#Ember x Mars CANON

[ross-theartist]

NEW DARLING (Ft Mars and his lover, Ember! (First mention..))

also if you wanna draw art of them, just use the tags #I support Embmars Supremacy

[moonsaver]

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only. 

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull. 

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.” 

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does. 

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax  her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar��empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name. 

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained. 

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was. 

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating. 

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding. 

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona. 

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile. 

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force. 

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows. 

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing. 

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow. 

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent. 

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence. 

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind. 

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC. 

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger. 

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things. 

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

.

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core. 

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

[victorianasshole]

A whole mudcrab's worth of meat (Vivec x Masc!reader) Chapter 1/?

Heyy this is my first time sharing my writing on here, so be nice. This was very self indulgent, but if you guys like it, there'll porbably be more!!

Includes: 1st person reader, OC character(s), Ohmes Raht reader, masc!reader, Vivec, other canon characters, canon environment

CW: Murder, cursing, violence, fantasy bigotry?? Lmk if more needs to be added.

Word count: 2804 Part two

...

A whole mudcrab's worth of meat. Gone, just like that. I cursed under my breath as I looked up from the shrubbery at whoever was obnoxious enough to scare my lunch away. An Elseweyr mercenary… And here I thought I'd be left alone, so far east. The feline man crouched by the bank of the water, filling his water skin. Seeming pretty pissed off himself. Perhaps he was looking for someone?

Despite my gut feeling of simply turning away, I stood up, hailing the fellow. 

We soon ended up making a campfire, finding it easier to camp together for the night. Of course only after we both understood no harm would come to the other. As a performance of trust, we shared our names and secrets as well, as the moons peaked over the horizon. 

M'aiko was his name. A grumpy and quiet Cathay, but not without a small humour in his eye. As he dusted his rations with moonsugar, he began to speak freely for the first time that night. 

“M'aiko is looking for some cultist Ashlander. As it turns out this is a regular occurrence. However, this particular cultist has avoided proving his validity long enough for it to be a bother.” 

I nodded at his words, pondering the fire as it heated the hound meat I bought some days ago in Molag Mar. 

“I hear it's about some rebirth prophecy. Some king that died long ago… But wait, if you're doing this job, wouldn't your employer be-?”

M'aiko grinned, seeming a bit self-satisfied. “This one has no idea how I've come to such luck, but Lord Vivec himself sent me. Well... Through a mouthpiece.”

“How do you know you're not being set up for a simple assassination?”

“They paid beforehand. And only the houses would grace anyone with as heavy a pouch as what I got.”

I hummed... It seemed a bit too good to be true. But I didn't have the heart to say it. Though, it WAS pretty believable. As the khajiit would show me, he had the official tribunal seal on him and everything. I looked back at his pouch… 

“Say… You still owe this one for that mudcrab I was to eat tonight. Why don't you pay me back by letting me come along?”

M’aiko didn’t seem too pleased by the idea of having me with. Understandable. I was but a simple hunter. But I did so want to come with. He simply raised a brow and handed me some of his moonsugar as the meat I had on the fire seemed finished. “What could a hunter offer a mercenary?”“Restoration magic, Illusion magic… Lock picking and a good arrow.” I listed, sprinkling a healthy amount of the glittery spice on the meat. It had been quite some time since I had felt the good and warm buzz of my home’s number one trade. “And this one could only imagine you long for another cat to speak to. These dumner are not the best company…” 

I got him to laugh at that. I curled my tail in delight, knowing I had now won him over. 

…

My boot came down heavy on the last embers of the fire the next morning. We had agreed to wake early, to be done with the job as soon as possible. I wasn't too eager to kill anyone, but it was not like I hadn't done so before. The roads were treacherous. It was necessary to kill these days. This time, however, it was to be a little different. Thankfully, M'aiko and I had already planned that I was to be his shadow, and less so in the middle of the conflict. If he needed healing, he was to get healing. If he needed his back covered, he was to be aided by my arrow. That was something I could get behind.

I followed M'aiko's steps through the tiny islands on the edge of the coast. We agreed that the roads were too risky to be caught in. The roads had yet to become more guarded in the wake of the recent uptick in crime this year, but we were primarily worried about being seen by commoners. M’aiko had promised confidentiality. So hiding in nature seemed like our best bet.

