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elizabeethan · 3 years

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Watch The Sunlight Fade: 3 / 18

Emma Swan finds out that her boyfriend has been hiding something from her: he’s in a gang and trying to get out. Reluctantly, she decides to support him, sticking it out with him until they have enough money to flee to Florida. All she has to do is wait and ignore that feeling in her gut that something is seriously wrong. With the help of a kind and handsome stranger, she just might make it out alive.

Or, alternate summary: I’m horrible at summaries, please just read it.

Something of a cross between a What Still Remains AU and a Sons of Anarchy AU.

A/N: You may have noticed a chapter count! It’s subject to change, but I’ve outlined the whole story and have written halfway through chapter 12, so we’re getting there, friends. Reminder to check warnings and tags and message me if you have questions. There will be depictions of violence, domestic violence, very very brief discussions of non-con (kind of) and psychological abuse throughout this story.

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Read on Ao3

~~~~

The door to his apartment slams behind her as she stumbles in, the alcohol in her veins obviously taking over as he helps to steady her. “Easy,” he warns, hand on her waist as he guides her towards the guest room.

“You’re not gonna let me stay in bed with you, big guy?” she slurs, giving him a flirty smile.

“No, love,” he answers softly. “You need rest.”

With a giggle, she answers, “I get paid to have sex with people. Shouldn’t you be flattered that I’m soliciting you?”

“Tink,” he laughs, “I am very flattered. But you need to go to bed.”

“I can still give you a good time even though I’m drunk, you know,” she promises, letting her fingers dance along the lapels of his jacket.

“I know that, love. I just think… perhaps it’s time to… bring this arrangement to a close.”

She pouts, her bottom lip popping out and her brows furrowing. “Something I said?” she asks.

With a slight shake to his head, he smiles shyly down at her and brushes a wayward strand of her honey locks out of her eye. “No, but perhaps we can finish this tomorrow morning when you’re sober?”

Tink shrugs, letting her heavy kids fall closed and turning around to stumble down the hall. “It’s okay,” she says as she finds the doorknob. “I know it’s that blonde girl.”

“Liv…” he starts, although he isn’t sure where he’s going as he begins to speak. It’s not the blonde girl, not really. Although he felt a connection to her from the moment he saw her, he also knows that his and Tink’s fling is just that: a fling. It can’t last, and while he likes her well enough, he thinks it unfair to continue on with something to which he isn’t fully dedicated. “It’s not you.”

She snorts and nods her head lazily, letting it flop a bit too freely on her neck. “It’s not you, it’s me. I get it.”

“Hey,” he tries again, giving her a soft smile as he tucks away the same defiant strand of her hair. “I’ll always be here for you, you know that. I’ll always have love for you.”

“Yeah,” she smiles with a soft blush, her lids looking heavier and heavier with each passing moment. “I love you, too, bud. It was probably a bad idea to sleep with your best friend anyway.”

“I’m not sleeping with Robin,” he deadpans, knowing with certainty that it’ll draw a hearty laugh from her. She pushes against his shoulder with more force that she was likely expecting and turns around to open the door to his guest room.

“You dolt.” Once she’s in the room, just as she’s about to shut the door behind her, she spins quickly to face him once more. “By the way, you’re a total idiot if you go after her.”

“Bloody hell, not you too,” he complains as he scratches behind his ear.

“She belongs to Cassidy and you know it. You know what’ll happen if you pursue her.”

“Aye, that’s why I have no intention of doing so. Now, go to bed, Olivia.”

“Ooh,” she fakes a shudder, “full name; I must've been naughty.”

“Aye, you were. Goodnight, love.”

“Night, KJ.”

He listens to her giggle as she stumbles through the room, one she’s stayed in countless times before. She’s right; they probably never should’ve started their affair in the first place. Sleeping with your best friend is bound to end badly. But they understand each other, each of them here with hardly a choice on whether they stay or go. It isn’t as if they’re being held against their will, but the implication is that they’ll seriously regret it if they try to leave, one way or another. They simply both took comfort in knowing that someone else felt as they did.

He’s about to go to bed himself, ready to rid himself of the guilt that came along with the events of the day, but he pauses as he walks by his front door just in time to hear a resounding thud coming from across the hall. He panics and swings his own door open when he hears the terrified cry in response. He heard something earlier today that sounded exactly like that terrified cry.

Rushing over to Neal’s apartment, he places his hand on the knob and presses his ear to the door. He doesn’t want to burst in with haste since he has no idea what he actually heard, and the door must be locked anyway. But he can’t help but recall the image of her pressed to the door looking horrified, two knives on either side of her throat. He can’t get the look in her eyes out of his head.

There aren’t anymore sounds resonating from the apartment, silence falling over him as he attempts to listen out for signs of trouble. After a moment, all he hears are soft, painful sobs coming from the other side of the door.

~~~~

It’s surprisingly even more terrifying to be in the shop during the day than it was at night. At least when she was here last night, the shadows kept the frightening details of the space hidden, but now that the sun is up and streaming through the small basement windows, she’s able to see too much.

She can see the aged and worn paint on the walls, giving her an automatic and infallible feeling of unease. She can see the decorative weapons proudly displayed on every inch of every wall. She can see the rugged violence on each of the men’s faces so clearly in the sunlight. Being here terrifies her.

“Morning, Miss Swan,” Peter greets as Neal leads her into the large meeting room. He’s already sitting at the table waiting for them, Gold at his right and two empty seats to his left. There are several other members at the table as well, and she can’t help but notice how bright Killian’s eyes look in the sun streaming through the windows. “Welcome to your first real family meeting.”

The others around the table laugh, everyone but Jones seeming to find his joke about her near death experience to be funny. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” Neal asks in her ear, his voice low and his teeth clearly clenched.

She clears her throat and gives Peter the fakest smile she can muster. “Good morning.”

“That’s a good lass,” he praises, setting free a flock of anxious butterflies in her stomach. “Come sit. We saved you a seat by Neal.”

They sit side by side, and it’s becoming easier and easier to question his ranking within the group of men at the table. She finds it impossible to see him as a simple lackey when his name is carved into the table in intricate lettering in front of his chair, directly to the left of Peter's seat at the head.

There are talks of their plans, and she gathers some information easily while they seem to go to great lengths to keep other things hidden from her based on the threatening glances Peter doles out from time to time. There’s a trip coming up, and it’s automatically assumed that Neal will be going with Peter and Gold will be staying behind, as if this arrangement was made and agreed upon a lifetime ago. Once the other attendees are determined, Peter turns to face her and gives her a smile.

“Now, a job for you, my dear. Neal tells us you have a talent in finding people.”

“She can find anyone,” Neal says proudly, referring to her short stint as a bail bondsperson back when she lived in Boston. When she had met Neal after he witnessed her taking down a skip, he took her under his wing and told her she didn’t have to live such a dangerous lifestyle anymore. “Well, almost anyone.”

Her stomach flips at his hint; at his willingness to bring up one of the most painful memories she has. She’s great at finding people, but in 25 years, she still hasn’t been able to find her parents.

Pan hums. “We can look past a few failed attempts. What we need from you now, Emma, is your skillset to find a certain someone who deserted our cause.”

She gulps. “You want me to hunt down someone who doesn’t agree with you?”

“No love,” he laughs, and Neal’s grip on her hand tightens just a notch. “I want you to find someone who has valuable information and won’t hesitate to hand it over to a rival.” Emma bites her lip in thought, concern likely colored across her face. She hadn’t considered the existence of a rival gang before this moment, and she becomes frightened to think of there being more than one set of men like them. The thought that another gang is out there and considers themselves rivals to The Lost Boys means she’s potentially putting herself in even more danger by becoming associated with them. What will another gang do to the girlfriend of one of their rival’s members, especially a member whom she suspects is higher up in the rankings than he’s letting on?

“It’s not lost on me that you’re feeling uncomfortable here, Emma. The tension between you and Neal is perfectly palpable. But I’d implore you to let go of your fears; no one here will harm you. We’re here to protect you. By simply being associated with Neal, you have the protection of everyone in this club. And I’m sure it makes perfect sense that we would expect something of you in return for our unquestioning devotion to your safety.”

Although something about his words makes her suspicious, she suddenly feels a sense of strength at his claim that she’s a part of the group now. It’s as if he’s telling her that her thoughts and opinions matter, so she makes a bold choice and speaks up. “Can I clarify something?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“What are you protecting me from, exactly?”

Peter smirks and shakes his head, giving Neal a look that she can’t quite read. “I suppose Neal hasn’t informed you of how dangerous a place this world can be for a woman like you, Miss Swan. Your love for Neal makes you a target, as does Neal’s love for you. By falling for him, you’ve also fallen into our world. And because we’re so devoted to what you have to offer, we will protect you from everyone who may want to hurt Neal.”

“Just because I can find people pretty easily?” she asks doubtfully. His explanation isn’t making any sense to her. She can’t rectify in her head how loving Neal can equate to requiring constant protection, especially based on his claim that he’s going to be leaving soon.

“No, Emma,” he laughs condescendingly, as if he were talking to a child who couldn’t handle the truth. She wonders if he’s right. “Worry not; all will make sense to you as time goes by. For now, let's get started with your first assignment. Hook, show the lady to her office.”

~~~~

“Most sites are blocked here,” he explains as he powers up the old desktop, groaning softly as he stands again. “You’ll likely run into trouble if you try to find him on Facebook or anything.”

“Why?” she asks, and although she immediately regrets opening her mouth, the look he gives her feels more amused than anything.

“Why?”

“Um… why are they blocked?”

He breathes out a laugh, shaking his head and looking away from her once he notices that the computer has booted up. “To keep you out of trouble, I suppose.”

She bites her bottom lip, squeezing her fists until she feels the sting of her nails digging into her palm. She isn’t sure that, in the last day since she’s come here, she’s been kept out of trouble at all. She’s been in trouble-- in danger-- since she heard those bikes pulling up behind her and Neal.

“Right,” she says softly, sarcastically, and again, she kicks herself for opening her mouth. She wonders what would have happened to her by now if she was with anyone but Jones in this moment.

“Love,” he starts, his voice soft and tender, and she almost wonders if he intends to step close to her. Perhaps he means to comfort her. “I’m--” he clears his throat, “If you need anything…”

Their eyes meet, and it’s like the first time again. His azure stare bores into her in a way that makes her shudder, but not out of fear this time. She feels seen, understood, and while it’s only been a day since her traumatic greeting from the club, it feels like a lifetime since she’s felt a sense of safety. It feels comforting to meet his gaze, and she suddenly lets her breathing steady and her heart rate settle. “Thank you,” she whispers genuinely. She isn’t sure how she could relay it to him if she does need something, but the way he looks at her tells her that he’ll know.

For the first time since she’s been here, her safety appears to be a priority to someone. Relief washes over her and she lets it, despite knowing that it will dissipate the moment he walks out the door.

~~~~

“How’s it goin’ in here, my little worker bee?”

She looks up from the computer she’s been staring at, met by Neal leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed. The dinosaur she’s working on is hardly functioning, most sites she’s tried blocked and inaccessible and the speed at which it loads each page almost painful. After almost a week of working on the assignment they’ve given her, she’s found almost nothing.

“Hi,” she mumbles, turning back to the screen. All they had given her was a name and a last known location, and she’s struggling to find more.

“Doing alright?”

“I can’t find much,” she says.

“You’ll find him; you’re smart. I wonder if that’s genetic,” he says with a laugh and a smirk in her direction. She isn’t sure what he means or how to respond, so she simply smiles somewhat awkwardly and moves on. She refuses to let herself wonder if this is another dig at her for being parentless.

“It just feels impossible. This guy, Graham… are you sure he even exists?” she jokes.

He laughs, but it’s forced and she doesn't detect a genuine smile. “Are you doubting Peter?”

Emma looks up at him, meeting his eyes with confusion colored in her own. “No,” she starts, although she isn’t sure if she’s being truthful in her answer. “It’s just…”

Neal shoves away from the door and slinks closer to her, bending at his knees and squatting until his eyes meet her level. “Ems,” he starts, his hand landing on hers and applying what she thinks is meant to be a comforting amount of pressure. “Don’t start.”

“What…?”

He groans and leans away from her. “It's not a damn secret that you aren’t happy to be here. I need you to be better about that.”

She lets her jaw hang open for a bit longer than she means to, shock taking over her as he confirms what she’s been suspecting since the meeting she attended. “Neal,” she starts, “you’re the one who said you want to get out. You said we could leave after a few weeks.”

“And?”

“Uh… and… it’s been a week and you don’t seem like you’re… I mean… it seems like you're happy here.”

“So what?”

“What do you-- so what? You said we were leaving and now it’s like they're your family!”

Neal stands quickly, spinning from her in exasperation as he thrusts his hands into his hair. “You’re being so-- stop judging me! What do you even have to complain about?! They’re being nothing but nice to you. You have a home now, I feed you, I love you, we protect you… I don’t get what your damn problem is!”

“The knives, Neal!” she shouts, unable to hold back the emotional response to his nonsensical claims. “You threw knives at my head!”

There's a loud smack against the desk she sits at, and she’s brought back to the reality of her experience and out of the false sense of control that she let herself believe she had. She has to force herself to move on from the thought that she and Neal are able to have a conversation. When she looks down to where his hand met the surface, she sees his gun held beneath his palm. She pales.

“It’s time to move on,” he hisses quietly, his voice taking over the silence of the room. It’s another threat. Another convenient way to show her that he has power over her. That he can take everything away from her, even her life, in a second if she gives him a reason to. “You weren’t in danger, baby,” he says, his voice more soothing this time, drawing from her that feeling again. The feeling that she’s overreacting. “I had it under control, remember?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She sighs heavily at the feeling of his lips tracing along her jaw until he reaches her neck. “You did?” she asks weakly. With his sudden change in demeanor, his obvious desire not to make her feel unsafe anymore, she feels something shift between them.

“Of course I did; don’t be stupid. You know I did.”

It feels good, she lets herself realize. As her eyes slip closed and a soft breath escapes her lips, she makes herself relax into his touch. With her sense of sight cut off, she feels herself giving in to his touch in favor of feeling some sense of relaxation after a week of hypervigilance. His rough stubble scratches at her skin, something she normally doesn’t like, but right now, she doesn’t think she minds too much. With her eyes shut, the rest of the world closed off from her mind, she thinks she could appreciate some stubble.

She feels the smooth leather of his sleeve under her fingertips and she likes it. Sure, she’s always thought the leather jackets were sexy, but here and now, something about him in it becomes more appealing. But when his hand creeps up her waist, his touch a bit too rough, too domineering, she flinches.

“Shh,” he hisses softly, attempting to soothe her. “It’s alright.”

At the sound of his voice, something snaps within her and she stiffens. It sounds wrong, she realizes. “Wait,” she murmurs as his hand creeps under her shirt.

He breathes out a disbelieving laugh. “Seriously?”

“I just,” she starts, nervous as he pushes away. “We’re… I mean, we’re here.” She gestures around the room, hopeful that her discomfort at the thought of sleeping with him in this office where anyone could walk in is clear.

“Right. So when we get home, you’ll be more than willing?” he asks doubtfully, rolling his eyes.

“Neal,” she begs softly, unsure of where she went wrong. She’s unsure of how she could have messed this up when she was the one to express her own discomfort. “Please.”

“Please,” he mimics, his voice rising in pitch. “I’ll see you in a week.”

With that, confusing words exchanged between them, he’s out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

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#Watch the Sunlight fade #Sunlight ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan angst #cs ff #gang au #captain swan au #modern au #angst with a happy ending #tw: domestic violence

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Two: running water Words: 4.3k

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

Work Summary:

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

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

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

Chapter Summary:

"How are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for nonsexual nudity, mild blood, mentions of death)

Jon knows three things, in that moment.

One: that Martin’s jumper is sure to be stained with tea for the foreseeable future, given that their laundry situation is abysmal and that he can feel the liquid seeping into the cuff and creeping up the sleeve towards his elbow.

Two: that either he is experiencing an incredibly vivid hallucination (unlikely) or still asleep (even more unlikely), or a woman he saw die what feels like a lifetime ago is standing in front of him, looking as if she’s been dragged through mud and brambles and dressed in a shirt and trousers that look about two sizes too big.

Three: there is no longer the gentle rumble of water coming from the bathroom.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, voice rough as if from disuse and eyes still blown wide—human eyes, Jon notes, not the slitted yellow things that he’d seen as sharp teeth had dug their way into the meat of his calf. A particularly hard gust of wind sends the hem of her shirt fluttering, and Daisy pulls it tightly around her, stepping fully inside the cottage and shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Jon wants to say. His stomach is still twisted into knots, and he’s processing, processing, processing. There are yellow daisies on the kitchen table, and there are white daisies out amongst the grass and the weeds, and there’s Daisy, standing in front of him, but he had mourned her, he’d thought she was—

“Hey. Jon,” Daisy says, and then she’s standing in front of him, hand reached out halfway towards him like she can’t quite decide whether she’s allowed to touch. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She’s so close he could touch her, and before he really thinks about it, he’s reaching out and taking the hand that’s hanging in the air between them in his. He finds himself surprised when it doesn’t dissolve underneath his fingers, like he’d still been expecting all of this to be a dream, a falsehood, a sign that his mind is beginning a slow path towards disintegration without the Eye to hold it in place. He makes a choked-off sound, the kind that comes from the breath being punched out of one’s lungs by force rather than by any vibration of one’s vocal cords, as he adjusts his hand so he can thread their fingers together. It’s a familiar motion, bringing back memories of being buried underneath the weight of the earth and sat side-by-side in his office and curled up in the dustiness of document storage. He looks up at Daisy, eyes tracing the confused furrow of her brow and the strong slant of her nose and the thin scar that traces from the edge of her jaw to just below her ear, and squeezes her hand tightly, trying to convey every ounce of emotion he’s feeling in the weight of his eyes on hers.

“Jesus,” Daisy says after a moment, in that familiar way that’s both fond and exasperated, and Jon could cry. “Don’t look at me like that.” Then, after a moment: “I missed you too.”

That same choked sound comes out of Jon’s throat again, mangled by a laugh, and that’s all the encouragement he needs apparently before he’s standing and wrapping his arms around Daisy’s shoulders, giving her just enough time before he makes contact to step away if she wants to. She doesn’t, and when he presses his forehead against her shoulder and closes his eyes, she rests her hands gently against the small of his back, palms flat and grip loose enough that he could wriggle away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop hugging her for the foreseeable future.

The foreseeable future turns out to be exactly 38 seconds, at which point the bathroom door creaks open and Martin’s voice floats into the kitchen. “Ugh, it’s cold in here. Jon, did you open the…”

Martin’s head appears from around the corner, wet curls sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a cheery yellow jumper that matches the daisies on the table. Somewhere around the did you, Daisy had pulled back, and now she stands a few paces away from Jon, her face still carefully neutral but with a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there moments before. Jon holds one of his wrists with the opposite hand and watches Martin’s face crumple from an easy smile into shock, lips parted slightly and eyes wide as they fixate on Daisy.

“...door,” Martin finishes, his voice very small. “Um. D- daisy?”

Daisy raises a hand in a half-wave. “Hey.”

“What—?” Martin cuts off, opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he says faintly, “What is happening right now.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Daisy says simply. Then, with a frown: “My kitchen, actually.”

“Right, I guess it is…” Martin shakes his head, letting the sentence trail off into nothing. “Okay, then: how are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

“What? Why?”

Daisy shrugs. “I remember things. Bits and pieces, not a lot other than the blood, but I remember that the sky was… different. A lot more eyes. And the fear was… more. I remember the hunt, and I remember you.” She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes find Jon before glancing off. “Familiar blood. Basira. Pain. And then I woke up.”

Martin blinks. “You… woke up?”

Daisy nods. “Didn’t know where I was, just that it was cold and that the sky was normal again. I think I was in a field somewhere, just… covered in dirt and blood.” Her lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile. “Gave the farmer who found me quite a fright, I think. But the look on his face when he saw me… I knew it had all been real.” She exhales, a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “The word really ended, huh.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. Next to Daisy, Jon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, so many words building at the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He looks over at Daisy—at the dirt smudged along the side of her face, the bits of moss and leaves tangled in her hair, blood dried and rusty-red on her hands and wrists and crusted underneath her nails—and decides that if he can’t talk, at least that, he can help with.

He reaches over and takes Daisy’s hand in his, tugging it gently yet meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom. She looks over at him, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon blows out a frustrated huff of air through his nose and sets his jaw, gripping Daisy’s hand tighter and beginning to cross the room to where Martin is standing, to the hallway that leads to the bathroom and the shower. There’s a moment of resistance, where Daisy digs her heels in and doesn’t move, but after a moment the resistance vanishes and she lets him guide her across the room and into the bathroom. As they pass Martin, he reaches for Jon’s free hand and holds it in his, just for a moment, squeezing lightly. “We’ll talk when you get done, okay?” he says, quietly yet firmly, which means saying no probably isn’t in the cards. That’s fine, Jon thinks; it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. (Except maybe that he doesn’t, not about any of this, but he elects to ignore that.) He just needs a bit of time between then and now, to fully adjust to the fact that Daisy’s hand is in his and she’s standing next to him and somehow, she’s alive.

So Jon nods once, tries (a bit unsuccessfully) to give Martin a reassuring smile, and finishes guiding Daisy to the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind them, Jon lets go of Daisy’s hand and turns to face her, suddenly unsure. He’s been assuming that everything’s as it was before—that they’re still friends, that she still trusts him with her vulnerabilities, that she would still be willing to accept help from him—but what if it’s not? What if, despite what she said and despite the way she looked at him and despite the way her hands felt when they rested lightly upon his back as he’d hugged her, she doesn’t remember him like that? The Hunt is gone—they’re all gone, Jon thinks, though he can’t Know for certain and that scares him more than he’d care to admit—but he knows that the Eye has left its own scars on him, changed him in so many ways, so what if… what if she’s gone?

Maybe the Daisy Jon knew is still dead after all.

“Hey,” Daisy says, and then her hand is sitting heavy on his shoulder and she’s looking at him intensely. “Stop that. I can tell you’re overthinking things, so just… don’t. I’m here, I’m still me, and I could really use a shower, which I assume is why we’re in here.” She pauses, and then amends, “Well. It’s why I’m in here.”

Jon flushes, feeling a bit embarrassed, and steps away from her touch. He’s halfway through turning to go back out into the hallway when Daisy reaches out again, captures his wrist with the tips of her fingers, and says, “I didn’t say you had to leave.”

Jon pauses with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. I didn’t know if you’d want to be alone, he wants to say. He knows it had been hard, back in the Archives, for Daisy to be alone at all at first. Even though the air was clean and the walls weren’t close together, she’d said that sometimes, it still felt like she was choking down dirt, buried beneath the earth where nobody would ever find her again. She’d hated the sensation of running water too, and it had taken a few weeks for her to finally tell him why. That when it rained, the water would run in rivulets down her hands and the back of her neck, dripping sediment into her eyes and making her clothes stick to her in a way that became repulsive.

The Institute had one shower, situated between the Archives and Artefact Storage, meant for decontamination according to the signage on the wall. At some point during Jon’s coma, someone had stuck a shower basket to the tile wall, filling it with shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and had erected a haphazard system of rings, curtain, and rod around the showerhead to allow for a modicum of privacy. After they’d crawled out of the coffin, covered head-to-toe in dirt that seemed to permeate every inch of them, they’d walked together wordlessly to the room that contained the shower. Jon had offered to let Daisy use it first and had made to leave, but he’d been stopped by the tightening of Daisy’s hand in his, an unspoken desire to not be alone, not again.

So Jon had stood beside her and tangled his fingers loosely with hers through a gap in the curtain and had kept her company as she’d slowly, painstakingly washed six months of grime out of her hair and off her skin and out from underneath her nails, shuddering as the dirt turned to mud and slid in clumps off her skin. And when Jon had taken his own turn, scrubbing at his skin with a harsh, crisp efficiency, he’d pulled back the curtain with a towel wrapped around him to see Daisy leaning against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the shower as if she’d been reminding herself of Jon’s presence by the way his shadow fell across the floor beneath them.

It had become easy after that, to fall into a routine. Jon thinks he should have felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he hadn’t. He’d just felt safe.

Now, he hesitates only a moment more before nodding and turning back from the door, and Daisy lets her hand drop from his wrist. She exhales heavily before stepping out of her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile by her feet. Jon looks away, but not before he sees the blood on her skin—dried and cracked brown, mixed with smudges of dirt. He takes a breath, then looks back, taking a step forward and lifting a hand towards her stomach, hesitating halfway there and giving her a questioning look.

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says, reaching for Jon’s hand and settling it flat against her stomach. The skin there is smooth, unbroken, and when Jon drops his hand after a moment, it comes away clean. Her voice is strangely even, like she’s trying not to let any emotion slip through, when she says, “I think some of it might be yours, actually.”

That… makes sense, Jon thinks, even as the thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what happened—why she’s still covered in blood and dirt, why she came in wearing clothing that wasn’t hers but otherwise unchanged, how she made it here, why she even decided to come here in the first place—but he can’t think of a way to do so without his notebook, which is still sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it. So instead, he sighs, steps around her, and turns on the shower, letting the water painstakingly warm up to a bearable temperature and periodically sticking his hand in the spray to check. As he does so, he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him, level and without much weight, yet curious and analytical in their own way. Finally, as the water reaches lukewarm and begins to climb to hot, she says, “Did something happen to you?”

Jon looks over at her, at the discerning slant to her mouth, and wants to laugh. Did something happen. It feels like the understatement of the century. He rolls his eyes and nods, hoping that it’ll give off the proper amount of yes, but you’ll have to be more specific, and sticks his hand back in the spray, satisfied to find it finally at the proper temperature.

“You know what I mean,” Daisy says, her tone no-nonsense but soft around the edges, like she’s taking care with how she proceeds. “I can see it on your face, Jon—you’re dying to ask questions, but for some reason, you’re not. From you, that means that you’re physically unable to ask them. So something must have happened.” She taps her fingers on her arms where they’re crossed over her chest and gives him a searching look. “Suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that the Eye’s gone, along with the rest of them?”

Jon’s not surprised that she knows. He’d felt the severance of the Eye from him almost as acutely as the knife slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest, like the snap of a thousand threads in his mind, and it had been agony. Even if she hadn’t felt it herself, being… dead, or something, the Eye’s absence for him is like a constant ache, and he keeps reaching for it instinctively only to find that part of him missing, like the ghost of an amputated limb. He doesn’t have to Know to know that she can feel the absence of the Hunt, gone in a way that’s equally as relieving as it is painful. But he still hesitates because it’s not… it’s not as simple as the Eye just being gone.

He doesn’t know why his voice is gone. Not for certain. But he can’t help but remember Annabelle’s words, see her running her fingers along the tape-strung webs that had taken his voice, and wonder that if when the Fears and the tapes that bound them were whisked away into other worlds, they weren’t so keen to return what had been given to them.

He nods, then hesitates and, after a moment, shrugs. He pulls his hand out of the water and gestures towards it, a clear go on, but Daisy doesn’t move—just keeps staring at him. “Hm,” she says after a moment, then shrugs and uncrosses her arms. “Would’ve thought it would have been the eyes, but the voicebox makes sense too, I guess.”

She steps past him and into the shower, making a face as the water hits her back and begins to run down it, bringing with it trails of brown and red that drip dark onto the tile floor. She doesn’t see him raise his hand and ghost his fingers lightly against his throat, just beneath his chin, feeling the thin scar that sits there raised and smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been surprised too, he supposes, once the shock of everything else had worn off, that he’d been left mute and not blind. But the more he’d poked and prodded at the aching bruise the Eye had left behind, the more he’d decided that it wasn’t quite the same kind of severance. Melanie’s had been a clean break, like snipping a thread—intentional and without much resistance. Jon’s had been… messier. And neither side had wanted to let go.

“I don’t remember the water pressure being so awful,” Daisy says a bit sullenly, and Jon drops his hand like he’s been burned. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knows she’d seen it, but she doesn’t mention it. He gives her a small smile and shrugs again, then frowns and, without really thinking about it, steps closer so he can tug out a small leaf that had been stuck in a tangle of Daisy’s hair. It hangs between his fingers for a moment before he drops it, letting it flutter to the tile and get swept away towards the drain.

Daisy looks at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong—that it’s not like that between the two of them any longer. Then, Daisy turns and grabs the shampoo bottle off the shelf beside her, extending it towards him with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,” she says, and Jon almost melts with relief, because the slight edge of softness in her voice—the way her words sound like a command but are instead an offer—is just as familiar to him as it had been so many months ago.

He takes the bottle, squeezes a small puddle of pale white that smells of vanilla into the center of his hand, and steps close enough that he can reach her hair. She tilts her head back slightly, accommodating for the few inches of height difference between them, and allows him to work the shampoo into her hair, scratching his nails against her scalp and working out bits of dirt and small twigs and sand that gets underneath his nails. He has so many things he wants to say to her since they’ve last been able to see each other like this, the first of which had come to him the moment he’d turned his back on her and Basira and fled into the damp, musty darkness of the tunnels. I need you to be safe, he’d thought, and he’d almost turned back so he could say it, sure that it could help somehow. Instead, he’d grit his teeth and kept running, because he’d known what she would say in return after she’d finished yelling at him for coming back just to say that. (If she was still able to yell, his mind had supplied unhelpfully. If she still had a jaw and tongue with which to form words.)

You don’t need me for anything, she would have said, and she would have been right. But that didn’t stop the want that crept into his bones as he ran through twisting corridors and dense fog, into his skin as he stepped into a dimly-lit cottage in the Scottish Highlands, into his stuttering heart as he stared up at a sky that stared back, unblinking and loving, and Knew that she was gone, running through this new and changed world with nothing but the smell of blood and the taste of fear driving her forward. He wanted her to be safe.

