#breaking boulders after arc

[colebrookstone-irl]

I don't think I ever told you guys what happened between me and Lloyd and why I'm mad at him so here we go

Yk how there were 21 or so boulders in my room? There are now 14. ... and also my room is getting a rework - 💀

Anyways I will be holding a PROPER funeral for the following boulders:

Bole

Bloyd

Bone

Ben

Bry

Blunder

And...Buck.

May they rest peacefully within the earth they originated from

Anyways he was mad at me because I took over his leadership role for awhile (everyone agreed to this decision btw) because he is MENTALLY UNSTABLE. And he didn't like that and I decided that he was gonna watch the monestery (while Jay and I went to get Bizarro Nya) if he wants our trust in being leader again and. Yeah no screw him he destroyed my fucking room and murdered 7 of my kids.

Anyways that's why I'm mad at him and will be for awhile. :)

[no-droids]

Another Rough Day

gif credit @chrishemsworht

Part Twenty of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13.7K

Warnings: Angst, violence, canon-typical blood and gore, language, hurt/comfort

A/N: i wanna thank yall for sticking around during my hermit era, in the time ive been gone i am now officially a junior at a university majoring in aerospace and it’s a fuckin nightmare and i hate everything and god help us all literally kill me and I will be posting INCREDIBLY slowly because of that (I’m talkin weeks or months in between updates yall, im sorry I can’t dedicate more time to this but I am going to finish this fic within the next handful of chapters idk maybe 5 or 6 so you shouldn’t have to wait too too long).  As a heads up there will be hard angst as we enter the final arc, there will be hurt and it’ll get dark but everything is gonna turn out alright so thanks for sticking with me and continuing to stick with me. im sorry if you dont like it or your expectations were subverted or if this isn’t what you’d hoped it would be after following and waiting around for so long but this was planned a long time ago and it took me a good year or two to recognize that I started writing this fic for me and now I’m going to end it writing for me and I hope yall can respect that

ALSO I asked my best BEST FRIEND in the entire world @cptnbvcks to collaborate with me for this after we both took a very long break from creating and she drew some GORGEOUS artwork for this chapter so it will be posted at the end, everyone please go follow her and say hello

ps brittany girl you’re a fuckin menace i had to use my own two ears and listen to ethan literally say the words “the mandalorian cums, hard” what the fuck was that im actually suing

anyways chapter below the cut lets get serious yall

---

You take two of them down before they even realize they’re being attacked.

Your aim is as swift and steady as if Din were behind your shoulder right now, calmly pointing out which stationary tree to hit next in rapid succession.  You’re positioned perfectly at the bottom of the ramp to take full advantage of the ambush, the only thing running through your mind is strategy and the constant calculating of angles and ricochets.  The other three troopers are trapped inside the open Crest and you’re right next to a large boulder that you can step behind for cover, but it proves unnecessary as the rumors were apparently true.

They’re… awful.

Not a single blaster is even fired in your direction—you think you see maybe one panicked red shot bounce around in the hull, but that’s it.  The troopers fumble for their guns and trip over each other at the unexpected attack—a few scream like children through the modulators, but you’re temporarily deaf to anything besides the screech of your weapon hitting its target and the crumpling of armored bodies.

Later on, if someone were to ask you to describe exactly what happened—who died first, who ran for cover, who cried out for help—you don’t think you’d be able to.  You don’t even really feel like a person right now.  The entire thing is cold, robotic survival instinct, pure ruthlessness rising in your soul for the first time in your life.  It feels sick.  Wrong in your bones.  Born from preemptive defense in fear of your life, but that doesn’t mean you stop.  Not until all of them stop moving.

You empty the entire fucking canister for a handful of stormtroopers, firing plasma and char marks across every square inch of the pristine hull even after the last one drops.  Your heart is beating too fast, your finger keeps pulling the trigger multiple times even after the blaster clicks uselessly, completely empty and beeping a warning that it must’ve begun emitting ages ago.  Being out of ammo scares you—you suddenly feel vulnerable, even though the very far away logical part of your mind reminds you that they have to all be dead at this point and no physical threat was ever able to graze you.

Regardless, you quickly spin behind the boulder and grab another canister from your belt, giving it a spare check for leaks while the empty one slides and drops to the rocky ground.  It’s the first time you’ve ever had to reload this weapon instead of just pointing and shooting, but the mechanics are relatively simple and your brain makes up for your lack of coherent thoughts with lightning fast perception.  What's difficult is that your hands are starting to shake now that you’re not aiming, you’re not breathing correctly because you’re not really breathing at all.  You can’t tell the difference between the adrenaline-fueled dissociative silence that muffles everything around you or if it really is just that quiet now.  No more clatter of armor, no modulated voices or terrified screams.  No blasters, no footsteps along the ramp, no birds singing.

You quickly pause to lift your elbow and check the enormous eyes blinking up at you, tiny claws still holding tight to the fabric of your tunic and completely unharmed, and then you force yourself to move.  The blaster is held out in front of you while you walk forward and your finger rests on the trigger, begging to be pulled again.  It’s suspenseful and terrifying in a different way than before—now it’s less about psyching yourself up for confrontation and more about the fact that any sudden movement could mean your very swift end.

Silence.  Silence.  You’re numb and raw at the same time, walking up the ramp as your eyes fly everywhere, not even registering the blood or gore, just searching for movement.  You don’t know if you feel like a predator or prey, you’re that much more brutal and inhuman because of how fucking terrified you are.  You count four stormtroopers in the hull laying crumpled and still on the metal floor, but the one in the far corner only has blood on his shoulder.  You quickly swing the blaster around to remedy that, but then—

“P-Please don’t kill me!”

His words remind you of something.  Reality, maybe.  A world outside yourself and the kid’s survival, the living beings behind the bloody armor your enemies wear.

It’s a miracle your finger stays hovering over the trigger, and you watch him throw the blaster at your feet with a clang and scramble to show you his empty hands.  “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me—I’m not loyal to the Empire, I don’t want to be here, please, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die—”

Behind the mask, your expression furrows.  Stormtroopers are loyal to the bitter end, what is he saying?  They embrace their expendiality, it’s the only thing that makes them any sort of a real threat.  Kuiil told you horror stories about them during your childhood, the cloning facilities and the propaganda they’re force fed since infancy.  It’s nearly impossible to find one who hasn’t been raised from birth to serve the Empire, no matter how crumbled and trace its remaining authority may be.

No, this is a trap, it has to be.  Your expression twists with dread after hearing him speak, readjusting your aim with the blaster and preparing yourself for the years of nightmares that’ll follow—but then he cries out, “Wait!” and then removes his helmet with trembling hands.

You pause, staring down at him in shock.

It’s him, you recognize him immediately.  It’s the same face from a hologram puck you bore into your memory, spent multiple days staring at so you’d be able to spot him under any disguise or circumstances.  Oshua Ryler.  Your quarry, the fifth puck, the one Din was out Maker knows where searching for before this entire mess happened.  A stormtrooper?  His puck said nothing about the Empire, this doesn’t make any sense.  What is he doing here?  Stormtroopers don’t have pucks, they don’t have bounties or relatives or loved ones searching for them.  They’re brainwashed, replaceable, faceless soldiers in suits of armor and they don’t even have names.

“Please don’t kill me,” he begs again, staring at you with wide eyes even as he cowers.  “I have a family, I-I just want to go home, please—”

“Shut up.”  You can’t think straight with him crying like that and you’re wasting so much time just standing here trying to process when your brain had to literally shut itself down to even do the things you’ve already done.  You have to kill him and escape, you have to—you can’t trust this complication, not with the tiny claws currently digging into your back and reminding you of your purpose, but it was so much easier when he had on a helmet.  You hate looking at his face.  It’s going to haunt your dreams now, just like the man you stabbed on Corellia.

“Please don’t kill me—please don’t kill me,” he screws his eyes up and breathes over and over instead, and your stomach wrenches with disgust.  His posture and expression are so fucking pitiful, you can barely keep your eyes on him through the overwhelming nausea and aversion that climbs up your throat.  He’s with the Empire, and they’re looking for the baby.  You know what needs to be done.  Pull the trigger, just one small movement from you and it’ll be all over.  It would be the easiest thing in the world, it would be so easy.

But then instead, you ask, “Why are you a stormtrooper?”

“I’m n-not—I hate the Empire—”

“The Empire is ashes.”  You don’t know if you’re yelling or whispering with how much blood is roaring through your ears.  “They hold no power anymore.  Why are you with them?”

“Because the one thing they have left is money!”  The quarry shrills the words at you, ghostly pale to the point of turning green.  “Th-They buy troopers now—they opened up a whole new market for the smugglers, there’s a base nearby that’s used for training and…”  He stares wide eyed at you and gulps.  “C-Conditioning.”

Your brain is already going a trillion lightyears an hour and it doesn’t have the capacity to empathize or understand anything beyond the child’s survival and the relevant details right now.  “Were they expecting the baby?”

“W-What?”  He squeaks up at you.

“Was the bounty put out on you a trap set by the Empire?”  You ask him, lifting your free arm just enough to flash him the tiny child clinging to your side.  “He said they’re coming after the baby, so tell me if this was planned from the beginning.”

“Who is ‘he’?”  The stormtrooper asks, furrowing his eyebrows and looking around.  “What are you talki—”

“Tell me if the bounty on you was a trap to take this baby!”  You roar, your blaster shaking as you aim it down at him.  Your mind is acutely focused on the tiny claws hanging onto your tunic, the continued safety of the kid and the life or death situation facing him that you were given absolutely no information about.  “Now—”

“If it was I didn’t know!”  He quickly cries out, pleading with you and clamping his eyes shut in terror under the barrel sight.  “I don’t know anything about a b-baby, or a bounty!  They just put blasters in our hands and told us to search for a ship and to bring back anyone we find alive, I swear!”

You’re silent for a moment, biting your lip under the mask and caught halfway between discerning and stalling.  You could still kill him.  You should still kill him, time is ticking down and more troopers could be heading this way any second.

Shit.  “Who put the bounty out on you?”  You ask sharply.  It might not be a completely fair question, but he can’t exactly blame you for not feeling completely fair right now.

“I—I don’t know,” he gasps, clutching his bleeding shoulder.  “Could’ve been anyone—my mother, Cyra, o-or my dad, Obediah, or Thia, or Benja, or S—”

“Thia,” you interrupt his rambling, catching the slurred word and repeating it back to him.

“Yes!”  Oshua jerks his head up, tears and hope immediately filling his eyes at the sound of her name, “Yes, Thiadura Celi Ryler, that’s my sister!”

Maker, if he’s lying, then he’s fucking brilliant at it.  You look towards the cockpit of the ship, biting your lip under the mask.  Get to Nevarro, tell Karga and he’ll… something.  Din was cut off before he finished.  Help?  Know what to do?  You’re lost, but you have a clear directive and the precious seconds are sliding by.  The controls are right up there, two steps to the ladder and less than a minute until you’re rising into the atmosphere.

But then you think back to the terror in Din’s voice.  The blistering panic that made him speak faster and with more urgency than you’ve ever heard from him.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.  Get to Nevarro.  Tell Karga.

You look back at the quarry.  “How many of you are there?”

“At the base?  Around three hundred,” he immediately spills.  “Half of us are in the hole right now getting brainwashed, they do it in shifts, but they can be mobilized in a few hours.  There were a lot of bodies outside when we were ordered to split off, maybe a third of our squadron, but the rest were still shooting at whatever was—”

“So around a hundred left,”  You finish breathlessly, almost wanting him to speak faster and cut to the chase so you can calculate quicker.  “How many were dispatched on the search?”

“Uh, there were eight groups of five sent in each major direction,” he informs you, still trembling on the ground.  “Told us not to come back until we covered the entire sector.”

Of which, four you’ve already taken care of.  In other circumstances, you’d be nauseated at the thought, but right now, it’s just another number to subtract, just more panicked math in Din’s frightening absence.  That leaves at least sixty troopers left wherever the base is, minimum, and likely a couple more hours before they’ve combed the sector.  If this wasn’t a preconceived trap purposefully set for the kid, then that means reinforcements haven’t arrived yet but likely will soon.  And if this is a base meant for training and conditioning, then that also means there’s a chance not all of them will be loyal yet.

You make the decision immediately.

“Okay,” you announce, clicking the blaster’s safety switch and holstering it, sounding lightyears more certain than you feel.  “Then you’re going to help me carry out a rescue mission, and I’ll take you back to your sister.”

“You…”  He looks uncertain, blinking at your blaster and slowly lowering his hands.  “You want to rescue the men?”

Ideally?  Sure.  Realistically?  You don’t say anything in response.  Instead, you kick his regulation firearm at your feet further away from the quarry just in case your judgment is flawed, and then turn around and grab one of the bodies behind you.

Your adrenaline is still blaring so fast that you only just barely note the severity of what you’ve just done and what you’re continuing to do.  The corpses aren’t real to you right now, they’re inanimate things that you need out of your ship before you can close the doors to it.  They are, however, heavy as fuck, but the only other adult here has a wound in his arm from the gun on your hip.  Regardless, you have experience with lifting dead weight without a big, strong, capable man to do it for you.

“Help me out here, kid,” you mutter over your shoulder, and in response, you feel his claws dig in and climb up just a little bit until he can peek out in front of you.  Thankfully, the burden is suddenly lifted and you can quickly slide the dead troopers down the ramp with ease.  It takes hardly any time at all—you just yank and haul and release and all four of them tumble the rest of the way all by themselves.

When you stand back up, Oshua hasn’t moved and he’s looking at you with a pale, queasy expression.  Glancing down, you see that your white robe is now stained with streaks and patches of rusty blood.  Instead of swallowing back bile at the sight and bolting to the shower to scrub off every last remaining trace, you breeze past it, noting nothing more than a change of color.  Dirtying your white, pristine clothing with the consequences of protecting this baby—you’d rather have blood-soaked fabric with an unharmed kid clinging to you than any other combination of those things.

“Can you make it up to the cockpit?”  You ask the quarry, kicking his rifle off the ship before closing the ramp and then gesturing up the ladder.  Your voice is calm and steady but your hands are beginning to shake again.  “I need as much information as possible about the base.”  You know that’s where Din is, judging from the wall of blaster screeches that drowned him out through the comm.  Logically, you know you could be headed right into a trap, and every instinct inside you wants to find safety, but… you just cannot imagine flying the ship away from this planet without Din onboard.  It isn’t fucking happening, you’ve made your choice.

Without waiting for a response, you climb the ladder and plop down in the pilot’s seat of the Crest.  While Oshua finds some way to clamber up the steps behind you in bulky stormtrooper armor with one good arm, you hold the kid closer on your lap and begin flight checking.  Din will be fucking furious, but the scolding you’ll be sure to get is the least of your worries right now.  Following his instructions and going back to Nevarro is just making shit infinitely more dangerous for him, turning what could be a potential rescue mission into an undeniable suicide mission.  Even if Karga somehow decides to send a few guild members along to infiltrate the base, it’ll be a war you want to avoid.

Besides.  What did you always tell him about running away from him, even when he instructs you to?

It’s just… not really your thing.

---

They’re everywhere.

They crawl like flies out of the base, and for every single body that falls, three more spill from the open doors.  Rapid fire plasma beams launch from the end of Din’s blaster, melting white armor with every twitch of his gloved finger.  Their aim is terrible, as is to be expected, but the sheer number of them more than makes up for it, as is by design.

Din’s heart pounds with exertion, his breath comes in ragged huffs through the modulator as his helmet identifies and isolates which body is closest to him, which body he needs to bring down next.  His blaster is so hot it nearly burns his hand, even through the thick gloves he wears.  When he runs out of ammo, he holsters the pistol and swings his rifle from around his shoulder, spinning to catch a handful of troopers behind him in the obliterating blast.

He’s not thinking much.  He can’t think, even though your safety and that of his son is currently dangling by a thread.  If he focuses on that, he’ll be dead before he can even picture your faces.  He just reacts, he maims and kills without a single thought in his mind.  Blood splatters, screams and sirens blare as he becomes surrounded by more and more troopers.  Din can hear the sound of plasma colliding and ricocheting off his armor; every single one of them is a potential injury he could currently have but might not even be able to feel right now.

His helmet starts beeping rapidly and he turns just enough to see, highlighted in bright red on the screen, two enormous artillery turrets slowly rising up out of the roof of the imperial base.  He feels a fierce flash of anger burn in his chest, it’s like a lightning strike to his veins.

Din needs to go.

And yet… if he was another man.  If he wasn’t a father, or a husband, if he had no family and no attachments like the creed declared he should, he would go.  With just a twitch of his fingers, he could be launching into the sky and retreating as far away from this battlefield as he could reasonably get.  He’s never been the type to run from a threat, but this isn’t just a threat.  Dozens of troopers are gaining on him, they’re trampling their own dead to get within range.  Plasma pings off his shoulder, another one hits his back as they flank from behind.  He can feel the heat through the sizzling beskar, he can see them surrounding him on all sides, and the propulsion trigger for his jetpack is right there under his wrist.

Din holds his ground and continues firing, he plants his feet firmly to the dirt with only one thought in his mind.

Run, sweet girl.  Run.

---

You type in commands to scan for Din’s signal, quickly locating it through the Crest’s computer onboard.  Not far from here, three minutes or less.  The ship rumbles to life beneath you, slowly lifting off the rocky ground and rotating in place as it hovers.  It’s not on autopilot but you feel like you are, you can barely feel your hands as they move the yoke forward and the Crest takes off in the direction of Din’s blinking frequency.

“Tell me about defenses,” you instruct Oshua, restlessly bouncing your leg while the baby coos.

“Two plasma turrets on top of the base,” the quarry quickly answers.  “There’s usually guards stationed around the perimeter, but everyone who’s capable will be outside right now.”

Your mouth twists downwards under the mask.  Blasters don’t scare you much from this high up, but Din’s armor doesn’t cover every inch of his body, he’s not completely invincible.  Doubt churns in your stomach, but you have to stay focused on one task at a time so you don’t get overwhelmed.  The turrets, then.  “Are they automatic?”

“Manual,” he corrects with a shake of his head.

“Radar?”

“Old.  Only engages above fifty meters.”

You eye your altitude and dip the Crest considerably, beginning to weave through the rocky canyons and dodging crumbling cliffs while you travel.  “What about ships?”

“None,” Oshua says, “except for a passenger shuttle used for transport.  TIEs are flown in the Vesta sector, this base is remote and used for basic training only.”

“Anything else?”  You ask, stomach twisting with the knowledge that barely four questions is all you’ve got.  You’re planning to drop into an imperial base to save the man you love and you can’t think of a single other question?  

The quarry shrugs, and your heart slams, does somersaults in your chest at the mere notion that you could fucking die here.  Today, in two minutes or less, you could die here.  The child in your lap looking over the ship’s front panel with a quiet determination in his eyes could die here.  Din could already be dead—that signal broadcasts his location to this computer regardless of whether he’s still breathing or not.  He could already be gone and you’d be flying the baby right into a trap without knowing any differently.

Whelp, you think while taking a deep breath, some strangely calm existential acceptance beginning to flood your soul.  If he isn’t dead, he will be soon if you don’t make it to him on time.

You immediately lift your wrist and speak into the communicator.  “Mando?”  You have no idea if he can hear you, but you need to try anyway.  Your voice is still firm, there’s a strength to it you don’t feel in your chest, but it certainly sounds convincing.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Try to figure something else out.”

That’s it.  That’s it, improvise until you don’t have to.  Even if you’re lacking confidence, you can at least scrounge up some conviction.  Your arms gain feeling again while you veer the Crest through the stony terrain, the familiar reverberations under your feet begin to fill your body with a powerful sense of purpose.  Your breaths begin to come steady, every falling rock you see through the transparisteel feels like it drops in slow motion, allowing you to evade them easily.  It would normally be stupidly dangerous to fly this low with so many unexpected obstacles and hazards narrowly missing the ship, but considering what you’re flying into, a few boulders seems comical.

