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stubbychaos · 4 years

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A Guilty Conscience

Chapter 10 of Saviin’ika

Masterlist

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: While you get used to your new role in the tribe, you make it your mission to meet the ones who are to be your family. While befriending some unlikely members of the tribe, Paz later surprises you with something that he thinks will make you happy, though it ends up having the opposite effect.

Rating: T

Word Count: 14,000 *Y’all idk how this happened, I’m so sorry lol*

Warnings: Some unresolved sexual tension, minor injuries and reader still dealing with a bunch of past trauma. Other than that, this chapter is pretty harmless!

Just a quick mention: Thank you as always to @datmando for inspiring me and giving me so many amazing ideas for this story!! You’ve helped me so much with this story and getting through writer’s block and I freaking love you <3 Thank you as well to @aerynwrites @hdlynnslibrary and @maybege for all being wonderful and I love you all for motivating me to write more Paz!!

Also thank you to @coredrive for the beautiful gifs you made!! If anyone wants quality gifs for their stories, masterlists, etc... please go to Kat because she was so freaking lovely and sweet!!

“Would you like one of my shirts, ner cyare?”

You turn around, coming face to face with an unarmored Paz who is sitting on the foot of the bed, his forearms lazily resting on top of his thighs as he observes the way you hopelessly shift the torn, silky fabric in your hands. You turn to face the culprit who is currently curled up in a white rocky ball close to the furnace in the main area of Paz’s private quarters, seeming completely unbothered and not regretful that she had used your only sleep attire as a chewing toy while you were in the shower and Paz was talking to the armorer.

“That would be nice, thank you,” You murmur softly, watching with a smile as he promptly stands and makes his way over to the dresser near his bed while you discard the torn, silky fabric.

Though a few days have passed since the fight without incident--much to your appreciation--you notice Paz acting differently around you and while it’s not in a bad way by any means, it still has your curiosity growing. You notice how he almost seems worried about letting you stray too far from him, though you’re certain it’s not because he’s concerned one of his own will hurt you again, but perhaps he has the same fears you hold in your very own heart. While you’ve only been with the tribe for three days, you find yourself getting less sleep with every passing day, afraid that when you wake up, you’ll be right back at the village infirmary with your estranged father.

Perhaps he’s anxious that if he lets you out of his sight, you’ll randomly decide to leave without a word or trace.

The thought amuses you and also fills your heart with grief, wondering how the Mandalorian could possibly conjure the thought of you even thinking about leaving the place that had quickly become your safe haven.

“I’m going to shower, if you want to change,” Paz gruffly voices as he approaches you with a thick, black garment and you perk up a little upon feeling how warm it is--how warm it will keep you.

Once the Mandalorian is in the refresher, you’re quick to strip your clothes, smiling softly as you neatly fold the emerald, long-sleeved dress that Ima had found for you in a designated stack of clothes that wasn’t being worn by anyone in the tribe. Once you are only in your shorts, you grab Paz’s black shirt that he must wear over all his padding and sheepishly tug it over your head, instantly relishing in how it smells just like him--all woodsy and spicy and just like the soap he uses. The material is incredibly thick, though it’s not stiff and doesn’t make it feel like you’re suffocating; it feels soft and comforting against your bare skin, engulfing you so warmly just like one of his embraces, though you still long for the intense pressure of his arms around you. The sleeves that usually come to an end just above his elbows now fall just a few inches above your wrists and the hem skims the middle of your thighs.

As you sit on the edge of the bed and get to work on tending to your braids and all the tangles from the hair you had chosen to leave down, you think of how surreal everything still feels and how all the horrors you had ever dreamed about running away from are currently above you in the village. You try your hardest not to think about it, and instead, your mind wanders to the tribe and its intimidating, rambunctious warriors that you’ve been interacting with in the covert for the past few days.

It’s been… an interesting experience, to say the least.

For people who you used to be terrified of until recently, you think it’s somewhat surprising as well as amusing that Paz had been correct when he mentioned them being quite mischievous when it came to you, though you’re certain most of it comes from you being an outsider and not understanding their language. It had already happened a couple times where you would be exploring the enclave, trying to memorize the tunnels and where different ones led, and you would run into a small group of Mandos speaking in their native tongue as you shyly approached them to introduce yourself.

Most of the time they would simply peer down at you while informing you that they already knew who you were--that they had seen you standing your ground against Paz, which apparently nobody in the tribe had ever really done before. It was quite interesting seeing everyone’s perspective towards their heavy-infantry warrior, how they knew him to be one of the strongest in the tribe and how they respected him for it. However, it was also slightly amusing that they seemed to have no problem making jokes at his expense--talking about how they were glad you were at the covert so he would stop being grouchy and angry all the time.

Ima, you found, was the exact same way, although she had no qualms about berating the man she called her uncle to his face.

Seeing the way the teenager and your blue warrior interacted with one another felt like some sort of special phenomenon that you had never really witnessed before--a relationship stronger than that between a sister and a brother, but not quite as profound as one between a daughter and father. You thought uncle and niece was a good way to describe it and though you’re curious as to why Ima doesn’t call anyone else in the tribe ‘brother’ or ‘sister’, you decide it’s better not to ask for the sake of accidentally bringing up a sad memory.

You’re too deep into your thoughts that you don’t notice a hulking figure emerge from the refresher minutes later, a few water droplets dripping down his shoulders and back as he mindlessly observes you combing through your hair with your fingers.

A small cough startles you and you turn your head to gaze at Paz, his helmet slightly tilted to the side as he stares at you through the guise of that unforgiving visor. Your fingers are still threaded in your damp hair, your bare legs dangling off the side of his bed with your sock-clad toes barely skimming the stone floor as you blink owlishly at him, still not used to seeing him expose so much of his skin.

He’s not saying anything and it has you slightly worried--have you done something wrong?

“Paz, are you okay?”

His bare, broad shoulders tense upwards when you shift on the bed, finally working through a stubborn tangle as you tilt your head at him; you find yourself doing that a lot more lately and you think being surrounded by so many Mandalorians has their little mannerisms rubbing off on you.

You move to get up when he doesn't say anything, now worried that you really have done something wrong, but Paz shakes his head and squashes your worries immediately.

"No--I mean, yes," He huffs and shakes his helmet a little harder when you stand up next to the bed to pull the thick fur away from the pillows it's tucked under while he moves to turn off the lights, "I'm fine, just a little tired, cyare."

You nod your understanding, feeling your own exhaustion creeping up on you, though today had been a relatively easy day in regards to treating scrapes and bruises. You’ve come to find that some of the younger, less trained Mandalorians aren’t exactly the most graceful on their feet, some tripping over their own capes while descending staircases, while others who are less skilled with blades or blasters manage to slip up and injure themselves. It’s definitely not the kind of injuries you’re used to tending--minor ones--but you find it much more pleasant and rewarding than your job in the village, especially when everyone here has treated you politely, for the most part.

You know that even while you had been accepted into the tribe, it doesn’t quite make you part of the family to some, especially to those who still felt as though you should swear the creed to be fully accepted. It was a big detail you had worried about quite a bit, whether or not you would have to swear the creed and wear a helmet just as the rest of them, but you think that perhaps it is a topic you should speak to the armorer about.

You slide underneath the heavy fur and exhale a content sigh, reminding yourself that such worries could wait until morning.

A yawn leaves you just as you hear the quiet hiss of Paz’s helmet being removed before he places it on his nightstand and a tired smile stretches your lips when you feel the mattress dip underneath the weight of the warrior’s body.

Before you can even turn to face him, his huge arm is wrapped around your waist and he’s carefully moving you closer to him; an intense warmth spreads throughout your cheeks when he holds you close, your back pressed firmly against his chest as he wastes no time in placing a kiss to the top of your damp hair. You can feel the heat from his bare chest already spreading throughout your entire body and you curl your legs back to press your feet against his bare ankles.

He lets out a small huff as he curls his fingers into the soft material of his shirt covering your abdomen and leans down to press a tender kiss to your cheek, “You are lucky I love you, or else I would not let you wear socks in our bed.”

The ‘our bed’ comment definitely doesn’t go over your head and you hold back a giggle when he sighs against your warm skin, his thumb stroking firm circles near your belly button, “I cannot help it that my feet are always cold.”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh as he settles behind you, his hand moving a little lower to your hip, just underneath where your cauterized wound is still healing, and he gives you a gentle squeeze, “I told you that you’d do nothing to warm our bed up, mesh’la, I knew I was right. You’re always freezing.”

“If I recall correctly, you told me that you would not mind keeping me warm,” You remind him of what he had said the night he had told you his name, your cheeks growing hot when you feel his lips against the outer shell of your ear, “And you are doing no such thing, ori kebiin.”

“You are a funny woman,” Paz is still trying not to laugh as his hand comes up to cup your jaw, long fingers splayed widely against your burning cheeks, “You feel plenty warm to me, sweetheart.”

Realizing that there’s no way of beating the Mandalorian at his own game, you give up and simply shuffle your curled toes between his calves, making him grunt a little when he feels the blocks of ice that are your sock-clad feet through the material of his sleep pants. He cups your jaw and urges your head to the side a little, using his thumb that’s pressed to the corner of your lips to seek them out with his own.

This close intimacy is certainly another thing you’ve noticed since you forgave him after the fight--him wanting to kiss and touch you whenever it’s just the two of you. It’s definitely something you don’t mind, you realize as his tongue firmly swipes across your bottom lip, and you find yourself growing more comfortable and relaxed when it comes to accepting little touches from him. You can tell that it’s something he’s nervous about when you two are just laying in his bed, wide awake when sleep refuses to wrap itself around the two of you--that he’s worried something he does will set you off.

He always tries to keep his touches to your thighs and hips feather-light after politely asking if it’s okay for him to touch you there and a part of you wonders if he’s already concluded that you’re simply not used to people asking you for consent when it comes to certain things.

Even if it’s not the reason why, you’re still grateful he always asks and his consideration fills your heart with warmth whenever he seems so hellbent on making sure you’re comfortable when you two find yourself in these sort of intimate settings. It doesn’t necessarily feel like it’s him testing your boundaries, but more so him seeing what you like and what gets certain noises out of you, though you find your skin quite sensitive to every nip and lick he inflicts on you.

A part of you is grateful that he usually lies on his back when the two of you are holding one another, as the thought of being pinned underneath anyone again, even your blue warrior, lingers like a storm cloud in the back of your mind.

Currently, however, you focus on the way his fingers tentatively curl around your thigh, just below the hem of the shirt he had given you and your lashes flutter as he guides your head back a little so he has more access to your throat. He seems a little more eager tonight, you think, and as his fingers curl into the thick fabric at your thighs while he dutifully presses tender kisses to your sensitive skin, you start to slowly put the pieces together.

“Paz?” His name comes out in the form of a breathy whisper as he settles back to press a kiss into your damp hair.

He still seems slightly dazed as he brings his arm back to curl tightly around your waist, “Hm?”

“Earlier, when you were staring at me when you came out of the shower,” You grin a little when you feel the way his arms tense around your middle, “Was it… is it because I’m wearing your shirt?”

Paz huffs an amused noise and you’re certain you’ve left him flustered for once as he slowly shifts his body until he’s able to rest his chin against the slope of your neck, “I like the way you look in anything, cyare, but something about seeing you wearing my clothes--it does things to me. I can’t say that I am upset that your vulptex tore up your nightgown, not with how beautiful you look right now.”

“You can’t even see me right now, silly man.”

“I don’t need to,” He mumbles, his beard scratching your sensitive skin as he lazily tends to all the little marks he left behind with his lips and teeth the previous night, “I remember everything about you, ner cyare, like how your eyes always get big whenever you see me taking off my armor and my clothes. Perhaps my sweet little nurse isn’t as innocent as I thought.”

You nearly let out with a whimper when you feel his tongue on your skin, your cheeks burning furiously as his hand cautiously grazes up your thigh, “Is this okay?”

His tepid breath fanning along the column of your throat makes you shiver a little and your voice cracks a little when you speak, “Y-Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He repeats with a soft sigh, his hand moving past the little shorts you typically wear to bed and up to your bare hip, just underneath where your blaster wound is still tender, though not nearly causing you as much pain, “Stars, your skin is so damn soft and your hair smells good--just like those flowers you’re always wearing.”

You let your eyes close as he continues to explore your stomach with feather-like strokes, seeming content to simply warm you with his large hand and you feel your thighs clench together firmly when he rubs a sensitive spot just underneath your belly button. His hands are leaving a scorching blaze in their wake and you feel a deep shudder wrack your body upon feeling the wet, open-mouthed kisses he’s leaving just underneath your earlobe.

Despite the ache between your thighs, you jump when his fingertips barely graze just above the hem of your shorts and he immediately freezes upon feeling the tension in your body.

“I’m sorry,” Your ears grow hot with shame and you think he must be frustrated with you for not feeling ready to be intimate on this kind of level yet, “I just--”

“Hey, don’t you dare ever apologize for knowing when you’re not ready,” He whispers, moving his lips away from your jaw and removing his hand from underneath the shirt he let you borrow, “I shouldn’t have done that--I should have asked first.”

“It’s okay,” You weakly reassure him, smiling softly when he politely fixes your shirt, dragging the hem back down your thighs, “I... I want to be with you like that and I thought I was ready but I... I don’t know.”

“You do not owe me an explanation. I would never pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do,” Paz promises in a rushed tone as he moves to unlatch his arm from around you, though you are quick to stop him, “I am sorry if I was too forward, cyare. I want you to only ever feel comfortable around me and if I ever do or say anything that you don’t like, please tell me, okay? I’ll never be mad at you.”

“I love you, Paz.”

He relaxes against you and presses another tender kiss into the hair above the tip of your ear, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner cyare.”

You smile into the darkness at the warmth his words bring you, though you can’t help but to feel doubt towards yourself and you turn your head a little over your shoulder until his warm breath fans across the plane of your cheek. Even though you can’t see him in the slightest, you like to imagine his eyes scanning your face thoughtfully--curiously--and you hear him let out an inquisitive hum when you murmur his name.

“I haven’t been able to sleep the last couple of days,” You admit softly, placing your hand on top of the much larger one that’s resting just under your sternum, “I’m scared that every night here is going to be my last one--that someone isn’t going to want me here because I haven’t sworn to the creed and that I don’t wear a helmet or armor.”

Paz exhales softly and you close your eyes when his minty breath tickles your nostrils, “Our alor already knows that you were to be brought to the tribe to be our nurse, not a fighter. I made it clear to everyone that you would not have to wear our armor and if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with me or the armorer. You’re not going anywhere… not if you don’t want to.”

You detect the way his voice lowers into a much more sheepish, subdued tone upon whispering the last part and your suspicions from earlier are proved correct.

He’s afraid that you’re going to change your mind about staying with the tribe.

In an attempt to squash his own fears and insecurities, you wrap your fingers around his wrist and urge his arm up past your chest until you are able to lean your head down a little and kiss his calloused knuckles tenderly. He lets out a content sigh as you let him splay his fingers out widely against the swell of your breast, your heart pounding frantically against his palm while his thumb studies your firm pulse at the base of your neck.

“I just want to be wherever you are, Paz,” You murmur, your lips stretching into a smile when he tenderly kisses your cheek again.

“I feel the same way about you,” He sighs, finally relaxing completely as you keep his hand cradled to your chest, “Anything else you’re losing sleep over, cyare?”

For a moment it sounds like he’s teasing you, but something about the rawness and sincerity of his voice makes you think differently and you swallow the lump in your throat as you think of the little boy from the nursery--the one that had clung onto your leg and hugged you. Though a part of you wants to ask Paz more about how he was found and what happened to his parents, you think it best not to ask and shake your head a little bit.

It is none of your business.

“Try to get some rest,” Paz murmurs against your cheek, his beard scratching your sensitive skin, “I’ll make sure to wake you up if you have any nightmares.”

You murmur a tired ‘thank you’ and let your eyes slip shut, feeling reassured by his words and the feathery press of his lips against the tail of your brow, along with the way his thumb continues to rest atop your pulse point at the bottom of your neck.

For once, you sleep restfully--not necessarily dreaming of much, but not really having any nightmares either. You’re stuck in a strange limbo for the rest of the night and at one point, you feel Paz stroking your brow in an effort to calm you down upon feeling your body jolt when you wake from a strange dream that has you crying out.

As you fall back asleep underneath the comforting guidance of his hands and sweet whispers against the shell of your ear, you briefly wonder if the heavy-infantry warrior ever sleeps.

The next morning when you wake up and tiredly crack your eyes open, Paz is already fumbling around the little kitchenette, his helmet and underclothes now on and you prop yourself up on an elbow as you watch him set a wooden bowl down in front of your excited vulptex. The dish is filled with colorful fruit and chunks of meat and you think it must be the best meal she’s had since she was born, what with her dramatic reaction. She lets out long, happy little squeaks between bites and you think you hear something reminiscent of a laugh or a chuckle from Paz’s vocoder when he reaches out to graze a bare hand along her rocky spine.

“And here I thought you hated her,” You murmur with a yawn, stretching your arms above your head before gracelessly rolling out of bed, the room dimly lit as you make your way over to your beloved companions, “You and everyone else are always calling her a runt.”

Paz snorts and shakes his head a little, tilting his head a little as he hands you a bowl of fruit that has some yogurt underneath, “She is a runt, saviin--doesn’t mean I hate her for it. Besides, she tried to bite Djarin in the leg yesterday, so I guess she’s starting to grow on me.”

You huff a little at that as you savor the fresh berries, your taste buds still not used to such sweet food, and you shake your head at your Mandalorian, “You better not be training my sweet vulptex to attack others, Paz.”

“I would do no such thing,” Paz still sounds a little smug as he begins to put on all of his thick padding and heavy armor, “I’d only train her how to attack the bounty hunter.”

You roll your eyes and watch as he puts his armor on piece by piece, the same way he’s done it every morning for the last couple of days he’s been here. It must be a routine for him, you think as you watch him clip his pauldrons in place and work his way down his body; you find the whole process to be mesmerizing and you wonder if he’s been doing this every single day for nearly his entire life.

“I can feel you staring at me, cyare.”

You feel your cheeks warm up when you promptly turn your attention to the breakfast that Paz had kindly made for you, though you had insisted the previous mornings that you didn’t expect him to do this for you. Your heart warms when you remember how he had admitted that it made him happy to see you enjoy little basic necessities that you had been robbed of nearly your entire life and you stopped arguing after that.

Though it was only yogurt and fruit, you still felt like the most spoiled woman in the galaxy.

After completing your usual morning routine, along with braiding the top half of your hair around the crown of your head, you pick out your clothes for the day and scoop your needy little vulptex into the crook of your elbow, her favorite resting place, it seems.

“What am I going to do when she gets too big and I can’t carry her like this?”

Paz snorts as you wait for him to snap his gauntlets into place around his black, leather gloves, “If you didn’t spoil her so much and carry her around all the time, this wouldn’t be a problem, cyare.”

You pout a little at that, struggling not to smile when he gives your earlobe a playful tug once he’s finished with his big gauntlets, “Her leg is still sore--would you really be so heartless to make her walk around the covert?”

“She seemed to have no problem limping around until you showed up and started carrying her all over the place.”

Not having a solid rebuttal to the playful words, you simply shake your head and watch as he checks all the big pouches attached to his utility belt. Your eyes immediately land on the vibroblade sheathed at his hip and you let out a shaky sigh when you remember the Trandoshan, though Paz seems to notice the change in your attitude and shields that side of his body from you.

“C’mon cyare, we have a long day.”

Following close behind Paz, the two of you make your way out of his private quarters and down the tunnels where others are starting to trickle out of their rooms as well. You’ve come to find that with the exception of a few Mandos, the tribe tends to stick to a pretty strict routine of going to bed at a certain time and waking up earlier, though you find this to work out quite nicely for you. Whereas once you were getting two or three hours of sleep a night, along with maybe a thirty minute nap on your break, you now have the entire night to rest, even if you don’t always get the best sleep.

Perhaps he’s worried that you’ll get lost, even though you memorized the directions to your little office on the second day of being at the covert, but you allow Paz to guide you there anyways, grateful for his company when you know you won’t see him until tonight. Though you feel slightly sad upon making it to your destination, you’re somewhat anxious and eager to see what today brings you and who you might meet.

With a gentle kiss of his Beskar forehead against yours, you and the heavy-infantry warrior part ways for the day and you contentedly enter the little office that you had managed to clean up pretty well since your arrival. As you enter the little alcove, something feels off and you quickly detect the sounds of soft hums and discontented grunts.

You freeze upon finding out that you are not the only one occupying the room and your brows shoot up at the strange spectacle taking place in front of you.

In front of your desk, where you had placed a small pot of violets that you’d taken from the room Paz and Ima had decorated for you, is an unarmored Mandalorian who’s currently inspecting something you wrote down on a little notepad the previous day. Though the Mando is wearing a light grey helmet with chipped away emeral trimmings around the visor and cheeks, you think they must be one of the elders in the tribe, what with their hunched over form, wavering hands, and the long staff they wield.

You don’t miss the sharp, pointed tip of the walking stick that is made from what you’re certain is Beskar and you make sure to approach slowly, not wanting to frighten the Mandalorian, though the thought of you startling a warrior is slightly amusing to you.

They’re humming something that you can barely make out through their modulator and your lips instantly stretch into a faint grin when you realize they’re reading the little list you had started of all the Mandalorians you had met in the tribe so far, along with the colors of their armor and their names to help you memorize the people who are supposed to be your new family. You watch with curiosity as the unarmored Mandalorian grabs one of your pens from the little cup next to your notepad, leaning down to try to scribble something down, though they seem to grow frustrated with how shaky their hands are.

You decide to step in when you hear a disgruntled voice uttering curse words under their breath that you’ve never even heard Paz say before and your cheeks grow warm.

“Hello, may I help you?”

Immediately, the Mandalorian whips around with a small gasp, making you jump as well and you hastily take a few steps backwards when they turn around to face you, their hand pressed tight to where their heart must be frantically pounding, just like yours currently is. Your eyes are wide, hands nervously clutched together as the Mandalorian tilts their faded, scuffed up helmet to the side while observing you closely. Though you think they must be elderly, they stand about only one or two inches taller than you and you’re finally grateful to meet someone who isn’t terrifyingly large or as tiny as one of the younglings.

“You cannot sneak up on me like that!” He lightly admonishes in a deep, gruff voice, still holding his bare, wrinkled hand over his heart, “I am not nearly as alert as I used to be, but it doesn’t mean I can’t deal out some damage still.”

He lifts the staff to show you the pointed, steel bottom of it and you immediately nod your understanding, bowing your head a little, “Of course, I am so sorry! I wasn’t sure if you were hurt or not and I just thought…”

You bite your bottom lip nervously--what were you even thinking?

“Ah, I see,” He seems to relax then, pulling out the chair in front of your desk and sinking down into it with a pained grunt while you continue to wring your fingers together in an anxious manner, “So you must be my replacement--the nurse Paz insisted on bringing to the tribe.”

Maker, did your Mandalorian actually tell the entire damn tribe about you?

Your leg bounces as soon as you take a seat at the end of the medical cot and you brush a few unruly hairs from your forehead before speaking to the elderly man, “I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a replacement, sir. I’m sure I could never be as good of a medic as you are for your people. I’m just here to help out as much as I can.”

He chuckles and shakes his helmet at your humbled statement, propping his steel cane against his thigh and you feel a twinge of sadness deep within your soul as he stares down at his trembling hands. You notice his right hand is trembling more than the left and you think that must be his dominant hand--the one he would typically use for certain medical procedures--and you remember what Paz had mentioned about the tribe’s medic growing too ill and shaky to actually help others.

‘No wonder why the office was so dusty and everything was unused,’ you think to yourself sorrowfully, your eyes taking in all the big dents and scuff marks on his gray and crimson helmet.

“Hey, don’t give me those sad eyes, little one,” He admonishes you again and though you don’t remember having any kind of grandparent in your life, you think being scolded by this man must be what it feels like to have one, “I was told by Paz that you are a tough one--a warrior, just like us.”

You offer him a wry smile, “I suppose he didn’t tell you that I tend to cry quite a bit as well?”

“Oh, he definitely mentioned that,” The Mandalorian chortles and you can’t help but to grin at that, immediately feeling better at how playful he sounds, “I was hoping he was messing around with me--our people aren’t exactly the best with tears and emotions, but I suppose it is not a bad thing. During times like these, the tribe could use a little more happiness and vulnerability.”

You contemplate his words deeply, thinking of the few times Paz had informed you that because of the Empire, his people were nearly extinct and you wonder how this stranger could so easily accept you into the tribe without really knowing you. Seeing how worn out and damaged his dented helmet is, you can’t help but to wonder what he’s been through and though he seems to be more of an eccentric member of the tribe, you’re certain he’s been through hell and back.

“If you do not mind me asking--” You offer him a fond gaze, your smile growing when he tilts his helmet dramatically to the side, his Beskar cheek nearly touching his shoulder, “May I have your name? I am trying to learn who everyone is, but the visors are all the same and sometimes the color of armor is similar and--”

“I get it,” The older man sounds like he’s amused and you briefly wonder if he was once an outsider like you, though you find it rude to ask, “I was about to write it in your little notebook, but I fear my hands are too unsteady for you to understand my writing, little one.”

You perk up and quickly stand up, making your way over to where he’s sitting before you crouch down in front of your desk and grab one of the several pens in the little cup near your notebook. The Mandalorian makes a funny noise as you give him an inquisitive glance, wordlessly asking for his name with a quirk of your brow and though he wears a typical Mandalorian helmet, you think he must be grinning underneath his Beskar guise.

“Ezir Ralas.”

You somehow manage to write down his name as fast as he spells it out for you and you grin at how demanding he sounds upon spelling every single letter out and how he describes the exact colors of his faded helmet. There’s something about his lighthearted tone that makes you think he’s not as intimidating as every other warrior you’ve encountered since being brought to the covert.

“Well, it is lovely to meet you, sir,” You beam at him as you make your way back to the medical cot to sit on while you wait for your first patient of the day, “Have you been the tribe’s nurse for very long?”

He chuckles again, long fingers curling against his knees, “Oh yes, I’ve been with the tribe since we were forced into hiding years ago. Before all of this, however, I was a field medic for my people on Mandalore, back during our civil war.”

“Oh, I um, I had no idea there was a civil war,” You frown at this new information, briefly wondering if Paz knows about this, though you think he must, “That must have been so scary to be out there on a battlefield, trying to save your own people.”

He lets out a small grunt as he leans forward to rest his forearms atop his thighs, “Even though I am a medic, I was also born and raised a fighter, little one. Though the things I have seen haunt me at night when I cannot sleep, I would not so willingly admit that I was ever afraid.”

You slowly nod and gaze down at the steel pendant that hangs between his collarbones and you recognize it as the one you often see around the covert, or in the morning when Paz tucks his own into the collar of his tunic. Seeming to recognize your curiosity towards the skull sigil, he unties the knot at his nape and holds out the necklace for you to inspect up close.

With great eagerness, you reach forward to accept the kind gesture, “Is it rude of me to ask what this is?”

“It is not rude,” Ezir sounds amused by your curiosity and your cheeks grow warm as you trace over the sharp horns protruding from the cheeks of the skull with your thumbs, “It is the skull of a beast that was once native to Mandalore--the mythosaur. They were these enormous monsters with teeth and horns sharper than a sword made of Beskar and when they tried to attack my ancestors, we either slayed them or conquered them and rode them as transportation.”

“How big were they?”

“Massive,” He flippantly waves a hand in the air, appearing far too nonchalant while speaking of terrifying beasts, “Well, I would imagine they’re the size of the village currently above us, little one.”

Your eyes grow wide and a chuckle escapes past his modulator at how incredulous you sound, “And you’re ancestors fought them?”

“Without hesitation,” He informs you and though the image of a monster so fearsome and enormous terrifies you, it also fills you with feelings of reverence and awe, “After the beasts went extinct, the mythosaur skull became a symbol of our people and all that we had overcome; it is a symbol of our history and culture.”

You hum quietly, barely noticing the way his tilted visor is trained on the way you tenderly trace all the curves and divots of the pendant with admiration, a smile tugging at your lips as you think of the symbolism behind the sigil. Suddenly, you understand why people have always murmured terrifying rumors of the Beskar-clad enigmas and you think it must be true that they’re the strongest warriors in the galaxy. You wonder what it must feel like to exude such power to the point where people fear you without even knowing who you are and though you still regret feeling so much terror upon initially meeting Paz, you’re suddenly grateful that you’d eventually let him into your heart.

“Perhaps one day, you will have one of your own,” Ezir concedes and your head snaps up to peer at him with shock; you hand the pendant back out for him to take, feeling undeserving to be holding something so precious to his people, “Oh, don’t give me that look. You may not wear our helmet or armor, but once I teach you some Mando’a and get a weapon in your hand, you’ll be a fearsome warrior.”

You think of what Paz had mentioned about the others in the tribe teaching you Mando’a, and while you’ve only known him for a few minutes, he seems to be a respectful man, albeit a little quirky.

“What does riduur mean?” You blurt out, your skin instantly growing warm when you see Ezir’s shoulders shaking as he laughs at the innocent question; suddenly, you fear that everyone has been saying something demeaning about you, “I just... everyone in the tribe keeps calling me ‘Paz’s riduur’ and I--it’s not an insult, right? They’re always laughing when they say it.”

He shakes his head as his laughter eventually ceases, “No, little one, it is quite the opposite of an insult, but rather a term of endearment. I do not think it is my place to tell you what it means and I am not sure if Paz has the guts to actually tell you, but I can say that I am certain you will find out for yourself one day when he calls you that himself.”

Your leg bounces anxiously as you watch him situate his mythosaur pendant between his collarbones and as you think of all the meanings that the word possibly possesses, one stands out to you the most.

