#and to have the position of guardian thrust upon him

[aphantimes]

I once watched a video where someone implied that Knuckles chose to spend his entire life in isolation and OH MAN the spike of irritation I felt

[just-jordie-things]

if you look, you can tell - fushiguro megumi

word count: 6k warnings: swearing, i think that’s it summary: megumi finds himself eavesdropping a conversation between the rest of his classmates when he hears his name pop up.  the way you jump to his defense and have only sweet things to say about him has him second guessing the way he feels about you. ___

“It just doesn’t really make sense to me.  I get you guys are friends and all, but how can someone like you be friends with someone so…. Cold?”

Megumi was never really one for eavesdropping.  Not only because it was immature and would only cause drama, but because he’d never really felt a need to.  He can’t recall a conversation he’d ever stumbled upon that he deemed interesting enough to listen in on.  In fact, he’d rather find that everyone else was busy with conversation so he could slip out and do his own thing unnoticed.  A habit he’d picked up in his younger years when he still shared a living space with the white haired special grade sorcerer.

But for some reason, right now was different.

Maybe it was because he was the topic of conversation.  Maybe because Itadori, Kugisaki, and (y/n) were the ones around the corner.  Or maybe it was because something tugged on his heart strings when he heard Nobara’s admission.

He was headed to the common room to retrieve the book he’d left in there this morning, and hadn’t even realized all three of his classmates had the evening off from training and assignments.  He’d heard that they were talking as he’d approached, but didn’t halt in his steps until he realized they were talking about him.

“I think he can be nice,” Itadori defended weakly.  “I mean… I just met him, I guess,” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, realizing he didn’t actually have much evidence to back up his statement.  But he was too nice of a guy to straight up gossip about his new classmate.  “Maybe he’s just quiet?” 

(y/n) nodded thoughtfully, knowing this to be true.  She figured she knew him better than the two newbies, and that was why they’d come to her with their curiosities about the stoic shikigami user.  Having been born and raised in Tokyo, she’d been introduced to Megumi long before they enrolled at Jujutsu Tech.  Although their friendship hadn’t truly sparked until their enrollment, she’d known him enough to understand him, his mannerisms, his fighting style, his strict routine- all of these things that she’d never really thought twice about before, she now realized sort of made her the on site Megumi- Expert.  She even chuckled a little bit at the thought.

Because back then, back when she first met the grumpy boy that was thrust before her by one Gojo Satoru, with an eager grin and the promise of “Look Megs, a friend your age!” She would have never thought she’d be in this position now.

“Megumi has always been reserved” She agrees to Itadori’s comment, but her voice is distant, clouded with something else as her mind grows too occupied.

It took some time after their first meeting for Megumi to grow on her.  Understandably, because he wasn’t exactly looking to grow on her.  He wasn’t looking for friends his age- he wasn’t looking for friends at all, really.  Whatever disease that had riddled his guardian’s mind in order to have him setting up playdates with this girl must have been fatal.  Or at least he’d hoped.

Time and time again she was dropped off at the Gojo-Fushiguro residence, or at the park where they were expected to play.  Time and time again Megumi barely spoke, barely looked at her, and hoped his blatant disinterest would be enough to deter Gojo from setting up anymore of the stupid playdates.

And honestly, (y/n) never really knew when that changed, or understood why it changed.  Her lip was caught between her teeth now as she thought it over, trying to trace back her steps to find the point in time where their acquaintanceship blossomed into true friendship, which she could confidently call their relationship now.

“Yeah, does he ever let anyone in?” Nobara scoffed, but she didn’t mean for it to come across as harsh as it sounded.  She had just felt awkward whenever she was around the raven haired boy, not knowing how to fill the silence as easily as Itadori.  “It just doesn’t make sense to me,”

From where he stood around the corner, Megumi slumped against the wall.  This is when he should have walked away, and forgotten he’d ever heard anything.  He shouldn’t have cared what they were saying about him, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that the new students didn’t feel buddy-buddy with him.  But there was some invisible force keeping him firmly in place, and intrigue won over logic in his mind as he waited to hear the rest of the conversation.

“I get you guys are friends and all, but how can someone like you be friends with someone so…” Nobara trailed off, and Megumi felt his heart drop to his stomach.  

He shouldn’t care.  This shouldn’t matter.  But then Nobara finally found the word she was looking for, and Megumi had never felt an ache in his chest quite like this before.

“Cold?”

Cold? His mind clung onto the word, picking it apart viciously.  Is that really what everyone thought of him? Is that really the image of himself everyone perceived? Again, he supposed he wasn’t the most expressive person, it wasn’t like he expected them to be singing his praises, but he certainly hadn’t expected that.

Before he could convince himself that he was being silly, he found himself frowning.  Never before had he cared what anyone thought.  As someone who actively kept people at arm's length, Megumi couldn’t think of a time he ever thought twice about someone else’s opinion of him.

And just as he’s ready to scoff and walk away, forgetting his book once more and deciding to never think about this moment of weakness again.

But then (y/n’s) speaking up.

“Cold?” She repeats the word, and Megumi stops in his tracks again at the tone of voice she takes.  His brows furrow and he’s leaning against the wall again, trying to decipher what the emotion that riddled her tone was.  Anger? He wondered, puzzled.�� Humor? 

Raising from his stomach like it had been brought back to life, his heart stutters in his chest.

“Megumi’s anything but cold,” (y/n) argues, in that same tone of voice that he’d never heard before.  She follows it with a chuckle that sounds anything but humored.  “He’s the warmest person I know” 

Really? Megumi almost laughs to himself before remembering he was trying to stay hidden.

“Really?” Nobara gapes back at her, and (y/n) nods furiously.

“Absolutely,” She declares, firm in her stance.  “I’ve never met anyone like him.  He’s one of the kindest, most caring people I’ve ever known, you just have to know him, I suppose,” 

Honestly, hearing her argument, Megumi’s not all that sure what she’s talking about.  But he continues to hover in the hallway, now dying to know more.

“Megumi’s not like everyone else,” (y/n) says, her voice softening as she tries to explain her old friend’s habits to her new friends.  “He’s quiet, yeah, he’s always been that way.  But he’s not cold.  He’s quite the opposite.  He… he has a really big heart…” She trails off, chuckling to herself a bit.

I don’t know about that, Megumi thought bitterly, only for his face to heat up at such a sweet accusation.

“He probably wouldn’t say the same,” (y/n) speaks his thoughts exactly.  “But it’s true.  Megumi shows he cares through actions, not words” 

“Ohh..” Nobara and Yuuji spoke in unison.

(y/n) giggled a bit at the both of them.

“He’ll grow on you,” She tells them kindly.  “It takes time, but… Megumi’s one of the greatest friends anyone could ask for.  I’m certainly lucky to have him in my life” 

If Megumi wasn’t blushing before, he certainly was now.  Even though no one was around to see, he found himself tucking his face into the collar of his jacket to hide the way his cheeks flushed with color at her openly affectionate words.

“Wow, (y/n), that’s really sweet,” Yuuji cooed.  “You must be very close, how long have you known each other?” 

“Well, a while,” (y/n) thought it over.  “Gojo tried to set us up as best friends when we were younger.  But I wouldn’t say it really worked till a year or so ago.  But I mean what I said, I respect him a lot.  He’s a really good person,” 

Really? Megumi smiled to himself at such a blatant lie.  She would think that.

“He always helps me when I need it, especially when it comes to training, or studying,” (y/n) goes on to explain.

Well, he supposed that was true.  But he just wanted her to excel in their field, she had so much potential, it was only right to help her when she needed it.

“And he is kind of a secret gentleman,” She goes on, dropping her voice as though sharing a secret.  “Even before we were close, he’d carry my things for me, or open the door, pull out my chair…” She trails off as she recalls all the instances.

Megumi nodded to himself, confirming that she was telling the truth.  But that was just the right thing to do, Gojo had raised him right in that area, after all.  You treat women with respect, but he also believed in treating people the way he wanted to be treated.  Those two things seemed to overlap when it came to her.  So again, he realized that (y/n) was right about him.  He was starting to wonder if she knew him better than he gave her credit for.  Or even better than he knew himself.

“There was one time when we were younger…” She smiles at the memory.  “We stole a cookie out of Gojo’s stash, he broke it in half for us, and then gave me the bigger piece” 

Nobara and Yuuji take note of the way her eyes glaze over with fondness as she remembers the day.  They hadn’t even been friends yet, it was one of the instances where she was dropped off and left with him for hours in the hopes of the two of them becoming friends.  In fact, that particular day, she’d spent most of the time flipping through magazines with Tsumiki.  Thinking about it now, however, (y/n) wonders if that was the first bridge between them.  The uneven halves of a chocolate chip cookie being a shared secret from the white haired man knocked out on the living room couch.  She makes the mental note to ask Megumi if he remembers it that way.

“Aww!” Nobara clasps her hands together as she fawns over the simple memory.  (y/n) can’t help but laugh a little at the way her classmates treat Megumi’s soft side.  “He must’ve had a ‘widdle crush on you!” She teases in a cartoonish voice.

Megumi’s eyes widened upon hearing the declaration.  Had he come across that way? His heartbeat picked up with anxiety, and he worried about what (y/n) would have to say next.

Because he certainly didn’t have a crush on her.  All those nice things he did for her, he did because they were friends, they were all things friends would do, right? Helping her with training, carrying her bag when she complained about her back hurting, cooking her dinner when she said she hadn’t eaten all day, taking her to that movie she wanted to see even though he thought it was predictable and cheesy- Megumi was sure that was just being a good friend.  Whether or not he wanted to do those things for her was out of the question.  

Just as she’d said- he showed he cared through actions.

Nevermind what he thought.  Nevermind if she was the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.  Nevermind if she had the kindest heart he ever had the pleasure- or luck- of meeting.  Nevermind if she proved time and time again that she was the most wonderful person through and through- 

Megumi thought he was going to throw up just thinking about it.  But he couldn’t help himself.  He thinks about her most hours of the day, he realizes now.  He waits for her to text him back, he wonders what she’s doing when he’s not around, tons of things reminded him of her.  That flower she pointed out in the garden, anything that was her favorite color, when it rained, when the sun was shining, hell, even his own shikigami made her cross his mind.

Fuck.

He shakes his head as he tries to ground himself back to reality.  None of that was really evidence of him having deeper feelings for her though, was it? He could care about her strongly as a friend, couldn’t he? How stereotypical was he for second guessing himself as soon as he cared about his friend who was a girl.  A pretty girl.  They were capable of being friends without romantic tension.

But then again, if she were to make a move, he wouldn’t exactly push her away, would he? 

His face feels impossibly hotter at the question he raised to himself.  What a tricky answer that was, indeed.  The gears in his brain began to malfunction and break down over how simple the answer that came to him was.

“I don’t know about that…” (y/n’s) voice softens as she trails off.

Something unfamiliar bubbles up in Megumi’s stomach.  It feels like he’s eaten too many sweets and washed it down with pure alcohol.  It’s bubbly, and sickeningly sweet.  It makes the tips of his fingers buzz and the corners of his lips tug into an uncontrollable smile.  He’s not sure if he hates the feeling or wants to chase after it.

“Well, you should ask him out!” Yuuji cheers.

“Wh- what?” (y/n) stammers back.

“I bet he’d say yes,” The pink haired boy says with a bright smile of affirmation.  “You’re definitely his favorite, and he stares at you a lot” 

I do?

“He does?” (y/n) asks, sounding a little breathless.  

Was she surprised? Horrified? Megumi couldn’t tell.  He was dying to see the look on her face, so he could get a proper read on how she was processing all of this.

“Oh yeah.  I see him staring at you all the time” Yuuji confirms.

“Me too” Nobara chimes in.

“Honestly, I thought you guys were dating when I first got here” Yuuji adds.

He did?

“You did?” (y/n) can’t help the small chuckle that comes out of her.  “Why?” 

“Dunno,” Yuuji shrugs.  “He stands close to you.  And most of the time when he talks it’s just to you.  I just thought it was flirting” 

No you idiot, I just don’t need anyone eavesdropping on- oh… Megumi drags his hand over his face, tugging on his skin as his eyes roll back.  Fuck, he was the biggest idiot on the planet.

Of course he had a crush on her.  How long had he not noticed? Or had it always been there? 

(y/n’s) giggling pulls him out of his train of thoughts.  Cute and bubbly, he can tell from their sound that she’s shaking her head in disbelief.

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” She tries to deter her new friends from going down that path, but her voice has that same soft and sweet tone that Megumi hopes he’s not reading into when he thinks she’s hopeful that they could have it all right.  “We’ve known each other for a while.  I think if something were to happen it would’ve happened already” 

It’s quiet for a beat, and Megumi’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest now he can feel it in his ears.  It’s upsetting and distracting, as he’s dying to hear more of this conversation.  He worries he might’ve picked up a real knack for spying, but he can’t think of anything more interesting than this.

“You say that like you want something to happen,” Nobara teases.  “Are you the one with a crush?” 

With every second that passes before (y/n’s) response, Megumi frets he’s going to pass out.  He’s sure his body is going to hit the ground giving away his embarrassing eavesdropping.

“I…” (y/n) starts but trails off.  Megumi wishes he could peek around the wall and watch the scene unfold.  He’s sure that if he could see her, he could deduce her answer for himself.

If she was fidgeting, then he could confirm that she did, in fact, harbor a crush on him.

If she was standing still out of shock from the idea, then he’d know she thought the idea was preposterous, and there wasn’t a chance she felt anything more for him.

“I haven’t thought about it” She finishes quietly.

There’s some shuffling of feet and a distant hmmph from Nobara’s disbelief, or intrigue, maybe.  Either way, the conversation must’ve been done.  Yuuji was shouting goodbyes as he left the room to meet up with Maki for rigorous training.  Nobara followed suit shortly after, claiming she had nothing better to do so watching Maki train was the perfect way to spend her afternoon.

(y/n) laughed and waved goodbye to her friends.  Once they were out of sight she let out a shaky exhale.

Jesus, that was close, she thought as she finally made her way to the couch, ready to collapse and relax.  Her heart had been racing in her chest for the last few minutes and she needed a break from Yuuji and Nobara’s prying eyes.  She was sure they’d seen right through her, sure they’d been able to tell she was lying through her teeth.

Just as she was about to fall onto the cushions and let the couch take her into a much needed afternoon nap, she noticed a thick hardcover book had been left behind.  There was a bookmark sticking out of it halfway between the covers, but all of the pages before it were littered with small sticky notes.  She’d recognized it right away, if not for remembering this was the book Megumi had been reading all week, she’d deduce it was his from the heavy annotations.  She’d never met anyone who took reading as seriously as he did.

With a small smile she picked it up, deciding she could nap a little later.  He was likely wondering where he’d left the book after all, she was pretty sure he had the afternoon free.  On a mission, she heads out of the common room, while flipping to the first page marked by a skinny pink tab.

She’s so lost in reading the little comments he’d left on a larger note inside of the page- rather than actually reading any of the actual text- that she didn’t notice Megumi in the hall until she practically ran into him.

“Oh- sorry!” She yelped quietly upon seeing the tall figure in her peripheral.  When she looks up to see it’s Megumi, her shock melts into a small smile.  “Oh, Megumi! I was just coming to look for you,” She beams brighter, closing his book and extending it to him.  “This is yours, right?” 

Not knowing what to say, he gives her a shaky nod before taking the book from her hands.  He settles for a small thank you.

“No problem,” She replies.  “It was in my nap spot” She adds sheepishly.

Megumi chuckles, and he’s unable to keep himself from grinning.  (y/n) tilts her head at his bright smile, intrigued by the pure joy seeping out of him.  Her fingers latch together as a group of butterflies in her stomach begin to flutter in her stomach.

“Hey, I was wondering…” She starts, her brows pinching with uncertainty, but Megumi gives her his undivided attention.

“Yeah? What is it?” He asks, tucking the book under his arm.

He watches the way her fingers begin to fiddle.  He’s distracted by the nervous habit of hers, and his heart swells in his chest.  She was fidgeting.

“Uh, ah- it’s silly-” She starts to change her mind, but he shakes his head at her, too eager to hear what was on her mind to let her back out of it now.

“I’m sure it’s not,” He says boldly.  She must catch the way he looks at her in complete seriousness, because her eyes widen in the smallest amount.  “What is it?” He asks again.

Her cheeks feel warm, and Megumi watches in real time as a rosy tint flushes her face.  He can’t believe it took him so long to realize just how deeply he cared about her, because seeing her fidget and blush before him now, he thinks it could be his favorite sight of all time.

“D’you remember when we were little, and Gojo always made us have those playdates?” She asks with a small laugh that dies quickly as she’s overcome with bashfulness.

“Yeah, how could I forget that?” He chuckles back at her, his lips lifting into a fond smile, even though in most of his memories of that time, he was an irritated, angry little thing.  “What about it?” 

(y/n) opens her mouth to explain, but quickly shuts it and shakes her head.  A soft smile adorns her lips as her eyes fall to her hands, still fidgeting nervously.

“I dunno, I guess I…” She’s never struggled for words more than this moment, and she curses herself for acting like a shy little girl when she’s known Megumi for years, and she’s never quite felt like this.  “Do you remember when we became friends?” She rushes the question out, afraid that she’d say forget it and walk away with regret rather than feel a little embarrassment now and actually get an answer.

Megumi nods.

“I do” He responds right away.

“Like, actual friends,” (y/n) clarifies, sure that he spoke too soon.  “Not just kids dropped off at a playground for three hours and being expected to play together, I mean, like, real friends” 

Megumi nods again.

“I do,” He repeats, this time with a small chuckle.  “You don’t?” 

(y/n) chews on her lip as she shakes her head.  Her brow furrows in the slightest, curious as to how he has the better memory of the two of them.  Amused, he smirks at her.

