#choking on dirt as I claw my way back to the surface
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I think I should be buried alive
#choking on dirt as I claw my way back to the surface#nails peeling back bleeding from scratching my casket#need to be resurrected it would fix me#it would fix me#bury me alive rn rn rn rn please
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im sorry to ask but i dont know what else to do—how did you do it how did you dig yourself out because it feels like i am choking on dirt and people keep shoveling it onto me and i miss her so much and i dont know how to make this feeling stop. she was my best friend. ive never lived in a world without her before. how did you do it. how are you doing it
grief is so hard and so heavy when we first meet it. it feels like all our arms will ever hold for the rest of forever. and it is, in a sense. once we pick it up, we never really set it down. not fully.
and I don't think it gets lighter, I think we somehow, impossibly, get stronger.
there's lots of metaphors for grief. that's one of them. another one I like to use is that it feels like you're in the grave with them. like lazarus. like yourself. waiting for someone to raise you from the dead. to raise you both.
I've learned a lot about crawling out of the grave. more than I would have ever wanted to learn. like how emptiness is actually quite heavy. or how to pretend like you feel half-alive. but I think the most important thing I've learned is that somedays, we inexplicably end up back in it. and that sucks.
because we just spent months clawing our way through the bugs and the earth. because our soldier-hands have finally breached the surface. because the sun is finally caressing our hell-fresh faces. because for the first time in months we feel like we can finally breath. and then, suddenly, we're right back in the terrible thick of it.
those days make it feel like I'm sisyphus and grave dirt is my rock. or like I'm prometheus and the darkness is my eagle.
but then it's tuesday.
which is to say my brother died on my 25th birthday, a monday. and that day is now a memory that's fuzzy around the edges. single snapshots I know are connected, but I couldn't tell you how. I remember my mother standing in my bedroom and tears and family and phone calls and cleaning my living room because I didn't know what to do with my hands. I remember going to my grandmothers and my phone vibrating off the table and leaving to go get coffee because I couldn't sit still. I remember joking, trying to joke. trying to do whatever I could to make sense of that impossible day. I remember checking my phone and reading and rereading the messages, a mixed bag of congratulations for surviving another year and condolences that my brother didn't, I remember not knowing how to respond to any of them. so I didn't. I remember being surrounded by so many people doing nothing but extending love and kindness to me and never feeling more alone. the world was ending and I was alone. I thought that day would go on forever.
but it didn't.
it ended, as all things do. monday was over and my first day as an only child was done.
and suddenly it was tuesday. and everything was different but also exactly the same.
it was tuesday and my brother was dead. I was so heavy when I woke up that first tuesday. so heavy and confused. I thought the world had ended. it surely felt like it had. but it hadn't. because the world couldn't have ended on monday.
not if it was tuesday.
it was tuesday and my brother was dead but the world wasn't ending. monday should have been our demise, but it wasn't. and it hasn't. and it won't. because just as sure as we have mondays, we'll always have tuesdays.
that's something I've taken a strange comfort in, knowing that we'll always have tuesdays.
the feeling never stops. but I think that's okay. because you're only feeling that way because there was love first. and as much as what I felt on that first tuesday hurts, as much as it suffocates, as much as it consumes, I'd take the hurt and the suffocation and the consumption because the love I felt first will always, always be worth it.
tuesdays will always be worth it.
like yeah, if I loved less, it wouldn't hurt this bad. but I don't want to live in a world where I have to love less. where I was loved less.
I'll take the pain. I'll take the grave days. I'll take the rock. I'll take the eagle. I'll take apocalyptic, earthshaking mondays. I'll take every last wretched bit because goddamn what a miracle it is to love so bad it hurts this big.
I hold that love, his love for me and my love for him, a love that's now become our love in the cage of my ribs while I'm in the cage of the grave. and I dig.
it's monday and I dig.
I dig.
and then tuesday comes.
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don’t let me go pt. II
WC: 1.5K
Warnings: talk of anxiety due to hospital settings and grief
NOTE: Okay, so I know I said I would post the update to Don't Let Me Go during spring break. HOWEVER, in a rare burst of inspiration that is all thanks to the lovely Anon I answered earlier this afternoon, viola! we have an update since my mind would NOT leave me alone.
Emily hated hospitals: the sanitized surfaces, the clinical uniforms, the smell of rubbing alcohol, and the sterile, empty rooms that felt like dark, cavernous spaces. The stoic faces of the doctors and nurses with their shiny, sharp instruments were conductors of deadly precision. Cut. Sever. Cauterize. Break. Sew. Heal.
She knew they only meant to save, just as her team only ever meant to protect. Tell that to her racing heart and the endless screaming inside her head. Emily’s eyes darted from the ER nurse talking on the phone to the doctors racing toward the incoming trauma to the parents trying to console their screaming child whose shin was snapped in two with perfect white bone poking through, then back to the ER nurse—no sir, you most certainly cannot request that over—and to the dozen other blurs of light and dark blue forms rushing forward, left, right, and around her.
“Hey, watch it!” said a voice.
Emily’s shoulder snapped back with the shove of a doctor running by, and she blinked twice while looking around. Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, the fog lifted. What am I doing here? Her eyes flashed with the memory of you, a blur of hair and hands lifting as you fell down, down, down. In a snap, as if someone dumped ice-cold water on her, she was back, and the suffocating terror came with her, making her want to sprint as fast as she could out of there and never look back. But she couldn’t. You were still here, lying under sedation on a gurney somewhere in an OR room. And Emily couldn’t leave you—not you, never.
“Hey, hun, watch it before someone knocks you over,” a nurse said, passing a hand over her shoulder to move her out of the walkway to get to a patient.
Emily’s eyes darted to the woman, and her anxiety spiked to near screaming level because it wasn’t you who touched her. She couldn’t stop her brain from flicking through images of your cold, hollowed dead body lying silent in a dark box. Pale-blue hands neatly folded over a sickening sweet bouquet on your sunken chest. Emily clawed at her throat because she couldn’t breathe; her heart was pounding loudly in her ears, and her body felt ice cold with permanent goosebumps.
Emily turned again and again, trying to find a way out of her mind, but all she could see was you lying in a box in the ground, eyes closed and unrecognizable. She didn’t notice the hands on her shoulders, the flash of blonde hair, or the blue eyes moving before her with a look of concern.
“—ey, hey…EMILY HEY! Look at me!” JJ jerked Emily around to face her, and JJ’s heart broke at the sight of her.
Emily looked at JJ’s sad eyes, downturned lips, and furrowed brows and fell forward because it’s JJ, and she knows. Her face buried in JJ’s neck as the blonde’s arms held her, and she choked out the sob that hung in her throat. The tears clouding her eyes finally fell on JJ’s shirt, and Emily spoke into her shoulder because she couldn’t bear looking at her eyes—eyes that told her I know it hurts—one more second. “She looked so cold, so hollow and lifeless—“
“Emily, no, that’s not going to happen, okay?” JJ pulled Emily from her shoulder and stared into her crying eyes. “Look at me. You have to believe that it’s not—for her.”
Emily nodded and tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but flashes of you—pale blue with dirt covering your dead face—were stuck in her vision. The lump was growing in her throat, and she couldn’t hear anything over her hyperventilating breaths.
“Okay, okay, let’s go somewhere else while we wait,” JJ said and pulled Emily into her side. She pushed through the throngs of nurses and doctors and down hallways until she came to a neon exit sign. Out in the open, cool morning air, she laid Emily against the hospital wall and let her slide into a crouch position. With her hand under her shoulder blade, she said, “Head between your knees, Em. C'mon, there you go.”
Emily heard JJ telling her to take deep, slow breaths and focus on only that, nothing else. Only, she sounded warbled and far away, like Emily was underwater and steadily losing her last shreds of air. She pressed her eyes closed so hard they brought stars to her vision, and she tried to ward off the dead version of you from her mind by counting each breath in her head. In one…out one…in two…out two…in three…
Yet that only brought on different images of her sitting alone in a dark, empty apartment five months from now, with hollowed cheeks, an emaciated body due to a depleted diet, and dark circles under her lifeless eyes that stared at a single photo or you—the image of you sporting your brightest smile as you held Emily’s hands around your middle while she kissed your cheek under the archway of your wedding alter. Emily’s head fell, and she let the tears fall from her eyes to splat big dark gray splotches onto the concrete beneath her. Her hands shook, and she brought her red-rimmed nails to her mouth and gnashed her teeth at the broken skin in frantic movements. Emily’s mind spiraled into dark, dangerous territory; thoughts she hadn’t given the time of day since Doyle because you were her light, her warmth, her sunshine that banished the dark, self-deprecating thoughts, the questions of is it worth it? Is she worth it?
Emily’s breaths felt heavy and forced as she took big gulps of air, and her entire body now shook with the cold fear of losing you. Voices called to her, but she shook her head and pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to will the tears to just stop.
“Okay, we’re coming there now. What room?”
“Okay. I- I know Morgan, she’s—I know. She just needs to see her, and then she’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, make sure the hallway is clear. Okay…yeah, we’re coming now.”
Emily felt hands on her again, moving from her biceps to her shoulders, and a voice followed. She knew the voice, but it was wrong. It wasn’t the right one, wasn’t the right person. She shook her head no, again, again, and again until she felt a jerk and her head popped up and stared, confused and scared at JJ. Stars still danced in the corners of her vision, her ears rang with the beat of her heart, and the tears kept rolling down her cheeks. JJ leaned in and said something, and Emily tried to read her lips… Y/n—no! A sob jolted through Emily, and she tried to turn her head with the onslaught of tears coming. Yet JJ jerked her again, and Emily half wanted to punch and scream at her to leave her be in her grief, but she saw something—a fragment of a word leave her lips and looked again. Y/n is alive. Emily, she made it.
Emily quickly looked up at JJ, her eyes wide with unshed tears and hope. Her heart beat double time while the ringing in her ears lessened just enough for her to hear JJ say, “She alive, Emily.”
Emily gasped and jumped up, nearly crashing into the exit door before jerking it open and sprinting down the hallway. She ran 10 feet before realizing she didn’t know where she was going and half turned to see JJ close the door and yell , “Room 263” and then she was gone. Crashing through doors, people, sliding by gurneys, and leaping up back stairways because the elevator was too slow and you were alive and waiting for her somewhere.
Her lungs burned with relief and adrenaline and her mind screamed at her body to keep going no matter how many people yelled at her that she was going to hurt somebody running through there like that and to just slow the fuck down! But she couldn’t and she wouldn’t until she saw your face with your eyes wide open on her.
Her hand leaped out to grab a corner and pivot herself around to the recovery floor. Bursting through the door her head darted to each plaque beside the doors, scanning the room numbers. “258, 259, 260…ughh cmon!”
“Emily!,” Derek yelled. Down the hallway she could see him standing by an open doorway, he looked at someone in the room, said something to them, and turned back to wave her over.
Emily’s heart leaped in her throat at who he might be talking to and she ran down the hallway, grabbed onto the doorframe, and leaped in front of Derek into the doorway. Her breath hitched as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and her body started shaking all over again. She looked at every inch of you, from the soft bumps of your feet beneath the hospital blanket, up the planes of your legs, over your hands that looked every bit as warm as she hoped, to your chest that was rising and falling because you were breathing, up your neck to your mouth that was smiling at her, over your soft, pink cheeks, and finally to your eyes that stared wide open at her with nothing but joy.
Your smile grew crooked while your hand, steady as ever, lifted, palm up toward her and you said softly, “Where’ve you been?”
#michelle's works#emily prentiss#emily prentiss x reader#emily prentiss x you#emily prentiss x y/n#emily prentiss x female reader
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also… i think abt dusk / nosy leland… i think about how it was like… change, metamorphosis into a monster, in order to survive. it was ‘no one knows you’re alive but us, no one cares about you but us’. it was the steady crushing of the hope in his chest every time he was made to listen to the radio broadcasts, which never mention him. reminding him no one was looking. it was hopelessness and sort of wishing you were dead and not being allowed to die. of fighting and clawing and getting nowhere, just back down in the dirt, choking on your own blood. of trying to hold up your morals like it even mattered anymore. when the only other choice was to adapt, and extract pieces of yourself over time. but? it was also accepting the anger he had, and the bitterness and the capability for violence in his heart. and the freedom that finally came with letting that anger loose. the heartbreak and the pain and the regret and everything he’s been pressing down deep within himself to stay afloat. just the 'something grotesque about having my own evils save my life' etc
when he’s younger in those verses, he’s like a raging housefire, and as he gets older, close to forty, he’s more of a simmer under the surface, the remnant of the smoke and ash. he’s calm in a bad way, he’s aware of all his mistakes. in some trajectories, he finds love and acceptance within the family, timelines where things turn out kinder for him. and in others, he still exists on the outside, obedient and quiet, sharpened to a point, with all his anger that can be aimed like a gun, at whoever they choose. either way, there’s a small part of him somewhere that knows he’ll never quite be one of them, but there’s nowhere else he can go, and no one that would take him after the awful things he’s done. not just for survival, but because it felt good. it felt like something. it gave him a sense of control in a situation of learned helplessness.
#me every day like [rattles leland’s brain in dusk/nosy] hey bud whats going on in there#cw … i dont know. trauma things#me at like midnight: evil aus make me feel unhinged very sorry
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“you are more than you know” CH. 5
A/N: I couldn’t wait to start writing this chapter so, I didn’t. This is my favorite chapter so far and I hope you all like how the story is progressing!
Side note: I probably should’ve categorized this as a dark/possessive! Ani fic. My bad :/. But yeah, if dark! characters are not your thing, i wouldn’t read this.
Summary: Reader grows increasingly wary of her force bond with her master. Mando tries to help her escape her past, and it definitely doesn’t go to plan.
Pairing: Darth Vader x f! Reader, Mando x f! Reader
Warnings: angst, fluff, dark!ani, choking, drowning, threats, mentions of murder and dying, dom/sub undertones, crying, swimming, hand holding, manipulation, almost passing out.
…
The hazy sun started to set on Corvus and the Mandalorian had retired to his quarters for some well deserved rest. You both planned on figuring out your course of action the next day. As you laid on the hard metal, with a thermal blanket wedged in between your back and the floor, you found it nearly impossible to sleep. Your mind was racing as you replayed every moment with Anakin over and over in your head, with a new perspective. After a few restless hours the sun creeped on to the horizon ahead. You decided to sit by the little pond outside the ship to get some fresh air. The crunch of branches and debris echoed around you as you made your way to a tree stump by the pond. You rested your head on your hand as you watched the little ripples float by. You thought about the last time you had gone swimming, and honestly you couldn’t remember. You forgot what the cold rush of natural water felt like. You took off your boots and treaded carefully to the water’s edge. You sat in the slightly damp dirt and dipped your feet into the water. In an instant your splitting headache was back. Oh no, this can’t be good. You felt yourself being dragged by your feet into the water. You flipped over in an attempt to claw your way out but the force that pulled you was too strong. Your head was submerged and your surroundings went dark as you screwed your eyes shut. You panicked, thrashing about trying to get whatever it was off of you. You could hear the water moving wildly around you. Suddenly you felt pressure on your throat, you couldn’t distinguish what it was. You opened your eyes, expecting to find some hideous sea creature. A face appeared in the rippling flashes of light from the rising sun. Anakin.
Your muffled screams did little to detour him. The pressure around your neck increased, and your thrashing became sporadic. His laugh bounced around your head. “Don’t make me do this, bunny.” His smile was blinding in the water’s reflection. “Tell me I’m what you want. We both know it’s true…let’s make this easy on both of us, hmm?” Your screams became louder and more desperate, despite knowing their lack of effect on the surface. Anakin squeezed your throat with even more force and you knew you were done for. “If you don’t come with me right now, I will kill your fucking Mandalorian and kidnap you if I have to.” You placed your hand on your throat, expecting to feel his hand there, but all you felt was your skin. You tried one last attempt at saving yourself, mustering up what little strength you had left. Through the force you spoke to him. “Anakin, please, don’t do this to me.” The pressure around your neck was ripped away and he looked at you with a stunned expression. “Where did you hear that? How dare you call me by that name! You have no idea who you’re dealing wi...”
Anakin didn’t have time to finish his sentence before you were being pulled out of the water by Mando. You were barely coherent, coughing and throwing up water. Mando laid you on your side and propped you up on his thighs to prevent you from choking again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You thought to yourself. Mando shook you and called out your name, waiting for your reply to a question he asked about a minute ago. “Y/N, Y/N! Are you ok?” he asked in a rather frazzled, out of character tone. You held out a thumbs up and tried to roll off his legs and sit up straight. You plopped on to your butt and stared at the now placid pond. What the fuck?, you thought to yourself, you hadn’t realized that you said it out loud. “Um, yeah! What the fuck was that? “ Mando practically yelled. You shook your head and shrugged your shoulders in defeat. You nearly died, he almost killed you. Mando interrupted your inner monologue, “Do you not know how to swim or something?” you nodded, “Yes, I do know how to swim.”, your voice was so hoarse you barely even recognized it. You coughed again. Mando froze. You practically fell backwards when Mando grabbed your face and examined your neck. “Kriff! What the fuck happened to your neck?” You freaked out. “Is it bad? Maker…how bad is it Mando?”. He kept moving your head around to get a better look at it. “You look like you got choked, or something. Did an animal attack you?”. You laughed, “Yeah, he’s an animal alright.” Mando paused, “He?…no, don’t tell me this was Vader?” your gaze dropped to the ground. The Mandalorian let go of your face, “how?”, he asked quietly. You shook your head and shrugged again, “I really don’t know,. One minute I was putting my feet in the water, the next he was trying to kill me.” Mando leaned back against the stump you were sitting on earlier and let out a sigh. Tears filled your eyes as the severity of the situation set in. “Mando, what do I do? I can’t hide from him…he��s going to kill me!” You scooted closer to him and placed your hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for saving me, but I’m sorry you had to in the first place. I -I don’t know how to tell you this…”. Mando removed his gaze from his shoulder to your face, “what?” he asked roughly. “He, um, he told me he’s going to kill you too. He’s going to kill you and take me with him.” Mando laughed incredulously, “You’re joking? What do I have to do with this?”. You sighed and said , “I know, I’m so sorry for getting you into this. But I just know he’s going to kill everyone in his way, and right now, you’re the only one stopping him.” Mando deflated into the dead tree stump and thought to himself. Silence fell between you as you awaited Mando’s next words. He huffed and looked at you, “I guess I’m in this now, there’s no point in turning back.” You looked up at him in surprise. He continued, “If we’re going up against Darth Vader, I think we’re gonna need some extra help. Don’t you?”. He tilted his head and you gave him an appreciative smile. “Yes, I think so too.”.
…
The shipped jumped into hyperspace as you sat next to Mano in the cockpit. You looked to your left and found him already staring at you, “So Mando, where exactly are we going?”. He tapped his covered fingers nervously on the seat’s armrests. “We’re going to Tatooine, to…see some friends of mine.” You jolted out of your seat and stood, panicked. “T-tatooine?” you squeaked out. Mando nodded, “…yeah? Is there something wrong with Tatooine?”. You sat back down and tried to shake off your fears, “no, nothing wrong.”, you gave Mando a weak smile. You hadn’t been back to Tatooine since you joined the Empire, would people recognize you? Probably not, you thought. You were just a slave there, a nobody, surely you wouldn’t have a problem. Mando could see the cogs in your head turning. “What’s wrong, mesh’la?” he asked. You hummed, “Nothing, I just. I was born on Tatooine and I haven’t been back since….since I joined the you know what.” He nodded, “I understand.” Mando reached over to your seat and held your hand. You were shocked, but you didn’t move away out of fear the you might scare him away like a spooked horse. You gave his gloved hand a soft squeeze. You felt safer than you had in a while.
…
The sand kicked up in your face, sweat dripped down your arms. You had asked Mando to stop at a market so you could change out of your tight uniform and get some weather appropriate attire. You stopped at a stall boasting womenswear. A beautiful, flowing, deep blue set caught your eye. The sight of loose pants practically made you drool in this weather. You picked up the airy outfit and made your way to the store keeper. You dug through your satchel looking for your credit pouch when you heard, “Y/N?”. Kriff. You raised your gaze to the voice to find an old friend of yours. “Maker! V! What are you doing here?” You practically jumped on him. You greeted each other with a warm embrace. “It’s so wonderful to see you, Y/N. Where have you been?” You laughed, “I’ve been out and about….hey! Do you own this place?”. He nodded and you replied, “Oh V! You did it! You always wanted to sell your beautiful clothing. I’m so proud of you!”, you both hugged again. You felt V stiffen around you, “What? What is it?” you asked. He whispered, “There’s a Mandalorian staring at you…are you in trouble? Cause I can help you if you are.” You laughed at both his worry and protectiveness. “It’s ok V, he’s with me.”. V pulled back from the embrace and cocked his eyebrow. “No, no not like that!” you rolled your eyes. “Ok…”, he moved on, not believing a word you said. You lifted up the blue fabric, “This outfit is gorgeous, V. How much?” He laughed and took it from your hands, “For you? Nothing. But you have to let me help you style it. You never knew how to dress.” This time he rolled his eyes. You giggled, “C’mon V, let me support you, let me pay.” He shook his head, “Absolutely not. Plus, once everyone sees how beautiful you look in this, they’ll want to know where you got it from!” You both laughed this time, and you followed him into the tent at the back of the stall. Before you stepped in, you turned around to let Mando know it was ok. You could tell he was on edge and you gave him a small wave of reassurance. The tent felt cool compared to the harsh suns blaring outside. V helped you unzip, “What hell are you even wearing?“ he asked incredulously. You turned to face him , “What? You don’t like it?”. He contemplated before he spoke, “No it’s cute and all, but it’s…it’s just not you.” His comment hit you like a ship in hyperdrive. With everything that had been going on recently, you felt attacked by what he said. You knew it wasn’t you, yet you continued to pretend it was. Why? Before you could finish your thought V spoke. “Mm mm mm, I’m good.” You spun around in the mirror, “You do know what you’re doing.” you admitted. V told you to wait as he left the tent to retrieve some accessories. “Here.”, he said placing a matching veil across your face to help block the sand. “It’s beautiful.”, you said turning to give him a hug. “Thank you for this.”, he squeezed you a little harder and whispered, “I know something’s up with you, I see the red marks around your neck. Tell me. What’s going on with you.”. You tensed up and V continued to speak, “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine, I get it. But if something is wrong, you can always come to me.”. You both pulled back and you smiled at him, “I’m ok V, I swear. Thank you for this and for looking out for me.”, “Of course, Y/N. Please, be safe out there.”. You gave each other one last hug before you left the tent.
Your Mandalorian was exactly where you left him, leaning against a clay building. His head was torn from whatever scuffle was happening down the street to meet your gaze. He immediately straightened off the wall at the sight of you. His reaction made your heart race. Kriff. Was he always that tall? I wonder if he’s actually that tall or if his armor adds extra height? Mando’s hands fidgeted as you approached him. “All good?” you asked in reference to the street fight he had been watching. Mando gripped is vembramce strap and felt his throat grow scratchy. “Mando?”, he was building up the courage to speak to you. “Sorry, Y/N. Yeah, it’s all good.” he lazily pointed in the fight’s general direction. His actions made you furrow your brow in confusion, “Yeah…ok, big guy. Let’s get you out of the sun.” you grabbed his elbow and started pulling him back in the direction of the ship. He followed behind you, secretly berating himself for fumbling his words in front of you, again. The walk to the ship was quiet and you could feel Mando’s eyes burning into your bare midsection. You walked with a little more sway in your hips, just to see if anything interesting might happen. It didn’t. As soon as you both arrived on the ship Mando threw out a quick apology and excused himself to his quarters. Your face warmed with embarrassment, you worried you made him uncomfortable and quickly regretted the show you had put on. You hid in your make shift room, which was really just a corner in the cargo hold. You laid down on the thermal blanket and quickly drifted off to sleep.
…
Your throat was scratchy when you awoke, you guessed it was from the new, sandy environment. It was still light outside so you figured you hadn’t slept long. “Mando?”, you called out. No response. You walked to the cockpit to find a note on your seat. “Headed out to meet my friends. I’ll be back later.”. Your shoulders dropped in disappointment, you had hoped you could clear the air with him and mend whatever you had broken before. You look up from the note to stare at the sandy abyss outside the window. A figure appeared in the mist. You squinted and moved closer to the glass to get a better look at the advancing form. The dust around the ominous mirage settled and you were able to make out a distinct shape. At first you thought it was Mando but as the person approached the ship, you realized their robes were black and flowing, a stark contrast to your Mandalorian’s silver beskar armor. The figure stopped its movement about 50 yards away from the ship, hooded head facing you. You rubbed your eyes in disbelief, astounded by what was in front of you. You ran to put your shoes on. You lowered the ramp to exit the ship and bounded towards the figure. You halted your running 30 feet away. The man turned to face you and you gasped as he produced a saber from his robes. A hazy red light appeared and quickly closed in on you. It took you a second to process what was happening, but you swiftly responded by turning in the opposite direction and running. The saber and the maniac wielding it gained ground behind you. You couldn’t breathe as your gut instincts and adrenaline forced you to run even faster. Almost as if you ran into an invisible wall you involuntarily fell backwards on to the sand. You heard rapid footsteps approaching you. You scrambled to get off the dunes and on to your feet when you came face to face with the end of the red saber. “Gotcha.”