He’d wanted a great many things, back when the world was twisted and wrong.

He’d wanted her beside him, someone who would understand what it was like to be utterly consumed by that which you served and who knew what it was like to feel like a monster. He’d wanted to help her breathe around the sharp teeth in her mouth and to unclench her fingers where her claws dug into her palms and to talk her down from rumbling growls to heavy, labored breaths. He’d wanted to Look and see her happy, but to see her, rather than something that had once been Daisy but that now barely resembled the woman he had pulled out of the coffin. More than anything, he’d just wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with his friend.

I’ve missed you, he thinks as he runs his fingers through Daisy’s hair, coarser than he remembers but still the same pale copper color, and watches the suds rinse slowly off as she shifts so she’s standing directly under the showerhead. His sleeves are growing a bit damp, even pushed up to the elbows as they are, and he pulls his hands back, letting them hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before he rubs them dry against one of the towels. And I wish I could tell you.

Once the water has run clear, Daisy shuts the shower off with a sigh and gathers a towel in her arms, rubbing it over her head and back with brisk efficiency. Her hair lies damp and heavy down her back as she wraps the towel around her. Jon’s fingers itch to separate her hair into thirds and pleat it into a loose braid like she’d always allowed him to do when he’d been feeling the loss of his own hair—shaved to the scalp during the coma, just barely grown to the tips of his ears—particularly deeply, but he keeps his hands by his side. Daisy looks at him, and after a moment, she says, “It’s weird not hearing your voice.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Jon might cry. He nods instead, just once, and reaches for the door handle, pausing to give Daisy the chance to stop him before turning it and opening the door.

Martin isn’t there anymore. Jon can hear movement in the kitchen, glass clanking together, the sizzle of something in a pan. It smells of cumin and coriander. He nods at Daisy and leads her to the bedroom, kneeling and digging through the suitcase they’d never quite gotten around to unpacking before he unearths a pair of trousers he’s nearly certain will fit and a dark blue hoodie that only makes him flush a little bit at as he thrusts it towards Daisy.

She takes them without comment, and by the time he’s rearranged the remaining items inside the suitcase and stood, she’s swapped out the towel for the clothing. The trousers are a bit short, but they’ll do, Jon thinks, until they can run into town and get something else.

Then, Daisy plucks the hem of the hoodie between two fingers and says, amused, “Is this mine?”

Jon’s flush grows in intensity, and he covers it with a frown and a little huff of air through his nose. This only seems to amuse Daisy more; she lets out a small breathy laugh to match, drops the hem of the hoodie, and says, “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s sweet.” As Jon sputters soundlessly, she continues, “Have you had this the whole time? I was wondering where it went. Did you wear any of your own clothes in the Archives?”

Jon’s frown deepens into a scowl without any heat, and he looks away.

“Going to take that as a no.” Then, at Jon’s glower: “Relax, Jon. I’m just teasing.” Long fingers reach out and tug at the hem of his own jumper, and Daisy says with an audible smile, “Nice to see you’re still wearing Martin’s jumpers.” Then, a touch softer: “And that he’s here to give them to you.”

Jon flushes again for an entirely different reason, less of a shock of heat and more like a warmth that spreads over him like a blanket. He looks over at Daisy to see her watching him with a faint smile on her lips, and beneath it, a touch of satisfaction. It’s warranted, he supposes, given how much time he’d spent bemoaning Martin’s absence and sending wistful looks towards the ceiling and, enough times to be embarrassing, burying his face in the sleeves of Martin’s jumpers after a few too many drinks and trying to pick out the lingering smell of Martin amongst the must of the Archives that had begun to permeate them.

He looks down at where Daisy’s fingers are still gripping the hem of the jumper, a smile that’s happier than anything he’s worn in what feels like years rising to his lips. He’s wearing Martin’s jumper, in a safehouse in the Scottish Highlands, and Daisy is standing in front of him, and there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains, and there are no eyes heavy on the back of his neck or rust-red blood sitting in the back of Daisy’s nostrils, and they’re safe. Daisy’s here, with him, and Martin is in the other room cooking, and this is real. And he knows things will grow complicated again, likely as soon as they exit the bedroom and have to face the reality of how she’s here, but for now, there’s only this. And Jon intends to enjoy every moment of it that he can get.

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

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fabulouspotatosister · 4 years

Text

occupational hazard

summary: The best place to be when danger arises is by the Doctor’s side, but sometimes danger comes just by being at his side.

word count: 11, 934 (oof)

warnings: swearing, illness/poisoning, one character is kind of a creep

a/n: here it is.... finally.... the inaugural Long Fic for 11... i have “connections” (on ao3) for 13 and now i have this!! this took way too long to write because i kept getting distracted watching critical role, but now it’s finally done and i can... move on... anyway i hope you all enjoy!!

gif by: @dobrien

---

“…and this - should be Lobar Three!”

The Doctor spreads his arms with a flourish as the TARDIS lands, its wheezing noise reverberating throughout the console room. The Doctor pirouettes around the console with the grace of a giraffe and slams down a lever – the TARDIS stills.

A small laugh makes its way out of your mouth. “Should be?”

“Yeah, should be. Moderate climate, beautiful mountain ranges, and gorgeous views thanks to its unique atmosphere,” the Doctor continues, dancing towards the doors. “Get ready for the sunrise of a lifetime!”

He says it like a cheesy tour guide, flashing you one of his manic grins before he peeks his head out of the door.

A beat of silence. You hear him groan, then he sticks his head back in.

"Not Lobar Three," he says sheepishly, "Lobar Four. I missed."

"You missed?" You dash away from the console to stand next to him and gently elbow his side. He mutters a soft "ow". "Oh, one day I'll learn how to drive the TARDIS, and you're going to be sorry."

"Oi, don't diss the driver," the Doctor says indignantly, his mouth curling into a frown - though one that's probably more embarrassed than upset. It's fun to see the Doctor flustered, all frowns and furrowed brows, arms crossed over his chest. You decide to try again.

You grin widely, moving closer into the Doctor's side. His mouth hangs open a little bit before he frowns again. "Maybe I should get try and get River to teach me, you've got her on speed dial right -"

"No, no, no, you are not getting River involved in this," he grumbles. "And I do not have her on speed dial. At least it's inhabited. Come on!"

The Doctor swings the doors open, and a bright white light spills through. Carefully, he steps out of the TARDIS, and you follow suit.

You look around, your gaze travelling along smooth marble walls interrupted by framed portraits of wintry landscapes. Several green potted plants stand next to a stone desk. Right next to the empty desk is a shelf full of brochures - the Doctor shuts the doors behind him and runs to the self, plucking a brochure and flipping through it.

"Doctor, where are we?" you whisper.

The Doctor doesn't look up from his brochure. "Like I said, Lobar Four. Fourth planet in the Lobar system, very touristy, and also very cold, on account of it being farther from its system's sun -"

You sigh, interrupting him. "No, I meant where exactly are we?"

"That is a question I can answer."

You turn your head towards a low, rumbling voice - your gaze focuses on a bear-like creature, standing on two feet, walking slowly towards you. Something about its presence is quite commanding, and you stand a little straighter. "Welcome, strangers, to the P'kone Mountain Resort. What is your business here?"

"Hello!" the Doctor says cheerfully, stuffing his brochure into his jacket. "I'm the Doctor and this -" He pats your shoulders and you smile politely - "is my companion. We're just having a look around. Lovely resort. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. ...?"

"The Doctor!" The creature's eyes widen, and he steps forward, bowing his head. The many chains on his suit strike each other and make jangling sounds. “I did not expect such an esteemed visitor to arrive. I am Merban, and the pleasure is all mine."

"Oh, esteemed visitor?" The Doctor bows back, then glances at you - you fumble and bow awkwardly. If your bowing is offensive at all Merban doesn't say anything. "What's the occasion, Merban?"

Merban straightens, folding his hands - paws? You'd have to count how many fingers he had - behind his back. His white fur almost makes him disappear into the white marble walls, but the many golden accents on his maroon suit shine under the lights. "We are having a political summit regarding our planet's trade. You may join us, if you like - dinner is just beginning."

"Dinner?" you ask, then cringe at the way your voice echoes in the space. Merban nods slowly.

"Yes, child," he says, a gentle smile spreading across his features. "We would be very humbled to be in your company."

"Oh, his company, not mine," you laugh, gesturing to the Doctor.

Merban frowns, tilting his head to the side. "No, your company is appreciated as well. We Lobarians have heard many stories about the Doctor and his companions. How they travel together, spreading kindness amongst the stars. You play a very integral role in those stories. We will honor you just as much as him."

You feel your face grow warm. You glance at the Doctor and he smiles at you, a proud gleam in his eyes. "Oh. Well, uh - thank you," you manage, your voice small. "Yes, we'll join you. Please, lead the way."

"Very well." With another polite nod, Merban turns on his heel and starts walking into the hallway behind him.

"Honored? Me?" you gush, walking not too far behind Merban. You're only human, and although the Doctor's always said that humanity's brilliant, there's still a tiny part of you that jumps in joy at the praise. "They tell stories about you and I'm a part of them?"

"We're a package deal, you and I." The Doctor shrugs, but there's still a smile playing on his lips. A package deal. Never one without the other. You soften at the thought. "Word gets around quickly. You get used to it."

"Oh, I think I never will." You try to swallow a laugh, but it bubbles out of you anyway. "Spreading kindness amongst the stars is such high praise. I didn't think we were doing that."

The hallway widens into a large room, and your breath catches in your throat. Intricately carved pillars curve upwards into a domed ceiling, leading to a shimmering centerpiece hanging in the middle of the room that seems to shift in the wind. Scattered around the room are circular tables, decorated with a silken cloth that reflect the lights beautifully. There are a few Lobarians at every table, all dressed in formal wear lined in gold, all of them prim and proper in their seats.

"Friends and allies," Merban announces, "I proclaim the arrival of two very esteemed guests, the Doctor and his companion!"

A bout of polite clapping spreads across the room before it quickly falls silent again. Merban leads you to a longer table set on a stage - a Lobarian with fluffy brown fur dressed in an azure suit quickly leaps up from his chair to greet you and the Doctor.

"Hello!" he says brightly, taking your hand in his - five fingers, so not paws - and shaking it vigorously. "I'm Koramaz, it's so nice to finally meet you." He jerks his thumb behind him at another Lobarian with similarly colored fur, who rises from his seat to join Koramaz. "That's my assistant, Orvin. Why don't you say hello?"

"Greetings." Orvin reaches out to take your hand, the faint gleam of a ring shining on one of his fingers. He presses his mouth against the back of your palm - you raise your eyebrows at him and he laughs, a low sound. "I'm sorry. Traditions travel far and wide across the cosmos. I was told about this human one. Did that offend you?"

"N-no," you stutter out. The Doctor moves to stand behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

"Lovely to meet you both," he says. You nearly miss him grumbling something under his breath.

Merban settles into his seat. "If you are finished with your introductions, shall we begin?

Koramaz smiles, his teeth bared. And they're sharp. "Of course, Merban. Shall we?"

Merban offers that you sit beside him - Koramaz insists the same thing. In the end, you and the Doctor end up at the center of the table, with Koramaz on one side and Merban on the other. You watch as elegantly dressed Lobarians float into the room and begin handing dishes on silver platters to the guests, spinning around every table like the service is one big choreography.

"So - about this political summit," the Doctor begins, leaning back into his chair and clasping his hands together, "what's going on? Why don't you fill me in on the details, Merban?"

"Our planet is currently divided into two factions," Merban explains. He nods up at one of the servers politely as they set down a plate in front of him. "I am with the Protectionists. We wish to keep our planet's economy independent. That involves increasing restrictions and taxes on foreign exports."

"And I," Koramaz starts, waving away a server, "am with the Expansionists. We want Lobar Four to be seen on the galactic stage! Opening our doors to foreign trade has to be the best way. Don't you agree with me, Orvin?"

Orvin just hums in reply, the blue cloak resting on his shoulder swaying with the motion.

It's only now that you notice how the room is divided in two - the ones wearing blue sitting on one side, and the ones wearing red sitting on the other. It's also only now that formality of the event hits you. The Doctor in his suit and bowtie fits right in, but you - you're in a shirt and pants. You reach up the grab the hem of your shirt, anxiously running your fingers over the fabric.

"Preposterous," Merban mutters. "Lobar Four is not yet ready for that kind of progress."

"If we're not ready now, then when will we be ready, Merban?" Koramaz counters. "Hmm? What do you say to that?"

"Well, progress is subjective, when you really think about it," the Doctor says. "It all depends on what your goals are, and if your goals differ, then so does your idea of progress. I suppose that's what makes this so difficult."

"Spoken like a true public speaker," you whisper, leaning in.

The Doctor chuckles. "I was on Aristotle's debate team."

Koramaz turns to face the Doctor, his eyes glinting. "Say, Doctor, why don't you put in a good word for us? Everyone here trusts you a lot, and I'm sure you agree with me. Opportunity for all, and all that."

The Doctor smiles and shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm not really one for politics. The gossip can get a bit -" He grimaces slightly - "much. More of a negotiator. I don't really interfere."

You snicker at that. Really?

The Doctor narrows his eyes at you. Hush.

"I'm sure you lot can come to a compromise," the Doctor says. Merban scoffs.

"Compromise has no place in Koramaz's vocabulary," Merban says. Koramaz shrugs at that, raising his palms in the air. "The boy has a one-track mind, as the young ones say. I can only hope that these talks go peacefully."

"Yes, we only want the best for our planet." Koramaz nods slowly. He glances at Orvin, his gaze hidden by his fur. "It's a shame you won't put your two cents in, Doctor. But rest assured, we'll come to a conclusion by the end of the night."

A small tap on your shoulder makes you look up at one of the finely dressed servers. They carry a small tray filled with glasses of a rose-colored liquid. The server nods at you, then the drinks. "Would you like one?"

"Sure, thanks." You reach up and take one of the glasses - the rose-colored liquid sparkles, and when you smell it, it does smell faintly of roses. "Is it alcoholic?"

"It is a wine from our territory," Merban says, "a gift from my faction to Koramaz's for all of us to enjoy."

Koramaz swirls his own glass of wine. "It's a wonderful gesture. What about you, Doctor? Will you drink?"

The Doctor waves off a server, shaking his head, but he's got his own glass too. "Nah, I don't drink. But I do love to hold the glass in my hand, it makes me look cool."

Your laughter is what sets the whole table off - Koramaz chortles, and even Merban gives a low chuckle. The Doctor smiles, proud, raising the glass like Gatsby at one of his parties. It's enough to make you laugh again, steadying your hand so you don't spill your drinks.

You raise the glass to your lips and sip the wine - it tastes fizzy, and burns your throat when you swallow, but it isn't bad. The Doctor frowns like a disapproving parent, pointing his sonic at the glass. You raise your eyebrows at him as he skims over the readings.

"What?" you say, lowering your glass.

"I don't want you getting drunk, this is a diplomatic affair," the Doctor says quietly.

"Okay, Mr. Grumpy Face. You're no fun." You take a big gulp of wine and then immediately regret it as it burns even harder in your throat, blazing a trail of fire all the way down to your stomach. You cough, your face twisting into a grimace. "Don't laugh."

"'Course not," the Doctor says, laughing. "Are you okay?"

"Fine!" you splutter. It still burns, and you pound your fist against your chest. "Ack. I shouldn't have done that. Don't go all 'I told you so' on me and tell me that the wine isn't safe for human consumption."

"Oh, it isn't," the Doctor says nonchalantly. When you stare at him, your eyes going wide, he laughs. "Kidding! I'm kidding. Look at you, all panicked with your big eyes."

You groan and the Doctor laughs again, louder this time. Your annoyance drops at the joyful sound and you smile, biting your lower lip. You're out of place in a super fancy alien dinner party, and yet the Doctor is still squarely by your side, his laugh like an anchor amongst all of the extraordinary things happening. You file that nice thought away for later, to admit to him in a more vulnerable moment.

"And now, a dance," Merban announces, raising his glass, "to cement peace between our two factions. Koramaz, if you will?"

"Of course." Koramaz rises and makes his way to the very center of the room - the guests dressed in blue all form a circle, and the guests dressed in red partner up with them.

Orvin extends a hand to you. "Wait. Before you join the dance, I have a gift for you."

He unclasps the pin that holds his shoulder cloak in place - it slides off his shoulder, the fabric shimmering in his hands - and throws it over your shoulder. He leans in close to pin it, his fur just tickling the skin of your neck. It looks a little strange, the beautiful piece hanging off of your casual clothes, but Orvin looks proud. "Perfect for a beauty like you."

You smile shyly at him. "Thank -"

"Yes, thank you very much," the Doctor says quickly. He shoots a polite smile in Orvin's direction before he practically drags you away. "You didn't have to say yes," he says, his grip tight around your wrist.

"I didn't?" You pry your hand out of his grasp. The cloak sways as you move, cold like metal as it brushes against your arm. "It's a really nice cloak, though."

The Doctor huffs. "It's finely-woven chainmail - the metal links are as tiny as thread. Makes it look just like normal cloth. Lobarian craftsmen do not mess about. Symbolic Lobarian attire, the one-shoulder cloak, common throughout the whole system."

"Symbolic of what?" you ask. The Doctor sighs, his brows pinching together.

"It's an old symbol, it doesn't matter." You shoot him a look, trying to give him your best puppy-dog eyes - the Doctor holds your gaze before he sighs again, deeper this time. "Oh, you - alright, it means you're unbound."

"Unbound?"

"Unmarried, without a partner, whatever you want to call it!" the Doctor says, his voice climbing higher. "Single. I don't know."

You watch the Doctor, shoulders slumped as if in defeat, his hands thrown up in the air in frustration - if you didn't know any better, you'd say he looked a little -

"Raise the music!" Koramaz bellows, and the music grows even louder. Everyone starts to sway, some joining hands, some pulling each other close.

At Koramaz's announcement, the Doctor relaxes slightly. He extends his hand to you, bowing slightly like a proper gentleman - "Shall we dance?"

"Aren't you a terrible dancer?" you ask, placing your hand in his.

The Doctor smirks up at you, and your heart stutters in your chest. "You've never seen me waltz."

You breathe out a laugh as the Doctor steps closer to you, your hand still clasped in his. You bring your free hand to his shoulder - the Doctor, not taking his eyes off you, lets his hand come to a rest on your waist.

And oh, his eyes. Have you ever really looked at the Doctor before today? Like, really looked at him? Has his face always looked like that?

He said you were unbound but you certainly don't feel that way - swaying with him, the Doctor feels like the only thing keeping your feet on the ground. You blink up at him, at his hair that just looks perfect for running your hands through and his eyes that seem to hold everything.

You haven't been looking. Now you're looking and you really like what you see.

You exhale through your mouth at the realization, and hope that the Doctor doesn't hear. He's humming along to the music, happy enough. "Doctor?" you ask, jumping a little at the way your voice comes out strained.

The Doctor hums in response, a note of the song. You swallow. What's brought this on? Is it the alien wine you've just drunk? It probably is. Liquid courage. "Have I ever told you that I think you're really -"

"Excuse me," a Lobarian next to you coughs, "you'll have to pass her along."

You feel the Doctor's hand tense against your waist. "What?"

"We're meant to dance with everyone," they explain. "The dance can't continue until you pass her along. Sorry."

Something flickers across the Doctor's face, too quickly for you to figure out what it is. He lets go of you, pushing you gently away from him, and you think you catch him frowning as you're passed along.

It's easy enough to engage in light conversation with the Lobarians who dance with you. Most of them are overwhelmed at your presence, others are adorably curious about human customs. They ask questions about climate and plants, some of them tilting their heads in confusion at the idea of a "summer". A few remind you too much of old economics teachers.

You've just finished talking with a tall Lobarian woman when she spins you and passes you along to the one beside her - strong arms catch you, and you look up at Orvin's face.

"My cloak suits you well," he rumbles, smiling.

"It does," you say brightly. "Thank you, it's beautiful."

Orvin hums, intertwining his fingers with yours. You jump at the intimacy of the action, but his hold is too tight for you to pull away from it. "Do you know what it means?"

"Y-yeah, the Doctor explained it to me."

"Then you must know what I think of you," Orvin says. His hand, once settled on your waist, starts drifting towards the small of your back - you shudder at the touch. "Do you know what it means when it is given to someone?"

"No," you squeak out.

Orvin's pulling you closer, your bodies nearly flush with one another. "From one unbound to another… I think you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I follow," you say, leaning away from Orvin's face, which was now very close to yours. His teeth are just as sharp as Koramaz's. "But I'm - I'm not unbound."

"Well, you might not be - but maybe your partner isn't here." He leans in closer to you and you stiffen. To anyone watching, Orvin might as well be dipping you, but all you want to do is kick him and run away. "Why don't we have a little fun?" he whispers, his breath tickling your ear.

There's something almost predatorial in Orvin's gaze that sends your poor heart into a frenzy. Sharp teeth and something sharp digging into your back. You squirm in his grasp, trying to find safety - the Doctor. You meet his gaze from across the room, and you have to blink at the intensity of his glare.

Orvin can't see it, but the Doctor is burning holes into his back.

"I'm not unbound," you repeat, trying to put a little fire in your voice. The Doctor's gaze flickers from Orvin to you and he shoots you a polite smile, but the look in his eyes hasn't gone. My anchor, you think. "The one I'm bound to is right behind you."

Not entirely the truth, not entirely a lie either. Maybe it's a wish.

A few seconds pass, the silence between you and Orvin heavy with tension. He turns his head to face the Doctor, and then he laughs. The sound sends shivers down your spine.

"Alright," he finally says, "I assumed. I apologize."

You'd better be sorry is the first thought that crosses your mind. Orvin shifts his hand away from the small of your back - a sharp pain pierces through your skin. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

"You alright?" Orvin moves his hand back to your waist. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," you say. The pain is gone as fast as it came. "Probably just static."

Orvin looks down at you curiously, but nods. He pulls back from you, getting ready to pass you to your next partner, and you spin, and spin, and, spin, and hang on, should you be spinning for this long or -

"Woah, woah!"

You're spinning. You're still spinning. Or is the room spinning? You blink slowly, your eyelids heavy. Maybe it's the wine, the one glass of Lobarian wine you had that's messing with your system. Maybe the Doctor was right, maybe it really wasn't good for humans. The room lurches forward - or maybe you do.

"Hang on, I've got you."

The Doctor. You're back in his arms, still swaying slowly to the music, which sounds so far away now. Has someone stuffed your ears with cotton? You lean forward and rest your head on his shoulder, pressing your forehead against his tweed jacket.

"I saw you stumbling," the Doctor says, his voice quiet near your ear. "What's going on? Have you had too much to drink? I told you -"

You groan, cutting him off, your stomach roiling. "I don't… feel good. I feel like..."

You grip against the Doctor slackens, and you fall - the cold marble floor doesn't greet you. Instead, the Doctor's arms wrap around you before you can collide with the floor.

You can faintly hear a gasp spread throughout the entire room. The music's stopped, too. You want to apologize for ruining everyone's fun, but all that comes out of your mouth is another weak groan. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the room's still tumbling. So dizzy...

Koramaz's voice drifts in. "Oh, no. What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I don't know, I need to find out first," the Doctor says. You feel him pull you closer, letting your head rest against his chest. The double beats of his heart join the pounding in your head. "She said she wasn't feeling well, why would she be not feeling well..."

"There is an infirmary, in the hotel," Merban suggests. A furry hand pushes the hair away from your face. "She can be taken there until she is well again."

"Right, since you all have great service." The Doctor's voice waver's ever so slightly. You reach out, your hand wrapping around one of his braces. "I'll go with her. I'll stay until she's better."

Please, you try to say. It comes out like a strangled noise in the back of your throat instead, but the Doctor seems to understand. You feel his lips press against your hair. Don't leave.

"No, Doctor," Koramaz says gently. "This could be really serious. There might be a criminal in our midst. We need you here, to answer some questions."

Merban speaks up. "Koramaz, are you insinuating that -"

"No, I'm just being thorough."

"And if I won't?" Something dangerous plays at the edge of the Doctor's voice. His hold on you tightens.

"Do not worry." Merban's voice is calm and steady. "Rest assured, your companion will be provided the best care that we have."

Koramaz speaks again, and you feel yourself being moved, away from the Doctor - a whine bubbles out of your mouth, your hands still searching for where the Doctor is. No! "Orvin'll help take her to the infirmary. Won't you, Orvin?"

Not this bastard again… "As you wish," Orvin says. He scoops you up and lifts you. Everything lurches at the motion, and you groan again, dizzy, confused, and maybe just a little bit scared.

Their voices get farther and farther away, but even though all the nausea there's a thought, clear as day, nagging at you in the very back of your mind.

"H-hang on," you mumble. "Guys, I don't think I'm drunk..."

The Doctor tries to swallow his jealousy as he watches Orvin walk away with your limp form in his arms. That's not what he's supposed to be feeling right now, but he can't help the ugly feeling that's snaked its way into his hearts.

You'd looked radiant tonight. The sight of you in Orvin's cloak - although a little bit annoying - is something that he's sure is etched in his brain. You'd looked like royalty in the blue piece. He’s seen a lot of royalty, and they’re absolutely nothing compared to you. And you looking up at him, almost dreamily, face flushed with alcohol, is not something he'll forget.

But he can't get the way you reached out for him out of his brain, either. The way you gripped one of his braces for dear life, the way your hands reached out blindly through your confusion, looking to him for comfort.

Not jealous, he tries to convince himself, worried. He's better at that anyway.

"What's going on?"

"Let me see, let me see!"

"They've just carted her off..."

The Lobarians start muttering amongst themselves. After you'd fallen into his arms, they'd scattered, grouping back into their respective factions. The beautiful palette of reds and blues divided again. It's funny what fear does to a people.

"Now, now, everyone, calm down," Merban says. "There is no need for panic. Fear and suspicion will only make our investigation harder."

"Fear and suspicion?"

"Merban's right, we need to stay as calm as we can -"

"No, we need to start asking questions!"

Murmuring spreads through both factions. The Doctor watches Merban, hands held out, trying to placate everyone - and Koramaz, shifting on his feet, mouth bared in what almost looks like a snarl, his sharp teeth reflecting the light and making him look even more vicious. He can sense it, Koramaz's anger, and he takes a careful step backward. The whole thing is a puddle of gasoline, and if Koramaz says anything, there will only be ashes left behind.

"Now, have any of you here seen anything suspicious during tonight's proceedings? Anything at all?"

Most of the Lobarians shake their heads, looking at each other with wide eyes. The Doctor's seen this before - classic political intrigue. Two factions with a rivalry. It's something he'd love to solve, if he wasn't dealing with the nagging worry slowly climbing up his throat.

Suddenly, Koramaz snarls, pointing a finger at Merban. "If anything, you're the suspicious one!"

A collective gasp. There it was. Now there was a fire.

Merban raises his hands, shaking his head. "Koramaz - you must be mistaken. As I have said, we all need to stay calm, and -"

"No, we aren't going to stay calm," Koramaz grumbles. "Who invited the Doctor and his companion to the dinner? Whose territory was that wine from? Hmm?"

There's another gasp, and another wave of panicked muttering. Merban sighs. "Koramaz, please. Let us talk about this."

"They're the ambassadors of the universe, well known through time and space!" Koramaz voice shakes with emotion, his entire body trembling. "You did this! You tried to poison a visitor - a potential ally in trade, an opportunity - to keep our planet independent! Your cruelty knows no bounds."

"Koramaz - no -" Merban begins, but soon enough his voice is drowned out by the sound of yelling and fighting. "Koramaz!"

"Doctor, look at him!" Koramaz shouts, glancing at the Doctor with wild eyes. "Don't you see how guilty he is?"

The Doctor stays silent.

"Everyone, are you feeling well? Have you had any of the wine?"

"You bastards!"

"We're just trying to help Lobar Four!"

Koramaz goes still in the middle of the chaos. The Doctor narrows his eyes at him - narrows his eyes at the way he takes a deep breath in, adjusts his suit, and relaxes as soon as the first stone has been thrown. He storms off, disappearing into the throes of panicked and angry Lobarians.

The Doctor moves to stand next to Merban. The Protectionist leader looks absolutely frazzled, his once pristine fur now sticking out at unnatural angles.

"Merban," he says, and Merban jumps at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry, you lot are really being quite noisy. I think I'll head back to my ship now, if that's alright with you."

"No, Doctor, we -" Merban sighs, ragged. "I may need your help. You must be concerned for your companion. If you cooperate with us, I'm sure we can find a solution."

Concerned is an understatement. "I'll be here," he says, placing a reassuring hand on Merban's shoulder. "But I won't be of any help while you're all squabbling. I'll stay out of your way until this all dies down."

Merban relaxes ever so slightly, and the Doctor gives him a small smile. Slowly, he nods, placing his own hand on the Doctor's shoulder. Merban's touch is firm, but his gaze wavers. "Of course. Feel free to leave, Doctor - but do come back. We will let you know when we need you."

"You're a good man, Merban," the Doctor replies. "Thank you."

The Doctor waits until Merban lowers his hands, and watches him as he plunges into the crowd of arguing Lobarians, his deep voice rising above everyone else's.

Good show, Doctor. Time to make your escape.

He slips into another corridor as quietly as he can, the sounds of petty words being thrown at one another getting softer and softer. He walks towards the lobby, where the TARDIS is parked, anxious hands fidgeting to keep his mind off the first thing it drifts to - a worst case scenario.

But of course, it does. The Doctor just doesn't want to bring those thoughts to the front of his mind.

His worry is practically clawing out of his throat now. The Doctor fights it first. Merban had promised you'd be safe, but Koramaz - Koramaz hadn't made any promises. Only threats. He stops fighting his fear, his hands curling into fists.

