#do they get thorns in their paws while hunting up there

[spottedside]

sitcom with a bunch of the medicine cats trying to do their jobs in starclan

[miasmaghoul]

do you have any thoughts about mountains first time? doesnt have to be a whole ass prompt fill lol but who gets big boy?

(anon I regret to inform you that you sent this while i was disastrously high so you get a Weird One - warnings for terato/monsterfucking, mentions of blood (nonsexual), inhuman anatomy, scent kink, agendered character referred to as "it", use of cunt/clit to describe its anatomy, and some lore at the end)

I still have to finish that fic about his first time bottoming, that's with Omega. But his first time in general?

Well, technically...

Mountain was more feral than most when he was summoned, took a long time to settle into his vessel. He cost a number of siblings their lives before the higher ups decided it was a better idea to let him loose in a warded-off section of the forest. Let him work out the more animalistic traits in an environment better suited to his elemental nature.

He wanders the trees completely unglamoured, with furry, back-bent hooved legs and patches of moss, lichen and bark coating his limbs and torso. His antlers, still budding, grow faster like this and the trees in his path bear fresh gouges as a result. He hunts everything he can, tearing in with claws and elongated jaws alike. The scruffy mane of hair he sports lies matted with days worth of blood, sweat and grime, and it's the fourth night before Mountain finds his appetite sated.

Well, one of his appetites at least.

This new hunger is similar, but very different. He knows lust, of course - no being in Hell wouldn't - but ghouls don't have corporeal forms Downstairs. They feel things, sure, but in the way you "feel" and intense thought, or a specific fantasy. Like this, though, anchored to a physical being he's still learning the ins and outs of, the pressure sitting heavy between his thighs feels foreign. Foreign, but also hot and urgent and fuck he needs.

Mountain paws at himself with rough, inexperienced hands until the sheath between his legs starts to swell. The ghoul watches as it grows, chest heaving when the flared head reveals itself. Already slick and throbbing, Mountain's stomach clenches when every inch is finally exposed and the length of it pulses.

It's then that a certain scent makes his nostrils flare, his eyes go wide, and something deep inside Mountain goes achingly tight. It's not the first time he's smelled it since he woke in the forest, naked and groggy, but it's the first time he's felt the urge to find its source. Now that he does, though?

He needs.

Mountain crashes through the trees on instinct alone, panting and drooling down his chin no matter how many times his hooves catch a root or a row of thorns tears at his flesh. The scent grows thicker the deeper he gets into the dense wood; it's something raw, something syrupy sweet yet intoxicatingly bitter. Like burning leaves on a hot autumn day, rich and earthen but undercut with a sharpness that could only mean desire.

The closer he gets, the more he recalls smelling it before. He remembers catching it when he was savoring the spoils of a hunt, one he'd spent melting into the trees to stalk a particularly jumpy buck. Remembers waking up once, in a small clearing he'd thoroughly marked, only to find a second scent joining his own. Not covering his, not a challenge - though Mountain took great pleasure in...reclaiming his territory anyway. More like an invitation, one Mountain had had no interest in following at the time. That wasn't what he had needed.

Now that he's close to drowning in that scent, though, his cock dripping as it wags between his thighs, Mountain has no idea how he's gone so long without it.

He crashes through the branches of an overgrown willow, blood pounding in his ears and groin in equal measure, and the shiver that wracks him is one shared with the source of this intoxicating scent.

It sits in a nest at the base of the willow, one tucked into its roots and flanked by flowering bushes. There are enough gaps in the tree's limbs to let patches of sunlight filter through, dappling the creature before him.

The one currently on all fours, presenting its flushed, swollen cunt and staring over its shoulder and directly into the center of his brain.

It must be another ghoul, something distant tells him. He only has flashes of the time before the forest, but he can faintly recall a pair of...humans, were they called? They shifted before his eyes, one into a being of black fur and unnatural smoke and the other into scales and fins. They spoke the language of the Pit, and that's the only reason Mountain remembers them.

This one, this creature, looks similar to him, he thinks. He only has a few interrupted reflections in brooks and streams to go by, but it's legs are like his. Back-bent, hooved, but the hair coating them is jet black instead of his own sun-stained auburn. Their torsos differ too - where Mountain could blend in with the bark of any tree, it is instead coated in a combination of thicker fur and sleek black feathers that rustle like the leaves above. No antlers atop it's head, but instead a pair of segmented horns that curl against its skull. It's smaller than he is, more angular, and the few facial features Mountain can see are just as sharp as the talons it has dug into the soft earth.

It makes a sound then, a rattling hiss of a thing, and Mountain growls in response. It's automatic, as is the way he drops to all fours for his final approach. It watches his every move, unnatural eyes wide and growing blacker by the second, and Mountain flinches when it tips it's head and a scratchy voice fills his skull.

New, it rasps in a familiar but broken dialect, forked tongue flicking between it's lips. Maybe a ghoul? It's speech is odd. You're new. New smell. Different.

Mountain watches it's cunt pulse, a thick trail of slick dripping from its hole straight down the fat nub of its clit. That shiny length flexes, and Mountain's cock responds in kind. He snarls as he crawls up to the creature, licking his jaws. That incredible scent, so thick he can taste it, would be enough to drive anyone mad.

Could feel you coming. Could...in the roots and stones...

Mountain barely registers the words floating through his head, but he really likes the way they fade into an audible sharp trill when he buries his nose into the source of his torment.

The taste of it is beyond compare, and Mountain can't help but drag his face through its copious slick while he wriggles his long, thick tongue inside. Desperate to coat himself in it, ears filled with the unearthly sounds of the creature offering itself to him on a silver platter. His hips work in useless, uncoordinated humps, cock jabbing at thin air as that tight hole clamps down around his tongue, and the overwhelming desire he feels to be inside the being before him hits him like a punch to the gut.

You....watching me...

Mountain manages the message as he moves to bracket that smaller figure. It nods, shudders when he settles against its back, snuffling at the crook of its neck. Using his snout to nudge its head, force it to expose its throat so he can feel it thrum under his tongue.

Watched...hunt. Watched me...kill...

It gives a chirrup, and Mountain feels its short, raised tail twitching against his stomach. His cock jumps, the broad head smacking against its clit, and Mountain's growl shakes the earth itself. Those same stupid humps take over, and Mountain stretches his jaws to wrap around the back of its neck to force it still. He uses the last of his brainpower to throw a final thought into its mind.

Why...bring me...to you?

Mountain sinks his fangs into its throat just enough to get a taste of what lives beneath its skin, and as his eyes roll back the creature moans.

Different, it whispers back, canting its hips when Mountain mindlessly tries to line himself up. So long...since something was different...

Mountain's grunting like a disobedient dog, every thrust bumping his cock against its thighs, its tail, it's mound. So focused on getting it inside without releasing the creature from the cage of his limbs that the frustration only builds, his snarls becoming more and more bestial until -

The body beneath him arches as best it can, and as Mountain's aching cock finally squeezes between swollen lips to pop inside there's no way to know which of them is louder.

Mountain doesn't remember much after that.

One day, though, he'll learn the story of the feral ghoul who haunts these woods. The product of a botched summoning, it was always destined to become a creature of instinct. Tied to the realm Above only because its summoner still lives, left to its own devices where it won't pose a threat.

One day Mountain will learn the story of what used to be Cowbell, and when he does nothing will keep him from going back to those woods.

[ideas-4-stories]

Cross Guild Romance Wolf Shifter AU: Omega wolf Buggy is bonded to Alpha pair Crocodile and Mihawk as part of a political alliance by his father, who's a complete greedy jerk. Mihawk and Crocodile are completely disinterested in Buggy, too deeply in love with each other. Buggy just wants to get to know his new mates but they don't give him an inch, distrustful of him because of how conniving his dad is. Buggy bears the loneliness until finally he snaps and demands to know what he can do to prove his worth. Crocodile scoffs and sarcastically tells him to go up to the mountains and bring back the claw of some horrifically dangerous creature that lives up their. Mihawk however is taken aback and actually tries to intervene, because he secretly liked Buggy from the very beginning. Crocodile doesn't relent and thinks this'll finally get Buggy to back off. Next day Buggy's no where to be found. Crocodile insists that Buggy had just left, but Mihawk knows full well that Buggy went up the mountain to do as Crocodile challenged him. He's absolutely furious at Crocodile for not giving Buggy a chance, and Crocodile himself starts to feel guilty. Everyone thinks Buggy's dead and gone so they are completely stunned when Buggy comes back to the pack alive and well, and with a fearsome mountain creature following him like a loyal puppy/bodyguard. Buggy completed Crocodile's task alright, he just brought back a full set of claws instead of just one, by befriending the beast instead of hurting it. Cue Crocodile being completely gobsmacked and besotted, Mihawk being openly tender to Buggy, and Buggy really wanting lunch for him and his new friend because that trek up the mountain left him starving. Crocodile is the one who now had to earn Buggy, while Mihawk and Buggy are super mad at him for the bullshit he pulled. He wins them back eventually and they finally work on their mating bond.

Off the bat I don���t like Buggy’s father, may he get yeeted out of existence by the end or end up without any money and stay bitter because there’s no way Buggy is going to hand over money to his father. Anyway, Buggy falling in love at first sight is sweet! If only the two dummies weren't assholes and welcome him in their lives it would be such a loving tale.

But to be fair I wouldn't be fully trusting of the person that you are arranged to marry when their parent is that man. We haven't even seen his personality, but what we have about the man. He's probably a very conniving materialistic man that doesn't really care for Buggy.

Crocodile telling him to go up the mountain that nobody goes to because of a monstrous beast and grabbed the claw of it is so mean. Not surprised that Mihawk isn't happy about the condition Crocodile set for Buggy. Can’t believe Crocodile is shocked that Buggy actually went up to the mountain to find that dangerous creature, boy thought the clown decided to stop trying (I’m sure Buggy tried many things before asking what he needed to do) Buggy definitely went up after grabbing all he needed, waiting until morning which is common sense.

Also, I don’t know why but I can see Buggy finding the beast having a thorn in its paw and helping the poor thing get the thorn out and bandaged it’s paw up (Of course Buggy brought a medical kit, he’s going to hunt a dangerous creature. Though that dangerous creature doesn’t seem to be a threat like everyone says it is. It’s adorable) and now Buggy has a guard animal.

The pack is relieved that Buggy is okay, and Crocodile is definitely sleeping on the couch for a while as he tries to win them back. Buggy isn't going to make it easy for Crocodile.

[cascadeclan-gen]

Moon 2

Pebblepaw slinks forward, eyes intent on the squirrel before him. Snowstar and Doveshade are watching from the undergrowth. Otterpaw and Hyssopbloom are cutting off the prey’s escape routes. Otterpaw is learning to coordinate group hunts, and Pebblepaw is honestly pretty bored of being part of it.

A breeze rustles the leaves and the squirrel sits up. It must have scented Hyssopbloom from her newly-upwind position. Pebblepaw leaps from where he is, but it’s too late and he can’t leap far enough. The animal scurries away from him - straight into Otterpaw’s claws. “Good catch!” Doveshade mews.

“That was a good jump, Pebblepaw,” Snowstar says. “It was far away, but you leapt as far as you could. You’ll get stronger with training and age. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Pebblepaw replies. Snowstar’s praise warms him. He pushes down a purr, determined to be the mature apprentice he wants to be.

“What can you do in the future to-“ Doveshade cuts herself off, suddenly alert like the squirrel moments ago. Pebblepaw looks to Snowstar, but hears the cries before he can ask the question.

Mistyfur bursts into the clearing. His breaths are short and quick and his eyes are wild, wide and unfocused. Doveshade is at his side in an instant, comforting her son. “Mistyfur, what’s going on?” Snowstar asks.

“Dog,” Mistyfur says, trembling. “Big. Sharp teeth.” Pebblepaw searches the forest around them for sharp teeth and huge paws. The twolegs usually kept them on leashes, but Pebblepaw had seen the massive beasts before. “My tail,” Mistyfur whimpers.

The small clearing they are in falls silent. Pebblepaw feels as though even the birds and the bugs are noticing that Mistyfur’s tail is mangled and bloody. He feels sick. Is this what being a warrior is? Red and sour?

“It’s coming,” Hyssopbloom says grimly. Pebblepaw can hear the rustling in the undergrowth, and realizes that it must be following the trail of sticky blood Mistyfur left.

Snowstar nods decisively. “Hyssopbloom, take Mistyfur somewhere safe. A thorn bush. Doveshade, with me. Otterpaw and Pebblepaw, stay back. Don’t get too close, but try to get a few hits in while we draw its focus if you can.”

Hyssopbloom begins hauling Mistyfur away, murmuring gently to him as the remaining warriors get into position. Otterpaw turns to Pebblepaw, eyes full of fire. “If I tell you to climb a tree, you climb,” the older apprentice says. Pebblepaw nods. My mother is smoke and stone and light. The wind is her breath and the rustling leaves are her voice, and she will love me and walk with me until the trees fall and the mountain crumbles and-

The dog breaks through the undergrowth, leaping straight for Doveshade. She yowls and goes for its eyes.

Pebblepaw had often thought of his first real battle, how he would feel strong and powerful. He thought it would be exciting. But he was terrified. The smell of blood filled the air and terror robbed him of any clarity beyond slashing out at dark fur when it came close to him. The fight could have been a few moments or a few moons, but when it was done, Snowstar curled around him and Pebblepaw slowly calmed.

“Who’s hurt?” Snowstar asked. Pebblepaw isn’t able to check himself for injuries well with Snowstar surrounding him, but doesn’t feel any pain, just a bone-deep exhaustion.

“Otterpaw has a scratch, and my ear was nicked, but we’re both okay,” Doveshade reports.

“Mistyfur and I are okay,” Hyssopbloom adds, guiding Mistyfur back into the clearing. The two of them are covered in burrs, and Mistyfur looks about to collapse.

Snowstar nods. “Otterpaw, run ahead and tell Skystripe what’s happened. Doveshade, you and I can support Mistyfur. Hyssopbloom, you and Pebblepaw take our rear. Let us know if you hear anything - that dog likely won’t come back, but we’ll want plenty of warning if it does.”

Otterpaw races off through the trees, and Pebblepaw begins walking slowly along with Hyssopbloom. The journey to camp is tense and quiet. Pebblepaw worries that every noise he hears is the dog returning, but Hyssopbloom is a calming presence at his side.

He doesn’t fully relax until they’re across the stepping stones. Skystripe gives them all directions that he doesn’t quite hear, but Hyssopbloom directs him gently with a tail over his shoulders. He watches Mistyfur collapse into a nest. The water had washed most of the blood off of his tail, and Pebblepaw briefly wondered if Bigmaw would come close to camp because of it.

Skystripe fusses over him, then says something to Hyssopbloom. The two talk for a bit, then Skystripe gives him a few leaves. “Pebblepaw,” she says gently. “Hey, kit. Can you hear me?”

Pebblepaw nods. “Yes. Skystripe, it was- it was so big,” he murmurs.

“I know, kit,” she replies, giving him a comforting lick. “Eat these leaves. They’ll help you calm down. Hyssopbloom is going to take you out so you can both have something to eat. Come back here if you feel unwell, okay, Pebblepaw?”

Pebblepaw nods, and lets Hyssopbloom guide him outside. She picks up a squirrel from the fresh-kill pile, and they settle in to eat, but Pebblepaw quickly becomes aware that something is poking his side. Hyssopbloom laughs as he shifts again. “Sorry, Pebblepaw! I’ve still got burrs in my fur. Maybe you can help me clean them out after we eat?”

He nods, and takes a bite of the prey. A warm breeze ruffles his fur, and he finally settles back into himself. He’s still here. The Clan is okay.

He made it through his first real fight. Like a true warrior.

Skystripe reluctantly moves from the Healer’s Den to the nursery. Pebblepaw always gives her his best catches.

Doveshade gets a runny nose.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Chapter 21 || Chapter 22 || Chapter 23 || From the Beginning || Patreon & Ko-Fi >>

Chapter 22

“How are you feeling today, Sorreltail?” In the quiet emptiness of the nursery, Shadepool felt like she was shouting. The tightly-woven walls were thick, stopping any noise from the outside world from getting in. It was its own little world, warm and comfortable away from danger, perfect for raising the Clan's little ones.

“Better,” Sorreltail admitted. She nestled deeper into her nest, which Sun had made for her. The Tribe she-cat had scoured the territory for anything remotely useable. Sorreltail chuckled ruefully, “It's certainly easier to get sleep without listening to Graystripe snoring all night...”

Shadepool twitched her whiskers with amusement. She sniffed Sorreltail's flank. “Everything seems to be alright,” she reported. “I'm glad you're getting more sleep.”

“I didn't want to move in so early, but I guess I can't complain.” The tortoiseshell she-cat stretched out one of her legs, flexing her claws. There was a look of guilt on her face. “Of all the times to be confined to the nursery, though, huh?”

Shadepool grimaced. The news of yesterday's disastrous attempt at parley had spread through the camp like wildfire. Outside this quiet haven, preparations for war were now going at double speed, with every cat who wasn't laid up in the medicine cat's den on their paws strengthening the thorn barrier, patrolling, training, or hunting. Anything to weather the storm coming their way.

“I can't believe WindClan thinks they can drive us out,” Sorreltail hissed. “And over something we didn't even do!” She looked to Shadepool, eyes bright with indignation in the gloom. “StarClan can't want this, right?”

Shadepool's tail trembled, and she tucked it out of Sorreltail's sight. “No,” she answered, calm as she could, “they certainly don't.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Sorreltail wondered. Her own tail lashed. “None of us would ever murder someone - are we supposed to just pick out one of us and pretend they did it?”

“Of course not!” Shadepool breathed, deeply troubled by the idea. “Tinystar would never allow that!” Grimly, she pointed out, “I don't think Mudstar would fall for it, anyway.”

“Probably not,” Sorreltail agreed. She lowered her muzzle to the edge of her nest and sighed. “Shade... I'm so scared.”

Shadepool felt a pang of sorrow for her. She traced her tail-tip down her friend's spine. “It'll be okay, Sorrel,” she murmured.

“Sun is worried that our kits might never know her kin in the mountains,” Sorreltail mewed on. “But if WindClan drives us out, they won't even know ThunderClan. They'll have no one at all.”

Shadepool didn't know what to say to that. Her mouth felt dry. The idea of ThunderClan, the cats she knew and loved so dearly, scattered to the winds, lost and confused and without one another, was horrifying. She recalled hearing a story of a Clan that had faced a similar fate from her father, cats who lived by a cliffside far from the old forest after they had been driven away.

Where would we go? she wondered. The old forest was probably gone by now, and life in the mountains would be very difficult. Would StarClan follow us somewhere else?

“Hey,” Sorreltail offered. She nudged Shadepool's paw with her own. “If I'm okay, I don't mean to keep you from your other duties.”

Shadepool dipped her head in gratitude. She touched her nose to Sorreltail's ear and mewed, “Try to get some sunshine when you feel up to it. It's good for you.”

Sorreltail shifted in her nest. “Will do,” she promised.

Shadepool slid out of the nursery. In sharp contrast to the dark, gloomy warmth, the stone hollow was blindingly bright and chilly, alive with the motion and chatter of cats preparing for the inevitable conflict. Between all the noise, Shadepool could hear the trilling of birds and the trickle of meltwater as it ran down the rocky walls. Earthy scents filled her nose, while the sun warmed her back.

Newleaf had officially begun.

Quickly, Shadepool trotted into the clearing. As she wound around the fallen tree, she spotted Sun and her patrol depositing some prey onto the fresh-kill pile. Sun grabbed a pair of mice and passed Shadepool, nodding to her as she made her way into the nursery.

Cinderpelt had taken over for Dustpelt, directing Ferncloud as they worked together to reinforce the thorn barrier. Some cat must have gone out to dig up more materials, as there was a large pile of sticks and torn-up bushes near the camp entrance that the two were using. Shadepool bet herself that she would be pulling splinters from their pads before sunhigh.

Snowmelt had flooded the glade in the forest, so training had to be moved into the camp, even for Spiderpaw and Mousefur, who were practicing battle moves over by the apprentice's den. Across the clearing, by the tumble of stones Shadepool had used to sneak out of camp, Mistyfoot was tussling with Rainwhisker while Sootfur and Cloudtail looked on.

Shadepool flinched as she watched Mistyfoot deliver a fierce mock bite to Rainwhisker's shoulder. Rainwhisker yowled something, and the two parted, panting, and at Mistyfoot's signal, Cloudtail and Sootfur replaced them.

Shivering, Shadepool looked away. She had learned a few basic battle moves on the journey to meet Midnight, but nothing like that. Much as she itched to use her claws at times, Shadepool was certain she'd never be able to deliver hard blows like a warrior could.

A dark shape flickered in the corner of her vision. Atop the Highledge was Tinystar, perched above his Clan, his eyes piercing. He didn't seem to be looking at any one thing in particular, but Shadepool knew her father was searching for any sign of trouble as if he could feel every bit of his territory in his paws.