#anakin fanction#anakin imagine#anakin x reader#anakin x you#darth vader fanfiction#darth vader x reader#darth vader x you#mandalorian fanfiction#mando x reader#mando x you#dark!anakin#unburnt!vader
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We Who Wander
TMA SPOILERS -- CW Claustrophobia and Strangers
this ficlet is born of the ideas that (a) there were other people able to walk the fearscapes during the eyepocalypse, (b) Joshua Gillespie would have most definitely been able to, and (c) Joshua and Lionel are two of my favorite statement-givers and I think they complement each other,,,, I don't know how this happened enjoy
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Joshua wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and didn’t move. He could feel everything pressing down on him, in on him, around him, but he knew it wanted him to squirm, to scream, to panic. He refused to panic. Not again. The humming all around him felt a lot like the way the coffin had once sung each time it rained, and it was oddly comfortable. It reminded him more of routine than fear.
He waited until the crushing, absolute pressure was at its peak, having endured it so long he knew what signs to look for in his body — heart beating out of his chest, joints popping, tears and fear rising unbidden within him — and forced his body upwards. As he had guessed, it was merely soft soil given the impression of unyielding rock, and his hands clawed through it easily. And also as he had guessed, it was only six feet deep, which meant that when it pressed in on him it became somewhat compacted. He only had to dig through about five feet of soil before his hands broke the surface, and he rose coughing from the dirt. He clambered from the pressing hole he had made, aware of the ground contracting around him in a desperate attempt to keep him there, but he had gotten the jump on it and managed to free himself from the dirt. He wanted to lay down, just collapse there on the dirt and rest, but he realized that the ground was still trying to reclaim him and he would not go back to his grave.
He ran. Of course he ran, that was a normal and rational thing to do. The terrain was hilly and shifting, and he stumbled and fell with legs stiff from disuse more than once. But always, the fear of being taken again by the soil as it grasped at him took over, and he staggered to his feet, out of breath and coughing the grit in his lungs. When the soil beneath him stopped reaching for his feet, stopped swelling and shifting, he finally felt safe enough to rest.
He collapsed completely and just laid there, his body wracked with choking coughs as an impossible amount of dirt was expelled from his chest. When he was done spitting soil, he struggled to a sitting position to assess his surroundings.
He was in what appeared to be the courtyard of a university, to the left of him stretching the great undulating grassless plain he had just ran from. He shuddered and stood, legs trembling with exhaustion, and analyzed the building before him. It appeared to be a side wall, characterized by a single glass door labeled ‘PULL’ and dull red brick. He figured he probably shouldn’t enter any creepy or mysterious buildings, but to be honest he didn’t want to stand outside any longer after the ground had tried to eat him, so he pulled the door open anyway and headed inside.
He couldn’t decide if inside was worse than the endless crushing underground, but it was certainly close. The halls were filled with eyeless, disproportionate figures that, judging from their uniforms, were supposed to be students. Some of them walked jerkily, like mannequins given mobility, others had arms that dragged on the floor, others had colorful face paint over featureless faces, and still others limped along on limbs that shouldn’t have existed. He shivered and ducked behind a stairwell. The hall was almost entirely silent despite the amount of noise that should have been happening, and Joshua was torn between making noise himself to ease his fear or staying silent to avoid attracting attention.
That’s when he heard the voice, and instead of going to leave, he inexplicably scrambled to find the source. Maybe the relief of finding another human being was stronger than he had previously thought it would be -- because it was a human voice, wasn't it? It seemed to be someone calling out, a man judging by the tone, and he sounded panicked. It took a few moments before Joshua could make out the words the person was yelling.
“Has anyone seen my students? Hello? Excuse me, sir, have you seen my students?” Joshua found himself face-to-face with this person, with rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes, who was clutching Joshua’s arm with a tight, fearful grip.
“No— I haven’t,” Joshua said with bewilderment. “What do they look like?” He wasn’t sure why this was the first thing in his head, except that he couldn’t let this man run haphazardly about with the monstrosities surrounding them. Had this man been stuck here like Joshua in the earth? “Are they… any of these fellows?” He gestured around them to the disproportionate beings trudging through the halls.
“No, no,” the man said desperately, and he looked at Joshua with such earnest hopelessness that Joshua could almost feel it in his chest. “They’ve all got eyes, you see, these eyes that don’t stop staring, and they’re tall, all about the same height, only a few inches shorter than me, and they're... rather forgettable? They must be here somewhere — I think they may be hurting people. I have to find them.”
Joshua stared blankly for a moment, and then — he couldn’t believe what was coming out of his own mouth — said, “I’ll help you find them.” What had compelled him to say that? Now? In some horrific change of the world -- or was it just a nightmare? He supposed he just wanted to help anyone he could in this horror show of a world, but no, that couldn’t be right because he wasn’t much of a compassionate person. He had never been, especially not since the coffin.
But now this frazzled-looking man with glasses askew was following him down a hall thanking him profusely and rambling about students and anatomy and the apocalypse, and Joshua found himself leading the man outside, out of the bizarre and uncomfortable school -- "Oh," the man nervously laughed, "When I tried the doors, they were all locked." -- and to the courtyard. Then, he put up a hand to stop the man (both in action and in words).
“What’s your name?” Joshua asked the disheveled professor(?), trying to stay calm as his gaze caught on the undulating earth field in the distance. Apparently, they’d managed to exit through a different door, because now it was to their left.
“Lionel Elliot,” the man said breathlessly, adjusting his glasses — Joshua could see they were broken, now — and laughing with a helpless flutter of his hands. “Yours?”
“Joshua,” he replied. “Joshua Gillespie.” Perhaps the apocalypse wouldn’t be so bad.
#i love these two idiots#i think joshua would be more capable than lionel against most fears except spiral and stranger#i also plan to continue this because lionel with weird apocalypse children gives me life#tma#the magnus pod#the magnus archives#joshua gillespie#lionel elliot#ficlet#tma fanwork#the eyepocalypse
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graviora manent
For the @halloweenie-event
Prompt: Waking up in a coffin
Also read on [AO3]
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Peter opens his eyes to darkness.
He sucks in a gulp of air, the cold and staleness striking his aching lungs with a quickness that causes him to cough. He arches his back and stretches his stiff limbs, aching at the joints. He feels smooth cloth beneath his fingers. Satin? It covers the bottom, up the walls, and above him.
He presses his feet (bare, no shoes, where are his shoes?) down and feels the same smoothness. Not just smooth. Hard as well. Solid. The walls are solid too. The top is solid.
Dread takes hold of his confusion.
Trapped. He’s trapped somewhere dark and small.
Okay, it’s okay. You’ve been trapped before. You can figure this out.
Peter swallows, throat dry and aching, and nearly chokes on the stale air. His head throbs and swims as he tries to remember.
It comes in pieces.
Tracking down a hitman but the hitman was waiting. An ambush and a fight. Something exploded, throwing him back and he hit something hard.
“Looks like the itsy bitsy spider had quite a fall.”
“I leave all my clients with a question. Are you ready for yours?”
“I am made but not needed.
I am needed but not wanted.
I am used but not knowingly.
What am I?”
Peter stares into the blackness as a cruel spark of clarity brings him the answer.
A casket.
Panic grips him, sending burning ice through his veins as he knocks against the walls. A shout tears from his throat and he bangs his fists against the wood. It doesn’t budge. His heart rate increases and he knows he doesn’t have much time. He needs to get out. He needs to get out now.
His mind races with questions he doesn’t have time to answer. He can answer them later (yes later, there will be a later).
Peter presses his palms flat on the wood above (the lid of his casket, the lid of his-) and pushes. Arms shake, his system still burning through whatever drug he’d been knocked out with, and he pushes again. With luck, the ground is still soft and he’ll be able to pull himself out with no problem.
But when has he ever been lucky? The only luck he has is Parker luck.
It took his parents. It took his uncle.
Now it wants to take him.
Peter grits his teeth and punches the wood above. It hits solid. He hits it again. And again and again.
He won’t die here. He has to get home. He has a family. May and Ned and MJ.
Thunk!
MJ.
Thunk!
MJ is waiting for him.
Thunk!
He can’t leave MJ alone. Not like this.
Crack!
The wood splints and cracks beneath his bloody fist. Peter feels a trickle of soil against his face and his racing heart leaps at the flicker of hope. When it happens, he’ll have to move fast. Any hesitation and the lid will collapse and he will suffocate.
He can’t. MJ is waiting for him.
Gathering his strength, he punches the same weak spot again. His disoriented spider sense screams to life as the wood buckles and dirt begins to pour in.
Peter sucks in what little air he has left and surges for the opening. He claws and climbs, limbs burning, lungs burning. Fear remains ever present; the fear of being sucked back down into the dark, of never reaching the surface. Fear of never seeing his family again.
MJ.
Peter grits his teeth and shoves his way up.
A spark of pain shoots from his finger as he catches something hard in his climb.
His lungs plead for air. His mind screams at him not to.
MJ.
Dirt fills his nose.
He can’t die here. He won’t die here.
He has to escape. He will escape.
MJ.
The soil feels wetter beneath his hands. Peter feels he must be near the surface. It’s taking too long (how long does it take to climb six feet?). He can’t stop. Push past the fear. Focus on what needs to be done. Keep moving. Keep going. Deal with it later. Later. Later. Later.
Peter screams in his throat, thrusts his hand upwards and…
Peter opens his eyes to darkness.
He sucks in a gulp of air, the cold and staleness striking his aching lungs with a quickness that causes him to cough. He arches his back and stretches his stiff limbs, aching at the joints. He feels smooth cloth beneath his fingers. Satin? It covers the bottom, up the walls, and above him.
“No…” he whispers. He presses his bare feet against the cloth, finding resistance. He stretches his hands upward, palms flat, and feels the same cloth. He tears at it in a frenzy and finds more solid wood.
“No, no no no…!” He shouts into the nothingness. He hears nothing but his ragged breath and loud, beating heart. Was everything before just a dream? Something his unconsciousness created as a sick joke?
Deep seated dread joins his panic. Peter feels more like an animal now than ever as he beats against the walls of his prison. Fingertips feel slick with blood as he claws at the wood above. He understands now why an animal will gnaw off his own leg to escape a trap.
The small part of rational thinking regains control long enough for him to form a fist and punch his way out.
The wood cracks. Dirt showers over his face.
He punches the spot again (the same spot, it’s the same spot) and it gives. Soil pours in, taking up the empty spaces and Peter pushes forward.
A twisted sense of familiarity takes hold as he climbs. It feels like swimming but it isn't. His lungs burn. His arms ache. Smell of the musty earth takes the place of everything else.
Peter thinks of MJ. He thinks of how he’s done this before.
He thinks about how long it takes to climb six feet.
The soil grows wetter beneath his hands. His chest is on fire. There’s dirt in his mouth. Keep going. He’s nearly there. Just a little more. Just a little more.
Peter thrusts his hand upwards and…
Peter opens his eyes to darkness.
He sucks in a gulp of the same cold, stale air that makes him cough. He feels the walls (cloth covered - satin - wood) and knows in an instant he’s back where he started. Back in the casket. Back in the trap.
“Help!” he shouts, words grating against his throat. He thumps on the lid with his fist, feeling the solidness of the soil above.
Peter lies in his grave, panicking and wondering how many times he’s done this. His head spins and aches (the same spot as before and before).
Then, he remembers more.
“I won’t kill you, Spider-Man. Oh no no. Not you. You will live, again and again and again. You will never escape on your own.”
Peter stares into the blackness. He grips the cloth around him, fingers digging into the wood, and he screams.
#halloweenie2022#cw claustrophobia#tw claustrophobia#tw buried alive#peter parker#spider-man#spiderman#marvel#mcu#duckie's writing
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Nora, The Sole Survivor
Chapter 3: Out of Time
The platform rose in the darkness, the sounds of groaning metal bouncing in the small tunnel. I stood there for a while, trying to think of what would be on the surface. Would it even be safe to walk around up there? There were roaches still alive in the vault. Maybe some animals would still be OK up there? I finally saw a crack of light above me, then more light poured in as the door opened. I covered my eyes with my hand, feeling the warmth of natural sunlight for the first time in a long while. The platform came to a halt as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. I saw lots of brown and yellow, dirt and trees with falling leaves. Plants seem to be the same, but not the verdant green I was used to. I took a deep breath. The air was crisp, slightly metallic, but I felt OK so far. I could see ruins of houses over the hillside, where Sanctuary Hills used to be.
I turned around to the path, gripping my pistol. The path down was littered with more skeletons and wreckage of helicopters, cars, and trailers. I started down, slowly passing the debris. I still remember running past some of them to get into the vault, and now they all were dead. For god knows how long. I accidentally kicked one of the bones as I walked. I jerked my gun over and shot before I realized it was nothing. I awkwardly kept walking. I guess I was jumpy, but so far there hadn’t been anyone around. I crossed a small river into a backyard, finally inside the suburb. The houses were rusted and filled with holes. I could see inside the house with ruined furniture and scraps of what used to be. I walked up to where the road was, the asphalt was cracked with weeds growing through. I looked over to where my house was, only to see something moving. I raised my pistol, then realized what it was.
Codsworth was hovering outside my house, like it was a normal day. He was using his saw to trim our hedges. The hedges were perfectly trimmed, despite being dead and brown. I walked up slowly, unsure how he would respond. His closest eye turned to me, then the rest of him turned. I heard his sensors whirring, almost like he was trying to process seeing me.
“As I live and breathe…” His voice sounded torn. “It’s… it’s really you!”
“Codsworth… You’re still here.” It seemed surreal, but he was still trucking after everything that happened.
“Well, of course I'm still here!” He replied, in the chipper tone I was used to. “Surely you don't think a little radiation could deter the pride of General Atomics International?” He scanned around with his eyes quickly. “But you seem worse for wear. Best not let the hubby see you in that state. Where is sir, by the way?”
He didn’t know. We just abandoned him to go to the vault. I felt guilty about leaving but it all happened so fast. “He’s… He’s..” I got choked up on my words. “He’s dead. Someone killed him.”
“It's worse than I thought.” Codsworth hummed to himself. “You're suffering from hunger-induced paranoia. Not eating properly for 200 years will do that, I'm afraid.”
I dropped my pistol when I heard that. “200 years? What the hell do you mean?” There was no way it had been that long. The terminals in the vault only mentioned a couple months.
“A bit over 210 actually, mum. Give or take a little for the Earth's rotation and some minor dings to the ole' chronometer. That means you're two centuries late for dinner!” He laughed at his own joke. “Perhaps I can whip you up a snack? You must be famished.”
“What? Food? Yeah, sure... I... I need a minute to think…” I leaned against the wall and slumped down. Codsworth scooted off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. 200 years? It seemed impossible, but here I was, the sole survivor of Sanctuary Hills. Just me and Codsworth, who seemed to be nonchalant about the whole thing.
“Here you are, mum!” Codsworth came back holding some Fancy Lads in his claw. He put them in my lap. The pink box was worn, with stains on the outside. The top had been ripped open but the cakes inside were still sealed. I opened one and took a bite. It was sickeningly sweet, but that's how I remembered them tasting. They pumped these with so many chemicals I guess it made sense they wouldn’t go bad.
“Codsworth…” I swallowed and started to speak. “Listen to me carefully... have you seen him? Have you seen Shaun?”
“Why, Nate had him last, remember? Perhaps he's gone to the Parker residence to arrange a play-date?” Codsworth pointed to a ruined house.
“Codsworth, are you sure you're holding up okay?” Even if he was programmed just to clean, there was no way he was acting like this was normal.
“Oh mum, it's been just horrible!” Codsworth cried out. He finally sat down, tucking his legs under him next to me. “Two centuries with no one to talk to, no one to serve. I spent the first ten years trying to keep the floors waxed, but nothing gets out nuclear fallout from vinyl wood. Nothing!” His eyes drooped as he continued. “And don't get me started about the futility of dusting a collapsed house. And the car! The car! How do you polish rust?”
I put my hand on his claw. Even though he was just a robot, I could hear the pain in his voice. “Let it out buddy.”
“I'm afraid I don't know anything else, mum. The bombs came, and all of you left in such a hurry. I thought for certain you and your family were... dead. I just stayed here, hoping someone from the vault would emerge someday. I did find this holotape. I believe Nate was going to present it to you. As a surprise. But then, well... everything happened." He held out a tape.
I took it from him. “Codsworth, all the time you were here. Did you see anyone? Anyone at all? Maybe a bald guy with a large scar?” Maybe he saw someone go in or leave with Shaun.
“If only I had, mum! You've no idea the desperation for human contact one develops over 200 years. And when you do encounter them? Oh the cruelty! You're either... target practice or... spare parts!”
“Wait, so you saw someone?”
“Well, I must admit. I did explore a little nearby.” Codsworth pointed towards the city. “I took a trip to Concord years ago. Plenty of people there. But they pummeled me with sticks until I had to run back home. I haven’t seen anyone in Sanctuary though.”
“There's still people alive in Concord?” I was surprised to hear this, but Vault-Tec had put up some other Vaults in Boston. I guess some people in them had come back to the surface like me.
“Yes, although they're a bit rough. You remember the way? Just across the southern footbridge out of the neighborhood and past the Red Rocket station.” Codsworth looked over to me. “What do you intend to do once you find someone?”
“Shaun's out there, Codsworth. I need to find him.” I stood up, grabbing my pistol from the ground. “Someone took my son, and if there is a chance he’s out there, I have to go.”
“Well then mum, I will continue to secure the home. Although I’m afraid it’s not as nice as it once was.” Codsworth hovered back up to my eye level. “Should you ever need food or shelter, I will have it here for you. However, may I suggest leaving tomorrow morning? I don’t like the idea of you traveling at night.”
I looked at the clock. It was after 9, and the sun was already setting. It made sense to wait. “Sure, Codsworth. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
The rest of the night was quiet. Codsworth showed me his garden and food stash. There was Blamco Mac & Cheese, Cram, Instamash, Pork n’ Beans, Nuka-Cola, Sugar Bombs, and some Yum Yum Deviled Eggs. All filled with preservatives from years ago. Codsworth even started a small garden in the backyard, with something called a Mutfruit. It tasted similar to an apple, just mushier and sweeter. I was surprised that there was so much, then learned that Codsworth had picked Sanctuary clean. He had gone through the whole neighborhood, taking any edible food and decent scraps and keeping them in our house. He claimed it was to help whoever was going to emerge from the vault, and also it gave him a purpose besides cleaning rusted cars. There was a pile of various clothes, wood, steel, even a few pipe guns with ammo.
It brought back memories, seeing the scraps. There was a Nuka-Cola shirt that my neighbor Mr. Hawthorne used to wear. A car door from the Johnson’s Corvega they never got to fix. The weapons reminded me of when the war was kicking up, many people started to build pipe weapons to avoid being on a watchlist. Nate’s new job was to help round up these weapons so the homefront would be safe. I found a military backpack of Nate’s and started to pack up a few things for my trip. Some food, a pipe pistol and ammo, even a spare outfit in case something happened to my suit.
Codsworth ,meanwhile, had set up the remaining mattresses in Shaun’s room for a bed. Shaun’s room was the most covered, as in the least holes in the walls, so it made sense. After getting everything together, I decided to sleep until morning. Codsworth assured me he would be on guard duty all night, then left to check the perimeter. I sat down on the mattress on the floor. It was ragged and stained, but still supported me just fine. I also felt something in my pocket as I laid down. I remembered that Codsworth had given me a holotape from Nate. I slipped off my pip-boy, and put the tape inside. I hit play, only to realize this wasn’t a data file, it was a voice file.
It started with a loud feedback sound. I guess he was too close to the microphone. “Oops.” Nate laughed a little, then I heard Shaun babbling. “No, no. Little fingers away. There we go. Just say it. Right there. Right there. Go ahead.” Shaun babbled more. I think Nate was trying to get him to say something. I was tearing up, listening to him play with our son.
He started over. “Hi honey! Listen… I don't think Shaun and I need to tell you how great of a mother you are... but we're going to anyway. You are kind, and loving,” Shaun giggled in the background “and funny! That's right. And patient. So patient. Patience of a saint, as your mother used to say.”
It had been so long since he said something like this to me. The tape continued. “Look, with Shaun, and us all being at home together... It's been a stressful year. But even so, I know our best days are yet to come. There will be changes, sure. Things we'll need to adjust to. I'm rejoining the office instead of being deployed. You're shaking the dust off your law degree... But everything we do, no matter how hard... we do it for our family. Now say goodbye, Shaun... Bye bye? Say bye bye?” Shaun giggled again. Nate sighed. “Bye honey! We love you! Happy Birthday!”
The tape ended. I had completely forgotten. My birthday was on the 30th, just a few days away. I cried. My emotions finally caught up to me fully. The nukes had gone off, I had been frozen for 200 years, My husband was shot dead, My son was kidnapped, and here I was. Crying alone on a dirty mattress in my ruined house, chasing a crazy hope that maybe Shaun would be out there. I cried for hours, until I finally fell asleep from exhaustion.
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Let me tell you about my Saab IV
Let me tell you about my Saab. I stole it from a chieftain of the moleman species, a vicious conqueror who enslaved my meagre settlement and planned to gut me for transplants to prolong his failing body. His name was Stonebeak. He and his witch doctor would ride on chariots drawn by mutated centipedes past the tunnels where I destroyed my once-strong back breaking rocks. My hands shook on the jackhammer. My sinus was swollen with earth. Stonebeak's witch doctor crept behind me with a sharpened femur, poking my flanks and observing my reflexes. I knew the boss always switched organs on the first high tide of the season. I knew that the date was fast approaching.
Stonebeak's love of collecting surface cars was famous in the tunnels. We'd heard the revving of his Daihatsus as we lay locked in our dormitories, the snarl rattling through the metal ducting. We’d smelled the acrid puff of burning diesel seeping under doors. They would be my escape. Over many weeks I siphoned kerosene from the tunnel borer and smuggled it home in tiny sachets. I picked beetle shells out of my daily bowl of insects and stashed them in a skull under my bunk. When the time came I combined the ingredients and melted the chitin into a hard shellac lockpick. With shaking hands I cracked the lock. I said a prayer for my fellow workers, daubed wet mud on my face for camouflage and clicked the door shut behind me.
Stonebeak’s warren extended four kilometres below the surface and was made up of over a thousand kilometres of tunnel. Each day it grew bigger. The tunnels stretched from the lake floor to the canyons. There were marketplaces and dungeons. There were burrows upon burrows, rows upon rows, each filled with glistening pink molemen, hairless and nude, blue eyed and buck toothed. Their hideousness was matched by their violence. A moleman would wake up one morning and slit his own throat out of spite, thrashing his legs with rage as he drowned in blood. A moleman loved biting and kicking and fighting above all else. To escape I would need to be seen by none of them. A moleman would eat you before it reported you to guards. And I had no idea where Stonebeak’s garages were.
I crept up the dormitory tunnel to the main thoroughfare, where drunken moleman guards, savage with poisoned moonshine, murdered each other and minced the dead bodies in portable shredders. They laughed at the dead. The dead were weak. I crouched beside a burned out tractor and pushed it slowly towards the onramp to InterTunnel 1. As the sounds of revelry faded behind me I gave the tractor a push. It careened down the ramp and I heard a satisfying crash as a moleman truck ploughed into it. I skidded down the dirt slope and hauled the dazed driver out of the truck. He had a sawn-off in the cabin. I gave him a long kiss goodnight with the shotgun butt and left him draped over the tractor.
As I put the truck into gear there was a movement in the passenger seat. It was a molechild. A girl. I could tell because she lacked the distinctive fleshy collar of the males. She looked fearfully at me. “Was that your daddy?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she spat. “He was a son of a bitch. Where you goin’?”
I pointed up. “Mole truck’ll never take you there,” she sniggered. The trucks lost power close to the surface. It was how Stonebeak prevented molemen from leaving.
“No fucking shit,” I told her. “That’s why I’m going to steal one of Stonebeak’s surface cars. Do you know where he lives?”
