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beskarhearts · 3 years

Text

The Dragon (Din Djarin x reader)

gif credits @bestintheparsec

Connection series Pt. 13

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: cursing, canon typical violence/death, angst, mentions of death, chapter 2 spoilers

Word count: over 11.0 K

Summary: Having to kill a Krayt Dragon comes with many concerns and worries for you about Din and your future with him.

Notes: I FINALLY finished it! I am so sorry for such a long wait but last week was really quite the shit show for me so I didn’t have much time to write. I really hope you like this chapter and let me know what you think!

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“I think he might kill you.”

“He will be fine.”

“I don’t know. I mean, you did just volunteer his village to be appetizers for a Krayt Dragon.”

Din looked over at you, his helmet tilting. “We will be fine.”

You rolled your eyes. Din was always so sure and confident. It was one of the many characteristics you admired about the man. You wished you had the ability to conjure up such confidence in yourself and your plans. You didn’t know how he always did it (or how they somehow always worked out), but it was admirable and impressive. But he seemed to be taking it a step too far this time. It wasn’t that you weren’t confident in his abilities or sure that he was extremely capable. You knew he was stronger. Stronger than anybody else you knew. If anybody could do it, it could be him. But your fear was that this was simply impossible. The dragon seemed like too big of a task, especially for a group so small (and especially when said group hadn’t even agreed to the plan yet). At this point, you had watched this beast eat creatures larger than you and Din in one go like it hadn’t even noticed they were there. And you didn’t want to see the man you cared about so much because dinner for it. “This is too big.”

“We will get help.” Din calmly said, his voice holding no tinge of worry or fear. Sometimes it drove you crazy, his inability to express fear. You didn’t necessarily think he never felt it. Actually you know he had before, though it was always in very specific situations. But when it came to hunting or taking down something about a thousand times bigger than him, he didn’t seem to be scared. It was like it was second nature and you understood that on some level it was. Except this wasn’t a normal bounty or some group of scoundrels attacking him and the kid. This was a dragon. That ate people. And destroyed everything in its path. And the fact that that didn’t seem to scare him at all was mind boggling to you.

“What if Vanth’s village doesn’t volunteer? Are you going to keep being stubborn and insist on killing it yourself?” You retorted. You didn’t often get upset with Din. Getting mad at him honestly seemed hard to do with his patient and sure nature. Sure, there were little quirks that annoyed you but nothing that made you snap back and get mad. But right now your own fear was brewing inside of you more and more, eating you from the inside and peaking through in the way you spoke to Din. Seeing how large this dragon was truly supposed to be and hearing only bits and pieces of the Tuskens plans instilled no confidence in you. If anything, it only left you feeling hopeless. Din on the other hand seemed ready to go.

“I am not being stubborn.” Din quietly said, his helmet looking around as the village people made their way into the cantina in town. It had already seemed like such a long day but it was probably only noon, if that. You had only spoken to the Tuskens about a course of action for a little while because it seemed pretty clear: kill the dragon. The problem was that killing it required a lot of manpower and weapons. And those were two things Tuskens didn’t have much of and you and Din couldn’t supply. Vanth on the other hand could so Din had volunteered The marhsals town without asking for much permission. After a bickering match between the two, the three of you made your way back to the town to give them the game plan. But as you looked at the people funneling into the small building, all giving you weary eyes, you felt no reassurance that they would be willing to help. Or if their help would prove to be useful at all even if they gave it.

You looked back at Din, whose helmet was tilted down at you. The child was sat between you two, looking at the people passing by who gave him confused looks. “You are being stubborn. I respect your Creed and I don’t care about your helmet or how you live or anything but... do we really need this random armor so badly?”

Din froze, looking at you straight on and you suddenly felt ashamed, your cheeks flushing even darker than they already had been from the heat. You had always been extremely careful about what you said regarding his Creed and his way of life. You never wanting to offend him or make him think you cared about trivial things that would betray his loyalties to being a Mandalorian. You understood some people liked to live a certain way or had to. This was Din and you could accept all his little quirks with relatively no problem. But this seemed outrageous to you. It wasn’t like the armor would lead you directly to a Mandalorian. It would just sit on the ship, an empty shell, and you guys would once again have to start over and try to find a Mandalorian to help. Nearly dying for this seemed like a bizarre concept to you. But it didn’t to Din, and you knew it. If there was one thing he might of been more dedicated to than you and the child, it very possibly could of been his Creed. And if it said that Vanth couldn’t wear the armor because he wasn’t a Mandalorian, then he was going to get back the armor no matter what.

“You know what, forget I said that.” you mumbled, bringing your face to look down at your shoes instead of the intense gaze of the Mandalorian standing in front of you. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You expected Din to walk away, get started on explaining what had to go down with the people waiting in the cantina. But instead he remained stood in front of you, not moving an inch. “I won’t let anything hurt you two.”

You looked up at him and felt your heart soften. He didn’t even have to say it. You knew that was true, beyond any shadow of a doubt. He’d kill whatever he had to to keep you guys safe. But it wasn’t you or even the child that you were worried about. It was Din. You knew he would insist on being hands on with this and it made sense, considering his strength and abilities. But you couldn’t stop imaging him getting swallowed hole by this creature and everything being for nothing. “I’m not worried about us. I am worried about you.”

Din paused, looking back at you as if he had been frozen into a state of shock. Din wasn’t used to people being worried about him. He had never had someone who wanted him to be safe and to make it to bed every night in one piece. Someone who watched out for him. Someone who would hurt even more than he would if something happened to him. You understood that to some extent, having been alone for many years now with no one who really cared about your wellbeing. But this had been Din’s whole life and it took some adjusting to get used to that. To wrap his mind around what seemed to be such an incomprehensible thought to him, there mere idea of something caring about him being so bizarre.

Din finally cleared his throat and looked down at you. “I will do my best. It will be fine.”

You noted the way he didn’t make a false promise. Didn’t say nothing would happen to him or there was no risk or you were worrying about nothing. Din wasn’t the kind to do that and you were certainly not the type of woman to dumbly believe him if he had. But it still made your shoulders sag and your whole body curve into yourself. He was a noble man and while you knew he was doing this for the armor, he was also doing it being he was selfless. He saw a town that needed help and knew he could do something about it, or certainly as hell try his best to. And he wasn’t going to walk away because of the potential consequences that could result from doing the right thing.

“What do I do if something happens?” You barely were able to get the words out but Din heard them. He rested a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly but you kept your eyes trained on the ground as you tried to hold back your emotions.

“You will get the kid to a Jedi.”

You rolled your eyes and finally looked up at him. He shifted lightly, taking note of your reaction but not sure what he said wrong. You pulled away slightly and looked at him as plainly as you could. “Of course I will do that. I mean what will I do?”

You hated to sound so dependent, no needy. You had never been like that before. You had spent your whole life trying to become more independent and find yourself. But now you had found yourself and a part of you was in Din. And if anything happened to that part, you were afraid you would just lose yourself entirely. And that terrified you.

Before Din had the chance to respond, Vanth popped up in between the both of you. You looked over at him and took note of his nervous expression. He had expressed plenty how he didn’t have high hopes for a good response from his people, given their deep hatred for the Tuskens. And you saw that concern deeply etched into his face. “This isn’t going to work.”

“It will be fine.” Din said, repeating the very words he had said to you multiple times. But Vanth seemed to also take no comfort in them.

“They attacked us less than a year ago. Killed half a dozen of us by the mining camp. I’d say I took down about twice as many Tuskens.” Vanth said, looking at him incredulously. You wanted to side with Din, but you also found yourself hesitant to believe this town of people would push aside all the tension and hatred for the Tuskens and work side by side with them.

“The town respects you. My guess is, they’ll listen to reason.” Din explained.

Vanth lolled his head over to you and gave you a questioning look. “What do you think?”

You shrugged slightly and saw worry flash in his eyes at your significantly less confident response. “I mean, you’ve got to try at the very least. What is the worse that will happen?”

“I get run out of my own town and then they all get eaten by a dragon.” Vanth said plainly.

You shook your head and twisted your face up. “Well, that is pretty shit so let’s make sure your town agrees to this.”

“Great.” Vanth muttered as he turned, heading into the cantina.

Din turned to you, helmet tilted like he was belittling you and you scoffed. “What? We aren’t wrong!”

Din sighed and followed the marshal into the cantina. You grabbed the child and followed behind. Once you entered the building, you found yourself a little shocked. This was the most people you had seen in this town so far and you definitely hadn’t seen people meeting up to hang out or converse. The town had seemed completely dead, almost void of life. But now the room was full of a small group of people but instead of looking joyful to see their neighbors and get a drink, they all looked contemplative and concerned. You could practically feel the unease and tension in the room as they all gave their marshal and the strange Mandalorian weary looks. They also talked amongst themselves and you picked up bits and pieces of some conversations, hearing the word Mandalorian and dragon thrown around a couple of times. A few stray eyes even landed on you, gesturing their heads to where you and the kid stood before talking to the person beside.

Vanth and Din stood in front of the bar, looking over the crowd of people as their murmuring began to simmer into silence. You took a seat at the bar, holding the child tightly against you as the people looked at you three with expectant looks.

Vanth broke the silence and gestured a hand over to Din. “This here is a Mandalorian. You know what that means?”

The bartender earlier was the first to speak up. “Well, we’ve heard the stories.”

Vanth nodded before continuing on. “Then you know how good they are at killing. Now, this one’s got a problem. I got a suit o’ salvaged armor and the Mandalorian creed says it’s his to take.”

The people broke out into a small burst of murmuring, discontent looks and panicked voices filling the room. Vanth nodded, as if he himself was saddened by the idea of giving up the armor, but he began speaking again, capturing the attention of the room. “But I’ve got a problem, too. A Krayt Dragon has been peeling off our pack animals, and sometimes, taking our mining haul with it. It’s just a matter of time before it grows tired of Banthas and goes after a couple of you townsfolk, or even, so help us, the school.”

The muttering became a little louder as fear filled the people, all concerned at the prospect of the creature that terrorized them doing even worse and possibly attacking their families and children. You saw some disapprovingly shake their heads and for the smallest second, you felt hope. You saw the desperation in their faces, their fear and anguish. They wanted to get rid of this dragon. No, needed to. You just hoped they were not stubborn enough to refuse the assistance of the Tuskens who were also their sworn enemies.

“As much as I’ve grown fond of the armor, I’m even more fond of this town.” You looked over at Vanth and you felt the authentic concern for his people. You could say what you wanted about the man but it was undeniable that he cared for his town and his people. It may of been small, but it was his to protect and serve. That loyalty was something you could admire and you imagined that same loyalty was what made all these people listen to him so intently with such trust and reliance. “The Mandalorian is willing to help us slay the leviathan in exchange for returning the armor to its ancestral owners.”

People in the crowd began to nod, the bartender chipping in again with a “Well, that settles it.” You felt yourself begin to smile softly but you held back, knowing the worst part of this agreement was yet to come and could very likely make all the people storm out.

“There’s more.” Vanth spoke out, causing the people’s smiles to drop as they took in his change in demeanor. “We can’t take on the Krayt alone. And the Sand People are willing to help.”

There it was. Immediately, you saw the enraged looks strike on all their faces, looking up at the three of you angrily. A few even began to rise from their seats, shouting out words of hate and disbelief. The agreement that had been there mere seconds ago had dissipated entirely.

“They raid our mines!” one man yelled.

“They’re monsters!” The bartender shouted in agreement.

Din turned to look at you for a moment and you gave him a small shrug. You didn’t mean to be cocky but “I told you so” was written all over your face, along with a solemn look. If these people refused to help, Din would insist on doing this with just himself and the Tuskens and Maker knows what would happen then. He turned away from you and you both looked over to Vanth, who looked defeated.

“I’ve seen the size of that thing, it will swallow your entire town when the fancy hits it. You’re lucky Mos Pelgo isn’t a sand field already.” Din spoke out. You raised an eyebrow slightly, feeling a little shocked. You don’t think you’d ever seen Din speak to such a large group of people but hearing him talk to them all was fitting. He naturally took command of all of their attention, his deep voice causing all the others to fade away slowly as they turned to look at him curiously. He exuded the same confidence that had frustrated you earlier, but was now serving a better purpose for the townspeople.

“I know these people. They are brutal. But so is the Dune Sea. They’ve survived for thousands of years in these sands and they know the Krayt Dragon better than anyone here. They are raiders, it’s true. But they also keep their word.” He continued, giving a small pause as the room looked up at him with speculation and interest. “We have struck a deal. If we are willing to leave them the carcass and its ichor, they will stand by our side in battle and vow never to raise a blaster against this town until one of you breaks the peace.”

You waited for the yelling and shouting to resume, for people to begin walking out of the building. But instead the townspeople looked at each other, contemplating their fate and whether to trust this plan, strumming their fingers along the tables as their eyebrows furrowed. Slowly, a few people began to nod and the rest slowly and somewhat reluctantly joined in solemn agreement. You swore you saw Vanth let out a big sigh of relief as he looked over at Din in gratitude. Din began to back up from the center of the room, making his way over to you as Vanth took center stage and began to lay out the plan in more detail.

“You did well. Like really well.” You whispered to Din as he looked down at you and the child sat in your lap, who cooed at him with big eyes.

“You sound shocked.” Din said and you chuckled.

“I admit I wasn’t the most confident that they’d be willing to help.” you admitted and Din nodded.

“They are desperate. They need this more than we do.”

You nodded in agreement, looking up at him. You wanted to grab his hand that had made it’s way to rest on the bar’s counter but you refrained from doing so, not wanting to engage that way publicly. “Mando?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really think this is going to work?”

Din looked up from the child and aimed his visor at you. “Yeah. Now that they are joining forces, I think it will work.”

You looked up as all the people began to rise from their seats and funnel out of the building, all looking a little more hopeful than before but still somewhat worried or frustrated with the conditions they had agreed to. Vanth made his way to you two and let out a big sigh.

“You okay?” you asked and Vanth gave you a grunt.

“I need a drink.” he said and you gave a small chuckle. You handed the child to Din, who looked up at him happily as he was taken into his arms, and reached over the counter to grab a bottle of spotchka.

You handed it to the marshal, going to look for a cup next but finding yourself amused when he just brought the bottle right to his lips and drank straight from it. He eventually lowered the glass and let out another sigh, but you think this one was from relief. “That’s better.”

“What are they doing?” Din asked, his mind seeming to be solely focused on the mission ahead.

“Gonna start gathering supplies before the Tuskens show up.” He paused and looked over at Din. “I really hope you know what you are doing.”

“Tuskens are the experts here.” Din responded.

Vanth grimaced. “That makes me feel better.”

He placed the bottle back down on the counter and you and Din followed him to the entryway. Sure enough, the people had been quick to work and were grabbing crates and boxes from a shed. Vanth didn’t look over at the two of you but spoke once again. “Think it’ll work?”

“It better. Joining forces is their only hope.” Din responded.

“It is.” you agreed and Vanth nodded, lifting himself off the frame of the entry and walking onto the deck, watching as people began to lift what looked like explosives from some of the crates.

You began to hear mumbling amongst the people as all their heads whipped to look to their left. You eyes followed up to find a single file line of Tuskens beginning to make their way into the town, all sat upon Banthas. They eventually made their way in and all froze, looking into the faces of the fearful townspeople.

“Well, boys. I believe it is show time.” You muttered and Vanth gave out a grunt.

“I believe it is.” He agreed. You gave him a small pat on the back as the three of you made your way towards the two groups of people. You had initially thought one of you would have to step in but to your surprise, the Tuskens began to jump off their Banthas, reaching over to begin helping the people of Mos Pelgo unload their cargo. You looked over at Din in shock but he only watched the interactions, the child joining in and looking at the Banthas with much interest. You couldn’t see his face, but you swore you could feel a confident smile radiating off him in waves.

The people were hesitant at first and while they still gave the Tuskens curious and questioning gazes, the two groups began to fall in a rhythm as they began to hand each other the white canisters to store on the side of the Banthas. You even walked over, joining and trying to instill some confidence in the people as you smiled up at the Tuskens, who merely nodded to you in acknowledgement. You bent down and began helping a woman who lived in town with handing some of the white explosives to a Tusken. The woman gave you a small look but nodded as she accepted your help, seeming to not have a problem with you but rather the Tuskens who she kept giving the side eye to.

You both worked in silence until she began to speak. “You help come up with this stupid idea?”

You let out a small chuckle at the inflection of her voice and the way she raised an eyebrow at you dubiously. “I admit I wasn’t the biggest fan of this plan initially.”

“Why? Cause it’s going to get us all killed?” She asked roughly.

You looked up at her. Her face was twisted into some kind of inexplicable emotion, seeming to encompass a wide range of emotions, some of which you couldn’t pinpoint. But the one thing that seemed to stand out to you was the smallest sliver of hope you could see in her eyes. You didn’t think she was asking this to be argumentative or wanting to start a confrontation. As far as she knew, she saw you with the Mandalorian and Vanth and figured you knew what was happening and the likelihood of this going well. She was looking for something to hold on to, someone to confirm that this plan wasn’t a death sentence. You guessed you had given Din the same look earlier. And while his answer itself hadn’t been very reassuring, his confidence as he spoke to the people had been. He believed in this plan and you knew that he thought that if everyone could work together, this was possible. And even though you were scared, you knew Din. And if he trusted it, you had to.

So you gave the woman a confident nod that probably eerily matched the one Din always gave you, even offering up a small smile. “As long as we work together, we are fine. We need to just push aside our differences and find some peace.”

“Differences?” She snorted. She looked away from the Tusken and whispered to you. “They kill our people.”

“And they look at you as people who stole their land and water. To them, you are just as great of a threat.” You reasoned. A hint of realization seemed to flash across her face. “Not everything is so black and white.”

The woman nodded and gave you a mysterious look. “You always this smart?”

You let out a chuckle. “Oh, Maker, no. I am a dumb ass most of the time.”

The joke seemed to get rid of any tension there had been, her laughter joining in with yours as her eyes crinkled up. You found yourself enjoying the moment but it was cut off as shouting rang out.

“What, are you trying to blow the whole place up? What? Is that what you want?” you heard a townsperson yelling and your head whipped up to find a man staring up at a Tusken who seemed to take each word as a personal insult (even though he couldn’t even understand the language).

“Oh, shit...” you mumbled and the woman looked over at you.

“What were you saying about peace?” she sarcastically said to you and you gave her a small smirk, enjoying her joking nature.

You made your way to the two right as Vanth pushed past the Tusken who looked ready to fight. “Take it easy. It was an accident, okay?” the marshal said, but neither of the two looked convinced.

“What do you want to do?!” The man shouted back, anger flashing in his eyes.

You watched Din begin to near the situation, studying the situation.

“It was an accident!” Vanth repeated sternly. The townsperson seemed to back down, but a weary look now hit all the townspeople at the first hint of confrontation.

The two got back to work, along with the rest of the people. Vanth looked up at Din and scoffed. “It’s gonna be great.” he sarcastically muttered.

__________________

You wouldn’t say things were going great so far, but they seemed to be going smoothly at the very least. Everybody had reached the cave, standing a far distance back from it but beginning to prepare for the battle to come as they unpacked all their supplies from the Banthas. Some people looked prepared for battle with determined looks. Others look not quite so convinced and pretty hesitant. You were stood next to the woman you had been talking to earlier, whose named you learned was Jo, and she gave you a critical look. “That is where that thing lives?”

“Yup.” you replied.

“Great. This should be a piece of cake. We won’t die at all.” she muttered.

Jo and you watched as a single Tusken approached the cave very slowly, down on the knees and pressing his hand into the sand. He looked like he was intently listening and the townspeople and other Tuskens fell silent as they watched him intently. Cobb and Din stood a few feet ahead, speaking to themselves and you nearly let out a chuckle at the sight. Just yesterday Din had been exchanging short, curt words with the man but now upon first glance, they looked like two pals just having a chat with each other.

“That Mandalorian a friend of yours?” Jo asked, making you tear you eyes away to look at her.

“Something like that.” you let out until you remembered the discussion you had had with Din just the night before. “Partners, actually.”

You couldn’t help the small quirk of your lips, causing you to have a lopsided smile that made Jo give you a smirk of her own. She didn’t address the word you had used, seeming to understand. “What about the small green thing?”

You looked over at the child, who was sat in the pouch on Din’s side with his small wrinkled head poking out, eyes looking into the cave with equal parts wonder and fear. “That is his kid.”

Jo raised her eyebrow. “Does he look like that thing under all that metal?”

You let out a chuckle, having remembered how you had asked him a similar question shortly after you two met. “Maker, I hope not.” you joked.

Jo let out a chuckle, shaking her head at you. Both of you turned to look to the side as you watched Din approach, hearing the kid’s cooing as his eyes landed on you. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Jo said before walking off to help the others.

Din stopped a couple feet in front of you and you stepped forward, grabbing the child and holding him in your arms. He gave a small, soft sigh as he cuddled into you. Normally when you two were on the ship, you would spent a majority of the day playing with him and holding him. But with how busy it had been the last few days, it hadn’t given you a lot of time with the small child and you could tell he had noticed. “Aw, poor baby. Not getting enough attention, are you?” you cooed softly to the child.

One of his ears perked up as he seemed to let out a small noise in response, grabbing at your hair with one of his small, stubby hands like he loved to do so often. “I think the kid likes the attention being on him.” you said to Din who shook his head in agreement.

“Yeah, he does.” Din said and you let out a small chuckle. “You made a friend?”

You looked up at Din, who’s helmet was aimed towards Jo and gave a shrug. “I like her. She is convinced we are gonna die, but otherwise she has a very cheery disposition.” You sarcastically joked. “How about you and Vanth? I’m pretty sure you guys are going to start making friendship bracelets for each other any second.”

Din aimed his helmet back on you, tilting it slightly and you couldn’t help but to chuckle at his reaction. “I don’t know about that, sweet one.”

“Well if you do, I will only be slightly jealous.” You teased and Din finally let out a small chuckle. You looked over his shoulder, seeing the townspeople and Tuskens working together in a rushed but organized manner, handing each other supplies and putting Banthas in their places. “What is the plan?”

“The only weak spot of this thing is it’s belly.”

“So we have to blow it up from below?” you asked.

“Exactly.” Din confirmed.

“And we do that by?”

“We bury the explosives in the sand, wake it up, and then...” Din trailed off and you gave a grunt.

“I’m not going to like this part, am I?”

Din gave you a small nod of the helmet. “No. But we’ve got to get it angry and make it charge at us.”

Your jaw dropped only slightly as you look up at him in bewilderment. “That sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve heard. We’ve seen that thing when it’s not even pissed but just hungry!”

“We just need to get the stomach above the explosives and hit the detonator. We don’t even have to be that close.” Din reasoned.

“I’m pretty sure being anywhere near this thing is too close.” You countered. You attention was broken from a loud sound and you looked over to find people wheeling out what looked like giant crossbows, aiming the massive arrows right at the mouth of the cave. You saw Jo and a few other towns people digging holes and dropping the white explosives into them, setting them up and powering the detonators for use.

Before you had the chance to go on, Vanth walked up to the two of you. “You catching her up with the plan?” Vanth asked Din.

“Oh, you mean the suicide mission?” you interrupted, sarcastically directing your question at Vanth who let out a small sigh and gave you an unconvincing smile.

“It’s our best bet. And I’m just trusting your partner here to not get us killed.” Vanth replied.

“We will be fine.” Din said once again, a hint of exasperation in his tone from repeating the same phrase for what must of been the hundredth time that day.

“Let me get this straight.” You started. “We have explosives, a few crossbows, a handful of Banthas, some Tuskens who have never successfully defeated one of these things, and some townspeople, who no offense, but have very limited experience and no clue what they are doing?”

“And a Mandalorian.” Vanth finished, a grin now gracing his features as he found amusement in your tone.

You gave a small chuckle, not being able to help yourself with the outrageousness of the situation. “Well then, boys, this sounds like a great way to spend the day.”

As you finished your sentence, Jo walked up the the three of you. She held a detonator out to Cobb, giving him a hesitant smile. “Careful, Marshal.”

Vanth grabbed the button from her hand and gave her a small nod. “Thank you, Jo. And you stay safe, hun.”

Jo gave a nod before walking off, giving you one last small smile before she joined the other townspeople. Before you had the chance to ask what was next, you joined everybody in watching three Tusken Raiders steadily make their way towards the cave. You felt a chill run down your spine as you watched the scene. Next to the entrance of the cave, the Raiders looked minuscule. Like flecks of sand. Which meant nothing good as for the size of the creature within it.

You held your breath as they all paused at the mouth of it. A moment of heavy silence rang throughout the area, everybody including Tusken and townspeople alike staring at the scene with a burning curiosity and trembling fear. The three held their hands up to their mouths and loudly yelled in their language, in hopes to wake the creature up. Part of you hoped it would be a deep sleeper and not rise from its slumber, but a growl was emitted from within the cave that sounded more menacing than you could of even imagined. You winced as everybody seemed to freeze up with the deep rumble of the sound. While you remained frozen in your spot, the three Tuskens began to run away from the cave as soon as they were aware they had awoken the creature.

You squinted your eyes, waiting to see the dragon peak through. You almost worried for a moment it was going to stay in the cave until the enormous head of it popped out of the sand, the force of it sending a rumble through the ground that shook your legs. You watched with wide eyes as the crossbow-like devices began to shoot at the beast but in comparison to it, they looked like tooth picks rather than huge arrows. The creature seemed to not even notice them as they hit against his thick hide, not even when a few metal ones pierced into his head. His sights seemed to only be set upon the creatures who had dared awake him.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as one of them tripped and stumbled, falling behind the other two who continued to run away. “No!” you yelled out but your voice seemed to drown out with the sound of the Tuskens yelling and the dragon.

The dragon crashed down onto the Tusken that had fallen, swallowing him whole as he sank back into the sand. You watched as he began to slither back. “What the hell?” you muttered.

Din seemed equally as frustrated as you, watching the scene through a spyglass. “Dank farrik. It’s going back in.”

You looked over at Cobb, hoping perhaps they had a plan for this but a terror-stricken look was the only thing you found, his face paled in horror. He didn’t even look over at you, merely staring at the creature who had eaten a man like it was nothing.

Some of the Raiders held onto the ropes of the few arrows that had managed to puncture the beast, but it seemed to be no use as they were dragged along the sand like little play things. A few Tuskens ran after the ones being dragged as townspeople shot at the dragon, though you assumed most of them knew it was a fruitless effort. Nothing seemed to have an effect on this dragon like everyone had hoped and it hadn’t even made it to the explosives.

If you couldn’t even get it to where it was supposed to go, how the hell were you supposed to kill it?

“It’s retreating.” Din said.

You let out a loud curse, shaking your head in frustration. “Dammit! This thing is smarter than we thought.”

“I’m going to hit it.” Vanth said and you both looked over to see him looking down at the detonator in his hands.

“No. Wait, we only have one shot. We’ve got to get it out.” Din explained. Part of you wanted Vanth to just blow the sucker up, but you also didn’t want to pull the trigger too early. If the weak spot was only in one place, you couldn’t risk wasting all the explosives preemptively.

The Tuskens and people didn’t give up though. If anything, they seemed to grow more determined. Perhaps they knew this was their one chance or maybe adrenaline was simply coursing through their systems. But they all joined together to throw grenades at the creature and shoot at it, their primary goal to make it come out of its cave more and get it in the perfect spot.

And luckily, it seemed to be working. The only downside was it pissed off the dragon who now was heading right towards the people, letting out loud screeches that made your ears ring. It opened its jaw wide, preparing to swallow the people whole who began to run away, a few brave ones still throwing things at it in an attempt to get it further out.

The dragon just barely missed the people, it’s teeth and head crashing into sand again. “Now?” you asked Din, yelling over the noise of the dragon wreaking havoc.

“Not yet. It’s gotta come out further.”

Cobb seemed to hold on even tighter to the detonator as he watched more Tuskens shoot hooks into its head, grabbing on to them and trying to pull it further. This time, the Krayt took notice and threw its head back, causing the brave Raiders who had held onto the rope to be catapulted into the sky. You winced at the sight, thinking it couldn’t get worse. Until it began spitting.

You narrowed your eyes, wishing you had a spyglass like Din had as you looked at the scene. It took a moment but you realized it wasn’t just saliva, but rather some venom that seemed to be killing people upon immediate impact. Your eyebrows shot up the top of your head as you looked over at Din and yelled. “No one mentioned venom!”

He totally ignored you, keeping his eye looking through the spyglass held in his hand. He watched the creature slam its head into the sand again and began yelling. “Almost, almost. Now!”

Vanth immediately clicked the button and instantly a huge explosion rang out. The loudest roar yet was released and seemed to echoed as sand splattered everywhere, the people closest to the creature ducking from the flying debris. You narrowed your eyes as you looked into the explosion. The creature led out a pained roar as it sunk back into the sand and you felt any bit of hope from earlier dissipate.

The people and Tuskens began to step forward and investigate the area where the Krayt dragon had once been but you were already shaking your head in disappointment.

“I don’t think it’s dead.” Vanth said cautiously.

“It’s not. It’s still alive. Dank farrik!” you shouted, feeling every hair on your body stand up as your nerves tore through you.

You didn’t have a moment to properly ask Din what was next when another rumble rang out and your heat dropped into your chest. “They need to move back!”

Instead, everyone looked up at the cliff above the cave, where the sound was coming from. In a matter of seconds, the Krayt dragon smashed out of the rock and looked as angry as ever, spraying it’s venom from a much more effective angle that lead to more devastation that you had hoped for.

“It’s picking us off like womp rats! Let’s get after it.” Vanth yelled out, grabbing his rifle and putting his helmet on his head.

You looked at the two and realized what the plan was immediately. “Dammit, don’t you two dare-“

Before you even had the chance to finish, the two men were shooting in the sky with their jet packs. The child and you both watched from your spot on the ground as they landed on a ledge and you let out a curse. “Oh, your dad is totally buying me a fucking jet pack.”

You didn’t mean to curse with the kid so nearby but anger was the way your fear was coming out. But not even using your upset to try to mask the fear that struck through you as watch the two men shoot at the dragon with the rifle seemed to work. Your voice trembled and your hands shook. All you were able to do was grab a rifle but you were no help from here. If anything, you might just screw up whatever mad plan Din had if you shot at it.

On the other hand, you couldn’t just watch. You stared in shock as the two men continued shooting until the head of the dragon finally whipped towards them. You winced and looked away, not wanting to see what would happen. “Maker, Force, whatever is out there: please don’t let him die. I haven’t even told the idiot I love him.”

You hadn’t realized you were saying the words out loud until the kid cooed up at you, as if agreeing with your plea. You were about to console the kid when you saw the two flying back to the ground out of the corner of your eye.

“Stay here, kid!” You yelled, running full speed to the area where they had landed, rifle tightly gripped in your hand. The Dragon was slinking back, away from the gun shots, but you thought at that point all of you were aware that this wasn’t the end of the terror this monster would impose.

As soon as you made it to the men, Din whipped his helmet over at you. “Get away!” he yelled at you.

You rolled your eyes, trying to not let him notice the way your legs wobbled and your worry could be seen in your eyes. “Screw off! I promise to protect you, idiot. Can’t let you get eaten by a damn dragon!”

Din didn’t have a chance to argue further when the three of you heard a rumble behind you. You all turned around to find the dragon had once again emerged and was steadily making its way to you three and the rest of the people left.

“There he is.” Din said and you couldn’t help but to think ‘no shit’.

You looked over at Din, waiting to see what he had planned as the dragon continued to quickly tear through the Tuskens and towns people in its way. You caught the way his helmet looked over at a Bantha a few feet away and you looked over at it, instantly seeing what caught his attention.

“Mando, what are you doing?”

He looked back at you quickly. “I’ve got an idea. Get its attention.”

Your eyes widened slightly and you tried your best to sternly look at him. “What is the plan?!”

Din paid no attention to your question. Vanth went along immediately, shooting off a back rocket that landed right into the beasts head and causing an explosion. The pained roar it let out was so loud it made your ears ring but you paid no mind, lifting your rifle and shooting at its head, trying your best to help.

“We’ve got its attention. Now what?” Vanth asked as the creatures head turned to look directly at the three of you. You sucked in a deep breath as it’s eyes seemed to burn into you like the venom in its mouth. Oh, shit. You were going to die.

“You still have that detonator?” Din asked.

Vanth tossed it to Din. “Take it.”

You looked at Din. “What’s the plan?”

Din froze for just a second, almost so quickly that most wouldn’t notice it but you did. Noticed the way his helmet looked straight into you like his eyes were burning a whole into your chest. You felt your whole chest squeeze tight. “You’re gonna take care of the child.”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes seemed to instantly start to water, your hands balling into fists. You told him. You knew it. He was going to get himself killed for a set of armor. For a damn town that you hadn’t even heard of until a few days ago. You wanted to damn his honorable courage and his need to help others. You wanted to slam your fists into him and drag him away from this whole scene, pretend like it had never even happened.

