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soggy-platee · 3 years ago

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What Do We Do Now?- Chp. 4

Rating: M

Pairing: Din x Fem!Reader

Summary: Din learns more about you.

Note: All chapters are on ao3, just posting here if anyone likes it on Tumblr better! Ao3 here.

You had learned several things since taking off. Mainly, that the child was incredibly interested in you.

From the moment the Mandalorian, Mando, as you heard Peli call him, had brought him aboard, he had been desperately trying to get to you.

Still magnetized to the side of the ship, you had managed to slide your cuffs down far enough so you could sit on the floor, not comfortably, you noted, but still able to. The child had managed to squirm his way over to you for the second time in the several hours you had been flying, pulling on your pant leg in a desperate bid for attention. You offered him a small smile, hoping to convey that your hands were tied. Literally. He babbled at you and you feigned interest, quizzically tilting your head and nodding as he vocalized. He squealed in delight at your actions, which alerted his less adorable, just as mysterious father to his location.

A loud thud sounded as the Mandalorian dismounted the ladder from the cockpit, head jerking toward the location of the child at your feet. He huffed loudly and stalked over to you, reaching down and picking up the child with a carefulness that almost made you think he had a soul under all that metal. Almost.

He was still bringing you to your death, no matter how attractive he was or how cute his kid could be.

You had been trying to rectify your situation in your head as you flew. Maybe that old bastard wouldn’t kill you. Maybe he had gotten his wife back and he just wanted to... punish you? You stopped yourself from hoping for that outcome, both because you knew deep down it was impossible, and because you hoped that your efforts to free that woman were not in vain.

You hadn’t seen her since you parted ways a few klicks from the mansion, you had simply wished her luck. She wouldn’t have been any safer with you.

Clearly.

Mando was turning around to leave you alone in the hull once again when you dared to ask him,

“W-What planet are you taking me to?”

No response, he just kept moving back toward the ladder.

“H-Hey!”, you said louder, “Where are you taking me?”

He stopped then, and faced you, the child still held in one arm.

“Nevarro”

Nevarro?

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded.

Why the hell would he be on Nevarro?

“The man that placed my bounty, he’s there?”

No response again, he had reached the ladder now.

“Wait!” you yelled, a little too forcefully while tugging on your bindings to get his attention. You immediately regretted your tone when he turned quickly back toward you and glowered. Well, you figured he must have been under the helmet.

“I can still put you in carbonite, no more questions.”

It was the most words he had strung together since his initial threat in the cantina. You went quiet.

He climbed the ladder and you were once again alone in the hull of the ship. The time to yourself allowed you to realize just how tired you were. Your very bones ached with exhaustion. You hadn’t slept since you had initially fled from your flat the day before. That had been over a day ago, and the near-constant panic had not helped with your tiredness. You leaned your head back against the cool metal of the ship’s interior, your eyes slipping closed. You were worried. You were scared. But your current exhaustion overrode these feelings and you feel into a fitful sleep.

…

In your dreams, you felt the Mandalorian. His iron grip on your arm, pushing you further and further toward the freezer, nothing but inky blackness beyond the metal frame. You tried to plead, to fight. You screamed, you cried, you begged. The interior of the ship melted away and was replaced by the dull walls of your childhood home. No. Your blood ran cold. You looked down at the hand holding your arm. There was no glove. No beskar. Just rough and bloody knuckles. You wrenched yourself around to look into the face of the person holding you. Into eyes that looked too much like yours-

You awoke to your head crashing violently into the wall behind you. Lights danced behind your eyes on impact, and before you had time to process your dream or the pain now blossoming at the base of your skull, the entire ship flipped. The cuffs held tight, so your shoulders were left to take the brunt of your shifting body. You screamed in pain as you felt one of them for sure pop out of place as your entire weight was held with them. Your ass was slammed back into the ground as the ship righted itself, your right shoulder still burning with pain. You heard the sound of guns firing, and were jolted once more when one bolt impacted the ship. The lightning flickered, and then the hull was plunged into darkness.

Several sounds from above reminded you of the Mandalorian’s presence. A gruff curse, an opening hatch, and the sounds of Mando descending the ladder distracted you from the pulsing pain in your arm. You looked blindly out at the pitch blackness, head darting to follow the heavy footsteps that filled the hull. From what you could gather, he was nearly directly across for you. You heard a panel open, a grunt as sparks flittered from some wires, and suddenly the lights returned. You winced against the harsh light as your vision focused on the armored form in front of you. He turned to you now, closing the hatch and tucking the wires back inside.

You were panting, with both the stress of being flipped and the pain in your shoulder nearly overwhelming you. He noticed. He walked over to you and stood above you, studying you silently.

“What?” you gritted out.

“Are you hurt?”, he asked after a beat.

You were annoyed. Who is this bounty hunter to kidnap you, threaten your life, and then ask if you were hurt?

Of course you were.

Your anger boiled over, “Why would you care?” you spat.

He simply continued to look down at you.

You held out for several seconds, before sighing and saying, “My shoulder, I think it’s dislocated”.

He crouched then, helmet almost level with your face. He tilted his head and inspected your shoulder. He must have agreed, as he reached one hand behind your back to grip your cuffs. He used his other hand to grip the front of your tunic tightly.

“Don’t try anything”

Did he think you were that stupid?

He released the cuffs and your arms groaned in protest as your moved your hands to rest in your lap. He reached forward and gently grabbed your right shoulder. You hissed in pain at the contact but he didn’t stop his probing, moving his gloved fingers along the joint.

“It is.”

Yeah, I know, you thought. But you stayed silent, looking into his visor. You felt heat rise to your face as his gaze held yours with his body so close.

“I’m going to set it, get ready”

You nodded slightly, and as you readied yourself to draw in a breath, he snapped the joint back into place.

The lack of warning made you scream, a short sound that echoed through the hull but did not seem to affect Mando in the slightest.

After your ragged breathing had evened out, he removed his hands from your shoulder and stood up, glancing around the ship. You wanted to ask what happened, who had been shooting at you, but your nerves made the words catch in your throat.

He made his way back to the cockpit, and after a moment, you felt the ship begin to descend. You were nowhere close to Nevarro, so the ship must need repairing. You felt both a sense of relief and dread at this development. On one hand, it gave you more time to think of a plan. You still needed to get yourself out of this mess.

On the other hand, it left you more time at the mercy of his overbearing, terrifying presence.

You craned your neck in an attempt to look out the small porthole. You managed to get a glimpse of the planet, covered almost entirely in snow and ice. Great, this is what you get for complaining so much about the heat of Tatooine.

As the ship continued its descent, you wondered about how this was going to work, exactly. The damage you figured must be pretty extensive, so what would become of you as it was repaired? What would he do with the child? You glanced across to the carbon freezer. You realized that it was the simplest solution for the hunter and shuttered.

He had relented before, he had to do it again, right? You figured there was no way that old man cared if you were alive or dead, however.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold”

He really might just kill you this time.

Your shoulder still throbbed dully as you heard Mando descend from the cockpit once more. He had his back to you, but you assumed he held the child in his free arm. He moved over to a hatch on the far side of the ship and pressed a button on his right vambrace to reveal a…cubby?

His bed, you realized.

He deposited the child in a small hammock hanging inside.

Okay, that was cute.

You saw his large eyes meet with the Mandalorian’s helmet before the hatch snapped shut with him inside. He turned to face you. It was only now that you realized that he had never put the cuffs back on.

Maker, I’m an idiot, you thought. You missed your chance! You had this entire time to… to…

Escape?

What the hell were you going to even do?

You were trapped on a junker you had no idea how to operate with a living weapon and a green bean. Escape wasn't really an option you could entertain.

He was standing in front of you now, a slightly defensive stance with a hand hovering over his blaster as he looked at your cuffless hands. You paused and realized what he wanted. You held your hands out limply, grunting against the pain in your shoulder.

“Can you at least cuff me in front? I think I’ll pass out if you try to touch my arm right now."

He moved his hands from his blaster to the cuffs deftly and slapped them on your wrists and pushed them toward the wall, once again trapping you.

You wondered why you had given up so easily.

He stood again and said one word before striding to the mouth of the ship, opening the bay doors,

“Stay.”

You were really getting tired of him saying that to you.

As he was walking down the ramp, you suddenly realized,

“What about the kid? You’re just gonna leave him shut up in there?”

No response. Big surprise.

You rolled your eyes at the back of his head as the bay doors closed and you were trapped in silence once again.

...

You fall in and out of consciousness to the sound of work on the outside of the ship. In your moments of waking, you feel hunger gnaw at you. You think back to the last time you ate, the night before you had originally run from the Mandalorian. You wonder if he’ll feed you, or deliver you as skin and bones to his client.

You are shaken from your thoughts when you hear cooing from the sleeping hatch. You had almost forgotten about the child.

Some dad he is, you thought, leaving a baby all alone in a ship with a criminal.

Well, criminal in the least dangerous sense of the word.

It had to have been at least half a day since the hunter had left you two alone on the ship, no wonder he was getting fussy. You wished you could do something about it.

Mostly, you wished you could get out of the cuffs. They were really killing your wrists, as you had them on for Maker knows how long now.

The cooing got louder, escalating into what you could almost call crying. Small hiccupped breaths followed by loud wines emanated through the ship. You had never been the maternal type (now that you think of it, you don’t even think you’ve ever held a baby), but his cries were tugging on your heartstrings.

Suddenly, the cries stopped, followed by an eerie silence, before the hatch came open. The child, still in his hammock, squealed happily when his eyes found you.

You smiled back at him, confused.

How did he do that?

You peered inside the cubby, trying to see if there were buttons within his reach that you couldn’t see. Before you could do so, the child half climbing/half falling out of his hammock caught your attention. He made his way down to the cot, and then down to the floor with what, you had to admit, were some impressive climbing skills for such a little body.

He practically tripped over his own little feet in his attempt to get to you as fast as possible. You couldn’t help but grin widely, wondering how this little ball of joy ended up with such a joyless father.

He reached your legs, you were currently sitting cross-legged on the ground which he interpreted as an invitation to crawl into your lap. You attempted to use your elbows, pulled across your front due to your cuffs held tight to the wall, to pat the little one on the head. It hadn’t worked as well as you had hoped, but he seemed delighted, reaching up and pulling them down in order to climb closer to your face. He scrambled up your arms, grabbing too tight on your still burning shoulder. You gasped in pain. He stopped then, removing his little hand from your arm, he looked up at you with big, wide eyes.

You smiled back to him, “It’s okay little one, it’s not your fault”, hoping to convey that you weren’t mad.

He still stared silently back at you.

“It just hurts a little, that’s all. Your dad isn’t the best piolet, is he?”

You wondered if he had any idea what you were saying.

Slowly, he returned his attention to your hurt shoulder. He moved his hand toward it and you were about to object before he touched it ever so gently, laying his three fingers at the base of the joint.

You stopped, confused for a moment before a warmth suddenly ran through your arm. You gasped and almost pulled away before you felt the dull ache leave your shoulder like flowing water. You relaxed into the touch, eyes slipping closed, allowing the last of the discomfort to slip away.

Before you had time to react, the little one fell backward, eyes closed, from his place perched on your elbows to your crossed knees below.

Your brief panic was quelled by his eyes blinking back open, staring up at you with a soft coo.

You looked down at the child in your lap with eyes wide.

What?

No, really, What?!

You experimentally rolled your shoulder, feeling absolutely no pain. In fact, it felt better than you could ever remember it feeling.

Maybe you were imagining things. It was impossible, right? Right? There was no wa-

The next thing you knew, the hull was open and the Mandalorian was standing there, blaster pointed directly at you. You looked back at him dumbfounded. What had you done? You raised your hands in the cuffs as a sign of peace, still confused about his sudden threat.

Once your mind caught up, you looked into your lap. Um, hello?

His son was in the lap of the person who was currently his prisoner for crime, you know, a criminal!?

You immediately began speaking frantically,

“N-No, it’s not what it looks like! He just… I didn’t hurt-, I wouldn’t-“

He stalked over to you and grabbed the child quickly, blaster level with your brow now.

“Explain.”

This guy is really a fan of single-word orders.

You stumble over your words,

“He-He was crying. In the hatch. And then he stopped, I don’t know how…he got out and came over to me. He was just having f-fun, then he saw I was hurt and he…with his hand…”

You trailed off and lowered your head, unable to explain what had happened in words.

“He healed you?”

Your eyes jerked to his visor.

He knew?

Was this something that was common in the galaxy? And this was just the biggest oversight of your entire existence?

No. No way.

“…Yes? I think so. My shoulder... it doesn’t hurt anymore, at all.”

He just huffed and walked away, holstering his blaster and reaching his other hand up to check up on the child, tilting his little chin up to his.

Um, no. He didn’t just get to not explain that.

“How can he do that? What is that? Wh-what is he?”

“He’s a child”

No shit.

You were about to speak again, demanding he answer your questions when he beat you to it.

“It’s just something he does, it won’t affect you any further.”

Okay, he somehow managed to answer none of your actual questions. You sat and watched as he deposited the kid back in the hammock. He turned back to you.

“Were going to be here overnight, get some sleep.”

You looked at him, wondering how the hell he just brushed over that whole event so quickly. He turned his back, preparing to crawl into the hatch with the child, you realized.

“Wait!”

Silence, then “What?”

“I-uh”

“Spit it out.”

“I-uh…need to use the fresher”

Silence. A sigh.

Then he was walking over to you, demagnetizing your cuffs and hauling you to your feet. He stopped you at the door of the small fresher, pushing you toward the opening slightly. You turned to look up into his visor.

Maker, had he always a head taller than you?

“Can you take the cuffs off?”

“Your hands are in front”

It was worth a shot. You walked into the fresher and he slid the door closed behind you.

Though you really did have to relieve yourself, you also wanted to look at yourself in the mirror. Call it a strange curiosity, but you wanted to see what you looked like after the insanity of the last two days. Your eyes had deeper circles than you had ever seen. Your hair was still tucked tightly into your long braid but pieces had fallen out to frame your face. Oh, you were also covered in dirt from head to toe. Your little fence scuffle with Mando had left you dirty, and you clearly had no time to clean up. You hadn’t noticed, but your tunic had also ripped at the sleeve, revealing a little bit of skin. The thin pale line of a scar shone through the torn material. You shivered. The last person you needed to think about right now was him. Hey, things could be worse. You could be given over to him. If he was still alive. The idea of him dead warmed you a little, at least. You finished up in the fresher and desperately tried to wipe some of the dirt off yourself before you heard a heavy fist on the door.

Yeah, Yeah.

You pushed open the door the best you could with your cuffed hands and stepped out.

He looked you up and down. What? You thought irritably. His gaze lingered on your shoulder, at least that's where you thought he was looking. Seconds ticked by and you grew more confused. Then, he started moving you again.

Instead of leading you back to the wall, however, he led you to the right, beyond his sleeping quarters to a larger hatch. You looked up at him, a question on your lips when he opened the hatch and ushered you inside. It was a small storage room with a single mat on the floor, crates surrounding the area. You turned back to him, tilting your head in confusion.

“The door locks from the outside, don’t try anything.”

The door shut behind you, plunging you into near-total darkness. Wasn’t he just about to let you sleep on the cold floor of the ship with your hands still cuffed to the wall?

Why did he change his mind?

#the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x you #mando x reader

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concussed-to-pieces · 5 years ago

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Stay Safe Part Four: Reaching Out

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome, welcome! I hope you're all having a good day, and that you're all staying hale and hearty. This chapter somehow got even longer than the last one, I do apologize once again. Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @toxiicpop @huliabitch @helplessly-nonstop @culturalrebel @literal-fand0m-trash @sinnamon-bunn @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3 @thewaythisis @nellyneko @absurdthirst

Part One [Should Have Known Better]

Part Two [Tranquil Turmoil]

Part Three [Vibroblade Mettle]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains character death. Stay safe!]

