#i’m very amused by this revelation though. i wish i learned of it sooner!!!

[deus-ex-mona]

worst conversational topic tbh

[stubbychaos]

Rose Golden

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Paz Vizla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: Your newest companion takes you somewhere safe and special after a long week of work so he can give you a thoughtful present. In the process, you learn that you’re not the biggest fan of heights.

Rated: T because Paz drops an F-bomb and there are suggestive themes regarding abuse and injuries.

Word count: 7,500 (I sincerely did not mean for this chapter to be so long and then I got carried away in editing--oops)

Warnings: There’s really none in this chapter, except for a brief mention of reader’s abusive father and a clumsy moment that leaves the reader with a bruise. This is honestly mostly playful bantering and adorable flirting between Paz and his nurse.

Author’s note will be at the end of the chapter! :)

You don’t expect to see the blue Mandalorian only eight days after he carries you home, but you can’t stop the large smile that spreads across your now healed lips upon finding him leaning against the exterior of the shoddy infirmary right after the sun has gone down. A few crimson rays of sunlight still linger and bathe the Mandalorian in a lovely glow, contrasting drastically with his dull blue armor and making it look as though he polished and shined it just recently.

He stands far taller compared to a few late night stragglers and you immediately frown when a passing Twi'lek hisses at him in a feral manner, though the Mandalorian simply ignores the rude gesture, deeming the offended creature as unworthy of his effort or time. It’s almost like watching a baby porg attempt to square up with a Wampa and you’re certain that the blue warrior is amused by the poor attempt at intimidation. 

You’re a little surprised that someone would willingly try to get underneath the massive warrior’s skin and you’re even more surprised when the Twi’lek sends a disgusting yellow-tinted wad of spit in the direction of your Mandalorian’s big boots in a disrespectful manner.

His blue helm slowly tips downwards and to the side to finally regard the much smaller Twi’lek and while he dons his sacred helmet, you find it amusing how he’s still able to convey an irritated glare through the guise of the thick metal. Without even saying a word or moving to stand taller in front of the Twi’lek, your Mandalorian somehow threatens him with a simple cock of his helmet and a massive hand moving to the handle of his smaller blaster. It’s something you find impressive and you suddenly grow jealous that he can exude such terrifying energy so easily.

As you watch the magenta-tinged creature give the Mandalorian one last sneer before stalking past him, you wonder why anyone in their right mind would find it a good idea to mess with someone with such a terrifying aura. Upon meeting him for the first time, you had been too afraid to even talk to him or even look into his shiny visor, let alone scoff at him or even think about spitting on his boots. You wonder if this is a typical reaction he gets everywhere he goes and you think it must get exhausting after having to deal with it for so long.

Does it bother him? Or has he simply resigned to a life of judgment and persecution?

You can’t even imagine displaying so much disrespect and resentment towards someone who had inflicted absolutely no harm or offense on you, though you think that the Twi’lek, nor many others in the village, are aware of the concept of manners.

His visor is dutifully scanning the streets and you beam the second it lands on you as you make your way over to him with a little skip in your step; you notice the small canvas bag he holds tightly in one hand and the way the fingers of his free hand loosely curl against his thigh. His shoulders, still tense from the silent encounter with the Twi’lek, deflate as he drops his helmet to regard you properly and you smile at the way he seems to relax at the sight of you, as if it’s something he’s been thinking about all day.

Perhaps he has, just as you have thought of him nearly every moment of every day since your last meeting with him.

No, you're definitely not infatuated with the massive warrior and everything about him.

Even though you’re obviously no threat to him, the way he greets you with a kind nod and a gentle rasp of your name has you feeling a severe depth of respect for the warrior. Selfishly, you ponder if you’re the only one outside of his tribe that he seems to tolerate, understanding that you don’t have any ulterior motives when it comes to his Creed or what he hides under that scuffed up bucket.

“I’m surprised to see you so soon, Mandalorian,” You greet him with a tilt of your own head, mimicking his own actions, “I thought it would be at least another month before I saw you again.”

His helmet cocks further to the side and you think he must be amused by your soft sentiment as his fingers flex against his big, padded thighs, “Did I not warn you that you would see me sooner than you would wish for?”

Your brows rise high on your forehead and you shake your head a little at the stubborn warrior’s smug inquiry, “And what if I wished for you sooner than the week’s end?”

"Then I would think you missed me or something."

The way he speaks is so gruff and nonchalant that you think he must be covering up something softer in his modulated voice and you can’t help but to smile at his unwillingness to show you any kind of intense emotion. His helmet lowers even more until his visor is eye level with you and you’re sure that he’s judging you through the guise of that irritating blue armor, though you simply ignore it and continue to peer up at the warrior with unrelenting sass.

Something that he seems to thoroughly revel in.

“You miss me, saviin’ika? Is that why you were dying to see me?”

“Perhaps I just missed having someone to walk me home to scare off all the bad guys,” You cross your arms over your chest as a knowing smile spreads across your lips and you shift your weight to one leg, “Don’t flatter yourself, Mandalorian. Cockiness doesn’t suit you.”

He makes a funny noise that seems to catch in his throat and you grin at him when you realize he’s trying not to laugh at your words.

“If I remember correctly--” He sounds utterly amused as he idly rolls his helmet around and you nearly cringe when you hear joints cracking in his stiff neck, “I didn’t walk you home last time--I carried you. ‘Was even nice enough to even take off your shoes and take out your braids, or were you too sleepy to remember?”

“I remember all too well.”

Your cheeks burn furiously as you’re suddenly aware of the thick braids currently tugging at your scalp and you remember how gentle and graceful his fingers had felt as he deftly loosened your plaits while you struggled to not fall asleep. Your tongue is suddenly heavy and fuzzy in your mouth when you think of how you’ve fallen asleep every night since your last encounter, longing and yearning for the pleasant, soothing touch of his rough fingertips massaging the soreness from your scalp. You try to remember the last time anyone has ever touched you without any ill intentions and you think of your mother, with such soft and tender hands that would gracefully part thick strands of hair before skillfully plaiting them.

The thought of a huge Mandalorian attempting to braid your hair nearly makes you giggle out loud, though you think he wouldn’t be too terrible at it since his fingers hadn’t struggled in the slightest against your intricate plaits.

Even though the memories of your mother combing and braiding your long locks is all but a faded memory, you’re certain that the blue Mandalorian’s touch had somehow been gentler than hers--caressing your cheeks and lips as though you were a jagged shard of glass that would somehow pierce his thick armor. Was he afraid of accidentally hurting you despite knowing you can take a hard hit to the face and bounce back like it didn’t even affect you? You knew you were quite small, especially compared to him, but he had reassured you during your last meeting that he did not believe you to be weak.

You suddenly wonder if the warrior fears you more than you had once feared him, though you can’t think of a rational reason at to why someone bred and born to not feel fear would feel it towards someone like you?

He’s still observing you intensely when you finally muster up the strength to speak softly, “I never thanked you for that--taking my braids out. My hair would have been a tangled mess in the morning if it weren’t for you.”

“You didn’t have to thank me,” His baritone drops the slightest and you find your cheeks growing even hotter at the gruffness of his modulated voice; you’re skin feels like burning coals as he continues to talk, keeping his shiny visor trained intensely on your face, “Your eyes are very expressive, saviin’ika.”

You lower your head a little, hoping that he doesn’t see how flushed your face must be as you speak softly and shakily, “Is that a compliment, Mandalorian?”

“Do you want it to be one?”

Pushing himself off the wall, he lazily closes the short distance between the two of you, stoic and calm as ever. You briefly wonder if he ever gets worried or stressed, but something about the way he carries himself so gracefully and confidently makes you think it’s not often others attempt to challenge him.

You give up on your prayers to the Maker for your blue Mandalorian to not notice the intense blush in your cheeks, realizing that he must have some sort of advanced technology in the damn helmet to detect the heat rising to the surface of your skin. 

He lowers his helmet until his metal chin is nearly poking your nose before he slightly tilts it to the side; you’re not sure how such an action could be simultaneously soft and intense, yet he somehow manages it and you suppress a shaky exhale when he reaches forward to skim the tips of his leather-clad fingers along the outer shell of your ear. The violet tucked there must be close to falling, because he plucks it away from your cartilage and deftly situates it somewhere in the thick braid that’s wrapped around the crown of your head.

Your own voice drops to a low murmur as he fixes another flower that you tucked in your braid earlier; you find it endearing that he seems so hellbent on making sure none of your vibrant flowers fall from your unusually tamed mane.

“What would you think of me if I wanted it to be a compliment?”

A noise that’s reminiscent of a grunt getting caught in his modulator has you smiling a little wider as he shakes his helmet at your harmless question, though it seems to have him utterly flustered as he speaks in a more rushed tone, “I wouldn’t think of you any differently, but if it is rare for you to be complimented, I wouldn’t mind doing it more. You… I think... fuck...”

He seems to grow slightly shy and you smile demurely at how captivating someone so large and intimidating can be so nervous with something as simple as giving a compliment; you think him to be an enigma, in more ways than one. 

“You think me to be what, Mandalorian?”

He shakes his helmet again and promptly changes the subject; you wonder if he’ll ever admit to you what he truly wanted to say--what he thought about you.

“I think you look well rested,” He observes out loud and you ponder if he’s smiling underneath that blue helmet as he swiftly deflects your gentle question, “Your injuries look a lot better as well. The bruising is no longer there and there’s barely a mark on your lip."

You grin up at him, eyes sparkling as you admire the way the moonlight reflects off of his blue armor, “Thanks to you, Mandalorian. I really did not wish for you to use that salve on me; I’ve had worse than a bruised cheek or a split lip.”

Immediately, you realize you should not have said that as his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides and you let out a tired sigh.

Why do you always manage to stick your foot in your mouth?

“How much worse?”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” You murmur, avoiding the intense gaze of his shiny visor to stare at the geometric shape embedded into his cuirass instead, “It is nothing I am incapable of handling myself.”

“Do you not get tired of taking care of everyone and never having someone to take care of you?”

The tone of his voice is tender and something about the genuine curiosity of his question leaves you without any breath in your lungs, as if he’s some sort of thief. Nobody has ever asked you something of that nature and you’re certain it’s because nobody has ever cared like he seems to; you don’t find it fair for someone to feel such concern for you.

You suddenly feel undeserving of all the sentiments he’s showered you with, but you will accept them for as long as he chooses to tolerate your presence.

“I take care of myself, Mandalorian,” You inform him with a sad smile, shaking your head a little when his shoulders tense, “Always have and always will.”

“You need someone, saviin’ika,” He insists, gently grabbing your chin and urging you to look up at his visor, “Everybody needs someone.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you spot all of the scuffed up marks and divots in his deep blue helmet, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

You feel flustered and timid suddenly, realizing you’re just like him in the sense that you’re not used to expressing your own emotions and you feel impossibly small and vulnerable when he lightly squeezes your chin.

“Are you not my friend?”

A leather index finger grazing your jawline has you nearly coming undone as he speaks with that deep baritone, “I can be whatever you want me to be, saviin’ika.”

“What if I’m not sure what I want you to be?”

His leather digits lazily and dutifully skim the little valley between your chin and bottom lip, “I think you already know.”

His fingers move upwards to where your cheek had once been nearly the same shade of his dull armor, though it’s now healed into a light, barely-there yellow tint and you’re reminded of how he had taken care of you just a week ago. When you had first woke up after a few peaceful hours of sleep, you had initially thought you dreamt the previous night--him carrying you home and tending to your minor wounds with the bacta salve you had given him. Upon looking in the mirror when you first arrived at your office, you had been pleasantly surprised to find that the black and blue bruise had turned into a healthier shade of yellow and the tiny gash on your bottom lip was barely a scar. If you tried to imagine it hard enough, you swore you could still feel his index finger trailing up the apple of your cheek and to the tip of your ear; you swore you could still feel his rough, skilled fingers rubbing comfort into your sore scalp.

You had longed to feel his rough fingers on your face again and as a leather digit currently strokes the tail of your brow, you wonder if it would be hard to convince him to remove his glove again.

With an intense blush turning your cheeks a vibrant shade of pink, you ponder what else he can do with those fingers--those graceful hands.