But you knew Din too well. And that was never going to happen. It was part of the reason you loved him but it was also the reason why you knew it would always be a risk that you’d lose him. Whether it was to be a good man, for his Creed, or for you and the kid. This was the kind of man he was.

And you knew it. But it still didn’t ease the pain you felt.

“Dammit, Mando! You are going to get yourself killed!” you yelled, now registering a tear running down your cheek.

Din looked away, as if he couldn’t handle seeing you. Vanth grabbed onto your arm and began pulling you back. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

“Grab her!” Din demanded.

You tried to pull away but Vanths arms wrapped around you, pulling him tight against his chest. You tried to tug away but you don’t know if he was too strong or your pain was making you weaker, but it was a fruitless effort.

“What’s the plan?” Vanth repeated, holding onto you tight. You looked at Din with wide eyes. You needed the answer. You needed to know he had a plan, one that was reasonable or at the very least possible. You couldn’t have him going in with no course of action and a death wish. But your heart plummeted at his answer.

“I don’t know, but wish me luck.”

You grunted and tried to tear away again, but with no result. “MANDO, NO!”

You didn’t have the chance to see his reaction before he slammed the butt end of his rifle into Vanths jet pack. The man instantly clutched onto you tighter than you had ever been held before, both of you lifting up instantly as you began to soar into the sky and away from Din.

You tried to find him but your eyes were now full of watery tears and you were slamming back too quickly so everything was just a frenzy of sights. It wasn’t until you both slammed into the ground far away from where you had once been that you desperately dragged yourself away from Cobb and crawled onto your knees.

Your eyes instantly landed onto Din. Your mouth went completely dry and you felt your breath being sucked into your body as you found him right next to the Banth, whose explosives were being activated. The dragon headed straight for the two and you let out a strangled scream. “He is gonna kill him! STOP!”

But it was no use. Din probably couldn’t hear you and even if he did, it wouldn’t stop him. Vanth crawled up the you and grabbed onto you. You didn’t know if he was trying to hold you back or if he was simply steadying himself, but you felt yourself drop into him like your body had stopped working.

You wanted to look away. You probably should have in all honestly. You probably should of found the child and covered his eyes, shielded him from the travesty you were all witness to. But you couldn’t tear them away from Din, watching the man standing there and not moving or making any effort to run.

Time seemed to go in slow motion and you didn’t know what was happening. You felt like you were outside of your body as you finally watched the Dragon reach them and swallow the Bantha and Din whole, like it didn’t care that it had taken what had become your whole world.

You couldn’t even hear the scream you let out, or feel the way your body fell into the sand. You couldn’t feel Vanth slip his helmet off and hold onto you. Didn’t see the way the dragon slipped back into the sand. Didn’t hear the silence that fell over what had been a war zone, all the Tuskens and townspeople that remained watching in shock at what had happened. Didn’t see the Tuskens that approached where the monster had slithered back into the sand and taken Din with it. Couldn’t hear or see the way the child whined in his pouch, not even realizing that the only father he had was gone.

All you felt was a piercing pain. A familiar one. The same one you felt the night your family died. The same one you swore to never feel again, even if that meant never caring for a person again because the pain was too much and it would consume you completely the next time. You had let yourself feel with Din and he was gone. Just like everyone you cared about.

You didn’t even hear the rumble and almost didn’t even see the way the Dragons head had poked back out of the sand. Once your brain registered what you were seeing, you broke even more. Din had killed himself and it hadn’t even worked.

You saw the creature open its mouth and prepared for it to swallow more innocent people whole. Then you realized it wasn’t going to swallow something. Something was coming back up.

You lifted yourself onto your knees and Vanth pulled back. “Holy shit.” he muttered.

Your brain could barely process it. It seemed so fast. Din was flying out of the creatures mouth and within a few seconds after that, an explosion set off within the creature that sent out a huge shockwave, knocking both you and Vanth back onto your behinds.

You pulled yourself up as quickly as you could and watched Din land on the ground and turn to look at the creature he had slayed, his armor dripping in the venom.

Vanth stood up and had a big grin on his face, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked at the Mandalorian. The towns people and Tuskens also let out sounds of joy, whooping and cheering at a victory they thought was impossible.

But you were still feeling the numb aftereffects of the incomprehensible pain that had torn through you. You didn’t smile, only brought yourself up on shaky legs and kept your eyes on Din, as if he would disappear if you looked away.

Vanth began to walk towards the people celebrating and the Mandalorian hero. The townspeople made their way to examine the carcass. But you just turned away and made your way to the child in the sac.

He looked up at you eagerly, also seeming overwhelmed from everything happening. You picked him up and grabbed onto him, holding him tightly to your chest as he made soft noises in response. You closed your eyes and made yourself breathe in and out calmly.

————

It had been a while and by now the Tuskens were digging in the flesh of the beast and spreading its carcass apart to harvest what they wanted. The Mandalorian made his way towards your direction, holding a large piece of Krayt Dragon meat which the child stared at with much interest. If you were in a better mood like the others were, you would probably have laughed at the childs willingness to eat anything. But you felt like you couldn’t even laugh if you wanted to and turned away, continuing to hold the child tightly.

You heard his footsteps near and heard the slap of the meat as he dropped it onto his speeder. He was only a couple few behind you but you still didn’t turn. You couldn’t look at him yet. You didn’t know what you would do. Instead you avoided his gaze and tucked the child back into his pouch.

“I’m sorry for-“

“Don’t.” you interrupted, hissing the world more harshly than you intended.

You heard Din freeze behind you and you let out a big sigh, finally daring to look at him. He seemed to have wiped most of the venom off his armor but a sticky residue seemed to be left on it that would require further cleaning (something you certainly as hell wouldn’t be doing). His helmet was aimed straight at you and you wanted to tell him to look away, anywhere else. But you just looked right back at him, you jaw set and your eyes looking straight into his visor.

“You... you should of said something.” you finally muttered out. You intended to sound much firmer but your voice croaked out the words.

“I didn’t have time.” Din argued.

“Didn’t have time to tell me you were going to get swallowed by that thing?” Din froze and you rolled your eyes. “I thought you died.”

“I didn’t though.” Din said, sounding confused.

“It doesn’t matter!” you said back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You could have. Hell, I don’t know how you didn’t. I mean, did you even think you were going to make it?”

The silence that followed your question was answer enough and you let out a strangled chuckle, not finding anything funny but your body didn’t seem to know how to react. “Not even a warning, Din. A goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have time.” he repeated.

“What if that had been it? Last thing you say is wish me luck and then you get swallowed by a creature unnecessarily?!”

“It wasn’t unnecessary. We needed to kill it.” Din seemed to be growing slightly more frustrated but still keeping his cool.

“No, Din. We all could of accepted our losses and turned around.”

“And let that town and those people die?” Din asked.

You froze at the question but quickly regained your composure, blinking away any logic. “They could of moved. Somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t have a fucking dragon hunting them down.”

“Now they don’t need to move and there is no dragon hunting them. That is good.”

You finally looked away from, wanting to bury your face into your hands. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

You faced your body to look at him. “Is this gonna be your thing? We land somewhere, people need your help, and you put yourself in a situation where you aren’t just risking getting hurt, but risking loosing your life? Because I can’t handle that.”

“I can’t just not help these people.” Din argued. You understood the logic. You supposed if you were in a position like his you probably would have acted similarly. If you’ve got the tools to help others, why not use them? And with his past and everything he had lost, he understood how things could harm people and cause everlasting trauma. So if he could prevent that happening to someone else, why the hell not do it? No matter the risk.

“Why do these people mean more to you than me?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. It was a selfish question. Perhaps all you were being was selfish but it seemed like a justifiable question to ask. Because all you worried about was him. Losing him or hurting him or him hurting himself or a million other things that could happen. And he didn’t seem to even think twice about you or what would happen today. Hadn’t even said goodbye, just in case.

Din let out a small sigh and tried to reach a hand out for you but you pulled away. He lowered his helmet before looking back down at you. “They don’t mean more to me.”

“Really? Because you gave me a heart attack today! I thought I lost you. I thought I lost the thing I care about most again.” You could now feel tears begin to leak at the corner of your eyes. You wanted to stop, brush them away, but you couldn’t.

“I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t try.” Din said but you shook your head.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come back.”

Din froze. “Don’t say that.”

“I can’t have you do this.”

“Then you shouldn’t have agreed to be with me!” Din responded and you looked up in shock, raising an eyebrow.

“What does that mean?”

“You knew what I am. What I did. I am a bounty hunter. I am a Mandalorian. Putting my life at risk is part of the life. You can’t expect me to give that up.”

“You aren’t just a bounty hunter or a Mandalorian anymore! You are a father to this kid now, no matter how much you don’t want to admit it because it scares you.” Din looked down at the kid briefly, who looked up at the two of you in confusion. “And you are a person who... who I love!”

Din froze and you realized it was the first time you had said it out loud. You knew you had loved him for a while. And sure, you two had shown each other your love in various ways. But the words hadn’t actually left either of your mouths. It had seemed to scary to do. But it had happened before you could think about it and it seemed to open a floodgate within you.

“I love you, Din. I love you so much and I care about you so much. I just want you to be safe and I want you to make it to the bed on the Crest with me every night in one piece. I want to know what is happening and I know you aren’t used to it, but we need that communication.” You took in a deep breath before continuing. “I want to have a future with you. I want you to be able to want a future that doesn’t just consist of bounty hunting for the rest of your days until you get killed. I’ve never wanted this with anyone else but I want to settle down with you and get married or something and hell maybe even pop out a few of your kids and get old.

“And maybe it is too early to say this or you don’t want any of that, but I do. That is all I want. All I want is you. And the kid. And fine, you need to be brave and try your best to safe people because you know the world won’t do it because it’s a shitty place. But you need to let me in a little more and let me help or... fuck, I don’t know. Try not to put yourself in situations where you are literally getting swallowed whole!”

You finally finished, not realizing you were panting until a silence filled between you two that made your whole body freeze up. You had just laid a lot on Din. And you were worried it was too much. He was good with you but he still sometimes had a hard time communicating with you properly. It wasn’t his strong suit and a conversation like this was enough that you were worried you had scared him away.

“I love you.”

You felt your chest tighten up. He said it loud and clearly, without any hesitancy. He had said it like he meant it wholeheartedly and had said it plainly, like he often spoke about things that were obvious and completely true.

“Yeah?” you quietly asked and Din nodded.

“I love you, sweet one.” Din paused for a moment before continuing. “I understand what you are saying. I will be more careful and I wasn’t trying to cut you out. Everything today was just... so fast.”

You nodded slowly. “You just... you scared the hell out of me.”

Din finally grabbed onto your arms and you let him. “I’m sorry. I will try to be better about that. I’m still not really used to having somebody around.”

“I know.” you said softly.

You almost thought he was done until he spoke again, much softer and quieter. “I want all of that too.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that broke out onto your face. “Yeah?”

“Yes. It all sounds... great.”

You grinned a little bigger. “It does. But you will have to, y’know, survive in order for it to happen.”

Din nodded. “I will try my best while we get the kid to his kind. And then after that, we can start it.”

“Start what?”

“Our future.”

Your heart melted like mutter and you leaned into his strong grip. “That is... all stuff you want?”

“Nothing sounds better.”

You wanted desperately to rip his helmet off and plant a big kiss on his lips, convey to him physically how you were feeling. But instead you opted for a smile and small nod. “Well then that sounds like a plan.”

“Sorry to interrupt, love birds. But I have something you probably want.” you both looked over at Vanth, who had managed to make his way to the two of you without you noticing. In his hands he held the armor you had both come for in the first place. He gave a small smile of appreciation as he shoved it towards Din, who grabbed it slowly. “It was well-earned.”

“You can say that again.” you sarcastically mumble and Vanth let out a chuckle, nodding his head in agreement.

The Mandalorian reached out a hand and Vanth grasped, shaking it firmly.

They both let go and Vanth turned towards you, giving you a big smile. “It was an absolutely pleasure meeting you.”

You gave him a lopsided grin. “Well, dont I feel special?”

Vanth laughed. “You definitely are. That’s for sure.” he looked over at Din. “You are lucky. Treat her well.”

“I will.” Din said firmly.

“Oh, he definitely will. If he doesn’t I’ll make sure he suffers.” you teased.

Vanth gave you a grin. “I think I’m going to miss your humor.”

“If you need a good joke, bother Jo.”

“I’ll take note of that.” Vanth said before opening his arms out. You gladly gave him a big hug and he patted a hand on your back before pulling away.

“I hope our paths cross again.” he said.

“As do I.” Din said.

“Hopefully under much better circumstances.” you said.

Vanth shook his head in agreement. “Now you can say that again.” The Marshal began to turn around but paused for a moment, pointing the armor. “Oh, and you tell your people I wasn’t the one that broke that.”

The man then walked away, towards his townspeople.

You stood next to Din and watched them all gather together, joyful smiles on their faces. You caught a brief glimpse of Jo who smiled at you, giving a wave which you reciprocated.

“Y’know, I actually like that marshal.” you said.

“Me too.” Din agreed and you smiled.

“Look at you, being a social butterfly.” you teased and Din chuckled.

You both turned at the sound of commotion, all of the Tuskens cheering in joy as they pull what looked like a large pearl out of the dragon. Even a few townspeople joined in on the celebrating, looking at the item. You watched the two groups of people who had once not been able to stand next to each other now communicate in harmony (at least as best as they could with the language barrier).

“You were right.” you finally said.

“About what?” Din asked.

“About helping them. It was the right thing to do.” you admitted.

Din only nodded and turned to look at you. “You ready to head home?”

You smiled softly, yearning for the Crest you now called home and to lay in a bed with Din again. “Yeah. You stink like Krayt dragon innards so you need to shower.” you said with a small grin.

“Shut up and get on the speeder.”

“Can I drive it?” you asked.

“No.”

You let out a grunt and crawled onto the pack of it, making sure the child was securely attached to the side. “Fine, but you better remember you are getting me one of these.”

“Of course, sweet one.”

“And it better be a good one after what you put me through today.” you joked and Din grunted as he crawled on the speeder after strapping the armor to the back of it.

“Yeah, we will see about that.” he muttered.

You let out a big laugh as you grabbed your arms around his waist and held on as the bike whirred to life. You looked down at the child, who looked eager for the ride to begin. And you thanked whatever was out there for making sure your family made it through the day.

Tag List: @ilikethoseodds @dindaddy @poguesvixen @starspangledwidow @fangirlalexia @the-scandalorian @ka-x-in @keepcalmandblogstuff @the-lady-of-stars @orneryscandalousevil @spaghetti-666 @afootnoteinyourhappiness @the-darkempress @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @dee-vn @eury-dice3 @rb4writers @just-me-and-my-obsessions00 @lxdyred @queen-since-97 @honey-hi @periptill @seninjakitey @guiltyegg @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @altarsw @itsaviicf @greeneyedblondie44 @buffnatalieportman

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Four: unsweet dreams Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nightmares

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

They’re not the same, Jon writes. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

“Yeah, me either.” Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

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(cw for mentions of knife and gun violence, mentions of blood)

Jon isn’t used to his nightmares being his own. He’d spent so long closing his eyes only to open new ones, ones that had no eyelids and did not look away and knew nothing but watching and knowing, never enough space in his own head for the things that haunted him and him alone. (Those nightmares restricted themselves to the daytime, striking him at odd moments and leaving him shaking and breathless, his chest tight and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs as he tried to remember how to breathe.) Then, the world had ended and he hadn’t needed to sleep at all, save for the period with Salesa that he’s told was nice, really nice and the time spent in the tunnels beneath what used to be the Institute. By then, he hadn’t needed to dream. Maybe he wasn’t capable of it anymore; maybe he’d forgotten how.

Then, he’d awoken in the middle of the first night of what he and Martin have started to simply call after, a shout stuck at the back of his throat with no way to release it and his hand pressed against his chest, directly above the ragged scar that’s made its home upon his skin. Martin had woken too—he’d always been a light sleeper, even before, and it appeared that he’d only grown lighter during the in-between—and had reached out for him, concern etched across his face.

Jon hadn’t meant to flinch away. But the afterimage of the nightmare was still vibrant in his mind, the phantom pain in his chest still acute, and his body had reacted without giving his mind time to think. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look on Martin’s face, horrified and devastated and broken. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for it, either.

He’d had the same nightmare the next night, awakening with a soundless gasp with his hand pressed over his chest. But he’d remembered the previous night and had moved slowly and carefully so as not to wake Martin as he slipped out of bed and out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he’d sat at the table with a glass of water in his hands and had stared blankly at the wall in front of him. He hadn’t slept any further that night, and when Martin had come out of the bedroom in the morning to find him curled up on the couch, book in hand, he’d looked hurt, then worried, then blank. Jon isn’t sure which expression he felt more guilty for causing, but he knew any of them were better than what he’d seen the first night.

So, when Jon wakes up tonight with his heart in his throat and an ache in his chest, he waits for his heart rate to slow before once again sliding out from underneath the duvet and glancing briefly at Martin’s face—still slack with sleep—before he exits the bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen.

His pulse accelerates once again as he spots a shadowy figure sitting on the couch, barely outlined by the moonlight filtering in through the window, before he remembers that it’s not just him and Martin in the safehouse anymore. He’s not quite sure how to announce himself in a way that won’t startle Daisy, but he must have made some sort of sound despite trying to avoid the noisy floorboards because her head turns towards him, her expression lost in shadow, and she says quietly, “Can’t sleep?”

Jon lets out a long, heavy breath and nods. After a moment, he makes his way over to the couch, hesitating before sitting on the opposite end of it as Daisy.

She’d had nightmares back in the Archives sometimes—ones where she woke up suddenly with a sharp intake of breath, her hands scrabbling at her throat for a brief moment before dropping away once she realized where she was. The first time Jon had asked, she’d snapped that it was none of his business, her shoulders still tight with fear and stress. The second time he’d asked—because he never was good at keeping his curiosity in check—she’d glared at him for a moment before saying, clipped and weary, “The dirt never filled my lungs, but sometimes, it felt like it had.”

He didn’t ask again. And she’d never wanted him close in the minutes after she awoke, shying away from a hand on her shoulder or against her wrist or his occasional clumsy attempts at a hug. Some weeks after they’d crawled out of the coffin hand in hand, she’d turned away from him and mumbled something about claustrophobia and things touching her skin, and though he hadn’t entirely understood, he thought he understood enough.

Jon doesn’t know if Daisy’s had another one of those nightmares now, and if that’s why she’s awake, or if she just hadn’t gone to sleep at all. So he keeps his distance as he sits just in case, folding his legs underneath him and covering his hands with the too-long sleeves of his jumper to fight off the chill, and she doesn’t move to close it. Instead, she looks at him; at this distance, he’s able to pick out the angled slant of her nose and the way her lips are flat and pinched. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then, Daisy lets out a little huff of air through her nose and says, “Do you still have the same dreams? Or did the Eye take those with it when it left?”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, fluttering his hands in frustration. He shakes his head, huffs in annoyance, then stands and makes his way to the kitchen, picking through drawers and cabinets until he locates a few pieces of scrap paper and a nearly-blunt pencil that he looks at with distaste before deciding that it’ll be good enough for now. He collects the book sitting on the table next to the couch as he returns so that he has something hard to write on, tucks himself in the opposite corner of the couch as Daisy again, and—with a sigh as he stares down at the darkened paper in front of him—reaches behind him and turns on the lamp.

The room fills with a warm golden glow not dissimilar to that of firelight, and with slightly more force than is probably necessary, Jon writes, They’re not the same. Then, hesitantly and with a lump in the back of his throat: I can’t decide if they’re better or worse.

He holds the paper up for Daisy to see, resisting the urge to tear it away before she has the chance to read the words. Although it’s still hard sometimes, it’s… it’s easier to be vulnerable like this. There had been times before, when he’d been dating Georgie or when he used to spend evenings with Tim and Sasha or when he and Martin first moved into the safehouse, where he’d found himself overwhelmed and unable to vocalize what he felt sitting at the back of his tongue no matter how hard he tried. Georgie had grown frustrated once, telling him to just spit it out and that she couldn’t help if he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. He’d snapped that he couldn’t, mortified to find his voice slightly choked as he did so. He’d pressed his fist to his mouth for a long moment, trying to force himself to just spit it out, before accepting that it simply wasn’t going to happen and mumbling that he had to use the restroom before leaving the room quicker than was strictly necessary. He’d sat on the cool tile floor, arms wrapped around his knees and back knocking gently against the wall as he rocked forward and back, trying to whisper the words to himself now that he was alone and finding that he still couldn’t force them past his lips.

When he finally left the restroom, Georgie intercepted him on the way to the front door, gently guided him to the couch in the living room, and handed him a pen and paper. He stared at and stared at it and stared at it as she said, in a voice more controlled and level than it had been however many minutes prior, that she’d googled some things and she thought this might help. And that she was sorry for pushing. He looked at her after a moment, twisting the cap of the pen back and forth between his fingers, and she gave him what he thought was meant to be an encouraging smile.

So he wrote down what he could. And it was easier, even if it was hard to hand her the paper afterward and to sit there as she read it silently to herself, dreading whatever she would say to him once she was done (or worse—that she would ask him to say more, to explain himself further).

Daisy doesn’t ask him to say more now. She reads the words and nods, says, “Yeah, me either,” and lets out a long breath before sitting back more heavily on the arm of the couch she’s leaning against. They sit there in silence for what must be minutes. It should probably be uncomfortable, but it’s not. Jon closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the couch, the faint light from the lamp bleeding in through his eyelids and his breathing slowing into something relaxed as he slowly lets the tension of the nightmare drain out of him. He only opens his eyes again when he feels the faint brush of something against his foot, and when he looks down, he sees that Daisy has uncurled her legs and has stretched them out slightly, knees still bent but one foot resting just beside Jon’s. Jon doesn’t move, and after a moment, Daisy looks at a point just over one of Jon’s shoulders and says, “My dreams are memories, I think.”

Jon moves so his ankle brushes up against hers, and when she shifts her gaze so it meets his, he nods once, tilting his chin slightly forward in a go-on, I’m-listening gesture. He knows she dislikes vulnerability as well—she’d said once that it makes her feel unguarded, open, as if inviting herself to be hurt—but he thinks they’d almost gotten to the point, before everything had gone wrong, where they’d been able to deconstruct all of their walls around each other. Jon’s were already cracked, and they crumbled at the slightest of touches. Daisy’s were thicker, well-fortified, and though they had fractured slightly under the pressure of miles of dirt and sand, they stood solid. Jon shared, and Daisy listened, and it was rarely the other way around. Still, near the end, it felt like it was becoming more balanced, like the bricks were coming loose and holes were beginning to appear through which Jon could look and see the other side clearly.

Jon sees the wall, just for a moment, as Daisy hesitates, her eyes sliding away from his and landing on an indeterminate point behind him. Then, Daisy takes a breath, lets it out, and says, “I close my eyes, and I… I see Basira.” The words clearly upset her, though the only real indication Jon gets is the slightest twitch of her jaw, a small sign of discomfort that he’s come to recognize. “It’s strange, because the way I feel when I look at her… I know it’s me, and it feels like me, but it’s also… not. I look at her, and I want her to come with me, and… and that feels like me. But I also want her to be like me, to… to chase like me, and that feels different. It feels like the part of me that was only Hunt, but it’s still me, just… a different version of me.” She pauses, her throat moving as she swallows sharply. “I like it, in the dreams. I’m happy. I chase, and I kill, and it feels right. And then I wake up, and it feels… wrong. Like I’m existing as two people at once, and they’re both me, but they’re not both me right now.” She takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “I don’t like it.”

Jon presses his ankle against Daisy’s again, then reaches forward tentatively and places a hand atop hers. She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t flip her hand to allow Jon to hold it properly, which is all right. He maintains the two points of contact as Daisy continues, “And then Basira’s holding a gun, and it’s hard, but I can still smell her above the- the blood.” Your blood, she doesn’t say, but Jon can tell she’s thinking it anyway by the way her eyes find his only briefly before glancing away once again. The bite mark scars are just a few inches above where his ankle makes contact with hers. “I say her name, and she looks… sad. Scared. I don’t understand, and I tell her to come. That just makes her look sadder, and there’s so much blood. I can hear it rushing in my ears, can feel it coating my mouth.” Daisy’s fingers twitch beneath his, and her free hand curls into a loose fist atop her knee. “And then she fires the gun. And I know it hurts, but I can’t feel it over the anger. She fires twice more, and…”

Daisy falls silent. Jon curls his fingers loosely around her hand, trying to provide what comfort he can. “And then I wake up,” Daisy says at length. She looks at Jon, and her eyes are heavy. Sad. “The person I was then is still angry at her. Doesn’t understand why she abandoned me, why she didn’t have my back. But who I am now, without the blood… I understand. If she had made a different choice, things would have been worse. Probably would have ended badly.” Daisy pauses, then shrugs—a small motion that’s anything but casual. “She kept her promise. Even though it hurt.”

Jon’s eyes are pulled, almost instinctively, in the direction of the bedroom, where Martin still sleeps soundly. He hesitates a moment before taking his hand away from Daisy’s and shifting so he can grip the hem of his jumper in his hands. He takes a breath to steady himself, then lifts the fabric up to his chin to reveal the jagged scar that cuts across his chest, just beneath his heart in the space where once there had been ribs but now is left empty and unprotected. He brushes a finger against it unthinkingly, feeling the raised texture beneath his fingertip, and then looks back at Daisy, who is staring at his chest with a small furrow in her brow. Jon drops the jumper, letting it settle back over his stomach, picks up the paper and pencil, and writes, in clear, blocky letters, Martin kept his promise, too. Then, he hesitates and scratches the words out, replacing them with, It can hurt to break them, too. He pauses, then scratches those out too. Finally, he settles on, Martin made a similar choice, and then amends it with a quick, Though choice is perhaps a stretch, before holding the paper up for Daisy to see.

Daisy reads the words, one eyebrow arcing into her hairline. “He gave you that?”

Jon nods.

“Hm. Looks an awful lot like a stab wound.”

Jon bites his lip and nods again, slower. Then, hastily, he scribbles, I asked him to, and holds up the paper, because it’s important that she knows. That she knows it wasn’t Martin’s fault.

“You asked him to stab you,” Daisy says. It’s not a question, and it almost sounds incredulous, but there’s also a note of sympathy behind the words. An I understand.

Jon nods, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and writes, It’s a long story.

Daisy hums. “And you feel guilty for it,” she says. Also not a question. Jon looks at her, surprised, and Daisy sighs. “You’re an easy person to read. Terrible poker face.”

Jon scowls, but it softens almost immediately, and he looks away. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Do you feel guilty because you asked him, or because you had to ask him?”

Jon frowns at her. He’s pretty sure those are the same thing—or at least for the circumstances, they’re indistinguishable. For all of it is probably the most accurate answer he can give. He feels guilty for leaving Martin behind and he feels guilty for putting Martin in the position he did and he feels guilty for pressing the knife into Martin’s hand, but it’s complicated because if he had to go back and make the choice all over again, he… he doesn’t know if he would make a different one. He’s guilty, but he’s not sorry. Maybe he’s guilty because he’s not sorry.

“Jon,” Daisy says, and Jon blinks at her. He’s not sure how long he’s been just sitting there, unmoving, but by the expression on her face, it has to have been long enough to be bothersome. He reaches for the paper and, after a moment, writes, Both. Then: Do you feel guilty about Basira?

It’s not a deflection. It’s not. Jon just… he doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. He’s afraid that if he thinks too much about it, he might feel angry, or frustrated, or… worse. And he doesn’t want that. Daisy gives him a considering look, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to let him turn the conversation back on her, before shaking her head. “No. I don’t.”

Jon frowns and tilts his head slightly to the side in a questioning gesture. His knees are starting to cramp where they’re folded up underneath him, so he shifts so his legs are slightly outstretched, the tips of his toes brushing against the sides of Daisy’s thighs. Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, she says, “She understood why I asked her to do what she did. She knew that I didn’t want to be… what I was. Not anymore. I asked her to kill me for my benefit, but also for hers. I… I didn’t want her to see me like that.”

Like a monster? Jon thinks, looking down at where his hands are resting on his lap. He… he thinks he understands the feeling.

“We both did what we had to,” Daisy says, an undercurrent of resignation in her voice. “There’s no use in feeling guilty for something like that. I… I know she won’t feel guilty for doing what she did. Hurt, probably. Sad. Angry. But not guilty.”

Jon curls his hands into loose fists and nods, still looking down at his lap. He knows Martin feels guilty. He can see it on Martin’s face when Jon pulls his jumper over his head to change, Martin’s eyes glancing off the scar on his chest like he can’t stand to look at it. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

He doesn’t know if he can.

Before he can obsess over it more, Jon picks up the pencil and writes, in too-big letters, We should call her. Let her know that you’re alive. It’s even more obviously a deflection than the last, but still, he holds the words up and waits expectantly for Daisy to answer them, trying to ignore the tight curling of anxiety and tension in the pit of his stomach.

The line between Daisy’s eyebrows deepens, and she looks away. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she says softly, and Jon frowns. He reaches forward and brushes his hand against hers, and she doesn’t move away, though she also doesn’t look back at him—just keeps her eyes fixated on the kitchen table. The daisies are barely visible, hidden mostly in shadow. “I don’t…” Daisy says, then stops. Her fingers twitch. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me,” she says finally. Then, quickly after: “I don’t know if I want to see her either.”

Jon’s frown deepens, and he squeezes Daisy’s hand. Daisy must be able to see his expression out of the corner of her eye because she sighs heavily and says, “It’s—complicated, okay? Like I said, the anger is… it’s a part of me. It might still be a part of her. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see her, and it… scares me.” She says the last part like an admission of a crime, like she’s ashamed of it. Jon squeezes Daisy’s hand again, firmer this time, and presses their legs together. She sighs again wearily and says, “Suppose I should let her know that I’m alive, though. Scared or not, she… she deserves that.” She looks at Jon out of the corner of her eye. “Hm.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, she continues, “Does Basira know that you’re alive?”

Ah. Hm indeed. Jon pinches his lips together and shakes his head. After a moment, he picks up the paper and pencil, though he’s reluctant to let go of Daisy’s hand to do so, and writes, I don’t know if she’ll want to see me either. If that makes you feel any better.

Daisy looks at the paper and lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Not really. I appreciate the effort, though. Is it about the…” Daisy gestures in his general direction. “Archivist-ness?”

Jon grimaces and wobbles his hand from side to side in a kind-of gesture. More about the fact that I ended the world, actually, he writes.

They’d filled Daisy in as best they could when Martin had gotten back from the store, fresh cups of tea held in their hands and Jon trying not to feel frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t easily chime in as Martin told a version of events that Jon very much had opinions on. Martin had repeated the words it wasn’t Jon’s fault about a dozen or so times throughout, while Jon had sat there and tried very hard not to write any form of well, actually on the notebook in front of him. It had been exceedingly difficult.

So he supposes it’s expected that Daisy frowns and says, “Thought that wasn’t your fault,” but he still can’t help the exasperated sigh that escapes him at the words.

It’s complicated, he writes. And it doesn’t matter. Basira thought it was, at least at first, and I

He stops, pencil still resting against the paper, and after a moment, Daisy says, “Going to finish your sentence?”

Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth and continues, I don’t know, then stops again. Another moment passes; he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him like paperweights, a gentle pressure that settles in his chest like an anchor. He forces himself to finish, and once the sentence is complete, he pushes the paper towards Daisy with a displeased expression on his face.

I don’t know if she would be glad to find out I survived.

Daisy stares at the paper for a long moment before holding it back out towards him. “You’re right. You don’t know. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.” Quieter: “Maybe she’ll be angry with you too.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. You don’t know that she’ll be angry with you, he writes, a bit cheekily. Maybe she won’t be, maybe she will be.

“Bastard,” Daisy mutters, and Jon laughs, the exhalation sending the top of the page in front of him aflutter. “Fine. We can tell her we’re both alive together, then. Two birds, one stone.”

Jon nods. There’ll be no way to avoid alerting Basira to the fact that he and Martin are alive once she finds out about Daisy anyway, given that Martin will probably be the one to call her. It’s nice to have solidarity all the same.

They sit and talk about meaningless things then, until Jon runs out of paper space and Daisy’s eyelids begin to droop with exhaustion. Jon doesn’t know if sleep is in the cards for him for the rest of the night, but he feels more boneless and relaxed after spending time with Daisy, so he thinks it might be more in reach than it had been the previous nights. He should go back to the bedroom, he thinks. The bed will be better for his back, and the couch is just barely big enough for two, and he knows it would be nice to press himself to Martin’s side and feel his heartbeat against his cheek, warm and comfortable and safe. But he knows if he returns that Martin will wake, and then Martin will worry, and Jon will feel guilty all over again. So instead, Jon gives Daisy a pointed, questioning look, placing a hand on the space on the couch next to her where he knows he’ll fit if he squeezes in close.

