#he IS the chestplate he once wore

[teawithghosts]

THE MACHINE HERALD

[stevesbipanic]

@steddieangstyaugust Day 16: Halloween

Steve used to love Halloween.

His mom would always get him any costume he wanted and it made him feel like the coolest kid in school.

When he was six he was a vampire with a beautiful velvet cloak.

When he was eight he was an astronaut and told everyone he'd go to the moon one day.

When he was ten he was a knight and one of the boys in school dressed as a dragon let him pretend to defeat him.

When he was twelve he was prince charming and wore a glittering crown, but it was the last time his mom took him trick or treating.

When he was fourteen he didn't mind because he and Tommy got to go by themselves dressed as zombies and chased everyone they saw.

When he was sixteen he stopped liking Halloween, it was bullshit anyway.

When he was eighteen he spent the night watching movies with Robin but stopped the scary ones after they saw a kid dressed as a sailor at the door.

Now he is nineteen and he has Eddie.

Eddie always loved Halloween.

He didn't have the best costumes but he made do. Free candy was more food than he'd get most weeks so he made sure it lasted.

When he was six his mom helped cut holes in a sheet and called him her little ghost.

When he was eight he wrapped himself in toilet paper once his dad was passed out and couldn't yell at him for wasting it.

When he was ten his uncle stitched fabric from the thrift store and made him big green dragon wings, he'd wear them the following year too.

When he was twelve the drama department let him keep his lion costume from the play to use for Halloween.

When he was fourteen he dressed as a rockstar and told all his friends they'd be famous one day.

When he was sixteen he spent more time selling at parties than dressing up.

When he was eighteen he got drunk and tried not to think about how he had to repeat all this bullshit again.

Now he is twenty.

He's twenty and he has a beautiful boyfriend who doesn't have the best memories of Halloween. A broken childhood like his, different but still the same.

He pulls those old dragon wings out of the closet and clips a chestplate to his personal knight in shining armor.

"Are there any stories where the knight saves the dragon instead of defeating him?"

"Yeah, but you already wrote it, sweetheart."

[satansamwriting]

The sleeping headcanons were so cute <3 Can I get hcs of Sub-Zero (and other characters of your choosing) with a gn s/o that can manipulate metal?

Mk Sub-zero with an s/o that can manipulate metal

Hello! I'm glad you enjoyed the sleeping headcanons, I might do other characters if people ask for it. ^^

I'm sorry it took me a while to finish this headcanon, had some stuff to deal with irl. Anyway, I did not know which sub-zero you wanted between Bi-Han or Kuai Liang so I went with my favorite icy boy.

Sadly, I did not write about another character because as you'll see, this headcanon is quite long. I wasn't sure at first how to write someone with the ability to manipulate metal but as I started to write, i got more and more ideas. Hopefully, you'll enjoy the way I decided to go.

I might even continue this in a part 2 or do other characters in another post if people are interested.

Anyway, as always I hope you beautiful people enjoy this headcanon and don't hesitate to send request :)

Disclaimer : English is not my native language, there might be mistakes in this. I apologizes for them.Oh and I'm still fairly knew to Mortal Kombat if you could believe it! I don't know everything there is to know about Mk so if I say thing that don't make sense, I do apologies.

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Sub-zero (Kuai Liang)

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Ever since you were little, you had the ability to manipulate metal as if it was clay, shaping the element into anything that came into your mind. 

This ability came with a strange connection to the elements.

You could sense which metal was present, or if there were flaws or vulnerability upon touching an object. 

Your reputation as a blacksmith grew over the years, to no one's surprise.

One day, the SF approached you with a deal to work for them.

The idea of helping to protect Earthrealm made you accept the deal

You almost regretted it once you arrived at their camp. 

Too much bad quality metal could be found in the soldiers gears and weapons. 

You were astonished that some of those men and women wore what you would consider scrap. 

Sadly, even as you voiced your concern to the higher up you were supposed to report to, they seemed to ignore you. 

Create weapons and gears for them with the provided materials.

That’s all you were supposed to do.

You met Kuai Liang as you stomped off the tent. Bumping into him by accident, you kept on walking too pissed off to acknowledge the cryomaster.

You were determined to show those assholes how right you were.

Kuai Liang had heard of you before.

He was intrigued by your ability.

Sadly as busy as he was, he didn’t have the time to seek you out 

Until one day, the two of you met again

Closed off inside their own little forge the special force had the courtesy to give them, (y/n) spent days waiting for the perfect moment to show everyone the mockery of armour they were wearing as protection. A piece of borrowed chestplate laid on a table in front of them. Scattered around the object were sheets of papers each filled with analysis and ideas. It didn’t take long for them to find the perfect metal to use and with the help of one of their secret contacts, they soon found their table filled with titanium ingots.Days changed into nights as they poured their heart and soul into these new sets of gears, making sure they were exact replicas of what the special force was currently using. 

After days of work, news of the Grand Master of the Lin Kuei's visiting spread around the camp. It was said that he was there to train some of the soldiers.Thinking it would be the perfect opportunity, they dusted themselves and carefully put on each piece of the newly improved armour before leaving the forge. 

Droplets of rain fell upon the camp turning the dirt ground into mud. Splashing noise accompanied their footsteps as they marched toward the training ground. Soldiers stepped out of their ways as they went. 

Sounds of fighting grew louder as they approached and soon they could see the men and women duelling each other under the supervising gaze of the Lin Kuei Grand Master. To their pleasure, the soldiers were also wearing their equipment. (Y/n) eyes roamed around those fighting, searching. One man stood out amongst the others. He was cocky and full of himself. Perfect!

Standing on the sideline, they waited for him to finish his current fight. The man ended the other pretty quickly and even had the audacity to brag about how great he was. A glance toward the cryomancer confirmed that (y/n) was not the only one annoyed by him. 

Kuai Liang raised an eyebrow as he watched (y/n) approach the overconfident man. They weren’t part of the training and therefore Liang should’ve asked them to leave. However, the cryomancer was curious about them. Their brief meeting and (y/n) reputation had piqued his interest. He knew of their work outside of the special force but had never seen it first-hand. This was his chance.

“Well well well what do we have here? You came to get your ass kick, blacksmith?”

(Y/n) rolled their eyes as they took a defensive stance in front of the man. Their eyes stared at the chestplate of the man's tactical vest. That was their goal. If it was anything like the one they studied in their forge, that thing was on the verge of breaking.

Unsurprisingly, the man charged toward (y/n) without thinking first. His punches and kicks were easily avoided, offering so many opportunities for (y/n) to touch his chest. Wincing at the poor state of the metal within the protective gear, they backed away.

"You should consider changing that chestplate, it won't protect anymore."

The man scuffed and spat on the ground clearly disregarding their warning. 

Heavy rain settled as the two kombatant circled each other, the world surrounding them long forgotten. As they exchanged hit after hit, the man grew annoyed. Contrary to the others he had fought, they had yet to be defeated. Even more, they seemed to anticipate his every move. In one particular vicious attack, (y/n) placed both their hands on their chestplate and raised them to block the incoming punch. The man’s fist collided with a small shield that had somewhat materialised out of nowhere. Growling, he watched as the shield transformed back into (y/n) chestplate.

From his observing post, Kuai Liang crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were glued to the blacksmith. They had complete mastery of the fight. In someone else’s eyes it wouldn’t appear so, but as he watched (y/n) avoid yet another punch from the soldier, Kuai Liang knew. The blacksmith could have won this fight early on but for some reason kept going. 

Ducking to avoid a high kick, (y/n) took a handful of mud. One swift sweep kick, they knocked the man down, throwing the mud in his face, blinding him for a short while. 

Swearing left the man’s mouth in plenty as he tried to regain his sight.Distracted, he left his whole chest area unguarded.Using the distraction to their advantage, they landed a powerful punch on the left side of the chestplate.

For a moment, the man stared at them while trying his best not to laugh.Some of the mud slipped down his cheeks.

“Was that the best you could do?”

Standing straight, (y/n) pointed toward his chest, where small cracks started to appear before a large piece of his chestplate fell to the ground. To the man's horror, and amusement of (y/n),  his gear broke down completely. Stunted in place, the man failed to notice them approaching, a knife created by the fallen parts in hand. Only with the pressure of the tip of the knife near his heart did he focus back on them.

"Let it be a lesson for you, your arrogance will get you killed. That and the garbage gears the special force is giving you."

Removing their own chestplate, they threw it toward the soldier.

“If you want to survive in the war, pass by my tent. I will make you real gears that will protect your life.Not like those pretty decorations you soldiers are currently wearing.”

They turned toward the Grand Master, bowed politely and left the training ground. 

//////

Hours later, a line of soldiers was formed outside of the blacksmith tent. Talk about the poor quality of the soldiers' equipment had spread around the camp like wildfires. Soon, even the higher-ups, who had denied their request, had to break and allow the blacksmith the resources they needed. After days of tireless work, every armour and weapons had been updated, leaving them with no more work. 

One cloudless night as (y/n) busied themselves with new weapon design, a man entered their tent. Glancing up from their papers, the blacksmith straightened up and gave the Grand Master a courtesy bow. 

“Grand Master, to what do I own your visit?”

Bowing in return, Kuai Liang looked around, his eyes observing the various weapons, guns and gears scattered across the tent. His face as expressionless as ever focused back on them before speaking.

“ You are a great fighter and a talented blacksmith-'' He started while his fingers brushed over a long spear near the entrance of the tent. “The Lin Kuei could benefit from your talent.”

Silence fell between the two only for it to be broken by laughter. From where they stood, (y/n) tried their best to regain their serious posture as they were a bit worried their laughing would be misinterpreted. 

“My apologies Grand Master-”

“Kuai Liang.” The cryomancer interjected. 

“My apologies Grand Master Liang, my laughing was not to make fun of you. I’m just a bit surprised.”

Leaning against the table behind them, (y/n) crossed their arms over their chest. In the many years they had worked as a blacksmith, they had encountered the Lin Kuei once before. Back then, they didn’t have a specific place to stay and so they had travelled around the world, offering their talent to those who needed it. 

It was during their short stay in China that they met the infamous clan. A blizzard had been raging outside that day, making it almost impossible for them to leave their temporary settlement. To their utmost surprise, a man had walked in unbothered by the bad weather.  He had offered a job, something that had to do with cyborgs or some short. But (y/n) had declined. The man left shortly after, not before threatening them that they were obliged to accept the offer or die. A day later, words of the blacksmith vanishing spread around the village they had stayed in.

However, that was a long time ago.The man standing here before them was different. He was cold but caring, strict yet open-minded and quite frankly handsome.

“You are not the first Lin Kuei to ask for my talent, if I remember correctly the first one was about cyborgs.”

If (y/n) was meant to see the small flinch traversing Kuai Liang's body, they did not mention it. Uncrossing their arms, they laid their hands on the table in order to appear nonchalant. 

“Besides, I thought you guys had trials or something like that before accepting anyone in the clan?” 

The cryomancer hummed, his shoulder relaxing a little as his dark brown eyes stared at them. 

“Would you consider courtship as trial then?” 

Speechless, (y/n) blinked a few times not knowing how to respond to that. Of all the things the Grand Master could have said, flirting was the least expected. Carefully observing Kuai Liang, they noticed the smile the other man was offering them. He seemed pleased by their reaction. Who knew the Lin Kuei Grand Master could be smooth.  

“Are you seriously asking me this?” A smile of their own, they went around their desk and stood before the cryomancer. “Consider me intrigued, Kuai Liang. Besides, I heard the Lin Kuei temple was a sight to behold.” 

(Y/n) had accepted to join the special force to help protect Earthrealm but left to go help reform a clan thought to be lost. Perhaps, along the way, they would find love.

[procrastinatorrex]

“Absolutely not.” When Merlin looked up the prince was blocking the door. His eyes glittered in the fire, twin chips of ice. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” Arthur crossed his arms; his gauntlets clanged against the chestplate he still wore. Dirt was smeared on the edge of the plate, stained the collar of his tunic a rusty brown that contrasted with the soft, tanned skin of his neck. Merlin could see the pulse there, steady, but fast. He was human. Vulnerable. Even so, he was not one to be trifeled with. Arthur planted himself between the snarling fey and the door with grim determination and, human or not, he may as well have been a wall; impenetrable Pendragon will wrapped in iron.  