“Is it something I would be allowed to say to him as well in the future?”

“Yes,” He reaches down to pet your vulptex that’s awkwardly making her way towards his boots, sounding utterly entertained by your inquiry, “Though I cannot promise you that his brain wouldn’t combust if he heard you call him that.”

“Then perhaps I would call him that as payback for all the times he’s teased me about certain things.”

Ezir guffaws at that, remaining diligent in petting the lazy vulptex that’s headbutting his calf in a needy manner, “I like you, little one. I almost didn’t believe Ima when she told me you had stopped the fight between Din and Paz, let alone when she informed me that you had stood up for yourself and the bounty hunter.”

You watch as the older man awkwardly scoops the little vulptex into his arms and you’re grateful that not many seem to mind her presence in the covert, as you’re not sure what you would have done had you been forced to get rid of her.

“I have been belittled by men all my life,” You shyly admit, staring at the little creature that’s reaching up in an attempt to bite his pendant, though Ezir doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest as you continue, “And for the longest time, I just learned to keep my mouth shut and deal with it because that’s just the way I was raised, I suppose. These last couple of days have taught me that it does not make me a bad person for only wanting to be treated with respect and my only regret is that I did not realize this sooner in life. Perhaps I’d be a stronger woman if I had realized my worth at a younger age.”

No longer is Ezir petting the vulptex, but instead, he now has his visor trained on you and in return, you offer him a small smile. He remains deathly silent for at least a minute before giving you a curt nod, as though he approves of either you or just your declaration in general.

“In our language, we have a word that I think perfectly describes you, little one,” His gruff, filtered voice drops to something softer as he watches you perk up with curiosity, “Ramikadyc--it means that you have the tenacity and determination of a Mandalorian, that you have our mindset.”

Your heart instantly swells with gratitude and you shyly cross your ankles together as you wring your fingers together on top of your lap, “I would hardly compare myself to your people. I do not think I would have the tenacity or determination to fight against one of those mythosaurs that your ancestors slayed.”

“Something tells me you and I are not too different,” Ezir informs you with what you think is mirth laced within his deep voice, “I do not think you would hesitate to put yourself in harm’s way if it meant protecting someone you care for or someone you do not wish to see to get hurt.”

You smile softly and give him a slight nod as you think of the bounty hunter that you had stood up for, despite him not deserving it, or even your little vulptex that you had taken a blaster shot for. If Ezir truly thinks that you have the heart of a warrior, then he must be saying it for a good reason and his words, along with Ima’s and Paz’s confidence in you, fills you with a little more hope in regards to your future with the tribe.

“Will you tell me more about you?”

“I am afraid my stories might bore you to the point of insanity,” Ezir chuckles, shifting in his seat a little so he can hold your vulptex in a more comfortable position, “But since you seem so curious, what is it you wish to know, little one?”

“Can you tell me more about Mandalore and the civil--?”

Before you can finish, a deep baritone from the entrance of your office interrupts your inquiry and both you and Ezir immediately turn around to find your blue Mandalorian standing tall behind another unarmored Mando, though this one is still taller than you and Ezir. The smaller Mando is holding their wrist protectively against their chest and it takes a few seconds for you to recognize the warrior as one of the younger ones that seems to have a knack for constantly getting hurt during training.

“Saviin’ika,” Paz greets politely with a slight nod, cocking his helmet to the side upon noticing who’s been keeping you company in the short amount of time you two have been apart, “Ezir.”

You raise your brows at the way your warrior tenses up a little upon seeing the elderly man, though you manage to get in a word before any of the Mandalorians can say anything, your attention focused on the injured boy.

“Is your wrist hurt?”

The unarmored Mando peers up at Paz with what you think must be a wary expression through his visor--something that your warrior immediately picks up on. With absolutely no hesitation, the heavy-infantry warrior murmurs something to the younger Mando in his native tongue and you raise your head with anticipation and a kind smile. As though that’s all the confirmation of the young teenager--Vhan--needs, he nods a little and you slide off the end of the cot so your first patient of the day can sit down.

You give the boy a small, encouraging smile as he takes his glove off and pushes up his sleeve to reveal a swollen wrist, “What happened?”

“It was my fault,” Paz says immediately, making you raise your brows in surprise at the thought of him somehow hurting someone so young, “He was sparring with his brother and I looked away for a minute. He fell and landed right on his wrist.”

You frown a little at the guilt in his voice, though judging by the exasperated sigh that wafts past Vhan’s modulator, you think this must be a common occurrence amongst the younger ones who get hurt on Paz’s watch.

“Well, it’s hard to tell for sure without x-rays,” You manage to rotate Vhan’s wrist in the slightest, a gesture that seems to cause minimal pain to the boy, “But it looks like it’s just a minor sprain, since there seems to be no crooked bones and you can still move it around a little. Nothing too serious and nothing to feel bad about.”

Paz lets out a relieved huff at the news, though you know your blue warrior enough to know he’s not going to let the guilt down so easily, especially not when it pertains to one of the younger members of the tribe. A knowing grin stretches your lips when Vhan groans, and now you’re certain this isn’t the first time Paz has been worried like a mother hen over the clumsy teen. Though the blue warrior has quite the reputation among all the adults in the covert, it seems he also has a completely different persona when he’s with the younger ones.

“See? I told you it’s fine. Can I go back to training now?” Vhan insists, moving to hop off of the cot, though you are quicker to stop him by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Uh uh,” You shake your head, earning another groan from the teen and what you’re sure are surprised expressions from the two other men occupying the room, “Just because it’s a sprain doesn’t mean you can go running off just to damage it even further. You should at least rest it for forty-eight hours and put some ice on it every thirty minutes for two hours until the pain goes away. Also try to keep it elevated as much as possible.”

“That’s so much work for a little sprain though!” Vhan argues and you let out a soft sigh as you begin to compress his wrist with a thick bandage, “Can’t I just--”

“Hey!” Ezir suddenly sounds annoyed, and you’re surprised when the boy tenses up a little, just as Paz had earlier, and something about their reactions has you growing even more curious to what kind of reputation the elder has among his family, “Listen to the nurse, di’kut. She only wants what’s best for you.”

“Yes sir,” Vhan mumbles, though you can tell he’s still not happy about it when he turns his visor to you, “S-Sorry, Saviin’ika.”

You blink your surprise at him calling you the familiar nickname, but eventually you give him a kind smile and stand up to retrieve your roll of ice wraps, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sure it must be difficult for you to miss out on training, but it really is for your own good. I don’t have the resources here to fix your wrist if it was seriously broken, so it’s detrimental to make sure that the sprain heals properly before doing any serious training again. Perhaps there is… um, maybe something else you can do in the meantime that’s not too strenuous?”

He perks up a little and hope instantly flares in your chest as he gives you an eager nod before turning to look at Paz, “You told me the other day that you would show me how to take apart an assault rifle and put it back together--would that be okay?”

Paz glances at you and the boy’s eager tone makes it hard for you to say no, so you give your warrior a reluctant nod as you finish tying the ice wrap around his swollen wrist, “Just as long as you make sure to not move your wrist around too much and keep the ice wrap on, okay?”

“Alright!” He’s instantly hopping off the cot and you chuckle at his newfound excitement, “Thanks vod’ika!”

You huff a little, opening your mouth to stubbornly remind him that you’re far older than him, though he cuts you off with a quick headbutt to your forehead; while it’s not too harsh of a harsh gesture, it’s certainly not as gentle as all the times Paz has performed the same action. You rub your tender forehead as Paz turns to the side a little so Vhan can make his way, presumably, to the armory. Paz shakes his helmet in an exasperated manner as he steps toward you, most likely to get a look at your forehead, but Ezir’s small grunts as he slowly stands up has your full attention.

Instinctively, you move to help the elder up from your office chair, noticing his slight struggle to stand and you force yourself not to cringe at the numerous pops and cracks coming from his knees and back. After a lifetime of fighting and being a medic, you’re certain it’s taken a toll on him, though he simply chuckles a little and pats your back as you both make your way over to Paz.

“I suppose I should take this as my sign to leave you to your duties for the day, verd’ika,” You beam at the new nickname as he carefully grabs onto your elbow for better balance while you lead him to the entrance where Paz is still standing with a cocked helmet, “I’ll have to look for my old medical books and datapads for you to read.”

“Oh, thank you!” Happiness and warmth instantly blankets your heart at his consideration, gratitude filling your soul when you realize that he seems to approve of you being the tribe’s new nurse, “I would love that very much, if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

“Of course not,” He gives your hand a little pat before latching onto a grumpy Paz’s elbow instead, “I’ll just make this one help me later since he can reach the higher shelves.”

“I have other things to--”

Jutting a thumb out in your direction over his shoulder, Ezir sends a rough little whack! of his walking stick to Paz’s armored shin, “It is good she is here with the tribe now--perhaps she can teach you and everyone else some manners, you big brute.”

“Yeah, ori kebiin,” You giggle in a teasing manner, earning a small grunt from the blue warrior, “Would it really kill you to learn a few manners?”

Ezir lets out a loud laugh that has Paz shaking his helmet at you, and though you know you’ll soon regret it, you think it’s worth the delightful torment he’ll inflict on you later when the two of you are alone. Without another word, Paz reaches out to give your nape a tender squeeze before leaving you alone to your thoughts in your little office, though you think that seeing Ezir and helping Vhan has already given you a bright start to your day.

With a faint smile stretched along your lips, you add a few comments to your little notepad and take inventory of the supplies you have and what you need for the next time Paz goes on a supply run. For the most part, the day goes by slowly and uneventfully--something you are actually grateful for, what with being so used to the chaos that came as a result of working in a village full of crime and those with cruel hearts.

Needless to say, you don’t mind a calm day in the slightest and when Ima passes your office hours later to politely inform you that training and sparring lessons are done for the day, you’re grateful that no serious injuries were sustained. Packing up your things and making sure your office is in order, you turn off the lights and exit your office, eager to explore the covert a little more and go to the room that Paz and Ima had decorated for you.

After conversing with a few of the Mandalorians you had befriended in the short amount of time you’ve been at the covert, you happily make your way down the stairs that you know leads to everyone’s private quarters, as well as the nursery and your little flower alcove.

You hum a mindless tune to yourself as you stroll down the long tunnel, smiling when the atmosphere gets a little warmer when you pass the shielded alcove that leads into the nursery; your walking slows a little and you’re half tempted to go inside and say hi to the little ones, though you don’t want to cause any chaos again, especially so late in the day. Reluctantly, you continue past the nursery and make your way to the little room Paz and Ima had decorated with your flowers, your vulptex resting comfortably in your arms as you two seek out relaxation.

“I need to think of a name for you, little one,” You murmur, earning a soft gaze from her, crimson eyes slowly blinking up at you, “Maybe I should ask one of the younglings to come up with one. They must be far more creative than me.”

She simply answers you with a dramatic huff as you continue down the path that Paz had already taken you down a few times.

You’re completely oblivious to the little footsteps following you far behind.

Finally, you make it to your beloved sanctuary and let out a relieved sigh upon seeing all your growing flowers and the lights that hang above them. Placing your little vulptex on the center of the desk where you had placed a little pillow for her, you dutifully water the plants and flowers that look like they need it the most. It’s comforting to have a little place of your own, especially after dealing with so many of the boisterous warriors all day and while you feel as though you’re slowly getting used to their antics, you realize you truly had no idea what you were getting yourself into upon agreeing to be the tribe’s nurse.

A small smile quirks at the corners of your lips as you feel the tiniest ache in your temple where the younger Mandalorian had headbutted his gratitude a little too roughly earlier, though warmth fills your heart when you remember how he had referred to you as his sister.

You’re in the middle of checking on your little violets when your vulptex raises her head in a jolting manner; immediately, you turn around, expecting Paz or perhaps Ima needing you to tend to someone’s wound.

It is neither one of them, you realize with surprise.

You let out a little gasp upon seeing a pair of wide, fearful eyes poking from the tiny crack between the curtains and the doorway and you instantly recognize the sad, golden brown orbs from days ago in the nursery.

“Oh, it’s okay, little one!” You give him a warm smile that instantly seems to allay some of the despair in his big eyes, “You may come in, if you’d like.”

Hesitantly, he makes his way into the unfamiliar room, looking like a lost animal that’s experiencing a new environment for the first time and you think you know the feeling all too well; even after spending a few days at the covert, you still feel quite lost and you can’t possibly imagine what this child is going through.

You blink your surprise when he gets halfway across the room before spotting your lazy vulptex who is still curled up on your desk, staring at the boy curiously, though not unkindly in the slightest. Carefully, you make your way closer to the little who simply stares up at you with wide starry eyes, his hands clasped together politely in front of him and your heart melts at how nervous and scared he seems.

“It’s okay, little one,” You reassure him in a calm, hushed tone, reaching your hand out for him to take, “She loves younglings very much and would never hurt you, I promise.”

The curly-haired boy shifts his gaze between you and your rocky companion before ultimate latching onto your hand with his. Cautiously and without any force, you guide him closer to your desk where the vulptex is still observing the little boy with gentle eyes; you think that on top of being intelligent, her species must also be quite empathetic and can differentiate a kind soul from a dark one.

“Is it okay if I pick you up?” You question the boy softly, earning you a shy nod as an answer, and you carefully haul him up to the chair in front of your desk, keeping a hand pressed to the back of his shoulders to keep him steady, should he stumble, “If you want to hold your hand out to sniff it, it’ll be a sign that you want to be her friend.”

His eyes widen a little more and you can’t help but to grin as he holds a shaking hand out for the rocky vulpine to sniff eagerly, his other hand pressed shyly to his cheek in anticipation. A tiny, childish giggle meets your ears and warms your heart as the vulptex licks his palm, though he is quick to pull his damp hand back and wipe it on his beige tunic with a scrunched up expression. When he smiles up at you, you’re certain your heart is going to melt into a big puddle of goo in the pit of your stomach and you offer him one in return, smoothing his dark, unruly curls away from his forehead.

“See? She knows you’re brave and likes you now.”

He gives you a toothy grin and you feel a lovely warmth in your soul knowing that you were able to provide some emotional reprieve for the sweet child.

“Did you sneak away from the nursery, little one?” You ask him gently, not wanting him to think you’re upset with him at all; he simply drops his head in shame and you continue to stroke his curls in an attempt to comfort him, “It’s okay! You’re not in trouble, I promise. I just want to know why.”

For a moment, you don’t think he’s going to answer as he keeps his head lowered, but then he eventually peers up at you and whispers his response in a tiny, meek voice.

“Y-You were singing,” He explains quietly, and you realize he must have heard you humming and followed you all the way here, “‘M sorry.”

“Hey, no, none of that,” You crouch down in front of him so he’s taller than you while he stands on your chair and you give him a kind smile, “It’s okay, but how about next time you just ask the caretaker on duty, alright? They’ll come find me, wherever I may be.”

He gives you a shy nod, seeming thoughtful for a few moments as he presses a chubby index finger to his pouting lips, “Do I have to go back?”

You should say yes and you know it, but his eyes are all but pleading with you to say no and he looks so hopeful that you’ll let him keep you company. You think he must feel just as out of place as you do, not knowing who to talk to or who to trust, though you seem to be the one person he finds solace in.

How could you destroy that tiny amount of trust he already has in you?

You give him a tiny smile and shake your head, “You may stay for a little while, but I fear I do not make for the most exciting company, little one.”

The boy doesn’t say anything to that and you blink your surprise when he reaches out to clumsily touch the thick braid wrapped around your crown, along with the few flowers that you had strategically placed throughout the weaves that morning when Paz had been watching you. He seems curious by the vibrant flora, his eyes blinking and flickering with awe and you bow your head a little so he can get a better look at them.

“Do you like flowers?” You ask him quietly when he eventually ceases his exploration, and you look up to see him giving you a shy little nod, “What’s your favorite kind?”

You expect him to not know many, especially if he’s spent his few years of life on Nevarro, though he surprises you when he speaks in a barely there whisper, “I like roses--like the ones my ‘gramma used to paint.”

You’re desperately inclined to ask more about his grandmother--if he had any parents and what planet he had been saved from, but if he’s the covert’s newest foundling, the wounds on his heart and mind must still be so fresh and you do not wish to infect it further with your invasive questions. Instead, you force yourself to give him a warm, big smile and somehow manage to keep the tears out of your eyes when his chubby fingers find the little blue flower that Paz had tucked behind your ear earlier in the morning.

“Yeah? I bet they were beautiful,” You grin and he gives you a fervent little nod to confirm your thoughts, “What color roses did she paint?”

And what you thought was only going to be a ten or twenty minute interaction with the boy ends up to be more than an hour and a half long meeting where the two of you talk about harmless topics like flowers, favorite animals, different types of stars and constellations. Though for once, you do most of the talking and you are more than satisfied to describe the beautiful hot springs and caves that Paz had taken you to, sparing all the mushy details that you knew would probably gross out a child.

“He’s scary,” The boy murmurs as you tell him of the story, at least the clean version, of how Paz had stood up for you the night you first found your vulptex, “They all are--they don’t smile.”

“Well of course they do,” You inform the little one, curling a finger against his cheek and earning a tiny giggle, “Everyone smiles, you just can’t see it because they wear their helmets to honor their creed. It does not mean they are robots or incapable of feeling the same emotions we do.”

He’s perched on one of your thighs, seeming comfortable as he softly pets the sleeping vulptex and you smile down at him sympathetically upon realizing he’s still apprehensive of the armored warriors, “I was scared of Paz at first too, but he turned out to be one of the kindest, most honorable men I have ever met. These people are not cruel, but I understand why you are afraid, little one. I have only been here for three days and I am still learning how to fit in as well. Perhaps we can figure this out together.”

He gives you another toothy grin and nods, seeming comforted by your words as he leans back into you and your heart aches at the trust he shows in you; a part of you wonders if it’s because he can actually see your face. You’re not entirely sure of what to say as he continues to pet the sleepy animal, smiling whenever he hears the soft squeaks that the vulptex lets out every now and then.

“Do you have a name little one?” You ask kindly--tenderly--hoping that the question won’t overwhelm him as he tilts his head to stare up at you.

You truly don’t think he’s going to answer you, but then after a few moments of silence, he lowers his head a little, not looking you in the eyes.

“Odisian.”

“Odisian... what a lovely name,” You repeat it with a grin, earning a shy smile from him, “Is it okay if I call you Odi? Or do you prefer your full name?”

Suddenly, he beams up at you and kicks his legs a little, as if having a nickname makes him feel more at home, “I like Odi!”

Your cheeks nearly hurt from how big you’re smiling at him and you nod, deciding it’s best not to dwell too much on his own name or what nicknames he might have had before being brought to the covert. You straighten your spine a little and reach out to pet your little vulptex who keens under all the adoration and attention she’s suddenly receiving from you and the little one.

“Would you like to pick out a name for her?” You ask him softly, tilting your head to the side when he gives you an expression filled with awe and wonder, like he can’t believe you are asking him to do such a thing, “She needs one and I do not think I am creative enough to bestow her with such an honor.”

Odi swings his legs nervously and you can’t help but to grin as he seems to seriously contemplate this huge decision, his tiny hand squeezing his cheeks together in great concentration. You remain patient with him as he turns his head a little to stare at all the flowers on your desk and the colorful vines that are draping off the edge of the shelves attached to the wall with admiration.

“Rosie?”

He says it more as a question, like he’s nervous for your response, so you offer him a warm grin when you realize this sweet child wants to name your vulptex after his own favorite flower. You wonder if he somehow knows just how much your flowers mean to you, just as Paz does, or if the flower simply has some sort of deeper meaning to him and you playfully ruffle his curls, earning you a little giggle from him.

“That is far more lovely of a name than I could ever come up for her,” You inform him, your cheeks hurting from how big of a smile you’re wearing on your face and he perks up at your reassurance, no longer seeming quite as nervous, “Her eyes are red like roses too! Is red your favorite color?”

“I like yellow,” He bashfully admits, and you nearly chuckle at the way he pronounces his ‘L’s as ‘W’s, “It is a happy color.”

You agree with him as you begin to collect some flowers for the little boy, though a part of you lamely thinks he probably doesn’t even want them. You’re in the process of pointing out all the different flowers that Paz and Ima had been so kind to plant for you in anticipation of your arrival when the drapes to your alcove shuffle to the side a little.

You’re completely unaware of how long your blue warrior is standing in the entryway, simply observing you and the little one perched contently on top of your leg who seems utterly interested in what you have to tell him about the healing properties of violets and lavender.

“Oh! And then this one right here, if you just grind it up and add it into--”

“Cyare.”

Immediately, you and Odi both turn to face where Paz is standing just feet away in front of the rounded entrance, though the little one in your arms is quick to lower his head in fear of the massive warrior. Wanting the youngling to feel more comfortable, you simply smile up at Paz, who suddenly seems frozen to his spot as he stares at you with a cocked helmet, his shoulders tense as his pauldrons inch closer to the bottom of his helmet.

“Is something wrong, Paz?”

“No, it’s just--” His helmet slightly jolts to the side and he’s acting odd as you gently heave Odi off of your lap, offering him the little bundle of flowers so he won’t feel so lonely without you by his side, “It is time for the younglings to sleep and the caretaker on duty got scared because he was missing. I thought you might know where he is and it seems as though I was right.”

Odi is staring up at you with the saddest expression, as though he’s pleading with you to not return him back to the nursery and you gently cup the back of his curls, giving him a kind smile in return. Nervously, he fiddles with his hands as you stand up, easily scooping your vulptex into the crook of your elbow, all while the little one stares up at Paz with the most frightened expression you’ve ever witnessed, hiding behind your leg.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere and you’re more than welcome to visit me anytime,” You offer him a reassuring smile as he gazes down at the little bouquet of flowers and he is quick to grab your outstretched hand with an eager expression, “C’mon, I’ll walk you back. Besides, he likes flowers too--I bet he would like it if you gave him one.”

You say the last sentence in a low whisper, as though you’re sharing some sort of gossip with him and you instantly notice the way he perks up as Paz holds the drapes to the side for you, his helmet still tilted to the side as he observes you two. Odi is still quiet and thoughtful as he stares down at the little bundle of colorful flowers you had gifted him, all while holding your hand as Paz slowly leads you through the dim tunnels.

Shyly, the child gazes up at Paz and warmth blooms in your heart and soul when he lowers his helmet to regard Odi with what you’re certain is the utmost kindness, most likely wanting nothing more than to earn the boy’s trust. Without saying anything, the little one holds up the colorful bouquet of flowers for Paz to see and you grin at the adorable interaction.

"Those are... pretty,” Paz comments in a softer voice and you can tell he’s trying to appear as placid as possible to the nervous boy, “Which one is your favorite?”

Odi lets go of your hand to press his index finger to his bottom lip in severe contemplation and you nearly chuckle at what must be a cute little habit that he does unknowingly when he’s thinking too hard. After a moment’s consideration, he points a chubby finger at one of the many violets that you had tucked in the center and you instantly grin.

“Those are my favorite too,” Paz says quietly, and you’re too focused on the way Odi is smiling down at the little bouquet to notice the Mandalorian’s visor trained on your face.

Odi seems conflicted as he gently tugs one of the violets from the middle of the colorful bundle and offers it to the huge warrior with a hopeful gaze, not saying a word throughout the entire exchange.

“What an honor,” Paz sounds like he's grinning as he accepts the little flower and Odi immediately seeks out your hand again, “Thank you.”

The youngling peers up at you with a cheerful glimmer in his eye, as though he’s proud of himself for showing such bravery and selflessness in the presence of a powerful warrior. Once you offer him a knowing smile and a gentle squeeze of his hand, Odi turns to gaze down at his colorful bouquet with a tiny grin on his face.

Content upon realizing the little one no longer seems sad or fearful, you tilt your head up to beam happily at Paz, your heart still full of love and admiration towards both him and Odi; immediately the warrior lifts his hand to tenderly stroke your cheek. The cold bite of leather nearly makes you flinch and suddenly you’re remorseful that both of your hands are occupied by your littlest companions as you now long to touch the lighter blue in the hollows of his cheeks.

It’s not until you make it back to the nursery that Odi’s smile drops and his lips form into a little pout. Paz presses his gloved hand to the small of your back to guide you further into the nursery and through a short tunnel leading the four of you to where the younglings must sleep and take their naps.

“Hey,” You whisper after the four of you enter a dimly lit room with several beds lined up; you notice the tiny lumps curled up underneath the fuzzy blankets and smile as you crouch down in front of Odi, “Remember what I said, okay? You ever want to come see me, just ask one of the caretakers. I’ll always be here for you.”

He nods, and before you can even think about standing up, he steps forward to wrap his tiny arms around your neck and you’re quick to return the sweet gesture, your free hand coming up to gently cup the back of his head. You feel his chubby fingers curl into the hair you had left unbraided that morning and smile when he holds onto you a little tighter; you can tell he’s still afraid of you leaving as an idea pops into your head.

“Since Rosie seems to like you so much, why don’t I leave her here with you for the night?” Immediately, he pulls away from you, his starry eyes wide and filled with disbelief as you gently shuffle the lazy vulpine into his awaiting arms, “She may be small, but she’s a fierce little thing that will protect you from any nightmares you may have, I promise.”

He holds the animal closer to his chest, grinning when she lifts her head to lick at his cheek and Odi instantly giggles in response. He gives you one last shy smile before making his way to his little bed and you stand up to your full height as you watch him shuffle underneath his blankets, all while holding Rosie close to his chest. It’s not until you watch his eyes close that you let out a deep exhale and you wonder when you had stopped breathing; tears nearly escape your eyes when you watch Rosie curl herself closer to the child, head tucked underneath his chin as he smiles sleepily.

“Ner cyare,” Paz whispers and you jump a little, nearly forgetting that he had been standing there this whole time; you turn to face him and you give him a questioning look when he threads his fingers through the valleys between yours, “There is something I want to show you.”

You think when he says ‘something’, he most likely means ‘someone’, and your heart thrums wildly in anticipation as he leads you away from the younglings’ sleeping quarters. The alcove he’s leading you to is the one he had popped out of a few days ago after you confronted him after the fight, you realize, and you wonder what could possibly be in the room that he seems so excited to show you.

You blink owlishly at him as he politely holds the drapes to the side for you and you hesitantly enter the warm room; instantly, another Mandalorian with black and yellow armor turns to face you and Paz. Before you can offer the stranger an affable greeting, a soft whimper cuts you off and your heart instantly freezes over when you spot a wooden crib in the corner of the dim room.

An infant…

There is an infant in the covert and the thought simultaneously terrifies you and breaks your heart.

Paz quietly says something in his mother tongue when the caretaker on duty tenses as you step forward to try to get a better look at the distressed infant, your heart now pounding so wildly that you hear it in your ears. Whatever Paz said to the caretaker immediately seems to calm them down and they simply watch as you observe the fussy baby that is kicking its little feet wildly and growing even more distressed. The infant is wearing tiny white socks and a long, dark brown tunic that falls to her ankles; her little head is adorned with a white beanie, but you see dark tufts of hair poking out from underneath.

“I… I cannot get her to stop crying,” The Mandalorian’s deep, filtered voice is coated with exhaustion and despite the tears burning your eyes, you fixate your attention on the defeated Mando, the vibrancy of the yellow stripes painted on his black armor nearly hurting your eyes, “What am I doing wrong?”

You wonder if he’s ever had to take care of an infant before, but judging by the way the black and yellow Mando shuffles around nervously makes you think it is not all too common of an occurrence in the tribe.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, shaking off your fears and insecurities as you remind yourself that you were brought here to take care of others, “O-Okay, how old is she?”

“I only found her a few weeks ago, cyare,” Paz informs you quietly, not wanting to disturb the baby even more, and you turn around to gaze up at him with wide, watery eyes; he must see the confusion etched on your features because he immediately explains himself, “I was walking back from seeing you one night and found her abandoned behind one of the vendors in the marketplace. I can’t… I can’t imagine what kind of monster does such a thing.”

You know all too well of the monsters that are capable of leaving a helpless creature behind to die, most likely feeling no guilt when they close their eyes at night.

You nod again and let out a shaky exhale as the caretaker turns his body to the side and allows you to lean over the crib, your chest aching something fierce as you carefully scoop up the tiny creature into your arms. Instantly, she lets out with a piercing, shrill scream and you heave a small sigh at how fussy of a little thing she is, though you think you already know what her problem is.

“What are you--?”

The strange Mandalorian jolts forward a little as you shuffle the crying baby around in your arms until her chest and stomach is resting against the inside of your forearm, her arms and chubby legs dangling lazily around in the air and her cheek tucked against the crook of your elbow. It takes a few moments of tenderly stroking her back to get her cries to soften into something less ear shattering, and you let out a relieved sigh when her whimpers turn into little coos and grunts.

“I think she might be colic,” You inform the caretaker with a shaky whisper, his helmet tilted to the side with what you think is either curiosity or shock as she dribbles, “I’ve uh, I’ve seen this before and read about it. Are you making sure to burp her after each feeding? Or perhaps she should be using a different formula if she has a sensitive tummy?”

“I--” He drops his helmet a little, staring at the cooing infant that you’re bouncing a little, “She wasn’t spitting anything up and I just thought… I wasn’t sure how to do it, how to burp her.”

You give the black and yellow Mando a sympathetic expression and nod, your eyes still burning with tears, “Babies can be pretty fussy sometimes, but once you find out how they like to be held and handled, it makes things a little bit easier. This tends to be a good trick at calming a lot of babies, but you need to make sure she gets burped after every feeding or else she’ll be really uncomfortable and even fussier than normal.”

“Thank you,” The caretaker nods his gratitude as you continue to stroke her back and you give him a weak smile in response, “Could you maybe get her to go to sleep? I should check on the others and I--”

‘Need a breather.’

