#shiny hunters can be so. clenches fist

[realpokemon]

I've had a shiny Swellow for years -- I caught her in the wild and love her a lot, but would it be better to release her so she can breed with other wild Pokemon? I feel like increasing the shiny population in the wild is a better option than trying to breed them in captivity.

absolutely not. there's a Reason shiny pokémon are so uncommon in the wild. not only is the mutation INSANELY rare (and cannot even be passed down via heritage), but they are also just statistically less likely to survive. their glossy/different coloration makes them MUCH easier to spot and it doesn't usually assist their breeding chances. there's no reason to try and """increase wild shiny population"""

[writing-intheundercroft]

Your Ivy Grows // Hope

AO3 Link

Summary: Ominis Gaunt cannot see, but he can feel. He can feel the tall thickets of grass outside of his Aunt Noctua's house, now his for the summer. He can feel the sand down by the beach, the water of the tide pools, the overgrown ivy in Noctua's beloved garden. Most importantly, he can feel the gentle brush of his house guest's hand against his as they take their daily walk. He fears that he may feel much, much more for his new house guest.

Word Count: 4,035

Chapter Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut, Oral Sex (M receiving), NSFW, MDNI

A/N: Jealous Ominis! Cheeky Seb! Two people who don't know how to communicate their feelings properly! (also RIP Anne)

She stood at the edge of the water, the tides splashing against her ankles.  

“He sounded fairly certain of it, didn’t he?” she asked, her voice small and broken.

“I’m so, so sorry.” Ominis said softly.  He stood behind her, a few feet away.  “He did.”

Ominis had taken his supper in his chambers after meeting with Marvolo.  The next morning, he’d asked her to take a walk down to the beach with him at breakfast.  After their spectacular night in the garden, she’d anticipated another romantic outing. She danced down the stairs, wearing her favorite dress, thinking of kissing him. 

Instead, Ominis took her down to the beach to explain Marvolo’s plan.  How her father hadn’t found the spell book he’d tasked him with, and how all of the funds he’d been provided to conduct the search had been exhausted.  How her parents were now penniless, and only her marriage to a stranger could free them from Marvolo’s clutches. And now, worst of all, Marvolo was planning on sending suitors to the house, all to appraise her–as if her opinion didn’t matter.

She swallowed thickly, wiping the salty tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. Ominis stood behind her, hands clenched in fists.  The breeze had rustled his hair, the blond strands falling against his forehead as he looked at her with a frown.

“So I guess that’s it then,” she muttered, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “We should probably stop whatever we’re doing.”

“No,” Ominis croaked. “I don’t want to do that.” He hesitantly stepped forward, his shiny shoes getting wet in the process. 

“What’s the point?” She lamented, sniffling. “It’s not like you want to marry me.”

Ominis paused, which filled her heart with dread.  She hadn’t meant it that way, not truly–her dalliance with Ominis had merely been one of summer fun, something she might look back at years in the future with a blush on her face.  She knew there was no way Ominis Gaunt would ever marry her.  Even if he did care for marriage, his bride would be someone rich and beautiful, from an illustrious family with a fancy name.

Certainly not the daughter of a humble treasure hunter.  

“That’s–I don’t mean it like that,” Ominis said hastily. “You know how I feel–”

“I know,” she echoed, crossing her arms as the wind carried her curls. “I know.”

Ominis grabbed her forearm, tugging it towards himself.  He looked mad, impatient, flustered.  Redness crept up his neck to his cheeks as he gripped her arm tighter. 

“I’m going to find a way out of this for us,” he said firmly. “I promise.”

She leaned into his touch.  She wanted to believe him, believe that there was a way out of her misery. But good things didn’t happen to girls like her, she thought.  

Two days later, Ominis entertained a guest for the first time that summer. She had just descended the stairs, trudging into the dining room for breakfast, when she saw a full head of wavy brown hair sitting across from Ominis at the table.

“Good morning,” Ominis said cheerfully, sipping his tea. “Thought you’d never wake up.”

“Hello,” she said curiously, grabbing a plate from the buffet table. “Sebastian is here.” 

“Right, I am.” Sebastian grinned.  He winked at her– ever the flirt, she thought–as she scooped eggs onto her plate.

“And what are you doing here?” She asked nonchalantly, sinking into the chair across from Ominis’s best friend. Her host graciously flicked his wand, pouring her the perfect cup of coffee. 

Sebastian leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I’m here to troubleshoot your little problem.” he said cheekily. “I heard you’re in a bit of a pickle, and Ominis here has recruited me to help.”

She looked at Ominis; she knew he could sense her gaze.  His cheeks were tinged pink, eyelashes fluttering as he coughed. “Sebastian is a master of literature, specifically spellbooks, and he’s dealt with his fair share of dark magic.  Perhaps he knows the text your father is searching for.”

She bit down on her lip, her heart doing a flip as she felt a glimmer of hope. “Would you help?”

“Of course I would,” Sebastian said, mouth full of bacon. “Anything to make Ominis happy.”

“Chew with your mouth closed, Sebastian.” Ominis snapped. “Honestly, you still eat like a heathen. Where are your manners?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, grinning again at her.  “He’s been like this since we were eleven,” he swallowed thickly, reaching for the coffee next to his plate. “Like he’s got a wand stuck up his–”

“Sebastian,” Ominis growled.

She held her fingertips up to her mouth, chuckling against them.  The sight was something to behold–Sebastian was grinning broadly, while Ominis was endlessly flustered. She quite liked the Ominis that Sebastian brought out.  Despite the scowl that graced his face, there was something else behind him.  It was the way he sat, the slight slouch in his shoulders, a casualness that she never got to see in him.

Perhaps this was his true personality , she thought.  It would make sense that it was only drawn out by his best friend.

“Can you tell me more stories about Ominis?” She asked, blowing the steam rolling off her coffee. “I’d love to hear them.”

“O-ho, I would love to tell them,” Sebastian snickered. “Where should I start–perhaps our first day of potions class ever, where our professor didn’t realize Ominis was blind.  And little Om was too afraid to tell him.  What was it that he asked you to do?”

Ominis groaned. “Stir the sleeping draught until it turned purple.”

Sebastian roared with laughter, slapping the dining table. “Nearly blew up the classroom, this one.  And Professor Sharp was aghast that you didn’t admit you were blind.”

“At least he never bugged me to do class demonstrations again.” Ominis chuckled.

Sebastian’s presence in the house added a much needed levity after Marvolo’s visit. The three of them walked down to the shoreline, and back up to the house; Sebastian told colorful stories of their years at school, about their peculiar friend, and his work at a book shop.  Every now and then Ominis would interject with corrections, his arm tightening around hers as they walked.

They eventually meandered back up to the grounds and through the garden.  Ominis chose to walk ahead, leaving Sebastian and his houseguest behind to chat.

“You’ve done the impossible,” Sebastian breathed. “You gave Ominis Gaunt a green thumb.”

She smiled, kicking a pebble off the path. “He couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Trust me, he was.  Killed three venomous tentacula plants in one class period,” Sebastian snorted. 

“You two really are best friends.” She murmured, her hands clasped behind her back. “You bring out a side of him I’ve never seen.”

“So do you. You’ve known him for what, a month and a half?” Sebastian tilted his head. “And yet he seems so comfortable around you.  It’s been a while since he’s smiled like that.”

She blushed, dipping her head. “He’s just happy to be here, back at the house.”

“You don’t understand,” Sebastian muttered. “He wouldn’t ask me to do this for just anyone.  Ominis likes you.”

“So he said you’ve got experience with dark magic,” she interjected, changing the subject away from Ominis. “But you’re a book shop clerk.”

“I wasn’t always a book shop clerk,” Sebastian offered. “I had pretty bad marks my last two years of school, and struggled to find employment.  Eventually I got a job with an artifacts dealer in Knockturn Alley, but I didn’t realize what I was truly getting myself into.” He held a rose in his hands, fingers ghosting over the petals. “Ominis and our dearest friend did their best to guide me out of it, secure gainful employment.” 

“The girl,” she echoed. “Ominis told me about her.”

“What about her?” Sebastian turned, ears perked.

“That you’re in love with her,” she said coyly. “That you flirt with those other girls because you miss her.”

Sebastian turned a lovely shade of pink, looking down at his feet. “Ominis is never wrong,” he sighed. “The truest, most faithful friend a man could ask for.  I’d do anything for him,” he knocked his shoulders into hers. “And any friend of his, is a friend of mine.”

The two started walking on the path again, gravel crunching under their feet.

“I will do my best to help your father,” Sebastian offered. “I have plans to meet with him later this week.  Was a pain to arrange so Marvolo doesn’t find out.”

“I appreciate you, I do.” she put a hand on Sebastian’s forearm. “It may be in vain, but it is nice to know we’re exhausting all options.”

“Ahem.”

She turned her head to see Ominis standing a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back. Even though he couldn’t see her, she still jumped slightly away from Sebastian, pulling her hand off his arm.

“Not telling her any more embarrassing stories about me, are you?” Ominis tilted his head.

“Of course not,” Sebastian chuffed. 

Dinner was lively with Sebastian attending, but something seemed off with Ominis.  She didn’t miss the way he turned down the wine, or how his laughter seemed hollow. The thought bothered her as she prepared for bed. She’d set a decanter of water and a glass onto her bedside table, along with one of the saucy novels she’d stolen from the library. Now sitting at the vanity, she took the pins out of her hair, letting the curls cascade down her back. 

There was a light rap on the door; likely Ominis, bidding her goodnight as he always did.  She laced the collar of her nightgown as she walked to the door, swinging it open.  A gasp escaped her mouth as she looked at the blond.  He looked utterly disheveled; his blond hair was a messy mop on his head, and his robe was untied.  Ominis’s sleep shirt was unbuttoned down to his narrow waist.  She gulped, staring at his chest, yearning to touch it.

“May I come in?” Ominis murmured.

“Of course,” she whispered, opening the door wider.

Ominis slid in, pushing the door shut behind him.  He walked around the room, fingers brushing on the bookshelf, desk, and windowsill as he strutted.  Ominis eventually settled by the windowsill, tapping his fingers against a wooden sailboat that had been perched on the ledge.

“Did you enjoy Sebastian’s company today?” Ominis asked quietly.

She gulped, walking into the center of the room. “I did. He’s refreshing to have around.”

“Do you find him handsome?” Ominis’s voice was sharp.

“He is.” she said slowly. “But he’s not my type.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing in here,” Ominis said sheepishly, his sharp demeanor suddenly disappearing. “But I wanted…I guess I just needed to know.”

She blushed, tiptoeing towards him. “Were you jealous again?”

Ominis gulped. “Yes.  I regretted leaving you two in the garden together.” he admitted.

“Do you think me so wicked that I would change my affections so quickly?” she asked, putting a hand on his pale chest.  He was soft yet solid, unmarked except for a few moles on his chest.

“You could never be wicked,” Ominis gasped at her cold touch. “I–I don’t know what overtook me.  I asked him here to help you, and then I became jealous that you laughed at him.” he confessed.

Her hand trickled from his chest to his stomach, fingers dancing lightly on his muscle. “You make me laugh,” she whispered. “That amongst many things you make me feel.”

Ominis’s hands went to her hips, holding her steady. “You–you make me feel a lot of things I haven’t felt in a very long time.” he admitted. “And it frightens me.”

“Is that why you pull away?” she looked up at his opal eyes, wishing he could see her. “Sometimes, you’re an entirely different person.  Cold, almost.  But I know it’s not you.”

Ominis leaned his forehead down to touch hers. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t mean to.  I’ve been thinking a lot about the morning on the beach–when you asked if I’d want to marry you–”

“We don’t have to talk about it.” she interjected, not wanting to hear his rationalizations.

“But we do,” Ominis strained. “I…I don’t want to marry anyone.  I want to die alone, kill this awful lineage.  End a branch of the Gaunts, so no one gets hurt.” he rambled. “But if I did marry, I’d want to marry someone smart.  Someone good with their hands, who thinks for themselves.  I think…I think if I could, I’d marry someone like you.” 

She pressed her lips against his.

Ominis groaned into her mouth, his hands tightening their grip on her hips.  She snaked her hands up his chest, wrapping her hands behind his neck to draw him closer.  There was an urgency in the kiss they hadn’t shared before–perhaps it was because they knew their kisses were numbered.  

“I’m sorry,” Ominis gasped, pulling away to press his forehead against hers again. “It’s improper of me–”

“I don’t care,” she complained. “If I’m going to be carted off to the highest bidder, I want to feel something, Ominis.  I want to feel you.” She raked her fingertips against his bare skin, and he shuddered.

“But I said I wanted to do it properly,” Ominis hissed when she pressed her lips to his throat. “I should be taking you out, dancing with you, showing you off–yet we’re stuck here.” he gasped. “I love this house, but Merlin, how I wish I could take you somewhere else.” Despite his protests, his hands remained on her body, sinking lower to grasp her bottom.  He squeezed, letting out a garbled moan as her hips pressed against his.

“You said I make you feel things…let me make you feel good,” she urged, turning him to sit on the bed.  Ominis bounced when he hit the mattress, leaning back on his elbows. He pushed his hair back as gulped. She kneeled down between his legs, nudging them apart.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” Ominis croaked.

She laughed, pressing a kiss to his clothed knee. “You don’t know that,” she teased.

“I do,” Ominis said darkly. “Merlin knows, you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“May I?” she asked, her fingers tucking into the waistband of his pajamas.  

Ominis nodded, clearing his throat as he helped her pull his pajama pants down.  His cock sprang forward, slapping against his stomach.

“You don’t have to,” Ominis said softly as her nimble fingers touched him.  She gave his length an exploratory squeeze, Ominis’s head falling back as she adjusted her pressure. 

“I want to,” she breathed.  She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his weeping tip.  

Ominis let out a wanton moan as she took the tip of his cock in her mouth.  She swirled her tongue around the head, making him shudder.

“You–yes, keep doing that,” Ominis rasped.

She took his noises as an indication she was working in the right direction.  With one hand wrapped around his length, the other resting on his thigh, she worked more of him into her mouth.  Ominis’s hands flew to her hair, petting her head as she swallowed around him.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well,” Ominis praised her. “I only came–I only came in to say goodnight, but I’ve dreamt of this happening for so long. Gods, I’m so glad I did it.” he babbled.

She released him, her mouth letting out a pop as she replaced her mouth with her hand, stroking him. “Am I doing it right?” she murmured.

“It-it’s your first time,” Ominis groaned, more of a statement than a question. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Never,” she breathed, pressing a hot kiss to his length. “You’re the first.”

“You’re the most amazing woman in the world.” Ominis stuttered the compliment, fingers tangling in her curls. “So beautiful–I feel like I’ve gone to heaven. I need to taste you, I need to have you after this.”

She laughed, taking him into her mouth once again.  She couldn’t help but glance up at him as she bobbed her mouth up and down his length; Ominis had never looked so pretty, coming undone at her ministrations, compliments spilling from his mouth.  She could feel him leaking at the tip, curiously rolling her tongue over the salty essence.  Ominis bucked his hips at that, trying to push her off.

“I’m going to–I’m not going to last–” he stuttered, his hands gripping the sheets.  

She relented, swirling her tongue over him once more.  Dipping her chin, taking as much more of his cock as she could, she hollowed her cheeks around him.  Ominis gasped, his warm release spilling into her mouth.  

“Fuck,” Ominis sputtered, falling back against the bed.  

She sat up, wiping remnants of his seed from her lips with her sleeve. “Was that okay?” she asked shyly.

Ominis coughed as he sat up, chuckling. “That was amazing,” he breathed. “You didn’t have to do that.” he held out his hand, pulling her towards him.  She shuffled on her knees, falling into his arms.

“I wanted to,” she explained, brushing his hair out of his face. “I guess…I guess I just wanted to feel in control of something.” she confessed.

Ominis was silent for a moment, pinching the fabric of her nightgown. “I understand that,” he sighed. “I am sorry for all of this.  For everything my brother is putting your family through.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it now,” she reached for the water glass on the side of her bed, taking a quick sip. “Now that you’re here, I just want to spend time with you.” She was embarrassed at the shyness in her voice.  

Ominis gave her a soft smile, tightening his grasp on her. “I’m very fond of you. I hope you know that.”

She knew he couldn’t see her smile falter; her heart fluttered as he said it. Fondness was merely a scrap, a word Ominis could say in lieu of love.  She would take it, she thought.  For now, fondness was enough.  

Ominis played with the ribbon at her nightgown’s collar. “So, about being in control,” he trailed off, pressing his lips together as his hands traced down her body. “If you have any thoughts…”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile as his hand touched her thigh. “I do. Primarily, you taking your shirt off.”

Ominis shrugged off his pajama shirt, now fully naked.  Her breath caught as the flickering candlelight illuminated his body; he looked like one of the stone statues carved in the garden, perfectly chiseled, a work of art.

“At your command,” Ominis smirked.  “Anything else?”

If she hadn’t been aroused from Ominis’s mewling earlier, the lazy drawl of his voice as he waited upon her orders had her soaked. She slid her legs apart, and Ominis understood the message.  He positioned himself between her, pushing her nightgown over her hips.

“Nothing underneath,” he breathed, pressing a kiss to her hip bone. “Were you hoping I’d visit?” he teased.

“Every night,” she gulped.

“What would you have me do?” Ominis murmured against her skin.

“Kiss me,” she commanded breathlessly, propping herself up on her elbows. “And you know where, don’t get cheeky.”

“Whatever you desire,” Ominis smiled, diving between her legs.

She woke to an empty bed the following morning.  

Ominis had fully satiated her appetite the evening prior, minus the full act.  He had caught the way her breath had changed when he laid his full weight upon her, his length touching her entrance, and the way she’d frozen.  Ominis immediately withdrew himself. 

We’ll wait, he had said.  It was a firm decision on his end, to pull his undergarments back on, and to lay in the bed next to her, a thin pillow separating them.  And instead of leaving, going back to his own chambers, Ominis stayed. He stayed in her bed, his nimble fingers tangled with hers as they spoke. He was good at keeping her mind off her predicament, bringing up stories of his adventures with Sebastian, adding pertinent details to all of the stories Sebastian had told her that afternoon.

“Sebastian said you’d killed three venomous tentaculas in one class,” she laughed. “Is that true?”

Ominis rolled his eyes. “Yes, but it wasn’t all my fault.  Anne was my partner–”

“Anne?” she asked.  Both Sebastian and Ominis had brought up their friend many times before, the one with the fancy magic, but she had a different name.  

“Sebastian’s sister.” Ominis’s mouth snapped shut, lips falling into a hard line. 

She drummed her fingers against his stomach. “I didn’t know he had a sister,” she uttered.

“She’s…she passed away.” Ominis’s voice had faltered.  Something about the tone made her realize it was a difficult subject. “Anyways, about the damn plants…”

She listened to Ominis’s stories until she fell asleep.  When she woke, she patted the side of the bed he’d been in, realizing he was gone. He had to have slipped out early in the morning, the warmth from his body long gone.  Again, it felt as if Ominis was withdrawing–it drove her mad.  One moment he was begging at her door, yearning for her touch.  The next, he was gone, merely a ghost from the night before. She angrily dressed herself, ready to stomp down to the dining room for breakfast.

She took the back staircase, gliding her hands across the stone walls like Ominis.  Her steps faltered as she heard voices echoing from the kitchen, pressing herself against the stone wall to eavesdrop. 

“It seems like you had a fun night,” Sebastian teased. “Slipping out of her bedroom, you naughty thing.”

“Shut up, Sebastian.” Ominis barked.

She swallowed thickly at his sharp jab; the bite to his tone hurt her more than it could ever hurt Sebastian.

“I’m only joking,” Sebastian laughed. “She’s a nice girl, and I can see why you like her.”

“Do you have enough food for your travels?” Ominis asked, completely ignoring his best friend’s quip. “I can have Golly pack some more bread–”

“Ominis,” Sebastian interjected. “You can talk about your feelings, you know.”

She inched closer to the doorway, her heart beating out of her chest as she listened.  If only she had her damn wand, she could cast a disillusionment charm and get closer. 

“My feelings are a mess, how’s that?” Ominis groaned.  She heard the scraping of chairs; Ominis was probably sitting at the table.  “I’m brought here to watch over her, and I let myself fall for her. And now, I have to sit and watch as my brother sends complete knobs to bid over her.” She could picture the look on his face, his wrinkled nose.

“You really like this girl,” Sebastian observed. “The two of you made me promise no dark magic, and yet you’ve asked me to dive into my old contacts just to help her father.  Not that I’m mad–I’m glad I can be of use to you, you know that.”

“Anne would hate me for it.” Ominis muttered. 

Another chair scraped the floor–Sebastian, likely sitting across from him. “She would’ve been happy that you found someone to care for,” Sebastian echoed. “You weren’t meant to be alone, Ominis. You’re too good to be alone.”

“I’m quite fond of her,” Ominis murmured. “And even if it’s not me…she deserves a chance at real happiness, Sebastian.”

“You know you deserve happiness too, right, Om?” Sebastian asked. “You must stop punishing yourself for your name, for your family.  You’re the best person I know.”

“Just do whatever you can,” Ominis said, his voice strained. “Please, Sebastian.  That's all I ask.”

“Anything for you, my brother.” Sebastian assured him.

She stayed frozen against the wall, her heart beating out of her chest.  Perhaps it was the hope that Sebastian Sallow could find some solution for her and save her family.  Or perhaps it was the hope that Ominis Gaunt felt something more than fondness for her, enough to ask his best friend to delve into dark magic again to save her.

Regardless, the hope would be enough to sustain her.

[ac1d-rain]

(clenching fist) so lucas pokemon. normally i don’t really think about this, but for lucas, i think it would be interesting if the real life player’s actions had an impact on him. for instance, the void glitch is commonly performed in dppt. but from an in-game perspective, lucas might think he was thrown into the void by darkrai’s dark void, questioning if it really happened or not. questioning why it led him to shaymin and cresselia. then, players can sometimes be shiny hunters. in gen 4, there are certain days on which eggs hatch with fewer steps (valentine’s, halloween, etc). the masuda method was also introduced in gen 4. so from a player’s perspective, you’re just masuda’ing some shinies and resetting your ds clock to keep a faster-hatching day. but to lucas, he’s repeating the same day over and over until a shiny hatches. why him? why is he in a timeloop? and that feeling of dread when that holiday rolls around next year, and every time he sees that shiny... after all that, if he gets sent back in time to hisui as well? goddamn

[valkblue]

😤 ^.^

Hello!! Thank you for asking, and thank you for creating this game too!!! 🥰 It's a really fun one.

Send me a 😤 for a random angsty scene from one of my works.

Seeing that your like SWTOR, I think you might enjoy more something from the Star Wars universe so, I'll pick this one from my Mandalorian series "Lost and Found". It's more of a funny story overall but there are quite a few angsty bits as well 😱

"I said," he went on, his mouth full. "You know your main port got a bent beam and strut, right?"

As Din didn’t answer, he turned back to his rummaging in the crates.

"And, eerr, may I advise you to get your dampers replaced? I can do it, for a little more creds…"

To that, Din didn’t answer either. And suddenly, the mechanic let out a triumphant ah. He spun around, making a blinking item jump in the palm of his hand.

"So, I was checking your main gear and I found something, eeerr, interesting?"

He threw him the thing that Din caught with one hand — a thing that kinda looked like a tracking fob.

"T'was sticked into the coat of your door…"

Saying this, he slapped the open door of the port landing gear.

"It was shiny and glowy, it caught my eye while I was checking her foot," he explained, recovering his sandwich from his niece’s hands. "But it had no business doin' no shining or glowing there…"

Ashen, Din couldn’t have said it better himself, indeed. In the palm of his hand, the thing was blinking with a slow, orange round light. It was a long-range tracker, the military type. And according to him, this was here because of Gideon’s remnant’s spies… Din had a now better understanding of how those TIE fighters had managed to figure out which of the ships to follow out of their formation over Nevarro. He clenched his fist on it, as if to muffle its signal, and the reddish glow kept shining defiantly between his fingers.

"Methinks one of your bounty hunter friends ain't playing fair, and wants to best you on some prize, yeah?"

Din looked up to him and the proud smile of the mechanic quivered faced with his visor. He cleared his throat. But Din’s thought were way beyond the idea of making him feel uneasy; he had to leave now, he couldn’t even go back to say goodbye to Elara like he had promised, and this realization made him feel heavy where he stood, his breath short.

[worth-more-than-two-thousand]

Returning from the Dead is Easier Said than Done...

Request: Welcome, Shiny! May I request an x Reader (can be fem or gender neutral) where Echo (post-citadel) comes up to their s/o's doorstep to give them flowers and ask them on a date? A plus if the Bad Batch teases him for dressing up nicely and buying flowers. Thank you! (@handmaidenthesimp)

Author’s Note: Enjoy! If anybody wants me to repost with a gender-neutral reader, just let me know. 

Story Notes: Some swearing, not much else to warn you about. Take place in-between Season 7 of CW and The Bad Batch. No Omega this time, sorry! 

🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑 🖑

Being declared dead was uncomplicated. Your Republic file was branded with a "KIA" stamp, everyone stoically mourned, and someone just a bit shinier would step in to fill your shoes. 

Being declared undead, however, was decidedly more complicated. Oh, Echo was reassigned to Clone Force 99 easily enough. But it was the little things that seemed to get mired in red tape. Getting his few personal effects back. Re-opening his modest credit account.

Approving a rental application.

Admittedly, it wasn't that Echo really needed his own place; clones were conditioned to be accustomed to share minimalist, often-cramped quarters. And they were always on the move, so it hardly made any financial or practical sense, in the long run. 

But right now, oh, did Echo dearly wish that he was dressing up in the privacy of his own space...and not the shared cabin area of the Havoc Marauder. 

He kept his face stoic, as though readying for battle, refusing to acknowledge his teammates goggling in the background. They had returned early from their supply run. Echo had meant to be out of here an hour ago, but (somehow) hadn’t counted on just how difficult it would be to get dressed into multiple clothing pieces with a scomp link for a hand. 

So that’s how his comrades found him: trying to wrangle a neck accessory into submission by sheer will. 

Oh, if Fives could see him now. 

“You look funny,” Wrecker had declared decisively after an unbearably long silence. “What’s that thing you’ve got on?” 

“It’s a suit,” he grumbled, refusing to look any of them in the eye. “I’m going to see Y/N.”

Wrecker gasped like a fishwife. He leaned forward, and pitched his voice low. As though the others couldn’t still hear him in the tinny space.  “Your girlfriend? You mean you’re going to see her for the first time....since…” Wrecker made a muted cartoonish sound with his mouth, clenching then expanding his fingers in a gesture for ‘explosion’.

Echo stared at him for a moment disbelievingly, before nodding slowly, forcing the sarcastic response he really wanted to say back down. He couldn’t fault Wrecker for being...well, Wrecker. He had all the tact of a rampaging bantha. 

“An’ what’s that? Around your neck?” 

Echo opened his mouth, but someone cut across his response. “A bowtie,” Crosshair drolled, though his eyes glittered with amusement. Echo tensed, knowing that he wasn’t going to like what was coming next. 

“Fifty credits says he chokes, and he ends up strangling himself with it in shame." 

“No way!” Wrecker exclaimed, always the optimist. He clapped Echo on the back, who was unprepared so his knees buckled. He felt his metal joints strain. “Don’t worry, Echo,” his brother rasped in the loudest whisper known to man. “I bet she’s gonna love it!” 

“You know,” Tech piped up unhelpfully, “Your strategy may backfire. The current deviation from your usual appearance may be so jarring for your beloved that she refuses your offer out of simple self-preservation instincts.” 

Echo gritted his teeth. “Right. You have stats to back that up, I suppose?” 

Tech blinked at him owlishly. “Of course I don’t. This is an obvious possible outcome.”

“I’m trying to look nice,” he snapped, scowling. 

There was a loaded pause. “...’trying’ being the objective word here,” Crosshair smirked.  

Before Echo could wipe the look off his comrade’s face with a well-placed ARC trooper punch that would’ve made Hardcase proud, Hunter wedged his way in between them, hands up in a conciliatory gesture. 

“All right, laugh it up, fellas. Personally, I think you’re all jealous because you don’t have a girl waiting for you like Echo does.” Hunter turned to face their newest member, took the bowtie that was clenched in Echo’s fist, and smoothed it out before proceeding to tie it around his neck with surprisingly deft hands. 

Crosshair ‘hmphed’ while Wrecker verbally agreed, looking slightly put out by the undeniable truth. Tech simply nodded in neutral confirmation. The group lapsed into a somewhat awkward (but not unwelcome) silence as Hunter finished tugging at the folded ends of the bow, then double-checking to ensure it was straight. He stepped back to assess his work.

“You look good,” he said sincerely.

Echo thought he was in the clear. 

Hunter frowned. “But...it looks like you’re missing something.” 

Or not. 

“Like dignity?” Crosshair drawled from a dark corner of the ship that Echo frustratingly couldn’t glare at. 

“A sense of self-confidence,” Tech suggested. He wasn’t joking. 

“FLOWERS!” Wrecker boomed confidently. “All girls like flowers. You gotta get her some before you see her!”   

“I...fine.” Echo relented, anything to get his teammates to shut up. He shoved his way through them towards the bridge. “I’ll get her some flowers. You all stay here until I get back. I mean it, Fives!” he warned.

An uneasy silence followed him, which he didn’t register until he reached the landing ramp. 

He shot an exasperated look back at them. “What?’ 

“...Your former comrade is not here, Echo.” Tech finally spoke. His words were clinical, as always, but there was a touch of understanding underlying his tone. 

Echo froze, just for a moment, then shook off the shock of his faux pas as best as he could. 

It wasn’t the first time that had happened, after all. 

Echo descended the landing ramp, squared his shoulders, and marched into town. 

Y/N lived in a run-down but culturally distinct district of Coruscant, characterized by food stalls from species and ethnicities all over the galaxy. Children often ran through the streets, sellers in colorful robes and attire shouting their wares and art for all to peruse. It was one of the nicer markets, he thought, having come here once. He had been accompanying Y/N on her usual run for specialized ingredients that made the diner she worked at the talk of the galaxy. 