She nodded with satisfaction. I hit the gas. We rolled down the InterTunnel past black hole after black hole. “Here,” said Molegirl, and we hit an offramp. It was paved with smooth concrete. The tunnels became less bare. There were lanterns and rock carvings. We passed quiet molemen villas, their round front doors a rich brown in the truck’s headlights. Only the wealthy had front doors. Worker molemen had bare earth burrows.
As we steered uneasily around a quiet circuit there was a flash of light ahead. Bad news. It was surface daytime. The moles slept lightly and would instinctively smash through walls if woken suddenly. They hated that. Lights on a residential street meant one thing: a trap. I swerved to the side, threw the truck into reverse and smashed the back end into the front door of a nearby burrow. Just in time. A mortar exploded on the concrete where I’d just been. Molegirl shrieked with savage delight. I swerved around the crater and gunned the engine. I’d need to find another way to Stonebeak’s garage. I burned back out to InterTunnel 1 and took the next exit. My plan was to loop around and find the other end of the circuit I’d just been on. The ramp went up and up. I passed a waterlock that led up to the lakebed. I kept driving. The bare dirt tunnel led to tarmac. The rattle of the truck was replaced by a smooth whir. The road opened up into a wide roundabout. In the centre was a jagged lump of obsidian. On one side, pale green lanterns hung above luxurious oak double doors. Unbelievable. I’d done it: I was at Stonebeak’s mansion. On the other side of the roundabout short driveways led to wide holes set side by side. This was it. I slammed my foot on the accelerator and crashed through the door of the first. My head whipped forward and back. I saw stars. Dizzily, I backed the truck out and climbed down. I staggered forward to the driver’s seat of a 1983 Mitsubishi Lancer. Beautiful car. I tried to turn the ignition but it choked and fell silent. I heard the groan of heavy machinery behind me. I heard the roar of Stonebeak, half asleep and enraged, as he staggered out of his burrow and saw the devastation. In a panic I tried to haul open the door of the next garage burrow along. Locked. I heard the thunk and click of Stonebeak loading a mortar into its launcher and crabwalked my aching, whiplashed body behind the Mitsubishi.
The blast threw me against the back wall of the burrow. There was a flare as the Mitsubishi caught fire. The door of the burrow next door swung loosely on its hinges. I hauled myself inside to find a beautifully restored, glossy black Saab 900 Turbo. An incredible marriage of style and engineering. I paused a moment to take in the view. Then I slipped into the driver’s seat. Molegirl dived through the passenger window. The key was in the ignition. I peeled out of the garage and careened straight into Stonebeak and the car stopped. We were directly on top of him, but he was huge. A full-grown moleman chief. 600 kilos of bone and muscle. The Saab’s wheels were in the air. He screamed as I revved the engine and the tyres burned him, then he reached through the window and tore off Molegirl’s door. As he reached inside she went to work. In a few moments she’d bitten off three of his fingers. Blood hosed around the interior. She grabbed the shotgun, leaned out and fired under the car. Stonebeak slumped. The car tipped slowly and slid down onto its side.
Molegirl’s forearm was pinned underneath the car. The Saab’s back wheels spun helplessly in the air. She smiled, then grimaced, as she used the vicious claws on her free hand to drag the car further out from Stonebeak’s corpse. The wheels bounced down onto the ground.
Her forearm was a pulp of bone and blood. Her moist pink face had turned grey. She rolled out of the car and lay on the stone driveway. I could hear the wail of guard trucks converging on us through the tunnels.
“Get back in if you want to live!” I called desperately to her. “I don’t,” she said. She reloaded Stonebeak’s mortar and fired it at his house, then again, then again. There was a rumble as the cavern collapsed but it was already in my rearview mirror. I hit the InterTunnel again, 200 kilometres an hour, up, up, always up, weaving around the patrols, untouchable, towards the surface, towards daylight, towards home. That’s how I got my Saab.
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Nothing But A Scratch
Ivar x Princess reader
Word Count: 3155
Warnings: Tiny mention of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, Ivar may be out of character (Shrugs).
Summary: Ivar is wounded during battle.
My entry for @maggiescarborough’s 400 Followers Writing Challenge! Congratulations Sophie! 😊❤️For some reason, I always write more than 2k for your challenges 😂
I’m not exactly sure what to say about this. I struggled quite a bit writing it. I’m really hard on myself 😅Hope ya’ll enjoy!
Prompt: The character gets seriously hurt.
According to google translate (An unreliable source, I know), moron in Russian is Debil.
Thanks to @shannygoatgruff for beta reading
...
It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself.
The enemy sword was swift, the blade slicing through his armor and deep into the flesh of his belly.
It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when blood began to pour from his wound and past his lips, the adrenaline pushing him forward.
It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when he swayed on his feet, his crutch no longer of use to him.
It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when his legs twisted, and his body collided with the muddy ground, completely vulnerable and surrounded by his enemies.
…
Ivar dreamed.
He dreamed of Kattegat in the days of his youth, back when he trailed behind his older brothers through the dirt with his hands, only to come to the painful realization that he would never be like them. He dreamed of his mother and her tears, his pride separating them despite how much she pleaded for him not to go.
He dreamed of the salty waters of the Northern Sea and the unforgiving winds that destroyed their ship, splintering it to pieces. He dreamed of Ràn dragging him into the depths of her dark abyss, collecting another prize for her realm of the drowned.
He dreamed of England’s sandy shores, of land ready for the taking, and of the weak-minded men who ruled over it. He dreamed of little Prince Alfred, now a King, holding out his hand to offer him friendship in the form of a chess piece.
He dreamed of Ragnar in the way he remembered best, tired, and decrepit in his final days, a hermit, and yet, in his eyes, he was still the greatest man who ever lived.
It is not your time yet, Ragnar told him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.
He dreamed of Kiev and its massive wooden gates, golden palace walls, and luxurious Byzantine silks. He dreamed of the ambitious Prince Oleg, and of sweet, sweet, Igor. He dreamed of emotionless puppets made to stand with perfect posture while he still struggled to keep up with his own.
He dreamed of the Rus princess with the mysterious umber eyes, always seeking him out in a room. He dreamed of her dark hair hidden under white and gold silks, and of the jewels that adorned her neck and wrists, as befitting a princess.
He dreamed of her smile, never fully reaching her eyes, and of the way her fingers stroked his cheek at night when the fires burned bright against the darkness when her maids kept close watch outside her door.
He dreamed of the smooth expanse of her skin, of her gasps of delight, and her moans of pleasure. He dreamed of her mouth on his, the urgency they both felt as she left crescent moon shapes over his shoulders, clinging on to the precious time that seemed to slip away.
He dreamed of the day he stole her away from her brother, away from the shelter of the Kievan court, and into the safety of his arms. She watched her brother die that day, by the hands of her own nephew, her dark eyes glossing over, but never daring to let the tears fall.
He dreamed of making her his wife, of her in a crown of wildflowers and the sun illuminating the different shades of her hair.
He dreamed of her smile, finally reaching her eyes.
He could hear her calling out to him, begging for him to come to her.
Ivar, please, she cried, Wake up.
He tried searching for her, arm outstretched and fingers reaching in futile attempts. It was impossible, his body fighting through what felt like tar. He sunk deeper into the darkness, away from her soothing voice, and into Ràn’s abyss where Ivar the Boneless was forgotten.
…
It had been a week before he had shown any signs of consciousness.
7 days of fever, chills, and silence that had him teetering between Midgard and Valhalla.
For 7 days his army laid low after their truce with the Saxon king. For all the attacks Wessex had endured from the Northmen, he valued peace over war, forgiveness over vengeance. A true Christian king.
Alfred was not ruthless.
For 7 days the heathen army waited impatiently, wondering whether the youngest son of Ragnar was to survive, or whether a funeral was to be organized. Some believed he would die. Of course, the wound he received at the hands of a Saxon warrior was a deadly one. A deep gash across his stomach had been opened to infection, causing the fever to take hold of him the first few nights. His legs, more shattered than ever, would make surviving seemingly impossible.
But still, they waited.
The former princess of Kiev waited by his side, as still as a statue of a saint. She kept watch over him at night when the rest of the army was asleep, feeling more lost than she ever did in her brother’s court. She prayed for his soul rigorously, cross clutched tightly in her hand, hard enough to leave an imprint in its wake.
7 days of uncertainty, of prayer and fasting, of fear and loneliness. 7 days of hope and hopelessness, surrounded by untrustworthy men.
But still, she waited.
…
It was the dead of night when Ivar broke from his delirium.
He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. He couldn’t hear the screams of his fellow warriors, the clashing of sword against sword, nor could he smell the scent of iron spewing from the blood of both enemy and ally. It was just...darkness.
Perhaps he was in Valhalla, he thought, though if that were true, then the stories were wrong. It was rather underwhelming.
But no, he was not in Valhalla either, not by the scent at least. It smelled of dried herbs, and of that revolting root the Rus princess often drank as a tea. What was it again? Ginseng?—
And then he forced his eyes to open, lashes ripping apart after spending days glued together.
Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he felt as if he were suffocating under the pile of furs thrown over him. His heart was beating erratically, nearly bursting from the confines of his chest as his body fought to stabilize itself.
He wheezed, his throat feeling dryer than the deserts of the Silk Road. His tongue darted out in an attempt to wet his cracked lips with little success.
Moving was an issue. He couldn’t. It hurt.
His attempt to sit up failed as a yelp ripped free from his lips, croaky and in pure agony. He fell back against the makeshift cot with a grunt.
The pain was excruciating, hot, and vicious in his lower abdomen, like a raven fighting to claw its way in. His legs, though always in a fragile state, felt worse than they had in the years since adopting the use of his braces and crutch.
He struggled to crane his neck, quick to map out his surroundings as best he could. He was in his own tent, that much was evident, as he always had it specifically set to his liking. His weapons were laid out in a corner, along with his ruined armor, crutch, and leg braces. The useless things landed him in a cot, fighting for survival.
“My love?” Her voice was enough to calm his wild heart, his neck snapping in the direction of her voice.
The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from what he could only assume had been days of weeping. Beside her was a steaming cup of tea, producing that horrible smell of Ginseng that made him want to gag. When had she the time to steal the root before they left Novgorod?
Wrapped around her wrist was her gold beaded rosary, bright and shining in the candlelight. She held the cross tightly in her small fist, knuckles white from the pressure. He wondered how long she had sat by his side, praying, waiting for him to recover.
Her fingers dropped the cross, her soft hands reaching for him. Ivar could feel her hot tears drip over his bare chest as she leaned over him.
“Ivar—” She choked his name, sobs already taking hold of her body as she cupped his warm face, “You’re awake! Thank God!” More tears poured from her eyes as her mouth quivered. She lowered herself to her knees, grabbing his hand and placing kisses on the surface.
Ivar wanted to wrap her in his arms, to tell her he was fine, that the gods have not taken him yet, but his arms felt as fragile as his legs, weak from days of disuse. Instead, he brings his fingertips to her flushed cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.
“Hey,” He croaked out, using his thumb to catch another falling tear before running his fingers through her hair, “Stop crying, please, love.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. He sounded more like an old toad than a human, but it was enough to bring her weeping down to mere whimpering.
“It has been days, I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, sniffling before continuing, “I feared the worst.”
The princess was far more worried for his well-being than he ever was.
Ivar was quite content with the idea of falling in battle and ascending to Valhalla. She had not agreed with such sentiments.
It is not your time yet, his father had said to him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.
“It is not my time yet,” He repeated Ragnar’s words, his hand continuing gentle motions through her soft hair, “Valhalla will have to wait a little longer, hmm?”
“Valhalla,” She hiccups, shaking her head, not fully understanding the Viking fascination with death, “Not with the way you throw yourself in battle.” She mutters, wiping her eyes.
She stood, going to the far side of the tent to fetch a bucket with a wooden ladle. She brings a hefty scoop of water to his lips, holding his head up carefully to aid him.
He drank like a mad man, the water running past his chin and down his neck.
“Debil,” She chastised him lovingly in her native tongue, eyes still moist, “Idiot. Where were your warriors?”
“Fighting for themselves,” He gasps, the cold water soothing the dryness of his throat, “Or have you forgotten the ways of war?” He croaks, his lips curling into a smile.
“What would I know of war, my love?” She offers, setting the bucket and the ladle aside once he had his fill, “Or have you forgotten I was but a sheltered princess.” She tried to make a joke of it, but she only sounded miserable saying such words. She brings a hand to smooth down his wild hair, braids unraveling into a long-twisted mess.
“In war,” Ivar begins, eyes fluttering as her nails scratched at his scalp, “You either survive or die.”
“And I suppose you wanted to die then?” A bitter tone was followed by a bitter smile. He cleared his throat, his tired eyes watching how her expression shifted through so many emotions.
His reply was honest. “If that is what the gods intended for me, then so be it. It would have been an honor.”
“What honor is there in taking me from my home, and leaving me to live out my life away from my own family and amongst men I do not know?” She snapped, though the anger was short-lived, and she lowered her eyes.
She was intrigued by Ivar from the moment she had set eyes on him, like a moth to a flame. She was happy to have left with him, happy to have relinquished her title and to have left such a sour life behind. Ivar offered her freedom, adventure, and love, things she never understood the meaning of in Kiev, but she was a fool to believe he was invincible. She had seen him rally crowds to chant his name, had seen his strengths despite his weaknesses, and yet, he bleeds red as every other man does. War takes the lives of men, and Ivar was not immune to such a fate. He welcomed it.
“You are all I have in this world, Ivar.” She spoke gently, as she did when he dreamed of her. Her fingers shifted to trace over the dark lines inked upon his heated skin. The fever had barely broken, but at least he was conscious now. “Please, my love, all I ask is that you stay alive.” Her lips quivered, “I do not think my heart could bear to see you like this again.”
Ivar felt his heart sink.
He knew she wasn’t made to live in a war camp amongst warriors. She was born into a life of gold and silver, into luxury that so many others could only dream of, and yet, she chose to go with him, a fallen king with worthless legs and a heart as dark as coal. He once had the world at his feet. He would do it all again, for her. He had to.
“Do you regret it?” He finally asked though something within him feared her answer.
“Regret what?”
“Regret leaving Kiev with me?” He reiterated, observing her features for any hint of disappointment.
“No,” The response was immediate and without hesitation, “I have been happier with you than I have been all my years in that palace.” She sighs, her hair creating a barrier between them when she lowered her head, “Oleg was not a good man.” Her words were laced in sorrow. Her brother's death still weighed heavy on her heart.
“You deserve more than this,” He said, eyes closing for a moment before bringing them back to her. Her dark brows curved up in a worrisome expression he’d seen on her many times before. “You have given up so much for me, a lonely cripple,” He chuckles when she made noises of protest, “Only the gods know why.” She considers him in silence, noting how unreal the blue of his irises were.
“Ivar?” She questioned, setting her palm on his warm chest and over his heart, silently thankful it was finally beating at a normal pace.
“You’re a princess, my love. The battlefield is no place for you.” He places his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze.
“All I ask of you is to stay alive.” She spoke softly, her lips curving into a smile, though it wasn’t enough to reach her eyes. “I will not ask you for anything else.” She feared being alone, and rightfully so. She’d been alone all her life in the Kievan court, as expressionless and empty as those Byzantine puppets Oleg was so fond of, donning smiles that never reached her eyes.
“My sweet girl,” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Come, I wish to embrace you.” Planting both hands firmly on the sides of the cot, he forces himself into a seated position, groaning all the while, feeling the fire burn in the pit of his belly. He grunts, eyes screwed tight as he forced himself upright.
“Ivar!” She scolds, more worried than anything else, “Stop moving! You’ll fester your wound.” She peels off the furs to reveal the gauze wrapped tightly around his mind section, the once white cloth now stained red. “Christ. I must call the healer.”
“Don’t,” Ivar pants, tugging her wrist and quickly bringing her to his side, “Please. I wish for a few minutes to ourselves before I must face the world in this weak state. Grant me this one thing, hm?”
“But your wound—”
“What, this?” He jerks his chin down toward his abdomen with a tired smile, “It is nothing but a scratch.”
“Ivar.” She warned him.
“Princess.” The amusement was clear in his tone, artfully masking his pain. He gripped her waist, tugging her forward and into his arms with a grunt. She smelled of the English forest and of summer blossoms. “I will never leave you.” He mutters the promise into her waist, still ignoring the pain, “I will give you everything you deserve, my love.”
“What of your army?” She questions quietly, fingers dancing over his bicep, “And the Saxon king? Your brother tells me he seeks peace.” Ivar scoffs.
“And he shall get it...for now.” He concludes with an angry twitch of his brow.
“What do you intend to do?” She laid her cheek over the messy strands of his chestnut brown hair.
“Recover, and take you away from this miserable land I should have never brought you to in the first place.”
“Oh, Ivar,” He felt her plant a kiss upon his hair, “I belong wherever you are.” He grunts, gripping her tightly as if she would slip right through his fingers like sand.
“Marry me.” He mutters into her soft linen dress, suddenly feeling as shy as he did when he was a boy.
“Hmm?”
“Marry me.” He said, louder this time, needier, a plea falling from his lips as he tightened his hold on her. He shifts his head to look at her, imagining her with a crown of wildflowers nestled in her soft tresses. Her eyes grew round at his statement, lips parted as if to speak.
“Truly?” She asks, “Or has the fever gone to your head?” Ivar rolled his eyes fondly.
“Why would I bother asking you if I did not mean it, hmm?” His chin lightly grazed her abdomen as he peeked up at her through his lashes. “I will make you a queen, lay the world at your feet if you allow me.”
How many tears could this woman produce? He thought though he was more than satisfied knowing they were tears of joy when she erupted in giggles.
“I accept,” She wiped her eyes before arching down to place a kiss on his lips, “But, under one condition.”
“Oh?” Ivar pulls away from her, brows raised, “Go on, what is it?”
“You must drink the ginseng tea,” She offers, taking the lukewarm tea and offering it to him, “The healers would prescribe it to Oleg whenever he came back wounded from battle. It will revive your strength and clear your body of infection.” Ivar eyes the cup wearily, nose flaring at the abhorrent smell. He didn’t like it.
“It smells horrid.” He complained.
“You fight battles against fearsome enemies, and yet, are too afraid to drink an herbal tonic?” She scoffs. Ivar narrows his eyes, considers her words before muttering under his breath.
“...Very well.” He takes the cup from her, face pinched after taking a sip, “Are you satisfied now? Will you marry me?” She nods fervently, her hands laced together in her joy. A blinding smile settled on her lips like never before.
It finally reached her eyes.
...
@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @a-mess-of-fandoms @leilabeaux @shannygoatgruff @inforapound @walkxthexmoon @hecohansen31 @youbloodymadgenius @peachyboneless @fuchsiagrasshopper @pomegranates-and-blood
#vikings#vikings fanfiction#ivar the boneless#ivar x reader#sophies400#xbellaxcarolinax#xbellaxcarolinax masterlist
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🔍 find the word game 🔎
Thanks so much for tagging me @pinespittinink! 🥺 ilu as ever!!! this is one of my ultimate favorite games on here to play. I’m going to split these between some different wips.
the words I was given are: right, behind, whole, light, & heart.
🌟 LIGHT ― ENCHANTED AT EVENTIDE (Aurora & Atticus)
“What are they?” Aurora asks, her voice breathless with awe.
“You do not know?” Atticus responds, his voice raw and quiet. “But I suppose you wouldn’t. You have never seen them before.”
Aurora yelps as Atticus bends over, scooping her up into his arms. She nets her own around his neck, craning her head back with a sound of honest delight as one of them splits from the others, showering down through the void just beyond the stairs.
“They’re stars,” Atticus says, and Aurora lifts one arm above her head, splaying her fingers out to the silver light that shimmers over them now, as though they are beneath the surface of a clear ocean, a celestial sea.
“They’re magical,” Aurora whispers.
Atticus rumbles, and when she looks back, she expects him to be staring up at the sky, not looking at her. The gold obsidian of his hair slips over the dark lashes of his eyes, and he blinks as Aurora delicately tucks it back from his gaze, her throat constricting around a feeling she does not have the words for, some emotion she hasn’t learned the language of yet.
“So are you,” Atticus tells her. “More magical than you even know, Aurora.”
💔 HEART ― ENCHANTED AT EVENTIDE. (Aurora & Atticus)
Atticus’s brow tightens. He leans closer to her, mouth opening as confusion and something darker clash across the storm bound carmine in his eyes.
“How can you say that?” he asks. “You are right here. Aurora, you are right here.”
Aurora smiles at him, heart hurting.
“But if I had never run into you by accident,” she says quietly, “you would have spent the rest of your life looking above my head, never once looking down. You would have never even realized I was there at all.”
“But you are here now,” Atticus rumbles. “And I see you. I have found you, have I not?”
Aurora laughs, the softest sliver of a bell-shaped sound that burns miserably from her throat.
“Heir Jupiter,” Aurora says softly, “you do not even know who I am.”
🔥 WHOLE ― HIS BODY A BROKEN LAW. (Nemesis & Judge)
The whole front of the gas station tears open in front of Nemesis. The Polyp bullies its way through, hands slopping and splatting over the asphalt, hauling itself through the ruination as its putrid, festering eyes turn neon underneath the graveyard glow of a single shoddy sign.
One of them pops off and rolls across the ground like a slimy billiard ball. Nemesis says, “Oh my god.”
A boot crunches down on a glass shard next to his head.
“Hey, kid,” the demon haunting Nemesis’s car says, “need a hand?”
🩸 BEHIND ― PREY FOR THE WICKED. (Zara & Foxglove)
Zara didn’t realize she was walking for the gash until she was near enough to see the glisten of black gore in full at its base. She stepped over broken thorns and torn ivy chunks. Her boots slicked through the ichor. The stench made her head spin.
Behind Zara, Foxglove choked on her name.
Zara looked back at her, frowning, just as Foxglove balked backward and her hands came up to her head with a painful, sudden gasp.
“Foxglove—” Zara started.
Something tore through the thorn wall behind her.
Zara twisted around, eyes wide, just as the monster’s teeth closed in around her skull.
💀 RIGHT ― PREY FOR THE WICKED. (Zara & Foxglove)
“You’ve proven,” Zara gasped, “you’re more than capable of—ah—handling yourself.”
“Bones don’t save me from monsters, you do,” Foxglove snapped at her. “Zara, you cannot leave me alone, please—stay with me!”
“Ask me nicely,” Zara mumbled, shutting her eyes and biting down on her lip until she sliced it open as another gout of pain started to burn through her ribcage, making sweat douse her entirely, claws dragging through the dirt to try and ground her before she screamed.
“Fuck,” Foxglove breathed. “Shit—Zara—”
“You’re right,” Zara mumbled. “Necromancers definitely don’t make for proper healers, huh?”
As usual, I don’t really have anyone to tag since I’m still kind of new here. But if you’d like to tackle my words, feel free to consider me your tagger!
My words are: temper, gold, gasp, open, alone.
#my writing#writeblr#find the word game#ty cat!#i love this game sm#enchanted at eventide#his body a broken law#prey for the wicked#ch: zara#ch: foxglove#ch: nemesis#ch: judge#ch: aurora#ch: atticus#eae excerpt#hbabl excerpt#pftw excerpt
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Hunting a Hybrid VI
Black Panther!Hybrid Jungkook x Fem!Reader
Summary: Four years after it’s made illegal to acquire hybrids as pets, you’re approached by the daughter of your former employer to hunt down one that had been gifted to her
Warnings: violence, mentions of past abuse, mentions of blood, slight fluff, angst, poorly written smut
A/N: It’s here! I apologize for taking so long and truthfully, this chapter isn’t as well edited as I wanted it to be, but it’s been so long since I updated and the longer I waited, the more guilty I felt for not getting on my own ass and continue writing. I actually wrote more than this but it’s not polished enough for me to add on. Anyways I hope you guys enjoy!
Oh, and the songs I listened to while writing were Heaven Help Me by RAIGN, Inside of Me by RAIGN, the Eric Lee Gravity Remix of Unsteady by X Ambassadors, and Walk Through the Fire by Zayde Wolf
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The wet smell of dirt invaded your nostrils, making you scrunch up your nose in discomfort. Allergies were a bitch but Sangchul didn’t sympathize with your stuffy nose and pounding headache. A sharp hiss escaped you as your grandfather tightened the blindfold around your head with more force than necessary. The added pressure against your temple made your eye twitch and your fingers curl into tight fists.
“The comfort and ease of having all of your senses is a privilege, not a right. Some people have all of them, some people only have a few and must learn to adapt to the world around them.” Sangchul rasped as he stepped in front of you. “You may have all of them but what happens when some of the most important ones are taken away? Come at me.”