"Hand over the child, Mando." The man's voice said cooly over the comms. "I might let you live."

You snarled under your breath in frustration and you heard the Mandalorian echo your sentiment. Ever since the two of you had departed Sorgan, your proverbial footsteps had been dogged by hunters. At least they had followed you instead of harassing the small village. You still had yet to learn why the child was being hunted, but you supposed that was a minor detail in light of your current predicament.

"I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold!" The hunter continued to taunt as another hit rocked the Crest. The left engine sputtered and whined, rattling audibly.

"Alright, that's it." The Mandalorian bit out, flipping switches to cut power from the engine before it shredded itself. "You're up." He informed you, reaching for the thruster bar. "Be ready on the guns, we'll only get one shot at this. Take out that son of a bitch."

Your eyes were glued to the targeting screen, only barely noticing the choke of the thrust and subsequent drag of the Crest that threw you sideways against your seat harness. All you cared about was that blue ship indicator on the screen finally blinking red.

Right before the Crest's artillery roared to life and reduced the bastard that had been tracking you to space debris, the Mandalorian growled, "that's my line."

You laughed in relief, slumping down in the seat. "We did it!" You cheered quietly, raising your fist to bump his own when he extended it back to you.

Your celebration was short-lived, however, as sparks exploded across the panel in front of the armored man. He swore under his breath, quickly readjusting trajectory coordinates while the sextant holo reeled drunkenly. "Looks like the damage was already done. Sorry, stowaway. Unplanned pit stop." The Mandalorian grunted, actually managing to sound the tiniest bit contrite.

The ship shuddered and lurched, listing slightly while its main working engine struggled to maintain forward motion. "As long as we land safely, I can live with it." You assured him, eyeing the large, tan planet that loomed in the viewport. "Where to?"

"Tattooine. Closest port's Mos Eisley. Should be able to find a job so we can afford repairs." He flipped a switch overhead, then pressed his fingers to the side of his helmet. There was a shrill burst of feedback and he shook his head, grumbling and striking the control panel with a firm hand. Then, he tapped the side of his helmet again.

There was a brief pause. "Th-is is Mos Eisley Tower, we are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, o-ver."

The voice was staticky, but still easily understood. "Copy that." The Mandalorian confirmed, toggling the overhead switch. "Locked in for three-five."

His fingers drummed on the control panel absently, then shifted around to check the levels as the Razor Crest began its approach.

…

The landing was, to quote a certain armored man...not spectacular.

You could feel the Crest sliding to one side, the Mandalorian just barely missing the edge of the hangar bay. The landing gear whined loud when it extended and the whole ship settled onto the ground with a series of clatters and clanks that had you grimacing. You clearly had your work cut out for you.

"I'll get started." You sighed, undoing your harness.

"No. Stay put." He answered sharply, already shuffling past you.

"What? But I'm...I can help!" You protested, pursuing him down the ladder. Was he really still in that mindset of not letting you do anything? Even after you had patched this junker up on Sorgan?!

The boarding ramp lowered, steam billowing as the cool air inside the ship hit the blistering heat outside. Now this felt familiar. Sand, sun, grungy little droids…

You opened your mouth to greet the spindly pit bots and a blaster bolt kicked up a chunk of sand right in front of the closest droid. You whirled, snapping, "Hey! Do not shoot them! I was going to say hello!"

The impassive man offered you a shrug, sliding his blaster back into its holster before droning, "No droids near my ship."

You threw your hands up and then jammed them in your coveralls, spotting a surly-looking woman heading your direction. "You can talk your own way out of this one, bucket boy." You muttered.

A stifled chuckle issued from the Mandalorian at your hissed words, the warm noise sliding down your spine to curl in your stomach. You blinked several times, a little confused at the violent reaction your body had to something as mundane as his laugh.

The older woman (her jumpsuit name patch read PELI in faded blue lettering) did in fact proceed to verbally rip the Mandalorian limb from limb for "putting his bolts anywhere near her bots." She then started looking the Crest over, somehow simultaneously unimpressed with the state of it and impressed that he had managed to land it at all.

The Mandalorian bore the assault silently, but you could tell how irritated he was just from the set of his shoulders. You refused to pity him though, at least not outwardly. "I've got five hundred Imperial credits." He stated once she allowed him to get a word in edgewise.

"Five hundred and seven." You amended, shooting him a glare when he jerked his head to the side to look at you.

The woman snorted derisively, frizzy hair bouncing on her shoulders with the force of her head shake. "That'll cover the bay, but you want repairs done without droids. My time is valuable!"

"I'll get you your money." The armored man assured her tersely.

"I've heard that one before."

"I'm a former detailer." You spoke up, drawing her attention off of him. "I can follow directions and I'm familiar with this particular craft."

"Ah, that's why he's got you with him?" Peli mused sarcastically. "I figured it was for your stellar listening skills."

"I'm also a real crackerjack of a singer." You shot back, grinning. "I help keep the ship morale up."

"Oh I'll bet you do." She rolled her eyes and then jabbed a stern finger up at the Mandalorian. "Listen, I'll get started on it. But I'm making no promises and if you try to stiff me, I'm not giving you your junker back. Understand?"

He exhaled hard, nodding.

Peli made a shooing motion. "Alright then, git! Go on. Off you go. Find a good bounty and don't you dare come back without the money!" The fact that she was ordering him around made your giggles incredibly difficult to stifle, but somehow you managed until he stalked off out of the hangar. "Mandos are always so self-important and broody." Peli informed you sagely over the sound of your sputtering laughter. "Gotta' take 'em down a peg or two whenever you can."

A wail echoed from inside the ship and your cackling jerked to a halt. "Oh!" You exclaimed, bolting back up the ramp. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

The child, who had awoken alone and secured in the bunk, sniffled up at you when you hit the auto-roll for the shutter. They looked so incredibly distressed that you immediately felt guilty, scooping them up and moving back to the ramp.

"I'm sorry, were you scared?" You asked the child as their eyes squinted in the brilliant desert sunlight. "It's okay, I'm right here with you."

Peli whistled. "Maker, that thing is ugly. But a cute kinda' ugly, I guess." The baby cooed, clawed fingers tangling into your tan cloak. "Oh, he's a little heartbreaker. Look at those eyes!" Peli appeared to be absolutely smitten, the older woman scooting in close to examine the child. "You'll need to be careful with his ears in this sunlight, he looks thin-skinned. Don't want him gettin' crispy, no we don't!" She continued in a singsong tone, tickling them under their chin.

…

You were uncertain of when exactly the Mandalorian had returned from his job hunt, too preoccupied with the repair work. Up to your armpits in the left engine's ion acceleration chamber, to be precise.

Your only warning was an abrupt shout of "hey!" and then the kid started bawling, which in turn sent you into fight or flight mode. You pulled free of the turbine and skittered down to the cockpit of the ship, hauling your wrench with you for protection.

Your heart rate slowed once you realized he was just arguing with Peli, the older woman holding the child protectively to her chest.

"And you!" The Mandalorian yelled up at the ship, making you squirm guiltily. "Get down from there, I told you before that I don't want-"

"They're just helping me out!" Peli protested. "My joints are too rickety to be up on top of that death trap."

The Mandalorian glared at her, his shoulders heaving. You scrambled down the handholds alongside the cockpit and dropped to the ground from there, hesitantly coming alongside the seething bounty hunter. "I...I just wanted to help." You mumbled, fidgeting with the wrench and then tugging the repair manual Peli had given you out of your pocket. "I can-"

"Fine." The armor-clad man spat, the word jagged even through his modulator. "I've gotten a job. Shouldn't take too long." He was pointedly avoiding looking at you, all of his attention narrowed to Peli and the child in her arms.

The noise of an engine outside the doorway had him jerking his head up, and with a final muttered expletive he stormed off. Peli followed after him, still berating him for his "rude language in front of the baby!", and you trailed along behind. You were admittedly curious about the job. What could he have found in this tiny little town? Did they even have a Guild outpost here?

Once you reached the outer doorway, you realized that he was apparently no longer working alone. There in front of you was a young man, dressed in entirely the wrong clothes for the climate. He was perched nonchalantly atop a speeder bike, a second one hovering alongside him. "Mando!" He greeted the armored man, gesturing at the bike. "What do you think? Not too shabby, eh?"

The Mandalorian just grunted, beginning to circle around the bike.

Your hands balled into fists and you huffed out an angry breath. Oh sure, he would work with some random stranger he dug up out of the sand! But the second you tried to be helpful, you got put in a glorified cupboard on baby duty!

The young man leaned back, giving you a friendly look that went on for a bit too long. "Hey there. Name's Toro. Toro Calican." He introduced himself with a little bow, a smirk tugging at the side of his mouth. "I've been here a while but I haven't seen you before."

"Let's go." The Mandalorian demanded before you could say anything to Toro, impatiently revving the starter on his speeder bike.

"Stay safe!" You snapped. You might have said it more out of spite than good will, but the wish was no less potent for it.

The armored man tilted his head, giving the impression that he was surprised. "You...you as well." He replied begrudgingly, then opened the throttle.

"It was nice meeting you!" Toro called over the sound of the engine, throwing up a quick wave before he set off in pursuit of the other man.

"Well, that was interesting." Peli mused once the two hunters had vanished into the dust. She shot you a curious look. "Is your Mandalorian always so possessive?"

"He's not my Mandalorian!" You retorted hotly. "I have no idea why he's being so...so-"

"Pigheaded? Stubborn? Broody?" Peli suggested one word after another and you felt yourself smiling, even though you were still angry.

"Stupid." You corrected her. "He's stupid. And not mine. I take no ownership of that." You gestured out at the sand dunes. "If there's work that needs to be done, I'm not asking for permission."

"Well, we had better get to it then!" Peli said, strangely enthusiastic. "There's a hell of a fuel leak I'm going to need you for, as well as some kinks in the strut shocks. Never mind the engine, though I'm sure you're already halfway done with it."

You flipped to the first page in the repair manual, tapping your fingers down on the exploded view of the engine. "I did have a question about this section here. As you can see, this one has a weird shear point where one of the bolts should be removed. If I put the pins here instead, do you think it would hold better?"

…

The two of you worked long into the night. It seemed as soon as you fixed one thing, a new issue would arise. The Crest had been held together with nothing but spot-welding and a prayer! Your stomach flip-flopped at the realization that you had trusted that in deep space. Granted, you hadn't exactly picked the ship you were stranded on, but still-!

"You are a lucky, lucky thing." Peli called up the ladder, continuing to seat the refresher's new gasket snugly into its coupling. "If this seal had gone, your whole ship would be swamped with the grey tank backwash."

"Better the grey tank than the black tank." You replied, laughing when she made a gagging sound. You had taken a break from the engine to unbolt the cockpit shielding so you could scrape it, planning on putting down a fresh line of caulking around the edges of each pane. When you and the Mandalorian had returned to the Razor Crest after it had been parked on Sorgan, a small puddle had collected on the floor beside the pilot's chair. Whether from condensation or an actual leak you couldn't say, but everything on the ship seemed due for a replacement.

"Pass me the sealant when you're done with it." Peli requested loudly. "This gasket won't do you any good unless I patch these areas."

"Need the spanner too? I've got the fifths up here." You offered, hanging upside down through the ladder port to hand her the extra tube of caulking.

"Yeah--wait no, give me the flathead. Sealant and flathead so I can cinch this ring." Peli tweaked one of the child's ears fondly while you fumbled around in your tool belt. Sure, you could have sat upright and gotten it done much quicker, but hanging upside down was half the fun of even having a tween-decks ladder in the first place. "Does he usually just watch like this? He's being so quiet!" She remarked.

"Those eyes see everything." You replied wryly. "They're probably just glad something isn't exploding near them."

"Exploding?" Peli sputtered. "What have you two been up to?!"

You bit your lip, uncertain of how much you should actually say. "We had a few run-ins with some...less than friendly people. Raiders and stuff."

"And how did you end up around people like that?" Peli queried, her voice muffled as she ducked back into the fresher.

You groaned, rolling over onto your back on the cockpit floor and staring up at the starry sky overhead. "A certain stupid armored individual with a gruff attitude and…" you paused as the gravity of what you were saying hit you. "...and...and a soft spot for helping people in trouble."

"Oho, so that's his story, huh?" Peli's tone was smug. "Should have figured. Not everyone reacts like a raging anooba when they see a stranger holding their baby."

"Is that what he was angry about?"

"I'm pretty sure if I hadn't been holding this little nub the way I was, your Mandalorian would have put a hole in my chest." She didn't sound overly concerned.

"Not mine." You corrected her absently, getting back up and using the flat of your old knife to smooth out the bead line. "Never mine." You murmured quietly to yourself, barely resisting the urge to heave another sigh. Obviously the armored man's most prolific method of expression was rubbing off on you if even you were resorting to sighing.

What were you thinking, letting yourself get all twisted up over someone like him? This was pointless.

…

It was mid afternoon, nearly dusk the following day when you finally managed to finish repairing the engine. It had been a big job, the biggest one you'd ever tackled, but Peli looked it over several times and declared it fine work.

"You did almost as good as my droids!" She exclaimed, one of the spindly bots beeping a loud complaint in reply. "I'd offer you a job if I thought you'd take it, but I know better than to trust your Mandalorian alone with this little angel."

You had given up on insisting he wasn't your Mandalorian, simply rolling your eyes instead of wasting your breath. "What does the rough estimate look like? I may have no choice but to work off the debt if he doesn't come back." After the playful words left your mouth, your brow furrowed. He had said it wouldn't take too long. What was his idea of not taking too long? A day? Three days?

Concern churned in your mind as the older woman laughed off your inquiry. You had no real frame of reference to work with, no clue how long a bounty hunt could actually go on for. What if something had happened to him? You swallowed hard.

What if he and that young man he had joined forces with were stranded somewhere out in the dunes? Guilt elbowed in to war with the concern. If something had gone wrong, the last thing you said to him…

Stay safe, your memory reminded you, in a tone laden with spiteful sarcasm.

You shook your head at your unusually-dire train of thought. That would do you no good! The Mandalorian would be back soon enough and then you would be on your way to wherever came next, is what you told yourself firmly.

Fake it 'til you make it, right?

In the face of the encroaching twilight you sat cross-legged on the boarding ramp, slowly fishing tiny bits of pickled mudjumper out of one of the jars that Omera had sent with you. The child gurgled happily, little fingers clumsily shoving the meat into their mouth.

"Do I even want to know?" Peli inquired warily, gesturing at the jar.

"Mudjumpers." You replied, giving the brine a shake. "The kid loves 'em. They'd eat 'em whole."

The older woman pulled a face. "He's lucky he's cute. For anyone else, that'd be a dealbreaker."

The pit droids abruptly started to shriek and rattle, indicating that something had spooked them. You peered out into the darkness, squinting and then grinning with relief. "Mr. Calican!" You greeted the young man gladly, getting to your feet and wiping your hands off with a rag. "I take it you two finished the job?" You looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the large, beskar-clad form bringing up the rear. "Where's the Mandalorian?"

Toro seemed a bit preoccupied and didn't answer you immediately, his eyes darting to the baby who was still gnawing on a chunk of mudjumper. "Oh, yeah. Mando's uh...he'll be along. You guys have any water? I'm parched."

"Of course! I'll get you some, give me a second." You nodded, turning and rushing back into the Crest. As much as you had been fearing and anticipating the Mandalorian's return, it was still a relief to know that he was alright.

Calican accepted the small canteen you gave him with a murmur of thanks. He had the kid on his knee, the small child too invested in their snack to pay him any mind. "He's a cute little guy. Where'd you pick him up?" Toro asked curiously.

You shook your head. "I couldn't say. He was here before me. The tyke is a veteran shipmate."

"Oh? Huh. Interesting." Toro took another long swig from the canteen. "You know, I heard something a while back."

You cocked your head, confused and a little uneasy at the way his expression had darkened. You abruptly wished that he wasn't holding the kid. "What...what did you hear?"