Echo elbowed his way through the crowded street, content to simply blend in with the crowd, to forget about being a soldier for a moment. 

He paused at a flower stand and was mindful not to draw too much attention to his scomp-link hand as he ordered a dozen sunflowers, which he remembered were Y/N’s favorite. When his credit chip was declined, however, he sighed and reached into his pocket to see what spare change he could muster up. Being that he was wearing a never-worn suit, however, meant that there was no change to be found, and the unimpressed florist snatched the bouquet away. 

That’s okay, Echo. Y/N doesn't need flowers. She just wants to see you.

At least, he hoped that was the case. He hadn’t exactly written to her yet, unsure that he could sufficiently explain his sudden non-death in typed words...

Surprise! I’m not dead! Hey, you know that explosion on the citadel? Well, I survived! And out of it, I got an all-expenses paid trip to  the Techno Union research facility! Why didn’t I write? Well, I was in stasis most of the time and that part’s a bit fuzzy. I also was responsible for killing my brothers by using their own battle plans against them. Oh, and you might notice that I’m missing most of my fleshy bits these days… 

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, which were more rapid these days thanks to his enhancements. He was good at compartmentalizing, though. He had to be. He was still a soldier, through and through, and no one wanted a soldier who was about two seconds away from a mental breakdown.

Yeah, a letter to Y/N wouldn’t have cut it. But he still felt like maybe he could have sent ahead some sort of...heads up? A warning? A ‘Please don’t scream when you see me because I don’t think my heart could take it?’ 

His feet finally guided him to the front entrance of the building where he knew she lived on the 14th floor. Glancing around, he spotted some blue flowers sprouting in a planter near the entrance. He yanked a fairly healthy-looking handful from the soil, shaking the roots to get most of the dirt off. He tucked the strangled roots into his fist so that they would be less obvious. 

It was time. He nodded to himself, squared his shoulders, and entered the building. 

A short elevator ride later, Echo could feed the sweat beading at his forehead and neck. At least his fight or flight response seemed to be healthy and alive, and Echo tuned out everything but the door in front of him, adorned with a purple wreath of lavender flowers. 

He stood in front of the door, and raised his hand to knock. 

He stood…

In front of the door…

...and raised his hand…

...to knock, you coward. Just fucking knock. 

His raised knuckles, however, refused to move. Echo caught a glimpse of himself in the curtained window panes on the sides of the door, and at the sight of his bloodless face, suddenly felt a whole lot less sure of himself. 

He looked ridiculous. 

He and Y/N had barely gotten to know each other before his untimely death. 

What if she was with someone new? 

This was a terrible idea. Echo should leave now, before he caused himself any more embarrassment. Crosshair might get his fifty credits, after all. 

Echo had just convinced himself to turn around and admit defeat, when the door suddenly swung open. 

Two Y/C/E eyes met his. 

There were points during Echo’s battle career where time slowed to a crawl. When an explosive grenade was thrown just a bit too close, or the comrade you had just exchanged banter with received blaster fire to the face. 

Echo was experiencing the same sensation now, but he would voluntarily stay in this moment forever, if he could. He fervently hoped his nightmares would be replaced with the sight that was etched before him. 

She was wearing her yellow work uniform, white apron pressed crisply with starch...and was as beautiful as ever. Her hair was up in a messy ‘late-for-work’ up-do, a smudge of blushed color not quite within the lines of her lips smearing her cupids’ bow where she had applied it in a rush.

He couldn’t determine whether her reaction to his sudden appearance was positive or not, and so didn’t dare speak first, breathlessly afraid that if he did, the moment would shatter. 

He saw her swallow hard, glancing at him from head to toe, gaze landing on his right hand. 

He guarded his heart. 

“Ech? Echo, is that you?” she whispered. Her eyes tore away from the scomp link hand, and began searching his face as though just as afraid he would disappear. 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

The silence stretched out, and the fight or flight response was creeping back. 

“I know I look a bit different.” He tried for a light-hearted joke, but couldn’t quite get his tone to match. “Had some work done. What do you think?” He winced slightly.

She stepped forward and he froze as Y/N lifted her fingers, hesitating briefly before gently touching one of the metal bolts by his left temple. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“...do they hurt?” 

He gasped a little as he remembered to breathe again.

“No,” he reassured her, raising his undamaged hand to steady hers. “No, it doesn’t hurt.” 

“...good.” 

The wind was knocked out of him as Y/N flung her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, tardiness to her job completely forgotten. 

She began sobbing. It wasn’t neat little sobs, like in the scripted holovids, but heaving sobs that wracked her whole body, and he worried slightly that she was going to faint on him. He forgot about his scomp link for the first time as he rubbed it in circles against her back, murmuring nonsense words of comfort in her ear. 

After several minutes, she sniffled, stepping back. She rubbed her nose ungracefully where snot was leaking out, but Echo could have cared less about any of that. He only kept his arms out to steady her, in case she needed support again.

Y/N glanced down suddenly, and flushed.

“Oh. I’ve crushed them.”

Echo followed her gaze and saw that he was still holding the blue flowers from the planter in his good hand, the bouquet having been caught in between their bodies when she had thrown herself at him. They did look a little worse for wear. 

He shrugged unconcernedly. “They were free,” he said, not wanting her to feel guilty. 

She stared at him for a moment before a bubble of laughter burst from her lips. She still looked like she was about to sob at any moment, but she smiled tremulously at him through shining eyes. 

Desperate to make her feel better, he began rambling. 

“I can get you better ones! N-not right now, though,” he stuttered. “Actually, it turns out that I don’t have any credits on me at the moment. Everything’s still kind of backed up at the bank regarding my accounts. Also, this suit is new. Well. Not new. It used to belong to this woman’s father who we rescued during a mission on Bith. Long story.” His brain, which worked faster than usual these days anyways, still couldn’t seem to catch up to his mouth.

He forced himself to get back to the task at hand. “I was actually here to ask you for a date. I mean, assuming there’s no one else at the moment…oh, but you have your job to go do…bantha spit, I forgot about that...” He would have to ask Tech if it was possible for his brain to actually short-circuit.

Echo finally trailed off. Now he was the one blushing. 

The whole of Domino Squad was probably having a good laugh at his expense right about now, wherever they were. 

But Y/N was still smiling at him. And her chin had stopped wobbling. She gently took the flowers from Echo’s hand and placed them on one of the side tables in the hallway before intertwining her fingers with his and grasping his right hand without hesitation. 

“Forget about my job. Let’s go on that date. My treat. Though, if I know Dexter, he’ll give us a free meal, on the house. And the rest of the day off."

For the first time since he had joined Clone Force 99, since he had been rescued on Skako Minor, and even before the Citadel...Echo allowed a true grin of happiness to spread on his face. 

“A free meal,” he echoed. “Sounds like a plan.” 

[lavendersb]

Provider

Din Djarin x reader

Summary: Din wants to give you the universe. Making you see stars seems like a good place to start.

Warnings: Smut, this is str8 up sin, fingering, soft!dom Din, service!dom Din, overstimulation, so much praise, i wrote this at 3am so if this is hardly literate im so sorry :)

@maybege​ i have you to blame for encouraging my sinful behaviour 

Din doesn’t know how he survived before you.

Of coursed he coped, he hadn’t become the best bounty hunter in the parsec without a certain level of diligence. His structured Mandalorian upbringing had taught him the importance of being capable and organized, of always being one step ahead.

But the child had brought with him its own unique set of challenges. Din could deal with the bounty hunters and imperial forces, they where nothing new to him. The joys of parenthood however had taken some getting used to.

He was an angel most of the time. Din could spend hours with the little womp rat and not encounter the slightest hitch, but when the fancy struck him, the child could turn into a little terror of angry gargles and twitching ears. The fact that he could also throw items around the crest with his strange magic powers didn’t make these tantrums any easier for Din to handle.

That’s when you had arrived. Offering your services as caretaker and claiming to be a half -decent mechanic as well, Din had hired you almost instantly. The child was almost as taken with you as he was, and from that moment on, Din never looked back.

He learns quickly that you had been very modest about your skills. Not only where you capable of handling whatever the child threw your way, you could also help with just about any problem the crest came up with. Din also learns that you’re not bad in a fight, and on the odd occasion he invites you out on a hunt with him. You work together like a well-oiled machine, united by a common goal of protecting the child. Protecting each other.

Perhaps it was your caring and capable nature that drew Din closer to you than he ever expected he would. Regardless of what it had been, Din has never felt as happy as when he comes home to see the love of his life waiting for him with his strange little son.

This is where his mind has wondered as he trudges through the swampy mud back to his ship. The bounty was on planet thankfully, so Din never had to worry about bringing the quarry near to his safe haven. The safe haven in question, the metallic body of the razor crest, peeks out at him through the trees and Din’s feet just can’t move fast enough.

Din lowers the ramp, and as he reaches the warmly lit interior of the hull he can’t help but pause a moment in shock.

The hull when Din had left it was a state. On the previous planet you had returned to the crest just as a team of Jawas had started to tear it apart. Thankfully Din had managed to scare them off before they could cause any real damage, but a fair few interior wall panels had already been unscrewed and tossed aside. This morning Din had left the hull in that same state. Now it was as if there had never been any damage at all.

But there, in the centre of the hull is the thing that makes Din’s heart clench beneath the beskar. You’ve set a small metal container on the ground, filled it with some warm water which gently steams, and placed the little green child inside for a bath. He watches where you kneel beside the tub, grinning at the child as he holds one of your fingers in one tiny hand, and splashes the water with the other.

“Hi,” you say through a slight laugh, snapping Din out of his reverent staring “we’re almost done here”

Din walks forward, coming to stand beside you and bending to press his forehead to yours softly.

“Did you fix the ship?” he asks softly, though he knows the answer.

“Yes,” you confirm, pulling away from him reluctantly. The child, now wholly interested in the return of his father, reaches out to Din and begins to babble uncontrollably.

“We’ve had a busy day, haven’t we? But you’ve been such a good helper,” You say to the child, and Din watches you fish the wriggling child out of his bath and wrap him up in a soft towel. He notes that the task of fixing the crest must have taken almost all of the day, and having to keep the child entertained at the same time wouldn’t have made it easy for you.

“Mesh’la, have you eaten today?”

Din takes your silence as an answer and his happiness falters just a little. Of course you would prioritise your task and the child before yourself. Sometimes he wonders how you would survive without him.

“I wanted to wait” you reassure him weakly “enjoy my break when the work is done”

“I’ll take him from here, you should rest” Din says, leaving no room for argument.

He takes the child from you, now dressed in a freshly cleaned robe (another task you’ve completed that he wants to thank you for). Din sees a moment of doubt pass over your face as you try to argue with him, but the feeling of tiredness creeping into your bones wins you over. With an acknowledging smile, you kiss the child on the head and disappear towards the nearest bunk.

Din takes care of the last few jobs of the day, content in the knowledge that his love is resting nearby. He makes the jump to hyperspace first, cradling the child in his arms. The little bundle is still warm from the bath, and Din watches his big glossy eyes blink slowly at him, trying to savour the last moment seeing his Buir’s shiny helmet before he falls asleep.

Once the child is safely asleep in his cot, Din goes to fish through his bag, producing one of the fresh bread rolls and a selection of berry’s he bought before he returned. He plates them with the last of the soup that’s left, and once he’s finished his own portion and secured his helmet back in place, he calls out to you to join him.

Woozy and half asleep, Din watches fondly as you float towards the little kitchen set-up. The sleep in your eyes is replaced with excitement as you catch a glimpse of the fresh food on the table.

“Din,” you breathe “you shouldn’t have”

“It’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done today”

Din watches as you happily devour the food. He listens intently as you tell him all of the things you and the child got up to that day. How long it took to fix the panels, how the two of you played out in the muddy swamp for a while before you brought the child in for a well needed bath. This domesticity is something so new to him, but you make it feel easy. Just like you made it easy for him to fall in love with you. He would give you the galaxy, Din thinks, if only he knew where to start.

When the food is finished, Din clears the plates away but there’s a feeling deep down in his soul that he can do more for you. There’s still something else he can provide. As he sees you walk away towards the refresher, he knows he must act fast.

Din crowds you against the wall, pressing you against the panels you’ve just diligently fixed. A hand that rests at the back of your head prevents you from hurting your skull, and Din lets his fingers wind through the strands beneath them. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at his visor, surprised by his sudden movements and hopeful, Din can tell, that he might be about to pull unspeakable pleasures from you.

“Have I taken care of you? He asks quietly.

“Y-yes”

“No,” Din chastises “I haven’t. Not yet. Tell me what you need”

Your lips flutter as the words Din seeks dance around your mouth. He encourages your response by fisting your hair a little harder, not to be cruel, but to ease you into his instruction.

“You, Din” he finally hears you gasp “I need you”

Pride swells in him at your words, and he moves the hand in your hair to wrap around the small of your back and fasten on your waist, pulling you close to him whilst he presses you to the wall.

“Then you’ll have me”

Din uses his free hand to pull at the obstructing fabric that keeps him from the apex of your thighs. Softly, but without preamble his hand dips to your heat and makes a gentle swipe through your folds, groaning when he finds it warm and soft and so very wet already.

His fingers find your clit and with tiny, firm little circles he plays with it to his hearts content. Din feels you tremble and sag against him, enjoying how accepting you become to his touch.

“My sweet girl,” Din breathes, and it’s said so reverently it makes you tremble and mewl just that bit more.

“My sweet girl, you’ve worked so hard today” The movements against your clit slow and you whine in complaint. Din chuckles and shushes you “I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine desperately, moving to grip the arm that reaches between your legs, hoping to encourage it to move again.

Din smiles beneath his helmet, satisfied with your compliance as he returns to your clit with vigour, plucking from you tiny gasps that draw his hungry eyes to the way your pretty chest rises and falls.

“Then cum mesh’la. Come so I can fuck your pretty cunt with my fingers”

And oh how that filthy promise pushes you off the edge. He feels you stiffen in his arms and pulls you closer to him until you feel crushed by his solid presence. You can hardly register it though, too lost in the waves of pleasure that don’t seem to ease at all. Din doesn’t stop playing with your clit until your pretty moans turn to gasps and pleas to stop.

He doesn’t remove his hand from you, simply sliding his fingers down to trace that little fluttering hole he loves so dearly. He watches your face the whole time, enjoying how slack it goes when the first finger makes a teasing press against you.

“Pretty girl you take such good care of us, but you neglect yourself” he teasingly scolds, pressing into you a little further with his finger and watching you keen at his tone.

“Would you like to be taken care of? Is that what you need?”

“Yes, Din, yes” you nod frantically, squirming in his firm grasp.

He squeezes your hip in warning, before sliding his finger deep inside you. Both of you groan at the feeling of your soft heat welcoming his finger. He starts to pump into you, his pace direct and precise, hitting against that soft spongy spot with each push. Din wanted to give you the galaxy, making you see stars seemed like a good place to start.

“I knew from the first minute I saw you that you’d be so warm and soft everywhere” Din says as you cry out for him “and I was right, wasn’t I mesh’la? Your cunt might be the warmest, softest thing in the whole galaxy”

As he adds another finger, Din swears he’s never felt more whole then when he’s breaking you apart like this. Letting you be tender and vulnerable. You break apart for him so well he muses.

“Won’t you cum for me?” he says, and stars you’ve never wanted to come so bad in all your life. Not just because you think you might explode at the way his fingers are aiming for that spot that makes you cry out in pleasure, but also because you want- no need him to know how much you love him. How grateful you are that he treats you so well.

When you do cum its electric. You reach for Din’s pauldron for support, gripping the metal as you rock against his hand. He feels you soak his palm and groans, shamelessly grinding himself against whatever part if you he can.

He doesn’t pull his fingers from you, instead he massages your walls gently watching you twitch when he rubs that special place inside you. He waits until you meet his eye through the visor, expectantly waiting for him to withdraw his fingers.

Instead he presses his thumb back against your thoroughly abused clit and holds you tighter as you give a startled jolt against him.

“Din,” you whine, and he smirks at how wrecked and helpless you sound “I can’t-“

“You can” he insists, picking up the pace of the fingers inside you “You’ll cum again because I’m telling you to. Because I’m taking care of you, right?”

You can barely nod in response, your body to busy trying to cope with the overwhelming feeling of overstimulation. Din gazes at your face, taken by the way your brows pinch and fat tears fill your waterline and weigh down your eyelashes. 

The sight of you has him desperate, and he removes the hand from around your waist, using his torso to pin you to the wall so you don’t collapse. He tugs the cowl away from his neck to expose the tanned skin of his neck. You don’t need his instruction to know what to do next, and with what little energy left in your body, you lean forward to press messy, fluttering kisses to the skin over his pulse.

Din grunts, truly blissed out by the feeling of you on him doubles his assault on your sensitive heat. He barely hears your gasping warning before he feels you come utterly undone against him. Your cunt squeezes his fingers so tightly, and he makes sure to tell you that, though he’s not sure you can hear him. Your face is still pressed against his neck, breathing against him, and he swears he feels a wet tear drop against his skin.

“I love you, sweet girl” he says, pulling his fingers from you softly.

The hum that comes from your heavy, satisfied, and sleepy body tells him he’s done his job well. He lets himself feel proud. Upstairs, his child sleeps soundly in his crib. Well protected and well loved. Here, in his arms, lays his love. Soon she’ll be asleep in their shared bed, and Din will find himself wondering how he was blessed with such a wonderful and loving partner.

[delimeful]

to taste your beating heart (5)

warnings: blood, miscommunication, imprisonment, arguing

-

Logan met Virgil-- Anx’s eyes over Patton’s shoulder, and watched as his gaze went from bewildered to guarded in half a second.

In the next moment, Anx had shoved out sharply, pushing Patton away from him hard enough to make him stumble back a few steps-- just far enough to be outside the protective ward, Logan noted. 

As though to cover up the fact that he’d just stripped himself of a potential hostage, Anx stiffened up to his full height, fangs bared at them all.

“Careful!” Roman snapped in an eerie parody of Virgil’s normal catchphrase, rising to his feet as Patton narrowly avoided overbalancing.

“No, no,” Patton said, wiping at his eyes without any shame, “it’s my fault, I should have asked first. I always get kind of emotional after thralls break. My apawlegies, Anx.” He accented the words with a flap of his cat hoodie sleeve.

Logan had time to notice the way Anx’s face twisted-- a mix of confusion-amusement-wariness that was familiar from Virgil’s first weeks working with them-- before Roman cut in with a startled shout.

“The thrall is broken?!” he squawked, head whipping back and forth between Patton and Anx. “Since when?”

“None of your business,” snapped Anx.

“Pretty much as soon as I walked in!” cheered Patton, at the exact same time. He paused. “Whoops, sorry, Anx! Did you want that to be... confangdential?”

“Boo,” Roman called, instantly distracted by the bad wordplay, “That was a reach.”

Logan let his audible facepalm speak for itself. “Out of the way, please, Patton.”

Patton obligingly shuffled to the side, and with every step closer Logan took, Anx folded inwards like a snake rearing back to strike. Seeing Virgil’s body bracing for the worst at his approach made something in Logan’s chest pang oddly, but luckily he was well practiced at ignoring such things.

Once at the edge of the circle, he crouched and inspected the activation key. As expected, nothing was out of place. Logan doubted Anx had been awake long enough to even consider tampering with the circle, let alone attempt it.

Now that the ash had cooled, the spell would be vulnerable to outside influence. It wasn’t as big of a concern anymore, seeing as the thrall on Patton had been removed, but Logan wasn’t one to leave things half-done.

… Also, if left unattended, Patton would probably free the vampire without telling anyone even without being under thrall.

Logan set his palm on the activation key and nonverbally cast a warming spell, reactivating the part of the spell that singed any unauthorized fingers messing with his circle. He could add the warming charm into the circle’s layout later, when there wasn’t a twitchy vampire watching his every move.

Despite his efforts to make his spellcasting subtler than usual, Anx still seemed to go still and stiff like hunted prey when the change in the spell sent a mild warmth into the air around them. Those uncanny purple eyes flickered between all three of the hunters for a moment, and then seemed to settle for glaring at nothing.

“So, Draculame, what prompted the sudden change of heart?” Roman asked, arms crossed over his chest.

His tone wasn’t as accusatory as before, but Anx’s bristling only increased, likely at the nickname. It had taken a while for Virgil to realize Roman’s ruder habits weren’t mean-spirited. It seemed like Anx would have to relearn that.

Provided they got that far.

Shaking the rather grim thought away, Logan tilted his head at the vampire. “I’m admittedly curious as well.”

Anx hissed at them, which they probably should have expected. It probably said something about their friend that this had already been standard Virgil behavior before he’d been turned. It was almost nostalgic.

“Now, kiddos, let’s not vamptagonize him!” Patton cut in firmly, ignoring their groans. “It’s almost dawn, so how about we call it close enough to morning and have some breakfast? I’ll make pat-cakes!”

He swanned out of the room without waiting for an answer, nearly hip checking the doorframe as he went. For a moment, Logan half-expected to see Virgil fall in a half-step behind him, like a particularly emo shadow. The absence was jarring.

“He hasn’t slept tonight,” he finally said, capturing Roman’s attention. “Make sure he doesn’t use salt instead of sugar?”

“And meanwhile you will be…?” Roman prompted doubtfully. Logan rolled his eyes.

“Figuring out a way for Anx to safely move to the kitchen, as Patton no doubt wants him there,” he replied, raising a hand to forestall any protests. “I took precautions.”

Roman threw his hands up dramatically, shot Anx a warning glare, and then turned to leave.

“Ugh. There goes my appetite,” he grumbled as he stormed out the door.

Logan allowed himself a sigh and then turned to face Anx. The vampire was still staring at him oddly. “I will be placing a pair of enchanted cuffs on you. They have no chains and they will not hurt you, but if you move against any of us with malicious intent, they will freeze in place.”

“And what am I supposed to do if you move against me?” he challenged automatically, lip curling. “Stand there and take it?”

“The cuffs will not stop you from running or hiding,” Logan told him, “and you’ve proven yourself to be skilled at both of those things in the past 48 hours. None of us are planning on attacking you, but you will have options regardless.”

This wasn’t how he would have reassured Virgil, but this wasn’t the Virgil he knew, the one that trusted him. He couldn’t soothe Anx’s cognitive distortions, not when he was barely more than a stranger.

He retrieved the shiny black cuffs from a nearby cabinet. They hadn’t had a thrall aggressive enough to use them on in months. “If you’ll put your wrists forward, we can proceed. Otherwise, Patton will be bringing breakfast to you, and I’d prefer not to get syrup or blood all over this room.”

Anx eyed him warily for another few moments, but eventually Logan’s patience paid off, and he stuck his wrists out with a growl. Logan reached past the barrier without any trouble and clicked the first one into place. Before he could proceed with the second, Anx’s hand flipped around and grabbed onto Logan’s wrist tightly.

Logan’s head jerked up to meet Anx’s gaze, already shifting his weight to counter a pull, but the vampire didn’t move further, just stared at him intently. “I know what you are.”

He clearly expected some kind of dramatic reaction, but Logan wasn’t in the habit of those, particularly not for such vague accusations. “If you’ll specify?”

“You’re a witch,” Anx said. “I saw you tamper with the circle without any instruments. You have natural magic.”

Logan felt his stomach sink slightly. Logically, he knew that this wasn’t the Virgil he knew, but it still made something in him twist to think of any version of Virgil blackmailing him over his magical heritage. “And what of it?” he asked, as lightly as he could.

“You’re living in the same house as hunters. You’re doing magic right under their noses, you’re going to get yourself killed!” Anx scolded, sounding more like Virgil with every word. “Do you need help getting out?”

Logan wasn’t entirely sure what sort of face he made in response to this endearingly dense offer, but it was apparently enough to make Anx frown with uncertainty. He held a hand out for his other wrist and clicked the cuff on it without any problems, and then deactivated the circle with a simple gesture of his hand over the key.

Anx’s eyes flicked to the door, and Logan tried not to think about him darting out into the early morning sun. He turned and headed to the door.

“Follow me, and you’ll get your answer.”

While traversing the halls, Logan resisted the persistent urge to check behind him. Gone were the slight shuffled footsteps that had previously accompanied Virgil’s presence, replaced by Anx’s supernatural silence, as though he was gliding over the floor without even touching it.

He entered the kitchen, where Patton had evidently wrangled Roman into setting the table. Whether the four plates set out were out of habit or Roman reluctantly accepting Anx’s presence at the table, Logan wasn’t sure.

He cleared his throat, making both of them look up from attempting to draw funny faces with the pancake batter.

“Observe,” he instructed, and then drew a sigil in the air and lit a simple flame in his hand. Behind him, he could practically hear Anx go as stiff as a board.

“Are we showing off?” Roman asked, a bit excited but completely unsurprised. “Should I perform a monologue?”

“Great spell, Lo! No arson in the house, though,” Patton added in a bright chirp. “After all, I have enough ar-sons here already!”

Logan doused the flame by clenching a fist, giving Patton a Look that went blithely ignored. “You two are incorrigible. That was a simple demonstration.”

He turned to Anx, who looked a little shell shocked.

“As we’ve informed you, ‘hunter’ is a title that we use mostly for convenience and ease of access to jobs. We help magical beings just as often as average humans, if not more frequently.”

“We tried out ‘Protectors of the Innocent’ for a while, but it never really caught on for some reason,” Roman added, subtly sneaking a piece of bacon from the serving plate while Patton’s back was turned.

“Perhaps it would have worked better if someone hadn’t only put P.I. on all the business cards, resulting in us being mistaken for Private Investigators and all of our calls being about spousal infidelity for a solid two months,” Logan snarked back, moving past them to retrieve the orange juice from the fridge.

“The printing office charged by the letter!” Roman protested, and then recoiled from the countertop as his next attempt at sneaking ended with his fingers smacked mercilessly. “Augh! Forsaken by those dearest to me! What cruelty!”

“No sympathy for bacon thieves,” Patton chided, wielding his spatula like an instrument of mass destruction. “Go sit!”

Logan seated himself as well, and turned to Anx, who had been watching the banter play out from the doorway with a somewhat dazed expression. “You’re welcome to sit. Patton will likely insist on it, actually.”

“You people,” he enunciated slowly, “are crazy.”

“You get used to it,” Logan assured him with the certainty of someone who had heard this exact phrase from Virgil before. He checked his watch. “It has been some time since you last ate. I can retrieve some stored blood from our refrigerator.”

“Actually,” Patton set a plate stacked high with pancakes in the center of the table with a plonk, “I figured I could just be Anx’s donor for a while!”

Roman, who had just stolen a sip of Logan’s orange juice, did a movie-perfect spit take, and Patton slid the pancake stack swiftly out of range of the spray.

“It will be 55 days before you are viable for another blood donation,” Logan recited the fact automatically, but he was just as thrown off as Roman.

“Not if he drinks from me directly!” Patton retorted, a beacon of cheerful composure.

“What?” All three of them replied, at varying levels of screech.

Anx shot a wild-eyed look at the room at large and took a step back, as though physically distancing himself from the idea.

“Patton, you can’t be serious!” Roman pushed his chair back and stood, looking distraught. “Fangs For The Memories over here might look like Virgil, but he’s proven quite thoroughly that he’s not! We just got you un-thralled, clearly he can’t be trusted not to take advantage of you!”

Logan noticed Anx wince, though he couldn’t tell whether it was from the harsh assessment or Virgil’s name being spoken.

“Me not being thralled anymore is exactly why we can trust him not to hurt me,” Patton said, chin tilted up stubbornly. “He doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he fixed it anyway! That’s more than good enough in my book.”

“Well, maybe your book needs some copyediting!” Roman snapped back, exasperated. “So his unbeating heart isn’t as completely shriveled up as it originally seemed! So what? That doesn’t change the fact that he was the one who thralled you in the first place!”

Logan cut in, physically moving between them to break up the beginnings of a shouting match.

“I have to agree that this is a bad idea, for a multitude of reasons,” he started, raising a quelling hand before Patton could protest. “The matter of Anx’s trustworthiness aside, you shouldn’t be directly donating blood to any vampire. It is an unnecessary risk to your mental and emotional well being.”

“Thank you,” Roman said, apparently keen to seize allies where he could. He gestured expansively, looking at Patton with earnest eyes. “You’ve come so far, Pat. We don’t want to see any of your hard work undone. Virgil wouldn’t want that either; you know he’d fight this harder than any of us.”

Patton’s face had softened at their-- Roman’s sentimental worrying, but even bringing Virgil into it couldn’t sway his determined course.

“I know you guys just want me safe, but this is something I need to do. Even if it is a risk, I can’t be held down by this fear forever. And who better to help me than Anx!”

“Literally anyone who hasn’t threatened to kill everyone here in the last 48 hours,” Roman moaned, dragging his hands down his face.

“Besides,” Patton continued, undeterred, “this way we don’t have to worry about our emergency transfusion supply going low! It just makes sense.”

Logan had to begrudgingly agree. Between the hassle of trying to explain why they suddenly needed significantly more blood and the fact that a vampire drinking directly would replenish blood cells at a much higher rate than drawing blood, the best option really was to have a direct donor. He simply didn't want it to be Patton.

Unfortunately, his odds of actually being able to stop Patton were quite low.

“Nothing about any of this makes sense,” Anx grumbled, having retreated to the hall like a skittish feral cat.

The vampire seemed almost more unsettled by the idea than either of the other objecting parties, despite being the only one who directly benefited from the hypothetical arrangement. Nervous about their responses if he agreed, perhaps?

“We can at least give it a shot!” Patton insisted, coming a little closer to Anx and reaching out to gently pat his shoulder. It spoke volumes that the touch wasn't brushed off or rejected. “It could end up helping us both! And if it doesn’t, we’ll just find another way! You won’t be in trouble for messing up, okay?”

