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lovetorn · 3 years

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Life Was A Willow [Part 2]

Witch Hunter!Dream x Witch!Fem!Reader

Part 1 Part 3

Summary: It's always been hunters vs. witches, right?

Word Count: 3.6k+

Warnings for Part 2: violence, mentions of death (familial), swearing

A/N: part 2 !!!! thank you so much for the support and feedback from part 1, omg thank you !! well, i hope you enjoy part 2 ahhhhh !!

It’s 9 pm and Y/n still waits for the signal. She looks in the direction of the Castle and swings her feet back and forth from where she sits on the cottage’s roof.

The air is cold and the trees continue to rustle, the same way they do every day, but tonight, she has an eerie feeling about it. Regret slips into her mind sometimes, telling her that she is foolish for even accepting such a vague invitation by someone she doesn’t even know—but it was so intriguing and she trusts them (she doesn’t exactly know why).

Suddenly, a large pop startles Y/n out of her daze. Sparkles dance in the sky as fireworks burst from the land below. She quickly notes that the explosions are coming from the West side of the Castle and takes that as the signal. Very grand indeed.

Y/n jumps from the roof, landing gracefully on the dirt, and takes off running through the forest. She misses tree roots emerging from the earth and ducks under low branches from the undergrowth. The only thing that lights her path is the moonlight and at this moment, Y/n is thriving. The full moon allows her abilities to heighten and she places her full trust in her instincts.

The fireworks continue to explode and Y/n fills with more adrenaline, the sound making her scream out in joy. She’s excited about the meeting, and she doesn’t even know who it is. And maybe that’s what she’s eager for; the unknown.

The entirety of the concept scared her before, but now she’s exhilarated. And as the show comes to a close, Y/n nears the East side of the Castle. It’s completely silent at this end and the eerie feeling she had before creeps back. It’s not a feeling of uncertainty but one of opportunity and her instincts are telling her to take it.

When she reaches the abandoned cottage, Y/n inhales sharply. There’s no light coming from the house and the door remains closed. As she steps onto the stairs in front, the wood creams beneath her and she scolds for giving away herself to the person inside. Instead of sneaking around, Y/n stomps towards the door and swings it open.

She sees a man in the corner and makes her way towards him, her hands out and ready in case this interaction goes south.

“Who are you? And how do you know me?” Y/n calls out. The man jumps slightly and lifts his head. And in the moonlight flooding in through the window, Y/n recognises him as Dream, even with his mask off. He stands in a white button-up and brown pants, his hunter boots on and a newsboy hat sat on his blonde hair.

“Dream?”

“Hi, Y/n. I knew you would recognise me.” Y/n doesn’t want to look away from him. This is the first time she’s seen his face, and despite the darkness, she sees how handsome he is.

“Why—how? Why did you want to meet me in such a creepy way?” Y/n asks in disgust, picking a cobweb out of her hair and then off of her shoulder; they seem to be everywhere. Her expression falls back to one of admiration when she looks back at him. However, the moonlight lacked the light Y/n needed to see him properly.

Dream laughs slowly. “I forgot to bring a lighter for the lamp. Do you think you could, uh—maybe,”

“Glady,” Y/n sighs and flicks her hand towards the candle in the glass encasing. It immediately comes to life and the room becomes brightly lit. Her eyes fall onto Dream again and she finally sees him; his piercing green eyes and the scar that runs from the top of his left temple to the corner of his lip.

“Wow,” Dream mumbles under his breath. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, and I know that everybody I know would, just, obliterate me for even thinking about doing this, but I needed to talk to you about—“

“You’re rambling.”

“Right, right...”

Y/n squints at the man and then tilts her head. “Whose C?”

Dream’s eyes widen as he nods. “Yeah, uh, that’s me. My name’s Clay.”

The witch doesn’t say anything as she stares at him. “So why do they call you Dream?”

This isn’t where Dream thought the conversation would go, but he’s happy they’re not fighting.

“My mother came up with the nickname when I was born. I nearly didn’t make it and then through some miracle, I did. So, she called me her Dream.” Y/n can tell the story makes him emotional, so she doesn’t push any further.

“That’s really sweet, Dream.” And at the sound of his real name, Dream perks up slightly before he cracks a smile. Y/n grins back at him; a real genuine smile. The pair stand in the low lit room in comfortable silence, until Y/n’s curiosity gets the better of her.

“What did you want to talk about?” She asks. Dream nods once and continues from where he was cut off before.

“I wanted to discuss the possibility of a truce between witches and hunters,” Dream isn’t smiling anymore, instead his lips are screwed up and his hands fidget in front of him. Y/n, however, grins even bigger.

“I’m all for that, honestly. I’m tired of being on edge every day and being scared for my life. If we can find a way to create peace, even for a little bit, I’m on board.” Y/n keeps it short for now, not wanting to scare him off by how passionate she feels about the situation.

Dream’s eyes light up at the sound of her agreeing. “Really?” Y/n nods and becomes surprised when she feels Dream’s arms wrap around her. “Thank you, thank you.”

“No, Dream, thank you! I’ve been trying to convince people of this for years. I’m really glad that you feel the same way.” The pair pull apart and Dream flicks his eyes down to Y/n’s lips for a split second.

“You’re so pretty,” Y/n nearly chokes at his comment. Dream feels his cheeks burn when the words tumble out and soon they’re both flustered. “Sorry! Oh my, I’m sorry, that didn't mean to slip out—”

“Dream, it’s fine. I think you’re pretty too; especially without the mask.”

The hunter swats the witch’s shoulder playfully. “Stop~” The pair laugh together, and then proceed to stand in another comfortable silence. The wind howls and whistles outside and makes the cottage creak, adding to the eerie aura that surrounds it.

“What’s with the hat? It’s nighttime.”

Dream plucks the accessory off of his head and runs his opposite hand through his hair, the soft locks falling back into place when his hand returns to his side. “Part of the disguise, duh.”

Y/n squints at him, her expression morphing into one of mischief. “Isn’t the mask a disguise in itself, though? Also, put the hat back on, you look handsome with it.” It’s time for Dream to blush now. He covers his face with his hat and scoffs softly. “Y/n!”

The girl slaps her hand over her mouth to muffle her embarrassed laughs. “It’s true!”

The man rolls his eyes before placing the hat back on his head. “Happy?”

Y/n nods before telling him to answer about the mask.

“Well, no, nobody at the Castle actually knows what I look like—except for my best friends, Sapnap and George.”

“George? As in Prince George?” Y/n is shocked, to say the least. She now understands why Dream is so passionate about the peace between the Hunters and Witches. Prince George is known for his differing morals and ideas from his family, which makes him stand out from the other Royals. Y/n admires his bravery and courage to do so.

“Yeah, we’ve been friends since we were young. I’m jealous that he can be so open with his opinions in that Castle—Lord knows if I was, I'd be executed,” This makes Y/n’s stomach drop. “But, it’s okay, with your help, hopefully, we can convince humans and magical-kind alike, that there can be peace. A—And we can live together in harmony, without being consumed by the overbearing thought of death every moment of our lives.”

Dream stops his tangent, his face flushed and his eyes pleading. Y/n feels like crying; she has waited years for someone to be as passionate as her about this topic. “I’ll help you, Dream, no matter what; because I wholeheartedly believe we can do this. I trust you.”

Y/n shocks herself with this statement; she’s never trusted a human before.

“And I trust you Y/n.” The pair stare at each other, smiles spread across their cheeks as the night outside slips away, and then it’s just them; standing in the main area of a small, abandoned cottage that sits East of the Castle, lit up with a lantern that casts a warm glow over the pair. Y/n can almost say it looks and feels magical.

“Ok, enough flirting, let’s get planning on the truce. Sounds like a plan, doll?” Dream gives her a lopsided smile and Y/n feels her heart rate increase at the sight of him.

“Where were you?” Wilbur says. His voice is deeper than usual and fits in perfectly with the way he’s sitting ominously in the dark. Y/n stops tiptoeing towards her room and turns to face him; defeated that she got caught. However, she still remains giddy and her heart beats faster for other reasons.

“I was meeting with Schlatt—I need more toadstools for a potion I’m making.”

Wilbur squints at her, his lips curling into a frown. “I know you’re lying, and so does Niki.”

Y/n sighs and starts walking towards him. “I’m sorry—“ She pauses when she sees Wilbur shake his head.

“Don’t.”

Y/n screws her lips together and nods once. Her once excited demeanour fading away when she sees Wilbur’s look of disappointment. “I was meeting one of the new hunters, Dream.”

Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows, “What? Why?”

“We’re formulating a truce amongst witches and hunters.”

He raises his eyebrows in both surprise and suspicion. “Okay? And why are you doing this? We don’t need peace.”

“Uh, so we’re not in danger every living second?” Y/n’s nerves grow into anger. “Why are you so against the chance of maybe, finally getting this?”

Wilbur shakes his head and stands up, the chair screeching against the wood floors as he moves. “Haven’t you heard what becomes of curious minds?”

Y/n is at a loss for words while the tall man rolls his eyes and leaves, avoiding her as he circles around her to walk down the hallway.

His abrupt exit confuses Y/n. Why is Wilbur so against peace with the Hunters?

—

Dream manages to sneak into the Hunter’s Wing before they lock the front doors for the night. He sits silently on the bench in the training room and slips his boots off, making sure to place them on the floor as quiet as possible. He takes his hat off of his head and holds it in his palms, smiling stupidly at the inanimate object. The flame in the lantern next to him is fizzling out and it's hard to see 4 feet in front of him.

“Dream?” Even in his daze, Dream can sense the anger and fear in Sapnap’s voice.

“Sapnap? Why are you awake?” The younger boy walks out from the hallway and towards him.

“Me? Where were you? It’s midnight.”

Dream sighs and rests the hat on the bench next to him. “I was out.”

“Out? You mean meeting with the witch?”

Dream’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

“Fireworks don’t just go off for no reason, Dream. And I found the note in your room.” Sapnap says, ripping the letter from his pyjama bottoms pocket.

“Just say you have a crush on her, Dream!” Sapnap yells, throwing his arms up in defeat.

“I don't—I promise, Sapnap.”

“Fine, if you don’t like the witch, then kill her.” Dream’s dumbfounded. He stares at his best friend with such bewilderment that even Sapnap feels a twinge of guilt. Dream sighs, carding his hand through his hair in frustration and confusion.

He doesn’t reply, even when George arrives in a hurry, still in the process of wrapping a dressing gown around his body.

“What’s happened? I heard yelling.” The pair remain frozen, refusing to meet the Prince’s glare as they avoid eye contact.

George shakes his head, “Has this got to do with Dream meeting with the witch?”

“George! How do you know, too?”

George huffs. “I know everything that happens in and outside of my Castle. But, fireworks? Really?”

Dream throws his hands down in frustration. “Yes, fireworks! It was a good distraction and it was a signal for her anyway.”

George eyes the blonde before he crosses his arms over his chest. “As much as you hate to admit it, it's obvious that you’re fond of her, Dream. And no matter what happens, I’ll be by your side, okay? You know that.”

“What the fuck?” Sapnap spits. “You have his back? George, I can tolerate your ideals about the magical kind, but this is the witch who killed half of the hunter population.”

Dream stills. “What?”

“You’ve gone and done it now, Sapnap!”

“Y/n killed people?”

“Dream—“ George goes to speak, but he’s cut off by Sapnap.

“Yes! That’s why I’ve been trying to warn you! Why do you think we got this job so easily?” Dream stares at the concrete floor, his heart dropping into his stomach. He can’t believe it, he refuses to.

“Sapnap!” George snaps. The younger boy cowers away slightly, his once confronted facade crumbling at the sound of the Prince's tone. “Stop it, right now. You are in no place to tell him this, okay? You may be my best friend but that doesn’t excuse you from doing this.”

Dream chews on his bottom lip quietly as he watches Sapnap turn around and stomp out of the training room, but not before he scrunches up the letter and throws it on the floor. “Thanks.”

George’s gaze remains on the door. “Don’t thank me. He should know better anyway, considering his last relationship.”

The blonde nods once, reminding himself of the youngest boy’s past relationship with a fairy from the kingdom next door. Dream lets out a laugh at the thought.

For the next few days, Y/n hears nothing from Dream. She worries for him, has he been caught?

She stands on the porch of her cottage, hoping, begging for a sign that he is okay. Clouds plague the blue skies above and Y/n knows the bad omens swirling around the kingdom are the cause—and the inside of Niki’s crystal ball had burst with black and dark red clouds which had only confirmed her suspicions.

The wind howls through the trees and calls to her, speaking words of concern under its tongue. Y/n rolls her eyes and sighs, she knows to be careful, especially with the humans inching closer to their world.

However, a faint voice draws Y/n’s attention away from the wind and to the well in the corner of the garden. The sound confuses her at first, and then the wind’s guidance is forgotten as she makes her way towards it. The short fence around the area is still broken from the fight with the hunters weeks ago, and nobody has had a chance to repair it yet, so Y/n takes it upon herself to fix it.

The whispers from the well become a string of mumbles and are impossible to decipher as Y/n kneels with her back towards the forest—and for the first time, she is anxious about what lies within it.

But, before she can even begin picking up the pieces of wood, the sound of someone approaching her at a fast pace alerts Y/n immediately. She spins around with her hands out and is shocked when she sees Dream with his sword raised. The ground moves beneath her feet as she uses the earth’s power to aid her in meeting his strength.

“Dream?” She screams, her body struggling to resist the force of his weapon. Sparkles fall from her fingertips as she pushes back.

“You killed an entire army of people, Y/n!” Dream’s tone is low and angry and Y/n knows he would have found out eventually.

“Dream, I didn’t do that!” Y/n exclaims and Dream swings his sword backwards.

“How can I trust you? Hm? After all, you’ve killed people!” Y/n could cry at his utter naivety. She drops her arms by her sides as Dream glares at her in pure disgust.

“Instead of fighting, can we talk about this?” Y/n pleas. Her feet move swiftly beneath her, maneuvering her body away from Dream’s sword.

Suddenly, Dream brings the sword down to slice into Y/n’s arm, but a force pushes it back towards him, making the blade fly high into the air before it clatters onto the ground.

Y/n stands with her hands out, remnants of glitter falling around her fingers. “I told you! I’d never do that, and I have proof.”

“Proof?” Dream still stares at his sword, unable to meet Y/n’s eye.

“Proof. Now, how about we calm down and I’ll show it to you. Okay? Sounds like a plan?” Dream nods slowly, turning his head to face her. Finally, his green eyes soften and the raging fire that burns within them fizzles out.

“Okay.”

Y/n sighs before she begins. “When a witch kills an innocent; a human, they gain a marking on the back of their neck to signify the betrayal of the harmony between the two. However, since King James, that peace has been terminated; hence his need for hunters, like yourself.

“But, anyway, everybody in this damn kingdom thinks I killed those hunters, but I don’t have the mark,” Y/n turns around, her hand going to lift up her hair from her neck. The skin is clear, with no markings, nothing.

Dream nods, furrowing his eyebrows. “How do I know you didn’t just cast a spell to make it disappear?”

Y/n rolls her eyes. “There’s no way to cover up the marking; it’ll just shine through whatever you put over it. It’s permanent and very obvious.”

“I told you, Dream, I didn’t kill them. I’d never kill an innocent.”

“Why didn’t you show them, then? You've had proof this entire time and never thought to actually show anyone?” Dream is bewildered. Y/n nods slowly, understanding his argument.

“I don't need to prove myself to your kind.” Is all she says. Dream waits for her to continue but soon realises she's not going to. “Fair point.”

“So, why did you come at me swinging? Did you really believe I would do that?” She whispers and Dream feels his heart sink. He is speechless for a few moments—did he really think that? Or was he feeding into Sapnap’s ideology of witches?