"Well, I mean, it's not that interesting. Still…I'm kinda' interested to figure out if it's true or not." He shifted to his feet and pressed his blaster to the side of the child's head. "Call it...morbid curiosity."

"W-What are you doing?" You asked, your voice shaking. "Calican, if this is a joke, it's not-"

"Keep back." He warned sharply. "I'm not looking to hurt any of you, but I will if I have to."

The blaster gave neither you nor Peli any room to argue, though the older woman still wanted to try. "You're gonna' be real sorry when their Mandalorian gets here!" She said angrily, her hands hoisted over her head.

Toro scoffed. "Their Mandalorian is a traitor who shot up the Bounty Hunter's Guild on Nevarro! I'm bringing him to justice." He announced, his voice dripping with self-importance while he prodded the baby with his blaster. His motions made your heart leap into your throat in terror, "and this little runt is stolen property, which needs to be returned to its rightful owner."

Your mind whirled. That couldn't be right. Nevarro--

What the armored man had admitted to you on Sorgan came rushing to the forefront of your memory, "I won't be able to bring you back to Nevarro. I can't...I can't go back there."

Was it true? Is that what the child was? Is that why he couldn't return? He had stolen the child and shot up the Guild?

You took a step forward without conscious thought, reaching down to your boot for your vibroblade. "Let them go."

Toro wasn't some hulking Klatoonian. He wasn't a veteran dropship trooper and he definitely wasn't a lightning-fast Mandalorian. As far as you could tell he was just like you, except he had a gun. Reducing him down to that made him much less terrifying.

The young man yelped, jamming the blaster against the child's head. "You do anything with that and I'm gonna' take this kid apart. All I want is the Mandalorian." He snapped.

"Unfortunately for you, all I want is the kid." You snarled.

He whipped his blaster around to your head, obviously shaken. "I'm not-"

"If you shoot me, you'd better kill me. Because if you hurt that child, I will kill you." You announced firmly, your trembling knees locked in place. He's just a human. He's young and dumb. "Let me hold the child and I'll get rid of my knife." You bargained, holding the weapon up. "I know how the kid operates. If you keep jostling them around like that, you're going to make them cry. They're loud, Toro. Someone will hear." You extended your hands. "I promise. All I want is the kid."

Toro appeared to mull it over, his eyes narrowed as he stared at you. "Drop the knife first." He demanded finally. "You drop that knife and...and you promise to keep this little bastard quiet."

You nodded. Your blade landed with a hollow clatter on the boarding ramp and Toro shoved the child into your waiting grasp. You didn't even have a second to breathe before the young man had your free arm wrenched behind your back, making you cry out in pain when he twisted your wrist.

"Calican!"

You almost lost your grip on the child in relief when you spotted the Mandalorian standing at the end of the ramp, blaster in hand and somehow giving off the impression that he was fit to be tied. He had his shoulders squared, helmet tilted down and his feet spread like a raging mudhorn about to charge.

"Took you long enough, Mando." The young man drawled, his blaster thumping against your temple. "Looks like I'm calling the shots now, huh partner? Drop your blaster and raise 'em. And you," he jeered in your ear, "had better stay where you are if you know what's good for you."

The Mandalorian obeyed grudgingly, spitting, "Damn it stowaway, why-"

"Hey, it's not my fault that your hotshot pet bounty hunter skittered out from underneath your thumb!" You barked at him.

"I told you to stay safe!" He bellowed in reply.

"I told you first!" You screamed.

"Will you shut the hell up?" Calican punctuated his request with a solid slam of the pistol grip into the side of your head, the blow sending stars across your vision. "Shut the hell up, the both of you. Now," He continued to Peli, tossing her a set of magnacuffs. "Cuff him."

The older woman slowly made her way down the ramp and Calican shifted his weight nervously, keeping you tight against his side as a human shield. "Fennec was right." He giddily declared to the Mandalorian. "Bringing you in won't just make me a member of the Guild, it'll make me legendary."

The baby squirmed against your arm, obviously uncomfortable. "It's alright, sweetheart." You crooned, trying your hardest to keep your voice steady. "I'm right here with you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Yeah, except it's not really up to you anymore, is it?" Calican pointed out snidely. Peli raised the cuffs to snap them onto the Mandalorian's wrists and Toro's arm went tense, no doubt in preparation to squeeze the trigger.

There was a strangely-muffled report and then blinding light seared your eyes, forcing you to slam them shut. Was that a flare? When you opened them again, the Mandalorian was gone. Toro swore, firing wildly at where the armored man had been standing. The kid started to sob pitifully and you struggled against Calican, simultaneously panicking and furious. "Let me go!" You yelled, straining to twist free.

The distinctive sound of the Mandalorian's heavy blaster firing from the side made your ears ring. Calican grunted and you felt his hold on you tighten, the young man toppling off the edge of the ramp.

The baby!

You reeled, cupping the back of their head when Toro's limp weight knocked you over with him. You barely managed to roll in time, absorbing the brunt of the impact with your shoulder as you hit the ground still half on top of Calican. The sharp edges of his belt buckle drove into your hip for your trouble.

You coughed out, keenly aware that the child was screaming. Maker, hopefully they were simply spooked by all the commotion. After all, if something happened to them the Mandalorian would absolutely slab you, or worse.

"You're alright sweetheart." You assured them shakily. You settled onto your haunches as they continued to wail, keeping them tight to your body while you blinked away your reflex tears. "Shh, shh, you're alright. It was just noise and some bumps, love," you soothed, rocking them gently. "I've got you."

The Mandalorian skidded to his knees in front of you, gloved hands fumbling at the little one's limbs like he was checking for breaks. As the child's hysterics petered out into exhausted sniffling, the armored man slowed somewhat. "I'm sorry." He said quietly. "I-I shouldn't have-"

"Hey, hey. You got him." You interrupted, shaking your head. "I'm just glad you're such a good shot. I'm sure losing my cool didn't help your aim!"

"I d-didn't...know what to do." He admitted. "He was...I just couldn't think of anything else." His hand covered your own on the back of the child's head. "I'm sorry. For everything." He apologized sincerely. "For being so--for treating you like…" he trailed off, muttering something under his breath. His helmet pressed to your forehead and you cursed inwardly, positive he could feel you trembling. "You're not here because you chose to come along." He said finally.

"I did choose, but I get it." You said softly. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have been so reckless. Both when I was working on the ship and, uh, just now, I guess."

"No, you did well. You...you did very well." There was a smile in his voice when next he spoke, "You got him to hand over the kid so I could take a clear shot. You keep surprising me, stowaway."

"Alright, break it up!" Peli said loudly, getting between the two of you to extract the snuffling child. "Honestly, shameless." She chided and the Mandalorian sighed in exasperation, the familiar noise making you smile for a second. "Now, I'm going to assume you didn't get paid."

The armored man turned and jerked a small pouch off of Toro's belt, then tipped the prolific contents into the older woman's hand. "That cover me?" He asked bluntly.

"Oh." Peli pursed her lips. "Yeah, yep. I'd say that'll just...well, you can have your five hundred seven deposit back." She amended after a moment of counting the various currencies in her palm.

The Mandalorian shook his head. "Keep it. We've put you through enough." He pulled you upright and as he moved to take the child back, you noticed the large impact mark on his breastplate for the first time.

"Hey, wait." You said, catching his arm. "What happened? Your chest…"

"Sniper bolt." He muttered to you. "Beskar took the brunt of it. Got a bruise and a headache from the impact."

"Excuse me, sniper?!" You squeaked.

"The bounty. She's dead, thanks to a certain someone." The Mandalorian grumbled, none-too-subtly shoving the toe of his boot into Toro's ribs. A large hand palmed the side of your head and you winced, letting him check the area where Toro had struck you with his gun. "Doesn't look like he broke the skin, but you'll be sore."

"Yeah, and you mauling me like a wampa isn't exactly helping that."

"Sorry. Forgot you're not used to the armor." He apologized again. Maker, you could endure him being apologetic! It made his voice all gentle, even through the modulator. He touched his forehead to the child's, running through a few gestures as their tiny hands clawed for purchase on his smooth helmet. "Let's get moving."

You caught his arm again when he went to turn away and you shifted up onto your tiptoes to press your forehead against his helmet. "Thank you." You said sincerely.

He was still for a moment, before he simply responded, "This is the Way."

"Alright pit droids, let's get this out of here!" Peli ordered, gesturing down at the former Calican as the Mandalorian headed into the Crest with you in tow.

…

You settled the child into their bassinet, running a hand over their tiny head. Those eyes watched you blearily, and a small hand clutched at your sleeve when you went to leave. "Okay love. Do you need a song?" You asked softly, smiling. "A little song so you can sleep?"

The child whimpered uncertainly, their body wriggling underneath their covers.

You cleared your throat, crossing your arms and leaning on the edge of their bassinet. "Say 'nightie-night' and kiss me, just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me," you sang, stroking a gentle finger down the bridge of their petite nose. "While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me…" You hummed a few bars, continuing to stroke downward on their face. Soon enough (sooner than you expected, truthfully), their heavy little eyelids slid shut.

You rose from your spot beside their bassinet, stretching and then climbing the ladder to the cockpit.

"How is he?" The Mandalorian asked worriedly before you could even sit down.

"Tired," was your honest answer. "I didn't even get through the full song before he was gone."

"At least he's sleeping." He sounded relieved. The Razor Crest cruised along sand dunes and broad, flat mesas bathed in the light of the stars and you moved up to the side of his chair, wanting to take in the sight before the ship broke the atmosphere.

"Wow." You breathed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head to look up at you, but you didn't pay it any mind. "It looks so pretty from up here. Lonely, but..."

"Beautiful." The Mandalorian finished quietly when you trailed off.

"Mm, yeah. Melancholy." You nodded, accidentally bumping his shoulder as you went to go back to your seat. He waved off your apology silently, already heavily involved in making the star map calculations.

You just sat and looked on passively, swiveling the seat back and forth. He was entirely engrossed, fingers tracing diagonal lines as he plotted the course he intended to take. It was entrancing to watch him work, watch the calculations play out in real time at the flick of a switch or the pull of a lever. You were so used to astromech droids being readily available, you had never realized the amount of effort that went into something as 'everyday' as flying a ship.

"I'm going to clean myself up." He announced after the Crest punched through the atmosphere and shifted into hyperdrive. "I've got sand in places I didn't know existed."

"It was just like being back on Nevarro." You said with a smile. He unbuckled his harness and rose from his seat, squeezing past you in the tight space. He stank of speeder oil and dewback, so you were absolutely on board with him bathing.

Before he swung down onto the ladder, though, you heard him grunt and his breath hitched.

"Are you alright?" The query came out louder than you had intended, making you cringe at your own volume.

"The bitch shot the speeder out from beneath me before she tried to kill me." He shook his head. "I got thrown. Just a little banged up, that's all."

"Do you…" You struggled to get the words out as he waited patiently at the top of the ladder. "Do you need help? I mean, I know you've probably dealt with way worse stuff than this. Alone, y'know."

You waited for the curt dismissal, or even worse, the heavy, wordless sigh. But instead, "That's very kind of you."

What?

He cocked his helmet, his visor just as unreadable as ever. "I'm sorry if I caused you concern." He said evenly. "I'm alright."

"Wh--Concerned? Me? Ha! I wouldn't...what, about you? It'd never happen!" You blustered. "I-I was just offering because I know you're--you don't have a great range of motion, that's all!"

He immediately bristled, "My range of motion is just fine-"

"Psh, you could barely get your hands up behind your helmet!" You teased, raising your own arms in mockery of his earlier motion.

"I'm stiff and sore. That's got nothing to-" The Mandalorian cut himself off with a growl, shaking his head again. "You're ridiculous."

"If you need help, I'm here." You sang.

"You certainly are, aren't you." And with that wry observation, he clunked heavily down the ladder.

You unbuckled your own harness once you were certain he was sequestered in the fresher, getting to your feet and pulling your tunic up over your head. Toro's belt buckle had left a healthy divot in your side just above where your pants sat; you winced in pain every time your waistband grazed the area.

You reached for your toolbelt, abandoned on the floor hours earlier once you had finished your work on the engine, and rifled through the pouches for your jar of bacta salve. A staple of any self-proclaimed drifter, the thick cream was useful for everything from numbing to disinfecting an area. You scooped a healthy amount into your palm and then gingerly started smearing it on the angry reddish-purple mark, hissing in pain.

The sound of footsteps on the ladder took you by surprise and you froze as the Mandalorian hoisted himself back up into the cockpit, flight suit peeled down to his waist and sans-armor aside from his helmet.

He also froze when he saw you all hunched over without your tunic on. Or at least, you thought he saw you. It was difficult to tell where he was looking sometimes.

"Sorry." You apologized with a helpless little grimace after he just stood there for a minute. "I thought you'd, uh, take longer."

"When did that happen? Did he do that to you?" His voice was rough.

"Oh! It's...it's from when I fell." Why was breathing so difficult all of a sudden? "He had a really fancy buckle that made itself comfortable in my hip." The Mandalorian crouched beside you, his hand reaching out. "Wait!" You exclaimed, catching his wrist with two of your clean fingers. "If you get this salve on your gloves, it'll stain-"

"I don't care." He gritted out. Something in his tone caught you off-kilter, different from when he had been apologetic. His fingers pressed into the skin just above the bruise, holding the area taut. "Shit." He grunted, his thumb circling to rub some of the salve in. "You landed hard."

"Had to. It was either that or crush the baby, and I'm not looking to hurt the kid and get slabbed for my trouble." You mumbled.

His head jerked up to look at you, beskar helmet barely missing your face. "What?" He asked. Why did he sound confused, of all things? He had been the one to threaten you with it!

"W-Well, when I first...when I came onboard, you told me you'd put me in carbonite. You know, if…if something happened to the kid?" You answered hesitantly.

He was silent for a long time, just continuing to work the salve into your skin while you sat panicking. "That was before," he finally replied quietly. "You were a variable. But after what happened on Sorgan, I..."

"Anyway, I'm not the one you should be worried about right now," you rushed on to point out. "You're the one who got thrown from a speeder bike and shot and whatever else you're not telling me. You're kind of the tactical priority in this outfit."

His chuckle was rueful. "Just thrown and shot a few times, stowaway. I'm hungry, thirsty and sore, not dying."

"Want me to put together a snack for once you're done getting rinsed off? It's the least I can do for your help here." You offered, gesturing down at your side.

He shook his head. "No. I-I won't be able to eat with you."

"I didn't assume that you would." You startled yourself with your own reply. "I know that your helmet is...well, a fixture. I don't know a lot about the Mandaloria...Mandalorian culture, obviously, but I know enough not to expect any shared mealtimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Shush, look, I get it. It's a vital part of your people's way of life, right?" You waited for his nod while struggling back into your tunic. "So, stop apologizing. Lots of different people have lots of different cultures. You not taking your helmet off isn't offending me, it's what your people do. It's your reality, your day to day." You thumped your chest sternly, "This is the Way, right?"

He laughed quietly, mimicking your gesture. "This is the Way."

"So don't worry about it. I just feel bad that you probably only get a few minutes to eat." You continued, "If you want, you can just tell me when you want your, um, out of helmet time, and I can leave you alone until you say otherwise?"

"I've survived this long." The Mandalorian hesitated, "That's kind of you to offer, though."

"I'm sure you're used to being alone and being able to take it off whenever." You theorized, a little sad that he had to stay in it all the time now just because you or the child were with him.

"I usually keep it on regardless." He shrugged. "Taking it off just means I have to put it back on. It's a necessity."

"Well yeah but...I'm sure you'd like to not have to inhale your food. Maybe wash your hair. Ooo, wait, do you not have any hair? Are you bald?" You gasped in mock-horror, clutching at your chest theatrically. "Maker, is that why you all keep your helmets on? You're as bald as the kid, aren't you?"

