#wife just repaired those boots for me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

handspunyarns · 9 months

Text

You Were Marked: Day Six point Five.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 8.5 K

chapter summary: Din still hates vomit, Marathel suffers a great loss, and Grogu gets the hiccups.

warnings: illness, angst, allusion to past SA, allusion to suicide ideation, enmeshed misogyny, Mando'a and English cursing

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Din awoke to two tiny feet pushing into the side of his stomach. This neither alarmed nor surprised him anymore. He’d long come to realize that not only was Grogu a Master Blanket-Stealer, he was also a pro at Bed-Crowding. Din would automatically allow the little one wide berth to keep him from rolling over on the boy, which allowed Grogu to take up at least four-fifths of any bed. Grogu had also far surpassed Din in the ability to sleep anywhere, if that time Grogu managed to sleep draped across Din’s neck — and shoving his little foot up under the lip of the helmet, practically up Din’s nose — was any indication. Din sighed and stretched his arms above his head. He held aside a curtain to look at the sky. It was just before dawn. He looked over and noticed that Marathel was no longer in bed, but he could hear movement over at the table. Carefully moving Grogu into the center of the bed tick, Din got up and stepped outside the curtains.

Marathel was at the table, wearing fresh clothes in shades of grey as well as a heavy canvas apron, her hair tied up in a knot on the back of her head. She was straddling the bench with her hand inside one of Din’s boots as she brushed tallow into the leather. One boot sat at her feet, apparently finished. Marathel stopped brushing and ran her hand over the leather. Not satisfied with the finish, she added some more tallow with a cloth and began brushing again. Din felt like a voyeur; he had never witnessed anyone performing such a personal service for him, such a wifely duty. The sight of her polishing his boot seemed so … right. He was also amused that someone who ran continuously barefoot was so skilled at shoe maintenance, until he remembered her off-hand comment about boys’ shoes going missing in the Hold. It would not surprise him in the least if girls were not allowed shoes in the Hold but were responsible for the upkeep of the shoes the boys and men were allowed to wear.

He believed he despised that Hold, as much as he could despise a place he’d never been.

Marathel tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and said, “You need to take better care of your boots. The leather is very thirsty.”

“It’s one of those things I keep meaning to do.”

“The first boot took up most of the tallow I rendered last night from the gwyrlan birds. Lucky, I had some extra.”

“Thank you for doing that.”

Marathel waved it off. “No bother.” She gave the boot one more look-over and held it out to Din. “I think these are done but let me know if they are not to your satisfaction.” Din took the proffered boot, thinking it looked practically brand-new. He took a peek inside and noticed that she had also repaired the torn lining. Marathel noticed and said, “I added insoles I made from sea plant fiber. They will help keep the insides fresher.” She handed him the second boot.

“I am very grateful.”

“Take care of your boots, they will take care of you.”

“We Mandalorians say the same about our armor and weapons.”

“I doubt you strap a boomer to your feet, though.” Din’s head snapped up to look at her, the word blaster on the tip of his tongue, when he saw her smirk. “You may keep the socks, if you like.”

“I couldn’t keep these fine socks.”

Marathel shrugged. “I can always make more. I don’t wear socks very often. In fact, I can give you a couple more pairs.” She got up and pulled her curtains into the hanging strap, smiling at the still-sleeping Grogu. She dug out two more pairs of socks from a basket and held them out to Din. “Go on, take them.” He took them from her, grabbing onto her hand as he did so. Surprised, she met his eyes. Her eyes were marked by dark circles and a look of distress.

Din tilted his helmet. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

Marathel sighed, pulling her hand away. She pulled off her apron and began folding it. Looking down at her hands, she said, “Some Dahls are beginning to lay. A few are still sad that they have no eggs. A few have never laid before, and they are confused and frightened. There are also some who are egg-bound, and they are in pain.”

“What happens to the egg-bound females, if they cannot lay?”

“They die.” She stared at the apron in her hands. “Sometimes mothers die.”

“Yes, they do,” said Din softly, thinking of his mother as well as the sad-faced woman before him, the one he’d be leaving behind tomorrow. At least I won’t be leaving her pregnant, he thought, before he decided that was crude thinking on his part.

Marathel took a quick breath and said, “What would you like for breakfast?”

Din blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Anything you make is fine.”

She smiled indulgently. “I’m not concerned with what you think is fine, I’m asking what you would like. It occurred to me that I’ve been giving you meals with no thought about what you may or may not prefer.”

“Everything you have fed us has been delicious …” Marathel began to roll her eyes. “But, since you ask, traditional Mandalorian food is spicy.”

“Spicy? Peppers and such?” Din nodded. “That is good to know. I do grow peppers, but I honestly use most of them for medicinal purposes. They are tasty, though.” Marathel went to the kitchen and picked up her gardening basket. “In fact, I’ll go pick some now for today’s meals. I’ll be back shortly.” She hopped off the back of the platform and was heading off into the morning light before Din could respond. He looked over his boots again, impressed by her skill, noticing that the insides did indeed smell clean and fresh. He sat down and pulled them on, stamping them on the floor. They felt good. He looked over at his armor, wondering if he should wait to put it back on, remembering Marathel’s disturbing dream. He felt uneasy without both the armor and his weapons but decided that he might upset her if she returned to find him wearing it. He didn’t quite believe that her distress was caused merely by the Dahls.

Din heard Grogu making squeaks in his sleep. He went over to Marathel’s bed tick and sank down to his knees on the edge. “Hey, little bub, you wanna wake up?” Din leaned over, rubbing Grogu’s back. “It’s morning, kiddo.” Grogu responded by grumbling and burrowing into the blanket. Din chuckled. “Okay, you’re off the hook for now.” He left Grogu where he was and filled Marathel’s kettle to make tea. He also stoked the fire and rearranged some of the wood within. He wondered if Marathel needed more wood chopped, or if there was some other chore he could do, something he could do to please her and thank her for her kindness, her hospitality … and for her companionship, something Din hadn’t known he needed until Grogu came into his life. He went to the edge of the platform to wait for her.

Marathel was kneeling in her garden. She had picked her few pepper plants clean, hoping that she could come up with dishes that the Bounty Hunter would enjoy. So, these Mandalorians like spicy food. It occurred to her that she knew very little about the Bounty Hunter, which seemed to be by design, considering his armor, full- body coverings, and helmet. She assumed he had some sort of name, but he’d never offered it, so she had left it at that. Every now and again, he’d release some tidbit about himself, the most surprising and confusing of which had to do with what he called his religion.

The word religion meant nothing to her. Marathel understood rules, that was an easy concept to grasp. He couldn’t remove his gloves, except when he could; he was not allowed to remove or lift his helmet before her, yet he could behind her; obviously using a woman was allowable — him being a man, of course it was — but she felt reasonably certain that her laying him out mostly naked the other night was an indiscretion, as he called it.

Then on the other hand, last night, he was insistent on her pleasure, her experience … and her permission. Never had she heard of such a thing. His apology to her baffled her, even upset her. He was desirous enough of her body to want her, to have her, wasn’t that all that was needed? Yet if the use of her body also required her pleasure … then why hide his face?

Leave it alone, Marathel, you both had too many dreamberries last night. Surely, he regrets having touched you in such a way.

Then why his insistence on touching her hand this morning? His concern over how she slept following her nightmare?

It is nothing, he is leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow, nothing will matter anymore. He will be gone. And so will you.

Marathel slowly stood, picked up her basket, and started back down the path to the hut. Along the way, she shifted her thoughts back to the Dahls. Her young females seemed to be okay. The four who could lay eggs would be laying that night. None were egg-bound. Old Rodanthe was long past egg laying, but she was very sad today, and Marathel was unsure why. Rodanthe was the only Dahl who truly mirrored Marathel’s feelings, as if they shared the same heart.

Marathel’s original plan for the end of her life was to no longer bond with new Dahl kits, but to suffer the loss of the ones she had, and then … decide how to go on from there, if to go on from there. Now, she didn’t have to concern herself with that. That decision was out of her hands.

She looked up to see the Bounty Hunter leaning against her post, waiting for her. The early morning sun glinted off his helmet, but he still had not put on the rest of his armor. Somehow, she had accepted the helmet as his face, just as she had accepted his name as “Bounty Hunter.” She wondered if he would allow her to learn the truth about either … or if it even mattered, really.

He’s waiting for you.

He just wants breakfast.

Of course, he wants breakfast, he’s a man, you silly gochgoch. That doesn’t mean he can’t have … affection for you.

The idea warmed her soul and brought a smile to her face.

Din smiled under his helmet at the sight of Marathel’s smile. The sun was behind her, making the stray strands of hair that floated away from her head glisten like sparks from a welder. He was trying to memorize her walk, the way her hips swayed, how her bare feet turned out slightly with each step, the swing of her arm not holding the basket. He stepped forward as she came to the edge of the platform. He took the basket from her and offered her his hand to help her up. Marathel noticed that he was wearing his gloves again as the Bounty Hunter pulled her to his level. He was still holding her hands, thinking about kissing her, when she suddenly looked down to her feet; Marathel had felt the grasp of tiny, clawed hands around her ankle. “I appear to have grown a Grogu again.”

“He loves you.”

“He’s just hungry.”

“He’s capable of both.”

Marathel laughed. “I suppose he likes spicy food, too?”

“He has a stomach of beskar.”

“Well, then I suppose you should try each of these peppers; tell me which ones you like.”

Din stepped back while Marathel turned to pick up the basket. She had four or five varieties that went from a large berry-looking thing to a shriveled tiny claw-shaped thing. He picked up the tiny pepper and turned his back to put it up under his helmet, eating the pepper, stem and all. “Hm. Almost but not quite bland.”

Marathel’s eyebrows shot up. “That was my spiciest pepper. You must also have a stomach of beskar.”

“I wouldn’t be a proper Mandalorian if I didn’t.” He reached down to pick up Grogu. “Hey, buddy, let’s get out of Mahr’s way.” He took the child to the front of the hut. Marathel took the basket to the kitchen to cook something that hopefully wouldn’t set her head on fire.

What Marathel came up with was a pan-fry-up of tubers, both sweet and spicy peppers, and sliced sausage in a white sauce over her toasted bread. It burned her mouth, but she thought it was quite good. If she had known the combination would be so tasty, she would have tried it long ago. Grogu, of course, inhaled the contents of his bowl. She was wiping Grogu’s mouth clean when she heard Rodanthe calling for her.

Marathel looked up and saw the Dahl standing alone at the edge of the yard, just out of the tall grass. Confused, she stood and went towards the animal. Rodanthe sat on her haunches, eyes whirling. “What is it, pet? Where are the others?” Marathel went to one knee and stroked the Dahl’s head. Rodanthe made a quiet keening noise as she looked deeply into Marathel’s eyes. Marathel felt a sense of great loss. “What are you doing, Rodanthe?” The Dahl remained still, and the whirling of her eyes came slowly to a stop. Marathel gasped. “No, please, Rodanthe, why would you leave me? You’re not dying, I know you’re not.” Marathel put her forehead to the Dahl’s broad face. “I don’t understand; why are you doing this?” Her voice began to grow shrill as she felt Rodanthe pull herself from Marathel’s heart. “No, no! Stop this! Don’t leave me! You can’t, please!” Rodanthe escaped Marathel’s grasp and ran off into the tall grass. “Noooooo!” Marathel screamed as she gave chase.

Din had finished eating and was replacing his helmet as he heard Marathel’s cries. He looked up to see her run into the tall grass. He grabbed a blaster and ran after her. Marathel continued to cry out for Rodanthe as the Dahl outran her through the grass and up into the mountain pass.

“NO! Please, please stop! Don’t leave me now, I beg you! ONE MORE DAY! Rodanthe, please!” Marathel stopped running, put her hands over her head, and shrieked, the same shriek Din had heard in his dream. It was soul-crushing, heart-destroying, the shriek that Marathel uttered as she felt Rodanthe unbind herself, removing herself from her heart, mind, and soul, and Marathel screamed, “DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!” as Din reached her, putting his arms around her, but she broke free of his grasp, crying, “Don’t touch me! Oh, it HURTS!”

Din stood back, surprised, but did not approach her again. Marathel rocked on her feet, holding her head in her hands, crying out, “Why, Rodanthe, why?!”

Din wondered why himself. Why would Rodanthe leave Marathel now, of all times? And why would Marathel say ‘one more day’? Did Rodanthe see me as Marathel’s new protector?

Din didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything, other than Marathel’s heart was broken and there was nothing he could do for her. Grogu came running — making Din feel like a right heel for leaving him behind — crying himself as he hugged her ankle tightly.

Marathel stood with her face in her hands, sobbing, and it was some time before she got some hold of herself. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, cyar’e.” Din reached into an inner pocket and found one of the cloths he’d taken to carrying since Grogu appeared on the scene. Damn kid would leak from all ports on occasion. Stepping to her side, he pressed it against the back of her hand, and she took it, holding it to her face.

After another long while, she wiped her nose and looked out over the landscape. Her shoulders slumped and her face fell. Din recognized that look: defeat. “It’s so quiet now,” Marathel murmured. She looked down at Grogu and silently removed his hands from her ankle before she turned and started to walk back. Din picked up Grogu, who whined and buried his face in Din’s neck. He let Marathel walk ahead of him for a while before he followed her.

Marathel stood in the yard, staring at her hut. She’d lived here alone for so long, with only the Dahls for company. Now it seemed she was truly alone. Rodanthe must have been her lifeline to hearing all the other Dahls, and now there was almost silence, just the slightest of background noise to remind her she still had some contact with them. She sighed and stepped up into the hut, picking up the empty breakfast bowls from the step. She deposited the bowls in the sink, intending to clean the kitchen, which now seemed pointless. An ocean breeze came through the hut, and her shaking hands stilled. She turned to the corner post, where she had spent so much of her time since coming here, leaning, thinking, wishing, hoping for some slight elevation to her life from the dreary path she knew it would ultimately take regardless. She pulled her hair down from its untidy knot and let it fall, then sat down and leaned back against the post, staring off into the distance, hugging her knees with her elbows.

Din set Grogu down and joined Marathel on the floor, sitting behind her, taking a lock of her hair and curling it around his gloved finger. “Has a Dahl ever left you like that before?”

“No.” Marathel sighed. “When they’re ready to die, they come to me and let me hold them as they go, so they don’t have to be alone. They just slip away from me. But this … it hurts so much worse. She’s unbound herself from me, and I don’t know why.” Marathel went quiet for a while. “I feel like you’ve seen nothing but the worst of me since you’ve been here.”

Din thought about that, but the only images that came to mind were of her smile, her eyes, the gentle curve of her lips and jaw and shoulder, her strong hands holding Grogu so tenderly, the swells of her breasts and generous hips, and the look of her face in climax – the way she held her mouth, her eyes almost closed but not quite, the flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her eyebrows knitted together. “If that’s what you think, Marathel, then you should know that your worst is better than the most people’s best.” Marathel was silent. “I’m sorry she’s gone, mesh’la.”

Marathel took a deep breath, but still said nothing. Grogu toddled to Marathel’s side, placing a hand on her hip. She looked down at him, and he looked at her cautiously, as if afraid she would reject him again. Marathel lifted her hand and stroked the child’s face. “My sweet, my dear, my darling child, soon you’ll be far away from me,” she sang. Her voice was sweet and clear as a Naboo lake. “Forgive me, little one. Mahr is very sad.”

“Sad Mahr?” crooned Grogu, startling Din.

“Yes, sweet, sad Mahr.”

“Marathel …” breathed Din. “He said sad.”

“Yes, he did, Bounty Hunter. Clear as day.”

“No, you don’t understand …” Din rolled up to one knee behind her, reaching for the boy. “He said sad. He’s never said actual words before.”

“He says Patu and Mahr quite well.”

“Well, fine. Understandable words.”

“You are Patu and I am Mahr. I think he’s quite understandable. I am not happy that his first Newtalk word is sad, however.” Marathel drew her legs under her to stand. “Still … such a momentous occasion should be celebrated.” She stood and sighed. “Who likes clams?”

Minutes later, they were walking towards the lava flats. Din had donned his armor — he didn’t feel right about leaving it unattended, despite Marathel’s assurances no one would bother it — and he carried Grogu in a bag and the wooden rake, while Marathel had a large shallow basket. Marathel kept looking out over the landscape, trying to hear the Dahls. Without Rodanthe’s connection, she could barely hear them now. The ones that she could hear were currently laying, and she made a mental note of where the Dahls’ clutches were.

Din looked towards her. “Are the Dahls laying?”

“Yes.”

“What of the ones who were egg-bound?”

Marathel didn’t know any longer. Finally, she said, “They are quiet.” The Bounty Hunter nodded, which she took as acceptance.

“I can help you find eggs tonight.”

Marathel shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. I know where the clutches are … and it’s only proper I do it myself.”

“This is the way?”

“Just so, yes.” They went past the lava flats to a low-tide beach that was flat as far as Din could see. “The clams we want are in the shallows. It would be about hip-high on Grogu. But the sand is solid, and he won’t sink in like you did in the mud. The only thing out there to worry about are sand fleas. But they only bite if you stand on them for too long.”

“I suppose that would be okay,” said Din, as he removed Grogu from his bag, and took off his tiny robe and beskar shirt. “Off you go, you little nudist.” He set Grogu on the ground and the boy immediately ran for the water.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking, Bounty Hunter … you shouldn’t come into the water with us. Your boots are waterproofed, but they haven’t cured yet. I’m sorry.”

Din looked at her, and then saw a large boulder close the the water’s edge. “Fine. I can sit there and keep an eye on you two.” He hoisted himself on the boulder, and Marathel went to join Grogu in the shallows. She had rolled up her pants legs over her knees and was showing Grogu how to find the clams by looking for little spouts of sand in the water. She dug up the clams with her hands, placing them in the shallow basket she had floating beside her. She tied the basket to Grogu’s wrist with a tether, and began searching for clams herself, dragging the rake across the sands. As Marathel dug out the clams, she tossed them into the basket. She had the basket about half filled when a pair of sock-covered feet waded into view. She straightened up to see the Bounty Hunter, resplendent in armor, standing in ankle-high water with stockinged feet, looking back at her. “Oh, for the love of Frith,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Din shrugged. “I got bored.”

“I have seen your hands, but bare feet are out of the question?”

“Feet are more … intimate.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to pew-pew-pew the clams out of the water.”

“That would be inefficient. Now, if I had my net launcher … what the shab is biting my foot?”

Marathel sighed. “Step back.” He did, and she bent down and outdug a white crawly crustacean-type critter, about the size of his palm, with an articulated shell. She held it up before his visor. “Sand flea.”