“S—Sapnap convinced me of things. I didn’t believe it at first, but the more he went on—I guess he got into my head.”

Y/n cocks her eyebrow and scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah, he did. You could’ve easily killed me with the amount of anger you had.”

This makes Dream’s breath catch in his throat. “I—I’m so sorry, Y/n. That was never my intention—”

The witch shakes her head and holds her hand up. “It’s okay, Dream. You didn’t offend me. I’m still here, with you, right? Isn’t that enough to tell you that I’m not angry?”

“Yes! Yes, sorry—”

“Stop saying sorry, it’s annoying.” Y/n giggles, holding her hand out to grasp Dream’s.

“So—”

“Dream!”

The cottage is quiet, too quiet, and Y/n walks into the small kitchen, hoping to bake a cake to cure her boredom. But, Wilbur sits at the round dining table, his beanie and a sewing needle in his hands.

“Wil, I wanted to talk to you,” Y/n mumbles, pulling out a chair. Wilbur doesn’t meet her eye as she does so, continuing to patch up his beanie that got ripped on a tree last week.

“Why are you against harmony with humans?”

Wilbur sighs softly. He places the beanie on the table and turns to face Y/n. “Y/n, when I was young, I lived amongst the humans in a town not far from here. We tried as hard as we could to mix in and not draw attention to ourselves.”

The girl listens intently, both curious and scared for his answer. She can tell the story makes him anxious so she reaches for his hand that lays on the wooden table. “Go on, Wil. I’m here.”

Wilbur nods, his eyes already full of tears as he continues.

“However, one day, my family decided to move to a more secluded area within the town, so my father could teach me more about magic without the risk of being caught. When we entered our new cottage in the forest, we were ambushed and they killed my entire family, leaving me, the only child, alone. I was left there, with my parents' bodies for weeks. I was made to fend for myself until I found Niki in a cave several years later. I was only 7, Y/n.”

Tears cascade down both of their cheeks. Wilbur takes in a shaky breath before he collapses onto the table out of grief. Y/n immediately leaps into action, wrapping her arms around the older man and letting him use her for support. His broken sobs and heart-wrenching cries stab Y/n all over, and she immediately regrets asking him about it.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Wilbur,” She didn’t push anymore, and that was all Wilbur needed.

#life was a willow fic #lwaw #dream x reader #dream imagine #dream imagines #dreamwastaken imagine #dreamwastaken x reader #dreamwastaken imagines #mcyt x reader #mcyt imagine #mcyt imagines #dream smp x reader #dream smp imagines #dream smp imagine #dream x fem!reader #dream x female reader #dreamwastaken

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five-rivers · 3 years

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Cultivar

For @feministhotline

Consider Brassica oleracea, wild cabbage, a single species of plant. Once humans got their hands on it, they bred it into useful and radically different cultivars. Cabbage, kale, collard greens, kai-lan, brussels sprouts, broccoli, and cauliflower, to name a few. Not to mention the cousins of the species, which included turnips, bok choy, rapeseed, and mustard.

If people did this for a moderately tasty plant, it was, therefore, foolish to think that there was only one cultivar of blood blossom, a plant that could affect ghosts in such an intimate way.

The blood blossoms ghost hunters had gotten their hands on had been bred to cause ghosts paralyzing agony when in close proximity. A good idea in theory, but short sighted in the long run. Especially when the cultivar was unable to affect half-ghosts in their human forms.

There were more interesting varieties.

The one commonly known as ghost nip, with its lily-like flowers, compelled ghosts to consume their stamens, which both induced a sense of calm and euphoria in the ghost and caused the ghost to begin producing pollen for the flower, which in turn would be spread to other flowers when the ghost moved on, fertilizing them. Those were valued among some ghosts as a recreational drug and reviled among others.

The tattoo rose’s microscopic seeds would take root and spread delicate, glowing vines just under a ghost’s skin, feeding off their ectoplasm. When prepared to reproduce, thumbnail-sized red flowers would burst from beneath the ghost’s skin. The process tended to weaken the host, render them lethargic and hungry, but tattoo roses were also beautiful and, somewhat counterintuitively, had a notable stabilizing effect on the ghosts they inhabited. Many weak ghosts, or ghosts on the verge of dissolution, had been saved by the tattoo rose. It was lucky for everyone else, however, that the tattoo rose was not, like its namesake, permanent, but only lasted through three blooming cycles before fading.

Hanahaki was a very niche cultivar, one that subsisted exclusively on the stresses and emotions associated with unrequited or unconfessed love. It grew primarily in the mouths, throats, and lungs of ghosts unfortunate enough to have them. Although ghosts have no need to breathe, those afflicted often lost the ability to speak. It had been bred in one of the Cherry Kingdoms, as a punishment for one of the Empress’s suitors.

Meanwhile, false poppies – named for their effect more than their appearance – made ghosts drowsy. There were stories of ghost falling asleep in beds of false poppy blood blossoms and waking only when their blooming season was over, roots having grown over their still forms. Less potent false poppies could, if one were careful, be harvested for sedatives.

Witch’s clover was another one that had first been used by humans. Ghosts exposed to it became more suggestible, gullible, pliant, and vulnerable to other forms of control, such as hypnosis. A boon for a group of people who gained power from their dealings with ghosts. Of course, some ghosts had use for it as well.

The saltseed varietal had sparked the myth that ghosts were repelled by salt. In truth, the tiny, cubic white seeds of the plant simply absorbed ectoenergy so quickly and so efficiently that ghosts would recoil from it.

Then, on the opposite end of that spectrum, was the wishing rose, which would give any ghost who touched it a massive boost of ectoenergy—all while injecting them with one of its seed pods. Which would eventually explode to spread their seeds. The explosion typically wasn’t fatal to the ghost, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant.

None of this even touched on the hybrids Sam was developing. It was a tricky proposition. It was difficult to tell exactly what any given hybrid would be like, what traits they would pick up, what new traits might arise from the combination. None of the ones she had tried so far had the combination of effects she wanted.

However, she had a much greater ability to experiment than any other ghost or human. Her father’s power combined with her human immunity to most blood blossom effects guaranteed it.

The hybrid she was currently carrying showed promise in early trials. Now, she was taking it to the real test.

She emerged from the great forest that had grown in the ruins of Amity Park and smiled at the sun on her face. Her dress of petals rustled behind her as her father’s vines shifted behind her.

Ahead of her, on a small hill, stood a dome made of blood blossom vines and scavenged ironwork and glass. Concentric rings of blood blossoms, each containing a different mix of cultivars, surrounded it. She checked the health of the plants as she passed, revitalizing the ones that seemed to be wilting with a thought.

When she reached the dome, she gestured, and the vines peeled back, opening a hidden door as they went. It squealed, announcing her presence.

In another life, she might have thought about oiling the hinges. Now, it didn’t even cross her mind as she entered her greenhouse, her miniature garden, which she had constructed for one person and one person alone.

One person who was, aggravatingly, hiding from her. Again.

She rolled her eyes and surveyed her surroundings as the gate shrieked shut behind her.

It was hot and humid in the dome, the air full of luminous clouds of pollen, thick enough that even a person without allergies might have trouble breathing, might feel drowsy. More practically, it prevented the inhabitant from using a certain sound-based weapon.

The blood blossoms were healthy, for the most part. The ones whose vines comprised the main structure of the dome were thick and strong, their hanging blooms full of color. A version of false poppy, they kept the ghost contained within from destroying the dome in partnership with the saltseed planted around its base. Elsewhere in the dome, the more healing varieties were largely untouched. Although, the ghost nip had been destroyed. Again.

(How stubborn. She had planted them with the hope that he would, for once, relax.)

The fruits and vegetables, some ghostly, others largely human, which had been planted to provide more material sustenance for the garden’s inhabitant, appeared to have been cared for and harvested since Sam’s last visit. Good. She didn’t want to deal with a pointless hunger strike.

The spring at the center of the dome burbled merrily.

“Danny,” called Sam. “I have something for you. Won’t you come out? We haven’t talked for so long.”

She could, of course, give him her gift without being anywhere near him, such were the powers her father gave to her, but she really did want to talk to him.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Danny, who was hiding in a tree.

“There’s always something to talk about. My offer still stands. It gets boring without you, Danny.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you used everyone else for fertilizer!”

“Well, I can’t exactly take it back,” said Sam. “It was something father decided on.”

Silence.

Danny, scowling, jumped out of the apple tree. He stumbled somewhat on landing. The prolific blood blossoms combined with his sporadic eating habits and the heat had weakened his core. His skin was slick with sweat. Or, perhaps, he had taken a dip in the spring, earlier.

Sam felt a fond smile spread across her lips. It really had been too long.

“What do you want?” asked Danny, leaning against the trunk of the tree. He kept glancing at her but seemed unable to hold her gaze for any length of time.

She walked closer.

“It’s good to see you, Danny. Isn’t it enough for me to want to see a friend?”

“Yes,” said Danny, bluntly. “Why don’t you go see Tucker?”

Sam sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Danny.”

He flinched. “Stop saying my name,” he muttered. “You aren’t her.”

Her smile became more forced. Well. He was back on that, now, was he? No matter.

She flicked her fingers, sending the miniscule seeds she had brought with her to Danny, and waited. Tattoo roses rooted quickly, and so did this hybrid.

She knew the process had started when Danny hissed and started clawing at his skin. She grabbed his hands, stopping him.

“W-what—” he started before Sam shushed him.

This hybrid had a number of useful features, having been developed from tattoo roses, witch’s clover, and false poppy. It was, as was the case with all tattoo roses, impossible to get away from. The mild false poppy effects lowered the ghost’s defenses and provided an analgesic effect that was necessary given the greater size of the cultivar compared to the typical tattoo rose. The contribution of the witch’s clover was pliability, rendering the affected ghost docile and obedient. Finally, as an extra treat, Sam had discovered that the hybrid could last up to ten blooming cycles. Cycles she would use her abilities to draw out for as long as possible.

Danny sunk to his knees, his breathing, already heavy, becoming ragged.

“Hurt-sss,” hissed Danny, shuddering.

Sam cradled his head, noting how feverish he felt, a welcome change from the frigid, hypothermic temperature he’d maintained for the months after Amity Park fell. “Shhh, shhh, it won’t last long.” She traced the slightly raised and vibrantly glowing skin that indicated the presence of a vine. As she did so, she started to feel the leaves unfurl and tiny buds begin to form. “There we are. How does that feel?”

Danny raised his head. His eyes were foggy, unfocused, his pupils blown wide. “Who?” he slurred.

“It’s me, Sam.”

“Hmn, Sam. Id’nfeels’g’d.” He let his head drop back to her lap as small flowers began to force themselves out of the skin of his scalp.

Sam examined the flowers closely, pinching off the ones that seemed ill-formed. She would have to monitor Danny carefully for the next little while, to see how he adapted. He took so much care to cultivate. Truly, a tender, delicate, hothouse flower. But it was worth it.

After all, out of all the plants her father had given her, all the flowers in her garden, blood blossom cultivars included, Danny was surely her most prized.

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic phight 2021

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himbodjarin · 3 years

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LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour.

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires.

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly.

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him.

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him.

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides.

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it.

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening.

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze.

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product.

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame.

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain.

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes.

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.”

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her.

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.”

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.”

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin.

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees.

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt.

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits.

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism.

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy.

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim.

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand.

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside.

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye.

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim.

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock.

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm.

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness.

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull.

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant.

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl.

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them.

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge.

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator.

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours.

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere.

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him.

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip.

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add.

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt.

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable.

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.”

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity.

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day.

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment.

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?”

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly.

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him.

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air.

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close.

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing.

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening. “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her.

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much.

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her.

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord.

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating.

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva.

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves.

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian.

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Note

fluff prompt: “You’re an idiot.” “But you love me.”

for the dragon and the wolf? :3

A bickering old couple you request? Ohhh, yes~! >:3 If it's one thing Fane and Solas do well, it's grow more and more exasperated with each other's less...thought out moments. PFFFT!

-----

"What is Fane doing?"

Solas and Mhairi were standing side by side when the latter asked that question of him; he with his arms behind her back; she with her own folded in front of her. They were currently watching the aforementioned man, Cole and Varric flanking him, as he knocked on an elemental barrier with an obsidian gauntlet. The resounding thrum had Solas closing his eyes for a second, the magic reverberating unnervingly along his skin and mind, before he reopened them and heaved a soft sigh. This boded poorly, but he would not interfere. His dragon would learn this time.

...Hopefully.

"He is preparing to dispel the barrier.", Solas said with dryness and a blank expression. 'Dispel' was perhaps too generous of a term for this display. He dispelled; Fane disturbed.

To match his thought and what nearly had Solas letting out another, more exasperated sigh, Fane butted his shoulder against the barrier--magic warbling before it lashed out with tendrils of fire, causing the reckless man to jump back quickly with a snarl and a scowl. Cole would occasionally glance back at him, veiled eyes peeking through blonde bangs with the same question that Mhairi had posed, 'What is he doing?', but he merely shrugged and continued to watch. Again, he would not interfere. Mhairi's voice came again, more questions with its lilt.

"Dispel?", the woman asked, turning her gaze towards her brother once more. Solas caught how petite hands squeezed themselves with anxious energy, but whether she knew what Fane was about to do or not, he had no clue. "How is he going to dispel that barrier? He doesn't have any way of doing that."

"Indeed he does not.", Solas agreed blandly, actually feeling his face deadpan further as Fane ordered Varric to launch a barrage of bolts at the crackling ward. The two men had to scramble away when those projectiles ricocheted; the arrows were on fire, as well. Unfortunate.

Mhairi cringed at his side, but relaxed as the two men appeared unharmed; Fane only seeming more annoyed and Varric merely laying upon the ground in a position that said, 'Why did I sign on for this?'. Cole hovered around the defeated dwarf like a baby bird, concerned and confused. Solas wished he could answer that question of presence for the poor Child of the Stone. Sadly, he could not beyond saying it was to clean up mistakes not the dwarf's own. Just as he could not interfere despite how this debacle had his more scholarly nature crying for release. A simple spell of ice would negate the barrier, or any, truthfully, but he would let his dear, idiotic dragon learn that when one touched fire, they were bound to get burned.

"Do you think we should--?"

"No.", Solas shot down Mhairi's question immediately, glancing down at her and raising an eyebrow when she only pouted up at him--bottom lip protruding rather childishly. Such a look would not sway him.

"But, Solas, he'll--!"

The Dalish woman attempted to argue once again, but Solas merely turned his gaze away and refocused it on Fane, who was now on his own and glaring literal daggers into the barrier before him. How painful this was to watch. How desperately he wished to aid the one who had aided him countless times for countless ages.

But he would not.

"Lessons must be learned, da'len.", Solas explained, inner exasperation growing as he felt a ripple in the air. He growled under his breath. "Fenhedis lasa, ma'isenatha. Why must you do this every time? More force does not cause them to fall like a body of flesh and bone."

Mhairi stared at him, obviously confused and lost before turning her gaze quickly back to her brother, but Solas knew all would be made clear as a spectral claw appeared along the length of the Fane's arm--blue and silver swirling with magical essence and whispers of ice. An ivory visage was twisted, vines and flowers of Sylaise matching the contortion easily, as Fane let out a deeply, deeply primal snarl--one that made Solas shiver despite his annoyance, but he steeled himself as that spectral arm pulled back.

Class was in session. Unfortunate.

Mhairi's eyes widened. "Wait, he's going to--?", she began before seeming as if she wished to run forward to stop what was about to transpire, but Solas placed a hand upon a delicate shoulder, squeezing it firmly and halting an unneeded flight. "Solas, he's going to--!"