"I do groom myself, you know. Regularly." The Mandalorian retorted, the tilt of his head decidedly haughty. "And I'm not bald. Wish I was sometimes. The nape of my neck grows quickly and if I'm sweaty, I get knots."

"Sounds like something that a bald person would say if they're trying to hide it." You teased, grinning at him.

"M' not bald." He insisted after a second, sounding almost sulky. He yanked his threadbare liner shirt up, jabbing a finger at the thick trail of hair that began around his belly button. "I grow hair. I have hair." He continued indignantly.

"You have pubes." You corrected him automatically, your brain grinding to a halt afterwards. Maker, had you really just-?!

"I've got body hair." He stressed firmly. "Hair on my body. Not just my pubic area."

Ignoring the incredibly alluring prospect of following that trail of body hair down past where his flight suit bunched up around the 'V' of his hips, you forced your eyes upwards when he dropped his shirt hem. "Stars, that looks like it hurts." You winced sympathetically, taking in the livid purple contusion that spread across his right pectoral. The fact that it was dark enough for you to see it clearly through his liner-

"I can live with it. If I hadn't had the beskar, it'd be hurting a lot less." Because I'd be dead hung unspoken in the air between the two of you.

"I-I'm glad you have the beskar, then." You managed to say faintly. "I'd hate to have to explain to the kid if something...happened."

"Likewise." The Mandalorian responded, his own tone troubled. "He's...he's gotten used to having you around."

The both of you stood there awkwardly, the silence stretching long. "Did you need something?" You asked finally.

The Mandalorian jolted, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be. "Uh, yes! Yes, I was going to ask if I could borrow your...salve. Used up the last of mine on Sorgan and I haven't been able to get more." He mumbled.

"Absolutely, definitely!" You exclaimed, hurrying to screw the lid back onto the jar. "I'll just...yep, here you go. Bacta salve." You pressed it into his hands, unable to keep from anxiously fidgeting when he didn't immediately leave. He just stood there, staring down at you. "Was there...was there something else you needed?" You queried nervously.

"I'm not sure." He muttered cryptically, tilting his head to the side. "I...I mean, thank you. I'll bring this back." He quickly amended, tapping his fingers to his chin and then all but bolting for the ladder.

"Be careful, you'll break a leg!" You yelled after him, certain that you imagined the husky laughter you got in reply.

…

It was much, much later when you decided to move down the ladder and head for bed.

You had stayed in the co-pilot chair for ages, slowly spinning back and forth while your mind replayed the way he had hauled his shirt up. It was so nonchalant, innocent. You had been under the impression that Mandalorians had strict rules about exposure, but maybe it only applied to revealing their face?

You could always ask, but the idea of offending him was somehow even more repugnant now than it had been when he was threatening to give you the full carbonite treatment.

You sighed and headed for the ladder, moving carefully when you realized the hold was pitch black.

He must be asleep, you reasoned a split-second before the fresher door slid open and you were blinded by the brilliant light. Right as your eyes shut in reflexive response, they landed on a pile of beskar armor heaped on the floor.

There was a very familiar helmet sitting on top of it, the visor glaring up at you mockingly.

You heard him curse and you immediately started apologizing, keeping your eyes shut and waving your hands wildly. "I'm sorry! I-I didn't see, I promise! The light-"

This is it, you realized grimly. This was the end of you.

"I thought you were still up there. You startled me." He paused, yawning loudly and then continuing, "s'alright now, I turned off the light."

"You're...you're sure it's okay to open my eyes?" You asked cautiously.

"Hmm? Yeah, it's fine." He mumbled, and you heard the sound of fabric rubbing rapidly back and forth. "Had to clean the armor first, n' then me." His voice was so clear without the helmet. You would be lying if you said you weren't entranced by the soft gravel of it.

You snuck a peek and were simultaneously relieved and disappointed to find that you were still blind. "Shit, I got all turned around." You swore, crouching slightly and feeling your way forward. "Don't want to trip on your knightly attire and wake up the kid." A large, warm hand caught your elbow and you almost shrieked. "Hey! Warn me next time. Maker, I lost years off my life from that!" You hissed, your panic intensified in no small amount by the fact that it was his actual skin touching you, not leather gloves.

In that moment, you felt like you were somehow responsible for breaking seventeen different rules. And you weren't entirely certain whether you were particularly contrite about it.

"Mhm." He could apparently see fine in the darkness, or at least well enough to lead you across the hold to the space behind the pile of crates that you had claimed as your own. "This s'your stop, stowaway." He murmured sleepily. You froze when you felt his chin brush your forehead lightly, stubble rubbing against your skin and a set of lips pressed to your hairline as he breathed, "G'night."

You managed to pull yourself together long enough to squeak out a reply of, "sleep tight," and you proceeded to tunnel into your blankets once you were certain he had left. What was that?! you asked yourself frantically.

That was...he was human underneath all that armor. You had known that.

Technically. Logically. Your brain understood that even before he had decided to flash the great golden expanse of his abdomen at you. So what was the issue?

Had he just kissed your forehead?! Did that even count as a kiss or was he just so tired that he had bumped into you accidentally? Nothing about it seemed accidental, but he was exhausted. It must have been a mistake, a clumsy little...accident. That's all it was.

You were just reading too much into it.

Part Five

#the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian imagine #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #eventual romance #slow burn #we are PINING #we are out here #this got so long

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funkymeihem-fiction · 6 years ago

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Special Delivery- Meihem Drabbles

They’d been waiting for fucking hours since setting up. The caravan was supposed to reach the canyon around 10 AM, he knew, because he’d been the only one stupid enough to eavesdrop on that fancy-looking Suit in the Junkertown bar, the one meeting one of the Queen’s own, a Big Boss. The Suit had been intelligent enough to keep his voice low. But the Big Boss, a junker true blue- he’d had volume problems. Much like Junkrat himself, really. So when the Big Boss had blurted out about ‘something special’ arriving by canyon caravan this morning, right before The Suit had shushed him, Junkrat had managed to overhear enough.

But now it was nearly 2 in the fucking afternoon, so where the hell was it? He was sure this must have been the right spot. Unless he’d forgotten something. He hoped not. It had been a while since their last big score, and there was nothing wrong with adding some new funds to the trove.

Roadhog, who may or may not have been fast asleep with his back propped up against a canyon wall, was breathing deeply and rasping through the filters of his mask. The sound was grating and steady and was rapidly getting on his younger partner’s nerves. He had gotten bored about two hours BEFORE 10, and now they were well past due and he was ready to call it and head home, empty-handed or not.

Junkrat paced back and forth, muttered and told himself stories, and played tic-tac-toe against himself, dragging his peg to draw Xs and Os in the red dirt. His trigger finger was itchy, and the mines he’d strategically placed all over the canyon walls blinked quietly, their sensors ready for his signal. If only he had a goddamn target to activate them for.

“We done here?” Roadhog rumbled from the ground, hands folded over his immense belly. Not asleep, then.

Junkrat snarled, whirling upon the older junker with fury. “He said 10 in the morn! Heard it clear as a bell!”

“Your hearing’s bad,” Hog pointed out.

“10 in the morn, canyon caravan, something special, that’s what I heard. And that Suit looked loaded, all primmed and polished. So it’s got to be something good!”

“Looks like it might be a nothing. Let’s go.”

Even the stalwart Hog’s patience was wearing thin for this failed mission, it seemed. So with a sigh, Junkrat shouldered his grenade launcher and began shoving gear back into their respective bags. Throwing in the towel.

Except that was when he heard a distant rumble, the rattle of truck tires on flattened dirt trod. He straightened up to full alert like a meerkat, beanpole form standing straight up and staring very hard in that direction, turning his head to point one ear towards it. Roadhog took notice, and listened too. And he must have heard it as well, as he grunted and laboriously hauled his immense weight up off the ground, rolling his shoulders and drawing his scrap gun.

“Get ready, Roadie! Looks like they were just late after all!” Junkrat was already off like a shot, clambering up onto the collapsed boulders that gave him a better vantage point.

Lifting the binoculars, he peered down from the ridge. Sure enough, he saw three lorries headed down the canyon road, right towards their little camp. Perfect, perfect. And he saw five…no, six armed guards. He flailed both hands to get Hog’s attention, holding up his fingers to signal their number. Hog also held up his fingers, seven of them, and Junkrat looked down and saw he was signaling the wrong number again. He quickly changed it to six and waved again. Six. Six guards.

Six guards, three or four drivers. Easily doable.

Junkrat waited until they hit the main drag, and counted down until the moment they would be under the loose canyon scree where his mines had been planted, to bring the whole thing down behind them and pen them in. Then he and Hog would move in to tie up the smart ones, shoot the stupid ones, and take whatever needed taking. The thought practically sent him vibrating with excitement.

They were almost in range now. Show time. Fucking finally. A little late, but finally.

3….2…1…

BOOM.

***

Hog busied himself with mopping away the blood splatters all over his front, taking in another long hit off the hogdrogen canisters through his mask. Junkrat was tending to one of the holes. Pulse bullets, not regular type. Pulse rounds sheared through flesh easier than regular ones, but at least that meant there wasn’t any shrapnel to pick out. So they could just wrap and go, to be tended to later. Which worked for him, as he ripped off a length of bandage with his teeth and tied it in a quick knot around Hog’s wounded bicep. His mate would be fine, time to see to the spoils.

He leapt over one of their carcasses, smiling easily as he approached where the drivers had been stripped of their weapons and bound together. At least these ones had had the good sense to surrender and make things easier for them. Unfortunately, one of them still seemed to be a bit mouthy for Junkrat, threatening them about how the Queen and the Suit would be after them, make them pay, they’d seen their faces, yadda yadda. So Rat had shoved a Hog’s-blood-covered bandage in his mouth and taped it in there to stifle him. The gagging noises from their friend had shut the other ones up right quick. Whatever worked.

The first vehicle, an old battered blue ute, mostly held standard issue supplies; food, water, gas, all useful things. And now that they had the keys, it would be useful to load up and drive off. The second vehicle had just held the caravan guards, and Hog had made short work of them. But the third one? He opened it up and dragged out bags of credits and coins, hooting and laughing the whole way. And that had just been laying around in the back seat.

“Roadie! S’paydirt! What did I tell you! I told you this was a score, that’s what I told you! Hang on, bet they have even better stuff in the backsies!”

Snatching the keys from where they had been hanging in the old ignition, he giggled madly to himself as he limped back to the boot of the car, slid it home, and clicked it to unlock. It swung upward, and Junkrat looked inside and then froze. For a moment he stayed very, very still, then he practically shrieked and slammed it shut again. He looked positively rattled, eyes bulging and face going a bit pale, and he clenched both hands atop the lid before he whirled about.

“Uh! Roadhog! I think we got a problem!”

Roadhog grumbled from where he was still tending to his wounds. “Then deal with it.”

“Uh! Okay, lemme just…uh, shit! Hold on! Lemme check again!”

He swung the trunk open again, but the ‘problem’ was still there. She was still laying very much unconscious in her enclosed space in the back. A woman, completely naked except for a rough blanket thrown over her lower half, with the faint blue shimmer of a climate control field around her to keep her from sweltering to death in the heat. The coolness blew over him like a wave as he stood with both grimy hands resting on the bumper, staring at her in wonder.

Dark hair draped over most of her features, which he guessed to be Asian of some sort, but the rest of her was pale and soft and she had all her limbs. Her little bow-shaped lips were pursed and her breath was slow, a pair of glasses near her hands, which were both bound with zip-ties. Her arms bore bruises where fingers had grabbed her too roughly.

Shit. Well, when The Suit had been delivering ‘something special’, he really was delivering something special. You didn’t get ladies like this out in Junkertown. And Rat knew that a lady of this sort, being ‘imported’ in such a way for that Big Boss man…Well, the intentions were probably of the ill kind. Shit. Shit shit shit. He wasn’t sure even what he’d been expecting from this caravan as far as riches went, but lady captives had definitely not been among them.

He spurred himself into action, leaning in and turning her over onto her back. He tried not to look at her tits, really, tried to be a gentleman. But well, they were so big and they were THERE…Just a glance didn’t hurt, even if it made him swallow too wetly as he leaned down and positioned one ear over her lips. He could hear her breathing, luckily, felt it cool against his burning cheek. She smelled like sweat and vanilla, being this close to her. But she was breathing steadily and she didn’t seem hurt. Other than the bruises, they’d probably been pretty careful with her. High-priced commodity, this one.

He had to know. He just had to. They hadn’t, had they? They better fucking not have. He had to check.

Pulling away the rough blanket from atop her, he grabbed her by the hip and jammed his mechanical hand between her thighs, peeling them apart. Freshly shaved and fucking perfumed, probably to order. But everything looked normal and pink instead of red or puffy or abused. He pulled her apart just a little to be sure, but all seemed well, nethers-wise. They hadn’t. Not yet. So he tucked her legs carefully back onto the floor and covered her up again.

And even though she hadn’t been roughed up too bad, all things considered, he suddenly got angry. Very, very angry. Whirling about, he pulled his grenade launcher and clacked a new round into the slot, stalking over towards the cowering group of tied prisoners.

“Who the FUCK was drivin’ that one!” He uttered such a rattling bellow that even Roadhog looked up, was the younger junker pointed one arm straight out towards the opened back of the last car. “Speak the hell up! Who was in charge of that one!”

One of the men, bound next to blood-bandage-gag, timidly lifted a hand. He was an older bald man, soft-featured, not a junker. He didn’t speak, but looked a mixture of nervous, fearful, and guilty.

Junkrat snarled, hobbling forward and grabbing him up by the collar of his nice dress-shirt, dragging him across the dirt and throwing him face-down in front of Roadhog. Lowering into a squat in front of him, Rat watched impassively as the man spat out a mouthful of dust, coughing. Baldy looked up with no small amount of trepidation as a pair of golden eyes stared him down.

“Got any idea what was in the boot there, mate?” Rat said, too casually

The man’s eyes darted to the car and then back again. Silence.

“So ya knew, eh? Knew what you was deliverin’? Well, that’s no good, is it? Whole lot of ya knew?”

No answer.

“Huh! Well, enough of that. Was going to leave you out for the searchers before but…Think I’ll leave you out for the dingos instead. Don’t think it’ll be any loss for the rest of us, eh? Roadie, get rid of him. I’ll take care of our other little friends.” Rat turned back towards the little group of now-struggling, protesting men.

Roadhog lifted a brow. This wasn’t like his employer’s usual tactics. But he wasn’t being paid to ask questions, and there was something in Junkrat’s mannerisms that belied a level of anger he wasn’t used to seeing from the boy. Even though he still wore his smile and he still joked around about the casual order of all-out murder, there was an edge to his lips and his teeth were too tightly clenched, and there was fire behind those strange eyes of his.

But sometimes orders were just orders, and Hog couldn’t particularly think of a good reason to disobey.

He loomed slowly above the cowering bald man in the dirt, and lifted his gun.

***

Roadhog looked down at the unconscious woman and was silent. Then again, silence was not unusual for him. He just stared down at her and said nothing, likely lost in thought. After a very, very long while, he drew back again and uttered a low, “…Hm.”

Rat paced back and forth behind him, gnawing at what was left of his fingernails. There was still a shred on the middle finger he hadn’t chewed down to the quick. His eyes kept flickering to the girl, to Hog, and then back again. “What do we do with her?”

Hog shrugged.

Rat continued talking, turning and pacing back the other way. “Fockin’ hell, mate, wasn’t expecting this t’be the special delivery they mentioned. You know what she’s for, Roadie! You know! Poor bird, can’t leave her here for them t’find!”

“…Hm.”

“We could pack her up! Drive her off to one of the suit cities. Uh…dump her off somewhere safe, let the law deal with her. Unless they’re in on it too. Bet it was those fuckin’ easties or crow eaters what did it to her. Shit…Didn’t even ask where they’d come from. Should’ve asked which city they snagged her in. And now we can’t! Because you killed ‘em all, you great cunt!” He turned and punched Hog in the side of his vest, which the larger man barely felt. “Arright, arright, arright, lemme think. Let’s just…Well, we can’t well hang about here, can we? There’ll be searchers before the evening’s in. Shove aside, I’m taking her.”