“Where’s your helmet?”  Oshua asks out of nowhere, and for a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.

But then it strikes you all at once what he’s attempting to imply, and the sheer lunacy of the thought is enough to make you laugh while you clutch the controls.  “I’m not a Mandalorian.”

“You wear the armor of one,” he points out… rather fairly, you have to admit.  “You cover your face like one.  You have a blaster that fires Philithiorium, a rare and expensive gas native to Mandalore’s stratosphere, and you’re a bounty hunter—”

“I’m not a Mandalorian.”  Your words are short and cutting, you have a daunting task to focus on and don’t feel like having small talk right now.  “I’m not a bounty hunter, either.”

But then again, Karga made you a member of the Guild, didn’t he?  He handed you Oshua’s puck and said this one is for you to find, and you are technically part of a Mandalorian clan.  All of this seems like it happened without your knowledge.  You may be marrying a Mandalorian, you may wear his armor and mother his child and shoot a blaster with his signet branded into it, but war isn’t in your blood.  This robe was a costume when you first made it, this armor was a relic that was restored as a hobby.  In a sense, it still feels that way.  The mask covering your face lended itself to a temporary surge of bravery earlier, but beyond that, the only thing that’s keeping you moving forward now is your family.  The man you love that may or may not be alive right now, the baby holding tight to your leg while the ship sways and weaves through the stony landscape.

Your eyes quickly flick down to the child in your lap, both of his three fingered hands clutching onto the stained fabric of your knee without moving a single inch.  He’d know, you tell yourself.  If his father is gone, he’d already know somehow.  Din is still alive, and he’s counting on you.

---

There’s too many for Din to handle.

They swarmed him, overpowered his endless artillery with massive numbers and there’s nothing he can do anymore.  The backs of his knees are kicked from behind and he slams down to the ground with a clatter, his sizzling hot blasters are ripped from him, and Din folds his hands calmly behind his back even as one of the stormtroopers barks out, “Binders,” to another one, who disappears quickly in response.  In the meantime, a few of them apparently decide to just attempt holding his arms in place, and their measly combined grip is almost enough to make him roll his eyes under the helmet.  These imperial soldiers are even more pitiful than they usually are, but his silent resolve to stall to ensure your escape is enough to keep him stationary and compliant for the time being.

Eventually, a few voices call out from beyond the crowd and there’s some movement from the back.  Dozens of troopers with their blasters all pointed at him begin to shuffle to make way, careful to keep their barrels aimed at him while a path slowly forms.  The crowd of white parts and a stormtrooper with a singular red pauldron on his right shoulder saunters confidently towards Din as he kneels on the ground.

An officer, he assumes.  Conveniently missing from the firefight, the scanner inside his helmet would’ve caught the change in color and Din would’ve made sure to kill him first.

“Well now, what do we have here?”  Comes his thin metallic voice through the tinny filter.  The officer studies him curiously for a few moments, before slowly looking down by his feet, reaching out one cheap, plastic covered foot to gently nudge the body of a dead trooper on the ground with a sigh.  “What a shame.”

Coward, he thinks, his lip curling with disgust under the helmet.

“This is an imperial training base,” he turns his attention back to Din to inform him when he doesn’t immediately respond, rather stupidly he might add.  “How were you able to find us?”

Silence.  The grip on hands held behind his back is even looser now.  He just tilts his chin up slightly in defiance, the scanner inside his helmet locating each weapon strapped to the man’s body and highlighting it red.  Small text boxes blink into existence under each one with a manufacturer and classification—a BlasTech E-11 rifle, a Merr-Sonn thermal detonator, a Kolvo vibroblade—and Din is severely unimpressed with the quality.  The detonator is the only weapon that even catches his eye, and that’s only because the chamber inside that houses the explosive baradium has a release mechanism that’s completely dead.  Useless, then.  Good to know.

After a long moment of quiet tension where Din refuses to speak and the officer continues to confidently scrutinize him, in some strange sort of silent battle of egos that only one seems to have a genuine interest in, another stormtrooper makes his way to the front, shoving past his fellow soldiers to address the superior in charge.

“Commander, we’ve sent out an alert for an intruder,” he tells him, slightly out of breath from running through the crowd in the lightweight armor.  Din wants to roll his eyes, but what he says next makes him snap to immediate attention.  “The fleet informed us that Moff Gideon is currently on route.”

Gideon.  The last time someone spoke that name, it was a quarry on Coruscant and you just barely managed to stop Din from suffocating the bastard for even saying it aloud before freezing him in carbonite.  It would’ve meant half the return on a hunt that lasted nearly a month but he saw red and his hand was crushing his windpipe before he realized what happened.  But he’s dead, Din thinks with a clenched jaw and fists tightening behind his back, he watched that TIE fighter explode and slam into the ground, crushing the man inside it.  The wreck was unsurvivable, he can’t be alive.

“For what?  This Mandalorian?”  The trooper in charge scoffs in response, and Din remains completely mute.

“Yes, sir,” the other one confirms.  “Orders were to capture him, alive.”

“Hm.”  The officer turns his attention back to him, less analyzing and more musing while he tilts his head.  “I see,” he eventually says, and he sounds like he’s grinning, before strolling slightly closer as Din stays completely still on his knees.  “He must want the beskar.  I’m sure it’s worth more than this entire battalion combined.”

All of a sudden, a gloved hand carelessly catches the rim of his helmet and tugs, and Din’s movement is explosive.  He launches off the ground, arms easily slipping from the pathetic grip they were being held in and his fist colliding with the side of the officer’s flimsy white helmet, the plastic making a deafening crack against his face.

Multiple hands immediately rush forward to grab him and yank him back down again while the commanding trooper stumbles backwards in shock, and Din amicably drops to his knees and folds his hands behind his back once more like nothing happened at all.

“Binders!”  A trooper behind him roars loudly once more, and a few men surrounding him begin trotting away this time.

The officer in red stands a few feet away from him now, grabbing his helmet and twisting it back to its proper position on his head where it was skewed.  There’s a shattered hole near his jaw where the material splintered and busted like the cheap piece of banthashit it is, and while he might normally feel pleased with himself for being able to see his skin peeking through, it just fills him with more righteous fury.  It’s such a punchable jaw.

After a few awkward moments of silence, the other one clears his throat and continues.  “He… has inquired about the location and status of a child that should be accompanying him.”

Din inhales deeply through his nose and grinds his teeth.  He wants to snap their necks one by one for even just mentioning his son, but there are just too many, more than even his whistling birds can neutralize.  Still, he gave you as much of a head start as physically possible.  You should be rising into the atmosphere right now, making the jump into hyperspace towards safety.  Karga will know what to do—he’ll protect his family, separate you and the boy so the threat is evenly dispersed instead of collected all in one place, and arm dozens of trained hunters to keep watch over you both individually.  It’s the best Din can do, and it’s the only thing keeping his knees planted on the ground and his body completely motionless while they continue speaking.

“We are combing the sector for a ship with as many men as we can afford to lose,” the trooper in red says, but his voice filter is shattered and now sounds like a puny little droid with a broken voice box, “but our numbers are unimpressive.  Assistance may be required.”

It’s too late, Din thinks, mouth twitching under the beskar with a satisfied smirk.  They’re wasting their time, looking for a ghost.  You’re both long gone by now.  They’ve got no idea you even exist—

“He also spoke of a girl.”

And then he feels his heart stop in his chest.  Every single cell in his body turns to fire, it’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t move a muscle in response.  His sweet girl, the one so far removed from the nightmare of the Empire that she made best friends with the orphans of it.  How the fuck did he know?  He shouldn’t even be breathing, let alone gathering information about you, how did he know?

But then Din thinks back, remembering your makeshift bed on the floor, your panicked eyes and heaving chest as the quarry taunted him with a sick little smile.  Who’s this, Mando?  She’s just darling, isn’t she?  Does Gideon know your crew has a lovely new addition?

“A girl?”

The trooper nods.  “Moff Gideon insisted that if the Mandalorian did not have a child with him, then a girl would likely be protecting him instead.”

He’s going to kill them, Din decides.  Every single one of these imperial pigs, every single soldier standing right now is a dead fucking man.  The blood pumping through his body suddenly turns to acid, deadly black hate poisoning his soul.  His heartbeat morphs into a war drum, the armor strapped to his limbs is the barrel of a gun.  He’s going to fucking kill them and leave an imperial base full of bodies to greet his old nemesis upon his return, and he’s going to enjoy every single second of it.

Except, then—

“Mando?”  The sweetest voice in existence suddenly crackles through the earpiece under his helmet.  “I’m coming to get you.  Less than a minute to your location, do everything you can to get outside.  If you can’t, I’ll just… uh.  Figure something else out.”

And, as Din kneels there in surrender, surrounded by a crowd of enemies he thought he destroyed long ago, all the anger—all the fury and defiance and murder surging through his veins—suddenly morphs to fear.

The emotion is so foreign and old to him, it feels like a face he barely recognizes and a name he can’t remember.  He’s panicked before.  He’s been in situations where a threat has made him blind with rage, he knows what it’s like to look death straight in the eyes and say that he’s busy and to come back another time.  This is different.  This is ice cold that freezes over beskar.

He can’t speak out loud to warn you—he can’t move his hands to press the button on the back of his helmet and allow him to talk without detection.  There’s plasma turrets on the roof of the base, he can see them right now.  The helmet’s scanners say they’re manned and engaged, and though he is outside and this is how you retrieved him before whenever he needed a quick escape, he has fifty fucking imperial blasters trained on him and you know absolutely nothing about this threat.  You’re flying right into a war zone and if either you or his son dies, he won’t ever be able to forgive himself.

Behind the helmet, his eyes fly to each and every trooper, wondering which blaster will be the one to do it.  Which weapon is going to be the one he can’t block in time when you descend, the one that’ll kill him right in front of you.  Which turret will be the one to obliterate the Crest with you and his son inside of it.

“Maker, where are those fucking binders—” he hears someone behind him snarl, but the white noise of pure terror roaring through his ears drowns them out.  His chest starts heaving against his will, sheer panic begins to blur his vision.  For the first time in his life, his armor feels too heavy, his lungs feel like one of these boulders are sitting on them instead of beskar.

All too soon, his helmet starts making a familiar sound that signals quietly in his ear, alerting him of an incoming ship, and the only thing he can physically do is count down the seconds to prepare himself for what is to come.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

Like lightning, Din breaks the grip of multiple troopers and surges up, tackling the officer in red to the ground.  There’s a clatter as they both slam into the rocky floor, but in the ensuing scuffle, he easily snatches the thermal detonator from his side holster and holds it up for everyone to see, before pressing the red button on the front and hearing it begin to beep rapidly.

---

You’re right on time.

The Crest rises up through the rocky cliffs surrounding the base and you spot the turrets you were warned about.  Weapons controls are already engaged and you’re too low to be detected by radar—you fire once, twice, and blast both of them to smithereens from behind before they can even rotate around to target you.

Alarms start wailing but the guns are destroyed.  It’s not comforting, though; blasters won’t touch you up here, but that doesn’t mean they can’t fire at Din on the ground.  Your eyes dart across the sea of white, looking for a flash of silver anywhere, and then you spot him instantly in the chaos.

For some reason, the troopers in his vicinity all seem to be bolting away from him.  Their rifles are down, clutched in their hands while they nearly fall over each other to run away as fast as possible, and your heart soars when you spot his jetpack firing up.  Din launches into the sky while another trooper is revealed underneath him, seeming to juggle something in his hands and then throw it into the crowd of retreating soldiers, but the sight of the man you love rising into the air while a flurry of blaster shots from the far edges of the imperial structure follow him gives you the confidence to immediately turn the guns down towards the horde of troopers.

“Which ones are in charge?”  You ask Oshua breathlessly, who leans forward and points out the transparisteel.

“Red pauldrons—” he barely has time to say it before you aim and fire at one of the troopers wearing red that was closest to Din, the plasma beam launching from the Crest so powerful and devastating that it outright obliterates the surface he’s laying on.  Pieces of shattered armor fly and a smoking crater of rubble is all that’s left behind, but your mind is whirling and you’re already onto someone else wearing red at the edges of the complex, and then two more near the doors, and then another—

To their credit, you think the sixty or so soldiers in training seem to figure out that you’re not aiming into the enormous collection of them.  If you were, the damage would be catastrophic and spraying everywhere, but you’re precise and meticulous with your shots, and the only ones who are loyal enough to the cause to hold still and raise their blasters at the incoming threat tend to be the ones you need to mow down anyways.  The rest of them scatter in all directions, scrambling over each other to escape and then disappearing into the distant boulders surrounding the base—but you notice that not a single one of them runs back inside the safety of its open doors.

The hull dips with the weight of Din dropping in, and relief floods your soul even as you continue raining hell down on the superiors in charge.  Any flash of color you see is a target, your eyes lose focus of everything, your vision blurs and turns monochrome as you just search for red.

“Lift up!”  You hear Din’s voice roar from the hull.  You can hear his rifle unloading through the open door.  “Now!  We have to go now!”

You press the button to shut the hull door with Din inside and punch it, rising so fast that the shove of gravity makes it difficult to keep your head up.  Through the sudden surge of downward force, you just barely manage to raise your incredibly heavy arm to push the button that pressurizes the Crest and ignites the launch boosters, preparing the vessel for space travel.  Outside the transparisteel, the gray sky begins darkening as the atmosphere eventually disappears.  The ship’s engines roar, burning so much fuel at once that you’re actually accelerating through the climb, you’re boosting through the gradual ease of gravity as the planet’s curvature and glow becomes softer and softer below you.

As soon as the blackness of space begins to fill the windows, the slight subsiding of force allows you to plug in the coordinates for Nevarro with less difficulty, but you’re still moving, still rising, still escaping.  You can’t find it within yourself to slow down, but then something catches your attention.

Claws suddenly dig sharp into your thigh, sharp enough to sting and cause you to wince, and you look down to see that the kid has gone incredibly tense.  Deadly tense.  Your heart is still pounding even though you’re away from danger, you’ve got Din in the hull, everyone is safe, and yet—

It flickers into existence all at once.  One second it’s just space, just the endless depths of nothingness spread out for light years in front of you, and within the blink of an eye it’s suddenly there.

A star destroyer.

Your body freezes in horrified awe, having never seen a ship so fucking big in your entire life.  It looks like a massive satellite, the size of an enormous asteroid instantly appearing in your vision and dwarfing the vastness of space around it.  All the stars you used to dream about are suddenly blotted out within a fraction of a second, terror so immense seizes your soul that you stop thinking.  You stop calculating, you stop being yourself for a split second that lasts an entire lifetime.

Before you can move a single muscle, the computer beeps quickly and lurches the Crest into hyperspace.

---

The stars streak across the transparisteel like so many times before.  Utter silence nearly deafens you with how abrupt it is after so much noise, but the peace it used to bring does nothing to quell your fear.  Everything is the same as it always was, same bursts of light as you hurdle faster than it towards Nevarro, same quiet, same rumbling hum of the ship.  But now, everything has changed.

You hear the quarry next to you suddenly inhale and exhale loudly, and it shocks you a little bit, reminds you that there’s a person next to you and another is on your lap.  Other people exist outside of the vision of death that just flickered out of existence just as quickly as it appeared.  They’re breathing, Oshua is shakily unbuckling his seatbelt, life is continuing on in the quiet cockpit but you can’t seem to move like he is.  You can’t seem to breathe like he is.  It’s only when the baby slowly maneuvers himself around on your thigh and blinks up at you, placing a tiny hand on your stomach that you finally feel air enter your lungs.

After a moment, you reach down and click open your seatbelt with trembling fingers, scooping the kid up in your arms and slowly attempting to stand.  Everything feels wobbly and dreamlike, you have to brace yourself on the headrest to prevent yourself from falling back into the chair again.

“That was…” Ryler mutters, his voice sounding foggy and distant, “uh.  A close one.”

You look over at him, recognizing that he’s speaking but not quite able to understand the words right now.  Red catches in your vision, and you blink down at the way he’s clutching his left shoulder, the smear of blood darkening the white armor he’s wearing.  You blink a few more times at the sight of it, and though it feels like you normally would be sickened at the wound, somehow shocked out of your state of shock, it does nothing to you.  When you look back up at his face, his expression seems strangely grateful, even when it’s screwed up in what you know must be excruciating pain.    You did that, a quiet voice whispers in your mind, even though the rest of it seems incredibly blank.

Instead of responding, you stumble a few steps over to the ladder, spinning around and hesitating for a moment.  You’re severely lacking in coherent thought, but one thing seems to break through.  You’re not sure if you have enough coordination to do this safely right now.  However, when there’s movement in your peripheral and you look to see Oshua gently offering his right arm to you, seeming to understand you’d like to use both hands for this, you snap back to your senses just the slightest bit and hug the baby tighter to your chest.  Carefully, you begin making the slow climb down the ladder with the kid, still trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline.  Your limbs feel extra heavy, but eventually the floor meets your feet.

Din is standing there when you slowly turn around, armor gleaming and still as a statue, but he has his back to you.  His helmet is tilted down at the ground, and when you follow his gaze, you’re met with the sight of the bloodstains of dragged bodies that leave dark red streaks all the way up the ramp.

You feel something this time.  It’s… cold.  A burning, searing cold that creeps into your skin.  Like your heart decides to pump nitrogen through your chest instead of warm blood.  You did that.

There’s a sudden urge inside of you to speak, to address him and inform him of your presence, tell him everything is okay, everything worked out, but you can’t find it in yourself to say a single word.  You can’t find a single word to say.  The kid twists as best he can in your clutch, his ears drag against your chest to greet his father, but for some reason, there’s still a strange sense of fear in your bones.  It’s enough to wake you up slightly, it’s enough to tell you it’s not over yet.  There’s a terror in your heart that hasn’t left since he first called over the comm and begged you to run, a crippling dread that you thought climaxed after seeing that star destroyer appear, but it’s somehow only increased after laying eyes on him like this.

You watch as his helmet turns, slowly meeting the pauldron on his shoulder, and for some reason, you feel yourself harden.  Your feet brace against the metal floor like this is another threat you have to face, you let its unyielding metallic strength transfer up through the souls of your boots to your heart in your chest.

But the second you hear cheap white armor clatter as the quarry steps down the ladder behind you, Din bursts into movement.  He suddenly spins and storms up to you in one single step while catching your holstered blaster on your hip.  It’s out and aimed in the blink of an eye, and it’s a miracle you remember how to speak before he remembers how to kill.

“Mando—” you warn, just in time for the quarry to land on the floor of the hull and turn around to reveal his face.

Din holds there for a second, his helmet locked on Oshua’s features.  His gloved fingers twitch wildly on the trigger of your gun held over your shoulder, like he has to remind himself multiple times not to.  You hear Oshua’s armor clack while he likely raises one good arm in surrender, but then Din’s helmet moves a fraction of a millimeter to your face and holds there.  He just stares down at you, and the air feels heavy, your body feels heavy, the feather light child in your arms feels heavy.

Slowly, he lowers his arm, lets it fall while he continues looking at you from behind the visor.  You look back at him, unblinking, unfeeling, and there’s a few seconds that last an utter eternity where nobody moves.  Nobody speaks, nothing happens, but then a soft coo comes from your arms before you can finally break eye contact, knowing there are still some things that need to be done.

You eventually turn around and lift your chin to address Oshua.

“You have to go into carbonite,” you inform him quietly.  Your voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from outside of yourself.  “We’re taking you to Nevarro, and then you’ll be transported to your home planet. When they unfreeze you, your sister will be there to collect you.”

He looks uncertain, one hand still raised while the other hangs uselessly at his side, and you don’t blame him.

