#we meet again in dry desert sands

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, violence, swords & firearms, abductions, hurt/comfort, torture references, nakedness, needles, gore, etc.

A/N: Alright, and that's a wrap on this mini-series. Biker/mechanic!Ghost is next on the list.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You hit the water and immediately push back to the surface, ignoring the burning of your open wounds. 

“John!” Your high and panicked call can’t be heard above the yells to arms and the distressed wails. “What are you doing?!” Bodies get chucked from the side of the ship and all you can do is watch as they meet the water around you—skin cut open and eyes dead. 

While the sea was numbing your pains, your heart was hurting enough for all of them; hands flailing to try and help keep you above the waves. But everything was so dark, only the light far above giving you a sliver of perception. 

“John!” You scream again, eyes snapping back and forth along the ship. Your arms burned with heat.

“Go!” The words ring out and make you cringe, graveled and ragged—an order. But how could you? Vile grunts and skin meeting skin sound out, no more shirking blade edges or the boom of pistols. Fists meeting ribs, bared teeth.

“The Mermaid was wearing tags! He’s part of the King’s forces!” The leader. “If we can’t have the beast, we’ll have the coin from a turncoat!”

“Deserter!”

“Traitor!” 

“Tie him to the post!”

Your ears twitch and pull at the horrible words, lungs near hyperventilating and black waves going red. If you weren’t able to ingest water, the way your head was slowly sinking would have left you sputtering and choking. 

What will they do to him? Why can’t I help? It was the only part in your life where you regret having a tail, because now you can’t save John in the same way he saved you. Your eyes lock helplessly to the upper deck, far, far above. You can’t drag yourself up or even find the energy to stay above water. 

Your strength was waning quickly—you needed to be tended to; healed. But it felt worse than a betrayal to see not even a glimpse of John’s brown hair or his large arms. To not feel the hold he kept on you. You wanted his lips and his flesh to be pressed into you, to venerate your image as he always did. 

A Hierei that worships at the shrine that is you.

“Curse you,” you say aloud to the men above. The ones that tie your raging love to a post; you hear his low growls and biting expletives like blades in their own fashioned way, the sea garbling your words. “Curse your greed and your violence!” 

But no one listens, and with a heavy and weighed heart, you have to let your dead muscles rest as they give out completely against your will. Sunking under the battling waves, you feel like dead weight; no different than the various bodies around you that John had dispatched. 

You felt useless. 

Above you was John, being tied up and taken—taken to a King that wants your species dead. You don’t want to leave, but the current is snatching you away like seaweed, limp and broken. Whatever John had done to your wounds, the fabric of his shirt was holding fast to your shredded flesh, but it didn’t stop the agony or the inner conflict. 

He was right above you…why aren’t you strong enough to help?

Your eyes flutter, hair and arms floating. 

Everything grows dark, but John never once leaves your mind. Perhaps the Fisherman was worshiping you, but you did the same unto him. 

The eyepatched leader’s words loop in your brain, paired with storm-blue eyes. Gentle praises.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Your body sinks with the rest.

—

The sand under you is coarse and dry as your eyes barely open, chest rising and falling but shakily, stuttering in its course. Small noises groan in the back of your throat, fingers like stones beside your face. 

Everything hurts, but something has woken you up. Noises. Muttered speaking.

“Now why would she have these?” There was a moment of clinking metal and a low huff. 

You groan louder and curl into yourself more, only to stop when the tears in your flesh pull. Your lungs inhale sharply.

“Oh, Christ,” the accented voice is smooth as it gets closer. “Easy, then, Ma’am. Shite, I was hoping you’d stay under a bit longer, I’m not bloody done yet.” 

Forcing your eyes open, you hiss at the burn of morning light, laying on your stomach with…your brows tighten…were you wearing a tunic? A hand meets the back of your shoulder and you cry out, jerking.

“Woah!” More force is applied to keep you down but it only makes you struggle more. “Please, I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” 

You stall at this revelation like a bird, panting. Muscles tight, you cautiously look over your shoulder to weakly stare at whoever this man was.

Brown eyes meet your own, and a dark-skinned complexion over an oval face. They blink at you with concern and hesitation, sparing only a nervous smirk and a chuckle. You stare widely, saying nothing. 

“I…I’m just trying to stop the bleeding. Whoever got you,” this man trails off, glancing down at your tail. “Well, they did some proper damage.”

“Who are you?” Your voice is damaged from all the screaming you’d done, cracking and frail. You stifle a cough and survey the land with frantic snaps of your orbs. This wasn’t your cove. 

Where were you? What had happened to the ship? To John? Your hand travels to your neck but lands on nothing. It’s like the world stops turning.

The necklace. 

“My name’s Kyle, Miss, but I’m just as well off being called Gaz—” Your hand snaps to his shoulder, wrenching him down in a violent slam to the sand; with a shove of your ailing body, you cross an arm over his chest to pin him. 

Brown eyes widen, and one hand easily raises in a placating manner. You don’t bother to look at the other, your head broken into bits of instances and images of horror.

“Where is it?” Your lips hiss out. You didn’t know you could make a sound like that. 

Kyle, dressed in a fine outfit of a Bookkeeper, furrowed his brows at you. He didn’t look off-put by your brashness, or by the fact that you were of the Merfolk. 

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…I’m not following. Where’s what, exactly?” There was a glinting at his throat, and you snatched at it with a glare and snarl of ‘thief’ on your tongue. 

A blade presses into your side and you freeze. Kyle stares up at you with a frown on his face, body tight. “I think you should let that go, Miss, yeah?” 

The metal discs are the same as John's, but they hold a different name entirely. 

“Kyle Garrick, Sergeant, 141st company under the King.”

“One Hundred and Forty-First?” You whisper in a hushed voice and the blade loosens from you. Mouth opening and closing, you forget for a moment what Kyle is. Your eyes go glossy with hope. “You know John?” 

Eyelids blink at you in astonishment and all at once the knife is sheathed at his hip once more. Gaz gapes, his slight stubble shifting on his face as he talks slowly. 

“Yes, I do…how do you know the Captain? No offense, but I didn’t peg him for the type to run off with…well…” he trails, chuckling. “Not run exactly, then, is it?” 

You glower and push back, flinching at your aches but waste no time in speaking frantically to the man as your tail flaps. If he was on the same ship as John was, they certainly knew each other well; Kyle had to assist you.

“Please, you need to help me,” The man’s face goes serious and he pushes himself up, “—there’s been a terrible event. John has been taken, don’t you understand?” Your hands grasp at his collar, forgetting to ask about the missing necklace in your mounting hysteria. “They took him. They’re bringing him back to the King and it’s all my fault!” 

You don’t know if it’s the pain or the fatigue, but your emotions spill from you in droves, silver tears falling like drips from a blacksmith's smelter to the beach of this foreign place. Your body feels unable to hold itself up—so much blood lost. 

Gaz gains a sheen of panic at your state, gripping your shoulders lightly above the given tunic. 

“Now, now, Ma’am, steady. You’ve lost a lot of blood, eh? We need to get you sorted.” But internally your words disturbed him. John had been taken? His Captain? And he had known a mermaid?

“I don’t need to be sorted,” you mock, shaking him, “I need my John back! And you’re going to help me.” 

Kyle gazes around awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to comfort you as his upper half gets forced back and forth.  

“First,” he stops you with a firm squeeze on your shoulders, “we’re getting you stitched and wrapped, Ma’am. If what you’re telling me is real,” Gaz pauses, glancing at the sea lapping at your tail, “then I need to get in contact with the others.” 

Your body slightly sags, panting and shaking. While you should have asked who the others were, your adrenaline was too great to allow you to think above the fact that Kyle was going to help you. He had known John—that was enough for you to know he was a good person. 

“Easy,” the man mutters, face pulled in concern. There’s a moment of tense silence before Gaz shifts a hand to the pocket inside of his tweed frock coat, slipping to the side of his green notch vest. He blinks his brown eyes at you before he lightly takes John’s necklace from the depths of his clothes. Kyle presents them as your shoulders loosen with a small sliver of comfort. “I believe you were looking for this, yeah?” 

He spares a friendly, boyish, smile.

Your fingers brush his as you delicately take the metal up, fingertips weeping with torn flesh. Staring at them, you bring the item to your lips and kiss it gently after a moment of agony, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“Oh, John,” you whisper, “you fool, what have you done?” 

“I’ll be needing to move you, Ma’am,” Gaz clears his throat and looks back to the grass-coated road. The beach where you had washed up was near the bottom of a slight hill, and along with sand, there were a lot of pebbles. The wind was chilled. “I was just finishing up with a temporary binding when you woke. We can speak more when I get the larger wounds stitched.” 

You see his gaze fall down you once more. 

“I’d think there’s a lot to catch up on.” Shuffling John’s necklace over your head, you allow Kyle to take bandages from his Gladstone bag which he had brought down from the road with him. He says he found you on the beach unconscious not five minutes before you woke back up as he takes out John’s tunic strips before packing the wounds with fresh material. 

“You stopped?” You ask quietly, body shaking. “Why?” 

“Well, I left the same time that the Captain did,” he explains, looping fabric around your tail as you shudder and clench your teeth at the long cuts over your scales. Kyle spares you a glance before continuing. “Same reason too. The minute innocent beings were being hunted, everyone in the One Hundred and Forty-First deserted. They weren’t too happy with us, I’d imagine. I do what I can to help anyone, regardless of species.” 

Gaz pulls back and finishes up, brushing his hands on his folded legs and sighing. 

“We all separated and led our lives the best we could—got jobs, hid ourselves, the like.” While the story was fascinating, as John was rare to talk about the King or his service beyond a clenched jaw, you truly were suffering from blood loss.

Every moment it became harder to keep your upper-half vertical and your eyes open. Gaz’s words slurred in your eardrums as the sand under your hands got pushed back by pressure like a rock being dragged. Your head must have swayed, because the next moment you’re being lifted with a grunt and a steadying of feet.

“Can’t say I’ve ever carried a mermaid,” Kyle grumbles to himself, blinking down at your form as our head rests limply on his chest. “Certainly not one that knows Price of all people.”

You focus on your breathing as he ascends the hill, going slowly and holding your form tight so as not to drop you. While not John’s size by any means, the man was still strong in a more lean and lithe way where your Fisherman’s was upfront and bare with it. 

You’re carried down the trodden path to a lone house on the upper hill above the water, small and quaint, it’s only a single square room. 

Truly this event speaks to your luck—how on earth had you found perhaps one of the only men on the planet that knew John and sympathized with magical creatures?

Kyle sets you back on his bed softly, pillows pressed into indents of your head and cheek. 

“Alright then,” he sighs, “let's get this figured out, yeah?” 

You’re offered food and water, but all you care about is sleep. Your tail hangs off the end of the bed and your fins ache with torn skin. Without even looking at your scales, you know they’re damaged immensely. Most will be left with great scars. 

Merfolk could be called vain in their lifetime, and the sentiment wasn’t entirely untrue. You were beings of elegance and beauty—ethereal lustfulness hardwired into your DNA. Image was important to you, and this loss was great. 

But the loss of John hurt more than any torture someone could inflict on you; any wounds. You needed him back. 

As Gaz prompted you to tell your story, which you did with failing consciousness, your hand traveled to your necklace to grasp it tightly. Lips quivering. When the first push of the man’s needle entered your hard flesh, you never even felt it.

—

You awoke for the second time, once more, to the sound of speaking. 

“Well, he’s sure gotten up to it while we’ve been away! Fuckin’ bastard.” This accent didn’t belong to Gaz, and thus your eyelids pushed back with slight unease. Had John’s Sergeant sold you out? With a struggle, you blink back to reality only to find a pair of bright blue eyes stuck on you. 

For a moment you startle, those shades so similar to John’s that for a moment you had forgotten what had transpired. Then the pain in your tail strikes up and you balk back sharply. 

“Soap!” Gaz hisses, grabbing the large and built man away from the bed. “Get the hell away from her, would you? Christ, she’s been through enough without having to look at that face when she wakes up, Mate.” 

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap, as he’d been introduced, was the epitome of a blacksmith—ash still on his square jaw and his large black apron tied at a stiff waist. His arms were as bulky as your head and while he was shorter than Gaz he made up for it in sheer muscle. 

Blue eyes darken with annoyance before they swivel back to you, but they lighten just the same when they spot your fear-spiked expression. 

“Sorry about that, Little Lady. Just curious, is all.” You swallow the saliva in your throat and turn to look at Gaz in question. “Not every day somethin’ like this happens.”

“Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish,” the man offers, rubbing at his neck apologetically. “Served with John and I. You can trust him.” 

You blink and turn back to Johnny, and, sure enough, around his neck were the common silver discs that Gaz and John wore over the tunic and apron. 

“A…” You try to remember what your Fisherman had told you about human customs. With a frown, you carefully extend a hand and hold it aloft while your tail rests and your other limb keeps you up. “A pleasure, Johnny.” 

A wide grin meets your eyes and a hand is clapped into your own; shaking it firmly as yours remains limp. 

“Ah, please, the pleasure’s all mine.” When his grip leaves you look down at the various stitches and thick wrappings around your body before thinning your lips and gazing back at Gaz. He stares and tilts his head when you lock eyes with him. 

“Thank you, Garrick. I…I owe you a large debt.” He’s already shaking his chin at you.

“Negative, Ma’am,” Kyle denies. “The only thing we need to be focusing on is getting the Captain back. Simon should be along by the evening.” 

“Sure the man’ll show?” Johnny raises a brow and stands to his full height, going over to the small table in the middle of the room and sitting down with a huff. He picks up a flagon and takes a sip of ale. “He’s far off cuttin’ stone.” 

“I sent a rider out and said it was urgent. He should be getting it about now, yeah?” 

“Well, hell, I’d sure hope so else we’re out of our favorite Ghost. Can’t have that.” You watch and stare at the ease these two converse with the other, years seem to bleed from their mouths like waves in water. They had it all figured out, and noticeably, they weren’t at all panicked. 

“How are the both of you so calm?” You can’t help but ask. Brown and blue turn to furrow their brows at you.

“They took the bloody Captain. Only person worse than that to steal away would be Simon.” A chuckle. “I’m more worried about the bastards themselves than him.” And it was left at that. 

At times throughout the day, Gaz would bring you bread to nibble on to help settle your stomach, water, and ale whenever you needed it. When the dryness of the air and the fireplace got too warm for you, Johnny would be the one to carry you down the hill to the water where you’d soak your wounds in the surf. In those moments you could finally take in the pure silence under the waves and let your anguish take hold.

But you always had to break the surface at some point, shimmy into the dry tunic that Soap offers with respectfully averted eyes, and let him carry you back with his bulky arms. 

As it always did, the water let your wounds heal far faster than a man’s, though the aches were still intense. 

John’s eyes would not leave you. His crown of stars or the lantern light on his face—the way he whisked you away from danger and put himself dead center into it. Keeping you to his large chest as he held aloft a sword in your honor.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Oh, and you loved right back and you hadn’t told him. 

It’s hours upon hours later when the door is shoved open as you sit up in the bed; tail limp and dim on the floor below. You look up in shock at the man whose frame nearly takes up the entire doorway, shoulders wide and thighs vast under work pants and a large tunic, cowl over his head and clasped with a brooch at his left pec. Under shined a deep brown gaze and pale brows, but his entire lower face was covered by cloth. 

Intimidating, his visible expression was entirely blank. You wondered if perhaps a vampire had walked into this place without proper entry, but then you remembered the man Johnny and Gaz mentioned. 

Simon. Ghost. 

Well, he certainly fits the part, stone dust on his clothes and large boots stacked with scrapes. A Stonemason.

“There’s the man!” Johnny exclaims, raising his hand which has another cup of ale in it as he’d downed the other some time ago. 

“Where’s Price?” Deep was Simon’s voice, and he spares you a glance but nothing more. Gaze falling down your tail with hidden flickers of intrigue and wafting back up to stop at John’s necklace. His brows pull in as he turns. 

“Gone—taken to the King,” Gaz explains from where he leans against the fireplace, face serious. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon grunts, walking in and closing the door behind him. “Where was he last?” It’s mildly amusing to you that he doesn’t seem bothered or even surprised by a mermaid in Gaz’s home. 

“Just off Harpies Nest,” Johnny pipes in, itching at shaved sides of his scalp. “Where the old beasts used to fly from.” 

“I’m guessing she’s the reason for that, then?” Everyone was anxious to act, even you. These men were close, and while circumstance had forced them away from one another the loyalties still lay. 

“Affirmative. Price’s been in good company, seems.” A stale glare is sent his way and he chuckles and puts up his hands. 

“Is there anything we can do?” You ask, looking at each in turn. Seeming to still hold that ingrained ranking that all men in the service do, Johnny and Gaz look to Simon. Brown eyes blink slowly, turning to look at you in a narrowed thought.

After a while, he speaks in a monotone.

“They’ll be bringing ‘em to the castle to stand trial. We’ve already lost a day’s time and there’ll be no ship that can sail as fast as we need it to.”

“By land?” Gaz wonders. Johnny’s shaking his head.

“How do you expect we get the Lady through that?” Eyes turn to your lack of legs. Body stiff, you huff and grit your teeth. If they thought you weren’t going along, that was foolish of them.

“I can swim to the docks,” you pause, “but you’ll have to tell me the way, for I do not know it.” 

John had talked about docks—places ships went to rest. You’re sure you can make it, even like this. You had to. 

Johnny stares before he chuckles twice, sharing a glance with the others and motioning to you. “I like ‘er.”

Gaz and Simon look at one another with a side-eye, before Kyle sighs and shakes his head. Simon hooks his thumbs into his pants and huffs out, “Sure you’re up for that?” 

“I’m helping John.” Pushing, you meet those brown eyes head-on and steel yourself. “I need him back.”

There’s no further fight, and Ghost takes everything you say at face value. “Fine.” 

And that was that.

—

The plan was so stupid you wondered if these men had gone brain-dead, but inside the castle dungeons, John had no way of knowing that. 

He frowned deeply as his pounding skull tipped back to connect with the cobblestone wall, blood dried over the right side of his face. A growl on his lips as the chains keep his hands high above him and hanging as his backside stays seated on the floor. His limbs had long since gone numb, circulation cut out in an uncomfortable state of numbness. 

But inside of him, there was a sense of accomplishment despite everything. He’d gotten you away from dirty hands—away from hooks. Away from danger. 

John could die happy with that.

On the ship, before he’d been brought to the castle, the crew had tied him to the mainsail mast with a ragged rope that had skinned his flesh in just minutes of the rocking waves. They’d taken his vessel as well, and all of his belongings were confiscated in the docks. From there it had been amused jabs at his stomach with fists and knife-throwing practice. 

John had cuts along the sides of his arms and the meat of his thighs—clothes shredded and torn from blades. His forehead had a long gash from the scalp to the temple, dried now but pulling with red aggression. 

The fisherman hums under his breath and thinks only of you. 

It was a fact that you had brought music into his life; a melody of waves and scales that could not be denied. Songs that sounded like sea-foam and a lapping of a tail across the water. When he’d seen you that day from behind the black rocks, John had lost a piece of himself to your wide eyes and tilted head. That spark of connection. 

He had never been so thankful for choosing a new place to cast his nets, because he’d unwittingly caught the greatest creature he ever could have—one people have been running after for years. 

You. 

John’s lips pull in a tiny smile, eyes going soft. Above him his chains rattle and his arms flinch, wounds burning, but for the life of him, he can’t stop smiling. Wherever you were, he hoped you were safe and that he gave you the best chance of survival. He hoped you could forgive him.

Footsteps echo off the ground, and John looks over to the iron bars of his cell stiffly, mask re-falling to his stern face like a curtain. Two guards in armor clink down the hallway, expressions hidden by hoods and cloth. One produces a rusted key from his belt and slips it into the door, the metal rattling as it gets forced back and forth until the telltale click signifies the opening of the lock. 

“Finally letting me out, then?” John speaks dryly, voice holding a rasp. 

No one answers, and soon John’s chains are dropped and his arms seized. Yanked up, the fisherman grunts in pain as his legs drag behind him across the cobble—being taken somewhere. Probably, if John had to guess, the noose. 

Desertion isn’t something you can get out of shy of a life sentence; to hell or to a cell was entirely up to the King. And the King wasn’t entirely fond of John and his One Hundred and Forty-First. 

John was forced out into the open courtyard, a dichotomy of brightly flowering bushes and expensive finery to the platform placed in the very middle. The brunette's lips thinned at the sight of the large and imposing body made of wood and rope belonging to the gallows, a grim reaper of earthly material. There would be no great fight from him, no roar of a death rattle, just a kicking of his feet and tight wheezes, but no more. 

He knows his final thoughts will be of you—what you’re doing right now, how you’ll live the rest of your life. John hopes you don’t cry for him. 

The two guards shove him forward, and already a crowd has formed below the viewing platform for the monarch himself, who sits in all of his finery. Wyvern leather for his gloves, unicorn horn for a scepter, and…John’s eyes go tight, scales that make up a crown of opal and gold. Vibrant scales. 

Unmistakingly Merfolk, anyone who’s met one of the species would know it. It has the same shine as the one John holds in the pouch on his belt; the fisherman clings to the fact that, against all of it, you were still with him in even a small sense. You’d be with him. 

So John grits his teeth and glares up to the dias defiantly as the guards hold him under the noose, shoving his head to the side to grab the rope. He feels no fear.

“Fuckin’ watch it, Muppet,” the fisherman hisses, snapping his head to the side to stare into the glinting brown eyes from under the hood. He pauses, brows furrowing. “What…?” 

As his hands are forced behind him, they’re not tied as the excited murmuring from the crowd begins, the King’s forward-leaning attention. 

They’re given a knife. 

John hides his surprise and looks over to the other guard as he fits the noose over his neck. Amused blue, and around his neck the glint of silver discs. 

“Oh, bloody hell, you’re takin’ the piss,” the former Captain growls lowly. He knows those damned eyes, just as he knows his former Lieutenant’s. 

MacTavish and Simon. 

“Chin up, Captain,” Johnny jokes under his breath hidden by cloth. “Show’s about to start. Let’s give ‘em a proper scare, yeah.” 

Blue eye glare, but they lack the venom. A barred-teeth smile grows. How had this happened? Johnny steps back and goes to his side, the wood under their feet creaking. The crowd falls silent, looking to the King for the verdict. 

The King’s fingers raise and John memorizes his face in that instant…because it’s only then that he sees Gaz.

Gaz, who was on the upper terrace of the courtyard’s walls, holding a musket with the stock trained to his cheek; body still and ready—tutored to a perfectly motionless trance. There aren’t any guards to be seen near him. It’s a moment of pure silence, a ruling energy. The crowd is waiting for the King to verbalize an answer that he’s never able to give. 

As the monarch’s lips open there is an eardrum-bursting boom that shatters the call for John’s doom and instead spells his own in his very castle from one of his former men. A poetic ending, John would say, but he’s unable to verbalize it as he’s suddenly falling through the gallows hatch as Simon reems on the handle. 

“Knife!” It’s all the Ghost yells in warning.

With a rush of air, there’s a split second to cut the rope before it breaks his neck, and with a snapping motion, John perfects it in an instant—instinct as sharp as any blade that could be put into his hand. He hits the ground with a loud grunt of pain and struggles to sit up until Johnny and Simon jerk at him from where they’d jumped down as well. Not a second too soon, as lead balls from rival guns were already hitting the gallows. 

Not all the guards were dead, then, and apparently, the three had known that would be a possibility.

John would have to scold them later. 

