#I tried so many things until giving up and slapping it on a smaller canvas

[ask-azurearts]

Attack number 5, Drawing in the Forest Together ft Kitsune and Bo & Tai

This one was completed a few days ago but forgot to post it kek. I just wanted to draw two beans drawing together and having a good time! I just think they'd be friends. <3 Kitsunes creator | Bo & Tai's creator | Attack Link

[kosmosguk]

upcoming works | sneak peeks

to make up for the lack of posting for the past 2 weeks, here are snippets (in no particular order) of the beginnings of the ROUGH and very UNEDITED/incomplete drafts of upcoming fics that I’ve been working on while I’ve been gone to get you guys excited for the future schedule <3 ty for nearly 1.9k followers. All works, unless specified, are MATURE. 

if you guys are interested in a particular work, tell me about it and the ones that are more popular--as I will have more motivation to write them--will get finished faster!

a millennium of red strings | fox demon jungkook x reader 

Summary: a thousand years ago, jungkook and you were lovers in a world nearly destroyed by national strife. a millennium ago, jungkook held your dead body in his arms, powerless and unable to stop you from taking your last breath, and a millennium ago, jungkook sacrificed one of his tails for another chance for your reincarnation. A thousand years later, jungkook’s wish for your life is finally fulfilled by the god of destiny, but this time, jungkook, with hands stained by human hearts and a hunger for power, is no longer the wide-eyed adolescent boy with too many hopes to be fulfilled and too many weaknesses that you fell in love with. And this time, a millennium and a thousand human hearts later, he’ll go to drastic lengths to ensure that harm will never come your way.

You reached out a finger outside of your window to stroke the petals of the peonies your brother had planted you before he had left for war. He said that when he came back, he would buy you new clothes embroidered with blooming red peonies. Your fingers touched wet coarse fabric instead of the delicate soft petals you were expecting. Your mouth opened in a scream as you launched your body back in alarm, but a cold hand firmly clamped itself over your mouth as the figure in front of your window launched into your room and pushed you to the ground. The window shut behind the figure with a firm clack.

“Don’t say anything. If you do, I’ll claw your heart out and eat it, human.’’

The voice that spoke was the voice of a young man. You tried to push him off of you when your hands brushed against something soft and furry—was it an animal’s ears? You swallowed the gasp that threatened to bubble up in your throat and paused in your struggling when you heard sounds coming from outside.

You heard footsteps slap against the mud outside of your room, and you clamped your eyes shut. Something in your gut told you that whoever was outside would do much more damage to you than the demon currently in your room.

Several minutes after the sound of footsteps stopped, the demon pushed you away. You frantically got up to your feet, trying to remember your mother’s words when it came to demons. They were scared of light; you had to get to your candle. You grabbed onto it, splashing hot wax onto your hands in your hurry, to brandish at the strange fox demon.

Your mouth fell open at the sight. The gumiho was…beautiful? In the faint light of the candle, you could clearly see his features, especially since his hood had fallen off in the middle of your earlier struggle. He had wide doe-eyes, like an innocent animal, and pretty features that were on the brink of developing into a surely extremely handsome face. His figure was lanky from what you could see of him underneath the thick red cloak he was wearing. He reminded you of the men depicted in ink paintings of mythology where demons would come down and take the form of beautiful human beings to suck the energy from humans and eat their flesh.

You realized he was looking at you weirdly, and your cheeks burned as you realized that you had called him beautiful out loud without thinking.

“You’re not…scary?’’ the fox demon in front of you spoke.

You pointed at yourself.

“Aren’t you a gumiho?’’ you knew you were speaking crudely, but he was trespassing into your room. “What do you mean I’m scary? If anything, I should be the one terrified of you! I’m the human here!’’

The gumiho blinked his pretty eyes at you in surprise, his mouth opening to say something before you interrupted him, speaking rapidly in hopes that he wouldn’t find his next meal in you.

“I saved you by letting you into my room, so you can’t kill me, gumiho! Killing your savior would be a crime punishable by heaven. I don’t taste good anyways, I bet; I probably taste like mud and bitter herbs, so don’t even think about it!’’

The fox demon laughed, the sound clear and youthful. You were an amusing human being, weren’t you?

“I agree with you. I don’t feel like you’d make a good meal anyways. I suppose the heavens will punish me if I eat my savior, so I promise to not eat you. In exchange for saving me, I’ll give you my name. I’m Jungkook. If you have a wish, tell me it, and I’ll see if I can grant it’’

“Jungkook,’’ you beamed in relief at having your life for another night, and, without thinking clearly, you put out your hand for him to shake.

“I’ll tell you my name since you promised not to eat me. I’m (y/n). You better not forget it! I’d want you to save my brother, but you look young for a demon and not powerful, so while I’m waiting for my brother to come home, you should come visit me often.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, his ears flicking in confusion. Your wish…You really were an interesting human being. He almost made a fuss at you calling him not powerful; he was stronger than humans, for sure, but something kept him from saying that aloud. Some strange part of him didn’t want to scare you. He reached out anyways, clasping his hand around your softer and smaller one. Your hand was really warm; he almost didn’t want to let go. And you seemed nice, too, unlike the humans his master often told him of who were greedy and didn’t deserve the hearts they were bestowed with. Perhaps some part of him wanted to spend time with you.