The magic hadn’t settled yet after the battle– it mingled with the desperation, a mixture that buzzed like adrenaline in Merlin’s veins, tingling in his fingertips. He would make this mortal obey him. How dare this human presume to understand the machinations of the Court? How dare this man attempt to trap a Prince of Faerie. 

(more below the cut)

“You dare–” The slide of metal cut off the furious words. Merlin drew back with a hiss. He felt his fangs, sharp on his lip; “you dare to threaten me!” Tears– of rage, no doubt– pricked at his eyes, the betrayal was like a wound, though Excalibur was limp in Arthur’s hand, the deadly tip pointing at the floor. 

Arthur’s gaze softened, “You fool,” he said, his voice low, like the point of his sword, “I can’t let you leave. I can’t. You can’t honestly have expected anything else.” 

“You have no say–” The sting faded under the sadness on Arthur’s face. The look in his eyes wasn’t anger, Merlin realized, it was fear. Fear for him. “Arthur, you can’t keep me here.” 

“I can try. I have to try–” His voice broke when he added; “They’ll kill you, Merlin. They’ll rip you apart.” 

The two princes stared at each other. Human and fey, barely an arms length apart, and yet in two different worlds. Finally, Merlin sighed. “I cannot ignore the summons. They will only come here. Your people will suffer, and then they will take me back to the Court all the same. I can’t escape judgment for my crimes.” 

“What you did wasn’t a crime.” Arthur snapped, frustration adding a sharp edge in his voice. 

“Loving a human is a crime.” Merlin argued, automatically. The words registered a second later and he froze, eyes wide. “I– I didn’t–” Blue locked with blue, and Merlin felt the blood drain out of his face– “I didn’t–” but the human was on him before he could even consider what to say. The legendary blade clattered to the floor as gloved hands fisted in the front of Merlin’s battle leathers and dragged him toward Arthur. The human prince kissed like a man possessed– like this was his last chance. It probably is, some part of Merlin’s mind reasoned, but he couldn’t be bothered to care just at that moment. He met the human prince enthusiastically, leaning into the soft warmth of Arthur’ mouth, so much more yielding than the rest of him. It was like flying, falling, and being pulled all at once. 

Arthur was warm, hot even, flush from the battle and from the rush of letting go. Merlin recognized it, because the same sudden, unexpected freedom sang through his own blood. Merlin’s hands slid across Arthur’s chest, up over his shoulders and to his neck, searching for any exposed skin. There was frustratingly little. Merlin pulled back from the human’s lovely mouth to pant against his lips, “you are wearing armor, human.” 

Arthur laughed, responding by peppering Merlin’s face with small kisses; on his lips, one for his chin, trailing across his jaw. When he reached his destination the prince bit gently on the slightly pointed shell of Merlin’s ear and purred, “Good thing you have magic isn’t it, fairy?”  

[ricardian-werewolf]

Take Me to War - Chapter II: Humbly beg the death upon my knee

Part I

Summary:

Cecily-Anne awakes in Ser Gwayne's tent and must come to terms with where she is in this new world. It is within it that she will come to form a new friendship and realize the depths of her grief.

TWs: Suicidial idealization, grief, child death, incest mention, abelism, mention of rape (though not committed)

Tag list: @lordbettany @fauxraven @rmelster

Cecily awoke to the clanking of chains. 

Chains, which by all accounts snaked around her wrists. Jangling them did nothing except force her to realise how tightly she was bound. In short, she was not a noblewoman kept here for her safety, but a prisoner. The thought and realisation filled her with fear. As a highborn woman, she was protected by a social code of purity - had she come through that cut wearing a serving woman’s gown, the horrors would be inconceivable. But seemingly on part of her fine dress of black velvets and wolf fur, she had been spared such horrors - for now. Raising her head, Cecily found her snood that held her hair back to have been torn off. Her braided coiffure tumbled down her shoulders. She had been tied to some sort of central tentpost and rested upon a woven rug bearing the image of a tower with green flames bursting from its roof.

Studying it, Cecily felt confusion rise in her. Not once at any point had she seen someone’s family heraldry bear such a symbol. As an avid studier of heraldry herself (Her own being the white stag of Richard II on an emerald green backing with ivy leaves at its feet). Lifting her head, she could hear the sounds of men carousing and making merry. Evidently the battle must have gone in their favour, perhaps?

As Cecily looked about once more, she noted the candles flickering in their sconces, settles upon which furs and rugs had been thrown to make a more comfortable space. A mirror and washbasin with a finely carved jug sat nearby. The mirror was a cut of fine glass backed (she assumed) in silver, and bore gold detailing. Whomever’s tent she was in was certainly wealthy. As she shuffled in a circle around the pole, Cecily noted the bed and its posters laid with yet more imagery of the same tower below her feet. She could only guess at the kind of fabric the bed-curtains were, though she assumed either satin or velvet. Cocking her head to one side once more, she heard the sound of two men arguing in what sounded like English, though it was certainly more heavily accented. A Northern twinge to it. Hope stirred in her chest, which she frantically squashed. No good Yorkshireman would ever have the daughter of the Lord of the North tied up like some common ne'er do-well. The tent flaps (made of stiffened oilcloth dyed deep green and edged in silver with goldwork thread made out to be tiny flames) parted and two men stepped in. One was more weary than the other, with dark hair and eyes. He carried a bottle of wine or spirits, which he uncorked and took a generous swig of. The other man spoke little, and as his shadow of a valet stepped into the room followed by squires of the body, Cecily watched. 

“What do we do with her, then, Ser Hightower?” The man hissed as he drank. The other - Ser Hightower, shrugged. Cecily froze as his eyes flitted to her, and she noted his age. Young, he was. Perhaps about ten-and-seven if not a year older. A knight, then? Of which order? She saw no familiar garter-belt about him or mantle-chain of office. He certainly wore spurs, yet not of gold but of burnished silver. Across his front of his chestplate was that same tower, and the name stuck.

Hightower. His name was of a noble family. Unlike Cecily-Anne who held no legal last name, she could say she was of House Plantagenet. Through both sets of her family, thanks to her parents being first cousins and ensuring a papal dispensation was needed to wed. Shaking her head silently, Cecily turned back to half-watching as the body-squires and barbers tended to this Ser Hightower.

Was he a poor knight then? No, his tent could not have been so lavishly furnished as such. Perhaps he was someone who preferred his material comforts over his godly ones. She wondered if he prayed as much as he ought to. What surprised her was no signs of crucifixes or depiction of the mother Mary or Holy Host. In fact, no priest had come to take Compline with the men or offer the Host in mass. Perhaps it was not yet Sunday. She did note however seven small figures in an alcove of the tent over which a glass image hung of a star with seven points.

“Have you no priest?” She spoke at last, coughing it out. Both men wheeled to look at her.

“W-what?” The first man asked. Cecily ignored him, holding Ser Hightower’s gaze.

“No, no Septons have been on this expedition, My lady.” 

Well at least he is not calling me a wench. Delightful. I wonder how this other man is faring, seeing as he is deep enough in his cups to call about a guard. 

“Septons?” She replied. “Of what order of clergy is a ‘Septon?’ “ Cocking her head again, Cecily sniffed. “One of the friars?”

“Nay, My lady.” Ser Hightower spoke again. “They are of our priestly order and raise poor boys to follow the faith.”

“So they do be priests.” She raised a brow. “Have you nuns?”

“Septas.” The other man coughed. “My lady.” He added after a long, cold pause. Cecily hungered to ignore such a slight, and settled herself back against the pole. “Tell me your conditions of capture, please.” She raised her head to glare at both men. 

“C-conditions of capture?” The other man murmured.

“We have no reason to view you as a prisoner, M’lady.” Ser Hightower spoke. “These ropes were to keep you from getting up and further injuring yourself.” He signalled to a squire who slashed through the ropes holding Cecily in place, and stepped back. Cecily rose to her feet unsteadily and gripped the tent-pole for support. Somehow, this did not feel right to her eyes and ears. Women such as herself in positions of little to no power when left with monstrous men, were often raped openly and if not that, brutally wounded, sold into slavery or worse evils. While she was Highborn as she had reminisced on earlier, her household did not exist in this place. She could not simply claim to be of some family either, seeing as she knew none of them.

“Leave us, Ser Cole. I have reason to speak to the lady alone.” Ser Hightower spoke to the other knight, who nodded. As he passed her, he turned his head and spat at her feet. Cecily’s hands balled into fists and she nearly moved to punch him. However, barely it seemed, she stayed her hand. 

As soon as Cole was gone - Cecily would have to watch her back - she found herself faced with Ser Hightower. The knight took a seat upon a settle piled high with furs and leaned one of his elbows on his portable writing desk. His emerald green eyes stared at her, and Cecily sat herself on a cushioned pouffe. Glancing down, she found her skirts to be torn and the velvet edging frayed.

“Once we reach King’s landing, I shall have my steward fetch you new clothes. There is a place near the port that sells very fine fabrics.” Hightower turned to his letter and Cecily shifted forward. She did not watch him per-se, but she was curious to see the writings of his hand in this foreign place. It seemed as though the people spoke English, but there was an accent to it that she had noted earlier.

“Oh..” She paused. “Thank you.” She inclined her head. Where was he going with this? She was only ten-and-five, he was ten-and-seven years. A proclamation of marriage had not been offered, at least not yet. Knights of noble households did not take strange women into their care. Perhaps he meant to replace her wardrobe before having her packed off to… a nunnery? She shuddered at the thought. Although there was none of her family left, she hoped to God that her grandmother would at least be going a little mad on her behalf.

The idea of Gran-mére Cecily tearing apart that nunnery for her brought Cecily-Anne the first relief she’d felt in days. She half expected the old woman to come charging through the tear she had stumbled through and rescue her. 

Sadly, that would not be the case. As soon as the letter had been dispatched to a place known as Oldtown, Cecily was re-shackled (for her safety according to Ser Hightower) and “gently” escorted from the tent by him to a waiting carriage on four wheels that looked nothing like any litter Cecily had ever sat in. Long, grand and consisting of no windows - which made her wonder what the blasted thing was like in summer - Cecily was put inside at once, her chains unshackled and dumped onto a soft bed of satin in that same deep green as everything else. The wood inside was dark oak with pearl inlay and heavy curtains were kept apart by splendid cords of gold.

Seated across from her was a woman, with white-blonde eyebrows and arresting violet eyes. Drenched in the same green as the curtains and bedspread, she almost seemed to disappear into the fabric. The door opened again and Ser Hightower stuck his head in. 

“Apologies, Your Grace. This is the lady I wrote to you of. Her name is…”

Cecily swore under her breath. The bastard had not asked her name!

“Cecily-Anne, Duchess of Gloucester.” Cecily rubbed her hands together. And princess royal, lady of Middleham, etc. She added silently to herself. 

“Lady Cecily-Anne.” The woman spoke, inclining her head. She had a nervous air to her, but one not unfriendly or unkind. Cecily noted her hair tucked into a heart-shaped hennin adorned with a crown of gold and emerald stones. 

“I am Queen Helaena Targaryen. Ser Gwayne; my uncle, has elected you to be my lady in waiting…. As my family believes I am no longer able to care for myself and require more proper… feminine company.” 

Her slow way of speech would have concluded to Cecily that this woman was slow or stupid, had she not been much the same. Cecily gave a gentle smile in return and inclined her head. 

“I thank you for this acceptance, your Grace.”

Reaching across the expanse of space, Helaena squeezed Cecily’s hands tight in her own and gave the other woman a beaming smile. “You are the first light of life I have felt since my son was killed. Please, call me any name you so wish.” Helaena giggled, the grief in her eyes fading a little with each passing moment. 

At that second, the wheels of the litter jerked into motion and they were off. From the patterned lattice screens surrounding the litter - or wheelhouse as Cecily learned it was called - she began to see Westeros in all of its late summer glory. Gwayne and his retinue of knights accompanied the carriage on its slow procession from the battle of Rook's Rest back towards the capital. To pass the time, Cecily found herself falling into the role of ladies maid as Véronique de Crécy had been to her mother, with ease. Helaena was an easy soul to charm and adored nothing more than kindness and attention. Her fascination with bugs and propensity to say the most hilarious things off the cuff had Cecily relaxed within moments. Cecily delighted in showing off her new gowns that were going to be sent, and listening to Helaena speak all about her children and her dragon, Dreamfyre.

“Do Targareyens really place a dragon egg in the cradle of their babies?” Cecily breathed as she and Helaena sampled a picnic lunch packed by one of the cooks. She simply couldn’t believe that dragons existed, and that the lady she was now serving had one as her steed!

