#grumbles and kicks another rock at high velocity

[downfour]

rubs my face and grumbles and kicks a rock so hard it shoots clean through the wall

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR

18+  Content: Eventual descriptions of gore and smut. Third person POV. Chapter Word Count: 2203 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader  - no usage of “y/n”

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

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ONE: ARVALA-7

The Razor Crest is the closest thing to The Mandalorian’s home, there wasn’t a situation the spacecraft hadn’t emerged triumphant albeit attaining minimal scathes of blaster fire. She’s an old vessel commissioned sometime before the Galactic Empire’s formation, the Mandalorian is grateful he’s privileged to possess such a durable warship, it compliments his style perfectly.

Although, as the craft whines at Mando’s persistent thumbing of controls, he was beginning to resent the body of duralloy surrounding him. The walls shake violently against the atmospheric changes and the left engine slows to a stop, crashing against a stray object within the propellers. He fights against the increasing velocity, eager on not crashing into the all-too-familiar dusty planet nearing closer.

He hopes Kuiil is accepting of a visitor.

Mando surveys the gunship before him, a piece of exterior panelling collapses to the ground underneath the resting Crest and the whirs of a slowing engine clash against the whistling wind, and he sighs. It’s not an easy fix, not this time. The Guild is increasing the numbers against him and with it, the blaster fire directed towards him has improved; pilots are becoming gallant, stupid, credit-hungry.

At least he’s a good pilot, a skill he feels pride for possessing.

Even so, the Crest is a bulky hull and his skills can’t avoid the few unfortunate circumstances that come with it. The spacecraft is in bad shape, worst it’s ever been in and he fears even the Ugnaught cannot assist with this, but he can’t waste time - can’t stay in one location for too long. If his short time on Sorgan taught him anything, it’s to not allow himself attachments nor liabilities.

Arvala-7 hasn’t changed — hasn’t improved — since he was last here, collecting the asset for a hefty reward that now encases his body. The asset — The Child, remained in the sleeping berth, undeterred by the convulsions. Mando contemplates not to wake him and visit Kuiil for assistance, but he’s reminded of Peli Motto’s stern words— You can’t just leave a child all alone like that!

Regardless of the fact the planet is a deserted wasteland, he knows she’s right.

Besides, if the Jawa’s were to ransack the Crest again, they might use the Child as a bargaining chip.

Substrate crunches underneath Mando’s weighted boots as he nears the boarding ramp to collect the Child. The tips of his toes reach the incline but he stops, pauses, thinks. There’s a shift in the wind before it settles flatly, dissipating as though it never existed. It’s silent, dead, until it wasn’t. There’s a sharp hiss echoing through the valleys, one he’s heard too many times and he promptly turns to catch a streak of burning red an inch away from his visor and nestling a hole into the battered ship.

Mando scans the bouldered landscape and concurrently keys at his vambrace, activating his thermal vision to assist in his hunt for the perpetrator; thankful for the night sky enhancing the opportunity. He stops short, visor targeting a glimmer of warm orange heat on the rocky peaks. Mando’s hand instinctively hovers over his holstered blaster, but they’re too far, too high for him to manage a decent shot. With the rifle locked in the Crest, he’s practically defenceless albeit for the flash charges and flamethrower in his vambrace.

Resorting to flash charges in this circumstance is futile. There aren’t sufficient charges to obstruct their vision long enough for him to reach their positioning. Of course, the flamethrower is even worse; he’d consider himself lucky if it extended a mere two metres ahead of him. He’s easy pickings — too vulnerable, and it intimidates him.  

He’s never felt so insignificant...so...powerless.

Leather toggles at his vambrace and the visor magnifies its vision before his eyes. Mando observes the figure, analyses it, and follows the direction of the barrel’s aim. It’s actively locked onto him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t show submission before them.

It’s assertive and so stupid.

It’s, in all probability, a Guild member here to lay claim to two rewards—Mando, for his betrayals, and the Child, for high compensations. Although the reward for the Child alone outweighs the Mandalorian’s. They could end him right here and now, steal the Child and be back on Nevarro within a few days; they should for it they don’t, he will put up a fight.

The sharpshooter readjusts their positioning, the barrel of the rifle tilting down an inch and another blast of crimson slashes through the air, wisps of wind trailing behind the high-velocity beam. It kicks up dirt upon its impact between his boots, dust and pebbles flicking into his lower beskar.

They’re not aiming for him at all, Mando realises. It’s possible that they’re a poor marksman, but was it plausible? Their posture is riddled with years of experience and discovered confidence; they’re no amateur. Mando is sure of it.

Which means they’re attempting to threaten him, frighten him enough for him to evacuate the lands. He doesn’t submit that easily. Perhaps they were hiding something — there’s no point in empty threats among land that possesses no treasures — and maybe it was valuable, or, Mando hums in thought, maybe something sinister he shouldn’t involve himself in.

Arvala-7 isn’t a planet of overly aggressive inhabitants, although the last he was here he did wipe out an entire Nikto encampment; there had to be others of their kind parading the planet in search of him.

Even with the assistance of his magnified vision, the figure was blurred and unreadable. Mando couldn’t even see a speck of skin underneath all the body armour and their face was obstructed by hard tan rock formations.

Mando thinks of the tan-pink face of the Ugnaught, the white whiskers lining his jowls, the weathered brown goggle cap, and how he failed to mention an overly territorial sharpshooter inhabiting the lands.

