#i tired to make tea but it tasted so bitter

[pearlynia]

I made coffee, but it's 1% coffee and 99% milk and sugar.

[dilfartist]

Realization

Pairing; Yandere Miguel O’hara x reader

Synopsis; the aftermath of your escape attempt.

Word count; 1.1k

Reader description; Female/GN

TW; yandere themes, dark themes, kidnapping, minor talk of wounds.

Notes; {first part.}

"Are you comfortable?" 

His query provokes annoyance. While, yes, the fluff provided by both the couch and large puffy blankets did satisfy you, you'd never express this to Miguel. Miguel is at your side, clad in a tight white shirt and Grey sweatpants. In his hands are a platter holding a drunk and a plate of breakfast. 

"No." You retort; the way it's spoken is colder than you intended. But why would you care? He deserves every bit of hatred spewed from your lips. 

The current time is eight in the morning, and the last thing on Miguel's today's list is fighting. Especially in your condition. Miguel releases an obstinate short-lived sigh, clearly not giving in to your stubbornness. He moves from your side to your front. Irratedly, you bark his name in an empty threat. "Eat." He persist, his voice losing a bit of the softness he talked with before. 

"I promise I didn't drug it. If that's why you're not eating." 

Ah, yes, you forgot being drugged was a possibility when he handles your food. 

Back when you first got abducted, you understandably were resistant to any form of tenderness. You acted callous. Ignoring Miguel when you didn't require to communicate your needs. Miguel wasn't too appreciative. Nevertheless, he was understanding due to your circumstances, and for a while, he begrudgingly left you alone. One day, Miguel wasn't having the best day; to say the least, his day had been extremely stressful. All he wanted was to be comforted by your touch, and of course, you aren't giving him any, so he sought it. 

You sat at the dining table, eating leftovers from the night before. Miguel entered the shared home, going into the kitchen. Wanting your affection, he forgets about your refutation and awkwardly leans down, puckering his lips to signal a kiss. You simply turn away. Pride wounded, Miguel retreats, angrily storming out of the room, and plops down on the couch. A couple of minutes pass, and you walk out of the kitchen, a glass of soda in hand, and sit across from him. Miguel eyes your beverage with a malevolent idea forming. 

Fortunately, on Miguel's part, you leave for the restroom. In his impulsive state, Miguel quickly departs from the living room to the kitchen. This wasn't the first occasion Miguel thought of paralyzing you with a sedative. On top of the fridge were the pills. He flicks the bottle open, popping two tablets in his calloused palm. He returns to the living room, dropping them into the liquid, and using your straw, he mixes the drink until there's only a slight visible powder at the bottom. 

Miguel rues his decision. Instead of earning your trust, he loses the faith that you had in him. The exact opposite of what he strived to attain. 

Famished and tired of Miguel's whining, you begrudgingly accept the platter. You settle the platter onto your lap. On the plate is French toast, the mixture of butter and syrup creates a brownish-orange color. On the side is cold tea with a handful of ice cubes floating at the top. 

Grabbing the butter knife, you slice the toast creating a rift and allowing the syrup to spill onto the glass plate. Bringing the fork to your mouth, you take a small bite. It tasted...fine. No bitter aftertaste of pills, just regular French toast.  

Miguel intensely observed you, even taking a seat beside you. For someone who truthfully claimed to not have laced your meal, he certainly doesn't make it appear that way. "Do you like it?" He asks nonchalantly. Not wanting to give him credit, you merely respond with an "it's alright," 

Finishing up your meal, you return to watching your show. Miguel gets up, sauntering out of the room. You assume he was returning work calls since he was taking off the week to nurse you back to health. You dismiss it, giving all your engagement to the television. 

Sometime later, you hear heavy footfalls from the hallway. You don't turn to see who it is because it's obviously Miguel. Miguel once again enters the living room, your name falling from his lips immediately. You continue to pay him no mind at all. 

Miguel is quickly agitated, "Look at me, (Name)." You whirl around, giving in. In Miguel's hands again is a tray. this time it holds neither drink nor food, instead medical supplies. 

"No." You absentmindedly mutter, sinking farther into the couch cushion. Miguel approaches you, places the tray aside on the table, snatches the remote out of your hand, and powers off the television. "Come on, lie on your stomach." He commands softly, throwing blankets on the other couch to have the couch bare. 

"No," you repeat like a petulant child whose mother asked them to do something they didn't want to do. 

"Now, (Name). The faster we get this over, the faster you won't have to deal with it the remainder of the day." 

He was right. For once. You shakily sigh, doing as he advised. Miguel takes your place on the couch, peeling your shirt upwards. The contact of cold crisp air against your warm skin makes you shiver. Never have been so interested in the armrest's design. Every stitch, color, and material now is intriguing. 

Miguel prepares the ointments and bandages. Then he unwraps the aged bandages in slow motion, hoping not to foist pain on you. Over a couple of days, Miguel has attended to your wounds on your back, and each time the sight never fails to have his heart sink into his stomach. 

Trailing from your upper back to your lower is three gashes on both sides of your back, parallel to claw marks. The gashes are deep and bloody despite the amount of medication he's applied days prior. Miguel figures they must have been caused by him clutching you when you went tumbling on the concrete. 

Now it's Miguel's turn to take in a quivering breath. 

Miguel brings over a small container holding a clear ointment inside. He dips his finger in, scooping out a good amount. Miguel's thick fingers gently glaze your marks, earning him a whine. As he continues, all that escapes his lips are gently spoken "m'sorry"s or "forgive me, bebé."s 

You want to hate him. Never think of the word forgive in a sentence when it involves him. But you can't; all you can do is forgive him because it's the only thing you can do to improve your situation. A situation you'll never escape. 

You have to forgive him, but never will you forget. Even if you wanted to, the marks on your back will always be a reminder. 

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

i can’t close my eyes alone ; satoru gojo

synopsis; arguing with satoru is always exhausting. bitter and spiteful, you leave him in the bedroom and go find another place to sleep; your couch would be the obvious choice, but where’s the fun in that?

word count; 4.2k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, f!reader (he calls you ’stubborn girl’ n ’pretty girl’ but other than that it’s gn!!), toru and reader have a fight, reader sleeps in the bathtub (don’t ask it came to me in a vision), hurt/comfort, he's doing his best :<, fluff!!

a/n; smth abt …. arguing w satoru gojo ……. idk why the concept has possessed me in the way that it has i just think hurt/comfort w toru is <33

okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had.

in your defense, you weren’t exactly thinking straight; fueled by spite, eager to get far away, and admittedly a little curious as to how it would feel, the decision was made almost purely on impulse. and stupidity, probably.

it’s not comfortable at all.

maybe it could be. maybe if you had just a couple more pillows, a fluffier blanket with a cozier texture. maybe if you had something soft to put beneath you, another blanket or a comforter or — whatever. maybe if you had a warm cup of tea to drink. maybe if you had something warm to hug to sleep. 

or someone.

(aw, what’s wrong? can’t sleep without me after all, huh?)

— nope. you are not going back there. 

just the thought of how smug he’d get makes you bite the inside of your cheek, increasing your already growing frustrations. in desperate search of a more comfortable position, you nuzzle further into the pillow, but nothing works.

your limbs feel stiff, and your bones can’t seem to relax, a discomforting numbness seeping into your spine. and it’s cold. the feeling of porcelain against your skin keeps you tossing and turning, akin to an icy winter breeze, caressing the apple of your cheek. 

still, there’s simply no other option. under absolutely no circumstances can you turn back now. not when you’ve come this far, when you can almost begin to sense an inkling of sleep’s familiar call, the drowsy flutter of your eyelashes.

it takes time, and perseverance — but eventually, the road to sleep does seem to brighten on the horizon. crawling closer and closer, lulling you into its embrace, while all you can do is lie there. completely at its mercy, exhaustion ghosting your subconscious, eyelids ripe with fatigue. 

slowly but surely, your consciousness begins to fade. tenderly, soothingly, like a curtain over your eyes being slowly unveiled. you can almost taste it, on the tip of your tongue; sleep is only a moment away.

soon, you’ll fall into that cozy abyss. and then you’ll open your eyes, and the morning sun will greet you. it’ll be a new day, a better day.

so you keep your eyes closed, and sink a little further into the plush of your pillow, and —

the light flickers on.

in the state you’re in, tiptoeing on the edge between dreams and reality, so tantalizingly close to falling asleep, the brightness is positively grating. even through your shut eyes, it invades your senses — a glow so irritating it’s startling. the bathroom lights mock you with their shine, illuminating your figure, curled up in the tiny bathtub. 

the whine you let out is involuntary, coaxed out from deep within your throat, as the uncomfortable sensation rouses you from your would-be slumber.

satoru raises an unimpressed eyebrow, where he stands by the door.

chest bare, wearing only a flimsy pair of sleeping shorts, he looks at you with tired eyes. exasperation painted onto his dishevelled features. then he clicks his tongue, voice raspy and rich with fatigue.

”you’re ridiculous.”

the judgemental tilt of his voice only makes the annoyance in your veins bubble up once more, just when it was finally about to dwindle. eyes squeezed shut to escape the burn of the artificial light, you let out a sharp wince, burrowing your face deeper into the pillow. 

”turn it off!”

ignoring your angry plea, satoru makes his way over to you. with long, slow strides, vaguely uncoordinated steps. just a little clumsy. he plops down on the edge of the bathtub, and gazes down at you.

you’re lying on your side, arms wrapped around a fluffy cushion, knees against your chest. under the illumination of the bathroom lights, he can see you clearly; messy hair that he yearns to ruffle, a crease between your brows that he yearns to smooth away.

you look awfully uncomfortable, to no one’s surprise. he isn’t sure what else you were expecting. 

despite the sting of the bright lights, you force your eyes open — only to give satoru a halfhearted glare, an attempt at appearing intimidating. though you somehow doubt it’ll work.

resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, satoru tilts his head. soft locks of white hair follow the movement, falling over his eyes, a little more tousled than usual. like he’s been tossing and turning, sprawled out on the bedroom mattress.

and, just like you suspected, the dirty look you send his way doesn’t seem to scare him off. not even in the slightest. if anything, you think you catch a flicker of lazy amusement dancing through his eyes. and it irks you, it does — an itch beneath your skin, a taste of irritation on your tongue.

because satoru is looking at you like you’re somehow in the wrong, here, like you’re the one acting out. as if he isn’t the reason you’re here in the first place.

at this point, you barely even remember what the fight was about. too sleep-deprived to recall it properly, too stressed to make a genuine attempt. all you remember is getting ready for bed, and the familiar sensation of frustration prickling your skin. you remember his pretty little grin, his teasing remarks and refusal to take you seriously.

remember the way he laughed, when you told him what was bothering you; the crinkle of his eyes, the warmth of his hands reaching over to squish your cheeks. a little patronizing.

(there was no malicious intent behind it, that much you know. he probably just wanted to lighten the mood. but it irked you, all the same. hurt you, maybe. just a little bit.)

then you remember storming out. grabbing a blanket and pillow and telling him to sleep on his own, if that’s how he was going to be. the words felt cold as they left your mouth, little breathy icicles. and then you left.

which is why you’re here, right now. curled up in your goddamn bathtub, for some reason that still escapes you, trying desperately to get even a wink of sleep without your boyfriend there to help.

and that’s also why satoru is here, back a tad slouched as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, looking at you like you’re some misbehaving cat. blinking slowly, drowsily, dragged down by the fatigue clinging to his eyelashes. 

(he can’t sleep, either.)

”you’re really gonna sleep in there?” he sighs, after a moment’s pause. any honest concern in his voice is almost entirely overshadowed by the sense of admonition that follows it.

a scoff falls from your lips, sharp like a razorblade. ”yes,” you deadpan, shifting to lie on your stomach, hiding away from his insistent view. ”i was sleeping just fine before you barged in here.”

satoru shoots you a look, thoroughly unimpressed, entirely unconvinced of your blatant lie. ”you’re being dumb,” he huffs. ”at least sleep on the couch.”

”i don’t wanna hear that from you,” comes a hiss, low and disgruntled. a growing irritation. ”and i’m comfortable where i am.”

another dissatisfied huff. why are you being so irrational? he just doesn’t get it. scrambling for excuses, satoru tries his hand at another tactic. 

”you’ll hurt your back.”

another little scoff. oh, so now he suddenly cares? you can’t believe him. 

”so what?”

a moment passes. satoru bites his lip, teeth sinking softly into the flesh; a little pang of ache, but it’s nothing compared to the twist of discomfort in his chest. you’re making this more difficult than it has to be, he thinks. always so stubborn. 

what is he supposed to say? how is he supposed to convince you to come back to bed, when you’re already so set on denying him?

god, he’s tired. he just wants to sleep, close his jaded eyes. just wants to not have to think, for a couple hours, curled up with the only person who makes him feel safe. just wants to dream in soft shapes.

but if you aren’t there, then…

a deep sigh. weary, annoyed. ”c’mon,” he coaxes, blinking sluggishly. ”you know you won’t be able to fall asleep without me. can’t we just make up already?”

your nails dig into the fabric of your blanket. every word he says only seems to deepen the sense of irritation plaguing your sleep-deprived mind.

it makes you want to shut him out, bury your head in the soft sheets and forget about everything else. he keeps acting like you’re just overreacting, like you wanted to have an argument. like he wasn’t the one who made you upset and then laughed at you about it. 

”i don’t need you to fall asleep,” you grumble, muffled by the pillow in your grasp, arms tightening around it. nuzzling deeper into the soft velvet comfort.

satoru’s fingers twitch, as if urging him to pull you close. he almost glares at the cushion in your arms, that you’re hugging so fondly, putting all your body weight on — snuggling into it in search of comfort and warmth.

(that should be his chest.)

the gears in his head turn, slowly and mechanically, as he brings a hand up to card through his hair.

satoru hates seeing you so upset, so far away from him. having to watch you close yourself off, not allowing him to be near, soothe you and take care of you. kiss all your worries away. that’s all he wants to do, everything he needs to keep himself whole, to keep himself from being devoured by an exhaustion he’s lived with for as long as he can remember.

a strong frustration gnaws at his conscience. a certain desperation.

a big, heavy sigh leaves his lips. it bounces off the walls of the bathroom, the white tiles and shiny mirror, as he drags it out. almost childishly. then he’s angling his body to face you properly, big hands resting on his knees, a determined gaze set on your figure.

”look, i’m sorry,” he starts, rigid and earnest. blinking once, twice, chasing away the drowsy weight of his eyelids. ”i shouldn’t have laughed.”

your ears perk up.

shifting to your side as if hoping to hear him better, you peek up at him through half-lidded eyes. almost in disbelief, a kind of hope sprouting in the corners of your dilated pupils.

is he genuinely going to apologize, you wonder? admit that he was in the wrong? does he actually feel bad?

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, until satoru’s voice spills into the air again.

”there. i apologized,” he exhales, a little gruff. annoyed. ”now will you please just come to bed?”

…

wow. 

okay, nevermind. you hope the ceiling fan falls on him.

beneath your skin, a mellow kind of anger bubbles up, blood slowly coming to a boiling point. he’s not sorry at all. of course he isn’t. you were stupid to think he’d actually give you a sincere apology, stupid to think he’d do the one thing that would actually make you want to fall back into his comforting embrace. stupid, stupid. 

clenching your teeth, nails digging into the velvet fabric of the pillow, your eyelids flutter shut once more. only this time, you don’t plan on opening them again — at least not until morning comes. not until you see the sunkissed tiles of the bathroom, until the ache inside your chest has passed.

”satoru,” you enunciate, frigid and final. ”just let me sleep. we can talk tomorrow.” a beat. the tiniest grumble resounds from your lips, tinged with exhaustion. ”i’m too tired for this.”

under his breath, satoru winces. that palpable fatigue in your words sends a tremor running through his chest, discomforting, a shiver of his heart. you won’t look at him anymore, and the hint of finality in your tone makes him feel slightly dejected.

god, he’s awful at this. sincerity has never been his strong suit. he’s gotten better, lately, but it’s still so very foreign.

he didn’t mean to make you angry, didn’t mean to upset you. didn’t mean for the lilt of his voice to make his apology sound insincere. but that’s still what happened.

and satoru isn’t quite sure what to do. 

he’s tired. eyes heavy with lost sleep, glimpses of would-be nightmares he knows he’d have were he to fall asleep right now. an anxious lump has long since formed in the back of his throat, and he misses you. misses your presence, your warmth. misses the feeling of having you close, the knowledge that you haven’t left yet.

(without you, he can’t —)

a sigh. soft, and resigned, flowing from his lips.

the inner turmoil in satoru’s mind begins to fade, slowly but surely, smoothed away by the sight of you. bundled up in a blanket too small to cover you properly, lying in that cold and cramped bathtub, discomfort evident in your features. sadness dripping from the bitter words you grace him with.

so out of reach, too far for him to follow, a boundary he wants to cross more than anything. but something about that meek expression makes him falter, makes his heart twist and turn inside his ribcage.

(he knows that you’re tired, too.)

so satoru swallows his pride.

the words are spoken in a whisper, hushed, through a voice so low you wouldn’t hear it if the silence of the bathroom wasn’t so suffocating. a soft lilt of his voice, bare and raw. meek, in a way that makes him want to crawl under a rock and die. but it’s there, and he lets you hear it; that soft little truth.

”… i can’t sleep without you.”

satoru doesn’t look at you. his confession rings in your ears, laced together with a softness you’ve come to associate with warm spring mornings and rooms so dark you can’t see his face. moments in which satoru feels safe. safe enough to be sincere.

— inevitably, your heart begins to soften.