But you also don’t feel like saying anymore, not unless he decides he doesn’t want to go in willingly.  Normally you might’ve tried to empathize, offer him further reassurance beyond just a couple short sentences, but you don’t.  Speaking feels difficult, thinking feels difficult.  You’re still in survival mode, not active but reactive.  There’s also no reason for you to lie to him about this, and you can see him glance at Din standing silently behind you, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

He eventually nods and you walk him over to the chamber without another word, watch him turn to face you as he backs into the opening while you reach up towards the control panel.

But then there’s a moment.  One where you hesitate slightly, one where your vision flashes back to the sight of those bloodstains on the floor, and that burning cold fills you again, so cold it feels completely numb.

“I’m… sorry,” you whisper quietly to him, though your voice sounds so empty.  There’s so much emotion that should be there but isn’t, so much regret and pain that should break through but can’t.  “I’m sorry I… killed your friends.”

Later, you’ll think about how you felt absolutely nothing saying it.  Your heart doesn’t constrict with remorse at the mere words leaving your mouth, guilt doesn’t flood into your soul, pain doesn’t wrack through your bones.  You could’ve been saying anything at all and nobody would be able to tell the difference.

He blinks at you, flicking his eyes between yours for a second or two, but then you press the proper button and watch the gas quickly freeze him where he stands.  He’ll be conscious the entire time, but Karga will send him to the correct location and you have no doubt that this elemental purgatory is leagues better than where he just escaped from.  It’s a benefit being the last quarry to be retrieved—he’ll only have to spend a few days trapped in here before being reunited with his family.

When that’s done and Oshua is a complete statue in front of you, bulky white armor now colored a dull metallic gray and frozen in time, you will yourself to finally turn around to face the enormous mountain of a presence behind you.  The baby gently reaches out for him, but Din doesn’t move from where he’s stood.  Your blaster is still clutched tightly in his hand, and he isn’t looking at you.

Slowly, you walk over and stop directly in front of him in the middle of the hull, blinking at him while the helmet subtly moves to lock onto your face.  The kid begins wiggling in your arms, making soft impatient noises while you both stand in complete silence across from each other.

After a few moments, you hear him flick your blaster’s safety on by his side and then toss it carelessly to the ground.  It skids along the floor, light enough to be mostly quiet.  Gloves reach out as he carefully takes the kid from you and settles him in the crook of one arm, and then he looks you up and down, still not saying anything.

Your eyes follow his movement, watching his arm slowly reaching out to you, and you think he’s going to cup your jaw, or brush your hair back.  Give you some sort of physical reassurance since he hasn’t spoken a single word of it.

Instead, Din suddenly grabs the armor clinging to your chest and starts ripping it off you with one hand.  It clangs to the floor so loudly in the silence of hyperspace, the kid’s ears twitch and flutter with each shattering bang.  You hold still while he does it, you barely respond except the unavoidable movement your body experiences as the pauldron is yanked from your shoulder and thrown against the ground.  The ammo belt is tugged over your head and hurled away, the thigh braces are snatched from your legs and they clang to the floor, and the pearly, opalescent fabric revealed underneath is stained in dead man’s blood, rusty and in such great quantities that it shows up as brown instead of red.

“Are you hurt?”

He sounds… dead.  So monotonic that you can’t possibly gauge his emotional state.  He doesn’t move.   His fists don’t clench, he says every single word like it means the same exact thing as the last.  If nothing at all was a person who could speak, they’d use his tone of voice.

“No,” you eventually whisper.

The helmet nods once, and then he spins around and walks away without anything else.  Without saying anything, without touching you, or double checking you for injuries in case you were lying.  You stand utterly still while Din climbs the ladder with the kid cradled in one arm, and you don’t even flinch when the door to the cockpit slides shut behind him.  You have no idea how long you stand there in the splitting silence afterwards, numb and unmoving.

You feel… nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

The hard defenses you strapped to yourself today to reconcile the things you had to do are still high and strong, guarding your soul even if he stripped away your physical armor.  Self preservation is still animating your body, and your facial expression barely changes.  Your first thought, as soon as you remember that you can have one, is that there are things that still need to be done.  Tasks to complete.

Alone, you shower the lingering traces of blood off your body, the normally clear and refreshing water running a sickly, toxic brown.  Alone, your stomach rolls and suddenly decides to empty itself of the very little that was in it as the scalding drops rain down over you—mostly liquid and bile that easily rinses down the drain.  The water is too warm, it beats down on you like blazing hot sand pelting your skin in the desert.  You feel like you did those first few months with Din, where the silence was suffocating, where you’d only interact with the baby if he was on a hunt or if you could tell he didn’t know how to calm him when he was fussy.  If you were in hyperspace, you usually spent time by yourself in the hull while he lived in the cockpit, and if he decided he needed to be in the hull for whatever reason, then you’d trade places with him.  It was… isolating.  Lonely by yourself.  The quiet used to haunt you before it became your cherished friend, but now it’s a betrayer, a ghost that whispers memories and nightmares in your ears.

When you finally finish rinsing the blood from your skin and get dressed, you see the sheets that used to make up your bed now have fried holes in them from your charred plasma marks, the inside of the hull is covered in them and the trails of dried blood where you dragged the bodies down the ramp.  Your armor is still strewn about the hull, the kid’s hovering shield lays dead in the corner.  Everything you meticulously cleaned and organized and collected and created, now the scene of a bloodbath.  One committed by your hand, your blaster still laying uselessly on the floor forever linked to this atrocity.

You spare a glance towards the ladder, but you don’t want to come face to face with Din yet.  You already knew he’d be furious, but… you had hoped that he’d at least…

What?  At least what?  Comfort you?  Coddle you after you deliberately ignored his instructions?  What exactly, in the past year or so of learning Din’s inner workings and intricacies, would ever give you the impression that he’d come give you a big hug after you purposefully defied him?  You flew the kid directly into an imperial base after being told to protect him, you ignored every order he gave to you in the moments he thought would be his last, and though you did it to save his life, you have a feeling that Din has never valued his life even a fraction of what you do.

The misery stabs at your soul, but your mind is finally beginning to process things logically.  He’s alive, the kid is alive, the quarry is secure, and you’re all onboard the safety of this ship hurtling through hyperspace where nobody, not even the Empire, can touch you.  You weighed the consequences before making your decision, you did what you had to do.  If he wants to be mad, then he can fucking well be mad and you’ll find some way to comfort yourself.  At least he’s here being mad, at least he’s alive and safe and breathing and mad, and your rare act of disobedience is to thank for that.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize it’s probably easier than it should be to reconcile the punishment.  Right now, you welcome the exclusion, the negativity and sorrow beating itself into your soul.  Four innocent people died today on this ship, gunned down under your blaster while they panicked and ran for cover.  You keep hearing their screams.

So you start to clean up the hull, needing another task to focus your thoughts on.  You work to erase every inch of the evidence of your deeds, make it disappear like the pool of blood Din once cleaned up while you were sleeping and never acknowledged again.  You only allow the bloodstains to fuck with your head for a single moment, and then you swallow back the nausea until you’re a blank slate again and sink to your knees with a rag in your hand.  After that, your vision stops focusing and it just becomes red contrasting against gunmetal gray, and you work tirelessly to get rid of all remaining traces of it.

Then you start on the blaster marks, you need them gone.  After a few informed attempts at mixing cleaning chemicals, you find one concoction that allows you to wipe them away like they’re nothing more than dirt that got tracked in.  The Crest’s oxygen recycling system works overdrive to constantly purify the air so you don’t get high or pass out, but your nose still stings.  It’s fine, it’s sterile, it burns a bit but it smells sharp and metallic and keeps you hyper focused on the task at hand.

After that’s done, you pick up the charred blankets and ball them up to throw into the trash vent.  You don’t feel anything as you do it.  You don’t think about how long it took you to collect these over months and months of being stuck on this ship, how comfortable they were when everything else was industrial and rigid, how many nights you spent with Din curled up in their softness while he breathed easy and warm.  Sheets are just luxuries, they can afford to be lost.

Next, you gather your armor and wipe it down with the rag, put it away along with your blaster.  The stained robe goes in the trash, along with the sheets and the blood soaked cloth you used to clean everything.  They’re all ruined, you’ll never be able to make them right again.

The hull is sparkling clean when you decide to take another shower.  Nothing on you is dirty except your hands, but you feel filthy.  Wrong, cold, numb, cold, stained, cold.

After scrubbing your skin raw under the water and changing clothes again, since you don’t really know what to do with yourself anymore, you slowly climb the ladder to the cockpit, keeping perfectly silent.  When you reach the upper platform and come face to face with the closed door, you can just barely hear Din’s whispered voice speaking quietly to the baby beyond it.

You raise your hand for a moment, hovering your knuckles over the metal, but then it eventually falls.  Instead, you look over and spot the corner, the same corner Din bunched himself into when he snapped at you for even suggesting going on a hunt with him, blew up at you for the mere notion of something happening like what happened today.  You back yourself into it in defeat and slowly sink down on the floor, resting your head against the metal and hugging your knees to your chest since you don’t have a tiny baby to take their place.

You can’t sleep.  You don’t even try, it’s pointless.  The concept feels foreign the longer you sit here by yourself.  You don’t hear Din or the baby anymore, but you feel… so fucking awful that it’s fitting that you don’t knock or go looking.  You don’t want to hold that sweet child with hands that were covered in blood just a few hours ago.  You killed more people than you can count on your fingers today, and of the ones who had done nothing wrong…  They screamed like younglings, ducked for cover and were able to fire off one single useless shot in the mayhem before you closed their eyes forever and left their bodies to rot in armor that wasn’t ever their choice to wear.

You didn’t know they were kidnapped and smuggled and forced into that situation.  You couldn’t have known, but that isn’t the point.  In this case, knowing doesn’t make one bit of difference.

You also can’t face Din yet, not like this.  You don’t want him to see you cowering, shattered with guilt over the decisions you made under pressure.  How will you ever get him to forgive you for not listening to him when you can’t even forgive yourself for the result of your choices?  Din is a hardened man who grew up in blasterfire and bloodshed, just because you love him doesn’t mean he’s going to magically become someone he isn’t.  You’re here letting guilt sink sharp claws into your chest over four dead men when he had a good fifty or more corpses scattered on the battlefield around him.  You decided to wear that armor, you decided to fly into an imperial base with the kid on your lap, and this is now your penance.  You’ll accept it with your back straight and your chin held high.

Figuratively, of course.  Physically, you’re smaller than you’ve ever been.  Crumpled up into a ball, taking up as little space as possible, curling up as tight as you can like an animal protecting all your vulnerable parts during a brutal attack.

So, since he isn’t here to comfort you himself, you just try to think about what he would tell you.  A long time ago, what would he tell you?

Din would tell you… that you killed someone.  Multiple people, this time.  He’d also tell you that it doesn’t matter what he tells you, what you could have reasonably foreseen or what you should have done.  The end result won’t change.  You own this now.  You’ll carry their deaths with you.

You take a few deep breaths, self-soothing with the undeniable truth that would be murmured matter of factly from his quiet voice.  He wouldn’t argue with you.  He wouldn’t deny the decisions you made or the consequences of them.  It happened, and at the end of the day, you either learn how to handle that, or you don’t.

And, for the four you did shoot, you were responsible for freeing ten times that amount.  You’re responsible for reuniting Oshua Ryler with his family, even if your place in yours is momentarily shunned.  You’d rather be out here alone than in there with the kid, wondering where his dad is or if he’s even still alive.  You rescued Din and now he gets to be here to shut this door on you, hold his son, and whisper calm reassurances to him.  If you listen really hard and imagine, you can pretend they’re for you, too.

That’s it.  Focus on them both, alive and well together.  Focus on the bodies wearing white armor that were moving, the ones that were bolting away from the imperial training base as fast as they could, free from the torture of imprisonment and conditioning.

Finally, you close your eyes and slip into unconsciousness.  It’s not a testament to your exhaustion, but rather just how long you’ve been left to sit here by yourself.  Hours, maybe.  Time is strange in hyperspace.

You dream of a faceless man ringing bells.

---

When you wake up, a small baby has been placed in your arms, and you’re being dragged into a strong, secure beskar hold on the floor.

“Din,” you suddenly lift your head as soon as you’re conscious and nearly bonk it into solid metal, apologies rising in your throat before you even remember where you are.  You did what needed to be done to keep your family alive and together and you’d do it a thousand times again if necessary, but that doesn’t mean you won’t apologize anyways.  After the deeds you’ve committed today, regret feels as natural on your lips as speaking your own name.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know you’re mad at me but I—”

“Shh,” he whispers, running his gloves through your hair.  He’s still wearing his helmet, he hasn’t taken anything off yet.  “Don’t say anything.  Just… stay here, stay right here with me.”

“I tried to save you,” you croak, tears instantly flooding your eyes.  You did save him.  You saved him and the baby and yourself but you’re so physically and emotionally exhausted that all you can recall is your intent.  “I tried.  Wasn’t gonna leave you there by yourself.  I tried to be brave, like you—y-you wouldn’t have left without me.”

His arms tighten around you, cradling you in such a strong embrace that you burrow into him, you find a place for your head on the hard metal strapped to him and bury yourself there, wishing that you had shovels of dirt being piled on you to justify the death you still feel staining your soul.  Your heart is starting to pound now that you’re remembering, your body is starting to shake with tremors of shock now that you’re aware of your own skin again.

“I was so sc-scared, Din, I didn’t—didn’t know what was happening,” you lament through watery eyes, gasping it out in hopes that it’ll relieve the slightest bit of the gut wrenching guilt just mercilessly crushing you.  It caught you before you could protect yourself against it, that armor you built around yourself isn’t on when you first wake up.  “I-I didn’t want to kill them, but they were already on the ship and y-you said—you said they were coming after the kid s-so I had to, I had to—”

“Stop,” Din whispers, voice so quiet that you can barely hear him.

“I-I cleaned up the blood,” you turn your face against the cold beskar to let all the positives you listed for yourself before scrape across your throat.  They don’t sound comforting anymore, they just sound like excuses.  “It’s gone, it’s like it never happened, everything is okay now, I got the quarry, I protected the baby, I saved a bunch of people, you’re both safe—”

“Stop,” he chokes out.  The modulator cuts off before you can hear his next breath, but you feel it shudder under your body.  “St-Stop it, please.”

Your eyes clench shut so tightly you feel like the streaking stars outside are behind them, tears drop down against his pauldron and you press your face tighter to it like it’s a wound, like the pressure will somehow ease the bleeding.

“Listen to me,” he says very quietly, and you instantly brace yourself.  The walls you just let down shoot right back up, your body physically tightens in preparation for another pain, another trauma, another scar you’ll carry, and you stop shaking.  You stop breathing, even when his hand comes up to ease your face away from his armor.

“You,” he whispers, holding your chin so you’re staring right at him, and your eyes flick fearfully in between his behind the visor, “are a sweet girl.”  Din’s leather thumb brushes along your skin, dragging over the tears below your puffy eyes.  “Not,” his voice catches, “a Mandalorian.”

Your heart goes cold.  Again, everything turns numb.  It doesn’t matter that you already said this yourself out loud earlier today.  It doesn’t matter that you acknowledged this fact, verbally insisted it more than once to hammer home the truth and felt some sense of comfort in it.  For some reason, hearing the words from his mouth is a fucking knife to your chest.

“I taught you how to fight, how to shoot a blaster,” he murmurs, thumb catching every single tear that continues to fall as he speaks.  “I taught you everything I know, everything that’s been taught to me.  I taught you how to defend yourself, how to protect yourself when you’re in danger.  I gave you your blaster, I gave you my armor, I gave you everything I could give you to keep you safe.  And when I thought you were ready, I let you loose on Sanctuary II.  Do you know why I did that?”  The helmet tips forward the slightest bit at the question, probing deep into the most shattered part of your heart.  “After all those months of fighting, and shooting, and training, do you know why I told you to run?”

You blink silently at him, a shaky breath quaking through you, and your expression wants to crumple under the reprimand.  You’re so fragile right now, taking hit after hit after hit to the softest parts inside you, and you want to just give up.  Let the guilt and remorse take you, let it wash you away.  But then, instead…

There’s a flicker of something inside you.  Something strong, endlessly strong, and it makes you want to revolt against what he’s saying.  It replaces the hurt and fear and desperation for comfort with a strange sense of insurgence, like it did earlier when you were hiding behind a boulder, cowering and trembling and not wanting to die.  You’re filled with a quiet urge to defend yourself in the face of this, stand up for yourself and refuse to be beaten down any longer.

“Because you needed to know how to escape danger,” he answers himself when you don’t.  “You needed to know how to disappear, how to outsmart any pursuer and find safety, even the trained ones.  Especially the trained ones.  Anything else was meant to be your last resort.  Not your choice.  Not something you chose.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” you admit to him quietly, voice shaky and tears still coming even as you try to speak up for yourself.  The regret you carry has nothing to do with this, and you decide right now that you won’t feel bad for saving him.  Your hurt comes from the meaningless things, the ones without any need whatsoever, not the necessary ones, and you tried.  You repeated his words to yourself over and over again, told yourself to run, told yourself to get to Nevarro, and it wasn’t going to happen.  “I couldn’t do it.  It wasn’t a choice.”

“It was,” he tells you.  He says it softly, whispers it like it’s the gentlest thing in the world, but the power and inherent distance of the armor strapped to his body finds its way into the words.  “And it was the wrong one.”

“What was I supposed to do?”  You ask, just a hint of that rebellion swimming to the surface now, rising out of the waves of self doubt, the one that feels like a spine growing in your back, an energy coursing through your veins that makes your heart start to beat faster.  Din’s hand slowly drops from your cheek but you don’t care.  “Was I supposed to run away and just let you die?”

“Yes.”  It’s quick and blunt and completely emotionless.  Delivered like a punch to the vulnerable parts of yourself he taught you how to protect, and the utter silence following this single word is comparable to the physical pain you learned to defend against.  It jabs hard against everything good and sweet and tender inside of you, and you’re left speechless even as he continues impassively.  “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”

It takes a second, but then that unfamiliar feeling suddenly surges up, breaches with the power of an entire ocean.  Your voices may be nothing more than whispers in the dark, you may be clinging to each other, holding each other with the softest, gentlest love in your hearts, but the strength of your conviction on this would rip metal apart.

“No.”  The word holds the might of your entire being, and it stands alone and defiant in the face of everything you fear, everything that threatens you, him, and this child.  Never.  You’ll die before that happens.  “I love you, and there’s nothing in this galaxy that would ever make me do that.  Not fear, not danger, not the Empire, nothing.  Not even you.”

Din stares at you.  His visor reflects your hardened expression back to you, the force in your soul and the purpose in your eyes, and you don’t even realize the gravity of what you just said because like your love for him, gravity is a constant.  It’s a fundamental truth cemented into the rules that govern your actions and it stays true no matter where you are, no matter what terror you face, or how scared you become.  You have him, you have this little boy in your arms, and if that’s all you have, then you have everything.

After an eternity of this, of feeling his eyes pierce deep into you from behind the helmet while you refuse to wither under his stare, you watch him slowly turn and look down, landing on the sleepy child tucked between you both.  He holds there for a long time, before finally whispering, so quiet that the modulator barely picks it up, “It was the wrong choice.”

You stay quiet.  It happened.  What’s done is done, you can’t change the past.  He can scold and reprimand you about this as much as he wants, but you did the right thing and that decision is the only reason he’s even here to be able to do so.  This exhausted child was reunited with his father because of your choices, and this exhausted father was reunited with his child.  You won’t argue anymore, but it’s a certitude that lives deep in your heart now, builds a home there right alongside the both of them.  Din eventually looks up, his eyes find yours again behind the visor, and his hand rises once more to gently cup your jaw.

“I… thought I’d enjoy seeing you in my armor,” Din finally whispers.  It’s not what you expected, but his voice sounds… weak.  Broken.  “You wore mine once before, and it was…”  He brushes his thumb along your cheek, and then his head shakes slightly, pushing the thought away.  “It wasn’t real.  It didn’t fit.  It dwarfed you, it made you look out of place, it made everything soft and innocent about you stand out.  I liked it because it wasn’t real.”