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you hear it in the way his deep voice drops and his shoulders fall at the mere thought of having a few moments of peace and relaxation.

He fidgets when you hesitate, though Paz places a gentle hand on your nape and he must realize that something is wrong as he squeezes the warm skin there; it’s something he only does when he’s trying to comfort you. Afraid that your voice will fail you, you offer the caretaker a jittery nod and he wastes no time in leaving the nursery that’s dedicated to this tiny infant.

You find it difficult to even look at Paz as you make your way over to the rocking chair that seems far too small for any Mandalorian and slowly sink down until you’re sitting comfortably with a cooing, sleepy baby tucked in your arms. A soft sigh escapes your lungs when you feel a little bit of drool soak through the material covering your elbow and you risk a glance at Paz when he gets down on a knee next to the rocking chair, his gloved hand moving to gently squeeze your bicep.

“What happened?” He questions as quietly as possible, warranting a tiny grunt from the irascible infant, “Why are you so sad all of a sudden?”

The way he asks such a question so softly instantly leaves you feeling painfully raw and vulnerable and you are quick to shoulder away a tear before he can wipe it away for you; you shake your head viciously, “It’s nothing.”

“Cyare--”

“I will explain later.”

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod and retrieves a piece of cloth for you as you move the calmed baby to burp her against your shoulder. You can tell he wants to say something as you pat her between the shoulders, but he remains silent and tilts his helmet to the side upon hearing the infant gurgle and do her business against the cloth draped over your shoulder. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep once she’s burped up all the air and spit from her meal and you let out a grateful sigh when you watch her eyelids slowly droop, somewhat eager to get her out of your arms and into her crib.

Once she’s comfortable in her cradle and fast asleep, you are quick to exit the little alcove, Paz hot on your heels as you practically storm past the exhausted-looking caretaker who’s sitting on a stone ledge in the main play area.

“Hey thank you for--”

You’re out of the nursery before he can fully express his gratitude to you and you hear Paz mutter something to the caretaker before rushing after you. Halfway down the tunnel leading to his private quarters, Paz catches up to you and carefully wraps his leather-clad fingers around your bicep, turning you around to face him.

“Cyare! What’s going--?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” You don’t even realize you’re sobbing until you hear your own voice and Paz’s other hand comes to squeeze your shoulder in a comforting manner, “Wh-Why didn’t you tell me there was a baby and why would you make me…? I didn’t know and... Maker, she was so much like--”

Your chest is heaving, tears streaming from your cheeks like raging waterfalls and Paz gently pulls you to the side and covers you when another Mandalorian passes you two, giving you what you’re certain is a curious gaze. He cups a massive hand to the side of your neck and leans down as you continue to sob and babble incoherent pleas at him, wondering why he’d put you through this, though he truly had no idea what he had done to you.

“I-I am sorry, cyare,” He breathes, squeezing your bicep firmly with his other hand, “You seemed to love the little ones so much and I thought… I thought you would love to see the baby, but I didn’t think…” He shakes his helmet in a jolting manner as you viciously rub at your eyes and cheeks, “What happened? What did I do wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” You ignore his frantic questions as you try desperately to stop the tears escaping your eyes, along with the horrific memories from flooding your mind, “I didn’t mean to be so rude! I thought I was over it and I could forget, but seeing her...”

“Shh, hey, it’s okay,” He hushes you in a kind manner, shielding you from any wandering eyes that might see your tears, “Why don’t… why don’t we go back to our room and you can tell me what’s going on? That’s what you said the other day, right? That we should talk about the things we feel?”

You nod your answer, not trusting your voice in that moment, and you try your hardest to force down the massive lump in your throat.

“Will you tell me why you are so broken up over seeing the baby?”

He’s quick to pull you in close, hunching over to hold you easier and you immediately stuff your face into the crook of his neck as you give him another jittery nod, “I fear you will hate me upon hearing what I’ve done in the past--how I have failed the ones I was supposed to take care of.”

“I… I could never feel such a thing towards you,” He promises with a deep exhale, sounding just as heartbroken as he reluctantly pulls away and leads you closer to his private quarters, keeping a firm hand on the small of your back, “Whatever it is, I could never hate you, I swear.”

Your chest aches more and more the closer you get to his private quarters and once you finally make it, he’s quick to sit you down on the foot of his bed, kneeling down as he collects your hands in his leather-clad ones.

“What is haunting you, ner cyare? What makes you cry so much when you sleep?”

You pray that once you tell him, the horrific memories won’t weigh heavy on your conscience any longer.

Translations:

Ner cyare=My beloved

Mesh’la=Beautiful

Ori Kebiin=Big blue

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum=I love you (lit. I know you forever)

Saviin’ika=Little violet

Verd’ika= Little soldier

Di’kut=Idiot, useless individual, waste of space (lit. someone who forgets to put their pants on)

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aerynwrites @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst @anakinsittinginsand @yes-music-is-my-religion @tangledlove27 @justrunamok @peqchynero @haloangel391 @awhiskeywithawinchester @aliciaxglasgow @bonesaldente @kawaiitimecharm @karaabove @clydesducktape @misssilvertongue @heartxheat @pazvizslasgirl4ever (Please let me know if I missed you or you’d like to be taken off!!)

Author’s note: As always, thank you all so much for being as patient and kind as ever <3 I don’t know why this chapter was such a struggle for me to finish, but I’m so glad eventually managed to get all the words I wanted down lol. I was worried it might seem like there’s a lot going on in this chapter, but I just wanted more interactions with our nurse getting more settled in with the tribe and meeting others, so hopefully this chapter doesn’t seem like it’s all over the place :( Anyways I love you all and thank you so much for all the support y’all continuously give me <33

#paz vizla x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #Paz vizsla x you #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #my writing #IDK WHY I'M SO NERVOUS TO POST THIS CHAPTER OML #I hope you guys enjoy it tho <3 #also now y'all know why christina and I were fighting over wearing socks to bed lmfao

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suntrastar · 4 years

Text

sink or swim

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you first meet ransom when meg drags you along to a party. everything somehow spirals from there.

warnings: swearing, smut (but like very vague smut, nothing super explicit), ransom’s general assholery

word count: 9.3k

author’s note: i hate ransom drysdale! he is a shit character! if he existed irl i would whoop his ass with NO hesitation. but i still wrote this fic because ... a bitch gets thirsty okay?? okay. and ik this is very long BUT a lot of it is dialogue so it should flow pretty fast!!! likes and reblogs are always appreciated!!! ily now enjoy!!! you can also read this on ao3 :)

There’s something fun about being somewhere where no one wants you, and then something shameful.

Meg isn’t touching you, but as she drags you around her famous grandfather’s mansion in search of people to bother, it feels like she has you on an invisible leash, fastened tight over your neck. To keep you tethered to her- like a fucking dog.

The leash hurts like it is not made of plastic or metal but instead two hands squeezing tight, wringing you dry, choking you harder and harder and bruising you purple with no remorse.

Now, she’s debating political theory with her douchebag fuck of an uncle, who almost hits you once- almost hits you twice with his cane while waving it around as he quotes Fox News-

Their voices rise. You’re the only one that flinches.

Standing awkwardly on the edge, you wonder why you are the only guest at this terrible party that looks so lost. Meg gives you a covert this-is-total-bullshit glance, and a small, pained, rehearsed smile, both of which you have to return- that’s the real reason you’re here, after all- and her uncle rants on, wholly oblivious.

You look past them both, to where one man stands by himself.

He’s leaning against the far wall, and while Meg retaliates with some of her favorite words, including audacity and bigoted and problematic, you take a sudden, intense interest in the wallpaper pattern, sweeping your eyes over the span of it, looking over the man just once.

He is staring right back at you.

All it takes is his eyes- he’s just staring, but you’re absolutely embarrassed.

He looks rich, with too much product in his hair and a coat that looks like it cost more than your rent, with loafers that expose an uncomfortable amount of ankle and an expression that morphs into something wolfish as he starts towards you-

Before you can think, he’s joined your little circle- Meg prefers standing, so of course, everyone stands- and smiles when she glares at him.

He isn’t looking at you anymore.

“So,” he interrupts, and his voice is so dark, “what riveting political topic are we debating tonight?”

You should call an Uber. Why did you accept Meg’s offer of a ride?

“Ransom,” Meg says sweetly, “could you just, like, fucking not?”

This is supposed to be a Christmas party, but none of these people seem to be in the Christmas spirit. Including her uncle, with his stuffy sweater set and clunky-as-hell shoes. He sputters something about young people and their profanity, and then hastily leaves.

Without thinking, you breathe out a heavy sigh of relief.

The man smiles wider. Unfortunately, it makes him look very handsome.

”Ouch,” he says lightly, to Meg, and turns to you.

A shiver runs down your spine.

You hate him immediately.

“Who are you?” he asks.

For whatever reason, the question makes Meg scoff. She shakes her head at you- a warning. Her hair flounces with the movement.

Because she doesn’t want you to, you give him your name. And then add, because your name alone seems like a title too stripped down, “I’m Meg’s friend.”

It’s hard to convince yourself to be polite, when you don’t like how he’s been looking at you- with his eyes narrowed and brown furrowed and lips parted. He gives an insufferable nod.

“Right,” he says. “The one she’s been showing off all evening.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Ransom-” Meg starts, and suddenly you are so angry, at this man for confirming what you thought was all in your head, at Meg for suddenly swooping in to save you, like she’s been waiting for it-

“I guess,” you say, and smile a little, and regret everything.

“That’s pathetic,” he says, and looks at you kindly.

Apparently, Meg is the only one allowed to be self-righteous in her annoyance, or anger, or any other mildly passionate emotion. She doesn’t return your covert this-is-total-bullshit glance.

So you fend for yourself.

“Well, so is this fucking party, so-”

He interrupts you with a laugh.

It’s loud and arrogant and mirthless, and you’ll climb out of a window, find a way to walk through the walls, if it means that you’ll escape it.

“I’m just joking,” he says, pursing his lips, and the hands on your neck, ever-present, nearly crush the breath out of you. “Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”

“So funny I forgot to laugh,” you say, and instead of replying, he just looks at you.

He looks at you slowly, like he has nothing better to do, like he has time to waste. You can smell him- some cologne that’s spicy, and expensive, and Meg is staring at you in shock, like you’ve committed a crime.

But she’s quiet.

“I’m Ransom,” he says, and raises his hands to make little air quotes, which is weirdly adorable in a way that you hate, “Meg’s ‘asshole cousin’”

“Weird name,” you say.

You’ve changed your mind- you’re not even going to attempt to be nice.

For a second, he looks furious.

It’s attractive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anyways, I’m about to ditch. Do you want a ride?”

How does he know you came here with Meg?

He was staring at you from the wall-

From his butterscotch-colored coat with its awful, ostensible lapels, he pulls out his car keys. The BMW logo flashes silver and blue, clashing against the gold of his pinky ring, clinking against the metal as he twirls the key ring around his finger-

For a second, you think that he’s about to toss the keys across the room and command you to fetch.

“Um,” you say, uncertainly, irritated with your own restraint, “Thanks, but Meg will-”

“Meg will what?”

He’s mocking you, and there is no one to come to your rescue.

Hesitantly, like she has to think twice about it, Meg opens her mouth to say something. What is her problem? What is your problem? Why are you treating her like she is your saving grace?

You talk before she gets the chance. “Okay, yeah. A ride would be great.”

***

Ransom offers because he likes your face.

You’re better-looking than the girls that Meg usually brings along to these parties, or maybe his standards have fallen- he isn't sure. Does it really matter? Even though he’s been looking at you all night, even though he’s positively thrilled to have you in his car, he’s not going to try anything.

There’s something desperate in your eyes that compels him against it.

You inhale sharply when he turns left.

“You forgot your turn signal,” you say, and he kind of likes how you chastise him, not angrily or even upset, but just exasperated-

How is someone like you friends with someone like Meg?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says lightly, and the tired glare you give him is enough to make his entire week.

Now that he thinks about it, his mother is always on his case about things like this- compassion and civility and basic human decency, and how he lacks it all, but what about now? He’s taking a miserable girl to her home, simply from the goodness of his own heart, with no strings attached.

This is such a good deed- this is like charity.

His mother is also always telling him that he’s severely, almost clinically narcissistic.

He definitely is, but again, does it matter?

“So, what do you think about my family?” he asks, making a big, dramatic show of using his turn signal before swerving right, feeling too pleased when you smile.

He steals a glance at your knees and somehow feels guilty.

He’ll have to do something about that.

“They’re pretty... lively,” you say hesitantly, and he’s suddenly hating the dark, this stupid fucking night- he’d like to see you better.

“Lively,” he repeats, and barks out a laugh. “They’re fucking crazy.”

You laugh, too, a real one- off-kilter, and too loud- none of that artificial shit he heard at the party. Nothing meant to please.

“I was definitely thinking that,” you say. He catches you looking at his hands, but boldly, you don’t look away. “I just didn’t want to be rude.”

“Now you’re worried about being rude?”

“I’m in a car with a strange guy I’ve never met before, so yeah.”

You’re smiling but look uncomfortable, and then afraid.

All bark and no bite- you’ve been talking all this talk, when really, he realizes, you’re so washed-out, so faint, like the bare sliver of moon out in the sky, the same weak moon he’s been cursing out. The same stars, too- you are just as scattered.

You look pretty.

“Are you scared?”

He keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks you’ll snap at him if he doesn’t. Not like anyone drives out here anyway- not like he can’t pay off a ticket or two or five-

“Should I be?”

There is something so delicious about this moment, with you starting to worry- he can’t look at the road anymore, not when he can watch your throat bob as you swallow instead, and it still feels so violating, but so good.

“Nope,” he says, and you startle when you hear him say it, and he has to bite his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “No need.”

“Great,” you say, and go quiet.

When he pulls up to your apartment complex, not too far from where he lives, he holds his mouth in check. He could say so many things right now, but for you, he restrains himself.

You have your bag in hand, seatbelt off. From the streetlight, the planes of your face look waxy yellow.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

Your hand is on the door handle, nails glittering. He can’t make out the color of the polish.

While looking at it, a sudden urge overcomes him.

And he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he wants to, so bad. It’s borderline frantic, the desire- it’s necessary and all-important and crucial, for him and his basic peace of mind, and maybe for you, too-

Who is he to deny himself?

“Wait,” he says, even though the door is open and you have half of yourself out the door.

The cold is slowly seeping in, bone-chilling.

You wait.

“Let me just,” he says, and can’t bring himself to say anything else.

He reaches out for your waxen face with one hand and presses it firmly against your cheek.

Under his touch, you shiver. He fans out his fingers to hold you better.

Your eyes are wide. He thinks you look a bit horrified- horrified with yourself for not resisting, maybe.

But he closes his eyes as he leans in, so it doesn’t matter.

He turns your head for you, a bit forcefully. You don’t protest.

He kisses your cheek.

When he pulls back and opens his eyes, you’re staring at him with your mouth in a perfect circle.

“Uh,” you say, and suddenly look away and out into the night, and it makes him angry, even though it should be flattering, “Merry Christmas.”

***

You don’t think about Ransom as much as he probably would have wanted- life picks up too fast.

In the last days of the year, Meg calls you and texts you and even goes so far as to send a few emails, but finally, you seem to have found the self-respect to not respond- consider that ridiculously wealthy bridge burned.

In January, your brother leaves to study for a semester abroad. All the walls in your small apartment are suddenly looming, standing high over you, standing empty. You try to shove off the loneliness by studying harder, by staying distracted.

In February, you have the same dream nearly every night- you’re sitting outside on a porch in the sun and for some reason there’s a bird on your head, and in your lap there’s a clock whose hands don’t work, and you’re wearing a heavy necklace made of gold links that jingle, and you’re so happy.

Does the bird count as company?

In early March, while you’re watering your plants, your phone rings with an unknown number.

You shouldn’t pick up unknown numbers.

You pick up.

“Hello?”

“Remember me?”

His voice nearly gives you whiplash.

It’s dark and harsh, faceless and yet as arrogant as ever.

“Hi, Ransom,” you say, and think of the night in the car for the first time since, think of how he gripped your face so hard that his ring left an imprint. “How the hell do you have my number?”

“Meg gave it to me,” he says smugly. “She says hi.”

You wonder what Meg thinks you did to her. It’s obviously something bad, something terrible, if she so willingly gave your number to this pretty-faced, pretty-voiced, ugly-coat-wearing asshole-

“Awesome,” you say plainly. You don’t want to talk about her. “Do you, like, need something, or-”

“I want to take you out,” he says.

You laugh and your grip on your pitcher slips, sloshing water over the edge.

“You’re joking.”

He is, right?

He takes an impatient breath that, for some reason, sounds inappropriate. “I’m serious.”

“Ransom,” you say, slowly, “I don’t even know you.”

“Then get to know me,” he says testily, and you can perfectly picture him, sitting in some colossal brownstone his parents bought him, while a butler daintily dabs the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Tonight.”

You’ve overwatered your marigolds.

Has his voice really swept you this far away?

“No,” you say, and shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “No fucking way.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “You have anything better to do?”

You don’t, but you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to lie-

“I’ll treat you good,” he suddenly says, and his voice is low and sticky-sweet, dripping with honey. “I promise.”

He says it in a way that makes your knees weak.

You physically have to sit down- he knows how to get what he wants.

Could you actually do this?

Could you go out on a date with a crude, pretentious, trust-fund piece of trash, who probably thinks you’re easy, who’s only calling you because he’s bored, who has already subtly insulted you twice in this conversation alone-

-who got your number from his cousin that you both decidedly dislike, who kissed your cheek like you were pretty in the dark of the night, in his cold car?

“Fine,” you say. “Take me out.”

***

He doesn’t tell you that you look nice- he just stares.

There is something predatory in his eyes.

You’re out on a Wednesday night with a bad man, wasting your time, trying to get something out of nothing, smiling a fake smile when he orders you a drink you don’t like, already irritated with him, and trying too hard to stop looking at his face.

How are you actually interested?

You tell him that you’re in medical school.

“Really,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you. “You don’t strike me as that kind of girl.”

Underneath the table, you clench your hands for some sense of control, but still feel like you’re spinning. “What kind of girl?”

“Smart,” he says, and picks up his drink. The glass sweats beads of condensation, wetting the tips of his fingers. “I didn’t know you were smart.”

You shouldn’t dignify his flimsy insult with a response- he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, trying to make you roll your eyes or scowl or shiver. He wants you unsettled.

But the moral high ground is, unfortunately, too high.

“And I didn’t know that you’re such a terrible date.”

His teeth gleam white when he smiles. He knows.

He knows that he can say whatever the hell he wants, because he has money, and those eyes, and that insufferably nice rich-boy hair, and that sweater with its charmingly frayed hems, and that voice- he has everything, and then some, and he’s about to have you, too, if he keeps on looking at you like he already does.

“You’re so sweet,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

He winks and you could cry, you’re so fucking bothered-

You’re not usually this uptight, but he has you so drastically wound up that every little thing he does, even how he’s sitting- body sprawled, manspreading- is fire licking up on your skin, scorching-hot and ruining you with no remorse, like you have done something to deserve it.

When his eyes trail down, from your eyes to your mouth to your neck to below, you are so acutely aware of wanting him that you feel guilty. Like it’s a crime.

***

You don’t seem like the type of girl to fuck on the first date.

So, of course, Ransom tries to fuck on the first date.

As you stand outside the restaurant, in your dress and strappy sandals, you look so tense that he wants to laugh.

He can’t help it, because this whole thing you have going on- this weariness you approach everything with, this attitude- is so funny. Maybe, in any other situation, it would be irritating, but he’s been so bored lately that it’s stirring.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asks, quietly, taking a step closer to you so that at this very moment, under the waning sun, you should be able to just lean up and kiss him-

You blink slowly and keep your silence.

This is fucking tedious.

This should be so easy- all he has to do is settle his hands somewhere soft and let time pass, and then before he knows it you’re there and under and begging. But he can’t bring himself to touch you just yet, not when his head is calling you pathetic, and his heart calls you-

His heart just calls you.

You start to answer, and then hesitate. All five stages of grief flicker over your face at once- denial to acceptance in the same breath.

“Sure,” you say, unevenly, desperately-

When you step inside his house, your eyes go wide. As you take it in- the decor, the windows, the excess, he locks the door behind him and takes you in.

You step further inside, and he thinks of where it would be best, but then your eyes crease as you smile- it’s impossible to wait when your smile looks like that- and so he backs you right into the closest wall, cups your face with both of his hands and kisses you.

He kisses you and you curl your hands over his shoulders and immediately kiss back, and he is taken aback and delighted.

And he knew- the entire time at dinner when you were making eyes at him like you couldn’t believe that you were actually sitting there, present in that moment- he knew that secretly, you’re a freak. He knew it- he knows it.

He hopes it.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, right into your mouth, when your heart has been beating right into his for a while, “Let me fuck you right here.”

You bite his lip.

He takes a hand away from your face and reaches under your dress fast, rucking it all the way up your thighs, trailing up to touch you-

“Fuck,” you gasp, and arch your back up against the wall, and he grips you a little tighter-

He presses a finger into you- pushing aside your underwear and, good grief, you’re already wet- harshly, and pulls away from your mouth, so he can watch your face.

The lines creasing your forehead look like poetry.

He thinks he likes you. It’s a shame he had to meet you through Meg- it would be nice if he had met you somewhere else, on his own.

That way, he’d be able to waltz in one day, to another insipid family gathering, with you tucked under his arm. You, with your promise of a medical degree and your strappy sandals, and your iron grip on his shoulders and your drawn out breath of a moan-

The looks on their faces would be priceless.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, and he’s a little irritated at how cracked his voice sounds, but it’s the right thing to say- you swear again and he picks up his pace, pressing hard on your clit. “If you’ll be good to me.”

“I’ll-” you say, and you’re actually stuttering, and breaking out into a lovely sweat, still forced back into the wall with his hand and body. He leans closer, so he can’t tell where you and him and the wall start and end. “I’ll be- fuck, Ransom-”

You still have your arms wrapped around him, like an embrace. He keeps one hand between your thighs, your dress pooling over his arm like water, and uses his other to work at his belt buckle.

This is also funny- you stay exactly how you are, even though at that moment, there is nothing holding you back.

***

The world is begging for you to consider your actions.

But you don’t. You know that when he offers, you’ll meet him again.

It should be too late. You’re exhausted, from a day full of lectures and an evening spent in a lab, working as a professor’s research assistant, and then studying for a few hours in the library- all you really want to do is sleep.

But then he calls.

The night is suddenly brimming with possibility, and you’ve never been more awake.

On a whim, Ransom suggests ice cream, and because you can’t bring yourself to deny him, you end up at a place that you would never go for- where everything is handmade and served in thick paper cups with multicolored plastic spoons, but he pays, because of his stupid ego or fragile masculinity or whatever the hell, so you don’t care.

He stands next to you as you order, and his shoulder keeps on brushing into yours. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. In the glass shield that the tubs of ice cream sit behind, you’re both reflected, your body warped and tall, his body warped and taller. In the glass, his eyes meet yours.

The tension is strong- it’s only a matter of time.

Your heart flutters.

When you sit, he bumps his knees against yours- you’re sure it’s on purpose, now, but you don’t say anything. What even is there to say?

That you like it?

When he digs into his ice cream, the plastic spoon- a green one- snaps in his hand.

And because you’re so caught up in your own ridiculous thoughts, before he can go back up to get another, you pull your own from your mouth- a pink one- and offer it to him.

The proposition makes him smile.

Why does he smile like that? Each movement, each twitch of muscle is so perfectly detached and coordinated- it’s violent.

But he still takes the spoon from you gently, with a soft hand.

He’s too pretty to be mean, you think, but against any type of judgement- not just the better kind- you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You let yourself laugh and he scowls.

“This place sucks,” he says, like he isn’t the one who chose it.

He adjusts the womens’ scarf he’s always wearing, carefully arranging it over himself so it looks like it was carelessly thrown on. The blue in the paisley print brings out his eyes- it makes him look so stupidly hot that you start to get angry.

You just shrug. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

He puts your spoon in his mouth and looks at you.

Again, the night ends at his place- this time on an actual bed, because you ask for it, and you think he likes how you look when you ask for things in the current state state you’re in-

He fucks you in the dark, and swears into your ear, and is not kind or soft in any way, but after he finishes, he takes the time to kiss the spot in between your breasts, and you think that maybe he isn’t entirely horrible. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, and his mouth is always hot.

You leave without a word.

***

He takes you out this time, in a real, urgent show of wealth- he picks you up in his fancy car, takes you to a fancy restaurant where the numbers next to the fancy menu items are all appalling, where he spends the whole time making these awful, unfunny innuendos that still manage to rile you up, because they’re coming from his mouth-

On the way back, while waiting at a stoplight, you take a deep breath and brace yourself before looking at him.

He really is gorgeous- all lazy grace and harsh angles. The light colors his face red, red in his eyes and in the plane of his cheekbone and in the slope of his mouth- like a beautiful warning sign. His hands are carelessly draped over the steering wheel and, despite the warning, you reach out and trace a finger over his knuckles.

His whole body jerks.

You quickly draw your hand back.

“What?” he asks sharply. He’s staring at you like you’re crazy.

You don’t know why this is suddenly so fucking embarrassing, all you did was touch him- but you suddenly feel terrible, and-

“Nothing,” you say, with the same tone, and whip your head away from him to the window, where you smolder in the dark and furiously stare at nothing.

The light turns green. He takes his foot off the break and all but slams it on the gas pedal, driving as atrociously as ever, looking over at you for a split second when you don’t protest. The blood rushing in your ears is too loud for you to think- you can’t form any words.

Once it subsides, marginally, you add, “Sorry.”

His jaw tenses.

You look back over at him, at his ring, and imagine it pressing into your neck.

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” he suddenly asks- suddenly demands, with a blazing authority that makes your stomach do flips.

You don’t know what answer he wants. “Um, one time I snuck out of-“

“Let’s do something crazier.”

On an abandoned road, he pulls over, and then you’re under him in the backseat- doing something crazier.

You might have some type of psychic tendencies, because his ring presses heavy into your neck as he pushes himself inside you, starting at a bruising pace, and then he says your name in the dark, and he looks so beautifully flushed, startling when you grab his hair, laughing when your hand accidentally skims his thigh, smiling when you come-

You wish you had the resolve to put an end to this.

You wish you could stay when it’s over.

***

You don’t like his house.

It’s not the brownstone you imagined, but rather a huge, minimalistic box, with too many windows and spotless paint and modern wood fixtures. Ransom has all of these customary rich-person things, including stately furniture and eclectic art pieces and tall shelves stuffed with books, but owning any actual personality has escaped him.

Standing in his house feels like standing in an empty room- it’s all so apathetic.

Still, you show up when he calls.

You haven’t done anything this bad before.

But there’s a first time for everything, right? First time for enjoying bruises and biting and an unwavering grip on your neck or hips or waist or thighs, first time leaving something so intense so awkwardly.

Each time is worse than the last, with the awkwardness spiraling, accruing beyond reason, and each time you struggle with what to say- even now, you just do your best to stay quiet as you start to get up, reaching for your clothes-

Ransom drapes a heavy arm over you before you have the chance.

“You can stay,” he says flippantly, and then shifts to pull you close to him, so that you are suddenly lying bare-backed against his chest, so that his sweat-slick body and heartbeat imprints itself on your skin.

Is he asking?

You crane your head over your shoulder to get a look at him.

He returns your stare like he’s been waiting for it.

His face is still flushed pink and a lock of hair hangs low over his forehead, and if you were any braver, you would comb a hand through it, gently, with no real intentions. He’s breathtaking. Even the new, foreign purple under his eyes is a sight- pretty like something you would want to kiss.

“You want me to stay?”

He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back. You would lick the sweat from the divots of his neck, if he asked you to.

“Or leave, if you want. I could care less.”

He cares

You know it because his grip is unwavering, because the terseness in his eyes is enough to make you look away.

Eventually, you settle a hand over his arm and try your best not to tremble. Ransom mumbles something under your breath- you can’t make any of it out, but you don’t ask him to repeat it, for the fear that it’ll upset this fragile bedroom balance you’ve so painstakingly built yourself into-

He wants you to stay.

“Are you okay?” you ask, because you don’t think he is.

He inhales. You feel his chest against you; it’s shaky. You wonder, for a second, about who he might actually be, underneath the arrogance and egotism and constant need to be an asshole- is he someone you could like without feeling bad about it?

“Yeah,” he says, and throws his other arm over you, so that he is holding you. “Why?”

There isn’t a genuine bone in this man’s body, but he genuinely sounds confused.

It’s possible that you’re the one who isn’t okay.

“Because,” you say, and take a great leap of faith- holding your bare heart in your hands, you turn to face him.

You’re fully exposed and subjected to his gaze- it’s nearly eviscerating. His eyes dip down to your chest and something like insecurity flares in your chest. It’s awful and terrible and you urgently want to kiss him on the lips.

He always kisses you first. You don’t know if you have it in you to kiss him yet.

You wouldn’t ever try, in case you don’t.

“You look kind of tired,” you say, and his eyes bore into you with a sinking weight, threatening to drown. One of his hands finds a blooming bruise on your skin and lightly presses. He doesn’t react when you wince. The action is still kind- almost tender.

He sighs, and it is such a delicate breath, fanning hot over your skin.

“I’m not tired,” he says, almost childishly.

You might be overstepping. But you don’t even know where the lines have been drawn.

“Okay,” you say, and because you would not dare kiss his lips, you lean close and kiss his jaw instead.

He startles and then gives you a crooked, lazy smile. He is everything good, you think- for this one moment. Pretty and soft-handed and made of glass and honey and all other lovely things.

You tuck your head in the crook of his neck and wrap an arm over his, tight, so he knows you are there, and hope for the best.

***

In your spare moments, you’re always thinking.