“What in the hell is going on?!” The fisherman barks, but he’s being dragged before he shoves their hands off of him and follows to where they beeline into the fleeing crowd.

“What?” Johnny belts out laughter. “No ‘thank you?’ We just saved your neck!”

“Left!” Simon shouts, and although John’s body can’t take much more, they all dart into the cover of the castle walkways. “Make for the docks—the Sergeant’s meeting us there.”

“Bloody fucking Christ!” John growls but quickly goes onto the most important topic. “She’s behind this, isn’t she?” Johnny’s smirk only confirms it.

“Proper girl you’ve got there, Gaz found her on the shore. Else we’d never have heard about it all before you were dead and gone.” John blinks at him. “Getting reckless without us, now?”

The former Captain ignores the remark. “Where is she?” 

“Oi!” Ghost hisses, looking over his shoulder as the three hurry on as shouting rings from behind them. “Get your head in the game. Focus on not getting shot, yeah?” 

Brown meets blue. 

“You’ll see ‘er soon.” Simon ends, dead eyes shifting to a form that rampages through the hallway behind them. “Behind!” He calls loudly, and John ducks just as a knife is thrown with pinpoint accuracy. A sound of a body hitting the floor echoes over the distant screaming and calls of alarm. 

The King is dead. 

All of the men reach their destination by sheer luck and the knowledge of how to use a blade, cobblestone leading to open streets and back alleys. Finally, the wide stretch of sea was visible, and a shadow slinked out of a corner quickly. 

“Hell,” Gaz blinks at them, “do you think I’ll ever be let back into the castle?” 

Johnny pants a laugh. “You’ll be lucky to get into the province, ya sneaky Bastard. Fine fuckin’ shot.” 

Simon looks at them. “Gaz, Johnny, get to it.” 

They’re by the open water of the dock, long wooden walkways stretching out with ships shifting in the waves. John wonders if his boat is here in the back of his mind, but his eyes are already combing the waves greedily in search of you. 

Were you here? Oh, he hoped you weren’t. You’d be placing yourself in the middle of a very real and present danger. 

“Get to what?” John questions, looking at each man in turn. “What ‘ave you planned, eh? Seems I’ve missed the meeting where we decide to assassinate the bloody monarch in broad daylight.” 

Gaz places a hand on his shoulder as he shimmies past. “Best to leave the heavy lifting to the ones who can stand fully, Captain.”

“Aye,” Johnny confirms. “You’ll want to be here more than anywhere, bet ya.” 

Simon shares a look with the blacksmith and grabs John by one shoulder, leading him to the water as Johnny takes the other. The brunette blinks quickly in confusion and grunts an expletive. 

“Get your hands off of me you pair of—!”

“Have fun!” Johnny and Simon both shove him into the water with a final push and dart off like wisps. 

Water rushes into his ears, covering his head and soaking his clothes before it drags him under. John’s arms flailed to propel him back to the surface. A jolt later, his head is breaching the water with a venomous glare and a barked order on his lips to a vacant audience. The boys had already sprinted off to who knows where.

“Son of a…” John trials, weak legs kicking to keep him afloat. Something brushes his thigh as water drips from his nose, cleaning away the blood with a reddish tint to the liquid.

The fisherman startles, head snapping down just as your hands grasp at his abdomen, sliding up as you press your lips deeply into his in one swift motion. He gasps, grip instinctually moving to hold onto the small of your back. 

You press into him tightly, pushing every emotion into the locking of your mouths with desperation and longing. Sighing deeply into the kiss, John melts into you as your tail brushes his legs, torn fins visible and shimmering stitches pulling at flesh. Scales glint somewhat brighter under the waves, water dripping along your shoulders and wetting your hair. 

John brings you closer when he realizes it’s your form around him, eyes fluttering closed and fingers weaving behind the base of your skull. It’s as if the world stills for that quick and reverent second as if everything is right. The both of you break the kiss with soft eyes, and after a moment of staring your chest releases a chuckle; hands coming up to capture your fisherman’s cheeks, weaving through those beard hairs once more.

The brunette stares at you and lays his forehead into yours, not knowing what to say. A smile plays on his lips.

“...It seems my fisherman had more of a reckless side than I anticipated,” you speak for him, whispering into the air. Your eyes flicker over the cuts and bruises visible on his pale flesh and a flash of fear alights in your expression. “Oh, John…What have they done to you?”

“Just scratches,” the man reassures delicately. “It’s alright, Love. I’ll live.” 

But you both know this conversation can’t happen here. With a few more pecks of kisses to his lips, you ask in an ethereal voice, “Do you trust me?”

Your hand is locked to his wrist, pulling him along the waters as your head tilts at him and tail sliding along his flesh. 

John wastes no time. “Of course.” 

Lips flicker to a small, loving, grin and then you drag him under the water. 

—

“Do they hurt?” He asks you carefully, running a calloused hand along the tears in your fins you know will never heal fully. You sit on the rocks below Gaz’s home, the water still dripping off of both of your bodies. 

Out farther in the water the three other men are sailing back in John’s fishing boat, a few minutes out. You blink down at him and move a hand to shift his jaw upward to you, humming.

“Not when you touch them like that,” confessing, you keep close to him, held tightly under the crook of his arm and breathing in that scent of rope and wood oil. You practically vibrate with comfort, all of your worries able to be put aside at last. 

John looks down at you and chuckles, putting a deep kiss on your scalp and taking a deep inhale. 

“Cheeky,” he teases. You smile.

“And yours?” Your voice speaks out in question as the water brushes your tail. 

The man peels back to look down at you slowly. “Already better…I owe you, Sweetheart.” 

Huffing, you shake your head, “You owe me nothing. The only reason you were there was because of me.” 

John’s brows furrow, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your head back to him. He stares into your eyes for a long while until your face starts to heat with emotion, blinking up at him innocently. His blues dart over the healing cuts and marks with hidden emotion.

“I’d do it again,” John whispers. “A million times over, you hear? I’d be a bloody fool not to.” 

He kisses you as you both wait in the setting twilight for the others, bloody and beaten—more scar tissue than anything else—but still your John. 

“Thank you,” he mutters into your lips, and then again when he nips at your flesh. The man plays with his necklace at your collarbone as he traces patterns in your scales and smirks when you shiver. 

He wonders how he got so lucky when the others anchor the boat near the shore, hopping off and wading the rest of the way to the beach. John kisses your forehead and says he’d be right back. 

You watch him with glinting eyes as he walks over to his men, taking each in a heartfelt handshake and conversing honestly. Your eyes blink at the care they display for one another and raise a hand when they peel off, back up to Gaz’s home to rest. 

They reciprocate and disappear atop the hill. 

What’s he doing? You ask as you watch John climb aboard his vessel and rummage around his fishing barrels, opening some and tossing the tops to the deck. Hands shifting along the rocks, you can’t hide the amusement or affection in your eyes at the sight of his ramping annoyance. What was he looking for? 

Your fingers go up to play with his necklace and watch. 

You can’t say you feel much heartache at the loss of your cove—even with the king dead, you were still hunted for your scales—though you had grown to see it in a new light. The place was only a home when John was there, and you knew wherever you went as long as he was there it would be alright. 

The both of you wouldn’t let anything happen to one another. 

John comes back carrying something tucked in cloth, a small parcel held in one hand and longer than it is wide. Your interest is immediately piqued, curiosity straining your eyes. 

He holds it out to you with a mischievous glint and a smirk. 

“Go on,” John motions. Blinking at him, your brows furrow as you carefully take the item from his hands, settling it in your lap before you shift the cloth away. 

Your fingers go to cover your mouth, small gasp entering the air. 

It was a golden box, engraved with movements that resemble lace and waves—shimmering in the low light. 

“John,” you stutter, “what is…?”’

“Open it,” the man insists, kneeling down in front of you as if his muscles didn’t ache. “It’s the reason I was late that day.” John grunts, rubbing at the bottom of his beard and watching intently; crinkles beside his eyes. 

You stare for a moment with burning tear ducts before you grasp ahold of the lid and open it after running a digit over the make. 

Inside sits blue velvet and, strangely, your own scales, but atop that…the blinding gold of a pair of twin cuff bracelets—stones the same shade as your tail. It was perhaps the most elegant piece of jewelry you had ever seen. 

For a solid minute you’re rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing as your tail hangs limp in the low tide. Chucking, John takes the pieces out and your ears twitch to the sound of your scales clacking together like glass. 

“Why would you…” You can’t make sense of it.

John slips them over your wrists and you gape in wonder. They fit just perfectly. 

You look up into your Fisherman’s face and feel tears drip down your chin. A hard hand comes to wipe them away as you laugh through a sniffle. 

“Do you like them, then, Love?” He asks lowly, beard pulled back in a smile. 

“Yes,” you say immediately, giggling. “How could I not? John, they’re lovely. Far too beautiful for me.” 

The former Captain grunts and his brows pull in, frowning. “Now why would you say that?” He brings your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Can’t make me change my mind on that, eh?” 

Your eyes bore into him, lips parted. After a moment your face feels like it’s on fire and you cover your cheeks. 

John laughs loudly, grabbing your arms and lightly squeezing the flesh before taking your grip back down to your lap. You smile so widely you’re afraid your face might crack open.

“No need to hide,” he hums. “Let me see that face.” 

“You’re good to me, John.” His face softens, wrinkles fall away, and his chest swells with pride. You kiss his lips and whisper, “I bare my soul to you.”

It wasn’t an ‘I love you’ but something far more precious. 

The man’s face deepens with devotion, gruff figure more than easily leaning over yours as you’re carefully laid back to the tiny pebbles behind you—a hand behind your head and at the swell of what would be a hip.

In the darkening night, the sun shines its dying light across the waves just like the extending fingers of John’s firm grip; dragging you into him as sea-currents would. Wrapping you both in kelp and a salty grave. His voice is the grating of sand, the slide of a rope across a wooden deck. 

“Then I’ll take care of it for as long as I live.”

Your fisherman damns you to a crypt of land and air, and you couldn’t worship it more. To live and to die beside him is to have existed just as you should have.

TAGS:

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[woundedoves]

Eremites (Clearwater, Sunfrost & Daythunder) x Bottom GN!Reader (NSFW)

a/n: i wanna fuck all the eremites i swear to god they r hotter than the playable characters … i might continue this w the other eremites too<3

CW: free use of degrading petnames(slut,whore), hydro strap, electro & cryo infusion, rough sex

Eremite Desert Clearwater

oh i just know she has like really stretchy positions in mind for you two, whether you’re as flexible as her or not is another story, she just wants to wear you out so she can use you however she wants<3 giggles when you whine about how harsh her fingers are pounding that tight hole of yours, her pretty nails digging into that sweet spot …

eats you out, definitely. her fave thing to do. whether you have a cunt or not, she’s tasting that hole of yours like its her last meal on teyvat. fuck the noises you make just make her shiver, the way you grind your hips on her face while she keeps those thighs of yours in place with surprising strength, moaning oh so sweetly into your hole as your breath quivers from the sensation.

makes a strap with her hydro powers, makes it extra cold if she can help it just to have you try to push her away and she just easily overpowers you. she loves fucking out in the open, especially at night. turns her on so fucking much when the lewd noises of her wet strap pounding into you while her hips meet your ass with a slap, you cover your mouth trying not to wake the other eremites while she giggles breathlessly and grips your chin with her hand, the rings digging into your skin,

“be quiet, love. you don’t want them to wake up and see how much of a whore you are that you couldn’t wait until we were alone to get your hole ruined, do you?”

Eremite Sunfrost

infuses his fingers and dick when they go inside you, loves to fuck your face the most. just leaning on a tree in the hot summer morning as you suck on his cock like a desperate fuckin’ animal in heat gets him going. he barely makes noises but you hear him moan so fucking cute when you suck on his tip.

loves your mouth, anything oral. his dick gets hard when he watches you drink or eat something, especially ice cream.

loves to service your sex with his tongue while you’re busy with something. anything. just sucks you dry, eats you out until your cunt is sore. fuckin asshole just loves ruining you.

loves spitting on your hole before he fucks it raw. doesn’t even prep you that much, wants to hear you cry and beg for him to slow down as he pounds your hole, feeling it tighten with a low groan as he presses his chest against your back, feels the sand dig in but doesnt give a shit when your hole is swallowing his fat cock so obediently. and the noises you make? fuckkk he loves the way your body shakes as he fucks you while you cry about how much it hurts, loves feeling your tears when he gets way rougher than he is normally.

“fuck yes, look at you. ruined little thing, ruined for anyone but me.”

Eremite Daythunder

this hot hunk of meat fuck, he loves manhandling you. just using one arm while he fucks you out in the open in the rainforest? the way you whimper in fear everytime you hear the tiniest thing in fear of being caught is soo fuckin cute. calls you his “cute little fucktoy, you take it so fucking good for your boyfriend. hm?”

favourite position is mating press. loves how your hole just swallows his cock to the fuckin’ base, loves watching the way you cry out when he cums inside you, filling you the the brim as his rough thrusts dont stop. loves how he can just pump his fucking cum into you again and again as he feels his cock dig into your insides, the way your hole tightens around him as he rides out his climax makes his eyes roll back (not that you’d see) and groan your name<3

stamina is through the roof, fucked you until you can’t even walk? well get ready for round 10, babe. loves to use small cracks of electro as he works your sex with his fingers, moaning with you when you cum from his fingers. just- god loves moaning your name so much. loves standing up positions too, fucks you against a tree while his hands on your hips keep you steady so he can thrust up into your hole like he’s using a fuckin’ fleshlight. loves kissing your neck and giving you so many hickeys, especially around your sex. gotta mark whats his.

“look at you, such a whore all for me?”

[robinette-green]

Astrological Bullets

They tell you that blood is thicker than water, but I disagree. If I never see my brother again, it’ll be too soon. Not that I’ll ever get the chance. I’ve been tied to these railroad tracks for a few hours now, patiently waiting for a train to end it all. With the blindfold over my eyes, it’s hard to tell what time of day it is, but with the heat radiating off the metal underneath me, I knew the sun must be high in the sky. If a train didn’t end it, heat stroke or dehydration most certainly would.

When I heard the horse, at first, I thought that the heat had started to bring me hallucinations. It was odd. I had assumed that heat visions were just that, visual. The sound of steam being released into the air made me certain that I was firm in the grips of the desert madness until he spoke.

“You seem to be in a bit of a bind. Normally, I’d mind my business, but curiosity has gotten the better of me. What could a lovely lady like yourself have done to warrant being tied to these tracks?” There was an actual person… wild. What was releasing steam? Maybe I am hallucinating.

Licking my lips in a vain attempt to wet them, I tried to say something but had to stop and clear my throat. The sand and dry air had already done a number on me.

“I’d love to tell you… If you would be kind enough to untie me.” I could hear the man kneel down by my head, his shadow falling over me, blocking out some of the direct heat from the sun.

“I think I should hear your story first. You may be tied up for a good reason. I don’t want to go releasing you if you deserve to be where you’ve gotten yourself.”

I released a long, weary sigh.

“It’s simple, really,” I said with as much of a shrug as I could manage while tied to wood and steel.

“My brother owes Mr. Madison money.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with your current situation, lass.”

“Mr. Madison’s goons apprehended me early this morning. Either my bother gives him the money, or I’m left out here to meet whichever fate finds me first.”

“And seeing as you’re still here, I’m guessing that your bother hasn’t found a way to pay this, Mr. Madison, his money.”

I rolled my head, partly in exasperation and partially to relieve some of the ache from my neck. Being tied to railroad tracks is rather uncomfortable.

“He’s managed to do less than try. He was out here a few hours ago. Said this was the least I could do for him. Dying to rid him of his debts.” Turning my head to the side, I would have spat in anger, but my mouth was much too dry. I scowled instead, teeth grinding together.

“I hope his sorry ass is disembodied by a bull.”

“We may be able to arrange that.” The man said with a chuckle before leaning over me. Fingers brushed against my face, following the edges of the blindfold back behind my head so it could be removed. I blinked in the sudden light, squinting up at the dark figure blotting out the sun. There was a hat atop his head, but coming from the sides of his face, there seemed to be metal points. In fact, the longer I looked up at him, the more he seemed to be made of metal. Blue eyes glowed down at me as he watched for my reaction, a slight smile playing across his lips.

Pulling a knife from a boot, the man leaned over and sliced the ropes holding me down. Fingers took mine, and he helped me to sit up, a hand going to the small of my back to keep me steady as spots appeared in my vision and the world seemed to swirl around me.

“Careful there, darling. Heat’s already done a number on you.”

A canteen of water was carefully pressed to my lips, and I drank greedily, one of my hands gripping his wrist to keep myself steady.

“Thank you,” I murmured, leaning heavily against this metal man.

[inubaki]

“Put your back into it!” Lucifer’s cheerful animosity was something of the stuff of legend. “I can clearly see you missed a spot, right there!” Adam could feel those eyes like a second sun on his back, but absolutely refused to acknowledge the high-born tit in a sun dress, sun hat and milfy sunglasses. Aka: Lilith’s mini fucking clone. “Honestly, what were you doing on earth all that time?” In his hands, the literal devil idly twirled the tiny umbrella in his drink, openly sighing his displeasure before taking a loud sip. Adam should’ve cracked it against the ex-seraphim’s skull and pretend it could hurt him.

Worse yet, he could hear the chiming of ice cubes in Lucifer’s tall glass of lemonade; its seducing serenade of cold liquid drying out whatever rude comment he been tempted to make. Fuck it was hot. Beneath him, Adam’s hands dug into the dirt for struggling rooted weeds, feeling more as if he was dragging through desert sands rather than a suburban backyard. It has all been his own idea to start a garden, his own stupid fucking idea to humor Charlie’s ridiculous persistence for ‘healthier hobbies’. “Maybe we should plant something like lilies. They were one of Lilith’s favorites”. “Alastor and I agreed on chilies, and garlic to start” Adam replied, delivering a stab for a stab.

Charlie had been absolutely delighted by Adam’s stupid fucking idea, of course. The real mistake having been mentioning the singular other person he had in mind for the task. The one name that had earned the first man Lucifer’s only fatal warning; an angelic smile.

Adam yanked a weed harshly from the ground and threw it hazardously behind him in frustration. He had thought they were finally moving passed all this shit, foolishly hoped they could be as they were before Lilith, alone in the garden. It had seemed so impossible before that Adam had honestly got suckered in by Charlie’s encouragement and attempted to find middle ground with the second biggest pain in his ass; Alastor. It had been one of the few things Adam had discovered they had in common. An attachment to nature and the old-fashioned method of coveting for food. They even discussed it with Alastor’s asshole face seeming a tad more genuine this time around. The garden would be tended too in pairs from the hotel’s residence all with Adam assuming he would have Alastor’s aid.

But no, it was Lucifer’s pale ass name that was pulled with his, over and over, and over again. Each draw with Lucifer giving Adam that same fucking smile.

“How about an apple tree?”

Adam finally snapped his head around and glared at the royal tart. Red meeting gold with a magnetizing fusion of animosity beneath Hell’s blistering sun. Lucifer’s lips began slipping from bored to down right devilish grin; full of teeth and wicked intentions. He opened his mouth to say deliver Adam’s reckoning when Adam nonchalantly reached back into the dirt at his side and throw a massive potato bug directly at the devil’s face.

The scream Lucifer Morningstar gave was well worth any punishment that awaited him. Watching Hell’s strongest and Heaven’s most feared scrambling to slap away the large monstrosity from his dress was nearly all the satisfaction the first man would ever need in his third life.

Just as nonchalantly, Adam ‘saved’ the siren glass of lemonade before it could be knocked over. Drowning it while simultaneously sidestepping the tussling, raving angel. He then reached for the hose.

Lucifer was a prideful, petty, jealous, theatric mess, but with Adam’s merciful aid, he could at least be a prideful, petty, jealous, theatric mess in a soggy white dress amongst Charlie’s ruined tulips.

Adam smiled broadly.

“Let me ask Alastor”

———— AdamsappleWeek

Potato bugs should be their own warning.

Prompt 3: Garden (based partly on my own gardening experience. I mean you, Divinity!

I am sorry for the grammar and spelling. My dyslexia demands chaos. It’s why I don’t write in general, but for the sake of saving time I’ll attempt it.

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

Let's settle down for the night.

Quick summary: You’ve been each other’s for a long time. You trust him with your life, your body, you time, and he trusts you with his. Sometimes, though, you find yourself craving a quieter kind of intimacy. Without the helmet.

Word count: 6.3K

Warnings: A lot of fluff 😩😩; may be inaccurate ‘cause, I gotta say, I’m a Star Wars fan but I did not proper hyperfixate on it like with some of the other stuff I’ve written about (buffs, please help me out here); kind of angsty??? like, reader’s an orphan etc; allusions to smut (under the shirt stuff amiright amiright); explicit mentions of smut.

A/N: What a fittie, guys. Bound to happen. This one goes out to @manicdream for giving me a lil’ prompt where you and Din are in looove aaaand—I guess you’ll have to keep reading for the fluuuff and feels! I really had fun with this one! Love this stoic, brooding, dramatic lad, and I enjoyed exploring love languages, their communication, etc, etc. i have no idea when this would take place, so just try to follow along, I guess??? I hope you enjoy this short, little story! I think this is gonna be just one part by the way. For all you Pedro Pascal sluts out there 😌😌😌, I do think I’m gonna write a smut thing for Joel Miller TLOU. NO PROMISES, THOUGH. Just finished the latest episode and what the fuck 😀😀😀 it just gets more and more traumatising huh. Anyway, please enjoy this happy fic!

ੈ✩‧₊˚

We’ve been walking for a while, now. Muscles aching, legs straining. The low, sloping sands of the Tatooine desert are pink in the setting suns, stretching on for years and years. 

The light flames up brilliant red and orange and bright white in his beskar, and I have to squint my eyes when I look over at him. From this angle, he looks like he’s all armour. When the suns finally go down, he’ll be a silhouette. That time of day always suits him best. You know how people you meet just seem like things sometimes. Din’s like rich soil, the kind that you can sink your fingers deep into with one single push. Or like a rock – with how little he talks, I used to think he was a rock. He’s also dusk. Dusk happens to be my favourite time of day. 

My feet are dragging again. If I were with anyone else, I’d never let my guard down—but it’s just us, and we’re in the middle of nowhere, and we’ve got a whole bunch of credits in my pack that’s almost enough to finally buy us our own ship. Won’t have to put up with sceptical glances on commercial flights anymore, or getting bashed about by produce on cargo ships we’ve had to sneak onto. Maker, I miss the comfort of the Razor Crest. But, y’know, it’s—it’s what it is. Lucky for us, transportation is the worst of our problems – it’s been a relatively quiet trip over the planet; no trouble—yet. Quietly trading with sketchy contractors in isolated taverns. We never ask questions about the high-paying ones, whether we’re implicitly tipping the scales of some political bantha shit, but I’m always curious.

A dry gust of wind cools my stifling skin, a break from the still weather.

“You alright back there?”

Din has his head angled slightly back towards me. His grainy, modulated voice curves my mouth up into a smile, and I stare fondly over at him as he slows his pace a little to fall into step with me. I urge him not to slack with the jerk of my head.

“Yeah, ‘f’course,” I assure him, tongue buzzing with foul saliva. Can’t drink just yet, though, ‘cause I already chugged about half of my waterskin way back at sun-up. He’s offered me the rest of his, but I refused to take it. Though, right now, grimacing at the bile in my mouth, I am thinking hard about changing my mind. “We’re safe,” I say confidently. We’ve been careful.

“I know.” Yeah, I know he knows. “I was just wonderin’ cause, y’know, you’ve been a little quiet.”