Did he even sleep last night? she wondered. She had delivered his poppy seed - one of their last few - but she hadn't the time to see her father take it, and its potency was questionable at best now.

Not wanting to be caught in her father's gaze, Shadepool put on some speed and, a moment later, slid past the dry lichen and into the medicine cat cave.

A low moan greeted her.

Shadepool's ears pricked. Brackenfur was bent over Dustpelt, pressing a bundle of soaked moss into his throat wound. Dustpelt moaned again, his eyes glazed with pain. The cave smelled slightly sour, making Shadepool's pelt prickle.

“Infection?” she hissed, sliding up to Brackenfur. Whitewing was resting across the cave, and Shadepool didn't want to wake her unnecessarily.

Brackenfur nodded confirmation, his expression grim.

“He was fine when I woke up!” Shadepool breathed. “How...?”

She looked down at Dustpelt. His fur was matted around his wound, which was oozing blood and pus at a sluggish pace. The brown tabby tom bared his teeth at Brackenfur when the medicine cat dragged the moss down the wound again.

He must've opened it in his sleep somehow, Shadepool thought.

“Check Whitewing,” Brackenfur ordered.

Wordlessly, Shadepool obeyed, crossing the cave to see the young white she-cat. Her nose was buried beneath the ginger stripes of her tail, and a quick sniff told Shadepool that, unlike Dustpelt, her belly wound was free of infection. From what she could tell, the wound was healing well. Whitewing was sleeping soundly, and Shadepool didn't want to do anything more that could wake her.

“Whitewing is fine,” Shadepool reported. She joined Brackenfur at the back of the den, where the shallow pool of water trickled in from the forest above. Thankfully, the snowmelt hadn't caused it to flood. “What do we do for Dustpelt? Sweet-sedge? Sorrel?”

“We're out,” Brackenfur told her, “of both.”

Shadepool's ears pricked in shock. “Completely?”

Brackenfur nodded, pressing a ball of fresh moss into the water. “Whitewing's wounds haven't displayed any sign of infection yet, so she can do without, but Dustpelt...”

Dustpelt groaned again. Shadepool grimaced at the sound. She suggested, “Perhaps we should move Whitewing to the elder's den, then, so she can keep resting? No one's there at the moment.”

“We should, yes,” Brackenfur agreed.

“What about poppy seeds?” Shadepool wondered. There had to be some way to ease Dustpelt's pain. “How many are left?”

Brackenfur sighed. “Some, but they're not strong enough anymore.”

Shadepool took a deep, quavering breath. “Juniper, then?”

“Weak, too, in this case - but there's more of them than the poppy,” Brackenfur mused. “Fetch some.”

Shadepool nodded and got to her paws. In a few steps, she was ducking into the storage cave. Even by scent alone she knew it was perilously empty, but she grabbed a pawful of the shriveled juniper berries in her teeth and brought them out to Brackenfur, who was still dabbing at Dustpelt's wound.

Dropping the berries beside Dustpelt, Shadepool touched her nose to his, pulling away when she felt how warm it was. Concerned, she rolled a few of the misshapen juniper berries over to his muzzle. He lapped at one or two, grunting as he swallowed.

Shadepool was about to open her mouth to speak when she heard paws scuffing on stone. Turning, she spotted Ashfur and Larchpaw at the entrance to the cave.

“Brackenfur? Shadepool? Are you in?” Ashfur called.

A quick sniff told her there was no blood, but something clearly wasn't right. She was just about to ask why they were here when Larchpaw began to cough. Shadepool could hear his lungs rattling from a tail-length away.

StarClan help us, she thought, a cold feeling washing over her spine. Is that whitecough? Now, of all times?

“He was sniffling all morning, and I thought it might've been allergies,” Ashfur sighed, looking down at his apprentice worriedly. “But when he tried to chase a bird, he lost his breath almost immediately.”

Shadepool flicked her tail to one of the free nests, away from Whitewing and Dustpelt, and Ashfur guided Larchpaw there. When Larchpaw laid down, Shadepool heard him wheeze.

“How are you feeling, Ashfur?” Shadepool asked as she leaned in to test Larchpaw's temperature.

“Fine,” Ashfur said, “but I know how quick this stuff can spread...”

Larchpaw's fever was obvious, but not at whitecough levels yet, which Shadepool thanked StarClan for. Perhaps it actually was just allergies from the new growth or a chill from underestimating the warmth of newleaf, like young cats often did.

She suggested as much to Ashfur, who looked relieved. “He needs rest,” Shadepool told him. “A few days, and he'll be fine.”

“That's good,” Ashfur said, exhaling gratefully. “Ferncloud would have my tail if anything happened to him...”

Ashfur left quickly, probably due to patrol or training. Shadepool sighed and fluffed up Larchpaw's nest to help him retain as much warmth as he could. They didn't have any feverfew, coltsfoot, or even catmint, and while the juniper would help ease his coughing, what they had just wasn't strong enough, and Dustpelt needed it, too.

Brackenfur had finally stopped tending to Dustpelt and was back at the pool, washing his paws. She joined him and explained what had happened to Larchpaw, keeping her voice low. She felt her mentor stiffen at the news.

“That could become whitecough very quickly,” he sighed. “If it isn't there already.”

“I know,” Shadepool agreed. She tried to keep her fur from bristling with alarm. “We need herbs.”

“Nothing is growing.”

“Not for us, yet,” Shadepool suggested carefully, “but for the other Clans...”

Brackenfur's eyes flashed. “We have no idea of how their herb stores are faring. There's no guarantee they'd have anything to help, and they've their own Clanmates to aid!”

“It's better than sitting and waiting for plants to grow,” Shadepool pointed out. She felt heat flash beneath her fur. “That could take over a moon! We don't have that kind of time, especially with WindClan's ultimatum.”

Brackenfur hesitated to respond, flattening his ears.

Shadepool pressed on while she had the space to do so: “Ryewhisper can't - or won't - help us, but Littlecloud? Mothwing? They would, for sure! And while I'm gone, we can send a patrol to look for more herbs on our territory. This way, there are at least two chances of some cat finding something that could help!”

There was a long silence punctuated by Larchpaw's wheezing and Dustpelt's occasional groans of pain. Shadepool's heart was in her throat - did Brackenfur trust her like he claimed? Enough for this?

Brackenfur stared her in the eye, clearly thinking - and then, finally, blessedly: “Do it.”

There was no time to waste. Shadepool shot off, bursting out of the medicine cat's cave and into the clearing. Everything was as it had been that morning, though as she headed for the Highledge, Shadepool spotted Brightheart, Silverstream, and Nightfrost returning from a patrol.

She had wanted to talk to her brother about what had happened yesterday, but there just hadn't been an opportunity, and there certainly wasn't one now. While he was greeted Mistyfoot, Shadepool was clambering up to the Highledge to meet her father.

Tinystar noticed her instantly, and the urgency of her expression had him ask, “What is it?” within a heartbeat.

Quickly, Shadepool explained what was happening and her plan. She was surprised it had come out so coherently, with how breathless she was from scrambling up to the Highledge. Tinystar listened intently, his eyes flickering in thought.

“Very well,” he decided. “But you're not to go alone.”

Shadepool hesitated. “But-”

Tinystar yowled, “Nightfrost!”

Shadepool swallowed. Nightfrost? She watched the small, black shape of her brother part from Mistyfoot and begin to head toward the Highledge. She knew what her father was thinking, and she could only wonder if her littermate would even want to come with her after everything they had endured recently.

“I can go alone,” Shadepool insisted, “it would be quicker!”

“If you run into danger, you will be vulnerable,” Tinystar reasoned predictably, “and you'll need a spare mouth to carry anything you're given. Not to mention...”

Nightfrost had scrambled up to the Highledge by then, and, panting, he asked, “What's going on?” He glanced between Shadepool and Tinystar and wondered, “Everything okay?”

“Shadepool needs to visit ShadowClan and RiverClan for herbs,” Tinystar explained. “I want you to go with her and do something else for me along the way.”

“What?” Nightfrost asked, his gaze narrowing slightly.

“I want you to speak to Russetstar and Leopardstar, and tell them about WindClan's threat,” Tinystar explained. His ice-blue eyes narrowed slightly. “I need them to know what ThunderClan is facing, and I need to know if we will have their aid, should the worst come to pass.”

Shadepool stared at her father. Of course, it made sense now. If any cat could convince the other leaders to help ThunderClan, it would be Nightfrost! She was certain he had made friends in every Clan thanks to his willingness to help during the Great Journey.

Yet Shadepool didn't need their connection restored to see that the idea unsettled Nightfrost. The events of the day before had clearly upset him. He shifted on his paws and suggested, “Mistyfoot would do far better than I would, Father...”

“I need Mistyfoot here to help prepare,” Tinystar said resolutely. “No, Nightfrost, you are the best choice. Not the second-best, either.” He didn't wait for Nightfrost to protest any further: “Go, now. StarClan speed you both on your way - ThunderClan depends on you.”

[loderlied]

what are zeke and the companions’ dynamics like? what are their first impressions of each other?

and why does minthara leave in act 3? (i mean the answer’s fairly obvious but it’ll sound better from you)

i uhhhhmm have to replay the game to give you accurate answers for everyone because a lot has changed since my first playthrough 6 months ago but i think the only ones that will stay relatively the same is his dynamic with shadowheart.

so, zeke and her are very enemies to ‘lovers’ basically lmao. zeke is skittish and extremely mean to everyone, but especially someone like shadowheart, who is not afraid to bite back against his bullshit, makes him act out. she offers him her last healing potion one time because he’s (as usual) more injured than her and he shatters it against the ground, thinking he’s being so clever by exposing her attempt to poison her.

when you ask him why he’s letting her stick around, or more accurately, sticking around her, he’d spit in your face, grunt and walk away, but really he comes to see her as a big comfort. someone who lost his memory like him. he almost sees it as distraction from his own memory loss, figuring out her ‘case’ so to speak. she’s also a cleric, and subconsciously i think zeke just deeply wishes for some healing, y’know. even if the wounds gortash inflicted/inflicts on him are not able to healed, it’s a nice thought i think. and most importantly: shadowheart, besides just seeing the wild freedom in zeke she never really had in her life and coming around to finding it absolutely beautiful like a raging storm is beautiful (her being afraid of wolves but then finding the beauty in them do you get it), sees that smart, fiery young man who gives 110% to everything he does. and she wants to believe that there is good in him, too. that he is a person. a person who is capable of loving her back. those last things are not true of course, but zeke is so extremely drawn to people who have a ‘i can fix him’ mentality about him, people who are good/things he could never be, because to some degree, he WANTS to be fixed. he WANTS to be normal and he wants to love and do things normal boys do. have crushes and go on dates and get married and have kids. but that’s him dreaming and really just hiding from gortash. he’s someone who hides in the shadows quite a bit, and this is no different. because if he really was capable of being the person shadowheart believes he could be, then he wouldn’t be gortash’s/the machine’s antithesis/archnemesis as the wild anymore.

i really like the ‘wolf who has been on the hunt for so long that its paws are bloody resting on a flowerbed temporarily and involuntarily crushing the flowers during this before getting up again’ imagery for them… like, zeke is not a good partner. he’s horrible. shadowheart i am so sorry… it’s like hugging a wall of thorns….

but again in between all this heartbreaking stuff there’s also lots of moments in which zeke genuinely gets close to feeling happiness for the first time in (t)his life (insert gortash seething behind the scrying eyes control board here) and also just. lots of shenanigans. zeke has 5 charisma and is just so painfully awkward and awful. sometimes he just crawls into her tent in the middle of the night and just like. watches her while chewing on his fingernails or something and when she wakes up and ask him what tf he’s doing he’s just like. ‘being…boyfriend…?’ like. god.

shadowheart about him is basically that one post that’s like. ‘yeah it’s rotten work. especially if it’s you i’ll fucking do it but christ alive’ and she NOTHING but pain and suffering for it!!! because that’s what happens when you get involved in that bullshit in any way sigh

also while gortash does not like this situation, he has no ill will towards shadowheart actually, that all goes to zeke as usual. he sees it for what is: zeke dreaming, attempting to hide from him in some way, pretending to be something he’s not. he punishes zeke for that alone. he will drag him out of the shadows into his searing light & their war as he always does.

he does have a conversation with shadowheart (in an emotional outburst she tries to assassinate him for what he did to zeke the night prior and he’s of course aware of her breaking in and all but lets her get through into his room in which he’s waiting for her with a cup of tea lol) and he’s basically telling her that he doesn’t care what happens to her, but that he won’t have to do anything about her transgressions tonight because zeke is going to kill her sooner than later. she ultimately stays with zeke and gortash, zeke expert 9000, is of course right, but again, does not give 2 shits about shadowheart, maybe even preferred this outcome because it caused zeke more suffering.

edit: they are so ‘i love you’ ‘it’ll pass’ coded. sorry

[jaybird3756]

My character Daystar’s warrior cats redesign! On the left is his younger design and the right is his older version.

Daykit was born to the leader and his mate along with his sister Nightkit. They were two adorable little kits, one bright orange and the other black.

When they were 5 moons old Daykit and Nightkit snuck out of camp to play by the stream. Daykit found some large pieces of bark that floated and the kits would take turns riding on the bark down the stream, then hopping off and dragging their makeshift boat back upstream to do it again. While they were doing this, Nightkit didn’t hop off in time and the bark kept floating down to a faster and deeper part of the stream. She hung on for dear life but was swept away. Daykit tried to swim after her but he nearly drowned and wandered back to camp soaking wet, scratched up, and without his sister.

Both his parents were furious and angry at him and this began the long period of them giving their only remaining kit the silent treatment.

Daypaw was stuck doing menial work for moons as an apprentice. He would hide burrs and thorns in bedding, offer cats spoiled prey, and lure other cats into danger as revenge. He was never allowed to be alone with any other kits or ‘paws and always was supervised by a warrior. His mentor taught him the bare minimum of hunting and battle training. He loved battle training and would train with any cat who was willing. Other cats would offer to train with him just for the sake of getting to beat him up. He learned a lot that way and was very good with his claws.

By the time he was 14 moons, his dad (leader) still refused to make Daypaw a warrior. He felt that Daypaw did not deserve to be a warrior for what he’d done to Nightkit as well as the trouble he continued to cause and all the fights he picked. Daypaw was very insulted and troubled that he was still an apprentice and warriors younger than him got to boss him around.

During an argument, Day decided he’d had enough and attacked the leader. It was a brutal fight and Day had to viciously tear his father apart again and again, tearing life after life out of his own dad’s body. Day’s father clawed Day’s left eye and right shoulder badly, but even that wasn’t enough to stop him.

When Day finally tore his father’s throat out with his fangs, all he felt was joy and freedom.

The deputy and several warriors threatened Day, who gave them the choice to join him or their previous leader. The deputy wanted to tear Day’s fur off, but they weren’t quite brave enough to attack a cat who had just killed a leader 6 times.

Daystar left to get his nine lives before his dad’s body had even cooled. In the clans in this setting, a leader’s kits usually succeed the leader, so the deputy did not have the right to challenge Daystar anyways. The clan’s medicine cat refused to go with a murderer to the moonpool, so Daystar took the medicine cat apprentice instead.

After receiving his nine lives Daystar came back and took over his clan. His mother was distraught and after the vigil for her mate, she left the clan and was found dead by the thunder path two days later.

Daystar was not a good leader or a good cat. He picked fights with other clans, encouraged his cats to steal prey, made his clan and apprentices focus on battle training and brutal ways to fight. (It is rumored that he trained in the dark forest and passed their tricks down to his cats)

But he was lonely after pushing everyone away and making so many enemies. He left the clan for a while and followed the stream, seeking to correct the one thing he regretted doing. He knew his sister was alive and would follow the stream and search until he found her, or got bored of looking.

The stream led down to a twoleg place where Daystar met an aggressive gang of rogues led by a giant mangy black cat with a smushed face. His name was Alley Cat or just Al for short. Al had information about a little black cat that was swept down the stream a while back. He wanted something in exchange and Daystar just threatened and insulted him right back, which pissed off the whole gang of Rogues. They let him leave, but pointed him in the direction of a huge pack of feral dogs instead.

Daystar of course got attacked by the dogs and fought hard, but he didn’t know the territory like they did and just when it was looking like he’d lose more than one life, a slender black kitty jumped down from a ledge and distracted the dogs and yelled at Daystar telling him how to get away.

When they were both safe, Daystar told this cat who he was looking for and she introduced herself as Night. They realized that they were siblings and Daystar had finally found his sister. Night was angry that she grew up all alone and away from her family and smacked Daystar hard. When she asked about their parents and found out what happened to them, she clawed him even harder.

She wanted nothing to do with him and didn’t want to go back with him, but she had wanted a family and a home her whole life, so after some deliberation she decided to go home with Daystar.

Alley Cat was not pleased that his betrayal of Daystar hadn’t led to his death by the dogs and was even less pleased that smug wild cat had gotten exactly what he wanted too. The rogues attacked the two and Night was able to use her knowledge of how to get around twolegplace to fight the rogues and escape but Daystar was facing Alley Cat one on one. Daystar was nearly mauled for the second time that week and Al ripped his claws through Daystar’s back, trying to claw out his spine. Night came to her brothers rescue and saved his life. The two of them turned the tide against Alley Cat and while Night wanted to escape while they could, Daystar wasn’t willing to let Al live and come after them. Badly wounded and losing blood, Daystar attacked. They wrestled, both willing to fight to the death until Daystar grabbed a sharp piece of scrap from the ground in his teeth and rammed it into Al’s belly, jerking his head back and forth until the bigger cat died. The rest of the rogues scattered.

Daystar and Night left the twoleg place and started limping their way back to the clans. Night had to hunt for Daystar for several days due to his injuries. Daystar thought about his sister’s bravery and willingness to take care of her kin, and her hunting and fighting skills. He told her about clan life, the warrior code and his story as her kithood memories began to come back. He let her help him pick her warrior name and officially named her Nightshade.

She would be introduced to the clan as his long lost warrior sister. His behavior and the way he treated his clan mates and other clans disgusted her and it wasn’t long before she ran away, being taken in by another clan.

After all of that Daystar was alone again and was angry, throwing himself into unnecessary battles and wars with other clans. Eventually he starts to realize that the other clan didn’t steal his sister, she left because of him. He runs away and spends a few moons at the edges of clan territory, wondering why starclan even gave him his nine lives. He tried to become a better cat and waited until Starclan sent him a sign that he could return to lead his clan.

Time in isolation has mellowed him out but he was also more wary of other cats and out of touch with what was going on in the clans. He begged Nightshade to come back to his clan, told her that he needed her, and that he had changed and they could lead together. She reluctantly came back and became Daystar’s deputy but acted more like a co-leader. Daystar relied on her heavily, looking for her approval on every action to make sure he wasn’t slipping back into his destructive, crazy ways.

A fire started in the forest and spread into their camp. Daystar and Nightshade helped the apprentices and warriors, who could escape the fire and falling branches easily. The medicine cats tried to save their herbs and elders and queens struggled to get through the raging inferno. Daystar plunged back into the flaming camp again and again, determined to save every single cat. There was still a trapped queen and elder when the fire collapsed the camp entrance they had escaped through. Daystar wouldn’t give up and leaped over the wall of fire, disappearing back into the camp. He found the trapped cats; they all took a kit and frantically looked for an exit. They were in the process of shimmying out a small break in the fire when Daystar heard a cracking and leaped on top of the queen to shield her just as a flaming branch fell on them. Daystar’s face was hit and badly burned but the queen and kits were safe and they all made it out and back to the others before he allowed himself to collapse.

Daystar woke in the medicine den with cobwebs all over his face and body, his paws wrapped with burdock. He was left with a horrible scar on his face and blinded in his right eye where the branch hit him. The scar represents the final part of his redemption.

[cat-alyzing]

The Tribe of Rushing Water: Culture

The main Tribe is from the group that followed Half Moon all the way back at the ancient Lake Tribe, after the hard journey through the mountain they followed the great stream to the Star Falls with their sacred cavern behind its veil of water. Since the mountain top is harsh especially in the colder seasons they keep their original tradition of traveling across the mountain as the seasons change. There are four camps they go between. In Greenleaf they stay in the middle of the mountain in particular at the tree rock where prey is growing and the sun is warm, in Newleaf they go down to the valley on the other side of the mountain to hunt young prey, in Leaffall they stay near the streams to catch fish as well as being closer to their next site, being in Leafbare where they stay at the great cavern to shelter while its coldest.

They have a system of leadership where they follow the chosen spiritual guide called the Speaker for the Stars. Every Speaker has a chosen pupil or pupils that will take their mantle if they pass away. Their is multiple cats trained in healing within the tribe and those not usually get a simple guide on plants for safety. Cats able to harvest valuable herbs are needed in a place where plants are harder to grow. Besides the medics the rest of the cats who are not still paws just hunt, protect, guard, or fix up the camp.