(he’s trying. it’s difficult for him, but he’s really trying. sincerity and honesty are things that have been used against him all his life, so it’s no wonder he’d be scared.)

it’s very hard to stay mad at him, when he sounds like that. when his words come out sounding a little too much like a plea, a silent call for help. 

with hesitance, you allow your eyes to flutter open, shifting a little to get a better look at him. he’s there, staring into space — the man you’ve grown to love so dearly. his tousled white hair, those slightly forlorn eyes. the vague darkness beneath them, slightly puffy skin. that tired, tired expression. 

satoru taps the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers, absentmindedly. index finger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over.

then, at last, he meets your gaze. and you think he swallows down a gulp, before smiling — it’s a pretty smile, somewhat tiny. a little sheepish, but awfully sincere. awfully satoru.

he tilts his head, gazing into your eyes with a tenderness that melts your heart to the marrow.

”… please?”

a second passes. then two. 

soft and melodic, your heartbeat resounds in your ears, akin to a lullaby. like the call of a siren, coaxing you into giving in. and you’re weak, you realize, so very weak. just a smile and a tilt of his head, and you’re rendered utterly helpless. 

(he’s just too pretty.)

without fully realizing it yourself, you’ve begun to move, dragging yourself up with sluggish motions. blanket still draped over your shoulders, and pillow snug against your chest, you blink. drowsily, slowly. a little meekly. 

and satoru brightens.

it’s visible, in the way he physically perks up, back straightening, smile finally reaching his aquamarine eyes. a blend between hope and affection sprouts in them, slathered over with something honeyed.

a soft grin blooms on his lips, and he opens his arms wide — silently beckoning you to fall into his embrace. a raspy coo tiptoes on his tongue. 

”c’mere.”

before you can make a move to do so, satoru leans over. scooping you up with ease, as if you weigh absolutely nothing, tucking you into his warm embrace. smothering you in his cushiony chest.

almost instinctively, your arms go to wrap around his neck, cheek smushed against the warm skin of his shoulder. if you strain your ears, you think you can hear the soft patter of his heartbeat. he smells of the tiramisu you ate before going to bed, and just a hint of expensive cologne. he smells of comfort.

satoru is soft, and warm, and everything you need right now. lulling you back into that cozy, sleepy state. your very own personal dose of melanin.

with a big palm on the small of your back, satoru keeps you pressed up against his chest, as if you could change your mind and try to escape at any moment. he stands up, still holding you, and hikes your legs around his waist. breathing out a satisfied hum, before turning on his heel.

satoru smiles, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. ”let’s get you back to bed, baby.”

after turning the bathroom lights off, he begins to walk to your shared bedroom, still carrying you with one arm. always so strong and reliable. you know for a fact that he’s not going to drop you, so you opt to close your tired eyes; stretching out your limbs, lazily, releasing a quiet yawn that makes his lips curl up.

despite your lingering frustration, you find yourself nuzzling into the crook of his neck — and satoru coos, so painfully soft that you barely even hear it. the restlessness inside his own chest washed away, by the familairity of your body against his.

and before you know it, he’s dropped you down on the mattress. gently, but still enough to make you feel a little jostled, so close to falling asleep in his arms. he drags the blanket up to cover you, tucking you in; this one is bigger, with a fluffier texture, enough to cover you both with ease.

smiling softly at the sight of you all cozy, content in the knowledge that you’re finally comfortable, satoru crawls beneath the blanket and takes his rightful place beside you. eyes crinkled at the corners, rich with affection.

two strong arms reach around your waist, to pull you flush against him, until your head meets his chest and you can hear the soft thrumming of his heartstrings. then he sighs, in pure bliss, thoroughly content. melting into your embrace, rubbing his cheek against the side of your head, nuzzling into the warmth that seeps from your body to his.

he runs his big hands down your back, affectionately, rubbing circles into your skin. coaxing you into melting a little, too.

”see, isn’t this much better?” he smiles, a little cheeky. such a tease.

”… the bathtub was fine.”

a chuckle rumbles through his chest, rich with fondness. his hand goes to card through your hair, nimble fingers smoothing down your scalp and running through the soft strands. every touch gentle, full of care. every word soaked in a syrupy sweetness.

”stubborn girl.”

despite your best wishes, you’re too tired to bite back the blissful sigh that leaves your lips. a part of you still wants to protest, to push him away —

but then you start leaning into his touch. helpless to his warm hands, his soothing voice. satoru is just a little too good at making you melt. so good that you finally begin to let your guard down, nuzzling into his bare skin, sinking a little further into the mattress. 

and satoru stifles a coo. 

”honestly,” he sighs, equal parts exasperated and amused. ”sleeping in the bathtub… you’re so silly.”

before you have a chance to respond, he’s pulling back — ever so slightly, just to get a better look at your face. arms looped around his neck, you blink up at him with droopy eyes, and he can’t resist the dopey grin that sneaks its way onto his lips. doesn’t even begin to try, when you look so unbearably sweet.

unable to stop himself, he broaches the distance between you, leaning close to kiss the top of your nose. and you squeeze your eyes shut at the gesture, face scrunching up, but it only makes him chuckle. smiling, honey-sweet, he admires your sleepy pout. soaks up every soft little grumble that slips from your lips.

his hand comes to cradle your cheek, thumb smoothing down your cheekbone. just gazing at you, taking you in, every single contour of your face. there is only adoration in his eyes. something silently delighted, that seeps into his words, his raspy voice.

”my pretty, pretty girl.”

a heat rushes to your cheeks. looking up at him, into those lovesick eyes, you can’t help but grow flustered.

he looks so content.

all you manage is a weak furrow of your brows, pressing a palm against his bare skin. softly, as if pushing him away, forehead meeting his chest with a soft bonk. hiding away, so he won’t see how much his words affect you.

”lemme sleep, toru…” you mumble, stifling a yawn.

unfortunately, your boyfriend is not one to give in so easily. before long, his fingertips are trailing across the skin of your jaw, coaxing you into lifting your chin. and you’re too sleepy to resist — practically melting, as he begins to smear openmouthed kisses all over your face. all you can do is close your eyes, attempting to ignore the sound of his exaggerated mwahs, frowning in a silent disapproval that you know you don’t actually mean.

satoru notices it, though. he always does.

”you still mad at me, baby?” he asks, in a way that sounds a little like he’s cooing at you. there’s a teasing tilt to his voice, but it’s also a genuine question. your frown deepens.

averting your gaze with a soft huff, even as he cradles your jaw with his slender fingers, a pout plays at your lips. under his kind eyes, you feel just a bit meek — recalling your argument from before. absentmindedly, you fidget with the waistband of his shorts, hoping to ease your nerves.

despite your valiant efforts to direct your vocal cords in a different direction, the voice that spills from your lips comes out sounding just a tad hurt.

”… you never take me seriously.”

satoru’s eyes soften.

his smile falters, by a hair, a brief stilling of movement. subtle, but hard not to pick up on. there’s a certain sense of shame in his irises, a genuine guilt stirring his heartstrings; several discomforting sensations, gnawing at the bones of his ribcage.

(you look so small.)

two hands reach out to cup your cheeks, big and warm. swallowing up your whole face. and before you can react, satoru leans in to press a sweet, chaste kiss against your lips. he tastes like tiramisu. 

”’m sorry. we can talk about it tomorrow, okay?” he hums, and you can tell that he means it. ”i promise that i’ll take you seriously. for real, this time.”

as you look into those eyes of his, blue and soft around the edges, the last of your frustration is finally washed away. with a meek downward glance, and a faint nod, satoru relaxes — releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. relieved at your silent forgiveness.

tomorrow, he’ll definitely make it up to you. he’ll hear you out, without opening his big mouth, or trying to skirt around any emotions that make him feel even slightly uncomfortable. smoothing a big palm down your back, he hopes you feel it as a silent apology. 

for now, he’ll just hold you. he’ll hold you, and kiss all your worries away, and keep you comfy and warm. that’s his duty. the only one he’d willingly choose, the only weight on his shoulders that never feels even a little bit suffocating. the only one he wouldn’t cast away, if given the chance.

nuzzling back into the safety of his collarbone, your heartbeat settles into a drowsy rhythm, slow and serene. satoru squeezes you in a tight hug, reassuring. comforting.

he can be a handful, and a little insensitive, but you love him a lot. you can’t imagine not loving him. 

”… goodnight, toru,” you whisper. ready to give into sleep’s call, at last.

satoru smiles. you can hear it in his voice, sweet and silky, a soft curl of his lips. ”goodnight, honey,” he presses a kiss against your shoulder. warm, his breath on your skin. ”i love you.”

a yawn escapes your throat. ”love you too…” you mumble, sleepily. that one soft truth, before your consciousness fades.

and satoru’s smile only grows. hopelessly, inevitably, in the same way his hands can’t help but to bring you closer. until your heart is flush against his own, and he swears he can feel your heartbeats synchronize.

finally, with those three little words, satoru should be able to go to sleep. drifting off, he can only hope you’ll still be in his arms by the time he awakens.

(then again; you always are, aren’t you?)

[bunnylove1]

.*•Alastor HC!•*.

~.•Alastor x reader HC!

~.•warnings! Smut and fluff!, praise from alastor to reader, visible hickeys!, throw up! Sickness,

~.• My first like head cannon post You darlings enjoy it! (Not a lot of smut HC but still my HC on are good old al)

•Alastor isn’t the physical touch in public kinda guy but he definitely does kiss the top of your hand and like to link arms together while your out in cannibal town

•I like the idea of his ears being sensitive since he’s a deer! You definitely already knew this from how long you guys have been together for so you know the right spots, Alastor definitely only lets you do this and will go all yk radio demon to whoever try’s to touch them that isn’t you

•he likes your company definitely more of a quality time guys

•going in with quality time, he loves when you sit in his broadcasting room doing your own quiet thing while he’s on the air, he enjoys your presence

•He will spoil you rotten with tiny little perfumes and necklaces and will always get you roses

•he definitely loves when you wear red to match his outfit

•I don’t see him as a jealousy type of guy but if someone’s to close for his liking he’ll “politely” tell them to say there goodbyes and leave

•he’s a night owl it’s just a fact so while you are dead asleep he’s reading his book and gently running his hands threw you hair

•okay man doesn’t have that big of a sex drive but when he’s in the mood he’s in the mood, he likes to nibble and leave purple hickeys on you collarbone and neck he likes to make sure everyone knows your his and his only

•he doesn’t like it when you drink he’ll grab whatever beverage your drink is and pour it out and just simply walk away

•he likes to give forehead kisses and maybe a small peck on the corner of your mouth just a tiny quick on and then go off to whatever he was doing

•if you doing your own thing quitley in the lobby of the hotel he’ll pop out of nowhere and just whisper a tiny boo~ and then turn around to talk to Charlie or whoever is there acting like he didn’t just scare you.

•he’s not a big fan of movies like he don’t like tv at all so slow dancing to jazz/old timey songs on his radio is his favourite thing to do with you

•dates with Alastor are nothing special just simple romantic a nice walk to dinner and maybe a nice stroll after dinner

•he’s not the best with cheering you up but I feel like he would try his best maybe by simple “your okay little fawn” or “tell me what’s wrong my dear”

•even though he’s not the best at cheering you up he knows how to take care of you when your sick, if your throwing up he’ll softly rub his thumb on your back going up and down with his hand as he does and with his free one getting your hair out of your face, hell make you soup and make sure you stay in bed till your better

•Alastor likes to tease your weakness like if you’re terrible at being on time he’ll say “don’t be late my dear we all know your bad at telling the time” he only does this because 1) he thinks it’s funny how you scramble to do the thing better and 2) he wants you to get better at what you bad at!

•if you haven’t seen this man with his hair up your missing out!, if your bored he’ll allow you to do his hair like in ponytails pigtails anything he doesn’t care cause your his darling!

•he loves seeing you and Rosie getting along!

•but he didn’t know that you and Rosie would end up being friends dragging him along to late night shopping sprees and tiny dinner tea parties and gossip nights

•he admirers when you dance he finds it funny and cute to see you dance and stumble a little on your feet while you do so

•when he’s tried you know he’s tired he’ll snuggle up into bed and wisp you down with him knowing he only sleeps well when your near

•hates coffee and milk for some reason I think he would hate the bitterness of coffee no matter how much sugar you put in there and wouldn’t like the taste of milk because it has no “flavour” to him and he’d rather “just eat the cow”

•definitely a tea and biscuits guys

•hates the colour pink just because people mention he’s wearing pink all the time even though it’s clearly red

•he HATES when you interact with the vees he’ll spin you around and take you straight back to the hotel and won’t tell you why but you’ll know

•he’s not great at communication but you guys figure out a way to understand y’all’s needs,wants and matters

.*•Thank you darlings for reading this if you want more just send me some requests and I’ll will do them!<3

[ghouljams]

Build Me a Castle of Memories Rating: M Word Count: 6.8k Tags: hurt/comfort, christmas fic, Ghostxf!oc/f!reader, background Pricexf!oc, dissociation, anxiety, grief, 09 Ghost's backstory, Ghost reconciling with his past, dad!Ghost, baby oc Summary: Ghost has never had what you would call a happy Christmas, but you have and that chafes more than he wants it to. He wishes it didn't, but he doesn't know how to stop it. Maybe he was doomed from the start.

“Simon, wake the fuck up, we got chores.”

Ghost folds his pillow over his ears and rolls over, away from the pounding of your fist against the door. There’s nowhere to escape the noise in the little one room house, but damn if he can’t try. He presses the pillow more tightly against his ears, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like a kid again, your insistent knocking filling in holes in his memory he’d rather forget.

His father banging on the door, screaming as he tries to shield Tommy. His mother’s voice attempting to pacify him. The crack of skin against skin, the soft shocked noise that comes from being struck. A sharp yelp, a plea, but the banging on the door doesn’t stop.

Ghost jerks awake again. His mind struggling to disconnect from the past and focus on the present. How long have you been trying to wake him? He tosses the quilt off and grabs his mask. He needs to get away from this memory, and you’re just in time to help. The mask is pulled on as he goes to yank the door open. 

You stare up at him, unapologetic for the early hour. Actually you look a little annoyed it took him so long to get up. Your eyes drop down, and Ghost leans against the door frame to let you look. One nice thing about Texas he supposes, it’s still warm in the winter. Warm enough he doesn’t need more than a pair of shorts to sleep in. 

Your eyes pull back up to meet his and he cocks a brow.

You’re cute in an oversized jumper and shorts. He wonders if you’ve started chores, must have since your boots already have mud on them. “Is it a Ghost day today?” You ask, referring to his mask. He hums. 

“What do you need, Princess?” He’s already tired of the direction this conversation is taking. Better to keep you both on track and avoid unnecessary topics. December is starting to chafe despite the climate. The feed store had giant candy canes out front the last time he passed it, and a tree lot has already been erected by the church. Must be a merry time of year, not that Ghost’s ever enjoyed it.

“Momma wants the Christmas tubs, and I need another set of hands with the trailer.” You explain, dangling the keys from your fingers. Ghost hums again, you shouldn’t have trouble with a few boxes of decorations, not enough to need his help at least. It’s a good excuse to grab some time alone with you though, one he’s happy to take.

You’re always a welcome distraction from the tightness in his chest.

“Lemme get my boots,” He grumbles, turning back into the house. He leaves the door open for you, knows you’ll follow him in and make yourself at home. It’s charming, you’re charming, if a little annoying.

Sure enough the door clicks shut behind him, and he hears you fussing in the kitchen with the kettle. Ghost is tightening his belt when you offer him a to-go mug of tea. It always tastes better when you make it, the thermos is warmer, the bitterness a little softer, the sugar a little sweeter. 

He burns his tongue on the scalding liquid as you pluck his hat from the coat rack by the door and settle it on your head. You toss a smile over your shoulder at him, and it’s like a sunrise over the hills.

The darkness of memory scurries back where he can lock it. The house feels gentler somehow, he feels gentler. Softer around the edges when he rubs his thumb against your cheek. 

“Come on ya big softy,” You laugh, patting his chest, “The quicker we get started the quicker we get done.”

Ghost huffs, “They’re Christmas decorations, how long could they take?”

-

Ten tubs in Ghost decides your mother is insane.

The shed that they’re all in seems dedicated solely to Christmas decor. There are light up reindeer and inflatables, boxes overflowing with lights, and tubs. Tubs upon tubs of heavy ass decor. You hand him another box to find space for on the trailer and Ghost is forced to reconcile with the fact you’re hardly breaking a sweat. You give a soft noise of effort when you lift a tub from the floor or pull one off a tower, but otherwise… Ghost spends a fair amount of time on the walk between the shed and trailer thinking about it. 

Maybe they’re not that heavy.

He comes back to the shed to see you stripping your jumper off, the dark tank top underneath hits him like a train. You fold your jumper neatly and place it on top of the tub you lift off the ground with a huff. You blink at him when you turn to take it to the trailer, and a smile creeps over your face. 

“Pick your jaw up baby, you’ve seen worse than this,” You tease, shouldering past him just to bump his arm with yours. Baby. You could call him anything you wanted and he’d have to stop himself from following after you. How can one little word make his chest swell and tighten?

How could he ever want to raise a hand to someone that made him feel like this?

Fifteen tubs, nine light up reindeer, and more lights than Ghost has ever seen. He boxes you in as you’re locking up, leaning heavily against his arm on the shed door. You turn to lean against the rough wood as you tuck the key back into your pocket. He holds your chin with his fingers, thumb rubbing against your skin as he takes you in. You give him a confused sort of smile and settle your pretty hands on his chest.

“You ok, big guy?” You ask, your voice light to disguise your concern. Ghost tips his head, quiet. It’s the season, he wants to say. It’s bitterness and resentment that creeps in every year at this time. It’s the smiles of kids swinging their parent’s hands and chattering about santa. It’s the sun shining and the wind blowing without a chill, like it would hate to ruin a perfect December with snow. 

“Fine,” Ghost tells you. Your brows twitch down like you don’t believe him. He kisses you quick before you can ask again. 

-

“Swear you got more of this stuff every year,” Price gripes back at the house, his smile telling Ghost he truly doesn’t mind. Your mother eagerly pops the lids off each tub to inspect the contents before telling Price where to take it. It’s a slow process, slower than the initial loading, but easy enough. Ghost takes a huge tub from you, this one clearly labeled “garlands.” It’s unwieldy, but not too heavy. He shifts it up over his shoulder to get it up the steps to the farm house’s front door. 