“Was it… really that bad?”  You whisper back, partially to ease the tension just slightly but quickly breaking eye contact with him when you realize it doesn’t land correctly, it just sounds self conscious and sad.  You try to find that conviction again, that strength and assurance that propped you up so sturdily before, but…  Not a Mandalorian, he’d said.  Of course not.  Of course not.

“It wasn’t the armor.”  Din gently tugs up on your face so that you look at him again.  “It was you covered in blood.  It was you purposefully putting yourself in danger.  You killed multiple armed soldiers of the Empire, you dragged their bodies off the ship.  And then you flew into an imperial base, where you killed the officers, too.  You…”  He shakes his head slowly at you while speaking, and although you can’t see his face, you don’t need to in order to hear the horror in his voice.   “You… collected a quarry… in the middle of a massacre, sweet girl.”

Not a Mandalorian.

“You don’t chase down bounties,” he tells you.  “You don’t fly into war zones.  You don’t kill imperials, you don’t collect quarries, you don’t sacrifice yourself, or our son, to save me.  You said you tried to be brave… like me.”  His fingers tighten against your cheek, he dips his helmet to make sure you understand.  “I’ll never ask you to be brave.  I’ll ask you to survive.”

“I’m… sorry,” you finally whisper, and his arm drops from your cheek to join the other in wrapping around you and holding tight.  They hug you and squeeze, encasing you and the baby in a beskar shield and staying there for a long time.  Long enough for you to tuck your head back into its proper place under his helmet, long enough to start to feel okay with the silence again.  It brutalized you the last time you were surrounded by it, it made you feel alone and desolate and barren inside.  You greet it warily now, settling into it for an unknown amount of time until it’s forgiven once more.

After a while, Din quietly breaks it.

“How many?”  He murmurs to you.  You already know exactly what he’s asking, there's no more clarification necessary on his behalf.

You slowly close your eyes and think back to the smoldering craters, the blood soaked ramp, the fear in Oshua Ryler’s eyes as he begged you not to kill him.

“That didn’t deserve it?”  You ask, clenching your eyes tighter at the memory.  “Four.”

And maybe, maybe six or eight months ago, you would’ve begged for some guidance on how to reconcile that.  Hell, maybe a few hours ago, you could’ve used his arms around you exactly like this, his low voice repeating the same things he’s already told you before, over and over again, if only for some semblance of stability when everything feels turbulent and uncertain.  You’ll never be able to change it, though.  This belongs to you now.

This time, all Din says is, “I’m sorry, too.”

And that covers everything.

The silence envelops you both again, but… there’s something else.  Something that still sits deep in your worries, an image that isn’t a scar of what’s happened but a dread of what’s to come.  You need to tell him.  You don’t feel like saying it, you don’t want to speak it aloud for fear of bringing it into existence, but you need to tell him.

“Din?”  You breathe out, and he makes a soft noise in his throat while cuddling you on the floor.  “I saw…,” you whisper, every word sitting tight and reluctant in your throat.  “Right when we made the jump, I was looking through the window and I-I saw…”

“A star destroyer.”  He says it like… like it’s the worst thing in the world and also completely expected at the same time.  He says it like he already knew, yet can’t even imagine.  You lean every bit of your weight against him since you can’t hold him in return, squish him as best you can against the small corner and curl up even tighter in his arms for comfort.

He takes a deep breath, a shuddery sound you don’t think you’ve ever heard him make before.  It holds untold anxiety, unsaid conflict, uncertain action, an unknown path forward.

“I don’t know what to do,” Din eventually whispers to himself, to you, to the baby in your arms.  His voice is barely a breath through the modulator, his fingers digging into your skin with how many emotions he’s repressing.  “What do I do?”

He sounds so distressed that you automatically feel your soul find the floor—instantly, you become steady and calm and you locate all that rationality that kept you going today.  All your worries still twist deep down, all the guilt and the turmoil wrestles with your soft, easy nature until you can only find bits and pieces of it in the most vulnerable places inside you, but if he’s struggling this terribly, then the least you can do is offer some good, true, unwavering faith in times of uncertainty.  You’re in hyperspace, everything worked out, and it’s going to stay that way for right now.  If he doesn’t know how to talk about it yet, then you trust him enough to wait for him.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him with a newfound confidence and purpose, carefully easing the baby into one arm so that the other can find its way to the other side of his helmet and pull him closer.  Din tucks his head and allows you to brush your lips against the metal, whisper the words soft and steady to him.  “We’ll figure it out together.”

---

@cptnbvcks thank you so much for the incredible art!

[i-heart-hxh]

I love you meta posts! I've been curious to here other peoples opinions on whether or not Killua every truly believed that Kite was alive. Part of me believes he just went along with Gon not wanting to admit it to himself.

Thank you so much, and this is a great topic to dig into!

To truly understand the answer, we need to back up a bit.

When Pitou appears in front of Gon, Killua, and Kite, Killua knocks Gon out and flees at Kite's urging, as well as out of his own terror. However, almost as soon as Killua flees, he realizes they screwed up by coming along with Kite to NGL in spite of the warnings they received:

After he flees, Killua encounters Knov and Morel (along with Netero), fellow Hunters who he can tell are very strong. He's mocked and insulted for his decision to flee and told he's a failure.

Killua is aware of his own tendency to flee when faced with an opponent beyond his ability to handle. He isn't aware of the needle at this point, however, so he likely interprets this tendency as simply his own personal failing--something that makes him unworthy of someone like Gon, who pushes onward no matter what obstacles are in his path.

He must have been worried about what Gon would say when he woke up--after all, Kite is Gon's mentor and someone who means a lot to Gon. Killua was beating himself up for what happened, both their decision to go along with Kite and his decision on both of their behalf to flee. I believe Killua thought Kite was dead at that point. It's a reasonable expectation because he saw Kite lose his arm, and he was overpowered by the sense of how strong Pitou was.

And then Gon wakes up, and rather than criticizing or being upset with Killua, he thanks Killua for making the decision to flee and expresses this very naive but overpowering optimism that "Kite is alive!" and they just have to go back and save him.

Killua is not naive like Gon is. He's someone who strategizes based off the reality of a situation rather than hope and belief that things will work out, and it makes him someone who flees when he feels he can't win (in his view, of course the needle is a big part of this). He doesn't see himself as able to become someone like Gon, who can force reality to his own will even when the odds seem insurmountable.

But here, he lets himself believe in Gon's words in spite of everything. Because he wants to believe that Gon is right. Because he wants to believe he's not the person he was beating himself up for being and that there is hope in the situation after all. That his decision wasn't wrong. That Gon can save him again and continue to lead him into the light, rather than the darkness he grew up in and knows he still harbors within himself.

He buys into Gon's perspective also because he can't stand looking into Gon's hopeful face and telling Gon what he strongly suspects: That Kite is dead, that there's no hope. Gon wouldn't accept that, Gon might reject Killua if he says that, and Killua doesn't want to dim Gon's light.

Killua was never allowed to be a kid--he grew up training, killing, working. It was only with Gon he was finally able to act his own age, play, be a normal kid like he wanted to.

And here, he lets himself be a little naive and accept Gon's perspective, let himself have faith in the world and the boy he loves.

So, ultimately I think his cynicism and realism collapses in the face of Gon's "light," but I think Killua has moments throughout the arc where doubt starts creeping in in spite of that. He pushes it down because of all the above reasons. By the point his view of the situation reaches a breaking point, it's like Gon is a boulder rolling down a hill and gaining speed, and Killua isn't able to stop him until it's very nearly too late.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Hello, Mr. Monster (Five. Sidhe)

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader

Masterlist The Nightmare's Interlude

Chapter Tracks: "Milk and Honey" by Delain, "Lacrymosa" by Mozart

18+/TRIGGER WARNING: Kidnapping, involuntary drug use, involuntary body modification, cutting (not self-harm), vague threat of SA/brainwashing

A/N: I LIVE!!! Thank you all for your patience. The story is jumping into a new arc!

Don't miss the bonus interlude chapter I posted! Linked above.

5: Sidhe

“Be careful on the road.”

Aisling’s ears rang with Fay’s parting words.

The fairie always treated the end of the season with a little too much gravitas, but this time she looked at Aisling like she could physically see danger growing over her. Brambles breaking through the asphalt or boulders crushing the van.

“Know something I don’t?” she’d asked.

“I know you find trouble, and trouble finds you. I know the world is trying to settle back into an old order, and it’s the hour of chaos and hungry hands. I know you’re alone, and the road is dangerous.”

Now, many hours and miles away, the conversation replayed on an endless loop in her head.

It haunted her. From the moment the words dropped from Fay’s lips, they settled around Aisling’s neck like a loadstone. They became a tale still furled in a fiddlehead, a glimpse of wyrd lurking in the road ahead, and she’d run off without a real destination in mind. Never a great plan. Even less so with this warning tossed in her lap like a dead fish. It stank of prophecy, and the age-old fight-or-flight response kicked in. There was nothing to fight, so she fled the entire concept of fate, driving in a vaguely New York direction.

A little distance helped. It gave her space to breathe. To think.

The wind combed tangles into her hair and some of the fear from her thoughts.

When she spied a rest area with lots of trees and very few guests, she pulled off the highway.

She sat in the van, cross-legged on the floor with the windows and sliding door open, letting the breeze cleanse the space. Well. All but one window open. Plastic sheeting rustled over the window the Not Deer shattered. Someday she might have money to repair it properly, but it wasn’t a priority.

There was so much to work through.

She meditated, looking inside, listening for the tidal rumble of raw intuition. The cards danced between her hands as she relaxed against the border of the unknown, trusting instinct over logic until fold, after fold, after fold she knew she had the right order. A three-card read. Quick, efficient.

No time for nuance on the road.

She turned the first card and found the Ace of Cups in the past position. The very recent past, she would guess. It practically sang the Dream King’s name. The Ace of Cups celebrated creativity, awakenings, and new feelings – new loves.

Heat crawled up her neck as the reading conjured memories in her skin. The touch of his hands. His mouth. His voice. The ash of the stars he teased to explode still drifted across her mind, sparking new life in places she’d been sure it would never grow. It made her curious. It made her wonder what else he could do if she let him. It made her wonder what she could do to him.

Forcefully shaking off the goosebumps creeping down her arms, she refocused. She wasn’t asleep. And daydreams could be dangerous. There would be more than enough time to explore all that after dark.

The Moon marked her present. It had as many meanings as the moon had phases, most of them based on changeability and shifts in course. But only one – intuition – felt right. It looked back at her through the card, acknowledging her as she sat open to it, listening and feeling, like meeting her own eyes in a mirror.

Finally, her touch drifted to the future. Her breath stuttered. The eight of swords appeared in her hand, and she set it down quickly, fumbling, like it could bite her. If paper and ink could bite, it just might. The card of prisoners. It thrummed with warnings: imprisonment, helplessness, restriction, and malice. It jarred with the other two cards, unlinked from the common thread of her choices.

Fay was right.

Something was coming for her.

The breeze nudged the eight of swords, canting it off-center on her altar cloth. She imagined she could taste the threat in the air, fate cinching tight as she shadows of the future loomed over her rising hope.

Her palm settled over her chest, following a familiar pattern around an old ache.

It couldn’t be her monster. She refused to believe it. Not after his sweetness in the dark, not after his reassurances and promises. She simply didn’t want to imagine he’d snare her, strip away her agency as easily as he plucked away her anxieties.

That choice remained hers, and she chose hope for once. It’d been too long since she had anything to believe in but herself, and the whisper of that promise was addicting.

Caw Caw!

Jolted out of her spiraling thoughts, her eyes flicked from cards, to van, to the world outside, moving between the distant highway to the overhanging trees. Eventually, they fell on the feathered thing waiting right outside the open sliding door.

A bird that wasn’t a bird.

A dream.

Her eyelashes flickered over her vision as she tried to understand what she saw. Dreams were all gone from the waking. Her eyes never lied.

Hadn’t they all been called back?

It cocked its head, looking her right in the eye. She blinked, slowly, and it caught itself, looking to the side and pecking aimlessly at the barren parking lot, like it could fool her.

Something high in her chest fluttered. She couldn’t say if it was nerves or joy. But she didn’t recognize this dream.

“Who are you?”

It froze. Looked back at her. Spitting out a pebble it had valiantly pretended to be a bug, it croaked.

It was definitely new, at least to the waking world, and that made her intolerably curious.

“I can see you.” She let the words spin out slowly, amused and patient.

If it stayed, they were having a fucking conversation, and she didn’t imagine it came all the way from the Dreaming to play make-believe with cracked fragments of asphalt.

“Uh.” It cleared its throat. Not all dreams could speak, but the voice suited him, and she was glad they wouldn’t need to play charades to understand each other. Black feathers puffed up with half-raised wings as it hunted for the right thing to say. “I’m Matthew. Are you – are you okay?”

She glanced down at the cards, then back at the faux raven. Starting a new relationship with a lie felt wrong, but she couldn’t explain the intimate dread and trust she felt for the bird’s maker in that moment.

“Mostly. Maybe. I don’t know you. Are you… new? What are you doing here?”

She wasn’t accusing it of anything. Her worry for herself redirected into concern for the little creature risking her monster’s wrath. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt because of her. A trite desire, but a desperate need a fleet of childhood therapists hadn’t managed to shake.

The dream ducked, looking side-to-side for eavesdroppers, and hopped just a little closer. She leaned over her cards, closing the distance, humoring its covert antics. It must not be very familiar with the waking world if it thought strangers who saw a woman talking to a bird would see anything but a hippie on a bad trip.

With a flapping burst, he landed on the edge of the van’s floor.

“The boss sent me,” he said, still glancing around warily. “You know. Dream. Your… whatever the two of you are.”

A fair description, really. ‘Soulmates’ was too much. They weren’t exactly friends, and lovers sent uncomfortable heat rushing into her face.

Let the dream thing be confused. That made two of them.

“So, er, what’re you doing?” He twitched to study the cards with one beady eye, and she caught a glimpse of swords reflected in the convex mirror of his gaze.

She swept up the spread, folding it into a fresh shuffle, like she could tuck away the danger before it infected her new little friend.

“Reading.”

“Ever heard of books?”

Oh, so the little dream was actually a little shit? That worked. As a little shit herself, she approved of scamps on principle. Even if they insulted her talents.

“Not that kind of reading.”

The dream scoffed. “Those things really work?”

Funny, such cynicism coming from a talking bird. Seemed like bad manners to call him on it, though, so she shrugged. “Depends on what you’re trying to do with them.”

“Tell the future?”

All too well. “Sometimes.”

That caught him off balance, and he physically shifted from foot to foot, nails tapping on the floor as he found it again. She took pity on him.

“Why did your boss send you?”

“Just, you know, to keep an eye on things.”

She raised her eyebrows, easily folding the cards into new configurations without looking down, and the dream cleared his throat.

“Can’t really speak for the boss and all, but it’s a dangerous world out here, and he thinks too much about that. Sometimes. I’m guessing.”

The cards felt right, and she let them settle into a neat stack in one palm, waiting to be cut and dealt.

“Are you spying on me, Matthew?”

He croaked in naked offense. Or because she’d caught him out. “No.”

“Babysitting then.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

Setting the deck on the altar cloth, she propped her chin on her fist. elbow balanced on her knee, and stared the bird down.

“I might.”

Sighing so hard his feathered shoulders rose and fell, the bird looked down, muttering things under his breath she pretended not to hear.

“Have you ever had your fortune read?”

His attention snapped back to her, picking up the opportunity for mutual distraction.

“No. Do dreams have fortunes?”

“I assume so.” Since he didn’t have fingers, she dealt for him. Another simple three-card spread. She didn’t have energy for much else after an evening of drinking, a night of wildly vivid dreams, and the shock of her own reading. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”

“But you’ve done this before. For things like me.”

“Oh, yes.” She thought of long nights at the festival when she’d been too young to drink, sitting in the dark with dreams and nightmares as they came up with their own fun. She remembered the first time she’d found The Lovers in Fin’s fortune and how she’d hounded him for weeks after. “Many times.”

Less than a day and their absence itched like a phantom limb. So stupid. Months apart without problem, and now she felt entitled to mope after a few hours.

She hoped they were okay.

She hoped she’d be okay.

Matthew puzzled over his three cards, his claws sinking into the loose weave along the edge of the altar cloth as he inched closer. She’d turned all three over in one fell swoop because she wasn’t in the mood for dramatics, and sometimes fortunes were easier to explain as a whole.

The dream’s, however, didn’t make much sense at all.

Death. Two of Swords. Three of Cups.

What the fuck.

He seemed particularly interested in the first card, and she began her usual spiel. “Death isn’t always death. It can mean and end to a phase, transformation…”

“Oh, it means death,” the raven interrupted. “For sure. I died, like really recently. Then I became -” He flapped his wings, sending the cards askew. “This.”

Until recently, Aisling thought she knew an awful lot about dreams and nightmares. She thought herself an expert. But she had no idea a dream could be anything before it was, well, a dream. And Morpheus had power over the dead? More news. Less welcome. The hair along the back of her neck pricked up, and she rushed on with the reading – something simple, something she could make sense of.

“Well…” She straightened the card. “This represents your past.”

The raven bobbed, a bird-like motion attempting to imitate a human nod. “So far so accurate.” He gently pecked the second card, pushing it even further out of line. He and his fortune defied order. “What does this one mean?”

She didn’t bother straightening it. The illusion of control wouldn’t last. “Two of Swords. Means you find balance in opposing forces. You have a tendency to repeat your mistakes.” Struggling to hold down a blooming smirk, she added, "And you're talkative."

“Talkative? Psh. Does that sound like me?”

“I don’t know.” It absolutely did sound like him. “But you do seem like the type to make the same mistakes.”

“Rude.”

“Blame the cards.”

He croaked, probably cursing her out in bird.

“Sure. So, what about this last one? My future, right?”

The Three of Cups. “Good luck and abundance. Kindness and pleasure. All the good things, usually after solving a problem. Have any problems, Matthew?”

“Plenty.” He shook his head and swayed between feet, warming to the subject.

Once upon a time, tarot readers served as talk therapists. She had a feeling Matthew would make her a historical reenactor.

“You wouldn’t believe what’s happened in the past few days.” The bird gossiped like an old crow. But that was good. No one told her anything, and this would be a nice change of pace, so she settled in to listen, happy to let the little dream spin her a yarn. “There was this woman – I guess that’s not too strange – but anyway, there was a ruby, and this man tried to change the world, but the boss stopped him, and we went to Hell before that. And I’d just met the boss, and that Constantine woman –”

Wait.

“Constantine?” She abandoned her relaxed position, leaning in to question the bird. “You’ve met Constantine?”

“You mean you’ve met her, too? Small world, right?” Matthew cleared his throat, cawing.

“She’s an old friend. She… warned me…”

Of course. That was how Johanna knew her monster was back on the scene. But she didn’t understand what her monster might want with the occultist. Was it her fault? Was it coincidence? Not that those happened very often, but a girl could hope.

“How did you meet Constantine?” Fuck. She should probably text her back, just to make sure she was still alive. “Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s fine.” He croaked again. “Promise. Anyway…”

A redirection and a half right there.

“Are you not supposed to tell me?”

“Honestly?” He fluttered, spreading his wings like an open-armed shrug. “I have no idea. I’ve never done something like this before. I’ve only been a raven for, like, a week. I used to have rent, and a job, and fingers. If you’re looking for answers, I’m really not the bird to ask.”

Of course. Answers never came easily. She had to work for them, earn them like minimum wage – enough to keep her on the cusp of a breakdown without quitting entirely.

“I don’t suppose you could point me towards the right bird?”

“Can’t you just, you know, ask the boss?”

