#hars never does anything by halves

[neverchecking]

Hi I am 🪷 Aron from couldninetonine

And I have a request for you if it ok.

Can I request yandere platonic sage , sky, time, warrior, four x child zoni reader.

Like the reader is rauru and queen Soni little baby half breed daughter. Half elf and half zoni. And they found her in her little bubble pod that a flower a lotus. And how they fell for her big doe eyes and big ears. And teaching her the ways and have her call them papa's and how they keep her safe. Please and thank you

omg hi! I love cloudninetonine! It is totally okay to request!

I haven't done a lot of platonic yandere, but this seems fun!

Imagine them calling the boys their papa bc her real dad is dead lmao-

・❥・@lovanmari and @wayfayrr I got some DILF Sage for yall

・❥・Sage as a dad. First off-- who in their right mind is trusting him with a kid?

・❥・Nah, I kid, I kid. When he's given a child, one so small and innocent and one that he connects with? It burns something within him.

・❥・He was a child soldier (I think canonically BOTW Link was in the army by age twelve?), and when he sees this small child who's relying on him? He swears they'd have a better life than he ever had.

・❥・He absolutely refuses to let his child anywhere near anything sharp, too hot, too cold, explosive, etc.. If there's any chance at injury, his flower bud isn't going anywhere near it.

・❥・You know that his kid is eating like royalty. Every single day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. And dessert. And you know that dessert is the best damned thing in the world.

・❥・Sage as a dad is probably just as unhinged, but in more protective way? Lynel look in their direction? Here kid, look at this butterfly, Papa will be right back- He's back within three minutes tops and look! He's got the fur for a new blanket for you!

・❥・Cece tries pinching your cheeks? He's glaring down at her, daring her to try.

・❥・Someone tries offering you a treat because your just so adorable? He knows his kid is cute, nice try. Nothing is getting past him. He's a bit of a helicopter parent.

・❥・Not a bit. It's a lot.

・❥・He loves playing with your big ears, ones that you'll grow into, flopping them about even as you get red-cheeked and angry at him.

・❥・He'll make it up to you eventually :)

・❥・He also spoils you absolutely rotten. He has his rules, yes, and expects you to follow them, but his rewards are things like trips to the Zora Domain or a sand seal ride in Gerudo. Never Eldin. Are you kidding that's an active volcano site?!?!

・❥・The sages are one-thousand percent your personal body guards. You don't go anywhere without your dad and at least one sage.

・❥・Sky is absolutely smitten from the start.

・❥・You look at this man and tell me he's not dad shaped. You can't.

・❥・He doesn't even care to learn what a Zonai is. All he knows is there are none here and your all alone and your his now. He doesn't make the rules

・❥・He is also another protective dad, but he's a little more willing to let you experience the world around you. You wanna see those flowers over there? He's following! You wanna go for a dip in the river? Great idea, he's helping you! You can go explore, but never alone.

・❥・He absolutely introduces you to Crimson right away. Crimson is the perfect co-parent guardian. Crimson is always pulling you into her side, ruffling her feathers and grooming you.

・❥・Like you become Sky's kid and Crimson's chick. They are two halves of a whole soul so it makes sense.

・❥・HFHFDOFDHN imagine sleeping on Crimson's back while Sky leads the two of you through a forest or sum ;^;

・❥・Or soaring through the sky with you pointing at every cloud you pass and Sky harnessing you to his chest while Crimson flies much slower than normal.

・❥・Sky can cook basic things, but he definitely spends more time with village moms and elders learning more.

・❥・He for sure carves toys for you out of wood. Like trains or maybe a doll of Crimson.

・❥・You get the fluffiest blankets stuffed with Loftwing feathers

・❥・Groose is such a good uncle-sidebar. Even if Sky isn't...jazzed about letting you out of his sight, he will trust Groose. For an hour.

・❥・Which he is within earshot of for fifty seven minutes.

・❥・He's kind of torn between letting you be with Zelda-- who adores you-- and not. she's the reincarnate of Hylia. What if you get dragging into the wretched reincarnation curse as well?

・❥・He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy let alone his fletchling.

・❥・Fi for sure has a beacon on you at all times.

・❥・He's more...withdrawn when it comes to first meeting you

・❥・Afterall he's in a war.

・❥・but...so are you. And you are so much younger than he is.

・❥・and what self-respecting parent would let their child wander so far? None that deserve their child.

・❥・So you become his. He doesn't do take backsies.

・❥・When you stutter out that your old, irrelevant, unworthy father was a Zonai, he does take that with some caution.

・❥・But no one even knows what a Zonai is. Ravio has a general idea-- a race blessed by the gods-- but thats as far as he gets.

・❥・That's okay. You were his now and he didn't care what you were. You were perfect just the way you are <3

・❥・Wars as a dad is probably pretty strict. But he lets you out of his sight more than the previous two.

・❥・You get schooled and have friends, but are expected home right away.

・❥・He doesn't like your friends. Not a chance. But because he's such a public figure he needs to give you a semi normal life.

・❥・Which means those dumb friends and parent interventions and schooling and hours away when you could be spending time with him!?

・❥・He probably sneaks you out of school often to go for treats at a bakery or a swim in a river. What are they gonna do, tell the Hero no?!

・❥・Artemis loves you. He trusts her with you while he's dragged away for things he cannot control. She has the power of Sheik on her side and proved her worth to him in battle.

・❥・You definitely have a fairy on you at all times which reports back to him.

・❥・Fours is so fun for one reason and one reason alone.

・❥・the minish.

・❥・They probably are the ones to alert him about your presence, giving their small knowledge of the Zonai race.

・❥・They chirp and chitter at him until he brings you back to the home he shares with his grandpa (Uncle? It's one of the two). The older male was out at the moment leaving Four to figure out what he's going to do with you.

・❥・Obviously he keeps you. No one else can handle such a task! You're so delicate and so rare and the minish already love you.

・❥・So your his. no ifs ands or buts.

・❥・The forge? Off Limits.

・❥・It's too hot with too many sharp pointy things and open flames and its dirty.

・❥・Not for his kid.

・❥・When it comes to cooking, he can do it, but like sky, he's not overly good.

・❥・but! You guys can learn together. Under his strict supervision. Where you sit at the counter. Away from the fires and knives. It's a bonding experience.

・❥・Back to the minish, they love you. They love playing with you and calling your attention away while your dad deals with someone whose watching you a little too closely.

・❥・They leave small trinkets for you all the time! Which four keeps in a box. Because you could choke.

・❥・He's also another one to make your toys! Little metal horses and wooden doll houses.

・❥・If he needs to run out for a few errands or something, he's not leaving you with anyone. Oh no not his kid. No, he's splitting. Two stay with you, three depending on the errand, while the other runs out.

・❥・You aren't allowed the Four sword. Ever.

・❥・He would never wish that upon you. Even if you love the colors and it helps you differentiate between green and red and blue and Violet.

・❥・Thats probably how you learn some of your colors in fact.

・❥・Even as you grow up, you cannot get away with anything. The minish are snitches and it would do you good to learn that. And fast.

[faofinn]

22 & 23. Common Cold/Flu & Tepid Bath

These two fit so well together we couldn't help but do a combined little ficlet

@sicktember

Hars hadn't been feeling well for a while. After adding in a few too many late nights and even more bad decisions, it well and truly reared its head.

 He'd been unable to settle overnight, tossing and turning, somehow both too hot and too cold. 

Steve was worried about Harrison too. He could see him getting more and more run down, late nights and too much alcohol. He’d not long been part of the family, the adoption papers having only come through a couple of months ago. 

When Monday rolled around, he got dressed as usual, intending to go to college. He struggled to actually dress, ending up with his shirt on backwards and two socks on the same foot. He didn't seem to notice, and headed downstairs for breakfast, apparently missing the fact it was almost lunchtime. 

From his position on the sofa, Steve looked up from his laptop. Harrison looked a state, hair a mess, clothes all over the place, bags under his eyes. 

“Where are you off to?” He asked, trying not to grin. 

"College." He said simply, attempting to pack a lunch. 

“What time is your first lesson?”

"Same as always." He grumbled. "You know that."

“Have you checked the time?”

"My alarm went off."

“And you’re wearing that?”

"It's clean."

“It’s inside out. And it’s nearly 1pm.”

"Is not." He wasn't entirely paying attention to Steve's conversation, and headed to the front door, still determined he was leaving. 

“Go back to bed, Harrison.”

"I've got college." He said firmly, struggling with the door. 

“You’ve already missed the entire morning. I called you in sick at 8.”

"Because I can't get out of the house!" He argued, frustrated. "What have you done to the door?"

“It’s locked, because you’re sick and you need to go back to bed.”

"I'm not sick! It's just a cold or something. I just need to go to college."

“Do you remember what happened last time you got sick and it was ignored?”

"Wasn't even sick then." He grumbled, though gave up with the door. 

“Go back to bed, Harrison. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

"Just half an hour, that's all."

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

"Yeah." He sniffed, his determination and energy gone.

“Go on, to bed with you. I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”

"Thank you." He gave a weak smile. Steve always knew how to make it better. Bed sounded great, and he dropped his backpack on the floor, slowly padding upstairs. 

Steve shook his head fondly, going to the kitchen to make Harrison’s hot chocolate. He’d want it, and hopefully it would make him feel better. The last thing Steve wanted was him getting any worse - the admission the last time he’d been sick had been absolutely terrifying.

Harrison didn't bother changing out of his clothes, though shuffled out of his jeans. He wrapped himself up in his duvet and blankets, his little excursion downstairs having tired him out and made him cold to the bone. 

Steve came up after a few minutes, knocking on the door before he pushed it open and headed inside. “Hot chocolate. Have you had any meds?”

Harrison was barely visible through his cocoon, but he shook his head. He’d had none in his room, and hadn't wanted to go downstairs or disturb Steve. 

Steve tutted. “I’ll go and get some.”

"Do you have to?"

“It’ll make you feel better.”

"Okay." He said quietly, taking Steve's bribe of hot chocolate. 

"I'll be right back." Steve promised, grabbing some paracetamol and a thermometer while he was there. A bottle of water wouldn't harm either, so he brought one up with him, knocking again before entering. 

"Hars? Got you some meds and some water to take them with."

Harrison jumped slightly, having drifted with the silence. He reached for his chocolate again, swallowing the meds with a grimace. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Can I take your temperature? You look really flushed."

"Do you have to?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so." Steve said gently, sitting on the side of the bed. 

Harrison sighed heavily. "Okay."

Steve patted Harrison's leg, shooting him an encouraging smile. He was quick to check his temperature, frowning at the numbers. 

"Let me check the other ear." He'd hoped it was a mistake, but he knew it wouldn't be much different. 

Unfortunately, it was even higher than the first, and he sighed heavily. They really didn't need him being this sick again. 

"That bad?" There was a flash of panic across Harrison's face. 

"You've just got a fever, kid. Just means your body is fighting off what it needs to do. But, it does mean you can't be swamped by your duvets. I can get you a sheet instead?" He offered. 

Fear settled in his features. "No. I need the duvet. I need my blankets."

"Hey, it's okay. It's just to keep your temperature down. Just like taking a cool shower or bath, it just makes sure you're not going to overheat." Steve kept it simple, aware Harrison wasn't entirely firing on all cylinders. "Tell you what, eh? You can keep your duvet but you need to keep it at your feet or by your side. You're not allowed to wrap yourself up in it, okay?"

Harrison hesitated. Steve had just told him he wasn't allowed it, he hadn't dragged it from his grip, hurt him to try and get them away. He took a deep breath, and slowly pushed it to his feet. 

"There you go. Thank you, Harrison. I know it's not nice to take it off when you feel rubbish. I'll let you get some more sleep, okay?"

"'kay." Harrison nodded, snuggling under the blanket he'd been allowed. "Thank you."

Steve left Harrison to sleep, hoping that just being under the thin blanket would be enough to stop him getting hotter. He really was worried about the kid, all too aware how it had ended before. His chest seemed okay, at least, just the fever that was concerning. Surely the sleep would help, as would the meds and the water. It was just a waiting game, hoping his body would fight off whatever he’d picked up. Didn’t help that he’d been so run down, the alcohol certainly not helping him. 

A few hours later, Steve returned. Harrison had been quiet, hopefully sleeping, and he knocked on the door again before he stepped inside. 

“Harrison?” He asked gently. 

He stirred slightly, squinting at Steve. He didn’t quite understand why he was so insistent on pestering him. 

“Can I check your temp again?”

"No."

“Please?”

"No." He whined. "I wanna sleep."

“It’ll take two seconds, and then you can sleep again.”

He groaned, pulling the sheet over his head. "No."

“Come on, Harrison.”

"Steve, please."

“I just want to check it’s come down.”

"It has."

“I don’t know unless I check.”

"Fine." Harrison was always more agreeable when Steve was around, and he couldn’t help but try and do what he wanted.

“Thank you.” Steve said gently, pulling the blanket back. 

The lack of blanket made it so much colder, the small pocket of warmth quickly dissipated. He whined despite himself, burying his face in his pillow as he curled up tighter.

“I know.” Steve soothed. “Just check your temp, won’t take long.” He said as he did it. 

"It's better?"

“Afraid not.” Steve said. It was worse, but he wasn’t about to tell Harrison that, he didn’t want to panic the poor kid. 

"Oh. Okay. More sleep, then."

“How are you feeling?” 

"Cold."

He hummed. “Your temperature is pretty high.”

"That's okay."

“No, it’s not.”

"I'll fix it."

“Oh?”

"Yeah." He settled back down. "It's all fixed now."

“Not sure I share your confidence.”

"That's a shame."

“Here, let me check again.”

"You just checked."

“I need to double check.”

"No you don't."

“I do.”

"I'm asleep."

“Funny, talking whilst you’re asleep.”

"You can check it later."

“If you’re asleep I could just do it now.”

"No."

Steve huffed. “You’re not well.”

He couldn't help the tears that started falling. "I'm sorry."

“Hey, don’t cry.”

"'m cold and you won't let me sleep an' you keep taking my blankets."

“Alright, I know. But you’re far too warm.”

"I'm not."

“You really are.”

Harrison shivered as if to prove his point, managing to push himself up and into Steve's side. 

Steve wrapped his arm around him. “I know you feel miserable.”

"A lot."

“Yeah. You’ve got a bad temp.”

"I'm cold." He murmured, snuggling in properly.

Steve sighed, patting him on the shoulder. “Alright. Get some sleep. I’ll pop back later.”

"No." He said quickly. "Don't go."

Steve softened. “Oh. I’ll stay.”

Harrison gave a quiet, happy noise. "Thank you."

Steve settled down to sit with him, still worried but glad Harrison wanted his comfort. 

Harrison slept for a while, only growing increasingly warm by Steve's side. At first, it was quiet, but soon enough the nightmares leached into his dreams. He struggled against the sheets, whimpering and crying quietly. Nothing changed, and his nightmares only grew worse, the fever only adding more power to them. He woke with a shout, trying to make himself smaller, to keep himself safe.

Steve hated Harrison’s nightmares. He felt so powerless to do anything about them, unable to wake him and worried as he got hotter and hotter. He managed to get the blanket off of him, hoping that would at least help, but he doubted it would make much of a difference. 

“Harrison?” He said gently, once he’d shouted himself awake. “It’s alright, you’re okay.”

He fought against Steve, torn between trying to get away and trying to disappear into the bed. His cries and pleads didn't make sense, talking to people that weren't there.

He was much, much worse than before. Steve’s stomach twisted with nerves and he sighed. “Alright. We really ought to get you cooled down.”

Harrison pushed at Steve's hands, uncoordinated and weak. He was already cold, and couldn't understand how Steve didn't get it. He was supposed to be smart.

Harrison’s skin was so hot it almost burned. Steve didn’t have much of a choice, he needed to cool him down, else he was going to end up in hospital again. Harrison was too agitated for him to bother with trying to take another temperature, and instead he just scooped him up in his arms and carried him to the bathroom. 

His heart almost stopped as Steve carried him onto the bathroom, suddenly gaining strength. He writhed and fought against Steve's arms, begging him to stop. After everything, Steve was going to kill him. 

Luckily Steve was stronger than Harrison, still skinny and weak. He kept him close to his chest, his heart breaking as the teenager fought him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m gonna help, I swear.”

Harrison gripped tightly onto Steve's shirt, tears streaming down his face. He'd turned to begging, trying anything to stop it.

Steve hated it, apologising constantly as he turned the tap on and waited for it to warm up a little before he set Harrison in the tub.  Clearly he was upset, and ordinarily he’d never push him this hard to do something that was this upsetting, but it needed doing. He let the water run over his legs, cupping his hands to trail it over his back. “It’s okay, I promise you’re going to be okay.”

Harrison screamed as the water touched him, trying his best to arch away from it, his hands clawing at Steve's chest. He couldn’t breathe, and each drop of water burned his skin. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please." He begged, his words split by sobs. "Dad, please, I'm sorry. I'll be good. Please."

Steve’s throat tightened, and he tried his best to keep Harrison’s face from getting wet. He knew he’d fucked up, he’d hit a trigger or something, clearly that he knew nothing about. It must have been his old family, his biological family, and Steve hadn’t had any information. But Harrison needed this, else he was going to get much, much sicker. After a while he stopped the running water, just leaving the teenager sat in the tub. He did his best to keep the water moving over him, where he could avoid clawed hands and kicking legs. Steve himself was soaked, his T-shirt clinging to him, but he pushed on. He needed to get Harrison’s temperature down. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re okay, you’ve not done anything wrong. Cooling you down, kid. Cooling you down.”

His words didn't register with Harrison, still fueled by adrenaline and terror. He continued to try his best to scramble out, grabbing at Steve where he could. Steve kept putting water on him, kept him trapped in the bath. He was obviously just dragging it out, making sure Harrison knew how much trouble he'd caused, how much he deserved the punishment. 

Steve hated it, the way Harrison grabbed a t him and tried to free himself. It seemed to be working, though, the boy’s skin wasn’t so warm to touch, he seemed slightly more with it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m not gonna do anything to hurt you. I just want to help you. I promise I’m helping you.”

Eventually, his strength died down. He didn't have the energy to fight any more, and slowly resigned himself to whatever was coming. 

When he stopped, he expected punishment, to be pushed under and held there, but it didn't come. 

The hands on him no longer burned, and he slowly realised they weren't pushing him down but keeping him up, out of the water. They were slow and gentle, each move careful and considered. Gradually, his sobbing stopped, though his breath continued to catch in his throat. He couldn't help himself as he collapsed into Steve, unable to hold himself up any longer. 

“Well done, that’s it. You’re alright, I’m not trying to hurt you. Just helping you cool down, yeah?” He said gently, stroking through his hair. “I’m sorry. You’re going to be okay, Harrison I’ve got you. Just breathe. It’s okay.”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Human!Freddy Krueger x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: What The Fuck Now, Freddy!?

Notes:

This is not inherently romantic, at all. Or sexual. Just... Freddy being a bastard, and you are caught in the crosshairs- and are forever linked with him because of it.

I've been listening to Lizzie, a lot lately- and this is inspired by 'What The Fuck Now, Lizzie!?'

Also- I'm thinking this will have a part 2. Due to the ending not being quite enough. Maybe a part for the court proceedings!

Plot: Many will know the story of that terrible day Krueger essentially snapped- killing his wife, Loretta Krueger. She saw the basement, they say, and he didn't like that. Their daughter saw the whole thing and suffered a traumatic response to seeing the sight of her mother, strangled to death, by her father- and forgot the whole thing.

But if she were to remember something, one day.

She may remember something no one knows about that day, aside from Freddy himself.

She may remember, that someone else was there.

She may remember you.

//

Alternatively- you're being blackmailed by Freddy who found out you, another supposedly Plain Jane in Loretta's 'mothers club', is cheating on your husband and calls you up to help deal with the mess he made. Because who else did he have?

Warnings: Okay lemme see, its basically a potluck of triggers. Hm. Murder, swearing, cheating (You, on your husband. Not with Freddy), getting rid of a body, a child gets traumatised (Obviously, Kathy/Maggie), Freddy himself, mention of the basement and all that entails, reader with a very questionable moral compass. Look, I think if you can watch Freddy's Dead, you're good here.

I'm just heading out the door, to go grocery shopping - or, at least, that's the story I tell my husband. When really I don't do the grocery shop until the day after tomorrow. He never notices... - when the phone rings. By very nearly tripping over my feet in my endeavour to catch it before the ringing stops, I manage pick up the phone with very little injury besides an achy, slightly twisted ankle. "Hi! Hi, sorry, I'm here. Hello?"

Pouting, I sit down at the kitchen table; Rubbing my poor ankle to sooth the pain, which would soon diminish anyway. Still- I'm sorry, ankle. I'll try to chill.

When the voice on the other end reveals who it is who's called the house, I lose all need to be pleasant. Damn. I really need to memorise this goddamn number... so I can not answer it. "Whatcha wearin'?"

"Thank god Harrison didn't answer this, you fuck." I deeply roll my eyes. Thank god Har's out. No, this is not my mister, not the man I was going to meet just now- but its bad, enough. In an entirely different way. Its stupid, blackmailing, son of a... hundred maniacs. "What do you want?"

"What a way to answer the phone, Y/N. Gee, seems like every time I we talk, I'm learning how you really aren't in the right place, are you? Cheating on your poor husband, swearing... These aren't really signs of the perfect suburban house wife, is it?" Gritting my teeth, I keep from lashing out. I've learned, if you stay real quiet, Freddy wont have anything to pull from and will get bored quick. "Why so silent, hm?"

"... " Oh, fuck me. I cant help it. "Wondering where you get off judging me on being 'suburban', actually."

"Anywhere I like, thanks."

Oh... oh. Gross?

He doesn't see the disgust tearing my face into two perfect halves right now, but my silence must be enough as he laughs. The sound is directly into the phone, and harsh on my poor eardrums. Ugh... "Oh for gods sake... What are we? Fourteen years old?? Come on- why'd you call?"

"Uhhhh... " Quickly, midway through that drawn out 'um' sound, Freddy's voice transitions, and gets a whole lot darker. Something deep in his chest dislodging, to make it so. Perhaps, his heart. "Well... you might wanna come and see for yourself."

"Uh, I don't think so. I have somewhere to be right now- "

"Oh well you don't, anymore." And its clear what he isn't saying- or else I'll tell Harrison about Carter and set your life on fire. "Tell your boy toy you're takin' a reign check for the day. I think you'll last. In fact... after you come over here, you might be out of the game for a couple a hours at least- maybe days."

Hold on, hold on Freddy what the fuck- "What!?"

"... Believe it or not, I didn't actually mean for that one."

Moron.

~

Nevertheless, no matter how just... off setting, Freddy is, I had to when he asked. I had to jump when he said so.

Because if not, then he would tear my life apart.

So here I am, about to knock on that big red door he lives behind, wondering what I'm walking into. Where's Loretta? Where's Kathy? How long will the visit be? I told Carter I'd be an hour or two late- any longer and I wont see him at all today. Which would absolutely suck.

Just after my knuckles come down on the wood the first time, a hand comes down on my shoulder and I immediately jump out of my skin... then slowly look around.

There's Freddy, a cheeky grin on his face. It does nothing to set my nerves at ease. "Ugh... Why are you out here?"

"We're going to the backyard. Lets go." Taking me by the shoulders, he marches me around the side of the house, instead of through it for some reason, and into the familiar backyard. I've been here numerous times, as Loretta likes to hold our club meetings here - Barbecue's, tea's... that sort of thing. Just to let the kids play together and so the adults can enjoy some adult conversation. Its a nice yard... but depending on what her horrid husband is about to show me, it may not be considered as such anymore... - , but I'm now starting to develop a sick feeling in my stomach.

Honestly- I don't know much about Freddy at all. Yes, I went to school with him, but that doesn't mean much when he was a freaky loner kid the whole time. I remember he killed the class hamster once- that's about the only splash he ever made in the news pool; But it definitely stuck.