"I am aware, da'len.", Solas said, calm and once again, flat. He knew this line of actions all too well. All. Too. Well. "Let it play out."

Mhairi's head snapped up to him, blonde hair whipping around with her. "What?! But the barrier will--!"

Before known words escaped frenzied lips, the sound of an explosion echoed around them. Solas heaved a loud sigh and flicked up a barrier without a tremor in his hand to shield both he and Mhairi. The young woman let out a screech of surprise and fear, immediately scrambling behind him and finding purchase on his robes with her hands. He barely flinched at that. This too was a common occurrence.

"Explode.", Solas finished Mhairi's earlier statement with so much dryness he thought his voice would crack and flow away like sand in the Approach. "As would any force when more force is enacted upon it."

As the smoke and fire cleared, and his barrier slowly decayed--Fade borne energy wiggling back through the tears he had made in the fabric holding it back--, Solas saw that both Cole and Varric had thankfully managed to get to an alcove in time to shield themselves. They had unfortunately been too far for him to reach, but so was one other. One that was now, not surprisingly, laid out upon the ground, chest rattling with harsh coughs and snow white hair coated with ash and soot, as was the material of their armor. They were, however, in one complete piece, so the minor panic in Solas' chest abated to be replaced by his common friend this day; exasperation.

"I trust you are not burnt too horribly, Inquisitor?", Solas called out to the other man, keeping his position of distance for the time being. Mhairi was still behind him, but he caught the sight of her head peeking around from his peripheral. He could feel her want to bolt forward, but the fire seemed to have spooked her to the point where she couldn't.

"I'm..cough..fine!", Fane called back, voice raspy from smoke and possibly a shout of his own that had been swallowed by the explosion. "I got the...cough...barrier!" A lazy hand came up to point at the entrance to the cave; it was, in fact, open and free to traverse.

"Well done, vhenan.", Solas praised, but he kept his voice literally dripping with sarcasm and with the air of not being impressed at all. "Although, perhaps a minor spell of either I or your sister would suffice next time? It would certainly help in keeping your foolishness from leaking through."

Solas watched as Fane's head craned back upon the ground, emerald and gold looking far more brilliant due to the appearance of blackened soot. They spoke with a thousand words, a thousand voices, and he could see that his dear dragon was not pleased with his words. Oh well.

"What are you trying to say, you old fool?", Fane snarled out at him, but Solas was unfazed, so used to these words and this haughty display.

Solas shrugged. "In short terms?", he asked, raising an eyebrow before smirking when Fane nodded once for him to continue. "You are an idiot."

Solas heard Mhairi softly gasp from behind him, but he paid it no further attention as Fane's face flashed with several emotions; disbelief, indignation, anger, but then...warmth. The appearance of that had him blinking, brows drawing together. Interesting. Usually an answer such as the one he'd given would spur his dragon to sulk and glare until his eyes shut for the eve. But this time, Fane appeared...conniving; he had something up his sleeve to retort with.

Unfortunate, but also, welcome. How the fires blaze. How they burned and allowed him to wash clean.

Fane hummed, head slowly moving back to its former position so that emerald and gold could gaze at the very sky they had once witnessed from a different view. Vines of Sylaise went lax as an ivory visage went lax, softness making his dragon look centuries younger and like he did not have the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The sight nearly had Solas taking a step forward, suddenly eager to join his heart upon the ground, but he went rigid when rumbling words exited fondly smiling lips.

"But you love me despite that." Fane chuckled, hooded eyes rolling back to him with more fire than the dissolved barrier could ever possess. "Isn't that right, ma tarasyl?"

Solas felt his whole body, but most importantly, his face blaze at that utterance of Elvhen and Common. Now, this was not something expected. Fane rarely voiced his affection so publicly, so unabashedly--emerald nearly drowning in gold as emotions ran high and voice loud to project it for all to hear. A tiny giggle from behind had Solas quickly bringing a hand up to cover part of his hot face. It would appear he had been bested. Unfortunate, but not unwanted.

The 'oooo' from Varric however was highly unwanted. It would seem he was flanked and would soon be quartered. How foolish for him to think he was in complete control.

"Perhaps I am the idiot.", Solas muttered to himself, smirking behind his hand as he continued to keep he and Fane's gazes locked, entwined. He did, however, usher the giggling elf behind him forward with a gentle hand. "If you would, da'len?"

Mhairi offered him a knowing smile, raising an eyebrow. "What about you, hah'ren~? I bet a kis--!"

"Mhairi. Go.", Solas commanded tersely, but could only sigh as she let out another giggle before bare feet and short legs hastened to her brother's side. Fane was still watching him, but his eyes were quiet, silently asking him, 'Too much?'.

Solas smiled a bit at that and only shook his head, doing his best to answer as only dragons could.

'More would not be unwanted.'

He knew his message was seamlessly received when golden-emerald orbs widened and an ivory visage flushed several shades of delicate pink, usually flat lips going slightly agape before they clamped shut with coyness. Solas chuckled fondly as he found his legs again, seeking to join Mhairi in assessing the damage done, but all he could think as he closed the distance, as Cole and Varric moseyed their way over, and two toned orbs met his own again was:

'I do love you, my dragon. Every side of you. The anger and the care. The tears and the laughs. The intelligence and the idiocy. I love every side, and one day, I hope to scream it as you do--unbidden and until my lungs burst.'

#prompts #oc: fane lavellan #solas #solavellan #idiots *affectionate*#they are fools your honor!#fane exploits the greatest lie in dragon age inquisition #*the barrier can only be destroyed with an element opposite of it*#...LIES BIOWARE #DRAGONS SEE THROUGH YOUR LIES #hope you enjoyed it! <3 #working on more multiple character interactions too~! :D #dragon age #my writing #dragon age inquisition

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uchihasakurawrites · 4 years

Text

Of T-Shirts and Monsoons

Rating: T for language

Summary: In which Sasuke proposes to a fuming Sakura in a cave in the middle of Rain.

Word Count: 2,243

A/N: Hello everyone! It’s been about seven years since I last wrote for this fandom (or wrote creatively at all, really). This random idea popped into my head while I was watching old SasuSaku AMVs, and I just thought I’d go for it! I have a few ideas for longer SasuSaku fics, so I wanted to test out a few drabbles/oneshots to shake off some of the rust since it’s been a while. Let me know what you think! Also feel free to send prompts my way. This was done in about an hour, but I hope you enjoy~

Cross posted on Ao3 and Fanfiction.net

___________________________________

Sakura was fuming as she stomped into the cave, ignoring Sasuke’s wary gaze as she slung her pack to the ground with enough force to create fine cracks in the stone beneath it. She stripped out of her blood-and-rain soaked jonin vest and tossed it equally as haphazardly to the side, not sparing a glance to where it landed with a decided thwack. Sasuke rubbed the bridge of his nose and made quick work of using a small katon to set a small fire in the back of the cave. Typically, it wouldn’t be worth the risk of attracting unwanted attention, but he figured the benefits of not having to deal with an angry and cold Sakura were decidedly worth dispatching any rogues that were foolish enough to have followed them. Not that he and Sakura had left any of the nin in a state to pursue them, he thought with a smirk.

“Stupid Rain with it’s stupid freak monsoons and stupid rogue nin who ambush anything that fucking moves through their ‘territory.’ Sure, take out the fact that you’re bored in a time of peace out on civilians who can’t fight back.”

The clang of Sakura’s weapons pouch against the cave wall punctuated her impatience with the recent trend of rogue bands staking claim to smaller civilian towns and merchant paths. They’d managed to defend three different merchant caravans and liberated two villages from rogues in the past month and a half alone. She didn’t mind helping the civilians, of course, but why couldn’t these rogues get it through their skulls that this was peace time? She just wanted a little peace, dammit!

Sasuke crouched down next to his own pack to dig out a spare change of clothes. After just over a year and a half of traveling together, he was more than used to Sakura’s flinty temper and knew she would tire herself out soon. Best to keep out of it.

Sakura dropped to the ground to hunt for a clean shirt of her own. She pulled out shirt after shirt, noting with growing frustration that each was either covered in blood, lacerations, or sand. If she ever saw another grain of sand, it would be far too soon. A growl tore from the back of her throat.

“Stupid Suna with it’s stupid sand. Why the hell can’t some other village have poison experts so I don’t have to trudge through the damned desert just to collaborate on our new Inter-Village Poison Center? Who the fuck even came up with that idea?” Sasuke sent her a pointed look, knowing full well that she had fully supported Shizune’s initiative, which Sakura missed. “And why the hell can’t an epidemic break out in, I don’t know, the Land of Tea and not the middle of fucking Rain? At least then-”

Sakura nearly choked when she glanced up just in time to see Sasuke pull off his rain-soaked shirt and wring it out. No matter how long they spent together or how intimate they became, Sakura’s mind never failed to short-circuit at the sight of Sasuke’s bare skin. It didn’t matter where or how much - one glimpse, and her mind checked out. Although he would never express it outright, Sakura surmised that Sasuke knew exactly what his body did to her and used it to his advantage - say, when he was trying to distract her from a particularly troublesome conversation or train of thought.

It worked more often then she cared to admit.

Her sharp eyes caught the way Sasuke shifted his weight away from his left side as he moved to pull on a fresh shirt - crisp black with the Uchiha fan emblazoned proudly on the back. After a brief moment admiring his figure before it was hidden by the fabric, Sakura frowned at the inflammation beginning to flare up around his ankle. She cleared her throat and motioned for him to come over, tirade momentarily forgotten. Kami knows Sasuke would never admit that he had lost his footing for a moment during their earlier confrontation, unused to fighting on branches that had been rotted through from near-constant rain, and actually ask her to heal him. He’d become much more willing to allow her to heal him after a particularly difficult fight, but it was rare for him to outright ask for her assistance. She usually offered before he needed to.

She met his withering look with a hard gaze of her own.

“You,” she jabbed a finger in his direction, and he raised a brow, “stop being a stubborn ass and sit.” She motioned to the spot next to her with a touch more force than necessary. Sasuke didn’t budge and continued to ruffle through his pack. Sakura’s eyes narrowed.

“Sasuke-kun, --”

With a sigh, Sasuke fixed Sakura with a stern look and tossed her one of his extra shirts before coming to sit next to her. Laying a hand on Sakura’s shoulder, he formed the tiger seal to send a small katon over her skin to dry off the remnants of water that clung to her skin and hair. His jaw tightened at the blue-purple tint her lips had begun to take in the chill. A smile worked its way onto Sakura’s face when she realized the telltale signs of concern in his posture as he hovered near her.

“Change, Sakura. Then heal.”

His gaze dropped pointedly below her chin, and Sakura’s cheeks heated as she followed his eyes and realized her state of undress. Over the course of her rant, she had stripped down to her chest bindings and fitted shorts. Although Sasuke had seen her in far less, embarrassment washed through her as she scrambled to unfold the shirt he had tossed to her.

Her demeanor shifted when she went to slip it on. Sasuke glanced over when he felt Sakura stiffen at his side, brow furrowing when he noted the pensive look on Sakura’s features. Her eyes, previously a battle-worn seafoam green, took on a deeper, more thoughtful jade. She snagged her lip between her teeth, and Sasuke glanced down to see her fingers gently tracing the outline of the Uchiha fan printed on the back of the shirt.

Spine going rigid, Sasuke wracked his brain for the other instances Sakura had borrowed clothes from his pack - a shirt here, a poncho there. Her hands-on approach to fighting combined with the blood, bile, and poison that came with being a medic meant that her clothes tended to ruin more quickly than his. The sight of her rummaging through his pack for a spare change of clothes was a familiar one. What he hadn’t noticed, however, was that Sakura was always careful to select one of the few articles of clothing he carried that didn’t carry his clan’s symbol. He kept a few basics on hand just in case they needed to be incognito through a town that was still hostile towards the Leaf.

His mind jumped to the easiest explanation he could think of for her hesitation: she was ashamed. Not that he blamed her for wanting to distance herself from his clan’s marred legacy, but the very thought lit a fire in his veins that had him pulling away from her. Anger and bitterness combined with a pang of disappointment that he didn’t particularly want to address.

Sakura started, broken from her thoughts as she took note of Sasuke’s sudden change in demeanor. It was a testament to the time she had spent becoming attuned to the small giveaways of Sasuke’s emotions that she pieced two-and-two together. His flinty eyes shifted between the shirt in her hands and the cave wall as he refused to look at her.

With another quiet smile, Sakura carefully folded the shirt, laid it on top of her pack, and moved to stand next to Sasuke. She could feel some of the tension leave him when her shoulder brushed his, but his eyes remained stony.

“Sasuke-kun.” She waited for a moment before his gaze flickered down to hers, hoping that the softness in her own gaze would convey whatever she wasn’t able to in words. She placed a gentle hand on his bicep, hoping to ground him as she mulled over her words. Talking about the Uchiha Clan with Sasuke took a delicate touch, a touch she had learned after a short but explosive period of trial and error.

“Sasuke-kun, your clan’s history has nothing to do with why I won’t wear the Uchiha fan. Your legacy is a part of you, and I love you. All of you. Even the darkest parts that you don’t think love can reach. You know I’m damn persistent, and if I can wait this long to get you to accept that I love you, then I can wait as long as you need me to before you accept that that includes everything about you.”

She took a deep breath, averting her own eyes now that he had fixed her with an unreadable gaze of his own.

“Even if you won’t outright admit it, I know that your clan is precious to you. I’ve watched you carve the clan’s symbol into your kunai every time you replenish your stock. And I’m not an Uchiha, Sasuke-kun, so wearing the clan’s symbol - even casually like this, just feels like I’m not giving it the honor it deserves.”

Silence. Sakura was used to silence from Sasuke, and had learned how to interpret his different silences. There were the more distraught, brooding ones that required a bright, calming touch and the occasional pouty silence after she had smiled just a touch too openly at a flirty cashier; the explosive silences that she usually drew him into a spar during to release some energy and the frustrated, yet concerned silence when he thought she was too reckless in a battle.

This seemed to be one of his thoughtful silences - one that she didn’t feel she should interrupt. Noting with no small amount of satisfaction that most of the rigidity had melted away from his body, Sakura moved to turn back towards her pack.

“As for clothes, I’m sure I can put together something for tonight, so don’t worry about me. I’m pretty sure there’s a little merchant town not to far from here that we can stop by tomorrow to stock up on some new -”

Sakura swallowed her words as a cool hand enclosed her wrist and tugged her back. Her eyes widened when she found herself pressed to Sasuke’s chest with his arms wrapped tightly around her back. While Sakura was no stranger to small acts of affection from Sasuke - a forehead poke here and a sleepy arm around her waist there - it was incredibly rare for him to initiate a hug. In fact, she was pretty sure she could count the number of times he had hugged her on one hand.

“Sa-Sasuke-kun?”

He huffed into her hair, something between a laugh or a sigh - she couldn’t quite tell. So she simply decided to remain quiet, tracing her fingertips along his back as she waited for him to voice his thoughts. She swore Sasuke Uchiha was going to be the death of her when he spoke again and she quite literally choked.

“Marry me.”

The words were so quiet that Sakura nearly convinced herself that they were a figment of her imagination. A statement, not a request. She pulled back slightly, wide eyes meeting Sasuke’s steady gaze.

“W-What?”

Sakura winced as soon as she asked the question, knowing Sasuke loathed repeating himself (though it was a well-kept secret that Sasuke didn’t mind repeating himself for her and her alone). But surely he couldn’t hold it against her given the situation. He simply sighed at her request, arching a brow that said he knew that she had clearly heard him yet repeated himself anyways.

“Marry me and wear the damn shirt, Sakura.”

When she continued to stand in front of him with nothing more than a shocked stare, Sasuke huffed again and half-rolled his eyes in a rare display of amusement. Tonight seemed to be a night for rare occasions, it seemed.