The round volcanic pebbles rustled by the shoreline, making odd clicking sounds as they grinded together. I picked one up and put it in my pocket as we walked. The trip wouldn’t take so long, he assured. Halfway to Sadrith Mora. So I was content enough to just walk along. Passing small ruins of Dwemer, egg mines, and other small locations of note… I enjoyed the change of scenery. M’aiko was quick, however, so we never stayed in one place for long. Only when we rested. He even carried me when the water was too high for me to safely swim from island to island with my gear, simply because he didn’t have the time to go around. We used the night for travelling as well. But not before long��

“You see the tents over the creeks, yes?”

I hummed in the affirmative, having already subconsciously lowered my body a little. 

“We are to target Dralas. He is a loud type, easy to spot. Preferably no one will see us by the time it is over.”

“I'll head up behind the cliffside then. From there, my arrow and spells will be within range of the camp.” 

I suggested, and M'aiko silently nodded in agreement to the plan. I took that as my cue to quietly disappear up the hill to take purchase by a larger rock, for cover. Once I was situated and hidden, I took my dagger and let the sun fall upon it, guiding the reflected light upon M'aiko to tell him I was ready.

And so he went.

He was quick. I couldn't look away for a moment, lest he simply disappear from my eyes. Not a soul in the camp realised as he sneaked from tent to tent, many of the nomads having yet to properly wake up yet. Then Dralas stepped out from the wise women's tent. And things were quick to get more complicated. 

As Dralas stepped outside, he called the camp close to surround him, to make some kind of announcement. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could easily understand that all this attention on our target was a stick in the wheel for M'aiko's plan. I tried to think, quickly. M'aiko looked up at me in frustrated uncertainty… I took out one of my arrows and brushed my hand against the stick. Concentrating on it… And just then, I was no longer holding an arrow. I put the weight I felt in my hand against the arrow rest on my bow, breathed in as I pulled the string back… And then Dralas clutched his chest. Blood spread quickly under his sandy cape. The arrow revealed itself as my concentration faltered. And Dralas fell to the ground.

The outrage was immediate, and the armed Ashlanders were soon out to search the surrounding area for me. M'aiko took the opposite direction, and I spent my remaining magic to become unseen as I followed him away from the crime scene…

“...Did I get him properly? I couldn't see if he died from where I sat.” 

I spoke up quietly, dropping the invisibility when I knew we were both hidden well enough. We could still hear the yells from the camp.

“Oh, you got him alright.”

M’aiko's voice was heaving, and I was for a moment afraid that he had gotten hurt in the chaos of getting away. But he held up a hand to signal he was fine.

“...You're coming back to Vivec with this one. I think this calls for you to get the other half of the payment.”

…

I had never been to Vivec City before. I had imagined it to be big, but this was beyond my expectations. The newly finished Foreign Quarter greeted us, and M’aiko looked down at me with a humoured expression. I barely noticed, my eyes glued to the giant rock floating over the tops of the cantons. I knew I was small, but this made me feel ever so smaller… 

“Never been here, I assume?”

I shook my head quietly and fixed on the straps of my old rucksack a bit. Maybe I looked too uncomfortable. Holding onto my dignity, I took the first step over the bridge to the city, knowing M’aiko would follow to not lose me in the crowd.

We had travelled together for a little under a week now, through the east side. Become what I would probably call friends. We never really spoke when on the move, but we shared plenty of stories and laughs over the fire. The night before we arrived at Vivec, I had taken out the Skyrim mead I had been keeping for the right occasion. The wooden cups dyed lightly purple from the blackberry spirits. M’aiko nodded a thank you. He was quiet tonight. “The Temple Canton is open to the public. When we get there, we’ll likely speak with Vivec about your payment.”

I choked on the mead. “What, THE Vivec??”

M’aiko nodded, giving a cheeky smile I had come to recognize as teasing. But it seemed a bit forced. I understood it fine enough. Two Khajiiti mercenaries are not exactly ‘meant’ to interact with the Dumner gods. And the thought of even setting foot in the home of one of them was nerve-wracking… We drank from our cups in silent synchronicity. After a moment of quiet, I decided to ask what I was sure we were both uncertain about.

“Well, what do you plan on saying to him?”

