually didn't like drawing attention to herself as Eoreza's 'sole savior' as she felt two things;

One, it was not true in that she could probably precicely say which ditch she would have died in if not for the Scions and her other friends.

Two, it was actually kind of embarssing to be called a savior on the regular. Yes, she had gone well beyond the call but there were a lot of circumstances to it. A lot of bullets that she dodged, and a lot more that hit their target.

Still, tonight was hers and she had every intention of going about it as Yujo Palms: adventurer and conisiour of culture instead of Yujo Palms: Warrior of Light.

Dressed in her business attire, a snazzy little suit that she got as thanks from Nashuu for her help in the zombie powder case, she streched and let her joints pop before she relaxed with a sigh.

"Must you do that in a place of culture such as this, you odious popot-"

Yujo turned to see who was complaining in the seat next to her when she saw a simmlar, messily shaved, face of Nero tol Scheva.

It was all the two could do not to scream out in pure suprise and point at each other upon seeing each other at a theater in the entertainment disctrict of U'ldah on a Salamandar-day evening.

He wearing the same pair of wrap-around shades he wore whilst he was investigating the crystal tower presumably to hide his third eye. Whilst there were a number of Garlemaldian defectors who had resettled in Eoreza- with Cid and several of the men and women who staffed the metalworks being the most noteworthy examples- there was, understandably, a natural level of distrust against anyone who came from the homeland of the enemy, and the third eye made them easy to find in a crowd.

Yujo, trying to keep tact, whispered "What are YOU doing here?!"

A condesending scoff came from the ex Intelegence Officer. "I should be asking the same of you. I wouldn't have thought the champion of Eoreza would be of the sort to enjoy the theater."

Pouting, Yujo crossed her arms.

"Well, I do. So there."

Another scoff, perfectly toned to the exact frequency to tick Yujo off. "Well, whatever. Just keep your mouth shut about me, if it so pleases. Judging by your attire, your lack of that silly looking banadana you wear when you're adventuring, and the fact that you're not sitting in the box balcony- even though given the number of times you have saved this realm, it should be your right- I am guessing that you don't want to draw attention to yourself. In that, we both have an accord."

It really annoyed Yujo how much he had gotten from just a few points like that. It also really hurt to have the bandana she took from the Waking Sands after the masacare called stupid.

"It's not stupid." Yujo uttered.

"Silly" Nero corrected. "Well, regardless, tonight I just want to relax so let's not start anything, okay?"

"I'm not the one whose friend went on a mass-murering spree."

"Look, Livia was not my-"

A buzzer rang out, catching the two's attention as the narator of the play, a man in his early thirties with a messy lop of brown hair, announced the play- "I want to be your Canary", writain by Leanna Charlotte and preformed by the Tantalus Stage group- was starting.

As the curtain raised on a painted backdrop of a kingdom long lost to the waves of Umbral and Astral, the Narator explained the story of the kingdom, Fabul, and of its royality- the mad tyrant, King Leo, and his daughter, the kind hearted Cornelia. It is her sixteenth birthday and she is to be married off in a political and loveless maridge to the vien Prince Schneider. Opposing this maridge was the rebels of The Returners, and in particualr, Marcus, who Cornelia loved with all her heart.

Yujo had just gotten into the rythem of the story, when the party of Marcus, Blank and Zidane had declaired that this would be The Returners last stand against the King, when Nero soffed again.

"Really, what a bunch of hackneyed tripe."

Drawing a breath as to not shout at the garlemaldian, and get them both kicked out Yujo took a moment to colect herself before she engaged with him.

"It's not hackneyed. It's a trope of the theater to be sure, and a little soppy, I'll grant, but it's perfectly fine."

"When you have to report all sorts of things rebels had to say as their last stands. You'll absolutey call this hackneyed. I don't have any love for my homeland, but that doesn't mean I don't remember everything I did in its name."

Yujo quacked a 'gah' and looked away in shame.

"And besides that, it was done a lot better in The Zodiac Brave Story."

Yujo could feel her face scrunch up in disgust at the mention of that play. "Oh, I met with the Magestic Imperial Theater Company once" she mentioned her features still crunched up. "I wish I didn't, but that wine's been drunk."

"I was of the understanding that Jenomis Lexentale was a gentleman and a scholar."

"He is a buffoon tempered by an obsession. He activley ignored his daughter, and encouraged his brat of a son to be an awful twit. Their awful attude actively made their play worse for me."

What she wasn't mentioning was the machine in the rabanaster ruins that made her do math on threat of deady lazer. She didn't need to give him ideas.

A hum of comaradery came out of Nero's mouth. One that Yujo haden't expected, and the two returned to watching the show, both becoming drawin to its story.

The play reached its clmax, a bitter swordfight between a turncoat Blank and Zidane- one that famously extends out to the audiance and leads to both being killed, one swearing for the future of Fabul and the other to the freedom of people from the yoke of kingdoms- gives way to the final confrentation between Leo and Marcus.

The story reaches it's tragic yet hopeful denumont, Marcus, consumed by his hatred for the king, lunges for him only for the princess to step between them and be cut down. The two men, consumed by grief, murder each other leaving only Prince Schneider who, having bore whitness to this disaster, sheds his vanglorious ego, joins the two nations in a pact of peace, and vows never to let the people and their nation become astranged again.

Nero, who had been enjoying the show to this point, had his attention drawn to the quiet sobbing of the lalafell next to her. Yujo was wiping tears away from her eyes, sobbing and asking why Cornelia had to die.

He was left to his thoguhts as the play finished and the players took their final bow.

As the two left the theater, Nero looked at the playbill and of the illustrations of the cast. "You know, I never watched this play before, but think I saw them somewhere before."

A mischievious smirk crossed Yujo's face. "Oh you don't know? Tantalus was once a regeiment of the fifth legion."

Nero stoped dead. "Bullshite"

"Oh no it's true, all but a handfull of new members were recruits from conscripted lands. Lenna and her sibling were princesses, even."

Thinking quickly, Nero tried to mind the fifth legion's activities and was drawing a blank on princesses.

"They were chasing Cid when he first defected. Shot him down too. His plane crash landed on a little island in the middle of the Spiran Archipelago."

"Oh, you are…"

The smirk widened.

"Nope. That's how Cid and I first met. And to get to the point, when they accepted defeat, they sent a sos pretending to be killed by the wildlife of the island. The Fifth apprently never cared much for them."

Nero was left standing in shock as Yujo said her goodbyes and left. Eventualy he could only scoff and look up. "Huh." was all he said, musing on things.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxiv nero #ffv #ffix #iwanttobeyourcanary #yujopalmswol

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thenewzs · 10 years

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You may not know Amit Raіzada’s name, but some of KC’s wealthy won’t soon forget it

On December 26, 2012, Amit Raizada drove his wife, Amanda Raizada, to the office of his estate-planning attorneys. Amanda was presented with several large binders filled with documents and instructed to sign where indicated.

“Amit told me that I needed to sign the documents and to trust him because everything he did was for the good of the family,” Amanda later stated in a sworn affidavit.

Amit Raizada was, and still is, CEO of Spectrum Business Ventures, a private investment firm that was headquartered then on Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza. Personal financial statements at the time valued the couple’s estate at $90 million.

Seven days earlier, Amanda Raizada had signed an amended postnuptial agreement. Amit Raizada and his attorney Pete Smith, of McDowell Rice Smith & Buchanan, have since argued in court that Amanda voluntarily signed the postnuptial agreement; Smith has supplied evidence of a monthlong correspondence between him and Sheldon Bernstein, who served as Amanda Raizada’s legal counsel for the postnup, prior to her signing the agreement.

But Amanda Raizada alleges — and e-mails introduced into the couple’s divorce proceedings confirm — that Smith chose Bernstein to serve as Amanda’s counsel. Smith wrote to Amit on November 5, 2012: “Attached is Sheldon Bernstein’s business card. Amanda needs to contact him. He has the agreement and all the documents. I met with him to provide the background.” Four minutes later, Amit forwarded Smith’s e-mail to Amanda and wrote, “Please call the guy and set up the next available appointment.”

Could Bernstein serve as an independent and disinterested legal counsel for Amanda Raizada, given that opposing counsel Smith handpicked him and met with him prior to Amanda’s even knowing his name? That question is at issue in the couple’s ongoing divorce proceedings, due to what Amanda discovered a year later, after she and Amit separated. (Bernstein declined to comment for this story.)

By signing the postnup, Amanda had cleared the way for a reshuffling of the Raizadas’ estate plans — plans that, upon execution, resulted in the transfer of 70 percent of the assets on her side of the couple’s financial statement into irrevocable trusts for their children and Amit Raizada–owned entities.

Amit Raizada moved to Miami last year, following a decade spent building his fortune in the Kansas City area. He did not respond to requests for comment for this article.

Born in India in 1976, Raizada was brought to the United States when he was about 18 months old. He attended high school in Farmington Hills, Michigan, and college at Michigan State University and Cornell University, according to a 2004 deposition. After college, Raizada moved to Florida and met Amanda; the two took up residence in Michigan, where she finished her degree at Michigan State, and he opened three Nextel wireless retail locations in Grand Rapids. In 2000, Raizada sold the Nextel stores, and the couple resettled in Olathe. Amanda is from the area and graduated from Olathe North High School.

Raizada’s first Kansas City–area business venture was Cellular 4 Less, a chain of authorized Cingular Wireless retail outlets with locations in St. Joseph, Lawrence, Mission, Shawnee, Lenexa and Bonner Springs. Cellular 4 Less also operated kiosks inside local Wal-Marts.

On July 8, 2002, Raizada stopped in at a US Bank in Olathe to make a deposit for Cellular 4 Less. While waiting for one teller to process his deposits, he handed another teller roughly $2,000 in cash and asked her to change it into higher bills. The teller asked for Raizada’s ID and Social Security number. At that point, a dispute broke out. Several bank employees swore under oath that Raizada called the tellers “fucking whores” and “fucking bitches.” He also allegedly spit on the bank supervisor and punched her in the chest. Raizada stated in a subsequent deposition that he felt he was being discriminated against by the US Bank employees because of his race. He later sued US Bank and settled out of court.

Raizada was arrested and charged with two counts of battery and one count of disorderly conduct. He later agreed to a 12-month diversion program and undertook an anger-management class. Raizada also paid a settlement to one of the tellers after she filed a civil suit against him.

Representing Raizada in these legal actions was Phillip “Chuck” Rouse, of the law firm Douthit Frets Rouse Gentile & Rhodes. During this period, Raizada moved his office into the same building as Rouse’s firm: 903 East 104th Street, near Holmes Road and Interstate 435. According to Kansas business filings, Rouse and the other partners in the firm still retain ownership interests in some of Raizada’s businesses. The firm, which now has its office in Leawood’s Park Place district, declined to comment for this story.

After the US Bank episode, Raizada was involved in rolling out T-Mobile stores in California, and with rehabbing and reselling local real-estate properties through a company called Kansas City Real Estate Investors Inc. In 2005, he changed the name of the latter company to Spectrum Business Ventures. Joining Raizada at Spectrum were Asner and Gortenburg, two local real-estate investors specializing in multifamily housing. The company evolved into an investment firm and capital venture that aimed, marketing materials read, “to bring exclusive opportunities to create and preserve wealth — while trying to minimize risk — to family offices, high-net-worth individuals and institutional investors.” Raizada moved to Mission Hills in 2006.

A revocable trust in Vittor’s name was one of the plaintiffs in a lawsuit filed in early 2014 in Miami against Raizada. The lawsuit centers on Adore, an opulent Miami club opened by nightlife mogul Cy Waits (best known as Paris Hilton’s ex-boyfriend) and bankrolled in part by Spectrum Business Ventures. The plaintiffs claimed that Raizada interfered with the development of the club, diverted its funds to Raizada-affiliated entities, and charged inappropriate expenditures to Adore’s books.

The parties have since resolved their differences. “The air has been cleared,” Raizada said in a press release last August. “After bringing in independent forensic accountants and completing a thorough review of project documents, we have shown there were no improprieties of any sort by my firm, our staff, or myself.” Adore permanently closed the same month, after only four months in business.

Resolution on the other lawsuits brought against Raizada remains elusive. Of those, Raizada’s attorney Pete Smith says: “Out of over 100 transactions, people were upset that five transactions lost money. Overall, the track record was great, but there seems to be a lack of realization that high-return investments carry commensurate risk, and when risky transactions go awry, the loss does not result from fraud.”

Spectrum Business Ventures today lists a post-office box in Lee’s Summit as its headquarters. Asner and Gortenburg took over the former SBV headquarters, at 420 Nichols Road, as part of the process of severing their professional ties with Raizada. They now operate a real-estate investment firm there called Eighteen Capital.

In the southwest corner of the space — where windows overlook Sperry, Cole Haan and other high-dollar retailers — is Raizada’s former office. It contains a large desk, mahogany molding, a large TV mounted on the wall — and little else. Nearly a year and a half after Raizada’s acrimonious departure, his office remains unoccupied, an odd vacancy in an otherwise vibrant business environment. The mention of Raizada’s name to former SBV employees in the office induces not just frowns but also traces of trauma.

“Amit is a really bright guy,” one former SBV employee said in December. “He could have done really great things here.” The employee shook his head and got back to work.

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todaypatch · 2 years

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You may not know Amit Raіzada’s name, but some of KC’s wealthy won’t soon forget it

“Amit told me that I needed to sign the documents and to trust him because everything he did was for the good of the family,” Amanda later stated in a sworn affidavit.

Amit Raizada moved to Miami last year, following a decade spent building his fortune in the Kansas City area. He did not respond to requests for comment for this article.