Daisy, to her credit, doesn’t mention Martin. He thinks she understands that desire not to bother the ones you love more than is necessary, given how often she’d spent sleepless nights with him rather than waking Basira. Instead, she presses herself into the back of the couch and allows Jon to wriggle in next to her, pressing his back to her chest and allowing his head to fall underneath her chin in a familiar, practiced motion. She slings an arm over his side, and he breathes out as the weight settles a last lingering bit of unrest within him, exhaustion finally pulling at the edges of his mind as Daisy begins to snore, her chest rumbling against his spine.

He still dreams, and they’re still horrible. But when he wakes with a start however many hours later, the room still dark, Daisy doesn’t even stir, just tightens her grip on him in her sleep. He focuses on the pressure of her arm around him, tries to force his breathing into something even, and when he manages to slip into sleep a third time, he stays there until morning.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #my fic #my writing #before tag

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icollectyoursins · 3 years

Text

Prosciutto x Reader ANGST

mime1998 asked: “Hi! May I request a Prosciutto prompt#19. Where reader gets injured in a mission. Something angst, please? Thank you! ❤️”

Sorry I’ve been sort of M.I.A as of writing this. I’ve got school and stuff going on, so I took a break to keep from being too stressed. Well. I was sort of forced into it, but it's all good now. Thanks for the patience!

19 “Hush, my love. You trust me, right? I need you to trust me.”

Wanna know what I’m willing to write? Rules here!

Have a character, but no idea? Prompt list here!

Looking for more? Master post here!

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, reader getting hurt, fighting with stand users, use of Grateful Dead, use of a gun, mention of death, dislocated shoulder, Proscuitto having to set the arm, a sweet ending that I am NOT going to spoil in the warnings.

Word Count: 1716

“(Y/N)!” Prosciutto screamed as he watched your body briefly fly a few feet off the ground before crashing into the concrete, bouncing once with a loud crack before falling still. You had been assigned together in the hopes of being able to take down an enemy to Passione quickly. It shouldn’t have been hard with his stand and yours combined, but the enemy was a little more prepared than you had expected.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t lose his head yet, he needed to make sure you were okay. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a large rock. Slowly, he picked it up, hoping the stand wouldn’t notice the movement, then he threw it as far away as he could, waiting to hear them turn around to investigate before moving. Quickly and quietly, he made his way over to you, dragging you behind some boxes while the stand was preoccupied with what he threw into the corner.

A soft finger brushed against your cheek, lost for a moment in the worry of you not getting up. Steadying his emotions, he pressed the pads of his fingers onto the pulse in your neck, waiting for a beat.

Thud, thud...

A breath that he didn’t know he was holding in was suddenly released. You were alive, good. Prosciutto pulled the ice pack you tucked into our jacket out, then he lifted up your head slightly, sliding it between the floor and your cheek to keep you cool while he used Grateful Dead on the enemy.

He stood up, steadying himself while reaching for his gun. With two steps forward, he stared down the stand and it’s user. Slowly and with as much power as he could muster, he walked towards them, his stand following close behind him, covering the floor with it’s fog-like ability. He watched the user collapse gradually, age sinking into their skin. Then, when he was close enough to them-

BANG.

They slumped over, defeated.

Prosciutto ran back to you, checking for any signs of injury, now that he had the time. There were a few cuts here and there, but nothing he couldn’t fix with some stitches and alcohol. He rolled you onto your back carefully, then hooked his arms under you with the intention of carrying you back to the car, but a groan stopped him.

“(Y/N)?” He propped you up against him, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “(Y/N)? Can you hear me?”

Your eyes cracked open with a grumble. You were still weary, vision slightly blurred. “Did we get ‘em?”

A dull ache rang throughout your body, though there were a few places where it was worse. Like the shoulder that he currently had his arm hooked under. Yeah. That hurt like a bitch. You shoved him off, wincing with a pained shout as your arm was moved.

“Fuck.” You spat, gently holding it against yourself.

“Is it broken?” He asked, still keeping a hand on your back to help if you fell over. You shook your head. It didn’t feel like a break. It was something different.

“Dislocated, I think.” You said while struggling to stand up.

Prosciutto watched you carefully, hovering over you. If you had hit your head, he didn’t want to make it worse. He opened his mouth to say something in protest to you getting up, but suddenly the sound of footsteps appeared, slowly getting closer. Without another word, you quickly skittered out of the abandoned building and into the car.

-----

You dragged yourself into the motel room, tired and sore from being quite literally tossed around. Prosciutto followed close behind, tossing the keys into the table before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He looked you once over while you delicately sat on the edge of the bed, clutching your side. He sighed, going back to the car to grab the first aid kit from the trunk.

“Get in the bathroom and take your shirt off. I’ll stitch you up,” he said, closing the door behind him. You groaned, not wanting to move your sore muscles anymore, but you also didn’t want to bleed anymore. Slowly, you trudged your way to the bathroom. An arm was offered to you, which you clung to, thankful.

You practically fell against the sink, grunting in pain. Concerned, he flicked his eyes over to you, ready to catch you if you fell over.

“Shirt off, (Y/N),” he ordered, taking his own jacket off, rolling his sleeves up. You winced as you moved your arm the wrong way. Thankfully, he noticed your reaction out the corner of his eye, abandoning washing his hands to help you instead. His hands were soft and gentle, delicately removing your top, always keeping a vigilant eye on your face just in case he hurt you.

Then, without another word, he stopped you from moving, bracing his forearm against your chest while the other hand wrapped around your bicep. You felt him flex, preparing for something that would undoubtedly be painful.

“Hey, wait! What are you-” He cut you off, giving you a stern look.

“(Y/N),” he said seriously. Prosciutto thought for a moment, wondering how to approach this. You’d likely put up a little bit of a fight, stating you were fine, when you were very obviously not. He pulled back, straightening up. “Can you move your arm?”

“Yes, of course, I ca-AH!” You shouted out in pain when he gently pulled on your arm, then he let it go, falling limp against your side. Tears stung your eyes. He was gentle about it, but it still hurt like hell. You knew he was just proving a point.

“It’s dislocated. Look. Your shoulder is twice the size of the other one and you can’t feel anything.”

“I can feel the pain just fine.” You spat. He sighed.

“Don’t be difficult. Let me fix it.” It was your turn to sigh now. He was right, of course.

“Fine! Just... just get me some painkillers or something.” Prosciutto nods his head, placing a sweet kiss on your cheek before filling a paper cup with water and digging for some medication in the first aid kit. You take a deep breath, then gulp them down, followed by water. He went to brace again, but you stopped him with your good hand. “Wait until they start working. Please.” You added after seeing the exhausted look on his face.

“Okay,” he said quietly, sliding his arm around your waist, gently pulling you close to him, careful to avoid your dislocated shoulder completely. You melted into him, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. You were safe now, he reminded himself. A lump formed in his throat. He lavished the top of your head with kisses while massaging circles into your back. You relaxed more, but it was more for him. You were here, you were alive, you were safe.

Prosciutto had never been one for showing emotions, but he wasn’t immune to them. Watching your body hit the concrete, watching you go limp. Something broke in him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Grief.

He thought he had lost you. Actually and completely lost you. This business, if you can call it that, was a rough one. It was harsh, cruel and a list of other things. And when you were in this business you were bound to lose people, it’s inevitable. He knew that when he got in, but... but he had never thought he would become so attached to someone.

He wasn’t sure how to admit it; how to tell you just how much you meant to him. You seemed impossible to him. How could someone be so perfect? How special did that person have to be to make Prosciutto fall for them so completely? Very. The answer was very special. You were special. An oddity.

If you had asked him his thoughts on romance or settling down with someone special before he met you, he would have given a snarky, rude answer about how useless love was to someone like him. Now, everything was different.

“Alright,” you said, standing up straight. “Pain’s pretty much gone. I’m ready.” He hummed in reply, littering your cheek with butterfly kisses while getting back in place. You tensed, grabbing ahold of his arm for security.

“Hush, my love.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you trust me?” He asked, gripping your arm tightly. You took a deep breath, psyching yourself up. “I need you to trust me.”

You looked up at him tentative, but still so loving. Impossible.

“Yeah. I trust you.”

Prosciutto counted down from 5, watching you steadily breathe, making sure you were truly ready. When he got to 1, he snapped your arm and pushed it back into place. You cried out, tears freely falling down your cheek. You were barely aware of him making you a sling, keeping everything in place. A gentle finger brushed the tears away, then gentle lips pressed into yours.

He wet a paper towel, cleaning the dirt and rubble from your face, as well as any other places he could get to without moving your arm. After a quick once over, he deduced you didn’t need stitches anywhere, just a few bandages here and there.

The painkillers were settling in more now, making you drowsier. He kindly helped you to the bed, tucking you in with a firm warning to not rollover. You lazily rolled your eyes, mumbling a “fine” before finally falling asleep.

Prosciutto would have joined sooner, but something kept him up. He stood outside the motel, taking a well need drag from what was already his second cigarette. Now that he had you, he was determined to keep you. Not in a possessive way, he just wants you safe. This life wasn’t good for you, not that it ever was in the first place.

He glanced down at his phone. 12 am. Yeah, Risotto was probably still up.

hey

Problem?

sort of.

Prosciutto is typing...

(Y/N) and i need a break

From each other?

passione

Risotto is typing...

How long? Prosciutto laughed to himself, muttering under his breath: “Long enough to get married.” He stopped. That... that sounded really nice, actually. “Long enough to get married.”

#prosciutto #prosciutto jojo #prosciutto x reader #prosciutto prompts #angst

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hungarianbee · 4 years

Text

sightless but steady

A/N: I wanted to try my hand on Warritt the All-Seeing for a while now. Writing a blind character who’s not *really* blind is both fun and a challenge. I have a lot of feelings about the Viper witchers, and so I snuck a lot of headcanons (about Ivar, Warritt, Letho, Auckes) into this piece. You can read about them in detail at the end of the fic. TW for: mention of non-descriptive torture

It is a relatively quiet night at the Blood Gate Keep. The young adepts went to sleep hours ago, safely tucked away in their quarters. To the average witcher, Gorthur Gvaed lays dormant, echoing the silence of its occupants.

But not to Warritt. In his room, the Viper bundles himself in furs, sitting in front of the lit hearth with his back to it. The fire’s heat seeps into his bones, touching his exposed neck, and he tilts his head back into the sensation. To him, the keep always feels just a tad cold. It’s nothing, compared to the Bear’s Haern Caduch or the Wolves’ Kaer Morhen in winter, but the Vipers’ mutations keep their temperatures lower than the other school’s.

As he flicks his fingers, his magic activates the Supirre Sign again, keeping it steady with years of practice. Just like that, the night comes alive around him.

Beneath the sound of the firewood cracking, he notices that there are rats in the walls again, scratching at the stones with their tiny claws. He makes a mental note to alert Evil-Eye to their presence later, then moves on. A floor beneath him, Gerring of Kharkiv is playing with his knives, just as usual. The fast tack-tack-tack reverberates in Warritt’s ears as the knives embed themselves in the wooden surface of the upturned table. A mouser’s yowls break it up, and he pushes the Sign further, taking note of the steady heartbeats of the snakelets. As he concentrates, he feels several that are too fast to be asleep. Auckes, he thinks. And Letho.

Warritt shucks his furs, taking one with him and folding the rest on his unused bed. With a reverse Igni, lowers the temperature of the hearth, leaving the wood smoldering. The smoke of it settles in his barely open mouth, sticking to his palate. Throwing the fur over his shoulder, he opens his door, just as Ivar Evil-Eye takes a corner in his direction, the scent of blood and iron trailing after him like an avenging wraith.

Up until this point, the Viper Grandmaster was pacing his office, as was his bad habit, then changed course, and took a detour around the Keep to the snakelets’ sleeping quarters. To air his head, most likely, and to make sure that everyone was safe. That Letho was safe. There is a lot of weight on the witcher’s shoulders that he refuses to share with them, he knows. Some days, when the pacing gets agitated and Warritt can hear his rapid breathing when he talks his way over an issue, he thinks that this will be Evil-Eye’s end. A fire can only burn bright for so long without kindling.

“Master Evil-Eye,” he greets quietly.

The thumping of Gerring’s weapons stop. A shift of skin on fabric as the man looks up, breathing carefully steadied. He’s listening. Warritt minimizes his Sign to the palm of his hand. He’s been told the yellow glow is quite noticeable. “Anything I can help you with?”

Evil-Eye shakes his head to himself, but breaks the motion midway. A heavy sigh. “I can’t deal with the brats tonight,” he admits. His tone is weary. Warritt tries to imagine what his expression must look like, but it’s been too long and the visuals appear murky in his mind. Something that might match the scents of frustration and fatigue. After all, Evil-Eye doesn’t have to hide from him; he can’t see. Then, the taste of ash ignites, becomes spicy with rekindled rage. “Did you know about Letho of Gulet?”

He can’t even finish the sentence as Warritt flashes his fangs at the leader. The hiss that leaves between his teeth rattles in his throat. “No! I would have stopped Daibesyck. Any of us would have. And you know that.”

In his rise of emotion, his Supirre sputters out. He casts it again with one hand, the other going up to rake through his curls.

Evil-Eye stands still, like a statue. Then a new tension enters his shoulders, and he turns away. “I’ve dealt with Daibesyck,” he states. Disdain colours his voice. “The worm wanted me to thank him. To acknowledge what a marvelous achievement he did, finding the perfect subject for his little successful experiment.” He breathes through his venom. “I paid him in kind. He stopped screaming a few hours ago.”

Warritt’s face tightens, even as dark satisfaction courses through him. He knows. He heard. But it wasn’t aimed at him; it’s a confirmation for their little eavesdropper. This time tomorrow everyone will know that they are one mage down.

“How’s he?”

Evil-Eye cracks his neck to the side. “He’s feverish, still. He asked for you.”

“Then I will be there.” And that’s that. Warritt lengthens his steps, taking the fur beneath one arm, the other still pulsing with Supirre. The Grandmaster matches him until they reach Letho’s quarters, where he lags behind, stopping just by the door.

The blind witcher makes his way to the bed. The scent of sickness leaves a sour note on his tongue, but that’s not his main concern. Because in this close proximity, he’s sure of it - Letho’s usual outline changed.

As he climbs into the bed he bundles the furs under Letho’s bald head, hoping that his own scent will ease the young witcher. A stone sits in Warritt’s stomach; last time he’s been in his presence, the kid had a crown of soft curls. His calloused hands slide on broad, impossibly muscled shoulders that emanate a heat that is uncharacteristic to witchers, then cup the back of Letho’s neck gently.

“Letho,” he calls, and the snakelet twitches under him, turning towards his chest. He can barely fit. A soft sound escapes him, almost a sob, and his hands come up to shield his still sensitive eyes. Warritt immediately releases his Sign to plunge the room in darkness, shushing him. “It’s Warritt, bud. I am here, just as you asked.”

“Warritt,” Letho parrots back, slurring. Without the Sign, Warritt is not prepared for the fingers prodding at the heavy scarring by his eyes, but he lets it happen anyway.

With impossible strength, Letho pulls Warritt down and curls his arms around him in a constricting hug. Warritt stifles his wheeze, breathing through it, and he presses closer still, wrapping himself around the kid as much as he can, tucking him under his chin and tangling their legs. One of his hands comes up to squeeze Letho’s nape. The pressure seems to calm the young witcher, and he mindlessly bites down on Warritt’s leathers on his shoulder, just to hold him still. Warritt notes absentmindedly that Evil-Eye slipped away when he wasn’t paying attention.

They stay like that for a long time. Eventually, Letho’s breathing evens out, slipping into an uneasy sleep. His muscles twitch and release, and Warritt rearranges them so he’s plastered to the snakelet’s back, hugging him tightly, not minding the cold sweat.

“Auckes,” he calls softly. He hears the creak of soft leathers in the rafters as the boy shifts warily. He drops down, landing without difficulty.

“Bloede,” the little snakelet curses in Elder, silently but with feeling. “How did you know I was here? You didn’t even use your Sign.”

“Language,” Warritt chides. “You were so loud I could hear you from a tower away. You were lucky Master Evil-Eye was in a cordial mood, he would have had you for breakfast.”

“Not true,” Auckes sulks.

The boy’s radiating disbelief warms him. He gestures with one hand, beckoning, and Auckes slips onto the bed, curling over Letho. The boy shakes a little and Warritt scents the residue of distress on him, so he presses a warm hand between his shoulder blades, drawing slow circles.

Auckes presses into his touch, then blurts out. “If I asked you, would you shave my head?”

Warritt doesn’t stop his motions, despite his surprise. “Why would you ask that?”

For a long moment, Auckes doesn’t say anything, just clenches his fist in Letho’s sleeping shirt. He smooths the soft material between his fingers anxiously. “Letho cried ,” he whispers it like a secret, and his tone belies his astonishment. Letho never cries. “He saw his reflection, you know.”

“I don’t know, Auckes,” prompts Warritt gently, lying through his teeth. “Why would he be upset because of that?”

“He’s big. And bald. He tried to hug Serrit and hurt him. Twas an axi-” he trips on the word in his haste, then tries again, slowly. “Ac-ci-dent. He didn’t mean it, I know. It scared him. And Serrit said that he wasn’t mad, so it’s okay.”

Warritt hides his sad smile, endeared by Auckes’ sharp perception and big heart. “Aye,” he breathes.

Another beat passes between them.

“I want you to cut my hair, so Letho knows it’s okay, too. That he’s not alone.” Auckes’ voice is so very small, like the breeze in Tir Tochair’s sheltered meadows.

Warritt’s throat constricts. His fingers follow the thin braid that hangs on each side of Auckes’ face, then cards into his soft ponytail.

“Alright,” he rasps. “Alright.”

--------- * ---------

Note: Auckes canonically can speak really good Elder. The little curse word “Bloede” can be translated to “bloody hell”.

Headcanons:

Warritt is the big-brother of the keep - he’s both a blind badass and the resident kidwrangler (and everyone clearly knows it)

Warritt is a genius - this is kiiind of canon, but regardless: he has an unorthodox thought process; he likes thinking outside of the box, and that’s how he isn’t bothered by his blindness and modified an already existing Sign (Supirre in canon; and also Igni in this fic)

Vipers are not shy of physical touch, on the contrary! - a little bit of cutagen here; Vipers like to coil up together in almost constricting hugs. Even those who haven’t gone through the Trials adopt this habit; the physical touch (hugs) is something they can claim as their own good thing

Letho went through the Grasses twice, like Geralt (aka twicegrassed) - compared to the rest of the School, Letho is an outlier. I explained his proportions with him surviving the Trials twice

Ivar was unaware of the further experimentations, and he flipped - a hc i adopted from @lookoutrogue. Ivar himself went through multiple Trials, that’s how he ended up with his mutated eye. My throwaway mage OC, Daibesyck was tortured to death because he went over the invisible line Ivar carved, hurting one of his own and disrespecting his authority

Auckes shaved his head in solidarity for Letho - originally i thought he would have done it when he was older, but tiny Auckes said no, i wanna do it now

Gerring of Kharkiv wasn’t supposed to appear, but he didn’t budge. So I guess now he’s an insomniac old witcher who likes to waste time and furniture with knife-throwing *shrug*

#my shit #the witcher #warritt the all-seeing #ivar evil-eye #letho #auckes #gerring of kharkiv #school of the viper #continent cake shop #little auckes made me cry #tell me what y'all think #i'll crosspost this into AO3 in a bit

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missfangirll · 3 years

Text

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

Fandom: The Untamed Rating: General Relationship: Song Lan / Xiao Xingchen Tags: Canonical Character Death, Fix-it, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a happy ending, Pining Chapters: 3 Summary: Song Lan has lost Xingchen twice. How will he endure after losing him a third time?

Read on AO3

This has lived in my head for a while and finally demanded attention. I am still not over Yi City and this is my attempt at a fix-it.

My eternal gratitute for @stormy-seasons who is a fantastic beta reader, and has helped and encouraged me immensely. Any remaining mistakes are mine. :)

- - - - -

Chapter 1: A road too wide

The road goes ever on and on Out from the door where it began. Now far ahead the road has gone, Let others follow it who can! Let them a journey new begin, But I at last with weary feet Will turn towards the lighted inn, My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

When Wei Wuxian had asked him, all that time ago, what he wanted to do now that he had gained his life back, he didn't have to think much to answer.

“Roam the world with Shuanghua, fight evil alongside Xingchen.”

It was what he had always done, a comfortable routine, not that different from before. No use in dwelling on the past, he had thought then. He was used to wandering the world alone, had done so for years and years in search of Xingchen, for a chance to apologize, to make things right again. Even if the road had felt too wide at times when he walked it alone, he had been content to do what once had been their shared goal: eliminate the evil that lingered in the world. In doing that he had felt close to Xingchen, and it had given him a focus other than his grief, his guilt.

He had never been one for expressing his feelings verbally, his words at the temple a festering proof of that, but he had still clung to that fraying hope of if only: if only he found Xingchen, if only he would listen, if only he could find the words, if only.

But it was idle foolishness to ponder on things lost and words unsaid.

He had lost everything that fateful day in Yi City, had lost his life, had lost Xingchen, had watched Xue Yang succeed. Even if it had been Xingchen’s hand and blade in the end, Song Lan refused to place any blame on him. It had been Xue Yang’s devious tongue that had poisoned Xingchen’s heart, Xue Yang’s twisted mind that had driven him to such hopeless despair that he had seen no other way out than the sword that had failed him.

When the Yiling Patriarch and Hanguang-Jun had severed Xue Yang‘s hold on him, he had been grateful, of course he had, but not particularly for the existence he had been granted. It had felt daunting, to face the world again, after years of living-not-living as a puppet. But he had accepted the spirit-trapping pouch Wei Wuxian had given him with shaking hands and a quivering heart. There was no one else left to care for Xingchen, and even when Wei Wuxian had told him that the soul inside the bag was shattered, broken, he had never once wavered in his decision. Xingchen and him, they belonged to each other, no matter the form, and so, caring for him was his responsibility. He wouldn't leave him, no matter how much it hurt.

For a short while he really had thought, had hoped, that with Shuanghua and Xingchen’s soul as his companions, the world would feel less empty, less silent, but ever since he had left Yi City behind, he had felt wrong, uneasy, in the way perception shifted when thunderstorms shadowed everything in an amber hue. He felt hollowed, a part of himself left behind in a black coffin adorned with talismans.

The road seemed wider than ever before, the silence even more unbearable now. Each room was too large, each bed too empty, each meal bland. Colours lost their vibrancy, any music was reduced to dull rhythms. He felt as if the veil of Xue Yang‘s influence hadn‘t fully lifted, but since Wei Wuxian had assured him he was free, he blamed being a living corpse for his dimmed senses.

Only in a fight did he feel almost as balanced as before, Fuxue still a trusted companion. He moved with the same deadly precision he always had, his senses sharpened by adrenaline and his energy flow. (It had been a surprise that his golden core seemed almost unaffected by the whole living-dead business, but for everything else he had lost, it was a relief that this at least seemed largely intact.)

Sometimes, very rarely, he even used Shuanghua on a night hunt. Not so much for his own sake, because the image of that blade at Xingchen's throat haunted him still, but for the sword's, which seemed restless without its master. After those hunts he would tell Xingchen about it in his mind, how his sword missed him, how the world missed him. (He felt he had not earned the right to miss Xingchen, and so said nothing of himself.)

When he talked to Xingchen, wordlessly, soundlessly, every time, every conversation began the same.

I am sorry.

-☾-•-❅-

The inn wasn't that different from any other he had taken shelter in, the wooden floors dark with age, but it was clean and inexpensive. He didn't really have to sleep as much as he’d had to when he had been human, but old habits were hard to break. Food wasn't a necessity anymore either, and most days it was a strenuous task, given the state of his tongue, but he still could enjoy the texture, the smell and temperature of meals. Losing his tongue had been as horrifying as losing his eyes so long ago, but he found that, with time, he had started to adapt. Communication was difficult at times, especially when the other party couldn’t read, but he had found most people understood his combination of facial expressions and humming sounds. It wasn't perfect and sometimes led to misunderstandings, but all in all it wasn't as arduous as he had thought.

After he had secured a room for the night – with a glance at the inn-keeper, followed by a nod towards the stairs, which she understood immediately – he sat in a corner of the small dining room, staring at the bowl of rice and steamed vegetables in front of him. The air smelled heavy, of food and unwashed people, and it made his skin prickle. He stirred halfheartedly in his rice, wishing it gone so he could escape to the temporary safety of his room.

When Song Lan finds him again, Xingchen is perched atop a wobbly wooden fence, one arm looped around the post next to him. In one hand he holds a few small peaches, the other, dripping with fruit juice, he holds out to Song Lan, offering him a piece. His smile is blinding, and Song Lan feels an urge to kiss away the sticky remnants of peach juice on his lips. He mock-frowns at the offered peach, then at Xingchen. Xingchen’s smile widens and he shakes his hand a little for emphasis. “You don't even need to touch it, Zichen,” he offers, playful and lighthearted, “just try it. It’s really good!” Song Lan has to hide his smile, glaring at the other for good measure, then carefully leans down, taking the offered piece between his lips. It is really good.

The sound of a cup being slammed on a table startled Song Lan out of his reverie. The mood of the company at the next table had grown noticeably more inebriated and, with a disappointed look at his bowl, Song Lan got up to retreat to his own room. He hated to waste food, but the thought of eating in company – in this company – made his stomach turn.

Alone in his room, the door closed firmly behind him, he finally felt able to breathe again. Setting Shuanghua and Fuxue on the table, he began his evening rituals. Eventually, with his hair down and only in a thin under robe, he sat on the bed, Xingchen's spirit pouch in front of him. It was not that the pouch ever left his side during the day, but these moments, alone, vulnerable, were special to Song Lan in a way he couldn‘t describe.

Softly caressing the silky cloth, he calmed his breathing, trying to convey his thoughts to Xingchen‘s soul.

I am sorry.

That was what he had wanted to say, when he had first lost him, but by now that wasn't the only important thing anymore.

I love you.

Come back.

He wasn't sure if he wanted Xingchen to come back, like Xue Yang had intended, as a fierce corpse like Song Lan was. Xingchen was warmth, life, sunlight – Song Lan had never understood why anyone would compare him to the moon, he had never met anyone as bright and warm – and being trapped in this lifeless existence wasn't something Song Lan wished for him.

And yet.

Even if Xingchen wouldn't return to him, he could mend his soul and enter the cycle of reincarnation, could eventually be born again. (Song Lan very deliberately didn't think about what that meant for him, since he wouldn't die of old age in the foreseeable future.)

Sighing, he laid down next to the pouch, cradling it to his chest, extinguishing the candle with a flick of his wrist. He couldn‘t speak, but had made a habit of pressing the pouch softly to his throat or chest and humming softly, hoping that the vibrations would travel and that Xingchen would somehow sense them. Sometimes, he hummed a childrens‘ song or a lullaby, a faint echo from another life, other times it was just a tuneless melody, anything to make Xingchen feel less alone. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift off.

It is deep in the night when Song Lan wakes with a start. Immediately he knows what startled him: Xingchen isn't by his side anymore, but before Song Lan can begin to worry, he sees him, standing by the open window. The moonlight cascades around him in silver waves, making him look ethereal, like a spirit from another world. He is, in a way, Song Lan muses as he watches him. Xingchen has his eyes raised to the moon, the light caressing his elegant cheekbones, his fine nose, the graceful bow of his lips. With a slight movement, a stray strand of hair falls over his face and he pushes it behind his ear with an almost impatient gesture. Then, seeing Song Lan from the corner of his eye, he turns, his lips turning upwards into a soft smile. Wordlessly, he abandons his place at the windowsill and returns to the bed, lying down next to Song Lan, facing him. Still smiling, he closes his eyes, and Song Lan breathes him in.

Song Lan didn't dream. He stopped dreaming the day Shuanghua had ended his life, his nights filled with something akin to deep meditation, but not real sleep. Thus, he woke deeply disoriented, instantly missing Xingchen‘s sleepy warmth at his side, blindly reaching for him under the covers. Reality slowly dripped into his consciousness, the realisation that Xingchen wouldn't be there striking him so forcefully he gasped for air.

The pain of missing Xingchen never went away, always lingered in the back of his mind, but this was immeasurably worse: The memory had been so real, he still could smell Xingchen‘s hair oil, feel his warm touch, hear his soft sleepy breaths. Closing his eyes with a groan, Song Lan forced himself up and out of bed. He wouldn't find any more rest anyway and the only thing that could soothe his aching heart, he knew that from experience, was distraction, movement, so he went on to begin his day.

After donning his robes and putting his few belongings back into his qiankun pouch, he silently slipped down the stairs and out of the house, both swords strapped to his back. Only a pale grey shimmer at the horizon promised the coming sunrise, but the small village still lay in deep silence. Song Lan followed the unpaved road out of town.

“Maybe I should hold onto you, so you don't get lost,” Xingchen grins at him, full of mirth, and swiftly, gracefully, takes Song Lan‘s hand in his. Song Lan almost trips over his own feet, but Xingchen’s smile is so radiant, his eyes sparkling with so much joy, that every excuse why they shouldn’t be holding hands in broad daylight on a road dies on his tongue. Wordlessly, he can only stare at the man beside him and hold on.

Song Lan‘s hand clenched around the spirit bag on his belt. Squinting at the sun above him, he took a moment to orient himself. The next village was his intended destination, the rumors of the vile energy and vengeful spirits troubling it had accompanied him for days. Not much time left before sundown, he realised, and quickened his pace.

-☾-•-❅-

The village was as unassuming as he had expected: a single road, no vendors, not even an inn. When he spotted an elderly woman in a doorway, he hastened to greet her with a polite bow, tapping three fingers to his mouth to indicate he couldn’t speak. Curious, she eyed the two swords on his back.

“Are you a cultivator, Daozhang? Did you come for the ghost?“

Song Lan nodded and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

The woman gestured to the setting sun. “It is good that you arrived in time, Daozhang.” She sighed. “We have been plagued by that one for a while, and are afraid she will find another victim tonight.“

Song Lan gestured for her to continue.

“Well, you see, on a clear night like this, her lover left her,“ the woman said bluntly, and Song Lan began to understand. It always went like this: lovers lost, friends betrayed, brothers deceived. Greed, anger, hatred, but most of all, love - turned and twisted. He sighed inwardly: those were not easily put to rest. The woman went on.

“It… She was a girl from the village. Her name was Xiao An, they were betrothed. But then he… Well, after she hanged herself in his bedroom, he left the village, but she remained in that house. We hear her crying, every night.“ She shuddered.

“Then, last week, a young man didn't return home to his family one night. We found him the next morning, he was…“ She trailed off, a haunted expression in her eyes. Shaking her head, she said, “Forgive me, Daozhang, I cannot tell you. He was my granddaughter's beloved, and what she did to him…“

She turned towards Song Lan, pleading. “We beg you, Daozhang, release her spirit. We cannot give you much, but-“

Song Lan interrupted her with a grunt and a headshake. Then, with another raised eyebrow, he half-turned into the direction the woman had pointed to earlier, silently asking the way.

She nodded. “It is the last house on the left side, you cannot miss it. It has been unoccupied since… Well, since then.“ With a deep inhale, she bowed to Song Lan. “Thank you, Daozhang. Your help is much appreciated.“ With a nod, the cultivator left into the direction she had indicated.

Since it had already been almost sunset when he arrived in the village, he wasted no time. As he walked towards the abandoned house, he prepared some talismans for the fight ahead.

He notices the fierce corpse behind him a heartbeat too late, too late to turn around and block its fury with Fuxue, too late to dodge the attack. Half-turned, he watches a hand descend towards his neck, unnaturally slow, as if through mud, before silver lightning strikes, cutting the offending arm off. Stunned, he watches as the white-clad figure gracefully follows the motion of the blade, using the momentum to behead the remaining corpse behind Song Lan.

“My thanks,” he pants, only to be grabbed by his sleeve and turned around with more force than strictly necessary. “Did it get you?”, Xingchen demands. “Are you hurt?” Song Lan shakes his head and Xingchen’s shoulders slump a little. Silently he steps closer and embraces Song Lan in a one-armed hug, hiding his face in the crook of the other’s neck.

Song Lan shook himself out of his thoughts. It wouldn't do to get distracted on a night hunt, he scolded himself. Shaking his head to clear it a bit, he mustered the talismans he had prepared, meticulously adjusting a few strokes. Perhaps because he was so focused on that, he realised too late that the trees around him had grown eerily quiet: no wind moved the branches, no bird sang to its mate, no insect buzzed evening songs. Instead, he heard a ghostly whisper that seemed to come from all around him. Unsheathing Fuxue, Song Lan carefully approached the deserted hut, only to stop abruptly when he heard his name.

Song Daozhang.