The stairs up to the temple looked like a whole day’s worth of fitness. This god must think they’re quite high and mighty… I tried my best not to roll my eyes at having to exhaust myself, as we approached the temple doors. Or palace doors. At this point, I wasn’t sure what to call this gold-plated erection... M’aiko patted my back as we reached the final steps, heaving just as much as myself by the end. The guards standing watch by the entrance somehow emanated the energy of a side eye to the both of us through their helms, looking on as we caught our breath a bit. But they didn’t block the entrance, thankfully. 

I looked at M’aiko. M’aiko looked at me, reflecting my expression perfectly. He looked like he was about to shit himself. 

“On three?”

“No, that’s stupid.” He countered, opening the temple gate with a push before I could quip back. I sucked in a small breath, getting my heart stuck in my throat. I was not ready. Neither was he, but the bastard didn’t show it like I undoubtedly was. 

I had no choice but to follow his tail, however, making an active effort not to make myself too visible. Or visible at all. Anything to make M’aiko be the one talking.

The greeting hall felt bigger than it looked from the outside. Murals complimented the round loft of the chamber, gold lines shimmering echoes of the stories they told. Of Vivec, and his deeds to the lands of Vvardenfell. Of his accomplishments, and their power. I looked down at the floor. It seemed rude to stare. A small pat on my back from M’aiko made me buckle down on one knee, my eyes still fixed on the tiled floor. I felt rickety and confused. And then I felt warmth fall on my forehead and shin. A bright light casting shadows in the cracks of the ceramic stone. I made damn sure to keep my head down.

“Lord Vivec. This one comes to announce the downfall of Dralas of the Erabenimsun Tribe.” He sounded so formal.

“I thank you for this news. Who is your companion?”

My throat bobbed. I didn’t know if I should talk. Or look up. But M’aiko thankfully set forth my name before I had to do it. 

“He was the one who dealt the final blow. That is why we went to you directly, so you can judge the payment for his contribution.”

“I see.”

…I had to look up now.

When we locked eyes, he surprisingly didn’t seem all that imposing. More curious and gentle than anything. He was still hard to look at, with practically shining skin and a presence that nearly filled the entire room. It was hard to hold a common-folk bias towards what I was looking at. Even when I was kneeling on a floor that probably cost more to make than what I would have been sold for. 

I made an awkward croak. He smiled. I looked back down. “I have made up my mind. I propose you get equal payment to compliment your companion’s pouch. Furthermore, I will sign you a permit to purchase housing here in Vivec, for your initiative to help the temple. And lastly…”I could see the god’s feet touch the ground, not a sound emanating from him at all. It made me wonder if I was imagining things. I couldn’t hear him like I heard most other living things. I couldn’t find a breath. A heartbeat. Except for my own galloping organ.

“I thank you. Should you ever need work again, you will always be welcome in the temple for it. I will make sure there is always a position you may take.”

I tried making a sound, pressing out what could be interpreted as a “thank you”. It didn’t go too well, so I tried adding some kind of head-bowing to it. M’aiko thanked them as well, following my lead with a bow. This was scary and embarrassing and humiliating and I needed to leave. M’aiko was already getting up and leaving. But as I went to stand myself, to back away timidly, I was robbed of that opportunity to flee, to get away from the probably already sore eyes of the God-King. However, they were the one stopping me, calling my name. “You are but a simple hunter, yes?”

I looked back instinctively, but quickly changed my mind and averted my gaze again when I actually met them with my eyes. “Uh… Yeah- Yes. I’ve just been living off the land. For about eight months now.”

It took real strength to not use khajiiti formalities with him. I had come to know how dumner people sometimes react to such things, so I tried my best to use their tongue. But if this had been the Mane… I remembered giving my hair when I went away. It was much like this. Scary, humbling and breathtaking. Speaking to overpowering devines was never really my cup of tea. But back then, before all of it, when I had given my hair. It felt easier. Maybe that was simply just because it was kin. Or because I had an innocence to hide behind.

“You must excuse my curiosity. But I fail to see how a common hunter like yourself would need to know illusion magic to such a high degree.”

M’aiko hadn’t said how I killed Dralas, did he? He didn’t. I looked up at Vivec, my confusion louder than my awe for just a moment. They simply smiled encouragingly for an answer. “Uhm… I, well..” Would I get captured if I just run now? Was I allowed to tell him? I should act less apprehended.