She glanced down, brushing a wrinkle out of the altar cloth where the dream and the breeze had disturbed it.

“I don’t know.”

Silence sat between them like a wriggling slug. Ugly, awkward. Neither wanted to touch it as it grew. She had a whole life to explain, and as a dream, he understood things she’d never grasp. Neither knew what to tell the other, or what might get the other in trouble with the elephant in the room.

The longer the silence grew, the more she wondered why her monster sent a minder. Maybe he’d foreseen the threat in her cards. Or maybe he wanted to slowly exert control over her waking life until he held perfect sway over her hours in any world. A bloodless war with an easy victory.

No. She physically shook the thought away.

No, she wouldn’t think that. Nope.

Maybe he was… concerned. She didn’t know if he felt fear, but if he did, he might have the usual long-distance relationship woes. Anything could happen when they weren’t together, and how would he even know until she failed to appear in a dream?

She liked that idea better, the myth of the anxious boyfriend who texted a little too often in an effort to feel closer across the borders he couldn’t erase, so she chose to believe it.

“Can you tell me about him?” she asked. “Your boss?”

“Listen, lady –”

“Aisling.”

“Right.” He softened, just a touch, and his empathy shone through their mutual frustration. “Aisling. I’m new new, if you catch my drift. I know about as much as you do.” Twitching to peer around the inside of her van, he strung together ideas until he had a mouthful of sentences to trade. “He’s a lot, but I’ve seen him be kind when he didn’t have to be. He’s scary powerful, but even when he wasn’t, he was proud. He’s a king, I guess. More than that, but that’s what I know.”

When he wasn’t powerful? She couldn’t imagine him as anything else. Fuck, did she want to ask, but she didn’t want to get the bird in trouble.

“I’ll try…” She swallowed around her misgivings. “Asking him sometime.”

“If it helps,” the dream bounced two steps closer, “I think he’d like that.”

She was out of things to pick at, and her smile fluttered awkwardly through her emotional kaleidoscope.

“You hungry? I’m starving.” Creeping around the bird and the spread cards, she escaped the van. “I need to wash up, and I’ll see if the vending machines are shit.”

“I never turn down junk food,” Matthew said, suddenly and deeply serious. “I miss human food. Rats aren’t bad – when you’re a raven – but I’d murder for a basket of fries.”

“Chips do?”

“You’re a saint.”

Patting her pocket to check for her wallet, she started the hike across the empty parking spaces towards the rest area. “And you have low standards, pheasant.”

“Raven!” he shouted after her, but she ignored him, hands in her pockets as she swaggered away.

The women’s was blissfully empty.

She had lots of time to splash cold water on her face and stare into the mirror. She let the water run, listening to the gathering echoes trickle and crash around the tiled space. Wasteful. She didn’t care.

She needed the noise, the wordless crush on her senses keeping her grounded as the warning, the reading, and the raven cycled through her thoughts.

And beneath all that, a girlish curiosity she struggled to accept.

Her monster played her well. She found herself wanting to fall asleep just so she could dream of him again, to see if he’d answer questions, if he’d touch her, if he’d let her touch him back.

But she didn’t quite trust it. Things only went well when they were about to go very, very badly, and until she knew which direction danger came from, she’d stay on guard. Hopeful or otherwise.

She drew her knuckle over her upper lip, thinking, and dry skin snagged. It wasn’t painful, but she couldn’t help comparing the texture to the palm she’d studied in the Dreaming, and an uncomfortable sense of her mortality prickled through her thoughts. Like the way people noticed their tongues and pooling saliva after someone pointed them out.

Something as simple as the weather damaged her. Air turned too humid or too arid made her flesh crack and peel.

She thought of the silken hands ghosting through her dreams, untouched by eons of labor, and her rough, human finger passed back over her mouth. How could she compare to an Endless? She made a poor match, and she knew it. Too weak. Too fragile. Too young, even. And age wouldn’t make her any worthier.

How could he stand to touch her when she’d crumble so easily?

She squeezed the edge of the sink, feeling too much of herself.

It wasn't fair to assume she knew his thoughts. It wasn't fair to assume he knew hers. But the ugly feeling to too many - varied - doubts curdled in her stomach, and she wondered if she'd ever have the strength to voice these kinds of insecurities.

A pity party would just make her more disgusted with herself, and she shoved away from the sink, pacing over the dirty tile, down the row of stalls and sinks.

She needed to calm down and get the raven a snack. No hysterics. No blubbering. She could contain herself, and everyone would be fine.

She looked up, face to face with her own reflection again.

Had that mirror always been there? Intuition prickled under her thoughts, drawing her attention to the details she’d failed to notice when she entered.

She counted the sinks. Seven. Seven sinks with matching mirrors and one long looking glass at the end of the line, tall and wide as a person, a surprisingly thoughtful investment in the utilitarian rest stop.

It wasn’t the strangest thing she’d seen, but she couldn’t recall the blur of motion her reflection should’ve made in her periphery when she marched in. Not the biggest thing. Nothing too alarming. Not even out of the ordinary really. But traps never were.

Fairy circles disappeared in tall grass and fallen leaves. Helpful goods and little treasures always appeared just where someone might’ve dropped them. The mirror was a little too clean compared to the others. Maybe it just didn't get splashed with soap and water from the sinks like the rest, but she wasn’t willing to risk it.

She didn’t like that mirror.

It rubbed her the wrong way, and she started moving towards the exit before she finished her thought.

One, two, three steps. Rubber soles squeaking on cement painted green as she moved towards her world of sunlight and dreams and rest stop vending machine snacks.

The long fluorescent light closest to the exit blinked. She stopped, and it went out. The next light buzzed, popped, and sparked as it died, and she took a step back.

She couldn't see anything approaching, but fuck if she didn't know her horror movies, and something was playing with her.

The third light winked out like a snuffed candle. Backing up, refusing to look away, just in case, she tried to stay out of the growing shadows. It was close to noon. Why did it feel so dark?

The fourth light. The fifth.

By the time the seventh flickered and died, she'd gone to the far end of the sinks, and as her hand pressed back against cool glass, she realized it wasn't a horror movie.

It was just another trap.

She made it all of one step away before long, wisened fingers coated in crumbling moss seized her upper arms and yanked.

The mirror dragged over her skin like mercury taffy, sticky with an aftertaste of poison. Shiny and wrong beyond her powers of description, it clung to her eyelashes and stuck to her skin as the hand in her hair dragged her through, away, and back – back - back into darkness. She struggled, writhing and shouting as her nails pried at the offending grip. But her fingers didn’t meet skin. Bark and lichen flaked off, crumbling over her cheeks as the gnarled spriggan hissed over her.

“Stay still, little prize. Wandering soulmate. Stay still!” It had a shrill, groaning voice. Wind shrieking in the creaking trees. Rot and new life in the same breath, rich with the age of soil. “Take you down. Take you back. Make you a pretty, pretty bride!”

Aisling did not stay still. She snarled, trying to escape through the light ahead, but the spriggan took her by the jaw and hauled her away into the crushing dark. It lunged headfirst into a tunnel too small to really fit them and chittered away, grinding its captive against the wall as it went.

Choking, trying to keep the fae from popping her head off her spine, she kicked along, catching breaths as she could. The spriggan’s many free hands pulled them along, and each handhold pulled earth loose from the sides. It fell in Aisling’s face, clogging her nose and eyes. Little beetles and worms fell, too.

Roots stinking of grave dirt caught in her hair, scratched her skin, but the grip on her neck locked her screams in her chest.

Her heart thundered.

Fingernails snapped as she tried protecting her face from the unforgiving path, still wrestling against the spriggan’s hold. Tears of shock and pain leaked out, mixing into mud over her cheeks. Her thoughts faded under the onslaught, melting into a tumble of sensation and abject horror.

They moved faster than they should. Magic warped the natural world and tugged them through adjoining planes. Aisling lost all track of up, down, or the way back to the mirror. The roots grew with their progress, and the spriggan cackled, so wildly pleased it didn’t notice how the fragile human in its grip struggled to breathe.

The world flipped, and she landed hard on a dirt floor, half-pinned under her kidnapper's bulk. Still holding her by the neck, the unseelie tugged her through a growing crowd of things with claws, wings, and half-grown faces, moving towards something she couldn't see. Black bars threatened the edges of her uncanny vision, and she grasped after her fading rage as her legs spasmed, tangling in the spriggan's trailing cloak. Terror choked her as much as the grip on her throat.

Oh, hell.

Matthew was still waiting for her to come back with a bag of chips.

Fuck.

Losing control, losing consciousness, she realized: she really was going to die this time.

Maybe that was better than whatever the unseelie planned, but she didn't want it. She wanted to struggle a little longer, find a way to steal a kiss from her masked monster, maybe. Sit in the sun. Let Constantine know the occultist hadn't lost another friend.

'You are killing our prize, spriggan."

Dropped, she crashed face-first into the dirt, coughing more than breathing as her ears rang. The whole scene felt a step removed, like she was wandering a dream or watching through fog. But that wasn't right. Magic bitter as wormwood coated her throat, and she curled into herself, feigning a fetal position as she reached for the long, iron nail hidden in the sole of her shoe. Her broken nails grated over the head, the blood leaving the metal slick as she tried to tug it free. Heavy feet approached - goblin guards ready to haul her off again.

She wouldn't roll over that easy.

The nail came free just as the bigger of the two guards reached for her, and she stabbed it in his hand. Green blood spattered over the dirt, and the beast howled in anguish. As it fell back, the other lunged, the nearby crowd taking notice.

Iron made friends of all fae. Even the natural enemies in the unseelie court. Like she'd shouted "Fire!" in a crowded theater, everyone had two reactions: run, or put it out.

Stabbing and waving her poisonous weapon, she whirled in a circle, looking for an escape, a passage, light, anything. But everywhere she glanced, she found more eyes and bared teeth.

They mobbed her. Many hands took her arm, grabbed her hair by the roots, and clambered onto her back. More and more joined the fray until they had her spread prone. A redcap took the nail with a long pair of silver tongs, nearly tearing the skin off one of her fingers to break her grip, and darted away, eager to separate weapon and wielder.

"Get its mouth open."

Clawed fingers pushed between her lips. They forced her jaw wide and slid filthy flesh, scales, and fur past her teeth, cutting into her gums, cheeks, tongue. Heat pricked in her eyes at the helpless pain as a tall unseelie with hair like moonlight over pond scum approached with a stoppered amber bottle.

Screaming, twisting, she tried again to save herself. Maybe, worlds away, the dream bird would hear. Or his master. Johanna, Fin, anyone. But the fae uncorked the bottle, and he poured it neatly into her open mouth.

"Let it swallow."

The hands all disappeared from her face, but they kept her anchored to the floor, prepared for another fit, another hidden weapon. She reflexively swallowed a mouthful of blood and potion to keep from choking, coughing desperately to clear the drops she'd aspirated.

Salt, iron, and elder berries.

“Gently now.” Taloned fingers massaged her throat, ensuring the draught went down. “Isn’t this better?”

She groaned through clenched teeth, pushing against the poisonous lethargy freezing her from the inside out, against the forbidding chill stripping away her agency but not her awareness. Inch by inch, she lost the war, and hand by hand the creatures restraining her let go.

The potion didn’t put her to sleep. She had no opportunity to escape into dreams. It only allowed breath and tears as she turned into a limp rag doll for the unseelie to manipulate like the hollow, powerless thing they believed all humans to be. They didn't need her to rest. They only needed her to be quiet.

Satisfied, the tall unseelie nodded to someone she couldn't turn her head to see. "Prepare it."

They carried her into more tunnels, broader than before, more than wide enough for them to march through without scraping the sides. A team of monsters handled her, murmuring ideas and instructions as they moved into a room echoing with running spring water.

Roots tangled overhead, and she watched them pass like waves, imagining they were the ones really moving as the unseelie court swallowed her up.

The terror swallowed her, too.

Trapped in her own body, she reached for disassociation as hooked claws and stone knives sawed through her clothes. Oblivion, however, floated out of reach as panic chained her to the bare stone they laid her over, left her drowning in every prod and poke as her handlers discussed how to improve on the fragile human flesh she hated a few minutes ago. She'd do anything to keep it.

They bared her to the frigid air, and she couldn't even shiver. Couldn't shout, or swear, or save herself.

The spring water was bright cold. Lights popped in her eyes as the first splash washed over her belly. Chill translated into pain, something too sharp to be liquid, even though she felt it rolling down her sides. Her captors cleaned her, scrubbing and muttering and pulling her hair as they combed it out. Her discomfort and fear simply didn't matter in a place where she had no voice. No choice. They tutted over her scars - a lifetime of chasing nightmares and living on the road patterned in bites, slices, and other imperfections.

"These are old," one unseelie muttered, tracing a fingertip rough as gravel along the Not Deer's old fang marks in her shoulder. "I can only smooth away fresh."

"Then make them fresh," another suggested. "Nothing else for it."

They took a knife to her, skinning her history by inches, peeling stories, tearing fascia, and baring muscle. The blade cut out the imperfections, erasing the glossy moon on her knee where she tripped on the playground as a child. It erased every line and mark loved ones would use to identify her body, leaving her naked and new in strange and terrible ways.

She watched them throw pieces of her into the corner. Hiding at the edge of the dim light, a spider the size of a small dog plucked them up like table scraps, jaws clicking just above the wet sound of the knife.

Butchered alive, her mind filled with static, rattling with captive screams and pleas. If she lived, she would not escape unscathed. This was killing something. This was changing her in ways that couldn't be undone, and she didn't want it. Someone had to make them stop before she couldn't recognize herself.

Warm blood soothed her goosebumps, and one of the voices sighed as her skin regrew.

"We'll have to wash it again."

More freezing water. More pain. She kept still as they worked, and her sanity squealed like glass under pressure. On the verge of shattering.

One began spreading a smooth, white cream up her arm, working it into the new skin. When the unseelie found Aisling watching, it smiled. "Ground pearls and unicorn horn, so you'll glow for the Dream King."

It explained like she'd be happy, like she wanted to be a pretty bride delivered in chains. If her stomach was still under her control, she would've thrown up.

Magical ingredients like anything off a unicorn would not come off in the next bath. More permanent changes worked into her flesh for her monster's sake. She would be more beautiful and less herself.

What she wouldn't give to spit in the unseelie's face. Or curse her monster's name. Anything. Instead, they worked the potion from head to toe, and the fuckers looked damned pleased with their results, assuming her gratitude as their rightful due.

Dozens of spiders crept from the corners, and the unseelie set to work on her hair and face as a thousand little legs tickled over her limp body. She wasn't wildly arachnophobic, but she'd jump and shout if a spider crawled up her arm. Now countless spiders wandered her naked body, and she couldn't shake them off. Instinct demanded she try, but she was as helpless under the spiders as she was under the knife. After a few moments of blind horror, she realized they were moving in patterns, leaving lines of silk they built into a gauze-lace dress over the next hour. She closed her eyes, desperate for even that much of an escape, and the unseelie painted her lids and lips to their satisfaction. Their concoctions smelled like roses and mercury.

When the spiders finished, the unseelie stepped back and sighed.

"Ready."

A troop of gnomes carrying some kind of box rushed in, and the unseelie handlers pulled back the box's front curtain, revealing something between an animal carrier and a royal litter.

"It's time to deliver you to the Dreaming, little bride."

They packed her inside, careful not to ruin their good work, and the curtain fell. She counted the walls. Seven. All the same soft white fabric shot through with silver threads. A pretty box for a pretty bride.

And her first hint of privacy. Alone, without unwanted hands, spider legs, and the sight of her own blood on the floor to distract her, her thoughts gathered behind the scrim of dread. She felt her heart beating in her chest, not just the hollow echo in her ribs. Her fingers tingled, begging to move, and one curled as the box rose, swaying on low shoulders down the labyrinthine tunnels of the unseelie court. It wasn't enough to save herself, but it was more than she had an hour ago.

She didn't witness the journey. She measured the time in twitching muscles and waking limbs, counting breaths instead of minutes. They moved between worlds, but all she cared about was the distance between her consciousness and any control over her hands. She wanted to pull open the curtained wall, and slowly, slowly she pushed her hand towards the edge of the screened box. A lifetime measured in millimeters. And just when her nails scratched the fabric, the box shifted, and she rolled back to her original position. Foiled by gravity. Of all damn things. A laugh brushed with madness fluttered around in her chest, caught like a bug in a net, and she wondered what kind of potion would give it life and get it out. She needed it exorcised. If she started laughing, she'd start crying, too.

The box must be enchanted, because she didn't hear anything outside it. The unseelie made lots of noise, and if they brought her to the Dreaming in any kind of official capacity, they'd have to announce themselves. She heard fuck all. She hadn't even heard the gnomes' feet marching towards her doom. Her soft prison kept her safe and stupid as they took her away.

When the front curtain pulled back, all she knew was she was somewhere else, somewhere with light and color, without the wormy, wet smell of the underground court. Two unseelie women reached inside, taking her wilting arms and guiding her to rise much more elegantly than she could've managed on her own. She was surprised her legs worked at all, but they must've timed this carefully.

She still wanted to bite them and run. But when she couldn't really keep on her feet without their support, that was impossible. She could watch. She could wait. She still didn't have a choice.

A weak little bride who couldn't fight back but didn't lounge like a slug in her cage - a lovely, tidy gift.

The unseelie with the pond scum hair swept up, taking her hand as the two attendants stepped back. She wanted to bite him most of all, and almost like he could sense her plans to draw blood - fuck the cost - he took her by the chin and faced her towards something much worse.

They stood at the foot of an impossible staircase in a room too grand for a ceiling. A cosmos moved overhead, catching the graceful statues along the columns between daylight and starlight. The steps curled through the air to the foot of a throne, a seat for a king, set above the receiving hall where lesser creatures stood and begged. Sunlight cut into dazzling colors through arcing stained glass windows backlit the monarch's place, on high. Beautiful. Breath-taking.

Yet it was the king's face that froze her heart.

She knew many things about Dream of the Endless. The King of Dreams and Nightmares. Lord Morpheus. Since she was a child, she'd been told he was cold and capricious, particularly with his lovers. That he was possessive and vengeful. If he was a good king to one he was an awful tyrant to someone else.

He was dangerous.

She knew he touched her gently and had a voice darker and deeper than the spaces between the stars, but she hadn't known until she stood a prisoner at his feet that she knew his face.

When she saw the beautiful entity trapped in the dead wizard's basement, she knew he was powerful. She freed him anyway. Her intuition led her to him, and she gave him exactly what he needed.

Her chest filled with lead. Heavy. Crushing. Pulling her down in the unseelie's grip. His hand tightened on her arm, and he refused to release her jaw, forcing her head back so the Dream King could see the fae's good work.

The Endless looked down on them all, starry eyes burning through her cobweb dress. Terrible and aloof.

Feeling drowned her reason, and she picked fragments of thought out of the swamp with shaking hands.

Why?

Why not show his face when she'd already seen it? It didn't make sense if he'd been honest with her. Was he that hungry for a little more power in their dynamic? Had he played a game, amusing himself with the dumb little mortal wyrd had already trapped in his name?

The unseelie, she realized, was speaking. He'd probably been talking since before they pulled her out of the gossamer prison.

"...one of our own. We've brought it - her - to atone for that one's error and ensured she is as fair and flawless as a mortal might be made. We cannot undo the sins of the first, but we have made a better gift of her in the end."

The creature made her humanity something fetid. She was not even as good as a dog, because her free will pushed her to snap back. But she'd been made fair, and what else could a mighty Endless desire from such a lowly thing, marked or not?

And Morpheus listened. He sat still as stone and let the fae hold her up for his inspection. She thought very carefully of every promise he'd ever made, and in this new light, she quickly found the gaps in his word.

She'd been such a fool to trust him.

A deep breath lifted her shoulders, the biggest voluntary motion she'd enjoyed since they drugged her, but she struggled to breathe. The air just wouldn't stick. Fuck. Fuck it hurt.