The Doctor turns on his heel and walks the other way.

He thrusts his hand into his jacket, and with a soft cry of "a-ha!", pulls out a brochure. It's the same brochure he'd picked up when he landed - it's shiny, reflecting the light into his eyes, and also very informative, as all good brochures should be.

He turns it over in his hands. Printed on the paper is a map of the hotel, a tiny glowing blip on the paper marking where he's standing.

The Doctor opens his mouth to explain it to you, paper-thin optics with a built-in directional tracker, waiting for your excited response - then he falters. It's quiet. You're not going to respond because you aren't there, right by his side, where you should be.

Problem number one. The rest, he can deal with later. Finding the area on the map labeled "Infirmary", he sets off in that direction first.

The Doctor walks silently though the hallways, sonic screwdriver held up like a weapon. He won't boast about it, but Time Lords have better hearing than humans - not the best, but still quite good. He can still hear the distant sound of raised voices, but he tries to focus on something else. He tries to see if he can hear you, your voice, your breathing, your heartbeat, anything of yours that he can recognize.

Nothing.

He looks through the glass doors of the infirmary - and they're empty. He peers in further, and there's still no sign of you. None of the beds have a pillow out of place, and the staff inside are too busy tending to other people.

Not jealous, not jealous, worried, starts to sound quite bad in the Doctor's head. Jealousy would have been better than this.

The Doctor lifts the map to his face again, squinting at the tiny text printed onto it - Infirmary, Function Halls, Private Rooms. The private rooms don't look too far away from the infirmary. A guess won't hurt, the Doctor thinks.

Then, close by - the sound of a clattering doorknob. And voices. Faint groaning.

"Doctor..."

Then a faraway thud, the sound of something soft falling to the floor. Like a body.

Maybe this guess would hurt. The Doctor runs towards the source of the sound, one of the private rooms, and presses his ear against the door. What he hears next makes his heart twist painfully in his chest.

It's you, it's your voice. It's too faint for him to make out any words. The Doctor grits his teeth as he presses his whole body against the door.

It doesn't budge. He tries the doorknob - locked. Anger joins his repertoire of already jumbled emotions, setting his hearts alight with a white-hot anger that he hasn't felt in a very, very long time. He points his sonic at the doorknob, gripping it so tightly he can see his knuckles turn white - the door swings open and he very nearly drops the device.

"Help," you mutter weakly, sprawled on the floor. "Help me."

"No, no no no -" The Doctor drops to his knees beside you, sweeping the sonic over your body - the whirring noise makes you furrow your brows, and he apologizes under his breath. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of that. He skims through the readings, his hearts pounding out of his chest at every point of data.

He tucks his sonic back into his jacket and gently turns you over. You roll onto your back and groan, your arms hanging limp at your sides.

"Hey," he murmurs, his vision going hazy. He blinks quickly. Not now.

Slowly, he wraps his arms around your shivering form. You're shaking like a leaf in a storm, and you feel impossibly frail in his arms. A sob makes its way through your trembling lips, and the sound rips the Doctor's hearts in two.

You had just been smiling, laughing, dancing with him minutes ago. Now you're sobbing in his arms. The Doctor swallows.

"Doctor?" you mumble. You're looking into nowhere, your eyes glassy. "I need to - need to find the Doctor..."

Now you were just being cruel. "It's me," the Doctor chokes out. He blinks the tears out of his eyes, again, but he can't stop the few that slip out. "I'm here, I'm right here. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" Your cheeks are shiny. "Wha… what for?"

This. Everything. The Doctor reaches out to wipe your tears - and he jerks his hand away. You're burning up, sweat beading on your forehead, your hair sticking to the damp skin. Even Orvin's chainmail cloak has absorbed some of the warmth.

"Nothing," the Doctor whispers. He takes your face in his hands and presses a kiss to your forehead, even though heat is coming off you in waves. "I'm going to take you home, okay? You're going to be alright. I promise."

"Home," you slur, your head lolling, "yeah, home sounds good."

The Doctor doesn't like making promises. He's too afraid of what happens when he can't keep them, but he swears he'll fulfill this one. You lean into his touch and sigh, that one puff of breath scalding the skin of his hands.

Your eyelids flutter as you head comes to rest on the Doctor's chest. Another round of shivers wracks your body, and the Doctor tightens his grasp on you.

As gently as he can, he rises to his feet. The motion makes you whimper, and you curl up in his grasp. He sets his jaw and steps out of the room.

You mumble things under your breath as the Doctor weaves through the hallways, making his way back to the TARDIS. Back home. He doesn't want to listen, because your delirious mumblings make his hearts hurt terribly, but he does catch a few. A few "sorry"s, a handful of "hurts", the occasional "ow", and "I tried to warn him".

"Tried to warn me about what, sweetheart?" he coaxes when you mumble it for the third time. You blink up at him blearily, recognition flickering in your tired eyes.

"M'not drunk," is your breathy response. "Didn't feel drunk. Felt sick. My back… hurts."

"Your back?" the Doctor asks. You groan in reply, and when the Doctor jostles you experimentally that groan tapers off into a weak cry of pain. It's too much for his hearts. "Was it the wine? Do you think it was the wine?" he tries, following another lead.

"My back," you insist weakly. "Dance… he was too close..."

The TARDIS comes into view, and the Doctor quickens his pace. Just a few more steps and you'll be home, safe -

Merban nearly runs into him. His jaw drops open at the sight of you hanging limply in the Doctor's arms. "Oh, goodness," he gasps, "what's happened to her?"

"I don't know," the Doctor growls, the anger in his hearts a roaring fire. "How about you tell me why she wasn't in the infirmary? Or why she was all alone in a locked room with a raging fever?"

"Doctor, I -" Merban stutters. "I was under the impression she was being cared for."

"Well, your impression was wrong."

Koramaz appears behind Merban, and his eyes widen in shock. He reaches out for you, and something in the Doctor snaps - he isn't allowed to get close to you like that, no one is! He steps back quickly, shielding you in his arms.

"No, don't you touch her!" he snarls, suddenly much older and ancient and dangerous.

Koramaz stops in his tracks. The Doctor glares at him, breathing heavily, watching as he stumbles backwards. There's a sick satisfaction building in him at the fear in their eyes - and the Doctor realizes that maybe, just this once, he doesn't mind being ancient. He doesn't mind being dangerous.

But then you mutter something disjointedly, shift your frail body in his arms, and it's all wiped away like writing on the sand. The anger gone in just a moment, replaced by a fear that keeps him rooted to the floor.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" Merban asks softly.

The Doctor looks down at you. He's always scared, but not like this. Never like this.

"I'm being selfish," he says, and he disappears into the TARDIS.

“Have you done it?”

“I have.”

“Good job.”

Voices drift into your hearing. All you feel are sensations – incoherent and choppy, like someone had deleted entire minutes of your memory, scenes jumping from one to the other. Being scooped into someone’s arms, carried into the dark. Silken sheets brushing against freezing skin. Something thick and heavy being laid over you, suffocating you –

“Make sure she isn’t found until later. You know the plan. You know what he needs to think.”

The voices are familiar. Should you be alarmed? You feel like you should – but you can’t be. It’s too cold to feel anything else at all. There’s a soft click, and then laughter. Low laughter, laughter that’s too threatening to be kind. The sound sends shivers up your spine.

A small part of your mind’s still awake, and its screaming at you to get the hell up. You roll, and twist - then you fall, and the bed disappears from underneath you. You’re weightless for a second before your elbow collides with the floor. You’re too tired to even cry out in pain.

A thought pushes through your mind as you reach up at what looks like a doorknob – find the Doctor. He’s home, he’s safety, he’s everything. The doorknob rattles once, twice, nothing.

“Doctor,” you manage, and then –

Another voice drifts in. Warm and comforting. Soft against the sharp pain.

“Hush, I’m here,” the voice says. Something cold presses onto your forehead. A bead of liquid trickles down your temple and disappears into your hair.

“Where…?” You draw in a slow breath, your head lolling against a surprisingly warm pillow. You want to open your eyes – look upon your savior, as dramatic as that sounds. But your eyelids are so heavy, and you give up before you can even try.

“It’s alright, you’re safe, you’re on the TARDIS.” This time it’s hands, a palm pressing against your forehead, gentle fingers pressing onto your neck, both of them blessedly cool. You sigh and lean into the touch.

“Try to rest – you’re still burning up.” The hands retreat – then they come back, brushing against your cheek. The touch says a thousand words that you’re too tired to understand. “I need to figure out what they’ve put in you before…”

Silence for a moment.

“…I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”

Darkness swallows you before you can say anything back.

You come to consciousness like a computer waking up – every system flickering to life one by one. Touch comes first – you’re in a soft thing, a comfy thing, a bed. The faint hum of the TARDIS reaches your ears, low enough to be calming background noise. Sight is the last thing that comes to you as your eyes flutter open.

This isn’t the medical bay. It’s missing the sterile white walls and clean lines you’re used to waking up to when your adventures go inevitably south – and this isn’t your room either. It’s big and barely decorated, and while most of the rooms on the TARDIS feel old, this one feels older than most.

“You’re awake!”

The Doctor comes into your vision. You notice three things – one, his jacket’s gone, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Two, this bed you’re lying in? Huge. Three – the Doctor’s eyes are very, very red.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Not – sure,” you reply, your voice hoarse. “Confused. How long have I been out?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer that. He sits down on the bed instead, pulling your arm gently from under the blanket with a practiced ease. He rolls up your sleeve and peers at your forearm, his gaze steady and laser-focused on one spot on your arm.

The Doctor’s mysterious, but sometimes he can be easy to read. It isn’t hard with his face – he doesn’t shy away from emotions, and even when he tries to, they slip out of the mask he tries so hard to maintain. There have been quiet nights on the TARDIS after those botched adventures, that have started with anger and ended in tears from the both of you.

You flick your gaze from your arm to the Doctor’s face, and really look. Even through the thick haze that lays like fog on your mind, you can see his eyes, red-rimmed and sunken, and the way his jaw is tight and his shoulder are squared with a tension you’ve seen before.

He must be angry, you think, angry that I’ve gotten hurt, somehow.

“Good,” the Doctor finally says, looking up at you with a tired smile. “The antidote seems to be working – I made it with your blood, by the way, so if you feel a little lightheaded that’s on me.”

But there isn’t any anger in his eyes. There’s no storm, no fire. Just… exhaustion, and maybe a hint of relief as he looks at your face.

You must have missed it.

“What happened?” Your mouth doesn’t form the words quite right, and you catch the way the Doctor’s lips curve up fondly.

“You were poisoned,” he says, running a hand through his hair. It’s messier than it usually is, and his bowtie’s askew too. He turns away from you before you can reach up and fix it.

“Poison?” you ask. You struggle to connect the dots in your head, your mind still running too slow for your liking. “Someone poisoned me?”

“Not organic, not one you can buy either. Unprofessionally made, cobbled together in a back alley.” The Doctor’s gesticulating wildly now, moving his hands around in the air – without his jacket, he looks much smaller, and a little ridiculous. Then you wonder where his jacket is. “Something like this, you’re not looking for an easy kill – you’re just looking for results.”

“Yeah, they got results,” you groan. Every part of your body aches, and trying to reach any thought is like swimming in an ocean of molasses. “They definitely got results.”

You press your palms against the bed beneath you and push – and the world tilts at the movement, a sharp and sudden pain piercing through your lower back. You fall back against the mattress, the air leaving your lungs.

The Doctor whirls around, and before you can blink his hands are frantically hovering over you. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“My – back,�� you grit out, your head still spinning. “Ow.”

The Doctor’s already wide eyes widen even more. His hands, once reaching out, pull back to rest against his chest, tightened into fists. “When I found you, you – you kept warning me about your back, telling me your back hurt, and I couldn’t look because I was too –”

His voice breaks, and he trails off. He stares, eyes full of unshed tears, and swallows his words instead.

“Never mind,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “Let me have a look.”

Steady hands help you into a sitting position, even though the pain bares its sharp teeth every time you shift. You cling to the Doctor, fabric bunched up in your hands. He has to gently pry your grip open so he can move, and crouches behind you.

Still lost in a haze of pain, you can only blink blearily into the distance. You barely feel the Doctor’s fingers slowly curling around the hem of your shirt, or the way hits your bare skin as he pulls it up slightly. But you do hear a sudden exhalation of breath, and the whir of the sonic as he passes it over your skin.

After that – silence. Uncharacteristic silence, a silence that’s almost deafening as the Doctor skims through the readings.

“What is it?” you venture.

Another moment of silence. Then – “A puncture wound. So small you can barely see it.” The Doctor’s fingers brush over it, and you shudder. “It’s… an entryway. The source of the poison.”

The Doctor moves, and then he’s right by your side again, gently pushing you back onto the bed. He’s sad, you can tell that much, but his eyes have a familiar storm brewing behind them. Just lying in wait to rip and tear into everything in its path. The smile on his lips does nothing to hide that.

“Right. You –” He points at you, standing up – “should be getting some rest. I need to take care of things with the Lobarians – y’know, stuff. Diplomatic stuff. Important… stuff. I’ll be back.”

Something in you stirs – not anger, because he doesn’t need it right now, worry – and your hand shoots out, weak fingers wrapping around the Doctor’s wrist. “Let me come with you.”

“You’re supposed to be healing, not running off with me,” the Doctor says, his voice soft but admonishing, “It’ll be really boring, I promise -”

“Isn’t that how this whole thing started?” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “Me running off with you.”

The Doctor looks down. “I invited you.”

“And I said yes,” you whisper. You tug gently, and he sits onto the bed with a soft thump. You know this Doctor – and right now he’s volatile. Letting him leave would be like a match to gasoline. “Listen, I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”

Please stay goes unspoken. I care about you goes unspoken, and about a million other things too.

The Doctor sighs, but there isn’t any edge there. “I can never say no to you, can I?”

“Nope,” you say tiredly, popping the “p”. The Doctor laughs. Anything to make you stay.

The Doctor settles into the bed beside you, and as if on cue, the lights dim. The TARDIS’s humming grows even softer, fading until all you can hear is the sound of the Doctor breathing beside you.

“She’s being awfully nice,” the Doctor whispers beside you. “She’s spoiling you.”

“She likes me,” you reply. “Jealous?”

“Only a little bit.”

You hum in response. The darkness is already lulling you back to sleep, but you shift and nuzzle into the Doctor’s side. You feel him go still against you, against the sudden affection, but you don’t let up – you cuddle closer to him, you ear close to his chest.

You should be embarrassed. You’re probably embarrassed. But the relief you feel at getting the Doctor to stay by your side is clouding your judgement, and then there’s also the whole getting-poisoned-thing. You can imagine the look on the Doctor’s face – eyes wide, cheeks red, mouth parted like he can’t think of anything to say.

But he loves surprising people. “A few days,” he says quietly.

“What?” you mumble into his chest.

“You were out for a few days.” The Doctor shifts, wraps an arm around you. “I’m answering your question.”

“Oh.”

Snuggled into his chest, you can hear the sound of his heartbeats. Their rhythm pulls you closer to sleep, and your eyes slip shut.

Then you hear the Doctor sniff, feel his breathing hitch, and suddenly it’s your turn to go completely still against him.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he continues, sounding so impossibly small. “You were in and out of consciousness while I worked on the antidote. You -” A ragged sigh, then a soft whisper of your name - “you nearly died.”

Fear grips your heart tightly, squeezing dangerously – partly because of the fear of dying without being aware of it at all, and mostly because of the fear that coats the Doctor’s every word. You would have left him all alone, and if the distant storm brewing in his eyes is any indication, he would have done something much worse than stupid.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say.

“No, don’t be, don’t be,” the Doctor murmurs. His lips brush against the top your head, and he pulls you even closer to him. “Please don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong. This is my fault.”

“It’s not…” you begin, but the Doctor shushes you, and runs his fingers through your hair. Every motion pulls you deeper into sleep, and although you have a thousand things you want to say, you’re fading.

The last thing you remember is a whispered apology.

It's cold when you wake up again. You shift in the bed, trying to snuggle against something that should be behind you, but there isn't anything there. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and sluggishly reach out, letting your arm flop against the empty sheets, searching for warmth.

Your eyes shoot open. Empty sheets.

You turn your head to the side to find the spot beside you empty, the sheets smoothed out like a certain Time Lord had never even been there. Even your blanket's smoothed out, pulled over your shoulders and up to your chin like a parent would do.

It shouldn't hurt, waking up alone. It always happened. The Doctor isn't yours - he's always moving, always running, and someone like that can't ever be tethered, especially not to you.

But it does, and you find tears pricking at your eyes at the thought. If he can't be yours, then you can't be his either, and that means -

"No, you listen to me!"

You push yourself up. The pain in your back is still there, but it's a dull pain now, and certainly nothing compared to way your heart's started hammering in your chest.

That's the Doctor's voice in the distance, loud and ringing and angry.

You throw the blanket off your legs and climb off the bed. Your bare feet press against the cold wooden floor, and the chill sends another burst of clarity to your mind. He's out there, alone, and furious. Never a good combination for the Doctor, historically, you think, reaching up to rub your arms.

Your gaze falls onto a crumpled pile of tweed fabric slung over one of the chairs. Picking it up, you run your hands over the fabric. It feels sentimental, doing that, like interacting with a memory. The things this must have seen...

It's too big for you when you throw it over your shoulders, but it feels like him and smells like him, so it's enough. You wrap the Doctor's jacket tighter around yourself and stumble out of the room.

The sound of arguing drifts down the TARDIS hallways, and it's hard to make the Doctor's voice out from all the overlapping voices. The Doctor was right, though - the TARDIS is kinder today, and the hallways don't wind as much as the usually do. It's a straight shot to the console room. The voices get louder as you get closer to the door.

"Y'know, the funny thing about politicians is that they lie."

"Doctor -" That's Koramaz - "you have to believe me; I would never lie to you!"

"It's in your business to lie, part of the job description really. Why wasn't she in the medical bay? Why was the door to her room locked?" The Doctor's voice gets louder as he speaks. "If I didn't think so highly of you, I'd think you were trying to leave her for dead!"

There's a sigh, and Merban speaks - "Your opinion of us shouldn't have to change, Doctor. Let's keep this amicable."

"Amicable?" the Doctor asks, incredulous. "Ha! We'll see about amicable when I find out what you've really done - no one hurts the people I love and gets away with it!"

Fuck. You run up to the doors and try the doorknobs - they're locked. Fuck!

The Doctor's voice is dark, darker than you've ever heard it before, his words laced with an anger usually reserved for only the cruelest of beings. He knew he would leave, and he knew I'd follow him - the nerve of the man! Your sweaty hands slip against the metal doorknobs and you swear under your breath again. You press against the door, but it doesn't give.

"Please," you beg, looking up at the TARDIS's engine. It hums lowly. "I know you're listening. Please, old girl, before he does anything he's going to -"

The TARDIS doors swing open, a gust of wind pushes you out the doors and you stumble out of the ship and back into the P'kone Mountain Resort.

"...regret."

A wave of silence crashes over the room. Everyone stands frozen in time, still dressed in all their finery - Koramaz and Orvin standing side-by-side, hands raised in the air; Merban with an arm outstretched, held up protectively over the other Protectionists; and the Doctor, because he is the Doctor, standing proud in the middle of the room. Jacketless.

The Doctor's head whips towards you and his gaze softens, his eyes raking over your form. "Are you okay? What are you doing up?"

"I'm fine," you say, waving away his fussing hands. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I told you to rest," he says. Something cold cuts through his voice, and you narrow your eyes at him.

"I thought I told you to stay," you shoot back. The Doctor closes his mouth. You peer into his eyes, finding the fire that's infamous for, and counter it with your own. He shrinks against your glare.

The room's still divided, glittering red against shining blue. The Lobarians whisper to one another, and while you can't catch what they're talking about, you can make a guess. Time to put on a show.

Orvin steps forward from the crowd, wringing his hands together. "Are you well, now? We were so worried about you."

The words drip out of his mouth, sickeningly sweet like honey. You remember the glint of his teeth when he smiled at you on the dancefloor, and the sharpness of his hand against your back. He was too close, much too close.

Two can play at that game. You bare your teeth in a smile.

"Thank you for your concern," you say sweetly, walking up to him. The Doctor reaches out, tries to stop you, but you shoot him another look. "Might I say, you're a wonderful dancer."

"Oh, well, thank you," Orvin mutters. He swallows and clasps his hands together tightly in front of him. "So were you."

"Yeah?" Your smile grows wider, and Orvin shudders. "You know, you're a great dancer, but a terrible fucking liar."

You grab Orvin's clasped hands and pull, prying his hands apart. Your fingers dig into his wrists, nails carving crescents into his skin, and he yelps.

"Didn't we get close, Orvin?" you ask, leaning closer to him. Orvin's breaths come in short puffs, and behind him Koramaz's eyes are wider than dinnerplates.

Glinting on Orvin's left hand is a ring, golden and intricately carved, a shiny red jewel set into the top. The Doctor comes close, leaning down to look at his hands.

"Ooh, nice ring," the Doctor says, peering at the ring, understanding dawning on his face. "College ring, class of 4320 at the University of Neloba - good school, I was a professor there for a cycle. But -"

The Doctor turns towards you, gives you a quick smile, then shoves his hand down the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out his sonic screwdriver, and with a flourish, points it at Orvin's ring. He holds it upright to read the results - and something dark crosses over his face.

"It's a match," he says quietly, "to the poison in your system - by the way, mind if I take a look?"

Orvin opens his mouth to protest, and you twist his wrists upward, his palms facing the ceiling. He makes another pained noise.

The Doctor pulls the ring off his finger and holds it up to the light. Gently, he presses against the red jewel - and on the bottom of the ring, a small needle pops out for just a second before it disappears again.

"Ah," the Doctor says simply, gesturing to Orvin with the ring still held between his fingers. "What do we have here?"

"Orvin, how could you!" Koramaz gasps, his voice shaking with every word. "My own assistant, doing something so dastardly -"

"Oh, THAT'S ENOUGH!" the Doctor roars, throwing the ring to the floor. You jolt, and the whole room seems to shake at the sound of his voice, loud as a crack of thunder. "Stop lying, stop acting - just stop! Why did you do this?"

Koramaz shakes slightly, exhales, then goes completely still. If the Doctor's fire, Koramaz is ice, reflected in the pristine blue of his clothing. The Expansionists, standing near him, look like an ocean ready to swallow the Doctor whole. Slowly, he smiles, and spreads his arms.

"You're a warrior, Doctor," he says, shaking his head. "You've destroyed. Razed down everything in your path. Sometimes..." He glances at Merban - "that can help people."

"Koramaz..." Merban's jaw is hanging open. He shakes his head slightly, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "I did not think you were capable of such things."

"You didn't think at all, Merban."

"Help you," the Doctor spits, glaring at Koramaz. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. "What, so you wanted to turn me against the Protectionists? Was that it?"

"Your anger is a weapon, and one I intended to use." Koramaz smiles again, but it's thin. "I had no choice. Like Merban said, I don't believe in compromise."

The Doctor stares, fire burning in his eyes. Shoulders tense, he starts walking slowly, stalking Koramaz until there's barely any space between them, until he's cornered, nose-to-nose with the Oncoming Storm. The Doctor almost dwarfs Koramaz, his glare boring holes into him.

"Funny, because I'm starting to think that too," the Doctor growls, his jaw set. He looks down at Koramaz like a predator to prey, and for the first time, you see genuine fear in Koramaz's eyes.

"Doctor," you call out. He doesn't seem to hear. He's the Oncoming Storm now, surrounded by a hurricane of his own making. "Doctor!"

"My anger? A weapon?" The Doctor's voice is cold and sharp, like knives trailing against skin. "Do you want to find out why, Koramaz?"

You know why - you know exactly why, from stories weaved across time and space - Koramaz trembles under the weight of all the Doctor's sins, and the Doctor doesn't need to add another name to his list.

You have to fight it. You have to fight against the blustering winds of his fury, but you push through - and your hand wraps around his. The Doctor faces you, his eyes shining with an anger that isn't entirely human, and you do the only thing you can really do -

Pull him from the edge. Smile, and squeeze his hand tight.

"Don't" you whisper, and although what you really want to say is still left unspoken, in that split second, there's no one else in the room. Just you and the Doctor.

You're his anchor now.

"You had a choice," you tell Koramaz, still clutching the Doctor's hand. "You thought that if you hurt me, you could make the Doctor do something terrible. But he's better than that. He's a good man."

You look up at the Doctor. He's staring at you, gazing, a mixture of pride and sadness in his big green eyes. His lower lip trembles.

Deep breath. Only the truth, now. "I know him."

You can hear the faint murmuring of the Lobarians, and before your eyes the colors shift - the red mixes into the blue, Protectionists and Expansionists talking with one another, hands on shoulders, offering comfort.

"What do we do now?" one of them asks, their hands tightly gripping the front of their dress.

"You sit down," you say, and stand a little straighter. They're all looking at you now. "Reconvene. Actually discuss things instead of plotting and scheming behind each other's backs. Be better, for the future of your people. That's what this was all about, wasn't it?"

One Lobarian bows. Then another. Soon enough, all of the Lobarians in the room are bowing to you, a show of respect and reverence. Even Koramaz is bowing, his face cast to the floor.

You glance at the Doctor, smiling. I learned that from you.

He smiles back, gentle. I know.

Merban lifts his head, still poised despite his ruffled appearance. His eyes are damp, sorrow swimming in them. "Koramaz will be dealt with as best as we can. I am truly sorry for what we have done."

"Occupational hazard," you reply, bowing back to him. "Learn from this, won't you?"

"We will try." Merban nods slowly, and a tear slips from his eye. "I'm sure you understand now."

"Understand what?"

"Why you are a part of the stories," Merban says, bowing once more. As you stare at the Lobarians, all bowing in a show of respect and reverence, you do now.

You turn away from everyone and tug at the Doctor's hand, as gently as you can. The storm in his eyes ebbs, leaving behind a slight drizzle. "Let's go home, yeah?"

"Home," the Doctor echoes. "Home sounds good."

The Doctor doesn't say a word for the whole trip home.

He's quiet as he walks up to the console, pushing buttons and pressing levers without the manic energy that he usually has. It's disconcerting, but not surprising, and you settle for leaning against one of the railings as he works. The TARDIS stays kind, and takes off without even a shiver.

You keep your eyes on him as he pilots - watching him push in coordinates, swinging screens around - but the tension hasn't left his body. He's still wound up, ready to snap at a moment's notice, so you stay quiet. There's no sound but the hum of the TARDIS's engines.

Your mind drifts just as the TARDIS does, the room swaying slightly underneath your feet. This is what it's like, travelling with the Doctor in his magical blue box, and you know not every adventure ends well. Not every story has a happy ending.

What was another near-death experience? You practically lived off of them, thriving off of the rush that filled you when you escaped danger by just a hair. Running and laughing together. But this feels different, you think, still watching the Doctor walk slowly around the console, because something's changed.

But what was it?

You pull the sleeves of the Doctor's jacket. He hasn't asked for it back yet, and a small part of you hopes that he never does. It's incredibly comfortable, and the only warm thing in the cold space between the two of you.

The Doctor's eyes are dark, and the dim TARDIS lights cast shadows over his youthful face. The ship's lights and sounds were a tell if you couldn't figure out how the Doctor was feeling, and now they were completely in sync, darkness against darkness.

He brushes past you and slumps into one of the chairs, crossing his legs. He shuts his eyes, presses a hand against his forehead, and heaves out a shaky sigh.

"Are you mad?" you ask, your voice just above a whisper. The Doctor snaps his head up to look at you and he looks so weary, so old and so tired.

"Mad? Of course I'm mad," he says, the edge in his voice still there, but fading away. "I'm cross. Extremely. That doesn't usually happen."

You swallow, still gazing at him. His stare is intense, and he hasn't really looked you in the eyes since you stepped back onto the TARDIS. "I mean, are you mad at me," you add softly.

The Doctor's eyes widen a fraction, and he sits straighter in the chair. "No," he says, "no, not at you. Never at you. Why would you think that?"

You're quiet. You're never this quiet. You shrug, and the Doctor's jacket nearly slips off your shoulders. You catch it before it can fall - you also catch the Doctor's eyes tracing your form, his gaze stuttering to a stop at the sight of you in his jacket.

You shift against the railing, pulling his jacker tighter around your body. "You okay?"

"'Course I am," the Doctor replies, obviously not. He looks deflated sitting in the chair, his form almost swallowed by the seat. "I'm the king of okay. I said I was never gonna use that title again. Ignore me."

You give him a small smile, and he lights up a little bit. "No, you're not."

The Doctor frowns at you. "I am."

"You always lie," you tell him, raising your eyebrows.

The Doctor sighs again, but it isn't exasperated or angry - just defeated. He stands up in one quick motion, his hair flopping with the movement, and moves to stand in front of you. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and gazes down at you.

"I'm sorry," he says slowly, and the words echo in the room. He's standing close enough for him to reach out, but he doesn't - instead, he keeps his distance, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. "It's my fault you got hurt."

"It isn't," you protest, but the Doctor shakes his head.

"It is," he insists, and something like desperation colors his words. "They hurt you because of me. They knew how much I cared and they weren't afraid to use that."

"It's not your fault." You reach out and take his hands, shaking your head. "Caring isn't a weakness, you know that better than anyone."

The Doctor stays silent for a moment. He's still staring, unnaturally still despite the tears that threaten to spill out of his eyes.

"I should take you home," he whispers hoarsely, trying to pull his hands away from yours.

"No!" you blurt, and the Doctor goes still again. "No," you say again, softer, and intertwine his fingers with yours.