“Indeed.” Helaena replied with shocked cheerfulness. “Do you not have dragons where you are from?”

“Nay, they’re just stories.” Cecily answered as she bit into a hard-boiled egg smeared with summer mustard. She examined the grapes on her platter, dark purple ones with a seductively sweet bite when chewed. “Are these not for wine?” She examined them in turn.

“Yes, but they’re my favourites. Aegon says I have a confuddled taste and concedes it is due to something happening before I was born.”

“And Aegon is…?” Cecily paused in sipping her wine.

“My brother.” Helaena responded as she smeared more preserves onto her bread slice. “And my husband.” She added as Cecily bit into her selection of preserved salted pork. Cecily coughed, half bent over as she struggled to process the words she was hearing. 

“By the saints!” She breathed. “I-is that not violation of some rule of incest your…” She paused. “My parents were first cousins, but the idea of my father marrying my aunt…” She shook her head. “How does your church not think it sinful?”

“The Seven turned a blind eye to it.” Helaena explained. “It is… strange. He is my brother and I have born him three children and lost one. Yet, I know naught else. My mother who you shall meet as soon as we reach the Red Keep married the king. Her father was the king’s right hand and she was only ten and five at the youngest!” She bit down on a pickle as she spoke and winced at the sour taste. “Eugh. Aegon says these are good for my health. I detest them.”

“May I?” Cecily asked, holding out her hand. The jar of pickles was passed to her and in reciprocity, Cecily handed Helaena the stewed plums. She hated plums with a passion and gobbled up the pickles. All of this was washed down with sweet wine sweetened with strawberry syrup. For afters were sugared violets and little balls of fried dough filled with flavoured preserves. 

It seemed like no time at all before they were back on the road and rolling over more of the dirt-packed and stone-riddled expanse of Westeros. “What reason is there for such large carriages?” Cecily asked as she watched the candle-lamp swing from side to side. A darkening sky heralded a storm with the crack of lightning. The sight of it flashing across the heavens reminded Cecily of an earlier time, another place where she had sat in her bedroom window up in the western tower of Middleham Castle. Rubbing against her arm then had been Ned, her dark haired, freckled twin. He had clutched her hand tight in his and the two of them had held their breaths. 

Their father had said that if one counted the time between the flash and bang of thunder, they could determine the location and direction of a storm. Then, there had been the waiting period and the yelps of joy both of them had let out when the proverbial bang did come. The flash of lighting across the night sky that one summer where Ned hadn’t been as sickly had made his dark eyes turn milk-white. It was as if the stars they had loved to create constellations of their own had taken her brother’s soul for a single, shining moment. 

Then those stars had faded, gone out like candles in the night. He was up there now, dancing amongst those beautiful, alien lights. Him and Maman and Papa. And Cecily was down here, stuck somewhere between Heaven and Hell. She pressed her hands to her forehead and began to weep. 

“Oh..” Helaena breathed. She had settled down for the night with her pet snake, which she now replaced in its basket and crept over to Cecily. “What is it? Did the lightning frighten you?” She asked, her voice so maternal and soft that Cecily only wept harder. Fetching a blanket from the bed, Helaena drew the material around Cecily’s shoulders and pulled it tight, then leaned against her.

“I noticed you do not like to be touched. Neither do I. I think this should help.” She explained. Cecily sniffled, and reached her hand hesitantly towards Helaena, who after a moment, gave it a bone-crushing squeeze. “My mother, father and twin brother are all dead.” She confessed in a whisper. “I was reminded of them with the lightning storm.” She hiccuped. “My father died only ‘ere this morn, and my mother went this past April. My brother went in the winter. He was only ten.” 

“You said you are ten-and-five, yes?” 

“Yes.” Cecily coughed. 

“I am truly sorry for your loss, sweet girl. W-when women like us know loss such as this at such young ages, it can be difficult to bear. My son Maelor was murdered in his cradle by assassins. I was forced to choose between him and his older brother.” She squeezed Cecily’s hand again. “I wonder often if the Seven do wish to test my faith and my love for my children with such horrors. I have wondered also why I do not go mad. You must be too.” She looked into Cecily’s eyes and the other woman recoiled in understanding.

“Y-yes.” Indeed, Cecily did wonder why she had not gone mad. Some days it felt like a good, merciful thing to do. Allowing herself to go mad would have meant her father could put her away somewhere. It would allow her a quiet death at her hands or the ones of her guard. Yet the church said to take one’s own life was sin. Did God not look upon her and Helaena and understand their pains? Was this just one test in many they were set to face?

Another flash of lightning, another boom of thunder. The door to the wheel-house opened and Gwayne poked his head in. In the low candlelight with the two women wrapped in blankets, he swore they looked like witches come to cast some spell upon him and this country.

“Your Grace.” He inclined his head. “My lady. We will be stopping for the night on account of the weather. The wheelhouse will keep you dry.” He nodded at Cecily. “If you need anything, please use the bell cord and I shall have a maid sent.”

“How big is this carriage?” Cecily asked after Gwayne had left. Helaena had turned to lighting the candles, which cast a warm golden glow over the room, and turned to face her. “It is large enough to carry us, a retinue of servants, luggage, a garde-robe and kitchens. In short, it is a moving palace.”

“Remarkable.” Cecily was amazed. “Where I hail from our wheel-houses are able to only carry perhaps one noble lady and her children. It is closed by wooden slats and drawn by horses.”

“Draft-horses?”

“Nay, we use others. At least I believe so.” Cecily replied as she rang the bell-cord. A maid came in, richly dressed and curtsied. ‘M’lady.” She had the comforting accent of a northern English woman, and Cecily started. It seemed that her homeland was seeping into this place in more ways than she expected.

“I would like to be readied for bed, please.”

“If ‘er ladyship wishes to follow ‘me, ‘ll ‘ave ‘er ready in no time.” The maid paused. “‘beggin your pardon, m’lady.” The maid curtsied. “‘Er Grace allows us to be much more open about our appearance and mannerisms as ‘he ‘mall folk.”

“Smallfolk?” Cecily inquired. “Ah. Common-people.” She surmised, and rubbed her hands together. “Well, As Her Grace’s lady in waiting, I am inclined to ‘gree.” Her voice was slipping back into its older more rough-and-tumble northern accent with the French roots and Latin pronouncements.

 It felt like home. 

Helaena gave her a warm smile, and for the first time since arriving into this strange land of dragons and politics, Cecily smiled back. No malice or pain shone in her eyes, and she found herself beginning to feel at home more than perhaps she had ever been since her brother and mother had died. 

As she crossed herself and knelt before her bed, the rosary-chain in her hand, she prayed silently to her mother once more.

Maman, Thank you for bringing me to a place as close to home as I can be. I hope that you and Ned and Papa are happy, wherever you are. She opened her eyes and glanced at Helaena who was talking to her snake. And keep a little Targaryen boy in your sights. I feel as though he and Ned would make wonderful playmates. 

Cecily crossed herself again and rose to her feet. She returned the crucifix and rosary to her pocket, then clambered into the turned down bed. She watched as the maids reached for tapers to extinguish the candles, and in the darkness, mused on one thing that had been made apparent by a mere day’s travel.

Ser Gwayne Hightower had been the lever and servant to her whims and had accepted them wholeheartedly. She had him to thank for her position. In the morn, perhaps she would ask the cook in this carriage to make him something sweet. Until then, she would sleep, and dream of boys with brown hair and freckles like stars, and somewhere out there, a mother who held her close. 

Somewhere out there also was a father who had died in a battle to keep his throne, and one who deserved to know she was at peace.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Identity Pt 7

Part (7) of Identity, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Yuh know... there are chapters that are just so much harder to write because I elected to keep Doc unnamed... I'm standing by that decision, but that doesn't mean I won't bitch about it on occasion

Warnings: Flashbacks/PTSD, description of torture, loads of angst, reference to gore, profanity, self-deprecating thoughts

WC: 3,926

“So much for keeping that squad of yours off my back.”

He’d already removed his helmet before I’d entered, yet my gaze still settled blindly on the dark transparasteel shielded beneath the extended ridge of his visor, attention absently noting how clearly the burnt orange reflected atop the polished surface of his pale desk, and I found myself remembering the immaculate attire boasted by those at the gala, how carefully the droids had been prepared for display, void of even a scuff of dust, yet Cody had made no effort to hide the marks left upon him by war.

So much of that brilliant orange had been worn and chipped away that the rays of light adorning his chestplate were nearly unrecognizable absent the memory of how clearly they once shone. Even the base white yielded to the grey of raw composite below from constant wear and abuse. He could have it repainted or replaced, could elect for a separate set entirely to keep pristine for these moments between battles, but he stood before me with no thought wasted toward such excess. He’d earned every scar carved into flesh and armor alike, and he wore them with neither pride nor shame but with the simple acceptance that they were a part of him.

My chest hitched at the belated realization that he’d spoken, that I’d been silent long enough to prompt him to call my name with a hesitant concern, brows drawing slightly together as his head ducked slightly to study me with eyes that I knew had seen the death of thousands of brothers yet still held such kindness. I gave a quick nod, tongue slipping over my lips in preparation for a response I hadn’t yet thought of.

“I think Wolffe has more to worry about from them than you do.” I offered, body shifting back to attention as though it might make up for how heavily my voice fell in something far closer to a mutter than a proper reply. Drawing in a quick breath, I tried to force some composure over myself, determined to dispel the commander’s worries.

“The initial stage of the mission went smoothly – I met with the contact and acquired the datachip, and reported a significant portion of the Separatist defenses to Commander Wolffe through the comm in the bracelet.” Cody didn’t move as I spoke, arms relaxed at his sides, gaze still focused on me, and I found myself wondering if he was searching for any sign that I’d been compromised; that I was damaged beyond further use to the GAR and unfit to return to my unit, and that thought was enough to send my heart racing, nerves lighting with fresh anxiety until my fingers tensed with the need to fidget.

“You’re not on trial here.” He murmured suddenly, and I froze, unsure if I felt caught – trapped – or if I could allow myself a taste of comfort offered in the gentleness of his voice, the softness of his eyes. Still, I cursed the way my breath threatened to shake. “I’ve seen soldiers with more years on the battlefield than you break from that kind of torture… It’s okay to struggle with what happened.” I wanted to turn away, to hide from everything he saw when he looked at me in that moment, and I was almost shocked at the anger that warmed my chest, unsure if it stemmed from some want to prove him wrong or simply from needing to prove to myself that it hadn’t broken me.

“I appreciate that, Commander. All the same…” I knew he gleaned no reassurance from the mediated determination forced into words spoken with far more strength than I felt, but pushed myself to continue regardless. “After the exchange, I continued patrolling. A woman took notice of me.” My lips twitched into the beginnings of a scowl at my ignorance in that moment but refused to let myself stop. “I’m afraid I never got her name, but I later learned that she was the one who orchestrated the gala; that she… handpicked each of the members in attendance.” I knew Wolffe’s report would have detailed all of this; that nothing I’d told him offered new insight, but such was the nature of debriefing: hearing the same story told from different mouths in search of any sign variation, for the smallest detail that might have only been noticed by accident in the hopes that it could reveal something profound.

“She asked me to dance. I attempted to decline but came to the conclusion that doing so might draw too much attention. Afterwards, the speaker was introduced – the same woman who’d approached me. She insisted I accompany her to the podium, which I now understand was her way of keeping me from leaving. Her speech had barely started when an explosion blew out the back wall.” The scent of ozone and burnt hair lingered beneath the subtle staleness of the ship’s recycled air.

“I understand you sustained some injuries from that explosion.” He prompted after a moment’s pause, and I gave another quick nod.

“Suspected concussion, some burns and bruises.” The brief, itemized response left me absent any emotion, thoughts sifting through the snips I could only barely remember; bodies undoubtedly void of life beside those vying to escape still burning debris; screams reverberating throughout a ceiling designed to echo music not the sounds of agony filling that elaborate hall. “Maybe a dozen guards surrounded the speaker. I couldn’t see her status, but she must have been alert enough to talk. One of them approached me. I was too disoriented to move, and they sedated me.”

I didn’t notice that he’d moved until he called my name, eyes flicking back up to find him now seated in the chair behind his desk, and part of me recognized exactly what he was doing; wanted to snap at him for thinking I needed such a rote example of physical de-escalation, shout my insult at his hope that some ancient part of my brain would recognize his laxed stance and find enough comfort in it that I might mimic him, but I could feel how quickly my heart raced, noted the stiff movement of my chest around too-shallow breaths, and I knew why he’d felt the need to try.