What an idiot.

What a romantic little idiot who had every warning and swallowed the poison anyway. It was written clearly on the label, but it looked right and it felt right so she ignored her mind and followed her gut, and look what that earned her. Belly pain and tears. They rolled hot and ugly down her face, creeping over the unseelie's hand, sinking into his skin.

He tutted. Releasing her arm, he reached into umber robes, confident in his hold on her face. Her jaw ached under the pressure.

"We understand you prefer... willing partners." The unseelie pulled out a white and purple flower for the king to see, and her blood ran cold.

She thought she'd been heartbroken before. She thought she'd been frightened. This was worse than anything she could've imagined, and she finally remembered to struggle. Sinking her nails into the creature's wrist, she tried to pull his hand off her face, but his hold was sturdier than the roots of a centuries old oak. Chances were, she'd drop the second he released her, but she'd rather eat pavement than be anywhere near the simple pansy flower.

"Love-in-idleness will woo her to your hand in a heartbeat."

It really would, too. A few drops of its nectar in her eyes, and she'd forget she was anything other than madly in love with the first face she saw. Her power to consent would evaporate as the spell took hold, and she'd be her monster's happy little fool for the rest of her life.

"No." Her voice joined the fight, and breathless as it sounded, it still carried through the chamber. Her monster must hear it, up on his throne, watching someone else manage the breaking of his new pet on his behalf.

She'd curse him with this. He'd hear her denial whenever he reached for her. She'd infect him with it, let it creep under his skin until he couldn't meet his own eyes in the mirror. Maybe. Hopefully. If he ever cared the way he said he did.

She chanted her refusals through grit teeth as the unseelie lifted the flower. As much as she wanted to hurt Morpheus, her fear drove her actions. She begged, pleaded, using every scrap of her meager strength to just get away.

"Stop. Don't. No." When did her voice become so small? "Please don't." Panicking, scrambling to escape the unseelie and his curse, she fixed her eyes on the blossom's purple streaks. Folklore said it used to be pure white until Cupid shot it with one of his arrows. She'd be the opposite. It would bleed her mind white, a placid death in life.

"Stop."

Her words. His voice.

The command froze the scene. Every unseelie. Every mote of dust hanging in multi-color sunbeams. The hand on her face went from oak to rock, and she trembled, fighting to breathe as she dared glancing away from the damned flower to the entity on the throne. Her lead heart forgot how to beat.

Dream of the Endless glared down, hands curled into fists. Had his eyes always been so bright? Fury burned like the sun, a cutting light sweeping across the gathering, wrathful and inescapable as the end of day, as the coming of dreams. They dazzled her through the scrim of tears, and she teetered on the cusp of hope.

The unseelie, after several long, painful moments, cleared his throat. "Lord?"

"Do you think it a challenge for me to find any sleeping mortal, mauled by your kind or whole?" His voice rumbled with the threat of an earthquake. Or a flood. Something old and deep that crushed civilizations without effort or consideration. A natural consequence of assuming control over something beyond even the idea of command. Ancient. Endless.

The unseelie hesitated.

She waited, too, frightened to trust again so quickly. She fought to breathe, to reason out what was happening. If he'd order that fucking plant burned in Hell, she'd feel a lot better.

"N-no, Lord Morpheus."

The Dream King rose, and every member of the unseelie delegation took a step back. Caught in the leader's grasp, she stumbled with them, clinging and whimpering as she tried to find strength to stand on her own and wrestle free.

"Did you think I'd rejoice to see one so intimately linked to my fate dragged to my throne against her will?"

The sun faded from behind the stained glass, and shadows curled out from between the columns like living things. They didn't obey the light, and they twisted hungrily on the verge of attack.

The unseelie's grip shifted. A sharp nail pressed into the side of her throat, and long fingers circled her neck. Rather than showcasing her to the side, the envoy swung her forward to block the king's ire. A literal human shield.

It was a bad idea to threaten a king in his own palace. Even discreetly.

"You are guests in my realm, and therefore protected by the laws." His eyes blazed, and a warning pulled his voice so low she could feel it in her spine, reverberating through the realm. "But if you do not release Aisling Hunt to my hospitality - safe and well - you will have harmed another guest, and your protection shall be revoked."

He didn't negotiate. He simply explained. And the unseelie holding her knew it.

"We had always intended to leave her in your care," he whined.

"Do you wish to leave my realm alive?"

The unseelie stuttered, and a cruel sliver of a smirk ghosted over the pale king's face.

"But if you'd rather stay - Well."

The unseelie considered, flexing his grip. He'd come on a mission, and it had gone poorly. The Dream King was not grateful, and now the fae had to decide if it was safer to keep his shield or flee. A moment's thought. And he shoved her forward, hard. She landed hard on her knees, yelping at the impact, and the unseelie moved out of the chamber in a rush of half-hearted apologies.

Murmurs and footsteps faded, a distant argument breaking out like a clap of thunder. She flinched, still on hands and knees, trapped in a spiral of breaths that wouldn't come fast enough and shaking limbs that couldn't fully support her.

The flower was gone. The unseelie were gone. But she wasn't alone. Wasn't safe. And the sticky spiderweb lace plucked on her nerves without keeping her warm, so she shuddered on the hard, stone floor and gasped as she stared down at her strangely pretty hands with their unicorn treatment, and -

She was not.

Not on the floor. Not on her knees.

With Morpheus.

He seized her, caught her up close with fingers that hooked into her shoulders like talons. The world seemed to quake, but maybe that was only the chest beneath her cheek and the arms around her back. She didn’t see him change shape or size, but his presence swelled, thick and biting like ozone as he pulled her so deep into his embrace she couldn’t see his splendid throne, or the retreating unseelie, or anything beyond him.

Was this better? Was this safe? She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't trust him. Her ribs crowded her lungs, and her breathing fluttered, never drawing a full inhale or exhale, only pulling enough oxygen to keep her lightheaded, broken hearted, and awake.

"Sir?"

He dragged her deeper, long fingers gathering her by the handful to pull inside his shadows. At least, it felt that way. He might not break and bend her like the unseelie, but she had no doubt he could consume her, swallow her up until she blinked in the dark like a little star.

"Sir."

"What is it, Lucienne?" His rough, begrudging question flooded her senses, and her fingers spasmed where they dangled at her sides.

"Sir, she is not well."

She couldn't see the speaker, but they weren't wrong. Aisling felt very unwell. She hurt, and she ached, and she was worried something was irreparably broken, but she couldn't remember its name. She spun in eddies of failing thoughts, struggling to follow the basic conversation.

"I know." Sorrow, frustration, and darkness there.

But the stranger outside Morpheus's embrace remained undaunted, insistent. "Sir, she cannot breathe."

A cool hand cradled the side of her face, summoning her to meet his radiant eyes. A frightening place to be - in his hand, under his gaze - made worse by the fact she didn't know whether or not it was the perfect escape or some fresh hell.

His thumb rolled down the tear tracks, memorizing them by touch, teaching himself the shape of her pain. The face he denied her was very, very near, but she couldn't read it. Couldn't plumb the depths of whatever he tried to express.

"You must breathe."

It didn't sound like an order. He nearly whispered the three words, a private request for her ears alone. A plea. And she wanted to. She wanted to thank him for asking by filling her lungs, relaxing in his arms, and assuring him everything was fine. But she couldn't, and she didn't, and it wasn't. Another tear broke loose from the pools gathered over her lower lashes and rolled over his thumb, washing him in the agony he tried to explore.

"I have you now." He spoke like a song, the cadence pulling around her mind, soft and sweet as a lullaby, and she wondered if he was consciously trying to charm her. Any other time, she'd welcome it, but she couldn't find her courage, or her attraction. All she felt was small. Frightened. Vulnerable and nearly naked in the arms of a creature she didn't trust.

She couldn't decide to calm herself. Panic stopped being a choice several hours back, and as her body woke up, it demanded the reactions the unseelie potion refused it. Her shaking was her answer. She had nothing to give his searching eyes. Words were human and she stood there as a mess of fears and silent prayers tangled in a web of nerves.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to her third eye.

"Let me help you."

Tensing, expecting more magic or power to crush over her mind, she felt him brush her subconscious. He waited there, at the gates, and the part of her that understood him best accepted his hand. Guiding her from the frightful awareness of her own body, her monster sheltered her in a softer darkness, wrapping her in the blurred sensations of a peaceful rest.

Sleep.

She blinked, and slumped, and he gathered her up. As she faded, she saw him: the worlds beyond the face, and the smooth white skin of a being she was on the verge of loving without understanding.

Fuck.

She was still a fool, and his arms seemed like the safest place in all the world.

A very good place to fall.

Asleep.

[mint-termsandconditions]

Kirbtober Day 7: Headcannon

Headcannons about Dream Land’s favorite pass-time:

Avalanche!

without text and with colors

It’s going to be a very long post.

Context:

Originally, this was from the Avalanche arc, which was a part of an overly ambitious project about what if I, local Kirby fan and idiot, retold the entire story of Kirby, and took inspiration from every medium of Kirby, and I mean every.

I scrapped the idea of rewriting the entire Kirby story because, first of all, I'm not a writer and, second of all, I don't have that kind of patience.

But oddly enough, I grew so fond of the Avalanche Arc that it became part of my head-cannon.

The Avalanche Arc would’ve taken place before Bandana Dee had his Bandana

Headcannon #1:

Avalanche makes everyone act terribly to one another

There’s no magic or scientific reason behind this

It’s just like playing board games with your family

Headcannon #2:

There’s a wristwatch version of Avalanche that allows online multiplayer

The buttons to move your piece are the two blobs on the side and the button in the center is to drop.

Players often use these wristwatches to practice for the competition that happens annually, but recently been changed to triennially due to the Avalanche Competition, causing an increase rate in crime and sabotage pre-competition.

The wristwatch has four modes:

Arcade:

See how long you last

Vs:

Play against another player to see who’s better

Competition:

A mode only available during competition (will be explained later)

Time:

Tells the time

Headcannon #3:

There are two types of Avalanche Competition that are usually hosted:

digital and IRL

Digital is basically your average Kirby Avalanche gameplay

IRL has the same mechanics as Avalanche, where you match the same color blobs together and make combos but with a twist, it takes place in an actual stadium.

Players use large hooks to rotate and guide the blobs to their preferred spot.

Player are able to keep reference of where they have placed the blobs by using the Competition mode on their wristwatch as referenced before. Most players bounce on the already stacked blobs to reach the blobs above.

Beginners typically use the ladder.

And some players have the ability to float or fly to reach the blob.

Like in normal sports, there are more ideal Avalanche players, usually ones who are able to fly or float, but others have figured out ways to get around these shortcomings by using their own skills and abilities.

There are two main type of skills:

Delay Skills:

Skills that stops or slows down the falling of blobs for a few seconds

(Only affects falling blobs)

Destroy Skills:

Skills that destroys already placed blobs

(Only affects blobs that have been placed)

Other rules include:

DON’T SABOTAGE THE OTHER PLAYERS!!!!

You can use a skill only after completing a certain amount of combos (amount depends on how powerful the skill is)

Don’t attempt to move blobs that have already been placed

PLEASE DON’T SABOTAGE THE OTHER PLAYERS!

Headcannon #4:

Some Dream Landers aren’t avid Avalanche enjoyers but usually still tune in to see the blob cam

Because as much as everyone loves seeing their favorite player succeed, everyone always prefers seeing the loser get (safely) crushed by the piling up blobs and come out as a blobby mess.

Kirby:

Rising up the ranks rapidly, it’s Kirby! They do not only have the ability to float, which puts them ahead of most players, they also have not one, not two, but three skills to aid them in the competition!

Skill: (L x W)

Copy Ability:

Allows Kirby to switch from these three copy abilities:

Ice:

Allows Kirby to freeze blobs from falling for a few seconds

Fire:

Allows Kirby to burn and destroy blobs (2 x 4)

Fighting:

Allows Kirby to break boulders and the blobs surrounding it (2 x 2)

Trivia:

Kirby would’ve picked mike as one of their abilities but the competition didn’t allow it

Even though most people brush off Kirby as just being the ideal type of person to play Avalanche due to their ability to float and the many skills they can utilize, their ability to think quickly on their feet is the main reason why they quickly became one of the top players

Kirby is the first player in Dream Land to have three skills

Some Avalanche players (in order of worse to best):

Chilly and Tokkori:

This tag team may bicker often, but when working towards a common goal, nothing can stand in their way!

Skill:

Freeze!:

Allows Chilly to freeze blobs from falling for a few seconds

Feather Falling:

Allows Tokkori to slow down blobs from falling by grabbing the blob with his hook and letting it fall gently

Trivia:

The main reason why they usually lose is that they often argue and complain that the other one have placed a blob wrong

They have a strong rivalry with the Sun and Moon for best tag team duo

Tokkorri is better at solo Avalanche than Chilly

Meta Knight:

Even this lone swordsman couldn’t resist the fierce competition of Avalanche! His ability to fly and slash makes him a fearsome foe!

Skill:

Piercing Slash:

Allows Meta Knight to clear an entire row

Down Thrust:

Allows Meta Knight to clear an entire column

Trivia:

Meta Knight quickly became an Avalanche Competition fan favorite due to his mysterious aura and his flashy skills

Meta Knight is extremely bitter about being ranked below King Dedede

Meta Knight’s playing style is heavily inspired by the long reigning Avalanche Champion, only known as ‘The Avalanche King’

King Dedede:

Make way for the King himself! Ranked second best, this King is a force to be reckoned with! With his trusty tool he’ll destroys anyone who threatens his rank!

Skill:

King Dedede’s Hammer:

Allows King Dedede’s hook to change into the hammer and give the blobs a large bonk (4 x 4)

Triple Dedede Hammer:

Allows King Dedede’s hook to change into a hammer and wack the blobs three times destroying them in the process 3 x (2 x 2)

Trivia:

King Dedede was the number one ranked players for years before someone else took that spot

King Dedede created his hook by himself and this design later inspired Masked Dedede’s hammer

There’s a stadium specifically made for him due to his larger size compared to the average Dream Lander

The Avalanche King:

After vanishing for years, the Avalanche King finally returns! This mysterious champion may look like your run-of-a-mill Dream Lander, but his skills are nothing to scoff at! His speed and quick-thinking are unmatched, but why did he return?

Skill:

None to destroy blobs or to delay blobs. Only fan-service babyyyyy!

Trivia:

It’s Bandana Waddle Dee.

In the Avalanche Arc there was a joke about it being very obvious that it was him but somehow no one knows.

He wears a masked because he doesn’t want King Dedede to figure out he’s been slacking off to play Avalanche and that he took King Dedede’s title

The reason why he vanished was because Bandana Dee realized he had a very unhealthy addiction to Avalanche and decided to quit

He returned because Kirby made him relapse

He’s the same waddle dee from the actual Avalanche game (still a head-cannon)

The reason he’s so cracked at Avalanche is because I wanted to foreshadow his ability to to use a spear by paralleling how he uses the hook to play avalanche (This originally was a part of a story like I said before.)

This was also planned to show that even if Bandana Dee isn’t as physically strong as the others, he has the capacity to be smarter and think quicker than his peers, (I know it isn’t cannon (double isn’t cannon because it’s from an alternate universe), but from the Dreamy Gears Light Novel, it was shown that Bandana Dee figured out how to read ancient text faster than Meta Knight, so I like to think he has the ability to work smarter and harder).

[hvnlygrl]

i have been thinking about this sm lately but stalker! bellamy blake that is always watching reader just admiring her etc. maybe they find out

trees.

warnings — fem!reader x stalker!bellamy, some sexual themes but nothing crazy.

notes — ughhh i love this sm this is gonna be a lil blurb :) sorry this took so long i was dealing with finals and then a funeral so ive been a little MIA.

you’re sunbathing right off the edge of this beautiful boulder-looking rock. it’s around 1-ish according to the watch that you have lying atop your pile of clothes. in nothing but a pair of panties, you lie on your stomach so that your back can tan evenly.

it’s nice. it’s nice to be able to feel the warmth of real sunlight on your skin and the wind through your hair. hear the breeze through the leaves above you and listen to the stream flow alongside you.

there’s something so serene about it. something so sacred about finally having a place where you could be truly alone. on the arc that wasn’t even a dream, it was an impossibility. there was always someone watching or some guard coming around to do routine checks.

bellamy sits on the branch of a tree, not too high up but high enough that you won’t notice him right away. his dark hair blocks his view just the slightest bit and he swipes it away, his hands sweaty from his nervousness. he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as you. it was like he was looking at an angel and he never wanted to stop. but it was the innocence you held in your solitude that he loved. he was nervous just looking at you, and he knew it was wrong, he felt horrible doing it, but he couldn’t ever stop himself from climbing up that tree 15 minutes before he knew you’d head to the rock.

bellamy was your best friend around the base, always laughing and cracking jokes. it was like he was the most confident when he was next to you, but he couldn’t tell you how he truly felt. he was far too afraid to mess things up between you. it was all so perfect when he was with you, he couldn’t risk making you feel uncomfortable.

it’s ironic, really, he knows. how he won’t ask you on a date but he’ll sit in a tree for 2 hours just watching you sunbathe naked (or damn close to it), and sing and read the same 3 books over and over again. your own perfect little rituals that were all yours.

you hum a tune, hey jude by the beatles. it’s what your mother sang when you were a kid, one of the only songs that stuck throughout the years. your nose is buried in this old book that you found one day in the library on the arc: Divergent.

it reminded you a lot of your own life, as if you resonated with tris in many ways and you couldn’t help but attach bellamy to four’s character. he was hot, protective, and held this air about him that could command an army.

you thought about bellamy often when you weren’t next to him, and many times he appeared into your dreams night after night. sometimes it was the two of you in this big beautiful house with kids and pets, other times it was much more devious, with the two of you sneaking away to hide on the drop ship, your hands down his pants and his grabbing and caressing you.

you especially thought about him while sitting atop your rock. part of you wanted to invite him sometime, but were too afraid he wouldn’t feel the same way.

bellamy’s breath catches in his throat and his jeans suddenly become two sizes too small when you flip onto your back, placing your book face down on your clothes next to you. you close your eyes, face turned toward the sunlight.

his boot slips, breaking a tiny branch off to the side of the one he’s perched on.

your eyes shoot open, hand immediately reaching for the gun bellamy had given you when he found out you were making these daily trips alone. “in case of grounders,” he huffed when you raised a brow at him suspiciously.

your hand grips the handle of the gun, finger pressed along the side of trigger. it’s probably nothing, right?

you don’t bother throwing your shirt on, if it is a grounder you won’t have the time to. it’s far too risky.

your eyes scan the tree line, looking for anything out of place.

bellamy holds his breath, his heart in his throat. what if you shoot him on accident before realizing it’s him? how would he explain that to the rest of the 100?

and thats’s when you see it, the glimmer of his necklace against his tan chest. his big clunky boots and all-black outfit.

“bell?” you’re embarrassed and confused and suddenly feeling so exposed. “what the hell?”

he climbs off of his branch, dropping down about 10 feet. “hey, y/n,” he breathes out. “i-uh”

“were you watching me?”

he pauses. everything in him wants to lie or come up with some excuse but he can’t. he can’t lie to you. “yea. i’m sorry. i don’t-“

“do you like me?” you cut him off. now’s your chance, you figure, considering you’re already basically naked.

“i love you, y/n,” he bites at the inside of his cheek, “i have for a while now. i didn’t know how to tell you, i was too scared to screw it up.”

bellamy steps toward you, his eyes fluttering back and forth between your chest and your eyes.

“you love me?” you choke out, eyes wide. “are you being serious right now, bellamy?”

“as a heart attack.”

“holy shit,” you blink in shock. you can’t believe that in a million years the bellamy blake would be in love with you.

he stands there awkwardly, like he can’t tell if you’re happy or freaking out in a bad way.