“.... Back in Elsweyr, I once spent my days making some coin in higher circles, lending out my services to nobles who wanted an extra hand in networking. It was… Appreciated, when one’s opponents heard false rumours. Saw the wrong hand at the gambling table. Things like that. After some complications with those very opponents, it was best for me to leave and live off the grid for a while.”

Vivec hummed along to my words, giving a small nod. Did I just out myself for a fraud? Or a criminal? I did, I didn’t mean to say so much. It was as if their gaze pulled the words out of my mouth with string. My mind raced to try and read the god’s reaction. Was such activity illegal here? I hadn’t done it since I left, but… 

“A social networker, then. I won’t pry into why you’ve ended up here in Vvardenfell, of all places. However…”

I had to look down again when he came closer. They were scrutinizing me, I knew as much. But I also knew why, now. I was useful. I could feel it in their demeanour, I had proved myself useful. More handy than a sword for hire, at least…

“... Hm. I look forward to our next meeting, friend.”

I bowed my head.

[megamindsecretlair]

Oop, thank you for the tag @soft-persephone 🥰 These are so fun

9 people to get to know you better:

Top 3 ships: oooof this is so hard, I dislike so many canon ships. Id have to say....Gregory x Janine, they are just so cute, havent seen any fics for those yet. Atumma x Okoye have my entire heart. I legit thought it was just me that they had in a chokehold. And the fics 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽 Hook x Emma. Their dynamic was so cute and even just visually, him so dark and her with her white blonde hair 😭 they left me in shambles. (Finding this third pair was sooo hard. 😭😭😭😭)

First ship: damn 😭😭 I cant for the life of me think of what the first one was. But I can say that one of my earliest was Veronica and Logan from Veronica Mars. They were so toxic 😭😭 and I ate that shit up every week 😭😭

Last song: The Con by Tegan and Sara

Last Film: They Cloned Tyrone (hello brainrot)

Currently reading: (so many 😭) Obsidian Butterfly in the Anita Blake series and Ember and Eclipse by T.K. Tucker

Currently watching: Ugly Betty and Snowfall

Currently craving: ice cream. I miss cookies n cream sooo badly.

Gahh damn, this was the hardest one I ever had to do 😭😭😭😭 ships be kicking my ass, I just dont feel the canon relationships, most of mines are crack ships and im okay with my delulu island of one 😭🤣🤣

No pressure tags: @mybonafidefeelings @sweet-potatah-pie @multiversefanfics @braverthanthenewworld @umber-cinders @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @mamajankyy @halfofmysoulsblog @notapradagurl7

Thank you @venusintheblindspots-blog for the tag! Ily!😘🥰❤️

9 people to get to know you better:

Top 3 ships: Oh boy.. this is hard. I’m so picky with ships.

Abby X Crane (before the writers double downed on their racism and ruined the show. Now I can’t read anything for them anymore. ) Doug Renetti x Tina Lewis. (minx go watch it!! On starz now!!!!) Okoye x Attuma. (I was only mildly curious but there is like a whole community in thmblr for it and after one fic I’ve been hooked ever since.

First ship: Hades/Persephone

Pre lore Olympus. Not my time. Idk them.

Last song: La espera by ¿Teo?

Last Film: Triple Frontier

Currently reading : Dune Book series and Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse

Currently watching: Freaks and Geeks, Key&Peele, and New Girl

Currently Craving: Chicken Tacos with a corn tortilla

@cityjacket @cinebration @cottonpuffmouse @xasement @gh0stsp1d3r @theeblackmedusa @megamindsecretlair @spacecowboyhotch @artemiseamoon

[starlightsearches]

i’m not sure if you’ve written something like this before, but if not, can i request a Hux ficlet post-TROS (where he survived the blaster wound bc i refuse to acknowledge canon) where he comes back to a woman who he was in love with who joined to resistance and it ended REALLY BADLY, but he’s come to make amends and to tell her that he was the spy? is that too much for a ficlet 😬 i’m sorry

Absolutely friend, no need to apologize!

Armitage Hux x GN Reader / Warnings for angst and some injury stuff

You should have pulled the trigger.