He couldn‘t answer, even if he had wanted to, so he cautiously stepped closer, eyes darting around to find the spirit that undoubtedly was responsible for this. His steps faltered and he stumbled, as the spirit's next words rustled in his ears.

You left him too, didn't you?

He fought to focus past the heartache and tear-blurred vision.

I didn't want to. I didn't want to. I didn't…

You left him. You left him. You left him and he died. He died, Daozhang.

He had to close his eyes for a moment. He knew this was a vengeful spirit, using his own thoughts against him, and still he was helpless against the guilt that threatened to weigh him down. Determined not to be bested, he turned around in search for the ghost, but all he could make out was that eerie whisper.

He died. He died. He died. HE DIED!

Suddenly, with a gust of energy that even smelled evil, foul and nauseating, the spirit materialised directly behind him, so close he could feel Shuanghua vibrate in warning. He whirled around and struck, only for the spirit to duck away and claw at him. He grunted with shock at a searing pain in his chest, then hurled Fuxue at the ghost‘s neck. The blade connected, and with a loud screech the figure dissolved, leaving only a cloud of dark, coiling energy behind.

Panting heavily, Song Lan dropped Fuxue – with a silent apology to the blade for such undignified treatment – and fumbled for a talisman. In its light, the black mist cleared and left only some sticky black residue in the tall grass.

With a groan, Song Lan dropped unceremoniously down into the grass next to his blade. His breathing slowly calming, he carefully took stock of himself. His robes were torn open, his chest drenched in blood from three large, ragged cuts, leading from his left shoulder down to the opposite hip. He winced and reached for the qiankun bag at his belt to find something to staunch the bleeding, and froze.

The spirit pouch was gone.

Frantically, he scrambled to his knees, all pain forgotten in his rising panic. Sifting through the tall grass where he had stood mere minutes before, he paid no mind to the sharp blades of grass against his hands, his only focus to find it again.

There. With a wave of unmeasurable relief, he spotted the well-worn fabric and came closer to retrieve it, already silently apologising to Xingchen that he had let them be parted so easily.

But all words died when he saw the state of the pouch.

The silk was torn, gashed open like his chest, black and gaping where embroidered flowers should have been.

No. Please, no.

When Xingchen had died, Song Lan had been under the puppet master’s control, but seen all of it unfold, the heartbreak, Xue Yang‘s gleeful explanations, the agony in Xingchen‘s face when he finally put Shuanghua to his own throat. It had etched itself in his memory, and when he finally was free of the needles, he had relived this moment over and over, every time a helpless spectator. The heartbreak he had felt then, the horror, the helplessness, had almost swallowed him, and only Xingchen‘s presence in the spirit pouch had been a thin ray of hope in the darkness.

But nothing, nothing he had felt then could be compared to the terror that now squeezed his heart with an iron fist.

The pouch was empty.

#the untamed #chen qing ling #cql #modao zushi #mdzs #the untamed fic #song lan #song zichen #xiao xingchen #songxiao #angst with a happy ending #fix-it #my writing

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sxveme-2 · 4 years

Text

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Edited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Three: The One With the Wallet

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1511

The nights that Lily spent alone were always the hardest for her to handle. She'd spend her day busying herself with miscellaneous activities in order to keep her mind off the empty house around her. Whether it be sweeping the floors, vacuuming the carpet, cleaning dishes that were probably already clean, whatever it was. If it kept her mind off the fact she'd be asleep alone in the house with only her dog...she'd do it.

But today...things just didn't work out like that. There were no dishes. Lily could practically see her reflection on the hardwood. The carpets were as soft as a cloud. She'd walked Joey twice already, and the dog then passed out in the living room with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. She scrolled through Netflix about six times, even made herself spinach puffs from scratch. And still, it was only 4pm.

Glancing down at the screen of her phone, she let out a gentle sigh. She figured she may as well spend some time out in the city. She's lived in New York State her whole life, and lived specifically in New York, New York, for 15 years. And yet she'd never done anything really tourist-y in ages. The last time she walked the streets of New York by choice was when she and Genevieve first moved out from Long Island. Those were the days. Living in an old and dingy apartment with Gen. Her only stress being school and balancing a part time job.

Lily lived like that for around two years or so. And then she met Scott. However, everyone knows how quickly her life had changed after that.

Grabbing her keys and purse, Lily bent down to press a gentle kiss on the top of her sleeping dog's head before sliding out the front door and locking it behind her. Would she wander the dirty streets of the city? Probably not. But she would for sure be stopping in to pester gen as she juggled running the cafe. Maybe even snag a few pancakes to indulge in during her nightly read. Who knew? All that the blonde knew was that she would definitely be grabbing at least one of Gen's infamous blueberry muffins.

-----

Around five, Lily felt herself grow weary of the hustle and bustle of the city. She had stopped into a few stores to take a look around, specifically the m&m store to pick Hunter up some chocolate, the Disney store, and just a few small boutiques. Making her way down the packed streets, Lily found herself out front of Gen's cafe. Letting out a soft sigh with a slight grin tugging at the corner of her lips, she pushed through the door.

The young girl's dark green eyes scanned around the room as she watched customers laugh over coffee, share a pancake, or just indulge in the tasty sweets that her best friend made her living making. Giving a small wave to a few of the wait staff, Lily maneuvered to the back, where with a furious intensity, Gen sat on a stool, icing a doughnut. Knocking on the wall to alert the fellow New York native of her presence, Lily made her way over.

"Well well, what did little ol' me do to deserve two trips by the infamous Lily Osborne today hm?" Gen teased while moving her work to the side, "Couldn't stay at home any longer?"

"Nope. If I took Joey out on another walk I think he may have gone into cardiac arrest," Lily chuckled while taking a seat down on a stool, dropping her bags, "I always hate when Hunters goes back to Scotts. The house feels so empty without him."

"I can imagine. Why don't I stay over tonight? Keep you some company in that basic suburban home of yours, hm? Sound like a plan, Doctor Osborne?" Gen grinned, nodding over to two bottles of wine beside the fridge, "Picked those two puppies up on my break. Figured it's better if I drank them with someone else, instead of just myself."

"Oho is that all I am? A buffer to keep you from turning into a raging alcoholic? Also, mind throwing some blueberry pancakes in a container for me?" Lily teased while snagging a chocolate chip out of the container.

"I thought you were aware of this?" Gen joked, before looking past Lily to one of the waiters pushing the door open, "Yes Elijah?"

"The man who called earlier about his wallet just showed up, where'd you put the thing?" the dark haired worker asked, dark eyes glancing down briefly towards Lily.

The blonde blushed ever so gently at the look, before turning around so her back was towards the male. She spotted the dark leather casing of a wallet and slid her arm out, pulling it into her grasp before standing. Lily pulled her purse over her shoulder and picked up the plastic bag her son's chocolate snack sat in, gripping it in her opposite hand.

"I'm heading out...I'll take it to him, what does he look like?" Lily asked as she brushed past Elijah, turning towards the seating area of the cafe.

"He's got long hair and a beard," a gruff voice commented from beside her, the small screech of a bar stool being scraped against hardwood echoing through the space, "and is wearing leather gloves."

Turning her attention to where the voice was coming from, Lily found herself face to face (or more so face to chest) with the same man she had seen earlier with her son. Bucky, right. That was his name. He was taller than lily had imagined, and more beefy in the chest then she could see from many tables over and under a clearly oversized jacket. But up close? The man looked like he could rip lily apart with his bare hands, and not even break a sweat. Granted...he was a supersoldier. She was sure he probably could actually do that, jacked or not.

"Oh! Sorry," Lily mumbled as she extended her arm with the wallet at the end, "I was leaving so I figured..." her voice trailed off, a familiar feeling of excited nerves bundling up in her throat. Letting out a deep breath before taking a small step back, after the cool sensation of metal danced across her fingers.

Lily remembered Hunter raving about how cool the Winter Soldier's metal arm was. How it was so strong it could tear car doors right off their hinges without any resistance. By remembering this, Lily’s suspicions were confirmed. He totally could rip her in half if he wanted to. But according to her son, the Winter Soldier was timid in real life. But how would she know for sure? She didn't know who he was.

"It's okay...thanks," he mumbled softly, seeming to nibble on his chapped bottom lip, "You were here earlier right? With the cute little guy?"

Lily nodded gently, fumbling with her fingers as her mind raced in an attempt to find a way to quickly exit this social situation. If she wasn't familiar with someone, it was rare to hear Lily speak. Being a talker was never one of the timid girls personality traits. She mostly kept quiet and never tried to go out of her way to spend time with new people or large groups. They made her nervous. She didn't trust people. She had seen what they were capable of doing.

A tap on her shoulder pulled Lily out of her self-inflicted panic mode. glancing behind her, Elijah stood with the paper container filled with blueberry pancakes for Lily. Giving a gentle smile, the blonde mouthed a thank you before turning back towards the man who seemed to have not moved a muscle since the two began talking. Or more so, he mumbled and she stood there dumbfounded. It wasn't much of a conversation.

"So...what'd you get?" the man asked, glancing around as if he too, was thinking of a way to either get out of this conversation, or at least distract himself from the seemingly terrified girl in front of him.

“Blueberry pancakes..." Lily laughed gently, biting down on her plush bottom lip, before her phone rang from inside of her purse. Sending a quick thank you to the good lord above, Lily excused herself from the awkward conversation, only catching a quick remark about how they were his favourite.

Pushing out into the humid air of New York in September, Lily pulled her phone out and answered quickly. A quick sigh of relief escaped her lungs as she turned away from the cafe and back towards where her car had been parked for the past hour and a bit. Finally, thankful she could get away from any possible chances of awkward run ins.

"Hello?" Lily spoke quietly into the phone as she unlocked her car, sliding into the front seat.

"He was totally eye fucking you." Gen's voice sang out as her bluetooth automatically connected from Lily's phone.

"Shut up! Be at my place at eight, weirdo."

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

Text

lord, consecrate this ground (if you can't consecrate this love)

Summary: On the run as everyone they know and love are turned to vampires or die in the process, Padmé and Obi-Wan search for a safe haven. They are followed by a shadow with unfinished business.

Notes: Vampire AU. Blood, injury, fire, death, manipulation. Canon-typical violence. Codywan and Anidala. Open ending. I have no excuses for this.

AO3

“Stay with me, Padmé.” Obi-Wan shuffles her arm further up around his own shoulders, choking on the hysteria rising in his throat. He has taken most of her weight on himself already but her knees are beginning to become unwieldy. “You must stay awake.”

Her voice is faint, wavering and thin. “We’re not going to make it.”

She is almost certainly right. She’s lost too much blood; thick rivers of it trickle from her throat into Obi-Wan’s collar as they stumble toward the church courtyard. It will dry tacky on both their skin, if Padmé even has that long. Anakin nearly ripped the meat from her shoulder when he bit down. “We’re almost there.”

“I’m not going to make it,” Padmé rephrases, and then says, stronger, “But you might. You should--”

“I am not going to leave you behind.” Obi-Wan interrupts, steely. He ignores the shivers running up and down his spine, the stickiness of his own blood smeared across his jaw, stuck in his beard and hair. Padmé had been too far gone by the time he’d arrived to notice his injuries on top of her own. If Ahsoka had been with him, maybe Obi-Wan would have made it out unscathed--but Ahsoka has been gone for weeks.

She’d left with Rex, promising they’d find a cure. Their ranks have been dropping like flies ever since. Obi-Wan wonders if the same thing that happened to Cody happened to Rex, too. If one night Ahsoka woke him to go hunting and his eyes had been yellow. If, like Cody, he’d grunted and cried out in pain before his teeth elongated and his voice turned into an animal snarl. If something in his blood, like the blood of his brother, changed him overnight. If Rex, like Cody, disappeared within seconds. What would Ahsoka have done if Rex had lunged at her like Cody had at Obi-Wan? Would she have fought back? Would she have had the strength to end it, the way Obi-Wan did not?

Cody’s hands had been so tight when he’d gripped Obi-Wan close. The touch was not unfamiliar; Cody's saved him from monsters a dozen times over, held him when he bled, and called him back from the dark when things were bleak. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized what was happening at first, distracted by Anakin’s disappearance on his last patrol route as he had been. He'd though Cody had noticed a threat Obi-Wan had missed and was protecting him from it, like Cody always did. It wasn’t until Cody had slammed Obi-Wan‘s head against the wall to make him pliant that he’d understood.

The creak of the gates to the courtyard shrieks through Obi-Wan’s skull. There are eyes in the darkness beyond them. How many vampires followed them here? How many are hunting them for sport?

How many of them used to be their friends?

Padmé’s legs give out a few feet from the church’s front steps. Obi-Wan, weak from his fights with both Cody and Anakin, goes with her when she folds to the earth. Her skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent, veins standing out blue under her eyes. It makes the gaping redness of her wound all the more sickening. She whimpers when Obi-Wan shifts to secure her in his arms.

“It’s--it’s no use, Obi-Wan.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Listen to me.”

Obi-Wan, heart in his mouth, collapses back from where he’d been trying to lift them both. If he has to, he’ll drag her body over the threshold. He’ll crawl his way to salvation. He’ll lie here in the mud and the blood and let them take him if he could just save Padmé. If he could just save someone, just anyone.

Padmé looks like hell but she will always be beautiful anyway. Even with blood matting her hair to her neck, her eyes blaze with fire. “I’m going to die. One way or another.” She shakes his shoulder when he goes to disagree. “Listen. I’ve lost too much blood. We both know it.”

“We’ll stop the bleeding. If you last until dawn, just two hours, we can get to a hospital--”

“He didn’t leave enough blood for me to survive, Obi-Wan.” She sounds tired, resigned, the way Qui-Gon had when Obi-Wan had pulled the vampire Maul off of him. He’d been the first person Obi-Wan had lost to the monsters. Maul had been the first vampire Obi-Wan had ever fought.

Qui-Gon had told him, after he’d dispatched Maul, exactly what Obi-Wan would have to do to a bitten victim who wouldn’t survive the night. His voice matched Padmé's tone, regret and determination but no fear to be found.

Obi-Wan’s stomach turns, dropping straight to his toes. Bile rises and he swallows it back. The ashes from the fire he’d set to keep Cody off of him as he ran clog his nose now. His skin feels gritty, grimy, tacky. The blood welling at his own puncture wounds is slowing.

“He planned it,” Padmé tells him, gentle as a lamb. A breeze picks up around them, blowing the smells of musty pews and incense towards them from the church’s waiting doors. They are ajar, just a little. Last night Obi-Wan and Cody had taken off for the nest Anakin had pointed out to them rather recklessly. It has only been a day, just twenty-four hours. It feels like a lifetime. “If I don’t want to die, I have to drink from him to survive. There’s no choice.”

“He didn’t have the time.” obi-Wan protests even as some small part of his mind begins to scream louder and louder. “Anakin could only have been turned for perhaps a day, he couldn’t have planned so well for--” For your murder, he does not finish. Padme’s empty smile, thin and bloodless, tells him she understands perfectly.

“My Ani has always been a quick thinker.” She shakes her head and for the first time Obi-Wan realizes tremors are running through her body where she lies limply against him. “It’s no use, Obi-Wan.”

“Cody--” He coughs, throat suddenly too dry. The ash from the factory he’d lit must be blowing towards them from miles away. He is surrounded by it, drowning in it. “He turned too, before I got to you. He--I think he wanted to do the same thing to me. He tried.”

Cody had been violent, yes, but only enough so that he could contain Obi-Wan. He’d tried to restrain Obi-Wan’s arms rather than break his bones. He’d pushed in close--Obi-Wan can still feel his lips moving, whisper soft, against his skin. Then the teeth had broken through and Cody had clamped down. The air had tasted of despair and victory and Obi-Wan couldn’t quite tell which had been worse. Cody’s fingers had been so careful where they twined into his hair. Cody’s mouth had been so wet and so red when Obi-Wan had flung him back with a cross pressed to Cody's chest.

“We’re all alone,” Padmé whispers. “Oh, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin’s eyes had matched the yellow of Cody’s when Obi-Wan had pulled him from Padme’s side. He hadn’t been hard to track down once Obi-Wan had shaken Cody from his trail; Obi-Wan had just followed the bloody footprints. Anakin had been wild, feral, an animal rather than the man Obi-Wan called his brother. Somewhere beyond them, as they fought, Obi-Wan could hear Lord Sidious’s cruel laughter. He’d called his new vampire beautiful, said he would become the perfect killer.

Anakin won’t be so beautiful now, Obi-Wan realizes with distant regret. Not with the scars from the holy water Obi-Wan had splashed in his eyes.

“You might survive--”

“I won’t. You will. You need to get inside--consecrated ground--”

She’s losing consciousness. If Padmé goes, Obi-Wan really will be alone.

“We’ll both go.”

“You can’t--even--lift--yourself…”

“We just need to last until sunrise in the church. Then we can get to the hospital. And Ahsoka might have found something to change Anakin back…”

Padmé does not answer. When he looks down, her eyes are closed. They remain that way even as Obi-Wan shakes her. His own body is weak and weary; he stumbles when he lifts them both up but gets his feet under himself all the same. Every step towards the church feels like a league. His bones are made of lead.

Obi-Wan perseveres.

They collapse into one of the pews nearest to the arched doors. Sluggish as he is, it takes Obi-Wan more than five minutes to arrange her comfortably on the hardwood. Her eyes stay closed, but her chest still rises. It is more difficult than he’d like to take comfort in the sight.

"Padmé,” he tries, knowing it is no use. She just has to survive until dawn. “We’re safe now, Padmé. Consecrated ground.”

She does not move. It’s alright. Obi-Wan tells himself, tells the swirling fear and worry in his gut. Let her rest. She will need her rest.

He must be more dazed than he’d realized, because only a light scuffing footstep on the church's stairs makes Obi-Wan jerk back to himself. He pulls Padme up further against his chest, pillowing her head as he listens. The barriers of the church will stop anyone will ill intent from entering, but the doors are open and if Obi-Wan just cranes his head around he can see--

“Obi-Wan.”

No. Please, for the love of all that is holy, no. Don’t let it be--

But it is.

Cody’s smile is bright white against the night. His yellow eyes gleam. Obi-Wan’s blood still drips from his chin. “Obi-Wan. Be a dear and come outside with me.”

“You’re not Cody.”

The man--what was once a man--sighs and spares a look over his shoulder to the cloying blackness of the courtyard and the street beyond the gates. “Anakin will be here soon, after he’s finished wrecking your home and all you love dear for what you did to his face. I’m sure when he calms down we can all have a nice long chat. Family therapy, maybe?”

“He is not Anakin any longer.” Obi-Wan repeats, “And you are not Cody.”

The thing wearing Cody’s face shrugs. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I am.”

“No.”

That striking smile widens and Obi-Wan feels sick. Padmé’s breath barely stirs the hairs on his neck as he clutches her close. “Maybe I am what Cody has always been and you were just too blind to see it. Did you think of that yet?”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth. Faint spots have started to rim his vision. He won’t spend his last few minutes on Earth arguing with a monster pretending to be the man he loved.

“Did you wonder if I always wanted to do this, Obi-Wan? Have you asked yourself if all those moments alone, stolen chances and gentle touches and longing looks, if during all of them I wanted to do this to you?”

His resolve breaks. “Stop. Cody would never harm me.” I loved him, he doesn’t say. Cody loved me too much to hurt me, he doesn’t say.

“I’ll admit ripping your throat out is such a pleasant idea,” Cody continues conversationally. His light, airy tone contrasts so badly with Padmé’s rapidly cooling body pressed to Obi-Wan’s that it makes him retch. “The change happened so fast and I was so hungry and you--oh, Obi-Wan, I always hunger for you the most.”

“Stop.”

“Ah, don’t be like that. It makes a poetic kind of sense, doesn’t it? Me being the one to turn into a vampire and kill you? After all, you’ve spent your entire adult life killing my kind and now you love one. It'd be a fitting end for me to tear you to pieces.”

“Stop it!”

“But then…” The vampire trails off and Obi-Wan cannot tear his eyes away as not-Cody shifts his weight, affecting a thinking posture that is an exact copy of Obi-Wan’s own. Cody taps his chin and smiles again. His fingertips come away crimson. His incisors are so long, so sharp. Obi-Wan knows they are serrated like a blade. They sawed into his flesh and he had screamed. “Then you got interesting. You had to play dirty and you did it so wonderfully. I like that about you, Obi-Wan, I always have. But you couldn’t end it--not with me and not with Anakin. You’ll fight and claw and scream but you won’t hurt us, not in a way that matters. Not in a way that lasts. You love too deeply for that, sweetheart.”

The truth stings, cleaving into Obi-Wan’s heart. He has always been too weak. “Stop,” he whispers, so soft he can barely hear himself. “Please just stop.”

“It was that exact second I realized it would be much better if I could keep you. I do, after all, love you.”

“How could you?” Obi-Wan snaps even as he feels his resolve leech away like the warmth from Padmé’s heart. The wind outside roars around the church's walls and Obi-Wan could swear he hears scratching at the stained glass of the windows, like the tap tap tap of razor sharp claws searching for a way in. “How could you love me, you monster?”

“Come and let me show you how I love you, Obi-Wan,” the monster who used to be Cody coaxes. His teeth are very, very white. “Step out of the light and let me show you.”

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heartofsnark · 4 years

Text

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter One): I'll let you in if you say it's okay

Notes: So, I’m taking inspiration from more than one lifepath start for my V and overall, I’m not sure how I feel about this first chapter. I’m not as confident in it as I have been in some of my other works and it’s undergone some heavy rewrites. But I’m officially sick of looking at it, so lets go. Still getting a feel for writing the cyberpunk characters too, tbh.

Word Count: 13083

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Internal Feels and struggles, (Aidan/V is very conflicted and struggling), Morning after sex

If you haven’t yet, please read the prologue: link here

Four years, a million miles, and a new alias later, not Aidan but V is standing in a motel bathroom, fresh from the shower. There’s a bruise forming on her chin from what she can’t remember. She touches up the two shaved slits in her left eyebrow, a pointless aesthetic choice given she wears a mask, she knows. But, she likes it and that’s what matters most. She pulls her bleached blonde hair back into a little ponytail, before brushing her teeth and changing.

She fastens her mask, a repurposed scav mask that she uses, not only to hide from her former family but to help her function in this world. No longer the green with red and pink faces the scavs use, it’s now black with white x-d out eyes and a wicked toothy grin. Vaguely cartoony and ominous, not her choice, but she’s far too nostalgic to ever change it.

Data and logistics flash across her vision, optic tech coming to life now that the mask is on. Finally, she puts in her hearing aids, the noise of the world coming back to her, the hum of a broken AC, the beat of a song coming from the radio, and a woman’s snoring drifting through the paper-thin walls. V pulls up her hood before she leaves the bathroom, ready to begin, her throat tight as she thinks of what the day holds.

I saw in you what life was missing

You lit a flame that consumed my hate

I'm not one for reminiscing but

I'd trade it all for your sweet embrace

The radio plays an old song from Ava’s favorite band, V knows the heavy drone of them anywhere, though she never can quite recall their name or song titles, only reminded of the days she pretended to give a shit about them in hopes it’d earn her at least a pity kiss. Why the hell the radio still plays music that old is beyond her. She turns her hearing aids volume down a little lower.

Music brought down to a hum, V’s attention turns to the bed, a woman who’s name she can’t remember is tangled in the sheets. Sun streaming through the window to shine on a bare freckled shoulder, the woman is around V’s age, maybe a year or two older with a pixie cut of dyed lilac hair. She fits in well with V’s track record of bedmates; unable or unwilling to give even half of what she got, leaving the nomad to take care of herself. But, as much as she’d appreciate an orgasm from something other than her own hand, she gets what she wants from them in the end; a glorified body pillow that helps her sleep.

“Mmm, you up?” The woman asks, stirring from under the blankets, she pushes a hand into her hair. She blinks her eyes a few times, before taking in V’s outfit, “you’re leaving already?”

V’s mask optics quickly reads lips, giving the world subtitles, essential when she wants to forgo hearing aids. The tech is far more advanced than the human eye when it comes to lip reading. The only downside is the mask requires someone to be facing her as they speak. So, the hearing aids are still necessary unless people are kind enough to accommodate her; which they never are.

“Gotta get back on the road,” V signs, a modulator translator in her mask speaks it in a monotone AI voice.

“You don’t wanna get breakfast or…?”

“No time,” V crouches down beside the bed, so she can properly meet the woman’s eyes and, “you remember what I told you, don’t you?”

“About not telling anyone what you look like or whatever…?”

“No whatever’s to it, if anyone comes around asking about me, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

“Yeah yeah, crystal clear, asshole.” The woman groans, not liking the aggressive tone V’s picked up, but it’s a serious matter. Most people get it, everyone nowadays seems to have enemies, but apparently not everyone understands. More flies with honey as they say.

“I’m sorry,” she signs, “it’s just important to me, life or death. I’ll order some room service for you before I go, sound good?”

“Hmm…I like pancakes.”

“Alright, I’ll put the order in then head out.”

“Okay…I won’t tell anyone, about you, promise.”

“I appreciate that,” V signs, putting in the room service order on the tablet provided.

Thankfully, pancakes are enough to earn the woman’s silence on the matter. The less people who have a bone to pick with her, the better. Though, she still hopes The Herd can’t follow her where she’s going anyway. Dufflebag thrown over her shoulder, V leaves the motel, stepping out into the dry heat of California. Even in the early months of 2077, the desert is burning hot, though it will be freezing by nightfall. The joys of the Badlands.

Yucca is a little nothing town south of Night City, surrounded by long agonizing stretches of desert. Not a place she’d give another thought to if not for her vehicle breaking down. The cargo in the trunk, locked up so the mechanic can’t get nosy, is meant for a client in Night City. The job came with forms and docs that’ll get her past the border.

She rolls up the metal garage door to the shop, seeing the older man in a trucker hat and flannel working over her car. The old Thorton Galena “Rattler”, bought off a Bakker nomad, who thankfully had no idea who her birth family is. It’s put together with rust, duct tape, and luck, bought for fifty eddies because it’s a walking tetanus trap; but it’s hers.

“Hey…drifter…” He greets her with a weary expression.

There’s two kinds of folks in these small towns that are scattered across the country like stars. Those who are weary of outsiders, know the dangers that lurk across the Badlands and have their guard up the moment someone they don’t know shows up. And for them, her refusal to show her face or speak with her own voice only adds to the suspicion.

And then there’s the other ones, the ones like that lilac haired girl still curled up in dusty sheets, eating shitty motel pancakes. The ones who see her, the people like her, the nomads, the drifters who travel the country and they see someone who can bring a moment of excitement to their dull little lives. The ones bored to tears with watching tumbleweeds all day and will climb in bed with V and their own preconceived notions of who she is just to have a night of excitement.

Each sees danger when they look at her, chaos in human form, someone who may just disrupt the status quo of their piss-pot of a town. An idea that terrifies or excites them. Then the realization hits that she’s just breezing through, a ghost without a trace. And for a moment they’ll be relieved or disappointed, then they’ll forget she was ever there.

“You got my car fixed?” she signs before she rolls the garage door down a foot or two shy of the ground.

“Not quite, electric coupling module is shot to shit.”

“You said it was an easy fix.”

“Guess I was wrong,” he turns to face her, arm crossed over his chest, “you could always find a new shop, find someone else who won’t question some scav lookin’ nomad why she’s hugging the border.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ scav, move,” she signs before shoving him away from her car engine, if he can’t get this thing up and running, she’ll do it her god damn self. She needs to get to Night City, yesterday, she’s already frustrated and him acting like he’s doing her a favor by staring at her engine for an hour isn’t helping.

“Got any idea what you’re doing?” Condescension drips from the mechanic’s words.

“Gonna, rig a hotwire, bypass the coupling.” She switches out some plugs, trying to find something, anything that will save her heap.

“Compressor will run on and on, could seize up.”

“Better than standing around scratching my head.”

She walks around her Rattler, pulling open the driver side door and climbing in. Please, any god listening right now, don’t fuck this up for her. V presses down the ignition and tries to rev the engine; sputters but doesn’t start.

“It’s like I was telling you,” the mechanic grumbles, so she tries again and another sputter.

“Fuck off,” she signs, wishing the tone of the AI voice would better convey her frustration as she begs her car, her baby, to start.

Come on baby, she thinks and her hands twitch to sign, her voice catching. Her desperation nearly making her verbal. Her rattler, her baby, her beautiful heap of rust and luck has carried her through three years in the Badlands. Just a little further, into the city, and V will find her a decent mechanic to give her vehicular child the treatment she deserves. She presses the ignition and revs the gas.

And that engine roars to life and it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard, her baby lives, she fucking lives! V can’t contain her smile, thankfully hidden behind the cover of her mask, she could scream. She’s starting the next chapter of her life with her baby by her side.

“Not too shabby, question is how long will it last you,” the mechanic rains on her parade as he shuts the hood.

“Better than whatever you were trying.”

V rolls her eyes and gets her walkie talkie radio out, hooking it to a jack in her car to try to boost a signal; she needs to let her client know she’s coming into the city, so they can prepare to pick up the cargo.

“Antennae on this heap don’t look like it packs much of a punch, doubt you’ll hear much.”

There was a broadcasting comms tower outside of the town, she saw it as she made her way in, she’ll get in and boost her signal with it. Should be fairly easy. She just wants to make it into the city, her chance at a new life. Seventeen years with The Herd, under her father’s thumb. Three years running, never able to settle down, never knowing when her family would find her when she’d be put down. Years wasted, she’s ready to live, to really live on her own fucking terms.

A flash of khaki fabric, visible through the opened gap in the garage door catches her eye and a chill runs down her spine. Trouble. Black cybernetic hands catch the bottom of the metal door and roll it up; an older man in a sheriff’s uniform with a cowboy hat comes strolling in.

“Hey, Mike, didn’t know you had a customer…” He draws out, looking over V as if she was carrying the plague.

“Just rolled in a few hours ago, I, uh, thought she would have told you.”

“Now, don’t you worry, we’re gonna hash this out,” the sheriff says, strolling over to her, he puts an arm up on her car roof, leaning against her open car door and looming over her, “Don'tcha know you owe the sheriff a word when you pay his town a visit? To tell him what brought you here, maybe even over a cup of coffee.”

“You that hard up for dates?” She signs in return, catching a muscle twitch of annoyance, and she smirks behind her mask. Five seconds in and she’s getting under his skin.

“Names Andrew Jones, you probably heard of me.”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Served in special ops in the last war, silver shoguns, ring any bells?”

“Can’t say that it does.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “don’t like to get along, do you?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

He scowls at her as he shifts his weight off her door and moves to walk in front of her vehicle, looking it over. His foot raises up, dirty boot now on the grill of her car and she wishes nothing more than to just drive forward and run his dumbass over. She doesn’t have fucking time for this; her client is waiting. She doesn’t even want to be in his dumbass little town; she already fucked the only good thing here and found nothing but disappointment.

“That a nomad vehicle? I might have figured. Scav mask, nomad car; what that make you?”

“You got a problem?”

“I’ll tell you what my problem is, nothing boils my blood like a fuckin’ stray. Where your clan pitch camp?”

“No camp, no clan, just little ole me, aren’t you lucky?”

“Don’t buy it, nomads always stick with their pack.”

“Got no pack, they don’t suit me much.”

“Makes you an outcast among outcasts.” He sneers at her, looking down his nose at her, like he’s something special and she’s gum stuck on his shoe.

“Let me guess, you’re the type of guy who believes every line of shit the corps feed you, that nomads are the world’s greatest evil.”

“No, I’m a man who respects order, corps brought us that order-”

“The corps pay you and have you on a leash like a dog, you know that?”

“And you don’t wanna see me bare my fangs.”

“Try and I’ll put you down,” V’s fingers move before she can give another though, no interest in making peace with this asshole.

“You threatening me, girl?”

“No more than you are me, stay out of my way and I’ll get out of yours.”

“Big talk coming from a misfit.”

She lets out a short laugh, the sound layered with her modulator, making it louder and doubled.

“Look, I’m not scared of some shithole town’s sheriff who thinks a badge is a crown,” she signs, hands moving so quick and hurried that the sound of skin hitting skin rings out, “I want to leave your town, you want me gone, move your ass and I’ll make us both happy.”

“Get going,” he moves out from in front of her car, “I got no mind to see you drifting around these parts.”

“What part of this conversation made you think I want to?” She finishes signing before slamming her car door shut.

“What was that drifter?” His voice fades away as she guns it out of the repair shop, rolling her eyes behind her mask.

Though, maybe breaking into the communications tower is technically drifting, but she needs to radio her client. Sinclaire will need to know she’s coming into the city, so they can meet up, exchange eddies for cargo, and she can figure life out from there. She takes a road that goes north and cuts through the desert, her Rattler practically born for off roading as she takes the heavy bumps of the sand dunes and drives through cacti, pulling up to graffiti covered bumpers just outside the fenced in tower.