Playfully, I nudge into him (damn that beskar) and laugh as he shoves me back. “What, so you’re saying you want my ‘mindless chit-chatting’ back now, huh?”

I’m talking out of my ass, of course. We’ve had a thing going for a while, now – it’s been just us for a while. I know he doesn’t mean any harm when he teases me like that. It takes a lot for him to hurt my feelings, and he never does. Maybe at first, when neither of us would admit that we were happier being together than apart. I don’t know why I didn’t just tag along with him sooner. If I had known that those gruff, little grunts he’d make during conversation when we’d cross paths during jobs meant that he was enjoying himself?—well, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time in asking him to be my partner. In all senses.

But still, he feels the need to explain: “Ah, you know I was just—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I suppose that, after so long needing to be strong and tough and brave and coarse to get on with life and work, he likes being soft. This is soft for him: letting me walk ahead just slightly, his shoulder behind mine, so that he’s always got my six; teasing me about things he’s told me are his favourite qualities of mine; secretly watching me from behind the security of his visor. I don’t tell him I love it, and I don’t tell him I notice, but he knows, I think.

He turns away to complete a quick scan of the horizon on his blind side, and I do the same for mine, before we turn back to each other. He’s tired – I can tell by the way he’s leaning in towards me, like he wants to be held. The privacy of this big, wide desert must be a comfort to him. I know it is to me.

“How’s your day been?” he asks me lowly.

I laugh. “You mean the day we’re currently spending together?”

He nods. “Tell me about it.”

Stars, I’m glad it’s getting dark, because my cheeks start to glow with warmth. Not necessarily just his voice or even the words. Consistently, he always asks about my day. Yesterday, it was in a dingy tavern, after avoiding a bar fight (some prick tried to trick me out of a drink the contractor bought me fair ‘n’ square). The day before, it was in the dead of night, looking up at the stars, with the bounty, unconscious, lying between us.

“I liked it.” He scoffs. “I did. There’s been no trouble, and, y’know, I grew up on a desert planet like this.”

“Bantha farmers, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grunts.

I laugh again. “You bastard! You’re so judgemental. Honestly worse than those Coruscanti pricks we worked for ages back. Remember how they looked at us when we traded? Tried to underpay us? Bet they’ve never risked even chipping a nail.” Bounty hunting is a little more difficult these days without the assurance of carbonite freezing, without the security of the Guild – we’ve had to complete ten times as many jobs for five times lesser rates just to get where we are now. Reminds me of when I first started out: bounties fighting back, trying to make a run for it. But what else are we supposed to do?—take up a job where?

The suns slip below the horizon, and everything is washed a low, gentle violet—and Din is that silhouette, now, and everything seems peaceful, like it all fits together just right. Even though, of course, it might not fit together just right when I try to haggle the price of that gunship down a few credits or so and the vendor absolutely obliterates me with the most personal, cutting insults in the entire galaxy. Din’s no help in the communication sector there – the stoic type – but, if anything, he’ll be able to stand behind me with that armour and steel glare and weapons of his to try and intimidate that damn stubborn seller all the way to fuckin’ Bargain Town. Because, damn, we’re relying on it. Peli, bless her soul, doesn’t have anything large or powerful enough to support the three of us on our run from the Empire.

Speaking of the three of us, the kid’s absence, I hate to say it, is kind of nice. Of course, I worry about him, but I trust that he’s being well-looked-after at the garage. Safer than he would be with us. But I haven’t had Din to myself in what seems like years. Last time he touched me was—was—a long time ago. Too much stress. Not enough time to savour it. And he’s all about savouring those kind of things, those moments, dragging them out as long as possible.

I can feel his stare on the side of my face. My sweaty, greasy, clogged face – stars, I can’t wait until we reach a water supply.

“Are you looking at me right now?” I ask, amused.

He does another strategically-timed scan of the area, turning away from me even though I can’t see his face. I wonder if he blushes under that helmet, if it’s really obvious. “You’re looking at me.”

I roll my eyes and smile softly, lowering the scarf around my nose and mouth and tucking the fabric beneath my chin. “How was your day?”

“Good.”

“Good why?”

“‘Cause I’ve got your mindless chit-chattin’ to keep me company.”

Forcing a laugh, I glare at him again. “Ha-ha, you’re so funny, Din. Real knee-slapper right there.”

It goes quiet again – he becomes like that, sometimes, after I use his name. The first time I spoke it was in the dark hull of the Razor Crest, in hyperspace. He sat and stared straight ahead at the streaking silver, motionless, wordless. Here, the desert air is still and calm. His shoulder is still brushing up against mine.

“Are you tired?”

Yes. My legs feel like they’re about to fuckin’ fall off. Here, walking along the plain, is good, but earlier, climbing over dunes and rocks and boulders, was hell. But we need to be getting back to the kid as soon as possible. As much as I trust Peli, I need to see him and make sure he’s okay. So, I shake my head and say, “It’s only a little ways up till the next settlement.”

“It’s a lot further.”

My heart drops. “Oh.” Wishful thinking’s just got me forging fake memories at this point. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me.

“D’you think we should stop?”

“No, we can—”

“I’m tired—” he abruptly comes to a halt, apparently deciding that this little patch of sand will be a nice bed, “—let’s stop for the night.” He beckons me to him, coming in close and retrieving the lamp from inside the sling-bag, setting it down.

Well, if he insists.

You know, it’s moments like these where I just let myself be fond of him. I let myself stare freely at him, admire the shape of his body, the sleek, smart make of his helmet, let myself wonder if his face is any bit as handsome as he sounds. Everything about him is rough. The way he fights, the way he bargains, the way he pilots. His hands. I think about the texture of his hands as I sit down. I remove my gloves and stuff them away, gliding my skin across my skin to just try and simulate that touch.

“You’re not cold?”

I untwine the bag from my shoulders, setting it down and retrieving our remaining food for this day. “I’m not cold. I have, like, five layers on.”

He eyes me doubtfully. “Okay.” And he sits down on the opposite side of the lamp, facing me, one leg propped up as a rest for his arm. The pulse rifle lays by his side, ready.

I offer him a hardening clump of bread and a few stout, odd-looking, white-and-purple vegetables (generously given to us by a farmer we passed a while back)—but Din shakes his head and urges me to eat as much as I can. I bite back a remark about that helmet of his – he must be starving.

“We’ll get something better to eat when we get to the city.”

I snort. “It’s hardly a city.”

“You know what I mean.”

Stupid Din always making stupid decisions and rationalising them because he thinks it’s for me. He knows I can take care of myself, that I’m good at it, but that doesn’t stop him from dropping everything to try. It’s nice for someone to have my back, for that someone to be as wonderful as him, but, holy kriff, he’s so stupid sometimes.

I tell him flat-out, “We don’t have enough credits,” because we don’t. We have barely enough to cover a scrappy, little ship. We definitely don’t have enough to purchase any food. We’ve relied on favours and luck for long enough, and we can go for longer until we’re off-planet. Peli’s got—edible food—probably. I don’t trust it won’t make me shit my brains out as soon as we’re in hyperspace, though.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, though. “We’ll get a worse ship.”

“Din.” Stupid. I toss him a chunk of bread, swivelling around to give him privacy.

He protests, “I’m not hungry,” and reaches over and taps it against my shoulder – I shrug him away.

“I’m already stuffed, so what’re you gonna do about it?”

He sighs in exasperation. “Thought you might say that.”

“‘Cause I’m just so predictable?”

“You’re stubborn.”

Snapping my head over my shoulder, I scoff and give him an incredulous look. “I’m stubborn?”

He tilts his head to the side as if to goad me further. “Yes.” The warm light of the lamp glows along the strong planes and clean lines of his armour. His hand leisurely dangling from his knee, he rubs his gloved fingers together, and I’m suddenly jealous of a clothing item. I know he must notice the slight catch in my breath.

I turn back around to face him, the sand moulding easily beneath my smooth movements. “And there’s not a brooding Mandalorian sitting across from me now, refusing to eat.”

The first few years of working with Din, I never once saw him eat or drink a thing. It was like he was a droid (don’t tell him I said that): always working, working hard, but fuelled by seemingly—nothing? Obviously, I figured he had to eat some time. When I became his partner, sharing the Razor Crest, he’d retreat to his bunk to eat. And when I asked him his favourite food, he said he didn’t really hate or love anything – as long as he could consume it and it wouldn’t kill him, he’d tolerate it. Over the years, though, I’ve learned he tries to steer clear from any kind of berries. Doesn’t trust ‘em. And he’s not a fan of fish, but the kid is, and I am, so we have it more often, now.

Din jerks his head and allows me to toss him one of those weird vegetables. Having already finished my chunk of bread (on the brink of mould—so yummy!), I take a large, eager bite right out of the vegetable. My mouth is flooded with its bitter juice, and I squint my face up a little at the greenish tang.

“How’s that taste?” he asks.

“Like dirt.” I chew the mouthful slowly, careful not to judge too quickly, and eventually hum in contentment. “But—” I retract, “—sorta sweet underneath. You ever tasted a beet?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s sorta like that.”

He watches me for a few heartbeats, calm in the steady, amber light. I smile at him.

“Turn around,” he tells me brusquely.

I wink at him and do as I’m told, shuffling around again and turning to back the blue and purple horizon, the lamp and his gaze warm on my back.

I’m silent as he unseals his helmet with a quiet click and hiss. I try to imagine him again. Every single time, I feel guilty over it, because I know how dedicated he is to his religion—but, oh, I can’t help myself. I run my tongue over my teeth, enjoying the remains of that bite, before taking another, crunching down into the flesh. As I do, I hear Din do the same. My heart stops a little in my chest, and I let out a slow breath.

“It’s nice.”

Stars. Stars, that voice. His voice, unfiltered by the modulator. Slightly hoarse from lack of water, scraping a little in his throat, but smooth in its low, rich tone. Like dirt you can sink your fingers right down into.

I set my hand flat on the sand my by side before pushing them vertically down, down, down, past the cooling surface and to where the glowing spirit of the day lingers.

Calm yourself down. It’s just a voice.

“You should have the rest of it,” he continues, and there’s the tap of the vegetable against my shoulder again.

Oh, stars. He hasn’t got his helmet on. He hasn’t got his helmet on. If I turned, he could be right there. Just him. I think about clamping my eyes shut to avoid the temptation of looking at him, but I can’t really co-ordinate myself at the moment. He taps again, encouraging me to take it back. My fingers hook up inside the sand, and it slips around me to my satisfaction.

“If you like it,” I say dryly, “you should eat it.”

The vegetable disappears from my peripheral. Another crunch, and another, and another. We sit in silence as he finishes it. The horizon is finally flat and unwavering in the cool of the night.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze when he’s done, hiking up the scarf around my head so it doesn’t slip too far over my hair. When I turn around, the helmet’s back on.

I wonder if he saw the colours of the sunset earlier. I had my head turned up for hours, watching every single shift in pink and orange and blue with wonderstruck eyes—but Din was striding on ahead, uninterested. I’m no engineer, alright? I don’t exactly know what he’s seeing in that helmet of his, or why. Infrared sensors for tracking, like in a rifle I once had that – that was one of the best damn weapons I ever owned, guaranteed to locate and hit your target, and I loved it to bits—until it got fuckin’ stolen by a bunch of fuckin’ Jawas. Point is, isn’t it just black and white in there? Sort of a purple-y black and white, and you can see changes in tone and depth and all, but black and white nonetheless. Red for footprints, though. Is that what he saw when I told him to look at the sky at sundown? Black and white? What is he seeing as he’s looking at me now? Me, I’m admiring the regal gleam of his beskar again. But he won’t be able to interpret the warmth of the lamp’s light on my face the same way as I did for him. I’m not the prettiest in the galaxy by a long shot, I know, but isn’t he missing out? On the beauty of the natural world? I think I’m prettiest at sundown – something in my undertone, I dunno – but he’s only seen me in that greyscale. Imagine if he just thinks I’m—okay-looking.

Overthinking it again. Din doesn’t waste time with things he doesn’t think add to his life. He doesn’t think I’m just okay-looking.

“You’ve got a good voice,” I tell him, grinning widely.

“You’ve heard my voice before.” The raw clarity of his words are lost once again behind the modulator. I shift my position, wriggling away from my disappointment.

“I know.”

A chill passes brightly through the air, and I tug my cloak tighter around myself, bringing my knees in close. Din doesn’t move a muscle, though, and he sits there and observes me a little longer.

We’ve been each other’s for a long, long time. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. And I’m not exactly thinking critically, and I’m not sure where I’m going with it, but I find myself asking, “When Mandalorians get married, they can take their helmets off around their partner, right?”

The mortification immediately sets in.

Holy kriff.

Din looks at me carefully. Then, he nods the slightest of nods.

Holy kriff.

“I’m not—” I stutter out, eyes darting away, over there, over here, anywhere but his constant, steady, shameless attention, “—‘m not asking you to marry me, Din. I was—I was just wondering ‘cause, y’know, I think you mentioned it to me once, ages back, and—and I was just thinkin’ that maybe—” you pause, glancing up at him; he doesn’t move a muscle, and there’s nothing that gives away any kind of anything he might be feeling, “—maybe I’d like to see—what—you—look—like.”

Wow. Wow, I’m almost amazed at how slick I am with these things. God, Imperial spies could learn a thing or two from the master.

I clear my throat, deciding to embrace the grave I’ve dug for myself. “But I’m not asking you to marry me, so you can stop looking at me like that, now, alright?.”

He says nothing, does nothing.

I situate myself with untying my waterskin from beneath my cloak, hiding my face in my shoulder and cursing, “Damn voice. Gets me too damn stupid-excited,” under my breath, like it’s a secret, like he can’t hear every fuckin’ word I’m saying on a planet seemingly stripped from all other noise.

Seething at myself, I crunch back into my vegetable, then tearing off a piece of bread to stuff in alongside it, taking a careless swig from my waterskin to wash it all down. Honestly, at this point, I’d rather die from dehydration than address the awful, awful statement I just made. Stars. Probably scared him right off. We’re as close to married as the real thing anyway. Din’s more of an actions-over-words kind of guy – I don’t need to call him my husband. It’s not like—well, marriage is companionship, and we have that already. Marriage is trust, and we have that already. I don’t need to call him my husband. He’s just—my guy. My person. Would be nice to have it on paper, I guess. Proof that he’s my person, that he wants to be my person. Bless him, but for every single thing he does for me, every action, I still crave him saying those words. Not shit to do with marriage, exactly. Just: “You’re my person. I’m yours.” Words aren’t his forte.

“I’d marry you.”

I swallow the hard lump of bread with difficulty, scrunching my face up into a grimace. “Hmm?” I ask, drifting back to the present.

“I’d marry you,” he repeats, and my eyes go wide. Oh. “Right here. If you want me.”

Huh. Huh. I dunno what the appropriate reaction is here, so I just continue staring unblinkingly at him. My stomach is erupting in flutters, and I just stare at Din.

Then, I look around us, at the barren desert. And look, yeah, I grew up on a planet very similar to Tatooine, and, yeah, sure, I have fond memories of my childhood. And then they get not-so fond. I scrunch my nose up in disapproval. “Not here.”

“Where?”

I shrug, brows knitted together in deep consideration. “I dunno.” And I really don’t, because—because I didn’t think we were the marrying type. Just the together type. Growing old and pissy together, living together, fighting together, figuring it out together—type. Mandalorians value community and strength and The Way over everything else – not necessarily love. Didn’t take him for the marrying type.

I screw my mouth together and exhale deeply. “Just somewhere prettier, I guess,” I decide on. “Not this quiet, but still pretty quiet. Y’know, somewhere with trees. Proper, green trees. But not the kind where there’s stuff in there waiting to kill you.” I want there to be as many colours as possible, in the sky, in the flowers, so he can see me and see all that beauty all together at once.

He tilts his head. “Like, with mountains?” he asks.

I smile. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind mountains.”

He glances down at the sand, tracing some kind of pattern into it with his forefinger. “We could go to Takodana?”

Stars. My smile widens. Stars, is this a proposal? Did I just propose to him? Did he just propose right back? That’s actually quite funny, that is. In the middle of nowhere, running out of water, running low on food. Romantic.

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Din?” I ask, more confident.

He grunts and shakes his head. “Not really.”

“‘Not really’,” you mock him, deepening your voice and attempting to widen your shoulders. I laugh at my own impression, leaning back on my hands and huffing a strand of hair out of my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shifts, clearing his throat and adjusting to a more comfortable position. “I mean, I’ve kissed you—between your legs,” he tells me, nervous, like I’ve managed to forget how well he treats me, how eager he is to kneel down in the pitch-black and take care of me like that.

Heat blooms in my stomach. “Great work down there, by the way,” I tell him through a sly grin.

“Thank you, mesh’la.” Is he blushing? Does he blush? I find myself wondering over that again.

I smile and stare at him.

“Could I kiss you?” The suggestion just slips out without a second thought. I just think that, after some food and water and rest, I don’t really have to filter anything out anymore. I don’t have any complaints – just some recommendations for fun we could be having.

Din doesn’t reply.

Ah, shit. Shit, what the fuck is wrong with me? Mandalorian, remember? Stupid, stupid. If there’s anything anyone knows about Din, it’s that he’s a Mandalorian first. He’s a Mandalorian before he’s mine – he’d never say it out loud, but we both know it’s true. I’d never ask him to choose because that’s cruel. Am I being cruel?

Either way, I can’t seem to stop, and I don’t seem to care: “I’d keep my eyes shut,” I blurt out, trying to keep my breathing from becoming heavy with lust, and failing a little more than a little bit. Stars, I’m turning myself on at this point; he just has to sit there and look pretty. “You know I’d keep ‘em shut. I wouldn’t look. I just—wanna—” you sigh, “—I just wanna kiss you. It’s nice, I swear. Nice feeling. I’d keep my eyes closed. Or—or you could tie something around ‘em?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Stars,” I curse. “I’m sorry.” I wipe my eyes from dust and dirt and blink hard. “I think I’m just tired.”

“You’re tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Is ‘tired’ why you’re pressing onto yourself down there?”

He flicks his fingers over to where I’ve got my hand stuffed between my legs, rocking softly against the heel of my palm. I swallow hard. Fuck, I didn’t even notice I was doing that. I convinced myself I was—ha!—I was just warming up my hands.

I shift my eyes sheepishly back up to meet Din’s, guilty as charged.

He sighs deep from within the chest. “You keep ‘em closed and we tie something around ‘em.”

Silent, I nod in agreement. My thighs squeeze together.

He jerks his head to beckon me over, and I go shuffling on over to him on my knees, probably looking like a right idiot, but, then again, I don’t really give a fuck because I’m about to kiss Din Djarin. I’m about to kiss my Mandalorian. I’m about to kiss my companion of almost a decade, more if you count all those shady bounties we used to end up competing for. My Mandalorian, my Din Djarin, mine, mine, mine. I’m not possessive, I don’t think, but, gods, I—I—I can’t believe it sometimes. That I get to know him like this. That I get to know such an incredible person. That he won’t say more than two words at a time to anyone, not even those we’re close with, like Peli—but, with me, he’ll talk for hours. He jokes that he’s just humouring me, but I know he loves it. He tells me so.

Din makes a motion with his hand to turn around, so I do, and I let him tie an old, folded food cloth around my head – unsanitary, sure, but, again, I don’t care, and my head’s reeling, and my heart’s racing so hard, thrumming in my ears, and he’s so close, and his fingers are tangling through my hair as he lowers my scarf, and they’re brushing against the nape of my neck now, and—

“Can you take your gloves off, Din?” I ask, and, unfortunately, the neediness seeps right through my voice. “Please?” Stars, I’m pathetic.

Behind me, there’s the shuffle and quiet groan of leather as he tugs them off, and then a quiet pat! as he tosses them to the side.

And then his hands are back. Rough, calloused fingertips ghosting over my ears, my hair, as he knots the cloth, then knots it again for good measure. Darkness is closed over my eyes, tinged the rich green of the fabric. My breath seems nearer this way, short, shallow, hot. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, still, as he cups the back of my neck, his touch cool.

I reach over my shoulder, taking a deep inhale as I run my fingers over the dips and hills of his knuckles. I fold my hands over his and squeeze, bringing them forward and kissing his fingertips gently. I feel the texture and thickness of his fingers, trace the lines of his palm. Din comes in close behind me, the solidity of his chestplate (cuirass? I dunno, once, he got all pissy ‘cause I didn’t call by it’s actual name) pressing up against my shoulder blades.

I smooth my thumbs along the deepest crease in his palm. “Y’know, once, before I met you, I met someone who told me he could foretell my whole life, and my child’s life, and their child’s life, just from the lines on my hands.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is right in my ear, low and intimate. Maker. “What do mine say?”

“All good things,” you reply shakily.

“Anything about Takodana?”

He twists his hand over, enveloping my right and rubbing circles into the back of it.

Then, he’s letting me go, leaning away—and there’s that hiss and click of him removing his helmet. I blink against the green cloth, my eyelashes dragging up slowly. If I hold my breath, I can hear him breathing.

“Turn around,” he tells me, and I do.

It’s too dark for silhouettes anymore. If we were in daylight again, maybe I could’ve seen the vaguest outline of him. But we’re not in daylight. I blink again against the cloth, hard.

His hands reach out and grasp my hips, and they’re warm and large and I never get used to it. The breath is still knocked out of my chest. He angles and adjusts me to face him, and I place my hands on his shoulders, fumbling around his armour before settling them instead on his neck.

His neck. Bare skin. I smooth my hand up the column of his pretty, perfect neck, feeling every inch of him. I already know the texture of his hair. When he’s between my legs and kissing me there, I like to thread my fingers through it. It’s thick and wavy and slightly too long. But otherwise, I keep my hands to myself. Even though I’m not technically seeing him in the dark when he takes his helmet off to taste me, I don’t reach out and touch his face��because it’s his. It’s his, and he’s taken an oath to keep it that way. He’s never initiated a kiss, so I’ve never asked. I’ve been content. I’ve been patient.

But I guess my patience has reached a limit. Slowly, tentatively, I drift my touch up, up, and feel along his jawline, coarse with longer scruff. His breath hitches, and I smile and continue. I smooth my fingers right along his cheekbone – Din gently circles his hand around my wrist, pressing his nose into my palm, then kissing it, soft, careful, dragging the tip of his nose along the line of the vein that trails over my arm.

Stars.

I blink hard again behind the green cloth, clenching my jaw down till my teeth grit together.

I feel along the jagged bridge of his nose, take note of how it’s slightly crooked to the right, like he’s broken it before (wouldn’t surprise me). I learn the shape of his brow, the broadness of his forehead. I feel the feather-light brush of his eyelashes against my wrist. I’m silent—and I’m grinning like an idiot, because what else can I do? It’s like I’m seeing his face. I’m not, but it’s sure as hell the closest thing. The weight of his head in my hands, the cautious squeeze of his hands on my arms. I whisper some kind of babbling, incoherent request, and he relaxes his eyes – I can feel the muscles in his face release tension – for me to trace my middle finger over the shape of his eye. I’m not crying, but, fuck, it’s getting a little moist up in this blindfold.

His eyes droop down slightly at the ends. I like eyes like that – kind eyes. My mother used to say these types of eyes only belonged to the kindest of people. Stars. Don’t cry.

“You look insane, mesh’la,” he whispers, close to me, lifting his hands to tenderly hold my face, like I might break.

“Ah, bantha shit, baby,” I retort. “You’re loving this.”

And I can feel him smile. I can feel it crinkle up the sides of his eyes, and I can feel the squint of them, and the way his cheeks lift. He smiles a little lop-sidedly, actually, the left corner of his mouth just a touch higher than the right. I try to memorise every single bit of information I discover, as urgent and as desperate as if my life depended upon it.

