#pulling back the layers of a blind of one kind or another

[itspileofgoodthings]

Good morning what are the movies or tv shows that traumatized you as a kid mine are the BBC production of A Christmas Carol and a handful of David Suchet Poirot episodes

[granddaughterogg]

Ghost and you having a lil' one night stand in the club

You weaved your wanting fingers into the longer part of his fade, sliding the mask further up.

He stilled your wrists. 

"Hey. Hey", he whispered cautiously into the bridge of your nose. "Don't even think about it."

"So...the mask stays on?... Like, all the way?" You inquired breathlessly between nipping at his mouth.

"Yes."

You looked this peculiar man in the eyes, now gleaming with fun, but dark and puzzling nonetheless. What was he hiding? Scars? Being a plain ol' butterface? Facial deformity of some kind?

You examined this thought thoroughly and found out that you don't care.

"All right", you said. "But tell me one thing. Are you Deadpool?"

He snorted softly. "I'm just Ghost."

"Ghost?.."

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

And kiss you he did.

Holy fuck, he was so good at this. Even when he let himself loose, abandoning all fuckboy moves in favour of feral lust. 

And maybe especially then.

Your tongues entwined in a blind dance, devoid of any rhythm. It was as un-romantic as humanly possible and you liked it that way. That frenzied, rushed approach of his told you that the man was truly starving, losing himself already in this newly acquired flavour, in your feminine warmth. His desperation set your blood ablaze. 

Because you were hungry too.

Ghost finally broke contact, but before leaning away he glided his tongue over your half-opened mouth. It was as if he just couldn't part with the taste.

"Hold on...fuck, you're something else." He sighed and put both of your hands around his wide neck.

"Hold tight, love", he cautioned as if you two were boarding a ride. 

When you did as told, he grabbed at your ass.

You yelped when his hands pressed into the soft flesh under the thin velvet of your dress. He effortlessly pulled you off the ground and lifted you up. 

"Wrap your legs around me", he asked.

You were not a dainty lady. When other guys attempted such stunts, you usually started to fear for their backs. But not for Ghost. This guy was born for heavy-duty activities. You recently watched him sweep the floor with a grown man.

He could take you.

You suspected that he'd carry you out of a battlefield as well.

You wrapped your thighs around his thick waist, crossing your booted legs over the small of his back. You felt his firm core underneath you, covered with a healthy layer of soft flesh. That width of his didn't come just from muscles, and the discovery excited you. You liked your men strong, but not starving.

"That's right..." Ghost slid his large hands under your thighs, tearing another yelp out of you, followed by a stifled moan as he pressed your ass against the nearest wall. 

"What are you doing?" you breathed, holding on for dear life.

"Keepin' a promise." That low gritty voice reverberated in your bones.

Right, he had said this earlier.  I could pin you to a wall if you ask nicely.

The next moment all thoughts - the very ability to think - drifted away from you, for he glided his tongue across that space behind your ear. You moaned, your head falling back as if electricity had just pierced you. He chuckled into your collarbone and was already going lower, kissing, licking and sucking the sensitive skin of your throat. His tongue felt like a flame.

"Jesus Christ...", you breathed. "You're gonna fuck me like this?"

"If that's what you want".

"I dunno. It's kinda – aah! - uncomfortable..."

You tried really hard to rein your thoughts, but they fell apart while this impossible man held you against a wall.

It felt like being sandwiched between cold wood and a living furnace.

As if trying to make the thought process even harder, Ghost dug his fingers deeper into your buttcheeks, bunching up the fabric. It slid up your thighs, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from you.

"This fuckin' skirt is in the way", he murmured. After some more finagling, he got away with the velvet and stroked at the sheer pantyhose underneath. His long fingers nudged the lacy elastic keeping your stay-ups in place.

"Stockings?" He asked, as if unable to believe his luck.

"Yep", you grinned at him.

" Fuckin' hell."

That came out low and guttural. You felt a sharp tingle within as if someone tugged at a string attached to your core.

That narrow strip of lace awakened something in him. He stepped away from the wall and threw you onto the nearest futon. You landed on your back with legs splayed out, but you didn't have time to collect yourself because he was already on top of you, pressing you to the ground with that huge torso, obscuring the dim light, filling up your whole world. He put his arms over your head and pressed them against the soft surface.

Then he leaned over you and dragged his mouth across your cleavage, biting on the skin on your throat, eliciting another moan, and then he let go. You moaned again, protesting this abandonment.

"I know, love", he murmured into your mouth. "But we need to get rid of your knickers."

This is an excerpt from my ongoing Ghost x reader fic which you shall find HERE :3

[hellwantfuckme]

skin to skin

summary: when azriel's mate has a nightmare, he looks for any way to make her comfortable.

warnings: blood, kind of torture(?, fluff, comfort

author's note: this is lazy, but, well, is something.

All she could feel was the hands cracked by the cold and Cassandra's chemical products on her, holding her by the shoulders, striking her cheek with force, though Eclipse didn't register the pain, only the warmth of her hand against her tear-soaked cheeks. Cassandra's terrified, angry face, too close to hers, screaming incomprehensible words while another voice shouted her name, Cassandra's blonde hair tickling her collarbone from how close she was, and Eclipse could only cry and endure.

"This is what you get," Cassandra shouted, her voice harsh and stern. "You wanted to be brave, ungrateful wretch? Be brave now."

The blade of her dagger found Eclipse's tender thigh, pressed until the first drops of blood stained the floor. Eclipse knew she was screaming, but couldn't hear herself with the blinding pain overwhelming every sense. Cassandra wasn't even touching her; the only thing holding her in place were the cold iron chains surrounding her, keeping her arms pinned to her worryingly thin figure. Cassandra buried the dagger, and another heart-wrenching sob escaped Eclipse's lips. She was cold.

There was so much blood. Blood soaking her body, she could feel every fine layer of it against her skin. Though she couldn't smell it, all she could smell was cedar and mist and…Azriel.

That's what Azriel smelled like.

The realization hit her, woke her up. Eclipse opened her eyes whimpering, all she searched for was that scent, his scent, the scent of home. To pull her out of that hell, to help her. Eclipse felt the familiar tug of their bond, hers and Azriel's, in her chest, telling her he was there, with her. She saw no trace of blonde hair, of thick crimson liquid.

Azriel was in front of her, his hand cradling her cheek, his shadows gliding over her collarbone as if they were also on the lookout. They were neither cold nor warm, just a disordered ghostly touch.

"A nightmare," Azriel reassured her, his voice the one that had been calling her name. He was near her, his warm body pressed firmly against her. "Just a nightmare, Eclipse. You're okay, you're home."

Eclipse let another trembling whimper escape her lips, sitting up. Still somewhat confused, overwhelmed by the sensations. There was no blood on her body; it was just sweat, and Cassandra had never struck her cheek, it was the warmth and security of Azriel's hand. Eclipse threw herself into his arms, and he happily received her, allowing her to bury her face in his chest, sobbing. Her trembling body, her still pale skin. Azriel felt his heart break at seeing his mate like this, frightened, no, terrified, clinging to him like a life preserver in the sea and she was drowning.

Azriel wrapped his arms around her, feeling her sob, tears wetting his chest as the torturous sound of her pain filled the room. Shadows swirled around her skin, wishing they could calm her, wishing they could do something for her as Azriel maneuvered to cradle her in his lap, her face now hidden in the hollow of his neck, the sobs unceasing.

Eclipse felt Azriel's hand travel down her back, a slow and gentle caress, how he had learned calmed her. Almost unconscious already, it produced a familiar sensation, a feeling of home, the only home she had known before Azriel, when she was still just a child. When her mother used to stroke her back to sleep, with a healthier appearance, the kind of memory she would have liked to have about her. But only the feeling remained.

The heat of his skin against hers only slightly managed to calm the rapid beating of her heart, which had threatened to burst out of her chest just minutes ago. The tears kept flowing, one after another, coming from the place where she had buried them as that memory. Not a nightmare, a memory. Eclipse heard Azriel's reassuring words come out of his mouth, an attempt to comfort her.

The starlight poured into her room along with a gentle breeze, light enough to not make them lose their warmth but enough to give Eclipse's overheated skin a respite. She would have sworn the curtains and windows had been closed. She assumed the action was thanks to the House, just a thought in a corner of her mind while all her attention was focused on the memory of blood, pain, Cassandra's face mere inches from hers.

Her chest tightened painfully every time she thought about it, her breathing became difficult, and her eyes clouded over again. The anxiety that seemed to flow through her veins became more noticeable, causing her to tremble. And the oxygen in her lungs was no longer enough.

Azriel noticed himself entering a panic, she wasn't calming down and he felt every emotion in his chest as if it were his own. Eclipse kept clinging to him, as if she couldn't get enough of it. As if she feared seeing her if he stepped away for just a moment. Azriel's hands fumbled with the hem of her nightgown, thinking about all those times when feeling his warm and firm skin against hers had worked to calm her. To try to prevent her from going all the way into an attack of something, anxiety or panic, it didn't matter, as long as the goal was to avoid it. Azriel managed to get Eclipse to release her grip enough to pull the nightgown over her head, and then, take off his own shirt. Then, he brought her close to him again, making sure to give her enough contact. Allowing his scarred hands to trace her skin up and down, his fingers finding the fifteen-centimeter scar on her thigh, the irrefutable proof of the horrors she had experienced at the hands of Cassandra's cruel dagger.

He searched his mind, every corner, anything he could remember about what she had told him, wanting to do the exact opposite, to keep her away from the memories. Desperation tore something inside him.

"You're fine, Eclipse. You're safe."

It took an hour filled with patience, caresses, and comforting words before Eclipse's breathing became regular and the moisture on her cheeks, which had constantly been coming out of her eyes, stopped.

Azriel knew she wasn't asleep, especially because of the way she moved so gently that it was almost imperceptible, uncomfortable from the sweat residue on her body.

Only when he was completely sure she was stable, he moved her from his lap with the tenderness of someone holding in their arms the only reason for his existence, and laid her on the bed.

Her eyes were red, the swelling minimal, and the tip of her nose tinged with pink. His chest hurt to see his mate's condition, and the cold, sharp, icy rage for Cassandra surfaced. But he pushed it down, it wasn't the right time. And in reality, it would never be the right time, not when Eclipse still saw Cassandra regularly, and when she felt it was too much, Azriel accompanied her. Azriel didn't understand how she could love someone who had inflicted so much pain on her, because even though the only reason Eclipse visited Cassandra was a promise tattooed on her skin that she wanted to get rid of, Azriel knew that deep down, Eclipse loved her. Or something like that, it was a much more complicated feeling than pure love.

He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and then got out of bed. His legs took him straight to the bathroom attached to his room, and he turned on the bathtub faucet, letting it fill with warm water, the temperature Azriel knew Eclipse preferred after years of taking baths together and him complaining that she bathed with water that was too hot.

When the bathtub was full, Azriel left the bathroom, finding Eclipse in the same position he had left her, a bit calmer than before, but still a discomforting expression on her face. The sweat. Azriel knew that the feeling of sweat on her skin, or actually the feeling of anything dirty on her skin disgusted her. So much so that she couldn't sleep in peace.

He passed his arm under her knees and side, lifting her, carrying her to the bathtub in his arms. She had stopped trembling, but the paleness in her skin was still there.

Azriel left her in front of the bathtub, her skin bristled when she felt the cold tiles under her feet. Eclipse removed the only garment that still remained on her body, and stepped into the bathtub, sighing as the hot water touched the tension in her muscles. The knots in her back.

After a few seconds, Azriel reached for the shampoo bottle and knelt behind her body, pouring a generous amount of the liquid soap, enough to wash her brown hair and spread it carefully so that it did not fall on her face. She sighed, letting Azriel massage her scalp, the tension eventually leaving her.

Eclipse closed her eyes, forced herself to focus on the way Azriel's gentle fingers rubbed her scalp, the way the shadows entwined between his fingers, resting on the bathtub. She opened her eyes when the anxious feeling had disappeared, when she was able to keep her voice steady.

"I'm sorry," Eclipse murmured, after a while, when Azriel was finishing lathering her hair. "I know... I know you have an early training, I'm sorry for waking you up."

"Eclipse, you have nothing to apologize for. It's okay, it's fine," Azriel assured her, his voice as soft as velvet towards his mate.

Eclipse nodded, still looking subtly guilty when Azriel gently pushed her shoulders down, indicating that she should sink under the water to rinse her hair.

When Eclipse emerged, with her hair free of shampoo, Azriel took a sponge and lathered her lavender soap, then took care of cleaning every piece of her skin. Eventually, Eclipse seemed more present, Azriel felt her more with him. Her brown eyes fixed on him, devotion mixing with vulnerability.

When she was finally clean, free of any impurity or discomfort, Eclipse got out of the bathtub by herself as Azriel handed her a towel. Tiredness settled into her bones, she dried off and put on another nightgown, while Azriel took care of drying her hair and then braiding it.

Azriel had taken care of her like this a thousand times, just as she had taken care of him, but the warm feeling that settled into her chest was like the first time. Eclipse was pretty sure that, before Azriel, she had not mattered to anyone enough for them to do this for her.

When her hair was fully braided, Azriel placed his hand on her lower back, guiding her out of the bathroom and back to bed. The bond between the two of them shining faintly, peacefully golden, like a thread on both their pinky fingers that bound them together.

Eclipse lay on her side, but Azriel surrounded her with his arms, drawing her body to his, resting her head on his shoulder. Eclipse sighed contentedly, settling in as Azriel's scent surrounded her.

"I love you, Az," she murmured, as sleep closed her eyes and she slowly sank into the embrace of Morpheus.

"I love you too, sweetheart," although, by the time Azriel had whispered the words, with all the sincerity of his being, Eclipse was deeply asleep. But he knew that she had felt it through their bond.

[matchamilkislover]

White Horse, 1. (a.a.)

pairing: knight!abby x princess!reader

cw: fantasy!au, fem!reader, eventual displays of fighting and violence bc it’s fantasy, kind of slow burn?, tension, reader has an attitude, tall af!abby bc size difference, royalty!au, mentions of arranged marriages, some mentions of au politics, abby in armor is a warning in itself

synopsis: you are the youngest princess of the royal family that rules over your kingdom, Aphrynia. now a young adult, you’ve come of age in a tense time, and your personal protection is of utmost importance — which is why the resignation of your previous personal knight means a rushed reassignment ceremony with little to no preface. That being said, why does the name of your new knight sound so familiar?

word count: 2.8k

a/n: this is gonna be so trope-heavy and romantic and cheesy and i don’t even care i’ve been giggling and kicking my feet this whole time

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“Princess, you really do need to get up.”

You groaned, rolling over in your excessively comfortable bed as your lady’s maid, Nina, started forcefully pulling the many blankets you had covering you off. Your proper mind knew that she was right, that you needed to get ready, but the pounding in your head begged otherwise; and right now, the pounding side was winning. You tried to sit up and open your eyes, but the bright sunlight instantly blinded you, causing you to groan and fall back again. Nina sighed.

“Either you get up, or I’m calling George and he can drag you out himself.”

That made you sit up. You’d had enough of your second eldest brother ripping you out of bed throughout your childhood to last a lifetime. Your legs already felt a phantom soreness at just the thought.

“Okay, okay, I surrender, I’m up…” you grumbled, swinging your legs over the edge of the mattress and tenderly standing on the cold floor. Nina rolled her eyes as she started gathering materials for you to bathe.

“I told you to ease up on the wine last night,” she scolded as you started shedding your nightclothes and trudged to your washroom.

You rolled your eyes in response and yawned. “Don’t judge me! You would let loose a little too if you knew it was your last night before getting assigned another overbearing knight,” you replied dramatically. These were the times that you both loved and resented that you and Nina had known each other since childhood; sometimes she knew you a little too well. Nina just chuckled and followed you.

A while later, you were clean and dry. And cold. You shivered as Nina helped you slip layer after layer of your intricate clothing on your body. “Why is it so frigid in here this morning? I can literally hear the fire going,” you whined as another shiver made your arms shake. Nina shrugged as she picked up another layer.

“The mornings have been getting colder lately,” Nina remarked thoughtfully. “Perhaps an off the shoulder dress wasn’t the best decision the seamstress could’ve made for today’s gown.” She grimaced as she eyed the off the shoulder masterpiece waiting to be adorned.

Your pout spoke for you. Even so, you had to admit the gown was rather lovely. The gauzy pink seemed to shimmer in the light, and you couldn’t help but stare at it in the mirror once you had finally put it on. Nina, however, still anxiously watched the time and rushed to finish getting you ready.

For whatever reason, one you weren’t exactly keen on understanding, being assigned a personal knight was something of a ceremony in the royal family, and was therefore to be treated as such. And ever since your former knight, Mattheo, had resigned not even a fortnight ago to wed and begin a life outside of his knighthood, you had been assigned a rotation of lower knights while a replacement was decided on. While you couldn’t blame Mattheo for wanting to have a different life and a family, you couldn’t help but resent his leaving just a little bit; he had been your personal knight since you were young, and you had grown to trust him like an uncle or a father. Whatever young, overconfident knight you would be assigned now would not be nearly as tolerable, of that you were certain.

Nina’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts and reawakened the pounding in your head. “Princess? Princess, we’ve got to go,” she harped, placing a guiding hand on your back. “Wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting.” You nodded in agreement and started walking, trying your best to hide the grimace pulling at your face.