When he doesn’t say anything else, you gesture to the canvas bag that he’s still tightly gripping in a large hand and clear your throat a little, though your voice sounds slightly coarse and wavering, “What’cha got there? Do some shopping in the marketplace?”

“Not quite,” He hesitates as he slowly lowers his helmet, his visor shifting between you and whatever is in the bag, “I want to take you somewhere, if that is alright with you. It's a safe place that nobody knows about."

You perk up, not wanting to go home and having to deal with your father’s anger yet, so you nod enthusiastically and immediately wrap your fingers into the crook of his padded elbow, as if it’s pure instinct at this point and you suppose it is. Though you’ve only ran into him three times, you think that after the night when he had carried you home and tended to your wounds, you would trust the Mandalorian to guide you anywhere on Nevarro, as long as he was there with you. Everyone always avoids the big warrior and you’re sure that if anyone attempted to cross him, he would deal with the situation swiftly and efficiently.

The Mandalorian is ever dutiful and diligent as he leads you in a different direction from your home and you can’t help but to scan your surroundings wildly as you two wander through the marketplace that's still bustling, even after the sun disappears and gives way to brilliant moonlight. 

Though most of the food vendors are selling some sort of questionable cooked meat, your eyes widen when you pass a stand that is offering all sorts of vibrant fruits and vegetables. Much to your dismay and embarrassment, your stomach growls and you can’t stop your head from turning to stare at the fresh food as the two of you continue past the vendor. It’s far more expensive than you’ve ever been able to afford, but nonetheless, you find yourself always checking the prices whenever you wander through the marketplace.

You don’t notice the blue Mandalorian observing the wistful expression painted along your features with a slight tilt of his helmet.

“About five miles west of the village, there is a small cave located at the base of the cliffs,” His deep baritone pulls you from your thoughts of fresh fruit and crisp vegetables and you curiously blink up at him, “Inside the cave, there are several hot springs that stay warm from the lava underground and flowers that light up the entire place. I want to take you there.”

“That sounds lovely and all, but five miles?” You feel bad that he’s going out of his way to do something nice for you and all you can think of is how sore your feet are from a long shift and your worn boots rubbing painfully against already formed blisters and bruises, “I couldn’t even do the half mile to my house last week.”

“Do you not see the jetpack on my back, saviin’ika? I wouldn't make you walk that distance after you've been on your feet all day; I am not that cruel.”

You immediately stop walking, your face growing pale at the mere thought of him bringing you high up off the ground and he must sense your intense fear and hesitation, because he immediately cocks his helmet to the side and promptly speaks up when your hand slips away from his elbow.

“What? You scared of flying or something?”

It sounds like he’s teasing you, a twinge of condescension apparent in his modulated voice, and it immediately makes you scowl at him because you have every right to be afraid when you’ve never had the option to travel off of Nevarro, let alone the galaxy, like he’s clearly had in the past. You forcefully remind yourself that most of the people in your little village are bounty hunters and criminals that get to travel for a living and that the feeling of being in the sky or in space was something he’d gotten acquainted with long ago.

“I’ve spent my entire life with my feet on the ground, Mandalorian,” You remind him with a harmless glare, craning your neck so you can properly look at his shiny visor underneath the pretty moonlight, “Of course I’m afraid.”

“You do not strike me as the type of woman to fear such things, not after everything you have already endured.”

You let out a petulant sigh, your cheeks puffing out in embarrassment as you narrow your eyes at the huge warrior and stubbornly cross your arms over your chest. You gaze at the silver tips of the jetpack that barely peek over the top of his broad shoulders and you can’t help but to wonder if there’s a possibility of the heavy piece of equipment malfunctioning mid-flight. Even though the rest of his armor is quite dinged up and a little rough around the edges, you think that his weapons and the jetpack look brand new, as though they’ve never been used before. His weapons and other pieces of equipment must be dear to him, you realize, just as your plants and flowers and the cuffs you wear in your braids are precious to you and you think he must take great care of them to keep them in good shape.

You’ve trusted the blue Mandalorian so far, so why do you fear the thought of him dropping you or his jetpack malfunctioning?

“Y-You’re sure it’s safe?”

“I would not let anything or anyone harm you while you’re with me, saviin’ika,” He holds out a large hand for you to take and you observe it warily for a few moments before slotting your fingers between his leather ones, “I know how my weapons and equipment work; if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this.”

You smile softly at him and nod your understanding, “I trust you.”

“Come on,” He rasps, his voice a little softer when he carefully gives your hand a little tug and you let him guide you once again, “We need to get out of the village a little ways so I don’t draw attention with the sen’tra.”

You assume the word means ‘jetpack’ in his native tongue and you breathe out a soft laugh, “I think your armor draws plenty of attention, Mandalorian.”

He shakes his helmet, but continues to lead you to the outskirts of the noisy village, and you find that the silence shared between the two of you is a peaceful one, rather than an awkward one. Not known to be much of a talker, you’re grateful that the Mandalorian doesn’t really seem to expect a steady flow of conversation between the two of you, as he seems to do most of the talking. Though your feet ache from a long day of work, you find that the combination of his gruff voice and the firm pressure of his fingers intertwined with yours makes for a sweet distraction and you barely acknowledge the calluses and blisters covering your feet and ankles. He speaks mostly of the hot springs he’s taking you to and that the warm water will be good for sore legs; he briefly talks about his tribe when you shyly bring up traditional Mandalorian customs.

You listen and cling to every word closely, saving it for future reference so you don’t accidentally offend the blue warrior with oblivious words and naive questions.

It’s merely a twenty minute journey to the outskirts where most don’t venture to unless they have transportation, and even then, the rocky terrain and creatures that roam the barren lands are enough to keep most people inside the bleak village.

It was only another thing your father had warned you of when you had once attempted to run away when you were thirteen or fourteen; you hadn’t made it very far when he found you, completely lost and dehydrated miles and miles away from the village. Seeing the expanse of the barren lands now, you wonder what the hell you had been thinking as a teenager, thinking you could actually survive in such a harsh environment where there was no civilization for hundreds of miles; you were surprised you had lasted more than a day.

“Is something wrong?”

You blink owlishly, not even realizing the Mandalorian had been talking to you for a while now and you shake your head a little, “N-No… it’s just been a while since I’ve seen the barren lands. Not many venture far out the village without transportation and come back in one piece.”

If he notices the shakiness in your small voice, he decides not to mention it as he speaks.

“I won’t…” He lowers his helmet until the chin of his helmet is nearly touching your forehead and you shyly peer up at him through your lashes, “I won’t let anything happen to you--you know that, right?”

Even though his natural voice is distorted and disguised by his vocoder, you hear how genuine he’s being and you nod with a small, albeit nervous, smile, “I know. I trust you, Mandalorian. Just… please don’t drop me.”

The heavy-infantry warrior doesn’t say anything and merely nods as you reluctantly let go of his hand so he can wrap his arm around your waist, keeping a firm pressure without actually hurting you. Normally, the foreign contact would bother you and have you bursting at the seams, but you think that you don’t mind the way he holds you close to his warm body, like he’s trying to shield you from the horrors of this planet. You think that if you had someone to hold you like this every night for the rest of your days, you wouldn’t hold nearly as much fear in your heart that currently lingers there like a festering wound that refuses to heal properly.

Your breath catches in your throat as the Mandalorian’s clean and warm scent invades your senses and intoxicates you in the most delightful way possible; now that you’re not half asleep, you can actually appreciate the earthy scent that seeps through the cracks of his dull blue armor. Your cheeks are flushed as you wonder if he’s enjoying the close contact as much as you are--if he had hoped for this when he came up with the idea to take you to a place far from the village.

Instinctively, you stand up on your tippy toes and slip your arms around his broad shoulders, your heart racing at the thought of what’s about to happen. Your eyes barely peer over his taut shoulder and you hold your breath when he quietly informs you that he’s going to start the jetpack; you’re hasty as you squeeze your eyes shut when upon hearing the heavy piece of equipment come to life.

The Mandalorian gives your waist a comforting squeeze when you tense a little as he slowly takes off and you force yourself not to panic or open your eyes when you feel your boots slowly leave the ground. While the hand that’s gripping the canvas bag remains tightly wrapped around your waist, you feel his other hand come up to squeeze the spot between your shoulder blades. You’re not sure how high up the two of you are and you’re not sure if you want to look, so instead of gazing down at the rocky terrain that’s far below your boots, you turn your head up to peer at the shimmering stars in the night sky instead, admiring how they seem brighter and bigger the further you two make it out of the village. The moon has more of a yellowish tint to it tonight and appears larger than usual, but you think that perhaps being far away from the village and high up in the air has something to do with the lovely spectacle.

As cold air whips around the two of you, you find yourself grateful that you decided to tightly braid your hair that morning, though a few stubborn locks of hair escapes their restraints and lightly whips at your cheeks and forehead. You can’t stop yourself from shivering the higher he ascends, the atmosphere growing a little more frigid and you thank the Maker that you chose to wear longer shorts underneath your thin dress, the undergarments ending mid-thigh.

“See? Not so bad.”

You huff against his neck, still refusing to look down as you respond just loud enough for him to hear, “You wouldn’t be saying that if I threw up on you.”

His shoulders shake a little and you think he must be suppressing a bout of boisterous laughter as his arms tighten around you, though it’s not enough to hurt you or make it difficult to breathe. You wonder how often he uses the jetpack, especially if he spends most of his days dwelling deep underground, though something about the way he expertly navigates through the barren lands makes you think he’s incredibly experienced and well-trained in using the advanced equipment. He seems just as relaxed high up in the air as he does walking on land and you force yourself to keep your attention focused solely on the soft whirring noise his jetpack makes, along with how the constellations in the night sky grow more prominent the further he takes you away from the village.

You shift your arms around him a little, trying to get more comfortable against his metal chest; he must sense your discomfort because he easily hikes you up a little higher up his torso until your elbows are resting on top of his shoulders and your temple and cheek is lightly pressed against the side of his scuffed up helmet. The cold bite of the helmet makes you shiver a little harder against his chest and you try to focus only on the warmth that lingers between the cracks of his blue armor.

“Have you ever been up there?” You ponder so quietly that you figure he won’t hear it, though he turns his helmet a little to indicate that he’s listening, “With the stars?”

“It’s been a while, but yes.”

You suddenly have so many questions.

You want to ask him what it’s like to travel among the stars and if he misses it at all, or if he simply got tired of all the traveling and being away from his tribe for an extensive amount of time. Has he traveled to the Inner Rim? Or did he only stick to the Outer Rim where he knew it would be easier to find work? If you asked him to describe what the stars looked like as he flew through hyperspace at blinding speed, what would he say to you? Would he describe the constellations and scenery of different planets in great detail? Would he describe the colors of a catastrophic supernova? The shapes and vibrancy of different types of stars? Or would he merely shake his head at your childish questions?

You have all of these questions, yet one in particular has you speaking out loud against the side of his helmet.

“Was it lonely up there?”

He’s silent for a solid minute or two and you think that either he didn’t hear you, or he’s simply choosing not to display any vulnerability in front of you. It makes sense that he wouldn’t be willing to share much of his past with you and you don’t blame him for it, understanding that you two are similar in the sense that it’s difficult to speak of your feelings and traumatizing memories out loud. You wonder if his own memories haunt him when he tries to fall asleep at night and… wait. 

Does the huge Mandalorian even sleep? 

The only times you’ve interacted with him are late at night or some ungodly hour in the morning and you can’t help but to wonder when he finds time for sleep if he’s so busy providing for his beloved tribe.

“Yes,” His arm tightens around your waist and he turns his helmet in an attempt to gaze at you, though you know there’s really no way for him to see you, what with how firmly your cheek is pressed into the side of his matte dark blue helm, “I just didn’t know it at the time.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, thinking of a lonely Mandalorian navigating through hyperspace, all alone without the comfort of another, “What made you realize how lonely it was?”

You wonder if his own cheeks are burning painfully under that metal helmet as he reluctantly answers your question and you hope he doesn’t feel pressured to bend to your every whim or inquiry as you painfully crane your neck backwards to peer into the abyss that is his shiny visor, “I didn’t know at the time--what made everything feel so lonely--but now I think I know after spending enough time with you and seeing what your father does to you, how he makes you feel."