Blast! Kriffing Ugnaught!

Isn’t that something a tourist should be made aware of upon entering unknown terrain?

Mando gazes through his visor and observes the prone figure. If this was any other ordinary blaster fight, he’d have won by now; would’ve simply pulled for his Amban phase-pulse rifle and disintegrated the threat until there was nothing left but their dust kicking in the wind. He would have already been heading to Kuiil’s moisture farm and complained about his lack of notice of the ambush.

It wasn’t any normal fight, though. Mando can sense something from them and he doesn’t like it; not what he senses but why he senses it.

He’s a practical man.

He works with his hands and his mind, and doesn't tap into intuitions unless necessary. Even when he feels a job is too hard, too promising, he embraces it. Green skin and long bat-wing ears flicker in his peripherals—The Child. He’s awoken. At an unfortunate time, no less. He often did that.

Mando rushes to the Child and swoops him in his arms, ignoring the confused coos muffling into his beskar and returning to the Crest before the incoming fire. It doesn’t come, not even after he peers his helm from the duralloy walls. He inspects the valley formations for a tinge of orange heat, a speck of lens flare, but it’s gone.

It’s a good thing —he has to remind himself — but his suspicions are wedging into the deep crevices of his mind and tingling against his brain, provoking sparks of apprehension. It’s only a matter of time before they inevitably return and who’s to say they won’t return with reinforcements, optimistic of removing him from their lands.

The Child is restless in his arms, whiny piercing noises emitting from his little mouth. “Okay, okay,” Mando grumbles, content of the long-gone presence, and sets the Child down. “Don’t go outside.”

He thumbs his vambrace and the weapons unit doors commence their opening with creaky hinges, yet another thing Mando will have to secure at a later date. The Amban rifle feels comforting in his hand, the shiny barrel glimmering in the Crest’s light. It’s secured to his back and the thick strap fastens across his breastplate vertically, reassuringly.

Leathered digits grab at three canisters of rifle ammunition and situate them in their placements surrounding his boot, refilling the empty’s he’d used prior to the pathetic spacecraft malfunctioning.

Mando gives himself a once-over, guaranteeing he contained all the essentials on his possession if the sharpshooter were to return. When he’s pleased with the maintenance of his blasters and positioning of ammunition canisters, he retreats the Crest and closes the hatch. “I told you not to go outside.”

The Child coos blithely and wanders to his guardian with an extended three-tipped claw.

Mando sighs and picks up the little alien child. The beskar helmet twists towards the mountain-top and his eyes narrow underneath the visor, his lips pressed tightly against his teeth in thought.

“Come on, let’s go see Kuiil. Might even have some pestering frogs you can take off his hands.”

And maybe he can answer some urgent questions, The Mandalorian thinks.

The Ugnaught proves to be useful yet again, going so far as to tend to the Child’s hunger needs—and offering unwanted advice in the meantime. The Mandalorian and Kuiil stand ahead of the Blurrg enclosure, his former mount jeering the beskar-clad bounty hunter. “She’s not fond of you.”

“Feelings mutual.” Mando jabs and sighs, realising his vehemence towards a non-sentient beast. The Child is beside him, shoving a cobalt-blue frog through his tight-lipped mouth. Frantic legs kick at the Child’s chin but it only encourages his appetite, green claws pushing the amphibians limbs into his enclosed mouth. Mando cringes beneath the helmet.

“I recognise you’re not here for tea.” Kuiil draws the Mandalorian’s attention back. “Why are you here?”

“The Crest has taken significant damage. I fear I cannot fix it.”

“Get a new spacecraft, a reliable one.”

Mando sighs, “I don’t need a new one.”

“I have spoken.”

The Ugnaught extends an overflowing hand of mushy grub for the blurrgs, the beasts absorb the entirety of his fist in its mouth but pulls away leaving a wet shine of slobber on Kuiil’s hand. The Mandalorian is grateful for the thin wire restraining them to their confines. Although, they were definitely capable of overpowering the loose cables with their brute strength; he’s pleased he will be needing the reptilian assistance no longer.

It’s easier to depend on mechanics, they’re manipulatable and live beasts were not.

“There’s a marksman in those valleys,” Mando explains.

“I am aware.”

So he did know—and didn’t warn him. “Do you know them?”

“They are one of your kind.”

This piques his interest, curiosity apparent in his fixed posture; head tilted and shoulders stiffly raised. “Mandalorian?”

“No. Independent, private.”

Mando sighs and turns away from the Ugnaught, a pair of hands landing on his hips in frustration. Helmet adjusts upwards, reaching high in the night sky, where he browses the vastness of black and speckled white. Space seems so far away without his Crest, so unreachable. Underneath the visor, his eyes collect the clusters of stars. The Mandalorian is a man of many skill sets and abilities; constellation knowledge was not one of them, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He resolves to count the particles, managing to reach sixty-eight before the Child’s coos distract him.

He's resilient, persistent. Optimistic to obtain an answer to the number of stars soaring above him. Eighty-three, eighty-four— The sharpshooter crosses his mind and he scowls. There’s that sensation again, that uneasiness. Intuition, suspicion. Eighty…. Eighty-six?

The thoughts are evaded, not wanting to think about the potential danger he’s putting himself, the Child, and even Kuiil in by remaining on the desert planet—not that he had anywhere to go, but he feels as though the sharpshooter doesn’t care. They just want him gone, and it only makes the Mandalorian that much inquisitive.