“Thank you for helping Simon,” You mom smiles at him, her hand light on his arm. Something about her touch sears against his skin, her smile chokes him, he’s glad for his mask as he holds her gaze. He nods and continues into the house.

Outside he can hear your mom arguing with you about something. A well meaning sort of tone that carries through the air without yelling, never yelling. Your huffing and whining hardly seem to break the atmosphere. No harsh words, no physical altercation, no familiar ending. 

Price passes Ghost on his way out and pauses. His eyes dart to him as he brushes past before he’s out the door again. Ghost sets the tub in the living room with the others. He pats the top, stares at the red lid, pats it again. His stomach twists. He pats it again.

Why can’t he move away?

He pats it. Job done. So why is he still standing there? 

He pops the lid off the tub and stares at the pine green garlands, nestled in with fake snow and little red baubles. Christmas-y. His fingers skim the fake needles. Plastic, of course, crushed and bent in places from years of wear. Where do these go? Ghost glances around the room, it feels smaller with all the tubs. The first garland has been lifted from its place by the time you wander by with your own tub, and your jumper on.

“Better leave it, Momma’s particular about her decoratin’,” You tell him, setting your box on the dining table. Despite your warning you tug your tub open and pull tablecloths and centerpieces free. Apparently you’re allowed to help past moving boxes. 

Ghost drops the garland back into its tub and presses the lid shut. He goes to grab another box.

-

For how many tubs there were, the actual decorating goes fast. “Plenty of hands,” You mum, Duck, she told him to call her Duck, tells him with a smile.

There’s a heavy weight on Ghost’s chest, something too large to wrap his arms around. He doesn’t say much as he helps get reindeer plugged in, and fluffy cotton snow tucked around ceramic houses. He finds himself outside with a cigarette between his fingers more often than he’d care to admit. The choke of smoke in his lungs is more familiar an ache than the other one. Nameless, because to name it would mean acknowledging it. 

Ghost watches the wind rustle through the dry grass, his eyes trained on the wide horizon. He wishes he could change the shape of his shadow, knock off the parts that dig into his skin. He’s tired. Maybe he should find somewhere to go for the next few weeks, get away from the festivities. Just for a while. Just until it stops hurting. The screen door knocks against the frame behind him.

“You’re quiet,” You lean against the porch railing, eyeing him. You’re so damn observant it kills him. Ghost snubs his cigarette on the ashtray next to him and lets the last of the smoke leave his lungs.

“So I’ve heard.” He tells you, turning to push past you and back into the house. If he stays around you too long he might say something he can’t take back. It’s better like this.

Price is busy enough with the upstairs decorations that Ghost doesn’t feel bad making a beeline for the living room. Red and green cover the place. The mantle over the fireplace hosts a christmas village, the couch boasts flannel throws and christmas pillows, miniature christmas trees in various styles are set on every horizontal surface. Somehow the room feels warmer, the twinkle of fairy lights giving everything a soft glow. 

How could he have anything to say around this? All this- Fucking hell why do you have to be one of these families? A happy family. You don’t even have a proper tree yet but there are already presents set in the corner Price partitioned off as the “tree spot.” 

Ghost rubs his thumb against one of the garlands hung up around the entryway. So this is where they went. Your- Duck waves him over when he makes eye contact, offers him a baby of a hammer and a few tiny nails.

“Make yourself useful and tack up the cotton,” she smiles at him. He gives a short nod and follows the line of her fingers to the line of cotton circling the room, nestled neatly over a thick garland. Duck surrenders the step ladder to him and Ghost is quick to take over. He tucks the cotton into place and pushes the little nail into it, taps it with the head of the little hammer.

“We have to re-plaster every other year or so,” Duck says behind him, filling the silence with her voice.

“I can tell,” Ghost grumbles, eyeing the little holes that dot the wall. He tacks another length of cotton snow to the wall, squishes it up against the ceiling and drives the nail in. He looks back down at Duck and holds his hand out for more cotton. She’s already holding the next batch of it, apparently well versed in this whole decorating business. 

“You should’ve seen the wall before we started fixing it,” She hums, “years and years of holes.” Ghost says nothing. These holes are nothing. Years and years of holes knocked into walls, covered by picture frames and curtains. “Most of these decorations have been in the family for years,” She tells him, background noise to the drone of his thoughts, “We still use my mom’s plates for Christmas dinner.”

“You ever broken one?” He asks, feeling his throat tighten as soon as the words are out. He squeezes his fist, the points of the nails digging into the meat of his palm. 

“Of course,” Duck’s tone is alien to him, it’s all alien to him, “that’s what happens with old things, but I don’t need the plates to remember her.”

Ghost stares at the wall, the plastic needles of the garland, the red bows and white cotton. He bounces the weight of the hammer against his fingers, unseeing. There’s something at the edges of the statement that feels targeted, that speaks to an understanding he wishes she didn’t have. You don’t know me, it says, but I know you. Something wet tickles his fingers, he can feel the warmth of it dripping from his grip. 

Remember when you had things you could carry with you? He asks himself. Pictures, smiles, something more than a memory? When’s the last time he visited their graves? Are they clean? Has anyone brought them flowers?

“They’re just things Simon,” his memory whispers, voice watery, like it doesn’t want him to see it cry.

Someone touches his arm, and asks, “Simon?” in a voice so close to his mother’s that he jumps, and nearly topples off the step ladder. A pair of hands press to his back to keep him steady.

“I’ll be alright,” his memory finishes, like a hand stroking his hair. He feels small. It hurts.

He drops the nails from his hand, lets the hammer fall free as he grips his wrist with a shuddering breath. Shit. Small puncture wounds dot his palm, nails still clinging to the meaty base of his thumb. He focuses on his breathing, pushing the pain down into its tightly lidded container as he steps down off the ladder.

Duck grabs his hand before he can shoulder past her towards the bathroom, inspecting the damage. Damn doctor. She clicks her tongue, the same way you do when you’re upset. She spreads his fingers out, opens his hand as she prods around the blood.

“Doesn’t look like any permanent damage done,” She smiles up at him, a mother’s smile where he’d hoped to see a doctor’s, “Just needs cleaned up.” Simon swallows.

“Let’s get it over with.” He responds, the same way he always does to medical.

-

Ghost studies his bandaged hand in the quiet of his bathroom, water patters against the tile of his shower in the silence. Plain gauze and bandaging, the same as it always is. No stitches needed. No permanent damage. Just plain gauze. And bandaging.

He rubs his thumb against the rough bandage, feeling its familiarity.

He sighs and leans back against the sink, presses his hand over his eyes to block the buzz of the overhead light. How much longer does he have to wait before it all stops hurting? 

-

Things quiet down after the house is decorated. The holiday lulls into something almost palatable. You’re over less. In the week following Ghost finds himself sleeping alone three days in a row, finds himself unable to sleep when he does have you in bed with him. You hug close against his chest, your legs tangled with his and your breaths soft and even. He can’t lose the time he has with you to sleep, his lips press against your forehead as he feels like an outsider in his own skin.

“You should come stay in the main house,” You offer over your coffee, “until the holiday is over.” Ghost hums.

“Wouldn’t want to disturb the Christmas cheer,” He sips his tea, scrolling through the news on his phone. Never anything good, never anything that makes him happy he left the service.

“I want you there,” You press, “we want you there.” You always do that, make it sound like you aren’t enough to convince him, like he needs more than you to ask for something before he grants it. 

“I like my space,” He looks up from his phone, and his heart twists at the sadness in your eyes, he fixes his eyes back on his phone, “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe closer to Christmas? I know it’s not-” You hesitate, he hates hearing you hesitate, it doesn’t sound right to his ear when your confidence wavers, “With my parents around, I know it’s not ideal, or romantic, but-”

“I don’t like sleeping alone either,” Ghost finishes for you, swallowing his own feelings down, “I’ll think about it princess, promise.”

“Ok,” You smile, and kick your feet up into his lap under the table. 

He spends the whole day thinking about it. Spends the day thinking about sleeping in a guest room, about seeing Price in the morning outside the bathroom, about family meals, about waking up surrounded by cheer when he feels anything but cheerful. He walks into the kitchen to grab lunch and finds the counters covered in unfrosted Christmas cookies, sprinkles and colorful icing laid out with joyful care. It makes his chest tighten uncomfortably, his memory working overtime to remind him of the clatter of baking sheets and the shouting that comes after the smell of burning flesh. 

He skips lunch.

There’s something broken in him, Ghost knows that better than anyone, but he can’t stop the sharp edges of it from cutting. There’s something angry clawing at his ribs, licking his scars until they itch, choking his throat with dirt and earth. He snaps at Price while the cattle files past, and wishes his captain wasn’t so damn sturdy. “I know son,” Price tells him easily. It hurts more than it has any right to. All of it hurts more than he knows it should.

He holds you in bed at night and stares at the wall, tracing the path of the moon by the light it casts through the windows. He just needs to make it through the holiday.

-

Easier said than done.

Christmas seems to take over the ranch the closer the holiday gets. Presents appear piled under the tree, cookies tower on plates just out of reach of the dog, carols seem to always be playing, and the television happily hums with every holiday movie he could think of. You catch him under a mistletoe and Ghost feels like he’s quickly reaching a boiling point. Your joy, usually so infectious, now seems tailor made to destroy him. 

He’s not mad at you, he knows he isn’t, knows exactly what this feeling is. It’s the same feeling he had in primary school watching other kids excitedly chatter about Christmas plans. Jealousy. Why did the universe see fit to give everyone else a happy family but him? He was just a kid. Kids don’t deserve that. Why did he have to go home to hell when you came home to Christmas carols and twinkling lights? 

He tried so hard to be good,

And it never mattered.

Still, he doesn’t want to ruin the holiday for you. He follows you around town while you Christmas shop, smiles when you smile, offers you new jokes to hear you laugh, stops to look at the little display in the antique store window. Somehow it cheers him up, buying you a gift. It feels small, but genuine. He tucks the little felt lined box into his pocket and rubs his thumb against it when his thoughts start to drift away from you. 

You squeeze his hand, your fingers intertwined as you walk. It feels reassuring for the first time in days.

-

With your gift in the back of his mind Ghost finally feels like he’s getting a handle on the whole Christmas situation. He can do this for you, he can give you a good holiday. You deserve a good holiday, even if he feels like a recruit getting pushed into action without so much as a vest. It still chafes at him, but Ghost has gotten good at ignoring uncomfortable feelings over the years. He shoves down the green eyed monster, and tries to throw a tarp over the old wounds that threaten to reopen. 

He ignores the twitch of your mother’s brows, the clench of Price’s jaw, your hopeful smile. It’s strange how… easy it is to join the holiday, like you’d been waiting for him, holding a place for him to slot into. The warmth of it sinks into him, wraps around him gently where he’d thought it would try to pierce him. 

He still hasn’t worked up the courage to take you up on your offer. He can’t look at you when he leaves, can’t see that tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It feels colder when he goes back to his little house. You’re so busy with your family, and he’s been holding himself back from you. He’s never been a coward before, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than letting you know how hurt he is, how broken he is to be jealous of your happiness.

Ghost tugs the towel off his mirror and stares down his reflection. His fingers squeeze the edge of the sink, knuckles white as he leans against the porcelain. It’s the season, he tells himself for the hundredth time, but it isn’t, is it? There’s a piece of his father lodged in his soul, dark and cloying, desperate to get out of the cage Simon shoved it in. The little voice in his head that asks why anyone else should have something nice if he didn’t get to. 

He grips the sink tighter, keeps his eyes focused on their reflection. 

The world is unfair and cruel. That’s why he joined the military, to even the scales. It’s his mum’s fault really. He swallows the lump in his throat. God she would have loved this, loved all this Christmas bullshit, pushed him to enjoy it, pushed him to stop holding you at arms length. She would have loved you, and you would’ve gotten on with Tommy like a house on fire.

The sink cracks under his hand.

It’s shallow, but he hears the break like a bell. It pulls his attention from the mirror as he rips his hand away and inspect the damage. He shoves down the guilt that tries to bubble to the surface. This is exactly why he’s keeping his distance. He wouldn’t be able to survive hurting you, can’t stomach the thought. He’s not his father, he can give you a good Christmas. He’s going to give you a good Christmas.

He’ll kill himself before he puts you through the sort of holidays he had.

-

Christmas eve creeps up without Ghost realizing, and all of a sudden he can't escape the warmth of the main house. There are no chores for him to do, you and Price having gotten up early to finish them. There's no help he can offer, Duck shoos him out of the kitchen. Every time he attempts to leave you drag him back to the couch. It's suffocating. Price follows him out to the porch to smoke, and he realizes he hasn't had a moment to himself in hours. Ghost can't turn a corner without bumping into someone. You're all just… hovering.

And yet no one has said anything. That almost makes it worse. The atmosphere inside the house is warm and festive, but Ghost can't help being reminded of a funeral. It's the sort of long dirge that seems to have no end in sight covered in a Christmas carol. There's plenty Ghost can ignore, but this is pushing it. He's both scrutinized and ignored.

You laugh and make jokes, Price snags cookies off the plate, Duck asks about santa. The dog is handed a bone and jumps around excitedly. The lights twinkle and carols ring through the house. Ghost doesn't think he's said a word in an hour, there's no point. “Big family syndrome” Soap had said once, “makes ya louder even when there's just the two of ya.”

It's too loud. It's too normal. It's too happy when he feels like he's going to break. All of the anger and hurt in his chest that wants so desperately to explode only makes it that much worse. He can't do this.

Ghost pushes back from the table when you settle your hand on his knee. He balls up his napkin and tosses it onto the table, turning to leave as your chair scrapes against the floor. He hardly hears when you call after him.

He just needs a minute of silence, a moment for his grief. He just needs two Goddamn seconds where he doesn't have to pretend he didn't lose everything. Where he can hate Christmas in peace.

Ghost presses his hands against his eyes, he can’t stem the stream of anger and hurt that pounds at his ribs. Why? Why can’t he push this down like he always has? Why does it feel so much bigger, so much meaner? It's never been this bad before, he's never had grief boil like this.

He doesn’t raise his head to the crunch of hay underfoot. You’re coming to try and comfort him, he supposes. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. 

“Go away princess,” He grits, as you take a seat next to him.

“Oh that’s cute,” You mother hums, “she is like a princess isn’t she.”

Ghost looks up from his hands, glares at Duck to try and dissuade this line of conversation. Somehow this feels worse than if you or Price had come after him. He doesn’t know your mother well enough to anticipate her script. Open water without a life vest.

“I like to come out here when I’m upset too,” Duck smiles, looking out the open barn doors. The texas sky is darkening, the first pinpricks of starlight starting to make their appearance. Somehow it feels like Christmas, even without the cold.

“I’m fine,” Ghost looks towards the doors too, clasps his hands together where he leans over his knees. Duck hums again, quiet and patient. So assured that Ghost would spill his heart to her that he almost wants to. When he glances at her again she isn’t looking at him, her eyes watching one of the barn cats sleep with a soft smile.

“You know the first christmas I had with John was two years after Goose was born,” She tells him, “he was still in his fatigues, fresh from the airport, and I was so mad at him-” She laughs, “-because he didn’t want to hold her for a picture.” Something in her smile strikes Ghost as sad, he can’t take his eyes off of her. “He said he didn't want to get blood on her, and I-” a shaky breath “-I don’t know. Eight months in combat and he couldn’t touch his daughter, I just wanted to make him forget about it.”

“That’s your sob story?” Ghost raises a brow.

“That’s why our Christmases look like this,” Duck turns to him, “I’m sure your mother had the same thought.”

“You don’t know my mother,” Ghost grits, squeezing his hands tighter, “There wasn’t any- We never had a happy Christmas, the old man wouldn’t have allowed that.”

His father always felt so big. Always stood so tall and hit so hard. He was impossible to go against, impossible to ignore, the threat of him always hanging over Simon’s head. Christmas especially he seemed to haunt, a monster around the corner ready to pounce. He delighted in others' misery, it was no wonder he seemed to take such joy in destroying the holiday.

There was no father Christmas, no meal good enough, no decoration that didn’t end up destroyed. Good china smashed and ornaments shattered. Just things, his mum would say wiping snot from his nose, not worth the tears.

“It couldn’t have all been bad,” Duck tells him quietly, “your mum wouldn’t let it all be bad,” her grip on his hand tightens, “I wouldn’t.”

“It was all shite,” Ghost assures her with a harsh chuckle. “Just about the only Christmas that went well was-” Ghost stops, frowns as he stares out of the barn. Duck is quiet next to him, letting him sink into the memory. The first Christmas after he kicked his dad out. The first Christmas after Tommy had Joseph, his pudgy little fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments on the little tree they had. His mum had baked cookies. It was the first time she’d actually managed to get them all iced without anyone storming in to scream at her, or throw the tray on the floor. They’d sat on the floor playing Father Christmas, passing out presents with smiles. It was warm, and quiet. Just how he’d always wanted it to be.

Duck’s hand cups his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek with a startling gentleness. Simon looks at her and she smiles at him, something warm and watery in her eyes. He feels the tightness in his throat reflected back to him, feels the wetness tracing lines over his cheeks brushed away with care.

“You two would’ve gotten on like-” He shakes his head, looks away from the ache in his chest, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“She would’ve been proud of you,” Duck says, and it hits him like a bullet through the heart, “I am. We all are.”

And he realizes where you get it from, realizes why you change your ‘I’s to ‘we’s. It’s not a worry that you won’t be enough, it’s an assurance that he has more than just you. 

Simon looks at his hands, unclasps them to rub his thumb against the pinprick scabs that dot his palm. It hurts, the ball of grief in his chest bounces around hitting nerves and making everything feel bigger and scarier than it is. It eclipses everything, impossible to ignore. Duck settles a hand on his shoulder and grief presses too hard against his throat. His vision swims, and a tear falls into his hand. Duck squeezes his shoulder, an ever present warmth at his side as Simon tries to stem the flow. 