It's an amalgamation of latticed rusted metal with satellites on top, graffiti decorating the buildings and chunks of the tower itself. It clearly hasn’t been used or maintained in years, but it should still boost her signal. V climbs out of her vehicle, trying to open the door to the fencing. It doesn’t budge at all and she pouts, then kicks it as hard as she can. Her steel toed boot works as well as a key, making it swing open.

It’s a quick little journey, two little flights of stairs she jogs up with ease. Then it’s a ladder, the peeling yellow paint sticking to her palms. And then she’s as high as she can reach, transmitter box in view. But with the view around her, wind whipping through, she takes a moment to peel off her mask and breathe. Sun beating down and warming her face, the breeze cools her skin under it’s rays, wicking away sweat that sticks to her brow.

A deep inhale of air before she forces herself to move again, the rusted front of the transmitter box breaks at the hinges when she opens it, she pays no mind and throws it aside then jacks in her walkie-talkie radio. V leans against the tower railing, radio in hand, but not ready to let go of the quiet.

The smell of rust and paint surrounds her as she takes everything in. She’ll miss this, she realizes, the open road and the Badlands have always been her home. But it’s not safe, not really. The Herd has shown no signs of letting this go. For four years, she’s dodged her sister and Ava; the two tasked with being her trackers, repeated close calls over all this time. They’ve interrogated and demanded answers from the folks in these sleepy little towns she breezes through. The mask has helped, but every day the feeling of them nipping at her heels gets worse. Her stomach churns at the lengths they’ve gone to. V’s father wasted no time in turning her sister against her, turning Eira into a weapon to do his bidding, to put down the defected child who never should have made it past nine.

He’ll kill her for not falling in that same line, for refusing to be his soldier. Forced to choose between death or conformity, practically one in the same, she tries to seek a third option.

Night City has its own rules, laws, restrictions; a city completely controlled by corps. It’s disgusting in its own right. But The Herd isn’t allowed in the city, border control of Night City has strict orders to keep all known or identifiable members of the Raffen Shiv clan out. Corps hate Nomads, as a general rule, but they really hate The Herd. A Nomad family with no respect for anyone else’s laws, a strong anti-consumerism, anti-cyberware, and anti-corp attitude; The Herd might as well send a personal fuck you to Night City. Its not perfect, not even good, a crime infested corp run cesspool, but it’s the safest option. More security, more boundaries, more faces so V can blend in. Even if Eira and Ava make it into Night City, which she’s not naïve enough to believe impossible, they’ll have six million folks to work their way through. Nomads stay in pack because groups provide safety; a sea of city faces is just an extension of that.

But that safety comes at a cost. It means no more open spaces, no more serenity, no more campfires with burnt marshmallows, or driving down dirt roads as fast as she can with her windows down, and screaming out in excitement as she takes on every bump and turn with reckless abandon.

There’s no perfect choice, every decision carries a sacrifice, but if the cost of staying in the Badlands could mean her life, her freedom, her identity… the city is the better option… she thinks…

A pessimistic or perhaps realistic part of her can’t help but feel like he’ll get his way, her father will have her head on a pike, will slaughter his own daughter like cattle. And his power over The Herd will only grow. After all, if he’d go this far to put down his own child for an act of betrayal, how could anyone else ever think to be spared his wrath. The already loyal army of followers will be further forced into submission by fear.

Maybe this is all a waste of time, she wonders, often does. Maybe it’s just dragging out the inevitable. Hell, a part of her wonders if she’d be better off begging for mercy, if he’d offer it just to maintain control. Would she be safer if she just gave in? Is she really the kind of person who needs to be half of a whole to function, to feel safe?

But, is it wrong to want something more? To be able to look back at her life, no matter how long or short it may be, and know she lived, that she gave it all she had. That she stayed true to herself, whoever that is. To prove that she doesn’t need them, that she isn’t a burden depending on others to carry her weight. She can make something of herself in Night City, can live on her own terms, even if only until the inevitable comes knocking at her door. It will be a bit of breathing room, a chance to just be, instead of constantly looking over her shoulder.

Family was meant to be her security, her safety, but were they ever really? V shakes her head, if she goes down every thought pattern, every reason, every doubt, every feeling; she’ll be here forever.

She pulls her mask back down and radios her client after another moment of soaking in the breeze, it's odd they didn’t go through a fixer, but frankly she doesn’t care. A middleman who takes part of the cut isn’t ideal for her either. She’s looking for the past possible new start and the more eddies in her pocket, the better that’ll be.

“V?” Sinclaire speaks her alias once she gets through.

“Speaking,” she signs, as always thankful her mask spares her voice in moments like this.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Hit a snag, but I’m on my way into the city now.”

“That’s what I like to hear, once you’re through the border radio me and we’ll talk meet up.”

“The docs you sent,” she signs, thinking to the falsified passport docs he had sent out her way, “they should get me through border check.”

“Absolutely, border control barely checks ID on customs, but that little pamphlet will breeze you through.”

“Okay, just checking.”

“Don’t worry V, this is a piece of cake. You’re gonna love Night City, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah? That so?”

“Mmhmm, once we finish the trade off, I’ll show you around. There’s a place in Wellsprings with synth steak to die for, I’ll treat you.”

“Sounds like a plan, I’m heading out now.” She agrees easily, it’ll be better to have more connections in the city, people she gets along with well enough and know the place better than her.

“See ya soon.”

Her client doesn’t know her exact clan, just knows she needs papers to get into the city. There’s more than one group of Raffen Shiv that aren’t allowed in city limits; hell she’s pretty sure Wraith’s aren’t. Though, corps make special deals to let them in when they need work done. As shitty as they are, The Herd has yet to whore themselves out to that degree, one thing she can still respect about her father. She fiddles with the leather cuff bracelet around her wrist, that hides the small crown shaped brand that he placed on her skin as a child, his way of marking his blood family. She’s considered taking a knife to it, but some part of her isn’t ready to.

V’s steps are hurried as she leaves the comms tower, heavy boots stomping over metal as she makes the quick journey back to her Rattler, the red beast of a car waiting where she left it. She climbs into the vehicle and twists the vehicle around. She follows the dirt road back out to the highway, headed out to the city.

She races back through the little town, picking up as much speed as she can, wind whipping through the open windows. Yucca is a blink and its gone, V having cruises right through the nothing town and continuing down the highway. Empty stretches of desert decorated with cacti as she races down the expanse of roadway.

Then the signs warn her of border crossing, nearing the city, her heart rate picking up as she grows closer to changing her life. A border checkpoint, enclosures and offices with an overpass above the divided lanes of the highway. Each lane leads to a border control officer with holograms labeling what each lane is for based on why someone is coming into the city; whether or not they have cargo to check. She slows down, so she can pull off her mask, the less suspicious she looks the better. Border guards aren’t going to stand for being questioned by The Herd, so its minimal risk.

She switches over to the lane for customs check, pulling up to the raised blockade, beyond it another car coming through is scanned. An armed border guard not far away and she waits as the vehicle is giving the go ahead to leave; blockade coming down and guard ushering her to drive forward. V drives that little bit forward; cement yellow blockades raise before and behind her vehicle. Locking her into place makes her uncomfortable, like she can’t escape.

“Stay in the security check area,” a guard tells her over the intercom, like she would have tried to drive through the blockade without his warning. A beat i silence, a minute or two passes as the scanners run along her car.

“Would the owner of the vehicle please report for further questioning.”

V grabs the falsified passport, manifest marked LOA, and the bribe chip for good measure. She keeps her head down as she gets out of the vehicle, makes her body language small as she walks into the office building. Maintaining a non-threatening demeanor in order to ease any friction that may come her way. The door automatically opens, a waiting room of people and a desk behind bulletproof glass where a worker stands. A map of the New United States across one of the walls.

“If you’re armed, leave your weapon here.” The worker behind the desk calls out and V unholsters her revolver, allowing him to check it and put it in a drawer, “report to room two.”

She nods, feeling naked without a weapon on her hip, but she knows this is the way of things. V turns the corner, finding the door with a two marked next to it. She opens the door and a lump forms in her throat. It's a small cramped little excuse of a room, a guard already at the rinky dink desk and a chair in front of it. She takes small timid steps to the chair, discolored with either dried blood or rust, she can’t be certain. The man is dressed in a neon vest; some sort of either goggles or optic implants over his eyes that scan her over as she sits down. He wastes not a second in lighting a cigarette and her nose wrinkles as smoke billows to fill the small room. She can already feel the stench of it clinging to her clothes and wishes she could snatch it from his hand.

“Papers?” he asks.

She hands over the manifest, her falsified passport, and the credit chip without a word. Metallic implant augmented fingers put the cred chip aside to look over the little blue document, then he places the paper over the cred chip, hiding it from prying eyes that may peek into the office. Meanwhile, V tries to maintain her most innocent of expression, puppy dog eyes primed if any issue arrives. Small and adorable has few benefits in this world; but she plans to take advantage where she can. Being underestimated, assumed to be weak or docile, as much as it hurts does have perks.

“What are you transporting?”

“It’s all in there,” she signs in response, because frankly she has no idea what she’s transporting. Some corp crap.

“Hmmm, tell me, who do you ride with?”

“Bakkers,” she lies through her teeth, her car was bought off one, so it seems like an easy enough excuse.

“They stop installing personal links?” He asks, puffing out a plume of smoke, his gaze on her linkless palm.

“Religious reasons, most of the clan has them, but my mom raised us to stay ‘ganic, god given, ya know?” She signs, a practiced excuse for when she’s asked about her lack of implants. Same as the excuse laid out in the passport.

“Is that so…” he takes a deep drag off his cigarette and V bites her lip not to say anything she’s hit with another face full of smoke, “you know, times like this I’m so glad not to be on the other side of that table.”

“Feelings mutual,” she signs before she can even consider stopping, aggravated by this man’s entire existence at this point. She gave him all the documents, this should be done with by now.

“Go on now.”

She jumps at the chance to be excused, taking in a deep fresher breath of air when she’s released from the smoke box of an interrogation room. V runs a hand through her hair as she turns the corner. There’s another armored guard standing beside the desk now, his eyes doing a lazy look down of V’s frame.

“Don’t forget to collect your personal items.” The worker behind the desk tells her and she stops there, giving him a raised eyebrow before he goes to collect her gun, “be careful with that toy and welcome to Night City.”

As much as she’d like to gripe about the toy comment; as if she’s a child, she can’t help but find herself smiling at the greeting. She’s finally here, finally getting into the city. A life on her terms; a little breathing room between her and the clan. V holsters her gun, grin playing on her lips.

“Those little shits all imagine Night City to be some sort of paradise,” the armored guard comments about her, but not to her, looking over her to the worker behind the desk.

“What are you gonna do they’re all young, naïve, which is just another word for ignorant.” The worker replies and V’s grin has died, maybe that’s the case for others, but Night City is exactly what she needs. Her situation isn’t the same. She doubts those young ignorant kids they’re talking about were running from their own death.

She shakes her head, not worth the effort it’d take to respond, V leaves the building. Her Rattler a short distance away, she’s nearly bouncing as she rushes towards it, climbing into the driver’s seat. Even the overpass above her has words welcoming her to the city, she’s sure she won’t find paradise, but there...she’ll make this life her own.

There’s barely a blip of distance between her and the border check when she sees them. Black corporate vans coming towards her, her heart jolts into her throat and sweat edges along her skin.

“Fuck!” V curses out loud, border fucker tipped off the corp.

“Stop the vehicle! You are transporting corporate property!” A voice rings out from the vans and V takes a sharp turn off the road, her baby is meant for off roading after all.

“I repeat, stop the vehicle!” The corporate voice yells out again.

“Stop the vehicle,” she murmurs in a whiny voice to herself, mocking the corpo, “give us back our stuff, stop committing crimes, wah, wah, wah.”

She rolls her eyes, amused by her own bullshit as she punches in the keypad of her Rattler, starting up the automated turret attached to the roof. It’s not the most high tech system, but it has a lock on function and should get the job done. The sounds of bullets pinging off metal creates a cacophony around her as she careens through an abandoned rural area, taking sharp turns to try to shake them. V takes out her hearing aids to stop her forming headache and focus on what she’s doing. The rumble of her turret shakes the car as it fires, letting her know its still working fine. Glass break out of the back of her car, a bullet piercing through, her back sprayed with the shards. She’ll be digging a bullet out of her dashboard later, she’s sure.

A bright flash of orange, flames enveloping a van as her turret hits a gas tank the right way. One down, two to go. She keeps the pedal to the floor, speed topping out as she races away from the approaching vans. Another sharp turn and she watches as a van crashes into a wall, one last stubborn fucker.

There’s a slight tense to the vibration of her turret overhead, bullets hitting the top of it, aiming to disarm it, as she goes through another turn. A shot bursts through her side mirror, assholes, do they have any idea how much it’s going to cost her to repair this heap. More than it’s probably worth.

The vibration that shakes her car settles down over her head, turret no longer firing, but the van is still chasing her. It fucking jammed, her turret fucking jammed again, of course it did. V hauls off and punches the roof of her Rattler, right beneath where the turret is, used to this issue at this point. As always, the hard punch manages to spur it back on and it fires up again, blasting at the last van at full speed.

A bullet hits the corpo van’s front tire, knocking it off path; final one down.

“Suck my dick, Arasaka!” She screams out for no one else to hear.

She’s grinning as she finds a collection of abandoned trailers and garages, pulling into one, she’ll need to call her client, figure out a meeting place. They may want her to lay low for a bit until Arasaka calms their tits about this. But she’s in Night City, finally, what could go wrong from here. Cut out a nice living for herself, solo work or maybe something else, who knows. Get herself a place and do whatever the fuck she wants from there. She slides on her mask, puts her hearing aids back in, and rings her client.

“Sinclaire?”

“V, you make it over the border yet?”

“Yep, out just south of Pacifica according to the GPS, little run in with the corps but I shook them. When and where you wanna meet?”

“Little China, you know where the old Club Atlantis is?”

“Not remotely, but ping me the coordinates and I’ll find it.”

“Sending it to you now, think you can get there by three am?”

“Yeah, no problem, prefer to do this under cover of darkness?”

“Much prefer, see you soon, V.”

V hangs up the call and punches in the coordinates he sent, GPS map firing up to tell her where to go. She pulls out of the abandoned garage and gets herself back out on the road, driving further into the city.

She doesn’t like driving in the city. V determines about a minute into being into the actual bulk of the city. There’s neon signs and adverts everywhere she looks; most displaying someones ass or tits. She wouldn’t consider herself a prude, far from it given just how many people she’s spread her own legs for, but she does appreciate some decorum… These are sleazy, dirty…

And there’s traffic. Even at the late hour, people are on the roads, and they’re slow. So, fucking slow. Move, your asses. A motorcycle might be a good investment, she’d be able to just ride between traffic or weave through the other cars.

She manages to reach the spot before three am, though she wants to scream by the time she arrives. The building blends in easily, just another large shuttered up structure with graffiti covering its outside; symbols for the Tyger Claws, because correct spelling is a bad look for a gang, apparently.

V lets out a huff of air as she gets out of her car to wait; examining the little bloody scratches on her shoulders and arms where the glass hit her. Nothing serious, a splash of rubbing alcohol to disinfect and she’ll be fine. But there is a slight sting to the injuries that make moving her arms and shoulders uncomfortable. Corpo fucks. V leans against her car, taking in her new city.

And she shouldn’t be amazed, she knows that. The traffic drove her nuts and she’s been in landfills that smelled nicer. But despite it all, she finds herself impressed at the buildings that stretch on into the heavens. The bright lights and neon against a dark sky is gorgeous; a high vantage point and she’s sure it’d look like something out of a movie. She finds herself in awe as hope nestles its way into her chest.

Not perfect, nothing ever is, but she can work with it. She can build something here.

A sharp honk gets her attention, disrupting her moment of reverie. The street and road have been abandoned mostly; only her and the limousine coming to a stop next to her. She gives a slight wave to the driver, then forms a V with her fingers, as if they needed any more indication of who she is.

The driver is not her client, instead a big bulk of a man with gorilla arms implants, black metal for fingers, he gets out of the driver’s seat and a similarly sized man steps out of the back seat. Her client’s got muscle around him it seems, maybe he just wants to make sure she doesn’t get squirrely and try to pull something.

Both guards out, they open the backseat door close to the street and her client finally emerges. He’s not a particularly tall man, though as with most adults, he is taller than her. Sandy slicked back hair and unnaturally bright green eyes; likely optics.

“V, darling, nice to see you in the flesh, you got the goods?”

“Right here,” she signs before moving behind her car, opening the trunk so he can see the Arasaka cargo crate.

“Fantastic, load it up, boys.”

“Woah, woah,” V signs and sits on the crate before the two bodyguards can grab it, “eddies first, then you take the cargo.”

“Oh, V, honey…” His voice drips with condescension and a chill reverberates down her spine, “you did good work, only a shame you’re so naive.”

“The fuck do-”

Pain cracks through her skull, knocking V off the cargo crate and onto the ground. Another sharp thwack of pain across her head and back; something blunt striking her before she can get up. She groans out as she rolls over onto her back, looking up at the bodyguard who’s holding a baseball bat, what looks like blood staining it. Her head and back hurt; her head spinning and she’s unable to get her bearings.

“Load the cargo into the car.”

“What do you want us to do with her?” One of the guards asks Sinclaire and he looks down at her, like a cockroach.

“Eh, no one will come looking for her. Might as well throw her away with the trash,” he kicks her side, sneering when she grunts in pain, “give her another hit for good measure.”

“Got it,” the guard nods and starts to raise the baseball again, high above his head for a hard swing and she instinctively twists to give him the back of her head again.

“We’ll scrap the car, ge-”

And then the bat comes down on her, a rush of pain before consciousness slips from her grasp.

Time loses all meaning when the world is blacked out, but eventually the light filters back in and her senses return. She can feel her hearing aids still in and its reaffirmed by the sounds she hears, the faint murmur of people. The smell around her is awful, disgusting, and she can feel stuff around her. Plastic bags scratching at her skin, something wet touching her arm. Her mask shifted and she forces herself to move, she pulls it back in place, blinking.

Garbage bags, some intact and others shredded. He actually had her thrown into the trash, that son of a bitch. V pushes the trash bags off of her, city lights starting to glimmer through, neon against a black sky. She finds a metal edge of the dumpster and pulls herself up, body still aching in protest as she emerges from her would be grave. Cold air hits her bare arms, the city far colder in the early months than the Badlands. She’s in an alleyway dumpster and she hears gasps of shocks, turning to see civilians shocked to see someone climbing out of the trash. She’s be ashamed if she weren’t so furious.

V punches the side of the dumper, feeling it reverberate with the force, this was supposed to be her shot at a new life and now she’s in a god damn dumpster.

She’s going to kill Sinclaire, she’s going to fucking kill him, son of a bitchfucked her over and he’s going to pay with blood. But how the hell does she even reach him? He never gave her details of where he spends his time or let alone where he lives. Hell, she doesn’t even know where she is. She needs her car back and her luggage from it, she doesn’t even have a change of fucking clothes as it stands right now.

“What time is it? Where am I?” she signs at the civilians, still straddling the edge of the dumpster, maybe they can be some help.

“Uhhh, like 10pm? And Heywood…?”

So, he dragged her away quite a bit, so...maybe he frequents the area. Still doesn’t tell her much, she needs to find him. And she needs to find her car, but how the fuck does she accomplish that?

“Don’t suppose you have any idea where I could find Luke Sinclaire, do you?”

“Uh, no,” the stranger kind of raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the whole situation, “but uh, you could always talk to Padre. He’s the local fixer.”

Of course, she’d have to get a fixer involved, not using one is probably what got her in this mess in the first place. Sinclaire knew she had no ties to her Nomad family, new to the city, and no fixer involved. He basically had license to do whatever he wanted without fearing someone would come for him or come looking for her. V touches the back of her head, fingers coming back red, dried blood matting her hair. He meant for her to die, she’s sure, but the blunt trauma wasn’t enough to do her in.

“Where’s Padre?” she signs, she doesn’t have money to pay a fixer but maybe they can work something out. She doesn’t want to lone wolf it and end up in a dumpster again.

“He has his own parish, but he’s usually at the El Coyote Cojo right about now, might be able to catch him if you hurry.”

“El Coyote Cojo, which would be…where?”

“Bar a little north of here, you really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Thanks for your help and stunning observational skills; I’m off.”

She pulls her hood back up over her head, hiding her bloody matted hair as she leaves the alley way and goes vaguely north. New chapter of her life, she’s injured, alone, broke, and smells like garbage.

Honestly, sounds about right for her luck. But, she’s far from given up. She navigates the Night City streets, stopping to ask a stranger where the bar is again before she finally finds it. She keeps expecting to get weird looks, like the ones that were usually sent her way in the small towns she’d visit on the road. But even with her mask, no one pays her much mind. And why would they?

V passes at least four more outrageous looking strangers along her way to the bar. People’s who’s entire body is made of gold cyberware, a woman with skin that looks like plastic, a cowboy with cybernetic arms and legs, and a girl with what looks like cat ear implants on top of her head. Things that make her stop and give a second glance, but no one here even minds. Night City has its own weirdness limit and her mask doesn’t even come close to hitting it. There's an anonymity she’s never known before and its kind of nice. Even bloody, mask on, trash covered; she’s just one face in a sea of millions.

El Coyote Cujo is a lowlit bar with traditional Mexican decorations across it and as expected in the evening, it has a fair number of patrons bustling around. People shooting pool, downing tequila, and chatting amongst themselves. And for the first time, she finds eyes landing on her. Not necessarily weirded out by her masked appearance, but more so wary of a stranger. She pays them no mind, employees here should know where Padre frequents or if he’s still here. There’s two she’s able to find right away; the bartender and a busboy. She starts with the bartender, walking herself over to a stool, he’s an older man with dark hair and a golden arm. He walks over to her once she’s sat, a smile bringing out the crows feet at the corners of his eyes.

“A new face, what can I get for you?”

“I’m actually trying to find someone,” she signs, “someone told me the local fixer, Padre, is a regular here.”

“Ah, he’s probably at his usual table upstairs, not sure he’s interested in taking on any new clients though.”

“I’ll see if we can figure something out.” She steps away from the bar and heads upstairs, its mostly vacant, making her task just a little bit easier.

Her gaze is drawn to an older man with sparsely any hair and age spots along his skin, a gold cross around his neck. A few men in tacky gold jewelry around him.

“Padre?” The AI modulator voice calls out and she sees the older man’s eyes land on her. His guards around him seem to tense, prepared for if she sends up being a threat.

“I’m not sure, I know you,” Padre comments, looking over her disheveled appearance. Being beaten and thrown in a dumpster doesn’t do much for your looks.

“You don’t, but I’m looking for a fixer, need help if you’re interested in hearing me out.”

“Come, sit.”

“Thank you, sir,” she signs before sliding into the booth seat across the table from him.

“How can I assist you, child?”

“So, a guy named Luke Sinclaire contracted me to smuggle corp cargo into the city, I go to meet up with him and he tricks me. Stole the cargo, sent my car to be scrapped, and had his gangoons drop me. I need help finding him so I can get the cargo, my car, and my dignity back. Maybe kill him too, depending on how I feel, but we’ll see.”

“You didn’t use a fixer, I take it?” He raises an eyebrow with the energy of a dad chiding a child for making a stupid mistake.

“No, I was desperate and it bit me in the ass, so I’m doing what I should have done in the first place.”

“And I’m to assume, you have no money with which to do this either?” He says, having read her like a book.

“I’m sorry to be asking favors the first time we meet and I don’t expect you to do this for nothing, of course, but I was wondering if we could work out an arrangement instead.”

“And what sort of arrangement would that be?”

“I’ll do a merc job for you, your choosing, I’ll take no cut of the profit; a completely free job in exchange for you helping me with this.”

“And how can I trust you to do this job well, I do not know you or your work.”

“Well, I’d do the job for you first, so if its crap you could not help me. I fully expect to get back what I put in, if I do quality work, you do it in return, I’m desperate here.”

“Come with me, Marcus, get the car,” he tells one of the bulky men who walks off.

Padre stands and follows behind Marcus, V follows suit as they leave down the stairs and out of the bar towards a dark little alleyway. Marcus pulls up a car and parks it for them. Once parked Marcus gets out and comes back to one of the backseat doors, Padre gets into the back on his own, Marcus opens the door for her. He silently beckons her in and she does what she’s asked, sliding onto the leather seat. Marcus shuts her door before going back around to the driver’s seat,

“Embers, pull up to the back where the ramp is,” Padre instructs Marcus of where to go.

And then the car pulls out onto the road. V fiddles with a curl of hair, fidgety and unsure of what to do, why they’re driving out away from the bar. Padre has a far away look in his eye.

“You’re new to Night City, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…”

“And what is your name, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it earlier.”

“V.”

“V, I’ve lived in Heywood all my life, it’s roots are strong and watered by blood. Family is what pulls us through, no one is purely independent. The city is ecosystem, each individual playing a vital role that impacts those around them. The relationship between fixers and our mercenaries is an important one, not only is it mutual beneficial, but we keep each other safe. A lesson you’ve had to learn the hard way.”

“Can’t really argue with that…”

“People who-“

Padre pauses in his words looking out of the window and through it, V can see a car coming up alongside them. The car begins honking furiously at them. Nerves alight and chills slinking up her spine; she has a bad feeling about this. It has to be someone with a bone to pick with Padre.

“Shit!” Marcus curses, the first word she’s heard him say.

“Stop the car,” Padre says, with a calming hand on Marcus’s shoulder.

“What’s this?” V signs, worrying speeding up her hands.

“Business, you carrying?”

“Yeah….” V checks her waistband and her revolver is gone because why did she think Sinclaire wouldn’t take her gun, “No.”

Padre blinks, surprised she’s sure, because who the fuck would be unarmed in Night City. Marcus pulls to a stop, the car once beside them pulls around to park in front of them and a man comes out. He’s dressed in what appear to be green fatigues with a bullet proof vest. As he comes close to V’s window, she sees his gold implants catching the neon lights.

“Sebastian Ibarra,” the man says in a low voice, as V’s window is rolled down by Marcus, “looks like it’s my lucky day.”

The stranger leans into the window, his left hand is carrying a gun and he casually puts it into the window. Both arms are metal in nature, but they look far from top shelf, at least from her glance.

“What do you want?” Padre asks him.

“To settle our biz, once and for all. Got an offer for you, Paddy, so listen up. Get the fuck out of Vista, pull your boys off the street! I’ll give you the Glenn, done deal. No more restless nights, see how generous I can be?”

A beat of silence and V gives a glance at Padre, he seems far from amused with the man’s bullshit.

“Well, Paddy?!”

V lurches at his impatient yell, she doesn’t need this wannabe soldier turned gangbanger fucking up her deal. Her right hand grabs the back of his neck, below the base of his skull and her left grabs the gun. She slams his head against the car roof, his forehead gushing blood at the impact, the shock and pain makes his grip loosen and allows her to steal his pistol before letting him go.

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses as he stumbles back, seeing stars and touching at his forehead. She aimed for the soft flesh just before his golden mohawked implant began, blood now steadily streaming from the wound, “you’ll fucking pay for that.”

She points his own pistol at him, cocking the gun, asking the silent question of if he intends to be shot today.

“It seems our conversation has come to a close,” Padre speaks calmly, but when she turns she can see the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Careful Padre, never know who’s got a barrel at your six,” he threatens with blood coating his face like paint, “you neither shitbucket!”

“Now, I’m armed,” V signs to Padre, as she watches the man climb back into his car, defeated for the moemnt.

“Marcus, please.”

The driver pulls out and away, getting them back on the road, as if the exchange had never happened. There’s a moment or two of silence, as V tucks her new gun into her waistband. If Padre takes her up on her offer, she may need it, plus you can generally never have enough firepower.

“Many people come through the city,” Padre speaks after a beat of silence, “little shits who’s spines go soft the moment they’re looking down the barrel of a gun. And sometimes you get the odd soul, one who can truly hold their own.”

“Who was that?” She asks, unable to help but smirk behind her mask at the compliment. That she’s one of the odd souls, different from those little shits, that she can hold her own. V is far from incompetent, even if some shitbird got the jump on her.

“No one important, he’ll be gone in a week’s time. Another will take his place.”

“The ecosystem will take him out?”

“People who don’t know their place, soon find themselves without one. He’ll pay for what he’s done. You… paid for your misdeeds, for your misstep, but you’re finding your place now and within it you may thrive.”

“You got my place in the ecosystem all figured out?”

“Here,” he hands her a screamsheet, a magazine with an animated ad for a car, high-end The Legend of Aerondight, “only four in Night City.”

“That so?” It looks slick, she guesses, though certainly not her aesthetic. Its that weird rich person sort of design where it’s oddly shaped and proportioned, perhaps to be aerodynamic. All sleek silver and black, no character to it. She’d take her Rattler over it any day.

“First belongs to the Rayfield regional direction, second belongs to mayor Rhyne, third to a rental service. And my client aims to be the fourth.”

“Klep the car and you’ll help me?”

“Yes, I have a contact who works inside the parking structure near Embers, a club the current owner likes to frequent. He’s there tonight as well. My contact will cut the security camera feed and open the security gate for you.”

“Current owner, anyone I need to worry about?”

��An Arasaka corpo,” Padre informs her, because apparently, she hasn’t fucked with Arasaka enough in the past day or so.

“So, just hotwire it or?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’s hotwired a car, but fancy ones like this usually have a more complicated security system. Usually takes more than a knife and luck, which is her usual method.

“Not quite,” Padre pulls a little gadget, a silver and black device that he hands to her, “this should work like a key for the car, matches the ones used by Rayfield tech. Should open the lock and bypass identity authorization.”

“That sounds convenient…” Too fucking convenient, she resists adding.

“Kabuki has some excellent tech workers, but I won’t lie, it is a risk. I assume one you’re willing to take?”

“Got it, I’ll get the car.”

“Marcus, pull up here,” Padre tells the driver and they come to a stop, “you can jump down below, and before you go, take this V.”

He hands her a card, marked with his name and phone number, golden in color with a sword surrounded by roses. She rubs her thumb over the embossment, glad for her first contact within the city. Connections help.

“Your number?” She points out the obvious, not sure what else to say.

“Bring the car back to El Coyote Cujo and call me when you arrive, if all goes well, I’ll have your intel by then. And, I may just call on you for work down the line.”

“Understood, I’m off then.”

“Go with God, V.”

The guardrail drags along the side of the highway but there’s a breakage where it allows her enough space to easily jump over. Peering over it leads to an alley way, a closed dumpster just below. She hops over, dropping down onto the dumpster, she intends on last night being her last trash nap, so she’s more than a little thankful for it being closed. She hears a civilian let out a little exclamation but pays no mind as she jumps down onto the pavement. A quick walk down a graffitied alleway leads her to yellow road signs cutting across an open structure. Glowing vending machines beckon her to spend ennies she doesn’t have on energy drinks and burritos, a turn past them brings her to an elevator.

Slick glinting silver encompasses her as she steps into the alleyway; impressively clean compared to the absolute grime of the city. Likely to impress any corpos who come this way to get their cars. A quick tap of a button and the doors shut, elevator rattling as it descends down to the garage.

A beat of silence and the elevator opens up to a hallway; black, gunmetal gray, and teal accents. The wall declares which sector she’s in and an arrow on the far wall tells her where to turn, as if there were anywhere else to go. The turn around the corner puts her directly in front of two large black double doors; PARKING over them in clear bold lettering.

They slide open when she gets close and open up to the large parking garage, lights coming on as she sees all the slick fancy corpo cars. Sleek blacks and eye popping reds, none with any taste for design if you ask her. But nomads and corpos have...different aesthetics.

“Eh, something I can help you with?” A male voice rings out, bringing her attention to the little station next to the blocked off exit for cars. The contact, she presumes. She comes over to his open window, the man dressed in uniform.

“Padre sent me…” she signs, keeping things vague just in case this person has no idea why she’s here.

“Gotcha,” he hits a button, “cameras are blind, you got twenty minutes.”

She nods and goes looking through the cars, it’s the glow of neon that brings her to it. A parking spot marked off in the vivid blue glowing lights, they frame the Rayfield, and spell VIP on the wall behind it.

Time to test the tech, she holds the device next to the door and presses its button, a blue light flashing. And then the Rayfield’s door opens, sliding back and up in one fluid motion, exposing the deep burgundy leather seats. Shit may actually be going right for once.

She climbs into the driver’s seat, feeling wholly out of place in the plush designed car. The seat automatically adjusts to accommodate her, no doubt shorter than the owner, and the blacked-out windshield and window turn to crystalline clear glass. All that’s left is bringing the baby back to the bar and then she can get her intel on Sinclaire.

A red caution symbol flashes in the windshield and her body tenses; a bad feeling creeping in. No, her luck can’t be running out already.

Then the door opens and there’s a gun in her face.

“Get the fuck out!” A Mexican accented voice yells out.