He had to leave though; with a nod of goodbye and a twitch of an ear, Jungkook disappeared into the rain in which he had emerged from.

You couldn’t help but think to yourself: you really were a fool to ask a demon to come spend time with you. Why did your mouth never comply with what you really thought? You jutted out your lip in frustration, though the slight hint of joy touched your heart at the thought of company.

lineage 2 | duke yoongi x princess reader 

Summary:  When an engagement locks you, the 8th and forgotten princess, to the duke infamous for his cruelty, you find yourself counting the days until your inevitable death. It’s terrifying to think of your end, but when you arrive at his territory, you realize there’s a more morbid reason behind your marriage, and that the duke is much worse than the rumors have painted him out to be.

You were dreaming, at least that’s what it felt like to you. Some part of your mind knew that this was simply too vivid to be merely a dream, too real to simply be a figment of imagination spurred by an anxious mind. But you had never experienced this moment. You had no memories of this kind.

Flashes of someone’s life blinked in front of you, but the strange thing was, you were that someone. You were in their body; the skin and bones and flesh that made up them were also the same that made up you. The flashes stopped, blending colors stilling to spill a stark image onto a blank canvas as a particular memory unfolded before your eyes. You could feel the breeze of a summer’s day drift through strands of your hair, hear the soft whispering of the trees and the giggling of little fairies dancing in the wind and on your bare shoulders and arms. Their feet tapped against your skin in the giddiness of a rapid dance, the ticklish feeling causing you to let out a careless giggle as you swayed with them.

“The earth is singing. It coos and breathes and exhales its own melody,’’ the you in the dream spoke airily,’’ I can feel the song of nature in me, my child’s first breath, though that may sound quite trite to many.’’

It seemed like you were talking to yourself, or maybe even the fairies still dancing around and on you. That is, until dream you lifted your head towards another direction that you had been previously facing. The fairies all screeched before falling quiet, a silence so ominous and different compared to their previous activeness, and you could no longer feel their small feet lightly itching your skin. The air seemed to cool, the shifting from a summer’s day to a winter’s night.

“Well, I suppose you’re the only one who doesn’t find me so strange. I’m surprised you haven’t gone running from the first sight of the me behind the façade I put on before the Council. You either want what runs in my veins or…you must truly love me. Isn’t that right, Yoongi?’’

Arms wrapped around your body, and you could feel the weight of someone’s head on your shoulder. That someone pressed a soft kiss against your delicate neck before laughing hoarsely against your skin, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. The voice was familiar. Yoongi? But why was he here? You had no control over your actions, however, trapped in the body of this someone who only giggled elatedly and maneuvered her body closer to the man.

“I can never go against you, can I? You know it’s the latter choice. My goddess…you are truly my—.”

His voice cut off, but you could feel his mouth still moving against your neck to form the last word. The dream was crumbling before you. You could feel the last sensations of the mirage you were experiencing dissipating into thin air, cracking into small bits and pieces.

As you woke up, the word he had mouthed lingered in your mind before fading like your dream had.

Obsession.

bloody artistry | celebrity taehyung x journalist reader 

Summary: when the scrutiny of fame becomes too much, perfect kim taehyung finds his peace within a lavish bathroom located two blocks away from the nearest club, a corpse in the bed with him. the fans have never questioned his behavior, not when his company is much too good at cleaning up his mess to not have done it before, but when a reporter with too many questions threatens to break the peace he’s established, he finds himself in a tango with the devil that he can’t bring himself to want to break.

Your mind was in a haze, and you didn’t notice the man next to you until he was nearly pressed to your side, barely leaving a gap of space between the both of you.

You glanced at him, your tipsy mind sobering up as you realized who the man next to you was. Kim Taehyung? What the fuck was he doing here?

‘‘Another drink for a pretty lady?” Taehyung’s teeth showed as he charmingly flashed a coquettish smile at you, his already extremely handsome features increasing in beauty from the grin.

You remembered Jungkook’s words and a chill ran up your spine, causing goosebumps to rise up on your skin and freezing you to the bar table. God, were you his next victim?

You swallowed dryly, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. The reckless journalist in you wanted to take a leap of faith at the headliner just out of reach, but the rational side of you knew that that leap of faith had a much bigger chance of you ending up disappearing off for a new job opportunity overseas, as Taehyung’s company would have it. You couldn’t write a good story if you were dead, after all.

‘‘Thank you, but I can pay for my own drinks,” your lips twitched as you forced them into a convincingly gentle smile, refusing his offer softly and moving your body casually a few inches away from him,” Drinking drinks bought by strangers isn’t really my thing.”