Yes, Loretta cleaned up his image a fair bit since getting married, but now he's blackmailing me, and as far as I know I'm now alone with him.

Suspicious of him suddenly, I slip out of his grip with a dirty look flashed his way. Don't touch me.

He just rolls his eyes, leading me around some hedges.

And then everything stops.

Him, me, the air; The air around me, the breeze, the breath in my throat.

There lays Loretta, on the ground. If I was really really naïve, I could imagine she were sleeping... or passed out, at least, due to the way she's sprawled out. No one would lay down like that willingly.

But... her eyes are open.

For a moment I'm tempted to kneel down; Take a closer look. Find out how, myself. Is she bleeding anywhere that I cant see now? Are her lips turning blue? If I moved some short red hair out of the way- would their be marks on her neck yet?

But then I come to my senses...

And freak. The fuck. O u t.

"What, the fuck, did you do!?" I whip around, looking at Freddy now which entirely new eyes. I mean, before I sure wasn't fond- but now I'm filled with something new, looking at him. Something a lot worse, something that makes me want to run. Run, and hide, and stay there.

And all these, even though he hasn't really changed. He still wears a mischievous smirk, stony blue eyes eating up my reactions... like always. But this time its just so so much worse. "Made some dead weight- now you're gonna help me get rid of it. So!" Finally, though its been only a matter of seconds, he turns his gaze off of me and I'm glad. That gaze is far too heavy. "Ideas?"

Only for a moment am I lost for words, struggling to push anything out. "I... I'm sorry??"

His gaze returns to mine, but this time my eyes are hard as his are dark. "Help. Me. Get rid of her. Fucking. Body. Or do you want your dirty laundry aired for the whole community to hear?"

Before I can help myself, I let out a sharp laugh, only succeeding in making Freddy's scowl deeper. "Freddy- this secret's a lot bigger, then mine. Sure, I might get divorced- but you're going to prison!" Does he get that? He's g o i n g to j a i l. Crossing my arms, I try to avoid looking at my ex-friend's body. I cant. "I'm sure as hell not gonna be in there with you, for being an accomplice."

I really cant look at her... I can only focus on Freddy. And that takes a lot of energy- its taking everything in me, in fact. Everything I have. But I have to. If its him or her, there's no choice.

But... then a creepy smile spreads across his face- a vast polarity to the frustrated glower of before. It makes my blood run cold.

"Ohhhh..." He looks almost ferocious, even in his composed state. Like a monster. Like any moment a fanged, inhuman creature is going to burst out of him and I'm going to wake up, and this will have been a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. The kind where that creature haunts me for a long time, after its over. After this over.

He's going to haunt me.

"You must think this is my first time... " My heart turns to ice, mouth hanging a little open... what the fuck have I found myself a part of!? Suddenly all the children's disappearances on the news lately come to the forefront of my brain... "Sweetheart, give a man his dues. I'm a hard working kinda guy... " I watch his gaze flicker to a door - the back door? No... The basement door, - and when a filthy smirk pulls at his mouth, my heart flies up into my throat. God, it makes me feel sick. I want to be violently ill. "My first was my adoptive Dad... pretty sick, huh?"

The fact that he didn't say anything about the basement, makes my imagination go wild. I swallow it down, though.

I just need to get out of here, and never think about this again.

And to do that I need to help Freddy get rid of this goddamn body- and... probably... testify at court... As the panic starts to finally rise up in my, right up to fill my throat, I immediately take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Okay... " No time to freak out. Now's the time for action.

Gaze flickering to Loretta again, I try to acclimatise to the sight. I think its a lost cause, though. "How did you get rid of him? Your Dad?"

"No, that's not gonna work. He was a drunk dead beat, and I just had to tell the police some guy's he owed money to came over to the house." Freddy grins happily at the memory, but then just as quickly, scowls at his poor deceased wife's body- that certainly cant fight back. I just tack this onto the long list of reasons I hate him. "Lore's such a goddamn goody goody- we cant do the same thing. You don't think I woulda thought of that??"

"Hey." I snap, hands braced on my hips as I flash a glare his way. "This is not the time to get defensive!"

"Whatever... "

Then- suddenly, something occurs to me. Confused, I look around; A deeply horrified feeling disturbing my stomach. "Hold on... Where's your daughter?" Seeing no sign of her anywhere, I definitely start to panic again- especially when I look to Freddy and just see a pert look in his eyes as he looks back at me, a smile that strikes something horrid inside me. My eyes narrow. "You sick fuck- where the fuck is she!??"

"Under the bed."

"What the fuck does that mean!?" I exclaim, frustrated and freaking out. He did not- he did not! Killing your spouse is one thing, but the kid?? Your own kid??

I don't wait around for him to be cryptic some more, and rush right into the house to look for her. Under the bed, under the bed, under the fucking bed...? Which fucking bed!? Forcing ferocity out of my voice, I carefully call out to Kathy. Hoping to god she answers. I try to sound normal. Maybe a little bit cheerful; Excited.

But my voice wobbles.

"Kathy?? Sweetheart, its Y/N! Are you hiding? I have something for you... " ?? You have something for her, Y/N?? God... now you have to figure out some kind of treat.

You know what? Whatever. We'll figure that out later.

Lets just hope we aren't searching for a corpse. I'd definitely be sick, seeing a child... the way Loretta is...

Shaking my head and clenching my fists, I try to focus on Kathy.

I check under the bed in the guest room because it comes into view first and she isn't there, then her bedroom and she isn't there either... and get a sick feeling as soon as I enter the last bedroom. Freddy's and Loretta's.

God, I've never been in here before but its like a museum peace now. A horrible one. Like if you would walk into the Titanic... or the Borden house.

"Kathy? You in here?" Flicking on the light I kneel down on the ground, and check under the bed.

And something immediately crashes over me, as the sight of her covering her eyes down there. It isn't exactly relief, because this whole situation is still phenomenally fucked up for her, but I am selfishly glad to not have to see her body... crumpled, just like her mother.

"Hey sweetheart," My voice quivers slightly now, but I quickly swallow. No. No. Now, you must be strong Y/N. "Its just me. Your Daddy was looking for you, and couldn't find you! It got him worried!"

"I... I don't wanna see Daddy. He hurt Mommy." Kathy doesn't remove her hands from her face, and stays firmly by the wall- too far away for anyone to grab. My heart sinks.

Slowly straightening up again, I try to take that piece of information in. Turning to the doorway, I see Freddy there. he must have followed me. I didn't even notice. Slowly, and quietly ferociously, I say; "She saw?!"

He has the good sense to look embarrassed, even if it is just to make fun of me. "It was spur of the moment... " He shrugs. "I didn't have time to get a babysitter!"

What a fucking excuse. For gods sake.

I'm definitely dealing with a psycho- if that was even a question before now.

Swiftly, I look down under the bed again, because I'm afraid that if I continue to engage with him- I'll scream, and I'll lose my breath, and I'll scare Kathy even more. She's at the forefront of my mind; That's all I can think about.

But what to do with her after I get her out from under this bed, I don't know. I cant give her back to her father... but I cant hand her over to the police either because that would involve telling them about Loretta, and... Freddy will definitely kill me, for that.

This is a nightmare of a situation.

I'm just opening my mouth to say something - what, I don't know yet, - when she speaks, instead. "Is he there?"

"... Yes." I wont lie to her; That would be treating her with not nearly as much respect as she deserves.

When she takes a deep breath and rubs her eyes, as if just trying to keep herself together, my heart clenches. God... and to think I might not have picks up Freddy's call today. I would have been leaving her with this. For the first time today, I'm morbidly glad I came.

She speaks in that loud, hissy way that kids think is a whisper. "Can he... can you please make him go away?"

Immediately I straighten back up and look to Freddy again, my eyebrows raised halfway up my forehead. Like well? "Get out."

"I don't think you're in a position to make demands here, bi- "

"Do you want Kathy to live down there now!??" I snap, trying not to be scared. Not really feeling scared, actually. Just happy to have a reason to tell him to get the hell away from me.

A deep frown creases his mouth, deeply unhappy about the situation, but steps back. I only hear him step out of the way of the door, but its good enough. Quickly, I get up and close the door - fighting with myself not to slam it, - and lock it.

Then I return to the floor, and see this time Kathy has uncovered her eyes. She looks so small, smaller then she actually is, and she looks like she's shaking. Little red bows and piggy tails in her hair are messy from crawling under the bed. "He's gone, sweetheart. And I locked the door."

She just nods, so I take the silence as a chance to offer my hand to her. "Take my hand, sweetie? Come on out from under the bed. Its cold down there, and no one wants you getting sick." I need to upkeep the family friend bit, I need to sound caring and collected. I need her to trust me.

Her big eyes, not Loretta's colour or Freddy's, look nervous as hell. And she shakes her head.

Taking a deep breath, and I conjure all the sincerity as I can. And mean it. My eyes soften and I try really hard, to resent myself as someone trustworthy- which is hard, seeing as I've never really been that. I mean, I'm cheating on my husband. I told Carter today the same lie I told Harrison when i knew I was going to be late. The only person I think who knows the truth behind all my lies is Freddy. That says something about a person, that the only person who knows them is a psychopath.

But I want to, I need to, be good for this little girl. And there's no time for me turn my life around so it has to start with this. How fucked is that?

"... I promise, I'll take care of you. He wont hurt you."

After a few whole minutes, in which I stay silent because yes she's a child, but she's still thinking, she crawls over and takes my hand, letting me lead her out. Crawling into my lap as I cross my legs under her, she buries her face in my shirt- hiding. "You promise?"

Taking a deep breath, because I've really done it now, I offer my pinky for her to see if she turned her head. I know Freddy's listening to all of this through the wall, but I try not to freak out. "Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear." She peaks out from my shirt, and curls her little finger around mine. Okay... "Y/N... I'm scared."

"Yeah... Me too, sweetie."

What am I going to do?

[chatonne-rousse]

The Importance of the Black Cat

Adrien has a lot on his mind - concerns, questions, doubts. And right now, he has only one being to confide in. There is not enough cheese in the world to make Plagg want to handle this situation, but his holder needs him, and he knows two things with certainty: his very important place in the world, and that no one hurts his kitten. Not if he has anything to say about it.

Read it on Ao3 here.

The Camembert he holds in his paws is aged beautifully, gooey and perfectly pungent. He knows it was expensive, purchased with his holder’s allowance, and therefore tries to at least do the kid the honor of enjoying it. But as he mulls over the day’s events, the first few bites sit like a brick in his tiny stomach.

Tonight, Plagg eats his cheese for sustenance only. It’s hard to find the usual joy when his holder hasn’t spoken since they arrived home.

The light in the closet switches off as Adrien shuffles out into the bedroom, dressed for bed in black pajama pants and an old white t-shirt. The departure from his usual red and black spotted look doesn’t escape Plagg’s notice, but he chooses not to comment.

Plagg discovered long ago that his devotion to his holders is inversely proportional to his ability to counsel them. He knows he’s not good at advice beyond cheese and chaos. He wasn’t made for emotions and heartfelt chats.

A sure and confident holder didn’t usually open his heart or seek his kwami’s counsel, and Plagg liked that. They did their jobs, they shared their lives, but they didn’t share their hearts. They didn’t need to, because his holder needed his power more than his presence.

But once in a while, he’d materialize in front of a human whose eyes shone with innocent kindness, and he knew immediately that they would need him. If he’s honest, Plagg will admit that these are the best wielders of destruction. It’s all about intention, after all, and a pure heart rarely destroys with disregard. These holders, however, always seemed to come with a price - they saw their kwami as less of a means to an end and more of a friend.

He loved these holders. He would level cities and wipe out species for them. But oh, did he ever dread having to talk to them. Really, really talk.

Plagg knows his kitten will break the silence soon. It’s only a matter of time. He isn’t sure if it will be to talk about being stuck in the elevator with his very good friend, a monologue that will no doubt be punctuated by sighs and soft eyes that will be quickly denied if his kwami points them out.

One undeniable fact from the day, however, is the racing pulse and rapid breathing of a boy terrified of being locked up and feeling increasingly helpless in the situation. Plagg knows very well that it happened, because he was tucked inside Adrien’s shirt listening to his pounding heart. He hopes his holder doesn’t want to talk about that, because it’s way above Plagg’s pay grade.

He also hopes his holder won’t ponder why only he was dragged through the portal to safety, or why Rena Rouge was the one to do it.

Plagg gets down almost two full wedges of cheese before Adrien sits down on the edge of his bed with a heavy sigh.

“Hey, Plagg?” His voice is quiet but doesn’t betray any emotion yet. That’s actually more worrying.

Steeling himself, Plagg swallows the last big bite of cheese and zips from the desk to perch on top of the globe, facing his holder. “What’s up?”

He heaves another sigh before looking up into Plagg’s eyes, emotions still unreadable.

“How important is the black cat?”

Oh. A wave of relief makes Plagg’s whiskers perk up. The question is unexpected but definitely not unwelcome. He’s lousy with advice but an expert at talking about himself.

He puffs up his tiny chest and grins a fanged grin. “Only the most important, kid! Everything has to end sometime - except me, of course, but,” he shrugs, “we can’t all be perfect.” He hopes that will garner a smile, but realizes a moment too late that he’d started his speech talking about death to a boy who lost his mother at thirteen. Oh no, he thinks, panicking. He’s bad at this, too.

He barrels on. “I mean, creation is nothing without destruction. The very concepts go together, always. Can you imagine a world where flowers never wilt and people never die?” Adrien’s eyes widen and his brows furrow. Shit, Plagg thinks. I did it again.

“Plagg, that sounds...really nice, actually.”

He shakes his head. He can get this back on track. He’ll fall back on pragmatism like always. “It does, but that’s not how the world works. Your planet can’t sustain an expanding and eternal population. Everything grows and lives and dies and starts over again. Everything has a beginning and an end.” Plagg’s eyes shine with pride. “Only I, and my very lucky holders, get to harness that inevitability into a real power, and use it for good. Tikki and her bugs can create, but we destroy,” he pitches his voice lower, his tone serious, “so they can create again.”

Adrien’s eyes are still wide, but Plagg sees wonder and a bit of pride there. He lets his tiny shoulders relax.

“I never thought of it that way. You really are amazing, buddy.” He reaches out to scratch Plagg behind the ears with a soft smile that his kwami would see doesn’t reach his eyes if his own weren’t closed with pride and delight.

The hand retreats, and Plagg opens his eyes just to watch Adrien’s face fall.

“But I meant...how important is the black cat to the ladybug?”

"How...what?" Plagg splutters, taken aback. "I just told you, kid. Every beginning has an end. Creation and destruction are perfectly equal. You don't want to know what happens when they're not."

Adrien's eyes snap to his, clearly on the edge of a dawning horror. Oh no. Not again.

Plagg waves his paws. "What I mean is, you need each other. Tikki is never activated without me, and I'm never called up without her. We're two halves of a whole. You've never seen the inside of the miracle box," he scowls, "which is bullshit, by the way, but if you did, you'd see that the center is a circle, split perfectly in two. Tikki and I go together, and so do you and Ladybug. You can do this without each other, but you're not meant to."

Adrien's shoulders droop. "Yeah, I know she can win a fight without me. She's had to do it before." He sighs. "A lot."

"Sure," Plagg agrees, and can't resist adding, "but she wouldn't need to if you didn't throw yourself in the line of fire every chance you get."

"I have to protect her, Plagg! You know that! Ladybug is more important than me."

"Kid!" Plagg bursts out in frustration, "I don't know how else to tell you this! You. Are. Equal."

“Then…” Adrien’s breath catches and he blinks several times. “Then why doesn’t she need me anymore?”

For just a moment, in the time it takes for the words to register and translate and pierce his heart, Plagg’s ire flares white-hot and livid. No one hurts my kitten and gets away with it. But he looks into his holder’s eyes, sad and achingly lonely, and his anger slips away as quickly as it came. He’ll deal with his own feelings on the matter later.

Besides, it’s not Marinette’s fault. She’s doing the best she can. He’d still relish giving her an earful, but piling on the heartbreaking guilt about his holder’s situation wouldn’t really help and might just snap what Tikki has insinuated is a currently-tenuous grasp on stability. Plagg knows she’s making decisions based on the mentorship of a flawed man, a failed guardian who ran from his mistakes for the better part of two centuries.

Fu never understood Plagg and never tried to. None of the guardians did. Beyond knowing the basics of his power and the importance of the ring of the black cat in relation to the earrings of the ladybug, Fu never saw Plagg as anything more than a liability. Which is honestly fair, but Plagg doesn’t have to like it.

He definitely doesn’t have to like it when the rules of secrecy leave his kitten in the dark and feeling useless. Especially after what he now suspects from the clues he got today.

He looks into his holder's tear-filled eyes and sees a soft innocence rare among the long line of black cats who've worn the ring. This might just be his most difficult assignment yet, but it's also one of his favorites, and he'll protect his kitten no matter what it takes. Even if it means talking about feelings.

Once his stomach is settled, he's going to eat so much cheese to make up for this.

Plagg takes a deep breath. "Who spotted Optigami in the elevator today?"

Adrien blinks but says nothing.

"Who made sure Ladybug didn't tell her secrets to Truth?" He waits another moment, watching Adrien's blush rise and letting his words sink in. "And who protected her identity when she was hit by Kwamibuster?"

"Okay, but—"

Plagg steamrolls his holder shamelessly. "You were the key to defeating Gorizilla, Stormy Weather, Lady Wifi. I have a long memory, kid. Do you want me to keep going? Because I haven't even gotten to the times you kept your bug afloat with all those pep talks and disgusting feelings. A nice piece of Brie would've perked her up, but I have to admit that your methods worked, too."

Adrien sniffs and chuckles. "Okay, buddy. I get it." His eyes still betray an ocean of hurt, but Adrien's soft smile seems genuine.

Plagg has never quite understood human emotion, though he's seen it all in his many centuries among humanity. He's also seen the myriad ways humans cover up one emotion with another (and another, and another, and sometimes destructive behaviors and very dark paths). He doesn't much enjoy dealing with human feelings, but he when it comes to masks, he prefers the very stylish ones he manifests on his holders' faces, changing with the times and his whims and his holders' thoughts. It's been a long time since he had a holder whose civilian life necessitated so many different masks. No wonder he eats so much Camembert to recharge - it's exhausting just watching it.

"What I'm saying, kitten...er, kid, is that your bug needs you. Paris needs you. And I know that because creation always needs destruction." He snorts a laugh. "That's a fact that's bigger than both of us."

"Yeah, you're right. I know you're right." Adrien sighs and stands to pull back the covers and turn out the light. He climbs in bed and heaves another sigh as his head hits the pillow. "I just wish she'd let me help her. I...I know she's going through something."

Plagg settles on the pillow next to Adrien's, in the Camembert-infused spot where he sleeps. "Being a guardian kind of sucks. It used to be a whole big thing - years of training and ceremonies and shaving your head in a weird pattern..."

Adrien breathes a laugh in the darkness.

"Did you just imagine your beloved bug with her pigtails cut off and a bald spot shaved into her head?"

"Plagg! How dare you?" comes the reply, but his laughter betrays him. Yeah, he's totally picturing it.

Plagg smiles. "What I mean is, you know her. As much as you can, at least. She's told you over and over how important you are to her. I hear all that mushy crap, you know. I don't think she means to hurt you." A pause. "If she does, she'll regret it," he mutters.

"Please don't threaten my future wife, Plagg."

"Still?"

"Still what?"

Plagg blinks. Adrien blinks, then finally catches up.

"Oh. Well." He takes a deep breath. "I'm...a little upset about some things. But I'm sure we can work it out. People make mistakes. Besides, just because someone hurts you doesn't mean you stop loving them, Plagg."

He wouldn't trade Adrien and his tender heart for the world, but sometimes Plagg wishes he was already a bit more jaded when he slipped the ring on his finger that first day. He doesn't want to witness the moment his holder's gentle spirit is finally crushed by what he knows better than most is a very cruel world.

For a long moment, Plagg considers his answer and finally chooses sarcasm. He shrugs. "You can always just cataclysm their prized possessions. That works, too."

That startles a laugh from his holder, tired and tinged with emotion, but a laugh nonetheless. Plagg considers it a win.

They settle into silence. Adrien's eyes close sleepily. Plagg considers getting another wedge of cheese now that his stomach has calmed down a little, but the thought that this is far from over makes his indigestion flare again. Love is messy and inconvenient, the Cancoillotte cheese of emotions. But, he supposes, looking at his holder in the dark, it's worth the difficulty.

Adrien's eyes open suddenly to meet Plagg's glowing green.

"Thanks for talking to me, buddy. I'm sorry I—"

Plagg zips over to his holder before he can finish the sentence, tucking his little body into the crook of Adrien's neck and starting up a loud purr.

"You're welcome. You owe me so much cheese."

Adrien laughs again, and Plagg purrs louder when he reaches up to scratch behind his tiny ears.

"Reblochon again?"

Plagg stifles a laugh at the fact that he has penance cheese for dealing with Adrien's feelings before realizing how sad it is that he...well, has penance cheese for dealing with Adrien's emotions. Someday, when his holder is on his own and out from under the tyrannical rule of his asshole father, Plagg has every intention of cataclysming Gabriel's entire atelier, including his tablet and any backup drives. He dreams about it sometimes. Just watching the world burn. It'll be beautiful.

He sighs wistfully before answering. "I was thinking Époisses."

Adrien groans. "Plagg, no. It's so gross."

"Plagg, yes. Feelings are gross. Cheese is life."

Another sigh. "Fine. I'll order it in the morning."

Silence falls over them again, this time comfortable and warm. When Adrien's breathing evens out, Plagg heads over to the cupboard for a snack. By the time he's eaten two more wedges of Camembert and thought about the whole situation, he's decided to pay Pigtails and his other half a visit. This can't continue. They're all headed for catastrophe, and no one wants to see what he'll do if this breaks his kitten.

He takes a wedge of cheese for the road and heads for the window, but something makes him stop before he phases through. He turns back to look at his sleeping holder. The moonlight shines through the windows, casting shadows like prison bars across the room, across the bed, across his kitten. Plagg thinks suddenly of Adrien waking up alone, his kwami nowhere to be found, and realizes he can't just leave.

He sighs. He's sighed so many times tonight.

Plagg tosses the cheese in the air and catches it expertly, swallowing it in one gulp, then makes his way back to the bed.

Tomorrow, he'll find a way to phase into Pigtails' bag during homeroom for a much-needed discussion with Tikki. He doesn't want to - he really doesn't want to - but Plagg intends to do his part to fix this. Holders like his come once in a very, very long lifetime. Adrien is worth it.

He settles again on his cheese-scented pillow and curls up, wrapping his tail snugly around his body. Soon his purr matches the rhythm of Adrien's quiet breathing, and peace, however temporary, falls gently over the two of them once more.

[darter-blue]

And now for some stucky fluff...

Read it here on ao3

Or part one, two, three, four on tumblr

Bucky’s sense has left him. It left him somewhere back on the dance floor. Maybe even before then.

It’s entirely possible that in fact he’s never had any.

He spent too long talking at Steve about particles… about soulmates… about whatever it is that's happening between them. And by some miracle, Steve is still listening, still looking at Bucky like he’s interesting, like his words mean something. And Bucky needs to harness that. Needs to grab at it before it slips through his fingers.

So he quits his yapping. He grabs Steve and he pulls at him again, marvels at the complete lack of resistance there, at the way Steve just follows him. When he dares to look back over his shoulder, Steve is still there, still staring at Bucky as if he is something wondrous. Somehow not tripping, or faltering, despite not watching at all where he’s going and or paying any kind of attention to the people or the noise or the chaos of the casino around them.

Steve’s eyes are only for Bucky.