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c-e-d-dreamer · 3 years

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Okay, I know hockey player versus figure skater is a super cliché rivalry, but all day today, my brain was like “hockey player Cassian! Hockey player Cassian! Hockey player Cassian,” so here we are. Also, fun fact, this exact event actually happened to my little brother at one of his games. TW for blood and injuries. Hope you enjoy :) @nessianweek

The cool rush of the air conditioning is the first thing that hits Cassian as he pushes through the doors. The throwback pop song pumping out of the speakers and the smell of popcorn from the snack bar hits him next. He shifts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, resettling the weight, his sticks clacking together in his other hand. He makes his way over to the board declaring the locker room assignments for the day, squinting until he finds the Illyrians. He's about to head off toward their locker room when his eyes snag on someone.

Nesta is perched like a queen on one of the benches in the lobby, her white skates resting beside her. She has a sweatshirt pulled on, but the red skirts of her dress skim across her thighs, and Cassian can see the jeweled embellishments peeking out under the collar. Unsurprising, she has a book opened in her hands, probably another of her smutty romances. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, Cassian finds himself drawn into her eyes, the way they glint as they dance across the pages.

Cassian doesn't have to think twice before he's sauntering over to her. He drops his bag with a loud thump at her feet, a smile pulling across his face at her answering glower. He loves this game they play. The way he pushes her buttons and she pushes his always leaves flames licking up his skin in the most delicious way. He's sure they make quite the sight, the hockey player and the figure skater, but he'll never stop going back for more.

"What do you want, Cassian?"

"Love the outfit today, Nes. The sparkles really contrast well with your dark soul."

"Don't you have to go smash someone into the boards?"

"I'd love to press you up against the boards."

Cassian throws a wink her way for extra good measure, and the way Nesta's eyes narrow has his heart ticking up slightly in his chest.

"Prick," Nesta mumbles, opening back up her book.

With a chuckle, Cassian takes it for the cue that it is, picking back up his bag and heading for the locker room. He offers Azriel an easy grin as he passes him, his brother merely shaking his head at his antics yet again.

~ * * * ~

Nesta hears her sister before she sees her, Feyre's laughing bouncing off the walls of the lobby. She closes her book and grabs her skates, but as she heads for the door, her steps falter and pause as she takes in Elain walking in beside Feyre.

"Since when does it take both of you to pick me up?" Nesta asks once her sisters are close enough to hear.

"Actually," Feyre starts slowly. "We were thinking we could stick around for the game."

"What," Nesta deadpans, taking in both her sisters' expressions and inwardly sighing when she sees they're both actually serious. "Fine. Give me the keys, and I'll pick you both up later."

"Oh, Nesta," Elain says, taking Nesta's hand in her own. "It'll be fun. Besides, you and Cassian are friends. Don't you want to see him play?"

"We are not friends."

"That's for sure," Feyre pipes in. "There is way too much sexual tension for that to be considered friendship."

Nesta shoots a glare Feyre's way, but her sister merely smiles innocently. The mischievous glint swirling in her eyes tells Nesta she's not getting the keys from her youngest sister anytime soon. Which is how Nesta ends up pressed between her two sisters, the cold of the metal bleachers biting into the underside of her thighs and a shared blanket draped across their three laps. Elain keeps clapping excitedly to her right while Feyre shouts, "go, baby, go" every time Rhysand cuts up the ice on her left. Nesta thinks her eyes might actually get stuck from rolling them so much.

Despite the equipment and jerseys making it hard to tell the players apart, the whole team blending together into a mash of blues and gold's, Nesta finds she can pick Cassian out fairly easily. She tells herself it's because he's clearly the biggest guy on the team and the hair sticking out the back of his helmet is a dead giveaway. But either way, her eyes always seem to find him any time he's on the ice, whether he’s sweeping along the blue line to make a play or throwing his body against the other team.

They’re into the third period when Nesta watches Cassian jump over the boards, joining the rush before falling back into the neutral zone as the other team gains possession. He guards his man well as the play shifts to their defensive zone, the other player trying and failing to shake Cassian loose. The player tries to deke around him, but Cassian is quicker, their sticks clashing together.

It's like it all unfolds in slow motion. The puck popping up into the air between them. The other player raising his stick like he plans to bat the puck down. The stick colliding with Cassian's head.

There's a collective gasp from the crowd watching the game as Cassian crumbles to the ice, falling onto all fours. And then there's red. A few drops at first, but soon it's a steady stream. It seeps into the ice, spreading out around Cassian like a crimson puddle.

"Oh my gods," Feyre whispers.

"I hope he's alright," Elain chimes in.

Nesta knows that her sisters keep speaking, but all she can hear is a ringing in her ears, like a high pitched screaming sinking its claws into her mind. Her hands fist into the blanket in her lap, and she watches with wide eyes as a trainer walks onto the ice, pulling the cage of Cassian's helmet up and sliding a towel under. With the help of two teammates, Cassian's on his feet and skates back to the bench. Nesta's stomach roils as one of the rink staffers and the referees scrape Cassian's blood from the ice, and even when the game resumes, she can't take her eyes off Cassian slumped over his knees on the bench.

~ * * * ~

Cassian can't help but poke at the bandage on his forehead as he checks himself in the locker room mirror. It's still tender, and he winces at the pain that radiates from that spot. Definitely going to leave a scar. At least he got a goal tonight. Small victories. With a sigh, he shoulders his bag, grabbing his sticks by the door and heading for the rink exit.

When he steps into the lobby, he finds Nesta standing there. Cassian knew that both her sisters were here earlier, but a quick sweep of his eyes around the room shows them nowhere to be found. When his eyes dance back to Nesta, she's already looking at him, something intense brewing in her eyes like storm clouds rolling in. It leaves Cassian captivated, and in a few strides, He’s standing in front of her, dropping his bag at their feet.

"What are you still doing here, sweetheart?"

Cassian throws as much cheek as he can into the question, letting that cocky grin he knows gets under her skin slide across his face. He expects Nesta to scowl, to make some snide remark back, to pick up their game right where they left off, but Nesta's face remains serious. He watches in confusion as she crosses and then uncrosses her arms across her chest, takes a deep breath like she's steeling herself.

"I just wanted to make sure you're alright," Nesta explains, her eyes glancing up to the bandage before settling back on his own.

"Oh," Cassian says dumbly, blinking down at Nesta a few times before his brain finally catches up. "It was just bad luck. Stick hit just right for one of the screws in my helmet to go right into my head."

"It looked… bad."

"Well, head wounds bleed a lot."

Nesta nods and silence falls like a blanket between them. Cassian's brain kicks into overdrive, suddenly desperate to keep whatever this precarious moment is going, keep her talking to him, keep those eyes on his. It sparks in his chest like a piece of flint, fire burning under his skin. He's so busy floundering, trying to will his head and mouth to produce actual words, that he almost misses the frown that takes over Nesta's face, her eyes caught on his hand.

"You're not thinking of driving, are you?"

The sudden question takes Cassian by surprise, and Cassian’s brow furrows in confusion until he remembers his car keys are in his hand.

"How else would I get home?"

"You can't drive with a concussion."

"What makes you think I have a concussion?"

"How could you not have a concussion?"

"If I had a concussion, why would I have gone back out on the ice to finish the game?"

"Because you're an idiot."

Before Cassian can even splutter out a protest at the insult, Nesta is reaching forward and snatching the keys out of his hand. Then, for good measure, she reaches out and takes his sticks out of his hand too.

"There's an Urgent Care like five miles away that should still be open."

With that and a final, firm nod, as if she's decidedly made up her mind and Cassian can't change it, Nesta turns on her heel and makes for the doors. Cassian is left there gaping, blinking dumbly after her retreating form, while his sluggish brain tries to grasp what exactly is happening. Maybe he is concussed. Not giving himself another second to contemplate, Cassian scrambles to pick up his bag, tossing the strap over his shoulder as he hurries after Nesta.

"Can I at least buy you dinner after?"

#my fic #acotar #nessianweek2021 #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian

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mooniefics · 3 years

Text

— personal punishment

pairing : nanami kento / fem reader

word count : 1.8k

tags : pnp, degradation, authority kink, office sex, semi-public sex, boss / secretary, nanami literally being the sexiest man to ever live and breathe

warnings : nsfw, power imbalance

summary : He couldn't expect you to be perfect—but he could definitely expect you to pay for each imperfection in more ways than one.

notes : thank u so much to @suna-reversed for hosting the incredibly creative jujutsuhub collab and allowing me to participate !! much love (୨୧•͈ᴗ•͈)◞*♡

you couldn't exactly say you weren't proud of your performance today.

for one, you'd come into the office late, knowing that your penalties would be formally waived by your boss but well aware that you would have to face his own personal punishment. it was just your luck that this very day was the most busy the office had been all month, leaving you running papers back and forth from your boss' office for hours, nearly tripping over your own heels three times too many before you even reached your lunch break, praying that you weren't screwing anything else up in your frantic rush.

but before you could even think about escaping the confines of the office building to make up for your missed breakfast at a cafe nearby, your boss was already calling back into his office. you already knew exactly why he was requesting your presence, fear and anticipation immediately tangling into a heavy knot in the pit of your stomach. but still you went, obediently as you always did, keeping your head low as you passed your coworkers in the hall.

your fate had been sealed the moment you made a mistake, the same outcome that had been repeating for months now each time you made an error, whether it was as small as not taking the trash out from the waste bin when it was too full for his liking to something as grievous as spilling his morning coffee all over one of his pristine white button-ups. for any and all errors, you were certain to face this punishment.

the position you were in wasn't unfamiliar, bent over nanami's desk, pencil skirt hiked all the way up to your waist with your underwear around your knees, completely at the mercy of the man caging you in with his body from behind.

"if you keep making all that noise, you're going to end up getting us both fired." he growled, voice low in your ear, one hand still pressed firmly over the center of your back, forcing your chest down onto his desk. the other was occupied between your legs, two thick fingers plunging mercilessly into your needy cunt as you struggled to hold in every whimper and moan each snap of his wrist drew from the back of your throat.

"'m s-sorry, s-sir..!" you barely managed to breathe out, nails beginning to scrape at the edge of the wooden tabletop, teeth digging almost painfully into your bottom lip.

"'sorry' doesn't even begin to fix everything you've fucked up today," his stern tone persisted, ribs aching between the pressure of the heel of his palm and the hard desk, "you know just how much stress i've been under and yet you went out of your way to make it worse."

"no, n-not that..! p-promise!" you whimpered, breath coming in pants, struggling to not rock back into his hand with the knowledge that he'd stop entirely if he noticed you doing it.

you had no choice but to keep your eyes trained on the door in front of you, thighs trembling with anticipation, muted gasps and mewls managing to find their way out into the open air despite your efforts. you knew he didn't mind the noise as long as you were making a conscious effort to keep quiet, only loud enough for him to have the pleasure of hearing, only expressing the pitiful broken attempts at showing remorse that seemed to arouse him to no end.

he curled his fingers to rub at spot inside you that made your knees weak, barely chuckling when you writhed under him. "enjoying your punishment like this... you're just a pathetic slut. That's all you'll ever be, isn't that right?"

Your head hung low as you came over his fingers, shuddering, biting firmly at the inside of your cheeks to hold back the whine threatening to escape your heaving chest. you knew you should be ashamed to be so excited in the face of his cruelty, but when it was his voice and hands—discipling you harshly but still paying such good attention to you and your body—you couldn't help yourself.

before you had enough time to begin catching your breath, you could already hear the clinking of his belt buckle as he pulled it free from the belt loops of his pants, the warmth of naked skin as the length of his cock met the back of your thighs, already hard. the hand resting at your back slid up to rest at the base of your neck, fingers working their way into your hair to firmly grasp, holding you still while he eased himself between your thighs.

"please, s-sir.." The words spilled out of you before you could even think to maintain your obedient silence, earning a tug at your hair harsh enough to jerk your head back, arching your body further.

"snd who are you to be making any demands?" He muttered scornfully, the head of his cock now rubbing directly over your dripping pussy, making no effort to do anything more than painstakingly tease.

"i'm not, i j-just—" You sucked in a quick breath as you felt a sharp sting over your ass, certain there was a reddening welt where his hand had just struck it, "i pr-promise i'll be better..."

"and how can I be certain that you actually will? you say the same thing every damn time, and you still have yet to show me any improvement."

your eyes watered as you searched for a proper response, stammering over your words for just a moment too long—long enough to reignite the anger you'd found a momentary mercy from. you just barely pressed your hand over your mouth in time to muffle your own cry as he slammed himself inside of you, the desk shifting across the ground with a harsh squeak, insides struggling to accommodate his size all at once. he found a quick, ruthless rhythm of thrusting almost immediately, paying your quick gasps and pitiful whimpers no mind, almost painfully deep.

"is this is really the only thing you're good for?" he huffed, groaning lowly despite his apparent ire, "just taking cock and nothing else?"

"n-no!" you protested, barely able to hold your voice steady enough to respond, swallowing down each hiccuped breath interrupting your words, "this is the l-last time, i swear..! p-please sir, please—"

he shushed you harshly before you could continue, large hand rubbing over the aching flesh he'd previously slapped in a silent threat to repeat the action. you wouldn't be entirely opposed to feeling his large hand strike you again and again, leaving prints of red across your skin that wouldn't fade until hours after you'd left the office for the night, but you knew that you still had the entire second half of your day ahead of you to pretend as if he hadn't completely ruined you just meters away from the rest of his hardworking employees.

"at this point, i might as well just be paying to fuck you." he muttered callously, the speed of his hips slowing the slightest bit, each thrust still hitting deep enough for you to feel in your stomach, "then what does that make you, hm? a prostitute? my personal little plaything.."

you strained to vigorously shake your head side to side, fingers aching from how tightly they were clenching around the edge of the desk, your own arousal trailing down between your trembling thighs, hot tears dribbling down your flushed cheeks. you should've felt more inclined to deny his assertion, to prove yourself to be more than just a toy for him to used whenever he desired, when he needed to take out the pent up frustration he saved for your errors and your errors only—but you knew in the back of your mind that you were perfectly content with your position, as immorally lucrative as it was. you would embarrass yourself everyday for the rest of your career if it meant you could experience this at least once more.