You could barely keep up with Nina’s quick steps as you navigated the corridors of the palace, your shoes clicking on the polished stone floors. “Nina,” you muttered through panting breaths, “You know you can slow down a little bit, right? It really isn’t that serious,” you pointed out. Nina shook her head.

“Sorry, princess, but I’m under strict orders to get you there on time. Promised the queen,” she replied with a wink sent your way. Your mouth gaped while your brows furrowed.

“Seriously? For a knight assignment? The fuck…” you muttered back, still grumpy from your hangover and unending headache. Nina clicked her tongue at you in disapproval.

“Princess! Language!” she scolded, holding back a giggle and not quite managing to suppress a tickled smile. You made an amused face in response and you both had to struggle to hold down your laughs as you passed knights and members of the court in the long corridors.

As you finally turned onto the corridor leading to the throne room, Nina cleared her throat to get your attention. “Please try your best not to seem hungover, princess,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “lest the queen come for my head.” You both stifled one last giggle before the doors to the throne room opened, and your arrival was announced to the small crowd standing inside.

You took a steadying breath, blanking your face as you delicately walked forward, desperately hiding your fight not to wobble in these godforsaken shoes. You kept your gaze steady on the front of the room, not wanting to risk an offhand glance at the crowd interrupting your focus.

You breathed a quiet sigh of relief when you reached the front and stood in place amongst your siblings, ignoring George’s knowing smirk and Elyssa’s disapproving look. Like always, your eldest brother, Philip, stayed as stone-faced as ever, and Henry, the fourth sibling, gave his best attempt at matching Philip’s ever-serious mood. Although he was closest to you in age, only being 18 months older, the two of you couldn’t be more different. He never seemed to possess the itch for mischief and adventure that you did, and instead followed your eldest brother like a puppy and tried to copy his every trait. You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes and turned towards the rest of the room.

Glancing at you to acknowledge your arrival, your parents rose as one, and your mother’s voice rang out in the spacious throne room. “Welcome, esteemed guests and friends, as we conduct our youngest daughter’s knight reassignment ceremony on this lovely morning. As many of us know, our youngest has quite the…lively spirit, and as she reaches marrying age, we’ve found it impertinent that we find a unique knight to ensure her safety amidst the happenings of that lively spirit.” A soft chuckle carried through the room, and you had to suppress another eye roll as your mother – the “ever-esteemed” queen – basically called you a burden who needed watching. Great. Exactly what you needed this morning.

Your mother continued her speech. “While the knight we’ve chosen for her assignment may not have the age to match her rank, her experience and accomplishments make her quite the perfect match to guard our lovely daughter. Thus, Knight Anderson, will you please approach?”

Your mind came to a sudden stop. ‘Her’? Your new knight was to be a female knight? Well that certainly makes things more interesting. And her name…Anderson. It sounded oddly familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. A young female knight, a respected, high-ranking one at that, was to be Mattheo’s replacement? Certainly she wouldn’t be quite as easy to slip past. But you had gotten creative over the years…

Your racing thoughts mixed with your eyes searching the crowd for this ‘Knight Anderson’, but came to a sudden halt when the knight finally stepped through to the front of the crowd, and the sight of her left your mouth hanging ever so slightly ajar. Although it had certainly matured since the last time you saw her, you would recognize that face anywhere.

9 YEARS AGO

Abigail Anderson was going to be the death of you. No matter where you went, she was somehow there, ready to show off and drive you up the fucking wall. Since her father was the royal family’s physician and a childhood friend of your father, and the two of you were so close in age, the two of you had been shoved together since you could read, and you couldn’t resent it more. She never failed to take an opportunity to prove herself against you; whether it was her intelligence in tutoring sessions, or showing off her strength and size outdoors while exploring or riding, if the chance was there, she took it.

You were both twelve, and while you were able to spend more time apart, tutoring and riding lessons were still spent together. You had started spending your free time with the daughters of the court members, while Abby spent her time training for knighthood or whatever it was that motivated her to sweat in a dirty training ground for hours a day. It wasn’t like you paid it too much regard; you were perfectly happy spending tea with your friends that you could actually relate to before retreating to the palace library to spend afternoons reading and exploring different worlds.

On one sunny spring day, Abby had shown up late to your joint riding lesson, and you were already annoyed since George had ruined your favorite riding boots by dropping them in a boiling, soapy wash basin while the maids weren’t looking, only for them to be found hours later and sorrowfully returned to your chambers. The twat. So when she came jogging up to the stables, your glare was already set upon her, and she preemptively rolled her eyes.

“I know, I know, training went over,” she retorted to your glare in an annoyed voice, raising her hands apologetically at your instructor.

You continued glaring as she saddled her horse and mounted the steed, flipping her braid behind her shoulder. Sensing the tension and not wanting to be a part of it, the instructor casually instructed the two of you to take a simple ride through the naturalistic grounds surrounding the palace during your normal lesson time. You nodded curtly and took off in a simple trot, Abby quickly following and settling into a matching trot beside you.

“Heard about what happened to your boots,” she remarked casually, not even glancing your way. But you knew what she was doing, and you already weren’t in the mood for it. She kept pushing anyway.

“What a waste,” she continued, clicking her tongue. “You poor thing, how will you ever survive?” You could feel her smirk without looking. Trying to be the bigger person, you only sighed and kept ignoring her.

She laughed. “What, don’t want to admit that you’re upset over a pair of boots? It’s okay, you are a princess, after all.” Even though she was right, it wasn’t like you wanted to admit it to Abby, of all people. You really liked those boots! Princess or not, you were allowed to be upset about it! You could say that, but it’s not like Abby would care. She’d just keep teasing you about the boots, or poking you about some other stupid thing that was sure to push your buttons. So you kept your head straight forward and kept riding. She wasn’t satisfied.

“Too good to talk to me now, are you? You’d rather be at a prissy tea party with your prissy friends?” she said, mocking a posh accent and expression as she spoke. And you just snapped.

“You know what Abby, just because you don’t like me or think I’m shallow or spoiled for whatever reason, that doesn’t mean you have to go after my friends too! You don’t even know them! You know, I don’t think you even know me like you think you do, so why don’t you just shut up already,” you exploded, taking off on your horse like a bullet and leaving Abby shouting after you in the dust. You heard her call your name after you a few times, but you ignored her, clenching your teeth as your resolve hardened and you quickened your pace even more.

By the time Abby started galloping after you, you were too far ahead to hear her. You just kept riding and riding, not stopping until you reached the creek that bubbled along one of the far edges of the palace grounds. Hopping off your horse, you gently smoothed the mare’s chestnut hair as you watched the clear water run up and over the rocks in the creek. Remembering what Abby had said, you clenched your other fist and loudly groaned in frustration, holding back the urge to go as far as to stomp on the ground.

You took a deep breath to steel yourself as you heard hooves approaching quickly from behind you. Abby called your name again, but you barely even turned your head, fist still clenched. She scoffed and dismounted, walking up to you casually.

“You know you can’t ride off like that,” she remarked. You continued to ignore her. “C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” she continued, leaning to try to get in your line of sight.

You only scoffed in reply and turned away, speed walking along the creek bed. Abby kept following you, reaching out to grab your arm once she was close enough. You gasped angrily and whipped around, hair slinging from side to side. You tried to pull away, but her grip was tight. And you panicked. No one had ever grabbed you like that, and you were so shocked, you couldn’t help but go into panic mode.

“Will you– let go– get your hands OFF of me–” you shrieked, starting to flail and struggle in her grasp. Abby also began to panic in response to you, and before you knew it, you were slipping on the creek bed, and the two of you tumbled into the creek, a tangle of limbs and shocked exclamations as you fell into the surprisingly icy water.

As soon as you hit the water, you gasped, inhaling water instead of air and immediately choking. You floundered, desperately coughing and trying to eject the water from your lungs. Finally, your flailing arms found a large rock to land on, and you started pulling yourself out of the water. At the same time, you could hear Abby climbing the water as well, and you got distracted, your hand slipping as you crashed back down into the creek. Another breath of water infiltrated your mouth and throat, and you continued to choke and cough, unable to gain enough footing to grab back onto the rock. Finally, a pair of stronger arms latched onto your own, stopping your flailing to pull you out of the water and onto the creek bed.

Flopping onto the ground, you coughed out the remaining water from your lungs until you could finally take clear breaths, anger returning with the consistent oxygen. You shot up suddenly, cutting Abby off as she opened her mouth to ask if you were okay. “You are despicable, Abby Anderson! Despicable!” You shouted as you pushed hair out of your face and straightened your soaking clothes. “I am leaving. You need to give me time to return my horse and escort myself inside, lest I see your despicable face and decide to strangle you once and for all!” You continued as you mounted your horse, giving her one last dirty look before riding off as fast as you could.

It wasn’t until the next morning when Abby wasn’t present at your lessons that you discovered that she had left for official training. And no matter how angry you were at her, you couldn’t help but be at least a bit disappointed that she hadn’t said goodbye.

THE PRESENT

Your mother’s voice was all but muted background in your head as you watched Abby – apparently now known as ‘Knight Anderson’ – approach you and your family at the front of the throne room. A lump settled in your throat, and your mouth felt impossibly dry watching her armored form get closer and closer. You barely registered your mother reciting practiced phrases as Abby knelt in front of her and bowed her head towards the queen. It was like you were outside your body, watching everything happen, only an observer as Abby stood and she and your mother approached you. You were sucked back into your body as Abby knelt in front of you, taking one of your polished hands in hers and bowing her head towards it.

“Knight Abigail Anderson,” your mother began, her voice confident and steady in contrast to the nerves that rocked your body, leaving you lightheaded. “Do you solemnly vow to dedicate your life to the protection and safety of the princess?” Abby looked up at you through her lashes, and you felt like you could faint.

“I do.”

[dreamer-after-dark]

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Part One

Panty Snatcher Part Two Wally Gaslights You

Stalker/Gaslighting

Word Count: 978

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Smoke flowed out in airy waves from the open doorway. You could feel the thick cloud swirling around your exposed calves. Wally's room had changed from the last you saw of it. New paintings were hung up on the walls, each one full of unblinking eyes that shifted in the eerie shading of blacklight.

One in particular drew your attention. The canvas was large and at first looked to be covered in random splotches of paint. The closer you moved the more the random lines pieced together. It was a face left expressionless save for two large eyes glaring down at you. The head was propped up on the intertwined fingers of delicate hands. Under the gentle strobing green light and still blacklight it looked alive and seemed to be staring directly at you.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

You were startled by the person you were meant to confront, "Where are my- my clothes?"

Despite the little smile on his mauve lips he looked offended by your presence, "Feel free to check around, neighbor."

Wally sat at his desk with his head propped on his palm. His leg was crossed one over the other. Wally was watching you. Most of the smoke had cleared from the room. The lack of oxygen and layered lighting was causing you a headache. His eyes never faltered as you turned away from him. The blinds were pulled to the side and the window was ripped open. The summer breeze rushed in still thick with the scent of wet dirt.

"This kind of weather ruins my work," He complained, but didn't rise to stop you, "At least, if I had an incomplete project out."

Wally's eyes were on your legs as you stuck your top half out the window. His free hand gripped his ankle. Your fingers wrapped around the grate of the fire escape. The leftover rain was cold from the night air. Chipped paint dug against your flesh as you breathed in lungfuls of fresh air. Once your mind had calmed you slipped back inside.

You didn't look at him as you moved towards his bed shoved between his desk and the second window. It was meticulously made with sheets folded just so and pillows arranged against the headboard. It almost pained you to rip the pillows from their place, but it had to be done. For your sanity and for your missing panties. When nothing was found beneath the pillows you pulled away the blanket letting it drop to the floor.

Next you lifted the mattress, finding only a diary underneath, "My most private of private things."

The mattress dropped back atop the steel frame. Save for his closet, vanity, and desk there wasn't much else to look at. You picked the vanity next. As you looked over the rather expensive collection of eyeshadow, foundation, mascara, and any other necessary tools Wally kept neatly packed away, the seeds of uncertainty sprouted. You hesitated.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Asked politely, but the hint of en edge grated against you prickling the hair on the back of your neck.

With a sigh you turned around, arms crossed in front of you, "No."

"I wouldn't steal your things, Y/N," The edge had left his voice, "I am worried about you."

"Another pair went missing while I was in the shower. I just- I thought-,"

As sweet as candy he replied, "You thought I took it?"

You nod unable to conjure the words needed to explain your stress.

"And you trashed my bed for that reason?" He asked.

You nod.

He laughed, waving it off, "At least you didn't destroy my makeup. That is an expensive collection."

"I'm sorry, Wally." You finally say. Anything else died in your throat, choking you up. You bent down to pick up his ruined blanket.

"Y/N you're fine! You might just be paranoid with Sally's list and all." Wally trailed off.

A little quieter, "Were you.. wearing any today?"

"I'm not really sure anymore," It was hard to admit, "I stopped wearing any as of late. It feels easier not to."

"Do you still want those boxers I offered?"

"Uh, yeah," It felt rude to reject his offer after accusing him of something as dirty as panty snatching, "I'll take them."

Wally brightened at this. Standing up from his seat he moved to the closet opening one of the sliding doors. You peeked at all the clothes carefully folded away on the shelves. You took a few steps forward trying to get a better look. The screen of his computer illuminated your face. Your eyes were drawn to the large curved screen.

On it a website with a dark color scheme was left open. Scanning the words you figured it had to do with some art techniques you had no hope of understanding. Your eyes moved to the several tabs at the top of the browser. Each one was shortened, but you recognized the beginnings of a username. Your brows furrowed as you stepped closer.

Wally stepped in front of you holding the pack of boxers to your face. The sudden interruption caused you to flinch, your eyes meeting with his. They were far too wide and far too close. The watchful coldness of his eyes never changed as he contorted his face into a practiced smile.

"Have a good night, darling."

In a blur of motion you were back in your room with a pack of boxers in hand. The door held you up as your legs melted into the floor. All the words that bunched in your throat now settled in your bowels. The sound of labored breathing echoed in the darkness.

Wally Darling knew. He knew about you. About the photos you took and posted for extra money on the side. The tab with the incomplete username was your account.

[passivenovember]

Steve's mattress is a jar of marshmallow fluff pressing and knotting itself into Billy's hair. The sheets will probably be silk like a coffin, the quilt draping over them until all possibility of resurrection vanishes beneath a thin layer of patchwork.

It might as well be fresh earth.

Billy's fingers dig into the bulk of it. Steve gets Billy's pants around his ankles, but they won't slip off because of his boots. Steve snorts, impatient, and says, "Why are you always wearing these fuckin' things," and the thread spores of the quilt spread like grass under Billy's fingertips.

He scratches at them. Preparing himself.

"I dunno," Billy says, swallowing. Or. Trying to swallow.

He wishes the overhead light was on. Wishes he could stare into it, as if it were the sun, until he goes blind so he won't see the pained, nervous brown that suddenly springs like calla-lilies from the earth, appearing over the edge of the mattress.

"Don't fucking look at me like that," Billy says. He thunks his head on the mattress, a little bit pissed off that it doesn't. Hurt.

"What's wrong," Steve asks quietly. He's got the laces of one boot wrapped tightly in his hand. He's trying to get the boot off. He's trying to push this forward.

"Nothing," Billy tells the ceiling. It's dark, like nightfall. Popcorn stucco sharp as the Milky Way swirling overhead.

Billy tries to take a deep breath but his lungs have closed shop, and.

A lot of pushing is about to happen. Pants down, boots off, underwear--

Billy blinks at the ceiling and wonders, distantly, if Harrington's the kind of guy who pushes fruit of the looms off or just to the side. If he's ever seen boxers on another guy, like this. Tented and blooming wet. If he's ever done this before.

Steve lets go of him all at once.

Billy doesn't like that. He pushes onto his elbows, "What's your problem, Harrington?"

Steve shrugs. "You don't seem like you're having fun."

"It's fine."

"Sex isn't supposed to be 'fine,' it's supposed to be--"

"What?" Billy spits, "Perfect? Magical? You gonna take my panties off and open me up real nice, baby? Soft and sweet until I'm begging for you?"

"Well. Yeah?" Steve's cheeks are red. They look sunburned and then he smiles, bright and barely there.

Billy hates what it does to him. "Fuck you," He says, and.

Steve chuckles brightly. "You're a brat."

"And you're a rich bitch pain in the goddamn ass--"

"Now there's an idea," Steve. Fucking grins. Like a wolf. "Let me. I think it could be fun."

Billy's stomach swoops. "Fun."

"Yeah. Special."

Billy snorts. "I'm not a virgin."

"Neither am I."

"Then you know after a couple of notches, shit stops being special and just starts being sex."

Steve falters. Grows serious. "Nobody ever treat you right before, Blondie?" When Billy doesn't say anything, doesn't even breathe, Harrington smirks. "Maybe you just bite their hands off before they can get too close."

Billy.

Lays flat on his back, throat working around that annoyingly stubborn lump that springs fresh whenever Harrington's big brown eyes are in the room.

"Please touch me," Billy says, and it feels like an exorcism. Blood letting.

Tension hangs all around. Pushing on Billy's chest. Steve hovers, skin so warm Billy can feel it through the quilt. "You're sure?"

It's achingly earnest. Sweet.

This is bullshit. Steve is bullshit--

"Yes."

Steve palms slowly up Billy's thigh, nails tugging at the hem of his boxers, and. You'd think they were connected to his dick somehow. And his heart, beyond that.

Billy hates this.