Quivering with want, I press my lips to the inner corner of his eye, firm and sure and needy, my hands grasping around his face. Din grabs fistfuls of my cloak, bringing me nearer to him.

He smells like dust and tastes like sweat and salt, but, Maker, this is good. Satisfies some deep, hellacious ache that would have otherwise consumed me.

I kiss the ridge of his cheekbone with the same fervour, and then I kiss the corner of his mouth, the left side, the side that quirks up when he smiles.

Only, he’s not really smiling right now. He’s breathing heavily, almost panting, and stroking my hair away from my face and neck before mumbling out, “So pretty.” I press my nose against his, breathless with anticipation, heady at the warmth of his body. “S’good. You look so good—like this. Y’look good all the time—”

But I’m kissing him already, frantic, fingers pressing into the back of his neck, into his shoulders, bringing him as near to me as humanly possible. I sob dryly as he reciprocates, nudging his nose flat against my cheek. He opens his mouth to suck in a breath, and I lick into him, taste him deeply, practically having climbed into his lap during my whirlwind pursuit. His cold hands slip under my cloak, arms wrapping around me in a second.

The kiss is dry and rough, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It seems befitting of him somehow.

And when he makes a pathetic sound, a whimper or something, at the back of his throat, I almost melt right into the ground.

Closer, closer, closer – that’s all I can really comprehend at the moment. Even with our bodies slotted together, even though I can feel each shaky breath he takes as his stomach flexes over my own, I feel hungry for more. It’s Din. My Din, kissing me, his hands on me, his eyes on me. My Din, grunting into me as I shift in his lap and squeeze my legs around him. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine—

He grabs my face gently by the chin, urging me away from him for a few moments. I sit there, blind, his open mouth still hovering over mine. Oh, stars, I think of the softness of his tongue, and I kiss the corner of his mouth, wanting, asking.

Din angles my face to the side, coming in slow, warm, and languidly slides his tongue into my hot mouth, breath fanning out across my glowing face. Maker. I can’t control myself – a helpless noise passes through me as I take it good and kiss him back, eager, wide open.

I guide his hand down the the base of my throat, just to feel his touch somewhere else. He squeezes there lightly.

His other hand manages to snake under my shirt, pressing flat across the small of my back, sliding up my spine and sending shivers all the way right through me.

It’s—good. Really good. Can’t-open-my-eyes-for-a-good-few-heartbeats type of good.

“Maker,” he curses hoarsely under his breath as I pull away, still leaning forward for me, chasing my touch.

“Good?” I ask him.

He presses a kiss to my cheek, smiling. “We can do this—more often—‘f you want.”

“If I want, huh?”

He kisses me deeply again, his thumb slotted beneath the cloth over my eyes. He pulls it taut to the side over so slightly, and I can make out that beautiful, warm glow over the sand and his armour again. I shut my eyes as he tilts my head up, though, as kisses down to the hollow of my throat and back up again.

I slide my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. “You’re beautiful, aren’t you?” I just know it. Everything about him is just beautiful. It’s just lovely, and I love it.

“Marry me and you can find out for sure,” he mumbles into my neck.

I can hardly hear him, of course – blood is pounding so hard in my ears that all I can understand from his words are that they rumble deep right through his chest, warm under the cool beskar.

I lift his head and press my nose into his cheek. “I can tell,” I continue, words brushing his lips. Again, I smooth my fingers over his face. “You’re so pretty, Din.”

“Marry me,” he urges, whispering against the fabric over my eye, warm.

I grin. “Later.”

He curses, something in Mando’a. “We’re going to Takodana as soon as we get that damn ship, you hear me?”

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Snippet Saturday 21/09/24

I am having a ball writing this next chapter of Unsinkable! Here’s a piece (because it’s still got a way to go before it’s ready but I really want to share some of it)

They joined up with Meg in the conjoined shadows of the ships.

Hands on hips, she craned her neck to scan the height of the cylindrical palace. The walls were sheer and devoid of any artistry—no paint survived the suns and the carvings had long lost definition to the sand. So the palace lifted high and stood wide to make up for what spectacle it visually lacked.

She said something. Between a gust of hot wind hitting his ear and the bright red bandana covering her mouth, Din couldn’t catch most of it but he thought he heard the rhythm of a question.

“Well, he calls himself a daimyo,” Sabine said (she was nearby and stationed on the working-hearing-aid side). When Meg looked to her with a raised eyebrow, she shrugged and shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know really know. With how he’s running things, I would call him something more like a king, but he doesn’t seem to want the title.”

“He doesn’t want the trouble claiming the title would invite,” Din amended, solemnly. When he realized he had spoken, when he realized what he had said, he couldn’t look at anyone around him. Taking a deep breath of dry air, he made himself move forward, toward the palace entrance.

The gates were open, partway—not enough that a starship could enter or exit the hangar beyond but enough that humanoids of an average height range could come and go without having to duck.

As they approached, a figure emerged to meet them.

It was difficult—nearly impossible—to describe anything as “typical” on Tatooine, but the willowy frame arrayed in dark green and gold accented robes melting out of the shadows was not standard fare for the desert world. From the regal way he held himself to the smooth orange skin lacking signs of sun abuse, the Twi’lek man looked better suited to the courts of the Core Worlds than this dusty Outer Rim corner.

“Greetings! Greetings! Salutations!” he exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm and emphasis as if delighted he had just found a better, more appropriate word to use. He came to a stop a fair distance away from them, his robes swirling around his feet like stage curtains. He bowed with a courtly flourish, rose, paused and glanced over them then bowed again, a little deeper, ring-adorned hands ever swirling as if to make up for the lack of an accompanying orchestra. “We are most honoured to welcome you to our glorious, long-established abode. I,” and here he retired the flourishes to place a heartfelt hand on his chest, “am Graves Keefen: former majordomo of the former mayor of Mos Eisley. After a storied series of events, I now serve as Lord Fett’s majordomo. Lord Fett and Mistress Shand are in the middle of concluding some business with a few local figures, and, so, sent me in their stead to meet you and usher you in.”

“Wow. Someone who actually talks more than you,” Meg commented, nudging Ezra playfully.

[kikiiswashere]

Children of Zaun - Chapter 21

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut

Chapter Summary: Katya teaches Silco the crawl. When they go their separate ways for the evening, each wishes they hadn't.

Special Note: Many, many thanks to @sand-sea-and-fable for being my swim expert and beta-ing that part of this chapter ❤️

Chapter CW: Masturbation and sex dreams, MDNI

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 8K

“Ya don’ think it sounds too threatening?” Vander asked, eyes glossing over the note again.

We are the Children of Zaun

Consider the coin the beginning of your reparations

We are the Children of Zaun

We are The Storm’s Fury

And we demand freedom.

“Sure makes a statement, doesn’ it?” Benzo said, glancing over his friend’s shoulder. He didn’t seem convinced either.

Silco stared at them from across Vander’s kitchen table, his fists gripping the back of a chair, cigarette dangling from his sneering lips.

“We are not going to ask nicely for our freedom. We are not going to ask for it at all.”

“’M not sayin’ we gotta go in with ‘pretty pleases’ n’ the like,” Vander sighed, setting the paper down. “’M just sayin’ is it wise to be so aggressive off the mark?”

“They are not going to believe that the airship crash was an accident. They are going to come at us with their teeth. They need to know we have our own,” Silco retorted. “That we won’t be pushed around any longer.”

His eyes went to the clock on the wall, and he pushed off the chair. Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, he crushed it into the ashtray at the table’s center.

“You goin’ somewhere?” Vander asked, eying the sudden movement.

“Kat wants to show me something. I’m supposed to go meet her.”

“Showin’ ya? What’s she showin’ ya?”

Silco averted his gaze as he said, “She’s going to teach me a few swimming strokes.”

Benzo guffawed. “Where? It’s bloody cold out.”

“Apparently there are some hot springs near those lagoons that kids like to play at. The ones between Zaun and Topside,” Silco explained blandly, going to gather his bag by the door. Katya had instructed him to pack a towel and dry change of clothes. “Besides, I need to give her the coin.”

At the top of their meeting, Silco had proposed the Children spare a negligible percentage of their recent treasure to Katya, so she could afford Viktor’s higher tuition rate for the upcoming semester. Vander and Benzo had agreed without a second thought.

Brothers and Sisters looked out for each other after all.

They all knew this would not be a long-term solution; and they all privately hoped that by the next time Viktor’s tuition fee came around, that their cause was far enough along that Piltover was agreeing to fully foot the bill.

Vander frowned. “Sil, I think we need to talk about this message some more. What if Piltover comes down hard on us?”

Silco slung his bag across his back, a hand patting protectively at the pocket that held the sack of gold.

“When have they ever come down easy on us? The only thing that will change is that they will now know there is a concentrated effort on getting their bootheels off us. Send the message.”

With that, he slipped out of the room. Benzo sighed and sat heavily next to Vander.

“What a fuckin’ prick.”

“He’s not wrong, I suppose,” Vander murmured, looking at the message. “No matter how we word it, Topside’ll still come after us. Best they know we’ll meet ‘em head on.”

His eyes drifted back to where Silco had been, his stomach knotting.

Silco stalked down the hall and through The Last Drop’s backdoor. He and Katya were meeting at the Bridgewaltz. The location was central enough, and made more sense than meeting at either of their homes.

When he arrived, it was mostly deserted. Which was to be expected in the early-afternoon; the Waltz did not burst to life until very late in the evening, Zaunites and Topsiders alike milling about the colorful streets taking in everything the Undercity had to offer: Crispy and well-spiced street food, boisterous musicians, and clever artisans with their unique wares.

But there was awhile before such nightly festivities began. Now, a few slow-moving, but dedicated, proprietors tended to the upkeep of their booths and stalls. A few Zaunites were hunched over tables or countertops, having fallen asleep the night before and had been deemed too troublesome to try and shoo away.

“Silco.”

He spun to see Katya strolling down a slim corridor of colorful awnings. She smiled brightly at him and adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder. His lips quirked and heart pattered at the sight of her; relieved and happy. Despite her invitation, he had been concerned that what had happened in the airship – how yet another thing did not go to plan – would scare her away from the Children. From him. But it had not, and he found himself inordinately relieved.

She wore her usual long, too-big charcoal coat and her hair fell loose around her shoulders. As she passed under a string of chem-bulbs, he noticed a flash of rosy gold undertones to her locks. He felt compelled to reach out to run his fingers through the strands to find that hue again.

Instead, he tightened the grip he had on his own bag, and nodded at her in greeting.

“Are you ready?” she asked, skirting around a vendor’s table to him.

“I believe so,” he said, jostling his pack. “Lead the way.”

They walked together through the Bridgewaltz, the winding alleys and gangways of the Lanes, and a short section of the Promenade before heading toward the Oases. The sun gleamed on the Promenade stones and the pair squinted against it as they traveled. Despite the brightness, the chill in the air was persistent, a promise of the cold season arriving shortly. A few shops they passed were even beginning the process of decorating for Snowdown. Business owners had threaded ribbons of gold and silver over window boxes and door lintels. A few storefronts boasted colorful paper garlands and delicate, star-shaped string lights. A few shop owners they passed were swapping details and ideas of impending holiday sales.

Before long, Katya led them down a steep rickety staircase that ended abruptly. She had always assumed that the builder had gotten fed up with trying to navigate and place the iron posts and steps over the uneven and sandy rocks, and had just given up halfway down the embankment. It would be easier and faster to travel down to the small rivulets that would lead to the Oases with Silco than it was with Viktor. She had nearly forgotten how quickly the landscape could be traversed. They walked along the bank of the largest tributary, mindful of the runoff trickling down from the sewer outlets that peppered the stone walls that rose above them.

“How did you learn about these hot springs?”

Katya shrugged. “My parents always took me to them. I do not know how they discovered them.”

As they neared the larger lagoons of the Oases, the sounds of screeching and laughing children overtook the noise of the gently running water. The pair spied a gaggle of scrawny Undercity youths scampering along the banks of the largest lagoon. It was too cold to swim, but that did not stop the children from investigating the shoreline, or skipping rocks. Katya was certain she spied a couple of Sevika’s sisters, but made no mention of it.

“This way,” she said as they approached a fork in the small river.

She veered right and Silco followed. The sandstone pressed in, narrowing the chasm they traveled, until a cave mouth yawned open and Silco took in this little secret of Zaun. The cavern itself did not seem particularly deep; the sun was able to illuminate most of the rocks and steaming, turquoise pools within the cave’s maw.

“Does anyone ever come here?”

Katya shook her head. “I have never seen anyone else here.”

She leapt down from a rock and stepped into the warm cave, swinging her sack from around her shoulders and dumping it to the ground. Silco remained at the mouth of the cavern, eying the glistening pools within apprehensively.

“It will be difficult to learn how to swim on dry land.”

Silco started, and looked down to Katya. She lifted her thick eyebrows and grinned at him.

“I won’t let you drown,” she said. “I promise.”

Silco returned her smile and followed her into the cave.

It was balmy. The heat of the water swirling around them in clouds of steam. The air smelled of the tang of minerals and wet sand. Katya knelt down and opened her sack, pulling out a large, fraying towel. She sat on it and began unlacing her boots. Silco began doing the same. When she stood, he looked up at her in slight confusion, but the question died on his tongue as she began unbuttoning her pants.

She noticed his wide-eyes and uncharacteristically stupefied face, and explained, “It will be easier to learn without soaked through clothes. Just in our underthings. Is that alright?”

Silco nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”

He casually looked away as she slid the trousers down her legs. He felt a warmth blooming inside him that had nothing to do with the springs. He began to follow suit, writing off the tremor in his fingers as a need for a cigarette. When she shed her shirt, leaving her only clad in underwear, a camisole, and a brassiere, he bit the inside of his lip. He kicked his trousers off and stood, and unclasped the hooks that held his shirt in place before peeling it from his back. He tossed it next to his bag and tried to stand as nonchalantly as he could, dressed only in his thin undershorts. His pale skin was turning pink, and he prayed that she thought it was only because of the cave’s warmth and humidity.

Katya began braiding her hair, and glanced him over once. Twice. And then at his head.

“Would you like a hair tie?”

Silco’s hands flew to his lanky hair and pet at it. He looked to the water, and then back to Katya. “Will one help?”

She shrugged. “It might. Hold on.”

She bent over to dig through her bag, and despite everything inside him begging him not to, he eyed the curve of her wide hips and swell of her ass. She rose again and handed him a small elastic band.

“Here.”

He mumbled a thank you and began pulling his hair back as Katya headed to the nearest spring. She delicately jumped in, the water rippling and gently splashing around her body. A soft, pleased groan blew from her lips as her muscles were wrapped in warmth. The pool only came up to her chest and she dipped beneath the surface, wetting her hair. As she came back up, she wiped her bangs from her eyes, and looked back to the edge of the pool. Where Silco stood, waiting for instructions.

She noticed his slender body in a way she hadn’t during that initial physical. Slightly broad shoulders and chest that tapered to a very narrow waist; his muscle sat tightly against his bones, the cut and shape of them becoming more apparent as sweat and moisture collected on his skin. He had very little body hair. A small, light smattering across the planes of his chest and a thin line that began beneath his navel and disappeared under the waistline of his shorts. Her gaze lifted back to his face, the angles of his cheekbones and nose more apparent now that his dark hair was swept back into a messy knot. Lean, elegant, and magnetic she thought.

Beautiful.

Katya nearly choked at the word as it flashed through her mind. She played it off and jerked her head back, beckoning him.

“Come on. Hop in. The water is far better than the Pilt.”

Silco toed the pool’s lip for a moment more before jumping in. He created a larger wake than Katya did, and she laughed at the small waves that splashed at her.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, stepping forward, cutting his sinewy arms through the water.

Wiping the water from her eyes, she chuckled, “It is fine. I’m already wet anyway.”

Silco gave her an apologetic grin as his feet and toes squeezed and gripped the uneven rock beneath them, feeling the slight slick of algae that grew there. There were nerves coiling his stomach. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. In general. And not in front of her.

“What’s first?” he asked, infusing his tone with a confident, blasé bravado.

“Well, since you can already not drown,” she cheekily said, “I figured we would just focus on a more efficient technique.”

First, Katya took him through a few arm and shoulder warm ups, and mobility exercises: instructing him through shoulder rolls, chest and back stretches. She mimed the crawl stroke she was preparing to teach him by throwing her arms into the air in controlled, alternating sweeps. He did his best to copy her. And to not feel foolish.

“Keep your arm in its socket,” she told him, stepping over and gently adjusting his right shoulder down, away from his ear. “Use the muscles in your back, not your ligaments and tendons, to reach and pull.”

She touched the muscles in the center of his upper back and at his sides in direction. Silco adjusted his technique.

“The arm that is drawing back, bend its elbow more,” she added as he mimed the movement again. “It is called the crawl, yes? Imagine that you actually pulling yourself through something. Like this.”

She turned her back to him and did the stroke into the air, making a point to exaggerate pulling back through her elbows. He watched the slight rotation of her wrists and hands as she went, as if she were pushing material out of the way. He watched the way her back muscles moved. How the band of her brassiere strained under her camisole.

Katya turned to face him again, and gestured for him to try. He obliged and she nodded at his technique. She then explained the breathing pattern for the crawl: to turn his head in the same direction the arm sweeping back.

“Both sides?”

“Typically, yes. But you may find it easier to just turn your head to your dominant side for now. You’ll get a feel for it once you start swimming. You use your left hand, yes?”

Something pleased fluttered inside Silco that she knew that. He nodded.

“Good. Now, I want you to use your arms like that and swim the length of this pool,” she said, walking over to one end.

Silco looked at her, then to the spring’s opposite end. It wasn’t too long; maybe forty feet.

Slowly, he waded across the pool to her side. She gave him an encouraging smile, and he rolled his shoulders before launching forward into the warm water. Shifting the movement he’d just learned to a horizontal position was harder than he anticipated. His arms didn’t feel as strong and his lower body kept sinking, despite kicking furiously. Every time he turned his head to breathe, not only did he get a mouthful of air, but water splashed in, too.

Finally, his fingers scraped against the ledge of the pool’s far side and he stood up, panting. He looked down at the ledge, and then turned to look at Katya at the other end of the pool. The water between them was frothing and choppy, but she gave him an encouraging smile.

“Not bad,” she called. “Now, come back.”

Silco heeded her instruction and attempted the crawl again as he swam back. He was huffing and puffing by the time he returned to Katya’s side.

“I don’t know why,” he gasped, “but I did not think it would be so tiring.”

She smirked up at him. “Swimming is a different beast from roof running. It probably doesn’t help that you smoke, either.”

He recalled her final comment that night he had shown her Zaun.

You shouldn’t smoke, anyway. It’s bad for you, too.

He slyly grinned back at her, and purred, “I am allowed a vice. Piltover has made life hellish enough to deny ourselves any small pleasures. I’m sure once I get this stroke down, I’ll swim just as fast as you. Perhaps faster – “

Katya snorted, throwing her head back. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Silco shrugged cockily before diving back into the water and practicing again. After a few more laps, he began to get a better handle of how to move his arms and neck, his stroke pattern becoming smoother, surer. Slowly, he began cutting through the water instead of splashing against it.

“Very good,” Katya congratulated once he returned to her side again. “I think it is time to talk about hips and legs.” She turned to the pool’s edge and placed her hands on a relatively level slab of rock. “One of the reasons your lower half is sinking is because you are kicking too much with your knees. You will swim faster and more efficiently if you keep your legs straighter and kick from your hips.”

She kept her hands on the rock, and allowed the rest of her body to float up in the water. Her rear breached the surface, and Silco fought not to stare. She made a point to flex and straighten her shapely legs and kicked. Despite the movement, very little water was splashed up. Silco scooted down the edge of the rock a bit to find his own level piece. Once he was set up, he kicked his lower half up to the surface. Very ungracefully. His jaw squeezed and brow furrowed as he did his best to lengthen his legs taut and access his hips.

“It is a balance,” Katya explained, stepping over to him. “Straight legs, yes. But allow there to be a little give in your knees so that they remain soft.”

“So keep my legs straight. But don’t keep my legs straight.”

Katya smirked and shrugged. “Viktor can do it. And his bones are warped. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Silco huffed and tried again. It was challenging, but eventually he got it enough that Katya didn’t need to keep reminding him.

“Do not swish your hips so much,” she said, reaching out and gently touched the top of his hipbone.

The feeling of her fingertips on him caused Silco to jolt and stop swimming. He spun to look at her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she gasped, hand pulling back. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay. I just – I just wasn’t expecting it.” He smiled reassuringly at her. “What did you say?”

“You are rotating through your hips too much. It’ll make you tired. Keep your hips steady. The rotation comes from your back. Remember? From the crawl stroke itself.”

Silco tried again, imagining that an iron beam holding his hips in place. A couple times, Katya reminded him to keep his knees and feet a touch softer. As she watched him, her eyes squinted and she brought the tips of her fingers to her temple.

“What?” he asked, pausing to catching his breath.

“I am trying to think of another way to explain,” she sighed. “Have you ever seen people on the Promenade ride . . . I think they are called Bi-sickles, or something? A metal frame with two wheels on either end?”

“Bicycles. Yeah. I’ve seen them.”

“Okay, well, the leg movement is not dissimilar. Steady hips, strong glutes and thighs propelling the motion, but some soft give from the knees down. Does that make sense?”

Silco pondered for a moment, thinking on the Topside youths he’d seen racing their toys through the Promenade streets. He recalled how their legs pumped their mode of transportation, strong and efficient strokes that powered the bicycle to impressive speeds. He nodded and tried again.

After several minutes, she suggested he put the two together and try swimming another few laps of the pool. Silco rolled his shoulders and shook his legs out a bit before venturing back into the middle of the water and piecing together what he had learned.

Just as before, it took him a couple laps to achieve smooth movements. Once he found a rhythm, he felt like a harpoon slicing through the water, especially compared to how he felt in the Pilt a few days ago. After his tenth lap, he stopped for a break at the far end and turned to look at Katya. His heart tapped firmly against his breastbone to see her beaming at him. Her skin was glistening from the warmth and water, her cheeks rosy. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so pleased or carefree, and he was excited to think he was the source of her happiness in that moment.

Suddenly, Katya leapt forward and swam towards him, streaking through the water like a waverider. He hadn’t really paid attention the night they jumped from the airship, but she moved seamlessly – as if she became one with the water. It didn’t froth around her limbs, just rippled in smooth wakes. It seemed as easy as breathing for her. Despite the improvements he had made to his own abilities, he knew he floundered like a beached fish in comparison.

She appeared at his side, that sun-bright smile still on her face.

“Race?”

Silco stared at her for a moment, his eyes glancing down to her smile, then his own split across his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ‘played’ – had had unproductive fun. He was sure Katya felt the same.

“Prepare to eat my wake, Kat.”

Katya did not eat Silco’s wake. Quite the opposite. He struggled to keep up, but laughed at his own ineptitude in the water. Although, the more and more laps they swam, the surer in his skills he became. Katya told him his slight build would work to his advantage, something he quietly preened at because he never considered his physicality being an advantage for much.

Eventually they tired, and lifted themselves from the pool. They spread their towels over the cave floor and sat, allowing their bodies to rest and dry off. Silco did his best to avoid staring at Katya, at the way her wet clothes had sheered from the water and now clung to her body. A heat that had nothing to do with the hot springs spread through him.