"sorry, s-sorry..! oh fuck, sir, 'm so sorry!" the apologies you knew he loved so much spilled from your lips in a pathetic, broken moan, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as you held out for a few more mind-numbing moments before cumming around his thick cock.

you barely registered his hand grasping your hair painfully tight as he grunted a few low curses beside your ear, shakily exhaling a sigh when he emptied himself inside you, finally letting you rest back against the hard surface of his desk while you both caught your breath. it was all over far too soon, the intense intimacy that never lasted longer than the half-hour of your lunch break, even though you were sure he could steal you away for far longer without anyone daring to question him.

you wiped at your damp under-eyes with quivering hands, trying to not further disturb your already ruined mascara, swallowing down a whimper when pulled himself out of you and tugged your underwear back into place, readjusting your skirt for you before moving away from your body entirely.

he had already tidied up his own clothes by the time you pushed yourself to stand, that familiar expression of cool indifference having already resettled onto his handsome features. he barely ever let you see his face when he was disciplining you, always making sure you were facing away from him, or that you couldn't lift your head enough to get a good look at his face. it made it all feel so impersonal, inspired something that felt like sadness in the back of your mind, despite how you tried to remind yourself that what you had wasn't true intimacy, and that he could really replace you any day if he felt so inclined to do so.

"go clean up in the bathroom." he said without looking at you, straightening his tie back into place and checking the time on his watch, "you will need to take a call from a new client soon, and it is imperative that you give them the perfect first impression of our company. i expect you to be back here within the next ten minutes." his brow furrowed, the look of someone who'd just thought of something unpleasant flashing across his features when he finally met your gaze. "no more exceptions today."

"yes, sir." you replied obediently, voice hoarse, quickly turning away before the weight of a sudden sadness could show, advancing towards his door as briskly as your state allowed you to. you didn't look back on your way out, even though you so desperately wanted to, maybe deliver a genuine apology now that you knew he was genuinely irritated with you.

but you didn't, and the day continued as it always did, phone calls and document filing keeping you occupied for the rest of your shift, not receiving another word from your boss regarding anything. you tried not to take it personally when he didn't bid you farewell before leaving the building, reminding yourself that it was most likely just the pressure of a busy quarter, cursing yourself for screwing things up and enjoying your momentary bliss before the true consequence of genuine disappointment from nanami anchored you back to the somber reality of your situation.

it was foolish of you to think you'd be anything more than a secretary in his eyes.

#jujutsuhub collab #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami kento #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #kento nanami #kento nanami x y/n #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x reader

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katecake · 4 years

Text

Scars

I needed me a Jaskel Soulmate AU where Jaskier knows his soulmate’s a witcher, but he also knows it’s not Geralt. After wondering how that would happen, I finally came up w/ this!!

Imagine a world where soulmarks exist. While not exactly rare, they’re still fairly uncommon.

Little Jaskier’s soulmark is on the inside crook of his elbow. The face of a fierce silver wolf. For as unrealistic and stylized as it is, it’s still undeniably a wolf. His parents sneer at it. The servants and teachers are all uncomfortable when they see it. Little Jaskier, though? Oh how he loves it. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know its significance. But he loves it nonetheless.

Jaskier’s only five years old when he learns what a Witcher is. He’s only five years old when he’s taught to fear Witchers.

Jaskier’s twelve and he’s being held down as he begs and pleads and screams. He screams as the other boys bring a knife to his soulmark, laughing all the while. Because, what soulmate could a monster have than another monster?

Jaskier’s twelve when he makes the connection between his soulmark and Witchers.

He runs away less than a week later, wound still fresh, and ends up somewhere outside Oxenfurt. He decides to stay there, study there. The injury scars. He keeps it covered at all times with black cloth. Sometimes, it’s so tight it hurts. He never shows anyone his mark ever again.

–

Jaskier’s twenty-three when he meets Geralt, and he immediately recognizes the medallion. It’s the spitting image of what his soulmark looked like. He feels some residual anxiety from meeting a Witcher, but has learned humans can be just as monstrous as they claim Witchers to be. The black strip of cloth on his arm is proof enough.

So he takes a gamble and follows Geralt. And he continues to follow Geralt for years to come. He learns everything he was taught was a lie (something he’s suspected since the moment that knife touched his mark). He makes it his goal to change the world’s mind about Witchers. And if he hopes, deep down, that if he continues to follow Geralt he’ll meet his soulmate? Well, that’s his secret fantasy.

–

Years pass and eventually Geralt invites him up to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Jaskier says yes in a heartbeat. He’s as giddy as he is nervous and babbles the whole trip up.

When they get there, Eskel’s the one to greet them at the gate, not that Jaskier notices. He’s too busy still babbling nervously about nothing at all and removing his packs from his horse. He struggles to hold everything as he goes over to the two, intent on introducing himself to this new witcher. Except when he finally looks at Eskel, his breath catches and he drops everything he’s holding. He can do nothing but stare, pale and shaky, at the scarred face in front of him.

He doesn’t register how the man shifts so he stands with his scars less on display. He doesn’t register Geralt’s defensive and angry tone. He doesn’t register the third, angry, man who threatens him for making his brother uncomfortable in his own home. All Jaskier can think about is the shape of those scars.

Lambert’s outright hostile to him, not that Jaskier blames him. Geralt’s also cagey and defensive. Even Vesemir, despite keeping the peace between the wolves and the bard, makes his disappointment of Jaskier clear.

It takes another two weeks before Jaskier manages to catch Eskel alone and apologizes. He wants to explain himself, but every time he tries, his throat tightens and the words die on his lips. So instead, he works to befriend Eskel in earnest.

The first time Eskel smiles at him, really smiles at him (an entire month later), Jaskier feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. The way Eskel’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his lips curl awkwardly, the way his whole demeanor seems to light up. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. He can’t keep the dopey smile off his own face the whole day.

Eskel smiles more after that, and it seems to be enough for the others. Lambert’s no longer actively hostile and Geralt’s back to himself. Vesemir no longer looks at Jaskier with disappointment either. And if Jaskier scratches at the crook of his arm, that’s no ones business but his own.

Until, one night when Jaskier has long since stumbled off to bed, Lambert asks. It's just the three of them, Lambert, Geralt, and Eskel, still drinking in the kitchen.

“So what’s,” Lambert pauses to hiccup, “what’s with the bard’s arm?” He asks.

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts squinting at the cards in his hand.

“That damn bandage of his,” he continues motioning at the crook of his own elbow. “Wears it when he– when he fucken bathes too.”

“Maybe it’s covering a scar,” Eskel offers, “or a weird birthmark.”

Lambert scowls. “He’s got plenty other scars.”

Geralt snorts. “And weird birthmarks too,” he adds thinking about the vaguely cock shaped birthmark Jaskier has on his shoulder.

Lambert grumbles as Geralt and Eskel continue playing their game of gwent.

“What if it’s a soulmark?” He eventually asks.

“Humans don’t present them as easily as we do,” Eskel says at the same moment Geralt says:

“Not a chance.”

The two stare at him, clearly wanting an explanation.

Geralt grumbles and downs what’s left in his mug. “Jaskier’s a hopeless romantic,” he explains. “Wouldn’t shut up for weeks when he saw mine. And then he wouldn’t shut up for the better part of a godsdamned year after we finally met Yen,” he pours himself another drink and downs that too with a shudder. “Believe me, if he had one, we’d know.”

A few hours later, when Geralt’s fighting to stay awake, Lambert slams his mug on the table. It startles Eskel and Geralt enough that they’re more awake than they were an hour ago.

“I wanna know,” Lambert growls.

“Then ask him,” Eskel says.

Geralt yawns. “He always changes the subject.”

Lambert nods vigorously as Eskel frowns. “Then leave it.”

“But I wanna know!” Lambert complains.

Eskel gets up. “I’m not doing this,” he groans. “I’m going to bed.”

Lambert calls him a bitch as he leaves and grumbles into his drink. He and Geralt continue drinking for a few minutes before Lambert asks, “You grab him and I pull that damn cloth off?”

Geralt, too drunk and too tired to think about all the times Jaskier’s flinched when grabbed by the elbow, nods.

It surprisingly takes them a few days to catch Jaskier alone. He’s confused when Geralt grabs him but otherwise doesn’t struggle. It’s not until Lambert pulls at his sleeve that he panics.

Jaskier thrashes in their grip the moment he realizes what they’re doing. Decades old panic grips him as he screams and begs for them not to hurt him.

Lambert and Geralt stay frozen as Jaskier fleas down the hall. Vesemir is there demanding to know what happened while Eskel runs past them to catch up with Jaskier. Lambert and Geralt can only stare in the direction Jaskier fled, the stench of his fear hangs heavy in the air around them.

Geralt knows what Jaskier’s fear smells like. It’s hard not to when Jaskier often gets too close to a monster, but he has never smelled of fear because of a Witcher before. Not when he’d first seen Eskel. Not when Lambert threatened to gut him right after. And not even when the snow had finally blocked off the path down the mountain and he was subsequently trapped in the keep with four unwelcoming witchers.

They don’t see Jaskier for a solid week after that. They know he’s still in the keep, they can smell him in the kitchen, in the baths, through the halls, but they don’t actually see him. Lambert’s on edge, quicker to anger, and Geralt’s quieter, more prone to get lost in thought.

They both try to apologize, in their own way, standing outside Jaskier’s door. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even make a sound. The only reason they know he’s in there is because his heart’s racing and he smells of anxiety and residual panic.

Eventually Eskel’s able to coax him out and he tentatively resettles into the routine he’s established for himself. Jaskier now has a constant underlying scent of anxiety to him. He smells of panic whenever someone focuses on his arm too long.

It all comes to a head one evening. Vesemir reaches to touch Jaskier’s elbow to get his attention. Jaskier flinches so hard he nearly throws himself into the hearth they’re sitting around. He doesn’t smell of fear, but his panic is palpable. Vesemir apologizes but Jaskier assures him it’s fine, even as Lambert storms away shouting abuse and Geralt slinks away miserably.

Eskel cracks that night. It’s late, the others have all gone to their rooms in their attempts to avoid Jaskier, and it’s just Eskel and Jaskier in the library. Jaskier’s leaning against him, fighting to stay awake as Eskel simply enjoys his company.

“What…” Eskel asks tentatively. “Happened to your arm?”

Jaskier tenses against him, heart rate picking up as his hand goes to cover the spot. He sits up slowly, stiffly, and Eskel immediately kicks himself. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

But Jaskier shakes his head. “No it’s okay,” he says weakly. “It’s stupid really. It happened so long ago, almost thirty years,” he laughs shakily, voice impossibly quiet. “But I guess I still get scared someone’s gonna finish carving off my soulmark at times.”

Eskel feels like he’s been punched in the throat. Soulmarks are special. They’re Destiny’s will. All Witchers have soulmarks. Something about the trials make them emerge, almost like Destiny herself is desperately trying to preserve their humanity. Eskel knows his own soulmark all too well. Four little yellow flowers floating down a stream painted on his ribs. At times, if he just focuses on the general shape, they look like music notes. He knows the mark ties him to Jaskier. It’s why Jaskier’s initial reaction to him hurt so much.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel says lamely, because what else can he say? He could demand the name of the people that hurt Jaskier, but that won’t repair the damage. He could go after Geralt and Lambert again for their stupid stunt, but they’re suffering enough as it is and Jaskier doesn’t really hold it against them.

Jaskier barely shakes his head. “Don’t be. I’ve… actually wanted to show it to you for some time,” he admits quietly. His hands shake as he rolls up his tunic sleeve.

Eskel catches his wrist, stills the movement. “Stop,” he breathes. “You don’t have to.”

Jaskier leans towards him, his forehead coming to rest against Eskel’s. “Please,” he whispers.

Eskel reluctantly lets go. He watches as Jaskier halting works the black cloth off. There’s red marks across Jaskier’s skin where the edge of the cloth dug in too tightly. But Eskel’s breath and attention is immediately stolen by the mark. He feels fury and an unimaginable sadness wash over him in equal measures.

It looks exactly like the wolf school medallion. Or it would were it not for the angry scars distorting the right side of its face.

Eskel runs a thumb over it before he even realizes what he’s doing. Jaskier shivers at the touch and Eskel can smell the tears the bard is desperately trying to hold back. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you when I saw you. It’s just…”

“The scars,” Eskel murmurs. “They’re identical.” He has a sick feeling that Jaskier’s mark was defiled the same day his face was slashed.

Jaskier explains himself fully that night, as he cries in Eskel’s arms. It feels strange to finally show his mark again after almost thirty years. He’s not sure if he’s scared or relieved or if its even good or bad. It just is.

The following morning, he’s understandably exhausted and spends breakfast tucked against Eskel’s side. Lambert and Geralt get to the kitchen and try to leave before the even enter it. Jaskier reeks of tears and misery and Eskel. Eskel asks them to at least stay for breakfast. Lambert still wants to run but seeing as how Geralt pitifully sits down, he refuses to be the only one that runs and sits down too. Breakfast is awkward with how exhausted Jaskier looks and smells, they’re both happy to go off and do their chores for once.

Jaskier spends most of the morning sleeping in Eskel’s room. When he emerges for dinner, it’s almost like nothing’s happened. He’s back to his loud and carefree self. The smell of anxiety is almost unnoticeable now. Vesemir claps him on the shoulder and Geralt’s less quiet.

Lambert’s still unsettled, though, still easy to anger and prone to snapping. He doesn’t believe the bard’s act for a second. That level of fear can’t just be forgiven that easily. It has nothing to do with the fact that it was his plan that caused that reaction and made his brothers upset.

His brothers and Vesemir tell him the bard’s fine. Even Jaskier himself assures him that it’s okay. He doesn’t believe it for a second. No amount of chattering with Geralt, or helping Vesemir in the library, or spending nights with Eskel will convince him.

But maybe seeing how Jaskier lets Eskel settle a hand over his arm helps. Seeing how Jaskier smiles all shy and happy when it happens helps. Seeing how Eskel returns the looks helps. Seeing how Eskel doesn’t shy away when Jaskier touches his scars helps.