Ransom knows this because of how you look when you do it- your brow furrows and your eyes go glassy, and you frown with an intensity that he has never seen on anyone else.

It happens when you finish a sentence, when you have no response for him, when he is still talking but you’ve stopped listening. When you think it’s quiet.

It never happens during sex- is it pathetic to take pride in that?

As he stands in your apartment for the first time ever, you look like you’re in near-despair, like your thoughts are wreaking havoc on your mind, destructive and distressing. You wear basketball shorts and a college sweatshirt and glasses.

He didn’t know you wore glasses, and that you looked like this in them- he’s been missing out.

“Hi,” you say, and stare at him with troubled eyes.

Your apartment is so small. He almost feels claustrophobic, standing in here. When was the last time he willingly stood somewhere so small?

The lengths he’ll go to, for…

For you, he supposes.

“Hi,” he says, and wonders, also for the first time ever, what it is that you’re always thinking. “Why do you have so many plants?”

On the windowsill, with even spacing in between, sits an entire row of glass jars housing plants- all singular flower stems, some budding, some in bloom. The petals of a marigold brush against the window, orange against the grey outside. It’s cute, he absently thinks, in a struggling, shabby type of way.

“It’s just something I do for fun,” you say, sounding irritated. “Like, a hobby.”

Infringing on the living room space is a small table, cluttered with textbooks and pens and an open laptop with its screen dark.

It still baffles him that you’re smart.

“So,” you start, and cross your arms over your chest. He feels kind of offended, because he’s just realized that he really only knows a handful of things about you, and even that handful is sparse, slipping through his fingers. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He called on impulse.

He’s just- he’s in what someone could call a mood, where he hates everything and has the intense desire to ruin something, and while he was thinking of how to fix it- beyond just getting wasted- he thought of you.

And when he called, you were sounding so tired and so he even said he could just meet you here, so you wouldn’t have to drive, so you could squeeze in a few more minutes of studying before he inevitably invades your mind-

Easily, he deflects. Nearby, there’s a hallway with two doors, one of which is tightly closed shut.

“What’s in there?” he asks, and points towards it.

You relax, slightly.

He wants to gather you up in his arms, but he doesn’t know for whose sake- his or yours?

“That’s my brother’s room,” you say, and your shoulders slump, and he resists the urge to pull you upright, and the urge to gawk. Brother? “He lives with me. But he’s studying abroad this semester.”

“Where?”

“Prague.”

He nods. This is a stiff, perfect, shocking distraction. “Nice city.”

You nod distantly and head back to the table to put your things away.

“Yeah,” you say, after too long of a pause, as you start to cap pens and set them aside. You look at him as you do it, and so you miss a few times, accidentally drawing dark lines of ink all over your fingers. “I’m glad he got to go. When we were kids, he was obsessed with wanting to travel- he had this entire map in our room, and he would draw stars over every country he wanted to visit, and there were, like, a hundred of them, and he could list every single one, in the exact order he wanted to visit, and he could even list the capitals- I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

He doesn’t.

Or, he shouldn’t, but your eyes are clearer, and as you neatly stack your textbooks in an order only known to you, he is almost intrigued.

He’s longing for you- when you are right there.

He feels like a person outside of himself, when you look at him and smile tiredly.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

There’s a cheesy ‘90s horror movie you find after a few minutes of channel surfing, complete with terrible special effects and edited-out profanity. The days are longer, now, and to stop the sun from casting a glare over the screen, you close all the blinds. It adds to the atmosphere, you say lightly, fully phased out of whatever just possessed you, and his hands are so itchy- itching to do something.

He sits. Patience is a virtue, but he is not virtuous, and so when you sit next to him and bring your knees to your chest, making yourself small, he goes to-

Something in his stomach stops him.

It’s butterflies- is he actually nervous?

This is so fucking infuriating.

You’ve got him trapped in some type of pain-and-power-play, some type of unassuming purgatory, and all he can bring himself to do is lightly brush a hand against your shoulder. You smile at his touch and his heart fucking breaks.

As the second boy in the friend group gets murdered onscreen, you close your eyes and duck your head into your knees.

“Tell me when it’s over,” you say, voice muffled.

“Scaredy-cat,” he says, even though this is no time for jokes.

You crack one eye open, looking only at him, and give him the finger.

Come here, he almost demands. The butterflies protest- he holds his tongue.

The dance continues. When the sun sets, everything darkens, settling into a dim blue. You look like something out of a painting. Faintly sad, unusually serene. The skin around your eyes has smoothened- you’ve stopped thinking so hard and he can suddenly breathe easier because of it-

And then there’s a jumpscare, and he shouts, “Jesus!”

The murderer has broken down a door, and all of the remaining characters are screaming, and you burst out laughing.

He’s in the middle of a crisis, and you’re laughing.

You lean into him as you laugh, with your head turned away from the screen and your eyes open, looking at him so fondly that he suddenly feels violated, and you let your shoulder brush against his.

“Scaredy-cat” you tease, and it’s absolutely now or never-

You’re making him weak- it takes too much time and effort for him to draw an arm over you.

You don’t flinch, but he is sure that you can hear his heart beating dangerously fast, without abandon, like it's trying to break free of his ribcage. He almost gasps when you come even closer and lightly kiss his cheek, wrapping your arms around him, and his head is just saying yes yes yes-

Your mouth goes over his ear, lips ghosting over skin. He waits, more scared than he’s ever been in his entire life, for what you have to say.

***

So this is Ransom’s deep, dark, ugly secret.

He likes to be cuddled.

If it were anyone else, you would laugh.

But it’s Ransom, and so you just take it in stride, as part of his extremely fucked-up psyche that is probably a result of a hundred things he’ll never tell you- childhood trauma and neglect and the consequences that come with having more money than you need or deserve.

He’s always talking, always talking shit, always talking over you and over everyone else, and you realize, one day, that he really only is treading water- he’s only focused on staying afloat, speaking whatever he wants, but never actually saying anything.

He’s responsible for his faults, of course. But still, when he smiles in low light or curls his hands over yours so viciously, you don’t know if you should leave, or if you should just stay and pity him quietly.

You’re starting to like him too much to even care.

He starts coming around more. And he actually stays, and starts leaving pieces of himself behind. He has a toothbrush next to yours and a phone charger on his side of the bed and imported, undoubtedly expensive snacks in the kitchen.

He leaves clothes, too- you wash them with yours and keep them, neatly folded, in your closet.

On a warm day in May, he meets you at a cafe.

He does most of the talking, like always. It’s been months, already, but you still find it difficult to start conversations.

You still have trouble telling him certain things without feeling like you have to defend yourself, and he still rarely deviates from being a total dick, even when you hold him or have his head in your lap, when you make him laugh or when you kiss him.

Or when you put your hands in the sleeves of his sweaters and rub your palms against his forearms, because he’s always running warm and your hands are always cold.

He always acts like it annoys him, jumps when your hands meet his skin- but you know he secretly likes it, because whenever you’re done he pulls the hems all the way over his hands and looks at you with something amazed in his eyes.

With the weather warming up, he’s ditched the sweaters and taken to wearing these awful fucking short-sleeved button-downs, all unnecessarily tight and showing way too much collarbone. He’s making you sweat.

“You’re staring,” he says, and smiles, self-satisfied.

You bring your straw to your lips and shake your head. “I’m not.”

He knows that you can’t help it- he is always so gorgeous. He’s infuriatingly pretty.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, and nudges your foot under the table, voice suddenly low, and it’s like, holy shit-

You bring your drink down and lean over the table, careful to avoid knocking anything over, and kiss him quickly.

He tastes like bitter coffee.

You’re sad, all of a sudden.

When you settle back in your seat, you clear your throat like nothing happened. You want to lean in again and button up the rest of his shirt, and kiss him again. You want to come so close that your noses touch, and then yell at him, just for being him.

He looks appalled

“What was that for?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever done this.

“No reason,” you say. “I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like it,” he repeats, and it’s like the same reaction from the night at the stoplight, and you realize-

He’s dumbstruck.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears. He sets his jaw like he’s about to get up and leave. You try not to scowl, even though you feel like you’re drifting, tide carrying you away, sand clean and smooth on where your body once was-

It gets to you.

“Can I not just kiss you?” you snap harshly, glaring at him with a ferocity you don’t think he’s ever seen.

It’s inevitable- the result of months of frustration. You can only suppress yourself for so long. Why, you want to ask, why are you not entitled to him the way he is to you and everything else? Can you not ask for him so wholly?

He flinches.

Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire, flinches.

It brings a small sliver of satisfaction with it. There’s some nerve you’ve struck, and the discontent on his face is steadily growing-

You pay it no mind, drinking the rest of your iced coffee in calm silence.

Outside, the day is vaguely summery, where the sun is out and strong, but still too cold in the shade. You stare past his head, towards the door. How quickly can you leave?

“You can,” he says quietly, when you’re rising to throw your cup in the trash. “Whenever you want.”

His eyelashes are so long- they command a moment of attention all on their own when he blinks- soft and slow and gazing at you from underneath them. You wonder if he is doing this for the same reason you are. If he’s lonely, too.

When was the last time you had the dream with the bird?

You smirk. “Whenever?”

He is forlorn.

You like him better in the spring.

“Whenever.”

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, and make your voice low, since two can play at that game.

He considerably perks up.

***

When you wake up, he’s still in your bed.

Lately, he’s been spending more time at your place than his. You think that all those windows are finally starting to get to him.

Ransom always holds you fiercely in his sleep. You break free as gently as you can and take him in for a brief moment- you like how he looks when he’s asleep. Unconcerned, chest rising slow with each breath, hair splayed over the pillow in nearly every direction. He almost looks innocent.

You get up quietly, even though there’s no chance he’ll stir- he sleeps like the dead.

Daylight filters through the blinds in white-yellow streams, dappling him golden.

You almost take a picture, but regretfully leave the room for other tasks- you stretch and water your plants and check your email, and then sit down at the table to Skype your brother.

He picks up fast.

“Hey!” you say, and at once feel so much relief, to see his grainy, smiling face on your laptop screen.

Europe has done him good- he’s grown out his hair, and his skin is glowing, and he looks so happy.

He tells you about what he’s been doing lately, studying architecture. It makes you so proud, this fact alone- that unlike you, he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have the looming promises of debt and academic burnout and crushing, ever-present stress hovering over his shoulders. It is so good to see him, and you are so grateful that he can be who he wants to be, do what he wants to do-

“Holy shit, who is that?”

He’s looking past you. You turn around and almost jump-

Ransom stands in the kitchen, shirtless and rummaging through the cupboards. He waves at you.

You would think that someone like Ransom would exclusively sleep in, like, silk pajama sets, or something, but at least he’s in sweatpants- however low-rise they might be, however loosely knotted the drawstring is. It’s better than nothing, at least- what if he had walked out in nothing?

When you turn back to the screen, you catch a glimpse of yourself in your camera feed- you look absolutely mortified.

You are absolutely mortified. This is the start of what can only be a nightmare.

“Are you dating that guy?” your brother asks incredulously. He’s still staring at Ransom with his jaw hanging loose. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” you say forcefully, without thinking. “That’s, um... “

Hopelessly, you gesture back towards him, trying to come up with the words. Nothing feels right in your mouth- every title you can come up with is too consequential, too heavy.

“...That’s Ransom.”

“Weird name,” your brother says, and grins.

You take a breath that feels more like a gasp. “I know.”

“Hey,” Ransom says, from the back, and continues to loudly open and close the cupboards- what the fuck is he even looking for? You don’t keep enough shit in there to warrant this much noise- he’s doing this for theatrics.

“I think I’m going to go,” you say loudly. “Love you.”

“Bye,” your brother says, and he’s grinning stupidly, like a madman.

You disconnect and feel like you might faint.

Not your boyfriend, right?

“Was that your brother?” Ransom asks, casually, finally finding what he was looking for- two mugs. There is no way that he didn’t come across them earlier.

“Yeah- yes,” you say shakily. It feels like someone has filled your brain with fizzy water.

There’s a few boys your brother has met over the years, but you’ve always been careful. Because an introduction is like making a statement- it’s like saying that this person you’re with is important enough to you that they’re going to overlap, exist in more than just one part of your life.

But Ransom is a catastrophe of a person- you can barely handle him as he is. How could you ever have him as anything more?

He goes through the cupboards, again, and finds a box of teabags. “The one studying abroad?”

“I only have one brother,” you snap.

“Okay,” he says, totally unbothered, surprising you. He’s not a morning person in the slightest- why is he being so cordial? “Where do you keep your kettle?”

“Second cupboard on the right,” you say, and bury your head in your hands.

He looks at you. He is so many things, but never kind, until now. His hair, in its adorable bedhead, flops over his eyes. Before, it was only almost, but now, you think, he looks completely innocent, like the type of guy you could give kisses without feeling nervous, the type of guy you wouldn’t deny as your boyfriend.

What is wrong with him?

What is wrong with you?

At the end of the day, he’s always there- you’re exclusive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough to deserve a title?

He finds the kettle, and then sifts through the box. He sorts through different flavors with a gentle precision you’ve never seen before- is this really him? Is he the type of person that is gentle and precise?

The uneven smattering of blue-black bruises on your thighs say no.

You’re so confused that your head hurts.

“None of these flavors are any good,” Ransom says, and shakes his head. His hair shines in the morning light. “Earl Grey- who the hell drinks Earl Grey?”

“Don’t insult my tea like that,” you say, and he looks back at you and gives you a brilliant flash of a smile.

If he’s bothered at all by your denial, he never brings it up.

*** He’s too far gone.

He’s in freefall, feeling weak- he’s fucking succumbed.

To you. To your comebacks and the world-weary gaze you have of everything, to your nonsensical collection of plants and your painfully unattractive basketball shorts, to the way you laugh too loud and too little, to the way you say his name, where he can never tell if you’re happy with him or exasperated-

It’s wrong.

But, he thinks, so are all of these other things, like drugs and alcohol and blowing money on shit he doesn’t need- and you make him feel better than any of those things ever have, so why should anybody have a problem with it? A week goes by after you tell your brother that he isn’t your boyfriend- and it doesn’t bother him, because he’s never wanted that title in the first place, never has- but it obviously bothers you.

You’re disappointed in yourself, because you think you’re supposed to be better than him, because you’re so smart and he is so terrible.

He hopes that that’s not how you actually think. It hurts him to0 much to even consider it, and so he doesn’t, and so he thinks of how to keep his hold on you, and then he thinks of why he even wants to-

The truth is too apparent to deny.

After a week, he calls.

***

He’s very slow.

Not tired- just consumed with the sudden need to savor things. When you let yourself into his arms, Ransom treats you like you’re fragile.

“What’s up with you?” you ask, and as he stares, your voice reduces to something small. You go timid when his eyes are on yours, he realizes, and the thought sends a thrill through his body- he slowly rocks you, to calm himself.

Your shirt is off and you wear a bra with a small lace trim- not racy, but very cute- and he just keeps on staring.

Wow, he thinks. He fucked up good.

“Nothing,” he says, and moves one hand from your waist- he has you in his lap, straddling him- up to the top of your neck. He trails down and over to your collarbone, hooking a finger into your bra strap.

You laugh, breathy and indecent.

He lifts it, subtly, and you whine, and he bites back his own.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, and kisses your neck. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Ransom,” you gasp, with your hands splayed over his back. He slowly skims his hand over, to your back, feeling every little thing, dip and contour and curve, everything- and then unhooks it, and you are bared to him and he is breathless.

He takes you by the shoulders and twists, to bring you down, to pin you against the bed. Your comforter is dark blue, like ocean water.

Your eyes are endless, like ocean water.

“Are you upset about something?”

Your chest rises and falls and he almost reaches for the waistband of your underwear, but stops himself. He presses a wet kiss to one of your breasts, and you arch into his mouth. He feels like you know every single secret of his, when he has told you none.

You know by accident that he’s ticklish. That’s it.

“I’m not,” he says. “I promise.”

He bends low to kiss down the length of your body, repositions his hands to hold your waist. He thinks that this is more intense- it is just his mouth and your skin and the sound of your breath hitching.

He still has it put together, remarkably well- unfathomably well.

“I feel like there’s something you’re- ah- not telling me, honey.”

That does it.

He grips your waist harder, in the way he knows you always like, so that tomorrow he will be able to retrace his steps, follow the blue-

“Say that again,” he says, and presses a soft kiss over you- even through your underwear, with its delicate lace trim, he can feel how wet and wanting and ready you are for him.

“Say- fuck- say what?”

Your hand flails, for a second, before you thread it through his hair, and yank. It hurts, pleasantly.

He hooks his fingers into your waistband and shimmies it down your thighs, and you instinctively spread your legs. He puts his mouth to your slit, slicker than he imagined, and the heady arousal rushing through his mind- and everywhere else- is nearly enough to make him forget what you even said-

He is quite possibly drunk off of you alone, and he wants to slap himself, and, like, press you so close into him that you forget your way out.

With the spare glow of one lamp, you look like you’re made of gold.

He breaks away from you for a terrible moment to strip, and with one hand he teases your clit, and with the other he pumps himself, hard, once, twice, three times in anticipation-

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, and comes back up to cup your face once more, and slips his hand back down into you at the same time, with his cock hard against your thigh- this is all quite slippery- the game you’re playing at and the risk he’s trying to take-

“Honey,” you say, and you’re smiling deliriously, but shakily. “Honey honey honey.”

“You’re killing me,” he says, and his voice, in a moment of terrible, vulnerable, unspeakable betrayal, cracks.

“Good,” you say, but your voice is all wobbly as he lines himself up and roughly pushes into you, holding you a little tighter to keep you steady. “You deserve it.”

He kisses you openmouthed, with his teeth scraping- it’s rough and jarring, the way you always take it. Against his mouth, you swear incoherently, stringing together a litany of curses with his name thrown in between, and goddamn him- it makes him smile.

He wastes no time- he can’t be patient any longer, not when he has you under him like this, and so he goes fast, snapping into you at a bruising pace and keeping his mouth close, and rubbing at your clit, to overstimulate you and make everything faster, harsher, more immediate-

When you come you always say his name, thickly with gravel in your voice, and gasp like the breath has been stolen from your lungs. This time, when you are so far gone that he thinks you’re beyond the realms of sound, and sight, too, with your eyes tightly screwed shut, he says it, for the sake of himself.

“I think I love you-”

310 notes · View notes

pyroclaststan · 3 years

Text

The Reveal

CW: cursing—younger Kingsley used to curse up a storm outside the stutter, soft shit

Your left hand busies itself with your coffee, an almost-burn from the heat seeping through the cardboard holder, scalding in a way you can handle and appreciate.

Your free hand clenches. Unclenches. Clenches. An old song and dance that will never leave you; a reflex you can’t shake. You would start another internal diatribe about how that’s going to get you killed or found out one day, but your mind is too busy to start a fight: even with you.

Your shields are up, held close and tight to keep out the majority of the hive that moves through the city. Small stretches of the mind now and then assure you that you’re not being watched, but you always retreat quickly before you accidentally latch onto some feeling or thought that might drain you before your day has even begun. So far the coast has been clear, but that means nothing when it comes to the kind of people you’re hiding from.

The woman on the opposite end of the patio having coffee with her friends is glancing at you again over the lip of her mug. You sense no deception, no recognition… why does she keep looking at you? Small smiles your way you’re not used to receiving. Hunching down a little, you politely push her focus back to her friends, leaving behind the feeling that she’d mistaken you for someone else: you’re simply a kind old lady enjoying some tea. Keeping a mental watch on her, she is quietly fed small bits of supporting emotions until her group leaves.

An unbidden shudder climbs up your spine, so you tighten your grip into a tight fist as if you could physically wring it out if not mentally. Again and again, as always: the stress, anxiety, every bit of nerves—all compiling and in overdrive. Today is the day. The light pain of nails into palm takes the edge off before you sink into a spiral of thoughts about this decision. You take a drink to ease your mood.

“You’re late, Chrysantamum!” a voice calls out from behind you, startling you mid-sip of said scalding hot coffee.

“Fucking fuck!” you spew, your customary curse half garbled by liquid.

Luckily, your hands are fast enough to pull the cup away and mitigate most of the damage: just a burnt tongue and throat for you. Some light coffee spots for your clothes. A bundle of napkins takes care of those and the spill on the table.

That ridiculous name alone tells you who got the jump on you, let alone the fact that someone got the jump on you at all with your vigilance.

Ricardo Ortega.

At least you can say he learned not to jump out and surprise you from the front—you can proudly say he knows better after that kick he took to the chest… and the various incidents after. And he’s been apparently been experimenting with your name now that he’s learned that, too.

Delightful.

You suppress the collection of biting words and spicy curses you come up with in response to him, once again quietly regretting you ever gave him a name at all. More so, regretting that once you turn around, he will finally see your face.

Why, for the love of any and every deity you could pull from your repertoire, did you agree to this? Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile—you know this, but here you are: ever forward ever deathward towards his orbit. Your sigh comes from a depth you didn’t realise you had in you. There might have been a little Steel channeled into it, if you’re honest.

You can’t say you’re surprised Ricardo knew it was you. This is specifically the address you were supposed to meet at, he’s noticed a few curls poke out from under your mask when your hair wasn’t braided, and even with you sitting he’s learned your signature slouch by now. ‘Fucking fuck’ probably isn’t an everyday curse either, but who’s to say?

Looking down, the clothes on your back are also a dead giveaway. A decently okay grey button down that was liberated from Ortega’s locker at Ranger’s HQ, the skinsuit that anyone else would mistake for a turtleneck peeking out from the sleeves and collar, an ages old hoodie hole-filled and sun bleached on the back of your chair, your secondhand high-water dress pants not quite long enough for your lanky legs, and your ratty old stompers bear laces in a telltale Ranger blue—courtesy of Anathema.

Of the few things you paid attention to today you made sure you didn’t give Ortega the ego boost of wearing the Charge laces they’d also gotten you, though you hope he doesn’t notice the earring out of the many lining your ears. They’re stacked with studs instead of rings today, in case you need to slip your mask on and make an escape. You should’ve have by now.

You are a particular brand of patchworked charity both subtle and recognisable to the favoured few who get to know you. Today is the day they’ll get to know you. Again, you remind yourself how much you already regret it. You hope you’re a decent enough ‘you’ for them to get to know.

Right hand into your thick curls you pull silently at a coil, reminding yourself that this is you here, and eventually that’s got to be enough for someone. Even if it’s never going to be for enough you. You idly ponder what colour your new braids should be as a self-distraction tactic before slipping your hand out and deciding to crumple up a napkin instead, fiddling with the texture of it. One stim for another as you wait out your impending doom.

Ortega’s steps grow louder as he gets closer, telltale modded weight in each step, and your cheeks begin to heat up at the approach, the buzz of his mind coming into staticky focus. Ha! There’s a new nervousness building now, and a little panic? Or rather, a touch of anxiety over your looks—he’s rubbing off on you in the worst ways. But you can’t hide the thought: if he doesn’t like what he sees? He’s only ever known you—and kissed you—with your mask on. You never care to care how you look; you’ve never tried to dress in any way that wasn’t covert and unassuming.

Damn it. You remember you forgot your cap.

Yours, not the Rangers one Anathema also got you (always buying you merch in a heavy-handed gesture) that you pointedly only wear when Chen is around, always over your mask.

He hates it, you love that he hates it. You wish he’d like—

The Steel-related thoughts you have on that note are mashed down before they can even bubble up. No time for that molotov cocktail of clusterfuck.

This meet-up has been planned for nearly a month, allowing you time to stake out a place, begin preparations, and come up with ample excuses to back out. You didn’t.

Idiot.

You made Ortega swear on his life that he would keep your face out of the papers, off the net, and completely unaffiliated with anything having to do with him. The front of his shirt was in dire need of dry cleaning by the time you finally let go of it, losing your nervous edge once the deal had been done. This is a risk beyond any you’ve ever taken and you’re doing it because you like him enough to try and make your fake life a little more real. Because you like having friends. Fucking fuck.

You make a mental note to have ‘World’s Greatest Idiot’ put into any possible epitaph you may get after this.

A weighted pause. You just realised what he said. How are you late? He’s here an hour after the agreed upon time in classic Ortega fashion. He’d almost be exasperating if he wasn’t so calming at the same time. Stupid static mind, resisting your every touch but giving out just enough feedback to settle you.

Wrapping your annoyance, frustration, and nerves around you like a brittle shield, you gather any venom you have left as a defence mechanism. A hard look very softened by the blush on your freckled bronze cheeks as you hear his steps stop just on the other side of the cafe railing to your left. The white noise of his mind quiets so many of your errant thoughts, and while the impenetrability would usually annoy you, right now it is a soothing reminder than this is, in fact, your best friend beside you.

You pointedly ignore the growing heat in your ears. And cheeks. And throat. And stomach.

“I’m uh, not an expert on interpersonal bullshit, but aren’t nicknames supposed to be sh-shorter than your actual name?” you huff, trying to put as much edge into your voice as you can in your current state.

Finally you turn your head, an annoyed glare in Ricardo’s direction before he can get out his smart ass response. Refusing to be soft, refusing to make this an easy reveal and hopefully showing how completely uncomfortable with all of this you are. How far out on a limb you’re going.

He won’t get it anyway.

And if you did show it, he sure doesn’t respond to it: instead, his face is lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes dart around so fast, taking in every inch of yours so quick that you fear they may come loose and fly right out of his head. His grin is blinding—amazed and beautiful—and it takes every ounce of self-control for you not to turn away from him or vault the fence and make a run for it. You avoid the temptation to look closer at what you briefly noticed was a very nice, very new suit… as a preventative measure, of course. Can’t let him see you sweat, or, y’know.

The two of you finally make real eye contact but after even a few beats it’s too much for you, so you pointedly look away from his gaze, sipping your coffee and allowing him the privacy to study you while he can. As if being looked at wasn’t already distasteful enough for you, having your features memorised and scrutinised gives you even less pleasure, but at least now he’ll stop pestering you about it. Not at all happy that you wish you could read his mind to find out what he thinks.

No sooner than you have that thought does the soft little ‘mierda’ come from under his breath, making you want to die on the spot—you sincerely hope you’re not becoming a tomato.

“Kingsley Chrysanta,” he half announces, half inquires. Testing the reigns of his newfound knowledge most likely. Placing the name alongside the face in his head, and connecting a string between them like the many on his whiteboard. At his blooming smile your heart speeds up and your stomach does a flip. Id-i-ot!

“Yeah yeah,” you mutter against the rim of your now empty coffee cup, “we get it: you know my whole name now.” You look back at him, holding his line of sight with a half-hearted sneer. “I can do it too, Ricardo Felipe José García Sparkles Ortega. See? We b-both know words.”

He’s got a look of triumph and an even brighter grin on that note, your teasing bouncing right off of his impenetrable shield of sunshine, like he’s happy you memorised his name. Ricardo’s airy laugh is almost mystified, and the exhalation that he lets out is suspiciously soft before he confirms, “It really is you.”

“Got it in one,” you can’t stop your answering smile, suddenly aware of how crooked yours is compared to his. And that halts you. How disheveled and awkward and unreal you are compared to him.

Don’t go there. Not now.

“Your speech is getting better,” he comments softly, carefully. “Looks like me annoying you into talking really is good for you.” His sly smile aimed down at his shoes.

Your speech has been getting better, though that is also a product of your own efforts, not just his: he always thought you said so little for no reason. Taking it slow, smaller sentences, and keeping calm have helped you manage your impediment—you get less frustrated trying to speak. You think less about the fists that gave you the problem in the first place. You ultimately refuse to acknowledge his statement, correct as it may be.

“My point still stands: that’s long for a nickname,” your deflection hopefully going unnoticed. “Don’t you, uh, usually just call me King? What happened to that one?”

He’s much closer now, leaning forward over the barrier in that way that puts him right inside everyone’s bubble: personal, personable. In his defence, however, he’s keeping his hands firmly on the railing, as if to stop the rest of himself from going right over. The twitch on his lips and the white-knuckled grip of his hands are the only clues to how much he’s feigning composure right now—well, that and the static to his mods. But still being patient, still keeping your direct space open, and keeping quiet about whatever is on his mind. Always so kind to you when you need it, and even when you don’t.

“Anyone can call you King: mine’s more personal,” he smiles even wider, nodding like his words are sagely.

“And long,” you frown, complaining just to complain. Being contrarian has been a trusted weapon in the face of Ricardo’s… everything.

“I think it works,” he answers your complaint with a smug look back at you. “Chrysanta, Chrysantamum. Get it?” A bright laugh. “It’s a good pun, with how your hair kind of reminds me of the flower in a way. ‘Cause of all the layers and petals, but instead they’re curls—plus we met in November! That’s that month’s flower, or the flower of that month, and…”

You’re stunned by the rationale he’s giving as he continues to list things off: insight and perception you’ve often accused him of not having. His hands are moving about, his head tilting to and fro, his expressions and gestures and movements all clockwork to you by now. But more importantly: he’s rambling, downright nervous, more focused on counting off on his fingers than looking at you. Suspicious. New. Cute. You focus back onto his words.

“…and it’s when I’ve decided your birthday will be, since you refuse to give me a date,” he finishes while you’re mulling over thoughts, a look in your direction for a reaction.

“Are you calling me a flower?” A frown, not taking any birthday bait.

The faces he makes go on a journey for a few moments before he collects himself with a small exhalation, rubbing at his forehead before dropping his hands into his pockets. He seems a little flushed. Probably not best to stand around in the Los Diablos heat.

A small smile perks up inevitably. “Would it be better if I answer that with the idea that I’m calling you my flower?”

You can’t even hide your groan on that one, responding to his repeatedly lifting brows with a furrow of your own. Half disgust, half embarrassment, all stomach flip.