When a Speaker is made Speaker for the Stars they drop their original name to fully become a tool for the ancestors to speak through them. Half Moon became the first Speaker for the Stars when she made the Tribe of Rushing Water and marked the Cave of Pointed Stone where the speaker specifically goes to get a direct connection to their ancestors.

To-be’s, hunters, and fighters are stripped away. There’s grown cats, medics, and paws + the Speaker and their pupil/s

They kept their coming of age event but any cat at around 14-20 moons participates in a three day travel where they hunt or gather then bring back whatever they found to present to the Speaker for the Stars who will either give them their full name based on their skills or decline them, where they can either wander away or retry next moon.

Onto the names. Every tribe cat has a base name usually of a basic object, plant, animal, or descriptive world. When they pass their ceremony they are given a two part name based on their skills or special attribute.

So a few examples:

Brook with Minnows was named Pebble at birth but gained her name for bringing back many fish along with a beautiful river stone

Feather of Hawk was named Downy at birth but gained his name for bringing a many hawk bones and feathers from a carcass

Talons of Eagle was named Stone at birth but gained his name for bring back a downed eagle

Thorn that Grows was named for the three ceremonies he went through before bringing back a prize of useful brambles and herbs

But most cats often go by their first name like Brook, Feather or Talon. Siblings of a cat or their parents may sometimes call a cat by their birth name as a show of their care though no cat outside of their immediate family is allowed to do this without it coming off as demeaning, disrespectful or overly aggressive.

Courtship is a big thing. A cat who wants to court another often makes little gifts of accessories like bones, feathers, flowers, less useful herbs. If agreed to the cats will go to the Speaker and have a ceremony before the falls to announce their love to the stars themselves. If two cats want to separate they will throw their gifts down into the falls to break it off.

Falconry is a thing specific to the Tribe of Rushing Water and is done by the best hunters who have trained raptors since young eggs to catch prey quickly and bring them back. Usually done more in Newleaf or Leaffall it is a present tradition for falconers to take their raptors out and bring back a feast of prey to eat to either mark the end of winter or fatten for the coming cold. Most often done with Hen Harriers or Red Kites though some tell stories of great falconers who had eagles or even buzzards as catchers.

The main falconer is Talon with his beloved male hen harrier nicknamed Windrider for his great swooping abilities and affinity for catching things in flight

Heron in Flight has her older female red kite called Caringwatcher for distinct connection to Heron and her kittens, that Care would curiously watch over while Heron grabbed food, bedding, or cleaned up

Chestnut Hawk Swoops has a younger red kite called Chatterfeather for her affinity for trilling at her or Flight’s hawk Care who she was trained with when young

At last the Tribe of Stars is the afterlife connected to the falls of the cavern, spirits who want to reach out will through a cat touching the sacred water but they cannot leave their waterways. Any cat who passes is weighed down with rocks into the middle basin of the river to be accepted into their afterlife. Those who have been disowned by the Tribe are left for scavengers to rip their body apart, no funeral, no words about them beside a curse for them to be stuck in a unsteady afterlife for the rest of their lives said by the Speaker as their abandoned. Stronger spirits connect best when the stars reflect onto the water directly, a idea coming from their old lake territory and Sparkling Pool where it worked by the reflection of the stars and moon’s light. The Speaker for the Stars is directed by the past Speakers on coming events, solutions, and which cats would be good pupils through the pool created in the Cave of Pointed Stones from the dripping reside of the waterfall.

[the-determined-sparks-au]

Racoonpaw and Turtlenose!

Racoonpaw

1: Racoonpaw doesn't mind that he was born from the outside, found alone beside his sister on the edge of the territory as kits, cause Rosetail's love is enough. While his sister, who allowed Thistleclaw's words about being chase out if they didn't show they were worth the prey that they were given made her thrive for a role that wil keep them in the Clowder, Racconpaw was fine with just being in the background. Cause he has Rosetail's love, and he knew that she would never allow them to be chase out.

2. Sometimes though he wishes that he was Rosetail's child by blood and sometimes he likes to imagine he is. Their tails were the same, though Rosetail's was covered in scales and was lighter in color.

3.He loved helping the monarch push in more brambles into the nursery, listening to Thrushnose and Specklescorch on which way was the saftest for the kits inside but was dangerous to those who tried to attack. He was ecstatic when the Bishop gave him not only a Warrior who was focus on crafting but the Bishop's Guard himself Sparrowsong. He didn't let it go to his head, but he felt a bit of pride that he was given to someone so immportant...though he could do without the stares burning into his scales

4. He never liked fighting, and fighting over the stones just push more of that into his heart. Let him hunt, let him weave thorns and brambles, but actually clawing someone? No, feeling the blood on his claws sicken him. And he felt complete disgust as he stared into the prone form of Stonepaw, whose ears he had just torn, the dissaproving look of Softwing, he didn't even feel Sparrowsong nudging him away. He finally came to himself later, and then felt more disgust when Thistleclaw compliment on how he taught the Riverglade apprentice to think again on trepassing on their stones.

5. When he met Stonepaw again, during the night of a Gathering, he sputter out apologies. But the other just laughed and told him to pay no mind, that the next time he will return the favor. Racconpaw did not understand why he felt so warm when he stared at them, while his heart flutter at that smirk. But he pushed it out of his mind and called him a fish-face.

Turtlenose

Before Thundergrowth, his name was Ethan, and he grew up in a group. It was so different than the Clowders, always moving, never staying in one place for too long...and he hated it. He hated how his paws were always so sore, even when he was sitting down. When his group were staying for a break he met Adderfang, who saved him from an adder...when he learned of the Clowders, a place where he can stay but still have freedom and saftey? He never looked back, never hesitated.

2. Sheepear, Hedgehogtail, Jaygrowl and Thistleclaw almost made him regret his decision. He never realizes that the Clowders were so hostile to those who happily join them. He hated the looks, the whispers, the jeers. But...he had Stonefall, Fuzzybush, Hazeflight and Waspeye to back him up, to cheer him on. And when Bishop Goosefeather gave him praise and thank him for his loyalty, he felt giddiness at the looks of shock on his bullies faces.

3. He was name Turtle at first for how shy he was when he first enter Thundergrowth, it then gain a new meaning when he rally up a group to regain Loonflower's three kits that were taken by their father, Reedfeather of Windmoor. He gain the title nose for his excellence tracking skills which he put to good use during the Great Famine, even though he wishes there were more he could had done.

4. He never expected to fall in love with anyone. But one day, passing the border of Startovden and seeing Sablewhisker, back then Clarisse, he couldn't help but stumble. Hearing her laugh as he gets to his paws instead of a scream of fear made him feel warmth. He never expected someone, who while a Drifter like he was once one, but from a group who was friendly to the Kingdoms who find him anything but scary. But he never smells fear from her, never saw disgust. And his heart soar when she decided to join, to be with him. And he lived up to his name, always being by her side, protecting her from those who would wish her to flee.

5. Sometimes he wishes he thought before he charges into something. Sometimes he wishes that he had turned around and refuse the offer, sometimes he wishes that he had the same urge as his family to keep moving. But when he steps into the nursery, staring at the two small bodies curl up and wiggling next to Sablewhisker's belly, watching them grow up to be two brave strong warriors, watching one of them have kits of their own...he learns that he doesn't have to regret everything of his choice...not when it gave him his friends and family.

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

One of Us is a Killer (part 2)

Continuation of: https://www.tumblr.com/residents-of-the-darkforest/738940160410058752/one-of-us-is-a-killer?source=share

=======

Going solely on what kin say in Lifegen every six moons, we build a story, and, more importantly, a resident

Please feel free to comment your interpretations of what is happening or your thoughts on the characters!

Who are your suspects so far?

Main character: Burnetshriek -- Lonesome

Mother: Wetfish (deceased) -- Wise

Mom: Beaverspeckle -- Adventurous

Sister: Midgefreckle -- Calm

Brother: Yewstripe -- Strict

Brother: Privetdusk (deceased) -- Ambitious

Mate: Heathertree -- Loving

Daughter: Batkit -- Noisy -> Sneaky

Son: Yarrowkit -- Attention-seeker

Son: Rubblekit -- Troublesome

Son: Jaggedkit -- Honest -> Righteous

Side note: [....] in speech indicates that Burnetshriek has said something.

Bonus side note: orange highlights previously indicated that something was not directed at Burnetshriek or didn't have to do with her. Now, it's for text that is a repeated conversation.

MOON 60 (kits are 5):

Mom: *Cough* *Wheeze* [Breathing is short and staggered]

.

Midgefreckle: *Sigh*..."Hi, Burnetshriek. [....] Hm? I just got back from a hunting patrol....I utterly embarrassed myself. I had a mouse literally walk into my paws and I still failed to grab it. [....] Hm. Yes, that's true. I'm not going to always succeed, the best thing I can do is get back up and get back to it. You're right, Burnetshriek. You're always right. Thank you."

.

Yewstripe: [Having an outburst with Leafpaw]. "Seriously? Thorns in my nest, again? I swear to StarClan, you must be the most irritating, empty-headed apprentice--Oh, Burnetshriek, it's you. What is it? Do you need anything? [....] I'll be right there, just let me finish this first. [Burnetshriek holds back a laugh at the apprentice's shock at the sudden switch-up].

.

Heathertree: "Whenever you're feeling overwhelmed, find me. We can sit under the stars and watch Silverpelt. [....] I always find it helps. It's calming, knowing all of our ancestors watching over us."

.

Bat: "Jawswipe just told me the funniest joke ever! It went like -- heehee -- how did the *snrk* - how did the - AHAHAHA!!!!"

.

Yarrow: "Burnetshriek...I'm so...sleepy *yawns* It's still early.....I said I was gonna play with Breezekit at sunhigh, but that's so far away, and if I go to sleep now, I won't be able to play with him...Oh Burnetshriek, what will I do?" [Burnet promises to wake them]. "You will? Oh Burnetshriek, thank you, thank you, thank you! This is why we're the bestest of friends! [Yarrow dramatically falls into the nest, and later trips over his paws when running to his friend].

.

Rubble: "Burnetshriek!!!!" [Rubble sprints across camp and tackles Burnet with a squeal, clambering all over her fur].

.

Jagged: [Burnet likes making a game of counting all of Jagged's toes while he sleeps. Burnet thinks that he is a perfect, darling kit].

Bonus: Wetfish wants to talk to a medicine cat. Maybe her mate?

.

.

MOON 66:

Burnet's apprentice is Storkpaw.

Mom: "I met some kittypets on patrol today. StarClan, I gave them a scare! One look at my 'mean' face and they went mewling back home to their Twolegs like little kits running into the nursery! Bahahahahaha!"

Bonus: apprentice is Sappaw.

.

Midgefreckle: "Hey, Burnetshriek. How are you? [....] I'm absolutely okay, I'm not up to much here, just catwatching, as usual. [....] Huh? You think I should get to know the other cats, instead of watching? Oh, I'm just fine here! I don't talk to the others, it's just how it is....! [....] You'd think I'd get on with Birdstar? You think? [....]...Hm. I suppose I'll have to go and talk to them, at some point. You've never guided me wrong."

Bonus: apprentice is Chivepaw.

.

Yewstripe: "What's that? You want to know how I'm...feeling? [...] Hmph. You should know by now that I don't do the whole 'feeings' thing. But, if you want to know so badly, I guess I'm feeling...Worried. And tired. But also on edge. And hungry. But, I'm sort of full, too...hm...See, this is why I don't talk about my feelings. I'm not good at it."

Bonus: previously mentored Maplefern.

.

Heathertree: "Oh, hey, Burnetshriek, can I talk to you about something? [...] I saw a rogue out on patrol today. I managed to chase him off the territory, but then I got carried away, and...well, I kept following him. I don't know what I was trying to do. He just kept making me so angry! Calling me weak...calling me a failure...saying I was a disappointment to my Clan. Eventually, I realized what I was doing, and I let him go. But I couldn't stop thinking about those things he said...Sorry. What am I doing? I'm being such a downer today...Thanks for being here for me, Burnetshriek." [Heather presses their head into Burnet's shoulder and sighs into their fur].

.

Bat: [Accidently slips while walking across camp. Without missing a beat, Bat catches herself, spins on her paws, and continues walking with a flick of her tail. How does she manage to make falling look cool?]

Bonus: mentor is Hillstep.

.

Yarrow: Previously killed by a fox at 7 moons old.

.

Rubble: [Jagged and Rubble laugh together, talking about stories Burnetshriek used to tell them in the nursery. Burnet considers telling them stories they missed, but decides not to ruin the moment].

Bonus: mentor is Heathertree.

.

Jagged: "Oh, uhm, hello... [...] Oh, you wish to talk to me? [...] Err...sure, can do, I suppose....The wind is lovely, it always waves through our coats when were wandering through the territory. Maybe that's StarClan's way of telling us we're doing a good job."

Bonus: Mentor is Birdstar.

.

.

MOON 72:

Mom: "Hey, Burnetshriek, dare me to jump off the warriors' den! [...] No? Why in StarClan's name not?! [...] Because I could hurt myself...? But that's what's fun about it!"

.

Midgefreckle: "Hey, Burnetshriek, can I have your opinion on something? [...] I was having an argument with Chivespeckle a couple of days ago. I was giving them some advice on something, and they told me I talk like I'm better than everyone. Do you think...? [...] No? That's good. That's absolutely not my intention. I want to help, but not be more important than any other cat. [...] Thank you, Burnetshriek. I know that no matter what, you'll always tell me what I need to hear."

.

Yewstripe: [Running around the clearing, disheveled as they try to complete many tasks at once]. Burnetshriek, what's up? Do you need something too? I'd be happy to do it for you! [....] Working too hard? I'm not working too hard, don't worry! In fact, helping around camp is how I relax. Yup, definitely relaxing. Definitely."

Permanent Condition: weak leg

.

Heathertree: "Mm, Oh, watch out, Burnetshriek! Don't come any closer!" [Looking at a bee]. "It must have stung something...I think it's dying. Poor little thing." [Burnet asks why he doesn't just squish it. Heather recoils]. "It's a living thing, just like you or me! What crime has this bee committed? The crime of being small? No, it deserves a death with dignity, just like the rest of us..." [The bee falls very still]. "Oh...I think it just went...Ah, I'm sorry little bug...I hope, wherever you are, you find plenty of flowers, and even more mercy." [Gently scoops it up and lays it on moss].

.

Battumble: [Burnet compliments her on a shiny object she's playing with]. "Hm? Oh, why thank you. Isn't it pretty? I nabbed it off these Twolegs who were passing through the territory. I knew it would make just the perfect addition to my nest." [Burnet asks if isn't that stealing?]. "Tch, relax. Just think of it as a 'finders keepers' type of thing. Besides, those Twolegs weren't using it for anything important anyways."

.

Rubblenettle: "Hey, Burnetshriek! Get a load of this one! What happens when a tree falls into the mud? [...] It leafs an impression! Hahaha!....Hey, where are you going?"

.

Jaggeddusk: "Hello, Burnetshriek. What do you think of the weather? [...] If you want my opinion, I think it's been enjoyable. It's pleasantly warm, but not so hot that it makes today's jobs an unpleasant business. Not to mention, I haven't noticed a hint of rain, so if you're going out, you shouldn't get wet. Well...unless you fall into a pond. But other than that, StarClan has been good to us today."

.

Coniferkit (son, 2 moons): "Burnetshriek! Burnetshriek! I had the mosr funnest day ever today! First, I played feather-catch. It's this really cool game where I throw a feather into the air and then try to catch it. Then, I runned around in circles! I went a-round and a-round and a-round, but then I got sick and had to stop. And then....[Conifer continues on]

Continued on next part!

As for now, who are your suspicions on, and why do you suspect them?

And who is your favourite?

[elementclangen]

Moon 300-Newleaf

Petalpaw (12) has been made a warrior with the name of Petalfrost in honor of his observance.  Lately, the Clan has been having some tensions with StumpyClan over recent hunting disputes.  Aries (66) goes to them to try and resolve them but doesn’t make any progress.  Being a mediator is harder than it looks.  With Almondback (71) to watch their kits, Brightmouse (75) and Kestrelcreek (89) go on a nice moonlit stroll.  Back at camp, Mitekit (1) has grown to be very demanding of attention.  She wants all the young warriors to pay attention to her all the time. She even convinces Dawnfreckle (84) to sneak her out of camp, shielding her with a coat of darkness.  The two groups are a little shocked to run into each other.  Even though they’re mates with the same cat, Brightmouse and Almondback don’t get along very well and disagree with each other about certain things.  Including how they feel about a certain cat.  Brightmouse is annoyed by Skymoon (12) and ignores her.  Meanwhile, Almondback makes a point to spend some time with the young warrior.  Despite being a warrior, Burdockbeam (16) makes sure to still learn.  She picks up a helpful skill from Greenrapid (56) about how to form small spikes of ice on her pelt so that attackers slice their paws on it.  And hanging out with the senior warriors gives her a chance to stick a thorn in Brightmouse’s bedding as a prank.  Brightmouse is determined to find out who the culprit is and prank them back. She decides that it must have been Copperheart (16) and scares her on a patrol. Aries appreciates Hopcurl’s (18) help in mediating issues between their clanmates while she has to deal with interclan issues.  It’s nice to be able to have someone to rely on.  Hollowkit (1), is paying close attention to how Pebbletuft (33) cares for her patients.  Creekstar (154) is feeling more spry than she has in moons and plays a prank on her deputy, letting Dawnfreckle oversleep.  It’s nice for Downgaze (81) to see his mom feeling better.  Tanglechirp (47) is excited to have a niece and nephew.  He spends so long telling them about morals that they fall asleep.  Crouchpaw (11)  continues to have visions.  Alderflight (56) finally figures out that that’s what her dreams are.  It’s unusual and he’s not sure what to do.  He’ll try asking Downgaze.

Healer’s den: Pebbletuft (dislocated joint), Sofanthiel (frostbite), Kestrelcreek (recovering from birth), Cherviljumble (joint pain), Brightmouse (small cut), Copperheart (small cut), Longpelt (shivering)

New personalities: Petalfrost (insecure, good swimmer, and a great teacher), Mitekit (attention-seeker, oddly insightful), Hollowkit (troublesome, oddly observant)

[place-where-even-stars-are-lost]

Section 1, page(s)2

First & Previous pages / Next

Wake up the elder

You came towards Mildewchase, and tried to gently nudge them, so they would wake up and not get startled. Tried.

The moment you touched him, his olive-green eyes widened, head shot up and fur bristled. Definitely not the best awakening. Mildew sighed in relief, once she saw only you and your brother, and gave few licks to get more tidied look.

“Oh kits.. don’t scare me like that.” he smiled.

You began patching up hole in the elder den’s wall, while Mantis was begging to elder to tell a story. Finally, he decided to take some time storytelling, with you both feeling quite happy for the opportunity to make monotonous work a bit better.

“You see.. long ago, we weren’t Reaper’s Colony. And clans bordering us weren’t FossilClan and AmberClan.”

“We were known as Algae’s Colony, who lived and always bordered with NectarClan and BloomingClan. We weren’t even living here. We lived in large fields, filled with wildflowers and sunlit glades. Still remember how nice it was to run around in tall, soft grass blades.”

It felt like your paws started working slower while tying brambles into the wall. You tried to imagine it how it was. In this spruce forest you lived your entire life, there were just pinecones, thorns and spikes on either sandy ground or a bit damp, sharp grass, instead of this sweet scent around you what you could’ve felt on the clear field. Patches of sun were mainly only visible at safe clearing, and it was hard to imagine living in a place without shade and obstacles, the place where you can just run free without having anything in your way, not even bushes.

“Life in there was a bliss. Most of the cats passed away due to old age, and there was barely any diseases so bad, that cats couldn’t cure them.”

“It was all because our great-great-great-and probably greatest ancestors began looking at two-legs, and seeing what they did. Then, they began replicating what they did, which lead us to such technological advantage among other cats.”

“But then, two-legs began building tall metal dens, out of what we just saw completed products doing out of them, so that’s why we couldn’t improve further. We just weren’t able to see how they were doing it.”

“We lived happily, but then.. two-legs got too greedy. They began taking colony’s and clans’ territories to build their rye fields. At first, we didn’t saw it as something bad — craftscats were able to get free access to rye stalks, and it became quite popular among cats to wear them as accessories. But then, their fields always were getting bigger and bigger with each day, and cats began getting lost in these fields during hunting.”

“And with two-legs came dogs. They began chasing cats away, and as they began getting closer to our camps, we had to decide something before dogs will start chasing us out from our own dens. Reaptuft was the first one to offer going into the spruce forest.”

“Of course, everyone was hesitant to do it. No cat ever returned from that place. As danger kept creeping closer and closer, we one sunhigh began going there, but only after our herbalist, leader, deputy, hunters and few craftscats were lost to the dogs.”