To distract himself, he fished an apple and a small knife from his bag. He cut a slice and handed it to her. Katya stared at the offering for a moment, stunned, before taking it.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, because that it what you said when someone gave you something.

Unsettled warmth bloomed across her chest as she bit down on it in a satisfying crunch. It had been a long while since she had had a bite of apple. It had been a long while that someone had provided for her. She wondered if she would ever get used to being thought of, sought after, taken care of, considered. Silco’s companionship felt as much of a treat like this apple.

The fruit was crisp, juicy, and sweet against her tongue. As it broke down in her mouth, and the sweet sparked into surprising notes of tangy sour, compulsory sadness curled in her stomach; that her experience of the treat was nearing its end. Then her eyes fell onto the fruit by Silco’s pointed knee, and realized she could have more. That one bite was only the first. Her mouth watered and stomach rumbled.

“I brought some bread, too. One of mum’s reject loaves.”

Katya’s eyes flicked up to his face. Why had she gone so long denying herself of company? Denying her own needs? Pointedly skirting the care and lives of others? If she had kept to her solitary way, she would not have this apple, this bread. This man, and his caring mother.

“How is she?”

Silco’s nostrils curled. He cut his own slice of apple and ate it. He shrugged.

“Like she said, it always gets bad this time of year.”

Katya’s eyes softened, empathy and sadness leaching out the joy that had lit them up.

“She is probably due for another vial of medicine,” she said. “I will grab one when I am at the clinic.”

Silco gave her a weak smile and retrieved the lumpy loaf of bread from his bag. He tore a piece off and handed it to her. She took it and held it in her hands, thinking of how she might smooth out the lines that had appeared on Silco’s face at the mention of Enyd. How she might dampen the small flame of ire that had appeared in his eyes, and rekindle the joy that had been there earlier.

“I am glad I got to show you this place,” she decided on, looking up at the stalactites on the cave’s ceiling. “As grateful as I am that only Viktor and I seem to be the ones to ever come here, it’s so beautiful that I feel badly for it that so few people visit. Know about it.”

Silco hummed, biting down on a piece of bread and looking around at the cave. It’s towers and divots. At the lush moss and algae that collected at its mouth, and hung down from its opening like a shredded curtain.

“This is where your parents taught you how to swim?”

Katya shook her head. “No. I learned in the Oases. Like a lot of the children do now. When it came time to teach Viktor, his body did not handle the cool water well, so Papa taught him here. Being in the water also helps relieve some of the chronic aches he has in his body.”

“How did your father find this place?” Silco asked, looking around again.

“I never thought to ask. I wish I had now. He used to talk about taking me and Viktor out on a boat someday. To explore the Conqueror’s Sea.”

“It sounds like he had an affinity for water.”

Katya chuckled and took a bite of bread. “I suppose he did, now that you mention it. One of the books he would read to us most frequently had to do with ocean life. Various habitats, animal and plant life – that sort of thing.” She laughed and said, “My favorite chapter was about the deep sea, and all the monstrous creatures down there. It sort of reminded me of the Undercity. I found it fascinating, but I don’t think Viktor did.”

“How come?”

She shrugged. “He is more interested in building and creating things. He preferred when Papa read about inventions and why they worked. Engineering and chemistry and physics, and those sorts of things. Biology never grabbed him as tightly.”

“But it did you?” Silco asked, taking his knife to the apple again and slicing it twice. He handed one piece to her, and placed his own on his tongue.

Katya shrugged again and bit thoughtfully into the apple’s flesh, Silco’s eyes flicking down to her mouth as she did.

“I do find it interesting,” she said around the fruit in her mouth. “It certainly has served me well with my role at the clinic. And with caring for Viktor. And like I told you, I think I would like to become a doctor once Zaun is free. Once we have the ability to manage such things.”

“That reminds me,” Silco gasped, reaching for his bag. His hand gripped the small satchel of gold within and he drew it out. “Vander and I wanted you to have some of the coin from the airship job. To help with Viktor’s tuition next semester.”

He handed her the purse, and she slowly took it. Her eyes glossed over and became distant as she uncinched the bag’s mouth and peered inside. Gold glittered up at her. Katya sniffed and her throat squeezed tightly. She looked back up at him, and her heart cracked at the soft – almost adoring – smile on his face. She opened her mouth to thank him, but all that came out was a teary choke. Silco scooted over and wrapped his arm around her.

“I got you.”

Katya’s voice failed her again, and she simply leaned against him. She curled against his side; her face pressed into his neck. She nodded against it, overwhelmed and humbled by the sense of gratitude. Her body alight with the feeling of belonging. She felt treasured and valued.

She wasn’t able to speak, but as she closed her eyes and felt Silco’s jugular pulse against her cheek, she thought You have me.

Eventually, when the sun began to fade, they toweled off and redressed, preparing to head home. Katya wrapped the small bag of gold in her towel and shoved it deep within her sack. Despite the extra weight on her back, her heart felt easeful and light. The children that had been at the Oases were gone. Headed home for supper, or for work, or to nothing at all. Silco and Katya hopped onto the bottom step of the incomplete staircase and headed back into Zaun.

The Bridgewaltz was just beginning to brighten and stretch into its evening routine. The chem-bulbs above twinkled various colors, casting rainbow splotches on the pavement and across scattered tables and chairs. A few of the food stalls and kiosks already had customers gnawing at kebabs and drinking whatever brew was offered; the passed-out people Silco and Katya had seen earlier had since woken up and staggered off.

“Would you like me to walk you home?” Silco asked, as they came to a stop.

Katya looked up at him, voice stuck in her throat. The shadows and light did mesmerizing things to the angles of his face, and his pale eyes reflected the flickering magenta, orange, and green lights above.

Would she like? Would she want?

“That’s okay,” she finally answered. Her stomach curled in displeasure at her own words. “You should get home and check on your mother.”

Silco smiled and nodded. He ignored the pang of disappointment that flicked at his heart.

“Right, then,” he said, adjusting his bag. “I’ll see you soon. Yeah?”

Katya beamed up at him. Her milk-colored skin glowed in the colorful light, and Silco’s fingers twitched, fighting the urge to run them down her cheek.

“Yes. I will see you soon.”

“Thank you again for the lessons. For today.”

Something open, vulnerable, and wanting cracked behind Katya’s ribs, and she closed the distance between them, wrapping Silco in a tight embrace. He returned it with an immediacy that left his mind reeling and surprised. She felt warm and solid – not unlike that dream he had had the night he’d fought the enforcers. Turning his head slightly, he nestled his nose into the crook of her neck. The smell of brine, minerals, and warmth from the Springs was stuck to her.

“Thank you for today,” she whispered. “And for everything else.”

Katya gave him one last squeeze and drew back. Silco followed suit, his heart hammering against his chest.

“Walk home safe, Kat.”

“You, too.”

Silco watched her for a moment, before turning himself and walking home.

When he arrived at his and his mother’s apartment, it was quiet except for the warm, prickling drone of the phonograph needle swirling on a record that had finished playing. A singular light from the living room bled into the front hall. Silco quietly removed his boots, and set down his sack by the door before venturing further.

“Mum?” he called quietly, stepping into the living room.

Enyd was propped up in her rocking chair, a sewing project in her lap, her head lolled onto one shoulder, eyes closed. Her breath came in soft, long wheezes as she slept. Silco smiled tenderly at the sight and tip-toed to the phonograph, gently resetting the needle in its bed.

“Mum,” he said again, walking over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Mum.”

Enyd gently started under his touch and blinked awake.

“Wha? – Oh, Silco. You’re home. I – I didn’t realize that I fell asleep.”

She adjusted in her seat, the chair rocking slightly with her movement, and she peered down at the bundle of thread and fabric in her lap. An amused huff blew from her lips at the sight, and a string of dry coughs followed it. When they passed, she straightened her shoulders and looked up at her son with watery eyes.

“How did it go today?”

“It went well. Kat’s a good teacher. It was nice. Spending time with her. Mum, why don’t you go to bed if you’re tired?”

Enyd batted away his concern with a flick of her thin wrist. “I’m fine. I want to get this done before I turn in anyhow.” She gestured to the sewing project in her lap. “Would you mind starting the record again?”

Silco turned back to the phonograph and reset the needle. Soft, warbly music echoed from the soundhorn and Enyd hummed appreciatively, lifting the needle and thread back up to the light.

“I’m going to take a shower. Do you need anything?”

His mother shook her head. She smiled at him, and said, “I’m glad you got to do something light today. Fun. Joyful.”

Silco’s insides squeezed – with what, he wasn’t entirely certain – and softly smiled in agreement.

“Me too.”

With that, he headed to his bedroom, grabbed his pajamas, and then locked himself up in the bathroom. He turned the water in the tub on, holding one hand under the faucet, waiting for it to turn warm. When it did, he was surprised that he could feel the difference between this warm water and the stuff he’d been swimming in a few hours prior. He didn’t know water could feel different. Pulling the tee diverter, the shower head rumbled and spat to life. He quickly divested himself of his clothes; surprised when a flash of Kat in her wet underthings flickered in his mind. He swallowed, tossed the clothes into the hamper by the toilet, and stepped into the shower.

The warm water sluiced over his frame in vaguely relaxing rivulets. The sensation paled in comparison to the heat and comfort he’d found in the Springs. He’d found in the excited, pleased beam of Kat’s smile. Silco ran his fingers through his hair, unraveling any snags and snares he found. He closed his eyes as water ran down his face. The image behind his eyelids was that of Kat standing in the shallow end of the pool, water to her knees, her underwear, camisole, and brassiere wet and sticking to her body. Her skin glowed and shone with the warm mist of the cave. Silco sighed, and finally allowed himself to ruminate on what he’d seen while he lathered himself up with soap.

Like many trenchers, Katya’s body hungered, but it hadn’t kept her hips and breasts from filling out. His mind’s eye roved over her legs. Stopped, and stared at where her thighs thickened into the swell of her hips and ass. Salivated at how the damp sheerness of her underwear had allowed the suggestion of curls at the crux of her thighs –

Silco gasped as he brought the soap to his groin, and found himself half-hard. Balls beginning to lift and ache. For a moment, he considered turning the water to ice cold, to put a stop to this. But his hand made a cursory sweep down his length and the space behind his navel tightened with anticipation. With a plead.

Silco’s imagination took creative license, and the Kat behind his eyes shifted her expression to something sultrier. Hungrier. Her lashes sat low over her golden eyes – those mesmerizing gold eyes. Silco braced one hand against the shower wall, while the other took hold of him in earnest. Kat bit just the inside of her lower lip, and Silco worked himself to full hardness in steady strokes.

His mind’s eye traveled up the length of her torso, wondering what it would be like to touch (taste?) the delicate flesh that ebbed and flowed into that beautiful hourglass shape. Her breasts – their details and shape brought into stark relief by the wet, clingy fabric – were devastatingly heavy and ample. Her nipples had puckered and lifted. He wanted to touch them. Roll them into impossibly tight, pebbled peaks between his fingers. And then suck and bite at them. How she would writhe beneath his attention –

Silco’s breath hitched as a callous on his palm caught along his frenulum. He bit back a groan, grateful for the noise of the shower and the record playing in the other room. Despite those buffers, he choked back any vocalization that threatened to give him away.

The promising lift behind his navel was intensifying – little shimmers of pleasure licking up his spine. The squeeze of his pumping hand tightened, and the one bracing against the shower wall collapsed to its forearm. Silco’s forehead pressed against the meat of it. His eyes clamped shut as his mind shifted, giving form to tamped down fantasies and maddening questions.

What would those plush thighs feel like wrapped around his waist? Kat’s heels pressing into his tailbone as he fucked her –

A whimper vibrated off his lips. Despite the water, he could tell that his cock was leaking all over his hand.

How would she feel wrapped around him? Glorious, he knew. His fist would never be able to compare. Warm, soft, and slick. And tight. Would they fit together like puzzle pieces?

How would she look beneath him? On top of him? Looking over her shoulder at him? He imagined her mouth hanging open – her dusty pink lips turned red and kiss-swollen. Her intense, expressive brows pitching up in elation as she hurtled toward her release. Pleasure he’d brought her –

Silco’s hips bucked into his hand as his own climax neared. Those little laps and zips of pleasure he’d felt earlier grew into spine arching, toe curling flames as his fist became a blur around his cock.

How would Kat sound? How would that rolling, molasses-sweet accent sound in the throes of ecstasy? Would she mutter in her mother-tongue? Chant his name? Look him in the eye and say “You have me”? –

“Kat!” Silco rasped, unable to keep her name behind his teeth. And he came. Strong, pulsing spurts onto the shower wall that were promptly washed away by the water’s spray. His hand worked himself through each throb of his orgasm, until his body felt blissfully heavy on his skeleton and he leaned against the wall.

He stood there for a moment, the water beating against his back; residual glimmers of ecstasy shivering up and down his spine. He huffed and puffed, heart hammering and lungs swinging. He placed his left hand on his chest, and felt the steady percussive, beat within.

As the gooey, post-orgasm feeling draped over his body, Silco finished cleaning himself. And made a point to make sure the wall and floor of the shower was clean of any ‘sign’ of him, too. He dried off, dressed, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. All the while thinking on what he had done, and whom he’d thought of.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling – one hand on his heart; the other tossed over his head – a lonely, wanting, foreign ache pressed into him. The sensation eased as he drifted to sleep and dreamt that Kat was curled against his side.

Katya glided through the dark, star-lit water of her dreamscape. Smooth, warm, and malleable. Like liquid glass. A few easy frog strokes propelled her forward, the water rippling gently. She wondered if she’d ever reach an edge here, if there would ever be something to grab hold of. Something to rest against, in case she ever tired.

“Kat.”

She gasped and sputtered. The water splashed as she spun. She’d never heard anything but her own breath here. The sound of her own body in the water. But now, a few feet behind her, there was a pale figure with lank dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Silco?”

He smiled at her. She realized how endearing – almost awkward – the fullness of it made him look. In life, he’d only ever smirked or grinned at her. Expressions that kept his coolness and distant persona intact, kept him at arm’s length from most people.

Now, he was beaming at her, and she was enthralled.

He paddled toward her. “Shall we?”

Katya blinked at him, and then she smiled in return. Laughing, they pressed forward into the endless space. Silco swam just about as well as he had at the Springs – not with the best form, water splattering about him. But neither cared. They moved together, Silco splashing at Katya; Katya dodging his sprays by elegantly flowing around him. Eventually, they tired enough to slow their pace, lazily floating along the surface. The stars sparkled and winked above them.

“Kat.”

This time he said her name softer, his tone lifting as if in question.

Katya stopped, her arms and legs barely needing to tread water to keep her upright. She looked at him, tilting her head in equal curiosity. He fixed her with an intense, earnest look that held her in place. An enticing heat banked behind his eyes, and he closed the small distance between them. One of his hands slipped up from the water and gently cradled her cheek. The etheric nature of the dreamscape made his touch feel ghost-like, a whisper of how his hand had felt in hers, but it made Katya’s breath hitch all the same. His thumb gently pressed against the beauty mark under her eye and dragged down. His blue eyes left her gold ones to flit down to her lips, and then back up. The look, the touch, sent a blaze through her body. As if her insides were a smoldering fire, and he was a great gust of wind, igniting her in a mighty WHOOSH!

Katya’s fiery heart thundered wildly in her chest as she leaned forward and kissed him. The hand on her cheek wrapped to hold the nape of her neck, and Silco’s other hand wound around her waist, drawing her flush against him. She gripped his shoulders and pressed her mouth more firmly against his, annoyed that the sensation of him was gauzy. She wanted to feel him, taste him.

She tilted her head and slid her tongue along the seam of his lips, pleading for access; hoping it would give her something more solid to experience. Silco obliged, his own tongue melding against hers. Katya squeezed her eyes tight as their tongues, teeth, and lips hungrily explored each other. For too brief of a moment, she thought she could taste cigarettes, thought she could smell that citrus tang and deep terra scent that had been on that shirt he’d given her.

Silco surged forward, his kisses a strange combination of intense and distant. Katya gripped at him, fingers digging into the slick and firm muscles of his shoulders and back. She gasped when her own backside pressed against something solid. Somehow, for the first time, she was able to feel an edge to this dreamworld. She couldn’t see it, only feel it. Silco’s right hand pressed into the starry surface next to her head, his breath a mere suggestion against her warm, damp skin. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers, the blade of his nose caressing her cheek. The inferno within Katya’s belly blazed for him. Her body ached, breasts heavy and heaving, core throbbing.

“Kat,” Silco breathed, pressing against her.

“Yes.” Katya’s breath came in shaky, pleading huffs.

Her legs lifted in the water and wrapped around his hips, drawing him closer. There was a probing pressure at her aching center and a desperate, excited cry pealed from her throat.

The exclamation woke Katya up. She jerked awake in her bed, back arching, breathing erratic. Initially, she was confused, borderline distraught. As her vision cleared and she took in the dark, empty space of her bedroom, she understood what had happened.

She was home.

Alone.

Disappointment settled in her stomach, lead-heavy and cold. Despite this, the ache between her thighs persisted; annoyed at being left unattended.

Katya steeled her jaw and turned onto her side, eyes closing, determined to just go to bed. She would inspect that dream in the morning. Or maybe she wouldn’t. It was only a dream after all.

However, her body refused to fall into stillness and slumber. Her mind swam with images and sense-memories of Silco. His intense gaze, low, syrupy voice; his lithe frame, how his hands had felt in hers, how his hands might feel on her body. Holding her in place, exploring . . .

Katya grunted and turned again, her core reverberating with a nearly painful, needy pulse. Her nipples were pointed and tight beneath the shirt she wore. His shirt. She laid still for a moment, considering. Finally, her fingers skirted across the gusset of her underwear in an exploratory swipe. Her body shuddered at the light touch and she gasped to find the garment soaked.

She decided to not think too hard about it, nor deny her bodily desire any longer. In quick, furious movements, she stripped her underwear down her legs and kicked them off, sending them somewhere deep within the folds of her blanket. Her hand was quick to cup herself, and an intense and relieved sound was pressed out of her lungs.

Her hips lifted into the heel of her hand as her index and middle fingers swiped lightly through her slit, gathering and coating them in her arousal. Slowly, she dipped them inside. A gasp left her, her back arched, her free hand reached for the pillow above her head and gripped it tightly. She was overwhelmed by how warm, wet, and ready she felt. Burying her fingers inside her felt relieving and maddening. Her body grateful that it was being touched, but desperately wanting more. Needing release.

Her fingers began to pump in and out, the heel of her hand trying to rub against her clit. Pleasure ebbed and swelled inside her, promising tickles fluttering behind her navel, up and down her spine. Images flashing through her mind provided titillating inspiration that drove her further and further into carnal need.

The shape of Silco’s member; she’d sneaked a peek of him when his shorts were wet and clinging to it earlier that day. Her fingers couldn’t compare.

The way Silco’s muscles moved over his body as he swam.

Silco’s head between her thighs, those piercing eyes watching her intently.

Silco’s hands grabbing needily at her thighs and hips as he rut against her.

 Katya’s body shook hopefully at the thought, her fingers pumping faster, the heel of her hand desperately wriggling against her apex. A whimper trickled from her mouth between ragged breaths. Despite the pleasure building within her, entangling her low spine in teasing tendrils, she needed more. The hand gripping the pillow snaked itself under her shirt, squeezing and pinching at the peak of her breast. A hiss whistled through her clenched teeth, her body writhing.

It wasn’t enough.

She rolled onto her stomach, pinning the hand working at her between her soaked sex and the mattress. Her hips humped and ground into her palm. The position, aided by her weight and gravity, offered deeper, sweeter sensations the ability to curl and build. Katya gasped and cried into the pillow, her legs propelling her hips into her hand hurriedly, the movement not dissimilar to the firelight swim stroke.

“Si – Sil – “

Katya’s breath hitched into a new tempo as her body rapidly approached the peak of her climax. Her toes curled, the soles of her feet flexing in anticipation; thighs and hips quivering.

“P-please. Oh, Gods. S – “

She moaned loudly into her pillow as she crested her release; hips pulsing and grinding over her hand of their own volition, chasing her high, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of it. Eventually the sensation ebbed away, leaving Katya wrung out, and panting. Slowly, she withdrew her hand from herself and carefully stretched her legs out, rocking her hips side-to-side experimentally.

While she felt satisfied on an animalistic level, as the heavy blanket of sleep began to lay over her, the feeling of loneliness crept back in. Into her chest. Into her bed.

The sleep she was granted was dreamless.

Notes: Ahhhhh! These crazy, pining kids! When will they *actually* make it happen?? Soon hopefully 😈 I hope you enjoyed the start of some smutty-smut! I was really happy to finally get to this point in the story 😅 What do you think? Let me know your thoughts! Please comment and reblog ❤️ Til next time, my sweets!

Coming Up Next: Piltover's answer to the Children's declaration, Zaun prepares for the Snowdown holidays, and Kells attempts a monsterous act.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

If you're interested in being added to the taglist, just message me 😘

[nightingaelic]

Fallout 4 companions react to learning about Caesar's Legion (maybe from an ex-Legionary perspective who now realizes that he was used as a weapon by a ruthless fascist(

The sole survivor was in the corner of the Third Rail's bar, tilting their nearly-empty glass around in fascination as the man before them told his story. The tale itself was full of sand, blood, banners with a golden bull and a bottleneck in the Mojave where nations fell, and it was easy enough for the sole survivor's companion to slip in and listen while the stranger laid it out.

"Arizona," the sole survivor said in wonder when the man had finished. They downed the rest of their drink and pushed the glass forward for a refill. "And trying to recreate Rome... I was never really into ancient history, but it sounds like your Caesar didn't want the reality of that society, just the trappings of it. Am I right?"

The stranger inclined his head. "The change was quick, ruthless, but it brought stability where there once was none. You could even live well in the empire, if you kept your head down. But we lived in service to Caesar, not his Legion, and Caesar's thirst for conquest could not be quenched. It was his end, and thus the end of what he built. There was no empire without Caesar."

Cait: Cait's mouth had taken on an awful, bitter taste as soon as she realized that the man was describing a nation of slaves, and she swallowed the rest of her own drink to try to flood her senses. It didn't help much - the Third Rail's beer had its own bitterness. "Good riddance," she said instead, rubbing her neck. "Let men like him dry out in the desert, in unmarked graves."

"So he died in the Mojave?" the sole survivor pressed. "What killed him?"

"I don't know." The stranger pushed his hair back and glanced around the room. "There are stories, thick as bloodbugs after rain. Internal strife. Heart attack after the defeat at Hoover Dam. An old Legate, come back from the dead to exact revenge, or a newcomer with stars in their eyes and the city across the river at their back. Doesn't matter, I say."

"You're goddamned right it doesn't," Cait agreed. "What happened to his army? The people he took, to run his war?"

The man shrugged. "Scattered. Went home, or elsewhere if home was gone. Arizona roads fell apart again, raiders came back, but the old feuds were gone. Made it easier to band together, make something new."

"As long as it's not another slaving group." Cait huffed her dissatisfaction and slumped against the bar. "That's about the only good thing that comes out of wearing a collar. You find someone else who's worn one, you know them. Doesn't matter if they fought it, suffered alone or with others, tried to play it off like they were happier with one on, you just... know."

Codsworth: "I don't suppose this Legion was very popular, outside of the areas it occupied?" Codsworth asked anxiously. "I would hate to think that there were other nations like it, in what was once a great country."

"Popular or not, the fact that it grew into something big enough to occupy Arizona and beyond is enough to make you worry." The sole survivor sighed. "You fall asleep for 200 years and you wake up thinking that maybe things changed. But they didn't. I'd say I don't get it, but there's nothing left to get, I suppose. The world goes on."

