#<1000 words

[screwsfall0ut]

Tim Drake Befriends a Bee Minific

When Tim was young and very lonely, he befriended a bumblebee. 

Back then, he was curious in a way that teased wonder on every rusted fire escape. At 9 years old, even Gotham’s grimiest streets sparkled under the right light and perfect Summer days were for adventure, not dread. 

It had been one of those perfect days - balmy, sunny, fresh, and crisp - when Tim almost stepped on a bee. He paused, one leg raised, light up sneakers still flashing, and hopped to the side. 

He carefully picked it up. The poor thing didn't have wings. It was so delicate. Its tiny legs tickled Tim's palms.

Tim was stricken with fear that it would die on the hot pavement, alone and scared. It needed to be protected. It needed a chance.

An eyedropper of sugar water and 30 minutes later, the bee was moving - crawling all over the table and, eventually, over Tim's hands. He brought the bee out into the garden, letting it examine the roses, the lavender, the yarrow.

Tim couldn’t leave it out there, defenseless, with no one to watch over it, to make sure it wasn't eaten or crushed or lonely. 

He named the bee Sisko, after his favorite Star Trek character, and because it was an onomatopoeia of the strange buzzing sound Sisko would make while traveling up and down Tim’s arms.

Day after day, Sisko and Tim would make new sugar water, then go explore every flower and bush and stone on the Drake property. Sisko’s favorites were the yellow roses, which had bloomed brighter and taller than anything else that season. Sisko would always crawl back to Tim’s hands in the end, or his arms, sometimes even up Tim's neck and into his bushy hair to keep Tim company while heating up chicken nuggets or peeling open protein bars or chowing down cold pizza. 

At night, Sisko slept in the ratty, soft stomach of Tim’s favorite stuffed animal, a bunny his Mom had given him when he was too young to remember. Tim moved the stuffy from his bed to his dresser (he was nervous about rolling onto Sisko in his sleep) and every night checked that Sisko was safe and sound before turning out the lights. 

They were friends - best friends. 

With Sisko, Tim lost the urge to wander off in Gotham proper for batwatching. Instead, he’d re-learned every step of Drake property, fell in love again with the flowers and trails, the old, old trees, and the pond out near the property line. 

Tim knew Sisko was on borrowed time (of course he did) but against all logic, Tim was certain that Sisko wasn’t any normal bumblebee. How could he be? Not when he’d chosen Tim, not when they'd made a home together. Anyway, why should it be so ridiculous to think that Sisko might be a witch's familiar or a companion like Jiminy Cricket. Magic was real, and there were stranger things on Gotham's streets every day.

Tim started to believe, actually believe, that one day he and Sisko might slip into Narnia or Wonderland or Middle Earth. Every day was an adventure.

Eventually the cold began to creep back, hardening the ground, taking the flowers, and turning the leaves. It was a chilly Sunday afternoon when Sisko crawled into Tim’s palm, fell asleep, and never woke up again. No matter how much Tim begged and begged and begged.  

He'd died so quietly. So unceremoniously. Tim wasn't ready. It wasn't fair.

Sisko was just a bee, and Tim was just a boy, and there were no magic wardrobes waiting for them.

Tim buried Sisko under the yellow rose bush, long gone spindly and brown. He cried so much that he'd thrown up in the dirt. 

Later that week, Scarecrow broke out of Arkham. For the first time since June, Tim pulled out his black clothes and his camera bag to watch Batman and Robin save the day. 

The click click of his camera shutter, the smoggy sky, the sweet rot smell of the dumpsters: that was familiar. Tim was a shadow again. He could lose himself: in the dark, in the night. 

Tim tucked his bunny stuffy into the back of his closet. He stopped waiting for magic to find him, at least, not the kind you'd read about in storybooks. Magic may have been real, but it was for people like Robin, people who swung from rooftops and laughed loud and made the world brighter. It was never meant for someone like Tim.