You tilt your head a little, obviously confused, “Wh-What do you mean?”

“I see a lot of my past self in you,” He admits, fingers lightly curling against your waist, and you think he’s making fun of you, “I didn’t have anyone and I found myself missing the tribe, but I didn’t want to believe that I was lonely and homesick. I see it in your eyes, how lonely and homesick you are as well.”

“What do you mean homesick?” His helmet cocks to the side as you continue, “You think I consider that little hut a home?”

“I think you long for a home you’ve never had,” He tentatively answers after a few moments of severe contemplation, “Like I said earlier, saviin’ika, your eyes are very expressive. Even when you smile, your eyes look sad and it reminds me of how I felt when I was traveling all alone.”

You move your head so your cheek is pressed back against the side of his helmet again, not wanting him to see the despair and loneliness that apparently seem to linger in your expressive eyes, “Is that why you showed up again tonight?”

“It’s part of the reason why,” The blue warrior concedes and it surprises you a little, as he’s usually closed off and so unwilling to expose himself to you, “I wanted to make sure that you were alright--that you weren’t hurt. I don’t... I don’t like seeing your face covered in bruises.”

You smile and slowly close your eyes, an unfamiliar warmth expanding in your chest as the thought of someone caring about your well-being lights your soul ablaze. Resisting the urge to kiss the light blue patch that’s painted in the hollow of his cheek, you settle on dropping your head so it’s pressed firmly into the bunched up fabric at the base of his neck before letting out a deep sigh. 

You hope that the thickness of his armor prevents him from feeling how hard your heart is beating for him--for the selflessness of his words and actions--and you wonder if everyone else in his tribe is like him, soft and warm underneath such unyielding and cold armor. Something about the violent and ruthless energy he exudes when dealing with others makes you think he’s not as unrelenting when he’s with his people and they probably don’t expect him to be.

If anything, painful headbutts and heavy fists thrown at one another is how they probably show their love.

You feel a little lightheaded as your blue warrior starts to slowly descend and you're grateful when you eventually see the rocky ground in your peripheral vision. When the worn soles of your boots are finally pressed against solid ground, the Mandalorian makes sure to keep an arm wrapped around your middle, your legs feeling like jelly and your body swaying a little from disorientation. 

Eventually, you reluctantly pull your head away from the warmth of his neck and slowly turn to peer up at him through your lashes, blushing at how close he is to you. He’s bent over a little so his visor is eye-level with you and you’re absolutely aware of the way his fingers are splayed wide on your hip, his thumb stroking comforting circles against the flimsy fabric of your dusty gray dress.

Is he aware of what he does to you? How frantic your heart is as it races from the way he holds you tenderly to his own chest, as if he wants to take you far away from the village and build a safe home for you inside of his own heart.

The strange tension only goes away when you speak in a breathy whisper, “Thank you for not dropping me, Mandalorian.”

“I would never do such a thing,” He reassures you and clears his throat before standing up straight so he’s towering over you again; he reaches up to slowly brush some unruly baby hairs away from your forehead and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you shiver from the soft gesture, “What kind of man would I be if I killed the only nurse in the village?”

His playful tone makes you giggle a little and you happily take his hand when he kindly offers it to you again. You’re a little surprised to find huge cliffs surrounding the two of you and you realize that you were so focused on the beautiful starlight the whole journey to the cave that you didn’t even realize he had been guiding the two of you throughout a deep canyon. The Mandalorian is patient as you gaze up at the enormous cliffs with admiration, not even realizing that such beauty could exist on a planet like Nevarro.

“I’ve never been this far out of the village,” You inform him with a breathless sigh, awe and wonder laced in your quiet voice, “I never thought the barren lands could be this pretty.”

“Not everything on this planet is terrible, saviin’ika,” He urges you towards the small, jagged entrance at the base of the cliff and you hesitate upon noticing the ominous abyss that would guide you two further beneath the planet’s surface. You watch as the blue Mandalorian calmly presses a button on his yellow-tinged vambrace, causing a bright light to emanate from the rectangular piece of metal attached to the top right side of his helmet.

“So that’s what it does,” You say out loud before you can stop yourself, earning a chuckle from the large man.

“What did you think it was for?”

You shrug as you let him pull you into the entrance of the quaint grotto, “Decoration?”

The boisterous bark of a laugh he lets out warms your heart and has you grinning as you forget about the fact that he’s leading you somewhere so secluded that he could easily hurt or take advantage of you without anyone knowing about his intentions. Out of anyone you’ve ever crossed paths with in the village, you’re certain that the Mandalorian is the only one you would ever trust to lead you deep inside a cave where terrifying creatures or monsters might linger, though you fear nothing as you stay close to his side.

“I can assure you that none of my weapons, armor, or equipment is for decoration,” He informs you lightheartedly, giving your hand a firm squeeze as he calmly guides the way further into the cold grotto, “The hot springs aren’t too much further away--stay close, saviin.”

“I do not think you would let me stray far,” You chuckle as you let him walk a step in front of you, just to be safe.

He lets go of your hand as he gracefully hops down a steep step that’s a solid ten or twelve feet and you hesitate as he turns to gaze up at you.

Trying to mimic his grace, you move to hop off the jagged ledge, though the tip of your oversized boot gets caught in a deep crack and you let out a sharp squeak as you fall forward, nearly face first into the ground. Before you can properly react and attempt to steady yourself, the diligent Mandalorian is swift and efficient with his skillful hands and somehow manages to keep his grip on your hips light enough to prevent any bruising or soreness that would possibly occur from being manhandled by the blue warrior. You let out a small noise of pain when your chin collides with his cuirass and he’s quick and even a little frantic as he cups your flushed cheeks and tilts your head backwards so he can get a better look at your face, his leather thumb moving to ghost along your sore chin.

He almost sounds ashamed when he speaks up and you feel your heart plummet into the pit of your stomach.

“I hurt you.”

“You… what?” You don’t know what to say, absolutely shocked by how guilty he sounds as he continues to lightly stroke your chin, “You did no such thing, Mandalorian. My clumsiness is not your fault and you should not blame yourself for saving me from worse injuries. Please, keep going. I want to see the hot springs.”

His thumb grazes what you’re sure will be a bruise in the morning, but you think it’s the first time someone has ever unintentionally left a mark on you without any ill intent. With a sharp nod, the blue Mandalorian presses a firm hand to the small of your back and guides you deeper into the grotto, though you’re certain by the way his visor keeps tilting down towards the lower half of your face that he’s still upset over your lack of grace.

“I would not think a nurse to be clumsy.”

He doesn’t sound admonishing or judgmental, but more upset and confused than anything and you can’t help but to find his curiosity endearing, “I am a trained nurse, not a skilled warrior like you. The only thing graceful about me are my hands.”

His helmet cocks to the side, “I’ll be sure to remember that for future reference.”

Your cheeks burn viciously at the implication of his words and deciding it best to not dig yourself into a deeper hole, you grow silent and continue to follow him.

A tiny gasp escapes you when you hear the unfamiliar sounds of running water and you immediately perk up, no longer hesitant as you skip in front of the Mandalorian to venture further within the dwellings of the cold cave. Luckily, the little flashlight attached to his helmet guides your way as you follow the unfamiliar sounds trickling water and you can hear the warrior quickly shuffling to follow you, as if he’s worried you’re going to trip and fall again. Only when he gently advises you to slow down, your hasty footsteps dissolve into a slower stroll and you’re barely aware of the way you grab his hand once again, tugging him towards the sound of rushing water.

When you finally make it to the destination he had longed to show you in the first place, you freeze in awe and wonder.

“Stars,” You murmur as you gaze upon the gorgeous, glowing plants that surround a thin creek of aquamarine water, along with several little ponds filled with steaming hot water, “This is…”

As you stare at the budding flowers and crystal-like plants that glow with a whimsical shimmer and brighten up the tavern, you realize you’ve never seen anything quite as beautiful in your entire life. The flowers that miraculously grow underground are all vibrant shades of sapphire and magenta and even though you should be intrigued by the steamy ponds filled with crystal blue water, a huge, unintentional smile spreads across your lips as your fingertips lightly skim along silky azure petals.

You can’t stop yourself from plucking a healthy-looking flower and bringing it up to your nostrils with a soft smile, your eyelids slipping shut when the floral scent invades your senses completely. If you thought the huge cliffs and shimmering constellations had been beautiful, they had absolutely nothing on the vibrant flowers that softly illuminate the grotto, or the aquamarine water that has steam rising from the surface. With the stem of the flower still intertwined between your fingers, you slowly make your way towards one of the smaller hot springs in the cave and slowly sink to your knees so you can lightly skim your fingers along the surface of the delightfully warm water.

A grin tugs at your lips as you submerge your hand completely and wriggle your fingers around.

“Mesh’la.”

You immediately turn your head in his direction, inquisitive eyes scanning his dark blue helmet because it’s the first time he’s said that word in front of your and you wonder what the hell the Mandalorian must be calling you in his native language. You hope it’s nothing too insulting or demeaning, though the way he breathes it so fondly makes you think he must be complimenting you, rather than throwing judgment your way. His helmet jolts a little, as if he doesn’t realize he’s been staring at you through the safety of his visor, and he clears his throat a little before slowly sauntering to where you’re settled on the edge of the hot spring.

“You can…” He sounds a little hesitant as he approaches you and crouches down so he’s not towering over you, “You can take off your shoes and socks if you want. I brought…” A soft expression crosses your features when you realize he’s nervous as he gazes down at the canvas bag he’s clutching tightly, “I brought this for you.”

Reluctantly, he shoves the small bag in your direction and looks away as you peer inside at the contents, your eyes widening when your fingers graze thick leather, “I-I can’t accept this, Mandalorian. You have already done far too much for me and I would not be able to repay you.”

“You need new boots, saviin’ika,” He observes you as you reluctantly remove the shoes from the bag completely, fingers inspecting the quality of the leather, “Besides, these were made for another Mandalorian in the covert but were too small; they should fit you well enough.”

“I don’t have enough credits to repay you.”

"Then don't."

"Manda--"

“Maker, you really are a stubborn little thing,” The blue warrior says in a deadpan tone, reaching out so his fingertips can lightly graze your flushed cheek; immediately, you remember the way he had caressed your cheeks and lips just a week ago and you lower your head so he can’t see the longing in your eyes.

The Mandalorian lets out an exasperated sigh when you hold out the boots for him to take, though he simply shakes his helmet, “Not everything requires a price. You gave me that salve even though I couldn’t afford it,” You open your mouth to argue with him, though he’s faster and much more stubborn than you are, “If you truly wish to pay me back, then do it with your company.”

“I don’t really make for the best companionship.”

“I think your companionship would be the only kind I wished for, outside of my tribe.”

You ignore the intense warmth in your cheeks as you reluctantly place the boots on the ground next to you before reaching back into the bag to see what else he brought for you. Upon pulling out a jar that’s filled with white, rocky chunks, you perk up and quickly unscrew the lid to smell the aromatic salt; the intense eucalyptus scent nearly brings tears to your eyes as it tickles your nostrils and clears your sinuses.

“Healing salts?” You say it as a question, though it’s more of an observation, and you turn to the blue warrior with raised brows and a slight smile, “I feel like a spoiled woman.”

He grunts and turns his visor away from you, standing up to take a seat on a flat rock that’s right behind you and you can feel the armor covering his knee grazing your shoulder blade, “You care too much for others and not enough for yourself, little nurse. It would be good for you to relax for a while.”

“And what about you, Mandalorian?” You unfold your legs from underneath your body and start to unlace your worn out boots, avoiding his shiny visor as you continue, “I’m sure those weapons and that jetpack must weigh down on your body, no?”

After tugging off your boots and socks, you roll your head backwards so you can peer up at him. Despite all of his clunky weapons and equipment, he seems relaxed as he leans forward a little, padded elbows resting on top of his thighs; he cocks his helmet to the side as he observes your upside down gaze.

He flexes his fingers a little and you think it must be some sort of habit for him to constantly crack his stiff joints, “You’re asking a Mandalorian to disarm his weapons?”

