#also the fucking ruffles nearly killed me

[tlcartist]

Family values

Closeups below 👇

[nevadancitizen]

-> PROLOGUE: THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA

synopsis: you meet with a mysterious woman on an old californian dock.

word count: ~850

ships: Arthur Morgan/modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw !! go read their modern reader fic i really like it. also we'll be getting into the actual time travel stuff after this teaser lololol :3

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s a bracing, misty evening – supposed to be spring, but doesn’t feel like it. The waves are choppy and the gulls are huddled on the pylons with their beaks tucked under their wings, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. 

Three hulking great ships, all freighters, are tied up on the beat-up dock. This isn’t one of those fashionable wharfs with dockworker unions or passenger liners – no pretty girls on their balconies, clinking champagne flutes to celebrate the start of the cruise. Just a couple of red-faced salts in pea jackets tramping by, trailing cigarette smoke, boots crunching on dried-up gull shit.

They spare you glances as they pass by, surely wondering what you were doing here in the early hours of the morning. Were you waiting for someone to get off work? Were you waiting for a drug deal? Or were you just admiring the way the waves spray water onto the dock?

(In reality, it was none of those. You’re waiting on something much worse.)

A woman, sleek and modern in style and rugged and worn in looks, approaches you. She has a quiet intensity about her — something about the way she squints against the ocean spray mixed with the permanent-looking scowl on her face. 

She tilts her head toward you, and you nod. You walk towards her and meet her halfway, leaning in close on her insistence. 

“You’re the one in need?” She asks softly. You just barely hear her over the waves crashing against the dock.

“Yes, ma’am,�� you say, just as soft. “It’s my sister’s daughter. My eleven-year-old niece. She’s… she’s in a really bad way.”

“What does she need?” The woman asks. 

“A pancreas,” you say. “She’s got acute recurrent pancreatitis. There aren’t a lot of affordable child-sized organs lying around. God knows I’ve turned not just California, but the entire Mojave upside-down trying to find one. I’ve called hospitals in Arizona, Nevada, even New Mexico. I – I’m not asking you to kill a child! I just… I need the money for the operation. It’ll put her on the waiting list, and… once we show the hospital we have the money, I’m sure she’ll be okay. Somehow.”

The woman narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you just take out a loan? Or take on debt?”

“I can’t,” you say. “None of us can. I foreclosed on my last house. My sister has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, counting all the interest. Please, just trust me when I say I need this money. I don’t think anyone has nearly half a million dollars in their junk drawer. If I did, why would I be here, asking you for it?”

The woman looks you over and tucks her jacket closer around her. The outline of a gun at her hip becomes glaringly obvious – she wants you to notice it.

“Ma’am, I’m begging you.” You clasp your hands together as tight as you can. “I come from a family of deadbeats and addicts. I was an addict myself, and I quit just to save money for her operation, but it’s just not enough. I need this money. I won’t misappropriate these funds – won’t use them to pay off other debts, won’t use them for drugs. Just… please, miss.”

The woman holds up her hand. “Stop groveling.”

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! You shout in your head. I need money, and you’ve got the money! My niece is going to fucking die if I don’t get it!

Instead, you just nod politely and put your hands behind your back. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies. I’m sure you can understand my desperation.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman hums. “I can get you the money. Just give me your banking details and I can wire it to you.” 

You pull out a pre-prepared index card with your bank information written down. The woman checks that it has your full name, address, account number, and routing number before speaking again.

“Do you have life insurance?” She asks, as if offhandedly.

“Uh, yes?” You say, unsure. “It won’t come out to a lot, so I couldn’t have an “accident” at work. Maybe just under 200,000 dollars? Nowhere near enough to cover her operation.”

The woman hums and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Thank you so, so much,” you say. “You have no idea what this means to me – no idea what you’ve done for me and my family.”

“I have some idea.” The woman’s hand lingers at her waist. It takes you a few seconds too long to notice that –

A loud sound. A raging pain. The bullet hit something vital, but doesn’t grant you the mercy of dying in that instant. 

You stagger back, holding yourself. “What…”

“You’re dumber than you look,” the woman says, her voice fading in and out. “I’m just helping your family.”

You inhale shakily and take a step back. There’s a sense of falling, and something cold surrounds you, but you can’t make out much of anything in this condition. 

The last thing you think before the black takes you? It’s May. Who the fuck gets shot in May?

[walkingzombiegirl]

how about some sexually frustrated banter with hange, the only other titan scientist behind the walls who you're always competing with when it comes to your research?

or flirty ellie who always gets on your nerves but in reality she's just a big loser and a science geek and that actually makes her kinda hot...

oorrrr knight abby who is devoted to your protection and the kingdom's so that is why she has put up with that bratty attitude until one day she finally snaps and calls you a brat and suddenly you're all flustered and that was almost all it took to have you spread out beneath her with her head lost between your legs. she could stay there for hours and be satisfied with just that .

anyway i have a huge thing for enemies to lovers and banter idk what's wrong with me 😭😭

━ 𝙂𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 - ellie williams x fem!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 - Ellie and you are opposites, causing a bit of bickering that never seems to end. But when she has to go to her room before Dina gets back to find her wallet, she drags you along. However, it takes a more fun turn that you would've ever thought possible. Especially since you fucking hate her.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - cursing, bitchy!reader, flirting, slight alludes to previous sexual encounter between them, alludes to having sex at the end, scandalous figurine

𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀 - sorry i disappeared if you couldn't tell by how badly this was written i haven't been feeling the best and been stressed about college! Also I am planning on writing the other two... slow roll.

"Did you buy all of these?" You asked glancing around her decked out room, in awe at how many figurines she had around the place. Practically stacked full, wall to wall was gaming posters, ones of various rock bands, some shows and cartoons you didn't recognize. Between those was shelves of comic books, and an overly messy deck scattered with work and drawings she quickly covered up.

"Yeah, that's how shopping works."

You glared at her, looking around at the room some more before spotting another shelf that had more little people. You smiled, picking up a lady that was wearing a rather scandalous outfit.

You nearly let a laugh escape, twirling her around in your fingers, her dress the same color as your nails. At that, it was promptly snatched from your fingers. A scoff falling from your lips.

"What? I was just looking." But when your eyes met her freckled face you noticed a light coat of pink dusted her cheeks. Her eyes rocketing around the room like she'd been told there was someone ready to kill her inside. "Don't touch anything." "Alright, alright." You huffed, putting your hands up in faux submission.

"Can I at least sit somewhere while I wait for you to do whatever the fuck you dragged me in here to do?" You asked, Ellie immediatley giving a glare and then pointing at the mattress with a tight face. The little hot lady still in her hand.

You couldn't help yourself, you peered at her, squinting to see past her fingers. Once she realized, however, the little lady hurriedly went flying over her shoulder and knocked against the desk.

"Hey!" You plopped down on the bed, the springs squeaking under your weight. "I just wanted to see her." "It's none of your business just wait a minute for me."

You didn't respond, instead watching her ruffle around in the top drawer of her dresser. But you couldn't help yourself, you turned around to look at the photo board you seen when you walked in, all of Dina, Jesse, and others like Abby and Nora.

Boring... until, wait?

"Is that me?" You then broke the silence, scooting up the bed to see a photo of you and Dina on the beach from last summer. You were both grinning at the camera and holding up beers. "That's from the night we-" "Yes."

You peered back to her, green irises staring into your soul as you met her eyes.

"You're a freak." "You look hot in that picture." By the look on her face you were probably number three in the amount of total girls she'd said that to. To their faces anyway. "You are such a nerd." You whispered, staring at her with an almost freakishly large grin on your face.

"You are a bitch." She then replied, her expression mirroring your own. "Says the perv with a picture of me on your wall in a bikini. Creep." "Says little miss 'let me see your doll's tits, Ellie'." She spoke, but didn't seem annoyed, instead, almost intrigued as you responded, "You own the doll!"

"Not for those reasons!" She spat, laughing halfway through the sentence. "Are you sure you don't fuck the doll, Ellie?" "You wish I did, it'd be the closest you've gotten to me in months." You sneered at that, biting your lip.

"You're so full of yourself." Ellie rolled her eyes. "Whatever." "Whatever? God you irritate the fuck out of me." You exclaimed, running your hands down your face with a groan. "You're in my room." "You told me to just to go with you."

There was a pregnant pause before,

"Please tell me you jack to the photo." "No!" She stared at you, making a face. "No." "You do!" "So what you're not horrible to look at." You smirked up at her, shaking your head. "Perv." You hummed, her face inching closer to yours, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips before back up again.

"Whatever."

"Nuh uh, you don't get to do that." You said and reached forward grabbing her buckle, pulling her in. "You fucking freak." She just rolled her eyes, looking back at her bedroom door.

There was a silence that felt thick compared to the conversation just had, her head rolling back to face you.

"How long until Dina gets back?" She asked, eyes practically gouging into yours. Her stare had you squirming already.

"Long enough."

She nodded, looking again before at the alarm clock beside her bed.

"Do you-"

"Yes Ellie. Yes."

"Okay."

awkward ellie is more canon then sex god ellie and i stand by that

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

the way i need enemies to lovers smut with cal where reader is a sith lord and gets hurt but cal being the good man that he is, takes her back to his place and things happen yk 😰

i love this so much and I hope it's alright that I changed the prompt a teensy bit. instead of being sith, reader is just a darkside-user more generally. also gender neutral. thank you so much for the request!

Balance (Cal Kestis x reader)

Summary: You encounter Cal Kestis a few too many times, and you can't explain the way that the Force seems to be conspiring to put you two together in a room.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ minors DNI; gn!reader; inappropriate use of the Force; reader is a darkside user and honestly doesn't know how fucked they are; semi-graphic injuries; porn with plot; toxic relationship lowkey; blowjob; mutual masturbation (sort of); penetrative sex; unprotected sex (pls be safe irl y'all); if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 12,765 my hand slipped

The first time you encounter Cal Kestis, you nearly kill him.

You’d heard the rumors, of course, whispered with bright eyes and furtive expressions in shithole Outer Rim cantinas of a flame-headed being cutting down Inquisitors and Imperials. When you first overheard a snippet of the tall tale, you’d nearly choked on your cheap spotchka. Right, you remember thinking, a fiery figure opposing the Empire. Did they run out of good gossip today? 

Most rumors have at least a kernel of truth at their centers, and you figured it was the same with this one. And besides, you are indifferent to the Empire, at best; you’ve been avoiding their attention as much as you can, but you suspect that the thick cloak of the darkside you wear like a mantle has kept most of the Inquisitorius oblivious. They’re looking for Jedi, who cannot resist continuing to do good in a galaxy rotted to its core, and you stopped being a Jedi long before the Empire rose to power. They probably pay no mind to one lone figure who straddles the line of light and dark, temptation and virtue. 

But that doesn’t mean Jedi pay no mind to you. Most of them, you can avoid; you fight when necessary. Currently, you’re thinking a fight might just be necessary. You’re on some planet you’ve already forgotten the name of, densely populated and urban. You stand with one foot propped on the edge of a rooftop, neon lights glimmering on wet permacrete. Rain drizzles in a fine mist. You gaze placidly across the gap to the next building—to the flame-headed being. Without even needing to try, you feel his Force signature: he burns in the Force, even as he tries to hide it. His coppery hair ruffles in the slight breeze, stubble darkening his face. 

With a steadying breath, you tilt your head to one side. “Got a name, friend?”

“Not one you need to know,” he calls back. His posture is loose, casual, but you sense the whipcord tension in his Force aura; he’s on the alert. 

As he probably should be. 

“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” You offer him a disarming smile. “Seems only fair, right? Equitable partnership.” 

He snorts. “There’s no partnership.” 

“Fine,” you huff. You tell him your name anyways, and he mouths it silently, but none of that tension dissipates. You take the moment to appraise him a little more closely: lean body, self-assured slant of his shoulders, faded burn scar cut across his face. Heat licks up your spine.

“Cal,” he eventually says. “Cal Kestis.”

You smile wide at his honeyed voice. “Nice to meet you, Cal Kestis. Mind moving out of the way so I can continue on my merry way?” 

“Afraid I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s no trace of regret in that gorgeous voice, only immense exhaustion. 

Your saber hilt twitches against your back as your hand flexes nearly out of habit. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, you shrug as if his answer means nothing. The dark tide of the Force surges through your body, tingling in your fingertips, sharpening the smoggy night air into fine detail. “Well, can’t say I didn’t ask nicely.” 

And then you leap, going from a dead standstill to a flurry of action in the space of a heartbeat. As your unstable crimson blade screeches to life, bathing the rooftops in flickering light, an answering snap-hiss echoes around you. Blue beam clashes with red, showering sparks over both of you. 

Oh, he’s strong, and for some reason that makes your skin flush. You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile and shove. He staggers back, feet slipping for a moment in the gravel surface of the rooftop, before he recovers. 

“I’ll give you this one chance to stand down,” he says, voice thick and low and oh how it makes you shiver. His eyes glint in the blue light of his saber. 

“Funny,” you snap, “I was just going to say the same to you.” 

A frown tugs at his mouth. Lowering into a defensive stance, his eyes never leave yours as you languidly swing your saber in a half circle around you, content to draw this out. You’ve killed your number of Jedi in the name of self-preservation—necessary sacrifices to ensure the continued balance of Light and Dark—but there’s something about the way his green eyes harden into sharp gems the longer you twirl your blade, the casual power in his veined forearms, the absolutely pure gold energy he radiates in the Force. 

With an aggravated shake of your head, you press the attack. Overhead, backhand, thrust, thrust, parry—you and Cal settle into a dangerous dance. Bright light bursts where your sabers connect, sparks skittering across the gravel. For anyone watching nearby, the pair of you probably look like blurs of red and blue light—another light fixture among this technicolor urban landscape. 

But for anyone skilled in the Force, the radiance of your sabers dims in comparison to the pillars of energy you both become. One golden and bright as a thousand suns, shot through with faint tendrils of inky blackness; one glowing in shadow, a black hole ringed by its event horizon, smears of golden light. 

Both the light and the dark are present in this fight, and you smile grimly. In all things, balance, as your master used to say. 

The memory is a distraction, and Cal manages to break through your guard and punch your nose. Searing pressure spikes through your head, warmth dribbling down your face. 

You merely grin at him with blood-covered lips. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kestis.” 

And again the two of you become a flurry of attacks, parries, counterattacks, feints. In the distance, the low drone of a police siren reverberates off the tall glass buildings of the downtown area. You’ve been spotted. Time to end this now. 

You make a show of appearing to be tiring, breathing coming in heavy gasps, your saber still meeting Cal’s in time to stop him from separating your limbs from your body, but just a fraction slower than what you’d begun with. And you give ground. Just a half step at first, and then several steps. Cal seizes the opportunity to push you back, force you into submission, gain the upperhand—

Not knowing he’d lost this fight the moment he’d placed himself in your path. 

The Force is with you. In the Force, your arms seem to glow with terrible, purple-black ultraviolet power as you surrender yourself to its currents. There is no longer you and your saber; your saber is you. There is no longer you and Cal Kestis; there is you and the last piece of yourself that you’re willing to atrophy. Veins of golden Light criss-cross under your darkly shining skin—and as you stand firm once again with your back to the low roof edge, you will those golden veins to flush, to swell. You’re going to triumph here, and it’ll be with the approval of the full Force.

Cal’s face gleams with sweat, his brow furrowed, delicious mouth curved down in a frown. You lick your lips. 

“Yield, Kestis,” you say. One last chance. 

He just grunts, and in a blur of motion, separates the hilt of his saber. Another beam of blue snaps to life. Fear flares in you for a moment—but the Force remains with you, and you let the emotion siphon into your cracked, bleeding kyber. Plasma spits off the sides of your blade as you block attack after attack after attack; you’re an infinite well of patience—but that siren is getting closer, and you know that time, unlike your patience, is of the essence. 

In a flash of inspiration, you reverse your grip on your hilt mid-parry, then swipe the angry blade out and up. A cry of pain, and one of the blue sabers retracts as the hilt clatters to the gravel. Cal stumbles back, cradling his left arm to his chest, his remaining saber held in front of him. 

You can’t help the surge of pleasure at besting your opponent, even temporarily. As you twirl your saber again, a spotlight suddenly beams down on the two of you. With a grimace, you swing the saber down towards the soft juncture of Cal’s neck where it meets his shoulder—

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of the calm, resigned look in his eyes. Your blade hovers mere centimeters off his skin. 

Amid the roar of hovercraft, the police siren, and the rushing of blood in your ears, he murmurs your name.

“Kark it all,” you spit. Gathering the Force within you, you shove him back. A shout of surprise, a flash of blue, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the building. You retract your blade and dash in the opposite direction without a second thought. 

Your master had always been honest with you about how little he, or anyone, truly knew about the mysteries of the Force. During your years as a padawan, you spent countless hours in meditation chambers deep below the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, feeling the constant ebb and flow of the Force around you. The first time he brought you there, your master explained in hushed tones how the temple had been built millennia ago over an old Sith temple. The Force resided in a nexus point there; streams of energy flowed from all over the galaxy and converged—and then diverged—from the temple. 

Sitting in meditation now, you breathe deeply and steadily as the memory crests over you. 

“But, Master,” you asked, “if the temple used to be a Sith stronghold, doesn’t that mean the dark side of the Force is strong here, too?” 

His kind, patient eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That is right, my Padawan. In all things, there must be balance. Light and dark only exist because of each other.”

A frown tugged at your lips at that, and you cocked your head to the side. “But aren’t we supposed to resist the darkness?” 

“Yes,” he said. “The darkness is an overbalance—an overabundance—of emotions, passions, fears. The Sith, and all who use the dark side, manipulate the Force to their will, instead of letting their emotions, like the Force, flow through them.” 

Something about that didn’t feel right. “But—” 

Your master held up one hand, forestalling the line of questioning you were about to launch into. He stepped through a large, arched doorway into a dim, echoing room. “Come, Padawan. Perhaps meditating will provide the answers you seek.” 

You inhale slowly and open your eyes, squinting against the bright blue glare of the hyperspace lane. No matter how long or how hard you meditated under the temple, you grew no closer to an answer than by asking your master. Despite your frustration, you kept returning to the chambers below the Great Hall. The Force there was...comforting. Balanced. And yet, so infuriating in its mystery. You could feel both the light and the dark, and neither were good or bad. The Force just...was. Perhaps it was the long hours you spent in the tunnels and vast echoic chambers there that you developed your keen sense for the composition of the Force.

Standing, you groan softly at the ache in your knees. As you settle back into the thinly padded pilot’s seat, you massage at the joints, wondering just when you’d gotten old. 

Probably when that droid shot through your master’s heart on Geonosis, and you’d physically felt the Force tip off-balance half a galaxy away, deep in meditation on Coruscant. The memory is painful, and digs its festering claws into your heart yet again. 

The Council hadn’t even needed to tell you your master had perished in the opening salvo of the Clone Wars. The morning after his funeral, with both his and your sabers in your pack, you’d fled the temple.

The old fool, you think, slashing the memory of him from your awareness.

By now, you’re used to the pit of emotions yawning in your very essence. You hold onto your fears, your angers, your anxieties—but also your loves, your passions, your desires. Without even really thinking about it, you reach for the loose compartment that holds your master’s saber. Its duranium-plated hilt is slowly corroding, matching the slow degradation of yourself. The blade jumps to life with a snap-hiss. The green glow it casts is almost sickly, the blade bright, but thin and tremulous. It’s been weak since he died.

As you stare, eyes burning, into the flickering core of your master’s blade, you reach into the Force for the kyber at its heart. No matter how many times you brush against the crystal with your mind, you’re never prepared. A screech, unending and agonized and fearful, rends through your consciousness. For a moment, the green sputters, crimson taking its place. 

You drop the saber, gasping. The hilt clatters to the floor and blade retracts, and you’re left again in the pressing silence of hyperspace.

In all things, balance, drift the words through you once again. Green against crimson. Crimson for blue. You think about Cal Kestis, his blinding presence; you think of your vacuous silhouette; and you take all the rage you can muster and twist it into your own heart like a dagger. The joists of your ship groan in response.

The second time you meet Cal Kestis, you almost wish you’d killed him all those years ago.

Just a few months after that first encounter on rain-slicked rooftops, you caught wind of a rumor that the flame-headed being attacked the Fortress Inquisitorius itself. This time, you didn’t discount the story, having witnessed first hand—for however short a time—the Force-empowered determination of that single human being. None of the rumors about Cal Kestis surprise you anymore. 

But you routinely have to curse his name as the Inquisitors have now turned their attention beyond just Jedi. The cloak of the darkness is no longer enough on its own to hide you from the long gaze of the Empire. You’ve taken to hiding out on barely populated Outer Rim worlds, hanging around long enough to establish some kind of routine, before the gentle ripples of the Force lapping against your subconscious grow into towering, dangerous waves. And then you hop back in your ship, barely more than scrap welded to a hyperdrive, and scuttle off to the next system. 