"I can't promise to keep you safe," the Doctor mutters.

"You don't have to." One by one, you lace your fingers together. His hands are bigger than yours, and he practically covers your entire hands with his. He watches you do this, his lips slightly parted, eyes sparkling with what looks like… wonder? "I want to stay with you. I don't care how dangerous it is, or how many times I get hurt - it's worth it."

And you mean it, every word. Every bruise, every scar – just something that comes with the life that you’ve chosen with him.

You stand on your tiptoes - the Doctor laughs quietly and leans down his head. You press a kiss onto his forehead, pouring everything you want to say into it, and hope he understands.

The Doctor straightens, standing taller. You frown up at him and fall back onto your feet. "You're so tall."

"Regeneration's a lottery," he says, and a smile - a real one - spreads across his face, like a sunrise warming the cold evening air. And just like a sunrise, the TARDIS's lights grow brighter, her humming and trilling like a triumphant symphony. "You're wearing my jacket."

"I am," you say. You're still very comfy in it, and the Doctor notices, because his lips curve up in a fond smile. "Does a Time Lord giving someone their jacket mean anything?"

"Why do you ask?" the Doctor asks, pulling his hands away from yours to smooth down the front of the jacket.

"Well, Orvin's cloak meant something. Does this mean something too?"

The Doctor's face goes red, and you have to push down a childish giggle as he flounders.

"The Lobarian courting cloak means a lot of things," he says, waving his hands around, "It's a symbol for the heart, the soul, the being of a Lobarian. Giving all of you to another."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "But I took your jacket."

The Doctor's eyes glitter. "...Well?"

Now it's your turn for your face to burn - you pull at the sleeves again, biting your lower lip. Your heart does flips in your chest, and you don't try to stop it from going haywire.

The Doctor, with another laugh, scoops you into his arms - he wraps his arms tightly around you, pressing his face into the crook of your shoulder, his whole body shuddering as he breathes a sigh of relief. You place your hands in his hair as he finally unwinds, relaxes, and lets go.

"Keep it for now," the Doctor murmurs against your ear, "I've got spares."

You stay there for a moment, just holding each other as the TARDIS sings around you.

"I’m not leaving you," you breathe out. "Package deal, remember?"

The Doctor doesn't say anything, just nuzzles closer, and it's enough of a reply for you.

#doctor who #doctor who x reader #eleventh doctor #eleventh doctor x reader #11th doctor x reader #eleventh doctor fanfiction #doctor who fanfiction #finally this is done.... i hope you guys like this lmao!!

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creacherkeeper · 5 years

Text

Sometimes Aziraphale feels old. Or, he feels weary and achy and tired. He is old, that’s for certain, but angels don’t really get old. He’d been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadn’t aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see.

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal--no silly human classification. He’s not an animal, he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions.

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen.

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing.

“What is that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.”

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.”

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.”

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming.

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters.

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?”

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.”

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.”

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s ... It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and ...” He cuts himself off.

“Crowley--” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?”

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed.

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.”

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting.

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over.

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?”

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.”

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back.

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?”

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just huge, you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.”

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.”

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out.

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be.

The pencil stops, then keeps going.

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.”

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.”

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time.

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss.

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder.

Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?

Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now.

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room.

Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking.

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does.

I remember, he says.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens fic #i tried to draw today and it didnt work so have this instead #my gomens #my go fic

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petri808 · 3 years

Text

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Inukag Royalty Au

A few months passed by comfortably and Kagome felt settled into her new role. She felt so much happier than she’d been in a long time, enough to rarely think about what brought her there in first place. Being a Lady in Waiting came with responsibilities, but Rin never felt like work. If anything, Kagome treated her like her own daughter or thought of her as the little sister she never had. Maybe even a bit too comfortable... If she wasn’t with Rin, she was with Inuyasha. They talked a lot and a crush had developed. She could tell he liked her too, but they both knew it wouldn’t work because he believed she was just a servant, and he was already spoken for. So, Kagome did her best to push away those sadder feelings and focus on the positives. She was in a safe environment, happy, and living freer than ever. It wasn’t worth stressing over.

“Where’s Rin?” Inuyasha asked Kagome when he found her sitting in the garden alone at mid-morning.

“Oh, hello Inuyasha.” Kagome looked up from her book. “This morning Rin decided to go with her mother to the neighboring city for shopping. They told me I didn’t need to accompany them, kind of like a mother, daughter fun day, I assume.”

“So that means you’re free right now?”

“I guess you could say that,” she chuckled. “They’ll probably be back around dinner time.”

“In that case, would you like to join me for a horseback ride? You haven’t had a lot of chances to see the surrounding areas, right?”

“No, I haven’t. But I guess Buyo wouldn’t mind getting out of the stable either. He hasn’t been worked much lately since I’d arrived.”

“Then it’s settled.” Inuyasha held out a hand to help her to her feet. “We can grab some lunch from the market before heading out.”

Within the hour, the pair were on horseback trotting along the road that led away from the castle city. There were a few areas close by that Inuyasha thought Kagome would enjoy seeing. For him it was days like this when he could forget that he was a Prince and just enjoy life. The woman had truly brought out a new side of him and it wasn’t going unnoticed, but so far, the palaces gossip mill didn’t dare to make it publicly known. It had steadily grown harder and harder to remember life before Kagome’s arrival and Inuyasha didn’t want to think about the day he’d have to leave her behind for some Princess he didn’t even know. Ugh! Before Kagome, he’d accepted his fate subserviently to his fathers will, but now, the frustration grew like a weed in his heart. He’d rather die alone at home, in the castle with Kagome around then be married in an unfamiliar kingdom on a loveless throne.

“Where’s Miroku?” Kagome asked after some time. “Isn’t he supposed to be with you when you leave the castle?”

“Yeah…” Inuyasha smirked with a glint in his eye. “But I ditched him. He’s probably still looking for me,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t want a third wheel when I’m with you.”

The comment brought a blush to Kagome’s cheeks as the man’s tone hinted more than an innocent rambling. “Oh…” she ducked her head in embarrassment. “It is nicer without anyone else around. So, um, where are we going?”

“There’s a pond,” Inuyasha pointed in a general direction. “It’s not much farther, with a small waterfall where we can relax and eat our lunch.”

“That does sound really nice! I’ve never seen a waterfall before,” she sheepishly admitted.

“Wow… you really haven’t seen much, have you?”

“Let’s just say I was… sheltered for most of my life.”

“Because you’re a girl?”

“Yeah, they wouldn’t let me go anywhere by myself.”

“I see. So, after they passed away you decided to do the opposite?”

“I know it’s odd for a woman to travel alone, but I didn’t have anyone to turn to and I just… needed to get away.”

Inuyasha leaned back a little in his saddle using his legs to steady himself. “I can completely understand that. Everyone wondered why I used to be so irritable before Rin came along. She gave me a reason to stick around, but I really don’t enjoy being a prince.”

“You don’t?” Kagome spoke slowly to hide the tremble in her tone. It was nice to hear someone else unhappy with that kind of life.

He shook his head. “So many rules and traditions to follow. Everyone thinks our life is easy but the pressures… and being told what to do, being watched constantly— I hate it and then the whole arrangement—… never mind.” His ears folded back as he glanced skyward. “What I wouldn’t give to be free from all of it.” He turned to look at her. “Like you— oi, did I say something wrong?” Inuyasha questioned when he saw the moisture filling Kagome eyes.

“No, no,” she shook her head and smiled. “I get it. Freedom to choose how we’ll live our lives is just, such a wonderful thing.”

Ever have a sense of connection while time stood still? Just for moment as the pair trotted side by side, their eyes holding a gaze like the world could fall away at any moment, but it wouldn’t be noticed. Inuyasha didn’t know how, and despite coming from such different worlds this woman… he knew she spoke the truth. She was feeling the same longing emotions as he was, the same which had driven her to leave home. What a strength to possess in standing up to traditions! Inuyasha let out a held breath. Kagome truly was one of those once in a lifetime meeting, he’ll never find again. If only…

Inuyasha snapped out of the daydream when he realized they’d reached their destination. “F-follow me, it’s right through this tree line.”

He led them through a thicket of trees with the sounds of moving water guiding him towards the source. This hidden gem was easy to miss from the road, but it made for a perfect hideaway. Inuyasha would sometimes slip away from the castle and go there whenever he was upset. Not even Miroku knew about it and the prince wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. They tethered the horses near the water on a patch of grass, before finding a flat rock outcropping to sit down. Inuyasha then laid out a blanket he’d brought, and Kagome unpacked a travel basket of food.

“This really is a beautiful place,” Kagome commented. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

“You’re welcome. I’m just glad you like it.”

Kagome stretched out her legs and held herself up with her arms behind her relaxing and listening to the sounds around her. The pond was maybe four or five horse lengths from one side to the other, with a short waterfall that fed the pond, but it had no visible outlet. Perhaps it was connected to an underground stream that came out elsewhere. Not that she cared about such details. What mattered was the serenity of the area, so calming, soothing, the gentle rumbles of the waterfall, the birds in the trees, even the frogs croaking, or water bugs buzzing around in a strangely harmonious cacophony. As they ate their lunch amidst this entertainment, she couldn’t help but think about coming back here again.

“I bet Rin would love this place,” Kagome sighed in contentment.

“She probably would, if I was willing to share it with anyone else.”

She turned her head and was about to respond when she realized what Inuyasha was insinuating. “Oh… so no one else knows about this place?”

Inuyasha shook his head no. “Just me and you. Only special people allowed,” he smiled.

As she adjusted her body to sit up, Kagome’s voice quieted with hopeful undertones. “You think… I’m special?”

“Kagome, look at the effect you’ve had on my entire family. Rin loves you. My parents think you’re great, even Kagura likes you and that says a lot. It’s pretty clear that you’re a very special person.”

“Ah, I see,” Kagome breathed out a sigh mixed with relief as well as disappointment. “Everyone has been very nice to me, and I’m blessed to have been so accepted.”

Inuyasha didn’t respond immediately and when Kagome glanced up to look at him, she noticed he was staring at the water with a serious, almost pained expression. His brows were slightly furrowed, and jaw tightened. Should she say something? Maybe he was thinking and wouldn’t want to be interrupted. Minutes ticked by, but the prince kept his eyes trained on the water. So, Kagome pulled her knees up and rested her arms on them to wait, letting the scenery pull her back into a daydream.

It frustrated Inuyasha that he kept having to reign in his emotions like this. He wanted to just tell her the truth, not cover it up with truthful lies. His family did love her, just not in the way he was beginning to. She was special to him, but it would be wrong to lead her on when there was no hope of developing anything more. He’d do anything to make her happy and feel special every single day for the rest of her life. Finally, after several awkward minutes, he spoke up. “Someone like you deserves the world Kagome, and if I could give it to you, I would.”

The comment made Kagome’s heart melt, for she knew those words were coming from his own. Now she understood the turmoil lying just below the surface but appreciated Inuyasha trying to keep things platonic for both their sakes. She smiled softly as she fidgeted with her fingers. “I know you would, Inuyasha, and I’d do the same for you if I could. These past few months have made me happier than any other time in my life, but even if this is all I get, I’ll still cherish the memories.”

Inuyasha let out a drawn-out exhale, his head hung, and ears drooped. “And I still wish things could be different. Fate sucks sometimes.”

Kagome surprised him by reaching over and placing her hand over his. “Let’s focus on the good stuff while we can.” She genuinely smiled although behind it there was a hint of sadness to it. “At least we got to meet each other, and we get to enjoy moments like this one. That’s something no one can ever take away from us.”

He flipped his hand over and took hold of hers, giving it a small squeeze. “I don’t know how you do it,” Inuyasha chuckled quietly. “But I know you’re right. For you, I’ll hold out hope that things will work out the way they’re supposed to.” And he meant it. Anything to keep a smile on Kagome’s face.

Once Inuyasha noticed the sun had moved halfway towards the horizon, they decided it was time to head back to the palace. The pair trotted out of the tree line but pushed the horses into a light gallop after making it back to the main road. It was fun, albeit disruptive to Kagome’s hair as it came undone and flowed behind her. Inuyasha had to hold back his admiration because she simply looked breathtaking like that. They slowed down as they neared the castle gate and he instantly saw a very annoyed Miroku standing next to his horse waiting for them.

“Where the hell have you been!” Miroku flailed his hands at the prince. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?!”

Refusing to acknowledge the man’s tirade, Inuyasha just rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal. Did my dad come looking for me or something?”

“No—”

Inuyasha cut him off. “Then where’s the fire? What’s got you so damn riled up?”

“Because it was only a matter of time. And what are you doing with Ms. Tanaka?” Miroku questioned with an accusatory tone.

“Look, she hasn’t seen much more than the castle, so I took her out riding. Nothing wrong with that, so don’t be projecting your sick perverted mind on me,” Inuyasha growled back. “Now are you done grilling me cause we’d like to be on our way.”

“One more thing.” Miroku moved closer so he could keep his voice low. “A visiting King from a small kingdom will be here by dinner time, so your father may call on you to greet the guest.”

“What king?”

“Naraku, from the Komorigumo kingdom.”

“The creepy one?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s supposedly just passing through for the night on his way to the coastal port city and stopped out of respect.”

“I never did trust that guy.”

“Neither does your father, so that’s why he’ll probably ask you to greet him and keep an eye on him.”

“Alright… thanks,” Inuyasha mumbled. “Now if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Miroku then winked at Kagome. “Ma’am.”

“Mr. Hoshii,” she nodded her head.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Inuyasha grumped and drove his horse forward. “We should get inside.”

“Okay,” Kagome responded and followed along.

After putting away their horses, the pair parted ways. Kagome went straight to her room to freshen up before Rin arrived home and Inuyasha went looking for his father. He wanted to find out if there was more to this visit than Miroku had known about, because King Naraku had a sullen and untrustworthy reputation. It was customary for visiting guests to stay in the palace, but Inuyasha wondered if they should increase the guards or put them on alert for mischief. He found the Inutaisho in his war room, but after several questions, Naraku’s visit appeared to be for a benign reason, just like Miroku stated. But he still didn’t trust the man.

“Fine,” Inutaisho acquiesced. “I’m not increasing the guards but have them instructed to watch for anything suspicious or unusual and to notify you immediately if they come across something.”

“Thanks, I’ll make sure it’s done. Oh, will Naraku be at dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Make sure he’s on the opposite side of the table from Ms. Tanaka. Wouldn’t want him making her uncomfortable.”

“Inuyasha, I still think you’re being paranoid.”

“Better paranoid and be wrong, then miss something and bad things happen.”

Inutaisho laughed. “I guess I can’t fault that logic too much. See you at dinner son.”

With Miroku’s help, the palace guards and staff were put on notice under the guise of simply being on the alert with such a high-profile guest at the palace. When King Naraku arrived shortly before dinner, Inuyasha merely watched from the dining room doorway as his father and brother greeted the fellow king. His concern was intercepting Rin and Kagome as they arrived for dinner to make sure they avoided contact.

“Uncle Inu!” Rin bounced up and hugged him.

He picked her up, holding her with one arm. “Did you have fun shopping?”

“Yeah! I got some pretty new dresses!”

“That’s awesome,” Inuyasha smiled. “And good evening Ms. Tanaka.”

“Good evening, your highness.”

“Due to a guest, the normal seating has been slightly rearranged,” he gestured for her to follow him. “I’ll show you both to your seats.”

“That’s kind of you,” Kagome smiled and did as she was told.

As the trio walked through the dining room. Inuyasha kept his side gaze trained on Naraku to see how he would react to an unfamiliar face. The man was already seated next to his father and brother chatting, but clearly aware of their entrance. For just a brief second Inuyasha swore Naraku was staring hard at Kagome but caught himself quickly once he saw Inuyasha looking in his direction and pretended not to notice Kagome at all. ‘Weird,’ Inuyasha thought to himself. With human curiosity it’s normal to react to a new face, but not to ignore, especially a pretty one like Naraku had just done. He knew he couldn’t say anything out loud about it, so he just stayed observant.

The rest of dinner went without incident until the Inutaisho invited Naraku to join he and Sesshomaru in another room for more official business. Inuyasha watched carefully as the three men left the room, but just outside of the door and his hearing, he saw Naraku stop his personal guard and whisper something in the man’s ear. The guard then glanced back at the dining table where the rest of them were still seated, and yet again he could have sworn the men were looking at Kagome!

Inuyasha leaned over and whispered to Kagome. “Once you put Rin to bed, stay in your room and keep the door locked.”

“Is something wrong?” She whispered back. “Is it because of who you and Miroku was talking about earlier?”

“Yeah. I’m probably just being paranoid, but he just gives me really bad vibes.”

“O-Okay. Sure, I’ll just stay in my room reading.”

“Good.”

The following morning, Inuyasha woke up early to watch Naraku and his entourage leave. According to Miroku, no incidents were noticed, so he could breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had been a little paranoid… that is until his father mentioned something. Naraku had asked the Inutaisho about Kagome before leaving. Inuyasha’s father assured his son that it was just an innocent question since Rin had a different attendant the last time the foreign king had visited. Innocent or not, why would Naraku care about a servant? Inuyasha chalked it up to the fact Kagome was a beautiful woman, so it must have just gained that kings attention. But since nothing more came from it, he filed it away in the back of his mind for future reference.

#inukag #inukag au #inukag fanfiction #inukag fan fic #inukag fan fiction #inuyasha #Kagome higurashi #royalty au #ch 4 #the irony of fate #petri808

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oksana-moods · 3 years

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Ghost of you - Part 9

Summary: Ghost realizes that, no matter how hard she tries, she can't run away from her past. When Carol's presence do more harm than good, the only way to come clean is to take a dive. A/N: Thank you again for all the support, and to let you know that we reached the point where things start to change. Starting for the song theme. Now we’ll go with ‘Writings on the wall’ from Sam Smith. We’re halfway through, lovelies. Trigger Warnings: Violence, language (a bit too much, I believe), mentions of death… if you find others, let me know. Oh, sort of WandaVision spoiler. Angst. “I've spent a lifetime running, and I always get away”

With my hands involuntarily clutching the tag, I’m sitting at the roof watching the sun slowly but inexorably going down in the horizon. Once, I heard that this is what life feels like. We born just like the sun raises, we reach our greatest point then we start to set till night embraces us. Death, just like the sunset, is inevitable. I find myself agreeing with this metaphor.

It’s been a few months since our futile attempt to overturn Thanos’s snap. And now, each one of us went different ways to try to cope with this catastrophe.

Steve, Natasha and I were still living at the compound we had nowhere else to go so we’re pretending that we were taking care of things, that we’re moving on.

Tony and Pepper are about to get married and, honestly, I hope they find happiness. While Bruce went missing again, Thor went to New Asgard, he lost everything but still had a Realm to rule; Rhodey was working for the Government in a high position, or so I heard. Wakanda lost all the royal family but Okoye was holding on, as best as she could. Rocket and Nebula stayed a bit but returned to space with promises of visiting whenever they could.

Oddly, the logo ‘Avengers’ was scattered all over the universe. We were broken, but we would still protect whom needed protection.

And there is The Avenger, the original one. Carol barely touched the ground coming back from Garden and took-off claiming she needed to check on Skrulls. Not even three weeks later she was back, and that caught me off guard. I’ve never expected for her to return, not that quickly, at least.

She’s been trying to talk to me, but I dodged all of her attempts.

Until now.

“Hey, Mav.” I close my eyes when her voice reaches my ears. “The view from here is amazing.”

I was sitting at the edge of the roof and Carol was leaning with her elbows at the rampart.

“Yes. It is.” I answer. “What do you want, Carol?” We both know she’s not here for the view.

“To talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I got up from my seat, I’m standing in the roof starting to make my way to the door. I flinch away when her hand touches my metal arm. I shoot an outrageous look at her.

“Please.” Her eyes are so soft against my gaze that something inside me stirs. “You’ve been avoiding me. Natasha told me that you lost most part of your memories.” Her brows are so furrowed that is clear she’s upset. Why is she? I turn away from her, I’m looking at the horizon once more. Her gaze was too overwhelming, right now.

“What do you want to know?” I shove my hands inside my pockets. Damn, why am I so nervous? “Most of my memories are gone. The last four years is all I have without gaps. Wanda…” I close my eyes, still hurts to think about her. I think it always will. “She helped me to unbury whatever she could.” I saw Carol leaning at the rampart. She was trying to get closer, but I needed distance.

“I crashed after your crash.” She nodded, of course she knew this. “Whatever happened to you with the tesseract, spattered in me too. That’s why I haven’t changed, just like you.” I could feel my hands shaking inside my pockets, I was uneasy. Something about her was pulling me to the edge.

“But, what about…” She hesitated “What about your arm?” Why is she pretending to be concerned? She’s getting under my skin and I’m feeling cornered. So, I do what every cornered animal do. They attack.

“Will you fucking stop beating the bush? Ask me what you fucking want to ask.” Oh and so she did, she was exasperated with me acting like an idiot. What was she expecting?

“I came to earth around 2007. I went to Maria’s and she told me you were at war but never make it back. I… I saw your stone. I… I…” She ran a hand through her hair. “I thought you were dead.” Her voice was a whisper but that made something burst inside me. I grieved her, even when I knew she was alive. She chose to go away and wanna play the broken-hearted role?

“You and me both!” My voice was harsh and loud, but I wasn’t yelling yet. Yet. “What do you expect me to say, huh? That I am sorry someone lied to you? That I am sorry you were sad?” The setting sun illuminating her face, making her look gorgeous than ever, made me hate her even more. “Well, news flash for you, hon. YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE! I still see you die every time I fucking close my eyes.” I yelled. I couldn’t take this anymore. “I SAW YOU DIE OVER AND OVER AND OVER.” Her eyes were glossy, there was something shining inside them that I couldn’t decipher. And, Fuck. It hurt so bad. They hurt me so bad. She hurt me.

“I… Lara, I am so, so sorry they did this to you” She whispered again. She didn’t want to fight, but all I know is fight. And I only stop when I see blood.

“When I was taken by Hydra, they made me watch you die, they made me watch you leaving." My voice was low and hard, this time. "So no, I can’t stand this. Hydra took everything from me. They beat me and oh, they hit me hard. They cut off every single piece of me, and they put me through hell. But you Carol, you broke me first.”

I turned in my heels and left the roof. Each step my feet tried to betray me, make me to look back, but I kept going til reach the door. I knew I was far too harsh, my words probably cut her, but if she was bleeding so was I.

-----------------

Days went by and I didn’t see Carol since that day in the roof. Steve told me she took a room for her at the compound, she’d be staying a bit longer. Of course she is. Like I didn’t have a lot to deal with already. Since there weren’t any assignments going on, all the workout in the world couldn’t help to ease my mind. Or heart.

I park my motorcycle at the parking lot and pick up the flowers from inside my jacket. I check it to see if they still look good. I shrug, they’re good enough.

I walked inside the Hospital and expertly made my way to my friend’s room. It pained me to know she was sick, but she was too strong to give in that easy to cancer. She was a fighter. She inspired me. If she could go on even with her decease and losing her child, so could I.

“Buying flowers became a struggle nowadays.” I said with a smile.

Her smile lit up the whole room. “Good thing you’re not going out on dates, then.” My laugh filed the room.

“Please Maria, you’re too old to be that sassy.”

“You’re just as old as I am. The difference is just that you still look good.”

“You still look good, Ma. I’d take you out on a date.” And it was true, she was around her sixties but still look beautiful. Few lines near the eyes, but only complimented her.

“Awn, you flatter me” She put a hand on her chest, faking innocence. “I don’t go out with women, hon. But I’d definitely accept the invitation, I’m craving real food, not whatever this hospital calls food.” Instantly, this blows the air out of my lungs and I’m forced to face reality. My friends are gone and soon, Maria will be gone too. Carol told me once that her biggest fear was to bury all her friends. Fuck. I understand what she meant now.

“Geez, Mav. It was only a joke. Next time, don’t bring me flowers unless you’re bringing fries too.”

I forced a smile at her.

After the whole ordeal with the ‘Accords’ I was arrested alongside Clint, Scott and Sam. Cap came and rescued us, but I went on the road since I was an outlaw too, so my visits to Maria and Monica stopped despite keeping in touch. I wouldn’t forgive myself for the time I lost.

“Carol came to visit me yesterday.” That’s the Maria I came to know, never holding back her words. “Apparently, you’ve been giving her a hard time.”

“Oh. Did she come to cry on your shoulder?” Every time Carol’s name was brought up, I felt my brain short-circuiting. I don’t know why, but I hated it.

“Naa. I was just gossiping around, I’m an old lady, after all.” She laughed lighting up the mood. “Does it feel better to yell, to be a bitch with her?”

“What?”

“C’mon, Mav. You changed a lot, but I can still see through you. You need to vent whatever is stuck in your chest; you need to put it out.” I was frowning at the floor. “That’s the only way both of you will move on.”

“I hate her, Maria. Seeing her makes me feel like my wounds are cutting open once again. I don’t see how we can move past this, how I can forgive her.”

“If that’s true,” She pointed at my chest, and I knew what she was going to say. “Why do you still wear her tag and yours together?” All of a sudden, the Tag was heavy in my chest. Tons and tons of unspoken words, feelings, and pain weighting too much.

“I… I don’t know. It kinda feels right.” God, I’m so confused. Is it possible to be friends with Carol Danvers again? Will I, one day, forget everything Hydra made me feel with those memories? I wonder if that hopeless feeling will ever go away. Because right now, all I can think of is that, at any moment, she’ll turn her back on me or she’ll die. It’s hard to look at someone expecting, waiting for the pain that usually comes with their face.

“I know it does.” And she changed her tone to her bossy one. “So, stop acting like you have a stick shoved inside your ass and talk to her. Promise me you will.”

“All right. I promise.” I answered, it was no use try to avoid this. Maria wouldn’t drop this.

“That’s better.” She had that look like she knew that I’d comply with her request.

“Doesn’t upset you? That she left and forgot about us?” I was looking out of the window, looking at the cars outside, people were, slowly, trying to find their bearings. Trying to figure out what should be normal now. They were trying. Should I try, too?

Maria’s voice made me look at her when she replied. “It used to hurt, yes. But I’m dying, Mav, I don’t have time or patience to fight anymore.”

After Maria scolded me enough for not talking to Carol, our conversation was lighter. She complained about the overprotective nurse, she complained that tv never had good things to watch, gossiped about other patients, and when I said my goodbyes, she made me promise to sneak some food for my next visit.

However, all the way home I kept overthinking these things I’ve been building up inside me. Something about Carol made me uneasy, like I’m exposed in a field filled with enemies, with nowhere to hide. And I don’t like it on bit. There’s something about her eyes, and I hate the intensity in them when she looks at me, it’s like they can pierce your soul, see what’s underneath… And I’m way too afraid of all the terrors that she might discover. I’m not Lara anymore, I’m not who she thinks I am, no. I’m someone else.

-----------

“You stole my spot.” I said as I reached the roof. The woman who I was addressing to, turned her head to look at me.

She was wearing a simple jeans with a blue t-shirt and her hair was framing her flawless face, how this woman could be so beautiful even with so common clothes was beyond me.

She gave me a tide smile that never reached her eyes, they were somewhat tired.

“Oh. It wasn’t my intention; I’ll leave you to be.” Yes please, leave me alone. I thought to me myself, but then my conversation with Maria from last week came to my mind. Fuck. I hate making promises. She was preparing to leave when I spoke.

“There’s room enough for both of us, though.” I said with a shrug, pretending that I was okay with her company, pretending that I wasn’t uncomfortable with this proximity. Her head snapped at me, she looked at me like I had grown two heads.

“Okay.” Her voice was so soft that immediately put me on edge. I felt exposed again. What was happening with me?

We stayed there for a while with a heavy silence between us. The tension was so thick that I’m sure we couldn’t move, that’s probably why none of us left the roof yet. There was a sea of unspoken words and as much as I hated it, we couldn’t ignore this anymore. If she’s going to stay, we’ll have to dive into this. We’ll have to work together at some point, this wouldn’t be healthy during even the simplest mission.

“You know, I’ve been in a lot of places, but none of them had such a beautiful sunset.” Her voice startled me; I wasn’t expecting at all.

“Well, it does have something peaceful, doesn’t it?” She seemed to ponder what I just said.

“One may say that this might be a spell. That there are a lot of beautiful places out there, but nothing compares to home.”

“Is it?”

“What?” She looked at me, confusion written all over her face.

“Is Earth you home?” At this, she frowned.

“Look, I know what you’re implying. I… I don’t know how much you remember from… before.” She seemed nervous. “What do you recall?”

And that’s it. There’s no turning back now, I needed to dive into this sea and hopefully I’ll reach the other side alive.

I looked forward; eyes set at the setting sun. I couldn’t deal with this and look at her at the same time. My hands started to shake so I wriggle them together to stop them, somehow.

“I remember us.” I felt a pang in my chest. Shit. What is this? “I remember you were always going back and forth to Earth. I remember when you went for good, ‘we’re too good at goodbyes’, yeah?!”

She signed heavily. “While helping Talos, I realized that a lot of people needed help. I wanted to stay, but I just couldn’t ignore innocent people dying.”

“People were dying here too.” She was frustrated, she threw her arms around impatient, but I continued before she could speak. “I know, I know you wanted to bring peace to whoever you could. And Earth already had its saviors.”

“It’s not just like that, I…” She turned to fully look at me. “After I found out about your… death,” She struggled with the word, it fell heavily from her tongue. “I felt so helpless, so stupid for wasting away the time I could’ve had with you, I…” She was staring at me, eyes locked, and I felt myself being dragged inside. “I couldn’t forgive myself for loosing you for good.” She half whispered as if afraid of this becoming true. Like I could turn into a mirage, out of blue.