Even as Bucky pulls them through the garishly painted doors. Even as Bucky leads him into madness.

Bucky turns away from Steve to face forward, to push clear of the doors and let them swing closed behind them.

It’s much quieter in the chapel.

Bucky sweeps his eyes from right to left and takes in the pastel pink walls, the blue ribbons along the pews, the couple chatting at the top of the aisle. One dressed as Elvis - white jumpsuit and cape, big hair, sunglasses, guitar flung over one shoulder, not slim, but filling out that jumpsuit nicely all the same - the other wearing a hot pink t-shirt that reads ‘we will wed you’ in white lettering across the chest and a fifties retro polka dot skirt.

They both look up as Steve and Bucky enter.

‘He-ey,’ the man dressed as Elvis says, smile and eyes widening as he looks past Bucky and up and up to Steve, then back down and up again. One eyebrow raising in slight disbelief, no doubt, at the existence of such a perfect being.

Bucky can’t blame him.

‘Welcome, welcome!’ the woman in hot pink says, coming forward, arms outstretched, ‘hello boys!’

‘Hello,’ Bucky says, smiling at her exuberance, and her very excellent blond bee-hive up-do, and slows to a stop about halfway down the aisle.

‘Ma’am,’ Steve says, affability dripping from the buttery smooth tone in his voice, coming to a stop on Bucky’s right.

‘Oh, you two look like a match made in heaven!’ the woman says, stopping a few feet from them, she holds up her hands and makes a frame with her fingers, placing Bucky and Steve in it and looking through at them with one narrowed eye. ‘Oh yes. Beautiful, beautiful.’

‘Uh…’ Bucky starts, and falters. At a loss for exactly how to proceed.

He looks up at Steve and Steve looks down at him with an encouraging smile, slides an arm around Bucky’s waist and squeezes him closer.

‘We umm… do we have to make an appointment?’

‘You two?’ the woman says, eyeing them both up and down, ‘no appointments necessary, come come come.’ She spins around and starts heading towards Elvis, checking back to make sure Bucky and Steve are following her, ‘Come with me, I’m going to take care of everything.’

‘Okay,’ Bucky says, looking up and Steve and shrugging his shoulders.

Steve laughs and squeezes Bucky tighter, walking them down the aisle together. ‘How do you make everybody fall in love with you like this, Buck?’

‘Me?’ Bucky says, laughing and shaking his head at Steve. As if Steve has no idea of the kind of magnetism he’s exuding. The uncanny resemblance he has to a greek god.

‘Yes, definitely you,’ Steve says, ‘People are never this easy with me.’

‘I am,’ Bucky says truthfully. Everything about Steve screams home to Bucky. Screams safety and happiness. Bucky couldn’t be anything but easy with him.

‘Yes you are,’ Steve says softly. Squeezing Bucky again. He’s going to have to stop doing that, it's so warm, his arm is so strong, his hand is so big, Bucky feels encased by him. It’s dangerously addictive. Bucky wants to lean into it and let himself go.

But, actually, why can't he? This is a chapel, they are about to leap into the craziest decision Bucky has ever made in his life... So Bucky does lean into it. Lets his side press into Steve, lets them fit together like a solved puzzle.

‘Okay boys, we have some forms, we have some catalogues,’ the woman says, gesturing them into a room off to the side of the chapel, ‘I need you to put your decision making hats on, okay? We have about thirty minutes before the next couple comes in and I want to slot you right in, yes?’

‘Okay,’ Bucky and Steve say together, nodding their heads.

‘Good, good. So take a look over these, sign them, pick your rings and I’ll charge them all to your room. You’re staying in the casino right?’

‘Yes,’ Steve says, moving forward before Bucky can answer, ‘Charge it to my room, please.’

Steve starts pulling out his wallet, shows his identification and takes the pen the lady offers him, and Bucky watches with a sort of fascination, as Steve becomes completely in control.

‘Steve Rogers,’ the woman says with a smile Bucky doesn’t understand. Knowing, familiar. ‘I’m Mavis, it’s so lovely to meet you.’

‘And you,’ Steve says. He opens his arm out to Bucky to gesture him forward, and slides it around Bucky’s shoulder when he gets close enough. ‘This is Bucky.’

‘James Buchanan Barnes,’ Bucky says, holding out a hand for Mavis to shake, ‘pleasure to meet you, Mavis.’

‘Oh well you are just the sweetest thing,’ Mavis says with a chuckle, her cheeks blushing, ‘absolutely adorable.’ She pushes a catalogue towards Bucky, ‘Find your rings, darlin’ while Steve here fills out the paperwork. I just need some signatures from both of you and I’ll set up everything with Larry over there,’ she points to Elvis who waves back at them from the altar, ‘while you pop out and find yourselves a witness.’

‘Can’t you be our witness, Mavis?’ Bucky asks. He doesn’t want to unpack the kind of recklessness that it takes to be getting married in a seedy casino wedding chapel and needing to nab random strangers to be their witnesses.

‘Oh of course I will, darlin’ boy, but you need two. And Larry is the officiator, he can’t be a witness I’m afraid.’

‘It’s no problem,’ Steve says, looking up from the paperwork and handing Bucky the pen, ‘You sign these and pick out the rings, Buck, I’ll go grab somebody.’

‘Ahh... sure,’ Bucky takes the pen and watches as Steve takes off on a mission, ‘I’ll just… pick out my wedding ring from this plastic catalogue…’

‘Okay,’ Mavis says, bustling about in the small room and not watching Bucky at all, ‘Here are your complimentary t-shirts,’ she pulls some material from a storage box under the counter, ‘here is your album,’ Mavis plonks a hot pink vinyl photo album right next to Bucky’s ring catalogue, ’and here’s your notepad.’

‘Notepad?’ Bucky looks at Mavis and then down at the small notepad, blue and pink and with a vegas sign as a watermark in the background.

‘You might want to jot some quick vows down, honey.’

‘Oh.’

It occurs to Bucky, as he looks down at his coloured notepad, at the ring catalogue on laminated sheets of pink paper, at the t-shirts Mavis has put down for them on the counter, that this is perhaps a terrible mistake.

And then he looks a little closer at one of the rings on the last page… plain white gold (plated, he’s guessing) flat bands with an inscription on the inside that reads, ‘For we are but two halves, together whole’ and wonders if in fact it's the opposite of a mistake.

What if this is fate?

‘Bucky, I found somebody,’ Steve comes tearing back into the chapel followed by a dazed looking man, wide eyed and smiling, looking up at Steve as if he just met the messiah. ‘This is Scott.’

‘Hi Scott,’ Bucky says, dragging the man’s attention away from Steve, ‘thank you so much for doing this.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Scott says, beaming back up at Steve, ‘for this guy? Anything.’

He looks starstruck - Bucky can totally understand where he’s coming from.

Scott is absolutely bouncing on the balls of his feet, ‘You are a lucky guy, Bucky.’

Bucky looks at Steve, who is looking worriedly between Scott and Bucky, reminding Bucky momentarily of a confused puppy, and has to wholeheartedly agree.

‘You still sure about this, Buck?’ Steve asks, puppy dog eyes kicking into full gear.

Bucky can’t help but smile. ‘I um… found these I sort of like,’ Bucky says in lieu of an answer, pointing to the picture of the rings on the laminated page, ‘what do you think?’

Steve looks down at them, at the inscription decsribed underneath the picture and looks back up at Bucky with the softest, sweetest smile. ‘They look perfect.’

‘Yeah? You think so?’

‘I do.’

And Bucky’s heart melts. He feels the warmth of it spread right through his chest.

‘Perfect!’ Mavis cries, swooping in to grab the catalogue and disappear into the chapel, yelling back ‘get yourselves to the altar boys!’

‘I guess we ah… head out there?’ Bucky gestures over his shoulder with his thumb, to the altar, ‘let me just um…’ he jots down a few lines and then rips the page off and hands the notepad to Steve, ‘for your vows.’

‘Ahh…’ Steve looks adorably terrified at the notepad Bucky has just handed him and looks over at Scott who is smiling at both of them now.

‘You guys look good together,’ Scott says, grabbing them both around their biceps and pushing them together, ‘this is really special. Thanks for letting me be a part of this, Cap.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Steve says, calm but bemused as Scott’s hands keep squeezing.

Bucky looks up at Steve and then back at Scott who almost seems to be tearing up.

‘You guys know each other?’

‘I wish,’ Scott says, shaking his head with a laugh, ‘what a dream this night has turned out to be.’

And Bucky can’t help but laugh. It’s just crazy enough to be perfect for this evening. ‘For you and me both,’ Bucky says. And Scott squeezes his arm a little tighter. ‘We even have this t-shirt for you.’

Scott takes the t-shirt Bucky offers him reverently. ‘Viva las witness,’ he says with awe. ‘This is amazing.’

‘And for you, sir,’ Bucky says, handing one to Steve.

‘Thank you, Buck’ Steve says, standing back from them both to pull off the button down he’s wearing.

Bucky can’t stop the gasp that escapes as Steve’s shirt slides down his arms to reveal the wide expanse of chiseled porcelain perfection underneath.

Steve smiles at Bucky’s no doubt slack jawed expression but Bucky can’t look away. It’s… a lot. IKt’s more muscle than Bucky has ever seen on a real live person. Toned and smooth and carved out of marble.

What is Bucky getting himself into?

Steve is pulling the pink ‘groom’ shirt over his chest and down over his washboard abs and Bucky has to hold his hand back from reaching out to touch him, to slip his fingers under the soft material of the t-shirt.

‘Your turn, Buck,’ Steve says, staring at Bucky with one eyebrow raised, handing him the blue shirt.

‘Uh-uh.’ Bucky shakes his head. 'Nope, not after that,' he waves his hand in the direction of Steve's chest, 'no thank you.'

'Buck?'

'I don't look anything like that.'

'Nobody looks anything like that,' Scott says, his eyebrows still at his hairline.

'Scott, could you give us five minutes?'

'Yeah, I'll just…' Scott backs out of the room and towards the altar, 'let me choose you some music. Be right back.'

'Bucky,' Steve steps closer as Scott disappears, 'you don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with.'

Bucky lets him closer, but doesn't move.

'But this,' Steve puts his hands to his giant pecs, nearly breaking through the t-shirt, 'this is not what makes me, me.'

'I know,' Bucky tucks his hair behind his ear, nodding his head 'I know that.' He does know that. But it’s hard to not be intimidated by his perfection.

'And as beautiful as you are,' Steve says, reaching out to take Bucky's hand and hold it, put it up against Bucky’s chest, 'this isn't what makes you, you.' Steve presses the finger of his free hand against Bucky’s forehead. 'This is, Buck. This is you, yes?'

'Yes.' And it’s true. He forgets that sometimes but it’s true.

'And it's amazing, you're amazing.'

'I am?' Is he? Bucky doesn’t feel amazing. He feels like he’s just scraping by most of the time.

'You are.'

Steve is looking down at him with so much affection, Bucky knows it’s not a line. It’s what Steve really thinks.

'You are too,' Bucky lifts his own free hand to touch Steve's forehead, 'you're so lovely.'

Steve leans in as Bucky traces his hand down to his cheek and rests his forehead against Bucky's. 'You don't have to wear the t-shirt, Bucky,' Steve says softly, running his hand through Bucky’s hair, 'You don't ever have to do anything you don't want to do.'

Steve's hands on him are like a balm. They radiate care and calm, and they speak Steve's truth.

Bucky’s insecurity washes away. He wants to be part of this. He wants to be all in. 'I do want to wear the t-shirt,' Bucky whispers, 'It's cute.'

Steve laughs and almost snorts. 'It's perfect for you.' Steve nods. 'Want me to give you some privacy?'

'No,’ Bucky doesn’t want Steve to go anywhere. ‘No I want you to help me.’

Bucky takes Steve’s hands in his own and places them gently at the hem of his t-shirt - faded and worn and washed too many times, all the more comfortable because of it.

Steve slides his hands up under the hem and over the bare skin above Bucky’s waistband, dragging the tips of his fingers across Bucky’s stomach. Bucky breaths in a sharp gasp of air as Steve’s thumb runs over his hip bone.

‘Gorgeous,’ Steve sighs the word, his breath on Bucky’s lips, he’s so close.

Bucky lifts his arms to let Steve run his fingers up further, taking the material of the shirt with him and lifting it slowly over Bucky’s head. He runs his hands back down Bucky’s chest, fingertips burning into Bucky’s skin, charged and electric.

They slow at Bucky’s stomach, sliding around the smooth, slightly rounded softness of Bucky’s waist to settle on his hips, rubbing circles over the bone with his thumbs.

‘Beautiful,’ Steve whispers, ‘you’re perfect, Bucky.’

‘Thank you,’ Bucky whispers back. Not because Steve has said it, but because he’s made Bucky believe it.

Steve’s nuzzles closer, reaching up to kiss his lips against Bucky’s forehead, Bucky settles his hands on Steve’s chest, up to Steve’s shoulders and around his neck-

‘Showtime boys!’ Mavis says, bursting into the room and then throwing a hand over her eyes as Steve and Bucky jump apart, ‘Oops! Sorry, but you need to get your sweet little butts out there, we’re running out of time.’

‘Yep, sorry, sorry,’ Bucky grabs for the blue t-shirt, ‘Elvis said we do’ plastered across the front in bright pink lettering, ‘coming right out.’

‘Better late than never,’ Mavis says with a wink to Steve and Bucky laughs at the blush that creeps into his cheeks.

‘Shit,’ Steve writes quickly in the notepad as they both hustle out to the altar, Scott off to the side pairing his phone with the sound system as ‘Fools rush in’ starts up over the speakers and Larry-Elvis smiles down at them as they move into position on either side of where he stands a step above them.

Steve tucks the notepad into his pocket and shuffles his feet. Bucky stands straight and reaches for his hands, pulls them into the space between them, holds them there, safe between Bucky’s own.

‘Welcome folks,’ Larry-Elvis drawls, ‘We’re gonna keep this short and sweet, I as a certified official in the state of Nevada, do preside over these two young men, to bring them together in holy matrimony-’

Steve catches Bucky’s eye and bites his lip. Bucky can only look back and try and keep from vibrating out of his skin.

‘-James Buchanan Barnes, did you have some words for Steve,’

‘Ah, yep…’ Bucky says, grabbing the torn out page from the pocket of his jeans, ‘Ah, Steven-’

‘-Grant,’ Steve says quietly.

‘Steven Grant Rogers, somehow it feels like I’ve known you forever. Somehow I feel like tonight I have met the kindest, most wonderful man in the world.’

‘It’s so true,’ Scott says quietly from behind them, and it makes Bucky smile.

‘Whatever brought us together, whatever force has drawn us to each other… It feels like fate, Steve. I think maybe you’re my person.’

Steve is nodding, smiling, he squeezes Bucky’s fingers.

‘And Steve?’ Larry-Elvis asks, ‘did you have words too, son?’

‘Yeah I…’ Steve doesn’t reach for his notepad, he looks at Bucky and squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, ‘James Buchanan Barnes, my heart knows you. However our particles have danced together through time, I found you here and now, and I’m going to hold on for as long as I can-’

‘Oh, god,’ Scott sobs behind them.

‘-I think you’re right about fate, Buck, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life, just being a part of yours.’

‘Beautiful!’ Mavis cries, running over with the rings, ‘Rings boys, time to wrap it up.’

Bucky has to smile at the chaos, at Steve’s face as he bites his cheek and tries not to laugh. He checks back at Scott to see him taking video of the ceremony and hopes that he can watch this in the morning, sober, and remember how light his heart is right now.

‘That was beautiful, Steve-Steve Rogers,’ Bucky says leaning in to whisper.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Steve says back and they smile at each other like idiots as Mavis hands them their rings and the song fades out on Elvis singing about falling in love. It couldn’t be more perfect.

‘You may kiss the groom, fellas,’ Larry says with a sweeping hand, ‘I now pronounce you husband and husband.’

And all of the noise fades away around them as Steve steps in, brings their joined hands up to their chests and reaches down to rest his lips against Bucky’s.

‘May I?’ he whispers against Bucky’s mouth.

‘Fuck yes,’ Bucky whispers back, and Steve laughs as he closes that last tiny distance, presses his warm lips softly to Bucky’s and opens them just enough to fit their mouths together.

The tenderness of it has Bucky in freefall.

He sighs into the taste of Steve’s lips, the luscious sweep of them against Bucky’s, and Steve has to let go of Bucky’s hands to reach around and grab him, take Bucky’s weight where he has dropped into Steve’s hold, pressing deeper into the kiss as he does, opening wider to it, gently nudging his tongue against Bucky’s and Bucky pushes back, licks softly into Steve’s mouth, sucks at the plumpness of his bottom lip, reaches his hands up around Steve’s neck and holds on.

The bang of the confetti canon has Steve snapping back up to standing, pulling Bucky with him and wrapping his arms around him, as if to shield him. Looking up and then back at Bucky as the coloured paper rains down on them.

Bucky can't help huffing a happy laugh at his husband. His husband.

‘Congratulations!’ Mavis and Larry-Elvis and Scott all cry from around them, but Bucky’s world is all and only Steve right now. The crystal clear blue of his eyes, the rose of his cheeks, the sharp nose and pink lips, and the look of absolute adoration on his face.

‘Wanna get out of here?’ Bucky asks.

Steve smiles even wider, ducks his head to kiss Bucky again, slow and soft and sweet and whispers into Bucky’s mouth, ‘I do.’

It’s perfect.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH15

18+ Content: General fluff/angst. Din POV. Word Count: 5138 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader

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 / Playlist

EPILOGUE

Whispers.

Din is subjected to whispers surrounding him and clinging to his beskar like seafoam on his boots; sensitive and hushed tones aimed to show their condolences, their pity, regarding the absence of light beside him. They raise their voice no louder than whispers out of fear, not sympathy—sterile beskar contaminated with the sun’s liquidised crux intimidating them into tight-lipped smiles.

Sorrow radiates off him in potent waves that roll over the settlement to drown them in his grieving. It doesn’t need to be voiced. There’s a plenitude of evidence that stacks up against the presumption; the reclaimed rifle adhered to slippery beskar as opposed to cradling its framework into soft flesh, a tattered cloak that now only stretches across one side of his back, broad shoulders appearing so compact in on themselves, and a heavy-footed stride that simply speaks anguish.

If those factors aren’t indication enough, the blood does it.

Dried blood that coats his tan appendage but not his gloved—funny, how he always seems to dirty his hands—thick streaks that have yet to reach that dry point smeared against his armour, dark patches on his flight suit that adheres to the skin beneath.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but the scene of The Mandalorian—a stoic warrior capable of pulling the tides that’ll swallow their settlement whole—so vanquished and mourning the woman he loved in such dreaded silence is worth a million and then some.

The element of a bare hand no longer pining to envelope itself from intrusive eyes is grisly. Abnormal. Eerie, all most, as if Mando’s resolve will snap before their inspections. Children are guided behind the adults with a subtle hand but it doesn’t pass unnoticed.

Din suspends in the maelstrom of the locals, helmet burdensome on his shoulders, vacantly swaying side-to-side as though struggling to remain awake on his feet; struggling to not let slip of his eyelids and succumb to the mud that’ll pose as his eternal resting grounds. If it weren’t for the slumbering speck of green nestled in the arms of Omera, perhaps he would allow himself to sink to his knees for the second time that night, no—third. Third time.

There’s no communication between them, no are you okay’s or I’m so sorry’s, just a simple exchange of glances that reads she’s gone, my girl is gone when Din recovers the Child from her arms. Familiar weight in the nook of his elbow, the same elbow her head resided as she lay dormant, he reverts back between the compound aisle of onlookers.

It’s all the same expression—that pouted bottom lip and upturned eyebrow, colourful eyes attentive to his exposed hand and gory armour; anything besides the chilling black slit of his visor, the red thumbprint of a much larger hand impression sitting in the corner of his view field—Din’s chin descends to his chest to avert his eyes from the hands on their loved ones, pulling them to a warmth he’ll soon forget the feeling of, the silent declaration of adoration upon seeing such a depleted man without his.

Voices are deteriorating before him, echoing and remote as if they were isolated across a vast canyon—everybody’s tone blending into one heaped bulk he can’t decipher who or where they’re coming from; a procedure his mind conducted to dissociate from the pity timbres.

Caben…

...I know.

Beskar wrenches their route, initiating eye contact with the two farmers his love died to save—died so that they could live fulfilling lives while she’s devoured by parasites—and his fist clenches by his side. Din doesn’t blame them for her demise, not really, she never would’ve inflicted such a gnarly wound if it wasn’t for the fact the Guild was after him; the fact that rescuing a helpless child would lead to a chain of events that brings him such an acquainted feeling of despair.

And he’d do it all over again if the situation arises—that’s what causes his slitted fingers to curl into his palms and draw blood out the gaps between. Din had breached many rules, some of his Creed’s and others his personal pledges; do not fall victim to a girl’s loving touches. They were there for good reason. Din’s not mad at Caben and Stoke nor Omera for informing him of their situation. Din’s mad at himself because, despite knowing the outcome of it all and despite how her name has been carved into his ribs, he would never not rescue the Child.

Even if that statement alone induces a thousand scenarios in which his beloved dies in his arms. Perhaps it’s his private method of torture; a way to inflict damage onto himself that doesn’t bruise skin but the sensitive heart beneath it all.

Caben and Stoke quiver underneath the leer of a visor blemished with vermillion—someone so black and white touched with the coloured essence of a cherished one—he’s never donned so much vibrancy. Not even when he wore his shoddy spraypainted duraplast armour had he been so rich in hues that no eyes should witness.

Din takes mercy on the men and tears his helmet away, feet falling with a burden into the forest haunted with a spirit that’ll never be able to rest.

It takes a day of being in hyperspace to reach overfamiliar craggy rocks and whipping sand granules—a day of being confined within his home, now a duralloy prison, with a fallen star coursing ripples of glacial bursts. The corpse of his sweetheart had been covered with what little material remained of the cloth on his back for the Child’s sake, not his. Din could never want that pretty face cloaked even with the browning plasma cracking on the surface of her cheek, the dark crescents beneath eyes that holds overtones that now only live in his head and windburned lips that once felt warm and smooth against his own roughened.

There’s a steep drop to his death waiting for a mere slip of his boots against the coarse siltstone—internal bleeding upon the impact that would cater his physique with that unaccounted heat one last time—but Din is versatile and makes it down with limited injuries; some grazes into the paddings of fingers and a sore ball of the foot where he’d dug his boots into an uneven surface a little too vigorously.

Soft sand sits beneath his feet in contrast to the grittiness above, a result of the lack of rays that reach between the gorge. It’s darkened down these parts, plagued with skeletons of unfortunate victims to the brittle canyon edgings.

A mote of black pokes upright from the golden ground, the end of a matte-finished cylinder storing pale grains into its blueprint. The ground swallows his knees whole and adheres itself to his flight suit where it’ll reside in the empty space that’s left behind for journeys to come.

Din combs the sand with cupped hands, bare digits burrowing deep and bandaging around the target to wedge free of its tenacious grip. It extracts from the planet’s crust with falling particles from its bore reuniting with its sum beneath his weight—a shattered chamber decays in his clutch. The stock, its untethered support deeper in the terra, withdraws into his idle grip.

It’s a straightforward design—a barrel he’s stared down into more times than he can account for—but there’s sentimental value in its mere existence, despite Din never having any interest in the dark oil encrusted with scratches and weathered patches around a jammed trigger. Such a stocky weapon for arms crafted of supple beams. The tide could easily harness such a defying artifact; digest the barrel whole into the belly of its trenches, the increased pressure simply too great for it to ever leave. Not the beams, though—they should never be required to carry such unstable weight, such compactness.

The amban rifle was perfect for those hands; nimble and delicate, easy to employ.