He resists the urge to bare his teeth and snarl at Steve's pretty, soft gaze. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like. You want to carry my books in the hallway and pull my chair out at lunch--"

"You could do with a little romance, Hargrove. Might make you more likeable," Steve says. There's no heat. He toys idly with the lace of Billy's left boot, palm still rubbing over his right thigh. He's looking at Billy like this means something, and this.

This is fucking ridiculous.

Billy feels ridiculous. Still trapped in his jeans at the ankle and hard as a rock and doing what he can to spoil the moment. His eyes sting. He swallows, says, "No."

Steve tsks, "No what, baby?"

Billy swallows, tugging sharply at the quilt. "Nobody's ever taken care of me."

"That's done, after tonight," Steve says firmly. His fingers are soft and warmer than Billy ever imagined they'd be when they slip into his boxers. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop right now, Billy. I swear."

Billy swallows. His throat clicks. He says, "I want you. Want. Your fingers."

Steve's fingers, they. They wrap--

Billy arches off the mattress in shock, "Ah, Steve--"

"Got nice legs, Malibu," Steve says thoughtfully, like he's never considered it before and it's a surprise. The brown of his eyes shine, somehow, in the dark. He swipes a thumb over Billy's cockhead, smearing precum as he demands, "Say it again," so softly that Billy's not sure he heard it right.

"I don't--"

"My name, baby. Say it again." Steve drops Billy's dick, fingers nudging at one thigh.

Billy spreads them, slowly, hair catching a little on the quilt underneath. "Steve--"

"I want to take care of you," Steve murmurs. It's honey-sweet and earnest.

This bullshit. So Billy groans and says, "This is bullshit. I dream about your cock for months and you finally get me in your bed and you want it to be special when you could just--"

"I want to fuck you until you can't walk right, Billy." Steve says.

His voice.

It's gravel and old whiskey. Ancient. Burning, low and intense. Contained.

Billy's done this enough times to know what's gonna come next. "My," He gulps, dizzy with need so wild that the ceiling blinks out of focus, "My boxers--"

"Gotta take your boots off first."

"So take them off, already," Billy snaps, "Thought you wanted to fuck me until I can't walk?"

Steve does as he's told, pushing and pulling until cold air hits everything south of Billy's t-shirt. It's silent and awkward, and--

"Jesus Christ," Steve's not touching him anymore.

Fear settles in Billy's bones. He tears his eyes away from the ceiling, propped on his elbows to figure out what's wrong, but.

"You," Steve tries, "You're lovely." Steve's cock trains his boxers, tenting painfully, and Billy has never seen anyone so earnest. So sweet.

His heart cracks open, "Come here," Billy says, "C'mon I want--"

"Anything," Steve says. The mattress dips under his weight. His fingers push at the hem of Billy's t-shirt.

Billy braces himself for something familiar. A warm puff of air on his neck, lips closing around the swell of his breastbone, but instead Steve grips the back of each knee and folds him in half, pushing--

Always pushing--

Until Billy's body catches up with his heart and makes room.

[peterman-spideyparker]

A Punny Kind of Love (Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Hey lovelies! I wrote this in maybe a half hour back in October so I wouldn't be late posting it for Valentine's Day, and guess what I forgot to post for Valentine's Day🙃 Anyways, it's still within the Valentine's Day week, so it counts. Enjoy! :)

Summary: It's Valentine's Day, and you and Matt get one another similar gifts.

Warnings: Pure, sweet, domestic and adoring fluff, smut (alluded to, not written)

Other Characters: None

Word Count: 848

“Hey, Matt,” you smile as he walks into the apartment, folding his cane and taking off his glasses, placing both by the door.

“Hi, (Y/N),” he smirks, walking over and pulling me in for a sweet kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Matty.” You reciprocate the message with a kiss, Matt pulling you closer as you try to break the kiss. You erupt into a fit of laughter as you pull away, Matt’s hands gently tracing over your body as he keeps pecking little kisses into your lips.

“I’ve got a lasagna in the oven, a fresh bottle of Macallan’s, oh! And the lovely bouquet of tulips you sent me,” you inform, pecking a kiss on the tip of his nose.

Matt smiles, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close and kiss you more. “Surprised, sweetheart?”

“Yes and no,” you say against his lips. “But I love it all the same, Matt. They’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“What a line,” you giggle as he continues to kiss you. “Let’s go to the couch.”

“Oh?”

“I want to give you your gift.”

“Mm?”

“It’s not sex, you goober!” you cackle. “Well, it’s not sex yet.”

Wriggling out of his hold, you take his hand and guide him to the couch. Halfway there, he slips from your grip and goes to where he keeps his Devil suit, pulling out a red bag before he joins you on the couch. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” he smiles as you exchange gifts. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Matt.” You give his knuckles a kiss and squeeze his hand. “Open yours first.”

Pulling his gift out of the bag, you see the confusion work across his face as he tries to figure it out. “It’s . . . A teddy bear,” Matt smiles as he runs his hands over the soft fur of the plushie.

You place your hand over one of his, moving it along the little outfit he’s in.

“Beardevil,” you correct as you guide him over the little helmet he wears. Matt chuckles as he feels over the bear with more attention.

“I knew you loved puns, but this is taking it to a new level,” he chuckles. 

“Is it, though?”

“Yes it is,” he continues to laugh, his wide smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle as he leans in for a kiss. 

“If you don’t appreciate the layered pun—.”

“No, no, I do. It’s just that you’ve rubbed off on me so much, I made the same pun. Well, almost.”

Leaning over, he picks up the red bag and puts it in my lap. Moving out the tissue paper, you pull out a brown duck plushie that appears to be wearing a miniature version of your favorite suit of Matt’s—the ensemble complete with red spectacles on.

“Let me guess,” you smile as you assess the duck, trying to think of the pun. “Matt Mur-duck?” Matt chuckles again as he nods his head. “The student has become the master, I see.”

“You like it?”

“I love it. Almost as much as his namesake,” you hum as you lean forward to give Matt a kiss. “Plus, I think these two fine fellows are good evidence to protect your identity. I mean, there’s no way a duck can turn into a bear.”

“Well, there’s also supposed to be no way that a blind man can behave like I do.”

“Wait, so what I’m hearing is that Matt Murduck’s pond was polluted with toxic waste and granted him the ability to transform into Beardevil to fight crime?”

“Your brain really does work at a million miles a minute, doesn’t it, angel?” he hums, his voice raspy as his fingers trace the skin on the back of my hand. 

“All that’s in there is circus music, babe. Full chaos, a million miles a minute, all the time.” 

“Well, let me see if I can do something about that.” Leaning forward, he presses his lips into yours, kissing you slowly as your body moves to a horizontal position on the couch. You gasp and moan as you feel him grind his hips into you, which only makes a smile grow on his stubbled chin.

“Matt,” you murmur against his lips. “Matt . . .”

“Tell me what you need, baby,” he husks, dragging his lips to the sweet spot of your neck.

“Not in front of the duck and bear.”

His kisses stop as his laugh reverberates in your skin. “That’ll be hard the way we have sex.”

“Virgin eyes.”

“They’ll see worse.”

“Please?”

It’s a low blow—you know Matt can’t resist you when you say that single word. With a sigh, he scoops you up in his arms and moves you to the bedroom. 

“We’ll be more comfortable here anyways,” he says, kicking the sliding door closed with his foot behind him. 

“They’ll hear us.”

“(Y/N).”

“Gotcha,” you smile, pulling him in for a deep, passionate kiss. “Do me, Matty.”

“How romantic,” he beams.

You giggle before you kiss him again. “I love you.”

“Love you more, angel. More than you’ll ever know.”

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger​ @steampowerednightvaler​ @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles​ @toozmanykids​ @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop​ @itwasthereaminuteago​ @peter1ismybrother@hellskitchens-whore​​ @dpaccione​ @catnip987​

[tremendum]

twin suns ; striding behind you

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part four of the Twin Suns series  ;  prologue  ;  part i ; part ii ; part iii

pairing: au (canon-divergent), western-inspired Din Djarin x fem!bounty!reader (afab, w use of woman, girl, etc) rating: eventually explicit. slow slow burn. (18+. mdni.)  

warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to past abuse, fear, descriptions of reader's injuries (there are a lot of them), dehydration and hunger (mention of eating), temporary blindness still, mean!Mando but also soft!Mando???, insecure reader (scars, etc), allusions to past assault and past SA(nondescript), brief mentions of trauma, slightly possessive themes, partial nudity, hints of a size kink. reader hates men <3.

synopsis:  “'aren't you used to danger, bounty hunter?' you spit, indignance sprouting from the rotting seed of your fear. his back is turned, but you still hear him. 'not the kind of danger that you are.'"

word count: 6.7k! 

notes: im back from the graveyard to post this next part! my Din brainrot is returning and ive been finding time between my two jobs to write more :) pls lmk if you like this installation! yay things are kind of picking up now wahoo

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:

every step forward draws a heated exhale from your marred lips.

the harsh desert winds carry whispers of sand across the vast expanse of Tatooine as the hunter leads you towards the distant silhouette of Boba Fett's palace; it stands menacing as you squint against the faintness of your sight.

your throat aches, your head pounds - each step, a creaking of your aching, dehydrated bones. the dunes you don't have to see to understand - they stretch endlessly, a canvas of muted browns and grays beneath the suns that reflect rays sharper than needles. 

'the journey is long, and the desert does not forgive hesitation.'

you grit your teeth, silently agreeing with the strange Rodian who had beckoned you towards the Diamyo's palace. it feels like your body is failing you under the intense heat; how the Mandalorian can stand it in so many layers is beyond you. but in your bitter moment of self-pity, you lose sight of the mounds of uneven terrain that billow below your boots, the heat beating down on your head so hard your eyes almost shut unwillingly as your feet meet resistance.

without warning, you find yourself falling forward - a billow of pain shoots through your wrist as your palms meet the abrasive sand.

your head pounds, dehydration and hunger taking its ravaging toll on you as you land. a soft gasp escapes your lips as the ground kisses you harshly, unforgivingly; a strike of panic over you as your twisted, marred hands are once again slammed against the weight of your body joined by the Hunter's binders. 

you're delirious - fear grips you in a way nothing ever has in your dehydrated state. a screaming ache in your throat and the throbbing in your skull coaxes your lips into the next sentence, your voice hoarse and scratchy. "if I could just have some water, please-" 

the footsteps in front of you halt in an almost menacing manner - wind echoes dauntingly in your ears as you brace for the expected harshness of a beskar-laden hand, your body tensing and ready for the impact of his hand.

all of the hunters reach their limit with you - he'd made it this far, without laying his hands on you; but they all do, at one point or another. you can only hope it doesn't go further.

his voice from days ago echo in your mind. there are far worse people in the galaxy that could have gotten to you.

"s-sorry." you stutter, pulling yourself to your knees and holding your marred hands out to protect your face should he lash out.

you yourself are surprised by the very real fear that is dousing your twisted spine in a wash of ice - but the Mandalorian is already furious by the interruption of returning you for bounty twice; one more step out of line like this and he may just kill you himself. 

you really are delirious. you think, perhaps, you've been too outlandish in your capture. he's not the kind that will break by your snide comments or sly ploys for escape. perhaps submission - you grit your teeth at the mere thought, like a wild stallion bucking in fear of a stable - is the sole way for you to survive.

to escape. 

there's a pause in the air, a moment of suspended anticipation - one in which you shield your face from him further for fear. yet the expected rebuke, the cold demand for resilience, does not materialize, and instead you bathe in a hot, heavy silence that sparks just enough fight in you to try again. 

you slump back on your haunches, eyes shutting as you swallow through sandpaper. "I need water. just a sip, sir, please-" 

"-stop." he orders suddenly, voice surprisingly strained and harsh. your eyes open and you're met with a burning glare, his armor deflecting the immediate rays as he stands over you and observes - a weak being, cuffed and on her knees to beg for water. 

your heart thunders wildly as he pulls a moleskin pouch from the depths of his cape and holds it out for you. "-and call me Mando." he orders, voice still strange. nodding, your hands shoot up to grab at it, your throat singing and dust catching in the crooks of your eyes as you let out a sigh of thanks, a slight whimper that almost loses itself to the commotion of your shaking fingertips. 

the pouch falls to the sand between your knees as you let out a breath of disbelief - in your weakness, you'd fumbled it.  "I'm sorry, I-" 

"-it's okay." he says quickly, a gloved hand raising the pouch from the dust to hold up to your lips. the uncomfortableness of his voice is forgotten instantly as the liquid breaches your open lips.

the water is - by contrast to everything else around you - so pure and clean that you almost start to cry. 

it trickles into your dry mouth and you greedily suck it down your esophagus, hands rising to cup the back of the pack and tilt it slightly, wary not to squeeze and take the whole of its contents. 

the breath you take after several gulps of water is like waking up in a meadow of fresh fruits, flowers, a cold pond at your fingertips. you let out a shaky laugh, swallowing another sip offered to you by your captor. "thanks." you say, resigning to the realization that the only way he reacted was when you were desperate - on the verge of collapsing. 

disdain coils in you.

slowly, you feel strong gloved hands encircle your shoulders, guiding you back to a standing position. the Mandalorian's touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the ruthless reputation that preceded him - a stark contrast to the experience of the last days in captivity.

you're once again left with the bitter confusion of a rug being pulled from beneath you as the hunter pulls a few pieces of jerky from his utility belt, holding them out tersely. 

your hands dart out to grab them quick as the lizards that skitter into their hideaways when your bootsteps near. you stay like that, eating the jerky like a rabid animal and taking a few sips of water that the Hunter offers you intermittently, avoiding the unyielding armor that can't mask the underlying patience in the Mandalorian's actions. 

a few minutes of terse silence and your stomach less nauseated, the Mandalorian starts suddenly, making you jump back in habit. he doesn't strike you; instead, he removes the thick cowl off his own neck and reaches towards you.

he must see your confusion, apprehension - because he stops, sighing. "you need to cover these wounds up. the exposed sun is not good for them. we will get them mended at the palace." he explains, voice evenly as he starts to lay the thick fabric over your conjoined wrists, wrapping so your skin is no longer exposed. 

you don't know what to say - but he gives you no time to think as he turns and starts off towards the palace in the distance once again. you follow him in shock, blinking down at the faint outlines of your arms, mimicking his stride though in much shorter steps.

as you trudge behind him, protected from direct sunlight through his bulking, massive frame, you grin bitterly - you've become the man's own shadow this time, striding behind him in the light of the afternoon.

the rest of the trek is plagued with silence. you'd expected cruelty, a reinforcement of a status as a captive - but instead, there was a curious patience, an unexpected kindness that left you questioning the man who strides in front of you, helmet occasionally craning to his right to check on the floating pod containing the child that floats by his hip.

he should be furious. you're nothing more than a burden -  the sudden moment of patience a shock from the cold exterior that has you staring in disbelief at your boots. what had changed? the answer eludes you as you follow him, disoriented in more ways than one. The Mandalorian's actions, or lack thereof, became a puzzle; you can't see the expression on his face, but the absence of anger resonates through the silence between you.

until he decides to slow his pace, turning his helmet to the right. "it wasn't my intention to starve you." he says, voice stoic and almost awkward. "I often forget that others do not eat when they are concealed." 

he looks away. "if it happens again, remind me." 

you swallow, lifting your head. an odd request. you'd seen glimpses of this bizarre kindness within him - gently stroking the child's ear, bringing you in to his ship after the wreckage and ensuring you stayed upright and didn't let the blood swell in your brain. letting you rest in his cot. 

most of these things, means to your end. 

perhaps it's this moment that gives you the clarity to vie for an ounce of freedom. 

"uncuff me." you say, voice sounding much less meek now that life has been breathed back into your sore lungs. if he has any emotions, your blindness renders you too incapacitated to notice them. he doesn't stop his stride, but he does turn his head. 

"no." he says it as if you're stupid.

you sigh, straining to push your shorter legs faster in order to catch up to him and the floating pod. you're not fully discouraged, despite his demeanor.  "you know I'm too weak to do anything." you insist. "it'll do you good to uncuff me before we see the Diamyo." you warn, straightening your spine as he turns slightly, pace slowing until you're just a step behind him, still pushing to keep up. 

"is that so?" he asks, sounding completely uninterested. your innards churn at his tone, your tongue running over your teeth before you nod. "I show no risk anymore. he'll find me if you don't find me first." and it's the honest truth.

silence for a moment.