“And now, our StarClan connection has been weak for many, many moons. We lost place where to see them, and none of us ever managed to get out of this place. Now, leaders don’t get nine lives, and lore keepers barely get any visions.”

Mildew stopped for a moment, and then began searching for something in the corner of the den, where all elder’s stuff was stored. He took out a map, with a layout of the territory. You and Mantis came up to him to get a better look, and with you both finishing up work anyway.

“Our territory with other clans’ are separated by a large creek, which wraps around the territories. And outside this creek- we never went there, since it’s just swamp with a thick layer of fog.”

Suddenly, you felt few more scents in the den, and few cats followed by them. Other elders came from the camp to sleep, along with deputy getting them into the den.

“Good day, Mildew. How was your sleep?” - Ravenface asked, the moment she all elders got in their nests.

“I won’t be volunteering to join midnight patrol.”

“I came here not for that!” Ravenface giggled. “I came here to take Mantis and Hellebore back to the nursery. It’s getting quite late.”

Of course. All cats had some kind of set bedtime, so the next day they will have enough energy. It felt like a usual, normal day. Ravenface would always escort you back to the nursery once sun began to set. But today was different. Halfway through the clearing, deputy stopped, and got her head down, so both of you would hear what she whispered.

“Remember, in here.. it’s impossible to do anything without being watched. There always will be a witness. It won’t be StarClan, it won’t be anyone from other groups. You’ll never know if your denmates or friends don’t have a second pair of eyes and ears.”

You looked over to Mantis. Neither of you really understood why she said it, and why now.

[huntmark]

Basic First Aid for Your Sporting Dog Safety

Owning a sporting dog is more than enjoying a leisurely hunt in the early hours and then heading home without a worry. Preventative measures should always be taken to ensure the health and safety of yourself and your animal, especially during hunting dog training. Ask any veterinarian or seasoned hunter, and they will tell you the same thing – keeping a few odds and ends prepared for quick first aid for your sporting dog or gun dog is essential to a rewarding experience.

There are plenty of places to pick up pre-made hunting dog training first aid kits, but they often do not include many of the recommendations from experienced owners or too much of what you do not need as fillers. That is why we have come up with this list to help you keep your pup in good health as you train, hunt, and explore the great outdoors.

What to Carry on Your Person

Let’s first start with the essentials you need to have on hand for sporting dog first aid. These are the quick solutions to common injuries that will either heal issues in a short time or do not require the assistance of a veterinarian.

Flashlight – So you can see what you are doing and the extent of the damage.

Dog Boots/Paw Wax – Both work well for hot or cold ground.

Emergency Mylar Blanket – If you are going to be around water, this is a must.

Needle Nose Pliers – Useful for removing things from your dog’s skin, mouth, or ears.

Dish Soap – You never know when your pup may come across toxins, grease, or oil.

Tick Key – If you live anywhere with ticks or similar creatures, you are going to want an effective way to remove the nasty bugs from your sporting dog without risking parts of the insect staying inside the animal.

Honey Packets – Excellent for the pup that experiences shock easily or need a blood sugar boost.

Padding – This could be a bandana, old t-shirt, or favorite blanket you can rip up to better wrap around a wound or get wet to cool the dog.

What to Keep in Your Truck

These items are great for filling your hunting dog training first aid kit. They are a little bit too big to carry on your person while in the field. If you can fit them all into a small pack, you can easily put them on a boat, but otherwise, you should have them in your truck.

Saline Flush – There are a few options here. You probably want something specific for the eyes, wounds, and ears. Most of these can be purchased over the counter, and you should avoid any additives. The goal is to clean the area, not treat it as of yet.

Stretch Gauze/Cling Wrap/Cast Padding – You want three levels of padding. The first is a non-adherent abortive pad followed by cast padding and then by stretch gauze or cling wrap to hold everything together. You’re in good shape if you can get vet wrap for a fourth layer or as a standalone.

Hemostats – Think of these as your toolkit for removing anything from your sporting dog, like quills, thorns, etc.

Instant Cold Packs – These help with swelling or painful areas and if your pup gets overheated easily.

Triple Antibiotic Ointment – After cleaning a wound, apply this to help avoid infection.

Muzzle – We may all like to think our dogs will be docile when we treat them, but if your pup is in pain, they may nip while you try to help.

Paint Stir Stick – Useful for setting tails, working with splints, or if needing a tourniquet.

Scissors – To cut through bandages, tape, etc.

Vick’s VapoRub – Keeps your dog from biting through the bandages you have set.

Tape – To seal your bandages. If you can get a hole of leukotape, that is better as it is highly waterproof.

Hand Sanitizer – For cleaning up your own hands after treating your dog’s injuries.

Dog Safety Restraint System – Dogs often feel off-balanced or lethargic after an injury. It is helpful to have a method to keep them safe and secure as you drive to a vet’s office.

Snakebite Kit – This is more for if you live in an area with dangerous snakes like the Southwest and rattlesnakes or Southeast and cottonmouths.

Other Preventative Health Essentials

It goes without saying that you should have a recent photo of your sporting dog on your phone and your vet’s contact information. This way, you can call your vet or the local authorities if you need help or the dog has gone missing.

Other things to keep both as a physical copy and digital copy would be:

Recent Photos

Vaccination records

Dog License

Microchip details

You may want to consider taking a local dog first aid class. Many common ailments can be easily managed until you reach a vet that will save your pup’s life. This isn’t just CPR, but learning how to handle:

Stopping a broken nail from bleeding

Correctly applying bandaging for a wound

Dealing with a bloody nose

Applying a splint to a fracture or broken bone

Heatstroke mitigation

Bee, scorpion, and porcupine stings

There is one more item we should discuss in detail, and that is a skin stapler. Some veterinarians highly recommend a skin stapler because it can close up large wounds. However, if you are unsure of your dog’s basic anatomy, you could cause more damage or risk infection. We suggest taking a class or speaking with your veterinarian before adding this item to your truck sporting dog’s first aid kit.

It all comes down to where you will be conducting hunting dog training and what conditions you need to worry about. Take your time and put together a kit that works for your environment and specific sporting dog. The goal is to be prepared for the worst, but hopefully, never have to use any of it.

At Huntmark, we specialize in hunting dog training tools and accessories. Many of our clients spend hours in the woods, on the river, or in hard-to-reach areas. We want you all to be safe and secure. We highly recommend you learn as much as possible about caring for your sporting dog. That unique bond between you and your animal is valuable. We want only years of rewarding interactions, so please, stay safe out there!

[djarinsbeskar]

EXPLORATION ARC: PART 6 - TRUST

A/N: Here we are again and holy moly am I nervous about this one. The smut scene in this chapter is the scene that inspired the entirety of Stitches and-- 100k later... we finally reach it! It's been brewing in my mind since November last year when I first began planning this beast of a fic, and I'm so nervous yet excited to share it with you finally! As ever, your words breathe new life into this fic every single time I'm blessed with a comment, reblog or like--- thank you all so very much for always being so patient between updates. I hope 18k and Din POV will make up for it!

Word Count: 18k

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warings: Canon-typical violence, injury detail, minor PTSD, SMUT! Unprotected sex (do as I say not as I write), minor bondage, spanking, oral sex, FEELINGS!

Summary:  It’s mighty hard to distract yourself from your mysterious and alluring shipmate, so why bother?

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

His back was killing him.

Din shifted against the stiff bark of the Blba tree he was leaning against in vain. His armor and the thick material of his flight suit protected him from the thorns that dotted its branches but not from the discomfort of the tree itself. Arms crossed; he turned his attention down to the shadowy abyss that engulfed the grassy surface of Dantooine, the humming of insects and snuffling of animals through the detritus littering the underbrush keeping the forest awake while the rest of the planet slept. He kicked a leg out in front of him, a futile attempt to stretch his spine but nothing he did would convince the thick limb behind him to be any less rigid.

It was getting on his nerves quite frankly, and that was strange.

Dantooine was high on the list of planets Din didn’t mind chasing a bounty too. The climate was temperate, never swinging towards extremes. Clean water, and the plants and animals that made the uninhabited forest outback their home guaranteed he wouldn’t perish if he was gone longer than expected. Soft dirt and the lack of wind to cover any tracks a bounty might leave, lent their assistance to Din while he hunted. The planet itself eager to be rid of whatever parasite had sought refuge in its wilderness.

And still, this hunt was proving more difficult than the raging blizzards on Scipio or Hoth, the disorienting heat of the endless Dune Sea under the midday suns or the acidic seas of Sriluur. Nothing about this hunt was physically taxing. His difficulty, he realized after nearly two weeks, was in his head—one that made him too restless to sleep where he had stopped over an hour ago. He wanted this hunt to be over. Timing had never been an issue for him before, an inconvenience maybe—but never something he gave more than a passing thought too.

Now, it was all he thought about. How not being able to use his Rising Phoenix lest he give his position away made travel inexorably longer. How the sluggish humidity of the forests that clothed Dantooine had him soaked with sweat beneath his armor, limbs heavy and lethargic in the dampness. How everything just seemed to make this hunt drag on.

Din was impatient, and that was never a characteristic of his personality while he hunted, so when it struck—it confused him. His blood was fired, muscles tensed and humming with an eagerness to move—a bull reek pawing and horning the ground, ready to charge—ready to yank free of the chain ring between his nostrils that kept him still. He wanted to go now. Because Maker’s Helmet, his back was killing him.

He wanted to be back on the ship.

He closed his eyes behind his helmet defeatedly at the invasive – if honest – thought. A gnarled, inconveniently hard branch that only seemed to dig deeper into his back the more he tried to get comfortable, was a far cry to the way he had been waking up in the months before he left on this absurdly drawn-out hunt.

The two were completely disparate.

There was no hint of the soft warmth, the welcome weight of you across his chest or tucked against his side. The sickly sweet smell of decay from rough bark being stripped by the elements and inquisitive birds needing structure for their nests was nothing like the intoxicating scent of your hair or skin he could detect – even through his helmet – every time consciousness stirred him awake.

Sleep had never been a luxury to the warrior, only a necessity. A nuisance of nature that demanded Din make payment to the vessel he called a body in order to keep functioning at peak performance. It had never been an activity he even thought about, until the moment he knew he needed it; when his body had been pushed so far past the physical limit of human endurance that he could do nothing else but rest.

Not until you.

He snorted, a mirthless sound that still managed to quirk the stoicism of his expression to amusement as he pulled his helmet off, the blanketing darkness a comforting shield for him to pull in a deep breath of fresh, unpolluted air. Just for a moment or two…

Not until you…

Now that was an understatement.

Suddenly, sleep didn’t feel like such an annoyance and Din wasn’t ignorant to the correlation of just when he started thinking that way. Not when he was wrapped around you, your skin so lush and smooth against his own. The heat radiating from your bare back into his chest where he – more often than not – found himself waking up curled around you. An arm thrown carelessly over your ribcage, his hand shifting between your breasts in his semi-conscious state to pull you back closer. His other arm trapped under the drowsy weight of your head which, as you told him once – half-asleep and delirious – was the best pillow on the ship, after his chest. It made the pins and needles worth it.

He was certain you didn’t remember telling him that – falling back asleep soon after – but the flare of affection, new and confusing— and the more familiar stroke of pride it ignited in him-- made sure he didn’t forget it.

It would remain a secret for him to enjoy, an addition to the small amalgamation of memories now taking up a portion of his mind that existed just for him—that had nothing to do with his job, or the Creed or the covert. They were simply… his. The kid hiding in his boot, a small hand wrapped around his thumb, the unconscious mouthing of the words you were reading on your datapad, that one time you couldn’t stop giggling when the kid got the hiccups; large ears wiggling with every squeak that left his tiny body and your flushed face buried in your hands to try stop yourself from laughing.

For a man of his age, that small chest of memories in his head may have seemed bare, minimal and sparse—but from having no such memories before, to a steadily growing pile of them—memories he now found himself retreating to on long nights out hunting, on the cusp of sleep while you dozed against him or whenever his mind simply wandered—Din couldn’t find it in him to lament the lack of them after so many years. Rather, he cherished the fact that he had any at all.

The air – woodsy and thick from the dewy moisture of an arboreal planet – filled his lungs smoothly like an aged liquor he sometimes found himself in possession of but rarely indulged in and Din dropped his head back against the bark to enjoy that simple sensation he never took for granted.

He should put the helmet back on.

Fresh air filtered cool and refreshing in his nostrils, clearing cobwebs and dusty corners that had been neglected over the past few months where his time outside the helmet was limited. Moments free of his helmet planetside were even more rare.

He should really put the helmet back on.

He only wanted a few seconds of clean, unfiltered air, but it had been more than a few already… and his helmet still sat heavy in his lap.

It shouldn’t have been surprising, he thought contemptuously, it was never just a few seconds… just as it was never just once.

After that first time he finally allowed himself to fall asleep wrapped in the presence of another person – you – he proved himself a liar time and again when he told himself it was the last time. Just as he deceived himself in thinking one time being in your bed, being inside you and hearing those sounds he covetously wanted to keep for himself, would be enough.

Naïve bastard.

His mind taunted him piteously, as though it had been waiting months for him to finally catch up on the reality of his situation. On the fact that every step he took closer to you, every time he lost himself in you, the previous step he stood on crumbled to nothingness—and he was left unable to walk backwards. He didn’t have the strength to do so.

Deep inside, in a seldom acknowledged part of himself that remained concealed and trapped in the shackles of his own commitment—he knew once was never going to be enough. Once, twice—three times, daily wasn’t enough in trying to convince his traitorous body and slowing converting mind that getting you out of his system was an option. When seeking you out in the darkness of the ship every sleep cycle became as routine to him as cleaning his weapons.

Din knew he was fucked.

He remembered waking up some hours after you had both fallen asleep on the floor of the Razor Crest, exhausted after the tumultuous day of arguments and worry, from feeling your hands on his naked skin for the first time; a memory that still sent a tremor of pleasurable heat along his skin—his mind tricking him with the ghosts of your caress whenever he thought of it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched that hadn’t been painful or sore—that hadn’t been in a fight or brawl or in the ring training with other Mandalorians, a resounding clap to sore muscles the only affection a race of warriors bestowed upon each other. No one touched a Mandalorian for pleasure or out of kindness, not so far as Din was aware. If someone was touching a Mandalorian, it was an enemy or an idiot.

So, when his mind was pulled from unconsciousness when you moved a little in your sleep, seeking out his warmth with a nuzzle to his bare chest, he was hooked. Addicted to the gentle heat of your naked body trapping him beneath you that was neither restrictive nor unwelcome, to the unguarded vulnerability he saw in you – peaceful and content – as though he might be the reason for it.

He felt his body stir now as he rolled his head on his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that always gathered there; a lick of arousal so easily ignited after two weeks of being away from you when he thought of that first morning.

He had woken up hard, painfully hard. The weeping, blunt head of his cock rested thick and heavy on his abdomen, nudging through the swollen lips of your core where you had one leg thrown over his hips. He couldn’t help himself. He ran his bare hands up over your naked back from under his cape that covered you and smirked at the small noises of reluctant consciousness that pulled at you while he guided his cock back inside you easily, the position nothing short of perfect.

He rocked into you slowly that morning, shallowly pushing his thick length halfway into your tempting cunt, his release from hours before letting him glide smoothly against your slick walls and dragged you from slumber with a soft moan breathed against his collarbone. Bleary, dazed eyes – that made his stomach clench when his helmet mercifully allowed him to see you in the dark – met his though the visor, a lazy smile on your lips morphing to pleasure when he pushed deeper inside you,

“G’morning, kitten…” he rasped in your ear, one large hand between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed flush against him, the peaked tips of your breasts against his chest making him groan while the other hand formed over the globe of one cheek to spread you wide for him to thrust up into you,

“M-morning,” your voice trembled, the sultry thickness of your own voice waking up making him shudder along with the hand that cupped his neck slowly. He bit back a groan when you leaned down to press your lips to the curve of his shoulder, pressing your hips down against his slow thrusts with soft, breathy sighs. His own breathing grew to rough moans as he easily brought you both to climax with that same lazy pace, filling you once more until your combined release dribbled down to the thatch of dark curls at the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence of the forest, the swell of heat beneath his skin an immediate sign of his arousal, the twitch of his cock drawing his attention to the sudden tightness in his flight suit. He adjusted himself with a groan, the brush of fabric too much on his recently neglected length. He felt full, heavy with a need to empty himself inside you—a sensation he couldn’t rationalize or explain, an instinct he was only now becoming acquainted with.

“Not until you, kitten,” he repeated to himself, turning his helmet as he lifted it to put it back on, the visor facing him despite his inability to see it. The beskar was cool, not cold—but enough for him to feel it through his gloves and he thought – not for the first time – what it was like for you. To allow a man, anonymous and hidden, into your bed every night—to trust him with your body, to trust him for who he was as opposed to what you saw. His fingers followed the same path yours took that night as you straddled him, surrounded by the scattered, broken pieces of himself and covered only in his shirt.

Such unquestionable trust…

What have you done to deserve it?

His mind whispered insidiously, a hackle of insecurity rising along his spine, the nerve raw and sore. What had he done to deserve not only your trust but also---

Alien eyes, too large for the face they were in with ears to match flashed in his mind’s eye then and an altogether different kind of pang ricocheted painfully in his chest that made any awakening lust evaporate. There was a persistent timer ticking in his head, and every waking moment he held his breath thinking it was about to blare, a shrill cry that his time was up. A guilt filled him whenever he looked at his ad’ika—looked at either of you, suddenly hit with the glaring reality that none of this was permanent.

He was actively seeking out the Jedi, actively pursuing the very thing that would separate him from the kid, that might fracture everything he suddenly found himself in possession of. It sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach, bubbling nauseously whenever the question of what he would do once he found these sorcerers entered his mind. It made him lose his appetite, made those headaches more frequent and made him question at his core, if what he was doing was right.

Being intimate with you, having you strip him of his armor—feel his naked skin would at one point, have made him worry over upholding his Creed. But it didn’t. He felt that same level of devotion to his Creed when his hands ran over your naked form and vice versa, as he did when he redressed himself in beskar. But this—fulfilling his role as a Mandalorian as the Armorer told him—in searching for the kid’s kind, that made him question it. Ironic. By Creed, he was doing his duty correctly, and yet it was the only time he felt he was breaking it.

He never did manage to come to a conclusion on that feeling.

Instead, he distracted himself with spending time with his ad’ika, by simply being in his presence and letting the child’s endless affection towards him soothe the aches that were progressively tightening more painfully in his chest. If the child was gone, would you soon follow? It---

He shut down whatever direction that thought was taking him the way he did every time he considered both your positions in his life.

Din could feel another headache coming on, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose to try and alleviate the pressure before it got any worse.

What in Malachor was he going to do?

He pulled his helmet back on, the relief of vision—the comforting weight of the crafted metal settling the rising ball of unresolved anxieties back into the recesses of his mind, to be contemplated another day. Again. The custom fit of the helmet – after mere moments – had him forgetting he was wearing it at all, becoming an extension of himself once more. Part of him that demanded only the sacrifice of identity and fresh air for the enhancement of his senses, for the pride of being Mandalorian.

He had just settled back against that Maker-damned tree branch again when the built in technology that fed into his ears picked up a noise, a grating sound that didn’t quite belong organically in nature. It was faint, and it was far away—but knowing the limitations of his helmet, he could place the sound to a maximum radius to where he sat at the very least.

It didn’t sound natural, and that was what pulled his attention away from the night calls of animals and the chaotic orchestra a forest at night composed. Natural sounds – to Din – contained a certain flow, a design—a pattern that was followed. A river flowed downwards; a gust of wind disturbed the topmost leaves on trees—this sound went against the flow.

An irritating creak and snap of something that ought not be creaking nor snapping.

Din scanned the area slowly, dismissing the footprints and heat signatures of animals before he stalled.

The faintest glow of a fire registered in his vision and Din found his target who had obviously given into the temptation of a warm fire and the possibility of a hot meal.

Idiot.

Mando had been gone awhile.

Well, it wasn’t the first time he had been gone for a long time in the months you spent on the Razor Crest but well, he still wasn’t back…

You looked up from where you sat messing disinterestedly with your blaster at the mouth of the ship, the ramp lowered to allow some air to ventilate the Razor Crest and for you and the child to enjoy the clear skies and grassy clearing Mando had landed on sometime two weeks ago.

There was nothing around for miles.

Not that you had ventured very far, but the sheer silence that surrounded you—the absence of bustling crowds, of intergalactic chatter and the heavy mechanical whirr that came with most towns larger than a village was deafening. In its place, was a peaceful calm that allowed you to enjoy the gentle gurgle of the nearby creek you and the child had visited several times already, the rustling leaves as native birds roosted and the distinct humming of insects and calls of animals.