Salvaged firearm in hand, Din finds himself before the entrance of a shoddy dome shack; a flap of shroud swaying one with the wind eased to the side with the back of his knuckles, helmet dipping as he sets a lagging foot inside. The sparseness, the emptiness, drowns his lungs and constricts his airways—it’d been ransacked, by Jawas presumably, all of the deconstructed mechanics that should be gathering dust pinched from the schism-riddled wooden slab.

Disconnected halves of a rifle are gently laid to rest on the surface, the skeleton of a shattered Creed shortly following. Its critical gaze eats at the delicate man frontwards, toned eyes melting to a bubbling molten transparisteel that scars his assaulted morals. Three tan fingers spin the helmet on its axis to face the duracrete, allowing the pang in his temples to subside.

Din’s calves encased with his duraplast greeves butt against the edge of a mediocre cot, not too contrasting to his own—cramped with little to no support, but it’s stable and it works—he envisions a bandaged figure curled up on the durasteel, nothing but an oversized poncho to supply warmth that wasn’t necessary on such a heated planet. He sinks to the bunk and pursues the comfort of a merciless prod in his waist, a sweat-slicked forehead pressing into the wall.

If he closes his eyes and breathes deep he’s rewarded with a faint whiff of a rich syrup that combats the stale crux on his platings—the point of a pinky muscle stimulated with a fleeting taste of his favourite flavours. Sand particles deposited by the gusts of winds flood his ventilators from the cot beneath him, slicing through the linings of his insides. In lieu of coughing and spluttering Din deeply exhales and laxes his muscles; the overwhelming requirement for rest inevitably forcing his mind to disable and his breathing to even out.

Kuiil and his craftsmanship came up short as expected.

Even with the labour of three lifetimes, I cannot fix this. I have never seen something this shattered be repaired before. Perhaps you are not supposed to restore its properties.

Din respected the Ugnaught too much to vocalise his thoughts—what a load of bantha—and opted to depart from Arvala-7 before its granular claws burrowed into him more than they already had; his boots packed to his ankles with hot grit that converts the soles of his feet to blisters, flight suit drenched in sweat and blood.

Rather than dedicating a whole five minutes of changing attire, rather than finally ridding himself of the constant reminder of his dead lover clinging to his skin and clothes, he punches the navigation and activates the auto-piloting to his next destination.

The Child has developed some independence in the peak of Din’s mourning, often finding himself entertained with a drifting gear knob in the vacancy of the air before him—he almost appeared aware of the situation, aware of the black hole in Din’s chest narrowing his interiors and destabilising his balance—and he no longer needed assistance to vacate from the Crest when the hatch extended.

His guardian, on the other hand, wasn’t so eager to leave his penitentiary. It was quiet and cold in comparison to the hustle and bustle outside the duralloy cell, the loud exclaim of a snappy mechanic, no matter how late into the night it had to be, scolding her droids.

Are ya looking to get shot at? You know the drill, back away from it!

Din straightens himself out from the floor between the cockpit and the hold’s ladder, the one place he didn’t encounter the phantom of waning memories; they plagued these walls beyond belief. Recollections of brief intimate instances strewn throughout the hold, his bunk, the cockpit—it made operating his spacecraft a difficult chore.

He does his utmost not to glimpse at the emptiness atop the crates, the browning streaks that run down the slopes of the cubes and into the grooves of the Razor Crest’s base, but there’s only a limited measure of self-control residing within him and its line has been blurry as of late. Submitting to the gravitational pull of his eyes is inescapable and he risks a peak; a raggedy cloak that concealed gelid mounds now servicing as a blanket for the bare inventory containers.

Shoulders tighten and footwork falters as he maneuvers to the hatch, the idle purring of a preservation machine in the far corner a reminder of what he’d gone and done—guilt and grief goading his esophagus but he swallows it, greets the sting in his walls with a gruff clear of his throat.

What’s the big idea of stationing yourself here? She doesn’t appear in bad shape at all. I ain’t free parking, ya know.

Shiny credits are flung in her direction, the satchel containing the remainder of what was once a reimbursement to the bisected rifle in his leathers, he doesn’t allow him the privilege of feeling sorrow upon parting with them. Din doesn’t deserve to experience such sensitive emotions when he’s the trigger that snapped against a guard—a cherry bolt of a hand jabbing through the wind and tossing delicate goods down a ravine.

Peli eyeballs the exposed spinal plating of the Mandalorian and compiles the fragmented pieces of his physique, slotting in each individual aspect from his impaired posture down to the crust on his steel. Shards of a rusting man relocate, twisting and turning—no, not there...not quite...oh...—until it connects, a brittle sharp-edged outline of a man receding.

But that’s all it is.

An outline. Incomplete. His jam-packed insides—his essence, his life, his love—has been swindled from within leaving a husk of an exhausted bereaved soul ricocheting off the internal boundaries of beskar in search of its partner.

Din deposits himself in a corner of the hangar tucked away where the shadows push and pull his limbs, steering his appendages across the surface of an eroding strongbox showcasing the deconstructed blaster. Phantoms of apprehensive hands ghost overhead, their primary function programmed to destroy and slaughter not replenish and recover.

Reparations are out of the question. It’s beyond demolished; hardly decent for a mantlepiece let alone functional. It’s laid out like a butchered tip-yip primed for roasting, components scattered and misplaced; a muddle not even the greatest gunslinger could capitalise from.

Engravings on the stock of the rifle stabilise him, a gorgeous aluminium that shines beneath all the oil and base of obsidian. Its lines paint a picture of nothing, overlapping and crossing into a mess, but it fires a brisk bolt against his heartplate all the same. Bare fingers spelunk its origins for its quirks, its stories of a stubborn girl entrapped within it; utilising the elongated barrel like a third arm, a trigger snappy as her words, the scenic stock a mirror to the beauty beside it.

Roughened fingers were a by-product of being consistently handsy throughout the decades but when perceiving the sun rays they were reborn entirely. Soft and smooth and careful. Now that the sun no longer responds to his touch, now that he’s left with cool inscribed metal, they’ve reverted to their nature. Sandy. Sharp. Aggressive.

Aggressive fingers that match the stained violence of his Creed—his beskar that simply won’t return to that elegant silver shine no matter how desperately he rubs against the surface. Water sloshes back and forth in the modest trough of a sink, a tainted red-brown colour accumulating at the bottom provoking an ache in the tender organ residing in his centre.

He’d practically been forced into the shoddy refresher by the mechanic—you got the kid all anxious, just look at you, go get that gunk off yourself.

That’s all it can be perceived as by others; nothing more than filthy smears required to be rid of simply for presentation—to preserve the comfort of others no matter how intense the guilt chews against his muscles as her pith dilutes. Gunk.

Din muffles a sob. It’s her.

She’s abandoning him for a second time. What little of her refuses to part from him is so encrusted it’s become a part of his armour, inserting herself into the nicks and grooves of his platings his fingers fail to penetrate.

Mindless hands shift to his lesioned flesh, unsteady digits summarising the hills of rashy bumps visible only through the lens of steamy caf. Phantoms of lingering touches mark tan terrain in the shapes of slender fingers and cottony lips on his chest, his stomach, neck and face; everywhere that’d been blessed with the loveliest of kisses and nips from the Sun now scarred over.

Pendant held firmly in place pulses a scorching burst through the tissue on his sternum, the beskar skull leaving its claim. Its fraying thread drifts to thick fingers and lays loose between them, irritable skin of a palm flaring at its exuding heat and crisp pang; none of its physical but it’s as though he’s brushed with a hand of a million degrees all the same.

Shiny silver occupies the empty space beside him, a lithe barrel glittering in the substandard lighting of a crummy Tatooine refresher; heckling the helmetless man but he could never glance its way in any sort of negative class.

It hurts to connect with the beskar pendant and perhaps he deserves to hurt, but he can’t sustain it, can’t confront that sting in his throat and eyes each time it shifts against his chest.

Din weaves the lace of his material initiation through the metal perch beneath the shiny stretch of a barrel; dangling and showcased on the paired rifle of his Sun where it’ll reside—operating as a threatening symbol to partner his visor against enemies who dare glance his way.

And it did, far more successful than he could’ve imagined; rumours of his descent traversing parsecs faster than his Crest could vie with.

Did you hear about that Mandalorian—supposedly lost his lover and went rogue. I heard he turned berserk, he’s killed a town’s worth of criminals! Someone ought to lock him up before he turns on us. He’s a threat to us all!

Din didn’t much care for the presumptions. It wasn’t as though he frequented locations to be overwhelmed with the local’s support, though it made discreetly getting around a challenge—no longer were the days he could enter a cantina with a few intrigued eyes devising a way to lay claim to his beskar before returning to their booze.

But now it was people confronting him in false hope he’d be too deep in mourning to fight against their attacks. It never did end well for them.

He’d become a magnet for death, even of his own.

It wasn’t righteous to die in that common house. Not when those disproportionate black eyes observed from the arms of a droid; deep, dark masses that depicted more emotion for his guardian’s condition than perhaps they should. He’d been selfishly greeting his emerging end with an inconsiderate let me have a warrior’s death. It’d be a lie if he was to deny its translation; let me see my beloved.

As is his entire life, Din’s been allocated with responsibilities far out of his expertise but he’s not relinquishing his guardianship to the kid that easily. It’s not as if he could be transferred to any other old sucker either; not everybody has the same compassion for a floppy-eared bounty worth their retirement funds.

No, it wasn’t his time to rest. It’ll come when it’s merited.

That night after the events that’d transpired, Greef Karga bestowed some unusually wise statements underneath the moonless canopy of speckled stars patterning the abyss. Simply reminding Din of its existence; the constant celestials that’ll never desert him no matter what dodgy planet he dwelt.

A new moon is approaching. As a child I had been told stories of a cosmic reset at the commencement of a new cycle; an opportunity to start anew. Perhaps it was all just folklore but it’s fascinating all the same, wouldn’t you agree? I always did like shiny things.

It’d been the vulnerability that encouraged his Guild’s leader to utter those words—that unmistakable change in demeanour since they’d last met, that insecurity swallowing an iron stomach upon hearing a dead name chanted amongst an army of Stormtroopers—Din knew without it being conveyed.

He had been stripped of his privacy and put in the spotlight in front of dozens of lifeforms. A name reserved for a benevolent tone now recognised by the enemy, trespassing on those memories of all the situations it’d been murmured into his bare flesh as if labelling him as a person; a real breathing blood-pumping person and not the Creed he fought for.

Gideon was his name, the man who spoke of his identity as though he crafted it himself. As though he nursed the bruises and traumas of his title and being—not gentle hands that’d remain uncomplaining despite how little Din offered in return.

If Din had inspected his fallen TIE fighter for life, perhaps he could’ve avoided the forthcoming events.

With the naive belief of security, Din encouraged the pursuit of his aspirations rather than the concern of his violations towards his code. His relationship with the Creed had been on thin ice and he’s not quite willing to pardon its strict principles.

An opportunity to start anew.

His brain requests a rebalance—the interest for the Child’s consideration prodding needles into the fleshy mass—demands his sentiments to be torched, cremated until they are stardust particles drifting through the celestials above. They crack and pop in tune to the sizzle of a droughted driftwood pyre bearing the corpse of his lover, profitably filling two needs with one deed; a clear state of mind to focus on his ongoing responsibilities and to allow depleted beams to finally rest across the horizon.

She’d endured suffering enough; receiving punishment from those she trusted, the guilt and onslaught Din presented as a by-product, sustaining wounds until it’d finally become too much.

Even in death, she wasn’t permitted serenity.

Her fucking body is still with me!

It slipped out of his mouth back on Tatooine.

I had to - had to put her in carbonite...she was fuckin’ rotting in my ship. I didn’t know what else to do. What are you supposed to do with the body of your-... I can’t just - just ditch her on some shitty planet all alone like that!

Peli had been of assistance; providing Din somewhere to rest his eyes without breathing in the stench of decaying flesh. She’d even gone ahead and supplied him with a pair of gloves to preserve his corrupted honour though she wouldn’t admit it,—prefer not to recognise you as human, makes it hard to dupe you outta credits if I’m too busy pitying you—she wasn’t repelled by his grieving, the unusual depictions of a man underneath all that shiny steel.

She’d been of more assistance than he could thank her for.

Being on Tatooine facilitated the idea of his Sun’s disposal.

Kote Kyr’am.

It’s the best memorial he could devise. A ceremony he’d attended countless times as a foundling watching his elders fall in battle. The very same elders who’d knock Din upside the head for constructing such an ancient farewell for an aruetii but she’s worthy of nothing less; more, perhaps, but there are no alternatives in the vacancy of his helmet adequate for the burial of a star.

Din’s lips are chapped, his skin is on fire, there’s a rumbling in his stomach. He’s watching his beloved burn to ash underneath the new moon and yet he feels as though he’s the one succumbing to the flames; the heat just as powerful as the dormant embodiment it’s consuming.

Velvety skin he’d allocate his hands, his tongue, and time, never enough time, to now blister and contract, tear and melt, crackle and—

He heaves over, helmet rim caught on a scrunched forehead, and readies his throat for the bite of acid. It doesn’t come. Not even a trickle of saliva disperses. Instead, his lungs impale themselves on his ribcage, contracting and expanding so rapidly he fails to recognise his cheeks are devoured with a downstream.

The salt probes his tastebuds though it’s insufficient to dominate the heavy particles of ablaze flesh. It’s so rich, so potent that it’s evolved to a taste rather than a scent. Din could withstand the odour, his filters stripped the majority, but the taste is intolerable and it just so freely floats in through his agape mouth to nestle among his tongue - as if it belonged there - as if a contrasting sweeter taste didn’t.

Din’s skin reddens from Navarro’s meanspirited terrain but it’s not enough motivation to rise to his feet. He sits there, steel dwelling amongst the molten, and waits because he can’t continue his journeys for two without that flicker of confidence she’s at peace.

He’ll take a crumb of assurance, it’d be plenty for him to muster up the strength and return to the Crest where the Child awaits.

Usually, as is Mandalorian custom, he’d be stripping the shell of armour from her corpse as a keepsake of a life well-lived - to preserve the name of her clan but all Din had of her’s was a shattered rifle that’ll remain in the vacuum of a satchel.

Not to mention the chants—the gruff Mando’a words designed to ensure their warrior’s spirit may join their fallen. Din had his fair share of howling war cries through the years but not this time - it’s not right.

An aruetii wouldn’t be welcomed.

Besides, his Creed had stolen his spirit. It doesn’t qualify to steal hers.

It isn’t until a final blow of wind carries her skywards that Din raises to his feel, latches his helmet back in place, and returns to work.

Din likes the skies, no—loves the skies; the magnificent blues and pinks and oranges that blend as one, the swollen cushiony whites that conceal his naked face from the shell whatever planet he’d roam, but above all else Din loves how the sun blessed him with its astral kisses.

That unmistakable warmth flushed over him; the remnants of his extinguished star’s touches.

There was a peace up there that’d never reach the conflict of the galaxy; serenity that allowed for a moment of buoyancy—floating among the cornflower identical to how one might in the colossal depths of the ocean without the intimidation of anchoring oneself by weighted platings.

It was a real sight to behold up there; unfamiliar without the confines of his Crest.

Din had forgotten the thrill of the sweeping winds through his limbs, the freedom rising in his chest upon cutting through white puffs. But it had been the horizon that lured his attention inwards—the bends and slopes of a shimmering orange star smiling at the returning glint in his visor.

It was the first time he’d genuinely smiled since the loss of His Star. It had something to do with the warmth; the sunbeams managing to penetrate past beskar and into his flesh and organs so intimately, so overfamiliar to delicate fingers stroking the muscles of his chest or the bones beneath his cheeks.

It became sort of a custom in his travels to visit the heavens at least once on each planet. Often times bemused squealing would accompany him. Grogu—Grogu...the kid had a name—had been adamant about participating in his encounters and Din now has no doubt that was his abilities, the Force as Ahsoka mentioned, enabling him to perceive his intentions; his ambition to be touched by someone who no longer lives. It’d be easier to go up against seven Krayt dragons than to convince a power-wielding typhoon to remain on land, thereby he’d hoist Grogu up and above the overcast where the beams kissed the peak of his fuzzy forehead.

Renouncing his guardianship to Grogu had been challenging. Losing another lifeform so that he’d be entirely alone wasn’t a consideration as he journeyed in search of a Jedi, but it was to be expected. The kid was powerful and Din didn’t possess the knowledge to help him wield his abilities. Didn’t make saying goodbye any easier, though.

The situation resurfaced ghoulish remembrances of draining light in his arms; how he never presented his emotions without the guise of his helmet. So, encircled with copious lifeforms, Din removed his Creed before Grogu—introducing that vulnerability and love for a toddler who’d swindled his affection so effortlessly. A claw on his face wasn’t the same as gentle fingers but he didn’t love it any less.

The ordeal was absolving despite the moisture in his eyes.

Din’s ambivalent about what he’ll pursue from here with no mission, no ship, no love, but he doesn’t much care when he’s brushed with the warmth of his lover’s thumbs on his eyelids. It’s his favourite space; lingering above the clouds, head craned backwards with his helmet loosely held in his leathers, savouring how the beams kiss his skin until it’s pink from its spice.

Some days he simply wishes to take a peak, a small little glance to quench him until the desire builds up again. Some days he remains in the skies until his jetpack whines and runs into failures; until it makes its descent and is replaced with a shimmering orb.

He’s envious of the moon; how it so easily recovers its glossy shine and integrity, neglecting to address the events of the eclipse. Its radiance chips away at his armour but the sunshine restores it—realigns the shards and offers a toasty kiss to the steel, commending it for protecting her Mandalorian.

Din suspends in a herd of clouds and sighs into the air. It’s quiet except for the monotonous bursts of thrusters from behind. Sunshine is greeted with lukewarm caf, a partnering smile tugging his lips.

“Beloved Girl,” Din’s voice is raspy from inactivity but so loud, so clear in contrast to everybody else’s he’d consulted.

There’s too much he wants to say but he determines to voice them all. Din expresses his thoughts he’d been too stoic to admit, ranging from whispers to shouts at the sun as if it was a sentient being listening to his passion.

He tells her of how much he longs to see her, to taste her on his lips, to provoke that sparkling smile he loved so dearly. He communicates his guilt and how he loves her more than he can fathom—mentions the successful end of his journeys with Grogu and how he now has zilch but an undesired blade to show for it.

There’s nothing but a sway of wind whipping his eardrums in response and Din hums, accepting it.

Din cherishes the splinters of beams as she comes to rest beneath the horizon and he too sinks from the skies, obscured dimples in his cheeks as he recounts the memories of his beloved wrapped in his arms.

One last thing, Cyare, keep an eye on the kid for me, will you?

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex, @omgreally, @spideysimpossiblegirl

[wonderworldwonderings]

In the past you said you think Wizeman is stronger than Balan and Lance. Has that view changed with the game & novel?

Honestly? After the events of the game/novel my opinion on how powerful I think Balan and Lance actually are has certainly changed a bit! Endgame spoilers ahead!

So, what we know of Wizeman is that he is indeed a god. He has the power to create complex creatures, structures, conjure devastating natural disasters, and manipulate the world around him -if he did indeed create Nightmare as a whole. We know his plans are to take over the entirety of the Night Dimension and subsequently the Waking World, his end goal is absolute dominance. Though for everything he can do, he seems to have decent restrictions that act against him. He can't yet go through with his plans of total domination, he is currently not able to cross the threshold which separates the world of dreams from the Waking World. He also needs visitors and their Ideya to even achieve these goals, which puts another obstacle in his place. It's interesting that Wizeman does indeed seem to have all this raw, brute power, but then also has a lot of obstacles when it comes to using it.

Balan and Lance could easily be called gods in their own right. They appear to have completely control over Wonderworld, at least Balan certainly does (Lance appears to instead control the more shadowy side of it, much like how the Night Dimension is divided into two halves). They can both create powerful creatures, they can manipulate stories, they can shapeshift, and they can use massively powerful energy attacks. Lance can even change people into horrendous monsters with enough manipulation. But one key difference is, Balan does seem to be able to slip into the human world. This is evident from the opening cinematic, where he is standing just outside of the theatre's doors, and then again at the end of the game, where he is once again breaking the fourth wall and posing with all of the now freed inhabitants!

-The fourth wall breaking is also an interesting characteristic, which Wizeman doesn't appear to posess. Whether it means anything or not feels like it's up to the player, but it's certainly something Balan seems to have as a leg up against Wizeman. And it's certainly an ability that suggests Balan has knowledge of things even beyond his own universe.

In the final stage of BWW, we see what massive amounts of pure, unfiltered negativity can do to Lance, and honestly, if that version of Lance was to square up against Wizeman I think it would be a pretty evenly matched fight. We don't know if Wizeman has any other forms, he's never presented in anything other than what we see in both games. But if enough of one emotion can do that to Lance, the very same could be said for Balan. Could he change into an equally chaotic, powerful god form from too much positivity? Even too much negativity? I think if Balan and Lance were to harness these forms and worked together to square up against Wizeman, I think they could certainly overpower him.

Long story short, I used to think Balan and Lance wouldn't be able to stand up to Wizeman. But now I think they absolutely have a chance, and a good one. I think Balan and Lance are far more powerful than they let on, especially Balan, who seems to take great pride in presenting himself as a harmless, mischievous guide more than anything. But when you think about it, they absolutely have some wicked aces up their sleeves, and if provoked enough I think they could both turn scary with the amount of power they both have.

[crusherthedoctor]

Sonic Heroes: Sweet or Shite? - Part 1: SILVER

There are some heroes I like. And there are some heroes I don’t like. But why do I feel about them the way I do? That’s where this comes in.

This is a series in which I go into slightly more detail about my thoughts on the heroes in the Sonic the Hedgehog franchise, and why I think they either work well, or fall flat (or somewhere in-between). I’ll be giving my stance on their designs, their personalities, and what they had to show for themselves over the course of time. Two things to keep in mind:

1. These reviews will be focusing mainly on game portrayals. Though alternate media will occasionally be mentioned, it'll be for the sake of adding onto a point if a portrayal is similar enough, or to compare and contrast if a portrayal is different enough.

2. These are just my own personal thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, feel free to share your own thoughts and opinions! I don’t bite. :>

Anyhow, for today’s installment, I decided to challenge myself by starting off with a complicated one. Born from the future, and never content to stay put in said future, it's the saviour whose debut came from the most unfortunate game... Silver the Hedgehog.

The Gist: Once upon a time, in the distant future, there was an idealistic young hedgehog named Silver, gifted with the power of telekinesis for reasons unknown. With his amazing potential, he was truly destined for a wonderful, prosperous li-just kidding, it was shit.

“All two of us.”

For as long as he knew, the world was forever plagued by Iblis, the terrible Flames of Disaster. Cities stood in ruin, flames stood high, the floor was lava... it was a bitter life to be certain, all thanks to Iblis. Not even defeating the titular creature did much good, since it would simply come back to be a shitty boss fight another day. What was he - and his friend, Blaze, a character we definitely never saw before and definitely didn't have a completely different backstory before - to do?

Trust the first person he sees, of course. Even if they look like they might be related to the same Flames of Disaster that he fights so constantly.

If he had eyelids, he'd be winking at the camera.

This mysterious fellow, Mephiles the Dark, informed Silver that if he were to wipe out Iblis for real, he would need to take a trip into the past, and eliminate the root of the problem... Sonic the Hedgehog? That was what Mephiles claimed, yes. What was his proof? There was no proof.

That was good enough for Silver.

Oh look, it's Fleetway Sonic.

After an elaborate series of events, which should sound exciting but really isn't because it was just Silver going “Iblis Trigger grrr” in varying tones of voice, he was finally able to corner the blue hedgehog... twice! And despite having less fighting know-how than the hero who saved the world plenty of times, he effortlessly came close to killing the blue hedgehog... twice!

This looks like a jobbing for...