“Stop! I’ll vomit. Or worse, get a migraine.” You make a face at him and rub your temple, but it only seems to delight him further. Shades of you he’s never seen before being revealed now.

“Right right, not in public.” He gives a conspiratorial wink, rotating left and right on his heels, as bad at staying still as you are—your leg’s been bouncing up a storm and your napkin can’t get much more crumpled. “Anathema should be showing up soon, anyway. We can save our personal stuff for later.”

You absolutely do not colour slightly at the innuendo in that statement, and you assuredly do not glance down at his lips. At this point your skin colour may as well be burgundy.

“Oh, so you gave them the wrong time so you wouldn’t be the last to arrive, huh? Should’ve known something was off when I got to actually enjoy a moment of quiet in this city.”

Aiming quickly, you bullseye him in the forehead with the balled-up napkin.

“Oooh, sassy when your shell’s off: now I get why ‘Thema voted for King Crab instead of the flowers.”

You make a very sour face. He cackles, his whole upper body bending back almost losing balance as he holds his stomach. You immediately reach out and force away the attention of everyone who’s looking to see what’s going on, making them all register the sound further away and from the opposite end of the street.

“Fucking fuck—f-for a nickname? That’s it. I’m moving to San Francisco and getting better friends.”

“That implies anyone else in the world would want to befriend you.” He states gleefully as he jumps out of your reach, dodging your swipe at him as you lunge from your chair.

“I’m sure some single, lonely Ranger up there might also have a th-thing for tall, angry vigilantes.” Your turn for a sly look. “Maybe there’ll be an uh, autumnal wedding—I’d still let you be my best man.”

“Just don’t get mad at me if I object: someone has to act in the groom’s best interest.” He shrugs exaggeratedly, matching your smile and banter.

Reflexive, telepathic pushes make the others on the patio and in the cafe ignore the two of you and your shenanigans. It’s draining, but you can pick up on how quickly your distractions melt away and Ricardo gets recognised again in his public face. You’d almost forgotten about that with the warm buzz of Ortega on your shields and occupying your mind. Dangerous to be so inside your own head that you forget about the ones around you.

Time to get moving then. A quick glance about as you step aside to throw away your empty cup—training telling you to check for exits, hats, and thoughts pointed at you.

“I suppose it would also be too cruel of me to subject, uh, anyone else to your friendship.” You straighten your shirt and pick up your mottled jacket and small bag, adding drama to your sigh as you slip them on to head out.

“Perish the thought: who’d last a day by my side with the trouble we get into?”

“Being your friend will be the death of me, I’m sure.” Funny in a dark way, considering how close you two have come to death together, so many times.

“And yet…” he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and looks at you thoughtfully, walking down the street with a light pace, “…you still choose to do all this. With me.”

Falling into step, your tongue stills in your mouth. You question yourself and your intentions but ultimately: you decide to slip him a piece of truth. Walking the dangerous lines like he does but in quieter ways.

“I’ve uh, never really known wh-what to do with choice: I’ve always just done what I’m supposed to do. Everything that’s happened since I came here… it’s liberating and it’s terrifying, but it’s mine, right?”

You want to kick yourself for the little lilt to your voice at the end, but your eyes are too busy silently pleading for some kind of understanding and validation.

These little choices, these silent confessions, these quiet surrenders… these are everything you have to give to a man with the whole world before him. You have nothing else, and no one will never understand how much weight and truth is behind that. You’ve wanted nothing but to help people since the day you were decanted: you have always felt so deeply, all too easily touched by other minds, and once you picked from enough thoughts to develop the words and concepts for it, you knew you wanted to be a hero. A not-so-gentle reminder that it was them who taught you to fight the bad and save the good, but pleasing in that you know they’d disapprove of how you do that now.

From one government operation to the next, you stupid, silly fool.

In that, Ricardo has always been symbolic to you: heroics and freedom made flesh. You’ve known since the day he saved your life—in your early days, homeless and squatting with your first ‘friends’—that you would follow this man into hell. But now, you know him. You know you would do whatever it takes to protect him, because he’s not a symbol, he’s all too real, too human—and that has made him even greater to you. No longer content with being a shadow, but wanting to be a shield. He is an inspiration, yes, but he is foremost your friend and partner. Maybe something more.

He responds to your question with a fond, sincere smile and a nod, and you start to think maybe it might be the same for him.

“It always will be,” he says quietly, pausing mid-step to look at you like he’s really seeing you. Not like earlier, but like he does when you’re in your suit: searching, trying to reach out, but only as far as you’ll let him.

It’s a deep look between the two of you, holding too much meaning but from sides of understanding the other will never get. The white noise of his mind hinders any opportunity to glimpse what he’s thinking or feeling, leaving your telepathic fingers missing any chance to understand what that look of his means. The soft moment is interrupted by a cheerful, “Hey!” sung out in the distance.

A familiar mind practically screaming in elation and pointedly directed at you, impossible to ignore and so easy to pinpoint.

Anathema is in the middle of the street, wildly waving and doing a little jump as if there were any way that you could miss those red curls and freckled arms out there in the open, even if there was a crowd. With a laugh, they come running over to you and Ortega once you two wave back, enthusiasm filling the air with an almost heady energy.

Someone is happy to see you… you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to that outside of a fight.

“Look at you! It’s YOU!” Anathema declares with a flailing of arms pointed at you, looking between you, who looks rather uncomfortable with the attention, and Ortega, who is beaming and loving this.

He immediately hops to their side, arm around their bare shoulders pulling at their cut-off tank top’s strap to pull them in, the other also flailing in your direction.

“It’s them! They’re real!” he exclaims in response, partially mocking but another part still hyped up from the revelation. “Sidestep, in the flesh!”

The two of them are jumping up and down, holding onto each other and chanting your name repeatedly, either in an attempt to welcome you excitedly or to embarrass you completely. While their intent may be the former, you are feeling entirely the latter. More minds you focus on pushing away light up: these two draw so much attention.

“Please, stop,” you mumble looking around at all the owners to the minds you feel trained on you. “You’re making a scene… and my s-secret identity is supposed to be, y’know, a secret.”

They both stop their hopping, attempting to look sorry but their grins are just the opposite. Their frozen pose looks like circus act waiting to begin.

“You can’t blame us for getting excited—the big secret has been revealed! I mean, look at you!” Another manic gesture from Anathema. “You’re so! Wow! Real!”

“Thank you for your o-observation: scientists may now rest knowing the universe’s grandest mystery has been laid to rest,” you snark.

“Wow,” they sigh almost dreamily, “it really is you, dude.”

“I feel like we’ve established that ten, maybe, maybe fifteen times now,” you sigh exasperatedly. You’re absolutely not embarrassed or flattered, you’re just scratching your ear because you’re checking for all your piercings, not because of any heat.

“Well, you gotta forgive me, y’know? Like, you haven’t been exactly the most accessible person in our day-to-day lives given the ratio to how often you’re around and in the shit with us. And then here you are: unmasked, named, walking down the street with ‘Tega like you live here or something.” It’s a grand smile they aim at you, one that you can’t resist answering.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to wander to and fro in the city now and then. Usually uh, when a group of blue unitard wearing assholes get into trouble they can’t get out of themselves. Heroes, y’know? Can’t even match the same shade m-much less clean up their own mess.”

After about a full minute of laughter at that joke you fear Anathema might keel over right in front of you: they’ve got a death grip on their ribs and their face is as red as a tomato.

Ortega claps you on your shoulder causing you to flinch: you didn’t pick up his intentions to do that of course, or even notice him slipping in by your side, so you shoot him a dirty look that he doesn’t notice while he looks at Anathema.

“Vigilantes and their egos over here… can’t live with ‘em—“ he trails off.

“—Can’t live without ‘em,�� they finish.

You suddenly understand Steel’s complete and absolute refusal to ever hang out with the three of you. In fact, you let out another one of his customary groans in respect for his sacrifice: having the three of you as allies.

“Did you chucklefucks rehearse this skit or have you been i-improv comedians the whole time? At least I know that if you’re hero careers fall through you’ll uh, have a back-up option.”

You’re getting nervous out here unmasked and in the open with two of the Los Diablos Rangers, and the effort to actively track and distract any minds coming your way is burning you out fast. It shows in the harsh tone you’re starting to adopt and the jokes you use to deflect: always the type to swing instead of run.

“I forget you have such a filthy tongue sometimes,” Anathema pouts, only partially serious. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, and I got it from my babysitter, thank you very much.”

Your flinch goes unnoticed but it’s still time to stop talking and get moving. Your smile is caustic, easily mistaken for an annoyed look with your joke, but you too easily told the truth.

You technically had a sitter, and you did pick up her incessant cursing as a defence mechanism: it makes for a good character trait and convinces people to leave you the hell alone when you don’t use your telepathy to do the trick. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a bit good, too.

Ortega is frowning at you, but as you turn to look at him it disappears before you even see it. Instead, you get a grin.

“Truly, this asshole is where I hath lain my affections,” he bemoans, genuflecting along with his performance before carrying on to walk ahead.

“We never said you had taste.” Anathema’s elbow catches his ribs as he passes them, falling into step after you.

You roll your eyes. “Clowns.”

“Welcome to the circus, Saltstep,” they shoot back.

“Alright, I’ll concede to that one,” you rub your neck and cast a guilty look towards your friends.

Sometimes you find the heat all too easily and throw back harder than you mean to, never quite sure of how hard you hit. She taught you more severity than restraint, but the point of being under your own control is to be better than that. “I can show that I am capable of, uh, not being a dick head for at least an evening.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!” Ortega yells, throwing his hands into the air dramatically, getting a good laugh from Anathema behind you.

“Please, don’t hurt yourself on our behalf, ‘Step,” they follow up, still laughing.

“Kingsley,” you supply, casting a look back and down at them over your shoulder. “You can call me Kingsley… that’s kind of the point today, right?”

A soft smile in your direction, followed by a hushed tone, “I hope you didn’t mind the song and dance back there, I just know that if we didn’t show you how happy we are to see you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

As good at reading you as you are them.

You rub your neck and flex your hand. Reality catching up to reassert it’s weight on your shoulders. You suddenly feel watched—seen. Anyone anywhere could be looking at you and you haven’t even been paying attention. You scan yours surroundings, peeking into minds and shuffling through emotions, guiding any and everyone to forget any glimpse of you. Your ‘don’t look’ aura is as hard as the expression on your face.

“…I believe it.” A truth that won’t kill you.

“So soft, Chrysantamum,” Ortega says sweetly from up ahead, making sure not to look at you or make a big deal of it. He knows you’ll run if put under any more pressure. Especially with where he’s leading you.

“Cállate, Rico,” a playful smack to the back of his head like you’ve seen his mother pantomime doing.

Oh no. She’s going see your face one day, too. Your regrets are playing Tetris at this point.

“Aww! I want a personalised nickname for ‘em too! Hmm…” they fall into silence for a while, making plenty of exaggerated sounds. “Yeah, I’m stuck on King Crab.”

“What?! Why?” you whine.

“‘Cause you’re so tough and snappy but you’re so soft underneath the shell,” they supply, far too pleased with themself.

“I like it,” Ortega laughs.

“You’re killing me today guys.”

You all stop walking. Or rather Ortega stops, and you crash into him—that damned blank spot of a man—and Anathema crashes into you, always speed walking trying to keep up with your legs.

Three Stooges, just like Owl said. You bristle at the thought of her and wrinkle your nose.

“You’re not dead just yet. One more stop to go,” Ortega says, rubbing his neck as he turns and looks at you sheepishly.

“Huh?”

You turn your head and see exactly what he means: Rangers HQ.

“…No. Absolutely not.”

Before you can even side step either of them, they’ve both got you by an arm, planting themselves.

“King! It’s just the rest of the team: you know them.” Anathema’s looking up at you, trying to give you a half-assed puppy dog face you blatantly ignore by looking over their short head.

“Oh, yeah. It’s only Sentinel and Sunstream and the entire staff and whoever w-watches your security and visitors and Steel! Nothing big.” You stress the last name heavily, as if that should say all it needs to.

“It’s just Steel, Chrysantamum. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You can’t resist the modded strength pulling you towards the building, and stepping back onto Anathema’s toes will do nothing: even if they weren’t wearing boots. Their cut off shorts stop right above the knee, but a kick like that won’t work either. Damned invulnerability.

“Let’s see: he could say he hates m-me to my actual face, he could see my actual face, he could exist within the same r-room with me outside of my suit, I could exist in the same room with him—also outside of my suit…”

The moment they let go to throw their hands up in defeat you reach up, grabbing your hood and tearing it down over your face harshly, just as you all get into the lobby. You turn on the spot and step into Ortega’s space aggressively, fists balled.

“No one gets my name who’s not core team. No one gets my f-face who’s not core team. You erase, or let me erase, all traces of me from the, from the cameras and security checks, and any room we end up in I get to disable any electronics. I’m not taking another step until you agree.”

At this close a proximity, Ricardo has to look up at you. His face is soft and understanding, as Anathema walks away to handle the front desk clerk. “Hey,” his voice equally soft but serious, “I promised. No cameras, no press, no net. Nothing you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“I don’t feel comfortable w-with any of this, but I can’t exactly wipe your minds and go about my merry way, now can I? You know that’s a lot of work, even for me.”

You both wince at that low blow, instantly regretting it slipping past but refusing to back down. Neither of you need to mention the name Riley to know the implications of your comment.

“Got it, you feel cornered,” he sighs. “At any point: any time—doesn’t matter when—you decide you wanna leave? Just tell me, and I’ll walk you out; we’ll take the back way out, the works.” His face softens a bit to an apologetic smile. “Buuut I definitely can’t let you into our security system without clearance: you’ll have to settle for tearing apart accessible wires. We’ll call it a security test.”

“Deal.” You stomp away, headed over to the elevator where Anathema is waiting, trying to gather your nerves into adrenaline.

Just think of this like a fight.

The doors chime and open and your stomach pools to the floor as those two step right past you and go in, one leaning on the left, one leaning on the right. Both smug.

Bastards. Trapping you in a small space, easily pacified, easily taken out. Right in the belly of the beast itself. Not like before: a new threat.

You step in and turn around, looking out the doors like they’re your last chance at salvation. Your hands clench and unclench, your breathing is getting a little rough, you start to sweat and thoughts—too many to sift through—start to bubble.

Please no, not a panic attack in an elevator with two people you see regularly.

A hand quietly slips into yours and gives it a squeeze. The doors are closing but you look to your left, at Ortega who is looking up at the floor display, not at all paying close attention to you. You get another squeeze and catch a small lift in the corner of his lips. A squeeze back and they lift a little higher.

You turn back to the closed doors, swallowing hard as the movement kicks in, and take in a deep breath to kick out the images of an older, crueler place.

You’re only about to expose yourself to the entirety of a government-owned and monitored team of superheroes. You’ve done worse. Like escape another government-owned and independently ran black site. This is a piece of cake by comparison—it only completely puts your life in danger. Your teeth grind as the beep of arrival sounds.

Chen is at the doors, just as they open, looking up from the papers in hand. He looks wide-eyed at you, trying to figure out who you are before his eyes go down to your hand in Ortega’s. He frowns and narrows his eyes at you.

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

#the mischief scribbles #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Ricardo Ortega #Anathema #fallen hero: rebirth #pre-Rebirth #fh:r #Sidestep #King thinks wordy thoughts but says so little #chargestep (implied)

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honey-dewey · 3 years

Text

How each of the boys deals with beach/ocean shenanigans

Because my life goal is to be a marine biologist and my only place of true peace is the ocean and limiting me to 100 words is fucking cruel. So I just wrote until I felt done. Not 100 words each, obviously, but entertaining nonetheless.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Din Djarin:

Okay so did anyone else see how Din dove in The Heiress? Because that was beautiful. He probably learned to swim late, after he joined the Covert, but once they put him in a pool, he refused to get out. He's an amazing swimmer, even with all that beskar on.

But we aren’t here to talk about that. We’re here to talk about what happens when you beg him to take you to a water planet because goddammit you’ve been on nothing but dry desert planets or dry ice planets or dry city planets for the longest time now and if you don’t get to put your feet in the water soon, you might kill him.

He doesn’t understand the appeal. Sure he’s seen the ocean. Woo-hoo it’s a bunch of water. But the way you go peaceful with wonder when you mention it, he’s ready to take a break too. And hey, maybe Grogu can finally see the ocean. So he finds an ocean planet and sets course. And because he’s a stubborn bastard, he won’t tell you where you’re going.

When you step off the Crest and immediately find nothing but slowly crashing waves and soft shell studded sand (that is black as obsidian because remember, we’re not on earth) you almost cry. Stripping out of your shoes and rolling your pants up to your upper thighs, you wade out into the water, completely ignoring Din’s warning to be careful, he doesn’t know what’s in the water.

You don’t know how long you stand there, the water licking at your thighs, the soft drag of the waves rolling over and over, the way your feet slowly sink into the blackness of the sand, grounding you to this one spot, this one moment. Eventually, you find that you have a companion.

Din’s not a wide ocean kind of guy, but for you, he’ll take the armor off (but not the helmet) and come stand beside you, his pants rolled up as well. His are tighter, so the rough edge gets slowly soaked in water, but he doesn’t mind.

Half an hour of mindless and relaxing standing around in the water later, and you’re ready to explore. Scooping Grogu up and putting him in a baby carrier across your chest, you begin to look for suitable shells to keep aboard the Crest. Again, Din is confused, but doesn’t question it as you walk up and down the same stretch of sand, occasionally bending down and happily pulling a gorgeous shell from the clutches of the water. He wouldn’t be at peace here if he was alone, but you sure as hell would be. Still standing in the water, listening to you babble back and forth with Grogu, the waves occasionally kissing his hands, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could find peace in your peace.

Marcus Moreno:

Marcus is not an ocean person, but he’s not not an ocean person, y’know? Sand irritates him, the air smells funny, and it’s usually loud. But he likes the water. If it could be a quiet pool it would be better, but the ocean works too.

And then he’s put on a boat with you, a still-learning water Heroic (think like. Aquaman), and things change.

At first, he hates it. A boat that’s tipping constantly may be your thing, considering how much you look like you belong, but it sure as shit ain’t his. You try to teach him some stuff, shouting over the crashing of the waves, but he’s trying too hard not to throw up to really pay attention.

Then everything settles. The water stops tipping, the boat is still, and you quietly tell him there’s a pod of humpbacks outside.

He’s terrified when you jump into the water, no oxygen or gear or anything. It’s only when he remembers you can breathe underwater that he stops losing his mind. And when the whales start to breach? Yeah he’s gone. He’s all smiling and laughing when you breach right alongside the whales, and when you get back on board the boat, he’s so incredibly excited.

So next time, you tell him you’re right above one of the biggest groups of migrating hammerhead sharks ever. He reacts less kindly to that one, even when you dive and tell him it’s perfectly safe. They won’t hurt you. But looking down to see you surrounded by hundreds of great hammerheads, just swimming lazily beside you? Yeah that’s surreal as fuck.

Max Phillips:

Ah yes. The resident vampire who hasn’t been to a beach in almost a decade. He can’t go out in the sun, what makes y’all think he’d actually enjoy the beach? Nope, he is not risking his life so he can feel some sand.

But the beach during the day is completely different from the beach at night, and you are determined to prove it. You blindfold Max, at the expense of many dirty jokes, and drive him to the beach.

He can smell it before you can, the salt in the air that drifts through the windows and promises all will be right with the world. Then you guys hear it, the soft crash of waves on the shore, the gentle buzz to the air. Finally, you stand Max on the empty beach and remove the blindfold and he can see it. Night darkened waves, the shifting water turning the full moon into a shattered mosaic of light glimmering on the waves.

For the first time in a long time, he lets himself drown in sensation, in tranquility. It’s been ten long years since he forgot he wasn’t a human being anymore, but with the water licking at his bare feet, he’s completely unaware of his deadness. All he can feel is sand and water and salt and you, holding his hand and looking out with him.

He’s determined to stay there all night, but you insist on walking, occasionally bending down to grab a shell you see in the darkness. Max is definitely at an advantage here with his night vision, but that’s nothing a flashlight can’t solve. By the time the sun begins to peer over the horizon, you and Max are fast asleep in bed, a small jar of sea shells on your bedside table.

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales:

When I tell you I was excited to write Frankie, oh boy. See, I headcanon him to be like me. Enamored with the ocean since before he can remember. It’s always, always, made him wide eyed with wonder. Aquariums are his safe space, and his favorite animal, above every other living thing on the planet, is sharks.

He finds peace in knowing they exist, seeing something so powerful be so docile. You’re a marine biologist, and you end up taking him on a caged shark dive. He’s ecstatic, practically vibrating as you take the boat way out where you’re bound to find something good.

And you do. Everyone else on your team, along with Frankie, is cage diving, but you’re just out there, swimming freely alongside huge Great Whites. They’re so beautiful, and Frankie nearly cries when you coax said shark to the side of the cage so he can run his hand over the shark’s wide belly.

His next dive is a general reef dive, just you and him. Beaches aren’t his thing, there’s too little activity, so you take him out on a reef. He’s smiling the entire time, swimming alongside fish the size of his arm and manta rays with a wingspan bigger than his. But the best part is the reef sharks. Black Tips, no longer than four or five feet. They crowd Frankie and make him laugh as he actually pets their bellies. Suddenly, he’s surrounded by sharks who all want the same thing. Scritches.

His third dive is open ocean, and you don’t tell him what you’re diving with. He gets in the water, turns around, and immediately starts to cry tears of joy. His favorite shark, his absolute favorite, is swimming lazily behind him. The Whale Shark. It’ll be hell to get him out of the water later, but in that moment, you want nothing more than to see that smile, wide enough to show off his dimple.

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels:

Jack Daniels is not an ocean person by any means. He’s an open fields kind of man, where he can look up at the Montana night sky and feel like he’s two inches tall, surrounded by mountains and plains. But his latest mission with you takes him to Hawaii, and he ain’t mad about it.

The first few days, you spend hours on the beach alone. Jack stays indoors, not able to be persuaded out with you. Finally, he’s forced to go to the beach with you because of the mission, and he complains all morning long. You simply roll your eyes and put on your bathing suit and floppy hat.

Beach time lasts much longer than anticipated. The target won’t be there for a while, but you wanted to relax before working, so you settle in a beach chair with a nice book and get to reading while Jack grumbles about sand in his shoes.

BUT, dear reader I would be cruel if I made Jack unhappy, so while he may not be a beach person, he is very much a you person. Once you stand to go shelling, wrapped in that teasing black and white swimsuit and flowy white cover up, he’s by your side with minimal complaints.

Turns out, Jack Daniels’s whip quick reflexes are good for grabbing shells before they’re stolen by the water. You and him get an impressive collection going, eyeing your target the entire time. By the time you have your intel, Jack’s actually enjoying himself and almost doesn’t want to leave.

The next morning, he’s red as a tomato from sunburn and vows to never go to the beach again. You laugh, and you and him spend the day indoors, sorting through your shell collection and rubbing aloe on Jack’s red shoulders. (Yeah he’s going shirtless all day. You ain’t mad about it.)

Ezra:

It’s a headcanon of mine, and I’ve mentioned it before, that Ezra grew up an orphan. He lived in a state house until he was 18, which is when he began to prospect. He’s been all over the galaxy, but never been to a water planet. Long story short, he’s never seen a beach. Or an ocean. Or anything bigger than a small pond.

After the Green, you decide to spoil him and take him and Cee to an ocean planet for some time off. He has no idea where you’re going, but he’s excited nonetheless.

The planet is almost 90% water, with vast underground caves and beautiful beaches. You land on one of those beaches and when Ezra steps out of your transport pod, he immediately starts to cry.

Cee’s seen an ocean before, but it’s been a while, so she immediately rushes past Ezra and jumps into the water. Watching her splash around in the gently crashing waves is like bliss, and it makes you smile.

But Ezra, oh boy Ezra. He’s transfixed, standing with the water lapping at his ankles and his face slack as he takes in the vastness of it all. Eventually, you convince him into the water. He can’t swim, so you guide him out to a safe depth and hold his hand tight as he floats on his back. He’s so calm, so at ease that it’s almost scary.

That night, he doesn’t want to go inside. The setting sun makes the ocean orange, and you finally manage to get him in. You pop a window open to allow the salty air into the pod, lulling you to sleep and putting Ezra at ease.

Shane ‘Dio’ Morrissey:

Dio will literally never admit he loves the beach. Never. He’s a bad boy! He can’t love anything!

Except for sea turtles. He really fucking loves sea turtles. He can name all seven species by heart, he’s got a beautiful teal blue bracelet that he wears all the time that has a turtle bead and he got when he ‘adopted’ a green turtle, he has two turtle tattoos, and he’s absolutely a huge turtle geek whenever you take him to the aquarium.

Which is how you learn he’s that in love with turtles. You take him to an aquarium on a date, and he sits in front of the turtle tank for almost an hour. It’s actually kinda cute.

So you take him to the beach, a beautiful beach with not many people and, according to the locals, is a turtle nesting site. You and Dio mess around for a while, until the night falls and you sit him in the back of your truck. He’s almost mad you won’t let him leave, at least, right up until the turtles come out.

He’s a kid in a candy store, all lit up and giddy as the turtles come out to lay their eggs. It’s a dream for him, and when one of the locals asks if you two want to say hi to the turtles, he’s up immediately.

Two months later, you and Dio return to the same beach, eager to help the baby turtles into the water. Yet again, the outer hard boy shell falls away, leaving you with the soft and giggly Dio that you adore.

From that day on, your phone background is a photo of Dio holding one of the baby turtles, a warm and genuine grin on his face.

Javier Peña:

What makes you think Javier has time to go to the beach? He hasn’t been in literal years, ever since he headed to Columbia.

But, when he’s home? You manage to get him some time off and take him out to the gulf for a few days. It’s crowded, sure, and that sets his anxiety off big time, but he’s in Texas, not Columbia, and you’re by his side the entire time.

You manage to find a nice spot away from people to relax on, laying in the sand for hours. No stress, no mess, no looming threat of death, no nothing.

In the evening, once most of the people go away, you and Javier start to walk along the shore, holding your shoes and each other’s hands. Javier picks up a beautiful multicolored shell, all dappled with beiges and whites and hints of purple. It’s gorgeous, and you immediately slip it onto a necklace you were wearing.

You manage to one up Javier when you find a brown shell. On the surface, it’s not much. But under the setting sun, it’s beautiful, streaked through with lighter browns and shining ambers. You hand it to Javier, and he immediately tells you it’s boring. At which you tell him it reminds you of his eyes, a deceptively simple brown at first, and then a mesmerizing whiskey amber once you study them.

Yeah, he tears up at that.

Maxwell Lord:

Yet another man who is not a beach person. He hates sand so much he’ll forgo the entire beach experience, because as we all know, he a drama queen. However, unlike Jack, Maxwell is loud about his dislike of the beach.

Finally, he gets dragged out for a business opportunity and has to spend almost four whole days at the beach. You best be ready for the entire month leading up to the trip to be a whole bunch of complaining. The plane ride out is blissfully quiet, and when he sees the beach, he’s no longer completely insufferable.

However, you quickly learn that while your dear Max is not a beach person, he likes the ocean. He’s all for getting on a boat and spending the day on the water. Which is exactly what you two do. He’s sensitive to the sun, but he’ll sit in it with you if you want.

Eventually, you convince him to get in the water. You expected him to be a decent swimmer, not great but not horrible. But then he jumps into the ocean with no life vest and you’re freaking the hell out until you watch his form. He’s a damn natural. And he’s so happy it’s almost scary. He’s in the water for almost an hour, and when he comes out, it’s only for a quick snack.

That night, you two sit on the beach, much to Max’s complaining. But he’s beside you and his hair is still stiff from the saltwater, so he’s happy, despite the whining.

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elenamiria · 3 years

Text

We’ll Never Be Royals

Royalty!Reader x Knight!Din Djarin

Rating: G Summary: A mysterious knight comes to your rescue and you find an unexpected bond on the journey home Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Light violence, reader in peril, tropes lol Tags: @fishswimbetterunderwater @a-dorin @blxwjobsforclones @lynnie51 @katrynec @mistermiraclee @theelvenvalkyrie

1. Sorry for my absence in the past week, my family thought we potentially were exposed to covid (my mom’s coworker got sick and had to get tested) but good news! We’re all good!! 2. To my requesters I promise you I am working on my fics, I have had a little bit of writers block and I keep writing and then rewriting things because I go back and don’t like what I have so I’m so sorry it’s taking so long!! 3. I already had this written from a while ago and feel bad for the lack of content so I figured I’d throw this out there (Even though I’m not really sure if I like it, I kinda think it might be bad alsdhaiweo oh well) Also I’m pretty sure I want it to be a series but we’ll see how this goes

Anyways I love you all and I hope you enjoy!!

Din Djarin Masterlist ~ Main Masterlist

Your knight in shining armor was not exactly what you expected. His armor was shining, gleaming silver, and he was dressed like a knight however he was not loyal to anyone but his covert band of mercenaries. He was a quiet man, never really speaking to you unless you spoke to him or he was telling you what to do. You had gathered that he was normally a bounty hunter after you had inquired which knight he was and he replied that you would not know who he was. You had also gathered that the king, your father, had sent him specifically for his quick and efficient ways as well as promising him a great reward if you were to be returned alive. You were beaten and bruised when he found you, the rival kingdom who had captured you desperate for the information you had on your fathers forces. When you had realized it was just one man coming to the rescue you fought back hysterics as you were sure the two of you were going to be killed, but he was quick with a sword and clever too. When you made it out alive you had wanted to see him, to know who he was, but he told you he couldn’t show his face.