Maybe seeing and smelling how happy the two are helps ease the guilt. Because what else could be under that black cloth than a scarred over soulmark?

#the witcher #jaskier #eskel #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #eskel x jaskier #so i'm in jaskel hell atm and I couldn't just NOT contribute smth

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gaiuswrites · 4 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath.

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin.

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades.

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars.

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong.

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead.

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close.

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings.

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you.

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on.

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her.

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out.

A man.

Device.

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer-

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang.

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t.

Can’t.

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision…

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward.

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold.

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands.

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist.

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out.

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it.

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you.

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...”

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks.

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin.

Oh, you think, numb. Huh.

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

407 notes · View notes

doctors-star · 2 years

Note

“What part of “I was unconscious for that part” do you not understand?” for the Viennese lads perhaps <3

Oskar is, he concedes, allowing his mind to wander.

It has been a rather long day, what with one thing and another: he had been woken in the very early hours by the little boy from the Hofwohnung next door hammering on his door, and then being too embarrassed and shy to say very much about why; he had put his coat on over his sleepclothes and shepherded the child back home, where he had found the child’s mother and older sister juggling two wailing babies, a curious toddler, and three jugs to catch the leaks gushing water from the mould-stained grey ceilings of the basement apartment. With the toddler on one hip and squirming in his grasp, he had managed to get one of the jugs set up enough to hurry up the stairs with his best Detective Inspector stern face on and wake the people in the apartment above to give them a serious lecture about clearing their gutters properly for the sake of their neighbours in the basement flat, and extract from them a promise to fund the repairs. He had waited below with a cup of weak coffee for the water to ease and for his neighbour to get her children resettled, and then her husband had returned from his night shift and they had all stood about frowning at the dodgy guttering in the hopes that inspiration for their permanent improvement would strike suddenly. By the time he had got home, there was barely time to dress and eat before getting to work where, of course, Haussmann had been underfoot, von Bülow had been insufferable about the stagnating case, and Max had had some kind of epiphany moment about something which he had neglected to fully explain and instead simply dragged Oskar off to the edge of Brigittenau and a rotting old townhouse that looked even worse than his neighbours’. There, Max had hurried off to the first floor bedroom without a word, leaving Oskar to follow more slowly. He was, therefore, spectacularly well-placed when the suspect came barrelling out in frightened, guilty flight; Oskar had simply opened his arms, and been tackled backwards down and through the flight of rotting wooden stairs. Then there’s a bit of a blank, but the culmination is this: one suspect in custody, one von Bülow furiously chewing his words, one Oskar on the sofa in Max’s office, wondering if perhaps the man is too busy yelling at him to notice if he has a little nap.

Experimentally, he closes his eyes. Just a little nap. They hadn’t even had time to sit down for lunch.

“-absolute disregard for - Oskar! Wake up!”

Apparently not. He opens his eyes and summons his most hangdog, long-suffering look for Max, who simply glowers down at him from where he has been pacing near the windows. The man looks astonishingly, spittingly angry with him, even though a pretty good argument could be made for Oskar being furious with Max, instead. “I was bored.”

“You-!” Max cuts himself off, teeth clacking together with rage. His hands, Oskar notes, are wringing compulsively together, as if he’s thinking of smacking wakefulness into Oskar. “You were unconscious earlier. You cannot go to sleep until we have confirmed that you do not have a serious injury.”

Oskar shrugs. Apart from the bruising on his back (he expects a fantastic, livid purple when he has time to examine it) and the soreness in his lungs from having all the air knocked out of him and the aching in his head - which Max’s noise is not helping - he feels mostly alright. “Confirm it, then - I need the rest.”

“I am confirming it,” Max sniffs austerely. “It takes time.”

Personally, Oskar does not think that lecturing the patient is standard medical procedure, but he hasn’t the energy to say so. He rubs the side of his eye and yawns. “Why aren’t I at hospital, anyway?”

“Well, when you fell through a full flight of stairs,” Max says, emphasis stern as though it were Oskar’s fault and done just to spite him, “I wanted to take you to hospital, but you kept asking me not to.”

Oskar’s brow furrows. “I did?”

“-yes,” Max says, faltering and wrong-footed. “You kept - mumbling, as you were waking up, that you didn’t want to go to hospital, so, against my better judgement, I took you here.”

He raises an eyebrow at Max, who purses his lips and looks away rather than meet his eye. “You did what I asked when I was unconscious? You barely do that when I do remember asking.”

“You really don’t remember?”

Oskar shrugs again, regretting it and wincing when his jacket presses on his bruises. “I had been knocked out,” he says in his defence.

“Yes,” Max says, sliding from concern back into anger with exhausting ease. “You were knocked out by a dangerous murderer who then landed on you - you could have been stabbed right there.”

“I was unconscious!” Oskar protests. It wasn’t like he had had much choice but to be landed on.

“It was left down to Haussmann to seize Schnitzler-”

“-which presumably he did perfectly well-”

“-with no help from you-”

“Max,” Oskar says firmly, now himself rather cross; Max clenches his jaw and glowers at the window. “What part of ‘I was unconscious for that part’ do you not understand? I did not intend to leave Haussmann to it - I had no choice. For the love of God, stop shouting at me, my head is splitting. Please.” Max heaves an enormous sigh, but his jaw relaxes slightly; Oskar leans back against the sofa in relief. “Besides,” he adds, “you could have helped Haussmann, you know.”

Unexpectedly, Max turns bright red - so unlike his usual porcelain colouring that Oskar is almost concerned. “Well - I was. Busy.” Oskar must look very blankly at him, because Max huffs and tips his chin up to the ceiling. “Looking after you,” he says, voice taut like he’s feeling very put-upon at having to admit this, and also like he might be about to cry.

Ah. Wordlessly, Oskar stretches out his hand, making a little come closer gesture when Max doesn’t move right away. Max untangles his hands and crosses to sit in the armchair beside the sofa; his fingers, in Oskar’s broad palm, are pale, clammy, and trembling slightly. “Were you worried about me, Doctor?” Oskar says, gently and warmly teasing as he squeezes life back into Max’s hand.

Max glowers at him, large eyes suspiciously watery. “I don’t approve of your methods, Inspector.”

Oskar nods like this is all very reasonable. “Hm. Well, if you insist, I shall avoid all stairs in future.”

Max shuts his eyes, breath gusting out of him as he slumps and presses their joined hands to the centre of his forehead. “Please.”

For a moment, then, Oskar allows himself to imagine it - to imagine standing in the doorway as a murderer pushes past him and crashes headlong into Max. Watching Max’s eyes startle wide as he flies backward and down, through an entire flight of stairs, smashing through rotting wood to hit the floorboards below - and then nothing, no response, no movement or signs of life as he lay there. His heart feels as though it is lodged somewhere in his throat; he would leave Haussmann to catch their murderer, too.

Oskar squeezes Max’s fingers again until he tilts his head to meet his eyes. “How did you even get down the stairs yourself?” he rumbles, and Max manages a very shaky smile.

“I honestly do not remember,” he says, sounding equal parts baffled and bemused by himself.

Oskar grins at him. “We’ll ask Haussmann when we get back in later.”

“We are not going back to work today,” Max says, immediate and stern again. “You are not well enough by any means.”

Oskar settles a little more comfortably into the sofa without complaint. “And you?”

“I’m checking you over for head trauma.”

He nods. “Which takes time. I remember.”

Oskar does not think that sitting very quietly and clinging with desperate, shaking fingers to the patient’s hand is standard medical procedure, but for once he has no complaints.

#why yes i am now invested in oskar's neighbours who i invented just for this thanks for asking #can you tell i've done a module on vienna let me tell you about demographics in brigittenau and the social strata of hof/herrschaftwohnung #anyway. max oskar cute.#thank you!!#vienna blood #oskar reinhardt #max liebermann #oskar/max #this is your captain speaking

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ezrasarm · 4 years

Text

Roommates Part 3: KO

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: drunk reader, Santiago is a bad influence, drink responsibly kids! That’s all I think?

A/N: I know it’s been a long wait but the next part is finally here! Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy it!

<�� previous chapter | Roommates | next chapter –>

Frankie had been gone for a while. He had excused himself to go to the bathroom almost twenty minutes ago and Benny was bound to go on soon. You didn’t want him to miss the fight and get in trouble is what you’d excused the nag in your gut urging you to seek him out as when you were about to go looking for him. You knew he would get an earful if he missed even a second because you were the one in the hot seat last time when you missed a whole fight after being called into work last minute.

Pope seemed to find you first, shoving a drink in your hand as you peered over his shoulder, expecting Frankie to be close in tow. “You don’t have to sound quite so disappointed you got me instead.” Santiago teased you when you not so subtly asked where he was.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You assured him with a roll of your eyes, giving him a nudge to the shoulder and a thank you for the drink. But if you were being honest, you’d been with Pope all day and had hardly seen Frankie all week. You were beginning to wonder if something was wrong. “He’s right over there. Ran into an old high school classmate and they’re catching up by the bar.” Santiago said with a directed nod of his head and you followed his line of sight over to where you could see the familiar silhouette, corduroy jacket and baseball cap and all, stooped a little with his arms folded over his chest and talking to some woman you’d never seen before.

You weren’t sure what the feeling that twisted in your stomach was or why it decided to rear its head right now but you found yourself feeling slightly defensive when you turned back to Santiago with eyebrows raised. For some reason, you hadn’t been expecting a she and you couldn’t tell why that threw you off so much. Frankie could talk to whoever he pleased, it was none of your business but you still found yourself downing just about half your drink in one go to try and drown whatever feeling it was that had begun growing in your belly.

“That was fast.” Santiago remarked, giving you a skeptical look as he glanced between you and the almost empty cup in your hand, “You alright?” He asked.

“Yeah, fine! It’s just been a while since I let loose. Thought I might let myself have some fun tonight.” You shrugged.

He glanced back up in Frankie’s direction and eyed you for a second, taking a moment to consider it, “Can’t argue with that,” he nodded before downing his own drink as though it were a challenge.

You had lost track of how many beers you and Santiago had snuck behind Will’s back who was too busy to play baby sitter tonight as he usually did. Drinking with him had certainly done its job to distract you. You had almost forgotten all about the fact that your best friend had decided to spend the evening talking to some stranger instead of you. God what had gotten into you? You were not the jealous type and you didn’t like how it felt-

Thud.

You didn’t have time to consider that thought any further before you had run straight into the man of the hour himself on your way back from the bar.

“Shit, sorry- Oh hey!” You exclaimed, having miraculously avoiding throwing your drinks all over both of you with those dumb plastic cups they gave you here.

“Woah, you alright there?” Frankie asks, throwing an arm out to stabilize you. “I swear, I left you alone for ten min- okay an hour and a half and- how many of those have you had?” He asks, noticing the slight wobble to your balance and slur to your speech as you introduced yourself and shook the hand of the woman he had been talking to.

“Uhhh good question,” you ponder for a moment before shrugging “Santi and I found out that if you’re a girl alone at an MMA fight you can get a lot of free drinks so we’ve made it our mission to find out exactly how many.” You explain, shooting a wink and a slight salute over to Pope who was still standing, waiting by your seats.

“And have you gotten an answer yet?” Frankie asks, slightly amused but also positive that he would be making sure this was your last drink of the night when you stumbled slightly over nothing and he had to wrap an arm around you for support.

“It appears there is no limit.” You say proudly, missing the fond look in his eye when he shakes his head with a soft and slightly disbelieving smile.

“Cheryl, this is my uh, roommate.” Frankie says gesturing towards you.

“What, are you embarrassed of me or something’? I’d say we’re a little bit more than that.” You interject. You had meant friends but from the look on her face she appeared to have taken it another way and for some reason or another you felt no need to correct her.

“Oh well uh, it’s nice to meet you.” She says politely although clearly thrown slightly by your quite obvious inebriation.

“Nice to meet you too, Carol!” You declare happily and you mean it, it’s interesting to see the kinds of people Frankie went to high school with but you really weren’t in much state to be particularly conversational at the moment.

“From Red Feather Lakes, Colorado, standing six foot three, weighing in at a hundred and ninety five pounds, I bring you… Ben Miller!” The announcer blares over the booming speakers, pulling you from your conversation. You and Frankie are quick to give Benny your support, you perhaps a little more enthusiastically in your less inhibited state as he and Will walked into the arena and the crowd roared to life.

“Well we should get back. I’ll never hear the end of it if I miss any of this and I’ve gotta make sure these two don’t get into any more trouble,” Frankie explains, “But it was nice catching up with you.” He says and Carol- Cheryl? One of those- nods.

“Yeah, I hope to see you around again sometime.” She says. She’s hardly turned to walk away before you’re wiggling your eyebrows suggestively at Frankie on your way over to Pope and Will.

“You realize she was hitting on you, right?” You asked when Frankie turned back to you, a teasing smile on your lips despite the rising feeling of inadequacy you felt from having stood within a two-meter radius of the gorgeous woman.

“What? No! She was just-” Frankie cuts himself off after considering it for a moment. “...huh.” He says, eyebrows rising in slight surprise when he looks over his shoulder at the woman who he had already lost in the throngs of people. “I’m sure she was just being polite.”

“You’re too hard on yourself! She was checking you out!” You exclaim defensively, more for his own self esteem than anything else.

“...Me?” He gives you a skeptical look.

“Yeah, why not you? You’ve got this sort of je ne ce quoi about you. The ladies dig it.” You say with a goofy grin and Frankie can’t help but burst out laughing.

“That so? What about you?” He asks. For a millisecond your heart stops in your chest. Could he read your mind? Did he know about the thoughts that had just slipped to the forefront? The jealousy? The little bit of longing? It was the alcohol talking you were sure. You would never want to jeopardize your friendship by allowing yourself to picture him as anything more than that but for a flash of a second it hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea.