Which is where you find yourself now. Koboh could be promising. As you crouch at the edge of an exposed cliff, you study the cosmic anomaly that orbits the planet. The Abyss. You’re not sure what it is, but whatever it is, it creates a strong enough disturbance in the Force that you’re hopeful it will mask your own signature. And, you admit to yourself as your gaze lowers to the breathtaking landscape spread out below you, you’ve hidden in worse places the last few years. Koboh seems promising, indeed.

You spend a few days studying the locals, trying to get a feel for how life works here. For the most part, everyone here seems like they’re from off-world—which is good, because it means you won’t stand out for very long as a newcomer. Everyone here is a newcomer. And everyone here is more concerned, it seems, with the things that lie in the dirt than in the world aboveground. All the better for you. 

Concealing your saber hilt against your back like always, you make sure your ship, bucket of bolts that it is, is well-hidden enough to dissuade any potential scrappers. Tucked high on an outcropping, you hope most folks won’t care too much to check out the shiny metal bits not covered by plant matter. Not when it’s several dozen feet above solid ground. 

And you make sure you look as uninteresting as possible. With your saber out of view, you could pass for a refugee without issue. Force knows you’ve been weeks without a proper shower; you can feel the dirt and grime on every inch of your skin. Your clothing, usually neat and tucked in, is dusty, torn, and stained with dried blood. 

Yes, you’ll fit in nicely here. 

As you pass beneath a metallic archway decorated with a massive horned skull, you reach out in the Force, making sure that none of the town’s inhabitants can get the drop on you. You bypass squat, square buildings that are probably homes of some of the folks here. None seem of interest. Instead, your gaze is trained on the larger, multi-story building near the center of town. As you draw nearer, you realize the sign above the door reads, “Saloon.” Perfect. 

The door opens to admit you into a hallway; at the end, you wait in front of another door for a moment while a mechanical eye studies you. Chattering in a deep, unintelligible voice, the eye withdraws, and the second door whooshes open to reveal the barroom. 

No one turns as you descend the few steps to the floor. Crates and clutter stock most of the booths along the side wall, a few folks talking quietly at smaller tables or sitting alone and nursing a drink. Quiet, staticky radio music plays over the speakers. 

Behind the bar is a tall, four-armed droid who skids to a halt where you lean against the counter.

“You’re a new face,” the droid says. “Name’s Monk. What can I get you?” 

You quirk an eyebrow and give the droid, Monk, an alias, your sixth one in as many months. Then you say, “Got any spotchka?” 

“Indeed I do,” Monk says. “Shall I start a tab?” 

“I’ll pay up front,” you say with a shake of your head. 

Monk gives you the cost as he pours the glowing blue liquid into a clean glass, and you slide the credits across the counter. The alcohol’s familiar burn slides down your throat as you lean your back against the bar. Over the rim of your glass, you study the other patrons here at the saloon. Dusty, tired figures, the lot of them. In the Force, they are marginal, giving off only nominal signatures, no different than most other living beings. Most of them aren’t important enough to even warrant a clear affiliation with light or dark; they just are. Your upper lip quirks in a grimace.

Extending your awareness out farther, you’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you suppose you’ll know it when you find it. The hilt of your saber digs uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignore it, using the pain to sharpen your focus. You sense more townsfolk going to and fro outside the saloon, but none of them of any more note than those inside.

Something in you itches. Frowning, you lower the glass of spotchka and try to focus in on that feeling. It’s under your skin, out of reach, just behind your spine, but if you just push a little farther—

You gasp, cringing away from the sudden supernova that blinds your awareness in the Force. Cal Kestis. It has to be Cal. No one else burns quite like him. 

You yank your Force signature back into your body, hoping he didn’t feel you like you felt him. Figuring you only have moments to get out, you make a split-second decision between the several other doors leading away from this main room. Spotchka glass still in hand, you dart for the nearest door, and it slides open to reveal a staircase that winds upward. You take the steps two at a time. At the landing, you hiss at the sight of a second-floor loft. Stairs seem to continue along the other side, continuing to wind upward, but before you can run for them, a familiar voice drifts up from below. 

“Hey, Monk, good to see you,” says Cal Kestis. 

Your body flushes with warmth. Kriff. 

Monk says something you can’t quite make out. 

“Another newcomer?” Cal says. “I’ll make sure to say hi when I see them.” 

Grimacing, you creep across the floor toward the second staircase. Your foot just touches the bottom step when a voice behind you calls your name—your real name, not the alias you gave the droid. 

You sigh, chin falling toward your chest. “Cal Kestis.” 

“How did you find me?” 

His green gaze burns into you almost as hot as his Force signature. You roll your eyes; typical Jedi, thinking the world revolves around him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you say. “I’m...laying low.” 

He crosses his arms across his chest, and you’re distracted for a moment by the way his muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want to, Jedi,” you bite out. “I’ll go find my own desolate planet.” 

“Can’t let you do that,” he says, following behind you as you climb the stairs. 

“I’d love to see you stop me.” 

You feel the disturbance in the Force and brace for it. His attempt to yank you back down the stairs fails as you push against it—but you can’t push past it. Equally matched. Balanced. 

With a growl, you spin on your heel and point an accusing finger at Cal. “Are you really sure you want to do this right now?” 

His eyes narrow at you as you stand there, chest heaving with emotion, both of you crackling with energy in the Force. You down the rest of your spotchka and shatter the glass on the ground. Cal doesn’t flinch. The longer you stand there, the hotter your face flushes. Ignoring the impulse to shudder, you don’t miss the way his green eyes study your face, your posture, your signature. 

“I know you,” he finally says. “From the temple.” 

You snort in derision. “Good for you, kid.” 

“I was still a youngling when the Clone Wars started,” he says. “I...understand what it’s like to lose your master.” 

Your vision pulses black for a moment, and on instinct you reach out with a clawed hand. Cal’s eyes widen in fear as his hands fly to his throat, grabbing at the invisible hand you squeeze there.

“Don’t. Ever. Presume to know anything about me,” you hiss. “You know nothing, Cal Kestis.” 

“You’re—right—” he chokes out. “I’m—sorry—”

You shove, the Force exploding through your palm as he slams into the opposite wall. Sputtering, he coughs, rubbing at his throat. 

“I don’t need your pity, Jedi.” You spit the title like a curse—like the curse that it is—and turn to take the staircase up and out. The door at the top admits you to the open-air roof, the cosmic explosion of the Abyss looming overhead. 

You step over the edge of the roof, calling on the Force to cushion your descent. At the bottom, you ignore the flabbergasted expressions on a few of the locals as you stalk off. Past the saloon, past the stables, through the shallow river—you’re not sure how far you walk, but it’s dark by the time that you realize you’re lost. 

“Kriff,” you sigh. 

Thankfully, whether by luck or by the sheer force of presence of your Force signature, you’ve not been bothered by any of the (frankly terrifying) wildlife on this planet. Tentatively, you reach out, but you find nothing but a few docile Nekkos and, farther off, a dozing bilemaw. 

In the dim light provided by the Abyss and the Shattered Moon hanging heavy in the sky, you determine that a shallow cliff alcove nearby will be as good a place as any to rest until morning. Settling under the rocky overhang, you exhale a shaky breath. 

It’s been a long time since you let your emotions take control like that. You allow yourself to feel them, even to use them to your advantage—but you rarely lose control. Not recently, anyways. 

You bare your teeth at the thought of Cal Kestis. He’s by far only the latest in a string of former Jedi you’ve encountered, but none of them, even the ones who you remember from your years as a padawan, created this amount of turmoil in you. So why him? 

Should probably just ask him myself, huh, you muse, hearing a twig snap nearby. You don’t need to look into the Force to know who it is. 

“Who’s following who now?” you call. 

With a familiar hum, a blue blade sings as it springs to life, illuminating the alcove you’re hunkered in, as well as Cal’s lean figure. You’re too exhausted to be angry at this point, but a different kind of heat licks up your spine as you push up onto your feet. The warmth settles between your thighs, throbbing uncomfortably as he raises the saber overhead, his arm muscles flexing. 

“Had to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, halting just a few feet away. 

“No one out here to hurt,” you say. “What are you really doing here, Kestis?” 

He hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet, eyes not meeting yours. Squinting, you extend a tendril of awareness toward him—past the burnished gold aura, past the shell of Jedi honor he projects like a shield, until you brush against one of those tiny black cracks in his signature. He stiffens, shifts his stance into a defensive half-crouch. There is darkness in him. 

And there is lightness in you, sighs a voice that sounds very much like your master’s. 

You ignore it. 

“Well?” you prompt. 

“I- I don’t know,” he says. 

You snort. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Sinking back into a meditative pose, you let your eyes slide shut and effectively shut out all things Cal Kestis.

At least, that’s what you try to do. The karking idiot seems to have decided that you’re not a threat—a poor miscalculation on his part—as his saber retracts and you hear the sounds of someone settling into a meditative trance next to you. Peeking one eye open, you glance over to find him sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, his face blank and serene. He’s beautiful like this, you think. 

“I could kill you right now, you know,” you say, letting your eye fall shut again. 

“You won’t,” he says, sounding so matter-of-fact that you’re almost convinced that you really wouldn’t. 

Then you shake your head. “Don’t be so certain.” 

“You didn’t kill me five years ago. You won’t kill me now.” 

Gnawing at your cheek, you find you have no response for that. 

The third time you face Cal Kestis, you want to hate him. 

Koboh proves to be big enough for two powerful Force users. You keep to the wilderness, and he sticks to the town. For the most part, anyway. You occasionally catch a glimpse of copper hair as he explores the planet, following all the inane rumors of the locals. Why he even lowers himself to their level, you’ll never understand. 

And besides, Koboh has turned out to be a perfect place to continue your search for answers about the Force. You’ve never wanted to stop knowing, never stopped asking “But why?” The Abyss above is a physical presence most days, nearly oppressive in its crushing weight. It absolutely deafens you in the Force whenever you try to reach for it, painful screeching assaulting your senses. There’s something behind the noise, though, but it’s too far, too deep, for you to reach it. 

You haven’t seen Cal in a while now. And you’re fine with that. You’d watched his ship take off in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago, and it still hasn’t returned. 

Shrugging, you decide that today is as good a day as any to do some exploring of your own. You’ve watched Cal enough to know that there are hidden vaults on this planet, and from what you’ve been able to tell, they’re old. Maybe they’ll have some answers. 

The sunrise peeks over the craggy cliffside, casting a gentle pink hue over the world, still hushed in its predawn slumber. Dew collects on your pant legs as you pass through a small clearing of scrubby bushes. A couple dozen feet up the hill glints a hint of gold. None of the Koboh prospectors would have left this alone unless it were for a reason, you figure. Maybe this is one of the vaults. 

Resting a palm gently on its surface, the gold is cool to the touch. Glyphs in Basic and other languages spiral around the circular door-like structure. When you examine it through the Force, you feel the mechanism that keeps it locked, but no matter how much you push, pull, yank, shove, the door remains sealed. 

“Dank farrik,” you curse. “How does Cal do it?” 

“Very carefully,” a familiar warm voice says from behind you. 

You barely glance over your shoulder, flushing from the embarrassment of being caught unawares, but somehow unsurprised he’s managed to find you. You should have known that even thinking of his absence would cause it to revert. 

“Very funny,” you say. “What secrets are you hiding, Jedi?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sith,” he says. 

As he sidles up alongside you, you glare at him. “I’m not a Sith.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he says with a shrug. “Red saber, strong in the dark side, angry all the time.” 

Huffing, you roll your eyes. His hair is longer than it has been since you first met him, and there’s another scar, pink and shiny, on his upper bicep, like he’d been cut with a vibroblade. As you study him, you also realize he looks...older. More tired. More weary. 

“You look like bantha fodder,” you say helpfully. 

He hums noncommittally. “Do you want into the vault or not?” 

“You’re gonna let me in?” you say, eyebrows raising in surprise. 

With a half-shrug, he says, “I’ve already explored this one. Nothing left in it for you to gain, except maybe some manners.” 

He reveals a small, handheld device that, when he raises it toward the golden door, blips. The door expands open, revealing a turbolift in the center of the floor. 

“Why are you helping me?” you ask, not moving from your spot. Suspicion bubbles in the back of your mind. 

Cal pockets the device and gestures for you to go ahead, giving you a sardonic two-finger salute. “It’s in my nature.” 

With that, he takes a step back, then another, and then pivots and trudges back downhill, tucking his fiery hair behind his ears. 

The vault teaches you something, alright, but it isn’t manners like Cal hoped. Even two century-old tech and warbled messages from a Jedi named Santari Khri cannot lift the veil of jade that rests over your eyes. The Order has always been faulty. The Order has always been weak. Your master was always fated to die, and you to wander, adrift. You grind your teeth in anger. Is that all that exists for you? For anyone? To live and die at the whim of some cosmic, unknowable power? 

The vault also reminds you of your mortality. As you work yourself into a silent rage about the unfairness of the galaxy, at the cruel and nonsensical nature of the Force, you miscalculate the distance between two crumbling stone platforms. With a Force-assisted leap, your arms windmill as you keep yourself balanced, but your feet only just manage to catch the edge of the platform. You wobble, anger bursting into fear, as the stone grates against itself before your stomach is in your throat as you plummet straight down. 

The rush of frigid air steals the scream from your lungs. Try as you might, the Force refuses to help you grasp onto the quickly receding lip of this chasm. 

And then pain rockets up your legs in jagged, arcing lines from your heels to your hips, and you collapse. 

It’s only by sheer willpower that you don’t black out. Grit your teeth. Take a deep breath. Curse until the pain abates. 

You take stock of your body. Your legs are on fire, and any attempt to move them sends a fresh wave of lava licking up your nerve endings. Otherwise, you wipe away blood from scrapes on your palms and tenderly poke at the bruises already forming on your ribs. Around you, myriad rocks and small boulders litter the cracked, moist ground. Mist clings to the spaces in between. When you look up, the ledge you fell from is completely obscured. 

“No Jedi wisdom for me, Santari Khri?” you croak as you gently shift into an upright position. Your teeth squeak from clenching your jaw against the pain, but you manage to prop yourself up with your back against a sizable rock. 

The mist deadens your words. Instead of an echo, it’s like the words get clipped short before they can fully materialize in the air. The back of your neck pricks. But, studying your surroundings once more, there is nothing for you to do but meditate. Perhaps, for once, the Force will provide.

You have no way of knowing how much time has passed as you sit in meditation, methodically stretching your awareness to its limits, trying to snag onto any signature in the Force that might help you out of this predicament. Your butt goes completely numb, as do your legs—a fact you feel should incite panic in your already-tight chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. By the time that you’re ready to give up searching, your throat tickles with dryness and your stomach begins to feel empty. 

But just as you heave a sigh, rising out of the meditative trance, the Force tugs on your awareness. Furrowing your brow, you concentrate: up, up up up, and to the left. Something steadily growing closer. Something bright, and familiar, and warm. 

Cal. 

For once, you’re grateful for his annoyingly Jedi-like qualities. You track his presence through the Force, unable to do more than monitor as he seems to approach your location with frustrating slowness. 

“Come on,” you mutter, mouth thick. “I’m here. Come find me like you always do.” 

After what feels like another small eternity, you finally open your eyes and peer up through the opaque mist. Above, you swear you hear boots crunching on loose rock, and the distant bwee-boop of a droid. 

“Down here,” you half call, half croak. The words don’t seem to make it past your throat. 

For a terrible moment, you think Cal is going to search the seemingly empty vault and, not finding you within, leave. You can’t tell, through either his footsteps or his Force signature, what he’s doing up there. At the last moment, a burst of panic seizing your limbs, you lean forward with a groan and retrieve your saber, still miraculously tucked into your waistband. 

The spitting crimson blade is a comfort as it screeches to life in the oppressive space.

A voice calls your name, cautious. 

“Here!” you shout, voice cracking painfully in an effort to be heard. 

Blue flame bursts to life somewhere above—much farther above than you initially thought—and you nearly sob in relief. 

“Watch your eyes,” Cal shouts down, and you have only a moment to register what he means before you duck, retracting your blade. The unmistakable sound of saber scoring through rock reaches you, heated pebbles showering down on your covered head, and then the sound of two soft leather-clad feet touching down beside you. 

Wary, you raise your head. Cal crouches next to you, his face painted with a cautious kind of concern. 

“You came back?” You don’t mean to make it a question, but the softness in his eyes, the gentleness with which he ghosts his hands over your many injuries, makes you reconsider your previous anger toward him. At least, for a moment. 

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “it’s in my nature.” 

“Legs are the worst of it,” you say, gesturing weakly to your two limbs stretched in front of you. Both are angry shades of blotchy red and purple, but no bone peeks out from within your skin at the very least. 

Cal casts a questioning look up at you, his palms hovering over your legs. You give a small nod, and he lowers his hands until they make feather-light contact with your skin. Even as careful as he’s being, pain erupts all over again when he brushes over your shin, and you squirm, cursing. 

“Probably fractured the bones,” he says. “Need to get you back to town.” 

You groan. “Unless you plan on carrying me out of here, Kestis, I’m not in any shape to make it all the way back.” 

He studies your face for a moment, really studies it, and you can’t help the way your lips part at the intensity in his gaze. Despite the aching pain in your legs, you can’t suppress the heat blooming up your neck into your cheeks the longer his eyes roam your face. Surely he can sense the way your Force aura grows more agitated. 

Whatever he’s searching for on your face, he seems to find it. Shrugging his shoulders, the curious little BD unit you’ve noticed with Cal peeks its white-and-red head up. With a boop?, Cal jerks his chin at you.

The droid slides down Cal’s back and trots up to you. Tilting its head, the mismatched eyes whir and toggle as the droid seems to study you with the same scrutiny as Cal just had.

“What—”

In the blink of an eye—faster, even—a flash of green light dazzles you, followed by the sharp pain of an injection. But that doesn’t even matter, as a blissful, cool relief spreads immediately from the injection site through the rest of your body. The ache in your legs subsides to a dull throb, and you find that you can finally move the limbs without wanting to vomit. 

“Stim,” Cal explains. He rises to his feet, and holds a hand out. “Come on. It’ll wear off soon.” 

His hand is warm, achingly so, when he grasps yours and tugs you to your feet. Grimacing at the wave of nausea that sweeps over you, you cling to his hand until it passes. 

He’s studying the sheer rockface to either side. “I may be carrying you out of here either way. Come on. Hop up.” 

He turns to retrieve your saber where you dropped the hilt—he stiffens for just a moment, so quick you think you imagine it, before he hands the hilt back to you. And then he remains facing away from you. You realize, with a deep-seated groan, that he’s removed the jacket he was wearing earlier, when he let you into the vault. His shoulders are bare and so strong and pretty and freckled and— 

His soft question of your name breaks you out of your reverie. 

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Tentatively, you hook your arms over top of his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the way his skin feels against yours, and he crouches so you can more easily clamber onto his back like a pack. 

“BD, up,” Cal orders, and you squirm as the droid clambers up your back to rest with one foot on your shoulder and the other on Cal’s. 

Even with the stim working through your system much like coolant in your ship’s engine, and even with Cal doing all he can to keep you steady on his back as he Force-propels himself up the vertical rockfaces of this cavern, you bite into your cheek hard enough for it to bleed to keep yourself from yelping in pain. It’s bad enough that he had to save you from a slow death in this Force-forsaken vault; he doesn’t need to know the fire that licks up your nerve endings with every jostle. 

You shuffle off his back as soon as you’re able. A grimace contorts your features as you stumble a few steps, but you wave away Cal’s steadying hands.

“I’m fine,” you grit out. 

“Yeah, you look fine,” he says. 

You shoot him a glare, but you’re more exhausted than you are angry. “You didn’t have to come back for me.” 

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, gesturing for you to step onto the turbolift first, “I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Ha,” you bark out. Your stomach lurches as the turbolift shudders into its ascent. “Of course I owe you, Kestis. It’s all about balance.” 

“Balance,” he says, his voice strangely hollow and contemplative. “You murdered Rexan Binette and Sarela Webb and the others for balance?” 

The names of the Jedi you killed reverberate off the curved walls of the lift chamber. Breathing through your nose, you avoid his gaze—and then shake your head at yourself, angry. Why should you be ashamed? It was them or you. 

The lift comes to a smooth halt at the top, and you’re somehow unsurprised to find that it appears to be dawn again. Your eyes find Cal’s green ones. They look nearly black in the early morning haze. His expression bares all of his emotions: hurt, suspicion, concern, worry. But he doesn’t seem...afraid. Not of you, anyways, and instead of filling you with rage, that realization makes you deflate. 

“The galaxy changed,” you say, voice flat. “You change with it, or you die.” 