Anx blinked, slowly, still looking somewhat unconvinced that this was reality. Still, after a few moments of exposure to Patton’s encouraging smile, he dipped his head in a nod.

“Okay.”

[queenofspades6]

More Than Partners (The Mandalorian x reader)

Forbidden Love

Summary: A little conversation between the Mandalorian and Kuiil about Mando’s feelings for Y/N, a Jedi who follows him everywhere. But what happens when you hear everything the bounty hunter said?

———

Chapter 2>

———

***

When you arrived at the Ugnaught’s place in Avala-7, he greeted you and the Mandalorian with open arms. At first, Kuiil was astonished to see a young woman with the bounty hunter. And even if he didn’t say a word, the Ugnaught was aware that you were a powerful being. He couldn’t help but wonder why a Jedi would stay with a Mandalorian after the battle of Galidraan. Jedi and Mandalorian were not known for their friendship.

The Ugnaught served you and the Child food. He wasn’t wealthy and yet, here he was, serving you everything he had on a tray.

“Thank you, Kuiil, sincerely.” You said, clear recognition in your eyes.

Mando was watching you, and the Child eat with a protective gaze while talking with Kuiil. You stared at them, enjoying the brief moment of peace.

When you finished your plate, you glanced at the Child and saw him already sleeping upright.

“I am going to take the Child to bed.” You declared, standing up.

Mando gazed at your plate, and noticed you only ate half of your food. As if you were reading his mind, you headed towards him under the watchful eye of Kuiil.

“I left you something to eat for when you’re alone.“ You muttered, a slight smile appearing on the corner of your lips.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his eyes still on you when you took the Child in your arms and headed towards the bedroom.

You were no longer in the room, and the Mandalorian suddenly felt uncomfortable. Something was missing. Or someone... Even if Mando knew you were in the next room with the Child, he needed to see you and feel your presence. The Mandalorian was restless, and even though he was wearing an helmet, the Ugnaught noticed his discomfort.

“I see you are quite close to Y/N.” Kuiil stated, a serious look on his face.

The bounty hunter hesitated.

“I am. She looks after the Child when I can’t.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Silence filled the room again, and Mando tensed at Kuiil’s tone.

“What do you mean?“ The Mandalorian questioned, grateful that his helmet was covering his embarrassment.

“I noticed how you stare at her when she is not looking, how your gaze lingers on her a bit too longer, how you watch over her when there is no danger.“

Although Mando was wearing an helmet, he avoided the Ugnaught’s look, already feeling his cheeks flushing.

“I have seen this look on many people, Mandalorian. I can’t see your face, but I know how you feel towards this young Jedi.“

“I don’t feel anything for Y/N.“ The bounty hunter replied instantly, clenching his fists tightly.

Even though you were in the next room, you heard the words distinctly.

Mando didn’t feel anything for you...

Your vision quickly became blurred, and you suddenly wanted to throw up. Taking a glance at the Child who was still sleeping, you leaned against the door of the bedroom. Your heart beating faster, you tried to focus on the Mandalorian’s mechanical voice.

“Are you sure?” Kuiil asked, chuckling a little.

“I-I am not in love with her.”

Your body felt heavier, and you almost fell against the door. A tear ran along your cheek, and you tried desperately to repress a sob.

You were a Jedi. You couldn’t have feelings, and especially not for a Mandalorian. And here you were, with your heart in pieces and a lot of tears to shed. You knew it would happen. You knew falling in love was risky and that love meant suffering, yet, you couldn’t help but fall in love with the Mandalorian. You had not seen his face, and you didn’t care. When you heard the rumours about Mando, you first thought he was a ruthless and skilled bounty hunter. But when you met him, you could see through his shiny helmet and deep down you knew he was a good man.

“So you don’t feel anything for her?“The Ugnaught insisted.

Kuiil was smirking, you would have sworn it.

“I am a Mandalorian. I can’t feel anything.” You heard Mando muttering with his modulated voice.

Why was Kuiil trying to find out if the bounty hunter loved you?

Why was he insisting like that?

“I didn’t ask if you can or can’t. I asked if you love her.”

“I can’t.” Mando whispered, as if he regretted the words he said.

Frowning, you took a deep breath, hoping Kuiil and Mando didn’t hear you.

“I-I-”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Mandalorian. I saw it with my own eyes. No helmet can protect from love.” The Ugnaught declared solemnly.

“I care for her.” Mando admitted, holding his breath through his helmet.“More than I should.”

At the sound of the Mandalorian’s voice, you pressed yourself against the door, trying to know if what Mando said was true. But the doors couldn’t support your weight, and you crashed on the ground, making a lot of noise and revealing your presence in the process. Sighing, you looked at the Child, hoping you didn’t wake him up. He was awake, standing up in the bed, watching you with a questioning look on his face. Putting a finger in front of your mouth, you told him to stay silent.

“She cares for you too, Mandalorian. You should tell her before it’s too late or you will regret it all your life. I have spoken.” Kuiil claimed, already standing up to wash the dishes.

Slowly opening the door, you tried to glance at the Mandalorian. He was still sitting where you left him some minutes ago. You couldn’t see his face, but he was obviously lost in thought, not daring to move from his seat.

Taking a deep breath, and against your better judgment, you gestured to the Child to return to sleep, and headed towards Mando.

“Mando.”

At the sound of your voice, he startled and his cheeks flushed a little under his heavy helmet.

“Is the Child sleeping?” He questioned, clearly avoiding your gaze.

You wanted to see his reaction, but Mando’s visor was looking at the wall behind you.

Silence was usually comfortable between the two of you, yet today, you weren’t the only one feeling ill-at-ease.

“Can I ask you something?“ The bounty hunter asked, daring to glance at you quickly.

“You just did.“

“You know what I mean, Y/N.” He said with a stern tone that sent shivers to your spine.

Adrenaline rushed through your body, and you smirked at the Mandalorian. He cared about you, so why should you act like you had not heard anything.

“Did You hear my conversation with Kuiil?”

His voice was filled with anger and concern.

Was the Mandalorian afraid you heard what he said to the Ugnaught?

“I-” You tried to mutter.

Lying was easy, and telling the truth was risky. Yet, you chose to stay true to who you were, and you couldn’t lie to Mando, even if it meant he would break your heart.

”I heard everything.“

Confidently, you faced the Mandalorian and noticed him staring at you.

You would have killed to know how he was feeling right now.

Was he furious?

Suddenly, the bounty hunter stood up and you felt his hand reaching out.

“Y/N... I-” He whispered, unsure of what he was doing.

”I am sorry.”

Without realizing it, the Mandalorian took a step towards you.

“Was it true, Mando?” You questioned, getting closer to him.

Bowing his head, he stared intently at the ground.

“What is true, Y/N?”

“You know what I mean.“

He cleared his throat, and you slowly searched for his gloved hand. Wrapping your fingers around his, you heard the Mandalorian let out a stuttering breath and his grip tightened on your hand just a bit. Staring at your intertwined fingers, and then looking up, Mando stroked your cheek tenderly, and you tried to enjoy his touch on your skin.

“I care for you, Y/N. You aren’t just my partner.” He whispered in your ear, almost touching your skin, and making you shiver.

”I know.”

“I care more than I should.”

Hearing the remorse in his voice, a single tear ran along your pale face.

“I care too.” You replied, your voice breaking in the process.

The Mandalorian caressed your face with his gloved hand, and then your lips, opening them slightly. You swore you could hear his halting breathing even though he had his helmet on.

“We should not.” He murmured with his mechanical voice, obvious desire in his tone.

“And why not?”

Without thinking about the consequences, you got closer to Mando, hoping he would change his mind.

You caressed his helmet, acting as if it was his skin against your touch. He took your hand away from his face, and fundled your chin with his hand.

“Y/N... I can’t.” He whispered, clenching his teeth.

Seeing him being so conflicted between you and his Creed made you feel awfully sad. You couldn’t ask him to choose. Never.

“I understand, Mando.”

Trembling, he stroked your cheeks again, enjoying your skin against his gloved hand, and secretly hoping the moment would last forever.

Sticking your tongue against your palate, you hoped you would not burst into tears in front of the Mandalorian.

“Y/N.” Mando said, wiping your tear away.

Pulling his hand away from your cheeks, you forced a smile and planted a small kiss on the side of the helmet, where his cheek would have been.

“Goodnight Mando.”

Without looking behind, you headed towards the bedroom where the Child was probably sleeping again. Tears were falling in your face, but you didn’t care. Maybe one day, you thought. But hope was a dangerous thing.

“Goodnight Y/N.“ Mando said, alone in the room.

He had never felt so lonely, even if you were just in the other room.

⬇️Chapter 2⬇️

[blossom-hwa]

To Find Solace in Your Arms - JANGJUN

Well uh. Here it is. Guard jangjun written in five days :D I’ll accept some blame but refer to casey @thepixelelf​ if you want someone to beat up for introducing the assassin thing because she suggested it not me I swear! Anyway, this universe is still dedicated to casey because without her it wouldn’t have happened <3

(Reading To Bloom in the Night/Weaver (linked below) is not necessarily required to understand this story; however, it may offer explanations for certain events!)

Pairing: Jangjun x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, guard!au, assassin!au

Triggers: cursing, implications of death, semi-graphic depictions of blood (reader is an assassin)

Word Count: 16.5k

Broken and lost, you find your last chance at redemption in a cursed prince’s loyal guard.

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

Once upon a time, in a kingdom of song and music, there lived a prince who ran away. Cursed with death, he had found the only person whose life could prevail under his voice, a gardener with the sweetest song, and there was nothing he would not do to keep them close – even giving up his crown. When the gardener was arrested for accidentally learning the secret they willingly pledged to keep, the prince and his guard broke them away and fled into the night, whispering goodbyes to the loved ones they left behind.

The king and queen labeled it a kidnapping, led a manhunt for months, espoused heartbreak and sorrow for their son lost to his disloyal guard and a scheming gardener. Few believed the words of two cold-hearted monarchs, but enough did not care – bounty hunters and assassins pledged their services to the crown’s gold, resolved to kill the alleged kidnappers and return the prince alive (or dead, apparently – the palace, for all its shiny words of heartbreak, was not keen to have him back). However, one by one, they failed, either bled to death in the woods or forced to give up when all leads vanished.

One contractor was left, the most ruthless of all. Few had the coin to pay for the service of any one of his employees, but those who did were never left disappointed. With all else failed and their son still eluding capture, the palace paid for one assassin, asked for the best their money could buy. The contractor gave his due and tasked the job with his favorite employee who had recently fallen out of favor with a mission gone awry – they would have one last chance to redeem themselves.

When the guard sensed a follower, he only sighed and readied himself. The prince and his gardener had gone on further as he had forced them to – after all, he was the odd one out, the one who wasn’t truly needed. His purpose was always to protect even at the cost of his own life. He could keep an assassin off their trail for at least enough time to get away, and all of the others whom the palace had sent had failed eventually. He was the one who was still alive.

But desperation turns claws stronger, knives sharper, pain deeper.

And the guard never expected to come face to face with a ghost.

Neither guard nor assassin left the fight uninjured, both in body and in mind. Memories of ages gone, long pushed away but never forgotten, would plague them as the months passed with fight after bloody fight, knives clanging and words bantering and eyes flashing with emotions suppressed but finally brought to light –

Yet they did not stop. They had their loyalties and they had their duties, and even if they somehow felt at home with their snipping words and clanging blades, none of it mattered. None of it mattered. None of it mattered, not when the assassin learned the truth of the guard’s role in his prince’s kidnapping, not even when the guard looked deep into bladed eyes and saw into the human inside.

Until a secret came to light, and for the first time, a loyalty deeper than that of duty forced the assassin to drop their knife and lead the guard to a home he had despaired as lost forever.

And yet home was not home, even in the warm arms of a second ghost come to life, not when the curved knife of a teasing smile had disappeared in the forest, glittering eyes lost to the night. He prayed to the moon, to the watching stars, that the assassin would someday find their way home to arms that would welcome them as warmly as the ghost’s who had welcomed him.

His arms.

This is the story of a guard charged to protect and an assassin bound to kill, paths fated to intertwine once more after they first diverged, who found solace in knife-bladed smiles and laughing eyes the night they first met under the moon.

. . . . .

“Y/N.”

You turn around from the clothing stall, eyebrows furrowed. What’s Minho doing here, interrupting probably your last moments with your only friend before your employer decides to cut you off? “What are you doing here?”

His eyes remain impassive. “He wants to see you.”

So it’s time. 

You sigh, turning back to your friend and her piles of clothing. “Sorry, work calls.” An easy smile falls onto your lips, masking the anxiety that races your heart. She doesn’t know that you might be six feet under within a day, and you don’t intend to tell her. “Anyway, I left a little something at your house. Make sure to take it in.”

“Oh my – Y/N, seriously?”

But you’ve already turned away, fluttering your fingers in the air as you throw a last smile in her direction. It’s the least you could do – your little gifts will probably end after today, and with her business, she needs any bit of money she can get.

Quickly, you match your steps to Minho’s, ignoring her fondly exasperated shouts as you follow him through the crowded market. “Did he say anything?”

“No.” Minho shrugs, though a glint remains in his eyes. You mentally take stock of every knife concealed on your person. “But you can imagine.”

It takes a lot of restraint to not plunge the blade you’re twirling in your hand into his side. He’s probably expecting it, anyway – you’ve been at each other’s throats ever since you first punched him in the nose, all those years ago. “Yeah, I can.” You keep your eyes perfectly blank, even though fear of death pounds your heart as the two of you pass into the richer community, where your employer lives when he’s in the country. “Bet it’s something fun for you to think about.”

You don’t need to look to see the smile curving Minho’s lips. He’d like you dead, wouldn’t he? Of course he doesn’t say anything, but there’s a reason you remain aware of the knives hidden in your sleeve. Plus the one in your hand.

Finally, you reach the door. A servant pokes his head out. “Name?”

He knows your name. You hate having to say it anyway. “Y/N,” you reply curtly.

The door opens fully. You take a deep breath and sheathe the knife.

“Good luck,” Minho says cheerfully. Your neck crawls where his breath puffs against your skin.

The servant closes the door, leaving you alone with him in a large, open room full of light. The sun’s warmth streams through the windows, burning your skin. But even with that burn, the sunlight turning your skin to ash, you’d rather stay there than follow the servant to the back of the home, the darker rooms where your employer likes to conduct business.

But you follow, step by step, even as your fingers begin to shake and you have to clench the handle of one of your knives to keep them from trembling. You’ll fight. You’ll fight, if he orders your death – it’s all you know, fighting, and you’ll go down the way you lived – it doesn’t matter if he’s your employer, it doesn’t matter if he’ll have someone in there to take care of you when you inevitably fight back – if you’re going to die and have lived as a fighter no one can expect you to just give up –

The servant stops suddenly. You just manage to avoid bumping into him. He knocks on the door, oblivious to you. “They’re here, sir.”

“Enter.”

His voice turns your blood not to ice, but to sludge – slow, barely-moving, clogging your veins until you begin to choke, silently, barely able to move your legs to walk inside the now-open door –

Only one person is inside. You fight to keep the surprise off your face. Why is there no one here? Does he actually think you’ll go down without a fight? Or that he can take care of you himself?

“Sir.” You dip your head sharply.

“Look up.”

You do.

He sits in an upholstered chair, eyes piercing. The chair and the eyes have stayed the same, even as skin has sagged, hair has grayed, and some decorations have been moved out while others have come in. His gaze pins you down and like you’re a teen again, seeing him for the first time after all the horror stories you were told, you shrink under his attention, even with all the knives hidden in your clothes.

(Those horror stories were all true. More than once, when you were still new and hadn’t made your mark just yet, you were one of those called in to clean blood off the floor.)

Your blood is going to be wrung out of the carpets, soon. And it’ll be a lot of blood if you have anything to do with it.

He stays silent, still pinning you with his eyes. You clench your fists beneath the table. Breathe in, out.

“You disappointed me last time.”

Your stomach curdles. You only bow your head in response.

“You know what happens to those who disappoint.”

Blood seeping into carpets, staining the wood floor beneath. Small, shaking hands scrubbing dry red and black with buckets of soap and water. 

Maybe you won’t try to leave behind so much blood, after all. You have a little sympathy left after so many years of fingers and backs aching from rubbing rough cloths against the ground. Spite is powerful, but sometimes sympathy weighs more.

“If you were any of the others, you would be dead by now.”

True. Your last few days of freedom, you assumed, were just because you happened to be a favorite. A sort of last meal served before a prisoner’s execution.

Silence stretches. You keep your head low, shoulders tensed, nails biting into your palms, ready to lunge. You’ll fight. You’ll fight. You can picture it now – a blade aiming for your heart. You’ll dodge, knock the knife away, slide the weapons from your sleeves and throw, hoping they pierce dark eyes before someone rushes in and throws you to the floor, carves open your body until your blood soaks into the ornate carpet –

One hand appears in your line of lowered vision, a piece of thick, creamy paper sliding onto the table. “This is your next mission.”

Your head snaps up. Next mission?

“The prince has disappeared, and the palace now pays a large sum for the capture of his kidnappers within one year.” The paper slides closer. “A gardener and a royal guard. And the prince does not have to be brought back alive – if he was maimed by his kidnappers or caught in the crossfire…”

Somewhere deep in your mind, you understand the subtext. The royal family doesn’t care so much for the prince as it does about maintaining its reputation. But the forefront of your brain is still trying to comprehend the fact that the crown paid your employer to carry out this murder, and despite your last failure, he still chose you.

“You have one year to complete this mission. Shouldn’t be too difficult, no?” your employer says, finally forcing you to look up. He looks faintly amused, almost sadistically so – he has to have known how you expected to be dead already. “The royal guard may give you some trouble, but not more than you can handle.”

You almost question him – why are you receiving this mission and not some other assassin who may not be as efficient as you but still has a cleaner record, zero percent failure versus whatever percent that last mission cost you? But your employer hates being questioned, and more likely than not, he’d take the contract away with a cheerful, “Perhaps I did choose wrongly,” and then where would you be?

“No, sir.” You swallow hard, finally letting go of your fists. Crescents burn in your palms where nails bit into the skin.

“I suppose you are wondering why I chose you for this mission rather than one of those who have not disappointed me yet.”

You don’t dare to nod.

He leans forward. “I considered others. But you have always been the best assassin.” A smile splits his face, like a slit throat. “You remember what I have told you from the start. The best killers are not the bloodiest. They are the most efficient. You do not have to enjoy blood to become a killer.”

That’s true. You’ve always hated the feeling of sticky red liquid soaking your skin. Yet here you are, an assassin.

“Others forget. You have not.” He leans back again. “So I am giving you a second chance.” The smile disappears. “Do not disappoint me this time.”

You’re not going to die. You’re not going to die. You’re going to live to see another day, you won’t have to fight for your existence, you’ll be able to keep your friend safe and support her longer – you even have a mission. A second chance.

Tears of relief prick at your eyes and you bow, fighting the lump in your throat. “Thank you, sir.”

He’s smiling when you rise again, eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not disappoint me,” he repeats.

You swear you won’t.

. . . . .

Jangjun is once again being followed.

Internally, he groans. Seriously, after all those assassins and bounty hunters he and Joochan left dead or in the dust, he would’ve thought the palace had given up by now. Can’t they just let them all live in peace after making their lives hell for so long?

But the king and queen don’t care about any of that, and Bomin probably has only a little influence, if he even knows about the assassins in the first place. Jangjun sighs. At least he sent the other two up ahead first – Jangjun’s just the guard, the odd man out of the trio. His duty is to protect, and he’ll do that to the last. The others are more important. They need time to be happy.

He keeps walking, even as the sky grows darker and the moon begins to rise. The follower stays on his path, but by all the gods, they’re good. Jangjun can’t tell where they are, can only feel something stalking him.

Then there’s a shift in the air. Jangjun stops.

And ducks just in time for a knife to whiz past where his head was less than a second ago.

Before he even hears the blade thunk into a nearby tree trunk, a figure leaps from the foliage – almost on top of Jangjun if he hadn’t whirled away at the last second. Metal rings against the sheath of his sword and he swings it just in time to catch the long knife slashing towards his face.

You’re good. Too good. Way better than any of the others sent to kill him or the gardener, to bring Joochan back to the palace. Metal crashes and leaves fall as you dance away from his single blade, twin knives glinting like lethal stars from the sky – there’s a natural grace to your movements that almost remind him of Donghyun’s sister and the way she moved so fluidly through the air, only your grace slices deadly and sharp while hers flowed supple and soft.

But that isn’t the only familiar thing he sees.

Sharp eyes meet his, glinting dangerously in the rising moonlight. It almost distracts him into thinking – where has he seen that sort of glint before? He knows he’s seen it before, but on who, where, and when – but then a second blade slices towards his side and he remembers he can’t think, he can’t think, thinking is what gets you killed in the middle of a fight –

Animals burst out of hiding as you and Jangjun trample the forest floor. He nicks your arm and you hiss, retaliating with a two-bladed strike against his single sword that makes his teeth chatter with the reverb – and all the while he’s fighting, there’s that nagging thought in the back of his mind that he refuses to entertain, the thought that screams he’s seen those eyes or at least that glint on someone he says he’s forgotten but hasn’t really, has only pushed the memories back after so many years because they never mattered. He would never see them again, not the sharp-eyed pickpocket he fell in love with –

Them –

Oh, gods, them –

Jangjun trips over a tree root. He regains his balance quickly, but it’s more than enough time for you to duck under one flailing arm and slam him against the trunk, wrenching his sword out of his hands and knocking the air of his lungs. One knife rests against his side while the other lodges under his chin, blade pressing into his throat.

He closes his eyes. If this is how he dies, then so be it. Joochan and his partner have gone up ahead and he told them not to come back, to wait until morning and if he didn’t meet with them by then, to continue on their own. If he dies now at the hands of an assassin, he’s performed his duty as a loyal guard to one of the few good people left in this world.

“Where are they?” a voice rasps, raw with panting exertion and pain.

Jangjun opens his eyes. Racks his mind for something witty to say, something that’ll anger you and maybe throw that glint into your eye again, that glint he thought he’d never see until he died. It would be a nice sight to take with him even as he goes, even if it isn’t on the same person who’d disappeared from the orphanage so many years back –

His eyes widen. Your mask fell off at some point during the fight and now your face is bare, visible under the moonlight.

You –

You are the same person –

Jangjun tries to reconcile the images, one of a smirking teenager pickpocketing some rich man on the streets, another of the sharp-eyed assassin holding a knife to his throat. There’s no way – you have to be different – but with your mask torn away, revealing the rest of your face, all Jangjun can see are the growing similarities between the teenaged orphan who disappeared and left him alone at the orphanage all those years ago.

“Where are they?” you hiss again, pressing the knife further into his neck.

Breathing shallowly – he can feel tiny drops of blood beginning to trickle down his skin – he stretches his lips into a trembling smirk. “You don’t remember me anymore, Y/N?”

Your eyes remain blank for a second longer. Then they widen and your grip goes slack with realization –

Jangjun has barely left your hold when you shove him back against the trunk with even more force than the first time. His head hits the bark and he sighs, trying to ignore the aching pain. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You know how I feel about tree bits in my hair.”

“By all the gods –” You groan. “Of course the prince’s guard would turn out to be the most insufferable asshole in the orphanage.”

“And of course the assassin would turn out to be the slickest pickpocket with the worst mouth in the same orphanage,” Jangjun replies. The smile comes easier, now that you’re not actively pressing the knife into his skin. He missed your eyes. “I’m offended you didn’t recognize me at first.”

You snort. “You seriously expect me to remember your face after all these years?”

“I remembered yours.” Jangjun blinks innocently. Of course he did – he couldn’t forget it, no matter how much he tried to tell himself you were probably dead in the weeks after you disappeared –

“You’ve changed,” you snap, though he can see the beginnings of a smile lifting your lips. Curved, knife-like, but familiar in its snark.

Beautiful.

He smirks. “Did I become more handsome?”

“How did you become a royal guard with a mouth as stupid as this?”

“My pretty face and sparkling personality.” Jangjun grins. “Mind taking the knife off my neck? It’s a little hard to breathe.”

In response, you press it in harder, eyes growing dark. Oops, wrong thing to say. “Tell me where they are,” you reply conversationally, “and maybe, in the spirit of old friendship, I’ll kill you quickly.”

Jangjun fights for breath as more blood drips down his neck. The blade in his side is digging deeper, too. Damn, you’re good. “How about in the spirit of old friendship – ow, that hurts – how about you just let me go?”

All traces of a smile leave your lips. The glint in your eye disappears fully, leaving behind only a wild, desperate darkness that Jangjun hasn’t seen before. 

That’s different. 

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” you say. “Now, if you don’t tell me right now –”

“Behind you,” Jangjun warns.

You scoff. Damn it. “You seem to think I’m the same idiot from when we were back in the orphanage. That’s almost offensive.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” He shrugs as best he can with your blades in his skin and back pressed against the trunk. “And I’m sure you aren’t all that offended. Are you going to get on with it, now?”

Your eyes narrow. You shift your stance. The knife tightens against his side, but in that one second of shifting, the other lifts just slightly off his throat –

Jangjun hooks his leg around your knee and you buckle, blade dropping from his neck just long enough for him to escape your hold and dart away, scooping up his fallen sword. You snarl, already following, but Jangjun isn’t interested in fighting. He’s only running away.

And, just as he hoped, he’s a little faster.

“See you soon, Y/N!” he yells, sprinting into the darkened forest. Moonlight barely shines through the dark foliage – somehow, he’s certain, you won’t take the risk of following. You’ll hang back, wait until day, track him, and strike when he seems most vulnerable.

He almost misses your words in reply.

“Count on it.”

They send shivers up his spine.

. . . . .

By the time of your next encounter with Jangjun, you have allowed several things to settle in your mind that you didn’t have the time to process during your last fight. You mull them over, one by one, as you walk around the marketplace, picking up the things you need.

First, and most importantly, Jangjun’s good. Too good. Not to say you couldn’t take him – if it weren’t night, you feel reasonably confident that you could’ve followed and taken him down – but you did not realize royal guards were trained to this caliber.

Not your fault. Missions rarely force you to tangle with royalty or their guards – this is a special case. But even then, to have a guard at the same level as some weaker assassins, possibly even on par with you…

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, no?” Your employer’s words echo through your mind. “The royal guard may give you some trouble, but not more than you can handle.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag. You underestimated him last time. You thought he was still the same boy you left back at the orphanage. You won’t make the same mistake again.

Second, bar his fighting skills, Jangjun is still the same snarky asshole from the orphanage when you two were teens. His brand of humor is unique – it stuck with you through your early days working up through the ranks, even when you went through your grueling training – and it proves that the guard you fought with is the boy you were forced to leave, even more than the smiling eyes that still mark his “pretty face.”

Well, he does have a pretty face. You won’t deny that. That face has been pretty since you met him at the orphanage, pretty enough for your teenage heart to fall a little in love with, and it makes sense that it’s stayed pretty since then. But that same face will be six feet under by the time you’re finished with him, pretty or no, so you don’t dwell on it. You’ve been given a second chance to live, courtesy of your notoriously ruthless employer. No, in the face of such an opportunity, nothing matters, not old friends or even something more.

Your heart twists. Seriously, didn’t you lock those feelings away all those years ago? When you were certain you’d never see Jangjun again after too many failed escapes? It’s just a twist, though, not much more – hopefully the feelings have faded, even if they still exist.

You swallow. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing matters anymore but you and your best friend – she’s all you have and you’re all she has. If she dies because you weren’t there to support her, because you let some old feelings get in the way, you… You don’t even know. All you do know is that you can’t waste this opportunity, not when two livelihoods depend on it, not just one.

The back of your neck prickles. You go back to examining threads, pushing thoughts of assassination away. This isn’t the time for murder, so which of these colors would your weaving friend enjoy?

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Speak of the devil.

Calmly, you pore through a few spools of thread in varying shades of blue, trying not to tense visibly. Of course you would meet Jangjun when you’re not actively following him at the moment – yes, you technically followed him here, tracking his traces along with two others to the town, but you didn’t come here with the expectation of completing your job immediately. It’s a respectable place, not the slums where anyone will look the other way should a murder come to pass, and besides, you’d like the trio to lower their guard a little before you strike next. You’re here to watch and observe, maybe catch a glimpse of the prince and see if you can haul him out before taking care of the other two. However indifferent the palace might be, you don’t enjoy killing more than necessary. Two murders is always better than three, unless in exceptional circumstances.

If Minho was the life in limbo, for example, you might choose to make that third murder after all.

The presence doesn’t leave, even as you pick out a few spools of thread in varying shades of blue. You remember your friend saying she was running out of the color, so this should suffice for another few months. Thanking the shopkeeper, you turn around, ignoring the boy who has now begun following you through the crowd.

He catches up quickly. “You know, it’s rude to ignore people when they speak to you.”

With a sigh, you turn around. “You know, it’s weird to come up and talk to an assassin who’s been hired to kill you. Usually, people stay away.”

“You won’t kill me here.” Jangjun’s eyes glitter with a certainty that almost unnerves you – how can he be so sure of what you will or won’t do after so many years apart? “Too crowded. Too many people. Too respectable. And besides, I have information.” His lips curl. “I’m valuable.”

“Oh really?” Your free hand slips up one of your sleeves just barely, letting a small knife slip between your fingers. Jangjun’s eyes widen a fraction when you press the tip to his side. “Keep walking. Keep smiling.”

He does.

“If I pushed this knife into you right now, you’d bleed out within seconds,” you whisper, nodding your head to a few people who pass. You place a hand on his shoulder in a fashion that might look intimate to passersby, but when your thumb reaches around to press a point on his neck, Jangjun stiffens. “If I pressed here just a little harder, you’d be dizzy enough that I’d have to carry you somewhere else, maybe, oh, because of heatstroke or a migraine, and what would happen to you then?”

Jangjun doesn’t say a word.