“It gets easier,” Duck's voice is soft, sympathetic, “but the good times always hurt worse than the bad ones.” Simon shakes his head, and looks at her over his shoulder, she swallows down the sadness in her smile. “I'm sorry baby,” she tells him, her sincerity hitting him the same as Price's, “I'm so sorry.”

Simon nods, he feels small and far away. He's too big to want to be held like a child, too old, yet Duck pulls him into her arms and he can't do anything but curl into her grip. His hands grip her jumper tight, keeping her held in place as he takes the offered comfort like a starving child takes grapes from the pale man’s table. There’s no judgement as tears stain her sweater, no harsh words or calls for him to “be a man”, only the quiet of the barn as Simon lets himself feel the grief he’d been avoiding all month. For years really. Ever since he found his family dead, felt the cold grasp of understanding wrap around him that he’d never have the sort of Christmas normal people have.

Not when his gifts were soaked in blood, not when he burned the last good things in his life.

“Why don’t you stay with Goosey tonight?” Duck offers, cutting through the tears, “The guest room is a mess, and I know she won’t mind.”

Of course you won’t, you’ve been trying to hold onto him all month. Trying to pull him out of the past as desperately as he was trying to avoid it. The first good thing in this chapter of his life. He should’ve been holding onto you, not pushing you away.

“You’re a good man Simon,” Duck mumbles, her voice quiet enough that he almost doesn’t catch the end of her sentence, “they wouldn’t blame you.”

He says nothing, just curls a little closer, and imagines it’s his mother saying those words.

The house is quiet when he and Duck walk back inside. Price sits on the couch reading, and opens his arms for his wife when she wanders over to him. His captain pulls her onto his lap and brushes her hair off her forehead, a quiet moment of affection in front of the fire that speaks to years of familiarity. He can only hope to have that with you someday, but first maybe an apology is in order. Simon bypasses the happy couple to go upstairs, following the lights to your room. 

He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, watches you look up from where you're sitting on the edge of your bed. Your eyes water, but you smile for him. Simon steps inside, and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

“Momma finally convince you to stay here tonight?” You ask. Simon hums, and holds his arms out for you. It's entirely too endearing how quickly you rush into his hold. You press your head against his shoulder and Simon does the same, burying his nose against your neck to breathe in your familiar scent. Somehow it settles in his bones like coming home. God, he missed you. Missed the way you feel in his arms, the way you melt against him with a sigh like he’s all you’d ever need to be happy.

“You were waitin’ on me,” Simon says looking at the still made bed. The room is bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights, and you stare up at him with a funny sort of smile, the kind that makes him think he’s said something colossally stupid.

“I’m always gonna wait on you,” You tell him, like it doesn’t mean the world to him. Always, you tell him, and Simon wonders again how one little word from you can make his heart feel like it will burst. You reach to cup his face, stroking your thumb over his stubble with a fondness he’s never seen before. It makes him want to tell you he loves you. 

“I have something for you,” You say before he can spill his heart. You lean out of his arms to swipe a present off of the dresser next to you. You hold out a flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper with a neat red bow. It’s simple, but the way his name is written carefully on it, far flung from your usual chicken scratch, speaks to the care put into it. He lets you go to take it gingerly, turning it over in his hands to check the seams.

“We’re more of a presents on Christmas family, but I thought you might like this early.” You explain as Simon carefully slides his finger under the tape holding the paper together, gentle not to rip it as you watch him. He turns the picture frame over in his hand and freezes.

Grainy and just barely colored is a photo of Tommy’s wedding. The happy couple smiles up at him, with Simon and his mother standing at his brother’s side, while their new in-laws stand with Beth. His fingers trace the smile on his face, the way his mum holds onto his arm, happier than he'd ever seen her. He looks up to meet your eye, your unsure smile.

“Where did you get this?” Simon asks, looking back at a life he'd buried years ago. You step closer, settle a hand on his.

“I called a couple genealogy places in Manchester,” you explain, “figured your mom might've put an announcement in one of the local papers. They faxed a couple photos over.” You pause, unsure as Simon looks at the photograph. He looks back at you when you've been quiet a moment too long. “I have one of Joseph under the tree, I can go get it.” Your nerves bleed into your voice, your tone softer than Simon's ever heard it. 

“I gotta have something to open tomorrow,” He tells you, wrapping his arm around you, pulling you close to his side and kissing your forehead. “Thank you.” Simon feels quieter, you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze.

“I know it's not much,” you murmur, and Simon cuts you off.

“It's perfect.”

Somehow looking at the photo makes his heart feel lighter. It’s tangible, physical proof of the life he lived, and of the people he lived it with. He wonders if it was really so easy to find, you must have gone through a lot of effort to find this picture. The kind of effort you only put in for someone you love. 

“Got something for you too,” He sniffs, settling the picture back where it had been.

“You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Simon flicks your forehead, and you swat at his hand. He grabs the little hinged box from his coat pocket and tosses it to you. You barely fumble it, popping the lid open with a smile. He almost worries you hate it the way your face screws up, your lips pouting and your nose wrinkling.

“I love it,” You tell him with a wavering voice, pulling the necklace free of its velvet prison. The little porcelain charm hangs gently from the silver chain, a tiny white goose with an orange beak and a blue scarf painted on it. You hold the charm in the palm of your hand, studying it. “Can’t believe you got me jewelry,” You joke, trying to cover the water brimming at your lashes, something Simon is happy to brush away with his fingers.

“Thought it was cute,” He supplies, you nod.

“It’s perfect,” You unclasp the clip on the chain, and hold it out to him, turning so Simon can pull the two ends around the back of your neck.

“I ever tell you that the bartender no-showed the reception?” Simon asks, helping you clasp the necklace. You laugh, trying to keep your voice down.

“No time like the present,” You smile over your shoulder at him, the sun peaking over the mountains just for him.

-

Simon holds his daughter up in front of the family Christmas tree, her little pudgy fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments as her eyes reflect the lights. She kicks her feet excitedly, cooing at the display and letting out eager huffs as she attempts to escape her father’s arms. He’s never seen anyone so excited about a few decorations, but the glee that radiates off of the baby is enough to lighten anyone’s mood. 

“Don’t let her grab anything,” You call from the couch. Simon pulls Mary back into his arms and steps closer to pull a little fuzzy teddy bear ornament off a branch. He jingles it in front of her grubby little fingers with a smile.

“This one’s yours,” He tells her quietly, “don’t tell your mum.” Tiny fingers wrap around the soft toy, and pull it close. It’s amazing how different the holidays feel with a baby, it’s like experiencing everything for the first time all over again.

Mary holds onto the little bear and Simon holds onto the ornament hook, keeping it out of her mouth as she gums at the ornament’s ears. He’s almost tempted to let her keep it, except that the baby has more presents under the tree than any of them. The perks of being less than a year, he supposes. Having doting grandparents helps too. 

Not that Simon can blame them. Mary smiles at him around the bear’s arm and his heart melts a little. Christ, how did he ever make something this perfect? “How many of these did you say you wanted?” He asks over his shoulder.

“As many as you can carry.” You hum. Simon bounces Mary in his arms, and pulls the ornament from her grasp when she switches her focus to him. Tiny fingers reach for his face, soft baby skin feeling over his stubble and giggling. He catches her hand and presses it to his lips, feeling the way Mary squirms in his arms, her chubby legs kicking excitedly.

“They’re all going to be good,” He promises her, “every Christmas-” he kisses her hand again, “-and every birthday-” another kiss, “-and everything in between. For the both of us.”

[rosyjn]

giving dilf! jake a blowie, nsfw warning mdni.

for @pandoraslxna's kinktober prompt 07!

warnings: roughness, implied aftercare, jake lowk kinda mean, explicit semen description, PENNNIISSS

he kisses you roughly, pushing you up against a tree as you grasp his broad shoulders desperately.

"knees. now." he growls against your lips, forcing you down. you drop down, your knees pressing the forest floor. "wanna have ya gaggin', chokin' on it," he teases, stroking your hair as you attentively untie his loincloth. when the skimpy fabric drops to the lush ground, his erection suddenly springs up at your face and you flinch for a second. jake finds this amusing. you part your lips, bringing them to his eager cock. he shudders when your soft tongue makes contact with his tip.

"like it?" you ask, innocently looking up at him while your tongue rhythmically flicks up and down, stimulating him. he tugs on your hair, bucks his hips up, and exhales in an attempt to calm his lust. he mutters little curses under his breath while your tongue slowly licks up his shaft. at this point, he's speaking gibberish while you slobber all over him.

you pull away for a second, taking a deep inhale. jake's cock looks fucking magnificent. throbbing, hard, standing up, and shiny with a coat of your spit. your pupils dilate at the sight and you notice his strong chest- rising and falling with heavy breaths. he stares down at you, waiting for your next move. you open your mouth wide and engulf his dick in your mouth. you move slowly, trying to train yourself to take it all. one day, you hope you'll be able to get your throat all nice and wide so that you can suck jake's cock anytime.

he can't stand how you take your time. he gets so desperate. he needs to just hold your head in place and fuck the shit out of your throat, while your eyes well up with tears and you choke and gag. he can't take it anymore. he roughly entangles his hand in your hair, close to your scalp. he quickly thrusts his hips in and out, destroying the slow pace that you had going. your spit drips down your face and you make little gulping noises. you struggle, feeling like you're unable to breathe as he ruthlessly punishes your mouth.

"gonna give you a sore throat, gonna just- fuck your pretty face 'till you're all covered in my cum," he grunts, watching as your mouth is forced open and saliva drips onto your tits. he watches the way your body moves as he mercilessly thrusts in and out of your tired throat. you can barely think. your mind is cloudy. you simply just wait for him to finish, so that he'll kiss you all over and praise you.

you shouldn't be here. you shouldn't be in the middle of the forest, on your knees while he fucks your face into oblivion. you should've just been hunting with him, that's all. it was supposed to be an innocent hunt with him. so why are you on the ground, tears streaming down your face while he uses you? you don't know, but you're not mad.

"mmm!" muffled, desperate whines leave your mouth as you try your best to breathe through your nose.

"i know, i know babe, i'm almost done," he growls, leaving the taste of warm, bitter precum on your tongue. he ceases his thrusts, the milky liquid spurting out faster and practically suffocating you in the process. short, erratic bursts of pleasure leave jake's load all over your lips and mouth. you make sure to show him before swallowing it. his fingers caress your face and he admires the mess he's made of you. he thinks of how you'll be drinking soup and tea for the next couple days, to alleviate the soreness of your throat. one day, mo'at will figure out why you always need hot drinks after being alone with jake.

[cherryredstars]

CONGRATS ON 1k!!!

You writing is truly incredible, you deserve all the love and support!!

If it’s okay, can you write Simon Riley with the prompt ‘reader is sick’? I’d love the comfort after I embarrassed myself by passing out in uni a few days ago because I neglected myself and didn’t wanna be marked as absent,,

I saw that you already wrote this prompt with O’hara. And I wasn’t sure if it was allowed to also request it with ghost, so pls don’t feel pressured to write this and I am sorry if it’s against the rules

Than you in advance, and again congrats!! I wish you the best!!

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Self-Neglection/Passing Out

Summary: The best way to be brought back to health.

A/N: Simon is so!!!! I love him guys!!!

Word Count: 1.1K (Not Edited)

“Don’t look at me.”

You turn away from Simon, a small pout on your face and a sniffle to try to unblock your nose. He’s giving you that look. The one that is supposed to make you feel guilty by not directly making you feel guilty. It screams of disappointment and a lecture in the near future. He huffs out, something mixed with annoyance and amusement before you feel the bed dip. You try to push his hand out of your face, looking like a feral cat as you try to slap it away. His strength easily overpowers yours, but he lets you have your moment in hopes of tiring you out enough to coax you into a nap. When he deems it an appropriate enough time to look like you put up a decent fight, he easily knocks your hands away and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. 

It’s warm, too warm, even for Simon. He tries to hide the grimace that forms on his face but you catch it. You groan, flipping over onto your stomach to bury your face into the pillow. Simon tsks, grabbing the pillow out from under you. Your head hits the mattress whipping your head to the side to glare at him. He glares right back, not backing down from this silent challenge you’ve created. 

“Nough, love. You’re already having trouble breathin’ as it is without you suffocating ‘rself.” 

You continue your glaring pout, even as he gently slips his hand under your head to lift it so he can place the pillow back under you. Your face only softens when he starts to push your hair away from your forehead, pressing a kiss to the heated skin. You sigh sadly, body sinking into the mattress. Your whole body aches, muscles protesting with each movement. Your head is the same, a slight pounding at your temple that is only dulled by pain medicine. Simon coos gently at you as he pulls away, mumbling something about getting you something warm to eat. Before he leaves, he tucks the blanket tight around you. 

You sigh as you wait for him, hearing the chatter of pans as he heats up soup. He comes back a few minutes later, a steaming mug in his hand. You expect it to be tea, but you’re overjoyed to find hot cocoa. When you try to reach for it, he pulls it back quickly with a glare. 

“Hot.” he scolds, gently giving it to you again. “And it’s water, not milk.”

That slightly deflates you, but a win is a win. You rather have watery hot chocolate than his bitter earl grey. You hum in thanks, watching him leave again as you take a sip. Your face scrunches up when you pull the mug away, swallowing quickly as you shake your head. It is very hot and you’re sure every nerve on your tongue withered away. Simon returns with a bowl of soup, making your stomach rumble at the thought of food. You prepare to take it, but Simon shakes his head at you. He swirls the spoon around, taking some and holding it steadily to your mouth. 

You frown at him, and don’t meet his eyes as you take the soup into your mouth. It’s good, really good, but the taste is spoiled with your attitude. Or rather, Simon’s attitude. He’s mad. He doesn’t seem mad with his lovey dovey behavior and feeding, but he is. You know him. This is gentle punishment. Him taking overly good care of you to make up for the fact you aren’t taking care of yourself. Hint, the reason why you’re home sick after passing out. 

As he prepares another spoonful of soup, you sniffle. “Sorry.”

He pauses for a second, before feeding you another spoonful. Even with your eyes downcast, he can tell they're glassy. He sighs, lowering the bowl of soup for a moment. His hand finds your jaw. He doesn’t lift your head up, he pulls your face closer to him to press a kiss into your hair. You relax into the affection, sniffing once again. 

“Just want you to take care of ‘urself, love. That’s all,” He grumbles into your hair, thumb gently rubbing your skin. 

He pulls away, switching the mug and bowl. The bowl is warm in your hands, and you look up as Simon places the mug on the nightstand where you can easily reach it. He settles next to you on the bed, silently watching you as you eat. It makes your stomach warm, and you sigh contently when you finish. Simon takes the bowl from you, giving back your mug. The cocoa is cooler now, but still warm. You gulp it down greedily, stomach feeling overly full. You push the mug onto the bedside table, snuggling back into the blankets when Simon returns. 

He hums, observing the way your eyes begin to flutter in preparation to sleep. He taps your cheek gently, and you scrunch your nose up as you spot the medicine in his hands. You try to squirm away from him, but he cages you in between his legs. You glare up at him as he shoves the medicine to your mouth. You turn your head away, but his other hand grips your jaw and holds your mouth open. You have a pleading look in your eyes that he ignores, pouring the medicine into your mouth. You gag as you’re forced to swallow, greedily taking the small bottle of water Simon offers you. You gulp it down, washing away the sour taste. You finish the whole bottle and throw it at Simon, which he only rolls his eyes too. 

“I thought you weren’t mad at me! Stop punishing me already!”

Simon only gives you a deadpan look, shaking his head. “Go to bed, darling. Need the rest. Eyes are practically sinkin’ into your ‘ead and you're becoming delusional.”

You huff out, but listen. You sink into the pillows, your headache and nose finally calming down enough to sleep comfortably. Simon places another pillow under your head, moving around you silently to clean up the mess or dishes and trash. Before he goes, you take his wrist in your hand. He turns to look at you curiously, and you blink and smile sluggishly up at him. 

“Thank you, Si. Love you.”

Simon’s eyes soften and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead again. You close your eyes, and they refuse to open again even after he pulls away. You can vaguely feel the warmth of his palm on your cheek, and you snuggle into it. He rubs at the skin gently before pulling away, and three words break through your mind before you fall asleep. 

“Love you, too.”

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view. 

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof. 

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories. 

Sometimes she needs rescuing. 

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts. 

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace. 

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana. 

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze. 

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath. 

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls. 

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite. 

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain. 

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers. 

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence. 

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–” 

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip. 

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion. 

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating. 

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.” 

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then. 

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

[crimsonrainseekingflower]

The days blend together beneath Mount Tonglu. Time stretches and bends, one day feeling like a week feeling like a shichen feeling like a year. Nothing changes. Aside from Mei Nianqing’s daily visits, there is only Jun Wu in the dark with his thoughts.

Which is why he notices immediately when something changes.

He does not often sleep, preferring meditation, but he will sometimes slip into unconsciousness without realizing. Only after having jolted awake, reaching fruitlessly for a sword he no longer has, will he remember where he is and why he’s alone. It’s familiar. He’s used to it.

It’s different today. He struggles into wakefulness, eyes refusing to open despite how he wills them to. And he is no stranger to pain—the faces of his old vassals act up often enough, making his head ache and jaw pound—but this is something else entirely. He feels weak. And he can barely breathe through his nose and his blood seems to be boiling. Eyes still closed, he pulls at his collar in an attempt to bare some skin. It’s too hot, he’s too—

“Hold on,” Mei Nianqing says. Cool hands cover his, clinically pushing them aside to help remove heavier-than-usual robes. “There we go. Is that better?”

Jun Wu cracks sore eyes open. “Tell me if I’m dying.”

“No, Your Highness.” Mei Nianqing smiles, patting Jun Wu’s arm. “You have a cold.”