Sidestepping Sakura’s frozen form, he retrieved his spare shirt from its place on Sakura’s pack, unfolded it, and gently worked it over her head. A warm glow replaced the earlier fire in his veins as Sakura came to and allowed her arms to be guided into the shirt’s sleeves.

Sasuke spent a minute admiring the fan on her back, pride burning in his chest at the thought of Sakura as the Uchiha matriarch. A small part of him idly wondered if his mother would be pleased to see her position passed on to Sakura. He liked to think she would.

Sakura turned towards him, feeling a tug in her chest at the vulnerability in Sasuke’s expression. She wasn’t sure what kind of proposal she had expected from Sasuke - hell, she hadn’t even been certain she should expect one at all. At least, not for a while. She certainly hadn’t imagined one of the happiest moments of her life to come in the middle of a freezing cave in Rain after treating a minor epidemic, getting ambushed by a plucky squad of overambitious rogue nin, and nearly drowning in a monsoon.

So yes, she hadn’t expected a proposal to come in this type of situation, but she had known her answer to this question for nearly a decade.

“Yes.”

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku proposal #sakura haruno #sasuke uchiha #naruto fanfiction #sasusaku blank period #blank period fanfiction #sasusaku fanfic

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phantompearlsalt · 3 years

Text

Sour Cherry, Chapter 5

The way I just impulsively wrote this because I’ve had sleepy Kuvira stuck in my head for days and I couldn’t afford to let this go! It’s sooo short so that’s why there’s no preview (in addition to how fast it happened lol) but I hope y’all enjoy it as much as I loved writing it! Can’t wait to start getting through your requests this week ❤️ Check out chapter 5 on AO3 as well!

Since crossing paths, you had cemented a perception of Kuvira as a woman who was steadfast, undaunted, and more than a bit intimidating. Of course, you understood there was so much more that made up this profoundly and wonderfully complicated human — even in the days where you’d fawn from afar, you knew there were depths to her that ran far beyond what she displayed to the world.

Nevertheless, it would be foolish to say those characteristics weren’t Kuvira’s dominant traits and she would be inclined to agree. From an early age, she had learned to confront the world in this manner and she has come to enjoy this way of being. She finds immense satisfaction in knowing the slightest movement, word, or sound from her can profoundly alter her surroundings and the demeanor of those around her.

Therefore, you found it fabulously endearing the day she began floundering about when and how you’d start sharing the same room.

It all began about a month into your newfound relationship. Neither of you felt ready to share it with the world — what you had discovered with each other felt far too precious to fall upon oblivious ears and you wanted to treasure it amongst yourselves for as long as you could.

So you continued to spend time together as you had for so many weeks, sharing meals together or going on walks once everyone had retired to their quarters. With time, you carefully found ways to share more moments throughout the day: walking to and from meetings together, “debriefing” in hallways, or working in the same space.

On this particular day, you had been reviewing the details of an incoming shipment contract while Kuvira sifted through the latest prototype proposals from Varrick. Despite having worked well on your own for so long, in those few weeks you spent closer to Kuvira you found it increasingly difficult to focus without her solid presence.

You had been working in comfortable silence for about an hour when she spoke. “When are you moving into my quarters?” she asked plainly. You were about halfway through a paragraph when the inquiry threw you off entirely. You looked up at her with startled eyes.

“I’m sorry?” you stammered. Whereas her face had been entirely indifferent moments before, your response prompted a distressed expression in an instant. It may not have been obvious to most, but you knew she felt deeply uncomfortable when her eyes tightened and her lips grew taut.

“Forget it. It was an imprudent comment,” she responded uneasily. “No Kuvira, it’s okay,” you reassured her, keeping your voice soft. “You just caught me off guard is all.”

She appeared hesitant to continue but eventually spoke again. “It has been four and a half weeks since we began our romantic relationship,” she stated. “People are talking,” you added. Kuvira inhaled deeply and momentarily closed her eyes.

“Precisely,” she replied. “I may be approaching this incorrectly but I believe the next appropriate step would be for us to share quarters, correct?” You stared at her wonderingly for a moment, steepling your hands beneath your chin and observing the overly proper way she carried herself.

“Do you want to move in together because of that? People talking?” you asked. You knew your response was slightly cruel — Kuvira had clearly struggled to even broach the subject and now you were squeezing this out of her.

But you needed absolute certainty. You needed to know that she wanted this for the right reasons and not because of the questioning glances of their peers.

“No,” she said firmly. “Frankly, I couldn’t care less about their opinions. The only thing holding me back is...this is important to me. More than they could ever possibly comprehend. And I want it to be accepted as such. But I also can’t bear the thought of spending many more nights apart from you.”

That final sentence is what knocked the wind out of you and sprung you from your seat, striding over to Kuvira and standing just above her as she remained seated. You brought your hands to her face and offered her a watery smile, coaxing your thumb across her cheekbone.

“That’s all I needed to know,” you murmured. You felt the weight of her head relax into your palms as she covered your hands with hers. “So will you consider it? Moving into my quarters?” she asked.

“I don’t need to because I already know I will.”

---

Not long after that afternoon (the following morning to be precise), Kuvira confirmed your relationship to her officers. “I will not have rumors overpowering the efficacy of my army. You have your confirmation, now cease from engaging in such infantile habits and focus your attention to the matters at hand.”

Only Bolin had eyed you from his place across the table, holding back what you could only assume was a congratulatory smile. You nodded minutely and returned your attention to Kuvira, glad to have moved past the moment that had left you anxious all night. Though you had to admit you found great pleasure in the near-comical way everyone in the room suddenly had an incredibly difficult time glancing in your direction.

The transition into Kuvira’s room was relatively fast but that was to be expected. That slow build up to a swift culmination of action seemed to be characteristic of your relationship and you had no qualms about it. You liked that about your dynamic — it made sense.

You had insisted on moving your things into her quarters yourself over the course of several nights. It wasn’t like you had very many belongings to begin with. Kuvira, being the discreetly attentive woman she was, would not have any of it and took it upon herself to assist you.

The move took about two nights — between the two of you, you took full advantage of the night’s cover and successfully moved everything over without the wandering gazes of privates and sergeants.

That first night carried an energy comparable to an electric charge. It felt like a pleasant buzz had overtaken the room and settled within each pore of your body, carrying the sensation to your veins until it felt as though you would burst from the feeling alone.

You were folding your minimal collection of clothes and storing them into Kuvira’s — well, now your shared — bureau. Kuvira sat on the bed, watching you silently. As you tucked away the final shirt, you took a deep breath and turned to face her. It was clear neither of you really knew what to say next.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. You looked down to your feet for a few moments before answering shakily, “Honestly? I’m really, really nervous. But...I think in the best possible way.”

Breaking her expressionless face, Kuvira stretched her legs apart slightly and extended her arms. Immediately understanding the motion, you took the three extra steps that closed the space between you so you were standing above her.

With a sheepish grin, she wrapped her arms around your hips and rested her head on your belly. “Okay. Me too,” she whispered and in an instant you were confident you had turned into a gooey pool of unadulterated happiness.

---

Since then, you have grown to cherish the night, most particularly that lovely and sleepy stretch of time where you both settle into your respective routines and prepare for the rest of the evening.

Today had been a notably explosive day (in more ways than one...you’re relieved to hear there were no major injuries in today’s engineering incident) and you were looking forward to getting back to your quarters all afternoon.

You change out of your robe, tossing your damp towels in the hamper before stepping into your favorite set of cotton loungewear and returning to the bathroom. Kuvira has finished bathing and there’s a cozy film of steam hanging over you. She smiles faintly as she dries her hair and you lean over to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

In moments, you easily fall into your practices. You turn the faucet on and wash your face while Kuvira stands at your side, pulling a brush through her hair and detangling the sodden locks. It’s a comforting tune: the familiar rush of running water and bristles combing through hair, the humorous swish of a rinsing mouth and bottle caps snapping open and closed.

As always, she finishes before you and briefly touches her hand to your lower back before exiting. You wrap up your final steps, flick the lights off, and join Kuvira in bed. She’s lying beneath the covers with her hands beneath her head, thoughtfully gazing up at the ceiling and no doubt plotting her moves for the next day.

You slide in and retrieve your book from the bedside table. It’s been a few nights since you’ve felt tranquil enough to read and you won’t pass up an opportunity to lose yourself in the refreshing verses of ancient Earth Kingdom poetry. You settle in close to Kuvira, pushing your fingers into her hair and delicately stroking through the tresses.

A pleased hum vibrates in her throat so you continue the motion, using the other hand to keep your book up. It’s a challenge to turn the pages with your thumb alone but Kuvira is so comfortable and the thought of stopping sounds preposterous at this point.

You aren’t quite sure how much time passes before she shifts beneath you, her eyes closed as her breath steadily slows down. You carefully pull your hand away from her head, bookmark your place, and switch off the lamp. When you slide onto the pillow, her eyelids barely flutter open and you can’t resist the dopey smile that curls along your mouth.

You see this side of Kuvira every night and you have for months, yet the sight of those drowsy green eyes and locks of hair fanned across her pillow never ceases to make your heart clench in the most splendid way. It hadn’t taken long for you to decide this is one of your favorite sights in the entire world, only second to the way morning light filters through your curtains and casts an otherworldly glow to Kuvira’s slumbering face. Nothing on this side of the universe could possibly compare to that.

As she watches you her eyelids blink slowly and she brings her fingertips to your face, sleepily dragging them across your cheekbones and your forehead. You breathe in deeply and notice the way your heart pounds harder against your chest, the way it only does this during these hushed pockets of time where nothing else exists except for Kuvira and the warm cradle of her limbs draped over yours.

You press forward an inch until your knees touch hers and she looks at you expectantly. Ever the impatient one, she bridges the space between your faces and seals your mouths in a lazy kiss. It’s short and graceless but that makes it all the more marvelous to you. It’s your deep seated reverence for each other in its purest form and it conjures a stream of ecstasy to pulse through your body.

It brings you back to that very first night, when Kuvira’s arms pulled you against her and you basked in the excitement of what this seemingly trivial change meant to you both.

When she moves back, you are certain she is seconds away from falling asleep. You press a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose and pull the sheets higher over her shoulders. It takes a handful of moments before her face smooths out entirely and her breath falls into a heavy and consistent rhythm. It’s a marvel to see the stressors of the day literally melt off her face, replaced by the peaceful look only sleep can bring. Sometimes you wish you could offer her so many more hours of this undisturbed peace, away from the copious burdens she places upon herself...but instead you ensure she enjoys these few hours enveloped by the security you promise to always offer her.

For now, you hope it’s enough.

By the time you doze off yourself, your arm hangs across Kuvira’s waist — an ever present weight that reassures her you will be there in the morning and every morning after that.

#kuvira #kuvira x reader #kuvira/reader #kuvira headcanons #kuvira legend of korra #avatar lok #x reader #drabbles #FLUFF!!! SO MUCH FLUFF!!!#:')))))#sour cherry

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greywritesfics · 4 years

Text

Chapter Thirty-Four: Surprise

Minori groaned, wincing at the throbbing pain coming from the base of her skull. As she fluttered her eyes open, the image was blurred and distorted as she tried to blink the lethargy away. As she made a move to sit up, it was then she noticed her arms were bound, and she had been strapped to a chair, the heavy clinking of metal followed.

When her eyes finally focused, she noticed the brick walls surrounding her and a musty smell recognizable as stale smoke and alcohol. It seemed she was in a bar-setting. As her silver-grey orbs shot to her left, she was met with familiar crimson orbs, but what caused her to pull her brows together was that she caught the glimmer of worry from his sharp eyes.

"Katsuki?" Minori drawled out to the boy with wrists bound together and chained to a chair.

At the sound of her voice, the others in the room turned to look at her. She finally caught sight of eight villains hovering around her: the warp gate, an unstable blonde who seemed to be around the same age as herself, scarface, and most importantly, Shigaraki; the man who centered her nightmares.

"Great, you're finally up." A masked villain announced, stepping forward. "Capturing Bakugo was always part of the plan, but who would've thought you would have been so easy to get too!"

Minori stiffened in her seat as she finally understood what had happened. The League of Villains plan was not only to capture Bakugo but also herself. As they were alone together in the woods for only a second, the entertainer villain seized the moment and activated his Quirk, compressing them into marble-like balls and escaping into their hideout.

"I know this is sudden," a scratchy voice spoke up. "But won't you two become my comrades?"

Minori wanted to scoff out loud at such an idiotic question, but when Shigaraki's beady red eyes roamed over to her, one hand obstructing his features, she sat in silence, eyes bearing no emotion.

"Spare me your shit and die." Glancing to her left, Minori met the side profile of Bakugo. He had been unnaturally quiet the moment she was conscious. Now that he uttered a concise and straightforward sentence in pure Bakugo-like fashion, a sense of security washed over her.

A television sprang to life from a click of a button, broadcasting U.A.'s press conference, where Nezu, Aizawa, and Vlad King apologized for endangering their students and the new precautions they plan to set. Minori couldn't help but frown at the screen; the audience treated them as criminals.

"This is proof just how unjust society is," Shigaraki remarked, drumming his knuckles across the bar-top. "The queerness of converting human life into money and selfish pursuits with a society that codifies that suspect thinking into its rules. Citizens that criticize the losers who should instead be cheered on. Our battle is one of questions. We want each and every individual to think about these things."

Minori glanced around the individuals' faces in the room, empathizing with each and every one of them. Heroes are supposed to work for a noble purpose, yet many do the exact opposite but are praised and not held accountable for the wrong-doings. Yet, as she sat there, she acknowledged since a young age, life is not black and white. Those labeled as heroes, villains, and vigilantes fight for what they believe is right, doing what they can to gain an advantage to their goal. Every 'villain' is a hero in their own story.

"Society can't relate to what it feels to have destroyed everything you cared about, leaving you with the remains of an all-consuming rage, can't you two agree?" He turned his attention away from the t.v. to face the two and rolled his visible eye at the lack of response, deeming that they wouldn't be a threat, he spoke: "Dabi, remove their bindings."

"You're kidding, right? They'll go ballistic," Dabi, aka the scarred villain, responded.

"Don't worry," Shigaraki shook his head. "Besides, they should be able to tell from the current situation that there was no way they could win." As Dabi demanded another villain by the name of Twice to release him, Minori felt disbelief course through her veins. Bakugo glared at the male making his way over to remove his restraints, making no move to struggle.

"Please understand that we're not just a group of hoodlums endeavoring to perpetrate evil acts. Everyone has different circumstances, but rules, people, heroes; we're all shackled by them. You two understand, don't you?" The blue-haired villain, and seemingly leader, stood up from his seat, slowly shuffling over to Bakugo, who was rubbing his wrists.

"You're right." At the sudden sound of Minori's voice, every single person in the room froze mid-step. "We're shackled by so much from individuals and society alike. And someone like me, judged and criminalized for what my mom had done by every single person, I know precisely what it's like to have everything I cared about to be destroyed. A childhood, a family, a chance. I was there in Hecate, I saw, heard, and felt everything; I deal with rage every day of my life."

Every villain grinned maniacally at her words; the sound of a new companion exciting them. At the click of metal, Twice unlocked the chains around Bakugo and switched to Minori.

"Glad to have you--"

"My desire is to protect others, and I'm willing to suffer if it keeps others safe. The system is broken, so that means we need to abolish it and right our wrongs," Minori interrupted, revealing that she would never voluntarily become a villain.

Shigaraki stepped back at the resolute gleaming in her eyes, cackling mockingly. "How heroic," he laughed, the other villains letting out a chuckle of their own. "Seems like Tatsumaki's legacy skipped a generation."

Immediately, Bakugo shot up from his seat, sending a huge explosion to Shigaraki.