She was diving in the sea of what was left unsaid too, there’s no going back. “And when you died, part of me died too. Then Earth wasn’t home without you on it anymore, that’s why I never came back after. But then I received Fury’s emergency call, only to learn about Thanos… only to find out that you were alive this whole time.” Her eyes were glowing with such intensity, that my feet were glued to the ground. I felt a hand wrapping around mine. “I wanted to come back, back then. After I went through your door, I regretted at the very same instant, Lara.” Her voice was so soft when she spoke my name, it was like her tongue was made of velvet and it took the air out of my lungs. “After all, I wanted… I wanted so damn hard to be happy… with you. But I couldn’t find my way back, it didn’t seem right. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’d only do more damage than I already had. And I’m so, so sorry for hurting you.”

I was so entranced in her eyes while she was speaking that up until now, I hadn’t realized how close she was, or even that her hand was gripping my flesh hand. She’s so close that I could see the fading sunlight brightening her freckles. She was so, so close that my brain was at loss.

I didn’t know if the sun was illuminating her face or if it was the other way around, but such perfection made something inside me stir, I felt strange. I felt an urge to reached out and touch her face, like I needed to feel her skin under my touch just as much as I needed oxygen. “Why are you here now, Carol?” My voice was so soft that felt foreign, almost like a whisper. “My heart is at Earth.” She whispered back, like she was afraid of breaking this spell, this trance that was keeping both of us from moving away.

#carol danvers #carol danvers x reader #carol danvers x fem!reader #carol danvers x original character #cap marvel #captain marvel #captain marvel x female reader #Ghost #ghost of you #marvel fanfic series #original female character #marvel x reader #angst

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megatraven · 3 years

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Great and Precious Things

A/N: The title is taken from the quote, “All great and precious things are lonely,” by John Steinbeck. Because I forgot to think of a title while I wrote this :) Character(s): EAA FMC, EAA MMC, Arin Pairing(s): N/A Summary: A look into what it might have been like for FMC following the casting of the memory spell, and how she gave up much more than just her knowledge of magic.

AO3

___

It doesn’t happen the moment the words leave her mouth, as most spells tend to. It’s more delicate than that, and it takes time to wrap around her heart and mind, to seal away a lifetime of memories. She has a few days. A week at most.

“How are you feeling?” Arin asks her, concern bleeding through their voice, their furrowed brow making her smile, albeit weakly.

“I’m just tired. Took a lot more out of me than opening a door, that’s for sure.” She turns to her brother. “How about you?”

“I... Yeah, I’m fine. I will be.”

Reaching out, she squeezes his shoulder, and it’s enough to ground them both and scrape together the energy they need to ask the labyrinth for a way home.

They part ways with Arin, promising to see them tomorrow for an update. It’s a quiet, mournful walk back to their house, but when they finally reach the basement, they don’t quite remember why they were down there in the first place.

___

“Does it feel strange?”

Arin is sitting across from her, their leg bouncing a little nervously, an old tic that only shows up when they’re really anxious over something. She reaches across and drops her hand down on their knee, keeping them still.

She wants to reassure them, but there’s no easy way to tell someone that you’re leaving them behind. There’s no easy way to let them know that you’re forgetting promises that you said you would keep, and memories that you’ve laughed or cried over together for years.

But she does her best.

“It’s... like waking up from a dream. You want to tell people about it, but when you reach for the story... it’s slipped through your fingers.” She pauses, and takes her hand away from their leg, leaning back into her own seat. There’s not much else to say.

Silence stretches between them, almost suffocating in how heavy it is, before Arin breaks it.

“Does it... Does it hurt?” they whisper, and her heart aches for it.

At least she can tell them the truth here, provide some small comfort.

“Not at all.”

___

She’s making herself a fresh pot of coffee when her brother comes into the kitchen. She doesn’t look up, eyes glued to the list of classes available next semester as she decides which ones she wants to take.

He sits down at the counter, and she can practically feel the weight of his stare on her, though she doesn’t look back.

She’s got to figure out her classes- she remembers feeling a little bored this past semester, like there wasn’t enough to fill her time.

When her coffee fills the pot, she pours herself a steaming mug, and finally looks over at her brother, finding him to be a little apprehensive.

With a sigh, she sets her mug back down and turns to face him fully.

“Alright. No being all mopey, tell me what’s up.”

She’s prepared for just about anything- but what he says makes her thankful she’d already set her coffee down.

“I’m going to law school.”

For a moment, all she can do is stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. She knows exactly what that means- god, she’d seen the letters when she checked the mail, but she never thought...

“You can’t be serious,” she says, disbelieving and maybe a little angry. Maybe a little hurt, too. He couldn’t leave, they had-

They had...

Something!

She was too angry to recall what obligation it was, but he was supposed to stay! He was supposed to stay with her.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I just can’t get that argument with dad out of my head. This might be my only chance to go, and I-” he swallows, looking away- “I’m going to take it. I don’t want to be stuck here looking after the lighthouse all my life.”

“You can’t leave,” she says, a little desperate. “Arin and I need you.”

She isn’t sure why she says Arin’s name- they’re doing just fine in their work, they know what direction they’re going in. But it feels right, like it needs to be said. Like it should always be the three of them, together.

Unfortunately, it does nothing to sway her brother.

“I have to. I already accepted, I’m getting a full-ride scholarship... it’s happening, whether you want it to or not.” He gets up, and starts to leave, pausing only to say one more thing. “I hope you’ll respect my decision.”

And then he’s gone, a preview of what’s the come.

Her coffee is cold by the time she wills herself to pick it up again.

___

“I’m sorry,” she says, out of the blue.

She’s just finished submitting her classes for the next semester, filling her schedule to the brim. If her brother’s not going to be there, then she really needed something to occupy herself with. Not to mention, she wants to learn a better way to keep the lighthouse going, since it’ll be just her.

Her brother looks up from his phone, cheeks a little flush.

“Huh?”

“For acting the way I did when you told me about law school. I want you to be happy...” She glances down at his phone and gives him a teasing smile when she meets his eyes again. “So I support you. You should go.”

“Really? I knew you’d come around!” His smile grows, and he rushes around the table to squeeze her in a tight hug, making her laugh. “What changed your mind?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but she closes it again.

Why did she change her mind? Why was she so against him leaving? She remembers feeling angry, but why? It wasn’t like her to hold him- or anyone, for that matter- back just because of her feelings. It feels like she shouldn’t have had to change her mind at all.

Shaking her head lightly, she shrugs.

“I guess I just realized that... well, you know what you want to do with your life. I don’t want to get in the way of you doing it.”

“Thank you. It means a lot, you know.”

She can hear the smile in his voice, and has to blink away tears before she pulls back and grins at him.

“Of course. If you ever need anything...” She steps back, and gestures around them, at the house that they grew up in. “You know where to find me.”

___

He leaves.

Her parents are gone, on vacation in California.

The house feels more empty than it ever has, and it breaks her heart a little. Some part of her knows it wasn’t meant to be that way, but there’s nothing to be done about it, now.

She takes out her phone and pulls up Arin’s number.

At least she still has them.

___

She sits at one of the tables outside, just beyond the line of food trucks. It’s a nice day, and all the food smells so good. She’d love to grab a bite to eat, but she waits, checking her phone for any response.

Nothing.

“They said they’d come,” she murmurs, looking out at all the people passing by. No bright red hair sticks out to her, no friendly face.

Sighing, she shoots them another message- she knows they get busy, so maybe they just forgot?

A few minutes go by with no response, and she’s about ready to grab something and go when they finally arrive, looking harried.

“Arin! I was wondering-”

“I’m sorry,” they interrupt, their voice sounding rough. There’s something sad in their gaze that she can’t quite place, and they look more exhausted than usual. “I thought I’d be able to meet you today, but I have a meeting that moved up, it’s in a couple of minutes. Can we reschedule?”

Her heart sinks, but she pulls out her best smile anyways.

“Of course! I’ll text you later!”

And then they’re off like a bullet, leaving her behind, too.

Leaning back in her chair, she decides maybe it would be better to stay out for awhile longer. The sun is shining, the food smells great, and there’s no reason to waste it all by sulking at home.

Eventually, she decides on getting an ice cream before she settles back into her seat, watching all the people coming and going. A silly sort of idea strikes her, and she smiles a bit.

“Maybe I can make it into a little game...”

___

Rain check.

Cancelled.

Busy.

Reschedule.

Try again at a better time.

Maybe soon.

The excuses wear away at her, until she stops texting Arin altogether.

Most of her messages go unanswered, and she can barely even catch their eye on campus anymore. She wonders if it’s something she did. Maybe they were just growing apart. Maybe she’d finally become too much for them to handle.

It didn’t really matter either way. She couldn’t keep their friendship alive on her own, and they clearly didn’t see it as important right then. If they weren’t going to put in the effort, that was fine.

And if they needed space... she could give it to them.

No problem.

She swipes their contact away, looking for her brother’s name. Her finger hovers over the call button for a long moment before she sets her phone down.

He was probably busy studying. Or making out with his boyfriend. The idea of that makes her snort.

She didn’t want to bother him, anyway. He’d call her in a couple of days.

Slumping in her seat, she looks around her, looking for something to get her mind off it all. Her eyes land on a pile of books she’d brought home earlier, mostly on the subjects of lighthouse maintenance, computer programming, and engineering.

Sitting back up, she reaches over and grabs one.

“Well... no time like the present, right?”

___

The lighthouse runs on its own, hardly needing anything more than a weekly check-up to make sure things are running smoothly.

She’s proud of her work- it’d taken a good year to work out all the kinks of her new system, but it was so worth it. It kept her occupied, gave her something to focus on.

Only, now that it's finished...

She doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.

Her brother is way too busy with school to talk often, Arin is still strangely distant and ridiculously busy, and even the lighthouse doesn’t really need her anymore.

Somehow, she finds herself feeling more lonely than ever.

But that’s okay, she thinks.

It’s normal.

#lovestruck #lovestruck voltage #ever after academy #eaa #arin langdon #eaa fmc #eaa mmc #my fic #ok im still? not satisfied w the ending but i rlly didnt know how else to end it so efrgtefrgtrfgt #if it’s not clear. fmc is. is the great and precious thing-

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nandalorian · 4 years

Text

the gentleness that comes

Sometimes you just get thinking about random things like “what if Jaskier decided to Eternal Sunshine himself to get over the mountain breakup?” and then proceed to ruin not only your life but the lives of everyone else around you. 🙃

Jaskier/Geralt, PG-13

“No mage can do what you’re asking. Not even, I would wager, something as powerful as a djinn, or at least not in any way that would bring you peace,” Tissaia explains with more patience than Jaskier honestly expected. For all the fearsome tales he’s heard of the headmistress of Aretuza, she is either kinder than he deserves, or the stories have done her very, very wrong. Perhaps both. But her eyes are steady, her expression serene. Absolute. “Just as we cannot induce someone to fall in love, nor can we make them fall out of it.” She pauses to offer a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry. For you to have travelled such a long way, I suspect you do not make this request in haste.”

The compassion in Tissaia’s voice is terrible to hear. After all, sometimes kindness can look like cruelty before you’ve gotten enough distance on a thing. Certainly the opposite is true, anyway. Jaskier would know. He lowers his gaze to his hands, of a sudden fascinated by the calluses on his fingertips, the ragged skin around his nails. He has to take several deep, steadying breaths before he answers.

“No, not in haste,” he manages at last. “I have prayed for it for some twenty-seven years.”

“Any man would be blessed to have captured such a loyal heart.”

Jaskier can’t resist a scoff. “Any man indeed.”

Several long moments pass, and eventually he must accept that Tissaia has said all she can on the matter. He forces himself to smile and climb to his feet, whereupon he sketches a bow fit for a queen. Tissaia doesn’t rise. She barely blinks, a statue rendered in green velvet and black lace.

“Mistress. I thank you for the tea, and your candor,” he tells her, still inclining his head with a hand pressed over his heart. “It’s not often a humble bard may boast an audience with the great Tissaia de Vries. If ever you are in need of musical entertainment, I proudly volunteer my services. I’m in your debt.”

“You are in no one’s debt, Lord Pankratz,” Tissaia answers, serenely as ever. At no point during their conversation did Jaskier tell her his full name, having introduced himself as Jaskier the Bard and no more. His title is useful to fling around in situations that call for it, but not here; Tissaia would see through any attempt at peacocking. “Nor are you merely a humble bard. You are most welcome here, as any friend of Yennefer’s is a friend of Aretuza.”

“Jaskier, if you will. And I’m not quite sure Yennefer would deign to call me a friend, but I’ll take it.” He smiles back and speaks through the tightness in his throat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He is almost to the door of her study when her voice rings out again.

“Jaskier.”

He turns.

At some point Tissaia stood without making a sound and came around the desk to face him with her hands clasped together. “I cannot fulfill your wish as such. But I may be able to offer an alternative. One that comes at a great cost.”

Jaskier swallows and hopes the thrill of hope--and fear--elicited by her words isn’t completely obvious. “I’m listening.”

Her solution is quite simple, really, and so obvious that Jaskier isn’t sure how he didn’t think of it before.

However, nor is Tissaia’s warning in jest: the cost is great indeed. So great that Jaskier cannot in good conscience be sure it is one he’s capable of paying.

Not monetary, of course, though he came prepared to empty his pockets and offer his soul if necessary. No, the cost is something more significant and precious than any coin or favour. Much more.

“A memory spell is a rather straightforward matter,” Tissaia explains as she and Jaskier walk the halls of Aretuza. Their destination is unclear, but where Tissaia goes, he follows. He’s not stupid enough to do otherwise. “It’s a spell even a novice can be expected to perform adequately, with the proper training, of course. One never knows when war might be averted by something as simple as a king forgetting an accidental slight, or a maid forgetting a conversation they were not meant to overhear.” She shrugs. “Not always the most elegant solution, but effective.”

A shiver crawls down Jaskier’s spine and makes the hair stand up on his arms and the back on his neck.

Magic, especially the kind taught at Aretuza or Ban Ard, is an ethical grey area, and mages have always played hard and fast with the rules, holding themselves above the trivialities and petty concerns of human morality. That’s why they’re mages: feared, awed, and resented in equal measure.

That Tissaia speaks so casually about altering people’s memories, of mages’ power to decide the course of history according to their own values and interests, is a frightening concept. Most days Jaskier can’t decide what to eat for breakfast. And yet here he is, about to consider letting one of the most powerful mages in history stick her creepy magical fingers in his brain and give it a stir. He should consider getting his sanity checked instead.

Jaskier casts a sidelong look at Tissaia. “But falling in love isn’t like hearing something you shouldn’t, or being offended by a poor choice of words. It’s--”

“Complicated. Yes, quite. And even erasing the briefest of memories does not always go according to plan.”

Without warning, she stops in front of a heavy set of double doors, which she throws open with a flick of her wrist--a useless bit of pageantry, that, but one that distracts from Jaskier’s increasingly pressing urge to flee. Tissaia gestures for him to follow her inside and walks on.

Jaskier doesn’t immediately obey. Drumming his fingers anxiously against his leg, he leans over to peer inside, mind racing ahead to images of a frightening laboratory, potions bubbling away in vials, screaming victims strapped to tables or floating in giant vats. It’s--

Oh. A library.

Huffing to himself, Jaskier adjusts the strap of his lute on his shoulder and hurries to catch up.

The place is massive, far larger than it looks to be from outside, with soaring ceilings and giant stained-glass windows that reach several stories above their heads. Shelves upon shelves line the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling, and dozens more sit in neat rows upon multiple levels, staggered in tiers like a duchess’s birthday cake. They are filled to bursting with books, of course, interspersed with tables and comfortable chairs for mages at study. Jaskier can count at least four fireplaces burning merrily away. Right now he and Tissaia appear to be the only ones here.

With a theatricality he can’t help but admire, Tissaia turns and holds out her arms, encompassing everything and looking very like a queen showing off her kingdom. “What do you see before you?” she asks, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

Jaskier furrows his brow. The question is almost certainly a trick of some kind, so he answers with the first thing to come to mind. “Uh… books?”

“Precisely.” Tissaia lowers her arms. “Tens of thousands of books, each of them containing spells, histories, first- and secondhand accounts of untold lifetimes, many of which have been forgotten but not lost.”

“Memories.”

She nods. “Yes. But memories are not like books. And magic, even in the hands of the most talented user, is not like taking a book down off a shelf. It is not a matter of selecting a few chapters to discard and letting the person continue on their merry way. The mind is a much more delicate and complex thing. If it were to be a story, it would be a very messy story indeed, with no clear narrative or plot, no chapter headings, and not necessarily even a single voice.”

“Sounds like some of my earliest compositions.”

He titters at his own joke; Tissaia’s expression doesn’t budge.

Unnerved, Jaskier clears his throat and has to break eye contact, looks around the room instead. After a moment, and with a smidge more gravity, he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

Once again Tissaia regards him with that patient look from before. “Because you must comprehend that there is a price to what you’re asking, and why I do not suggest this lightly. If you are truly serious in your quest to rid yourself of Geralt of Rivia, and I sense that you are, there is a possible way forward. But to erase this one chapter of your life will require throwing out many more--whole volumes, whole books, shelf after shelf of memories. Possibly the entire library, if things do not go according to plan.” She pauses and steps forward to touch his chin, forcing Jaskier to look at her. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

He swallows with difficulty, throat catching on the boulder suddenly lodged there. It wouldn’t do to ruin the moment by asking how she knows this is about Geralt, even though Jaskier definitely didn’t tell her and did his best to avoid thinking about him during their initial conversation. But his reputation precedes him, after all, and if not that, he really doesn’t want to know the extent of the mage’s legendary powers of telepathy. He also thinks to bring it up now would be missing the point.

“Are you saying I will forget my whole life?” he asks.

“Unlikely, though not impossible,” says Tissaia like that isn’t an utterly testicle-shrivelling statement. “That is the worst-case scenario. The best is that you will cease to remember everything since you met Geralt. That is, in essence, what you want, is it not?”

“I’ve known Geralt since I was barely eighteen.” Panic suffuses his voice without Jaskier quite meaning it to. “I’m forty-five years old.”

Eighteen-year-old Jaskier is a mystery to him now. Oh, he vaguely recalls joints that didn’t creak and a back that offered him less trouble each morning upon rising, a cock that would swell at a hard gust of wind and balls that never seemed to empty. That boy could sing all day and dance all night in and out of people’s beds. He was loud, annoying, impetuous, drunk on the sound of his own voice, and full of love. So full of love that he could saunter up to a complete stranger with white hair and yellow eyes and end up following him around for twenty-seven years instead. Well… twenty-four, if you don’t count the last three since they become estranged. Which Jaskier absolutely does not.

His enduring muse and most steadfast friend; his life’s greatest and most unfulfilled passion.

His most profound heartbreak.

Not much has changed about the last part, but Jaskier likes to think he’s grown wiser with age, less migraine-inducing. He lived enough to discover what pleased him before it was taken away.

Are any of those lessons worth unlearning, for any reason?

“Eighteen isn’t a bad age,” Tissaia remarks, breaking through his thoughts, or perhaps deliberately interrupting. She has been steadily taking in Jaskier’s internal struggle with that calm, measured gaze, though her attention is sharp. “By then most of us have some idea of who we are and what we want. Enough that you could begin again.”

Jaskier slants her a look. “Mages are immortal, and you’re one of the oldest still living. Please don’t condescend to me that eighteen is anything but as unbearably young as it sounds.”

A small smile. Perversely, it reminds him of Geralt. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, forty-five is unbearably young too.”

Ruefully, unexpectedly, Jaskier barks a laugh and concedes the point with a nod. “Touché.”

They linger in that shared bit of humour for a moment, Tissaia’s smile widening and making her look abruptly more human since they met, and then she cants her head. She gestures, and from seemingly nowhere a book tumbles off some far-off shelf and flies into her hand. With an enigmatic smile, she turns it over to reveal the spine and hands it to Jaskier. The Songs of Jaskier the Bard is tooled on the front in gold, winking in the firelight.

“You’re more fortunate than most: there’s an account of your life right here. Should you want it, that is.”

“I’m not sure I do anymore.” Jaskier peers at the book from the corner of his eye. It almost hurts to look at it directly, to think of the tales sung about in its pages, the joy, the adventure, but also the love and heartache couched beneath every note, every clever turn of phrase. The next words are a genuine struggle to get out, and he tries with everything he has not to cry. “No, I think that time has quite passed. I want peace. And if not peace, then at least blissful ignorance.”

“Hm.” The sound is neither pitying nor understanding, merely thoughtful. Tissaia regards him critically. “Then you may have it. You’re still a young man. Not a grey hair on you, and I’ve my suspicions you’ll live for a while yet.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. What does that even mean. “What does that mean?”

She chuckles. “It means you have time. And time heals a multitude of wounds. Not perfectly, but… passably.”

“And--what? I can find love again, or some such tosh?”

“If you like.”

He huffs. “I used to think that. I did. Give it time, and eventually I’d meet someone new who would make me forget Geralt ever existed, blah blah blah--yes, I know, the irony of that isn’t lost on me.” Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “But I don’t know if that’s true anymore. It’s been three years. The wound hasn’t healed, only festered. The more I try to open my heart to others, the more it seems to close.”

“It is said people linked by destiny will always find each other.”

“Oh, I know that one. That’s a prison sentence, not a comfort.”

“I didn’t intend for it to be.”

At last Jaskier forces himself to look down at the book in his hand. It has a pleasant heft in his hand, the weight of a life lived well. For twenty-seven--no, twenty-four years he gazed upon the face of the man he loved and loves still. Sang of him, to him, the way seabirds call to the sea, a song in their blood even when the crash of the surf is too far away to be heard.

Is that enough? Can it be enough?

Perhaps it will have to be. Or perhaps he can simply wake up tomorrow and not remember or care what the correct answer is. Forget even that he asked the question.

He sets the book down upon a nearby table and pauses only to run his hand down the cover, leather supple beneath his fingertips. In his mind’s eye is Geralt--not spitting mad and vicious on a mountaintop, no, but as Jaskier first saw him, sitting quietly by himself in the corner of a tavern. Trying so very hard to escape everyone’s notice, and yet once he caught Jaskier’s eye, quite impossible to look away from. Impossible not to love.

Jaskier turns back to Tissaia and meets her gaze steadily.

“I understand and accept the risks,” he says, confident in a way he does not feel. That has always been his way. Even, it must be said, at eighteen. It’s enough. It will be enough. “Now tell me what I must do.”

#the witcher #jaskier x geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier/geralt #geraskier #post ep 1x06 #post mountain breakup #not sure if this will continue or if i will just suffer in silence from here on out #my fic #tumblr fic

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onceinabluehanguangjun · 3 years

Text

just out of reach

Summary: for @mdzsnet Jin Zixuan birthday event, Jin Zixuan wakes up.

Pairings: Jin Ling & Jin Zixuan; Jin Ling & Wei Wuxian

Tags: post-canon, ambiguous resurrection

ao3

Jin Zixuan opened his eyes.

Gasping for breath, he tried to gather his surroundings. He’d been to many places in his lifetime and knew many landmarks, yet he saw nothing familiar. In fact, he was on a hill and all that was around him was tall grass. Nothing familiar, not really, but maybe it was northern Lanling from the color of the grass. Even he knew that was an improbable guess.

The last thing Jin Zixuan could remember was his wife cradling his head against her chest, fingers in his hair while he kept his breath in time with hers. He was meant to sleep after a long day of headaches and preparation. Wei Wuxian was meant to come to A-Ling’s one-month celebration in the morning and that would be the beginning of forcing his father into a corner: either step down easily or go down in a difficult way. He’d tried to talk him into changing and staying in power, but that wasn’t working and he wasn’t giving him an option.

And perhaps Jin Zixuan was dreaming because that would be the only logical cause for why he was here without his sword.

Jin Zixuan slowly pushed himself to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy and uneasy on his feet. He nearly rolled down the hill from the way he kept stumbling. Thankfully, he was spared that humility and he managed to find his footing by the time he got to the base of the hill.

The further he walked, the less he felt it was a dream. Which drew further questions. How did he get here? Was it the next morning from his last memory, or had he lost a bit of time? Had he gone on a night hunt that messed with his memory?

Time felt a bit wrong regardless of what was actually occurring and before he really understood it, he was walking into a city. The shops were distinctly different, but it was clearly the town outside Jinlintai by the look of the buildings that had been there long before he roamed these streets and would be there long after.

“Excuse me,” he said to one older shop owner that didn’t currently have a customer. When she got a good look at him, she paled as if she’d seen a ghost. “I’m a bit lost. Could you point me in the direction of Jinlintai?”

“Lost?” she whispered. He tried to muster a warm smile, though he was sure he failed. A-Li was much better at that. Besides, he had no idea what he looked like right now. Perhaps he looked a mess. “You… Are you…” The old woman looked around. “Jin gongzi?”

Jin Zixuan blinked and nodded slowly which resulted in her gripping her stall and looking faint. He had no idea how to handle this situation. Once before he would’ve just demanded an answer and went on his merry way. A-Li had taught him being nice usually worked much better.

And yet he still wasn’t understanding or getting anywhere.

“I-I can’t understand. Are you not resting?” she asked. Jin Zixuan’s eyebrows tugged together. He didn’t understand what the hell that even meant. Did he get hurt and forget about it?

“Miss, I simply wish to know the direction of Jinlintai, I’m a bit turned around,” he tried again. She nodded with much more fervor than he expected from a woman her age.

“Yes, Jin-gongzi, yes. It is east, that way,” she said, pointing the opposite way of which he came. He knew once he got closer he would see his home. Hopefully, A-Li wasn’t too worried by his absence.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing politely. The woman bowed deeper.

“Always, Jin-gongzi. And I hope you rest well when you are able,” she said, still in her bow. Jin Zixuan nodded his thanks and turned on his heel, beginning to walk in the direction of home.

“What a strange old woman.”

As he made his way, Jin Zixuan held his head high and let people make a pathway for him, stealing stares. He was thankful that he didn’t even need his sword to have some sort of respect, but he’d be more thankful when he found out what happened to his sword. When he got home, he would have to ask if he’d gone on a night hunt and where it could possibly be.

The longer he walked, the more he tried to figure out what happened. Each idea didn’t make sense. He would’ve remembered going on a night hunt and, even if he didn’t because something had gone wrong, why would he be alone? His people wouldn’t leave him like that. And, if he’d disappeared, wouldn’t they be crawling the streets looking for him? None of it made sense.

A disappointed part of him wondered if perhaps his father had a hand in this. Was that too cynical of him?

No. He didn’t think it was.

Jin Zixuan relaxed a bit as he began the path that led to the gates of Jinlintai. Again, the time didn’t make sense as it only seemed to be an incense stick worth of time when he knew very well that it would usually take at least a few of them. It didn’t matter. He was thankful to be home.

He used a simple spell that would typically allow him through the gates and wards without issue, but he found it didn’t work. He tried again and he was again repelled. Jin Zixuan’s eyebrows furrowed and he pushed once more. This time, he was let in.

Only, when he did, he was directly in front of a very young, very angry cultivator whose sword was pointed at him.

“Who are you and what do you think you are doing?” the cultivator asked. Jin Zixuan didn’t even bother to raise his hands in defense, eyeing the boy. He was in Jin robes, but Jin Zixuan didn’t recognize him.

“Do you not know who I am?” Jin Zixuan asked. It hadn’t meant to be so self-important, but he couldn’t help himself. This was his home, for gods’ sake.

The cultivator scoffed, “Do you not know who I am? State your name.”

“And you expect me to listen to you, little cultivator?”

“You will address me as Jin-zongzhu!” the child snapped. That shut him up for a moment and he eyed him. Jin-zongzhu?

“You’re in Jin robes,” the cultivator said, an angrier set to his brow with each passing second, “But I know each of my cultivators. Who are you? Whose clothing have you taken?”

“They’re mine,” Jin Zixuan scoffed, “And you are not Jin-zongzhu, you’re a child.”

The answer seemed to anger the boy more and he thrust his sword closer to Jin Zixuan. The motion drew his attention to it more and his eyes widened when he realized.

“Hey! That’s my sword!” Jin Zixuan called and‒okay, now he was definitely sounding childish.

“Shut up, no, it isn’t!” the boy, Jin-zongzhu, apparently, snapped, though his hand was starting to shake.

“Yes, it is!”

“This is my father’s sword, how dare you lay claim on it and on the Jin name,” he said, thrusting the sword forward even more to the point Jin Zixuan could feel Suihua prodding into his chest.

But it didn’t matter because his words stole every annoyed thought Jin Zixuan had.

“Your father’s sword?” he asked. The boy didn’t answer one way or another, his breathing heavy and he was angry. He almost looked like Jiang Wanyin.

Jin-zongzhu. Father’s sword. Jiang Wanyin.

Jin Zixuan felt like he was losing his mind.

“A-Ling?” he asked. Jin-zongzhu’s eyebrows raised in shock before they moved back to their angry spot.

“You are not qualified to call me such a thing,” he said, haughty and irritated. Jin Zixuan took a shaky breath which seemed to give Jin-zongzhu (A-Ling, gods, what the hell) confidence, thinking he’d instilled fear in him.

He wasn’t scared. Well, maybe he was, but definitely not of him.

“A-Ling,” Jin Zixuan said softly, “My name is Jin Zixuan. Suihua is my sword.”

A-Ling’s face wavered, but he tried to keep his composure. Jin Zixuan was proud of him in some way. Deeply confused on why his son didn’t recognize him, even further confused on why his son wasn’t an infant like he was last night, but proud nonetheless.

“Shut up.”

“Look,” Jin Zixuan said, holding his hand out and gently grabbing Suihua by the blade. The energy around it warmed to him and welcomed him as its original owner and it was very clear by the way A-Ling’s face dropped into sheer horror that he felt it as well.