“That’s impossible.” Talking hurts. It’s as if the inside of his throat has been covered in shards of glass. “I have not been sick since—”

“Two thousand years, give or take. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Your Highness. With your spiritual powers sealed, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Jun Wu can’t believe this. It can’t be a mere common illness that causes such suffering. It must be more serious. He pushes up onto his elbows; a sudden wave of vertigo nearly sends him crashing back to the bamboo mat below. His stomach clenches but will not be sick. Besides, he practices inedia. There’s nothing to throw up.

Mei Nianqing clicks his tongue, pushing Jun Wu to lie back down. “Your Highness, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to…” Jun Wu tries to clear his throat. Bad idea. “...figure out who cursed me.”

“Nobody has cursed you.”

Jun Wu finds this highly unlikely.

Mei Nianqing reaches for a nearby bowl of water. Jun Wu grabs it. Or he tries to. He thinks about it. His limbs don’t want to respond to his desires. Mei Nianqing takes pity on him and holds the bowl to his cracked lips, tilting a trickle of bitter liquid into his dry mouth. Jun Wu leans away, suspicion clouding his mind.

“Refusing to take your medicine at this age?” Mei Nianqing sighs. “Your Highness, I ground the herbs myself. There is nothing in this mixture that will do you harm.”

Mei Nianqing knows him well. But Jun Wu’s doubts are not assuaged. “You drink it, then.”

“Fine. If that’s what it takes.” Mei Nianqing takes a sip and, holding the medicinal liquid in his mouth, leans down to kiss Jun Wu. Lips part, a reflex, and that awful bitterness coats Jun Wu’s tongue.

He swallows, unable to spit it out.

“There.” Mei Nianqing pulls back, one hand splayed on Jun Wu’s bare chest. His thumb rubs light circles against heated skin. “Was that so difficult?”

Jun Wu holds back the urge to cough. Giving Mei Nianqing a wan look, he asks, “Are you not worried I’m contagious?”

“Not at all.” Mei Nianqing sets the bowl aside in favor of fetching a damp cloth. He blots at Jun Wu’s face, carefully avoiding the remains of their old friends. “Besides, I am far too healthy. Your Highness, how many times have I told you about—”

“Do not mention your special tea.”

“It’s a good blend! I harvest the leaves myself. Two cups a day will keep you strong and in perfect health.”

Jun Wu flicks his eyes up, too tired to manage a full roll. What Mei Nianqing neglects to mention is that, healthy or not, the tea tastes absolutely disgusting. He is already trapped beneath a mountain, cursed shackle binding his powers. Why should he add more to this divine punishment?

“Rest.” Mei Nianqing folds the cloth and drapes it across Jun Wu’s forehead. “I will go brew us a pot.”

Jun Wu grasps his wrist. It takes no effort at all for Mei Nianqing to pull away from Jun Wu’s grip, taking his hand instead. How embarrassing. To be so weak. He hates this. And even more than his physical weakness, he hates how his heart stutters at the idea of being left alone in this state.

“Your Highness…”

“Don’t leave,” Jun Wu says. A quiet order.

Mei Nianqing squeezes his hand gently. “I will be right back.”

Jun Wu grits his teeth, the headache and the fever feel too much like when his vassals act up. For all he knows, they might be contributing to the pain. He can’t exactly see them.

Mei Nianqing looks at him for a long moment, expression softening. His free hand slides up to stroke Jun Wu’s hair. It unearths ancient memories. Those same hands, sliding through a forgotten crown prince’s damp hair, coaxing him with sweets to get him to swallow spoonfuls of medicine.

“Later,” Jun Wu nearly whispers, voice hoarse, “I will drink your terrible tea.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

Mei Nianqing considers this, a soft smile rising. “Then I suppose I can stay until you fall asleep.”

Good. The exhaustion of illness may be pervasive but Jun Wu is stubborn, and he has difficulty sleeping on a good day. “That may take a while.”

“I know.” Mei Nianqing presses a chaste kiss to Jun Wu’s temple, just shy of the compress. “Rest, Your Highness. I will not go anywhere.”

“Until I fall asleep.”

Mei Nianqing shakes his head. “Not even then. Everything else can wait.”

Jun Wu’s doubt is no small thing but he pushes it aside, looking up through tired eyes at the one man who has chosen to stay.

[also on ao3!]

[magpie-sherlock]

@miadancer24 this is from like 2 months ago lol

"What's that?"

Warriors looks behind him from his seat on a log. Hyrule is looking at the Captain's mug, a confused expression on his face. The Captain seems to be drinking some sort of really dark... tea?

"It's... coffee. You've never had coffee before?" Warriors asks, surprised. He couldn't imagine life without coffee.

Hyrule shakes his head. "What, is it special or something?"

Warriors shrugs. "Keeps you awake."

"Can I try some?"

Wars tilts his head, considering. Kid's probably old enough for coffee. "Yeah, sure." He hands his mug to the Traveler.

Hyrule takes the mug gingerly and tastes the dark liquid. He makes a face. "It's bitter," he says with a scrunched nose, handing the mug back to Wars. How has Wars been drinking that this whole time? "You like how that tastes?"

"I do, yeah," Wars says, shrugging. "Some people don't. You can put cream and sugar in it to make it sweeter. I can make some for you, if you'd like to try that."

It's Hyrule's turn to tilt his head as he thinks. "Alright," he says. The two Links walk over to where there was some coffee left brewing by the fire. Warriors makes Hyrule a mug of coffee, being sure to add plenty of cream and sugar. Normally, he wouldn't add this much, but Legend was visiting the nearby town today, so they can restock. Hyrule watches as the Captain stirs the drink, wondering how that could possibly improve the taste. The mug is handed to him.

Hyrule takes a sip of the coffee -- more sugar and cream than coffee, Warriors thinks -- and his eyes widen. It's so sweet! He finishes the drink in a matter of minutes.

Wars watches as the Traveler downs the drink. He realizes only now that a mistake might have been made.

Sure enough, about twenty minutes later, Time approaches the Captain as he sharpens his sword. "Warriors. I think your coffee was left unsupervised." Hyrule's maniacal laughter is heard from the other end of the camp. Wars winces.

"No, actually. I gave that to him on purpose."

Time raises an eyebrow, giving Wars the look. He now understands what Twilight means when he says he's scared of Time's disappointment. "You mean to tell me you intentionally gave a fairy boy a mug full of caffeinated sugar?"

"Oh." Wars winces as Legend swears from the edge of camp. "Didn't think of that."

Hyrule chooses this moment to present Warriors with the consequence of his actions, running up to him with a large stick. There's a knife tied to the end. "I made a spear!" the Traveler exclaims, his eyes wide. He's shaking a bit.

Time looks at Wars. "He's your problem now. Keep him from doing anything stupid." Wars nods as Wild starts yelling about a missing knife.

Wars spent the rest of the day making Hyrule run laps until he was too tired to commit atrocities and they both collapsed and fell asleep

[lincolndjarin]

Best Kept Secret

chapter fifteen : two tea parties (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 5.4k

summary : reader and din have a tea party, just not with each other

warnings, etc. : language, angst

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

“What did you do to her?”

Her voice breaks through his sleepy haze as he sits up properly. 

“Excuse me?” He can’t seem to remember her name as he struggles to his feet. She pokes a finger into his chest, for someone staring down a bounty hunter she sure seemed to have a lot of confidence in her ability to intimidate him.

“The princess. What did you do to her? She’s got bruises, she’s hardly eating, and she’s all melancholy in there. And I think you’ve got something to do with it.” 

Shit, shit, shit.

He has several responses forming in his mind right now, all of which would make him appear guiltless. Then his stupidly tired brain decides he’s taking too long so instead he blurts out the first words to force their way out.  

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” 

He couldn’t be more of an idiot.

The woman grabs his arm and starts dragging him away from your door. He could easily resist but he’s so embarrassed by his own fuck up he doesn’t bother as she pulls him towards an unfamiliar part of the castle, descending staircase after staircase until they reach the servants quarters and she shoves him into a room. It’s about the size of the cabin, a small kitchen in one corner, a sofa in the other, a fireplace with small burning embers dimly illuminating the stone walls, and a twin bed in the back. He recognizes the girl currently snoring softly under the blankets as your other servant. 

“Sit.” The Togruta girl snaps at him, pointing at the wooden table. 

Of course this is where he decides to finally take a stand and he crosses his arms, staring at her. 

Doesn’t last for long as she starts setting things up at the stove.

“Sit or I’m not giving you any caf.” She doesn’t bother turning around and he doesn’t bother resisting further at the promise of caffeine as he sits at the table.

He doesn’t speak as she puts a pot on the stove to boil. He feels a bit like a child who’s about to be scolded. For several minutes the only sounds are the other girl's soft snores and the crackle of the fire as he tries to keep his eyes open. 

He must have fallen asleep for a second because he jolts upright as she slams a mug down in front of him. 

“Drink. You look like shit.” 

“You have no idea what I look like.” He mutters as his hand grips the mug. 

“I do. You look like shit and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Drink.”

She says as she walks over to the bed, facing the wall and blocking his view of the other girl. “Be quick about it.” She takes a sip from her own mug. “Tell me when you’re done.”

In any other scenario he would refuse, or at the very least protest but he hasn’t had caf in a long time, he misses the bitter taste, and he should probably have his wits about him for the conversation they’re about to have. So he releases the airlock and lifts his helmet, quickly swallowing down the mug. 

The fact that he’s a little intimidated by the woman has nothing to do with his sudden obedience. At least that’s what he tells himself as he locks his helmet back in place. 

“I’m finished.” He can feel the familiar buzz of the caffeine as it flows through his system as he temporarily gets to feel a bit more conscious. 

“Good.” She turns and walks over, taking a seat across from him as she stares at him expectantly. 

His hands get clammy and he can feel his palms sticking to the insides of his gloves. 

This must be what his bounties feel like when he interrogates them. 

“What did you do to her?” She finally breaks the silence, continuing to glare at him. 

That’s a good question. 

He had loved you. 

There isn’t a doubt in his mind about that. 

He had been limited to only showing it to you physically, and when you had shown him a glimmer of something outside of that realm he had turned that love into something ugly. 

And now, mere days later he has to wonder if he made the wrong choice. 

He can’t exactly backtrack. He said terrible things to you. His own words from that night echo around in his helmet, taunting him. 

What did he do to you?

He was starting to get a little worried that he might have broken you.

You had spent all day scribbling in the library like a woman possessed. Truly that could have nothing to do with him though, he’s certain he couldn’t have possibly meant that much to you. Enough to drive you mad.

The Togruta girl snaps her fingers in front of the helmet.

“Hey, shiny, snap out of it. I know you had something to do with it so start talking.” 

Okay, maybe he did have something to do with it. 

No, what does she know about what had happened between the two of you? Well apparently she has wickedly good intuition, and he did basically already confess. 

“I’m not sure.” He wishes his voice didn’t tremble slightly but he can’t help it. 

“You aren’t sure…?” She grumbles as she finishes her mug. “Why don’t you start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.” 

And there’s no rational reason to. 

Or at the very least, there’s no rational reason to tell her the truth. 

And maybe it’s because he’s so tired. 

Or maybe it’s because this girl reminds him of someone he once knew, before he took this job.

But he tells her.

He leaves out a lot of the gorey details but he gives her the gist, she sits quietly the entire time as he whispers the things that transpired. And when he’s done he expects her to maybe tell him he did the right thing by ending it, or offer him words of comfort for what’s happened but instead she squints her eyes as she stares him down.

“You’re an idiot.” She says matter of factly as she leans back in her chair. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You are dumb as shit.”

“I did what needed to be done. Things were getting out of hand.”

She scoffs.

“Out of hand? So you’re allowed to do nice things for her like buy her jewelry, and take her on little dates in the garden, but she isn’t allowed to do them for you? Seems pretty stupid to me. And your game is dumb, if you want to know things about her all you have to do is ask, the poor girl would talk to the walls if they’d talk back.” She takes the pot and pours herself another mug of caf, filling his as well. He doesn’t touch it. “And you say you don’t like her rules but it sounds to me like you’re the one who needed them, she didn’t break any rules you didn’t break first.” 

He crosses his arms in front of him, ready to retort but every response dies on his tongue.

She’s right. 

And he doesn’t want to have to ask her for advice but there’s no one else to ask.

“So what do I do? How do I fix this?” 

She chokes a bit on her caf.

“Fix it? Oh hon, you’ve done a lot of damage in a short amount of time.” 

If she could see through the steel she’d see the way his ears tinged pink in embarrassment. 

“So I shouldn’t do anything?” Even he knows he sounds way too sullen. 

She sighs and contemplates for a moment. 

“Look… normally I’d say yes. But I can’t deny that she seemed happier on days when things were okay with the two of you.”

“So what should I do?” He leans forward a bit in his seat. 

“I’d start with an apology, and you better make it good, especially after what you’ve put her through.” 

“Okay. Tomorrow I will try that.” 

He does, try, that is. The most he gets out is static, a crackle of his modulator before he shuts right up. He’s pretty sure you notice. 

“And then, no more lies. No more beating around the bush. If you’re going to put her through this again you need to be certain and you need to be honest. No more pretending it’s just physical, you tell her exactly what you want and exactly how you feel.”

He also tried that. After Kodo had struck you he had pulled together all of his resolve and told himself that he would just spit it out. Instead he had accidentally insulted you and threatened your husband. 

“Okay, I can do that. Umm… What about Kodo?” She takes another sip as he speaks.

“What about him?” 

“Should I not take into account the fact that she’s married?” 

She laughs, a genuine chuckle. 

“Have you seen them together? She looks at him like he’s some mud that she’s accidentally stepped in. Look, if they were happy together, or if I ever thought they could work it out then I might tell you to back off but trust me, those two will never make it work. He’s a pathetic excuse for a man.”

He’s a bit taken aback by her words. 

“Now go. I’m gonna get some shut-eye, I’d tell you to do the same but I know you won’t.” 

He stands, nodding at her. 

“And take the caf. You need it more than I do, if you��re gonna insist on not sleeping.” She sets hers down as she stretches her arms above her head. He takes his mug gratefully in his hands. 

“...Thank you.” 

She only nods in response, he opens the door of her quarters.

“Mandalorian.” 

His hand is on the doorknob as he turns to look back at the woman. 

“Don’t play with her. Either leave her alone or put in the effort.”

He hesitates for a moment before he leaves. 

✩

When your eyes flutter open the first thing you think is that your face should be hurting, your lip should be much more swollen. 

But when your fingers poke at your lip you find it to be mostly healed. 

You stand and leave the closet, walking over to the mirror and inspecting your wounds. There’s no trace of the red welt you would have thought you’d have. The only trace of the incident is a faint pink and white line through your lip. 

Finding the vial on the bed you carefully walk over to the mirror and apply another layer to the mark as Elaine and Lysa knock once as a warning before stepping into the room. You set the tube down on the vanity. 

It’s another hazy morning. 

They really are all blending together when you don’t have things to do. 

You’re dressed in a lacy orange gown. It’s flowy and cool, it seems like it would be perfect for a day in the gardens. Before you even realize what you’re doing you turn to Elaine. 

“Would you like to have tea with me today?” You have no idea what inspires you to ask such a question and you’re sure she’ll say no. That she’ll tell you it isn’t proper for a servant to do such a thing with you but instead she nods.

“That would be lovely, my lady. Where would you like to have it?” She wipes her hands on the front of her dress as she gives you a patient smile. 

“How about the gardens? There’s that gazebo by the water we could sit at.”

✩

You have no idea when she instructed someone to set it up but as the two of you walk towards the gardens there is miraculously already a table with chairs set up inside. A tray of tea steaming in the center of it all. 

You walk in silence, in all honestly it would probably be a comfortable silence if it weren’t for the looming presence of the Mandalorian behind you. Once the two of you step into the wooden structure, taking your seats you clear your throat, awkwardly, seeing him standing beside you in your peripherals. 

Elaine stares at him and the both of you sit, looking at each other uncomfortably until you finally turn and speak to him. 

“Can we have some privacy?” You shoot him a look as you say it and he takes a single, theatrical step back. 

Jackass. 

You’re about to just give up, he’s never wavered previously, why would he start now? But Elaine speaks up.

“I believe she asked for privacy.” 

You lean over towards her to tell her it’s useless, there’s no sense in arguing with him but your eyes go wide as he begins to walk away. You turn to stare at Elaine like she just performed an act of god. 

As the Mandalorian starts walking along the edge of the water you can’t seem to pick your jaw up off the floor, you have more questions than ever for her but none of them seem to flow, so she speaks first. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened at dinner last night?” She’s pouring tea into the mugs, mixing a generous amount of sugar and cream into yours. 

“You heard about that?” The nearly invisible mark on your face stings at the memory.

“Servants talk, I’m afraid it was inevitable that I would hear of it. Do you want to tell me what happened?” She hands you the mug and you take it in both your hands. 

She doesn’t ask if you’re okay. 

Like she knows you couldn’t possibly be. 

“Not really. There isn’t much to talk about, it all happened really fast.” You take a sip, it’s sweet just like the caf she makes you, it warms your tongue and puts you at ease. 

She hums softly, sipping her own, much darker tea. 

“He’s always had a temper that one, the king and queen did not keep a close enough eye on him growing up, and when no one ever says no it’s easy to quickly become a little monster.” She frowns as she speaks and you have to fight to keep the surprised look off your face, the servants never spoke ill of him.

You know this is probably a dangerous conversation but at this point you’re so lonely and things can’t possibly get worse. 

“Honestly, I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. I knew with his pattern of behavior it was inevitable.” You mutter.

She has a breathy sad laugh. 

“Smart girl.” She raises her cup towards Mando. He looks like a kid being left out of a game on the playground as he kicks a stone into the lake. “He seems more upset about it than you.” She raises her eyebrows, now you’re really treading dangerous waters. 

“Mando? He doesn’t care, I think he just doesn’t want me getting banged up because it makes him look like he’s bad at his job.” Deep down you know that isn’t the case.