“Well?” She asks impatiently.  “What changed?” 

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” He teases softly, making her roll her eyes.  “You’re hurtin’ my feelings, (y/n/n)” 

“I didn’t know you had feelings, ‘gumi,” She retorts playfully.  “But c’mon, tell me” She pleads sweetly, her eyes glittering with anticipation.

His eyes flicker between hers for a moment, swept away with the way she looked at him.  It dawns on him that if she asked him any favor this way, he’d comply without hesitation.  Her complete attention was on him, and he swore there was something in her eyes he’d never seen before.  Or perhaps he’d just never noticed it.  It was soft, but there was a depth there that he was aching to explore further.

“It was right before we came here,” He finally indulged her, his voice quiet like he was revealing a well kept secret, rather than a memory they actually both shared, even if she’d forgotten it.  “The weekend before, actually.  When we were moving into the dorms, you remember that?” 

(y/n) nods at the general memory.  She thinks she recalls making fun of him for listening to Weezer while unpacking in the room right across from hers.

“Gojo let us stay one night early.  Probably so he could have his place to himself,” The thought dawns on Megumi a little late, but he chuckles realizing it now.  “But at the time it was cool… cause we’d never been on our own before” 

“Right,” (y/n) smiles as she thinks about it now.  That first night on her own in her own space had felt so special, so exciting.  It was almost humorous how normal it felt now.  How her space felt completely her own.  “I almost forget how it was just you ‘n me for a bit here” 

“But you don’t remember the first night?” He asks.  A smile line creases between (y/n’s) brows as she racks her mind for the rest of the memory.

Making ramen noodles in the kitchen far too late in the night because she couldn’t sleep.  Pacing around the corridors and snooping where she shouldn’t have.

“You woke me up,” Megumi chuckles.

Realization dawns on her in the form of an embarrassed smile.

“Oh,” She muses softly.  “Right… I couldn’t sleep and… I was bored” 

“You begged me to get up with you, it was torture,” Megumi reminded her.  “And then you made me watch a movie with you, that dumb 80s movie you like that was way too long- and you didn’t even stay awake through it” 

“Okay okay-” (y/n) tries to dismiss him with a wave of her hand, but Megumi continues.

“But you talked through most of it anyways,” He speaks over her before she could get him to shut up.  “You said you were scared” 

Her eyes widen, and the story he’s telling sounds vaguely familiar, but truthfully she’d been so exhausted that night she couldn’t really remember the specific details all that well.  But she did remember waking him up in the middle of the night, so she’s surprised he’s able to recall this random moment from a year ago so easily.  Maybe his memory was just better than hers.

“I… I did?” She mumbles.

Megumi nods back, with his focused eyes set on hers.

“You said you were scared of failing,” His voice grows quiet again.  “You said you… you were scared of not getting stronger,” 

Despite this event having happened so long ago, (y/n) feels embarrassed now, and she can’t believe that Megumi’s clung to this memory in particular.  She almost wished she hadn’t asked, because she could’ve lived in peace never having known she’d revealed such a massive insecurity to him.

“And then you told me that you thought I was strong,” Megumi continues, a smile curling on his lips.  “And you asked if I’d help you get strong like me, too,” 

She’s sure she must be seeing things when she notices color flush his cheeks.  Because there was no way Fushiguro Megumi was blushing in front of her right now.

“Then you passed out on me and I was stuck watching the rest of the dumb movie so you wouldn’t wake up” 

“You watched the rest of the movie?” She asks softly.  He chuckles at her, and nods his head.  “I can’t believe I don’t remember any of that” 

“You were pretty tired,” He shrugs back in understanding.  “And it was a while ago, I wouldn’t have expected you to remember all of that” 

“I see…” (y/n) mumbles to herself.  She drags her lip between her teeth as she stays quiet for a few moments.

“And by the way,” He steps forward, catching her attention again as her eyes snap up to meet his, suddenly aware of the small space left between them.  “I do kinda stare at you a lot” 

Her face lights up with so much heat she thinks she’s going to combust.

“You- you heard that?” She squeaks out.

“And then some,” Megumi nods back.  For some reason, he doesn’t feel weird about shamelessly admitting that he’d been listening in on her conversation.  “Did you mean all of that?” 

Her mouth opens and closes a few times as her previous conversation comes back to her in waves.  The longer she thinks about it, the hotter the back of her neck grows.  He’d listened to all of that? He heard her ramble on about him? And had he heard that last part-? 

“I mean, y-yeah, yeah,” She stammers over her answer, accompanied with an awkward nod of her head.  “Of course I did” She says surely, but her voice is a mere whisper.

“Even that last part?” He asks, shuffling forward again.  Her eyes track the movement, bewildered by his sudden closeness, but she doesn’t dare put space between them.

“Last part?” She repeats, dumbly.

“Yeah,” Megumi nods, and he can’t help but reach out and trace his thumb under her jaw, ghosting over her skin with a touch so light she almost leans into it to feel it properly.  “You know, the part where you said you hadn’t thought about it, about me,” He reminded her, even though she remembers fully well what he was referencing.  “You meant that too?”

She swallows thickly.  The intensity of his eyes on hers was too much to bear, she could almost crumple to a heap on the ground, but her body is rigid, firmly planted before him by the pad of his thumb under her chin.

“No,” The word comes out in a whisper so soft Megumi wouldn’t have caught it had he not watched it fall from her lips.  “No, I didn’t mean that”

A smile twitched on his lips, and he could see her hands fidgeting again.  Just as he thought, he beamed as he met her eyes again, she felt it, too.

“What did you mean to say, then?” He asks the question that’s been lingering on his mind like poison being held in the back of his throat.

Her eyes wander to his lips as she realizes he’s been moving in impossibly closer.  She’s hoping, no, she’s sure he’s going to kiss her, but he wants his answer first.  Rightfully so, she supposes he’s been waiting to hear it, and if she was honest she was dying to get it off her chest.  But the prospect of so blatantly telling someone how you feel has her shifting her weight nervously.

“I meant…” She mumbles, snapping her eyes up to his when she thinks she’s stared at his lips for too long.  “I meant I have thought about… something more…” Her voice raises and drops in volume as she makes her confession weakly.  It’s certainly not a bold, romantic movie moment, like she always thought she’d have some day.  It’s timid, quiet, and a bit awkward on her end.  She clears her throat.  “But they didn’t need to know that” She says, a small giggle escaping her.

“No, ‘spose not” Megumi’s lips curled into a smile that had her nerves settling, comfortable again in his presence.  Although she’s sure she could never be truly uncomfortable with him.

“So… spying on your friends these days, hm?” (y/n) asks, tilting her head at him curiously.  She means for her tone to be playful, but it comes out in a whispery soft.  “That’s a bit out of character for you, Megumi”

Despite his warm face and stuttering heartbeat- he might need to go to Shoko, the irregular pace was becoming a concern- Megumi chuckles at her, and his smile doesn’t falter.

“When else was I gonna get to hear you say all that nice stuff about me?” He hums, effectively burning up her cheeks as well.  His thumb traces gently over her chin, his eyes following the movement fondly before meeting hers again.

Megumi had never really been a touchy person.  (y/n) could probably count on one hand the amount of times he’s ever touched her, and the first three instances that pop up in her mind revolve around him rescuing her ass when she was being reckless on an assignment.

“I liked the part where you said I was a gentleman,” He beamed a little brighter, and (y/n) had to grind her teeth into the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.  “But for the record,” He moves closer, and her eyes grow so round as she stares at him that they almost burn from her lack of blinking.  “I’m lucky to have you, too,” 

Her jaw loosens and her teeth no longer have a grip on her cheek, allowing for a sweet smile to stretch across her lips as she takes in the fond words.

Just as she thought.  He was the warmest person she knew.

“And,” He continued, his eyes moving between hers as he took in how pretty she looked when she was in a state of surprise, “You are my favorite” 

She laughs again, breathless and quiet before she rolls her eyes with nothing but fondness.

“I know,” She murmurs, narrowing her eyes in mock annoyance.  The smile on her lips was too sweet for him to think she was giving him anything other than her entire heart on a platter.  “Must be a side effect of your staring problem”

He tilts his head down, simultaneously lifting her jaw with a tender pull of his thumb, but just as his nose brushes over hers, he seems to remember his manners, and he can’t have her go thinking he’d dropped the gentlemanly side of him she seemed to appreciate so much.

“Can I?” He murmurs, his lashes rising and falling as his eyes travel between her gaze and her lips.  “Kiss you?” He clarifies.

And she almost laughs.  She wants to giggle and grab him by the shirt and smash her lips against his in a feverish, passionate kiss.  But her breath is caught in her throat, she can’t quite find her voice, and her fingers seem to have magnets clinging them together because she’s frozen before him.

So all she can do is shut her eyes and give the faintest nod of her head, barely pursing her lips before his are pressing against them.

Every muscle in her body relaxes as she’s flooded with warmth.  Her posture loosens up and even her hands pry apart as she finally finds the strength to lift them, setting them gently on his shoulders.  

His lips are surprisingly soft, even when she presses closer and kisses him deeper, they feel nothing but tender.  She feels light headed from how sweetly he kisses her, his free hand, the one that isn’t holding his book, splays across her cheek.  The tip of his index finger barely ghosts along her earlobe, before tracing down her jaw, and back up again.

She was damn near about to raise her foot like the girls in the movies do when they’re swooning over their true love’s kiss.  That shit was no joke.

When they part, she’s smiling at him again, and he’s mirroring her expression.  It takes her a minute to will herself to open her eyes, and her hesitation makes Megumi chuckle.

“Next time, I’ll let ‘em know you’re a good kisser, too” She mumbles, in a bit of a daze, as he could tell.

“Oh will you?” He teases quietly.

She nods, leaning her cheek into the comfort of his palm.  Her cheeks flush before she crinkles her nose, second guessing her previous statement.

“Well, maybe not right away” She mumbles, and he chuckles at her.  

The apples of his cheeks are bright, his smile is toothy, and his eyes sparkle with every lovely feeling humanly possibly, all held for her.

“Maybe not right away” He agrees in a soft voice, before tilting forward again, his thumb swiping gingerly across her cheekbone.  

She swears she could melt into the way his low voice comes out in a whispered husk against her lips.  Her eyes are already fluttering shut again.  His lips brush over hers sweetly, gently, as though for the first time.  She returns the tenderness, her fingers reaching up and ghosting along his sharp jaw, twitching with anticipation to touch more.  The desire to grab him by the face and crash their lips together is still a thought in the back of her mind, but she sets it aside for now.  She thinks he’ll make the time for her to do so later.

And suddenly Megumi believes her.  He believes all the kind things she’d said when coming to defense.  He believes he is warm, and he is caring.  But he only believes it because she made him so.  He thinks he’ll have to tell her, at some point, but it could wait for another time.  They were bound to have time ahead of him where he could spend hours on end returning the favor, and sing her praises until his face is blue and hers is pink. ___

xoxo ~ jordie

[brrmian]

something that so many star wars fans somehow fail to realize is that george lucas always intended for the fall of the republic to be a completely unavoidable tragedy. that’s what makes it such brilliant storytelling.

placing the blame on just one party in the galaxy-wide farce that was the clone wars just isn’t interpreting the story the way its writer intended. neither is saying that all players should be held equally accountable. i don’t think the jedi were at fault for the state of the republic, and (despite the fact that he did horrible things) neither was anakin, on a galactic or governmental scale.

the real villain is palpatine, who shaped the government into a corrupt system by his own hand. the blame for turning a democratic republic into an authoritarian dictatorship (which it was long before it became the empire) under the noses of thousands of incredibly corrupt politicians must be placed entirely on him, and him alone.

by the end of the war, the jedi council recognized that they had already lost the ability to hold onto what it truly means to be a jedi. in their prime during the days of the old republic, the jedi knights were “the guardians of peace and justice.” they’re meant to as diplomats, peacekeepers, mediators, and public servants. when the clone wars began, they were essentially forced into being soldiers, generals, and quasi-politicians by palpatine and the senate. all of those things are antithetical to the jedi’s beliefs, but they had no other choice.

placing even the smallest bit of blame on the jedi for anything leading to the republic’s downfall—and their own—is not only unfair, it’s factually incorrect. the jedi order is a monastic organization. they have no say in the senate and no voting power. saying they’re corrupt, when in fact they were just as conned by palpatine as the rest of the galaxy, is victim-blaming and scapegoating.

palpatine shoved the jedi face first into fighting the war, and pretty much threw the clone army into their laps on top of that. the jedi had no say in the matter, and they certainly had no say in the war itself being started, either. because he controlled both sides, palpatine was able to make the CIS and the republic declare war on each other even though its citizens wanted the same outcome: political independence and survival. if not for palpatine’s schemes, the separatists would have been allowed to secede peacefully, the republic would have continued existing, and the war would have been completely avoided. but that was unfortunately not the case.

so in a galaxy thrown into an unavoidable war by its own secret dictator, with an army of sentient slaves suddenly at their command, and the risk of billions of deaths at the hands of the droid army imminently approaching, what do the galaxy’s official peacekeepers have no other choice but to do? be peacekeepers. why wouldn’t the sworn defenders of the galaxy be out on the battlefields trying to end the war? if they sat in the temple and did nothing, they simply wouldn’t be jedi.

the jedi were forced into a lose/lose situation. every religion and organization has faults, but that doesn’t place any blame on them for the catch-22 they were trapped into falling for. when the clone wars started—and the key point here is that it never should have in the first place—the jedi still needed to be jedi. unfortunately for them, that meant having positions of power not meant for them being thrust upon their shoulders. they couldn’t drop the burden, because that meant actively choosing not to save lives—but the other option, becoming soldiers despite the tenet of their beliefs that dictates they shouldn’t, was no better.

see what a cruel trap palpatine set? it’s like a fish being caught in a fisherman’s net. the net is spread out across the ocean floor, and the fish swim above it, not knowing that the trap is waiting to be drawn in around them from below. in the end, when the net starts to tighten, dragging them closer to the surface, they can’t swim fast enough to escape from the middle to the edge—and to safety—before the net is completely tied. it’s the cruelest kind of trap: the kind that gives you just the right amount of time to think you can escape while being sprung just quick enough to make actually escaping impossible.

in the end, the order actively chose to fight the war because they needed to. there was no other way to continue on as who they were. militarizing the order was not the right choice in a vacuum, but this was not that; this was a situation in which every galaxy-changing choice was the wrong one. the jedi knew they were making a decision that drew them farther away from their beliefs, but it was the lesser of an infinite list of evils, and they didn’t see the walls closing in on them until it was too late.

lucas himself has even said that the order was not corrupt or decaying from the inside, nor did they make a series of bad choices that ultimately led to their own destruction. they were always just trying to do the right thing—but unlike literally everything else in fiction, the jedi order’s death was completely unaffected by any of the choices they made. no matter what they did, they were always going to lose. the fall of the republic wasn’t caused by its defenders choosing what they saw as the least bad choice. it didn’t come down to any decisions, political or not, that the jedi council made with the limited tools that they had. it certainly didn’t come down to one emotionally unstable twenty-three-year-old’s slow descent into insanity, either. the republic and the jedi would still have been destroyed with or without anakin’s unhinged nervous breakdown.

anakin, just like the order, the republic, and the separatists, was taken advantage of by palpatine. even if a person’s choices are their own, they don’t exist in a vacuum.

anakin would have made better choices if not for palpatine, but he didn’t. the jedi order would have kept the peace if not for palpatine, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t. the republic, and democracy with it, would not have crumbled if not for palpatine. not the order, not anakin, not the separatists, and not the republic.

in the end, they were all just pawns in a decades-spanning plan, one that none of them saw coming until it was too late—and by then, it was already irreversible.

[cowboy-kidd]

complicit // a regressor bruce wayne & caregiver alfred pennyworth drabble (pt. 3)

x - x - x

—NSFW DNI—

After Bruce’s little ‘slip up’ Alfred becomes more of an observer than an active participant in his charges' activities. He no longer does any poking or prodding. The realization that he doesn’t have to forcibly pry the boy open for answers but rather that he will come to his caretaker of his own accord (subconscious or otherwise) noticeably settles his heart and steadies his hands.

Just as Alfred’s patience pays off, so do Bruce’s escapades become more apparent. He overhears the boy sneaking into the cookie jar his guardian does his best to keep full- a well-before dying wish of Martha. When he pretends to be asleep by the firelight and Bruce brings his beat up coloring book and snapped in half crayons to come messily fill up the dirtied pages. His mourning grows louder and sounds much more pronounced- his sobs no longer muffled by an already damp pillow. The expression of his emotions become much more apparent in his face and body language, a stark contrast to what is usually such a “well put-together young man who knows how to handle himself.”

It doesn't show in the big things either. It’s one of the many critiques of Bruce that one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t looking. The slightest downturn of a lip at that day’s breakfast menu. Whenever Alfred isn’t where he’s expected to be at any given moment. When something’s too high for the boy to reach.

All of it is so achingly foreign and yet just as familiar as the butler’s own sleeping quarters. He knows in his mind's eye where his clothes are, how his furniture should be positioned, and what his made-up bed should look like. And yet everything is so different. This is not his room. This is Bruce in the absence of his parents. And it’s not necessarily that Alfred doesn’t know what to do- it’s more of a how to go about it. Like he’s holding an instrument he once knew how to play a long time ago, only to have it thrust upon him in the wake of a new realization.

On top of that, there is an insistent nagging in the back of his head that would otherwise be unrecognizable and even ignorable if not for the way it stops him in his tracks whenever he cracks the door open a bit and finds his young charge smothered in soft colorful blankets; the fragrance of both his mother and fathers perfume mixing garishly but permeating throughout the room nonetheless.