You giggle a little and turn your attention back to the hot spring as you slowly submerge your feet into the soothing hot water, shuddering at how good it feels after being on your feet all day, "I would not ask you to do such a thing, silly man. I'm simply asking for you to relax with me; you deserve it just as much as I do."

He huffs out an amused noise and you turn to gaze at him over your shoulder to watch him slowly remove the cannon that's as tall as you, propping it up against the rock next to his thigh. You raise your brows when he lets out an exasperated grunt upon removing his jetpack, cursing in his native language as he rolls his shoulders.

"Told you all of that equipment must weigh down on you," He shakes his helmet at your gentle quip and lightly nudges your shoulders with his knee before removing his utility belt, "It is good for you to relax too, Mandalorian, especially if your tribe requires your protection."

"You needed this more than me."

You hum as you carefully dump a small amount of the healing salts into the hot spring, avoiding his emotionless gaze as you muster up the courage to say what’s been clawing at the back of you mind since after your initial meeting with the enigmatic warrior.

“Why do you find it so important to take care of me?”

Besides the peaceful sounds of running water and chirping crickets, it’s deathly silent and you fear that the Mandalorian will refuse to answer your question. You lower your head, shame and regret burning something fierce in your cheeks as the silence overwhelms you and convinces you that he does not care about you--that it’s all part of your imagination. You hear him shuffle around and you think he’s attaching his equipment back to his armor, probably wanting to already leave the beautiful cave.

Then a bare hand is on the center of your spine and you find yourself shivering and sighing as a massive hand idly trails up your back. His callused fingers easily push past your thick braids and find purchase on your nape; an embarrassed whimper leaves you when he firmly strokes and squeezes the tension away from your stiff muscles.

“Because, mesh’la,” His voice is close to your ear and when you turn your head in the slightest, your surprised to find his visor just inches away from your eyes, “I would not stand by and watch a harsh world beat you down so easily.”

You think him to be the best thief in the village, because his next words, followed by the press of his forehead against yours, has you bereft of any air that had previously filled your lungs.

“I would much rather see you with that pretty smile that actually meets your eyes, rather than bruises and cuts on your face. I would bring you here every night if it meant seeing that light in your eyes. even if for only a few seconds.”

The smile you grace him with is so genuine and huge that it hurts your cheeks.

Though you believe the Maker to be so cruel to bless you with such a tender companionship, surely with the intentions to eventually rip it away from your grasps, you will allow yourself to feel such happiness in that moment.

sen’tra= Jetpack

saviin’ika= Little violet

mesh’la= Beautiful

Author’s Note: First off, I know I’ve said a bajillion times and I’m never going to stop saying how sweet and supportive you all are! When I first came up with the idea for this story, I certainly had no intentions of people reading it since it’s so self-indulgent and I’m just a soft baby that loves the thought of huge, tough warriors also being soft babies lol. I’m glad we’re all fans of tender Mandalorians being soft with their partners and I’m so appreciative of all the kind comments y’all have left. I hope you all continue to enjoy my story and I promise I’ll try to update as consistently as my hectic schedule will allow me to.

I love you all <3

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester​ @auty-ren​ @theocatkov​ @oloreaa​ @blindedbyyourgrace17​ @datmando​ @dartheldur​ @miscellaneous-mando​ @karpasia​ @ben-is-a-hoe​ @the-feckless-wonder​ @whatababeleia​ @maybege​

If I missed anyone, please let me know!!

[cavalierious-whim]

A Flexible Approach [FE3H]

Sylvix | Canon-Compliant | War Phase | Explicit

Their shared tent is very small and Sylvain learns just how flexible Felix is.

A/N: Oh my God, I can't believe I wrote this (actually I can, and it's all because of some random prompt I saw on tumblr, whoops). As always, it's Sato's fault, but I think by now I've just accepted this as part of my daily life. Read here on A03 for better formatting and follow me here on Twitter!

####

Sylvain’s irksome at his best moments and downright infuriating at his worst.

Felix just wants to get off. They’ve been too busy with war; slogging it through marshy battlefields, days on end in tents, and no privacy. Barely enough time to wash up with dirt-tinged water and pass out before being up at dawn to march off again.

And it isn’t that he wants to hurry. No, no, he wants to enjoy this, as he should. As they both should. There’s been little more than a few quick jerk-offs when no one was looking.

Sylvain won’t shut up, though, and it’s not in the good kind of way where he croons praise close to Felix’s ear, breath ghosting the shell of it and warming the skin there.

The tent is cramped, not really meant for two people. Byleth was mildly amused when Felix proclaimed he’d be sharing one with Sylvain, one of the few cracks of genuine emotion they’ve ever seen from him. And no one’s ever said anything even though Felix knows that they want to.

They aren’t exactly subtle or quiet for that matter. Try as they might.

Tonight’s one of those nights when they’re feeling extra frisky, blood pumping where it’s probably the worst. Straight into the gut and below. Felix wanted to sleep but then Sylvain slotted behind him, grinding their hips together, and-- well, he’s a simple man in the end.

Still, they don’t usually indulge to this point while out on the field. For a lot of reasons. It’s hot and sticky. It’s dirty and muddy. They’re covered in who knows what even after a quick rinse. Their tent is directly in the middle of the camp, strategically placed by their dear Professor because the more people they’re around, the less likely it is that he and Sylvain will be up to no good.

It’s turning out to be more work than anticipated, though, and part of Felix wishes that they’d just committed to the quick handjobs that they usually manage. The other part of him just wants to get railed. Preferably sooner than later.

“You’re a lot more flexible than I thought,” says Sylvain, a hand on the back of Felix’s thigh as he pushes at it.

“Shut up,” says Felix, annoyed.

“I’m just saying,” says Sylvain, fingers hooking underneath Felix’s knee and lifting it slightly.

“Ugh, this is too awkward--”

“Are you saying that you want to stop?”

“No!” Felix says it a little too quickly and a little too loudly, something that greatly amuses Sylvain.

He reaches out with his other hand to cover Felix’s mouth. Then he leans over, smirking. “Quiet, Felix. Weren’t you the one who said we’d have to keep it down?”

“You’re one to talk,” says Felix, quieter than before, barely above a hiss.

“Okay, okay.” Sylvain’s quiet for a touch too long, just looking at him. “Would you say that you’re Felixable?”

“That’s it,” says Felix immediately. He still has his own tent. It’s rolled up and tied up tight, hanging off his camping pack. “I’ll just handle this on my own-”

Felix’s words dissolve into an embarrassing squawk as Sylvain rubs the palm of his hand over his crotch, squeezing at his half-hard cock through the rough fabric of his smalls. It annoys him, how easily he turns to mush under such a simple touch. How little it takes for him to crumble at the behest of Sylvain.

“Bastard,” hisses Felix.

Sylvain laughs at Felix’s ornery temperament, and how his hips chase after when Sylvain pulls away, desperate for more friction, for a longer touch. “But I’m your bastard,” says Sylvain affectionately, leaning over to plant a sloppy kiss against Felix’s face. “And you love it.”

Felix pushes Sylvain’s face away roughly. Then presses his hips closer, trying to get as much friction as possible, vexed at how desperate he’s become. His cock was already burning with need; Sylvain’s hot-handed touch only made it worse.

And Sylvain knows it, evident in the devious smirk that’s plastered across his face. Sylvain can read Felix like that well-worn copy of war tactics Byleth’s passed around to them all, so there isn’t a point in trying to hide it. Felix doesn’t. Sylvain’s hand still rests on the back of his thigh, thumbing across the smooth skin there.

“Lazy,” says Felix. “Are you going to just sit there or are you going to fuck me?”

Sylvain hums at that, amused. “Impatient,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of Felix’s knee, his lips lingering there. Felix groans in aggravation. “It’s been a while so I want to enjoy this.”

“There isn’t time,” says Felix. Never enough time, he thinks like always. Sylvain’s right, though; it’s been too long since they’ve indulged in anything other than brief touches that are barely satisfying.

“There’s enough,” says Sylvain. “Certainly enough to enjoy ourselves.”

Handjobs are enjoyable, thinks Felix. Even their quick fucks in the dark, down and dirty when they’re too exhausted to do much more than pull their pants half-down. Felix understands what Sylvain means because even he misses those long nights where they pull apart each other slowly, fucking lazily as they burrow into the bedsheets. Sweet touches that Felix would never admit to and the soft kiss marks that he leaves behind to stake his claim.

It’s been too long.

Still, they’re in the middle of the camp and there are prying ears. “Sylvain,” hisses Felix lowly. “I just want to--”

“I know what you want,” says Sylvain, his hand finding Felix’s side, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Doubtful,” says Felix even though it’s a lie. Sylvain can play him like a lyre, plucking the perfect chords that will melt him right into a puddle.

Sylvain chuckles against Felix’s skin as he leans over, pressing his nose into the side of his neck. Their positioning was already awkward but it only gets worse as Sylvain dips lower, fingers ghosting along Felix’s ribcage. Felix doesn’t fight him when he tugs his shirt higher to suck a soft little bruise into his sternum.

“Never,” says Sylvain, insufferably confident.

Felix is about to retort when Sylvain’s mouth finds his nipple, tongue swirling around it before flicking the little nub there. Felix moans softly instead, arching into the touch, biting at his lip as Sylvain lavishes him with attention.

Damn him, thinks Felix. Damn this stupid dolt and his perfect mouth.

Sylvain thumbs over his other nipple, rolling it between his fingers gently. “So easy,” he murmurs against Felix’s skin, his breath ghosting his other nipple before tonguing it again.

“Fuck off,” says Felix.

“Fuck you,” says Sylvain, pulling back to look at Felix. He runs a hand down his chest, fingers trailing along well-honed abs before stopping right at the edge of Felix’s smalls. Waiting with infuriating patience. This is where Sylvain always has the upper hand-- he’s someone who can wait. Forever if need be.

Felix can’t. “Get to it, then,” he says, impatient as he ruts against Sylvain the best that he can, legs wrapped tightly around Sylvain’s hips. The tight space of their tent makes it damn near impossible and the lack of relief is making him irate.

“Alright, alright.” Sylvain tugs at Felix’s underthings, and after a series of awkward movements they’re off, Felix bared to the world. His cock is hard, already wet at the tip and dripping. Waiting for the good shit to start happening, to finally be sated.

“What if I’m on top?” asks Felix. He’s already moving when Sylvain grabs him by the legs and holds him there. And, he’s still mostly dressed, only the collar of his shirt undone. Felix can barely see his collarbone, just a peek of skin there.

Insufferable.

“No,” says Sylvain, his hands warm against the backs of his thighs. “Like earlier,” he continues, pushing Felix’s legs upwards, expecting resistance. There is none and Felix’s knees wind up near his ears, almost pressed into the thin mattress. “Shit.” It’s a soft little swear into the night, and Sylvain looks at Felix like he’s seeing him anew, far too delighted in this revelation.

Felix forgets entirely about his discomfort the moment he sees the unbridled lust that’s bloomed across Sylvain’s face. “You’re too slow,” he says, keeping up the annoyed facade he’s spent years perfecting.

Sylvain’s still dressed when he dips lower. Felix knows it isn’t comfortable for him either, it’s hell on his knees and there’s a high possibility that Sylvain’s feet are probably sticking right out the tent flap because he’s got absurdly long legs.

The moment that Sylvain presses a thumb against the skin just under his balls, Felix stops giving a shit about the embarrassment of getting caught. Fucking isn’t against the rules and everyone knows that they don’t share a tent because they’re close friends.

Sylvain’s touch is soft and sweet, far too slow for Felix’s liking, of course. He cants his hips up, trying to get his point across, trying to remind Sylvain that there’s a reason to all of this. “Hurry up,” says Felix, nodding to his pack. “There’s oil in there.”

Because of course there is. He’s learned to always be prepared.

Sylvain, the obstinate bastard, has other plans. He leans close to press a kiss to the tip of Felix’s cock instead. Felix groans in frustration, moans in pleasure, and nearly smacks him upside the head. And then Sylvain dips lower, tongue trailing across his balls, over the soft, sensitive skin there and--

Felix damn near kicks down one side of their tent when Sylvain licks right across his hole. The sound that Felix looses is unholy, a breathy little moan punctuated by a whine that he tries his damndest to hide. He fails miserably.