My gaze dropped to the chair beside me, hand hesitantly shifting to rest atop the pale plastoid. I imagined myself pulling it out enough to slip into the seat, thought of what posture might be most appropriate when finding oneself across from one of the highest ranking members of the GAR, and then I remembered how my body had strained against the reclined seat in that filthy cell, robbed of leverage and hope and autonomy, and I quietly let my hand return to my side.

“I’m not sure how long I was unconscious.” I continued as though nothing had happened, pointedly forcing my attention back to him. “I was restrained when I woke up. A man was already attempting to interrogate me. I-” My voice caught, jaw freezing at the memory of his callused fingers gripping me hard enough for the bone to ache. Breath fleeing lightly parted lips in a huff, I couldn’t keep myself from turning away once more, studying walls not tarnished with dirt and blood and all manner of nightmares.

“He wanted to know who was responsible for the explosion, then asked general things about me: my name, where I’m from.”

“What did you tell him?” I didn’t even try to look at him again, though I couldn’t dismiss my reluctant gratitude at how quietly he spoke, how free his voice was of any judgement or disappointment. My head shook before I could form an actual answer.

“I didn’t… I didn’t say anything.” The words felt weird as they dragged up my throat, as though my body was going through the motions of speech before my mind could anticipate the sensation of anything other than the burn of frigid water. “Then he put a cloth over my head.” I didn’t want to hear it. “Turned on a… spigot or… I don’t know – I couldn’t see where the water came from.” But my lips kept moving despite how my chest threatened to lock around what precious air filled my lungs. “He didn’t… It wouldn’t stop.” I remembered not being able to tell up from down as that icy liquid poured over me, remembered that first rush of true panic.

Again, Cody called my name, but that earlier softness was gone, replaced with something firmer, commanding, and it was just enough to rip my attention away from the deafening sound of crashing water. He wasn’t sitting anymore, stance rigid, hand clasped about the corner of his desk as though he’d paused midway to me.

“I want you to take a slow breath and tell me where we are.” He ordered, and only then did I realize how quickly my diaphragm bucked with rushed gasps. Shame sent heat up my neck and across my cheeks as I caught my lip between my teeth in an effort to force some control back over myself. Still, it took several seconds before I could bring myself to speak, breathing only just quieting.

“The Negotiator.” I answered roughly, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice, the disdain for my own weakness, but he drew no attention to either as he visibly eased the tension from his stance.

“Good.” There was no trace of condescension in that murmured word, and something about that left me feeling even more defeated, shoulders innately trying to tuck into my chest. “We’ll stop there for now. Take a day. Tend your injuries. We can finish this later.” My teeth ground against the violent rebuke sitting atop my tongue, mind balking at the thought of delaying this, of trying to walk away with that impending conversation looming over me.

“I’m fine. We can finish this now.” I stated firmly, expression pinched into something I hoped illustrated my determination rather than my fear. He didn’t respond for several, long seconds, but finally yielded with a slow exhale before motioning me to continue. I had to swallow back the stiffness in my throat, resettle the weight between my feet to convince my back to straighten.

“I was rendered unconscious.” Empty words, carefully void of all trace of emotion lest they cripple me. “The cloth was still over my eyes when I came to. The man immediately attempted to question me again – asking my name, who I worked with.” My head flinched at the ghost of water droplets hitting my forehead. “He repeatedly demanded I tell him who ordered the attack and who the primary target was.”

“Did you tell him about Commander Wolffe’s presence there?” Again, his voice fell into a gentle whisper, tiptoeing around the edge of pushing me too far, and part of me tried to remember that I should have rebelled against being coddled like that, but I merely shook my head in reply. “What did you tell him?” He asked softly. Something shouted at me to remain silent – to say nothing lest I reveal everything.

“I don’t know.” I muttered, faltering thoughts straining to remember who I was speaking with despite the rancid scent of filth filling the room that was somehow too light and too dark at the same time. “I… I said I didn’t know.” I clarified, neck seizing as I tried to swallow against the sudden dryness of my mouth. “And he’d… every time I did, he’d…” I choked around an attempt to clear my throat, eyelids straining to blink away the memory of that black fabric trapping me in utter darkness. “He’d pull the mask back down and… he’d wait until I was just about to pass out before turning the water off.” Something about my voice sounded wrong… drawn too thin… like my lungs were being stretched, squeezed.

“Did you tell him anything about the GAR’s involvement? Or the contact you were sent to meet with?” Again, I merely shook my head, unsure if my eyes were closed or if I’d feel that harsh fabric upon drawing my fingers over my face, and the sensation of cloth against my skin ruined me.

In an instant, my torso curled forward, hand clawing at my hair to rip away that wretched sack, my other arm thrashing against whatever held it trapped to my chest in sharp, desperate jerks that sent agony tearing through the joint. I couldn’t understand that the cloth I’d felt was from my own glove, that my arm was held fast by a split rather than those cruel restraints; that the frigid liquid soaking into my blacks was sweat as panic ripped all memory of thought from my mind.

The depth of familiarity that should have accompanied the voice echoing around me was muted beneath how violently my heart slammed against my ribs, the wheezed keening of frantic breaths stolen in what little time I knew lingered before that putrid water would again fill my lungs.

Something touched my arm, and my body reacted in a feral rush of terror, legs snapping out to launch myself away with enough force to nearly rip that coveted air from me at the powerful impact of my back slamming into the wall, and still I felt myself straining to escape, to vanish, feet pressing into the front of my boots until my toes ached.

“…otiator… safe…” Snips of words that held no meaning echoed amidst demands screaming from the shadows, questions I couldn’t answer laced between an icy guilt of knowing I was no better than the man torturing me.

“…eed you t…”

I couldn’t tell who was screaming, stomach churning at the scent of flesh burnt by blaster fire and explosions, and I sobbed at the knowledge that nothing I could do would get the bleeding to stop in time, that I deserved the hatred in his eyes in that first moment that understanding dawned on him even as his life slipped through my fingers.

“…member where… not…”

The shriek of my pistol morphed into his cries, and I realized I’d never bothered to note where his fingers had fallen, only felt the relief of watching him tumble closer and closer to breaking, to telling me what I needed to know, and I felt sickened at the certainty that the man in that cell had felt that same exhilaration granted by what self-deception promised us that fault lie only with the one refusing to answer our questions… how easy it was to believe that our cruelty was justified…

My body shied from a touch I should have known without thought, deaf to gentle words and blind to the concern darkening eyes I’d found comfort in so many times before. In that moment, however, I couldn’t remember the safety once so inherent to his presence, nerves screaming with a terror I had no hope of freeing myself from. He didn’t shy in the face of my panic, touch following me with a quiet persistence untainted by the impatient indifference that had left my jaw bruised and tugged so roughly at the sack clinging to my face between shouted questions, and, for that reason only, I found myself hesitating.

Trembling violently against a chill that no longer sank into my bones from fabric left soaked by hours of torture, I found myself again trying to find something beyond the memory of that almost perfect darkness, wide eyes darting all around for some glimpse of a reality that was lost to me.

“…d… don’t kn… I… I don’t know…” Was that my voice?

“Shh, just look at me, Doc.” Something swept carefully along the ridge of my cheekbone, and I felt myself flinch sharply away even as my mind longed to cling to the tenderness of that touch.

“N… I-I d…” Ruined, broken fragments of pleading words that I knew would bring me no relief stammered from lips shaking too violently to attempt real speech. Someone called my name, and I felt myself sob at the fleeting warmth laced through a smoky voice I so desperately wanted to remember.

“Just look at me, cyare… I’m right here…” I could feel the heat of his words washing over my cheek. There was no lingering stench of stale beer nor rancid sweat, no overwhelming taste of copper from old blood, and that didn’t make sense amidst the certainty of what nightmares engulfed me. “Good… that’s good…” He murmured, fingers shifting ever so slightly through my hair, and I couldn’t fight the shiver that swept down my spine. “I want you to try to breathe with me, Doc… nice and slow…” Was I looking at him? I couldn’t tell. My head swam, vision too blurry to make out more than churning colors… but… even that was different, brighter than the devouring darkness that had robbed me of all sense of self.

I vaguely understood that I was still pinning myself against the wall, fingers tangled into my hair as though it might keep that mask from blinding me again, that I’d slid down so far as to nearly be curled in a ball against the corner; that the man speaking so gently to me had lowered himself onto a knee at my side, callused hands delicate in how he cradled my face between them, how he wordlessly wiped away the line of tears falling from my eyes, and I somehow noted the slow rise of shoulders broadened by that familiar, dark armor illustrating his own mediated breaths.

“Come on, Doc… breathe.” It wasn’t a command. He was begging me. There was a whisper of logic reminding me of the dangers of hyperventilating – the way that imbalance of oxygen and carbon dioxide impairs cognitive function, how it increases blood pH and causes systemic upheaval; remembered that he could hear how quickly my heart was racing, smell the adrenaline flooding my veins. My hand tentatively shifted, fingertips just skimming the thick tendons lining his wrist, and I saw how quickly he stilled at my touch.

“H… Hunter?” I could barely whisper his name, only then realizing my eyes had locked onto his, and the way his body sank with a relief that should have left me ashamed only worked to further drive away dreams that I knew would haunt me for years to come. In that moment, though, I allowed myself to focus only on the man before me as his hand trailed lightly through my hair.

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s me.” He sighed, shifting his weight thoughtlessly in silent invitation, and I needed no further incentive, feet scrambling even as my legs folded uselessly beneath me, hand abandoning his wrist in favor of darting toward him for my arm to lock around the back of his neck in an effort to drag me closer. He didn’t hesitate, embrace instantly drawing me flush against his chest, and I sobbed at the familiar earthiness of his scent.

“I’ve got you, cyare… I’ve got you.” Another shiver tore through me at the warmth of his words fluttering atop my scalp, and I pressed myself harder against him because of it, the hand still trapped by that splint latching uselessly about the lip of his armor. “Alright… Just breathe, Doc… You’re alright…” How could I not melt into his touch at the softness in his voice, air fleeing me in a shuttered huff before forcing some steadiness into the next inhale, if only to hear the quiet “Good” whisper past his lips once more.

He made no effort to rush me as that panic gradually quelled, moving only to ease me closer against him as he leaned back to unfurl his leg, and I tried to ignore the static prickling up my own legs at nerves reawakened by the subtle change. I wondered if he was listening to the gradual slowing of my heart, if he was torn between the want to ask endless questions I was too frightened to answer or if he was too busy pushing back plumes of anger that the mission had clearly gone so wrong, forcing him to pick up the pieces… and then I felt that shame.

Body tensing, I couldn’t help but pull away from him slightly, head falling to my chest as my teeth burred into my lip. I could see his attention shift, gaze studying me expectantly though he kept purposefully silent. Cheeks warming as understanding finally dawned on me, as I realized just how deeply I’d broken and where, I stole only a quick glance around us, half expecting to find Cody watching with arms crossed about his chest and a knowing darkness in his eyes, but I saw no one else in the room.

“Cody’s outside with Wolffe.” Hunter explained quietly, and my brows drew together in confusion.

“Wolffe?” I asked, voice still too unsteady to keep from breaking.

“Cody called us both. I just got here first.” He explained, thumb absently dancing against my back. I took a moment to make sense of his words before a tiny huff of laughter escaped me, and my arms instantly tightened around him once more, but this time the gesture was driven by an affection I couldn’t bring myself to try to explain. I knew how far away the hanger was; could guess how much time had passed since I’d said my farewells to my old Commander, and I didn’t doubt just how hard Hunter had pushed himself if he reached me before Wolffe could.

At that, he paused slightly before returning the embrace. While that brief note of mirth was a desperately needed reprieve, it quickly ceded in light of the still wretched truth evident in the very need that had brought him so swiftly to me. I’d crumbled beneath the weight of all the horrors I’d done in those past weeks, beneath the horrors that had been done to me. There was no hiding from that truth; no means of denying the display of devastation and fear that had overcome me in front of the damn Marshall Commander himself… and a new fear brought back the ghostly chill that was so eager to whisper through my chest.

“Is… is Cody going to…” I couldn’t finish, my tentative grasp on control already threatening to cave at the mere thought of being discharged from the GAR because of this. It took him a moment to understand what I was asking, but then he answered me absent hesitation or doubt.