"you're danger." he utters, as if the two words explain it all. you sneer at him behind his back. "aren't you used to danger, bounty hunter?" you spit, the indignance growing once again, sprouting from the rotting seed of your weakened fear only minutes ago. 

his back is turned, but you still hear it. "not the kind of danger that you are." 

you stare at the faint shadow of him, unsure of what to say. it's silent, the shifting sands beneath your feet echoing the enigma of your chains, the impending danger that awaits you once the Hunter has returned you for the bounty.

now on slightly more steady legs, you can't help but wonder what kind of man lurks behind the unyielding armor—a question that remains unanswered as the walls of the palace rise through the dune sea. 

you reach the impending building as the suns cast your shadow and the Mandalorian's far behind you.

your footsteps echo through the halls of the palace, your body cooling slowly. The Mandalorian pushes past the droids who tried to guide you; he makes turns and walks down the stairs with too much confidence.

with an inkling of trepidation in your heart, you feel as though he's been here before - it does not bode well for you.

as you stumble after him, the burns upon your skin ache slightly and you fight to see with the dim lighting. 

but soon, you're walking into a great space, the air of which you can feel upon your beaten shoulders as you let your arms, still swathed by the Hunter's cloak, fall to clasp against your restraints. 

there's a large platform of slabbed cement before you in the faint light that leaks through cracks of the shades on the opposite of the throne room. 

two figures shrouded in the darkness of your blind vision watch you and your captor enter. the one on the throne is bulky - bulkier than you remember the cloaked figure of Boba Fett to be, though as your gaze flickers to the more feminine figure perched on the arm of the throne, you know this is not him either. 

your footsteps fall silent in front of them, and soon a droid is announcing the Diamyo of Mos Espa, Boba Fett. 

you blink heavily - as if this would wipe the mugginess of your vision as the figure sits forward slightly and your heart drops.

the man in front of you, Boba Fett - fully clad in beskar armor and a helmet so similar to your captor's that you nearly consider turning and running. 

you try to mask your shock. Fett's Mandalorian? confusion and fear shock up your spine. 

panic strikes heavy in your heart as you and the Hunter stand completely silent and still, your heart thrashing frantically. Boba Fett - in Mandalorian armor... confusion must lace your features, because hands faintly rise up from the shadow of the Daimyo, and a moment later he removes his helmet with a soft hiss. 

you suck in a breath as the scarred, familiar face comes into view just barely under the lighting and you're almost certain that his eyes land on you. 

"it's been a while." he says. 

his voice is the same as you remember, and the fear stuck in your throat quells only slightly at his greeting. 

"yes." you agree, jumping in shock when the low, deep voice of the Hunter speaks at the same time as you - "it has." 

bewildered, you shoot a sideways glance to the Mandalorian beside you.

your inkling was correct, Mando must know Boba Fett too.

you swallow shakily, knowing how terribly this seals your fate - of course they know each other. apparently, Boba Fett is a Mandalorian now - for all you know, they could have been raised together. 

but the Hunter's helmet has shot a similarly shocked glance towards you and for a brief moment, you stare into the t-visor of your captor. 

in a bout of fear and anger you turn, meeting the gaze of the man who had once been your savior. from what you can make out, the years had carved lines on his face more than when you'd last seen him, and you faintly wonder how different you look to him. 

you had been, after all, just a child back then. 

you speak again, a mixture of nerves and trepidation in your voice. "sir. I didn't think I'd see you again. even when I came on-planet."

Boba Fett's head inclined slightly, a nod that spoke of the gravity of the situation. "times change. I wouldn't have summoned you here if it weren't necessary."

you're sure your eyes held for a moment, the unspoken understanding passing between you. it had been a long time. 

the Mandalorian crosses his arms from beside you. "what business do you have with us?" the hunter speaks up, clearly tired of the stiff small talk. "do you want the puck?" 

this had been your fear, too. Fett could have easily summoned you to the palace to buy your bounty from the Mandalorian; he has good enough reason to buy you to his custody.

yet at the Hunter's words, you swear you see a twinge of confusion from the two: Fett shifts, as does the figure to his side - a silhouette which, with the grace of her helmet sitting below them in a ray of bright light, you finally recognize as the sharpshooter Fennec Shand. you'd heard of her in town during your time on the run. 

"I have favors to call in." he says simply. your heart pounds twice as heavy at the mention of the favors- yes, he does. he is owed a lifetime of favors from you.

but the hunter is not so swayed. 

"call them in later. I have problems to attend to." he sounds impatient, voice laced with the strain of a time crunch.

Boba stares at him, leaning elbows on his thickly armored thighs. "you and your lady friend here," he nods towards you sardonically, "are in a bind, am I correct?"

you gape in offense at his casual tone, addressing you as anything other than a captive - irritation floods your face but is soon replaced with a strike of fear fluttering down your spine, worried of the Hunter's reaction to such vocabulary. 

"I don't play games with my bounties." his voice sounds equally irritated as you feel. it's final - deep as it exits his helmet. your stomach flips. 

you almost snap back - that's a lie, Mando. you and I both know it - but, for fear of speaking out of turn, and for fear of the man before you, you stay silent.

"bounty?" the silhouette sits forward and a plaited length of dark hair swings into your faint vision.

the room is suddenly plagued with a pregnant silence that you don't dare break, your mind churning.

did they not know of the situation you've found yourself in?

"she has a bounty on her head." the hunter says finally, as if surprised that they were not privy to this information. you shift on your feet, your head still pounding, eyes sore from straining to see in such dim light. your whole body aches.

"she may be a bit worse for wear, but she doesn't look like a prisoner to me." Shand retorts, nodding to your figure. 

at the woman's words, you huff a bitter laugh. worse for wear - you'd be surprised if you have more bones intact than dislocated right now - you're blind, you have a nasty hydraulic burn on your cheek..

you shake the cowl off your arms, revealing the cuffs which bound you as the fabric drops to a heap at your boots. you barely glance down at them before back up as Fett lets out a low hum. both heads upon the throne shift to the man beside you. 

"you have nerve, Mando, bringing a bounty into my palace," Boba Fett remarked, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. to your shock, Mando inclines his helmeted head in a nod. "she's more trouble than she's worth." you instinctively shoot Mando a withering look but before you can defend yourself, he continues. "when you summoned us, I assumed it was to pay her bounty."

Fennec Shand - ever observant - leans forward slightly, her sharp eyes finding yours somehow through the mist. she seems more interested in you than in the talk of the Daimyo's business.

"last we heard of you, you were supposedly walking free. stirring trouble." she tilts her head, revealing her eyes in a panel of light. the insinuation makes you chuckle bitterly. defiantly, you stare back. "then your people in town got it wrong. I was never free. I've been a captive since I set foot on this planet, even before him." 

Fennec raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Boba that even you don't miss. "our messenger mentioned he saw her just a few days ago with your speeder," Fennec remarks, her voice carrying a hint of skepticism as she focuses on Mando this time. "that doesn't sound like a well retained bounty."

you stifle a laugh at that, craning your head away from Mando to conceal your smirk as a feeling of triumph fleetingly passes over your body. you recall the anger that'd seeped through the Mandalorian when you'd tricked him, taken his speeder - then, found the child... 

"ma'am, to be fair, it took him a long time to find me. I can be very slippery when I want to be." you say coyly, highly aware of the cold stare from beside you. 

"-after all, the line between lawmen and the outlawed can be deceiving." you send a pointed look towards the wall of beskar on your side.

a sharp silence through the room; tension thick in the air as a strike of fear gloats among your abdomen. what kind of pendulum swing is your attitude on recently? 

"Mando." Boba addresses the man, causing the aforementioned to nod, shifting his weight. the throbbing of your head is gradually increasing once again and you find yourself in desperate need of a sip of water, and maybe a few hours of rest. 

"I didn't expect to have to cash in on the favors owed to me, but times have changed." he shrugs, "I hear the Crest's seen better days. I can help with the ship. in return, clean slate. functional vessel. and no more pirates."

in a swift moment of realization, your eyes widen. you aren't the only one with favors owed to Boba - this was about you and Mando, separately. he truly had no idea you were his bounty.

your surprise is short lived as he continues speaking, the pirates echoing in your mind. your eyes flicker at the mention and you can't help but shoot a glance sidelong at your captor, once again unable to read his helmet. uncertainty swirls in your gut; the Maracavanians are more than just one ship, and you know they will likely stop for very little to find you.

you are, after all, very valuable to them. the looming threat of their presence haunts you, bearing weight on your tired shoulders. your head pounds. 

"-in return," Boba Fett continued, "I need your skills - both of you. when I sent for you, I was not aware of the bounty on your head, nor the hand that held the tracker. there's a settlement on the edge of the Outer Rim. they've found some trouble with some smugglers calling themselves the Ivory Cartel; they're pushing the spice trade back into the area, and the Marshall needs help bringing them back in line."

Din's helmet tilted slightly. "I don't do charity."

Boba Fett chuckles, the sound reverberating in the room as you shift on your feet. "we've been through this song and dance before, haven't we?"

the Mandalorian crosses his arms, but says nothing.

Boba continues, "I hear you're intimately familiar with the area, Mando. Freetown."

the irony of the settlement name is not lost on you, and you can't help the scoff you let out as you cross your arms. you hear the short exhale that escapes the helmet the same time as you, but cannot decipher what it means. 

"Marshall Vanth mentioned you know each other." silence spurs him on, "only a few days, then you can turn her in. I'll ensure you have safe passage - no one coming after you. we'll consider it a debt paid in full."

you expected this; for as long as you've known the man before you on the throne, you wouldn't exactly say he is your biggest ally; in fact, part of him would surely love to see you rot in a cell. and you can't blame him. 

yet this seems like some sort of mercy - for him to not just take your bounty off of Mando's hands and immediately turn you in to the several other vying parties. indeed, that would benefit him well, and it'd likely satisfy the Mandalorian. they'd be rich beyond what they could imagine if they turned you in to the Maracavanya. 

the thought itself makes you feel ill. 

fear of your fate should you fall into the captivity of the Maracavanians grips you, far more deadly than when you will be taken by Mando to whoever casted your puck.

this fear, gripping your skull and breathing its evil thoughts into your mind, drives you to step forward slightly. "and what guarantee do we have that you'll uphold your end of the deal?"

the visor next to you stares in surprise at your words and you hold your gaze forward, steadfast. to an outsider, you imagine it is odd for a bounty to agree to be turned in after such desperation to escape; though knowing Fett as you once did - and after what you did back then - what the Macaravanya would do to you if you were their captive... you shiver, fear gripping your throat. 

your life is owed to the man before you, no matter what your past says. and if your life is to end soon - and it very well may depending on who has cast your bounty - you'd like to have paid most of your debts out by the end.  

Boba Fett's gaze shifts to you through the dim of your vision. "my word is my bond. you of all people should do well to remember this."

your face burns, chin dropping to your chest. the Mandalorian remains silent for a moment, contemplating the proposition - after all, you're his captive, and you'll have to go with whatever he decides. the weight of the favors owed hang in the air, memories of a young girl stranded on a desolate planet with a pack wrapped around her middle, her brother stumbling behind her, men in all grey following with whooping sounds as they stumbled over tumbleweeds to get away. a cloaked figure and blinding pain-

finally, the Hunter nods, speaking and pulling you from your thoughts. "fine. we do the job, our debts are settled."

Boba Fett inclined his head, acknowledging the agreement. "you'll leave in the morning."

you send a meek nod to him, feeling once again faint, as though the strenuous walk has caught up to the rest of your body, which is still reeling from the water and jerky after so long without it. 

you're escorted, after a brief hesitance by your captor, away from the group; with a grumble of irritation from the armored giant and a rough few pokes on his vambrace by gloved fingers, your bound wrists fell free, the skin marred and blistering.

fear flares up in your stomach as a droid brings you down several twisted hallways and staircases. what are they speaking of without you?

were they talking about you? 

surely there isn't much the Mandalorian doesn't know about you, depending on how much of your information was on your bounty profile, but Fett knows many things about you others don't. a darkness coils through your veins, lingering in the back of your mind; a steady reminder to trust no one. no friends but tumbleweeds. 

perhaps you had overestimated the reach of Tatooine's rumor mill. or, perhaps, you really were that good at hiding. and the Hunter was that good at hunting. 

the thought doesn't make you feel any better. 

you enter a room where the droid gestures to the large glass in the center of the room; your eyes widen, taking in the large bacta tank, inviting and horrifying the same. 

on the other side of the room, a refresher awaits, and the droid instructs you to use what you need and it will provide you the bacta process to ensure you have a restful healing.

you stare, shocked, between the droid and the tank; things like these cost an unimaginable amount of credits. you bite your lip.

"I'm sorry, I don't-" you start to flush, "I don't have enough credits, I-" 

"nonsense," the droid speaks, its voice oddly comforting, maternal. "Master Fett has requested our guests are healed and take as much time as necessary. you will need your strength and health." 

you blink, stomach flipping with nerves. "okay," you whisper, padding slowly across towards the fresher and sealing yourself inside. 

your heart pounds, stress pulsing through you. it takes you forty-five seconds to even bring your eyes up to your reflection, your nails digging hard into your dusty, pained palms. 

it's horrible. truly. 

faintly, you wonder if it's just the residual blindness that makes you look so awful. maybe the shadows under your eyes aren't as prevalent in full vision - or the cuts and bruises that show evidence of the crash landing on your skin. 

to be fair, you look still like yourself - same eyes, same skin, same scarf concealing most of your hair, save the sticky tendrils which glued themselves to your forehead and mouth on your trek. but your face; it's gaunt, absent of the life it used to have. your eyes look empty, your features splintered by a broken nose which holds a crusted bloody split across the center. 

your cheekbone similarly has a cut that's swelled one eye socket, a bruise blossoming and singing of broken vessels of blood within your eye. your hands, as they rise to touch your aching face, are mangled and horrifying. dry, caked with dirt in the splits over your palm, your knuckles are sticking out in an unnatural pattern. the hydraulic burn you'd sustained on your cheek is raw and angry still, exposure to the suns making it rough and bloodied. 

fuck, you will need this bacta is you're to help pay off your debt. you can't help the inkling of curiosity as to what it is that the Mandalorian owes Fett for - he doesn't seem the type to run off for secondary missions when he has his bounties. especially, you think with a smirk, bounties as irritating and conniving as you've been. 

it is extremely odd, this new situation. 

you're sure this has not once happened to the Mandalorian before, judging by his reaction: obligated to work alongside one of his bounties - who has willingly agreed - in order to earn ship repair to turn her in. 

you squeeze your eyes shut, bewildered by the complexity of the situation; you're overcome once again with the urge to run, run, run. 

run.

you snap your eyes open, staring into the mirror again. 

your body screams of exhaustion, lack of sleep, hunger, pain. a surge of sadness floods over you at the realization that you've looked like this far before crossing paths with the Mandalorian.

this cycle is nothing new. it may be the oldest thing in the book.

in fact, considering how the last few stints went with other hunters went - horrifyingly, though you always ended up the one holding the smoldering blaster - the Mandalorian has been uncharacteristically considerate. 

so unimbued by your teasing. irritated constantly, serious - but admirably capable. dangerous. your eyes again find the ugly scar that cuts jaggedly across your cheek, towards your jaw. it was an injury done to you just to do so, by the last hunter who tried to take you. he'd done worse afterwards; all the injuries will last with you forever.

cruelty for the sake of it. 

despite who he is, you can't find it in yourself to believe your current captor would ever do such a thing. 

imposing, intimidating, gruff - yes, but he never threatened you more than empty words; even though you know how easily he could snap your arm (or neck). he didn't seem to want to inflict pain.

you think of his little green companion, with its kind eyes and soft babbles. the way he runs his gloved fingers over the wiry hair atop its head, soothing its ears.  

then, when he'd left you alone on his ship; sure, it was wrecked and you were in the middle of nowhere, but he'd still left you. given you privacy. 

you glare at the ground - no. 

the memory of his hand slamming against the carbonite freezer echoes in your mind, your words - "you're a bad man." you whisper mirthlessly. "I don't deserve this."

no man is kind. no bounty hunter is fair. 

with a growl of irritation, you slide the door open, peering out into the room before you. it's quiet, the afternoon sun streaming through the curtains of the open stone windows, flickering over the tank in the center. a set of towels your size sit next to the tank. the droid is gently preparing tubes and a small breathing mechanism as the bacta moves in the glass. 

the liquid, viscous and beckoning you like a mirage in the dead heat of the plains outside. 

you haven't been in water in months - years, maybe. sonic showers got the job done, removed dirt and grime and oil, but you haven't felt really clean in so long it almost brings tears to your eyes. before you can think again, your voice cracks out, shy and meek. 

"I'm ready." 

when you wake up, the suns are nearly setting. 

your body glows a hue of orange from the dying light, dripping with the liquid you'd just emerged from. the droid towels you off and you note the sweet, small markings alongside her collar, small paintings of flowers.

it's because of this that you realize with a sharp inhale - "I can see!" you gasp, flexing your fingers instinctively and feeling a wash of freedom when no shooting pain or stiffness prevents the action. 

you feel as though you've been reborn. 

the droid pulls a chest band over your flush, healthy skin. nothing but pinking scars and a few light colored bruises. "how do you feel, ma'am?" she asks you. you smile at her just as she hands you a pair of underwear, folded tunic, and trousers. "I feel wonderful. thank you." you respond, tugging on the underwear. 

you stare down at the dark gray color of your tunic, tilting your head- but before you can ask, the droid assures you your own clothes are being cleansed and repaired for you to have back. 

you nod, feeling naked still without any concealment of your hair or face - it seems, after so long on the run, you've forgotten that the items were not sewn to your skin, a part of you. 

the droid leaves you to collect yourself, telling you it will prepare you supper to eat in the palace hall. slowly, you let your joints stretch, taking in a deep, long breath for the first time in ages without feeling the stabbing pain of broken ribs.

gone are the dizzy spells, the fogginess that had plagued you since hitting your head. 

with a small laugh of disbelief, you pull the tunic over your head with no pain - your hair drips down your spine as you comb through it, padding with a sudden shock of clear vision towards the mirror.

closing yourself halfway into the fresher, you stare at your reflection; a healthy glow on your cheeks, clean, a hint of a smile. you nearly tear up, feeling fresh, free from physical pain. there are no blisters or bruises from the binders. 

with a smile, you take a step out of the bathroom in search of the trousers you'd left, discarded on table you'd woken from. you let yourself hum a short tune, something from your childhood that your brother had loved. 

but a hulking figure across the room makes you stop short.

your eyes widen as a rush of shock floods through you. 

to his credit, the Mandalorian looks just as caught off guard as you feel, if his body language is anything to tell. 

he stands, alarmed, with one hand holding the trousers you'd left, one holding a removed blaster and his lasso. with a quick glance over to the tank, there is larger preparations, a large microfiber towel, much larger than the one used for you, folded next to it.

oh. 

a beat passes. 

then another. you start to feel warm, cheeks flaring in heat as your gaze flickers from the visor, cold and staring, down to the trousers in his hand. you are suddenly aware of your exposed skin.