“Too loud,” murmurs Sylvain against him. But he doesn’t stop, tongue swirling around Felix’s entrance slowly, sinfully, and with perfected intent.

They don’t often do this; it’s always the wrong time and place. The goal is always to get off quickly and enjoy what they can when they can. Sylvain seems to want to indulge despite where they are, despite their early call time, even though he knows this kind of thing turns Felix into a mewling mess and that there are prying ears all around.

Sylvain’s thumbs at his ass cheeks, spreading them wide, tongue soft and warm as he licks across the entirety of his hole.

“Fuck,” says Felix, unable to stop himself.

“Not yet,” says Sylvain, cheeky in that insufferable way of his.

“Shut up--” Felix’s voice pitches high when Sylvain presses his tongue inside, just enough to get a taste of what he truly wants. He can feel the way that Sylvain smiles against him, tongue writhing as he licks into him, everything so very precise.

Sylvain’s perfection in bed. Even Felix can recognize it. Eager to please, patient in return, willing to change things up and do the unexpected; a winning combination as far as Felix is concerned.

A finger traces Felix’s rim, already slicked and ready to go. Sylvain hesitates, pressing in only with his tongue, and Felix sighs in frustration. He drops a hand to his groin to curl a hand around his straining cock, but Sylvain grabs his wrist. And holds him there with surprising strength.

“Not yet,” he says against Felix’s ass, tracing after the words with the tip of his tongue.

Felix’s head drops back into the shitty camping pillow, eyes closing tight with a crabbed grunt. Normally, he’d tell Sylvain to fuck off. Normally, he’d push his hand off, flip them around and take whatever he wants.

And Sylvain likes it when he does that, when Felix takes control. Felix also likes it like this, where Sylvain pulls him apart and puts him right back together, boneless and satiated.

Even if he has to bite at his lip to keep the edge off.

Sylvain pauses and looks at him, waiting patiently.

“Dolt,” says Felix, wiggling his hips. Ignoring the dark, sultry look that covers Sylvain’s face, and the way that his lips are slick with spit, glistening in the low light of the small oil lamp. “Back to work, you imbecile.”

To anyone else, it’d be an insult, but with Sylvain, it’s an endearment. He soaks it up heartily with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to the swell of his ass before swooping lower once more. This time, Sylvain slips a finger in next to his tongue, a slick and neat maneuver all at once. Just the way that Felix likes it.

Felix bites his moan off just in time and cants his hips down, pressing closer to Sylvain’s hand. Sylvain makes good use of his finger alongside his mouth. His tongue is wet and warm as it licks into him. His finger is insistent as he presses against his walls, avoiding exactly where Felix wants it.

Utterly infuriating. He feels the slow burn in his gut, the way that his pleasure coils just barely. Sylvain’s playing hard to get, trying to drag out his pleasure and make him beg. Felix won’t give in, refuses to.

“Useless,” murmurs Felix. “Good for nothing. I barely feel a thing.”

Sylvain hums at that as he adds a second finger, knowing that Felix is goading him. Sylvain plays right into his hand.

The burning stretch is exquisite, despite the generous amount of oil. Sylvain is always careful, always dutiful in his care. He also knows that Felix likes it fast and rough, the pull and tug at his rim. The way that he can feel it all in the aftermath, a reminder of what Sylvain’s done.

He’s only talked about it once and Sylvain’s never forgotten. He’s always been dutiful in his attentions after that, with touches that just barely sting in the best kind of way. Felix grinds his hips against his hand, his face.

Sylvain’s no longer tonguing at him, he’s watching, eyes blissed out as his fingers gently scissor in and out, pulling at Felix’s rim in a delicious stretch. Staring, entirely engrossed, pupils blown wide as his hand moves, thumb tucked against the skin just underneath his balls. He licks his lips, wanting to taste again.

Felix is too impatient for that.

“Enough of that,” he says with a huff.

“Never enough of that,” says Sylvain.

“For tonight it is,” says Felix.

Sylvain pauses and their gazes meet once more. Sylvain sweeps the length of Felix’s body, taking in the way that he’s curled tightly into himself, knees near his ears. The ruddy pink of his face, the red strain of his hard cock against his belly. The annoyed look on Felix’s face as he waits for him to just get to the point.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain, completely enamored.

“About time,” says Felix obstinately. “Been waiting too long.” Sylvain doesn’t answer, only sits up between Felix’s legs. Then Felix shifts, a hand dropping to Sylvain’s crotch, squeezing. Sylvain punches out a long breath, eyes slipping closed as he tries to keep his composure.

Sylvain’s easy to please, getting off on doing all the hard work. Felix rewards him by running his fingers over his still-clothed cock, gripping him tightly. The resulting whine is worth ten thousand wars.

“Good boy,” whispers Felix into the quiet of their tent. Sylvain’s cock twitches at the praise.

It’s too hard to pull his pants entirely off, so Sylvain settles on yanking them half-down around his knees. Felix looks, taking in the peek of his collarbone where it meets his shirt, and then the cut of his hips, then the swell of his well-honed thighs and ass from years of riding.

And then there’s his cock, hard and waiting, perfectly formed. It always sits well in Felix’s hand or throat, and there isn’t a thing better to fill him.

Sylvain lifts Felix’s legs, pulling Felix’s ass to his groin. Felix groans when Sylvain teases his hole with the tip of his cock, just barely pressing in. Already flushed and wanting, itching to fill that void left behind by his fingers. Then Felix curses as Sylvain presses in and slides straight home.

Annoying, how easily Felix loses himself in the feel of it; the stinging burn and pressure of Sylvain’s cock, how perfect he feels. Nothing else can compare. Not Felix’s fingers on lonely nights, or well-crafted toys bought from the coy Anna, each to the burning memory of Sylvain’s touch.

The answer is always Sylvain. Felix always runs right back to him, even when it’s against his better judgment, like now. Sylvain insists on leaning back as much as possible despite the cramped space. Insists on looking between them, to see where they’re connected, even in the low lamplight.

Felix knows they’ve made too much noise, that the entire camp is privy to what they’re up to.

Sylvain groans at the sight, hand slipping between them, thumbing over where Felix is stretched tight around him. “Perfect,” says Sylvain, pressing in again, far slower than Felix would like. And Sylvain knows it, that Felix is impatient and wants it dirty and fast and rough.

“Dolt,” says Felix in a hush, the word pinched as Sylvain executes a perfect grind. An expletive shortly follows as Felix’s head falls back against the shitty cot pillow.

Sylvain laughs and leans over again, pressing his nose into Felix’s neck. “So pliable,” he says, tongue sneaking out from his lips to lap at Felix’s sweaty skin. “Supple, malleable--”

“Intolerable,” cuts in Felix, earning just a bit of his bite back. He clenches tight around Sylvain who moans in response, biting at his lip to keep from calling out. Felix can’t help the smirk, desperate to gain the upper hand band.

But then Sylvain changes the angle, raising his hips slightly and plunging back in, relentless. A perfect assault against his prostate, a smooth and calculated motion that hits the target every time. Felix’s voice hitches and he curses again, nearly going slack. His legs tighten as they settle around Sylvain’s waist as he tries to move against him, tries to meet the thrusts.

“Supine,” says Sylvain, his breath ghosting his skin before biting at it. He sucks a bruise that’ll last for days. Everyone will see and Felix won’t care.

Supine indeed, thinks Felix. Lost in the feel of it, craving more. Gone is his decorum and carefully controlled demeanor in favor of sinking into the feel of Sylvain’s body heat, and the filthy glide of his cock.

Felix wouldn’t trade Sylvain for anyone else, not that he’d ever voice it aloud. Sylvain knows; he sees it in the moments like this even if Felix isn’t vocal about it. War is difficult, impossible even, but this one small thing they share is enough to keep them hanging on, if only for another day.

That, and Sylvain’s cock is utter perfection, snug within him, hitting all the right spots.

“About time,” says Felix, ever contrary even when he’s given in.

“Never enough, for you,” says Sylvain in a soft murmur, his hips pumping against Felix in a steady rhythm.

“No,” agrees Felix unapologetically. “More,” he says.

Sylvain grunts but pauses, pushing at Felix’s legs again, unwrapping them from where they rest around his waist. His hands find the back of Felix’s pale thighs and he says, “Hold them.”

Felix blinks and then smirks, lips crooked towards one side. “Oh, like that do you? That I’m flexible?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s obvious,” says Sylvain, looking between them as he slides in and out, pulling at Felix’s rim. Felix knows that he must look like a ruined mess; face flushed, hair mussed, his ass slick and stretched.

Sylvain loves it, loves him, so it’s the least he can do when he grabs the backs of his thighs and pulls them towards his chest.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain.

“You could fuck me more,” says Felix.

They both know that he can’t. The cadence of Sylvain’s hips is already losing its steady rhythm. Nearing his end, and Felix is too. He can feel the pressure mounting in his gut, that slow-stoking fire starting to set ablaze.

Sylvain’s gaze is glued to him, sliding over his form from Felix’s legs, to where he holds them, to where Sylvain’s thrusting home. Sylvain bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth as he tries not to make too much noise.

They’re already too loud. There isn’t a chance in Ailell that the rest of the camp can’t hear the wet slap of slickened skin against slicker skin. The way that Sylvain pounds Felix into the mattress within an inch of his life.

Or so it feels.

“Good boy,” says Felix quietly, and Sylvain whimpers, eyes slipping closed like he can’t bear to look at him. Like he’ll come right then and there if he does. “Always good for me, always giving me what I want,” continues Felix, goading him further.

“What you need,” says Sylvain. He drops a hand to Felix’s stomach where it hesitates. “What else do you need?” His fingers twitch just above Felix’s aching cock where it’s hard and straining against his belly, bouncing slightly with every thrust Sylvain gives him.

“Not that,” says Felix. Sylvain’s eyes snap open, looking back at him. They meet gazes and Felix can practically feel the heat that rolls off him. Sylvain’s nails dig into his stomach, just barely, trying to ground himself.

“I want to come with only your cock,” says Felix, a dirty little whisper that fills the tent. “I bet that I could. You always do so well, know exactly how to push my buttons.”

Sylvain moans at the praise. He grabs Felix by the hips, anchoring him there. Felix still holds his legs up, still folded into himself, muscles burning with the strain. It’s worth the look on Sylvain’s face as he watches Felix like a starving man who’s finally getting a meal.

Sylvain’s a simple man and loves to be praised, so Felix keeps at it, murmuring compliments to his ego that he knows will drop straight to Sylvain’s gut. His hips stutter slightly as he loses his grip and the steady slide. It’s good, it’s so good; Felix can feel his body coiling tighter and tighter.

Felix comes first, a rarity in most cases. It’s usually Sylvain to fall with Felix shortly after, but this time his cock hits the right spot at the right time. Everything within him snaps-- his stress, his thoughts of the war, the idea of sleepless nights ahead.

All he can think, hear, see and smell is Sylvain and the way that they’re connected. Felix tightens around him, bucking slightly as he lets go of a leg. Sylvain’s cock pulls so deliciously as he fucks him through his orgasm.

“Sylvain,” says Felix, a scarce show of affection that he knows Sylvain will tuck away and keep the memory of as he often does.

“Fuck,” Sylvain says, still rutting into him. One second and then another, and then he’s tumbling after, chasing that high as he comes deep inside Felix.

“Shit,” murmurs Felix, “Sylvain, fuck.” His curse echoes Sylvain’s as he drops his legs. When Sylvain moves to pull away, Felix makes a pathetic little whine before squeezing his legs tight around him. “No.”

A gentle command that Sylvain ignores entirely. He smiles into Felix’s sweaty neck, pressing a soft little kiss there before untangling themselves. Felix doesn’t protest when Sylvain looks at his ass, thumb sweeping through his come and pulling lightly at his rim.

“Sylvain,” he says, warningly.

But Sylvain, the handsome devil, only smiles in return before bending Felix back again and dropping to lap at his hole. It’s a rare indulgence. When Sylvain partakes, he does so enthusiastically.

Felix is too sensitive, still thrumming from his orgasm. Still coming down from that high. The feel of Sylvain’s tongue, wet and probing as he licks up the mess that he made nearly sends Felix right back up.