Why twice? The first time was halted by Sonic's friend Amy Rose, who Silver had met beforehand after she mistook him for Sonic, an understandable mistake that even the keenest of eyes would be forgiven for making.

The second time was also interrupted, this time by Shadow the Hedgehog. There's only room for one controversial non-blue male hedgehog in this franchise, sonny boy. Actually, his reasons were more benevolent than that: he wanted to show Silver the truth about what was going on, by time travelling to the incident that gave birth to Iblis. Why was one able to to this, so long as more than one Chaos Emerald was present? No one knew.

That was good enough for Silver.

“I challenge you to a dumb-off.”

As it turned out, Iblis was one half of a sun god called Solaris, the other half being the aforementioned Mephiles. The Duke of Soleanna wanted to reunite with his late wife by harnessing Solaris' power, which succeeded from a certain point of view since he's dead now too. The resulting blunder split Solaris into two halves. One half was all brawn, with little capacity for intelligence. The other half was Iblis.

Understanding the error of his ways, and after making peace with Sonic, Silver went back to the future to try something different, which consisted of doing the same thing he always did. Luckily for him, the script decided it would work this time, albeit at the cost of Blaze sacrificing herself... Maybe? Sort of? It’s not entirely clear what happened to her, and it’s not like this was the last we ever saw of her.

~La laaaaaa, la laaaaaa, la laaaaaa, heading to a better game, la laaaaaa~

But ohhhhh nooooo, turns out THAT didn't solve anything either! In the present, Sonic was killed by Mephiles, after the latter realised he should probably do that already if he wanted to make any progress at all with his plan. This incident led to Iblis being brought into the present, and they fused to become the omnipotent Solaris once more. Such power... such divinity... such devastation...

Actually, he was really easy. The antlion from Underground Zone was harder.

Manchild robots - 1, god of time - 0.

With their super forms in tow, Silver, Shadow, and the revived Sonic joined forces to defeat Solaris, with Sonic in particular going the extra step in retconning Solaris out of existence entirely. Since time itself reset, meaning Iblis was no longer a memory, Silver's timeline was given a second chance. What was he to look forward to in this new, promising future?

Shit.

The Design: Let's take a closer look at Silver's appearance, shall we?

Or rather, a certain thing that's wrong with it.

He's holding up fifteen fingers.

Yes, you all know what I'm pointing to: the hairstyle. Let it be known that I'm very aware of the intention behind this design choice. It's supposed to be based on the Japanese Red Maple Leaf, which holds a lot of relevant symbolism for Silver's character. This is a fine idea in theory, and I can respect the intent and the creativity.

But here's the thing: If it looks like a ganja leaf, people are going to say it looks like a ganja leaf. I know some fans will gnash their teeth at me saying this, but the fact of the matter is that intentions and ideas, no matter how good they may be on paper, don't always translate well into the final product. Unleashed Secret Rings Black Knight Sonic '06 in general is certainly no stranger to showcasing examples of that, and Silver's hairstyle is no exception. There are ways to incorporate symbolism in a character’s design without making them look like meme bait in the process, and no amount of “umm ackshually” will change that, I'm afraid.

That said, there's another reason why I'm staying clean of Silver marijuana: it doesn't work for a hedgehog character. With the other hedgehogs, their hairstyles are simple and get the point across: Sonic's goes without saying, Shadow's is more angular to befit a slightly rougher hero, and Amy's is a cute bob cut of sorts. But Silver? Even without the ganja, you've still got the two tentacles making up the back of his head.

I'd rather not be reminded of hentai quills, thanks.

“I thought Crusher-san would like it :’(”

I do find it hilarious that they went through numerous designs for Silver, and this was what they chose to go with. Some of his prototype designs may have fared better had any of them been used instead... but we didn't end up with any of those ones. We ended up with this one, therefore I'm judging this one.

But don’t worry, it’s not all bad with Silver...

The Personality: As far as actual character goes, Silver's personality is as straightfoward as most characters in the series, yet it's no less interesting, because it took a while for it to fully evolve to what it currently is. The seeds of his character - a good-natured yet awkward and rather insecure kind of guy, who doesn't fully understand how the present time works - have always been there, but it was often downplayed in earlier titles due to him being hungry for Iblis Trigger blood... or being an arsehole for no reason.

Although to be fair, everyone in Rivals is an arsehole for no reason.

Eventually though, after the writers gave him a Snickers, these traits got more opportunity to shine. Mostly in side media admittedly, but it's been noted in the games as well. With no Iblis to angst over, he's proven to be a surprisingly bubbly chap, who just wants to know how you're all doing, fellow anthro kids. And whereas his naivety was previously used for intended tragedy to benefit the evil plan of a guy who thought taking the -istoph- out of Mephistopheles would make him inconspicuous, now it's been used for a bunch of low-key contexts that do a much better job at endearing him to the player.

Finally, something I can relate to.

Hell, he even seems to have learned from the Mephiles incident, as he was quick to make it clear to the next shadowy deep-voiced anthro with demonic eyes he met that he wasn't gonna fall for any of them fibs no more, ya hear?

“YouTube and Twitter don’t count.”

All in all, it works well enough, in my opinion. His personality does pave the way for some funny and wholesome moments, and since they’re no longer trying to build him up like he’s Shadow 2.0, he's nowhere near as much of a tool as he was before. So I guess you could say... I like it?

Does this mean I can say that I like the character as a whole then, design and '06-induced idiocy aside?

Well, not quite...

The Execution: This is where the complication part comes into play. We know now that I like his personality, not so much his design, but that's only the half of it. It would be more accurate to say that I like his personality... and dislike everything else.

Aside from that, obviously.

For starters, the creation process for his character and story was summed up with, in their own words, “Think Trunks from Dragon Ball Z”. So he comes off as rather lazy and uninspired. Now I'm not expecting my Sonic characters to be 100% unique, there's always going to be similarities to other franchises no matter what you do, even if subconsciously or by complete coincidence. Taking inspiration in itself is no big deal at all.

But... was that it? Copying a DBZ character to such a blatant extent? Was there no other thought put into it?

Naturally, this ties into an overarching problem: the franchise's mid-00's habit of trying way too hard to be the anthro Dragon Ball Z. Sonic has had DBZ influences since the early days, with the Chaos Emeralds and Super Sonic, but it didn't assimilate itself into every waking aspect of his universe. It was merely an additional flavor that added to the complete package, in the same way that a Death Star with a moustache didn't mean the franchise was suddenly Star Wars the Hedgehog.

But come the turn of the millenium, nearly every main title in the series ended with Super Sonic and/or Super Shadow saving the day, while everyone else either stood around being useless, or only helping in ways that no one actually cares about. Including the in-universe President apparently, since only Sonic and Shadow were featured in the photo on his desk.

Amy smiled. “I guess the rest of us can go fuck ourselves, huh?”

This reached its peak with - of course - Sonic '06, with Silver in particular being an obvious result of this then-ongoing trend. And yes, it would be unfair to use him as a scapegoat, considering it was already a problem long before he turned up. But moreso than even Shadow, it's an era that Silver is forever a relic of, for better or for worse.

But it doesn't stop there. Since Silver is considered a mainstay character, his gimmick of being from the future also creates problems of its own, because in order for him to make further appearances, he keeps turning up for little explained reason, and thus he suffers the Deadly Six problem of being shoved into places where he doesn't belong, for fanservice's own sake. Take Sonic Colours DS for example, where he went back in time JUST to check out Eggman's theme park... Okay...?

On one hand, I’d visit it too, since it's made by Eggman. On the other hand, I’d stay clear of it, since it's made by Eggman.

And when there IS a justification with more weight to it? It's just recycling the '06 routine of trying to avert his ruined future, which isn't much better. The cause may differ depending on the story, but if his future is a permanent shitehole for one reason or another, he might as well cut out the middle man and stay in the present altogether, since that's where his friends are anyway. But they seem intent on not doing that, despite the future schtick being a noose around his neck at this point.

In hindsight, maybe this was a hint to how the rest of the arc would turn out.

And then there's his dynamic with a certain purple cat... No, not Big. The other one.

“I’m here, by the way.”

Simply put: I don't like this dynamic. At all. Or rather, I don't like how they keep milking it. Blaze's backstory was radically changed to justify her presence in Silver's future, and it really shows, since she barely even shows up half the time, as if the developers themselves forgot she was in the game. But her backstory has since been restored to her original alternate dimension interpretation, so hanging around with the grey hedgehog is all good now, right?

To be brutally honest, I probably wouldn't care for this dynamic regardless. But I would be more willing to tolerate it, and I'd refrain from groaning every time they're seen together... if they weren't intent on playing it up so much in spite of '06 being wiped out, sometimes with a bit of commentary involving their thoughts and memories, which only succeeds at making things more confusing. If Blaze is around, Silver will be nearby, and if he's not at first, he will be soon enough. This franchise does have a problem in general with restricting who's allowed to interact with who (I personally believe Sonic Heroes may have led to this, or at least it accelerated it), but I'd argue it's at its most insufferable here, with Blaze's potential and her entire world taking a backseat to being the sidekick of Ganja Man.

And you might say “Well, it's part of the franchise now, so you'll just have to accept it”. To which I ask: Have you accepted Two Worlds? Have you accepted Solo Sonica? Have you accepted Sonic's friends not doing much as of late?

Yeah. That's what I thought. “It’s just how it is” doesn’t mean you can’t criticise it.

Meanwhile, Marine is lucky enough to get so much as a shout out.

So yeah, I have quite an extensive list of grievances involving poor Silver. But... very little of it has to do with him, right? They're all indirect problems that he just so happens to be linked to, as opposed to someone like Chris Thorndyke, who is genuinely a shit character through and through. This is more comparable to Tails being bitchy in Lost World, or Amy being manipulative in Chronicles, or Sonic being a smug dumbass in IDW, or Shadow not wearing a Hawaiian shirt in Boom. Frustrating, regrettable, but not really the character's own fault.

Yet even after all that, there's one last kick in the teeth... How do you fix all this? And how do you fix it when he's since gained a sizable fandom, many of whom like him for these very attributes? If you leave it as it is, you're stuck with this big, awkward mess that everyone pretends to ignore. If you try to do something about it, you'll get complaints about disrespecting the True Silver Spirit, and you’ll get questions about why you didn't create a new character instead... And if you did use a new character for the sake of a clean slate, THEN you'd get complaints about not using Silver.

It's a tough call to be sure, and it's such a shame because like I said, I do appreciate his personality, so I can't say he's bad outright. But with all this... clutter, I can only put him in the average category. So, in he goes.

Crusher Gives Silver a: Thumbs Sideways!

Well, I'm glad this one's out of the way. Putting my thoughts into words with Silver was harder than it should have been. I do slightly regret starting this series off on a rather downer note, but rest assured, it's a lot more positive from this point onwards, since while I have higher praise for some heroes more than others, the hero characters as a whole fare a lot better than the majority of villains not named Eggman.

I guess you could say that I hope to show why Sonic's friends aren't as shitty as the haters would suggest. ;)

[sweetest-honeybee]

To Hell and Back

Chapter 13

Summary: Ex and Hels go to meet other Hermits but a certain butcher throws Hels into a panic attack.

Characters: Helsknight, Evil Xisuma, Doc, Xisuma mention, Giran mention, Scar mention, and Beef is there briefly

TW: Panic attack, asthma attack mentions, stuff like that.

Yes, I gave scar asthma for this bc I needed a reason for something in this chapter

———————

After that whole ordeal, the two continued to meet at other areas in the map for the next week. Ex proposed the idea to give Hels a little tour, mostly sticking around the shopping district.

“And this is Grumbot, they said he got all messed up so they built a little private world for him,” said Evil Xisuma. They landed on the perch just in front of a small window and peeked inside. “Still happy as ever,” he mused.

“What does it do? Does it have some kind of purpose?”

“Ah, well while I was still staying in Xisuma’s base, they had some kind of election for a mayor of the shopping district. Grumbot if I’m correct was supposed to help Mumbo in winning.”

Hels nodded slowly at the answer. “Alright then...Did he win?”

Ex shook his head with pursed lips. “No, Scar won. He got all the diamonds everyone spent on plots of land for their shops to use for repairs and new stuff and whatnot.”

Hels hummed in response. “Well no wonder Grumbot was so upset. I hope he’s a good leader. When you had me meet him, he didn’t seem much like the leading type. He’s all soft.”

“Soft, yes. But he’s kind to the Hermits and myself. I believe he’s had quite a rough past which probably made way for some kind of pity vote here and there if you ask me.”

Hels gave Ex a pointed look, completely disregarding Ex’s last statement. “Rough past?”

“Yeah, I dunno if you saw that he’s covered head to toe in scars, which is probably where the name came from, but he’s said something here and there about some people he’s come across a long time ago.” The man shrugged. “I don’t know a whole lot about it.”

Hels looked back at the smiling Grumbot. “Well, with a good origin story emerges some kind of hero, I suppose.”

“That’s odd coming from you. I think you’re spending too much time around Xisuma.” The knight merely responded by playfully punching him in the arm.

Then Hels wondered. “Why wasn’t Xisuma the mayor, though? He’s the ruler of-“ Hels gestured around them vaguely “-All of this.”

Ex shook his head. “I thought so too, but he said he’s not the one who makes all the decisions around here and he’s not fitting for the job anyways. Apparently everyone helps with all the decision making and whatnot.”

Hels hummed, considering the thought. “Alright then, shall we continue? I believe there’s some Hermits you haven’t introduced me to. I’ve heard that there’s a creeper-cyborg-guy running around. Something about goats?”

Ex laughed at the thought of Hels meeting Doc. “I actually think the two of you may get along quite well! Same with Joe Hills. His poetry and your dramatic speeches certainly go hand in hand.” He eyed Hels with a grin while the knight rolled his eyes. “But yes, we can continue. Though, I would like you to meet Beef as well but Wels lives near his place. I think it’d be cool to meet the person who practically created you.”

“Well, the vessel anyways.”

“Right, let's head off then and give Grumbot some privacy.”

With that, the two lifted off once more, this time coming across a weirdly shaped mountain miles away accompanied by a large house split into halves. As they landed, they spotted Doc hardly a few meters away. The creeper was too busy moving items to different chests repeatedly, probably sorting, to notice the new company.

“Hello, Doc! I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of mine that’s gonna live on the server for a while!”

Ex must’ve startled the old man. An easy assumption when Doc quite harshly smacked the back of his head on the lid of the chest while standing. Glancing at Evil Xisuma, he rubbed at his neck.

“Next time, I’d rather not have people sneaking up on me.” His eyes then landed on Hels. “Woah, did Wels go through an emo phase?” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Hardy har har. I’m his evil clone.”

Doc merely rolled his eyes. “I’m not surprised. Beef was asking for some help regarding his cloning machine after you were created.”

Hels raised a brow at the comment. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Doc just shrugged. “Dunno. Probably doesn’t want more evil clones running around.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyways! What can I do for you guys, I’m a bit busy at the moment so you’ll have to be quick,” Doc ended with a pointed glare at Hels.

“Just needed to introduce him to everyone and we’ll be on our way. Nothing much else than that. I’ll just let him wander a bit and look around if that’s alright.”

“Fine with me, just don’t use my villagers, farms, or break anything that takes a lot of effort to replace.” Doc waved a hand dismissively as he walked back over to his chest, beginning to sort again.

With that, Hels looked up at the mountain near them. “Hey, what’s with the mountain? Looks like an animal head.”

Without removing his focus from the chest, Doc simply replied, “It’s a goat.”

“Alright then.” Hels looked over at Ex. “I don’t believe there’s too much to look at over here, we can move on. If you’d like me to meet Beef now, we can do that.”

Doc couldn’t help but to glance at them after Hels’s suggestion. “I thought Wels doesn’t want you near his base.”

“Mind your business old man.”

Doc glared at the knight once more and turned back to his chest, grumbling something under his breath along the lines of ‘I’m not that old’. The pair snorted at the scientist.

“Okay, let's go then.”

It wasn’t a very long flight this time, much to Hels’s surprise. He thought Beef lived much farther away than where he settled. The sandstone village came into view within hardly a couple minutes.

But for some reason, Hels found the village intimidating.

“I wonder if he’s here, he’s not around a lot,” Ex prefaced. As if on cue, the butcher came into view from the blacksmith, several iron bars and end rods piled in his arms. “Ah, nevermind then. Let’s say hello!”

Before Ex went approaching Beef, he was caught short by the wrist. He turned and found the knight gripping it quite harshly, a frown deepening on his face.

“Hels, would you please let go of me?”

The knight pulled him back a foot or two behind the building. “Um, actually maybe we can just do this later. He seems busy.”

Ex cocked his head to the side. “That didn’t stop us with Doc, Mumbo, Grian, Star, Xisuma, Stress, Ren-“ Hels shushed him quickly.

“No, I don’t care. Let’s just go.” Hels tugged on his wrist once more, Ex not budging from his current placement. Worry suddenly became evident in his expression.

“Is something wrong?”

Hels just shook his head, a flush creeping across his face, but oddly enough, Ex recognized that it wasn’t the good kind. “No- Please will you just come with m-“

“Is everything alright over here?” The knight stopped mid pull. To his left, Beef stood with purple glittered hands on his hips. “Why are you pulling on him like that, let the dude go.”

Without hesitation, Hels slipped his hand away. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He exhaled shakily.

Beef raised a brow almost in unison with Ex. “You’re not looking so hot, are you feeling okay? There’s a library behind you if you wanna sit in there.”

“Hels, I dunno if you know this but you’re pale. Like really pale. Do I need to call Stress and Xisuma?”

The knight shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head again, harder this time. “Beef please leave,” he croaked. With a slight nod, the butcher left. “I um-“ Hels swallowed thickly, “-Ex, remember when uh- when I said that I get scared sometimes and cry in a corner?”

Ex had to think for a second before his eyes widened. “Is that what’s happening right now?” He looked around frantically. “There’s not really any good corners here-“

“No- No, I just- please just take me somewhere else, I need to be out of this village. What’s uh- where’s the nearest place?”

“Closest place is Wels’s base but we can’t go there.”

Yeah, that would probably make it worse, especially if the other knight was at his base. Then, Hels had an idea.

“Chorus fruit,” he exhaled.

“What?”

“Do you have chorus fruit.”

Ex nodded with an “Oh” and pulled the round purple fruit from his inventory. Immediately, Hels snatched one from him.

“Take a bite on three and hold my hand.” Ex did so. With the final number, the two took a bite and, almost too conveniently, they landed at the greenhouse. Hels didn’t let go of his hand, however, the grip only became much tighter while he dragged them both to the floor.

“Do I need to get someone?”

Hels shook his head, screwing his eyes shut.

“What do I do then?”

The knight struggled for words through vigorous shaking. He just kept shaking his head and leaned into the other, taking the held hand into both of his own.

Ex honestly had no clue what to do. He’s never seen this happen to any of the other Hermits, let alone Hels. But one thing he did know is that a person shouldn’t really be breathing that frantically.

That then tied to a memory back to an event involving Scar. The terraformer had asthma, he knew. He could vaguely pinpoint a moment where Grian had helped him out of an asthma attack. And while he did so, he had Ex retrieve Stress. The evil hermit caught on to the breathing exercises the two followed before following through with his task.

Would that work? Hels didn’t have asthma. Ex wasn’t even sure if those exercises were even for whatever was happening right now.

“Hey- Hey Hels, I’m going to try something. This will be stupid, but bare with me.” He lightly tapped the other on his shoulder with his free hand and Hels lifted his face ever so slightly to face him a bit more. “Good job,“ he repeated the words from Grian. “I need you to breathe with me, can you do that?”

Initially, Hels shook his head once more. But a second after he stopped, there was a small hint at a nod.

“Awesome, just follow my lead.” Ex inhaled slowly through his nose while the knight followed his first step, albeit shakily. He then exhaled out of his mouth, letting Hels take his time to follow again after another bout of shallow breaths. “You’re doing great,” he parroted again. “We’re going to do that a few more times.”

And again, they did. Inhale through the nose, exhale out of the mouth. Granted, when Scar was having his troubles, he had some kind of machinery next to him to help him breathe, but at least this was close. Inhale again through the nose, then exhale out of the mouth.

Absentmindedly, the evil hermit trailed his fingers over the other’s back lightly. He didn’t honestly expect this to work, he thought someone was going to have to come help him. He knew for sure that he was going to have to tell someone about what happened but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Soon, Hels had his face tucked into the crook of Ex’s neck, much to Ex’s dismay. He loved the guy but he’d rather his suit not be wet with tears. Still, he kept his own firm grip in the tangle of fingers between their legs and the attack died down into minimal shaking.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He proposed. Hels pulled himself away from the other’s chest and Ex practically felt his own heart break at the sight. There was the courageous and merciless knight, red faced and puffy eyed, a few tears still making their way down his cheeks, others merely sticking to them. Hels wiped at them pathetically.

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, what happened? What caused it?”

Hels meekly shrugged. “The village I guess. I dunno for sure.”

“Was it Beef? You wanted him to leave almost as soon as he came to talk.”

The knight stuttered. Ex was a bit too blunt for his liking when it came to asking questions. “I- I don’t know- He’s not even that bad. There was…” he took a deep breath. This was pathetic. Here was one of the strongest and most powerful people in Hels talking about his feelings. “The village kind of did it before we even landed,” he finally concluded.

Ex shifted in his spot. “Well, would it help to tell you about something I’m afraid of? Or at least used to be? Xisuma does it sometimes when I’m scared.”

The corners of Hels’s mouth twitched upwards just slightly. “Sure.”

“Flowers.”

“F...flowers? You’re afraid of flowers and you own a flower shop and a greenhouse?” The knight sat up more.

Ex wagged a finger with his free hand. For a second upon noticing this, Hels let go of his other hand. “I said ‘or at least used to be’. I’m not afraid of them much anymore, a little unnerving with some specific kinds, but they’re my favorite thing in the world right now!”

The evil hermit knew he must’ve been doing something right when Hels let out a snort. “Flowers….who would believe.” He shook his head, lightly this time.

“Xisuma certainly found it odd. When I was still in my bad guy days, I came through this portal and everything and I told him I was gonna kill him. He was like ‘What’s stopping you?’ and at the time he was holding flowers.” The knight nodded along to his story. “After that I just ran away and-“

“The Lord of Darkness called you an idiot. I remember that because everyone in Hels heard it.”

Ex pulled a hand to his chest in mock offense. “He did not!” He laughed. “Okay maybe he did.”

The two fell into silence, now noticing the sun falling behind the hills slowly. A minute passed.

“What’s Xisuma afraid of?” asked Hels.

“Xisuma? Oh, he’s afraid of a lot of things. A lot more than me, I think and I’m scared of everything.” Hels chuckled at his phrasing. “Hm, I think he said one time that he was actually quite terrified of Enderman. But he’s not like….run away kind of scared. He’ll attack them when they scare him.”

“Fight or flight,” Hels muttered. Ex took notice to the setting sun.

“We should get going, I don’t want you falling asleep in here again. Are we going to go back to Beef at some point? Or we could meet him somewhere else.”

Hels shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it'll be fine if you give it a couple days.” He yawned. “Jeez, that wore me out.”

[rainyday-deer]

It's true and you should say it, also felt so forced, ya know? Like here's this powerful rock that destroyed an entire kingdom but like, no one else cared about it

Yeah, honestly? Like... The more I think about the lore (and also the moonstone in general) the more im like

“THE TANGLED LORE THAT MAKES SENSE IS--”

Like! Let’s break this down, actually!! Because I have Thoughts™ on the Moonstone (and the surrounding DK, the incantations, and such.)

Buckle in folks, this became loooong

The Moonstone’s Location

Demanitus himself says he and his pupils couldn’t find the Moonstone or the Sundrop. (Sundrop gets a pass because it was disguised as a relatively ordinary looking flower, more or less, until sung to. Disguise points, I suppose.)