"um," you say brilliantly. 

but before you can say anything else equally as riveting, the droid rolls into the room and nearly shrieks. "oh, ma'am, I'm terribly sorry- thought you'd already gone downstairs-" 

you swallow so thickly you're surprised you don't choke, the warm breeze in the dying evening sunlight sending cascades of goosebumps over your exposed legs. you ignore the rolling heat that tumbles down your body as the helmet moves ever so slightly down your frame. excitement sends the sensation even deeper - but you shake the thoughts away. that's an emotion you'll deal with probably never.

the Mandalorian snaps alive, taking two lumbering strides towards you, holding the trousers to you stiffly. "I assume these are yours." his voice sounds almost pained.

you swallow dryly, nodding, "y-yes." you squeak, feeling hot under his stare. 

"-so sorry, sir, I apologize-" the droid was still panicking - you think it odd until you get a feeling Mandalorians wouldn't like even droids to see them without helmet. let alone, their annoying bounties who now have to work with them against a cartel in some forgettable dust town.

you wonder if the same goes for armor.

but he waves the droid off, "I can take it from here, thank you." his voice is terse; disdain leaking through the baritone.

you awkwardly take the moment to slide the trousers over your legs, bending quickly to save at least a bit of dignity as you do the clasps and zipper, eyes avoiding the tall statue before you. 

the droid, still wailing apologies, wheels from the chamber, bathing the two of you in a strikingly thick air as you stare down at your boots. you watch as his own boots shift their weight just a few steps from you. 

"you look..." he seems to lose his words as you look up at him, stomach flipping. "-healthy." his fingers twitch by his sides. you feel shockingly flustered as you clear your throat, "I need to take better care of myself." you joke, the words falling flat and sounding more pathetic than humorous in delivery, "just glad I can recognize myself again. well- I can see, too, which is even better." your voice squeaks as you trail off, butting off your anxious ramble.

he doesn't respond to that, but he does clear his own throat. "have you eaten?" he asks, voice strained. you clear your head, "no- no, that's where I was about to go..." you trail off, cheeks aflame as you look up at the helmet. he makes a noncommittal noise, turning away. "well, if you don't mind-" 

you shake your head, "not at all." you say quickly, taking great strides towards the exit, not turning back as you scramble away. 

the Mandalorian doesn't look at you the rest of the evening. 

you can't tell if it's out of embarrassment, shame, or anger at the prospect of having to work with you; no matter, you're relieved at the absence of that piercing, emotionless stare. 

you eat much too fast, due to the crawling hunger in your stomach, and have to later fight to keep it down; though the rest of the night is spent relaying plans for transportation and communication with Fett and Shand, you standing awkwardly in a corner and being referenced as the bounty by your captor. 

you wonder if he can feel the glare you shoot at the back of his helmet. 

by morning, you feel more refreshed than you have in years, despite your captivity. the more you think of it, and the more that clock ticks in the back of your mind, the more willing you are to stay on-planet, to waste time. 

perhaps you could miss the trial all together, if nobody finds you first. you let yourself wonder, as you stand to the side and observe Mando strapping supplies to the back of the speeder, what would happen if you missed the trial. 

surely, you'd still be wanted. an outlaw is an outlaw, no matter the date on the galactic calendar. 

but would it be safer for you? depending on the verdict. there are plenty on both sides who would pay heavily to see your body buried in the Wasteland, no doubt. 

"hey." Mando's voice is terse and vexed. your eyes snap up to meet the helmet, which glints harshly under the morning suns. "let's go." he orders, gesturing behind him where a space remains for you.

you think back to that first night; your desperate attempt at escape, feigning sleep and then sprinting off into the dark desert. 

you slide onto the back, leaving as much space as possible between you and the Hunter, his jetpack hard against your chest. you opt to hold it instead of his torso as he kicks up the speeder, the child tucked into the bag at his hip. 

"did you get enough to eat?" he asks, voice louder over the noise of the speeder. you swallow, unease leaking into you at the tone of his voice - it's alarmingly like the tone he used when he'd fed you back in the desert. like he was making sure you wouldn't have to nearly pass out again for him to remember to feed you. 

it makes you wonder how often he eats or drinks himself.

it makes you wonder why you even care.

you nod, "I did." 

he sends you a terse nod in response and as he starts to speed off, the wind whips over your scarf. you tie it under your jaw, the long bandana secured. heat finds you like an old, unwanted friend and you already feel tired; you rest your hot cheek against the metal of the beskar jetpack, hoping he cannot feel it. you're instantly cooled down, relief flooding through you. 

the speeder hums beneath you, kicking up plumes of sand - your eyes, alight with the fresh relief of unfiltered sight, scan the horizon, taking in the harsh beauty of Tatooine's desolate expanse. rocky outcrops jutting from the sandy dunes, casting short shadows in the midday suns. the sky above is painted with hues of blue, a stark contrast to the unforgiving landscape below. 

you steal another glance at the Mandalorian's back. thankfully, he has resumed his tense, stoic silence behind his helmet, his focus fixed on the path ahead. there's a quiet determination, a silent strength - the same one that had initially inclined you to play such luring games with your Hunter in the first place. 

a determination that makes you want to do it again, despite everything.

you think of how naive you were just days ago - had you ever really expected to get away from him? or, the whole time, have you just been waiting for him to finally get to you?

the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. 

hours pass on the speeder with intermittent stops to stretch your legs or sip water. the baby insists on babbling to you any chance he gets - an endearing sight, as he waddles over the mounds of sand to climb up onto your boot.

the gentle smile that graces your lips after asking permission silently from the Hunter to hold the little goblin.

the child's endless eyes stare up at you from the bag at the hunter's side when you're back on the speeder, and you supply him with a finger to hold on to.

you can't shake the whirlwind of confusion swirling within you - what had started as a fateful capture in the wake of your euphoric game had morphed into a nightmare capture, which has now evolved into a reluctant alliance - a ceasefire of sorts forged by circumstances beyond your control.

whatever Mando had for Boba to cash in on must have been just as serious as what he'd done for you - or, rather, what you'd done to him. regret and guilt snake through your veins, black and greedy and painful.

you stare down in regret, trying to map out a way to escape the clutches of the man before you as the lines between captor and collaborator blur in the shifting sands of fate.

you had been running for so long - elusive and cunning, the closest to free you'd been in years - until you got too egotistical. all those weeks ago, why did you have to taunt him so? 

happy hunting, Mando. 

you're a fool. a fated, heartless fool with too large an ego. 

as the speeder surges onward, you lean back, letting the rush of the wind and the rhythmic hum of the engine drown your thoughts. the heat bears down on you. 

in the distance, a bundle of buildings emerge, wavy through heat - at first, you thought it a mirage. 

Freetown.  

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[kairiscorner]

olivia rodrigo my lodi 🫂

seeing him tonight... it's a bad idea, right? – miguel o'hara x reader (heavy angst)

content warnings! mentions of toxic relationships. please don't read below the cut if you are uncomfortable with these topics ^^

“why can't you leave me the fuck alone?”

“and watch you mope about why we're not together anymore all pathetic like that? it's pathetic for sure, but it's just getting sad now.”

you sighed as you took a long drag from the cigarette you fumbled out of the packet and, with shaky hands, took it out of your mouth and puffed a big cloud of gray and white smoke. he chuckled as he watched the puff of smoke dissipate into the air, hearing you cough as the nicotine burned in your lungs. "you okay?" he asked you with what sounded as hints of concern in his voice as he snuck a cigarette from you and lit himself one, putting the stick in his mouth and quickly blowing the smoke out of his mouth. there was something so picturesque, ethereal, about the way he breathed in and out the smoke from the cig–like he was a still life painting, and beneath all those pretty layers on his barely covered up, tan body; the way those black, fluffy curls perched and hanging on the top of his head, down to touch his eyebrows in little hooks just mesmerized you. and it angered you so much that it did, when nothing about him should have any meaning left to you anymore.

you clenched your burning cigarette by its body and squeezed it into two. you blew the remaining smoke out from your nostrils, losing the urge to puff another smoke as you chucked your cigarette to the side and snuffed it out with the foot of your shoe, putting so much pressure on it that the ash spread apart and created a kind of arc-like shape in your stead. he watched as you walked off, sighing softly, the clacking of your heels following you. though you couldn't get away for long since he took your arm in his and pulled you closer to him as he exhaled another puffy cloud of smoke. "it's not a good look on you to be such a bitch, y'know? if you have a problem with me, just say it. we aren't together anymore, don't feel ashamed or any of that... sympathetic bullshit you're thinking of." he practically berated you with his shit ass condescending tone that made you wanna bash his face in.

how fucking dare he talk to you like that? speak for you, do exactly what he kept doing when you two were together—make all his choices your choices, his feelings as your feelings? it may be a far stretch, but hearing him disregard how either of you feel... it sucks ass, it always does. why does he not take you any more seriously after you broke up with him? "are you thinking that i'm supposed to want you back?" he asked you monotonously, breaking the silence as he looks at you with tired eyes. dark circles accentuated the shape of his hazel brown orbs. it didn't seem like this week was of any comfort to him, not when tonight marked the one-year anniversary when you two had broken up. you confronted him, in this very alley that led back to his place, and told him you couldn't take it anymore.

'i don't want this anymore. i'm done. leave me alone and let me live my life.'

and some hurtful words were exchanged that can never be taken back.

'and you think you had a life before me? i'm your everything. you can't... fucking... you can't leave me!'

and some promises were made, on top of the pile of the carcasses of many unfulfilled, unanswered promises and questions that lingered in the miasma of discomfort and willful blindness to what each other wanted back then, needed from each other back then.

'i don't need you to tell me what i can and can't do anymore.'

weaknesses were exposed, and strengths were diminished.

and the love... oh, was there even any love there?

you yanked yourself out of miguel's grasp and crinkled your eyebrows together, shoving your hands in your jacket's pockets, looking away from him as his gaze burns into the side of your head that's turned to him—not letting even a single strand of your hair or patch of your skin escape his exhausted gaze anymore. "i honestly couldn't give a shit about what you want." you blurted out, not leaving the spot you're standing at, despite all the signals in your body urging you to lift your feet up on the ground, kick up, and run away right now before anything else can happen. but you don't. you don't, because you know that there's something more complex than simply wanting miguel to go away in what you want.

but for the life of you, you can't figure even a glimpse or whiff of it out.

miguel sighed as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his wispy hair, more curly locks falling down on his forehead, touching his eyebrows. "right. figures." he muttered. "why the fuck do you have to be here?" you asked him with a gruff voice, cracking due to the smoke you inhaled. "i live around here." he reminds you all nonchalantly, pissing you off even more. "...i know that." "and yet, you came by here anyway." he pointed out. he was always a smart ass, giving unsolicited thoughts and opinions when no one needed them. you refused to respond to that and kicked at the snuffed out, squeezed up cigarette that was bent on the pavement.

"if you want to hurt me, go ahead. i know i did really bad shit to you, stuff you never deserved. go ahead, hurt me." he told you as he approached you, his voice becoming huskier and raspier as you heard him from up close. his voice always got like that after argumets, you just noticed now; the way his voice would soften, falter, like his voice would literally get on one knee and yield—let you have your way after him having his way time and time again. "i can't be good for you, and... i don't think i can ever be good for you, really." he said with a sigh as he dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out next to yours. the bent shape of your cigarettes seemed to form crude hearts, the two big curves of a cartoon heart were shaped out by the curved cigarettes you both snuffed the lights out of; snuffed these hearts' beings out of.

he nudged you gently with his elbow and showed you his hands, raising them up gently to show you he means no harm, no pain, no... nothing towards you. he genuinely wants you to do what you've always wanted to him, no matter what it is, he's come to accept it. "just do what you have to. please don't keep... oh, fuck it." he murmured as you kept your gaze down, away from him. you weren't used to this, you could never get used to this; miguel was never the first guy to shove words into your mouth and plant decisions in your mind for you, but he wasn't the worst. there have been countless times when your heart was used, borrowed, broken, stamped on, torn apart—but none of the people who hurt you ever even tried to make amends; it was never in their nature to give you love, it was only in their nature to propagate hurt, and you never knew why you had a soft spot for human garbage like that, less than human garbage.

though he was never perfect, there was some bit of you that felt a catharsis around miguel when things weren't as bad as they were before the breakup, when you really felt like all those bad days... they'd never happen again; the eye of the storm had passed, and a great, sunny day was upon you. but like all sunny mornings that soon became troublesome, fretful, and stormy nights—they never lasted. miguel's smile was warm, once; his embrace felt welcoming, once—but whenever you think of him... you can't help but hear the echoes of the voices in your head whenever he'd get affectionate towards you, intimate with you: 'his love won't last, don't even hope for it.'

you kept your distance, you liked him—you... you really liked him; more than you can ever imagine. he used to not be so overbearing, he used to not be so angry all the time and more patient, he kept understanding for you that you wanted space... but you were always, always on the brink of breaking, even when it was never his fault. and you still are—the worst part of it all, though? you're always on the verge of breaking because... you can't help but yearn for the past with the old him again.

"you some masochist or something?" you asked him with a deadly gaze as you finally glared up at him, seeing his dark eyes become a little swollen. the sobbing was inevitable for him, his soft spot for you was too sensitive, it was an exposed muscle, exposed nerve of his that made him less... furious, and more... protective, yet vulnerable. he sniffled back his tears and tried keeping his voice leveled. "you could say that." he answered simply as he rubbed at his eye, wiping a tear away before it streaked down his cheek, but you caught him—he always did that whenever you'd scream at him on those off days, even when he tried to help, but just can't help.

you tried not to feel bad, not to feel pity, not to... feel a little guilty that you might've hurt him, too, like he hurt you—but you can't ignore that gnawing feeling in your gut that grew the longer you were around him. constantly being reminded of yourself, of your misunderstood to even yourself's self... you can't help it anymore. "look, it's stupid, i know—it's... horrible of me to ask you to do this, when i don't even know if you want to, that was my problem, wasn't it? i protected you from stuff i didn't even know about, didn't know the slightest bit about? i was suffocating you?" "...yeah." you told him with the quiver of your lower lip, with you instantly bit back as hot tears streamed down your cheeks, your chin quaking as you stifled the sobs; but they could only be held in for so long.

"yeah, you did..." you muttered as, along with the coming rain drops, your tear drops joined the pattering rain—staining the pavement as your sobs and cries were released into the air, mixing with the sounds and roars of the thunder, as miguel silently listened to you now, as you exclaimed out how you really felt all this time to him. "is it my fault i'm so scared you'll leave me like everyone else? is it my fault for thinking nobody really cares about the me behind this face? behind this body? is it... is it my fault i don't want you to protect me from my own demons because, even i can't keep them at bay! is it my fault for thinking you'd... you'd hurt me, and that you... your love wasn't even that?" you choked out, hiccuping and sniffling all the while as you screamed your lungs out at miguel. he hesitantly extended his hands towards you, to reach out to you—but he doesn't touch you, he refuses to touch you unless you personally tell him to.

as your sobbing slowed and your breathing became ragged, miguel finally let out his side of things. "and is it my fault that i felt so... ashamed of myself for not being enough to help you?" he choked out, his eyes watering and his voice cracking. he looks at you, and he can't even bear with himself that you are here—you are finally hearing him say what he's always searched for the words to say, all this time. his lips quiver as he stutters, groaning in frustration at himself as he fumbles every time he tries to tell you the rest of it all. "...i thought that, by you... refusing my help, i... i was losing you. there, there, now you know. i was scared of losing you, like i lost everyone else that ever mattered to me. i didn't know what was wrong, i was... i was scared. but you... you can't see me scared, okay? because w-when i get scared, everything goes to shit. and i... i-i wanna relieve you, not hurt you—you were, are, and always will be... my everything." he confessed, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he breathed in laboriously and exhaled deeply, covering his eyes, remembering to himself that crying won't make you feel better—but it's not the crying you're focused on, it's what he said.

and in that heated moment, when the silver lining tearing the clouds asunder opened up in your eyes—amidst the pouring rain surrounding you two non-stop—you pull him in close... and give him your own reassurance through that kiss that was, in all ways and forms, a bad fucking idea.

you didn't want to break up, you never wanted an ex like him—you never wished he got all protective, but you both hurt each other; this'll never make it right, this kiss isn't an oath to be his or for him to be yours—it's not a declaration of your ambiguous feelings... it's what you felt you had to do, and it... it ceased the hurting for once, for a millisecond. it felt like everything was warm again, but you knew this was fleeting... you didn't know if you could take it as a long, perpetual thing. maybe someday, the answers will reveal themselves in time. but miguel's answer... was to place his palms underneath your jawline, and as the rain pattered against your faces—making it hard to tell where the rain began and where your tears ended—you two spoke a language that neither of you understood until much, much too late.

the problem is... will the message be enough to change anything?

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[mikkeneko]

This is just an excerpt - the whole chapter isn’t ready to post yet -- but I’m actually pretty pleased with the dialogue in this scene. Most of the content of this scene was originally just in narration, but I decided it was boring, pulled in Shang Qinghua and had them bicker while Shen Qingqiu is getting ready. These two really are a lot of fun together.