“I wanted to enjoy this,” says Sylvain against him, “I said as much earlier.” A finger finds Felix’s hole, and then two, pressing in with more care than not. Teasing his walls as Sylvain laps at him.

Felix moans, falling back into the cot. His cock is filling out again; from the feel of it, from the intimacy of it, at the behest of Sylvain’s overt eagerness to eat him out.

Sylvain directs Felix to hold his legs again. “Just once more, darling,” he says, “Just for a moment.” Felix complies wordlessly.

Then, Sylvain spreads his asscheeks and dives right back in. Felix keens, not bothering to bite his lip, not bothering to hide it this time. Fuck the camp, he thinks, as Sylvain works his magic, doing his best to pull Felix right back apart a second time.

His tongue swirls around his rim and his fingers spread wide before pushing back in and hooking against that perfect spot. Sylvain raises a hand, hovering it over Felix’s cock. Felix huffs in annoyance, knowing what it is that Sylvain wants to hear.

“Please,” says Felix, “Again.”

Sylvain’s grip around his length is warm and tight as he jerks him expertly, perfectly timed with the thrust of his fingers against his ass. Felix can’t hold back the moan that escapes him, can’t help the way that he ruts against Sylvain’s face.

The fiery pressure in his gut is wearing thin again, tightening more and more. Sylvain’s fingers curl around the head of his cock, smearing the come that’s already there, using it to ease the glide of his hand.

The sounds are sinful, the way that Sylvain moans against him. Sylvain’s debauched, his face pressed against Felix’s ass like he won’t survive unless he laps up every last drop of his spend. Licking up to suck at his balls, before dropping right back to his prize. His fingers pump into him with a steady and gentle press, milking Felix’s prostate for all that it’s worth.

Were this a different night, Felix might test his limits, might see just how long Sylvain can keep him going before pulling away.

It’s already too late though, he’s already slipping over the edge again. The line of pleasure within him snaps and Felix is coming again, all over Sylvain’s hand, hips rising and falling with his overstimulation. Sylvain, mercifully, stops moving his hand, only cupping his cock.

He pulls back and presses a kiss against the meat of Felix’s inner thigh. He’s red in the face, eyes hazed with pleasure, mouth and chin slick with come. His come. Felix etches the sight into his memory for lonely nights to come.

The cleanup is clinical, perfunctory even. They wipe themselves off silently and manage to pull on their pants, at least. They’ve been caught with them down, even in bed, a few too many times.

When they lay in the cot once more, Felix is the one to spoon Sylvain, his preferred position. Wrapped around him like a clingy brat, nose pressed to the nape of Sylvain’s neck, smelling the sweat of their lovemaking.

Remembering their lovemaking. The best thing to go to sleep to.

“Tired,” says Sylvain quietly. He hasn’t blown out their tiny little oil lamp yet and his face is lit with a dingy orange glow. “But I bet the others will be too.”

“You are insufferably loud when you want to be,” says Felix, teasing. They both know that he was far louder. They also know that they won’t hear the end of it the next day.

“And you are divine,” says Sylvain. “Truly. I didn’t know that you could bend that way.”

“What do you think that I do when I train?”

There’s a brief silence and then Sylvain says, “Run things through with swords? Pointy-end goes that way, and all that?”

“I also stretch,” says Felix, scoffing. Sylvain’s thinking again, Felix can tell. Probably terribly dirty things like how and what he can bend Felix over. “Want to help me stretch next time?”

A question tinged with innuendo, something usually brought forth by Sylvain, not Felix.

“Depends. Will there be an audience?”

“That can be arranged, though I’d much prefer to have you all to myself. Perhaps late one night when the training pit is empty. The stars out and all that.” It’s about as romantic as Felix will ever get.

Sylvain only laughs before he leans over and blows out the candle.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter xvi. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general 

word count.  1550

chapter 16.  Ending Scene

Now, that's a question.  He knew his reasonings were poor - unfettered doubts with no bearings - but they existed, nonetheless.  How could they not when they'd sat in the cavern of his chest for the better part of his life, unattended like a wilting garden? It was simply an unfortunate consequence of unrequited love.

Weeds grew where hands couldn't reach.  It was neither your fault nor his.

"Say it again.”  He means it like a question but it fills you like a demand, sloping your mouth around syllables you'd repeat until you were hoarse.

"I love you.”  The kiss he rewards you with is breathtaking, quite literally tearing the air from your lungs with the intensity of it.  "I love you,”  you repeat like a mantra, if only to draw that same fire from him.  You want him just as badly as he needs you and you revel in the realization and the power it brings.  You're drunk on it.

He keens against you, edging at your throat and smiling giddily when the profession never stops.  "I could listen to you say that forever,”  he admits, easily, with little shame.

"I could say it forever.”  And you could.  You'd give him this, every day, for the rest of his life.  It'd be as easy as breathing, you think.  That was the power of your love.  It existed in every action and inaction.  Unconditional, as it should be and as it had been since you'd been children.

The frame of his arms holds you relentlessly, crushing you to his chest as he exhales the happiest noise you've ever heard.  He's back to being the boy you love, if not a little waterlogged.  You can still feel the wet of your tears and his, carved into your cheeks and anywhere he'd brushed against.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

It's honeycomb, scratchy and saccharine, sinking behind your molars and all over your hands.  It sends you miles over the moon, flying on a sugar rush you don't want to come down from.  Each kiss, each caress - it's another inch given into your addiction.

You don't mind.  Really, you'd happily perish if it meant going out this way.

You roll your eyes at the beautiful boy in your arms and it hurts a little, strained from saltwater.  "Why didn't you tell me sooner?”  The return is tender as always, further softened by the hand that drags the length of his cheekbone and settles affectionately on his shoulder.

"There was never a good time.  You were always in a relationship or...  something.”  As if that's the most obvious thing in the world, though you find meaning further than he intends, catching all the things left unsaid in between.

You pass a kiss over his temple, tickled pink by the soft tendrils of off-blue and not-black.  "I wasn't always in a relationship,”  you insist.  It's true.  There'd been times throughout the years that you'd been alone.

No, not alone.  You'd had him.

"You know what I mean.”  He mumbles his response into the stained satin of your neck, nosing softly there.  "You were either in a relationship or getting over one and I didn't ever want to be a last resort.”  Your heart aches when he puts his concerns to you, lets them linger in the spaces he can't fill with his physical self.  "I wanted you to be with me for me."

You know how hard the words are for him.  It'd taken him years and years to come to terms with his emotions - in all aspects of his life.  Even now, he was still growing, learning, evolving in ways you couldn't even begin to fathom.  It was, after all, one of realities of being an international superstar.  He had to grow up so fast.

You appreciate every verbalization he offers, tucking vowels and consonants into the corners of your heart for safekeeping.

"Jeon Jungkook, I'll always love you for you.”  You've caught him in your line of fire again, cradling his sharp jaw in the palms of your hands.  He tries not to meet your gaze - directs it to the freckle on your shoulder - but you remain steadfast.  "You’re my best friend.  Have been my whole life."

There's a sadness in your voice that creeps his eyes back to you, purely out of concern for your well-being.

"How could you ever think I wouldn't want you?"

Now, that's a question.  He knew his reasonings were poor - unfettered doubts with no bearings - but they existed, nonetheless.  How could they not when they'd sat in the cavern of his chest for the better part of his life, unattended like a wilting garden? It was simply an unfortunate consequence of unrequited love.

Weeds grew where hands couldn't reach.  It was neither your fault nor his.

"Couldn't help it.”  Another half-answer.  You've had enough of those.

With a strength that surprises even you, your mouth finds his.  Lips mould and meld, reshaping in a new kind of promise.  Like the ones you'd always made, but with fewer parts.  Better, in a way.  "I'll make it up to you."

"You have nothing to make up for."

You're not sure whether he believes it but you sure as hell don't.  You'd put him through hell these past few weeks - made him wade through an inferno like some poor soul - and here he was, soothing your ache as if it were his own.

"But I do,”  you pepper kisses over his nose, insistent.  "I have years and years to make up for."

He scoffs, rough and low.  Not because he doubts the intensity of your words, but because he's suddenly very amused by a thought.  "I don't think you could make up for fifteen years, no matter how hard you tried.  It just isn't possible, realistically."

The smugness on his face only acts as an accelerant to your actions.  You're crowding every inch of him in chaste pecks, from the top of his head - which smells vaguely of hairspray and his shampoo - to the faded scar.  You leave no patch of skin unattended, taking his words as an unnecessary challenge.

You linger at his cheeks, the taste of salt stilling your persistent motions.

He takes that as an unspoken forfeiture, his own hands shifting to draw you away until he can see you clearly.  When he glimpses the consternation in your brow, mockery flies out the proverbial window, instead replaced by concern.  "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry."

You've said it enough times tonight that he shakes his head, laughter dragging his shoulders and filling your senses.  "Stop saying that."

"I can't,”  you retort, fingers tracing the path his tears had carved.  They're stark beneath your touch, distinct by the natural flush of his skin beneath the carefully applied makeup.  "I hate seeing you cry."

Jungkook's head tilts, eyelids fluttering closed as he nuzzles into your caress.  "And I hate you seeing you cry, but you do it all the time anyway.”  It's meant to make you laugh.  When you don't immediately, he pries an eye open, surveying you closely.  Your lips are pursed and you're not quite meeting his eyes, instead focused on the sadness that has long since dissipated.

"I'm serious.”  You're pouting and he thinks it looks too good on you.  It shouldn't, but it does.

"So am I.  Stop it.  I just told you I love you."

The reminder does perk you up, if only a little.  He sees it swimming in the back of your gaze, just beyond the worry that circles like sharks.

“Shouldn’t you be jumping for joy or something?”  Brow lifts, quirks high, and for a moment, all of the tension in your expression is gone.  You study him steadily, thumbs brushing the delicate hollows of his eyes and where the cut little crow’s feet imprint. 

“I think your fame is getting to your head.”  It’s gently teasing, soft as feathers.

There’s the girl he loves – the sweet thing who picks him up when he’s down, who has him full belly laughing without trying.  It feels so utterly good to have you here like this, wrapped in his arms and held like you’re meant to be.  It’s the best feeling in the world.  He won’t even let your half-hearted teasing deter him.  “It’s actually your fault,”  he drawls into your palm, a satisfied humming chasing the words out.

“How is it my fault?”  You’re scandalized in inflection only, soothing ministrations drawing his head to rest in the crook of your neck.  He inhales deeply, like you’re a breath of fresh air. 

“You’ve given me everything I could ever want.  My ego’s pretty big cause of that.”

It’s so matter of fact that it leaves you speechless, your fingers pausing in their gentle combing through his hair.  It makes him laugh, the breath spilling over your violet-marked skin.  His hands smooth over your sides, across the small of your back, settling happily into the pliable flesh of your thighs.  “What?” 

Honestly, you’re not even sure.  You’ve traded affections all your life, pressing them into linked fingers and childish giggle fits.  “You can’t just say things like that!” 

“Why not?”  Jungkook’s looking at you like you’re crazy.  There was no way in hell he was about to tone down his feelings for you when you’d just finally – finally! – gotten over the biggest hurdle.  No, he’d shout it from the rooftops, crush you with the weight of it.  He hopes you won’t mind.

When you drag his chin, tilt his face towards yours with hands that feel deliberate, he blinks owlishly up at you.  He’s not sure what you’re looking to convey – he can’t read it in the constellations swirling in your irises.  He wishes he could.

But he’ll settle for the words that come instead, filling him with all the light of the stars.  “I love you.”

notes.  hello, dear reader!  thank you for sticking through this tiny whirlwind of emotion.  for the most part, this story has been wrapped up.  they love each other!  they're gross and perfect!

i will be continuing their story with a bunch of one-shots detailing their relationship and the ups and downs.  there won't be a lot of rhyme or reason - just things i want to get out.  mainly stories that explore their dynamic, really.  their first date, meeting while on tour, etc.  these will be done under a different title (but as part of the same “series”).  if there's anything you'd like to read, please let me know.

i appreciate you sticking it out to this point.  wishing you healthy and happy!  xo

[calliopesquill]

A Year in the Life: Chapter 17

Hi everyone.