The binky from the other morning wedged between his lips and above it all; he looks at peace. The dry tear streaks caked on his face hold no weight. The boy is in stark resemblance of childlike innocence, picture-perfect. If Alfred didn’t know any better he’d assume something much more wholesome was going on. A child who wanted to stay up, lured to sleep by teary aching eyes and a familiar soother over the tongue. But he does know better, and instead he is like a deer stuck in headlights. Staring blankly at the face of a child who has no business grieving so seriously.

In fact, it is an inexplicable phenomena how silent and put together a child who used to be so rowdy and loud can be. And Alfred had just left it. Should Bruce not be stomping his feet and shouting at the top of his lungs until it reverberated off of the high ceilings and shook the chandelier till it fell from its perch?

Should he learn how to quiet himself and curl into a ball in order to no longer inconvenience those whose very presence is there in order to be inconvenienced? Should he feel inexorably selfish for wanting what can no longer be?

Those are the thoughts that keep the Wayne Family Butler awake far into the night. That keeps him scrubbing the counters until his knuckles are a bright, pomegranate red. That allows him unrest whenever he finds the strength to simply sit down. Until one day he finds himself in the store on a familiar drowsy and drizzly day. Gotham’s staple. The rain plops against the entranceway in a random fashion, roughly beating against the storefront's glass doors.

He’s standing in the baby aisle, memory’s flitting through his mind with the likeness and rapidity of a familiar rolodex that used to perch so prettily (still does) on Thomas’ desk. When Martha was pregnant with Bruce she’d drag him here and hand him a basket. Only to fill it with milk and cookie baking ingredients. Then she’d walk right over to the very aisle he’s standing in.

The tiles are squeaky clean, a murky reflection of his black penny loafers glaring back at him. He deigns to move his eyes down, keeps them glued on what’s in front of him. As if looking around and observing his surroundings would break the reminder of such a painful saccharine memory.

The aisle is put together nicely. It’s like the thousands of soothers, bottles, blankets, and their ilk glare into him- their perfection anything but in the wake of their use. The faint call of Martha’s voice makes his head twist to the side. Neck cracking with the speed, eyes alight with intensive, almost-there recognition. But the voice floats off somewhere far and safe. Somewhere he cannot reach in this Tantalus complex. Martha is not there. Martha will never be there. But he is.

He’s here. In the baby aisle. Grabbing new coloring books and checking the price tags to make sure that only the most expensive markers, pencils, and crayons are in hand. Added to that are a few new binkies and soothers and bottles that he’ll have to boil. There is a wetness on his face that he wipes away with an uncanny quickness as he gently places said accessories inside of his cart. Right next to some milk and cookie baking ingredients.

[flaim-ita]

ooh i want lore 👀🌌

Hello!

On World of Decade, different types of Kaijin are treated very differently.

(Eugenics, fantasy racism, and genocide discussed under the cut because this is World of Decade, you know, a world in which a Nazi cult in Japan has taken over the world. Be warned.)

This ties into how a fascist World deals with born Vs made monsters, as well as a key figure on the Shocker scientific community, Doctor Shinigami, who believed that one’s creations should both be treated as people and considered important steps towards perfection, even the “failures”.

(He personally did not believe in making or upgrading any family of his own, not until it was thrust upon him, but that’s another story)

Higher level Kaijin in General positions are generally considered masterworks. More rank and file created Kaijin are considered separate from their original identity, but still human.

Most who went into the Mook business, which was most of society under this Japanese Nazi cult rule, had minor enhancements if they could afford it.

Naturally born monsters did not have rights. They were a means to an end, and if they proved useless or dangerous, they were wiped out. This is most obvious in Torachnid, who has been abused as a test subject since age 6, in a bid to protect and care for their family.

Tsukasa himself is in an odd gap, because his genius scientist mother means most consider him to be a “designed” Kaijin, despite his parent being naturally born, but being a half breed, he is still prevented from being affected by any child labor laws in place, become legal guardian of his 5 year old sister at age 10, and manipulated into becoming Great Leader by age 14.

Part of why he connecte to other Worlds I the protection this arguable mingling of evil cultures brought him, not knowing that, even then, many wanted him dead.

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

           Yanluo Wang, the Chinese God of Death.            He is the owner of Hui Wei Cha Tea House.

FC NAME/GROUP: luo yunxi (leo luo), actor GOD NAME: yanluo wang PANTHEON: chinese OCCUPATION: owner at ‘hui wei cha’ tea house HEIGHT: 179cm DEFINING FEATURES:

long hair that he can glamour short when he needs to blend into a crowd

eyes turn bloody red when annoyed or when he has to exert himself

is able to grow ox horns when extremely angry

PERSONALITY: he was feared. he was righteous. he was a force to be reckoned with. fiery hands, a piercing gaze and a dead heart - that’s how diyu’s residents would describe their king, yanluo wang. he was a man without family, and no companions. safe for two guardians under his wing, yanluo was a lone soul. no matter who warmed his bed at night or drank tea with him during the day, he was a private man.

despite his somewhat intimidating aura, yanluo does have a warm spot in his heart for those he respects and cares for. baby animals and young children affect him. a young man or woman seeking for his guidance or patronage may be surprised at finding his door open for them. he heeds the call of those in mortal danger, but will smite anyone who may appear to have harmful intentions towards him or towards those he considers his. 

however, despite being fond of some people, none is actually always safe from yanluo. he may embrace you one day, and scorn you the next. appeasing him and kowtowing may work sometimes, but don’t rely on such tactics. after all, darkness grows where darkness is harboured. centuries of inflicting torture and living amongst the filthiest of the filthy has left its mark on what used to be a gracious, lenient and compassionate god of the people.

HISTORY: chapter i.

he used to be the first king of hell. then the fifth. ’too lenient’, the heavens had muttered. yanluo wang had been too merciful in his judgements of the mortal souls. too many had entered heaven, displeasing the authority in the skies, and he had been swiftly demoted. now, he was king of all. ruler of diyu - judge, jury and executioner. with guardians ( aka minions ) to do his bidding. yanluo want did not make the same mistake twice. he was intelligent, and a diligent worker. yanluo did not take disrespect lightly, and was ambitious. his ambitions had placed him on a throne he was intending to keep for all eternity.

yanluo’s elevated position gave his innate powers a boost, as did his ego. diyu itself was no longer enough to satisfy the lord of the dead’s desires. he wanted more; wanted to experience what life beyond the gates of hell had to offer. curious about the mortals whose souls he judged in death, yanluo then ventured out of hell and into the bustling world of the living. disguised as a handsome young man, he soon gained attraction - from males and females alike. years passed as yanluo wang learned about the humans nüwa created, and with that knowledge came insight in human relations, and a specific courting dance ensued.

chapter iii.

in a past long forgotten, before recorded history, yanluo once held his child. a human, a wonderful and gorgeous woman, had given him a gift of life. with eyes full of wonder ( and disbelief ), yanluo had gazed upon the small, delicate bundle and cautiously reached for it. completely trusting him, that youthful, mortal woman had handed yanluo her child.

( and in doing so, sealed both the babe’s and the god king’s fates. )

pained screeches had pierced yanluo’s ears as the babe’s face contorted in agony. just seconds before, the baby girl had been peacefully asleep. but the moment yanluo wang’s hands had touched the baby, her skin started melting. the stench was maddening, the sight gruesome and yanluo’s heart froze over.

the look in the god’s eyes turned to shock as he stood bending over his own child, watching skin boil. absolutely terrified, yanluo thrust the child back into her screaming mother’s arms. the pain from the mortal’s fingernails having clawed at his neck didn’t register as the god took a step back.

it was the first and last time the god of death ever held a child.

stricken with grief ( and a simmering rage deep inside ), yanluo wang finally returned to diyu. he didn’t reappear in the mortal world until countless decades later. when the pain of his loss had become a dull throb inside his chest, and the control over his own powers strengthened.

chapter ∞.

once again among mortals, the god of death observed from a distance. yanluo had learnt another valuable lesson. pleasures of the skin, a good game of ‘go’, and cultivating one’s mind with taoists, yanluo enjoyed it all. but never again did he let a mortal get close enough for emotional attachments.

( unstable emotions were detrimental to his control. )

as the centuries passed and human life modernised, yanluo remained more or less the same. hidden in the shadows, his existence was quiet yet powerful. the god fulfilled his duties of weighing justice and meting out punishments, embracing the wicked souls within diyu’s arms. and if he enjoyed executing his duties a little bit too much, no one confronted him about it. and no one could. there was a darkness within yanluo wang, one that had been growing for a long, long time as he had been holed up within the shadowy planes of the underworld.

this particular singe of darkness however remained nestled deep within yanluo’s heart, momentarily suppressed, as he made his way towards a new destination. a city of gods; a new place to discover with new stories to learn and fresh memories to make. the king of death once again hungers for more, and he intends to find it on mount phoenix.

POWERS: 

afterlife judgement: as the god of death, judging the souls of the deceased, he has the ability to be either the soul’s salvation, sending them to heaven or have them be reincarnated, or the soul’s damnation, damning them to a torturous eternity in diyu.

afterlife border/travelling: yanluo is free to go back to diyu or take other with him ( temporarily ).

afterlife connection: yanluo is always spiritually connected to his realm and its residents, even when he is not physically there. he can receive messages, send messages and spiritually interact with the realm and its spirits.

scald generation & knife/blade proficiency: yanluo is known to torture wicked souls by boiling them, and gouging limbs and body parts. his touch can be decaying/melting.

blood manipulation: due to yanluo’s lordship over the fifth layer of diyu ( mountain of blood ), he has the power of blood manipulation.

death sense: yanluo can sense the coming of death, when it is near. he is also able to sense the lifespans of the people he sees.

necromancy: yanluo can temporarily raise the dead. what appears are zombie-like creatures that are fully under yanluo’s command.

STRENGTHS:

as one of the oldest gods in the pantheon, yanluo has near perfect control over his powers, minus some particular limitations.

patient, intuitive, observant, respectful, soft ( sometimes ), intelligent, agile, careful, charming, fair

yanluo is generally fearless and accepts challenges. he does calculate the outcomes before though.

yanluo listens well to his subordinates and takes their opinions into consideration, especially at work.

despite what one might think, yanluo’s nature is to be a protector. it is because of this nature that he tends to seclude himself from other people in case he may harm them, and instead prefers to be a guardian in the shadows.

got pets or high quality tea? that’s sure to catch yanluo’s attention!

when he loves, yanluo loves wholly, deeply and intensely.

he looks good in nearly anything he wears but he does prefer wearing traditional clothing, like hanfu.

WEAKNESSES:

in regards to afterlife border/travelling, yanluo can only take one person with him into diyu for a total of ten minutes at a time. any longer, and the person’s body will perish, trapping their soul in the underworld. for this reason, yanluo has never taken a single mortal with him back to diyu. yanluo can also weaken the border that gives access to diyu, but he will not likely do this. his sense of duty and justice is stronger than his power to lower the barriers.

afterlife connection: yanluo is only able to connect with souls and spirits inside diyu ( belonging to the chinese pantheon ), and not any other realm. trying to connect to diyu takes a lot of energy, especially now he is no longer physically on mainland china. receiving messages tires him out, and sending messages/commands lowers his enhanced senses to the state of being groggy afterwards.

yanluo can only scald others by using his hands. he needs to be physically touching the person for their skin or blood to boil and melt. 

because he is not physically where he belongs ( in diyu ), yanluo’s death sense is limited to a distance of 20 kms in each direction. seeing lifespans does not give him the name of the person he is seeing. 

necromancy: limited to beings with a soul, and limited to time ( max a day ). 

can be menacing, vindictive, obsessed with decorum, difficulty adapting, guarded, violent, lonely, competitive, distrusting, secretive, distant

if he ever meets one of his own children, that would be both a blessing and a curse to yanluo: he would be nervous, stumble over his words and definitely be too stiff to hug any of them.

[6silentwulf3]

A look ahead

The XFL has been back for 5 weeks now and I can honestly say, this league seems legit. My initial thoughts of things being a bit scripted have left me and what is left is the feeling that I can really allow myself to fully enjoy the product on the field. The teams seem more settled, and the games are exciting and draw you in. My only gripe is some of the QB play, I know this isn't the NFL but there is at a base level competent QB play (except Marcus Mariota). Now of course there are NFL QB's that probably shouldn't be starting anyways or players on teams where their lack of production is not a reflection of their talent but the team or poor organizational management (Justin Fields).

The XFL has some really QB's don't get me wrong, but they are a few teams who's QB rooms could do with some elevating. The Brahmas, The Renegades, and The guardians are the teams I think of as being in QB limbo. The Brahmas have been better in the last couple of games about this, but the other 2 are very much still suffering from not having established leadership on the offensive side of the ball. This is so important in the context of football, the best example I have of just how important this is comes directly from the NFL QB market.

Daniel Jones, a quarterback universally considered mid just inked a deal for 45 million a year. Watching his film you can clearly see he benefited from fantastic coaching more so than his own skill. That of course isn't to say he has no talent, he still has to make the throws but Brian Daboll knows exactly how to put him in position to succeed. NFL teams know just how hard it is to find "their guy", the guy that can be a leader of men and take control of in times of need, a captain that can go out to see and calm the waters when all seems lost and bring forth from chaos victory and a Lombardi trophy.

What is important to players and GM's at the highest level of professional football is also important for spring league teams and even randoms playing in public parks. Leadership is important, having someone that can elevate the play of others and make the best out of whatever situation thrust upon them is imperative for success. So going forward, the XFL's coaches need to develop in their leaders good decision making to raise the floor of play in the whole league and to make better product for their fans. Right now a lot of the excitement of the game comes from the huge mistakes from lesser passers coughing the ball up due to clear mistakes in decision making instead of big brain QB play.

[that-student-that-has-homework]

tbh Dadan was not a suitable guardian, she definitely did not help Ace by actively blaming him and also complaining to Garp that he’s essentially intolerable while he could still hear them

that being said, she does redeem herself somewhat when she risks her life to save him, and while it was harsh, I do respect her stopping Ace from storming after the celestial dragons by using Roger. She really said: if you’re gonna die, do something worthwhile with your life first.

Dadan literally had Ace thrust upon her while running something bandits, and while I follow Garp’s logic, this was forced upon her and she wasn’t suitable for the position.

As for Rouge…I dunno, as a kid it’s hard to comprehend the whole: “she loved me enough to die for me” thing. It just reads as: “my mom died because of me and if I didn’t exist she wouldn’t have needed to die” especially when you consider how Ace essentially despised his existence

I think we, as a fandom, should talk more about the effect both Rouge and Dadan had on Ace… whether that be positive or negative

[thevindicativevordan]

Isn’t Kyle Rayner’s move into the background compounded by Geoff Johns forcing Hal Jordan back into the spotlight when no one was really clamouring for it (even if you did enjoy that run)?

I mean, Kyle was explicitly created to replace Hal and became very popular in his own right, so I understand people being upset with what happened. It’s the same thing that happened to Wally West - we take it for granted now, but the return of the old guard was never really viewed as on the cards back then.

"No one was really clamoring for it"? Oh how quickly we forget:

Hal fans never stopped screaming for his return, and the return of the Green Lantern Corps in general. If you thought the Snyder Cult was bad, these guys were their forefathers. And they hated Kyle for the exact reason you state: Kyle was meant to be Hal's permanent replacement, and furthermore to be a radical change in what being a Green Lantern meant. Wally and Barry can both be Flash without any major problems far as I'm concerned, but Hal and the GLC returning has hurt Kyle because Kyle is not supposed to be your standard GL.

Of the "Four Corpsmen" he's the only one who doesn't have a background in the military while Hal, John, and Guy do. He wasn't chosen because he was the best candidate but because he was the only one Ganthet could find on short notice. Finally Kyle's status relies upon being the "Torchbearer" the one who kept the green light going when Parallax had almost snuffed it out. Once the Corps comes back... where does Kyle fit in? His popularity came from being the "only" Lantern, a raw recruit handed the most powerful weapon in the galaxy and left to figure out how the hell he was going to redeem the name "Green Lantern" after Hal Jordan's fall. Once he's accomplished that and brought both the Guardians and the GLC back to life, what should be his new direction? The other human Lanterns have central conflicts rooted in their backgrounds and personalities, but Kyle's issues were mainly a result of inexperience. Time offered a solution to his problem in a way it didn't for the rest.

Yes Hal's return hurt Kyle, but if you look at the sales, Kyle's popularity was already slipping. That's what opened the proverbial door to the idea of bringing back Hal in the first place. GL's sales weren't doing very well, and Kyle was just as passé as Hal had been when Kyle had replaced him. Maybe my memory is failing me but while Johns may have pushed Hal as the "the greatest", I definitely remember a lot of GL stories around that time fawning over Kyle as "the torchbearer" and as Ion. Kyle kept being in a fairly unique position compared to the other human Lanterns.

DC kept trying to maintain his uniqueness by giving him roles that pushed him back into being "the rookie" again. Mastering Ion or the White Lantern powers was a way to reset Kyle without actually resetting him. Each time he was handed immense power with no training or mentor to guide him, and he had to figure out how to wield the power for good. Omega Men likewise thrust him into the center of a space sector's politicking that he knew nothing about, and he had to learn the realities of the Omega Sector first hand. A good kid in over his head has been the go-to story for Kyle ever since his debut, and I wonder if anyone can write a story for him that moves beyond that.