Your smile must’ve looked less nervous than you really felt and a hell of a lot convincing because Taehyung’s stiff shoulders seemed to relax at your words.

There was a dark gleam to his eyes when he pushed his body near yours and whispered softly into your ears.

‘‘If you’re scared of strangers, why don’t we get to know each other a little bit?”

Your fake smile grew stiff on your face. You felt like you were going to hurl the convenience meal ramen you had scarfed before coming to the bar all over the bar and Taehyung’s expensive looking clothes. You could feel the sense of dread in your bones, the kind a prey animal would feel as a predator focused their sharp eyes on their weaker body.

You forced a fake laugh, trying to drive the message that you were just not interested to Taehyung. “No thanks, I have enough people I’m close to. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve left my friend alone for far too long on the dance floor.”

You pushed yourself off the bar table, flashing a polite smile before you headed over to the dance floor, trying to keep your pace slow and steady instead of the run you wanted to do.

Taehyung inhaled the lingering scent of your perfume, a smell that sweetly layered itself over the damp musky air of the club. His eyes, even as you tried to focus on the pounding music and forget the fear embedded deeply in your gut, never seemed to leave your form, even when you burrowed yourself deeply into the crowd away from his view.

divinity | god taehyung x demon reader 

Summary: it’s a classic tale: two lovers from two different worlds united by the red string of fate only to be tragically severed by their worlds. but for taehyung, who’s lived thousands of years as the high god of beauty and the arts, a classic tale will forever remain a classic tale. well, that is until he finds one of the injured from the enemy forces in his realm, and he can’t help but desire the perfect happy ending to a classic tale with you, even if it means forcing apart the barricade of tragedy that separates you from him.

Taehyung traced the swirls of ivory and scatters of porcelain in the white marble table mindlessly, his eyes barely focused on the scenery in front of his eyes. The warmth of Heaven’s sun soaked into the soft white cloth of his tunic and into his skin, and a cool breeze ruffled his soft pale locks, sending wisps of thin strands to frame his beautiful face. The sight of him looking so ethereal would’ve inspired mortal artwork had he not been alone.

All was peaceful in his realm, with not even a servant to flit nearby the pensive god; it was much too peaceful. Peace, after centuries of war with the demon clan, was not a fortune that was often bestowed upon Taehyung. Although he was the god of beauty and art, his rank as a high god forced him to take a large role in the war. It wasn’t until today that he was given a break to go rest at his home after Jungkook, the god of war, returned back to base after winning a bloody victory against one of the demon clan’s more powerful forces. 

But peace never lasted long when one was in the middle of a war, not in the mortal world and certainly not up in the heavens.

Taehyung knew something was off in his realm. He could feel it, the warning of a trespasser humming underneath his skull and throbbing in the tips of his fingers. 

Was it a rouge fairy? Maybe even one of his own? Or was it an enemy?

There was no one else in his realm with him besides lower-level fairies to act as his servants, everyone else having been forced away to the king’s realm in order to give Taehyung a much-needed break from the worries and chaos of war. The servants would be unable to fight off an intruder if they were high-level enough, but Taehyung knew that the barriers he had erected around his realm when he was at the height of power would hold steadfast against most high-level demons, or any beings that had desire to harm him, or at least stave them off long enough for reinforcements to come.

Taehyung quickly pushed himself up from his seat when he heard a crackle of gravel and stone underfoot. How did the enemy manage to get past his barriers so quickly? That was impossible. 

He slowly walked over, his footsteps silent against the ground, to the bush where he had heard the soft sounds of rustling come from, and the heavy odor of spilled blood invaded his sense of smell. 

There was a figure on the ground, blood dripping from a torn hole in their dark attire and staining the gravel the body was limply laying on. Taehyung stood their silently, his eyes unblinking, before the figure rolled over to face him, their body sagging as they finally lifted up their head, the hood of their clothes covering their features from Taehyung’s gaze.

‘‘Help me,” they croaked out desperately.

yandere bts world | seokjin x reader 

Summary:  [ENTERING KIM SEOKJIN’S ROUTE: CHECK IN...TO MY HEART!] Kim Seokjin, a hotel intern with dreams of being a top-class hotelier, finds a golden opportunity to fulfill his dream when he is forced to watch over a VIP customer’s difficult child. You, now as a pastry chef for the hotel’s kitchen, showing up should’ve just boosted his journey to fulfilling his dream, but each choice you make seems to lead you further away from the dreamy perfect ending and closer to a particularly bad ending. 

You could tell who it was right away. With his breathtakingly handsome features and heart-shaped lips parted slightly, Kim Seokjin lived up to the looks he frequently boasted about on the videos you spent hours watching. But he wasn’t on the other end of a screen anymore, glass and plastic against your thumb, he was here, real and in the flesh. But you could tell, with his dye-free hair and butler-like suit, that the Seokjin before you was not the Jin that you knew before the game started.

‘‘Kim Seokjin?’‘

The words came out of your mouth before you could stop them properly. You grew flustered, trying to think of an excuse that could make up explaining to the man before you exactly how you, a complete stranger, knew his name, before realizing just how still your surroundings were.