Before you saw the cane, the bandages—the sorry look in his eyes that stilled your finger. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Armitage anywhere but the jittery holos of pre-recorded speeches. Your eyes rake over every facet of his features now in the same way they usually did in those private moments, like you’re still searching for a sign of the man you once knew.

If you kill him now, you’ll never see that man again.

He stops just on the edge of the trees, one hand up in surrender; his weight rests heavily on the cane, but you’re not inclined to believe him totally helpless.

“Cuff him,” you jut your chin in Armitage’s direction, and Dav—your second-in-command—moves forward, approaching him cautiously. You keep your blaster raised when you look him in the eye.

“What are you doing here?”

“Please,” he winces as Dav cuffs him, shifting his weight more heavily to the uninjured leg now that he can no longer hold the cane, “I want to speak to Dameron.”

You kiss your teeth as anger sparks your senses. It shouldn’t bother you—shouldn’t annoy you that he doesn’t seem bothered, seeing you here, after all this time. But still, it does.

“General Dameron hasn’t returned. Last we heard, they were trying to rescue Chewbacca from your people.” A ripple of pain travels through your chest at the word captured, a bubble of anxiety swelling as it moves from the tips of your fingers to the space inside of your lungs. After everything that had happened, you couldn’t lose Poe, too.

“They’re not back yet?”

That catches your attention. You look up sharply, watching as he flinches again in response to Dav’s failed attempts to help support his weight.

“We didn’t know they had escaped,” you give up on the blaster, holstering it at your side and moving closer, plenty confident that Armitage couldn’t fight a stiff breeze in his condition, let alone you and Dav together.

“What happened?”

“Dameron and the others were captured, but I helped them escape,” he raises his hands, brushing open the front of his uniform with delicate fingers. There’s a flash of white in the gap created in the fabric—a bandage, marred by the slow creep of red, the dried blood so dark it has stained the bandage black, “I was found out; they shot me for it.”

He meets your eyes for the first time. Flickers of something familiar pass between you—embers you can’t stomp out beneath the soles of your boots. Against your better judgement, you release the cuffs, and you already know that you’re bound to regret this.

“Go back to the base, Dav,” you say without looking at him, “try and get in touch with the Falcon, if you can.” Or the spy—words you think but don’t dare say, although Dav seems to understand, resting his hand on your shoulder before he leaves. You erase the thought from your mind; there’s only so much energy you can spend on worry.

“Come on, then,” you gesture for Hux to follow, setting a steady pace, unwilling to let the silence settle. After a moment, you hear him move, trailing awkwardly behind you as he tries to walk over the uneven ground.

There’s a heavy sadness that still hangs in the air around the base, clinging to your friends as they cluster in small groups, talking in hushed voices. More than a few teary eyes look up as you approach, their sadness momentarily taken over by curiosity, mouths dropping open at the sight of the enemy general strolling through the camp.

“The princess . . .” Hux’s voice startles you, closer than you had anticipated, and you stop for a moment, allowing him to catch his breath. He’d never been particularly empathetic when you knew him before, but damn if he wasn’t observant.

“We’re . . . we don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to hold on,” you whisper, a few traitorous tears making their way down your cheeks before you’re able to swipe them away. “I’ve been running things, so that she could rest, but . . .” you graze your teeth over your bottom lip, nibbling on it absentmindedly. There were no words for this, no way to make someone like him understand how afraid you were. How unprepared you felt. And, gods forbid, if Poe and Finn didn’t make it back, how alone you’d be. In a million lifetimes, you’d never feel ready for something like this.

His touch is cautious, as he rests his hand on your shoulder—the comforting gesture totally foreign to both of you—and so startling you have no choice but to find his eyes again.

There’s no linearity to the flood of feelings that meets you when you look at him, no kind of order or sense. You miss him; you hate him for letting you leave, for not coming with you when you begged him to. You want him to go. You need him to stay. You’re angry and you’ve already forgiven him and you want to punch him right in his perfect jaw. A small part of you wants to kiss him, but that’s the part that you bury first.

You shrug his hand from your shoulder, not totally unkindly, gesturing for him to follow again.

The makeshift medbay is empty when you arrive, as you expected, but you pull the curtain that serves as a door closed behind you anyways.