I see two possible directions for Kyle: one re-emphasize him as the Earthbound GL. Kyle has a life and a career here on Earth that's important, put him back in Los Angeles and make him that city's protector again. Give him a day job as an artist that he needs to meet deadlines for, and give him a non-superpowered civilian love interest to complement that. Nerf the ring so he needs to worry about food and paying rent, give him "normal problems" in addition to the superhero threats. Kyle was meant to be the Spider-Man of the GLs, so let's put that back at the front again. Otherwise let's throw him back into another Omega Sector situation where he's in over his head out in space and has to solve a crisis on his own. That Round Robin GL: Underworld On Fire pitch sounded perfect, bring that back the same way that Blue Beetle got brought back:

Fish out of water Kyle seems to be his best status quo for space adventures. Send him to another area of the DC cosmos we haven't seen before and do a story that lays out a case for what Kyle continues bringing to the table that none of the other Lanterns do.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Those who fell - Natasha Romanoff x reader x Gamora

Masterlist link

Summary; in life and death, the three of you are able to unite, and make the most of the time that the sacrifices of your lives have given you

Warnings; smut, threesome, oral sex (female receiving obviously), strap on sex, tribbing, fingering, mentions of death, angst

divider by @firefly-graphics

Gamora sunk her strap into your cunt, as Nat, your friend and fellow avenger clambered upon your face, sinking her pussy down onto your awaiting tongue as you hum satisfyingly at the taste of her silken essence. The green woman began to thrust as her hands secured their grip onto your waist, the red strap on affirming penetration consistently in and out of your walls.

You had all lost everything; life, lovers, hope, and thus all you had now was the sentence of rejoicing in your freedom from all the fabrications of the complications that were in regards to being alive. Natasha had faith that her and your family were to succeed in their mission, they were heroes, and they had saved you both from yourselves once upon a time, many long moons ago.

“Y/n.” Nat scrambled out your name as she rocked her hips against your face, spreading her juices down to the sides of your cheeks, you shook your head as you attached your mouth around her clit, enforcing a squeal to beckon out of her plump lips, as she bit on them, lost in the pleasure that you were granting them. Life had been cruel and deceiving, there was no light at the end of the tunnel, and thus, similar to now, you were responsible for crafting your own.

At the sound of your name, Gamora upped her pace, her emerald hands digging into the thickness of your thighs as she delved deeper within you, extracting a moan from you, that rumbled up and through Natasha’s body. “Shit, don’t stop ‘Mora.” Your words were muffled by the purchase of Natasha fucking herself down onto your face, but the message, though pursed together, was clear. You wanted more, and she, as a guardian of the galaxy, was here to help, and take partially for herself.

And the one thing that she was to be stealing was your orgasm, as she pulled away, as she had done to her own father, rejecting him and his ill wishes, removing the fake cock from inside of you, watching as your legs quivered for attention. Whines spurred out from your throat, peeking through Natasha’s body like shots of lightning cursing vigilantly through her. “Patience, I have something better; much better.”

She disengaged the harness from around her legs and waist, allowing the support to drop to the floor as she shuffled closer, hooking her palm around the curve and inside of your knee, bracing it to some height, as she steadied herself in the air, her feet prompting her against gravity, as she lowered her own cunt upon yours, descending the swell of her clit against the hood of yours, rubbing the skin grafted fabrics together, recalling tears in your eyes as you submitted to the pleasure.

Your own hands strayed from Nat’s hips, running down the crevice of her thighs as you looked up to her, the shadow of her full breasts blocking most of your view, trailing your fingertips down to prod at her swept aside labia, stroking the earnest and moist lips with the pads of your fingers, as you switched the position of your tongue upwards, so that it was flicking and delivering harsh sucks to her sensitive clit.

With your right hand, you swiped through her swollen folds, rasping in the feeling of Gamora’s pussy moving swiftly upon your own, as you entered a finger into the red head, listening intently as your name was preached from her rosy lips. You hummed at the taste of the assassin, softly shaking your head beneath her, as she tentatively ground down, revelling in the pleasure that you were basking upon her.

Gamora threw her black and red hair back, her lids closing as she felt your clit twitch at her notions, as you tried to grind back up against her. With hooded eyes, she watched as your tits softly swayed under the pressure that both women were laying upon your body; you were in absolute bliss, distracting yourself from the fall that had lead you all to be here. You had tried to save Nat, Clint was so focused on doing the same that he didn’t even have a chance of saving you as you descended, and he was left to survive of watching Natasha let go of his hand, wanting to save at least one life out of your iconic trio.

Even in the afterlife, the two of you remained together, fulfilling every fantasy that you had about the other. You had found Gamora lurking, lost in this imprisonment of a world, ashamed of having lead Thanos to Vormir, but proud that she had gotten her sister’s life spared. She was always the favourite, but here, she wasn’t judged upon her combat skills; rather instead there were other skills required to keep the pair of you happy and content, and she was more than eager to oblige.

The situation and those in the past were nothing more than distractions to the prospect of life that you were all missing out on. And like a white light, the same which she had seen whence her head had been unforced by a harsh impact to the behind, Natasha felt herself unravel. When she was done lulling in the glow of her orgasm, the redhead climbed off from your face, watching with flushed cheeks as you and Gamora went at it. Without her reducing your breaths, you were pursuing the thrill of the chase like animals, huffing and growling as you eagerly smashed your hips together, with intwined legs.

There was wetness spooling out from the main crevice of contact, spreading down your thighs as you and Gamora endlessly ground your folds and furthermore together, throwing your necks back as you leant in a stretch to get the best angle of stimulation. Nat found herself crawling closer as she pressed her lips to yours, delving her tongue within your mouth as your own swirled around the intrusion of hers, allowing her a second hand taste of her sweetness. Her hands ran down and pinched your nipples, evoking the image of fluttering eyelashes upon your face, as you grew mad with pleasure, spasming against Gamora as you joined her juices with her own.

A heavy sigh lifted from her chest as she untangled her legs from your own, turning over onto her front as she crawled towards you, smacking your legs apart as she took in the view of your pussy that was clenching around nothing, and the painted in her own cum, that was perfectly intermingled with the excess of your own. Out from the corner of your eye, as you passionately kissed Nat, you watched the enchantress, as she snuck her head in a closer vicinity to your personal parts, darting her tongue out to collect the blend of fulfilment, bringing her hand up to rub your clit as she ate you out.

“Holy shit.” You mumbled against Natasha’s mouth as your sensitive cunt took in more pleasure, despite practically having just came under the whim of the same woman that was tending to your will of overcoming a settlement of self mourning, reducing you to atoms of sweat and a heated body as her tongue rolled around your centre, Natasha nibbling on your tongue in the meanwhile. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” And you did, as you rolled your hips against Gamora’s face.

Natasha left you as she went in search of the strap, discovering it with a pleasant smile, as she put it on herself without aid, sending you a tender look as her eyes ran over your stimulated form. She grasped onto Gamora’s leant ass, as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as she knelt behind the woman, leaving the two in the doggy position. Nat grabbed the harnessed dildo with a gentle hand, rubbing against the hood of Gamora’s clit, as you shuffled back, and bent your knees upwards, absentmindedly fondling with your button, despite the growing burn in the bead of muscle.

Beginning to thrust into the guardian, Nat became rough, a tense and affirmative expression taking over her face, whilst Gamora wore one of dazed eyes and an agape mouth. It was quite the show, more so as Nat clapped her hand down on the other woman’s backside, pulling a strangled sound out of her throat. Perhaps being dead wasn’t so bad if you were to be gifted with the freedom of performing such erotic acts without a crunch of time and saving the world, but you missed your friends, this again, whilst being a grave fantasy, was a way to forget about them all, even if it be only momentarily.

“Natasha!” At the sound of her name, you remembered the way Clint would say it as he was piloting at the front of the quintet with her, or how Thor would formally greet her. Your hand went slack as you mulled over the memories, it felt like you were being stabbed in the chest. As Gamora was rendered through an orgasm by the black widow herself, you felt yourself cry, wanting nothing more, despite it being a gruelling task, than to fight, hell, even go through another accords. Anything was better than being dead.

feedback is always appreciated 💙

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: The Flash (Wally West)

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Wallace “Wally” West, also known as the Flash. Session One. So, Mr. West, how are you? 

Wally: Let’s go over the situation I’m in, shall we? My wife and I visit your creepy, Gothic asylum-perfectly legally, by the way- to make sure that Bruce Wayne is okay, and you get us arrested on bogus charges of trespassing. Then you pull strings to get me stuck in Arkham Asylum while I’m awaiting trial, and now you’re trying to have me declared legally insane so that you can lock me up in here for good. How the heck do you THINK I’m feeling? 

Hugo Strange: Your hostility is unnecessary, Mr. West. I am trying to help you. 

Wally: If this is your definition of ‘helping’ me, I’d hate to see what you do to people you want to hurt. Seriously, did you go to the Zoom Academy of Making Things “Beeetttteerrrr”? 

Hugo Strange: I am nothing like Mr. Zolomon, Mr. West. 

Wally: I’ll say you’re not. Hunter...he’s sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you? What’s your excuse? 

Hugo Strange: I do not need an excuse, Mr. West. You may not realize it yet, but you-and all the other costumed vigilantes-are doing more harm than good. 

Wally: What do you mean, more harm than good? I’ve had my powers since I was ten years old, and since then I’ve done my best to hold to the promise that I made to Uncle Barry: to use my speed only to help those in need, to combat evil-and never for my own personal gain. I haven’t been perfect at it-I’m not as selfless as Uncle Barry, and I’ve got quite a temper-but I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. 

Hugo Strange: Let’s talk about your Uncle Barry, shall we, Mr. West? 

Wally: Why? So you can twist my words and use them to make him out to be some sort of misguided lunatic? Not gonna happen. 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I assure you I bear no ill will towards Mr. Allen. Obviously, you bear a great deal of affection for him. I simply wish to know why that is. 

Wally: Because he’s a hero! He’s brave and loyal and honest and kind and good. He cares about everybody. He uses his powers to protect the weak and help the poor and defend the helpless. He became friends with Albert Desmond when nobody else would’ve given him a chance and got him his job at S.T.A.R. Labs, and he’s tried to help Mick Rory get the treatment he needs for his pyromania, too. He’s raised billions of dollars for charities, and he’s helped to save the world more times than I can count. (Pause) And he does all that while also working for justice as a police scientist! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, the exploits of Mr. Allen are well-known. I was asking you why you, in particular, are so fond of him. 

Wally: Well, he did marry my favorite aunt. (Pause) More importantly, though...as a kid, I really needed a hero, and he….he was my hero. My parents barely knew I was alive, except when I did something that inconvenienced them. When that happened, my dad would call me names or hit me, and my mom would wail and cry and guilt-trip….and then they’d go right back to obsessing over their own problems or arguing with each other. I...I felt like I was all alone, except for Aunt Iris. She was the one person in my family who really seemed interested in me, and she also had this awesome job as a reporter in a big city. She was really cool, but because I lived two hours away from her, I didn’t get to see her very much. (Pause) When Uncle Barry first became the Flash, I didn’t know who he was...but I idolized him. I was his biggest fan! I was even the President of the Blue Valley Flash Fan Club. (Pause, laughs) President and only member. The other kids thought he was cool, but they weren’t as invested in him as I was. To me, he represented freedom. 

Hugo Strange: It sounds as though you were a rather lonely little boy, Mr. West. 

Wally: Yeah, I guess I was. (Pause) That’s why I was so excited when my folks sent me to live with Aunt Iris in Central City during the summer when I was ten. And that’s when I first met Uncle Barry. Like I said, I didn’t know he was the Flash yet, so at first I thought he was...well, honestly? Kind of a dweeb. But then he told me that he knew the Flash and could introduce me to him. I was so excited, I probably could’ve inhaled an entire shoe. Anyway, Uncle Barry used his super speed to change into the Flash and act like he’d been waiting for me to arrive, and that’s when I met the Flash. He was everything I’d dreamed he would be. Even though I had been a little bit of a brat to him as Barry Allen, he treated me with respect; like he was happy to meet me and have me around, and it put me over the moon. Eventually, he started to explain how he’d gotten his powers, and that’s when it happened: lightning struck twice. I was doused in the same chemicals he’d gotten his super speed from, and I gained access to the speed force. It was the best day of my entire life. Besides the day I married Linda, of course. I became his sidekick, and from that point on, he was like a second father to me. He laughed at my stupid jokes, got me ice cream, took me on field trips, played games with me….all the things I dreamed of having my dad do with me. Eventually, he told me his secret identity. It was shortly before he and Aunt Iris got married, and I was ecstatic to learn that my favorite aunt was going to marry my hero. I was the ring bearer at their wedding, and from that point on, Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris basically raised me. They helped me through my parents’ divorce. Uncle Barry taught me how to balance a checkbook and apply for college scholarships; Aunt Iris helped me get my driver’s license and taught me how to really notice when other people were in need. (Pause) If it hadn’t been for them, I...I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. Maybe I’d be one of Captain Cold’s strays right now. 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, let me posit a question to you. If your uncle loved you so much, why did he put you in a costume and allow you to fight dangerous criminals? You became the so-called Kid Flash at ten years old, and by the time you were eleven, you had already faced the Weather Wizard, Captain Cold, and the first Mirror Master-to say nothing of your garden-variety gangsters and thugs. Surely, a responsible adult would have ensured that you stayed far away from such violence...and yet Mr. Allen seemed to almost thrust you towards it. 

Wally: (Annoyed) Thrust me toward it? Are you kidding? If Uncle Barry hadn’t allowed me to be his sidekick, I’d have struck out and done superhero work on my own. I wanted to be just like him, remember? If anything, I thrust him into letting me fight criminals. (Pause) Besides, it wasn’t like he was just letting some random kid fight crime. I had super speed, remember? The chances of my getting shot were virtually nil. And the Rogues have a thing about not hurting kids. I wasn’t in any particular danger, especially not with Uncle Barry watching out for me. 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, you obviously are unaware of this, but your uncle is a very sick man. 

Wally: Have you been listening to anything I said? Uncle Barry is the best man in the world. If that makes him crazy...well, I don’t want to be sane! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I understand that this is difficult for you, but you must face reality. Your uncle was a very eccentric, very lonely man. He had few friends; most of his life was absorbed in his work. He always wanted to be someone special, but he knew that slow, lazy Barry Allen was no one important. Like you, he idolized a superhero-in his case, the Mystery Man known as Jay Garrick, and, like you, he wished that he, like his hero, was special. When his metahuman powers were activated by the lightning strike, his mind, already fragile from years of being mocked and looked down upon by his peers, shattered. He decided to use his powers to emulate the hero he had read about and idolized as a child, so that he could finally be special. Eventually, his antics drew the attention of other, even more damaged individuals, thereby indirectly inspiring the debut of all the costumed oddities that both you and your uncle spend so much time playing cops and robbers with. And then he met you. Another lonely little boy who wanted to be special. When you got your powers, he saw a chance to expand his fantasy world; recklessly endangering you. He may have been deluded enough to call you a sidekick, but what you really were was a child soldier. No wonder your life was sent into such a tailspin when he was temporarily lost in the speed force five years ago. Without him around to help maintain the fantasy that he had indoctrinated you into, you were lost, and the only solution you could think of was to take up the role that he had once filled. You are not a hero, Mr. West. You are a sad, deluded child; just as your uncle is a sad, deluded man. But I will see that you get the help you need. 

Wally: (Furious) That’s a load of bunk, and you know it! I don’t know what your game is, Dr. Strange, but you’re not going to get away with dragging my uncle’s name through the mud! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, your loyalty to your uncle is misguided. He is a dangerous vigilante, one who took advantage of your innocence and loneliness to turn you into yet another costumed freak. What he did to you was wrong, and it is my duty to make sure that you, and the rest of the world, realizes that fact. 

Wally: (Very loudly) Don’t you talk about Uncle Barry that way, you filthy liar! (Stands up rapidly; knocks over the chair he was sitting in) 

Hugo Strange: Mr. West, I would advise you to refrain from such open displays of hostility. Otherwise, I will have to recommend that your children not be allowed to visit you, for the sake of their own mental health. 

Wally: And how do you think it affected their mental health to have their parents locked up on phony charges, huh? 

Hugo Strange: Neither of you were fit guardians for them, Mr. West. I understand that having them separated from you was upsetting, but it is for their own good. You and your wife obviously love them, but you are too ill to properly care for them, and your wife was only enabling your behavior. It was simply not a safe environment for the children, so they have been removed from your home until such time as you have been cured and can properly care for them. Two generations of costumed vigilantes is quite….(Hugo Strange is frozen solid) 

Capt. Cold: And he’s got the nerve to call us crazy. Really, accusin’ you an’ your missus of being bad parents? I seen how you dote on those kids, West. Only a nutjob could think you were unsafe for ‘em. 

Wally: Captain Cold? 

Capt. Cold: The one and only. You ready to bust outta this joint, kid? 

Wally: Are you seriously asking me to help you escape prison? 

Capt. Cold: Sam got Lisa and all the guys out already, and I’ve pretty much already escaped, kid. Just figured I’d be nice and get you outta here, too-before the Doc decides to give you a lobotomy. (Freezes and breaks Wally’s metahuman power dampener) Besides, Central City is furious over what happened to you and your missus. They ain’t exactly gonna expedite you back here. 

Wally: All right...but as soon as Iron Heights gets rebuilt, I’m taking all of you Rogues straight back there. 

Capt. Cold: I wouldn’t have it any other way. (Pause) C’mon, kid. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour. 

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires. 

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly. 

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.  

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him. 

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him. 

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides. 

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it. 

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening. 

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze. 

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product. 

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame. 

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain. 

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes. 

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.” 

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her. 

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.” 

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.” 

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin. 

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees. 

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt. 

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits. 

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism. 

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy. 

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim. 

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand. 

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside. 

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye. 

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim. 

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock. 

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm. 

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness. 

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull. 

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant. 

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl. 

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them. 

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge. 