[You are about to enter Seokjin’s route for YBW. Click YES or NO before starting for confirmation. After clicking YES, there is no restarting.]

You could barely stop your hands from trembling as you reached up and pressed the sparkling YES.

The word did a little spin, twinkling in an eye-catching way before disappearing.

A set of instructions popped up.

[INSTRUCTIONS: You are now in a world where BTS is not BTS. To win hearts and boost your romance gauge for Seokjin’s GOOD ENDING, be careful about the choices you make throughout the game. Choices will pop up frequently during your interaction with Seokjin. There will be no going back once you have started playing, and once you have pressed a choice, you can not choose another. Be warned: BAD CHOICES END WITH A BAD ENDING, in which DEATH occurs. Press CONTINUE.]

You stiffened when you read the second to last line. You knew that this world wasn’t your world, and you had somehow managed to maintain a mild state of calmness, but the warning jostled your sense of fear and caused panic to rise up in your throat. You wanted it to be a lie, but when you squeezed your eyes shut and pinched yourself hard enough to leave a bruise, hoping to wake up in your bed, your hopes were dashed as you opened your eyes up to the same opaque white screen.

You suddenly didn’t want to play the game anymore.

You thought of making a run for it, but the game, as if sensing your thoughts, popped up with another screen.

[Please press CONTINUE. Failure to do so will be quitting the game, which will immediately result in the BAD ENDING.]

[mandolovian]

2. kannida

part 2: five years in five bags

pairing: the mandalorian x f!reader 

words: 2.8k+

warnings: some mentions of (minor character) death

summary: the mandalorian invites you onto the razor crest, and while you prepare for your first destination, he learns a little of your past

In a wartime hospital, all physicians were recommended to keep a medkit on them - in case the resource supply chain gets interrupted, in case there was a casualty outside, in case something happened. A standard issue kit came with a scanner unit, hypospray, some tools for treating wounds and setting broken bones, as well as basic medication. It was designed to be able to be used by anyone, but came to life in a physician’s hands. 

Your scanner unit was outdated, and when you calibrated the machine on yourself, it proudly displayed a heart rate of 437 beats per standard minute. The medications had also long expired, and when you opened some of the vials, they hissed menacingly at you. 

The entire medkit would need to be replaced. You weren’t particularly against using questionable medications for treating someone in a pinch, but this was pushing it a little. Felucia wouldn’t have the supplies you needed, and you idly wondered what the Mandalorian would say if you asked for a trip to Coruscant.

The Mandalorian. He had been far more considerate than you had expected him to be. His ship was large, rusted, and possibly in need of a physician itself, but he listened with quiet attentiveness when you wondered out loud whether some of the cabins in the hull could be made larger, and promised to knock out a wall between a cabin and supply closet before leaving Felucia. When you had begun to protest at the thought of the Razor Crest becoming even more structurally unstable, he promised to put in stabilising beams. The baby had been absolutely delighted at your presence in the Crest, and grabbed you with a tiny hand to drag you over to his cabin. Inside, the metal walls were decorated with notepad-paper drawings, some of green blobs and grey rectangles, others adorned with wobbly outlines of a three-fingered hand in red crayon. 

He didn’t let you leave until he had traced your hand on a piece of paper too.

Your apartment was one of the few that were attached to the cantina - free rent in return for nightly work. The rudimentary floorplan was merely a square with a foldable divider in the middle, just big enough to accommodate one lonely bartender. On one side of the room, a rickety bed was pushed against the wall, and on the other side sat a metal desk decorated with a pot of wilting flowers. The window was a narrow rectangle that was carved into the wall and looked down into the alleyway below. It was barred with grills and no glass and, as a result, you had accumulated a healthy collection of blankets to keep you warm while sleeping through the day. 

Home. Home. Was this a home? Could this be considered a home? Stripping away the blankets, the clothes, the books, could this room have been yours? Would that have been clear? 

All your blankets and all the clothes you had ever owned fit neatly into two duffle bags, and your non-functional medkit joined them at the apartment doorway. One shoulder bag holding your datapad and books, and one backpack for your toiletries. Five years of living fit into five bags. It was oddly satisfying, and you cocked your head at the sight. Five bags. 

Five bags.

At the hangar office, you were filled with ire at the sight of the reception droid again, but it was decidedly more polite to you now. Gone was the judgemental bristle in its stature - instead it stood up straight behind the desk, civilly taking down your details in the hangar logbook, secretarially tapping away at its keys.

‘...and what will be your return time from the hangar, sir?’ it asked.

You stared blankly at it. ‘Return time?’

‘Yes sir, you will be entering the hangar presently at 0823, what will be your return time?’

‘There won’t be a return time,’ you said. ‘I’ll be leaving with the Mandalorian on the Razor Crest today.’

The droid clattered some more, humming in burbles as it does. ‘Very well sir,’ it garbled. ‘Take the corridor to hangar nine please. Have a safe flight.’