He fixes you with his stare for a moment more, and then shakes his head and begins the long walk back downhill without a word. Heaving a sigh, you follow him. You can’t repay the debt you now owe him if you die from an infected wound. You tell yourself that the heat bubbling in your chest is hate, hate that you’re now bound to this life debt, hate that of all people you’re in debt to Cal Kestis. But hate has never felt so soft.

The final time that you and Cal Kestis cross paths, you remember why hatred is easier. 

It’s only a few weeks after when you’ve fully healed thanks to Cal’s quick intervention, the extra stores of bacta that you had the good foresight to stash in your ship years ago, and perhaps a nudge from the Force. You’ve retreated to your ramshackle abode in the wilderness; thankfully, the worst you have to deal with upon returning is a stray Bogling. No matter how hard you try to shoo the pesky creature away from your hut, it comes back again. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you grumble, watching the Bogling scratch at the dirt out front of your hut. It chitters as it works to burrow its den. 

Cal has disappeared again, which works just fine for you. It’s easier to attune to the Force when he’s gone. When you’re not distracted by his burnished radiance, his soothing calmness, his serene meditation posture, his hair that looks as soft as the Bogling’s fur, his...him.

Genuinely, who the kriff does Cal Kestis think he is? Where does he get the right to continue to do good in the galaxy when all the galaxy wants is to kill him? To kill everyone like him? How does he continue fighting? 

For that matter, how do you continue fighting? The sudden self-introspection is jarring. You squint a glare up at the Abyss, the technicolor explosion hanging heavy in the sky, as if it personally arranged your fated entanglement with the Jedi. As if it asked the question of your purpose, not your own conscience.

You have to squint in part because, in the Force, the Abyss is blinding. Stare too long and you’ll be blinking away spots from your vision for hours afterward. As your eyes start to water, you shake your head and bring your gaze back to terra firma. Kark it all, you think, bitter. You continue fighting because you have to. Because you have to know the answer. You have to understand the balance. 

In the Force, you’ve watched for years as the streaks of light in your otherwise void-like existence pulse and contract. Here, underneath the staggering presence of the Abyss, the galactic, even cosmic, struggle between Light and Dark, splashes across your own skin, a microcosm. It makes you angry all over again, as you study the vapors of golden lightness drift around you. The anger is good. The anger makes the darkness pulse and surge and rise; the anger makes you more focused. 

Gritting your teeth, you try to hang onto the anger. 

And then you don’t have to try at all. In your peripheral awareness, the Bogling has scurried in fright into your small hut as the sound of footsteps—many, many footsteps—echoes off the surrounding cliff walls. Your lips curl back in a snarl at being interrupted. Saber hilt smacking into your palm with a familiar weight, the unsteady red blade fills your small clearing with a threatening hum. 

Around the corner comes a full squad of Imperials. For a moment, you have to blink, to make sure that what you’re seeing is correct. But no. The hard white duraplast armor gleams in the midday sun, the mixed group of scout- and Stormtroopers advancing as one giant, grotesque organism. And at its midst, in the nucleus, are two black-clad figures wielding crackling electrostaffs. 

Purge Troopers. 

How dare they. How dare they come to your planet—and you hesitate only a moment over the possessiveness in your anger—and only another moment more when you find that you include Cal’s place on Koboh in that possession. This is your planet, together. The Light, and the Dark. 

In all things, balance. 

“Enemy located,” crackles the voice of one of the troopers. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, which. 

As the white-clad troopers fan out in a loose semicircle, blasters and batons raised at half-ready, the two Purge troopers continue a few paces forward. They’re nearly identical, all the way down to the way that they settle their weight on their right feet, perfectly unbalanced. 

“You won’t get away,” the one to your left calls, his voice imperious and cold. “Not this time. You’ll be coming with us.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” you call back, feigning disinterest. Through the Force, you mentally draw the battle map, the path of carnage and rage and blood you’ll wreak through the ten troopers in front of you. 

“There are ten of us,” the other Purge Trooper says, voice cocky and self-assured. The battle map in your mind halts, then reasserts itself with a new pattern. One that places Mr. Cocky and Arrogant at the top of your assault. 

You snort. “Glad to know the Empire is teaching its troopers basic math. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

You twirl your saber in a half circle around your body, a familiar ritual, a reset button to remind you to keep your head clear. As blasters raise to full height, you take a deep, centering breath, and close your eyes.

A silence takes over your ears, your mind, your very being. You are one with the Force; the Force is with you. Despite all your issues with the cosmic Force, you know it will not fail you now. You don’t hear the order to fire, you don’t hear the clicks of triggers, you don’t hear the scream of blaster bolts. You don’t need to. Guided by the Force, void-like and in command, your arms—your saber—jumps into place. 

Four blaster bolts pelt your way. Four blaster bolts ricochet and catch their originators in the chest. Four troopers fall. 

You open your eyes, lips tugging back over your teeth in a mockery of a smile. Sound returns to you just as one of the scout troopers, shaken, stumbles back with a cry: “St-Stormtrooper KIA!” 

You enact your battle map. 

Gathering the Force to yourself, you push off the ground and shoot forward with a Force assist, your saber swinging up and cleaving back down at the critical juncture between the cocky Purge Trooper’s neck and shoulder. The glowing plasma sinks easily through duraplast, fabric, and flesh alike; the trooper’s groan of pain gurgles as your blade cuts through his lungs. Now there are five. 

You whirl, saber moving nearly of its own accord to intercept each blow that the remaining troopers rain upon you. It’s nearly child’s play to parry their attacks, send them staggering off-balance. In a crucial moment where all your opponents hesitate to move forward again, you bare your teeth. Reaching out with a clawed hand, you grip the throat of one of the troopers, lift him bodily with the Force, then yank down as hard as you can. There’s a satisfying crack when he hits the ground.

You’re doing fine. You’re going to triumph here; the Force has willed it so. The fear of the remaining troopers is palpable and you draw on it, siphoning it into yourself, into your cracked and screaming kyber crystal. With a leaping slash, two trooper heads bounce away.

The remaining two troopers look at each other. You don’t need the Force to smell the fear rolling off of the scout trooper in waves, and you fix him with a feral grin. 

“No more quips?” you ask, voice harsh. 

He drops his baton and runs.

“Just you and me,” the Purge Trooper observes. 

“How very astute of you,” you say. “Your friend was the smart one. You can still run; I’ll let you go. For now.” 

“Not a chance.” The buzzing electrostaff twirls through the air as the Trooper lowers into a defensive crouch. “Surrender.” 

“Not a chance,” you echo, matching his stance. “Now, why don’t—”

A voice, familiar and warm and distracting, shouts your name from above. Like a fool, you hesitate, turning. There’s a glimpse of coppery hair, a blue flame, and golden radiance. You growl at the interruption—

And cry out as the electrostaff comes down across your upper back, singeing into your clothing, biting into your skin. 

You drop to your knees, vision blurry. Stupid. That was stupid. 

The Purge Trooper immediately raises the staff for another strike, but before it can make contact with the back of your neck, a rush of energy steamrolls over you and shoves the trooper fifteen feet back. His heels dig into the soft dirt. 

“Jedi!” If the trooper is surprised to see Cal Kestis coming to the rescue of the likes of you, you can’t hear it in his voice. “Guess this is my lucky day.” 

“Don’t count on it,” you wheeze. Grunting in pain, you shove to your feet and reset, saber singing in the air, the smell of ozone stinging your nose. 

Your name again, gentler this time, and closer. This time, you don’t turn, instead waiting for him to come to you. And he does, just like you knew he would. In the corner of your eye, Cal Kestis and his supernova signature provide something like...comfort. Heat bubbles and sputters in your chest at his closeness. This feeling is hate, you reassure yourself. 

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice pitched low. 

“I’ve had worse,” you say. “You here to help, or to mock?” 

He fully faces you, and you sense more than see his eyes rake over your profile. With a shake of his head, his copper hair flowing nearly to his shoulders, he raises his saber, point-first, toward the Purge Trooper. With a satisfied smile, you swing your saber in lazy circles. Finally. 

The two of you attack at the same time, nudged along by the Force. Together, you flank the trooper, whose training seems to have prepared him for a moment such as this. But for all the training this trooper has, you and Cal have more. You and Cal have more to fight for. More to lose. More to gain. 

Cal’s blur of a blue saber slashes through the air, at every turn blocking the trooper’s pressing attack, forcing the Imp to recalibrate. And when he attempts to do so, tries to even catch his breath, you’re there, the Force driving your swings harder. You know the blows that land on the staffs jar the Imp’s wrists all the way to his shoulders. You know he’s going to falter. You know he’s going to die. 

When the fear once again rises from this trooper, you smile. 

Overconfident, you twirl, blade seeming to bend as it whirls through the air. It will connect with the trooper at his waist.

It does—but his staff connects with you once again at your own waist, and this time it bites into your flesh and holds. 

“No!” Cal’s shout is harsh and angry. With a final flash of blue, the Purge Trooper slumps sideways, body collapsing into the dirt. The momentum yanks the electrostaff out of your side. 

You drop your saber hilt to press against the bleeding wound, hands shaking. Kark, this hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? Cal’s face, with wide, scared green eyes, appears in your field of vision. 

A spark of anger temporarily distracts you from the pain in your side and along your back. “Kestis,” you grind out. “I had it under control.” 

“It’s in my nature,” he says, like that explains everything. You suppose it does. Your anger abandons you, and you stagger forward, into his embrace. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you as he ducks under your arm, taking your weight. “C’mon, we’ll get inside and I’ll patch you up.” 

“Got any more of those stims?” you ask, words slurring a little. You glance down at your side and blink dumbly at the amount of red staining your clothes. 

“A few more,” Cal says. “They’re yours. Just need to get you inside.” 

The several dozen feet to your hut pass in a blur and in a blink—you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. But you sigh as you settle down into the familiar comfort of your small cot. In the corner, you’re dimly aware of the Bogling cowering below the small kitchen table. Critter is cute, you suppose. Maybe it can stay. 

You’re delirious. That has to be it. You’d never willingly take in a stray. 

BD hops up on the cot next to you and, at Cal’s nod, ejects a glowing green stim canister. Cal catches it and then plunges the small needle into your side, just above the gash there. Cool relief tingles through you, and you smile at him. 

“That feels good,” you mumble. 

“I’m glad,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “You got medical supplies?” 

You gesture vaguely to the screened-off back corner, your ’fresher. “If I do, s’in there.”

BD stays with you while Cal rummages through your meager supplies, the little droid’s head tilted to the side as though studying you. You blink at him. 

Bwoop-beep? the droid chimes. 

“I don’t speak Binary, sorry,” you say. 

Cal chuckles, returning with a handful of supplies. “He’s wondering if you’re feeling okay.” 

You feel okay enough to feel annoyed at the question, and you shoo the little droid off your bed. When you return your attention to Cal, he’s hesitating, a roll of gauze, bottle of alcohol, and a needle in his hands. 

“What,” you ask, flatly. 

“Need to take your shirt off to clean the wound properly,” he says, and if you knew him better, you might think he sounds nervous. Embarrassed, even. 

But you don’t know him that well, and so you ignore his tone of voice. “Fine.” 

You struggle for a moment to lift your shirt over your head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound in your side. Once it’s off, you throw it toward the ’fresher. 

Cal still hesitates, his eyes everywhere but on you. Another surge of annoyance flares in you, and you snatch the medical supplies out of his hands. 

“I’d really like to not bleed out here, Kestis,” you admonish. He at least has the sense to look abashed at that, and assists you in cleaning out the wound, stitching it shut, and wrapping you in gauze to keep pressure on it. You don’t let out a single curse, hiss, or groan the entire time, making the inside of your mouth bleed with how hard you bite down. 

“You okay?” he asks once you’re bandaged up. 

“What do you think?” you retort. “M’gonna sleep. You can go.” 

“I’ll stay,” he says. He withdraws, but remains in your small hut, slinging himself into the hand-hewn wooden chair at your dining table. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Why?” You can’t help the way the question sounds equal parts frustrated and incredulous.

“Just sleep, Sith,” he says. His voice brooks no argument, and for once, you have none.

When you wake, it’s still light outside. Your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze and left to dry out, your head not much better. With a soft groan, you roll onto your side and peer into the half-lit room. 

Cal’s already watching you. His gaze meets yours and pierces you, pinning you to the small cot tucked against the wall. Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you study his features. The dark scar across his face. The lean lines of his torso and muscles. The strand of fiery hair that curls over his forehead and teases his chin. Despite the lingering shards of pain in your side, heat flickers in your core.

“Why did you really come here, Cal?” you ask, voice low, the stillness around you demanding to remain unbroken. “Why did you come back for me at all? You know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. I can’t be worth saving.” 

He is quiet as he contemplates your question, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Silence stretches between you, slow and languid, and you nearly hold your breath waiting for his response. 

Eventually he gives a half shrug. “There was a time when I believed everyone is worth saving. Since the Empire, things have...been different. I’m not so sure everyone deserves to be saved.” 

“So why come back?” 

His eyes are soft when they find yours again. You want to be angry, want to latch onto the residual pain in your body and sharpen it into a vibroblade, hurl it outward from yourself and hope it hurts him as much as you’ve been hurt. In your gut, the darkness stirs, but in your heart, the light whispers patience. 

“I see too much of myself in you to not come back for you,” he says, so quiet you nearly don’t process the words. 

But when his confession does register, you blink in surprise. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. 

“We couldn’t be more opposite, Kestis,” you say. “Do you know what you look like, in the Force?” 

When he remains silent, shifting in the wooden chair uncomfortably, you push yourself up into a sitting position. A sigh sloughs out of your throat. 

“You’re the most...beautiful thing I’ve seen,” you say, hesitating only briefly over the words. “You shine. You’re a beacon of light. Stars, Cal, you’re practically a star yourself.” 

His lips part in surprise, and you can’t ignore the way your core twists at the expression. “But—”

You raise a hand. “There’s darkness there, sure, but you are the light, Kestis. And sure, there may be light in me, but believe me, I’m a void. The void. You’ll never carry the sins that blacken my soul.” 

His toned chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. When he swallows, you watch the way his throat bobs, the muscles that strain at his neck, the tightening of his hands into fists. Without even needing to look, you can feel the way his Force signature roils with confusion and surprise. You’ve caught him off-guard, yet again. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat to the apex of your thighs.

“Show me,” he whispers. 

You frown, brows furrowing. “What?” 

“In the Force,” he says. “Show me.”

“I’ve never—” 

“I have a gift.” He grimaces. “Psychometry. It might not work. But I want to see.” 

Ah. You understand how he knew the names of the Jedi you murdered, and glance at your saber hilt resting on the table near him. How much has he seen? 

Apparently, not enough. 

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Fine. C’mere.” 

The cot groans under the added weight, not meant for two people, but it holds. You adjust yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your knees touching Cal’s as he mirrors your posture. A slight twinge tugs at your ribs as you move. Cal’s eyes soften again as you grimace. 

“Don’t,” you grit out. “Save your pity.” 

“It’s not—” He huffs. “Whatever.” 

Glaring up at him through your eyelashes, you nevertheless rest your hands palm-up, fingers outstretched toward him. Cal gently rests his hands over yours. His skin is heated, electric where it touches yours. The thought crosses your mind, fleetingly, what your odds would be if you decided to finally end it here and now; the thought disappears as soon as his calloused fingers wrap around your forearms. 

“Like this?” he murmurs. 

“Feels right,” you reply in the same tone. “Here goes nothing, yeah?” 

You inhale a deep, centering breath, and allow yourself to sink into the currents of the Force. For a moment you have to squint as Cal’s truest form explodes across your perception. This close, you’re surprised he doesn’t radiate any extra heat. You’re also surprised at the imperfections you find in his signature, the small nicks in the otherwise flawless, gleaming golden skin. You have to restrain yourself from leaning forward to examine him even closer. The desire to know him, to pick him apart and put him back together, rushes through you, pulsing in your fingertips. 

When you feel adjusted to his presence, this close, this intoxicating, you squeeze his hands. Focusing on the places where the two of you connect—your palms, your knees, your signatures—you will your unique sight to bleed into his awareness. 

Judging from the way he stiffens and gasps, you figure it worked. Your combined abilities and strength in the Force, overlapping just this once, let him see the world like you do.

“You’re so...” He trails off, voice strained. “Empty.” 

“Thanks for noticing.” You squeeze his hands again. “Do you underst— oh.”

You nearly choke as the Force nudges against your mind. For a moment, you’re no longer in your hut, but instead on an unfamiliar ship, palms pressed against a stranger’s—no, not a stranger—her name drifts to you. Merrin. You’re comparing palm sizes with her, and her hands are nearly as big as yours—as Cal’s. 

You rip away from Cal Kestis and the illusion breaks. 

Heat burns up your neck to your face. “What the kriffing hell was that?” 

“What did you see?” he asks, concern flashing in his eyes. He reaches for you, and you lean away, glaring. 

You don’t even know why you’re angry. Any emotions you’ve felt for Cal have been ones you can explain: anger, frustration, begrudging respect, competitiveness, hatred. You recognize his attractiveness, and you don’t deny the effect his presence has on your baser desires—but the nearly painful flare of possessiveness pulsing in you right now is foreign. Inexplicable. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you eventually mutter. “Did you see?” 

“I saw you,” he says. Tentatively, he skims his fingertips over your leg, up to your knee. When you don’t retreat, he gently snags your hand and threads your fingers together. “I’m sorry.” 

You bare your teeth and tug your hand away—or try to. His fingers tighten around yours, holding you in place. “I told you before, Kestis. I don’t need your pity.” 

“Then don’t see it as pity,” he says. “See it as an understanding. A mutual experience.” 

Sucking on your teeth, your jaw clenches for a moment before you sigh. “Fine. Who’s Merrin?” 

“An old friend,” Cal says, a little too quickly. “She’s... She went her own way a while ago.” 

Something like triumph glows in you. “Good.” 

He fixes you with a confused look, a crease forming between his brows. “Wha—” 

You cut him off, surging forward to press your lips greedily against his. The impulse to be closer to him, impossibly close, is overwhelming in this moment. His palm is warm and steady and grounding against yours. He grunts against you, going absolutely still. 

When you pull away, not moving more than a few inches away, you meet the shock in his gaze with a sense of pride. His eyes flit between yours, searching. You drag your eyes down to his lips, parted and damp and so fucking pink.

His other hand cradles the back of your head and pulls you forward into another kiss. 

You groan into his mouth. His lips are warm and soft and sweet against yours, moving slowly, uncertain. You tilt your head, nudging his nose with your own. With your free hand, you grip at his shirt and claw your way into his lap. You need more. More of him, more of his warmth, more of his touch, more more moremoremore. 

He breathes your name against your lips, and you shush him gently. His body is hard and lean beneath yours, his touch hesitant. Fingers still intertwined, you guide his hand to your waist. Without the barrier of your shirt, his touch burns, scorching you from the outside in. His fingers splay across your skin, trailing molten desire in their wake. Heat pulses in your core.

“Kriff,” you sigh, “please.” 

“Didn’t think you had manners,” he quips, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your jaw, down your neck. 

You reach up and tug on his fiery hair, earning a low groan. “Rude.” 

He chuckles against your skin, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot. A shiver dances up your spine, a quiet sigh passing your lips. When he bites down there, you moan. 

“Kestis,” you pant. 

“Shh,” he soothes. The hand on your waist trails down to your hip and squeezes in time with another bite to your skin. With another groan, you rock your hips down into him. A grin curls your mouth up in pleasure at the feeling of his half-hard cock beneath you. 

“Off,” you order, tugging on his shirt. 

He breaks away from you long enough to yank the offending article up and over his head. Your palms smooth over the rippling muscles beneath his pale, freckled skin of his stomach, and he shudders. Brushing your thumb over a blaster scar under his ribs, you press a kiss to his shoulder. 

“Did it hurt?” you ask. 

“I’ve had worse,” he says. 

“Show me.” 

His green eyes are dark, nearly black, when he meets your gaze with a questioning look. In response, you skim a featherlight trail over his torso, lingering at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin—mirrors, you realize, of the imperfections of his golden aura. 

When you trace the pink scar that bisects his face, he shivers. His hand catches your wrist, halting your movement. 

“That one,” he whispers, voice pained. “That was the worst.” 

You recognize, this close, the telltale signs of a saber wound. He’s lucky to have survived that, you realize. 

Kriff. You press your mouth to his once again, wrapping your legs around his torso. His body fits against yours, hard planes to soft edges, and you groan in unison. His kiss is still tentative, but he moves against you without hesitation when you deepen the kiss, your tongue licking across his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against yours. Spit slicking your lips, you groan into his open mouth. 

Fuck, you need more. Pulling at his hair, you urge his head to tip back, exposing the pale column of his throat. You lick a stripe down his skin, tasting his natural saltiness, delighting in the way his cock hardens against your clothed core. 