A-Ling took steps back, pulling Suihua with him as his breathing got more and more erratic. Jin Zixuan wasn’t sure what to do. Where was A-Li?

“Da-jiu!” A-Ling called, his voice breaking as emotion built on his face more and more by the second, “Da-jiu!”

Ah, yes. Still very much a child.

“A-Ling?” a familiar voice said in response to his calls and a body dropped from seemingly thin air, though Jin Zixuan could’ve put together that he was on the roof. “What’s wrong?”

A-Ling pointed with Suihua again, never taking his eyes off Jin Zixuan even as tears pricked his eyes and he was shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the sword in a steady position. His Da-jiu stepped up, his hand grabbing A-Ling’s arm to hold it steady as he eyed Jin Zixuan.

“Who are you?” he asked. Although his face was entirely different than Jin Zixuan remembered, it wasn’t hard for him to put together that it was Wei Wuxian. Maybe the Burial Mounds changed his face. Maybe it was the years Jin Zixuan had apparently lost.

“He said‒” A-Ling said, tears spilling and voice weak. He turned his head to wipe his face, but he and Wei Wuxian kept Suihua pointed at him. Which was fine. This was totally fine. This wasn’t horrifying at all. “Da-jiu, he said‒”

“Go,” Wei Wuxian said to A-Ling, voice tense and immediately reminding Jin Zixuan of every scene he’d caused after the Sunshot Campaign, “I’ll handle it.”

“No!” A-Ling cried, “No, I’m not leaving!”

“Wei Wuxian,” Jin Zixuan said slowly. Wei Wuxian snapped his head in his direction, raising an eyebrow. Protective. That was good.

“Do we know each other?” he asked. Jin Zixuan let out a slow breath, feeling a bit lightheaded. He needed to sit down.

“Jin Zixuan,” he said, exhausted. Wei Wuxian’s face went admirably blank, hiding any reaction he had to that. “I seemed to have lost a few years.”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian said, “I see. That is… something.”

A-Ling choked on a sob, head turned to the side. Wei Wuxian slowly lowered the sword and turned to him, patting him on the head as if that would help any. Truly, maybe Jin Zixuan would be able to help if he understood what was happening. Though, from the way A-Ling had backed away and called for Wei Wuxian, he assumed he wasn’t welcome near him at this moment.

“Go take a breath. Send a message to Jiang Cheng immediately, A-Ling. Tell him to be here as quickly as he can,” Wei Wuxian said. A-Ling sniffled and nodded, stealing another look at Jin Zixuan. “He isn’t going anywhere right now. At least, I don’t think. Go.”

Once A-Ling was out of sight, Wei Wuxian let his gaze harden. His eyes didn’t flash red, but they didn’t need to for Jin Zixuan to understand that they still could.

“I’m not sure what you are, but if you are some impersonator who thinks this is funny or a monster here to steal little zongzhu spirits or a trick of any kind, I will tear you to shreds. I will not hesitate and neither will Sandu Shengshou,” he said. Jin Zixuan didn’t have the energy to argue with him.

“I am just myself. Where is A-Li? How many years have I lost? Why is my son saying he is Jin-zongzhu when he is clearly still a child?” Jin Zixuan asked. Wei Wuxian stared at him for a long moment.

“You are just yourself?” Wei Wuxian asked. He nodded, rolling his eyes without even thinking about it.

“Obviously.”

“Not obviously. What’s the last thing you remember?” Wei Wuxian asked.

Jin Zixuan huffed a breath because this wasn’t helpful or explanatory at all.

“The night before A-Ling’s one-month celebration,” he answered regardless. Wei Wuxian’s jaw set and he nodded slowly.

“Right. This isn’t a problem at all, not one bit,” he sighed, shaking his head. Before he could ask what the hell that meant, A-Ling stalked back to Wei Wuxian’s side. His tears had subsided and he was back to glaring at Jin Zixuan.

“What is it?” he asked Wei Wuxian.

“Well, kid, I think it might be real, but I’ll keep an eye on it,” he said. A-Ling swallowed hard, eyeing him.

The longer Jin Zixuan stared back, the worse he felt.

For most of his life, he hadn’t even wanted to be a father in fear he’d end up like his own. When he found out that he was going to be one, he vowed to be the best father he could be. And now his son was staring at him, not knowing who he is and scared, and all Jin Zixuan knew was that he had made some unforgivable mistake.

“A-Ling,” he said, taking a deep breath and trying to remember the way A-Li spoke whenever she was being sincere so he wouldn’t sound like he was being flippant, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what happened or why I have been gone, but I’m sorry I left you.”

“Ah, well, no need for that considering it was much more my fault,” Wei Wuxian said, forcing a laugh. A-Ling took a step away from him at that.

“I’m asking Zheng Xia to make tea,” A-Ling said. Jin Zixuan stood up a bit straighter.

“Zheng Xia is still here? Ah, she’ll know it’s me. And, again, where is A-Li?” he said. A-Ling glared at him again before storming off. Gods, it was like he’d been raised by Jiang Cheng.

“Come along, Peacock, we’ve got a lot to catch you up on. Not that I really want to tell you anything until I find out where you came from, but we’ll let little A-Ling call the shots this evening,” Wei Wuxian said, but his hand raised and spun his dizi. And it was a threat.

Jin Zixuan sighed and followed.

A lot of things had apparently changed and he wasn’t sure he was eager to figure out how.

#mdzsnet #jin zixuan #jin ling #wei wuxian #the untamed #mdzs #my fic #actor/character birthday fic

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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Galactica, Chapter 70 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Previously: Raja and Raven had a little office tryst, Violet planned for some overtime, and Courtney decided to take her work to Bianca’s for the night.

This Chapter: Bianca worries, Dahlia and Adore have a showdown, Gigi and Symone have a night in, and Team Baby has a night out.

***

Bianca had just finished laying out the takeout and was opening a bottle of wine when she heard the gentle click of Courtney’s footsteps down the hall.

“B?”

“I’m in the den!” Bianca called out, grinning when Courtney appeared in the doorway, an overstuffed banker’s box in her arms. Bianca eyed her up, appreciating her good little assistant ensemble, which she knew from the photos earlier concealed deeply naughty lingerie. “Hi, baby. Are you hungry? I got By Chloe.”

Courtney smiled, putting down the box and kicking off her heels. “You know, you don’t have to eat vegan food all the time just because of me.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Come here.” Bianca set down the full wine glasses, reaching her arms towards Courtney, who collapsed beside her on the sofa, clearly exhausted. Bianca pulled her close for a soft kiss, then wrapped her into an embrace. “Long day?”

“Mmhmm…” Courtney snuggled against her, nuzzling into her neck. After letting out a deep sigh, she mumbled, “I gotta get back to work.”

“You should eat first,” Bianca reasoned.

“Okay.” Courtney sighed again, making no move to escape her arms.

“Or we could just lie down for a bit.” Bianca ran a hand through her hair.

“No.” Courtney pulled back with a groan, rubbing her eyes. “If I do that, I’ll never finish.”

She slid to the ground, kneeling in front of the coffee table, and began unpacking the box. Labels, cards, envelopes, highlighters, a spreadsheet full of notes...It all looked like a huge pain in the ass to Bianca. Unlike most of her friends, Bianca actually had done this kind of tedious administrative work back when she was starting out, and just seeing it made her skin start to itch.

She turned her attention to the food, quietly making up a plate for Courtney and sliding it over to her.

“Thanks,” Courtney said gratefully, resting her head against Bianca’s knee. “You’re the best.”

“You deserve an actual dinner break,” Bianca said, trying to choose her words carefully so as not to overstep.

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m not gonna be able to relax until this stuff is done.”

“Fair enough,” Bianca said, attempting to feed her a piece of a zucchini fritter. She took it, playfully biting Bianca’s finger in the process. “She’s running you ragged, huh?”

“I guess. I don’t know, it might just be me. I’m not really keeping up with things the way I should,” Courtney explained. “Maybe it’s the weather. I don’t think I’m handling it very well.”

“Not ready for the New York winter?” Bianca asked, playing gently with her hair.

“No, guess not,” Courtney said. “I just...hear Christmas music and want to go to the beach.”

Bianca laughed, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead. “Ah. Southern hemisphere problems?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Alright, well...I’ll do my best to keep you warm,” Bianca said, and Courtney giggled, fluttering her lashes up at her before going back to her work.

It made sense that the weather would get to her. Spending her whole childhood in Australia and then college in San Diego must have done little to prepare her for how cold and dreary New York got in the winter. She didn’t have the heart to tell her that she hadn’t even seen the worst of it--January was bound to be even colder. It gave her an idea, though, so while Courtney continued working, Bianca shot off a text to her travel agent.

Once she had the ball rolling with Victoria, she looked back at Courtney’s progress, chuckling to herself over the custom stamps--not only that, but they were clearly winter themed, the Galactica logo covered in glittering icicles.

“What are you laughing at?” Courtney asked, diligently checking each name off her spreadsheet as she went.

“The stamps. They’re so Fame.” Bianca picked one up, looking it over.

“Oh yeah. Cute, huh?” Courtney said, sticking down a label.

“Very. So...do I get a card this year?”

“Yeah, but you’re in a different category.”

“The shithouse category?” Bianca guessed.

“No. You’re getting a gift.” Courtney turned to grin at her. “So I can deal with you on Monday.”

“Do you have the card?” Bianca asked, now curious. If she was still getting a gift, then maybe Fame wasn’t as angry as she seemed on Tuesday.

“Yeah, hang on.” Courtney combed carefully through one of the stacks, pulling out Bianca’s card.

A post-it was affixed to the front that said ‘Cristal.’ Not too bad. Bianca actually felt a bit optimistic until she opened the card. There was the typical printed message. At the top, in Fame’s loopy cursive, she’d written, ‘Bianca,’ which was bad enough--no ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ as usual. But worse, the bottom, which simply read ‘Regards, Fame.’

Oof.

A slightly sick feeling curled in Bianca’s stomach, that she tried to ignore by joking, “Well, at least she didn’t write ‘fuck you.’”

“You left her dinner party before they served dinner. You knew she’d be mad, right?” Courtney said.

“I know, I know…” Bianca set the card back on the table, watching as Courtney put it back into the right stack, then continued carefully peeling labels off the sheet and sticking them on the envelopes.

“I’m sorry, though. I feel a little responsible.”

“That’s true, this is all your fault. For being too damn irresistible.”

Courtney laughed as Bianca settled back against the sofa cushions, when suddenly, a thought flashed through her head.

“So uh, just out of curiosity, what does Anna Wintour’s card say?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Courtney giggled.

“Come on…”

“No! That’s a federal offense!”

“I’ll risk the jail time. Please?” Bianca wheedled, reaching out towards the box. “She’s my competition, I have to know!”

“No!” Courtney slapped her hand away.

“Not sure why you’re being so protective of Anna Wintour,” Bianca grumbled.

“Well, I’m seeing her on the side,” Courtney quipped, then tossed a gleeful look back at Bianca, adding, “What can I say? I like older women.”

“Very funny.” Bianca pretended to be annoyed, but couldn’t help be charmed at how proud Courtney looked of herself in that moment.

“Awww, B…” Courtney climbed up onto the sofa, straddling her. “You know I love you. And only you.”

“Yeah?” Bianca found it impossible to keep pretending to pout with Courtney so close, so soft, smelling so good. Her dimples deepened, against her will, as Courtney kissed along her jaw to her neck.

“Yeah…” Courtney started to suck gently on her pulse point as Bianca’s fingers traveled up her thighs, disappearing under her skirt.

“Hmm, if you say so…”

“B, we really can’t,” Courtney began breathlessly, “I have to keep working, or-”

“Or what?” Bianca growled, voice low, the telltale shiver making her even bolder, fingers edging along the lace of her panties, the ones that had kept Bianca drooling over her photos all afternoon.

“Or I...” Courtney’s own fingers dug into Bianca’s shoulders, whimpering, “Oh, Anna.”

“Get offa me!” Bianca barked, shoving her playfully as she laughed and laughed. “Finish your damn cards.”

***

“What are you doing here?” Dahlia asked, irritated. She had just arrived at the warehouse for their band’s gig, her bass strapped to her back, and before she’d even spotted Adore, Aja or Alex, she’d seen Pearl, holding court by the bar with a couple of hangers-on, a heavy camera against her hip.

“Working,” Pearl said, gesturing to the camera that was slung over her shoulder. “Gotta stay up to date with the trends.”

Dahlia put her hands on her hips, unable to buy that she was there by accident. “Oh yeah, you just randomly decided to come here tonight, where we’d randomly be performing?”

“Pretty awesome coincidence, huh?” Pearl asked, a sparkle in her blue eyes that Dahlia would probably have found charming if she wasn't so pissed. “Someone upstairs must really love me.”

“Come on. This isn’t cool. The club is one thing, but this is my real life.”

“Not everything is about you, Dahlia,” Pearl said, rolling her eyes, and Dahlia found herself getting even angrier.

Why couldn’t Pearl just keep whatever stupid thing was going on between them in a box, like she could?

Of course she was sexy, and fun, and in another lifetime, Dahlia might even have let herself fall for her--but the reality of the situation was that she didn’t have that luxury, and seeing her here only confused things.

“How do you think Adore will feel if she sees you?” Dahlia asked, trying not to get distracted by her tongue playing coyly with the straw.

“I don’t know, but where do you think we met in the first place? At a party just like this one. We’re gonna run into each other, it’s a small town.”

“Actually, it’s not a small town, it’s a big ass city. But you are a huge dick,” Dahlia said, flouncing away. The fucking nerve of her.

Of course, as expected, the first thing Adore asked when she finally reached the group was, “What were you doing talking to Pearl?”

Ugh. This was gonna be a bitch to explain.

“Well, she’s sort of been...coming to the club. While I’m working.”

“Like…” the wheels turned in Adore’s head, finally guessing, “Like to hit on you?”

“I guess, in a way, but not exactly. She’s just like, a client. Who unfortunately knows my real name, so…” Dahlia shrugged. “It’s good money, you know?”

“That’s…” Adore seemed to be searching for the right words, her brow furrowed, her lips turned down in a frown. “That’s fucked, Dahlia. She’s my ex.”

“It’s my job, Adore.” Dahlia could find herself getting impatient. This wasn’t something she expected Adore to understand. Adore didn’t even have to work. Her sister gave her money to fuck around and focus all her time and energy on her music. But still, it should be obvious that Dahlia’s life wasn’t charmed like Adore’s; she worked her ass off, literally. “And she may suck, but she’s a hell of a lot better than the disgusting, mouth-breathing dudes I usually have to strip for!”

“So,” Adore stepped closer, crossing her arms. “Not only are you stripping for my ex-girlfriend, and doing god knows what else-”

“Watch it, bitch-”

“But you’re like, enjoying it?” Adore demanded, and Dahlia very much did not appreciate her tone.

“I didn’t say that! She’s just like, not hideous, and usually-” Dahlia stopped. “You know what, fuck this, I don’t have to explain myself to you, you privileged fuck!”

“Are you fucking-”

“Guys, guys, guys, what the hell is going on?” Alex cut in far too late to actually stop the runaway train. “Can you both chill, we have to play a set in like 20 minutes.”

“Yeah guys, chill,” Aja added halfheartedly, though from the look on their face, they seemed to be enjoying the show, watching with one eyebrow raised while sipping a beer.

“I’m not playing with her!” Adore exclaimed, stomping her foot like the spoiled baby she was. “She’s a fucking traitor, and a slut, and-”

“Go fuck yourself!” Dahlia shouted back, turning and storming off for the second time that night, through the crowd, all the way back to Pearl, who was chatting casually with some girl, completely oblivious to the shitstorm that she’d created.

Pearl looked up at Dahlia, at her heaving chest and flushed cheeks, and smiled. “Hi, cupcake. Back for more banter?”

“Shut up!” Dahlia said, stepping forward. “Just shut up.”

“Okay, baby.” Pearl’s eyes drifted from Dahlia’s eyes down to her lips, and then back up. They were standing close now, and Dahlia knew that Pearl could feel her pounding heartbeat. She tangled her hands into Pearl’s perfectly tousled blonde hair, grabbing fistsfuls of it as she pressed their lips together.

Pearl immediately responded--either she didn’t know that Dahlia was mostly doing this to make a point to Adore, or she didn’t care, kissing her back with passion, hands gripping her waist. When they broke apart, panting, Dahlia asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Pearl responded, with a grin that said she very much thought Dahlia would ask. Dahlia rolled her eyes, anxious to wipe that stupid smirk right off her face.

“I told you to shut up. Come on, you’re paying for the cab.”

She grabbed Pearl’s wrist, pulling her from the crowded warehouse without so much as a glance back at Adore or her pathetic face.

***

Hearing Dahlia gasp and moan was so satisfying, Pearl thought she might come just from listening to it. Her face was buried in her pussy, savoring the taste of her, tongue not resting until her hips finally stilled and whimpers began to sound from Pearl licking her clit in its oversensitive state. Pearl pressed one more kiss to her lower belly before sitting up, gazing at her sprawled on the bed.

She was as sinfully sexy as ever--even sweaty and disheveled, her hair and makeup were still a dream, long lashes fluttering on her cheeks, dark curls spread out around her head. Her bra was half on, tits pulled out of the cups, nipples pert and erect. Pearl lay down next to her, propped up on her elbow, trailing a hand over her heated skin.

“How’re you feeling, cupcake?”

“No complaints,” Dahlia panted out, her perfect tits rising and falling rapidly.

“Oh no? That’s good.” Pearl grinned.

“How ‘bout you? Was it everything you imagined?” Dahlia asked, and Pearl couldn’t help but chuckle at her dry tone.

“And more…” Pearl leaned forward, kissing her cheek once more before before heaving herself up. She searched the dimly lit room for her clothes, wondering how and when her left shoe got flung so far away from the bed.

When she was fully dressed, she turned back to Dahlia, who had caught her breath and was now sitting up, watching her with those dark, cat-like eyes. She saw by Dahlia’s slightly puzzled expression that she was perhaps expecting her to stay longer, and couldn’t help but feel like that was a win.

“So...I guess I’ll see you at the club?” Pearl said, eyes sweeping over her body once more, trying to memorize every inch of her in that delectable state. “No extra funny business, but you know I love wing night.”

“Sure,” Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Or…” she bit her lip, looking Pearl square in the eye, fearless and fierce. “If you want, you could have my number.”

Victory at last.

Pearl grinned, feeling like the cat that ate the canary. “Sounds great, doll.”

***

“What about this one?” Violet looked over at Max, who was holding up a beige suit jacket with peonies in shades of pink.

“Maybe…” Violet bit her lip, but she knew it wasn’t what she was looking for. “No. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Max smiled, putting the jacket back on the rack, the coffee Violet had bought for him in his other hand. “We’ll find something.”

They were in the Gucci store, Max kind enough to tag along with her when she had texted and asked if he had time to help her out, getting around Manhattan on crutches by herself an absolute nightmare.

When they had arrived, the store clerk had given both of them a disdainful, and Violet was pretty sure that he would have kicked them out if it wasn’t for her Dior purse and how cearly expensive Max’s shoes where, the sharp taste of shame in her mouth when she had nearly stumbled on the store steps because of the snow.

“I know I’m being difficult,” Violet looked around. “I just need…”

Violet hadn’t really planned on getting Sutan anything more than socks, no matter what Raven had suggested, a novelty pair with croissants on them hidden on the bottom of her underwear drawer, but when she had gotten home yesterday, she had seen a regular mountain of designer boxes and bags all stacked high on Sutan’s designated dumping spot in the kitchen.

She knew it probably didn’t matter to him, that Sutan would love the socks, her gift to his mother and Raja and Raven much more extravagant, but she refused to accept anything designer and give socks in return. It wasn’t a smart financial decision, actually, it was bordering on downright idiotic, but she had spent so little on food staying at Sutan’s that she could almost work it in.

“Let’s go look at the sweaters.”

***

“Okay, so, I’m not trying to be ungrateful, but whoever said that this,” Symone shook the big red bowl of popcorn she had in her lap, “tastes like regular old popcorn, is a liar.”

“Come on.” Gigi smiled. “It’s not that bad.”

She and Symone were sitting on the living room couch, The Muppet Christmas Carol playing on the TV, the modeling apartment completely empty except for the two of them.

Everyone else had already gone home for Christmas, Gigi’s flight leaving the next morning, while Symone had said with a laugh that she was delaying going home for as long as she could since this was the first time she didn’t have to answer to her mama.

“Popcorn needs butter.” Symone huffed, but she still took another handful. The skinny pop they were eating had been left by Naomi who had gone home to Los Angeles last week. “I don’t care if I’m a model now.”

“Ooooh,” Gigi giggled, Symone so cool and carefree. “Look at the rebel.”

“What can I say,” Symone smirked, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s hard being perfect.”

Gigi had tried not to be disappointed when Symone shared that she had been selected by Galactica for their February show, her own booking noticeably absent. Sutan hadn’t seemed to sweat it, her manager not treating her any differently, his faith in her clearly still there since her January was filled with go sees, but it had been a bitter pill to swallow.

“Hey,” Gigi felt an elbow push against her side, and she looked up to see Symone’s brown eyes resting on her face. “Don’t look like that.”

“Look like what?”

“Like you’re not amazing.”

“You think I’m amazing?”

“Of course!” Symone grinned and Gigi could feel warmth wash over her body, her fingertips tingling, her stomach fluttering with butterflies.

***

Jinkx tapped Bianca on the shoulder, fixing her face with a puzzled expression as she turned around, glass of champagne in hand, strangers’ chatter barely audible over the Christmas music. The party was perfectly fine, if boring, one of those mandatory events to attend every year, making nice with all the big shots if you wanted them to keep donating to your charity foundations--which Jinkx definitely did.

“Hi...I’m sorry to bother you ma’am, but you look terribly familiar…” JInkx tilted her head, a wicked grin on her red lips. “Have we met before? It’s been so long, I hardly remember-”

“Shut up, cunt,” Bianca laughed, sweeping her into a hug and holding her tight. “How are you?”

“Well, so much has happened since the last time we saw each other…” Jinkx swept her red hair over her shoulder, her dress for the evening a stunning green number with sequins. “I’ve had 7 marriages and 12 kids-”

“Alright, alright…” Bianca cut her off, rolling her eyes even though she was smiling. “I’m sorry.” She put her glass down on a nearby table, turning her back to the party so she could focus entirely on Jinkx. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jinkx grinned mischievously, quirking an eyebrow. “Young love, huh?” Jinkx didn’t keep up with the press like she used to, but it had been impossible to miss Bianca splashed all over Manhattan's premiere gossip blog sucking face.

“Something like that,” Bianca grinned back.

Jinkx shook her head in amazement. She’d known Bianca for 20 years, and seeing her driven to distraction by romance was completely out of character, making Jinkx certain that whoever this girl was, she must be something truly special.

“So, did you bring her tonight? I’m dying to meet her,” Jinkx said, linking her arm through Bianca’s.

“And subject her to one of Ted’s rambling speeches? No thanks.”

“Aww, well, that’s a shame.” Jinkx took a sip of her cranberry spritzer, waiting a beat before asking, “So...what does the crew think? Are they playing nice?”

Bianca cut her eyes at Jinkx, asking, “Do they ever?”

“Well...I might not be the best judge of that...but no.” It still stung a little, the way Jinkx’ friendships with that entire group had fallen apart years ago, after her disastrous failed engagement with Sutan and subsequent downward spiral, the last few months nothing but hazy, indistinct memories--she was probably lucky that she didn’t remember most of it.

Only Bianca had kept in touch with her through all the worst times. Not that she blamed the others; she’d been a full mess, and anyone in their right mind would have walked away.

She was just lucky that Bianca happened to be crazy enough to stick around.

“Juju’s been okay,” Bianca offered, sighing a little. “She called me the other day and apologized. Even though I know she disapproves. In some ways, it’s worse than Raja and the rest of them, you know? When the nice one disapproves? But at least she’s trying.”

“I get that.” Jinkx had seen Juju a few times in recent years, and she’d been warm and sweet, and if Jinkx was braver, she’d have attempted to strike up a relationship again, now that she had years of sobriety under her belt. But somehow, the idea of rejection from the person who’d always been the voice of reason was exponentially scarier than more cold shoulder from Fame or Raja, or Sutan’s cowardly avoidance.

“I know you do. What about you, how are rehearsals going?”

“Oh, things are really heating up. I think...it could be a really good show,” she said, hope blooming on her face. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“I can’t wait either, red. I’m real fucking proud of you.” Bianca pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Are you gonna be around for Christmas? I’m putting together a little brunch. Nothing fancy, just the usual group of Jews and orphans.”

Bianca laughed. “Not this year. I decided to whisk Courtney away for a little trip while her office is closed down.”

“Well, that’s predictably extra of you,” Jinkx giggled. “You’ll be back for New Year’s though, right?”

“Of course, wouldn’t miss it!”

***

“Triiiiiiiin!” Adore screeched, racing up to Trinity and throwing her arms around her, hugging her tightly.

Adore very much needed this night out with her girls after last night’s humiliating debacle with Dahlia. The fucking traitorous cunt. Trinity, who was another one of Courtney’s sorority sisters (and low-key maybe Adore’s favorite of that whole group) visiting from Atlanta was the perfect excuse. Being around people who she knew had her back would do a lot to soothe her frayed nerves and bruised ego, the band barely getting through their gig, the angry tears that coursed down her cheeks during their last number fortunately in line with the lyrics.

“Hey girl, how are you?” Trinity asked.

“Right now I’m fucking perfect,” Adore murmured, face buried in her long dark hair.

“Don’t fucking hog her, Adore!” Morgan said, elbowing her in the side.

Trinity took Adore’s face in her hands and looked into her eyes, for the moment ignoring Morgan and Tyra jostling for her attention.

“You alright?” Trinity asked softly, and Adore knew that she was seconds away from tearing up like a big old baby. So she just nodded, and let Trinity fold her into another warm hug

“Hey, there’s a table free!” Tyra exclaimed, quickly dragging Morgan and Tati over, Trinity and Adore trailing behind. “Morgan, you get the first round.”

“I always get the first round,” Morgan protested.

“Omigod, whatever, I’ll get it, you petty bitch.” Tyra rolled her eyes and flounced over to the bar.

Adore wasn’t paying much attention to their bickering, just happy to have Trinity’s arm around her shoulders.

“So, how’s the new job going?” Adore asked her, eyes hopeful as she asked, “Still considering moving here? Pretty please?”

Trinity giggled, tossing her hair. “It’s a possibility. It depends how this whole CMA thing goes.”

“You’ll do great, you’re smart.” Adore waved her hand. “The real question is, what neighborhood do you want to move into? I vote for downtown and not some outer borough garbage like Courtney.”

“Speaking of, where is-”

“Trinity!” Courtney squealed, pushing her way through the crowd and running over to their table, flinging herself into Trinity’s arms.

“Hi baby! You look great, spin around for me.”

“You think?” Courtney beamed, spinning happily to show off the clothes that Adore was certain Bianca had either bought for her or lent from her massive closet. In fact, her jacket looked very familiar. And her earrings. And her boots. Jesus Christ.

“Who wants tequila?!” Tyra exclaimed, setting a bunch of shot glasses down on the table.

“Everyone but Courtney,” Adore laughed, taking a lime and a glass.

“I’ll take one!” Courtney countered, still grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “What the hell, right?”

“Wow, what’s gotten you so happy?” Trinity asked. “Last time we talked, you were super stressed and up to your ass in work.”

“Oh, I still am,” Courtney giggled. “But it’s Saturday, so...cheers, mates!”

She and Trinity clinked glasses and then downed their shots.

“Seriously though...what’s up?” Trinity asked. “Did your dad send you some magical new multivitamin?”

“Man, are you out of the loop,” Morgan said, shaking her head.

“What?”

“She’s getting laid,” Tati explained, and Courtney laughed, coyly fluttering her lashes.

“Ohh, okay. Who’s the lucky douchebag?” Trinity asked, clearly assuming that Courtney was continuing her pattern of dating horrible men and then discarding them quickly.

“My sister,” Adore said pointedly, tossing back her own shot and then biting down on the lime.

Trinity turned back to Courtney, eyes huge, mouth open. “Whoaaaa…”

“Yeah, she’s not even like, a little gay like Tati,” Tyra teased. “She’s gone full lez overnight.”

Courtney laughed again, simpering and giggling, looking happier than Adore had ever seen her--like the world was hers for the taking. She groaned internally, wondering if maybe Jujubee had been right about Bianca giving Courtney way too much hope.

The last thing she needed was to have her heart broken and her dreams crushed, and if it was by Adore’s sister, then she’d feel somewhat responsible.

Shit.

“So like...whoa,” Trinity said again, still in a bit of shock, but clearly amused.

“I’ll get the next round!” Courtney then exclaimed, and began to skip over to the bar.

“Wait up, Court!” Adore called, following her.

Courtney bounced happily up to the bar, quickly getting the bartender’s attention and ordering six Cosmos. Right after tequila shots. Tonight was shaping up to be quite a mess, Adore realized, but shrugged, figuring that getting wild before they all went home for the holidays wouldn’t be the worst thing.

While the bartender began making their drinks, Adore linked her arm through Courtney’s.

“So...uh...how are things going with B, anyway? And feel free to refrain from getting too graphic.”

“I’ll do my best,” Courtney giggled, turning towards Adore with sparkling eyes. “It’s going...so fucking good, Dore. I’ve never met anyone like her, she’s incredible...”

“That’s good,” Adore said. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“It’s more than that,” Courtney said. “It’s like...I always thought I was a pretty happy person, but then she came along and it’s just made everything so much brighter and more wonderful than I ever thought possible. Like I’m seeing colors I never knew existed, you know?”