The urge to roll your eyes was great but what was the point when he couldn’t see you do it? Defying Sangchul was not a smart decision and years of punishment for the smallest of things should have taught you to know better. But defying him also gave you a sense of pride knowing that no matter how deep his claws ran, it wasn’t enough to have complete and total control over you.
You huffed and lunged toward his voice but found yourself landing flat on your face. He was quick for an old bastard but he’d also had more training and experience than you did. You stood slowly and listened for the barest hint of where Sangchul may be but so far the only thing that caught your ear was your own heavy breathing. Birds chirped, the wind whipped against the trees, leaves fell to the ground, and somewhere a twig snapped in two.
You whirled around, thrusting your fist into what you hoped was your grandfather’s face but he gripped your wrist tight and used his other hand to land a swift jab to your stomach. It was quick and painful, leaving you to double over and dry heave as you tried to catch your breath. Sangchul was strong despite looking fragile, and that strength was made known every time you trained.
He didn’t give you the time to recover, instead moving to land a heavy kick to your rib cage. You coughed and lifted yourself with one arm while the other wrapped around your torso. The sound of his boot leaving the ground once more gave you the chance to gauge how far he stood from you, but you hadn’t realized how close to a tree he’d cornered you. Your back hit the trunk so hard that it knocked the air from your lungs and Sangchul was shoving his steel toed boot into your windpipe. You gasped for air but he kept you pinned, pressing on your neck until you were sure you’d pass out. One of your hands curled around his ankle, desperate to pry his foot away as your other hand tapped against his calf in surrender so he’d let you go. Neither of which happened.
“You have two free hands, you moron.” Sangchul’s voice was calm as if he weren’t about to choke his granddaughter to death. “You want to live? Then fight.”
Air was becoming minimal and your already obscured vision was beginning to darken. There was always a small part of you that knew your grandfather would some day kill you, but here and now would not be the time. Your nails sunk into the fabric of Sangchul’s pants deep enough to break through to his skin and he hissed as you raked your nails up his calf, slicing and marring the flesh as you went. You weren’t allowed a knife or any kind of weapon when in training so you had to improvise, tearing at Sangchul like a wild animal until he was forced to remove his boot from your neck. You slumped to the ground and gulped in as much air as you could, gasping and coughing until your throat was raw and burning. Prying off the blindfold, you looked up to Sangchul with murderous intent.
“You son of a bitch!” You sobbed, frustration and pent up tears surfacing without your permission. “What the hell is the matter with you?! You were really trying to kill me!”
“I was teaching you, you ungrateful brat!” He roared back, clutching at his injured leg. He lifted the leg of his pants and clenched his jaw at the blood trickling down his calf. “Where is it? Where’s your knife?!”
“I don’t have one,” you panted as tears rolled down your cheeks and you swallowed another sob threatening to wrack your body.
“Bullshit!” Sangchul seethed before limping towards you and crouching down to grab at your already sore throat, forcing you to your feet. “The rules are no weapons during training, Y/N! You expect me to believe this kind of damage was done with just your fucking nails?”
You clawed at his arm, but the lack of strength and breath wasn’t nearly as harmful as the adrenaline filled attack from earlier. You kicked your leg out as a last ditch effort to push him back, landing a surprisingly solid hit to his gut and he stumbled back. You weren’t sure what came over you or what kind of games your own body was playing, but there was enough left in you to tackle him to the ground. Using one knee to pin Sangchul’s bicep to the ground and the other knee to pin his wrist down, you raised your fist high in the air and brought it down across his face three times before he was fighting back.
Sangchul pushed against your frame, rolling atop you and taking hold of your neck once more to keep you in place while he delivered blow after blow to your stomach more so than your face. The metallic taste of blood coating his gums fueled every punch and became the driving force behind the final hit to your cheekbone. He stood over you ruthlessly as you groaned and turned on your side to painfully curl into a ball, blood gathering on the corner of your mouth.
“Your father might not have been as talented as you’ve become at hunting but he was never stupid enough to go against me either. You must get that from your mother.” Sangchul used the back of his hand to wipe away the blood gathered on his own lips and spat globs of it on the ground. “Get up and find your way back to the house or lay out here all night and freeze to death.”
Mud, tears, and blood stuck to the side of your face that now sported a broken cheekbone as you listened to his retreating footsteps. A heavy moan sliced the otherwise quiet air and it took you a moment to realize the sound came from your own mouth. You could already feel the bruises forming on your torso and wondered if he’d broken a couple of ribs. Taking in a sharp breath only made the pain worse and another wail shook the trees, scattering the birds that had witnessed your beating.
You were unaware of how long you stayed on the ground, but it was dark by the time you managed to gather enough resistance to the ache in your bones before carefully standing up. You limped slowly through the desolate woods that only your grandfather could navigate and found yourself at his home almost the next morning. He stood with crossed arms and a cruel smirk on his lips, leaning against the door frame and greeting you casually. He took in your disheveled state, from your torn up pants and shirt to the swollen welt on your cheek.
“Well,” Sangchul chuckled as your body shook with the attempt to keep yourself standing, “I honestly didn’t expect you to make it back. It would take your father days before he recovered from his lessons. Your strength comes from your will to live, Y/N, and your father didn’t have enough of it. Let’s not make yesterday a regular occurrence. I’d hate to have to kill you before you’’ve reached your full potential.”
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“Blood,” Jungkook breathed, dropping his chopsticks to his plate and standing from the couch quickly. His sudden outburst made Seokjin jump in his seat before he was up and trailing closely behind Jungkook.
“Does it smell familiar?” Seokjin questioned. If it was your blood then he wanted to be prepared for how Jungkook may react.
“No,” The panther scrunched his nose up in disgust, “It’s not a lot either, it’s faint. It’s not Y/N’s.”
His senior huffed out a breath of relief, placing his palm against his chest and letting his posture sag a little. The tension in his shoulders was long gone by the time they made it to Taehyung’s apartment, Jungkook stopping at the foot of the door. Seokjin pulled his eyebrows together in confusion before he heard the muffled conversation.
“Holy shit, you should have seen it!” Hoseok was giddly explaining the fight to Taehyung, whose arms were crossed and glare focused solely on you. “She beat the shit out of them! And scared Suho! I mean he pretty much pissed his pants!”
“Hobi,” Yoongi interrupted his friend with a pat on his shoulder, nodding to a decidedly unamused Taehyung and your sheepish face as you bowed your head in apology for getting into another fight. “Maybe spare the details, okay?”
“Oh, right,” Hoseok flushed; he hadn’t meant to get caught up in the excitement but he’d only ever heard stories of your fighting skills and barely caught a glimpse of them when the fight broke out with Xiumin and Kai.
“Are you out of your mind?” Taehyung hissed after Hoseok finally calmed down, bracing his hands on the kitchen table and leaning over to scold you like a parent would a child. “You were only supposed to meet with the detective, not start a brawl with Suho and his men. You said you didn’t need backup so I let you go alone and now you’re in our kitchen covered in someone else’s blood. You know there’s a hybrid upstairs right now who’s probably already caught on to your scent and he’s going to come rushing down here any second to check on you. I don’t need a pissed off panther busting down our front door because you’re too stubborn to let anyone help!”
Yoongi and Hoseok exchanged a surprised glance, neither of them ever hearing Taehyung lecture you as harshly as he had been in that moment. Yoongi whistled low as Hoseok looked to the ground in hopes of avoiding Taehyung’s wrath after expressing how much he admired your skills. Yoongi wasn’t all that surprised to find that you didn’t even bat an eye at your friend; you’ve obviously gone through this argument before.
“Are you done?” You sighed, standing from your seat at the table to head for the sink and run your hands underneath hot water. Scrubbing at the blood staining your knuckles, you hissed at the cuts lining them and cursed at the thought of your hand swelling. “Jungkook isn’t going to come down here. In case you’ve forgotten, he hates me right now so I don’t think you need to worry about that, Tae. It wasn’t like I was looking for Suho, he came to me so what was I supposed to do? Let him and his men beat the hell out of me?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Taehyung argued, “I’m---.”
“It’s not like I’m proud of what happened today,” You interrupted him, shoulders dropping. “It wasn’t exactly fun to use Suho’s trauma against him. You think I don’t remember what I did to him? How twisted I used to be?”
Taehyung opened his mouth to disagree but the beeping of the keypad caught his attention, the door swung open as Seokjin stepped inside with Jungkook behind him. Everyone stilled as the panther came into view, your back still facing him at the kitchen sink.
You could feel Jungkook in the apartment. The pull of his mark was so intense that you were tempted to throw yourself in his arms. You sighed as you felt a headache coming on stronger than usual but addressed Taehyung, “you could have gotten killed that night and I admit, the way I handled it bordered on unhinged. When I hurt Suho, he was just a new hunter looking to make a name for himself and because of what I did...I made him who he is. I’m not proud of it, Taehyung, and running into him today just reminded me of the kind of person I used to be.”
Jungkook’s spine straightened as you finally turned to face him, locking eyes with him as he listened when you said, “I used to be a lot worse than what I am now, Jungkook. You may think Suho is just another idiotic hunter but the truth is that I did that to him. No hunter comes without a story and Suho? I’m his.”
“Y/N,” Seokjin put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave him a comforting squeeze, “now might not be the best time.”
“You marked me, Jungkook,” You continued, stepping away from the sink and towards him, “we’re bonded and that was something you chose for us. You can hate me all you want because let’s be real, I deserve it. But everything I’ve done was to keep myself alive and then when Tae came along...he was my priority.”
Taehyung’s eyes softened when he saw the tears building in your own, threatening to fall with each step you took towards the hybrid. True, when he first met you the friendship was rocky, the ice in your veins making it difficult to gain your trust. He remembered when he finally broke through the wall you’d built and he became the most important person to you. He also remembered the night Suho had made a mistake and you nearly tore his head off for being incompetent.
“And then you,” Your broken whisper to Jungkook made Yoongi’s heart ache at how fragile you seemed compared to a few hours ago, “when you came to me, I knew there was nothing I wanted more than to protect you. So I reined a lot of myself in because I didn’t want to scare you. Last night when I said I’d always be a hunter...it was because I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. Hunting is who I am and yes, I’m scared of what could happen when this is all over. I’m going out of my fucking mind trying to figure out how...who I’ll be if I won’t be a hunter. I’m nothing without it but when you came into my life, being happy was the first thing that came to mind and you were right when you said I didn’t know how to handle it.”
Jungkook hadn’t noticed he’d been crying until you reached out to wipe his tears away, his cheek turning into the palm of your hand and his eyes falling shut. The ache in his chest grew larger the more you spoke, the pain becoming too much until finally, you touched him. Your fingers gliding along his cheek soothed him and the agony in his heart.
You gasped when he pulled you into his chest, arms embracing your frame to his tightly as you buried your face into his shirt. You could feel his hot tears sticking to your skin when he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His body trembled in your hold much like Suho’s had earlier but this was for an entirely different reason, his gasping breaths flooding you with guilt that you’d made him feel so awful.
“Please stop being mad at me,” You whispered, fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt, “I can’t...be away from you.”
Jungkook could only squeeze you tighter and nod silently. He couldn’t be apart from you either and even though it had only been a day, he felt as though it had been an eternity since he last saw you. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep you pinned to him. Holding you close felt like he could finally breathe again, his large frame slumping in your arms as his body betrayed him and let everyone in the room know just how exhausted he was.
One of your hands slid up the length of his chest to run your fingers through his long hair while the other wrapped around his broad shoulders. A relieved sigh escaped as you found yourself relaxing in Jungkook’s hold, the tension in your neck finally gone.
“Can I?” Jungkook mumbled into your neck, his lips brushing against the mark and canines tracing along it. The desperate need to freshen his claim clawed at his insides, especially with the faint smell of Suho all over you. Admittedly, he was planning on reclaiming you as it was, pissed at you or not, because he hated the smell of another man on your clothes and skin.
“Not here,” You blushed and tucked your face further into his chest, knowing full well that he could hear the blood rushing to your cheeks.
“Why not?” He nibbled on your skin as if prepping it for the sting of his teeth.
“Because we’re here!” Yoongi interrupted with a gagging noise so convincing that you had to jump back to see if he actually puked all over the floor. His joke, but not really a joke, serving as a reminder that you were not alone in the apartment.
“Dinner?” Seokjin suggested loudly, face flushed and eyes boring into the floor. If anyone in the apartment knew just how intimate marking could get, it was him. He’s married to a hybrid, after all, and the times his wife reclaimed him often led to a night of passion so intense that they would forget they weren’t alone in the house and their daughter was just two doors down.
“God, please!” Taehyung scrambled for his shoes and quickly shoved his feet into them. “I’m starving!”
“You were home all day and you didn’t cook anything to eat?” Hoseok scolded but was just as quick to throw on his own shoes and dash out the door.
“We’ll bring you something back,” Seokjin offered since going out for Jungkook wasn’t an option and figured it would do some good to leave the two of you alone. He shoved Yoongi to the door while the younger struggled against him, reluctant to leave you with Jungkook after your last night alone ended in disaster. “Come on, Yoongi, they’ll be fine.”
“But I—-AGH!” Yoongi yelped as he tripped over his own feet and nearly face planted in his attempt to get away from Seokjin.
When silence filled the apartment, Jungkook went back to laving at your neck with renewed vigor now that there was no one to interrupt. He heard the breathless call of his name but couldn’t really be bothered to fully understand what you were trying to say.
The heat of his palms sliding underneath your shirt left goosebumps on your skin, a shiver running down your spine. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck as his hands travelled lower and lower, stopping briefly to squeeze the cheeks of your ass, and cupping the backs of your thighs to lift you onto the kitchen counter. Leaning back on your elbows, you laughed as Jungkook followed and loomed over your entire body.
“As sexy as this is,” You joked and smiled fondly at the twitching of his ears, “the marble of the counter is cold as hell, Kook, so maybe the bedroom…”
Jungkook was hauling you off the counter before you could even finish the sentence, your arms and legs clinging to his body, winding tight as he pressed your back to the wall instead. His eyes lit up that beautiful shade of emerald you came to love, irides slitting in true cat form and his canines elongating. The sharp prick of said canines made you squeak as they pierced your skin, a sound he seemed to take quite a liking to.
“Oh,” You breathed, grinding against his crotch in a desperate search for friction. One hand tangled in his long hair while the other pulled at the button and zipper of his jeans until you were able to snake your hand inside.
Jungkook groaned against your throat at the feel of your fingers wrapping around his length. He pulled away to lean his forehead on your shoulder, fingers gripping your thighs and parting them further to press against you even more. “Tell me, Y/N,” He whispered against your skin, “who is this I smell on you?”
“That answer depends on how pissed off you’ll get,” You laughed sharply at the feel of his claws poking out to grab at the muscle of your thighs possessively. “Judging by your claws, I’d say very.”
He growled out, using one hand to snatch yours from his jeans and pin it to the wall. “It smells like gunpowder.”
Gunpowder?
“Set me down,” You pushed at his chest, rolling your eyes as he grit his teeth and released his grip. With both feet firmly on the ground, you brought a hand up to run through the tangled mess of hair in order to think. “Suho’s guys, maybe?”
“They shot at you?” Jungkook couldn’t stop the growl rumbling from his chest if he tried.
“No, but they must have fired their guns at some point during the day,” You looked at his face and winced at the shadow crossing his features. “Well it’s not like I would have been able to smell it on them. They ambushed me, all I did was fight back.”
“Yes. Against guns.”
“They didn’t have any on them when we fought,” You defended yourself but it really was just a poor excuse for not thinking Suho’s guys would be carrying.
Jungkook sighed heavily and slammed his eyes closed before you could see the green coming forth. “Take a shower, Y/N, get the smell off you, and then we can go to bed.”
A scoff nearly made its way from your throat but he was right. Jungkook was sensitive to gunpowder and any kind of firearms; it stemmed from his less than pleasant encounters with them. You brought your arm up in a mock salute, earning yourself a glare as the words, “Yes, sir!” echoed down the hallway.
“Go,” He bit out and moved away to give you space to walk down the hall. Truthfully, he needed time to gain his bearings after catching a familiar scent. Not the gunpowder, but Suho himself. Suho’s stench had been all over Ye-Jin’s room when he first arrived at the Nam home. Judging by how much the smell lingered, Jungkook could only guess why the hunter spent so much time there. Ye-Jin’s escapades with Suho made Jungkook’s skin crawl, thinking of how hard she’d tried to seduce the panther himself.
When the scent hit his nostrils, the panther in him was coming out full force and he needed to create some distance before he snapped. Now that he’d claimed you, the last thing he wanted was to cause harm by becoming feral.
The sound of running water made his ears and growing bulge twitch. He really needed to get a hold of himself. That thought had no time to be registered before his feet carried him to the bathroom. The handle was cold against his heated skin and he wasn’t at all surprised to find the door unlocked. A small nudge against the wood revealed your scattered clothes along the tiled floor, your scent invading his senses. Little by little, he shed his clothes as quietly as possible in hopes of giving you a small scare.
You really should have been paying more attention to your surroundings. Jungkook was the only one left in the apartment but you still should have been more careful in your decision to leave the door unlocked. The guys could have come back at any time.
“You should be more careful, baby,” Jungkook purred against your ear, hands snaking around to rest against your stomach and pulling your back to his naked chest.
“Oh?” There was no reason to hide your amusement and he knew it. Your intentions were quite clear as you tipped your head back and met his shoulder. “Why is that?”
“Anyone could have walked in here,” He growled low, one hand clasping your hip while the other slid up to palm your breast.
“Anyone did,” You teased, gasping sharply at his wandering hands coupled with the feel of his lips at your neck. Steam enveloped the room and clouded your eyesight, leaving you at Jungkook’s complete mercy as his rough hands groped and ran about your torso.
Water pelted Jungkook’s skin as he came to the realization that bathing with you would be his second favorite activity in a long time. The hand on your hip traveled lower between your legs until the tip of his index finger pressed against the bundle of nerves. The whining and whimpering had his ears flattening against his scalp as he pressed, circled, and worked at your clit ever so slowly. “Soon,” He promised softly, though for you an impending orgasm wasn’t soon enough.
“I will cut your tail off, panther,” You threatened lightly and his chuckle vibrated against your back. He enjoyed tormenting you, that much was obvious, deft fingers gliding lower and his other hand cupping your breast gently. “You’re an ass, Jungkook.”
“Oh yeah?” Jungkook smirked against your wet skin, sinking two fingers knuckle deep into your heat. “No ‘Kook’ this time, baby? That’s not very nice considering where my fingers are.”
“Please,” You groaned, head lolling forward and arm shooting out to press against the shower wall, pushing back against his erection. His tail wound around your thigh to pry your legs open, fingers pumping in and out ever so slowly.
“Please?” He mocked, ears twitching curiously at what may come out of your mouth next. In the short while he’d been living with you and Taehyung, he’d seen enough to know that you were not one to yield. To anything. So to have you begging and pleading for him was a pleasant surprise. “You want something from me, Y/N?”
“No ‘baby’ this time?” You hissed at the prodding of his fingers, deep and steady, and curled your own into a fist against the wall. “That’s not very nice of you, Kook, considering where my hand was earlier.”
“What if Taehyung had come in?” Jungkook hummed in your ear and let his thoughts run much wilder than necessary. What if Taehyung had come in? Or Yoongi?
He wasn’t very fond of that idea given how close you were to them. His hand moved from your hip up to your throat, squeezing gently while you panted and squirmed against him. “Has he ever seen you naked?”
“Not now, Kook.” You groaned because yes, yes Taehyung had seen you naked before. He was the one you lost your virginity to years ago but Jungkook didn’t need to know that. “You really want to talk about Tae of all people right now?”
His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing in tight circles as your thighs trembled and you whimpered out his name. “No, I’d much rather be inside of you but since the subject was brought up…”
“By you!” You yelped at the small press of his fingers against your throat and the way his fingers pumped faster. Your hips rocked in time to his hand, grinding into his hand and reaching your own hand back to tangle in his hair. “Jungkook, please.”
He smirked against your skin, ears perking up at the mix of pleas and threats spilling from your mouth. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why you were deflecting and though usually he’d be upset by this new information, he was surprised to find it didn’t bother him as much as he’d first thought. His lips moved up the side of your neck, teeth nipping and sucking your skin. “You’re mine, sweetheart, aren’t you?”
Possessiveness was never really a turn on for you, but with Jungkook you found yourself clamping down on his fingers and nodding quickly in agreement. This, this was the panther in him and it was a huge relief to have him becoming more confident and comfortable.
“Say it,” Jungkook hissed, pressing firmly on your clit as you tugged at his hair. “I need to hear you say it, baby.”
“I’m yours,” You moaned loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “All yours, Jungkook. Only you.”
Your back was hauled against the shower wall unceremoniously, hands gripping your thighs, parting them as he sank deep inside in one solid thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to break skin but he didn’t seem to mind. His lips were on yours roughly, muffling the strangled moan leaving your throat.
Jungkook didn’t move, instead savoring the feel of your walls clenching around his cock. The kiss slowed to a languid press of your lips to his, your fingers combing through his shaggy hair and tugging on it to have better access to his neck. He closed his eyes, sighing in pleasure and winding his arms underneath your thighs, pulling himself back before surging forward again and again. The slow roll of his hips against yours had you panting and gasping with each solid thrust. You wound one arm around his shoulders, sinking your nails into his shoulder while the other hand gripped his hair so tight that you were sure he’d be bald by the end of the night.
This wasn’t the same frenzied pace as the previous night, you realized. It was sweeter, softer in the way he moved and peppered your shoulder in kisses. Honestly it probably wasn’t a good idea to take your time since neither of you knew when Taehyung and the rest of the guys would be back. The last thing you needed was any of them walking in to see you and Jungkook going at it in the bathroom of all places.
Seokjin, the maturer of the group, would most likely be the one to herd them all out yet again, but even he would crack some kind of joke about it.
“I missed you,” Jungkook rasped against your mouth, breaking you from all thoughts as his thrusts became quicker and sloppier, one hand snaking between your legs to thumb at your clit once more. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”
You wanted to tease that it hadn’t even been a full day but you knew exactly how he felt. How empty and hollow your chest seemed with the distance and while you had spent most of your day occupied with the detective and Suho’s gang, Jungkook spent his holed up in an unfamiliar apartment with nothing but his own thoughts. Your nails bit into his scalp and he hissed at the feel, teeth coming down to clamp on his mark and tongue lapping at the skin.
“I missed you too, Kook,” You whispered as his canines sank deep into his already prominent claim. You convulsed around him, body shaking and thighs trembling with the intensity of your release. “Fuck!”
Jungkook’s hand moved from between your legs to brace against the wall next to your head, a deep groan of agreement reverberating from his chest. The press of your knees against his rib cage, squeezing him tight, pushed him over the edge and he spilled into you. His mouth found yours in a deep kiss, tongue slipping past your lips as his hands massaged the tops of your thighs in soothing circles.
Three loud bangs against the bathroom door made you tense and pull away from Jungkook but he only shushed you as Taehyung’s deep voice boomed on the other side.
“There better be hot water left, goddamn it!” Taehyung joked before striding back down the hall to the kitchen. He really wouldn’t have even gone to find you if Seokjin hadn’t insisted on it.
“Jungkook didn’t eat much earlier,” Seokjin had said when they returned to the apartment, “and I can bet neither has Y/N. They need something in their system.”
“But they already have each other,” Hoseok had mumbled and earned a nice slap across the back of his head from Yoongi.
Taehyung shook his head before walking back into the kitchen to find Seokjin rummaging through his cabinets to find plates and cups. If anyone had told him a year ago that he’d have his best friend, a hybrid, and three older men that treated him like a kid rather than a hunter in his apartment, Taehyung would have laughed in their face. Still, it was comforting to have someone care for him like a person instead of a killer. His childhood was less than pleasant, his own father acting as if Teahyung were a nuisance and not the son he was responsible for.
“Tae,” Seokjin frowned at the distant look on the younger man’s face, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Taheyung shook his head with a chuckle. “I was just thinking.”
Hoseok sat at the dining table with a tilt of his head, waiting to hear if Taehyung would elaborate further but Seokjin simply set a plate down in front of him before moving on to an empty space.
“Then sit,” Seokjin smiled warmly and turned to the abundance of food waiting on the counters.
Yoongi peered down the hallway to the now empty bathroom, watching the swirls of steam seep out from the open door and grimacing at the thought of what happened while they were gone.
“Yoongi,” Seokjin called from the counter as he dug through a bag of food, “they’ll be out here when they’re ready. Come sit down and eat.”