[chridys-scribbles]

The Grand Cycle

The planet was fractured across the screen, reams of data streaming across its surface as the prey's strengths were identified and estimated. Fifth Era satellites surrounded the planet like an atmospheric layer of metal and data.

It was a nice enough planet, Admiral Karrion mused, scarred by time, pollution, and aggressive inhabitants, but relatively pristine compared to many of the other worlds he'd seen. It lacked the gaping wounds and twisted anomalies that appeared after every Grand Cycle, so it was a novelty for the experienced warrior.

"What do they call it?" Karrion's First Hand, Se'Akar asked, "Earth?"

"Yes, Earth. A wonderfully quaint name, it reminds me of home," Karrion said, almost wistfully.

Se'Akar grunted in agreement. "Far easier to pronounce than the last few prey planets," se added, checking ser dataslate. "We are nearing assault range, shall I inform the Emissary?"

"No need, First Hand, for I am here."

The Emissary glided into the room, chin held high as they glanced around the bridge. Not so long ago, everyone there would have thrown themselves to the floor at the Emissary's entrance, but now they merely saluted. Some didn't even do that. Karrion winced inwardly at the realisation of how close the end of their Grand Cycle was. This conquest would have to be fast - a last blaze of glory for the Emissaries of the Yawning One before the fleet became literally ablaze.

The Emissary waited for a moment, before smoothly shifting their attention to the screen, their implants whirring gently as they processed the information. They were young and inexperienced at hiding their emotions, demonstrated amply by the war raging across their skin as calm, pale hues battled with frustrated purples to dominate their stripes’ colouration.

"Our calculations are correct?" The Emissary asked, their fingers flexing through the motions of the High Kata as if preparing for a fight, yellow hues now jittering across their skin.

"I believe so, Emissary," Karrion said, "they invented flying machines a little over a hundred of their years ago, split the atom less than half a century later, and landed on their satellite moon another twenty years later."

"That's slow, but it's not unusual for such species to have slower Grand Cycles."

"Indeed, Emissary. Their solar cycle is over twice as long as ours and," Karrion glanced at her dataslate, "their lifespans triple our own. Not to mention that this appears to be their first Grand Cycle."

"Ah yes, the progress we make on the bones of our forebears," the Emissary said quietly.

Karrion winced at the butchered proverb. "It appears that their Grand Cycle is slower than ours by an order of magnitude, which should put them towards the end of the Fifth Era if they haven't completed the Cycle already. Judging by the lack of telltale scars and their population size, our estimate appears to be accurate."

The Emissary was quiet, their biological eye twitching slightly as their biomechanical eye moved crazily, peering at a hidden world. Purples and yellows still battled across their skin in stark contrast to Karrion's confident greens. "Are we certain they have a Grand Cycle?" They said eventually, slowly. "We don't want a repeat of the Hordanthus Collapse."

Crewmembers glanced at the Emissary as fear leaked into their words. Karrion could see the thoughts on their minds as similar ones had forced their way into his. Why was this supposed leader of their empire so openly afraid?

With an effort, she pushed the dangerous thoughts away and focussed on her dataslate.

"We are certain, Emissary," Karrion said.

"How are you so certain, Admiral? We know so little about this prey, but we know that?"

Karrion bristled and responded icily. "We are certain because they surpassed the exponentiality threshold that separates Cyclical and Linear civilisations. Their exponential advancements have driven them from taking their first flight to entering space in less than a century, a rate only seen in Cyclical races." He paused for a moment and adjusted his tone. "Respectfully, would you like me to continue, Emissary?"

The bridge was silent as everyone looked at the Emissary, waiting for their reaction to this disrespect. Their stripes flared yellow, but their face remained frozen with a vapid smile.

"No, no, that's quite enough Admiral," the Emissary said with a forced airy politeness. "You have laid my concerns to rest, I merely asked after spotting some irregularities. I ask that you forgive my pressing of the matter. As you say, they are a Fifth Era civilisation and we have defeated many such civilisations before, this will not be our last."