“Oh, I dig it too.” You say, nudging him in the gut teasingly. What you didn’t see was the way Frankie’s breath had hitched at the slightest inkling of you expressing interest in him, even if he knew you were just joking around. “I bet if you asked you could get her number.” You say and he’s snapped quite violently out of his trance.

He didn’t want her number. He wanted you.

“Nah, she’s not really my type.” Is the response he settles for, his attention resettling on the fight in an attempt to drown out the feeling of disappointment he wasn’t sure he knew how to hide. He knew it wasn’t fair on you but the slightest hint of jealousy might have been nice to hear and instead you were giving him a rousing endorsement to go after someone he didn’t even like all that much.

“Are you kidding? Pardon the pun, but she was a knockout!” You exclaim just in time to watch Benny take a rather jarring blow to the jaw.

“Meh,” Frankie shrugs and you can’t help the yelp of surprise that escapes you.

“If she’s ‘meh’ then what am I?” You exclaim and Frankie’s jaw just about hits the ground at the fact that you could even think to ask him such a question. You were just about perfect to him in every way imaginable.

He doesn’t get the chance to tell you when the crowd roars to life as Benny finds himself making a comeback and you’re practically jumping out of your seat to bolster your support for your friend.

“You should go get her number.” You suggest when you sit back down, a little confused as to why. Perhaps you were overcompensating for your wave of jealousy earlier but there was still something in you screaming for you to stop acting like you were so okay with it. Because if the way you had reacted earlier and your current state of inebriation was any inclination, you clearly weren’t, but your mind was in no place to put those pieces together at the moment.

“Why is everyone trying to set me up all of a sudden?” Frankie scoffs playfully trying to shrug off your suggestion. “First Pope, now you,” He stops himself hoping you haven’t realized he’s probably said too much.

“Who was Santiago trying to set you up with?” You ask. Just the question he didn’t want to answer, especially not right now, not like this. He’s quite literally saved by the bell announcing the end of the match and when you look up Benny’s opponent is unconscious in front of him. A KO and you’d both missed it. You wouldn’t be getting out of that one too easily. You’re whisked away in post win festivities before you can even think to get an answer from Frankie.

He thinks you’ve forgotten about the conversation completely until he’s gotten you and Pope both wrangled into the car on your way back to the apartment and you pipe up from where he thought you had passed out the moment he had you strapped in.

“So what’s Francisco Morales’ type?” you ask groggily, clearly not ready to give him a break yet and he laughs as he peers into the rearview to make sure Pope is still asleep before he even considers giving you an answer.

“What makes you think I have a type?” He counters fruitlessly in hopes that he can at least attempt finding a suitable answer.

“Well you said Carol-”

“Cheryl-”

“-wasn’t your type so I’m assuming that means you have a type.” You prod him, your eyes still shut as you leaned back in the passenger seat.

“Well… I’d say my type would be someone who is smart, funny, supportive, all those wonderful things,” He explains, feeling a little more at ease when he looks over to see your breaths have shallowed slightly and your head has lulled against the window. “Has a good sense of humour, makes me smile, is fiercely loyal to her friends,” he goes on, “can be a complete dork if she wants to be, has no idea how beautiful she is,” he adds “and has me completely and utterly wrapped around her finger.” He mutters to himself when he looks back up at the road with a sigh.

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wisdomrays · 2 years

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The Messenger of God: Muhammad: Part 101

Merging Two Different Communities

The emigration to Madina marks a turning point for Prophet Muhammad and for Islam. Belief, emigration, and holy struggle are three pillars of a single, sacred truth; three spouts of a fountain from which the water of life flows for the soldiers of truth. After drinking, they convey their message without becoming wearied and, when the opposition cannot be overcome, set out for a new land without regard for home, property, and family. The Prophet's emigration is so significant and sanctified that the virtuous people around him were praised by God as remain known as "the Emigrants" (Muhajirun). Those who welcomed them so warmly to Madina are known as "the Helpers" (Ansar). The Islamic calendar begins with this event.

Despite its significance, emigration is a difficult undertaking. When the Muslims resettle in Madina after years of persecution, they were destitute. Moreover, some were extremely poor, and others, who had earned their lives by trade, had no capital. The Muslims of Madina were mostly farmers, and the city's commercial life was controlled by Jews. Another serious problem was that just before the Messenger's arrival, the Madinans had decided to make 'Abd Allah ibn Ubayy ibn Salul their chief. This plan naturally was abandoned, which made him a bitter enemy of the Messenger and an important foe. The Makkan polytheists still wanted to defeat the Prophet, and worked with him to achieve their goal. He told them: "Don't worry if he spreads Islam here. The main danger is that he might ally with the Christians and Jews against paganism. That is the real threat."

After he settled in Madina, the Messenger helped his people build a mosque. The importance of the mosque for the Muslim community's collective life is unquestionable. They meet there five times a day and, in the Presence of God, their Master, Creator, and Sustainer, increase in belief and submission to Him, the Prophet and Islam, and strengthen their solidarity. Especially in the first centuries of Islam, mosques functioned as places of worship and as centers of learning. The Prophet's Mosque in Madina was, in the time of the Prophet himself and his immediate political successors, also the center of government.

Immediately after settling in Madina, the Messenger established brotherhood between Muslims, particularly between the Emigrants and the Helpers. They became very close to each other. For example, Sa'd ibn Rabi' took his Emigrant "brother" 'Abd al-Rahman ibn 'Awf home and said: "Brother, you have left everything in Makka. This house, with everything in it, belongs to both of us. You don't have a wife here; I have two. Whichever of them you like, I'll divorce her so that you may marry her." 'Abd al-Rahman answered him in tears: "Brother, may God bless you with your wife! Please show me to the city bazaar so that I may do some business."

This brotherhood was so deep, sincere, and strong that the Helpers shared everything with the Emigrants. This lasted for some time. However, when the Emigrants had become accustomed to their new environment, one day they asked the Messenger: "O Messenger of God. We emigrated here purely for the sake of God. But our Helper brothers are so good to us that we fear we will consume in this world the reward of our good deeds, which we expect to get in the Hereafter. Also, we feel very indebted to them. Please ask them to let us earn our own living."

The Messenger sent for the Helpers and told them of the situation. The Helpers unanimously objected, finding it unbearable to be separated from their brothers. In the end, to spare the Emigrants' feeling of indebtedness, the Helpers agreed that the Emigrants would work in their fields and gardens in return for wages until they could build their own houses.

As a second step in solving immediate problems, the Messenger signed a pact with the Jewish community in Madina. This document, which some scholars describe as Madina's first constitution, confederated the Muslims and Jews as two separate, independent communities. Since the Messenger took the initiative in making this pact and acted as the final arbiter in all disputes, Madina came under Muslim control.

To guarantee Muslims' security within this city-state, the Messenger ordered the establishment of a new bazaar. Until then, Madina's economic life had been controlled by the Jewish community. After this, Jewish economic domination began to decline, for they no longer monopolized Madina's commerce.

While the Muslim community was establishing itself and growing in strength, it was forced to respond to internal and external attacks. After their victory of Badr, the Muslims fought the Makkans again at the foot of Mount Uhud. Their easy victory during the battle's first part was followed, unfortunately, by a reverse when the archers' disregarded the Prophet's instructions. Seventy Muslims were martyred, and the Messenger was wounded. The Muslim army took shelter on the mountain and prepared to fight back. Lacking enough courage for a further attack, the Makkan forces left. Nevertheless, they changed their mind halfway and decided to march upon Madina. Informed of this, the Messenger mobilized his troops. A single order was enough to accomplish this, even though they were ill or wounded. His every call was a breath of life for their souls, a breath that could revive old, rotten bones. Busiri says:

Were his value and greatness to be demonstrated by miracles,

The bones that have rotted away were revived by calling his name.

The half-crushed army set out to counter the enemy. Almost everyone was wounded, but no one wanted to stay behind. In describing the situation, one Companion said: "Some Companions couldn't walk. They said: 'We want to be present at the front where the Messenger has ordered us to go. Even if we cannot fight, we will stand there with spears in our hands.' They were carried on other people's shoulders or backs." Seeing the Muslim army marching toward them, Abu Sufyan ordered his troops to return to Makka. In praising those heroes of Islam, the Qur'an says: Those to whom the people said: "The people have gathered against you, therefore fear them"; but it increased them in faith, and they said: "God is sufficient for us; an excellent Guardian is He" (3:173).

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snarky-badger · 3 years

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Snapshots 4/5

Grievous Fuckery part 4! This time with Smut! Lmao.

Snarling, Grievous closed a hand around the thug's throat and shook him violently, vaguely aware that two of his Magna droid bodyguards had moved to flank him, electrostaffs held up in warning to the marauder's companions. "What did you do with her?!"

The thug clawed at the metallic hand that was cutting off his airway. ".....d-desert...! W-we dropped h-her.....-hrk!- ...desert!"

Bright yellow eyes narrowed in anger and worry. Being dropped into the deserts of Tattooine was a death sentence. Daytime temperatures were known to reach deadly levels. Dehydration could occur in less than an hour, death in two. Any person who ventured into the deserts unprepared was, more often than not, either found dead, or never found at all. And that was only if the vicious tribes of Sand People didn't come upon them first.

And his taisilee had been dumped into the heart of it.

"Give me the coordinates of her last known location, and, perhaps, I'll rethink my decision to have you all killed."

His shuttle touched down three klicks east of the coordinates the marauder leader had provided, throwing up clouds of sand as it settled in the lee of a rocky outcropping. The ship's sensors were on maximum, struggling to find any life signs amongst the dunes. Topographical maps didn't encourage hope. While they had landed near a series of rocky mountains and outcroppings, the surface temperatures were well above dangerous levels. Dry gusts of sand laden wind were doing a good job of stripping the shuttle's outer hull of it's markings - Grievous didn't want to think about what it could do to unprotected skin.

He left two of his Magna droids at the shuttle, with orders to continue scanning for any signs of life. The other two flanked him as he descended the ramp, his rarely used white cloak billowing out behind him. The heat meant little to him, and even less to the Magna droids. The sand, however, was a different matter. Sand could damage sensitive joints, and in his case, irritate his still organic eyes.

But there was no telling how long the winds would last, or even how much time he had before an inevitable sand storm hit. He had to find Kyra. He only hoped he wasn't too late.

"You two, spread out," he growled to his two guards. "Search the outer ridges. Kyra wouldn't have strayed far from the shelter of the rocks. If she's here, the scanners may have difficulty finding her signal because of interference."

Grievous spun away as he finished speaking, his own sensors stretched to their limits as he sprinted towards a small canyon, stabilizers struggling to compensate for the shifting sand under his feet. Scans had shown a series of caves lining the shallow canyon's walls, the perfect shelter from the overwhelming heat and biting sands.

It was only when his talons hit stone that he stopped, his cloak whipping around him as he let his gaze cut across his new surroundings. Dark shadows dotted the sides of the canyon, outcroppings and shelves of stone making the walls look sharp and unforgiving. The wind buffeted his back, the sensation of sand grating across the back of his skull making him wish his cloak came with a hood.

He was just about to pick his way down to the canyon floor when something caught his gaze, his eyes narrowing as he walked over to crouch in front of a smooth boulder. There, etched into the reddish stone, was a rough copy of the emblem that was on the grey cloak he usually wore.

She had been here! Maybe, was still here.

"Kyra?!" His voice echoed through the canyon, even as he haphazardly jumped from outcropping to outcropping, darting from cave to cave. "Answer me! Kyra!"

Through the echoes of his calls, Grievous caught the telltale howls of hunting Sand People, the sound pulling a snarl from him as he rose his gaze to eye the horizon warily. Knowing time was short, he sped up his search, chemsensors and scanners tuned as high as they would go as he searched for the slightest sign of her, keen eyes cutting across his surroundings for any other possible etchings.

He was halfway through scouring the north side of the gorge when the calls from the Sand People turned into a completely different sort of feral cry. They had found prey. And judging by the sound of blasters, armed prey.

Curious, the cyborg climbed up onto the ridge, keeping low to hide his profile. Using the rough terrain as cover, he darted from boulder to boulder, slowing once he got within visual sight of the fire-fight. Five Sand People were taking cover behind a dune, only reappearing to take shots at a hidden opponent. Grievous narrowed his eyes at the second dune, catching sight of a barrel of a crude blaster before a very familiar glint of fire-red hair sent a shiver of recognition through him. "KYRA!"

She ducked as a shot grazed her cheek, rolling onto her back as she wiped sweat and dirt out of her eyes. The tribe of Sand People had been hunting her for days, having spotted her when she had headed into the canyon hoping to find shelter. While the caves there had given her an advantage - there were mazes of interconnected tunnels in the deepest caves - something had prickled her Force senses, drawing her out of her shelter.

It had been a stupid move. Kyra knew the Tribe had been watching her. She knew they were waiting for an opportunity to catch her. And despite that, she had let her Force instincts draw her out. Even now, while she was dodging blasts, her Force sense was still niggling at her. Though, considering that she had barely slept, and had gone without food for four days, and without water for two, it was possible that she was hallucinating.

With a tired sigh, Kyra rolled back onto her stomach and dared to poke her head over the top of the dune again, her index finger lightly tapping the trigger of her stolen blaster. A shocked gasp left her seconds later when she spied a familliar burnished white form moving amongst the Sand People, four lightsabers whirling with deadly precision.

Grievous dispatched the five tribe members in as many seconds, kicking the final body in disgust before he resettled his lightsabers into the hidden pouches in his cloak and turned towards the sound of shifting sands. Seeing Kyra rushing towards him, Grievous spun and loped down the lee of the dune, heedless of the unstable terrain as he ran over to her.

He reached her just as she stumbled, not slowing as he scooped her into his four arms, taloned feet digging deep into the sand to slow their momentum as he nuzzled his mask into her hair. "Taisilee."

Kyra wrapped shaking arms around him, curling her fingers around bits of his back armor. "I knew you'd find me," she whispered, hearing his low purr/growl as he brushed the lower part of his mask against her forehead, then against her cheek, his upper right hand rising to brush tears from her skin. "I knew you'd come."