She flicked her arm, and Din watched the ugly thing skip half a dozen times on the water’s surface before disappearing under a wave. “Some flea.”

Marathel went back to raking the sandy bottom. She brought up a number of clams, and she bent over to pick them up, unintentionally giving Din quite a view. He shifted to one hip and tilted his head before she realized what he was doing. “Are you staring at my backside?”

“Of course.”

She sighed and straightened, tossing the clams into the basket. “You are infuriating.” A little smile belied her words, however, and Din was stepping closer to her when Grogu squawked in pain.

Marathel was closer, and she plucked Grogu out of the water with one hand and a sand flea out of the sand with the other. She held it in her palm before Grogu, saying, “Nasty, mean, sand flea! Show me how you throw it, Grogu.” Grogu grunted and the sand flea flew from her hand, skipping across the water’s surface and far out of sight. Marathel laughed. “Show-off.” She looked at Grogu’s foot where he had been pinched by the sand flea. “So brave in the face of mortal danger! But I think you’ll live, little one.” She nuzzled his nose and began to hum her tune again, swaying back and forth, twirling in big circles in the water. As she passed by the Bounty Hunter, he slipped his arm around her waist and joined her in her lazy spins, which made Marathel laugh. The basket tether entangled around their legs, pulling them tightly against each other. Din lifted his other hand to her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb, leaning down to keldabe kiss her on her forehead.

After a few more slow spins, he said, “Come with me.”

Marathel stopped moving and pulled back to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me. Don’t go to the Hold, forget the Aurodium. Just come with me and leave this planet.”

Her brow furrowed. “No … No! You have to get those coins. The Elders have no use for them!” She tried to push herself away from the Bounty Hunter, but the basket tether was tangled around both of them. “You must receive that reward, you are bound to take it to your people, for the foundlings, for ransoming your beskar! Otherwise … it’s all pointless.”

Din felt his stomach drop. “What is pointless, Marathel?”

“I … you have your path you must follow. I have mine. Your path is to take the reward and help your people. And I remain here.”

“Then I will come ba …”

“NO. Don’t say it … don’t make that kind of promise to me.” She untied the tether from Grogu’s wrist and gave him to the Bounty Hunter as she untangled the line from their legs. “You won’t be able to keep that promise. I will be …” She gestured vaguely, her back to him. “I will be nowhere,” she said, indicating the land around her. “I am far, far away from anywhere you need to be; I would be nothing but a burden to you, a woman who is useless and ignorant of everything you know so well. You have to protect Grogu, be with your people, follow your Creed. This is the way, yes?”

“This is the way,” Din responded automatically.

“Then we understand each other,” said Marathel as she picked up the basket. “You take me to the Hold with the Dahl eggs, you get your reward, and you leave.”

“And happens to you in that Hold, Marathel?”

“Nothing. I only deliver eggs.” Marathel began to walk back up the sandy flat to the path.

“Stop lying to me, Marathel. Horrible things happen to the women there. The children, too.” He followed her, placing Grogu in the carry bag over his shoulder, quickly stripping his wet socks and pulling his boots on. Hurrying to catch up with her, Din demanded, “Tell me why you have a brand on your leg.”

Marathel misstepped just enough to prove to Din he’d touched a nerve, then carried on walking. “You are mistaken. I have no brand.”

“Yes, you do. It’s on your inner thigh. And it’s been there since you were a small child.”

She whirled around to face him. “That is a scar from when I was jumping over rows in the Hold garden, and I fell on a stake. And I was not aware that you were … studying my body so closely.” She turned back to continue down the path. “When were you doing that? Before or after you begged my permission to touch me? With your helmet that lets you see in the dark?”

“Marathel …”

“You were quite eager to have me those other times.”

“Those other times were not exactly consensual, Marathel.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

Din sighed. “You didn’t consent. Your bond with the Dahls forced your actions.” Marathel continued to walk before him on the path. “Are you angry with me again, mesh’la?”

“I don’t know. Are you staring at my backside again?”

“Of course.” Marathel scowled at him over her shoulder. “What is a Whyn, Marathel?”

“Frith save us,” she muttered. “A Whyn is … it’s nothing more than a woman who is come of an age that she can be matched to a man. That’s it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t help that. And I also don’t understand your religion.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“I suppose that’s good, then.” Marathel stopped on the path and turned to the Bounty Hunter. “Why are we even arguing?”

Din shifted to one hip and crossed his arms. “Lucky for you we are not at the covert. Arguments there are usually fought until first blood.”

“It is good we did not follow your example in the Hold.”

“You didn’t argue with anyone?”

Marathel started back down the path. “We had enough to be worried about.”

“Marathel,” said Din, reaching for her arm, stopping her. “What happens tomorrow?”

“As I said. You take me to the Hold, I deliver the eggs, you get the reward, and you leave.”

Din put his hands on her jaw, forcing her to keep eye contact with him. “What happens to you?”

Marathel put her hands over his, trying to remove them from her face, but he held fast. “Nothing happens to me.” Din shook his head in disbelief. “They may …” She swallowed and averted her eyes. “They may want me to stay close, for the hatching, to make sure bonds happen. That is it, that is all. I have no other use there.” Not anymore.

Din did not believe her, but he also knew that she would not tell him the truth. He released her, and she headed back down the path towards the hut. Grogu took hold of Din’s thumb, and they looked at each other. Grogu’s face told Din he didn’t believe Marathel either.

Finally, back at the hut, Marathel set the basket of clams in the stream, placing rocks in the basket to weigh it down. She climbed up into the hut and sat on the counter to wash her hands and feet in the sink. Din stepped up after her. “Give me those wet socks, Bounty Hunter, I will wash them. I repaired your other clothing. If you will change, I will wash and repair what you are wearing.”

“Grogu needs a bath as well.”

“I can do that. I have some new clothes for him. I’ll take him; you can bring your things to the washtub out back.” Din handed Grogu off to Marathel. Stepping off the platform again, she said, “Your clothes are on the table, Bounty Hunter. I will give you privacy.” She disappeared behind the hut. Din followed her example and sat on the counter to wash his feet in the sink, thinking to himself he had lied to her as well … feet were not exactly off-limits: he just thought his feet were ugly.

Once his feet were clean of sand, and his boots shaken out, Din took his stack of clean laundry behind his curtains. He looked over the topmost jacket and found that Marathel had indeed repaired his clothing. Every seam was tight, every rip sewn closed with extra reinforcement. The thread she used was almost an exact match to the fabric of his flight suits, and he had not noticed it before, but the thread matched the fabric of the curtains that surrounded him. Even the fabric of the bed tick he stood on was the same color. And then he saw, inside the jacket, on the inner pocket that would be over his heart, he saw his signet, the Mudhorn, carefully embroidered in the same thread, almost invisible.

He removed his glove with his teeth so that he could touch with his fingertips the threads that she had placed there. He pulled up his helmet and pressed his lips against her handiwork, overwhelmed by even this small gesture of hers.

“Bounty Hunter?” Marathel called.

Din snapped out of his reverie. “Yes?”

“Is the clothing repaired to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, yes, it is … I’ll be just a moment.”

Behind the hut, Marathel frowned. She could have sworn that his voice was different, somehow, not as … flat. She shook her head and returned her focus to the little child. “I know, my little Godynferth, two baths in as many days is such an insult. So is getting pinched by a sand flea.” She vigorously soaped up Grogu, who squirmed and giggled, and then hiccuped a soap bubble, making Marathel giggle as well. She massaged both of his sweet ears, and Grogu purred. She bent down to look into his lovely eyes. “I am going to miss you so much, my little one. Thank you for letting me be your mam for a little while. Thank you for letting me borrow you from your da,” she whispered. Grogu reached up to touch her cheek, and his tiny hand caught the tears there, and she felt a warmth where her tears had been. She kissed his head, and then laughed as she managed to sniff some soap suds up her nose.

Din came around the corner just then to see Marathel laughing and choking on the soap suds in her nose, and Grogu hiccuping another soap bubble. “Problems?”

Marathel sneezed. “No, just …” she sneezed again. “Soap up my nose.” She sniffled and scrubbed her nose with her hand.

Din sighed and rinsed off Grogu, who continued to hiccup. “A hot mess, both of you. C’mere, kid,” he said, lifting the boy out and wrapping him in a towel. “You said you had new clothes for him?”

Marathel held up her finger, her face contorted, and then she sneezed again, the loudest one yet. “Frith, that one felt good.”

“Try that again, Marathel, I don’t think they heard you on Nevarro.” She laughed, and Grogu hiccuped again. “I don’t know how to get rid of hiccups, little guy, I’m sorry.”

“Just rub his back, Bounty Hunter. Give him a couple little thumps; he’ll be fine.” She took the Bounty Hunter’s flight suit and wet socks and dumped them into the washtub while he bounced the boy and tapped on his back. “Oh, for the love of Frith, you are far too timid with him.” She took Grogu back and swung the boy upside down and then up, catching him roughly and giving him a solid thump on his back. Grogu made one last belching hiccup and then squealed, wanting more horseplay. “There. All better.” Marathel plunked Grogu back on Din’s arm, then deftly fed his little legs into a pair of soft knitted underwear with a smocked waist. Before Grogu could squeak, she grabbed both his arms and flipped a little tan-colored shirt over his head. Next, Marathel took Grogu and set him on his feet on the bench, wrapping him in a cunning overall type of dark grey pants that had shoulder straps. The pant legs were open on the sides, much like a backwards apron, but she ran the fabric through his legs, tying the whole affair around his waist. Grogu was fully dressed in less than half a minute. Din generally had to both wheedle and coerce the kid to wear any damn thing, and it often took forever.

Din crossed his arms. “Again, I’m impressed. That might have taken me half the afternoon.”

Marathel shrugged and fastened the little ties at Grogu’s ankles to hold the pants’ legs closed. “Sometimes you just have to show them who’s boss. Especially when you’re trying to dress over a dozen little squirmy boys by yourself.”

“What are these — pants things you’ve got on him?”

“We always just called them jump-ups; they are easy to make and put on little ones. Easy access, too, for the necessary.”

Din realized that everything Grogu was wearing was new. He looked at the stack of tiny clothing; there were several more items that he had not seen before. “When did you make all this, Marathel?”

Marathel started to agitate the laundry in the tub. “Yesterday and last night. Early this morning.”

“Did you not sleep at all?”

“I had much to do. There will be time to sleep later.”

Din lifted Grogu — who seemed quite taken with his new clothing — into his arms. On the hem of the right shirtsleeve, Din saw a tiny embroidered Mudhorn. Again, Din felt overwhelmed by what this woman was willing to do for a man and a little boy she only met a few days ago. “Thank you, mesh’la … thank you for what you have done for us.”

“It was nothing, Bounty Hunter.”

“No, cyar’e … you have shown us such a great kindness.” Din reached for Marathel, turning her away from the washtub. He cupped her jaw with his free hand before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against him, Grogu tucked between them. It took her a while, but she embraced him back, tucking her face against his neck, their heights almost equal, and Din had never experienced such a perfect fit against him before.

She is so soft.

He is so strong.

I wish I could hold her forever.

I must ask him before I lose my nerve.

“If … if I …” Marathel stammered, her forehead against the Bounty Hunter’s throat.

“If you what, mesh’la?”

“If I … give myself to you, fully as myself, for tonight … would you remove your helmet, so that I may have a memory of your face?”

Din was not surprised that she asked, only that it took this long for her to do so. “You know I cannot, Marathel. My Creed forbids it.”

“Not even … not even in the case of affection?”

Din sighed. There were ways around the helmet, he knew. But blindfolding her, forcing her to face away from him – especially since he would be leaving her behind -- seemed as tawdry as how he only bared just what was necessary for a quick bang in a brothel. And Marathel deserved better. So, there was only one answer he could give while he still possessed a thimbleful of honor. “If there were someone for whom my affection was stronger than my devotion to the Creed, then yes, I would. But …”

But that person is not you, Marathel, she thought. She had expected a rejection such as this, and it did not devastate her as much as she had anticipated; she only felt a weariness that was all too familiar to her. Yes, he had been putting his hands on her for the past few days, holding her, caressing her, but not for any kind of fondness, but only as a preamble for him to use her as he wished, while maintaining his anonymity. Even his request for her to come with him when he left was nothing more than a solicitation for her to be his concubine. She had known better than to ask, but she had held out hope that for once, just once in this miserable life of hers, that she could ask for more than what she apparently deserved.

She pulled away from Din, but Grogu held on to her tunic. She looked down at the boy. “Forgive me for asking such a thing in front of the child. It was cruel of me to ask you to break your Creed. Of course, that honor should be bestowed on the one you love best … and that should be Grogu. Your son.” Marathel peeled Grogu’s little fingers off her tunic, turned away, and went back to turning the paddle in the washtub to clean the Bounty Hunter’s clothing.

“Marathel, I …”

“Would you be so kind to pull the basket of clams out of the stream? They should have spit out all the salt and sand by now. Chuck out the ones that didn’t open. They are bad and shouldn’t be eaten.”

Din stood there a while, knowing that he’d not handled that well, limited as he was to what he could do within the rules of his Creed. And now he’d been dismissed. “Of course,” he said, and headed back around the corner of the hut, Grogu reaching for Marathel over Din’s shoulder. Marathel managed to keep her tears in until the Bounty Hunter was out of sight, and then she quietly sobbed into her hands.

Too much had passed between them to allow them to ignore each other. Marathel was civil and formal, with vague smiles for the Bounty Hunter and loving cuddles for Grogu. For dinner she made a fragrant and spicy clam stew that she served over cooked grains with the ubiquitous bread and soft cheese. Din held the bowl in his hands as he sat behind the dark curtains, watching Marathel and Grogu play in the yard. The stew smelled delicious. The bread, of course, was Marathel’s bread, so Din naturally inhaled it first. The only problem was … Din hated clams. But he decided he would eat every last one of the slimy fuckers in this bowl before he hurt Marathel’s feelings again. Making her mad enough to chuck eggs at him was one thing, but he’d heard her crying behind the hut and Grogu had looked at him with all the reproach a fifty-odd-year-old toddler could.

Marathel and Grogu were playing their running game, the rules for which escaped Din. Sometimes they hopped on one foot, sometimes they had to walk backwards, and sometimes Marathel pretended she had no bones and lay there like a lump while Grogu tried to move her. Din was no good at dissembling, telling stories, or making up running games. At that moment, Marathel was lying on her back, balancing Grogu on her upraised feet. Her loose pant legs slid down to her hips, exposing her long legs, still sporting bruises. Grogu stood up on one of her feet, and balanced there, motionless, for an impossibly long time, as stones began to rise all around them. Din could feel the air crackle with power as he watched Grogu harness more of the Force. Slowly, the stones returned to the ground, and Grogu lost his balance on Marathel’s feet. He tumbled into her arms as she sat up and praised the boy. They both stood up and the running game began again, this time ducking in and out of the tall grass. Din finished the stew with a grimace. It was spicy and had wonderful flavor, but those clams left a bad taste in Din’s mouth. He hoped he wouldn’t be revisiting them later. He replaced his helmet and stepped out to locate Marathel and Grogu.

Just then, the two came tearing out of the grass, Marathel carrying a pile of small sticks, Grogu holding a stick like a spear. As they passed Din, Marathel called out, “You’re just in time for another round of poosticks, Bounty Hunter!”

“Poosticks?”

“The floating stick race, of course, you silly gochgoch!” They bounded up into the hut, finding the yarn and tying the yarn around their respective sticks. “I’ll pick a good one out for you, Bounty Hunter,” called Marathel.

“Okay,” Din called back as he felt his stomach turn over. Oh, those clams were already rebelling against him. Looking for an escape, he dashed into the tall grass, dropped to his knees, and ripped off his helmet just in time to hurl his dinner across four feet. He didn’t think Marathel had noticed, or heard, but then he heard her feet hitting the ground as she ran across the yard to the edge of the tall grass.

“Bounty Hunter? Are you all right?”

Din dry heaved, and called out, “Yes.”

“But you’re throwing up,” said Marathel, noticing that his voice was lacking that flat quality again, same as the voice she had heard earlier.

“It … I’m sorry, it was the clams.”

“The clams?”

“I hate clams. They make me sick.” Din sat down and tucked his head between his knees. He hated throwing up as much as he hated seeing others vomit. He took a couple of deep breaths before he realized that Marathel was laughing. “Yes, go ahead, laugh.”

“I’m so sorry … but why didn’t you just say you hated clams? I would have made something else.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“Foolish pride, Bounty Hunter, and now I have to live with the fact that my cooking made you sick.” Her tone was more amused than vexed, however. “Are you feeling any better?”

Din lifted his head from between his knees, and Marathel just caught the top of his head moving in the tall grass, and she noticed his brown hair. He has brown hair. Brown hair and brown eyes and tanned skin. It was a pretty brown too, brown as the shells of the tree nuts she liked to make a dense flour out of for cookies. “I’m fine. I’ll be a few minutes.”

“I’ll make you a cup of tea to help settle your stomach. I can also make some broth for you.”

“Please don’t make a fuss.”

“Toast?”

“Yes, please.”

“Thought so.” Marathel went back to the hut, where Grogu was levitating the little sticks. Din took another breath and spit a couple times before putting his helmet on again. On a good day, breathing his own exhales was tolerable, but having to breathe in recycled clams was not enjoyable in the least. He stood up unsteadily and went back to the hut, straight into his curtained cubicle, and stripped off the helmet again. He laid down on the bed tick, put his arm over his eyes and felt his stomach rumble. After a few minutes, he heard something sliding on the floor. He looked over to see a tray sliding under a curtain. “I’ve closed my eyes, Bounty Hunter, I’m not peeking, I promise.” On the tray was a mug of weak tea, another mug filled with cool water, a clean cloth, and a plate with toast soldiers and crackers.

“Thank you, mesh’la.”

“You’re welcome, ma’mwsh ha’laa.” Din chuckled. “Is your helmet off, Bounty Hunter?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So that’s what your voice sounds like?”

Din was not accustomed to hearing his voice outside his helmet, and he wasn’t fond of his voice in the helmet. “Yes, it is.”

Marathel was quiet for a moment. “Your voice is very nice.” She collected Grogu and went back to play in the yard for a while as it began to get dark. Din rested until his stomach decided to calm down, sipping the tea, nibbling the crackers, watching the woman and the boy gambol about the yard, just like the first day they arrived. Six days. Six days on a hunt normally would have pissed the living shab out of him ten times over, but he would have been willing to wait here sixteen days. Sixty. Anything to extend the time he could remain here in this little hut with Marathel and this idyllic life. Din put on his helmet and stepped back out in time to find Marathel coming back to the hut, holding a sleepy Grogu. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I truly am sorry about the clams.”