"Uh, Admiral?" Se'Akar said.

"Yes, First Hand?"

"I noticed those irregularities too..."

"Come now First Hand, the Admiral has put forth a strong case and we cannot hold back this conquest based on nerves," the Emissary said, waving a hand dismissively as yellow hues creeped onto their skin again. "No, we are the Radel Empire! Emissaries of the Yawning Maw and Speakers of the Holy Word! We are at the zenith of our Grand Cycle and that puny planet could no longer withstand us than grains of sand withstand the pull of the tide. Now let us go and crush their pitiful resistance and claim the planet as our own!"

Karrion had to admit that she had heard better speeches and better-speaking Emissaries, but it gave her something to work with at least. She stood up and saluted, with most of the crew following suit.

"So you proclaim, so it will be done. Se'Akar! Signal the fleet to prepare for battle, we will conquer this world before even half a solar cycle has passed!"

The bridge erupted into activity as the invasion began, and in all the bustle, no-one noticed the yellow tinge on their Admiral’s stripes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inspired by spite after seeing half a dozen similar prompts in the same day in the "humans are weird, fuck yeah!" genre. This one isn't too bad, but I figured that exponential advancement wouldn't be all that unusual for species advanced enough for interstellar travel.

[in-a-spring-way]

Confession

“Rody.” Vince looked almost sick, and he breathed out the name like it was heavy. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol he’d been drinking, eyes unfocused. The image of it made Rody on edge, but he pushed the feeling away as best he could.

Sitting next to him on that uncomfortable couch, he tried to catch his gaze. “Vince?” He didn’t move. Something tightened in his core as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I need to—“ The words halted in Vince’s throat when Rody put a hand to his forehead to check if he was ill, and he pulled away. “Rody—“

When he didn’t continue—seemingly not knowing how—Rody prompted him again, “Yeah?”

For a long moment, he stayed silent. Long enough that Rody opened his mouth to speak again. Then, “I’m sorry.” It sounded like he’d had to rip the apology out of his own mouth, like he was wrestling with himself. Rody’s stomach only tightened further, spreading to his chest. It felt like a deep, almost suffocating dread, but he didn’t understand why. He almost wanted to ignore the situation altogether, laugh it off as nothing. He knew he couldn’t.

“For what?” Vince’s eyes slipped closed, and Rody noticed how his hands trembled in his lap. Quieter, he asked, “For what, Vince?”

After opening and closing his mouth a few times, he just shook his head; lips pressed into a flat line, he looked at Rody again. “I understand it now.”

“Understand what?” Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he continued, “You’re freaking me out…”

“You loved her.”

In an instant, Rody froze. Nausea overtook his head; Vince sounded gutted. Still, he breathed out, “What?” When there was no response, he pressed on despite how his body screamed at him to stop: “What are you sorry for, Vince?”

With another shake of his head, Vince’s eyebrows pulled together in a way he’d never seen. Sadness looked unnatural on his face—especially this tense, frozen misery.

Rody rasped, almost too quiet to hear, “What happened to Manon?”

“I’m sorry, Rody,” was the whispered response.

He stood, suddenly feeling too restless and on edge to sit or stay near him. “Stop saying that.” After Vince just helplessly shrugged, shoulders far too stiff, Rody started to pace. His voice rose. “What happened to her?”

For a long moment, Vince was frozen still, face growing paler than usual. Once Rody tried to ask again, though, he moved, standing and rushing out towards the kitchen.

Rody followed, calling out, “Hey!” Vince only made it a little farther, though, before he had to duck over the garbage can and vomit. Standing feet away, Rody nearly wanted to join him, his entire body tensing even further. His breaths quickened as he rasped out, “Jesus.” Staring at Vince’s heaving back, he was torn between wanting to know exactly what the hell was going on, and wanting to run as far away from him as possible and stay ignorant. But his feet stayed stuck in place.