Also thanks to @cerusee​ for the suggestion of who Shen Yuan might have cosplayed as!

---

Shang Qinghua really was not sure why his presence was required in this situation. Cucumber-bro seemed to want a spotter, or something? Which, you know, he was a bro, Shang Qinghua would help him however he could, but he didn't have an awful lot to offer when the task at hand was disguising yourself in women's clothing.

"You okay back there bro?" Shang Qinghua called out to the man producing ominous rustles from behind the privacy screens, feeling like he ought to at least show willing.

"I'm fine," Shen Qingqiu's snappish voice came back from the other side of the screen. Honestly, Shang Qinghua didn't even mind, that was just kind of his default state. Resting bitch voice and everything else. "It's not the first time I've had to navigate women's robes."

Shang Qinghua choked on a melon seed. "What."

"Not like that! Get your mind out of the gutter," Shen Qingqiu said irritably. Rustle, rustle. "I went to ChinaJoy in 2011 as Mei Chaofeng."

Now it had been a while since Shang Qinghua was plugged into China's geek scene, but, "You went to a con dressed as a woman?"

"Of course not! Weren't you listening?" Rustle, rustle. "I went to a con dressed as Mei Chaofeng."

Shang Qinghua thought about it for a moment. Then he just had to ask: "2008 Mei Chaofeng, or 2003 Mei Chaofeng?"

"The genuine Mei Chaofeng from the 2003 version, obviously." Even from behind the screen, he could hear that eye-roll. "Got second place in the cosplay drama division, too."

"I feel like I'm learning all sorts of new things about you," Shang Qinghua mused, crunching on another melon seed.

"Honestly the whole trip was a nightmare," Shen Qingqiu continued his villain monologue from behind the screen. "The nails were a pain in the ass and I had to leave it in the hotel the second day, and the whip got confiscated by con security. Also a bunch of guys tried to hit on me and even after I told them I was a man, they still tried to keep hitting on me!"

Every new part of this conversation was like a punch to the face but you know what, Shang Qinghua had no trouble believing that last part. It honestly fit right in with Cucumber-bro's everything since the transmigration.

"And don't think your readers didn't notice that the Blind Baroness of the Hissing Depths in chapter eight hundred was an obvious ripoff of Mei Chaofeng. You aren't subtle." Shen Qingqiu came out from behind the screen, adjusting the drape of the skirt one last time. "How do I look?" 

Shang Qinghua gave him a careful once-over.

Okay, so, Shen Qingqiu had definitely landed on feminine; aside from his height (which he couldn't really change) there was very little left that evoked the image of the Xiu Ya Sword. Without the bulky layered robes of a Peak Lord he did strike a much smaller, less imposing figure; the robe was distinctly feminine in style, and the silhouette was passingly female. There was enough drape above and below the cinched waist to suggest padding that wasn't actually there, and long wide sleeves made the hands look dainty. A veiled hat topped out the ensemble.

Cucumber-bro definitely didn't look like himself, but despite that "Uhh, you don't look anything like Liu Mingyan, bro." Aside from the fact that 'her' face was covered, there wasn't much about the new outfit that was identifiable to the War God's little sister.

"That's fine," Shen Qingqiu dismissed the concern, taking off the weimao for the time being and folding it under his arm. "I'm not going in disguise as Liu-Shizhi, I'm going in disguise as Liu-Shizhi in disguise."

Shang Qingqiu stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to make that make sense. "Okay," he finally said.

Shen Qingqiu shook his head. "Qi Qingqi read me the riot act at even the notion of me ruining the reputation of one of her girls and you know what, she had a point," he admitted. 

"Bruh."

"If 'Liu Mingyan' gets spotted going in or out of the Master's Chamber, she'll be in trouble! Much better if I just look like some anonymous girl from a distance," Shen Qingqiu explained. "Then, when I get in to Binghe's presence, I can slip some hints, so he'll know it's her."

"But... it isn't her," Shang Qingqiu felt obligated to point out. "It's you."

"Yes but Binghe will think it's her," Cucumber bro said with his usual one-track laser-focus, "and he'll be appropriately grateful, and then once he gets out of prison he can catch up with the real Liu Mingyan, and if that doesn't jump-start their relationship I don't know what will."

Shang Qingqiu took a moment to privately reflect that Peerless Cucumber had always been a diehard BingLiu shipper, and it seemed even transmigrating into the work itself hadn't changed that. Shang Qinghua didn't have the heart to tell him that the main reason he never wrote explicit sex scenes for Luo Binghe and Liu Mingyan was that the character of Liu Mingyan had been based on an actual college classmate of his. Having a real person to associate the character with was bad enough, but that particular classmate later turned out to be exclusively into women, so it felt a little sour to write "her" boning a dude. 

Honestly, given what he'd seen of Liu Mingyan in this world so far, he kind of suspected she might go the same way as her real-life inspiration.

But he could hardly admit that to his number one hater. "Cucumber-bro, don't you think that it's a little creepy for you to be playing romance sims with your disciples?" he said instead. 

"I don't want to hear 'creepy' from you!" Shen Qingqiu snapped. "Not when you were the one who wrote all those tasteless barely-legal papapa scenes in the first place --"

"Characters!" Shang Qinghua defended himself. Alright already, everything was his fault, he knew! He'd been just! writing! fiction! "They were characters! They were words on a page!"

"Anyway," Cucumber-bro went on, mercifully cutting short what could well have derailed into an hour-long haranguing session. "I know I don't look like Liu Mingyan, the point is that I don't look like me."

Shang Qinghua blinked. Checked the wording. Looked again. "Like Shen Qingqiu, you mean?" he clarified.

"That's what I said," Shen Qingqiu huffed. "Anyway, this whole plan hinges on me not being recognized. If Binghe realizes who I am, this will all be for nothing. He'll be angrier than ever."

"Yeah, I think you're good." Shang Qinghua flashed him a double thumbs up. "If I didn't know better, bro, I'd swear you were really a woman."

"Good." Shen Qingqiu fiddled with his cuffs some more, in a nervous rustle, and Shang Qinghua got the impression he was somewhat less blase and breezy about facing Luo Binghe again than he was letting on. "Now I just have to get down there."

"How are you planning to do that?" Shang Qinghua asked. "I hope you're not counting on me to distract the guards or whatever. Guo Qingchen has his scariest disciples guarding the Penitent's Stair and I'm pretty sure they'd rather run me through like a fish than desert their post just because I asked."

"Of course I'm not counting on you," Shen Qingqiu sniffed. "And anyway that would only work once, and I have to be able to come and go. I'm not going to take the Penitent's Stair."

"No?"

Shen Qingqiu took on a sharp, self-satisfied smile. "I'm going in through the Whispering Caves."

"Bro. Bro." Shang Qinghua almost fell out of his chair. "Do you know what's in the Whispering Caves? If you get lost down there I am not coming after you. Even I don't know the way through there!"

The Whispering Caves had been introduced in the "Name of the Rose" arc and was the part of those chapters that Airplane Shooting To The Sky was most proud of. It was a subterranean labyrinth, a naturally occurring death maze. Floating qi-rich mists inside the deep underground caves had a disorienting effect on most hardy travelers. The further one traveled through the stone maze, the more their sight would slowly darken, while the maddening whispers tickling the edge of hearing would grow louder and clearer with every step. No one knew what became of those travelers who lost their way in the maze; the few who made it out to tell the tale had been lucky enough to do so before their vision deserted them completely.

In the book, Luo Binghe had found his way through the maze of enchanted caverns -- and to the prison where his new beloved-of-the-week was being unjustly imprisoned -- by capturing a pair of Blind-Bat-Winged-Fairy-Dragonets, winning their trust and loyalty, and setting them loose at the mouth of the maze. The Blind-Bat-Winged-Fairy-Dragonets were unaffected by the magics of the cave, and Luo Binghe managed to follow them through the maze to his new wife's side before the magic had been able to close its grip on him. But given that Blind-Bat-Winged-Fairy-Dragonets were creatures of the Abyss, they would only let themselves be handled by someone by demonic blood, which let out both of the Peak Lords. Besides, there weren't any in this region.

"I didn't expect you to, thanks for nothing." Another eye-roll. "I know the way. I mapped it out my first year at Cang Qiong, just in case... just in case."

Shang Qinghua sputtered. "What do you mean, you mapped it?"

"I mean I mapped it!" Shen Qingqiu looked insufferably pleased with himself, despite the waspish tone. "I went in with a flask of vision-replenishing draught and a ream of graph-paper and made a chart. It took me most of a month, but I wanted to make sure I could go somewhere even Binghe wouldn't be able to follow me."

Holy shit. Shang Qinghua had to salute the dedication, even as he boggled at the scope of the task. But, he supposed if anyone would have been able to map out a labyrinth in excruciatingly tedious detail, who better than the fan who'd once set a record for most wiki-edits made in a 24-hour period? 

"Hey, any chance I can borrow that map?" Shang Qinghua said finally. Now that the Protagonist was back on the board, it was only a matter of time before his own ticket at Cang Qiong ran out. "Just. You know. In case."

"Make your own," Shen Qingqiu said with a sniff, re-donned the hat, and swept out the door.

[hiatuswhore]

ᴀᴜɴᴛ (ʏ/ɴ) — ɢɪɴɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴏʀɢɪᴀ 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞

ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ɢᴇᴏʀɢɪᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴏᴡ ꜱʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ. ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ꜱᴀᴅ ᴍʏ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇꜱᴏᴍᴇ. ᴜɴᴇᴅɪᴛᴇᴅ.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏʜ ɢᴇᴏʀɢɪᴀ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴀɴʏ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ. ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴅ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 716

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ɴᴏɴᴇ

“How am I? Ginny and Georgia had a meltdown at your open mic. Suddenly neither of them are keeping me in the loop. I still haven’t told Georgia I slept with Zion. And your horrible acting like Paul and Georgia getting married doesn’t bother you is becoming rather boring,” Your head propped on your elbow you drum your fingers against your cheek, swaying your stool beneath you. Joe stands behind the bar in front of you. A grin playing on your lips as he chuckles pouring more wine to his own glass.

“So not only did Georgia leave me heartbroken but with her evil best friend. Really bringing in the holiday cheer,” Joe raises his glass, the giddy smile on his face warming your heart. He hasn’t smiled like that much these days. You cover the fond moment with a mischievous glint on your eye. The silent bar fills with a chorus of your own and his laughter. Wine fueling the dim glow of the dark room. Finishing your glass Joe raises the bottle to your cup tilting his head, “How did you and Georgia meet?”

“We were sixteen. I was shopping for a prom dress at my mom’s store. Caught her stealing clothes for her and Ginny,” You speak casually, the silence making your gaze whip up to Joe. He gapes at you as though you grow another head before his eyes.

“Your mom loves Georgia. When she visited she gushed about both of you. A complete stranger would think you were sisters the way she spoke. How did that happen?” You chuckle at the description of your mother. Her sweet laugh and airy energy creating warmth in every room she enters.

“I tried on dresses with Ginny to distract her from my Mom talking to Georgia. She gave Georgia a bunch of clothes for the both of them. Georgia asked why and my Mom called me, her Ginny. My mom was a single fifteen year old mother by the time I met Georgia she built a good life for us. She put a lot into helping Ginny and Georgia,” You stare off at nothing in particular wearing a large smile as you speak. Joe eyes you quietly, certain you are no longer explaining him the memory but reliving it. The far off adoration in your eyes giving you a nostalgic glow.

“You really love them,” Joe says, nodding your head as you lean forward, placing a hand on his own.

“So much. If it means anything while you’re technically not Georgia’s ex you were hands down her best one,” You beam up at his gentle smile. The ding of your phone pulling your attention from his gaze. “Oh no it’s Zion. I’ve been avoiding him. I just—how the hell would this work. Georgia’s going to kill us. Ginny and Austin are already going through so much. And what? Surprise the woman you call Aunt is screwing your Dad. Wait, pause.”

“So Ginny’s the poet of the family clearly,” Joe say. A dry chuckle leaves your lips as you playfully glare.

“Out of everything I expected of uprooting my life for my best friend, sleeping with the father of her daughter and befriending the man pining for her was not a single scenario I had in my head,” You say, raising your cup he meets you in the middle with a perfect clink. Both of you take slow sips of your glasses, your mind relapses into previous concerns. Ginny. Austin. Georgia. Zion. You perk up zoning back into the moment. A wide smile taking your lips as Joe furrows his eyebrows at you.

“You’re scheming,” He accuses, you tilt your head offering an are you serious look. A grin tugging at your lips.

“Thanks for being kind of cool,” You say. He sets his lips blinking at you. Holding his gaze you blink back. The warmth adding a new layer to your chats. A numbing intimacy blinding all your fears for a mere second. The vibrating of your phone makes you flinch, Zion. “Sorry I need to take this.”

“No worries,” Joe says, a warm smile covering the long thoughtful pauses. His eyebrows crease at how his eyes have not left you. Something’s different, and it’s made what was—a hell of a lot more difficult.

[kix-mm]

G/t by the lantern

Each season had its challenges, but this winter was particularly harsh, it came early and it's been snowing nonstop, most of the lakes had frozen in a thick layer of ice and food was scarce, there wasn't much hope for survival for those who were unprepared.

T was one of those unlucky ones, caught in a sudden blizzard and desperately trying to make their way through the waist-deep snow and blinding storm, everything hurt, everything was cold and soaked, and they felt like they were going to collapse at any moment, a singular rock is all they found to give herself some shelter. They had lost all sense of direction, and all T had now was their lantern which would soon die out... if only they were somewhere safe and warm, if only they had someone with them... T was scared they wouldn't make it, they refused to rest their eyes despite how desperate their body was for sleep.

That was until they saw a pair of hands reach out to them, gently scooping them up from the snow, the hands were warm and their body so cold, it felt like they were burning at the touch, but they couldn't get herself to move, instead, they fell right to sleep and only awoke a few more times in a dazed state, they heard voices and felt a gentle nudge now and then, but that's all T would be able to remember when she eventually woke up.

T felt exhausted, lying in an old jewelry box stuffed with soft cloth, it was probably the softest and fanciest bed they had ever slept in. Wait. Where were they? How long had they been asleep?

T quickly sat themselves up only to flop back down, they never noticed how bad they felt until their failed attempt to get up, their head spun to the point of nausea, and they felt hot and cold at the same time. They groans softly and lies on their side, where T's eyes met another's, now they felt a different kind of sick, and with haste T buried themselves under the covers.

There was a gentle nudge, the same as the vague memories from before. Maybe if they stayed still for long enough it would go away.

"You're okay! I knew you'd wake up eventually! Please don't hide, I'm sorry for scaring you..."

A soft voice spoke, but T covered their ears, they were exhausted, felt terrible, and now T was scared for their life, they heard stories about how things ended between humans and giants, and now the only thing protecting them was a thin piece of fabric from one...

"I brought you some breakfast.. if you're hungry... It might make you feel better if you're sick"

the giant speaks again, impatiently pulling the box a little closer, they waited a few minutes before lifting the blanket, making T push themselves against the lid of the box.

They giant gently placed a bowl of porridge in front of T, the bowl was from a dollhouse tea set, and although it was far smaller than an average bowl, it was still comically large to the human, they looked at the porridge then the gentle giant.

"is this... for me?"

"You've been asleep for 2 days so I thought you'd be hungry..."

T did feel a little peckish (starving), so they decided to eat what they could (all of it). It had been so long since they had such a warm filling meal that they couldn't help but let a few tears run down their cheeks as they ate.

Maybe this isn't so bad after all...

[daintyduck99]

you make me smile (please stay for a while)

So @innytoes prompted me with omegaverse in an ask game and I talked about how I *would* write it. Then I couldn't stop thinking about this scene...so I wrote it XD

You can find it here on AO3!

Even though he knows his flannel won't be there, Reggie checks between the cushions of Luke's couch for the fifth time.

Still—he has to look. Sometimes he misses things that are in front of his face.

He huffs when the couch predictably fails to produce it. It must've been there—for a while, too, with the lingering trace of its scent—but that's also kind of a problem.

Their scents are everywhere now, his and Luke's and Alex's along with Julie's, so it's nearly impossible to distinguish much, let alone track that way. If he really tries, he can guess when everyone was here, but—

Oh! Maybe he doesn't need to track anything. Maybe he can just ask someone.

Ray points him toward Julie's room. Her door is ajar, so he doesn't knock—she'd said that they could come in now if the door is open. Reggie bounces through.

“Julie! Have you seen—”

She whirls around with a squeak. After a beat, she tries to shield the nest that's taking shape on her bed with her body, but she's too tiny. It's adorable, though.

“It's not…” she starts to say, only to falter.

Reggie’s eyes slide past her. The nest she's making looks cozy, and compact—like it'll last a while, unlike his, which are always a bit sloppy and tend to unravel if he rolls around too much.

Warmth blossoms in his chest—and his cheeks—as he spots his flannel, which is neatly wedged between some hoodies.

But—they could've sworn she's a beta.

Just now, though—she's not a good liar.

And her scent has changed some—it's not sickeningly sweet, so she can't be building a mating nest. Her scent has gotten stronger and sharper, though, and it's only spiked since he entered the room. So—

“Julie,” he says slowly, “are you—stress nesting?”

She bites her lip, lowering her eyes.