"Shigaraki!" Twice gasped, shuffling away from Minori's chains and quickly taking on a stance of offense.

"Idiots like you take too long to summarize things. Basically, you're saying 'we want to make people hate us, so join us please,' right? Well, too bad!" Bakugo growled, swinging his arm for another explosion. "It's pointless. I've been won over by the way All Might looks when he wins." At this point, everyone readied their Quirk against the ash-blonde standing protectively over a seated Minori. "You can all say what you want, but nothing can change my mind!"

Slightly taken by surprise, Minori felt her jaw drop at his admirable bravery. Shaking her head to concentrate on the problem at hand, she used her free hands and started to work on freeing her feet, catching the comforting words falling from the t.v. "If the villains who've captured my students perceive their determination to become a hero as a weakness to exploit are foolish. We will absolutely get our students back."

"THAT'S HOW IT IS YOU SHITHEAD ALLIANCE!"

"He's an idiot for going against us," Dabi sighed, getting up from his slouched position, his carefree stance changing more into an aggressive one.

"Stay out of this, you guys, he's too important," Shigaraki commanded, picking up the hand that had fallen onto the floor when he was attacked. Holding out a hand, he prevented his comrades from fighting. "I would have liked for you to hear me out. I thought you maybe would understand."

"If you want me to listen, then get on your knees and beg!" Bakugo retorted, crouching down. Minori now stood beside him, free from her restraints as she narrowed her eyes at the group surrounding them. She tried to look around for possible escape routes but found none. Her intense thinking was cut short by a knock on the door, and everyone's head whipped to the side.

"Hello! Pizza delivery~!" A chirpy voice sounded from behind the door.

"Which one fo you morons ordered a fucking piz--"

A deafening crash resounded the space as pieces of the brick wall came crashing down onto the ground. "SMASH!" Instantly, the Symbol of Peace made his presence known as several other heroes barged into the opening. The hero known as Kamui Woods activated his Quirk, stretching the tree vines from his arms, wrapping them around the villains, and successfully preventing them from moving.

"You're done for villains!" All Might yelled out. "Because we're here!"

The door slammed open, revealing the pizza-man, the pro hero Edgeshot. Behind him stood an army of SWAT representatives. "There's nowhere to run. We've got plenty of heroes and police surrounding this area." The criminals now detained widened their eyes at the mere fact that they had failed.

"It must've been scary, Young Ki and Bakugo," All Might empathized, patting their shoulders. "You did well to endure. I'm sorry it took so long."

"I'm not scared! I'm fucking calm, damn it!" Bakugo protested instantly, his eyebrows furrowing. On the other hand, Minori felt relief wash over her in torrents at the heroes' appearance, happy that this kidnapping ended as quick as it started. She threw her arms around the ash-blonde, relief clouding her mind, feeling his stiff body surprisingly loosen under her.

But it seemed God had a way of playing with her because as quickly as she heaved a sigh, several warp gates began to open up, yet different from the Quirk of a recently unconscious Kurogiri. Suddenly, the mysterious black liquid had several Nomu creatures appearing out of the phenomenon, letting out disgruntled growls.

Minori's eyes opened wide at the sight of Bakugo, hacking up the same black liquid that made up the warp gates. "Katsuki!" she cried out, hands holding his cheeks as her orbs wandered over his face worriedly, unsure of what to do, and quickly the material enveloped them.

"Bakugo, my boy! Ki!" All Might shouted, immediately making his way over and attempting to grab them, but fate had other plans because the gate had swallowed them whole, disappearing within darkness yet again. The only thing binding her to reality is the tight grip on Bakugo.

Soon enough, she was met with the ground, her hold on Bakugo finally relinquished as she fell on her knees. Noticing that she was no longer holding onto him, she searched for his figure, seeing his crumpled form slightly farther than her, double over and coughing up the gate's remains.

Minori's eyes widened in fear, her hands shaking at the villain looming over them. Not only was All for One there, but so was the League of Villains, who had been dumped unceremoniously around them.

"Sorry, you two," a deep voice snarled, belonging to the powerful villain.

Minori couldn't breathe. It felt as if someone was choking her. Her heart was racing; all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for someone to save her. For the first time in her life, she deliberately wanted someone to save her. She wasn't one to rely on others before U.A., but something felt so wrong.

"B-Bakugo," she whispered, struggling to pronounce his name a couple of times. The male looked over but wasn't given a chance to reply as a strong gust of wind caused him to hold out his arms to shield himself from the flying debris.

"All for One!" All Might crashed onto the ground, growling at the villain. "I'm going to make you give everything back!" As soon as he finished his sentence, the two engaged in combat.

The moment All for One demanded the League of Villains take their hostages and go, the group surrounded the duo. Crouching into her stance, her shoulder brushed against Bakugo's as they readied themselves for the imminent attack. The villain, dressed in skin-tight leather from head to toe, lunged for Minori, measuring tape glinting as he pulled it out. Evading his advance, she sent an air blast.

To her right, Bakugo was holding his own against the compress villain, sending power explosions. The fighting persisted as every move that made their opponent fall had another instantly running up. Minori's attacks were hurried, but swift at the same time. The fact that they were 2 against 6 became overwhelming-- and the fear that they may lose, or even worse, die, fluttered across her mind.

A deafening crash occurred behind them, and as everyone froze and whirled around, they were met with a massive ice structure jutting outwards. Narrowing her eyes, she spotted three figures as they slid over the ice, and with an added effect from another familiar Quirk, they sailed over. They flew past them, taking into the air and leaving the ice structure.

"COME!" The figure who Minori recognized as Kirishima called out, hand outstretched for them to take.

Minori gasped at the sight of her classmates. How they even knew where they were boggled her mind.

"Minori!" Bakugo called out, crouching down. "Get on!" Nodding, she tensed her calves and lunged for him. Immediately wrapping her arms around him, he sparked an enormous explosion, propelling himself upward and toward Kirishima's outstretched hand. When Minori glanced to her side, she caught the grin on his face.

But the villains wouldn't let the two escape that easily. As they jumped into action to recapture them, Mt. Lady appeared in front of them, taking the brunt of Compress's attack. Minori took note of All for One calling out to his student, but she couldn't pick up on the words. Shigaraki began shuffling backward in what looked like he was retreating. Suddenly, another person made an appearance from the shadows, conjuring an all-too-familiar spout of air, encasing the villains before escaping. Before Minori and her classmates safely disappeared from the area, she caught sight of stark-white hair.

"Mom?"

A/N: Sorry for the late update everyone! I just got out of work so that means update!! :)) I’ve been so excited to get this chapter out y’all! Did any of you expect this?? Thanks for reading!

Taglist: @sslimkim @x-bakudeku-x @iambashfulperson @alex-hale666 @kay-leighjaleesa |?| @somanyfandomsidek @sir-knight-slytherdor @namutheestallion @avengershavethetardis @gheyboux |?| @honeybacon @fckngbored @youareloved-x |?| @ineedmyownname @myaaa-xoxoxox @mega-bastard @soa1eater @succulent-momma @angeldraw @seokookchan @httpglxssy @coconutxraikage @can-i-just-like-it

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margarethelstone-2 · 3 years

Text

Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears | Chapter 1

“They both knew that it wouldn’t last, that, come tomorrow, the so undesired feeling of awkwardness would take over them again, to some degree at least. They would pass each other in the corridors and a nod and a smile would be all they might expect; they’d meet at the train station occasionally but fail to exchange more than a few words.

And yet somehow, it was fine. Because for the first time since Taichi’s confession, they could hope that the distance they had built was not that of resentment and sorrow, but of mutual respect and readiness to wait.

It was an agreement.”

A Taichihaya story set directly after the end of season 3. Based on the anime, not the manga.

Read under the cut and on AO3!

Chapter 1

Suddenly, like an explosion, the words Taichi said to me in our first year came back to me.

"Arata will come back someday for sure. Let's get stronger and wait for his return."

Let's get stronger.

Let's wait.

No matter how long it might take or how hard it might be, let's work, let's fight, let's be patient.

That's what Taichi had said, two years ago, as they’d sat on that train and gone home after their meeting with Arata, which only could have been called disastrous at the time. She'd had trouble believing him at first, so big her disappointment had been – so overwhelming the shock she'd felt when their childhood friend had as much as thrown them away from his house, despite all the effort they had put into coming there in the first place. And yet, she couldn't have disregarded his words completely, not with the sight of Arata riding his bike like a madman on the other side of the road and with the calm certainty echoing in Taichi's own voice.

It was his confidence that had made her regain her faith; his quiet presence and stubborn persistence that had prompted her to believe again, to follow the advice she surely would have disregarded if it had been nothing but words.

In a way, she was convinced that even if Arata hadn't shown up on his bike, or if she hadn't seen him for herself, it would have been enough to hear Taichi's comment to make her keep going.

After all, Taichi was never wrong.

She didn't always understand him – in fact, the last few months had shown her how little she did, how many things there were about him that she still couldn't comprehend, or things she had been too blind to notice. His confession to her a few weeks prior had been a blow, only made more painful by the following distancing that had led him all the way to giving up on karuta and their club.

The club they had built from scratch.

Had he really expected her to stay after that?

Her eyes welled up again, as she stared at the photo Arata had sent her – sent them both, she assumed, since it would have made no sense for him not to send it to Taichi as well. No matter how Arata felt about her, or how all of the sudden her two dearest friends had become rivals in more fields than karuta, the fact remained that Arata and Taichi were still friends to one another.

Or at least, she desperately hoped they still thought of each other in those terms.

More tears came and ran swiftly down her cheeks, the bright screen of her phone doing nothing to make her eyes sting any less, but then again, she could hardly bring herself to care. Vaguely aware of the other students standing around her as well as the glances they were currently giving her, she kept looking at the device, at the bright smiles Arata and his new teammates were giving her. They were so glad, so hopeful, so extremely enthusiastic...

They were everything the Mizusawa team had been in the photo she'd sent after they'd qualified for the nationals for the first time, even though she was pretty sure that she'd been crying of happiness in that one.

He will come back someday for sure.

The words came back to her again, once again proving that Taichi's guess hadn't been an incorrect one... Except this time, it was Arata's voice she was hearing and Taichi's name that was being pronounced. It was naive, foolish, even. For all she knew, Arata wasn't even aware that they had left their precious club and therefore, had no intention of going to Omi Jingu like he expected them to.

And yet... There was something about that message, or maybe about the way he looked in the photo that made her nearly certain that he did know, and that this particular email was not sent out to brag. It was meant to remind them of something – to prompt them to take action, just like their visit in Fukui had prompted him to do it before.

He had come back. And so would Taichi, in due time.

And she would let him, without nagging him or pressuring him, without begging him to come back for her sake. Right now, they both needed time to heal; and time she would grant him.

Right after she talked to him one more time.

She was back on her feet in no time, and running towards the library as if her life depended on it. She burst through the door with a force that was as unfitting to the place as it was characteristic of herself, a perfect reverse of her abnormally quiet behaviour that week. She came over to her desk with no hesitation, no waver in her step, and took the bag she'd left there before leaving right after. She missed the amused look the Empress gave her, as well as the proud twinkle of recognition that sparkled in her eyes.

Three minutes later she was out of the room, out of the school, racing towards the train station that was bound to take her to Taichi's home. She made it just in time, red and sweaty, and barely able to breathe, and yet, feeling more glad with herself than she had in the course of those miserable few weeks.

The satisfaction only made her push harder after she'd left the train – she had travelled that distance thousands of times by now and still, she was sure she had never covered it in such a short span.

She had no doubt that Taichi would have called her an idiot for straining herself so badly.

Smiling against the new lump that rose in her throat, Chihaya wiped away the tears that threatened to fall down from her lashes once more and took a deep breath, hoping that her eyes weren't as red as she was afraid they were. After all, the task she was about to commence was not an easy one; she didn't need her appearance to betray her inner state when she tried so hard to keep it concealed.

Especially as she still couldn't be sure who would answer the door this time.

Bracing herself, she took the final step and rang the bell, while simultaneously summoning all of her strength and will in order not to spin on her heel and run away at this most crucial point. She had been determined before, and that particular thing had not changed; however, the longer she waited on the steps of Taichi's house, the more she wondered why she was being made wait in the first place.

If Taichi was home... if he knew it was her and decided to ignore it...

Well, that would have been enough to discourage the fiercest soul, while at the time, Chihaya couldn't feel anything but the opposite of that.

She was vulnerable and she knew it; and the more time had passed, the more afraid she became of how – and when – her weakness might take over her eventually.

Right when she was about to give in to her anxiety and run away for real, the door opened to reveal none other than Taichi's dauntless mother. The sight made Chihaya's head spin a little, but she pulled herself together quickly, for once feeling that her quest was more important than any of the glares or remarks she may receive in return.

Bowing low before her host, she choked out desperately, "Please forgive me for the interruption. I need to see Taichi. Is he at home?"

She knew it was not a perfect greeting and certainly not judging by Mrs. Pressure's sky-high standards. Still, she could not afford more; every word she pronounced made her come closer to breaking apart again, and the last thing she wanted was to make a spectacle of herself before any of the Mashima family members.

She supposed it was inevitable when she finally stood face to face with Taichi, but that was no reason to let herself crumble before that time.

"Taichi is at the cram school, preparing for his exams." Reiko's cold, impassive answer roused her from her musing. "He'll be going there regularly this year. Has he not told you that?"

"I-" Chihaya stuttered ineloquently, which obviously earned her another stern look from Taichi's mother. She shook her head and straightened up, intent on not bringing even more confusion into this already difficult conversation. "I suspected he might be doing that. I know how serious he is about medical school... But the last few weeks have been a little chaotic for us all, so we didn't get to talk much."

Reiko raised an eyebrow at her.

"Chaotic, you say?"

"Yeah – yes."

"And that's what you need to talk to him about?"

Chihaya felt her heart speed up – the feeling all the more unexpected as at the same time, she could swear her blood had run ice cold in her veins – however, she remained unmoved. Gathering her courage once again, she raised her gaze to look the other woman directly in the eye and replied, "It is. So if... If you could tell me when you expect Taichi to be back home, I will be most grateful."

She waited breathlessly, her whole body itching to flee. Taichi wasn't there; he wouldn't be there for some time, hence, there was literally no point of her staying any second longer than absolutely necessary. She didn't expect his mother to be particularly helpful, either, given the kind of attitude she had always displayed towards her...

...and yet, she stuck around anyway.

As long as Reiko didn't tell her to give it a rest and go home, she would not retreat. As long as there was the tiniest spark of hope to hold onto, she would not back down.

"I don't know that," she heard her answer at last. "He was supposed to return more than an hour ago, however, he called me to say that he would be staying longer. Apparently he has found his tutor to be extremely competent, so he wants to make the most of it before regular school work kicks in too hard. I asked him when he intended to return, but even Taichi couldn't tell me that. I would not expect him for another hour, however, maybe more... So I'm afraid you won't be able to see him at all today."

"I... I see," Chihaya stammered in response, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for telling me. I'll be on my way then. Have a good night, ma'am."

She bowed again and turned around at last, quiet and stunned, her whole posture slumping under that unwelcome new development. She shouldn't have been surprised – shouldn't have been upset. She had assumed that Taichi might not be at home before she'd even reached his household, and the view of his mother opening the door for her had only confirmed her suspicions. The fact that Taichi had decided to stay at the cram school and study longer was hardly astonishing, either – she'd known him long enough to expect nothing less from him.

He could be the most ambitious, most stubborn person she'd come across, if only he chose to be – and, while her own ambitions made her hot-headed and inattentive, her greediness always making her spread herself too thin... Taichi could still remain organised and composed, setting up plans and following them despite the many obstacles that came in his way.

And given how determined he seemed to burn all of his bridges and cut all the ties now...

Focusing on cram school seemed like the most obvious choice.