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator. 

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours. 

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere. 

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him. 

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip. 

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add. 

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt. 

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable. 

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. “Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.” 

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity. 

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day. 

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. 

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?” 

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly. 

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him. 

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air. 

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close. 

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing. 

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening.  “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her. 

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she’d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much. 

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her. 

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord. 

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating. 

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva. 

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves. 

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian. 

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars​, @greatcircle79​, @northernpunk​, @tanzthompson​, @djarrex​

[wordsfromthesol]

Just A Facade (1/2)

Author: @wordsfromthesol Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary:  Dick is very confused that his brothers seem to all be getting along with you, and worse…wanting to help you. And wait…were you dating his brother?! Warnings:  Violence, getting shot, cursing Word Count: 2.2k Taglist: @zphilophobiaz @anousiemay @malfoys-demigod @pricetagofficial

“What do you mean we are working with Y/N?” Dick questioned his brother.

“It’s her case, she needs back-up.” Jason simply stated.

“She tried to kill me last week!”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I have no problem with her, what’s the case?” Tim chimed in.

“I’m glad you asked, replacement.” Tim rolled his eyes at Jason’s nickname. “But I’m going to let her explain it. Be here tomorrow, 10am.”

“She has not entrusted you with the information, has she?” Damian grunted out.

Jason swiftly punched him in the arm, “Shut up demon.”

“Did no one hear me?! She tried to kill me last week! Why are we helping her?” Dick attempted to plead his case once again.

��Can you really blame her though…” Jason reasoned as he turned to walk away, Tim and Damian following closely behind. Dick was left dumbfounded at the table.  

**

10 am rolled around quickly for boys that spent all night patrolling, but they all sat at the table holding back yawns when you sauntered through the door.

“Hello boys, good to see you all.” You sent a knowing smirk Dick’s way. Before any of them could reply you continued, “So here’s the deal. Kids have been going missing.” You slid a file over towards Tim. “I need you to find the pattern.” Your voice wavered on the last syllable. In one second your demeanor completely changed as you accidentally let the façade drip away. “They’re just kids and someone is taking them, but no one seems to care.” You closed your eyes, as you caught your mistake. Taking a breath, your persona slowly morphed back into that which you had carefully constructed. “They don’t have the same birthdays, none of them seem to be from the same socioeconomic class…I could list the differences for days. I found two things connecting them: one, they’re all 12 years old, two, their guardians don’t notice or simply don’t care.”

“Well, they all have different zodiac signs. Someone could be trying to collect them all.” Tim blurted out as he continued to scan the pages.

“I didn’t notice that…” your voice went somber. Maybe if I had, one less kid would be missing…You shook yourself back into character. “Guess that’s why I came here. Anyways, four kids have been taken so far. I circled the most likely locations where they went missing. I count four little birdies, so I was thinking you could each hit a scene. Find something I missed.”

“And that leaves you where?” Dick questioned your intentions.

“I’m going to stay here and review the file, that computer there has more resources than mine.” You stated blatantly while pointing at the large monitor across the room.

“You, stay in the cave, alone…I don’t think so.”

“Ask Alfred to come babysit then. I’ve been to those scenes a dozen times.” You sucked in a breath, attempting to hide your sorrow and frustration. “I’m more useful here.”

“Lighten up Dickie, she’s been alone here dozens of times.” Jason taunted his older brother as he gave him a quick jab to the side.

“SHE’S WHAT?!” This caused an eruption of laughter in everyone…except Dick.

“Come on Dick, we’ll have more luck while it’s light out. Let’s go.” Tim composed himself and tried to ease the situation. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.” Tim directed the words towards you as he turned to leave.

“Tt, when we find something.” Damian mumbled before following his brother.

Dick sighed as he realized he was outnumbered, “Fine, but I’m getting Alfred before I leave.”

“Whatever makes you feel better sunshine.”

**

The boys didn’t get back until nearly dark, and none of them had very good news.

“Look, Y/N/N, we all took pictures.” Tim sighed, not wanting to admit defeat just yet. “I’ll compare the scenes and hopefully something will pop up. We’ll get this…” Tim consoled you as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah.” You took in a deep sigh, mentally reminding yourself to stay composed. “Do you still need this file?”

“No, take it. Remember to sleep though.”

You nodded walking over to table, where both the file, Damian, and Jason were sitting.

“I would be honored to pose as bait.”

A faint smile graced your lips, “Thanks Dami, but I’m afraid you don’t fit the bill. They’ve all been 12 years old, remember?”

“I can pass for 12!”

“I’m sure they go on more information than looks…but thanks.” You turned to leave but stopped as you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N, leave that here and take a break. When we do find these people, you need to be sharp.” Jason leaned in closer and whispered, “I can’t let you get hurt.”

“I’ll be fine, Jay. I’ve survived worse…”

“Heh, yeah. Guess so. Want me to walk you home?” Jason tried to mask the obvious concern in his voice.

“So you can just take the file as you leave?” You followed his cue and leaned in, whispering, “I think not my little Jaybird.”

Jason threw his hands up in defense, knowing you weren’t going to let this go. Dick waited for you to leave before he erupted.

“Are you all friends with her?! SHE TRIED TO KILL ME!”

“Did she really though?” Tim questioned his eldest brother, who just looked at him perplexed. “I mean…you’ve seen her fight, was she pulling her punches? Did she seem to move in slow motion? Did she stop as soon as whatever league members with her were gone?”

Dick’s mouth opened wide, as if to begin to answer, but he quickly shut it as his brows furrowed.

“She’s tried to kill me too…” Jason said with air quotes around the words.

“Same here” Tim chimed. Dick looked to Damian.

“Do not turn your gaze upon me, my mother would never allow the league to come after me.”

“I think there are other things at play that you don’t know about Dickie.” Jason tried to reason with his older brother as he turned to leave.

**

Dick still didn’t trust you, so a few hours later he made his way to your apartment. Crouching on a nearby ledge, he watched as you poured over documents scattered about the table before you. Suddenly you thrust your hands across the desk and collapsed to the floor. Is she crying? Now Dick was thoroughly confused, but his gazed was still fixed on you. After nearly a minute, you stood up and carefully began picking up the papers and photographs and placing them back on the desk. He watched as your head jerked towards the door, and as you stalked into the kitchen and reached for your gun. Seconds later the front door flew across the living room. As Dick swung towards you, he saw you place a bullet directly between the man’s eyes.

**

The crash of the window caused your focus to falter, however, you were relieved as you noticed the familiar black and blue costumed character glide across the floor and land at your side. Nodding at him you leapt over the kitchen counter and threw your body weight at the next assailant entering your apartment. His head rammed into the wall, knocking him out cold. You looked up and saw a gun pointed your direction. You quickly positioned the unconscious body between yourself and the gun. Unfortunately, this gun-for-hire didn’t care much for his coworker and shot directly through him. The bullet lodged itself in your stomach.

“Nightwing, give me some cover!” You screamed out and ran for the table, throwing as much as you could into a nearby backpack. Grabbing your phone, you took pictures of all the information that was plastered on your walls. You looked back to see Dick landing the final punch and called out again. “Window!” Before you had time to check that he heard you, or was behind you, you jumped.

Immediately you spread your arms and legs out in order to slow you down as much as possible. Part of you almost wished that you didn’t feel that arm wrap around your waist. You held back a pained scream as the hand fell directly over the fresh bullet wound. Dick turned to you as your feet hit the ground.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

You only shrugged, “How many are left? Where’s your car?”

Even with the domino mask, you could tell Dick was glaring at you. “Three more were in the hallway. I noticed two vans, and an armed man at each exit. Motorcycle is three blocks down.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

As you walked through streets, you pulled one of the backpack straps loose and tied it tightly around your stomach. You could only hope the adrenaline was enough to get you to the cave. Just as you passed the first alley, an arm grabbed you and slammed you against the brick. Your arm reached up and wrapped around his neck as you kicked off from the wall. His body collided with the adjacent wall, as he struggled to free himself from your grasp. Soon you felt his body go heavy in your arms and you laid him to the ground just as two more assailants rounded the corner. You lunged at the closest one, while Nightwing came up behind and kicked the other’s legs from under him. Suddenly you began hearing gunfire ring through the air. Before you could get to the ground another bullet pierced your side, a mere inch away from the first. Thankfully, Nightwing quickly disarmed the man shooting blindly around the corner.

As the two of you rounded the corner you tossed your backpack to Dick. “Make sure Tim gets this. It could be helpful.” You could feel the pain burning through your whole body, the initial shock worn off. Dick looked at you, confused, but took the backpack anyways. The two of you made it to the motorcycle without any more fighting, but you looked at it wondering how you were going to hold on. You still don’t even know how you made it.

Walking into the cave you ignored the boys who quickly began to pour over the new information that Dick scattered across the table. You headed straight to the medical station, which thankfully Alfred had neatly organized. You quickly found what you needed and set up a table near the hospital bed.

You began cutting through your shirt but stopped short of the backpack strap as you noticed black spots creeping up in your vision. “Fuck.” Blinking rapidly to push them back, you threw your hand out, searching for the tweezers on the table. Your hand hit the tray instead, you winced at the sound of the metal clashing with the floor. Soon, all eyes were on you.

“Y/N? What the fuck? Are you hit?” Jason words rung through your head as he raced to your side.

“I got it…” You swung your legs over the side of the bed, in a sad attempt to recollect the tools on the ground. Jason steadfastly pushed you back into place.

“No you don’t. Stay. Please.” His head whipped around towards his brother, “I know you don’t like her…but really?” The disdain rose up in Jason’s voice before his attention turned back to you.

Dick’s head fell, “I didn’t know.” He whimpered before heading back near the computer to help Tim.

Jason made quick work of the wound, “Alright doll…I know it’s not the prettiest, but you’re all set.”

“Uhm…Jay…” Your eyes blinking heavily, you reached for the scissors in his hand. Reluctantly, he let you have them. You cut away the strap revealing another wound.

“Dammit Y/N!” Jason screamed a little too loudly, his eyes filled with worry. Dick rushed to his side.

“What happened?!” He was already thinking the worst.

“Nothing pretty boy. I just need more supplies.” Jason pushed passed his brother. “She was hit twice, apparently.”

“Twice? How did I not…” Dick mouthed under his breath. “Is that the backpack strap?” He began to question you. “When were you hit?!”

“Uhm…first at the apartment.” You winced as Jason dug into your skin with the tweezers. “The damn bullet went right through him.” A faint smile graced your lips. “Not fair…” you mumbled. “Second one got lucky.” Your voice grew more brittle. “Shooting blind…”

“I gave her some morphine. She’s probably going to be out of it for awhile.” Jason said without looking up from his work.

“I didn’t know, Jay.”

“Somehow, I don’t know if that’s better.” Jason chided as he pulled the final stitch through the wound.

“Awe, come on Jaybird. You can’t be mad at that cute face.” Your head moved upwards motioning in Dick’s direction, the morphine taking hold.

“Looks pretty punchable to me.”

“Don’t worry,” you brought your hands up to cradle his face, “yours is still so much cuter.”

Dick’s face dropped, “Wait…are you two –”

His words were cut off as Jason quickly shut down the conversation. “Doll, I think it’s time for you to get some rest.”

You pursed your lips, “But I’m not tired.”

“I think you are.” Jason quickly scooped you into his arms and practically ran up the stairs, headed towards his old room.

[lawyering-and-running]

Chapter 4 - Don't Shoot The Messenger

Series Masterlist

♡ Pretty proud of this one beauties. Don't forget I'm open to suggestions and/or requests xx ♡

Nicole had been sat by the fire for a while, one of the women had passed her a bowl of warm stew and a flask of water. Yet despite feeling more comfortable than she had in months she couldn’t relax. The idea of not knowing what was happening back in Small Heath was nearly too much. That was her town too, why should she not protect it just because she had something different between her legs. She was just as capable as some of the men. Mind made up, she put down her bowl and stretched out her legs. She quickly thanked the women for their kindness before setting off.

Quickly she ran back towards small heath climbing up onto the rooftops until she found her favourite, on top of one of the warehouses with great views of the canals. She raised a flag on top of the building, lighting a fire beside it. A beacon to signal to her people that she needed a meeting. Shelby’s had their family meetings; the runners had their own. She did not have to wait long before the others started the respond. Shadowy figures dropped down on to the roof until all seven of them were gathered.

“We all know what’s happening in those streets below us, and what’s going to happen. This is our home, we know it better than anyone, so we’re going to protect it.” The group was made up of two other girls and four boys, all lean from years of too little food and too much activity. All in dark grey clothing and covered in a fine layer of dirt, they really did look like shadows come alive. When it comes to fight or flight instincts the usual for the group was of course flight. They were used to being ignored, eyes peering into the dark privy to the city’s secrets because nobody realised they were listening in. Nameless, faceless, and voiceless.

But now. As this group stood before her, she realised that maybe they all had an equally strong fight response. Nobody moved to leave, nobody looked scared. “All right then Nik, what’s the plan?” asked Kaz, one of the boys. “I say we use what we’re good at. That we take down Kimber’s men before they even know we’re there. That we keep an eye on things when the other Peakies are unable to do so.” The others nodded their heads in agreement reaching into pockets for hidden switchblades and razors. “Let’s show them what we’ve got” Nina, one of the girls, cheered raising her fist in the air.

Nicole moved towards the edge of the building, looking down at where she could see the men gathering. ”May we die in the shadows as we were born” she said. The group repeated back ”May we die in the shadows as we were born” they wouldn’t quite consider each other family, none of them really knew the concept, but they did have an understanding that they were all one and the same and that they were in this together. With everything said and done the group moved across rooftops, spreading out before slithering down into dark corners, lying in wait.

A hush descended over the group of men as Nicole watched the Shelby brothers from her alleyway, hidden behind a stack of crates. Suddenly Tommy’s voice rang out “It doesn't have to be like this, Kimber.” Kimber’s nasty voice replied “Too late for all that. You've bit off more than you can chew, you little toerag. And now I'm going to take over this shithole.” Nicole quietly fumed, it was no London, but it was their little corner of the world, no way was this outsider going to come in here and disrespect her home. She reigned herself in, it wasn’t her place, wasn’t even her personality really. She stayed hidden watching the conversation take place.

“Now now Kimber, that isn't very polite. I expected something more from a man of your grand standing.” Tommy mocked. “Listen here you little shit, I am going to kill all of you. Every last one of you fuckin Peakies. Then I am going to burn this place to the ground, maybe build myself another racetrack instead. Whilst you lot all rot in hell.” Steam was practically pouring out of Kimber’s ears. His face had gone an odd shade of red, his moustache twitching. It would have probably made for a funny picture if it were not for the seriousness of the situation. Although Nicole swore she could see that glint of amusement in Tommy’s cold blue eyes from where she was perched.

Tommy remained unbothered by the mounting tension in front of him, he shrugged “So that’s how it’s going to be.” Suddenly all hell broke loose. Both sides running for each other, opponents nearly indistinguishable. The loud bangs of gunfire rang through the streets as screams filled the air. Already a hazy mist of blood was settling over them. Nicole saw a Peaky struggling against one of Kimber’s, she crept up behind him and quick as lightning she stabbed him in the neck. She’d rehidden herself by the time the body slumped to the floor, the Peaky looking around for who had saved him.

She continued to dart out where possible to help others in difficult positions, trying as hard as she could to ensure that none of her people lost their lives today. That none of the women of Small Heath would be turned into Widows by the day’s events. She recognised her other runners doing the same, a flash of black, a glint of a blade as they wove through the fighting.

In all of the chaos Nicole had lost track of where the Shelby brothers were. Too focused on what was directly in front of her to think of anything else. She had just unarmed a Kimber for a Peaky to finish off when she saw Kimber raising his gun up to Tommy just a couple of steps away. No one else seemed to have noticed that their fearsome leader was quickly running out of options, his own gun nowhere in sight. Flat cap no match at a distance to a loaded gun. No other thought in mind she jumped for Kimber’s outstretched hand.

Time seemed to slow as she became airborne. As if she were trapped in a bubble, the sounds around her became muffled, tunnel vision focused solely on the weapon. Hands knocking the gun away time sped back up, as noise rushed back in. Angry shouts. She thought she heard a “What the fuck are you doing here?” but that was not important.

She tumbled to the ground with Kimber’s heavy body. The two rolling around trying to gain an upper hand. She lost her blade in the shuffle and had not accounted for Kimber having a backup weapon. Her mistake. Her tired body was no match for his larger frame as he lodged the knife into her shoulder. Yelling obscenities at her. A white-hot numbness spread through her body; she had not felt anything like this before. A pain far more vivid and sharp than a sprained ankle.

Before Kimber could actually finish her off there was a loud bang, the loudest Nicole had heard that day. The weight of a dead body suddenly pressing in on her. Kimber’s unseeing eyes gazing into her own. There was a warm wetness trickling over her, but very little seemed to really be registering in her mind. Her limbs becoming heavy from blood loss and perhaps shock. The heavy body was shoved off of her. The man she had saved appearing above her. “Why would you do something like that, ey?” Tommy asked. His body kneeling next to hers to try and stem the blood flow. All that escaped Nicole was a moan of pain.

A hysterical thought bubbled into her mind, why the hell did she care so much about a gangster. She had only spoken a couple of words to him. Maybe her luck had finally run out, drowned in her own stupidity. Clearly those blue eyes had more of an effect on her than she thought. She laughed out loud, lest she cry out from the pain otherwise. Her eyes shut as the blue-eyed face hovered above her, lips moving but nothing registering in her ringing ears. Then nothing.