You blinked blankly at the platitude. ‘Thank you,’ you tried, and you only received some beeps in return. You picked your backpack off the reception scanner and put it back on, and hauled the shoulder bag on with a huff. Trying not to tip over from the weight, you picked up the duffle bags and the medkit, and hobbled down the corridor. 

At hangar nine, the side gangway of the Crest was open and inside, the figure of the Mandalorian was vaguely visible. The ship was humming, lowly vibrating, and the outside looked decidedly cleaner than it had when you had last seen it.

‘What do you think?’ said the Mandalorian as he walked down the gangway. He held out his hands for your duffle bags, and you handed them over gratefully. He shifted them to one hand while gesturing for your shoulder bag.

‘Did you wash the Crest?’ you asked. The baby poked his head out of the doorway and you waved your hand at him. He eagerly waved back, his ears fluttering upwards.

The Mandalorian shrugged, turning as he did so, and walked back up the ramp. ‘It needed a wash,’ he said. ‘Any opportunity for maintenance.’

Inside, the wall between the cabin and the supply closet had indeed been removed. The space now contained a fold-out cot against one wall, and a small shelf on the other. Against the wall at the foot of the bed was a stowaway desk, with the foot of the cot doubling as a seat. A little drawing of a hand was stuck on the wall above the desk, and you looked down to see the baby already staring at you. 

‘He was insistent on the drawing,’ said the Mandalorian as he placed your duffle bags inside the cabin, just next to the cot. 

Your cot. Your cabin. 

You looked down. ‘Is that so?’ you asked the baby, and he grabbed onto your leg with a giggle. ‘It’s a fine artwork. Deserves to be placed in a gallery.’

The Mandalorian picked up the baby. He was tiny in his arms, bundled up in an oversized canvas robe against the beskar cuirass. He slapped his tiny hands against the helmet and knocked his forehead onto the visor.

‘Is it alright?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s wonderful,’ you said, and you bowed your head a little. 

The Mandalorian hummed under his breath. ‘I’ll let you settle in,’ he said. ‘Wheels up in fifteen. I’ll be in the cockpit.’

--

Watching the Mandalorian take off was like watching a dance recital. 

The baby observed the show from his pod in the corner of the cockpit, and he watched in earnest: his eyes carefully and attentively following the yellow tips of his father’s gloves as he flipped notches methodically. The control board came to life, whirring comfortably as the Razor Crest stretched its legs and prepared for takeoff.

The Mandalorian was quiet and focused, and the holo-map hovering in front of him rotated slowly to show the glittering skyscrapers of Coruscant, sheer and diaphanous against the blinking console lights. With a quiet groan, the Crest yielded and rose into the air. 

‘How long have you been in Felucia?’ he asked, after he had switched to autopilot. The baby was now hobbling on the cockpit floor, happily chewing on an empty blaster cartridge. The Crest continued to rise above the Felucian atmosphere.  

You took a second to count in your head. ‘Five years,’ you said. ‘I was hopping between planets a little before that, but I’ve been in Felucia for five years.’

‘And working at that cantina for five years?’

You laughed a little at his skeptical tone. ‘The cantina came with the apartment,’ you explained, leaning your head back against the seat, stretching your legs out with a sigh. ‘The owner said he would give me free rent if I worked every night at the cantina. It wasn’t a bad deal.’

The Mandalorian gave a contemplative hum. ‘You don’t seem to own too many things for five years in Felucia.’

Outside, the green planet seemed like a child’s plaything, becoming smaller and smaller with every breath. You watched as each tree dissipated slowly, becoming a pinprick, and then indistinguishable with the others. 

He wasn’t wrong. It was only five bags. 

‘I didn’t need anything more,’ you said, crossing your legs onto the seat. The Mandalorian flicked some overheard switches, preparing the hyperdrive.

‘Didn’t need, or didn’t want?’

You glanced at the Mandalorian, who kept his visor firmly forward. The streaks of starlight shone off the beskar, and you blinked at the brightness. 

‘Still figuring that out.’

--

‘What are you doing?’

It was five hours into the journey to Coruscant, with about eight hours to go. The Mandalorian seemed unable to keep to himself, and now leant against the frame of the doorway to the cabin with a hand resting casually against the blaster on his hip. 

A holoprojection of an identicard hovered above your datapad in your hands. Your face on the identicard stared blankly as it rotated, your mouth set into a neutral yet slightly displeased line. A decidedly younger version of yourself; hair regimentally slicked back into a bun, clear of the light lines at the corners of your eyes, your chin raised a little defiantly. 

‘I’m missing a lot of equipment,’ you said, looking up at the Mandalorian. He tilted his head; a silent invitation to continue.

‘You… lead an eventful life,’ you began with a sigh. ‘I’ve never been of medical service to a Mandalorian before, but I’ve treated plenty of soldiers. It’s never just the simple knife wound with you lot.’

A soft sound escaped the Mandalorian - a hum of agreement, perhaps.