Tan lower eyelids drag downwards as though they were crafted with gravity itself. He’s tired, exhausted, but he doesn’t succumb to his body’s pleads of leisure. It can wait until the Crest is soaring through space; then, and only then, with the Child dozing in his hammock he can relax, allow his muscles to recuperate, allow himself a moment's weakness.

Mando sucks in a breath through his helmet’s filter. Dry, warm, and grainy like the desert, but a refreshing change from the recycled oxygen inside the Razor Crest’s vessel.

Arvala-7’s moon is nowhere to be seen, the sky illuminated only by the dotted whites flaked through the sheet of black. It gives the sky an ominous appearance, threatening almost. Mando finds himself disorientated among the stars, a thick lump in his throat. It looked so…

Lifeless.

The Mandalorian forcibly retracts his attention from the sky, but his premonition remains intact and he dabbles with it. Fiddling the edges of a conscious thought and visualising it as a bounty puck, he pictures a bright hologram emerging from it’s centre, displaying a circulating outline of orange waves. It’s a bad idea, a stupid idea, but one he can’t reject, “Their camp. Where is their camp located?”

Kuiil shakes his head, “They’re not hostile, no need to provoke them.”

“I won’t shoot first.”

[welllpthisishappening]

Pace of Play

She can’t believe she’s never noticed it before. Because, honestly, Emma can’t even come up with a number to try and calculate how often she’s watched Killian step into the batters box. And that’s the thing. He never really steps out, either. It's a weird approach, but that could be the subheadline for their lives at this point and she’s mostly concerned with the power behind that swing. 

—-

Word Count: Like 3.4K Rating: Teen, but with kissing!  AN: This is solely for and because of @distant-rose​ who deserves every bit of baseball fic I have ever written and all the good things in any known universe. And speaking of universes. This is set in that Yankees one where Emma and Killian secretly date because David also plays for the Red Sox. If you’re so inclined to read more:

Batting a Thousand (the original one) || Puppy Love (the one where they get a puppy) || The One Where They Elope || The One Where Killian and David Take the Rivalry Too Far

Let’s go Yankees. 

—

“Is it weird that he does that?”

Emma makes a noise — barely more than a passing acknowledgement, eyes never leaving the field because Killian is up to bat and she’d lost feeling in her left foot at some point. She’s twisted at an awkward angle, legs draped over the suite seats in front of her, but she absolutely, positively cannot move.

On pain of death.

Or baseball superstition.

They’ve got to win this game. They can’t go down by two in the series. Not with the way they’ve been hitting and they need to hit better and Emma genuinely cannot remember the last time she took a deep breath.

She fiddles with the ring on her left hand.

And the ring hanging around her neck. It’s some sort of weird pattern, the weight of Mary Margaret’s gaze boring into the back of her head and David had started pacing at some point in the fourth inning.

“He’s swinging half a second too late,” David announces, which only leads to Emma nearly strangling herself. Mary Margaret has to lean over to untangle her fingers.

“Thank you, player not currently competing in the postseason,” Emma mutters.

“Ah, that’s mean.”

“And,” Mary Margaret adds, “it’s not like David would be hitting in this series anyway. Plus—“

“Mary Margaret, if you tell me that David could really add something to the Yankees starting rotation right now, I may actually scream,” Emma warns. Elsa moves her hand over her mouth.

Her laugh is still very loud.

“Ok, that’s not what I was going to say at all—it’s not, seriously stop glaring at the field, it’s freaking me out.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s definitely glaring at the field and she cannot fathom a world where this game doesn’t end with a win and the season doesn’t end with another title and they got married, in the middle of the season, in secret. There are rules about happily ever after.

And sports emotions.

He’s definitely swinging half a second too late.

“See,” David mutters.

Emma grits her teeth. “I am not in the mood for I told you so, right now.”

“I mean, I didn’t say that.”

“Technically,” Elsa amends. She’s stood up as well, a hand pushing on David’s chest when he threatens to wear out the carpet in the suite. “And is no one going to answer my question? Because I know I know nothing about this painfully long sport—“

“—It is the sixth inning,” Emma interrupts.

“We’ve been here for hours, seriously. How often can you change pitchers?”

“Bring it up to Rob Manfred,” David says. Elsa swats at his shoulder that time. “Three-batter minimum for relievers. No more specialists. Pace of play.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

Emma mumbles a curse under her breath, ignoring the growing ache that’s circling around her knee and, somehow, the side of her hip. Killian rocks back on his heels in the box, hardly unbending his knees, even when he swings the bat in front of him, and Emma is dimly aware that Elsa is still talking. She’s not listening. She’s staring. Watching, really. Intently.

“Em, seriously are you listening to your brother and whatever tongues he’s started speaking in?”

“Nah, not at all.”

Elsa clicks her tongue in reproach. It doesn’t matter — Killian’s already digging his toes into the dirt again, quick taps of the bat on the front and back of the plate and—

“Seriously, why does no one else bat like this?”

Emma may growl. Although she’s not sure if that’s because Killian’s just fouled off a ball in the dirt or because Elsa isn’t making any sense, but it really may just be because of the pins and needles stretching into her calf and she snaps her jaw no less than a dozen times.

They’re pumping the live broadcast into the suite — more words Emma hasn’t really been paying attention to, what with the swirling nerves in the pit of her stomach and her heart’s apparent determination to linger in the very center of her throat.