Yoongi opened his mouth to protest when your bedroom door swung open and Jungkook strolled out fully dressed and running a towel through his hair. You weren’t far behind, also dressed in a baggy shirt and sweats, wringing out your hair in a towel.
“Sorry, Tae,” You mumbled as you plopped down on a chair and avoided eye contact with everyone.
“Just as long as there’s hot water left.” Taehyung playfully poked your side before you could scramble away from him.
“No, don’t!” You squealed, actually squealed, and launched yourself onto Jungkook’s lap as Taehyung reached out to tickle your side.
Jungkook was sure he’d never heard anything sweeter than that. The sharp pitch of your voice slicing the air cutely before you were in his lap and clinging to him like a child. There was a grin on your face that no one except Taehyung had seen and Jungkook decided in that moment that he’d do anything to see it again.
“You’re such a baby,” Taehyung teased you, oblivious to the other men’s wide eyed expression, all four of them shocked that you could even smile that big.
You yourself hadn’t even noticed it and Yoongi caught a brief glimpse of the little girl you used to be in that one smile. It shook him to the core to realize how different you’d become and sure, he was used to the woman you were now but to see that little part of you from childhood still existed nearly made him tear up.
Jungkook’s arms were tight around your frame and he buried his face in your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of your shampoo, gripping your waist so hard that he was amazed you could still breathe. The small giggle that floated around the otherwise quiet apartment warmed his chest and he peeked up from your head to watch you poke Taehyung’s leg with your bare foot.
“Gross!” Taehyung wiped away at the invisible dirt on his pants as if you hadn’t just spent an entire hour in the shower. It eased the tension in his shoulders to be able to make you laugh again, something he hadn’t been able to do in the past few months. He watched as you leaned into the crook of Jungkook’s neck and tucked yourself into the hybrids’ arms, a soft smile spreading across his lips. Taehyung often forgot how little of a childhood you actually had and that affection wasn’t something you easily accepted. But seeing you now, curled into the embrace of someone who looked at you with stars in his eyes, Taehyung had to tamp down the sob threatening to escape his mouth. He loved you like a sister and had wanted for so long to be able to escape the wretched life you’d known, but for years he didn’t think a semi-normal life was a possibility, until now. Now the dream of being able to walk the streets without looking over both of your shoulders was slowly but surely becoming a reality.
Seokjin leaned his chin against his palm and wanted to scowl at how happy Jungkook was compared to two hours ago. The grin on the hybrid’s face was enough for Seokjin to forgive the way Jungkook had spent the entire day sulking about the upstairs apartment and mumbling under his breath all the ways the argument could have gone if you hadn’t been so stubborn. Love was a fragile thing and while Seokjin was sure neither you nor Jungkook had fully realized just what was happening between you two, it was quite clear the kind of lengths each of you would go through to keep the other safe. It could be argued, mostly by Yoongi, that the relationship was more lust than anything else but Seokjin knew Yoongi’s obsessive need to protect you stemmed from his knowledge of your upbringing.
“Can we talk about your meeting with Namjoon?” Yoongi raised a brow in your direction. “If I’m not mistaken, it didn’t go entirely as planned but he didn’t shut down the idea either.”
You felt Jungkook tense and press a kiss to the top of your head. “He’s well aware of the risks being taken if he chooses to help us with this, but he’s on board. We’ll set up another time and place to meet soon. Hyungsik’s expecting progress too and he’s agreed to have Suho back off for now. I’m not sure how long that will last or if it even works at all, but our run in today will keep him at bay for at least a week, maybe two.”
“Depends on how fast he’ll recover.” Taehyung shoved a good portion of jjajangmyeon into his mouth and followed it with a long drink of water. “Suho’s never been quick to jump back into an assignment no matter how much he was or wasn’t injured. Despite his reputation, Suho only gets his hands dirty when it comes to showing up Y/N, but even then it’s usually as a last resort. I was surprised to hear how fiercely he was going about this one, then again it could be the reward money that’s keeping him so driven.”
Hoseok huffed from his seat and raked a hand through his hair. “If we can’t steer Suho in a different direction even for a little bit, then this will all be for naught. Two weeks sounds like a long time but not for us, especially with Hyungsik breathing down Y/N’s neck. Taking care of Suho should be the first priority right now.”
“Well, you’re not wrong.” Taehyung nodded his head in agreement and looked to you, watching the gears in your head turn as you became quiet. “Whatever you’re planning against Suho might give Hyungsik a reason to give you some breathing room. Suho’s a good hunter but he’s messy and not exactly shy about how he makes a living. Hyungsik is in a hurry to get Jungkook before Suho can make a public spectacle about all of this. With him out of the picture, it could give us the opportunity to ask Nam for more time to find Jungkook.”
You knew Tae was right. Hyungsik was always quick to hire you for a job because you were quiet and undetectable, something a lot of other hunters hadn’t quite mastered and with the new laws in place, it would be disastrous if the news that Hyungsik was still harboring hybrids became public knowledge. You also knew that Hoseok was nervous about Suho popping up unnecessarily but you looked to him and said, “Suho’s recovery time isn’t something to worry about. Like Tae said, it could take two weeks before Suho shows himself again and maybe even more. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Suho, it’s that he can’t take the chance of not being at full strength when he goes up against me again.”
“Why were you able to bounce back from his men so quickly but it’ll take Suho weeks to come back from almost nothing?” Hoseok wondered with a curious tilt of his head. He didn’t notice the tight grip of Yoongi’s hand on his cup, or the way Taehyung winced at the question. He only noticed the smallest hint of your nostrils flaring before you covered it up with a smirk.
“Endurance training.”
-----------------------------------------------------------
“Again.” Sangchul’s command was sharp. His fighting skills even more so as he dodged another swipe of your fist.
Blindfolded. Again.
Which meant relying on your ears and nose to detect him. He’d started out the day clean but as training went on, he began to sweat and while the smell was not revolting, it was also not flattering. The sound of his heavy boot alerted you to his movement as you thrust your elbow back and connected with the palm of his hand. Damn. He’d seen it coming and managed to counter your hit.
He pushed your elbow forward, sending you staggering out of reach. He watched as you whipped around quickly and brought your hands up to defend yourself if need be. Slowing his breathing and staying entirely still, he watched the fleeting look of panic in your frown. He didn’t want to admit how much you improved since your last session a few weeks back. The lessons would have continued the next day but there was tension in the air every time you were in the same room as him, the kind of tension that made him uneasy. He wasn’t willing to find out how far that tension would push you, so he made himself scarce far more often than he should.
A hunter with skills such as his should not be scared of a sixteen year old girl. He’d have laughed in someone’s face if that person had told him that his granddaughter would one day unnerve him. The day he left you in the woods after beating the ever loving hell out of you had changed something else in you. Something mischievous, rebellious, and down right evil had swirled in your eyes the moment you stepped out of the trees and into his line of sight. You hated him, he knew that, but he wanted to think that you were reliant enough of him that you wouldn’t use the skills he taught you against him.
Last time he didn’t give you time to recover, so you had expected him to attack you as soon as he let go of your elbow. You grit your teeth when he didn’t take a swing at you as he had before. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out any kind of noise Sangchul would make. He had to have known you couldn’t hear anything but the deafening sound of your own breathing. What could only have been seconds felt like hours before he finally moved, the soft crunch of boots on dead leaves had you ducking an oncoming punch. As you crouched to the ground, the quick woosh of his other boot kicking up dirt had you placing your palms out towards his kick, blocking his assault. You were on your feet quickly, the heel of your steel toe boot catching on the root of the tree behind you but you held steady and acted as if you were going to fall backwards.
Sangchul lunged forward even further, attempting to grip your shoulders to pin you down, but you gained your footing not a second later and he found himself pressed face first into the rough bark of the tree.
Your forearm was at the back of his neck, only one of his hands wrenched behind his back because there wasn’t a way for you to grab both. Your tiny victory was short lived as he used his free hand to push off the tree and spin around. His wrist rotated out and around to take hold of yours and pull it taught in the air. You cried out in pain after a sickening pop sounded around the woods.
“Clever.” Sangchul admitted with reluctance. “You’ve paid attention. Attempting to get out of my hold will only result in dislocating your shoulder. Which is exactly what needs to happen to get away from me. What will you do, Y/N? Are you willing to pop your own arm out of its socket to escape me or will you---?”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of finishing his question before you were twisting your body out of his grip, shoulder popping out of place so unnaturally that Sangchul could have thrown up if he weren’t so damn impressed. Dropping to one knee, you panted out of exertion and the scream echoing through the trees.
Sangchul could count on one hand the amount of times he’d had to teach the same lesson to his own son only to have it end in Donghoon crying and cowering in the corner of his room all night. His eyes were comically wide as you stood from the ground with a renewed sense of purpose, your shoulder hanging limp as sweat beaded across your forehead. It was as if the pain was your sole purpose to keep going and the determination to remain unafraid of him propelled you forward.
Your shoulder was hot, your body gradually warming with it before it started to feel like your whole being was on fire. The flames licked the back of your neck and shoulder blade, rendering your arms useless but not your legs as you swung around and landed the most satisfying kick to your grandfather’s jaw. The crunch of his bones and the thud of his body hitting the ground had a grin splitting your lips viciously, a smile cold and cruel that you’d seen him don thousands of times before. You didn’t have to see his face to know the power shift had begun. You could hear it in the way he struggled to breathe.
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Taehyung quirked an amused brow at the way Yoongi burrowed further into the couch like a petulant child when Hoseok was trying to get him to leave.
“Hyung, come on.” Hoseok ran a hand down his face, unwilling to believe that his senior could be so immature. “We’re due to open the bar in an hour and it’s a 30 minute drive from here. We need to leave now.”
“Let’s take a night off,” Yoongi suggested with a fake yawn and stretched himself across the length of Taehyung’s couch. He crossed his feet and brought his arms up behind his head as a makeshift pillow. “One night won’t hurt us.”
“I don’t think Taehyung appreciates you taking over his home without talking to him first.”
“I have extra blankets and pillows.” Taehyung offered up as Hoseok shot him a glare from across the room. “Though if you’re only staying to keep an eye on Y/N, then it would probably be better to camp out in front of her door.”
“That’s not happening.” Jungkook came up beside Taehyung with a stern look on his face. Two weeks ago, he would have cowered at the sight of Yoongi after getting a gun pulled on him, but now Jungkook refused to be scared.
Yoongi’s nostrils flared at being challenged by the younger hybrid and he scowled at Jungkook. “Oh yeah, kid? What makes you think she’ll be as quick as you are to kick me out?”
Hoseok buried his face in his hands, tired and sleep deprived from the long nights at the bar and the long days spent helping his new found friends. “You have a couch at home that you can sleep on, hyung.”
“I like Taehyung’s couch better.”
When Hoseok looked to Taehyung for help getting his friend out of the apartment, Taehyung simply hid a smile behind his hand. He opened his mouth to argue with Yoongi once more when you came down the hallway, footsteps so light against the carpeted floor that nobody would notice you if you hadn’t said anything.
“Go home, Yoongi.” You slapped at his feet before plopping down on the couch and tucking your feet underneath your thighs. “If Tae wanted you to invade his space then he would have said so.”
“He offered me extra pillows and blankets,” Yoongi sat up to face you, “I’d say that counts as an invitation.”
Jungkook had made his way to you at some point and scooped you up to take your spot on the couch, sitting you in his lap. The fresh smell of vanilla and lilac intoxicated him enough to press his face into the crook of your neck.
Yoongi frowned in mock disgust and scoffed at the way Jungkook shot him a sly smirk. “The idea of sleeping outside Y/N’s room is tempting, but I think I’d rather sleep inside.”
Jungkook’s growl rumbled from his chest and against your back. You knew Yoongi was only teasing and meant no harm but Jungkook didn’t seem to share your amusement. “Maybe you should sleep in Tae’s room, Yoongs. He’s just as touch starved as you are.”
“I like to cuddle.” Taehyung nodded with the most serious look he could muster, blinking in surprise when a faint blush crept up Yoongi’s cheeks.
You shot Yoongi a teasing smile, “what a coincidence, so does Yoongi. There were some nights he wouldn’t let me pry myself away.”
Heat prickled your bare rib cage as Jungkook’s fingers discreetly slid underneath your oversized shirt, the rough pads of his fingers leaving behind goosebumps. His palm flattened just underneath your breast bone, thumb teasing the hem of your bra, and pushing under the wire to skim across your nipple. You’d never pulled your knees to your chest quicker than in that moment, hoping to keep his hand from being seen roaming around. With the press of your knees, it kept Jungkook’s hand in place so he couldn’t venture further but he was not one to be deterred, instead wiggling his hand free enough to slide completely up and cup your entire breast.
“It’s not like you were complaining,” Yoongi’s voice brought you back to the present. “You showed up every night anyways so you can’t tell me that you didn’t like cuddling up to me just as much.”
Jungkook lightly squeezed your breast, kneading and pinching, all while keeping a face so impassive that you were starting to believe you were imagining things. His head tilted at the small hitch in your breath, ears twitching in delight, and he grinned when Yoongi caught a glimpse of your shirt moving where it should not be.
“You--,” Yoongi began but Seokjin’s voice stopped him.
“I think everyone should call it a night,” Seokjin suggested after catching the dark look in Jungkook’s eyes before Yoongi could call him out. “I also think if you’re going to stay here tonight, Yoongi, then you should be advised that this is also Jungkook’s territory now. Invading it aggressively will only end in less than pleasant results. Tread carefully.”
“Bed time.” Jungkook whispered against your ear, nipping it in the process and standing from the couch so quick that it made you dizzy. He laughed as you clung to him, padding down the hallway to your bedroom while Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, and Seokjin continued on with their conversation.
Taehyung threw his head back with a laugh that nearly shook the apartment. He hadn’t been so amused in such a long time that watching Yoongi scramble after Jungkook only to have the door slammed in his face had Taehyung doubled over in glee. He could hear Yoongi’s shocked sputtering all the way from the living room.
Hoseok didn’t seem to be faring any better, clapping his hands while howling with laughter as well. It took a great deal to rattle Yoongi and Hoseok had only seen it happen a few times in all the years they’d known each other. Now that Jungkook was starting to show more of himself and how comfortable he’d become, Yoongi was left slack jawed a good portion of the time the group spent together.
Seokjin couldn’t hide his chuckle as Yoongi came back down the hallway with a tic in his jaw. He was aware that the amusement and playfulness wouldn’t last long and the reality of the situation would once again crash into everyone like a brick wall. But for tonight, he would enjoy every smile, every laugh, and every teasing glance that passed between everyone because it would be short lived, and there was a high possibility of it all crashing down in flames. The odds against you were great and while you were stronger than most people, you were still human. With Jungkook at your side and bound to you, the hard shell of the woman you’d become was beginning to crack and Seokjin knew that if anything happened to the panther, you would lose yourself in your own head once more.
It was no secret how special of a person you were to Yoongi. It was why he was still sulking around Taehyung’s living room instead of sleeping in his own bed. He was aware that Jungkook would sooner tear off his own arm than hurt you, but Yoongi still worried. The look of defeat after your fight with Jungkook was still fresh in Yoongi’s mind, and the way you fought against Suho earlier was just a taste of what could happen if you lost Jungkook again. There had been rumors about the vicious way you fought and he’d seen it first hand, but the encounter with Suho was on an entirely different level. Something in your eyes was inhuman, the curve of your smile struck a wicked resemblance to the grandfather you loathed, and Yoongi spent the entire time watching your eyes practically light up at the way you scared Suho.
The person you transformed into the second Jungkook was back in your arms was startling. Yoongi didn’t think you could even still be that person, but Jungkook’s presence reeled in the part of you that lashed out against everyone and everything. You were starting to become that same little girl who would move heaven and hell to protect the ones important to you. Growing up, Yoongi had watched you save your mother from the drunken mess that was Donghoon. He’d seen you constantly jump in front of her, taking whatever slap or punch was meant for Iseul, and raising your head high as you hadn’t just been struck by a heavy hand. Time and again, you were scolded by your mother for getting involved, and time and again you would beg Iseul to pack up and leave Donghoon. The arguments often ended in you storming out of the house and stomping across the street to Yoongi’s house where he would clean you up and hold you in his arms until the crying and shaking stopped.
The night your parents died, you were meant to be home. Meant to be helping your mother pack a weekend bag for a trip with that monster. But you’d argued with her before leaving for school that morning, screaming at her that one day Donghoon will do irreparable damage and you would not be there to pick up the pieces. Yoongi could still remember the agony on your face and in your voice when you ran up to the home that had become a crime scene in a few short hours. He remembered the screams, remembered the tears streaming down your face, and the desperate pleas for Iseul. He remembered being angry with his own parents for keeping him away from you when you needed him the most, but also remembered the way his father pulled him close and whispered in his ear that Sangchul was watching him carefully, that if he truly cared about you then he would let your grandfather handle the situation. He knew it was wrong, knew he should have fought harder to get to you, but then Sangchul was at your side and had taken hold of your shoulders with a solid grip. Yoongi wasn’t close enough to know what was being said or what could have caused the light to die in your eyes, yet he was able to watch what could only be explained as a switch being flipped and then you were no longer Y/N. Not the human part anyways.
A large hand clapped Yoongi on the shoulder, shaking him from his walk down memory lane, and he looked over to find Seokjin’s brows pinched together with worry. He shook his head and gave his senior what he hoped was a smile. Seokjin could read Yoongi’s bullshit better than anybody and lately he’s been keeping Yoongi closer than ever, as if your presence would cause him to spiral down like it had when they’d first met in college. Yoongi couldn’t blame Jin for wanting to make sure he was okay, especially not after the frantic reaction he had when Jin called him the night you were injured. In all their years of being friends, Seokjin had never heard that type of fear in Yoongi’s voice or seen the trembling of his bottom lip once he saw the state you were in after leaving his bar.
“It’s late,” Taehyung’s deep voice cut the tension in the air as he watched something pass between Seokjin and Yoongi. “We’re all exhausted and I’m sure none of you are up for the long drive home.”
Hoseok had already settled on the couch once he realized Yoongi would have to be dragged out of the apartment kicking and screaming if Taehyung really wanted him to leave. His eyelids were heavier than he expected them to be and soon his soft snores were drifting around the living room. His sudden slumber left Taehyung scrambling for a pillow and blanket so Hoseok wouldn’t be uncomfortable the rest of the night.
“The offer to share my bed still stands,” Taehyung grinned at Yoongi after settling Hoseok in. The last thing he expected was for Yoongi to stomp down the hall to his room as if he owned the place. He turned to Seokjin and offered to sleep on the floor of his room so Seokjin could have the bed. “I really don’t mind, hyung. I’ve slept in worse conditions.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Seokjin’s smile was endearing, a flutter of pride in his heart at being accepted by Taehyung. “Sleeping on the floor won’t be a problem for me.”
Taehyung nodded and led him down the hall where he flung his door open to find Yoongi spread out on his bed. He grumbled underneath his breath and shoved Yoongi to one side, creating space for himself before digging through his closet for the sleeping bag he’d bought years ago. He handed Seokjin an extra pillow and blanket, bidding him goodnight and good luck. “I had to sleep on this floor when I first moved in and I can tell you, it’s the most unpleasant night’s sleep.”
Seokjin bobbed his head and yawned, offering good luck to Taehyung in return. “Y/N’s right, you know. Yoongi likes to cuddle.”
Taehyung was ready to laugh at what he thought was a continuation of the joking from earlier but the arm that was quickly wrapped around his stomach made him squeak. He didn’t mind it and he certainly wasn’t going to object to Yoongi’s heartless facade finally crumbling. There was a deep and raspy chuckle that echoed around the room and he wasn’t sure if it was from Seokjin, or Yoongi.
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The faint smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting up Taehyung’s nostrils made him believe he was still dreaming, but the constricting hold of someone else’s leg curled around his was enough to startle him. He tried to bolt up and assess his surroundings until his back was squeezed to a solid chest, and it was then he remembered what had happened the night before. He looked at the hand pressed to his chest and trailed his eyes up the owner’s arm and to Yoongi’s sleeping face.
Min Yoongi wasn’t just a cuddler, he was a goddamn boa constrictor with the way he clung to Taehyung with a surprising amount of strength. He wasn’t usually one for physical affection but he hated the feeling of an empty bed after you’d left years ago. To have someone next to him, be it man or woman, he didn’t care. He wanted the warmth of another body, the comfort of knowing the space next to him would be occupied when he awoke. He was well aware of the hesitation that came from Taehyung after the stunt Yoongi had pulled on Jungkook with a gun, which is why it had surprised him that Taehyung would offer his home as a place to sleep despite Yoongi having his own apartment. He liked to think it was because Taehyung was finally starting to accept him the way he accepted Hoseok and Seokjin.
A loud and obnoxious slurping coming from Taehyung’s bedroom doorway had both him and Yoongi groaning at being woken up before they were ready. Yoongi was tempted to throw a pillow at whoever it may be and seeing as how Taehyung fumbled around the bed to grip a loose one, it was clear that Yoongi was not alone in despising the morning sun.
“Well,” Your voice was dripping with amusement, a teasing lilt to it as both men’s eyes shot open to find that you were the one interrupting their sleep. “Don’t you two look cosy. I take it you’ve forgiven Yoongs then, Tae? Or this is a forbidden kind of thing that we’re all supposed to just pretend we don’t notice?”
“Get out!” Taehyung hissed, horror written all over his face as he noticed your phone poised and ready to take a picture. He was sure you already had a dozen or more since you took your sweet ass time waking them up. He would yell at you to delete them but there was a maximum of one photo on your phone, it being of you and your mother when you were still just a toddler. The fact that you were willing to keep a memento of a fonder memory at his and Yoongi’s expense was honestly okay with him.
“Jin made breakfast.” You sauntered away from Taehyung’s room with your coffee mug, loudly announcing to Hoseok that he ‘just had to see this’, and Hoseok chirping ‘no way!’. Setting the mug down on the kitchen table, you heard fumbling, a thud, and then a loud groan before Yoongi came barreling down the hallway with accusatory eyes. “Good morning, Yoongs. How’d you sleep?”
“Don’t try that cutesy act on me, you little brat.” Yoongi glared at you, his eyes roaming your body in search of your phone. “Hand it over.”
“No.”
Yoongi balked at your refusal, lunging after you and finding himself having to chase you across the length of the living room. He came close once or twice though he was sure it was more because you were just giving him a chance rather than he was actually as fast as you. Nearly tripping over the coffee table, he was appalled to see that you’d hidden behind Hoseok, and that Hoseok was full on shielding you from Yoongi’s hands.
At some point, Taehyung had finally emerged from his room and stopped short at the sight of a mischievous grin on your face. He didn’t think you even knew what fun was, but he had to remind himself that there had been a time when you were loved and cared for, and the man currently threatening to strangle Hoseok was one of the people who’d known you before your training. He had to wonder why Jungkook hadn’t stepped in yet when he looked to the kitchen and saw Seokjin setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of the panther.
The breakfast Seokjin had cooked up looked so mouthwatering that Jungkook didn’t even bother paying attention to you and Yoongi. In fact, it was entertaining to watch Yoongi attempt to keep up with your speed and agility. You moved so fluently and swiftly that Jungkook wondered how it was possible for a mere human to move the way he could in his panther form. When you launched yourself over the coffee table flawlessly and sprinted to him, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around your waist as you plopped down in his lap.
Yoongi was panting and two seconds from collapsing to the ground. You’d always been fast and nimble, two traits Yoongi wasn’t exactly envious of given the circumstances you’d gone through to obtain those abilities. He did, however, envy that you weren’t out a single breath while he was close to being dehydrated just from running around the apartment. “I swear to God, little one, if you don’t hand that phone over…”
“I don’t have it.” You smirked at him, accepting a forkful of eggs from Jungkook’s waiting hand. You had your own plate waiting right next to him, but given how long you left them to get cold, you couldn’t imagine they were appetizing. A fact Seokjin also factored in when he heard the commotion, now picking up the plate and shoving it in the microwave to heat up. You’d be surprised if it weren’t for the reminder that he was a parent, and that he must have gone through the same thing a million times with his young daughter.
Taehyung had left the room a few minutes before and was now wandering back in with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Toothpaste was slathered all over his lips as he scrubbed at his teeth, not wanting to miss what else may occur in the battle between his best friend and Yoongi. He caught Yoongi’s eye and sent him a teasing wink, watching as Yoongi’s face flushed a bright red before he was sitting at the table to eat breakfast.