‘Classically, soldiers - warriors - are at risk of much more debilitating injuries. Concussions, internal bleeding, organ damage, neurological dysfunction - and your armour poses a little bit of a conundrum for me.’

‘The beskar is an issue?’ he asked, affronted.

‘Not an issue,’ you said, staring squarely at his helmet. ‘A conundrum.’

‘Semantics.’

‘Different things,’ you countered. ‘I don’t have a problem with the beskar. It does, however, create a clinical problem. Simple medkit scanners won’t be able to penetrate the metal, and I have no equipment to keep track of your vitals, let alone to help treat you.’

You looked down at your medkit, sitting dismally at the doorway. ‘Besides,’ you added, ‘all the equipment I have is broken.’

You adjusted yourself to sit crosslegged on the cot, your back against the wall. The Mandalorian moves to take a seat at the edge of the cot, an arm's length away from you. He looked pointedly at the identicard, and you sighed again. 

‘What I’m trying to say, is that we can’t rely on regular bacta spray and sutures.’ You waved your hand at the hologram. ‘In Coruscant, there’s a medical supply warehouse that caters directly to hospitals - powerful scanners, e-bacta shots, bone fixators - but obviously you need to be a hospital representative to make any purchases.’

‘And this is going to be a problem,’ said the Mandalorian with quiet comprehension.

You shook your head. ‘Not if I fix it,’ you said. ‘The issue is that I never renewed my physician’s registration, so I can’t use my own identicard. But I can fix that.’

A few taps on the datapad, and the identicard shimmered lightly, then began to shift. The lettering blinked and flashed, and the Mandalorian sat up straighter at the sight. 

You turned the identicard to face the Mandalorian. ‘Hi,’ you said. ‘My name is Shari Haren, and I’m a nurse at Takodana Medical Facility.’

You could almost see the disbelief as the beskar helmet flicked between the flickering identicard and your face. ‘You changed the identicard,’ he whispered, his voice barely making it through the vocoder. ‘You changed your name. And your title. How the hell-’

‘It doesn’t matter how,’ you cut in. ‘It just matters that I can.’

The Mandalorian stared at the rotating identicard, and you could feel your heart rate increase, and the rush of blood in your ears became a little bit more obvious. The grip on your datapad tightened, and you had to avert your eyes from the darkness of his visor. This was a dangerous ability to share, and some silly, almost delusional voice in your head wondered whether he would throw you off the ship, right here, right in the middle of hyperspace.

That’s a little impossible, another voice countered. Can’t open ship doors in hyperspace. 

He leaned forward across the cot, putting his weight on one hand while the other turned the shaky identicard to better see the hologram, flickering in its translucent blue sheet. ‘How accurate is this?’ he asked, tracing the letters of your fake name in the air. 

‘The Coruscant security system works in levels,’ you explained as the Mandalorian moved back to his previous position. ‘Ten levels, eleven if you include civilian citizens. The warehouse requires level three access, and this identicard has level five access.’

‘Impressive.’

‘It’s handy.’

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet, and you tilted your own head in response. The praise sat low in your chest, and nudged your chin a little higher.

‘We’ll need to make a plan for this,’ he said, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against his knee. ‘An identicard might get you through the door, but it’s not going to be enough to get you all the way. Coruscant is crawling with bounty hunters, and we don’t need to draw attention to ourselves.’ 

He stood up, the beskar making soft clinking sounds as he did. ‘Get some sleep for now,’ he said as he walked out. ‘I’ll be in my quarters. Comm me if you need to.’

--

Your last placement as a student was at Kannida Hospital.

The planet was like nothing you had ever seen before - the most bewildering combination of the forests of Takodana and the skyscrapers of Coruscant. The people lived in the trees themselves, stretching endlessly into the misty atmosphere above. Precarious rope bridges connected the pseudo-skyscrapers to each other, a gossamer lattice of quiet traffic, faded against the humidity.

Most of the Kannida Hospital was underground - only the foyer and the entrance to the emergency department was visible from the surface. The levels spiraled dangerously close to the core of the planet, the corridors twisting and winding in disorientating coils. The hospital was the most well equipped of that of the whole star system, and had an impressive intensive care division - after all, it was a designated military hospital of the sector. 

The Chief Medical General at the time was Nali Tia, a towering woman with an impressive military career in the Galactic Army, backed by decades of medical experience. She commandeered the intensive care division as if she was at a helm of a warship - her resounding voice calling across the hub, directing casualties to stages, coordinating the tens of levels of the hospital with intangible efficiency. 

Once a month, General Tia held a seminar for the medical students - one hour long, not a minute to either side. The central auditorium of the hospital was always packed, with students sitting on the aisle steps, standing and jostling at the back, the air sticky and humid and filled with anticipatory reverence for the General. 

You are all physicians first, she would say, her voice clear and sonorous, commanding attention. You are trained for the service of others, the pillar against which others lean on. It’s your duty, and you should all understand the sacrifice that follows this profession. 