“You know that’s not true,” Mary Margaret mumbles, finally getting Emma to pull her gaze away from home plate.

“What?”

“You cannot have an even count. That’s not how numbers work.”

Elsa sighs. “If you guys are going to keep not making sense, then I’m going to leave. Also, I totally saw Emma and Killian making out before the start of the game.”

David sounds like he’s dying.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighs. “We are married.”

She enunciates every letter of each word — as if that will make them more official or remind the world that she deserves good things and drama-free wins and, maybe, a few home runs over the short right field porch with impressive exit velocity.

“An even count does not make sense,” Mary Margaret repeats, as if they simply hadn’t heard her before. Maybe Emma can find another suite to watch the rest of the game in.

It probably wouldn’t be that hard.

Everyone at the Stadium knows her now, quick smiles whenever she’s downstairs and the security guy at Gate 4 has started waving at her, a muttered Mrs. Jones that never fails to make her heart clench and do several metaphorical somersaults in quick succession.

Killian hits a fly ball over the third base line.

And Emma slumps further into her seat. Her knee does not appreciate it at all.

“How does an even count not make sense, babe?” David asks, all placating and somehow even more married than Emma keeps reminding him that she also is.

“People say even counts on, you know, 1-1 or 2-2, but that doesn’t make sense. A 2-2 count still has more room for balls than strikes. Ergo—“

“—Oh good word,” Elsa laughs.

Mary Margaret winks. Emma’s never really noticed how high Killian’s elbow gets when he settles into his stance. He doesn’t move the bat that much, but Emma swears she can’t practically taste the energy on her tongue, which is either the most disgusting or most romantic thing she’s ever thought and—

Killian fouls another ball off.

“Battling,” David mumbles. She definitely growls that time. It hurts her throat.

He grins.

And Killian never actually steps out of the box — even when the Houston pitcher moves off the rubber, glancing at the inside of his hat for brand-new signs. David’s mumbling something that sounds like I hate when I have to do that, but Emma’s started to realize what Elsa meant.

She’s right.

Killian Jones does not bat like anyone else on the Yankees roster. Maybe even the entire MLB.

That sounds a little dramatic, though. Emma can’t get that dramatic until they win the pennant.

They’re totally going to win the pennant.

He lines his feet up again, the side of his cleat nearly brushing the back of the box, which only makes it obvious how far apart his legs move, that same distinct bend to his knees and a ridiculously high elbow and he kicks his foot out slightly when he swings.

Emma knows. As soon as the ball cracks off the bat.

She jumps up — somehow, without also managing to dislocate several joints at the same time — the ring around her neck flying up and nearly smacking her in the nose. And Emma isn’t sure what noise she makes per se, but it leaves Elsa giggling and Mary Margaret casting furtive glances at David and neither one of those matter when the ball keeps going.

Going, going, gone.

Directly into right center field.

Emma’s jumping, which probably isn’t great considering she can’t really feel any part of her left leg anymore, but Killian’s jogging around he bases and she can see his mouth move, David’s continued stream of commentary echoing between her ears.

“It’s honestly offensive how easy his swing is,” he grumbles. “Where does he even get that kind of power?”

“The making out,” Elsa responds, like it’s obvious. Emma almost chokes on her tongue.

Killian’s rounding third — a quick glance into the Astros dugout and a smile that might be half the reason Emma keeps toying with the ring on her left hand. Possibly like sixty-seven percent. Batting a thousand, or whatever.

She’s too excited to remember appropriate baseball cliches.

He glances up when he steps on home, and she knows he can’t actually see into the team suite, but it’s still exceptionally nice to think about and her heart does half a dozen front flips at that.

And there’s more game — pitches that Emma is certain raise her blood pressure and swings and misses and it’s still a save situation, so she starts pacing at some point too, but then they’re playing New York, New York and Killian’s answering questions on a post-game report and Emma’s standing in the tunnel downstairs and she absolute, positively runs.

It’s impossibly dramatic.

Especially in Game Four.

She hears Killian’s laugh before she actually looks at his face, arms around her waist and her face buried in the curve of his shoulder. He tightens his hold, only one of her feet staying on the ground.

Emma kisses wherever she can reach, which isn’t really saying much what with the awkward angle of her neck, but Killian doesn’t seem to mind, dragging his own lips over the side of her jaw.

Someone whistles.

It’s definitely Will.

“Should hit more home runs,” Killian mumbles, and it’s testament to postseason adrenaline that he doesn’t drop her when Emma starts to laugh as well.

Will might be gagging now.

Emma hums. “Something you might want to take into consideration.”

“That so?”

“I mean—I could not jump you post if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“No, no, I never once said that. Did you yell very loudly, Swan?”

“I think you’re fishing for compliments.”

“Absolutely.”

She might giggle. It’s absurd. She can’t get over the angle of his elbow when he bats. “God, that’s so stupid.”

“It’s strange, I’m not getting that compliment vibe anymore, love.”

“I yelled very loudly, scandalized my brother and I’ve got a question for you.”

Killian leans back, head nearly colliding with a wall covered in blue and white paint and the team name in enormous letters. As if they aren’t all constantly aware of where they are. History, or something. “About?”

“Well, Elsa actually brought it up, but—“

“—Jones,” a voice calls from the clubhouse, and Killian groans far louder than he should. Emma isn’t sure if that’s because of the voice or the only slightly accidental way she rolls her hips against him.

“You’re a menace,” he mutters.

“You’ve still got media.”