“You didn’t know,” said the Bounty Hunter.

“No, I didn’t, because a certain Bounty Hunter is a twmffod.” Marathel set Grogu down on the table and deftly undressed him from the shirt and overalls and into a soft-looking set of pants and shirt to sleep in, something Din never bothered with.

Din tilted his helmet. “I’m assuming a twmffod is similar to an osi’kovid?”

“I suspect so.” Marathel lifted Grogu and put him into his pram. She gave him a goodnight kiss, and stroked his ear while Din whispered his nightly Mando’a to the boy before snapping the lid closed. “What is it that you say to him each night?”

“It roughly translates to sleep, little soldier, in the morning we will battle and draw first blood.”

“How charming.” Marathel gently placed her hand on his arm between his pauldron and elbow. “You are feeling better, yes?”

“Yes, thank you, mesh’la.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with his gloved finger. “I’m sorry … sorry I can’t give you what you have asked of me.” What you deserve.

Marathel dropped her chin and slid her hands up her sleeves, a move Din hadn’t seen her make in days. “It is nothing, Bounty Hunter. I was in the wrong for making such a suggestion.”

Din slid his hands down her arms and drew her hands out of her sleeves. “Would you, though … would you allow me to lay next to you again tonight, and let me hold you?” Marathel’s eyes remained downcast. “I promise you, Marathel, on the honor of my people, I will only hold you. Nothing else.”

Marathel looked up at the Bounty Hunter’s face, furrowing her brow, wishing that she could see some expression that matched what was in his voice. He had brown hair; he had brown eyes, but this knowledge did not alter the dark visor set in the middle of an expanse of metal. She nodded and said, “Okay.”

Din stepped back, pulling gently on her hands, asking wordlessly for her to follow him to her bed. Marathel followed, and Din pulled aside the curtains and handed her through, and then got down to one knee to assist her down to the bed. He lay beside her on his side, Marathel on her back, and he slipped his arm underneath her head, reaching his other arm across her middle, his hand resting on her ribs. “My mesh’la, my cyar’e,” he whispered.

Marathel did not respond. She lifted her hand to hold the Bounty Hunter’s gloved hand that lay on her. She felt cold and alone. He had pretty words, but they were spoken from behind a wall of protective fabric, leather and metal. His hands were strong and warm, but they were only revealed to her when he wished to fondle her skin. She offered him everything she had, which was little to be proud of, being plain, fat, and dumb, with only the request that he allow her all that he had as well, to be equals, but he denied her. But, being a man, that was his privilege, after all.

You are less than, Marathel, you always will be.

But not for much longer.

Marathel lay still, listening to the Bounty Hunter's even breathing while she waited for him to fall asleep.

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

#din djarin fluff #mando fluff #Mandalorian fluff #din djarin angst #mando angst #mandalorian angst #the mandalorian fluff #din djarin #din djarin series #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian x oc #mandalorian fic #mandalorian fanfiction

15 notes · View notes

rainy-circle · 1 year

Note

What are your Zora headcanons for the old farts (affectionate) like Seggin, Trello, Muzu?

VIBRATES EXCITEDLY

putting a cut here because this got long. no surprise there

OKAY SO HCs for all three/the Zora elders in general:

All Zoras automatically become a member of the Council of Elders once they reach a certain age (390 in my notes, don't ask me why that specifically I don't remember), but they can become a member as early as 300 if the other Council members approve and they want to be.

In game there's only 6 members, but in the process of making family trees for everyone I ended up inventing a lot of grandparents, so in my notes there's like... I think at least 20 kicking around?

all three were once married but their spouses have since passed, for differing reasons I'll get into!

(I made myself promise that I'd only add a name to a Zora in the family trees if they actually came up in the story, because if I did name all of them I would've driven myself insane. So their spouses don't have names currently but idk maybe one day in the future they will!)

MUZU

Muzu's actually quite a bit older than King Dorephan, but the two of them have known each other and been friends for a long time - they had a bit of an intergenerational friendship when Dorephan was young/a kid and Muzu was a teen/young adult. Muzu was the Domain's main librarian and young Prince Dorephan was shy and hung out there a lot and a friendship happened eventually.

Muzu's wife was a stoneworker and helped do a lot of the little repairs that we see Fronk and Ledo doing in-game. She's probably part of the reason the Domain has such a cool art nouveau style to it. (Maybe she is even the stoneworker who made the Zora Stone Monuments that Link has to go find, which also means she's the one who just straight up forgot to sign her name. I find the thought of Muzu being married to a woman like that hilarious.) She passed away peacefully during the time Link was in the Shrine of Resurrection, at the age of 394.

They decided at some point that they were happy going without children of their own, preferring to help raise the rest of the Domain's children as kind of aunt and uncle figures. I imagine this decision, plus Muzu's long standing friendship with Dorephan, is what made Muzu particularly close to Mipha, and why her death hit him so hard.

SEGGIN

Seggin has one of the smallest family trees because it's literally just Him + Wife = Bazz. I think at one point I did toy around with the idea of Bazz having a sister and Tottika and Torfeau being his niece and nephew, but for one reason or another I decided to make him a single only child. I feel like because of this Seggin is absolutely one of those parents who's like WHEN ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED. I WANT GRANDCHILDREN.

In addition to making family trees for everyone I also sort of gave each family a motif animal that their headcanon appearances are based off of, because who says the Royal Family gets to have all the fun. Seggin and Bazz are based off of eels, and Seggin's specific animal is of course, an electric eel. That's why he's the only Zora in the Domain who can handle firing electric arrows.

I had Seggin's wife down as a kind of scientist who studies mushrooms, but like. I'd have to boot up the game and see what kinds of mushrooms grow around the Domain, if any?? Do they sell Rushrooms in the shop or am I just making that up. ANYWAY, she died during the incident detailed in the "King Dorephan Stands His Ground" monument, when a rogue corrupted Guardian rampaged through the Domain. Losing her to a bit of corrupted Shiekah technology + his status as a retired knight + the above point about being the one electric eel Zora = his determination to bring down Vah Ruta without outside help.

TRELLO

In my very earliest versions of my notes I wanted to give one of the 6 canon elders a husband and I originally had it as Jiahto, but I guess in the various revisions I forgot that and Jiahto definitely has a wife, so FUCK IT it's Trello now, Trello's the one with a dead husband.

I can't remember if it's canon that Trello is also a retired knight or if I just headcanon'd that to fit with his son and granddaughter. Either way I imagine Trello's husband was a healer, and that's how they met and fell in loooooove.

This may be my headcanon colouring things, but if I remember correctly Trello seems kinda... grumpy and sullen in the game even after you cleanse Vah Ruta, and find the Ceremonial Trident. This is yet again tied to grief and survivor's guilt. See, Trello actually had two sons, and both Rivan's older brother and Trello's husband died in one fell swoop when the Calamity happened. I imagine Trello and Rivan's relationship can be a bit strained sometimes because of it.

TL;DR - there is a LOT of survivor's guilt and grief in, I imagine, pretty much any settlement that survived the Calamity, but it's particularly bad amongst the elders of the Domain because they just live so long and witness so much. They're all generally good, caring, family-oriented Zoras, but like, considering all the shit they went through and how helpless they were to stop any of it, it makes a lot of sense to me that they decided to pin the blame and guilt on Link.

#but they generally Get Better and I like that for them #{ mine }#{ headcanon }

10 notes · View notes

pbandjesse · 2 years

Text

I accidentally took an almost 4 hour nap. Oops. I apparently really needed it. Honestly I'm still very tired. But it was a good day. Just really rainy and tired.

I fell asleep before James last night. That almost never happens. I was out like a light. But I would still feel exhausted when I woke up.

I got dressed. I wore socks and sandals because it was raining and I did not have my rain boots. I felt very cute. My fingers weren't working well and James had to button the back for me. Love them so much.

We left here and got breakfast but I was still so tired. I could barely keep my eyes open all the way. I looked exhausted and I was exhausted. Ginny, from the bakery, saw me sewing all two dozen bears I brought and she was like. You are always working! You should take a break! And I just said I will fall asleep sitting here if I stop moving. I'm like a shark!! Gotta keep moving or I will die.

I got so much work done though. Three of the bears need extensive repairs so I did not get those done, I want to get those fixed on my sewing machine. But everything else got done and I made a bunch of tiny felt bears to make more pins. It was a good morning.

Dad texted me and we brainstormed about my sister's headstone. Which I think he is going to go with my idea, so that feels special. But even not I am glad he felt safe asking me. Love my dad. Tombstones are very backlogged and backordered. But she's going to get a pretty little heart and it's going to look really nice.

It was wildly rainy. It started drizzly. And it was fine. But then it was a down pour. And it was just a lot!! And then there was vender drama. Because of the rain Ann gave a spot in the pavilion to a parking lot vender who was in time. Because that spot was for someone who hadn't shown up. Like it's 930 at this point. We are supposed to be done setting up by 9, and can get there at 8, which is what I do.

But of course the late vender shows up right after Ann gave the spot away. So they had to set up a tent in the rain in the parking lot and they were so mad. And like I get it. But also you were wildly late. And then weren't set up until almost 1030! They sold out, so people do like their product and that's great! But people need to be respectful of the rules of the market. Please. It makes me so stressed out.

I didn't have high hopes for sales today. Because of the rain people were running in and getting their food and running away. So no one was really stopping to look at my stuff.

But I would make two sale! Sold 4 things. And that was great. So not my best day but almost 3 times better then last week. And people were really nice. I also had some very sweet interactions with kids, including the little girl who bought the large bear last week. They named it crewmate!! That's such a cute name. She said they had the bears birthday last week and they are getting alone very well. Hilarious, I love it.

I would go in to give James a hug. And we got baked good earlier in the day. And the rain would calm down a bit. I was excited to go home.

I decided to take myself and it takes me about a minute and a half to clear my table and pack everything up. Less then 5 minutes to get everything in the car. It was raining but it wasn't to bad and I got all my stuff in and my person only got a little damp. Maybe a little more then damp.

But I went home. As soon as I got in the house poor Sweetp threw up. Like as I was walking in and he seemed really distressed. And then he stated throwing up again but in the carpet and I quickly picked him up and moved him just in time. No idea what was wrong but poor baby.

After I cleaned up Sweetp, and the floor, I got changed, had lunch and laid down.

I was out out. I slept for 4 hours. Give or take. When I woke up at 6 James wasn't here because they were at Lane's house using their washing machine. Thank you Lane. I played Stardew and married my in-game girlfriend who is now my in game wife. Her name is Emily and she has blue hair.

I was still playing when James got home and I was able to beat a very hard level and get to the top of the mountain and was really proud of myself. James cheered for me and I felt very accomplished.

I took a bath and folded some stuff for camp. Me and James talked about our honeymoon and are moving forward on figuring out when we should go. I think April. But it might be later. We will see. Maybe a one year from the wedding? Who knows. But it's fun to think about.

Now though I want to go to sleep. James made me a little sandwich. And I am very tired. I hope tomorrow I feel more human. I hope everyone at camp is doing well. Sleep well everyone. Take. Are of yourself.

2 notes · View notes

introducingtay · 2 months

Text

The North 40

Most would be thrown off by the heavy gloom. The murkiness felt familiar to me. Some might say the gloom seemed to eat up its surroundings, disguising its previous location as a blinding cloud of… mist? Is that what it is? When I looked closely, I could make out some shapes; leaves, indicative of plants. Phallic shapes that one would only assume were mushrooms, actually, and not genitalia sprouting from the ground. I stepped further into the gloom, allowing it to envelop me, adding me to the list of hidden items within its domain. As I wandered, I kept track of my observations, as though they were breadcrumbs for me to follow if I ever chose to leave the gloom. Splitting wood. Damp moss. Even a vine or a branch could be seen, if you were to squint. The spiderwebs were invisible within the gloom, but the feeling of them molding to my arms as I walked through them was easily identifiable. The grass and dirt were slightly damp underfoot – not squishy, not giving way to my weight, but I could tell by the texture of my steps that I’d need to hose these boots down before I went back inside. Suddenly I’m by the flowers and their brilliant colors, their gentle petal patterns almost imperceivable in these conditions.

Of course, none of this was truly a guessing game for me; I knew every plant that was here, the name of each occupant of every plot. I rub the waxy leaves to my right. I’d grown up here, in this garden. Watched my father carefully plan out, build out, and plant out every quadrant. I trace my hand over the rusted nails. He’d chosen good quality wood for his planting boxes; I’ve had to repair very little since he passed. The color had faded, there were dings and dents and tiny gnaw marks where ambitious creatures had let out their frustration. The wood is cool under my palms. My father used the soil as his outlet, his boredom and frustration and loneliness finding company in the relative wilds of our backyard. I’d helped him build this sanctuary – his sanctuary. I spin slowly, taking in every sector of the garden from where I stood in the center, ending with my feet facing north. He had no idea it had also become mine in the process, that it allowed me access to a piece of him, his inner world. He had no idea I ever wanted a piece of him. Now it holds the only piece of him left, and I can’t let it go.

Suddenly I’m jerked out of my thoughts and self-pity as my wife called out from the edge of the gloom. She wasn’t willing to enter the garden on the gloomy days. Those were mine to wander alone. I supposed she needed me now. She only interrupts me in the gloom when I’m needed. I trudged back through the garden, leaving my boots on the back porch. The water dripping off my boots made them seem like a mirage next to his bone-dry pair to their left. I found myself pulled into a rather morbid game of Spot-The-Difference. I’m not sure I could find twenty if I tried. They were the same brand, same model. The same burnt sienna boot laces winding through the same rust-resistant eyelets, the same brown soles worn down by similar use. But now mine were more worn, the arch making more of a mold to my foot than providing actual support. The stitching on my pair was fraying in spots that were near-pristine on his boots. Mine sported dark stains from puddles of liquids his had never touched. Mine held experiences he wasn’t here to share. Children are meant to bury their parents, though. And I’ve buried two.

Inside, I opened the blasted jar for her, and decided to stay. The gloom can wait until another day. So, we ate dinner, watched our nightly show, tangled together just likes the vines around the garden gate, filling the empty spaces between each other with ourselves. This was our normal nightly routine. I woke up in the mornings, had my coffee, downed a protein shake if I can tolerate the taste of substance. Headed to work, did my job, came home and gave her a kiss. Checked the garden. Appreciated the sunshine. Joined her while she made dinner, offered my help, knowing it would be declined. Tossed spare pieces of banter across our island counter from my place on the barstool. I like our little routine. It sped by. It keeps me out of the gloom – at least, until something comes along to spark the gloom once again.

“There’s a message on the machine. I think it’s too late to call back today.” I checked my watch. 5:13pm. I’d been in the garden longer than usual today. I had no doubt she’d remind me of the message again tomorrow, in fact I was so sure of it that I almost didn’t bother to press play – until I saw a flicker of annoyance cross her face as she glanced at the light blinking on the machine.

I pressed the playback button. The machine clicked once. “Hi, this is Gerry, calling from Dr. Marsh’s office for Benton Bernard. You missed your 2:45pm appointment. I hope everything’s alright, please call us to reschedule when you get a chance, and be aware that you’ll see the cancellation charge on your card on file. Our hours are 8am to 4:30pm. Again, hope you’re alright! Have a good day.”

The machine beeped and announced the end of new messages before instructing us to press 2 if we wanted to listen to saved messages.

The silence that followed the machine’s final click held heavy, threatening to layer the gloom over top of my world once again. I could see my wife shifting from foot to foot in my peripheral. She always avoided bringing him up. Either of my parents, really. I suppose today’s appointment had been his six-month neurologist check-up. In the early days after his diagnosis, he said he was lucky to have lived long enough to get dementia. If he had known then what the later days would look like, I think he would’ve called it his comeuppance, and insisted luck wasn’t a factor.

“Is that something you can handle?” Her voice interrupts my thoughts. A thinly veiled double entendre, a coward’s attempt to ask how I’m feeling. I answered the face-value question instead.

“Yeah, he gave me access and authority over his medical case after my mother. I’ll call in the morning, let them know he’ll be missing all future appointments, too.” It was meant as a joke, an attempt to lighten the mood, but as I heard the words leave my lips – the flat tone of my voice reverberating through the tension in the air – I knew the gloom was back. I kissed her forehead, turned heel, and stepped out into the gloomy air once more. At least the interlude was longer this time. I’d need to rinse my boots off again tonight. She tolerates my gloom, but not dirt on the freshly mopped floors.

The garden seemed different when the gloom was here. The obfuscation of all my efforts had an almost protective feeling, the mist and fog swirling around the fruits of my labor. Hidden from view. What is normally a bright, beautiful, peaceful refuge for animals and humans alike suddenly becomes unsettling, secretive – still peaceful, though. I’m safe here. My fears are buried here, allowing me to visit them on my own terms. Laying them to rest in my own backyard meant I grieved on my own schedule. That was the thought, anyway. Of course, I could never have true control. The control is an illusion, no more tangible than the gloom that swarms my consciousness and envelops the world around me, dictating my actions, dictating my thoughts.

I tightened the last screw and gave the new garden bench a stiff tug. Seems solid. I stood back to examine my handiwork. It was fine. A sturdy place for my wife and I to sit was the only goal, and that’s the only function this bench had. The center of the garden wasn’t a particularly special place. Just a square of packed dirt, walkways leading from each corner, planting boxes and plots angling out from the sides. The only notable feature of the garden’s center was the boot prints implanted into the dirt – a set facing each cardinal direction. I carefully slid my feet into the deepest tracks, facing north. I’d placed the bench perfectly; if I popped a squat, my ass would meet seat.

I could just barely make out the jagged shape jutting from the ground a few yards ahead; if I were to sit, it’d be hidden behind shrubbery. I found myself immersed in the shadowed shape, examining the angle of each edge, meandering in its direction as though entranced. I hadn’t visited this plot in… how long had it been now? When my father first passed, I’d come to this plot weekly. I ran my hand across the rough surface as though the tree stump could tell me when I last visited. The only date this tree knew was the one recklessly carved into its bark. I had always intended to add more to it, something to honor him. The thought that I still could causes me to hesitate before I turn heel and walk out of the garden, mindful of where I place my feet.

This time, I just placed my boots right next to the hose to drip dry. My socked feet weaved their way across the screen porch towards the sliding glass door, where I peeled the dirtied socks off my feet and stepped inside. I’m surrounded by the smell of fresh aromatics and the sizzling sound of a pan-seared protein. I could see potato slices roasting, the harsh oven light beating down on the crisping skins. The clock reads 6:57pm.

“You have time to shower before dinner, if you’d like.” She knows how important routine has been to me, and how routine is what keeps the gloom tolerable. The last thing I want to do in this moment is take care of myself, but I do for her. I’d do anything for her.