“It had the ability to destroy all and any who would seek to possess it. Centuries passed, and this opal’s defenses spread. And from that, grew a kingdom.” Edmund tells Eugene this in Destinies Collide.

The Dark Kingdom was literally built around the Moonstone. We can argue that it wasn’t built when Demanitus and Zhan Tiri were looking for it... But ZT is aware of the Brotherhood, and the Mindtrap, in turn. So she’d have to know about these things in advance, wouldn’t she? So then... Why couldn’t she find it? Why couldn’t anyone?

A whole kingdom built around a magic rock that fell from the sky, with the royal family and presumably a select few from the kingdom itself that sought to protect the world from it. There’s rocks everywhere, so keeping the opal a secret from the kingdom is obviously not going to work. In turn, any allies the DK may have had, or any neighboring kingdoms, would have been peripherally aware of the situation, at least.

On top of that, the whole kingdom simply evacuates and falls to ruin. 25 years is not a long time in terms of a kingdom going under. People would be aware of this too, especially if you have someone like Hector blocking a path for 25 years that would cut off most places on that side of the great tree... And there’s a few, obviously.

The moonstone essentially has a giant target on its back. A story like that would garner the attention of treasure hunters, thieves, and possibly a few power hungry individuals at the least. But Adira herself says nobody was ever looking for it. Besides Zhan Tiri herself, we can assume that’s true. Nobody knows anything about it, allegedly, and somehow, nobody knows of its existence.

The Moonstone’s powers

Ya get rocks. Ya get rocks. Indestructible rocks, sure, and if we’re to believe Be Very Afraid, rocks that can tie to your emotions and draw those out of people. However, we’re only ever shown the red rocks, and how they show people’s worst fears. We don’t know what other emotions could be used as a weapon like this, and we’re never shown anything other than what happens in this particular episode.

The decay incantation is honestly up in the air. It’s under the moonstone’s symbol in the scrolls, but Rapunzel, as the Sundrop, uses it herself. We never see the Moonstone on its own using it, as the only other person to wield it is Zhan Tiri, when she’s in possession of both the opal and the sundrop. Given the two users of this incantation are in possession of both powers (At least, Rapunzel is a little, if what ZT has said to Cass is the truth) so it could be a combined power. It’s never explained.

Which brings us to...

The Incantations

Again, Demanitus himself says in Lost and Found that he and his pupils never found the Sundrop or the Moonstone, despite their searching. However, he was able to “research the legends” and create the Demanitus Scroll, which held all four incantations for the Moonstone and Sundrop.

How? He never found either Celestial item, so how would he know these incantations would work? How would he know what they would even DO? We’re led to believe Demanitus has powers of his own, so one could argue he saw into the future, but that’s flimsy reasoning at best.

All 4 incantations are strange, too. The Healing and Decay incantations make perhaps the most sense in regards to one another. One heals, and the other does the opposite, which seems logical if these are supposed to be two forces that counter and balance one another.

The last two incantations are... A bit more confusing. One is to harness the power of the moonstone properly, which in canon seems to be a one and done sort of deal. The sun’s incantation is... Possibly the same? Rapunzel uses it to harness the sundrop’s power and goes Super Nova on Cassandra, but it’s only used the once. Rapunzel is able to make her hair glow on command after the fact (Ala a Tale of Two Sisters), but it’s unclear if that’s what the incantation is for.

The fourth incantation is hidden, and is arguably destructive when compared to the Moonstone. The moonstone creates the rocks, the sundrop allegedly destroys them with the use of the incantation. Why? Yes, one could suppose it counters the creation of them, but then why keep that hidden? If the moonstone is supposedly a destructive force on its own, wouldn’t you want its counter to be readily available? Furthermore is this incantation to counter the moonstone, or is it to harness the sundrop?

Either way, the fourth incantation is incredibly more powerful than the Moonstone’s. Rapunzel cracks the moonstone itself using this incantation, when they’re supposed to be two halves of the same whole, and are allegedly both incredibly powerful. So why is the sundrop stronger, as a whole?

Power Imbalance... And what did ZT want both of them for, exactly?

The moonstone and the sundrop, for all their trying, are not equal forces. The moonstone, objectively, is useless, unless someone is strictly interested in destruction and nothing else. Zhan Tiri herself doesn’t even use the Sundrop when she finally obtains it. The closest we have is that the black rocks are now yellow... Which doesn’t really seem to do anything.

The Sundrop is supposed to heal and keep the user young if using the Healing Incantation.  Zhan Tiri is already millennia old, and doesn’t seem any worse for wear. Despite being trapped in another realm, we can assume that she may already be immortal. What would she need the Sundrop for? The Moonstone can create its own rocks, and Cass shows us that she can summon them and make them disappear as she pleases. The Sundrop would be unnecessary for keeping it under control, should they be used by the same person.

In the same vein, if one is after the Sundrop and strictly the Sundrop, like Gothel, why would you want the moonstone? The Sundrop’s healing powers are by and far the most valuable asset out of either Celestial Item. The Moonstone wouldn’t seem like it would be worth any of its trouble in turn, especially if all you get is some control of some rocks and maybe the ability to use the decay incantation.

This got long winded, but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I stand by my opinion that it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Unfortunately.

[chaosdraw]

from here , @powerofzexal

oh ! he is certain that her heart must flutter like a bird ! his does , too . for they are here — they , as it should be . in this sacred place far from the prying eyes of the other god . after all , eliphas would never understand . 

she speaks of feeling , of change & not knowing & a swirling chaos . she says they shouldn’t , & he thinks that she is the most radiant woman in the realm . i cannot stop it , she speaks , & he leans closer , his body humming — ❛ then , stay by my side , ena . you have no need to fear this feeling . this warmth , this is chaos . this is love ! ❜  

❛ eliphas thinks that chaos is a wicked thing , but he is wrong . chaos is the power to protect the ones we love . it is life , it is hope — ❜ he dares then to gather her in his arms , & perhaps now more than ever he knows what he wants . for the gods were meant to love , to adore ! the gods were meant to have chaos . what he wanted more than anything was this — the feeling of her in his arms . in this moment , they are so much more than two lights , more than two halves , rather they are two wholes meant to be together . of this , he is certain . 

    ❛ stay with me , i will teach you to harness this feeling . you will never have to feel fear again . let me share this with you — this chaos of love & hope ! how i adore you , ena ! ❜ 

[amphtaminedreams]

S/S 2020 Fashion Month: A Basic, Uneducated Fashion Heaux’s A-Z of Everything Noteworthy (Part 3/3)

Hi to anyone reading,

I’m finally at the end!

It’s only taken me, like, over 2 months but I’m finally about to review the last 5 shows I wanted to talk about from this year’s RTW offerings for S/S 2020. It’s very frustrating that I couldn’t include them in the last post and make this a nice, neat, equally sized two part thing but Tumblr was being difficult and so here I am. On the plus side, I guess I can also make this post a bit of a round-up of my ultimate favourite collections of this year and some of my absolute favourite looks!

To quickly finish my review though, I’m gonna start this post with Vivienne Westwood’s S/S 2020 collection!

And I hate to start the post on a downer but I wasn’t wild about it. The bridal look worn by Bella Hadid and the similarly structured red dress are the only pieces that I really love. The accessories are beautiful, especially the shell necklace, and the fitted corset upper halves are very flattering, however, there’s just nothing particularly exciting about this collection for me.

As for YSL’s S/S 2020 collection, my opinion is pretty similar. Don’t get me wrong, I personally love the embroidered pieces, and the jewell tones, and the whole art teacher/female Russell Brand vibe (I’m aware this is my second Russell Brand comparison of this review, don't @ me) but why does there have to be SO GODDAMN MANY FUCKING SEQUIN SUITS? I included a couple of the more interesting ones just for reference and can you believe that’s only about 1/10 of the sequin suits that were actually shown. I feel like they genuinely made up a good 33% of the show. It’s so boring and overdone from Saint Laurent, like you really can’t convince me that they didn’t do this exact same thing last year and the Eiffel Tower being in the background and the presence of the goddess that is Naomi Campbell and all the fancy lighting in the world isn’t a distraction enough because they DID THAT LAST YEAR TOO. It’s just disappointing from a brand like YSL who really has the money to take it to any wacky and inventive place that they want, and who has drawn on so many historical and cultural references in the past; the bohemian looks I am here for, everything else can go.  

Next is Zadig and Voltaire, which is obviously more of a pedestrian brand than YSL, but still...disappointing. 

I guess disappointing is the wrong word really because it’s not as if I had especially high hopes, it’s just that in comparison to a collection like Off-White’s, which was also a lot more of a “wearable” line, this is very Stradivarius/Zara/H&M/any member of the Inditex group. I like the ruffles, but we’ve seen them done in a much more interesting way in pretty much every other show and same with the blazers and suits. Even the styling of the teal faux fur coat, which I adore, is meh. Even Emily DiDonato can’t save it for me and that’s saying something because she honestly might be one of the most beautiful women on this planet.

On a more positive note, Zimmerman was beautiful. In a collection inspired by the ocean, the tranquil colour palette, the ornate, frothy ruffles and the flowing materials are dead on, and indulgently so. I can see most of these pieces having universal appeal and looking good on anyone, and yet this wearability doesn’t make the collection boring by any means; I think it really is a matter of having a clear concept and attention to detail that save more subtle shows from falling by the wayside. 

And lastly, Zuhair Murad, which is always a designer I look forward to; I love a good princess dress and on that, he always delivers.

However, whilst there’s a similar feel and colour palette to Zimmerman, I’d say this collection doesn’t have quite as clear a direction. There’s definitely a lot of recurring themes of the ruffles and the high necks and the bohemian prints and suits that we’ve seen throughout fashion month, but this still doesn’t feel like the most relevant or current collection I’ve ever seen from Murad. It goes without saying that the dresses are beautiful but in the context of a red carpet where every dress is a princess dress, I can’t imagine any of these taking my breath away which is usually the case. 

I really WANTED to end on a positive note, I’m sorry! And there were so so many amazing moments this season. In general, I’m excited for a lot of the trends that are seemingly going to be coming up: more of the milkmaid thing, peasant blouses, bohemian influences and a shit load of gorgeous suits!

I was going to try and do a top 10 but I honestly have too many favourites so I’m making into a...top 20. It sounds like a cop-out, but when there’s THIS many shows to go through I think a top 20 is perfectly fair. 

1. Gucci

It has to be my favourite overall. The clearest concept, the most beautiful colours, and a whole range of interesting accessories and structures. Blew everything else out the water. Might make like Elsie Fisher in Eighth Grade and just start randomly saying Gucci out loud at totally inappropriate moments to express my love.

2. Marc Jacobs

Kooky and in your face but also thoughtful and delicate. Every piece is a statement. 

3. Moschino

The intersection where art meets fashion is always my favourite place to lurk and so it’s not surprise that Moschino’s Picasso inspired collection ticked so many boxes for me. Aside from that, the structures are gorgeous and on trend and I love the accessories.

4. Valentino

So. Many. Heavenly. Dresses.

5. Mugler

Definitely the sexiest S/S 2020 collection.

6. Paco Rabanne

I mean, yes, it is a little primary school teacher-y (it’s probably the coloured socks), but a fashion-y, wear-it-to-the-club version of primary school teacher style.

7. Ralph and Russo

A prissy pastel dream that channels the Sandra Dee sleepover scene from Grease in the modern day, the only thing that could’ve added to the Ralph and Russo show would be a more diverse group of models.

8. Brock

There’s never going to be an appropriate moment to wear any of the garments from the Brock collection. Does that mean I’m going to stop thinking about it? Never.

9. Balmain

I know Balmain didn’t go down too well with the fashion critics but the noughties pop girls obsessed child in me loveddddd it.

10. Etro

Not the most high-fashion but I would wear.

11. Dion Lee

Dion Lee took corsets and suspenders and harnesses and turned that whole dominatrix trend on its head by pairing them with androgynous silhouettes, fresh whites and subtle nude tones, and I’m here for it!

12. Alessandra Rich

Eighties presidential candidate’s wife/sorority queen realness.

13. Dilara Findikoglu

Definitely my favourite of the more “avant-garde” shows we saw this year.

14. Oscar de la Renta

These dresses speak for themselves, do I really need to say any more?

15. Christopher Kane

Christopher Kane made galaxy print cool again for the first time since it was murdered by 2013 “hipster” Tumblr and then buried 6ft under by the plethora of £5 and under wholesale retailers who thought it would be a good idea to mass produce leggings with said print on. 

16. Loewe

Delicate, purposeful and refined, Loewe put out a practical yet very, very pretty and season-appropriate spring collection.

17. Thom Browne

Thom Browne brought Marie Antoinette onto the runway. ‘Nuff said.

18. Louis Vuitton

I will never turn my nose up at anything 70s influenced and Louis Vuitton’s collection was probably the most authentic (and thus kinda ugly at times) that I’ve seen.

19. Simone Rocha

If I ever became part of some modern day witchy, forest-God worshipping cult, I would expect us all to be wearing Simone Rocha’s 2020 S/S collection and nothing less.

20. Vera Wang

Jenny Humphrey in Gossip Girl for the 2019 e-girl xoxo

SO.

3 parts and 3 months later, this is my review of fashion month 2019 coming to an end. I mean, it’s actually closer to A/W 2020 fashion week now than it is to S/S 2020 buuuut let’s just forget that little detail because I had NO FUCKING IDEA it would take this long.

If there’s anyone out there who read this to the end (and I highly, highly doubt there is and I don’t blame you) or even anyone that looked at the pictures (which is probably what I would do), please let me know! It got a bit long at times but I have generally reallllly enjoyed doing this and more than anything it’s got me sad that I’ll never see these shows in person :( sad times :( oh to be on the benefiting end of nepotism :( 

Thank you sooo much!

Lauren x

[aerial-ace97]

Chrono Buster

This class is built for a 3.5 D&D homebrew world known as Sekrezia.

Base Description: Chrono Busters have scratched only the very surface of the elemental properties of time.  They study the cosmos and ripples of time that come forth from the past and use the little bits that they can grasp to harness simple tricks of timing to impossibilities.

Races Opinion on Chrono Buster*

Preferred Class:  Hoata are obsessed with history and often travel around large archaeological sights with the presence of many Chrono Busters.  Marelienths have studied the workings of time for centuries and hope to use this to find a time where logic prevails over emotions.

Common Class: Dwarves, Jaebrins, Grimlocks, Gorems, Rathens, Neothoids, Blazedeads, Luminians, Masquerions, Pendragons, Spellscales, Goliaths, Seacalled are commonly Chrono Busters.

No Preference: Implins, Litesprites, Purgatorians, Aurashades, Troglings, Duergar, Gremlins, Sinneans, Viscerans, Hexborn, Cullhearted, Titanhearts, Lyroshi, Scoprix, Karioliths, Murklongs, Ordenfey, Ishims have no preference when it comes to the Chrono Buster class.

Rare Class: Elves, Irinaga, Rutoths, Hordelings, Ogres, Lizardfolk, Shinobi, Melcrians, Ursocans, Castleclad are rarely Chrono Busters.

Never Happens: Orcs are dull witted and strong.  Why on earth would they bother with time, especially as that is a power of the gods they so fear and nor for mortals.  A certain monastic segment of Avens defended the time properties that first gave rise to Chrono Busters, and despise its theft.  Out of malice but also out of their interest in its protection, they swear off the powers of chronomancy.  Orashta see time as something that should not be toyed with and have history with the Boneruned that puts both of them against time magic (though only the Orashta have a great memory of this).  Boneruned see time in a very different way then most and see their lives very quickly and playing around with something that they don’t really understand is uninteresting to them, especially as they see it as being a construct of the fey only.  Their dealings with historical findings make them feel as though they are enough a part of history that they need not mess with time.

*(A note on race options - There are no hard limits on the classes a race can be.  Even if a class is listed as one a race would never become, you can still choose that class.  In this case though, your backstory should almost entirely be dedicated to why they took that class.  This is only in my world though, and can be altered for whoever would desire to.  Also on races, it should be noted that humans have no preference on anything and are not listed in the above.  It should also be noted that until races are released or you learn more about them in the world, you won’t know most of these races.)

Abilities: Their main stat is Intelligence and low stat is Dexterity.  Their most important stat after Intelligence is Wisdom.*

Hit Die: d4

*Each class has a main ability.  To be this class, you must have at least 14 or more in this ability without racial abilities, therefore you cannot play a character without a 14 in something.  The low stat and second most important stats are simply recommendations and the most common way the class will be built when seen as NPCs.

Class Language (Each class has access to a language which they were granted by the God Jiaren.  Teaching this to anyone who isn’t already granted this language immediately loses them all of their powers in this class) - Veilwords - Spoken by Clerics, Path Wanderers, Dream Caster, Chrono Buster, Astral Watchers, and System Breakers and clergies.

Class Skills: Spellcraft, Craft, Disable Device, Knowledge (Arcana), Use Magic Device, Knowledge (History), Search, Decipher Script, Knowledge (Planes), Perception, Survival, Knowledge (Nobility & Royalty), Knowledge (Nature), Knowledge (Dungeoneering)

Weapons and Armor Proficiency - A Chrono Buster cannot use armor or shields.  They can use guns, crossbows, bows, and slings.

Inherent Abilities – A Chronomancer draws from the Sorcerer/Wizard spell list and uses an Intelligence modifier.  It changes out spells by the spell stripping method.  Almost all time events can only be performed in a battle situation and are highly adjustable by the DM.

Time Shielding – By bending time around you, you can add your Int modifier to your dodge bonus of AC.

Arcane Time – You can manipulate any of your spells to trigger down the line instead of right away.  If it is a spell with a duration it must be triggered within the same time as the duration would be.  If it is not a spell with a duration then it must be triggered within as many rounds as your level.

Timed Precision – By bending and calculating the precision of a shot as well as the time currents of both the enemy and the projectile, a Chrono Buster is able to add his Intelligence modifier to any ranged attack (this applies a secondary time for Sniper Rifles).  If they have a negative value to Dexterity, this still applies.

Timewinder – At 2nd level, you gain timebending devices.  This can be thrown like an Alchemist’s bomb, so as a Standard.  This causes an area of the slow spell within 5 ft of it residing on a corner.  In addition, projectiles that travel through this area are at a -6 to the attack.  You also can make an additional attack as with haste in these zones.  You can create 1 Timewinder per day and you can have up to 10 + your Int modifier at any time.  This cannot stack with Haste.

Extend Spell – At 3rd level, you gain the Extend Spell Bonus Feat.

Phase Rush – At 5th level, you can choose to slow down time slightly to allow you some extra speed in attacking.  You attack as if affected by a flurry so that you get an extra attack at your highest BAB but all attacks are at a minus 2.  You can do this as many times per day as your Intelligence modifier.  At 11th and 14th level, you can add one additional attack on to the front end of this at your highest BAB.  This cannot stack with flurries.

Spell Manipulation – At 6th level, as many times as your Int modifier per day, you can choose an active spell of an enemy you know of that has a duration and halve the time it has left to be active.

Time Slow – At 8th level, you can use a move action to slow all entities in a battle.  They then all have a -8 to AC until the end of your turn.

Quicken Spell – At 9th level, you gain the Quicken Spell Bonus Feat.

Time Hop – At 12th level, at the end of a turn, you can choose to warp back to wherever you started at the beginning of that turn.  You can do this as many times per day as your Int modifier.

Reverberating Time – At 12th level, you can make a touch attack against someone that causes them to lose all free and bonus actions for the next turn.

Alternate Timelines – At 13th level, once per day, at the start of your turn you can cause two different timelines to be created for yourself.  You can then perform two separate full turns for yourself.  At the end of this, you choose whichever turn you think turned out better.  What happens in one timeline does not happen in the other and all events from the one you didn’t choose are cancelled.

Time Interruption – At 16th level, once per day, you can choose to take a turn at any time that is not your own.  This then becomes your new initiative.

Split Second Swap – At 16th level, once per day, you can choose to make two standard actions in a turn instead of taking a move action.

Rearrange – At 17th level, by bending the properties of time at the start of a battle, a Chrono Buster can buff or minus 4 from all unit’s initiative.  You can only do this once per day and must expend 100 xp to do so.  All units affected can attempt a Will Save with a DC of 12 + your Int modifier to resist this effect.

Timeless – At 18th level, you no longer age and cannot be affected by aging effects.

Time Stop – At 19th level, you can stop time for as much time as the Time Stop ability as well as an additional Intelligence modifier number of rounds.

Chrono Bust – At 20th level, once per day, you can go back in time a whole round in battle in order to reverse all damage and events in that round.  A Chrono Buster must keep track of damage from the previous round themselves if they wish to do this.

Temporal Shift – At 20th level, you are able to travel into the Temporal Plane and use your abilities to manipulate it to your advantage.  You can go back or forward in time up to Xd6 hours.  The X is equal to your level.  This ability only allows you to travel around and observe this time period and only for half the amount of time as how far you can travel and in this form you cannot be seen nor can you interact with the world.  This ability negates any situations where you or player characters would be involved in the event as the Temporal Plane assumes that things will change based on your will in that regard.

[vivilove-jonsa]

"Are you scared?"

Thank you @amymel86 for the prompt!  My little trip to the local amusement park inspired this meet cute along with a picture I saw on here once of a girl pointing to the sign ‘Single Riders Will Be Paired’ with an adorable grin.

FYI-I still hope to get to as many of these dialogue prompts as I can and am still accepting new ones since I never know what will spark writing joy :)

**

Single Riders Will Be Paired

Sansa groans as she notices the sign.  The Ice Dragon 325 is the hottest new coaster at Wolfswood Amusement Park and the queue is long.  So, of course the boys want to ride it again…for the fifth time today as the sun is going down.

“One more time!” they’d begged with the most undeniable puppy dog eyes.  

But Big Bro Robb had been forced to make a break for the closest trash bin after the park’s dubious fish tacos and ride number four so Big Sis Sansa is now obligated to ride with them.

Granted, Bran and Rickon take exception to this, saying at fifteen and eleven they are perfectly mature enough to ride the coaster without a ‘legal guardian’ present.  

“Tell that to the people on Zombie Blasters Apocalypse.”

“We were just really into it!”

“Shouting ‘It’s real! They’re coming for us all!’ and inciting a panic isn’t just being ‘into it,’ Bran.  And neither is hiding behind the host stall in the hopes of sneaking back on after you’ve been banned for the season, Rickon.  Just hope Robb and I don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

The pair of them had given her the stink eye and the silent treatment all through the queue after that.

But now, they’re nearly to the front and Sansa’s staring at the steel monstrosity and feeling decidedly queasy.  If only Arya had come today instead.  She’s not fond of roller coasters, especially not ones like this.  Two minutes and twenty-six seconds of sheer terror await. A 200 foot drop at the start with unnatural G forces in the inversions and speeds up to 80 mph, it doesn’t sound like anything the human frame was meant to endure in her opinion.  

“Gods above,” she murmurs before turning to the boys.  “So, this is my first time.  Who wants to ride with me?”

They both continue to give her the stink eye.  Boys.

And here’s the other thing that doesn’t make her a coaster enthusiast.  She hates the over the shoulder harness system with these kind.  There’s just something so oppressive about feeling pinned to her seat.  Not that she’d want to go flying off mid-ride but being trapped, held down is something akin to a phobia for her.

When the gates open for them to board, her heart starts fluttering madly and every instinct is telling her to run. The boys are perfectly big enough to ride alone and it’d be hard for them to get up to much mischief on a ride like this.  

However, like they’re on autopilot, her feet follow the path to her seat with the boys right in front of her.  

It’s two minutes, Sansa. You can do this.  

Two minutes and twenty-six seconds…Sweet Maiden.

She’s trying to buckle her restraint despite her shaking hands when the attendant calls out:  “Single Rider, here!  We got room for a Singer Rider!”