Every seminar was a performance - a grandstanding presentation of the knowledge the datapads could not teach. General Tia would showcase commonplace procedures, and then explain how each needed to be adjusted according to species, according to climate, according to environment. How a scanner unit and a clean knife could stabilise a collapsed lung if nothing else was available. The names of common medications in at least fifteen galactic languages. The ways to assess fractures hidden under layers of armour on a battlefield.

Seven years after your graduation, General Nali Tia was executed without trial for impersonating an Imperial Officer in an attempt to secure a shipment of ration supplies for Kannida. The planet had been under siege for months, and General Tia’s death was the catalyst that accelerated the Imperial invasion of Kannida. Within a week, eighteen of the twenty levels of the hospital had been shut down, and a third of the Kannida inhabitants had been massacred. With a blaster held to your head, you assumed the position of the Chief Medical General, and acquiesced to begin exclusively treating their Imperial stormtrooper casualties.

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[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Wolf Pup, Without His Pack (2)

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@whump-cravings @favwhumpstuff @whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: minor whumpee (nonhuman); nonhuman whumpee; use of it pronouns; implied parental neglect/Bad Parenting In General; referenced parental death.

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Old Cruci hated humans.

Usually it was hard to see what Old Cruci was feeling. Old Cruci said things like “I have sworn on my life to protect you” and “Your coat is dirty; clean it” in the same tone of voice. Saren had never seen Old Cruci smile, and even his frown was often hard to see—just a twitch down at the corner of his mouth, and up in the middle of one of his eyebrows. The only time, really, that Saren could tell what Cruci was thinking was when he spoke of humans.

“They are like flies,” Cruci said once, when Saren had asked him too many times. His lip curled up, to show his pointed teeth, and his nose wrinkled, like he was smelling something bad. “They breed like flies, and die like flies. One is easily swatted, but more are always coming. They eat dead flesh and carry disease.” Then he met Saren’s eyes—Saren froze, right down to his marrow, for Cruci had never looked at him like that before—and narrowed his violet eyes. “You have seen flies, pup. Then you need never see a human. One is as good as the other. Do not ask of this again.”

That had made Saren relax, a little. Old Cruci said “do not ask of this again” often enough that it was no longer frightening. In fact, it might be that Cruci said “do not ask of this again” more often than he said anything else, at least to Saren.

Saren had reasons to hate humans, too. He was small when the Betrayer slew the Great Wolf, and burned the old Den to the ground. He never met the man himself. But Saren remembered the Great Wolf—remembered the Great Wolf’s dimpled smile and bright easy laugh; remembered clinging to the Great Wolf’s back as they ran through the trees, faster than lightning; remembered riding on the Great Wolf’s shoulders and the smell of the Great Wolf’s pelt when he carried Saren, half asleep, to bed. Saren knew what humans had taken from the Wolves, and what the Betrayer had taken from him, as well.

But Saren remembered the Great Wolf, and he knew that his father would not wish him to hate a people he had never seen.

So he didn’t ask Old Cruci where the humans lived, or whether he could go, and see them for himself. Cruci was not his father; Cruci could not decide who Saren would hate. And, anyway, Cruci had said himself that Saren was not to ask him of humans again.

Saren didn’t realize until after the iron-tipped arrow had torn into his shoulder that since he had not told Cruci where he was going, all the promises in the world would not let Old Cruci come and save him, now.

The human den was like nothing Saren had ever seen before—huge and labyrinthine, a thousand times more than the caves around the Wolf Den, which he had thought himself so clever for mastering. And Old Cruci was right about at least one thing: there were too many humans. He must have seen a hundred of them, by now, and more every time he turned a corner, and at least a dozen carrying weapons, and running after him now, and shouting in a language he did not understand.

Saren was a Wolf, on of Those That Chase, he should have been able to leave all these men in their clanging armor behind in an instant. But the arrow was tipped in iron, and his shoulder still burned, even though he had pulled it out, and now his feet were clumsy and slow, and he could not stop even long enough to pull his pelt back around him and be a proper Wolf again. And he was entirely lost, now, with no idea which way was back to the gate, or even where the wall was; and he couldn’t scale it now, not before they could all reload their bows, and—

There was a human in the middle of the road. Saren barreled into it at full speed, landing on the dirt in a heap, then scrambled to gather up his pelt and turned, ran through the first open door he saw.

The building was empty, thank all Fathers. There were boxes, made of wood, scattered around, mainly empty, though a few had straw or bits of canvas or ceramic in them. Saren found one, tipped over on its side, that was just bigger than himself—in this shape, anyway, which was a little smaller—and folded himself into it. He pulled his pelt around his shoulders, wanting to be in his own shape again—to have his proper teeth and claws at least—but the box was too small; there was no room to sink into his pelt and change back.

Outside, a harsh voice barked an order Saren didn’t understand. A softer voice followed it. Saren curled tightly in on himself and covered his head with both hands, tucked his face into his pelt.