Upon seeing Kimber fall the remaining few of his men had quickly tucked tail and run away. The cause no longer worth dying for. The Peakies cheered. “You don’t mess with the PEAKY FUCKIN BLINDERS!” Arthur shouted to even louder cheers. Turning to see Tommy’s crouched form the other two brothers ran over to help. “Is that the girl from before? What’s she doing here?” John questioned. “I don’t bloody know John. She just appeared and saved my life like some fuckin guardian angel. Help me carry her into the Garrison, we need to stitch up the wound.” The men lifted up her limp body as six pairs of eyes watched from the shadows, ready to help but feeling useless all the same. I quite murmur rippled through the group, but a whisper ”May we die in the shadows as we were born” Nicole’s life was in the hands of the Shelby’s now.

They burst through the doors of the pub shoving aside glasses as they laid her body on the table. Tommy ripped her shirt sleeve, heavy and slippery from the blood. Suddenly Polly was by their side as well “Someone get me some whiskey” she commanded whilst taking out a sewing kit. Arthur thrust the bottle at Tommy. He poured half the bottle over the wound grateful that the poor girl was already unconscious for this before pouring the rest of Polly’s waiting hands and needle. His work done he slumped back as Arthur passed him a new bottle of whiskey, this one meant for drinking. He took a couple of gulps as he slowly came down from the adrenaline. The fight, nearly losing his own life, being saved, and then this girl who he for some unexplainable reason cared for nearly dying. Slowly his shaking hands steadied as the alcohol took effect.

Polly had meanwhile sown up the wound and wrapped it in a cloth to stem any further blood flow. Nicole would be alright now. “What a day” she sighed grabbing the bottle from Tommy and taking a swig. Tommy stood up, carrying Nicole to one of the benches and covering her up with his warm black coat. Moving back towards the bar, he turned to face his family “If you check behind the bar Arthur... you will find a bottle of champagne.” Arthur fetched the bottle as Tommy continued “Today was a good day, we only lost a couple of men. All of Kimber's men were busy here, so we managed to take all of the pitches at the Worcester races.” Arthur popped the cork on the bottle “It couldn't have gone better if we'd planned it.” He poured some into the various glasses “Shelby Brothers Limited are now the third largest legal racetrack operation in the country.” Handing them out to the three other family members and keeping one for himself “Cheers! Only the Sabinis and the Solomons are bigger than us. And all my family is here to celebrate. To Shelby Brothers Limited.” “Shelby!” “Brothers!” “Cheers.” Rang out through the room. “There'll be others.” Polly spoke up in warning. Tommy merely raised his glass and toasted her again “To the others. All of them.” His eyes had settled on Nicole’s sleeping form, to new beginnings he thought to himself.

[liannyeong]

Crimson (Chapter 14)

Summary: A sacrifice must be made.

Word count: 4703

Pairing: Jaebeom X OC

Warning(s): angst, mentions of blood, character death

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

A/N: Just one more chapter to go before this fic comes to an end! Do let me know your thoughts! Show your support for my works by buying me a coffee! Follow me on Twitter for random updates.

It's been days since Yujin was brought to the Ancient Cave. It's a mystical place -- the walls are carved with symbols that Yujin can't recognize, each of them glowing a bright green. She guesses they are magic runes, perhaps to protect the sanctity of the place. The cave itself is lit up with torches of green flames that never seem to burn out.

Yena had left her here after their encounter in the forest, telling her to prepare herself for the ritual. But Yujin can barely wait. She's all ready to give her heart up. She's all ready to move on and forget this cruel life.

“The ritual can only be performed when the fae and his human love are present together,” Yena had explained, much to Yujin’s disappointment. She had hoped she wouldn’t see Jaebeom anymore. But at the same time, she does want to see the look upon his face as the ritual is conducted. Would he look regretful at least? Or would he look at her with indifference? 

What does it matter? Yujin scolds herself. It's not like she can back out anymore. And she’ll definitely not be coaxed out of it. Perhaps, it's just her heart yearning to see his face for the last time.

Yujin is broken from her thoughts when she hears an echo of voices. Her ears automatically tune in to the one voice that her heart has been wanting to hear. She feels the swell in her heart as it gets louder and closer. Why does her heart feel this way? While her mind is determined to end this, why is her heart reluctant? Why is her heart and mind at war?

"-- Why did you bring me here?" Jaebeom's voice booms in the cave. The moment he steps in, the moment he lays his eyes on Yujin, he freezes. His eyes go wide. Perhaps he didn’t anticipate her in this cave.

“Y-Yujin…?” he calls out weakly, as if he doesn’t believe that she’s real.

He shuffles forward slowly, cautiously. There’s ample time for Yujin to back away from him, but she remains rooted to the ground. Jaebeom holds out a hand, raising it to her face. His fingers are inches away from her face, almost touching her cheek--

Then Yujin blinks, snapped out of a trance. She backs away, repelling from his touch. She sees the way Jaebeom's face falls, the look of dismay scribbled all over his face.

“Shall we begin?” Yena suggests, curling an innocent smile on her lips.

Yujin promptly nods, diverting her attention to the Air fae instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the slump of the male’s broad shoulders as he shifts to the other corner.

Yena circles an arm in a fluid motion before thrusting her hand forward. A gust of wind blew from her hand, so strong that it nearly extinguished the torches. Dust has been cleared away, revealing a circular rune on the ground that Yujin didn’t notice before. There are symbols lined along the circumference of the inner circle, caged by the outer ring. The inner circle itself contains geometric shapes -- squares, circles, straight lines -- with two semicircles at the core.

“Step into the center, and we can begin,” Yena says, gesturing at the two.

Yujin easily obeys, standing on one semicircle. Jaebeom, on the other hand, stays where he is. He bears a frown on his face, as if he’s having second thoughts.

“Yujin,” he says her name so gently, it could have made her go weak in her knees, “You don’t have to do this...”

Yujin wants to laugh. He’s just one step away from getting what he wants, and yet he’s hesitating? What a fool.

She tips her chin up, determined, "Let's get this done and over with."

Jaebeom moves a moment later, still reluctant. He stands on the other semicircle. She would prefer to look at anywhere else but his face, but in this position, he's directly in her line of vision.

“You may begin the ritual,” Yena announces, backing away into the wall.

“We don't have to do this, Yujin," Jaebeom mutters, "We can still work things out--”

“It’s too late for that, don’t you think?” Yujin interjects, glaring at him.

“Yujin, please..." he whispers, sadness in his voice. Even though he's just calling her name, it strikes a chord in her heart. But Yujin has to shake it all away. This is the best that she decides for herself, and for him.

Ultimately, Yujin knows he'll be happy in the long run, with his newly gained powers. He has spent most of his life -- if not all -- being an outcast and looked down upon by the entire faefolk. Yujin reckons it’s time he claims the honor and respect that he deserves. Besides, she's sure the sorrow that Jaebeom feels -- if any at all -- will be short-lived. There is another love waiting for him after this. She’s sure he’ll be healed by it.

"I'm doing this for you, after all," Yujin admits quietly. 

An expression passes over Jaebeom's face, his eyes glistening, his lips trembling slightly. If he's feeling remorseful now, it is of no use. 

Jaebeom tentatively raises his hand, reaching out for Yujin's face. She lets him. She lets the male cup her cheek and brush the skin there. She closes her eyes, revelling in the warmth of his palm for the last time.

A beat passes before Yujin opens her eyes again.

"Perform the ritual, Jaebeom," she says. "Please."

He nods slowly, still reluctant, before shifting his palm to Yujin's chest, right where her heart is. Then, he recites the same spell he once shared with Yunho:

Here I bring

A mortal heart.

Its love so pure;

It strengthens me.

Let the magic come

And give me strength.

In the next moment, Yujin feels warmth blossoming from her chest, spreading to the rest of her body. She feels the ground beneath her start to shake. The rune below starts to glow a bright turquoise. A force beam emerges from the ground, engulfing both Yujin and Jaebeom, its rays of light illuminating the cave. The warmth that she feels starts to burn through her skin, as if she's doused in oil, set aflame, and left to burn. She screams, the pain searing, her back arching. She doesn't notice the way Jaebeom's crimson eyes go wide, his face stricken with horror. And she definitely doesn't notice the huge grin on Yena's face.

Everything disappears and then, Yujin's vision goes white.

---

All she sees is white. The purity of the color is so blinding to her eyes, that Yujin can't help but wince. It takes her some time before she can adjust to the room, if it's even one. It's an endless space of white, nothing else in view.

"Hello, Shin Yujin," a voice calls out from behind, startling her.

A woman stands behind her, almost blending in with the background due to her pale skin, her white gown. Her hair is silver, her eyes bear a grayish tint. She wears a silver-plated circlet with a clear quartz at its centre.

Yujin swallows her throat, her heart pounding in her ears. Will this woman gouge her heart out?

"Don't be afraid," she says, coming closer, "I'm Sowon, a White fae."

Yujin blinks up at her, lost.

The woman starts to circle around her, as she continues, "All the faes that you have encountered in the physical realm are elemental faes. White faes, however, exist in the spirit realm. We are the guardians of the spirits, guiding them as they travel between realms."

Sowon stops right in front of Yujin. She raises her arms, gesturing at the white space. "This is the Transitional State,” she states, then looks at Yujin directly in the eye. "You are a spirit."

"What?" Yujin lets out weakly, confused.

The White fae snaps her fingers and the same magic rune in the Ancient Cave is projected in the air.

"You chose to sacrifice for a halfling called Im Jaebeom," Sowon says.

Yujin nods. "But-- But why am I a spirit? Doesn’t the ritual only require a mortal love?”

Sowon stares at her for a moment, as if expecting her to continue. When Yujin doesn’t, the White fae lets out a sigh, shaking her head slightly.

"You don’t know," she realizes. She proceeds to explain, "What the ritual requires is a mortal’s heart -- a physical heart -- that possesses a pure love for the fae. Thus, you’re sacrificing your physical heart and that will render you dead."

She holds out a hand, uncurling her fingers, revealing a small cube suspended just above her palm. It looks empty, worthless. "Your entire heart will be transferred here, converting itself into an endless flow of energy -- and power."

Realization dawns on Yujin. Not only will she lose all her feelings for Jaebeom, she will have to give up her life for him. In exchange for the power that he craves for. Yujin clenches her fists. Is the restoration of Jaebeom's power really worth her life? Or should she back out now, and leave him to suffer as a powerless fae in the woods?

"How tragic," Sowon utters, shaking her head in disapproval. "It’s already a forbidden spell, yet they were so wicked to lie to you about its requirement.”

Did Jaebeom know the true requirement? Or did he keep it a secret from her too? Yujin feels a tear trickle down her cheek.

"Tell me, dear Yujin, do you wish to proceed with this sacrifice?” Sowon asks, sounding genuinely concerned as she brushes the teardrop away. 

Yujin exhales deeply. What does it matter anyway? Whether the ritual requires her heart or her life, it doesn’t change the fact that at the end of the day, it’s Jaebeom who will reap the benefits. He’ll possess greater power, greater influence, and he’ll be able to take Yena as his true bride. It would no longer matter if she's dead or alive. He won't need her afterwards. He’ll proceed to live on as if nothing happened. She will just be another heart he has crushed, just another mortal that passed on. 

Yujin reaches out to take the cube, but Sowon retracts her hand just a little. She has her head cocked to the side, finding it odd.

“Why?” she asks, blinking at Yujin with curious eyes.

Why? Yujin questions herself. The answer is simple: love. Despite having her heart trampled on, be used and abused, the love she harbors for the Fire fae overpowers. Yes, he may have utter sweet words and promises as a tool to manipulate her. But she was the one who let herself believe in them. She was the one who let her heart be swayed by him. She has fallen so deeply in love with him that she's willing to do anything. Even if it means giving up her life for him to be with someone else. Even if it means removing herself from the picture.

“Because I love him,” Yujin answers simply, much to Sowon’s surprise.

“Truly, your love for the fae is of the purest form,” Sowon acknowledges, with a nod.

The woman offers the cube on her palm. Yujin takes a deep breath before grasping it.

"We shall meet again, Shin Yujin," Sowon bids goodbye, disappearing into the whiteness of the place.

A moment later, Yujin feels something being ignited from deep within. Her body temperature starts to rise. Energy surges in her, coursing through her veins. Then, she feels a kind of current in her. The energy from the crown of her head to the tip of her feet flows to her chest, her heart pounding hard. There's a crack, and then, her chest is ripped open. Yujin screams in pain, her pitch high and deafening. Tears stream down her face, and despite the blurry vision, she catches a glimpse of wisps of mist -- stained a deep red -- coming out from her heart. The vapors diffuse into the cube in her hand.

When the last speck is absorbed, Yujin drops to the floor, barely able to open her eyes.

---

When Jaebeom blinks, he’s greeted by the sight of Yujin being suspended in the air. Previously, he was in the cave, standing on the magic rune that gleams after he uttered the spell. He last remembers hearing Yujin’s shrill screams. Now, in this vast space of white, there’s only the two of them. Crimson clouds shroud Yujin’s body, drifting towards an object in her hand. She doesn't notice his presence even though her eyes are wide open. Her face is contorted in pain, her back arching that he swears it could snap into two.

Just what is going on?

"Y-Yujin?" Jaebeom calls out, but receives no response at all.

He takes a step forward, coming closer to the female. He sees how Yujin's eyes are filled black in its entirety, how her skin turns pale. Nausea hits him, because beneath all that mist, her chest is split open. It’s a grotesque sight: her heart peeks through, still alive and beating albeit weakly. Strangely, there is no blood oozing out, only vapors. Observing the trail, Jaebeom realizes, to his horror, that the red mist is actually drawn out from her heart! The red fumes are actually vaporized blood!

Jaebeom rushes forward frantically, repeatedly yelling her name. He hopes her eyes would open, that she would regain consciousness. But nothing happens. So he tries to grab her wrist through the smoke. There seems to be an invisible force that cocoons her, because Jaebeom feels a spark at his fingertips before he is sent flying.

He lands on his back, hard. He groans. Still, it doesn't deter him from attempting to stop the process. Jaebeom sprints toward her, once more trying to pull her out. Again, the same force flings his body backward.

In his desperation, Jaebeom tries to come up with a different strategy. One particular method stands out in his mind, and he doesn’t waste any time. He shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath to steady himself. He searches for Yujin’s unconscious mind. The Lover's bond that they share makes it easier for him to locate her, but he can’t seem to tap into her mind at all. It’s like he’s barred from entering it. It’s like there is a protective shield that holds him off. No matter how much he tries, he cannot break through.

Jaebeom hears a thud. He snaps his eyes open, hoping that somehow it worked. That somehow, the process is halted. But no, it’s already too late. He sees the last speck of vapor in the air, travelling to the object that was in Yujin’s hand. Her body is almost lifeless, eerily still.

The fae rushes to her side, pulling her body into his arms. Her clothing has a spatter of red at the front, the material ripped down to her ribcage. She’s breathing faintly, so Jaebeom presses his palm into the open wound, hoping it'll stop the bleeding.

"Yujin, please--" he cries out. "Respond to my voice, please--"

The female shifts slightly, her eyes slowly fluttering open just a little bit. She must have realized who he is, for she shoots him a weak smile.

"It’s all yours now," she mutters, voice raspy and weak. Her hand twitches by her side, slowly uncurling to reveal a cube. It whirs loudly, a striking red light pulsing in the grooves.

Soon after, her body starts to disintegrate into dust. Jaebeom envelops her into a tight hug, desperately trying to hold onto the remains of her body. He hopes it’ll make her stay longer. But no, there is no effect at all. Her body continues to turn into ashes.

"No! No, no, no!" Jaebeom screams out, hysterical. Tears are streaming down his face. With the last bit of time he has, he holds her just a little closer, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Goodbye, Jaebeom," is the last thing he hears before the last bit of her existence slips through his fingertips, carried away by an invisible force, then fading away.

---

Jaebeom returns to the Ancient Cave alone, kneeling on the rune. Yujin is nowhere to be seen. Just a few moments ago, he was holding her in his arms, hugging her tight.

He belatedly notices the cube on the ground, left behind by Yujin herself. With shaking hands, he picks it up. Jaebeom feels its weight on his palm despite it being small, and he feels it pulse against his skin. In the next moment, the object melts becoming liquid, before seeping into the ridges of his skin.

Jaebeom feels stronger; the power making its way to him. The veins in his hand start to glow red. He watches as the energy flows through his body, illuminating his veins as it travels. His core feels a tad warmer, and he's sure any flames he produces will be fiercer than ever before.

“Jaebeom, you did it! You got the power!” Yena rejoices, coming forward excitedly, “This calls for a celebration! You’re invincible now!””

Despite that, Jaebeom can’t comprehend what happened. Yes, he has gained the powers he desired so much, but... Yujin is now gone. He feels a void in his chest, and he just knows it cannot be patched up.

“But Yujin...” he trails off, teary-eyed. “I lost her…”

“No, Jaebeom, she gave her life for you. She was willing to do it. Don't blame yourself for the decisions she made--"

But Jaebeom can't believe it. How did it end up like this? It was a rapid turn of events, that his mind still can't process it yet. Days ago, they were so in love, so happy together. Ever since they returned from the autumn celebration hosted by the Air court, Yujin seemed a little off -- more distant, in fact. She reasoned that she wasn't feeling good, so Jaebeom left her to rest. But the next thing he knew, Han, the Earth fae servant tasked to monitor the Garden, informed him that Yujin had ventured into the area. How surprised he was to find Yujin at the fountain, fully regaining the memories that he took away.

Jaebeom couldn't help the anger he felt towards himself then. He couldn't help the regret he felt from keeping the memories. He should have destroyed the fountain when he had the chance to. He shouldn't have ordered an Earth fae to construct the Garden in order to protect the fountain. He was so reluctant to destroy Yujin’s memories because revisiting them was the only way he could experience being close to her again. It helped him live. It made him happy. 