Shiiiit.

“Okay well...yeah, cool.”

“What’s wrong? I thought you were good with it, did-”

“I am! I’m totally good with it,” Adore said quickly, nodding and forcing a smile. “And I’m really happy for you.”

“But?” Courtney eyes, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Well, it’s just, it’s Bianca. She just sometimes tends to, um…” Adore bit her lip. How the fuck was she supposed to do this? This was her sister, her favorite person in the world, and even though it might be true, talking shit about her in any way except a joke felt wrong. “She’s just not much of a relationship person. You know?”

“Hmm. Yeah, I know.” Courtney paused slightly, thinking, and Adore wished she knew what was going through her head.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Adore continued. “I would feel so shitty, like it was my fault, if she...you know. Did her usual thing with you. Especially if she was giving you the wrong idea, letting you think it’s more serious than...than she can handle.”

“That’s fair,” Courtney said, taking in Adore’s words with such nonchalance that Adore had to wonder if she was even listening.

“She just tends to, like...move on quickly, before things get too real. I think it’s some kind of defense thing, probably because of our-” Adore stopped, realizing she was about to majorly overstep. That tequila shot must have hit her harder than she thought. “I dunno. She just doesn’t really like anything serious. And I know y’all are about to spend Christmas together, and it’s Bianca so she’s gonna buy you a billion presents, and I just don’t want you to think it means...you know...”

“Well…” Courtney pressed her lips together, handing her credit card over to the bartender before busting out a smug, “She told me she loved me.”

“She what?!” Adore’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Love? That was new. That was major.

“Mmhmm…” Courtney took one of the cocktails into her hands, sipping it daintily.

Well. It appeared that her sister’s nearest and dearest friends were dead fucking wrong. It also explained why Courtney looked self-satisfied as fuck, instead of defensive or annoyed. And as for Adore, what she felt mostly was relief, and joy, and a tiny bit of guilt for being talked out of giving Bianca the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, shit. Okay, you know what? I take back everything I said. You’re in uncharted territory.” She picked up one of the drinks and held it out. “Cheers, bitch.”

“Cheers,” Courtney giggled, taking another sip. She took her card back from the bartender and began collecting the drinks. Adore helped, taking three of them into her own hands.

“So, can I be the flower girl at your wedding?” she asked, heading back over to their table.

Courtney laughed gaily, bumping Adore with her hip, showing her that there were no hard feelings at all.

***

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crystxlclear · 3 years

Text

sudden desire

chapter eight: hey, one question! what the hell?

part nine of sudden desire

in which two best friends won’t admit they’re in love so decide to have a baby together instead.

pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)

word count: 1.6k (she’s a short queen)

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, the tiniest smidge of angst (not really), alcohol consumption, extremely overly-enthusiastic and unnecessary use of italics, not beta’d because of course

author’s note: this chapter was born of me needing more coraline x loren interaction in my life, but it not fitting in with the next chapter. it’s a oneshot, of sorts, but it does help the story so i’ve chucked it in here anyway! next chapter’s coming suuuuuper soon (it’s like 2/3 written!) so don’t worry about the lack of marcus!

“Coraline.” The way she says sounds like she’s being reprimanded. Like it’s her mother calling her name when she’s done something wrong, a little girl hiding away inside her bedroom. Her stoicism comes out along with the wine, though she knows she doesn’t mean it, not really. She never does; she snapped at her for drinking her wine too quickly once before. Her bravado seems to grow when the flush of red wine touches her cheeks. “I won’t lie to you, I think it’s a terrible idea.” Loren Hull cocks an eyebrow at Coraline as she sighs and sinks back into the couch cushions.

Loren leans forward and sets her glass on the coffee table. Coraline eyes her scepticism as she nurses her drink, swilling the liquid around her glass until it creates a whirlpool that’s suddenly far more interesting than the conversation. She wishes it was big enough to swallow her up.

“I knew you’d say that.” She sighs in resignation.

She’d toyed with the idea of not telling a soul. That, if she did get pregnant, she’d just pretend it was some crazy accident after too many glasses of wine one evening, when their loneliness had taken over and they were in need of a friend to hold them close. She still figures it best to let her parents believe that; as close as they all may be - Coraline, her parents, Daniel, and even her brother, Jamie who they still rarely see, especially when he’s wandering carefree across Europe with someone new every week - she’s not sure her parents are entirely ready to accept the unusual nature of Coraline and Marcus’ agreement.

They’re traditional, to an extent. Whimsy and blithe, sure, time spent at concerts or travelling, or anything that made them happy whenever their hearts so desired, but the kind to believe that pregnancy spelt marriage. That was the way they’d done it, when her mom had fallen pregnant with Daniel by happenstance.

But, as she wrestled with the idea, she settled on a list of people she thought best to confide in. But the list, still - limited exclusively to Loren, Daniel and Kimmy - was, perhaps, the most daunting collection of names she’d faced in her lifetime.

Kimmy had taken it the best. When she’d told her - drying the dishes, as they always did, gossiping about the week - she could see that she was trying not to yell out loud, so she didn't wake Piper, or let Daniel know something was up before she told him.

Daniel had taken it well, too. Surprisingly well, in comparison to how she’d imagined. She’d imagine he’d scoff at her, tell her she was being ridiculous and try to talk her out of it, but he’d smiled and even hugged her, and insisted that he’d support her as long as she was happy. He’d watched her fondly as she’d bounced Piper in her lap, her niece giggling jovially at her aunt’s ridiculous facial expressions. He’d hugged her again as she left and whispered that he was sure she’d be an amazing mom.

She’d almost cried in the car on the way home.

Loren, on the other hand, was taking it about as well as expected. By insisting that she had surely gone insane

“You can at least acknowledge that you’re both crazy and that this is a ridiculous idea, right?” Loren raises her eyebrows at her best friend. Coraline doesn’t expect her to support the idea, just support her, at least.

“I know it’s probably a stupid idea.” Coraline tilts her head back against the sofa and drains the last of her juice. She’d supposed it best not to drink too much alcohol - just in case - but she could sure do with the liquid confidence right now. “But I have thought it through, a lot,” she insists, “I didn’t just decide this on a whim.”

Loren hums. “It’s a big commitment, y’know? Huge.”

“I’m not a child, y’know?” Coraline counters.

“I know, I know-” She sighs. “Look, if this is what’s going to make you happy.” Loren watches her as she drinks, still nervous, her hands gripping the glass tight enough around the lip of the glass that she wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it broke between her fingers. It wouldn’t take a genius to see that she was still worried. “So-” She seems to perk up, a first attempt to comfort her best friend. She shakes her bangs from out of her face and smiles fondly over at her oldest friend. “-have you made your appointments yet?”

“Appointments?” She furrows her brows.

Loren blinks back at her as if she’s completely crazy, as if she should most definitely understand what she means. Like her confusion makes no sense. “... your IVF appointments? I mean, I assume that’s how you’re doing it.”

“Ooooh… about that... “

“Oh, Cora.” Loren lets out a chuckle she can’t contain. She raises her eyebrow at the revelation, then shakes her head and tilts it back. Her hair brushes against the couch cushions as she begins to laugh. “You two are so damn oblivious, it’s painful,” she insists.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Coraline picks up the pillow that’s propped behind her back, alleviating some of the ache that has been building up thanks to long hours on set and on her feet, rushing around like a mad woman with reckless abandon. She hits Loren on the arm with a resounding thump, trying to hold back the smile that threatens to break out on her face at the sound of her friend’s ridiculous snorting laughter.

“You know you don’t have to do it like that, right?”

“Right. But this just felt like the best way to do it, so-”

“But that’s how couples do it, not ‘friends’,” Loren insists, drawing air quotes around the final word.

“Were the air quotes really necessary?” Coraline glares over at her, rolling her eyes. It elicits another snort from Loren, shoulders shaking as she tries to masquerade her laughter, seemingly-permanent creases at the corners of her blue eyes. “Shut up,” she groans. She lets out one of those almost-pathetic sounding giggles, the kind that she’s sure makes her seem like a child, frustrated but not enough to really be upset. The kind that hides the hint of a laugh, when your emotions are thrown into turmoil and everything comes out confusing and muddled and vaguely incoherent. “We’re just friends, I told you!”

“And I’m the President of the United States! You can pretend all you want but you’re not fooling anyone, least of all me,” she exclaims, “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He looks at everyone like that. I’m nothing special.”

“So, he looks at everyone like he’s just seen the sun for the first time?” She tilts her head to the side and vaguely narrows her eyes. Coraline can tell that she’s digging for some kind of confession; it was a bad habit of Loren’s - one she’d vowed to break on several drunken New Years Eves in the town square of their hometown, but so far had failed to stick to - but the thirst for gossip always seems to overtake her. She’s been better since she’s had Maisie, she barely has time to worry about any potential news she’s missing out on. Coraline is the only one who seems of interest to her, now. Though Coraline has to admit, she finds her best friend’s gossiping endearing, even if she knew one-too-many secrets about people she’d never even met.

Coraline and Loren have been friends for about as long as they can remember. They’d met at three-years-old, pre-school, on that daunting first day without their parents. Loren had always been the exuberant one; vibrant and flamboyant, raucous and bright, while Coraline had been more of a reserved little girl, kind and sweet, and small for her age until she hit high school. Looking at them then, you would think that Loren was the one in the limelight, not Cora.

But they’d known each other for so long, been there through the good times - and the bad - and still, somehow, managed to stay close when Coraline had left for California for college and Loren had followed Cora’s younger brother to D.C. like, in her own words, she was some lost lovesick teen. Jamie had broken her heart and jetted off to Europe in search of adventure, and Loren had moved on with her life in that stoic, matter-of-fact way. Still, she’d cried on Coraline’s shoulder the moment she made it to D.C., her and Scott’s belongings in a thousand-and-one boxes trailing behind her. She'd been there for Cora after Scott, too.

But, for better or for worse, Loren could see right through Coraline, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t drive her utterly insane.

“He calls you Sunshine, for god sake.”

Loren had nearly collapsed when Cora had told her that. But Coraline has never seen what the big deal was - because, to her, it was just a friendly nickname born of the colour of the dress she’d chosen the day they met - but it seems to drive her best friend completely insane every time she mentions it or she hears the words pass from Marcus’ lips. She practically swoons at the sound of it, when he greets Coraline with his low voice and a hand pressed against her lower back..

“He doesn’t look at me like that, now, hush. Can a man and a woman not be ‘just friends’?”

“They absolutely can, but friends don’t look at each other like that. Believe me.”

Coraline shrugs. “Well, I guess we’re different then. We’re just friends.”

“But-”

“Uh uh uh.” Coraline points and wiggles her finger like she’s telling off a small child. Loren smirks at her irritation. “-friends.”

“Whatever you say.” Loren sips on her wine and side-eyes her. “Whatever you say.”

taglist: @wheresthewater @ah-callie @its--fandom--darling

#marcus pike x original female character #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x fem!oc #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #sudden desire #marcus pike x coraline meyer #the mentalist

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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

Text

merry christmas, baby

Title: merry christmas, baby Rating: Explicit Length: 3,000 Warnings: Period-typical sexism, smut (pregnancy sex, fingering, *squint* cock warming, girl-on-top), fluff. Notes: Click this to check out the timeline for Maybe Today, Maybe Forever. Summary: It’s Christmas time in Colombia. Tag List: @grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito @rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow@hiscyarika @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501@fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut

Holidays were weird. Particularly gift-giving holidays like Christmas. The unfortunate holiday that was looming right around the corner. It was made all the more difficult by the fact that you were five months pregnant with your partner’s baby and you spent most of the day pretending to have a merely casual friendship. You were still trying to figure out what normal was for the two of you.

Sometimes he would steal a kiss from you when you both ended up on the elevator together, with just enough fervor to leave you reeling for the rest of the day. Other times, it would be three days before he turned up at your apartment looking to spend the night with you.

You still hadn’t told him that you loved him too. You said it all the time, without so many words. Something about saying it terrified you. You still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he had been the one to say it first. You had loved him for a while; first as a partner, then as a friend, and now… as whatever he was. He wasn’t your boyfriend — that seemed far too juvenile for your taste. Lover sounded ridiculous, but it at least suited the situation well enough.

“So,” Chris mused — which was never a good thing. “What are you doing for Christmas? Sit at home and wonder why the baby daddy didn’t stick around?”

You felt a flush creep across your chest and you glared across the office at him. “None of your business. Get the report done so I can send it off.”

“Hey Peña,” Chris ignored you completely. “Don’t you think she’d be less of a bitch if she were still getting some?”

“Why the fuck would I be thinking about that?” Javier snarled, “Get your mind out of the gutter Feistle.”

“I’m just saying.” Chris shrugged. “That’s how I keep my lady pleasant.”

“Fuck off.” You snapped, flipping him off before you started furiously typing.

“You are a walking HR disaster.” Javier quipped, rising from his desk to bring the stack of his completed paperwork to you. He lingered, resting his hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” He squeezed your shoulder three times.

You looked up at him and smiled softly. “Thanks.” Unwillingly you let Chris read anything into the encounter, you snatched the top file off the stack and skimmed over it. “Your ribbons need to be replaced.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively as he made his way back over to his desk. “I’ll get to it.”

“Peña what are your Christmas plans?”

“Dunno.”

“Are you spending it alone?”

Javier shrugged. “I guess it depends on how things go.”

Chris leaned forward, suddenly interested, “One of your lovely ladies?”

“Jesus Christ, Feistle.” Javier dragged his hand over the back of his neck. “This isn’t work.”

“They get expensed as work.”

Javier flipped him off. “We’re not going to be having a Christmas break if you don’t get your fucking reports in.” He glanced up at you, brows furrowed with a sympathetic smile.

You shrugged. There wasn’t much to be done about Chris’ antics. You couldn’t exactly file a report against him for the harassment, because they’d just let you go to cover their own asses. It was a pain in the ass to be the only female agent currently on the job. With Escobar handled, Messina had long since headed back to the states.

You never had an issue with Javier or Steve. They had treated you like part of the team from day one, Javier especially. He’d always been especially encouraging about your efforts whenever you got briefed on the case.

If you hadn’t gotten knocked up…

Javier wouldn’t be anything more than your friend and colleague. You’d still be hitting bars with him after work, helping him snag whatever woman had caught his eye that night. He hadn’t been a half-bad wingman himself, though sometimes he definitely set you up to fail.

Which, in light of recent events, made you wonder.

You blinked as a wad of paper was thrown at your face. “I’m talking to you.” Chris said dryly. “Pregnancy brain?”

“I was contemplating how much effort it would take to put a human male into the paper shredder.” You countered with a smirk. “What did you need now?”

Chris stared at you. “You really need to get laid.”

“That’s what you needed to tell me?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes. “I forgot what I was going to say now.”

“Of course you did.” You muttered under your breath. “Get the report done, Feistle. The sooner it’s in, the sooner we’re out of here.”

———

Javier was a hard man to shop for. He didn’t need much, which was made apparent by the fact that he could spend three consecutive days at your apartment without needing to get anything from his, except for a clean shirt on the way to work in the morning. You had considered getting him a fancy engraved cigarette case, but he was trying to quit. He didn’t need another pair of aviators and a money clip seemed like a tacky gift.

You ended up stumbling upon the perfect gift down in a street market near your apartment a week before Christmas. An antique edition of Don Quixote. Javier wasn’t exactly one to settle down for the evening with a nice book, but you recalled a brief conversation you’d had with him last year where he had offhandedly mentioned that it was a story that he and his father had bonded over.

On the front page of the book, you wrote a short note. You only felt a little guilty for ruining an antique edition.

To Javi,

Long before I knew that you would become the father of my child, you mentioned how much you loved bonding over this story with your father. Now that you are about to become a father yourself, I thought you might enjoy your own edition to share with our child. May she take away as many fond memories with you, as you did with your father. I still remember the way you lit up when you mentioned it and maybe, even then, I was falling in love with you.

I love you.

“You mean it?” Javier questioned as he traced his fingers over the words you had written.

“Yeah.” You smiled softly at him. “Do you like it?”

“Baby, I love it.” Javier reached over and gave your thigh a squeeze. “Now I feel like my gift isn’t nearly as sentimental.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” You assured him, resting your hand over his. “I’d settle for a back massage.”

“I did get you something.” Javier leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, before he got up off the sofa and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair in the kitchen. He presented you with a package wrapped in bright red Christmas paper. “I hope you like it.”

You peeled back the paper to reveal an empty photo album, “Javi.”

“The camera will get here next week. The shop couldn’t get it in time.” Javier explained as he perched on the arm of the sofa, watching you with a furrowed brow. “It seemed like a nice way to document things… for us.”

“Thank you.” You gestured for him to come closer. “This…” You looked down at the empty album, flipping through a few pages as you imagined it filled with pictures. You and Javi, the baby, a lifetime of firsts and memories to be made. You hadn’t even considered documenting your pregnancy — your relationship. You blinked quickly as tears slid down your cheeks. “Goddammit Javi.”

“Baby, don't cry.” Javier brushed his fingers over your hair. “C’mere.”

You scooted closer to him, sniffling. “They’re happy tears. Promise.” You assured him. “And you thought this gift wasn’t sentimental.” You had never been much of a crier, but ever since your hormones had been put to the test with your pregnancy, you cried over everything.

“Well without the camera, I figured a blank album didn’t seem like much of a gift.”

You swept another tear off your cheek. “It’s perfect, Javi.” You tilted your face to look up at him with a smile. It wasn’t just a blank album, it was the promise of filling the pages. “Javier,” You started, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip as you stared at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” Javier drawled out, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, before dipping down to press a kiss to your lips.

Your fingers trailed around to cradle the back of his neck, playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You didn’t let him pull back from the kiss, your tongue sweeping out over his bottom lip. He groaned against your mouth, lips parting enough to give you access.

Javier curled his arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap, his hands settling on your hips as you straddled him. Reluctantly he pulled away and leaned back against the sofa, searching your face. “You good for this?”

You brushed your hair back behind your ears as you held his gaze. “Would you judge me if I told you I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday?”

He arched a brow, a smirk playing over his lips. “Oh?” He rubbed his thumbs against your hip bones, before trailing them up along your sides. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to feign a look of innocence as you rested your hands on his shoulders. “I had to take matters into my own hands last night, since someone didn’t come over.” You arched a brow. “Asshole.”

Javier leaned in and kissed you, “I planned on coming over, but I ended up falling asleep on the sofa.”

“A likely story.” You teased, dragging your fingers through his hair, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. “You realize falling asleep on the sofa is an old man thing. God, you’re already turning into a father.”

He grumbled, “Oh, fuck off. You know I’ve been keeping God awful hours this week.” His hands returned to your hips, giving them a squeeze.

“I know.” You tilted your head to the side as you met his eyes, “We can just sleep if you’d prefer.” You said softly as you trailed your fingers down the column of his throat.

Javier shook his head. “And leave you to take matters into your own hands again?” He caught your hand and brought to his lips, kissing your palm. “Tell me.”

You felt a blush rise across your cheeks and you shifted forward in his lap until you were pressed against the hardened length of his cock. “I thought about your mouth.” You told him, dropping your voice into a low whisper. You traced your thumb over his lips, a shiver running down your spine as his tongue flicked out against your finger. “Is it bad that I started thinking about it at work?”

“Did Feistle’s line of questioning get you thinking?” He ran a hand up the length of your spine, before he rolled his hips beneath you, his cock grinding up against you and sparking heat low in your belly.

You gave a short nod of your head as you rock downwards, a soft moan slipping past your lips as the movement caught against your clit. “I guess we can thank him for that.” You whispered as you leaned forward and kissed him, your lips slanting needily over his. You dragged your teeth over his bottom lip, your fingers dragging through his hair as you pulled back.

“You should’ve called me.” Javier drawled out, tracing his pinky along the line of your cheekbone. You should’ve — you actually considered it, but ultimately you hadn’t wanted to seem desperate. Especially considering Javier had already planned to spend Christmas with you.

“Well, you’re here now.” You smirked at him as you moved to slide off his lap. You didn’t feel particularly sexy in your current state, but the way that Javier looked at you had you convinced that at least he thought you were.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, pushing them down your hips, before letting them slip down your legs, before shimmying out of your underwear. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as you watched Javier palm himself through his jeans, his eyes raking over your naked flesh. You peeled your shirt off, letting it join your discarded clothes.

Javier shifted forward to perch on the edge of the sofa as he smoothed his hands over the curve of your stomach. He dipped down and pressed a soft kiss to your skin, as one of his hands slid lower. “Did you think about this too, baby?” He questioned as he ghosted his fingers along your inner thigh.

You grabbed ahold of his shoulders to keep yourself steady as he dragged his fingers between your slick folds. “Fuck.” You widened your stance, drawing in an unsteady breath. “Don’t tease me Javi.”

“No?” He brushed his thumb over your clit, but it wasn’t enough.

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s not—” Whatever you were about to say died on your lips as Javier pressed two fingers into you slowly. Your eyes fell closed and your lips parted with a breathy moan. Though your second trimester was still fraught with the occasional upset stomach, it had done wonders for your libido. And Javier had been more than willing to give into your needs, despite his own hesitancy about doing something wrong.

“Love the way you look.” Javier drawled out, his voice rough with his own desire as he watched your face. “So fucking pretty.” He dragged his fingers out of you before pressing back into you again, building a slow pace that was driving you wild. “Are you going to come for me, baby?” He questioned as his thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit.

“Fuck, yes.” You told him, biting down on your bottom lip as you tightened your hold on his shoulders. “Javi.”

“Just let go, baby.” Javier urged, pressing a kiss to your stomach as he looked up at you. He twisted his fingers, pressing them directly against that sweet spot within you. That was all it took to set you off, his name tumbling from your lips as your body clenched around his fingers. “That’s it.”

He dragged every second of pleasure he could from you, working his fingers in and out of you until you weren’t certain you could keep upright. Javier guided you back onto the sofa to straddle him. You curled your fingers around the back of his head, kissing him like your life depended upon it as he worked to get his pants open.

You lifted up on your knees, reaching down to curl your fingers around his cock to hold him steady as you settled down onto him. “Oh.” You breathed out as he gripped at your hips to keep you seated atop him. You were still so sensitive from the orgasm he’d pulled from you, your inner walls clenching around him.

Javier tangled his fingers in your hair, tightening it just enough to make the pain merge with the pleasure of being filled with him. “You feel so fucking good.” He whispered close to your ear as he kissed a path down your throat. He rolled his hips beneath you, holding you close to him. The movement kept him buried within you, the slow grind of his movements making you moan.

“You really love me?” Javier breathed out against your lips and all you could do was grin back at him.

You brushed your nose against his, laughing softly. “Yes, dumbass. I love you.” Pointedly you rolled your hips, smirking when he groaned in response.

“Dumbass?” Javier grabbed at your ass, holding you steady as he thrust up into you. “Awfully rude for someone wanting me to fuck them.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you going to stop?”

“No.”

“I thought so.” You grinned, brushing your fingers through his hair as you met his eyes. “But if you don’t start moving, I’m going to have to kill you.”

Javi chuckled, slowly rolling his hips beneath you. There was nothing hasty about his movements, he took his time — drawing out the pleasure until you were both trembling messes. His thumb found your clit, stroking it until you shattered around him, coaxing him over the edge. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing heavily as you came down from your high, his cock softening within you.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” Javier whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as he cradled you against his chest.

For a fleeting moment you wondered what next Christmas would be like. Would the photo album be filled up with photos of the three of you? Would you set the timer to pose with your baby in front of a Christmas or would Javier be there to take it? The future was cast in shadows of uncertainty. You knew what you wanted. You were willing to settle if you had to. You’d do what you had to do to protect your baby’s future, but you wanted Javier there beside you along the way.

“Merry Christmas, Javi.” You said as you pulled back to look at him. Leaning in you pressed a soft kiss to his lips, letting it linger. “I love you.”

“I’m gonna need you to keep saying that this weekend.” He smirked.

“If you’re lucky I might say it for a long time.”

“Luck has rarely been on my side,” He mused, smoothing his hands along your side. “But I’m hoping it might be this time.”

“Me too.”

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Stay Safe Part Seven: Like A Ghost

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome, welcome! I will apologize for word count, but I will never apologize for length...or girth. Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @huliabitch @helplessly-nonstop @toxiicpop @culturalrebel @sinnamon-bunn @literal-fand0m-trash @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3 @thewaythisis @nellyneko @absurdthirst @kylolover96 @crownofmanga @eli-bourne @lackofhonor @talesfromtheguild

Part One: Should Have Known Better

Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Part Three: Vibroblade Mettle

Part Four: Reaching Out

Part Five: Dark Past

Part Six: Go Alone

He was silent for quite a while and you were loathe to break it, sitting on the edge of the co-pilot seat with the harness secured loosely around you. A force of habit, more than anything.

He appeared to be studying the various star charts, flipping back and forth between two particular ones to select the shortest route to the next destination. You were still uncertain as to why he had requested your presence; your navigational skills were bare-bones compared to his, so that couldn't be it.

"You remember what I said about the button on the comlink?" The Mandalorian asked abruptly, making you straighten up. "That it sticks?"

"Yeah, of course. You told me a few times." You responded, your brow furrowed. "Why, did something happen?"

"That night, you…" he paused, clearing his throat. "After you said good night."

Oh no.

"I thought you were in pain."

No no no.

"At least, that's what I thought a-at first." Even through your panic, you picked up on his voice sounding strange again.

"I-I--" You stuttered, your mind spooling back all the incredibly embarrassing, incriminating things you had said. Maker. "Look, I-"

"Do you do that often?" He questioned bluntly. He hadn't turned to look at you and that, of all things, made you angry.

"Listen, I get it, okay? It's gross, someone like me getting off on thinking about someone like you. Miles worse since you had to hear it, I'm sure." You spat, your embarrassment compounding to a scalding fury. "I wish it hadn't happened, but now that I know it did all I can say is forget-"

The sound of his harness buckle hitting the side of his chair interrupted your heated rant and the next thing you knew he was standing over you, leather gloves creaking from the pressure of his fists clenching. You quailed a little, suddenly unsure of yourself. What if he thought you were dirty, disgusting for fantasizing about him? Oh Maker, what if he was angry? What if he forced you to leave? What if-

The Mandalorian jabbed a finger down to undo your own buckle, his grip unforgiving steel when he tugged you up out of your seat. You stared hard at his chest, willing yourself not to cry.

"I couldn't get your sounds out of my head." He rasped finally. "I was up all night. Couldn't sleep." His hand moved up slowly, like he was in a trance, and he ran his thumb over your lower lip. "Th-Thinking about you spread out on the floor, whimpering for me." He muttered, and you started to realize that he was absolutely not angry. This was...something else. "Begging for…sounded like you were right next to me a-and you're this beautiful...fucking, perfect-" He stopped abruptly, his words choking off in his throat.

It was restraint.

Iron restraint was keeping him barely reined-in but he wanted this, the breaths panting out through the modulator a tell-tale sign that he was under duress. He pulled off his right glove and reached out hesitantly, cradling your hand in his bare palm when you didn't move away.

His fingers were so hot. You could feel them trembling and you wondered what thoughts must be running rampant in his head as you folded your other hand over his own, keeping it there. He inhaled raggedly, his helmet listing to the side. "Maker, I've been--I was…"

"What?" You whispered, feeling as though you were trying to approach a wild animal.

He appeared to be having trouble articulating. For all his self-assurance, he had never really displayed any sort of awe-inspiring grasp of linguistics. The tradeoff for a creed of people that so often ended up solitary, you reasoned. In a way, it was endearing.

A soft noise issued from him, almost a groan, almost a sigh, and he lifted his free hand to his chest. His index and middle finger drew a circle and then he rapped his knuckles against the beskar over his heart, steel ringing softly in the silence of the cockpit. "K'oyacyi, stay alive, stay safe." He murmured. "An order, rigid, firm, with heart underneath it."

Oh.

"Do you remember the first time you said that to me?" The Mandalorian pressed on, "You were still scared of me, but you said it anyway. Right before I tangled with Dune. "

You erupted into giggles. "I know, you got covered in needles from those trees."

"Thought I'd never get all of them out of my cape." He was smiling, you could hear it in his voice.

"You sound nice when you smile."

"I...h-how...thank you." He stammered.

He stepped back after a moment, gesturing down at the star charts. Destination: Nevarro. The place you had called home for over a cycle. The place where you had once longed to return. It seemed like a lifetime ago that you had been cowering in the hold, begging to be delivered safely to Nevarro.

"I'm...I'm bringing you back. This is where you wanted to go." He said with difficulty. "Once we arrive, I..." He paused, looking down at you. "I don't know what will happen."

"I'm coming with you." You said quickly.

You felt the difference, the shift in his attitude. One moment he had been warm, the next, an impenetrable wall of beskar slid up between you. "No, you're not."

You wanted to scream at the change, to rail at it until he relented and gave you back that brief taste of what you had been searching for all this time. The man, not the mystery. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you go places without me?" You reasoned wildly, trying to phrase it like you were joking.

"I don't need you to keep me safe." For all his hatred of droids, he certainly excelled at channeling their impassive demeanor. "I would rather you stayed out of this. It's business between the Guild and myself."

"Then why are Cara and Kuiil here too?" You challenged.

"That's...they're here to…" He shook his head and looked back towards the viewport, obviously frustrated and either unwilling or unable to explain himself.

Your heart sank in grim realization. "You're going to do something."

"I'm always doing someth-"

"You know what I mean!" You interrupted him sharply. "Something that you shouldn't do. I heard the message, most of it anyway."

"It's something that I have to do." He sighed, the sound bone-tired. "Otherwise, they'll just send more hunters after the kid. It's better this way. Better if I go along with the plan."