And yet, as unsurprising as it was, learning that particular bit of information still managed to leave her feeling empty, as if all hope, all expectations she had built up so far had been sucked out of her by the use of one simple statement. Up until the very last moment, Chihaya had hoped that she might still be able to speak to him that day – even if it meant wandering around the place for the next hour, waiting for Taichi to return, even if it meant going to her own home and then coming back after she received the news of him arriving.

Now, it was clear that neither was possible.

Behind her, she could hear the sound of a door closing. She had to bite her lip to stop it from trembling, but refused to show the signs of resignation that were slowly but surely taking over her. She told herself that it wasn't much of a deal; after all, she and Taichi still attended the same school so if she tried hard enough, she should be able to reach him without that much trouble. It would be difficult and awkward, what with all those people around them... But it wasn't impossible.

If they could reach Arata and get him to respond, then approaching Taichi surely had to be possible as well.

She was mere feet away from the pavement when she felt her phone buzz. It was more of a reflex than anything else, but she pulled it out anyway, not even bothering to guess who it was that was messaging her now. It could have been her mum, or Chitose, or maybe one of the karuta club members wanting to learn how she was faring – after all, just because she'd taken a break from the game and left the club didn't mean that they had stopped being her friends. It could have even been Arata, for all she cared, sharing more information about his own brand new team or asking about why she'd decided to leave hers...

Any other time, she would have had a million ideas as to who might have been the sender and responded enthusiastically to each and every one of them.

Right now, however, there was only one person from whom she wanted to hear.

Sadly, he was also the one person who sure as hell wouldn't have contacted her.

Only after turning the corner did she stop to look at the device in her hand, while silently praying that the message would not require her immediate response, and certainly not a lengthy or particularly eloquent one. She stopped short at the sight of an unfamiliar email address and the message that demanded no reply at all.

It was an address.

"But who would..." she whispered, bemused, her eyes once again glued to her phone screen and a message she'd had no reason to expect. Her question lingered in the air, unfinished as she reread the message, once, twice, three times. She knew the name of the street; the name of the institution mentioned also rang a bell, even if she couldn't quite put her finger on it yet. She nearly jumped when the device vibrated again, announcing the arrival of another message, and from the same person no less.

Taichi's cram school isn't far off from here, you should be fine going there on foot. I take it you can find your way there.

Chihaya's eyes were wide as she skimmed that most recent email, now more than ever astonished with what she was reading. Who could have sent her the address of Taichi's school and with a commentary so direct and – in a way – casual? And now, after she had just talked to his mother and was sent on her merry way? Was it Rika, Taichi's little sister, who had overheard the conversation and decided to help her out behind her mother's back? They weren't exactly friends, if anything, Chihaya would have said that Rika's attitude towards her was just as haughty and belittling as that of Reiko... However, if not her, then who?

Surely, it couldn't have been...

"Mrs. Pressure?!" she cried abruptly, and so loudly that the passer-bys on the parallel streets could be seen startling at the noise. As for Chihaya, her brow rose even higher when she'd shifted her gaze back to the enigmatic email address which under closer inspection proved to be that of Mashima Reiko, indeed. The sudden turn of events made her head go dizzy, just like the sight of the aforementioned woman had just a few minutes earlier.

So she doesn't completely hate me... Chihaya thought, a weak but warm smile blossoming on her overly tired face. Or at least, she doesn't think it would be harmful for me to see Taichi now, which on its own is a big thing. Or does she...

Does she realise how unhappy Taichi is right now and thinks I can help with that?

"Or maybe she knows he hates me and wants me to find out for myself," she added under her breath, her lips curving in a grimace. "I can never tell what that woman really thinks."

She shook her head again, however, ashamed of the reaction she'd just displayed, and even dared to voice. Whatever her intentions were, the message Reiko had sent was a huge help, for which Chihaya decided to remain eternally grateful, regardless of how her talk with Taichi went in the end.

Plus, there was something about that email, something she couldn't point out but felt nonetheless, which seemed much more like a blessing than a trap to her.

Maybe she was being a naive airhead again, but that was what she chose to believe.

"Alright, it's time for action then!" she told herself and slapped her cheeks, this time bringing to herself the attention of the fellow human beings walking down the street. Focused on her goal, she remained ignorant to their reactions and continued in the same manner, without a trace of hesitation in her, "If I get this right, Taichi is about twenty minutes on foot away from here. I can make it ten. I will make it eight!"

She broke into a run right then and there, not even bothering to put her phone away, and not because she thought she might need to check the address again. She was already late; she couldn't afford a second more.

She'd already screwed up so badly: when Taichi had confessed his love to her and she couldn't have brought herself to answer him openly; when they still practised together but she was too overwhelmed to respond even to the tiniest of signals; when she'd missed the moment when he'd made up his mind about leaving the karuta club; when she had ran after him when she'd finally learnt that but instead of trying to help and understand him, she'd once again focused on her own selfish needs and begged him not to leave her.

Day after day she'd gone on screwing up even more, unable to find the right words she should speak to him, or maybe simply having been too much of a chicken to approach him with the ones she'd had in mind.

He'd called himself a coward, while the only one deserving of that name was her.

I won't mess up again, she repeated to herself in between her long strides. I won't let my fears take the better of me. I'll get to you, Taichi, I'll find you and talk to you and make sure you hear every single word this time. So wait for me! Don't go home just yet, don't make me miss you again! I will reach you this time!

Her eyes were full of tears again, and not because of the wind and dust that blew in her face. She wiped them hastily, again and again, but it was of little use; and yet, while the dark smudges marked her cheeks, her smile grew wide, once again mirroring the hope that seemed to have left her. The faster she ran, the more tired she was, the greater and more positive the emotions that filled her heart became.

Taichi's words resonated in her mind but they were no longer a threat; somewhere along her feverish race they'd turned into a dare, a challenge she had to rise to. It wasn't going to be easy – she still couldn't give him the reaction he wished for, but she could at least face the truth of his feelings towards her and respond to that truth with a clear, honest answer.

He was her best friend in the entire world. And even if he still needed her to step away for a time, she refused to call it anything but a temporary change.

She was willing to give him space and freedom, if that was what he wanted from her – but she could not imagine a scenario in which she let their friendship end without putting up a fight first.

She wasn't capable of letting him go like this.

She was way too greedy for that.

And she cared for him too much.

"I love you," he had said. "I love the fingernails that you never grow. I love your fingers and your hair, and the mouth you open wide like an idiot. I love your face when you laugh. I love you."

He'd found so many ways to tell her the same, single truth, when he could have easily backed off. Taichi was clever, there was no way that he couldn't grasp her reaction from the very first moments of that stunned, hollow silence that had come over them because she couldn't have uttered a single word on her part. He'd known that she would not respond in kind, that she would not accept him, no matter how long he might have waited for her.

She knew their friendship meant the world to him, too, and so he'd had every reason to retreat and turn the tables again. If he had told her it was a joke – if he'd said that it was just a dumb prank and she was silly to take any of it seriously, she would have believed him.

And yet, he hadn't. In fact, he'd done the opposite, pushing forward until it was all out in the open. Every feeling he'd suppressed, every ounce of affection he'd spent years hiding from her, it was there; even if it hadn't resonated fully in his words, it'd still been reflected in his body, his expression, in the way he'd looked at her. Those big, bright eyes so full of tenderness she'd never been allowed to see, or maybe simply had failed to recognise.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

He had given himself up, made himself completely and entirely vulnerable. Hers to take, and hers to reject. He had offered her his heart, even though he must have known how slim his chances had been.

She had taken that heart and crushed it, and hadn't even had the guts to tell him why.

She arrived at the cram school, one full minute before her proclaimed eight. She stood there for a while, panting, gasping for air she couldn't take well because she kept choking on her sobs. Her hair was a mess, long locks sticking out in all directions while her face was smeared with the mixture of her tears and the dust that had accumulated on her cheeks when she'd dashed towards her destination, the result only made worse by her constant rubbing when she'd tried to wipe the tears away.

She sure was glad that she wasn't wearing any mascara that day – though on the other hand, she very much doubted that it would have changed much.

Focus, she chided herself, simultaneously reaching up to comb her hair with her fingers and contemplating whether or not she should bind it. I'd say it doesn't matter how I look – I'm not here to make an impression, only to talk to him. But Taichi is perceptive... he will notice that something is wrong. And I don’t want him thinking about me today.

She took a deep breath, then another. She straightened up and squared her shoulders, readying herself in the same way she had before ringing at the Mashima residence earlier on, her left hand still buried in the maze of fair strands, while she rummaged through her bag with her right. Somehow, she managed to find a – moderately – clean towel that she could use to clear up her face. She got to work right after, still unsure of how much time she actually had, yet determined not to waste a second.

She didn't have a mirror to look into and make sure that she was presentable enough. She was Ayase Chihaya, a pretty nitwit who never remembered to carry anything that girls like Chitose (her own sister) or Hanano (her surprisingly supportive friend) would have deemed indispensable in a young girl's bag.

A true beauty in vain who couldn't even make sure that she looked decent enough when it mattered.

She heard a noise coming from in front of her and raised her gaze instinctively. With her eyes fixed on the front door, she pricked up her ears, waiting for another sound to come and carry the information she was so eager to learn. Was it Taichi that had made the first one? Was it because he was close to the door, preparing to leave? Or was the sound a random one, and not an announcement of his departure? What was the chance that it had been him that had made it?

She waited impatiently but no other noise came. She supposed it was to be expected – the one she'd heard before was probably caused by some incident, like someone walking into a trash bin, so definitely not something people did every day. Besides, even if it had been someone readying themselves to leave, what reasons did she have to think it would be Taichi she'd see come out?

It was foolish to expect him right after she'd got there.

Timing like that didn't happen in everyday life.

And yet, as if to refute her scepticism with a miracle that should not have been possible, the door cracked open, and she saw Taichi standing in it. With one hand on the handle and one foot over the threshold, his body was still mostly turned to the inside of the building as he said his goodbyes to whoever was in charge. Posed like this, he obviously couldn't see her; but it was only a matter of seconds before he turned again and crossed the doorstep, and then he would have no choice but to face her.

For what seemed like a hundredth time that day, Chihaya felt her heart slow down so much that it seemed to have stopped beating at all, only to pick up its pace with double force a short moment later.

She wasn't ready to meet him and yet, all she prayed for was that he wouldn't run away from her before she could tell him what she had come to say.

Lost in her pleading, she instinctively closed her eyes and thus missed the very moment she'd been so anxious to come upon. It was right after her eyelids closed and her head lowered in a small bow that Taichi did turn around and saw her – and she was too busy clenching her fists and muttering wishes to witness it.

Too much of a mess to properly greet him.

She didn't see the shock that reflected on his countenance when he recognised her. His widened eyes and raised brow, the slight gap between his parted lips, the way his cheeks flushed against his knowledge and will – it was all lost on her, not because she didn't care but because she cared too much.

They stood like this for a while: he, unable to speak because of his astonishment and she, so determined not to miss her chance that she'd become unaware of the world around her. If Taichi had decided to walk past her, she wouldn't have noticed until he was a good few metres behind her.

She would have missed the chance the Heavens had granted her, and all because she was so afraid of that very thing happening.

And yet, the same Taichi who had done his best to ignore her at school – the same boy she'd expected to flee at the sight of her or at best, to say his 'hello' coolly and leave her behind right after – the same boy still stood at the top of the stairs that led to the building, eyeing her cautiously, unhurriedly, as if it was both the first and the last time he'd been given the chance to look at her like that.

His face showed a full range of emotions, from surprise to confusion, to anger, to eagerness, before he eventually managed to summon his trademark stoicism and successfully hide all of those feelings behind a mask of indifference he'd been forced to wear before her so many times before, for both their sakes.

Lost in her thoughts, Chihaya didn't see any of that.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. The simple question was enough to make her bubble pop and spatter into a thousand million drops, a soft, warm mist that now fell down around her. "Shouldn't you still be at school, studying? Or I don't know, at home?"

Unlike the burning feelings swirling inside her, Taichi's words were cold, icy even. His tone bore no emotion and his face was, yet again, an inscrutable mask, one that she'd come to hate so fiercely, because she now knew how much was hidden underneath.

"Why, Taichi? Why do you do everything alone?"

Why don't you trust us?

Why don't you trust me?

He hadn't trusted her before – how could she expect him to trust her now?

"I couldn't focus in the library," she replied, a little too fervently, just like she always did. "I tried for hours, but I wasn't learning anything."

Taichi turned his head away, huffing. "Nothing new there. But that hardly explains why you are here."

"You weren't at home. Your mum gave me this address."

"And why were you at my home of all places?" he asked again, his aloofness fading away a little in favour of genuine curiosity, although it was clear that he still wanted to keep some of his walls standing. "You haven't been there in ages, it's not like you've had a chance to leave something behind and had to pick it up. And no offence, but hell will freeze over before my mother invites you for a chitchat."

"I wasn't there to see your mum," Chihaya answered him. Her gaze was still locked with his and her chin was raised high, as if she'd wanted to prove that his frigid responses weren't enough to intimidate her... but her voice was quiet and certainly not as firm as she would've liked it to be. Still, she kept going. "I came to see you. And you weren't there."

"But why?" Taichi wouldn't give up. "Why didn't you just look for me at school today? Or, if it was more recent, why not tomorrow? Gosh, Chihaya, you could have called me..."

"Don't you act as if it was so easy to catch you between classes," she replied with annoyance, her usual fire kicking in again. "I barely see you at all. And it's not something I want to talk about on the phone, either."

Silence fell over them again, Chihaya's words still echoing between them. She was looking at Taichi now, and so this time, she could see the change in his features perfectly. The alterations weren't big: a slightly more focused gaze, the most insignificant narrowing of his eyes, the fingers that twitched as if they'd been about to curl into fists but were stopped violently at the very last moment.

Her own vision had never been anywhere near as good as her hearing; she wasn't the most observant person, either. In fact, most of the time, she was downright oblivious...

And yet, she hadn't missed any of his microexpressions this time.

"Stupid," he said eventually, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trousers and fixing his eyes on the ground before him. "What could you possibly have to say that I need to hear in person?"

And there it was, the susceptibility he'd been trying so hard to conceal but failed to do so in the end, not because he hadn't worked hard enough but because Chihaya's senses made it impossible for her to fall for any pretence on his part. It wasn't just her hearing, or just the fact that she'd known him for years, or even that she was more concentrated now than she had been in the toughest, most demanding of matches – but the combination of all those, additionally supported by her own enhanced sensitivity, that had made it possible for her to see through his defences more clearly than when he had taken them down for her himself.

She did it against his will and against his wishes, and somehow, it worked miraculously.

"You're not a coward!" she exclaimed with as much passion as she could muster, loudly, confidently, despite the tears that were once again gathering in back of her eyes and the tightening of her throat that she couldn't have prevented. "You said you wanted to become someone who isn't one, but that would mean that you are a coward now, and must change to achieve that. And I refuse to believe that!"

She inhaled sharply and blinked in order to keep the annoying, salty drops from falling down too soon. Her golden irises shone with tears and zeal alike; captivated by the vision, Taichi failed to use his only chance to interrupt her speech this time.

"You're not a coward," she repeated, with the same tenacity ringing in her tone. "Even if that's what you think you are, or what you were back then... It doesn't matter anymore. It's all in the past, Taichi, because you have already changed. Without even realising it, you've grown, so much that sometimes I catch myself not recognising you, regardless of how long we've known one another. Just those last two years we spent together prove beyond doubt that you couldn't be further from giving in to your fears and giving up, which is exactly what cowards do. You're ambitious and determined, and you don't let failures get in your way.

"And if you still think this isn't enough," she picked up after another short pause. "If you still need evidence greater than that... Then know that telling me about what happened when we were in sixth grade – telling me about what really happened to Arata's glasses, and after all these years... That is the greatest sign of courage to me."