“Want you,” you mumble against his collarbone. 

He hums. “I’m yours.”

That possessive flare from before practically obliterates any coherent thoughts your brain was still capable of producing. Growling, you push him onto his back, shuffling down, kissing and licking and biting at his skin as you fumble with his pants. The buttons come undone; his hips raise to help you shuck the clothing off. His cock bobs as it comes free of the confines. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan. “Been holding out on me, Kestis.” 

“If I’d known—” His voice cracks. “If I’d known all you needed was to be fucked, we coulda done this sooner.” 

Tingles spark through your core hearing him curse—hearing him talk about something as base and dirty as fucking you. Stars, the heat in your core is nearly unbearable. 

You need to taste him. 

Wrapping your fingers around his heavy cock, you smear a droplet of precum over his flushed head. His body jerks in response, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at you, a smirk playing at his lips. Without warning, you envelope him in your mouth. Cal cries out, hips jerking up. You moan in satisfaction around him. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink your mouth further down onto his length, before sucking, tongue teasing the underside of his head. One hand cupping his balls, you relax your throat and take him deep. The curls at the base tickle your nose. 

“Oh stars,” he breathes. “You’re so good at that. F-Fuck.” 

You hum, settling into a rhythm. His hand, broad and strong and warm, rests on top of your head—not pushing, just there, feeling you. His chest heaving, you can’t help but admire the flush rising to his cheeks, painting him in sin. Spit dribbles out of your mouth, coating the parts of him you can’t reach. Your eyes never leave his. 

Snaking your free hand down your body, you moan at the pleasure that zings through you at the momentary relief of touching yourself. 

“No.” Cal’s voice is strangled, strained. He flicks two shaky fingers, and your hand is yanked out from beneath your body by the Force. 

An obscene pop echoes in your hut as you pull your mouth away from his weeping cock. “Either touch me, or I’ll do it myself,” you growl. 

“Then c-come here,” he stutters. 

Shimmying out of your pants, you discard the garments to the floor without a second thought and climb your way up his body. His hands skim your sides, his touch barely there, as your mouth reconnects with his. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of his mouth, his touch, his cock. He feels too good. 

You hiss when his hand brushes against your aching sex. He breaks the kiss long enough for his eyes to find yours, a silent question there as his fingers find purchase at your core. 

You can only nod, not trusting your voice. When he moves his hand against you, your vision blurs and you press your forehead to his. 

“Stars, Kestis, just like that,” you hiss. 

He rubs his nose against yours. “Let me take care of you.” 

His touch is electric. Your body jerks against him when his fingers move just right, applying just the right amount of pressure. Heat and tension build in your belly, growing more and more taut by the second. Your legs shake on either side of his hips. 

“Cal,” you whine. “Gonna cum.” 

His touch retreats, and you whimper at the loss of contact. 

“You’re g-gonna cum on my cock,” he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. The sweetness of the action contrasts with the filth of his words, and your stomach lurches. 

“Fuck, yes, okay.” You spit in your hand and reach down to make sure you’re ready for him.

He slicks his own palm with spit and jerks his cock once, twice, getting himself prepped. With his hand at his base, steadying his length, you slowly sink onto him. He splits you open inch by inch, the delicious burn of him in your core drawing a pitiful moan from your chest. When he bottoms out, you twitch in his lap, chest heaving. 

“T-Take me so well,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over your face. “Stars, you feel so- so good.” 

You whine. “Cal.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

The pet name seems to surprise him as much as it does you. The heat that’s been simmering in your chest for months now, since the first time you encountered him, dulls into something...softer. More muted. More pliant. 

Eyes locked together, you test the waters and raise your hips a fraction. Moans tumble from both of you at the friction, and that’s all you need. Rolling your hips, you work his cock, drawing the most delicious noises from him. He caresses your face, smooths a hand over your back, kisses you sweetly. You find just the right angle where his cock brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside, and you shudder. 

“Cal, I—” 

“Yes,” he groans. “Don’t stop.” 

You don’t. You drag your hips frantically against his, chasing the sparks bursting in your core with each thrust. His touch turns harsh as you ride him; your hips will surely bear bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. You moan at the thought. Mine. Mine mine mine mine. 

Rutting against that raw piece of heaven in your core, you’re blind to everything else. Your injury forgotten, the empty void that yawns in your soul, your frustration with Cal Kestis: all of it is irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you keep fucking Cal. All that matters is the way his cock feels sliding in and out of you, dragging against your walls. All that matters is the way he moans your name like a prayer. 

“Need you t-to cum,” he orders, words faltering as you clench around his cock. 

“I’m close,” you say, voice hoarse. The tension in your belly draws hot and tight, ready to snap. 

Cal finally thrusts up to meet you when you bounce down, and you scream. That taut cord in your belly releases, snapping in two, and you see white. Pleasure explodes through you; every nerve lit on fire, tears dew in your eyes from the intensity. You claw at Cal’s chest, searching for purchase as he absolutely rails into you, chasing his own release. 

Through it all, he babbles. “J-Just like that, baby. Cum all over this cock. Fuck, you’re g-gonna make me— I— fuck, ngh, I’m—” 

He stills as he cums, his cock pulsing against your walls, and you jerk at the sensation, oversensitive. 

Your eyes flutter as you look down at him in the gathering darkness. His skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat. As his cock softens inside of you, letting some of his cum drip out, you groan softly. 

“This was a mistake,” you whisper. 

He swallows visibly, and nods. “I know.” 

You capture his lips in another kiss, one he returns with a fervor. Stars, you almost wish you really did hate him. This would be so much easier. 

“What now?” he asks, thumb brushing over your tender hips. 

You shrug. “Same time next week?” 

He huffs a laugh. “Very funny.” 

“Thanks.” 

He hums. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

All of the heat of the last few minutes dissipates immediately, and ice knifes your insides. You push away from him finally, his cum dripping down your inner thigh as you stand, bend to retrieve your clothes, tug them on. 

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” 

“What do you want me to say, Kestis?” 

He sighs as he reaches for his own clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

“You should have left when I told you to,” you say, arms crossed over your chest as you stare out the single window of your home at the rapidly falling dark. 

“Yeah, maybe.” His hand is warm and familiar where he rests it on your shoulder. “You could...come with me.” 

You narrow your eyes. “And have to live by your Jedi code? No thanks.” 

“No code,” he says, quiet, contemplative. “Just the fight.” 

“Just the fight,” you echo. When he nods, something you sense more than see, you sigh. “I could...tag along. Just this once.” 

“Of course,” he says. His lips press against your temple. “Just this once.” 

Swallowing against the strange metallic taste rising to your mouth, you blink and summon the Force. You’re grateful for Cal’s grounding presence behind you. Your signature is...muddied. Marbled black and gold. When you glance down at his hand on your skin, you find that his aura is the same as yours. Mixed. Confused. 

Balanced.

Yes, you think. Hating him would have been easier.

[wordy-little-witch]

So like. I have my ongoing first (yayy) but smth that is just. Clinging in my brain, making me think and loop and vibrate is that like.

Earth, Sun and Solar have been through the absolute ringer lately. And Earth just recently had to cope with the complicated loss of a brother while trying to help her other brother and whatever-association-Solar-has. Now Lunar has gone down that same path of destruction that led to Nexus's death.

I really don’t think it's that much of a stretch to say she'd probably have a panic attack over it before going fucking frigid.

Because Sun has to kill Nexus.

And while she is more than aware that there are things in the past that have happened that she is not privy to, I don't doubt for a moment that she has been able to at least piece together some things. She's not a licensed therapist, and there are many things she doesn't handle properly in that regard, but I really love the idea of her actively making efforts to improve her methods and knowledge.

So she has been attacked by Lunar (truly attacked, not just insulted, not just threatened). She knows Sun is Not Well Right Now. She knows he hasn't been truly well in a very, very long time - if ever. She knows that Nexus's death has damn near broken him in a ways she doesn't know if she can fix.

But she knows her brother. She knows he hates being kept in the dark, hates being coddled and lied to, treated as weak or ineffectual. She has to tell them, has to warn them, just in case-

And honestly? She also just really wants her brother.

She's still angry at Moon - (Sun's vacant stare, oil slicked face, broken voice as he begged for a brother that wasn't there, nearly catatonic but for his heartbreak, and Earth is a pacifist, is a lover, not a fighter, but she wants to hit someone, wants to scream and rage, wants to tear the foundations from the very ground itself, so instead she wraps her arms around her big brother and they cry together) - she's still furious but there is no space for that now.

Yes, Moon has made an effort and she tells herself that it is good, that it is growth, but the terror in her heart at the thought of what it took to get there, what could have happened, what she suspected WOULD have happened if not for the precious timing, burns. She's making an active effort to be kind, because it is her choice to do so, her own decision and desire, but she can feel the cracks ((ones she wonders if Sun has learned to live with, ones she seethes at the idea of)).

She is hurt and scared and she wants Sun, she wants Solar, and she wants Monty - so Moon gets a tentative allowance.

She is hurt and scared and she's fucking terrified because this damage in her is bad enough, but it may completely shatter Sun, already so raw and brittle. There is no winning, no good choice, only a lesser of evils, and Earth wants to protect him but she can't. Not from this. Not from Lunar.

She's so tired of looking for protection from a brother, it hurts and it burns and she wants to lay down, wants to cry, wants to scream and sleep, but there is no time to do that because if she stops, that's it, that's the end, and she fears if she pauses for even a moment that she may do something poorly advised.

Usually her hugs are big, warm, enveloping and comforting - she acts as a wall between the world and her ward for however long is needed. She had planned for it. Sunny needed support, and she was going to give it to him, but the moment he opened the door and she met his gaze, something within her snapped.

Her optics clouded and a pathetic sound screeched from her voicebox, and somehow she went from in the doorway to being pushed down onto the couch. Warm hands, so gentle, so painfully sweet despite the horrors they have held, cup her cheeks and thumb away tears and she clings, trying to calm her breathing until he hoarsely asks her, "what's going on, Earth?"

And she falls into pieces, lunging to cling, her fingers tangling in his ruffled skirt, face buried into his shirt, as she wails. She hates herself for it. Sunny just holds her tightly, rocking gently. Even burnt out beyond measure, he pours from an empty cup and she sobs all the harder for it.

It takes time to get the words out, and she finds her syntax trees stuttering under the force of her emotions. Solar comes in at some point, joining them and coaching her through breathing exercises, grounding techniques, and she cannot find the words until Moon - she ignores how her grip tights almost painfully, distantly grateful that it is fabric in her fingers instead of metal, because she suspects she may have dented it at best - offers to hook the display port.

And the image she practically throws through the connective port casts a horrible silence across the room, the entire house, damn near the whole world. It is her desperate grip on Sun that keeps him from falling as his knees buckle, ivory optics wide and unseeing. She pulls him closer, coiling around him, offering and seeking comfort in equal, bitter measure.

Moon swears, and she can only barely pay attention to anything beyond the whirlwind in her chassis, hair sparking with static, until she hears those words. "Go" and "lab" and "be back later"

And she chokes on a wail.

"Don't go," she begs, holding Sun closer, even as numb gold-and-gunmetal hands try to press into her own arms and shoulders, clumsy and trembling, but she turns to the smudge of blue, voicebox burning with the force of her broken sounds, "don't go-"

"I won't be long" is the response she gets, not the one she needs, not the one Sun needs, but it is given casually, distractedly. "I need to find him."

After that, there is a blur, a cacophony of sound before a familiar baby blue shirt is pressed against her face and she shrieks with the force of her wailing as Solar holds her and Sun together, two broken beings held in place by bloodorange and ochre, a low timbre that she can't understand past the force of her servos and fans working desperately to keep her conscious.

Between one breath and the next, green and violet slips into her side, and someone tries to pull Sun from her arms, earning a rare growl from the habitually placid woman before she and her brother are simply enfolded between two bodies, tethered in this riotous typhoon of grief and terror and panic and sorrow.

Earth cries in Monty and Solar's arms, clutching her brother to her chest, and thinks to herself that they will never fully heal from this.

[captain-mj]

Oki here me out Price is a plant dad and his Boytoy Graves needs to take care of them. Graves nearly kills Price favourite cactus, over waters it, because that man has no idea how to take care of a plant.