"B-But-"

He reached for you abruptly, hands gripping your shoulders. "What would you do? Since you've got all the answers?" He growled. "I can't keep running. We've barely made it this far. I won't get steady work without the Guild. If I do this, Karga wipes my record and I can get back to the way things were. The kid shouldn't have to be fucking hunted, running scared all the time!"

You glared up at him, furious because of course there was nothing you could do to change his mind. You didn't have a solution to this problem and he knew it, yet he still wanted to take it out on you! "Don't yell at me, you-!" Angry words seethed in your chest, molten hot like lava. You wanted to rage at him, stars knew you wanted to. But instead, tears welled up in your eyes. "Y-You--!" Maker, why couldn't you just be angry? "You're so stupid!" You sobbed out.

He was silent in the wake of your tumultuous explosion, hesitantly digging his thumbs in to rub comforting circles on your shoulders after several minutes of just standing there like a statue. "I don't know what else to do." He admitted, his voice nothing but a soft whisper. "All I know is what I have to do. You need to understand, the IG and I...I made the choice to hunt the kid first. I turned him in first. I took the payment first."

"You g-gave them the baby?" You snuffled incredulously. "I thought-"

"They offered me an entire camtono of beskar." He replied, his voice dark with shame. Your eyes widened, breath catching in your chest. So much! "Slid me an ingot beforehand to sweeten the pot. It was Purge-smelted, like the one you had. It needed to be brought back to the tribe. Healed. Melted down to sponsor Foundlings." He sounded like he was still trying to convince himself, still trying to justify his actions. "This is the Way."

"Stars." You breathed.

"I handed over the kid, got my beskar, and I...I just...I realized that I had…" He was struggling again, settling for a shrug. "So I went and stole him back and then left." He cocked his head to the side, his tone gone wryly fond. "That's when you showed up."

The individual in gleaming beskar armor gave no sign that they heard you, their rifle barrel trained between your eyes--

Now that you knew what had transpired immediately prior to your arrival, you were even more impressed that he hadn't shot you on sight. "I'm going with you. I don't care." You hiccupped, wiping your eyes.

"That's the problem. I do." His voice pitched lower with sincerity, fingers digging in slightly. "How many damn times have I put you in danger? Between Sorgan, Toro, the stunt with Ranzar's group? This isn't a life you want, stowaway." He was trying to convince you, you realized, possibly himself as well.

"I want a life with you." You whispered, your words naked and honest.

The Mandalorian's voice sounded raw even through the modulator. "No, you don't."

His hands left your shoulders and you almost started crying again, only just managing to fend off the impulse through sheer, indomitable spite. You seized his bare hand before he could move away from you and you raised it to your lips.

"Don't," he breathed, his helmet bowed against his shoulder. "You're making this much more difficult than it needs to be."

"I don't believe you." You knew the words were cruel, but you didn't regret them. You stared defiantly up at the impassive man, then you kissed his knuckles.

And all hell broke loose.

The Mandalorian ripped his hand out of your hold and grabbed a fistful of your tunic, shoving you back against the wall. "You think so?" He seethed through his teeth. "You really--you believe-I--" His body crowded yours, beskar breastplate rising and falling against your chest with every furious breath he took. Your own breathing hitched, legs trembling slightly as you stared him down. "Do you have any idea how hard you're making this for me?!" He finally managed to snarl. Not angry but frustrated, scared.

His pelvis rested against yours, and through his flight suit... "Yeah." You replied, giving him your cheekiest smirk. "Yeah, I'm getting an idea."

"You-" he stopped short, obviously confused before you pointedly rolled your hips. His helm dropped and he sucked in a ragged breath, the hand still fisted in your shirt tugging you hesitantly closer after a moment. "More. Fuck, I just-" His other hand grappled with your belt loops, wrenching your lower half flush to his. "More."

You squirmed in an effort to get comfortable and he snapped his teeth with an audible click!, the noise sending lightning sparks through your body. As he tilted his head back, no doubt in an attempt to regain some composure, the thick column of his throat revealed itself tantalizingly from beneath the layers of beskar and cowling.

"Want to touch you." He said helplessly.

"I'm not going to stop you."

"I know, that's the fucking problem."

"That seems like the exact opposite of a problem to me." You tucked your face against his shoulder, fingers dragging his cowl out of the way, and you felt his whole body tense as you pressed your mouth to the sensitive skin of his throat.

The Mandalorian made a noise that sounded almost pained, his gloved hand shooting up to thread through your hair. "Maker, you...fuck-" His voice cracked when you bit down gently. "Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I want--"

"What do you want?" You asked softly.

"I--" The armored man surged forward to nudge his knee between your legs, spreading them wider. His fingers fought with your placket for a split-second, and then he had it splayed open. "You." He growled, gracelessly shoving his bare hand into your underwear. He stopped dead, clearly startled by how wet you already were. "Oh, you--you-?"

As if he hadn't had you in his helmet the other night begging him to fuck you. You whimpered, licking and nipping at the skin of his neck to try and encourage him to keep moving. "Come on, don't stop-"

His fingers shakily curved to cup your mound, rapid breathing all but deafening through the modulator. "You're so warm." He sounded dazed, his index finger tracing your slit before his knuckles collided with the slick that had pooled in your panties. "Maker, I just-"

His hand slithered free and you whined at the loss, confused when he quickly clapped his other hand over your eyes. There was a soft chuff of air and then you heard the distinct noise of a tongue hard at work. Your thighs clenched instinctively. Gods, was he tasting you? The low, unmodulated groan that followed only intensified your suspicions and arousal in equal measure.

"So hot." His bare fingers delved back into your drenched pussy, smearing your slick liberally around your clit. He hadn't removed the hand from your eyes yet, warm leather kissing your cheekbones. "You're so wet, I--fuck-" Whatever limited articulation he did possess seemed to have been thrown to the wayside, the Mandalorian resorting to a litany of sighed swears that had your body rocking against his hand.

The hand that he kept pulling free. You could hear him shoving his helmet up to taste you every time, licking your arousal off of his fingers like he was starving.

This was all achingly one-sided, despite his original protests. "H-Hey." You said shakily, trying to get his attention, "not that I'm not having legitimately the best time of my life, b-but I'm not doing anything for you-"

"Wrong." He replied breathlessly. "Everything for me."

"I just feel like--I-!" Your voice cracked, then broke embarrassingly high when he hooked his fingers a certain way and ground the heel of his palm up. You grabbed his shoulders, your body caving into his as your legs started to tremble.

"Everything for me." He repeated, feverishly working his thumb in circles around your clit. "Everything, everything-" He nudged your face against his neck, muffling your hungry whimpers and moans with his cowl. "-Perfect-"

Your nails dug into his pauldrons and a satisfied growl rumbled in his chest as you came apart under his touch.

His hand finally left your eyes, but at that point you were having difficulty opening them anyway. You dimly heard him tearing at his zippers, the lower fly of his flight suit apparently giving him some trouble. He snarled and the feral noise ripped down your back like a searing blade, making you quiver against the wall.

His gloved hand cupped the back of your neck, tugging your head down until you lazily blinked open your eyes, somnolent and simply luxuriating in the feeling. "Look." He breathed, seeming almost shy.

Oh. Oh, he was huge.

You were absolutely looking.

He had his cock in hand, the whole surface shining with a mixture of precome and your own arousal. As you watched, the head of it slowly vanished into his fist, and then emerged even slicker than before. "You're such a tease." You whimpered, loving the way his hips jerked at the sound of your voice. "Are you going to put it into me or do I have to beg?"

"You...you want-?" The Mandalorian sounded absolutely shattered.

"Please, please fuck me." You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing kisses to the bare skin you could find. "Please." Granted, you were unsure of your body's capability to take...all of that, but you were absolutely game to try.

"Stars, you're killing me." He grated out, tugging at your pants so you could kick them off. Strong hands gripped the backs of your thighs and he hoisted you up against his body, shoving his liner shirt to the side in the process. His cock ended up trapped between the slick folds of your pussy and his stomach and you loved the helpless noise he made in his throat.

Your back hit the wall a little higher than before and you wrapped your legs around his hips, wriggling into a slightly more comfortable position.

"Tell me to stop." He begged, his cock throbbing against your sensitive clit as he shifted his hips. The motions sent tiny little shudders of delight up and down your spine.

In reply, you rested your forehead on his helmet, staring into the visor. You imagined you caught the faintest glimpse of his eyes, wide and waiting. "You want me to ask nicely?" You crooned, "Please fuck me."

His cock slowly, slowly surged up into you, the blunt press of it robbing you of your breath. The Mandalorian's snarl was music to your ears, "Have t-t--go...slow." And stars he was huge, huge, you were bewildered that you were managing so well on this first push. You thanked the Maker that he had already made you come once, at least he wouldn't have any lubrication issues!

Words appeared to fail him rapidly, the armored man focused solely on burying his cock in you as deeply as he could. You finally felt the fabric of his flight suit against your groin and you growled, your fingers raking hungrily at his back plating. "Fuc-kk--y-you're so big-" You gasped.

His first real thrust ruined you. Your back arched and your mouth fell open of its own accord as the breath left your body, your mind dissolving into static. The Mandalorian pressed his forehead to your own. "S'--okay?" He slurred, clearly concerned but not in the right frame of mind to fully coordinate a sentence.

"Move, oh please, please," You begged, "fuck me open, f-fuck me, fuck me-"

His cock withdrew, and-and--

"M'sorry-" he choked out, cradling the back of your head to keep it from hitting the wall as he mercilessly pounded your cunt. "So--hot, wet, I--"

"Don't stop, please please please-" you sobbed against his neck, your fists clenched into his flight suit. "P-lease, I need it, I need you, gods I need you so much-" The words tumbled from your lips, as brutally honest as you could let yourself be, as he fucked them out of you. "I need you so much, I need you so much--"

I love you so much, I love you so much.

"N-Need…" You felt his body go taut underneath you, the tension making his cock throb at your inner walls. "You--me?"

"Yes." You keened, your second orgasm building to a crest in your belly.

"So good-" Every impressive inch of him plunged into you and then he stopped, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held still for the barest second. "Safe." His helmet tipped back and he groaned, fumbling his free hand down to stroke your clit and fuck you through your orgasm. "I--want you, p-please--all this skin, f-uck, y-yes you feel so--!"

He was grunting, straining, snarling out half-nonsense and then you raised one trembling hand to his chest. Two fingers traced a circle on the center of his beskar plate and as his chin tipped down to watch you, you tapped your knuckles over his heart. "Safe." You whispered.

He came in you with a seething moan, his fingers clawing at your hips while you clung tightly to him.

Heavy breaths rattled his entire body. You weren't much better, your chest heaving against his own. The Mandalorian groaned deep in his throat, dragging at the hem of your tunic. "What's wrong?" You asked breathlessly.

He didn't answer, just continued to haul the tunic up and over your head. He then rutted his hips up, punching a pitiful little whine out of you. How was he still hard?!

"More." He begged.

…

The Mandalorian's head tipped back and he swore, the noise gravelly.

You sprawled comfortably between his legs, naked as the day you were born and swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. You had been there for an extended period of time, though you didn't particularly care. The pace you had set was languid, unhurried, and he seemed perfectly happy to just sit in his pilot chair with his cock resting on your tongue.

The urgency that he displayed earlier hadn't faded at all despite that, both of his now-ungloved hands hungrily stroking over your jaw, your shoulders, the back of your neck.

"If I don't--don't-" He gasped out suddenly. "I want you to know, I-"

You pulled off of his cock and he grunted, shuddering. "You can just blow off steam, you know. Not everything has to have an important reason." You informed him, your nails scratching lightly at the flight suit that still covered his thighs. You ducked back down to kiss and lick at his balls, and you heard him choke when your tongue soothed over the sensitive skin.

His abdomen spasmed underneath the thin liner shirt, muscles twitching and jumping the longer you lavished his balls with attention. "W-hy--I don't-I don't--" He stuttered, rushing to wrap his fist around the base of his cock to hold his orgasm back again. This would mark the fourth time since you had settled between his legs, but you were hardly complaining. "Oh, fuck, f--uck-"

"Don't you want to come?" You asked curiously, licking a wet stripe up the side of his cock and fingers.

His helmet slammed back against the headrest hard enough to make you wince. "W-Want--hngh-I don't want this t-to...don't want it to end. Feel so good-!"

His voice broke when you grazed your fingernails softly over his balls. Despite him coming in you earlier, he seemed to have more than enough to spare. You wondered with a lewd thrill just how much he might come if he was toyed with long enough.

"Used t' think about--about this. A-About. You." He confessed guiltily. "Fuck my fist, wishing it was your...c--unt, fuck-"

"Yeah? Did you get off on me?" You asked teasingly. "Did you wish you were fucking me?"

"I d-didn't mean to-" he moaned, the noise almost a whimper. "I just...you were...g-good to me, n' sometimes I would--I would--" He spread his legs a little wider and shoved his liner shirt up, exposing the planes of his abdomen to you in a languid show. He then slid a single finger down the side of his cock, smearing the precome that had seeped forth once you removed your mouth. "Fuck my fist, just--j-just wishing that I could…" He choked off his train of thought when you leaned up and licked at the skin he had revealed. "Oh, oh, fuck-"

"I'll suck you off for as long as you want, and you can fuck me for as long as you want." You breathed.

"N-No, no, have to do something for you t-too." The Mandalorian protested, his hands grasping at your shoulders. "I can't just t-ake-"

"You want to do something for me?"

"Anything. Wh-Whatever you want."

"Kiss me?" You whispered.

His entire body went still. "I…"

"You can cover my eyes, but I promise I won't peek. It doesn't even have to be on the mouth, if you don't want to! I just…" You fidgeted and glanced down, feeling weirdly shy all of a sudden. "I just wanted to know, I-I guess."

"Sit up here." He ordered as he patted his thighs, his voice breathless. "Sit." You obliged, straddling him as best as you could with his legs spread so far apart. You ended up with your mound pressed to his stomach, your pussy grinding against his cock with every shaky breath he took. "I'm going to cover your eyes now." Why was he whispering? He raised his hand, tenderly cupping your cheek before he smoothed it down over your eyes.

"I can't take it off for you, right?" You asked. "That's not allowed?"

He murmured, "has to be me." Blind to everything and anything except the overwhelming presence that was him, you closed your eyes behind his palm and waited patiently.

There was the soft chuff of air that you had heard over and over earlier when he was...enjoying you. Then, the quiet slide of his skin against the inner padding.

"Oh-! Dammit." He swore a split-second before there was a loud clatter on the floor. You burst out laughing. "Rude, stowaway. Shouldn't kick a man when he's down." Even through his protests, you could tell he was smiling. "Lost my grip on it."

You raised your hands, blindly feeling along his arms until you reached his shoulders. He still had his pauldrons on, the beskar smooth under your touch. You walked your fingers up the sides of his neck, surprised when you felt thick hair grazing your knuckles at the nape of his neck. "Okay, so maybe you do have hair." You allowed, lacing your fingers through it and tugging gently.

"Were you still--Maker, you're impossible." He huffed, leaning forward. His stubble brushed your ear and you flinched, squealing a little when he tongued over the ticklish skin. "Got you." He exhaled and suddenly it wasn't ticklish anymore. Straight teeth worried the sensitive shell of your ear and you whimpered, unable to keep from twitching at the feeling. "Mm, what's the matter?" The Mandalorian murmured playfully. "You said I didn't have to kiss you on the mouth."

"Yeah, b-but--" You cut yourself off, your fingernails digging into the nape of his neck when he plunged his hot, wet tongue into your ear before mouthing all around the edge. For some reason the sensation had you wound tight, a new wave of slick rising in your core. "Ah-!"

He brought his free hand down to your pussy, carefully spreading your folds with his fingers. "What's the matter?" He crooned in your ear again, tapping his thumb lightly down onto your clit. He then nipped at your earlobe, tongue laving over the skin. "Was there something else you needed? You're dripping the come I pumped into you all over my beskar." He whispered. "Could keep you splayed open like this for hours, just so I could watch your insides twitch and clench down on nothing while you're waiting for more."

"Y-You-" You wished your voice didn't sound so breathy. You couldn't decide which you preferred: his wild stammering when he was out of control, or his unflinchingly honest speech when he could manage himself accordingly. "You're not f-fair--"

"Mm, odds are usually not in my favor." He agreed. He wrapped his soaked fingers around his cock, giving himself a lazy stroke and then rubbing the head against your clit. "You're so fucking...warm," he grunted, his thighs shifting restlessly underneath you. "I want to put my cock back into you. Will you let me fuck you again?" He asked, not giving you enough time to answer before indignantly replying, "What, no? Damn, you drive a hard bargain. What if I offered to...kiss you on the mouth? Would you let me put my cock in you then?"

You found yourself laughing at his teasing, butting your forehead against his own even though his palm was still over your eyes. "You're so dumb." You snickered. "How was I ever scared of you?"

"Because I'm strong and fast." He replied bluntly. "The armor helps."

"Your modesty is your finest quality." You snarked, a soft whimper fighting its way free when he rocked the head of his cock against your entrance again.

"Hmm, I don't remember you begging for my modesty the other night." He taunted you in reply. "If I recall correctly, you got a little...possessive. 'Your Mandalorian', was it?"

You swore under your breath. You got the feeling you would never, ever live that moment of weakness down. But seeing as it had led to this, you could probably endure his lighthearted jabs. "Well, yes. I did say that." You admitted. "Did it make you uncomfortable?"

"Fuck no." His teeth grazed your ear again and you shivered before you could stop yourself. "It was...it was nice to hear you all strung out, fucking yourself to the idea of me." You could feel the curve of his lips, could hear the bastard smiling. "The speaker is right in my ear, so it was like having you next to me." His unmodulated voice was like warm honey, husky, rich and golden. You had never thought that a voice could be so enthralling. "You're moving your hips again, stowaway." His fingers returned to your pussy, spreading you wide once more. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy doing that, if only to make you squirm. "Something you want?"

You reached down and took hold of his cock, smiling at the way his breathing hitched. "This." You splayed a palm on his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat there. "All of this." Your fingers rose from his chest to his mouth, where you brushed your thumb over his lower lip. "And this."

"Yours already. All of it." He sighed, the noise turning into a growl when you angled your hips and eased the head of his cock into your cunt. "All of it. Every inch, every...s-stupid thing out of my mouth, everything."

"I like most of the things that come out of your mouth." You assured him, bracing yourself on his thighs and slowly, slowly lowering your pussy all the way down on his cock. Your pelvis slotted against his with a wet noise and you could feel your arousal trickle out around his cock and down your thighs.

"Hah, you...y-you…" You felt his hand squeeze your face momentarily, and then his mouth collided with your own. You whined and he snarled, that hot tongue seeking your own out after a split-second. He licked into your mouth hungrily like he was starving for a taste of you, only backing off to gasp, "Y-You're so wet-"

You bit down on his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth so you could harass it with your teeth and tongue. The Mandalorian made a strangled noise in his throat as your tongue flicked back and forth over the sensitive flesh before you released him again.

"Can't even th-think straight right now." He admitted, sliding his free hand beneath you to support your back. "Maker, between your fucking mouth and your c--cunt, it's a miracle I'm still--" His words jerked to a halt and you heard him swallow audibly. "Oh. Oh." He gritted out.

You rocked your hips back and forth a little faster, knowing that he could handle a rougher pace. He curved inside you deliciously, the length of him only marginally easier to manage with you in control.

"Wait, wait wait, I'm--fuck, wait, I-"

"What's the matter?" You asked breathlessly. "Too much for you?" You felt his hand grapple fiercely at the small of your back, grinding your pussy down onto his cock. He started rambling in Mando'a, the words ragged as you continued your merciless attack without quarter. This was one fight you were determined to not let him win.

"Cyar'ika," he moaned, his mouth finding your own. "I'm-I'm--f-uck, fuck fuck, I'll fucking--I'll f-ucking split y--split this sweet little c-cunt--" His whole body went taut beneath you, ramming his cock up to meet you over and over. "You take me so...s-so fucking good, so good, so good t' me--" The wet sounds, the heat of his body against your own in his frenzied fucking and the way that his voice cracked combined to be the thing that finally tipped the two of over the edge. As you felt him start to let go, you took one of your hands and fisted it in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, directing him to look down at where your bodies joined.

"I want you t-to watch. Without the helmet." You panted, feeling more than hearing his raspy groan in reply. "So you can remember."

"I'm not going to f--orget, fuck, fuck, like I could e-ever for-g-get this--" The words stumbled out of his mouth, tangled in a dazed little knot, "--ever forget you." His body shuddered and he finally ground to a halt, dragging you against his chest and burying his face in your shoulder as he came with a hoarse shout.

You circled your hips on his still-twitching cock, your own orgasm close behind from how hard he had been pounding up into you. His voice sounded destroyed when he cried out, and you couldn't determine whether he was begging for mercy or more. His free hand fumbled between the two of you to tease one of your nipples; you could do nothing to help the pitiful noise you made when he pinched and tugged at the sensitive bud.

"Come for me. C-Come for me. Come for me." Whether a plea or an order, it was unavoidable. You came for him, the intensity making your skin prickle and your eyes open wide behind his hand. "Yes..." He drew the word out alongside your keening moan of completion, long and slow, praising you in that husky, now almost reverent tone.

You collapsed into him and you felt his mouth curve against your neck, stubbled smile teasing the skin while you fought to regain your breath. His arm reached for something on the floor, and you heard the slide of his helmet after a moment. Then, he removed his palm from your eyes.

The Mandalorian grunted softly and there was a delicate crackling noise beside your ear. "Fuck, that's a cramp." He grimaced, making you huff out a laugh. "Ow, ow. My wrist is...not pleased."

"Mm, should have just taken the chance." You mused, your eyes still closed.

"Chancy enough, getting this naked." He flicked over your nipple, chuckling softly when you whined. "Gods, you are perfect." He murmured. "I'll miss this."

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water. You sat up slowly, staring at his visor. "Why? Wh-Where-?"

"I don't know how sideways all of this will go." He replied simply. "I have a gut feeling."

Your hands fisted in his liner shirt. "So don't go, then."

"You know it's not that simple. If I don't, they'll keep hunting the kid."

"We can hide!" You suggested wildly. "Stay in the Outer Rim, hunker down on Dathomir or Felucia-"

"Until what?" His pragmatism cut you to the quick. "Until the Crest falls apart and we end up stranded in some asteroid field?" You fell silent, your fingers kneading at his chest in a silent plea, don't go. "I'm not doing this. I'm not going to drag you along this time. Whether you agree or not, I'm not involving you."

It felt like he had just stolen all the air out of your body, tears welling up in your eyes as those traitorous arms wrapped around you. His palms were large and warm, rubbing firm circles into the abruptly-cold skin of your back. You were suddenly awash with shame, and you pulled away from his comforting embrace. He made a noise, almost a protest, but you shook it off and struggled to stand.

"Easy, hang on to me. You'll fall over." He offered, his hand already out for you to grab. You ignored it in favor of jerking your panties back up your legs, nearly toppling with the effort. "Hey, you-"

"Don't touch me." You breathed, seconds from bursting into tears. "Just...just don't." You felt disgusting, sore, your body aching and tender from the overstimulation it had just received.

A soft, "oh," was all he gave in reply. His voice sounded defeated and more than anything you wanted to fling yourself back at him, to beg forgiveness and also kill him because how could he do this to you? How could he give everything to you and then take it all away in an instant?

You refused to look at him while you continued to dress yourself, certain that your incredibly fragile resolve would give out if you saw him tilting his head or any of the other little things he did that had wormed their way into your heart. But you were also seized with the fierce desire to wound him like he had wounded you.

And so, as you turned to climb down the ladder you tossed out a flippant, haughty, "This is the Way, right?"

You heard him inhale raggedly. "I--wait, please, just-"

You didn't stay to let him finish, continuing down the ladder.

…

This was technically your own fault, you reminded yourself for the hundredth time. Technically. You could have let him leave the cockpit, but no, you had to grab his hand! Really, you had no one to blame but yourself.

That didn't stop you from feeling like a gross, terrible person, of course, but at least you knew why. You felt stupid for thinking that you could convince him of anything other than what he had already decided upon.

Cara seemed to sense that something was wrong the following morning and she went out of her way to goad the Mandalorian into an arm wrestling match once the Crest departed Arvala-7. It was a bit cramped in the hold, what with the blurrgs and all, so you were a spectator whether you wanted to be or not.

The two of them posted up on top of a crate, their elbows firmly planted after they set their wagers. They slapped hands once and the child's ears perked up curiously.

The former trooper and the bounty hunter locked into their holds as you looked on, a bit invested now. Carasynthia somehow managed to keep the armored man at bay, unless the Mandalorian was going easy on her. Of course, she had been a dropper. Lugging pounds and pounds of gear and artillery must have built strong arms.

"I got you, Mando." She grinned.

"Care to double the bet?" The beskar-wearing man shot back, and you hated that you could tell he was smiling.

The baby looked back and forth between the two grunting adults, and their tiny hand reached out towards Cara. "Looks like the kid is calling dibs on the next round." You commented, chuckling a little. But when you looked up, you saw Cara releasing the Mandalorian's hand to frantically claw at her own throat.

The Mandalorian was only still for a split-second before he bolted upright, lunging to haul the child out of their bassinet. "Stop it!" He berated them sharply. "We're friends, we're friends! Cara is my friend!"

"Hey!" You moved to take the child but the Mandalorian quickly shifted, maneuvering himself between the two of you. "What are you doing? Stop yelling at them!" You protested, yanking on his arm.

"How very curious." Kuiil murmured, rising to his feet and moving to examine the child. The kid was just laying there, limp in the Mandalorian's grasp. Like they knew they had done something wrong.

"I mean, that's one word for it." Cara coughed. "What the hell was that?"

"What it is, I'm not certain. But that story you told me of the mudhorn is making a lot more sense." The Ugnaught mused to the Mandalorian.

"Psh, you would need the kid to help you cheat." Dune tried to joke, her voice rasping a little. "You that scared of losing, Mando?"

"What story? What mudhorn? What even just happened?" You demanded.

"The kid did this...thing once before. I can't really explain it." The Mandalorian answered you curtly. "He just moved his hand and a fucking full-grown mudhorn was three feet off the ground."

"...excuse me, what?" You questioned weakly.

"He also went into a coma sleep afterwards, guess he wore himself out." The Mandalorian shrugged, the kid peering over the side of his arm guiltily. "Maybe...maybe he thought Dune was a threat or something. Thought we were fighting for real."

"You little nugget, you really thought I was screwing with your dad?" Cara asked incredulously, reaching out and rubbing over one of the child's ears. "I tangled with your pops once, remember? He almost died."

"Not how I recall it." The Mandalorian growled, his pride clearly pinched. "We were at a stalemate if anything."

The child whimpered, holding their arms out to you. Despite now being privy to the incredibly frightening knowledge that oh, they can move things with their mind, they can choke a full-grown human out, you could still feel yourself softening. The eyes got you every time.

The Mandalorian, who had been watching you warily, muttered, "you don't have to if you don't--"

"Stop." You interrupted him sharply. "They're not a bomb." He fell silent, passing you the kid without further debate. They settled into your arms, staring up at you while you rocked back and forth. You began to hum their lullaby softly, hoping to get them to sleep at some point during this flight.

"I need your help." You glanced up, disappointment searing in your chest when you realized the Mandalorian was addressing Kuiil. You then proceeded to berate yourself for the hope you had in the first place.

He had made his choice and, in doing so, he had made your choice as well. There was nothing you could do to change his mind. Obviously. The best you could do was return to your mundane existence on Nevarro. Maybe once you were there you could hitch a ride on another freighter, leave the whole planet in the dust and get on with your life.

…

You tucked the baby in for what you knew was the last time, stroking your fingers over their little head.

The Razor Crest sat silent amongst the lava rivers, all illumination and non-essential mechanics off so as not to arouse suspicion or garner unwanted attention. To the best of your knowledge, everyone aside from you was already asleep. The blurrgs had been offloaded and secured outside; you could still hear them shuffling about as they chewed their cud.

The Mandalorian's rendezvous with his contact wasn't until tomorrow, but you didn't exactly feel like trying to explain your departure to everyone in the crisp gray light of a Nevarro morning.

It was better this way. It always was.

You picked up the small pack you had stowed in the bunk, as well as your toolbelt. After one final look at the child, you slowly felt your way towards the door. The lights in the hold were disabled, so all you had to navigate by was the faint orange glow from the distant lava.

You froze when you saw him standing next to the loading ramp, his shoulders rigid and arms crossed over his chest. The void of his visor bored into you, and you found yourself wondering what he was thinking.

After a moment of the two of you standing there in silence, he sighed and tapped a few of the keys on his gauntlet. The loading ramp began to slowly open, segmented plates extending with a hiss of hydraulics. You shifted your weight nervously and opened your mouth but he held up a hand, stopping you before you could even start.

He simply gestured at the ramp, all that beskar for once not making a sound.

You crept forward, wary of him for the first time in a long time. Before you managed to get past him though, he tilted his head. Two fingers pressed against his breastplate, drawing a circle. Then, he tapped his knuckles in the center.

Stay safe.

You wanted to scream.

"Yeah." You managed to choke out instead. Your hand moved of its own accord, running down your leg to your boot where you tugged the vibroblade free and held it out. "Won't need this anymore."

That stupid visor felt like it was staring into your soul. He took the knife back after a moment. He was blatantly, obviously careful not to actually touch your skin, using his index and thumb to gingerly pinch down on the handle.

You gave him an awkward nod and continued out onto the ramp, your boots hitting the obsidian ground with a thud.

You didn't turn around, no matter how much you wanted to.

Part Eight

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #eventual romance #slow burn #oh they fockin #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #please don't hate me #this hurts me a lot

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