Great.  She doesn’t want some stranger squeezed in beside her as she battles a hopefully mild and outwardly concealed panic attack.  But she hears a voice call out and suddenly there’s a body climbing in next to her. 

She catches a faint whiff on cologne or aftershave (a pleasing scent and nice contrast to the multitude of  people here who seem to have forgotten to apply deodorant this morning…including Rickon) and then she sees a mop of dark curls, a head turned away from her as her fellow passenger reaches to secure his end of the belt.  

When he turns so they can join the two halves, she’s met with dark grey eyes and ridiculously kissable lips.

“Hey,” he says in a quick breathy way.  Gods, he’s gorgeous.  

She opens her mouth to reply but the overhead harness is coming down, blocking conversation for their few remaining seconds before blast off.

They’re off before her seatmate looks her way again and Sansa’s heart is pounding once more from her upcoming terror.  

Or maybe not.  

The view’s quite lovely really as they climb the lift hill.  She doesn’t care for the rattling sound of the chain pull but she can block that out and look around.  She can see for miles.  There’s mountains in the distance and she can picture herself as a bird, free to fly and not held back by anything at all.  

Until…

“Why have we stopped?” She tries looking behind her but her view’s restricted by the coaster cars and her harness.  “Bran? Why have we stopped?!”

“I don’t know.  It’s a new ride.  Maybe it’s just a safety check.”

How can he be so calm? How can anyone be calm?  Why is she the only one who’s on the verge of having a total freak out here on the coaster after coming to a stop for all of fifteen seconds?!

“Are you scared?”  

No, I’m peachy, she’d like to say.  She whimpers instead.  

“Sorry.  Stupid question.  I’m Jon.  Are you okay?”

She hates to admit she’s not but she is not!  “I’m…I’m Sansa and I’m not okay.”

“Okay, Sansa.  Is that your brother ahead of us?”

“Yes, both of them.”

“Did they talk you into riding this?”

“Sort of.”

“We did not!” Rickon shouts. “She just doesn’t trust us to behave!”

She hears what sounds like a chuckle from Jon before he’s talking just to her again.  “Would you rather me talk to you or shut up?”

“Talk to me.  Please, talk to me.”

So, he does.  He talks about innocuous things, gently testing out topics that help her relax.  It helps more than she’d expect.  They’re both students at Winterfell as it turns out.  

A scratchy voice comes through an intercom and reports the delay is temporary and should be resolved in less than thirty minutes.

“Thirty minutes?!” she screeches, all of Jon’s calming progress completely forgotten.  She’s suffocating.  The restraints are cutting her in two.  She can’t breathe.  She’s trapped and there’s no escape.  She’s going to die here.

“Hey, we’re okay, I promise. We’re going to be okay.  We’re stopped and there’s steps here along the track if they can’t safely get the ride moving for us to use.  May I hold your hand, Sansa?”

She nods as best as she can, not trusting her voice right now.  His hand is warm and a little sweaty just like hers.  She doesn’t care.  She holds it like its her lifeline.  

“I hope it’s not thirty minutes,” Jon tells her next.  “I was in such a rush to ride one more time.  I should’ve hit the head first.”

“No shit,” she snickers, suddenly feeling marginally better with his admittance.

“Well, I just need to pee but yeah.”

She laughs harder but that reminds her of the restraints again.  “I don’t like feeling held down,” she whispers, not sure if he’ll hear her.

“It can be a very unpleasant feeling,” he says softly, his thumb lightly caressing the back of her hand in a regular pattern.  “Let’s take a few deep breaths together and think of something else.”  They take several breaths.  It helps.  “I feel like humming.  Would you want to hum with me?”

It’s ridiculous but it works to relax her even further.  

“I want off this thing!” Rickon shouts suddenly, his own voice edged with more than a little panic.

She’s the big sister and she’s here with them.  “We’re okay, Rickon,” she says, looking to Jon and finding confidence in his smile. “They’ll either get us moving or get us off as soon as they can.”

“Robb’s going to be worried,” Bran says next.

“He knew we were riding and I’m sure they’re keeping guest informed of what’s happening.  All he has to do is look up, right?”

She’s feeling better than she’d expect between holding Jon’s hand and having the boys to take care of.

“Robb?” Jon murmurs beside her.

She glances his way and the question is pretty clear.  “My older brother.  Too many rides combined with fish tacos.”  She makes a gagging face and Jon starts laughing.

“Oh, gods…that’d be nasty. Good thing I got you and not him next to me.”

She tightens her grip on his hand and they’re grinning just as the chain pull rattles back to life and they continue their journey.  

When it’s over, she’s sure her hair’s a mess and she knows Robb’s waiting to take them home.  But she hates to say goodbye to Jon and think she’ll never see him again.  Maybe they’ll run into each other on campus.  She wonders what he’d say if she offered him her number.  She doesn’t have to wonder very long.

He’s got his hands stuffed in his jeans pocket and biting at those kissable lips of his.  “So, Sansa…if you’d care to get stuck on a roller coaster again sometime…or maybe go grab something to eat instead…”  He’s blushing and it’s really adorable.  

“I guess I’d need your number in case I’m heading on any more coasters…or maybe if I decided to grab a bite to eat later since I was wise enough to avoid the theme-park fish tacos.”

He gives her his number and then starts walking away backwards through the large crowd exiting the ride as long as he can just to watch her.  She can’t stop smiling as he does.  

Once he’s out of sight, she puts her arms around her brothers who apologize for her horrible first experience on the Ice Dragon.

“Oh, it could’ve been worse,” she says before clicking a picture of that notice sign and sending Jon a text: Single riders will be paired and this single rider feels like pizza tonight if you’re interested.  

His reply that he would love that comes through within seconds.  

[scarlethexgirl-blog]

United Task #001

BASICS.

Given / Birth Name : Wanda Maximoff Nickname / Preferred Name : Wanda Alias(es) : Scarlet Witch, Little Witch, Queen of Chaos Birthdate / Age : Spring, 25 Place of Birth : Serbia Current Location : Manhattan, New York, Earth Gender Identity : Cis female Sexual / Romantic Orientation : Pretty Bi, occasionally has a thing for A.I. Robots Ethnicity / Race / Cultural Heritage: White / Genetically Altered Human / Romani Marital Status : Single Occupation : Occasional Avenger, formerly tarot card read and witchcraft tutor Religious Beliefs : Jewish

CHARACTERISTICS.

Height : 5′7′’″ Weight :132 lbs Body Type / Build : Wanda is medium/athletic build. She’s tall so occasionally looks on the skinny side however she works out a lot and has built up some layers of muscle. She’s very active, and does often use exercise as a way to destress - when she’s not using snacking and having coffee with friends as a destresser Eye Color : Hazel/copper Hair Color / Texture : Dark brown, occasional red highlights. Recognizable Features / Scars : Wanda doesn’t have any obvious scars though she has been in enough fights to have earned them, there are small scars across her stomach and a couple on her upper arm - the arms come from experiments used on her many moons ago now. She doesn’t have tattoos - YET. She maybe kind of fancies one.   Speech Patterns / Accent :  Wanda has a perfect grasp of the English language, however her first language was Baltic Romani and then Sokovian. She was taught to speak English by her parents, travellers who often tried to impress tourists who more often than not knew English. When she speaks English there’s still a slight lilt to her words and it’s easy to see she’s not American but she knows the lingo well. Languages Spoken : English to a high degree, Sokovian and Balti Romani. Due to knowing Romani there’s a few other European languages she can occasionally translate - certain words are similar, but she can’t speak any other language conversationally. She’s in the process of trying to learn Polish and Spanish.  Powers / Skills / Abilities : Wanda was genetically altered and now controls chaos magic. She has not yet gotten to the full extent of her abilities and what she can do, she is still learning to harness her powers. At this moment in time, she has good control over Telekinesis (moving objects) as well as putting up barriers (almost forcefields). But there is far more she can do, with practice. She has been shown to alter minds and induce hallucinations. She can use hex bolts as weapons (essentially throwing out hexes to hit others and seeing the result which could be anything from tripping them to burning them). She has to concentrate greatly whenever using her powers. Overall Health : Physically, Wanda is doing everything she can to stay in good shape. As the daughter of travellers who then ended up residing in a poverty ridden Sokovia there was always a distinct lack of large meals. But her parents always made sure that she and Pietro ate. This led to her being healthy but always on the skinny side. She has bulked out slightly, now able to eat healthy meals and exercise. Mentally, everything that has happened has taken it’s toll on Wanda. Her powers do still scare her and she’s still hurt by all she has lost. However, she has a new family and new support systems.

RELATIONSHIPS.

Order of Birth :

     Pietro and Wanda are twins, but will joke that Wanda is older by a minute and it shows -  and it’s the only time Pietro was not as fast as Wanda. In truth, neither Wanda nor Pietro know if this is true. Their parents often joked and it could be either Pietro or Wanda who was first.

Number of Siblings :  

       one.

Father’s Status + Relationship : Django Maximoff (deceased). Wanda loved her father very much. He was a strong and strict man but he was a good father and provider. He knew many stories and was a good storyteller. He often got himself into bother, he was hotheaded and could never keep his mouth shut - but as far as Wanda is concerned he always stood up for the little guy and that made an impression on her. Mother’s Status + Relationship : Natalya Maximoff (deceased): She was nurturing and patient, she was kind to everyone. Natalya led a tough life but she was good to her children. Wanda dearly loved her mother. She taught Wanda how to read tarot cards, how to brew the perfect tea, and how to be a good person. The Maximoffs never had a lot but Natalya made sure they were kind to others. Sibling Status + Relationship :

Pietro, twin brother, currently deceased: Pietro and Wanda were halves of a whole. They did everything together from a very young age - almost as if they could read each others minds. They were each others protectors and watched out for one another. Wanda was devastated by the loss of her brother, feeling a huge part of herself disappear. He was easy to bounce ideas off, easy to get along with - he was an arrogant dick a lot of the time but he did know the difference between right and wrong. When he was gone, it took Wanda a long time to come to terms with it. She always thought there was more she could have done. He died a hero, he died saving the lives of others, he died being the kind of good she always knew he could be. But it still hurts.

Loyalty / Affiliation : Family, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Avengers

PERSONALITY.

Hobbies :  Reading (horror, science fiction), watching films, writing and playing music Bad Habits : She often gets sucked into tasks and doesn’t like to deviate Three Positive Traits : Compassionate, Loyal Three Negative Traits : Emotional, Impulsive Moral Alignment : Neutral Good

ASSOCIATIONS.

One Fear : Losing others because of her mistakes One Strength : Compassion One Object : Necklace One Place : Hole in the ground One Food/Drink : Chamomile Tea One Scent : Cinnamon One Lucky Charm : Necklace, with talismans representing her mother, father and brother

[ravenvsfox]

I'd be so down for some klance! How about Lance jumps in and takes a bullet for Keith when they're separated from the group and it seems like a fairly minor wound but the bullet was poisoned and now Keith has to get Lance back to the castle and feels a lot of feelings.

PREMIUM prompt, here’s another 7k

The city is built like a labyrinth, high, sprawling concrete walls with uniform homes and shops built into them, everything coiled tightly around the shining city centre.

It’s a genius kind of protection, Coran tells them. No ship is small enough to land in the heart of the maze, and by the time foot-soldiers are lost in its twists and turns, defence has already sprung into action, soldiers who have been solving the puzzle since childhood.

Allura deploys the paladins to three different entry points — her and Hunk to the East, Pidge and Shiro to the North, and Keith and Lance down South. She gives them each a rough holo-map of how to navigate to the centre, where they think refugees have been hiding with dwindling supplies.

A Galra ship is suspended in nearby territory, close enough to appear in the sky like a moon from the face of Griathen. The implicit threat has kept the citizens behind a barricade for weeks, firing distress signals out into space.

The paladins already ambushed the ship and subdued their forces, so this rescue mission is like a victory lap.

When they ease down onto the windswept surface of the planet, Lance cranes out of his seat, as close as he can get to the window. The capital city rises up out of the dust to meet them, like a beast from the sea. 

“Well that’s ominous,” Lance says.

Keith follows his gaze to the slender, dusty mouth of the Southern entry point, the imperfect slabs of concrete pitched slightly inwards like bared teeth.

“It’s a maze,” he says, shrugging.

Lance scoffs, undoing his harness busily. “Your observational skills have really been honed by your time with the blades.”

“Shut up,” Keith says.

“Wow, snappier comebacks too? Will the wonders never cease,” Lance teases, ducking out of his seat to grab their gear. He flicks Keith in the cheek on his way past.

“We don’t have time for this,” Keith tells him, tracking Lance’s movement across the cockpit, studying the tapering, exaggerated lines of his armour. “We’re losing daylight.” When Lance glances back at him he looks quickly away, securing his bayard against his hip and reaching up to push the release on red’s jaw.

Lance spends a beat too long looking backwards towards the haze around those fortress-like walls, and Keith reaches out with a foot to kick him in the calf.

His leg gives out and he yelps, barely catching himself on a low hanging rafter. He looks back at Keith, disbelieving. “What the hell?”

“Get out of my lion,” Keith says flatly.

“Alright bossy,” Lance replies, “a man can’t even stop and enjoy the scenery when you’re around, huh?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “It’s not scenery, and you’re barely a man. Come on.” They stride down the long stretch of Red’s gangway, and the grimy air hits them hard.

“Says the dude with no chest hair,” Lance grumbles.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“Oh, but you want to do something with me?” he asks suggestively. He cuts ahead to walk backwards in front of Keith, who speeds up so that Lance almost trips, jogging the wrong way down an incline. He grabs at Keith’s forearms to keep his balance.

Keith can’t figure out why he’s been doing this lately, trying to throw Keith off guard by flipping the switch between fighting and flirting, like some messed up tactic to get ahead.

“Yeah,” Keith says, stubbornly unaffected. “I want to do this mission.”

“Boo, okay,” Lance says, and they hop one by one out onto a barren stretch of sand.

The whole planet is a vortex of grey so light it almost looks like it’s blizzarding, except Keith is already sweating in his armour. The panel of shade cradled in the mouth of the city is sorely tempting. They cross the chasm of the desert slowly, struggling to stay upright in the swirl of sand and debris.

When they finally duck between the walls, backs to the stone, they’re both breathing hard, their visors fogging up.

“Why would the Galra,” Lance pants, “even want to take this shithole?”

“Maybe they want it because it’s so hard to take,” Keith says, squinting into the lukewarm light and open space. Every line of every wall is clean, plain, and nearly identical to the last one.

“That does sound like Galra logic,” Lance groans. “Someone needs to have the ‘consent is sexy’ talk with Sendak.”

“Are you volunteering?” Keith asks, playing along, one hand on his weapon.

“Oh, definitely. I’m going to single-handedly defeat the Galra empire by teaching them sex ed.”

Keith laughs, startled.

Lance grins. “And I could start right here with you, if you want,” he teases, stupid and salacious.

He knocks their shoulders together and Keith’s mind goes blank. “Uhhh. Do you have the map?” he asks quickly.

“Um,” Lance falters. “Yeah dude, one second.” He fumbles for the tablet in their pouch of supplies, and when he pulls the two halves apart, a hologram springs up, glitchy and silvery blue. “Okay so… left up here, and then we hang two rights in a row and go straight for a while. Got it?”

“Got it,” Keith confirms.

They tramp through the barren corridors of the maze, ducking their heads into shallow rooms with destroyed tables and canvas awning out front, passing cubicles that look like they’re built as single-person sleeping quarters, tiny pockets carved out of the walls.

“Tell me this doesn’t remind you of the old west,” Lance says, hip-checking a low swinging door and hopping away when it comes back at him. “The abandoned town, the whistling wind, the heat, the dust.” He says it like he’s narrating a movie trailer. “I keep expecting John Wayne to round the corner with a pistol, ya know?” His face changes, and he looks a little uneasy.

“There’s no one here,” Keith reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, and then he gasps, slapping a hand to his weapon. Keith’s heart makes a dive for it, but Lance just says, “maybe I’m the John Wayne in this town.” He wiggles his bayard.

“Don’t do that,” Keith says, punching Lance hard on the arm, but he’s undeterred.

“A more handsome, Latino John Wayne, who like, respects women and stuff.”

They round a corner and face three diverting hallways, and Lance spreads the map open again. Keith glances at it and walks straight forward, but Lance catches him by the arm. When he looks back, Lance’s face is serious, and his gaze is trailing along the tops of the walls.

“This would be a pretty sweet place for an ambush, actually,” Lance says softly. Keith follows his gaze, squinting at the mass of dust that reaches almost to the walls, like a roiling, smoky ceiling.

“We already scanned the place, and it’s a ghost town,” Keith says, slipping free of Lance’s grip and forging ahead. “Plus we’re nowhere near the Griathenian base yet.”

“Right,” Lance says, but he’s tapping his helmet and opening up communications anyway, following Keith at a distance. “Hey guys, anyone else feelin’ that warm and fuzzy ‘I’m being watched” feeling?”

The comms hiss. The wind wails. Lance’s eyes flicker anxiously to Keith’s, and he stops walking.

Finally, there’s a spritz of sound like a hose being turned on, and Shiro’s voice stutters through. “L—ce? —hear me? Comms aren’t—ing—well. Pidge thinks—in the walls.”

Lance holds his helmet over top of his ears like he’s trying to block out background noise.

“Something in the walls? Wait, what? Like something jamming communication?”

“Y—exactly.”

Lance shares another look with Keith, who shakes his head.

“We won’t bother you then,” Lance says. “Nothing to report, just a squiffy feeling. And hey, last one to the middle has to clean out kaltenecker’s pen.”

Disrupted air that might be Shiro scoffing, and then “—ger that. Try—ay focused.”

“Aye aye captain. Over and out.”

“You’re disgusting,” Keith points out as soon as Lance hits mute.

“I’m providing the team with incentive,” Lance says, “it’s called leadership.”

“Stick to the map. It’s called navigation.” They trudge through an archway, and come out into a tiny courtyard, with woody looking flora and spindly hallways outstretched in all directions.

“Is that all I am to you?” Lance asks from behind him. “A hot piece with an eye for directions?”

“Please. You’re just the guy holding the tablet,” Keith says, and he doubles back, striding to the middle of the little room and reaching out to grab the map for himself.

“You just don’t want to admit how badly you need—“ Lance’s teasing smile slips halfway off his face, and he lurches forward like he’s going to tackle him. Keith staggers a couple of steps backward in shock, but Lance grabs him hard around the shoulders and swings him around.

He has a second to register Lance shoving him against the wall with the full weight of his body, his arms folding around Keith’s head so tightly that he can’t see anything. Then there’s a sound like breaking wood, and something impacts Lance’s torso so hard that he rams into Keith with the force of a running start.

He makes a choked sound, and then his whole body slips down Keith’s. He catches him heavily by the elbows, looking down, bewildered, at Lance’s hanging head. When he looks up again, he sees the shape of a Galra sniper across from them taking fresh aim.

Keith forces them both into a duck exactly as a bullet zings into the concrete behind them, and Lance’s legs give out. His knees wag against the ground, but his hands are vice-like on Keith’s shoulders.

“Shit, Lance, come on,” Keith says frantically. His brain is a broken circuit, a twitchy lightbulb that won’t stay lit. He realizes too late, in terrified pieces, that Lance has been shot in the back.

“I’m trying,” Lance says, sounding annoyed. Keith sidesteps another bullet, dragging Lance to his side almost too late. “Controls aren’t working.”

He gets them both behind the nearest wall, watching the flash of the soldier following their movements, and then it’s a mad, adrenaline-fuelled sprint around as many corners as possible. Lance gets his feet under him for a few stray steps, but it’s mostly Keith keeping them two steps ahead of the gunfire.

They duck into an alcove, and Lance finally has long enough to activate his bayard. A blaster unfolds gracefully along the line of his arm as he swings it towards the doorway, and as soon as the sniper enters Keith’s field of vision, Lance has shot him down. He collapses off the side of the wall, and Keith sinks gratefully back, catching his breath.

“Oh fuck,” he says, laughing inappropriately and holding his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. He thinks of Lance’s tight expression when he’d looked up at something Keith couldn’t see or sense. “Sweet place for an ambush.”

“Right?” Lance says, wheezing. “I don’t know why you distrust the gut. It has all our most important organs.”

“Speaking of important organs,” Keith says, scanning Lance’s crumpled body, those long long legs akimbo, his hand clutched over his own side.

“Yeah, about that,” Lance says, reaching up to slide off his helmet. “I’m definitely going to die.”That’s how Keith knows he’s okay; if the dramatics are intact, then so is he.

“Let me see.”

Lance nods tightly, reaching around to unfasten his chest plate and then crying out. “Goddamn,” he curses, “the bastard really got me.”

“I felt it,” Keith says hollowly. He keeps reliving the thunk of it, the way Lance was all around him and then he was dead weight. He crouches down to reach around Lance’s body for him, and he can feel his uneven breaths on his neck. “Since when do they use projectiles and not lasers,” he mutters, peeling Lance’s under-suit down.

“Maybe they—“ Lance pants, “heard my old western idea.”

Keith ignores him, busily detaching pieces and feeling overwhelmed, sweat beading at his brow and inexplicable tears clogging his throat. He shakes his head against all of that feeling.

“Why did you have to do that?” he asks tightly. There’s nothing on his front, so Keith manhandles him into turning over.

His hands go stiff on Lance’s sides when he sees the blood slicking most of his back, but the wound itself is unassuming, tucked to the side, nowhere near his spine.

“Was I supposed to let him get you?”

“You could’ve used your words,” Keith says angrily. “Given me a chance to fight back. Not left me completely powerless.” Tears threaten hotly, so he screws his eyes shut.

“You mean safe?” Lance counters.

He stretches the skin around Lance’s wound, but it’s not bleeding very much. He makes this choking noise though, and it sounds so much like the one he made when he was hit that Keith takes his hands away altogether.

Lance rolls gingerly onto his back, looking up at Keith and then away again. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admits, probably delirious from the pain. “I saw him pointing at you and I—“ he shakes his head, looking disturbed. “I wasn’t thinking. And anyway it doesn’t matter, I’m fine.”

“You’re shot,” Keith snaps. “You made yourself into a human shield.”“Well excuse me for thinking you’re worth protecting.”

Keith clenches his jaw. His whole head is full of fire, and nothing in it is recognizable anymore. He can’t tell his anger from his fear from his love.

“More of them will be coming,” Keith says slowly. “We need to warn the others.” Lance nods distractedly, brow furrowed. His top half is bare, and it makes Keith uncomfortable to look at, crushed into the dirt and streaked with blood.

He taps his comms open, and calls out into the void. “Anyone there? Guys? It’s a Galra trap. I repeat, it’s a trap. We were ambushed in the third sector of the Southern quadrant. Lance is hurt, and more Galra sentries will be nearby.”

They both wait through the static. Keith watches Lance close his eyes with a dawning sort of panic. He kicks him awake, nodding meaningfully to his torso when Lance gives him a perturbed look.“I’m not concussed, idiot.”

Keith shushes him. The comms continue to modulate and hiss, but no voices come through.

“Great,” Keith says.

“Hate to say it Keith-o, but we’ve gotta keep moving. We’re still close to where that dude was last stationed, and when they find us we’ll be fish in a barrel.”

“Can you even walk?” he asks doubtfully.

“Can I walk,” Lance mocks. “My legs aren’t the part of me that got shot.”

“Clearly neither is your mouth, because that’s still running.”

“Oh, wordplay, that’s sexy. I didn’t know danger could bring out this side of you, Keith.”

“And we’re standing up,” Keith says, sliding an arm around Lance’s blood-slick waist and hoisting him upright. They overbalance and Lance has to catch himself on the lip of the doorway.

“Jesus mary, this hurts. Why did no one tell me gunshots were gonna hurt this bad?”