“Let’s not mention all the other pressure points I know that you might not, all the perfect places to stab someone so that they die with minimal blood flow, all the ways I could slam you down and knock you out if I was that pressed.” You remove the knife, twirling it once between your fingers in a flash of bright metal before tucking it back into your sleeve. “Don’t get too cocky, Jangjun. You seem to have forgotten I’ve been trained in ways to kill for years.” Your eyes narrow, the genial smile sliding off your face. “I’m not exactly the same teenager from the orphanage all those years ago.”

He looks at you. Scrutinizes your face, stares into your eyes. For some reason, even though you were the one holding a knife against him just seconds ago, it now feels like he has the upper hand.

“Eh,” he finally says, a pinch of color returned to his cheeks. “Maybe in that, you’re different, but don’t worry.” He winks. “Tragically, I think you’re still affected by this pretty face. Careful – it might just distract you into letting me go one day.”

You open your mouth to say something, then only scoff. It’s getting harder and harder not to let a smile spread your lips. You might not agree with Jangjun that you haven’t changed, but he definitely hasn’t. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with this keen a death wish. Why are you even talking to me?”

“I think that if you really wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it by now.” He looks at you out of the corner of his eye – less certain, now, but still decently sure. You’ll take it. “Why waste all this time talking?” His eyelids flutter obnoxiously. “Unless you really enjoy listening to the sound of my voice.”

“As if.” You snort. “But you’re right, this time.” A glint of metal purposely flashes from the inside of your sleeve. “I’m not planning to kill you just yet, not when it’s such a nice day, there are so many people, and most importantly, I just want to get some shopping done. So.” You look at him. “Why are you talking to me while I’m running errands?”

He looks at the bag in your other hand. “What are the threads for?”

“Threads?” You look down. “Oh, you noticed?”

Jangjun scoffs. “I was standing right behind you, it would’ve been a little difficult not to notice.”

“I have a friend who likes needlework,” you say. “She doesn’t always have the money to experiment, though, so I take her things when I can.” You smirk. “Even assassins have a little bit of a life, you know.”

Something unreadable – longing, wistful, more emotions than you have the time to decipher – flashes through Jangjun’s eyes. It’s gone almost as quickly as it comes, though, and you chalk it up to some old memory he never shared with you. “Well, it can’t just be murder all the time.”

“You’re right. Maybe you should’ve become an assassin instead of a royal guard,” you say. “Gotten snatched off the street and all instead of me.”

Jangjun’s face crumples. It’s fast, so fast you barely see it – even faster than that wistful longing present just seconds ago – but even though he’s mostly back to normal by the time you blink, there’s enough of a haunted look in his eyes for you to frown. “Jangjun?”

“What?” He looks at you, easy as ever.

Both of you have stopped in a sea of moving market-goers, you narrowing your gaze at him, Jangjun narrowing his eyes right back. The stare-down lasts several seconds, but when he doesn’t let up, you mentally shake your head. There’s no point in asking if he wants to hide it. Besides, you shouldn’t even care – he’s nothing but a target that you can’t kill just yet because he has information. The banter is fun, but in the end, one of you will be alive and the other dead.

You don’t plan to be the latter.

“Nothing,” you finally say. “Now go away. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, yes?” A smirk curls your lips. “I’ve got things to do, so watch that pretty face of yours before I decide to put it into the ground.” With that, you begin moving through the crowd.

“You think I’m pretty?” Jangjun calls.

You roll your eyes.

. . . . .

Freedom doesn’t last more than a few days.

Jangjun really had hoped for longer – hell, he spent a whole morning talking to you, making sure you weren’t out stalking his friends while they went on to the next town. The conversation stretched even longer than he thought it would – carried away by you threatening to publicly kill him, a thought that still makes his blood run a little cold, even if it warms with the reminder of your smile.

Your smile. Jangjun needs to stop thinking of it. Even when your lips are curved in a smirk and not a genuine grin, it brings back so many old memories he thought he’d successfully suppressed – bladed, dangerous, mischievous, like a crescent moon glinting in the sky –

(The last time Jangjun caught himself thinking that way, Joochan asked why he suddenly looked so constipated. His partner had to remind them they were on the run for them to finally shut up.)

But you’re good. Too good. And even though that knife-like smile brings back good memories, it conjures more fear than Jangjun is used to. He should expect the worst from you – it’s all you’ve shown, after all.

Still, he doesn’t expect to wake up to a shadow standing in the corner of the room in which they’re staying, blade poised over a sleeping gardener’s chest.

Jangjun leaps off the futon, silent save for the rustling of blankets. You turn around – at some point you’d gotten yourself a new face mask – but he’s already tackling you to the floor before he can register it, trying to wrench the knife from your fingers –

It whistles past his ear with a flick of your hand before thudding into the wooden wall. Jangjun freezes for the briefest second, by the gods, that came way too close to taking him out –

You flip him around, slamming his head against the floor so hard Jangjun can see stars. He struggles against your hold but you’re clearly not interested in him as a target, more focused on the gardener who’s now sitting up on the floor, eyes wide in the moonlight.

Jangjun catches your foot and pulls just as you lunge toward them, another knife flashing. “RUN!” he yells as you crash to the floor with a sharp yell, blade stuck in the wooden floorboards. 

The gardener looks at Joochan, whose eyes have just blinked open as you kick back, releasing Jangjun’s hold around your ankle – he groans as your foot connects with his face but he still locks eyes with the gardener and snaps, “I SAID RUN!”

“GO!” Joochan yells, now fully awake as he takes in the mess of the room – a knife in the wall, Jangjun on the floor, an assassin beginning to sit up, sharp metal already flashing between their fingers – where do you keep your infinite supply of blades because Jangjun seriously wants to know – and finally the gardener slams the door open and footsteps begin pounding down the hall.

A hiss sounds in the darkness. Jangjun turns back to the dark mass rising from the floor, eyes glittering dangerously in the moonlight. “Interesting. Why is the prince so intent on keeping his kidnappers safe?” A knife twirls between your fingers. “Is it because you’re dead either way, with your captors or at the palace?”

Jangjun blinks. Dead either way?

“I was never kidnapped,” Joochan snarls, sword drawn even though the long blade won’t be of much use in such a small room. “Trust me, my life is better on the run than it ever was back in the palace.”

For the first time since Jangjun revealed his identity in that first fight, you look confused. The fire in your eyes fades, replaced with narrowed curiosity. “You ran away,” you state, eyebrows raised. “Well, that’s something I wasn’t told.”

Hope burns in Jangjun’s chest. Maybe you’ll stop following them now that you know the truth, that whatever the palace told you wasn’t true – maybe you’ll have sympathy, knowing that Joochan is running away from something worse –

The fire returns. “Then would you rather be dead, Prince, instead of my returning you to the palace alive?”

“Let him go,” Jangjun snaps before Joochan can respond. Betrayal buries itself deep in his heart – betrayal at what, he doesn’t know, you never promised to keep him alive or anything once you heard the true story (if you had, he would’ve told you everything within a heartbeat), but the cold detachment in your voice rubs him the wrong way – and he stands, placing himself directly in front of the prince. “Y/N, can’t you just have sympathy –”

Jangjun barely blocks your twirling knife. Metal clangs and your eyes bore into his as you bear down on his too-long sword. “Assassins aren’t trained to have sympathy,” you say, cold, unrelenting. The blade presses harder, screeching against his. “And even if I was different, my life isn’t the only one resting on this mission.”

Somewhere in the background, Joochan scoffs. Jangjun shoots him a warning look, but the prince has already opened his mouth. “What kind of cold-blooded killer protects anyone but themselves?”

All of the weight leaves Jangjun’s blade and suddenly he’s pressing against nothing but air. He falls to the floor, arms trembling, as you whirl around to face Joochan.

Jangjun should feel relief. You’re not holding the knife in a dangerous position. He’s also free from your overwhelming strength. But your voice…

Your voice drips with pure ice.

“Don’t presume to know anything about me, Your Highness,” you snarl. Jangjun rises – he needs to get Joochan away, needs to get him out of your line of vision, why did he have to say anything at all – but a blade thunks into the wood next to his hand and he freezes. You barely even looked at him. “Don’t presume that all cold-blooded killers have absolutely zero capacity for any warmth.” You take a step closer. Jangjun can only get up slowly, silently, pray that you don’t do anything to Joochan before he’s fully risen. “After all, knowing you have someone to protect makes it so much easier to kill, doesn’t it?”

Jangjun stands up, just as shouts and footsteps begin to pound at the end of the hall. “Y/N –”

“Oh, we have company,” you cut him off, eyes glittering like ice shards in wintertime. You step back from Joochan, thankfully, and hoist yourself onto the open window – shit, that’s where you must have come from. “Sadly, even I can’t fight an army alone. Mull on my words, Your Highness. It seems you have some people you’d like to protect – maybe we’ll understand each other better next time.”

“Doubtful,” Joochan snarls. Jangjun flinches at the animosity in his tone. “I don’t kill. Not if I can help it.” His words, full of anguished certainty, grate at Jangjun’s ears – he knows his prince is speaking of the curse.

It doesn’t seem to affect you in the same way. “But you would’ve killed me just now, wouldn’t you?” You turn away, letting a small shower of coins fall from your hand to the floor. “Pay the innkeeper for the damage, yeah? I’ll take responsibility – if you’d like to mention I was an assassin, of course.” Your eyes glint in the moonlight, nothing like anything Jangjun remembers. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

. . .

In hindsight, Joochan was a little too quiet while his partner was off sorting out the mess with the innkeeper, but Jangjun still doesn’t expect him to drag him away at the first opportunity and immediately snap.

“You knew them,” he hisses. “You knew them, Jangjun – you said their name. How?”

His hackles rise. All Jangjun has done this entire time is try to protect him, and now he wants to make a fuss over a name? “I wasn’t always a royal guard,�� he snaps. “I had a life before I joined, and it wasn’t a savory life, either.”

“So how did you know them?” Joochan demands again. “An assassin?”

“They weren’t an assassin when I knew them at the orphanage!” Jangjun crosses his arms. Might as well give the full truth. “They just disappeared one day and I thought they were dead, but then they turned back up as… this.”

“Gods above,” Joochan mutters, putting his head in his hands. “And after all the times you’d fought them, you just conveniently forgot to tell me?”

“What – it wasn’t relevant!” Jangjun snaps. “What was I supposed to say to you? Oh, hey, I know the assassin who was sent after you because it totally matters –”

“You might’ve said something about their skill –”

“I did! Didn’t I come back injured that one time –”

“– can’t believe you know an assassin – they almost killed –”

“They’re not completely inhuman, Joochan –”

The prince snaps his head up, eyes blazing. “Really? So you bought all that bullshit about ‘protecting’?”

Jangjun feels his lips curl in anger. You may be an assassin now, but the protective streak hasn’t gone away – the look in your eyes was the same when you talked about your needlework friend as when you spoke to him, all those years ago. “No, I didn’t buy that bullshit about ‘protecting’,” he snarls, leaning forward. “Because there was nothing to buy. You never knew them – I did, once.”

Joochan scoffs. “It’s almost like you know them too well.”

Too well.

Too well.

Jangjun’s fists clench at his sides. He can’t hurt a prince, can’t punch him, can’t slap him – he’s sworn to protect –

“I’ve spent all these months fighting off assassins for you,” he says lowly. “I killed people because you wouldn’t use your voice and I respected that. I made you two go up ahead as much as I could so that I would be more likely to die than both of you. I even talked to this same assassin for a whole morning and stalled them so you could get away – and now you’re going to insinuate that I have been working against you this entire time?”

Joochan’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. Jangjun itches to punch him, to knock him over and yell –

“Are things fine over here?”

The voice of Joochan’s partner brings both of them back to the present. They look between them unflinchingly, arms crossed. Jangjun almost feels chastised. “We need to move before the assassin comes back.”

Bit by bit, Jangjun forces himself to untense. They’re right. The moon is still high, the stars still bright, and they don’t have anywhere to stay anymore – they need to start moving. “Fine.,” he says roughly, spinning towards the forest. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t speak to Joochan before morning comes.

. . . . .

Meeting Jangjun the next time feels different.

He’s alone, this time. Prince and gardener have probably gone up alone like they usually do. You grind your teeth – Jangjun may not quite be your equal in fighting, but he has a knack for staying one step ahead that you really hate – but you spring out anyway, knocking him to the ground.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jangjun gasps, barely dodging your slash. He rolls over and kick – you avoid his leg, leaping out of the way as he lashes out with his own sword. “Now?”

“Would you have preferred next week?” you snap. A knife tip slides between your fingers and you hold it up, watching him closely. “This has been dragging on long enough – wouldn’t you like to get out of this limbo sooner rather than later?”

“I’d say yes if I didn’t want to stay alive, but I do.” Jangjun’s lips curve, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It makes you blink – did something happen to him? “So, sadly, I’ll take limbo a little longer over death.”

“Of course,” you mutter. “That would make my job too easy.”

He lunges towards you in reply. You dance out of the way only just in time, frozen for a second because –

Jangjun doesn’t do offense. He hasn’t been on the offense, hasn’t made the first move in all the times you’ve fought.

Which means he’s now trying to kill you just as much as you’re trying to kill him.

Ah. So that’s what was different.

You bare your teeth, dodging another strike as you swipe under his arm. He hisses as your blade rips through flesh, blood dripping from his side onto the ground. “You know, you’d have an easier time staying alive if you gave up your royal duties and just left the prince to his own devices,” you say, nimbly whirling around as his sword flashes.

Jangjun’s eyes darken. You barely avoid his next hit. “He’s one of only a few I trust to help make life better for people like me.”

Blades clash. Sparks fly. You spin away, eyebrows furrowed. “People like you?”

He doesn’t mean orphans. That’s too generic. He would’ve said “people like us,” then – you fall under that category too, and Jangjun hasn’t forgotten. People like me…

Another person flashes through your mind, a seamstress forced to put her skill into peasant shirts and clothes when her fingers should be flying through colorful threads and shimmering silks, weaving stories into cloth and tapestries.

“I wish you didn’t have to hide,” you say. “Your art is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

A bitter smile, fingers deftly embroidering a small piece of silk even as she looks at you. “People like me will always have to hide.”

People like me…

A memory returns of Jangjun, looking at the threads in your bag like they were something precious.

Your eyes widen. Gods, how did you not put it together before? “You’re a weaver.”

Jangjun freezes halfway across the clearing you two have torn up in your fight, fingers clenched so hard around his sword that you can see his knuckles turn white. “What, just another reason to kill me?” He laughs, cold, desperate – it chills your spine even more than your employer’s deadly gaze. Jangjun never laughs – laughed – that way. “Collect an additional reward for the murder of a weaver?”

You school your features. “All are equal in the eyes of death,” you quote, readying your knives. “And what makes you think that prince of yours will do shit to help you? His own family killed yours.”

He doesn’t move, though his jaw tightens, the rest of his body tensed to spring. “I don’t,” he finally says, voice sharp but with the slightest wobble at the edge.

The old urge to hold him close itches in your fingers. You clench your knives harder. The urge doesn’t leave.

“I don’t,” he repeats, “but he’s the closest thing I’ve got to hope. And…” His eyes meet yours, cold, betrayed. Any trace of a smile on his face has gone. “He’s one of the few who never left me.”

One of the few who never left me.

Who never left me.

Never left me.

You almost take a step back as the words pierce your chest. “You – you think I meant to leave? You think it was my fucking fault I disappeared?”

Jangjun doesn’t flinch. “Do you know how much it fucking hurt when you left?” he snarls. “It might not have been your fault, but you still left – and you know that my sister disappeared too, how do you think I felt when I’d just convinced myself you were dead and then you came back like – like this?”

“You think it was all sunshine and rainbows for me?” you spit. “Seriously? You think I didn’t nearly get myself killed all four times I tried to escape? You think I didn’t try to convince myself that you were dead too just so I’d give up that stupid hope that you were still alive – and then I come back to see you as one of my targets, someone I’m supposed to kill – you think that was fine for me, too?”

He holds your gaze. “You honestly never seemed to have a problem with it.”

Shit. Gods, why did you say anything at all? Why didn’t you close your mouth – now he knows, now he fucking knows how much it initially hurt to realize just who you had to kill in order to keep someone else alive –

Too late. The words are already out of your mouth, Jangjun has interpreted them, and you don’t know what to say in response. “I do have a problem with it,” you finally say. “But I have a new life now.” You stare into eyes that once used to keep you alive. “And I’m not going to give it up for anything.”

Not for anything.

Not even for you.

Jangjun laughs, short, brief. “You’d die for this friend you have, wouldn’t you?”

This time, it’s your turn to hold his gaze. “In a heartbeat.”

Wind whistles through the trees. Then Jangjun breaks the silence, his voice low, fractured, almost broken. “There was a time when you would’ve died for me, I think.”

Your heart twists. Yes, there was a time, a time when you were younger and more naïve, just another orphan of many at the overcrowded orphanage, when you would’ve died for Jangjun. But such a time never came, not until now.

When it’s already too late.

“We’ve both changed, Jangjun.” You raise your knives. “We both have different people we want to protect.”

His gaze shatters for a moment before it turns flinty, cold. “For the record,” he says softly, “there was a time when I would’ve died for you, too.”

Blades meet in a crash of metal and sparks.

. . . . .

The gardener’s song isn’t as strong on wounds as it is with plants, but Jangjun welcomes any last bit of respite from the pain that he can get. At least the blood has stopped flowing, even if the cuts still sting.

His head hurts more than the wounds do, anyway.

Jangjun sits awake in the alley, staring at the sky of stars. He only barely got away from you, leading you out of the forest and into the town before ducking into the first open place he could find, some old tavern full of seedy people. No one gave him a second glance – people walk into bars injured and bloody all the time, apparently – and he’d waited with his heart in his throat, praying his instincts were right, that you wouldn’t be waiting for him outside and that you wouldn’t follow him to where Joochan has promised to meet him, an alley they’d found when the prince had had to come here to visit one time.

You didn’t follow, as far as Jangjun knows. You never popped out of the shadows to ram a blade through his chest, never dropped down from a roof to slit his throat. For all your bravado, you always seem to take the hard way of killing him – was it that foolish of him to believe you didn’t want to kill him?

But if you weren’t lying, knowing that you have him as a target hurts you, too. You just have other people you care about more.

Jangjun doesn’t think you were lying. That’s not the type of thing someone says as a lie in the middle of a fight. But now, as he’s beginning to realize just how different you are from the teenager he remembered at the orphanage, how can he trust what he thinks?

Gods. Jangjun buries his head in his stinging hands. One of the cuts has probably opened up again.

Why is it so hard to accept that you’ve changed?

Something shifts. Jangjun’s head whips up, ready to dodge a flash of silver in the dark –

It’s only Joochan, startling awake from some nightmare or another. His eyes blink open with a gasp, glittering in the moonlight, and then he winces, rubbing his neck. Jangjun hears a hiss of pain and meets Joochan’s eyes out of habit.

Discomfort crawls up his spine. They haven’t spoken much since that last night at the inn where his gardener nearly died (they would’ve died, definitely, if Jangjun hadn’t woken up at the sound of light footsteps), and neither of them has apologized. But Jangjun doesn’t look away and Joochan doesn’t either.

The prince speaks first. “I’m sorry, Jangjun.”

Jangjun blinks. “Come again?”

“I’m sorry,” he says louder.

A mocking grin curves Jangjun’s lips. “I know, I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

“You –” Joochan scoffs, exasperated, but Jangjun detects a little bit of fondness that lightens his heart. “Gods, you’re a nightmare.”

“And yet you keep me around.”

“For some reason, yes.” Joochan smiles slightly. “But really. I am sorry.” He swallows visibly, eyes still meeting Jangjun’s even if he can tell how hard it is. “It was out of line for me to say that you were anything but loyal. I was angry that they’d almost died, but… that doesn’t excuse it.”

“It doesn’t,” Jangjun agrees. “But I get it. And I’m sorry, too.” The grin falls off his lips as memories of a bladed smile, sharp eyes glinting in the moonlight flash through his mind. “It obviously doesn’t look good that I know an assassin, of all types of people, especially the one who’s after us.”

“You don’t need to apologize for knowing someone.”

Maybe I do, because I cared about them.

Cared.

Jangjun swallows the bitter taste in his throat. He still cares about you. It’s just…

What would he do if it was a choice between you dead, or Joochan?

The answer comes immediately. Joochan. For all the reasons he told you and more – Joochan is good, a truly good person. Even though he technically holds no royal status anymore, he has hope that the prince will be able to bring about some change for weavers, or at least provide a safe haven for him and any others he might find. He deserves Jangjun’s loyalty and more. Jangjun knows he would die for him.

His heart thumps, painfully. There was a time when he would’ve died for you. But…

“You’d die for this friend you have, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Maybe he’s changed more than he thought, too.

“Even then, they’re still out to kill us.” He looks up at the cold crescent moon, previously a comfort, now a reminder of your smile. “And you have to know that my loyalty is to you, not to them.”

Regardless of how much I care for them.

Joochan looks like he wants to say something, but he stops himself. His eyes rove over Jangjun’s face, leaving him feeling too open, too vulnerable – what if Joochan sees his struggle? What if he sees that even though Jangjun speaks the truth, his heart screams that it’s a lie?

But nothing comes of it. The prince just dips his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

On any other day, Jangjun would just flippantly say no problem. He doesn’t like to deal with sensitivity and emotions the way Joochan does, after all. But there is a problem. A lot of them, actually. So he just half-smiles and says, “You’re welcome.”

There will come a time when you two will fight again. Jangjun has never wanted to kill you before. He still doesn’t now.

But if he has to, he will. He will.

Because he has other people he needs to protect, too.

. . . . .

You’re back home.

Or almost. You weren’t born here, if the orphanage owners were telling the truth (they had no reason to lie, you’re pretty sure). But since the day you were snatched off the street, this has been where you spent the majority of your time. You don’t know why the prince and his little posse have come out here to hide, but at least it gives you a chance to see your friend before you have to move on again.

“What happened to you?” is the first thing she says when you swing by her stall. Her nose wrinkles in mock disgust, but you can see the concern in her face when you drop your bag of things on her counter, wincing when the strap digs slightly into one of your cut fingers.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Is that the kind of greeting you give a friend who’s brought you all this nice stuff?”

“Y/N, honestly,” she says, eyeing the bag. “You don’t need to spend all this on me, it’s really fine –”

“Just take it,” you say, half-smiling. “You know I’m not going to stop giving you stuff no matter what you say.”

Because it’s an apology. An apology for keeping so many truths from her – what you do, who you really are – and for putting her indirectly in danger. Most assassins know to stay far, far away from here or you’ll rip them limb from limb (literally – Minho once tried to mess around with you and that was the only time you’ve ever seen him scared of you), but there’s always a chance that someone whom you’ve wronged will come back for revenge. And what then?

But you haven’t told her. You can’t – all the breath disappears from your throat the second you even think about it. Because what if you lose her, too, the only constant you’ve had since Jangjun, all those years ago?

Your lips twist. Don’t think about him.

“Y/N?”

Too late, you realize you’ve been staring into the distance for a while. “Sorry.” A smile plasters itself back onto your face, only slightly forced. “Zoned out. Thinking about work.”

The concern comes back in full force. Even if she doesn’t know exactly what you do, she knows it isn’t exactly legal – the stuff you buy her, the money you leave at her doorstep doesn’t speak of perfectly lawful causes, after all. She knows it’s dangerous, knows it’s not easy work, but you can handle her concern as long as you don’t have to explain the truth.

“Hey, it’s not bad.” You smile wider, crinkling your eyes to make it genuine. “Just a little rough, recently.” That’s putting it lightly. “How have you been?”

“I mean, I’m not bankrupt yet.” Her lips curl sardonically. “Thanks to you, really. But I’m staying afloat.” She looks around cautiously, then down at the several spools of thread and lengths of cloth sitting at the bottom of the bag. “Weaving… it keeps me sane.”

The gratitude shining in her eyes makes everything worth it, the lies, the pain. She deserves to be this happy and so much more. “Always glad to be of service,” you say, breathing a sigh of relief when your voice doesn’t crack at the end. “Do you have time to take a short walk?”

She looks up and down the small marketplace, whose activity has begun to wind down with the approaching end of the day. “Probably? Give me a moment, let me pack up a little.”

You weave through the thinning crowds together, talking as the sun sets further. Words come and go in waves, natural, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relaxing as you finally put your mind to things other than murder and boys you knew at orphanages in years past.

But then her eyes fix on a spot in the distance and she stops talking mid-sentence. You furrow your eyebrows, following her gaze – she never stops talking about her latest miniature tapestries or clothing designs –

Your eyes comes to rest on a familiar head of black hair as it rushes through the throng.

All of a sudden, the thoughts of murder and boys come back, pounding every corner of your skull. But that’s normal, and you can deal with it – you can’t not expect to see the people that you’re stalking in the same town, after all. 

What isn’t normal is how your best friend looks like she’s seen a ghost. 

You call her name once, twice, three times before she finally shakes her head and responds. “Sorry,” she says, voice thin. “I saw… I thought I saw someone I knew.”

You look back, pretending like you didn’t see the exact same person. “Who?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head again, like she’s trying to convince herself. “I just…” A short laugh falls from her lips, bitter, broken. “I thought I saw my brother. Well, a grown-up version of him.”

Brother. She has a brother – you already knew that – but she never described him, never told you his name. All you know is that he was a weaver too and that they weren’t blood-related, her family took him in when his was killed and after her parents were executed, they somehow got separated and she never saw him again. Your heart broke for her the first and only time she ever told you the story – it breaks again, even now, to know that she thought she saw her brother in Jangjun’s face.

Unless –

Your eyes widen.

Jangjun had a sister. He had a sister who disappeared when he was young, after his parents were killed – he never saw her again –

No. You try to breathe. No, it’s not possible, it can’t fucking be possible – there is no way Jangjun is your best friend’s long lost brother, the brother she thought was dead all of these years –

He’s a weaver. He’s a weaver. It’s half the reason he’s stuck by the prince for so long even when he decided he’d had enough to do with royal life – Jangjun is a weaver and your best friend’s long lost brother was a weaver too.

“What – what was your brother’s name?” you ask softly, trying to keep the shake out of your tone. You pray for a name that isn’t the one pounding through your head, the name that gave you the courage to attempt four escapes before you convinced yourself the owner was dead, the name that’s haunted you for the past few months as you try to kill its owner and the two others he’s trying so hard to protect –

“Jangjun,” she says softly, eyes sparkling in the last glow of afternoon sunlight. “His name was Jangjun.”

Your heart drops like a stone.

. . .

You’re not exactly sure when you start breathing again, but luckily, it’s before your friend has the chance to see that there’s something wrong with you, too. She’s preoccupied with her own thoughts, which gives you a bit of time to compose yourself. “Hey, are you all right?” you ask, hoping your voice doesn’t tremble. “Maybe we should go back.”

“I – yeah. Sorry.” She looks down, shoulders sagging. “I was just rattled. Sorry that this got cut short.”

“Hey, shut up.” You nudge her slightly, curving the corners of your lips slightly even as your heart drags down, down, down. “If you’re not feeling well, it’s completely fine. I’ll hopefully be back in a couple of months, anyway – we can talk more then.”

You help her pack up the stall, walk everything back to her small house. At the door you bid her goodbye, and after tossing a pouch of coins inside, you run off into the forest, laughing as she yells fond obscenities behind you.

The laughter dies away the second you know you’re far enough away that she can’t hear you.

Jangjun is your best friend’s brother. Your best friend is Jangjun’s sister. They’re long lost siblings, siblings who loved each other, who miss each other like the earth misses the sky, who both believe the other is dead…

Your back hits a tree and you slide down against the bark. You don’t know. You don’t fucking know. You could be wrong. All of this is speculation, none of it might be true, she could have spoken of a different Jangjun with black hair, someone who isn’t your Jangjun, loyal guard to the prince, one of the targets you’ve been assigned to kill because you kill to keep yourself and your best friend alive –

Your head snaps up. She needs to stay alive. She has to. She’s all you have, no one else – there’s no one else you have, no one since they took you away from Jangjun and made you into this –

You have to kill him. You have to, or else you’ll be dead and there’ll be no one to support or protect your friend. Her business will fail and she’ll be forced to go into the dirty lines of work you dabble in, or worse, people who hated you might go after her. This is your fault – you cared about her so much that you couldn’t leave and now people know she’s precious to you, so you have to stay alive just to protect her from dangers she doesn’t even know, like assassins –

The thought of Minho getting anywhere near her makes you shudder. 

You have to kill Lee Jangjun, her brother, in order to keep her alive.

A dry, strangled sob escapes your lips. Who’s more important? Sister or brother? Both mean things to you, one a lifeline when you were a teenager, the other a lifeline now, one whom you loved as in a romance, the other whom you love as a dearest friend – who do you choose? How can you choose?

Your fists clench, nails digging into your palms. You’ve come so far, fought Jangjun so many times – even though you slipped up once, you’ve made it clear you will kill him for this best friend whom he doesn’t know is his sister. He’s tried to kill you, too – his loyalty to the former prince outweighs whatever he might or might not have felt for you.

You’re on even ground. Even ground, you tell yourself, even as the crescents in your skin begin to burn with blood. One of you will kill the other, no matter what – so all you need to do is keep this secret to yourself.

Another secret. It burns on your tongue. Another secret you’ll have to keep from your best friend, besides your job and how much danger it puts her in.

You swallow, staring up at the sky. It doesn’t matter. Once Jangjun is dead, it’ll only make true the false certainty she has in her mind. Jangjun doesn’t even have a clue his sister is alive – he’ll never know. Only you will know, and even if the secret eats you alive, you’ll keep it until the day you die. That way, it only hurts you. No one else.

The crescent moon hears your silent vow.

I’ll kill him. I swear I will, or I’ll die trying.

I have to.

. . . . .

Everything hurts. Everything either aches with a sore muscle or stings and burns with a bloody slice but instinct drives Jangjun to block your two knives as they arc down towards his chest, glinting coldly in the moonlight –

His teeth rattle in his jaw at the impact, the sound of metal against metal screeching in his ears. It takes all of his strength to keep his stance, to push back against you bearing your blades down even harder. Your eyes glint as they stare into his, wild, feral – he’s never seen you look like this before, not even when Joochan insulted you so many months ago at the inn.