Shouldering his way in beside his silent standover man, Rat wedged both hands in under her unconscious form and hefted her up, cradling her in a bridal carry as her limbs and head flopped uselessly, blanket nearly sliding off her. He couldn’t help a flush coming up to heat his ears, his fingers curling in against impossibly plush flesh as he held her to his chest. “…Fuck me, she’s soft as all. No wonder they wanted her, eh? Really pretty too, don’t you think? Don’t make ‘em like this out here, do they?”

Hog did not answer.

Rat carried her off to the ute, easing open the passenger door and setting her limp body into the seat, rather tenderly buckling her in. Smoothing the hair back from her face so it wasn’t stuck on her lip, he draped the blanket over her before closing her in and starting back towards the driver’s side. Roadhog was blocking his way, and Junkrat lifted a brow expectantly.

The larger man shook his masked head with a low grunt. “She’s not our problem. Don’t get attached.”

“Piss off, mate. Not leavin’ her here. She’s too soft. Poor dove, wouldn’t last a night out, and it’d be even worse if that Big Boss sends someone out and finds her. So…uh, I’ll figure out what t’do. Until then, I’m keeping her. Maybe when she wakes up, she can tell us what happened to her. Maybe even tell us a way to get her back home. Chinese, I think. Yeah, definitely Chinese.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well just look at her!” He gestured to the slumped woman in the truck like it should have been obvious.

“…Hm.”

“Don’t give me that shite, Hog. I found her, she’s mine. Fair’s fair, finders keepers, all that. Don’t forget who’s the brains in this little outfit we have here. Although you’re not getting 50% of her! I see those thoughts oozing around in that thick skull of yours, getting ideas. Rack off! This is a top score and she’s all mine! Take your half out of the rest of it!” He spread his long arms on the truck behind him, as if to shield her.

Hog merely uttered an unimpressed snort, hiking up his sagging overalls and adjusting a bandage over his bloodied arm. Still sore, he had no interest in humoring one of Rat’s moods, nor his obsession with his new pet. Slamming his gun back into his holster, he turned and galumphed over to his chopper, settling onto its seat as it groaned under his immense weight. “Not my problem.”

“Damn right it’s not! Now let’s scarper before anyone else comes up on this mess.”

At least that, they could agree on. Rat waited until Hog’s bike had roared to life, heading out of the ruined canyon and the massacre they were leaving behind. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, Rat paused to stroke the unknown woman’s face, leaving a smear of dirt and crusted blood on her cheek. “Not to worry, lovely! We’ll get this all sorted out in the end. Get you home, get you cleaned up and fed. No need to thank me yet, heh! Well, not that I’d say no to a thank-you of any sort from you, of course.”

The stolen ute cranked up and he began steering it after the distant speck of Roadhog’s bike, still jabbering away to his newest silent companion.

“Just lucky I reached you first, before any of those drongos got their filthy mitts on you. Now me, I’m a proper gent. Um…Well, I mean, I might have had a peek or two at your bits. I won’t deny that. But only to be sure you was all right. You know, that they hadn’t laid hand or anything else on you yet. They would’ve, you know. Degenerates, that’s what they are. Poor darl, probably havin’ fretful dreams as we speak. Well Junkrat’s got you now! Heh. Won’t you be surprised when you wake up, see how safe y’are. I’m a bloody goddamn hero, is what I am!”

***

Mei awoke with a horrible throbbing pain in her head and a churning in her gut. Everything ached and just peeling her eyelids apart was a monumental effort. Where was she? And where had she been? That conference in Sydney about the Australian Environment Efforts…She’d cut herself off after a responsible two drinks, had gathered her papers, made plans to meet her cohorts for breakfast the next morning, and then had started the walk back to her hotel. After that…

It got fuzzy and strange after that. She vaguely remembered that she had been followed. She’d tried to duck into a convenience store and found it locked and closed. So she’d gone for her phone, to call for help…and then someone else had hit her from the side, grabbed her up, shattered the screen. She’d tried to fight them, biting and kicking. But at a rather squat 5’3, and feeling more dwarfed than ever in a land where people grew into giants for lack of anything better to do with themselves, she’d been overpowered quickly. There’d been a sting in her side, and then…nothing.

How long had she been out? And where was she now? She vaguely hoped that it all been some hideous dream, that maybe she’d had too many drinks after all, and all this had been false memories and drunken mistakes.

But no. When she came to, she was laying sprawled on a filthy stained mattress on a dirty wooden floor. It hurt to move but she tried, and there was a rattling clanking sound when she did so. Barely managing to tuck her chin in, she tried to focus her bleary eyes downward, to where a length of chain and a makeshift shackle was clamped around her ankle. And she was apparently wearing…a sports jersey? If she squinted very hard, she could make out ‘Adelaide Strikers’ on the front.

With a great effort, she managed to pull herself up onto her elbows with a little moan, and saw that her glasses were laying just beside the mattress nearby. Sluggishly snatching them and pushing them on, the blurry world became slightly less blurry. She was in a very small house or structure of some sort, though it was also possibly a garbage dump. There was trash and scrap metal everywhere, though it had been piled haphazardly where it had been moved away from the raggedy couch on the other side of the room. A TV was on, though on mute, with some sort of sports playing. Across the trailer, a makeshift kitchen was empty save for a buzzing fly around the sink, scattered with discarded coffee mugs.

No place she recognized. And it was definitely not a good place to be held captive. Not that there was ANY place good to be held captive. At least her attackers had left her something for her raging thirst. A mug full of water sat nearby, and though she was suspicious of its contents, she was simply too thirsty to deny it. Grabbing it up with weak hands, she downed it in several gulps and felt her poor dehydrated mouth come back to life.

Wherever she was, she needed to get out. As she stretched movement back into her aching muscles, she sat up and examined her shackled ankle, grabbing the chain and pulling until it was taut. Problem being, her chain wasn’t very long. She couldn’t reach the kitchen or the sharp scrap metal on the other side of the trailer. She had her mattress and her cup, and she could reach the ramshackle coffee table (though it held nothing but an empty mug and a remote, it looked hastily cleaned), and the smelly couch.

The windows had been drawn up and boarded, but daylight was streaming in through all the cracks and holes all over the filthy building, so it must have been near sun’s zenith. No telling where they had brought her, whoever ‘they’ were. But maybe if she could just get the shackle off, she could make an escape and find someone to help her. She hoped.

But no matter how she pried and wriggled, the shackle was too strong and the chain too thick. She had read about people who, in fits of desperation, had broken their own limbs or cut off hands and feet in order to escape such shackles. But even the thought made her feel sick to her stomach, and she resigned herself to finding another way out. She tried wriggling across the filthy floor, stretching the chain to its very limit so she could try and reach one of the scrap piles, to find a loose tool or something sharp. But the chain just didn’t reach that far. It only led to about halfway across the trailer, and everything had been piled up around the dingy kitchen, out of her grasp.

Somewhere outside, there was the sound of a door slamming.

Mei skittered across the floor and returned to her mattress, curling back atop it. Going fetal, she pulled her blanket back up to her chin and pretended to be asleep, just as the trailer door creaked open and someone entered. Their gait was strange, a weird k-thump, k-thump, like a limp. Whoever it was, they headed to the kitchen and began rattling around, ripping paper and rattling cups. Mei listened, still curled in on herself, and chanced a very small peek.

A man. A strange man, tall and skinny, with a peg leg and ratty shorts and wild blond hair. He faced away from her, puttering with a coffeemaker and humming tunelessly and cheerfully to herself. Mei shut her eyes again and tucked her chin as more cups and glasses rattled, scrunching her eyes shut tight.

K-thump, k-thump. His uneven gait started towards her, until it stopped just in front of her mattress.

A shrill, heavily Australian voice rasped above her. “Oi! You awake yet, darl?”

Then there was a hand, heavy and cold and metal, placing itself against her shoulder, and something incredibly foul-smelling was shoved up under her nostrils. Her next inhale burned, and she couldn’t help herself as she began sputtering and coughing. So much for pretending to be asleep. There was nothing to do but finally face her captor, lifting her head and staring wide-eyed and wary.

His lips split apart into a too-wide grin, and she saw the gleam of false golden teeth. He was sunburned and freckled, smeared with ash and soot, and parts of his blond hair had been singed black. And at least half of him had been so violently mangled that he bore prosthetic limbs, so crude as to be homemade. Made out of junk. A junker.

“There she is! Smellin’ salts, eh? Had some chems laying around, made ‘em meself!” He puffed up a bit, looking proud of the fact. “Might have gone a touch strong on the ammonia chloride, judging by that noise you made. Not to worry, put in two more bits of sodium carbonate, at least a knuckle’s worth. Maybe peppermint oil to make it a little easier on the palate, yeah? You get knocked out, you get woken up again, but there’s peppermint, so it’s like waking up to Christmas-”

She stared at the jabbering figure looming above her. Ammonia? Peppermint? Christmas? Was this man not entirely there or did he simply not notice that she was a rather terrified woman who was literally shackled to a wall? So she interrupted him, clenching both hands into her disgusting mattress.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Those were the two most important questions to ask. She also thought of adding ‘Will you hurt me?’ to that, but didn’t want to even bring the idea into his mind.

He blinked, then looked almost sheepish, slapping a gloved hand over his face. “Riiiiight, right! Listen to me, off on a tear again! You’re probably wondering ‘Who’s my handsome savior here’? Well wonder no more, lovely! The one and only Junkrat, at your service!”

“Junkrat?” she echoed, mystified. Junkrat. What a name.

“And your cozy boudoir here just happens t’be in my very own home! Feast your eyes, eh?” He gestured around at the junk and squalor all around them. “Might not be five star accommodations, but it’s got everything we need. No worries, you’re safe here.”

She shifted as she sat up atop her mattress, and there was an answering rattle by her foot. She looked down at it, then back to the grinning man. “You’ve…chained me to the wall,” she said, a bit of accusation in her tone.

“Of course!” he answered cheerfully. “Like I said, keepin’ you safe! Can’t have you going walkabout on your own, wandering into something dangerous or getting seen by someone who’s looking for you. What if you woke up and I wasn’t here for you and then you tried to leave? Perish the thought!”

Her heart dropped. So they were looking for her, and was the prisoner of some maniac junker in a shoddy trailer in the middle of who knows where. The filthy man even seemed to be so proud of himself. How utterly despicable.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, guarded.

He blinked down at her. “Want? Oh, not to worry, I ain’t like the others. They’re dead. Killed ‘em all to a man, we did.”

She went pale. The others? Her friends back at the convention, maybe? The other scientists who had been with her? She wasn’t sure who he meant, but he was looking at her like he expected praise. Praise, for being a murderer. She was facing a murderer. She would need to choose her words carefully.

And there were other important matters to tend to. Namely…well, it was embarrassing, but nature was calling. Nature was starting to shout, actually, and she needed a bathroom. Soon. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but her need was urgent. Hopefully her captor would allow her that much? So even though she loathed needing to draw attention to herself, she lifted a rasping voice and hated how feeble it sounded.

“This is a lot to take in. And…I…I need to use a restroom? Please?”

Still smiling, he nodded. “Oh! Of course, sweetness! You’ve been asleep for over a day, and who knows for how long afore that. Bet you gotta piss like a racehorse, eh?” He cackled to himself, not noticing her scowl at his crude words. He fumbled about in his pockets, finally coming up with a key, before he lifted up and limped past her to the wall, clicking something with the locks that unlocked her chain from the wall. With a jerk of his head, he motioned for her to follow him, hobbling over towards the door. “The dunny’s out back. Right this way, ma’dam.”

She stood slowly on shaking legs, trying to pull the the sports jersey down a low as possible where it was riding up over her thighs. The chain rattled ominously, dragging behind her as she went to follow. The door yawned wide, and she stepped out into the impossibly bright yellow of the Australian Outback’s high noon, shielding her face with one arm as she winced her eyes shut.

The smiling junker went to take her lifted hand, but she yanked it out of his grasp, drawing away. He just looked confused at that, pinching his brows and his grin faltering for a moment, but shrugged one bony shoulder and started to lead her off. She paused out in the scorching flat yard, looking around for some kind of landmark. And there indeed was a landmark. An enormous ruin, surrounded by scattered settlements rose up in the distance, a husk of a civilization in the otherwise desolate wasteland. Junkertown. It had to be. She’d only heard of the place, but it must have been Junkertown.

It looked so far away from…here. Wherever here was. It seemed to be some kind of ruined farm, with the skeleton of a windmill creaking away in the slight breeze, red dust skittering past her feet. Past Junkrat’s trailer, a farmhouse, barricaded with wood and metal, stood tall but crumbling. There were noises from inside, the banging of metal on metal.

Junkrat was back by her side, ushering her forward. “That’s just my best mate. I uh…I suggest we don’t bother him. He’s been in a mood since I brought you here. How about we save introductions for later!”

So she had more than one captor to deal with. This situation was getting worse and worse.

“Dunny’s right back here. Know it’s not the prettiest…but well, ya know! Literal shithouse, and all!” He shrugged amiably, still grinning. “Bleached it and everything, what with lady company about. Got ya some paper in there, no big deal!” He puffed up again, and gave her another of those little looks like she was supposed to praise him. Praise him, for having toilet paper.

Then again, this was a murderous junker who had kidnapped her and chained her to a wall. Maybe it was best to be polite.

“Th-thanks?”

He brightened immediately, slicking back his ridiculous hair and straightening up from his slouch until he positively towered over her. “Yeah! No big thing! Heh! Haven’t had lady company in…uh, well, let’s not talk about that! Just thrilled to bits and bonkers that you’re here, eh? Oh, right! Right! Bet you gotta piss fierce. Right in there!”

He gestured to a crude metal structure with a little dome roof, an Australian ‘dunny’ outhouse. Warily, still dragging her chain, she approached it. The reek of a sun-baked rotten toilet assailed her nostrils, and the chemicals that were trying to cover up that reek were even worse. She gave the junker a wary glance but he just smiled and lifted one hand limply in a little ‘shoo, shoo’ sort of motion. So she screeched open the door and went inside, trying not to gag.

Hiking her flimsy sports jersey, she sat. Smell aside, at least there was some relief to be had. And privacy. And maybe a few moments to gather her thoughts.

She’d been captured by this mad junker and at least one other, his ‘mate’. He’d killed people and been proud of it. He’d taken her far away from the city, to the very outskirts of far-away Junkertown, a hostile territory. He must have stripped her down and had shoved her in this ridiculous shirt, and her lack of panties had not escaped her notice. That certainly did not bode well.

And all she had was…a length of chain and some toilet paper.

Now she just needed an escape plan…

#junkrat #jamison fawkes #mei #mei-ling zhou #roadhog #mako rutledge #junkertown #overwatch #fanfiction #writing #drabble #meihem #junkmei #meirat #iceboom

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reesewestonarchive · 6 years ago

Text

chapter four / rem belongs to @forlornraven / masterpost / mature content

Music pulses through Nakoa’s legs, and Jenna’s body sways against Nakoa’s, pressed against him as close as she can go. She smells like mangoes, like sweat.

Nakoa inhales against her neck, licks a long line up to her jaw, sucks against it. She shudders underneath him, and Nakoa grins as she takes his hand, presses it beneath her jeans. She turns her head, pupils blown wide, and she says, “Wanna go back to mine?”

Yes. Absolutely. Nakoa feels a buzz in his veins he hasn’t in a while at the prospect, and—”Yeah. You bet.”

He’s not sure where Rem is, but he’s been gone all day. left that morning, didn’t come back, even though the car still sits in the parking lot at the motel. At least, it did, before Nakoa took to the streets to find something to take his mind of it, off of wondering where Rem was.