“Take a seat,” you instruct him as you gather your supplies: some fresh bandages, a pair of scissors, bacta, setting them on the low bench next to him before kneeling down to get a better look at the wound on his leg.

“Don’t you have droids for this?”

You don’t need to look at him to know that he’s nervous. His hands fidget in his lap, the tips of his gloved fingers scraping against his palms, and he jumps a little when you wrap one hand around the back of his leather boot, trying to hold him steady while you cut at the bandage.

“Med droids are expensive, and it doesn’t take a lot of training to wrap bandages,” you look up at him, hoping to see his reaction to your next words, wondering if it might teach you anything, “but I can get someone else to do it, if that would make you feel better.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” He stares resolutely at the far wall, and there’s a faint flush of pink around his hairline. You try not to let it distract you.

You make quick work of the injury on his leg, cutting off the singed material and wrapping the bandage tightly around his skin before standing again.

“I’ll need you to take this off,” you say quietly, tugging at the collar of his uniform. He nods without looking at you, and the space between you is charged as you help him shrug the garment off, the skin of his shoulders and chest turning red in response to the cool air.

You unwind the bandage, clenching your teeth in a weak attempt to steel yourself, but you think you might be sick. The smell alone is enough to make you light-headed—blood, and blaster residue and the sharp sting of antiseptic, but its the sight of the wound that turns your stomach. It’s painful just to look at, dark red and aching in the very center of his chest. Despite all your anger, you’ve never wanted him to hurt like this.

“I can do it,” he says, misinterpreting your pause, reaching for the bandages, but you catch his wrist in your hand, taking a few deep breaths through your mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say, reaching past him for the bacta and gathering a thick glob of it on your fingers, “I’m fine.”

He nods again, looking back to the wall as you press the medicine into his skin, soothing the wounded flesh without ever looking directly at it. Your eyes linger on his freckled shoulders instead, or the other scars that litter his torso—nicks and bruises and cuts. Wounds that were never given a proper chance to heal.

“The Resistance made contact with an informant aboard the Supremacy not long ago,” you say, attempting to distract yourself, “were you aware?” There’s a long pause before he nods in confirmation.

“We’ve lost contact with them recently,” you continue, swallowing to keep your voice steady, “ and were concerned that they might have been found out. Do you know if they're . . . safe?"

Damn it, your hands are shaking. There's so much you're not able to say, millions of other questions hiding within the only one you’re capable of asking.

"I believe that they are," he says quietly, and you're able to breathe again, a small weight gone from your chest.

"Good, good," you the off the bandage before you begin clearing up the supplies, "that's good news."

It's not a confirmation. It's not the answer you were hoping for. But it's something.

"Stay here. I'm going to find you something to wear." You're at the curtain when he says your name—the same way he used to say it, in nightmares and dreams. Your vision swims before you can blink away the tears.

"Everything I did," he whispers, "it was always for you."

Ficlet and headcanon requests are open 💖

[scabopolis]

C A T S (i saw you already did a so give me another pairing or talk some more about them. u know who)

C - A ship you have never liked and probably absolutely never will. 

Oh man. There are too many to name them all (I might be slow to warm up to a ship, but once my embers of hatred are set aflame, they never go out). 

Duncan x Veronica (Veronica Mars): Setting aside the “he thought she was his sister and sexed her anyway” element, which that is a wild statement to write, he’s just such a slice of American cheese trying to convince the world he’s brie. SHUT UP, DUNCAN! YOU’RE NOT A SLICE OF BRIE! I WOULD NEVER HAVE YOU WITH HONEY AND APPLES. 

Jane x Rafael (Jane the Virgin): This one is tricky for me, man, because I have a hard time explaining why it didn’t work for me. I think I resented the way the writers setup a false equivocation between Michael and Rafe - that Michael was the fun safe one and that Rafael was the passionate edgy one. I think it did a big disservice to both Rafael and Michael. 

Chuck x Blair (Gossip Girl): Back when Gossip Girl came out, my friend was a big fan, I’d never seen it, and she had the first season on DVD. We had a girls weekend in Portland and ordered room service and watched the first several episodes of s1 and I hated Chuck on sight and kept hating him. And my friend kept telling me he got better and I kept waiting and kept hating him. So...I do not want to see his marble mouth face on my TV and I do not want to see him messing with my girl Blair who might be one of the greatest TV characters from the past 15 years. No further questions. 