It was untouched, this part of Dantooine, and it felt like a planetwide deep breath. One you didn’t realize you needed until you took it.

The child was exploring the small area where the ramp pressed down into the previously undisturbed grass, exposing the moist soil beneath that – when combined with the forest litter that had been blown or dragged from the tall tree line surrounding the clearing – explained why everything was so green and rich with life. It reminded you of home, but the absence of sea breezes in place of stagnant, humid air destroyed the fantasy that you were anywhere near the silver woods that covered many of the interconnected islands on Pamarthe.

You enjoyed the peace, but without towns and cities and people, there was very little you could do in the way of working.

Beyond stopping the little bogwing from eating the worms he found where the ship broke the surface of the soil or berries you couldn’t be certain were poisonous or not, there was really very little to do. You had reached a standstill on your personal anthology of medical knowledge after finally exhausting your brain and you were unwilling to add anything you felt needed confirmation on your part with the relevant text. The ship was spotless, having cleaned every inch of the fossil over two and a half days. The crap carapace was full of knickknacks and oddities you thought looked important. No one wanted to see stray screws or wires floating around in a ship as old as the Razor Crest, so you decided to keep them for Mando to determine what to do with.

Suffice to say, you were going stir crazy to the point you finally caved and were cleaning your neglected blaster the way Mando had plagued you to do for weeks.

“Weapons are part of the Mandalorian religion, kitten. You need to look after yours,” he scolded, his hands expertly examining your old blaster from your Rebellion days with a critical eye, taking in the residual plasma and grime and rust that hadn’t served you particularly well when you had to use it on Mynock, the trigger catching before you could shoot the single shot you fired that entire night.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not a Mandalorian,” you quipped, more interested in organizing your medical kit back into precise order, the activity cathartic and therapeutic even as you sat cross-legged on the cold flooring.

A drawn out sigh was the only response he warranted to give you, and you smirked to yourself—chalking up another small victory in the childish tally you always had with him since the moment you met him. A playfully innocent diversion that Mando would no doubt contest if he knew how far behind you, he was.

The blaster was placed in your lap when he crouched down on his haunches behind you, his other hand spreading over the back of your neck when you turned to look at him,

“Funny, you have more Mandalorian in you than most,” he purred, making your skin tighten to goosebumps at the rolling timbre of his accent and his wandering hand dancing between the apex of your thighs that lay open from how you sat, “given how often I’m buried inside you.”

You begrudgingly added a point to his tally.

You flushed at the memory, flustered at how you melted against the solid expanse of his chest, the lip of his helmet digging into your shoulder when he turned his visor to rasp in your ear, “Be a good girl, and take care of your blaster.”

Great.

You shifted to cross one leg over the other, the tell-tale pressure of arousal making your entrance slick and with no sign of relief coming any time soon with how long he had been gone.

You huffed in frustration and turned back to the disassembled parts of your blaster. The repetitive motion of cleaning the chamber of the barrel with the wired brush wasn’t the most riveting thing, and with so little to focus your mind on, it was easy to let it wander again. And, for the first time—with nothing more than this damned dirty blaster to distract your mind—you could admit that you felt Mando’s absence.

You missed him.

It took you by surprise – having spent years predominantly alone – how quickly you had gotten used to waking up to the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, to the heavy weight of his hand on your hip and the powerful heat that radiated from a body you were still learning with your fingers and mouth since he let you in.

But you had.

And you missed it.

Something inside you flipped, a flutter of warmth when you thought of him. He let you in. What you had thought to be a once off, turned into a routine. He gravitated to you as he did every night after he showered. He still stripped you of whatever you were wearing, but now… Now instead of cool beskar, the rough fabric of his flight suit met you instead, the warrior forgoing redressing completely in the fresher. You could turn in his hold, unzip the rigid and stiff metal teeth, your mouth and tongue mapping skin that was still flushed and warm from the hot water while your eyes remained blind in the pitch darkness of the hold.

And he let you. More than let you—he wanted you to.

He couldn’t get enough of your touch as much as you couldn’t stop touching him, his hands guiding yours across his skin, aching for more as you slowly learned his body. The sensitive shudders and tension in his muscles melting under your hands whenever you traced over the slightly raised flesh your expert fingers could tell were scars, or along the powerful lines of his shoulders and back, down to the small dimples you could detect at his tailbone.

You were hooked on the breathy sighs and moans he made whenever you kissed his body, the slight catches of breath and shaky exhales endearing him to you more than you would probably ever admit, even to yourself.

You couldn’t say that the Mandalorian was any more open than he had been before – still reticent and stoic the majority of the time – but there was always a quiet vulnerability whenever you touched him now. One that made him clench his fists in the thin blankets beneath his body when you traced your lips down his chest and abdomen, tongue flicking over the slashes of scar tissue from hastily healed wounds and then over the thinner, barely perceptible ridge above his right hip.

Much better, you remembered thinking as your teeth scraped over the memory of a wound your hands helped heal while Mando panted under you on the mat before snapping, reaching for your desperately and whispering his need to be inside you.

Any injury he sustained from now on would be treated correctly, you promised yourself when your hands found another scar, they would be healed properly—his body respected and not hastily put back together for the sake of efficiency, like a droid with mismatched parts until it finally just shut down.

You wanted to take care of him.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think on what that could mean, what any of it meant. You were in uncharted territory, in the deepest part of Wild Space with no astromech droid or coordinates to follow. Any relationship you had in the past that involved a physical intimacy involved a certain vulnerability and level of trust. But this wasn’t just any horny flyboy you let warm your bed in the middle of a war.

This was the Mandalorian.

And he was…

You furrowed your brows as you stared into the barrel of the blaster the way you had seen him do it countless times, not really seeing anything particularly different, searching for the word that best articulated Mando’s position in your life.

He was different.

And deep down, you knew you weren’t ready to examine just how deep your feelings were beginning to run beyond acknowledging that this relationship – whatever that might be – was different too.

But you were content on the Razor Crest, happy even—with Mando and his son. The monotony of life on a ship didn’t detract from the fact that you felt fulfilment for the first time in years. For once, you weren’t searching for something more than what you already had. You didn’t feel the need to. And it was…nice.

Yeah, you smiled when the child came to stand at your hip and lifted his hands in the universal youngling sign of wanting to be picked up—you were happy here.

He wanted to shoot this quarry, right now, square between the eyes.

The Nikto male had yet to stop yammering at him. Spitting insults and vacant threats of retribution from his travelling party as soon as he missed the rendezvous time later that day. Quite frankly, Din wished his companions would show up. He would quite happily take a fight over listening to this piece of bantha shit speak another word with his sour breath and grating tone.

From the information the bounty puck provided him with, this Nikto was a member of a crime syndicate growing in the Outer Rim – a syndicate with a proclivity for flesh trafficking. A fact that cut a little too close to home for Din when he recalled a similar gang on a similar planet—the image of the Twi’lek gripping your arm flashing in his memory.

It made his blood boil.

It was a worrying trend Din had passively observed over the last few years since the fall of the Empire. The influx of credits the once mighty Empire used to funnel into criminal enterprises that maintained the kind of suffocating chokehold on Outer Rim planets the imps appreciated, ceased to be. Suddenly, the lavish lifestyles of crime bosses and their associates were in jeopardy, and the quickest way to make credits in the underworld involved the most lucrative – if risky – venture of them all, flesh trafficking.

It was getting to a point that every batch of pucks he took from the Guild included a trafficker. Some worth a couple thousand credits, and some worth in excess of twenty. It was an infection spreading across the Outer Rim. One that was festering under the negligence of the New Republic who were more focused on hunting down all levels of former imperials and calling them war criminals than addressing the true problems plaguing the galaxy. Officers – like Moff Gideon – who represented a real threat, Din could understand but the run of the mill stormtrooper? Who couldn’t hit a sedentary target to save their life in a sarlacc pit? Their capture was being paraded across the Core like the former Emperor himself was in shackles.

And all the while, new crime bosses were scrambling to get a foothold in the lawless chaos of the Outer Rim, using the most appalling method to build their wealth and power in the meantime. The New Republic didn’t care about the flesh trafficking infrastructure that was steadily growing under their noses. It wasn’t important because no one from the Core was affected by it. Trade deals and post-war propaganda was all the New Republic cared about.

Din didn’t know anything about politics and cared even less about the people who practiced it. But he wasn’t blind and even he could see – as any well-travelled bounty hunter could – that things had changed from the Imperial Era, but not necessarily for the better.

“C’mon Mando--- we’re rolling in credits. Whatever they’re paying you, we can double – no – triple it,”

Oh great, negotiations started early. He really thought he could’ve avoided those given how close they were to the ship.

Din rolled his eyes beneath his helmet, his jaw ticking – annoyed – and his mouth sat in a grim line. At least his outward appearance of impassivity and silence told the quarry enough. Din didn’t negotiate.

The sooner he got this one frozen in carbonite, the better. If his patience had been shot before he infiltrated the camp of the idiot currently in binders, it was downright non-existent now after hours of dragging his sorry ass through the forest.

Part of him lamented the fact that there wasn’t a ‘dead or alive’ tag placed on this bounty, but the client wanted him alive—so he must have been important enough to have information. Din didn’t know, nor did he care. All he knew was that he didn’t want a fucking flesh-trafficker anywhere near you or the child and still be able to move any longer than necessary.

The mere notion of the Nikto scum looking at you in particular – the child would be of little use to him – had blood and fury roaring in his ears. Knowing that if he saw you, the Nikto would see a commodity, would see credit signs. A growl bubbled in the back of his throat as a flare of protectiveness bellowed inside him, and he tightened his hold on the quarry’s arm to the point the male cried out much to the warrior’s sadistic pleasure.

The thought obviously consumed him more than he thought, because when he finally picked up on the sound of speeders, of rustling underbrush flanking either side of him—it was too late. Apparently, there was some honor among thieves, because the Nikto hadn’t been lying about back up.

“Devilsquid fucking bastard---” you griped under your breath as you finally finished reassembling your blaster after about six failed attempts. You really ought to have watched more closely when you disassembled it as to what went where and when, but you didn’t and had spent the best part of an hour trying to get it done now.

It looked good though.

You held up the standard issue blaster, nothing to write home about when compared to the arsenal of weapons Mando collected, but it was just right for what you needed it for; security and protection whenever you went out alone.

The once dulled metal of the barrel and scruffy handle now gleamed and shone like brand new, and you were distinctly proud of yourself for getting it done. Maker, Mando wasn’t going to let you live it down until you admitted he was right, and you were wrong.

Your lips quirked in amusement, maybe if you distracted him, he would be too busy to notice right away.

You double checked the safety after pilfering some ammunition from Mando’s weapons chamber and you were good to go. You could do with getting a new holster though, you lost your last one along with everything else when you escaped Dandoran but hadn’t felt an urgent need for a new one. Not until you saw how pretty your blaster could look now that you had painstakingly cleaned and cared for it. The next planet that had a market or bazaar, you would look into it.

You had just stood – stretched your arms over your head with a satisfied noise, feeling the muscles yawn from being bunched tight while you worked – when the sound of blaster fire sent flocks of birds into the sky, the sudden cacophony of wings and caws startling you more than the discharged weapon.

It was too close.

Mando…

The title of Mandalorian was usually synonymous with two things: beskar and weapons.

The precious metal – looked upon greedily for the credits it could be sold for or the prestige and power one gained by owning it – was only worthy of the skill and expertise of the one who earned it. Through a devotion to an altar of weapons and their embodiment of the Mandalorian Creed; that through the destruction such weapons could wreak, change and growth could follow in its wake. Only respect for the power of each blaster, each knife and explosive in his arsenal—would permit a Mandalorian to be a warrior worthy of the armor that protected him.

None of the party that set upon Din respected their weapons, and it showed.

A Klatooinian crumbled mere moments after Din’s refusal to give up his prey. His body shifting instinctively and stance adjusting as he tilted his blaster up from where he held it at his hip, the subtle lean all that was necessary for the shot to fly true and hit its target before the others even knew he was ready to fight back.

One down, seven to go—he thought, a thrum of anticipation firing his blood when all hell broke loose, and the air was filled with the sounds of battle that defiled the peace of the untouched Dantooinian forest.

Education and knowledge of the weapons a Mandalorian used—in perfecting the technique and ways of a weapon was to honor the Resol’nare. The day a Mandalorian disrespected the weapons that defined him, in the misuse or disregard of the power they held, was the day he became dar’manda – soulless – unworthy and shunned.

In Din Djarin’s mind, how and why he used the power afforded to him by legendary training and raw talent was as important to his identity as a Mandalorian as the helmet that kept him hidden from all around him. To be Mandalorian was a privilege, not a right and he had to earn that privilege each and every time he clocked a blaster. It all came down to a single question: Why are you fighting?

To maintain his adherence to the Creed.

For credits to support the covert.

To rescue and protect the foundlings.

To protect the kid and find his family.

To ensure no harm came to you.

To keep his clan safe.

Din could bow his head to the tenets of the Resol’nare every time he engaged in combat for any of those reasons, unapologetic in his devotion.

Several minutes later, another body crumbled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, thick Rhodian skin useful against the harsh elements of Rhodia but unable to withstand a fatal shot from Din to the vulnerable flesh beneath the arm. A smoking exit wound fizzled as the plasma ate away at rapidly dying flesh, leaving a blackened char that filled the noses of the remaining traffickers and their paid mercenaries that danced forward and back, taking turns to fight him before moving out of harms way.

Din maintained the upper hand despite being trapped from moving much with a quarry attached to him, the unreceptive weight of a fully grown Nikto inconvenient as well as annoying as he called out to kill him, kill him, kill the damned Mandalorian now!

Six left.

His eyes worked in perfect partnership with his helmets enhanced abilities to watch the subtle shifts of weight of the remaining adversaries, each one as incompetent as the last when they came yelling and swinging a blade or firing erratically in his direction. Wanton destruction was all these guys were good for when it came to technique, overkill written all over them.

He rolled his eyes as the Trandoshan brought the vibro-axe down from his greater height, Din’s beskar vambrace catching the blow hard enough to make his bones rattle and ache but the clueless shock in small, beady eyes gave Din enough time to lift a leg and kick the overgrown lizard back.

It was, frankly, insulting how they fought. No skill or technique to be seen. Sloppy aim and even worse posture, there was no way a weapon would adhere or flow with these buffoons.

Respect the weapon or watch it humble you, the voice of his buir rang in his head.

For all the ways of the galaxy that Din Djarin was ignorant to, weapons were not one of them. His understanding of all types of artillery – whether he used them himself or not – was sometimes the way in which Din succeeded in combat. By turning the very weapon used against him, on its owner.

So, when the golden electro-whip slid out of the dull, unassuming handle the second Nikto held – like a beautiful serpent, poisonous and threatening as it contorted in a loose spiral once the electricity had been engaged – Din knew the Nikto had no idea what he was using. By the clumsy way the handle sat in a scaly hand, the length of coiled current sitting awkwardly on the forest floor instead of cracking in the air, it was obvious the whip didn’t belong to him. Unsurprising, since there was only one race Din knew that commonly used electro-whips.

An icy drip of worry from his train of thought before he had been ambushed by this motley group of traffickers trickled down his spine. If Zygerrian’s were lending their own expertise in slave-trading, the New Republic had an even greater problem on their hands than Din initially thought.

The Nikto knew enough about the weapon however, to snap it in his direction, Din having just enough wherewithal to lift his forearm to protect his neck, the electric whip wrapping viciously around his vambrace. He growled and gritted his teeth as pulses of debilitating shocks zapped through him and made him drop his blaster, but by some harrowing strength, he gripped the whip tail and yanked, dragging the unsuspecting owner closer enough to headbutt him hard—that last stunned moment all the Nikto had before Din managed to pick up his dropped blaster and shoot him point blank in the chest.

Five left.

The bounty struggled in his hold, awareness that his companions were dropping like flies sending him into a panic and making it significantly harder for Din to aim. His arm felt weak, residual bolts of electricity sapping his energy as he parried a shot and sidestepped the second Rhodian.

He was trying to keep them all in his field of vision, and when two risked getting closer once more—he clenched his fist, engaged his whistling birds and let the high-pitched whistles and pops of explosions put him at ease as two more bodies crumbled to the ground.

Din grunted when a blaster bolt collided with his chest armor, making him stagger back a step even though the shot was ineffective in penetrating the beskar. He twisted on his heel, using the bounty as a living shield to protect his weak side as he caught the wrist holding a vibroblade slicing down against him. A quick twist and satisfying snap had the human male howling at the break. A heavy boot to his chest, and Din kicked the man back a safe distance.

What he hadn’t anticipated however, was one of the remaining party being smart enough to throw the quarry something—and when the static shock of an electro-shock prod – another fucking Zygerrian weapon – sent even more zaps of painful electricity through him, his breath stalled in his throat, and he fell heavily to one knee, denting the dirt and sending a plume of dust and debris into the air. The shock only destroyed his control for a mere moment, but it was enough to make his muscles spasm and drop not only his blaster, but his hold on the quarry too.

Din growled, shaking his head free of the sudden knock, but his prey was quicker than he had initially given him credit for, and his bound wrists hooked around Din’s neck from behind, trying to strangle him. The remaining three adversaries ran at him immediately, prepared to slaughter him like sacrificial lamb and for once, Din wasn’t sure how he would get out of this one but a voice gave them pause, and Mando’s blood turned to ice.

“Mando!”

An icy splash of dread spread through you when you saw the Nikto with his bound arms wrapped across the Mandalorians throat, viciously yanking the durasteel binders back against his neck to try cut off his airflow. Something had obviously weakened Mando already, the slight twitches in his limbs slowing his recovery for him to use his full strength on the weaker male.

The other three males racing towards him with gleaming blades and raised blasters weren’t about to give him any time to recover. They were out to kill him. They heard you, that much was certain, but a restrained Mandalorian was still more of a danger than you and they chose correctly to go for him instead.

Fuck, distraction didn’t work.

Your eyes quickly scanned the three as if they collectively made up a wounded body, instantly assessing the most immediate danger; Trandoshan wielding a vibro-axe—dangerous but slow. The Ithorian and human both had between them a blaster and vibroblade and while you initially aimed at the blaster wielding Ithorian, you changed your target at the last minute when the human came too close to Mando, a brutal downward strike cut short when he was knocked to the side with two shots from your blaster.

It gave Mando just enough time to throw his head back into the face of the quarry, the beskar crunching through the weaker facial fins that covered the Niktos face. Stunned, the bounty was dizzy as Mando gripped him by the forearms and pulled. You balked as Mando stood back up from bent knee and pulled the fully grown Nikto over his head, using the creature as a shield for the shot taken by the doddery Ithorian. It struck his companion in the shoulder, non-fatal, you deduced but the cry of pain rattled your instinct to help him, even if he was an enemy.

It was ironic really, that those instincts would even rear their head as your blaster was still warm in your hand from taking another’s life and ready to do so again to protect the man you suddenly realized—you couldn’t stand to see hurt.

But the Trandoshan had caught sight of you finally, hedging his bets against you rather than the Mandalorian. The reptilian behemoth skidded his clawed foot into the soft floor of the forest to change his direction with a roar to charge directly at you. Why, from all the bantha-brained coincidences, was it always Trandoshans that were attacking you?

A heavy thud of the Ithorian dropping under Mando’s rage didn’t register with you as you realized there was no way you could outrun a rampaging Trandoshan, the male eating up the ground beneath him much too quickly, clawed feet destroying the soft dirt underneath his weight and ferocious speed.

Get ready to jump—you coached yourself, you had to time this right. He was fast, but with his bulk, shifting momentum to a hard right or left would take enough time for you to roll out of harm’s way. Jump too soon, and he would be able to follow, too late and well… you’d be cut in two. Charming. Great incentive, you exhaled shortly, heart pounding and pulse racing.

 But then you saw his eyes, bloodthirsty and violent—could smell the smoky char of flesh and hear the sounds of the quarry crying out in pain, and suddenly—you were back in the middle of a triage camp, wails and moans of agony and the weak hands of those deemed beyond saving grappling at your clothes as you rushed to the sides of those who had a chance. It was only a second, just one damned second, but it left you frozen, your blaster falling to the ground, forgotten.

Frozen enough that when Mando’s voice—louder than you had ever heard it and laced with an abject fear you had never heard before clattered in your mind—the Trandoshan was nearly upon you. Two feeble steps back were all you managed before you looked away, a hand thrown up to protect your more vulnerable parts and take the brunt of any contact. You squeezed your eyes shut when the pain of the axe tip glanced across your palm and then… nothing—

You cracked one eye open and saw the confusion on the Trandoshans face as you clutched your bloody hand back to your chest, your eyes not sure of what they were seeing. His legs still moved in a slow running motion; axe brought halfway down in a brutal strike—the bottommost tip stained lightly in your blood but—he remained in place. You might have thought it didn’t even happen, because in the next instant, the Trandoshan disintegrated, reduced to ash in the blink of an eye, the Mandalorian’s Amban rifle smoking as its owner’s chest heaved in a panic.