Seokjin stood at the stove, munching on a strip of bacon and watching the scene unfold before his very eyes. The stark difference in your attitude and demeanor in the last few hours compared to the last few weeks since he’d known you left Seokjin baffled. The obvious flirting between Taehyung and Yoongi, who seemed to longer detest each other, caught him off guard. When he’d joked about Yoongi being clingy the night before, he did not expect to have seen Taehyung so comfortable in Yoongi’s arms. Seokjin didn’t want this to end, he realized. He wanted this every day and to introduce this new part of his life to his wife and daughter, to have his two worlds collide without the threatening weight of Hyungsik on his shoulders.
Hoseok set his empty plate in the sink, frowning as he turned to the table and brought up the crushing subject of the problem at hand. “I woke up to some disturbing texts this morning.”
You stilled in Jungkook’s arms, eyes flicking to Hoseok’s approaching figure.
“A hunter, Lee Dongwook, stopped by the bar last night because he had some information that he thought we’d find interesting.” Hoseok sighed and hung his head in frustration. “Some detectives were snooping around some local dive bars, said they were asking questions about previously known hybrid collectors. They wouldn’t tell anyone why but Dongwook was sure it had to do with some hybrids that had been found dead and their bodies dumped.”
“Meaning?” Yoongi wanted to shake Hoseok by the shoulders and hope that whatever he was hesitating to say would spill out.
“It was the way their bodies were dumped.” Hoseok explained, his eyes boring into the side of your face. “No identification, no missing persons reports, no trace of the hybrid even existing. And the places they’d been dumped were void of any kind of evidence as to who could have done it.”
Yoongi’s gaze flickered to yours, which never seemed to leave the table. Bile gathered in his throat as he watched a sense of recognition flash in your eyes. “Get to the point, Hobi.”
“There’s only one hunter known to pull off a job like that.” Hoseok tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down so hard that he tasted blood. “Only one hunter that’s known to move like a ghost, blending and moving with the shadows.”
“You didn’t.” Yoongi whispered over the silence that befell the apartment. “Little one, tell me you didn’t.”
“Not for a long time, Yoongi.” You stood from Jungkook and distanced yourself quickly. “Back when I first started hunting, it was easier to do a body dump than it was to actually catch a hybrid. At sixteen, nobody believed a girl like me could get the job done, so they saddled me with getting rid of the bodies.”
“God,” Yoongi breathed and stood up from the table, one hand propped on his hip while the other came up to cover his mouth lest the vomit stuck in his throat come spewing out. “What even…? How…?” He didn’t know what he was trying to ask, or why he was asking at all. He understood what you did as a hunter but he was under the impression that all you did was hunt. Somewhere down the line, he’d pushed the knowledge of your killings to the back of his mind and locked it away.
“I was a kid.” You inhaled deeply and looked to the ground, not sure you could bear the look in Yoongi’s eyes, or Jungkook’s for that matter. “Nobody would have suspected a kid, let alone question them for murder. Sangchul taught me how to get rid of evidence and set me out into the world of hunters and before I knew it... I was that ghost. I was that thing that could move in the shadows, Yoongi. My reputation started with those jobs.”
Teahyung winced at the change of tone in your voice. To him, it wasn’t a surprise to hear about the beginnings of your hunting days. You’d told him all about it when you’d first met in hopes it would scare him away. But no. There was no scaring him away from you.
“Are you trying to justify your shit by saying you were only sixteen?!” Yoongi’s voice boomed around the apartment and Hoseok had put a comforting hand to Jungkook’s shoulder. “All of it should be forgiven and forgotten because you were just a kid?! The world doesn’t fucking work that way, Y/N! Of course, those hybrids would never know because they won’t be getting the chance because of you! You destroyed them, you got rid of them, and didn’t turn back because it wasn’t your fucking problem anymore, was it?! Can you even tell me their names?!”
“Yoongi!” Seokjin tried to step in, watching the darkness swirl in your eyes as your gaze shot to Yoongi.
“Seo-yun, Seung, Hyunwoo, Juwon,” You listed off name after name, your hands curling into fists at the memories each name brought up. The things you had done, the lives you had taken, and the slow, agonizing pain in your chest with each hybrid. “Changmin, Geon, Seokhoon.”
“Y/N, stop.” Taehyung pleaded, standing from the table and moving across the room but you stepped back. His heart cracked at the way you rejected him.
“Jeni, Areum, Bona,” You continued, chest heaving with anger as more names came spilling out. “Haneul, Nabi, Hwayoung. And so many more. Yes, I did that to them. Yes, I made them untraceable. But I was never the kind of ruthless that my grandfather wanted me to be. They died, Yoongi, but they weren’t tortured, at least not by me. To say their deaths were peaceful would be selfish, but they certainly weren’t painful either.”
“You killed them, Y/N.” Yoongi raked a hand through his hair, bewilderment and disbelief etched all over his face. “You ended their lives and you mean to tell me that you did it peacefully? Is there anything even remotely peaceful about being murdered?”
Your jaw clenched at his question. “What would you know about murder, Yoongi? You think because you happened to catch a glimpse of the damage my mother’s death caused that you’re an expert in the repercussions of it?”
“Don’t do that.” Yoongi hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t try to justify your actions with your past trauma like you were the only one who lost something that day.”
Taehyung’s eyes darted to you as you took in a sharp breath. To say he was nervous would be an understatement. He was downright terrified of the look in your eye. There had been but two times in the past years that Teahyung had called you out on your bullshit and excuses, and both times had ended in disaster.
“Iseul was important to me too.” Yoongi continued and watched as tears welled in your eyes at the sound of your own mother’s name. He could only guess that you hadn’t said her name out loud since the day she died, and hearing it now made you falter. “She wasn’t just your mother. She was the woman who made sure you were safe at all costs, made sure I was safe at all costs because you needed me. I needed you. We needed each other. She asked me to take care of you, asked me to love you the way you deserved to be because she knew that one day, your father would take her away from you. Iseul always knew that she wouldn’t live long enough to watch you grow all the way up, so she made me promise that I would always look after you no matter what. When she died, my heart felt like it was shattered into a million pieces, and then you were gone too.”
Seokjin’s shoulders stiffened. He had never heard the full story of why Yoongi was so closed off and unwilling to make friends with anyone in college. Here and now may not have been the most ideal, but it was time everything came to light.
Yoongi’s hands shook as everything from that time came rushing back to him. The sleepless nights, the loss of appetite, the depression. All of it after you left town and not once since his reunion with you was he given the chance to let you know just how messed up he’d become.
“You were gone,” Yoongi continued, “and I couldn’t find you. It was like you fell off the face of the Earth. Do you know how helpless I felt? How desperate I became? For years I went out of my fucking mind because I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. I may not have had the same experiences as you after that day, but you can damn well bet that I was suffering too. Losing you and Iseul fucked me up just as bad, but I didn’t go off and become a murderer.”
“No. How could you?” You gasped through the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. The look on his face after learning the truth of who you’d really become reminded you of the time your mother had first looked at you the same way. Like you were the devil. “You weren’t born to the same monster that I was, Yoongi. You weren’t meant to be what I am. I know what you were going through. Every chance I had to get away from Sangchul, I went to find you. You were so broken that I couldn’t show my face knowing I’d have to leave again. When we got older, and Sangchul was dead, I kept my distance and you know why? Because you were finally happy again, and I thought if I showed up that I would only disrupt the new life you built. Look at you, Yoongs, you can barely look me in the eye knowing what you do now.”
Jungkook fought hard to resist his urge to spring up from his chair and hold you. He had admonished your decision to keep hunting, but that didn’t mean he didn’t fully understand what the life of a hunter meant. Yoongi’s bar was open to anyone and everyone, and although 90% of those people were hunters, he had never been fully immersed in their world. It wasn’t easy for Jungkook to forgive you and it certainly wasn’t easy to see it from your perspective, but surviving was your instinct just as it was his. Sometimes surviving meant doing things one would never be proud of and he understood that better than Yoongi did.
“The only reason I can’t look you in the eye is because I’m not sure who I’ll see when I do.” Yoongi blinked away his own tears, his chest aching with the newfound knowledge that you’d always been looking over him. “You have this mask that you put up whenever you start to shut down or need to keep someone at bay. That mask looks so much like Sangchul’s and Donghoon’s that I don’t even see Iseul in you anymore, Y/N.”
“That’s because she’s none of those people,” Taehyung had finally inched himself across the room enough to stand at your side without touching you. “Y/N is herself. Those people may have shaped her but over time, she created her own mould. Yoongi, you only want to see the little girl you took care of and no matter how many times you thought you could handle who she was, it wasn’t real for you. This, here and now, this is the reality we’ve lived and become accustomed to. You’re not ready for it. I don’t think anyone but me, Jungkook, and Y/N are, and yet here we all stand willing to take risks bigger than any of us had expected. I’m not saying you need to open your eyes and take in the cruelty of our world if you want to help, but that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“When was your last clean up job?” Seokjin didn’t want to ask. In fact, he was content with staying the hell out of the argument entirely, but someone had to shift the conversation back to where it began.
“6 years ago,” your answer was immediate, giving Yoongi a little bit of relief that these last few bodies were not actually your work. “After I got my first tracking job, I never took on another clean up again.”
Hoseok perked up as if suddenly realizing something important. He dug his phone from his pocket to scroll through the text messages.”Dongwook said the other hunters didn’t give up your name to the detectives, but he heard chatter that maybe you’d started taking on clean up duty again.”
“How did he know to text you?” Yoongi asked him, almost glaring at Hoseok’s sheepish face. “Hobi?”
Hoseok scratched at his head nervously. “Dongwook was in the bar the night Xiumin and Kai attacked Y/N. He saw us take her to the back and figured we had dealt with her a different way but then he saw her leave and pieced it all together.”
“We’re really that transparent.” Yoongi sighed heavily, massaging the tension building at the nape of his neck. “If Dongwook figured it out then there’s no doubt that other hunters have as well.”
“Well yes, but who would really try and use it against us?” Hoseok shot a knowing look in your direction. “To them, the fact that we let Y/N go so easily that night just means we’re important to her. Nobody’s ever bothered to try and hurt Taehyung because they know what will happen if they do. In a way, the bar and us are under her protection.”
“Then who’s dumping the bodies? And who would be stupid enough to try and pin it on Y/N?”
“I’m still here.” You reminded them, tired of hearing them speak about you as if you weren’t present. Looking at everyone around the room, your eyes softened on Jungkook in apology. “I have to contact Namjoon today, before things get more out of hand. I’ll be gone for most of the day and maybe even tomorrow.”
Jungkook wanted to argue, wanted to lock you in the apartment even if he had to tie you up to do so, but he couldn’t do any of that. He could definitely try, and he didn’t think anyone else would object to it. Still, he couldn’t keep you from your nature or from your desperate need to keep him alive and well. Two days would be too long and that was just the minimum amount of time you’d estimated your absence. “Will Taehyung or Seokjin hyung be going with you?”
No, you said at the same time Taehyung said “yes”. You spun around to face him, lips pulled into a thin line. “You’re not going, Tae. I need you here with Jungkook.”
“Jungkook’s a full shifter,” Taehyung argued, “if anyone needs protection, it’s whoever is dumb enough to storm this apartment. Plus, Hoseok, Seokjin, and Yoongi can stay here with him, right Jungkook?��
“I’d feel better if Taehyung went with you.” Jungkook nodded at Taehyung in agreement. “It won’t be safe by yourself, and I’d rather not have a repeat of the night I had to stitch you up.”
You rolled your neck in irritation. Suddenly everyone thought arguing with you was a good idea and nothing pissed you off more than when Taehyung refused to see reason. You didn’t know what would happen when you met Namjoon and you didn’t want Taehyung in the middle of it. After spilling the secret of your grandfather’s death, you were sure Namjoon had something planned in order to bring you to justice. He wouldn’t be a good cop if he didn’t have a larger perspective.
Without a word, you were storming to your room, changing from the baggy sweats and shirt to a pair of black tactical pants, a tank top, and a long sleeved thermal top over it. You pulled your hair into a low ponytail with a heavy sigh. “It isn’t safe to take Taehyung with me,” you called over your shoulder.
Jungkook wasn’t at all surprised that you’d sensed him in the room even if he hadn’t made any noise. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your stomach to pull your back flush against his chest. “I don’t even want you to go in the first place. If you don’t want Taehyung to go with you, then you’ll just have to stay here.”
You turned in his arms, resting your palms against the hard planes of his chest and sliding them up until your fingers were fiddling with the leather band around his neck. An ominous feeling came over you as you tapped on the tracking chip embedded in the charm adorning it. Something was going to go wrong, you could feel it, but voicing this to Jungkook would only further prove that whatever you have planned was not a good idea.
“The longer I wait to set the rest of the plan in motion, the riskier it gets for you,” you stood on the tips of your toes, fingers sliding into his long hair, and pulling his mouth down to yours. It wasn’t a goodbye kiss, but it wasn’t an I’ll-see-you-soon kiss. You could tell Jungkook knew this with the way he secured your waist with one arm and his other hand tangled in your hair, tugging at the elastic band.
He pulled you hard against him, deepening the kiss and nipping at your bottom lip until he was able to slide his tongue through your parted lips. He felt your nails dig into his scalp gently and he groaned against your mouth, savoring the taste of coffee on your tongue. He didn’t want to let you go, but the push of your hand against his chest forced him to release his grip.
You pulled back to touch your forehead to his, both of you breathing heavily. You didn’t open your eyes to see his, it hurt enough that you were leaving, you didn’t need the image of his pleading brown eyes to be the last thing you’d seen before taking off. “I’ll be back, I promise.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” He whispered against your swollen lips. His hands fell to your waist where he bunched up the fabric of your shirt, his grip becoming too tight. “I thought you were a better liar than this.”
“I can’t lie to you no matter how hard I try.” You pressed a softer kiss to his mouth this time, bracing your palms against his chest and pushing away from him. Without giving him one last look, you were stalking out of the room. Your chest constricted with the ragged breath he puffed out to keep himself from crying.
#hunting a hybrid fic#jeon jungkook smut#bts hybrid au#bts smut#jeon jungkook imagine#bts imagine#bts fanfic
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resurge infra terra
Octoberfest 4: Buried Alive (whumptober #4)
Jaskier woke in the dark.
The smell of earth was so intense it made him gag. There was a pressure all around him, crushing down on his chest and forcing him to take tiny, gasping breaths. His hands were over his face, and he pushed them away slightly, making a tiny pocket where he could pant into the damp air. Was he dead? Jaskier’s mind swirled with hazy memories - sharp fangs piercing into his shoulder, his muscles seizing, watching Geralt wave shortly as he went off in search of the local monster. Waiting at the edge of town when it started getting late. He wasn’t sure if that was all in the right order, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had a more pressing issue, namely that it seemed the alderman had been wrong when he said that the creature’s bite killed instantly.
The cloth of the shroud - his actual burial shroud, fuck - stuck to his face, and Jaskier could feel the weight of the dirt above him, pressing down heavily. The sense of claustrophobia was so immediate and intense that he wanted to retch, but he found he didn’t have the room or the air to do so. The only reason he wasn’t dead yet, he assumed, was because whatever coma-like state the aracas had put him in must not have demanded much air. He must have woken only just in time - any longer and he might have suffocated.
He still might. His lungs burned for air. What little was left under the thick shroud with him wasn’t enough. Jaskier needed to move now, or he was going to die - actually, this time.
At least they already went through the trouble of burying me, he thought, head spinning. He was so dizzy. He hoped they’d given him a nice headstone.
His hands pushed up against the shroud, and he could have cried when it easily parted. Northern custom dictated that the deceased be buried with their hands covering their eyes - an old elven tradition, he thought vaguely. It had protected his mouth and nose from the pressure of the dirt above, and now he used one hand to hold the shroud in place while he pawed at the ground. The dirt above him was loose, only just dumped in place, and he shoved it aside as quickly as he could. More dirt fell back in its place, but he kept going, wriggling against the pressure and using his elbow to shove as much as he could towards his toes. With each movement the earth gave a little more, but Jaskier could feel himself growing weaker. His lungs were spasming in his chest, as if he’d been underwater for too long, bathing with Geralt by the riverside. The dark, wet dirt pressed in all around him, and he was never going to get out, never, he was going to die here -
His fingers broke through the surface.
He must have looked like something out of a ghost tale, clawing his way up out of the ground and ripping the shroud from his face. Crisp night air flooded his chest, and Jaskier found himself choking and retching up dirt and muck. He was still half in the grave, his legs stuck at an odd angle. Slowly Jaskier pulled himself out of the ground and flung himself to the side, breathing hard as he stared up at the starry sky. There was no headstone. What an insult.
Figuring out how to get up and go find Geralt seemed like a truly insurmountable task, so Jaskier did the only sensible thing he could think of: he fainted again.
*
When he came to again, it was to large, warm hands shaking him. Someone was saying his name rather loudly.
“Oi,” he muttered, batting at the fingers clutching his shirt. “Leave me alone, I’m dead.”
It was then that he remembered that he wasn’t, actually, so he opened his eyes experimentally. He was met by a very shaken looking Geralt, who was the one clutching his lapels. Jaskier reached up and pat his hand weakly.
“Only joking,” he rasped, voice rough from coughing. “What’s got you all worked up?”
The witcher looked harrowed, hair falling into his face and eyes wild. Now that he wasn’t so worried about drowning on dirt, Jaskier’s shoulder pulsed with a throbbing pain where he’d been bitten by the giant arachnid that Geralt had been hired to kill. Jaskier had been explicitly told not to come along, and he’d still run into trouble. Geralt was probably pissed.
“They said they’d buried you,” Geralt said. His fingers moved to cradle the back of Jaskier’s head, which was very nice. Maybe Geralt wasn’t angry. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that this happened, so he really shouldn’t be anyways, now that Jaskier thought of it. He was going to voice this, but he was very tired, and Geralt’s other hand was warm on his chest. “I thought - Arachas venom is a paralyzing agent, they said you were hit,” Geralt continued. His face was haunted, an expression Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. “I thought I was too late.”
Jaskier grunted, using Geralt’s arm as an anchor to pull himself into a sitting position. The world swam around him for a moment, but finally settled. Geralt’s hand shifted down to help keep him upright, and Jaskier was grateful for it. “Well, as you can see I did a fine job of managing that crisis on my own,” he said, giving Geralt the best grin he could manage. It probably came off all wrong, stained as his teeth were with dirt, both of them sitting beside Jaskier’s self-desecrated grave. “Sorry you couldn’t be the hero this time.”
Geralt let out a shaky breath, and then Jaskier was being tugged forward into a crushing embrace. It hurt his shoulder frightfully, but Jaskier wasn’t about to protest. “I’m just glad you’re alright,” Geralt said in his ear, soft and vulnerable. Jaskier thought about how close he’d come to not being alright - thought about what it would have been like, to suffocate beneath the earth, Geralt standing over his body knowing he could have stopped it.
Thank the gods for shallow graves.
“I hope you didn’t kill the alderman,” he said, still pressed against Geralt’s neck. The witcher smelled like sharp metal and the sour-sweet smell of his potions. “Though I do expect several people met an unnecessary end by his hands.”
There was a growl against his temple. “I was going to deal with him later,” and the dark tone shouldn’t have made Jaskier feel so fuzzy inside, but it did anyways.
Eventually Geralt pulled away, brushing a bit of dirt from Jaskier’s hair. He spent a long moment just looking over Jaskier’s face, as if double checking that he was still all there. Jaskier gave him a tired smile in response, free of his usual bravado. “If you can stand to hold off the mutilation until morning,” he said wryly, “I’d love a bath.”
Finally Geralt gave him a dry smile, one that said, The situation is much too dire for you to be making jokes, but I’ll allow it. A true act of love, in Jaskier’s opinion. He was nothing without his humor to cope.
Jaskier felt Geralt’s hands shift, and suddenly he was being lifted, bridal style, into Geralt’s arms. Curling into the warmth of his witcher’s chest, Jaskier let himself doze on the way back to the inn. It didn’t necessarily make up for being buried alive, but he could definitely get used to this.
#I have determined that there's no way I can do one of these daily with it being midterms#BUT#I am going to try to post one every other day#again may not hit that mark but I'm just gonna be trying to do my best!#my work#geraskier#geralt of rivia#geralt#geraltxjaskier#jaskier#geralt/jaskier#witcher#the witcher#fanfiction#fan fic#fic#maybe I'll continue doing these in november until I have a month's worth#or make them part of nano idk! we'll see#october2020#whumptober2020#no.4#buried alive#buried#whump#idk if I need to tag this with anything specific?#claustrophobia tw
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KH Writing Comm #1
Because I couldn’t think of a better title hhhh. Anyway my first and only writing comm for this round is done, for @rosie-drawss, who wanted a potential AUish situation for while Sora is on the run in Keys, where the dumbass gets his claws stuck in a tree and who should happen upon him but Riku! With that, you’d think this would be a funny drabble, but you know me, everything I touch turns to angst/hurt/comfort. Anyway with that outta the way, enjoy!
***
His latest attempt at hunting has, unsurprisingly, gone horribly wrong. Desperate for any potential food he could get his hands on, he decided to chase after a passing squirrel, eventually tailing it to a tall oak tree in the middle of the woods. Taking a swing at it had been his main mistake; for in trying to strike the escaping creature, the only thing he did manage to get were his claws squarely stuck in the side of the tree instead. And that’s exactly where they’ve stubbornly decided to stay.
Sora lets out another frustrated groan, putting all of his waning strength into tearing his claws out of the bark they’re embedded into, all the way down to his knuckles. The claws have already proven themselves to be nothing more than a nuisance, but this takes that annoyance to an all new level.
“Well at least this can’t get any worse...” he mutters dryly to himself. Only for things to, of course, end up getting worse all the same.
“Sora…?”
He gasps, spinning around as much as he’s able to. His hand remains wedged into the tree, despite his initial, panicked effort to pry it free. When that doesn’t work, he finds he’s still hopelessly stuck, standing just a few short feet away… from Riku.
For what feels like years, neither of them speak. Rike’s eyes are wide as he stares straight at Sora, who makes another frantic, useless attempt at loosening himself from the tree. His rising dread skyrockets, however, when he sees Riku take his first step across the clearing toward him.
“S-stay back!” he warns, his voice tight and terrified. Riku ignores that warning, however. Because after months of painful, prolonged separation, he can barely stand even the short distance remaining between them now. Even if it's a distance that Sora seems dead set on maintaining. “I-I’m serious, Riku! Don’t come any closer!”
Riku finally stops his approach at this, his eyes narrowing as he tries to get a better view of his best friend in the low light of the forest. “Why not?” The question comes out cold, unreadable, and quiet. And it shakes Sora to his very core.
“Because…” he sighs tiredly, glancing away in shame. “I… I don’t want to hurt you…”
“You don’t want to…” Riku trails off in disbelief. His hands clench into firsts at his sides as he thinks about how much Sora already has hurt him. As he thinks about all of the pain and worry his lies and his deceit and his very disappearance alone has caused him since this disaster began. He nearly calls him out for it too, nearly scolds him harshly for his dishonestly, nearly lets him have it with every ounce of authority he has as his leader.
But then, he takes another look at Sora. And he sees exactly what his time alone on the run has done to him. His clothes are tattered and torn, he’s missing a shoe, and his now mostly white hair is an untamed mess, to say the least. He’s also thinner, noticeably thinner as his jacket seems to limply hang off his clearly starving body, his visible skin covered in dirt and marred with unhealed, untreated cuts and scars. His largely golden eyes are wide and wild, filled with fear so raw and unshakable Riku can barely stand the sight of it. And as he takes in that fearful stare, that’s when he finally starts to realize--
That right now, what Sora needs is a friend far more than leader.
“I just… thought you might need a hand,” Riku finally says, a weak bout of humor that’s all but lost on Sora given his current predicament. He continues struggling to pull his claws free, a sharp hiss of pain escaping him as he bends his trapped fingers the wrong way. But he can’t stop, he can’t let Riku reach him, he can’t go back, not now, not ever.
“Sora,” Riku begins, now only a few feet away. He slowly reaches a hand out, one that Sora swiftly shoves away as he lets out another frightened hiss.
“G-go away!” he cries, tears already brimming in his eyes. “Just leave me alone! I wish you’d all just stop pretending like you want to help me, because I know you don’t!”
Riku stills at this, completely taken aback by what he’s hearing. By the vicious lies the Organization has no doubt led him to believe, whatever they might have said to him to make him think his friends hate him instead of wanting him as they all so desperately do. Even so, he decides to venture the obvious question all the same. “What makes you think that?”
Sora’s still resisting against the tree as he chokes out a weak, miserable sob. “You’re better off without me. You all are. I mean, w-why would you ever want a failure like me back…?”