I pulled her into a bear hug, planted a firm kiss on the top of her head as my arms encased her. I looked down as she looked up. There was a faint smile on her lips that didn’t quite connect to her eyes. The thought that I don’t hold her enough passed through my mind as I head to the bathroom, but washed with the suds down the shower drain.

The table is set, drinks poured, food served by the time I sat down.

“Did you call them back?”

“Yep.”

“Did they ask any questions?”

“Nope.” I chewed slowly, hoping to keep my mouth busy for as long as possible. I savored the taste of the roasted potatoes, careful not to burn the roof of my mouth. To my surprise, my wife stays silent, too. I missed when she used to leave no silences in the household, filling our home with constant activity and vibrancy.

“I want to hear it from you, now.”

“We’ll sit out on the bench after dinner.” I owed her this. We made small talk through the rest of the meal. We talked of the weather (how the recent rains were ahead of the seasonal cycle) and the food (yes, I do like the new flavor profile she’s trying, yes, her food is delicious, yes, I’ve had enough to eat). We both offered to do the dishes even though we knew I would do them in the end, ‘winning’ (if you could call it that) with the logic that she cooked, so the dishes are my job. We made eye contact as I loaded the last dish into the dishwasher, as though the longer we lingered the more prepared we would be for this conversation to begin. This was her first time wearing her boots. I laced them for her, careful to make them snug without squeezing her feet too tightly. We slipped our jackets on and our hands together, our fingers intertwining.

As she entered the gloom with me for the first time, her boot prints wore their own distinct path into the damp sod next to my long-worn tracks. We took our time, winding our way through the circular rows, quadrant to quadrant. I answered her various trivial questions.

“Is this an heirloom tomato or green zebra? Is that zucchini or cucumber? Is that the edible flower patch? Is the herb garden nearby?” They’re Santorini’s. Those are cucumbers, but both are grown here. That is the flower patch, and the herbs are set towards the outer southern edge in thick stone boxes, we passed them on the way in.

Her questions paved our pathway to the center, to the bench I just installed this afternoon. Silence fell after we sat. I looked down, where my boots filled the same heavily indented north-facing prints I’d been observing earlier. I could see the edge of her left boot without shifting my gaze. My eyes made their way from her boots to her braided hair, where her expression confirmed she’d seen the shadow of the stump. I began to talk.

I spoke of when my mother fell ill. A respiratory virus turned pneumonia turned organ damage. Exhaustion turned fatigue turned 18 hours of sleep a day. Discomfort turned pain turned agony. This part she knew. I kept talking. Hope turned suffering turned… mercy. The garden was borne, starting with those stone-edged herb gardens lining the house’s side of the garden. Within those plant beds lie remedies for nausea, fever, muscle tension. She knew of the herb gardens, visible from the kitchen window. I told her the history of the now-empty herb plot. It held a cure for any ailment – at least, that’s how my father described it to me back then. We’d include a few leaves in her evening salad every day. She kept sleeping, more and more. “It’ll help her feel better. The sleep means it’s working. It’s a miracle, a mercy,” he would say. Then one evening, she slept right through dinner. And the next day’s dinner. And the next. After those three days I helped him bury her in his garden, underneath the tree they’d carved their initials into all those years ago.

And the years went on. The plot that had grown her mercy now laid empty, irredeemably contaminated by the very presence of the plant. We never spoke of it, of her. He expanded the garden from the herb boxes to her grave, channeling his grief into this garden. I was his silent helper, until I left for college, where I met her, and oh well, she remembers how we met and how life followed on.

And the years went on. His dementia came, and we moved in as his caretakers. In the early days, he had a humor about him. The dementia seemed to eat that away alongside the memories it devoured. He came to believe his beloved wife had left him, the memories of the mercy he and I provided lost to him forever. One day, in a fit of grief and rage about how terribly his wife had betrayed him, he chopped down the tree that displayed their initials. Then, he had a moment of clarity that broke through the disease like an unwelcome headlight would through a residential window at 2am. I found him, knelt barefoot in front of the jagged stump, knees upon her grave. Broken, hollow, defeated. I grabbed the axe he had used. I thought he deserved a mercy.

I buried him at that tree stump – with her. Resting, together, forever in the garden. Built for her, nourished by him. The gloom came for the first time that day, settling over me like the dirt onto their grave.

My wife sat still, listening, absorbing every word. At some point, while I was lost in the whirlwind of context and timeline in my head, she placed her hand on my forearm. When I was done speaking, she held me, my tears slithering their way down her waterproof jacket as I sobbed into her shoulder. I was no longer alone.

I had planned to carve their initials into the tree’s bark once again, even with the stump being dead long ago. We carved our own in silence instead. She returned to her seat on the bench, able to admire our handiwork engraving the wooden headstone. I returned to my seat next to her. The shrubbery blocked my view, but I was looking at my boots instead, noting how his boot prints were too big for me to fill.

#horror short story #fiction writing #short story

0 notes

cocomains · 2 years

Text

Lynyrd skynyrd jones

They flew a mechanic in from Dallas who was supposed to repair everything. “We had a day off, then a show, then a day off flying. “We had problems on the plane before that last flight,” Elson says. Had he been older and wiser, he says, he never would have climbed those rickety steel stairs. I don’t think I’m going to make it.’”Įlson was also on that rented twin-engine plane the day it fell out of the Mississippi sky. They were like, ‘I have this funny feeling about this. “I think it was because he lived hard every day and anyone who does that – like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix – is gone by the time they’re 28 or 29. “Ronnie told me often that he didn’t expect to live past 30,” remembers Kevin Elson, Skynyrd’s soundman, who went on to produce Journey, Mr. As he leaned over to spit the bug-coloured juice from his Red Man chewing tobacco into an empty plastic milk carton, he looked me straight in the eye to see if I believed him. The bearded octogenarian was slumping heavily in his La-Z-Boy Recliner. “Ronnie was the only one of my children who had second sight,” recalled his late father Lacy Van Zant in 1995. “I said, ‘Bullshit man.’ But he said, ‘No, no, I want to go out with my boots on.’” Ronnie told me, ‘I am never going to live to see 30’,” recalls Pyle. “We were in Tokyo at some bar and we were drinking lots of sake. “He told me so many times that I realised that he really knew what he was talking about.”įormer Skynyrd drummer Artimus Pyle was often nearby when Van Zant foretold his own demise. "When I heard that there had been a plane crash, I just knew Ronnie was one of the ones that didn’t make it,” Judy Van Zant Jenness recalls. Was this litany of woe what Van Zant had in mind when he insisted matter-of-factly to his wife, bandmates, family members, audiences – and this journalist – that he just wasn’t long for this world? The tale boasts all the elements of a southern gothic soap opera. He died 87 days before that pivotal date. No one who survived that day can forget that Van Zant, then 29, had repeatedly proclaimed that he would not live to see his 30th birthday.

#Lynyrd skynyrd jones

0 notes

angryschnauzer · 3 years

Text

Blackwater Lake - Chapter 2

Summary: There’s a little town high in the mountains where everyone has a secret, and every family has something that makes them unique. In Blackwater Lake those that are outcast by nature come together.

Characters/Pairing: Vampire!Walter Marshall x Female Reader

Warnings (for this chapter); Talk of PTSD, Reader is ex police, Possible home invasion, NSFW sexy times, protected sex.

Previous Parts: Werewolf!Sy: Moonlight on the Sand Castle Under The Stars. Werewolf!Sy, Vampire!Walter: Chapter 1

This will be a series of stand alone stories/2 parters, which will revolve around the residents of the town, with some recurring characters. The ‘reader’ for each story will be a ‘new’ reader, so its not the same woman being with all the male characters.

I do not run a tag list, but please follow @angryschnauzerwrites and put that blog onto notifications. You’ll then get an alert every time i post something new.

Chapter 2

Walter had managed to recover from the shock of seeing his best friend and his wife being able to make their eyes glow, and as unbelievable as it sounded, had accepted their explanations of how they’d been turned into Werewolves. Much like his own knowledge of Vampirism before he had been turned himself, he quickly understood that what the media made these quirks of nature to be and what they actually were had been greatly exaggerated.

Sy had stayed up into the early hours of the morning with him, sharing the better part of a bottle of bourbon as he’d described how it affected their family, and how his wife only turned when her period coincided with a full moon, and how they dealt with childcare during the times that they would turn.

Walter woke with a start, the soft mountain light pouring in the windows and for a moment he was confused, not recognising his surroundings until he remembered spending the rest of the night on Sy’s couch. His mouth felt like something had crawled inside and died, and he swore in that moment not to share hard liquor with someone that could howl at the moon. Finding some painkillers high in a kitchen cabinet he crushed two between his teeth before drinking straight from the tap. Standing tall he moved his neck, trying to get the kinks and knots out of his muscles when a pair of fluffy slippered feet appeared in the doorway. Looking up Walter poorly suppressed a laugh as he saw Sy wearing a pair of sheepskin moccasins and what was obviously his wife’s robe;

“Reginald, you look stunning” Walter muttered as he watched his friend shuffle into the kitchen

Sy held up his finger and waggled it, wincing at the sunlight pouring in the window;

“Don’t…”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t call me that, the only people that call me that are the preacher or my Ma, and unless you’re planning on marrying me or making me biscuits...”

Walter laughed, leaning against the counter as Sy filled the coffee pot as if he was on autopilot, before reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a baby bottle with the previous day’s expressing date on. Setting the bottle to warm in a bowl of water he handed Walter a tin of coffee;

“Fill that up, i’m gonna go get Luna”

A few minutes later he reappeared holding his little girl in his arms, wrapped in a soft blanket covered in moons and stars. Grabbing the bottle before settling at the kitchen table, he popped the lid off and shook the bottle, before lifting it and shaking a few drops onto his tongue, laughing when he saw Walters eyes go a little wide;

“Better straight from the source but Mama is sleepin’ so its me in Mama’s robe” he explained with a grin on his face. Walter placed a mug of steaming black coffee in front of Sy; “Thanks man… hey, in the fridge there’s a pint of pigs blood from Walkers Meats… ya’know, if you need it”

“Why have you got pigs blood?”

“The missus was gonna make some Scottish thing, some sorta sausage, but if you need it, we can always get another… in fact she’s gonna be too tired to use it before it spoils, what with the full moon and all...”

Sy turned his attention to his tiny daughter feeding in his arms, giving Walter the sense of privacy to do what he needed to do. As Luna finished her bottle Sy held her to his shoulder, rubbing her back until she let out a burp he would have been proud of himself, only looking up when he heard Walter also let out a low belch;

“You need me to rub your back too Walt?”

“Fuck off Sy” the vampire said lightheartedly, a sense of relief in his mind now that the guy that had become one of his best friends knew his secret.

Pulling the last crate of bottles off the back of the pickup you thanked the guy from the craft brewery and waved him off, taking a deep breath before slowly climbing the fire escape at the back of the bar that led into the storeroom. It had been a long shift already, starting at 10am you’d opened up and started the ovens, restocked the bar as the cleaners had come through and cleaned the place top to bottom. Your boss was always decent to his staff, paying a good wage and having the cleaning crew come in during the closed daytime hours rather than in the early hours of the morning.

Working around them as they did their job, you restocked the caddy’s on the tables with silverware, napkins, and condiments, before returning to the bar and checking on the ice machine.

“Hey we’re all done now” one of the cleaners said as you looked up.

“That’s great, thanks. You guys always make this place look good”

Chatting with them you walked them through the storeroom - something your boss always insisted on that any non bar staff had to be escorted through - before one reached for the wooden rail on the fire escape. Something made you stop talking and before you could stop yourself, one hand was pushing one of the guys back into the storeroom, the other was grabbing the shirt that was already standing outside. Just as you did the rail slipped away, as if in slow motion, the three of you looking in fear as the heavy wood crashed twenty feet below onto the empty kegs that were stored beneath.

Speechless you stood there, fingers still curled around the shirt of one, hand splayed across the chest of the other;

“Fuck” you whispered quietly, not to anyone in particular.

“You could say that…”

Having made sure both cleaning guys were ok, if a little shaken up, you made them leave by the front door then considered your options. Dialling the boss you weren’t surprised to hear it ring out before going to voicemail. He had strict downtime rules, and was more than likely out on his ranch land taking care of his horses. Knowing he trusted you to make the right judgement, you scrolled through your numbers and dialled Marshall’s Property Maintenance;

“Marshall’s, what can i do for you?”

“Hi, i’m calling from Big G’s Sports Bar? We’ve just had the handrail fall off our fire escape. Wondering if you’ve got space to fix it this afternoon?”

There was a pause before you heard a long exhale of breath;

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes”

“Thanks Walter”

Hanging up you smiled. You’d worked with Walter when you’d been on the police force, you’d been a patrol cop that would assist with crime scene control and you’d been first on the scene for countless horrific acts of violence. One final call had given you PTSD so bad you’d resigned, finding a home in the small town of Blackwater Lake and a steady job at Big G’s Sports Bar. Your boss was the big quiet type, liked to spend more time out on his ranch with his horse, having enough trust in you to run the day to day operations of the bar as his assistant manager.

It had been well past 9pm when Walter finished the repairs. Your boss had come in and helped him out when he’d got your text, leaving you in charge of the first few hours of opening. When the two men reappeared through the storeroom you smiled at them, getting ready for the evening handover before grabbing your coat and clocking off.

A few minutes later as you hopped off the last step of the fire escape onto the dandelion scattered gravel - your boss liked to let them grow - you smiled at Walter as he was loading his tools into his truck;

“Hey, thanks for today. Really saved our bacon… without the fire escape we wouldn’t be up to code so couldn’t have opened”

“S’ok. Glad you called” Walter admitted; “It’s been a while…”

Scuffing the gravel with your boot you swallowed the lump that was in your throat;

“How have you been? Since… ya know…”

“Alive. Wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t of been for you and your partner”

“We did what was needed… not every day you see va…” you stopped yourself, you still hadn’t completely come to terms with what you’d seen; “V...vagrants doing that… I’m just glad we got there in time…”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Walter rounded the truck and stood in front of you;

“Do you need a ride home? Your boss mentioned that you walk to work and you stayed late where he was helping me get this fixed”

“Thanks, that’d be nice”

Over the next few nights Walter would appear at the bar early evening, usually under the pretense of checking the work on the fire escape or dropping off the bill to the office, and you quickly clocked that he would always be leaving just as your shift was ending to conveniently give you a ride home. Not that you minded, the weather had turned unseasonably cool after the warmth of the parade weekend, so the casual conversation as he drove you home in the warmth of his giant truck was a good way to end the day.

As he rolled into the parking lot behind your apartment complex you wondered if you should invite him in for a coffee, but weren’t sure if you were reading his intentions correctly. Gnawing on your lip you reached into your pocket for your keys, smiling at Walter as he pulled the truck to a stop;

“There we go, home sweet home. Have a good night”

“You too Walter”

Stepping out you smiled and gave him a little wave, knowing he waited until you had gotten into your building.

Watching you go Walter cursed himself. When Rachel had left he’d been in the dumps even more than usual, but over the last few days he’d taken a shine to you. He was pretty sure you had clued onto the fact that he had always turned up around the time of your shift finishing, but when he’d found out from Geralt that your car had died and you couldn’t afford to repair it, he didn’t like the thought of you walking home alone. Sure Blackwater Lake was a sleepy little town, but keeping in mind what lurked in the woods - both natural and supernatural - he felt better knowing you’d gotten home. He had been sure you were going to invite him in for coffee tonight, but he’d gotten butterflies in his stomach and had blurted out a farewell before you’d had the chance.

Looking up at your apartment he let out a sigh.

Then… then something caught his eye. You hadn’t been in the building long enough for the shadow to be you, knowing you stopped to grab your mail each time you entered the building. Killing the engine he reached to the glove compartment for his gun - he still had a concealed carry permit - and raced to the building.

Juggling your mail and your purse, you held the letters in your mouth as you searched for the right key on your set when suddenly the sound of thundering footsteps made you spin around, your jaw dropping when you saw Walter appear from the staircase and running to your side. His hand was on your arm and he was pulling you to the side of your door before holding you to his chest;

“There’s someone in your apartment”

“What? No, i locked everything before i left… and there’s no sign of any damage to the door…”

Letting you go he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled for the sheriff, but as you listened in you could hear the volunteer dispatcher explain that both the Sheriff and the two deputies were out on the highway dealing with an 18 wheeler logging truck that had spun off on a bend. Walter cursed under his breath and hung up;

“Do you still carry?”

“No… not since…”

“Ok. Unlock the door and stay behind me”

The next minute seemed to last both seconds and hours, following Walter through your apartment until he silently pushed the bedroom door open with his gun;

“Freeze!”

The shape in the darkness didn’t move, and when you peered over Walters extended arm and you realised what he was looking at, you let out a sigh and flipped the lightswitch, the ‘threat’ suddenly illuminated and Walters shoulders dropping;

“Oh…”

Your spare uniform shirt was hanging on the frame to the window where you’d hung it earlier in the day so the sunshine would dry it. You let out a deep breath and laughed, resting your forehead against Walters shoulder;

“It’s just my uniform…” you hadn’t realised your voice was shaking until Walter turned and wrapped his arms around you

“I’m sorry i scared you”

Burying your face in the warmth of his sweater, your voice was muffled as you spoke;

“Its ok. I’d rather you have seen the mess in my apartment and saved me from an intruder than the alternative…” you smiled weakly at him, and it was then that the tension in the room was like static before a storm. Like the first lightning strike, when Walters lips touched yours it was as if electricity coursed through your veins, the kiss hungry and needy, contact between two touch starved people needing that connection. Your fingers curled in threads of his knitwear, pulling yourself closer as his arms wrapped around you and his hands splayed out over your ass, squeezing handfuls of flesh so he could pull you flush against his body. The kiss deepend and his tongue sought entrance between your lips which you eagerly granted. He tasted of coffee and peanut butter chocolate, and when he pulled away you were both gasping for breath.

“So, vampires do need oxygen then?”

“How do you…? How are you not scared?”

“Because i was there when it happened. And I've seen you hundreds of times since. I’ve seen you in the mirror, I've seen you outside in the sunshine, i’ve literally served you garlic bread…” you paused; “And i didn’t need to invite you in. Whatever myths are linked to your condition, i know the Walter behind them, i know the quiet and controlled Walter that assesses a situation and ensures everyone is safe…” you paused; “Because I know i’m safe with you”

Walter opened his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat caught the words. Closing his eyes he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath as you gently held his face in your palms, your thumbs softly caressing the skin of his cheeks where his beard ended. You pressed your lips to his, and this kiss was different, this kiss was full of passion, of acceptance and the growing need that was blooming.