You were still frozen, slippery, sticky blood coating one palm but the superficial sting that pricked along the laceration told you it wasn’t particularly deep, your mind regressing to that safe, calm space of work. Your eyes followed Mando, his imposing frame immediately making its way to you before your attention was dragged downwards at a light pressure on your calf, the child’s clawed hands pressed against your leg and large eyes blinking up at you, ears droopy and sad.

You bent to scoop him up, your mind still rattled from the close call and the even stranger way you had been saved. You never froze, but that single memory had you rooted to the spot. You could have died. The remnants of your would-be killer now a pile of ash, some of which coated your hands and skin.

The forest was suddenly so quiet, as though the planet was collectively holding its breath. No birdsong—the vacant stillness in the canopy of trees, swooping branches like skeletal fingers, moss underfoot muffling any footfalls and a terrified hush sweeping through the trunks of Blba trees.

A breath of your name, he was closer to you now—but just as he reached out a hand, his fingers skimming your cheek, there was a hum. Mando’s helmet snapped to the side, and his hand dropped. He spun to stand between you and whatever he heard coming, throwing a harsh,

“Get back to the ship and get ready to take off,”

The hum grew louder.

Speeders.

Fuck, how much back up did this guy have? You glanced quickly at the unconscious quarry laying in a heap amongst the bodies of his companions then back to your lover as he loaded the two pronged rifle and got down on one knee to aim, unfazed. He would kill every last one of them, you knew that. With the kid in danger, all bets were off with the Mandalorian.

“Mando---”

“Go.”

He snapped over his shoulder, the warning growl of his words harsh only in his desire for you and the child to be safe. So, you pressed your lips closed, your legs finally regaining some form of motion while you clutched the child to your chest, and turned back in the direction of the ship. Thank the Maker it wasn’t that far. You chanced a quick look back at him, a flare of worry telling you not to leave without him—not to leave him alone,

“Don’t get fucking killed while I’m gone,” you threatened knowing you were probably too far away for him to hear. Your pace was slowed by the soft ground, the squishy moss and thick roots jutting up and trying to trip you but somehow, you broke through the tree line back into the clearing, the ramp still lowered exactly as you had left it.

Running on autopilot, you pulled yourself up the ladder and into the cockpit—you could panic later, when you were alone and the ship was asleep, when you could shove those snippets of memories back into that box with the many locks and cement the cracks that had let them escape. They needed to stay sealed. Or else next time, they really would get you killed.

The war was over. Why couldn’t your mind understand that?

Strapping the child into the co-pilots chair, you left the ramp down as you frantically brought the Razor Crest through her preliminary take-off procedures—fingers following the patterns you had seen Mando complete innumerable times, the ships legs pulled up into the main body as it hovered several inches from the ground—awaiting that last code and the shifting of the control-stick out of neutral to take you up out of atmosphere.

“Now--” Mando’s voice crackled in your commlink.

A clatter and bang from the hold, the slamming of the ramp closed and the red and blue blaster fire that flew past the transparisteel of the ship’s viewport jolted you to action. You pulled the control back towards you and engaged the thrusters. The Razor Crest, old and hardy, pulled up into the air away from danger and climbed up up up and with every klick she climbed, you could feel the tense knot in your stomach release a little more.

Keying in the autopilot function, you stood back up on shaky legs to bring the child back down into the hold where Mando was sitting heavily on one of the ammunition crates, elbows resting heavily on his knees while he tried to catch his breath—the quarry laying unceremoniously on the durasteel flooring in front of him. The Mandalorian’s back curved and lifted with large swallows of air, his modulator hissing through the severity of his exhales and when your feet hit the ground, that visor turned to stare at you as you sat the child on the makeshift table between you.

 “What in Malachor did you think you were doing?” he rasped, and if he wasn’t so tired, you were certain he would have sounded angrier than he did. As it were, he just sounded wrecked, a thread of worry still latching onto his tone.

Neither of you were ignorant to the fact that that was a close call, in any other situation—in every single other probable outcome, you would be dead right now. Butchered. Right in front of his eyes. But you hadn’t been—by some impossible miracle, you had been saved. How? You didn’t have the mental strength to even consider that right now, only the fact that you had survived. The adrenaline had yet to let that truly settle and the swell of vomit you felt in the back of your throat at the mere notion had you trying to distance yourself from the thought with a downcast look to the ground.

You weren’t thinking.

He was making you illogical.

Making you act before thinking.

Passion never trumped reason in your life, until now.

Because fuck, you didn’t want to lose him too.

Whatever he saw in your face as that realization slammed into you like a thousand ton freighter, made him sigh—a defeated sound mingled with relief as he pushed himself to his feet, and for once—it looked as though he felt every pound of weight the beskar held on him. He came to stand before you, and a gentle brush of his fingers through the messy strands of hair that had come loose and hung in your face encouraged you to look up at him, terrified of what he might see there—fragile vulnerability—one you couldn’t mask in time.

Killing someone--- fearing for Mando’s life, realizing that painfully obvious truth that he meant more to you than just a shipmate you fucked, it was too much for even you to hide in a split second.

“Let’s take a look at that hand, kitten.”

He sat you down on one of the many ammunition crates pressed against the wall of the Razor Crest while he dragged the Nikto bounty unceremoniously into the carbonite chamber. The sharp hiss of the highly pressurized gas escaping and solidifying around the unconscious quarry startled you, the sound scaping across the metal hold like nails, the noise exposure expanding uncomfortably beyond the limits of what the ship could fit.

Maybe you weren’t so unaffected as you initially thought. The sight of the discolored grey ash that formed a thin coat over your hands – ash that no doubt coated your neck and face too if the irritating itch of awareness was anything to go by – made you reach across to the pile that sat neatly atop the makeshift table and grip a polishing rag like your life depended on it.

Someone was covering you.

Not dirt, or grime, or soot.

Someone.

Your heart started racing in your chest, an erratic thump thump thump that was too fast for your breath to keep up with.

Get it – him – off.

The ash felt like it was burning—branding you and seeping into your pores, filling the cracks. It wasn’t like blood. Blood was thick and congealed and you were clean the moment you watched the rusty red liquid flow down a drain and the coppery smell dissipated.

This ash… it was too—you couldn’t smell it, could hardly see it apart from the slight grey tone of its color against your skin. It was--- someone. An entire someone. Not just blood, not just gore—someone.

Sucking in a shaky breath, you pressed one of the rags Mando usually used on his armor to the back of your hand. You would scrub until your skin was raw, until the flush of aggravated skin could convince you that suffocating, grey pallor of another being that mimicked death on your skin was gone. You weren’t dead, you were alive. Alive. Alive.

“Hey, not with that---” a large familiar hand covered yours, your hand fisted tightly in the dirty rag loosening only when Mando crouched in front of you, the comforting weight of his visor on you and his hand on your thigh grounding you, “it’s dirty, kitten---”

His voice was still hoarse and rough from the exertion, but you felt your shoulders relax under the soft inflection of his tone, like he really was trying to coax a kitten from where it was hidden in some hard to reach area, the reassuring hand running along your thigh soothing you.

Your eyes flickered across his visor, his fingers pulling the rag from your hand without looking away from your face. He only turned his helmet, a subtle shift down to the left that you followed. Gauze, sterile cloth, bacta and… saline.

You couldn’t place why that touched you. But as the Mandalorian twisted the disposable top off the bottle of saline solution, your eyes raked over him once more. He didn’t look much better than you did, if you were honest. Covered in dust and dirt but with no obvious injuries given his ability to drag the quarry back so effortlessly. He seemed tired, more than anything, and you offered him a wan smile – embarrassed by that moment of panic – when he lifted his head to look at you from his preparation as you spoke,

“I can--- I can do it,”

He was silent, and you felt a swell of something undefinable fill the air around you. It resonated like an undercurrent of understanding, a sudden click of awareness from an unconscious, rarely disturbed part of you both.

“I know you can,”

And then he turned back to dousing the cloth with the saline solution, and you didn’t feel the need to demand he hand it over—that you could do it better, that he didn’t need to worry about something so insignificant as a shallow cut. You merely watched him, his free hand lifting from your thigh to turn your hand so the palm was facing upwards.

His head bent towards it a little, his fingers playing with something at the side of his helmet – adjusting some setting or feature – before he patted the damp cloth over your palm, avoiding the cut itself as he cleaned around the edges of the laceration first. Relief washed through you at the visible streaks, the ash disappearing as quickly as morning frost under a new sun.

Neither of you spoke as he gingerly cleaned your wound – less practiced in this level of dedication – but still thorough in his endeavor. When he brought another, smaller saline bottle, you were impressed. One that he could squeeze and flush out the wound. It looked like he had been listening despite his petulant temper whenever you had to strong-arm him into being taken care of.

It made your heart clench and a flush lifted up your neck when you looked away, catching sight of a gleaming blaster sitting forgotten on the crate beside you,

“You didn’t leave it—”

Disbelief peppered your tone as you reached the hand that wasn’t being tended to by Mando the short distance to pick up your blaster. There was some dirt muddied along the side where it had obviously fallen on, but the work you had put in to cleaning it earlier that day could still be seen. A fall into the dirt hadn’t sullied the efforts made to care for it. The thought comforted you for some reason.

“I couldn’t leave it,” he muttered, his helmet tilting to watch you pick up the weapon momentarily before turning back to his task, “not when you finally cleaned the damned thing.”

You blinked down at him, and a snort of laughter left you that had him tipping his head back up to look at you. There was a cathartic release in that sound, in the knowledge that you could find something amusing, could laugh—could let things go. Who could have known that a snarky quip by the Mandalorian worked better than any medicine in making you feel better?

Din paused, the soft trickle of laughter above him made him ache as he looked at the bloody gash marring your hand.

Healing hands.

Like him, your hands were your greatest tools, but where he used his hands to take a life—you used yours to save them. The violence in his life once again spilling over into yours clear as the streaks of blood and ash that he was trying to clean away.

But beyond guilt, an all consuming pride filled him. A medic—sworn to save lives, took one to save him. And you did. You saved him, again.  It warred with the deepest part of him, you spilled blood to protect him—that was no insignificant thing for a Mandalorian. The loudest declaration of loyalty and trust one could honor a Mandalorian with. And while it made him want to take you here and now under a drunken haze of such a primal display of loyalty—to return that sentiment with his body, he couldn’t get that flash of fear you couldn’t mask out of his head. The glisten of tears he wasn’t even sure you knew were there.

You were fragile right now, and Maker’s Helmet he wanted to protect you from every fucking thing that had brought that fear to the surface, wanted to use his body as a shield wrapped around you, hide you away from all the horrors of the galaxy where you would be safe.

You need caring for too, kitten…

He didn’t speak for a long time after you noticed he had saved your blaster. Didn’t tell you that the weapon was sacred now; a tangible object that encapsulated the fact that you killed for him. You couldn’t even begin to understand the significance that simple blaster held now and every time you held it from now on, would be another reminder of that trust. His instincts itched along his spine with an unfamiliar need that he masked for now by focusing on how you let him take care of you for once, let him kneel before you and dress your hand in bacta and gauze.

What have you done to deserve it?

His mind echoed that question it had voiced the night before sitting in that Maker-damned tree and still he had no answer. No answer for that unwavering trust both you and the child seemed to place in him, only a growing desire to not let either of you down.

“Thank you...”

The words left him before he realized it, slipping from his lips easily and he could feel your eyes on him as he finished tying the bandage securely at the back of your hand. The bacta he covered the shallow cut in would start to work immediately, so he was reassured you wouldn’t be in pain much longer.

“...for saving my life.”

He did look up at you then, your eyes wide and surprised making him grimace; he knew he wasn’t the easiest patient whenever you treated him. But saving his life in battle—that carried a weight, a significance he could no longer ignore. He didn’t want to ignore it. He wanted to treasure it, in whatever way you would let him.

Din lifted your injured hand, his thumb brushing lightly across the gauze that covered your palm before he brought it to press against the lower half of his visor—the memory of a woman’s voice in his head, a flash of scraped knees, grazed hands and teary eyes,

“A kiss will make it all better, Din.”

He had no idea what brought on such a memory, one so old he could hardly remember the face the voice belonged to. But that warmth, that all-consuming safety he could remember feeling so vividly – one he had never felt again since she died—he wanted you to feel that too, so he mimicked the action that gave it to him, in the only way he could.

The slight hitch he could hear in your throat told him the action wasn’t lost on you, his fingers curling over yours as he mimicked the kiss he wished he could press to the injury you sustained, to show you where words failed what it meant to him.

When you shifted, your hand lifting to cup the cheek of his helmet, he practically groaned under the ghost of a sensation he tried to construe—leaning into your hand despite the lack of feeling through physical touch, embracing the sentiment, nonetheless. Something shifted and all at once, Din wanted to give you more. Wanted to reciprocate what you had so easily given him.

He ran his hand up your arm to brush gloved fingers across your cheek, swiping away some of the ash and he saw you visibly relax—the wired tension adrenaline and fear could incite melting away under his touch. A chirp to your side, and the child pulled your attention from each other to where he clamored onto your lap.

For all his tiny stature and innocent gaze, Din felt more at ease leaving you to grab a change of clothes knowing the kid was with you—letting his presence abate his protectiveness that demanded he keep you in his sight, keep his hands on you to feel that you were safe. His ad’ika was a good substitute as he hesitated to grab something of your own, that swell of something moving his hand like a puppeteers to one of his own shirts instead.

Nevarro was only a few hours away max, and then he would have to spend some time meeting with Karga and collecting a new batch of pucks off the ship. Having you surrounded in something of his—in place of his own body, was the only thing that placated those instincts to protect you. Like the way that mythosaur necklace hung around his ad’ika’s neck—it was as if he was there, somehow—and that would have to be enough for now.

You were stroking over the womp rats head lazily when he returned, his cheek resting above the swell of your breast while the gentle rise and fall of your chest soothed you both after the day you had. A small hum of a song he didn’t recognize filtered into his ear—the sound lulling the child off easily.

To a Mandalorian, seeing someone spill blood and not an hour later rock a baby to sleep, sent another devastating crack down that wall he tried to maintain—a crack so far down the foundation that it was only a matter of time before the structure came crumbling down.

Not tonight…

That familiar mantra he had chanted to himself that first time he realized his attraction to you was reciprocated rose in his head again. He urged you to change, holding the child as you did before you climbed onto his lap to nestle closer to him, the weight of your body on him grounding as he stroked one hand over your hair and the other held protectively on your hip. He would stay for as long as he could before he had to manually fly the Crest back to Nevarro, and then he would hold a blaster to Karga’s head to cut the small talk so he could get back to you both in the least amount of time.

Your steady breathing and his ad’ika’s little body resting between you both—he was reminded not for the first time of how his life had changed, and how deep down—he really didn’t want things to go back to the way they were before the child, before you.

He needed to prove that to you somehow.

Soon.

The following night found you pressed to the textured metal of the ships wall, safe in hyperspace while the child slept. Being apart for over two weeks and the frustrations of dealing with Karga had finally gotten the better of him when he dragged you against him as soon as he had engaged the autopilot and you were putting the child into his pod.

The frigid cold of the metal warmed under your overheated body while he had you pinned—one hand between your legs and two fingers thrusting hard into your soaked cunt. His free hand splayed over your lower back kept you up when your legs began to tremble.

You palmed the heavy length of him over his flight suit, one hand anchored around his neck while you tried to remain coherent enough for your fingers to unzip his pants. You needed him—after the stress of yesterday had worn off with a good night sleep and long shower, you felt like yourself again.

“Saw that panther in you yesterday, kitten---” he growled, a needy edge to his tone as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, muffling your cries against it while the sloppy, obscene sounds of his fingers pushing into you filled the hold, “killing traffickers… protecting, defending—bleeding— fuck…”

You preened under his words, fitting your hand into his flight suit to wrap around the swollen girth of him, his staggered moan and the roll of his hips into your hand making you squeeze him. His fingers dragged strings of wetness from you with every hard thrust, painting your inner thighs with your own arousal while his thumb worked your clit.

You whimpered when you came, walls clenched tight around him when he crooked his fingers just right—right there Mando—against the spongy soft spot deep inside you, the smooth metal of his pauldron on your cheek a relief as your legs quivered and shook—muscles tensing almost to a cramp,

“That’s my girl, that’s it--- fuck,” he rocked into your hand in time to his fingers still pushing through your folds, dragging the rough pads up your spine to tangle in your hair enough to yank your head back. You whined at the sting, soothed by the spasms of pleasure still rippling from your pussy as he spread your release over puffy lips.

The angle of your head pulled back, exposing the column of your throat and you could feel his eyes devouring you through that night vision feature his helmet afforded him in the darkness. You squeezed his cock, the heaviness in your palm, the struggle your fingers had to meet each other wrapped fully around him made your mouth water.

Maker, it had been too long. Too long without him.

You were used to a few days at most, but two weeks—two weeks with hollow orgasms and an empty ache where his cock should be buried deep inside you when you came had the previous fortnight feel like months.

His helmet pressed to your temple, and you were just about to fall to your knees—take him in your mouth like you had been wanting to, when his hand pulled your hand from around his cock, hushing your whines with a dip of his fingers back inside you while he purred into your ear,

“Do you trust me?”

He brushed up against you again, the heat radiating from his beskar clad body the only solid thing you could cling to in the darkness, your mind still recovering from his fingers inside you mere moments ago. Your release smeared the insides of your thighs, cunt throbbing and clenching around nothing when he spoke.

All you could hear was the heaviness of your breathing, the resounding click you came to associate with the individual pieces of his armor being removed one by one, unhurried—a ritual, like every other aspect of his Creed he adhered to. Even in the darkness you felt you were witnessing something private, the sounds making goosebumps rise on your skin and your heart race. You nodded slowly, knowing his helmet would be able to pick it up,

“Y-yes,”

Your voice sounded both too loud and too quiet in your ears, like a giggle in a place of worship—an interruption to the steady clink clink clink of each piece of beskar being placed reverently atop a crate, your lover revealing himself to your blind gaze. In your mind’s eye—you could picture him, blurred and faceless—bending to unclasp the armor plating his thighs, the muscles in his back shifting and rippling with power as he bent further to unlace his boots.

Even after months of being with him free of his armor, you were still struck whenever he removed it for you. And you knew it was for you, it was always for you.

“What about now?”

He pressed a bare hand back between your legs, humming at the mewl that bounced off the ship walls when his knuckles glided down over your swollen clit, your legs widening subconsciously for him, eager as ever for his touch,

“Yes…”

“And now?”

His hand left your clit, tracing up along the planes of your stomach, spreading them wide to feel the twitching anticipation rippling through the muscles. Between your breasts they continued, where your breath hitched—and higher, higher… to wrap his hand around the column of your neck, the smallest pressure making your pulse jump and a moan slip past your lips as a fresh wave of arousal snapped down your spine to settle between your legs,

“Yes…”

A tremor of desire thickened in your voice, and you knew he could feel the word forming in your throat, could feel the swallow you took when your mouth suddenly became dry with anticipation. Another slight squeeze – a reminder of the strength in those hands you let touch you however they wished night after night without hesitation – before he released you.

Your skin was alight with flames and every synapse of your nerves felt like a live wire, his touch the single spark needed to create a devastating inferno. Both hands settled on your shoulders, engulfing you with their size before he ran them down either side of your arms to take hold of your wrists. Every movement was performed with a laser-like focus on you—his invisible gaze watching your every reaction as his thumbs brushed over your racing pulse points.

When you whimpered, trying to press closer to him, to feel him—impatient after so many days apart, he lifted your wrists above your head, one hand enough to hold both of yours against the wall. The coarse duraweave of his flight suit brushed against the sensitive peaks of your breasts when he was brought closer to you,

“And now?”

His free hand came to settle possessively on your naked hip, your back arched instinctively into him—the strong heat of his body calling to yours, begging him to take you as you needed—as you always needed him. Fuck, you had never been so needy for a man in all your life, not even when you thought every day was going to be your last in the middle of the war. You were nodding for him without even realizing, your eyes turned up to where you could hear his breathing escape the helmet above you, your thigh lifting to brush up along the strained outline of his cock,

“Yes…”

You breathed the confirmation once more and his shaky exhale when he dropped his head to rest on your shoulder made your stomach clench, nuzzling your face into his neck. The bulge in his pants pressed against your stomach, and he rocked against you once—unable to stop himself before he released your hip to reach for something. You looked uselessly in the same direction and had just opened your mouth to ask him what he was doing when you felt something cold and metallic latch around one wrist.

Squashing down the immediate panic that tried to rise in your throat, you realized they were only binders. When you made no move to pull away or tell him to let you go, he latched the second wrist in the other half of the binder. A single beep and a small hiss had the binders attached to the wall of the hold behind you. A testing tug, and your arousal skyrocketed at your inability to pull free—to be totally under his control, it was fucking intoxicating.