I'm so sorry this chapter is so late. I didn't get as much written as I had planned. This section has been fighting me a bit, and I've a lot to plan for the next few chapters, so it may be slow coming as I fine-tune what happens next. There's some pretty big stuff coming and I want to make sure that I do it properly.

This means unfortunately I will not be able to resume my weekly posing schedule. I will try to have a new chapter up every 2 weeks.

Thanks so much for your patience.

And with that, on with the chapter!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 17: It Takes a Murder to Catch a Murderer

         Julio was visiting an old friend in town when he heard the news: after two years of evading the law, Ernesto De la Cruz was finally back in police custody.

         The moment he heard he made his excuses and headed immediately for home.

         He hardly dared to believe it. De la Cruz seemed to vanish like smoke after Día de los Muertos, with neither hide nor hair being seen of him since. To finally have him in custody again was honestly a little surreal. Julio was not ashamed to admit that he wished he’d taken a crack at that slippery snake in the grass himself during the showdown at the Sunrise Spectacular. Not just for his own personal satisfaction, but for all the heartache that Ernesto’s selfishness had brought to Julio’s beloved Coco.

         Over the course of their lives together, Coco spoke to him often of her father. Never within earshot of Mamá Imelda or their daughters, of course, but during those quiet moments of their courtship, those rare times when they actually got to be alone. Coco did not have the luxury of many detailed memories of her father, being only three years old when Héctor left on that fateful tour, but she remembered his voice, his laugh, and the joy that had been the heart of their lives until the day he left. Although everyone else tried to convince her otherwise, there was a part of her that had always believed that he would come home someday. Julio remembered the hopeful glances towards the chapel doors the day of their wedding, the way her smile dimmed when someone else walked through the door. So when the truth of what happened to Héctor finally came out, Julio swore to do everything in his power to make things right again.

         They had almost lost him that night. That Miguel had managed to preserve Coco’s memories of her father had been nothing short of a miracle. And when it came time for Coco to join them in the Land of the Dead, the look of joy on her face when she was finally reunited with her father was one that Julio would treasure for the rest of his days.

         She had been devastated and furious to learn of what had befallen him, and Julio was quite certain that more than one of her exploratory ventures into the city over the last couple of years had been in search of the man she had once called her Tío Neto. His Coco was warm and bright as the sun, but many who looked at her forgot that sunlight could burn as well as soothe. With De la Cruz now behind bars, well, Julio was looking forward to the moment when Coco finally got her shot at him.

         Julio picked up speed as the house came into view, clinging to his broad-brimmed hat so it wouldn't get lost behind him. He burst through the gate, skidding to a halt on the worn cobblestones, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with his sister.

         Rosita caught him before he could fall, steadying him with careful hands. “Ay! Julio! What is it? What happened?”

         “D-De la Cruz--” He panted, bracing his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

         “Que?”

         “De la Cruz,” Julio repeated. “He’s been arrested.”

         “QUÉ?!”

         Rosita’s exclamation brought the rest of the family running, the twins colliding in the doorway of the workshop as they raced outside.

         “What is it?”

         “What happened?”

         “Ernesto De la Cruz has been arrested,” Rosita answered, hardly daring to believe it herself.

         “En serio?” Victoria asked

         Julio nodded. “It’s all over town. Hernando and I heard it from Señora Marquez, whose Tía Maria works at the police station. She said they put him through booking a couple hours ago.”

         “Where did they find him?” Coco asked.

         “Well, that’s the crazy part -- “

         Gustavo was late. This in itself was unusual enough to be remarked upon by the other band members. Gustavo was always early, mostly for the purposes of gossiping and ragging on any unfortunate band member who arrived after he did. It was agreed that he might be a bit pompous, a bit pretentious, but he had never in his entire afterlife missed a rehearsal. But with no word of his whereabouts either way, they were forced to begin without him.

         No sooner had the opening bars left their instruments than a door swung open, striking the wall with a clang, and Gustavo burst into the warehouse. He didn’t even stop to close the door behind him, making a bee-line for the band. “De la Cruz has been arrested!”

         The song ground to a squawking halt as the words sank in. As a one the musicians scrambled from their seats to hear the news, conveniently forgetting in wake of the celebrity arrest whose murder De la Cruz was guilty of. They didn’t notice how Héctor remained frozen in his seat, hands resting numbly on his guitar. They didn’t notice the look of panic, of pain in his dark eyes as he tried to keep himself together.

         But Nell did. Instead of gathering around Gustavo with the rest, Nell went straight to her friend’s side, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” She asked softly.

         Héctor nodded, grateful for the support.

         “They brought him in about an hour ago,” Gustavo continued, reveling in the attention as even the artists abandoned their projects in favor of the news. “They’re saying he was dropped on the steps of the police station by a flock of alebrijes.”

         “Wait, a flock?” The cellist asked with a small frown.

         Gustavo nodded. “A bunch of giant birds! I didn’t believe it when he told me, but it’s all over the city. Dropped him in a heap right on the steps, and kept him pinned until the policía came out to investigate. ”

         Héctor and Nell exchanged looks of silent communication. You don’t think --

         Maybe? Who else could it be?

         With the others distracted, Héctor and Nell gathered their things and raced immediately for home.

         They were most of the way to the house when they ran into Coco and Julio. All it took was a single look at each other’s faces to see what they knew. Coco hugged her father tightly, fists clenching at his back as she struggled to keep it together. It was a good couple of minutes before either of them could find the words to speak.

         “They found him, Papá,” Coco told him when she pulled back. There was a tense look in her eyes, part worry for her father, and what could only be described as a kind of eagerness.

         “I know,” Héctor said, with an attempt at a smile. “Gustavo… he told us.”

         Coco made a face of mild disgust. Like the rest of the Riveras, she couldn’t stand the violinist. She could only imagine the ham-handed method by which this news had been delivered. “What did he say?”

         “Not much,” her father answered. “Just that he’d been found and brought to the police station by a bunch of alebrije. We thought he might have been making that up, but…”

         “It’s true,” Julio confirmed. “I was in town with a friend when I heard, and came straight home. Mamá Imelda and the others have already left for the police station. She asked us to come and get you and meet her there.”

         Héctor flexed his fingers unconsciously on the strap of his guitar case, then nodded. “Come on, then. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

         They arrived at the police station to find it under siege. The entire street was packed with reporters armed with recorders, microphones, and cameras of every conceivable age and size. They watched the station doors like hawks eyeing a rabbit warren, waiting for even the slightest sign of movement. Pushing their way through the crush of reporters to reach the door was a battle in itself, and serious consideration was given to summoning Pepita or Buttons to disperse the crowd so they could get through.

         A pair of stone-faced officers guarded the doors, preventing even the more determined of the reporters from simply pushing their way inside. Coco and Julio were first to gain the steps and were about to be turned away when Héctor and Nell finally broke through the crowd behind them. Thankfully one of the officers recognized Héctor from the Sunrise Spectacular incident two years before and after a brief argument with his partner, he allowed the group inside.

         The inside of the police station was only marginally less hectic than the outside. Just because Ernesto De la Cruz had been arrested didn’t mean that all crime in the Land of the Dead had come to a halt -- though admittedly the crime rate in the Land of the Dead was significantly lower than it was in the Land of the Living. The center of the chaos seemed to be on the second floor, where a very angry, very familiar voice could be heard insulting the grooming habits and parentage of one Ernesto De la Cruz.

         “Well… I guess we found Imelda”, Nell said, holding back a snicker of amusement. The sheer variety and creativity of Imelda’s curses was impressive, and Nell filed the more unfamiliar ones away in her memory for future use.

          they made their way up the wrought-iron staircase, Imelda’s protests became clearer. Ernesto, it seemed, had been placed under solitary confinement, and would be allowed no visitors except his lawyers, and the officers assigned to the case. This was not at all what Imelda wanted to hear, as after that cabron murdered her husband and twice attempted to murder her great-great-grandson, she very much intended to crush his skull to powder with her boot. Which was not, of course, something that she said aloud, but was very much implied by the insistence in her tone.

         Coco, absently fingering the fringe of her shawl, did not blame her in the slightest. It was she who knocked on the office door, nudging it open to find her Mamá shouting at officers Flores and Vega. She had to give them credit for standing their ground. Mamá Imelda was fierce when she was in a temper, and denying her took no small amount of courage. “Mamá? We found them.”

         Imelda cut off her tirade, immediately running to embrace her daughter and husband. “Ah, mi familia! At last. This man, he says they have De la Cruz in custody, but they will not allow us to see him.” As she spoke she gestured to another skeleton behind the desk who was dressed in a charcoal-colored button-down shirt and black slacks.

         “As we were explaining to Señora Rivera,” Officer Flores said with no little exasperation. “This is a very high-profile case. Ernesto De la Cruz is being kept in solitary confinement for his own protection.” They had considered putting him in a regular holding cell with the other inmates but there was such an uproar the moment they brought him in that a private cell was the only option. If the other inmates had simply been fans, that would be bad enough. But between the stolen songs and murder charges… Yeah, definitely better to stick him by himself. “Due to the public nature of this case, visits will be restricted solely to Senor De la Cruz’s lawyer. Officer Vega, myself, and Detective Espinosa, who is the lead investigator on this case.”

         It was a reasonable precaution, all considered. Darn it. Imelda was not the only Rivera who had a boot with Ernesto’s name on it. Nell found herself wondering how many other musicians’ works Ernesto had taken credit for over the years.

         Espinosa himself looked less than impressed with Imelda’s demands, though privately he thought that the woman deserved a few moments alone with her husband’s murderer. He’d wanted to take a boot to the bastard’s face himself. Unfortunately given his position these were not thoughts he could voice aloud.

         “So, what happens now?” Julio asked.

         “Much the same as before,” Officer Vega answered. “You are still in contact with Señor Bernal, si?”

         Imelda nodded. Bernal had been assigned to their case early on, and they remained in contact with him in the months since. Less so recently, as until the events of a couple weeks before, it seemed less and less likely that De la Cruz would ever be apprehended. Imelda had sent Victoria and Rosita for him just before they left for the police station. “He should be on his way here.”

         They arrived a few moments later with a tall, thin skeleton man dressed in a finely-tailored suit that might have become fashionable some time in the late 1960’s. Victoria and Rosita trailed behind him, a familiar blue crow alebrije with colorful trailing tail feathers perched on Victoria’s shoulder. The bird let out an excited caw and after giving Victoria a companionable nudge with her head, she swooped across the room to land on Nell’s outstretched arm.

         “Hey, Lady. Were you keeping Victoria and Rosita company?” Nell asked as the bird side-stepped her way up to her shoulder.

         “This is your alebrije?” Detective Espinosa asked her, standing up from behind the desk.

         “One of them,” Nell answered as Lady gave a soft chirp. “Lady’s mom and a brother and sister.”

         “Are the others birds as well?”

         “Yeah. What is it you are trying to ask me, Detective?”

         “Nothing,” he replied. “Just curious. You have some very clever alebrije, Señorita Rey. They managed to do what two years of police involvement couldn’t.”

         “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Héctor cut in. “Wait. Are you saying that her alebrije are the one who found Ernesto?”

         The detective nodded. “Dropped him right on our doorstep. Your little blue Lady there had her talons hooked in his collar and would peck at his head every time he tried to get up. Her Mamá — I’m assuming she’s the big green one — just sat on him and wouldn’t let him up until a group of officers came to investigate.”

         Julio pressed his mouth shut tight, his mustache quivering in his attempt to keep himself from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the image.

         “I don’t suppose any of you has a dog alebrije?” Espinosa asked, remembering something that he’d seen in the arrest report.

         The Rivera’s exchanged looks. “Miguel’s alebrije is a xolo,” Héctor told him.

         “Ah. Well, that explains it. There were also reports of a skinny, winged dog gnawing on De la Cruz’s leg.”

         Miguel spent his next several lunch hours researching ghosts. There were certainly no shortage of reported hauntings, but none of the stories that he read was able to tell him what he wanted to know. What was it that kept spirits from crossing over? Oh sure, there were plenty of theories, but Miguel was 100% certain that half of the so-called “experts” out there hadn’t encountered a real ghost in their lives.