“No.” He leaned back just enough to meet my eyes, hand cupping the back of my head to keep my gaze turned toward him that I might see the conviction fueling his words. “He knows things have been… hard lately… and then this… but he’s leaving that decision up to me, and I’m not ready to let you go yet… Not unless that’s what you want.” He added, head ducking down slightly in an unspoken question. Unable to even try to respond, I quickly shook my head, overwhelmed by a relief I hadn’t begun to let myself hope for. He let out a carefully slowed breath before pulling me against him once more, and I finally managed to feel the stretch of air filling my lungs, the warmth of a safety somehow still untouched by a lifetime of terror, and I knew I would never be able to find the words to tell him just how much he meant to me, how desperately I needed him, so I merely hugged him harder.

Next Chapter

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[autumnslance]

Year of the OTP - July 2023 - Stars

(More Shadowbringers timeline, have some yearning during a key early moment. Original prompt list Here. 2 sections, 2 screenshots, 850ish words nearly evenly split between 2 POVs.)

Thancred cooked over a small fire as Minfilia imbued his ammunition. There was a sudden pressure in his ears, on his shoulders. The sky rippled…

…and broke.

The oppressive Light evaporated like clouds of steam, plunging the world into darkness. Minfilia shrieked, the cartridges tumbling from her hands. “Thancred?!”

He couldn’t answer immediately, staring up, the stinging wetness in his eyes not from the campfire smoke.

The moon shone down, a gleaming disk of silver. Stars scattered across the velvety darkness, blinking and winking like old friends. And they were, he realized, recognizing constellations memorized to help comrades with their Astrology studies once upon a time.

“Thancred, is this…night?”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he managed hoarsely. “The night sky, the moon and stars.”

She hugged herself. “Then this means…”

“She’s here,” Thancred whispered. His heart tried to beat through his chestplate, his pulse in his ears, echoing: she’s here, she’s here, she’s here, she’s here!

“We have to find her,” Minfilia said, crystal-blue gaze turning from the sky to the shadowed woodline.

“We will,” Thancred replied. “But first we need to pick up those cartridges and eat.”

His mind spun while his heart continued to do backflips behind his sternum. Five years of dreaming, of longing, and Aeryn was here. Had much time passed for her as well? Or was it as the Exarch’s mirror showed, and she was the same as she had been their last night together in Ala Mhigo?

Aeryn’s hair falling in midnight waves down her back, her eyes shining silver in amusement at his jokes and teasing, the lilt of her accent followed by her laughter, the scent of the white violas she wore in her hair, the soft touch of her skin against his, the heat between them keeping the chill of the highland night at bay…

Thancred let out a sigh, hardly noticing his meal, vaguely aware of Minfilia watching him.

Five years in this harsh realm had changed him; would it be too much? Would Aeryn still recognize him? Still want him?

He ought to be sure of the answer; he knew her well enough. But that ever-present voice in the back of his head whispered warnings as always. One would think he’d be able to ignore his self-doubt by now.

“Let’s clean up and break camp,” he said, dousing the fire. Minfilia whined at the loss of light. “Your eyes will adjust; it’s a lovely night, for the first this world’s seen in far too long.”

Thancred paused to look at the sky again. She’s here.

—

Aeryn looked up at the sky again, the familiar moon and constellations looking back, comforting after their absence.

She had only been in the First for a little over a fortnight, the lack of change each day disorienting and the constant press of Light wearisome. How much stranger it must be for the people of the First, who had never seen the night, never known the natural rhythmic shifts in time and weather and the beauty of the true sky!

Alphinaud also kept pausing to look up and smile, his relief and happiness palpable. So many other people as they walked by were staring up, talking to one another in excitement, unable to tear their eyes from the starscape above. There were many tears, prayers and songs of thanks even before they entered the city proper.

As they passed through the checkpoint, the Exarch quietly spoke to a guard. “Any word from Thancred?”

Are you seeing the stars too?

Was Thancred nearby? Had he seen the Light split away and wonder why, or did he know what this meant? Was he even in Lakeland, or in another part of the realm where Light still billowed and swirled above? Did he yet care, or had the years he had spent here—years!—dull his affections? What of this companion the Exarch had mentioned?

“Not yet, my lord.”

The moonlight had streamed in through the window of her room in Ala Mhigo, the stars twinkling, their light making Thancred’s fair hair practically glow as they had lounged in the bed, talking and joking, laughing and teasing. His hands had been warm on her skin as they cunningly explored her, his voice low and sending shivers down her spine. His mismatched eyes had glimmered in amusement, the line of his mouth crooking into a smile before leaning in to kiss her again, drawing her close to his warmth against the night’s chill.

The next day his body lay frighteningly still and silent, everything that made him Thancred…gone.

She could count the time in mere sennights and moons. But he had been here without the moon and stars, without her, for five entire years.

Do you know that I’m here? Do you still care? Do you see the stars?

“Aeryn,” Alphinaud called, pausing with the Exarch at the head of the bridge leading into the Crystarium.

She turned her face from the sky to smile at her companions as she rejoined them.

I’m here, her heart silently called. And I brought you the stars. Do you see them? Do you see me?

[lucatielenjoyer]

Further Elaboration upon the Four

so recently, someone gave a damn near poetic response to my post asking if I should speak of my boys, and so I shall answer some of the questions about them that weren't super elaborated on in the original two posts.

Lysandre tends to wear the Elite Knight armor, due to his trying to pass himself off as an Astoran knight. He still uses his knife, but also has the Rapier of the Undead Prince Ricard in order to keep appearances. Patches would tell you the man was a schemer- a dishonest and opportunistic creature. Let not his words deceive you, for he still becomes cross with those who would agree. Lysandre cared a great deal for Rhea of Thorolund- to the point of murdering Petrus for what he did- and mourned her loss to the paledrake as though she were his whole world. Given how he learned all the miracles she knew despite having no aptitude for them, perhaps she was.

Mardus wore the armor of the Darkwraiths, as well as the Warlock's helm. Their darker nature appealed to him, made him feel more adept in his practices. Despite his inclination to darker magics, he held Lucatiel and Lenigrast close to his heart, as dear friends. Possibly more, in the Knightess' case, although he doesn't talk about it much. He was a boisterous man, even before his learning of Hexes, and was not very humble, even by the standards of sorcerers. After Lucatiel's death, however, he became much more subdued. It is said that in his travels after abandoning the Throne of Want, he wears the armor of a traveling Mirran knight and carries an odd mask with him. Despite clearly being a Gentleman's dueling mask, he says it belonged to someone named Lucatiel, imploring all who hear such things to remember her name.

Genguchi, being unabashedly blind in his faith in the ways of old. wears the gauntlets of the famed Dragonslayer Ornstein. His chestplate having belonged to the Holy Knight Hodrick, his greaves those of the great Paladin Alva. The only thing not belonging to a great holy warrior is his helmet, that of an unremarkable knight. His shield is not unlike those you would find in the sunless realms, and his sword one that despite appearances, carries a great deal of holy power. He cares greatly for all who he has met, but demonstrates a particular fondness for any who were once prisoners, namely the Witch Karla, the saintess Irina, and the thief Greirat.

Argus, for the most part, retains his loyalties and attitudes from the time before Tarnished were even a concept. His admiration for Radahn is seen in the fact that he wears the Demigod's Armor, or at least a very finely made replica. His respect for Godfrey is seen in the fact that every so often, one can find portraits of the former Elden Lord on the moonlit plateau, painted by a shaky hand and steadily getting closer and closer to the true likeness of the First Tarnished. Once in a while, those who dare to explore the Haligtree find bouquets of flowers in a secluded spot, near a body that seems to have been there for a relatively short amount of time. Letters of apology are always there, too, addressed from someone named "A" to the woman, calling her "The Daughter he Never had". And sometimes, at stormveil castle, cold gusts of wind will work their way to the throne room, reminding the Lady of the Castle of a great Warrior and the conquests in which they shared.

I'll talk more about them later as well, obviously, but this is like a part one of the extended lore

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

they say i killed you (haunt me then)

Aemond Targaryen x ofc Wylla Karstark

chapter 13: Sweetest Kill

masterlist | taglist | ao3

Fanfare burst forth, a loud trumpeting beat, and all eyes turned forward toward the pitch. Leading out the competitors was Aegon astride his horse, his crown sitting proud atop his golden head, the rubies gleaming as the sun broke through the clouds once again. He wore heavy plate armor, the metal burnished black. Both pauldrons were the shape of dragons, adding an element of elegance. Carved against the chestplate were scales meant to mimic that of a dragon, and the cape he wore was black, the inside lined in gold. One gloved hand rested on the hilt of Blackfyre as he smiled at the crowd. Beside her, Abby sighed. Behind him was Aemond and Wylla felt her breath catch in her lungs, her eyes widening at the sight of him. He looked lean in his light plate armor, the same shade of black as his brother’s. The neck was high, sitting just below his chin, the edge of each slim plate lined in gold, his silver hair worn in a single plait down his back. There was something barely constrained about him, as if somehow the Children of the Forest had gotten ahold of him, changing him, making him wild. She watched him flex his gloved hands against the reins of his mount and when her own eyes darted back to his face, she found he had already pinned her with his gaze, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth as he drank in the sight of her.  This time, the sigh was her own as heart curled low in her belly.  Alicent stiffened from the other side of the queen. Everyone had noticed that the king was not in the royal box, but had simply assumed Aegon was late, as he was wont to be on occasion. Wylla glanced to her left and found the Queen Mother’s face as pale as the moon, her eyes wide, her fingers clutching the arms of her chair. “What is he doing?” She whispered, the sound harsh, but small. “Be calm, my lady,” Lynara murmured in that way of hers, in the way she had all through Wylla’s youth when Beron’s anger had felt too much to bear. “He’s just doing what men do.” “He is the king,” Alicent stressed, as if the idea was lost on all but her, as if no one else could grasp the concept that harm could befall him, that a spy for his sister could be lying in wait to drive a sword through his belly.

read the rest here on ao3

taglist: @jadore-andor @emilykaldwen @magpie-to-the-morning @dragonsbone @arrthurpendragon @ocappreciation @fyeahgotocs @songsonacliffside @vulpinespectacle

[wanderingmirror]

The cabin was old. But warm and cozy. It was summer on this planet. The trees full and green. Birds chirping in the distance as the window allowed a cold breeze to flow into the cabin. The curtains fluttered in it's grasp. The living room had a fireplace bracketed by a love seat and an arm chair with a coffee table in the middle. All around the room hung pictures of a long forgotten time in history. Of soldiers who looked alike, of monks with abilities beyond the imagination. Of villains and plots filled with darkness and destruction.

The sound of dishes being done in the kitchen were the only noise outside of the birds. The kitchen was clean, counters empty of anything not meant to be there. At the sink stood a man with a scarred appearance. Dark skin with an amber eye. The other a milky white in appearance but really it was a cybernetic. A final gift from an old friend cut down by betrayal. The hands freeze for a moment at that memory before they continue the mindless work. Once dark brown hair was now grey, still routinely shaved across the sides and bottom of the head. Braided to reach the center of the man's back though it was moved to rest over the left shoulder.

The face was the most scarred out of the body. The result of a cannon blast that grazed him. Melting his armor and burning his body. His teeth were visible, the scar going across his eye and towards his scalp. His lips were saved but the cheek was not. Along the edge of the skull rested the tiniest of scars. You would never know that it was the result of a chip being removed from his head unless you were shown. The man wore a tan long sleeved turtle neck shirt with grey jeans, plain socks, and work boots. The shirt sleeves were rolled up to work, showing off the scars of a war fought and lost. A meaningless war for one man's greed to rule. One that devastated millions of souls. Once the last dish was done, the man sighed. He emptied the sink and dried his rough hands before rolling the sleeves back down.

The man began the last chore on his to do list. It wasn't difficult, despite the pain it brought nonetheless. He opened the door to the old basement and went down stairs. Turning on the light, revealing two sets of plastoid armor. Both from two points in time he wanted to both hold onto and forget. The first one was older than the second; blaster marks, scraps, dark places, and cracks littered the pieces like points on a map. Old looking paint colored the armor to look a dulling orange. He gently placed his hand on the chestplate. Eyes weary and guilt ridden. He was reminded of that fateful day. Could still remember aiming his cannon at tan robes and ginger hair. Remembers hearing that awful screech of the beast and the sight of that old friend falling to his death.