“Maybe? Um. Sorry I never told you—”

She gasps as Reggie lifts her in an ecstatic hug, only to let out a little laugh as he swings her around, then pulls her close.

“You're like me,” he breathes. “Sorry you're stressed—but your nest looks so good already! Please show me how to do that.”

She laughs again, nuzzling into his chest.

“Only if you promise to cuddle me in it. That'll make me less stressed for sure.”

A deep purr rumbles through his chest involuntarily, but she responds in kind before he can be embarrassed about it.

She's less stressed already—her scent isn't so sharp—and he smiles into her hair.

Julie shows him how she tucks everything together. She's got something from everyone—she even has Luke's fuzzy sadness flannel, which he had evidently lent to her the last time she was sad.

Reggie wonders if she realizes the significance of this, then shakes his head. Even if not—you'd have to be blind to miss the way they care about one another, the way they click. Sure, they all click, but—

It's—hard to say if it's the same. Thinking about it beyond the somewhat vague scope of family/pack makes his head hurt.

Kinda like the way everything smells so strongly, now. It makes it hard to tell anything apart—and the headache thing.

The scents don't make his heart ache, though—much. Not if he doesn't think.

It doesn't take long to finish the nest—their nest, now, she insists, even though he really hasn't contributed much. Still, his bits are less sloppy, and the way she beams at him when he successfully hides some loose sleeves makes him blush.

They curl up in the center, which is very cozy—cuddling with Julie is always cozy, but it probably helps that the bottom of the nest is mostly layered with sweaters.

She nuzzles at his neck, lazily scenting him, and he's warm all over, safe and loved and a fluttery sort of content that manifests in another purr. He kisses the top of her head, mildly scenting her back.

And really—her purr sounds just as pretty as her singing. It quickly lulls him to sleep.

“This is the cutest shit I've ever seen.”

Reggie cracks one eye open to look at Luke, who pouts back at him.

“You didn't have to stop purring.”

Reggie flushes. “I was still—?”

He pauses. Faintly, Julie's purring in her sleep, and her hands are knotted in the back of his shirt. It is, in fact, very cute.

Alex digs his elbow into Luke's side.

“I tried to tell him not to barge in here because he even said your scents were all sleep dull, but no one ever listens to me—”

Reggie and Luke both interrupt at once.

“I listen to you!”

“The door was open!”

“Okay.” Alex rolls his eyes. “But yes. You were both purring. And Luke was—”

Luke coughs. His face is red, which is unusual for him—but his cough feels less than genuine, and Alex smirks like it's not.

“Anyway,” Luke says pointedly, “does this mean that Julie's—? Is that her nest, or—”

Julie hums. She's stopped purring, but the humming's just as nice. She doesn't move.

“It's our nest. And you could ask Julie.”

Luke smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn't know you were up.”

“Of course she is,” Alex says with a snort. “How's anyone supposed to sleep through the loudest conversation in LA?”

“It's not—” Luke cuts himself off. He turns to Julie. “So, um. Are you an omega?”

She nods, burrowing further into Reggie.

“I know it's not a big deal to you…just, when we met and you assumed I was a beta…my suppressants must be better than what you guys remember. They mask the obvious stuff in my scent, usually. And I wasn't fond of you then, so I let you assume…and then it felt like I waited too long to tell you the truth. I'm sorry.”

Luke's sheepish smile has morphed into more of a wolfish grin. “You're fond of us?”

“Of course that's what you latch onto,” Alex mutters, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond, himself. Luke has that effect.

Julie hmphs. “You know I am, don't tease. Otherwise we won't let you in. Right?”

“Right,” Reggie agrees, “no more teasing.”

He's rewarded with another purr from Julie, and it looks like Luke and Alex very much want to tease him about it, but they don't. They carefully climb into the nest.

Alex burrows into Reggie’s side as he and Julie shift a bit, while Luke just lays on top of everyone like a weighted blanket. It’s—

Perfect. Yeah. This is pretty much perfect.

The next time he can't find his flannel, he's not worried about it. He knows it'll turn up.

He knows his head and his heart better.

And he was right—this, they, are perfect.

[flyingcoffeemugs2]

"Flesh &/ +meat" Chapter 2 ROUGH Excerpt

For the first half of Jamie's life, his Dad had only existed in absence, a chalk drawing on the side walk for a body removed from a crime scene. Blank space. Only years later did he realize that the crime scene was actually his own body and the missing man wasn't the victim but the perp who had a permanent kind of absolution, despite how many finger prints he left for dusting evidence.

That's hindsight for you, always too clear and always too late.

Maybe there was some shame in admitting it, even if it was only to himself, but the idea of his Dad was far better than what reality could ever offer. Loving the absence was easy, a pedestal occupied by the best version of a man who nowadays barely scrapped  the surface of the bare minimum requirements. Maybe a whole other man altogether. 

When it comes to his dad’s temperament, he’s developed a bottle-type system to brace himself for the version of the man that’s on chronic rotation: a full bottle was a warning, an empty bottle was an allegory and a broken one was potentially incriminating evidence. Glass bottles spanning the color spectrum with different labels, cursive or bold lettering lining on top cabinets and store shelves, dictating the trajectory of his life with the kind of authority they had no right in having.

The last time they were inside the same walls, potentially incriminating evidence was mere seconds away from turning into five o’clock news. The only thing that separated them was three steps of cemented stairs, a suburban road with lamps going down in rows, moths dying by the second as they landed on heated glass. Breath rushing his lungs as the cut over his brow dripped blood into his eye, a new brand of terror crushing him with it’s inevitable gravity as he forced himself to run faster.

But there’s no bottle over cell lines, phone towers carrying their communication and leaving him blind as to who to brace for this time. No visual aid. A different kind of blank space. 

With each breath he takes, another layer of frost coats his insides and leaves on the next exhale. The cold air bites at his bare fingers in the Austin Martin and he has half a mind to untuck his fist from his jersey, turn on the car, and put on the heat.

“You there, lad?” Dad’s voice pulls him back into his body, a stretched-out rubber band snapping back into place. 

“What?” He’s sure they were having a conversation at some point but for the life of him he can’t latch onto the auditory information coming his way. 

“Asked if you’d seen Kent on Sky Sport yet?”

Hypothetically, if your Dad doesn’t hit you more than when he does hit you when you’re around each other, is the reality of the situation that your dad doesn’t hit you? Quantifiably, isn’t something that’s higher in frequency more cemented in reality? What’s the tipping scale in a scenario like that? Just thoughts, you know?

He’s spacing out, eyes focusing and blurring on his dashboard as he tries to figure out why he even picked up the phone in the first place, why he dialed Dad when he swore to himself he never would. Swore to his Dad he never would. 

Liar, he hisses to himself internally, bitter vitriol locking his joints, nausea rearing it’s head in his belly. 

“What do you want then?”, he blurts out the question gracelessly before he can help himself, words tumbling out, clumsy on his tongue, jumbled all together. Jamie can feel his muscles locking up.

“What?”

“You asked me to call, and you know. I said when we was talking last time I don’t want to speak to you no more”

“Aye lad, let dead dogs stay dead. And that dog’s been dead half a year now, innit? It’s bare bones now. Don’t matter no more.” Dad says. Bares bones like it means nothing, a carcass picked apart and abandoned, vultures pecking at their recent roadkill. Like anything that happens between them holds the same weight of significance and insignificance simultaneously.  

Jamie hates his dad sometimes.

He hates that he wishes he hated him more and loved him less.

During one of London’s balmier days and Jamie’s less than stellar nights, he had driven Keeley mad to the point where she was actually crossed with him. So he’d apologized, then pestered her to admit she loved him.

Tell me you love me, go on!

Keeley didn’t.

“Jamie, you wouldn’t know what to do with love if it smacked you across your face”

And that had shut him up, hadn’t it? She was right, was the thing. Love smacked Jamie across the face. Frequently. He never knew what to do about it but take it. Take his Dad’s love in all its shit and gold, that wonderful and hideous package deal.

Fucking monstrous amalgamation of a thing. 

Fuck love, anyway.

Loving his Dad had always been a daily exercise in grinding teeth, and here he is again, wearing down the enamel on his molars.

“So, what do you want then?”

“A crime for a father to call his son?”

“Anything can be a crime when you’re involved in it, Da”

“Ay, cheeky brat ain’t you? Told you I saw you play. That’s good. I’m happy, aint I? You’re back where you should be”

Thought where you thought I should be was in Manchester.

“Right. ‘Preciate it”

“Seen Kent’s delivery then?”

“The Sky Sports pundit circle wank?”

“Aye. Talking bollocks. He shouldn’t speak about you that way”

You speak about me that way, he thinks and then wisely holds his tongue.

“That why you called then?”

“No…listen. Got myself sorted out”

“Did you now?”

“Don’t be disrespectful like that, lad. It’s been doing me good. Been getting my nose clean before I phoned ya.”

“How long it’s been then?”

“Since you got all emotional and said we was done”

“Good. Yeah, that’s good then.”

“Your auntie Julie has been putting me up in a center in London. Good bird, your aunt”

“Not in Manchester then?”

“No. The thing about addiction they’re saying is you have to get a new group of friends when you’re trying to get clean”

“Yeah, good, good then. That’s good for you”

“Was calling to ask of you to come see me”

“Don’t think that’s the best idea, Da”

“You too good to see your old man now?”

“No,” he breathes out “That’s not what I’m saying”

“Then what’s the problem? Told you to let dead dogs stay dead. I’m clean ain’t I?”

You almost fucking killed me, he thinks. It’s a sobering thought. Grounding.

“Listen, I ain’t promising nothing”

“You being precious about your fickle feelings again? Said I was clean. What, you want me to say it a third time now?”

“It can’t be like last time”

“Sure”

“Dad, I’m dead serious. We’re done done if it’s like last time.”

“It won’t be lad. Swear down. Just think about it”

“I’m not promising nothing”

“Right, right. I’ll do the promising then”

“You have to mean it. I’m serious Da”

“I’ll mean it”

I promise, I swear I ain’t ever gonna be anything like him, lad

Liar

“Right”

“Jamie” and that catches him off guard “I promise you. It’s gonna be different this time”

“Ok, yeah” he breathes out. There’s nothing more he wants to say as the traitorous feeling of hope slowly warms his insides. “I need to go Dad.”

“Lad, I promise you”

“Yeah, listen, I have a post match debrief with the team” he lies. He doesn’t want to give his Dad anything more than he already has today. He’s given him enough as is. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Yeah, love you lad”

“Cheers”

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Hush (3/4)

Word count ; 4.0k

*Edited.

Y/n raced up the steps. She couldn’t feel the majority of her body. The wind was lashing at her face, blinding her even further, but reached the door. It was ever so slightly open, but she threw it and slipped inside. She didn’t even bother locking it. Instead, she dove to the couch, hiding behind it. Her hearing aids had yet to even start working. 

She crawled, trying to be careful not to make any noises. As she did so, the door was thrown open and the man stumbled in. He was at least relieved that she ran into the warmth of the cabin, but his mind was racing with the idea that they could warm one another up, cuddling in the sheets. But he also knew that it wasn’t possible if he couldn’t find her.

She was tired and she couldn’t hear anymore, unless if she’d made it upstairs to change her hearing aids. Either way, he had the upper hand. And both Y/n and him knew that. One reveled and the other trembled from the knowledge.

Y/n made it to the end of the couch. She readjusted herself to push against the end, and although the floorboard creaked, the man’s barking overpowered any sound she could have made in that moment.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are! I don’t have all night, sweetheart. I have work tomorrow night!”

Y/n, back pushed against the side, titled her head and peeked out. She covered her mouth to prevent a scream. He was hovering right there, standing in the center of the room with his crossbow equipped. She was starting to think it would’ve been a safer bet to just try and get another kitchen knife, but it was far too late to change gears and she just had to try and survive. There was a permanent sneer on his expression, and it was safe to say he was unhappy.

She pulled her head back. She tried to slow her breaths, even though she was panting for dear life. Her head fell back against the sofa and she clasped her hands together. Her knees were pulled to her chest and she attempted to shrink her body as much as possible. 

Although she was unaware of this, the man peered behind the back of the couch. Y/n had moved form that spot a long time ago, so his suspicions were curbed. He began trotting around the kitchen, checking to see if anything was disturbed. He watched and waiting to hear even the slightest breath.

And, after realizing she probably went upstairs, he sighed. He was wrought with sleepiness and his wound was aching dully. He dropped the crossbow on the coffee table, eyes surveying the area. He then plopped onto the couch. Y/n tensed when she felt the movement.

He leaned back, one foot tapping against the ground anxiously. His fists were clenched, and in hopes that she’d hear, he called,” I killed that bitch that talked to you earlier, sweetheart. The old man wasn’t around, but I’ll get him next. They sure learned their lesson not to talk to what’s mine…” Just hearing his own words made insecurity flutter in his chest. If Y/n was his by default, she wouldn’t be trying to escape so desperately. But she’d learn. “…You’d better come out princess! I really don’t want to hurt you.”

The whole speech fell on deaf ears - literally. Y/n was already warming up ever so slightly, but she was also tired as hell. She was willing herself to stay awake, because if she let out even the slightest noise, he’d just have to peer over the side and there’d be an arrow through her skull or knee or shoulder blade; whatever the sadistic man saw fit.

She didn’t want to be reeling in pain. She didn’t want to be in this situation. And she especially didn’t want the kind neighbor to be dead for whatever reason. The man was a maniac, and his sights were specifically focused on getting her, with whatever that entailed.

The man was also quite exhausted. His arms were tossed over the back of the couch and he was leaning back leisurely. Or, as much as he could considering he was bundled up in so many layers. Unknown to him, Y/n decided to creep ever so slightly to the back of the couch. She pushed her weight off the floor with his feet and hands, scooting her rear end across.

Somehow, it was silent. But, in a moment, it wouldn’t need to be. The man’s eyes were just shutting and a snore escaped his lips. But then, he was rudely awoken by loud drumming against the patio door. He shot open, and much to his hidden glee, a middle-aged man stood there, bundled up in winter clothing.

He looked terrified. He was shivering, and his pale cheeks were tinted blue. He was balding and had white hair. He was identifiable immediately - not from just the picture frames scattered around the neighbor’s house - but from the ring that glinted on his finger.

A scowl stretched across his lips. Immediately, he snatched up the device, and realizing he didn’t have the strength to shoot him, called out,” Stop where you are! Where are you coming from?”

The man, in shock, raised his hands in defense. His dementia-riddled mind didn’t notice all the hints that he had the chance to run. In his mind, if they were a murderer, they’d be murdering; not lazing on a couch. The killer stepped forward into the center runway.

“I - I’m just looking for my wife!” he bellowed, voice shaky and wrought with age. “Is everything alright out here? What’s going on?”

With narrowed eyes, the killer lowered the weapon just enough. “Open the door and shut and lock it behind you. Now!”

The man gulped, listening to the orders. He didn’t dare ask anything else, because in his mind, it was the man who was staying in the lodge. His wife had texted him about there only being a woman, but as far as he knew, it was too unsafe for a young woman to be out all alone. Surely she’d brought a significant other along.

After shutting the door, he fished through his pocket. His wallet was inside, and he held it out. Feigning suspicion, he leaned forward, waving the crossbow near his face threateningly. He snatched the wallet in his gloved hands, looking over the driver’s license. 

He nodded, lowering the weapon entirely. He tossed it back, and the man caught it with ease. The unsuspecting victim’s eyes glanced over the scene. The dresser and glass, the missing knife from the block, and the wound on the man’s leg. His brows furrowed in concern.

“Wh - what happened here?” he bellowed. “What happened to the woman living here?”

The man sighed, eyeing around. “There’s a break-in,” he explained calmly. “My wife is hiding upstairs in the bedroom. The asshole is still skulking around and we can’t call the police. Power’s cut. Car’s gone. We’re stuck here.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god…! Oh no. My wife - have you seen my wife and son? They’re supposed to be somewhere! I couldn’t find then at home at all!”

His hands gripped his mouth in terror. He was already in his early sixties, and clearly, his mind wasn’t all there. The killer adored this. The family deserved it if they dared to interact with his idol, his love of his life, his everything. And he knew that he’d have the most fun fucking with the old man’s brain.

“They’re probably dead,” the killer grimaced. “This motherfucker - he tried to kill me. Stabbed me in the leg. Almost got to my wife, too. You live right down the street, huh? You should go and call the police.”

“Yes, yes, I should! Please, be careful. I - I’ll end them right this way.”

The man turned eagerly, gripping the door. He’d pocketed the wallet. And, as he gripped the handle, he suddenly let out a groan of pain. The killer took the chance to shoot his lower calf, and the man collapsed against the door. He turned and fell on his behind, clawing desperately at the arrow. He cradled his body, still letting out groans at the top of his lungs.

The killer put in another arrow with ease. The man was crying for help, but he wondered if the occupant of the house was dead. The dots finally connected, despite the convincing story the man had told. But his worries were dissipated as he saw a small head peek from behind the couch.

The woman Alondra mentioned. Of course. And she looked terrified. His eyes flitted back, hoping the killer hadn’t noticed. And he hadn’t, too focused on training the arrow toward the man’s chest. Pleading sputters escaped and he shook his head.

The killer snickered, tilting his head. A sadistic smirk stretched across his lips. “You better show yourself, princess, or the old man gets it !I’ll kill him, Y/n, just you watch. So get off your ass and get down here. Now!”