But how was he to know that Yunho actually implanted his own memories into the fountain after his death? He was so preoccupied with having the real Yujin by his side that he overlooked the fountain. Despite Yujin asking about the Garden multiple times, Jaebeom thought he could get away with it. He thought Yujin's curiosity would die down as time passed by. Oh, how foolish he was! He should have just wiped away Yujin’s memories mercilessly without keeping it in any form at all. Even so, how can he? He cherished Yujin so much, he couldn’t bear to eradicate their childhood memories.

Still, Jaebeom doesn’t have anyone but himself to blame. Seeing Yujin so determined in performing the ritual, it is enough evidence of the pain he has inflicted upon her. Just how much pain has he put her through, for her to be so willing to throw the memories they have, the love they share? Perhaps he will never know now.

Despite his reluctance, he ended up proceeding with the ritual. Yena was the one who informed him of it years ago, when Yujin was still oblivious about the faefolk. They theorized that the sacrifice is merely the emotion of love, leaving the person unscathed.

Now, it proved to be false. Jaebeom didn't expect Yujin to be put through excruciating pain. He had thought the spell required just a mortal love. He didn't understand why she had to go through such a painful process. Why did she turn into dust if all they needed was her feelings?

"-- You finally have the power you have long sought for! Why does it matter if she's alive or not? If anything, you should be grateful that she'll no longer be a distraction to our mission!"

Something about Yena's comment snaps Jaebeom from his thoughts. Something about it brings about a flare of anger in him. Impulsively, he blasts a ball of fire towards the Air fae. His flames used to be orange, but now, it possesses a beautiful blue. Out of reflex, Yena crosses her arms, projecting a protective barrier that disperses the flames.

"What are you doing?!” Yena yells, startled by Jaebeom's sudden attack.

The Fire fae ignites both his hands into flames, bringing them together before pulling them apart. A whip of fire is conjured, without any tangible rope holding the flames. Jaebeom lashes the makeshift weapon toward Yena, successfully grabbing her by the ankle. She cries out, her ankle scorched by the fire. Jaebeom yanks her towards him, and she falls to the ground. He seizes her by the neck, holding her up in the air.

“You knew?" Jaebeom bellows, fury written all over his face. "You knew the ritual would kill her?”

“Of course I knew--” the Air fae chokes out, clutching at his wrist. Her nails scratch against his skin, but he pays it no mind.

“And you hid it from me?”

“If I didn't, you wouldn’t have done it--!”

Jaebeom hurls the female to the side, her body hitting the rough rocks of the cave. He hears her whimper in pain, but he doesn't care. He stomps over, and with his foot, he kicks her body to lay flat on her back. He presses his heel on her chest, ruthless, even as her face is flushed with a deep red, her lungs constricted.

"Why?" he spits.

"J-Jaebeom, p-please--" she chokes out, trying to relieve the pressure from his foot. “I can’t breathe--”

Jaebeom removes his foot, much to the relief of the Air fae. She gasps for air.

“If I had told you, that mortal will only hamper our progress. She's nothing but a distraction to you. I did what is right, to keep you focused on our plan!”

Jaebeom stares her down. "Perhaps I would have married you if you hadn't lied to me."

Confusion passes over Yena's face. “J-Jaebeom…?” she croaks out, unsure.

"Perhaps I would have married you if I loved you more. I regard you as a sister, nothing more," he continues. “This is too late but... I have led you on for so long, only to realize that I can never love you the same way I love Yujin.”

"You can't do this to me! You can't betray me like this!" she shrieks, grabbing Jaebeom’s legs. Tears start to stream down her face. Yena is out of her wits, totally deranged. "You promised me you would-- You can't--! I have been waiting so long for you! I stayed by your side for so long! You can't do this to me-- Jaebeom, please. You can't leave me--"

Jaebeom tugs her away so that he can crouch down comfortably.

"I'm sorry, Yena, but I can't do it," he mutters. "I hope you'll stay by my side as a loyal friend."

Yena's face darkens. She rises, albeit a little wobbly on her legs. Her fists are clenched tight by her sides.

"No, no, no! No, you can’t do this to me-- What do you take me for? A fool?" she growls. "Whether you love me or not, it no longer matters. Yujin is now dead, and you have to marry me, else you can never have the army you need to conquer all the fae courts!"

Jaebeom stands on his feet. He brings up a hand, and blue flames immediately envelop his skin, up to his wrist. He turns his palm over, mesmerized by the intensity of it.

“I’m sure I can still conquer the fae courts without marrying you,” he says simply.

"If I can't have you, then no one can!" Yena spits before rapidly circling her hands. A sphere of air is created around Jaebeom's head, taking away the oxygen he needs. It’s suffocating, the air from his lungs is also drawn out.

Jaebeom struggles to think straight, but he ignites his entire body with fire. The heat prickles his skin but it's only a slight discomfort. Then, it sets off an explosion, scattering the flames in all directions. The air sphere dissipates and Jaebeom can breathe again. He catches his breath for a moment before he points his fist at Yena, set ablaze, ready to strike.

But there is a stench of burning flesh, the fire has already engulfed the Air fae. Her skin starts to peel off like strips. Puffs of heavy black smoke fill the air, her deafening screams ringing in the cave. Then, Yena drops to the ground, moving only ever slightly, before she goes completely still.

Just like that, the Princess of the Air court is dead.

---

"Shin Yujin has passed on."

The words taste bitter on Jaebeom’s tongue, its weight heavy. He is not ready to accept the fact that Yujin is gone. He desperately wishes that it's all a dream, and that he’s just waiting to wake up. But his enhanced powers are clear evidence that it’s real. That he felt Yujin’s body disintegrating in his arms, that he heard her last goodbye.

Even though he’s still in denial, the only thing he can do for Yujin is to properly send her off. He decided to hold the procession at the Garden. The fountain is now gone, its water dried when Jaebeom returned. The Earth faes in the house help to erect a tombstone to honor Yujin. Everyone mourns for her, their heads down. Yeri herself is bawling her eyes out.

Jaebeom stays still, silently gazing at the tombstone. Only when the crowd disperses did the fae let his emotions flow. The sorrow floods his entire being, and he can’t help the tears from falling. He thinks of her, recalling all the memories they created together. 

Initially, he was planning on making Yujin fall for him. He wanted her to trust him entirely. But the more he spent time with her, the more sincere he was. He genuinely enjoyed her company. It was as if he was the same youth Jaebeom who didn’t frown at the world. Momentarily, Jaebeom had forgotten about his original intention. Unbeknownst to him, Yujin had planted the seed of love in his heart. It sprouted through his chest, and bloomed flowers of love.

Now, it’s all too late. He underestimated how dear Yujin is to him. In the end, it wasn’t Yujin who was foolish. It’s Jaebeom himself. Yunho was right; he was blinded by his lust for power to see what truly matters most to him.

Jaebeom senses another presence nearby. He breathes before addressing him, “Scold me if you wish. Mock me for my foolishness. I deserve it.”

He hears a deep sigh from behind. Muffled footsteps, and then a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. 

“You didn’t know,” Jinyoung responds. “Don’t blame yourself for it.”

"But I should have looked into it. I should have checked the facts for myself. Why didn’t I delve deeper?"

“That’s enough, brother,” Jinyoung placates, sliding an arm around his broad shoulders. “What’s done is done. We cannot turn back time.”

“If only I could…” the Fire fae mumbles. "What am I supposed to do now? I'm so lost. And the Air court--” He sighs. “I have incurred the wrath of the Air court.”

“First, live for her," Jinyoung says, nodding at the tombstone. "After everything, Yujin still willingly gave up her life for you, so that you can proceed with your cause. The least you can do is make sure that her sacrifice wasn’t futile. So live on for her sake."

There’s a pause.

“Next, we shall overthrow the fae courts, one by one, starting with the Air court.”

[badger-writes]

Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - “for light and life”

Day 4 - Action/Adventure

Then...

Sskeer came at him like a feral Nexu, leveraging a ferocious primal strength into a totally unrelenting barrage of lightsaber strikes. He assaulted Kelto’s defense with a flurry of fast, sweeping slashes, battering his sides with wide swordstrokes and raining down heavy overhead blows from above - the hallmarks of the Aggression Form, Ataru, his skill at which he had honed to razor keenness over the long period of his Knighthood.

Kelto wished he had foreseen that the intensity of his friend’s fighting style would match that of his demeanor. More than that, though, he wished he had kept up with his saber practice. His style was that of Resilience, Soresu, a style which valued ultimate defense - a fitting form for a practitioner of the healing arts, but not for a duelist. As the Rodian himself now proved, being buffeted as he was around the sparring circle, preventing the Trandoshan from landing a blow by last-minute movement or the skin of his teeth.

Kelto had assumed working in the medical ward precluded the possibility of encountering lightsaber combat in his daily life. Sskeer had made it his mission to thoroughly deconstruct that notion.

“Focus,” he hissed over the electrical crash of their plasma blades. “Do not let the fight dictate your reality.”

“I’m not,” Kelto protested. “I’m - I’m enduring!”

“Survival alone will not guarantee victory. If you spend all your energy waiting for a counterblow, you will lose. You must seize control, not wait for it to be given!”

He lifted his blade as if to strike Kelto’s right quarter, then swung instead for his feet. The Rodian jumped back, landing unsteadily on his feet, and attempted to reestablish his guard. With a thrust, Sskeer pushed it away.

“Just give me a second,” Kelto grunted, swatting away another incoming blow.’

“Your opponent will show no mercy. Why should I?”

“Just - just slow down! I can’t - I can’t keep up with you!”

 “You’re in over your head,” Sskeer lectured. “Becoming flustered. The fear, the anger - it is taking hold of you.”

“Sskeer, please--!”

“Without balance, we lose discipline. Without discipline, we lose control.”

With a cry, Kelto lashed out - a clumsy, sloppy swing that was born of no style save frustration. Sskeer dodged it easily. Then he reached out with his free hand and seized the front of the healer’s tunic in an iron-clawed grasp. This was followed with a leg sweep that knocked his feet out from under him and a simple throw that sent him definitively down to the mattress. The impact forced the breath from Kelto’s lungs and his lightsaber from his fingers, its training blade disappearing with a sad hiss as it deactivated.

Sskeer held the point of his own saber over Kelto’s heart where he lay. His reptilian face was sympathetic, but pitiless.

“And that is why we must drill,” he said.

Groaning, Kelto forced himself up on his elbows. He was panting hard, sweat shining on his face and darkening the collar of his robes. By contrast, Sskeer didn’t seem to have a hair out of place, insofar as one could say such a thing about a Trandoshan.

“Dammit,” the Rodian gasped. “I just -- I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You were unwise to lower your defenses,” Sskeer began, fixing his hilt to his belt. “Your last swing created a clear angle of attack on your center.”

“I figured that part out, thanks,” Kelto snapped, drawing his knees to his chest. “It’s everything else that’s a problem.”

“The fault isn’t yours alone. Soresu prioritizes defense above all others, but a shield alone cannot win a battle. You must bring a sword as well. That is what I am trying to show you, Kelto.”

“Well, all you’re showing me right now is that my shield sucks.” 

“A problem that can be solved. But not by ruminating on your failures.”

The Rodian sighed violently, glaring between his toes. Turning towards the edge of the circle, Sskeer reached out and used the Force to levitate a canister of water into his waiting hand. Then he sat cross-legged on the floor beside Kelto, offering Kelto the canteen. He took it like a secondhand trophy.

“This time you lasted much longer,” Sskeer informed him as he gulped down the cool liquid. “Against an Ataru as aggressive as my own, that is no easy feat. I commend you.”

“I still lost,” Kelto observed grumpily.

“This is true. When your attitude about saber combat changes, this will change, too.”

“That’s just it, Sskeer - I don’t think it will.” Kelto let out a guilty breath. “Saber combat was never important to me. It never felt - right. A pacifist shouldn’t carry a laser sword. And neither should a healer.”

“A pacifist can be a healer, and a peacekeeper as well. More than that, he ought to be able to defend himself. All of these concepts can coexist.”

“I understand that, but - come on, you don’t really believe we’ll be having lightsaber duels again, do you? The Sith have been extinct for ages by now. Who would strike at the Jedi or the Republic on such a scale again?”

“I don’t know,” Sskeer said slowly. “I hope such a conflict does not occur for many generations to come. But I believe in being prepared for the galaxy’s sake, if not only my own. And so should you.”

“But - but I barely leave the Temple,” Kelto protested. “I barely even leave my quarters!”

“You cannot rely on routine and habit to shield you from the world. The future will find bring you to many dangers, Kelto, whether that be a patrol in the Coruscant underworld or a mission of peace and relief to the Outer Rim. It may even bring danger to you, here, in the place where we Jedi feel safest. Will you feel very wise then, if you allow yourself to become comfortable and complacent? Will you feel safe? Will those in your care?”

Kelto had no answer. He went back to staring uncertainly at his toes.

Sskeer heaved a breath through his nostrils. “If I upset you, I apologize. It is a matter I care deeply about. For the sake of the galaxy - and for your own. It is… the way of the Guardian.”

“I know.”

“When we continue, I will… slow down, and offer more suggestions for improvement. From now on, we proceed at your pace, not mine.”

“...Thank you, Sskeer. That… means a lot.”

The Trandoshan reached out and rested a palm on Kelto’s shoulder. “I seek only to serve you, Healer. And to help.”

Kelto offered him a shaky smile, covering his hand with his own. “Don’t we all?”

Now…

Oh good. The pirates had sliced a loadlifter.

Kelto swore under his breath and ducked as a Class B medium cargo container went hurtling through the air overhead, smashing through part of the hastily-erected CSF barricade. The ziggurat platform of the derrick major squatted over them all, offering the criminals and their reprogrammed muscle an opportunity for raining blasterfire and shipping crates down upon the police frontline. The sting operation had clearly failed; the pirates weren’t leaving without a fight, and the police were horribly outnumbered.

And the only thing standing between them and death by volleys of laser fire was Kelto and Sskeer.

One thing Soresu was good for was deflection training. As bolts of sizzling red plasma plunged towards them, Kelto intercepted them with his blade, sending them harmlessly into the ground or off to the side. Beside him, Sskeer, too, was bouncing shots off the edge of his saber, though his technique lacked refinement; in trying, perhaps, to reflect the pirates’ own shots back at them, they instead bounced wildly back into the loading bay, spalling off chunks of permacrete or ricocheting off the surface of blast-resistant cargo pods.

“Injured to our left,” Kelto called out as he sensed them. “I’m going to get them.”

“I’ll give you cover,” Sskeer nodded. “Let’s move.”

Carefully, they sidestrafed through the wide open space of the cargo landing. Kelto relied on intuition to lead them to the wounded, and for intuition, he trusted the Force. It brought them to the foot of a gantry crane where two dockworkers and a security official were taking cover. The officer was slumped against its foot, bleeding slightly from the mouth, a darkly-singed crater on his stomach where a blaster bolt had breached his body armor.

“Give me cover,” Kelto ordered, and Sskeer obliged; he held his lightsaber out before him through the Force and made it spin until a single spear of light became a dazzling electric-blue shield, almost completely circular in the perfection of its cycle. Incoming fire was all but spattered harmlessly away.

Sheathing his own blade, Kelto crouched down beside the cop, examining his wound. “What’s your name, officer?”

“J-Joh,” the man sputtered. “Joh Andaris.”

“It’s good to meet you, Joh. I’m Kelto. You’re gonna be fine.” He took a stim-shot from a hip pouch and injected it into the man’s shoulder. “That’s to get you on your feet. In a couple of seconds my friend and I are going to have some words with those gentlemen up on the warehouse level, and when we do that I need you all to run back towards the police line, yes?”

“How are we supposed to get all the way back there?!” one of the workers, an Aqualish, quailed. “We’ll be ripped to shreds!”

“We’ll draw their fire.” Kelto lifted the man up onto his feet. “Be ready.”

“All by yourselves?!”

“It’s what we do. We are all the Republic.”

He turned back to Sskeer just in time to watch a blaster bolt slip through his defenses. It slid perfectly through a gap in his deflection pattern and sheared over the surface of his shoulder; the Trandoshan hissed, almost dropping his concentration, calling his saber back to his hand for a more conventional defense.

To the far right of their position, back across the way, Kelto sighted a Class C cargo unit - a long trapezoid of rust-colored durasteel, taller than him by quite a bit and by Sskeer by not much more. But size mattered not. He stretched out his hands and cradled it in the Force, lifting it - pulling it close to the point it blocked all the incoming fire that Sskeer was drawing.

The Rodian edged out behind it as the civilians used its cover to limp back to safety. Sskeer, in turn, took hold of the container as well; they moved in concert, step by step, pushing forward to the center of the plaza.

“How’s your shoulder?” Kelto called. He had to raise his voice, otherwise Sskeer might not have heard him over the hailstorm of blaster shots pitting the other side of their durasteel wall.

“I’ve had worse.”

Kelto glanced at the wound. It was oozing emerald green blood into Sskeer’s white-and-gold Jedi robes. “Not that by much,” he commented. “Sure you don’t want a stim?”

“Save it. Maybe one of the gentlemen shooting at us needs a pick-me-up,” the Trandoshan retorted.

“Hey, you wanted me out here!”

“Just be ready--”

“I’m with you--”

“For light and life!”

Together, they angled the container upwards - and hurled it through the air towards the pirates. They scattered back, falling away from the walkway above, as it crashed through the railing and rolled to a stop somewhere beyond the edge.

Leaping to a phenomenal height, Sskeer and Kelto followed after it.

Then…

When he landed, Kelto ducked into a roll, swiping out at Sskeer’s shins; the Trandoshan moved to push the blow away, realized there wasn’t enough time, and only just managed to jump back from it before it connected. He grinned even through his blocking when it was followed by an evenly-spaced series of strikes.