Between wet coughs, Vince hastily sucked in air, apparently panicking as much as Rody was. Whatever this was, it was bad, it was really fucking bad, and that feeling set in more and more with each second that they stood there until it became unbearable.

The fear fueled Rody’s sharp words as they pierced through the air, shaky fists clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t grab Vince like he wanted to; “What the fuck did you do to her?” When he only slumped over the trash can more, resting his forehead against it, Rody’s entire body started to tremble. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone.” His voice was barely audible, but the words might as well have been yelled. And for a long moment, the only sounds that followed were their equally uneven breaths. The room seemed to spin around the tunnel vision focus that Rody had fixed on him, and somewhere deep in his chest, he knew it. He’d felt it in every missed phone call, in every unreadable glance Vince had given him. Muffled in his ringing ears, Rody heard him admit, “She’s dead.”

If his legs weren’t too unsteady to carry him forward, and his heart wasn’t weighing him down and holding him in place, he would’ve grabbed him. He wanted to. It would’ve been easier to fly into a rage and attack Vince and not have to think about anything but hurting him back. Instead, a million thoughts and emotions clouded his head until they turned into white noise and brought him to the ground. Vaguely, he felt warm trails run down his face, but a thick layer of something heavy covered his senses; it took a moment for him to register them as tears. They streamed from his blank, blurred eyes, face otherwise unmoving. The seconds passed like years.

Then, everything rushed back into him at once, too loud and too vivid, and he screamed all of the air out of his tight lungs.

[nought-shall-go-ill]

Jily Microfic — May Prompt 2: Mourning

This @jilymicrofics piece is a continuation of this piece here, but can also be read on its own.

May 1976

At only 16 years old, Lily Evans had already done a lot of mourning for such a short life. She’d mourned her lovely nana — a tiny, wizened Welshwoman with a mop of red hair like hers — for almost half a decade. Her mother for two years that April. And as the war waged on, she found herself mourning more and more the faceless muggles and muggleborns unfairly swept up in its changing winds.

But she’d never mourned a friendship before. It made it all the more strange that this friendship wasn’t even over yet.

But it would be soon, wouldn’t it? If it weren’t Severus’ friends and their unforgivable actions that tore them apart, then what she’d done with Potter last weekend certainly would. Severus would never forgive her, and she wasn’t even sure she’d want to be forgiven. She certainly didn’t forgive him. Not after everything he’d said and hadn’t done.

But her heart still froze every time she saw James. Her mind racing. Was now the moment he chose to reveal what happened between them?

The fact that no one seemed to be wise to it — not even Sirius Black! — made it all the more terrifying. What was he planning? Was he going to ruin it?

“Evans,” Potter called after her that Friday afternoon before Potions. “Can I talk to you? In private, maybe?”

This was it. Her world officially ruined.

He led her to an empty classroom near the laboratories. She sat facing him atop a desk, the position all to familiar to the last time they’d been alone together.

“I—,” he began, pulling a hand through his hair. “How have you been?”

“Fine, thanks,” she replied as coolly as she was able.

“Yeah, well, that’s good. Um—” He paused, and she pondered for a short moment why his voice seemed so much deeper than usual. “Listen. About last weekend.”

“What about it?”

She flicked her own dark red hair back, pleased with her composure, despite the nerves tingling within her palms. James gaped, dumbfounded.

“Well, you know, we…”

Lily took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

“Look. I don’t know what you have planned, but if you’re going to go and rant about it to the whole school, can you just get it over and done with?”

“What?” he interrupted, deep voice all but abandoned. “I— I’m not planning to do that!”

“Really?” Lily raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Really. I— well, that was kind of private, wasn’t it? I don’t think you got blabbing about stuff like that.”

Lily blinked, a bit taken aback by the answer. She felt exactly that way too, of course — that these sorts of affairs should be dealt with in private, amongst only those who were involved; she’d just never expected arrogant, self-absorbed James Potter to feel the same.