The stranger nodded. "The Bull rose quickly, but it fell just as fast, aided by the Bear and the Colorado River itself."

"I say, bulls and bears?" Codsworth perked up. "What sort of creature are you talking about now?"

"The two-headed bear, the NCR." The stranger raised an eyebrow, sensing his audience was unfamiliar with the acronym. "The New California Republic. The image of the old world, born anew on the other coast, that arose to meet Caesar when he marched west?"

The sole survivor made a face. "New California Republic?"

"Image of the old world?" Codsworth repeated excitedly. "In, eh, in what way?"

"In every way. Progress, politics, destinies and dollars."

"Well that doesn't sound so bad." Codsworth turned to the sole survivor. "I should like to visit this republic someday, if that's alright with you?"

The sole survivor smiled. It wasn't unkind, but it had the ghosts of disappointment and resignation behind it. "Sure, Codsworth. Right after we're done in the Commonwealth."

Curie: "I do not understand," Curie said, furrowing her brow. "To rebuild L'Empire romain, or even to try to do so... this is a step backwards, no?"

The sole survivor and the stranger glanced at each other. Cure shook her head. "But why do this? Where is the sense?"

"Caesar saw strength in it," the stranger replied. "Rome endured, and he wanted the same for his Legion."

Curie looked supremely annoyed. "Strength comes in many, many forms, but ever since I set foot in the wasteland, the only strengths that seem to hold value are military might, and the length of time a thing may last. C'est incroyable. I am... I am sick of it! Adaptation, change, progress of knowledge and learning from past mistakes, where have these all gone?!?"

"You're telling me," the sole survivor agreed, passing her another Nuka-Cola Dark. "Imagine my surprise, leaving the vault after 200-some years."

"Hmph. Imagine mine!"

The stranger's eyes sparked. "If the past world was as well-off as you imply, it's a wonder it ended in fire."

"Oh no, don't put that on me." The sole survivor wagged their finger at him. "Curie here was built for a vault, so she didn't know the pre-war world much, but I spent long enough in it to know the majority of America was swept up in forces they couldn't understand, much less control. I didn't drop the bombs, some well-to-dos in suits did."

"An easy thing said aloud, by someone who escaped the destruction."

Curie frowned at the stranger on the sole survivor's behalf. "You escaped the Legion, Monsieur. Did you also escape the destruction it caused?"

"No."

"Well, then." Curie took a sip of the Nuka-Cola Dark. "If it is a debate of systemic failings you want, we are all more than prepared."

Paladin Danse: The Brotherhood Paladin that accompanied the sole survivor nodded along, recalling what he'd learned about the western chapters of his order and the trouble the Legion's rise had caused them. "I am glad to hear Caesar's government collapsed completely. From what I've heard, he was never sympathetic to the Brotherhood cause. His troops met ours in combat a few times."

"Indeed," the stranger said, in a tone of voice that suggested he might have done more than just hear about the clashes.

"How long ago were you in the Mojave?" Danse pressed. "Do you know if the Brotherhood chapter there is still active?"

"I am unaware of their current activities, but I believe the Knights brought their skills to Hoover Dam, when the time came."

"Outstanding." Danse smiled and sat back on his stool. "It's nice to know that there are people like us out there, wearing the same uniforms and carrying the same purpose - even if they're thousands of miles away."

"Uniforms, perhaps. Purpose?" The stranger shook his head. "The desert Knights vary, in belief and knowledge. Most struggle to hold onto their people, their way of life, as the NCR pours inland and the pull of New Vegas grows stronger. Some dream of things as they once were, speak ill of your Maxson and how he opened his gates to the wasteland. Some don't even know his name, or the name of the one he came from, their own forefather."

That stumped Danse. "They don't know the name of the first Elder? I thought the NCR named a state after him."

"The NCR has much to thank the Maxson line for, but in the end, time can only change a name into a common word. It will happen to their state, as it is happening to your brothers and sisters. They forget their sacred charge, carry out its motions without knowing the reasons, and they die out in their bunkers while history moves on. Like the Legion, their purpose contains a fatal flaw. A dead end, as Caesar used to say."

Danse glowered at him. The sole survivor cleared their throat. "Easy, Paladin. You weren't really expecting to find Brotherhood fans in Goodneighbor, were you?"

Deacon: From behind his sunglasses, Deacon eyed the stranger suspiciously. What he was saying rang of truth, given what he already knew about the Legion, but letting on the fact that he knew anything at all about Caesar or his failed attempt to build an empire might be the wrong move.

He shook his head when Whitechapel Charlie came over to refill their cups, watching the bot take his empty glass away with nonchalance. "Sounds like hell to travel through. Did you run into trouble, coming over to the East Coast?"

"None that you can't find elsewhere." The stranger studied him too, eyes dark and unreadable. He fiddled with the straps of the face mask he'd removed and set on the bar in order to drink. His hands were large, scarred from a lifetime of movement and pain. "Or here, if the things they say about the powers of the Commonwealth are true. Brotherhood, Minutemen, and more. Soldiers and spies... the same battles rage on, East or West."

The sole survivor seemed to have caught on to Deacon's hesitancy, and they drew the attention back to themselves. "Sure. Same shit, different bucket. You do something about it, or you learn to live with it. Like people under the Legion, I guess."

Deacon winced internally, but their careless statement had done the trick. The stranger turned his head on them, lacing his words with ire. "And what is living? The definition changes, if you ask an emperor or a slave. How much choice goes into the act of it? To tread the line of life and survival, to say what must be said to still draw breath, sate hunger, shelter through a storm... sometimes all one can do to resist a force like the Legion is exist, and existence is not enough."

The sole survivor smiled. "No. It isn't. But existence, endurance, in spite of something that wants you in chains or dead is still the first step."

They took a long drink from their glass, sighed, and ran a hand over their face. Deacon knew what they were going to ask, even before they opened their mouth. "Do you know what a synth is?"

Dogmeat: The sole survivor's hand dropped to Dogmeat's head, scratching behind his ear. Dogmeat whuffed softly and leaned into the attention.

"I'm sorry," the sole survivor said to the stranger who smelled of fire and sand, anger and regret.

The stranger closed his eyes for a moment. "There is nothing to apologize for. All of it belongs to history, now."

"Trust me, I know." The sole survivor finished patting Dogmeat and accepted a new drink from Whitechapel Charlie. "Everything that I used to be is history now, and ancient history at that. But I'm living proof the pain's still there. Known or unknown. So I'm sorry about what happened to you, and everyone else the Legion took."

It was a long time before the stranger answered them. The two sat there drinking in silence, staring at the bottles behind the counter and listening to Magnolia's song. It was a sad one, some Buddy Holly cover about rain and the misery of a broken heart, and it seemed both appropriate and wildly unmatched for the two figures grieving destroyed futures at the bar.

"Thank you," the stranger said, when the song was finished.

The sole survivor stood. Dogmeat rose immediately and looked up at them, ready to go.

"I'm glad I met you," the sole survivor said, extending a hand to their drinking companion. "If you ever want to stop looking for what you lost, come visit Sanctuary. I'm there now, most days."

Mayor John Hancock: "Damn shame." Hancock threw back one of the shots that Whitechapel Charlie had just delivered. "Then again, he sounds like some of the people I murdered in order to become the mayor. Either way, we drink."

The sole survivor raised their own shot, but the stranger declined. "Slower," he said, by way of explanation.

"Sure, sure, take it easy." Hancock winked at him. "Got all the time in the world, now that you're not fighting for some asshole who wants to dress up as a historical figure. Who does something like that?"

The sole survivor broke down laughing, and Hancock threw an arm around them and joined in. The hint of a smile played around the stranger's lips, but he remained silent and observant.

"So." Hancock slammed his shot glass onto the bar again. "Why are you here, now? Joining the Brotherhood, the Minutemen? Or just looking for work? You're welcome to use the VIP room, if you're lining up customers as a hired gun... or maybe something else?"

The stranger ignored his suggestive eyebrow waggle. "Walking roads not yet traveled."

"Taking in the sights, or something more specific?"

"Both. Neither. The journey is the destination."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, a poet." Hancock rolled his eyes. "You must be pretty good with that rifle on your back, if you can wander wherever you like and write songs about it, to boot."

"Not songs." The stranger's eyes gleamed. "Histories."

"Histories. My bad." The mayor of Goodneighbor grinned. "Enough about the Legion. How's New Vegas doing, these days? I've heard some wild stories from pre-war friends."

Robert Joseph MacCready: MacCready had gone rather pale as the stranger told his story, and the sole survivor turned to him in concern. "You okay?"

"Fine," he said, a little too quickly. "Er. Yeah. I'm okay."

"You're not."

"Uhh..." MacCready glanced at the stranger, then at the sole survivor. "It's just... it reminds me a little too much of the Capital Wasteland."

"I thought they'd stamped out slavery in the Capital Wasteland," the sole survivor said in alarm.

"Yeah, for the most part, but that's not what I mean." MacCready swallowed another gulp of his beer. "It's... the Brotherhood. I know, they're not trying to be Rome or whatever, but everything revolves around them, even if you've got nothing to do with the Citadel or Adams. They take what they want, and they use it to make themselves stronger."

"Slavery to a cause, a banner, without the collars." The stranger nodded. "No need for collars, if they write the histories themselves. No room for what might have been, what still might be... and the bull charges on."

"Gears," MacCready corrected him. "And swords."

"Putting a bull on their power armor might be a bit too on the nose," the sole survivor mused. "Then again, gears and swords aren't particularly subtle, either."

"Is that what brought you to the cradle of liberty?" the stranger asked MacCready. "Running from your own bull, mercenary? Or maybe some other bull, a greener one, that leaves skulls in its wake?"

MacCready wouldn't meet his burning eyes. "Let's change the subject," he said.

Nick Valentine: Nick Valentine sighed heavily. "'To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire, and where they make a desert, they call it peace.' Though I guess the desert was there already."

The stranger inclined his head. "And it remains."

"How'd you get out?" Nick asked. "By your own will, or circumstance?"

The man at the bar thought for a moment. "Both. Neither. Fortune and finesse often have ways of intertwining."

"Don't I know it." Nick accepted the new beer that Whitechapel Charlie had brought him and raised it up. "Here's to you and anyone else lucky enough to get out of that situation with their lives. From one runaway to another."

The stranger and the sole survivor raised their drinks in kind, and all three drank deeply.

Piper Wright: "This is gold." Piper was already a few pages deep in her ever-present notepad, scribbling furiously. "We rarely get visitors from the West Coast, traveling through all that territory in between... well you know, you made the trip."

The stranger eyed her notes with an unmistakable expression of mistrust. Piper chuckled nervously and tapped her pencil against the notepad's spiral. "Sorry. Force of habit. Is... is it okay if I log this? Just for my newspaper's files. I'm not going to write an article about you, or anything. Unless you want me to."

The sole survivor chuckled and shook their head. "She's harmless," they reassured the stranger. "Unless she thinks you're dangerous."

The stranger half-turned on his stool. His eyes swept across the room, lingering on the usual figures of Triggermen, mercenaries, wasteland wanderers and midnight revelers, all bearing scars from old battles. All armed to the teeth. Piper caught his meaning and smiled. "Dangerous beyond the norm," she clarified.

"Have to do better than that." The stranger shook his head. "Caesar and his Legion were dangerous, if you talked to the NCR... the raiders... the slaves. But ask the trade caravans who walked its roads, and they'd sing songs of praise. Ask the men who rose in its ranks, who carried its flag to Hoover Dam, of the glory they found. They'd tell you that the danger Caesar spread was merely the threat of change, on the horizon of the Bear's empire. Danger to some, but not to all."

"Yep, same thing the Brotherhood says if you ask them politely not to take your tato crop." Piper screwed up her mouth in thought, before nodding decisively. "I'd like to interview you. Properly. Feel like visiting my office in Diamond City?"

Rather than answer, the stranger finished his drink. He stood, adjusted the strap of his rifle, and let his braids fall in his face as he headed for the exit. Piper scrambled after him, and the sole survivor could make out her excited questions echoing all the way up the subway's stairwell.

Preston Garvey: Preston sighed and removed his hat. "I suppose Rome was around for a long time, but still... not the period of history I would have started trying to rebuild."

"Nah." The sole survivor nudged his arm playfully. "You're more of an American Revolutionary War buff."

Preston blushed a little and put his hat back on. "Seemed more useful, I guess. I didn't come up with it."

"But you kept it going." The sole survivor smiled at him, then turned back to the stranger. "Ever heard of the Minutemen?"

The man across from them inclined his head. "Heard of their strength, and how it waned. Heard of the fort's fall, of a massacre, of a march to Sanctuary."

The sole survivor and Preston glanced at each other. "So you've been in the Commonwealth before?" Preston asked. "I didn't think all of that was common knowledge, outside of the Boston ruins."

"Used to seek the uncommon out," the stranger offered.

"Uh-huh." The sole survivor took a deep breath and blew it out fast, mildly suspicious. "You never said what your job was, in the Legion. Intelligence, I'm guessing?"

The stranger's response was dull, the words heavy on his tongue. "Action. Movement. Shaping roads in darkness, for armies in the sun."

Both Preston and the sole survivor had their hackles up, now. Preston's hand twitched, and his eyes flickered between the man at the bar and the Minutemen general.

The sole survivor's next question was in a lower voice, under the music and bustle of the bar. "So what brought you here?"

The stranger considered his drink. When he finally answered, it was with a longing that Preston felt with his entire being, an emptiness that he sometimes found in himself, after Quincy. "Searching for a new nation. Looking for the sun."

Strong: "Not strong," Strong pronounced the men who had failed to coalesce after Caesar's death.

"Sounds like they were strong enough to cause trouble for a while, though," the sole survivor pointed out.

Strong shook his head. "Super mutant leaders strong in two ways. First way, strong."

He raised his arm suddenly and curled it, causing a few of the Third Rail customers nearby to flinch. The stranger didn't flinch, but he eyed the super mutant with wary interest.

"No strong, no leader." Strong flexed his bicep a few times before nodding. He let his arm fall again, and slapped the center of his chest decisively. "Second way, strong. No strong, no leader."

The sole survivor's gaze turned back to the stranger. "Does that about cover it? No one with the muscles or the heart to take charge, after Caesar died?"

"More to it than that."

Strong snorted. "Boring. Strong or not strong. Nothing else."

Slowly, the stranger nodded. A peculiar look came over his face. "Nothing else."

X6-88: X6-88 took the new information in silently, watching the stranger. The sole survivor had a penchant for approaching the most dangerous person in the room and attempting to befriend them, and more often than not, X6-88 felt nothing beyond mild annoyance at what second-rate raiders passed for menacing in the wasteland. But this man was different. Each new observation the Courser made was raising alarm bells. Scars over scars, jagged lightning across the man's muscled arms. The hard line of his mouth, which was only revealed from behind a breathing mask after purchasing a drink. The worn marks on the weapons he carried openly, indicating practice and familiarity. The weapons he was hiding, inside his long coat, boots, belt. The measured movements of his hands. The impassive light in his eyes.

Indeed, throughout his discussion with the sole survivor, the stranger kept looking the Courser over in turn, perhaps calculating what sort of threat he might pose. X6-88 hoped that his outfit, general demeanor, and refusal to participate in the discussion were enough to dissuade the stranger from any plans that might harm the one he protected.

By now, the sole survivor had tried to draw X6-88 into the conversation a few times, and was increasingly vexed each time he gave a one-word answer. "He's not going to shoot me at the bar," they said finally, gesturing at the man they had singled out. "He'd never make it out of here."

"I would," the stranger corrected them, without missing a beat.

X6-88 put his hand on his laser rifle. "You wouldn't."

And of course, the sole survivor set about scolding both of them for getting riled up over nothing, but over their protestations the two men continued to stare each other down. X6-88 was the only one who saw the stranger give him the slightest of nods. It could have been either a challenge or an indication of respect.

X6-88 did not return the nod.

BONUS!

Ada: "The western caravan companies must be in disarray," Ada surmised, shifting the weight of her protectron frame in a robotic show of interest. "Regime collapse tends to stall trade."

"No more than war," the sole survivor guessed.

"War can be good for trade," Ada corrected them. "Demand goes up for weapons, ammunition, supplies to feed armies..."

"Armies that are willing to pay." The stranger looked the robot over with mild interest. "Caesar took what he wished, if he was able."

"There must have been things he couldn't seize through conquest," Ada replied politely. "The last time I was in the Mojave, his movement had stalled at Hoover Dam. If he didn't control the dam, he must have been in need of electricity, which requires parts and manpower to generate and maintain."

"Lines from Kingman," the man answered, with a faraway look in his eye. "Poles marching north from solar panels, 80 miles along the 93. Salvage purchased or taken from the Mojave itself, dragged south by caravans and slaves. The Legates nailed an NCR captive to every other pole. Left them in the sun to dry. Said they would connect them to the dam itself, then New Vegas, until the line held every NCR soldier from Arizona to the sea."

He fell silent, and so did Ada and the sole survivor. While the latter started in on their drink with relish, Ada shook her assaultron head. "Shall we change the subject?"

Porter Gage: "Sounds like a few I've followed, over the years," Gage admitted. "No plan for what's next, when your number comes up. Course, most don't make it far enough to plan in the first place."

He raised his glass to the sole survivor and smirked. "Do better, Overboss. Watch your back."

The sole survivor rolled their eyes, but they drank as well. The stranger's glass remained untouched, his features hard and unreadable.

"So what brings you east?" Gage probed. "Looking for a new flag to follow? Or are you done with all that, going it alone? Could always use new guns at Nuka-World, if you're looking for work."

The stranger shook his head, and his braids swayed gently. "Not sure what I'm looking for, now, but I won't find it at Nuka-World."

"Come on, won't know until you come through."

This earned the old raider a look so cold that he forgot what sorts of attractions he'd been meaning to highlight at the old theme park. The sole survivor caught Gage's tongue-tied state and chuckled. "Leave off. He's got places to be that aren't covered in tonic residue and nukalurks."

Old Longfellow: Old Longfellow grunted his distaste for the subject matter. "Just another one."

The sole survivor and the stranger eyed him curiously. "Another what?" the sole survivor asked.

"Another man in costume, saying he's got answers." Longfellow shook his head and reached for the bottle of liquor that Whitechapel Charlie had left him. "And none to be found. Fog, sand, Atom or Rome... all the same."

He swallowed a gulp that was a little larger than he'd meant to and fell to coughing. The sole survivor slapped him on the back until he quieted, but Longfellow heard their sigh under his hacking outburst. Sorrow, maybe. Exasperation, more like.

The stranger, for his part, seemed like he was considering the old man's words. Longfellow didn't know if the Children of Atom had any churches in the Mojave, but if it meant that someone else thought harder before joining that radiation-worshipping cult, all the better.

Elder Arthur Maxson: "And Caesar's empire will not be missed." Maxson nodded decisively. "Its disruption of communities and widespread cruelty were renowned across the western deserts, even beyond Arizona and the Mojave."

"Cruelty. Hm." The stranger soberly studied the Elder. "There was no shortage of cruelty in the Legion, but their cruelty was only one tool in their arsenal. There are other ways to break a nation... break any hope of a future. To grasp at power. Isolation. Rhetoric. To put oneself on a pedestal."

Maxson caught the man's drift and glared over the rim of his drink. "Say what you wish to, traveler. Plainly, if you can."

"Easy," the sole survivor warned. "If Hancock has to throw us out again, he might-"

The stranger rose to the challenge, but unlike the Elder, his eyes weren't sparkling with the thrill of it. He looked just as tired as he had when he'd first entered the bar. "An ideal. Lost to time, most can see, but others refuse to let go of. Not a road the Legion is alone on, in this wasteland."

"You would equate my order with a kingdom of slaves?" Maxson slammed his glass down on the bar and pulled himself up to his full height. "The average wastelander might not grasp your veiled insults-"

The sole survivor rolled their eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake-"

"-but I know full well when someone is trying to-"

"Oi!" Whitechapel Charlie floated over, managing to make every one of his three eyes look cross. "Put a cork in it, or I'll call Ham down here for housekeeping. I don't care if you're the queen herself."

Desdemona: Desdemona's eyes narrowed. "What did you say your name was, again?"

"I didn't."

"My mistake, then." Desdemona smiled slowly, as if she'd plucked her answer from the stranger's very gaze. The two shadowy figures sized each other up, while the sole survivor looked between them with growing unease.

The stranger spoke first. "Heard tell of trains that run the length of the East Coast, bringing passengers by the handful out of one darkness and into another. Slaves of many flags walking the tracks, taking their chances elsewhere."

"We've all heard the stories," Desdemona agreed, sitting back in her chair. "I even heard some about a courier that came looking for those trains, and how he wanted to pull some passengers back into the nightmares they were running from. A courier with a flag of his own."

"I'm not following," the sole survivor muttered.

"I heard his flag changed, even before the bull was slain." The stranger seized his drink and stared into it.

Desdemona crossed her arms. "I heard otherwise."

"There may be truth there." The stranger took a long swallow from his glass and looked away, over the bar toward the neon signs that Whitechapel Charlie hadn't dusted in some time. "The flag, the uniform, even the skin may change, but who knows if the man beneath them has? He may not even know, himself."

"And that's his own business." Desdemona shook her head. "The rest of the world can't afford to assume good intentions anymore."

The sole survivor pushed their stool back and stood. "Okay, my head hurts. I'll be in the VIP room begging Hancock for Mentats if you need me."

[nadjasworkshop]

Nadja's NPC dialogue

I've seen some people doing this for their builders so here's Nadja. There are several extra lines because I feel some parts had to change at certain points of the story. It's very long.

Intro: "Hello. I’m Nadja, the new Builder. Seems like Sandrock is such a close-knit town… I may need some time to get used to it. See you around.”

Acquaintance:

Hey there. Need something done?

The Saloon is all the way down this str-Sorry, I thought… Is there anything you want?

Oh… don’t mind me. 

No, really, don’t mind me. I’m trying to stay out of sight for a while.

Buddy:

They all must think I’m trying too hard to prove myself. Maybe there’s some truth to it but honestly I want to prevent Mi-an from getting burnt-out.

I wonder… why are they called Fireside Meetings if there’s no fire? Well, surely it gets heated up at times.

[At night] I shouldn’t stay up late at night but sometimes I enjoy being awake the moment the whole town falls silent and you can only hear the wind. It’s a bit scary. You know, the vastness of the desert.

[In summer] How do you turn off sweating??

I share many beliefs with the Church of Light. However, being right about some things doesn’t give anyone a foolproof insight on everything all the time. But hey, you never heard it from me.

Good Friend:

This town is made of layers of grief one on the top of the other, like Old World relics under the sand. Sometimes I’m afraid of getting to the bottom.

If I was granted a superpower, I’d wish for being able to see through people.

I find myself spending more and more time listening to old Mort. Somehow I want to share a bit of the weight he carries on his shoulders.

Of course I’d like to find someone to share my life with… I just don’t seem to get the hang of relationships. One day you feel butterflies in your stomach and then all of a sudden the butterflies grow teeth and start eating you from the inside.

[Extra, pre-Duvos] I didn't feel truly at home in Sandrock until everyone believed me when I was being framed. Now I’m ready to defend this town as if it was my own.

[Extra, post-Duvos] I’ve always feared living through a war. Now I understand: when the war comes upon, you're scared but you can't afford panicking.

[Extra, post-Greenification] I can’t help feeling kind of iffy about seeing Sandrock suddenly brimming with business again… But hey, you know me. 

[Extra, post-marriage] If there's anything both Miguel and I learnt from this whole deal is to embrace uncertainty. 