If there is a god, he personally hates her, there is no other explanation, and she will fist fight him for his shenanigans. She looks up at the man standing before her, barrel at her forehead. He’s leaning down against the car, not unlike how the sheriff did to intimidate her back in Yucca. However, unlike the sheriff, this guy has the build to pull it off. He’s easily over a foot taller than her and wider than most doorway, all pure muscle with dark hair in a top knot, gold cybernetics adoring his face. She puts her hands up in mock surrender for a moment.

“Nothing personal, jaina, just biz.”

V goes to gun it, to stomp her foot down on the gas, but before she can the man has the back of her hoodie and is unceremoniously ripping her out of the vehicle.

“You fuckin’ deaf, chica, fuck out of the car, now!” He’s able to manhandle and pack her around like it’s nothing, like carrying a housecat.

She grabs the hand on her hood and digs her fingernails in, swinging her foot out to kick him while her other hand goes for her gun.

Then there’s a steady rev of engines, tires squealing and growing ever closer. Confusion coloring her assailant’s face and he drops her, looking around.

“The fuck…”

He starts to say and then there’s two police cars rushing into the parking lot, skidding to stops in front of them. And its fucking overkill, if she rang 911 because she was shot, they’d maybe send an officer out in three weeks. One fucking corpo has someone break into his car and it’s the end of the universe, need a full brigade.

The headlights of the cruises are blindingly bright and she struggles to adjust; putting her hands up as police officers come out with guns at the ready. It’s a car for fucks sake.

“Don’t move!”

Her attacker carefully slides his gun across the cement, to show he’s not a threat and maybe she’d consider doing the same if she cared; but she doesn’t.

“You’re under arrest!”

“Stay where you are!”

The police continue barking orders, as if the two hadn’t piece together what was happening or what was being asked of them. They’re not stupid.

“Hands where I can see them, nice and slow!”

He can already see them, why must they go through the rigamarole. She doesn’t have time for this shit.

“On the ground motherfuckers, right now!”

V is able to watch for a second, as a female cop cuffs and pushes the big guy onto the ground. Then in the next second she’s down there too, but they don’t cuff her like they do him. The officer only holds her hands down to the pavement, maybe they think because she’s smaller they don’t need the cuffs, at least not yet.

“Jackie Welles, my old pal from the hood,” a voice rings out, “See you haven’t grown an ounce wiser.”

“Hey,” big guy, apparently Jackie, responds and she shifts her head against the pavement to see him being held down in addition to the cuffs, “argh, Detective Stints, been a while, huh?”

“Inspector Stints,” the man responds now stepping out where he can be seen in front of the bright lights, he picks up the gun Jackie put down.

“Same shit,” Jackie says with a laugh.

“But you, you’re new,” Stints comments as he walks over and crouches down in front of her, looking over her face.

He waits, anticipating her to say something, but she talks with her hands and they’re currently pinned behind her back. And sure she possesses the technical ability to speak, her vocal chords do function. But she doesn’t, unless she’s alone or highly emotional. She used to talk to her mom, sister, and Ava…but those days are gone.

“Spit it out? Cat got your tongue?” Stints taunts and she still remains silent.

“Think her voicebox might be broken, Stints,” Jackie comments, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Pfft, probably just another piece of Heywood trash, another termite who’ll live and die here. Just like you Welles.”

“Fuck off, just tell us what you got planned,” Jackie grumbles.

“Gonna be booked, gonna do a stint, heh, get it?” He says with a grin.

“C’mon Stints, cut us a break, huh? You lock us up, we’ll just jerk off till trial and then what?”

She has no intention on jerking off anywhere, but alright.

“Worst case,” Jackie continues, “we get a few months, standing room only nowadays. In el bote. Hell, we’ll probably be out early.”

“These the thieves? Ordinary street trash,” a heavily accented voice comments, a Japanese man in a shimmery golden colored vest comes walking over.

“Shit, he’s here,” Inspector Stints groans before standing, “got them in custody Mr. Fujioka. We’ll be taking them, now.”

“It’s a waste of effort, I have no time to testify or play at an investigation.”

“Suggesting we let ‘em go, sir?”

“I’m suggesting you throw them in the sea; cuffed, legs broken, so this trash doesn’t float.”

And with that the man starts to walk away, making his way back to the club, she’s sure, continuing his night of debauchery as if he hadn’t ordered the murder of two strangers just because he could, because he didn’t have time for a trial. And god, she knows she probably has no room to judge anyone else’s morals, but just fuck corpos.

“You heard him,” the inspector says, because corpo cash pays his salary, she’s sure.

“Fuuuuck….” Jackie curses as they start to drag him up on his feet by the cuffed hands and she her own arms are wrenched back and cuffed.

V gets her feet back under her, moving with the pull as they manhandle her off the ground, she kicks back at the officer behind her. Her foot connects with their calf, causing them grunt out in pain as they’re knocked off balance loosing their grip on her wrists. She jumps as high as she can and brings her cuffed hands under her feet to her front.

Jackie follows suit, kicking the officer off of him, but with his size it knocks them flat on their ass. He shoulder checks another pig as V makes a dive for the Rayfield, it’s door still open amongst this chaos. She lands herself in the drivers seat and hits the ignition.

“Stop resisting!” Officers yell, fingers on the trigger, and no, that’s not happening.

“Wait up, chica!” Jackie yells out and she hits the button to open the passenger side door; he’s an asshole, but she’s not leaving him to be thrown in the fucking ocean.

He throws himself down in the passenger side and she guns it, doors shutting on each side as she takes the turn out the parking exit. She watches from the corner of her eye as Jackie, who’s barely able to fit in the bougie car, brings his cuffed hands down as low as he can. He grunts and curses, not quite as flexible as she is. With effort and twisting, he’s able to get the chain of the cuffs under his foot and then he stomps down while yanking his hands up. The little chain doesn’t stand a chance, breaking into pieces and pinging about the interior as it does so.

“Much better,” Jackie comments, looking at his wrists which now just have the manacles of the cuffs.

She rolls her eyes, bringing her attention back on the road and she expects to see sirens chasing after them, but it never happens. Are the cops not chasing them? They should be chasing them? Is she not getting in her second high speed chase since coming here?

“Honestly,” Jackie starts to talk again, he talks a lot, “I was just gonna let Stints free us, but I like the way you think, this way we get the Rayfield too.”

“What?” She takes a hand off the wheel to sign.

“Oh shit, you’re actually….my bad…” He awkwardly apologizes for asking if she was deaf earlier because, yes, yes she is.

“What do you mean, free us?”

“Stints is a softie as far as pigs go, got Heywood in his blood, would never throw us in the fuckin’ ocean cause some corpo said. And, you can slow down, he won’t chase us, chica.”

“Oh…okay,” she signs, pulling up to a curb, something else to take care of.

“We stopping here?”

“You are,” she signs before pulling her gun out and pointing it at him, signing with her other hand, “get out of the car.”

“Really, chica?” He rolls his eyes, like he didn’t pull this shit on her five minutes ago.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if I knew Stints was a softie, I got a job to finish, get out.”

“A fixer line this up for you?”

“Yeah…”

“Padre?”

“Yeah…are you gonna get out of the car or…?”

“Listen, I was gonna klep the car and then find a fixer to sell it for me, but if you already got Padre involved, we’ll go halfsies.”

“You pointed a gun at me!”

“You’re pointing a gun at me, right now!”

“You did it first!”

And he laughs and she does too, because they sound like children bickering over who pushed who on the playground. Its dumb and ridiculous and why does she like him? His smile is warm and kind, something about him, welcoming. She drops the gun, tucking it back in her waistband. She press her hand under her mask, trying to suppress her giggles. The tension that’s been clinging to her has snapped. Her body feels lighter, like she can breathe a bit better. She closes the passenger side door, he may be chill, or she’s just easily charmed. But, she’s still going to fuck with him, just a little.

“Okay, fine, we’ll go halfsies.”

“See, now you’re making sense,” he grins as they pull out back onto the road, “Jackie Welles.”

“V…it’s…nice to meet you? I think?”

“Heh, not from around here, right?”

“Nah, but, from the sounds of it you’re a local.”

“Heywood in my veins, chica, where we meeting Padre?”

“El Coyote Cujo.”

“Of course.”

“You know the place?”

“I’ve heard of it,” he says, grinning wide, a joke she’s clearly not in on, “Ah, I got a good feeling about this.”

“About what?”

“Us, you and me got chemistry.”

“Do we now?”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you feel it too, heard that laugh.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” she teases as she pulls into the El Coyote Cujo parking lot, pulling the slick corpo car into a spot, “got a phone on you?”

“You don’t?”

“I literally have lost everything I own, alright? Call Padre and put it on speaker.”

“Fine, fine,” Jackie gets out his phone and calls Padre, phone in one hand and the other stretched across the back of the seats.

“Jackie? To what do I owe the pleasure.”

“Here with your newest find, V, we got the Rayfield.”

“You helped her out?”

“Well…”

“He pointed a gun at me and nearly had me thrown in the ocean.”

“Seems like I have a car and a story waiting on me, I’ll be there shortly.”

A pain aches in V’s head, migraine spreading across her temple as Jackie hangs up. She rolls the car window down, allowing the chill of the winter night seep in, hoping the fresh air will ease her pain. V wants a shower, there’s still blood in her hair and she’s sure she still smells like trash. Though, no one’s been cruel enough to point it out. But, she has no idea where she could grab a shower. Why the fuck does her head hurt so much? The pain a steady throb across her entire head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, it didn’t even ache this much when she first came too in the dumpster.

“You alright V?”

“Head hurts,” she signs, before turning off her hearing aids, hoping that shutting out the city sounds will help.

“When’s the last time you ate, chica?” Jackie says, making sure to stay in her eye line as he leans over the middle console, though his biceps nearly touch her even when he isn’t. Her mask reading his lips to give him subtitles. .

When was the last time she ate? She didn’t eat all day because she was in a dumpster passed out. The day before was the smuggle run and she didn’t eat before she left Yucca.

“Two days ago.”

“Fuckin’ for real, no wonder your head’s wonky, once we finish the deal we’ll get some grub.”

“What made you think that was why?”

“Ah, my mama gets those migraines when she stops eating from stress, Vik and me keep telling her to take care of herself, but she’s too busy taking care of everyone else.”

“You and your mom close?” V can’t help but ask, thinking about her own mother for a moment.

“Oh yeah, family’s important, gotta have people you can turn to out here.”

“Yeah…”

“What-”

Headlights shine in through the back glass of the Rayfield, bring their attention to Padre pulling into the parking lot. His arrival ending whatever question Jackie was about to ask, which may be for the best. She’s not ready to answer questions about family. Not when her head is throbbing, she’s filthy, and her stomach is empty. Padre’s driver comes to a stop and they see Padre gets out of the back. V turns her hearing aids back on, knowing it will make the conversation flow easier as her and Jackie get out of the Rayfield. Her arms collecting goosebumps from the air.

“Jackie, it’s nice to see you again, how have you been?” He greets Jackie warmly

“Ehhh, can’t complain, same old same old, making new friends,” he says with a grin, nodding his head towards V.

“Never can have too many of those. It’s always nice to chat once business is done.”

One of Padre’s bodyguards has already climbed into the driver’s seat of the Rayfield. Enging revving up and then fading off into the night as he leaves. Officially finishing up their business.

“Uh,” Jackie raises an eyebrow, “you getting senile on me, Padre, this is usually the part where eddies change hands.”

V’s smirking and trying not to laugh behind her mask. Padre gives a look at V’s direction and she looks down at the ground, pursing her lips so she doesn’t laugh.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Ah,” Jackie nods, like he gets it, “no worries, V agreed to go halfsie with me on the Rayfield gig.”

“Halfsies?” Padre raises an eyebrow, smiling at V, he seems to find her joke at least a little funny. V can’t help the giggle that spills out.

“Am I missing the joke here?”

“Well, I’m afraid, this was an unpaid job for V here.”

“What?” Jackie shoots her a sharp look, disbelief coloring his expression.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she taunts.

“Fuck you!”

She bursts out laughing, holding her stomach as she cackles behind her mask, the sound echoing strangely through it. But, she can’t stop.

“You stole a million eddie car for free!? The fuck is wrong with you!?”

“No, no,” she furiously signs, “I needed info.”

“Speaking of which, I have your intel here,” Padre says, handing her a shard.

“Give me a moment, my lungs hurt.”

“I’m glad you're entertained, that info better make you a billionaire.”

“Nah, personal shit,” she collects herself, “thanks, Padre, it means a lot.”

“You’re a good kid, make him pay, V.”

“Oh, I will,” V confirms, slotting the shard into a little opening on her mask, info displaying across it.

The name of a chopshop that rumors say had a nomad vehicle come in, her Rattler no doubt. Sinclaire’s address and regular hang outs, exactly what she needs. Hopefully, he hasn’t had time to sell the cargo yet. If so, she’ll axe him and klep all his shit.

“What happened?” Jackie asks.

“Well,” she signs, before taking the shard out, “Sinclaire contracted me to transport some cargo, no fixer, so he fucked me over the second he got a chance. Bashed me over the head, threw me in a dumpster, scrapped all my shit, and took off with the cargo.”

“So, that’s what that smell is?”

“I will throw you,” she threatens, but she’s rolling her eyes and smiling.

“I’d love to see you try, chica.”

“The chop shop won’t be open until morning and it’s late. It’s up to you, but I’d recommend resting for the night.”

“Yeah…” She signs, but she can’t help the slight pout. She has no money, no clothes, no food, no shelter. She’ll be sleeping on a bench or something tonight, not much rest.

“You did good work V,” Padre pats her shoulder as he leaves,” I’m sure I’ll have more jobs for you in the future, paying ones, of course.”

“Thanks again, Padre.”

She rubs a hand down her face, migraine still thumping around in her head. Between not eating and having her hearing aids in all day, her head feels on the verge of exploding.

“So, what’s the plan, jaina?”

“My plan, why do you wanna know my plan?”

“Because, you and I both know you’re up shit creek without a paddle here, V. No home, no family, no one to turn to. Night City ain’t a place that will let you get by on your own. Need people you can turn to, if you wanna survive.”

“And what, you wanna be my friend?” She raises an eyebrow, taken aback by just how kind and friendly he’s really been.

“Told you already, we got chemistry,” he grins again and it makes her smile, “be a crying shame to waste it.”

“Okay, friend, what do we do now?”

“You like chili?

“As a concept, sure.”

“Settled then, get you a hot meal, change of clothes, a shower ‘cause you fuckin’ need it, and crash with me tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow, we teach that pendejo a lesson, sound good?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They’re all grins and smiles as they leave the parking lot, knocking shoulders together as they go, walking side by side down the neon lit streets. And she can feel it returning, that little buzz of hope she had in her chest when she first came here, the one she thought was beaten out of her by Sinclaire’s goons, it’s back and brighter than ever. Though not half as bright as Jackie’s smile as they turn a corner towards his mother’s house.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #c2077 #female v #fem v #aidan v becker #aidan becker #can you feel the sun

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manawhaat · 4 years

Text

Sword of Glass

Title: Sword of Glass

Characters: Geralt x Reader, Roach.

Prompt: Size Difference square fill for @thewitcherbingo and quote #2/title prompt#5 for @princessmisery666 triple celebration challenge.

Warnings: Canon violence, sword fighting/training, embarrassment, size difference, implied smut.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Thank you @dancingdin and @sebbytrash for looking this over for me. This is my first Witcher fic and I chose to combine my bingo square with Stacey’s challenge. I’ve added a moodboard below, and Stacey was kind enough to make the title card above :) Thanks for reading!

“I’m not a teacher,” he says, back turning as you chase after him on unstable legs.

“Please! That wasn’t the first monster I’ve come across and no one else can prepare me the way you might.”

Flashbacks of the witch you’d encountered as a child send a shiver up your spine, and the stench of the dead werewolf slain in the wood behind you only adds to your desperation.

“I can pay you,” you plea. “Five-hundred gold…” The tall, imposing Witcher stops in his tracks and you rush out. “I have lodging and food, for you and your horse. However long it takes, you’ll both be cared for. In whatever way you need,” you add for good measure. The thought of prostitution has always filled your mouth with bile, and you shudder against the rising of it in your throat as the words hang in the frozen air.

Golden eyes meet yours and silence ensues, snow falling and disappearing into his white hair. “Are you sure you’re ready for it?” The gruffness in his voice and his towering advance into your personal space almost make you second guess your decision and your offer. Cold dread steals your voice and torments you with memories passed. No matter what this Witcher may put you through, you refuse to be weak any longer. You can’t be. You won’t survive if chaos should strike your life again.

Standing straight, you steady your voice. “I am.”

A month later the snowy air creates a cloud around the heat of the word ‘fuck’ as you grumble it out, deep and with feeling. Golden eyes pin you, push you down further into the icy ground at your back. Beneath his thick hands, your body shakes and every ragged breath has the steel sword against your throat threatening to break skin.

“You keep saying you want to change things, but you keep repeating old behavior. You can’t have it both ways. There’s no way to fight for your future while still living in the past.”

It’s the most he’s ever said to you at once and something about the tone of sincerity tells you it’s a lesson he had to learn, once, too. His voice carries such depth, and there’s something in his eyes and on his face as he hovers above you that makes you wonder if witchers do feel, after all.

Your body is relieved of his weight and his hand stretches out to help you to stand. Sword easily swinging in his grip, you let out a huff and prepare yourself for the next spar.

“Learn from your mistakes, Y/n,” he warns, getting into position before rushing you.

When your day of training comes to an end, your supper stew simmers over the fire and you’re given just enough time to slip out to the cozy barn and care for your other guest. She neighs in delight at the grain and apples you have for her feed, and before you know it your voice is spilling into the barn.

“Is he always so quiet?”

Roach snorts and shifts on her feet as you brush her coat. She’s a sweet horse and she seems happy and comfortable in the barn. Thinking back on your deal, you’re pretty sure this was the draw that made Geralt agree to train you. The promise of money, food, shelter, and ‘anything else’ were good offers. At first, you’d worried about him. A man starved of human contact, of a woman’s touch. He’d surprised you with his distance and over time, your offer of a safe, comfortable place for Roach seemed more and more like the one thing he couldn’t pass up.

“It must be a lonely life for the two of you… always on the road.” You smile and Roach almost nods. “I bet he talks to you, doesn’t he? Tells you all of those secrets he keeps.”

“She’s a good listener.”

The timbre startles you, but you relax at the casual posture Geralt displays, strong body leaned up against the stable doorway.

“She’s not the only one,” you offer, quietly celebrating the victory when your statement draws a smile to his lips.

“Perhaps another time. I’ve seen deer in the wood nearby. Supper’s nearly ready, but we could use the meat for the coming days.”

You nod in agreement and like that, he’s gone, leaving you to fight back the rogue flutter of hope that’s filled your empty belly.

It’s well into night when Geralt returns to your door, hands and clothes dotted with blood and dirt.

“Here,” you say when you notice him lingering in the doorway, “I’ve drawn you a bath. I figured you’d need it after the last week of training… and the deer.”

He tips a thankful smile in your direction, carefully removing his boots and shirt before following you behind the thin cloth you’ve set up to give him the privacy he needs to bathe.

While he bathes you tend to the deer and cook a portion of it, saving the rest for the coming week, and upon re-entering the cottage, a low hum meets your ears. A smile curls your lips at the thought of the Witcher singing to himself while he thinks he’s alone, and you keep yourself from joining the tune so you can hear him for just a little longer.

Catching a glimpse of him through the two sheets that make up the curtain, Geralt is relaxed in the warm water. His arms drape both sides of the basin and his head is tipped back with a calm smile on his mouth. He’s so large he takes up most of it just sitting down. He’s uncovered from the navel up, and you admire the scars and muscles you can see.

His song finishes and he rubs his hands through his hair to pull it back loosely before standing. Water cascades down his body back into the basin and you’re left in awe at the size of him on display. It’s hard to stop your wandering eyes as you take him in, and a gasp betrays you when your gaze lingers between his legs.

Golden eyes lock with yours through the gap in the cloth and your face fills with heat. He doesn’t say anything, simply hums as he gently pulls a linen to his body and turns out of your line of sight.

Rushing outside, the cool air does nothing to quell the burn that’s filled your blood and you can’t get his image out of your eyes, not even when they’re scrunched shut tight.

“Have you eaten?”

His voice makes you leap in surprise and fumble over your words as he stands in the doorway, now fully clothed.

“Ha-have I? N-no. I haven’t eaten,” you splutter out. Eyes darting to the ground, you say meekly, “I thought it rude to start without you.”

He smirks at that, but tames the expression before you can see it. “Let’s eat.”

Geralt follows you inside and as you hand him a bowl of stew, the small brush of his hands against yours sends a jolt through you. He wears thanks in his eyes, and you avert your gaze for the rest of the evening. Only when you’re sure he’s not looking do you dare to observe him once more. Truly observe him. The size of his hands around the bowl, the heft of his arms and the width of his shoulders strained against the shirt they’re wrapped in.

That night sleep evades you. Every time your eyes close you’re met with Geralt standing in the washing basin, bare as a babe but larger than any man you’ve ever seen. When sleep does come dreams fill your mind and it’s him you see, every part of him pressed to you, firm and unyielding.

----------

A fortnight later Geralt wakes earlier than normal. His weary eyes search for your sleeping form as they always do, but your bed at the other end of the cottage is empty. He stands slowly and when he steps outside, he finds you practicing at the edge of the nearby wood.

You move on your feet, dance and turn, sparring a sturdy tree that’s helpless to your blade. Geralt admires you, your tenacity and dedication, and the smallness of your frame. Nearly everyone he meets is smaller than he is, but the way his sword fits in your hand only accents your size even more.

Turning away from the tree, you slash and thrust your sword out, but the metal is not met with air as you’d expected it would be. Geralt is on the other end, his silver sword blocking your practiced blow. Heart leaping into your throat, he doesn’t give you time to collect yourself. Mighty fists wield silver against you and you’re forced to block the blow or take the damage.

The two of you dance in the sunrise snow, metal clanging and harsh breaths and grunts exchanged. Everything Geralt has taught you leads you to victory, but when you finally have him drawn he reaches out and turns the fight to bare hands. Your sword skids through the snow as you work to push him off, using your smallness against his size. You’ve grown strong over the past months, but his brute is simply too much.

Thick arms catch you and pin you unnaturally against a tree, and it’s while he holds you there, body pressed firmly to you as you struggle, that you feel his arousal against you. At the way you gasp and press yourself back into him, he presses and grinds his hips into your lower back, huffing a shuddering breath against your ear.

“Do you yield?”

Sap sticks thickly to your temple and hairline. The bark is rough, cold, and bites into you as he twists your arm and fists your hair. His weight and the tree stifle your breath, and you bite back a groan at the scrape of his teeth against the back of your neck.

“Yield,” he commands, voice rasped with lust. The husk of it pairs with his heavy breaths, flirts with yours, and his grip on you loosens.

Geralt’s upper lip bursts open against the back of your head when you thrust it back and twist an arm free. Using the tree as leverage, you push off and fight,soon earning a proper victory.

“Do you yield, witcher?”

Geralt lays pinned beneath you, your dagger pressed to his throat. When he remains silent, a thin but promising line of blood forms on the blade and his skin.

He grins up at you, breathless and proud. “I am at your mercy, my lady,” he hums, lacing lust into his words and eyes.

His brute and size dawn on you again, and before your brain can relish the victory of overthrowing him, your body is responding to his. Mouths crashing together, the faint tang of blood seeps onto your tongue. A mess of limbs and passion leave a trail of snowy clothes from your battle ground to your bed.

----------

“I fear I’ll miss you when you’ve gone, Geralt,” you admit when the thrill of your orgasms have faded.

A hum is all he gives, but his fingers remain twined with yours over his chest. He doesn’t feel distant or cold, and after a few moments of peace you wonder aloud, “Do you think transparency can be used as a weapon?”

Geralt looks to you and mulls it over, truly ponders and weighs his answer before rumbling it out. “A sword of glass will only break. The best use for transparency,” his thumbs brush your skin and lips catch on yours, “is this.”

Noses pressed together, you ask, “And what is your glass sword?”

“Our bargain has come to a close. My work is done. You’ve learned, and I must go.”

It’s the truth you’d not wished to face just yet, but you nod solemnly with understanding in your heart.

“Then let me show you the full extent of my gratitude,” you reply, mouth capturing the end of the gentle smile curling his lips.

As he leaves with the coming dawn, body swaying gently atop his one true companion, you think of him. Think of what a large part of your life he’s played -- will continue to play when you use his lessons and training -- followed by the keen sting of knowing, deep and true, that you’ve only been a small part in his.

#PM666 Bday Fun #sam winchester bday challenge #thewitcherbingo #geralt x reader #the witcher fanfic

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searchingwardrobes · 4 years

Text

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 8/11

I’m so excited to share this chapter with you! The wardrobe will finally work its magic again! But . . . well . . . we do have three more chapters to go . . . For those of you who read the original, this contains a pivotal scene from that version, though with some changes. Changes I feel make it even better. I hope ya’ll think so too!

Much thanks as always to the mods of the csrt event at @captainswanbigbang. Also thanks to @optomisticgirl and @shippingtheswann for their beta skills. I especially needed both your help with the battle scene in this, for which I am immensely grateful!

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and positive Millian

Words: About 4k in this chapter

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 23

Jackie is in her seventies, or at least looks like she’s in her seventies, and her house is at least a hundred years old. But those are the only two similarities either the woman or the house share with Emma’s beloved Martha. Where Martha’s house was old and a little worse for wear, it was still well loved and kept clean and tidy. Jackie’s house is only a few steps above being condemned, and as for cleanliness, well, Emma almost chokes on the stench. But after weeks on the road in her bug, it’s all Emma can afford.

Jackie isn’t in much better shape than her house, her face drawn and scowling, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Where Martha had been soft and gentle, Jackie is all sharp lines and harsh edges. Her voice is rough as sandpaper, her words like vinegar. There definitely is no little box of Bible verses in this woman’s kitchen.

The room Emma is renting is in slightly better shape than the rest of the house; the previous renter had at least known what Pine-Sol was. It’s about as small as her room at Martha’s when she was ten, yet it does have a tiny bathroom attached and the fireplace actually works. In one corner is crammed a miniscule table and chair, and in the other –

Is a wardrobe.

Emma drops her duffel on the scuffed hardwood as her jaw almost comes unhinged. There’s no mistaking it this time: It’s the same one she had in her room at ten and sixteen. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Seriously? She berates herself, not for the first time, for her decision to come back to Maine, even if Florida had been a massive mistake. After saving up all that money at Granny’s, she foolishly wasted two years in Tallahassee. She still kicks herself for thinking Neal would actually find her. What did she think this was? A rom-com? It isn’t. Her life is no Hallmark movie, no fairy tale. She glances at the wardrobe.

Even if a dashing slave/cabin boy had come to her through an enchanted wardrobe.

She sighs and pauses before unzipping her duffel, then decides to just slide the bag under the bed. It isn’t quite as large or ornate as her bed at Martha’s, but it’s still a four-poster with ample room underneath.

She purposely ignores the wardrobe the rest of the evening, refusing to give it even a glance as she cooks up a supper of ramen noodles with her hot plate. She stares at the noodles in her bowl, the desire to look over in the opposite corner stronger than she would care to admit. Why did she even come back to Maine? Oh right, because there are people in a town called Storybrooke who said she could come back if Tallahassee didn’t work out. Too bad she needs to earn more money before she can get the rest of the way there. And in the meantime, this wardrobe is mocking her.

She stays in the shower longer than necessary, despite the layers of scum on the avocado colored subway tiles. She comes out in nothing but a towel, grasping it tight with one hand as she fishes in her duffel with the other. Normally, alone in her room, she’d just walk around naked. But she can’t help remembering those blue eyes she saw watching her as a girl. She chuckles wryly at herself and ceases searching her bag. She stands up straight, pushing her wet hair from her eyes, and drills her gaze into the wardrobe. With a huff she stomps over and flings the door open.

A handful of empty wire hangers swing and clang together from the post inside. That’s it. Empty. Emma laughs at herself as she shuts the door. She lets her towel drop to the floor as she returns to her duffel. With two hands, she finds her pajama pants and tank top quickly and slips into them. She’s just crawled into bed and is reaching over to flip off the bedside lamp when she hears a squeak. She pauses, her hand hovering in midair between the bed and the lamp. She turns her head slowly towards the wardrobe.

The door suddenly swings open.

“Emma? I’ve tried this wardrobe a hundred times . . . ”

Her mouth falls open at the sight of the person on the other side. She eases slowly from the bed in shock and steps closer.

“Killian?” she questions softly, wrapping her arms around the post of the four-poster bed. The same blue eyes as always stare back at her, but he has changed so much. Those eyes are now rimmed with dark kohl, and his face has a hardened edge that is brand new. His hair is the same dark shade, but instead of the shoulder length and the boyish lock of hair falling in his eyes, it is now a bit shorter and messy in a dangerous sort of way. Instead of a nightshirt, he wears tight, black leather pants and a long black leather coat over a black shirt and red vest. The buttons of his shirt are undone almost to his navel, revealing thick, dark hair on a hardened, muscular chest. The naïve, hopeful boy she had known has obviously grown into a world-weary man.

And then there’s the hook. A large, shiny steel hook where his left hand used to be.

The harshness of his face softens as he takes in the sight of her, and when he speaks, the roguish smile he gives her and the cocky arch of his brow seem slightly forced. Like a long-practiced act he’s performing for the first time in her presence.

“Actually, love, people have taken to calling me by my more colorful moniker: Hook.” His face falls even as he brandishes the intimidating appendage. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again, lass. It’s been so long.”

Emma shrugs, the corner of her mouth hitching up. “Only seven years. Give or take.”

“Yet so much has happened since then,” he tells her in a voice heavy with almost unbearable sadness.

“For me too,” she admits in barely more than a whisper.

They search one another’s eyes for a silent heartbeat. “I hate to hear that, love,” he finally says, “though I hope the terrors here are less frightening than those in Neverland.”

Emma’s mind reels. He’s been in Neverland. He’s dressed like a pirate. He has a hook. When she speaks, it’s almost hesitant. “You mean . . . you’re Captain Hook?”

His eyes light up and a look of pride fills his face. His voice is full of bravado when he speaks. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me.”

Emma suppresses a laugh. “Well, there’s a book. And movie. Several movies, actually.”

He cocks his head for a moment as he searches her face, a look of slight confusion upon his own. Then some sort of realization seems to wash over him, and he deflates his posturing. “The portrayal was far from flattering, I see. I – I’ll leave you.”

“Wait!” Emma cries out even as he turns to go. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs his hook to stop him. When he turns, he looks in surprise at where her fingers curve around the steel. So he’s . . . Captain Hook. Is that so much harder to believe than having a friend that walks through an enchanted wardrobe? She smiles up at him. “Stay.”

He seems almost transfixed as she pulls him out of the wardrobe and towards the bed. She sits and gently tugs him down with her, her hand still clutching his hook. It doesn’t scare her, didn’t for one second. And it’s hard to explain, but holding it seems . . . right. Comforting, even. She sets it in her lap and squeezes it as she gazes into his face.

“Tell me what’s happened since I saw you last,” she encourages, as she would to a long lost friend. Because that’s what he is. The only one she has or has ever had, come to think of it.

He clears his throat, still staring at his hook in her lap. “I’m afraid there’s an awful lot to tell.” The slightly embarrassed chuckle and ear scratch that he gives her reveals the boy still inside him.

Emma shifts closer, “Just the highlights, then. It’s not like I have anything important to do.”

So he begins to talk. The accented voice she has always loved rolls over her like a warm embrace, but the story breaks her heart. He tells her about losing his brother Liam and why he became a pirate. His voice breaks as he describes the elder Jones dying in his arms, and Emma tugs his arm up and over her shoulder. A tear tracks down his cheek as he tells her about Milah, about watching Pan crush her heart and being helpless to stop it. He turns his face away as he speaks of the choices he has made, many of them dark, in his pursuit of revenge against Pan. Emma leans closer and rests her head on his shoulder to let him know it doesn’t change anything.

“I’ve been talking on and on about nothing but myself,” he tells her, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. “That’s bad form, love. What about your life? Less tragic than mine, I hope.”

Emma lifts her head to look into his eyes, so intensely blue as they study her. “I’ve had my own share of tragedy.” She lets out a shaky breath and then tells him about Neal and jail, and then . . . she speaks for the first time about the baby she gave away. Confesses for the first time out loud about how giving him up tore her heart in two.

Killian holds her tighter as the tears break free. She turns in his embrace, fisting her hands in his shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. When her tears are spent, there is a dark, wet spot on his shirt. She laughs sardonically as she wipes at it.

“Look what I’ve done to your shirt.”

“Tis nothing, love.”