Or perhaps he felt embarrassed about her? He’d snogged — more than snogged really, if she were being honest — swotty Lily Evans when he was close to black-out drunk. It probably wouldn’t be much for the image of a pureblood quidditch star.

Somehow this thought made her feel even worse.

“Right…” she said after a moment. “So, we won’t mention this to anyone?”

“No. Not a soul. You have my word.”

He smiled shyly at her, a rare image, his eyelashes fluttering just slightly.

“Great. Well, thanks, Potter.” She pushed on the desk to hoist herself off, desperate to be anywhere but there.

“Wait.” James held his hand out, looking for a moment like he might hold her shoulder, but evidently changing his mind at the last minute. “I have something for you.

“What?” she queried, perhaps a little more harsh than intended.

“I remember you said you were looking for harebells for your Potion’s project the other day.”

“Yes, I am, but they’re not in bloom on the grounds yet, so….”

“Well,” he said, picking out a small potted plant from the large inner pocket of his robes. “My mum grows them, so…”

He held it out to her.

“Here.”

“I— why?”

He shrugged.

“Why not? I just remembered, is all.” He put another hand through his already messy hair. “Do keep it though. Can’t really send it back.”

“Oh… ok. Thanks, Potter.”

“You’re welcome, Evans. I hope it helps!”

And with that he spun on his heal and headed out the door to their next class.

Lily sat there for a moment admiring the plant — its dainty purple petals reminded her of the fairies from her children’s books — until she realised it was the longest she’d gone without mourning Severus in quite some time.

It was something. Perhaps a sign that this too shall pass. If only it hadn’t stopped.

[saph-writes]

Snippet of a WIP I'm working on!

It's a long one, so this is just from the first chapter. First meetings are always so fun to write :) Anyways the title is "Places We Won't Walk" and for any updates or posts relating to it, the tag is #p3w universe . It's going to be a while before I publish it since I want to have the outline fully finished and first 5 chapters fully written before releasing the first chapter.

But I will be posting quite a few excerpts from the WIP and some side stories before then (not spoilery ofc).

Stay tune~

[chridys-scribbles]

Ok, so I misread this and flipped the roles accidentally and only just noticed, but I liked how it turned out so here it is anyway.

CW: kidnapping

"What was that?" The voice said, sharp as a whipcrack.

"What was what?" I asked, resting a hand on the back of a chair as I tried to recover.

"I thought I heard…" It was the first time I'd ever heard them uncertain, maybe even afraid? "Nevermind, you know what to do, don't you?"

"Yes," I said, miserably.

"Oh cheer up," the voice snarled, "it's just some billionaire and his friends who will get hurt, I thought you wanted to get rid of billionaires?"

Not when it was just going to make other rich people even richer. "Of course I do, you're-" I bit my tongue. "They don’t deserve their blood money!"

For a terrifying moment, there was silence. The chair creaked under my grip, metal twisting and warping. Then, the line crackled.

"I will let that slide, this time, but don't expect me to be so generous next time." They were never generous, they merely hid the price until it was too late. "So then, you'd best get busy with your plotting and preparations and whatever it is you villains do."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Oh, come now, let's hear it."

"It," I gritted my teeth and spat, "it's Rockin' Roller time."

The voice sighed. "I do hope you perform better on the day and put some spirit into it. But it will do for now, I suppose."

They hung up.

"Yeah well…" My shoulders sagged. Weakly, I hung up.

+++

"Ha ha!" I bellowed, "You're too late, Silver Sword! Once I pull that lever, this billionaire and his sycophants will-"

"Hey, RR," she said, quietly, "you don't have to do this."

I glanced down at my hostages. "Of course I do!" I cackled, but it died quickly at the look on her face. "Um. They're billionaires, they don't deserve to keep their wealth or their lives!"

"We're agreed on the first part," she said with some of her familiar wryness. Her face softened again. "I think I know you well enough to believe we have the same feelings about the second part."