“Really? So he wasn’t the one who tore that book in half that I found in the hallway this morning?” She takes another sip as she stares at him out across the water, you choke on your tea.

“In half?” Your voice is a shocked whisper. It had been by no means a short book. It had been a hardcover, thick encyclopedia. 

“In half. Took Leo quite some time to pick up all that shredded paper.” She chuckles. Setting down her mug as she stares at you with an intensity you weren’t prepared for. 

She takes a deep breath that has you nervously tapping your nails against your cup. 

“I know that it’s hard, being in your position, to find people to confide in. But if you ever need to talk about something that’s bothering you, I am available, my lady. And I can be extremely discreet.” She folds her hands in her lap as you stare down at them. Unable to meet her gaze. 

What a breath of fresh air it would be, to have a friend, with no other complicated feelings. But you can’t just tell her what you’ve done. 

“I am not blind, princess. It’s my job to make sure you’re okay. And I know for a fact that you were doing more than okay for a few days and in an instant I saw all of that disappear.” She tilts her head down so she’s in your eyeline and you’re sure your face has a look of guilt on it. 

If it was just your life on the line you’d probably tell her everything. Just to get it out. But it’s not just your life, it’s his. You shudder as you imagine the things Kodo would do to him if he found out. 

But you could twist the truth. 

Tell her harmless details and maybe still find some comfort.

“He had been my friend. Briefly.” Your words are careful and deliberate. 

She nods, picking up her glass once more. Staying silent as an invitation for you to keep going. 

“At least… I thought he was my friend. Now I sort of think he might have just been messing with me.” You’re still being cautious with every detail you reveal. Keeping it simple and innocent. “And I guess he got bored. It’s confusing, I can’t keep up with him, it makes my head spin because he keeps changing.”

“Changing?”

She picks up the teapot, refilling your mugs. 

“It’s… hard to explain. It’s like, he’s a different person everyday. Some days he can’t stand me and some days he-“ You manage to catch yourself before you go one step too far. “Some days he cares for me. I’m starting to wonder if he just enjoys making me miserable.” You pour another spoonful of sugar into your mug. 

“I think he cares for you very much.” She says it so matter of factly that you almost roll your eyes at the notion.

“I doubt that. If that is the case he has a really fucked up way of showing it.”

“Look at him.” She nods out towards the lake and when you turn he’s crouched down next to the edge of the water. 

He’s deadly still for a moment and then he slowly reaches down and scoops something up from the surface of the water. Holding it close to his helmet as he stands. Completely focused on whatever is in his hand. 

He looks strangely domesticated. 

You watch as what you now realize is a frog, jumps out of his hand back into the lake. 

He stares at his empty palm for a long time. 

“He looks like a lost puppy without you. I have to wonder what he was doing before he took this job because it seems like he doesn't know what to do with himself when he isn’t wagging his tail and trailing behind you.” She chuckles and you can’t help but laugh softly with her. 

It feels good to laugh. 

It feels less good to blurt out your next question. 

“Have you ever, umm… talked to him?” You don’t want to ask it, it feels so childish but you can’t help it as you turn back to face her, hoping there isn’t any lingering jealousy in your tone. 

“A little bit. Enough to know that I’m right, he does care for you.” 

You cough awkwardly. 

“What did he say?”

You catch her smirk right before she takes another sip. 

“Mostly he seemed to have a lot of excuses. But I think his real issue is just that he’s scared.”

Huh. 

It’s difficult to picture him scared of anything. 

“Scared?”

“I think this is a conversation you should be having with him.”

“But he won’t talk to me, the first time he’s spoken to me all week was only because of what Kodo did.”

“It isn’t my place to tell you how to deal with him. I just know that you seemed happier when things were good between the two of you.” 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as the two if you drink and you come to terms with her words. She speaks first.

“He doesn’t sleep either.” 

“What?”

“The Mandalorian. He isn’t sleeping. He just sits in front of your door all night.”

You had suspected that to be the case but the confirmation makes your heart skip a beat. 

“He just sits there? What is he doing?”

“I only see him there in passing, I do a lot of my errands at night, I’m more productive when I’m the only one roaming the castle. It seems like he’s just waiting for you.” 

You frown. 

“Waiting for me to do what?”

She laughs. 

“He’s just waiting for you.”

There’s that ache in your chest. She leans forward to give you a sympathetic look, your pain must show on your face. 

“How about we talk about something else for a bit?” Her voice is soft and comforting as you nod. 

“What about you, do you have a special someone?” You laugh for a moment until you realize your slip up and the color drains from your face. “Like, a friend.”

Real smooth, dummy. 

She doesn’t seem fazed though as she grins. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a special friend.” She laughs to herself and you relax a bit. She looks towards the lake and back at you before raising her eyebrows. He’s walking back over as she changes the subject. “What are you planning on wearing tomorrow?”

You can’t help but laugh. 

“How should I know? You and Lysa always pick for me.” She rolls her eyes at your response. 

“I meant to the ball.”

The confusion must be apparent on your face because she sighs. 

“Of course no one told you. Maker, is anyone else in the castle capable of treating you like a person other than me?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Kodo’s birthday is tomorrow. He makes a big deal of it every year, it’s a huge party, you of course will be expected to attend.”

You don’t bother stifling your groan.

“And I absolutely have to go to this?” 

She pats your knee as she leans back in her chair, eyeing the Mandalorian up and down as he walks into the gazebo, standing on the opposite side of it, away from the two of you. 

“I’m afraid you do, but don’t fret, he’s always so preoccupied during this thing that you won’t have to worry about staying for long. You’ll just need to make an appearance as his wife for a bit and you should be able to leave after a few hours if you'd like. It tends to get a bit rowdy as the night goes on so I suggest getting out once the opportunity presents itself.” 

You nod, this must be is what it feels like to have a friend. 

It makes you realize that you and the Mandalorian had never really been friends, that was completely different than what this was. With him there was always something more there, something demanding your attention that you always managed to ignore. With Elaine it’s easy to just talk without any other feelings lingering in the air. 

“I suppose I will wear whatever you decide is best.” You give her a grin.

“If that is what you wish.”

“But not blue.” She raises an eyebrow as you say that but she’s smirking.

“Excellent choice.”

Your eyes dart over to the Mandalorian, he’s facing away from the two of you, giving you a false sense of privacy as you look back to Elaine. 

“And not green.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” 

You don’t talk about much else of importance after that. She tells you that she wants to make dresses someday, and you tell her about some of the romance novels you’ve read. 

The Mandalorian stays in the gazebo, a reminder to keep things light. 

She tells you that Lysa is a rather talented piano player, and that Leodall dreams of one day becoming a lord or a duke. It’s nice, casual. You want to do it again at some point and when you tell her that, she happily agrees. 

Eventually she walks you back to the castle, he walks behind the two of you, always just out of reach until you make it back inside.

You can’t help it.

You hug her.

Mumbling a thank you, because you feel worlds better after having a conversation with someone with no tensions and no ulterior motives. 

She departs and you walk to the library, reading another cheesy romance novel at your drawing table until the sun has set. 

He still doesn’t speak, every so often he’ll pace the length of the room at one point you’re pretty sure he trips over nothing. How odd. You return to your quarters as always, ready to turn in for the night.

✩

Except you can’t.

You pace back and forth throughout your room. Your bare feet shuffling across the cool wood floors. 

He’s ruining your sleep again. 

Because now you can’t close your eyes without thinking about how he’s out there, waiting for you. 

You had wanted comfort and maybe even closure from Elaine but instead you’re more confused than ever. 

He wants you, he doesn’t want you, he hates you, he’s willing to die for you. None of it makes sense and he’s out there. 

Your chest hurts thinking about him all alone out there every night. Even if he hates you, and doesn’t want you. 

You’d feel better if he was at least sleeping out there. But no, he’s awake and aware and always there. 

Is he listening in? Has he turned up the helmet to listen to the soft patter of your footsteps? Why would he be doing that? He’s supposed to not care about you, to not want you. But according to Elaine that isn’t the case? Every single hour he gets more and more confusing, you want to scream at him. You want to punch him in his stupid Beskar face. (Mostly because you know it wouldn’t really hurt him all that bad.) You want to demand answers, demand he leave you alone, or demand he take it all back.

Could you forgive him?

You’re pretty sure you want to forgive him.

You just aren’t sure if you can. 

That is, of course, if he ever apologizes. 

Does he want to apologize?

Why would he have said all those things in the first place if he didn’t mean them?

You don’t remember opening the door. But right now you’re staring down at him and he’s staring up at you, so you must have at one point. He’s sitting with his legs out in front of him as you take a step back, leaving the door open. 

A silent invitation in. 

You’re worried for a moment that he isn’t going to accept it but he slowly gets to his feet. Stretching his arms back a bit with a groan as he takes a step in. 

You hadn’t seen it before but now you don’t know how you didn't realize how exhausted he looks. You don’t even know how he’s still standing as he stumbles into the room as you close the door, clicking the lock shut. 

His shoulders are slumped forward, his usual imposing posture is completely gone and his helmet keeps tilting downwards before jolting back up, like he’s barely keeping his eyes open. 

It’s torture, never being able to stay angry at him. 

You had no plan when you’d let him in. Maybe yell at him, demand answers, demand he free you of this curse that is wanting to be his. 

But you can’t do that. Not when he’s looking around like he doesn’t even know where he is. Maker, when was the last time he slept? 

Reaching forward you take his hand, leading him over to the bed and sitting him down. 

“Mando?” You say it like you’re speaking to a lost child who can’t find their parents. 

He hums softly in response, the helmet tilting up to look at you as you give his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“You’re gonna sleep here. The door is locked so you don’t have to worry about anyone taking off your helmet, okay?”

He nods and your heart stops as his hand comes up to your face. His thumb brushes over the nearly completely faded line on your lip. 

“M’sorry… ner sarad’ika. Bid ni ceta.” His voice is a warm sleepy drawl and you have to close your eyes so he doesn’t see the pained look you have when he starts speaking in that soft tone, the gentle one you feel like you haven’t heard in ages, the one that’s just for you. You can’t help but wonder if he’ll remember any of this tomorrow. 

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do this, remember? It was Kodo, not you.” You gingerly pull his hand from your face as you hold his arms, laying him down against the mattress. 

You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly so vulnerable but you can’t help yourself as you run your knuckles against the cold steel of his helmet, trying to soothe him. 

“That’s not what I’m sorry about mesh’la.” His hands reach forward, asking for you, and you have to use all of your self control to not give in and just hold him. You settle for giving him your hands as you nod. 

You need this to end. It’s too much and you know it’ll be gone in the morning. Once he gets some sleep he’ll be gone again. Standing behind you, your shadow. Not like right now, where he’s in front of you, and needs you. You can’t lose this again, you won’t be able to take it so you start to walk away but he pulls you down so you’re sitting next to him and he’s so gentle about it. He’s so out of it right now, he should be in his default state right now, he’s a trained killer, he should naturally be rough and aggressive with you, but he isn’t. 

Even in this condition he makes a conscious choice to handle you like you might crumble to pieces if he isn’t careful. 

At this point you might. 

“I need to go to bed, Mando. I’ll be in the closet, right there if you need me.” 

His grip on your hands tightens ever so slightly. 

“Y’know that m’sorry, right? I need to know that you know.” His voice cracks on the last word and his voice is laced with a desperation you’ve never heard from him before. You even hear a little sniffle through the modulator.

Maker he must really be sleep deprived. 

It feels like drowning. He’s taking you out into open waters with these words and in the morning he’ll be gone and you’ll be left without a life jacket. 

“I know Mando.” His grip loosens enough for you to stand up. Your voice is strained. “I promise, I know, but I need you to get some sleep now, can you do that for me?”

He hesitates. Like he’s trying to make sure you understand. 

“Okay, sarad’ika.”

He nods as he releases your hands, his shoulders relax and he’s asleep in minutes. Once you’ve certain he’s out cold you go back to the closet, leaving the door cracked in case he needs something as you curl up in your blankets. 

Your hands fish around in the sheets and pillows until you find the book, pulling it out you open it and let the necklace he had given you fall out. Cradling it in your hands you trace the small charm with your fingers. 

Sarad’ika. 

He can’t do that to you. 

He can’t just call you that again after what he did. 

Bodyguard, rival, friend, protector, confidant, lover, nothing. 

He decided he wanted to be nothing. So why should he get to say sweet things in Mando’a to you with no repercussions? 

It makes your blood boil as you shove the necklace into one of the pillow cases, getting ready to go back out there and give him a piece of your mind but as you’re about to stand and pull yourself together you can hear rumbling, static snores from the other room.

And you can’t help but crack a smile. 

He sounds like a fucking Wookiee when he snores. 

Something about it makes you lay back down.

Like it reminds you that under all that perfect metal he is still only a man. 

He needs sleep.

So do you. 

Being angry with him can wait until tomorrow. 

I am no longer doing taglists so follow @lincolndjarinnotifs and turn on notifications to be notified when new chapters are posted !!

[lewkwoodnco]

I take you like you do your tea, with lemon and with honey - Lockwood x Reader/ Locklyle

And then you’re gone, along with half my hyper heart, leaving me alone with half-formed images of soil, rich and dark, burying what’s left of me. Oh darling, I wanted to write, I fear it is the future I hear calling, and I fear that it is from no further than our garden.

a/n: it's been a while since I've been inspired to write a fic impromptu and GOD have I missed it!! this was very cathartic to write and is one of my fav pieces of writing yet :) I decided to try something new by writing it in first person, from Lockwood's perspective, to the reader/Lucy (so it could technically also be considered a lockyle fic) there's not exactly a linear storyline heheh and i hope u enjoy!

warnings/tropes: first/second person writing, love??? fluff at least, sickeningly romantic, but also a dash of angst

word count: 720

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST

I watched you make your first cup of tea on a blustery January morning. The kitchen was too bright, and with the pounding in my head, it hurt my eyes to look. But I watched you add a drizzle of honey and a squeeze of lemon.

What's the point, I asked, of adding both honey and lemon? One sweet, the other sour, only tasting whichever’s sharper in the moment. You smiled at me. You held your cup like it was home. Outside, the curtains were singing and sighing. A new day had begun, just like any other, except now I knew how you took your tea.

You are a thousand different flavours that riddle my tongue blunt all the time. How to handle the scrapbook of memories that you are, I wonder. One moment you’re pressing a flare into my hand, making me promise not to blow up in a fit of recklessness, and the next you're resting your head on my chest, and I am too terrified to breathe.

When I'm in a mood and when you're rough with your words, I burn my tongue on you. A part of me eggs me on, pushes me to be something violent and unforgiving. Another part of me is crippled, and won't move on from the deathly quiet you left behind all those months ago. Tell me how I am supposed to love you when I don't have the capacity to do anything but, I wanted to demand. I was tired. Exhausted. You exhausted me. But still I thought, oh, love is stored in the tea leaves you wrung the very life out of.

What's the point, you say, if we are dizzy with grief as we spiral all the way down to ground zero, again? Then you look at me strange, and I realise no one's spoken. What’s the point, I ask, if we’re only running this into the ground. What’s this, you ask. I leave the door ajar.

On the morning of your trip, we’re having breakfast when George looks out the window and says the garden needs seeing to. He’s right - the grass needs cutting, the weeds need weeding but for a moment I watch the dandelions toss their heads in the wind. And then you’re gone, along with half my hyper heart, leaving me alone with half-formed images of soil, rich and dark, burying what’s left of me. Oh darling, I wanted to write, I fear it is the future I hear calling, and I fear that it is from no further than our garden. That night, I forget to sleep. I sit at the kitchen table just like I did in the morning, and continue watching their ghostly heads sway in a nonexistent breeze. I dream of you, miles away from me, and I humour myself by thinking you can feel the disease rotting away at my heart. It is some dream that you float back home, back to me, on a cloud of hope and contentment. It is some dream that I can make you happy.

I hold you close to my chest when my throat is raw, clutching you desperately like a promise for salvation. You tell me I'm hallucinating, and press a cold pack to my head, and I'm too weak to explain myself. I’m terrible and you don’t know half of it. You yell at me, wrap up my scrapes, and make my tea something bitter awful, and you still don’t know. You sit there at the corner of the table with your pencils, colouring something happy, and you don’t know that you make me half decent.

Every day, I hold you like water in my hands. You are forever slipping away and there is nothing I can do about it. I am no anchor, but rather the rough seas which capsize any hope for freedom from calamity.

There is the sweet, and there is the sour. There is the good, and there is the bad. I take them both. I take it with your palm slotted against mine, grimacing, like a bitter vitamin. I take it all. Just keep your fingers laced with mine.

Maybe love is the brew you use to irrigate my system when you get too sick of my cough. Or, maybe, love is you, and not your tea.

TAGLIST: @dangelnleif @elenianag080 @snoopyluver20 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @avdiobliss @mitskiswift99 @ahead-fullofdreams @mischivana @houseoftwistedspirits

[gojos-thot-patrol]

nanami kento, hope, “is it mine?” 💛💛💛

fun fact Nonnie, this was actually the phrase to activate my domestic fluff sleeper agent, so congratulations on finding that!

Now Presenting...

Starring: soon to be father Nanami Kento

Your heart was racing far faster than you had ever given it permission to. Honestly. When you first invited him over, you expected Nanami to brush you off. Laugh in your face and tell you to get lost. Honestly, you wouldn’t have blamed him. You were the one that left him high and dry, telling him out of nowhere that you had gotten a job in the states and you were going to take it. That you loved him so much, but you worked hard for your career and you knew he couldn’t leave Tokyo. 

He was devastated, but he didn’t try to stop you. He understood you had to do what was going to make you happy, even if that meant leaving him behind. And you really thought you were going to be happy! America may have sucked, but it was the first home you had ever known, and you excelled at your job! Things couldn’t have been better! In theory. While you should have been on top of the world, the bitter taste of losing your lover stuck to your lips. It made it impossible to move on. Still, you were determined to make your new life work.