There was a long journey ahead of you, traveling in secrecy did not lend itself to efficiency, and you found yourself growing closer to your mysterious knight. Always ensuring he had several portions of food ready for each meal while you made an excuse to wander off so he could eat in peace, you would watch the flames of your campfire reflect off of his armor and let your mind wander to what he was like under his helmet, you found you enjoyed his silence compared to the bustle of the castle, and you especially loved when he would gently tend to your wounds with a special salve. He would talk then, especially in the first few days when you were almost constantly in agony, you figured it was to distract you from the pain but you enjoyed hearing his stories. He told you of bounties he’d caught, of the lands he had seen and one day he told you about his creed, “I know you’re curious why I won’t show you my face. My people take this creed to protect ourselves from those who would wish us harm, it is our way. I am sorry I frighten you but I hope you can understand.”

You stared for a moment, slightly shocked he was bringing it up, before you spoke. Simply stating, “I am not afraid of you.”

His helmet tilted slightly before he turned to face you fully, “You do not have to lie to me your highness. I see how often you watch me, like you are anticipating my attack.”

You felt your face heat at the misunderstanding and you reached towards him but thinking better you let your hand fall to your side as you spoke, “My dear knight I do not stare at you because I am afraid of you.” You looked down as you continued, “I stare because I yearn to know you and I am curious. I do not fear you, in fact I think I trust you more than I have ever trusted any other being before.”

You glanced up with a shy smile at your confession. When you were met with silence you faltered, this time it felt different there was a tension in the air. When he said nothing for several very long moments you rose intent on retiring for the night in your embarrassment. A gloved hand lightly curled around you wrist as you brushed by causing you to freeze and turn to face your knight. There was a deep breath loud enough for you to hear through his helmet and then he spoke, “I do not trust easily.”

Something about his tone had you reaching forward to cup the helmet’s cheek but your gentle moment was interrupted by an arrow whizzing past your face. A startled yelp flew from your mouth and instantly he was in front of you shielding your front with his body, one arm pushing at your side to urge you behind him.

"Stay by me." he ordered, helmet scanning the area where the arrow came from. Your hands laid on his back as you looked around wildly, heart nearly pounding out of your chest, there was a noise and then another arrow was flying your way which was blocked and struck harmlessly off Din's armor. It seems the bandits realized with his protection they would have to take a more direct approach as three figures emerged from the shadows to charge at the knight. Barking an order for you to stay back he launched into action, sword drawn and clashing with the attackers. You backed away and aimlessly looked around for something to help, seeing nothing else you grabbed the metal pot that you used to cook your meals. Clutching it to your chest you continued backing up until you ran into something solid, you assumed it was a tree until the object wrapped a hand around your mouth and the other around your waist. Panicking you did the first thing you could and bit hard, your attacker wore thin cotton gloves that did little to protect him from your harsh teeth. The man cried out and pulled away from you and before you could even process what you were doing you were wildly swinging your pot into the man's head.

He dropped and you stared with wide eyes unsure if he was dead, the loud shouts behind you disrupted you and you turned to see a blow to the side of your knights head knock him to the ground. This didn't deter him as his blade swung towards the attackers legs causing them to fall back while he recovered. He had just risen when one of them came from behind and wrapped a thick arm around his neck, the other two approached intent on disarming him. The situation looked grim and when a rough call of 'go, take the horse and go,' met your ears you knew you couldn’t leave him. Swallowing down your fear you approached quickly and as the other attackers shouted warnings to the third you made your attack. Once again you swung the pot as hard as you could striking the man on the head, as that seemed to do the trick last time. He stumbled and let go of your knight who stumbled but regained his bearings as oxygen filled his lungs once again. He landed a solid swipe on one of the other bandit’s arms and with that they seemed to give up, retrieving their friend who had only just stumbled up and they fled into the woods. You couldn't help the gleeful laugh that flew past your lips as you cheered in victory but it quickly died down when your savior stumbled. You rushed to steady him but he held up his hand and sunk to the log that you had been using as a makeshift bench while he caught his breath, "Gather our things, we'll stay in an inn for the night."

You nodded and hurried to collect your belongings. When you had completed the task, ensuring everything was securely attached to the horse, you fidgeted slightly before tapping your knight on the shoulder, "Everything's ready, are you feeling well enough to steer or would you like me to?"

He rose and turned towards you, "I'll steer."

He left little room for discussion as he extinguished the fire and mounted the horse, leaving you to climb on behind him. Wrapping your arms around him you rested your head on his shoulder as he stirred your horse to life. You found yourself drifting off as your adrenaline wore off despite the steady jolting sensation of your cheek against his shoulder armor.

You were roused by a call of your name and a gentle shaking sensation, you jolted up when you realized that you truly had drifted off, cheek sore from the harsh metal it had been laying on. The gleaming lights from the inn illuminated the night around you and Din instructed you to stay with the horse as he went to get a room. Dismounting you absentmindedly stroked your horse's snout, rambling softly to the animal, until a hand landed on your shoulder. You startled but relaxed when when you turned and it was just your knight, he hitched the horse and gathered your bags, leading you into the inn and up the stairs to your room. You paused in the door when you noticed the sleeping arrangements, there was only one bed. There was a low grunt behind you and Din muttered, "You can have the bed."

"No! You were the one who got hurt, you can have the bed. Please, I insist." You stared at him, and you assumed he was staring back at you, for several moments until he sighed and nodded. You went about changing into your nightgown, quickly covering yourself with a spare blanket as you settled onto the floor and fluffed the pillow that you had taken from the bed. A throat cleared and suddenly he was speaking again, "Thank you. For earlier. You didn't go like I told you to."

His voice was questioning, even though you were sure it was supposed to have come out as a statement. You shook your head before you realized he couldn't see you and so you spoke instead, "I couldn't leave you, after all I suppose I was only repaying the favor. After all you saved me from a much more dire situation. But I wanted to help you, I....trust you."

You finished lamely wincing slightly, you sat in silence and as you waited for a response. Din's voice came hesitantly, "Earlier I said I don't trust easily." Your heart sunk, fearing that this was about to have the same outcome as last time - you going to bed full of embarrassment, until he continued, "I stand by that, but I trust you."

A smile crossed your face as your heart skipped a beat and you couldn't stop yourself from asking incredulously, "You trust me?"

There was another period of silence before, "I do, more than I thought possible."

And then yet another pause before so softly you almost missed it, "I think you deserve to know, my name is Din."

#Din Djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fluff #star wars fanfiction #star wars fluff #gn reader

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wri0thesley · 4 years

Note

Request ❤️ Can I please get fic or hcs for horny dilf!Jotaro trying to seduce Jolyne’s friend who is in like her 20s. When she finally gives in she just gently doms him with lots of teasing because she wants him a complete mess. I love sub dilf!Joot sksksksk

NOT SFW/ 18+ ONLY

warnings: afab reader, fem pronouns, sub jotaro, BIG age gap (20+ years, reader’s implied to be in her very early twenties, jotaro is a few years older than stone ocean jotaro).

He’s pretending he’s not staring, as all three of you eat dinner again. You’ve been staying with Jolyne for a few days, now, and every single day her father’s eyes on you are a little more obvious. You’re not the oblivious kind at all; you’d seen the swallow when he’d been introduced to you, the darting of his eyes as he’d tried not to look at your body in your dress - you might not be the most experienced person in the whole world, but you’re certainly experienced enough to know that Jotaro Kujo’s interested.

You flirt a little bit, when Jolyne’s not around. You wear your skirts a little shorter and your shirts a little lower, you smile and flutter your eyelashes, you accidentally bump into his chair with your hip when you need to leave the room. Jotaro makes an attempt to flirt back, too (that’s what keeps you going, pushing him just a little bit further). He asks for your help holding a ladder when he needs to do some DIY around the house (Jolyne rolls her eyes and sighs and asks why it can’t just wait). He holds your gaze a little longer. He passes you things over the table, his fingers brushing yours for just a little longer than they should--

He’s not subtle, but he never does it when Jolyne is watching. Their relationship is fragile, and even he has enough emotional intelligence to know not to knock it off its axis just yet. So it’s quiet, rushed little things. Your flirts are not as clumsy as his - you would never expect a man who looks like that, at his age, to be clumsy with love, but there it is - but they are undoubtedly there, simmering beneath the surface. It’s a fun game to play - not quite letting him catch on. Teasing him.

And then, Jolyne is suddenly called away because her mother is sick and needs someone to look after her (“Nothing serious,” Jolyne chirps, “but she needs someone to handle the day to day stuff for a few days! No sweat!”), and after she’s checked several times that it’s okay to leave you there - your own home is a few states away, having college friends can be like that sometimes - you find yourself alone in the house with Professor Jotaro Kujo. And he . . . well. If you’d thought his attempts were clumsy when he was attempting to be covert with Jolyne around, they are clumsier when it’s simply you and him.

He doesn’t come right out and say it, though it’s obvious that he wants you. He avoids you for a day, awkward, flushing when you greet him or need to ask him questions - and then, the day after, he seems to swallow his pride. He stays in your vicinity. He watches you, and speaks to you, and asks you questions - and when you come down for dinner one day in a dress that’s a little tighter than normal, he swallows. When he speaks to you, his voice is thick, and you know exactly why;

“That looks nice on you,” he says, a grunt. You know by now that he’s not verbose; if one word will do, Jotaro sees no point in using twenty. Still - it’s unusual of him to comment on. He doesn’t notice when Jolyne changes her hair to six different wild colours, or when she wears clothes with obscene (but hilarious) captions scrawled across them. You smile at him through lower lashes.

Almost provocatively, you run a hand down one side, emphasising your hip and thigh.

“You like it?” You ask him. “I wasn’t sure--”

“No,” he says, and there’s the swallow again. His skin has flushed. You can tell that he wants to tear his eyes away from you, but they’re dark. “No, it looks . . . you look nice--”

“I was going to take dinner upstairs, if it’s alright--” You say to him, and almost immediately he starts, his hand reaching out towards you as if to touch your wrist, his tone dark and slow and attempting to be seductive despite the fact that he’s sweating bullets about how much he wants you--

“Eat with me,” he says, his words slow as if he’s trying to think about them before he says something he’ll regret. It’s the most animated you’ve ever seen him - his composure slipping, all because of a dress that shows too much thigh and the fact that you’ve been gently nibbling at the frayed edges of his composure to let loose his desire for weeks.

Your lips curl into a smirk as you take the seat next to him, your bare knee nudging his leg under the table (he takes a breath in through gritted teeth). Your voice is very, very, very soft when you say;

“Mr Kujo, I think there’s something you’re hungrier for then dinner.”

When you kiss him, he melts - for such a big man, he’s easy to tease and tug along behind you until you’re entering the forbidden domain of his bedroom. It’s easy to put your smaller hands on his shoulders and push him to sit on the bed, comfortably fitting your hips between his muscled thighs, kissing him with slow, burning hunger. Your teeth nip at his lower lip, suckle on the skin (he tastes like sea salt), your fingers wrapping around the nape of his neck and tangling in his dark hair. His hat is discarded - by you, naturally - with a good natured huff of laughter against his lips - and then, you give his hair a tug, and he groans.

Oh, so he likes to be pushed around a little bit?

You’re not at all averse to that.

Another bite, Your body presses closer to him, your pelvis pressing against the heat in his snakeskin trousers (he dresses so strangely - then again, it’s not as if Jolyne is the peak of normalcy). He groans again, his hips involuntarily flexing against you as if in search of more friction from your body - but, laughing, you pull away.

“Stay there and be good,” you tell him, smirking, stepping back. Your fingers go to the hem of your dress. You’re agonisingly slow in removing the tight fabric, your hips wiggling, your body feeling suddenly powerful and new under Jotaro’s worshipful gaze. His chest is heaving, his shoulders moving up and down as he tries to control himself, his eyes unable to be torn from every new exposed inch of you. Your bra. Jotaro bucks forward at this, straining as if he wants to touch you - but with a shake of your head and a click of your tongue in reprimand, he controls himself.

He’s so obedient. What a good boy. You’ll reward him for that.

And then, your underwear. Sliding over thighs, you look down and see the damp patch (you cannot argue that Jotaro’s bumbling attempts at flirting and the clear way he wishes for more of you is like a carrot in front of a horse for your libido) - and, a soft laugh escaping your lips, you make sure that Jotaro sees the dampness too. And that he tastes it, as you delicately pick up the underwear with two fingers and get onto your knees in front of him, fingers pushing your balled up underwear into his open mouth.

“Don’t be too loud, now,” you tell him, earnestly serious. He makes a muffled noise of agreement, his knuckles tight on the edge of the bed as he watches you reach for his belts and the concealed zip of the snakeskin (those trousers are skin-tight - you wonder where he bought them). Innocently, as you reach into his underwear, you say; “What if someone comes home early?”

His cock - and Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of man to be handling - twitches in your fingers. Oh, so he’s getting off to the idea of you being a good two decades years younger than him. Cute. He’s flushed, so he’s obviously embarrassed by it - but it’s not like you can say the fact that he’s older and more experienced and your friend’s dad, reduced to putty in your hands, isn’t turning you on, is it?

You pull him out of his underwear and you have to take a moment just to appreciate the size and weight of him in your fingers; the heaviness of his shaft, the way that his head is leaking precome, pink and needy - you reach forward and lick a slow line across him, relishing the taste of Jotaro in your mouth. The groan he lets forth is mostly kept quiet by your underwear stuffed in his mouth--

Mostly.

You chide him with the clicking tongue again, circling that same admonishing instrument around the head, licking and suckling at him like an ice cream instead of doing anything so brash as taking him into your mouth and earnestly sucking his cock. You want to - but he’s so cute, flushed and needy and submissive for you like this! One of your hands slides up his thigh, keeping leverage on it (he groans when your fingers dig into muscled flesh) as you take more and more of him into the cavern of your mouth.

He’s big enough you need the other hand to stay on his cock, leisurely pumping him at a pace that matches your lazy mouth. His hips twitch, his fingers flexing on the bedcovers, whimpers lost amongst the damp lace in his mouth as you give him your attention but simply not enough of it--

After a few moments, you pull back. Your eyes are lazy and lidded.

“Not enough?” You ask him, playing at innocence. Jotaro looks down at you with dark eyes framed with blacker, longer lashes than he has any right to. You know that the piteous look means; ‘more, please’ - but you still want to hear it straight from his mouth.

You rise to your feet and delicately pull the lace from inside his mouth. His cock juts forward, wet with your saliva, nudging needily at your bare thighs.

“Well?” You ask him. His face, still flushed, looks into yours - he’s struggling with the words. He’s not articulate by any means - and you don’t think that he realises how cute he is. “Do you need more?”

He breaks the gaze. He’s almost bashful when he says;

“C-can I touch you?”

“What else are you going to say?” You ask, tossing your hair, challenge in your gaze and tone. He bites his lip but offers;

“Please?”

“Hmm,” you say, pretending to think about it. “Well . . . Alright. But . . . one condition.”

He nods, fervently, his hands already moving from the bed’s edges to hover over your hips. You smirk wickedly. Once more, your hands rise to his shoulders - but this time, you forcibly push him down so he’s splayed beneath you. Your finger slides over his lips as you say, very soft and quiet--

“You can touch me all you want, but I get to set the pace.”

Your knees are already on the bed, straddling him, his cock pressing against damp folds. There’s a roaring in your stomach; a need to have him desperate and clinging to you and panting as you fuck him. Oh, there’s something that makes you feel so powerful in the way he’s looking at you; the fact that he’s still hovering over your hips, too intimidated by your raw power to hold onto you. You’re sure that nobody who looks at Jotaro Kujo on the street imagines him being the submissive half of a relationship - but it’s so wonderful that he is.

“What do you think?” You ask, biting your lip, arching your back and moving your hips just so, so the head of his cock (sensitive, slick) rubs against your folds and nudges your clit. He shudders at the sensation. “Do you agree to my terms?”

He’s breathless, his voice low and gritty, a voice that slides down your spine and makes your toes curl.

“Yes--”

Your grin is more ferocious than sexy, but as Jotaro’s hands land shyly on your hips and he blushes harder and turns his face away in embarrassment, just for a moment, you know that he has no complaints.

His cock sinks an inch into you, slowly, as you lower yourself further and further down-- breathlessly, half-laughing, you reward him.

“Good boy.”

#writing #jotaro kujo #not sfw #not sfw text//#sub jotaro #afab reader #fem pronouns #power imbalance for ts #age gap for ts #Anonymous

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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years

Text

PTSD

Los Angeles doesn't get a lot of storms, but when it does, the Phoenix team takes notice.

Part four of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3.

The whole team was exhausted when they filed into the War Room for debrief. Eight long days of running around Indonesia chasing a covert terrorist cell was not exactly an activity conducive to getting a good night’s rest, and all of them showed it. Of all of them, Jack was probably managing the best, his years on the job getting him comfortably into the habit of grabbing catnaps in moments of quiet, but even he was on the verge of crashing hard. Boze looked like he’d already given up the ghost and had embraced sleepwalking.

Matty eyed them all with a sort of quiet concern she very rarely let them actually see.

“I know you’re tired,” she started carefully, “So let’s keep this short. Do you have any injuries to report?”

There was a general negative hum.

“Anything outside of what I caught on comms that I need to know about?”

Again, a quiet murmur of no.

“Do any of you have any questions or concerns you wish to raise about this mission?”

This time Jack’s hum was a little more non-committal; he had every intention of bitching about the state of their non-existent intel in his report, but that could wait until he’d been unconscious for a solid 20 hours. Getting into it now would only get messy and besides, he’d bitched about it plenty on comms too.

Matty nodded sharply when none of them spoke up. No doubt she’d caught their mild discontentment, but she was smart enough to realise now was not the time to fight that particular battle. Instead, she offered them a rare smile. “I think that’s all we need to cover right now. You’ve all got the rest of the week off – go home and get some rest.”

There was an audible sigh of relief as they turned as one to leave. Of course, that had to be the moment when Matty called after them.

“Oh, Jack, one more thing.”

He barely resisted letting out an audible groan as he swayed back on his heels, glancing over his shoulder. Ahead of him, the team also paused, interested despite their fatigue in whatever else Matty had to say.

“Weather reports indicate there’s a storm front coming in,” she said, apology and concern in her face if not her voice. She was watching Jack closely as she delivered the news. “Should reach the city in a few hours and last at least the night.”

At that, Jack really couldn’t help but groan. His head swivelled to meet Mac’s gaze, who was staring back at him with a resigned sort of distress colouring his face. Of all the possible times for LA to get a rare summer storm, it had to be right when the pair of them were already on their last legs. Of course.

“Copy that,” he said instead of screaming his frustration to the world, because despite what Matty said he did actually know the meaning of professionalism, thank you very much. “My house or yours, hoss?”

Mac considered it, looking tired and wan in the fluorescent lights. He might be the toughest person Jack knew, but right then he didn’t look like he could survive another sleepless night. “That waffle place near me does delivery until 2am now,” he mused after a moment’s thought.

Jack shot him a grin he didn’t really feel. “Sold.”

“But Boze-” Mac started, twisting to look at where the other two members of their team were still lingering in the doorway.

Riley neatly cut him off before he could finish voicing his concerns. “Boze will be perfectly fine spending the night at my place,” she said, casting a quick glance at the man in question to make sure he was fine with the arrangement. “You guys do what you need to do. Have fun with your waffles.”

“Yeah, man,” Bozer chipped in, “I’m all good. Don’t worry about me. Just try to get some rest if you can.” Riley tugged on his arm to get the pair of them moving, but he still twisted round to call over his shoulder, “And save me some waffles!”

With that they were gone, leaving Jack smiling fondly after them and Mac looking like his overworked brain was still trying to catch up with the conversation he’d just had. God, he was about thirty hours past exhausted and Jack could hardly stand knowing it would be some time yet before he could get some proper sleep in him.

“C’mon hoss,” he said softly, nudging at Mac’s elbow to grab his attention. “Let’s get you home. If we hurry, we might get a quick snooze in before the storm gets here.”

Mac did actually manage to catch a brief nap during the car ride home but he woke with a jolt when the engine shut off, much to Jack’s chagrin. Mac had never quite managed to pull off Jack’s habit of falling asleep at the drop of a hat, and it really cost him on long missions. His Overwatch had made it something of a personal mission to get Mac to sleep whenever he feasibly could.

“Anything left in the fridge is probably out of date,” Mac mused as they shambled into the house. His neighbours had learned to put up with a lot in his time living there, so two barely-conscious grown men would hardly even raise an eyebrow, thankfully. “Pizza?”

Jack considered for longer than he reasonably needed to before shaking his head. “Nah, not tonight. Is that Thai place down on the corner still open?”

“Chai Yo? Yes, but it’s closed on Thursdays.”

“Is it Thursday?”

There was a long beat of silence before Mac muttered quietly to himself and tugged out his phone to check. Jack eyed in enviously, his own having taking a swim in the Banda Sea after Mac repurposed it for some kind of SOS beacon. “Yes, it is. Apparently it’s also July? I thought we were still in June.”

Jack offered him a full body shrug, then dropped heavily onto the sofa. “Can’t be expected to keep track when Matty has us crossing timezones every other day.”

“Yeah. Well, Chai Yo’s closed. There’s that other Thai place, on Harris Avenue.”

Jack wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks. That place was awful.”

Not inclined to disagree, Mac tried to convince his brain to stop being mush and actually come up with a decent idea for dinner. “That diner on Northridge does deliveries now too I think,” he said at length. “I could go for a greasy burger.”

His partner mulled that over, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, that sounds good. You wanna call it in?”

Mac’s phone was already in his hand and he really didn’t have the energy to listen to more of Jack’s good-natured griping about losing yet another mobile to one of his builds, so he waved him off and retreated to the kitchen to place the order. That done and with more food on the way than two very athletic adults could conceivably eat, Mac stumbled back into the living room and collapsed face down on the sofa beside Jack’s inelegant sprawl.

“It just had to be tonight, huh,” he muttered petulantly into the pillow, thinking of a hundred previous stormy nights spent huddled up beside Jack on that very sofa.

The first few times it happened, Mac had assumed Jack was just humouring him. Someone as well trained and experienced as his Overwatch surely had no trouble fighting past the instinctive panic that gripped Mac whenever thunder boomed loud enough to shake the windows or lightning flashes lit up his entire house. It was merely another facet of Jack’s kindness that he was willing to spend the night with Mac to help chase away his demons when his brain was filled with nightmares about failed defusals and gunfire.

Then there’d been that flight back from Panama, when their jet had unexpectedly run into a thunderstorm while Jack was peacefully napping on one of the reclining chairs. At the first crack of thunder, he’d been on his feet, skin ashen and with one hand batting helplessly at his thigh for the gun that wasn’t there. It had taken Mac a solid ten minutes to calm him down enough to return to his seat, fighting his own flashbacks the whole way, and even then Jack’s entire body remained rigid for the rest of the flight.

Mac didn’t think he was simply humouring him after that.

Now, after years of dealing with it – and no small number of conversations with the Phoenix’s resident therapist – the pair of them had developed a system of diversions to keep them level-headed through the worst of LA’s inclement weather. The rest of the team was happy to help out, and all of them kept an eye on weather reports when the humidity started getting high. All of them had at one point or another seen Mac and Jack’s reactions to sudden loud noises or bright flashes and they wanted to do everything they could to spare them from it.

Mostly though, it boiled down to nothing more than being together while they – quite literally – weathered the storm. It was much easier to pull Jack from the brink of a nightmare about failing to save Mac when Mac himself was the one doing it, and vice versa. Besides, as much as Bozer and Riley had learned a lot since joining the Phoenix, neither of them knew the hell of the Sandbox and Mac and Jack were happy to keep them in the dark. There were some horrors that just weren’t meant to be spoken of.

“I’ve told you before man, you’re unlucky,” Jack replied, an uncoordinated arm reaching out to pat Mac consolingly on the shoulder. “Got no sense of luck at all.”

“I’m pretty sure the natural weather system of Southern California is beyond the reach of my personal control.”

“If anyone could though, man, it’d be you.”

Mac considered that. “Uh, thanks?”

There was peaceable silence for several long minutes and Mac listened as Jack’s breathing deepened and slowed. He always marvelled at how quickly Jack was able to get to sleep, envious of the apparent ease with which he did it. Mac had struggled with insomnia even before life as a soldier filled his head with more nightmares than anyone should have to deal with and these days he was lucky to get to sleep inside of an hour when he actually made it to his own bed. Of course, when they came home from a mission like the one they’d just had, all bets were off.

He rolled himself over so he wasn’t smothering himself in the cushion and pulled out his phone. The delivery app informed him that their food would be arriving in about ten minutes, so he slowly heaved himself back onto his feet and bustled around the kitchen warming plates and snagging some beers. Long since familiar with the general background noise of Mac’s house, Jack slept right on through.

When Mac’s phone pinged to tell him that their food would be arriving any minute, he crossed back over to his partner and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. The man came awake instantly, blinking twice as he registered the familiar surroundings before relaxing back into the comforting softness of the cushions.

“Food’s almost here,” Mac offered in explanation, though it was proved moot three seconds later when the doorbell chimed.

They ate their dinner close beside each other on the sofa with the TV playing reruns of an old action show from the 80s Jack insisted was a classic but that Mac was barely able to follow through a combination of poor writing, truly objectionable acting choices, and visibly cheap sets. As the night started to draw in, they both kept half an eye on the black rainclouds drifting down off the hills; by the time they polished off the last of the fries, the first few droplets had started splattering against the windows.

The rain steadily built as the pair of them made their way onto films instead, kicking off with Lethal Weapon because Mac had vetoed Jack’s first four suggestions and felt too guilty to do it again. The first few times they’d done this, Boze had questioned their choice of action films when they were so busy trying not to think about all the things such movies entailed. They’d tried to explain themselves, unsuccessfully. In truth, there was no real way of understanding that fake, predictable violence helped to drown out real-life trauma unless you’d experienced it first-hand. Watching Mel Gibson body check some random actor somehow made it easier for Mac’s brain to process that time he’d been tackled clean off a rooftop by the one insurgent Jack hadn’t seen coming, and so on.

It was strange and imperfect, but they found it worked for them. Provided, of course, that they only watched films they already knew by heart, where gunfights and explosions couldn’t creep up on them.

They didn’t even make it until the end of act one before the first rolls of thunder washed over them. Mac shuffled ever so slightly in his seat, only stilling when Jack’s shoulder brushed against his and stayed there.

They stayed like that over the next hour or so as the rain steadily grew in intensity until it started to sound like machine gun fire against the roof tiles, and the thunder grew into a roaring, snarling beast in the air around them. Jack flinched sharply at the first flicker of lightning, and only seemed to breathe again when his fingers strayed to the pulse point on Mac’s wrist. Mac busied himself with the breathing exercises the therapist had taught him, and traded the occasional text with Charlie when the Day of a Thousand IEDs rattled around his skull. On the other side of the country and several hours ahead, Charlie must have been messaging back from his bed, but he dutifully responded all the same – Mac had done it for him too in the past.

“I ever tell you about that time in Sardinia?” Jack asked just as the film was coming to a close. It was clear that the movie alone wasn’t enough to combat their combined exhaustion and PTSD, which left them trading tales instead.

“I didn’t even know you’d been to Sardinia. What on Earth could the CIA have possibly wanted there?”

Jack settled himself back into the sofa, preparing himself for what was evidently going to be a long and involved story. “Well, as for what they wanted, there was a minor off-shoot of the Mafia making a base there. Something about ferrying money into France or something-” He waved a hand, “I don’t remember the details of it. Not important and probably classified.”

“We have the same security clearance Jack.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“We do. I’ve checked your file. I know.”

Jack pulled on an expression of great offense, touching his free hand to his chest like a swooning damsel. “You’ve been looking at my file? Buy me dinner first.”

“I literally just did.”

“Hmm. Yeah, okay. I guess that makes up for it. But no more snooping in my file! There’s private stuff in there.”

“That time you chased a gun-wielding madman down while entirely naked isn’t exactly private when you write it on an official mission report for the US government,” Mac muttered to himself.

Jack pulled a face at him. “Okay, smartass, you want to hear the story or not?”

He snickered, but waved an obliging hand. “I really do. Please continue.”

The story was predictably embellished, complete with wild hand gestures and a horrendous Italian accent thrown into the mix, but it was precisely what Mac needed to keep his concentration in the here and now. The telling of it seemed to help Jack too – his thoughts couldn’t stray to darker places when he was focused on bright Mediterranean sunshine and a mission that had gone so far belly-up it had wrapped right around into utterly absurd.

They managed to get as far as the part where Jack had to flee his hotel room wearing clothes stolen from the man he thought he’d been trying to rescue before a particularly sharp clap of thunder sent Mac’s face utterly white. His eyes slammed closed and his fists clenched so tight Jack could see where his nails were cutting into the meat of his palms.

Jack’s hands were on him in a moment, one wrapping carefully around his wrist to monitor the jackrabbiting of his heart while the other cupped his jaw, a thumb running soothingly over the stubbly skin.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmured consolingly, keeping his voice quiet to act as an anchor for pulling Mac back to the present. “You’re at home, in LA, I’m here, Charlie’s fine, everyone’s okay. There’s no danger. You’re safe, Mac. You’re safe.”

“Not-” Mac tried, strangled, “Not me.”

“Ah, kiddo,” Jack breathed, feeling his own heart clench. “Everyone’s okay, I promise. I’m right here. You want me to get Boze and Ri on the phone? Hear their voices?”

Mac shook his head sharply, one hand darting up to curl into the fabric of Jack’s t-shirt like a lifeline. Watery blue eyes opened to latch onto his own.

“There you are,” Jack murmured, trying to keep his expression calm and open. “Stick with me man.”

“Are you- You’re okay?” Mac’s voice was very small. The hand fisted on Jack’s shirt was white with the force of his grip.

“Yeah, Mac. I’m completely fine. Not a scratch on me, see? I’m right here and we’re both safe. At your house, remember?”