“I’m going to shower first.”

“They’ve got deadlines, babe.”

“I’m going to shower first,” Killian repeats. “Then I will answer questions, get ice, get a car and—“ He trails a finger up the back of her spine, making Emma twist in his hold while her teeth find her lower lip. Her breath hitches. And that smile is as different from the one he flashed in-game as it is possible for one smile to be, not quite triumphant, but maybe a little determined and she assumes she moves first.

If only because he’s still smiling when her mouth crashes into his.

Killian pulls her tighter against his chest, backing up even more so he’s got something to rest his weight on and neither one of them acknowledges the now very-clearly annoyed clubhouse voice. He tilts his head instead, mouth opening against Emma’s and tongue swiping across the lip she’d been toying with.

His hand works its way under her shirt, the same number he’d been wearing and Emma arches into the touch almost immediately. It leave hers hips canted up again, a move that is not even remotely appropriate for the bowels of Yankee Stadium, and she can only imagine that George Steinbrenner is getting dangerously close to rising from his grave and chastising them for conduct detrimental to the team.

Emma’s arms shift, fingers pushing into Killian’s hair and that only gets him to groan again, but then she’s ghosting over the side of a clean-shaven face and he has to shave every morning.

Her heart is in almost perpetuate state of upheaval.

It’s the best goddamn thing in the world.

“I’ve got to go, love,” Killian murmurs, mostly into her mouth. Also nice. Better than nice. She’s going to look up the projected distance of that home run in the Uber home.

“I really yelled ridiculously loud.”

“I’ve got no doubt. I’ll see you at home, ok?”

Emma nods — a few more quick and slightly stolen kisses, which is an almost appropriate baseball joke. Kind of. No one really steals bases anymore.

And she’s got every intention of waiting up. She does. She’s got plans and questions about batting stances, but the corner of the couch is surprisingly comfortable and the sudden lack of postseason adrenaline rushing through her leaves her questionably exhausted with eyes that refuse to watch another loop of SportsCenter.

Emma jolts up when she hears the front door close, a lock clicking behind him and one side of Killian’s mouth tugs up when he walks into the room.

She’s still wearing her shirt.

And not much else.

“That seems like cheating,” he says softly, crouching in front of the couch. She’s thinking about his knees again.

“All hail the conquering hero or whatever.”

“Is this my welcoming committee, then?”

“Something like that,” Emma laughs, pushing up and Killian moves between her legs as soon as her feet find their way back to the floor. “Did you scandalize any journalists?”

“Nah, that’s not really my game.”

“Just hitting home runs.”

“Made the Top Ten.”

“No shit.”

Killian chuckles, nosing at Emma’s cheek. “You’ve got ESPN on, Swan. Did you not see?”

“I mean I saw the real thing, so—“

“—Ah, yeah, that is true. You can’t be very comfortable.”

“It’s going ok.”

“That so?”

She nods again — suddenly finding it difficult to respond when his eyes do that impossibly blue thing, dark with something close to want, and he can’t seem to decide where to look. His gaze snaps from hers down to the ring that’s fallen back over her shirt and the one on her hand and at some point in the last few months, he’s started brushing his thumb underneath it with an almost alarming regularity. Like, for good luck or something.

Baseball players are the weirdest.

“What did you want to ask me before?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you had a question,” Killian says. “What about?”

“Oh, oh, yeah—your elbow.”

He blinks. It’s an oddly satisfying response, and Killian nearly falls over when Emma stands up, gaze shifting again to the distinct lack of pants she’s got on. She can see the tip of his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“Like I said, El brought it up—“

“—I’d really you rather didn’t talk about Elsa when there’s so much of your leg on display.”

“Leg, singular?”

“Swan.”

She sticks her tongue out, but that only leads to an even bluer blue and she’s got to stop thinking about the way his knees bend. Maybe she’s the weird one. “Ok, ok, just—why do you bat like you do?”

“Are we on the record?”

“I mean no— because obviously I know how you bat—do not look at me like that.” He smirks, pulling his lips behind his teeth and sitting down. It’s ridiculous, his legs pulled up against his chest and his chin resting on an upturned palm. “I could probably reenact your stance in my sleep.”

“That so?”

“I will kick you.”

“I’ve got to play tomorrow,” Killian counters. “Something about prime agility at the hot corner.”

“You don’t ever come out of the batters box.”

“And?”

“And what? That’s super weird. I mean—other guys call time like twenty-six times and—“

“—No ump is letting anyone call time twenty-six times.”

She rolls her eyes, but Killian appears to have been counting on that and Emma has started bobbing on the balls of her feet. “Take my exaggerated point for what it is. All I’m saying is, you never leave the box. Other guys do. Every single pitch. They take practice swings or they refit their gloves and—“

“—I don’t always wear gloves.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

“Where did my elbow fit into this, exactly?”

“It’s so high up when you bat,” Emma exclaims. The projected distance of that home run was four-hundred and twenty-six feet. Eventually she will blame this tirade on that.

Killian nods, tapping his fingers on the side of Emma’s ankle until she stills. “Yeah, that’s a whole thing. It’s, uh—well, the elbow is high, so I’ve got more momentum when I swing. Physics and all that. Helps with your hips too. And the wide stance.”

“So you can stay behind the ball.”

“And you acted like you didn’t know why I did it.”

“Nah,” Emma objects, “I get why you’re doing it. I just—well, El was talking about you staying in the box and—“

“—Mind games.”