From Graves' pov because I wanted to switch it up! Also, this was supposed to be much longer but I started feeling sick half way through :( I wanted to finally get it finished but I’ll probably try to do a part 2 or maybe just rewrite this later

~~~~

Graves was staring at the stupid goddamn cactus, trying very hard not to cry. It was blooming and Price had explained to him two weeks ago that this cactus usually only bloomed when it was dying from stress.

Graves had stressed the goddamn plant so much it was killing itself. He double checked the instructions left and sure enough, he had mixed up two of the plants. The other one was fine, a few leaves browning slightly from dehydration, but nothing that couldn't be fixed.

He had spent the last few hours researching death blooms and how to reverse it. The only thing he could find it cut the bloom off, but he didn't want to cut Price's favorite plant.

So instead, he switched to its proper schedule and hoped it would be fine for another day when Price would be there and they could fix it.

He ended up crying.

The cactus was like two years old and Price had called it his favorite!

He ended up falling asleep in Price's bed. The door opening woke him up and he tripped over himself to get over to Price.

"Hey, love." Price smiled at him and Graves broke instantly.

"I'm so sorry I tried to do everything right but I messed up and the fucking plant and" He continued rambling while Price took off his shoes and put his coat on the door.

"Calm down." He grabbed his face, looking down at him. "Now, what's wrong?"

"I overwater your plant and its blooming." Graves looked miserable. Price winced.

"Alright, let me take a look at it." Price patted him and Graves trailed behind him. "Alright, good news, it hasn't started seeding. Bad news, its pretty close. So let me show you how to fix this in case it ever happens again."

Graves leaned into him. "I'm sorry..."

"It's alright. It's a tough plant." Price showed him how to cut the bloom away. "Now we just have to wait for it to pull through. I'll watch it. Any other plants have issues?"

Graves explained the browning leaves on the other one. "I started watering it like normal though and it seems to be improving."

"Good job, love." Price smiled, pulling him closer by his belt loops.

Graves leaned into him. "I missed you so much. Please don't ever leave me in charge of your plants again."

Price laughed and ruffled his hair. "I won't, don't worry." He leaned down and kissed him.

Graves put his arms around him, slowly pushing them back to the bedroom.

"Oh, I see." Price laughed. "Missed me huh?"

"You have no idea."

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 22 - "You weren't meant to be there"

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 762

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The security guard gives him a bored look as he frantically scans his ID to be let through- only to be denied repeatedly. 

He thrusts his smiling, laminated face into the scanner and feels his feathers fluff up when it buzzes at him again. 

“Hawks.” A voice calls from behind him, causing him to fumble with the keycard and nearly drop it. 

“RUMI!” He shouts, waving his lanyard in the air and gesturing at the door, “The stupid thing won’t let me in!”

The heroine sighs, ear twitching as a car drives honks a few blocks away. “Hawks, they revoked your access to the holding cells.”

Keigo rolls his eyes, shoving the card back in his uniform pocket since it obviously wouldn’t get him anywhere, “I figured, but this is the main door. I thought-”

“-that you’d be able to convince someone inside to let you in? Yeah, so did they.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, “Why would they tell you? We’re friends.”

Rumi huffs and walks past him, “Yeah, well I’m also a hero who knows which villains belong behind bars and which belong in a coffin.”

Keigo shoves himself through the door when she buzzes in successfully, holding a hand out to the guard when he moves to stop him- “Keigo, I’m only letting you in while supervised. I know you wouldn’t-“

She eyes the guard and shuts the door behind them, “I know you wouldn’t try to pull anything- but you lost their trust at the bar. You might not have tried to help him escape but your lack of action was just as loud.”

“If they had listened to me-“ He sighs, nodding, “I understand. Thanks, Rumi.”

She ruffles his hair, nudging his arm with her much larger one, “You get 10 minutes, lover boy. I’ll wipe the tape so make sure he’s back when you’re done. No sex and no escape plans.” She winks at him, scanning several of her fingers on a pad, she slaps his ass and shoves him in when the door opens.

He barely catches himself on the 2-way mirror in front of him. It’s dim in the interrogation room, and the empty shackles attached to the table make his gut swirl with guilt.

He grabs the key she had shoved in his back pocket and twists in the door hastily. 

The creaking noise alerts the occupant and Keigo steps through just in time to meet the man’s icy blue eyes. 

An unidentifiable emotion flashes across Dabi’s face, his cheek staples tugging at his skin. 

“You shouldn’t be here, birdy.”

Keigo’s eyes burn, and he rushes forward to his boyfriend, practically throwing himself at the man as he sits up on his cot. 

The quirk suppressors on his wrists dig into Keigo’s ribcage when Dabi hugs him, but the proximity is worth it. 

“Baby, you can’t-”

“Rumi let me in. She’ll take care of it.” Keigo sighs into the man’s neck, “Dabi I’m so, so, so sorry. You weren’t supposed to be there- they told me they were going to the lab and I thought you were safe.” 

Reassured, Dabi buries his face into Keigo’s body, inhaling deeply, “You know I don’t blame you. You did everything you could-”

“I did nothing!” Keigo pulls back, tears threatening to spill, “I did nothing and they took you and injured Toga, I don’t even know if she’s alive-!”

Dabi shushes him, running his fingers through Keigo’s unruly hair, “You almost got yourself killed buying us time, but there’s nothing more you could’ve done. I’m not asking you to endanger yourself by covering for my ass.”

“You would’ve done the same for me… I just wish we could’ve gone through with our plan before it happened. We were so close to getting you and her out of there.” Keigo sniffs, gripping Dabi’s prisoner jumpsuit like a lifeline. It smells like blood and disinfectant, like his own hero uniform.

“Birdy, you needed that out just as much as we did. We’ll find another chance.” Dabi frowns, white hair shifting over his eyes, “I fucked up too. Should’ve fought back.”

Keigo shakes his head, “You thought they had her, you didn’t know. I know you wouldn’t have left without her. 

They sit quietly for a moment, breathing deeply in the silence, “I’m going to come back for you. Don’t give up on me, ‘kay?” Keigo smiles up at Dabi, resting his hands on the man’s face. 

Dabi leans forward and presses a longing kiss to his lips, answering the promise. 

“You never let me down, pretty bird.”

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter VII: Burn Them All To The Ground

THIRTEEN HOURS AGO

The air was thick with shadows, exactly as Rhysand preferred.

He soaked up the darkness, swirling along the narrow space of the corridor, and let it swallow him fully—let its gentle tendrils wrap around his body, calm and soothing. A moment of peace in a life of turmoil.

Rhysand hated the Capitol.

He didn’t care much for the landscape—it had stopped bothering him about five years in, ridiculous and pretentious as it was. In some way, he’d even become part of it—blended into the glittery crowd, into their pompous lifestyles and, as he’d recently found, their expensive tastes. At times, he loathed himself for it—and today was one of those days. He loathed his extravagant suit, made of the finest, black velvet and perfectly tailored to his measurements. He loathed his hair, carefully combed and gelled back instead of ruffled over his forehead in soft waves. He even loathed his posture, the way he walked—as if he owned the fucking place when, in reality, he was nothing but a cockroach quivering under the Capitol’s golden boot.

But what he truly loathed—what he completely, wholeheartedly despised—were the people.

He was in the sponsors lounge when the neck of the boy from District Three—Thesan—snapped with a loud crack. The Capitol woman sitting beside him covered her mouth at the sound, her gasp rippling through the room. The other women followed suit, and soon, every hand, adorned with heavy, golden rings, was laid over their hearts, mouths, anywhere to display their shock. But Rhysand didn’t miss it—didn’t miss the slight curve of their lips, the twinkle of delight in their eyes as the boy dropped to the ground.

He’d spent the entire night in his bathroom after that, retching his guts out and into the shiny, porcelain bowl.

They loved it—the same way they loved him, bloodied and nearly starved to death, exactly ten years ago. The boy he killed was the same age as Thesan, then, only two years older than him at the time. And he would’ve bet all his money that when that boy fell under his sword with a heavy thud, the Capitol cheered all the same.

He’d nearly reached the corridor’s end when he heard it—the barest sound of footsteps over the stone, almost impossible to make out in the darkness despite the silence that filled it. But he had been doing this long enough to notice—to recognise who they belonged to.

And so, Rhysand stopped, and the sound died out immediately, stopping a safe distance behind him.

He made himself count to three before he turned.

“I don’t have much time,” he said.

The response came with cool indifference. “Neither do I.”

“Make it quick, then,” he urged.

He could almost feel the darkness narrow its eyes on him. “You forget yourself, Rhysand.”

“I am simply trying to do my job.”

A low hum. “Perhaps you should try harder.”

Asshole. “I would, if you would stop getting in my way,” Rhysand said.

The shadowed figure stared at him, its disdain almost palpable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rhysand scoffed. “Have you seen that fire? Who the fuck thought it was a good idea?”

His companion merely shrugged, the small movement betraying that a person hid in those shadows, watching. Waiting.

After a moment of silence, Rhysand asked, “Will it happen again?”

The man snorted, a sound that sent his blood boiling every single time they met. “I’m afraid that information is outside of your pay grade, Rhysand.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he snarled. Today was not the time for bickering.

“Believe it or not,” the man said, “but I, too, have rules that I need to follow. There are too many prying eyes in the Gamemaker’s room, and I’d very much like to avoid their attention.” A brief pause. “I’m sure that, in my particular position, you’d do the same.”

At that, Rhysand said nothing.

The man continued, “Besides. She survived the fire without a scratch, so I’m not exactly sure what your concern is.”

Rhysand’s fists tightened. “She has bruises,” he gritted out. He’d seen them—splattered all over her swollen ankle in a spectrum of purple, blue, and a sickly shade of green that somehow made him hate the Capitol even more.

Another shrug that sent his vision flashing red. “So what? It’s not like she broke her leg. That would be an issue. Grow some guts, Rhysand. Your own arena, from what I remember, was much worse.”

Rhysand’s entire body went rigid, the comment like a cold splash of water. “I don’t want to talk about my Games,” he said through a tight throat.

“No,” the man mused. “I’m sure you don’t.”

Rhysand surveyed him, the tall silhouette standing no more than two feet before him. His voice was cold as he challenged, “Excuse me?”

“Your temperament hasn’t changed, it seems,” he hedged, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “I’m merely saying that for all that hate you’ve got for the Hunger Games, you sure seem to be enjoying your…ah…victor privileges.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched. “Privileges? Are you hearing yourself right now?”

A hand motioned towards him, towards the silver-lined suit draped over his body. “Am I wrong?” he asked.

“Do you honestly think I want any of this?”

The man angled his head. “You signed up for it, did you not?”

Rhysand bristled, “I did—but I did not do it for what you so inaccurately describe as privileges.”

“Who did you do it for, then?” he asked, and Rhysand went still.

Who, not what. He doubted it was a mistake.

Rhysand knew exactly why he’d agreed to this all those years ago—knew exactly who he’d done it for, but it’s been so long, and sometimes…sometimes it was difficult to hold on. Sometimes, he wanted to give up.

And this question…it was a reminder—a reminder that it wasn’t time to give up just yet.

So, when Rhysand said nothing, the man continued, “What is she doing now?”

“Sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

Rhysand said, “They didn’t exactly leave her much choice, now, did they.” Not a question—he wanted to be done with this conversation, and this man was not superior in position enough for him to keep caring about formalities.

With a roll of his eyes, the shadow asked, “Is she still in that cave?”

Rhysand nodded. “Yes. She hasn’t come out since the fire started.”

“This isn’t good,” the other noted with a click of his tongue. “It’ll be the first place they search once the fire fully dies out—it’s already gone in the north of the arena. If she had some brains, she’d get out of there the second the flames subdued,” he added.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rhysand snapped.

He could practically hear his eyebrows perk up. “And I suppose you do?”

“Yes, I do,” he told him stiffly. “You don’t know what it’s like out there.”

A small chuckle. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about your Games.”

“I will if it makes you stop talking shit. She’d barely had any water over the summer day, and she’s dangerously dehydrated.” He tried not to think about that right now. So Rhysand continued, “Not to mention, she hasn’t had anything to eat since that pathetic squirrel she’d caught earlier. You can’t think straight in such conditions—the only thing you can think about is finding wherever seems safest at the moment. Right now, it’s that cave. She’s doing everything she can to survive.”

Silence fell, and Rhysand could only interpret it as the man shooting him a long look. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown to care for the girl.”

“I’m just trying to do my job,” Rhysand repeated.

“Fine,” he agreed with a sigh. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

Rhysand blew out a breath—at last, they were moving on to the point of this meeting.“They’re betting on who’s going to die next.,” he told him.

“And?”

“Ressina,” he said, something tightening in his chest. “The girl from Eleven.” Her only friend.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Rhysand frowned. “Why is that?”

“Come now, Rhysand,” he drawled. “You and I both know you’re much smarter than this. They want to get rid of her, obviously.”

He knew—of course he knew, though that didn’t mean he didn’t want to be proven wrong. Unfortunately, the girl had signed her own death sentence the day of her interview at the Capitol, the day she’d proclaimed its mistreatment of the poorer Districts.

Rhysand’s face had been made of stone as he watched it, sitting far back in the audience. He didn’t let them see the pride in his eyes—didn’t let them hear his heart cheering at her words.

“Who, exactly?” he asked through clenched teeth.

The man’s voice was solemn. “You know who.”

He was afraid of that, Rhysand thought, his lips forming a thin line. “This isn’t good,” he said.

“No, it isn’t.” The darkness heaved with his sigh. “Anything else?”

“The boy from Twelve is the favourite. Tamlin,” Rhysand tried not to grimace as he spoke his name.

“I’ve heard.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” he told him. “From my observations, it seems that even the Gamemakers feel inclined to be more…lenient towards him.”

“How so?” Rhysand asked.

“Let’s just say he…miraculously avoided most of the fire.”

Then bring it back, he wanted to say, thought the ridiculousness of the thought stopped him.“This isn’t fair,” he argued instead.

“Nothing about this is fair, Rhysand,” the shadow told him. “Tell me what else the sponsors said.”

He bit on the inside of his cheek. “Most of them still talk about his love confession from the interviews. They’d even invited Spell-Cleaver to join them in the lounge tomorrow.”

Something shone in the darkness at that—like a pair of eyes sparkling with surprise. “Did they now.”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“You’ll know what to do, then.”

Rhysand nodded again. “I will.”

“Be careful,” the man advised, and Rhysand tried not to laugh. He’d been nothing but careful for the past decade.

“I always am,” he told him anyway.

“Anything else?”

Rhysand considered. “Two of them have sent him food so far—Tamlin. Since he’d saved her from the Careers. Another sponsor was talking about sending medicine, even though he doesn’t appear to be injured.”

“You’re telling me they liked the double spy act?”

Rhysand shrugged. “Apparently so.”

The man hummed. “Is he still with them?”

He shook his head. “He got away after Briallyn died in the fire.”

“The girl from One?”

“Yes.”

“Thank fuck.”

Against his better judgement, Rhysand’s lips twitched. “You shouldn’t say that,” he told him.

A scoff. “Please. You and I both know she was dead meat, anyway. If it was down to her and Feyre, which one would you choose?”

Rhysand said nothing—as if the answer wasn’t obvious. If it came to it, he thought—if, by some cruel fate, Briallyn’s sword had been pointed at Feyre’s neck and about to strike, he’d force his way onto the arena and make the girl rip her own throat out—and delight in the massacre.

He blinked at that thought, at the murderous intent behind it, one he hadn’t felt in years—since his very own Games, to be exact. His shoulders rolled back, and he made himself take a breath.

Feyre Archeron was the mission—that was why, for the briefest of seconds, his restraint had snapped. She was meant to be their salvation—she was meant to be their hope.

“That’s what I thought,” the man’s voice reached him, as if he had somehow managed to hear the thoughts in Rhysand’s head. “Now, onto the more important things since we’re running out of time. What are they saying about her?” he asked.

Rhysand’s eyes lifted back to the shadow. “Not much. She hasn’t had any direct confrontations since the Games began, save for the one with Ressina yesterday.”

“Ah, yes,” the darkness mused. “That one was…problematic.”

Rhysand knew. He could still hear Feyre’s voice in his head, her words little distorted through the holo transmission, though their meaning clear as day.

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. What could they do if we all stood our ground?

“How bad?” Rhysand asked calmly, even if he wanted to scream.

“Bad,” the man answered. “The Star of the Capitol is dimming fast, and it seems like everything she does ends up working against her favour. Which is exactly why I called for this meeting with you. I need you to act—and fast.”

There was no hesitation in his tone as he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

“What you were meant to do from the beginning.”

“And you?” Rhysand crossed his arms. “What can you do?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” came the response. “I have very little control over this matter. Last I heard, they want us to draw her out. They’re frustrated that she’s managed to stay hidden so well.”

His heart stopped for a moment. “Draw her out…how?”

“Again, I can’t share this information.”

“I swear to—”

“Rhysand,” the man pressed. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine. Call your sponsors, do whatever it is you do that makes them spend their money with their dicks perked up. Keep her alive.”

He could all but stare into the darkness. “I will.”

***

The snow was fucking everywhere.

A labyrinth of snow and ice—that’s what the forest had become. In less than twelve hours, the Gamemakers had somehow managed to create her worst nightmare.

Back home, the winters were unbearable—but at least they were home. Here, she was navigating a space where everything had been designed to kill her, and the frost building up at the tips of her shoes was not helpful whatsoever.

Sure, the forest was beautiful. The snow-capped trees glistened in the sunlight, and the wintry breeze was as refreshing as it was cold. That didn’t change the fact that Feyre was in hell.

There was absolutely no chance she could find food—any food—out here. The squirrel was long gone, and the soup…

Feyre stopped in her tracks, sinking an inch deeper into the snow. The soup.

Last night, Rhysand saved her life.

There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that the package had come from him—the encrypted message had told her as much. Just as he’d told her before she entered the games, she only had to pray to the stars—and salvation would arrive.

For some strange reason, the man she’d almost killed had taken it upon himself to save her life, and Feyre could not wrap her head around it. Was it the fact that they’d both come from the same District? She’d never seen him in Twelve—if she had, she would definitely remember. It was hard to forget a face like that.

She shook her head. Fine, they shared a background—why would that be enough reason to save her? Perhaps he used to know Nesta, or Elain—they were closer in age. But, no—Feyre remembered the night he’d won his Games. Even though she hadn’t watched them herself, her sisters did—and she’d never once heard them mention him by name. “The boy from our District,” they’d only ever called him. They were never friends, then.

Perhaps he’d bet money on her, then? Alis did tell her he had plenty—a fortune he’d amassed as a Capitol favourite, whatever that meant. Still, Feyre doubted the possibility—after all, there were plenty of Tributes with chances higher than her own. If she had the money, she would’ve bet on someone like Brannagh. It only took one look at the girl to know she would rip her throat out with her bare teeth if given the chance. At times, Feyre wondered if she’d prefer it—to feel the metallic tinge of blood on her own tongue instead of a blade.

Feyre flinched. Brannagh was still alive, and with each passing day, Feyre grew more restless. The Careers were quickly making their way through the group, with almost every murder committed by their hand. The cannon had already gone off once this morning—mercifully, somewhere far away from her, its loud boom only echoing through the trees. Feyre wondered whose death it announced. Wondered if her death was coming next.

Had it not been for Tamlin, she would’ve been dead already. He saw her—their eyes had locked then, and he could’ve betrayed her with ease. He could’ve broken the promise he’d made her all those days ago, and Feyre wouldn’t have blamed him. In the end, they were all there to survive—and in the Hunger Games, the survival of one Tribute meant the death of twenty-three others. And yet…and yet Tamlin had chosen to spare her.

Feyre’s mind was racing. Had Tamlin truly…loved her, then? The idea had always seemed impossible—she had nothing to offer in return.

Loving Feyre had always been a means to an end. Back home, in Twelve, the black market merchants would show her kindness, and she’d bring the skins of her prey in return. In Twelve, Isaac would go out to accompany her in the forest, and she’d take his mind off the things he wished to forget. Back home, she’d bring food back home, and Nesta would smile tightly as she laid it on the kitchen table. Back home, Elain would draw her a bath, and Feyre would take her place in the Hunger Games.

Maybe…maybe love could be different. Maybe Tamlin would save her life, and Feyre would get to live it. Maybe he could love her, and she could love him back, and that would be it.

If things had been different…if things had been different, then perhaps she could love him—freely and openly, a love based on nothing but their happiness.

But these were the Hunger Games, and it meant that at least one of them was bound to die.

For some reason, the thought filled Feyre’s heart with sadness. Her one, true chance at love—and the Capitol had taken it from her, too.

Finally, she realised she’d been standing ankle-deep in snow for the past few minutes, completely still and consumed by her own thoughts. Her cheeks heated at that, and she truly hoped the camera had not been on her throughout this whole time. She must’ve looked ridiculous, and not in a funny way that the sponsors would’ve found entertaining. What if Rhysand was watching her right now? Was he wondering what went on inside her head?

Feyre sighed, and started moving again. She’d allowed herself to lose awareness, and anyone could’ve killed her with little difficulty then. She’d always experienced a similar trance when she painted—a state where there was nothing but her and her own mind, running at an impossible speed yet somehow making perfect sense as it reached its final destination.

That was what Feyre needed, she realised—an end goal. And with only ten of them left, she needed to act quickly.

She promised her sisters she would try to survive, just like she promised Ressina to never lose hope. If Tamlin thought she was worth saving…then perhaps Feyre could believe it as well.

Brannagh was out there somewhere—her and her cronies, smiling as they plotted her death. For the first time, the thought didn’t freeze her veins with fear—no, it poured fire inside them, hot and raging with fury.

Feyre made the decision then.

She wouldn’t let the Careers find her—she would get to them first.

***

The sun had already begun to set when Feyre finished installing her last trap.

Her palm stung again, and she hissed, licking off the excess blood. She cringed at its taste, like warm steel in her mouth.

Still, the pain had been necessary, and Feyre had too many scars over her body to weep over one more. If she survived this place, she’d look at it as a reminder of Ressina’s words—a reminder that hope was not a thing to be afraid of.

By her careful design, her blood now stained the fresh snow, sinking into the plush, white path that led straight to her hideout in the trees. She’d set up traps like this one all over the area, hoping someone would take the bait before she bled out completely. After hours of meticulous work, she was starting to feel a little lightheaded.