He nodded slowly, his heartbeat finally starting to slow down and his breathing settling back into a steady rhythm. Jack released his grip on his chin, letting him look around and reorientate himself, but kept his other hand fixed on his arm. Touch was always the quickest way to settle a panicking Mac, provided Jack was the one doing it. Jack’s hands meant safety, meant protection, and they were the best anchor Mac had to reality when he was lost in a flashback.

“’m okay,” Mac mumbled after a long moment of strained silence, recapturing Jack’s gaze with his own. “I’m back.”

Jack eyed him with poorly disguised scepticism, but he didn’t comment on the reddened eyes or the still laboured breathing. Outside, the storm continued to rumble on like an unwelcome guest.

“It was Paktia again,” Mac said very quietly when Jack didn’t pick up his story. “The apartment building.”

“Aw, hoss. We both got out of there without a scratch. No boom.”

“I know that but… It was so close Jack. If I’d been just a second slower-”

“Ay now, none of that. You stop that right this instant, you hear me? You weren’t a second too slow and even if you had been, it wouldn’t have been on you. We only walked away from that because you were exactly who you needed to be in that moment, right? You did everything you possibly could have done and it paid off, and even if it hadn’t that still would have been true. Don’t kill yourself now over what-ifs, Mac. No one wins that game.”

They’d had the same conversation a hundred times and would no doubt be having it again later that night. Mac had said much the same thing to Jack two weeks ago when he’d come up out of a nightmare swinging. Like everything else they’d done that evening, it was a ritual born of long-held burdens and too many nights haunted by ghosts.

“Yeah,” Mac replied at length, finally releasing his grip on Jack’s shirt and slumping back into the cushions. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“That is highly debatable.”

Jack smiled at Mac’s return to something more like living and silently congratulated himself for helping it happen. His own anxiety had been through the roof since the rain started, but focusing on helping Mac helped to keep his own demons at bay: he didn’t have time to worry about his past horrors when his partner was right there in front of him, needing his support.

“Well, if that’s true, I guess you don’t want any waffles, huh? I was thinking of ordering some myself…”

Mac’s grin was shaky, but it was there all the same. “Ass,” he said fondly, already reaching for his phone. “You can do the ordering this time though.”

Jack snagged the phone and had a quick look through the menu before placing the call. Mac sat quietly beside him all through, his eyes staring blankly out the window as his fingers came to rest against Jack’s pulse. It was a habit he’d picked up from his Overwatch, and he realised very quickly that it was incredibly reassuring to feel the steady thrum and know it meant his partner was safe and healthy and here.

When he was done, Jack dropped the mobile off on the coffee table and returned his attention to their previous conversation. “Now, Sardinia. Where was I?”

Mac huffed out a near-silent laugh and finally relinquished his hold on Jack’s wrist. He busied his fingers with the label of his beer bottle instead, but it was more a force of habit than an anxiety response – baby steps, and all that. “I seem to remember something about you being half-clothed while hanging out of a third story window?”

“Ah, yes!” Jack announced happily, slipping back into his showman persona to chase away the shadows lingering in the corners of the room. “Now, you’ll never guess what happened next.”

“You fell out of a third story window while half-clothed?”

Jack shot him a dry look. “You’ve absolutely no flair for the dramatic Angus.”

He snorted, swaying to the side to bump their shoulders together. “Nah. That’s what I’ve got you for.”

“Damn straight, and don’t you forget it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

#MacGyver #angus macgyver #jack dalton #fanfiction #fanfic #my fanfic #whump of july 2021

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delimeful · 4 years

Text

WIBAR Intermission: Cultural Differences

a commission for @secretlypansexualmango !! thank you so much for your patience with me during this difficult time, I hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it! :)

if you’re new to this AU, you can find the first story on tumblr here and the ao3 collection here!

warnings: anxiety, tense discussion, mention of nonconsensual drug use, medical experimentation, mention of child abuse, dehumanizing language, flashbacks, PTSD

Logan paced back and forth along his floor, hands strumming the air but not noting any particular information, just… moving. A nervous tic that he’d recently been struggling to repress around Virgil.

Speaking of.

“Patton, you are certain that Virgil will not wonder where you are and come to investigate?” he asked, turning on the balls of his feet to face the little Ampen.

“Yep, I showed him how to use the tech in the washroom and he said something about staying in there all day. Turns out Humans need water to clean, not dirt!” Patton tapped his fingers together consideringly. “Now I feel kind of bad about trying to get him to dust more often, no wonder he’s all grimy.”

Logan forced his hands to still so he wouldn’t record the information. That was the whole reason they were here, after all.

“Why are you so worried about the Human finding us huddling in your bedspace like a bunch of giggling adolescents?” Roman asked, adjusting his armor plates slightly so they didn’t pinch. He perked up for a moment. “Are we finally kicking him out?”

Patton frowned in disapproval at him, and he averted his eyes. “Joking! Just joking, Pat.”

Logan hummed lightly to recall their attention. “I am seeking advice in regards to the Human— or, Virgil, rather, but I don’t want to offend him or give him the wrong idea by openly excluding him from a conversation. Hence, covert gathering.”

Patton brightened— literally, his feathers aglow with excitement. “Oh, why didn’t you say so, Lo!”

Roman sunk further down, a grumble forming in his chest. “Yeah, why didn’t you say so. I don’t think I’ve got much to contribute about him compared to Patton.”

Logan inclined his head slightly in a Crav’n gesture to hold on for a little longer. “While I will admit that you have very different opinions on Virgil, I value both your perspectives equally and as such, would like to hear your honest thoughts on my query.”

Roman didn’t shift, but the grumble eased slightly, placated by Logan’s words. “Alright, what is it?”

Patton nodded encouragingly.“I’m all ears, kiddo! Feathears, that is!”

Logan didn’t dignify the atrocious pun with a response beyond his face pinching slightly. “I’m sure you all remember the incident we had recently, with the... yawning.”

At the reminder, Patton winced and Roman glowered.

Virgil had joined them for breakfast again the prior light cycle, a rare occurrence, and had nearly startled Logan out of his seat when he had stretched his jaw unnaturally wide with a crack, apropos of nothing. Patton had hurried to reassure them it was normal, and very much harmless, but it hadn’t prevented Roman from looking visibly on edge for the rest of the morning. Virgil had fled to his room early as a result.

“I believe that it would be beneficial for all of us to learn more about Human culture, and while I have scoured many texts for information, most of it has proven to be inaccurate or downright offensive. As a result, I’ve decided that I should attempt to ask Virgil directly to share,” Logan nervously fluttered his hands. “Ideally through a Vidi.”

Patton, who had gotten all fluffed up during his explanation, now paused slightly. “I think it’s a great idea for you to bond with Virgil, Lo! I’m not sure he’d be too keen on sharing minds, though. The idea seemed to make him nervous.”

Roman snorted.

“Yes, I predicted as much.” Logan gestured between the two of them. “Hence why I have gathered you to receive insight on how best to go about gaining his permission.”

His two closest friends shared a look, Patton having to crane his neck up considerably to do so. The Ampen piped up first.

“I say you should just ask him! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Beside him, Roman made a gesture to ward off bad luck, muttering about inviting chaos. Logan held a hand to his face to ward off any headaches.

“He could say no,” he emphasized, pointing out the obvious flaw.

“That is not the worst that could happen. And anyways, if he says no, it’s not the end of the universe. You can still make a valiant effort to convince him after the fact. Write a 20 page dissertation on all the reasons he should give it a shot, or bargain with jam, or any other nerd stuff. But if you try to go behind his back--”

“He’ll never trust you again,” Patton completed, antennae lowering at the thought. “Virgil is slow to trust, and for good reason. I know you of all people can understand that, Logan.”

“Actually, I was going to finish that with ‘you might never get a second chance to Vidi with anyone, because you’ll be dead.’ Humans don’t take lightly to intrusion,” Roman clenched his hands, gaze dark.

Patton drooped more, like he was attempting to become a puddle of sad Ampen. “I know you two aren’t as familiar with Virgil as I am, but… I’m telling you, he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s probably even more scared of you than you are of him.”

“I am not scared of a Human,” Roman insisted, scales rattling in offense. “And anyhow, we aren’t talking about a little fuzzy pollinator from a flora planet, we’re talking about a Human. A deathworlder. I know he was merciful to you, Pat, and I’m glad, but that doesn’t mean we can trust him to go against his nature. The way he acts, the look in his eye… I’ve seen it before. So you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe for a second that he’s harmless.”

“Roman--!” Patton stopped short as the Crav’on rose to his feet and stormed out in a huff, dramatic as always. The small alien let out a frustrated trill, tugging on his antennae for a second before turning back to Logan.

“I never said that he was harmless,” he announced pointedly. “None of us are harmless, not even me. But just because he’s got the… the potential to be dangerous doesn’t mean we shouldn’t give him a chance. Try asking him about the Vidi, Lo, and if that doesn’t work out I’ll help you think of more options, okay?”

Frankly, Logan had been hoping for something more along the lines of a guide he could follow while striking a deal with Virgil, but he nodded anyhow. Sometimes researchers simply had to work with what little they had.

He spent the next few light cycles calculating the encounter, from his words to all the possible outcomes. He had plenty of time to consider such things, seeing as Virgil was particularly adept at avoiding him.

Though the Human was subtle about it, it was hard to miss the way he found an excuse to leave any room Logan was in more often than not. Even when he couldn’t make a hasty escape-- most often because Patton was sleeping on his person-- he was always following Logan’s movements from the corner of his vision. Tracking him. It was… nerve-wracking.

Logan was much more than a creature of instinct, though, and so he persisted despite the occasional shiver sent down his spine.

When he finally managed to get the Human alone, however, it happened completely unintentionally. He was fixing a middark snack before sleep, and had just put the jam back in the coolant box when a vague emotional pulse nearby made his skin prickle.

He paused. Neither of his shipmates would be so quiet while nearby, so… He squinted into the dim hallways, searching for movement. “Virgil?”

“Uh,” said the Human, from on top of the cabinets how had he even gotten up there— “Hey.”

Logan was suddenly thankful for his dulled physical response, since it prevented him from doing something embarrassing like jumping out of his carapace. “Hello. Might I inquire— May I ask why you are all the way up there?”

The vague shadow that was Virgil shifted slightly, before dropping to the floor with a muted thump that shook the ground. Logan hoped that he hadn’t left any imprints in the floor paneling; Roman would have a fit.

“Just, uh. Just felt like it,” he answered, avoiding Logan’s gaze. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait, please,” Logan blurted, and to his surprise Virgil paused mid step. He quickly pulled himself onto a nearby stool, both so he could meet the Human’s eyes better and leave an exit available, seeing as a cornered Human was not one he wanted to deal with. “I had something I wanted to discuss with you, if that’s alright. Nothing bad, simply a request.”

Despite his attempt to be soothing, Virgil’s shoulders only seemed to rise further, a defensive gesture according to Patton. Logan attempted to look as non-threatening as possible.

“And what if it’s not alright?” Virgil challenged, voice low and rough as he glanced towards the hall entryway.

Logan folded his lower hands in his lap carefully, his words measured. “Then I shall ask again another time. It is late, after all. I don’t want to keep you from sleeping.”

Virgil made a half-exhale of amusement, or maybe resignation. Logan suspected it was because tonight was one of the nights Patton slept with him and Roman, nights that Logan suspected the Human often got little to no sleep. It was a concern to bring up at another time.

“Okay, fine, discuss away. But I reserve the right to leave any time.”

Logan blinked a few times, almost surprised that Virgil had actually agreed. He tapped his fingers together nervously— now came the difficult part. “My request is in regards to the incident at morning meal yesterday. Specifically, the misunderstanding about your ‘yawn’.”

Virgil visibly hid a wince. “I already apologized for that.”

“Unnecessarily, I believe,” Logan said, causing Virgil to dart a glance at him in surprise. “You know as little about us as we know about you. It’s unreasonable to expect you not to make a few mistakes.”

After a beat of stunned silence, Virgil shook his head slightly. “Try telling that to Roman,” he muttered.

“I did, actually,” Logan said, frowning slightly at the recollection. “Surprising nobody, he didn’t want to listen.”

“Wait, what?” Virgil asked, voice coming out a bit louder than before. “I thought you guys were like… cool. Uh, good. Friends.”

Logan forced himself not to interrogate the Human on the slang, noting his embarrassment at fumbling. “We are, now. When I first came aboard the Mindscape, however, Roman and I fought constantly.”

“No. Really?”

“Yes. We were-- and still are-- very opinionated individuals. Stubborn,” he clarified, seeing Virgil struggle with the unfamiliar word. “Patton had to intervene in our bickering more often than not.”

“Huh,” Virgil uttered, curious. Logan was pleased to note that he’d relaxed slightly, and pressed on.

“But that is a story for another time. My request is actually an attempt to help prevent such misunderstandings in the future. I would like to ask you about Human culture, in order to clear up common misconceptions and help me and the others recognize unfamiliar gestures or actions,” Logan ran the words through his mind, trying to see if he’d forgotten anything. “You’re free to say no, of course, I simply assumed that it would be easier for us all, but--”

“Logan.” Virgil waited for him to glance up before continuing. “This is a lot. I’ll… I’ll think it over, alright?”

Logan nodded, enthusiastic to not be rejected outright. “Of course. In that case, I am going to head to my quarters to rest. Don’t hesitate to seek me out if you would like elaboration on anything.”

The Human nodded, seeming deep in thought as Logan ducked his head in farewell and left. He could only hope that Virgil would be open to trying.

The next light cycle, Virgil appeared quite suddenly at the entry to his lab, never crossing the threshold.

“What are you going to do if I say no?” he asked, features clearer but also somehow harsher in the light. “Maybe I don’t want you to know anything about Humans, or me. What then?”

Logan hurriedly set aside the samples he’d been comparing, pushing his thick inspection lenses up so he could see the Human properly. He took a moment to think over the question. “Roman suggested that I write a dissertation-- that is, a sort of argument to convince you-- if you refused outright, but seeing as you’ve had time to consider your options already… I will take your refusal at face value and not pester you about it any longer.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes in a gesture that was most likely not an Ampen smile. “Just like that? Seriously?”

“I am always serious,” Logan told him, very seriously. “Though I do encourage you to speak with Patton on other potential solutions not involving me--”

“I’ll do it.”

“Pardon?” Logan asked, his ears twitching. Virgil raised his chin slightly, meeting Logan’s eyes solidly in challenge.

“I’ll do it,” he repeated, and Logan noticed the way his hands shook slightly at his sides. He slowly placed his lenses onto the countertop, turning to face Virgil fully.

“Would it be preferable to talk in the common area?” he asked, spreading his hands to accentuate the question. “We are simply exchanging information, there’s no need to do it here.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow at him, and then shoved his hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Sure, whatever.”

A short trek later, they were seated in the lounging area, Virgil a careful seat away. Logan had received permission to ‘take notes’ as the Human called it, and started off with questions that seemed simple enough.

Naturally, they immediately encountered problems.

“So, you do actually keep canids in your home for defense purposes?” Logan asked, hands stalling. “Is that not dangerous? Do you train them to not recognize the home’s residents as threats? I was under the impression all of Earth’s fauna was relatively vicious in order to survive.”

Virgil dragged a hand over his face. “I guess some people keep guard dogs, but most people just get them as like… companions. We take care of them and they live with us. We… ugh, I don’t know the word for it. We trained them to not be… angry? Wild? Way long ago.”

“Domestication,” Logan suggested, and then resisted a sigh when Virgil looked at him without comprehension. “Virgil, I would like to try something, if it’s alright with you. My species has the ability to link minds and share memories, referred to as a Vidi. It would allow us to bypass the language barrier and you could show me what life on Earth is like with far more clarity.”

Virgil was already shaking his head. “I don’t want you poking around in my head. I don’t know how it works on your planet, but thoughts are personal on Earth.”

“Nor on mine. I am not a mind reader,” Logan corrected wryly. “The Vidi is more like a form of shared thinking, and if you would like, I will take no part in paddling-- guiding where our thoughts take us. You will then have control over what you share and what you ask from me. Both Patton and Roman have linked with me in the past, and suffered no ill effects, if you are worried about cross-species Vidi.”

“Well, I am now,” Virgil muttered, and hunched his shoulders. “... Can I stop it?”

“Yes. It may take a few moments, since the flow of thought is unpredictable, but I have never gotten stuck in a link,” Logan tilted his head slightly, offering a hand. “Do you want to try something simple to test it?”

Virgil chewed on his lip for a click longer before reaching out and placing his own hand atop Logan’s.

Immediately, he was seeing from a different angle, different time, different eyes. The hall was dark, but he could see uncannily well in it, noting the outline of stairs in front of him. At the base of the stairs, a light illuminated a dog staring up at him pleadingly. An Australian Shepard, though he had no idea what that was.

“Zero, it’s three in the morning,” a familiar voice grumbled, Logan feeling echoes of the sound in his throat. The words were foreign, but he could understand the meaning. He observed the dog as the memory proceeded to stumble around the house and open a door to the night, releasing Zero into the yard.

‘This is bizarrely immersive,’ Virgil commented as the memory’s gaze turned up to the stars. ‘Like a dream. But… not as weird as I thought it might be.’ The memory flickered to a cartoon alien for a moment before stabilizing again, and Logan graciously ignored the lapse.

‘Just from this alone, I have a much better concept of dogs,’ he responded, his mental voice quite enthusiastic. ‘Can you show me the devices you mentioned earlier? The ones Humans ride for entertainment?’

‘Oh, yeah, roller coasters. That’s a good one.’

The world around them flickered, and then it was bright daylight streaming around them. The memory stepped forwards, leaving behind a line that had taken ages and climbing into a seat. Another human-- slightly older than Virgil, probably too old to be working this job-- stepped over and pushed the safety bar over the memory’s lap, locking them in securely.

The ride started, and Logan’s stress levels increased along with the memory’s sense of anticipation, peaking as they hit the top of the tracks and began to topple. The memory of Virgil’s stomach dropping was well-preserved, and fear-excitement-glee surged through the memory as the scenery blurred by too fast to process. After a period of time that was both too-long and too-short, the ride came to a stop.

Virgil’s smug amusement was tangible as Logan struggled to form words. ‘Humans do that for fun, you said?’

‘Yep.’

‘... I get the feeling this is going to be a truly interesting mindshare.’

Several alarming concepts later, including coffee, sleep deprivation, gender roles, and babies’ soft skulls, Logan was itching to take some time to journal all his thoughts out and also have a brief respite from horrifying implications.

Virgil snorted, which he had learned was a Human gesture of amusement rather than a Crav’n one of disdain. He visualized an image of Logan writing with all four hands in a book, and Logan responded with showing him the art form practiced back home, which involved exactly that. Drawing a full image at multiple points simultaneously was a honed skill for some Ulgorii.

‘This has been quite illuminating, however I am hoping to end it here,’ Logan requested, pulling them back on track.

Virgil hesitated for a moment, and then: ‘I want to check something. Really quick. I need to know.’

Logan had barely agreed when the scene shifted again, this memory tinged with haze around the edges. Physical sensation was dulled somewhat, but the cold metal underneath their back was a clear enough feeling. White walls above them, and aliens in thick bodysuits leaned over them. The memory was too fuzzy to recall what was being taken, but there was a sense of relief that it didn’t hurt. Not adrenaline, then.

Above them, a couple of the harvesters spoke. Logan recognized Virgil’s intent too late to do anything to prevent it. He couldn’t simply stop understanding Common, after all.

“Drain duty is so boring. You think it’d be entertaining with a Human, but no, all it does is lie here with those freaky dead eyes,” one complained. “Are they sure they didn’t accidentally grab a braindead one?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been here for the Dren drain,” the other responded, voice morbidly fascinated. “Thing’s practically feral, the way it lashes out. I don’t envy the escorts who have to drag it back to its cage afterwards, even with the drugs.”

“If it’s so beastly, why not just treat it like one? Put two together till they breed and train the baby to be less of a monster, same as we do with the troublesome creatures,” the harvester suggested, jabbing a claw at Virgil’s form. Logan felt sickened. ‘Virgil--’

“And risk them tearing each other apart? Humans are rare as is, there’s no way the Uppers would authorize something that might end with both dead.” The harvester took a few paces to the side, meeting the memory’s gaze with complete apathy. “Those scientists that have dibs on the body want it intact for dissection, or else we’re getting fuckall for the payment.”

The memory flickered, unstable, to an alien that only visited when they were doing the painful tests, wearing what Logan recognized as scholarly gear instead of the customary bodysuit. Virgil remembered they had snapped out words with one of the smugglers, numbers, prices, bargaining for his corpse--

Back to the little white room where they drained him, bit by bit.

“It’s pretty sedate, considering,” A smuggler prodded him, to no response beyond a brief flicker of eyelids.

“Of course it is, we picked it up off the planet fresh. Stupid thing can’t understand a thing we’re saying, so what’s there to panic about?”

The memory fractured, splitting into a thousand different fragments that flashed by with increasing speed-- panic attacks in his cell, unable to count the days he’d been locked in the too-small space, the ring, being hosed down like a rabid animal.

‘Logan,’ Virgil managed weakly, his grip on the Vidi loosening, ‘change it.’

In his alarm at Virgil’s condition, he practically yanked the share back to his own memories. He was too concerned to focus on what or where exactly he was remembering, until it had already snapped into clarity around them. He should have known better.

The memory was a mirror of Virgil’s, summoned by Logan’s automatic recall. His younger self sat on a sterile white counter, kicking his feet as around him, four machines worked to draw blood from each of his arms. He moved to shift the share again, but Virgil nudged him, distracted by the surprise.

‘What… what is this?’ he asked, despite the fact that he was surely receiving information from the memory’s perspective as they spoke.

Logan sighed, watching as a pleased doctor removed the equipment and shuffled him off to be escorted back to his room. ‘As I told you before, you are certainly not the only one to deal with trauma or flashbacks on this ship.’

“You promised me a new book,” the memory said with the voice of a child who had grown up too fast. “I sat quietly, so I get a new book, right?”

“Of course, of course,” the doctor waved him off, already moving to bottle and package the blood to be sold. Ulgorian blood, which would make a fair amount of coin at market for its use as a paralyzing toxin. “Continue being such an obedient, quiet child and you will have any book you desire, Aconite.”

Logan finally broke the Vidi off, opening his eyes as Virgil jolted sharply across from him. He studied the Human’s complexion for a moment, and then reached into the table drawer for a water jug. “Drink something. I believe you have experienced the beginnings of a panic attack during our share.”

He held the water out patiently until Virgil took it, pulling back to give him space. “Though I had my suspicions, I now see why you reacted the way you did to my designation as a self-identified scientist.”

Virgil laughed hoarsely, sipping at the water. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t know--” He cut himself off sharply. “You won’t do anything to me. Patton told me, and I think I knew it too, really. I was just... nervous. That you’d ask for more than I could give--”

“--or change the parameters before you could ever reach them,” Logan finished, lacing his fingers together in a wry Crav’n gesture. “There’s no need to apologize. I understand, as you now know.”

“Sorry about that,” Virgil repeated. “I didn’t mean to peek at your trauma.”

“Again, no need. It’s nothing I haven’t already come to terms with,” Logan said, and then offered him a few thumbs ups. “We are cool, as I believe the term is used.”

Virgil gave him a small grin, and Logan finally understood what Patton meant when he called Virgil’s teeth-bearing friendly.

After a discussion on how PTSD affected the mind share, they settled for focusing on simply communicating through Common. It would be better for Virgil’s language growth, and reduce the amount of traumatic flashbacks they were both exposed to. If either of them got frustrated, they simply left off to discuss the matter another cycle.

This was how, a rotation later, Logan found himself enthusiastically quizzing a Human on his dietary habits.

“I know that there are Humans who raise livestock, presumably for meat. Do Humans prefer raw meats or cooked ones? Or are there other ways to prepare animal flesh? Is it determined by individual preference?”

Virgil waited patiently, ducking under one of Logan’s flapping hands as he moved to sit down. “We eat all kinds of stuff, Specs.”

“Ah. Should we stock up on blood at our next port, then?”

A startled laugh, though Logan was only half-joking. “Okay, all kinds of stuff like plants and some minerals.”

Logan made a note to correct his notes, again. “Another incorrect assumption... I was under the impression that human omnivorous tendencies were only for survival scenarios, similar to your ability to endure blood loss. Most texts say that humans are primarily carnivores.”

“No, we’re pretty omnivorous.” Virgil shrugged. “Some people are vegetarian-- or, herbivores, I guess, but that’s a personal choice dependent on all sorts of things. We evolved to be omnivorous, we’ve got the flat teeth and the pointy ones, see?” He pulled a lip down to show his teeth, which were in fact thick and rounded in the back.

Logan half-lunged forwards, inspecting the inside of his mouth carefully. “You’re absolutely right! While you have the canines for biting and tearing meat off the bone, you also have molars for masticating tough plant matter! Oh, of course Humans don’t actually drink blood, there are evolutionary signifiers for such things and Human blood likely has little to none of the nutritional value that your body needs. Fascinating! Are these made of bone?”

It was at this moment that Roman walked in. There was a pause in which Logan realized that at some point he had moved to stick most of his hand in Virgil’s mouth to better examine his dental structure.

“Logan,” Roman started, deceivingly composed, “if you lose a finger by being a huge nerd, I am going to freak it.”

Logan executed a ‘wink’ to Virgil before responding. “Not to worry, Human teeth are dull enough that they are only dangerous if significant jaw strength is applied. I do not believe Virgil will bite me. Correct?”

“Uhn,” Virgil grunted in affirmation, spit starting to spill out of his mouth. Despite his reassurance, he looked vaguely uncomfortable with the situation. Logan hurriedly withdrew.

“Oh sure, you totally know he’s not going to bite you when he is literally drooling!” Roman howled, before turning on his heel and walking right back out of the commons. “I am too tired for this. Call me when you’re done being an insane scientist in our living room.”

Virgil wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, voice sardonic. “Doesn’t he know by now that mad scientist is your permanent state of being?”

“I have no idea why you would say such a thing. I am a perfectly calm and composed scientist,” Logan responded in a monotone, turning his nose up when Virgil started laughing. “How dare you imply otherwise. The indignity of it all. Woe is me.”

“That’s what you get for inviting a malicious human onboard,” Virgil snarked back, leaning back. “Too bad, you’ll regret it to the end of your days.”

“No,” Logan answered with a wry twist of his lips, “I don’t think I will.”

#sanders sides #ts virgil #ts logan #ts patton #ts roman #wibar #watch it burn and rust #commissioned works #space au #analogical boys share some trauma: the fic!#ive been so excited to write this one you guys have no idea #writing #my writing #please forgive me if some editing is off i am v tired

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gildedmuse · 3 years

Note

Law is still Shichibukai (for some reason) and meets with the others including Mihawk for government business or something. He learns he had a relationship with Zoro during the 2 years. Even though Law is in a relationship with him now Mihawk & Zoro never really ended theirs officially so Law gets jealous and competative

Right, I have to pass out. But here is part one of three of this magical tale.

Oh thank God someone else has thought of this because I think about this SO MUCH. Like, "what are you even doing with your life?" / "Oh, you know, mostly trying to set up a Mihawk/Zoro/Law love triangle." / "..... Just WHY?"

Because it'd be super hot that's why.

One dude whose super possessive, one who hates losing and one who's totally obvious to all that shit. are you kidding me? That was made for fanfic glory.

I don't know if I can do such a delicious thing justice in a "let's see if I remember how words work" post, but damn right I'll try it.

It's 2020. The world needs this you guys. And hopefully it inspires others to look deep within themselves and realize the Mihawk/Zoro/Law triangle was inside them all along.

To War Over You

"Why do I have to be here again? No offense, Torao, this whole thing sounds boring as hell."

Law closes his eyes and draws a deep breath; the best way to deal with any of the Strawhat crew if you didn't want it to end in bloodshed and a broken alliance. "Did you not understand the first three times I went over the situation, Zoro-ya? I don't know if I can explain it in any simpler terms without resorting to coloring books and grade school lessons."

It may have been a little snippy, but for as confidently as he struts down the hallways of the naval base just those side of Marie Joice, Law could never get use to having marines on either side, standing at every doorway, eyeing him suspiciously as they walk past him in the halls. He'd seen what these men would do given the orders or the chance, so despite how well he could hide behind a haughty mask and arrogant demeanor, Law can't help feeling once more like a frightened child on the run from these very same men.

He had fully expected to have to lead Zoro through the whole parade, tell him not to jump at the sight of every uniform (as is still, deep down, Law's immediately response) but the other swordsman comes off as almost entirely unaffected. He makes eye contact with passing marines as if daring them to question his presence or better yet try something. He doesn't even have a hand on his sword, a sure sign of the boy's nervousness. He walks next to Law, appearing utterly calm and unafraid and, well, bored.

It's giving Law a headache to be honest. Could one if the Strawhats even pretend to behave like normal pirates?

When Zoro's shoulder bumps against Law's he wonders, fleetingly, if this this is the part where Zoro finally admits how paranoid this whole scene leaves him.

They walk past a pair of marines like that, Zoro leaning into his shoulder practically hanging off Law, and neither men blinks an eye. In fact, they make a point of not even glancing up at the passing pirates, their conversation going quiet and their eyes locked to the floor until they've past. That's been the case more and more this visit; a complete change from the first time Law had been invited where even privates and ensigns felt confident enough to give him bad looks, expressions that clearly asked what one of his kind was doing there.

Zoro also waits until the heavy steps of the two marines are mostly out of earshot before he leans, somehow, even closer. Until Law can feel the boy's hot mouth up against his skin, heating the metal hoops in his ear. "I'm so sorry oh powerful warlord," Zoro teases because, since it really occured to him that Law is a Shichibukai - and apparently one the government is desperate to keep on their side - he couldn't seem to stop himself from mocking the title. If it were any other pirate, Law could have chopped them into parts and been done with it, but for whatever reason he allows the vice captain of the straw hats to get away with such insults. "I must have been distracted at the time."