Then everything changed.

You were lost in your thoughts when Nanami knocked on Satoru’s apartment door, sending you scrambling to open it. You were thankful Gojo agreed to vacate for a bit so you could have this talk. “Coming! I’m coming!” You called, before basically throwing the door open, startling Nanami a bit.

“Hi Nanami!” You smiled, catching your breath.

“Hey Y/n,” He said, eyes full of concern. “You ok?”

“Yea, yea, I’m ok!” You said, moving out of the way of the door and gesturing him inside. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He took one more good look at you before walking inside.

“You called me at 3 am on a plane to Tokyo, after only being in America for 2 months, saying you made a horrific mistake and that you needed me.” That was a week ago. Nanami was away on business when you called him, leading you to crashing in Gojos spare room while Nanami chased his own tail in Africa, praying to whatever deity that would listen that you would be okay until he could get to you.

“Oh, yea..” You muttered, rubbing the back of your neck, “Sorry about that..I was kinda having a moment. Fun fact I called you like, while standing in line to board.” You laughed. And buying your ticket the same day. It was very frantic.

“Y/n, whats going on?” Nanami asked, worry dripping from his soft voice as he took a step to you. He wanted to pull you into his arms, hold you close and assure you it would be okay. But, he wasn’t sure if that was very appropriate anymore. 

“I, um..” You tried to say it, you really did, “Want some coffee?” You smiled nervously.

“Sure?” Nanami more asked than said. You nodded and went to the kitchen while he sat on the couch. You came back with a cup of coffee for him and tea for you. He raised an eyebrow at it.

“When did you start preferring tea?” He asked. 

“Oh, I can’t really have a lot of caffeine anymore.” You muttered, taking a sip, “Health reasons.”

“Is that why you left?” He asked, resting his hand on your knee. You felt the tension start to melt from you at his small touch. You let go of the nervous breath in your chest and nodded, placing your hand on his,

“Yea, kinda.” You nodded, “I uh…I started getting sick, all the time in the morning, which sucked because I was also constantly hungry,” You laughed a bit at the cruelty of that, “I got headaches all the time and I was so like, moody? I guess? And then I started feeling tired a lot and my sense of smell got crazy good-”

“That sounds like..” Nanami started very gently, feeling his body tense with the apprehension. 

“Yea, uh, actually” You muttered before running quickly to the kitchen and running back. Gojo insisted on keeping the picture of the fridge. “Thats because it is.” you handed the photo to Nanami.

Kento stared at the ultrasound in his hand for what felt like impossibly long. Trying to process the reality of the small, fuzzy gray jellybean, swimming in a black sea. It almost looked like an alien, or an alien jellybean, and it was hard to believe something so small had the potential to be so life changing. His heart felt impossibly full as he imagined his life with this little smudge involved. He imagined the small moments, helping them with homework or showing them Mario Kart for the first time. Reading them to sleep and taking them to school, slowly discovering who they were and what kind of person they’d be. It was overwhelming. 

“Kento,” You whispered, wiping a tear from his eye. You were wreaked with the thought that they were tears of despair. Your gentle movement ripped him out his his day dreaming, and away from the ultrasound to look into your eyes. He held your hand to his cheek, and any thought that the tears were negative evaporated from your mind, like a drop of sweat onto a Texas sidewalk in the summer. There wasn’t a hint of sadness in his soft eyes, instead all they held was love and adoration. Hope overflowing out of him in the form of tears. 

“Is it mine?” He asked. It’s not that he doubted you, he just needed to hear it. The two of you had been apart for two months, but that didn’t take him out of the running to be the dad. It had to be him, he knew it was him. He knew his baby when he saw them. You smiled gently and nodded.

“You’re the only person I’ve been with in years Kento, if it’s not yours, its Jesus's,” You laughed. Nanami grappled you in what was possibly the most gentle tackle ever, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he pulled you into his lap. You hugged him back as you giggled, , kissing the side of his head as you melted into his embrace. You hadn’t felt this safe and loved since you left, and you realized america was not worth giving up this. You had no idea what you were thinking, leaving the love of your life for a place that didn’t even have free healthcare. It was almost like you did it for plot reasons, it was crazy!

Nanami pulled away, and almost pulled you into a kiss before stopping himself. He needed to remember, he couldn’t really assume anything in this situation. “Whats the plan, darling?” He asked, looking up at you from the place you sat in his lap.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Well, what are we going to do? We don’t-have to be together to raise a child…” It felt like pulling his fingernails out of the beds to say it, but Kento believed in a womans right to her body and her future first and foremost. Whatever you wanted to happen would happen, without question or push back. Though, the soft spot in his heart hoped he already knew the answers to his questions. Why else would you tell him? Why else would you come back?

“Oh, shut up,” You laughed, shaking your head, “I want to start a life with you Kento, I want to start a family. If you’ll have me that i-” You didn’t have time to fully finish your sentence before Nanami's hands were on the sides of your head pulling you into an impassioned kissed. Honeyed warmth filled your chest and butterflies filled your stomach. You pulled each other impossibly closer, kissing each other like it was the last meaningful thing the two of you would ever do.

“I love you.” Nanami gasped as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you too.” You whispered, placing a soft hand on his cheek. A knock interrupted the moment, startling both you and Nanami out of the bliss of your reunion.

“Can I come in? Is it safe?” Satoru called from the other side of his own door, making you erupt into a fit of giggles. 

“Yea, come on in Satoru!” You called. He ducked into the living room, and broke into a wide grin when he saw you sat side saddle on Kentos lap.

“You two seem close!” Said captain obvious, “So you guys are back together, right?!” You shared a look with Nanami, and then a smile and a nod.

“Yea, I think it’s safe to say that.” Nanami grinned. 

“I think so too.” You confirmed. 

“Yes!” Satoru cheered, raising up his hands in celebration. “Love wins yet again!” Look, he may have thought that love was the worst possible curse for him. That doesn’t mean he couldn't tell when his friends were genuinely happy. The two of you laughed with your friend before turning back to each other. Nanami pressed a loving kiss to your cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re back.” He smiled.

“I am too.”

[blue-jisungs]

Hi! Love your works! I had an idea if you have time to write it. How would the xdh members act/treat you when you're sick? Thank you!

you’re sick ♡

author's note. thank u sm cutie <33 thank u for requesting, i love me some xdh reqs hehe sorry for such a long wait and i hope you enjoy it!! ^_^

warnings. obv mention of being sick, meds

┆彡 GUNIL [ 건일 ]

i feel like he’d panic internally but he would make a top tier nurse

obv hates seeing you in pain so would do everything to help you recover soon

all the time by your side :(

and if he can’t bc leader duties, he’d be sure to facetime you and leave needed meds on your nightstand

but because he cares abt your health sm he can get a bit… serious about it

taking u to the doctor, making sure you eat and take ur meds on time (even if it doesn’t matter), making sure the temperature of the room is right and probably will make sure u don’t tire yourself by watching tv 🧍‍♀️

may or may not sleep on the couch while you’re sick bc he doesn’t want to get sick too :((

┆彡 GAON [ 가온 ]

confused chick.exe

poor bby doesn’t really know what to do :(

you’ll probably end up taking care of urself lmao but he’s there to help

like,, will go to the doctor with you or hand you the meds

or buy them but only when you specifically tell him the name and all the info, even the color of the pills

he’s just scared he’ll buy some kind of wrong meds and you’ll end up getting worse :(

makes the best warm tea tho like <3

but! he’s not scared to sleep n cuddle with you, even when you’re all sniffly 🥹

┆彡 JUNGSU [ 정수 ]

sigh i love him

so so tender and soft and just :((

brushes your hair out of your face when it sticks to your forehead bc of the sweat :((

puts up w all ur moody moments, from cuddles bc you’re cold to listening patiently when you’re whining bc your nose is stuffed

calls him mom to ask for help what to doooo <\\3

brings u her soup (believes it will heal you)

sits w u all day, even if it means getting sick too eventually

┆彡 SEUNGMIN [ 승민 ]

will approach you in a mask and gloves type of guy LMAOO

no but he’s very cautious

however, you’ll get well in no time

knows exactly what’s up and exactly which meds he needs to buy for u

knows all those granny tricks for speedy recovery

and they work too??

will urge u to sleep a lot

now and then will sneak a kiss on your forehead “to check if your body temperature is right”

┆彡 JUNHAN [ 준한 ]

he panics sm gosh but eventually calms down and googles everything

btw he found out that apparently you’ll die in two days bc it’s a heart attack symptoms (a regular cold)

makes sure u take all the meds needed and prepares warm soups n teas

but also if there’s an option to buy a flavoured cough syrup or medicine in general, he’ll pick those in ur fav flavours or those who he thinks won’t taste as bitter :(

will be your personal heater if u get cold

hated seeing u in pain so sneakily will make everything to make u fall asleep,, scratching your back gently, playing with your hair, cuddling…

will not hesitate to throw out used tissues after u blew ur nose and missed the bin

well probably end up sick immediately after u get well so….. how the turn tables,, pls take care of him ^_^

┆彡 JOOYEON [ 주연 ]

madness. chaos. disorder.

probably gets sick like day after you

totally not bc he drink from ur water bottle on accident n such

you just call gunil.

he brings u all the necessities while u cuddle with joo and watch tv or nap

sometimes he’ll make a soup or a warm dish but bc of his stuffed nose majority of the dish is burnt

(he swears he didn’t smell it burning…)

checks ur temperature often tho, wants to make sure it’s not dangerous

good luck sleeping w him tho like,, if u get hot at night he doesn’t care….. he will stick to u as if he was attached by glue

you complain it’s sweaty and gross but he doesn’t really care >:T

[ masterlist <3 ]

taglist.  @geniejunn ,, @luvhyun3 ,, @starlostseungmin ,, @elviransworld ,, @jnks6r ,, @sieunsgf ,, @ethereallino ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @duolingofanaccount ,, @slytherinshua ,, @stxrseungs ,, @ka-ni-ma ,, @iliveforlixie ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @mark-geolli ,, @l3visbby ,, @w3bqrl ,, @ddeonudepressions ,, @yourfavoritefreakyhan ,, @mirxzii ,, @kazmura ,, @primoppang ,, @nfrgirl ,, @crxzs

[noellefan101]

Kissing Them-Genshin Boys 4

Characters: Razor, Gorou, Kazuha, Baizhu, Zhongli x gn! reader

Summary: short headcanons of what they would taste like when you kiss them

Warnings: kissing(but you already know that)

Note: i was so tired writing this, but don´t worry i´ll be a-ok. also, i really thought that i already did kazuha, but i didn´t, so here ya go. love you ;)

Razor

he tastes like wolfhook berries, sweet and bitter, but with a hint of the meat you two just ate, its a weird combination, but you don´t really complain. you sometimes wonder how exactly the wolves raised him.

Gorou

he tastes like the cake you just made for him, its really sweet, especially coming from his mouth instead of the fork, you want to taste it again. and you really want to pet him, but you don´t say that.

Kazuha

he tastes like the fish dish he just made you try, but from his mouth its sweet, it makes the whole kiss a lot more interesting. he once tried to teach you how to blow the leaf, it was unsuccessful.

Baizhu

he tastes really bitter, you almost hate it, but its just his medicine, you know that because you got sick once and had to take some. you always think about how he likes the taste.

Zhongli

he tastes like the tea he just made for you both, sweet and a little plant like, you say its the herbs he used to make the tea, but your not sure. you don´t ask though, since you don´t want him to talk your ears out.

Thank you for reading, request are open, luv ya-Masterlist

You are welcome to reblog and like any of my posts, but you CAN NOT translate, copy or hate on anybody for liking my posts

[luckbealincoln]

Best Kept Secret

chapter fifteen : two tea parties

THIS SERIES HAS BEEN MOVED AND RE-UPLOADED TO ANOTHER ACCOUNT. WHICH CAN BE FOUND HERE. THIS POST STILL EXISTS AS AN ARCHIVE BUT THIS ACCOUNT IS NO LONGER ACTIVE!!

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 5.4k

summary : reader and din have a tea party, just not with each other

warnings, etc. : language, angst

“What did you do to her?”

Her voice breaks through his sleepy haze as he sits up properly. 

“Excuse me?” He can’t seem to remember her name as he struggles to his feet. She pokes a finger into his chest, for someone staring down a bounty hunter she sure seemed to have a lot of confidence in her ability to intimidate him.

“The princess. What did you do to her? She’s got bruises, she’s hardly eating, and she’s all melancholy in there. And I think you’ve got something to do with it.” 

Shit, shit, shit.

He has several responses forming in his mind right now, all of which would make him appear guiltless. Then his stupidly tired brain decides he’s taking too long so instead he blurts out the first words to force their way out.  

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” 

He couldn’t be more of an idiot.

The woman grabs his arm and starts dragging him away from your door. He could easily resist but he’s so embarrassed by his own fuck up he doesn’t bother as she pulls him towards an unfamiliar part of the castle, descending staircase after staircase until they reach the servants quarters and she shoves him into a room. It’s about the size of the cabin, a small kitchen in one corner, a sofa in the other, a fireplace with small burning embers dimly illuminating the stone walls, and a twin bed in the back. He recognizes the girl currently snoring softly under the blankets as your other servant. 

“Sit.” The Togruta girl snaps at him, pointing at the wooden table. 

Of course this is where he decides to finally take a stand and he crosses his arms, staring at her. 

Doesn’t last for long as she starts setting things up at the stove.

“Sit or I’m not giving you any caf.” She doesn’t bother turning around and he doesn’t bother resisting further at the promise of caffeine as he sits at the table.

He doesn’t speak as she puts a pot on the stove to boil. He feels a bit like a child who’s about to be scolded. For several minutes the only sounds are the other girl's soft snores and the crackle of the fire as he tries to keep his eyes open. 

He must have fallen asleep for a second because he jolts upright as she slams a mug down in front of him. 

“Drink. You look like shit.” 

“You have no idea what I look like.” He mutters as his hand grips the mug. 

“I do. You look like shit and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Drink.”

She says as she walks over to the bed, facing the wall and blocking his view of the other girl. “Be quick about it.” She takes a sip from her own mug. “Tell me when you’re done.”

In any other scenario he would refuse, or at the very least protest but he hasn’t had caf in a long time, he misses the bitter taste, and he should probably have his wits about him for the conversation they’re about to have. So he releases the airlock and lifts his helmet, quickly swallowing down the mug. 

The fact that he’s a little intimidated by the woman has nothing to do with his sudden obedience. At least that’s what he tells himself as he locks his helmet back in place. 

“I’m finished.” He can feel the familiar buzz of the caffeine as it flows through his system as he temporarily gets to feel a bit more conscious. 

“Good.” She turns and walks over, taking a seat across from him as she stares at him expectantly. 

His hands get clammy and he can feel his palms sticking to the insides of his gloves. 

This must be what his bounties feel like when he interrogates them. 

“What did you do to her?” She finally breaks the silence, continuing to glare at him. 

That’s a good question. 

He had loved you. 

There isn’t a doubt in his mind about that. 

He had been limited to only showing it to you physically, and when you had shown him a glimmer of something outside of that realm he had turned that love into something ugly. 

And now, mere days later he has to wonder if he made the wrong choice. 

He can’t exactly backtrack. He said terrible things to you. His own words from that night echo around in his helmet, taunting him. 

What did he do to you?

He was starting to get a little worried that he might have broken you.

You had spent all day scribbling in the library like a woman possessed. Truly that could have nothing to do with him though, he’s certain he couldn’t have possibly meant that much to you. Enough to drive you mad.

The Togruta girl snaps her fingers in front of the helmet.

“Hey, shiny, snap out of it. I know you had something to do with it so start talking.” 

Okay, maybe he did have something to do with it. 

No, what does she know about what had happened between the two of you? Well apparently she has wickedly good intuition, and he did basically already confess. 

“I’m not sure.” He wishes his voice didn’t tremble slightly but he can’t help it. 

“You aren’t sure…?” She grumbles as she finishes her mug. “Why don’t you start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.” 

And there’s no rational reason to. 

Or at the very least, there’s no rational reason to tell her the truth. 

And maybe it’s because he’s so tired. 

Or maybe it’s because this girl reminds him of someone he once knew, before he took this job.

But he tells her.

He leaves out a lot of the gorey details but he gives her the gist, she sits quietly the entire time as he whispers the things that transpired. And when he’s done he expects her to maybe tell him he did the right thing by ending it, or offer him words of comfort for what’s happened but instead she squints her eyes as she stares him down.

“You’re an idiot.” She says matter of factly as she leans back in her chair. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You are dumb as shit.”

“I did what needed to be done. Things were getting out of hand.”

She scoffs.

“Out of hand? So you’re allowed to do nice things for her like buy her jewelry, and take her on little dates in the garden, but she isn’t allowed to do them for you? Seems pretty stupid to me. And your game is dumb, if you want to know things about her all you have to do is ask, the poor girl would talk to the walls if they’d talk back.” She takes the pot and pours herself another mug of caf, filling his as well. He doesn’t touch it. “And you say you don’t like her rules but it sounds to me like you’re the one who needed them, she didn’t break any rules you didn’t break first.” 

He crosses his arms in front of him, ready to retort but every response dies on his tongue.

She’s right. 

And he doesn’t want to have to ask her for advice but there’s no one else to ask.

“So what do I do? How do I fix this?” 

She chokes a bit on her caf.

“Fix it? Oh hon, you’ve done a lot of damage in a short amount of time.” 

If she could see through the steel she’d see the way his ears tinged pink in embarrassment. 

“So I shouldn’t do anything?” Even he knows he sounds way too sullen. 

She sighs and contemplates for a moment. 

“Look… normally I’d say yes. But I can’t deny that she seemed happier on days when things were okay with the two of you.”

“So what should I do?” He leans forward a bit in his seat. 

“I’d start with an apology, and you better make it good, especially after what you’ve put her through.” 

“Okay. Tomorrow I will try that.” 