“i love you too, bell,” you smile at him, waving your hands at him to beckon him closer. “c’mere.”

he drops down next to you, his hand raising to cup your cheek, fingers slightly trembling with trepidation. you inch toward him, big doe eyes fluttering at him as you take in all the features of his face as if it were the first time again.

he leans in, initiating the first kiss, his soft lips fitting perfectly with yours as your hands begin unbuttoning his shirt.

back to masterlist

[thekingofwinterblog]

Thoughts on people saying "Kuina dieing to the stairs is anti-climatic!" To me it works, because that seems to be the conflict of Zoro's ark: pipe dreams vs cruel, sometimes even banal, reality - Kuina feared that she wont reach her dream do to simple biology, and she died because of something that could happen to anybody who is human and not a demigod - hell Zoro in the end is also a human, so what are the chances that he has the best swordfighter genes?

Guess the only flaw could be that in Arlong park the fishmen were said to be 10* stronger than humans, so by Zoro easily defeating them it kinda proves the point mute and makes Kuina sound like a brat "Well a man is 1.6 times stronger than a man, but fishmen are 10 times stronger, and I defeated the ez gg, git gud"

I really like Kuina and her story, but there is no denying that the original message it was trying to convey has been diluted HARD by One Piece's later developments.

The message of the tragedy of Kuina's death is indeed that simple, Banal reality is very much a thing that can upend pretty much anything. It's basically the same message of Usopp's backstory. his family's plans fell to pieces for the simple reason that his mother got sick and died after his dad left. no grand battle, or dramatic circumstances behind that. she just got sick and died.

It is very similar to Kuina's death, in how ambition, plans, and desires of Humanity can be derailed by mundane and cruel reality. That is life. To claim othervise would be naive. People Die.

That part still holds up.

The other big part does not. Namely her father's line "Humans are fragile beings Zoro."

The thing about this line, and it's importance in the context of One Piece has been destroyed over time to such a degree that rather than the feeling of grounded reality that it once brought, instead brings laughter by how untrue it actually is.

Early One Piece had a much, much less uncomfortable relationship with death than the Modern series which is terrified of killing people off.

This is not to say that tons of characters died, on the contrary, not counting flashbacks and chapter 1, you can probably count the people who died in East Blue on one hand(I can only recall Zoro's skinny opponent during the Kuro Arc), but Death was treated in a very different manner than it would be later.

When Oda had this random bandit gunned in the head in chapter 1, it was to set a tone. None of these characters are playing around, wheter they were pirates, bandits, marines or bounty hunters. They lived in a world where getting killed in a fight was a very real and expected risk.

When Usopp gets laughed at by the Black Cat Pirates, Luffy throws a huge boulder at them, and tells them in no uncertain terms that if they laught at him again, he WILL kill them all.

In the context of this world, Kuina's story has very specific point. Namely it's there to showcase that even if you do overcome your doubts and fears, and do commit to chasing your dreams, that is no guarantee for success.

You can still die, and in the stupidest ways, because this is not a universe where death is cheap. It does not take much to kill a human being.

This is also hammered in with what happened to the cook Pirates, a strong, and experienced crew that sailed and survived the Grand Line, and seemingly the New World as well... And they went down toa single, wave in the East blue they hadn't positioned the ship for.

despite their strength they went down like complete chunks.

Just like Kuina.

With all of this in mind, within the context of East Blue, Kuina's Death by a broken neck makes sense from a thematic standpoint.

If you look at it from beyond that era, and into the grand line, where death became as cheap as salt by the sea, it instead makes her going down to something as simple as falling down the stairs and breaking her neck, as something frankly hilariously silly, given just how many characters in this series cheats death, in the dumbest ways possible.

I could make a list of characters who the story would be better off if they died, and i would literarily be able to put up a list with at least over a hundred characters.

The simple fact is that the old tone where death is treated as a serious thing that can happen in any fight, is dead and gone, and has been for a long, long time in One Piece.

Thus removing one of the big thematic points of Kuina's death.

As for the other point, Kuina's actual strength, I dont really see that as a problem.

The Reality is that neither Kuina, nor Zoro knew ANYTHING about the "Real World" so to speak. That was mostly what Mihawk's entire speech during his and Zoro's fight was about. The fact that he was a big frog at the bottom of the well, who had never seen just how wast the world actually was.

While she was at a disadvantage in terms of the fact that her training would begin to produce slower results than Zoro's due to simple biology, the reality is that the strength ceiling of One Piece seems to be the same for men and Women.

After all, Big Mom was by all accounts just as strong as Kaido, able to fight him to a very comfortable draw withouth any greater injury.

Hell, you could make a very good argument that the reason why Big Mom never managed to surpass Whitebeard and had to settle for just being one of the other Yonko who were not the Strongest Man in the World, was because she let herself go really, really hard. Who knows how strong she might have become if she had kept herself in shape rather than just indulge in hedonism completely and become utterly decadent.

There is also the reality that Kuina is drastically underselling her own strenght and potential, because by all accounts, Kuina was a monster in her own right.

Zoro used to train by lifting boulders over his head while training to fight her.

And Kuina was stronger than him. and not by a small amount either given her unbroken 2001 win streak.

Her greatest problem was, at the end of the day that despite being blessed with immense natural skill and strength(much moreso than Zoro) she had a fragile self esteem, in large part caused by her father's upbringing that told her she was destined to failure.

Her story was about overcoming that, and her tragedy was about the fact that after doing so, her dream was still snuffed out to something completely unrelated to any of her worries or struggles.

[acoldsovereign]

Continued from here, due to lore changes // @queen-jala

---

AS THE WOMAN SPOKE, MAIZ'S DISPLEASURE GREW.

A heavy feeling--writhing, twisting like a dirt-covered worm coming up to the surface in times of rain--made itself known within the pits of her stomach. Her legs moved involuntarily, an action that brought her face to face to the other woman--and her jaws clenched at the realization that she may have been wrong (er, right?) in regards to Jala; she did run away, leaving the Saiyans to their fate. She did abandon them in their time of need.

And if she was who she said she was, her cowardice was utterly unacceptable.

Her tail swept behind her in low arcs, brushed up against her ankles, dark brown fur poofed in silent anger. "Get back home?" She asked, in a low voice. "Haha," she laughed without warmth. It was empty, hollow. "What home?"

Though it didn't show on her face, violent, intrusive images flashed through Maiz's mind: grabbing a fistful of Jala's face and smashing it into the ground repeatedly, grabbing the woman's tail, tying it around a boulder and pushing it into the nearest body of water, tackling her to the ground and manually rearranging her facial features with her fists until she was bloody, unrecognizable, begging for mercy---

"Last time I checked--," she leaned into the woman's face with a growl and then interrupted herself. The grip she held over her own biceps were strangling; her fingernails threatened to break through skin and her top row of teeth caught her bottom lip. For a moment, she seemed frozen in time (red light, shrill alarms, Frieza's men ambushing Saiyans indiscriminately, the blood, screams of agony--).

"--Nevermind. It does not matter." But Maiz wasn't talking to Jala then, it was a self-reminder. A warning, an attempt to restrain herself. Coming back into the present moment, she exhaled a harsh breath. The urge to grab the so-called Queen by her top and shake her violently was there, accompanied by a hardened look in Maiz's eyes. For the moment, the Ice Empress decided to play along for sanity's sake. It's not like she knew the Royal Family personally. She didn't.

"I do," she answered. "Any Saiyan worth their ki would rightfully abhor them both." She avoided saying their names entirely. "They should have never been allowed to lay eyes on our planet much less negotiate anything."

Notably, Maiz didn't agree to anything--helping her out with supplies or the offer to kill both Frieza and Cold. The reasoning for the first was simple--there was no home to speak of. Many cycles after she became an adult (in what should have been Saiyan society), she visited the space where their planet was. It was gone. Nothing was there. Nobody was there. If Jala didn't know that, she either never revisited the place where the planet was in her years of hiding, or she might have been held up somewhere. Though Maiz doubts the second option--the woman just said she's been hopping from planet to planet, didn't she? So what happened, truly? Did Jala just forget about her planet? Her people?

Before compulsion (and subsequent reckless decision making) swallowed her, she took herself away from Jala and freed the woman from her scrutinizing glare. She didn't praise Jala on her battle prowess either. It was as if Maiz was a sponge for information; a black sink hole with a freezing aspect. She looked towards the sky again of the unconquered planet, a name which currently escaped her. A cargo ship broke the monotonous colors of a purple and black firmament dotted with hazy, pink clouds. It was going to land, it seemed.

She uncrossed her arms and decided to keep her thoughts and traumatic memories to herself. Jala was not off the hook, but since she was a Saiyan, Maiz would give her the benefit of the doubt. She would have to earn her trust--but the shared heritage (and goal of wanting to murder Frieza) helped greatly.

"--As I've said before, there are few of us left. That is on purpose. What so little of us survived the tragedy that befell our people scattered us to each corner of the winds." Her lips twitched and she briefly frowned again before her face resumed it's neutral state. "It is terrible and unfair. For that purpose," she forced herself to breathe out through her nostrils in a self-soothing motion, "I will warn you of what you need to watch out for.

"Aside from them, there is a law enforcement group. They guard certain planets. Beware of Agents of the Galactic Patrol. They will arrest you for attempting to take over a planet under their protection. If you do not care about that, it's fine. But I refuse to let them stop me again.

"If your goal is similar to mine: re-establishing some semblance of Saiyan society, you'd want a neutral planet with many natural resources," she began walking towards the cargo ship. It was quite a few feet away--nothing a power walk couldn't fix. "Neutral meaning they are governed by theirselves, not aligned to any outside protection. Do research on their allies if they have any. Nearby planets as well. The inhabitants must be molded into what you wish them to be or else you've just done nothing more than empty an unusable planet you can't figure out."

Hence why she's done partial genocides, instead.

[definitionsfading]

halvsies

little excerpt of something I’m trying to work on; this image of Lemon sitting on the bedside in just his boxers wouldn’t leave me alone. it’s not really built into anything else just yet, but we’ll see if I can get the connective tissue of the thing in order. this is just a late night sunday evening treat for the 3.2 people who may be interested 👀

note: not a siblings fic, codependency, light sexual content, brief discussion of suicidal ideation, in my fanon Lemon’s real name is Ezekiel or “Zeke” and Tangerine is Rory

* * * * * *

Lemon sits on the edge of the rumpled bed, shirtless, warm light from the lamp cutting in a golden arc over his chest and belly. Idly presses a hand to the side of his gut where the puckered skin is mending more every day. It gives a slight twinge beneath the light pressure, but nothing bad enough to make him wince. When legs shift beneath the sheet and Tangerine lets out a soft sigh behind him, he turns halfway, silhouetted there in the dim room. 

“You good?” he asks. The readout on the clock shows it’s just a hair past one in the morning. Tangerine had gone to bed an hour ago, but it seems he’s not yet fallen asleep or otherwise woke up when Lemon came in. 

“Be better if you turned off that sodding light and got your arse in this bed,” Tangerine says a bit roughly. He presses the heel of one hand into his eye, tips his head back so the hair falls away from his temples.

“S’not what I asked,” Lemon says, slowly blinking.

“I’m peachy fucking keen, mate,” Tangerine snorts. He draws his knee up again and the bedsheet slips down further, past pale and pronounced hip bones, revealing bare thighs and a crescent of sparse brown hair that travels southward from his navel. Lemon hadn’t realized he’d gone to bed without any clothes on. 

Lemon doesn’t touch the light but turns around, shifts his weight and slowly settles down on his side of the bed. Doesn’t yet get under the sheet because he’s thinking very acutely about the naked body just beneath it. He counts his measured breaths, in and out, in and out. Thomas dutifully chugging up a mountain.

“You aren’t, though,” he murmurs toward the ceiling. “Can see it in your face. Your eyes get all pinched at the corners when you’re working something over like a dog with a bone.” 

Tangerine doesn’t answer to that, but when Lemon turns his head to one side and their eyes catch, just briefly, he swears and pointedly looks away. 

“C’mere,” Lemon says, holding out a long arm.

“Fuck you,” Tangerine tells him petulantly. “I’m not some child in need of your coddling.” 

“Didn’t say you were, you came up with that all your own,” Lemon offers. “Look. Would you feel better about it if I asked for a cuddle because I need it?” 

“Such a prick,” Tangerine grouses, but scoots over toward Lemon so they meet in the middle of the bed. Lemon shifts when their skin touches, turns onto his side and hooks his arm around Tangerine’s middle, forearm braced diagonally across his spine. 

Their foreheads press together and neither of them say shit-all about it. Eventually, Tangerine’s arm comes up and grasps Lemon in kind, close enough that their bare bellies touch. They breathe in a shared rhythm and don’t speak. A single word could break through this moment like a boulder through spun sugar glass.  

Lemon chances it anyway, because he’s held these words under his tongue for a week, two weeks, ten years, an eternity. “I don’t really know who I am without you, Rory,” he whispers. “Scares the shit out of me sometimes, being honest.” 

“Who were you when you thought I was dead?” Tangerine asks without moving. 

“Lost,” Lemon answers. “The adrenaline rush didn’t last long after I snuffed the Diesel. Figured I may as well find a nice spot in the countryside and put a gun in my mouth. Something. Whatever was convenient.” 

“Fuck me,” Tangerine sighs, holding Lemon tighter. “Don’t even talk about it, man.” 

“So what would you have done, if our situation was swapped ‘round?” Lemon asks. It’s a cruel thing to ask, but he needs to know. He needs to hear it. 

Tangerine’s fingers are practically pressing bruises into Lemon’s shoulder blades. “The same fucking thing, you twit,” he rasps out. “You already know as much. There ain’t no job without you, Zeke—nothing to chase, nothing to hold onto. There’s fuck-all. Nothing.” 

Lemon smiles even though his throat feels tight. “We really ought to go to therapy or something, you and me,” he says, sniffing. “Surely this ain’t natural.” 

“When the fuck have we ever been anything resembling natural,” Tangerine laughs, gone weirdly breathless. Then he dips his lashes and face, brings a hand up to Lemon’s cheek, holds him there as their lips brush together in a gentle sort of kiss. 

That’s all it takes. Lemon groans into Tangerine’s mouth, deepens it, draws his hand down from the middle of his partner’s back to the plush little curve of his ass. Holds on tight, draws him closer, uses his other palm to cradle the back of Tangerine’s head, tangle fingers through his hair and keep him grounded in place. 

Lost and then found again—his purpose, his tether, his best friend, his everything. He wants to tell Tangerine that, wants to try and spell it all out for him in a way that makes sense without being too soppy, but he probably already knows. They’re each other’s guiding compass when it’s all said and done, always have been. 

And if there’s only one life left between them now, Lemon figures they’ll have to share it. Split right down the middle like the last jaffa cake. Thankfully he’s always been willing to go halvsies with Tangerine. 

[cambracts]

SHARE AT LEAST FIVE SONGS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR MUSE, OR THAT YOU ASSOCIATE WITH YOUR MUSE’S CHARACTER ARC. Including lyrics is optional.

TAGGED: @oathdestroyed! thank you, bb! 🥰 TAGGING: whoever would like to do this!

THEY'RE ONLY HUMAN - DEATH NOTE: THE MUSICAL

they're only human / standing still / doomed to live pushing boulders uphill / only human, after all / so they give and they take / hoping someone will help break their fall

DEVILS PRICE - POOR MAN'S POISON

the devil said, "sit and have yourself a glass" / he said "i know you're angry right now, but the feelin' will pass / so keep your cup tipped up when you're feelin' down low / and when you finally forget your purpose, you'll be stumblin' on down my side of the road" / oh you know it ain't good for you / to keep going on like you do / time's running away and it's running fast

EPIC, PT. 1 - ANAIS MITCHELL, JUSTIN VERNON

king of mortar, king of bricks / the river styx was a river of stones / and hades laid 'em high and thick / with a million hands that were not his own / and a million feet that fell in line / stepped in time with hades' step / and a million minds that were just one mind / like stones in a row / stone by stone / row by row

CHILD OF DARKNESS - BEDEMON

come with me now, child of darkness / come with me into the night / let me show you this land of enchantment / let me be your guiding light / this world is dead: it's broken its back / but i can show you what's being done / it all lies within your soul, girl / use your mind and it will come

WHISPER - BURN THE BALLROOM

his favourite days were the mornings she came with / confessions of cardinal sin / a beast in the business of selling forgiveness / dead eyes on a treacherous grin / yet he laps up the vice like a wolf in the night / he's the left hand of God on the stage / yeah, with one hand he offers salvation to lovers / the other, it taketh away

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Stuff I'm Looking Forward to in 2023

Manga

Now: P is for Psycho-tits

The only thing we're totally guaranteed to get is the continuation and eventual conclusion of the three-way rock-tossing contest over the corpus of Psykos. Given how Psykos used to treat people as things to be used, abused, and manipulated, to see her reduced to a pawn to be played for couldn't be happening to a nicer psychopath (term used loosely).

For Tatsumaki to be deliberately throwing away her hard-won reputation for responsibility and valour in order to keep Pyskos out of the hands of Tsukuyomi speaks to them being more of a threat than we might initially suppose. I can't wait to see how this pans out.

Including what part the guy totally tired of these rock-tossing tossers' antics, Saitama, might play.

Very soon: D is for Dissonance, Dealings, and Disciples

If you're a manga-only reader (if so, what the hell are you doing reading this blog?), then there's been a bit of a jolt between the end of the last arc and this one.

Did not the monsters rampage for hours a few days prior, setting the world in a panic even before the showdown at the Monster Association? Was not the death toll in the thousands already before the first rumblings at City Z? Did not apocalpytic damage get done to the very planet, with part of the crust sliced and a previously-submerged continent re-emerging? Were not dozens of heroes frantically pulling people from rubble even as giant boulders rained down, desperate to save as many as they could before tsunamis rolled in, the last of which was so large the coastline seems to have permanently moved? Was City Z not nuked?

So why are we here in Hero Association headquarters without the slightest acknowledgement that anything is amiss? Not a whisper about any death toll or destruction. It feels claustophobic.

If you're a webcomic reader, you're creeped out. Not only have events shifted to the Hero Association but there's a real similarity between events immediately after the MA arc in the webcomic and that in the manga... only the contexts are a little different, and that nearly but not quite harmonious match puts one in Uncanny Valley. It feels wrong.

I'm expecting the dissonance between the manga and webcomic to break as the consequences of the last few weeks finally come home to roost. There's plenty to criticise the Hero Association for, and from the sounds of things, until now, they've had an easy time of it with the media. Could all change drastically.

Speaking of dissonance...

...for a desperately devoted disciple, Genos has been keeping his distance from Saitama.

He popped up to talk about Saitama -- got him promoted while at it -- a couple of days before we caught up with the story in 170. He had something else doing at HA HQ that day and only stuck around to help Saitama recover their former apartment.

It's been a further two days and Genos is nowhere to be seen. He's definitely not moved in or Forte wouldn't be trying to throw his weight around.

What's he up to? Best case scenario: Genos is back at the lab, getting another fantastic upgrade, one that doesn't have to be hastily installed overnight. He can't not do them -- although, with the kind of power and durability he already has it's scary to imagine where he'll go next. Unless the doctor means to put him on a parts diet, hehe. Worst case scenario: he's been kidnapped by Blast after the latter heard via Sicchi what Genos had said. It'd be days before either of his people thought to raise the alarm. Middle-of-the-road: Genos is shopping round, bargaining for a better deal for Saitama than a grudging promotion to the bottom of Class A.

Speaking of dealings...

...my goodness, did ONE punish heroes or what? Certainly, everyone in the strike team as well as anyone who came to support them got a personal hell meted out to them. We've met a couple of heroes but I'm keen to see how the rest of them are doing: Child Emperor, Metal Bat, Tank Top Master, Puri Puri Prisoner, Superalloy Darkshine, and Atomic Samurai.