Emma suddenly realizes that both her hands are splayed against his chest, and she can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She lifts her head and sees his face so close to hers. Her eyes flicker from his bright eyes to his lips, and her thoughts tumble backwards in time to their first kiss when his lips were so soft and welcoming, and how the feel of them on hers made her heart soar. They both lean towards each other, and then their lips are brushing. They sort of melt against one another as they deepen the kiss, and it’s simultaneously just like when they were sixteen and vastly different. The softness, the tenderness, and the heart swelling rush are all still there. But there’s fire and passion wrought of pain and loss that sparks and sets them both on fire.

What comes next happens in a sort of haze, as if Killian is a drug she can’t resist. Hands and lips feverishly exploring, and clothes peeled back and cast aside with a mixture of frenzy and reverence. When Emma removes his brace, he stiffens and closes his eyes in shame. She lifts his left arm and runs her fingers across the scars there, then kisses it tenderly. He tells her around an obvious lump in his throat that no one has seen or touched it since Milah. She presses it to her breast and pulls him close for a hungry kiss. She wants him to know he isn’t disabled or broken, not to her.

Then they’re falling as they come together, Killian practically worshipping every inch of her as if she’s an angel he doesn’t quite deserve. And Emma is almost overwhelmed with the intensity of it, and she wonders why she ever thought she loved Neal.

Because it was never like this.

They are still breathing heavily, yet sated and slightly drowsy in each other’s arms when the light pours out of the open door of the wardrobe. Emma cups Killian’s face and runs her thumb along the scar on his cheek.

“Emma.” His voice is almost a groan. “For years, I told myself that if I ever found my way back here, I would stay. With you.”

He’s searching her face, and the look in his eyes is begging her to understand. “But you can’t, can you?” she whispers.

Killian brushes her lips against hers, feather light. “I just received an urgent message from some friends. We were making haste to Neverland when I saw a light in the wardrobe. I have to help them if I can.”

Emma grasps his shoulders tight even as she nods in understanding. He presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, and they breathe one another in for just one more heartbeat. Then he slips from the bed and begins to gather his clothes. As he steps into his leather pants, the light of the moon sends a shaft of light across his back, illuminating the criss-cross pattern of scars she had traced earlier with her fingers. She remembers the trembling slave boy of ten, and the hesitantly hopeful cabin boy of sixteen, and she wonders if the scars were there even then.

Killian finishes dressing with a click of his hook into his brace. The sound of it echoes in the quiet room, and she sees his jaw tense with shame. Giving him her body clearly wasn’t enough to wash that away, and it breaks her heart.

“Emma,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “I’m not the boy you once knew. I know I wasn’t worthy to share your bed tonight, but know one thing.” He lifts his gaze finally to hers, and the moonlight brightens them. They are swimming with more emotion than anyone has ever bestowed upon her. “I have always loved you. That has never changed.”

She sits up, clutching the sheets to her bare chest as she watches him walk to the wardrobe. She wants to tell him she loves him too, but she can’t get the words past her throat. He steps into the wardrobe, and a slight panic seizes her that she can’t speak. He turns to look at her, giving her a tender smile.

“Can I come back tomorrow night?”

Her heart soars at his question, tears filling her eyes. “Yes.”

He gives a simple nod, pulls the wardrobe closed, and the light is gone. He is gone. A strangled sound comes from Emma’s throat as she curls in on herself. Every time she and Killian have spent a night together, her world comes crashing down. First Martha’s stroke, then being betrayed by what she thought was her family.

Whatever tomorrow brings, she doubts it will be Killian.

**************************************

When Killian comes back through the wardrobe, the early light of dawn is just beginning to spill through the windows of his cabin. He sinks to his bunk, his heart still struggling to recover from the night he had shared with Emma. He can still see that otherworldly light seeping through the cracks of the wardrobe door, and he’s tempted to go back through and simply stay with Emma. He clenches his jaw as he reaches over with his hook and pierces the small slip of paper that had arrived via bird from Tink and Tiger Lily less than twenty four hours ago.

Pan has him.

Three simple words that he can’t ignore. So he lets the light fade away, rises to his feet, and strides above deck, crushing the missive in his hand.

“What is our position, Starkey?” he cries to his first mate.

“We’ll be making landfall in less than half an hour, sir.”

Killian nods as he joins the other young man at the captain’s wheel. Starkey’s gaze keeps cutting his way, but Killian is in no mood to talk. His emotions are a tumult of golden hair, light green eyes, and heated skin mixed in with the fear of reaching the island too late. Somehow, for reasons he can’t fathom, his night with Emma feels intertwined with the boy he has to save. Has to. He tells himself this overwhelming urge comes from his own memories of a shattered childhood, but somehow he knows it is deeper than that. His nerve endings feel exposed, brushing up against a mystery just out of reach.

When they anchor the ship in the cove near Mermaid’s Lagoon, Hawkins tells him in hushed tones that the island is much too quiet. It has nothing to do with the empty lagoon or the stillness of the dark waters nearest to the shore. The mermaids abandoned this place long ago, when magic first began to die. Tink speaks dreamily of their songs, but it’s a pleasure that has never reached his ears.

No, this quiet is filled with a heavier foreboding. Hook normally visits the home beneath the ground on his own, not wanting to expose Wendy to his uncouth crew, but this time he takes those he trusts most along with him: Starkey, Hawkins, and Slightly. Mason begs to come along, but there’s too much unknown to risk it.

They find the place just as quiet as the rest of the island. Wendy’s sewing basket is sitting abandoned by the hearth, the fireplace cold. Hook frowns when he sees a tiny cup sitting upon the kitchen table, filled to the brim with a brown liquid. He shakes his head.

“Wendy always makes sure Michael takes his medicine.”

It’s awful stuff, and the boy pitches a fit every time, but the concoction brewed by Tiger Lily is a supposed inoculation for dreamshade. Killian’s skeptical of the home remedy - it’s never made a bit of difference for his crew - but it makes Wendy feel better to make her brother take it.

Yet here it sits.

Starkey pulls a dagger from his belt. “Something strange is afoot, Cap’n.”

“Aye.”

“Their brother John came for them.”

They spin at the sound, weapons aloft, but it is only Tiger Lily. Killian deflates and re-sheaths his sword.

“Brother?”

“Half brother,” Tiger Lily sighs, depositing a quiver of arrows upon the table and rolling her shoulders. “He’s already a man. A man who made a deal with Pan, apparently. You weren’t the only one searching for the boy, Hook.”

“You don’t mean -”

“Yes, Pan has him. I’ve tracked them to Skull Rock. Tink is there keeping watch, but I’m not sure what we can do.”

“And Wendy and Michael -”

“Gone. I don’t know how, but Pan gave John an antidote for the water of Rainbow Falls as well as passage to another realm.”

“Home,” Killian whispers, “a land without magic, Wendy said.”

Tiger Lily nods. “John was a desperate man, Killian. He didn’t want to turn the child over; had grown attached to him even, but Wendy is 15 now, and . . . “

She trails off, her shoulders hunched. She isn’t like Tink with chatter spilling out of her. Tiger Lily is clearly shaken. Killian sinks onto one of the kitchen chairs and rubs his hand over his face.

“He wanted to save his sister and brother, I get that,” Killian fumes “but turning over a tiny lad that way . . . “ He slams his fist into the table in frustration.

“We must attack, Captain,” Hawkins says grimly, “before Pan kills the boy.”

Killian looks at the three determined men before him. He knows they’re right. Emma, he thinks to himself, please understand if I don’t make it back to you.

**************************************

“Pan has to do the ritual here,” Tiger Lily whispers from their hiding place in Skull Rock. “This is the heart of Neverland. All the island’s magic originates here.”

Killian peers over the rock with Tiger Lily at his side. The child stands trembling with Pan beside him. An enormous hourglass looms over them both, the sand within like gold dust. Whatever it is measuring, time is almost up.

“I’ve never seen that hourglass before,” Killian says to Tiger Lily.

“Pan’s had a protection spell around it until recently. It measures Pan’s boyhood. He will never grow up, but he isn’t immortal.”

He isn’t immortal. A slow smile fills Killian’s face. “Pan is the reason magic is dying in Neverland.”

Tiger Lily’s gaze meets his, her brown eyes widening brightly. “Of course! Peter Pan’s magic is unnatural; it consumes. Get rid of Pan -”

“Restore Neverland to glory,” Killian finishes for her.

Killian looks back at the child once again, yet another source of magic for Peter Pan to consume for his own “play.” Even from this place he can hear the boy’s weeping. The Lost Boys surround him and their leader, weapons forming a tight circle that will be difficult to penetrate. Nevertheless, Killian takes note of one important detail.

“They are in an offensive position to keep the boy in,” he whispers. “Not defensive to keep attackers out.”

“We still need a plan,” the fairy whispers back.

He smirks at Tiger Lily. “What do you think I have a crew for?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ll risk that child for a full on assault?”

“Hey,” he gives her a wink, ‘trust me for once.”

He slips away, further into the cave, and he bites back a chuckle at the way Tiger Lily is grumbling. His crew has used these caves often to store bits of treasure for a rainy day, so he’s familiar with its labyrinth of tunnels. He hurries along one with light, quiet steps. It leads him to a precipice just over where Pan is giving a rousing speech to his Lost Boys.

Killian is surprised that the child isn’t restrained in any way, but he’s so small, and his eyes so large with fright, that it’s likely unnecessary. Killian eases his way to the very edge of the precipice, lying flat on his stomach so he’s hidden from sight.

Pan is saying something about saving Neverland’s magic, grasping the trembling boy by the arm. Killian thinks back to Mason and then Michael and the lack of a mark that saved them from this cruel rite. He can’t see it from here, but he assumes that this child does bear the mark.

Killian knows that time is short. He scans the large main cavern of Skull Rock, his eyes finding the members of his crew. All are in position, so he takes a deep breath before calling out:

“Flee! Flee!”

He adjusts the timbre of his voice, deepening it ominously. The Lost Boys freeze and Pan narrows his eyes as he drops the little boy’s arm. Now that he has their attention, he continues.

“You heard me. Flee, I tell you! The spirit of Skull Rock has spoken!”

To his right, still crouched behind the rock where he left her, Tiger Lily is glaring at him. She makes gestures with her hands that clearly say what the hell are you doing? He tosses her a wink which says Hey, it’s me! Which she ought to be used to by now, really. Below them, his words have had the desired effect on the Lost Boys.

“It’s a ghost!”

“A ghost who wants revenge!”

“This place is haunted!”

“Quiet, you idiots!” Peter shouts. “Someone’s here alright, but it’s not a ghost.”

“I am the ghost of vengeance,” Killian cries out again in a deepened voice.

He’s enjoying this far too much, truth be told. Peter’s face can’t seem to settle on anger or fear, and Killian’s lips curl into a grin. The imp pulls out his dagger as he inches closer to the stone walls of the cave, and the Lost Boys gather at his back. The pixie dust is too scarce now for the demon boy to take flight, a fact that Killian relishes.

In the shadows, Killian spies Hawkins taking advantage of Pan’s distraction. He grabs the little boy, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle any cries. Mason is at his back, and the two teenagers hurry the child to a waiting rowboat, Tink at the oars.

Once the youngest members of his crew have succeeded in rescuing the lad, Killian slinks back down the tunnel to join the rest of the pirates. Tiger Lily scowls at him as she follows.

“So you were never going to clue me into your plan?” she whispers.

“What would be the fun in that?” he quips back under his breath.

Peter calls out into the dark recesses of Skull Rock, “Ghost, demon, or man, whoever you are, make yourself known!”

Hook’s lips curl up into a satisfying smirk. The noose has been tightened; his crew has The Lost Boy’s surrounded.

“Boo!” he shouts, arching one brow mockingly.

The look on Pan’s face when he turns and sees a crew of pirate’s behind him, armed to the teeth, is one that Killian Jones will never forget. His crew falls upon the Lost Boys, but Hook keeps his eyes locked on Peter Pan. Hook isn’t sure if it’s cowardice or desperation, but Pan runs away from the battle towards the hourglass. Then a look of confusion washes over Peter’s face, and Killian grins knowing exactly what his enemy has just realized.

“Looking for something?” he shouts over the din, swinging his hook to dispatch the Lost Boys who are in his way.

“Where is the boy?” Pan shrieks in a blind rage. He lunges at Hook, but his form

is sluggish.

“Gone,” Killian snarls.

“It’s you or me this time, Hook!” Pan bellows as he launches himself at Killian.

Hook’s cutlass flies from his hand; by all accounts the boy has taken him completely by surprise. Never has Peter Pan fought more like a demon than he does now, scratching and biting and kicking. Killian rolls with him, slashing occasionally with his hook enough to draw blood. Peter’s rage is an almost palpable thing, and though Hook could succumb to his own in equal measure, he holds himself back.

Instead, he laughs. The sound sends Pan over the edge and he begins to choke the pirate. Still, the man grins.

“What’s so funny?” Pan demands, fury making those two red spots appear in his eyes.

“This is,” another voice answers, and Pan loosens his grip on his enemy’s throat to follow the source of it. Tiger Lily stands before the hourglass, Killian’s cutlass in her hands. She swings the weapon at the glass with all of her strength.

“Nooo!!” Pan screeches.

The hour glass shatters, the remaining sand pouring out upon the ground. Peter Pan curls in on himself, screaming in agony. Hook feels not an ounce of compassion, however, and he looms over his enemy with a snarl upon his lips.

“You didn’t really think I would drop my weapon so easily, did you?”

Pan doesn’t answer. He throws his head back, clawing at his skin as he continues to scream. The battle between the pirates and the Lost Boys has ceased, and everyone looks on in horror as the boy who never grows up shrivels and wrinkles before their eyes, his bones weakening and contorting. With one final wail, his face seems to melt, then his entire body turns to dust.

For a moment, there is an eerie silence. Former enemies glance at one another, unsure what to do next. Then a violent wind rushes through skull rock, picking up the ashes that were once Peter Pan. A dark shadow flies in behind it, and the ashes whirl it, faster and faster and faster. The vortex sends everyone to their knees, shielding their eyes from the dust and wind. Then there’s a bright pulse of light that sends them all sprawling on their backs.

Killian’s head collides with the rocky floor and pain shoots across his forehead, his focus blurring at the edges. He thinks he sees a flurry of purple and green - wings? He blinks, but then his vision begins to dim as someone calls his name.

Emma, I’m sorry. It’s the last thought he has before he succumbs to the darkness.

Tagging: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @teamhook @bethacaciakay @let-it-raines @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @courtorderedcake @branlovestowrite @hollyethecurious @vvbooklady1256 @profdanglaisstuff @carpedzem @ekr032-blog-blog @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @spartanguard @shireness-says @scientificapricot @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @sherlockianwhovian @snidgetsafan @ohmakemeahercules @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @nikkiemms@delirious-latenight-laughs

#cs ff #csrt #captain swan rewrite a thon #cs neverland au #cs canon divergence #magic wardrobe #soul mates #fate #angst #slow burn #childhood sweethearts

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swimyghost · 4 years

Text

Roses

Hey, I’m super tired but here’s a (possibly) non-canon story about @self-insert-nonsense‘s MHA OC’s mother, Sonaka. I really hope you enjoy.

---

She had double- no, triple checked everything. Every important item was wrapped and placed carefully into one of the two suitcases the sat on her bed. Sonaka knew if she carried any more people would get suspicious.

As if a gray-skinned woman and her equally pale child wouldn't arise suspicion.

"Mama?"

Sonaka perked up at that sound. She turned her head and saw her little girl innocently glancing up at her. Although she was visibly struggling to carry her suitcase, Sonaka's pride and joy wasn't going to let a minor inconvenience get in the way of impressing her mother. Sonaka bent down to her daughter's level.

"Nusuma, are you sure everything is packed?"

"Yes, Mama!"

Sonaka frowned. "Are you sure? We can't come back once we leave."

Sonaka watched as Nusuma's face scrunched up into as close to serious as a six-year-old could get. "I'm sure!"

Sonaka chuckled and ruffled her hair. "Alright, let's get moving, shall we? The train will-"

A knock at the door set Sonaka into a panic. No one knocked on her door unless it was... Them.

Sonaka frantically shoved her suitcases under her bed before thrusting Nusuma out, slamming the door shut behind her. Nusuma watched with a curious gaze as her mother paced her newly barren apartment.

"Mama?" She called, growing weary at the sight of her mother's panic.

"M-Mama's fine, honey. Mama just-"

The knocking grew louder. Nusuma whimpered and buried her face into her mother's brown skirt. The suitcase fell from her grasp with a resounding thud. Without a second to spare, Sonaka tossed it onto her bed's stripped bed and closed that door as well. Sonaka pulled her daughter in close.

"Honey, you can't tell anyone we're leaving. Understand?" she whispered.

"But... You said lying is wrong."

"I know, but this is to keep you safe, okay? You know Mama just wants to keep you safe, right?" Sonaka prayed her daughter wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Okay..." Nusuma murmured back.

With a deep breath, Sonaka made the treacherous journey to her front door. She took an even deep breath once she made it. Shakily, she swung it open and was met with four pairs of glowing red eyes.

A tall figure with luscious purple hair that fell to her waist stood at Sonaka's doorstep. Her eyes were constantly shifting, yet all eight of them held an aura of concern. Her hands (if you could even call them that) were two thick pieces of carapace with their "fingers" just being individual pieces of the shell.

"Joro." Sonaka let out a sigh of relief.

"Auntie Tsuchigumo!" Nusuma cried with joy.

The young woman scooped up the child and tickled her stomach. While Nusuma laughed and giggled at the touch, Joro cooed. "How's my favorite ghost? Huh? How is she?"

"Great! Me and Mama are gonna stay home all day!"

Sonaka winced. She loved her daughter, honestly.

But she's a horrible liar.

Joro easily saw through Nusuma's lies. Her red eyes showed everything Sonaka to know.

"Honey, can you go to your room and play with your toys?" Sonaka said, taking her daughter from the spider woman's grasp.

Nusuma looked up confused. "But-"

"Now, Nusuma."

Sonaka placed her on the floor. Nusuma didn't even look back as she scurried to her room and closed the door behind her. Sonaka turned her attention back to Joro who was taking in the apartment. She crossed her arms and glanced at Sonaka. Not with anger, but with clear pain.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

Sonaka couldn't even try to deny her friend. The lifeless apartment was all the proof she needed. The to-bursting bookshelves had been stripped of their occupants. The vases that held the most beautiful array of flowers had been sold and the flowers buried under a mountain of trash. All the pictures that had ordained the walls had been removed from their frames, which also had been tossed, and placed in the suitcases. The same suitcases that were at the forefront of Sonaka's mind.

Sonaka couldn't hold it anymore. Without asking, she rushed over to her friend and buried her face into her purple sweater. Tears flowed freely at the same time as her sobs. Sonaka tried to speak, but her throat was closed. Each sob was wracked with grief. Joro, instead of pushing her away, pulled her in closer.

"It's okay, I already knew."

Her friend didn't seem phased by her words so Joro just chose to gently stroke her head. Sonaka was too busy thinking about all the wrongs that she had caused throughout her life. The same wrongs that could easily affect Nusuma.

"I can't let her get hurt, Joro. I can't. This life of villainy and evil isn't for her." Sonaka sputtered.

"We're not-"

"Don't try to say we're not because we are!" Sonaka shouted.

Joro blinked. She didn't even flinch at her friend's anger. Instead, all she did was stand Sonaka up straight. Joro forced her to look into her eyes.

"We're villains, yes. We weren't evil, however, not until he took over."

Joro was talking about Bladespinner, the current king of their villain syndicate and a powerful mutant Quirk bearer. After the previous leader stepped down, Bladespinner naturally took the position unopposed, with people either unwilling or too frightened to fight him. His saw arms were infamous for slicing through objects and people alike. He was one of the many reasons Sonaka couldn't live the life anymore.

"He'll kill her, Joro," Sonaka said, fear seeping into her voice. "Maybe not personally, but he'd send her into Hell if it meant fulfilling his twisted goals."

"I know. And that's why I'm here to help."

Sonaka was shocked. Yes, Joro and her were friends for years now, long before Nusuma came into her life. But Joro was completely submerged in the life of villains. Joro noticed her surprised and raised one carapace finger.

"I'm not going to be joining you. I will help you out of the country, however."

Sonaka blinked. "Wha- I was just going to go North!"

Joro let out a sad chuckle. "You really think it'll be that easy? Bladespinner will be furious when he discovers one of his one deserted. No, you need to go away. Far away."

Sonaka's brain was still spinning with the realization of it all. This was happening. This was really happening. "But... Where will I go."

Joro thought about it for a moment. "Korea. There's a former villain there that specializes in forgery. She'll help you get all the necessary paperwork. Tell her that Tsuchigumo-hubae sent you and she won't ask any questions."

"Korea?" Sonaka repeated. "But I don't speak-"

"Do you want a better life for Nusuma or not?!"

Sonaka flinched at Joro's tone. She knew the villainess was right, but it still hurt to know she was leaving everything behind. Joro gripped both of Sonaka's shoulders and squeezed tightly.

"Do this not just for her, but for you. You deserve a real job, real life, a real man who isn't-"

"Don't you dare mention his name! I don't care wherever he ran off to or whatever he does, whether it be picking turnips in Russian or being a stripper in the States, he's more than dead to me."

Joro raised her hands. "Fine, I won't say it. But you should tell Nusuma when both of you are ready."

The mother sighed but nodded anyway. There would be a time Nusuma would learn about her father, but today was not that day. Suddenly, Sonaka realized something.

"You wouldn't come here just to help me. I know you better than that."

Joro's tough demeanor fell she awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck. "Bladespinner requires us to come to fight with him."

Sonaka snorted. "Can't he do it himself?"

Joro shook her head. "It's not that simple. A bunch of his lesser lackeys wanted to prove themselves to him so they started attacking the city."

"This includes us why?"

"Bladespinner was just going to let them captured but realized only one hero and his interns showed up to the fight. He thinks we can make a name for ourselves if we cause some real damage."

Sonaka frowned. "I just told you I wanted to leave the life. You told me you'd help me accomplish that goal. Now you want me to throw it all away just because some hotheaded dumbass wants to stroke his ego?"

"It won't only help him support his superiority complex," Joro explained. "It'll also keep him distracted on his victory, giving us enough time to help you two escape."

Sonaka knew Joro was right. Bladespinner was not only a ruthless demon-like man but an egomaniac who lived to support his delusions of grandeur. If this battle was a success, he'd be too busy basking in the light of "his" glory to notice one of his minions had gone missing.

But what about Nusuma?

Nusuma, her pride, and joy, the reason Sonaka got up every morning, the catalyst for this entire escape attempt, still had no idea of her mother's day job. Sonaka did everything in her power to make sure Nusuma wouldn't become a target for Heroes or other villains. Joro was the only exception since she still had some honor still left in her (plus she was a great babysitter). Nusuma, despite her young age, was already growing suspicious of her mother's activities.

"Why are you always hurt?" Nusuma asked one day after Sonaka returned home from an intense battle with some Heroes. The previous head of her syndicate believed that attacking a known meeting spot for heroes would weaken both them and society's moral. It failed miserably with many villains in critical condition or spent to Tartarus.

"Mommy got into a little trouble at work, sweetie. That's all." It was a weak explanation, but Sonaka hoped it'd placate her.

It didn't as Nusuma scrunched up her nose. "You're lying! You and Mrs. Nakamura always say lying is wrong."

Sonaka let out a silent curse to herself and her daughter's kindergarten teacher.

"Well, I'm not lying," Sonaka struggled to think of what to say next. "Only telling... A half-truth."

"Half-truth?" Nusuma questioned.

"It means I'm not lying, just not telling the full story. To protect you." Sonaka explained.

"But you're always protecting me! Why can't I protect you?" Nusuma whined.

Sonaka chuckled. "Because you're five."

"But I already have my Quirk!"

Sonaka winced at that. Nusuma's Quirk had shown itself early and was similar to her father's. Too similar. It was why Sonaka had to pull her daughter out of kindergarten after the aquarium incident. Possessing a child like that would only lead to skepticism amongst her peers and adults.

"You will protect me. Just let me do it first. That's my job."

"So that's your real job!" Nusuma gasped with joy, tackling her mother.

Sonaka sucked in a yelp of pain as Nusuma leaped onto her bruised legs. She put on a fake smile and rustled her hair. "Oh no! You found me out!"

"Sonaka?"

Sonaka snapped back into reality. Joro was nearly pressing her face into Sonaka's. She jolted backward in surprise. Joro genuinely looked hurt as Sonaka tried to regain her bearings.

"Sorry, I just-" she took a deep breath. "My costume is in the wastebasket. Over there in the corner."

Joro went to place a hand on Sonaka's shoulder. "Are you oka-"

"I'm fine." Sonaka backed away. "Let's just go before Bladespinner throws a fit."

The villain looked over her shoulder and called out. "Nusuma, dear, can you come here."

It took a few moments, but the little girl shyly opened the door. She was clutching a toy figure of a Hero. Once she saw her mother's shining face, she ran over and gave her a tight hug. Sonaka ran her fingers through her hair.

"Mama's got to go out one last time, okay?"

Nusuma looked worried. "But... What about-"

"Everything will be okay. Mama just has to go do this one thing and we're gonna go to a magical land called 'Korea'."

"Koreena?" Nusuma attempted to sound out.

Joro snickered at mispronunciation, causing Sonaka to glare at her. "Korea. We'll have a new life."

"But I like it here!" Nusuma pouted.

Sonaka sighed. "You'll understand when you're older."

"Sonaka," Joro warned, glancing down at the phone she produced from her skirt pocket.

The mother bit her bottom lip. Nusuma was still looking bitter about the whole arrangement. She couldn't ask Joro to stay, knowing Bladespinner's temperament but she couldn't just leave her.

"Tell you what," Sonaka said with an attempt at a smile. "What if I get you something while I got out. Would you like that?"

Nusuma rocked back and forth on her heels, pondering the question. A smile broke out on her face. "A rose!"

Both Joro and Sonaka looked at her confused. "A rose?" Sonaka muttered.

"Yeah! I watched a movie where there was a magical rose and a princess and a beast but the beast was a good guy and the rose helped them fall in love!" Nusuma looked up with a Cheshire grin. "I wanna have you fall in love!"

Her heart tore at that statement. Joro could clearly tell that this the time to step in. "Your mama and I have to go now. Please be a good girl and stay in the house. Do not open the door for anyone. Do you understand?"

"And Nusuma," Sonaka dropped to her level. "I'll be home after this, I promise. Do you understand?"

Nusuma dipped her head. "Yes, Mama. Yes, Auntie Tsuchigumo."

Sonaka planted a kiss on her daughter's head before exiting the apartment. Noticing Joro's black car in the parking lot, she turned to her friend and saw her costume in her arms.

"I got it when you were dealing with Nusuma," Joro explained, seeing her friend's perplexed face.

She thanked Joro and, once she got into the back seat, began changing. Joro smirked. "Shouldn't I be paying for this?"

"Shut up!" Sonaka shouted, but the playfulness in her tone wasn't lost on Joro. "At least my costume is decent! With yours, nothing is lost to the imagination."

Joro shrugged, turning the car on. The engine purred as she spoke. "Hey, my gift to the world is showing off my greatest assets." She motioned towards her breasts and rear.

Sonaka rolled her eyes.

Just before they were to drive towards their destination, Sonaka gripped her comrade's shoulder. "Make sure I get home. For Nusuma's sake."

Joro nodded in agreement. "For Nusuma."

---

For someone who spent almost two decades battling Heroes, Sonaka knew when a battle was starting to get rough and this battle was it.

The Hero that swooped in to save the day, some hotshot named Fantastic Devil (a red-skinned twenty-something with horns, a tail, and fire-breathing. Your standard edgy hero-style), and his four interns. Bladespinner's lackeys were barely keeping up with the Heroes before Joro (codenamed Spinneret) and Sonaka (codenamed Wraith) showed up.

Weaving into and out of the fray, the ghost-like villain pop out of the wispy form to slash at her enemies. She noticed a couple of Sidekicks showed up to attempt to defeat the villains, but she wasn't worried. They were novices compared to a master of concealed weaponry. Currently, she was dealing with an intern with some sort of speed Quirk. He dashed back and forth like a child on a sugar rush. He attempted to land some square hits on her, but Wraith used her Quirk, Phase, to simply turn into a puff of gray smoke.

Suddenly, the speedy intern landed a strong jab right in between her ribs then a swift kick to her right arm. Her blade was launched from her grasp. Cockiness must've taken hold of him because he tried to unleash another attack. But, as a concealed master, Wraith always had something up her sleeve. In this case, literally. Sliding out a blade from its hidden sheath, she let out a yell as she dug it straight into the man's orange helmet. It's pale yellow screen cracked due to the force. The intern was too stunned to block Wraith's second attack. She side-kicked the helmet, causing both the wearer and it to drop to the ground. She was about to turn away when she noticed something.

A round young face, mousy brown hair, as he laid gasping she could see braces. The most damning evidence was the giant UA logo on the back of his hero costume.

"You're... A student?"

Before he could reply, a shot of web stuck to the kid's back. He was whipped into the air and slammed into the ground several feet away from Wraith. The attacker was Joro, Spinneret, donning her infamous costume. A black mask shielded her identity, but not her vision. Even from far away, Wraith could see the intensity in her eyes. Her costume was a tight latex with a cobweb type shirt and boots. Two latex pieces were barely holding up her breasts. Wraith would've said she was beautiful, had she not slashed the throat of the student with her long carapaces.

Wraith wanted to scream but her throat had closed up. The sounds around her became muffled as the realization hit her. These were just regular interns. They were students. Children.

She backed away from Joro, no, Spinneret, as her former friend basked in the glory of her kill. As she backed up, she felt her heel step onto something. Something squishy. Wraith (could she still call herself that?) Turned and nearly throw up.

It was another student. Her costume was torn to bits but she could make out that it had something to do with constellations. A mask, probably hers, laid broken against the pavement. Sonaka leaned in to meet the girl's eyes. They were a teal. Sonaka could imagine how bright they were when this girl was told she entered the Hero Academy.

"Please..." the girl noticed Sonaka and weakly reached out for her. "Please... Help."

Sonaka choked by a sob. This was someone's daughter. No, this may potentially be her daughter.

"I'm sorry." Sonaka managed to say, grasping the girl's hand. "I'm so... So sorry."

The girl didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her eyes were dull, one of the key depictions of death. Sonaka let her hand fall back to the pavement without another word.

The world around her was crumbling, both physically and mentally. A burning piece of a car crashed landed next to her but she didn't even move. Not even All Might himself could get her to move from this position. The girl was young, sixteen or seventeen at the most. Black hair with specks of white. But despite her physical differences, all Sonaka could see was a teenaged Nusuma. Laying like that in the middle of some pointless battle.

"Who did this?" Sonaka murmured. She placed the girl on her side a gasped.

Her stomach was completely torn up. It was like a pack of wolves that had chewed through her organs. Blood was pooled all over the front of her costume and the pavement. Sonaka gagged when she noticed the chunks of meat. And all of it red. So much red.

Like a rose.

Sonaka reluctantly traced her fingers over the wound. It wasn't as messy of a cut as she once believed. It was crude, yes, but done with a clear purpose. Like it was made by a tool.

"Bladespinner!" shouted Sonaka to no one in particular. She needed to stop him. Fast.

Nusuma, I'm sorry. But I have to do this.

Sonaka's costume flowed elegantly behind her even as she threw herself into the chaos. Quirks were flying all over the place. That Fantastic Devil guy was hanging off the side of a building breathing fire onto the villains below. Mountains of debris loomed threatening around her. Sonaka could see in her peripheral another villain pounce at a sidekick. The sidekick bounced away and disappeared in a shimmery flash before appearing behind him. Normal Sonaka would've floated up to save her comrade. But that wasn't her comrade and, right now, she wasn't her normal self.

She shifted into her Wraith form to move past the burning rubble and blood spatters.

"I wanna have you fall in love!"

Sonaka dodged another flying piece of debris when she saw a familiar muscular form.

Bladespinner.

His silver was caked in blood and, most horrifying, skin. His villain outfit, a silver and black skintight costume with a saw symbol on the front and back was mostly torn, revealing his muscles and machine parts. His arms, if you could even call them that, were giant mechanical wonders. A mixture of organic and machine parts with two razor-sharp saws at the end of it. He was currently locked in battle with a pink-haired- correction, pink petaled girl. Her pink eyes were filled with terror, yet determination. Next to her was the body of another student, most likely one of her classmates.

Another intern!

Sonaka's body moved on her own. She couldn't watch another death. She was tired of it all. The fighting. The lack of trust. The hatred from society. The reality that you'd never know if you'd make it home or not.

For Nusuma

"Kaori!" Sonaka screamed over everything.

Bladespinner, before landing the final blow, angrily spun around to glare at Sonaka. The girl managed to scurry away as Bladespinner drew closer to a frozen Sonaka.

"What... Did you say?"

"Kaori... Goto... You need to stop." Sonaka waved her hands to motions towards the environment. "Look at this! Look at you! Look at what you almost did."