[Extra, post-marriage] I don't really expect anyone to understand. The last everyone has seen of Miguel was him framing me for his own crime and trying to shoot Logan, and it happened in minutes. No one knows the path to making amends we took together afterwards… well, apart of Burgess, bless his heart.

Sandstorm:

“Whatever we did to the desert, it’s surely getting back at us.”

“Dry rain… Kind of ironic if you think of it.”

Rain:

“I never thought I’d see a celebration out of a rainy day. It’s funny how we take natural resources for granted.”

“Back home I’d stay indoors and listen to the rain hit the window. Here, I feel like playing in a puddle. Am I reverse-aging?”

Player has a new haircut:

“You’ve cut your hair, right? At least you didn’t have to do it yourself. Pablo says I could never pay him enough to cut my hair short.”

Player has panda eyes:

“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping too. I tried an experimental remedy from Dr. Fang. It worked so well that I slept for three days straight. It was cool.”

Player cuts a tree in front of Nadja:

“Wait, you’re not supposed to do that here! There’s a reason wildlife conservation is no small matter in Sandrock.”

Player attacks Nadja with a weapon: 

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“P-put that thing back, please. It’s dangerous.”

Birthday:

"My birthday is on the 14th of Autumn… What? No, I’ve never sent you an invitation for a birthday celebration in the Commerce Guild with an entrance price of 5000 gols! Who in their right mind…? Oh, wait. I get it. That would be my boss.”

Day of the Bright Sun:

“Even if this is supposed to be a celebration of kindness and hope, I’ve seen it bring the worst out of people… But maybe I’m being too harsh. Nothing wrong with a little festive bloodshed.”

Showdown at High Noon: 

“Yay, let’s blow off some steam! Funny how good it feels compared to how terribly scary real fighting is.”

“Aw, sorry, I’ve already partnered up with Grace. Isnt’ she cool…? Eh, maybe we can pair up next year!”

Day of Memories: 

“Once someone told me they had nightmares about seeing this celebration from the afterlife and there was no one to fly a lantern for them. I wanted to answer… So, nobody cried? Nobody suffered? You just left this world for an everlasting peace? How is that nightmarish?” Fortunately I was smarter than to speak my mind.

[Extra, post-reveal] “There are several kinds of mourning. Some of them aren’t caused by death.”

Tour de Rock:

“I’ve always been a bit afraid of high speed. Being in control of my surroundings is difficult enough under regular circumstances…”

Running of the Yakmel:

“Umm... I'm not sure if I got the tale right. Usually the ones who start the fight get away with it safe and sound, while all the poor simpletons who join in end up in a pile of corpses on the battlefield."

Winter Solstice:

”So far I’m loving the fireworks but I think I’ll head back home now. The end of the year gets me in the mood to reflect by myself.”

[Extra, post-Greenification] I’m happy to share the festivities with you, but… I’m needed somewhere else. I don't want anyone to spend this day alone.

Loved gifts:

[Highwind Fried Rice] ”Wait, this smell… Do you want to make me cry? Thank you so much, you can’t imagine how much this means to me.

[Eagle flute] Why, thank you! How did you know I could play the flute? Oops, don’t tell anyone... I wouldn’t mind you listening, though.

[Rosestone] These are lovely! I guess they’re a common sight for locals but for me… a rose naturally made out of stone? It's like a miracle. Thank you! 

Liked gifts:

[Headwear and scarves] Thanks! I’ll try it on right away.

[Materials and building components] One can never have enough of these! Thank you.

I really appreciate this, thank you!

Neutral gifts: 

Thanks. I guess I’ll find some use for it.

Disliked gifts:

Eh… not really my thing, sorry. Do you keep the receipt?

Hated gifts: 

Wow, you're SO funny.

Oh come on...

Complimenting work:

I’m glad to be of service. In spite of my boss, I find it easier to make myself useful here than I would in a thriving environment.

Thank you! Maybe I should have gotten into building earlier in life?

[Extra, post-Greenification] Being part of the healing process of an entire region is more than I could have dreamt as an underachieving student. Thank you all for trusting me. I mean it.

Complimenting personality:  

Thank you, really! Now I’m going to try my best not to dodge the compliment. It’s a bad habit of mine.

Aw, thanks. I know I’m not the life of the party but I hope I can make up for that… somehow.

Asked about her past:

I only left a few people behind when moving here, and I make an effort to keep contact even if I don’t really have anything to tell them. There’s this friend, Nia, who I’ve known since the day she was born. All cheerful and bubbly… The last person you’d imagine being friends with me. You see, she and her family lived next door and I saw her as the little sister I never had.

The final paper for my Art History degree was named “Art and propaganda: history of visual creation as a means for both the Free Cities and the Duvos empire to appeal to the public opinion”. I managed to make all sorts of people mad, but at least I got a decent grade. 

Have you ever been in Highwind? I still miss it sometimes. It’s a great place… unless you want to make a living there. That's the catch.

Asked about work:

Ever since I was a kid, I loved mechanics: fixing appliances, building little gadgets… However, I always saw it as a hobby. My real passion was more on the academic side: Art, History, Literature. Gathering knowledge about how the world works… not in a practical way but on a human level. However, I ended up stuck in a loop of working part time to pay for my studies to get a better job to keep studying. In the end I got afraid of becoming a mere spectator for the rest of my life. Well, in fact I’m afraid of many things, but that’s part of the point. So I ventured to the Builder Academy and it turned out better than I expected.    

I don’t think I’d be able to run a workshop in Highwind. The Academy environment was so competitive that I’ve had my fill of self-made go-getters. The silver lining would be having a better boss. Whoever they would be.

Asked what she likes to do:

I learnt to play the flute by myself. In fact I was just procrastinating on a mid-term paper and it kind of got out of hand.

Asked about her favorite things:

I’ve always enjoyed spending time on my own. Maybe it’s because I have trouble making friends. With you it’s fine, though. 

A couple of weeks after I arrived here, Owen noticed I was missing home, so he brought me a dish of Highwind Fried Rice. I had never gotten so emotional over food before.

One of the best things of ruin diving is that I get to find little mundane Old World items. Not technology, just trinkets and small tokens of what people used to hold dear in their daily lives. Keeping them makes me feel like we’re bonding with each other through time.

Anything I can wrap my hair in always comes in handy with this weather.

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

Dear Zelda,

I'm writing this letter to give to you once I see you again. I thought it would be nice to keep a record.

I still can't believe it– I'm on the Surface! I wish you could be here with me, though. It's not nearly as great having to look for you as it would have been if I was with you.

I can't carry much paper with me, so I'll have to keep these letters short.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

It's been a month since you've fallen. They held a funeral for you today; no one believes me when I tell them you're still alive. Headmaster Gaepora said that it would be better this way, that it would all be alright once I brought you back and that it would give everyone else closure in the meantime.

Fi says that we're getting closer. There's barely any unexplored areas on my map left, so I should see you again soon! I told you about Gorko in my last letter, right? Well, he said that there's a temple near here. I'm going to check that out first.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

Why weren't you there? You were supposed to be there. 

I should've been faster. This is my fault. 

---

Dear Zelda, 

Eldin is really hot. Fi says that the red stuff is melted rock, can you believe it? 

I met these strange creatures called the mogma– they were pretty nice! Not very helpful, though, but one of them said he saw a person in black– is that you? I don't know why you would be wearing black, though.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

…She was right. I was too late. I couldn't save you. I can't save you. I was so scared that Ghirahim had gotten you when I saw the chains, but she protected you while I– while I did what? What was I doing that I could've avoided to reach you faster?

I hope you're okay, wherever you are.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

The desert is hot and dry during the day. It's cold during the night. There's sand in my boots and my bag and everywhere else. I don't like it here.

I thought about flying my beetle over the wall, just to see if you were alright, but– I realized that since you collapsed it, then you didn't want to see me.

It's okay. I understand. I'm not a very good hero after all, am I?

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

I don't talk much anymore. No one on Skyloft believes me, and I learned that it's better to just shut up. I don't think I've spoken to anyone but Fi in months. Maybe that's for the best. I never have anything that's worth saying, anyway.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

Where are you? Fi said she can't sense you, and that you're in a different world now. 

You didn't have to flee, I could've protected you! I know I'm not the best, or the strongest, or the fastest, but I'm enough! I'd do anything to protect you because I love you

…It doesn't matter, I guess. You're gone already. I hope you're safe.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

…I don't know what to say anymore. Everything feels so different, like– like I'm changing, and you're changing, and when we meet again we won't recognize each other. 

I'm scared of that. You're really all I have left, you know? My only real friend anymore. You were the only one who reached out to me after my parents died, and… I just don't want to lose you.

…I don't know why I brought that up. It's not important.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

This is taking too long. I asked Fi why I couldn't just learn the song, but she said that I would need to learn more later, and it would be easier this way. I don't see how. I've already wasted a month learning how to play this stupid harp. It doesn't help that Groose is still stuck down here because the statues only work for me.

Din's fire, my fingers hurt. How were you not constantly complaining when you were learning?

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

What the hell was that? What the hell was that thing?

I… I can't do this. Am I supposed to kill that thing? Is that what the goddess wants me to do?

She's wrong. She messed up. I'm not– brave, or courageous, or whatever else the old woman calls me. I'm not a hero, I'm just a scared boy and I don't know what to do because they're all wrong and they're looking at me to help them but I can't! 

It was… terrifying. Every step it took made the ground shake, and it had so many teeth. Its scales were sharp, and every time I touched one it cut through my skin like it was paper. I could feel its power from the top of the pit, and… gods, I really thought it would kill me. 

The old woman– Grannie, that’s what Groose calls her– said that it would probably break out again. I don't know how I'm supposed to face it again.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

I’ve got the first flame. Groose is still stuck on the Surface.

He's been weirdly quiet ever since he saw me fight off the Imprisoned. Or maybe it's just because he saw me stitching myself up, and my scars are too ugly even for him. 

I'm surprised he hasn't started calling me crazy yet. Everyone else does, when they think I can't hear them. I always hear them I know I'm not. I can't be. I feel like I'm going mad sometimes but I'm not. 

Link (why am I even signing these?)

---

Dear Zelda,

I've always known that the robots were broken down, and would probably never be able to come back to life, but it never really sunk in until now.

I met one named Skipper. He's used to guard the flame, and he's helping me find his ship. We had to stop at his home to get a map, and I saw his family. They were broken, of course.

I'd never really thought of them as people until now, but there were pictures on the wall, and a letter from his kid– and I guess robots can have kids, and spouses. I wish there had been some way I could bring them down– but he knew there wasn't. He just looked at me, clearly sad even if his face didn't change. 

I don't know why it's bothering me so much. They've been dead for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. 

Maybe it's better that I couldn't bring them down. It would just make it worse, right? There's no way to fix them, and they would've just been stuck on the boat like Skipper is. It doesn't stop me from feeling useless, though, and like I could've done more. 

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

It's been one year since you've fallen. Everyone thinks I'm crazy. They pull their kids away when they see me.

I don't blame them. My hair's grown out and I haven't brushed it in months. I carry a bunch of strange weapons. I don't remember the last time I bathed that wasn't in a river, and it's been even longer since I used soap. I'm covered in bloody bandages most of the time, and my clothes are more patches than they are the original fabric. I don’t even talk anymore; it’s like I’m some sort of– wild thing.

I looked in a mirror yesterday. I don't think you'll recognize me. My eyes looked wild and I'm covered in scars. Fi says they'll fade, but I don't believe her. Sometimes I wonder if I'm still Hylian, or if I'm just a breaking sword.

Would you still love me? I don't think so

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

I’ve got the final flame. Ghirahim– he knows about the second Gate. I’m worried he’ll make it into the temple one day, and find you. If I’d been faster, maybe he never would’ve found it, and you’d be safe.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

It has arms now. The Imprisoned– it broke out again. The seal is getting weaker. 

It was just as terrifying as the last time– and even more powerful. And it was faster, too. I barely managed to defeat it before it reached the temple. 

Groose built this catapult, to throw bombs. He's smarter than we ever gave him credit for. I don't think I would've been able to stop it without his help. I was scared he was going to die, though; the bombs he was handling were huge, and the ground was shaking constantly– it wouldn't have been hard for something to happen.

I haven't let him out of my sight since then. I'm– I'm so scared that I'm going to lose one of the only people I have left. He doesn’t even care that I barely talk to him anymore.

Would you– would Hylia take him from me? Because you think he's a distraction from what I'm supposed to be doing? 

Goddesses, my hands are still shaking.

Link

---

Did I ever really know you? Was it all just a lie? Did you– did you kill my parents, so that I had to be close to you? Were you just laughing at me the entire time, at this stupid boy that actually thought he had a friend?

I don't know what to think. I loved you. I still do. I should be angrier but I'm not and it's all just not right and I wish we could go back to how it used to be, even if it was just a lie.

---

Dear Zelda, 

I hurt Crimson today. He got hit when we were fighting Levias's parasite. 

It's my fault. It was shooting these… things at me and I was hitting them back with my sword and I missed and I hit Crimson and it's my fault. 

We're stuck on this island until he heals. It's probably going to be a couple of days, since no one is going to come look for me. Everyone is more surprised when I'm there than when I'm gone.

It should've been me that got hit

He's not mad at me, but he should be. I always mess things up.

Goddesses, I hope he's okay. I… don't know what I would do without him. I know most people can survive the death of their loftwing, but… I don't think I would be able to. I already feel like I'm losing more of myself everyday, I can't lose half of my soul like that.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

Groose is a lot nicer than he used to be. He even helped patch me up without calling me a loser. His face was all red when I took my shirt off, though. I think he's getting sick. I'll have to tell Granny about it.

It's… nice to have someone that knows. Fi knows everything, of course, but it's just not the same. Even if we never really liked each other… goddess, I'm just glad that someone from Skyloft believes me. He's even becoming a friend, I think. 

We fought the Imprisoned again today. It was just as terrifying as before– even more so. It started flying, and Groose barely managed to shoot it down in time. One time, he even had to shoot me at it. It feels like it’s breaking out faster and faster every time– are you weakening because I’m taking too long?

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

I can't do this anymore 

I'm tired

Why me why did it have to be me

I talked to Faron today. She's split the song up into these things called tadtones. I need to collect them before she'll teach me her part.  

It's going to take a while. They're all over the forest. She flooded it too, so I'll have to do all of it underwater. 

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

I lost Fi. 

It was stupid. I came down right when the volcano erupted, and– I’m not sure what happened, exactly, but I got knocked out and captured by bokoblins. They took all of my stuff, including Fi– and I was terrified. There was smoke everywhere, and they had watchtowers set up, and I never realized how much I relied on her until she was gone.

Eldin was polite– or at least, he didn’t threaten to eat me like Faron does. All that’s left is one more part.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

I think this is going to kill me

---

Dear Zelda,

The desert is still awful, but at least there’s nothing going wrong here. I don’t know how much you can hear, but I went through the Gate again. Lanayru was dying, and he needed me to get him a cure. Maybe that counts as something going wrong, but it doesn’t feel like it; Faron’s trial and losing Fi was much worse. 

He said that he could help me relive my memories, some of the battles I’ve gone through, and if I do enough of them, he’ll give me an “absurdly sturdy shield”. I don’t really know if I can do it because some of it still terrifies me, but I need to get stronger, and this is a good way to do it.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

I got the final part of the song from Levias today. I'm opening the last Silent Realm tomorrow.

I'm scared. I'm tired of the guardians killing me. It hurts so much. Why did you make it hurt so much

You'll be home soon.

Link

---

Dear Zelda, 

It's been two years since you've fallen. It’s the first time I’ve stayed on Skyloft for more than a few days, and everyone is giving me strange looks. Maybe they think I've given up, that I've come to my senses, and I'll stop acting so crazy.

I'm not crazy. I'm not. If it was all in my head then I wouldn't have so many scars and I wouldn't hurt all the time and I wouldn't be so tired.

I was going to tell you I loved you, before you were taken. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on a date with me. 

I still do. But it's been too long. Both of us have changed too much. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been such a coward.

I've found two pieces of the Triforce. All that's left is a room full of enemies, and I'm just waiting to get more arrows. Rupin hasn’t asked what I’m doing with them all– I don’t know if he just doesn’t care, or if something about me scares him too much to ask.

Link

---

Dear Zelda,

I'm sitting next to you right now. You've barely changed, but I look so different. My hands are calloused and shake when I write. Yours are still soft. 

I'm just waiting for the potions to start working, and then I'm going to leave. I don't think I'll survive, but I hope I'll injure him enough that you can kill him. 

I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in person. There are more letters for you, in my room on Skyloft. There's blood on some of them; I hope it's not too hard to read. I would have rewritten them, but I've been spending all of my rupees on potions. I'm not really sure why I kept wasting money on paper, because I never really intended to give them to you after the first few, but you might as well have them now.

I hope you can forgive me for being a failure. Maybe it'll be better this way. I barely feel like a person anymore.

If you need a friend, talk to Groose. He's… a pretty okay guy, now. You can depend on him.

Link

---

Dear Zelda and Groose, 

I hope you're both doing well. Pipit's little messenger birds are getting faster– my letter should reach you just in time.

How are you doing? Zelda, I hope you're not overworking yourself again. Groose, try not to stay up all night working on your inventions. Both of you, take care of yourselves. My scars have been doing better, lately. I think it just storms too much in Faron (really, did we have to build the settlement there?). In an unrelated note, do any of your goddess powers involve controlling the weather?

Skipper is doing good! We just got the crystal set up, so now his family can move back home. I think if robots could cry, they all would be. I know I was a little teary. I'm glad they can finally go home. I think Fi would’ve really liked this– she always seemed a bit sad whenever we had to talk to one of the robots.

This is my last piece of paper, so I'll have to end it here. Send some more when you reply, okay? (Just don’t make your letters too long– that poor little bird looked like it was about to collapse when it found me.)

Love, 

Link

P.S. Which one of you keeps taking my hat out of my bag? I need that!

@zelinkcommunity

[nuagederose]

Dark Roots of Earth | Chapter Thirteen: City of Angels

ao3 link

The ocean was high as Alex led Christine away from the boardwalk and down towards the sand. She gripped onto the blue monkey with her free hand, and her purse dangled over her shoulder as if she was back in school and late for class. She tried to think of all the possible reasons as to why Kenny and Nelly were meeting one another there at the edge of the pier, and more so with Captain Howdy right nearby there as well, and yet she came up short with all of it.

She could scarcely focus enough as is with Alex leading her down towards the sand.

The sight of the sand made her flash back on the dream she had had, the one about their trek through the desert. Indeed, the memory of it sent a shiver up her spine, which in turn was accentuated by the ocean winds and the spray from the waves.

He took her down a narrow walkway which meandered down to the stretch of warm pale sands below the rim of the boardwalk. Christine dared not glimpse behind them lest one of the three of them look out and see them down there. But Alex took one look behind them at one point, and he slowed down a bit to a brisk walk down to the sand.

They reached the end of the walkway, and neither of them bothered to take off their shoes, but Christine knew that they need not be caught up in something as trivial as sand in their shoes.

A wave splashed down on the edge of the beach next to them, and she caught the smell of the salt and the kelp from within the waters. Alex slowed down enough to where she could catch up with him and walk next to him. At that point, the sand softened to where he nearly lost his balance merely taking a step. She realized they were only ten feet from the water, a much more narrow strip of beach in comparison to the one she and Eric visited out in California.

They finally stopped and kicked off their shoes and socks, to which Christine tucked into her bag; all the while, she kept a hold of the monkey in her arm. He smiled when he laid eyes on her.

“You are just not putting that little guy down, now, are you?” he asked her with a slight chuckle.

“I can’t afford to,” she confessed with a shrug as she fixed the strap on her purse.

He then took another glimpse behind them and nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“That was close,” he said, slightly out of breath. A big breaker crashed down next to them and sent a gentle sheet of spray over their heads and shoulders.

“Goodness,” she remarked with a bow of her head. Alex peered out to the waters right as a big long ridge rose up out of the horizon.

“Hang on a second—” he advised her, and he held onto her with one hand. He stood before her as if he was protecting her. And it wasn’t until the wave lifted up and crashed down on the beach in a massive shower of spray over their heads when she realized that he did protect her.

She burst out laughing at the sheer amount of water all around them, such that it reminded her of the downpour before her father’s apartment building. Alex took off his glasses and shook his head about. He gazed on at her as if he had diamonds for eyes.

“Good for the skin,” he assured her, and he showed her that crooked little smile. Tendrils of black hair stuck to the side of his face as well as his neck, as if he had just emerged from the ocean waves themselves. He folded up his glasses and tucked them into the collar of his shirt.

“We should’ve brought a blanket with us,” she confessed.

“Little picnic on the beach,” he declared as he hooked hands with her again. Her purse weighed down with their shoes, but she simply did not mind in the very least. She gave her ponytail a slight toss back: his body behaving as a shield allowed her to keep her hair partially dry, but something tickled her at the mere thought of the two of them being drenched again, especially after walking on the sand and running from the boardwalk. She thought about her father and Nelly back there, and a part of her wished that she had stayed out there on the boardwalk so Kenny would see her.

“God, what even…” she muttered, and Alex glanced over at her.

“What, your dad and Nelly?” he asked her. “Or my fiancée being there, too?”

“All of it, but especially with her being there as well. What were they even doing together.”

“I can hope it was all just a mere coincidence,” he confessed to her over the roar of the next incoming wave off to the left of them. She stepped to the side so he could do just the same as well, but that time, the wave crashed down without a big impact on the shore.

“It’s so easy to assume things, too,” he pointed out, and then he stopped and peered back towards the boardwalk. She followed his gaze over there: they were way out of sight at that point, and they were unable to see Nelly’s feathery blonde hair, even from under the bright afternoon sun.

“I probably should’ve just asked them,” she confessed with a shake of her head.

“You could always run up there really quick and see if they’re still there,” he suggested. “But then… well, you know how these things go.”

“Yeah, my dad and Nelly see me and they ask me what I’m doing here, and then it turns into a whole big thing,” she followed along. “And then what do you going to do?”

“I bump into my fiancée and I’m having to explain it to her,” he projected. “She sinks her claws into me and doesn’t let me go, especially when she gets angry with me. She turns into a cobra when she’s angry with me.” Christine swallowed and shifted her weight at the sound of that. “Then I see you and I go absolutely crazy because we were hanging out and having this whole afternoon planned together…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

“Hey, you know what?”

“Hm?”

She held her arms out before her. “We’re on the beach.”

“We are!” he declared, and he led her closer to the water.

“You trying to make me wet?” she called out to him over the rush and roar of the waves.

“I am not trying, I really am making you wet!” he joked, and she burst out laughing at that. She held off to the side given she had that blue monkey in her arms.

All the while, in the back of her mind, she thought about telling him the truth about Chris as well as Ann. It nagged her, this feeling that she would have to reveal the truth about her past to him and give him some insight into herself. But she knew that it wouldn’t feel organic, and she wondered as to whether it would come to that point as well.

Small seashells emerged out of the wet sand down by the water, and Alex was eager to pick up a few small pink and white ones. She watched him tuck them into his pocket as she cradled her monkey before her chest.

“I should hand some of these over to you so we could have like necklaces or something,” he called out to her as another wave crashed down over his head and shoulders. She smiled at the sight of him getting so wet and slippery, and more so when he stooped down to pick up more shells. He seemed to have found the mother-load there in that particular patch of wet sand.

The whole thing reminded her of Chris, mainly from how he was so childlike in finding those shells. Indeed, a part of her thought about picking up some pieces of driftwood from the sand next to her.