Clothes were scattered as fingers and lips found each new patch of exposed skin, running your fingernails down his massive chest as you both fell to the bed, your fingers curling in the coarse hair that covered his chest before clutching at his belt as his teeth sharply ran over the line of your collarbone and you let out a gasp;

“More…”

“I… I’m not going to bite you…”

“I don’t want you to, but my neck is super sensitive, it's like my biggest turn on…”

At that moment Walter could feel the change, his eyes paling and his fangs growing more prominent as you watched from below him, but what he wasn’t expected was the groans that escaped your throat and the way your body shook;

“Did you just…?” he cocked an eyebrow, he already knew you’d just cum, but he wanted you to admit it.

“Yes, fuck yes, now i need more…”

With a growl he ducked his head down and peppered sharp kisses over your neck, hands working on each others jeans before you were able to kick them off. Your hands ducked into Walters pants and you grasped at his hard length, hot in your palm through his underwear;

“Oh fuck, you’re big…”

“Don’t worry, i’ll go slow… do you… do you have protection?”

“In the drawer”

He reluctantly pulled himself off the bed, and you propped yourself up on your elbows as he searched out the condoms, pulling the box out and swinging something else from his fingertips;

“These aren’t regulation edition”

The pink fluffy handcuffs had been a present a long time ago, and had somehow moved apartments with you;

“Next time…” you reached and grabbed them from him, tossing them aside before grabbing the box and a small foil packet, ripping it open with your teeth as Walter quickly shed himself of his boots and jeans, his dark boxers discarded as you reached for him and smoothed the latex over his fat dick.

He smoothed his hands down your legs, before tugging you down the bed and flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until your ass was in the air. The rough brush of his beard against your soft inner thighs was quickly soothed by his tongue swiping a firm lick through your soaked folds. He took hold of your hips and you felt him move into position, the firm nudge at your entrance before with a low groan he speared you with the slow stretch of his girth.

“You feel so fucking good… so tight…”

Your fingers curled into the bedsheets and your jaw hung open, the sheer pleasure that was coursing through your veins felt like an elixir as Walter hammered into your tight velvet channel. The carnal slap of flesh on flesh resonating around the room, only joined by the breathless pants escaping your lips and the grunts Walter would let slip as he sought pleasure in your body with his own. He splayed his fingers over your back, running the palm of his hand up your spine until he was able to cup your neck and pull you up, flush with his heated body. His sharp teeth scraped over your neck, his beard rough against the etched skin;

“Look in the mirror. See how amazing you look”

Focusing your attention on the dresser mirror that stood in the corner, you watched as Walter continued to slowly rock his hips, fucking you slow and hard from behind. But it was his eyes that drew your attention, icy pools of white with deep obsidian pupils piercing the tundra, and the flash of danger from his sharp teeth at your neck, just catching on the skin as he spoke;

“You’re so fucking beautiful, dunno what i did to deserve you… will you cum for me?” he slid his hand down your stomach and in the patch of curls at the apex of your thighs, seeking out the sensitive pearl of your clit and rubbing the pad of his finger over it in firm circles; “Will you cum for me?” he repeated, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

“Yes… Walter, please…”

“What do you need…”

“My neck, please…”

Walter knew he couldn’t bite you, there were so many unknowns he’d never explored, but he closed his eyes and focused his energies on bringing you to completion. Thrusting his hips in time to the movement of his hand, whilst sucking a hickey onto your neck, knowing his teeth were rubbing against the skin but not breaking it. The triple stimuli sent you over the edge, your head rolling back onto his shoulder and your mouth open in a silent scream as you came so hard you saw stars, shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body as your walls gripped Walter tight, before with one final thrust you heard him growl as he came hard.

He held you for the longest time, your heart racing in your chest as echoes of your orgasm ricocheted through your body. As Walter started to soften you felt him hold the condom at the base of his shaft as he pulled out gently;

“Err… bathroom?”

“Just through there” you nodded to the door off of the bedroom as you fell to the bed, laying back with a smile on your face.

A few moments later he reappeared with a warm washcloth, first soothing your neck before tenderly attending to the mess between your thighs. After putting it back in the bathroom he appeared at the side of the bed, reaching for his jeans when you caught his wrist and pulled him onto the bed;

“You don’t need to go”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to overstay my welcome…”

“Look, unless you’re going to turn into a bat or something, you’re fine… we can talk, order some takeout…”

Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, you snuggled to his chest as he smiled sleepily;

“That sounds good. Can i take you out on a proper date at some point?”

“That’d be nice. Though our options are slim in this town, its only Sue’s Coffee Shop or Big-G’s Bar… unless you want to get a take-out pizza and sit outside on the kerb”

“I’ll cook, come to my place? What are you doing Friday night?”

“I’m off, but…”

“But?”

You felt your cheeks flushing with heat;

“I’m due on by the end of the week…”

“Oh. OH…” You looked up at Walter and saw a flush over his cheeks and his blue eyes glinting with excitement and a smirk on his lips.

“Oh… you’re into that?”

“You’re… not? Because i just want to say, i would happily give oral to my girl on her period even pre-vamp status…now its just…”

“A snack?”

He let out a low belly laugh;

“Yeah, you could say that”

Curling up to Walter’s chest you felt a sense of calm you hadn’t experienced for a very long time, the conversation flowing easily and long into the night, before you both fell asleep in each other's arms.

#walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall smut #Vampire!Walter #henry cavill

190 notes · View notes

messrmoonyy · 3 years

Note

same anon here that asked for the remus returning thing, sorry for the confusion i meant like after he gets back but they aren’t back together yet and there are those few days we’re dora is kinda cold and distant just to protect herself and remus is doing whatever he can :)

My girl Dora ain’t no doormat, no way was she letting him get away with treating her like that and just forgive him immediately. Remus did some grovelling for sure.

Pairing: Remus lupin x Nymphadora Tonks

Warnings: none

You can find all my other writing on my masterlist and remember my ask box is always open, I love any and all requests so please do send them my way!

Tonks woke up to the sound of quiet clattering, a scent of sausages and bacon and eggs. Fresh pastries and pumpkin juice. She opened one eye but the bedroom door was closed still, the other side of the bed as cold as it had been for the last month and a half. Ever since Remus had returned to her he’d been sleeping on the sofa, still trying to even come to terms with being able to look at him in the eye. Never mind sleep beside him. She had said she’d sleep on the sofa at first. It was his home after all, who was she to make him sleep on the sofa in his own home? But he’d insisted she take the bed.

She had deliberated moving to her parents. She knew that would be the eventual outcome anyway, they weren’t exactly in the position for her to just waltz into st Mungos to give birth. But the thought of staying with her mother fussing for longer than necessary wasnt all that appealing. So she had stayed put and waited for Remus. And now he was on the sofa until she finally shifted the last of her hurt.

She still loved him, of course she did. But she couldn’t shake the purely painful feeling of betrayal. He had come back so she guessed she should have been relieved. But it was the fact that he had ran in the first place. The fight had been bitter, his words stinging her like acid, biting at her, beating her down until she felt completely worthless. She’d never heard him say such things. She didn’t know he had it in him. He’d always been such a gentle soul, she’d only heard him raise his voice once or twice. But everyone has a breaking point, everyone snaps. And he had. At her.

She’d never known he could muster words so cruel. Didn’t know his usually gentle face could twist into such hatred. Didn’t know he could look at as if he could barely stand to be within ten feet of her, when he so often only looked at her with adoration.

He’d come back quite literally begging for her forgiveness, down on his knees and finding every and any word he could to try and prove how sorry he was. She had let him back because she loved him. Because she was carrying their child. But she hadn’t forgiven him. And she wasn’t about to anytime soon she guessed. No matter how hard he was trying to win her back around.

He kept leaving her gifts, there was a constant supply of fresh flowers for her every morning. She had ignored them at first, leaving them on the kitchen counter to wilt and die. He’d started placing them in a vase now. Sometimes it was breakfast- like it seemed to be that morning from the smell. Fresh pastries on the pillow when she went to bed, chocolate frogs in her sock drawer, copies of the quibbler because she liked the comic pages, the list was never ending. She couldn’t lie that she liked his grovelling, it was really the least he could do after all he’d said to her. And she felt she deserved to have him pay for what he’d done.

She sat up in bed and sighed to herself, glancing over at the small box beside the bed that held her wedding ring. She’d thrown it in his face the night he’d left her, it landing somewhere at their feet in the front garden. She’d not even been sure on where it had landed. It had appeared on her pillow a few days after Remus had come back and she wondered if he’d actually taken it with him when he ran. Or if he’d just searched for it when he returned. She’d shoved it in the box and not touched it since. She wished she could’ve gone back to the wedding day. He’d been so happy. She’d been so happy. Her mother would’ve hated the wedding, but that had made almost a little more enjoyable. It wasn’t even the slightest part traditional.

A tiny church in what felt like the coldest part of Scotland going. Some strangers they’d met a few hours before in a local pub as witnesses, no big crowds of guests. No fancy white dress. She’d worn her boots and the nicest dress she could find in her wardrobe back home. Her bouquet had been some flowers nicked from someone’s front garden, one of which she’d pinned to Remus. It wasn’t perfect in anyone else’s eyes, but it was to her. To him. They’d shared their own vows, been bound together by magic and love and hope. They’d danced all night, stayed up until the sun rose sat up on a cliff over looking the sea. And of course the stumbled walk back to their B&B over the pub, the event that had inevitably created the tiny person residing inside her now. And that was that.

But the Remus that had shouted at her, told her that they had no choice but to her rid of the abomination they had created… that didn’t feel like the Remus she had married. She didn’t recognise that man. That wasn’t her Remus. That wasn’t the man she loved, had married, had given up everything for. He was a stranger to her.

She got dressed then, not wanting to fall into the hole of longing for Remus again and put herself in a bad mood, before leaving the bedroom. Remus was stood in the kitchen and smiling at her as she opened the bedroom door. The bedroom was the only place in the house that offered her privacy, the rest being tiny and open plan. She spent most of her time in there just lately and thankfully for her, he often left her to it. The bedroom being almost out of bounds to him. He hadn’t stepped foot in there since coming back.

“ good morning Dora “ he greeted quietly and she shook her head at him, raising a hand and pointing at his face.

“ no. I told you already. You don’t get to call me that now “ he looked down at the floor for a moment and nodded. He looked like a kicked puppy but she told herself she didn’t care. He deserved to hurt like she had. He did.

“ right. I’m sorry. Tonks “ he cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured to the table “ I. I have breakfast for you. I have to nip out to the Weasleys for a while but there’s more food in the fridge for you if that isn’t to your liking “ she sniffed and turned her head away from the table. She didn’t know why but his kindness just made her mad. Like a switch flicked inside of her.

“ and you’ll return this time? Or planning another week away? “ he sighed and ran a hand through his hair “ need another chat with Harry so you? Listen to a child’s advice but not your own wife right? “

“ Dora ple- “

“ no! “ she hadn’t completely intended to shout but she had. She closed her eyes, balling her hair into fists and tried to get rid of her sudden lack of calm. She could feel angry tears burning behind her eyelids and she blamed her messed up hormones. She refused to cry in front of him again. Refused to show the hurt he was still causing her weeks after her left “ just. Just go the Weasleys. Go on “ he hesitated for a moment and gave a small nod.

He knew better than to argue with her now. Knew it would get him no where.

“ just. Please make sure you eat something. It’s not good for the b- “

“ don’t stand there and pretend you care “ she snapped “ don’t “

“ Tonks I do. I do care I have apologised I don’t know what else I- “

“ if you cared you wouldn’t have left “ there was silence then. So quiet it was almost painful. But she felt like twisting the knife, plunging it deeper and drawing out as much agony as she could. She wanted him to hurt like she had, to feel the pieces of his heart shatter inside his chest, splinter his lungs so it felt as though no air could reach him. Make him feel how she had “ I am only here because unfortunately for me. You are the father of my baby. I don’t care how much you apologise. I will never forgive you Remus Lupin. Never “

The words burnt her own throat as she spoke them, and regret seeped into her chest. But she stayed firm. Refused to cry. Refused to feel guilty. He deserved it.

She had clearly struck a nerve. His eyes swam with pain, his hands hanging limply at his side. Defeated. Hurt. She’d won that round.

“ I don’t know how many time I can apologise “ he said weakly “ I know it’ll never come close to repairing what I did but- “

“ please. Just go to the Weasleys “ she said with a sigh and turned away from him as her tears finally fell. She didn’t want him to see. She closed her eyes. gripping onto the kitchen counter so her knuckles turned white. She heard movement behind her and the front door opening.

“ please make sure you eat “ he said softly before the front door closed and she dropped down to her knees, letting her tears run freely. Her body wracked with sobs

————————-

When Remus had been on the sofa for 2 months, and Tonks was finally starting to pass the phase of just looking a little fat, to actually looking pregnant, nearing her 4th month. She had started to become a little more forgiving. She had started to sit with him at breakfast again, didn’t shut down every single conversation he tried to start with her, sat beside him when he read by the fire in the evenings. Though she always left a fair space between them.

She found she’d started to miss him greatly. Trying to deal with how much her body was changing on her own wasn’t exactly the most fun thing. Remus was still piling her with as much affection as he could, even though she still wasn’t particularly receptive to it. But she had to admire his determination.

“ Nymphadora. I was wondering if I could have a word “ she turned to face him as she toed off her boots, having only just gotten home from a trip to see her parents “ please. If you would “ she hung up her jacket and nodded, walking over to him as he gestured towards the table where a small yellow gift bag was sat.

She sat down at the small table, it had an old copy of the prophet folded up under one leg to stop it from wobbling, but it still moved slightly when she picked up the gift bag.

“ you can’t buy my forgiveness “ she stated, not looking inside the bag “ I told you that already Remus. I can’t be bought “ he gave a small nod, clasping his hands tighter.

“ yes. I know. I do. Just- please “ he nodded towards the bag and she hesitated but sighed before pulling at the ribbon and pulling out the tissue paper. She froze when her figures fell upon a soft cotton and she realised what was in the bag. She pulled it out, dropping the bag to the floor “ I wasn’t- I wasn’t sure on the size or- it’s like Hufflepuff, you see? Of course I couldn’t get an official one. It was a muggle shop and I had to be quite quick I didn’t want to risk anything. I mean I had options of course but- “

“ Remus “ she cut him off. It was a babygrow. It was a pastel green with a badger embroidered on the chest. It was the first piece of clothing their child had. She hadn’t exactly had the best of opportunities to go shopping down Diagon alley for some herself.

“ Dora “ he tried her nickname again for the first time in weeks and this time she didn’t chastise him for it “ I know I’ll never be able to take back what I said. But as I told you when I returned. I had time to think. And these past months I’ve been thinking too “ he reached out gingerly for her hand and when she didn’t pull away he gently took it in both of his “ all I ever wanted was a normal life. A normal family. And now… now I have that chance. With the woman I love and. And our child “

“ and what if he’s not… ‘ Normal ‘. If he’s different. I’d hes half werewolf. Or full. Or. In between “ she was getting a little tense with her words again and she tried her best to remain calm. She was finally getting a truthful and meaningful opinion from Remus on the matter. She should be thankful for that. Even with the betrayal still poking the back of her mind occasionally.

“ then I’ll love him all the same. He’ll be could be born with four legs and 5 arms, two heads. No magic at all. I’d still love him. Because we made him Nymphadora. You and I. And I…. I never thought I’d get that. I never believed I’d be a father. A husband. Now I have that opportunity and I see how much of a fool I was to try and throw that away “ he squeezed her hand gently, his thumb rubbing circles over her knuckles in a soothing way. She knew him well enough to know when he was lying to her. And he wasn’t now.

“ let’s deal with the possible moon situation before we worry about any extra limbs shall we? “ she said with a small smile and watched as he seemed to relax every muscle in his body, his worries that she wouldn’t accept his apologies slipping away “ I won’t forgot what you said to me. And to him “ she placed her free hand on her stomach as she spoke “ but you’re his dad. Nothing is going to change that. And the world really fucked up right now. Like. Really. And so we have to protect him. Love him more than we can even think about “ Remus nodded.

She refused to let the world ruin her baby, refused to let him be warped into a life of terror and fear. Of feeling outcast and alone like his father had. Remus stood up then and knelt down in front of her.

“ I love you Nymphadora. And I love him… or her “ she smiled slightly as he placed a gentle hand over hers that was still cradling her bump. Remus’ acceptance suddenly made it feel all the more real. In just 4 months they’d have a baby. A real one. Screaming and crying and laughing. A most innocent thing born into a world on the brink of disaster. And somehow her and Remus had to keep him safe. And kind. And loved. They weren’t exactly the most functional of couples so it was no doubt that their family wouldn’t be either. But they’d make it work. They would.

Werewolf or not.

—————————————-

It was another week after that that she finally caved. The talk had most definitely been the turning point. And she’d kissed him again that evening for the first time in months. Was actually letting him touch her again without recoiling. Though he was still on the sofa.

Though December had well and truly arrived. The cold weather setting her into an almost constant chill, the old cottage not offering much in terms insulation. And she missed having him wrapped around her. He was always warm. And didn’t complain when her cold hands found there way under his shirt in the night to warm up. She also just missed him. Just him. Her Remus. The man she’d fallen in love with. She wanted him back beside her, his slow breaths on her neck in the night, his legs tangled with hers. Even the way his facial hair scratched at her when they kissed. She just missed him.

So it was almost no surprise to her when she found herself slipping out of bed, the coldness of the stone floor seeping through her socks and chilling her already numb feet some more. She opened the bedroom door slowly to see if he was awake or not.

He was in the armchair, a book on his lap. Clearly having not planned to sleep there, he’d have a sore neck in the morning that was for certain. She grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and silently walked over to him. The fire was crackling in the hearth, immediately warming her up. She moved the book careful not to lose his page, before climbing into his lap in its place. She wrapped the blanket around them, bring her legs up and resting her head on his chest. One more month gone and she didn’t think she’d be able to manage that. She wasn’t the tallest or biggest of people. So her bump was still pretty small. But she loved it all the same.

Remus stirred slightly and made a small noise of confusion to wake up and find Dora on his lap. He opened his eyes fully, his eyelids heavy with sleep.

" Dora? "

" go back to sleep " she whispered and felt him give a small nod as his hand tentatively wrapped around her, like he was still unsure if he was allowed to touch her or not. She snuggled in a little closer to him as if to say it was okay and he fully wrapped around her, pulling the blanket up to her chin. It felt right to be in his arms like that again. They’d snuggled on the sofa the day before. But not as… intimate as this. It felt normal again. Like she belonged there.