Guilt pushes him to turn his gaze away from that armor and glare hatefully at the armor beside it. Pure white with similar marks. Not a scrap of color to mark how different the times were. Despite how close they were. He doesn't remember much of that time. He does remember the icy chill of cryo and waking up almost ninety years after everything was said and done. Despite his somewhat youthful appearance, he was well over one hundred. He felt old. Tired and worn. His frame looked nothing like it. Still fit and strong like his youth. He should be dead. And he has this odd feeling. He smiled sorrowfully. His old friend had rubbed off on him, it seemed. Slowly he left the basement, deciding that cleaning both sets could wait til tomorrow.

He moved to the living room, sitting down in the arm chair and sighing softly. He slumped down and closed his weary eyes. He felt exhausted. Crossing his arms, he decided to rest before going out to town. He knew that he needed a few things but they could wait an hour or two. He settled and started to doze off.

"Oi, Vod! Come on! The General is gonna be facing the Commander again!"

The male was jolted from his doze to see a man who looked identical to him. Outside of the scars and hair. The other man grinned with excitement as the grey haired man stood quickly. He ran ahead but the grey haired male paused at the door to the cabin. Looking back he debated if it was a good idea to leave before he was done with chores.

"Vod!"

He turned.

The man was looking at him with confusion and concern.

"You coming?"

The male asked and the other looked one more time at the cabin behind him. Unknowing of the freshly painted orange armor now adorning his body, the male decided that the spar of his superiors was too good to miss. And without a thought, he darted after his brother with a smile to match the other's own.

He never noticed that he had left an empty cabin behind him as his soul finally moved on.

[pilot-boi]

Light-hearted songs for light-hearted times

Mistral was not an empty city. Even with the sun descending behind the horizon, the streets were still bustling with life. The upper levels of the city cast shadows on the lower ones, but that only threw the warm glow of the streetlights into brighter relief.

A dog barked in the distance and a person yelled in annoyance in response. Cars and the stray bike rumbled quietly up and down the roads. They beeped and grumbled to each other, but one person on a bike he only had partial control over was singing as he rode.

Singing in an off-key and enthusiastic way, the kind you did when you knew the words but were struggling to get the needed air between singing and pumping the pedals of a bicycle.

“It was Christmas in Vacuo when the locals took the town,” Jaune sang to himself as he pedaled between cars as they all rumbled down the street. “Theresa hit a streak and laid her waitress apron down…”

It was warm. The air was sticky with humidity from the recent rain, but the fireflies blinking in and out over Jaune’s head as he rode were almost enough to make up for it. 

Almost. There was only so much light-heartedness could do to cool you off when you were wearing a metal chestplate.

At least he’d gotten the simple mission for once.

Not to say that the song wasn’t helping. He hadn’t heard it properly since he was a kid, and he wasn’t sure he was even getting the words right now. But it was one of the first songs he’d ever learned to play, so it had carved a special place into his heart.

“She’d been playing lien poker over at the old Gold Spike.”

Jaune swerved to avoid an oncoming car, and waved apologetically at the blaring horn and the rude hand signal he got from the driver in response. 

“She tired of Bandit Hold ‘Em, so she quit and went inside…”

He roved his eyes over the street in front of him, barely resisting the urge to drum his hands on the handlebars of his bike when he reached a bit of the song when he knew the drums picked up. 

That would be embarrassing. He’d have to report back to the gang that he wasn’t able to get where he was going because he got so absorbed in singing a stupid song that he crashed his gods damned bicycle.

They were only barely letting him out of their sight as it was. If he got in a bicycle crash he’d probably never be allowed to leave the house again let alone go on another mission.

Stupid fire. Stupid broken leg. Stupid bridge. Stupid a million other things- He was healed fine, he could handle one mission by himself.

The flashing lights of a Mistral Police car signalled he was finally at his location, and he pulled over to the side of the road. The officer waved half-heartedly as Jaune slowed to a halt in an abandoned parking lot next to a grocery store.

Knocking his kickstand into place, Jaune swung his leg over his now thankfully stationary bike and returned the wave. He adjusted his shoulder straps so the metal sat more comfortably and wished not for the first time that he wore something just a little less overbearingly hot.

Now that he looked more closely at the officer, Jaune thought the guy might be looking a little queasy. Which didn’t really bode well for whatever remained of the body.

The officer pushed off his car and made his way over, with an inclined head of acknowledgement and a brisk, “Arc,” by way of a greeting.

Jaune pulled out his Scroll, remembering Weiss’s drilled in instructions to properly document for once in his life, and met the man in the middle. “Hey Rusty,” he said, hoping he sounded as professional as he didn’t feel, “What’s uh… What’s going on out here?”

“Well,” The officer beckoned Jaune after him and explained as he led the way. “An anonymous caller reported ‘body parts’ in the area.” Jaune had to admit, he did not like the inflection on ‘body parts.’

“I rolled up,” the officer slowed and pulled out his flashlight, clicking it on, “And found this.” He said, with no small bit of distaste, shining a spotlight on the ground just in front of the pair of them.

Well. At least he knew why Rusty had looked queasy. And Jaune was well on his way to joining him, he was honest.

On the ground, glinting sickly in the beam of the flashlight, curled in a wet bloody heap, was a pile of entrails.

“Hmm,” he grimaced, fighting down the nausea that was fighting its way out of his throat. “Great.” Delightful. Just delightful. That used to be a person what in the hell-

Was it too late to trade missions with Nora?

Right. The mission. Focus Arc. 

Jaune crouched down next to the ‘body,’ as close as he thought he could get without vomiting, and snapped a picture with his Scroll. Documentation, after all, was the backbone of every successful mission.

Or at least that was what Weiss had drilled into all of their heads.

“You have any idea how long it’s gonna take you to get this stuff out of here?” Rusty asked, with clear and audible distaste in his voice.

Jaune paused in the act of tilting in a vague approximation of what he’d seen actual photographers do when they wanted to get a better angle. If he pretended hard enough, maybe it would actually come across in the photos.

“Well, I can’t move the, uh…” He said, fumbling through what he remembered of the protocols Qrow had grumbled at having to follow. “The ‘body.’” Jaune finally tore his eyes away from the grisly sight to glance up at the officer.

He wasn’t that shocked to see his own expression of disgust mixed with a side of fear echoed in the officer’s face.

“I can’t move the ‘body’ until the, uh…” His mind wouldn’t produce the word. The doctor people. The ones that worked with the bodies, what was the word- “Until the coroner releases the scene.” Injecting an apologetic tone into his voice, Jaune said, “It’s a busy night, might take a little while. Sorry.”

The officer groaned in irritation. “Great, just great.” Rusty wasn’t mad at him at least. Jaune was thankful for that much and he went back to trying to take competent photos. 

“Hey, you mind if I step away for a moment?” the man asked, sounding hesitant. Jaune glanced back at him, and the man continued, a little more sheepishly. “I need to get some fresher air,” he said, gesturing with his light back at the ‘body’ and then towards his car.

Oh. Right. The officer has been here much longer than him, and Jaune was already feeling nauseous after a few minutes of exposure. Could he really blame the man for wanting to take a step away for a minute?

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah,” Jaune said quickly, silently beating himself up for not realizing sooner. “Take as long as you need.” The officer nodded his thanks, already looking a little green, and wandered away in the direction of his car.

Standing up straight, and more than a little thankful to be done taking more high definition photos of entrails than he’d ever wanted to take, he glanced over towards the police car. Yup. Rusty was busy being sick.

Jaune might be joining him soon enough. He was feeling a little green around the gills himself if he was being honest with himself.

He grimaced and forced his queasiness down. “Hey, you uh…” Jaune called and fished something out of his pocket. “You want some gum?” He knew that he always hated how his mouth felt after he made the mistake of riding in an airship.

“No!” The officer waved him off with one hand. The other rested on his knee, holding him upright as he spat on the asphalt by his car. “Thanks, I’m fine.”

Jaune nodded, and stuck a stick in his mouth. Maybe the familiar flavour of horrible fake bubblegum would help take his mind off the pile of literal organs that he just had to take close-up photos of.

Wandering away from the ‘body,’ Jaune clicked on the flashlight on his Scroll and tracked it along the ground, hunting for any more evidence or something. Evidence. Ha. It was Sun and Neptune who were the junior detectives, not him.

Not that those badges weren’t freaking cool.

A stray cigarette on the ground. Maybe from whoever killed the… He swallowed harshly. Maybe from whoever left the ‘body’ here.

He took a couple more photos. 

Wandered a little further away from the ‘body’ and from the officer on the scene.

Glanced up and stared towards the dumpsters near the back of the parking lot when he felt a prickle going up the back of his neck. He could have sworn…

No. It was probably nothing.

He shook off the feeling as him being paranoid. Rolling his shoulders and settling his armor into a more comfortable position, Jaune reminded himself that he was inside the city. It wasn’t like Grimm were going to be here.

Not again. 

He swept his light across the ground and meandered a little further away from the low coughing of the officer.

Tire tracks. Dark, distinct, the kind that used to show up when his twin sisters were first learning to drive and they gunned the engines without letting go of the brake first. Not on purpose, they always swore, but Jaune and the rest of his siblings knew better.

Crouched down. Snapped some photos. Squinted into the gloom to follow the path they curved further into the darkness.

And he squinted even harder when the light of his Scroll glinted off something at the back of the parking lot. Grinning slightly at the prospect of finding something actually useful, Jaune hopped up and went to check it out.

Okay maybe he was just looking for reasons not to have to go anywhere near that bloody heap ever again. Maybe he was actually getting caught up in the excitement of finding a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

Or maybe he was so thankful that his friends were finally letting him off the metaphorical leash that he didn’t notice that the trail of evidence was leading him further and further away from the safety of the streetlights.

Jaune glanced over at the officer to say that he’d found something, but Rusty was still spitting the taste of sick out of his mouth at the other end of the parking lot. This time the prickle on the back of his neck didn’t register, and it was gone by the time he turned back around.

He passed the dumpsters. The prickle returned, but he was finally close enough to see what his light had reflected off of so he ignored it.

A disposable cup. In a plastic bag.

His eyebrows pushed together in confusion, Jaune crouched down, put his Scroll down on the ground next to him, and glanced over his shoulder towards where the officer was still recovering by his car. Could he have put this cup in this bag? 

Reaching down to pick it up, he only got more confused.

A plastic evidence bag, like the ones from TV. And from real life too, he supposed. But why would one be here? And with a cup in it for that matter.

“Well, that’s weird,” he muttered to himself, still chewing absently on his gum.

Then the prickle returned full force.

He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t breath!

Something was clamped over his mouth. Something white, and wet, and sickly sweet smelling, like a barrel of rotting apples.

Unable to think of anything past getting whatever was in his mouth off of him, Jaune twisted and struggled in the grip of what he had to assume was an actual human assailant. 

The smell was clamped over his mouth and nose in a vice grip. And the harder he struggled, the more he inhaled of the horrible sweet smell and the harder it became to move. To think. To anything.

Gods his friends were going to kill him.

And in a hailstorm of movements, Jaune’s world went dark.

[asharinhun]

DWC Day 3 - Blind

// Takes place after few weeks following the arrival of mortals to the Dragon Isles.

Neria growled in anger as she left the Obsidian Throne behind. Dropping down from the platform's edge she shifted mid-air, wings stretched to their full span to carry her away as fast as possible.

Of course it was a fool's errand, trying to convince her stubborn mule of a father and that egoistic brat to work together instead of against each other. They were blinded by the lure of power, the both of them. If even she, loner and recluse, could see it clearly, how could the rest of her flight not?

The scarred black soared above the land, towards Valdrakken. The forges of the city were one of the places that could calm her down, something she solely needed at the moment. Just as she reached the border of Thaldraszus, Neria sighed and veered away in a gentle curve towards the Ruby Life Pools.

She landed in a quiet corner, taking on her mortal guise once again. While losing herself in blacksmithing would have taken her mind off the issue, it would only be a temporary solution. Neria needed something else, and she hoped to find it here instead.

As odd as a black spending time in the red flight's territory still was, her scarred form only earned a few cursory glances before the reds lost interest in her arrival. It was far from the first time, after all. She took a seat in the shade of a tree near where the black dragon eggs were guarded and sighed.

"Ahh. Brooding again, Neria?"

An unexpected but familiar voice brought her out of her thoughts.

"And what if I am, Kaydestrasz? Are you going to demand me to leave, like you did the first time?" The black growled back, arms crossed over her chestplate.