If, by some miracle, one of the Careers caught on to her bloodied trail, they’d inevitably step over a ditch she’d found and carefully covered with dried-out branches and snow. A hole in the ground, large enough to immobilise a person, appearing in the middle of a wintry forest seemed almost too convenient—but Feyre was in no position to complain. If the Gamemakers had deemed her plan amusing enough to entertain, the least she could do is make use of their help and hope there was no ulterior motive to it.

She’d been working physically for so long that the cold air no longer seemed to bother her. Or, perhaps, it was adrenaline rushing through her veins, a mixture of panic and excitement putting every last one of her nerves on alert.

Feyre reached into her pocket and pulled out the scrap of dark, stretchy fabric—another piece of her jacket she’d cut out now that her body was rising with heat—and wrapped it around the cut. She’d managed to tie a makeshift knot with the help of her teeth when the forest rippled with a scream.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating as she realised it came from where she’d set up her trap.

What have I done?

Ressina screamed again, and Feyre launched for the sound, her feet moving faster than she could think. Her vision blurred out slightly, the evening breeze like sharp little needles prickling at her eyes, but Feyre didn’t stop running, only cussing out the thick roots that peered from under the snow as she continued to trip over them.

When Ressina’s third cry echoed through the trees, Feyre’s eyes filled with heavy, salty tears. How badly was she injured?

At last, she reached the clearing.

“Ressina?!” Feyre called, desperation closing up her throat.

“FEYRE!”

The sound came from the hole.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Ressina!” Feyre shouted, already moving toward the trap. “Ressina, please, I’ll get you out of here.”

“Nice…ah, shit…” the woman swore weakly, her hand peering up from over the edge. “Nice trap.”

Tears dripped down Feyre’s face as she said, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I thought the Careers—”

“Don’t” came the reply. “Don’t apologise, you did what you had to do. If I found this hole first, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“Let me help you out,” Feyre reached out a hand.

“Feyre,” Ressina said quietly, “I don’t think you should.”

“What?” She was being ridiculous. “Did you hit your head? Of course I’ll help you. It’s my fault you’re in here, it’s my fault that—”

“Feyre,” the sound was but a breath on her lips. “I think I broke my leg.”

Feyre’s heart stopped beating.

Slowly, she leaned over the edge, tossing the scattered branches aside. A small sob escaped her at what she found at the bottom.

Ressina’s leg was twisted so badly that Feyre felt the burning taste of bile rising up her throat. Down from her knee, the leg jerked to the side in a position so unnatural and disturbing it seemed almost impossible for the human body to be capable of. Sitting in a pool of blood was Ressina—pale and her face contorted in anguish, her chest heaving quickly, each breath more and more wheezing.

“Ressina,” Feyre choked out.

“Feyre,” her friend told her. “You’re gonna have to kill me.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “What?”

“There is no way I’m going to survive this.”

No, no, no.

“No,” Feyre repeated. “No, we’ll get you out of here, and then—and then we’ll get bandages, medicine—”

A small chuckle, immediately followed with a pained hiss. “Feyre, I guarantee there isn’t a single sponsor in the Capitol that’s going to want to help me.”

Feyre shook her head, leaning further over the hole’s edge. “No, that’s not true, there’s a way—we’ll send a wish to the stars, you’ll see—“

Ressina looked at her as though Feyre had gone mad. “Did you hit your head on the way here?”

“Ressina, please,” Feyre said. “Just take my hand.”

She swallowed hard, hesitating.

“You told me not to lose hope,” Feyre begged again.

Ressina sucked in a breath. “Alright. Alright, I’ll…I’ll move slowly.”

“Thank you,” Feyre whispered. “Thank you.”

A small smile tugged at Ressina’s lips. “You’re a strange one, Feyre Archeron.”

“Just give me your hand.”

Ressina did, and gently, Feyre pulled.

Ressina’s scream was nearly primal—like a wounded animal, left for death in the woods, stirring in its own blood until its time came. She screamed and screamed until her throat was hoarse���but, against all odds, half of Ressina’s body was now up and over the ground.

“Just a few seconds more,” Feyre grunted. “We’re gonna lay you on your stomach, okay?”

Ressina’s lip was bleeding under the force of her teeth, but she nodded.

“Now, what do we have here?” a shrill voice drawled behind her.

Feyre’s head whipped towards the sound, and she fully stopped breathing.

She knew that face—knew the light, blonde hair, the pale blue eyes, the pink lips that twisted cruelly as she sliced the girl from Four’s neck.

She did not dare to rise to her feet as Ianthe met her gaze and smiled. “The Star of the Capitol herself,” she mused, her bow—the same bow Feyre risked her life for at the Cornucopia—drawn in her direction. “I am so glad I beat Brannagh to it.”

She looked behind Feyre, and her grin widened. “Two birds in one stone? Looks like I got lucky,” she said, that infuriating satisfaction shining in her tone. Her eyes settled on Ressina’s battered leg, and the corners of her mouth pulled down in feigned sympathy. “That looks painful, Res. Let me put you out of your misery.”

“Fuck off,” Ressina spat.

Ianthe shrugged, her arrow still pointed at Feyre’s face. “Don’t take it personally,” she told them. “Only the best of us can win this thing. Clearly, it’s neither of the two of you, so really, if you think about it, I’m doing you a favour.”

Ressina snarled, and those cold, blue eyes shifted toward the sound.

Feyre would not waste this opportunity.

In one, swift motion, she pulled the knife out of her belt, her grip tight around the hilt.

Ianthe’s gaze darted back to her, but it was too late—the knife had already flown across the air, released with Feyre’s breath—just like Ressina had taught her.

It delved into her chest, deep into her heart, a second before Ianthe’s arrow flew inches past Feyre’s head.

The girl dropped to her knees with a choked cry, her eyes wide with shock.

Feyre’s hands began to shake as she watched her drop the bow and fall to the ground.

Ianthe missed. She missed, and now she was dead.

I killed her, a voice, cold and unfamiliar, spoke inside her mind, the words hitting something low in her gut. I just killed someone.

Feyre released a trembling breath. It was done. They were safe.

“Feyre…” another voice, so quiet and small, groaned behind her.

Feyre turned, and the world stopped.

Ianthe’s arrow pierced straight through Ressina’s chest.

“No,” Feyre said, her head numb and so, so empty. “No, no no.”

“It’s okay,” Ressina breathed. “It was a good throw. You know…how to handle your daggers, you…you must’ve had an amazing teacher.”

Feyre’s entire body shuddered. “Ressina,” she said, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

Silver lined her friend’s own, brown eyes as she told her, “It’s okay. Can you…” she wheezed again, a sharp breath through gritted teeth. “Feyre. Help me lie down.”

Slowly, Feyre’s arms wrapped over her body, gently pulling Ressina over her lap. “Please,” she cried, her hands closing over Ressina’s head, caressing her hair softly.

“It doesn’t…” Ressina coughed, and to Feyre’s horror, twin streams of blood dripped out of the corners of her mouth. “It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.”

“Ressina, please, you need to save your strength,” Feyre begged again, but Ressina was still staring at her, still with that sparkle of mischief, now dimming witch each passing second.

Her friend shook her head just barely, and something cracked in Feyre’s chest. “It’s too late,” she told her. “Feyre. You need to promise me something.”

Feyre took her hand and didn’t let go. “Anything,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Anything.”

Ressina coughed again, more blood spilling down her beautiful face. “Promise me,” she choked, and squeezed her hand lightly. “Promise me you’ll kill them all.”

Feyre laid her head on Ressina’s as she wept, “I promise.”

Ressina’s chest stopped moving.

The cannon exploded above them, and then…and then her friend was dead.

***

Feyre buried Ressina under the stars.

She used mud—the greenest mud she could find under the snow—and painted flowers over her hands, her neck, her face, until every inch of Ressina’s cold skin was covered with things that, wherever she had gone, would remind her of home.

Somewhere out there, District Eleven mourned for their fallen Tribute. Feyre could only hope they would see this—would see their daughter’s, their sister’s, their friend’s final goodbye.

Feyre rose to her feet and took one, last look at the body sleeping in the melting snow.

Promise me you’ll kill them all, Ressina told her.

Feyre wouldn’t just kill the Careers. She wouldn’t simply win the Games.

She would burn the entire Capitol to the ground.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @cascadingmoon @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur

[tsaritza-mika]

Unpopular Opinion #3

Okay...so this might ruffle some feathers, but I still really feel it needs to be said. As always, if you don’t like what I have to say, just keep scrolling. I am a full believer in curating your own internet experience, and if you find yourself upset about a random opinion, please just leave and find something that makes you happy. You deserve it, and I promise that you will never hear me advocate otherwise.

Now then... Let’s talk a bit about our favorite mountain man. Shall we?

I see a lot of posts, especially as of late, that really go hard on the way Muriel’s route dealt with his various issues. Now, yes, Muriel is not one of my top LIs, he’s jut not the personality type that really gels with me, but I love him as much as I do all six of them for different reasons. I also acknowledge that his route isn’t perfect, but I honestly don’t think it’s nearly as bad as other people automatically jump to. Muriel has a metric fucking ton of issues, which include severe lack of self esteem, trauma that links to both those self esteem issues and his time in Vesuvia’s arena, depression, and some fun little sprinklings of Nihilism just for extra flavor. And all of that is just from a pure amateur observation. I’m not a psychologist, nor will I ever claim to be, but from the little bit that I know from former college classes and being friends with people who have experienced trauma from various forms of abuse, Muriel has all of these issues, and likely more that I’m not immediately familiar with.

A good amount of people in the fandom seem to believe that a better way for Muriel’s route to go would have had him ending up being more forceful in standing up to Lucio, really digging into him for the harm that he caused and is still causing, and more of coming out of his shell than he did. Now, while that would be a more dramatic take, you’ve gotta keep something important in mind: give or take a few years, Muriel has been dealing with most of these issues since he was at least around 6-8 years old. If we assume he’s maybe somewhere along the lines of 26-28, that’s twenty years of issues in an increasingly hostile situation. A single year alone of that much negativity is likely to leave some pretty impressive mental scars, let alone the possibility of twenty or more.

People who experience trauma will process and react to it differently, this is true, but to say that it’s OOC to have Muriel just be only a little more talkative and at ease with others outside of MC and Asra, strikes me as those who aren’t very familiar with how trauma can actually work. The entire ‘stick it to them’ fantasy seems great and totally cathartic in theory, but when victims of abuse and trauma actually have that chance, more often than not, I’ve only ever known them to prefer not wanting to be anywhere near their tormentors. Muriel actually being comfortable with himself, speaking up more, but still very much wanting his distance from everyone is a HUGE step in his healing process, and I honestly don’t think people give him enough credit for that. 

Muriel has been exploited and manipulated, verbally and likely physically abused, and all of that we could apply to JUST the time he was known in Vesuvia under the mantle of ‘The Scourge of The South’. We see in the Travel at Night tale that he already dealt with excess stress and fear from traveling through a war-zone at a very young age, where he says he even distinctly remembers hearing Lucio enjoying himself as he killed others. He’s already terrified by roughly age 12 when Lucio picks him out of the other street kids. He’s very aware that Lucio would enjoy hunting and killing him, and for a child to be aware of this, that alone is gonna fuck him up somethin’ fierce for a long time. Hell, when Lucio points him out from the other kids, he’s so afraid of him and what he knows Lucio is capable of, that his arms and legs go numb, and he can’t move. And later when he’s talking to Asra, if chosen, the response he gives Asra when asked about what he would do with magic is to make himself invisible, the very thing he’d wanted since the start of that tale. He wanted to be left alone, not deal with those kids who wanted to hurt others and steal, or be noticed by Lucio.

Muriel even straight up tells MC and Julian when they visit him in the forest during Julian’s route that he asked to have the gift of being forgotten. If he was forgotten as soon as he left someone’s sight, he wouldn’t be exploited anymore, and he wouldn’t be forced to take lives in exchange for keeping his most precious person safe anymore. To Muriel, deeply set in his traumatized and self loathing state, it was the perfect solution. Being forgotten meant that he wouldn’t take up space, that no one would force him to hurt or scare others just to exist, and that Asra, the only person who had ever told him he was worth it and more, wouldn’t be taken from him. 

You don’t just magically get better when your tormentor is gone or gets what they deserve, and confronting your abuser is not always going to be the right answer that puts you on the road to healing those mental scars. Muriel is far from cured of his issues by the end of his route. If anything, the end of his route is just the start of his even longer road to recovery and being able to fully enjoy and embrace life without fear that he’s taking up space and isn’t wanted. He’s just gotten better about it all. People who experience trauma can take years to even begin to feel comfortable in their own skin, but Muriel learning that he has value, that others value him and want him around without asking for anything in return, and to learn that others will sacrifice for you because they want your happiness instead of some leverage on something you can do for them; there is just so much beauty in the subtlety of that, and I honestly don’t think it gets the attention it rightfully deserves.

[afoolandathief]

Happy STS! I might be bearing my own secrets a little here, but oh well! Your characters are playing a dating game, which archetype are they going for? (ie: the arrogant one, the cold one, the childhood friend, the older man, the shy one, the flirt, etc)

"Old man."

"What?"

Caz looked down at Jade. He was leaning over her and her laptop as she moved the cursor over the dating sim's options.

"I said, I wanna try and bag the silver fox," he went on.

Jade raised an eyebrow at him.

"Is this, like, you relating to someone your actual age?"

"Oh, that's hilarious, Shaw. Look at me, I'm splitting my sides laughing," Caz said drily. "Now, would you just click on him?"

Jade moved her mouse over the cartoon, gray-haired man. A dialogue option came up as the man sneered from her laptop screen.

"Ooh, he's mean too?" Caz leaned far too close to Jade. "Ya know, I don't usually go for guys like him."

"That's what I thought," Jade said. She leaned back in her chair, relieving herself of being in direct line with a vampire's breath. "So, why did you pick him, then?"

Caz leaned over the laptop, using the keyboard arrows to select a line of dialogue.

"Well, I mean, I usually like guys I could break in half," he said. "Sort of the opposite with women. But he was the only option that seemed — I don't know, stern? I always like someone who doesn't take any shit."

He swore in Romanian and stabbed at the keyboard.

"Câcat, how do I pick this thing?"

"Enter key," Jade said. She leaned over the keyboard and showed him.

"Thanks, Shaw," Caz said. "Hey, you've played this before, right? Who'd you pick?"

"It's not important," Jade said.

"Oh, well, if it's not important."

He moved the cursor across the computer screen. Jade shot forward as the phrase "Are you sure you want to quit?" blazed in front of her in bright red letters.

"What are you doing?"

"You can find old versions of the game under 'Saved,' right?"

"Oh, now you're suddenly an expert on P.C. games?"

Jade went for the mouse, but Caz was faster. She tried to think of a spell that interrupted Bluetooth signals, but it was too late. The screen loaded a scene at a nightclub featuring a pale, dark-haired man in a ruffled shirt. One earring dangled from his ear as the animation moved his fanged mouth open and closed. A line of dialogue about only going out at night appeared.

"Holy shit," Caz breathed.

He stumbled back from the laptop with his hands clasped over his mouth. He breathed. He giggled. Then he burst into obnoxious, high-pitched laughter.

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ," he gasped.

"Shut up!"

"Does Violet know about this?"

"I played this before I dated Violet," Jade said, shutting the laptop screen just as the cartoon man lifted his red-filled wine glass. "Not that it matters. It's just a game."

"Yeah, sorry, but," Caz took a breath and wiped his eyes. "It's just funny whenever someone has a thing for vampires. Like, come on, Shaw. You know we're objectively terrible to date."

Jade cradled her head in her hands.

"It wasn't about him being a vampire," she said.

Caz leaned back against her kitchen table. Her cats had wandered over and were sniffing him curiously.

"Oh?" he asked.

"Look, he was the only option that seemed — a little fruity, okay?" Jade said. "I just prefer guys who are also queer. You know how it's easier, sometimes, when someone else is bi?"

"Trust me, Shaw, I'm well aware of that," Caz said.

He opened the laptop and stared at the screen.

"Yeah, I've definitely gone home with that guy," he said.

He shut the laptop and backed away from the table.

"Well, this has been — weird," he said. "I'll, uh, see you when I have to kill someone again, I guess."

"Wait, I thought you wanted to play this?" Jade asked.

"Yeah, that type AB I had earlier isn't sitting right," he said, patting his stomach. "Trust me, it's not gonna be pretty."

He nearly tripped over Ada and Lovelace as he grabbed his hat and jacket.

"Do you need a ride?" Jade asked.

"Nah, I'll just grow wings and fly," Caz said. "Or just — run really fast. Yeah. Used to do that all the time. Before cameras, but — yeah, it'll be fine."

The entire trailer shook as he slammed the door behind him.

~

Caz fell through the door of his apartment. He loosened his collar and took another deep breath. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.

"It's fine," he said, taking his phone out to send a text. "I'll be fine. Just need to get this out of my system."

"We really need to stop meeting like this."

Caz whirled around to find the tiny Norse god he'd run into at the bar standing in his living room.

"How'd you get here so fast?"

"I ripped a hole in time and space, dear," Loki flipped a frizzy strand of red hair out of their face and flashed that oddly scarred smile. "Now, what's the matter?"

Caz reached in his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

"Just needed some meaningless sex, is all."

Loki clasped their chest dramatically.

"My dear, sweet draugr, I have a wives and family!"

"Vampire, not a draugr," Caz said. "And you're polyamorous."

"Yes, but you're not," Loki said. They strolled up to his kitchen counter and swiped one of the glasses. "We both know you're far too possessive to keep dating a married god. Now, what's actually wrong?"

Caz took a long swallow of vodka.

"I just got this image in my head of my best friend and work associate pegging me," he said. "And it all started because we tried playing this computer game. One where you have to pick someone to date."

"What were the options?" Loki asked.

Caz told them. Loki tapped a set of painted nails to their chin.

"Well, that's an obvious choice," they said. "Old man, of course."

[hazbincalifornia]

Grand Entrance

Chapter 66: The baby makes her way into the world.

Warnings: Childbirth. But if you're here, you probably knew that.

Ao3 link

Loona’s ears twitched as she scouted the space, looking for something comfortable to set Blitzo down on. For his part, Blitzo was digging his claws into the (softer and sweatier than usual) flesh of his own upper arms, gritting his teeth.

“Son of a bitch.”

“That’s what she said,” Loona muttered, almost automatically, and he blinked up at her before snickering and raising a hand to ruffle her ear. She made a rumbling growl low in her chest, but didn't smack him away, so he counted it as a success.

“That’s my g-FUCK!” Fire snapped at his stomach- not quite inside and not quite outside, like his skin was melting into him, green-hot but the color of bleached bone inside his eyelids when he blinked for half a second too long. Loona’s arms shook as he curled in on himself, and he could hear her whine even though she tried hard to shove it back down the second it rippled up. “It’s- it’s okay, Loonie, Daddy’ll be okay-”

“Yeah, well, if- if you die, Stolas might kick me out of the apartment. I’ve got that on the line.”

He could see her ears laying flatter, and he swallowed as his tail wound around her waist in an attempt to stabilize himself, familiar fur a comfort blanket against the skin. One arm wrapped around her back, and she didn’t drop him, allowing the half-hug.

“Daddy’ll be fine, sweetie… I promise.” If it was a promise, he couldn’t break it. Right? He couldn’t lie to his first baby.

Millie finished tying up Striker, clapping her hands before turning to Blitzo.

“So, what was he even doing, Blitz?”

“Trying to kill Stolas and the baby, and unfortunately, I come in a two-for-one deal with that,” he replied. Millie’s face screwed up, smacking Striker with her tail’s spade with a crack for good measure as Blitzo continued. “And if I’m right about who hired him to pop us off, then we’ve all got bigger problems than a gaping asshole of a cowboy.”

“Like what?”

“Stolas’s bitch of a w-” The word cut off like a slit throat as a groan rumbled from his throat when another contraction ripped through him. Satan’s taint, he heard it was supposed to hurt but not like this. (He was also pretty sure they weren’t supposed to be that close together already... although time was starting to get a little fuzzy.)

Loona laid him down on the couch just as the door flew open so hard it nearly tore off its hinges and destroyed the ‘home sweet wrath’ wall decoration hanging behind it. Black and red feathers surged forward in a storm that whipped a furious gale around everything that wasn’t tied down, nearly tearing the remaining buttons off his shirt as the atmosphere thickened and his lungs constricted.

Blitzo sputtered out a cough, eyes squeezing shut and tail curling around his belly as the mass of magic swirled into the shape of-

“Blitz!”

“Right here, Stol-” This time, the word was cut off when Stolas’s suddenly-corporeal hands squished in his cheeks like clay, eyes wide enough to burn a hole through the Rings.

“What happened? He came running as the curse was drawing to a close, and- and- oh, you’re all sticky.” His pupils were bone-white and blown bigger than Blitzo had ever seen them.

“Baby decided to say hi right when this prick-” he nodded over to the unconscious Striker- ”-tried to off both you and me at the same time. Someone wanted a hit on us, and I think-”

“That one?” Stolas’s fingers tightened on Blitzo’s cheeks, claws digging in slightly as he turned to glance at Striker.

“Mhm.”

Stolas’s eyes glowed for a moment before a flash lit up the room.

“Gah! Geez, you could warned- me?” Blitzo blinked as, when his vision crept back, Striker had been… frozen into stone. “Well, that- makes me feel a little better, at least.” He glanced over at Millie. “Not that I don’t tru-”

Millie waved a hand. “You’re having a baby, Blitz, I wouldn’t trust the guy to stay down either.”

“The baby is coming right now?” Stolas’s fingers curled into fists before pulling back to open a portal to the bubblegum pink sky of Sloth, and Blitz realized he had the Grimoire tucked under one arm. “We- we need to get him to the hospital immediately!”

Loona tensed slightly at the hospital but gritted her teeth, moving to step through the portal-

-Which led to Blitzo screeching loud enough to rattle the walls as the ivory markings flared with a brilliant glow the second his stomach touched the thin membrane of the portal between Wrath and Sloth. Agony ripped through him as the cuts pried open, skin rending from skin and flesh from flesh. Loona jerked back instinctively and called out “Dad!” in a panicked tone, nearly fumbling and dropping him until Stolas managed to lunge forward quickly enough to brace her arms and help keep Blitzo from landing his ass on the floor for the second time in five minutes.

“He had an angelic weapon!” Moxxie snapped his fingers, rushing closer and almost touching the bloody wounds with his bare hands before seemingly thinking better of it. “The portal magic must be reacting to the blessed injury.”

“Oh, fucking wonderful!” Blitzo snapped out as the glow faded but the stinging remained. Because nothing could ever just be fucking easy, could it?

“So we can’t- we’ll just have to-” Stolas sucked in a breath. “Do any of you have any kind of experience with this sort of thing?”

“I do. We’ll have to do this here,” Millie said, mouth set in a determined line. “Get him up the stairs and into the guest room. Moxxie, grab one of the spotty towels out of the closet over there- one of them should have lots of blood spots on it, we can use that to cover the mattress, and one of the others to clean the baby once they’re out.”