         Based in the different accounts he had read, Miguel had been able to separate the types of hauntings into two separate categories: impressions and actual ghosts. Impressions were snippets of time and intense emotions that imprinted on a place. The apparitions that resulted often repeated the same few moments in time, over and over again, but never acknowledged the living world. And then there were spirits like Antonio and Candela, who were autonomous and did not follow any kind of time-loop restriction. As a whole both kinds of spirits tended to be limited to a certain area of effect, usually a single building or street. He wasn’t sure how it was that Antonio seemed to be able to wander anywhere he wanted in Santa Cecilia, and wondered absently how big his range actually was.

         They had established the previous night that Antonio could not leave Santa Cecilia. Miguel had tried to take him to talk with Candela at the hospital to see if she had any answers, but he was unable to appear outside of town. Miguel spent the next hour catching up with Candela and checking on Nell. He knew from speaking to her parents that there had been no change, not that he had anticipated any, but he always felt better when he could see for himself.

         Unfortunately the ghostly nurse didn’t have any answers for him. She didn’t know what kept spirits from crossing over any more than the people on the internet did. And nothing Miguel read gave him any clue as to how he could help Antonio cross over. Except for straight-up exorczing him, which was not at all something that Miguel wanted to do. Firstly, because that would mean telling people that he could see ghosts, and he’d rather keep that to himself if he could. And also, who knew where Antonio would be sent afterwards? He could end up in the Land of the Dead like he was supposed to, or he could end up somewhere terrible, or just completely disappear. No way would Miguel risk doing that to the poor kid.

         He told him so one night while they were strolling through town. “It’s, like, the only thing that everyone can agree works but we’re not going to do that, I promise. We’ll find another way.”

         Antonio nodded, keeping his eyes carefully ahead as they walked. “Thanks, Miguel.” What else could he say? He’d been resigned to being trapped in the world for so long, it was strange to have hope again. He didn’t want to trust it, and there was a part of him that was tempted to tell Miguel to just stop looking. It was impossible… wasn’t it?

         “Hey.” Miguel reached out, catching his sleeve. “You okay?”

         “Yeah,” the boy said softly. “I just...I don’t know why you’re putting in all this work for me. What do you care if I’m stuck here or not?”

         Miguel did a double take. “¿Esperar, qué? You’re kidding, right?”

         Antonio ducked his head, refusing to meet his gaze, and said nothing.

         “Hey, look at me.” He gave the boy’s sleeve a short jerk. “Do you honestly believe I’d just leave you like this if there was anything I could do to help?”

         “I -- No. Maybe.” Antonio admitted, looking shamefaced. “I just… I don’t know why you care so much. You barely know me.”

         Miguel was silent for a moment. He had a feeling that Antonio wasn’t looking for an “I’d do it for anyone” kind of answer. “I don’t want to see anyone else left behind.” It seemed so obvious, once he finally said it aloud. “Papá Héctor, all of his friends in Shantytown…. Every one of them was left behind and forgotten. They disappeared because nobody passed their stories down. Kept separate from everyone else, even in the Land of the Dead. Nobody deserves that. Nobody deserves to be left behind. So I want to help you cross over, if I can. And I’m going to find your photo and add it to our ofrenda so you’ll never be forgotten.”

         Antonio looked stunned. Never, in life or in death, had anyone ever been willing to do something so kind for him.

         Miguel crouched in front of him, gently wiping the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Hey, It’s okay chico. We’re amigos, right? Amigos help each other.”

         Antonio just cried harder, throwing his arms around Miguel and hugging him tightly. Miguel returned the hug, rubbing one hand soothingly over the boy’s back as he had seen his Mamá do to Soccoro when she cried. After a few minutes the sobs quieted, but Miguel did not pull away until Antonio was ready to let him go.

         “You okay?”

         The boy nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and giving a watery sniffle. “G-gracias.”

         “De nada.” Miguel said with a small smile. “You ready to head home?”

         Home… That sounded pretty great. Antonio smiled back. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that concludes chapter 17! I hope it was worth the wait. 

Love you all!

[siconetribal]

Forevermore Part 10

Pairing: Jumin Han/Maya (I named the MC for ease of writing, you can change the name in your head since it is just MC)

Warning: Fluff and angst

Requested: @bat-yo-us​ Thank you for always being so patient with me!

Jumin returned sooner than she had expected, the two out the door with his hand resting on her lower back as he escorted her to the awaiting car. She was a bit curious as to how the car was ready, but she figured he must have contacted the driver when he was freshening up. The restaurant he settled on was a lovely place with the most exquisite dishes to choose from. All of it was a bit much for her, her head spinning from the rich decor to the equally rich sounding food. She always led a simple life and she knew he always came from a world far out of her reach, yet here she was noticing the gaping distance between them. All of the unease was quickly washed away at the sight of his concern however, the way his brows knit together and creased the skin between them was not something she wished to see today if she was able to clear away the trouble.

The two dined and conversed for what seemed like hours, her laughter and his gentle chuckles filling the air around them as they happily settled in their own little world. Occasionally his hand would graze over the back of hers, her fingers loosely entwining with his in response each time. She always felt so incomplete without him and now that she was complete again, she realized even more how hollow she felt when was gone. Jumin was no different, though he always was torn by the thought of leaving her to wait for him. However, he was not about to dwell on such thought. He wanted to focus on what was before him now and that was the love of his life, his one soulmate.

The two of them talked for hours, catching up one what had been missed in the time apart and the differences that were in this time now. The fact that they were allowed to be out in the open like this so freely was certainly something new. She always led a sheltered life in order to keep from harm as she waited and he was always of a status that was far beyond her reach. Though one’s name and money still mannered in society, it was no longer taboo for them to be seen together. The fact he knew this and had taken advantage of it right away left her drowning in love she thought impossible to expand upon.

As dinner time came, the two of them ordered once more and resumed their lengthy conversations as they reveled in the presence of one another. Where the time had gone, it was a mystery. The sun, at some point, had been replaced by the moon and stars. The other patrons were gone and a waiter had come to express the establishment needed to close for the evening. A little flustered, Maya apologized to them and Jumin a bit stunned with how much he had enjoyed the company. It was no surprise he would, he was with her after all. It was the fact that he had partook in the conversation and told her of many things that startled him the most.

“Well, I suppose this is the end of today.” Maya whispered as they stepped out of the building and awaited Kim to bring the car around. The fact she had to be away from him after finding him was bittersweet. She wanted to stay by his side, but she lacked the voice to insist it.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Jumin answered, startling Maya from her dark feelings. She peered into his perfectly chiseled face that was lit by the streetlights around them, trying her best to understand what he meant by such words. Unable to to come up with anything, she gave a slight frown. Jumin found himself lost in admiring her delicate features, amused at how her brows came together as her golden eyes were riddled with curiosity that knew no bounds. Ah, even that frown of yours is utterly adorable. If you keep this up, even someone such as myself will want to be cruel and tease you.

“What do you mean by that?” She spoke up.

“You can come live with me.” He simply stated, squeezing the hand he held. “Please move in with me. I know we only just reunited, but it’s silly to assume we don’t know one another well enough to stay together. We’ve been married so many times already, I can easily argue against my own beliefs of living together before marriage. You won’t be without amenities. Everything in the building and my penthouse would be available and accessible by you whenever you wish. My guards and employees will be at your disposal as well. If you insist on a separate bedroom, that can be prepared for you as well, there is more than enough room for us to have our own space if you so wish.” He calmly explained to her, his business-like manner of speech earning a soft giggle from her. “Is something I said funny?” He raised a brow at her reaction. He was not insulted by it, in fact he found himself rather pleased with her reaction and wished to take note so that he may elicit such sweet sounds from her once more.

“No, it’s not what you said per say. It’s, you’re speaking as if you’re trying to sell a deal almost.” She quickly shook her head, loosening some of her bangs. Before she was able to reach out for it herself, his fingers were already at work to tuck the loosened strands back in place.

“Well this is a serious matter to me. Of course I would do my best to convince you to come stay with me. Though I much rather avoid forcing a hand and give you the freedom to choose of your own will.” She giggled once again at his manner of speech, squeezing the hand that still held hers.

“I will gladly accept your offer Mr. Jumin Han.” She tried her best to speak as professionally as possible, sobering up her expression from the smile that had been plastered on it for most of the day and evening. His soft smile had her melting in an instant, the smile she tried to hide back on her lips.

“I’m glad,” he mumbled as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Let’s gather your things and I’ll speak with the company that runs your building. I’m sure I can easily buy you out of your contract or whatever arrangements you have made with them about payment. I’ll have assistant Kang get a meeting set-up with them tomorrow. Thank you Driver Kim,” he turned to the employee as he opened the door for the two of them. “Please head to the apartment complex we went to earlier. We will be gathering Maya’s things.”

“As you wish Mr. Han.” Kim bowed to his employer and closed the door behind them once they were settled in and made his way to her apartment once again. Maya was a little stunned at how quickly he worked, his phone out of his pocket as he dialed his assistant. She heard the exasperation in her tone and Maya felt a little guilty for such late night work. Extending her hand to him, she awaited his attention.

“May I…?” He blinked at her outstretched hand, pointing to his phone. She nodded in response as he looked between it and her. Frowning, he handed the device over to her and watched as he placed it to her ear. “Hello, Assistant Kang? This is Maya, the reason you are getting such late night assignments at the moment. I won’t be so bold and say that you can hold off on this until the morning since Jumin is your employer, but I personally have no issues if you both decide that it can wait. Either way, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to help me out. I’ve learned from talking with him just how much you do for him and how high his expectations for only makes me respect you even more. I hope I do get a chance to meet you, but for now thank you very much. I hope you have a pleasant evening. I’ll return the phone to him now.” She quickly handed the device back to Jumin, her cheeks a little red as she nervously bit at her lower lip. Peering at him through her lashes, she was worried she may have stepped out of bounds.

Jumin was very much surprised with what she had to tell Jaehee, not expecting her to say all that but he knew it was very much like her to do just this. She was never one to shy away from giving her gratitude to anyone, but the fact she only just now thought of approval from him was adorable in a way. The bashful behavior tickled something in him to tease her, but he paid it no mind as he took the phone.

“Mr. Han, who was that?” Jaehee asked, stunned that she would even hear a woman’s voice with him and to be doing a task for someone she had no inkling about and not business related at all. Jumin glanced at Maya, his poker faced expression giving away nothing to Maya as his mind worked at something he never expected from himself.

Then again, she’s the only one to ever make me want to be so free. A sly smirk slowly curls at the corner of his lips just as Maya looked down at her hands that smoothed her skirt over her lap. “She is Maya, the love of my life.” He simply stated, his words working a vibrant and hot blush on Maya’s cheeks as she let out an adorable squeak at his confession.

L-love of his life? Maya?! How have I not heard of this woman before?! Oh no, has he snapped and become like his father? What do I do?! She panicked. “Mr. Han, that is, this is all very sudden. You haven’t ever stated interest in someone before. Are you certain this is alright?”

“Yes, I’m very certain Assistant Kang.” He assured her, slipping his arm around his currently shying away lover. “She is the reason why I have no interest in other women and never will. Now, if she is alright with waiting, then you may start this first thing in the morning. I will see you tomorrow in the office. Good night Assistant Kang.” Without letting her say another word Jumin hung up and pocketed his phone once more. “And why are we so red?” He casually asked, his fingers grazing the tops of her ears as she pressed her face further into his chest.

“You know very well why! How can you so blatantly say that?!”

“Well, am I wrong?” He calmly asked, tracing her jaw to the tip of her chin as he pulled away and made her look up at him. “Or do you not love me?”

“You know very well that’s not the case! You’re so cruel.” She pushed out her lower lip in a pout, her glare breaking his cool expression as he chuckled in response.

“My apologies my love, but you were simply being so cute I could not help but want to tease you a little.” He whispered, pressing his lips to each of her rosy cheeks before sealing her lips in a sweet and simple kiss.

“I’ll forgive you this time, don’t think you can get away with everything just by giving kisses!” She tried her best to scold him, forcing a stern expression to which he smiled and nodded in agreement.

“Of course not, I would never think to do such a thing.” Happy with his response, she rested her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer to eliminate any gaps between them.