As though that would help. He was the son of the Great Wolf, and ought to rise to meet them. Even this many humans would not have overwhelmed his father—the Betrayer had done it only through lies and trickery. Old Cruci would see this many humans and roll his eyes and burn them all to ash.

The humans clattered in their armor, yelling again.

At least Old Cruci wasn’t here to see him cry, he thought.

It was strangely quiet, then, for a little two long. The box was very small; Saren had the mad thought that humans must have been cruel after all, to leave him here to get cramp before they took his head and put it on their coat of arms.

Then the building’s door creaked quietly open, and Saren heard the faint noise of bare feet on the packed-earth floor.

He still didn’t understand the voice that called out. But it was quiet, soft with dry-rusted edges; not very like the soldiers’ terrifying barks at all.

Then, after a moment, the same voice cleared its throat, and called softly, “Little Demon? Are you here?”

Saren had understood not one word since he had come to the humans’ den, but this was clear as day. He jumped, a little, and tapped his head lightly against the box, and then its lid slid free and slapped loudly against the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust, which made Saren cough.

Saren froze.

There was a pause, and then the bare foot steps approached, light and slow. Saren tried to fold himself even further into the box, but there was nowhere left to go. He wrapped his pelt around his shoulders, and bared his teeth, ready to bite.

The human knelt in front of Saren’s box. It did not step as close as he had feared. There was room to run past it, even, if he dared.

Saren stared at it.

It wasn’t the littlest human he had seen—right at the beginning, when he was clinging to the top of the wall around the human den, he had seen two humans littler than him, colored like Cruci with black hair and brown skin, heads bent together, laughing. This human was taller, and older—though not much, Saren reminded himself, since humans aged so much like flies—and colored different, with messy yellow hair cropped short, and pale pinkish skin, torn and red in places. It was taller, but a thousand times thinner, swimming in spun-cloth clothes far to big for its narrow sharp-boned frame.

Its pale skeleton’s face went soft the moment it could see Saren in the darkness. A sword hung at its hip, but the hand it held out toward Saren was empty.

“Hello, little one,” the human said softly, and smiled.

----

The demon, visible mainly as a pair of shiny cat-eyes, stared out of the crate at the boy called Will.

“…you speak human,” it said after a moment. Will almost laughed.

It was a child’s voice, clear enough. And it had looked like a child, out on the street. And it had left a little trail of blood inside this empty storefront. Will could just see the shape of it, now, curled with its knees to its chest, like a child hiding in a closet.

The thought of it made his chest ache.

“Here, little one,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Isn’t that box a little small for you?”

The demon narrowed its cat-pupiled eyes very slightly, and said nothing.

“The guards are off away, for now,” Will told it. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

The demon stared at him, and leaned forward a little out of its tightly-curled position. Light from the empty windows landed on a lock of storm-gray hair; it seemed to be wearing a cloak of matching gray fur around its shoulders.

“Why?” it said, half accusing and half curious.

“You’re a child,” Will said, before he could think better of it. “And they hurt you, didn’t they?”

The demon crept further out of the crate, in order to give Will a deeply skeptical look.

“I am not a child,” it said, sounding less insulted and more—like it thought Will might be deeply stupid. “I am a Wolf. And only barely littler than you, any—oh!”

When it tried to put weight on its left arm, it winced badly, clutching at its shoulder. Will moved forward immediately, without thinking; the wolf moved quickly back, baring its teeth—but so clearly frightened, rather than angry, that Will did not even move back, only raised his hands, to show that they were empty.

“I won’t hurt you, little wolf,” he said softly. “I—"

(Another, smaller voice, saying: “You Promise?”

And himself, on his knees again, smiling with bruised lips: “I Promise.”)

The demon was staring at him, tilting its head slightly. Will had no idea what his face had been doing. He swallowed hard, and remembered how to smile with a little effort.

“I—” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat, flushing. “You have my word.”

The demon studied him with open curiosity. It opened its mouth, its small fangs just visible.

“Captain!—Look, there’s a whole trail of blood here, it must be—”

The first guard’s voice was high and excited; the best-armored guard, who must have been the captain, did not sound angry either, though Will had no doubt that part would come.

“What on earth’s the meaning of this, boy?” the guard captain said.

He was standing in the storefront’s doorway, his hand resting idly on his sword, gaping at Will. He hadn’t even really seen the demon yet; it was already disappearing into the crate.

There were a dozen guards on the street, now, wondering why their captain had stopped in the doorway, when there were children to kill inside.

Will felt his hand drop to the hilt of his sword, without entirely deciding it should do so.

“There must be a back door,” he said softly, his eyes still on the guard captain. “Find it, and stick to the back alleys. There’s an inn two streets down; stay out of sight, until you see a man come out, wearing a green shirt, like this one.���

“What the hell are you doing?” the guard captain said, just now beginning to raise his voice.

Will got carefully to his feet. He heard the wolf-child gasp, behind him, but put his back to it.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Will said, coldly, and drew his sword.