He does, try, that is. The most he gets out is static, a crackle of his modulator before he shuts right up. He’s pretty sure you notice. 

“And then, no more lies. No more beating around the bush. If you’re going to put her through this again you need to be certain and you need to be honest. No more pretending it’s just physical, you tell her exactly what you want and exactly how you feel.”

He also tried that. After Kodo had struck you he had pulled together all of his resolve and told himself that he would just spit it out. Instead he had accidentally insulted you and threatened your husband. 

“Okay, I can do that. Umm… What about Kodo?” She takes another sip as he speaks.

“What about him?” 

“Should I not take into account the fact that she’s married?” 

She laughs, a genuine chuckle. 

“Have you seen them together? She looks at him like he’s some mud that she’s accidentally stepped in. Look, if they were happy together, or if I ever thought they could work it out then I might tell you to back off but trust me, those two will never make it work. He’s a pathetic excuse for a man.”

He’s a bit taken aback by her words. 

“Now go. I’m gonna get some shut-eye, I’d tell you to do the same but I know you won’t.” 

He stands, nodding at her. 

“And take the caf. You need it more than I do, if you’re gonna insist on not sleeping.” She sets hers down as she stretches her arms above her head. He takes his mug gratefully in his hands. 

“...Thank you.” 

She only nods in response, he opens the door of her quarters.

“Mandalorian.” 

His hand is on the doorknob as he turns to look back at the woman. 

“Don’t play with her. Either leave her alone or put in the effort.”

He hesitates for a moment before he leaves. 

✩

When your eyes flutter open the first thing you think is that your face should be hurting, your lip should be much more swollen. 

But when your fingers poke at your lip you find it to be mostly healed. 

You stand and leave the closet, walking over to the mirror and inspecting your wounds. There’s no trace of the red welt you would have thought you’d have. The only trace of the incident is a faint pink and white line through your lip. 

Finding the vial on the bed you carefully walk over to the mirror and apply another layer to the mark as Elaine and Lysa knock once as a warning before stepping into the room. You set the tube down on the vanity. 

It’s another hazy morning. 

They really are all blending together when you don’t have things to do. 

You’re dressed in a lacy orange gown. It’s flowy and cool, it seems like it would be perfect for a day in the gardens. Before you even realize what you’re doing you turn to Elaine. 

“Would you like to have tea with me today?” You have no idea what inspires you to ask such a question and you’re sure she’ll say no. That she’ll tell you it isn’t proper for a servant to do such a thing with you but instead she nods.

“That would be lovely, my lady. Where would you like to have it?” She wipes her hands on the front of her dress as she gives you a patient smile. 

“How about the gardens? There’s that gazebo by the water we could sit at.”

✩

You have no idea when she instructed someone to set it up but as the two of you walk towards the gardens there is miraculously already a table with chairs set up inside. A tray of tea steaming in the center of it all. 

You walk in silence, in all honestly it would probably be a comfortable silence if it weren’t for the looming presence of the Mandalorian behind you. Once the two of you step into the wooden structure, taking your seats you clear your throat, awkwardly, seeing him standing beside you in your peripherals. 

Elaine stares at him and the both of you sit, looking at each other uncomfortably until you finally turn and speak to him. 

“Can we have some privacy?” You shoot him a look as you say it and he takes a single, theatrical step back. 

Jackass. 

You’re about to just give up, he’s never wavered previously, why would he start now? But Elaine speaks up.

“I believe she asked for privacy.” 

You lean over towards her to tell her it’s useless, there’s no sense in arguing with him but your eyes go wide as he begins to walk away. You turn to stare at Elaine like she just performed an act of god. 

As the Mandalorian starts walking along the edge of the water you can’t seem to pick your jaw up off the floor, you have more questions than ever for her but none of them seem to flow, so she speaks first. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened at dinner last night?” She’s pouring tea into the mugs, mixing a generous amount of sugar and cream into yours. 

“You heard about that?” The nearly invisible mark on your face stings at the memory.

“Servants talk, I’m afraid it was inevitable that I would hear of it. Do you want to tell me what happened?” She hands you the mug and you take it in both your hands. 

She doesn’t ask if you’re okay. 

Like she knows you couldn’t possibly be. 

“Not really. There isn’t much to talk about, it all happened really fast.” You take a sip, it’s sweet just like the caf she makes you, it warms your tongue and puts you at ease. 

She hums softly, sipping her own, much darker tea. 

“He’s always had a temper that one, the king and queen did not keep a close enough eye on him growing up, and when no one ever says no it’s easy to quickly become a little monster.” She frowns as she speaks and you have to fight to keep the surprised look off your face, the servants never spoke ill of him.

You know this is probably a dangerous conversation but at this point you’re so lonely and things can’t possibly get worse. 

“Honestly, I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. I knew with his pattern of behavior it was inevitable.” You mutter.

She has a breathy sad laugh. 

“Smart girl.” She raises her cup towards Mando. He looks like a kid being left out of a game on the playground as he kicks a stone into the lake. “He seems more upset about it than you.” She raises her eyebrows, now you’re really treading dangerous waters. 

“Mando? He doesn’t care, I think he just doesn’t want me getting banged up because it makes him look like he’s bad at his job.” Deep down you know that isn’t the case.

“Really? So he wasn’t the one who tore that book in half that I found in the hallway this morning?” She takes another sip as she stares at him out across the water, you choke on your tea.

“In half?” Your voice is a shocked whisper. It had been by no means a short book. It had been a hardcover, thick encyclopedia. 

“In half. Took Leo quite some time to pick up all that shredded paper.” She chuckles. Setting down her mug as she stares at you with an intensity you weren’t prepared for. 

She takes a deep breath that has you nervously tapping your nails against your cup. 

“I know that it’s hard, being in your position, to find people to confide in. But if you ever need to talk about something that’s bothering you, I am available, my lady. And I can be extremely discreet.” She folds her hands in her lap as you stare down at them. Unable to meet her gaze. 

What a breath of fresh air it would be, to have a friend, with no other complicated feelings. But you can’t just tell her what you’ve done. 

“I am not blind, princess. It’s my job to make sure you’re okay. And I know for a fact that you were doing more than okay for a few days and in an instant I saw all of that disappear.” She tilts her head down so she’s in your eyeline and you’re sure your face has a look of guilt on it. 

If it was just your life on the line you’d probably tell her everything. Just to get it out. But it’s not just your life, it’s his. You shudder as you imagine the things Kodo would do to him if he found out. 

But you could twist the truth. 

Tell her harmless details and maybe still find some comfort.

“He had been my friend. Briefly.” Your words are careful and deliberate. 

She nods, picking up her glass once more. Staying silent as an invitation for you to keep going. 

“At least… I thought he was my friend. Now I sort of think he might have just been messing with me.” You’re still being cautious with every detail you reveal. Keeping it simple and innocent. “And I guess he got bored. It’s confusing, I can’t keep up with him, it makes my head spin because he keeps changing.”

“Changing?”

She picks up the teapot, refilling your mugs. 

“It’s… hard to explain. It’s like, he’s a different person everyday. Some days he can’t stand me and some days he-“ You manage to catch yourself before you go one step too far. “Some days he cares for me. I’m starting to wonder if he just enjoys making me miserable.” You pour another spoonful of sugar into your mug. 

“I think he cares for you very much.” She says it so matter of factly that you almost roll your eyes at the notion.

“I doubt that. If that is the case he has a really fucked up way of showing it.”

“Look at him.” She nods out towards the lake and when you turn he’s crouched down next to the edge of the water. 

He’s deadly still for a moment and then he slowly reaches down and scoops something up from the surface of the water. Holding it close to his helmet as he stands. Completely focused on whatever is in his hand. 

He looks strangely domesticated. 

You watch as what you now realize is a frog, jumps out of his hand back into the lake. 

He stares at his empty palm for a long time. 

“He looks like a lost puppy without you. I have to wonder what he was doing before he took this job because it seems like he doesn't know what to do with himself when he isn’t wagging his tail and trailing behind you.” She chuckles and you can’t help but laugh softly with her. 

It feels good to laugh. 

It feels less good to blurt out your next question. 

“Have you ever, umm… talked to him?” You don’t want to ask it, it feels so childish but you can’t help it as you turn back to face her, hoping there isn’t any lingering jealousy in your tone. 

“A little bit. Enough to know that I’m right, he does care for you.” 

You cough awkwardly. 

“What did he say?”

You catch her smirk right before she takes another sip. 

“Mostly he seemed to have a lot of excuses. But I think his real issue is just that he’s scared.”

Huh. 

It’s difficult to picture him scared of anything. 

“Scared?”

“I think this is a conversation you should be having with him.”

“But he won’t talk to me, the first time he’s spoken to me all week was only because of what Kodo did.”

“It isn’t my place to tell you how to deal with him. I just know that you seemed happier when things were good between the two of you.” 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as the two if you drink and you come to terms with her words. She speaks first.

“He doesn’t sleep either.” 

“What?”

“The Mandalorian. He isn’t sleeping. He just sits in front of your door all night.”

You had suspected that to be the case but the confirmation makes your heart skip a beat. 

“He just sits there? What is he doing?”

“I only see him there in passing, I do a lot of my errands at night, I’m more productive when I’m the only one roaming the castle. It seems like he’s just waiting for you.” 

You frown. 

“Waiting for me to do what?”

She laughs. 

“He’s just waiting for you.”

There’s that ache in your chest. She leans forward to give you a sympathetic look, your pain must show on your face. 

“How about we talk about something else for a bit?” Her voice is soft and comforting as you nod. 

“What about you, do you have a special someone?” You laugh for a moment until you realize your slip up and the color drains from your face. “Like, a friend.”

Real smooth, dummy. 

She doesn’t seem fazed though as she grins. 

“Yeah, I’ve got a special friend.” She laughs to herself and you relax a bit. She looks towards the lake and back at you before raising her eyebrows. He’s walking back over as she changes the subject. “What are you planning on wearing tomorrow?”

You can’t help but laugh. 

“How should I know? You and Lysa always pick for me.” She rolls her eyes at your response. 

“I meant to the ball.”

The confusion must be apparent on your face because she sighs. 

“Of course no one told you. Maker, is anyone else in the castle capable of treating you like a person other than me?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Kodo’s birthday is tomorrow. He makes a big deal of it every year, it’s a huge party, you of course will be expected to attend.”

You don’t bother stifling your groan.

“And I absolutely have to go to this?” 

She pats your knee as she leans back in her chair, eyeing the Mandalorian up and down as he walks into the gazebo, standing on the opposite side of it, away from the two of you. 

“I’m afraid you do, but don’t fret, he’s always so preoccupied during this thing that you won’t have to worry about staying for long. You’ll just need to make an appearance as his wife for a bit and you should be able to leave after a few hours if you'd like. It tends to get a bit rowdy as the night goes on so I suggest getting out once the opportunity presents itself.” 

You nod, this must be is what it feels like to have a friend. 

It makes you realize that you and the Mandalorian had never really been friends, that was completely different than what this was. With him there was always something more there, something demanding your attention that you always managed to ignore. With Elaine it’s easy to just talk without any other feelings lingering in the air. 

“I suppose I will wear whatever you decide is best.” You give her a grin.

“If that is what you wish.”

“But not blue.” She raises an eyebrow as you say that but she’s smirking.

“Excellent choice.”

Your eyes dart over to the Mandalorian, he’s facing away from the two of you, giving you a false sense of privacy as you look back to Elaine. 

“And not green.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” 

You don’t talk about much else of importance after that. She tells you that she wants to make dresses someday, and you tell her about some of the romance novels you’ve read. 

The Mandalorian stays in the gazebo, a reminder to keep things light. 

She tells you that Lysa is a rather talented piano player, and that Leodall dreams of one day becoming a lord or a duke. It’s nice, casual. You want to do it again at some point and when you tell her that, she happily agrees. 

Eventually she walks you back to the castle, he walks behind the two of you, always just out of reach until you make it back inside.

You can’t help it.

You hug her.

Mumbling a thank you, because you feel worlds better after having a conversation with someone with no tensions and no ulterior motives. 

She departs and you walk to the library, reading another cheesy romance novel at your drawing table until the sun has set. 

He still doesn’t speak, every so often he’ll pace the length of the room at one point you’re pretty sure he trips over nothing. How odd. You return to your quarters as always, ready to turn in for the night.

✩

Except you can’t.

You pace back and forth throughout your room. Your bare feet shuffling across the cool wood floors. 

He’s ruining your sleep again. 

Because now you can’t close your eyes without thinking about how he’s out there, waiting for you. 

You had wanted comfort and maybe even closure from Elaine but instead you’re more confused than ever. 

He wants you, he doesn’t want you, he hates you, he’s willing to die for you. None of it makes sense and he’s out there. 

Your chest hurts thinking about him all alone out there every night. Even if he hates you, and doesn’t want you. 

You’d feel better if he was at least sleeping out there. But no, he’s awake and aware and always there. 

Is he listening in? Has he turned up the helmet to listen to the soft patter of your footsteps? Why would he be doing that? He’s supposed to not care about you, to not want you. But according to Elaine that isn’t the case? Every single hour he gets more and more confusing, you want to scream at him. You want to punch him in his stupid Beskar face. (Mostly because you know it wouldn’t really hurt him all that bad.) You want to demand answers, demand he leave you alone, or demand he take it all back.

Could you forgive him?

You’re pretty sure you want to forgive him.

You just aren’t sure if you can. 

That is, of course, if he ever apologizes. 

Does he want to apologize?

Why would he have said all those things in the first place if he didn’t mean them?

You don’t remember opening the door. But right now you’re staring down at him and he’s staring up at you, so you must have at one point. He’s sitting with his legs out in front of him as you take a step back, leaving the door open. 

A silent invitation in. 

You’re worried for a moment that he isn’t going to accept it but he slowly gets to his feet. Stretching his arms back a bit with a groan as he takes a step in. 

You hadn’t seen it before but now you don’t know how you didn't realize how exhausted he looks. You don’t even know how he’s still standing as he stumbles into the room as you close the door, clicking the lock shut. 

His shoulders are slumped forward, his usual imposing posture is completely gone and his helmet keeps tilting downwards before jolting back up, like he’s barely keeping his eyes open. 

It’s torture, never being able to stay angry at him. 

You had no plan when you’d let him in. Maybe yell at him, demand answers, demand he free you of this curse that is wanting to be his. 

But you can’t do that. Not when he’s looking around like he doesn’t even know where he is. Maker, when was the last time he slept? 

Reaching forward you take his hand, leading him over to the bed and sitting him down. 

“Mando?” You say it like you’re speaking to a lost child who can’t find their parents. 

He hums softly in response, the helmet tilting up to look at you as you give his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“You’re gonna sleep here. The door is locked so you don’t have to worry about anyone taking off your helmet, okay?”

He nods and your heart stops as his hand comes up to your face. His thumb brushes over the nearly completely faded line on your lip. 

“M’sorry… ner sarad’ika. Bid ni ceta.” His voice is a warm sleepy drawl and you have to close your eyes so he doesn’t see the pained look you have when he starts speaking in that soft tone, the gentle one you feel like you haven’t heard in ages, the one that’s just for you. You can’t help but wonder if he’ll remember any of this tomorrow. 

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do this, remember? It was Kodo, not you.” You gingerly pull his hand from your face as you hold his arms, laying him down against the mattress. 

You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly so vulnerable but you can’t help yourself as you run your knuckles against the cold steel of his helmet, trying to soothe him. 

“That’s not what I’m sorry about mesh’la.” His hands reach forward, asking for you, and you have to use all of your self control to not give in and just hold him. You settle for giving him your hands as you nod. 

You need this to end. It’s too much and you know it’ll be gone in the morning. Once he gets some sleep he’ll be gone again. Standing behind you, your shadow. Not like right now, where he’s in front of you, and needs you. You can’t lose this again, you won’t be able to take it so you start to walk away but he pulls you down so you’re sitting next to him and he’s so gentle about it. He’s so out of it right now, he should be in his default state right now, he’s a trained killer, he should naturally be rough and aggressive with you, but he isn’t. 

Even in this condition he makes a conscious choice to handle you like you might crumble to pieces if he isn’t careful. 

At this point you might. 

“I need to go to bed, Mando. I’ll be in the closet, right there if you need me.” 

His grip on your hands tightens ever so slightly. 

“Y’know that m’sorry, right? I need to know that you know.” His voice cracks on the last word and his voice is laced with a desperation you’ve never heard from him before. You even hear a little sniffle through the modulator.

Maker he must really be sleep deprived. 

It feels like drowning. He’s taking you out into open waters with these words and in the morning he’ll be gone and you’ll be left without a life jacket. 

“I know Mando.” His grip loosens enough for you to stand up. Your voice is strained. “I promise, I know, but I need you to get some sleep now, can you do that for me?”

He hesitates. Like he’s trying to make sure you understand. 

“Okay, sarad’ika.”

He nods as he releases your hands, his shoulders relax and he’s asleep in minutes. Once you’ve certain he’s out cold you go back to the closet, leaving the door cracked in case he needs something as you curl up in your blankets. 

Your hands fish around in the sheets and pillows until you find the book, pulling it out you open it and let the necklace he had given you fall out. Cradling it in your hands you trace the small charm with your fingers. 

Sarad’ika. 

He can’t do that to you. 

He can’t just call you that again after what he did. 

Bodyguard, rival, friend, protector, confidant, lover, nothing. 

He decided he wanted to be nothing. So why should he get to say sweet things in Mando’a to you with no repercussions? 

It makes your blood boil as you shove the necklace into one of the pillow cases, getting ready to go back out there and give him a piece of your mind but as you’re about to stand and pull yourself together you can hear rumbling, static snores from the other room.

And you can’t help but crack a smile. 

He sounds like a fucking Wookiee when he snores. 

Something about it makes you lay back down.

Like it reminds you that under all that perfect metal he is still only a man. 

He needs sleep.

So do you. 

Being angry with him can wait until tomorrow. 

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