"Always," he growled, his voice a low husky rumble. "Always, my taisilee."

Concerned at the pained tint to her scent, Grievous leaned back and really looked at her, a shocked curse leaving him when he saw the horrible sunburn that covered every inch of exposed skin. The marauders had stripped her of everything except a thin tank top and her pants and boots. She looked exhausted, dirty and dehydrated, with little cuts, bruises and scrapes marring her badly sunburned, and sand-grated skin. That she had managed to survive for a week without adequate coverings or water was nothing short of a miracle.

With a protective rumble, he shifted his hold on her, then sent a silent message to his guards, requesting a pick-up. "My shuttle is on it's way," he told her, meeting her gaze. "I made sure to stock some supplies for you."

She leaned into him, feeling him tighten his hold on her. "They took the lightsaber you gave me," she admitted softly, wincing a little when he tensed, a low snarl leaving his vocalizer. "I'm sorry."

Grievous jerked, surprise pushing thoughts of killing the entire lot of marauders from the forefront of his mind. "And why, my taisilee, are you apologizing for something that isn't your fault?"

"....feels like my fault," she murmured sourly.

"Kyra, I saw the state of those thugs. I know you fought them." When she frowned, he ducked his head and gently brushed the lower part of his mask against her chapped lips. "They drugged you, my taisilee. I found the darts they shot you with and had the contents analyzed. With the amount they gave you, you shouldn't have been able to move, never mind fight like you did. You killed three, and wounded seven before the drugs took effect. It was a lost battle that you were forced to fight, my taisilee, and even so, you still fought to the last. It is very..... attractive."

She shivered at the lust in his voice and eyes, blushing when he chuckled and pressed his forehead to hers. Deciding that two could play that game, Kyra lightly brushed a hand across his chest, using a bit of her waning energy to send a teasing thrum into him.

Another chuckle rumbled out of him. "When I get you home, I may just pay you back for that," he purred, snickering when the redness on her face and neck darkened. "All this time, and I can still make you blush, my taisilee."

She passed out the moment Grievous gently set her down on a medical berth, and it took him several tries before he managed to pry her iron grip off of him. Once he was free, he busied himself with carefully slicing away her filthy clothing, tossing it into a waste compartment as he did so. Only then did he do his best to clean the dirt and grime off of her, scowling at the raw, and badly sunburned state of the skin on her face, arms, upper chest and shoulders. Every inch of skin that had been left unprotected to the elements was damaged, and by the sound of the soft whimper that left her, extremely sensitive. The rest of her body was decorated with sporadic bruises, and once he tugged her boots off, he found that she was sporting a badly sprained ankle.

The little first aid supplies he had weren't going to be enough to treat her raw and sunburned skin, and Grievous smothered a growl at the realization. Disgusted at his lack of insight, he settled for dosing her with painkillers and setting up an intravenous drip of saline to combat dehydration. Her body absorbed the water at a frightening rate, making him set up a second bag of the liquid, this time adding a liberal dose of vitamins and minerals that would help boost her recovery.

At the end of his medical knowledge, Grievous sighed and undid the clasp of his cloak, draping the material over her to hide her nakedness. Even though there were only droids on the shuttle, he wasn't about to let anyone other than himself see her without clothing. She was his. And he wasn't above admitting his possessiveness.

The medical scanners gave a warning chirp, and he spun to stare at the readout, hands clenching into fists. Her body temperature was dangerously high. Only one degree higher, and there would be a very serious chance of brain damage.

Cursing, he yanked his cloak off of her, talons shaking as he started to reach for her, only to hesitate mere centimeters from her skin. There was nothing on the shuttle he could use to lower her temperature. And if it edged just one degree higher.....

He whirled and barrelled out of the small room, storming up to the bridge, where two of his Magna droids were piloting the shuttle, eyes narrowing when he realized that they were barely out of the planet's atmosphere. "Why aren't we in hyperspace yet?! We need to get to my Citadel!"

One of the Droids turned crimson optics onto him. "We had to circumnavigate a sandstorm. We'll be in hyperspace momentarily."

"Re-route energy from the shields and weapons," he ordered, giving the console a quick glance. "Push the hyperdrive engines to maximum."

The second guard visibly stiffened before glancing at him. "Lady Kyra?"

Grievous didn't know if he liked the fact that his bodyguards had picked up how much Kyra meant to him. "She requires urgent medical attention," he answered gruffly, barely able to hold back a growl when the droid nodded and turned back to the controls. "Advise me when we land."

He burst out of the shuttle before the ramp had fully lowered, clutching a still unconscious Kyra to himself as he darted into his Citadel and headed for the medical ward, bellowing for his Doctor as he ran.

The medical droid looked rather annoyed at being yelled at, until it spotted Kyra in his Master's arms. Whatever snarky remark it was preparing to give was wisely put aside as it stepped aside to avoid being run over. "Where did you find her?"

"Tatooine's badlands," Grievous answered, pushing past the Doctor and rushing into the cleaning area he usually used to wash the dirt, grime and blood off of himself after a battle. The cloak he had wrapped around her sailed out of the room, landing on the droids head and blocking it's view as the cyborg activated the water jets and lowered the temperature to as cold as he could stand.

It worried him to no end when Kyra didn't even twitch as he angled her under the freezing spray.

The Doctor knew better than to even think about looking at a disrobed Kyra, so it turned it's back to them, scanners running. "How long has her temperature been at such a level?"

"Exactly twenty-one minutes. I administered two intravenous saline drips, a single dose of painkillers, and a vitamin cocktail as soon as I got her onto the shuttle," Grievous told it, grimacing as the cold water seeped into his joints. But he pushed his discomfort aside and kept Kyra's body under the jets, tilting her face against his shoulder to keep her from accidentally inhaling any water. "She lost consciousness as soon as I brought her onboard. I haven't been able to wake her."

"....it has been documented that some Sith and Jedi can enter a sort of healing trance when they are wounded. She may have fallen into such a trance as soon as she found herself safe enough to do so. By doing so, she may have kept her temperature from rising any higher."

He mulled that over for a second. "What are the chances that she contracted brain damage?"

"Statistically? Twenty-five point two percent. However, my scans show an increase in brain activity, and there is a significant rise in theta waves."

"Theta waves? That's not Force related, is it?"

"Unknown. I do not have other scans to compare with. Though her body temperature has dropped oh-point-seven degrees since you arrived. I estimate that another ten minutes under the cold water will bring her core temperature back to a safe level."

Grievous felt some of the tension leave his frame at the information and slumped a little under the stream of water, holding back a curse as the frigid spray hit him in the face. Hissing, he shook his head, blinking the cold water away as he returned his attention to the woman in his arms, frowning down at her worriedly as he split his arms into four.

Three arms cradled her while he rose the fourth to her face, lightly brushing her soaked hair aside and panicking a little when his talons got caught in her tangled locks. With a dismayed growl, he carefully extracted his fingers, then cast his gaze around the cleaning area, grumbling when he couldn't find anything that was safe enough to use on delicate human skin.

"Here, sir."

Blinking, the cyborg glanced towards the medical droid, quirking a hidden brow when he saw the liquid soap container being held out to him. Grunting, he snatched it out of the Doctor's grip, re-adusting his hold on Kyra until his upper hands were free, his lowers keeping her cradled against him.

He spent the following ten minutes washing out her hair and gently scrubbing dirt off of her skin, taking great delight in running his upper hands through the fiery locks once he had worked out all of the tangles and knots.

And when his Doctor announced that Kyra's core temperature was only one degree above normal, he fairly launched himself out of the spray of water, nearly taking out the medical droid in the process.

A distinct lack of towels had him grabbing his cape once again, giving it a rough shake before he wrapped it around her, snarling at the droid in warning when it moved the edge of the cloak aside to look at her sunburn. "Don't even think about putting her in a bacta tank."

"But--"

"No."

The droid let out something very close to an exasperated sigh. "Then I'll prepare a bacta-infused salve for her burns."

"Good." He carefully reintegrated his arms back into two, then held Kyra tighter against him. "Is she stable enough for me to bring her to our room?"

"For the moment. Though I suggest you bring a portable medical scanner with you."

Could have mentioned that before I reintegrated my arms. Stupid droid. With a growl, Grievous split his left arm into two, snatched up the offered scanner, then stalked out of the medical bay, trying very hard to ignore the urge to behead the droid with a lightsaber.

Slowly, being careful of her sunburned back and shoulders, Grievous lay her down on their bed, pausing to brush her hair out of her face before he turned to fetch a roll of elastic bandage from her things. Once he had found one, he moved to the end of the bed and started to wrap her sprained ankle, plasteel talons glaringly white against the dark bruise.

When he had it wrapped to his satisfaction, he returned to her side, stretching out beside her and lightly brushing the fingers of his right hand across her cheek. Now that there was no audience, and thus no reason to hold back any longer, he gingerly slid his arms around her and gently rearranged her onto her side, curling his raptorine body around her as he tucked her as close as possible.

He murmured her name, one hand stroking her cheek as he stared at her face, practically willing her to wake up. "Please, taisilee," he whispered, brushing his curled fingers across her skin. "Please. Wake up."

Moving silently, Grievous slid into the steam filled bathroom, barely managing to hold back a predatory growl as he edged towards the enclosed shower, and the woman within. Her soft humming hid the low click of his plasteel talons opening the shower door, and he struck, cackling at her shriek of laughter as he wrapped his arms around her and pushed her further under the stream of warm water.

"You--!" Laughing, Kyra smacked him on the shoulder, knowing full well that the hit wouldn't harm him in the least. "Don't scare me like that!"

He chuckled, holding her to him with one arm while he playfully flicked her wet bangs out of her eyes with his free hand. "Where's the fun in that, my taisilee?" he teased, gently pushing her back against the tiled wall before he ducked his head and nuzzled his masked face against her neck. "Mm. Besides, I thought I'd help you clean up."

"Oh, is that your reason for pouncing on me?"

"I never need a reason to pounce on you," he retorted playfully, chuckling as he lifted her and carefully interspersed himself between her thighs, groaning happily when she tightened her legs around him, her knees snug against his sides. The stream of water poured over his back, the warmth seeping into his armor and joints as he used his body to keep the droplets from blinding Kyra. He shifted his stance a little to better support her, taloned feet finding purchase on the slick tiles. His hands dropped to massage her buttocks as he closed his eyes to focus on the sensations the sensors across his body was bombarding him with. "Ohh, taisilee...."

Smiling, Kyra wound her arms around his shoulders, placing a kiss on his mask just over his vocalizer and sending a little thrum of energy into him. His eyes shot open, a low growl leaving him as he met her sapphire gaze before his arms split into four, two continuing to support her while he rose the other two to frame her face with his hands.

Purring, he pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes again when she lightly stroked one of the sensors on either side of his head. "I want you," he growled, skimming his hands over her shoulders and frowning when he felt her tense, her breath leaving her in a pained hiss.

"Sorry," Kyra grimaced, dropping her eyes from his worried golden gaze. "My shoulders are still a little sensitive. I didn't mean to ruin the moment."

He rumbled and shook his head. "You've ruined nothing," he murmured, brushing her wet hair back so he could study her sunburned skin. "I can wait the few minutes it will take to treat your burns." At her curious look, he chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her chest flush with his and shivering as the sensors in his armor sang with pleasure. "I have a new batch of the bacta-infused salve for your burns. All this changes is that I'll treat your skin earlier than I had planned."

"Oh, really?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And what else did you plan?"

Another chuckle left him. "Oh, this and that," he said evasively, snickering at the pout she gave him. Her fingers stroked the hidden seams in his chest armor, her touch activating rarely online cybernetic sensors and pulling a deep moan from him. Groaning, he nuzzled his face into her neck, his upper hands moving to knead her breasts. "Mmm. Shower's over."

Taking her breathy moan as agreement, Grievous shifted his lower arms and held her more securely against him, bringing her with him as he carefully stepped out of the enclosed shower. He paused only long enough to shut off the water and snatch up a couple of towels before he carried her out of the attached suite and into the bedroom.

It was only when he was standing at the end of the bed that he gently set her on her feet, brushing his mask against her lips before he knelt in front of her. He locked his arms back into two, glancing up at her playfully as he started to dry her off, starting at her ankles and slowly working his way up her body. He caressed and nuzzled spots of soft skin as he worked, delighting in the growing scent of arousal he picked up from her.

A purr rumbled out of him when she skimmed her hands over his shoulders, and up his neck to his masked face, sending little eddys of power dancing across his sensors.

"Keep your hands to yourself, taisilee, else I won't be able to hold back long enough to treat your sunburns," he chastised her, shivering when she smirked and leaned down to place a kiss on his cheek. "I'll tie you down if you don't listen."

"I'll get loose," she sing-songed, meeting his burning gaze when he surged to his feet and advanced on her, gently pushing her backwards until she bumped into the edge of the bed.

Unable to think of any restraints that wouldn't cause her harm, Grievous effortlessly tore the towel into strips, chuckling at her shocked look. "I did warn you," he teased, laughing when she tried to make a run for the bathroom. He lunged after her, cackling at her startled yelp as he slung her over his shoulder and carried her back to the bed, treated to a lovely view of the curve of her thigh when she tried to struggle free.

"I didn't think you were serious!" she protested, hands scrambling at his back armor as she tried to push herself upright.

"And who's fault is that?" he mused, snickering as he dropped her onto the bed and pounced on her before she could make another run for it. Crouching over her, Grievous deftly caught her hands and wrapped a strip of the torn towel around her wrists, leaning down to brush the lower part of his mask against her lips before he gripped her hips and flipped her onto her stomach.

"Oof!" Kyra tossed her head to get her hair out of the way and glared at Grievous over her left shoulder as he straddled her hips. The cyborg looked entirely too pleased with himself, eyes shining as he met her gaze and gave her an lecherous look, his hands already starting to caress her bare back. Grumbling, she focused on her bindings, giving an annoyed curse when she didn't recognize the type of knot. "This is massively unfair."