“Wait, what?”

“Mind games,” Killian repeats with a shrug. “You’re right. Almost every other batter moves around between pitches, but when I first started playing there wasn’t a ton of time to do that. I—well, Liam used to toss me batting practice and it was always kind of in between everything else we were doing and so I never thought about stepping out of the box because I was cutting into my own practice time.”

Emma presses her lips together, something different than the usual gymnastics taking place in her stomach. It’s a little softer, quieter and even more comfortable. Like their couch. But in a way that sounds nicer than that.

“And now,” Killian continues, “it drives opposing pitchers insane. Your brother, especially. He hates when I don’t step out. Because then he’s got to get back into his windup quicker.”

“You’re toying with them.”

“A little. Pace of play, you know.”

Emma laughs, absent-mindedly moving her hands like she’s swinging an invisible bat over her head. It’s admittedly a little weird as far as flirting goes, but she figures the playoffs afford for these kind of moments. And Killian doesn’t move quickly when he stands, Emma’s eyes lingering on his mouth longer than they probably should, just steps into her space and twists her against his chest and—

“Lift your elbow up a bit, love.”

“This is a cliche.”

“We’re not actually on a field, I think that sets us apart.”

She scoffs, twisting her hips. That time is on purpose. Killian groans, head dropping to her shoulder so he can nip at the bit of skin there. “You were the one who said you could reenact my stance in your sleep,” he points out.

“Well, it’s distinct.”

Killian hums, and there’s this absolutely delightful thrum in Emma’s veins — wide awake and ready to flirt. She kicks her feet out, one then the other, like she’s tapping her toes with the bat. She pushes down the visor of an invisible helmet, squaring up to a home plate that isn’t there, rocks her weight from side to side.

“I can’t believe you remembered the visor thing,” Killian mutters. “You know, Swan, I think you might be stalking me.”

“Don’t act like you’re not into it.”

“Your elbow is still too low.”

“Does this not hurt your shoulder?”

“You get used to it.” Emma grumbles, but lifts her elbow up anyway, an angle her normal, human body is not used to bending at. “Now,” Killian mutters, dropping his mouth just behind her ear, “kick your front leg out, snap your hips forward and—“

Emma swings.

Which is only a little absurd, considering they’re standing in their living room and she’s definitely heard this start to SportsCenter three times already, but they won and that’s got to count for something.

Several things.

Everything.

“Straight shot into the bleachers,” Killian says.

“Right or left?”

“Batters choice.”

“I always think it’s more impressive when you can pull one.”

He spins her — that same look from before growing more pronounced and still just as attractive as ever. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Agreed,” Killian nods, and Emma isn’t really sure how they ever get into their bedroom, but there’s probably a postseason excuses and home runs and her shirt spends most of the night in the hallway.

Emma picks it up the next morning, coffee already brewing and the SportsCenter theme obvious and she lets her legs drape over Killian’s when they both watch the number one play.

[weeping-petals]

A Ticking Heart

Word Count - 2,597

This is not how the game was meant to end.

The lone doorway into the Crystal Temple was a portal, which led to the varied chambers of the individual Crystal Gems. Each room had a different meaning to the gem which inhabited it, and each room served as a sanctuary from the world outside. A place to store junk, a place to organize swords, a safe haven for the bubbled corrupt gems.

 Marble pillars and white stone sculpted the inner walls, and a spiral slope curved within the center point of the chamber. Across the dolomite wound parched vines, shriveled petals of forget-me-nots and hibiscus. At the center of the spiral pathway, a set of three dried fountains stood.

 About five meters above the fountains placement, an octagonal platform hovered. The surface was marred with fractures, scorch marks, and debris. A set of six pillars stood at one point of eight corners. A soft, peach glow emitted from a band in the pillars upper rim.

 “Nine combatants,” Spinel growled. She stood on the center of the platform, fists clenched at her sides and body wound tight. “Advanced level.”

 At once, the computers voice droned out, “It is my obligation to warn you, this is a high-risk scenario.”

 “Just do it,” Spinel snapped. “Don’t ask me again.”

 Five pillars upon the platform trembled. Stone reshaped and coiled down, the blocky form became streamlined and vaguely humanoid, aside from dolomites being predominantly mineral. Below on the floor, four additional pillars unwound off their moorings. In each animated statue’s grasp, a sword, a spear, an axe, or a club reformed.

 “Begin,” the disembodied tenure of the computer rasped.

 On the ground, the four statues converged on the outer walls of the chamber and began climbing. Meanwhile, on the platform, the five golems barreled onto Spinel’s diminutive shape.

 In a flash, Spinel was gone. The golems recalculated, wrenching in the direction movement was detected. One managed to grab Spinel by the boot, while Spinel was reeling over to the spiral path that encircled the chamber.

 “What does that mean?” Pearl asked.

 “I don’t get it,” she muttered.

 Spinel kicked her free leg to the ground, and wrung her body tight. Her free foot kicked the golem in the face, and she flipped backwards. By then, two others came upon her with weapons raised. She evaded in classic fashion, but rather retreat backwards and build momentum, she hurtled at the two statues. Her entire body looped around both, drawing the weapon arms up to facial readers. With a tight constriction, the statues slammed together. The golem from before recovered and closed in for retaliation, but Spinel was already tumbling away. She returned with a punch, expanding her fist and smashing into the golems side with velocity budding. The golem was nowhere near the edge of the platform, but still went barreling to the side uncontrolled, and toppled off.