Riku can’t bear it any longer. He takes Sora’s free hand, and though he freezes up in fear, he doesn’t immediately pull it away. Not when he meets the steady sincerity reflecting in Riku’s calming teal eyes. “We--I want you back, Sora.” His voice is barely above a whisper as it fuels Sora with something he hasn’t felt in such a long time: hope. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything else… I always have, and, no matter what happens to you... I always will…”
“R-Riku…” Sora mutters brokenly, tears streaking down his cheeks. He finds his body easing up when Riku softly slides his other hand over his own, the hand that’s still stuck in the side of the tree.
Riku calmly quiets him when he slips out another feeble sob, his grip on his hand secure, yet gentle. “Let’s get you out of there, ok?” he offers with a small, encouraging smile. And after weeks of struggling to trust anyone, even himself, Sora finally decides to trust Riku again, just as he always used to trust him before.
He’s surprised at how quickly and easily Riku does it. While he couldn’t get his claws to so much as budge before, Riku guides his hand back in just the right way that they slide right out of the tree’s surface without so much as an ounce of pain to speak of. As soon as he’s freed, Riku takes a half a step away from him, probably expecting him to run or try to escape. Yet to his credit, that’s not at all what Sora does. Instead, he collapses to his knees, his head bowed as he begs his best friend for forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve in the slightest. Not after everything he’s done.
“I-I’m sorry,” he whimpers shamefully, his tear-soaked face buried in his hands. “I’m so, so sorry… I should have just told you, right from the start, I should have let you help me like you said you wanted to, I should have-”
“What you should have done doesn’t matter anymore,” Riku assures him. He places his hands against his arms, guiding him back up to stand, though he maintains a loose, loving hold on him all the same. “All that matters now is what I’m going to do. And what I’m going to do is find a way to save you from this, no matter what it takes. I won’t let them or anyone else take you away from me. Not now, or ever again. I promise.”
Part of Sora, the part that’s been languishing in the lies and fear the Organization has so deeply planted inside his heart, struggles to believe that promise, struggles to comprehend the idea that he can ever be safe, that he can ever be free again. But another, stronger part of him knows that if there’s anyone worth believing, if there’s anyone worth trusting with every fiber of his weakened, aching heart, if there’s anyone capable of putting the broken pieces of that heart back together again… it’s Riku.
“Ok,” is all he says as he lightly leans against his best friend for support. As he gives him his unspoken, yet solemn permission to follow through on his promise, to let him be the one to fix all everything that’s broken about him. Riku smiles, lacing their fingers together and not even minding Sora’s claws in the slightest as he does. Really, he can’t bring himself to mind much at all right now; not when he’s finally found the lost piece of his own heart he’s been so sorely missing.
“Come on, Sora,” he says softly as he begins to lead him back to the ship he came in. As they both take their first steps toward the future they both want to have with each other, a future they’re both willing to fight against even Xehanort himself to find. Just as long as they’re finding their way to it together this time. “Let’s go home.”
Commissions are CLOSED
#jen writes#commissions#writing comm#keys to the kingdom#kingdom hearts#sora#riku#soriku#kh fanfic#drabble prompt#disney#square enix
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Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Fourteen
Series Masterlist
Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader
Words: A WHOOPING 7.5K
Summary: (Body Swap AU) You finally meet with the Old Ones, and they shed light on why you are stuck in the body of the Mandalorian. The meeting is cut short by an intruder.
Rating: M (Violence)
A/N: Oh boy. Okay. Oh god. Here it is fellas. I am a wreck. An absolute wreck. But it is done and we are about to get craaaaaazzzyyyyy. I feel like getting to this point has been just me slowly losing my mind. Do I have any sense of perspective anymore? No! I do not! Thank you as always to you lovely, beautiful, amazingly supportive people. Y’all really give me the energy and the motivation to get anything done.
The abandoned space port seems to hang behind you, grey and suspended in darkness, swallowed by the mouth of the tunnel. The great pillars tower into the darkness, shifting and colossal in the light of the storm beyond. The floor ripples like a pulse and in the warping of the water the puddle becomes a river. In its reflection you see the shape of the clouds above warm, swirl and mass, and go still again. Become a flat mirror of the distant, misty ceiling above. Behind you the echo of Din’s footsteps begins to sound like something else, something stuttered and slow and creeping. You turn and find his back disappearing into the dimness ahead. You jog to catch him before he vanishes around the next corner. Feel the heaviness of the cape hitting at the back of your legs as you do, like something following you. You think of the shadow. Rest your hand over the blaster at your hip and check over your shoulder. Think you see a flash of light glint, but you turn the corner after Din and there is only darkness and the stream of your torches.
The tunnel is dark, turns in sharp corners and winds, a maze. Din has the radar in his palm, follows the blipping cluster of dots through the winding space. The metallic clang of your footsteps begins to scuff, roll, and you point your torch at the ground. A fine layer of dirt and small rocks covering the floor like carpet. Just ahead of you the structure of metal ends and gives way to burrowed dirt.
The tunnel begins to close all around you, a great mouth, swallowing you into the darkness. You see Din move, soft and silent ahead of you, and the whisper of the hovering crib in the darkness. Shifting in the torchlight. The walls around you are rippled with the marks of tools, of digging. Rough and uneven and dark. And even in the dim you can see the earth around you has changed, not caked and dry and brown anymore, but a rich, dark red. Slabs of clay, slick and molten. The ceiling is low enough that if you were to reach up you would catch the Mandalorian’s glove along the crevices in the ceiling. . You swallow hard and keep your hand close to your blaster, something dark and unsettling pressing along your lungs, along your heart. Makes your mouth taste bitter. You remember suddenly how big the Barabel on Garel was, a full head and shoulders over you even in Din’s body, even in his boots and helmet. How close he had come to pulling the helmet away from you, from exposing Din’s face. The crib hovers ahead. The darkness gets so complete you feel it is choking you, creeping into the space around your eyes and into your mouth and nose and ears, leaves a ringing behind.
And then you see a dim glow of orange ahead.
The caves begin to open, and the darkness lifts, and you see the movement of shadows flicker against the walls like ripples across the puddles in the abandoned space port. And you come around a corner suddenly and there is a massive shadow looming over Din, head ducked against brushing the dirt ceiling. Din’s torch bounces off its massive shoulders, its yellow glinting eyes and hissing tongue clear in the dim. You jerk backwards, pull your blaster from your holster, reach a hand out to protect the child, sealed in his crib. Din has done the same, has spread his body between the Barabel and the crib, his blaster pointed between the Barabels eyes.
“Strangers,” the huge Barabel hisses, its tongue warping the shape of the ‘s’ into something slithered and harsh. “What do the strangers want?”
You try to push forward, Din so small against the huge bulk of the Barabel, but you hear the click of a blaster, and you see the Barabel raise its arm towards you. You stop moving, keep your blaster aimed at the alien’s chest. Din lifts his arm slowly and waves his hand back towards you. A silent call to step back. So you do.
“We’re looking for information,” Din says clearly, calmly.
The Barabel swings its massive head back to Din. Blinks reptilian eyes, two skins closing over the yellow pupils. “Strangers looking for information?”
“We met one of your brothers, on Garel. He told us to look for the Old Ones.”
The Barabel makes a noise like a bark. “You have a Mandalorian.”
You see Din turn from the corner of your eye to look at you, but you stay still, shoulders back and tall as you can manage to feel before the huge alien. Stare straight into its eyes. Its tongue slithers out between pointed teeth, makes a soft hiss. You flex your hand around the butt of your blaster, the leather creaking around your fingers.
“Mandalorians are gone now,” The Barabel says. Din stiffens, flinches towards his blaster. You feel the ripple of fury in the air, sudden and all encompassing. Feel it snake down your spine and take hold. Struggle to separate yourself from the strength of it. You see Din starting to move, not sure if you recognise the movement or feel it hidden in Din’s warped anger, settling into your bones, into your blood. But before he can move, before he can pull his blaster from its holster, the Barabel nods slowly. “Just like the Barabels.”
There’s a tense moment, where the air sparks and fizzles, heats the small space of the tunnel. The Barabel blinks again, tilts its head. “We used to be great warriors too. But now we hide under the ground. Come.”
You count the seconds where everything feels like it is suspended in the air around you. Where Din’s anger lingers through your blood and bones. And then it fades, leaving you cold. And Din eases, steps back, and you slowly lower your blaster. He looks back to catch your eyes and you share something between you. Another moment. And the Barabel waves for you to follow. Din stares at you still, his eyes tracing the shape of the helmet, and finally finding your eyes beneath. You feel the weight of his stare, something familiar. And he nods, leans towards you.
“There’s another behind as well.”
You turn slowly to look, twist the helmet to see over your shoulder. But there is only the darkness of the cave. You want to ask Din how he knows, how he can see, but the Barabel ahead of you begins to turn a corner and you must follow. Further into the tunnels, into the wavering orange light.
It does not take long before the tunnels begin to widen, and grow taller. Opens abruptly into a cavern, the ceiling feeling like it is plummeting away from you through thick soil and stone. There are pillars, warped and twisting through the air like plumes of smoke, holding up the stone above you. There are doors tunnelled into the walls around you and half tents pitched through the space, a ramshackle town deep in the ground. And everywhere – Barabels. Huge scaly bodies pushing and shoving and roaming through the cave, shades of green and brown and some almost yellow. Their scaled skin like armour in the dim firelight colouring the world beneath the planet’s surface. There must be hundreds of them. Behind you another Barabel steps from the darkness of the cave, holding a glinting spear in the light of the cavern. You watch as it steps silently to the side.
The Barabel who leads you turns. “This is all that is left of us.”
It looks directly into your visor. Blinks sideways again. And you nod slowly, just slightly. The Barabel nods back. And then it turns and begins to push through the crowd. Behind you, you see two more slip into the tunnel you leave behind, both holding blasters.
The crowd parts to let you through, huge heads turning to watch the procession. Din stays ahead, and you behind, the child’s crib hovering between you. The wind through the underground settlement is slow and painful, a thousand yellow eyes watching from the darkness. But the feeling of unease which had gripped you in the tunnel, the memories of the green planet, they have faded. And your nerves are not from a phantom of a threat, not settling inside you. Just the regular singing of your blood and pounding of your heart in your ears, surrounded by unfamiliar lifeforms. But none of them move to stop you, and when you pass, they turn again to what they were doing. The crowd closing in behind you in a wave of swishing tails and snapping teeth.
The Old Ones live at the back of the cave, where the floor slopes up and away and is carved into deep steps along the hard earth. The crowd is thinner here, and the Old Ones sit on woven mats along the ground, underneath sparsely hung cloth. Their tails swish lazily, swatting and beating against the ground. The Barabel who leads you holds out a clawed hand at the bottom of the stairs, turns its great head to make sure you stop. Under the ground and deep into the earth there is less water, and the dirt beneath your feet is a crunch of gravel and kick of dry dust. Coating your boots and pants in a fine layer of orange. Din is silent and dusty at your side, his face set firm and tense. His hand still at his blaster. You keep yours at your hip as well. Watch as the Barabel before you turns back to the rising hill of platforms before you and lets out a sharp holler. A stuttering sound, like something moving deep in the back of its throat. Makes its thin tongue slit between its teeth and into the air.
The echo around the walls cuts through the air and turns the chatter to silence.
At the front of the hill one of the Barabels lifts its clawed hand. It is a darker colour than the Barabel you saw on Garel, than the one which leads you now, and its front a pale almost-yellow. The scales along it skin are dense and thick and scored with scars like tallies. The yellow of its eyes is pale, milky almost. And when it clambers to stand it moves slow and rocking. The Barabel before you waits until the elder sways to its feet and lets out a long, loud hiss.
Their speech is harsh, hissing and almost barks of sound. Clashing of teeth against teeth. The Barabels all around you have stopped to listen. Stare at the elder, and at the Barabel before you who speaks, and at you. You feel the heaviness of their stares along your back, glancing off the helmet. You try not to move, not to even flex your hand over the butt of your blaster. You try to imagine how Din looks in his armour – easy and terrifying. Moves like it is a part of him. You sit back into your hip, the way you know he does, roll your shoulders back. You see Din look over at you, see him frown slightly. You don’t turn your head to see him but you feel the shift of everyone in the room when you ease your shoulders back. See the Barabels around you stand a little straighter.
The Barabel in front of you hisses loudly, and steps to the side. The older Barabel on the step looks down at you, eyes flickering from the crib to Din to you. It’s tongue snaps against its lips. “Speak now. What do you want to know?”
Din steps forward. “Our clan is looking for information. We have a foundling, and we want to find his people.”
“Little clan,” the elder says. Eyes the crib. “What foundling?”
You reach for the crib without thinking, and at your flinch the Barabel who led you hisses. Din holds his hands out, palms forward, and you mirror him. Show you have no blaster. Slowly the Barabels relax again and the elder on the hill is still watching, and waiting. Din turns to look at you, tilts his head in question, and you realising he is waiting for you to decide. That he is asking whether you agree it is safe. The trust sends a wash of warmth down your spine, over your fingertips. You hold Din’s eyes. And then you step away from the closed crib.
The sigh of the metal opening is loud in the silent cavern. All around you Barabels shift and jostle to see inside. Din steps to the side so that the elder can see the child clearly. The child’s ears twitch, his huge eyes blinking at the sudden light. The elder on the hill narrows its pale yellow eyes, tale swishing along the dusty ground behind it. Kicks up clouds of pale red into the air. Slowly it steps down from its perch and walks forward, leans heavily to one side, the leg not favoured covered with gashes so deep they must have exposed the muscle beneath when they were cut. You shudder to think of a creature which had claws sharp enough to penetrate the thick hide of the Barabel before you. The elder hobbles closer, closer, until it stops before your small group. Stares down at the tiny child in his crib and then to Din, and finally to you.
“A Mandalorian.”
Your eyes slide sideways, to Din. And then back to the elder. Slowly nod.
“Where did you find it?” The elder pokes a finger towards the child, who coos loudly and tried to grab at the claw. The Barabel barks, maybe a laugh, and moves his huge hand away. “Brave foundling.”
“He was taken.” Din says. “The Empire.”
The elder barks again, and says something in Barab. Around you the aliens all murmur something and the elder nods at Din. “A human, a Mandalorian and a little foundling. We do not have visitors like this.”
“We met a Barabel, on Garel. He told us to look for the Old Ones.”
“Why did the Barabel tell you this?”
Din hesitates, only slightly, but you feel it. A slight peak, something like nerves. Sets your teeth on edge. And then he sighs.
“We’re looking for Jedi.” Din’s words a quiet, but in the silence of the cave they carry. And as they reach the crowd gathered around you they send a ripple back through it, a wave of murmuring and beating of tails and hissing through teeth. “Can you help us?”
The crowd is restless and shifting. Pushing at each other. The elder’s eyes blink, the skin folding sideways over its eyes. And then it nods its great head. “Come.”
The climb is slow, winding through the old Barabels lounging on the steps of the cave. They turn their heads as you pass. All of them darker, dirtier colours of mottled greens and brown, hides covered in scores of blaster fire or terrible claw marks. Chunks of flesh and scales missing. Limbs and eyes missing. Great warriors, the Barabel who led you from the tunnel had said. The hill of writhing limbs rolls to watch you pass, the scars of their people dug deep into their skin. And at the bottom of the hill the younger Barabels begin to disperse, to slip back into the rhythm of their lives. The call of barking and hissing of their language filling the cavern again. The ringing of tools, and heavy beating footfalls against the clay. You continue to climb behind the elder, up and up and up the stairs.
The top of the hill is flattened into a plateau, covered over with a roughly woven cloth like a tent. The Barabels twitch their tails as you climb up, dark hides almost black in patches on their skin. Patches of deep and old scars as well. The elder stops before them with a loud hiss and steps to the side. Points to an empty spot on the woven mat. You move there, stand still while the elder begins to speak. Points to the child, to you – in the Beskar – and to Din. The Barabels here look ancient, their heads swaying, their eyes clouded with time.
“The foundling is Jedi.” The Barabel sits in the centre of the group. And even though its eyes do not see you feel when it swings its massive head to you that it can see beneath the armour. Can see beneath your skin.
“We don’t know,” Din says. “But we think he might be.”
“The Jedi can be many things. They do not look one way.”
Din nods slowly. “He can move things with willpower alone. Heal people – he’s healed me.”
The great Barabel in the centre hisses like a sigh and leans back against the mat. You see, when it shifts, that it misses the end of its tail. The stump twisted and twitching at its back. “Barabel used to know the Jedi. But the Jedi are old, like us. They left us a long time ago. We have just our stories.”
“Do you know where we can find them?” Din asks.
The great Barabel in the centre shakes its head, mirrored all around by the others. And the flood of disappointment from Din is so powerful it drowns out your own, tinged with something else. Some spark of something light. And guilt. You glance at him, at the back of your own head, but he is unmoving. And if not for the strength of his emotion you would not have known. The ancient Barabel before you rocks forward slightly.
“You try the planets beyond the stars,” it says. “You ask there. The memory of those planets is old. They hid their temples there. The Jedi and the Bad Ones, you watch out for the Bad Ones. They lure and they trick.”
“The Barabel we met on Garel,” you say. The ancient Barabel turns its milky eyes back to you. “He said there were others. Like the Jedi. He called them The Bad Ones.”
Another hissing sigh, and the Barabels all around you begin to beat their tails against the ground. The child begins to coo in the crib, bouncing inside his blankets. His ears twitching at the noise around you and his tiny hands reaching out for yours. You step close enough to let him grab your pinky finger and tug at the glove, and he quiets. Din is still watching the Barabel in the centre. Quiet and still. The elder behind you lets out a sharp bark.
“The ssssssith,” the ancient one says. It’s tongue darting out between its teeth and twisting the word into something ugly. “They do not heal. They only destroy. Be careful when you look for Jedi. The Sith are there in the shadows. They will lead you away from the Good Ones and into the dark. They set traps. Whole planets and temples which can change your soul.”
Din turns sharply to look to you. And you feel your heart drop into your stomach. Know from the way his skin has turned bloodless, and his eyes – filled with dread – that he is thinking the same as you. You think of the cave, the green planet. The green planet which you had found while looking for the Jedi. Of the things Din had told you of a Mandalorian soul – the one which was now in your body. You see his soul as he stares at you, looking out at you through your own eyes. And you realise you had found the Bad Ones. The Sith. That you are hearing the warning of the Barabel too late. You feel the air around you shimmer and pulse and you look down to find the child staring up at you. Huge, dark eyes blinking. He lets out a coo.
There’s a loud yell from below, and at the bottom of the stairs two Barabels with blasters are barking something in their native tongue. All around you there is a sudden surge as the huge aliens begin to move, begin to yell back. The elder who had led you to the Old Ones turns.
“Another ship has landed in the port.” The elder says. Din seals the crib and steps in front of it. Your hand finds the butt of your blaster. “You have someone with you?”
“No.” Din has his blaster out now.
“Another stranger in a different tunnel.” The elder waves at you, down the hill in the direction you’d come. “Time to leave. Too many strangers means they find us.”
Din grabs you by your arm and tugs. You step close enough that he can murmur to you quietly. Around you the Old Ones are speaking in Barab, their barking and hissing filling the cavern with strange sounds, echoing from the red clay walls. Only the ancient one in the middle is silent, still watching you. Din leans his head to the helmet.
“Take the kid and get back to the Crest. Get somewhere safe.”
“What about you?”
His hand drops from your elbow to your wrist, slips his fingers between the edge of the glove and the sleeve. And the warmth of his fingers calms you, the familiar action against the calamity of the world around you. Presses his fingertips to your pulse.
“I’ll take a different tunnel and meet you at the Crest.”
“Just come with us.”
“If they’re a threat I don’t want them near you or the kid. I’ll make sure they don’t find you.”
You catch yourself before you call him by his name. “Mando – ”
“Be careful looking for the Jedi.” The ancient one sits forward. It has a scar running along the side of its face, a split from the corner of its sharp mouth up almost grazing its eye and fading into the scales at the back of its head. The scar warps and twists as it speaks. You turn to it, and so does Din. His hand still pressed against the inside of your wrist. His fingers dig in deeper against your skin, until you feel the thundering of your own pulse, of his pulse in his thumb. The Barabel’s tongue appears between its teeth, forked and quick. “Keep the foundling close. The Jedi and the Sith are enemies. They will undo the work of each other.”
And then the elder jostles your arm and begins to move you down the stairs. Faster going downhill even with its limp. At the bottom the Barabel which had found you in the caves is waiting, blaster out. Around you the Barabels are still moving about their day but you see the blasters everywhere, and spears. Long and thick and topped with glinting metal heads. Sharp and deadly. Din follows behind you, the crib between you again. You wind through the crowds and this time no one turns to watch you move. The path is crowded with the giant aliens, barely parting to make room for you to pass. The Barabel leads you to the mouth of the tunnel and you see there are dozens of others, black mouths swallowing the light dotted around the edges of the cavern. Some large, some small enough that even in your body Din would have to duck to fit within them.
“Which tunnel is the stranger in?” Din asks.
The Barabel tilts its head towards him.
“I need to protect my clan. I can lead them away from the caves.”
Slowly the Barabel nods and waves for Din to follow. You reach for him once more before he turns and Din grabs your arm so you hold each other. Think of a million things you could say to him, of the one thing you want to tell him. But the Barabel is already moving away, leading Din to another tunnel further away from you and Din squeezes your arm. And you feel him, suddenly, powerfully. The emotion is too warped for you to identify it. Some mix of fear and trepidation and yet peacefulness. The same feeling you get from looking at him now, even on a strange planet, surrounded by strangers. Like being tethered in a storm. And suddenly you need to tell him. The feeling which has been settling in your skin and singing in your blood. Settling into the space around you in the captain’s quarters on the Crest, the small private world you share with Din. He lets you go.
“I’ll see you at the Crest.”
And then he’s gone.
The path through the tunnel is long and dark. The walls closing in around you, narrower and narrower and shorter and shorter until the helmet brushes against it, until your elbows either side of you hit against the rough walls. Know that if you could see they would come away red, stained with the blood coloured clay. Behind you the crib hovers silently. And it is only the echo of your own footsteps against the earth. Alone. The twists are sudden and sharp and lead you through the ground, feel the weight of the earth on all sides of you pressing down and in. Struggle to breathe in the tiny space. The last of the orange flickering light of the cavern fades into complete blackness and even in the helmet you can see only the fuzzing suggestions of the walls around you. Like floating in static.
And then finally the tunnel begins to clear, and feint grey light filters through the helmet. The shapes of the walls becoming clearer. The shape of your boots as they push into the soft ground beneath your feet. And then the ground is hard, and the walls are straight and solid. The crib still behind you, trailing like a ghost.
And then you are out. Back in the abandoned space port. And even though the ceiling is so distant it is a fog of pale grey you still cannot breathe. Outside the storm is still raging, sheets of rain hammering into the earth, dripping into the mouth of the port. The puddles along the ground make it so the ceiling looks back at you from below as well. A giant rippling mirror. You feel dizzy, feel a spinning in your stomach and behind your eyes. Just like the green planet again, dark and uneasy, climbing up everything inside you and beneath the armour and beneath your skin. Strangling and complete. You turn back for the kid again and he is still there in his sealed crib. And in the distance, another ship. Far enough from the Crest that it is only a dark shape at the edge of the port. Smaller than the Crest, and newer too. The sight of it fills you with dread.
You move, splashing through the shallow ocean to the Crest. The water splattering over the coarseweave and against the bottom of the child’s crib. Feel like you may step wrong and fall into water so deep you will drown. The tips of your fingers shaking. The dark feeling tightening around you. The Crest is further than you think possible, your footsteps slowed by the water beneath you. Soaking through your boots as well. Freezing against your toes. You think you hear shouting but when you turn there is only emptiness, and darkness, and the dripping of the rainwater leaking into the abandoned port.
The ramp takes too long to lower. The sound of the echoing dripping all around you sends your heart racing too fast. Feel it at the back of your throat. You should not be so scared, you think. The ship at the opposite end of the port could be a coincidence. But the feeling which had told you the green planet was bad is pressing in all around you. And you need to hide the child and start the ship. Ready to leave as soon as Din appears. Even as you try to tell yourself you need to calm.
Finally you clamber inside, bring the child with you. And once you are inside you turn, set your blaster down on the nearest crate. The blinking orange light the only thing lighting the hull of the Crest. The crates stacked around the room like the pillars in the space port. Their shadows flashing against the walls with the orange light. In and out of existence they blink, warped and terrible. You open the crib and inside the child is whimpering, his ears pushed back flat against his head. His eyes watery when they find yours. You lift him out and hug him to your chest, murmur words of empty comfort to him. But you can know the child can feel the same uneasiness as you. He shakes in your arms and you press the top of the helmet against his little nubbed forehead. Feel his little hands grip either side of your head, where your temples would be.