Probably wasted in the back alley of some bar, still downing a bottle of whiskey he’d pilfered off of some unsuspecting bartender.

Or—maybe he’s doing exactly what Nakoa’s doing now, finding somebody to bury his dick into, get off without the mountain of complications.

It’s been three days, and between sightseeing and sleep, they’re only just west of Denver, in some shitty small town that reminds Nakoa of Withervale just a little too much, but the girls are attractive, and the guys look like they could punch Nakoa out if he stared a little too long, and Rem’s been in a bad mood since Baldie.

Nakoa’ll take his chances, he thinks, with Jenna. He asks, “Are you far?” and grins when she shudders as he touches her.

He goes home with Jenna, and tries not to think of Rem when he comes.

Jenna offers to give him a ride back to the motel, but in the aftermath Nakoa really just wants a fucking shower, to wash what feels like a layer of filth off of him, and some awkward fifteen minute drive across town isn’t going to make him feel any better.

And it’s not cold out, anyway. “I’m good,” he says, as he tugs on jeans. Jean covers herself with her sheet, cocks her head to the side.

“You okay?” Her tone is just this side of concerned; she’s being polite, but Nakoa can tell she’s not really interested in the answer.

“Yeah,” he says, then, for a reason he doesn’t know, he says, “just complicated.”

“Aw,” Jenna says, sitting at the end of her bed. “I know complicated.” She gives him a glance, then says, “You a cool guy?”

Nakoa’s a loser. Unemployed and homeless and traveling across the country without any kind of a fucking plan, in search of a better life he’s not sure he’s ever going to find. Mediocrity feels less like a shadow hunting him and more like the prize at the end of the race.

Is he running away from it, or running towards it?

“I guess.” She can’t be talking about that.

“My girlfriend and I are kind of on a break.” She shrugs. “And it’s so stupid.”

“Relationships are complicated,” Nakoa says. He pulls his shirt over his head. “My…” but the word doesn’t come. What is Rem? His best friend? It’s not untrue, but he’s reasonably sure most best friends don’t fuck.

Most.

Is there a word for something in the middle, between romantic and friendly?

As she watches him, Jenna seems to pick up what’s going through his head. “Oh,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “You got it bad.”

“I do not.”

“And I thought me and my girl were complicated.”

For some reason, that pisses Nakoa off more. “There’s no girl.”

It’s the first time he’s even come close to saying the word out loud. Nakoa knows there’s a word for who he is, but it still feels wrong when he says it, when he thinks it. Not the attraction—there’s merit in sleeping with all kinds of people—but the word. The way people see it and think disgusting. Heathen.

“Oh.” Jenna’s voice is soft, and she stands. “So. Same boat.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

They kiss before Nakoa leaves, just because Jenna enjoys it, just because she asks, and Nakoa agrees because she showed him a good time, and it’s the least he can do. He wishes her good luck with her girlfriend and stomps back to the hotel room.

Where Rem sits, outside of it, empty fifth clutched between his knees. He doesn’t hear Nakoa approach, but he does react when Nakoa touches his shoulder, jerks away like Nakoa’s burned him.

“About fucking time,” he says, and his voice is like a river, watery and rushing, tripping over itself in his eagerness to speak. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“Sorry,” Nakoa says. Doesn’t point out that Rem has a key, too. He unlocks the door. He tugs on Rem’s arm, and the whiskey bottle falls to the sidewalk, crashes and breaks. Nakoa leaves it. “Did you drink all of that?”

“It’s—” He hiccups. “Bottom shelf, don’t get hissy.”

Nakoa took… something, at the club, earlier, before he went home with Jenna. He’s awfully fucking hypocritical if he tells Rem that he can’t do this. At least he came back. At least they got away from Baldie. From Withervale.

Drunk and alive is better than the alternative.

He draws Rem into the shower, starts taking off his clothes, and Rem says, “Ooh, am I gonna fuck you over the counter?”

“Keep dreaming,” Nakoa says, as he pulls off Rem’s jeans. He’s cold, so Nakoa warms the water and shoves him under the stream. Rem yelps, but relaxes into the hot, if lacking pressure, water. His entire body goes slack as it cascades over him.

Nakoa turns away, doesn’t watch, as tempting as it is. “You get back okay?”

Rem laughs. “Please. Liquor store’s not that far away. Where’d you get off to?”

“Girl I met at the club.” Nakoa pitches his voice higher, to be heard over the water. “You have a good time?”

“Better when you’re there.”

But he didn’t ask. He’d blazed through cities, the last forty eight hours, taking small roads instead of highways, getting lost and debating over the map with Nakoa multiple times, and.

“Missed you,” Rem says, his voice quiet. Nakoa wonders if he even said it at all. If maybe he imagined it. He’s been wanting to hear Rem say it for so long. Hoping for some kind of sign.

But no.

The water shuts off, and Nakoa makes his way back out into the room, digs in Rem’s bag until he finds something suitable for bed for him. The idiot’ll pass out on the bed, if he doesn’t, and Nakoa’ll end up with none of the blanket instead.

Rem stands in the threshold to the bathroom, though, and Nakoa glances up at him, just once, before turning back to the task at hand.

“I mean it,” Rem says.

Means what? “Sure.” T-shirt, underwear. It’ll work. Someday, when Nakoa’s not counting every penny, he’ll buy Rem some new clothes, fi him back in with the style.

Nakoa, though. He needs a job, first. Something simple, something under the table. A stable place in LA, or somewhere else, because he and Rem are living off of gas station snacks and Nakoa’s stomach is protesting bite of food he eats.

But every mile between him and Withervale feels a little more like flying

He gives Rem his clothes, and before he can turn away, Rem’s fingers reach out, wrap around his wrist. His voice is soft, unlike him, when he says, “Nakoa,” and Nakoa looks up, studies the lines in Rem’s face, the curve of his cheekbones, the arch of his eyebrows.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he lifts a shoulder in a shrug and holds uncertainty deep in his chest like an old friend. Rem strokes his thumb down Nakoa’s wrist, and there’s a short glimpse of a smile before he lifts one hand, the one holding his towel, and pulls Nakoa in, forehead to forehead, whiskey strong on his breath.

Nakoa breathes it in, lets his eyes fall close as the towel unravels at Rem’s feet, as Rem closes the distance between them.

Rem tastes like whiskey, like freedom, like betrayal, but Nakoa can’t complain if he tastes like someone else. He accepts the kiss for whatever it is, and pulls back. Taps his fingers against Rem’s chest and says, “I’m pretty tired, man.”

It’s not a denial, but Rem’s different, shitfaced, whiskey heavy on his lips and in his limbs, and Nakoa likes him normal, likes him sober, likes the way he lingers. Often, Nakoa wonders if he imagines the lingering.

He doesn’t question it. But the stark difference between sober and drunk feels like night and day, and Nakoa would rather not.

If Rem asks, the answer is yes. But Nakoa prefers not giving him the opportunity to ask. It’s easier to deny him.

Sometime in the night, Rem wakes and vomits over the side of the bed. Nakoa m, eyes heavy with sleep, says nothing. Presses himself against Rem’s back when he’s done, wracking his brain for a song. Settles in on “Friday I’m in Love” after he decides The Clash might be too fast.

His forehead is sweaty against Rem’s shoulder blades. But he doesn’t pull away, keeps humming for Rem well after the song is through, continuing with Modern English and Simple Minds.

“You don't have to do this.”

Nakoa doesn’t falter in his humming, just drops a hand over Rem’s waist and tugs him in.

He pressed his mouth against Rem’s skin, not like a kiss, bur as much like one as he dares. He hums, holds Rem’s denial behind his teeth, doesn’t answer.

“Clutch,” Rem says, pressing on Nakoa’s left knee. “Middle is brake. Right’s gas.” He taps the gear shift. “So, driving. Ease off the gas a bit, onto the clutch, shift, off the clutch, onto the gas.”

Nakoa blinks. His heart beats, strong and steady in his chest. “And to move?”

Rem’s voice holds its tone when he speaks, walks Nakoa through the steps. The car stalls under Nakoa’s guidance the first three times, but Rem pushes him forward, encouragement heavy in his words, and Nakoa’s chest swells with pride when he can finally drive his way across the parking lot.

They traded in the junker for this piece of shit, more torn up than the last. It smells like weed and vomit and pine trees, but it gets better mileage, and the speakers aren't blown out, and Rem won fifteen hundred in a bet on the game two nights ago.

The Earth feels less like Jello beneath Nakoa's feet.

Rem grips his thigh when Nakoa turns through the parking lot, pleased as he lets out a yell, and—oh.

Nakoa kills the engine, and the car comes to a slow stop. “Fuck.”

But Rem waves it away. “It’s great! Shit, I burnt out Billi’s clutch the first time I tried—” But at the mention of his mother, Rem’s expression falls. He shoves open the door, says, “Enough for today.”

They’re in Utah. Have been for a few days, after replacing the windshield in Colorado, after Jenna.

Yesterday, Nakoa got inexplicably homesick, stared at a payphone for five minutes, and convinced himself not to call.

Barely.

They settle into each other’s seats. The beauty of this van, Nakoa realizes, is that it isn’t; an old, clunker of a beast, with the back seats torn out and a sunroof modded in. Except for showers, they don’t need motels anymore.

Their trip got a hell of a lot cheaper. And, heading into LA, Nakoa’s not sure how far their money will go.

Relieved to be out of the driver’s seat, back under Rem’s practiced hand, Nakoa reaches for the cigarettes and lights up.

His voice echoes. “Think we can find a mattress?”

“One that isn’t covered in shit or blood?” Rem shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They do; kind of. They definitely find the mattress. An old, stained old thing from an old woman in the city, who’s upgrading for her and her husband. She takes one look at the van, one look at Nakoa and Rem, and pats Rem’s hand with a twinkle in her eye. “I expect you boys will get plenty of use out of it.”

She winks at Nakoa, and Nakoa offers her an uncertain smile. Rem looks like his head is going to blow off if she doesn’t let go of it.

The manhandle the mattress into the back of the van after Nakoa hands over the twenty. The mattress isn’t stained, isn’t old, but it’s floral and weak and smells of mothballs, and when Nakoa shuts the door to the passenger seat, it already reeks of old perfume in the van.

Rem sits next to him, quiet and pensive. Doesn’t start the van.

Nakoa waits, but ten minutes and he’s still sitting there. “What?”

“What’d she mean by that?”

By… what? “Who?”

“Getting use out of it. That’s not fucked up to you?”

For the— “Rem, she probably meant with girls.”

“…Right.”

“You’re really worried about what some random old woman has to say about shit?” Nakoa’s not exactly out and proud, but this isn’t under his skin. Rem picks at what’s left of the polish on his nails, his body tense and unforgiving. “Rem.”

“Never mind.”

He’s ashamed, then; that’s what that means. His mothers, he has mothers, and he still feels shame. Nakoa’s own family makes jokes at the expense of people like them, has told him that if one of their children was queer they’d set them straight, and Rem’s the one sitting here worried about what this old woman thinks of them.

But it’s not anger that courses through Nakoa’s veins, thinking that. Instead, confusion muddles his brain. He tries to think of something, anything, to make him feel better, but there’s nothing. Not words, anyway. Nakoa licks his lips, he’s about to suggest that they go to a park, or an abandoned parking garage or something and they can christen the new mattress, but Rem puts the van gear and drives off.

They hit up a department store for the sheets, and Nakoa spends twenty minutes glaring at on-sale camping gear trying to find sleeping bags that don’t look like shit while Rem searches for pillows, and Nakoa feels the weight of his remaining money in his pocket like a brick.

He’s not sure how much is left. Between the van, the motels, food, Nakoa’s sure it’s dwindling. Rem says nothing, just brings home dinner, whiskey, less and less every day.

Nakoa buys the blankets. What else are they supposed to do—go back home?

They find a place on an empty road, far from the city, that night, coyotes howling in the distance, a small campfire built out of the back end of the van. Rem hangs his legs off the van, stares up at the sky. A bottle of whiskey sits between his legs. Bowie plays softly in the background.

Nakoa’s not sure of the last time he’d been this happy. In Utah, of all places, so far from home that Withervale feels like a separate fucking planet.

In the clear night, the glow of the crackling fire, Nakoa wonders if Rem would agree. If he seems happy, or if he is happy. Rem never fucking talks to him, tells him to fuck off if Nakoa gets too close. If he missteps. He’s a jackass.

Nakoa’s afraid of how much he likes him anyway. If, once they get to LA, if Rem will enjoy it. If he’ll enjoy it too much.

He reaches for the whiskey, pleased by the noise Rem makes as he goes for it. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Rem’s laugh comes stark and surprising, echoes across the empty space, and Nakoa wants to kiss him until he feels that warmth through his entire body. “Probably the only thing I can get up right now.”

Snorting, Nakoa lifts the whiskey to his lips, savors the taste, the taste, and heat that pools in his stomach. “This is,” he says, but doesn’t know what he wants to say. Captivated by the stars, by the scenery. But Rem’s quiet, comforting presence beside him—

Nakoa wants to kiss him. Press him into the flowery, old mattress behind them and undress him, kiss down his chest and blow him, press into him until Nakoa’s name rests on his lips soft and tense. Until Rem clenches his teeth and his groan comes from his chest and.

Fuck. He wants, so much, to make Rem feel so good that he forgets what the world has done to him.

“I’ve thought about living off the land before. Away from the city. Own a little farm or something.” An orchard. Some goats. Chickens, the modern dinosaurs they are, and Nakoa presses his finger against the ankylosaurus tattoo on his side. Thinks back to the artist that did it for him, briefly, and what he’s doing.

If he remembers Nakoa at all.

“Get the fuck away from people,” Rem says. He sounds tired, now, drunk. He hops from the van and kicks dirt over the fire. It’s dark enough that Nakoa can’t make out Rem’s features without direct light.

“Yeah.” But not Rem. “Dunno. Don’t wanna get kicked in the head, either.” Doesn’t want to give Rem up. He holds that deep inside his chest, though, locked away where he hopes Rem won’t find it, where Nakoa himself won’t be tempted to look.

When Rem says nothing, Nakoa crawls up the mattress, knees scraping the cool metal of the floor of the van. He tugs one of the sleeping bags over his body, presses his face into his pillow and sighs.

He’s not sure when Rem shuts the door and joins him, but Rem lies there, on his back, until Nakoa’s loopy with exhaustion and alcohol, and on the verge of sleep. Nakoa hears him say, “I—”

And then Nakoa passes out.

#road to nowhere au #my writing #I do a poor job of showing it but nakoa is bi

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bitch-aucoin · 6 years ago

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3, 7, and 11 because I love your headcanons

3. What’s your headcanon for their spaceship design?

Oh I defs go with the Africa MV/Meow Wolf aesthetic now. In Stellar Objects the boys currently have a lil shit box junker ship that just gets them from place to place. Eventually I want to give them that crazy set up (TARDIS style it, yanno? Bigger on the inside, maybe with rooms that can change based on moods or needs of the boys. Stuff like that.)

7. List each of the boys favorite hobbies, and why.

Oh! I think I’ve mentioned before Sung likes to do a little bit of everything because WHY THE FUCK NOT? I think his favorite things to do tho are practicing karate with tai jutsu cool downs, building absolutely unnecessary little bits of tech (nothing too big, nothing too crazy either. Just voice activated nutritional fact listings that shame them not into snacking, or maybe gloves that can act as a TV remote for when he’s feeling really lazy and can’t find the ACTUAL remote. Stuff like that), and then lastly I just think he likes to read. He’s not really a big fiction fan. His life is crazy fun and wild enough for him. But he just reads how to books and “so you want to be...” books and just is constantly looking to learn. He can speak french, Japanese, and American fluently in my canon as well as ASL, because why the hell not. He has an interest in those things. They matter to him. Why wouldn’t he? Also he defs plays video games a lot.