She didn't say anything else, letting her words reverberate, not expecting to receive an answer to her ardent, most heartfelt speech, but leaving it for Taichi to discern and interpret for himself. She hadn't come here to argue with him, after all. The subject was still too sore for them both and besides, she knew that no discussion could do them any good.

She'd come to meet him to tell him this one specific thing, because something in her had told her that it was important and that Taichi should be allowed to hear it as well. It was the one burden she could lift from his shoulders and therefore, she had to. She knew that, compared to all the misery she'd caused him, it was not even a beginning of repayment... However, she had to do something.

She wasn't going to do more, though. She wasn't wanted here anymore, she wasn't needed. She'd fulfilled her quest and was not eager to cross the boundaries again.

Slowly, attentively, she bowed her head and cast down her eyes, a silent 'goodbye' that was better left unsaid.

Then she turned and walked away towards the gate.

It took all of her strength not to break into a sprint again.

#Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears #chihayafuru #taichihaya #mashima taichi #ayase chihaya #reposting because of blog migration duh #also! the cover is new! please enjoy!#this story will be the death of me but i refuse to let go just yet #margaretwrites

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post-itpenny · 3 years

Note

Magnetic

Decided to do some slasher writing. Continuing on with Chloe’s introduction and her first ever round of The Ringmaster’s carnival games. Poem excerpts from Christina Rossetti’s The Goblin Market.

Goblin Games

“Morning and evening

Maids heard the goblins cry:

“Come buy our orchard fruits,

Come buy, come buy.”

A foolish, young couple wandered in like flies to fresh cut melon, swatted at just as quick too.

Pulled from each other’s fingertips tossed in cages. The Ringmaster was almost disappointed how short this round of the game was, but at least the tigers would be well fed tonight.

The rest that would follow were just as quickly disposed of, blindly lured in by some unknown temptation. They were all given the rules, though most didn’t listen. The Ringmaster valued a fair game though, so the rules were given the same.

The screams that filled the air after- delicious.

But here now was the last one, The Ringmaster mused her to be much like the injured child who could not keep up with the others so blindly following the pied piper.

But this one was aware of the danger, she was afraid. It was a curious thing when she entered anyway.

She stepped past the ticket booth, the Ringmaster gently ushering her inside.

“We must not look at goblin men,

We must not buy their fruits:

Who knows upon what soil they fed

Their hungry thirsty roots?”

There was a snap, the midway lighting up. “Welcome! Welcome my dear! How glorious you could join us here at the greatest show on Earth!”

A scream cut through the air, the girl flinched, but did not run.

How curious indeed.

“I do believe you’re the last guest of the evening. Allow me to introduce myself as Mr. Blair P. Gheist. May I say I am utterly delighted to have you joining us.” The Ringmaster greeted as he took the girl’s hand with a light peck to her knuckles.

“C-Chloe.”

He arched an eyebrow, most didn’t introduce themselves. “It’s wonderful of you to pay my humble circus a visit Miss Chloe. Tell me, what is it you most wish to experience tonight Hmm? The acrobatics? Perhaps our fine collection of some of the most exotic animals here on Earth?”

The girl pulled her hand away, her breathing rapid as she looked off in the distance towards the screams.

The Ringmaster watched her intently, gently hooking his finger under her chin and turning her head to face him.

“Perhaps a game?”

The girl- Chloe- slowly nodded. Stepping just out of his reach. The Ringmaster did not pursue, merely leaning on his cane with a devilish grin. “Do you enjoy games then? Normally I place the rule that winners are allowed to leave. But perhaps we could switch things up? If you win I will let them go, all of them.”

“Alive.”

Blair blinked, then smiled again. “But of course. Now my dear, allow me to explain the rules.”

She listened, she actually listened to everything that was explained. She asked questions to clarify, timidly of course but she still asked. She was without a doubt most deserving of a favorite game here at the circus-

Hide and Seek.

“Remember now,” The Ringmaster prompted, “all you have to do is not get caught for thirty minutes.” He glanced at her leg, “of course you get a head start-“

“I don’t need it, I’m fast enough.”

“I would hope you are Miss Chloe,” he responded, “you’re going to need it.” But I do need a chance to count so-“

He grinned, a hand curling over his eyes as he began to count out loud.

She took off running, navigating stalls and tents as The Ringmaster’s voice rang across the circus grounds. Chloe turned a corner. Around her now shadows loomed from the booths and stalls. Clowns with homicidal grins, acrobatics whose joints didn’t look quite right. She nearly crashed into a stagehand who took a casual swing at her with a sledgehammer.

Chloe backpedaled and ran another direction. Ducking into a tent.

She climbed around storage boxes and into a small nook away from the tent sides.

It had grown quiet.

Chloe forced her breathing to steady. Listening intently to the sound of approaching footsteps. They stopped outside the tent, only a moment before moving on.

She breathed a sigh of relief-

There was a loud “bang!” As Chloe was surrounded by an explosion of light.

She shrieked and covered her head, hearing an insane laugh as she pulled herself together and ran out of the tent.

Down the isles for the Midway Chloe ran. Never far behind her was The Ringmaster who always seemed to know what she would go.

She was interesting to watch run, despite the given limp from her prosthetic leg the girl was athletic. Blair casually jogging behind, normally he would just walk but this one didn’t just run blindly. She truly was doing everything in her power to win.

She skidded around a corner and misjudged her speed. Stumbling into a booth with a terrible crash.

The Ringmaster giggled, reaching out with a hand. “Terrific job so far my dear, but you could stand to practice the landing.”

Chloe panicked, backing into the debre, trapped as he grinned down at her. “You’ve done very well, there’s no need to panic my dear Chloe.”

“Stay away!”

“Shh, hush now. The game is almost over, and you have been splendid. Take a deep breath my dear, rest a moment.”

Without thinking Chloe did as she was told. Breath slowing down but still watching a The Ringmaster inched closer. “Most don’t make it this far, it’s admirable really.”

She gripped the strap of her guitar, calming down but still weary.

Blair offered an encouraging smile and inched closer. “Let me help you up, no strings attached.”

“The rules were Mr. Gheist, if you tag me game over. That counts right?”

Oh.

Oh this one was-

Blair grinned. “You paid attention!”

“So it’s an out yes?”

“An exception just this once, trust me. The game is almost over anyways”

She was tired, he could tell. But she couldn’t tell there was still twenty minutes on the clock.

He held out his and again, delighted as she raised her own, fingertips just inches away. She was tired and oblivious. Perhaps he cou-“

WHAM!

If all the things that The Ringmaster had experienced in his carnival games over the years, being hit in the face with a guitar had never been one of them. She stumbled back as he stuttered between curses of pain and a sick laughter. She ran away as fast as she could.

It was delightful.

“One may lead a horse to water,

Twenty cannot make him drink.”

A fighter- a clever and resourceful thing, a fighter. He needed something like that, and if she wasn’t too broken by the end then perhaps he would add her to the troup.

Tossing his top hat aside, he ran after her.

The spectators were whipped into a frenzy. No longer silent watchers, they screamed and laughed. Shoving Chloe if she got too close. Applauding when their boss sprinted by. Her movement was a strange loping one, her speed hindered by the leg. But she did not stop running no matter how much it hurt.

Chloe turned a corner, not realizing her mistake as she entered a building.

The Funhouse.

The entry room was dark, a relief from the bright lights of the Midway, a place to actually hide.

The lights flashed on, she blinked away the spots from her eyes at the sudden light. Screaming at the sight of a corpse flayed and pinned to the wall.

She turned around, The Ringmaster grinning wickedly at her with his hand on the switch, around them whirled to life the sounds of gears turning and music picking up.

He waited, she still had fourteen minutes on the clock. Would she try to dodge around him, or go in?

Would she simply fall to the floor and beg like some of her friends did earlier?

Chloe turned, diving through the small door underneath the Corpse.

Stumbling through dimly lit and tilting hallways, trying doors that led to nowhere. The music was loud and lights would flash. Walls damp with blood as she entered one room that could only be described as an explosion of gore. The smell hit her and she had to stop and vomit twice.

Chloe kept going.

He followed her, shimmying through tight hallways and climbing over obstacles. He pulled something from his pocket, tossing it over her head and down the hall. Covering his own eyes before it hit the ground.

She screeched at the small explosion. Blinded by the sudden light and running without any idea where she was going.

SMACK

She screamed again at the feeling of The Ringmaster’s cane slamming into her back, to her credit she did not falter however. She kept running.

She regained her eyesight to find herself surrounded by herself. A hall of mirrors that twisted and distorted the world. Everywhere she turned was a dead end. Slamming into mirrors as trying desperately to get through. It was so loud here, and their air had changed; now sweet smelling but heavy. Lights an array of colors. She struggled to think, she struggled to breathe.

He found her there, collapsed and hyperventilating.

Blair eyed her before pulling out his pocket watch.

Five minutes.

He sighed, readying his cane much like a club.

Chloe glanced over her shoulder, crawling away best she could. Her prosthetic refusing to cooperate.

He chuckled and hooked the fake leg. Pulling her back towards him.

Four minutes.

“Color me surprised Miss Chloe but most don’t last this long. I would tip my hat to you but I left it quite a ways back.”

Using his cane he flipped her over by the leg. She looked up at him, eyes wide and lungs struggling for air.

“G-g-game?”

Blair grinned, “not over yet I’m afraid. But you’ve been such a sport, I’ll allow your little friends to live if you give up.”

“B-b-b-” she paused and took a massive gulp of air, she was sobbing now.

“But you? Well you lose, you don’t leave.”

Three minutes.

“It’s time to close out the show dear, don’t you think?”

She was in hysterics, her body exhausted and her mind losing to the assault brought on by the hall of mirrors. Chloe flipped herself over and dragged herself across the floor.

Two minutes

The Ringmaster cackled as he hooked her leg again with his cane and dragged her back. He winced, the room was getting louder, it wasn’t supposed to do that.

She kicked out at him, trying to scramble to her feet, hands clamped over her ears and eyes screwed shut.

One Minute.

It would dawn on him later that the volume was due to the loud whispers that had joined the cacophony of music and random sound he had intended for room to hold. But at this moment even the Ringmaster struggled as his ears were assaulted.

Later on her would argue that he had been cheated.

Underneath the racket came the soft chime of The Ringmaster’s pocket watch.

The sounds stopped.

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0nez1 · 3 years

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7th Oct 2019

Narrative essay.

Write a story about someone who had a narrow escape.

Describe how it happened and what has that person learned from the experience.

Begin your story with: "Let me out of here at once! ..."

0_______0

"Let me out of here at once!" With rage in her eyes, the woman demands her immediate release.

What began as a bizarre sight to both prisoners and guards alike had readjusted itself as a norm in their everyday life in the dungeon. It was a repeated occurrence that the she-beast refused to abandon. Others had long forgone their resolution to escape. Escaping from the wall of the empire was unimaginable. Still, the spitfire rage on.

The guard only rolled his eyes and grunts, "Shut up, woman."

Isabella scoffed back, annoyed at the same response. Even under the dimly lighted dungeon, her long reddish locks and evergreen eyes were fairly visible to be seen. It was clear she belongs to a noble heritage for only the powerful had such colouring. Yet strangely, there was no jewellery nor a speck of luxury on her person. Only a plain white rag to wear and shackles clasps to her wrists. Mana resistance shackles, to be precise.

Her scowl deepens at the thought. It felt uncomfortable to not have mana flow evenly in her vein, being unavailable at her fingertips to use. It was like a part of her was forcible stripped away from her and never to be seen again. Isabella swore to get them back. She refused to come out of this disgusting place incomplete.

To achieve this, Isabella went back voicing her demands, uncaring of her increasing parches throat. She whines how unbearable it was to be put in a dirty environment and be surrounded by commoners of all people. Do they not know who she was!?

Moments later, the guard stationed stood up, decided to have enough of his fill and gave her a nasty look before going outside. Isabella made a point to do a final shriek to make his day even better. Hearing the metal door shut with a loud click, she instantly drops her previous demeanour.

Other prisoners perked up, like their favourite show was about to start, whereas she was the first act. They watch her with a strange fascination, always amaze the extreme differences her two personas were.

Isabella resists a snark and ignored them as always. They never bothered her nor tell-tale her to the guards. The least she could do was to let them keep their means of entertainment. Isabella settles herself in her little corner and it was no lie how disgusted she found the cells were. Hygiene would be the first on the list for the new lord to oversee if she had anything do with it.

If, the revolution went successful that is.

Speaking of which, she opens up her palm to reveal a crumpled scrap of poor-quality paper. No use complaining, it would be a waste to use them on such occasion anyway.

'All going according to plan.' It wrote. She sighed and leans back, closing her eyes in prayer. For freedom, for glory, for peace to the kingdom. Isabella swore in her family name to carry on her act and have the mission complete.

It was three months ago, the final preparation for the upcoming rebellion was going well in the process. Away from the imperial search, for rebels outside the kingdom's walls. No one would have guessed said rebels were discussing their plans in a hidden room underground at a local tavern. It was truly a sight to behold. Various species from all sort of social standings gathered. From humans to beastmen, a noble or a commoner. It was a gathering of the century to bespeak.

The meeting went on smoothly, most issues were settled with ease. Then, there was a bump on the road. The plan needs a decoy. A sacrificial pawn goes unspoken between them. The atmosphere turned cold. The shared silence implied a crack in the group. It was unsurprising with suspicion and distrust still held them tightly like a leash. After all, they come together for a similar cause, not due trust. Oh no, there was too much bad blood to speak such a thing.

Isabella, herself had attended the meeting and was quite unimpressed by the whole ordeal of it. She did not come here to witness some children's squabble. Enough yapping and wake up, they were going to war. Sacrifices were bound to be made in the process. Seeing unwilling to take the task, Isabella volunteered herself. Consequently, chaos followed afterwards.

Rebukes of her participation were heard; they were fully against it. It was both ironic and amusing she was the cause of their current united hearts. Isabella refrains from scoffing, and instead calmly explaining her reasons. She was only but a placeholder. A common fact throughout the whole kingdom. She neither have any real value to any party so why not use it to their advantage?

Isabella vowed in her family name, a name even in disgrace still holds recognition from others. His grace will not suffer any loss if she fails and only received benefits if she succeeds. It was a winning deal. It was only a slight miscalculation on her part, to her surprise, someone spoke up for her.

Isabella narrows her eyes, watching the person in suspicion. Elaine Gurn, a fairly famous missionary and also a fellow friend of the rebelling prince. She had also been the one to raise her hand and volunteered to join her. A laugh and a mischievous grin, the female missionary managed to have the others on board with it. Isabella did not know what to make of it nor the intention of herself being elected as the leader for the mission. There was a mission onhand now, that was all that matters to her.

It was a pleasant surprise to find the dynamic between her makeshift team turns out well. They listen to her orders, adding their own two cents and it was just so... Nice. There was a strange glint in their eyes, something Isabella could not decipher as to what exactly. What was clear though, like, in the previous meeting, the experience she was feeling now was all thanks to her apparent second-in-command.

"You have my gratitude, Miss Gurn." Isabella whispered, awkwardly taking a seat beside the missionary.

It was the night a week before the mission to commenced, the team decided to throw a celebration. Never one for the crowd, Isabella slip out to the roof exchange for some fresh air. There she awaits, the usual mood maker, sitting alone under the starless night sky. It makes a good cover for those in need to keep a low profile.

Elaine smiles, not saying a word and turns her head overlooking the sight of the town. It might be their last too if they failed to succeed. It was then, it dawned to her how heavy the burden she was carrying. Her life did not hold much meaning with her family increasing declining, but her teammates were another thing as a whole. Family and friends await for their survival. This was not about her. Never was.