“It’s gonna’ be okay, little guy.” You rub a hand down his back. “We’ll be okay.”
And then you hear the splashing. Too close. Someone wadding through the puddles outside. You move quickly, duck to the medical bunk sealed at the back of the hull and punch the pad to unlock it. The door slides open with a loud hiss and you wince. Listen to the sound of the splashing getting closer. Too loud to just be one person. But Din has not called out, and you know it is not him. Feel it sitting heavy in your stomach. You set the child down in the medical bunk and pinch the tip of his ear one more time.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “Please, ad’ika, please stay here.”
The child starts to cry and you feel your heart splinter. Start to break. But you step back and you seal the door between you. The last thing you see of the child – his desperate, wet eyes. Huge and glistening in the dim. The splashing so close now they are almost at the ramp. See the shadow of the intruder against the rippling water outside. And you have to throw yourself to crouch behind a crate. Sink your back against it and try to conceal yourself.
There is a heavy sound, a thumping, echoing all around the Crest. You duck behind the crates, stare at the wall. So hard your eyes hurt, without moving, without blinking. Heavy footsteps against the grating. Your heart kicks, fills the back of your throat and your fingertips. Pulsing. There is no other sound, not of the child, not of Din. Only the heaviness of uneven steps, and then something else. A scraping sound. Dragging. Something heavy being moved. You think it is a crate but it cannot be, there is no bite of metallic ringing, and the sound is lighter against the floor than a crate. You inch, slowly, so slowly forward. Gloves indented with the shape of the grating against the leather. Until finally – finally – you see around the edge of the crates in front of you and into the hull.
The man fiddles with the controls for the chryofreezer, one arm limp at his side and tied harshly around the bicep with a scrap piece of cloth. Suspect it would be red with blood if it weren’t black already. Your blaster near him, close enough for him to reach without moving. But you can’t think about moving for your blaster, or for the weapons compartment. Because you realise now that the scraping against the floor was a body, slumped face down, one arm pressed beneath it. Your body.
Your bounty being collected.
Din.
You can’t see him breathe. Or move. Or flinch when the heel of the man’s boot clips against his shoulder. He just rolls slightly, head lolling badly against the ground, his neck twisted. His arm twisted. You can see a sliver of his face, deathly pale and still.
The man at the chryofreezer turns, and the light in the hull catches against the pale scar cutting through the strands of his dark hair, greasy with sweat and grime. He has the same ugly sneer you remember from the bar in Garel, the same greedy look in his eyes when he crouches in front of Din and begins to lift his shirt. Yanks it up by the bottom hem until all of his stomach is exposed. The horror of the scar left from the attack on Oseon is clear even from a distance. The man scoffs and shoves the shirt back down.
“How in the Kriff did you heal that, huh?” The man nudges your body, nudges Din, with a sharp elbow to the side. “Poison should’ve killed you, stupid schutta.”
You feel your hands shaking against the ground. Inside the armour. Feel the hardness of the Beskar against how hard your heart beats against it. The bounty hunter pulls a fob from his pocket and holds it up, the flashing light so bright in the dimness of the hull that you have to turn your head, the visor of the helmet lighting up like the storm outside. Blinding you. You blink desperately to clear the haze, feel the world begin to spin.
“Where’s the Mandalorian, huh?” You don’t see the man move, but you hear it. Hear his feet as they echo around the hull. “You in here Mando?”
You blink desperately to try and make sense of anything around you, but the flare from the fob has filled your vision with stars like the warp of hyperspace. And the footsteps, heels of heavy boots against the floor. The man walks, and you see the blinking of the orange light everywhere. See his shadow spin with it, flickering around the walls like ghosts, like there are hundreds of him, slipping through the hull of the Crest. And the footsteps, closer and closer and closer. Stop just on the other side of the crate. The light blinks and he flashes above you, dark and terrible against the wall. And then he moves away, the clanging of his footsteps shifting in the quiet. He calls again, taunting and mean, and you see him pull a blaster up in the shadows on the wall before he disappears.
The ladder.
You wait until you see his boot slip above deck to move. As quietly as you can, barely resting your weight into your steps, out from around the crate. Stay close to the wall as you can until you must move. Din is still in the middle of the floor. And standing you can see more of his face. Your face. Like after the poison, but worse, because it is slack and empty. Like death. You move to him, slip a glove off, and press your fingertips into the cold, clammy skin at his neck. Have to dig beneath the bone of his jaw to find the spot where his blood should beat against his skin. And there is nothing. Just the cold. The blinking orange light fills the room with light once, twice, three times.
And then there is a pulse. Feint beneath your hand.
But there is no time for relief. The footsteps echo back into the hull, returned from the invasion of the cockpit. The thought of the bounty hunter in Din’s quarters, in the place where you had slept with him, helped him to heal from the cut and the poison makes your mouth fill with bile. But he is coming back, the footsteps getting louder. You pull the glove back on.
You turn for your blaster, but it is gone. And a boot appears beneath the lip of the ceiling, in the hole for the ladder. The static of the helmet has readjusted to the dark again, picks out the clumps of mud stuck over it, smears of red from the clay earth in the tunnels. Smeared up his pants where he climbs back down. A few feet from you. You think you should move, should hide, but you cannot leave Din. Think of the child, only an arm’s length away, hidden behind you in the small medical bed. And the chryofreezer begins to beep lowly, and the orange light above your head turns to green. Blips faster now, and every flash fills the hull with bright light. But the helmet has adjusted to that as well now, and you see hips of the bounty hunter as they appear at the ladder.
You push forward, before you can think, before you can second guess. Use your whole weight to grab the bounty hunter by his belt and yank. He screams as he falls and he lands hard. Your hands shake, knock the blaster to the side and the shot he fires is like a siren, screeching in your ear and ringing. The bounty hunter is swearing, kicks at you and clips your knee. Sends you sideways. You catch your weight against the ground, move just before he can get further away from you, scrabbling along the ground on his back. Manage to surge and catch your hand in the dark hair at the side of his head and pull him towards you, the back of his head along the ground, his jacket catching in the grating. You lift once and slam him back and the crack of his skull against the metal is awful. You taste the metallic clang in the backs of your teeth and between your eyes. And you release him.
You turn, push yourself up from where you are fallen on one knee. You slip once, almost topple, but you right yourself. Your boots firm against the ground. You move towards Din, know you need to move him, need to get him away.
A hand around your ankle. Yanks. The world shifts and moves and you fall, hit the ground all along your side. Burns like laser fire. Digs into your skin where the plates of the armour meet at your ribs. You kick wildly, yelling, without thinking, until you feel the thud against skin and hear the swearing of the man behind you. You roll onto your front, push up, but the hand grabs again, wraps around the ammunition band at your calf. And this time when he yanks you feel the tear of the fabric at your knees ripping against the grate beneath you. You rock, try to kick again, but you fall instead. Hip hits the ground hard. And before you make sense of the world again an arm knocks hard against the side of the helmet. Again. Three times. Smashes your head back against the floor so the clang of metal is everywhere, is echoing, makes everything blur.
Then he is gone, just a shadow again over you. His boot hits the Beskar, hard enough you feel the bruise of it beneath. And then against your thigh. You scream and kick and you hit hard enough that he stumbles. Gives you enough room to roll again and push onto your arms, then your knees. Crawl and stumble away from the bounty hunter. Eyes blurred. Head still ringing.
“Enough!” The man yells. “I’ll shoot the girl, on the Maker, Mando. I’ll kriffing shoot her.”
You stumble and turn. Have to lean your weight against the wall. And through the blur of tears and confusion you see him, half kneeling, one arm wrapped around Din’s neck. His elbow beneath his chin. The braid Din had proudly done only a few hours ago almost completely undone, catching in the man’s arm, in his fingers.
“Don’t move.”
You watch, still. The man waves your blaster – Din’s blaster – to get your attention. Presses the barrel of it so hard against Din’s temple that it clicks. “Don’t – ”
“Shut up!”
You still again, don’t dare to breath. To move. Stare at the man, at the flashing green on the chryofreezer, ready to use. At the mess of upturned crates in the hull. And then you see behind him, the medical bunk, the space cavernous and black. Open. The child.
“Don’t move, Mando.”
The blaster clicks again against Din’s temple. His head rocks. You try to look without moving the helmet, try to see into the open compartment behind the bounty hunter. But it is only darkness in the flashing green, and all around you is unmoving. Not even the feint shuffle of the child. You don’t feel the pulse of his energy in the air. Can’t feel Din either. The ship is swaying around you, or you are swaying inside it. The hits against the helmet still ringing in your ears.
And then a movement, a tiny slip behind Din. The tip of a green ear pointing out.
“I said stop moving!”
You see the shape of the child move in and out of focus. The dizziness worry as well as the ringing. Clouding your thoughts and your vision. You see his ear again, and then one of his eyes, huge and blinking in the darkness. Looking beyond Din’s slumped body, close enough that the bounty hunter could reach out and grab him. You heart hurts, burns. Your throat burns. Want to scream. The wave of warmth ripples through the air, through your skin. The child smiles at you and reaches out. Closes his eyes and begins to shake.
The pulse is immediate. The ship tunnels away from you, into darkness, and slams back into place. You tilt, try to breathe. But there is no air. There is nothing.
Drip.
The world begins to fray and ripple and come apart. Swarms and buzzes and fills up the inside of the helmet like water. Turns the world grey.
Drip.
You try to call for Din, but the word becomes twisted on your tongue, blocks your throat, fills up your chest and stomach. The ringing in your ears getting worse. The flashing of the green light getting faster and faster through the swirling grey of nothing. The inside of the Crest slips from beneath you again.
Drip.
You see yourself, smiling. You have a smear of grease along the top of your cheek. You recognise the dock, some planet you’d stopped at months before. Not long before you’d heard of the green planet. The image of yourself is bright, glowing. Shimmers in your memory in a space which is not yours. Some piece of the life you’ve lived with Din, hovering between you. You hear your voice, hear your own laughter. Hear the cooing of the child. The last thing you see before the world fades.
Drip.
.
Drip.
.
Drip.
The helmet hits the ground and sounds like something final. The bounty hunter stares at it, at the Beskar armour. The body of a Mandalorian. Hulking and still against the metal floor. The visor of the helmet looks up at him as he drops the girl and stumbles forward. Reflects the shape of the barrel pointed at it. Gets close enough to see his own reflection in the shining metal, glinting, flashing. The girl doesn’t move, still unconscious from the blow to the back of her head. Barely breathing behind him. And the armour of the Mandalorian could be empty it is so still. He leans down, close enough that his nose almost brushes the helmet. Tries to see through the tinted shape of the visor. The bounty hunter pulls the cuffs from his belt and tugs the Mandalorians hands behind him. Snaps the cuffs tight around them.
Drip.
.
Drip.
.
Drip.
Din jerks against the ground hard.
And then the ground is gone. Yanked away from him. There are hands at his shoulders, arms, back. His boots stumble and catch and he almost falls. He moves away, sways. His knees hit the ground. His hands. The hands yank him by the back of his collar and pull him from the ground. It’s dark, blurs of light. A flashing green. And then the light is gone, turns grey and blurred. Din tips slightly, gets pulled upright again. The floor slopes beneath his feet, thinks he’s falling, the realises it’s the ramp of the ship. The Crest. He doesn’t remember entering the ship again. And now he is leaving it. His head is throbbing. His boots splash into water, cold against his leg where it soaks through the coarseweave, from the boots of the man behind him. The digging in his back is a gun. His breathing is heavy, echoing so loudly, warm air cooling against his mouth.
“Get on your knees.” The voice is familiar. Terse. Din struggles to place it. Then the man’s foot connects with the side of his knee and he stumbles, drops onto one leg. “I said get on your knees.”
The world starts to shift into place. The bounty hunter. The Barabels. It’s like being shot, the terrible plummeting of remembering. Tries to remember what happened in the tunnel. The dark hair, the scar, the face of the man from Oseon who stabbed him. He tries to remember if you got to safety, but there is nothing. There’s a soft whirring noise in his ears, His vision returning. A dim, blue light everywhere. A flash of lightning. He can’t feel the cold air on his face but he knows it must be cold. Still on Barab I. The constant storm still raging outside. He waits for his vision to clear all the way, for the fuzziness and the dimness at his peripheries to abate.
The bounty hunter crouches, his crooked mean face hovering in view. “I thought you were meant to be some kind of legend, Mando. The great Mandalorian. Greatest warriors in the galaxy.”
The man’s laugh is grating. Terrible. Everything sounds too far away. Din tries to guess at how long he’d been out. He’s dizzy. Everything keeps scrambling, every thought he chases becomes lost. Just feelings, sounds. The clamour of the market. His armour gleaming in the dim light of the ship, knowing you are staring down at him from inside the Beskar. Thinking of you makes the churning of his stomach worse. You were gone, and the bounty hunter was still here. Logic is blipping in and out of focus.
“Maybe you’re getting old, hmm? Under there.” The hunter taps his gun against the side of Din’s head with a clear ding. It rings around Din’s ears. “Barely even put up a fight.”
Something important is swimming right at the edge of his thoughts. Din stares down at his leg still holding him up, and the red marks over the coarseweave. He feels so heavy. His vision is clearing, cleared mostly, but it remains speckled, like looking at static. He can feel the cuffs digging in through thick fabric around his wrists. Arms pulled behind his back. His holster is empty. The gun being waved in his face is his own.
“I’m gonna kill you,” the bounty hunter leans in to whisper it near his ear. The sound of his voice is crackles slightly through the speaker. “I’m gonna kill you and leave you to rot in this hellhole. And then I’m gonna take your ship and hand your little girlfriend over for the reward. It’s not even much of a reward. Is that why you didn’t hand her in, huh, Mando?” The man hits his gun against the side of his helmet, harder this time. “Thought you’d keep her around for yourself, huh?”
Finally, everything slots into place. Din flexes his hands in the cuffs, feels the stretch of the leather gloves around him. Feels the pressing of where his armour is strapped to his underclothes. He shifts his foot still planted on the ground, feels the soles of his boots rub into the earth beneath it. The splashing of the water around him.
“What would you do if I took off the helmet, hey Mando?”
Din lifts his head. Stares into the man’s eyes. The visor picks up the sign of the bruising around his eye, the broken nose. And scars, old ones.
“Couldn’t even stop me, could you? Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Pull that stupid kriffing helmet off you and leave you here without a ship.”
Din rolls his shoulders back. Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian smiles.
.
Tags: @btillys @vercopaanir @absurdthirst @sistasarah-sallysaidso @adikaofmandalore @babyomen @purpleeeslurpppp @fleurdemiel145 @hdlynn @starwarsiscooliguess @thedarkwitchling @no-droids-allowed @dartheldur @toilet-keeper @sinnamon-bunn @br0ther-s @that-one-weird-one @oloreaa @nellyneko @damndamer0n @space-floozy @hopplessdreamer @buckysalefty @arianawills @roxypeanut @crazyworldofsiani @scarlettvonsass @mrsparknuts @lackofhonor @lola-wolf @coonflix @datmando @datmando @katialvi @teaofpeach
#the mandalorian#din djarin#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian x you#the mandalorian imagine#the mandalorian fanfic#din djarin x reader#din djarin imagine#din djarin x you#baar bal runi#my writing#fic#force sensitive reader#pedro pascal
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Text
Buried Six Feet Under
Basis
First Ending
First Ending - Part Two
First Ending Art
Second Ending
Second Ending - Part Two
One hour.
One hour was all it took for the memories to resurface. The memories of the past few months containing a broken doll and a shattered heart.
There had been an uproar.
The police were called.
The news were alerted.
The world began to wake up.
And there had been tears that day. Many.
From the same people who were crying now, in a spacious hall with hundreds of seats. They were all full.
The rain pattered down onto the roof above, and lightning was heard to strike every so often. One would think that the gods were angry this day.
They had every right to be - and they were.
The gates surrounding the building were locked tight, leaving out a group of students that were huddled near the entrance. Most of them wept, their tears mingling with the water pouring down. Their black outfits became drenched.
A bespectacled girl at the front held onto the barriers blocking her from getting in. She screamed and yelled until her voice was sore, yet no one cared. All were too busy staring at an enormous screen indoors, that flickered to life to reveal something painfully familiar.
Someone painfully familiar.
Jagged Stone - a man with purple locks who was gripping tight to a pair of Eiffel Tower-inspired glasses - pressed a key on the computer at the stage.
The video began to play.
"Okay, umm...hi!" the person recording greeted, nervous smile gracing her features. "I'm Marinette Dupain-Cheng, also known as the superhero 'Ladybug'. You may know me through Tom and Sabine's Boulangerie Patisserie, since, well, they're my parents."
She let out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of her neck.
There was a sob from the front of the crowd.
"I'm making this video because...uh, I want this to be seen if something happens to me in battle. An akuma battle, that this. You see...some villains have been extremely tough, and, well..."
The bluenette let out a sigh. Her expression became grim in an instant, and her tone serious. It reminded those watching of the heroine that they had come to love.
"Hawk Moth has found out a way to translate the Guardian's book, which, long story short, allows him and Mayura to become even stronger. That's why I wanted to make this video."
She glanced to the side, and unmistakable tears were seen to be forming at the rims of her glossy eyes. "I...I've seen Chat Noir get hurt before. I've seen him get- get killed too many times. It's entirely possible that I'll end up with the same fate."
A sniffle escaped her, but she chose to wipe at her eyes and let out a dry chuckle. Her tone was wobbly as she dryly stated, "Chat, he...he isn't as serious as I am about this whole thing. About this whole job. And I hope that after he sees this, he learns that Hawk Moth needs to be taken down. If I have to sacrifice my own life for that..."
She shrugged. "...so be it."
Marinette's eyes wandered over to something off-screen, and she beamed at whatever it was.
"Tikki's asleep right now, so I have to make this quick. I...I wanted to ask those who are watching a favour. If, if you get this then could you- could you pass on my earrings to someone else? Well- someone in particular, actually. Paris needs two heroes to take care of it, after all."
She leaned forward and out of frame for a few seconds. Then she returned with a coloured picture, that had two girls grinning at the camera. She pointed to one of them.
"This is Alya Cesaire - my best friend and one that I sincerely trust to take on the mantle of Ladybug. She, she's amazing. I have so much faith in her, and I know that she'll be perfect for the role."
A blond in the audience clenched his fists.
The designer grinned. "I actually wanted to hand over my earrings to her when I first got them but decided not to - it was a close call, though. Please show this video to her, by the way. I want to say something."
Marinette gained a smirk, as she started, "Hey, bestie! How's it going? I'm, I'm sorry about not telling you who I am, but...a secret is a secret, right? I know you would've loved the scoop. You have all of my support to defeat Hawk Moth, Alya. I'm sure that Tikki will guide you though everything. That is, if she's able to. Oh! That reminds me - I have a request that I wanted to ask of you. I...can you show this to Chat?"
He took in a raspy breath.
"Hey, Kitty. I just wanted to tell you that, well...I'm afraid that the mantle of the Guardian will have to go to you, since you're the only one alive that can take it - barring Hawk Moth, of course."
She pursed her lips. "You're my partner, Chat. The best one that I could have ever asked for. I hope that you'll be able to keep your head up and stay strong alongside Alya, and protect the Miracle Box."
And let the tears flow.
"Oh, and if it isn't too much to ask...can, can I stay with Tikki, even if I'm gone? You don't have to bury me with the earrings or anything, but...just visit my grave, please? With Tikki. She's been with me through thick and thin and is quite emotional when it comes to her holders from what I've heard. I wouldn't want her to live with the guilt of my death."
Adrien found himself nodding with a whimper.
That was when Marinette suddenly jumped up. She whipped her head to something invisible to her right and yelped. "What? Me? Recording something? Of course not, Tikki! I'm just-"
The screen turned blank again.
Allowing all to hear the choked sob from Chat Noir.
He covered his mouth to muffle his cries, and yet his pathos was clear to everyone around.
And even those outside.
It seemed as if everyone had broken out of their silent stupor, as murmurs began to break out and fill the hero's ears. Murmurs of what would happen to Hawk Moth. What would happen to Paris. What would happen to them all without Ladybug.
Something inside him snapped.
And a growl tore through his throat.
"Stop it!"
Everyone turned to him in surprise. Most edged back at the anger he clearly had restrained.
His cat ears thrashed. His sharp claws flexed. His green eyes dilated.
"That is enough! You're all horrible!" he hissed lowly. "Why can't you see that it isn't Ladybug gone? It's Marinette!"
Sabine and Tom flinched at the mention of their daughter.
"Whether or not she has the mask, she's the same person! And I bet that if she were here she would have agreed with me!"
A man with slicked grey hair and a striped sash rushed forward. "Chat Noir, I'm sure that there's no need for thi-"
"Shut. Up. Before I make you."
The Mayor gulped.
"I'm going, and none of you are going to stop me," he snarled, as he faced the exit of the place. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "You didn't deserve her. None of us did."
Only a few seconds later did thunder strike loud from outside, but Adrien was already somewhere else by that time.
Already gone.
And with the remains of his very partner.
Rain dripped down from his locks to his face, to the point where none could point out what were his tears and what weren't. There was a hush as all stared with baited breath, observing Chat as he knelt in front of a headstone.
A headstone in memory of the one he loved. Still loved.
"I'm sorry, Princess," he choked. "I-I'm so sorry...You didn't deserve any of this."
The crack in his voice made hearts shatter.
"You'll always be my Lady - my Princess. And I'm sorry that I couldn't do more."
His lower lip wobbled. His eyes drifted to the ring at his finger.
And he reached to pull it off.
"I'm the new Ladybug..."
Until he caught the whisper that made his blood run cold.
His now twitching head slowly rotated up to who had spoken. It was none other than Alya Cesaire.
She was stood at the gates to the graveyard, pipe wrench in hand. Behind her were other students from her class, that had tears - or rain, he couldn't tell - pouring down their cheeks.
So did she.
Yet her lips were still poised into some sort of a smile.
"What?"
There were many flinches from the Parisians nearby.
In a more confident tone, the reporter stated, "She named me the new Ladybug."
Silence.
A harsh flare from Chat Noir's heart made him bare his teeth. "So what?"
None were prepared for the shout that soon escaped his mouth.
"You're the reason we need a new Ladybug!"
Adrien stood up, back arched and irises slit. "You're the reason that Paris will be left in shambles! That people will die! That the Guardian is gone!"
His booming bellows quieted to a mumble. "That Marinette is dead."
A fire flared in his eyes.
"You did this..." he growled menacingly, claws out. "It's all your fault!"
As the police force standing guard grabbed at the lunging cat aiming to avenge, none noticed the creature settled on top of Marinette's grave.
The butterfly.
That glowed a faint purple from its droopy wings.
As if it was mourning like the rest of the population for the death of the heroine buried six feet under.
~*~*~
It had been a day since then.
Since the funeral of one Marinette Dupain-Cheng.
And there was a figure approaching the graveyard where those had previously mourned for her.
They stepped over soaked grass and muddy ground. Scattered petals and jagged rocks. Yet they didn't stop.
Their suit became damp from the rain. Their shoes became soggy from the puddles. Yet they still didn't stop.
Not until they reached the grave at the centre of the yard, that stood tall in colours of black and red. Bouquets of daffodils and roses lay around it, along with plush toys of a girl in spotted fabric.
The figure, the man, bent down to inspect the rectangle of dirt in front of the memorial of stone, that had fancy scripture engraved into its surface. There was nothing on the patch. No flowers. No cards. Nothing.
Except for two hexagonal boxes.
Etched onto their lids were markings in blood-red, that depicted messages in a language that none could decipher - apart from the owner of the porcelain shards buried six feet under.
Despite the grime starting to gather on his clothing, the man continued to stare impassively at the items. His icy blue eyes studied the sight in front of him for a few seconds more, until his lips soon pursed tight.
Fingers gripped at cold objects, and brought them into the open in a stiff movement. They hesitated for a moment, as if worried of what they were about to do, then gently deposited their contents onto the dirt.
The figure let out a weary sigh. He stood back up treacherously slow. Then, he snapped his back straight up, and walked past the gates leading out of the graveyard.
He didn't look back.
He only left two items sitting in the mud. Left two items to waste away until the foreseeable future.
Left two miraculous.
And whilst he made his way down the dark and gloomy streets of Paris, dozens of eyes watched from the shadows.
They only had one goal in mind.
To protect their Guardian. The remains of their Guardian.
Until the end of time.
~*~*~
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#miraculous#miraculous ladybug#ml#mlb#marinette dupain cheng#Marinette deserves better#akumatized ladybug#akumatized marinette#akumanette#ml ladybug#chat noir#adrien agreste#sadrien#alya cesaire#alya salt#ml salt#lila salt
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