“Yes’m.” Moxxie nodded, hurrying over to do as Millie said before she snapped her fingers at Loona and Stolas.

“Move it, we probably ain’t got long and I gotta grab the first aid kit to deal with those nasty cuts, got it?”

Blitzo swore he could feel the vibrations of a tiny whimper in Loona’s chest as her arms tightened around him before moving for the stairs. Stolas was frozen for a moment before stumbling over to follow them.

“And we’re sure we can’t make it to-”

“Are you going to haul him to the elevator from here?” Loona growled out, frustration bubbling over like an overboiled pot with teeth bared. “It took like two hours to get out here, and he’s not gonna give birth in the van. Fuck knows this isn’t how this should have gone, but-”

Blitzo bit back a whimper of his own, tail tightening around her waist in a feeble attempt to ground himself, and Loona fell quiet. Stolas’s fingertips traced over his cheek as they reached the top of the stairs, beak biting into his lower ‘lip’ as his free arm hugged the Grimoire to his chest like a security blanket.

“I’m so sorry, darling, so, so sorry.”

Blitzo chewed on his lip, tasting sharp metal. "Not like it's your fault that I'm pretty sure your fucking nutso baby mama tried to off the nugget."

"Not my- she what?" Stolas flared red and black, extra eyes popping up on the sides of his face as the walls rumbled.

"The cowboy bitch said it was a chick who wanted the baby dead and you splattered all over like fireworks, so unless you've got some other assassin-calling bitch up your ass who knew about me..."

Stolas's fingers tightened so much around the book that any normal one would have the pages popping out the side like popcorn. "She... she really... a baby..."

"Hey, we can go kill her after the squirt's out, 'kay? If she manages to get a crack in with a rhinestone-studded sawed-off shotgun when I'm squeezing this little lump out and takes you down another six feet under, I'm digging you up to kick your ass."

Stolas stiffened before running a shaking hand through his feather-hair as his eyes darted down to the glowing white cuts still sluggishly oozing black. "Yes, yes of course- later, then. Baby first."

Moxxie darted around Loona to lay the towel down on the bed, and she gingerly set Blitzo down as he felt the weight in his stomach shift, slipping further down by a tiny bit as he gritted his teeth again.

“Considering her timing, she’s gonna be such a fucking drama queen. Moxxie, I blame you.”

“Me?”

“I shouldn’t have let you play that cheesy musical shit in the office, this is your fault.”

“Oh, come on, sir!” Moxxie’s tail snapped irritably, but he glanced over to the sweat dripping down Blitzo’s face and seemingly decided it wasn’t a fight he was going to push on, not when Blitzo was grasping for any last semblance of normalcy. He was bare and open and hurting and everything was upside down and inside out, adrenaline still pumping through his veins and fire dancing on the gouges.

Stolas had shuffled over to the side of the bed, awkwardly crouching to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

“Can’t you pull that imp-shapeshifting bit?” Blitzo asked, but Stolas shook his head.

“Performing the curse… it’s somewhat taxing, and I’d rather not risk using up any of my remaining magic unnecessarily, not with you in such a precarious position. Hopefully this will all be over soon.” He reached out a hand, and Blitzo squeezed it. It was warmer than usual, probably from the magic of the moon’s curse still rippling through it.

Millie pushed through the group to watch him, wiping her hands clean with a towel, and Blitzo cleared his throat.

“So, uh, Mills, you ever-”

“I helped Mama deliver my little brothers when I was little... and I’ve helped when the hogs had piglets.”

Blitzo glanced down at the size of his twitching stomach and groaned before nodding. “You know what? Close enough.” There was another hard squirm inside of him and he pushed his way back on the bed. “Alright, Loonie, Moxxie, out of the fucking way.”

“Wait, the baby can’t be already-” Moxxie started, and Blitzo waved a hand to dismiss him as he started shimmying his soaked pants off.

“She’s not coming out yet, but I don’t want either of you looking straight up my pussy right now.”

Both of them stepped back practically in unison. Blitzo would have snickered, except he felt more movement and Millie snapped his legs apart hard enough that Stolas gasped with magic briefly flaring red on instinct.

“Be careful!”

“I am, but he’s gonna wanna have ‘em apart, trust me,” Millie said, fingers tightening as a spike of something rode down Blitzo’s spine. He yelped, back arching as the fresh cuts flickered ivory while there was a faint sucking somewhere inside of him, energy swirling down an inky whirlpool.

Something was definitely fucking wrong.

The room smelled and felt wrong, there were too many people, there wasn’t near enough padding, too much, too much, not enough, not enough, and everything ached.

“Give me all my shit,” he growled. “I got it, and it’s not here, and-”

“Your… oh, the nesting materials!” Stolas pulled the book open and flipped through it, using its magic instead of his own to create a portal to their bed back at the cabin. Loona seemed to immediately understand, grabbing the objects scattered on it and tossing them over, and Blitzo nuzzled down on the blankets and shirts, brain easing ever-so-slightly.

The nest was good. The nest made things a little better, and helped dull the static.

Millie eased his underwear down. “I’m gonna take a peek, alright, Blitz?”

He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, go for it. Fuck, this was not how I wanted the first time you were poking around down there to go.”

She gave a weak chuckle at that, and he only barely stopped himself from yelping at her fingers running around the lips.

“Looks like you’re partially open already, shouldn’t be too long now. Maybe we’ll be lucky and she’ll be eager to slide right out.”

“After all this shit, she fucking better be,” Blitzo said, resisting the urge to pull his legs closed, even though Millie’s probing seemed careful and clinical enough.

“Pull up a timer, sweetie,” Millie said, waving a hand in the general area of Moxxie. “So we can try and tell the contractions.”

Moxxie nodded, grabbing his phone and making a few motions with his thumb, just as Blitzo realized that the window was open.

“Can somebody-” He nodded over to it, and Loona got the picture, yanking it shut as he gave her a grateful look. “Thanks, dear.”

After the initial rush, it was quiet for a moment as it seemed to fully sink in what was about to happen.

“We didn’t even pick a fucking name yet,” Blitzo muttered, and Stolas’s eyes widened.

“Oh, we... we haven’t, had we... do you have one in mind?”

“No, but- fuck, she’s gonna be Baby for the first few hours, it’s not the end of the- gggh!” Moxxie’s thumb hit the screen as his back arched again, and his eyelids fluttered. “Fuck, something’s...”

Stolas rested a hand on his middle and winced, upper eyes narrowing as the fingers shifted slightly atop the skin. “Your natural energy, it’s... off.”

Blitzo couldn’t help a flinch at the confirmation that it wasn’t just in his head. “What, more than from giving fucking birth?”

“Yes, more than that, it’s...” He clicked his tongue. “I’ll see if I can gauge it on the next pulse.”

“Of course it couldn’t just be a fuckoff huge little bitch, no, all this shit had to happen,” Blitzo mumbled.

“We’ll- we’ll get through this,” Stolas said, leaning forward to touch foreheads even as he left his hand on Blitzo’s middle, and the softness of his feathers helped Blitzo suck in a breath and let it out.

The room was silent for a moment, before Loona cleared her throat and pointed at the door with her thumb. “I’m gonna-”

“Oh- oh yeah, sweetie, you can go wait outside. Daddy’ll be fine.” He paused. “Probably.”

“We’ll tell you if anything goes awry,” Stolas promised with a nod, and she nodded back at that before crossing the room to leave. Probably smart, honestly. He wouldn’t have wanted to see this shit if it wasn’t him doing it either.

She lingered at the doorframe, fingers curling around it as she bounced her back foot  “…Good luck, Dad.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks, sweetie. I’m sure your little sister is gonna love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek before sweeping out at that.

“Moxx, baby, you take care of the cuts. You know more about Angelic stuff than the rest’a us,” Millie said, and Moxxie nodded, darting out of the room, presumably to wash his hands as he returned quickly before Millie offered him a pair of gloves to go with hers.

“You got any painkillers in that kit?” Blitzo asked, and Moxxie held it up. There was a bottle, but when he shook it, it was empty. He lifted a different one and swirled the liquid inside it around, squinting.

“This one looks like a tranquilizer.”

“Oh, we keep it on hand if we need to get any of the livestock down,” Millie said. “Normally we try and just do it by hand, of course, but sometimes if they get real riled up…”

Blitzo considered for a moment. “Alright, stick me.”

Moxxie looked between the bottle and him, one eye twitching, although to his credit Blitzo mostly saw genuine concern in the way that it twitched. Cute how he thought that puny little bottle would do anything serious after the shitshow that was the mansion party when he was 23. (He had been picking gravel out of his skin for a month.) “Sir, I don’t know if this is the best-”

Millie cut him off with a wave of her hand, grabbing the needle and the little bottle. “We can give him a half-dose. He’s gonna need it.”

“I’m just worried about your health, that’s all. Both you and the baby.”

“Trust me, Moxx, I’ve shoved stuff way worse than this up my ass ten years ago. Jab me.” He waved a hand as Millie swiped some disinfectant over his vein before lining up the needle and pressing it in. “Besides, you’re about to fuck with blessed cuts, so Daddy deserves at least some drugs to help with that.”

Moxxie sighed, but probably figured he couldn’t argue with that. Besides, it had already gone in- there wasn’t much he could do that this point. “Alright, this is going to sting some...”

“Can’t be any worse than- oh motherfucker!” Blitzo hissed out when the cleaner touched the cuts, and Moxxie tensed as it started steaming when he made contact.

“It’s hot-”

“No fucking shit it’s hot if it’s blessed!” His hips bucked up, and Moxxie grimaced before holding the antiseptic up again.

“If we don’t want it to get infected-”

“Just fucking do it.” Blitzo growled out. “Unless you want me biting it on your in-law’s guest bed?”

“...On it,” Moxxie said in reply, taking a breath before grabbing the chew toy off the makeshift nest pile with his tail and tossing it over. “You might want this.”

Blitzo considered for a moment before deciding that it had been long enough since Loonie had used it last so she probably wouldn’t care, then braced it between his teeth as Moxxie set about cleaning the wounds.

(He needed it, his back arched off the bed again as he screamed into it, and when Stolas’s hand shifted over to grip his tighter, he wasn’t sure which of them was shaking more.)

Another contraction hit, and their shared hands glowed as Stolas probed wherever his ‘energy’ was. This time, Blitzo could definitely feel movement inside of him going downwards, thank fucking Satan, but Stolas’s thumb rubbing the back of his hand slowed slightly.

“I... believe that she’s drawing from your energy to have enough of her own.”

“She’s- I need that to push you out, missy!” Blitzo protested, panting from the pressure in his hips as she shifted lower. “You do not want to get stuck halfway down if Daddy passes out, and we’re gonna hope the pain juice helps with that.”

“She’s running off instinct...” Stolas murmured, half to himself before straightening up, setting the book down on the bedside table in order to cup Blitzo’s cheek with his free hand. “You can do this, darling. You’ve made it this far, and it will all be worth it. I promise, I’ll be here every step of the-”

Blitzo couldn’t help a whine, feeling sweat drop down his face as the sucking motion reappeared and his claws dug into the towel below him.

“She is so fucking lucky I decided to keep her or I’d fucking strangle you for making me do this shit.”

“Lucky us,” Stolas said, a crooked smile gracing his face as Blitz braced his heels into the bed and sucked in a deep breath.

“Alright. Just gotta get the fucker out. I carried her for six fucking months, I can do this.”

“You’ve got this,” Millie agreed. “Daddy said Sallie May especially was real big, bigger than any of our brothers, and he’s fine!”

“Yeah, well, your sister ain’t a fucking bird, but thank you for the sentiment,” Blitzo said, bracing himself against the bed. His world had burnt to ashes before and he’d survived, and fuck, they had almost gotten axed by an assassin not half an hour ago, he could do this.

___

Blitzo had no idea of how much time had passed. Moxxie had fucked off somewhere to ‘go to the bathroom’ what felt like an eons ago and hadn’t come back, the baby had definitely crawled down a fair bit further but he couldn’t feel her head fully pushing at his entrance quite yet, and Millie looked frustrated from what he could see of her.

“I don’t... it...”

“I’m not, like, purple or some shit down there, am I?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” She reassured him. “I just... hogs’re different from people, and Daddy was helping with Mama since I was little, and I just... wanna make sure you are both okay, that’s all, we’ve gotta do this right.” She bounced a little before nodding to herself, shaking off the nerves to steel herself again and crack her neck.

“Hey, if we didn’t have you we’d be doing this raw and uncut, so- fuck, another one.” Blitzo cut himself off as he gritted his teeth, pushing again and glaring at his middle even as he felt her moving. “You’re going one direction, how fucking hard is it to just crawl out a fucking hole?”

At some point, Stolas had started looking a combination of scared and vaguely queasy, but his hand never left Blitzo’s except to take a cool washcloth from Millie to wipe off the sweaty red forehead. (Which probably made sense, considering from what little he’d glanced at, egg birth was much easier. Unlucky fucking roll of the dice there. He probably would have missed feeling her move, though...)

Get her out. That was all he had to focus on, getting her out. Everything else could come after that, even though his bones were heavy and his muscles were lead and his stomach still stung from the holy blade and the tranqs didn’t help nearly enough with the aches down to his blood and his eyes could barely keep open. Get her out, get her out, get her out.

“Okay, I think I’m starting to see her!” Millie encouraged after another dip down. “She’s definitely a big’un, but you’re close.”

“Thank fuck,” Blitzo said, slumping back on the pillow. He’d lost enough sweat to fill up a keg and drown in it, and the thought that the end might be in sight was all that kept him together at this point. “She’s grounded once she’s out for destroying Daddy’s guts. That’s Stolas’s job.”

Stolas and Millie snorted out similar laughs, and Blitzo would have puffed up at the successful delivery if every muscle in his body wasn’t already stressed to the breaking point.

“Alright, on the next push, just go as hard as you can.” Millie said, patting the inside of his thigh and politely ignoring the splash of scar tissue. “It’s probably gonna hurt, but we need to get the skull out, then it’ll all be right as rain, got it?”

“Got it,” Blitzo said, bracing himself as Stolas gave another squeeze on his hand-

Before he nearly snapped the damn thing in half as the pain when he pushed eclipsed almost anything he’d ever felt by a royal mile. He’d taken plenty of big fucking things in his holes, but this was bone on bone, agony on agony, boiling flames.

“God-fucking christ shit-on-a-stick,” he cursed. She was stuck partway in his entrance, the skull thick and wide, blood or some other warm thick fluid oozing around her, and why the fuck had he agreed to this.

“One more, hopefully!” Millie called out. “I’ll try to help her out, you’re so close!”

Stolas bent his long-ass neck to take a look, eyes flaring with a vivid red glow.

“I- she’s right, you can see the top of the head! Oh, she’s almost here, you’re doing wonderful, dear-”

“I can fucking feel it, you don’t need to tell me what’s getting shoved out of my fucking cave of wonders- fuck!” The urge to push rolled through him again, and it was the only thing that could get her out, so even though every solitary inch of him was pleading for rest, he dug his claws in and pushed and pushed and pushed, and Millie wriggled her fingers in to pry him even wider than he ever thought possible and he grabbed the chew toy again to roar as the head popped out.

“There we go! The head’s out!” Millie cheered, and Blitzo would have pointed out that he just fucking said he could feel it, but the energy in his body for witty retorts had been shoved out along with said head, and now he mostly just wanted to pass out for a month.

“So I’m-”

“You’ve still got the shoulders, but those shouldn’t be near as bad,” Millie said with a click of her tongue. “They’re not as big around as the head was.”

He hissed out another curse but braced himself anyway. Mercifully, Millie seemed to get the hint from how boneless his body had become that he was barely hanging on. On the next twitchy contraction, she helped ease the body out as Blitzo pushed, and he felt it slip from between the lips. As she started wailing, he was empty for the first time in months.

Mostly.

There was still the cord between them, slid out through the entrance and connected to her middle, and as Millie gingerly wiped her off, Blitzo felt another pulse running through it and up to his chest as weights dragged at his eyelids and head.

She was alive. She was... he was...

She was okay. She was okay. He hadn’t fucked it up.

“Blitz? Blitz!” Stolas shook his shoulders, but he couldn’t pry his eyelids back open no matter how hard he tried, and sound was starting to swirl into a riptide as he sunk down, down, down.

She was alive, that was what mattered.

There was a flash of blue, and then, nothing.

___

He gasped back to life with a heavy, slightly sticky whimpering weight in his arms. Stolas stared at him with wide eyes, along with Loona, Millie, and Moxxie watching from behind him. His lower half felt like someone had scooped him clean and injected lava up his pussy before sewing him back up with a smack on the ass for luck.

“Blitz? Oh, Blitz!” Stolas yanked him into a hug, shoulders heaving. “We- I- we-”

“The fuck happened...?” He looked down at the squirming bulk in his arms next to a gentle blue glow half-settled inside of his chest, and his eyes snapped wide at the confirmation of what it was.

Their baby, wrapped in a red blanket with horseshoes on it.

Their baby.

“She was... the angelic steel scratches, they must have sunk through the skin somehow,” Stolas said quietly, holding a cloth dotted with watery blood. His other hand was helping to support her head- from the slightly awkward position, he was probably holding her right up until Blitzo woke up. Blitzo shifted her over to get a better look. She felt huge in his arms (of course she did, what with Stolas being twice his size) but was a bit lighter than he’d expect, especially with the healthy layer of fat on her- airy bones, maybe? Her color was a gentle pinkish off-red, although he suspected she would be a brighter shade once her feathers grew in properly, and her eyes were owl-oversized, bulging out of her skull with tiny black lines decorating below them. She had a beak, as well as a pair of nubby black horns with white spotting on the very tips.

On top of that, though... there was a thin horizontal white line crossing the middle of her face like a mask, with white covering the upper half. There was also a small curved ‘bubble’ underneath the left side that had tiny dribbles of black oozing from the thin skin, and a matching circle on the lower right cheek near the chin. Blitzo tentatively brushed a finger over the face- the top part seemed to be an incomplete facial disk to match Stolas’s, something she would have had anyway, but the little bloody bumps were going to be scar tissue, slightly firmer than the silken-soft skin around them. Stolas leaned over to wipe off the new blood for what must have been the second time, cupping her chubby cheeks as his fingers lingered, and she leaned into the touch, glowing slightly.

She was born a fighter.

Blitzo swallowed. “And she’s… okay?”

“Even after she was born, she was instinctively draining you to try and heal herself,” Stolas said, nodding down at the glow. “I had to lend you both some of my own magic, after figuring out how to dilute it to keep it from being too affected by the infection. I...” He choked. “I almost lost you. But.. she seems to be alright. Both of you are.”

“...Thank you,” Blitzo said, unable to stop staring at the little bird squirming in his grasp. She was real. Really real. And the little tail that had slipped from the blanket was mostly impish, with a pair of tiny black feathers on the end where the spade should have been. She looked up at him with yellow pupils and red sclera, and made a questioning coo before leaning against his chest with another pleading whimper that twisted at his heart.

They’d made it.

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

it is time for... pajama-napped, aka the fic where wind is in his pajamas (<<< ao3 link for actual formatting and also because comments and kudos are nice)

@thecatcameback @sparkyfaith

The newly dubbed Wind was… very annoyed.

This wasn't the first time he'd been portalnapped, and he couldn't be particularly mad since he was able to see the captain and Mask again.

But… did it really have to be when he was in his sleeping clothes?

Whatever had brought them all together had given him his sword and items, but not his clothes, and maybe it was Wind's fault for being asleep in the middle of night (fuck whatever had done this), but this was embarrassing!

Thankfully, nobody seemed to be able to tell, due to the vastly different fashion styles of their times.

He was sure they would be back to his era soon.

They were not, in fact, back to his era soon. Rather, they seemed to visit every other era but his, including Legend's ancestor's (who bore a remarkable resemblance to Time).

His sleeping clothes were just old, worn clothes, so while it was inconvenient to wear and harder to hide his knives in, he could. But the worst part…

The worst part was the impressions they left. Everyone (well, not Warriors and Time) thought he was still a little kid!

If the portal had come when he was sailing instead of when he was home, this wouldn't have happened! He had driven fear into the hearts of scarier things with his regular clothes, which clearly told everyone he was a pirate and could fuck your shit up, but these? He gave off so much young innocent child energy he couldn't scare a chuchu.

Twilight had nearly had a heart attack every time he said fuck, though, so maybe it was a good thing his tattoo and knives weren't on full display. His brain would probably melt out his ears.

Wind glared at Twilight’s back. Ruffling his hair? Calling him kid? He was fourteen, not seven! He carried more knives on him than Twilight had years!

"He's barely older than me!" He fumed, jabbing a finger accusingly. "If we'd met when I was with Tetra, he wouldn't even think of it!" Probably because they would steal his stuff and ask questions later.

(Actually, Twilight would probably still do it anyway. He was just like that.)

He kicked a rock, cursing every god he knew, and then their mothers, for good measure.

"You let the captain do it, no?" Urbosa asked.

(Ghosts were the best people to rant to, as they couldn't tell anybody, and Wind knew that Wild, the one person they could, wouldn't say anything.)

"That's different." Warriors didn't do it because he was a kid, he did it because he was still their big brother.

"We'll be in your time soon." Mipha placed a cool hand on his shoulder.

"You said that two months ago."

"To a spirit, time can pass so quickly."

Bullshit. That was only with the really old ones.

"Tell him how fierce you truly are next time he tries it." Revali offered.

"I tried that." Wind explained. "When I told him I've killed men before, he laughed and said I was too innocent for that." He paused. "You give shit advice."

Revali squawked in outrage. "I never-!"

He couldn't believe appearances mattered so much.

"I'm sorry." The guard said, blocking their path. "You'll have to remove your weapons before you can see Lord Droupon."

Legend groaned. "Really?"

"No exceptions, not even for the hero."

"It's fine, vet." Time said, already pulling off his sword.

Wind passed his sword and a couple knives over, but was stopped by Warriors before he entered the room. "All of them."

"That is all of them!" He protested.

Warriors raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Fine." He said, pulling out a few more.

Warriors's eyebrow rose higher.

"Ugh." More knives joined the pile. Legend and Four were watching with fascinated expressions, while the guards stared in horror.

Somehow, impossibly, his eyebrow rose even higher. If it went any higher, it would probably vanish into his hair.

Wind rolled his eyes, finally pulling out the last few. "Happy?"

Warriors reached into his hair, pulling out one last knife, one similar to a hair accessory that he had stolen- eh-hem, borrowed from Artemis. "Yes."

"Holy shit, Sailor." Legend muttered, peering at Wind's tower of knives. "That's what, twenty-five knives?"

"Twenty-seven." He corrected, walking through the doors.

"Wow." He heard Four say behind him. "I can usually only get eighteen."

"It's because you're short." Legend said.

"Fuck you, vet."

Ha. He thought triumphantly. Warriors hadn't even noticed the ones in his boots.

Finally, after six months of bouncing between every era possible, and then some that weren't, he was home. Home, with his sister and his crew and his fucking clothes. He'd been wearing the same thing for so long.