Ah, yes. That's why.

Law ducks his head, as if attempting to hide a smirk as they go by another three marines - ensigns based on their uniforms and the way their eyes go wide before they scurry past. Ah, well, at worst they'll think he's planning something big, something illegal (which he is, though not for a while) though more than likely they'll just think that's how pirates are. Cocky and unafraid.

Law doesn't mind the reputation.

Of course, if they knew the real reason Trafalgar Law, pirate captain, worst generation, and Shichibukai looked so damn smug they probably would have hurried by all the faster.

Is it his fault that there is something so pleasing about taking a man with the reputation of Roronoa Zoro and having him on his knees and begging? Law can't help the spark of pride knowing that while most others couldn't even halt Zoro's steps were he determined to get by, Law could leave him sprawled out, exhausted, panting on the bed after being made to come a fourth time and yet in two hours he'd crawl into Law's lap, needy and impatient and wanting anything the older pirate would give him.

It's enough to make any man a little conceited. After all, how many can say they've reduced the pirate hunter to such a desperate state?

Law has every right to feel proud.

Still nearly climbing on top of Law even as they walked, Zoro takes the other man's ear in his mouth, tongue first warming the metal and then teeth pulling at the earrings. Law really should make him stop; they must have all sorts of surveillance inside the base. But he just can't find it in him to do more than find the most obvious of the recording snails stuck to the walls, offering it and whoever is lucky enough to be watching a cocky smile.

And because Zoro, like the most crew, doesn't seem to understand the idea of subtle, he follows the bite up with, "I guess having you fuck my mouth interests me more than some political bullshit. Hard paying attention to all this useless junk when your buried that deep in my throat."

It's not romantic. It's hardly even sexy. And yet even as Zoro slides back into his own space, Law can feel something in his gut start to tighten, to want. It had been such a mistake to bring the swordsman along, he should have known better.

Only he'd received a hint from a certain high ranking, unnamed inspector general that the navy knew he was harbouring at least some of the Straw hats on his ship (However did they find that out, Zoro-ya? Maybe if you didn't insist on fighting every battle ship you saw). He would still be expected to attend the meeting, of course, but if he did show up they would certainly search his ship for the pirates and, failing that, likely charge him all the same. Especially after they couldn't use the Doflamigo incident against him, in part thanks to Issho's very live, very unscripted broadcast.

It seemed obviously to Law that their best option is to claim these straw hats had made the decision to work under him (some more literally than others) which only left the matter of which one to bring, to show Law isn't afraid of their suspicious.

Robin could lie very well and would have easily been the best choice, except she was just as likely to stand in front of some of the top ranked marines and inform them that, in fact, she is still and will always be a Strawhat. And she'd say it with a smile. Franky... Well, no. Franky wouldn't last two minutes into an interrogation. Usopp could lie, but there's a chance he'd over do it, or simple break down at the sight of so many marines.

No, Zoro had been his best choice, which is a condemnation of his chooses really. He's just hoping the vice captain will be able to clentch his teeth and get through it.

As added incentive, Law made plenty of promises.... And threats. Depending, of course, on Zoro's ability to behave.

"What's the point of even calling you out here?" Zoro asks in an entirely casual tone, as if he hadn't just described sucking Law off. "Not like the government acts wants your opinion on anything."

Law has to admit Zoro's right, but after the near catastrophe at Dressrosa, Law is trying to play ball. If they haven't expelled him yet it's because they need something from him, and Law is determined to find out what. "Just do as I tell you and don't make a scene," Law says, knowing those two instructions are impossible for any strawhat to follow, perhaps especially this one. "So long as you don't-"

Suddenly, Law is no longer looking at Zoro but at the plain walls of the military base. Confused, he looks back to see Zoro has come to a stop in the middle of the hall. There is a dangerous grin pulling at his lips, one that Law would definitely be afraid of of he hadn't seen it so many times right before Zoro swallowed him whole. Now it just makes him lose his breath a little too fast, the heat in his gut pours through the rest of him, becoming something he can't control.

Expect Zoro isn't looking his way at all.

"Hawkeye," Zoro says simply, and while his voice is harsh his expression certainly isn't. "I forgot they still recognize you as a Shichibukai. When I defeat you then, do I get that title as well?"

Law jerks to look back so abruptly he feels a little sick, but sure enough there he is; fellow Shichibukai and world's greatest swordsman. A title that Law knows Zoro coverts, perhaps explaining the gleam in his eyes as he stares down the other swordsman. Though Law would have expected it to hold more.... Hostility. Instead, despite the seriousness of his tone and the challenge in his eyes, Zoro's lips keep twitching, unable to completely hide the a smile.

He's probably just happy to get this chance at a rematch. Not that Law is about to let that happen in the middle of a marine base. Zoro may be less than cautious and driven by his heart rather than solid reason, but he isn't that crazy.

.... Is he?

"Roronoa," Mihawk greets him formally and, again, his voice even and devoid of humour, and yet the older Shichibukai does nothing to hide his smile. "How strange to see the rabbit has wandered so far from its burrow."

Zoro wrinkles his nose before deciding to go for something slight more intimidating. "I told you not to call me that." He might try and pass it off as a growl, but honestly he sounds like a pouting child. It's cute, in a way.

In the way that it would have been cute, if it had been for Law.

Mihawk's smirk grows more amused, more cocky at Zoro's reply. "I seem to recall you didn't mind at times." Mihawk's long strides eat up the room between him and Zoro in a matter of seconds, and before Law even thought to be on guard the older man is leaning down, whispering something for only Zoro to hear.

Law may not know what exactly is said, but he recognizes the flush in the other boy's cheeks, the way his eyes go wide before falling half closed as he rocks, almost consciously, up onto his toes and closer to the one teasing him.

It's a state he's enjoyed putting the swordsman in in the past, one he's never had to witness as a third party.

When Mihawk has finished, Zoro is just a touch too pink and too breathless for Law's comfort. But it's the smirk on the older swordsman's lips when he pulls away that makes Law clench his fist and bite doesn't hard. If they weren't at this base, he's fairly certain nothing, not even his intelligence or will to survive, could stop him from casting a room and cutting Mihawk's heart out. At the least.

It's only after Mihawk has had his fun with Zoro that he looks up, his sharp golden eyes falling on Law. Law can only remember one other time the master swordsman has graced him with so much as a vague consideration; when he'd first arrived here, a newly appointed warlord. Mihawk had merely regarded him with nothing more than a passing glance before declaring he had more important things to attend to and making a swift, unapologetic exit.

Now, though, his eyes seem to study Law like he's preforming a dissection, seeing parts of him that Law would have thought impossible to see.

"Trafalgar," Mihawk uses the same even tone as he had with Zoro, only lacking in any signs of warmth as he had with Zoro. "I see you decided to join us after all." Before Law can point out that he could hardly deny the summon he had been sent, Mihawk's eyes are back on Zoro. "Am I to believe the rumours of you abandoning your captain are true then, Roronoa?"

Before Zoro can ruin their cover (Law can see it in his face and feel the aura around him, this refusal to deny his captain) Law is quick to leap in. "Zoro-ya is under me now, if that is what you're asking," Law snaps, perhaps with more bite than is necessary. And if his words can be taken more than one way, well, that's really up to the listener to decide. "Otherwise, why would I entrust him to accompany me to this summit?"

#ask and you shall receive #the zolaw au nobody asked for #zoro x law #zoro x mihawk #one piece #one piece au #one piece fanfiction #mizo #zolaw

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

I Found - chapter 17

No warnings.

Well maybe some cute Tyler and Ovi ;)

Tagging: @alievans007, @hemmyworthy, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y

A week later he waits across the street from Hargrave school. Leaning back against the driver's door of a rented SUV.; arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses covering his eyes, smoking a cigarette. He'd given up the habit months ago; being in the hospital for an extended period of time successfully cleanses your body and mind of all your vices. But with his desire to drink again returning at a furious and alarming pace and his med use just slightly above normal, he had figured having one awful habit wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

He remains expressionless yet his as eyes are continuously working. Observing the surroundings, scanning the sidewalks and the road for anything that seems suspicious. So far nothing seems out of the ordinary. Drivers behind the wheel of cars idling along the curbs, a lone maintenance worker watering the gardens out from. There didn't seem to be anyone...besides him....casing the place. No cars making multiple trips around the block. Just normal people going about their day: parents waiting to pick up their kids, a handful of early release students trickling through the front doors.

His cell phone vibrates against his leg and he fishes it from the side pocket of his cargo shorts. A smiling tugging at the corners of his mouth. A picture from his wife: a picture of their baby girl in a brightly coloured sundress and matching hat that one of the maids had gifted her with. And at that moment it seems so surreal; the realization that he was a dad again. Some days you're just going through the motions; moving from one moment to the next without even thinking about what you're doing. Other days you're sitting in a quiet room or lying in bed and out of nowhere you think 'wow'. This is one of those times. Where it actually hits him: how far he's come, the good things in his life that he has accomplished, how the guilt and the regret of the past aren't nearly as painful as they were even six months ago. A year ago he'd been hoping to catch a bullet. Now he was desperate to escape catching one.

A text message comes next. Asking him if everything is okay. It's a covert way of asking if he's seen anything troubling or if he's caught wind of any brewing. But he wants to tell her that everything is awesome. That she and their little girl are awesome. That he's sorry for getting them mixed up in his bullshit. That he can't wait to see them. Maybe it's the worry that something will happen to them if he's gone for too long; that he'll get back to the house and all hell would have broken loose and his wife and kid missing. Or maybe it's the reality that the only time he's truly happy is when he's with them. That they are the ones who are keeping him sane. From returning to old habits and old feelings and the desire to just end it all.

He messages back. Telling her that everything is fine. That he's just waiting for the kid to get out of school. That they're going to go somewhere and talk, just the two of them. That he'll be home before dinner is on the table. That he loves them.

The bell rings, signalling the end of the school day. And within minutes the doors are bursting open and students are flowing out; a tsunami of giggling girls talking in ridiculously high pitches, guys with too much swagger and not enough common sense to realize the ladies aren't falling for their fake macho bullshit, jocks picking on the weaker kids. His own high school experience had been normal enough; teetering the line between jock and serious student. But there'd been higher education or career that had appealed to him. He'd always been a tad reckless. Restless. And he needed something with action and adventure. That would keep his body and his mind busy. And he'd enrolled in the army only two days following graduation. He'd always been a naturally gifted athlete; tall, broad shouldered, strong. And passing basic training had remarkably easy.

Eighteen years seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime filled with more action and danger and risk of death than he could ever have managed. His own demons making a transition from full time solider to mercenary alarmingly seamless.

He slips his phone back into his pocket as he sees the kid coming down the stairs; alone, eyes downcast, his thumb hooked around the straps of his backpack. He's taller than most of his classmates now. And seems so much older than that kid he'd rescued out of that filthy apartment in Dhaka. He's been through a lot. Seeing and hearing things that no kid should ever have to. The terror of being kidnapped followed by a stranger busting you free, but not before they'd slaughtered an entire room of people. Tyler imagines that he would have been confused; his eyes wide as he stepped over bleeding and broken corpses, following a complete stranger into yet another unknown and terrifying situation. Everything had gone wrong after that. Tyler had never had a job go that bad. There had been injuries and death left behind, but his duties had been fulfilled quickly and successfully. Walking away with no injuries and permanent scars but nice healthy pay checks.

Everything that could go wrong did. A fucked up series of horrible events that came to an end on that bridge.

****

Ovi stops when he sees him; startled at first, his head moving from left to right as he looks for the usual drivers that pick him up. Then a broad smile brightens his entire face and he's practically skipping across the street. Once again throwing this arm around Tyler and embracing him tightly. A year ago he'd hesitated to even touch the kid. When Ovi had clung to him on the stairs at Gaspar's. And he remembers the initial shock of the moment, and how'd he cautiously brought his hand up to the kid's head. It had been a long time since he'd had to comfort someone. He didn't form personal relationships with the people he helped. He simply got shit done and went on with his life.

Unlike a year ago, he doesn't hesitate when returning the embrace. The kid is desperate for affection. He craves it. Needs it. And maybe somewhere deep down inside, Tyler does to.

“What are you doing here?” Ovi asks, as Tyler tousles his hair and the kid steps out of the hug.

“Thought you could use the change of pace. Thought maybe we could go somewhere and talk. Privately. I know it's not easy to get some things out when there's so many ears around.” The guards unnerved the kid instead of calming him. He was skittish when they were around; never able to fully relax.

“About what?”

“I don't know. Things,” he takes the final drag of his cigarette and tosses it to the ground, extinguishing it with the sole of his shoe.

An eyebrow hitches. “You smoke?

“Always have. Just had to quit for a while. Just don't tell my wife, okay? It wouldn't go over very well.”

Ovi nods, moving around to the other side of the SUV as Tyler pops open the driver's side door. Tossing his school bag into the back seat and ready to climb in when a soft, beautiful voice captures his attention.

“Hi Ovi.”

Tyler notices the way the kid's eyes widen, the way he looks both terrified and excited that the young woman has actually spoken to him. She's cute; tall and willowy with shimmering black hair pulled into two braided ponytails. And he grins as Ovi stutters and stumbles over his words, struggling to get out even a simple hello in return.

“I'll see you tomorrow right?” she inquires hopefully, and he nods in response and then holds his hand up in a small wave of farewell before climbing into the SUV.

“Is that her?” Tyler asks, watching through the rear view mirror as she bounces off with her friends, but not before she glances back over her shoulder, getting in one last look. “Is that her?” he asks. “The girl you talked about last night?”

Ovi nods.

“Well done, kid,” he grins, as he fires up the engine. “Well done.”

****

They slip into booth tucked into the back corner of a nearby deli. The flow of traffic is light; two customers sitting right at the corner and a third near the hallway the leads to the washroom, and while Ovi orders from the menu, Tyler opts for black coffee. He sits facing the entrance. Always cautious. Feeling that now familiar weight of the gun that rests on his hip.

Ovi chatters on about school and upcoming football tryouts; sipping a vanilla milkshake and nibbling from a heaping plate of french fries smothered in ketchup. The excitement and the hope for a calmer immediate feature drips from every word. He's optimistic. Enthusiastic. Tyler has provided him with a level of safety and security that he hasn't feel for weeks. Probably even months. Spending most of his days since the extraction nervous about possible retribution, constantly looking over his shoulder and wary of everyone and everything.

“Remember how you were telling me about looking into colleges away from home?” Tyler speaks now, as Ovi delves a little more eagerly into the french fries. “You said you wanted to get away from here once you got out of high school.”

Ovi nods, then his eyes narrow. “You're not going to try and talk me out of it, are you?”

“Naw, mate. I can totally understand wanting to get away. Wanting to escape. It's why I joined the army once I was old enough. I needed to get away from some bullshit too.”

“From your parents?”

“From my dad. My mom was already gone. She died when I was twelve. Car accident.”

Ovi gives a sad smile. “I'm sorry.”

“My old man and I never got along. Even when she was still alive. I don't think he ever really wanted kids, to be honest. He wanted my mom all to himself and then I came along and totally ruined that. He's resented me for a long time. I've always been a burden to him. Someone that cost him too much money and clothe and put a roof over his head. He hated that my mom and I were so close. Not because he wanted to be close with me. But because I took my mom away from him.”

The emotion chokes at him. Sitting heavily in his chest and tightening his throat. In the same way in at that night at Gaspar's when he'd told Ovi about his failed marriage and the death of his son. And he takes a swig of coffee to wash down the mixed feelings of bitterness, grief, and anger.

“So I totally get why you want to get away. I don't think anyone could blame you. Especially after everything that you've been through. Sometimes we have to leave everything behind. Can't have much of a future if you're spending your whole time living in the past, know what I mean?”

Ovi nods.

“You ever thought of Colorado?” Tyler asks.

“Like in the United States?”

“Unless there's another Colorado I don't know about.”

“Isn't it really cold there? Doesn't it snow all the time?”

“Not three hundred and sixty five days a year. It's supposed to be beautiful there. Mountains, lots of fresh air, tons of things to do. That's where Esme's from. A little place with about twenty five hundred people. Her family is still there. Mom and step dad, brothers, a sister. Tons of nieces and nephews.”

“So now you do have a family,” the kids says, and Tyler nods slowly.

“I suppose I do, mate. Would be nice to meet them, though. I've only ever seen them through video calls or talked to them on the phone.”

“So they haven't met the baby then?” Ovi's smile fades. “That's really sad.”

“Yeah, it is. They deserve to meet her. And she deserves to meet them,” he sips his coffee. “We're moving there. When all this is over.”

It isn't finalized; they haven't made any concrete plans. But the other night in bed he'd gone onto the 'net and

looked up houses and job prospects and Esme had seemed warmer to the idea. He can see himself settling down there; buying a fixer upper with a view of the mountains, enough land to have chickens and goats (her idea, he felt they'd shit everywhere even more than chickens) and room for their kids to play. They had just enough money between the two of them in savings that they could afford a decent down payment and still have a bit in the bank for a rainy day.

“You are?” Ovi's eyes widen. “You're going that far from home? Why?”

“It's time to move on, I guess. She gave up everything in her life to move to Australia and take care of me and get me back on my feet. She misses home. And I owe it to her to give her that piece of her life back.”

He also lays out the harsh truth. That he's made a lot of enemies along the way; stepped on a lot of toes. It's naive to think that the actions of the past don't have ramifications on your future. Now that whoever is behind the recent drama knows where he lives, it wouldn't be safe to go back. And he couldn't put his family through that. Instead when everything was over, they'd take their passports and leave. With nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a few personal items. It wouldn't take long to get on their feet; he wasn't worried about not being able to find work or support his family. And if that meant living out of cheap motels until they found a permanent place, it was what he was willing to do.

“But you guys will be even further away,” the kid laments. “What if I need you? You'll be even further away.”

“Not if you come with us.”

Ovi blinks. “Come with you?”

“We don't have a lot, mate. It won't be the life you have here. But at least you'd have a life. You won't have to be a prisoner in your own place. You won't constantly be looking over your shoulder or seeing something or hearing something that makes you think of what happened in Dhaka. It won't be easy. It's going to be hard for all of us. But that's better than what you've got going on here.”

“You really want me there? With you and your family?”

“We won't be able to put you in an expensive school like you're in now. There's no way we could ever afford something like that. And we definitely won't be getting a place like you have now. You're going to have to slum it.”

“I don't care about that. None of that matters to me.”

“You'd be safe there. Safe with us. Most importantly, you'd have people around you that actually care about you. Who worry about you and want what's best for you. You got a shit deal in this life, kid. You've got an old man that doesn't give a fuck about you and put you in all this bullshit to begin with. But you don't have to stay stuck in all of this. And we're worried what might happen to you if you do.”

Tears sparkle in his eyes, yet a broad grin spreads across his face. “You want me to come and live with you?”

“Like I said, we can't give you much. But we can give you a real home.”

“Like a family,” his voice is a near whisper.

“Now nothing's set in stone, mate, so don't get your hopes up yet. There's some things that need to get worked out before we can even start making arrangements to take you anywhere. I still have to go and talk to your old man.”

“My father?” he's perplexed. Maybe even a little scared. “Why?”

“Well I can't just take you out oh India. That's kidnapping. And kidnapping a drug lord's son? Didn't we just go through that a year ago? There's no need to repeat that. I need to go and see him. Have a man to man. He must have at least ounce of humanity left, right? There must be some part of him that cares about his own kid.”

“He thinks of me the same way you do. More like a thing than a person.”

Tyler can still hear those words. As clear as day.

“He doesn't care about anything,” Ovi says now. “Or anyone. It's why I'm in the mess I'm in. Why I was in the mess I was in last year.”

“Well we got you out of that mess and we'll get you out of this one too. I'll talk to your father. Try to reason with him.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“Well, if that doesn't work, I've got other ways of convincing people to give me what I want.”

“You'd kill him?”

“What?” Tyler chuckles. “That isn't always my go to, you know. I don't always kill people. Sometimes I do other things.”

“Like rescue people.”

He nods. It's the exact opposite of the conversation that they'd had in that bedroom at Gaspar's house. When Ovi had asked if he'd always been this way. Brave.

Ovi sighs heavily. Helps himself to a french fry. Another sip of his shake. Then he smiles.

“You know, I think I could get used to Colorado.”

****

The grass is a stunning emerald green. Sparkling gloriously in the sunlight; plush and smooth against bare feet as she wanders into the courtyard, baby in her arms. Talking something yet animatedly about their new surroundings, about the trees that tower of them, the smell of the flowers in bloom, the way the grass smells and feels, the way the brilliant rays sun cause the ripples in the pool to sparkle and dance. It is a beautiful home with even more beautiful surroundings; modern, spacious, impeccably clean, But inside it was cold and uncomfortable. Sterile. As if no one had lived there for years. Not a spec of dust or a single dirty dish in the song. No sounds of laughter. No conversations around the dinner table.

And definitely no love.

She'd grown tired of staring at the walls; going stir crazy with nothing more than the wander the halls, take a nap, or read a book. She'd tried engaging the workers in conversation; English was their second language and for the most part, spoke it impeccably. But they'd just stared at her as if she'd grown another head. As if she'd broken some written that law that prohibited the help from fraternizing with those that inhabited the house. It was strange way to live; merely floating through your day, no real human contact as you just completed one chore after another. The job had been lonely at times; returning to an empty hotel room, never knowing when you'd step foot through your own front door again. But at least there had always been human contact.

Her heart breaks for Ovi. Being a teenager is hard enough. But being a teenager in his situation was unfathomable. A poor kid thrust into a life of chaos because of his father's poor choices. Left alone in an enormous house, surrounded by beautiful things, yet having nothing to truly cherish. With Saju he'd had least had someone that genuinely cared for his health and well being, even if it did take the threat against his own child to show as much. He'd had someone there to guide him. Protect him. And once he'd died, Ovi had truly been left with nothing.

She selects a spot near the pool, sinking down into the grass, back to the water, legs in the shade cast by a large tree. She places the her thighs, waiting until the cool breeze and the chirping of birds bring on the beginnings of a much needed nap before she leans back. Hands on the grass behind her, head tilted back, eyes closed as she lets the sun bathe her face in warm. Needing a moment of calm. An escape from those eerily quiet hallways and those sterile walls. From the staff always underfoot and watching to fill even her basic needs. From the thoughts of twelve months ago. When she'd met both Tyler Rake and Ovi Mahajan Junior for the first time and her life changed in the blink of an eye.

Nik had called a half an hour before. The news was good but not great. She had been able to track down a last name for Farhad but not an exactly location. With no registered place of address and no known associates, it was proving difficult to to pinpoint is exact location. Somewhere near the market was useless. Those areas were densely populated and the residents and shop keepers feared retribution if they spoke out against the criminals.

It had been the first time in a year that Esme had been the strong and assertive one. Telling her that she didn't want to hear excuses. The anniversary of the Dhaka job was four days away. And she wanted an address and a meeting time set up.

***

“You know, you shouldn't be out here alone.”

Opening her eyes, she places as a hand over them to shield them from the sun. “I'm not. There's two guards on the roof and three constantly patrolling. That is not being out alone.”

“Someone is supposed to be with you at all times. You know the rules.”

“Fuck the rules,” she grumbles. Actually missing the days she was the one on the job, watching out for someone else. “And you're in my sun.”

Jason steps to the side, and she closes her eyes and tilts her head back again.

“You don't need to be here,” she reminds him.

“Someone needs to be.”

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And if someone is able to get past two arm guards on the roof and the two out there, then we are well and truly fucked and might as well give up. Because they're obviously superhuman. So...”

“Well forgive me for saying so, but guns can do a lot of damage.”

“You've never heard a first hand account about how a human being can kill someone with a garden rake, have you?”

Jason frowns. “What?”

“It was two people actually. One with the handle and one with the...never mind. Let's just say, it wasn't pretty. Seriously, Jason. Go inside. I'm all out of patience and fucks today. And I like you, but...”

“Well at least one of you does.”

She sighs. “You're still not ass hurt about that are you? You crossed a line. You got called out on it. Live and learn.”

“Sounds like you've been spending the last year of your life making a lot of excuses for him.”

“Sounds like maybe you need stop before you cross another line. You're just here because this is where Nik sent you. We're not here to be friends. I'm just a job. In the same way other people were just the job when I got into the game. It is what it is.”

“What I'm curious about is how the two of you ended up forgetting that. That it you were there to do a job.”

Sighing, she sits up and runs her palms along the sides of her thighs to clear the grass away. “What is your obsession with Tyler? It's kind of creepy. First you kiss his ass royally the first day you meet him and now you're all up his ass for some reason. I don't know what you think you know about him. About us. And to be quite frank, I don't really give a shit. But he's my husband. The father of my child. And I'm not the type that will sit back and let you shit talk him. So if there's what you're here for...”

He holds his hands up in surrender, then unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down on the grass beside her.

“Really?” she asks. “Do you have no concept of personal space? And weren't you told to stay away from me?”

His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Are you going to tell on me?”

“Kid, you are walking a very thin line. You will not like what happens to you if I do rat you out. Remember the thing with the garden rake I just told you about that? That will look tame compared to what happens to you. Why are you like this? Why do you feel the need to be around me? It's just creepy as fuck.”

“Just trying to be friendly, I suppose.”

“Friendly is talking about shared interests and the weather. You're asking me questions about my personal life. That's not normal.”

“I was just curious, that's all. You and Tyler both go on and on about the importance of the job and not forming bonds with the people you help, but the two of you couldn't even follow that yourselves. It seems a little...I don't know...hypocritical.”

“It was a year ago. It happened. Maybe it wasn't the best decision either of us ever made and maybe we should have stopped it, but we didn't. Trust me, we aren't the only two that have done something like that. It happens more often than you think. We're just the ones that got caught doing it.”

Or maybe they just hadn't been very good at hiding it. G had figured it out. Asking about it when she'd met up with him in the woods, where they had hunkered down to wait for Tyler to bring Ovi to the extraction point. Anxious to just get the hell out of there. He'd been more curious than judgmental. After all, he'd met his own wife when he'd been hired to rescue someone. She hadn't been directly related to the job, but their paths had still crossed.

“Come on, you can't fool me,” he'd grinned, when she'd tried denying that there was anything going on between her and Tyler. They'd simply had to pretend they were married and be convincing about it. And she'd insisted that he gave her the bed while she slept on the floor.

Which had been true. Even if only lasted the first night.

“Who cares what people will think,” he'd said. “You're two consenting adults. You ended up getting the job done. Nothing got fucked up because Tyler couldn't keep it in his pants. Hopefully the two of you had some fun while doing that whole pretend marriage thing.”

:If only he'd known just how fun.

“I mean, if you weren't strong enough to stop it, you should have at least been careful about things.”

Esme smirks. “You're starting to sound like Nik.”

“Well, it's true. Don't you think?”

“I think you need to mind your own business kid. What happened between Tyler and I is none of your business. Maybe we should have. Maybe we shouldn't have let ourselves get out so out of control that the thought of being careful never crossed out minds. But it happened. It happened and she's here because of it...” she smiles at the baby sleeping on her thighs; dark eye lashes brushing against her cheeks, mouth moving as if suckling a bottle. And she gently runs her fingers through Amelia's hair, noticing the way the sun picks up the hint of red she'd inherited from her daddy. “..she's here and she's amazing and I'm lucky to have her. To have both of them. Tyler has his issues and his fault. He's not perfect. But he's perfect for me. For us.”

Finally silence. And she feels as if she can breathe again. Not stuck in a seemingly endless circle of having to explain and defend her choices twelve months ago to strangers and friends. Her family had been baffled enough. Not understanding how a simple business trip ended up with her never returning home, a marriage, and a baby. All in the span of less than a year. And if they ever found out the whole truth about the 'business trip'...

***

“Are you happy?” Jason asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you happy?” he repeats. “Like genuinely happy. Or are you just stuck?”

“Kid, you must really have a death wish. Asking me stuff like this. What is wrong with you?”

“It's a simple question.”

“It's a nosy ass question. And I don't know you enough to be talking about these things with you.”

“I don't know why it's so hard to answer.”

“I don't know what's so hard for you to understand that I'm not talking about these things with you. Why are you caught up on my marriage? Jesus.”

“You just don't seem happy is all,” he remarks.

“Well forgive me if this isn't exactly the place I want to be. Dealing with the same kind of bullshit that brought me last year in the first place. You have no idea what went down. How bad it went. So you can't even begin to understand why we are all a little fucked up because of it.”

“Like I said. Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well go and make conversation with someone else, somewhere else. This is not the idea of 'me time' I had when I first came out. So if you don't mind...”

He opens his mouth to continue, but changes his mind.

Several minutes pass by before Esme speaks:

“Are you really that into making yourself feel useful?”

“I like feeling useful.”

“And I can trust you? I need to be able to trust you.”

“You can. One hundred percent.”

“I need you to go to Dhaka and track somebody down. Don't ask me why. You don't need to know why. I just need you to do it.”

“I don't know if it's a good idea to leave. Nik said...”

“I'll take care of Nik,” Esme says. “I would do this myself, but I've been out of the game for a while now and I have no resources left in Dhaka. All of my people have moved on to other things. I need you to track this person down and make arrangements for me to meet them. Three days from now. On the Sultana Kamal Bridge. Nowhere else. It has to be that bridge. Can you do it for me?”

“I'd have to leave tonight. It might take a couple days to even get any info. Never mind actually arrange a meeting.”

“Leave now if you have to. But I need you to do this. Can you? Do this?”'

He sighs heavily. Raking a hand through his sandy hair. Then slowly nods in confirmation and asks:

“So what's the name?”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #i found

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