" why did you- "

" I was just cold " she cut him off, ignoring the way his raspy sleep filled voice made her melt. She was trying to show that she was still just that little bit mad at him. But she couldn’t deny that she missed him. That yes she was still hurt, that she might always been. But nothing could compare to the amount that of love she had for him. Still. Even after all he’d done. No one would ever come close to the way she felt for Remus Lupin.

" right " She lifted her head for a moment to find he was already looking at her. And she couldn't help herself. Because time was precious now. And she was wasting it being angry all these months later. She slipped a hand up to cup his face before pulling him in to kiss her. He seemed a little surprised at first, his lips frozen for a moment before they opened to capture her own. But she didn't blame him because she was too. She hadn’t planned for that night to be that night she let go of the final part holding her back.

" this isn't me forgiving you " she said against his lips once they pulled apart. Half joking. Half not.

" I know " he seemed quite truthful with that. Like he understood her thinking. Maybe he did.

" good "

" good " she kissed him again and found herself shifting in his lap, slipping a leg either side of him. Because she was mad at him, she was really. But she loved him more. Missed him more. Needed him more. And soon she was unbuttoning his trousers and bunching up her sweatshirt- that was actually his- around her waist, rolling her hips against him until she was panting out his name, gripping the back of the armchair so hard she was surprised she didn’t splinter the wooden frame.

They stayed on the armchair even after Remus had cleaned them up, trying to keep the warmth of the fire in her body, trying to share Remus’ own body heat.

" Remus " she said when she was certain he was just dropping off, her head against his chest. Heading his heart beating felt like home. The familiar sound she had so often fallen asleep to. Comforting.

" I know. This isn't you forgiving me " he mumbled, hurt tinging his words.

" actually I was going to say that I love you "

" oh. Oh right... I love you too. You know I do " his arms tightened slightly around her and she let herself calm to the sound of his heart. She waited again until she felt him slackening with sleep to speak again, a slight mischief in her tone.

" oh and Remus? This isn't me forgiving you "

#messrmoonyy writes #bit longer than normal! but I loved this prompt so much!#remus lupin #nymphadora tonks #remadora #harry potter #remus x tonks #ronks #the marauders #lupin #tonks x lupin #tonks #remus x nymphadora #Dora lupin #remadora one shot #deathly hallows #one shot

59 notes · View notes

imerdwarf · 3 years

Text

Love At First Crash

Summary: your car gets taken to the repair shop where you meet the man who will repair it for you.

Prompt:

Pairing: Mechanic!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: flirting, mild angst, idiots in love, happy ending 🥰

Word Count: 2,128 (I AM SO SORRY)

Author's Notes: This is for @the-ss-horniest-book-club's Drunk Drabbles 💜 my first time writing for mechanic!Bucky, thank you so much @jobean12-blog for checking it and giving me your thoughts 💜

It's been just a few days since you've visited the repair shop and met the owner Bucky Barnes. His charming smile made your tummy feel like you had a swarm of butterflies fluttering around inside.

His tight white tank top was pulled so tightly across his chest that his pecs could be seen. His black jeans that sculptured around his thick thighs to show off those thigh muscles, his mechanical outfit was matched perfectly with his black boots.

Your footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls and floors as you entered the repair shop back from the back entrance. The metal shutters with a dangling chain link was rolled halfway up and a dozen of motorcycles parked next to the doors.

The distant quiet music from the digital radio did very little to quieten your footsteps. Bucky had heard you and rolled himself out from underneath your car. He smirked up when he saw you approach him.

"Hey there doll." Bucky showed off his perfect pearly whites and that was the same smile that gave you the butterfly feeling.

"Hey Bucky," you smiled back and sheepishly shoved your hands in the front of your pockets. You had originally opted to call him James, but he beefy man insisted on Bucky since his close friends and family called him by that name and James had sounded so foreign to his ears.

Bucky stood up, his biceps flexing under his movements and you couldn't stop the creeping flush. You cleared your throat and looked at your car.

"She's looking good!" Bucky's smile grew wider by how excited and happy you were.

"Yes you are," he muttered under his breath but you heard him say something. Your head snaps towards him and grin.

"What did you just say?" Bucky blushed and now it was his turn to clear his throat and rub the back of his neck, unknowingly with his greasy padded fingertips which left a black streak.

"I said she is, she won't be too long in here actually, a few more days." He wanted to exhale his sigh of relief when you nodded your head and looked back at your car.

"Great, you're the best Bucky!"

Bucky was absolutely beaming from the praise but it wasn't a lie, Bucky really was the best. He was so the best in fact that you found yourself daydreaming about the beefy mechanic days after you visited him at the shop.

You were laying on your couch listening to the birds singing outside and staring up at the white ceiling with your hands resting on your stomach thinking about that gorgeous smile of his. You loved the way his hair was always slicked back into a bun and how his shirt was always grease stained, a sign of a hard working man. You knew he was working hard to get your car back on the road as soon as possible, he kept in touch to let you know how everything was going.

You were falling for him, fast and hard. He was all you could ever think about, he was all you dreamed about and he lived rent free in your head.

Your gut clenches from the thought that realistically, he is probably in a serious long-term relationship with a much more beautiful woman, one that must make him happy because he was always in a good mood and always smiling.

Your chances of ever being with him were really slim, and it was such a bitter pill to swallow. He was just a crush and that is all he would ever be. But it didn't stop you from creating scenarios in your head with him. What your evenings would look like cuddled on the couch watching movies, listening to music or just talking to each other. What kind of food you'd cook him, would he kiss you as a compliment? In your head he does.

You wonder what it would be like to have him underne—

"Y/N!" Wanda's voice suddenly breaks through your thoughts and you blink back to reality. You mumble a response and Wanda finds you laying on the couch staring up to nothing, again, "still daydreaming about your hot boyfriend?" She teases and you scoff, sitting up to glare at her.

"He is not my boyfriend. Never was, never will be." Your face drops when you said it out loud, as though it suddenly dawned on you.

"But you have a crush on him right?" Wanda pushes and you regret ever spilling the beans to her in the first place, of course she is never going to let this go.

"No." You lied.

"Then why does he make you look so sad?" Damn it Wanda, "look, I'm not here to pressure you but my brother is back in town and we are meeting at the bar tonight! He misses you and wants to see you!"

"Bucky misses me?!" You may have zoned out again thinking about Bucky. Wanda rolls her eyes and laughs lightly.

"No! Pietro! But I'm sure Bucky does kiss you... I mean miss you!"

You smiled, great now another thing to add to your scenarios.

"What time?"

"8pm sharp! Don't be late!" She kisses your cheek in a friendly manner before skipping out of your door and leaving you alone with your thoughts. You had a few more hours to lay here and do nothing but think about him.

***

The bar was crowded when you arrived and you headed towards the bar to order a drink when Pietro came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You screeched out when you turned around and saw it was him, pulling him into a tight hug and keeping your hands on his forearms as he kissed your cheeks.

It might have been innocent, but from where Bucky was stood, it seemed like the two of you were an item and his heart dropped into his stomach and his mood turned sour.

He had no idea you were with Pietro, he knew him because he's a well known lawyer with a lot of successful cases under his belt so he couldn't blame you for being with someone with a clean job while he went to work everyday in a greasy repair shop.

He's only met you a dozen times but he doesn't remember you ever smiling that brightly at him when you were in his repair shop.

"You're brooding." Natasha, one of Bucky's oldest friends told him as she sipped her dry red wine. Bucky rolled his eyes and swished his beer around in his hand.

"I'm fine." Bucky scoffed and turned his angle away from Natasha.

"You're in love." Bucky again rolls his eyes and tries to ignore her. He tries to ignore you both, he tries to contain the jealousy that desperately wants to come out and say something about the way you're not even pulling away from Pietro.

"I'm leaving," Bucky tells Natasha, chugging the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle down on a nearby table, he turns to Nat and points a finger in her face, "and don't follow me."

The catch-up with Pietro was nice, it's been a few years since you've seen each other and he was telling you about his new wife when you saw Bucky storm out of the bar over his shoulder. Your eyes widened, never even noticing he was here and oh god, how this must have looked. Your heart sunk when you saw a redhead follow in his direction, that must have been his girlfriend.

Your mood to stay in the bar any longer was diminished and now all you wanted to do was go home and be by yourself.

You excused yourself from Pietro's grip and bid Wanda a quick goodnight before making a quick exit out of the bar and heading straight home.

Your thoughts kept you up the whole night. You couldn't sleep and tossed and turned throughout the cold night. You kept thinking back to the way he stormed out of the bar, if only you had seen him sooner.

Wanda entered your home early the next morning to find you already sitting up at the kitchen table nursing a hot cup of coffee. You looked exhausted and she could tell you haven't slept.

"Hey." She whispers, putting her hand on your shoulder, "are you okay?" You nod your head and sigh, not being in the mood to talk about things right now.

"I'm fine, just tired from last night." It's a lie that Wanda seems to accept for now.

"Barnes called." Wanda sighs and your head snaps up, "your car is ready to be picked up. I'll go and get it for you so you can rest." You feel upset that he couldn't or didn't want to call you but called your emergency contact instead.

"O-kay."

"I'll be back in a bit!" Wanda leaves quickly, jumping into Pietro's car and rehearsing the conversation in her head before she confronted Bucky.

Bucky was wiping his dirty greased up fingertips on the rag he had stuffed in his back pocket when Wanda arrived with Pietro. He saw him drive off shortly after she got out and Bucky refrained from rolling his eyes.

He was probably going home to you. He thought selfishly to himself. He mustered the biggest smile he could but it didn't fool Wanda.

"Wanda."

"Barnes, you called?"

"Yeah, Y/N's car is ready."

"And you couldn't inform her why?" Wanda queried, noting the disappointing look that swam in his eyes.

"I didn't think Pietro would like that."

Wanda bent over and held her stomach as she laughed. Bucky's eyebrows pinched together in confusion, "What's so funny?" He snapped, angry at how this whole thing was completely unfair.

"I'm sorry- it's just- it's just- oh god- Pietro is my brother and he's married." Wanda said between breaths.

This only infuriated Bucky even further, "good for him but I don't need to know how happy they are together!" He needed to chill and calm down. Jealousy was not a good look.

"He isn't married to Y/N. She's single, has a crush on you, maybe even hopelessly in love with you but that's fine if you want to-"

"She's what?" Bucky asks shocked, there's no way a pretty dame like yourself could love him. He's too basic, too plain.

"Why don't you drop me home in Y/N's car and take her car back to her yourself and you'll see what I mean." It was an offer he couldn't refuse. If Wanda wasn't pulling his leg, and you really were single, he needed to get to you before someone else did.

***

It's been well over an hour since Wanda left to pick up your car. In that time, you managed to take a shower to release your tense muscles, take something for the pounding headache and change into an outfit.

You were really excited to get your car back, making a promise with yourself that you'll be a lot more careful this time and try not to get into more car crashes.

You heard the engine in your driveway and you leapt towards the front door with a smile on your face, your smile growing even wider when you saw it wasn't Wanda behind the wheel, but Bucky. You couldn't put your finger on why you were so happy to see him, maybe it was a little hope he didn't hate you after all.

He got out of the car and strolled up towards you with a matching smile on his own face. His hands were in his front pockets and he looked amazing dressed in all black with a black leather jacket.

"Hi!" Your dam almost breaks, you were awake the whole night worrying about what would happen and then he didn't call you himself this morning about your car, it was easy to jump to conclusions, "I'm so happy to see you."

"Doll, I'm sorry I didn't call- my thoughts- well, I mean my feelings got in the way and I let my jealousy shine brighter than the sun." He chuckled shyly.

"Please you don't need to explain, it's me who owes you an explanation. You see, Pietro and I are—"

"No need doll. Wanda told me everything. It's a pretty warm day, Steve is covering for me back at the shop and I wondered if you'd like to head down to the beach with me?"

You grinned and looked down to your feet before looking into his eyes again, "I can make a picnic?"

"Sounds like a date!"

"A date it is."

Taglist: @smokeybluebrooke-lyn @pinkdiamond1016 @whatrambles @bestofbucky

305 notes · View notes

axwalker · 3 years

Text

CREEP: I’m a creep

HIGH SCHOOL AU

Pairing: Drake Walker and Lexie O’Brien -- Book TRR

A/N 1 This came up to me after I got an ask from @nestledonthaveone

I was listening to my iPod on my way home from work yesterday & Radiohead's Creep came on. One of my favorite songs, and I think the lyrics are great for an angsty Drake fic. It reminds me of him. Could you please write an angsty fic inspired by the song? I love how you write angst!!

I used to hear this song when I was a teenager, so when I read this ask, I immediately wanted to write something angsty but situated in high school.

This is part one of two.

I hope you enjoy it @nestledonthaveone 💕

A/N 2: Because they’re younger than usual, I decided to change my FC --just for this fic. I’m still picturing Michiel and Valerie when they’ll be older though.

A/N3: I’m participating in @wackydrabbles Prompt #105 It's definitely ... interesting.”

Thank you ladies!

WARNINGS: Parental abuse. Eventually some lemons. ALL MY FICS ARE 18+

Tags in the comments.

LEXIE

I’ve always loved sunsets. The entire sky is painted orange and pink, streaking with white light and many other colors; I can’t take my eyes away from it. Sunsets remind us that no matter what is happening in our lives, the sun will be out again tomorrow. It’s raw, beautiful, and comforts me—the thought of the sun watching over me. I sit on my porch, my knees against my chest. I’m wearing a white tank top and jean shorts to fight the intense heat that invades Cordonia in early September. I fix my eyes on the sky, wishing a miracle. Something that takes me away from my father and his new wife. Away from the pain of losing mom.

“What are you doing?” The voice is so resonant, deep, and rasping. Slowly, I sit up and look around, pushing my long, brown hair out of my eyes. I raise my head, and I see him. Drake Walker.

My breath catches, and I cross my arms over my breasts, knowing the thin material of my shirt isn’t keeping me remotely modest. What is he doing here? At this time, no less. I go to school with Drake. We’re both sophomores at Valtoria High School. He’s six foot two, with strong shoulders, and has a knowledge of life in his eyes that boys our age simply don’t possess. We have five classes together, and he sits through them like a statue, his chocolate eyes unreadable. Tall, dark, and angry. Handsome in a hard way that makes the other girls nervous when he walks down the hallways. Not me, though. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stared at him from behind my locker door, breath trapped in my lungs, wondering what he’s thinking of behind his brooding eyes.

“I asked, what are you doing? This isn’t a safe place to be alone at night. You should get inside.”

“Inside is no safer.” Why would I say that? My first time talking with this boy, and I tell him my deepest secret? His eyes narrow at me.“I mean, there’s not a lot of crime in this part of Portavira.” That loosens the tension in his broad shoulders. “I’m looking at the sunset. I love it. It’s so beautiful and wild.” I bit my bottom lip noticing his eyes dip to catch the action.

“It’s definitely ... interesting,” he says, noncommittally. “There are things I like more.”

“Like what?” I ask.

He shrugs but looks back down at me, wrestling with something. He lifts a hand, brushing the very tip of his fingers down my cheekbone. “You,” he rasps.

Drake’s deep brown eyes look at me with something I’m only on the cusp of understanding. Is it…lust? His fingers move down my jaw, traveling slowly over the hollow of my throat to tease one of my tank top’s straps. “I like you. I can’t seem to stop…wanting. Wanting you to look at me. Wanting you…period. It’s why I sit behind you in all your classes, O’Brien. You don’t know that?” My knees start to tremble. I’ve always wondered how we end up in the same classes every single semester. He’s arranged for it to happen? He…likes me? That much? Say something, dork. Don’t act like it’s not mutual.

As if I haven’t lain my bed after school, when no one is at home and touched myself while thinking of Drake Walker. I must be doing a terrible job of keeping that secret to myself because Drake’s breath begins to grow shallow. “O’Brien.” He drops his forehead to mine, the pads of his thumb rubbing the soft skin of my neck. “Have you ever been kissed?”

I can’t talk, so I shake my head.

“Please,” he groans. “Let me.”

My head is spinning. “Let you what?”

“Kiss you. Finally.” His hands move to cradle my head, making me feel delicate, like something special. His minty breath is close to my ear, setting off an ache low in my belly. “I need to kiss you, O’Brien. I need it.” He leans down and kisses the corner of my lips in the most torturous, exquisite way. My heart is beating wildly in my chest when he puts his soft lips on mine for the first time. My first kiss is an amazing one. He bends his head, and his mouth finds mine with soft pressure. I thought he would be rough or impatient may be clumsy, but I didn’t expect the gentle way his lips caress mine. The way he coaxes my own lips apart before I’m even aware of it. My knees buckle, but he holds me firmly against him. He kisses me as if this wasn’t our first time but our last. It’s the most erotic moment of my life, but all too son Drake leaves my lips. I only feel urgency. Want so deep that it burns inside of me. It has existed between us all along, hasn’t it? Not one-sided. A yearning pull between two people, orbiting each other in the earthly, incongruous setting of school.

Drake opens his mouth to say something, but my name is shouted in the distance. From inside the house. With glittering eyes, Drake drops his hands to his side, though it obviously pains him to do so. He gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek. One second later, the back door of my house opens, revealing my father, his imposing frame backlit by the interior.

“Alexis!” I start to tremble; I try to speak, but I can’t. ““What are you doing out here this late?” There’s a tight smile in his voice. “Did you come out here to retrieve the handyman?” I do a double-take, noticing the strain forming around the corners of Drake’s mouth.

“Handyman?”

“Yes.” My father chuckles, coming forward to clap a hand down on Drake’s tense shoulder. “He’s here to repair a leak in the attic. Liam called you by the way.” Drake can’t look at me now, his gaze cast over my shoulder. Empty. A minute ago, we were equals. But my father’s words have called into focus one very important thing. I’m rich, and he’s very poor. It just didn’t matter. To me, it still doesn’t. But the economic divide between us is deepening by the second.

“Why don’t you get to it?” My father suggests to Drake, his tone hard. “Alexis has to study. She is going places.”

I down my gaze to the ground, humiliation burning up my throat. My father is an expert at belittling people, and he’s just done it to Drake. I want to say something to make it better, to defend Drake, but I know I’ll only be making it worse. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to offer Drake an apology. At school. I’ll talk to him then.

“Yes, sir,” Drake responds stiffly, turning on his boots and stalking toward the house. Behind his back, my father reaches over and digs his thumb into my bicep until I double over, releasing a silent scream. He lets go a moment before Drake glances back over his shoulder, eyes hooded, and my expression is serene. Because I know better than to let anyone see the pain. My father has never been physically abusive, but his temper is getting worse. He hated mom and he’s taking it out on me. As soon as we’re in the house, I run up the stairs to my room and lock the door, leaning back against it. Listening to Drake’s boots walk back and forth in the attic. More than anything, I want to go up there. Feel his hands on me again. Cherishing hands, instead of hateful ones. I ache for that. For him. But an hour later, Drake leaves, and that’s when I face the consequences. My father knocks on my door. When I open it, the look on his eyes let me know it’s going to be worse than usual.