Phobos does a lot of gardening. I don’t really have him doing herb garden stuff. More fruits and flowers. Flowers are his favorite too because he’ll press them into books and sometimes he’ll write poems out on them and paste them around his room or slip them under doors for the other boys. I also canon him as the second song writer of the group. He has so many words that he can’t speak so at the very least he can write them all down. He also reads romance novels. You can find them ALL over the ship, each cover and description worse than the last. He’s probably gonna pick up tea leaf reading soon, but tarot and astrology are a little too out there for him (really, he just likes the idea of tea ceremonies/high tea because it seems simultaneously refined and relaxing.) I feel like he wants to learn to knit because he likes wearing oversized sweaters, but he hasn’t fully committed to it yet. And while Sung plays a lot of video games, he doesn’t touch the handheld stuff. That’s all Phobos.

Havve’s a bit more meticulous. First off you may not say this is a hobby, but he really does pride himself on cleaning up after everyone. He doesn’t mind it, although everyone’s rooms are their own problem. He’ll just really get into it. Actually looking into cleaning hacks, or new ways to tackle grime and dust. If anyone pops into the ship/their place back on Earth and just hears Skid music they know immediately to leave and let Havve to his devices. He also just has a habit of sharpening and collecting knives, and while he can already perfectly throw them he likes to fuck around with his internal parts to make it so he has to learn it all over again, so seeing Havve at an axe throwing place would not be surprising in the slightest. It’s about the challenge (same with drawing. He does it only with pen, tries to see if he can draw the perfect circle over and over again, or things by memory.)

Meouch is a record collector. Has a vintage record player that Sung helped him patch up that he’ll just pop on every night with all sorts of old school stuff. He’ll roll his own cigarettes and joints while the vinyl pops and crackles warmly and he’ll just find his inner peace while he does. I also canon Meouch as a piano player, something he got from his childhood, so once Phobos and Sung have come up with the lyrics Meouch is always the one that pulls it all together because he just has the right wired brain for it. The logic, the measure, the way the notes should come together. When he isn’t being the old man of the group, I feel like Meouch just likes traveling! Going new places, trying new food, enjoying the sights on his own personal time instead of in big groups.

For some reason, I wanna write a thing where Meouch fishes, but that just feels like it’s digging into the idea of him being an old man! i write him so different from everyone else!!!

11. Headcanon favorite foods for all the TWRP members.

Sung would die for both ramen and pizza. Just gonna say that right now. He’s defs a miso chicken ramen guy and likes to get that spicy, but when it comes to pizza he can do everything and anything, but he can just also pack away a plain cheese and love every second.

Phobos is the sweet tooth of the group. All sorts of candies, fruits, juices, honeys and nectars? That’s all him. I feel like he doesn’t enjoy chocolate as much when a fruiter option presents itself (like cake and brownies) but he’ll still go for it, no doubt.

Havve don’t eat food! I think he’d eat very healthy if he did (fish, for some reason my brain keeps saying fish!)

Meouch fucking loves a good ass burger with everything on it. He doesn’t like to get fancy. That or wings and of course, we can’t forget poutine!!! He’ll top it off with a nice beer or cider and that’s kind of why he’s got a nice lil paunch to him hehe

#long post #back-alley-hero

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kaylamoonbeam · 7 years ago

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Junkrat’s 1812 Overture Part 6

I wanted to give you all SOMETHING after the long week. Lovies you make me very happy and I am so glad I get to share this silly weird story with you! This one is a bit short, but I am working on more; I just wanted to make sure you got something :)

As always, like, reblog, comment; my wretched writer’s soul needs more fuel than coffee and expensive cookies can provide!

Junkrat hissed as he eased back, causing you to jolt away, thinking you had squished him.

“Oh, sorry, I’m too heavy for that,” you tried to move back, only to have Junkrat wrap an arm around your waist.

“Nah,” Junkrat winced as he shifted again, “not you, darl, not you.”

“But,” you sat back a bit, it was difficult since Junkrat had somehow slid a leg between yours, “you must be hurting, do you want me to--”

You were cut off as Junkrat pulled you in for small kisses.

“It’s,” kiss, “just,” kiss, “a couple,” kiss, “of,” kiss, “broken ribs,” he went in for a fifth kiss but you backed up, concern darkening your eyes.

“Broken ribs?!” you did move then, shifting to stand next to the couch, helping Junkrat to sitting, “you have broken ribs? Shouldn’t you be in the medical wing?”

“I came from there, they told me to rest,” Junkrat looked at you, his eyes full of sheepishness and embarrassment, “so, here I am.”

“I don’t think that… what we were doing counts as resting,” you moved to walk away, Junkrat’s hand grabbed yours as he stood to follow.

“So be gentle,” he turned you around and sat on the couch. He pushed a few pillows behind him for support, then pulled you down so you were straddling him. You quaked with nerves and arousal. You weren’t sure what to do, but Junkrat seemed to sense that as he moved his omnic arm to slide under your shirt to stroke your back. The cool metal of his hand caused you to shiver closer to him, and he groaned as your chest brushed against his.

“Darl,” Junkrat whispered, his breath hissed out, his other hand pulling at your hip. He rutted against you, trying to bring you closer, the loose pants you’d been wearing easily accommodating his movements. His thigh dragged against the apex of your legs, reigniting the ardor that had been tamped down with the news of his broken ribs. Feeling the friction, you chased the sensation, grinding down on his thigh. Later you would be surprised at how muscular the lanky man was, but for now you simply groaned as Junkrat sucked at your throat.

Suddenly it became imperative that Junkrat was lying down. Standing, he started to protest, only to see the look in your eyes as you shifted him to actually lay on the couch. You crawled over him, settling yourself over his hips. You felt him then, hard and thick against you, and you ground against him. Junkrat let out a growl as he lifted his hips to buck against you. Then he brought up his knee, causing you to overbalance. You caught yourself but now you were leaning over him, your breasts just grazing his chest. One of Junkrat’s hands slid under your shirt to palm your breast through your bra while the omnic one shifted, never staying in one spot for long. The man’s hand encompassed your breast, his thumb and forefinger working over your pebbled nipple.

The pinch caused a jolt through your body, a needy whimper escaping from your lips. As if captivated by the sound, Junkrat gazed at your lips, tweaking your nipple a second time. Then his omnic hand pushed up your shirt, pinching the back of your bra to unclip it. Or at least that was the idea, but it didn’t work. Giggling, Junkrat tried to simply pull your bra off of you.

“Wait, wait,” you giggled, unsure if you wanted to take your shirt off, but Junkrat didn’t wait for your embarrassment to pass, lifting your shirt to suck and nibble through your bra at your breasts. You choked back a whimper, your hands twisting behind you to unhook your bra. Junkrat’s hands tweaked your nipples before sucking and biting at them. He sat up on the couch, pushing you so that you were laying down and he was above you, one knee between your thighs. The tables had turned and Junkrat had taken control. Gentleness be damned, apparently.

Lying back, your breasts gently sloshing to the sides, you felt Junkrat’s lips and teeth at your ear. Then you felt his hard leg driving against you, the friction of your pants teasing at your clit. He shifted away and you whined, wrapping your leg around Junkrat’s non-peg leg. Junkrat’s hand crept down, slipping between your pants and your skin. Initially, you tensed, not sure what he would think when he found you went natural. You needn’t have worried; he skillfully maneuvered his fingers through your curls, slowly teasing your lower lips apart. Junkrat’s mouth hovered above yours, his eyes intense as he watched the effect he was having on you play across your face.

One callused finger stroked up and down your damp slit at an excruciatingly slow pace. Each caress teased your clit a bit more, each brush dipped the finger a little further into you. One finger became two, which became three fingers in a thick triangle as Junkrat finger fucked you with shallow, tantalizing thrusts. Finally sinking his fingers entirely into you, he stilled, only his thumb pushing and rubbing around your clit with amazing dexterity. A small, delicate orgasm, a whispered promise of the pleasure Junkrat could evoke in you, shimmered around your body. Your pussy clenched and sucked at his fingers as if it wanted to pursue another orgasm.

Your hands went to Junkrat’s belt, his lips on yours in a breathless attempt to strip him of his shorts when there came a heavy knock at your door. The familiar rhythm indicated almost immediately who was visiting.

“Hey, sugar, how’re ya doin’?” McCree’s voice filtered through the door, “Thought maybe you wanted to get some grub tonight, maybe see that movie we were talking about?”

You frantically pushed at Junkrat’s chest, the big lug didn’t move, hardly even acknowledged your actions. Instead the junker just looked down at you and then glanced at his hand, which was still in your pants. Seizing his wrist in your hands, you dragged his hand out of… you. Pushing his injured ribs a bit (you felt bad, but he simply wouldn’t budge) you stood up and threw on your shirt as he gasped in pain.

Opening your door, you peaked through the gap, hoping that Junkrat understood you didn’t want your friend discovering just how close you were to doing...whatever it was you were doing just then.

“Hey, Jesse,” you were pleased your voice was as calm as it was. You didn’t sound at all like you were two minutes away from fucking Junkrat into next week, “when did you wanna get food?”

“Uh, now, shug,” McCree looked at you like you had about three heads before continuing, “Thought we could go to that new steakhouse and gorge ourselves on their prime rib. What do ya say?”

“Mmm..,” you hedged a bit, trying to figure out how to give McCree a clue without drawing him an anatomical diagram, “how does, um, tomorrow sound? I… Just woke up from a nap, and, uh… Yeah, I, uh, need to do some...laundry.”

Laundry?! That was the best you could come up with??? Oh, well, it would have to do. McCree gave you a look that said ‘laundry, yeah right,’ but all he did was nod and say, “Sure thing, sugar. You have a nice night doing…,” he paused for a sarcastically long time, “laundry.”

Shutting the door, you rested your head against the cool paint of the doorframe. Crisis… well not averted, but delayed at least. You sighed and turned to Junkrat. Who was just coming out of the bathroom, a towel in his hands. Unsure of what to say, you said it anyway.

“Do you want t-” but Junkrat cut you off.

“So, you’re going out with McCree, then?” The tone was casual but his body language spoke differently.

“No,” you started, only to have him jump in again.

“Oh, so that wasn’t a date you set up for tomorrow with him?” the slightest shake to his voice gave you a clue to his feelings, even if he wasn’t going to say anything.

“No, it was a dinner. With a friend,” suddenly you felt like you’d completely lost the plot, “you know, if I were to go out on a date, I’d want it to be with you.”

That seemed to cool the temperature considerably as Junkrat dropped the hand towel on to a side table. He dragged his hands through his hair, fidgeting and shifting, clearly unsure what to do now. You weren’t sure either; your body was still aroused, your skin feeling hyper aware of every move Junkrat made, but your mind was a bit overwhelmed with the last 5 minutes of interactions. The rumbling in your stomach made up your mind for you. You had to eat something.

You walked over to the little kitchenette that every Overwatch room sported. The higher the agent, the better the amenities, but no room was completely bare. You opened the fridge and took a look at the depressing contents. As far as a meal went, you might be able to “make” some toast with… no butter. Nice. Clearly it was way past time to go shopping. A chuckle made itself known as you stared at your barren fridge. You turned to see Junkrat not quite concealing a smile from you.

“Not much of a cook?” the question was innocent enough, but you knew better.

“No, Junkrat, I’m not,” you noticed his slight wince when you said ‘Junkrat’ but thought nothing of it, “are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not too shabby, Even Roadie says I grill a damn fine burger,” a smile glinted in his eyes as he come closer to you, “how ‘bout it?”

He held out his mechanical hand to you, and you felt like maybe you were saying more than just ‘yes’ to a burger with him. But that didn’t matter just now. Right now, you were going to have dinner with a damn fine junker.

#junkrat #junkrat fic #junkrat x reader #junkrat's 1812 Overture #I'm such a tease

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wachtelspinat · 7 years ago

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Anonym hat gesagt: just fOUND YOUR BLOG! LOVE HOW YOU DRAW ! OML!!!

AAAA WELCOME! thanks!

Anonym hat gesagt: I miss your Roadrat! What made you fall out of interest if you don't mind my asking? I will follow you forever no matter what because your work is amazing no matter what you draw, but I can't help but wonder :0

hello! first of all thank you so much! and don’t worry to ask, i miss them too sometimes :’c the thing is i got into the junkers because i saw a lot of amazing fanwork, writings and art equally, but like with every obsession i wanted to get as much out of the source material as possible... and let me put it like this, what i found didn’t really convince me : ( mind you, this is my own opinion, but as an old tf2 fan i never thought very high of overwatch from the beginning because these two are getting compared all over the place, and after looking into it myself i saw that overwatch does or at least tries a lot of things that just don’t work for me as well as they do within tf2... but that’s a whole nother story so what happened next? i started crawling back to my big love from 2009, which is tf2, and that is where i got less and less interested with everything involving overwatch i still love looking at junker fanart, heck, i love looking at ow fanart in general, because there are some crazily talented people, and it’s fun to see how the ow fandom explodes with every update and every new cosmetic and all, but my personal drive is on 0,01 of 10 ;’’/

Anonym hat gesagt: Tbh I never noticed how much Scout looked like Spy but like with the picture with Scout without his earmuff things I was like “woah that is super realistic and so cool and WOW they look similar”

hey! it’s funny that people keep saying that because it was not at all my intention to make them look similar (and i don’t think they do, in my opinion, or my eyes betray me) but idk, it’s cool somehow, thanks a lot!

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builder051 · 7 years ago

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Mike & Co story arc: part 1

This is going to be a 5-parter? Maybe? Something like that. Nowhere near as long as Hildur and Pierce’s storyline, but still decently extended. The episodes will move among different characters’ POV, and Mike, Jason, Colby, Ash, and Hannah will all be included. There will be a little bit of illness/emeto, but it’s going to be mainly plot.

WARNING FOR EATING DISORDER CONTENT. It kind of features in this part, but it’s going to be vague and kind of glossed over throughout because it’s not the main focus of this arc, but it’s definitely a thing that affects all of these charas, whether directly or indirectly.

Also, a warning for an obscene amount of cursing. This girl is by far my most foul-mouthed character.

_____

Everything’s fine. Everything is completely and totally fine. Her grades are good. She’s not being forced to go home for spring break. There’s plenty of new stuff to watch on Netflix. So why Mike goes into the 7-11 and buys out a display of Hostess Cupcakes is beyond her. Nothing’s weighing on her mind. She hasn’t been in a fight. The urge just hits like a ton of bricks and she’s suddenly powerless.

She hasn’t done this in months, and maybe that’s why she’s so out of practice in saying no to herself. Mike holds the plastic shopping bag in the crook of her elbow and swallows the first cupcake in two bites. She reaches in for another, and self-hatred flares up in her ribcage. That feeling’s more familiar.

Mike finishes the sweets by the time she finishes the walk to the campus. She crumples the shopping bag and lobs it into the trash outside the humanities building, then shoves inside. It’s after five on a Friday, so the hallways are deserted. That’s a good thing.

Mike pauses to take a long drink from the water fountain, then ducks into the bathroom to get down to business. She feels weird and shaky and a little guilty to be doing this again after being clean for so long. But post-purge guilt still beats holding onto the calories.

It’s like riding a bike; the technique comes back quickly, and Mike’s at the sink washing up within minutes. Her eyes are read and teary, and they’ll probably stay that way for half an hour or so. At least she’s on a college campus, so she can blame smoking pot.

She dries her hands with a paper towel, then uses it to wipe her mouth. Now that the deed’s done, she’s exhausted. The tremor she felt earlier has crept permanently into arms and legs, and she knows it won’t go away until she falls asleep or eats something for real. And that’s definitely not going to happen any time soon.

Mike wants to go home. There’s no reason to loiter around campus anymore; her classes are all done for break. She can practically hear her bed calling from across town. Some music, some TV. Maybe a little ibuprofen/Unisom cocktail. That sounds nice.