"Titan's help me, far from it. It would be a futile attempt anyway, and I've learned my lesson. May I sit with you?" The red dragon wore a form similar to that of a human, his visage still showing some of his draconic traits, not dissimilar to her own.

Neria nodded with a defeated huff, closing her eyes. As infuriating Kayden could be, he was still one of the first reds who accepted her presence and made actual effort to get to know her better.

The silence stretched, only to be broken by Kayden in the end.

"So... what's this about, this time?"

Neria glared at him for a bit before rubbing at her temples with a gauntlet.

"Those two are at it again, and are even involving more and more of the mortals to assist them! How can they not see that internal strife is the last thing we need?! I tried to talk sense to get a compromise, but it was a waste of my time!" She hissed, but kept her voice down.

"If the black flight has any hopes to weather this storm, we need to be united... like you reds." The admission hurt, but the truth usually did.

"I think... It's not a waste of your time. I think they only focus on what there is to gain, while you also see how much there is to lose. How about instead of focusing on trying to change their view completely, you try to broaden it instead little by little?" He offered after pondering for a few minutes.

"Also, there must be others there who share your views. I know you hate being social - you barely tolerate my amicable self -, but try to find them. Many voices together are far louder than one, and a good leader also knows when to listen. Just don't give up and- what?" He scratched the back of his neck at the odd look she was giving him.

"Nothing. You just surprised me, is all." Neria huffed in reply and turned away before adding a short "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

@daily-writing-challenge

Neria's mortal guise:

[jedipoodoo]

I posted 1,090 times in 2022

That's 941 more posts than 2021!

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Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 886 of my posts in 2022

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Longest Tag: 135 characters

#also i hate the little 'draft saved' box that pops up every two seconds when you're posting on desktop does it jumpscare anyone else???

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Hey!! Any chance I could request a labor fic w fives? If not that’s totally ok I’m just super into pregnant readers lol

YOU ABSOLUTELY CAN ANON I AM GOING INSANE WITH THE IMPLICATIONS OF THIS ASK

(I am also super into pregnant readers in case you can't tell xP)

I Want You Forever And Always (Fives x Pregnant!Reader)

Notes/Warnings: reference to Fives' death but SPOILERS! He's not actually dead. Labor and delivery, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, Order 66 o_o This one is kind of long but i doubt yall will mind

he's just so pretty......

Deep breaths. That's all you had to do. Never mind that a sentient being the size of a bowling ball was preparing to make its entrance to the waking world via a hole on your body that was usually no bigger than a grape. No matter that the galaxy was in the middle of a war that tore each planet at the seams. no matter that your family was stuck on the other side of the galaxy and none of them could be there to support you in this crucial moment

Never mind that the father of your child was dead.

You held the dog tag so tightly in your hand that it left an imprint on your palm. It wasn't an actual dog tag, the Kaminoans were far too advanced to require those, but Fives was charmed with the story you had once told him of how when your grandfather had died in battle during the Hyperspace war, he left a tag with his name, station, and one of his favorite sayings hanging on a chain of metal. When Fives got a fresh suit of armor, he'd cut a piece off of his old chestplate, just above his heart, and hung it on a chain.

You wore the tag like a charm ever since he died, hoping some of the insane good luck that had kept him alive through most of the Clone War would rub off on you and your unborn child.

It worked, kind of. You still had crippling anxiety about raising your child alone on Coruscaunt. You could move back to Dantooine with your family, but there you could only make half on the farm there of what you did with your office job here.

And what if the Kaminoans and the Republic got wind of who the father was? Fives was dead, they couldn't punish him for inappropriate relations, but what if they took your child, claiming that it was their property, just as they had with Fives and the millions of brothers who had died before him in this pointless, endless war.

Despite your worries, the labor was progressing well, or so the med-droid told you. It was covered in a soft, rubbery material that mimicked human skin, offering a comforting touch or an arm to lean on. It was all you had, you weren't complaining.

"Have you picked out a name?" It asked. the modulated voice sounded like your wrinkled old grandmother.

"No, not yet." Another contraction hit, and you breathed steadily as you continued your walk around the room. It wasn't too bad, it was just boring, but the doctor said it was meant to help the birth go faster. Who were you to deny yourself?

"I have a database of every recorded name in the galaxy, should you require inspiration. Would you like me to suggest some appropriate names?"

Names, names, what's in a name? Fives and his brothers had some of the most ridiculous names, but you loved them.

"Sure, why not?" You had nothing else to do, and the news playing on the holomonitor behind you wasn't very interesting at the moment.

Without hesitation, the droid began to rattle off a list of names and their meanings, some of which weren't even in basic.

"Luke is a popular boy's name that originated from Tattooine. In Huttese, it means 'little dragon'."

"Really?" You struggled to stay polite. as another contraction knocked the wind out of your lungs. You gripped the railing of your hospital bed for support.

The nursing droid stroked your arm, but otherwise seemed blissfully unaware of your pain.

"There is also the name Lando, menaing land." Original.

"Of course, Many families have taken to naming their sons after the Jedi Generals who have impacted their lives. Have you any such interactions with the Jedi?"

The most you'd interacted with a Jedi was Fives' General, the Jedi Anakin Skywalker. And that was when you'd drunk him under the table at 79's. Fives had been so proud of you that night.

"Not really," You said, breathing evening out, but now you had to hold back tears again. You had a few more minutes before the next contraction.

"Very well," The lights in the droid's eyes blinked. If droids could feel annoyed, this one certainly would be.

"If all else fails, you could name them after the father."

You laughed humorlessly. "Do you have any definitions for the name Fives?"

"I do not understand," the nurse droid said, "the definition of Five would be 'equivalent to the sum of two and three; one more than four, or half of ten'."

See the full post

322 notes - Posted February 4, 2022

#4

Kiss Me Slowly (Crosshair x GN!Reader)

Notes: possessive Crosshair, jealous audience, 79's, established Crosshair x Reader. Not stated explicitly, but Cross is wearing a biker jacket on his night out ^_^

Both the Wolfpack and the 212th were on Coruscant, so of course 79's would be packed. Crosshair told you to meet him and the rest of the Batch, but you had barely managed to get off work in time. Even then, there was still a bunch of traffic to get through, and work didn't have you in the best of moods.

Crosshair was waiting for you when you came in, but you brushed him off.

"Not right now," You muttered. You had a headache and you needed Corellian Ale before you could even begin to entertain the idea of spending the rest of your precocious downtime in a crowded, sweaty bar, even if it was with Crosshair.

The hurt on his face haunted you behind closed eyelids as you waited for your drink. Scanning the crowd, you found Crosshair sulking in the usual booth with his brothers.

A small crowd was beginning to form around the infamous Clone Force Ninety-Nine. Hunter and Tech had managed to bring their partners to the side of the booth closest to the wall where they would be the least disturbed, and Wrecker was introducing Echo to some of their friends. Crosshair, however, was being assaulted by a gaggle of tittering fangirls.

You sighed, taking pity on your boyfriend, and figured you may as well go rescue him.

The crowd had tripled by the time you reached them, and you carefully sheltered your drink. You skirted humans, Twi'leks, and other multitudes of species, trying to make your way to the spot Crosshair had saved for you. a spot a blonde-haired natborn was trying to edge her way into, with long lashes and a ruby-red smile. One of the groupies bumped into you from behind, and your drink splashed all over her. Completely on accident, of course.

She let out a vindictive screech as the alcohol soaked into her dress, and spun on you, seething.

"Watch where you're going!" She screeched.

You blinked. "Uh...sorry? It's really crowded in here."

She rolled her eyes, "Of course it's crowded when people like you are just allowed to run amok."

The toothpick in Crosshair's hand snapped in half, and His brothers looked over in silence as her words hung over the group.

You swallowed, struggling to keep your voice calm.

"Excuse me?"

The groupie rolled her eyes, and one of her friends scoffed.

"I mean, seriously, I've seen your kind before. Staring at the boys all night like some creep. You think you'd honestly have a chance with them?" She sneered.

Wrecker couldn't help it anymore, and let out a boisterous laugh that echoed through the bar for a moment, before the music returned to its usual volume. Some of the groupies took that as permission to titter with giggles at your expense.

Hunter smirked into his glass as he took a sip, and then leaned back into the booth with his partner to enjoy the show.

"Who's gonna tell them?" He asked. His partner grinned back at him mischievously. The question was rhetorical, you all knew who was going to make the situation as clear as a kyber crystal to the groupies.

However, your accuser seemed convinced that Hunter was on their side.

"Yeah," She turned back to you, lips curled back to show off pointed canines, "Who's going to tell you, creep?" She almost jabbed a finger at your chest, but someone grabbed her wrist.

Crosshair had seen enough.

"Not them. You," He snarled, shoving her back. The next second, he had an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side.

"They're mine."

The groupie paled. "Y-you mean...?"

"They're your partner?" Her friend squeaked.

Crosshair flicked his toothpick halves at them. He didn't say a word as he swept you over to the booth, and tucked you into the seat beside him, his arm still firmly around your waist and holding you so close you were practically sitting on his lap.

"As far as you are concerned," He slowly met the groupie's embarrassed gaze, "They're my spouse."

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326 notes - Posted April 5, 2022

#3

Adore You (Crosshair x Pregnant! Reader)

Notes: pregnancy, morning sickness, etc, one suggestive line because it's Crosshair, Soft! Crosshair.

Seeing as I have secured my place as the Bad Batch writer with perpetual baby fever, I figured I needed to give the other boys the same treatment. Crosshair was the first request to be made. @writer1

Mando’a translations:

mesh'la - beautiful

ad'ika - little one, child, small one, etc.

buir - parent, mother/father

ba'vod'u - aunt/uncle

Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad - "I know your name as my child"

Crosshair chuckled. "You look better in my clothes than I do."

You flashed him a smile before pulling the collar of his blacks up over your nose, taking in a deep breath of his scent that lingered on his shirt

"Careful, mesh'la," He warned in a low voice, "You do remember how we ended up in this situation, don't you?"

His hands caressed the swell of your stomach, and Baby kicked out vigorously at the touch of its father.

"You're complaining?" you smirked back at him, placing your hands over his. Crosshair couldn't help but smile, and leaned in to press a kiss to your stomach. He turned slightly, his ear against your tummy, and you gently ran your hands through his curls.

"What do you think they're dreaming about?" He murmured.

You pursed your lips for a moment as you thought, "How excited they are to meet their buir."

Crosshair's fingers traced circles on your tummy. "Hurry up, ad'ika, your buir's dying to meet you."

You laughed, and after a moment the kicking slowed down. Baby was tired, and so were you.

Crosshair kissed your belly one more time before he got up, collecting the rags and dirty clothes from your morning sickness.

"Do you need anything to eat?" he asked.

"Not right now," You took a sip from your canteen, falling back into the pillows. GAR-rationed pillows definitely weren't the most comfortable in the galaxy, but with the ad'ika on the way, all the future ba'vod'u had willingly given up a their pillows to build you a veritable throne. It was perfect to rest in when you got too tired, which was all the time.

You woke up about an hour later to Crosshair massaging your swollen ankles.

"Mmm, that feels heavenly," You told him, "thank you."

"Of course, mesh'la." Crosshair crawled up the bed to lay beside you. You lifted your head slightly so he could tuck one arm under your shoulders, and the other returned to its rightful place on your belly.

He was silent, but that wasn't unusual for him. What was unusual was the touching. Crosshair let you touch him far more than anyone else, but since you got pregnant he was scarcely able to keep his hands off of you.

Tech joked that he enjoyed the "package deal", holding you and the baby at the same time. You had broken down crying from how sweet the thought was (thanks hormones), and it took ten minutes to convince Crosshair that you were okay and they were happy tears and Tech hadn't done anything to upset you.

"Do you think they'll like me?" Crosshair asked out of the blue.

You looked at up him. "Who? The baby?"

He nodded.

You snuggled closer, resting your head against his shoulder. "You're their buir, why wouldn't they love you?"

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342 notes - Posted January 16, 2022

#2

Straight Through My Heart (Sergeant Hunter x Reader)

Notes: Knives, Physical Proximity, Hunter teaches you how to use a knife properly. Y'all can blame @queenquazar for this one. Love ya boo.

Warnings: Steamy, shameless self-indulgence. Let's say T for Teens.

"Where'd you get this piece of garbage?" Hunter asked all of a sudden. You turned, and you saw him holding the knife you had just bought.

"It was cheap," You shrugged, "And I need a weapon."