Others include Katniss x Gale (The Hunger Games), Dawson x Joey (Dawson’s Creek), Ted x Robin (How I Met Your Mother), Cristina x Owen (Grey’s Anatomy), Dan x Vanessa (Gossip Girl),  Fez x Jackie (That 70s Show), Josh x Donna (The West Wing, just going to sneak this one in and hope no one notices), etc. etc. etc. 

A - Ships that you currently like a lot. (They don’t have to be OTPs because not everyone has OTPs.) Friendships, pairings, threesomes, etc. are allowed. 

Alright. I know what you want. To quote one of the Olsen twins in the cinematic masterpiece It Takes Two, “I can see right through!” 

Let’s talk Will Cooper and Angie D’Amato from the cancelled too soon show Single Parents (I have gotten 3 people hooked on this show and I will not rest until my reign of terror widens). 

There’s a blithers fic for Will x Angie (that you, @thelillykane absolutely need to read!!!) that includes an incredible description of who Will is from Angie’s POV: 

Will isn’t the type of guy she’s normally into. He isn’t some tall skinny dude with amazing hair and/or the ability to scream-sing his feelings into an unfeeling world. Will is a big old goofball of a dad, dependable and kind and sometimes manic, with undercurrents of a real weirdness that Angie gets such a kick out of every time she taps into them. Will is intense about the things he cares about, but he doesn’t write cryptic songs about his repressed man-emotions or play guitar while looking soulful about it or anything awesome like that. Will acts on his feelings. He organizes and works and makes life better for the people he cares about.

And it’s that undercurrent of weirdness that Angie sees in Will and that Will sees in Angie that unites them and that I love. Yes, Angie is predisposed to think the worst of people and Will is predisposed to see the best. But! they are both giant weirdos who absolutely are like “yes, when one has transgressed in friendship, the thing one buys to make up for it are giant turkey legs.” 

I think the series focuses more on how Will’s labradoodleness betters Angie’s life, but I also see so many ways that Angie’s skepticism of the world would be good for Will - “not everything always works out, dude, and you have to find a way to be okay when it doesn’t.” And also, like, Will gets Angie. I think from the Pilot episode, he sees that her bossiness and meanness and zero tolerance for nonsense is how she cares. Most importantly! It works for Will to have that in his life! Because otherwise he never would have stopped wearing zip-off short cargo pants. He would still be carrying that mermaid bag around. He might have convinced himself to give his marriage with Mia another shot, etc. etc. etc. 

Anyway, I probably just need to write my fic about them to get my feelings out. 

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending? 

Not really, I’m afraid. So utterly boring, I know. Idk, man, send me an example of a headcanon you’d die defending? I feel like the things I get heated about are when I feel canon is interpreted in a way I don’t agree with. 

S - Show us an example of your personal headcanon (prompts optional but encouraged)

Single Parents: You and I have talked about this, but Will does not remember what he said to Angie. There’s no possible way. And Angie absolutely rides out the summer in Barstow because there’s no way she’s confronting her complicated feelings head on. Hell no. 

Veronica Mars: This one’s for you, girl, but Lilly Kane would have been fine if she’d lived past 16-years old. I don’t think she would have been a forever giant hedonist or super destructive, because her acting out had a very clear origin. And I think her getting out of that house, getting away from her parents, getting away from Duncan, a lot of that chaos would have cleared in her mind. Yes, she might have always struggled with this feeling of inferiority, but I think she would have been okay. 

Once Upon a Time: This is a small silly thing, but I like to think that the reason Emma was never adopted or found a stable foster family was because Regina’s curse reached into the Land Without Magic. Later seasons establish (I think??? I basically haven’t watched 3 seasons of the show) that there is magic in the real world, but it’s dormant and hidden because people don’t believe. Regina’s curse took away the happy endings, and so doesn’t it make sense that it would follow Emma to ensure she also didn’t get her happy ending even separated from her family? I have a premise for a fic in my head where the family she lived with felt this need to return her to the foster care system. That there was a pressing on their chests, a squeezing of their hearts if you will, a voice in their ear whispering to send her back. Instead of listening to it, though, they fight against it. And that’s one of the first moments, right from the start, the love of these adopted parents weakening the curse.