 “There must be another way!” Pearl became panicked.

 “You’re looking into this wrong!” Spinel wrapped her hands around her face. “This is wrong. It has to be!”

 Rose Quartz assured them, she had done everything she could. There was no loophole. There was only one way.

 The four golems leapt onto the platform and raised weapons. Each kept out of the others way, but there was no team coordination. But the confusion and dislocation was disorientating, and a challenge to follow. It was her achilles heel, a plot twisting she was not immune to.

 If she continued to move her body, glide through punching and swiping at the stones, use their girth against them, she had a chance. If they caught her, managed to detain two or more limbs, that would be her downfall. She had to keep moving, never slow and never stall.

 One arm leeched out through an opening, snagging the edge of the spiral pathway. Her other arm took a golem, and she reeled in her limbs. She cast the stone warrior off the side, watched it plummet to its demise. She continued outward, swept far out from the platform and zoomed back in on the rebound.

 One golem raised an axe, for what would have devastated her physical form, if Spinel had not shot her legs outward. The collision alone would have dissolved her form, but her legs coiled into springs against the golem and she knocked it back into another assailant. Both cracked, the one at the rear crumbled into bits.

 “What are we supposed to do?” “You can’t do this!” “It can’t work!” “We’ll come up with another way.”

 “Don’t do this!”

 Spinel lost track of where she was, what she was doing. Another golem splint under a powerful barrage of her fists, while she stood upon the faux warrior. Three were converging, weapons raised, two others provided a fallback. The long shadows melted across Spinel’s magenta colors, blotting out the light flittering through her gem.

 Instinctively, she reached for her gem and drew forth a weapon.

 A whizzing blur of motion sawed out of the center, from amongst the stone warriors. Spinel alit on the shoulder of one, for the barest of a second, before zipping into a line of three. Her blade clashed with a club, causing her limbs to recoil. She kicked outward, and amid the motion, flipped into a sideways blur. While balanced upside down, a lone foot supporting her stance, she performed another wild twirl of her weapon. The blow knocked the legs out from beneath the golem, she sprang upon the back and delivered the fatal pierce to its spine. Two more statues careened in. She dispatched them, utilizing wild sweeping blows of her blade. Unleashing devastation upon the mindless golems, coming in at droves rather than pace and tact.

 “Initiate new training,” she announced. The duel blade she spun around her waist and then her upper arm. “Nine combatants. Advanced.”

 New pillars were in the process of sliding upward into their slots, replacing the original columns. When Spinel gave the command, the peach glimmer within the band flashed and the dolomites reshaped its structure. The faux warriors came into fashion quickly, brandishing varied weapons.

 Spinel twirled the blade above her head, before leaping at the first two that approached. Her movement was always a cascade of motion, no recoil or step was without severe delivery. Golems tried to catch her off-guard, get up behind her or at the perceived blind spots. However, Spinel was always bouncing, twisting, ricocheting among the stone figures; either one golem took the blow of sneak attack, or she lassoed one into the range of another. Her weapon cut through the air, hot and bright, glittering against gleaming points of light.  

 Hours later, chunks of white rock and pebbles decorated the platform, beside new grooves and scars. No more demands for training exercises range out. The chamber stilled, and a hush crept through the winding pathways. Below, Spinel alit on the center peak of the fountain spout and stepped off onto the dry basin. She dumped her blade with a clang and collapsed onto the wall encircling the fountain. Though she didn’t need to breathe, she panted as if beyond exertion. One hand grasped the gem on her chest, the other held her face.

 “She can’t have a baby!” Her voice reverberated off the walls. “She… CAN’T!”

__

“I don’t understand,” Spinel again, grumbled. At this time, Pearl was quiet and contemplative.

 This was the first time in decades that Rose came to her armory. It was planned, she asked Pearl and Spinel to meet with her there. Spinel floated in the water’s surface, reminiscent of appreciating a sauna. Refined Pearl stood near the center, after pacing herself out.

 Rose sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the center dais, her feet dipped into the water. She wouldn’t turn to acknowledge the two, but she did speak. Spinel couldn’t recall all of what happened, but those words struck her. “My child and I cannot exist simultaneously. A gem cannot exist without her stone. It is us. It will be her essence and identity.”

 “Your child,” Pearl spoke, as if the string of words was foreign.

 “That’s… not how this works,” Spinel murmured. “No. That can’t be possible! This doesn’t make sense.”

 Nothing made sense on this miserable planet.

 __

 Spinel hadn’t moved in days. Her back pressed into the base of the fountain, the walls bent around her silent, impassive, everlasting. This was a place she remembered, their special place. Once upon a time, it was lush and vibrant, the fountains gushed spring water. Yet, the years crept by, and the battles wore away at her perceptions for joy. This place was nothing but a husk, a shadow of what was. An outer reflection.

 “We lost everyone, for this stupid rock. They were supposed to run away. They weren’t scared. They just got angry. Why couldn’t they have left us alone. They didn’t care about her. They never cared about anyone.”

 A low and anguished wheeze whistled through her words. “We only have each other. We’re all that’s left. And she wants to leave.”

 Some diluted sound coursed through the emptiness. Spinel shifted, but didn’t look up. She tightened up into a smaller ball, arms and legs curled around herself. If she stayed quiet, no one would bother her. Right now, she needed to be left alone. Isolation was priceless.

 “Spinel,” Rose called. “I found you.”