She wasn't wrong, but where was her bravado? Her quips? Her enthusiasm? Our battles were almost fun and a real test of skills and power, but this was different. She seemed to care for me and was being kind. Why?

Did she know?

I shivered. I needed to make sure they didn't notice.

"I never took you for such an anarchist! That should make this next part easy then!" I think I sounded convincing and I managed to inject some swagger into my step as I walked over to a large lever. My hostages started yelling again, their muffled shouts stabbing my heart.

"Wait!"

"No use appealing to my humanity," I began, but she wasn’t paying attention as she listened to something in her ear. "Hey! I thought we were bantering! Why aren't you playing along?"

"Are you sure?" She said to the air. "Understood." She let out a shaky breath and looked at me with a soft smile.

"What- what's going on? What are you planning?"

"It's okay, Yusuf, it's all going to be okay. Can you contact the rest of the Wild Alliance and the Terrible Trio? There's some people waiting for you all back at the Academy." Tears sprang to my eyes. "They’re looking forward to seeing you," she added gently.

"My Maria? My..." I choked back a sob as she nodded. "But how? Why?"

"We heard you on the phone, and you're a supervillain but you don’t deserve that." Her eyes darkened and she snarled with shocking anger, "they don’t deserve that."

There came a muffled yell from below and I glanced down, surprised. I'd forgotten about the hostages.

"Oh shush," Silver Sword said, "I'll let someone know you're here and you and your guests can get back to your golden yachts soon enough. Come on RR, let's go."

She floated up into the air and I let her pick me up to carry me back to the Academy for the last time.

You, the Supervillain, have just discovered that the heroes that you fight everyday aren’t doing this of their own free will. It suddenly makes sense as to why you could never find their families.

[pinimi]

Armand orchestrated Madeleine’s death because she so easily outcunted him. Absolutely no effort just laughed him in the face at his questions “yeah I can live and be mentally stable for eternity. what, like it’s hard?” she said skill issue if you can’t handle killing as a vampire. Every night Armand has seven different existential crisis and Madeleine sleeps soundly without a shred of guilt WHILE ALSO looking dead drop gorgeous and being funnier than everyone around her. Armand had to take her out early. He never stood a chance

[yuumei-art]

Smoking cigarettes is bad for your health. Smoking green paint made of arsenic is worse~

More shenanigans involving Dante, a character from my wip illustrated novel about 19th century artists. Back then, most paints are made of highly toxic ingredients such as lead, mercury, and arsenic (for the the infamous color: Paris Green).

[shirks-all-responsibilities]

This was just what I needed today! The end of this was just...

Their HUG, I just sat and savored the comforting feel of it, never wanting it to end. That detail about the physical awkwardness of their positions makes their embrace all that more precious and heartfelt, needing each other's comfort so desperately, I love it so much? And the stillness of the moment and the intimacy of his breathing, I can never get enough of sensory moments like that.

And then Din GENTLY STROKES UP AND DOWN YOUR BACK?? Can I just sit in that soothing moment forever? For ever and ever pls? And then you had to go and add HIS VOICE, humming THAT SONG with THAT MEANING and HISTORY?? 🥺🥺 I think my heart about dropped out of my chest from how profoundly comforting and tender that moment was. If anyone needs me I'll just be taking up residence in this fic!!! 🥰🥰

din request? reader feeling real sad and crying all day over something (maybe death or grogu leaving) and mando not knowing exactly how to console but goes to the bunk and awkwardly starts rubbing at their back and attempting to speak to them. but then reader asks if mando could sing to her or tell her a story (to take her mind off it and help her sleep) and din’s trying to think of something anything to help her because the mandalore aren’t known for their songs and bedtime stories but maybe he’s able to think of one. or maybe she doesn’t ask for anything at all but din still wants to comfort so he hums the song reader would sing to grogu to her surprise but it helps

gn!reader warnings: angst, loss, the razor crest lives

He finds you in the dark. There's a soft knock on the door of your bunk, a beat of silence, then the muted whisper of metal as it slides open.