He chuckled and reached out to carefully move her damp and curling hair off her partially healed sunburned shoulders. "Behave, and maybe I'll let you go when I'm finished treating your burns," he offered, playfully trailing his plasteel talons down her spine and growling softly as he watched goosebumps break out over her skin.

Moving gingerly to avoid hurting her, Grievous braced himself and reached over the edge of the bed, picking up the jar of salve he had set there earlier before he resettled himself on his knees, still straddling Kyra's hips. The salve, he had discovered, had little to no scent, which, to him, was a boon. He had never understood why some humans obscured their scents with perfumes and chemicals. Certainly, he was glad that Kyra didn't use such things; he liked her natural scent.

"That stuff doesn't stink does it?" Kyra asked curiously, further endearing herself to him without even knowing it.

"No," he assured her, rubbing a hand down her back to calm her when she cast a wary look over her shoulder. "I would not have approved of it otherwise. You know how much I like your scent, taisilee. I'm not about to put some horrid smelling concoction on you. Now, lie still. I don't want your hair getting in the way."

She sighed and lay her cheek on her arm. "I really should cut it."

"Don't you dare," he scolded as he opened the jar and scooped some of the salve onto two fingers. Setting the jar to the side, he reached out to run his free hand through her hair, the locks curling around his digits. "I like your hair, too."

An amused chuckle left her. "Yeah, but you're biased."

He growled happily. "When it comes to you, my taisilee? Always. Now brace yourself, this is rather cool."

"You haven't actually touched my shoulders, have you?" she murmured wryly, shivering when Grievous rubbed the cold salve across her burned skin. The relief was almost instant. The heat and tightness vanished, the aching tension in her muscles easing. Even the painful over-sensitivity calmed, turning his gentle massage into something pleasurable instead of something she needed to endure for her own well being.

The blissful sigh that left her made him purr as he worked the bacta infused cream into her skin, feeling her relax under him. Every patch of skin that radiated heat, he covered with a thin layer of salve, lightly massaging her neck and shoulders. He used the opportunity to explore her back and sides, finding which spots made her bite back laughter and wiggle in an attempt to get away and which pulled pleased moans from her.

Only when he had treated every inch of burned skin did he fully indulge himself, splitting his arms into four and bracing himself on knees and lower arms as he leaned over her, growling as he nuzzled the nape of her neck. His upper hands slid up her sides and under her, to cup her breasts, his growl deepening to a guttural purr when she gasped out his name and arched her back, giving him better access to the side of her throat.

He rubbed his mask into her hair, drinking in her scent. "I have something I want to try," he rasped, shifting his weight back onto his knees so he could free his lower arms, hands brushing over the small of her back before he wrapped his left lower arm around her waist and tilted her pelvis up against his. His right slid around her, fingers finding her core, a low growl rumbling out of him when she mewled and rocked her hips into his hand. "But I want you to promise me that if you feel the slightest bit uneasy, that you'll tell me."

She moaned as he slid a finger into her, his uppermost hands still kneading her breasts as he pressed his chest against her back. "G-Grievous...."

"Promise me, taisilee," he purred into her ear, trying hard to hold himself back, despite how wet and hot her core felt around his finger. He could already feel an echo of her own pleasure starting to warm his innards, her thoughts brushing against his, building the odd loop of pleasure that let her bring him through his own completion.

"I promise!" she said breathlessly, hearing his low chuckle as he slid a second finger into her, slowly pumping his hand against her.

"Good. Now let me feel." Growling, he quickened his caresses, gripping her breasts as he pushed her down into the bed again, grinding his hips against her buttocks to push her pleasure higher, shivering when an echo of what she felt rippled through him. "I want to feel you, taisilee. Now."

Kyra gasped, struggling to reach out with her Force powers, brushing her thoughts against his and shuddering at the want and lust he openly sent to her. "Grievous!"

He hissed in pleasure and closed his eyes, fingers sliding deeper. "Yesss. Now."

A cry left her as her orgasm crashed through her, dimly aware of Grievous' arms tightening around her as her climax echoed into him. He snarled, a shudder wracking him before he moaned and hugged her, gasping for breath.

She was still trying to catch her breath when his comforting weight vanished, listening as he darted over to a small trunk and rifled through it. "Grievous?"

"One moment, taisilee."

Dazed, and with little aftershocks still going though her, she blew her bangs out of her eyes and tried to see what he was doing. That effort was thwarted when he caught sight of her and rushed over to toss a blanket over her head. "Hey!" She struggled to free her head, pausing when she heard a click followed by his low moan of pleasure. "What are you--?"

"J-Just a moment."

Frowning at the odd tone of his voice, Kyra used a bit of power to Force Push the blanket off of her, gasping when Grievous suddenly flipped her onto her back and stretched out on top of her, his eyes fairly glowing with excitement. "What was that all about?"

"I'll show you. But first," he playfully brushed his mask over her lips, all four hands exploring her body. "Eyes closed."

She blinked, but when he didn't elaborate, sighed and closed her eyes, shivering when he gently coaxed her legs open. She was still sensitive, unable to hold back a gasp when he leaned down to nuzzle her abdomen, sliding two fingers into her, going right for her g-spot.

"I wish I could taste you," he growled against her skin, breathing in lungfuls of her scent and purring in pleasure. "Even this won't fully make up for it."

"What--?" Kyra cut herself off with a moan when he grasped her hips with his lower hands, his uppers returning to her breasts. Instinct had her rolling her hips towards him, a startled cry leaving her when he chuckled and copied the motion, something long and hard sliding into her, stretching her.

Her eyes shot open, locking onto Grievous' burning gaze as he held himself above her, fairly trembling as he stared down at her, eyes wide. Unable to help the blush that spread over her cheeks, Kyra glanced down at their linked bodies before looking up at him again. "You didn't."

"Best technology available, after myself of course," he purred, bracing himself on his upper arms as he leaned down to nuzzle her. "It's connected into my neural net. And, oh, it feels so real, like I remember.... And you, ohhh taisilee, you feel incredible." He gently moved his hips against hers, growling at the sensations that shot through his body as his new 'member' was caressed by her core. ".....want you. So beautiful. Want to take you...."

Kyra gasped, automatically moving to meet his thrusts as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up until she was straddling him. Talons tore through the bindings on her wrists, letting her grip his shoulders for stability while he nuzzled his face against her cheek, panting heavily. She clung to him, crying out when he put a hand to the small of her back and changed the angle of his entry, hitting the spot inside her that nearly tipped her over the edge.

He growl/hissed and closed a fist in her hair, watching her face as he canted his hips to hers, shouting when she caught his gaze and smirked, tightening her muscles around him. It felt so real. As if his cock was flesh and blood instead of carefully crafted plasteel and circuitry. And, oh, the embarrassment of getting it made was worth it. It was perfect. Kyra was perfect. And his. Wholly his.

A snarl left him. "Mine," he hissed, tightening three arms around her, the fourth still gripping her hair. "Mine."

"Yours," Kyra echoed breathlessly, hearing his growl as he snapped his pelvis to hers, going even deeper into her. "G-Grievous! Please!"

He leaned further back onto his knees, legs slightly spread, lower hands going to her hips to pull her onto his thrusts, groaning when he felt her curl her legs around him. She was clinging to him, mewling his name as she leaned her forehead on his shoulder. He felt the familiar sensation of her Force abilities brush against his thoughts, and welcomed it, a shudder wracking him when he felt the echoes of her own pleasure.

Half a dozen more thrusts and Kyra cried out, arching her back as her inner muscles spasmed around him. The feeling sent shock waves through him, a strangled howl ripping it's way out of his throat as his 'attachment' sent overwhelming sensations into his neural net. He convulsed against her, eyes clenched shut at the long-missed sensations of true - if artificial - physical, completion.

Gasping, his breath coming in rasping pants, Grievous rose a shaking hand to brush his fingers across Kyra's cheek, meeting her warm gaze when she rose her head to look at him. "Taisilee."

She smiled weakly, still shivering as little aftershocks washed through her. "....I love you, too," she whispered, placing a kiss on his mask, just under his left eye and gasping when he pressed a hand on the small of her back and smoothly rocked his pelvis against hers. He growled and cupped her face in his upper hands, locking gazes with her as he started moving within her again, his lower hands holding her hips, encouraging her to meet his movements.

"You've given me back what I lost," he murmured, golden eyes staring into sapphire. "I accepted the changes to myself, but I trapped myself in the process. I lost everything. All I had was my rage, and my hate." Purring raggedly, Grievous pressed his forehead to hers, keeping up his slow thrusts into her. "You showed me that I wasn't just what I had become. That I didn't have to.... to limit myself. That I could have more. So, so much more." He punctuated the last word with a strong slide within her, rubbing up against the spot in her that made her gasp, her eyes darkening.

"You never treated me as anything but Kaleesh, never a cyborg, never a droid. You've given me everything I thought out of my reach. Friendship, a mate. That you'd let me touch you, let me find pleasure again..... trust me enough to even touch your thoughts to mine...." He slid his upper hands into her hair, gathering the wild locks into his fists and brushing the lower part of his mask across her lips. "I will never let you go, my taisilee. Never."

She shivered when he growled, expressive reptilian eyes fairly glowing as he pushed her down into the blankets, his hips churning against her, the new angle meaning that every deep thrust brushed her g-spot. He stretched out over her, hissing when she wrapped her legs around him again, letting him drive himself into her. Gasping for breath and mumbling Kaleesh endearments, Grievous locked his arms back into two and grasped her hands, pinning her arms above her head.

Her inner muscles fluttered around his cock, the sensation pulling a deep growl from him as he stared down at her, watching her as he drove her closer and closer to climax. She bit her lower lip as she met his gaze, sapphire eyes glittering, even as she brushed her fingers against his, sending a wave of energy dancing up his arms and across his chest. The pulse went straight to his innards, the pleasure echoing through him in an ever-growing shockwave until it was too much to endure.

He arched his back, roaring as his climax ripped through him, hips jerking against hers, dimly aware of her own cry of pleasure as her core spasmed around him. A long, drawn-out moan left him at the sensation, his heart hammering in it's protective gutsack.

Stunned by the overwhelming pleasure, Grievous slumped on top of her, face buried in her hair as he wheezed, struggling to regain his breath. Limbs twitched with aftershocks, each little movement accompanied with a small flash of bliss. Kyra was trembling under him, gasping, warm breath tickling the right sensor on the side of his head. Still dazed, he regained enough coordination to release her hands, sliding his palms down the length of her arms and across her shoulders in calming strokes.

After a few long minutes, he gently pulled himself out of her, murmuring endearments at her soft moan. Knowing he wouldn't be able to rest while it was tied into his neural network, he carefully reached down and, with a hiss at the pleasure his own touch caused, unlocked and slid the plate the sex-tool was attached to out of the thin groove of his pelvic armor.

He reached back to set the alloy tool on the bed behind him, grimacing when he set it down only for it to roll off and thunk to the floor. Kyra shook against him then, burying her face against his chest, and he glanced down at her, chuckling when he found that she was struggling not to laugh. "You won't be laughing if it's damaged," he teased, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her close.

Kyra snickered. "We made do before you got it," she smiled, placing a kiss on his chest. "Not that I'm complaining."

"No," he purred, brushing a hand across her shoulders and up to stroke her hair. "No complaints." He gently slid his free hand between them, palm pressing against her abdomen. "Did I hurt you?"

She reached up to press the fingers of her right hand to his mask, just over his vocalizer. "You didn't hurt me. Trust me, with how close our thoughts were, you would have known. You're not the only one who lost control for a moment there."

He gave a pleased, very male, growl and nuzzled her cheek, wrapping his arms around her to pull her into the curve of his body. "Good." Purring gutterally, Grievous curled his raptorine body around her, tugging a fur up over her bare back and shoulders to help keep her warm.

tbc

#grievous fuckery #general grievous #snarky is writing #grievous x oc #star wars #fanfiction #fanfic #help me obi wan kenobi i wrote grievous smut

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willowworkswithwords · 3 years

Note

hello :) how about 12 for the dialogue prompts with snips & skyguy?

Anon, my sincerest of apologies for filling this so long after your request! I hit a bit of writer's block and lack of writing time, unfortunately. But I finally did it! I had a great time writing this, getting back into the groove.

Thank you for this request, Anon!!

I don't know which prompt list this one is from anymore, but my BTHB card is open!

--- or read on ao3 ---

Anakin’s heart dropped through his boots

“When? Are they critical? I’ll be there in three hours,” he said, flicking switches and yanking his ship into gear. Master Che sighed on her end of the holocall.

“Skywalker, when you get here, there’s something you need to know.”

Anakin hadn’t thought more dread could fill his body, but in that moment, he was drowning in it. He didn’t let himself look away from the controls, pushing he ship to its limit. Master Che seemed to understand that he was still listening.

“Young Ahsoka hasn’t left Obi-Wan’s side since they got here. She nearly bit the fingers off one of my padawan healers. I’m not sure how cognizant she is right now. She won’t eat and she won’t let us put in an IV. There’s nothing I can do when she’s withdrawn consent.”

Anakin closed his eyes, letting a rush of breath out through his nose, lips pressed in a thin line he knew resembled his master’s own fed-up grimace.

“You must not get angry with her, Anakin. Obi-Wan put himself in harm’s way to save her, but we lost him twice on the table and Ahsoka saw. She wouldn’t leave the room. All she believes right now is that her grandmaster is on the brink because he was saving her.”

Anakin opened his eyes and met Master Che’s.

“I’ll be there in two.”

He signed off and pushed his ship faster, praying to the Force equal parts in fear and thankfulness.

They’re alive, that’s all that matters.

---

He made it to the Temple in an hour and a half and parked the ship with the sound of sirens right behind him, but he ran into the Temple without looking back. For now the Temple Guard could deal with them.

Despite both himself and his master hating the Halls, Anakin knew how to get there from any point in the Temple, and he found himself in the entry faced with Master Che within minutes. When he was a child her towering stature was foreboding, but with age and height he’d learned she wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared.