 “Go away,” she snapped. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. Why can’t you just leave me alone!”

 “We need to talk about this.” A brief swell of silence. “There isn’t much time.”

 Spinel winced, and managed to tighten deeper into her tangled heap. “I don’t want to.” Nonetheless, she didn’t budge an inch when Rose Quartz crept in close and weightlessly settled beside her. Spinel was almost enraptured and drawn from her protective barrier. For some time, they sat in silence.

 “Do you miss it?”

 Spinel didn’t need to ask. She risked raising her eyes, to stare at the hollowed space expanding around them. “Some places, it feels almost like….” The words evaporated. She drew a breath and released it, unable to wrestle meaning from the muddled sensations. “Some days, I thought that— Nothing. Forget it.”

 Rose reached a hand out and set it on Spinel’s head. “There’s a beauty in this place. In the things we’ve been forced to let go. We saved this planet, but the things that live and thrive here, still wither and die. That’s the nature of this world. We’re not a part of that process.”

 Spinel inched her head up. “Do you want… that? To experience Death?”

 “And creating life,” Rose insisted. “More than anything. We… our kind did terrible things, we took so much from this world. Did irreparable damage. Now we live here, though we have no other choice. But I want to do something… else, something more than existing and observing all that we preserved. I want the opportunity to leave something, someone special, behind.”

 Spinel pulled away from the gentle touch. “But Home World—”

 “Believe that nothing survived the attack! It’s been centuries since we’ve seen a Red Eye. The Home World warps have been deactivated and cold for longer than the rebellion. We are isolated here, from the other planets, and interconnected solar systems. Yes, Corrupted Gems are still out there, they still need to be accounted for – whether they were friend or foe. But you four, you can do that on your own. You don’t need me anymore.” She dropped her eyes from Spinel. “It’s time for you to find your own ways, now.”

 Spinel scooted away, seething. The gall, to leave all of this on them! “You just can’t bear to be isolated and forgotten, on this ball of dirt, overrun with malformed gems.” She snickered nastily. “That’s funny. The bulk of the gem population left over, is nothin’ but a bunch of scattered defects, scratching at the wilds. You’re done with it. You’re gonna leave us!”

 Rose stood up. “Spinel. Stop!”

 “You’re gunna leave me!” She pressed a hand over her gem. “I won’t— I won’t have anyone!”

 “There are other reasons why I need to do this. You and Pearl, you don’t realize it, but you’re strictly loyal to… her. To Pink.”

 Spinel cackled, “So she still exists, outside of unflattering stories.”

 “You deserve more. You deserve better.”

 “OoooOOh! We deserve better! NOW? So, rather than hang around and fix everything we cracked, you! You!” Spinel stood and aimed a finger. “Want to run away. You bamboozled us into joining this game, and now you wanna abandon everything you made! Everything, we fought to take back! Like your colony! You wanted a colony sooOOoo badly! You didn’t hesitate to leave me, did you?!”

 Rose leaned forward, patience dwindling. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

 “Could’ve fooled me! A baby! Sounds like a SWELL idea. How clever! How useful! How neat! You won’t even be around for the lil brat!”

 Rose took a breath, striving for composure. “If it were possible to be in two places at once – myself, and my gem, divided from my child – I would do it. I wouldn’t place this responsibility on my friends. Or Greg. My stars, I won’t be there for him. I won’t be there to help raise her. Or him. I have a firm grasp of the gravity of what I’m doing, and if it were possible to splint myself, halve myself, make myself less so that I and my child can exist simultaneously, I’d do it. There is so much I will leave behind, and I mourn that. There is so much I am giving up. You’re—”

 “You’re giving up!” Spinel hissed, stretching and exaggerating her bodies proportions. Her voice cracked as she went on, full of momentum with no clear burnout in sight. “What about our loss? Our grief? You’re robbing us of your strength and guidance, ditchin’ all’uv us, and everything we managed to scavenge. The small fragments of a home, at long last! Then you go, and burden us with this…  baby. A useless larvae, that you’re not even sure if she’ll be a viable gem!”

 “Spinel, that’ll be enough!”

 Spinel tugged at her pigtails. “No! It’ll never be enough for you! No matter what! You can’t stand spending another minute on this no-good backwaters dump!”

 Rose grabbed Spinel’s arm. “I need you to listen, now. Listen very carefully. We’ll play a game—”

 Spinel thrashed, but her strength paled in comparison to Rose. “No! No! I don’t want to play another game! I don’t want to play with you!”

 “Spinel, do as I say! Here are the rules—”

 “You don’t own me!” Spinel stretched her captive arm, distancing herself from Rose. “You’re not my friend! You’re not my diamond! YOU’RE! NOT! PINK!” She wound back her free arm and punched Rose. Right in the face. Stunned, Rose released Spinel and stood back, blinking.

 Once released, Spinel staggered backwards and nearly tipped over the scattered ruble. She managed to connect her footing and stood, tears rolling down her cheeks. She stared up at Rose Quartz, shoulders quaking. Neither said a word, nor budged for several long minutes. Finally, Spinel hissed.

 “I wish… You left me in my garden!” Spinel spun around and, coiling her legs under her, sprang high.

 Rose recalled her wits and gave chase. She sprint to where Spinel last stood and rocketed upward, scouting the winding platforms for the spindly gem. No matter how she searched it was no use, Spinel was either well hidden or had abandoned her sanctuary completely.