“If I ever see you talking to that boy again, so help me God, I’ll kick you out of this house.” His face is contorted with rage. “Then, I’ll ruin him, too. I’ll make his life even harder in this town. You know I can do it. I can have him cast off that filthy land and no one will ever hire him again. Is that what you want?”

“No,” I whisper.

“No,” he sneers, mocking me. “Never look at him again. Do you hear me? My daughter does not associate with penniless dirt. The only boy you’re allow to date is Liam Rys. No one else.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“See that you keep that promise. Or you’ll both pay the price.” And I pay a good deal of it that night when dad slaps me for the first time. The next day at school, I don’t look at Drake in the hallway. I don’t pause in the doorway of our classes, absorbing the sight of him waiting at the desk behind me. I simply keep my head down and try not to show the bruise on my cheek. On my body and my heart. I could never have predicted he would hate me for it.

Drake

Two years later

I walk past O’Brien in the hallway and slam my fist against the locker to her left, making her jump. Shame, frustration, and resentment have been like a poison inside me, rotting my bones every second of the last two years, ever since that night in her garden when she tricked me into thinking she felt the same. Maybe she did. Until her father reminded her that I’m nothing but a poor handyman. Yeah, she remembered pretty quickly that she’s better than me. Good enough to date a rich quarterback like Rys but definitely not a low life like me. Rich, stuck-up brat. What’s worse is that she fucking ruined me with those lips. She brought me to my knees. Made me reveal myself in ways I’ve never done with anyone. And now? Now she’s left me lonely and fuck-starved for two years. Obsessed with her, unable to let her go and hating her guts for it. Because she won’t even look at me anymore. I’m nothing but the dirt beneath her spotless sneakers. Two years ago, I decided that if she was going to make my life hell by ignoring me after what we shared, then I could return the favor. So I do. By tormenting her. That’s the only term for it. I torture her, and I hate that—I fucking hate it—but so be it. My jaw is close to shattering as I watch O’Brien calmly collect the books from her locker and hurry toward our next class. On top of being a bully, I’m also a masochist because I still trick the school into having the same five classes every year. My aunt Leona works in the front office, and she feels bad for me because of my dad dying and my mom abandoning me when I was still in middle school, leaving me in the trailer alone. Not bad enough to invite me to live with her family, but bad enough that she slips me O’Brien’s schedule every semester so I can match it to mine. Before I follow her, I stop at her locker, sliding something in it, and continue on my way. When I walk into class behind her a moment later, I slow to a stop in the doorway at the sight of Rys kneeling to speak with O’Brien where she sits at her desk—cajoling a smile out of her. She refused to date him two years ago, but fucking Liam didn’t get the memo. No one has as much money as his father in this town. If Rys is asking her out again, she’d probably say yes. If I let it get that far, which I won’t. I never do. She’s mine. Only mine.

#drake walker #drake walker x mc #drake x lexie #tw abuse #tw parental trauma

85 notes · View notes

hearts-hunger · 3 years

Text

ciryc ca'tra (cold night sky): chapter three || din djarin x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

chapter one | chapter two

Series Summary: When you crash-land on a frozen planet on your way to Trask, you and Din work together to keep the Crest afloat and keep your little family safe under the cold night sky. || Part One of Jate’kara (Lucky Stars)

Chapter Summary: You panic when the baby goes missing, only to find him trying to help his daddy fix the ship. You panic when the frog lady goes missing, only to find her trying to warm her eggs. You panic when there’s suddenly spiders all over the place. You’re really not having a good time on this frozen planet.

Pairings: Din Djarin x Wife!Reader

Genre: Hurt/comfort, fluff, angst | Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Maybe old fashioned ideas about marriage? Idk, I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to tag!

A/N: I’ve been writing this fic nonstop for the past few days and it’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I’m thoroughly enjoying it, and I hope you are too! Also, I think it’s actually very sexy of me to post each chapter less than 24 hours apart. Enjoy! ♡

You couldn’t get back to sleep.

You tried - your whole body ached with exhaustion, and you knew you should rest - but you were too rattled by the scare with the droid and too worried about Din out in the cold. You tried to find something more productive to do than fret, but the baby had slept through everything, and there was very little to do when you weren’t chasing him around the ship. You’d already organized and cleaned everything you could; there really was nothing to do but wait.

For the sake of your sanity - and Din’s, as you knew an anxious wife was absolutely the last thing he needed right now - you decided on a shower. The refresher was outfitted with a regular shower as well as a sonic; you’d be using the latter, considering the fact that there was no heat on the Crest at the moment. Neatly folding Din’s spare cloak and putting the rest of your clothes in the laundry basket in the refresher, you stepped into the sonic and let the thing work its magic.

The state of the refresher when you’d first come aboard the Crest was... abysmal, to put it honestly. It told you all you needed to know about the Mandalorian bounty hunter you’d met when he arrived in your small town deep in the hills of Naboo: he was used to being alone, and very unfamiliar with a woman’s company. When you started working for him and living on the ship - he’d needed your help finding a man who used to live in your town - you’d asked if there was any way to at least have a door on the blasted thing. He readily complied, and with the help of a few of the handyman types in your community, the Crest’s refresher was sorted out in no time, and more elaborately than you’d hoped for.

The sonic was made to be used with or without water, and warm lights adorned the new mirror above the sink. Best of all, there was a sliding door - much like the one on the bunk, which had been expanded slightly in all the renovation. Until you were married - only a short while after you came to work for him, as you’d both fallen head over heels in a matter of weeks - Din had slept on the reclining passenger seat in the cockpit. You’d always considered that likely miserable sleeping arrangement and the new refresher his very first love-gifts to you, and you knew you would always cherish his selflessness and generosity.

Clean and a little less wired after the sonic, you quickly put on new clothes and wrapped yourself back in Din’s cloak. You went to check on the baby, sure he was still sleeping; to your dismay and instant panic, your little foundling was nowhere to be found among the blankets you’d nestled him in earlier.

“Ad’ika!” you called, searching through the ship like Din had earlier. Your little one was an escape artist, that much you’d known from the very beginning. Usually it was of little consequence - there were only so many places he could go on the ship, and you or Din found him contentedly playing with his silver ball or some other toy he’d fashioned. But here, with the temperature dropping and the wreckage everywhere and only the tarp between the ship and the icy world outside - you had to find him.

Your panic grew to a fever pitch as you searched the ship high and low, calling for him with an increasingly desperate tone. Finally, positive he wasn’t anywhere on the Crest, you ventured outside; snowdrifts piled across the rocky ground, and the air was bitterly cold. Heedless of your own safety, you searched around the wreckage of the ship, calling for him as you felt the sting of tears.

“Cyar’ika!”

You heard Din’s voice calling you from the other side of the ship, and you made your way to him as quickly as you could. Surely Din would know where your baby was, and if he didn’t, he would know where to look. As you rounded the corner, you almost couldn’t make him out as tears blurred your vision. You tried to collect yourself before you told him - what, that you’d lost your son? That you’d had one job and couldn’t even keep your toddler safe?

Your distress must have shown on your face, because Din reached a consoling hand out to you and met you halfway as you walked through the snow towards him. You prepared to tell him, to beg for his forgiveness and help -

Then, wrapped in the corner of Din’s cloak and nestled snugly in the crook of his arm, your baby peeked out at you and gave a babble of greeting.

“Oh, Maker,” you gasped, the words coming out like a sob. You reached out for him and Din gave him to you; you held him tight as tears streamed down your face.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you said, shoulders shaking as you tried to get a hold of yourself. You felt Din’s hand on your back, drawing you close against him; you let him hold you, the baby pressed safely between you.

“It’s ok, cyare,” Din soothed, running his hand up and down your back.

You gave a hitching breath. “It’s not ok, Din,” you insisted. “I thought he was - ”

You couldn’t make yourself say it, and felt a flash of anger at your husband that you knew was misdirected, but you didn’t know what to do with the guilt and fear that still ran through you.

“You knew where he was this whole time?” you snapped, looking up at his visor. Your tears were cold on your cheeks, and you angrily brushed them away. “How long was he out here with you, while I was worried sick looking for him?”

Din held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “No, I didn’t know he was out here,” he said, determinedly calm and patient. “I only just found him, and I’d just finished getting onto him when I heard you calling for him. I was coming to take him to you, cyare.”

You knew he was telling you the truth - he’d never do something like that to you. You didn’t know what to say, ashamed that you’d accused him of letting you worry needlessly when he’d actually been doing all he could to prevent that.

“S-sorry,” you managed brokenly. You could see your vague reflection in the planes of his helmet, tearful and small and overrun with emotion.

He sighed and drew you close to him again. “I know,” he said gently. “You don’t have to apologize. I know that scared you.”

You shook your head as you leaned against his chest. “He was asleep,” you tried to explain. “I closed the door on the bunk and I just went to take a shower - I didn’t mean to - ”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze. “He knew better than to wander off like that, especially outside.”

Din looked down at the small bundle in your arms, wrapped now in the cloak you wore.

“It was very naughty to make your mama worry like that,” Din said firmly, raising a finger for emphasis. “Don’t do that again.”

The baby gave a babble that sounded somewhat affirmative and apologetic, looking up at you with those big eyes for good measure. You were so relieved that he was alright that you couldn’t stay upset with him; you covered his ears with your cloak and held him close.

“You ought to get back inside, cyar’ika,” Din said. “Try and get warmed up.”

You looked up at him, intending to say that he should come in as well, and felt a wave of guilt that you’d only just realized how his beskar was completely frosted over. The usually shiny metal was dull and white, and you knew he had to be freezing.

“Oh, Din,” you said, reached a hand up to touch the icy side of his helmet. He took your hand in a gentle grip before you could, saving you from touching the cold metal and warming your fingers with his touch.

“Please come inside,” you said, already trying to think of ways to warm him up without any heat on the ship. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m alright,” he soothed, though you knew he was probably more uncomfortable than he let on. “I need to keep working on the repairs. You and the baby shouldn’t be out in this.”

“Neither should you,” you said. “You’re - I mean, you’re covered in frost.”

He nodded. “Beskar clouds pretty quickly in the cold. It’s nothing to worry about.”

You sighed, realizing you weren’t going to get anywhere with him, but you weren’t annoyed. Since the frog lady had urged him to begin repairs sooner, he’d been single-mindedly working on the major parts of the ship that were damaged; he was going to work until he couldn’t feel his fingers any more, and then probably a little bit longer before he came inside. You admired his determination and hard work as much as you worried for him, and you wouldn't have had him any other way.

You were hesitant to leave him, but knew you should get the baby inside.

“At least kiss me before I go,” you said, knowing it was a lot to ask. “That way I can see for myself if you’re turning into an ice block under that helmet.”

He chuckled and lifted the bottom of his helmet just enough to oblige you, giving you a gentle, chaste kiss.

“There,” he said, once his helmet had been replaced. “Warm enough for you?”

You hummed in agreement. “For now.” You lightly tapped your boot against his. “Don’t stay out too long, my love.”

He shook his head. “Ne baatir, cyare.” He’d said that to you enough times over the years that you didn’t have to ask what it meant: don’t worry, beloved.

You gave him one last smile before heading back around the ship, bundling the baby close against the temperature that had started to drop steadily as the sun went down. Minding your steps lest you stumble over a snow-covered rock or bit of debris, you noticed something odd; it looked like there were another set of footprints in the snow, bigger than either yours or Din’s. You stopped and followed them with your gaze, trying not to let fear get the better of you; they led away from the ship towards the jagged side of the cavern, around a corner that seemed to lead into a different cave.

The baby started to babble excitedly, his little clawed hand pointing in the direction of the cave. Goodness, had he followed something out here? Come to think of it, where was your passenger?

You looked back over your shoulder and saw your husband diligently working on a smoking part near the back of the ship.

“Din!” you called. You tried to make your voice carry without any indication of panic, but he looked up and zeroed in on you all the same.

He cocked his head in question, as you weren’t in any obvious danger, and you waved him over. He set his tools aside and started towards you, and you hoped you hadn’t annoyed him by interrupting his work.

“What is it?” he asked, not unkindly, and you knew he hadn’t minded coming over. You gestured to the footprints.

“Do you think it’s the frog lady?” you asked.

He studied the path of the footprints, most likely through his HUD, and sighed.

“She’s not in the ship?” he asked.

“No,” you answered. Recalling your frantic search for the baby, you realized that you hadn’t seen her anywhere. “Why would she leave?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, but I need to go find her. There’s no telling what’s in those caves.”

You suppressed a shudder at the thought. “Should we go with you?”

He considered that, looking over you and the baby for a moment. “I guess. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone, but - do you think you’ll be warm enough?”

You drew his cloak closer around you and your baby. “I think so. I’d feel better going with you.”

He put a hand on your back as you followed the path of the footprints, his touch steadying and safe. “Just stick close to me, cyare. Don’t wander.”

“Din,” you said, affectionate and a little exasperated. You’d been married to a bounty hunter long enough to know that right by his side was the safest place to be. “When have you ever known me to wander?”

He chuckled. “I know, I know. You’re very good about it.” He looked around as you walked through the mouth of the cave, and you knew he was making himself aware of every possible danger.

“I don’t have any idea what to look out for,” he said honestly. You could tell how much he hated not knowing what you were up against, not being as prepared to protect you as he would have liked.

You had never made a habit of questioning his authority - he knew much better than you how to keep you safe, and if he gave you an order in a dangerous situation, you complied. It was the least you could do, considering how often he was called on to protect his wife and child. With your marriage vows, Din had sworn to kar'taylir bal cabuor, to hold you in his heart and to protect you; you had vowed your love and trust in return.

You reached out to put a hand on his arm. “I trust you, Din,” you said simply.

He nodded. “I know, cyare. Thank you.”

You stayed close to your husband's side as the cave darkened and threaded through the columns of ice that loomed on every side; it was eerily quiet except for the sound of your footsteps through the snow. Din scanned the area constantly through his HUD; you trusted him to lead you, as you couldn’t make out the footprints in the dim light. He paused for a moment at a fork in the path.

“There’s a heat signature through there,” he said, nodding to the leftmost path. You held onto the edge of his cloak, hoping to settle both of you a little, and followed as he cautiously made his way down the path.

After a bit of a tricky slope that Din offered his hand to help you over, the path opened up into a cavern that was noticeably warmer than the rest of the cave had been. Steam rose from a wide, shallow pool in the middle of the space that you guessed came from a hot spring. The frog lady was swimming in the pool, her eggs spread out around her like little jewels on the water’s surface.

“There you are,” Din said, his voice echoing around the cavern as he walked over to her. He sounded understandably frustrated; you watched as he got a sense of his surroundings and assessed any threats, undoubtedly coming to the conclusion more quickly than you had that it was too big of a space with too many shadowed corners for him to be at any sort of defensive advantage if the need arose.

“You can’t leave the ship,” he told her, rounding the pool to the side where the egg chamber sat full of liquid but without any of the eggs. “It’s not safe out here.”

You followed and knelt with him beside the pool, putting the baby between you.

“Let’s gather these up,” Din said, gesturing to the eggs bobbing in the warm water. The frog lady croaked in dismay as she cradled a few.

“I know it’s warm,” Din said, a gentle sympathy coloring his voice. He scooped up a handful of the eggs, paying no mind to wetting his gloves, and put them back in the chamber. “But night’s coming fast, and I can’t protect you out here.”

You helped take the eggs out of the water, careful of their seemingly thin protective skin; the water was delightfully warm, and you couldn’t help a fleeting wish to be swimming in it too. You handed the eggs to Din to put back into the chamber.

In your periphery, you saw your baby’s little hand inching towards an egg floating close to the edge of the pool; you and Din both noticed it at the same time, and both of you held an admonishing finger between your son and the tempting egg.

“No,” you said at the same time, in the tone you reserved for scolding. The baby looked from you to Din with a pleading expression, but Din wasn’t fazed.

“No,” he repeated firmly. He went back to gathering the eggs as the baby gave a squeak of protest, and you made a mental note to find your son something to eat when you got back to the ship.

The eggs were more slippery than you’d expected, and rounding them up took all three of you working together. You knew Din was trying to be careful and quick at the same time; being away from the ship made him wary, and there were a lot of you to protect in such a large space. You helped as best you could, holding out handfuls of eggs for him to put back into the chamber and quickly going back to gather more.

From behind you, you heard the distinctive, fearful cry of your baby; you whirled around, looking everywhere for him, and found him running over from between rows of little white eggs that seemed to be twisting in a sickly, grotesque sort of way.

You felt an icy wash of uncanny terror and needlessly called your husband’s name, abandoning the pool to rush over to your son and pick him up. You saw with a sudden wave of nauseated horror that things were coming from the eggs, chittering things with long, spindly legs. You stumbled backwards and would have lost your footing if Din hadn’t caught you, immediately pulling you back towards the pool.

You couldn't have spurred yourself to move, so horrifically entranced were you by the loathsome creatures as they swarmed over the far side of the cavern floor, but you wondered why your husband didn’t seem any more inclined to action. You felt a little faint.

“Din,” you said uncertainly. You vaguely wondered how often you called your husband’s name like a plea for help, and if it ever wore on him.

“Right here,” he said, and it sounded so unlike him, so dreamy and faint, that it snapped you back to awareness like a slap in the face.

“Din,” you said again, more firmly. You turned and looked at him; he was watching the spider-like creatures start to climb the walls, his posture slack. That alone scared you badly enough to smack a hand against his chestplate in panic.

“Din!” you said again, sharp and loud. The spiders were inching closer, their chittering growing louder with each passing second -

Your hand on his chest and the sound of your voice seemed to snap him out of it, and his whole body tensed up immediately.

“Kriff,” he bit out, anger and panic tightening his voice even through the vocoder. He shut the canister of eggs and slung it onto his shoulder, taking your upper arm in a firm grip with his free hand.

“Go,” he ordered, and you couldn’t have disobeyed him if you wanted to. He released you and you started to run towards the cave entrance you’d come through earlier, your baby pressed close to your chest -

You only made it a few feet from the pool when a terrible roar shook the cavern, stopping you dead in your tracks. A giant, eldritch spider was crawling from behind the outcropping at the far side of the cavern, and it was all you could do to hold onto consciousness as you saw it take another step towards you.