His hands ran down the length of your arms and over your breasts, filling them in his hands—testing their weight and rubbing over taut nipples that made you gasp before he continued down the sides of your ribcage towards your hips.

And then he was gone. Pulled away completely—and you were left alone in the darkness.

But he was close, you could feel him—sense his presence, and it was that closeness that made you nearly pant with a need to beg him back. To throw pride aside and spread your legs wider to tempt him into your welcome heat.

What was he waiting for?

Your head fell back against the wall with a huff as the tension grew heavier in their air like tuning the strings of an instrument, tightening, tightening and tightening some more—so tight until it was ready to snap.

A rustle of fabric – his flight suit – hitting the ground made you chew your lip in nervous anticipation, your thighs rubbing together to try and alleviate some of the pressure gathering there, the friction nothing to close to what you needed.

You were about to call his name, to give in—give in to whatever teasing game he decided he wanted to play when you felt something. Your breath caught—a brush of something soft and warm against your parted lips and a sudden small exhale against your mouth had your heart stuttering.

You let out a soft sound when a warm hand cupped the back of your neck, Mando’s lips pressing against yours once more—light and hesitant, uncertain—before they became a little more insistent when you responded, kissing him back slowly as his nose slotted against yours. Teeth – his teeth – tugged on your bottom lip as he pulled back a hairsbreadth to whisper against your lips,

“I trust you too…”

The unfiltered baritone of the Mandalorian’s voice surrounded you like a blanket, weighted and comforting and you exhaled a quiet noise—lips brushing his when your own gaped, speechless—no coherent thoughts stringing together other than fractured realizations—lips, breath—tongue, nose—voice. There was a vulnerable strength about his voice in that moment and Maker, it was beautiful. The richness of his voice that had been stripped by the vocoder, full and thick and swollen with life embraced you and you wanted to hear him again, wanted to kiss him again.

His husky chuckle made you realize you had said as much out loud and with a whispered “me too…”, his mouth captured yours again, swallowing your whimper as scruffy facial hair tickled from his upper lip and made you shiver pleasurably. Fingers speared up to tangle in the hair at the base of your skull to keep you in place as he kissed you like a man starved—groaning against your lips when your tongue flicked out over his soft lips.

Was this real? You thought deliriously as his tongue peaked out hesitantly to meet yours, testing—figuring it all out with soft presses of lips and tongue, every glide of his mouth over yours dragging a groan of pleasure from him.

Fuck, you needed him—wanted him more than the next breath of air you so desperately needed.

Air that was well and truly forgotten as the warm wetness of his tongue lapped over the seam of your lips, following your lead and deepening the kiss with a moan of the most sinful depravity you had ever heard. Plundering, pillaging, exploring—his tongue conquered your mouth with little resistance, a thick thigh – bare and hot – pressing between your legs and your wetness soaking his skin when you had to go on your toes to rock against the solid muscle needily,

 “Mando—” you panted when his lips left your mouth, immediately pressing wet, open mouth kisses down along your jaw where you felt the tickle of hair—wispy strands long enough to brush your temple as he cupped the other side of your neck.

Hair.

You moaned his name again—you never even considered if he had hair or not, but the knowledge that it was there filled you with an insatiable need to touch it.

“Taste so good, kitten—” he moaned against your neck, the scrape of teeth—the lap of his tongue over your pounding pulse and his hands dropping to guide your hips along his thigh—flexing the muscle beneath your soaked cunt enough to make you cry, “Stars, I’ve wanted to taste you for so long…”

His words left him on a groan, the tail end of his sentence rasped against your mouth as he caught your lips again, starving for you—your mouths working hungrily over the others, desperate and frantic to feel each other the way neither of you had ever let yourself hope to have. Your teeth sank down into a plump bottom lip and tugged, your name a thick moan in his throat—his thigh pressing up harder against your core while his cock twitched where it rested heavily against your stomach,

“Need to touch you, Mando—” you didn’t care how pathetic you must have sounded, breathless and rutting along his thigh like a Maker damned bitch in heat—sweat from adrenaline and arousal at the mere thought of him being without his helmet plastering errant strands of hair to your forehead and neck, “Let me, please—please let me down,”

Trust me…

He pressed his forehead against yours, the brush of soft waves against your skin and the mingling of his breath with yours had you struggling against the binds that held you, a plea of his name—a futile pull downwards and he exhaled, leaning back down to kiss you. While he distracted you with his mouth, he lifted a hand and with a soft whirr, your hands dropped heavily to his shoulders, free to touch him finally.

I do…

Pawing at him, he pressed against you closer, impossibly closer to trap you between his body and the wall, your fingers carding through thick waves that had you both breaking the kiss to groan, shivers of sensitivity wracking the Mandalorians body—his cock twitching violently against your stomach and leaving a streak of precum staining your skin.

“Finally,” he sighed, his scorching mouth finding your neck once more, a large hand moulding over your breast to knead it, “gonna taste every fucking inch of you—mark you so you never forget,” he growled, the rumble of his voice vibrating through you—tremors from an earthquake that completely transformed the landscape of your body, made it his own. Your head tipped back at the sheer pleasure it wrung out of you, his entire being consuming you—butterfly wings in the breath of a dragon.

He dropped his thigh from between your legs – letting you settle more fully on the ground despite your protests at the sudden lack of friction – so he could map your body with his lips. His head dropped to your chest, tongue immediately circling a hard nipple before he sucked it into his mouth with a cry of “yes” falling from your lips as your fingers tightened in his hair, holding him against you.

He pressed your lower back to arch you into him—his mouth devouring one breast while his hand massaged the other, sucking a mark above your nipple with tongue and teeth and a raw desire to claim you.

“Mando—your mouth—,” you panted, pressing yourself closer to him while you dragged your nails against his scalp to his delight, a wet moan released over your breast the most delicious combination of hot and cold that send thrills of pleasure over your skin.

“Smell so good…I can smell you from here—fuck, kitten—” his words were muffled against your skin, the hazy frenzy to reach every part of you, as if he had moments left to live—as if this was the last time he would ever be able to touch you, “so wet—can smell…” you whimpered as his fingers glided back through your folds, “all for me---”

 Your hands remained in his hair, the only thing that was keeping you grounded—that this was happening – that this wasn’t some dream you had concocted from the scent of him filling your nose while you slept, or the calloused hands that stirred you awake when they dipped between your legs or pressed the head of his cock between your folds.

It was real.

Mando trusted you.

Mando took off his helmet.

Mando was kissing you.

Mando trusted you.

He trusted you.

Trust.

You released a small sound of relief that morphed into a cry of his name when a prominent nose nudged against the swollen and sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs—soaked with your arousal and prior release before he took a long inhale, the growl he released nothing short of feral as he maneuvered one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, “Fucking perfect…”

His words fell hot on your soaked folds and when his tongue flicked over your clit, your legs almost buckled,

“Fuck!” you sobbed, “Mando—”

A fresh wave of slick drenched your folds and his fingers as they spread your lips apart for his tongue to experimentally lap between them, the groan of bliss—of unadulterated ecstasy he made at just your taste was positively filthy, his large body shifting under you so he could open his mouth wide and drag a long, greedy swipe from your entrance to your clit,

“Shit, so fucking good,” he moaned, sucking your clit into his mouth for a single moment before he dipped back down to curl his tongue inside of you, that moment too long for him to wait to taste you again,

“You’ve no idea,” he turned his head to bite into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, right over the tattoo he always fixated on stroking with his hands and was now able to lick and bite as he always wanted to-- soothing the now marked skin with warm strokes of his tongue, “no idea how long… shit, you’re perfect—”

His mouth made obscene noises as he dove through you slick, messily tracing his tongue across every fold, slowing after a while when he had satiated that initial thirst to gauge your reactions. He listened to your panting moans, noted what made you twitch and jerk and from the way he was moaning into your cunt—you didn’t think he wanted to leave your pussy any time soon. The thought alone made you shudder with pricks of lust dancing along every nerve ending.

But that clawing desire for him began to overwhelm you again—two fucking weeks – and your mind fogged with that single-minded desire enough to tug on his hair, “Mando—come back, kiss me—” you whined as he sucked your clit back into his mouth; a fast learner—when he knew how to circle around your clit with his tongue as much as flick the wet muscle over the sensitive nub.

He hummed, contemplating your request, but another insistent tug to his gorgeously thick hair had him acquiescing, your leg dropping from over his shoulder as he stood—chin and mouth messy and wet with your juices when his lips slanted over yours once more. The taste of yourself on the intoxicating flavor of his tongue made you drunk and eager for more—chasing his tongue when he pulled back.

He laughed breathlessly – the sound so foreign and beautiful, free of the helmet and so completely human – when you dug your nails into his shoulders with a growl for him to come back – there’s my sand panther – he leaned down to peck the corner of your mouth, his hands snaking down behind the backs of your thighs to lift you up effortlessly.

You yelped in surprise, the sound muffled against his mouth, and you could feel—quite noticeably, his lips quirk into a grin. Maker, he grinned—you could feel it, you could trace your fingers over his lips and paint the lines and dips and patterns that were uniquely him. Immortalize his likeness through touch.

A hand ran down from his neck to his chest, hovering over the thumping beat of his heart as he turned to make the few steps towards your sleep mat to lay you down on it.

“You gonna let me fuck you, kitten?” he hooked one arm under your knee before climbing over you—stretching your leg back over his shoulder when his hands found the mat by your head to hold himself up—mouthing over your jaw heatedly, “Gonna fill this tight pussy all night—fuck, haven’t been inside you in so long… need you—” he groaned, remembering those long nights stuck against the uncomfortable trunks of Blba trees without the soft, supple warmth of you around him.

You moaned at the stretch as he trapped you beneath him, nails leaving scores of passion down his back, finding purchase at the narrowness of his hips that rocked against you shallowly—that instinctive urge to rut into you taking over his mind and actions even as he whispered filth and praise hotly into your ear,

“See what you do to me,” he dropped a hand to stroke along his neglected cock, the head resting heavy on your stomach before he lined it between your folds, coating himself in your slick. Your walls spasmed—muscles braced for his size—and your head turned to nip behind his ear, moaning into it as he pushed into you, every thick inch stretching your walls beyond belief, leaving your jaw hanging open in mute surprise and pleasure.

“Fuck—" you panted, tilting your hips up to meet him, your body so open to him in this position—feeling every hard ridge and vein pulsing inside you and making your head spin with the sudden relief of being filled with him—completed by him. He gripped your hip in an iron hold as he tried to settle himself—his breath hot and wet against your neck, distracting himself from spilling inside you immediately with open mouth kisses down your throat and chest.

You whimpered at the short, shallow grinds of his cock inside you, the ones that spoke of an inability to be away from you, to be out of you for even a moment—the inch or two he withdrew shoved back inside you to the hilt every time, keeping you feeling overwhelmingly full while the wiry hair at the base of his cock brushed against your clit with every snap of his hips.

“Stars, Mando--- never stop fucking me, never stop---” you babbled, one of your hands cupping under a strong jaw peppered with stubbled hair to bring his mouth back up to yours. He happily complied, licking into your mouth, mimicking the roll of his cock into your cunt with his tongue invading your welcoming mouth,

“Never, fuck—never, kitten—” he had withdrawn so that your lips still brushed, mouths forced open by the moans he evoked and the words he panted into you. His nose nudged alongside yours when he tipped his head to kiss you again, his hunger for your mouth even more ravenous than you ever anticipated.

He had wanted to kiss you as much as you wanted to kiss him.

And now here you were, your hands tangling in his hair – dark, you imagined – and his breath puffing in hot, shallow exhales against your mouth, interspersed with hard kisses and teasing bites to your swollen bottom lip. Those small sounds, those tiny human noises that his modulator never picked up imprinted in your mind—those hitches in his breathing, the rolling rasp of his moans and that rumble when he groaned your name.

“H-harder—” you panted against his jaw, a small bare patch that you itched to kiss—following through on that desire immediately simply because you could, a flick of your tongue and press of your lips to the skin making him shiver and stutter in his slow grind into you.

“Harder, kitten?” he purred, pressing up to kneel—his large thighs a solid weight under your own that lay spread open over them, his hips never stalling in that delicious friction to push deeper and deeper inside you—enough to leave a part of him there forever, “Gonna feel me for fucking days…”

Maker, you hoped so.

His snarl – so much more earthy and virile without his helmet to strip away some of the emotion thickening it – sent a fresh pool of wetness pushing out of you and soaking his cock. Groaning at the sensation, his fingers split down around where his cock was impaling you with a resounding slap slap slap to gather some of it. The distinct sound of him sucking his fingers into his mouth, that filthy groan and quiet “fuck…” hissed under his breath had your walls clamping down on him.

His grip was bruising on your hips when he started pounding into you like he was trying to split you in half, your cries of “fuck—yes, yes!” reverberating off the metal walls as his cock pulled all the way out – making you whimper and shake – before he was slamming back into you hard enough to shove you up the mat.

“That’s my girl—fucking filthy, at—atiniir” his words peppered with that growling language you wanted to hear between your legs had your pussy spasming and your mind short-circuiting at the filthy promises in unknown words.

You threw a hand back to plant against the closest crate for support—letting him thrust into you harder “harder—harder Mando please--”, your heels pressing into his lower back to drag him closer while his hips mercilessly broke you apart—their sole purpose to shatter you with ecstasy and rebuild you with his name stitched within the fabric of your entire being.

Sweat slicked your skin as much as your arousal soaked the insides of your thighs, his thighs—his cock, his fucking stomach, and he loved it—it was making him wild,

“Stars… fucking soaking me, kitten— who gets you this wet?” he growled, slipping out of you so he could hook a hand under your thigh and flip you onto your stomach. You gasped in surprise, your chest pressed into the mat and your hips lifted instinctively until you were on your knees, baring yourself to him and squirming with a need to be filled again.

“You—you…” moans pierced your words, a shaky whimper catching in your throat when he crooked his fingers between your legs, a warning smack to your swollen cunt making you jolt in a delightful surprise that sent trickles of pleasure running up your spine as fast as the wetness trickling down your thighs,

“Who?” he snarled, his teeth sinking into the fleshy swell of your ass, his tongue then flattening up along your slit. He repositioned himself, his weeping tip rubbing between your folds before he thrusted into you with a fatal snap--- your walls spreading open to accommodate him as though he was always meant to be there. Always meant to be deep inside you and filling the emptiest parts of you with passion and devotion and an unencumbered desire that you couldn’t help but reciprocate with a shout of “Mando!” into the hold. The approving bite to your shoulder as he leaned over your back, that primal streak needing to respond to the blood spilled for him—to claim you with words as much as his body, sent him into a frenzy.

“That’s right, kitten---” he rasped, dragging his lips down your spine, intent on learning every inch of your with his mouth as he had with his hands and eyes over the last six months. Since that first time you sat on his thigh in the cockpit, since you trusted him enough to let him into your bed time and again, trusted him never to hurt you, to protect you even—it stroked that yawning beast inside him to full consciousness that now roared and rampaged around the deepest part of him, the one realized he would never be content by being alone again.

You… you could never be temporary.

“Only I can---” he leaned back up to his full height, imagining the picture you painted, your back arching gracefully, your hips bruising under the grip of his fingers as he pulled you back hard against every brutal thrust while his balls slapped against your clit enough to make you tremble and toss your head back in rapture, his name the only thing spilling from those lips he now knew the taste of, a taste he could feel coating his tongue—infecting him with a ravenous hunger for more.

Your arms shook as your cheek pressed into the mat, unable to stay up under the ruthless force of his cock, the strength you always marveled at conquering your body and claiming you like the spoils of war he had shed blood and ended lives to obtain. His only goal was you, having you beneath him like this, making you his.

And Maker, you were.

You sobbed when the head of his cock dragged along your walls, tilted just right to slam against that one spot he found every single time. You were his. His. You couldn’t deny it. You didn’t want to deny it. Because when one of his hands splayed between your breasts, pulling you back to be sitting against his chest before shifting up to turn your jaw so he could kiss you—you knew he was yours as well.

Those desperate moans of your name, the incessant need to have you close to him as he rocked into you, the angle that made your head fall back against his shoulder with a string of “yes, yes--- fuck yes, right there--- please--”

Your hand looped around to tangle your fingers in his hair, his scruffy facial hair and moustache sanding down over the sensitive flesh of your neck while he bit you, sucking a mark into the skin while he panted that he wasn’t going to last much longer—how much he wanted to fuck you full of his cum, and then fuck it back inside you when it dripped out.

Your own orgasm wasn’t far away, the tightening low in your stomach, that bubbling pot that sizzled and overflowed, drip drip drip­­--- and when his fingers found your clit, expertly rubbing you the way he knew would make you shatter, you were helpless to falling off the edge into bliss.

Your cry was muffled by his mouth, swallowing your orgasm with his tongue and the hot cavern of his mouth while you gushed around him—clamping down on him like a vice and trying to milk him of every drop, to keep him inside you longer. He groaned, a long drawn out sound that vibrated through you as he slowed, pushing through your convulsing walls until he could move more freely, your body sagging back against him as he chased his high,

“Inside, inside me Mando—” you rambled against his neck, slick with sweat that made his damp hair curl and stick to him. You didn’t need to ask him, didn’t need to beg for him to empty his release inside you. He hardly came anywhere else anymore, the insatiable desire he had to see his cum stuff you full too addictive to miss even once. But still you asked, desperate for him to accept.

“Mm--- fuck yes, only me—” his hips snapped up into you hard, making you tighten your fingers in his hair to a painful sting that made him moan at the combined sensation of pleasure and pain, his cock twitching and swelling, “only I can cum inside this fucking cunt, right kitten?”

You nodded, your lips working beneath his jaw as you mewled your agreement, releasing his hair to trace your fingers down his temple—palm cupping his cheek to turn his head so you can mutter against his lips, “Only you.”

That was all it took. A strangled moan against your lips, several violent, frantic thrusts—and he buried himself deep inside you, one hand pressing your navel—to keep you close or in a desperate attempt to somehow feel himself fill you, his nose dipped against your temple as he panted into your ear, that indescribable feeling of his hot, thick cum pressing against your cervix—plugged by his cock that still remained buried inside you for a few moments as he came down from his high.

The sudden stop of slapping skin in place of labored breathing and the sounds of lips connecting and breaking apart lazily was deafening, your fingers scratching through the damp strands of his hair.

“Mando,” you sighed, hazy and satiated—your nose nuzzling against his cheek, lips trailing feather light over his damp temple and up into his hairline. For all the times you had slept with him, every time he had fucked you—you almost felt…shy this time as his hands drifted down over tired, sensitive muscles. The nakedness – both physical and emotional – left very few barriers between you, blurred those shoddily maintained lines you neglected the longer you spent wrapped up in him. It was dangerous- because it made you want to tear down whatever was left between you.

“Mm?” came his light, post-orgasmic response.

You chuckled, your voice raspy and worn at the satisfied rumble you could feel emanating from his chest as he wrapped strong arms around your middle to keep you up against him. His mouth magnetized to your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses over your shoulder—following a clear path up your neck and across your jaw, meeting your lips when you angled your face back just enough to capture his.

“Mm…fuck—” he whispered, breath warm against your face as he exhaled his words, “I’ll never be able to get the taste of you out of my head now,”

You laughed then, leaning back down onto the mat when he released you so you could stretch out your tired muscles on your back, his imposing presence following immediately after so he could hover over you on his side, thick fingers tracing down into the stickiness between your legs and up along your abdomen,

“Thank you,”

His fingers stalled, and you felt the shift of his head turning to look at you, his nose nudging against your temple with a small noise of confusion.

“For the orgasm?”

You laughed again and when you felt his lips turn up on a silent smile, a thought tickled your mind that he might smile more often than you initially thought. You shook your head and turned your face up to kiss under his jaw, reveling in the hum of approval that bubbled in his throat, of his hand covering an entire breast easily to knead it lazily,

“For trusting me…” you admitted against his skin, your fingers dancing along the ripples of muscle on his abdomen before settling behind his neck. He was silent, words eluding him once more, but the soft kiss he pressed to your lips—the silent communication that had been missing between you for so many months, told you all he needed to say, a melding of mouths that sought nothing more than to convey a message.

Please don’t break it.

His thumb circled a taut nipple as the rest of his hand swallowed the swell of your breast, reluctantly pulling away before you whined slightly,

“Easy, kitten… let me clean you—” he grunted as he pulled himself up to stand, “shit—how do you walk around here with no night vision.”

The return of the modulated voice was both comforting and disappointing, after hearing his natural cadence, the little tells of personality and warmth that were missing through the vocoder were obvious to you now. The mechanical whirr of the fresher door opening, and the soft gurgle of water running was all you heard before the mat dipped by your side again. His lips on your neck made you jump before melting into his touch once more when the cool, damp cloth moved along your inner thighs, cleaning you of the stickiness that streaked across your skin. You hissed when the cloth passed through your folds, sensitive and sore and leaking his cum that you would be feeling for days.