Though she never did let him forget that she could and would stick him with hypos, any day any time. The same threat stood for Obi-Wan, and it seemed it might soon apply to Ahsoka too.

Now though, she had a grit in her eyes that Anakin knew meant trouble if the stubborn patient wasn’t dealt with soon.

“Follow me, Skywalker.”

The Halls were always busy nowadays. The war never slept and neither did healers; Master Che’s shoulders slumped, and her usual brisk pace was half a step slower than normal, which meant it had been a few shifts since she’d taken her own medical advice.

They came into the ICU, an open hall with privacy curtains half-drawn around all the beds. Anakin saw the orange of his padawan’s lek before he saw the state of his master. He felt the waves of grief and guilt from Ahsoka, confusion and pain from Obi-Wan. Anakin winced and Master Che sighed.

“We’ve given him all the painkillers we can for now,” Master Che said, slowing her walk to check around a couple curtains. “He’s been here for about thirty-six hours, and so has your padawan.”

“Thank you, Master Che,” Anakin bowed and sent her a tired smile. “I’ll so what I can for Ahsoka.”

She nodded his way, focus already resettled on another critical patient, this one with no visitors by their side. As Anakin walked away she pulled out a stool from beneath the bed and settled beside them.

Turning toward the curtained area with Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, Anakin walked himself through a breathing exercise Obi-Wan had taught him years ago. Now was not the time to get angry or let his own guilt eat away at him. He needed to focus on Ahsoka so they could focus on Obi-Wan. His old master would never let him hear the end of it if Ahsoka’s health was cast to the wayside for his sake.

Anakin stepped around the curtain but Ahsoka didn’t move an inch. She was sat on the edge of the visitor’s chair, hunched over the side of Obi-Wan’s bed with his right hand tucked between both of her own, her forehead resting on top. Her eyes were closed but Anakin could still see the exhaustion, the tension threaded through her. She wasn’t asleep, but Master Che’s word rang in his mind.

I don’t know how cognizant she is right now. She’s refusing medical care.

Damn their stubborn lineage.

Anakin stepped closer to the bed. He saw her lek twitch a mere second before she whipped around, fangs bared and shoving herself in front of Obi-Wan so Anakin couldn’t see his face.

There was no recognition in her predator’s eyes.

“Ahsoka, it’s Anakin.” Anakin kept his voice slow and calm. “You’re at the Temple now, you and Obi-Wan are safe. Can I come sit by you?”

“I—n-no. No! Stay away from him. He’s not okay, he’s hurt, he’s sick,” Ahsoka said, eyes still flashing, boring into Anakin’s, fever bright.

The bandages on her lek and atop her right montral were stained with old and fresh blood.

“Alright, that’s ok. I’ll sit right here, ok? I won’t come any closer.”

Anakin held up his hands and slowly sank into a meditation pose on the floor. He made a clear show of closing his eyes and entering a light meditation. He waited, nearly holding his breath, for Ahsoka to sit back down. Her anxiety still rolled in waves, vast and deep, over Anakin and through the ICU. Her signature rattled with the jitters one only got from staying awake for far too long; she was pressing against his shields, which he let down slowly, trying to gauge the threat he posed to Obi-Wan. He let her probe, giving her as much time as she needed. She was scared and she was hurt. He’d been in her place too many times to count. He knew what kind of reassurance she needed, and it wouldn’t come from being overbearing.

But that didn’t mean every second of the wait wasn’t excruciating.

About as quickly as she’d jumped at him, her eyes finally saw him, and she slipped from her seat.

Anakin was just as quick.

He scooped her up before her head could smack against the ground, cradling it delicately to his chest, shushing her as she whimpered in his arms.

“Ahsoka, it’s alright now. I’m going to take you to our quarters, how does that sound?”

She could only nod.

Anakin stole a glance at his former master, still out cold, bacta-smeared back rising and falling. It gave him the reassurance he needed, and he turned his back before he could change his mind. He stepped quickly over to the curtain he’d last seen Master Che behind. She was still there, reading quietly to the Jedi laid out on the bed unconscious.

“Master Che, I’ve got her. I’m taking her to our quarters, she’ll rest better there. She’ll only get upset if she stays here. What do I need to do about her injuries?”

---

Anakin laid Ahsoka down on her bed, gently lowering her head and pulling her lek out of the way. He rested his mech hand on her face, hoping the cold metal would do its job.

Her face scrunched, nose wrinkling in a way that made him smile sadly.

“Mmmmph, Master?”

“I’m here, Ahsoka. Don’t try to move too much, ok?”

He went about reapplying bacta and changing her bandages, talking idly of his own mission until he was done. She was nodding off the whole time, but her eyes never stayed shut for more than a few seconds, always jerking back open and jostling her lek against the pillows, making her and Anakin both wince.

“Have you not slept this entire time, Ahsoka?” Anakin pulled the thick blanket up around her shoulders, resting his flesh hand near hers as he settled in the chair he’d pulled in when they’d first arrived.

“Master Obi-Wan needed me, I couldn’t leave him there. He hates the Halls,” Ahsoka said, voice rasping.

Anakin made a small chastising noise in the back of his throat that sent a pang through his stomach. He’d definitely picked that one up from Obi-Wan.

“He already chose to sacrifice for you, there was no use in you forsaking yourself in the face of his sacrifice, now was there, my padawan?”

His gentle tone still pricked her raw emotions and the guilt came rolling back through their bond.

“He, he almost died, Master. He almost died to save me.”

Her words came out a whisper.

“Well, he loves you very much, Ahsoka, as do I. Neither of us want you to do this to yourself.”

“Oh, but he can nearly get himself killed?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka had the sense to looked ashamed. Anakin bent down and kissed her forehead, skin still fever hot.

“Ahsoka, Obi-Wan made his decision. Now you need to let that go, to heal yourself and let me help you, so that when we go see him he can see you’re alright.”

Ahsoka grumbled but nodded her head. Her eyes were drooping.

“That doesn’t go to say that he’s off the hook, though. I’m gonna give him hell as soon as he’s better enough to sit up.”

Ahsoka giggled and Anakin knew he’d won.

“Rest now, Ahsoka. I’ll stay here until you wake, alright?”

“You’ll wake me if anything happens?”

“I promise.”

“Ok,” Ahsoka said, shifting and grabbing Anakin’s hand. He gripped it back just as tightly.

“Goodnight, Ahsoka.”

#my fic #Willow talks #hurt Ahsoka #hurt/comfort #Anakin Skywalker #hurt obi-wan (mentioned)#anon prompt response #the writer's block has lifted!#maybe the hair dye i used last night was the key #breaking news: red hair is the secret to curing you of all your writerly blues

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twoflipstwotwists · 3 years

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It’s a late afternoon in April, and Sunisa “Suni” Lee is where most people find themselves a year into the pandemic: Home, in a sweatshirt, talking into a webcam. The 18-year-old gymnast is poised to make history at the summer Olympics, but over Zoom, she’s just like any teenager, reflecting on everything she’s balancing behind the scenes.

While training for a wildly unpredictable Games, Lee has been caring for her recently paralyzed father, mourning the deaths of her aunt and uncle from COVID, and recovering from a broken foot that jeopardized her lifelong dream to win gold. Now Lee, whose parents emigrated from Laos, is also fighting to qualify as the first-ever Hmong American Olympic gymnast—all while her community contends with a national surge in anti-Asian violence. “People hate on us for no reason,” Lee says from her parents’ house in St. Paul, Minnesota. “It would be cool to show that we are more than what they say. I don’t know how to explain that...”

Lee’s father inches his wheelchair closer into the Zoom screen, and answers for her. “It would be the greatest accomplishment of any Hmong person in the U.S. ever,” he says. “It will go down in history.”

Before the Tokyo Olympics were postponed in March 2020, Lee’s family was preparing for the trip of a lifetime. Though she hadn’t actually made the team yet, her parents John Lee and Yeev Thoj had no doubts. They bought plane tickets to watch their daughter compete, and planned to celebrate afterward with a trip to Laos to show Lee and her siblings where they grew up. Both John and Yeev are Hmong, an ethnic group made of people primarily from Southeast Asia and areas in China who fought alongside the U.S. in the Vietnam War. After losing most of their land in the war, many Hmong fled to Thailand as refugees. By the late ‘70s and ‘80s, around 90 percent of the refugee population had resettled in the U.S., where there are now 18 Hmong clans, the largest residing in Minneapolis-St. Paul.

Lee describes her community there as “really close.” More than 300 people come to her family’s annual camping trip, and she can’t go to a local Asian store without someone asking after her dad. She has become something of a local celebrity herself. At Hmong events, Lee gets stopped for photos by people who tell her how proud they are. “It’s nice knowing I have them to fall back on,” she says. “The support is amazing.”

But last May, just two months before the Olympic opening ceremony was originally scheduled to take place, Lee’s family and the rest of the Twin Cities Hmong community found themselves thrust into the national conversation over race and policing. Kellie Chauvin, the now ex-wife of Derek Chauvin, the officer who murdered George Floyd, is Hmong American. So is Tou Thao, another officer on the scene who is set to stand trial in August on charges of aiding and abetting second-degree murder and aiding and abetting second-degree manslaughter in connection to Floyd’s murder. As part of the ensuing protests, several nearby Hmong American businesses were vandalized. John says it got “scary” when several homes on their block were broken into.

“I was trying to make the Hmong community more known,” Lee says. “When that happened, I felt like it was a setback.”

Lee’s journey to the Olympics started with a lumpy mattress and a piece of plywood. Her parents were eager to preoccupy their energetic, gymnastics-obsessed seven-year-old, and a balance beam seemed like the perfect distraction. John built a four-foot-long structure from a spare mattress that, to his credit, still stands in their yard today. He also taught Lee, who’s one of six kids, how to do flips on the bed.

By then, Lee had captured the attention of Jess Graba, a coach at Midwest Gymnastics. “It was super raw and she was just a little kid, but she had some talent,” Graba says, remembering when they met. “Her flips were kind of crazy—she had been practicing in her yard—and she clearly had some ability to go upside down without fear.”

In 2016 when she was 14, Lee was named to the U.S. junior national team, and it became clear Graba could be coaching one of the next great American gymnasts. They traveled around the world together for competitions, and by 2018, Lee had won a gold medal on uneven bars at the National Championships. Five-time Olympic medalist Nastia Liukin, Lee’s longtime hero, took notice of the high-flying athlete. “Her abilities as a gymnast, especially her bar routine, are incredible,” Liukin tells ELLE. “But it’s the unparalleled mental strength that she has shown during the most difficult time of her life that make her the person she is.”

Just two days before the 2019 National Championships, John fell from a ladder while trimming a tree. He was paralyzed from the chest down. At the time, Graba thought Lee shouldn’t compete out of concern for her safety: A distracted athlete is a danger to themselves because they are much more likely to lose focus and get injured. It would have been a devastating end to a decade of training, as nationals are like an unofficial pre-qualifier for the Olympic Games. But John remained confident in his daughter’s ability to compete under pressure. Before Lee stepped onto the mat, they FaceTimed and he advised her to clear her mind—and remember to have fun. “She can stay focused when she puts her mind to it,” he says.

As John watched the competition from his hospital bed, beaming with pride, Lee won the silver in all-around competition, nailing one of the hardest bar routines in the world. One month later, at the U.S. World Championships selection camp, she came within four-tenths of a point of beating Simone Biles in the all-around—the closest anyone has come to Biles in years—and landed one step closer to fulfilling her Olympic dream.

In March 2020, Lee was scrolling through Twitter after practice when she saw the news: The Olympics were postponed, for the first time in modern history, due to COVID. Lee wiped tears away with chalky hands as years of carefully laid plans were thrown into limbo. “To have that taken away from us without having any control is very hard,” she says. “I went through a depressed phase, and it was hard to get out of.”

For weeks Lee could do little more than sleep and cry. Her gym was closed for three months— practically an eternity in the unforgiving timeline of an elite gymnast. When it did reopen in June, Lee broke her foot, meaning three more months of downtime. “If you were 100 percent ready for the 2020 Olympics, then you’re spending the year going, ‘Let’s just not get injured. Let’s just not make any mistakes,’” Graba says.

Lee found an unexpected source of comfort in Biles, who went from being her biggest competition to one of her closest friends after they competed in 2019. “She was there for me,” Lee says. During lockdown, they Snapchatted and texted—two of the only people in the world who truly understood the gut-punch of waiting another year for the Games to begin.

Then, as the country continued to face rising COVID rates in summer 2020, Lee’s own family was devastated by the virus. Her aunt and uncle—close family members who babysat her as a kid—both died of COVID less than two weeks apart. Lee’s uncle, a Hmong shaman, had helped heal her hurt foot with hot ginger and other herbal medicines. Like so many others did during the pandemic, Lee said goodbye over Zoom.

As the nation slowly starts to heal, so has Lee. She can now spot small silver linings from the past year, like spending more time with her siblings and driving her dad to doctor’s appointments, which she calls “good for me mentally, because typically I’m never with them.” It has taken months and months to get back to the peak shape she was in pre-pandemic, but now it’s full steam ahead. The U.S. Championships are the first week of June, and the Olympic trials are later that month. Lee says the extra year has strengthened her performance on the uneven bars and made her more consistent overall. “I just didn’t want to see myself fall back,” she says. “I don’t want to disappoint my coaches or my parents.”

Still, a spot on the team isn’t guaranteed. For the first time in history, U.S. women’s gymnastics has only four open spots (down from five at the 2016 Games), one of which will almost definitely go to Biles. At this point, it might be harder for a U.S. gymnast to make the Olympic team than it is to actually win a medal once they’re there.

Unsurprisingly, none of this seems to phase Lee. She is no stranger to finding the best version of herself under intense circumstances—the version that wins medals, defies gravity, and advocates for her community. Before falling asleep at night, she visualizes herself sticking a perfect landing and coming home as the first Hmong American Olympic gymnastics champion. History made.

#sunisa lee #i want nothing but good things for her

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