"I was about to defeat our enemy," Bladespinner bared his teeth. "Are you questioning my decision, Mimoto?"

Sonaka stiffened but stood her ground. "I'm questioning the fact you're about to murder a child!"

"A child!?" Bladespinner scoffed. "That's our future enemy! The ones that might kill us! It's better to strangle the weeds before they overrun the garden!"

"This isn't one of your stupid analogies, Kaori! These are innocent lives!"

"You have no right to call me that!" he snarled. "If you wanna protect them so much, you can die with them!"

Bladespinner had raised his arm to strike, but Sonaka already had disappeared in a poof of smoke. She reappeared just above him. She swiftly tapped her ankles together and two blades shot out from the back of her boot's heels. She raised her left leg. She struck down, but Bladespinner managed to just barely dodge. Still, she managed to graze his cheek. A trail of blood dripped down and onto the ground.

A rose?

Sonaka snapped back into reality when Bladespinner used the back of their arm to bat her away. She wheezed as all the arm was forced out of her. She went tumbling across the ground, hitting several mounds of rubble. She was sure his attack at least cracked a rib or two was cracked but she needed to move. Like a raging bull, Bladespinner began to charge. Just before he made it towards her, she managed to disappear and poof back into existence right in front of him. She just managed to dig a knife right across his chest and popped out of the way.

I'm going to get a serious migraine after all this Quirk usage she groaned, already developing a headache.

"Stay... STILL!"

Bladespinner tried to punch her but she already was gone. Before he could blink, his throat was already slit. He choked out blood with it splattered on a broken pile of bricks. Before he could even get another word out, another knife was planted in his back. Then another. Then three more.

All Sonaka could see was red. Both figuratively and literally. Bladespinner had hit the ground several seconds ago, let she just kept stabbing. All the pent up rage she had built over the years were being unleashed on the body of her murderous boss. Was she just as bad as him? Probably, but she just needed to be free.

Free.

Nusuma!

Struggling to stand due to her shaking legs, Sonaka started to shuffle her way back towards an alleyway. Maybe she just shed her costume and make it back to her apartment just before nightfall. The last train left at eleven in the evening, she cod make it. She had to.

The sounds of fighting and over the top Quirks were dulled by the memories of her child. Nusuma's birth was a painful, lonely, yet beautiful experience. Her first words 'up, Mama' might've been small to everyone else but the world to her. Her smile was so precious. Her laugh was music to her ears. Her first ever A was on a math test; basic, but God did she almost cry at seeing her child succeed.

Succeed. Nusuma would succeed.

Nusuma, Mama's coming. Don't worry.

"You!"

Bladespinner? No, it was a feminine voice. Joro? No, too young.

Sonaka turned around. She wasn't prepared for the thick piece of wood going straight through her chest. Sonaka let out a deep wheeze. It pierced her lung, she could feel it. Her attacker? That same pink-petaled intern/student from before. Except her eyes were now a green, a green that reminded Sonaka of the grass at the park she always took Nusuma to. Although rage was pouring out of those emerald eyes, Sonaka also detected loss and hurt. Sonaka couldn't blame her. She was a child pretending to be a great Hero. This was probably her first experience with death, at least death that involved her friends and Hero's life as a whole. She wanted to tell her that she was sorry, but the girl raised another arm. It was covered in wood like a thick armor plating. Her hand, although covered, managed to sprout another tree branch.

"I-"

Sonaka couldn't finish. Her heart was immediately struck and everything slowed. She always thought death was supposed to be painful but she just felt tired and, in a twisted way, peace. All the stress dissolved at the moment of impact. The girl's face was still morphed due to all the suffering she was struggling with. Sonaka wanted to give her peace to her. But she couldn't.

She was falling.

Darker and colder was the only place she was heading and she embraced it with open arms. Sonaka let out a tear; it was her final regret.

Nusuma, I'm sorry. I didn't keep my promise.

#oc #ocs #mha oc #bnha oc #fanfiction #fanfic #ficlet #body horror tw #body horror #gore tw #gore #major character death #backstory #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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yeojaa · 5 years

Text

SUGAR HIGH, chapter xi. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary. You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing. jeon jungkook. mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags. angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~2700

chapter 11. Decalcomania

The words escape him before he has a change to pull them back, reaction time slowed by whatever sandman's dust still lingers in his bloodstream. They tumble forth, wrapped in hope and a big red bow. An accident present he hadn't meant to give. "You could keep me warm."

"You can stay in here as long as you want."

The offer is earnest, kind - you know it means more than he let's on and he knows you understand it all the same. This is a safe space, somewhere you can lay your head and forget about the world for a minute or two longer. A haven for the weary and the brokenhearted. You could never explain how grateful you were for it, for him.

You tuck your cheek against your arm, hoping to catch the tears that leak out still, drifting down your cheeks of their own accord. "Thank you," you manage in a small voice, meeting his tender gaze. You're not sure if he hears when he rises and steps past with all the care in the world.

When fingers squeeze your shoulder - reassurance and understanding deposited like dust into the fabric of your sweater - you hiccup. He leaves quickly, clicking the door shut behind him.

You stay like that for what feels like forever, curled into your knees.

It's perfectly normal, you remind yourself when you're overcome with emotion again. It's hardly been two weeks. No one expected you to pick yourself off the ground in such a short period of time, so why were you ignoring the cuts on your knees, bandaging them with little white lies? Didn't you understand that healing took time? Your wounds would never cure at this rate, not when you still had gravel digging into your skin.

It was because of that nagging voice in the back of your voice, the one that was making you see stars any time you so much as looked in your best friend's direction.

You told yourself it was only because you were hurting, that the stirring of your broken beaten heart was for all the wrong reasons. You had to - because you didn't know how to face him otherwise. You couldn't be around Jungkook, your fingers itching to hold hands that weren't yours any time he was within five feet of you. You'd already caught yourself dipping dangerously into daydreams, nearly falling heels over head when he'd turn to you with that intoxicating smile.

What you were doing was for the best - for all of you.

At least, that's what you tell yourself when his voice breaks the silence and your heart skips a beat.

"Soomi-ya." It's almost pleading, trapped behind the frosted glass panes. You can make out his silhouette, hunched forward as if to keep out the outside world. "Can you open the door?"

The small, ashamed part of you wants to say nothing, forcing his hand until the silence goes too long and he leaves. But you know that'll never happen because Jungkook doesn't just leave. He never has and he never will. You'd always loved that about him but faced with it now, you couldn't bring yourself to meet him.

"I'll be out soon." A lie that sounds fake even to your ears.

"Please?" He sounds so soft and sad, your heart aches. Could you really say no to him when he was like this? Did he deserve to stand on the other side of this impenetrable divide, unaware of its existence as you drifted further and further?

The words he'd said earlier ring in your ears and with it brings guilt, the uncomfortable feeling sinking like lead into your veins. He didn't hide things from you, so why were you so intent on shutting him out? He'd proved time and time again that he was there for the long run but here you were, throwing him out with the wash.

You're opening the door before you have time to talk yourself out of it. You're not sure what your face looks like when you finally face him, but you're certain how his does.

Glassy-eyed and aching longing in equal parts - a little boy left alone and lost. It sears into your memory.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you okay?"

Words overlap and at first, you're not sure who said what, his confession losing itself in the whisper of your question. Why was he apologizing? He looks so torn, those big doe eyes wide and begging as he wraps you up in every inch of himself, cradling you against his chest as he steps forward, pressing you back into the studio.

He's holding you as soft as he ever has and you can feel his breath hot on your hair. It feels different, but you're not sure how. Frankly, you don't know if you have it in you to consider why, because it feels too good - he feels too good. It's too easy to pretend this is more than it is, that the way he holds you is anything more than platonic.

You need to stop before you've done something you'll regret, hands fisting into the fabric of his hoodie.

"Please don't." It's the second time Jungkook's begged for you, pleading like a man on his last legs. He's tightening around you and you can feel his shoulders shake, the intimidating line of his back trembling beneath whatever weight he's been carrying for so long. The burden presses into every limb, dragging his tired body closer to the ground. "Please don't push me away."

The cord snaps when you hear his voice, wet with tears.

You're holding him like you could fix whatever this is, allowing him to drag you endlessly closer as your equilibrium shifts and you're on the couch, straddling his waist. At any other time, you might've considered the sudden intimacy, the way his hips feel between you, your knees precariously held on either side of him.

"It's okay," you coo. Your fingers move from where they've been gripping his shoulders, disappearing into the soft strands at the nape of his neck. You lace comfort into the silk there, whispering sweet nothings into the crown of his head. He's warm against you, the column of your throat alight with fire he sparks beneath his touch. It's the tip of his nose, the curve of his lips, the angle of his chin - anywhere skin meets skin, you're burning from the inside out.

It's too much emotion all at once. It's making your head swim but you can't let go, not when he's holding you like you're a buoy and he's about to go under.

"Why won't you talk to me?" Startled, you pull away just enough to make out the lines of his face, the flutter of his eyelashes and the drag of his bottom lip through his teeth. The words catch you off-guard, though the question isn't meant to be cruel, only curious. Hurt. Confused.

"I don't--" You stop short, because if you said you didn't know you'd be lying, and isn't that what's brought you here, anyway? Half-truths and guarded submissions, you refusing to hand out the key to your heart as if he didn't already have one tucked into his back pocket? "I'm sorry," you manage, knowing that's not good enough.

"I'm your best friend, aren't I?"

"You know you are."

"Then why?"

You get it. Really, you do. If you'd been in his shoes, you'd be just as frustrated, just as off-balance.

You can't meet his stare, instead finding the cloth at his neck endlessly fascinating. "Things are just weird right now." The way he tenses beneath you doesn't go unnoticed, the tick of his jaw a dead giveaway. You applaud him for not interrupting, though you know he wants to, his tongue pressed against his teeth as if aching to give his thoughts a platform.

You're wringing your hands in his hair, only realizing when you tug particularly hard, drawing a low whine from his throat. You pat at the back of his neck in apology, smoothing your fingers over the downy-soft pieces. He leans into your touch and neither of you comment on it when he's flush against you, the smooth expanse of his cheek comforting against the dip of your collarbone. He hums a quiet noise - an unspoken wish for you to go on.

"I just don't want to lose you." Another fabrication but one you decide is worth it. It was close enough to the truth that you could run with it, letting it lead the rest of your words. "I'm sorry if I've been weird. I'm just so scared. And I know what you're thinking." Disbelief is written in his expression like the stars are hung in the sky. "I can't help the way I feel."

Jungkook is quiet for longer than you expect, idly tracing patterns over the bunched up fabric of your back. The longer the silence stretches on, the more you begin to fidget. Had you said something wrong - or maybe you'd overstepped in some way, crossing the careful line you'd self-imposed without realizing it?

"I won't tell you how you're feeling is wrong." He starts hard, like he's biting back the truth with concentrated effort. You're grateful for that. "But I am going to tell you that you'll never lose me. Ever." Whether he's trying to convince you or not, the words form a knot in your stomach, trapping the butterflies in a crystal cage of his words. "We've been through everything together. You're one of my best friends. I'll never let you go, even if you ask me to."

The thought is so ludicrous you can't help but scoff. He smiles at that.

"So if things are weird for a while, fine." It's begrudging but indulgent, because he'd rather weather this storm with you than leave you alone for even a second. This is what he'd signed up for all of those years ago in the schoolyard. "We'll get through it together because you're my family - and I love you, jagi."

It's not the first time he's said it, nor is it the sixth or the tenth or the hundredth. You've heard these words a million times and you're sure you'll hear them a million more, but for a moment, you pretend they're different. You allow yourself to imagine they're meant the same way you answer them.

"I love you, too."

"Soomi's going to stay over, okay?" It's a statement more than a question, framed only out of habitual consideration for his housemates and directed only at the two members who still linger in the living room. "She's already getting ready but I'm going to sleep out here."

You'd argued with him on that point, insisting it was okay. You'd shared beds and more growing up, thinking nothing of it when you'd still just been kids, ignoring the changes of your bodies. It had only been when the shirts you borrowed began to fit differently and the sweatpants he wore so well no longer stayed on your waist that you'd realized things weren't going to stay the same forever. So you'd relented when he'd brought up how it would look, hiding the twinge in his chest behind a sharp laugh when you'd visibly flushed. You were that put off with the thought that it hurt a little, stung the places you'd left your marks on him. (And oh, how you'd ruined him, little pieces of you stuck like slivers in every part of him.)

"You didn't tell her." Taehyung's the first to speak, disapproval evident in every line of his face and dripping from his words like molasses. After everything they'd talked about - or rather, everything he had talked at Jungkook about - their golden maknae hadn't taken the plunge. Unbelievable.

"That's fine." It's Namjoon next, understanding all at once the implications of you sleeping apart. He knew you did it out of respect but also something else - something you weren't quite ready to verbalize either to him or your lovesick best friend. "You can crash in my studio, if you need privacy."

"Or my room." There's the equivalent of brotherly teasing in Taehyung's tone when he continues, "it'll be like when we were in the camper."

Despite the offers, the youngest shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes with a closed fist. Truthfully, he's exhausted. He's ready to collapse face-down on the nearest acceptable place. "Thanks, but it's okay." A yawn and then another and then a last one, just for good measure. He turns to the L-shaped couch and ignores the looks his hyungs toss him on their way back to their rooms, a mixture of fondness and concern. "Goodnight!" He calls, for good measure.

"Goodnight, Jungkook-ah. Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Jungkookie."

Once he hears the click of separate doors, he all but collapses atop the cushions, not even bothering to rearrange the throw pillows behind his head. He just stares lazily, thoughtlessly, cascades of moonlight throwing shadows across the walls. He has no desire to pull the curtains closed.

Every once in a while, the moon shifts behind clouds and he finds himself lost in the waning nighttime, thoughts drifting through his head with no start or beginning. It feels a little like white noise, calming him.

He's almost asleep by the time he realizes there's a blanket being thrown over him, a silhouette bathed in moonlight standing above him. It takes him a few moments to recognize the shape of your nose, the curl of your tousled hair around your shoulders. You're wearing one of his shirts, too long even for him; it practically drowns you, grazing the tops of your knees that he notes, with surprise, are bare. You've still got your socks on - a little striped set with bears peeking from the balls of your feet. He's never seen you more beautiful.

"What're you doing?" Dreams make his tongue heavy and his words slur, coarse with sleep.

You must've not realized he'd woken up because you visibly recoil when he speaks, eyes growing to the size of saucers. You immediately drop the edge of the quilt as if it's burned you and tuck your hands back into the safety of his too-long sleeves. "I didn't mean to wake you up." You refuse to meet his gaze, instead worrying your lip so hard it hurts. You know it'll be hard to eat tomorrow, can already taste the faint tang of metal on your tongue.

"You didn't." Reassurance in word and in touch, his hand extracting from his cocoon of warmth to lay gentle on your wrist, three fingers curling around delicate bone.

You finally meet his stare, half-lidded in the moonlight. "I didn't want you to be cold." And you hadn't been able to sleep yourself, tossing and turning in the too-big bed. It felt wrong to be alone in a space that was so clearly his. From the black sheets to the faint, clinging scent of his cologne - he was all around you, and yet not at all.

"What?"

Your response feels like a kick to the teeth.

"I just mean, um." God, why had he said it? And why were you looking at him like that, like you wanted to run from the room and never see him again? "You could keep me warm. With um, the blanket. Your blanket could keep me warm. Is keeping me warm." It's so clearly the most feeble excuse he could give but he's trying not to trip over himself in his haste to explain, half-sitting up as he rambles.

Again, silence that makes Jungkook want to leap out of his skin and throw himself off the 11th story balcony. Maybe then he wouldn't have to deal with the way you're staring down at him, un-moving.

What he wouldn't give to read your mind right now.

"Soo--" He's trying again, desperate to piece together the fractured remains of this interaction, reshape it back into some semblance of comfort and normalcy. But then you're turning and you're moving so quickly he doesn't have time to react, his fingers still curled around the shape of your wrist. Your absence leaves him cold and wanting, staring after your figure like that'll do anything.

Guilt slams into his chest so hard he's almost falling back into the cushions, only catching himself when he hears your whisper.

"Are you coming?"

notes. CLIFFHANGER!!! i really love this chapter because it feels a little like a step in the right direction. i hope you enjoyed it, too. :)

#bts fluff #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sugarhigh.doc #jungkook.doc

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highsviolets · 4 years

Text

of caf & conversations

pairing: non-toxic masculinity, wedge/luke if you squint

summary: “So, Luke Skywalker, hero of the Rebellion: what on earth is keeping you up at night?”

word count: 3k

rating: G

A/N: lolol I said I would post the update for “steady” this week and then @blonde-avenger and I were talking and, well, this happened. I can never refuse Luke Skywalker shenanagins. Canon + Legends compliant.

OF CAF & CONVERSATIONS, a fic by corellians-only [read on AO3 | external references are linked]

Wedge felt a sharp dig in his ribs as he lifted his cup of caf to his lips. The slim pilot scowled as the precious liquid danced over the top of the metal cup and collided with his flight suit. A stain started blooming on the weighty fabric of his khaki-colored trousers, creating an intricate patchwork of splotches.

“Seriously, Tycho?” he asked, staring in askance at the blonde-haired human male sitting to his right. “What is so important that you couldn’t wait until I finished my caf?”

While the Rebellion was a self-defined group of informal group of fighters, politicians, and the galaxy’s strays that gave little thought to rank, Rogue Squadron was infamous for its blatant disregard for rules and regulations.

Be that as it may, a few unofficial ordinances that governed the squad of ace pilots to preserve what remains of my sanity, Luke had commented dryly a few months earlier, after a particularly colorful incident that featured commandeered Corellian whiskey, a broken ‘fresher unit, and Wes Janson’s bedsheets.

Rule number one: Never, ever, come between Wedge Antilles and his cup of caf.

Everyone knew that. General Jan Dodonna. High Command Leader Mon Mothma. Even roguish Han Solo respected the man’s right to enjoy his caf in peace. Captain Wedge Antilles’ devotion to the caffeinated drink was nearly as legendary as Rogue Squadron itself.

Tycho ignored Wedge’s griping, merely arching an eyebrow. He pointed to the opposite side of the rudimentary mess hall. In the dim light of the glow rods, Wedge could make out Luke Skywalker making his way towards them with a cup of caf in each hand.

“That’s Luke,” Wedge stated baldly, still peeved at the interruption.

Tycho sighed, a gentle sound that belied the fact that his patience was wearing thin. “I know, Wedge. I live with the man. So do you. Or are you confused on that front as well?”

Wedge rolled his eyes in response to his wingmate’s sarcasm. “What’s your point, O Noble and Wise One?”

“The point, my stubborn Corellian friend, is—”

“Wait, was Luke scheduled for a patrol?” Wedge cut him off.

“There we go. Knew the converters would fire up eventually.” Tycho sat back and nodded approvingly, crossing his arms as he did so. The heavy-duty winter uniform did nothing to hide the grace of his movements, a remnant of his Alderaanian uprising that not even harsh training at the Imperial Academy — or the irrevocable loss of his culture — could push aside.

From his relaxed position, Tycho extended a gloved hand and snatched Wedge’s cup, taking a sip of caf. He shuddered.

“Wedge, this is disgusting.” He thrust the offending beverage back into Wedge’s open hands, his tone hurt and betrayed, as though Wedge not properly sweetening his caf was a personal affront to Tycho’s sensibilities.

“That is not caf.” Tycho pointed at swirling black liquid. “That’s what Zraii uses to clean our X-wings.” He regarded Wedge with concern. “Are you sure Wes didn’t swap your cups again?”

“I don’t hear you complaining about how I take my caf when it makes me awake enough to cover your six.” Wedge shot back. “Besides, I’m not the one who worries about his hair in the middle of firefight.”

“If you’re done squabbling like an old married couple, you’re right, Wedge.” Derek “Hobbie” Klivian, another human male pilot from Ralltir, joined them, plopping down on the other side of Wedge.

“I served a double patrol with Luke yesterday. Neither of us were scheduled for patrol today,” Hobbie added, discarding his outer layer.

Tycho winced in sympathy. Fourteen consecutive standard hours patrolling the Force-forsaken, freezing pile of bantha dung that was Hoth was dangerous, and not for the usual reasons. Hypothermia and avalanches were the most fearsome enemies on this planet — a far cry from the proton torpedoes and firefights that usually incited fear even in the most hardened of pilots.

Hobbie glanced up at Luke, who was rapidly closing in on the trio. “As far as I know, he was in meetings with High Command all day.”

“I don’t know,” mused Wedge. “I might prefer patrol to listening to politicians all day.” He frowned, considering the situation. “Then why is Luke wearing full gear? Is he crazy?”

Tycho shook his head, amused. “Stang if I know. But I’m glad you’ve finally caught on, boss.” He clapped Wedge on the shoulder in mock approval, a grin playing about his lips.

“Wait, am I the last one to notice this?” Wedge’s eyes darted from side to side, a look of incredulity spreading across his features. He was the squadron’s executive officer. Taking care of his pilots was not only his job, it was a source of pride — and if Luke was technically his commanding officer, well, that was a matter of semantics. And Rebels didn’t care much for those.

“Well, I wouldn’t say the last,” Hobbie inserted pragmatically. “I don’t think Wes knows.”

Wedge fixed him with a hard stare, not appreciating the comparison with the accident-prone pilot. “That’s not saying much, Hobbie.”

He shrugged apathetically. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Tycho motioned with his hands in a be quiet motion as Luke approached. “Good evening, Commander,” he greeted Luke pleasantly, his tone abandoning its previous mischievousness.

“Hello, Tycho,” Luke responded in kind, his blue eyes clear despite the sheen of weariness that stretched over his features. “Wedge. Hobbie. Good to see you.”

“Is there something out there, sir?” Wedge gestured with his free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching the cup of caf, to Luke’s quilted white coat.

The collar was turned up to provide maximum protection against the elements, and Luke had piled beige utility vest on top. A scarf fluttered from its haphazard perch around his neck, obscuring the rank cylinders that Wedge knew lay on the left breast pocket.

Luke’s face and sandy head of hair were the only bodily surfaces not completely swaddled in fabric of some sort. The whole ensemble — combined with his boyish good looks and gentle demeanor — had the effect of reducing Commander Luke Skywalker, destroyer of the Death Star, to something akin to a young porg.

“Another suspected meteor?” Tycho probed.

Luke’s brows bunched together. “Uh, no?” He shook his head. “Situation’s normal — as though the nine hells of Corellia had frozen over.” He shot a playful glance at Wedge. “You would know something about that, wouldn’t you, Wedge?”

He bent over and placed the extra cup on the table as he spoke, but the movement lacked its usual swiftness owing to the bulk of his gear. Tycho leaned over and pulled out a chair, and Luke sat, nodding at him gratefully. The lightsaber attached to his hip bumped against his leg as he sat, catching the reflection of the glow rods stationed strategically around the room. The movement drew Wedge’s eye, and it occurred to him absently that the antique weapon seemed to gleam even in the dull illumination of the mess hall.

“Actually, I don’t think he would, sir. The nine hells kicked him out, so the powers that be made him our problem.” Hobbie eyed Wedge’s cup warily. “Have you tasted his caf? No sane human can drink caf that strong.”

“When will you three get it in your heads that not every Corellian is a scoundrel?” Wedge asked. He pointed to himself. “My parents ran fueling station. No spice. No smuggling. No bribes.”

“Weren’t you raised by a smuggler after your parents died?” Luke asked suspiciously.

“Well, that doesn’t mean that I was a smuggler,” Wedge deflected. “Besides, I was already a teenager when Gus Tetra Station went up in flames. Booster Terrik didn’t exactly have to tuck me into bed at night.”

Luke snorted in amusement. “With logic like that, I was never a moisture farmer, I was just raised by one.”

Wedge sobered slightly. Like him, Luke’s parents had died, leaving him to be brought up by his next of kin. But Wedge was lucky. He had known his parents still reflected on fond memories from his childhood. Luke had enjoyed no such luxuries.

Tycho butted in before Wedge could change the topic. “I agree with Luke.” He began counting off on his fingers, naming each instance in turn. “So, you never helped him with accounts? Installed illegal parts on his ship? Owned belongings that had been declared contraband by the Diktat? Never went with him to meet a client?”

Sensing defeat, Wedge inclined his head. “Well, that may have happened. And I may have used his contacts to secure my first deals before I went to the Academy. But those were legitimate. I, personally, am not a smuggler.” He raised his chin in an act of defiance.

“Well, well, whatever shall we do with such a disloyal son of Corellia?” Hobbie asked in mock seriousness, as though he were presiding over a trial.

“He’s still a Rebel,” Luke pointed out mildly, sipping his caf. “I think that counts for something.”

Wedge cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to bring the conversation back under control. This was getting out of hand, and Wes Janson wasn’t even here.

“If there’s no patrol, sir, why are you wearing full gear?”

Luke started at the change in topic and then blushed, a delicate tinge of red sweeping across his cheeks even in the coolness of the hollowed out ice cavern. “It’s always best to be prepared, Wedge.”

Wedge met Tycho’s eyes and had a feeling that the puzzlement he saw etched on Tycho’s face mirrored his own.

“Sir, we haven’t seen action in days.” This time it was Hobbie who spoke. “Unless you know something we don’t…” his voice trailed off, the question lingering even as it went unsaid. Is Rogue being deployed?

Luke shook his head. “No, you know as much as I do, boys.”

The mood shifted palpably at his announcement. His pilots, Luke had learned, did not actively seek out conflict, but being grounded for more than a few days at a time tended to make them restless. And impatient, reckless pilots get killed, Luke reflected. Maybe I can get them scheduled for some supply runs. He filed away the suggestion to take up with High Command later.

“Okay, so if you can’t answer that, then why do you have two cups of caf? Are you planning on taking on the entire Imp vanguard by yourself? You never drink more than cup a day.” Luke’s XO indicated the cup on the table and its partner, now clenched around Luke’s gloved hands.

“C’mon, Wedge. If I wanted to take on the vanguard, I’d at least let you vape a few of your own.” Luke turned his head and grinned lightly at Tycho. “Leave Tycho here to clean up the mess and deal with this group of loca kung.”

“Hey! Watch who you’re insulting in — well, whatever language that is,” Hobbie protested weakly and turned to Tycho, hoping he would back up the beleaguered pilot.

“Don’t look at me.” Tycho lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I wasn’t the one who insulted you.”

Wedge cocked his head. “Was that…Huttese, Luke?”

Blue eyes averted brown, fixating on some amorphous clump of snow directly above their table. “Maybe.”

Something about the gesture unnerved Wedge, and he began to examine Luke more closely.

Sure enough, Luke’s leg was bouncing, and his shoulders were hunched together, as though he could keep the warmth closer to his body by closing in on himself. He couldn’t see Luke’s hands, but Wedge would bet his last round of sabaac winnings that Luke’s knuckles were white underneath his gloves, latching onto the warmth provided by the caf in a vice grip.

And with the precision of an ion cannon, it all clicked into place. Heavy jacket. Moisture farmer. Two cups of caf. Huttese.

“Hey, Luke?”

“Yeah, Wedge?”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Uh, last night, Wedge. You were there.” He sounded bemused.

“No,” Wedge corrected. “I saw you get into your bunk. I don’t know if you actually slept.”

“Well, I slept.”

“You sure?” Wedge pushed.

“Pretty sure, Captain.” Luke’s tone was firm, and Wedge winced at the use of his rank.

“Just making sure, Commander.” Wedge tossed back the rest of his caf. “Can’t have Rogue Leader operating on backwash fuel,” he added, as though the comment had been a casual afterthought.

Luke’s eyes widened, but he kept his tone even. “Is there something to suggest otherwise, Antilles?”

“Honestly, sir?” At Luke’s encouraging nod, Wedge shrugged. “A few things. The jacket. The caf.”

Luke’s blue eyes narrowed. “You knew I was’t sleeping because I wore a jacket and drank caf? And because you didn’t physically see me sleeping?”

“Wedge knew you weren’t sleeping because he was stalking you, sir” Tycho put in, easing the tension that had settled over the group. “I, however, had a feeling that you weren’t sleeping because I haven’t seen you hug anyone in days.”

“Tycho?” asked Hobbie. “Shut up. That’s even creepier than Wedge’s assessment somehow. Luke doesn’t want to hear that.”

Hobbie turned to Luke. “I thought you weren’t sleeping because you didn’t make one joke about womp rats yesterday — not once, over the span of fourteen hours, with nothing to stare at but ice, did you mention those infernal creatures.”

Luke shook his head ruefully. “Am I really so obvious?” he questioned aloud.

His pilots looked at each other. “Yes,” they answered in unison.

Wedge met Luke’s gaze. “Look, Commander, we’re just concerned for you. As your friends, not as your pilots. We have every confidence in your ability to lead us, sir.”

Luke smiled wanly, and he looked older than his 22 years. “No cylinders, Captain,” he instructed softly, the fight having drained out of his voice.

Hobbie sighed dramatically and reached up to unpin his rank. “Oh, thank the Force. I hate having to dance around rank like we all haven’t seen each other —“

“Thanks for listening, Luke.” Tycho spoke over Hobbie’s sarcasm and placed a hand on Luke’s arm.

“I can’t very well ignore my best pilots, now, can I?” His blue eyes met Tycho’s own. “Especially when they’re my best friends.”

Tycho smiled.”That’s what we’re here for. He squeezed Luke’s arm before releasing his grip and leaning back into his chair once more. “So, Luke Skywalker, hero of the Rebellion: what on earth is keeping you up at night?”

“Well, we know it’s not women troubles,” Hobbie quipped, frowning when two pairs of eyes fixed him with a steely glare.

“Not. Helping,” seethed Wedge between gritted teeth.

Hobbie ignored him. “Well? Is it?” he queried Luke.

The younger pilot shook his head. “No.”

“Okay. Gambling debts? R2 unit can’t be repaired? Missing family member? A strangling feeling of impending doom?”

Luke shook his head at each suggestion. “None of the above. Although, I think the feeling of impending doom is just you, Hobbie.”

“A pity,” Hobbie returned wryly. “It does wonders for one’s health.”

Luke took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Honestly, guys? It’s not that deep. I’’m just really cold.”

“You can’t sleep because you’re cold?” Wedge blurted, unable to contain his incredulity.

“I’m from a desert planet with two suns, Wedge.” Luke’s voice held a hint of his regular self with the teasing. “What did you think would happen when you put me on a snow planet?”

Wedge exhaled slowly. “Well, when you put it like that —“

“—which I do —“

“that kinda makes sense,” he admitted.

Luke smirked. “Good to know I’m not barvy as well as sleep-deprived and freezing.”

Tycho placed his hands above his head. “Well, I gotta say, that’s kind of a relief, Luke. I thought you had combat fatigue or something. This is problem is a piece of ryshcate compared to that.”

He looked at Wedge. “Did I say it right?” he asked, referring to the invocation of the famous Corellian dessert.

Wedge shook his head. “Well, technically yes, but your pronunciation is atrocious. I think Gamorreans could say it better than you.”

“Gentlemen.” Hobbie extended his hands palm-first. “If we could return to the task at hand, I propose a simple solution.”

“I’m all ears,” Luke said seriously.

“Luke can’t sleep because he’s cold. What’s the simplest way to conserve heat? Stick close together. So, the three of us take turns bunking with Luke to conserve body heat and make sure our dear old Commander finally catches some shut-eye.” Hobbie stated his conclusion apathetically, as though he hadn’t just suggested what sounded suspiciously like a squadron-wide sleepover.

“Hobbie.” Tycho stated slowly. “You hate being close to people.”

Hobbie shrugged. “So get Dak to take my place. Does it matter who it is as long as it’s one of us and it means Luke can sleep?”

Wedge searched Luke’s face for signs of misgiving, but found none. “Are you okay with this?”

Luke considered. “Would you care even if I wasn’t?”

“You know I would.” Wedge’s voice was low and serious.

“Yeah, I’m okay with it.” Luke smiled brightly and met Wedge’s brown eyes. Even without reaching out in the Force, Luke could feel that Wedge was radiating warmth and concern.

“Well, it’s a plan then,” Tycho confirmed, looking between Wedge and Luke. “Wedge, you’re up first.” His eyes twinkled. “Time to take our dear old Commander to bed.”

Luke reached across the table and lightly punched Tycho in shoulder. “Hey, watch who you’re calling old.” He yawned, screwing up his face and rubbing his eyes as he did so. With a concentrated effort, he heaved onto his feat.

“Mind if we turned in?” he asked Wedge. “I know it’s relatively early but—“ Luke blushed for the second time that evening — “I really haven’t sleep in weeks.”

Wedge nodded. “Of course, Luke. Whatever you want.” He stood, matching Luke’s stance, and the two walked away, speaking softly.

Hobbie looked at Tycho, who was watching them with a grin on his face. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“If I didn’t, you’d never know.”

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