Has it only been months? To Jangjun, it feels like you’ve been back for years, chasing him with your two twin knives, smaller blades flying from your fingers and ripping apart his skin –

You whip your blades away and Jangjun collapses from the sudden lack of weight. One stabs down, down and he rolls away, barely avoiding it as it plunges into the ground. Dirt stings one of his open wounds but Jangjun grits his teeth, rises on one knee to stand up again – he can do it, he has to do it, he has to because Joochan barely got a head start and if Jangjun doesn’t keep you occupied, you’re going to catch up and kill him –

His head slams against a tree trunk so hard he sees stars. Pain blooms from the back of his skull and he groans involuntarily, eyes closing as his sword slips out of limp fingers, falling to the ground.

Cold, sharp metal rests under his chin. Panting breaths puff against his face. “Tell me where they are,” you hiss, “and I’ll make it quick.”

Jangjun almost laughs. This is like déjà vu from the first time you fought, the first time he saw you since they took you away from the streets all those years ago. Only this time, there’s no banter. 

He could change that. 

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he whispers, the corners of his lips rising briefly in a smirk. “Don’t you know how much I hate tree bits in my hair?”

Your eyes look shiny. Jangjun would almost believe they were teary if he didn’t know for certain you would kill him in a heartbeat, even if it hurt. You might cry later, but not now. Not now.

But does he know even that? Both of you have changed – all of his intuition could be wrong.

He’s right, this time. If those are tears in your eyes, they don’t fall. “Don’t worry.” Your voice doesn’t even shake – if you hadn’t said it yourself, Jangjun would have no problem believing you truly didn’t care that you had to kill him, your childhood best friend. “I’ll pick them out of your scalp when you’re dead, just so you look nice at the funeral.”

“Would you cry then?” Jangjun asks, voice barely a whisper. The knife is too close. “Would you?”

Your gaze shutters. Maybe you’re about to cry. Maybe you’re holding back tears. But you don’t cry, don’t sob, don’t even say anything, so Jangjun doesn’t know, and he’ll never know, anyway, because that knife is going to be stained all over with his blood in seconds. “Tell me where they are,” you repeat. “I’ll find them, anyway – you might as well give yourself a quick and easy death.”

The pain in Jangjun’s head is making it increasingly hard to think. “No.”

That wild, feral look comes back into your eyes, splintering your pupils in the pale moonlight. The blade presses in deeper and your lips thin, no longer stretched in the knife-like curve Jangjun fell in love with – is still in love with –

Deeper. Deeper. Jangjun fights for breath. “Why won’t you just get it over with? Is this your idea of making me suffer?”

Deeper. Deeper. “Seriously –” he gasps – “come on, Y/N.”

Deeper. Deeper. He’s surprised you haven’t broken skin. “I’m not going to say shit –”

With a sound that’s more animal than human, a sob mixed with a guttural cry, the knife begins to drag and Jangjun gasps, ready for the searing pain of skin ripping beneath metal –

The blade drops to the ground and Jangjun follows its path, sinking down without your weight to hold him up anymore. You stumble away, not even flinching when the knife falls dangerously close to your foot, eyes squeezed tightly shut as you take another step back, and then another. Your eyes glitter in the moonlight, the wild, feral look replaced by something even scarier.

Broken, bloody glass. Shards of something completely beyond repair.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” he asks, words wheezing, half air.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re too valuable. You have information.”

Both reasons he gave so many months ago in a crowded marketplace under the sun, just before you pressed your knife into his side to show him just how much you’d changed. He didn’t want to believe it then – didn’t allow himself to believe it then – but now he does. You’ve changed.

But you bought thread – blue thread, he remembers – for your needlework friend. Spoke of her with a familiar smile. Something’s stayed the same, that protective streak. That giving streak.

His lips curve into the trembling semblance of a smirk. “You sure those are the only reasons?”

You snatch up your knife with a grace that belies your broken gaze, positioning the blade between your fingers. But you don’t throw.

“Go.”

Jangjun blinks. “What –”

“Go.” The word rips itself from your throat, grates in Jangjun’s ears – it roars and shrieks all at once, some unimaginable pain flaying his bloody skin. “Before I change my fucking mind.”

He scrambles up, pressing a hand to the wound in his side. You don’t move as he picks up his sword, sheathes it – not a muscle twitches even as he stumbles away between the trees, fleeing the unknown pain in your voice.

Your shattered eyes follow him into the dark.

. . . . .

There are only two knives up your sleeves today, another two sheathed in plain sight at your waist. You lean against the trunk of a tree, fingers clenching a folded, crumpled sheet of paper. Your tired eyes slip shut as the sun begins its descent into the sky.

You couldn’t kill him. You thought you could. Swore you would.

But three months ago, in the forest bordering this very town, you proved yourself wrong.

Your eyes squeeze even more tightly closed. Even though only paper rests in your hand, you can feel the handle of a blade against your palm, pressing it into his neck as blood began to bead on the skin. Moonlight glinted off the metal, off the red streaks painted on his skin – wounds that you had wrought with your own hands. You’d already caused so much pain. Why couldn’t you just end it right there?

“You’re too valuable. You have information.”

Bullshit, even to your own ears. But you didn’t want to say the truth, didn’t want to reveal anything more than you already had by admitting that one time that it hurt you to know he was your target.

“You sure those are the only reasons?”

You take a long, shuddering breath. It’s been three months and those words still haunt you.

How differently could that conversation have gone?

No, maybe you’d say. No, they’re not. There are too many more.

And then, bloodied and exhausted, Jangjun might still give you that tongue-in-the-cheek smirk as best he could and say, like my pretty face?

Or maybe not. You swallow. Maybe you’d have hurt him too much for him to joke like that.

But if he did, you’d shake your head and say no. Not his pretty face – or at least, not just his pretty face. The person who lies beneath that pretty face means more to you than the eyes, the nose, the lips all by themselves.

Then why?

Because…

Because you hurt him. You hurt her. In the process of trying not to hurt one, you hurt them both and even yourself, because all you know how to do is cause pain. All you know how to do is hurt. You slice skin and plunge knives into throats and watch blood drip from cold bodies because that’s all you know, even if you hate it. That’s how you live. It’s all you know.

No, it isn’t, some little part of you tries to argue. Maybe that’s the part that wants you to be the same as that teenager at the orphanage, the teenager Jangjun wanted you to be. You know how to care.

Your first instinct is to deny it. No, you don’t know how to care – if you did, you wouldn’t hurt people so much, would you? But you do. You even told the prince you did. You do know how to care – it’s just that the way you care brings pain to those you love. Always. Without fail.

You care. You fucking care. You cared about your friend so much that you couldn’t stay away even if it would keep her safe. You cared about her so much that you tried to make up for your inabilities with gifts of thread and silk and money. You cared about her to the point that you resolved to kill her brother so you would stay alive to keep protecting her from the danger you keep putting her in.

But you cared about her brother, too. You cared about Jangjun enough that you couldn’t kill him even for her, couldn’t kill him to keep you alive, couldn’t kill him to keep her safe. Somehow, you still cared for that stupid royal guard even years after you first separated, enough that you couldn’t do what you’d been trained to do at all costs. Murder.

You bury your head in your hands. Gods, life would be so much easier if you didn’t fucking care.

But you do. You care. Deeply. Just in all the wrong ways.

And the only way to distance yourself from that is to remove yourself entirely from the equation. No matter whether you live or die – and it’s more likely that you’ll die – you need to be gone.

Or you’ll only hurt them more.

You open your eyes, glancing up through the trees. The orange of the afternoon has finally dipped below the horizon, the first stars begun to twinkle in the sky. Hm. Maybe he isn’t coming. Not that you can blame him, thought – after all you put him through, no wonder he doesn’t trust you.

Then leaves rustle under soft footsteps, and Jangjun appears in a halo of hazy orange-gold.

You stare at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn, shoulders tense. Even if he’s here, he definitely doesn’t trust you. It hurts, a little bit, but you suppose it’s what you had coming. After all, you were the one who was trying to convince him this whole time that you were dangerous. That you could kill him.

“I got your note,” he says flatly. His eyes glance over your figure, take in the two knives belted at your sides. “Almost thought you’d given up, honestly.”

The dryness in your throat makes it hard to swallow. You almost want to say something like I’m not here to commit murder, but even in your head, the words fall flat. After all you’ve done, you wouldn’t even trust yourself.

But if he thought you were going to do that anyway, why show up in the first place?

Doesn’t matter. You open your mouth to ask the rehearsed question. What was your sister’s name? The words sit on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill into the evening air –

“Do you think you could have killed me?”

Jangjun blinks. His eyebrows wrinkle further, though not with mistrust – just confusion. Then something else. But he doesn’t say anything.

You curse internally. “Never mind,” you mutter, turning away. “That’s not what I wanted to ask.” Even if I wanted to know the answer. You swallow. “What was your sister’s name?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.” You dare to glance back. “Just the first name.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a familiar name falls from his lips, edged with pain.

You close your eyes. Confirmed. “She’s alive.”

A sharp intake of breath. More silence. “You’re lying.” Two words composed of disbelief, anger, betrayal…

Hope.

The corners of your lips lift, just barely. Jangjun deserves a bit of hope. “No, I’m not.”

“Is this your idea of a game?” he snaps. “Because, Y/N, this hurts more than anything you’ve ever done to me already.”

Ouch. But deserved.

You open your eyes. “I’m not lying,” you repeat. “And I didn’t know she was your sister until several months ago.” Before I broke down and tried to kill you for the last time.

“Fine. Let’s say you aren’t lying.” Jangjun crosses his arms. The betrayal in his face cuts deeper than any knife you’ve ever handled. “Why are you telling me? What kind of leverage do you want?”

“I’ll take you to her.” You pause, watching his eyes widen. “On one condition.”

His gaze immediately narrows. “I’m not saying shit.”

“You don’t have to.” You lift up the folded piece of paper that’s been slowly crumpling itself under your sweaty fingers this whole time, tearstained, messy, but truthful. You’ve only written the truth in its lines. No lies.

Your fingers shake the longer you look at the letter. She’ll hate you after reading it. She’ll hate you for everything you’ve done, even if it was for her, and the thought of your best friend hating you so much makes you want to rip the paper to pieces –

No. It doesn’t matter if she hates you. You’ll be gone by the time she’s thought of anything to say to you – if she wants to say anything at all.

You hold out the letter. “Give this to her. Don’t read it unless she allows you.” You force yourself to hold Jangjun’s gaze. “And when she’s done, take her somewhere far from here. As far away as possible.”

His eyes narrow. “You didn’t hurt –”

“Never.” At least, not in the way you think.

Jangjun takes the folded paper between two pinched fingers and slides it into a pocket. “Where is she?”

“Are you going to do what I said?” you ask.

A moment passes. Then he nods. “Yes.”

You turn around and step out of the trees, into the town. “Follow me.”

Evening dims to night as you walk through empty alleys and streets, Jangjun several paces behind. Not once do you turn around to make sure he’s following – you can hear his footsteps, and somehow, instinctively, you’re sure he won’t lose this tentative, temporary trust in you, not now.

Or so you hope.

You weave through the final buildings, emerging on a dusty street lined with dry, wild grass. The street ends not far ahead, but you push through the overgrown grass until you stand in front of a small house, windows boarded shut in a way that makes it look abandoned, but the faintest glow of warm light peeks through cracks in the wooden slats.  

You stop. “She lives here.”

Jangjun pauses beside you. Enough moonlight shines from the sky that you can see the painful hope in his eyes. “How do you know?”

What will he think if you tell him the truth?

You clench your fists, hard. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter what he thinks. He’s not going to see you again after this. “She was my friend.”

He’s looking at you. You know he is. His gaze bores into you like one of your knives digging into skin – he wants you to look back at him.

You don’t. “Go.”

One foot steps forward. Then another. Slowly, step by step, he walks up to the front of the house, as though in a trance, until he stands in front of the door.

And doesn’t do anything.

By all the gods. “Maybe you should knock,” you hiss in a carrying whisper. “You know, the thing where you hit the door with your hand.”

He looks back. It’s too dark to see his full expression, but it doesn’t look hateful, like you expected. Instead, he just lifts his hand and knocks.

Warm light spills onto the ground, darkened only by a figure in the doorway. She freezes – so does Jangjun –

Then she pulls him into one of her tight hugs that you’ve been on the receiving end of several times. You watch as Jangjun’s arms wrap around her too, slowly but with no less strength, and two figures twist into one with a love and care that you know you can only dream of.

Bittersweet coats your tongue. Yes, you can only dream of giving such care, much less receiving it. But at least you’ve done a little to alleviate all the pain you’ve caused, whether it be intentional or not, and there’s nothing more for you to do. Except stay out of their bubble of happiness.

You pull your hood over your head, turning away. This isn’t your happiness to partake in. Neither of them will notice you leaving, anyway, not even Jangjun – they’re still in their own world.

A little smile spreads your lips as you walk forward into the night.

By the time either of them looks back, you plan to have disappeared.

. . . . .

For the first few weeks, Jangjun tries to find you. You can’t have gone far, at least not in several days – he scours the town for you, then when they move, he searches the next town again and again until his sister sits down and makes him see reason, that if you don’t want to be found, you won’t be found. Besides, if you were still hiding out here, he would’ve at least glimpsed you already.

So he gives up his search. His sister is right – whatever happens, until you want someone to find you, no one will. Instead, he spends the days, weeks, months learning and relearning his sister, watching and accommodating and teaching himself how to be an older brother once more. Jangjun tries not to make the same mistakes he did with you – they’ve both changed, of course, even more so than you considering his sister was a child when they were separated, not even a teenager – but he still messes up, inevitably. So does she. Still, though, they learn. Together.

It’s more than anything Jangjun ever could have wanted.

But there’s still an emptiness in his chest, an emptiness he tries to fill with teasing his sister and laughing as she snaps back at him, learning new weaving patterns at the loom by her side. Joochan tells him he looks happier several months later, and Jangjun feels happier, too. There’s no denying that. But something eats at him as time passes. He knows what it is. He just doesn’t want to say it.

He’s waiting for you.

Jangjun doesn’t get it, not at first. He doesn’t understand what drives him out into the town to search for you from dawn to dusk, until someone finds him and drags him back. You tried to kill him – got close several times, too close – and you knew about his sister for three months before saying anything. You’re not the same teenager Jangjun fell for back at the orphanage, you’re someone different. More dangerous.

Yet he still wakes up from dreams of your curved, knife-like smile, and is disappointed when only a cold crescent moon meets his eyes instead.

When his sister finally lets him read your last letter, though, he understands. Through the tearstains and blurred words that mark the paper, he understands your motives, your actions, your apologies. He understands why you did what you did, he understands why you hurt people for the sake of helping others, he understands your overwhelming urge to protect those who’ve shown you kindness because that’s what he does, too, just in a less destructive way – a way that you could learn, if you ever came back.

“They meant a lot to you,” his sister says when his eyes finally lift from the letter. “Didn’t they?”

Jangjun can barely choke out the words to say you still mean a lot to him. Because even now, with all the parts that have changed, Jangjun still loves you, every part of you.

He doesn’t look for you, though, only waits. You don’t want to be found – your last apologies make that clear. You don’t even say goodbye in the end. It’s obvious you don’t expect any of them to want you back. 

Jangjun does. He wants to take your scarred hands between his, lace his fingers with your own, tell you that he forgave you a long time ago and that he loved you, still loves you, with everything he has. So he waits, hoping you’ll return – because if the gods forced your paths to meet once after they diverged, there has to be a chance they’ll let it happen once more.

Then, one day, you return.

He almost misses it. It’s the middle of the night, only a waxing moon spilling pale light through the window, and if Jangjun hadn’t woken up to get some water, he wouldn’t have heard the soft thump of something hitting the ground just outside the house.

Frowning, he pokes his head outside. No one else is awake, so it couldn’t be any of them –

A familiar figure freezes in front of a small package placed by the door.

Jangjun’s eyes widen. It’s you but it can’t be you, you didn’t have that scar under your eye and you weren’t as thin as this –

“Y/N?”

You spin around and sprint away.

Jangjun stays still for a moment, blinking – you came back, you came back –

And now you’re running away.

He sprints into the trees, crashing through fallen leaves and branches that seem to materialize out of nowhere. You’re up ahead – he can hear your footsteps thudding over the fallen grass, see your faint outline in the moonlight – and he’s calling your name but you don’t reply with anything but panting gasps and – are you crying?

It’s almost comical how easily he catches up. Just months ago, you probably could’ve beaten him in a sprint, but now he grabs your arm before you’re even that deep into the trees, spinning you around so he can look at you, just look at you, look at a face he’s been waiting to see for almost a year –

You fight. You struggle in his grip, sobbing now, hitting him with your free hand until he takes that one too, wraps his fingers around yours to stop your fight. “Y/N, please,” he begs, trying to calm you. “I’m not going to hurt you, just –”

“I know that!” you yell, twisting in his grip. “I’m the one –”

A knife slips out of your sleeve, probably loose from your struggle. Its tip digs into Jangjun’s wrist before it drops to the ground.

Beads of blood well up on his skin, glistening in the moonlight. Jangjun stares at the tiny cut, at the thin river of red beginning to trickle down his skin.

You wrench yourself away from his slackened grip, tears blooming in your eyes. Jangjun reaches out again, tries to take your hand – “Y/N, it doesn’t even hurt, it’s fine –”

“It doesn’t matter!” you yell. “It doesn’t fucking matter! All I ever do – you were never going to hurt me.” Your breath gasps, heavy and uneven. “I’m the one who’s only ever going to hurt you.”

Jangjun’s heart cracks at your broken voice. “Y/N, stop.” He takes a step closer and tries not to feel hurt when you take a step back. “Please, just – are you okay?”

“Why do you care?” you snap. “I tried to kill you for over six months!”

“But you didn’t kill me,” he says, holding your gaze even as you try to look away. “You didn’t.”

“So what? I still tried –”

“I did too,” Jangjun interrupts. “I tried to kill you too.”

“But I’m worse,” you snap, words almost a sob. “I’m worse – I’ve killed so many people and some of them I don’t even regret, I try to care but when I do I only hurt the people I’m trying to care for –”

“That last time, you asked me if I would’ve killed you.” Jangjun reaches out. You flinch, but you don’t fight him this time when he takes your hands. “At one point, I swore I would’ve. But now I know I couldn’t.”

Something like a laugh rips itself from your throat, but it sounds more like a wheeze and a gasp and grates at Jangjun’s ears. “Are you stupid? Why wouldn’t you?”

“The same reason you couldn’t kill me.” He squeezes your limp, scarred hands. “Am I stupid for being in love with you?”

“Yes!” You try to tear yourself away again, but he keeps his grip. “Yes, you are, Lee Jangjun – I’m a murderer, a killer for hire, gods, I shouldn’t even have come back, this was such a fucking mistake –”

“Why did you come back?”

You bite your lip hard, as though debating whether or not to say something. Then steel flashes across your expression as you stare into his eyes. “I tried to find you,” you reply, voice tight, “because of that package I left by your door. Thread. Money. Gods, I don’t even remember what I put in there – I didn’t want any of it.”

Jangjun blinks. “Then what were you going to do?”

“I was going to just… leave. I’m a loose cannon.” You laugh, a cutting, brief sound. “I had a year to kill you. Then I didn’t. I’d failed my last assignment – it was either succeed with this one or die.”

His blood freezes. No wonder you were so set on your mission. “Y/N –”

“They’re dead.” Your voice is bleak. “I killed my employer. And several other assassins. Or they would’ve gone after you. And me. Again.”

Jangjun just stares. By all the gods, just how much did you go through in this past year?

“Now you know.” You try to tug your hands away again. “Why aren’t you letting go of me?”

That brings Jangjun back to the present. “Why would I?”

“You really are stupid,” you mutter. “Why do you want someone with all this blood on their hands to be anywhere near you?”

“You seem to think, that just because you’ve killed people and hurt others while trying to protect them, you’re evil,” Jangjun says slowly.

You snort. “Bingo!”

“You hurt yourself more.”

That takes you aback. “So what? I still hurt other people – I hurt you –”

“You’re not evil.” Jangjun forces you to look at him. “You’re just lost.”

“Broken,” you correct.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But not unfixable.”

You fall silent.

“You’re not evil,” he repeats. “Not even unforgivable. I forgave you a long time ago. So did my sister. She misses you, you know.”

“Why –”

“You were there for her when no one else was,” Jangjun interrupts. “Not even me. You only ever tried to protect her, even if you didn’t always tell the whole truth.”

“Your prince probably doesn’t want to see me ever again,” you retort. “Doesn’t he mean something to you, too? He was there for you when I wasn’t.”

“He read the letter.” Jangjun runs a thumb over a thin line of scar tissue on your hand. The movement seems to soothe you. “And he said something that made me realize how lucky I really was.”

“Lucky?”

“I had people to care for and who cared for me,” he says. “Joochan, the second prince, several servants and other guards around the palace. You didn’t have anyone, did you? Except my sister, and even that was sporadic.”

A beat passes. You shake your head.

“He’s trying to understand,” Jangjun continues. “You know your struggle better than me, so you know better, but I think he’s at least on the way. His partner, the gardener – they already forgave you, too. Joochan’s just harder to crack, sometimes.”

Both of you fall silent, then, you probably trying to work through your thoughts, Jangjun trying to figure out what you’re thinking. Finally, you open your mouth. “What if I hurt you again?”

Jangjun’s heart crumbles at the waver in your voice. “You might,” he says. “But I might hurt you, too. We’re both learning, you know.” The corners of his mouth lift, slightly. “I’m still trying to transition from being a royal guard.”

“What are you now?” you ask.

He purses his lips, thinking. “A wood chopper. Gardener, occasionally. Cook. Weaver.”

“Your food is edible?”

Jangjun feels his heart lift at the slight teasing bite in your tone. “Probably more than yours,” he snipes back before continuing. “A brother, too. And…” Tentatively, he tangles your fingers with his. You don’t flinch this time. “Someone who loves you. If you’ll let me.”

The tiny smile that was growing slips off your face, but the broken glass look in your eyes fades slightly, less shattered than before. “What could I be?”

“I could teach you to weave or sew.” He looks at your tangled fingers, at the scars that cover your skin. They’re deft and you’re smart, you could pick it up quickly. “Even if you can’t tell stories the same way we do, there are other arts you could learn. Joochan’s partner might teach you to garden – you’ve never heard their song, it’s beautiful.” It might help you heal. “No cooking, though.” Jangjun smirks. “You’d probably burn down the kitchen.”

Your lips curve slightly. He soaks in the sight, the knife-like smile he loves so much, sharp and bladed but protective and somehow sweet. “Would you let me love you, too?”

Jangjun folds your hands in his. Your eyes sparkle – broken glass, yes, but shards on their way to mending, to becoming whole.

He smiles. “My heart is already yours.”

. . . . .

The palace was in fury. There was no trace left of the last assassin who had been sent, and upon investigation, little left of the original company at all. Money had been spent and havoc wrought, and nothing of it. Few cared enough anymore to find a lost prince rumored to be dead, much less the kidnappers who had taken him, and though the king and queen gritted their teeth in anger, there was nothing they could do.

The last assassin found a home in the guard’s arms, a steadiness in the heartbeat of his chest. Though they were hesitant to love at first, knowing how much they had hurt not just him but those who around them too, but the guard was gentle in his voice, patient in his care. Slowly, as the days, months, then years went by, the assassin allowed themselves to live again, to love, to care in the fiercely deep way they had learnt over years past, enough to give their heart to the guard.

Few would have noticed anything strange about the group of five that lived peacefully at the edge of the woods in a small town far from the capital. Certainly no one would have guessed there were two weavers among them, as well as a former prince, palace gardener, and trained assassin. This is where their story should end, with a motley family and their chaotic beginnings.

But someone knew of at least four of the five, and in time, he would ask them to risk their safety once more to bring about change. To topple a regime. For as those around him left to walk their own paths, he sought to find his way too – though in a world of peace and prosperity, not the iron rule of two monarchs whose voices pained more than they claimed to heal.

The words of this story now come to a close, with a furious palace and a tentative love. But the world is not over, not all ends reached. The lives told within still have years left to live.

After all, where one story ends, another only begins.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for whoever’s story comes next <3)

[oloreaa]

Vencuyanir Ch. 7 - The Imperials

Summary: They are handed over to the Imperials

Words: 5.8k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, distress, angst, separation from their children, (implied) prostitution, non-explicit mentions of sexual harassment/assault (but nothing happens), getting drugged

Notes: Thank you SO much @over300books​ for looking over this, you´re the absolute BEST!! I cannot state how grateful I am for you 

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When Elana came to herself after a while, it was with the mother of all headaches. Groaning as she tried to prop herself up, clutching the edge of the sink, she did her best to become a bit more coherent.

Washing her face with the ice cold water in the sink, she flinched at the sting in her eyes. Looking up into the small mirror cabinet, she winced at the puffiness of her eyes, how prominent the bruises under them were. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled with knots and flyaway hairs sticking up. She loosened her braid, trying to comb it through with her fingers and get some resemblance of order. She did not bother braiding it neatly against her scalp again. Pressing ice cold fingers against her face, she was able to de-puff it a bit, making herself a bit more presentable. Elana wished that she had some of her old stuff that she had left on Arvala-7 back, something to give her a bit of comfort, to help her feel more put together.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she had to blink several times to stop the tears that threatened to well up again. She felt so useless, so weak in the face of what was to come.

Suddenly, something flickered across their bond. Bean was searching for her. He was pushing pictures at her of him in the cockpit, the glint of the beskar helmet from his point of view, and the blue streaks of hyperspace. The left seat behind the pilot's was empty.

Elana blinked, and was seeing herself in the mirror again. Staring at the reflection, still looking tired and scared but not as wrecked as a few minutes earlier, she sighed deeply.

Time to go.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt, dusting off her pants and adjusting the belt, she did her best to loosen her body, stretching some, waking herself up a bit. Retying the laces on her leather boots and combing her hands through her hair again, she opened the door of the fresher. Peeking out cautiously, the cargo bay was the same as the night before, just missing the pram and the Mandalorian.

Looking at the ladder that went up into the cockpit, she grasped the rungs and pulled herself up. Getting into the cockpit, she saw the blue swirls of hyperspace through the viewport, cruelly beautiful for what was lying behind it.

Elana moved quietly and walked to the right co-pilot seat and looked into Bean’s pram. He looked up at her, ears perking up and he smiled brightly, cooing at her. The helmet of the Mandalorian did not move an inch.

"Morning, honey," she whispered to Bean as she stroked his ear, marvelling again at the softness of his skin. She could not help but smile, wrinkling her nose at him as she squatted down to be at the same height as him.

She distantly noticed that the bounty hunter had turned his head, and was now watching them. Elana ignored him, and took Bean into her arms. It was unfair how cute he was. He tried to grab at her hand, patting at her clumsily, eyes wide and full of love. Briefly pressing her forehead to the little one's, brows drawn together, she then placed a kiss on his fuzzy head.

"Today's a big day," she told him, a slight tremble in her voice, "You have to behave all day, all right? You‘ve got to listen to what I say, mhm?"

Bean cooed at her, patting at her cheeks.

"Dropping out of hyperspace in a minute," the warning of the Mandalorian shattered the moment. Elana just nodded, and resisted the urge to glare at him as she carefully put Bean back into the pram.

Getting to her seat and sitting down gingerly, she stared into the tunnel of blue and white swirls, and watched them leave hyperspace.

The planet in front of them was dark grey, with red veins bleeding through the surface, grey clouds swirling in the atmosphere. It looked as foreboding as she would have expected, and some part deep in her scoffed at the almost theatrical suspense that started to build up.

Nails biting into her palms painfully, Elana clenched her hands so tight she was surprised the skin did not break. She looked at the planet in front of them, growing larger by the second.

So, this is it.

That was Nevarro.

That was where the Mandalorian would hand them over to the clients.

Elana did not know exactly what the Imperials wanted Bean for, but every scenario she came up with was more horrific than the last. They could possibly turn him into a weapon with the abilities he possessed, and if he was not capable of reaching the expectations they had set, simply get rid of him. Elana could see Bean trying to climb out of his pram, and gave a start before watching him carefully.

Meanwhile, a hologram message was opened by the Mandalorian, the static fuzzing the blue-tinted figure that appeared. It was of an older, dark skinned human, wearing a coat that looked expensive, a big smile on his face, visible even from where she was sitting.

"Mando!" He greeted, "I received your transmission. Wonderful news." The Mandalorian's helmet turned towards it more, giving the pre-recorded message his full attention.

"Upon your return, deliver the quarry directly to the client. I have no idea if he wants to eat it or hang it on his wall but he's very antsy. Safe passage. You know where to find me."

While listening to the man speak, her fists clenched so hard that her nails left deep indentations in her palm, the sharp pain of it making her inhale sharply.

The Mandalorian turned around at the noise, and gave her a once-over. She glared into space, not even giving him the satisfaction of seeing her look back.

"He won't eat the asset," he tried to assure her, but the undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. Elana ignored the bounty hunter, and glanced at Bean.

Bean was unscrewing the silver knob of the lever on the right of the Mandalorian, and started to chew on it. Shiny! he was thinking, delighted with the way it reflected the light.

Good Bean, she sent to him, smiling grimly, the pettiness in her overwhelming.

But the Mandalorian caught sight of what the baby was doing, and extracted the silver knob from him.

Elana noticed how gentle he was with Bean, but what did that matter? Was being nice to a child that he was going to be delivering to death somehow a redeeming quality?

"It's not a toy," he told him, placing the silver knob on the headboard before picking Bean up by the nape of the oversized robes he wore and carefully placing him back into the pram. Bean whined at the loss, and looked to her, eyes pleading and lower lip trembling. She could feel over the bond how much he liked that silver ball.