Atomic Samurai having to deal with burying his friends, comforting both his disciples and the disciples of his deceased friends, and retraining as his techniques were nearly worthless in the battlefield, I am most keen to see.

Oh yeah, wasn't Flashy Flash already offering to train Saitama back in the Monster Association? I bet he's going to show up to offer his services soon enough.

Then again, what is Drive Knight up to? He came out of it all pretty well, with plenty of otherwise difficult to obtain intelligence, a filled-up battery, and monster samples. What's this bastard going to do with it all? I hope we get some indication this year.

Soon enough: S is for Swimming with Sharks

I don't expect that we'll get a full resolution this year, but I do expect that the net thrown around Amai Mask is going to slowly start tightening. He's very lucky that what he'd hoped to be his debut in front of the sketpical S-Class heroes turned out to be a complete humiliation. These guys are too smart: they take note, make notes, and share them. If his monstrous side had been detected, he'd be either dead or a most special guest of the Hero Association Special Internment Facilities right now.

His luck won't last forever. Iaian will be back sooner or later. Child Emperor might have seen something, and might be planning something. Unknown to him, Do-S is alive and well. Is she going to try blackmailing him?

This could take a couple of very interesting turns.

There'll be more but I think this is quite enough to begin with 2023 is sure to throw some curve balls!

Webcomic

Who knows? Every day I live in hope of a new chapter. One of these days, ONE shall provide. I don't even dare hope for more this year.

[caendtowntrash]

More Marx? (Annoyed Groan)

It’s another one of these! Spoilers for the January Endtown Update just as a forewarning.

In my other Marx rant I went over a good amount of Marx but I feel the newest updates to Endtown really drive it home how horrific Marx is and how damaging his presence is on this story and how cruel a god entity he is just via context alone. I think I need to appropriately break it down so people can really grasp this with both hands rather than be dazzled by fancy art and faded memory.

More under the cut!

Marx is basically the creator, the author if you will, of the Endtown world. He chooses worlds which are slotted for destruction and manipulates the circumstances within them to seed a new sandbox for him to play around in. Multiple sandboxes even!

During the Ship Arc it’s revealed that the parallel worlds to Endtown’s world are dead. Nobody survives the apocalypse, which typically is caused by resource squabbling. Marx, horrible god that he is, sets up Endtowns in these worlds that shelter and preserve humanity which we see during the post-mortem Flask epilogue and again in Holly’s flashback where she and Doc Chase are sent to Endtown. He also gives Apex (Topsiders) means to survive the resultant Armageddon as well as evidenced by Amesworth’s Exposition segment of the Eden Arc:

Marx left his ‘clue’ about what was happening to the world and tampered with the biosuit’s plastics which allowed the Topsiders to persist when they would have all transformed or perished. This makes him responsible for the Topsider’s existence and their genocidal rampage on the mutated (grexed) humans. Now the cause of the mutations were revealed to be due to some thinning of reality’s walls which allow a completely unrelated universe, not parallel but cosmologically distant to this one, collide and infect it in a way where people turn into cartoon animals. This may, perhaps, be seen as a kind of accident if you are so inclined to believe so. Like a boulder crushing a sparrow’s nest it’s an act of nature the occupants never would have foresaw or anticipated until doom was upon them. But what if I told you that there was a man who pushed the boulder in the first place? Enter a brief but incredibly damning comment made by Dr. Amesworth in a quiet aside during the Exposition segment:

Isn’t this a really curious thing for her to say? Almost as if Marx chose the nature of what the universe collision was. Which, if you think about it, might be actually true. Marx has been shown to accomplish anything and has not faced something that actually stands as a challenge to his skills or will and expresses nothing but fawning adoration for Cardoodles. We have from his own admission that he’s been manipulating Wally’s ‘story’ to serve the purpose of feeding him to Eye and ultimately combining his soul with Cracked Cat and that he’s done this countless times. He’s admitted in this most recent update that he’s watched or been aware of Duffy committing suicide ‘8 million times’ but only now supposedly thought to stop him. And why?

Marx seems to have this happen where his outreach for characters not named Wally are curious larks rather than anything in his rigid five billion step plan to whatever endgoal he’s looking for with his sandbox. This happened much earlier for Flask too.

And in fact ONLY seems to happen when he’s ‘curious’ if that really is earnest and not another lie to get the circumstances of what he wants to happen, happen. He’s a master manipulator after all, privy to countless permutations of how a situation will go and pulling the strings accordingly. He doesn’t save Holly because the Ship reveals what her ‘deal’ was and deems her too fundamentally broken to fix (even though there could be opportunities to fix her, I feel like Marx cared more about Holly fixing Wally and getting him out of Endtown rather than Holly’s own wellbeing and orchestrated Milk Trial to break her fundamentally). He doesn’t save Walt because he knows exactly what happened with Walt, there’s no mystery to his actions because it’s a perfectly understood progression. How tragic but not anything he has to deal with, people die every day! And he doesn’t save Heather because, uhmmm...

He just doesn’t okay????????????? Endtown’s served its purpose! Who cares about the innocent people left behind in there, it’s fine and dandy to pull some parlor tricks like making your eyes bleed to scare the fascist you put in office or make a sad pose as Walt disappears from existence, maybe the audience will forget you’re actually the reason this all happened and give you a pass for not intervening when you did it for Wally and now Duffy. If the characters are not serving Cracked Cat’s ascension then they’re disposable. It might be neat to see what new thing can twist the story around for Marx’s point of view but each ‘tweak’ is fundamentally not important to his main goal. If something affects the main goal, like Holly, he’d gladly throw them in the garbage. And he has every right to do this in his eyes. Why? Because he made the world. Everyone’s lives were forfeit to his whims the second he ‘saved’ them from an apocalypse. Nobody in Endtown is supposed to be alive, absolutely nobody. So if this world was supposed to die he can do anything to it, can’t he? He can cross a cartoon universe over the one he’s chosen, make the inhabitants change into cartoons. Why? How else can he make the Cracked Cat he wants to see?

[lavenderandlaurel]

having one of those rare and bewildering days where I am successfully acting the part of a Young Professional in the Big City as if I'm in some kind of network prestige drama. not in a bad way necessarily but one that feels wildly unrealistic most days. like "I rise at dawn to do my skincare routine and read for an hour before sitting down to my high-powered creative job and churning out copy. at lunch I hit the gym and return home to eat leftover homemade pesto before meeting with a client. after work I will hang out at the neighborhood bar with friends, where I will presumably meet the girl of my dreams and have a will-they-won't-they arc for the next season and a half"

[not pictured: the fact that I woke up early and this is going to bite me around 4pm, the way I've been telling myself to go to the bouldering gym on my lunch break for literal weeks and haven't, the disastrous state of the dishes in the kitchen sink, the literal Nothing I accomplished at work last week, the fact that the bar where we're meeting for book club is wildly overpriced and I was racing to finish the last two thirds of the book this morning]

[gorgin-gals-muses]

In a matter of minutes, the battlefield was set. Both Fubukis stared into each others eyes, flickering to the plates around them. Bowls of ramen, rows of steaming meat buns, tins of fries, milkshakes, pyramids of brownie squares, burgers each as wide as their chubby heads... An utter smorgasboard of food was set between the duo of virtually identical gluttons. In any other scenario, it would be a joyous occasion for either of them, but this was war.

Fubuki 1 made the first move, reaching for one of the ramen bowls, quickly scarfing the noodles down forcefully as she chased it down with the salty broth. Fubuki 2 took one of the fry tins and upturned it into her mouth, swallowing the potatoey mass all at once. Each suspiciously eyed the other's overindulgent movements; could Desuhiko really do either of those things? Neither were sure. They continued, ravenously gorging to prove themselves in front of their other. Burger after burger, steak after steak, glare after glare.

As they fought on, scarfing down at a rate unprecedented, both Fubukis felt a hot sweat creeping up on them. Between the rush of stuffing themselves and the stress of the competition, both grew humid, sweat running down their arms and legs as they quickened the pace. As their stomachs expanded and drooped lower with more food, they felt them both nuzzling into each other; Fubuki 1 in particular noticed the tuxedo button of her competitor jabbing into her, clearly strained on its owner.

Each of the two Fubukis had to bring themselves forward to cram more of the food into themselves, groaning and huffing inches away from the face of the other. Fubuki 2 took a short break from her gorging to set one of her chubby hands upon Fubuki 1's cheek; surely, if this was Desuhiko in disguise, she could tear his mask off! Fubuki 1 retaliated, grabbing at Fubuki 2's prodigious chin flab as she sucked down a glass of thick milkshake in 5 seconds flat. Slapping, prodding, and grabbing at each other became another tactic in their fight for dominance, sneaking these stray hits as they devoured more food to fill their strained bellies. Before long though, there was little left to reach for. The two fatties had emptied the entire plate into their stomachs, and neither had shown signs of weakness.

"I won't... ouurgh, let you win... Desuhiko..." Fubuki 1 groaned, nursing her stomach. She could barely move with the tight, churning mass urging her to break it free, tension blazing all over her skin, but managed to just barely muster the energy to exit the booth. Fubuki 2, not wanting to be outdone, did likewise, wheezing and sputtering as she clumsily escaped its confines.

"Haaah... looks like I did... your disguise is about... to break..." Fubuki 1 pointed at Fubuki 2's stomach. Strain and stress marked all across her jacket and shirt, riding up and up over her gut in defeat. Fubuki 2 pushed down her suit onto her belly, struggling to contain her gut, before she felt something pop as Fubuki 1 squealed in in pain, falling to the ground.

Just then, one of Fubuki 2's buttons shot like a cannon out from her tuxedo, colliding with Fubuki 1's suit, and a tear formed across the point of impact. Soon, the broken thread caused a chain reaction, Fubuki 1 gasping in mixed relief, shock, and arousal as her sweaty, turgid boulder of a stomach escaped, but her gaze quickly turned to that of Fubuki 2. As her tuxedo exploded apart, shredded by her bulky breasts and ginormous gut, the shirt underneath also gave way, a fountain of buttons arcing over to barrage Fubuki 1's gut some more, and working to further undress her accidentally. Before long, both of the gasping, tubby bunnygirls were almost entirely topless. And neither of them were Desuhiko.

"I'm... haaahh... sorry I thought you were.. Desuhiko." Fubuki 1 apologized between unsteady breaths and thunderous belches.

"It's fine... I guess we're both the real Fubuki..." Fubuki 2 knelt down, barely able to stand anymore. She opened her arms as she scooted over towards her doppelganger. "Hug?"

"Hug."

@thickassjpegs @someheartlesslady

An obvious anomaly has taken place. Two Fubukis stand, one in her classic, beloved, stretchy latex bunny suit, and another in completely different attire; still a "bunny suit" by technicality, the other Fubuki sported the same headband and tail, but a button down tuxedo jacket and shorts. The two gazed at each other.

"D-desuhiko, is that you?" the first muttered, gazing into her the sharply-dressed doppelganger.

"I was about to ask you the same... That's quite a Disguise you've crafted," the second retorted towards the near perfect reflection before her. Both Fubukis slowly strafed around each other... Desuhiko's Forte could work wonders, but could it really make him appear as large as her? It could've been a fat suit, but even under further inspection, it seemed perfect...

"T-tell me something only the real Fubuki would know!"

"W-why would I tell you something only I'd know if you're Desuhiko?"

The two slowly neared each other, coming within only a foot of distance, each looking in the fleshy mirror on the other side. The twin bellies came into close contact, each growling like angry dogs as they mashed together.

"I know..." said Fubuki 1, pointing an accusatory finger at the other, "we must enter an eating contest to determine who's the real Fubuki. You'll prove your fraudulent status when you bow out first, Desuhiko!"

Fubuki 2 angled her head low, leering. "I was thinking the same thing; your Disguise won't save you once your gut tears it in twain!"

The two massive ladies quickly went to the bar, ordering as much food as either of them could imagine, barking orders at the staff more aggressively than either of them were accustomed to. It was a fight to prove one's own identity, after all. They had to get serious.

(Part 1: I'll get to the actual suit-popping later today, I need to eat lunch first 👍)

[kedreeva]

(Not All) Those Who Wander Are Lost

A fic wherein Eddie and Max wake up in the Upside Down a little monstrous, and decide they're not done fighting for their world.

-----

Past the caves by just over a week, the world breaks completely. Like the sky above, the ground turns into a field of large, floating rocks that get smaller and smaller into the distance. Eddie’s pretty sure this is not how planets work, but he cannot see ground below, so it looks as if the Upside Down just trails off into space. It’s beautiful, the red lightning turning blue out here, crackling constantly at a low tone instead of arcing, giving the whole area a shivery sort of lighting that makes the only denizens of the area seem ethereal.

They are deer, or as close to deer as an alien world can get, but they’re smaller than Max, with lighter frames. Their wings are not like hers, not bat-like wings at all. They’re thin in some places and thick in others and tough, the ends of them splitting into blades like a fan’s. They are graceful and springy, leaping and playing, carefree among the broken remains of the world.

As soon as Eddie dismounts, Max bounds off after them all, massive compared to them. Eve joins her as well, but Lars stays crouched over Eddie, protective. He doesn’t like the light out here, doesn’t like the electricity. Eddie’s fine with that. He sits with his back against Lars chest and watches it shimmer amidst the dust of the world, and thinks about supernovas. This is as close as he thinks he’ll ever get to something like one.

When Max finally lands in front of them again, breathless and radiating joy, Eddie rubs her jaw and smiles widely at the friends she’s brought down with her. “Have fun?”

Eddie, it’s beautiful out there, she tells him, sharing the memory of it with him. Come see.

Lars whines about it, but when Max takes off with Eddie astride her shoulders, he follows. They duck and dodge between shifting boulders and small land masses, and just when Eddie thinks it might go on forever, they clear the debris and the lightning and emerge into an endless night.

Stars, as far as he can see. A galaxy spread out above and beyond them like an ocean, speckled in bright lights. Max locks her wings open, silencing them as she glides smoothly along the edge of the word, the void to one side and a field of crackling blue energy to the other. Eddie sits up to stare, breathless, as Lars drifts up beside them, dark form a silhouette against the black, lit by the reflection of the lightning.

You were right, Eddie thinks at Max, and feels the warm surge of her joy curling around his mind. It’s beautiful out here. Is there… an end to it?

Somewhere, Max says, beating her wings to curve her path and then stretching them wide again. The damaraks say there’s more land on the other side of the Rift. When the suns come this way, you can see the bottom, like an ocean. Maybe it was one, once.

Eddie swallows and ducks down closer to her back. The mindflayer did this to them. Split their world apart. Took the water.

She doesn’t answer, just flies, silent, along the edge of the world. The shore, Eddie thinks, now that he knows. Somewhere below them is an ocean floor. He cannot imagine the bones it must contain, the destruction it remembers, etched into its face.

He isn’t sure when the damaraks join them, but he notices when the first overtakes them, and it’s only moments before they are surrounded by the small, flighted deer Max had spent the day with. Unlike the creatures closer to home, they are blue or green or purple, and the light that plays over them only makes them look brighter. They do not glide like Max, but their wing beats are silent, like an owl’s, and they fill the sky around his small family.

(Read the story on AO3!)

[kikiiswashere]

Climb

I went camping and hiking this weekend. While clambering over a boulder field, my hiking partner mentioned how much forearm strength is needed to pull yourself up over rocks. Naturally, my thoughts immediately went to Silco and his forearms. As one does.

Here is a quick, modern AU, fluffy one-shot about climber Silco and his GN!climbing partner.

Warnings: None, SFW

Pairing: Silco/GN!reader, established relationship

Note: As great as my weekend was, I come home sick, so please forgive any spelling/grammar errors. My brains feel all mushy and my body can't decide if its hot or cold

---------

After hauling your dusty, sweaty body over the ledge, you paused to breathe and take in the view. Below you: forest. Swells of green leaves jostled in the breeze under your feet, sounding as much like the ocean as it looked. Intermittently, tall cones of evergreens and firs poked their heads up from beneath the green waves.

Speaking of the ocean, it lay beyond the trees and past the craggily rock shoreline. Deep and steady, despite the breeze. Fishing and sight-seeing boats dotted the water. You were currently too far up the mountain to smell the brine.

The sun shone brilliantly, warming your cheeks and the rockface you were currently perched on. Closing your eyes, you tilted your face up towards the sky and took a deep, satisfying breath in, rib cage stretching pleasantly as your lungs filled to capacity.

“Time for a break?”

Silco’s voice broke you from your reverie. Eyes squinting open, you watched your climbing partner plop beside you, long legs dangling over the edge with next to yours.

“Yeah, I wanted to take in the view anyhow,” you replied, nodding out at the horizon.

Silco nodded and shouldered off his backpack. He unzipped it and pulled out two granola bars, handing one over to you. Smiling, you took the offering. After a moment of quietly munching and gazing at the sight laid out in front of you, Silco looped an arm around your shoulder. A butterfly beat its wings against your heart and you leaned your head against his shoulder.

 You and Silco had been seeing each other for almost year, having met at a climbing gym in Zaun. You had moved to the city for a job and didn’t know a single soul. One night, while scrolling through the Groupon app on your phone, an ad for a local rock-climbing gym caught your eye. You considered yourself outdoorsy and athletic. Downloading the coupon, you made plans to go the following evening.

You arrived at the gym after work, and immediately doubted your decision. The room was large and bright, tall jagged plastic rocks peppered with neon hand and foot holds arced and jutted all around. People decked out in harnesses, tight shoes, and chalk scurried up the walls like spiders. Who were you kidding? Rock-climbing wasn’t for you. Hiking? Scrambling over boulders? Camping? Yeah, you could do that. Not defy gravity and laugh in its face.

Before you could slide back out onto the streets, a young man (a gym employee by the looks of his shirt and confidence) stopped and greeted you. His name was Silco. He was tall and lean, with bright blue-green eyes, dark hair swept back in a bun, and forearms . . . his forearms . . .

Your focus on his forearms was quickly gave way to the smile he gave you. Endearingly uneven teeth with what looked like a small chip in the two front ones. With that smile, he corralled you back into the gym and showed you the ropes – literally.

You were delighted to find that you took to rock-climbing like a fish to water. . . or, rather, a goat to mountain. What was more, you enjoyed it! What was even more, you enjoyed gym manager Silco’s company. He seemed to enjoy yours, too. Enough to ask you out a couple months after joining the gym.

Several successful dates, climbing trips, and moving in together is what had led up to the current camping trip you were taking together. The first few days you did aided climbs. Today, you had convinced Silco to do a strenuous hike instead; your groin had chafed pretty badly during the previous day’s climb and you needed a break from a harness. The hike still took you both up the face of the mountain, but instead of needing equipment, the trail guided you over large boulder fields and up rockfaces with the use of iron rungs.

“Ready to go again?” Silco asked.

“Sure,” you nodded, getting to your feet. He held out a large hand and helped you to your feet.

Reshouldering your packs, you both began back up the trail. Easy conversation flowed between the two of you, the soft crunch of stone beneath your hiking boots coupled with an easy breeze created a comforting atmosphere. Following the blue blazes painted onto the trees and rocks led you both to the next ladder up the mountain.

“After you,” Silco said, presenting the way up with a flourish of his sculpted forearms.

You shimmied up the ladder. It was a longer than the previous, and curiosity got the better of you. I peeked down to see the ledge below and Silco staring up at you, a lilting smirk on his lips. You snorted and continued up.

“What are you laughing at?” he asked as he joined you on the ledge above.

You rolled you eyes and said, “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re having me go up the ladders first so you can look at my ass?”

Silco barked a laugh and stepped closer, crowding you against the mountain. “And what if I am? You stare at my forearms while we climb. Can’t I watch a part of you I admire?”

You chuckled, grabbing his forearms and pulling his closer. His hands cupped your shapely rear as your face tilted up to capture his lips.

------

Note: Thanks for reading! The doctor told me that comments and reblogs will cure what ails me <3