“Every piece of media you’ve ever consumed has told you gunshots hurt.” He holds up pieces of armour for Lance to shrug back on, wincing whenever Lance makes a pained noise.

“I’m just saying that you should feel sorry for me,” Lance tells him frankly, and Keith scoffs.

“You jumped in front of the bullet!”

“Yeah!” Lance agrees loudly. “You should be gratefully weeping and embracing me ‘we almost died’ style.”

“You’re delirious,” Keith says through gritted teeth.

“You’re ungrateful,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Let’s get out of here.” Lance stumbles over his own feet on the way out, but he doesn’t need Keith to balance him, and his gait looks almost normal.

He trains his rifle on the grey rectangles of open space above them, and Keith follows close behind in case he falls backwards. They fall silent, listening for footsteps in the constant whispering of the sandstorm.

He’s impressed by Lance’s constant vigilance, his dead-serious eyes and unfaltering grip on the trigger. He’s only a little unsteady as he tracks both sides of the wall, turning slowly, checking the tablet with the gun cocked on his hip.

 Keith almost forgets that there’s a bullet lost somewhere inside of him, that the Galra most likely outnumber them and have the advantage of height and invisibility.

“I don’t like this,” Keith says quietly.

Lance doesn’t stop squinting down the barrel of his rifle. “Oh yeah?”

“Why are they using different weapons? Why didn’t our sensors pick them up?”

“The Galra work in mysterious ways,” Lance says. “Don’t worry too much about it right now. We’re still in the staying alive part of the mission.”

“You didn’t seem to care too much about staying alive before,” he says bitterly.

“Keith, seriously,” Lance says, exasperated, dropping the arm holding his gun to his side. “Are you mad at me for that?”

“Forget I said anything.” He fiddles with his own bayard uneasily.

“I keep trying to, and you keep sighing like some—wronged boyfriend.”

“I’m worried about you,” Keith blurts. “I hate that you’re hurt, and I let it happen.”

“Well—I mean. Okay,” Lance says, flustered. “But it’s not…”

He looks down at his abdomen, looking surprised, and then he drops like a stone.

“Lance?” Keith just stands there for a second, looking at where he’s crumpled and unmoving, not really understanding what he’s seeing. And then he’s rushing forward all at once, dropping his weapon in the sand and skidding to his knees.

Lance’s face is wan, and his head is thrown back like he’s too weak to lift it.

“What the hell,” Keith says. He can hear how reedy and panicked his voice is, and he barely recognizes it. He props Lance’s head up with his hand and struggles to take his helmet off again. His hair is drenched in sweat.

His eyes slit open. “I don’t feel so hot,” he murmurs.

“Is the shock wearing off? Is that what this is?” Keith feels quickly for more blood, for fever, for anything.

“Don’t think so,” Lance says, eyes opening properly. His pupils are twin pinpricks in unbelievable blue. “It hurt before, but now it’s worse. Way worse. I don’t know why my body isn’t—“ he tries to make a fist, but his fingers don’t close all the way.

Keith looks up at the empty walls, the stretch in front and behind them that look completely the same. They’re so exposed that it’s like a physical burning on his skin.

“Can you move?”

“Uh. Gimme a sec.” He breathes in and out a couple of times, laboured, and then he seems to use most of his energy to get halfway to sitting. “Keith,” he levels him with a serious look, and he thinks for a second that he’s going to tell him to leave him behind, or something equally ridiculous, but he just says: “we can do this.”

He catches at Keith’s neck, and leverages himself the rest of the way to sitting.

“Hey, not so bad from this angle.” He cracks his neck and shakes his hands out, obviously for Keith’s benefit.

“Let me,” Keith starts, and he shifts into a crouch so that he can lift Lance up off the ground by the armpits. As soon as he’s up he teeters into the nearest wall, and Keith hands him his helmet first, then his bayard.

“Lean against me, okay? We’re taking this maze side by side.”

“Neck and neck,” Lance says sort of hazily, rolling his head to look at him and smile, open-mouthed. “Okay.”

They move as an eight-limbed thing, and side by side they cover almost the full span of some of the passageways. Keith fumbles with the map and his bayard, sometimes leaning over to adjust Lance’s grip when his own bayard slips and the gun wobbles and ceases to exist.

“As far as missions go, this isn’t in our greatest hits, Keith, gotta say.”

“Whose fault is that, huh?” Keith asks, but he can’t tease the gentleness out of his voice. Lance looks so weak, and his helmet keeps knocking against Keith’s when his head droops.

“It’s your fault for not listening to my wise and beautiful guts.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Keith says, holding him tighter, trying to keep Lance together first and himself second.

“Hey, nah, you gotta argue with me,” Lance says. His voice is starting to slur.

“What do you want me to say?” Keith asks, blinking through tears and sweat.

“I dunno. Blah blah blah, I’m a dick. Blah blah, I ignore Lance’s golden instincts, and—and…”

“And what?” The next step Keith takes, Lance’s feet drag underneath him. “Lance? And what?” He reels around and feels for Lance’s pulse, finding it absolutely hammering. He remembers Lance’s pupils, the weakness of his grip, and the strange bullets, and he sobs with realization. “Fuck. The fucking— they poisoned you. Do you hear me?” He props him up against the wall, and keeps him in place with his own body, tapping at his helmet and trying to radio the team again.

“Anyone? Is anyone out there? Anywhere? Please. Please. It’s me, it’s Keith,” he says, choking, looking at Lance’s closed eyes and the dark freckles sprayed down his cheeks, the two that overlap on the tip of his nose. He holds his drooping jaw to keep his face forward. “We need help. Badly.”

There’s no reply, and Keith starts to cry in earnest. Lance’s brow furrows, and he sort of moans, hands lifting weakly to Keith’s forearms.

“Hurts,” he whispers.

“I know,” Keith whispers back. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Lance sighs. “Keith. Are you still running for your life?” He squints. His mouth is so pale.

“I’m running for ours,” Keith corrects, petting at Lance’s helmet stupidly, just trying to stay present. “Do you want to join me?”

“Hell yeah,” Lance says, but when he tries to stand, his body jackknifes and cracks back against the concrete. “Oh.” He coughs, and shakes his head. “My body says no.”

“I’m gonna carry you on my back, okay?” Keith says, already arranging his limbs.

Lance nods, face screwed up in pain. “Okay.”

He clips Lance’s bayard to his hip and wedges himself low against Lance’s body, easing him over so that he’s sprawled out on his back. He straightens slowly, keenly aware of how terrible it must be to have all your pain manhandled like this. 

He hikes him up by the thighs, and Lance turns his face into the back of Keith’s neck. He’s burning up even through his armour, and Keith tries to focus on the heat as a sign that he’s alive.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on Hunk and Pidge when they’re trying to—to make engineering into a game, or whatever. They’re just trying to feel normal.”

“What?”

“Pidge has the best the best head I’ve ever seen, man, and—“ his voice goes tense, shocked through with pain. “Hunk has the best heart. And tell Shiro how great he’s doing, would you? How much we love him. He always keeps everyone together but—but he really needs to hear it.”

Keith shakes his head. “What are you doing.”

“Allura needs someone to be family for her, so be her family, okay? You have a whole lost species to make up for but you’re… you’re pretty good.”

“I’m so mad at you,” Keith says, shaking with rage that he can’t do anything with. He squeezes Lance’s thighs. He hasn’t even looked up in the last seven turns.

“Coran reminds me of my dad, a little,” Lance muses. “Really loud because he really cares. You gotta tell him how much it meant to me… that he took me in. Like a dad.”

“I’m never going to forgive you if you die,” Keith says hoarsely.

“Keith, I really, really wish we had more time.” He’s so lanky and slippery on his back, he feels like he could pop off like an elastic. “Hey, guess what?”

“What?” It’s getting hard to keep walking. The map keeps flickering, Lance keeps sliding down, and the sand underfoot is clingy like mud.

“You’re gonna be okay.” He sounds so lucid. It’s weird how he perked up to deliver this weird, verbal will to him, like he had a backup generator of energy for exactly this purpose, like he was saving it for everyone else, never for himself.

“I’m not,” Keith says thickly.

“You are,” Lance insists. “Even if the end of the maze is a Galra base and our team is all taken hostage and you walk in carrying a dead body as your only weapon—“

“Shut up,” he interrupts viciously.

“You’ll do great. You’re the top of your class. You’re my favourite person in the universe.”

Keith closes his eyes, and slowly stops moving. The gusting wind is starting to sound like constant, mournful crying. He hears a smudge of sound against rock, and he goes absolutely still.

“I really… loved being a part of your team,” Lance says, sounding drunk and sincere. “You make me feel….” his words go soft and broken, and he passes out. 

Keith bites his lip hard, hearing footsteps come nearer, then stop, farther, then stop. Someone is circling, searching for them. Lance is dying, and Keith can’t make a sound.

He creeps a single step forward, and sand crunches beneath his boot. He curses silently, over and over, his heart in his mouth right behind his clenched teeth. Footsteps come faster, and Keith lifts his bayard.

Nothing happens for a heart-stopping second, and then the bayard shimmers into a sleek red blaster. Keith gapes at it, tears drying on his face, and when the two galra soldiers find him, they look as surprised as he feels.

“Hey! He’s over—“

Keith shoots the first one in the chest and he topples off the wall. The other one takes aim, and Keith runs with renewed strength, firing off inaccurate rounds behind him. Lance bounces against his back, and Keith keeps him away from the line of fire as best he can, pulling him awkwardly around to his side, cradling him on his hip like an overgrown child.

He makes an erratic run for it, trying to remember what was on the map and trusting his gut. It’s impossible to run very fast with the whole weight of a body balanced against the socket of his leg, and he’s not a marksmen like lance is.

He can hear the soldier radioing for help, but he’s obviously struggling to multi-task, and Keith takes advantage of his lag, making a couple of wrong turns and then doubling back and plastering himself to the wall around the last corner they took.

He can hear the stutter of feet. He kisses the helmet above Lance’s temple, and prays.

After a terrible minute, the footsteps pick up again, tracking farther and farther away from their hiding spot.

When he’s certain they’re alone, he jostles Lance to his back again, feeling an ache down the entirety of his body. He walks slowly this time, down the centre of each path, keeping his eyes on the grey overhead.

“Hey Lance,” he whispers, “we’re close.” No response. “You gonna let me save your life too?”

The paths are getting wider now, opening up a little. He can hear the faint sound of activity somewhere nearby, the bustle of a city. It doesn’t sound like a Galra base.

“You were right, about everything. As usual.” He peers ahead and tries to imagine seeing anything but grey. He squeezes Lance’s fingers where they’re dangling around his neck.

“Don’t you wanna say I told you so?”

He doesn’t take the bait. His hands are cold.

“Hey guess what,” Keith says. Lance hangs like a dead thing from his body, and he isn’t completely sure that that isn’t what he is, anymore. “I’ve always, always loved you.”

He can hear laughter, somewhere. It seems like some sort of scientific impossibility that someone could laugh, right now, at the end of the world.

He sinks to the ground, laying Lance out on the sand and following him down, like they’re going to bed. The wind cries and cries and cries.

“Keith?”

He looks up.

Hunk is staring at them, horrified, bayard deactivating in his grip. “Help,” he whispers. Then louder, “help! Get help, Pidge, get supplies over here, Lance and Keith are hurt.”

Keith looks into Lance’s face. He can feel Hunk coming over to them, manhandling Lance’s body, listening for breath and feeling for a pulse, asking Keith questions.

“He’s cold,” Keith tells him.

“You’re in shock,” Hunk says.

“Not shock,” He says, memory fluttering like tattered curtains. “It hurt before. Now it’s worse.”

Moments pass. His body aches badly. Someone else is there, and Hunk’s talking to them in hushed tones. “—happened to them?”

“—the same poison.”

“How did they—“

“—must’ve been exhausting.”

“His pulse is really, really weak, Pidge—“

“Someone should get Keith out of here.”

“No,” he hears himself say. “I carried him all the way here.”

“I know,” someone says gently. Shiro, he thinks, from far away. “We need to carry you the rest of the way.”

“The Galra—“ he starts.

“Are taken care of.”

“It never should have happened.”

“They have new tech,” Pidge says. “Some sort of cloaking device and those— those fucking bullets—“

“We captured most of them. Had a few casualties, but none of ours.“

“Lance is one of ours,” he says, confused. He feels like he’s talking through taffy. There’s an uneasy pause.

“He’s not dead, Keith,” Hunk says softly.

“Where is he?”

He’s not holding onto him anymore. He can’t imagine having let him go, but he’s not in his arms or on his back. They’re not even in the labyrinth, he realizes. The grey and the wind are tempered by colour and movement.

He looks up and the paladins are all nearby, looking grim and exhausted. He’s sitting down outside one of the little structures that litter what he can see of the town, and he can tell that he’s lost time. He can smell something burning nearby.

“He’s getting help.”

“I need to see him,” he says, wheeling to his feet. Four sets of hands fly out to stop him.

“You need to see a doctor first,” Shiro says. “I know you’re gonna be stubborn about this, but you’re in shock, and you’ll be helping Lance by helping yourself.”

“Can’t we let him go? What’s he gonna do, un-heal him?” Pidge says.

“It’s not Lance who would be suffering from this encounter,” Allura says tightly.

Keith shakes his head to clear it. “I’m okay,” he says, almost convincing. Time is starting to make a little more obvious sense. They told him Lance was alive, and he knows they wouldn’t lie about that. “I’m okay, but I have to--I told him I would save him, but I must’ve--must’ve passed out.”

“You did save him,” Hunk tells him, squeezing both of his shoulders, eyes glassy.

“He took the bullet for me,” Keith feels compelled to say, like he’s leaving out a crucial part of a confession.

“Idiot,” Pidge mutters.

“Hero,” Shiro corrects.

Keith shakes his head. He’s tired of talking about it like it’s some objective event, like he didn’t just wake up from living it. “I need to see him,” he repeats.

“Okay,” Allura says tiredly. “Okay. I get the feeling we’re only making things worse by keeping you apart.”

The gentle hands barring his way disappear. Hunk hooks a sad smile at him, and leads him by the elbow into the nearest building, stopping just inside the doorway, maybe to give them privacy. His arms cross and his lip wobbles, but he stays fixed at the door. Keith’s guard lets down a little for the first time in hours.

The interior is shadowy, panelled with pale wood but completely windowless. There are walls full of vials, wax tablets covered in writing, and those same woody plants from before.

The burning, Keith realizes, eyeing a collection of glowing instruments, was the physician cauterizing Lance’s wound. He can’t linger on the thought for too long without his eyes watering.

He walks, trance-like, towards the platform where Lance is face-down and stripped to the waist. He doesn’t even look at the doctor working quietly at his side, hanging bags of fluid and mixing herbs into pastes.

Keith’s eyes fix on a little coppery bowl, part of a tray full of frightening looking instruments. When he peers inside he finds the bullet that had been collapsing Lance’s body piece by piece, dragging him unconscious through an endless grey. It’s a tiny, blood-soaked thing crackling with purple energy, some kind of rotten quintessence.

The wound is ugly, infected, and bigger than the last time he saw it. His whole back looks like its contorted around the impact of the gunshot, and his skin seems too dusky to belong to living flesh. The doctor packs the wound with paste and gauze, and Keith swallows uneasily, looking away.

His gaze finds Lance’s upturned face instead, his parted mouth and slicked back hair, still dark with sweat. Keith puts his hand to the pieces that always stick up at the crown of his head, and he exhales all the terror he’s been keeping in his spine, the paralyzing stillness and feral anger.

He kneels quietly, hand sliding from his head to the curve of his jaw.

“You’re my favourite person too,” Keith tells him. His thumb slides against the hollow of his cheek. “Idiot.”

The doctor taps gently on Keith’s hand. Their skin is sun-bleached, with navy patterns running down their arms to their hands, which look almost like they’re dipped in paint. Their face is apologetic, tender with sympathy. “So sorry, paladin. I need to move him, if you’ll let me.”

“Where?” Keith asks sharply. “Why? Right now?”

“Just,” they say, holding out placating hands, “up high enough to wrap his wound.”

“Oh.” He steps awkwardly back and watches the doctor grip Lance’s biceps, maneuvering his upper body so that his head droops heavily forward.

“Wait, let— just let me do it.” He doesn’t know why he feels so protective over every bend and dip in Lance’s body. He wasn’t exactly being gentle with him when they were running and sweating and thumping against the earth and each other.

He reaches out and gathers Lance’s weight onto the front of his body, his head fitting neatly against Keith’s neck. He allows himself to rest his cheek in his hair and breathe.

The doctor wraps silky looking gauze around Lance’s waist, and when he runs his thumb along the seam, it seals against his skin like tape.

“Is he going to be okay?” Keith asks quietly.

“Oh yes,” the doctor says, helping Keith to lower him gently back onto the table. The way they’re looking down at him is pleased, fond. Lance had been unconscious the entire time he was in the room with this person, but he still managed to charm them. “He’s blue, right? Good with water?”

Keith nods jerkily, crossing his arms over his chest so he doesn’t have to focus on the way his heart is racing for no reason, and his arms feel empty without the weight of a body to support.

“Water is creative, healing, resilient. He’s smarter than this galra poison.”

Keith snorts. “I beg to differ.”

“Fire,” the doctor says sagely, eyeing his scuffed red armour. “Stubborn.”

Keith look skeptically to Hunk in the doorway, but he just shrugs, half-smiling.

“I’ve done all I can. And so have you.” They pat Lance’s calf firmly, then cross to the doorway. “Don’t let him move around too much, alright?” They smile warmly and disappear out into the celebration outside, the after-party of a liberation.

“He’s not gonna like that,” Hunk says, and Keith’s mouth twists, amused.

“No. It’s amazing how lazy he is until someone tells him to sit still.”

“Yeah, and then he’s trying to teach us salsa, right?” Hunk grins at him, eyes bright and knowing. Keith isn’t used to it, the way loving someone can become this whole community experience. His expression must be wrong, because Hunk’s smile fades. “What happened out there, man?”

Keith’s teeth grit. He remembers that first impact of Lance’s body, the coil of his arms protecting Keith’s face, the endless slip to the ground. He can still taste the sweat from the exertion of running. He can feel the soreness of the muscles that Lance’s weight tested when he’d been swung around his side, gangly but heavy. He remembers his voice, drizzling over Keith’s neck with the last of his consciousness, you make me feel…

“We were ambushed.”

“How many?” Hunk asks gravely. Keith faces Lance, touching the clean lines of his shoulder blades, ghosting his fingers over the bandaging.

“Just one. One soldier, one bullet.” His hand reaches the spot where the gauze is thickest, and he can’t bring himself to move any farther.

“How exactly did they outdo a sharpshooter and a former blade of marmora?” Shiro asks from where he’s ducking into the doorway. Pidge follows, going all the way up to Lance’s bedside and plopping down cross-legged in the side chair. Allura leans up against the doorframe opposite Hunk, the pair of them look like some kind of mismatched security team.

“They took him out early,” Keith replies, swallowing hard. “He just kept getting sicker and sicker, and we couldn’t figure it out. He tried to keep walking, but his body was shutting down, and the Galra knew where we were, so--so we had to move as quickly as possible.” He shakes his head. “You don’t realize how loud it is, carrying someone.”

He catches Shiro and Allura exchanging a loaded glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Then my bayard turned into a gun, and I kept firing until I hit something.”

Allura gets this troubled look on her face, and Keith ignores it. He can’t even fathom trying to deal with the mysteries and magic and fear of something bigger than one foot in front of another, or the next ash-grey wall in a maze.

“That’s cool,” Pidge says, thoughtful. “Do you think your bayard transformed based on the range of your target? Maybe it’s equipped to adapt to your needs?”

“I don’t care,” Keith says simply.

“I think it’s like Harry Potter, and his patronus changed to match the person he’s in love with,” Hunk says, sly.

“Are we talking hp?” Lance asks faintly.

“Lance,” Keith chokes before he can stop himself. He drops to his knees at his bedside, and he’s the first person to see those eyes open, deep summer blue.

Lance smiles slowly. “I told you you’d be okay.”

“Fuck you,” Keith says, his voice raw. “I’ve never been that scared. Not for myself. Not for anything.”

“You’re okay,” Lance repeats, scanning his friend’s faces, corners of his eyes crinkling and then drifting closed again.

Keith shakes his shoulder. “You’re not allowed to go to sleep.”

“I was almost fatally poisoned,” he says irritably.

“A choice that you made,” Keith reiterates. “We’ve already had this fight.”

“And I told you it wasn’t, like, a conscious choice that I made,” Lance says, shifting in place and hissing at the pain. “I mean. You said — said I was just the guy with the tablet.”

“Jesus,” Keith says, closing his eyes. “I didn’t mean it. I never mean it.”

“It’s cool,” Lance says evenly. “It’s just, like. I didn’t want to be the dude who brought a map to a gunfight. I didn’t think about it for even a second. Your back was exposed. You were smiling. I couldn’t just… I mean I really couldn’t just…”

“Yeah,” Keith says weakly. He would’ve done it too, to save his life. No thinking, no hesitation.

“Is everyone else okay? The Griathenians?”

“Everyone’s been freed,” Allura tells him, beaming.

“Thank god,” Lance says. “This isn’t some kind of prison hospital. I don’t think I’m ready to be some Galra’s slave.” His gaze finds Keith and his mouth turns up wickedly at the corners. “With one important exception.”

Keith flushes, and Lance laughs until his voice stumbles into hurt. He holds perfectly still and breathes through it.

“I’m glad it was me and you though,” Lance says, looking up at Keith from his pillowed arms. “You—were a shithead. Distracted me. Didn’t hurt so much.”

“Romance,” someone says behind them.

“And now?” Keith asks.

Lance shakes his head. “I’m good. Hurts like a gunshot should hurt, I think. Less like I’m being burned alive than before.”

Keith bows his head, forehead to Lance’s hands. They turn over against his scalp and comb through his hair. “No more missions until you’ve spent a week in a healing pod.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that, bucko.”

“No more missions until you’ve spent a week in a healing pod,” Allura echoes, and Lance curses.

“How about no more mazes,” Shiro offers. “Ever.”

“Deal,” Lance says.

“Deal,” they all chorus.

“How about you never get hurt again,” Keith says quietly, small and serious.

“I dunno,” Lance says, mouth twitching. “I’m pretty sure if I do, you’ll carry me anywhere I want.”

It’s a joke, Keith knows it’s a joke, but he still looks up to say, “I’d do that anyway.”

Lance face goes as still and flushed as steamed-up glass, and he says, “I’m gonna kiss you.”

Keith’s chest throbs, a lash of heat, and he nods jerkily.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Pidge says.

“We should give them a minute,” Shiro announces, backing up in the direction of the doorway, dragging Pidge with him. “Not too rough, Keith,” he says, like he’s trying not to laugh.

Keith glares at him. The team files all the way outside, letting the curtain swish over the doorway, and then they’re alone in the shadows, and everything feels so real, and close together. 

Lance presses up into him, and pulls his head down. He remembers hitting the sand, thinking that he’d lost everything, and now he can’t wrap his head around the proof of him, the heat from his body and the tenderness of his hands. 

Lance presses a kiss close to the corner of his mouth, and holds the place that he just kissed like he’s pinning it there for safe-keeping. His mouth ghosts over Keith’s and touches down on the other corner, holding there, lush.

Their noses slide alongside each other, and their warm, tacky skin catches together. Lance’s eyelashes feather over his cheek, and It’s so intimate that Keith’s breath comes out choppy against Lance’s lips, and he reaches up to hold his damaged back as close as he dares.

Lance kisses him properly, his lips chapped and warm, and Keith feels so much for him that it’s like a whole second pulse, shaking him and leading him to the very edge of tears.

It’s so quiet now that he can hear the haunted sound of the wind again, only this time it fits right in between the sound of their shared breaths, and Keith isn’t afraid.