But Jason and Colby are probably home. They are more often than not, and it’s way too early for them to have retired to the bedroom. They’re probably sitting at the kitchen table right now, wondering where the fuck she is, because that’s all they seem to do. If she wants them to stay out of her business, she can’t go home yet.

Mike considers sending out an exploratory text message, a simple hey what are you doing? But if anything’s going to get her caught, it’s that. She never initiates contact.

Mike shoves her phone deep into her pocket and starts a circuit around the campus. If she goes out behind the Humanities building and walks the paved loop around most of the main thoroughfare, she’ll kill an hour and another couple hundred calories. Mike wraps her arms around her midsection and slaps her feet hard against the sidewalk.

She wishes she could refocus, just snap her fingers and immediately place some other fixation in her brain, at least temporarily. Bile and chocolate still coat her back teeth, and Mike isn’t sure if she’s disgusted or thrilled. She wishes she had a cigarette. But it’s cold and windy out, and it probably wouldn’t stay lit anyway. Just like she can’t stay normal.

“Why’d you do that?” Mike spits under her breath. “Why’d you fucking do that?”

She can’t come up with a good answer. She just felt like it. She gave in. She fucked up.

If she was talking to Colby, he’d say it was ok. It’s ok to fuck up and have a setback. She can just try to do better tomorrow.

Mike guesses she can. But it doesn’t make her any less stupid today.

Jason would tell it like it is. He’d give Mike a good disappointed head-shake and tell her to go fuck herself. Or just eat food like a normal person and not throw it back up.

Then she’d ask him how he knew what normal people did. The possibility of an argument would be too good to resist.

“You don’t know what normal people do either,” Mike huffs to herself. “Not everybody thrives on conflict like you, bitch.”

She would’ve clocked herself in the face with that comment if the choice had been anywhere near logical. The desire to hit something is rising fast. There’s a dilapidated storage shed coming up a few feet off the path, and Mike steps onto the soggy grass and slams her fist into the dented door. It produces a hollow sound, and the whole shack seems to shudder even though the punch is weak.

Something perks up in Mike’s brain as adrenaline starts to flow, and she hits the door again. She assumes a sloppy boxing stance and jabs right and left and right again. Her knuckles start to hurt, and somehow that makes her laugh. She switches to battering the door with the heel of her hand. It creaks as if it’s going to give way under Mike’s meager strength, and in her mind, it’s fucking hilarious.

If she manages to break down the door, is there going to be some kind of junker lawn mower inside? Mike’s suddenly keen to find out. The pseudo-boxing match is making her tired, so she readjusts and rams the door with her shoulder. Pain lances down her arm and across her back. She’s too bony to throw her weight around without hurting herself. But it doesn’t keep her from trying again.

Mike backs up a foot or so and throws her hip and elbow into the shed. She feels something give way, and she knows she’ll only need to smack the thing another couple more times to force the door open. She takes a second to catch her breath and swallow bitter saliva before she puts her back into it again.

“Hey! What are you doing? That’s university property!”

Mike looks over her shoulder to see two campus police officers hurrying toward her. “Fuck,” she mumbles. She should run for it. But she’s so close to forcing the shed open. She doesn’t want to stop. She can’t stop.

Mike butts the side of her body into the door one more time, and the latch breaks off the door with a crunch. She falls sideways as the door swings open under her, but before she hits the ground, one of the officers has his hand wrapped around her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” he barks.

She got the door open, but it’s not like it proved anything. Now she’s stuck here with two cops, and she might have been committing a crime. She has a feeling explaining the truth is going to get her nowhere. I had to do something to distract myself from the fact that I’d just broken a 4-month clean streak from my eating disorder probably isn’t going to hold water with the police. Like she’d willingly speak those words anyway.

So she does the next worst thing she can think of. Mike draws her free arm back and aims a punch at the officer’s jaw.

“Whoa, calm down,” the other cop says, moving his hands in a shushing motion. “We just want to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” Mike grunts. She manages to get her feet under her. The officer holding her arm doesn’t have much on her in height, but he’s heavy. His belt and tucked-in shirt hold a substantial beer gut. She bets he hits the Hostess cupcakes pretty hard too. Mike can barely look at him without being disgusted. She gathers her remaining strength and socks him in the stomach.

“Ma’am, I need you to put both hands up.” The fat officer tries to manhandle her around to face the shed’s outer wall.

“Let me go,” Mike grunts. “Don’t touch me.” She continues to struggle.

“We just wanted to have a chat,” the other cop says, reaching for Mike’s flailing hand. He has red hair like Ash, and the thought of her old friend makes her want to knock him to the ground. She doesn’t have a reason to hate this officer. She doesn’t have a reason to hate Ash, either. But the violent feelings don’t stop coming.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Mike thrashes her body, and the fat cop’s arm comes around her waist. He isn’t holding her tightly, but panic strobes in her brain, and she feels sick. She wants to run.

“You want to get booked for resisting arrest?” The red-headed officer asks.

“I don’t want anything to do with anything,” Mike spits. Her head is growing foggy. The peeling paint on the outside of the shed blurs before her eyes. One ear is about ten times heavier than the other, and she tilts badly to one side.

“Stand up straight. Put your hands behind your head,” The fat cop says. “This is the last time I’m gonna ask.”

Mike might’ve complied. Or maybe she wouldn’t’ve. She doesn’t get the chance to decide, though, because vertigo suddenly takes precedence, and she doubles over to retch against the wall.

“Hey, alright.” The fat cop lets go of Mike’s stomach and grips her by the back of her shirt instead. “This for real or are you just playing?”

Mike gags and manages to choke, “I’m fine. Leave me alone.” She takes one stumbling step away from the officers and almost falls. She claws at the side of the shed to hold herself upright.

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk. You can sit down, cool off a little,” the red-head offers. He puts his hand on Mike’s shoulder in a way that’s half-comforting and half-threatening. She jerks away and covers her mouth with her hand. She throws up anyway, and it’s mostly chocolate mixed with some snot and bile.

“Fuck.” She thought she’d gotten it all back up.

“Ma’am?”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not going with you!” The force of shouting makes Mike lightheaded, and she stumbles again.

“Are you going to faint?” The cops look at each other.

“Just leave me alone,” Mike mumbles. The words are getting harder to form. Her vision swirls, and it only makes the dizziness worse.

“We’re gonna get you some medical attention, ok?” The fat cop puts his arm around her waist while the other one talks into a walkie-talkie. Mike catches the wordambulance.

“Don’t take me…” she chokes out. They can’t take her to the hospital. They can’t. She won’t stand for it. She’ll run away. She’ll let Jason drive her home. “Call my brother.”

“We’ll call him when we get to the ER,” the red-headed officer reassures. “They’ll help you out with whatever’s going on or whatever you took. Then we’ll get in touch with your family…”

Mike wants to burst out laughing again. They think she’s high. She wishes she was high. But she’s already out of her mind and her eyes are red, so there’s probably little difference.

“Fuck you. I’m alright.” Mike makes one more effort to get away. She’ll escape the fat cop’s partial embrace and run.

But she can’t even get on her feet. Mike lists sideways and everything goes dark.

#oc fic #mike & co #mike deangeles #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #eating disoder tw #ed tw

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skele-bones · 7 years ago

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Cupid’s Message

This is the sixteenth chapter of Everyday Heroes.

If you like what I do and want to support me, why not buy me a coffee?

When Hanzo woke up that morning, he expected to see his husband sleeping peacefully next to him. Though an arrow with a suction cup attached to his forehead wasn’t exactly part of that scenario. A note was tied around the shaft and Hanzo carefully undid it, trying not to disturb Jesse’s slumber. The raucous snoring coming from the cowboy was enough to deafen an entire theatre but it did little to disrupt Hanzo’s reading.

The note had childish handwriting on it and he knew that sort of script anywhere. Gabriel’s handwriting with it’s quick loops and close letters filled line after line, stopping at the bottom with a drawing.

Hanzo’s eyes widened and he reached over to shake Jesse’s shoulders “Anata,” he called. “Jesse, wake up.”

His husband burst into action, arm flinging out to grab Peacekeeper from underneath his pillow and point it at an invisible enemy. Jesse’s body was silhouetted in a golden aura, his eyes glinting red until it registered that there was no threat. Just his husband staring at him patiently with a hint of amusement and an empty room.

“Surely if there was someone within our quarters, I would have dealt with them,” Hanzo patiently explained, failing to hide his smirk.

Jesse rolled his eyes and slowly sat up, pausing when he registered the arrow stuck to his forehead.

“What in tarnation,” he muttered, pulling it free with a loud smack, rubbing the reddened skin. “Who the hell did this?”

Hanzo waved the note. “The same person who wrote this,” he replied, looking curiously at their room door. “But how did they manage to get in without us noticing?”

Jesse took the note and glanced it over. “You think this was a two man job?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Hanzo shook his head, taking the arrow and twirling it around in his hand. “Shingen wouldn’t allow Gabriel to attempt a stealth mission on his own.”

In fact, he wouldn’t allow his little brother to dive into danger alone at all. His protectiveness as a big brother helped to keep Gabriel out of a multitude of situations. However, Hanzo was more worried about his skills being rusty if their children could sneak up on them.

“Might’ve been a four man job,” Jesse interjected, knocking him from his thoughts. “There’s only three people I know who can sneak without leaving a trace, and only two of them live here.”

The dragons writhed underneath Hanzo’s skin as if proud that they were acknowledged for their mischief. He rolled his eyes in response. Of course they would help the boys, those two were the dragons’ absolute favorite people in the world even potentially outranking Hanzo himself.

“Well, we should read it and see what the damage is.”

Jesse flicked on the bedside lamp and grabbed his reading glasses, slipping them on in one fluid motion. Or at least it would have been if he hadn’t poked himself in the eye before putting them on. Hanzo chuckled, kissing his husband’s cheek and extending his arm so Jesse could press himself close to his side.

Wrapping his arm around Jesse’s shoulders, Hanzo shifted so the gunslinger could rest his head against his chest.

“Comfy?” Hanzo asked.

Jesse shifted his legs a bit then tucked an arm around Hanzo’s waist.

“Yep.”

Hanzo looked the note over, slightly impressed with how much Gabriel had written.

In a few days it’ll be Valentines and I wanted to tell you that I love you. It’s kind of hard for me to show how much I love you everyday because there’s not a lot of time. And Athena says Time is important and it shouldn’t be wasted. She also said something about time management. She helped me spell that word. Said it has something to do with keeping track of time. But I thought that’s what clocks are for.

“Athena,” Hanzo called out, shooting Jesse a half-hearted glare at his wheezing laughter.

“Yes, Agent Hanzo?”

“Thank you for telling Gabriel what time management is.”

“It is my pleasure, Agent Hanzo. Though he did have a sound argument.”

Hanzo shook his head, smiling exasperatedly in Jesse’s direction as he wiped away fake tears.

“I am sure he did,” Hanzo replied, looking down and continuing to read.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I still don’t know and I’m probably going on and on in loops and circles. But I do love you. Even when you scold me if I do something wrong or when you’re sad or when you’re gone. I love you even though I have to share you with everyone else in the world. I don’t feel lonely then either. I have Shingen and Kai and Mariam and Theo and Olivia to keep me company. And when you come back, or even when you’re far away, I’ll still love you.

Because I have the best dads ever. And you’re the coolest and bestest heroes ever. I know you are. Dad is the strongest archer ever and he never loses his cool. He’s always 100% honest even if it hurts your feelings, And Papa is the best sharpshooter in the West (or at least that’s what he told me), nobody could ever beat him. He’s always smiling and he makes time for us even when Tito keeps him busy.

You don’t argue like most parents. Well, you argue a little but it’s not like mad arguing. When you argue, you’re smiling and look happy. Not angry and mean. Uncle Genji said you guys arguing is a typical thing. Like you do it for fun. And sometimes I argue with Shingen for fun.

He’s hard to win against but I’ll get it someday.

You guys are the best together, saving the world and everything.

Pa, do you remember when you told me the world was changing?

So when you come back, nothing will change. I’ll still mess up sometimes and you can scold me. And Papa will sing his songs and tell funny jokes or stories. Dad will play video games with us and help us dress up for pretend. And give us kisses goodnight or when we get hurt or when we’re sad.

We’ll go on trips with Tito and Grampa. Granny will bake cookies and Opa will be loud as ever. Aunt Zarya and Mei will take us to see snow. Aunt Hana will demolish us at Starcraft. Uncle Lúcio will make awesome songs and Uncle Genji will show us how to climb stuff. Uncle Zenyatta and Kai will meditate like always and the Junkers might take us to blow stuff up.

Uncle Winston will show us his inventions. Athena will tell us facts about them. Aunt Moira will show us her experiments and Aunt Angela will keep an eye on her. Tía Sombra will show us how to hack into stuff. Orisa And Efi will come around and we’ll have horseback rides (Shingen said she’s a centaur but that’s a horse, right?)

We’ll make portals with Aunt Satya, practice dancing with Aunt Amelie, and race Theo and Aunt Lena. But we might lose sometimes so Aunt Emily will be there to pick us up.

Most of all, Shingen and I will get older and we’ll still love you.

No matter how big I am, how old I am, I’ll always love you.

So I’ll write you a letter every Valentines day from now until forever to tell you how much I love you.

There were smudges and erases on the paper. Small splotches where water had dried and Hanzo ran his thumb over them.

“Gabe was crying,” Jesse said. “That kid of ours…”

His words trailed off but there was a waver in his voice and a break as he took in a shaky breath. Hanzo looked down at his husband and saw brown eyes glazed with tears. Jesse’s lips twitching, downturned, eyebrows knitted together and eyes shutting tight. A tear rolled down his cheek and before Hanzo could hug him tighter, Jesse slipped out of his grip and climbed out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

Jesse smiled broadly over his shoulder. “To hug our kids, what else?” He replied.

No more words were needed as both men got out of bed and went about their tasks; attaching their prosthetics and heading out to peer into their children’s room. Their beds were made and everything was in order but neither boy was in sight. Jesse and Hanzo shared a look of confusion before the tell-tale sound of a door swooping open turned their attention to their quarter’s entrance.

Staying in the shadows, they peered around to see who was coming in.

Gabriel was the first to run in. His hair pulled back in a ponytail, cheeks dusted with red from the cold, and a silly grin plastered on his face. He was dressed in a red, gold and white sweater that resembled Jesse’s serape. His brown pants and boots wet from the rain puddles. Slung across his back was an empty quiver, a crossbow in his right hand, the other holding Shingen’s.

Hanzo almost laughed as Shingen appeared around the corner, the picture of not wanting to be awake. His hair was down, falling in his face and didn’t look as if it had been brushed at all. Black pea coat buttoned up, blue pants and boots a darker shade. Gabriel was talking his ear off about something or another as he trudged inside, taking off his shoes and reminding his brother with a pointed look to do the same.

And as Gabriel sat down to take off his own shoes, Shingen’s head lifted and he looked around, spotting Jesse and Hanzo in the hall. Just like his fathers’ he had a way of knowing when someone was looking at him. But unlike Hanzo, he hadn’t completely mastered a poker face and his eyes widened by a fraction.

“Gabe,” he said. “We have company.”

Gabriel lifted his head then looked over his shoulder, staring for awhile.

“So, where did you two get off to?” Jesse asked.

Gabriel and Shingen looked at one another then back to their parents.

“We… were playing Cupid.”

Hanzo chuckled. That explained the arrows and the message then. Shaking his head, he shouldered past Jesse and went to draw both of them in a hug. Shingen stiffened up but soon melted into the embrace, patting Hanzo’s back. Gabriel wrapping his arms around his neck and hugging close. Their clothes were bitterly cold from the outside temperature but he wouldn’t let go of them for the world. Eventually, Jesse joined the embrace and they sat there in the walkway hugging one another.

“We love you too,” Jesse muttered.

#mchanzo #fanfiction #jesse mccree #hanzo shimada #mchanzo kid #overwatch

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