“Stay, like this—” your fingers traced lightly over the cut of his jaw, your thumb brushing over a swollen bottom lip that pressed a kiss against your digit almost unconsciously.

He dropped the cloth somewhere off the mat, and shifted to pull your back against his chest, his large body folding around yours as he hummed his agreement,

“Always,” he rasped, a press of his mouth to the back of your head lulling you off with a smile on your face and a good man holding you tight.

You awoke an hour later with a cry, your muscles twitching and your mind half asleep and foggy with an intoxicating mixture of drowsiness and ecstasy. Mando wasn’t behind you--- you were on your back, but the hot tongue lapping at your cunt, your release wetting his lower face and mouth while he groaned your name told you where he was,

“M-Mando---”

“So good, kitten,” he groaned when your hands found his hair, your chest rising and plummeting violently with barely restrained breathlessness, your legs trembling over his shoulders before you whimpered at the overstimulation when he wrapped his lips around your swollen clit, engorged and abused from so much attention—two thick fingers pushing into your entrance with a filthy squelch as your release and his fingers pushed more of his cum out of you,

“Mando, please—” you tugged at his hair, begging him to let you go—to crawl up your body but he was persistent, and a second orgasm hit you as hard as the first. You fell to pieces on his tongue again with a sob, tears pearling at the corners of your eyes from how fucking good it felt.

The man was insatiable, groaning as he licked up every drop and seemed to be in no hurry to stop had you not yanked his hair more forcefully, a breathless chuckle leaving him as he kissed up your body slowly, his face messy and soaked when his mouth met yours in a long kiss,

“Mm… I wondered how long it would take you to wake up,” he muttered against your lips, hooking one leg over his hip before he lined his cock back up with your entrance, “could eat you all night long, kitten—and I plan to.”

When he pushed into you again, your head tipped back and your walls quivering at the intrusion, you knew he meant every word.

After all, Mando never said anything he didn’t mean.

Taglist:

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[twistedmusings]

Arabesque and Plie

A/N: I don't know why, as I crying trying to write my paper, I thought of my old ballet classes. There is such an intimacy in dancing a pas de deux with someone, especially with lifts, and such a tenderness when you see them communicate with just their faces...so I immediately put a twst spin on it. Warnings: Malleus and Leona trying to one up each other but failing because they are too focused on moving with you as one.

Malleus Draconia and Leona Kingscholar meet outside the gates of Ramshackle, only one of them being called out to meet you...how would they react when you ask them for some help?

----

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Malleus blinks as he looks at the dorm leader of Savannaclaw, the other glaring at him as they both met near the entrance of Ramshackle. Leona huffed and looked down at the package in Malleus’s hand.

“You brought a gift?”

“...I would think it is rather impolite to arrive at a dear friend’s house without a gift.”

Leona clicks his tongue as he pushes the gate open, forcing his way inside and refusing to look back at the dorm leader following him.

You really had gone and invited the lizard and not him? Where the hell did you get off? Here he was being decent enough to hand you the homework you had missed, after Vil forced him to do it, and you had gone and invited this cold blooded iguana to your place?

“Were you invited as well, Kingscholar?”

Wouldn’t he like to know.

“Mind your damn business, lizard, I’m just here on business.”

Malleus nods as he knocks on the door, both dorm leaders looking around as they heard music coming from...somewhere. Leona’s ears twitched as the door opened, the music getting somewhat louder as Grimm opened the door with an exhausted look and shaky paws.

“UGH! FINALLY.”

He floats over to Malleus as he points back at the entrance of Ramshackle.

“Please do something about them! My paws are hurting so much and I don’t think I can keep it up for much more!”

Blue eyes turn to Leona, Grimm tilting his head and looking at Leona up and down.

“...did you get los--”

“Just show me where the herbivore is.”

Leona spits out and makes his way into Ramshackle first, not looking back at the two as he looks around. He had never been in Ramshackle dorm but from what Jack told him it was simple and compact. His eyes had already spotted three great napping spots, which he would make use of the moment he handed you these damn papers, before he stepped into the foyer.

“Letting your pet open up the door for you now? Is the title of dorm leader getting to y--”

His teeth click as Leona shuts his mouth while his ears perked up at the growing intensity of the music in the room. Although, maybe that wasn’t the only reason they were up.

Eyes immediately went to your legs. .

The leg that was standing straight like an arrow seemed to not waver as the other extended itself out, one of your arms reaching outwards while you moved the other arm back so that your hand would press against your extended leg, the position imitating a sort of hunting bow as you held the position for as long as you could--

Leona jumped when you let out a breath, immediately dropping your position and spitting out a small ‘dammit’ into the air.

His surprise lasted only a moment as the mood was amazingly ruined by the two people he forgot were there, Malleus walking up behind him as Grimm took the snack filled box into the kitchen.

“Child of man.”

You turn around.

“Oh! Malleus! There you are! I need--”

Your eyes fall on the Savannaclaw dorm leader, tilting your head as he waits for his greeting.

“...do you need something from me, Leona-senpai?”

You little--

“Hah? Am I not allowed in your dorm? Only lizard boy over here can come over?”

“What? No! I’m just...surprised. You never really leave Savannaclaw that often, at least that is what Jack says.”

Leona tosses the papers on a nearby coffee table and lays himself out on your couch.

“He doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does...tell him next time to mind his business.”

You roll your eyes before holding out your hand for Malleus to take, the other quickly taking it and following you to the middle of the room.

“Grim mentioned you performing some sort of physical task that left him exhausted.” He looks down at the way your hands fit together before smiling.

“Are you in need of magical assistance?”

“As much as I would like to take a raincheck on that, the only thing I need right is you, Tsunotarou.”

You jump as you hear Leona drop one of his shoes on the floor loudly, taking the other one off slowly and refusing to look your way.

“...me?”

The Diasmonia dorm leader squeezes your hand lightly as he feels an unlikely warmth in his chest at your words. He briefly wondered if he should speak about the sleepless night he had, his mind far too giddy about you inviting him over that he held himself back on the sun waiting to rise in favor of sleeping as much as he could so he could enjoy his day with you.

“Yes! I just need you to…”

You hum and put a finger to your chin, tapping it twice as you figured out the best way to explain what you wanted from him.

“You know, I think it would just be quicker to show you.”

You rush over to the phone Crowley had given you, tapping the screen as music started to play from the small speakers. Malleus remains rooted to his spot as you get on your tiptoes, the shoes you got from Sam yesterday greatly aiding you in keeping comfortable as you move your arms up and down while concentrating on the routine you had memorized over and over.

Lime green eyes widen as you extend yourself back, dropping down to touch the floor as your other leg goes up with your movements before reaching back as if being held by someone. He watches you hold the position for a few seconds before both of your feet drop gently as you move closer to him.

Your eyes open to reveal a sad look, both feet now on pointed toes as you reach out to him only to pull back gently and lean forward only a slight bit before moving back and going into a simple arabesque.

The music grew in intensity as two sets of eyes are on you now, watching you spin twice before you raised your arms along with the crescendo and your leg going up to try to match their height--

You hiss in pain as you drop the position immediately, Leona sitting up quickly as Malleus is at your side in an instant.

“Child of man--”

“Are you trying to stretch yourself out, herbivore?”

You sigh and stop the music, shaking one of your legs out to get rid of the cramps.

“Before coming here I used to do ballet in my free time. I thought that maybe they would have a ballet club on campus but Vargas said he has never heard of ballet before--so here I am trying to kill my boredom by dancing to one of my old routines and putting a new story to it.”

Both dorm leaders want to say something but find themselves rather lost.

Malleus recognizes this type of dance despite it being called a different name in the Valley of Thorns and Leona has only been around traditional Afterglow dances so what you just did impressed him more than he’d care to admit.

You pout.

“And I thought that I could maybe do a pas de deux by myself but--I’m not strong enough.”

Leona nods.

“So you needed someone to help you...is that it?”

“Exactly!” you grin and turn to look at Malleus,“You don’t mind right? It’s not like you have to do anything too complicated just...spin me when I tell you to and when the time comes for me to do that pose--”

You try to imitate it as best as possible.

“Just hold my leg up! All you need to do.”

Malleus had pretty much already made up his mind, nodding to your every word as you instruct him on where he should hold and for how long--

Only for him to frown as Leona grabs your wrist and pulls you away from him.

��If you needed someone to just hold you still, you could have used that raccoon over there.”

“THEY DID!”

Grim comes out of the kitchen with a plate full of snacks as he makes his way upstairs.

“My paws are shaking from trying to keep their entire leg up...I never asked for this type of exercise!”

You sigh.

“It wasn’t that bad, Grim!”

“YOU WEREN’T THE ONE ALMOST GETTING SQUASHED WHEN YOUR LEG CAME

DOWN!”

Grim goes upstairs.

“AND DON'T EXPECT TO GET ANY SNACKS.”

Leona tries to speak up but stops when Malleus puts a hand on your shoulder.

“You were only here to deliver some homework, correct?”

He tugs you back lightly.

“You should be getting back to your dorm, Kingscholar.”

The lion prince growls only to grab your wrist and pull you back.

“You don’t tell me what to do, Malleus. If I wanted to live here I would do so instantly.”

“Uh...no?”

They both turn to you, Malleus looking down with a kind smile as Leona glares at what you were going to say next.

“Shall we get started, child of man?”

“I can help you just as well as he can!”

“Sit down for now, Leona-senpai?”

Malleus can’t help the smile on his face as you lead him back to the center of the room. You had called for him after all, Kingscholar was just here because...well he didn’t know.

You start up the music again and begin the routine, Malleus smiling all the while you seem to glide effortlessly through movements that seemed far too complicated for him to put together. One moment you were crossing your legs and the other you were stretching out your leg while balancing yourself in one foot.

He readies his arm as you move on tip toes towards him, giving him a gentle smile before turning your back to him and going into an arabesque.

“Grab my waist Mal and...gently spin me around.”

The dorm leader does as he is told, meeting your eyes and chuckling when you make a face at him.

“You said there was a story to this, child of man?”

You start moving backward, one leg stretching out and remaining steady as his hand now moved to your lower back so he could support some of your weight.

“The original story is somewhat cliched...so I was thinking of making it a story about an adventurer who meets a lonely king. They don’t know they are a king because he purposefully keeps it from them--I’m going to learn forward, okay?”

His hands are on your waist as you glide down, touching the floor with your foot as your other foot goes straight up, coming back up elegantly as you explain the plot further.

“The adventurer and the king spend a lot of time together...yet the king feels like if he reveals his secret now the adventurer would run. So he keeps it hidden until an unfortunate incident--”

You hold out your hand for him as you stand on your tiptoes, Malleus taking it and giving it a gentle squeeze before watching you raise one of your legs up so that it is at the same height as his stomach.

“Yet when it is revealed he finds that the adventurer doesn’t care who he is. All they care about is the person who they care for the most...and that is the king.”

Were you trying to tease him? This story sounded far too familiar. If he were to pick a character to relate to it would certainly be the monarch. While Malleus certainly wasn’t scared to show you who he was, he just wanted the mystery to last a bit longer so you would stay at his side. If you had known he was the Malleus Draconia, would you act as light hearted as you are now? Or would you pull away and cower in fear?

The very thought made him anxious as you turned your back towards him again, your hands raising up as you got ready to go into your big arabesque position. You give Malleus a quick cue as you stretch yourself out, your leg rising up as far as it could--only to lay gently against Malleus’s hand as you let out a sigh of relief.

“...do you think the adventurer would stay with the King?”

“Huh?”

Malleus can see he caught you by surprise as he lets your leg go down slowly, setting you back into first position before you once again stand on your tiptoes and put your hand up so Malleus could spin you around twice. At this point, he was entirely focused on where your hands were going and how you were moving, picking up on each cue as he dared to look into your eyes.

“I know this is your story but if the adventurer were to leave...the King would be rather heartbroken. I am certain that he would prefer if the adventurer were to stay.”

He knows he would prefer it if you stayed. And if he ever dared to be so bold, he would prefer that you stayed by his side.

The music fades out after the last note, Malleus still holding your hand as you try to catch your breath.

Had he said too much? Did he perhaps make you uncomfortable? The story was from your imagination and he was just reading far too into it--

His eyes widen as your other hand rests on top of his, looking at you with surprise as you giggle and pull them close to your heart.

“If the King would have them...I’m sure the adventurer could find a new home with him.”

“If you want to help then...fine.”

Leona smirks as he watches you apologize to Malleus, the other visibly disappointed which already made him feel pretty great. He hadn’t even meant to stay here for too long and yet you had picked him for this little dance of yours. Suck it, lizard.

He turns to look at you, watching your eyes staring at him intently as he leads you to the center of the room.

“What is it?”

“...do you think you can lift me up?”

Oh you were being really funny, weren’t you? Of course he could lift you up. Out of all of the Magishift members and out of all the people in Savannaclaw, he was the strongest one. At this point you were just asking stupid questions.

“Try me.”

You nod as you pick a different song, starting it up as you start out in first position with your back turned to him. He watched as you bend your leg and bring it up to your thigh, slowly unbending it and lifting it up as it goes past your head. Eyebrows raised, he goes to support it but you stop him with a sound.

What? Wasn’t that what he was here for? He watches you glide into every move with great precision, turning towards him with one foot as the other is raised halfway. In his opinion, it made you look like a living doll.

He wasn’t sure why he liked that so much.

You walk back towards him slowly, your hands at your side with your palms facing outwards before you do a single turn and speak up.

“Grab me by the waist and just hold me. I’ll tell you when to spin.”

With great effort, you lift up your leg once again and stretch out while giving him the command to gently spin you. Leona nods as his hold on you changes, turning you around slowly and watching you bend down sideways.

His hold changes from one hand to one, wrapping his arm around your waist as his other hand starts to outstretch to support him better. You come back up and smile as he gives you a shit eating grin.

“Did you expect that?”

“I almost don’t want to give you the satisfaction of an answer.”

Leona takes great care to make sure that his hold on you is as light as it can be. If he was holding onto you for dear life, he was sure that your bones would immediately break. And with the way this dance was going, it seemed that you needed him to be as gentle as possible.

Already a tall order for him.

“So what’s the story of this dance?”

He takes a hold of your waist as you stretch yourself out, both hands going outwards as he brings you back in slowly.

“The original is a bit cliche but...maybe I should make it about an adventurer trying to find a lost prince--I’m going to need you to lift me up over your head.”

You glide to the right before jumping up, Leona giving you the extra boost you needed as you put one leg up and your arms stretching themselves out as they briefly rubbed against his ears.

“Maybe the adventurer hears a story of a missing prince who was never seen again after a quarrel with his country, yet the country needed the prince’s plans in order to succeed in battle. So they asked an adventurer to please seek him out.”

A prince, huh?

He gently guides you down but his hands never leave your waist as you instruct him to keep his hold a bit tight as you stretch yourself out towards the other dorm leader sitting on the couch but being greedily pulled back to Leona.

“Unbeknownst to them, the adventurer had already met the prince. They had stopped the prince’s rather tedious plans to take over some foreign land. The adventurer understood why they would want him back...but they didn’t know if he would accept.”

You tell him that you are going to move forward and that when you do he should immediately lift you up. It is surprising that he follows your every move so effortlessly, but maybe he was just that in tune with what you were doing. It’s the first time he has held someone so closely without trying to cause them physical harm. Besides, it was amazing to see you remain composed and relaxed as he lifted you up into the air only to watch you hold your pose.

“So? Did the adventurer get to the prince?”

He turns your waist clockwise fast, making you spin around in four circles before stopping you as you lean forward and raise your leg up, the movements getting a bit faster as his hands went from looking at the back of your head to your waist.

“They did...but the prince told them that he just wanted to stay where he was now. How it wouldn’t be worth it to go back home after all the shameful things he has done.”

Leona can almost feel your determination as you pull away from him. Why would you pick a prince out of all people? And one of an outcast nonetheless. Were you still trying to call him out for his past mistakes? Was that all he was to you? The dorm leader who had tried to cheat his way to victory?”

You smile and hold out your hand, Leona raising his slowly and taking your as you raise your leg up.

“But the adventurer wouldn’t leave it there. They know what the prince is capable of...all they need to do is make sure that he sees it as well.”

A quick glide downwards as he picks you right up, setting you down on two feet before you resume your position on your tiptoes.

“The adventurer tells the prince that there are plenty of things that only he can do that nobody else can. Even if the crown wasn’t his, he would still hold great power over the decisions of his kingdom. One didn’t need to wear a crown to have great power.”

You turn your back towards him and start getting ready to go into your great arabesque position--!

Only to stop when Leona stands in front of you and goes down on one knee, staring at you in the eyes while you raise your leg up and instead of fully stretching yourself back...you merely lean down and rest your hands on his shoulders.

He may be lazy but he knows symbolism when he sees one. If you were to be the adventurer and he was the prince, he imagined himself staring up at you as you spoke words of comfort to him and him alone. The bastard in the story must be pretty lucky to have someone like the adventurer believe in them…

The music fades out slowly as you go back into first position, Leona scratching the back of his head with a bored look while you pick up your phone and stop the music altogether.

“First Vil and now you, everyone is making me work today.”

Leona can’t look at you in the face, not after he pulled that cliche sort of move. One moment of weakness and he was putting himself in the shoes and feeling jealous of a character that didn't even exist! When did he get so pathetic?

He mumbles a quick goodbye and heads out, deciding that he needed to nap for the rest of the day after that embarrassing moment--

“Leona-senpai!”

The dorm leader stops in his tracks, turning around with an annoyed look only for it to melt away as you trot over to him and smile.

“Mind if I call you in case I need your help again?”

Damn you. Damn you, damn you, damn you you made him so weak--

He leans close and grins before flicking your forehead.

“If you reward me properly then...maybe.”

[plan-d-to-i]

Hi Plan! I was reading this blog that answers mdzs writing prompts then I saw these:

2/2

ok item 1.... jiang cheng's advice...as the anti-WWX advice

jiang cheng:

"Jiang Cheng turned again, his words covered with thorns, “Why are you still standing there? Waiting for the prey to come and throw itself onto your sword? If, today, you don’t catch the creature hunting Dafan Mountain, don’t ever come see me again!” (8)

the novel deliberately contrasts that advice with Lan Wangji's right there for us :

Lan Wangji:

"... Lan WangJi spoke again, “Do your tasks.” The command was simplistic and clear, without any fancy vocabulary for decoration.

The juniors finally remembered the reason behind why they came to Dafan Mountain. They gathered their thoughts and respectfully waited for further instructions. After a moment, Lan WangJi spoke again, “Do what you can. Don’t force anything.”

His voice was low and magnetic. The heart of anyone standing near enough would undoubtedly tremble upon hearing it. The juniors obediently followed Hanguang Jun’s orders and walked deeper into the mountain forests, too afraid to linger. Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan were truly completely different people, Wei Wuxian thought. Even the advice and the warnings they gave their juniors were completely contrary. As he was pondering this, Lan Wangji suddenly gave him a slight, almost invisible nod, and Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but become slightly dazed." (8)

Wei Wuxian:

Wei WuXian spoke, “Okay, okay, okay, gege-s. Send a signal and get your clan’s… HanGuang-Jun up here!” (9)

This ofc while he's doing everything to teach them stuff and save their lives after seeing them in trouble. Later on after Yi City for ex:

“... but you all have to be very careful from now on. If you run into another bizarre situation like this again, don’t investigate on your own. Contact your clans first, get help, and do everything in a large group. (42)

This is just WWX's advice over two chapters because he gives so much advice in the story and basically uses almost all his time with the juniors to teach them stuff...

Item 2

What in the make believe melodrama 😀... who the hell is this character that they just pasted jc's name on? Let's remember actual jc:

His uncle, who had led the distinguished Yunmeng Jiang Clan alone since the man had been young, had been cold, severe, and gloomy for years and years on end. Not a single lenient or merciful word left Jiang Cheng’s mouth if he could help it, nor was he ever willing to offer charity and kindness.

Yeah but he was talking about puppy paws... sure. And :

Silver bells were one of the signature accessories of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan. Jin Ling had been raised by both clans since he was small. He would live at the Lanling Jin Clan’s Jinlin Terrace for a while, then live at the Yunmeng Jiang Clan’s Lotus Pier. Thus, he should have been carrying objects from both clans.

You know what else Jin Ling has? Fairy! So yeah there would be a dog a Lotus Pier. Just not jc's dog, because he doesn't give a hoot about dogs unless he can use them for an impromptu torture session on WWX. If he did care about dogs after all he could've easily bought Jin Ling Fairy himself. Instead:

Half-squatting, Jin GuangYao had in his arms a glistening-black puppy with round, wide eyes. He looked up and smiled, “I found this little thing but I don’t know what to call it. A-Ling, do you want to give it a name?”