"He said no, honey," she answered, leaning towards the small child. His ears drooped, and he pouted, completely adorable.

The ship angled itself differently and began the descent into the planet's atmosphere, the dropping altitude mirroring the sinking feeling in Elana's chest.

It took another hour, the Razor Crest battling against the air resistance of Nevarro, and Elana took Bean into the hull, unwilling to spend more time in the presence of the Mandalorian than necessary.

The little green child was sitting on her lap, playing with the end of her hair. She carefully brushed out the strands, gently undoing any knots while humming a song to calm Bean. He was starting to feed off her anxiety, becoming more fussy by the minute.

Pinning her hair up, figuring that loose hair and flyaways would not help her in any case, Elana tried to control her shaky hands.

She felt her control over the situation slipping through her fingers like quicksand, and the more desperately she reached for it, the quicker the quiet moments before the storm seemed to pass.

The ship landed with a thud. Her chest felt like it was caving in, hollow and numb and a deep panic started to spread. Bean patted at her thighs, looking up at her. Elana tried to give him a smile, but knew deep down that it was so wobbly that even Bean would know that something was wrong.

Shortly afterwards, the Mandalorian dropped down from the cockpit, almost completely silent. His helmet tilted towards her, and he gave a jerk of his head.

"Time to go," he told her.

"Are you really gonna do this?" Elana asked, her whole body trembling.

"Yes." His voice was flat, without any kind of emotion.

"Can we make a deal?" Desperation filled her voice, tasting sour, "Please, is there anything I can do?" She felt her body shake, but gathering all her courage, she looked him straight into the visor.

"Don't try it." His voice was cold, and he simply tilted his head.

Swallowing down her humiliation, she jutted her jaw. "I would let you do anything to me," she whispered, feeling hot tears burn behind her eyes as she fought to keep her eyes on his helmet, "Anything, as long as you don't hand him over."

He was silent, and she tasted blood on her tongue, having bit down too hard, ears rushing, feeling faint. She readied herself for his answer, determined not to cry.

"No deal," he said quietly, not moving an inch. Even though her heart dropped with relief, the last offer she could have made him was now out of the question.

Elana could not keep the bite out of her voice when she snapped at him. "Mandalorian, I beg you," she tried to ignore how dangerously choked up she was beginning to sound, "Bean is just a child, please, don't."

Bean babbled at her, feeling her anger and fear through their bond, and tugged at her shirt.

The Mandalorian stepped closer and loomed over her, simply tilting his visor down. "No deal," he repeated, voice firm.

She shrank back, fear and disgust building up in her in equal measure.

"You have no honour," she said, desperately trying not to cry, "You have no honour if you hand Bean over."

"Are you done?" His voice was as cold as ice.

"Not in the slightest," she hissed, lip curled in a snarl as her entire body burned, white hot anger coursing through her.

He simply looked her in her face, beskar helmet menacing. "I don't care."

"You know that you killed him, right?" Elana spat, tears in her eyes, "Bean's death will be on you."

He said nothing, just pushed a button on his vambrace, lowering the ramp of the Razor Crest, before harshly cuffing her already injured wrists together. She did not hide her wince at the rough treatment, but stared at the ground, unwilling to give the Mandalorian even more satisfaction at seeing her in pain, humiliation and despair cresting over her like a tidal wave.

Seething silently, she stepped after him.

The sunlight from outside was blinding, and she had to squint as they descended, the ramp folding itself up behind them while the Mandalorian set off, taking a sharp turn to the left. Elana kept up, but it was a difficult thing as his gait was quick and purposeful. On their right another ship was landing, the wind that resulted from it whipping in Elana's face, and a distressed coo from Bean made her look over. His eyes were big and worried, his ears flapping in the wind. He knew that something was wrong.

Trailing after the Mandalorian, she took in the sights of Nevarro. The diffused light through the covered sky and the bare rock on the ground gave the place a cold feeling, not eased by the grey housings and stone structures around them.

The air smelled of sulfur and ash, dried magma, making her suppress a gag. It was surprisingly cool for a lava planet, the breeze cold enough to make goosebumps rise on her skin.

There were some colourful bursts of orange and red stall coverings, but the contrast washed out the rest even more. Dust was in the air, smoke and steam rising from the houses, swirling up by the masses of people in the town itself. A big main street was framed by a stone pillar gate, weathered and missing pieces, towering above them, about ten times taller than Elana herself.

The people in the main square were from everywhere; she could see Jawas, Twi'leks, different droids, Humans, Kiffar, and countless other species. Noises filled the air, different stalls showcasing various wares, droid chatter, yelling by vendors, conversations between different individuals, all overlapping to a symphony of sounds that did nothing to calm Elana in the slightest. Bean made a loud noise, turning his head towards the Mandalorian and giving him a questioning look. Elana clenched her jaw as he did not even turn his head towards the child, but kept on walking straight ahead, the cold light of the sun reflecting off his helmet and pauldron.

Bean's ears lowered, an undercurrent of fear thrumming through the bond, too many new sights and noises all at once, and no comfort was to be taken from the Mandalorian.

She tried her best to send back some reassurance but she was as scared as he was. And he knew that, could feel it, his fear wrapping around her heart, as hers did around his.

Taking a few turns away from the main street, they arrived at a staircase that descended into a sketchy looking alley. The tall walls of the buildings around them made it feel like they were caged in, nowhere to go. Elana wanted to start to beg, make offers, trying anything if it meant that he would change his mind. But there was no negotiating with him, he proved that.

"Please," she choked out, looking at him imploringly, but he ignored her.

The Mandalorian knocked on a door on the right of them, and a sensor droid shot out of the hatch next to it, a big singular red eyeball knob, gargling a language she could not understand. The little one jumped and made a scared noise, and Elana instinctively put herself in front of him, shielding her Bean.

Holding out the fob in his right hand, the Mandalorian let the sensor droid scan it, and after a short exclamation, the droid folded back into the building again.

Bean garbled a questioning noise, looking towards the Mandalorian, and then to her, and she held out her hand, tracing his ear carefully in reassurance.

Then, stormtroopers stepped out, and Elana's heart skipped a beat. Their white armour was battered, rust starting to creep onto the white paint, adding to the grotesque look the stormtroopers were already sporting. The Mandalorian turned to look at them, and visibly hesitated. Elana's heart was beating so fast in her chest she started to feel slightly faint, her breath becoming quick, panic visible on her face. Bean was whining low in fear, so quiet only she could hear it, due to her laser focus on him.

This is it.

They entered the building.

The stormtroopers led them in, one in front, and one in the back. They were caging the Mandalorian, Bean and her between them. The door closed.

Elana closed her eyes, taking in a deep shuddering breath as she set one foot in front of the other.

No way back.

One of them yanked at the pram, startling the child, who squeaked in protest. Elana gave a start but before she could say anything, the Mandalorian cut in, voice tense.

"Easy with that," he said, earning a scoff from the stormtrooper.

"You take it easy," he mocked, amusement in his voice.

Elana looked to the ground, trying to keep her cool. Her heart beat fast in her chest, her throat felt as it was being choked, blood rushing in her ears. She was terrified.

When the door swished open, revealing a large room, the beeping of a tracking fob filled the air.

The room was as desolate as Nevarro itself, a grey, unadorned duracrete warehouse with loose crates strewn around, some windows with closed blinds in the back, a big table and three chairs smack in the middle of it. There were two men, one an old man, dressed in dark, expensive garments and a signet of the Empire hanging around his throat. The other, younger, had dark hair and a beard, wearing glasses as well as a white uniform with dark pants.

The Imperial was approaching fast, a manic look in his eyes and glee on his face.

"Yes," he said, coming closer, approaching fast, "Yes, yes, yes."

They both peered into the pram.

"Yes," the old man hissed, looking at Bean.

The younger man scanned the child with a red blinking device, Bean whimpering against the bright light, and he was positively giddy as he announced that Bean was healthy. Then, he turned to Elana, and a look of confusion was on his face.

"Who is this, Mandalorian?" he asked, and scanned her as well.

The red light hurt her eyes, but she did not flinch as she stared at the ground.

"Its caretaker," the Mandalorian replied, making a gesture to the pram. The man hummed, and nodded after he completed the scan.

"She is healthy as well," he said, before offering a friendly smile, "We will have good use for her." Elana could not help the shiver that ran down her back when those words were issued, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Now it was settled. Before, she did not know for certain how her fate will be. Now, it was with the Imperials. She refused to panic even more, it would not help her in the slightest.

"Your reputation was not unwarranted," the old man said, sounding smug, watery eyes sliding over her before fixing on the Mandalorian.

"How many fobs did you give out?" the bounty hunter asked, voice tense, and Elana resisted the urge to sneak a look at him, but stared hard at the ground instead, shoulders set back and back straight.

The Imperial exhaled, and his Core World accent was pronounced as he said: "This asset was of extreme importance to me. I had to ensure its delivery."

His head turned in their direction, and she could almost feel how his gaze swept over her and Bean.

"But to the winner-," he announced as he tossed the fob onto his desk. The Imperial lifted a grey camtono with little difficulty from beneath the desk, and placed the payment for Bean on the surface with a hard thud, "go the spoils."

Pressing a few buttons, the camtono opened with a hiss. The Mandalorian gave a start, and began to walk towards it, Bean and her forgotten.

Elana lifted her gaze, and froze when she took in the stacked ingots that were inside. Was that some kind of precious metal? Why was that a payment?

But as the Mandalorian approached the table and inspected the ingots, the reflection of them in the light made her heart skip.

Beskar. Those were beskar ingots.

It was a huge sum, Elana realized, and the way the Mandalorian had tried to keep them safe suddenly made more sense. A lot more sense.

He was going to get a reward that would make him the richest man in the parsec, of course he would not risk them getting hurt, of course he would want to ensure that he would get the full reward.

Bean and her lives were being traded away for a stack of beskar.

Rage started to boil in her, but she kept her mouth shut, biting hard enough on her tongue that she tasted blood.

He was going to give the most beautiful child away to the Empire for riches.

"Such a large bounty for such a small package," the old Imperial said, a smile on his face, and when Elana met his gaze, his smile became mocking. Her nails dug into her palm, and the skin broke once again, warm blood seeping out the indentions in her trembling palm.

The dark haired man pressed a button, and Bean's pram started to float towards him, and Elana instinctively took a step after Bean. With a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, the man gestured for her to follow him, and she did.

She had no other choice.

With a final look back, she stared at the Mandalorian, feeling numb. He stared back, visor trained on her.

"I hope you rot," Elana whispered, tears gathering in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. The bounty hunter stood, so still she thought him a statue.

Turning away, legs feeling like lead, she went after the pram, following it as it floated into the next room, away from the Mandalorian.

Bean was sitting sideways, little claws on the edge of his pod as he cooed loudly, calling out to the Mandalorian, voice reflecting his fear. Her nails digged into her skin even more, the sharp sting almost making her gasp. Elana could not bear the sight, would not turn around to the man who had effectively killed them. She could not. If she looked back, she would cry.

Bean's ears lowered when no answer came, and he scrambled into the back of his pram as the door shut behind them with a hiss.

Elana closed her eyes and bit down hard on her bottom lip, feeling the prick of tears as she took a deep breath.

The man smiled at her as she opened her eyes again, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Take a seat, please," he said, gesturing to a small table with two chairs standing next to it. There was a metal carafe and two glasses positioned on it, as well as a clipboard with some documents. She did as he said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants, ignoring the two stormtroopers in the corner of the room.

"Terribly sorry about the inconvenience, Miss," he said, "I am Dr. Pershing. If I may ask, what is your name?"

She looked at him warily. "What will you do with the information?" Elana asked, voice quiet, eyes never leaving the dark haired man.

Pershing shuffled slightly, "We will not do anything with it, per se, but it will make things easier, you understand?" Even if he was not threatening in the slightest and did not feel dangerous at all, he unnerved her. Why would he bother being friendly? Was that just who he was, or did he have some higher plan? Was he trying to gain her trust?

"Elana Lissiri," she stated, observing his reaction. There was no recognition in his eyes.

A good sign, she thought to herself.

"All right, Miss Lissiri, you are the Asset's caretaker, as I understand it?"

"Yes. What are your plans for him?" With every word, her voice became steadier, and she was now fixing the doctor with an icy glare. Bean was observing them with big eyes, deathly silent. The anger in her started to swell again, because Bean was scared. And she would not stand for it. Now, she was the only thing standing between the Imperials and her child, and she would die before letting anything happen to him.

"Oh, nothing like you fear, I assure you," he said, "Just a few tests we need to make, nothing big, and nothing dangerous."

He fixed her with an earnest look, and she must have still looked skeptical enough for Pershing to start talking again.

"To be entirely honest, Miss Lissiri, I abhorred the way we had to retrieve you, but it was necessary to get you to Nevarro as fast as we could."

"Why?" she snapped, not caring at all that she was impolite, "Why send bounty hunters after him?"

Dr. Pershing looked very uncomfortable, his eyes flickering around the room, not meeting her gaze.

"It was the fastest way, and the most secure one," he tried to say, but Elana pressed on. "Do you know how many times he," she pointed to Bean, whose ears lowered in response, "has been in mortal danger?" Elana started to get truly angry, and her hands clenched into fists once more. Not even caring that the skin was now bloody and painful to the touch, she shook in her seat, all the built up fear cresting over her like waves on a shore.

"That Mandalorian dragged us through conditions that could have easily killed him! He risked dehydration and starvation, not having enough protection from the heat, from the cold-", at these words, she had to take in a deep breath to control the sob that threatened to escape her throat.

She tried to start again, noticing Pershing's concerned look, and somehow, that was too much. Bringing up all the danger they had been through since the cursed Mandalorian had killed all the Niktos in the encampment made her realise how many times she could have lost Bean. How many times she had been in danger as well, how many times the only thing that kept her whole was decided by the bounty hunter who had brought them here. How he could have easily hurt her, hurt Bean. And now she would definitely lose Bean to the Imperials because of him.

She tried to fight it with all her might, but Elana started to cry again, tears welling up and rolling down her cheeks. Burying her face in her hands, she muffled her sobs as Pershing reached out hesitantly and patted her shoulder. Elana had half a mind to shrug him off but the other part of her was simply too distraught to think coherent thoughts.

"I'm sorry that you had to go through that, but be assured, we will not harm the two of you."

Lie.

It shot through her like a lightning bolt, everything in her screaming against it.

Elana looked up and into Dr. Pershing's eyes.

He may say that but he does not believe it himself, the warning told her.

He smiled at her, and cleared his throat. "We need to do certain check ups on both of you to ensure that you are both functional," he said, "May I start with you?"

What could she do? Say no? Not likely. So she nodded, and stood up.

The man started collecting some different measuring tools, and started the check up. A flashlight was held into her eyes, and her hearing and reflexes were quickly inspected. The doctor was a complete professional, but still, her skin crawled every time he had to touch her physically in some way.

Bean was looking at her with curiosity and concern in equal measures, and she did her best to send some reassuring thoughts across the bond. But it had no use. Bean knew that something was wrong, he knew that she was scared, which made him even more scared as well. After she had been deemed fit enough for Imperial standards in addition to the scan they had given, it was Bean's turn.

He whined every time Dr. Pershing touched him, checking his ears, his eyes, looking at his claws and teeth.

Bean tried to bite him but the doctor was faster, and from the impatient huff he gave Elana knew that if she was not there, hovering over his shoulder and watching like a hawk, he would have punished the child one way or another. "Shush, baby," he murmured every few moments, as if that would calm him down.

Bean frowned, his mouth downturned, and scooted away from the man, towards the back of the pram, but to no avail, the doctor simply grabbed him and pulled him out.

"Hey," she protested, stepping forward, but one of the stormtroopers grabbed her arm, keeping her in place.

"Dispose of the pod, please," Dr. Pershing said to one of the stormtroopers, and with a nod, the pram trailed behind the man as he left the room.

Bean was struggling in his grasp, little legs kicking and arms flailing, and Dr. Pershing had to adjust him several times.

"Careful, please," Elana pleaded, already taking a step towards them, but the doctor moved towards a device with a huge droid floating above, laying Bean down on the slab beneath it. The small one wriggled and tried to turn on his belly, but with one well placed palm on his body, Dr. Pershing stopped his efforts. He turned his head to Elana, struggling to move towards Bean despite the grip of the stormtrooper on her, desperation on her face.

"I'm sorry, but you cannot be in the room for this procedure," Pershing said with what looked like genuine regret in his eyes, and pressed a button.

"Wait, why?" She asked, in half a mind to tear herself away from the stormtrooper, take the doctor by his uniform and shake him, any pain and punishment be damned. Another door behind her opened, and two different stormtroopers came in.

"Please take Miss Lissiri to operation room two," he requested, and the stormtroopers stepped closer to Elana.

Heart beating fast in her chest, she looked at them frantically. "What are you going to do to him?" Elana asked, an undercurrent of panic in her voice. The stormtrooper already holding her passed her over, and the other ones grabbed her arms, and she started to struggle against them. "Let me go!"

Bean cried out, his hands reaching towards her from his spot. A high whine came out of his mouth, and Elana knew that he was close to crying.

They started to pull her backwards, and Elana dragged her legs, trying to stay on the spot, giving all her strength. "What are you going to do?"

Doctor Pershing just pushed his glasses up his nose, and folded his hands in front of him.

The tug on her body became stronger, and she started to kick and twist her body, "Don't hurt him," she pleaded, arms at an uncomfortable angle behind her as she leaned forward, legs scrambling for purchase against the ground, "Please, don't hurt him!"

Bean shrieked loudly, eyes clenched shut, and she felt a tug, enabling her to get a few steps closer to him before the stormtroopers caught her again.

They dragged her out of the door, and there was nothing she could do as they gained a good hold on her, the struggle not even helping much anymore. Bean started crying, she could hear and feel it across the bond. He was scared, so scared.

"Bean!" she screamed his name, kicking out and thrashing like a wild animal, "Bean!"

The crying became louder, and there was a loud crash, like everything in that room had been pushed at the same time, a wave coming from Bean, before it cut off. The bond between them suddenly dimmed, his side becoming fuzzy and unclear. The last thing that came through it was him wanting to be in her arms.

"Bean!"

Dropping to her knees, desperately trying to crawl forwards, to get back into the room, the two stormtroopers grunting at how hard she was resisting.

"Bean!"

"Shut up," one of them told Elana while yanking her back.

"Let me go, please, I have to get to him," she pleaded, tears blurring her view, "Please, please."

They successfully got her down the hallway, into another dark room, and with a lot of effort, heaved her onto a table of sorts.

Elana trashed against them, shouting herself hoarse. "Let me go!" She repeated again and again, giving all her strength to escape, but they were too strong and strapped her down onto the table. She twisted, the straps digging into her skin, and Elana knew that if she survived until tomorrow her entire body would be covered in bruises. The stormtroopers’ chests were heaving when they stepped back, Elana finally secured on the desk.

"Wonder if that Mando had such difficulties with her," she could hear them say.

"Y'know, he probably liked pinning her down. Enjoyed some struggling."

They laughed, the sinister sound making her skin crawl.

She tried to move some more, wriggling desperately, but to no avail.

"Stop that, stupid bitch," the other one snarled at her, pushing her onto the table roughly by her shoulder, making the back of her head connect harshly with the table surface.

Blinking at the sudden dizziness, she gasped, clenching her eyes shut at the pain.

The door suddenly swished open, and Dr. Pershing came into sight.

"What have you done with him?" Elana yelled at him, voice thick, tears in her eyes.

He did not answer, simply gave a thin smile before going over to a cabinet at the side, taking out a syringe filled with a clear fluid.

"I sincerely regret the circumstances, Miss Lissiri, I truly do," he said, before shrugging slightly, "But since you're so... unwilling to cooperate, maybe this will help."

Elana thrashed against the straps, trying to get away from the syringe in his hands. Panicked sounds were leaving her without her consent, high and pitiful noises that she did not know she was capable of making.

"No, don't, please," she begged, eyes starting to burn with unshed tears, "Just tell me what you did to him, I'll cooperate, please." Choking back a sob, she watched as the man lined the syringe up with her forearm.

"Please, don't, please."

When he injected her, it burned.

Elana seized up, a scream building in her throat, though nothing but a whimper escaped.

The world turned blurry. She did not know if it was because of her tears or whatever was now inside her body.

The blood rushing in her ears was deafening.

Her heart beat so fast she felt faint.

"She'll be calm for a few hours," she heard Dr. Pershing say, but it was as if it came through a cotton wall, "Behave yourselves."

Elana's eyes slipped shut.

The world turned dark.

……………

Thank you for reading!!

[cptnbvcks]

If you do the prompts for Mando, you should do 94 ;3 ❤

warnings: nsfw! sex, blowjobs, and a lil bit of a facial. 

94. “You’re lying to me” “About what?” “About the compressor. It’s not broken, you just want me to ‘fix it’ so you can spend time with me”

“I don’t know what’s more incredible — the fact that this ship hasn’t dropped you straight out of orbit yet, or that you’re willing to trust that it won’t.” 

The Mandalorian doesn’t laugh at your joke, but then again you don’t think you’ve ever seen your favorite client indicate much amusement in any of the times he’s arrived at your hangar. 

He’s all business and you get on his nerves and you grin because you like it this way. You like it when his grip tightens over your hips as he pushes you against the console of the Razor Crest’s cockpit because you’ve plucked his final nerve. You like it when you drop to your knees for him and let him fuck all the smart words from your mouth.

You reckon he likes it too because his gloved hand grips a little tighter around the curve of your throat and your laughter dies in little gasps of breath. The Mandalorian pins your head against the hard beskar of his chest plate as you arch your back and press your hips hungrily into his lap, fucking yourself on his cock as best as you can. The pilot’s chair groans a short complaint beneath you both and it makes you want to giggle through the haze of pleasure.

You make a mental reminder to oil that later.

“I don’t— trust that it won’t—,” the hunter grunts in your ear, his words catching in his throat when you bear your walls down tight around his twitching cock, “—I trust you to fix it.” He corrects you, his words raspy and clipping on the helmet’s modulator as his free hand wedges itself between your soft thighs and you can barely fight the prideful smirk that’s testing at the corners of your trembling lips when his fingers part your soaked folds to press fast circles over your clit.

Your body lurches and your toes curl and your feet don’t touch the ground so they settle over his boots as you quicken the roll of your hips to match the urgency of his hard, deliberate thrusts. Your brow furrows with pleasure as he jerks his hips up and his cock hits you so deep that your eyes roll back in your head and the only smart thing you can think of is a choked wail, your body straining to curl into the pleasure while he holds you to his body.

Somewhere in the haze, you find it in you to rasp out a jerky response from behind his squeezing palm, your fingers wrapping over the cold steel arm plates and pressing him to your chest, “Oh b–baby, I can— l— nghh —, I can fix anything.”

He lets out a soft noise behind you and you’d like to think he’s laughing.

Your head drops back against his armor with a soft thunk and you cast half-dazed eyes up at him. His head is half tilted back against the headrest and for just a moment, you see the dark material that arches over the strong line of his jaw and ascends into the shadow beneath the helmet. It’s only a brief glimpse and your view is quickly cut short when he tilts his head down and you feel his gaze burn into you.

You don’t think he’s mad at you for accidentally peeking at nothing, but he sure doesn’t seem too pleased when he suddenly rises out of his seat and takes you with him, his cock still pressed achingly deep in your cunt. You squeak at the sudden change in height as you scramble to catch yourself on the edge of the Razor Crest’s console before you can drop out of his lap.

The Mandalorian doesn’t give you time to get very comfortable, your feet skittering clumsily over the cockpit floor, before his hand wrenches your head back by a fistful of your hair and begins hammering into you, battering your walls with ruthless intent.

He’s all armored up and your pants are rolled down to your knees and it’s quick and dirty and none too comfortable with the beskar biting rawly into the backs of your thighs with each thrust. But you take him any way you can get him, even if it means with your pants roughly rucked down and panties pushed aside as he fucks you into whatever corner of the ship he so pleases.

His noises echo in the room, ragged and mused by the modulator but they send you reeling regardless knowing that you’re the one earning those noises from the usually restrained Mandalorian. He inhales sharply when your walls squeeze him as he draws back and impales you to the hilt again and again, the wet heat of your body nursing him closer and closer to where he desperately needs to be.

You’re losing your rhythm and he knows by the way your knees buckle so deep that he has to wrap his arm around your waist to keep you upright that you’re about to— 

You’re not a quiet woman but, maker, the Mandalorian never expected you to completely lose your ability to speak when you come. 

His only indication is the vicious squeeze of your walls as they clench and unclench around his girth, drawing him into your body as your cunt gushes warmly against his skin. You’re shaking hard and you’re gasping and whimpering and the Mandalorian can only secure his grip tighter around your fraught body, forcing you to manage around a few more jerky thrusts of his own.

“Is— is it okay, if I—,” he’s holding himself back by a thread and you hear it in his voice, urgent and desperate as he gasps around the vice grip your cunt has on his length. He curses under his breath as the arm that’s locked around your waist yanks your ass higher into the air and deeper into his lap. He hits you somewhere earth-shattering and your left knee buckles at the sheer force and pleasure that rocks thorough your body. 

Your toes curl harder and you shake your head quickly, one hand pushing now against the beskar arm that’s pinning your hips to his. “N-no,” you breathe, “In— in my mouth. Come in my mouth.”

The Mandalorian thinks he might have lost himself right there between the unforgiving grip of your walls if you hadn’t bucked him off and pushed him back into the pilots chair.

You’re on your knees and your mouth wraps around the slick length of him, cheeks hollowed and tongue dragging obscenely over the ridge of his cock’s head.  You clench your fist tight around his cock and you can taste yourself on his length and feel your cum slick beneath your fingers and maybe it’s a little depraved that this is as much skin as you can ever expect to get from a man like him. You take him deeper in your mouth at the thought and you don’t stop until your throat threatens a gag response. 

He gasps hard, his noises catching easy in the helmet’s modulator. They’re restrained and unsteady and it doesn’t take more than a moment with your plush lips around him before he twitches against your tongue. He comes hard and you draw back quickly, pumping him eagerly as you open your mouth and allow his cum to coat your tongue and shoot messily across the blushed pillows of your cheeks.

He’s less quiet when he comes; his breath falls from him in hard groans that draw ragged from his throat. He gasps and moans and somewhere in the deep grunts you can hear your name.

You can’t tell if he’s mortified by the obscenity, or if it just makes him come harder as he clenches his fists against the leather armrests of his seat and watches. 

His body slumps finally, the shiny cuirass rising and falling quickly with his stuttering breaths. 

You close your mouth and he watches you swallow his seed and his heart hammers as you drag the back of your palm over your mouth and only manage to smear his come further across your cheek. 

You grin and he’s speechless. 

“So,” he huffs after a moment, his voice cracking as he tries to collect himself, “The— the compressor… how much?”

Your grin doesn’t falter as you run your tongue across your lips and taste the salt of him on your skin, “Oh, I’ve been paid,” you tease, setting a hand on the beskar thigh plate, “but I still can’t fix what’s not broken.”

His head tilts and you note the question that appears in his silence.

“You’re lying to me.” Your voice is teasing as you lean into his thigh and he shivers as your breath dances warmly across the exposed length of him. 

“About what?” 

You bat your eyes cutely and peer up at him from beneath the length of your lashes. It was endearing, but then you opened that smart mouth of yours and said:

“About the compressor. It’s not broken, you just want me to ‘fix it’ so you can spend time with me.” 

—

a/n: had this mostly completed before yesterday, so here it is. i’ll be slowly getting to the rest of prompts because they keep my mind off of things. i’ve got quite a few so i’m working through bit by bit!

Tag List (because i know some thirsty bitches wanna see the smut)

@sophiria @imspillingcoffee @plumbuck @romqnofff @sexygaypalpatine @elisaa-shelby @readermia @the-dream-catch3r @pinkmoontribe-blog @madkingcrowley @whenimaunicorn @petalduck @fairylightsandchai  @osejn @mandowhoreian @letdecemberburninflames @chickens-are-velociraptors @naiomiwinchester @peregrinestook  @space-helen​ @virtuousburden​ @daddehhmando @thechampmylove @kiame-sama @knightheartcd @lustriix @deviantloving-detective @headsindreams @sebastianstanslefteyebrow @sgtbookybarnes @celestiaalbliss @coonflix @thetrappednerd @brooklymw @the-omni-princess @sav-a-nna @actuallyanita​ @equalstrashflavoredtrash​ @claynarwale​ @pedrolovebot​ @mermaid-seachelle

Message me if you’d like to be added or removed!

Star Wars Dialogue Prompts

[fictional-thoughts]

some handcuffing with our sexiest bounty hunter pretty please?😩🔥

Cuffed

nsfw. the mandalorian x reader

words: 2k+

warnings: absolutely no plot, just porn. female receiving oral, fingering, use of restraints(handcuffs), naked female/clothed male, hints at edging

Unbreaking and metallic. Cold to your warm skin the shiny metal glints in the darkness as you twist your wrists in the cuffs, feel out just how much you can move within the restraints. Hands above your head, crossed delicately at the wrists you’re deliciously vulnerable, soft to the touch and arching into the Mandalorians form, the pieces of beskar not yet removed dig into your skin.

He’s going slow, his lips graze the strong part of your jaw, draws lines down your throat, the kisses are soft and hesitated and his warm breath fans over your skin, bringing shivers to the surface. Mando leans closer and through the cover of darkness your lips are met with his.

Soft sounds mix with the kiss, quiet moans and broken whimpers drag from your chest, stuck on your lips like sugar, and Mando finds it so sweet. The cuffs clink against the bed frame, wrists strain against the bonds in pitiful attempts at escapement, to wander his skin, slide through his messy hair and feel every inch of the Mandalorian.

Mando didn’t think he’d enjoy the sight of you restrained, wrists crossed and bound, held over your head they provide him with so much freedom, a newfound release, it adds an extra stroke to the steady flames within. He feels your trust, your commitment to him, and that he makes you feel safe enough to allow him to have you in such a vulnerable ridden state.