It’s been almost a whole day since you disappeared—almost a whole day since the kid left—and you knew Mando would feel compelled to check on you eventually. He knocked a few times already, but this time he lets himself in when you don’t answer.

His boots are uncharacteristically quiet. He’s stepping lightly.

“Mesh'la?”

You stay tucked under your blankets, facing the wall, breathing slowly and deeply to feign sleep. You hope he'll leave.

You hope he'll stay.

Grief is complicated.

The kid is gone, and you didn’t expect to be this devastated. You feel hollow, scraped clean, and simultaneously too full. It doesn’t help that your only real reason to stay with Mando left with Grogu, so you’re about to lose him too. The little family of three you forged out of necessity was always going to be temporary. You knew that. It doesn’t make it any easier to watch it dissolve.

“Talk to me.”

If you wait long enough, he’ll leave, and you can go back to being miserable in peace.

“You need to eat something. And you’re dehydrated.”

He's probably checking your vitals right now, ever the caretaker. He’s not one to push boundaries, though. He’ll give up and let you be. There are no obligations anymore—no reason he needs to keep you with him to move forward, no tiny child to protect together.

But instead, to your surprise, a little bit of that characteristic stubbornness seeps into his voice, and he says, “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

You roll over reluctantly and glance up at him. He looks massive, looming over you in the cramped space of your bunk, his beskar painted cool blue by the low lights of the Razor Crest.

You’re not sure exactly when it happened, but at some point over the last few months, this beat-up ship started to feel like home.

Before you can stop it, a fresh tear tracks down your cheek.

Mando makes a pained sound in his chest and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his right hand fidgeting restlessly against his thigh plate.

This is exactly what you wanted to avoid.

You’ve always kept displays of emotion to a minimum around Mando, sure that he wouldn’t know what to do with them—aware, too, that emotional support is not in the job description of hunting partner. This feeling, it turns out, is too big to hold in. No matter how hard you try.

Mando was his usual stoic self when Grogu went with the Jedi. You watched the impassive back of his head as he’d replaced his helmet and since then, noted no perceptible change in his demeanor. You’d returned to the Razor Crest together, he’d silently set the nav for Nevarro, and that was it—a tacit yet obvious announcement of the end of...whatever it is the two of you have.

Had.

It isn't his fault you got overly attached to a partner and a bounty. And it’s definitely not his job to put you back together, but he’s a good man, so you know he’ll try if you let him.

You sit up and wipe your eyes, doing your best to pull yourself together.

“I’m fine,” you reassure him.

He tilts his helmet skeptically.

“I’ll be fine,” you amend. “Really, I’m okay.”

You wait for him to turn and leave, to shut the door behind him. Instead, he takes a seat by your feet, your cot dipping under his weight. He looks down at his hands in his lap, his helmet hanging heavy, his shoulders slumped forward.

“I miss him too.”

He turns his head to look at you and slowly reaches for your hand, hovering uncertainly over it until you give him a dazed nod. And he slides toward you on the bed, so he can clasp it between his gloved ones, caught there gently.

You hold your breath, oscillating between the desire to reach for more of him and the fear that if you do, you’ll shatter this moment and scare him back behind his armor.

He looks at your hand between his then up at your face.

“You still have me.”

Your voice is watery and broken, but your lips turn up in a tentative smile. “Yeah?”

He leans into you at the same time he tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you into him. You wrap your arms around each other. It’s awkward to hug while he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and you’re scrunched up at the top of it, with him in his bulky armor and the blankets tangled around your waist. And it’s perfect.

He holds you tight against him, your face tucked into his cowl, his large hand on the nape of your neck. For the first time, you can actually hear him breathing before the sound hits the modulator. You can feel it too—the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

His other hand starts a slow climb up your back then descends, falling into a comforting repetition. And then he starts to hum, a low vibration in his chest that flowers into the softest sound.