Read chapter four!

pedro pascal character taglist: @punkgeekchic, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl, @stardust-galaxies ♡

series taglist: @kyjoraven, @sarahjkl82-blog, @remmysbounty ♡

let me know if you’d like to be added to either taglist! ♡

#reader is so stressed in this one...... and girl she is only gonna get more stressed #nice #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian chapter 10 #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #chapter 10: the passenger #ciryc ca'tra #flashing gif tw

102 notes · View notes

youarejesting · 3 years

Text

Hope In The Sheets.5

[Masterlist]

Beta: @bluewhale52 Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Genre: Friendship, Comedy, Soft boy, Fluff, SMUT, Friends2Lovers,

Summary: You held many titles: his neighbor, colleague, wing-man… well, more likely a wing-woman, yet most importantly, you were his best friend. You had been friends since you were born. Between the two of you, you were younger; barely, but he never let you forget it. He always seemed to ruffle your hair and tease you, which could get rather annoying but he made up for it by treating you to things.

What if a drunken one night stand between you and your best friend Hoseok leads to more complicated situations? Your reckless twenties are cut short as you find yourself suddenly responsible for something a little more.

Warning: Male Masturbation, pregnancy.

[First] [Previous] [Masterlist] [Next]

The list of repairs that this house needed was exhausting to think about. Just when one thing seemed sorted, ten others popped up, demanding money and time but you were determined, mostly to prove to your mother, who had basically disowned you, wrong. But more than that, you wanted to do this for your friends who were trying their hardest to support you. You couldn’t let them down and you couldn’t let this child down. More importantly, you definitely couldn’t let your mother be right.

Spite was a great motivator and you felt more inspired than ever. Your friends came by before and after work, forgoing any other social opportunities just to help you out. Each of you packed countless bags of trash, dumping them in the front yard; how did this much rubbish exist in one tiny house?

It took a whole day but finally, it was finally clean. Covered in sweat and dust and god knows what else, you’d all found a place on the floor of the empty living room, eating pizza courtesy of Yuta. You’d been restricted to the healthier option, courtesy of Seokjin. Hoseok’s curious glances didn’t pass you by.

Johnny and Taeil were organising carpools to get home and it was well into the night by the time people started leaving. Yuta glanced over at you as he stuffed the empty takeout boxes into the trash.

“Y/N, do you need a ride?”

You smiled gratefully but shook your head. “Jin offered to take me home but thanks.”

Hoseok looked annoyed, but you were already being ushered to the car before you could ask him what was wrong. “I’m all worked up after that,” he said suddenly. “Jimin, Yoongi and I were thinking of hitting a bar, you know scope out the competition.” The other boys shared confused frowns but went along with it.

“Oh... okay.” Of course he had other plans. He was going after his dream girl after all, completely unaware that his dream girl was getting in a car right in front of him. You bit your lip and slid into the front seat without another word. The drive to your apartment felt longer than usual but Seokjin filled the empty silence with soft music and talk of renovations.

“You have a little money left over after purchasing the house; I think that should be enough to cover all of the plumbing and electrical.” He flashed a grin. “Lucky for you, I have connections with a contractor from university and he owes me a huge amount of favours so he can work for free. We just have to cover materials. I mean, I set him up with his wife so he owes me.”

Once you were back in the comfort of your own apartment, your worries about Hoseok almost seemed like water under the bridge. You and Seokjin settled at the table with tea, feeling a little better than earlier.

“I made a list of things we need to get fixed professionally but the rest, we can scrounge together for next to nothing.” He slid a piece of paper over to you; it was split into two columns.

“...Broken window,” you read outloud, “landscaping, the leak in the roof, plumbing, Electrical, Appliances, Paint cabinet, Bathroom renovation...It’s a lot.”

“That’s what we’re here for.” He smiled softly, his hand covering yours. “You are going to be a great mum, Y/N.”

It took a solid week of working around the clock with the contractor but finally, the house had running water and working lights. It took another two months for the house to be in a state that could be livable and safe for a newborn but the jobs were finally complete. The boys didn’t come over often as they had their own jobs but today some of the boys were free and happy to help.

It was nice hanging out again, Friday pizza nights were now moved to monday. Held at your house so everyone could help renovate. There wasn’t really any furniture or appliances but your home was slowly getting there.

Jungkook’s friend Taehyung had also become a regular part of the group, he was eccentric and enjoyed helping with picking certain aspects that were really making a beautiful modern home. He really read your vibe and styled the home accordingly.

You had gone for your first scan about a week after you had bought the house and it seemed you were roughly two months pregnant. It was crazy cause you didn’t seem that far along but now at four months you were feeling particularly round.

While you were fixing the glass window with Yoongi, the window you had ordered finally arrived. He was helping because he refused to let you hold the heavy glass frame by yourself. You regret buying the maternity clothes because most of them accentuated your belly.

Namjoon tried to open the glass sliding door however he was promptly shooed out by Jimin, “I just sweeped these floors, I did not bargain with the flooring guy for you to trek mud and grass inside” Namjoon removed his boots and shirt trying to shake out any grass.

You couldn’t help but giggle. Seokjin was starring open-mouthed at Namjoon. Watching from where he stood in the kitchen helping Jungkook fit the second hand cabinets. They had spent the morning sanding and painting, each with new hinges and runners.

“Looking good Namjoon, sweat becomes you,” You laughed joking around and he blushed. “Seriously thank you for tackling the garden, I don’t know what I would have done if I was left to do it by myself,” You said stepping back as the window slipped into the runner.

“Perfect fit” Yoongi hummed

Acting like it was nothing, Yoongi and the boys packed, ready to call it a night but not before he held your belly in his hands “Alright, be good, uncle Yoongi will be back next monday,”

“I am beginning to think you like the little one better than me” You scoffed, slapping his hands away and huffing, lips pressed into a pout, hands folded over the top of your belly. Hoping you looked somewhat intimidating.

“I will never tell” he snickered before handing you a custard cake from the depths of his hoodie pouch. You lunged ripping open the packet and devouring it.

“You will always be my number one babe,” Jimin said from behind you placing his hands on your stomach and rubbing small circles.

“Okay I am not a buddha, hands off the belly!” You hissed and they each gave a cheeky grin and soon they huddled around you, cooing as their hands were rubbing your tummy.

The door opened and Hoseok walked in looking a little disheveled passing the others in the doorway. “You sure you want to stay in the house tonight?” Seokjin asked, getting his coat and offering Namjoon a lift home. Nodding your head in affirmation, he bit his lip, “are you sure you want to be alone though, I could stay with you if you really want?”

“No, it’s all good. Hoseok can stay, you have to go home,” you explained gesturing to Hoseok who thankfully nodded leading them all out the door.

“I will take care of her tonight” He seemed to really want them to leave.

The night was a little cool and you weren’t tired so you opened a can of paint and rolled out the plastic. Hoseok opened the window and took a roller helping you to paint the walls.

“So…” You decided to cut through the tension, “How has work been?”

“Honestly, it just gets lonelier and lonelier without you” His laugh was always the same and didn’t fail to make you smile. “I miss you, how is that new amazing job, you haven’t spoken about since you told me you got it”

“It’s really good Hobi, they are so nice. Everyone is so supportive and they know I am pregnant” You grinned “Sitting down, is nice, I wouldn’t be able to stand as much as I did at the park, I would have elephant feet”

“That’s nice,” the emotion in his voice didn’t match the words he was saying, feeling underlyingly bitter.

“Hoseok, I had to grow up, I am not a single twenty year old, who can drink every night and eat spaghetti o’s” the sigh that escaped your lips was longing for those days. “I have a baby inside me, that needs me to feed them and when they come out they will need a safe home and bills paid and food and eventually schooling”

“Look, I am sorry, you are doing amazing, I am just bitter because I miss you, you are my best friend and I feel like I went from being number one to being thirteenth, when you are still my number one” He sighed “It’s stupid to feel jealous of a baby”

“I get it, I am jealous because I literally cannot do anything fun anymore, I eat food and I puke, I can’t dance or sneeze without needing to go to the bathroom, my feet swell all the time, I cried watching lady and the tramp because I wanted spaghetti and I didn’t have a car to get it and it was too late to get it delivered.”

Hoseok was laughing, he wrapped his arms around you, “Little Darling, I will get my license and a car, and if ever you need spaghetti call me okay”

You went to pat his back but heard the familiar splat, eyes going wide he laughed hysterically, “Did you just put paint on my jacket?”

“Hoseok, I am so sorry” You were not ready for the paint smear on your cheek and you frowned,

It was an all out war, that ended with you pressed against the only dry wall trapped by Hoseok’s hands. He grinned down at you and something sparked between you, it buzzed fiercely and things grew warm. He was just watching you, the sounds of your breathing amplified as your breaths mingled in the inch of space between you.

He leaned in and you thought he was going to kiss you, your heart racing and head dizzy you shut your eyes. But nothing happened, you felt his warmth move away with a sigh. “You are covered in paint, you should go wash up little darling.”

When she stepped out of the bathroom all clean and scrubbed, she was wearing one of my oversized shirts, and underwear, it wasn’t weird as the shirt went to her thighs. Though as her belly was more prominent it did lift the shirt a fraction and the fabric skimmed dangerously high up her thigh catching a glimpse of her underwear as she moved.

You had a subtle waddle, that made him laugh, and as you got closer he realized he was in love with you. It wasn’t new information he always fancied you, it’s just now he truly accepted that he was in love with you.

Hoseok went for a shower scrubbing the paint from his body, but as he cleared his skin, his mind clouded with such steamy thoughts. They made his heart pound, he could almost hear your sweet cries and smell the scent of your skin as you writhed underneath him. He pressed his forehead to the cool tiles as the smell of your shampoo fogged his brain even more.

He looked down at the rather aggressive hard on, painful and red waiting for release. He hissed through his teeth as he took himself in his hand. His hand shaking he tried to suppress his moans, the sound of his hand slipping against his cock. Lathered in the same vanilla milk body wash, you used. He remembered how this scent always assaulted him when he pressed his nose into your neck when you hugged.

He let his mind wander back to before you were pregnant, not wanting to think about you with Jin. He remembered the last night you both went to the club together, dressed in your outrageous black-light dress that was so tight. He had flashbacks of the night helping you walk home, he remembered the two of you giggling up the stairs. But what he didn’t remember was inviting another girl over.

It must have been his imagination taking over because he was so horny, because he started to imagine making sweet love to you. Drawing his hand tightly back on his dick when he could practically feel himself sliding into you, the heat and the warmth making his head spin.

The heat of the shower only fueled his fantasies, he bucked into his hand, beads of sweat mingling with the water droplets, his hand faltered and his hips tilted forward as if he was pressing firmly inside you. Cum splattering the tiles, he felt guilt. He let the water run longer to wash away the evidence.

Dressed he saw you lying on the bed reading something on your phone. “Hey, you are still up?” Hoseok asked, walking over slowly, admiring you.

“I can’t sleep,” the sigh in your voice was so defeated. Slipping into the bed next to you, Hoseok made sure not to touch you. He felt dirty from his escapades, no amount of water could wash away the feelings inside him. There was so much room between you both. “Sleep doesn’t really happen when you are round, emotional, hungry, horny and constantly four hundred degrees”

“You are so far away, come here” He tried to act nonchalant about the situation, not like he had been thinking naughty thoughts of you in the shower. He breathed pulling you into his arms, he could smell the vanilla scent on your skin and he felt his cock throb in his sweats.

“It’s too hot, Hobi please!” It was such a halfhearted protest, as you sank into his arms.

He pressed his lips to yours briefly, stealing a quick goodnight kiss and tucking your head under his chin.

You sat there for ten minutes trying to calm your racing heart. Trying to decipher the meaning behind the goodnight kiss. Your mind stretches to conclusions on your relationship. Perhaps he was just tired.

Considering he fell asleep so quickly, did kissing you not mean the same thing it meant for other men and women. Was it because you were pregnant and he was just being a cute friend. Or, was he interested?

You felt like you wanted to scream so there were so many unanswered questions. At some point during the night of contemplation you thought about the money you had been saving.

Ready for the dreaded shop you knew you would have to make, the shop where you would buy the babies first items and furniture. The items that will solidify it all for you, that you were really pregnant.

You were 5 months pregnant and despite the boys constantly asking when you were going to buy the nursery gear and offering you cradles from relatives. You refused telling them, you had it ordered and you were paying it off at the shop, which wasn’t really a lie. It had been paid off for weeks. You just asked them to delay the delivery as long as they could.

But as planned it was eventually delivered. It was nice to be able to sit in your home and assemble the furniture on a cool rainy afternoon. You felt safe that the roof wasn’t going to leak, or at least you hoped it wouldn’t. You had spent enough money on the house you were finally feeling like things were falling into place. That the house was becoming a home.

Sitting in what was supposed to be a nursery you had the boxes of furniture all around you, it was when you felt it, a flutter in your stomach, odd but nothing disconcerting, until it happened again and then again. Something clicked and you realized it was your baby. The tears were running down your face as you realized.

This was real, this angel was real, inside your belly so little and you could feel them, it was overwhelmingly emotional and it was right as all the boys walked into the house. Hoseok spotted you crying and raced over, “Little darling, what's wrong?”

“There is a baby Hoseok, I can feel them a little girl or boy, they are real” You sniffed, burying your face in his neck, embarrassed that this was what solidified it for you, feeling the baby move. You thought that you wouldn’t think any of this was really until you held the baby in your arms. But here you were crying on Hoseok’s shirt.

He soothed you, rubbing your back and swaying you both gently. Whispering words of encouragement. The sudden stir in your tummy made your motivation sky-rocket. So you had roped him in to help set up the nursery.

When it was done you realized it was so bare, no clothes in the drawers, no toys or supplies. This baby wasn’t going to wait for you, you needed to get things ready and fast.

The bathroom soon was complete with a bath, and the kitchen cupboards installed, everything was done and it was time to have the place furnished. You searched for second hand furniture, anything cheap and in good condition was good enough for you.

As the house came together slowly you started adding pictures to your social media. Showing the before and after renovations, and pictures with your friends. Seokjin got a picture of you standing in front of your house and you had to admit it looked much better all painted and pretty.

You were sitting on your couch that surprisingly were in great condition considering they were being sold from another family, you couldn’t say the same for the table that had a broken leg and graffiti swears on top.

Jungkook was doing his best to repair it when he was free and you were so grateful. You made the spare bedroom and told the guys your home was open if they ever needed a place to stay.

You were hugging Yoongi and he laid his hands on your sides, bending down to speak to your tummy when he felt a wiggle from inside. “Ahh…” he squirmed, “what was that?”

Laughing hysterically you took his hand and placed it back on the area waiting, “that was the baby's foot, but I don’t think he wants to do it again.

You were bombarded by hands and coo’s and whines ‘I want to feel the baby’ before you snapped having them all line up and wait their turn, you reached Taehyung who leaned down talking to your belly. “Can you kick my hand?” He giggled and yet sadly not even Taehyung could coax your baby to kick.

Hoseok walked in and saw the boys pouting as Yoongi mumbled, “It was weird like there was something under her shirt, it wasn’t strong just weird”

“What was weird?” Hoseok dropped his coat and gave you a hug and you sighed letting your body lean heavily against him, “tired little darling?”

“Yoongi felt the baby kick but none of us did,” Jimin pouted stomping around the kitchen “what secrets have you been whispering to the baby?”

Since the night Hoseok had stayed over in your new house, he had started staying more often. He would sneak you food that Seokjin had forbidden and watch movies with you like nothing had changed, He had even started to love your random bursts of energy in the middle of the night and the two of you would put up shelves or paint a room together.

When you collapsed into the bed after everyone had left, Hoseok pulled you to his chest and draped his arm over your waist. His hand would splay out over your belly and rub soothing circles. That night you were dead tired and nothing seemed to wake you, he felt something strange against his hand and he bit his lip letting a few tears fall.

This was your child, saying hello to him, it was beautiful but it also destroyed him knowing that he wasn’t the one with you through this. That he had let his feelings sit idle and unsaid and giving way for Seokjin to swoop in and take you from him.

He leaned over and looked at how peaceful you looked sleeping and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, he wanted to be the one for you. He didn’t see your eyes flutter open.

“Hobi, what’s up?” You mumbled tiredly, he looked down at you and brushed your hair from your eyes. You must have been half asleep because you put your hand on his cheek and kissed him. It was a slow kiss that was packed with so much emotion between you.

Things escalated and his hands clutched your body desperate for you to accept him, for you to keep him forever and not let him go. His head was telling him this was a dumb idea and he should stop but his heart wanted you, wanted you to be his.

The heat between you escalated and your hearts were beating as one, Hoseok was tearing down your friendship with every touch and kiss.He felt like everything was coming true and any thought of tomorrow's repercussions were out the window. Until his hand slid over your stomach and felt a kick. That was it, the rejection he needed.

He pulled away and laid back down behind you. “It has been a long day you should sleep” Hoseok whispered softly tucking your head under his chin and humming softly. “You are my baseline of my music, movement, my success, my life”

When he heard your tiny snores and your body relax in his arms once more, he knew it was time to go. He slipped from the bed and put on his coat, he was going to talk to Seokjin.

He had to give the guy his apology and blessing, he had to step back and let you two live your life. He couldn’t interfere anymore. He had to grow up and let you grow up as well. The streets were cold and pretty quiet, only making him feel more alone. The nightlife and clubs had been his playground, but it didn’t seem fun anymore without you.

On his way to the bus stop he searched for a new job, something he had been procrastinating for a long time. He applied to a couple businesses, nothing grand, just doing paperwork. The very job he never wanted to be in.

He thought about the money he had been saving for a cruise for the two of you, it was supposed to be a week holiday. But instead he thought to put the money to better use, he searched online for a second hand car. Your need for a vehicle was more important than a holiday.

The bus stopped and he walked out, heading down the streets towards the music and chatter of Jin and Tonic hoping to talk to the owner.

[First] [Previous] [Masterlist] [Next]

Tags: @brbkpop @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @munchyn @unadulteratedlyunique @jinhitwhore @knjkitten @jooniesdimples70307 @the-snowbear25

(please remember to have your notifications set properly so I can tag you.)

How can I save this to receive and read updates?

‘Follow’ and turn on ‘Notifications’ so you never miss an update

Add your name to a ‘Tag’ list [HERE]

‘Reblog’ this post with the hashtag #J-HITS (J-Hope in the sheets)

Or you can ‘Like’ this post (but good luck trying to find it a week later, we both know how many things you like a day, perhaps we will meet again in the future.)

96 notes · View notes

rotzaprachim · 4 years

Text

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.)

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

#the old guard #joe x nicky #the old guard fic #yusuf x nicolo #yusuf al-kaysani #nicolo di genova #my writings

344 notes · View notes