“Good,” he said over the clash of lightsabers. “Good! Seize the offensive. Build on your momentum.”

Kelto smirked at him through their blade lock. “Now who’s waiting for a countermove?”

In response Sskeer levered his blade away, moving his own smoothly back and up through the air for an overhead slash. Here, Kelto did something he did not expect; instead of intercepting his attack directly, he sidestepped to his right and brought his lightsaber upwards at a diagonal angle, following the edge of Sskeer’s blade in almost perfect parallel.

In spite of himself, Kelto grinned triumphantly as he made his attack. His saber’s edge would travel directly into Sskeer’s belly, framed by the position of his knees below and his arms above; it was a guaranteed hit. A guaranteed victory, even!

But then Sskeer reared back hard, forcing himself to bend at a near ninety-degree angle to the floor, supporting his body almost solely through pushing down through the balls of his feet. As Kelto’s strike swung harmlessly over him, brilliant turquoise energy passing right above his face, he pivoted hard on his toes, swinging out from under Kelto’s arms and pirouetting away from his opponent’s zone of control. Transforming a decisive blow into a near miss.

Spinning his saber in one-handed agitation, Kelto gave him a Rodian stink eye. “A giant like you,” he said crossly, “should not be allowed to move like that.”

Sskeer fixed him with a sly stare. “That’s not what you thought last Fete Week.”

“Don’t go there,” the healer laughed, pointing with his sword warningly. “Do not go there.”

“Try and stop me,” the Guardian said, huskily.

Kelto gave a cry of action and surged forward, clutching his sword like a spear--

And at the last moment Sskeer stepped to one side, and Kelto saw how close to the edge of the sparring circle he’d been standing. In a panic, he threw out his free hand and grabbed the front of Sskeer’s robe, his toes digging into the mat and dragging him to a stop, hanging almost completely over the short dip down to the floor below.

“Your next lesson,” Sskeer declared passively. Having an entire Rodian come to an emergency stop by clinging desperately to his shirt hadn’t so much as budged him. “Don’t blind yourself to your surroundings.”

“That’s not fair,” Kelto protested half-heartedly. “You distracted me.”

“That is the point.” He grabbed Kelto by the arm and pulled him back to his feet on the sparring mat. “I’m supposed to.”

 “It wasn’t the fair kind of distraction.”

“No fight is fair, Kelto. You must adapt to anything and everything that your opponent may have in store for you. Focus on the reality of the fight, not temporary diversions.”

The healer crossed his arms, crinkling his snout puckishly. “Even if they’re big, tall, incorrigibly sexy distractions?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Especially then,” Sskeer chuffed, turning. “Now come - back to first position. Now that you’ve got the hang of things, let’s go again.”

“Lose the tunic first, big guy.”

He stopped, turning on his heel. “Exssssscuse me?”

“Hey - you wanted to train me to block out distractions, right?” Kelto strutted to his marker and crouched down into beginning stance, grinning. “So start being distracting already.”

Sskeer smirked. “As you wish,” he said, shrugging out of his top.

Now…

In the heat of the battle, Kelto’s awareness had developed into a kind of double vision - an immediate center of attention where his focus narrowed to encompass the most immediately pressing complication, and a wider, peripheral awareness where the details of his environment and surrounding happenings were sorted into neat piles to be confronted later.

The two men before him leveling carbines in his direction rated his immediate attention. Sskeer was to his right, on the other side of the warehouse; the pirates occupying that half, accordingly, became a secondary concern. The loading crane coming unmoored with an explosion and falling to the floor with a hideous crash was concerning - almost distracting - but ultimately of no consequence; he could safely ignore it, as it had landed on no one and nothing important.

The pirates in front of him didn’t realize this, and flinched, looking back over their shoulders. He seized the opportunity and sliced the barrels off their weapons before throwing them back against a cargo pod with a gesture, where they passed into unconsciousness and out of the fight. One of them had managed to pull the trigger before his saber ruined his gun; the bolt blazed a trail past his temple and nearly singed off his topknot, but aside from some lingering heat on the side of his face, he was otherwise okay.

Sidestepping to the right, Kelto next leapt the vertical meters up to the gantryway above, cresting the railing with a kick that caught a waiting sniper in the jaw and sent him sprawling over the side. The thump that he made when he hit the floor was a curiosity; equally unimportant, in the scheme of things, as the fallen loading arm. He duly discarded the thought.

Men shooting at him on his side of the catwalks? Immediate threat - he deflected their shots back at them in turn. Sskeer joining him on the upper level, opposite side, similarly engaged, carving through the opposition with his usual intensity? Important situational note - make an effort to link up as soon as possible.

A heavy repeater being wheeled out on a repulsorpad from behind a heavy warehouse door on their level?

Well, details like that tended to... confuse his ordering system, just a little.

“SSKEER!”, he shouted, pirouetting back towards a tall, thick support column. “E-WEB! E-WEB!”

Glancing, Sskeer saw - and jumped out of the line of fire just before the blaster cannon opened up. The warehouse rang from floor to ceiling with the staccato drone of its report as the dreadful weapon poured its destructive firepower into the Trandoshan’s general location; it pounded Kelto’s ears as he watched, heart in his throat, as Sskeer scrambled for cover.

The cannon’s operator must have been a genius among smugglers, for instead of trying to perforate a target that moved faster than he could aim, he shot the catwalk out from under him. It collapsed with a terrible crash and sent Sskeer spilling down to the floor; he recovered in a rolling crouch as the other gangsters, emboldened, turned all their attention to the fallen Jedi, blasters raised.

His partner was in danger. Intellectually, Kelto knew this should have bothered him. Instead he pushed through the spike of emotion and found his discipline again.

Then he went to work.

Darting out from behind the pillar, he sprinted at full tilt past one - two - three snipers on the catwalks, slashing each of them in passing. The cannon operator, he knew, would see him coming - and even now he was orienting the giant gun accordingly. He couldn’t possibly reach the cannon before it found a bead on him - so instead he brought the gun to him.

Kelto skidded to a halt, whipped out a hand, and pulled the mounted cannon towards him; the cannon, a slave to its hoverlift, jerked forward violently, throwing its gunner to the side when he had finished coming along for the ride. Sidestepping the drifting E-Web, Kelto slashed downwards through its barrel in passing, pivoted sharply on his heel, and delivered his booted heel to the pirate’s chin as he attempted to rush him with a vibroknife. The blow knocked him out cold, and Kelto noted with uncharacteristic satisfaction the crack it made when his foot collided with his jaw.

With the gun out of commission, he turned back to the warehouse floor below. He needn’t have worried, he realized; with brutal Trandoshan ferocity, Sskeer had made quick work of the pirates who had made the fatal tactical error of attempting to charge a single lightsaber-wielding opponent. He snarled his way through a final broad slash that sent two more men collapsing to the ground, growling in challenge at any unseen gangsters left bold enough or stupid enough to approach him.

“I got the gun,” Kelto reported, belatedly.

“Very good,” Sskeer called back up. “Lower floor is clear.”

“Was that all of them?”

“I believe so.”

Kelto vaulted the rail and dropped back down to the ground floor, softening his landing with the Force and landing in a crouch. “That’s a pity,” he commented, straightening and padding over to Sskeer. “I was hoping we could resolve this without much loss of life.”

“CSF casualties were low. And we are both still standing.”

“I meant on both sides.”

“Save your pity,” Sskeer sniffed. “If these Outer Rim scum are so low as to murder innocents for smuggled wealth, they deserve just what they got.”

“I suppose,” Kelto shrugged. “But I still feel conflicted.”

“Your compassion does you credit, Kelto. But don’t waste it on those who don’t seek it.”

“I offer it freely. It’s a healer thing.” He reached up to brush the suckers of his fingers against Sskeer’s injured shoulder. “A Jedi thing.”

The Trandoshan grunted, closing his eyes. “I know, I know. My… zeal, sometimes exceeds my beliefs.”

“We’re all the Republic, Sskeer. Even the baddies.”

“Thank you for reminding me.”

Slowly, Sskeer’s fingers reached up to touch Kelto’s where they lingered at his collar, brushing the underside of his cheek.

Then Kelto said, “You don’t think we’re forgetting anything, do you?”

The loadlifter droid crashed through the ceiling, landing on the permacrete with enough force to create a small crater, screeching at them in corrupted Binary.

“Dammit,” Kelto grunted as they ignited their sabers once more. “Dammit dammit dammit.”

“Keep calm. It’s only a droid.”

“I know, I know. Just wishing I hadn’t broken the big gun.”

Then…

Only a few short months of consistent drilling later, and Kelto was already matching Sskeer step for step in the dueling ring. And from the look on his face, he knew it, too.

“Surprised I’m doing so well?” he asked, striking probingly at his opponent’s left and right quarters.

“On the contrary,” Sskeer replied, batting them away. “I couldn’t be prouder. You learn well.”

“I had a good teacher.” Kelto ducked under a first horizontal sweep, and punished the second by needling the point of his lightsaber into the joint of Sskeer’s shoulder; on training setting, it made contact with only an electrical sting. “But not that good, apparently.”

The Trandoshan growled, pacing in a circle and rolling his arm in its socket, working out the pain. “I don’t recognize that move,” he said wonderingly. “That wasn’t Soresu, was it?”

“I’ve been doing some research in my free time. Been looking into the Persistence Form - Shien. Do you know it?”

“Hm. A more aggressive style than what you’re used to.”

“Certain parts of it, yes, I agree. But you were right - you have to cover a good defense with a good offense. There’s no room for clinging to ideology in a real fight -- ” 

Kelto flinched suddenly to the right, provoking Sskeer into following him with his guard - then he juked back the opposite direction, capitalizing on the fake-out by swinging his blade into the underside of his wrists. 

“But being able to fight isn’t what defines you,” Kelto finished. “What you fight for does.”

“Yesss,” Sskeer rumbled. “Yes. Exactly what I’ve been trying to show you!”

He threw himself into another series of full-power overheads, and grinned widely as Kelto countered each of them in turn. Under locked blades, the Rodian beamed back at him.

“Though I can’t help but notice that this revelation comes after a steady string of losses,” the Guardian snorted.

“Every failure is an opportunity to learn,” Kelto replied smoothly. “And I’ve learned enough to finally beat you.”

“Then prove it,” Sskeer demanded.

“You know -- I think I will.”

And then it was Kelto who broke the block, with enough force to send Sskeer staggering back a half step; and when Sskeer attempted to counter with an overhead chop, he sidestepped the stroke before it arrived and leapt, corkscrewing up the air and planting himself on Sskeer’s shoulderblades, pushing hard through the balls of his feet. The Trandoshan grunted with the extra weight, wobbling fatefully on his feet before finally tipping and falling face first to the padded floor, saber jarring from his grasp on impact.

One foot on the small of Sskeer’s back and the other on the thick slope of his shoulders, Kelto lowered the edge of his blade to rest against his opponent’s neck. “And done,” he smirked.

From the floor, Sskeer glared - and then began to laugh. A deep, resonant sound, from the pit of his throat. “Well done, little healer. It seems your training is complete.”

“The student becomes the master,” the Rodian preened.

“Indeed. Let me up now, so I can congratulate you properly.”

Extinguishing his blade, Kelto said thoughtfully, “I don’t know - I worked pretty hard for this. Feel like I’ve earned the right to rub it in a little, don’t you?” And so even as he was stepping off of Sskeer’s back, he was plunking himself down to sit upon the curve of the Trandoshan’s spine. 

“Urk-!”

“Oh, yes,” Kelto giggled. “That sound just made it all totally worth it.”

Sskeer glared at him warmly as he straightened up onto his elbows. “You are lucky to be pulling this juvenile nonsense on me and not someone like Master Engle.”

“After the protracted thrashing I just took, you’re lucky you’re still with me at all!”

He chuckled at that, softening. “I am, aren’t I.”

“And don’t you forget it, mister.” Kelto tapped the emitter of his lightsaber against his temple to underline the point. Then he stood, and offered his hand. “C’mon, up and at ‘em. Let’s go again.”

The disparity in their sizes and masses meant that Sskeer ended up doing most of the work of standing up. “Again? I thought your training was through.”

“My training. Now I help you work on your defense.”

“Ah, of course. How unexpectedly generous of you, ‘Master’ Lem.”

“Not generous at all. I plan on giving as good as I got.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Smiling at each other, they folded their arms and bowed.

“Now look - it’s not so much about where you put your blade as where you put your feet, see? Watch…”

Now…

The loadlifter must have attempted to break through the police line; it was the only way to explain the amount of carbon scoring pitting its chassis. But the CSF’s sidearms had clearly failed to stop the berserk droid; if anything, they had only made it angrier.

The Jedi had two things working in their favor. First, the machine’s primary offensive implement, its two massive lifting arms, made its attack pattern slow & easy to predict; second, its sheer mass made it difficult for the droid to attack them with any kind of subtlety or dexterity. This meant much of the incoming danger would be coming from wide sweep attacks, and easily dodged. This was about where their list of advantages ended.

The droid, meanwhile, had been fitted by its criminal masters with heavy hydraulic legs and a microscopically thin layered shell of energy-resistant material - neuranium, perhaps, skimmed from shipments bound for projects related to the Republic’s Great Works initiative? Kelto wasn’t sure, and frankly, right now he didn’t care. Either way it meant their lightsabers weren’t easily cutting through its hide, and it had the speed to match and catch their every maneuver. It was a heavy bruiser, and no mistake.

If this was what they’d managed to cook up right under their noses on Coruscant, imagine what they were up to beyond the frontier?

The machine screeched and rushed them yet again, blitzing across the warehouse at a blistering pace in an attempt to pancake them against the wall. With scant seconds to spare they threw themselves in opposite directions, Kelto landing in a roll and turning sharply; the machine, split between two targets, chose to pursue Sskeer.

It shattered the ground around it with its huge fists, apelike bashing aimed at squashing the Trandoshan into the floor. Sskeer moved with a deftness that belied his own size; his feet carried him out of or around the rapidly-shifting crush zone with supreme economy of motion and exertion, and above them, his body shifted minutely to maximize his effective positioning. His arms, meanwhile, slashed and jabbed at the droid’s reinforced chassis with his lightsaber, creating trails of shallow gouges in the metal where his blade had passed.

Watching from the sidelines, Kelto almost wanted to cheer him on. Then the droid caught Sskeer in the gut with a side-swipe and sent him flying into the far wall.

His focus remained on Sskeer, sitting in his own impact crater, long enough to see his chest heave; he was badly shaken, possibly stunned, but still alive. Then his attention shifted back to the droid, which had taken its first step towards finishing the job.

The cowling around its shoulder joint had come loose. Not by much - but perhaps just enough.

Kelto charged. Sliding under a wild reactive swipe, he rolled to his feet and thrust the tip of his saber upwards, straight into the chink in the droid’s armor. In attempting to pull away, the droid inadvertently drew the unprotected coupling which lay beneath its shell across the edge of the energy blade, and the limb fell away lifelessly. It screamed in Binary, orienting to smash the offending Jedi with its other arm, but Kelto jump-flipped up and over its shoulder, shearing away the linkages connecting its armored collar to its vulnerable neck.

“Sskeer!”, he cried, landing as the armor segments clattered to the floor. “Now!”

The loadlifter reared back for one last overhead smash. It never got the chance to deliver the blow. Behind it, Sskeer bounded across the floor and sprang into a corkscrewing leap which carried his blade into position to strike the droid’s head from its shoulders. He executed the wayward machine with a roar.

The head landed with a dull clang and a dwindling electric whine; the rest of the body shuddered and ground to a complete halt, like a grotesque junkyard statue. The same could not be said for Sskeer, who came down heavily to his hands and knees upon returning to earth.

“Sskeer!” Kelto rushed to catch him, dropping his lightsaber and pushing him back up straight by his shoulders. “Are you alright?!”

“Y-yes,” Sskeer hissed. He clutched his head in one clawed hand and screwed his eyes shut, still sitting on his haunches. “I’m alright, it’s only -- nng-- a concussion, perhaps.”

“Sure you don’t want that stim now?”

“I’ve… reconsidered.”

Obligingly, Kelto injected him with an ampoule of kolto - and one more for good measure. Soon enough, Sskeer could see clearly again, though the ringing pain in his head still remained. The blaster wound, though, had almost completely closed over.

“Nice footwork back there,” Kelto murmured with a smile, massaging his uninjured shoulder. “Good placement, good tempo - ever consider taking up tap dancing? You’ve sure got the rhythm for it.”

“They don’t make patent synthleather in Trandoshan sizes.”

“Hey, you gotta have something to fall back on in case this Jedi thing falls through.”

Wearily, Sskeer met his eyes, grumbling in his throat. “Always the joker,” he said, tipping the underside of the Rodian’s jaw with his knuckle. Then he stood, groaning. “We should inform the police the situation is contained.”

Kelto tucked himself under his arm, half-carrying his weight across his shoulders - well, more like quarter-carrying. “Not bad for my first big patrol, huh?”

“You were more than capable. In some places, you surpassed even myself.” Sskeer slid his hand back to rest on the closer of Kelto’s shoulders. “As I said you would, if you trusted yourself to.”

“Ah, you’re just saying that.”

Sskeer stopped him in his tracks so he’d know he was being serious. “You would have made a fine Jedi Guardian, Kelto Lem. And should you ever desire such a path, I would be honored to walk it with you.”

He stared up at him, bug-eyed. “You… really mean that?”, he asked quietly.

Sskeer shrugged. “Consider it something to fall back on, in case being a healer doesn’t work out.”

“And I thought I was the joker around here,” Kelto snorted, as they left the ruined warehouse behind.