Mando wants to tell you all this. He’s not good with words and his voice is gravely and deep and it breaks when he’s distracted by your red lips and shining eyes, the sight of your body curling up to him, the dips of your waistline and the arch of your spine and the way your thigh slides up to curl around him, forcing him ever so close.

There’s a shift of movement and his lips follow the curve of your breast, soft under his tongue and full in his hand, he feels you tense under him, trembling, delicacy forgotten. Red lips parted, whimpers curl from your lungs, choke from you the air that surrounds the lovers.

Mando knows just how bad you want to feel him, right down to only the basics, all you long for is to meet your hands to his skin, scrape your nails up in angry lines on his back and run your hands through his hair, pull a bit when his teeth tug gently at your nipple.

It’s all a push and pull, he’s testing the boundaries, dipping into the unfound fantasies, exploring every silky, delicate and intimate detail.

The Mandalorian has had you there longer than you could bare, basking in abstract ways of control. Dirty words fall from his lips, sinful and poetic; he’s ruining your self control. He’d been teasing you with his hands, his lips and tongue; drunk on the taste and feel. Dragging you ever so close to the very edge, he fucked you slowly, two digits easing in and out, your wet cunt tight and thighs trembling, the pretty picture is followed by your breath picking up — Mando knows when you get close.

All that and you’re at the tipping point, laced in velvety warmth and wishful passion. Wrecked and lathered with anew carnality, you’re at the brink of pleasure. The Mandalorians got his large hands round either of your thighs, dipping into the skin he’s holding you up and spread open for him. Head tucked between your thighs, forehead pressed to the soft part of your stomach, his parted lips close to your core, slicked and sweet and wet.

“Gods, Mando,” and he looks up at the sound of your broken voice, “just let me touch you.”

His head ducks down for a moment and you feel the smile gracing his lips. There’s a quick kiss pressed to the top of your stomach before he’s back up hovering over you, his left hand round your waist, thumbing the soft skin, over the stretchmarks if you’ve got any and little imperfections. “Not yet,”

Another begrudgingly tug at the cuffs. Another smile, and another kiss — to your lips this time, muffling the swears. The Mandalorian pulls away, just a bit, his eyes scan you face through the semi-darkness, the angles and features. His brown eyes rise to your cuffs.

“Not very found of these anymore?” A slim finger trails up your wrist, his knuckle taps the metal surrounding it.

Defeated. That’s what you are, wrecked and held over the edge, spread so thin. “No. I hate them.”

A dark chuckle fills your ears, and once more his lips graze your throat, press to your ear. You’d seen the Mandalorian handle his cuffs so many times, the impression of power flares, hints at submission. The simple rings of thick metal had encouraged sinful ideas, of restraint and control and the ecstasy of release — and with just enough begging, it’d become a reality. And now that you’re encaged in only his control, frustrations build; it barely surpasses the pleasure pooled deep at your core.

“Sounds like you hate submission,” his words are as smoothly torturous as his hands, the Mandalorian’s voice right in your ear has you rushed with warmth, burning stars and forgotten fuel. 

So maybe you hate two things. You hate the absence of control and you hate when the Mandalorian is right. It’s difficult to bring the words up to surface, layered under the acts of passion, his lips capturing yours, deepening and damp and fast. 

“What if I said please,” you try not to let it affect you, but every kiss sends you further into a spiral of need. “Please?”

“You’re impatient,” his voice is raw, melodious and human with the beautiful absence of the helmets speakers it sends something warm and deep within you. It’s a little softer, a little rough around the edges; his tone catches with deepness and is curled with a barely noticeable accent.

He’s kissing you again and you pull his bottom lip with your teeth, let your tongue brush his amidst the bruising connection, his lips to yours. God’s, you’ve never wanted someone to fuck you as bad as you wanted it now. 

His hand moves further downwards, slipping between your thighs and over your core and a whimper leaves your lips. Your muscles jolt at the feel of his fingertips to your cunt, grazing over you, light as air it’s nearly unbearable.

God, you’re perfect. Those perfect little sounds. The Mandalorians hands trail further and nearly erasing all thoughts of uncuffing if he would only touch you properly. He’s teasing, hinting at the real things, a promise you know he’ll fulfil.

Getting closer, following the movements of your form, he’s sinking into the bed and slides an arm under your thigh, letting you rest it over a broad shoulder, the besakr cool to your warm skin. It’s frustratingly difficult, the physical restraint compared to his freedom to touch and feel and love every inch of you. You swear and collapse into the bed, let your hands go slack in the cuffs

He’s everywhere, his fingertips dip past your hipbones and draw tiny patterns over the sensitive skin. You’re an art form, spread open for him and every beautiful detail is exposed, the accents of intimacy and softer emotions compile into a mess that’s wretched and gorgeous.

The time is passing slowly then everything changes in a rush of heat and passion when he’s finally right where you want him to be. You swear, lungs halted in a gasp you’re arching from the bed as his lips find your cunt, sweetly soaked and soft to his lips he’s tight between your thighs and pulling moans and swears from your lips, the sounds mirror the pulls and whines of the cuffs to the bed frame.

You release a gasp, a soft shriek of his name — he’d had you coiled so tightly, strung up in ropes of pleasure and longing, the carnally driven desperation laced with begs and cries of his name only urges him on to bring you to the very edge. “Oh –” your eyes fall closed, blinded for a moment, a hot flash sparks its way right through you “my gods,”

The Mandalorians slow at first, tounge curling up through the cleft of your cunt and running flat to your clit it’s sending waves crashing, steaming hot and unfurling, every lick and suck is pushing you further. You’re soaked, sharp and sweet your taste is coating his tongue and lips.

His eyes close and a moan catches in his chest, deep and broken, the sound is riddled with vibrations that go right to your core. His hand curls around your thigh again, keeping you still. He’s devoted all attention to you, as the seconds slip past, it’s as if the power dynamics switch, that you’re calling the shots — leading him on through begs and whimpers.

Mando’s pressed close to the bed, to you, his armour plated to his skin, digs deep but it’s an easy pain. He’s deep in your cunt and groans, hot on the sudden tension, plush and soft to his lips. His eyes open to the sight of you, bare in contrast to his armour and thick fabrics, head thrown back, spine arched — the angles of your collar bones show in the light, followed by the curve of your breasts, following the rise and fall of your chest, chasing a steady beat. His free hand pushes up, soon cupped around your tit, you’re warm to the touch and he’s drowning in the details of your body.

Snapping, burning fire runs it’s way over the surface, deep within, it’s all the same only molten. Drenched in the final race to release, the air around you, sticky and hot, the bounds keeping you from touch, the metal stained with the remembrance of a violent past. You feel violent, wrecked under the Mandalorian, he’s using you and it’s all you’ve ever wanted; hand on your tits and tongue fucking you. His words between the wretched moments drip with sin, they spread like honey over your skin, it’s like breaking glass and blasted fire, it’s sending sharp waves through your form. Tugging deep at the pit of your stomach, the reaction to his touch is overbearing.

Hands clench to fists, soon spent of energy you’re caving into yourself, muscles tense, its all raging winds and untamable lightning. Thigh curved around a broad shoulder, sliding over the beskar you’re pushing him incredibly close. Hushed groans and murmers send you spiraling further, he’s telling you just how good you taste, that soon, just a second longer you’ll be out of the cuffs, free to have him however you want. You’re used to ramblings of the Mandalorian, but finally there’s a choked moan, a slicked kiss to your cunt met and twisted with the saying of your name and the words melt down to his steady tone. “You’re such a good girl.”

It’s sudden intensity. Locked into seconds, fast as stars scour the galaxy, turned with tangled passion. His hands grip you hard, forcing you to still Mando’s dragging you through your orgasm; built up over time, its messy and lasting too long. Its too much, nerves shot and sensitive under him, its crumbling towers and melting metals. Choked gasps leave your lips, nearly trapped in your lungs, you’re falling from the high, catching on the returning edge, and he’s pulling away, turning his head to press a short kiss to the side of your thigh.

Moments pass and you’re still numb to the aftershocks and words dont make sense just yet. You ache all over, cooled to a point where shivers run rampant over your frame, only thing keeping them at bay is the Mandalorians softness after, gliding his bare hands up your body, smoothing over just the right places. The cuffs are unlocked and you’re curled to his side, not minding the armour sticking to your skin. His hands trail up and down the curve of your shoulder, gentle in contrast to the times before.

-

y’all wanna see mando in the cuffs next?

[noocturnalchild]

SEALED IN MARBLE  Chapter VII Tell Me Everything, Father

Warning : NSFW, a hint of FemDom ! Virgin!Garupe 

His rosary beads went flying off his neck.

His rosary…

His rosary!

God of earth and heaven.

How did he… How did he forget his rosary under his habits?

Francisco thought this would be a simple dinner. In the precipitation of his actions, his mind preoccupied by the lies he prepared to tell, he forgot to pay attention. He didn’t think he had to take his clothes off, he was wrong. So wrong.

But now only Clarissa’s eyes mattered. With a glare that seemed inhuman, she stared and stared, surprise and shock slowly turning into rage and disgust. And he already felt sick, falling, he was feeling as if his soul was crucified, twisting on an abstract cross, again and again, without finding relief, painfully wringing and quivering in his body.

“These rosary beads are… I saw them… They belong to the Jesuit priests of…”

“I… Clarissa! I was about to tell you, I swear to God, I was about to tell you.” Garupe choked while talking. Voice small like that of a child.

“Tell me what?” You didn’t seem to understand yet. You pushed away a truth that was flagrant, denying reason for few more seconds, pushing the pain away, for few more little seconds. Vicente was a servant, just a servant, an unmarried servant that was just about to be yours. No, he can’t be. HE CAN’T.

He was falling and falling and falling.

With every second, every shake of your lovely curls, every swell of tears in your eyes, he was falling.

“Vicente… Tell me it’s not what I think, please, tell me.”

“Francisco” He swallowed his own tears, closing his eyes in shame.

“Francisco… Francisco!” You laughed, crying. You laughed madly, so madly you made him gasp, you made him worry for your sanity and he reached for you without thinking twice.

“Don’t you dare! Snake!” you spat out, slapping his hand.

Your world was falling apart, a mirror of lies, shattering and breaking in sharp pieces, wounding you in their burst.

Why?

Why would he be one of them? Of all men, why would he be a priest? A priest!

“Clarissa… I… please listen to me… I was going to tell you, I—“

How dared he speak again?

“Hypocrite!“ You yelled, “I knew you were all but muddy pigs, black vultures from hell! Murderers, schemers!”

You smashed an empty water bottle on the floor, glass spattering everywhere and Garupe gulped again, but in fear.

“Clarissa, I beg you to hear me out! just… please—“

“Shut up! Close that rancid mouth of yours!” You blurted out, anger blurring  you vision. You saw red.

“I am going to tell your church of your shameful activities, if in hell I should rot, I swear to every god existing , if there is any, I will destroy you!” you panted. You were trembling all over, heart wild, wrath setting every nerve of your body on fire.

“Or is it the church that sent you?” you hissed in realization, more tears flowing “Is it those hordes of blood thirsty raptors? Finishing their work, they want to get me now? They are coming for his daughter now, aren’t they?” Your voice broke.

You felt poisoned. Liquid cyanide in your blood.

Francisco was shaking, head spinning. What were you talking about?

You didn’t seem to notice his twisted features, face contorted in pain and confusion, so lost in your own suffering and bitterness.

He didn’t know what to do, he hoped Miguel was still sleeping wherever he was. It was absurd, but that’s what Garupe hoped for now. For a child not to witness that ignominy.

“Clarissa—“ He said quiet, but a flying glass almost landed on his face and he pounced on you, stilling you in place. He didn’t want to hurt you, not for anything in the world.  But then at that rate, he had no choice. He had to talk sense into you but first he had to calm you down, make you listen to him.

Your back thumped on the hard wall as you screamed.

“Bastard! I am going to ki—“

Suddenly his lips were on yours, as his arms held your body in a death grip. Forceful and rough, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to act, so he just kissed you. He had never kissed a woman before, and if he had ever imagined kissing a woman, it was never in that manner. But he kissed you, open mouth closing on yours, he kissed you with anger and pain and passion and all the desire he had retained for so, so long.

You stilled. You really stilled. The world blanked out for the moment of a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelash, and the universe shrunk to its primal nothingness. Then a breath, then another, and another.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He kissed you again and again, urgency in his movements, in his hands, his lips. He was everywhere, all around you, your whole universe. And you wanted to forget, just for a moment, forget who he was, forget what he did.

“I’m sorry” His shaky breaths came as urgent as his kisses. Because he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say, he just wanted you to forgive him, he just wanted you.

Your nails were painful on his chest as you reciprocated his kisses. Finally.

Oh he was sorry, you knew, but you weren’t, you weren’t for what you were about to do to him tonight. He could be theirs, but not tonight, he was yours tonight. Your anger and pain melted into nothing as the heat of him invaded your senses, everything merged into a desperate need, a flame that bloated into a wildfire.

“I’m sorr—“

“Shuuush… Come here, you are going to sin tonight, Father.” You panted, eyes dark like unfathomable seas as you violently pulled on his hand, leading him through your galleries up to your room.

The heavy wooden door closed with a thud behind your back as you leant on it.

“I can tell you everything.” Francisco breathed out.

“I said, silence.” You pushed him into the bed, into your crimson sheets, where you had wanted him for countless nights, pleasuring yourself at the thought of him. He looked divine; You let out a small laugh of satisfaction, fingers on your corset, freeing your waist from its confinement.  With a deftness he found dizzying, you got rid of your heavy dress, and the ribbons that held your hair up.

You stood in your undergarments before him, like the portrait of sin, skin glowing and shiny with the sweat of your desire, breasts barely covered as you slowly crossed the few steps separating you from him.

Francisco clenched the satin sheets in his fists, heart hammering in his ribcage as you crawled on him, slowly unbuttoning that old ragged shirt he wore, your palm gentle on his abdomen, pushing him further into the depths of your bed.

He felt like he was swimming, surrounded by red waves, and you the sea siren, enchanting his senses, bringing him down, deeper. You hovered over him, your curls fell on him like a silky curtain, your hard nipples brushed his chest under your thin garments and he inhaled the scent of you.

Like the ocean. small white villages on the oceanside. Heat, children playing and women laughing and him, barefoot, running on the beach. Sunsets in the horizon and hundreds of ships, sailing far away, to lands of gold and glory. You smelled like home and he smiled, eyes closed as you nudged his nose, endless teasing before closing your lips on his again, savoring his taste. He shuddered and ground towards you as your tongue teased his, and when you sucked into it, into his red lavish lips, his moans echoed desperate and needy.

Outside, the leaves of your garden’s trees whispered and fluttered, and the moon was full in the starry sky. You inhaled, deep and shaky into his feverish skin. He smelled like old paper and perfumed wax, so monastic, a far reminder of his celibacy. You grinned to yourself, triumphant as his breath became shallower, urgency in his gaze as he devoured you under heavy eyelids. But you remained in control, tapping on his hands every time they wanted to grasp you. A part of you wanted to punish him, you wanted to show him who had the power over the other tonight. Tonight was for your pleasure, even if it was only this time, even if this was to be your only and sole union in flesh. But as you started tugging on his slacks, unwrapping his last layers of modesty, you saw terror and distress in his eyes .

“Clarissa, please… I’ve never… You should know.”

His eyes were like those of a deer, already knowing it has fallen deep into the hunter’s trap, begging, wide, sparkling, teary… beautiful.

Surprise flashed through your eyes for a second. Was he telling you that he had never slept with a woman before? You stilled your palms on his wonderful chest, heaving now with excitement and apprehension. Should you believe him this time? He had lied to you before, he had lied to you about everything, to be fair.

“You’ve never?” You crooked a brow, doubtful.

“Please,” he almost sobbed, “what should I do to make you believe me?” He closed his eyes, trying to gain some control over himself.

“You should have told me the truth from the beginning!” You fisted your hands on his chest, leaving hot red marks on his skin. You shouldn’t have let him talk. He looked so sincere now, so vulnerable, and God, why was he a million times more beautiful like that?

“ I couldn’t… I couldn’t… you should know that I couldn’t…!” he swallowed painfully, trying to ignore how your hips were still grinding into his aching cock.

His hands reached slowly to take yours and you let him this time, breath unsteady as they eclipsed yours, warm and so masculine.

“I… It is not the Church Clarissa, it’s just me, I needed the money… I had to… Then I saw… you.”

“Hush now.” You said softly. His words were what you wanted and dreaded to hear at the same time. Somewhere, in the darkest corners of your soul, you wanted him to be the evil one, the liar, the vicious priest, you wanted to be right, always right. You wanted to dismiss the feelings that were seeping free again. You wanted to make this about pleasure, since you knew, anything more than that and your heart would be the only one paying the expenses. But now… you didn’t know anymore.

“Please stop talking…” You whispered, as you freed your hands to comb on his luxuriant mane, fingers detangling the knots there.

“Hush, close your eyes for me, Francisco.”

And he did, you didn’t have to ask twice. He was telling you the truth, you knew it suddenly as a tear rolled down his cheek, leaking from his closed eye. You leaned in to kiss it, and you kissed his eyelids, the ridge of his nose, his upper lip then his cheeks, his jaw… and when you bit his lower lip, his hands clutched your waist through the linen of your clothes and he thrusted up, legs shaking with want.

“You can take it off… Father.” Your voice barely there as you nibbled on his earlobe and guided his hands to the hems of your undergarments. Francisco’s body was barely holding back, eyes still closed, he focused on the sensation of his hands on your bare thighs, as he slid the thin clothing up, up, up… When your body was finally freed of its last constraint, he opened his eyes and his breath hitched in his throat .

Sweet Jesus.

He had never seen such beauty before. For long seconds, he stilled, eyes taking in the sight before him. You were glowing, silky curves and valleys on display as you smiled down at him. Francisco was suddenly afraid to touch you. He felt ignorant, small, unrefined as his eyes roamed the swell of your breasts, the smoothness of your belly and the nook of your… sex.

So different, this was so different from the guilty glimpses he sometimes took of nude statues of goddesses that decorated the palaces and gardens he visited. Cold white marble, it was just cold marble and his only poor knowledge of the female body. But you… now, before him, radiant with heat and arousal, flesh and skin offered to him, eyes daring him to touch you, to take you, to make you his…

God have mercy.

You were amused to see him, awestruck and clueless, palms flat on your thighs and eyes wide, lips parted.

“Come here, you poor thing.” You laughed seductively as you tugged on his hands, lifting him up to meet your body, overheated from endless teasing and impatience. Your mouth found his neck as you pushed your breasts into his hands. He whined, your tender nipples hardening against his fingers, and instinctively, he squeezed, making you moan into his mouth.

God.

You looked up, into the fire in his eyes, and smiled, as if to say “that’s nothing compared to what’s coming, Father”. And as you started to roll your hips again, he felt it this time, the wetness between your legs, the proof of your passion, coating his engorged sex, and he knew he was lost.

Your lips left his neck with a sticky pop. You were sure to leave your mark on his divine body, as you tugged on his hair and made him shudder with sinful pleasure.

“Look at me Francisco.”

His eyes instantly fell on yours, ready to take anything you wanted to give to him. Like a love sick fool, he was waiting, his hands flexing greedily on the expanse of your back, descending hesitantly to take more. He was still wondering if he would last more than the next five minutes. He didn’t want to disappoint you, he wanted to please you, oh so much, he wanted to make up for everything he had done to you, for every single lie. Was this ache in his heart what they called love? Was he in love with you? What was the difference anyway, he was lost, not only in the wonders of your body, but lost to himself, in himself. He was entering unknown territories, ones he had never wanted to enter, never wanted to know. Trepidations, anxiety and heartache. He had never wanted this, but feeling you now, watching you move on him, looking into your eyes, touching your hot skin, waiting for a word from you rosy lips, God, he understood now… He understood how men lost their faith for love, how they lost themselves for a woman, how they lost their minds…

“I want you to touch me there.” You breathed in his mouth, as you took his hand and splayed it on your sex.

“H-how… do—“ He was truly lost. But somehow nothing seemed more tempting than to touch you there, nothing seemed more perfect than to pleasure you there, he wanted to know how to do it properly, he wanted to make you sigh and moan his name. It was instinctive, his fingers were naturally drawn there, exploring your secret lips as you moved your hips to let him in.

As you changed position, his throbbing cock twitched against his abdomen, proud and thick with need, seeking your attention. The head was already leaking pearly precum, and the pained look on Francisco’s eyes told you of his efforts to keep himself from finishing right there, as his fingers soaked and indulged in your juices. His breaths were coming ragged and short and he was whispering incoherent words (or were they prayers?) as he buried his nose in your collarbone, avidly inhaling your scent. You had never thought that the sight of such poor unexperienced man would arouse you so badly. You wanted to show him, you wanted to make him feel good, appease him now. With tenderness blooming in your heart, you shoved his fingers away.

“You first.” You caressed his hair, seeking his attention.

“Mhm… Please… I’m sorry…” He managed to stutter.

“Open your legs for me, Father” Your low voice sent shudders down his spine.

He hesitated, face red, limbs buzzing with electricity.

“Don’t be shy now, beautiful thing.” You leaned, left a kiss on his head and he jolted, hips bucking to meet your mouth, as he sucked in a deep breath. You parted his legs further, you wanted to see everything. He was really well endowed, you admired, beautiful everywhere.

“Breathe, Father, you can take this.” You patted his thigh and lowered your mouth, eyes always locked with his to seek his permission. He swallowed and threw his head back on your crimson pillows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his hands sweaty, fisting your sheets.

You started slow, peppering light kisses on his length. With the tip of your tongue you wetted the underside of it, from the base to the tip. You hummed at the salty taste, your core tightened around a void, and you huffed with edginess. You straddled his thigh then, and moaned as your cunt rubbed on the firm muscle. Once settled and able to take the edge off, you took him in the heat of your mouth and started to suck, rhythmically with the undulations of your hips on his thigh.

Francisco chocked and gasped, spasmed under you. Jesus, he had never felt such a sensation before. His rough fist paled before the wet and smooth insides of your pretty mouth, showering his most intimate parts with care. His eyelids fluttered, as the doors to heaven opened behind them. God, it felt so good. He never knew it was in the power of a human to make another feel that good, almost too good to handle, and he struggled with his will to restrain himself, as your lips closed tight around him, hummed and moaned around him, he did the same, loud and shameless now.

“God… oh… God, please… sweet child, more… m-hhore”

“There” you stopped to catch your breath, mouth swollen and red, spit glistening on your enflamed lips. You returned to the task, sucking hard and fast on his head, as you fisted his base with one hand, and toyed with his balls with the other. You worked with purpose now, passion in your movements, heat coiling in your core, conscious of your cunt drooling on his thigh, his meaty cock filling your mouth deliciously, his moans music spurring you on, undeniable proof of his pleasure.

He was close to his release now, the familiar pool of liquid heat running through his veins, sending waves of shock through his body. His thighs began to spasm and he tried to warn you, too ashamed and innocent to know that him spilling in your mouth was exactly the thing you desired, that wanting to taste his seed in your mouth was the ultimate sign of your desire and infatuation…and love. He was soon to learn that, as you protested in a moan, and gripped him harder, worked faster and he lost all control.

God in heaven.

Francisco thought he was ascended to the ninth heaven, magnificent golden light exploding behind his shut eyes, as he spent into your hot mouth… ropes of his seed, thick and abundant, coating your lips and dribbling over your chin, as your nostrils flared and your chest heaved. No sound emitted from him, too spent to utter a word, too spent to remember how to breathe, too far gone in the aftermath of his pleasure.

You sighed as you watched him, pride swelling in your chest. You had wanted him for so long. Tortuous endless nights of hot wet dreams and solitary pleasure, and now, admiring the sight before you, you knew, he was endlessly yours. No church, no misunderstandings and no barriers, human or godly, would ever make it less true. He was yours.

“Pleased?” you rubbed his belly, helping him recover, as sweat beaded on his brow, the last remnants of his high dissipating.

“It was… so goo—hd… more than good… was… j—hust… ” Words failed him as he managed to smile, dimples gracing his cheeks, hands already seeking for you.

“Come, come here, child.”

You kissed him sweetly on his inner thigh before you obliged.

“Can I make you feel the same…? I mean is it possible?” he asked sheepishly.

“You are a silly man, Francisco” you laughed and crawled on him, kissing your way up.

He laughed awkwardly, wondering if he earned the label.

“Of course you are going to make me feel good too, just with those wondrous fingers” you took two of his thick, long fingers and put them into your mouth, wetted them nice before bringing them to your sex again, “Remember how to use them?”

He nodded and wrapped one arm over your waist as his fingers delved into the velvet of your cunt, swollen and so ready now. You guided him with praise, as you rutted into his palm. He was naturally talented, seeking and flickering your folds artfully. You had awakened his senses to the pleasures of the flesh, and he understood his effect on you, as you writhed in his arms, as your teeth bit on his nipples, as your mouth expelled languid moans. He found your entrance and a gasp of surprise left his parted lips.

“Yes… You are almost there. Inside, I want you inside…”

“There?” He asked in his deepest voice, making you shudder.

“Ye—ees” You nudged his nose, foreheads touching as his hot breath fanned your lips.

His fingers easily slipped into your slick heat, moving experimentally, rubbing your walls in and out, slowly. You didn’t expected him to know, yet… but god if he wasn’t blowing your mind just trying.

“Can you… mhmm yes… Can you move like that for me?”

You guided his fingers all the way out to your clitoris and back inside you.

“Like that but faster, please?” you moaned at the end of your sentence, your sweet priest already on task.

His strong diligent digits worked you with devotion, pinched brows as he focused on bringing you to orgasm, and soon enough your walls started to clench around them, as your whole being reached for him.

“Please… Please.. Please…”

He was dizzy, didn’t even know what you were begging for, but oh how he wanted to deliver…

Please be with me

Please stay after

Please love me

Please

I forgive you.

Your soul chanted, your vision shattered and you cried out his name, whole body quivering upward, mouth trying to catch his, fingers holding on to his strong shoulders as you climaxed high, so high.

“Did… Did I hurt you?” Francisco was utterly terrified. He stopped his ministrations, two thick fingers stilled deep inside you.

Poor innocent man.

You laughed in your haze and shook your head lazily.

“No, silly. No.” You whispered softly, head finally resting on his chest “You made me feel so good, and when a woman feels so good in her lover’s arms, she lets him know… loudly…” You sighed. He was so endearing as realization hit him, and he blushed further, as if it was even possible.

You slowly moved his fingers out of you, kissed them gently.

“Goodness… Are you here, for real, with me?” He spoke softly, body slack in the afterglow. He didn’t have the strength to linger on his acts for now, he allowed himself to just feel, touch, breathe, live in the moment, with you.

“Does this feel real?” You pinched his pec and he recoiled, surprised.

“Ow!”

“So?”

“It does!”

“And this?” You kissed his lips, achingly slow.

“It does…” He exhaled, low into your lips.

“Good. Now tell me everything, Father.”

[deanspatroclvs]

For I still was a blind man

I wrote a small Supernatural ficlet because I needed to fix that ending of 15x20.  mainly posting it here because I don’t have an Ao3.   Enjoy! ~

The road seemed endless, framed by green trees and golden sunlight. There was no noise but wind rustling in the leaves, the smooth whirring of the black shiny car and the music blaring through the windows. Carry on my wayward son. There‘ll be peace when you‘re done.

Dean Winchester watched the road before him, replaying everything in his life inside his head like one of these blockbusters he‘d always wanted to watch in cinema. The leather on Baby‘s wheel felt soft and comforting as he drove on. So, that‘s how it‘s gonna be. He was in heaven, stuck here for eternity, running on empty like a broken record. At least Sammy would live on, perhaps find a wife, have children, die of old age. Dean didn‘t know when he‘d see his little brother again. Time moved differently here, Bobby said. How long is it gonna be? Years? Minutes? Seconds? The car roared as Dean stepped on the gas pedal. He barely noticed the peaceful forest on his side, merging into a blur as the car took on speed. He didn‘t know peace. All he knew was this road, driving on and on in life and death, taking him to a new place as it has always been.

Lay your weary head to rest. Don‘t you cry no more.

Although Dean was in heaven, he wasn‘t happy. Even the car didn‘t feel right. Baby was too new, too smooth. The seats and windows were clean, there was no smell of stale beer, no tapes. It all seemed too perfect. Dean knew he should be content. He got Baby, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, his parents. But something was missing. He was torn out of life before he could even live. Leaving his brother alone, not being able to watch him grow. His hands clenched tighter around the wheel and Dean breathed out. He was shaking, tears burning in his eyes. One thought had entered his mind, the thought he‘d tried to banish and ignore and block out. Cas.  

Once I rose above the noise and confusion, Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion

The sun shone brightly, not too hot, not too cold, but Dean didn‘t care. He tried to focus on the road before him, feeling Baby purr beneath him as if it was her first ride. His mind was whirring as he replayed the last moments of his life – too fast, too quick, too cruel. Everything was taken from him but Sam and then he lost him too. And now that he was in heaven, he was supposed to be happy? There were too many things left unsaid and now Dean will never have the chance.

I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high

Bobby said, he was here. With Jack. Rebuilding heaven. Dean knew why Cas didn‘t greet him, when he arrived through the pearly gates. He knew.

Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man

Darkness wrapped over the bright trenchcoat, over the blue eyes, over the last smile. „I love you.“ These three words echoed in Dean‘s mind. The raspy voice who said them. The hunter swallowed as he drove on. In the days after Cas‘ death he tried to act as normal as possible, avoid Sam‘s worried glances. Only late at night he would drink, he would listen to their mixtape for hours, sitting at the table, running his fingers over the carved name. After defeating Chuck, Jack disappeared, taking all hope with him. There was no possibility to save Cas anymore. Dean knew just the two of them wouldn‘t be able to defeat the Empty, so he tried to continue on with his life. He was glad that he could hide his grief so well. The years have taught him the mastery of charade. Even Sam didn‘t notice a thing and seemingly was happy enough to have his big brother besides him. Blissful ignorance kept him in his sleep, while Dean was screaming inside next door.

Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man

Thats why Dean knew. Cas probably lost faith in him. He probably wondered why Dean didn‘t come to save him after all these years. And he was right. Dean was a coward. He had been broken and bruised and battered and only after Cas had died, something in him healed. The words Cas had said in that room had fueled this little voice inside him, whispering and screaming into his ear that maybe Dean wasn‘t Daddy‘s little soldier, a blunt instrument, a cold-blooded killer. He was stronger than this and only Cas made him realize that he deserved to be saved. But now Cas was gone and up with Jack somewhere, fixing things that could be fixed. A shuddering breath escaped Dean‘s throat as he realized that their bond couldn‘t be fixed anymore. Back then, he didn‘t have a moment to think, a chance to say anything when Cas was swallowed by the Empty. The words came after in these restless nights, in an endless stream, voices in his head that could only be quieted when he grabbed a pen and wrote the words down. Of course he hid them beneath his pillow, these pages full of apologies. Sam never knew.

And now Dean was here, in heaven, with Baby on the road. Cas‘ sacrifice had been for nothing. Cas must really hate him.

I hear the voices when I'm dreaming, I can hear them say

Dean swallowed hard as he kept his eyes on the grey road, his mind running in circles. The trees went by in a flash of green and brown. The road seemed endless. The music echoed in his ears and he just drove. How much time had passed? Ten, fifteen minutes? Ten years on earth? His whole body was frozen, tensed, anxiety-filled, as he sat in this too new car, listening to Kansas, all alone. He never realized how big Baby actually was, how much space there was. It felt strange not to have Sam sitting next to him, pouting about Dean‘s choice of music, Cas in the back, squinting at Dean as he didn‘t get the reference. A bitter chuckle escaped Dean‘s throat as he thought of motel rooms, fast food dinners, coffee spilled on the seats, weapons clinking in the backseat. Fuck. He rubbed his eyes, willing the traitorous tears away. A burning pain spread in his chest and filled his lungs. Dean let out a shaky breath, opening his eyes, looking into the rearview mirror. And froze. Cas.

Carry on, my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done

The car came to a screeching halt and Dean stumbled out of Baby as fast as he could, keeping his eyes on the angel standing on the middle of the road.

Cas didn‘t move, just looking at him with these beautiful blue eyes. He looked just the way he was when he was swallowed by the empty. When he said those wor- No. Dean didn‘t want to think of it right now. Slowly he walked towards the angel, a few feet of distance parting them. What should he say? Why was Cas here? Why did this all happen? „Hello Dean.“, he heard the familiar gruff voice.„I didn‘t expect you so soon.“ Cas‘ face was hard, blank only for the people that didn‘t know him well. But Dean could see how his jawline was set, how his brows were furrowed, his eyes slightly squinted. Panic washed over him. Cas was pissed. Dean swallowed. „Well – um-“, he started, chuckling nervously. „Vampires, I guess? In the end I got staked. Irony, huh?“, he said awkwardly and glanced at the angel before him. For a while Cas didn‘t say anything. Hurt suddenly flashed over his face before it disappeared beneath the cool mask. „It really was for nothing.“, he muttered and turned around. „Enjoy heaven.“,Castiel said quietly and walked away.

Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more

No.

This could not be happening. Dean just saw Cas again and now he was leaving? Fuck if he let that happen. His feet reacted faster than his mind and ran to him. His hand grabbed Cas‘ arm. He is real, Dean thought, he is really alive. He felt the warmth beneath his fingers through the fabric of the all too familiar trenchcoat.

Great, Dean, now say something. „Cas.“, he stammered. „We...- we need to talk.“ Just friggin‘ peachy, best way to start a conversation, the sarcastic voice in his head said.

Castiel turned around, surprise glinting in his blue eyes. „Dean.“, he said calmly, not moving his arm away. Heart racing, Dean slowly removed his hand.   „Y‘know. What you said-“, he started but Cas already interrupted him. „You don‘t need to do this.“, he said, a sad and angry look on his face. „No, I need to do this. You need to listen to me, Cas!“, replied Dean. Anger surged through him too. „So don‘t fly away with that feathered ass of yours!“

Cas glared at him and in that moment Dean just wanted to punch him. Is it that hard to just stay here and listen to what he has to say?

„Look, Cas.“, Dean started. „I‘m not good with words, so- um..“ Cas just stood still, waiting for what he had to say. It made him nervous. He felt his heart racing in his chest and tried to grasp the next words in his already scrambled brain. Fuck. He really wasn‘t good at this. A few minutes went by, them just staring awkwardly at each other. Then Cas sighed. „I know, Dean. You don‘t feel the same way. You don‘t need to say this.“, he murmured and took a few steps back, shoving his hands down the pockets of his trenchcoat. Dean just gaped at him in shock. „Do you really believe that?“, he said a little louder than expected and flinched. Cas just stared at him blankly, mask all up. „Yes.“, he just said. Oh why did it have to be so hard? „You‘re wrong, Cas.“, Dean growled, patience growing thin. „Oh yeah? Well, let me know if you‘re really sure about this!“, Cas snapped, eyes squinting in anger. „I gave you everything, Dean! And if this is all you can say, then I don‘t see the need to talk about this!“ Okay. Cas really was pissed.

Dean‘s hands clenched to fists and he walked towards him. „You really think I haven‘t thought about this at all? You really think that you mean that little to me? Fuck, Cas. Didn‘t you see that-“, he interrupted himself, hurt washing all over him. His heart was hammering hard in his chest while the other was still glaring at him. „What?“, growled Cas. Dean swallowed and his eyes met Cas‘. Green met Blue. Careful, he laid a hand on Cas‘ shoulder and took a deep breath „I never had the opportunity to reply, Cas.“, he said fiercely, angrily. „You said I could let go of that anger and grief and when you died I couldn‘t. Because I needed you to stay, I needed you here!“. Dean hoped this was enough. He was proud of himself for at least saying something.

But Cas‘ face fell. Anger mixed with fury and disappointment flashed all through his eyes within the matter of seconds. „Alright, Dean, I got it. You‘re hurt. Get over it.“, he hissed and yanked his shoulder away from Dean‘s hand. „Is there anything else? Because I would like to get back to help Jack. I hope you like your heaven, Dean, since I figured it got all you needed.“. Shit. Did Cas create this? Dean staggered back, words lost in his mouth at the revelation that his former friend not only died for him, bled for him and now even created his heaven for him without even expecting anything in return. How did he ever deserve someone like Cas? The angel in question just glared at him. „Goodbye, Dean.“, he just said and turned around, walking away once more. Why he didn‘t use his wings, Dean couldn‘t comprehend. His mind was racing anyway, full of thoughts, full of things he could possibly say. But should he really say something? He stared blankly at Cas‘ back, slowly moving away, further from him. That hurt. That distance hurt. Knowing, that when he let Cas go now, he would never see him again.

„Cas.“, he finally murmured. „Wait.“ Cas showed no sign he heard him and continued walking. This was enough. Something in Dean snapped and he ran. His feet carried him on the hard road, towards the angel. The angel that was once his and all of his and now none of his. One hand grabbed his arm and yanked him around, the other pulling him closer. There was just a second where Dean saw irritation in his eyes before his lips crashed with Cas. They were dry meeting soft ones. Dean‘s entire mind went blank and all he could hear was his heartbeat. Cas seemed frozen in shock. Suddenly, slowly, Dean felt two hands sneaking around his back, grabbing his shirt. Cas returned the kiss with uncertainty which soon disappeared. His hands went to Cas‘ neck, feeling the short black hair at his fingertips. They kissed for seconds, minutes, what could be years on Earth and Dean didn‘t care. He focused on the feeling of Cas. On the radiating warmth that seemed to erase all the hurt and confusion. It felt as if the bond snapped right into place like a broken bone healed. Softly, slowly he pulled away from Cas and opened his eyes. Blue ones looked at him in confusion and hope and Dean let out a shuddering breath, his heart up in his throat. „Me too.“, he whispered and saw Cas‘ eyes widen in shock. Dean couldn‘t help it. He chuckled quietly. „You know, you need to stop looking like that.“, he muttered, which made Cas frown. „Like what?“, he asked with his raspy voice. „Like that stupid angel who wouldn‘t ever believe that I would let him go away like that!“, Dean replied, smirking. His fingers stroked Cas‘ neck and damn, did it feel good. Well, it did feel a little weird, being so close to Cas, but mostly it felt good. „May I remind you, that you‘re the one who died on a rusty nail?“, Cas replied sarcastically and Dean snorted. „Touche.“ He stepped back, but let his hands rest on Cas‘ shoulders, in case that damn angel would still want to fly away. „We good?“, he asked, worry rising up. Maybe Cas really hated him. Maybe he truly did everything wrong.

But the angel nodded, brows furrowed in deep thought. „I think so.“, he murmured and Dean‘s heart jumped. „That‘s good. It‘s good. Good.“, Dean stammered, barely comprehensating what is just happening. Cas forgave him. He let out a long breath of relief and took one of Cas‘ hands, intertwining his fingers with Cas‘. Baby steps. Hands. Kisses. They are both new with this. It will probably still take a while to admit these three words for him. „As long as you‘re with me, Cas.“, he said, smiling. A small tentative smile spread over Cas‘ face and he nodded. „You know I am, Dean.“

Carry on, my wayward son, There'll be peace when you are done

From the moment the angel of the lord pulled the righteous man out of hell they were found and changed, hunting and hurting each other until they were lost again. For twelve years they fought against the world and themselves. Then came death and darkness on their shadowed wings, separating them once more. That day in heaven when they met again something set into place like a well-oiled machine. Just like the black car in which the angel and the hunter explored the whole world together in eternity.

The car which didn‘t feel empty anymore.

And for the first time in years, Dean felt true happiness.

Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry, don't you cry no more

[the-fallen-order]

devil eyes.

I’ll be honest with you all, I’ve never posted any of my writing. Super nervous, honestly. I was sent a Star Wars fic by a friend and I kept getting the urge to write.. Between me and two friends (they helped with ideas), this is a bit of what we came up with. I’m going to post it on ao3, I think, but I’m a bit self-conscience and kinda scared lol. 

This isn’t the whole thing, just a bit - I’d love some (constructive) feed back..

While Hera is an OC, I tried to leave her fairly ambiguous, so you can view her however you want. I have an idea in my head of what she looks like, but I will leave that up to the reader (unless anyone is interested in what I envisioned). 

(PS. Yes, I know there is a Hera in Rebels, completely unrelated)

I’m also up for collaboration, or doing one shots! I tried really hard to keep stuff canon, but I’m not perfect.  It doesn’t look like any formatting copied over, so I apologize for that! 

This is set AFTER the ending of S2 of The Mandalorian. I don’t believe there are any spoilers...

................

Tattooine.

A wasteland the Huntress was certainly not keen to be on again. It was hot, almost unbearably so, with more sand than she had ever cared to see in her lifetime. An unremarkable planet with twin suns, once home to Jabba the Hutt and his palace. She had visited the palace once, had watched someone – a slave that had done Jabba wrong, she presumed – get dumped into the rancor pit, and she had never wanted to return. The only saving grace of the planet was the podracing.

Yet, money talked, and she found herself back on the awful planet once more, tracking a quarry through the vast desert wasteland of Tattooine. She had narrowed her search down to a small village sitting at the bottom of a mountain - an interesting place to hide, she thought, considering there were much better places to play hide and seek with a bounty hunter. The tracking fob in her hand was blinking more steadily now, indicating she was in the right place. Placing it back in her pocket, she reached up to readjust the hood of her black cloak before pulling her binoculars off her belt to get an idea of what exactly she had gotten herself into.

She knew there would be more bounty hunters coming – Greef Karga, who had given her the bounty puck – was notorious for handing out more than one puck for the same bounty, especially when they were high priority. Most hunters within the guild dreamed of getting bounties like this, but very few were qualified for the High Risk, High Reward type of bounties. Which led to a lot of resentment towards the hunters that were qualified.

The village seemed devoid of any natives. The Quarry had most likely captured the ones that inhabited it or had them killed if they resisted. The beings left milling about were undoubtedly guards hired to protect him, most likely heavily armed, too. At least ten, from what she could see through the binoculars, with an unknown amount inside the huts. It would be challenging, but doable.

“Don’t move.” A modulated voice from behind her broke her train of thought. Her breath hitched as the tip of a blaster was pressed against the back of her head. Another bounty hunter, no doubt. How did I not hear him?

She slowly raised her hands. “I’m in the guild.” The Huntress said.

“I know.” He replied. “This is my bounty.”

Uh huh...

“Maybe we can make a deal,” She suggested, “There’s at least ten guards down there, with who knows how many inside the huts waiting for us.”

He was quiet, watching her. The Huntress slowly turned around to face him, hands still raised in the air, her eyes widening at the sight of Beskar. Oh, fuck. A Mandalorian. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not good.

There had been talk of another Mandalorian bounty hunter, one that wasn’t Boba Fett, one that was ruthless during his hunts and never backed down from a fight. He had been Blacklist approved.  He seemed to be following in the footsteps of the one and only Fett, with some kind of vendetta against the galaxy fueling him.

“What’s the deal?” He asked finally, blaster still pointed at her head, his finger on the trigger.

“We can split the bounty.”

Dead silence.

Her heart was racing. She had had plenty of blasters pointed at her, had been shot at plenty of times, shot a couple times, but never by a Mandalorian. They were deadly warriors, not ones to be crossed or stand in the way of. Rare as they were nowadays, when one did show up, it was never a good sign.

“We do this my way, then.”

“Your way?” She shot back.

“Yes.”

“I was here first.”

He stared down at her cloaked figure, contemplating.

“I could kill you and have the bounty all to myself.” He said, almost passively, like he was toying with the idea.

Oh fuck. Think…think!

“Even that Beskar of yours can only protect you from so much, Mandalorian. Half of the pay is still better than none if we are both dead.”

“We do this my way, then.” He lowered the blaster to his side, kneeling down beside her, pressing a button on his vambrace that changed the view mode of the visor in his helmet. The Huntress lowered her hands, putting her binoculars back on her belt.

Stars, he was intimidating.

“Quarry is in the far -right hut.” The Mandalorian said, “With more guards hiding inside. Let’s go.”

She sighed quietly, mostly to herself, before following him down the side of the mountain. What am I thinking?

The Huntress stayed low, quietly making her way to the first hut, listening intently as the sound of enemy footsteps came towards her. Vibro-blade in hand, she moved swiftly, her free hand covering his mouth to muffle him as her other stabbed the blade into his neck, pulling him back behind the hut as he struggled against her. She twisted the blade in deeper, his body going limp in her arms as she pulled the blade out, dropping him to the ground.

She continued to make her way through the small village, quietly taking out guards with her vibro-blade as she went. As she set another now-dead guard on the ground, blaster fire suddenly erupted around her. She peaked around the edge of the hut she had snuck behind, watching as mass chaos unfolded in front of her.

Ah, the Mandalorian has been seen.

Guards were everywhere now; she had quietly taken out five, but those five had been replaced by another twenty and they were all shooting at the Beskar-clad target. She couldn’t blame them, though; he was a truly enticing target to shoot at.

Sheathing her vibro-blade, she pulled her blaster from it’s holster and open-fired at a few of the enemies, watching as the Mandalorian disintegrated one with his long rifle.

Impressive.

She kept her gaze on the Mandalorian whose cover was quickly becoming compromised. Turning her attention back to the guards, she began firing more rounds at the them to draw their attention away from him and onto her. The Mandalorian gave her a quick nod - she assumed it was his way of saying thank you - and used the opportunity she had provided to him to move his position and disappear behind the other huts.

Pulling a thermal detonator off of her utility belt, she armed it and threw it in the direction of the guards, peeking her head back out after it had detonated, eliminating the group. It was stupid of them to congregate in one area like that, but she supposed that’s what you got for hiring bandits to protect you, rather than highly trained mercenaries. Even with them being heavily armed, idiots could only do so much.

The blaster fire had mostly ceased after the blast, with one or two guards left trying their best to take out the two bounty hunters. She almost felt bad for them. Watching as one was disintegrated, she took out the last one standing and moved to join the Mandalorian in the last hut on the right.

Walking through the door, blaster drawn, she watched as the Mandalorian cuffed the bounty, who was pleading and crying to let him go, that it was all a misunderstanding. “Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it if you let me go!” The Huntress rolled her eyes at that - that was like the go-to statement of the century for quarries when they knew they were caught. She holstered her blaster, continuing to watch the Mandalorian. He pulled the bounty towards the door by the cuffs, stepping past her as if she didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you this was my bounty.” He replied.

“We made a deal.” He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Deals off.”

“Fight me for it.” She taunted, clenching her fists in preparation to fight. Her blaster was no use against the beskar, this she knew. The Mandalorian let go of the bounty, pulling the long shiny spear from off his back and turned to look at her. His body language conveyed the message to her very clearly; he was pissed.

“We had an agreement, Mandalorian.”

He charged at her, taking a swing at her with the spear. The Huntress crossed her arms at her wrists, letting her own beskar vambraces take the impact of the attack, the sound of beskar-on-beskar rang through the air as he pushed her backwards towards the wall. She stumbled a few steps backwards, regaining her balance as he swung again. She ducked, throwing a punch at his unprotected side, making contact. The Huntress quickly stepped back, activating the flamethrower on her vambrace, forcing him to step back away from her.

“Where did you get those?” He asked harshly. She disengaged the flamethrower, watching him cautiously, both of them poised to continue fighting. Mandalorian’s took their armor very seriously; especially when it was a dar’manda wearing the armor. This she knew all too well.

“This is my arm--“ Was all she managed to get out before he used the grappling line in his vambrace to constrict her, watching as it wrapped around her, causing her to lose her balance and fall to the ground with a thud.

She struggled to get loose from the line as he pulled her towards him, only stopping once she felt the familiar sensation of a blaster being pressed against her forehead. The Huntress stared up at him, fully expecting him to pull the trigger on her this time.

The silence between the two was almost palpable.

“…Kandosii?” It was almost a whisper, barely audible through the vocoder in his helmet. Her heart skipped a beat at the nickname - she hadn’t been called that in years. It was foreign, almost, the familiarity of it just out of her reach. The sound of the Beskar spear hitting the ground echoed through the hut as the Mandalorian studied her – the Mandalorian armor, now painted a familiar blue, her fighting style….her eyes.

She was alive.

[kbstories]

Ontological

on·to·log·i·cal (adj.) Existing as such; metaphysical.

Eustass Kidd and Killer, during and afterwards.

(Or: Killer and SMILE, let’s talk about it.)

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Aftermath of Violence, Reunions, Body Dysmorphia

Read Chapter 1 here. Soft spoiler warning for Chapter 981. Content warning for discussions of Body Dysmorphia/BDD. Read Chapter 3 here.

***

They walk for hours, across dusty desert plains and past the outskirts of a bustling city to the very edge of a forest, every leaf covered in delicate frost. Kidd doesn’t have a single clue where they’re going – all he’s seen of Wano Country is a waterfall and the inside of a cell and what a lovely first impression that was – but Killer seems to, always two steps ahead of Kidd.

In that dark kimono and cloaked in patterned fabric, Killer looks like he belongs here, roaming wherever the wind carries him. All formal-like with his hair pulled up high and out of his face and his wrists bandaged all the way to his fingers.

Fucking uncomfortable is what he looks like, shoulders drawn and hands clenched where the grip of his scythes would be, and Kidd’s stomach roils with a fury that has nowhere to go.

Not right now, anyways.

Yet he’s still just Killer: despite the smile that remains on his lips, cold as the snow beneath their feet, despite the weeks they spent apart. Still the man that has been by his side since Kidd can remember, all the way back to the days they were snot-faced nobodies from South Blue dreaming of the wide-open sea and finding One Piece.

Killer’s always been a man of few words. He’s calmer now, hasn’t said much of anything since they left the prison gates behind. When Kidd had asked if he knew where the others were, Killer had nodded and led the way.

He hasn’t laughed either, as much as every breath threatens to change that. Kidd keeps a tight hold on his metal fist and doesn’t stare.

It’s quiet out here, eerily so. They come by a bridge and bloody arches splattered on cracked wood and snow alike. Across countless graves, old and frozen over to the point of illegibility – and while Killer’s gaze falls on the swords stuck in front of them, he does not stray from his path.

Idiot. Kidd rolls his eyes and gestures to a pair of short ones that are vaguely curved. They are torn from their place of rest with nary a sound; hovering, just as soundlessly, until Killer sighs and takes them in hand.

“A spirit guards this place”, he says, as if Kidd has ever given a shit about anything holy. Killer glances at Kidd’s deadpan stare, his eyes meeting Kidd’s before flitting away again, and Killer’s lips twitch. “It’s bad luck, that’s all.”

“Whatever”, Kidd huffs. Watches Killer draw each of the swords, quick and precise, and they can’t be all that crap given the care with which Killer ties them to the sash around his waist.

Onwards they go until the trees part and Killer finally stops. Kidd does so, too, shoulder to shoulder with him as the wind tears into the heavy fur of his coat. One step further the ground gives into a steep cliff and jagged rocks below. Beyond that: the rumbling of waves against shore.

They found the ocean.

Tucked into a cove, the Victoria Punk lies at anchor and there, in the middle of deck, a bonfire casts its warm glow. A light that calls her captain home and Kidd grins. They made it.

It’s a bit far to the metal in the Punk’s skull but Kidd doesn’t care. He reaches for it, feels its presence hum under the palm of his hand and it’s enough, the connection strong and unrelenting.

“Got her. Let’s go, Killer.”

Kidd’s metal arm opens to let him grab on and Killer– He stays right where he is, stiff under all those layers of fluttering fabric and Kidd looks at him. Really looks, his gaze searching for that face he knows so well and sees so rarely and much less like this, with lips pulled unnaturally wide and eyes shifting with hesitation.

A face none of the crew would recognize because they’ve never–

“They won’t care, K. You know they won’t.”

“I know”, Killer grinds out between clenched teeth. The thick muscles of his throat work; the chuckle still makes it out of his mouth, a strangled, joyless noise. “I know but–”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That sliver of doubt that Killer’s worst fear could come true is almost as terrifying as the thing itself, and Kidd swallows whatever else is on his tongue. Promises himself he will speak every ounce of truth when the time is right, will whisper reassurances against Killer’s skin from here to eternity if that’s what it takes to make him believe them.

Kidd’s hand drops, as does the surge of power pulsating from it. “Okay.” He turns away from the Punk and towards Killer, a moment spent figuring things out before he tugs the cloak… thing off Killer’s shoulders.

(Killer doesn’t flinch from his touch but it’s close enough. Kidd pretends not to notice.)

Without hesitation Kidd digs metal fingers into the fabric and rips it apart, a long tear splitting the silk in two. Frowns at the one which is longer and dipped in old blood and shrugs. There are feathers on it.

It’ll do.

Killer is watching him, a line between his brows and his gaze a little squinted like he’s trying to gauge what the hell Kidd is up to. It makes Kidd wonder if whatever happened to him also affects his brain somehow because seriously.

“Get that shit off your face. I’ll do your hair.”

The tie keeping everything tightly bound suffers the same fate, shiny and expensive and ruined as Kidd throws it over his shoulder. Killer’s hair explodes into a familiar cascade of blonde in the matter of moments – the knots and tangled bits will take ages to comb out, which makes another item on Kidd’s to-do list.

Kidd shakes out the front until it falls over Killer’s eyes. “There”, he mumbles with some smugness and can’t help the nostalgic smile it brings to his lips. “Hah. This takes me back.”

Hidden by hair or not, Kidd knows where to catch the glint of Killer’s eyes in there and how they soften. “Mhm.”

The rest of Killer’s face is painfully bare without the bandages and so Kidd doesn’t linger. Just gives Killer the makeshift scarf he made and waits until he’s wrapped it around his neck and pulled it up to the bridge of his nose to tie it in place with a clumsy knot.

There. Not much finesse to it, the torn edges and messy strands clashing against Killer’s outfit with all its elegant folds and neat lines. Even muffled by the mask Kidd can hear the quiet sigh Killer breathes and something in him settles, too.

“C’mon. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

They come home.

*

Afterwards, that’s when Kidd asks.

After his boots hit deck for the first time in weeks and he thought finally; after both he and Killer were barreled over in a mass of hugs – warm, so warm – among shouts of “Captain!” and “Killer! You’re back!”; after Doc descended on them with the righteousness of a Valkyrie from myths and legends and Killer pointed at Kidd and said, “Kidd got shot”, and Kidd hissed back, “Bastard”, and didn’t mention the cuts hidden under that damned kimono (not yet); after Killer slinked off in the direction of their room (one hand keeping the mask in place, not that anyone had given a rat’s ass because the Punk’s right here and they’re all still breathing) and Kidd surrendered himself to his fate at Doc’s hands.

It’s what the crew needed, in that moment. Red-nosed and shivering from temperatures they’re not really made for, and Eustass Kidd is a captain to them all, not just Killer.

So he let Doc fuss over bullet wounds and overexposure to Sea Stone. He listened to Wire’s calm voice re-tell the story of how they got here, how Killer set off to find him and the day Pirate Hunter Zoro wandered by, clearly lost. In turn, Kidd told them the gist of what happened half a country away: about Udon’s downfall and the tides of rebellion crashing against Onigashima’s shores soon enough.

The bonfire burned on. There’s a decision to be made there, Kidd realized as he stared into its flames. Every expression around him carried the same conviction, encased in flickering orange and the bite of snow and Kidd knew, if he asked then and there, they would follow him into a war they'd lost once before.

Yet Killer’s not here and Kidd was tired, so fucking tired.

Across from him Heat shifted, a frown deepening the scars on their face with the things Kidd didn’t say: They have been with them longer than anyone else has, the first to join and the only one to have witnessed what’s beneath the mask. Heat’s gaze searched Kidd’s over the glowing embers between them and they, too, didn’t press for answers.

They smiled, instead, old stitches pulled taut. “Dinner’s on me. Welcome back, Captain.”

Through it all Kidd bit his tongue and waited. Killer is nowhere to be found when he finally steps into the captain's cabin: There’s a pile of used bandages and dark silk on the floor, the sound of a shower running the next room over. Filthy as it is, Kidd deems his fur coat a lost cause and tosses it to the ground along with the rest.

After days of wear, the clothes peel off like a second skin. The dust of the stone pit has been washed off yet it lingers, stuck under painted nails and in the greasy spikes of Kidd’s hair.

The goggles come off next. Kidd… sits, for a while, buck-ass naked on the edge of the bed occupying most of their quarters. Lets his fingers run over old, black leather and the holes missing studs have left behind, and his eyes are dull where they’re mirrored by tinted glass, monochromatic.

Killer’s mask is right there. Blue-and-white, mounted on its stand, not a single scratch on it – Killer’s design and Kidd’s handiwork, its individual pieces welded into place damn near perfectly so it won’t come off unless Killer wants it to.

Kidd stares at it, alone in this space they carved for themselves in this world, and remembers: Killer’s laugh, choked and wrong; Killer’s body, limp in the water; Killer’s face, tear-stained and bared for everyone to see–

Fuck.

Kidd’s palm is rough against his face, skin grown tough with callouses and burn marks. His fingers dig into his mouth and his scar and his eyes and they sting as his eyeliner smudges beyond repair.

How the fuck do I fix this?

Steam rolls into the room like thunder over the sea, the air charged and heavy with it. The bed dips behind him, legs bracketing his; hands slide over Kidd’s back to his chest, slightly damp. Naked skin against naked skin.

This is the thing Kidd missed the most, locked away and powerless.

“Kidd.”

There’s layers to it, the way Killer says his name. A weight behind that one word that invokes the thousand other times he has uttered it just like this, lips a phantom sensation at the nape of Kidd’s neck. The smile is still there, Kidd can feel it, and that too is a memory made physical.

It’s warm summer nights, it’s skinned knees and knocked out teeth, it’s mornings spent in bed with the Punk’s lazy sway beckoning them back to sleep.

Kidd loves Killer’s smile, has loved it before people started mocking him for it and continued to love it past the day Killer decided to hide it. He’d hoped, even as he made that mask, that a time would come when it wouldn’t be needed.

Not like this, though. Not against Killer’s will.

“It’s that SMILE shit, isn’t it?”

Finally, finally Kidd gives voice to the question burning in his mind, his heart, his lungs. Killer’s arms tighten around him but Kidd can’t hold back, can’t–

“Those fake Devil Fruits Strawhat was talking about, that’s what causing this. That’s why you can’t stop. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Killer is a force of nature on the battlefield, a whirlwind of blades and raining blood – here, now, his chest shifts against Kidd’s back with a breath that trembles on the line of becoming a laugh. “You’re not.”

Finally, Kidd allows himself to feel the ache at his core, the sheer grief of it all. The goggles drop to the ground as his fingers claw at fire-red hair instead, pulling. Pain, sharp, sizzles across his scalp, does nothing but add to the suffocating pressure building in Kidd’s throat because there’s no way out of this.

Artificial or not, Devil Fruits are forever.

“Why, Killer? You’re strong, they can’t… Just eating the fruit doesn’t work, you gotta swallow it. You gotta want it. What the fuck were you thinking?!”

And damn Killer, damn him for hearing Kidd’s voice shake and wrapping around him like Kidd’s the one falling apart. For running his hand over Kidd’s until he clings to that instead, strong and steady where Kidd can’t be, not anymore.

They’ve always been together, their lives and pasts and dreams entangled and breathing as one. From South Blue to the New World they've kept this secret safe and–

“There was a choice. They gave me a choice, Kidd.”

It’s mumbled right against Kidd’s ear like the truth will hurt less if spoken quietly. Because there’s no regret in Killer’s voice, none, and there’s only one thing he’d give up everything for.

Kidd clenches his eyes shut, groans out, “No–”

Killer doesn’t let him go, pressing a kiss to his shoulder with smiling lips.

“I just picked the one I could live with.”

>>Chapter 3.