Was this how Father felt all those times long ago? Isabella wonders in nostalgic. Her grip on her cup tightens and her resolve steels. Then, the harsh training he made her gone through would do her good. She will make sure it would.

A beat. Two.

There was a shout. It was faint, but the world turns madness following it. Screams, explosion and orders all-around mix in the chaos, the prisoners tensed, asking themselves what happens outside.

It was time.

Evergreen meets dull brown and suddenly the ceiling went crashing down.

Elaine took cover, like every other prisoner done the same. Amidst the dust and debris, she could make up a silhouette of three people.

"What took you so long?" Jack, another comrade of her group, joked casually as he came out from his hiding place. Despite his habit of playing the fool, he has a sharp mind and survival skills to make up for it. Not to mention, his experience as a real commoner made it easier for her blend in.

There was a sound agreement Isabella would fail without back-up. She didn't argue nought. It was foolish because she knew, knew even her patience has its limit. Only meeting with another comrade's eyes did she remember the weight she carries. The lives in her hands. It was the only thing that kept her act from cracking after its overdue curtain call.

"Enough." Isabella bark, cutting off the friendly banter short. The ambush was successful but that doesn't mean their work was done.

She felt satisfied as she watches her group straighten themselves and listened to her orders. Hers. It was a good feeling. A rare few moments in her life. Especially when the cuff on her wrist was removed and power hums at her fingertips.

"Ready for some actions, leader?" Elaine asked, eyes twirling with amusing.

To her, Isabella might as well look like a child who got her toy back. It can't be helped after all; her mundane experience is nothing to compare to hers. It was time like this Isabella questions why had she appointed her, out of all people, as the leader?

Elaine has always had the charisma. The will, the strength. So why—

Focus. A voice brought her back to reality.

"We follow as planned." Isabella coolly said. "Scattered into two people's team and make way to each assigned checkpoint. You know what to do next."

The rest of her team nod and scatter they did, leaving Isabella alone in her steps to the outside field. Another group of the rebels ran past her, if she remembers correctly, was assigned to transport the prisoners to a safer place, preferably away from the chaos of the battlefield. They ignored her, not she would find offended of said actions, since they were wise to do so.

As the skies darken and let out a rumbling groan, a gleefully smile stretch across her face, just as feral and dangerous as one could imagine.

It was time after all. Once again, her family's name would be whispered with respect and fear throughout the lands.

Power flow collectively as Isabella lift one hand. She could feel its humming, excited to what they might become and with one swift movement, she brought it down.

The skies roar on her command.

#school assignment #Medieval fantasy! Trope?#Because I like adding spice to homework #1/?#Because I never finish it to this day #I think I only submit 2-3 essay that year #But hey! I still passed it with flying colours #And my teacher still think me as a promising student #Wanna share because why not?

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thisentertaining · 3 years

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As the Blue Spirit Howls - Chapter 3

STORY SUMMARY:

Zuko was not a good shifter.

Azula could switch between her wolf and human skins between steps. Not Zuko, he needed several minutes before he even started the shift, and that was on a good day. If it had been Azula who Animal Control found in that alley, they would have walked away convinced that their eyes had played a trick on them. There had never been a dog there.

But Zuko’s long transformation would have only revealed his kind to the world. Father may think he has no honor, but he wouldn’t stoop so low as that. Even if that meant being dumped in animal shelter, trapped as much by the 24/7 security cameras as by the cage bars.

He had the worst luck. -

“Come on guys!” Aang said as he lead his friends through the clamoring barks of the shelter. “I want to show you my favorite dog! He’s a sweetheart.”

Aang lead the pair to where a monstrous beast of a dog was growling with raspy barks loud enough to drown out the rest of the shelter. His bright white teeth contrasted against golden eyes and a bright red scar that stretched over the side of his face as he lunged against the cage door.

Sokka laughed nervously. “Did the word ‘sweetheart’ change meaning when I wasn’t looking?”

Chapter 1

Chapter 4

Read on Ao3

“He’s actually being a pretty good dog.” Katara said as Zuko paused to sniff on a bush right outside the door. Her leash was lightly looped around her wrist, as was Aang’s. The other boy had a death grip on the ugly nylon.

“Maybe hold that judgement after we’ve been walking him more than five seconds, sis.”

The girl scowled at her brother. “You know what I mean! When we say him going crazy in there, I didn’t think he would ever calm down. Especially not this quickly.”

“He’s really a good boy!” Aang said. “Once he calms down at least. He’s just kinda... spirited at first, but look how happy he is to be outside! Now he’s all wags, no growls.”

Zuko flicked an ear and took a longer sniff at the bush. As the first plant directly outside the shelter, it was covered in… messages from other dogs. Fairly typical. Mostly healthy, some fear or aggression but not much. It was a pretty good shelter. You know, assuming you were actually a dog. He wasn’t enjoying his time.

The good thing was, he now had plenty of examples of 'good-dog' behavior to copy. He thought back on what made a 'good dog' that would convince them to take him home. First of all, he couldn’t actually escape. Not pulling on the leash at all would be suspicious (not to mention a test of self-restraint that Zuko knew he could never pass) but he had to make sure not to pull so far that he was actually at risk of escaping.

Second, he had to put away any lingering pride he’d managed to retain. Dogs were… silly. Foolish. They played games and begged for attention and touch and made messes. He hadn’t acted like that since he was a child with his mother. If he’d even done it then. He doubted it though, Father would have disapproved.

He eyed one of the other dogs as they were bundled into the car of a little girl with large, poofy pigtails. The English Bull Terrier pup wiggled happily in her lap as he went on to his forever home, licking the giggling child’s face. Zuko sighed impatiently as the children holding onto his multiple leashes continued to talk instead of actually walk him anywhere. He couldn't act like that. This was going to be impossible.

A new car pulled up as the girl with the bull terrier left. This one was fancy, new, and streamlined. It was the kind of money that almost never darkened the halls of a shelter. Despite himself, Zuko watched with interest, curious at who it was. When the door opened and a familiar scent wafted out, he felt a growl start rumbling at the base of his throat, going steady at the sight of the familiar girl exiting the luxury car.

The teen’s behind him stopped their chatter, Aang kneeling beside him hesitantly and running a soothing hand down his back. “Hey bud, you okay?” He pet Zuko with steady, careful strokes that would have calmed any actual dog quickly, but the beast’s steady growl didn’t falter. “It’s okay boy, you’re okay. You’re okay. Guys do you-“

“What are you doing with Snarly?” A young, feminine voice demanded.

Aang looked up, seeing a short unfamiliar girl in green overalls and a matching headband standing over them. Despite being several inches shorter than the rest of them, she seemed to tower as she crossed her arms and scowled.

“Snarly? Do you mean Blue Spirit?”

The girl scoffed. “That’s a stupid name. Naming a dog after a bar? Can you say ‘lacking imagination’?”

Behind Zuko, Sokka hummed. “Snarly does kinda fit him better.” The boy mused, ruffling the top of his head. The dog snapped at the hand. Nowhere close, but enough that the teen jerked his hand back.

Well. Being a good dog was going great.

“Exactly.” The girl said with a grin as she reached out and pet his head just as Sokka had. The boy made a noise in warning, but for her Zuko simply turned to that his unscarred side was by her searching fingers. “That’s why he’s my favorite. I can always tell where he is.”

The Avatar and his friends shared a confused glance at that comment before realizing as one that the girl hadn’t looked at them once through the whole conversation. Filmy-white eyes stared over their heads as the girl tucked the previously-unnoticed cane under her arm and knelt to pet Zuko with both hands. “Don’t tell him though.” The girl continued with a wicked grin. “Don’t want him getting a big head.”

Zuko barked in protest, never once halting his continuous rumbling growl.

Aang perked. “Does that mean you’re here to adopt him?”

The girl, Zuko had never gotten her name, frowned with a heavy sign. “No. My parents won’t let me. They’re worried that getting another dog would distract Badger-Mole.”

“Right, right.” Sokka said, “And that is a…”

“He’s my seeing eye dog. And it’s stupid because tons of people with guide dogs have pets too. I even asked the trainers, and they said it’s perfectly fine. He’s trained to work with distractions. But no.” She drug out the word sarcastically. “My parents know better than the professionals.”

“That stinks.” Katara said genuinely.

“Yeah. But whatever. Apparently, he was adopted anyway. Sorry I yelled at you, I know they said that it would be hard to find him an owner so I overreacted. Probably not a great way to convince people to keep a dog.”

“Probably not.” The Avatar laughed. “But it’s okay. We aren’t adopting him though, just fostering so that he can be in a home until someone does come to adopt.”

“We are talking about foster- you know what, I give up.” The eldest boy sighed. “I know we’re getting the dog.”

The girl scrunched her nose before eventually shrugging. “Fine, as long as he’s out of Long Feng’s grubby hands. That dude gives me the creeps.”

Zuko barked in soft agreement as the other kids laughed.

“Name’s Toph.” The girl introduced herself, sticking a hand out nowhere near the other three.

Katara moved to take and shake the hand. “My name is Sapphire.” She lied. Zuko’s ears perked, recognizing that the name was very different from the one that the others had used for her earlier. If he was to complete his mission, learning their false names could only help.

“Wang,” Sokka added with a useless wave. Zuko committed the false name to memory.

Aang jumped to his feet to shake her hand. “I’m Kuzon. It’s great to meet you. We’re going to take Spirit-“

“Snarly.”

“For a walk if you want to come with.”

The girl’s head cocked to the side, as though listening to something. After a moment, she simply shrugged. “Why not?”

From behind them, a loud clearing of the throat sounded from the front of the car, where a driver glared at them from behind a window. Toph sighed explosively. “Give me a second, I have to go check in before my busy body parents call the shelter.”

She stomped her way into the building, cane swinging wildly as she grumbled.

The group watched her, Aang’s hands still running down Zuko’s back as the growling petered out. “Awww,” Aang cooed. “Such a good boy.”

“That’s really impressive though.” Katara cut in. “He realized that she was blind and made sure that she could hear him. He must be really smart.”

Sokka made a disagreeing noise. “He probably just realized that she was happy when he was growling, gave him extra treats or pats or whatever and accidentally trained him to growl. Dogs can be taught to do anything these days.”

Zuko was offended. As he wasn't an actual dog, he wasn’t sure he should be.

“It’s still smart.” Katara argued with the passion of a sibling arguing against another. “He’s only been here a week or so and already trained himself to do that? That’s really smart for a dog.”

“Hey, I’m just saying. He’s a dog, he was trained to do a trick. Congratulations, you and Pavlov can compare notes.”

Aang glanced between the pair nervously. “Calm down, we don’t-“

Katara wasn’t listening. Zuko was just hoping that she wouldn’t have the same resources his sister had when angry to sit on. “You are such a-“

“Fight! Fight! Fight Fight! “ Toph chanted as she made her way to the group. She had a leash coiled in her hands, and when Zuko started growling again she managed to find his collar and attach it with little fumbling.

The other teens scrambled to explain their argument, but Zuko was getting tired of waiting. With a loud bark, the wolf started towards one of the walking trails, dragging Sokka, who had somehow wrapped the leash around his wrist enough that his was significantly shorter than the others. The boy yelped.

“Well, guess we’re going.”

“Sorry buddy.” Aang laughed. Zuko flicked an ear towards him but otherwise ignored the apology. He stuck to the cement path running through an open field rather than the wooded paths that called to his wolf blood. It wasn’t because that would be easiest for Toph. Really. He’d barely even noticed that. Really. He just thought that if the path was easier they would talk more and he would get more information out of them.

Really.

That was it.

“So, if you can’t get another dog, why are you at the shelter?” Sokka asked the stranger.

“Volunteering.” The girl answered, “Duh. I’m homeschooled and I was going absolutely insane sitting at home every day. I was sneaking out but,” She shrugged. “I knew eventually that they would realize that those pillows under my blankets weren’t breathing. I threatened to run away for real if they didn’t find a way to let me out of the house sometimes, and so.” She shrugged. “A compromise. For now.”

“That’s cool.” Aang said sunnily. “This is a great shelter, I come here every Tuesday and Thursday to volunteer too! I’m kinda surprised that we hadn’t seen each other before, but I’m usually here a lot earlier.”

That was good information. Wait. Was it though? If Zuko revealed himself or ‘ran away’, he probably wouldn’t come back. But it did mean it was a time that he was alone and out of their house fairly consistently. If Zuko could arrange for someone to go after him at the right time…

He really wished he had anyone he could trust to do that without taking the glory for themselves and leaving him out to dry.

Okay, so that wouldn’t work. But it still would be a good thing to know. This wasn’t going well. He wasn’t getting any good information on his actual targets and- rabbit!

Zuko stood stock still, nostrils flaring as he followed them to see a fluffy furry brown ball chewing at a clump of clover in the corner of the path. He ceased the low rumbling he’s been admitting since Toph joined, going stock still as he crouched into a predatory stance. Ear’s up, head close to the ground, feet carefully placed, Zuko slowly stalked forward towards the entirely unaware prey creature.

A predatory wolf’s blood was running through his veins, begging for the chase and hunt that he had been denied for the weeks he’d spent in a form born in it. He licked his chops, ignoring the babbling distractions behind him as the predator centered on prey.

“Hey!” Aang suddenly yelled behind him with a laugh. “Run Bunny, Run!”

Startled, the rabbit took off. With a growl, Zuko lunged after it, jumping forward on strong, muscular legs. There were a myriad of cried behind him as the group was sent sprawling by the force of his leap, but as the shelter administer had said, he couldn’t exactly drag four people across the yard. Well, he could. He was strong enough. He just wouldn’t be fast enough to catch the rabbit so what was the point?

He stopped after a few steps and whined as the rabbit disappeared into the woods.

Toph, miraculously the only one to keep her footing, laughed uproariously. “Why did you think it was a good idea to make the rabbit run, idiot?”

“Oops.” Aang mumbled from his place on the ground.

Sokka spit out a mouthful of grass. “Well. Are you ready to sign some papers? This seems like a great idea.”

#avatar: the last airbender #ATLA #fanficton #MY FANFICS #Zuko #prince zuko #Aang #Sokka #Katara #Toph #Werewolf AU #Modern AU

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margarethelstone · 4 years

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Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears | Chapter 1

“They both knew that it wouldn't last, that, come tomorrow, the so undesired feeling of awkwardness would take over them again, to some degree at least. They would pass each other in the corridors and a nod and a smile would be all they might expect; they'd meet at the train station occasionally but fail to exchange more than a few words.

And yet somehow, it was fine. Because for the first time since Taichi's confession, they could hope that the distance they had built was not that of resentment and sorrow, but of mutual respect and readiness to wait.

It was an agreement.”

Read under the cut and on AO3!

Chapter 1

Suddenly, like an explosion, the words Taichi said to me in our first year came back to me.

"Arata will come back someday for sure. Let's get stronger and wait for his return."

Let's get stronger.

Let's wait.

No matter how long it might take or how hard it might be, let's work, let's fight, let's be patient.

In a way, she was convinced that even if Arata hadn't shown up on his bike, or if she hadn't seen him for herself, it would have been enough to hear Taichi's comment to make her keep going.

After all, Taichi was never wrong.

The club they had built from scratch.

Had he really expected her to stay after that?

Or at least, she desperately hoped they still thought of each other in those terms.

He will come back someday for sure.

He had come back. And so would Taichi, in due time.

And she would let him, without nagging him or pressuring him, without begging him to come back for her sake. Right now, they both needed time to heal; and time she would grant him.

Right after she talked to him one more time.

Three minutes later she was out of the room, out of the school, racing towards the train station that was bound to take her to Taichi's home. She made it just in time, red and sweaty, and barely able to breathe, and yet, feeling more glad with herself that she had in the course of those miserable few weeks.