Y/n couldn’t see what he was saying. Everything around her was deadly silent. But, from how his finger was poised around the trigger and the man was pleading for his life, she realized she didn’t have much a choice. Even if she did reveal herself, he’d shoot. And if she just sat there, she’d be caught in no time. The old man had spotted her, and he most likely had a will to live.

But her guilt wouldn’t allow the innocent man to receive such a fate. The stranger was only a few feet away, and if she tried her plan… it was the only one where it was feasible to escape.

She pushed herself to her feet. As he peered over his shoulder in surprise, finger pressing the trigger, she leapt. A shriek escaped unknowingly, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Somehow, she’d brought the killer to the ground. He was tackled once more, and he let out a cursed of pain, not liking the pressure on his wound. 

However, with one glance, she realized the man had still been struck. Hopefully, not deadly so, but there was an arrow protruding from his shoulder. He was sobbing his heart out, although he didn’t pull them out. She’d heard that was a bad idea and one would simply bleed out.

The man underneath her suddenly whipped her to the side, turning onto his back with a large grunt. Y/n cried in pain as her head hit the edge of the marble counter. She saw stars and darkness for a split second, but she actively fought the urge to pass out. 

The killer reached out and yanked on her ankle. Her body slid further to the ground, and he was lying directly on top of the crossbow, the strings and wood digging into his back. Y/n pleaded for her life, kicking, but he caught her other ankle. Her legs were pulled over his chest.

“I don’t appreciate that very much, princess! You’re really giving me a run for my money!’

Y/n saw how his lips moved, and she wondered if he was threatening her life. Her eyes widened, and as the man sat up, twisting her torso awkwardly, she reached for the crossbow. She thought it would be simple to lift up with one hand, but it didn’t even budge.

“Up and at ‘em, sweetheart,” he groaned. 

He forced himself to his feet, tuning out the old man’s cries entirely. By her legs, he began dragging her across the floor, further away from the scene of the crime. At the last second, Y/n’s hand latched onto the device. It was arrow-less to say the least, but she dragged it along with her.

She was so tired and the weapon was so heavy. It was just following beside her body as she struggled to get her other arm to reach it. She didn’t even realize how much glee her struggles gave the killer. Even when she was desperately fighting for her life, it was cute. Unnecessary, but cute.

He pulled her behind the couch. He dropped to his knees, straddling her torso. He leaned and reached for the weapon, but just as he did so, Y/n managed to lift it with both arms. She didn’t have much control of it from how drained she was, but she smacked it right into the side of his face.

The man groaned and his head collided with the wall. He didn’t lose consciousness, but Y/n wasn’t done. Next, she shoved the weapon into his chest. He gripped the guest bedroom doorway, but he fell back regardless. He let out a curse from how awkwardly his legs were positioned, and they jerked out to fix themselves.

Y/n dropped it onto her chest, using her free hands to pull herself back. Her body scooted, and as she made yet another escape, she pleaded,” Pl-wease! Stop thi-th!”

The man chuckled, even amongst the paint rain. Her hearing aids weren’t working, as that much was plain from how her words slurred, much to her unawareness. He flopped onto his stomach and pushed himself onto his knees. He grasped the couch to pull himself up, but as he turned, he realized Y/n had also recovered.

She picked up the crossbow, and although she sustained a prominent limp, she made a mad dash for the stairs. She had to have water, warmth, bandages. A safe spot he couldn’t reach her. And the only place she could think of was the upstairs bathroom.

The man was hot on her trail, and she didn’t need to hear to know he was taunting her. From his body language, she deduced he wasn’t doing too hot, either. He was tired and injured, more so than even she was. Her disability and the cold, though, was her downfall. And although she knew it was far warmer inside, it wasn’t warm enough. Her clothes were soaked to the bone with snow and she’d have to change at the bare minimum.

She made it to the door. She turned sharply, and the man collided with her back. He almost grabbed her, but she stepped inside the bathroom. Just as she intended to slam the door in his face, though, his hand went sliding through, pushing at it.

She abandoned the weapon to the ground, using the brute strength of her shoulders to push. He was pissed at how unwilling she was, but he also realized she was slowly overpowering him. Suddenly, the door went flying shut. 

Directly onto his fingers.

A pained bellow escaped his throat and he pulled his hand back. It escaped, but the door had greatly dug into them. The nerves were trembling viciously and he fell flat on the ground. He cradled his hand, gritting his teeth. He was completely red in the face. And it wasn’t a good thing.

Y/n was quick to lock the door from inside. She was panting furiously, and immediately, she eyed the window. She ought to climb out, but she would physically die if she did that with what she was in now. She was soaked to the bone. And, as she glanced around, the only other options was a bathrobe and towel.

She squeaked, pulling the sopping sweater over her head. She abandoned it in the bathtub, and next was her pants and socks. She grimaced, seeing how cut up her foot was. It was a wonder she was doing so well with fighting against the man. 

She pulled don the fluffy white bathrobe. And, next, she tied her hair up in a towel and shoved dry washcloths up her sleeves as extra layers. She tied a towel around her hips, and much to her joy, she discovered another pair of white slippers, although they were plain and open-toed.

From beyond the door, the man tried his best to recover. As he sat, he began fishing through his pockets for the lock pick. Furiously, he kept searching, but much to his dismay, it wasn’t there. He almost clenched his fist and punched the floor, but even just moving his fingers was a dutiful reminder of how banged up he was.

Y/n sure was doing a number on him, and he didn’t like that. 

In his head, she was supposed to recognize him instantly. He dreamt of her every night, and he was certain the notion was reciprocated. But, with each injury and each tussle, that fantasy was slowly dissolving. He was desperate to get her where he wanted. He was sure once he had her, she’d realize her outrageous mistakes and beg for forgiveness and tell him she loved him.

Everything was going to be perfect. Every couple had their passionate spats, after all.

He stumbled to his feet. If not for the adrenaline fighting to keep him awake, he would’ve been dazed more than usual. He stumbled over to the door, banging on it loudly. “Y/n! Let me in, sweetheart. You know I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to hold you and treat you right, baby. You’re overreacting! Let me in!”

Y/n saw how the door thudded. She realized in that moment he’d lost his lock pick. It was gone. And that meant she was in the safest place in the house. The door was locked and there was another escape, namely the window. She let out a sigh of relief. The crossbow was sitting next to the toilet. She pulled the seat down. Already, she was feeling a lot better. If not for but a moment, she was safe.

As Y/n began searching through the cabinets for rubbing alcohols, bandages, and disinfectants, the killer was left to bang his uninjured hand into the wall. He was angry and frustrated, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. He knew it was impossible to touch anything with his other hand because the glove coverings for his fingers had fallen off. He couldn’t walk around getting his finger prints on everything.

He automatically assumed she’d hole herself into the bathroom for the time being. He stalked into the bedroom, eyeing every part. His heat beat erratically, and as he looked at the crumpled blankets, he couldn’t help but plop into it on his stomach. He grasped the pillow to his face, holding it close.

He huffed the scent in. It made sense that it smelt of her shampoo, lilac and specially tailored to maintain health and prosperity to her locks. He imagined that by tomorrow morning and for the rest of their lives, he’d be blessed with waking up to her smell. He’d be able to hold her close and feel every inch of her. He’d see her gorgeous sleep-stricken expression, and they’d share a morning kiss.

And he didn’t give a shit about if she was unwilling to accept her future with him. She’d accept it, whether she liked it or not.

After a moment, he rolled off and back to his feet. Just then, he noticed that sitting on the bedside table, was her spare hearing aids. His tongue swiped over his bottom lips and he was quick to pocket them. He observed the room for a few more minutes before he headed downstairs to tend to her wounds.

Y/n finished applying the bandage. It stung, to say the least. She couldn’t hear anything, but she knew damn well the killer was probably waiting outside for her to give in. She never would. So, wrapped up tightly in warm towels - enough to curb the nipping cold air that clouded over the house -, she sat. Her back was to the tub and the crossbow sat neatly in her lap. Her head kept nodding, wanting desperately to sleep. All of the adrenaline that kept her fighting was abandoning her further with each passing second.

And it truly was a shame that she was nodding off so quickly. Because if she hadn’t had her head fall forward for a brief moment, she would’ve caught the change in lighting as white flakes swirled into the room from the window. And how, not even a moment later, the flakes stopped in their path as the window shut once more. 

Her head darted up as a snort escaped her lips. She eyed the door once more, tightening her grip on the weapon. Through pursed lips, she stared it down, unaware of the danger skulking behind her.

The killer was blissful as he realized she was dead tired. He’d grabbed a kitchen knife on the way out. He wasn’t an idiot; he scouted the place out during her sleep, keeping note of which window went there. And it astounded him that the window was open in preparation that she’d have to escape.

He followed the wall before stepping into the tub. He noticed the discarded clothes, the melted snowflakes puddling down the drain. His shoes squelched as he stepped inside, and for a brief moment, he checked that she didn’t hear it. Just to make sure that, somehow, an extra drop of water hadn’t flew to her neck from the movement.

She was still. She eagerly waited for anything to happen. But nothing did, and that scared her. He knew she was on the verge of passing out. He was biding his time. At least, that was what she thought until she felt a blade pressed to the soft flesh of her throat and a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

She gasped, wanting so badly to flinch. But she didn’t thanks to the looming threat. She didn’t have to look behind her to know the man was grinning sadistically. She was trembling underneath his hold, and he adored it. No more running away for her.

He crouched in the tub, balancing himself before he withdrew his hand. She didn’t dare speak, too petrified that even talking would flex her lungs too much and he’d slice her then and there. She didn’t want to die. And she was starting to think she was going to. The man was utterly unhinged.

And then, the towel was stolen from her hair. She gasped, hands abandoning the crossbow to feel for it. It was quickly tossed to the side, and when the blade pressed even further against her throat, her movements ceased. Tears slid down her cheeks and she could feel the man’s hot breath fanning against her cheek. She kept staring toward the door, though, knowing she’d become even more frightened if she looked.

And then, he removed the hearing aid from one ear. She wondered what he could possibly be doing. But, not even a moment later, it was replaced. With one press of the button, she could hear the whirring of the device and the blizzard outside. She squeaked, and she heard it.

She also heard the low cackle.

“That should do for now, huh?” he hummed from the opposite side. His voice echoed in the bathroom and Y/n flinched. “You know, babe, I don’t appreciate you fucking me up so much. I have a long shift tomorrow. And, for obvious reasons, I’ll be the breadwinner of the household.”

Y/n gulped, feeling his hand slide lower than the knife, just hovering right over her collar bone. He squeezed her neck tauntingly, and a dreamy sigh escaped his lips. Shivers rolled down her spine and she shut her eyes tightly.

“Why… are you doing this?” she croaked, voice dry and longing for water.

[nectardaddy]

Thirteen Years [Porco Galliard x reader] 5

One week prior 

A loud chop rang through the air as an axe swiftly cut through the last log. Wood splintering and small pieces scattering as the two pieces fell to the ground adding to the large pile. Sweat dripped from your brow down to your face in beads before they were wiped away. The dirty gloves you wore left specks of dirt on your face replacing the sweat. Your hands stung from gripping the old axe and your shoulders ached from the repetitive motion of swinging and chopping downward.

Out of breath and out of energy, you dropped the wooden handled axe beside you before collapsing onto the ground. Too exhausted to get back up, you stayed, but shifted onto your back to look at the sky. Orange and pink hues were painted above and the formally blinding sun sank behind a cluster of clouds. If it weren't for your current condition, you would've enjoyed it. But you held a blank look as you stared.

Your breath was seen in the air above you, no longer panting but still trying to catch your breath. The air around you was in stark contrast to your own temperature. It was cold but the sweat that slicked your body said otherwise. The jacket you had on was quickly disregarded once you had begun, along with another added layer, leaving you in a short sleeved shirt and long pants. You wore old work boots and gloves you had borrowed from your father, now both filthy with wood splinters and dust.

Pulling the fingers of the gloves, you took them off and slung them to the side of you. Your hands were calloused despite the gloves but you were grateful they protected you from splinters. Rough fingers met with your face as you tried to wipe away the excess dirt and sweat, but your hands would only do so much and you longed for a shower. You hesitantly sat up, your body aching and screaming as you did making you let out a groan.

"Fuck," you muttered to yourself, trying to find the will to stand up. Your hands and arms were shaky from overexertion, and you found yourself pulling yourself up using the fence beside you. Your shoulders burned from the work you did and your mind couldn't help but fixate on the pain. Leaning against the fence that aided you, you let out a sigh. Part of you wanted to collapse again but you fought it, propping yourself up with the wood of the fence.

A cold breeze blew by and you gently shivered, you were cooling down and the cold air was once again noticeable. Your eyes shifted to a familiar face once you heard the sound of a door closing. "Hi Mrs. Galliard," you spoke tiredly and hoped the older woman wouldn't notice the strain.

Upon hearing your voice, a smile made way onto her face as you turned to you. "Hi dear," she replied before stepping off of the porch and walking down the pavement in your direction. "I have something very exciting to share with you!" Her voice was cheerful and loving, the kind of motherly tone you loved to hear.

Her cheerfulness made you smile in the midst of your pain, "oh? I'd love to hear it, you know I love excitement," you replied.

The older woman let out a joyful hum before stopping at the fence in front of you, her pale hands resting on the railing you didn't occupying. "Porco wanted me to tell you that he's getting some time off from training next week," she explained as her smile grew. "It was the first thing he said when he came through the door last night, he's very excited to be coming back." The love and pride she had for her son was apparent in every word, expressing it how she spoke and her facial expressions.

Your smile grew with hers at this revelation, "that's great," you mused. "I spoke with him about a month ago, and by the looks of it he's working hard. A break is well deserved, it'll be nice to see him again." 

"It's such a shame you barely see each other now, you're all he used to talk about," her tone shifted slightly. Although proud of her son, she felt pity for him, seeing him in the worst of states when he came home. "Now he barely says a word about anything, he comes home sometimes too tired to stand. It'll be good for him to see you again, maybe it will lift his spirits?" She asked rhetorically with a small smile. Unbeknownst to you or Porco, she rooted for her son to be with you. You were kind, caring, hard working, and didn't put up with the young man's anger and attitude. 

"Don't walk away from me, asshole!"  You yelled down the street, now following after the blonde teen. "You can't just say shit like that to me and expect me to be ok with it!" 

Porco broke into run, but much to his dismay you continued to follow. "You're crazy! Stop following me! I'm not taking back what I said!" He yelled back, afraid to turn in your direction knowing that you were gaining on him. 

"Take it back or else, Pock!" You warned, earning him to stop in his tracks and look at you, knowing exactly what you were planning if he didn't take his words back and apologize. He muttered a small 'or else what?' as you crossed your arms over your chest. "Or else I'll tell your mom you're swearing again, or I could tell her who really broke part of the fence when you blamed it on Marcel, better yet I could tell her about that night you snuck out when you weren't supposed to because you were grounded." You spoke with a fake smile, "so apologize or I'll snitch on you." 

The blonde's eyes widened at the mere thought of you telling his dear mother any of the blackmail you had against him; he loved his mother with all of his being but she certainly held the wrath of a god when angry. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry for snapping at you, and calling you a stupid bitch, then pushing you and saying you were annoying. I'm sorry, ok? Just please don't tell my mom any of that!" 

You were taken back a bit by her words, hearing that you used to be the main topic her son spoke about. You were nonetheless surprised, but you didn't speak on it as she continued. "Would you do me a favor (Y/n)?" She asked rhetorically, "just- talk to him when he's back, like you would before he left? He's not like he used to be; he's never been a bubbly, cheerful boy but I've never seen him so. . .disconnected." Worry laced her voice and her facial expressions changed, she wore a small frown. 

Your smile fell at the mother's voice, you weren't the only one worried about the young man. Deep down you knew the woman's heart wrenched hearing her son would inherit a Titan, the very same Titan her eldest son held before his demise. It was terrifying how easy she could hide her fears; she was a strong woman. "I've noticed that too," you commented with a small sigh. "I'd like to think it's just his training, the Marleyan officials just wearing him down. But I think he's having a hard time adjusting- this wasn't the Titan he expected to inherit after all. . ." you treaded carefully with your words. You never brought up Marcel's passing after the news broke, you couldn't bear seeing the Galliard family in more anguish by bringing the boy up. 

"Marcel would be proud of him," you heard the woman hum. Your breath hitched in your throat, she hadn't uttered the name of her deceased son in months. "Although, he secretly didn't want his brother to inherit anything. . . he would be proud Porco still has the strength to keep going." A pained smile formed on her lips, the anger and sadness of grief slowly slipping away and turning into remnants of the past. "Stay by his side (Y/n), you and Marcel were closer to him than I ever was. Don't let him slip into unrest, for me? For all of us?" 

Her words took you by surprise and you gripped the wooden fence you leaned on with a sense of anxiety. You were now the only person he felt closest to, it made you uneasy and restless but collected and delighted simultaneously. The idea of being there for him when he needed it calmed you, but being the only one terrified you. Unbeknownst to you, you were one of the few keyholders to his happiness and grounding to earth. Porco often found himself happier and at ease with you, for no reason at all than being in your presence - as did you with him. It a balance that neither or you wouldn't dare admit, but continued with for years. 

You struggled with the two months apart, as did Porco, one party knowing exactly why and the other clueless to his own emotions. In that moment, a memory crossed your mind and you smiled. The night before he left for training was filled with celebration, joy, and alcohol. Porco's drunken words still leaving an impression in your mind, "if you're still dumb enough to stay by my side in thirteen years I guess I'll just have to marry you before I die."