At first, you don’t recognize the melody.

You usually sing the words—used to, anyways. It sounds different in his deep voice, filtered through the modulator. You sang it to Grogu most nights to put him to sleep, a song from your childhood. A comfort. A lullaby.

You didn’t know Mando knew it, that all those nights he was listening too.

When he reaches the end of the song, he pulls back far enough to look at your face, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“You’ll always have me.”

[mydrarryarchive]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: something akin to a microfic Summary:

After years of chasing after Malfoy, he’s gotten used to looking for flashes of silver.

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A little microfic(ish) giving a few glimpses into Harry and Draco's relationship.

[firelilysky]

Zukka Week Day Five: Zuko Joins the Gaang Early | Gay/Bi Awakening

[chridys-scribbles]

Goodbye Old Girl

Program after program, file after file, they all disintegrate into the ether. It's a cleansing, a purge of data no longer needed. The fans whir loudly, the old machine struggling without its ever-present companion to guide cool air into its vents.

Games that I loved, games that I tried, and games I never played vanish one by one from the screen. Programs for work and for play disappear soon after. My leg starts to burn and I shift the laptop so that only the edge rests on that leg, still hot but more tolerable.

Lists of apps, files, and folders fill the screen and minutes turn into an hour, then two, as I meticulously migrate files to the internet or delete them by the handful and by the bucket load. I idly scrape at crumbs of christmas chocolate that had made their own migration in my bag and were now stuck to the warm aluminium casing.

I delve through dozens of folders and see mysterious and esoteric files that few ever look at. Empty folders of uninstalled programs and games get deleted and google tells me which of the other folders are surprise guests invited by my chosen installations, and which ones are still required for the old workhorse.

It's quieter now, although it’s still hot, but the dust-clogged fans are not needed as much by a processor running fewer processes than it has in years.

The final cleaning begins as I remove my accounts from browsers and from Steam, the only programs that I have installed that will remain, and some of the longest-serving applications running on the system. A final run of a cleaner and the recycle bin is empty.

I look at my desktop, empty and forlorn, and the sensation echoes within me. On a whim, I create a new file, "treat her well.txt". At first it is a joke and I smile at my foolishness, but this machine has been by my side for the better part of a decade.

It was with me as a confused and sad man, running the games I escaped into and providing a window to a warm world in a job I didn’t know was hurting me. It was my portal to my family and friends through lockdown and transitioning, holding open hundreds of tabs full of information and inspiration. And now, it has returned to running games for a much happier woman.

It's just a laptop. She's just my laptop, with my name stored deep in its system. Around the south of England and to a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea, she's travelled hundreds of miles in her lifetime and her heavy weight is a familiar one on my back. But now she must journey onward without me, to a friend who needs her more than I.

It's silly. It's foolish. But I am silly, and foolish, and above all sentimental. So I write my last words to her.

"Goodbye old girl, you've done me proud."

And then I give her my final request.

Shut down.

Yes. "Please."

[mmelolabelle]

➡️incorrect star wars

[that-bitch-kat3]

regulus: why did you take him away from me?

james: take him away? regulus he would’ve died in that house. you know that.

regulus: no he wouldn’t have, i was trying to protect him! i would’ve protected him-

james: i couldn’t let him get any more hurt. he’s my brother, when he gets hurt i have to be there-

regulus: he was my brother first.

[saph-writes]

Another P3W WIP~ This one is a Reo one-shot, separate from the main story.

Ah hurt/comfort, one of my favorite tropes :,)

Though, Chigiri isn't very good at comfort lmao. Reo is really going through it huh. Matches up with the latest episode what a funny coincidence-

Also dw, Nagi has his own side of the story, I just need to write it first. He's not a complete jerk I swear, Reo just thinks he is.

[yas-of-pacifico]

Congratulations fiddlestan fans!!!