And indeed, she did just that: she slipped the monkey under her left arm to protect it from the water, and she picked up a piece of driftwood the size of a small loaf of bread and in the shape of a single reindeer antler: the wood had been sanded smooth, and the branches twisted and contorted as if it had been a part of a vortex of stormy waters.

“The centerpiece!” Alex decreed as he came back within earshot, and he showed her a particularly large pointed pearly white whelk shell the size of his fist. She raised her eyebrows at that, while his face lit up at the sight of the driftwood.

“How appropriate is all of this,” he joked, and she snickered at that as well. She let her eyes wander down to the waist of his shirt, especially the way the wet fabric was sticking to his flesh. He was drenched, and the curves of his body had never been more prominent than right then. She kept her gaze fixed on him as he led her back to the dry part of the sand, his hands full with the seashells; he looked back at her with his brow furrowed.

“Something on your mind, Christine? You’ve been awfully silent.”

“I’m just thinking,” she confessed to him, and she kept on looking at his body.

“Thinking about a good time?” he teased her with another glimpse over to her, and she couldn’t help but chuckle to herself.

“And there’s that smile again,” she pointed out.

He showed her his tongue, followed by a slight hooding of his eyes, as if he was seducing her. His wet hair only added to the look on his face. Christine sashayed closer to him, and she rested a hand upon his chest. She stood up on her toes to reach his neck.

“You’re so cute,” she said as she gave him another kiss. “And I like you with wet hair, too, you look like a merman.”

“Big turkey of a merman,” he chided, and after some finagling with the shells, he rested a free hand on his belly.

“Mermen are supposed to have a little meat on their bones,” she remarked. “Besides, I just noticed that you’re losing weight, too.”

“I have, yes!” he declared. “Not a lot of weight, but I have lost a few.”

With the driftwood in her hand and the monkey in her arm, she was able to give his belly a gentle little pat, followed by a gentle massage with just her fingertips.

“Still as soft as ever, though,” she noted with a slight smirk and little gyration of her head. “Still as soft and pillowy as ever. Still makes me want to hold you and love you there.”

He bowed his head and showed her a sweet smile.

“You got your purse,” he muttered, and she slid it off her shoulder onto the sand between them. He set the whelk shell down before it, and then he took his spot on the sand next to it. He stretched out his legs before him, and she followed suit right next to him with the driftwood right next to her, and right as another big wave crashed down before them.

“Looks like we got here right as the tide started dying down,” he said. “Those two big waves were the last ones in line.”

“As well as that one,” she remarked, and she nestled up next to him with the monkey in her lap.

“Wish we got a blanket,” he confessed as he leaned back on his hands and let his long, soaked black hair sweep over his shoulders and his upper back: the gray streak seemed to shimmer under the sunlight, especially at the roots. It was as if it had been made of pearl.

“Really wish we got a blanket,” she said with another kiss on the side of his neck, a gentler one that time and one that made him breathe in deep. He slithered one hand around her to hold her close to him, and she rested a hand on his belly once again.

It was that moment she had completely forgotten why they had come down there in the first place. They were away from the city and with the tapestry of the ocean.

“We should go back to your place and have some fun,” she said right into his ear, like the ocean whispering the wind out from the whelk shell.

“Have some fun, and then come back here with a blanket for another round or two?” he asked her with a quick flick of his eyebrow.

“Mmm, it depends.” She kissed him on the side of the neck again, and he hooded his eyes at her once again. “It depends if you wanna keep seducing me with those beautiful, piercing eyes of yours.”

He leaned in closer to her face as if he was about to kiss her, but he never did. She was engulfed in the salty smell of the ocean as well as his soft cologne, and she closed her eyes to relish in his scent, in the feeling and full lush tempting beauty of his body, in his power and passion, in the brief moment she believed that he really become a merman. She could feel it between her legs, and more so when he actually put his hand upon her knee to steady her in place.

“You did say ‘seduce’, after all,” he breathed into her ear, the whisper from a seashell, and a chill shot up her spine as a result of that.

Alex then let her go, and he picked up the shell from between them. He stood to his feet, and because his pockets were packed with shells, his jeans slumped a bit and as a result, his shirt rode up his body a little bit to show off some of that porcelain skin to her. He extended a hand to her.

“Come on,” he coaxed her; she picked up the monkey, followed by her purse, and she held onto his wrist with her free hand. He then scooped up the driftwood and tucked both it as well as the shell underneath his free arm. With a bit of difficulty given the softness and dampness of the sand, they ambled back up to the walkway to the boardwalk. Once they reached the edge of the sand, they stopped to put their socks and shoes back on to face the heat of the walkway and the wood of the boardwalk.

Christine put her arm around the small of Alex’s back as they strode on up to the boardwalk: she spotted the exit out to the front parking lot.

“Let me fetch the car,” he told her as he handed the driftwood back to her, complete with a light kiss on her lips. Christine watched him and the way he swayed his hips back to his car parked there at the curb across the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone walking on towards her. Alex turned around for a look back, and she turned her head on to see—

“Dad!”

“Chris! What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, just… hanging out. You know I love Coney Island and everything.” Her eyes wandered over to Alex, who flashed her a wink from right behind him. He then held up a hand to his ear and mouthed the words, “I’ll call you.” She swallowed and returned to her father. Nelly was nowhere to be seen. 

“May I ask you what you’re doing here?”

“Same story,” Kenny replied with a shrug. “I came to Coney Island for a good time and some friends. You know, it’s part of the healing process.”

“Indeed, it is,” she said with an adjustment of her purse strap on her shoulder.

“Why are you all wet?”

“Oh, I went down to the beach. The tides were going out so I managed to find some good shells and also this big piece of driftwood.” She showed him the piece of smooth wood, and his face lit up at the sight of it.

“Wow! That’s a beauty.”

He then showed her a thoughtful smile.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked him.

“Well, I was going to go back to my place, but I’m thinking of taking you out for a late lunch,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“Indeed, it has,” she replied, and she peered over at the closest edge of the street, only to find Alex had gone back to the exit of Coney Island: she spotted him standing there with one hands tucked into his jeans pocket, and his other hand holding the whelk, and she remembered that he had the shells in his pants.

“What’cha looking at?” he asked her with a quick glimpse over his shoulder.

“Oh, I just… thought I saw someone I knew,” she told him with a quick gesture over to the gate. From a distance, she could see Alex flash her a wink.

The least she could do was call him once she returned home afterwards.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Firstly, thank you guys for this blog and all the recs, it's an amazing job honestly💖💖

Secondly, do you know any good ineffable husbands multi-chapter human au's with no pov switching? No matter whether it's Aziraphale's or Crowley's pov, it's just many fics show us both of their perspectives, and that's great too, but I want to read something where we can see only one character's feelings and thoughts and can only assume the other's through his reactions... No other specific preferences, but please no bad endings.

And thanks again for your work!!

Hi and thank you! There are some single POV human AUs. Try these...

Under Construction by summerofspock [E]

Crowley has one goal: sell the run-down lodge in the Cascades that his uncle left him in his will.

He doesn't expect to meet someone like Aziraphale, the kind handyman working on his uncle's property who turns out to be more of an enigma than Crowley first thought.

Long Haul by snae_b [E]

First time he sees him he’s barreling down 40 like a bat out of hell. Thirty miles outside of Flagstaff and six hours behind schedule. The desert looming large on all sides. Red sand and sage stretching out for miles and miles in front of him. Juniper and pine and gray crag behind him. The flora might be changing but that's about it. Same bone-dry air that gives him nosebleeds. Same cute little cottontails and scrawny jackrabbits darting under his tires. Same two lanes separated by white lines...

He checks his speedometer. He hasn't downshifted since the city limits. Sheer luck, that. He's coming up fast on another rig. Flatbed with Vermont plates. Bright white cab with gold wings painted on the side.

Anthony Crowley might have gotten out of Missouri, but he hasn't escaped his past. He wears it like a cloak. When he crosses paths with a guardian angel, he starts to learn how to shed it.

Clementine by Mussimm (E)

I love you madly Let my imagination run away with you gladly.

The seaside neighbours AU exactly one person asked for.

New Approaches by FeralTuxedo (M)

Aziraphale Fell, Professor of Creative Writing at Tadfield University, welcomes the attendees of the First Conference on New Approaches to Genre Fiction. Among them is keynote speaker and best-selling thriller author Anthony J. Crowley. Aziraphale has not seen him for twenty-five years. Sometimes, he can still feel the ghost of their parting kiss on his lips.

Or: Exes reunite at academic conference. A Human University Professor/Author AU.

And so beguile thy sorrow by hapax (T)

Crowley (generally known to the staff as That Demon) was unusual in that he was obviously aware of his library codename, and delighted in returning the favour. Thank goodness, he showed no apparent signs of mental illness, or awkward exhibitionism, or even potential danger. What he was was bloody annoying.

Aziraphale adores his work as a public librarian. He finds fulfillment in answering questions, recommending titles, and planning programs. He likes his co-workers (well, most of them), and loves the small city he serves. The only thing marring his happy life is That Patron. Until one spectacularly disastrous Summer Reading Program throws them into a most unusual Arrangement.

roots, the other, wings by MostDismalFeldsparkle (NR)

Embattled by his grief stricken orphaned nephew, and still standing in the ashes of an awful relationship, Aziraphale, in need of a gardener, emails Crowley’s of Eden.

~ Mods N & D

[violettduchess]

Once again, now that your requests are open again, can you write a fanfic where female MC tells Comte they are Bi. Like they sit down privately with him and have the conversation being nervous at first then Comte accepts them. Thank you.

A/N: Hi anon. I'm sorry I missed posting this for Bi Visibility Day last month but I made it for October which is LGBTQIA+ History month. You asked twice for this and I hope you're happy with the result! 💜

Comte x f!reader

Word Count: 812

“Taking tea outside on the balcony was a good idea, no?” Comte’s voice is soft, always carrying with it an almost regal air of dignity, no matter the topic. You would find it soothing if you weren’t so nervous. You lift your gold-rimmed porcelain teacup to your lips, managing to take a sip without your hand shaking but it requires such concentration. You feel like there are live wires under your skin instead of veins, currents of nervous energy coursing through you with nowhere to go. Your fingers tighten around the delicate cup. Despite the nerves, you are determined. You asked Le Comte for this meeting and now you will follow through. You have to.

When you raise your gaze from the steaming teacup to the man sitting across from you, you find him watching with those steadfast, golden eyes. His head tilts slightly, a silent invitation for you to speak. He knows you did not ask to have tea alone merely to enjoy the weather with him.

Your mouth feels dry despite the drink, a desert in your throat. Sand clinging to your tongue. You lower your teacup and fold your hands in front of you, hoping that may still their trembling.

“I…I wanted to tell you how very grateful I am that you are allowing me to stay here.” 

“Of course.”

His smile is kind, polite. He knows there is more and so he waits as he takes a sip, the steam still rising in tiny white plumes. When he sees your gaze drop back down to the hands you have folded on the table, fingers intertwined with each other so tightly they're turning white, he realizes waiting may not be the response you need.

“I believe it is a decision we both benefit from, chérie.”

You breathe out once, a short, small exhalation. “The thing is….if I am going to be living here….I feel like I need to be honest with you. About myself. About who I am.”

He nods, shifting his long body so that he leans forward, his attention fully focused on you in a way that somehow eases the electric buzz of nervous energy inside you, just a little. 

“You see….I…,” Ah, but there it is. Anxiety shackling your ability to speak clearly, trapping you in your own body. Even these few words stumble off your tongue, unwieldy and thick, and you pause, lips pressed tightly together to keep more from tripping out as you try to find the way to say it, to express this deepest truth about yourself to this elegant man. A man who is watching you with eyes the color of sunrise and a face as beautiful as any Classical masterpiece.

You draw another breath in, this time slower and deeper. You will the words not to fall out in a tangled skein, but to be spoken clearly. Truthfully. “I….am attracted to and fall in love with men…and women.”

There. Your truth has been spoken out loud. It has left the confines of your body and been given wings, taken to the air and begun to fly. Your fingers clench each other to the edge of pain. Will Le Comte welcome the truth or will he shoot it down, sending it crashing into the tiled balcony in a mess of bloody feathers and broken wings.

There is a long moment of silence in which you stare at your fragile teacup, unable to look up.....and then you feel his hand reach over and cover both of yours. It is warm, like a stone that has been soaking in the sun’s rays, and comforting. Your fingers slowly unclench, relieving the aching muscles of your hands.

“Chérie,” he finally says, voice gentle and suffused with empathy. “You do not live as long as I have without gaining a deep, intimate understanding of human life. The many different ways people live. And the many, many different ways there are to love. All of them beautiful. All of them welcome.” He strokes the skin on top of your hand and when you finally lift your gaze to meet his, you find only warmth there, and light. A light that shines upon the truth you have trusted him with. In the clasp of his hand over yours, you feel a promise: he will protect it and celebrate it for the beautiful thing that it is. 

Relief like cool water now runs through you, undoing the tension in your muscles, demolishing the walls of the tight prison anxiety built, the one that was squeezing your lungs, caging your heart. 

He leans closer still, his free hand reaching up to brush loose strands of soft hair back from your cheeks, away from your bright, tear-filled eyes.

“So I can stay? It's...it's ok?” The words are whispered, hushed. You don’t want to break the soothing movement of his hand on your hair.

His smile is a candle in the night. “Bien sûr. Of course you can. After all, chérie," he says with eyes as bright as sunlight, "tu es de la famille.” 

You are a member of the family.

☕

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @ariamichel @kpop-and-otome

[auncyen]

Oboro's Letter

I'm typing this up for my own reference (I've seen some of the content referred to but not the actual text) but also CAN I JUST SAY I'M SO MAD. I ACTUALLY DID FIND THIS IN MY FIRST PLAYTHROUGH. BUT THE GAME WOULDN'T LET ME PICK IT UP FOR SOME REASON. I TRIED SO MANY TIMES AND EVENTUALLY I THOUGHT IT WAS AN ANIMATION FOR INCENSE OR SOMETHING THAT JUST STUPIDLY LOOKED LIKE AN ITEM. WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME PICK THIS UP, GAME THERE'S SO MUCH FOR OBORO HERE T_T

anyway the text is under the cut

My name is Oboro. I was born in U, a nation bled dry by its interminable war with Ku. Empty stomachs, spreading pestilence, and nights spent curled up against the chill were facts of life. Although the adults around me blamed my birth for my miserable lot, even in my tender years I knew the truth: Ku was to blame. That wretched nation who preyed upon the weak, bringing strife and death in its wake.

While the better part of my life was spent in suffering, my sister brought some small measure of joy to my existence. We were not bound by blood; I plucked her from the city streets and raised her as my own family. Now, some might think shouldering such a burden is folly, especially when I scarcely knew from where my next meal would come. However, I could tell that this child had a fire within her. Yes, when she spied the dagger I held in my hands, her cries ceased, and I knew. It was at that very moment when I decided we would make it through this life together. Oh, how naive I was then.

After four years of relative peace, Ku's forces fell upon the town we called home. If the tyrants were victorious, we would be killed or captured, forced to spend our lives in servitude. I resolved to kill King Jigo of Ku myself, that we might be spared such a fate. After donning the armor of a dead Ku soldier, I asked my sister to slash my body, and made my way to Jigo under the guise of being a wounded ally. While I slipped through Ku's ranks, my attempt on Jigo's life failed and I was captured. As his soldiers pinned me down, my mind grasped for a clever escape. It was then that Jigo asked, "Will you serve Ku by my side?"

An unexpected offer, to say the least, but one I did not hesitate to take. I turned my back on our home and joined hands with my sworn enemy. All so that my sister and I could live.

However, still we found no comfort. Ku's bloody conquest poured over one border after another, and the fires of war spread unabated. As the desert was stained a deep crimson, my heart became black as pitch. I recall on one particularly red day noticing a corpse turned toward me, its gaze piercing through lifeless eyes. I tried to look away, only to be met with a field of dead bodies upon the sand, each one leering at me intently.

Perhaps it was merely the work of a troubled imagination, but that is hardly the point. The act of living became something I could not comprehend. We steal, only to be stolen from, and then we die. This cycle repeats itself time and time again until at the end we find...what? I pondered the answer to this question and eventually reached my answer.

Life has no meaning, and living is a fool's errand. I was mistaken to look toward the dawn, for tomorrow is but a farce. A world so twisted ill deserves to see a new day. So, I will ensure that it never comes.

Such was the thought in the forefront of my mind as I wore the mask of dutiful subject. Day after day I played my role, until a man came to me bearing a grimoire and claiming it would pique my interest. The text within was said to stir the hearts of all who read it, but I was unmoved as I turned the final page, for I had come to realize the truths it laid bare on my own.

How many years has it been since then? At last, my plan is in motion, and a great battle looms on the horizon. This world will meet its end, and the light of dawn will be replaced with a choking darkness. For life has no meaning, and tomorrow is but a farce. Wouldn't you agree? No longer will we be forced to kill or be killed. No longer will we be forced to greet a dawn that only brings more suffering. The end is nigh.

[hesmiledlikeaweatherman]

Please do the sand sibs clothing preferences

Temari

Obviously in canon we already know she has a preference for kimono — usually in cool colours with a short skirt.

Beyond that, I think she likes having a physical reminder to keep her grounded. When we first met her she had the fishnets underneath, matching with her brothers. She had the standard boots shinobi wear, the standard pouch, but her oversized fan is attached to her back, just like her brothers carry.

As they grew, they all kept their weapons strapped to them. Her fan continued to attach to her obi — she keeps that obi wrapped around her, regardless of whether it carries her defence or not — but the sash is always there.

Her colour scheme changes in adulthood. She went through her purples and her blacks, and came to her bright royal blue and her green sash, the pattern of the obi stands out clearly as a choice differing from her youth. She dropped her hair to looser buns, allowing it to curl, probably with the comparative humidity of Konoha to her native home. She changes her shoes from the standard to scrappy high-heeled sandals. It sets her apart from the women around her, and calls back to her home.

She values comfort above all; simple clothes that are easy to maintain, and can be worn when relaxing or in motion without a fuss.

Kankuro

Kankuro is devoted to his Puppeteer blacks. The hoods covering his hair, too nostalgic of his father, and too wild to be tamed into anything presentable. They go from the pointed ears, a sign of him in a vast and lonely desert, to his raised and open hood, until eventually he settles on a long hood attached to his gi as an adult.

He favours loose. Baggy, to hide his true form. Easy to manipulate people into believing his puppets are him — or is he his puppets? Maybe both of those are true. For a while he incorporated his puppet into himself. Constantly on his back; the weight a reminder of the devotion he has to the craft he decided to learn. He too matches his siblings, moving from the sole puppet strapped to him, to his collection of scrolls that enhanced his arsenal. As his collection grew, so too did the amount of hiding places on his person. Deep pockets, hidden pouches, and an endless supply of scrolls that shift against him as he moves.

The makeup, an obvious continuation of the hood. Anything to keep him from looking in the mirror and seeing the disappointment in his father’s eyes again.

Gaara

As a child, Gaara wore something reminiscent of his siblings. His fishnet under his shirt, a call to his sister, and the loose blacks to his brother. The Gourd on his back a heavy weight, his burden to carry, his legacy to uphold.

But then he meets Naruto, and Gaara is suddenly so much more than the One-Tails’ vessel. He is his own person, beyond his siblings. Beyond his father. Beyond his village.

He begins to find his own preferences in life. Maroon — once the colour he associated with dry blood against the sand — is a new favourite that he wears proudly. He finds that wearing anything quite so tight as the fishnets is overwhelming, but anything quite so loose as the blacks that Kankuro favours leaves him swimming in uncertainty. The fitted robes, noble and regal, feel too adult for him at thirteen, but still he wants to wear them. To grow into the role that he aspires to. He religiously has his robes altered, remade, refitted as he grows. As his Gourd goes from its overwhelming size, to something smaller, until as an adult it is barely the size of his hands, yet he knows the power it holds is more immense under him than even the desert.

[im-not-that-creative-guys]

WHOS READY FOR VASHWOOD PAIN!?! BECAUSE I WASN'T!!!

This is the only fanfic I've ever written, but it needed to be written. Please leave feedback. WARNING: Major character death, suicide.

Steady footsteps crunch across sandy earth beneath his boots, so loud in his ears. The twin suns sinking beneath the horizon, small patches of dry grass swaying in the oncoming chill of a desert night. Vash weaves his way though a familiar path, stopping before a simple patch marked by a large metal cross.

Once barren, the place is now covered it growing flowers and vines, adding a softness to the harsh angles of the hand dug grave. It’s changed so much since the last time he was here, the small seeds sprouting into life, fed by the light rains that pass through the area. He makes the journey here at least once a decade, but it’s still a shock to see how much the sands had changed in the years since Wolfwood’s death.

Vash comes to a stop, sitting in the shade of the cross, leaning on its base, still sturdy after all these years.

“Hello again Wolfwood, I’m sorry for not visiting for so long. I got caught up in helping out one of my sisters terraform a small town over near new July for twelve years or so. But I bought you some whiskey this time.”

He rubs at his face, looking to the sky. A small sigh escaping his lips. “But I don’t have much to tell you this time,” he stops for a moment, needing to take a breath. “As bad as it sounds Nico, everything is starting to blend together now. People, places, traveling… I mixed up one of Meryl’s great great granddaughters for her mother, she’s in her forties now.” He had to stop.

He swallowed, shaking his head.

“I still haven’t aged at all, but... Nico I’m starting to forget now, even my memory has its limits it seems. I’m forgetting. Forgetting Milly laugh, Nei’s playing, Rems face, your eyes.” His voice was shaking, he just knew it.

“I’m so tired Nicolas,” voice small, barely a whisper. “The world has changed so much but I don’t think I have since Livio died.”

The wind blows his hair back, the cool night was starting to set in.

“I’ve been thinking lately, of the old days. Of when it was just us. Traveling everywhere and nowhere. Of the small rooms in every cheap inn we could find. When the sand storms would batter the walls. When I could lay at your side and breath in the sent of smoke.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a old lighter. The cross carved in the back was almost invisible now, worn away by time.

“Each day had been getting harder now, I meet so many people, but I don’t have a single one I could call a friend.” Another sigh. “I’m not eating, I’m not sleeping. But the thing that brought me back here, the last thing that’s pushing me towards the edge, is that they stopped making your brand of cigarettes.”

Digging around in his pack, he brought out a pack of the old cigarette, almost empty. With shaking hands, he brings one to his lips, breathing it in with relief.

“This is the last I have of you now. Your rosary snapped about seventy-five years ago, lost in the sands… I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that.” Another deep drag, another sigh out.

“This is all I have to remember how you smelled, how you tasted,” he closed his eyes, feeling them burn, but not letting tears fall. “I think it’s time Nico. I miss you. But I couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. So here I am. I can’t think of a better place to be.”

He reaches deep in himself, letting the feathers start to form, his skin lighting up with his marks. The marks Nicolas would kiss, would call beautiful. Showing all the parts of himself that he used to hate, but Nicolas adored.

“I don’t know what’s on the other side, if I can see you again. If your God is real, if he’s not. But if you are, oh heavenly father, please let me see him one last time. He doesn’t have to love me, all I need to just to see him happy, he just needs to live.”

Slowly Vash reaches for his side, to the ancient gun still at his hip. He studies it with a practiced eye, still functional, but rarely used now.

“A gentler world huh, I wonder if I’ll see it…”

He brings up his arm, setting it gently on his temple. When he pulls the trigger, he knows it won’t miss. “I’ll see you tomorrow Nicolas, promise ok?”

BANG.