"I'm glad we're finally at your home, Sailor." Time said, slapping his back. He winked (or maybe it was just dust in his eye; it was hard to tell sometimes). "I bet you're happy to be able to get some fresh clothes."

…That bastard knew the whole time, didn't he?

Wild stifled a laugh when he saw Wind's face. (Clearly, the ghosts were snitches. Could he trust no one?)

Even Four was struggling to keep their face straight. (How did they know, actually?)

Wind ignored the traitors and dashed across the sand, running towards his home. He couldn't wait to see Aryll, but if he didn't change first she wouldn't hesitate to tell everyone.

"Link?" A female voice said, full of shock.

Wind froze, balancing on one leg. "Oh fuck."

"Link!" Aryll said, shock giving way to joy.

"Heeeeeeey." He frantically jammed his feet into his boots.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He said, very obviously lying.

She glanced at his loose shirt skeptically.

"Aryll." He said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "You know the heroes I told you I was traveling with?"

She nodded.

"They're here, and most of 'em think I'm an innocent little kid, so if they ask, please go along with what I say."

"What do I get out of it?"

Was… was he being blackmailed? Was this what true betrayal felt like? How could she?

(And in his hour of need, too!)

His eye twitched. "I'll do anything, but can we talk about that later?"

"Sure!" She said cheerfully. "Your shirt is on backwards."

He groaned.

Legend squinted at him. "Wind?"

"This is my sister, Aryll!" He said, waving his hands at her.

Four peered at his wrist curiously. "Is that a tattoo?"

"A what-" Twilight started.

"Oh, did you get another one?" Warriors asked.

"I feel like we should be asking about the clothes." Sky said, looking faintly confused.

"You look like a pirate." Legend mused. "I mean, you said you were, but…"

"I have that coat." Wild said, bewildered.

"But don't pirates-" Twilight looked a little faint.

"Steal and kill people?" Wind offered.

"Yeah-"

"We don't usually kill people unless they really deserve it."

"Usually?"

Time looked down at Twilight with what might have been sadness - or mischief - in his eye. "Sometimes… death is the only option."

"Like murderers." Sky nodded sagely.

"Killing a murderer doesn't change the number of murderers in the world." Twilight protested.

"Kill two." Four suggested. "Or three."

"Maybe four." Warriors said. The shorter hero sent him an annoyed glance.

"Oh, dear." Legend said mildly as Twilight let out a strangled wheeze. "I think we broke him."

Wild wasn't even trying to hide his laughter.

"Why do you have my coat?" Wind asked, as he thought this was at least a little important.

"I found it." Wild paused. "In a river."

He pulled his slate off his belt, tapping the screen for a few moments before a familiar coat materialized in his hands. He handed it to Wind with a small flourish.

"What the fuck." Wind said as he inspected it. "This is my coat."

"Uh, yeah."

"No, this is the fucking coat I lost." He turned to Warriors. "You remember, right? When we were leaving, I lost it." He pointed to a hole in the sleeve. "There, from-"

"-A lizalfos claw." He finished, leaning over Wind's shoulder.

"Do you… want it back?" Wild asked hesitantly.

"Nah. You can keep it."

"I suppose we know who the champion comes after, then." Time mused.

"Yeah, but we don't know who I come after, so it's not really helpful." Warriors sighed. "It's amazing how long it lasted, though."

Hyrule rubbed the hem of a sleeve between his fingers and hummed. "Is there magic in this?"

"Yeah, I got it repaired by a great fairy." Wild wiggled a hand side to side. "It was a little…"

"Why are you wearing different clothes, Wind?" Twilight, who seemed to finally be able to breathe, asked. "They look completely different."

"He left in his pajamas." Aryll piped up. Wind, and it seemed everyone else, had forgotten she was there.

"Your… pajamas?" Legend asked, grinning. "You were in your pajamas?"

"Were you wearing twenty-seven knives while you were sleeping?" Sky asked, looking as if he couldn't imagine how uncomfortable it would be.

"Twenty-nine, actually." Wind corrected. "Warriors missed the ones in my boots."

Warriors groaned, grumbling. "How did I miss the boot knives? We all wear boot knives."

"So, twenty-nine? While you sleep?" Legend whistled. "Damn, Sailor."

"No."

Sky sighed in relief.

"It was just nine, actually."

"Nine!?" Sky looked ready to cry.

"Where did you even keep them?" Four circled Wind, a violet hue in his eyes.

"Oh well, one under my sock-"

"You sleep in socks?" Wild said, face filled with horror.

"-three on my arms, four on my legs, and one on my forearm."

"Doesn't it get uncomfortable?" Hyrule asked.

Wind shrugged. "Not really, they're all pretty small, perfect for-"

"-sliding between a man's third and fourth ribs." Time finished.

"Where'd you get the other twenty then?" Legend asked.

"Stole 'em." Wind paused. "Some of them from you. Took one of Time's."

"What?" Legend squawked.

Time shrugged, twirling a knife that, despite the years of wear, Wind could tell was his. "That's fair."

"Time has knives?" Wild asked.

"Of course." He said, suddenly holding a completely different knife.

"Little brat was always stealing mine and losing them." Warriors complained.

Four looked between them, obviously not seeing the 'little'.

"They see the obvious threat and don't look for anything else." Time explained, again holding a new knife. Wind wasn't sure where he was getting them from so quickly.

"He probably took his eye out doing a dumb trick." Warriors said.

He winced. "You are… not entirely wrong, Captain."

"Why were you wearing your pajamas, anyway?" Sky asked.

Wind huffed, crossing his arms. "Because, for whatever reason, I got portalnapped in the middle of the fucking night!"

Legend nodded. "Mine opened under my feet while I was walking."

Twilight gave them a strange look. "Mine was just a door, like usual?"

"Me too." Sky said.

"Mine as well." Time added.

"Huh." Legend mused. "Maybe whoever opened them knew I wouldn't have gone through?"

"I definitely wouldn't have gone through." Wind confirmed. "I was on vacation."

"Wow." Legend said. "On vacation? That's just rude."

"I know! Was it really so important it couldn't have waited a couple weeks?"

"They aren't going to stop soon, are they?" Sky asked.

"Nope!" Aryll said. "Come on, I'll show you around."

[jaytoons7]

Day 15: Night Playtime

The first thing I thought of for this prompt was a pillow fort! But I don't really feel like drawing for today, So I wrote a story instead!

It's a Rave family thing because of course it is. It's mostly fluffy, But Terrence and Randy do talk some angst near the end, It ends up okay though.

It takes place about a year after Terrence was overthrown. Him and Randy aren't technically married yet, But they do live together.

Also at one point, Gabe is referred to by their old name because they haven't come out at this point. They're called their actual name in narration (Please use they/them pronouns for this version of Gabe)

One of the things Terrence did not expect to see when he came to his small apartment home after work was a pile of large blankets and pillows made into a fort right above the couch.

The culprits revealed themselves as the 6 year old Henry and Gabe, Who were running out of their room holding some smaller blankets and stuffed animals. Terrence gave a small smile before leaning down a bit. “Henry, Gabrielle? Mind telling me what you’re doing?” The two kids giggled a bit before answering.

“We’re making a pillow fort!” Henry smiled. “We worked really hard on it.” Gabe added. “Do you like it?” Terrence ruffled both of their hair. “It looks great, I’m impressed.” He looked around a bit. “Hey, Can either of you tell me where your dad is?”

As if on cue, Randy dragged a mattress into the living room. “Ah, Terry! I didn’t hear ya come in! How was work today?” “Oh y’know, Same old same old.” Terrence hummed. “But I wasn’t aware you were in on your kid’s plans.” “Aw don’t give me any of that, Terry! They really wanted to build a pillow fort and I couldn’t say no!” He leaned over to Terrence and whispered. “They gave me the puppy dog eyes.”

Terrence chuckled at that. “I see. Well, I don’t see any reason to stop you, Especially since it looks like the fort’s almost done.” “Yeah, Almost. I just gotta add one more thing.” Randy placed the mattress onto the floor next to the couch seats. “There, Now it’s done!”

Henry and Gabe laughed as they began exploring the now complete fort. That’s when Terrence got an idea. “Since dinner’s gonna be in about an hour, How would you two like it if I ordered a pizza for dinner?” The two kids cheered. “Yeah! Yeah!” Henry cheered. “And since the fort’s on the couch, We can make some popcorn and have a bit of a movie night.” Randy added. If the kids weren’t excited before, They definitely were now. “This is the best day ever!” Gabe bounced on the couch a bit.

After the pizza dinner, Some popcorn was made and the family sat inside the fort, Where the TV was still viewable. They watched a few movies (With Henry and Gabe covering their eyes whenever there were kissing scenes) until nearly 11 at night.

The kids were fast asleep on the mattress near the couch, With Terrence and Randy still sitting on the couch. “Aww. The poor things aren’t used to being up this late.” Randy hummed, Looking over at Terrence and seeing him frown a bit. “Terry? What’s the matter?”

“Rand… I…” Terrence muttered. “I don’t deserve any of this…” “What..? What do ya mean by that?” Randy asked concerned. “Randy, I’ve fucked up bigtime..! I failed as a Toppat leader so badly, It got my own people killed.” Terrence weakly smiled, Trying to keep himself from crying. “You had faith in me as both a partner and a leader, And I failed..! There’s nothing left for me in either the clan or in the outside world… I’m sorry…”

“Oh, Terry…” Randy placed his hands on his shoulders. “Don’t talk about yourself like that! If anybody should be apologizing, It should be me. I didn’t just fail as a leader, But I also left you! I was a coward, And I made you pay for it… There’s nothing I could ever do to make it up to you…”

Randy teared up a bit. “But I can promise that I’ll never leave you again! We don’t need the clan, We have each other and the kids! And I know it ain’t gonna be easy, But you don’t have to do it alone anymore…”

Terrence wiped some of his tears before leaning against him. “My parents never let me build a pillow fort.” “You like it..?” “Yeah. It’s nice.” Randy wrapped an arm around him. “I’m glad ya think so. We worked our asses off on it.” The two looked down at the sleeping Henry and Gabe. “Should we get them to their beds?” Randy asked. “Can we wait an hour..?” Terrence buried his face in his shoulder. “This is the nicest I’ve felt in a long time…”

Randy nodded and the two quietly continued to watch TV.

[sycamorality]

do you have any hcs about FP and LTTM?

its like. a bit hard without specifics? but also, headcanon time (which means i get to throw a few ideas in that aren't really canon)

their relationship would be something like older sibling that definently cares for their younger sibling but the younger sibling doesn't realize how much they need the support until it's too late and they've fucked up massively by... killing their older sibling.

and also because this gives me a chance to ramble about ancients in some sense I Will.

moon used to like her citizens and the ancients in general, but wasn't too interested in most of what they were doing she did appreciate the beauty in some of their things (namesly sky-sails as mentioned in a white pearl). later on, some time before pebbles' construction, she grew tired and annoyed by many of them. though, to me, i'd like to think she had a mechanic or something of the sort she didn't mind all too much.

pebbles was either neutral or praised his ancients most of the time, and felt the need to impress the ones that called him "apostate superstructure abomination" to prove he's worth something. he kept an extensive archive of anything art - be it paintings, simple drawins, poems, stories, folktales, you name it. he found it fascinating, how they could express themselves like that. he was always swamped with reqeusts and tasks though, and never really got any time to try it himself. by the time he could though, he felt a bit too embarassed to show anyone and kept it to himself, mostly discarding it, the data now lost on pearls the scavengers in the garbage wastes take around. he definently regrets what he did to moon, and how much worry he caused everybody else.

moon is a much older model- which means her puppet is bigger and has lots more decorative bits to it. i do really need to make her a ref honestly. base of the idea is that she looks like one of thise big friendly round dragons, just iterator puppet edition with a biggol thick tail and earwig wings. she's decorated with a few pearls (most of them she doesn't end up keeping of her own choice) and her cloak is complex and neatly detailed, while still comfortable to wear. her puppet has a few parts with a crimson to dark purple gradientm and her umbilical wires are dark purple.

five pebbles is very much a newer model. smaller puppet, generally made to be efficient, not nearly as decorative as moon's, as at this point he was just yet another iterator (and one disliked by the ancients he houses, no less). his cloak is just a spare one that used to be moon's that she offered to give him for his puppet, because otherwise his would have been a very dusty and ragged brown cloak. he does have a few parts on him that resemble a dragonfly, but not nearly anything as detailed as moon. he only has four yellwo dots/'pebbles' on his head, because moon is the fifth 'pebble'. something something symbolism i guess, lost a part of himself when moon collapsed.

artificer helped pebbles realize, even if just a little, that it was useful to have a little companion. he would not ever admit he actually grew to like artificer, if only because she could bring him works he had yet to archive. he also refuses to admit he was a little sad when she didn't come back, even if he knew that day would come.

meanwhile, ruffles helped moon restore functionality to as many systems as a slugcat could after putting the rarefaction cell in. it took many trips, and while moon won't be what she once was, she appreciates ruffles all the same for the company it gave her. she quite enjoyed reading the pearls ruffles found lying about. ruffles didn't ascend, but instead, one cycle, moon could see a little wheel flower right at the entrance of her chamber, swaying gently in the winds.

moon is rather fascinated by what became of the purposed organisms the ancients created (other than the centipedes and bugs), while pebbles sees them mostly as pests, not something he's interested in.

[casspurrjoybell-28]

Alpha's Temptation - Chapter 38 - Part 3

*Warning Adult Content*

'He will wish he was never born.'

It pleases me that Daemon indulges in the dark part of me that wants revenge on my step-father.

Because after being abused for so many years, there is not a single shred of empathy left in me for him.

He deserves what Daemon will do to him.

I can't find it in me to feel bad.

Not when he haunts my every waking moment, making me miserable even after nearly a year of being away from him.

He deserves everything coming to him.

We lie down together and I immediately arrange myself to be as close to him as possible, draping my body over his to feel his warmth all around me.

He probably knows it's my favorite comfort position.

He always does it with me when I'm sad or recovering from a nightmare.

Tucked under his chin, his big arms around me, my small frame is completely cocooned in his much larger one.

I feel completely safe.

Like nothing can hurt me.

And I know I'm pathetic and acting like a child but I feel like I'd die if this ever got taken away from me.

If he got taken away from me.

The entire night I fade in and out of sleep, sporadically jerking awake in a cold sweat, in terror that my stepfather is going to kill me.

It's my mate who holds me through it, no matter how sleep-deprived he is.

When I see the deep circles under his eyes the next morning, my heart aches for him.

What a nightmare it must be to have me as a mate.

To be burdened by my trauma when he has his own to deal with.

He said I would never be a burden to him but what if he changes his mind?

1 month later

"Come here, baby," Daemon motions me over and I obey, coming to latch onto his side as his arm wraps around me.

Tristan and Daemon have been talking outside his apartment for awhile and I got curious, peaking outside the door.

The two of them quickly made up after their fight last month, to my relief.

Tristan also apologized for scaring me with the movie he put on and I assured him that it's completely fine.

He seemed like he felt really bad and I know Daemon would never tell him about my trauma but I'm sure Tristan is smart enough to guess there was something more going on.

Anyways, it's all in the past now, which I'm glad for.

I hate being the reason Daemon and him would fight.

I know neither of them would ever admit it aloud, but they're clearly best friends.

Not that they believe in that kind of terminology.

"Take this as a warning to all of us," Tristan is saying.

"It's been over a month and Lucien still hasn't woken up. That means the role of pack leader passes to the successor. In other words, Theo."

I put a hand over my mouth in shock, my stomach sinking.

That can't be good.

I look to Daemon who's face is grim.

I squeeze his hand and he squeezes it back.

"We just need to keep him under control," he says.

"And the drugs, too," Tristan adds.

"It's gotten worse."

"I swear he's got a fucking underground drug lab."

Daemon rubs his hand over his face in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I don't doubt it. I'll try to sniff some things out. In the meantime, keep your mate safe," the other man says, gaze flitting to me.

Daemon nods in appreciation, tightening his hold around me.

I lean my head against his arm since I don't even reach his shoulder.

It feels strange to be put as high priority, people talking about my safety like it's important.

Tristan leaves us to it and when we go back inside I start to fiddle with the drawstring of my hoodie, watching him.

"Does Tristan know I'm not... from here?" I ask.

Daemon is quiet for a moment before he replies.

"Yeah. I needed to make sure I had another person who knew that I could trust in case..."

"In case of what?" I ask anxiously.

Daemon shakes his head in dismissal, ruffling my hair.

"Don't worry about it."

I bite my lip to keep from asking any further, despite wanting to.

He knows what's best.

I have to trust him.

[midnight-talescape]

I’m here (C!Philza x Cat Hybrid Reader)

Kinktober day 11: Wings/Tail play

I’m so fucking sorry (also fun fact I nearly add egg laying in for fun)

Warning: wing play, tail play, biting, swearing, daddy happened once, this is 100 percent ooc, etc, etc you get the point not for kid

Genre: filthy filthy smut

｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡

You fidget uncomfortably in your chair. You ears and tail twitching in every direction.

Philza came back holding two cup of tea, noticed you fidgeting in your seat furrowed his brow and ask,

“What’s wrong, mate? You’re fidgeting,”

“Nothing,” you said without looking up,

Hearing this Philza put down the cup and sat next to you, forcing you to look at him.

“Is something bothering you, you can tell me,”

Hesitatingly you looked up and lick your lip before pointing at his wings and whispering,

“Can I straighten out your wing?”

Philza blink confused as fuck,

“What?”

Giving up, you buried your face in your hand and mumble,

“It’s bothering me! Your wing is so pretty Phil, but you don’t take care of it. I want to preen your feather,”

Hearing your outburst over the pure annoyance over his slightly ruffled wing, Philza cough before saying,

“Thanks for the compliment, mate. But I’m afraid I will have to decline the offer, speaking of which I think I left the kettle on the stove,”

With that Philza quickly walk away, you groan and put your head on the table, missing Philza’s blushing ears under his hair.

From that day on every once in a while you will offer again, hoping maybe be one day he will slip up and allow you to groom his wing, at-last it never happen, until…

“Hey Phil, are you okay?”you ask as you walked into the house of the broken man,

Philza turn around forcing a smile before saying,

“Hey (Y/N), it’s good to see you again! I’m fine don’t worry about me,”

You walked up to him, not believing him for a second.

“Wha-“

You pulled him into a hug, wrapping your arm around his back, carefully missing his damaged wing before saying,

“Hey, it’s fine, Phil. I got you, you still have me and everything’s gonna be fine,”

Recovering from his surprised, Philza buried his face into your hair.

“I saw him died, I killed Wilbur with my own hand and now Ghostbur hate me too, I’m a terrible father, (Y/N)…”

You tip toe and nuzzled his neck in affection trying to comfort him,

“Don’t say that Phil, you’re a great father and Ghostbur will forgive you. It wasn’t your fault Friend died, we can go find them again, together,”

After a while Philza calm down and motion for you to let go, which you reluctantly did. Philza let out a chuckle,

“Well that was embarrassing,”

Glad that he seems to have recover slightly, you smiled and said in a deadpan voice,

“Yes, truly. I will hold this forever against you and use it to blackmail you one day for your many fortune,”

“It seems like I have made a great mistake,” suddenly hesitantly Philza scratch his face and asked,

“Speaking of which, are you still willing to preen my wings?”

You widen your eye in surprise. Seeing your eye widened and taking it as a rejection, he quickly continued,

“It’s fine if you no longer want to, my wings are pretty damage and no longer look as pleasing as they use to be,”

You let out a happy purr and clapped your hand before throwing yourself into Philza’s embrace again.

“I will love to! Also if I dare judge you, I will incur Techno’s wrath, who will definitely hunt me down,”

Philza laughed, before leading you to his room. He went to lie down on his bed and spread his wings.

You gently got on to his bed, and when saw his damage left wing, you slow down your breathing and gently brush across the damage wing. After a while you gently begin to straighten out his feathers. Pulling out loose one and straighten crooked feather light and simple, afraid to cause anymore damage.

Sensing your nervousness of hurting him, Philza turn around slightly,

“You can go harder you know, mate. I’m not fragile,”

“I don’t know about that, you’re quite old, old man,” you retorted back before being slightly braver,

Soon once you cleaned out the feather you gently kneaded through the tense knot in his wings.

But what you didn’t noticed was the closer to the base of his wings, the tenser his body get.

Suddenly Philza let out a muffled moan when you get to the sensitive skin at the base of his wing. Both of you froze at the sound.

You quickly clambered off of him before burying your blushing face in your hand.

Philza sat up slightly embarrassed and tried to hide the bulge in his pant,

“I’m sorry, it’s just the base of my wing are rather sensitive, I should have told you,”

“No, no it’s my fault, I should have known,” was your only response as you feel yourself slowly die inside,

After a few awkward silence you looked up and said,

“I-if you want I can help with that,”

Philza choked on his saliva,

“W-what?”

You grit your teeth, this is real fucking awkward but you’re here might as well,

“I said I want to fuck you,”

Philza look at you sadly and said,

“You don’t have to do that to make me feel better,”

Slightly angry at the fact that he will assume you will do that just because you feel pity, you pounces on him pushing him onto the bed.

“Don’t be stupid, I fucking love you, you old dingus! Why else will I be here comforting you at 3am?! YOU JUST BLEW UP A FUCKING COUNTRY!!!”

Looking at your face staring him down, your eye watery and your lip tremble showing how you’re not as brave as you seem. 

With a sigh, knowing how he’s not gonna let you go anyway, Philza flipped you, quickly changing you and his position.

He pulled you into a kiss. After a while you guys separated, he caressed your face before asking you seriously,

“Are you sure about this?”

Seeing your nod, he quickly undress both of you and attacking your neck.

Philza suck and nibbled at your neck hungrily, leaving red mark down your body as you let out moan.

His hand traveled down your body to your core, lightly touching it before pumping two fingers in stretching you out. 

Your face flushed as you let out whimpers and moan, suddenly you bite down on Philza’s shoulder when you felt him pull your tail harshly, Sebring a electric shock up your spine.

“Do you like it when I do that? Hurting you, leaving mark on you to show you’re mine?”

“Y-yes… FU-“ you let out a swear when you felt him hit your sweet spot,

Noticing this, Philza grin and quickly inserts 2 more fingers before attacking your sweet spot at the same time.

You felt your clit tightening on his finger and tears stinging your eye,

“Cum for me, kitten,”

With that your eye rolls back as you cum hard on his finger, sob wrecking through your body.

Looking at your sweaty body, trembling from the high, Philza quickly position himself and wrapped your leg around his waist before he thrust inside you.

Your mouth gaped open and tear streams down your face as you felt his member split your body.

“Sl-slower… ha… fuck… daddy, please… uugh…”

Hearing the jumbled of word coming out of your mouth, he grunted and hold one of your leg up allowing him to change his angle and hitting deeper.

You cried, the pleasure too great for you as you dug your finger into the base of his wings.

Letting out a groan he grabbed your tail tightly and bite down on your neck as he slammed into your womb and fucked the living hell out of you.

You were quickly brought to your orgasm a few more time from the tail pulling and the member fucking the brain out of you, before you felt him cumming inside you.

Without pulling out he wiped away your tear and sweat, before gently holding you into his embrace. Holding you to his chest he covered the both of you in his wings both damage and whole.

Just like that you two fell asleep, knowing all will be fine in the end.