Hunter chuckled and shook his head. "This is a Melchi survival knife. It's literally the worst kind you can get." He spun so that he wasn't facing you, and tossed the knife at the target by the door of the Parlor. It just barely skirted the bullseye.

"So it weighs different than your knife."

"No, it weighs the same, but the weight is unevenly distributed. There's no substance in the handle to counterbalance the blade." Hunter waved for you to follow him, and you watched him staring at the knife critically. He gripped the leather-wrapped handle, and instead of pulling it from the wall, he pulled down with all his strength, nearly folding the blade in half before he yanked it out of the wall.

"You ruined it!" You gasped.

"You can have mine." He said quickly. It almost sounded like a joke.

Almost.

Hunter pointed at the different parts of your knife, which now resembled some misshapen corner.

"All knives bend. But if they're made properly, they'll spring back into place." He took his knife and sliced away the leather wrappings. The metal that made up the blade stopped at the handguard, leaving the handle to be made out of crudely polished wood.

Hunter smiled self-righteously. "When the metal goes all the way through the hilt, the knife is more durable and more balanced."

He slipped his knife into your hand, letting you test the weight of it in your palm. It felt almost lighter than air, regardless of how firm the steel was against your fingertip. Hunter slid a finger down the back of the knife, showing you the cutaway section of the knife to prove the metal went all the way down to the hilt. You suppressed a shiver at the sharpness of the blade as you tested your thumb against it.

"I stand corrected, Sergeant," you admitted with wounded pride, "It seems I have much to learn."

Hunter chuckled. "That's what I'm here for, sweetheart. Want a few pointers?"

Your heart beat loudly. You knew how to defend yourself, just not necessarily with a blade as short as Hunter's knife.

"Sure," You shrugged and tossed him his knife, trying to play it off.

Hunter took the leather from your poor excuse of a knife, and carefully wrapped it around the blade for protection.

"When I trained on Kamino, I used a short wooden staff. Just be careful with this," He warned you. His voice was so soft and gentle, you had to nod in compliance.

He smiled, "The first thing you wanna learn, after knowing that you don't hold the sharp end-" He tossed the knife up in the air, catching the blade between his fingertips, "-Is how to keep it balanced."

He demonstrated one of his usual tricks, effortlessly weaving the blade around and in between his fingers fluidly. It hypnotized you like an optical illusion, and you shook your head to make yourself pay attention.

Hunter handed you the hilt of the knife, and you tried to copy what you had seen him do.

He chuckled, shaking his head at your failed attempt. "No, you wanna get your fingers out of the way. If you spin in like that, the uncovered blade will slice your palm open. Move your fingers out of the way, the momentum of the knife will take care of the motions."

You tried again, and the leather-wrapped blade smacked into the palm of your hand. You huffed in frustration.

"Here," Hunter came around behind you, placing his palm on the back of your hand. He lined up his fingers with each of yours, using the lightest of pressure.

"Try slower," He whispered, resting his chin on your opposite shoulder so he could peer around your head to watch your next attempt.

"It's the thumb and the middle finger. Rotate your wrist with the spin so the knife goes under your hand."

With your thumb and middle finger lightly pinched between his fingers and the blade, you gave a little flick with your wrist. Hunter's grip wouldn't let you go too fast, though, and you slowly followed his motions through the twist.

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430 notes - Posted March 28, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Hello dear! I have a request for you, so lately I have been having the craziest baby fever, so I was thinking, how are the batches baby fever like? I like to hc that they slowly hint it out for a while until they really want to have a baby 😅

THIS IS THE BEST ASK I HAVE GOTTEN IN THE HISTORY OF MY ASKS

Notes: I focused a lot more on pregnancy than adoption in this one, with an exception for Echo because I really don't know for sure what happened to his body. That being said, adoption is a perfectly viable option even if both parents are able to conceive. If you would like me to write something centered on adoption, feel free to drop an ask!

Warnings: babies, baby fever, pregnancy, labor, morning sickness, infertility, adoption, Couvade Syndrome.

The Bad Batch + Baby Fever (afab Reader)

First of all, loyalty means everything to the clones, and loyalty means family. They would do anything for their brothers.

They've been kept from so much in their short lives, the idea of having a spouse and kids of their own seems impossible during the war

So once the war is over (in canon or in one where Papa Palps kicks the bucket before Order 66) endless opportunities are suddenly presented to the Bad Batch.

The one that stands out to them is having a family. Having a loyal partner, and having or adopting kids that they can give a better future than they grew up with.

There have been so many things in the galaxy they can't control, but this is one that they can.

Echo:

Echo wants to be a dad SO BAD

Growing up with Domino squad, he always felt so protective of his brothers and when nights on Rishi got long and boring, they'd talk about what their lives would be like after the war.

After Rishi, he felt like he'd lost the opportunity to have that future he'd imagined with his brothers, but at least had Fives to dream of that future with.

Echo needs people. He needs family. He is so glad to have the batch now, and you.

When you start talking about a family, he is really nervous about pressing anything. But you can tell how much he's holding back.

Once you tell him you want to have kids, the dam bursts. He physically cannot keep it in.

He has a list of baby names a mile long. Most are in honor of the many brothers he's interacted with, but he does some looking into traditionally feminine names as well.

Everyone says Tech's the one doing research but Echo is the one who reads operation manuals for fun.

This man has read every parenting book/pamphlet in existence, and has promptly thrown out the ones that aren't helpful.

He will read these parenting helps to you at night, and it does help you fall asleep but Echo keeps pinching you to stay awake because "This is important, Cyare!"

Because of his trauma, you have to get a bit creative. You can adopt, or you can do IVF. His brothers would be happy to help out.

You can't go through any adoption agencies with the Empire on your tail, so most of it is being on the lookout for kids that need help when you're on missions or walking through Mantell City.

"What about that one-" "Her mom is right over there, babe."

Echo will adopt every child in sight. He is just as bad as Hunter.

If you choose to end up getting pregnant, he goes insane. He can't take his eyes off of you. He hates being away from you, and if he can't bask in your presence for >.2 seconds expect lots of calls like "Hi Cyar’ika how are you and the baby doing?? 🥺"

(if you happen to find out that you're having twins he will faint on the spot. And then promptly rearrange his blueprints for the nursery).

Tech:

Tech gets a baby shoved into his arms when they're trying to evacuate a village while it's mother takes another one of her children to safety.

Tech.exe has stopped working.

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705 notes - Posted April 4, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[redhoodedangel]

Lost Ones (Arkham! Jason Todd X Ink! Reader) Ch.1 - Savior

Warning ⚠️: Mentions of peril, injury, torture, fighting, human experimentation, and themes of mental health/illness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6 months later, you were known as Gotham’s shadow. Pointing police and law enforcement towards near invisible crime rings. Saving innocents before they can even give a description of you. Taking down criminals within the blink of an eye. Gathering intel with your own tools and devices. Going by the alias of Erinye, the proper name of a fallen angel.

However, during the hours you slept, you kept dreaming about a boy in a red, green and yellow suit. The appearance of the costume almost akin to those seen wore by superheroes in comic books. He was strapped down to a wheelchair with barbed wire and rope, blood staining his bonds and suit. A clown would come out of the shadows and torture him with whatever weapon or tool he had in hand. But that was it…

No distinct detail or object to pinpoint a location…

At least, none that were obvious…

During your time in the Ink Machine’s world, you spent any free second you had piecing together the story behind the studio’s history and eventual collapse. If your little detective mission taught you anything, it was that the small or more glossed over details were the most important ones of all.

The white and black tiled floor in the dream was very indicative of a hospital or an asylum. At least, from images you had seen in photos and documentaries. The place had to be abandoned, or a small corner of it left to rot.

The next clue was the weapons and tools that the clown, or the Joker, as you grew to learn his name, would use. While many were items that could cause serious damage or pain, a few stood out. A crowbar, a branding tool and a gun. It was obvious that the Clown was trying to get creative with his methods of torture.

The gun was obviously something that Joker had on his person, his preferred weapon of choice. But from what you saw, he only used it once and it didn’t kill the boy you were looking for. No… it was only to render him unconscious as the bullet ricocheted off the boy’s chestplate.

The crowbar was just the main tool for the job. The sword to the shotgun…

The branding tool was tricker, but made more sense as you picked up on specific details. For one thing, the letter at the end of it was a ‘J’. J for Joker… he was obviously trying to brand the boy as his. Which was disgusting and obscene to see or even think about. People don’t have the right to mark others as their property…

You would know… one man once thought of your family as his property…

Whether or not he used them for his own purposes was beyond you…

The visions you had showed the boy as already marked, unfortunately. But, that didn’t mean he was beyond saving or being saved. He was still in danger or possibly at risk of something far worse. So, best to rescue him while you have the chance…

Slipping through the dark halls of Arkham was easy. At least for you, it was. Considering you were currently in your ink form, you practically blended into your surroundings. Not even the most keen observer could’ve spotted you, unless they had a canine unit for the job.

The hallways were quiet, nothing but the creaking of pipes and the squeaking of rats and mice. The faintest chirp and shuffle of insects were unnerving, but kept you grounded to reality. The rhythmic trickle of dripping water served as a timer to tell you how much time had gone by.

Skimming your hands along the wall behind you, you attempted to find any irregularities, other than the many closed doors. An open or chained door with a broken or loose knob. A secret passageway to a solitary confinement cell block. A potential hatch that didn’t belong. Anything that was deemed out of place for a hospital or a mental institution.

Your ink-covered hand came into contact with a doorknob. Not just a regular old doorknob…

One with a suspicious chain extending from the knob to a nearby hook off the left of the frame. The lock was dangling under the metal knob, just inviting you to pick it…

It could’ve been a trap set by the Joker himself, probably for Batman or some daring kid with very little sense of self-preservation. But, if it were, wouldn’t the Joker have revealed himself by now? Or was he waiting for you to open the lock?

Looking around, you glanced into the shadows ahead of you. Looking for any unwanted or unseen movement that your slightly more able eyes could make out. Listening for any faintest laughter or whispers your heightened ears could hear. Keeping your guard up for anyone who dared try to pull a fast move on you…

Taking out two small surgical blades, you stuck them into the lock. You kept fiddling with it until they were secure enough to turn it. As you turned the lock, a CLICK came from it and the chains fell out of place. Bingo…

Putting the knives away, you took out a flashlight from your satchel. This light wasn’t your normal cylindrical metal tube with double A batteries. This one was bulky and rectangular and required a much bigger charge than today’s modern flashlights. It was a bit of an inconvenience to carry, but it’ll do for now.

Opening the door, you were greeted with darkness. Nothing but the shine of your light and the shitty quality one of the light bulb above. The cracked and broken tile from your dreams rested at your feet. A few burnt out candles sat next to a broken wooden chair. The same wooden chair that you saw the the dark-haired boy was sitting in when he was knocked unconscious by a bullet. Dried puddles of blood stained the floor, bringing with it the smell of iron, rotten food and bile.

A muffled whimper then came from your right…

Turning yourself and the flashlight in the direction of the sound, you found a heap of red, yellow and dark green. A matted mop of black hair stood out against the pale scarred skin of the head. Blood was another paint used on the canvas of this boy. Thick rope bound his gloved hands together in front of him. A band of duct tape covered his mouth and screams as frightened, unfocused blue eyes stared up at you.

It was him… the boy from your premonitions…

You began to crouch down and approach with caution, in case he was still very hysterical from any prior torture. His chest moved up and down in irregular pants of air, off-put by your unfamiliar presence. His eyes were wide in fear, as he believed you were here to hurt him. Maybe it was your appearance that was setting him off…

Maybe, it was reminding him of the Joker…

Or maybe…

‘Strangers aren’t good things down here, (Y/N)…’

The voice of your mother, or Alice, rang in your mind. You immediately understood why he was so afraid. You were someone new, a stranger… one that he didn’t think meant well. Especially considering who else had come down here to see him.

Closing your eyes, your inky form melted away, revealing the more human guise you had underneath. When you opened your eyes, you saw that he now had a look more akin to confusion or astonishment. It was better, you supposed. It meant he was trying to deduce what you were rather than who you could possibly be affiliated with. But, you knew that it probably wouldn’t last very long. So, it was time for step two…

You gave him your kindest smile, just to show him that you were there to help him, not harm him. You then reached for the tape on his mouth, but he flinched away.

“It’s okay. I just want to help…” You whispered to him.

“Do you now~?” A sinister voice spoke out from the shadows behind you. Standing up and turning around, you saw the Joker standing in the shotty light. His clown-esque guise and his purple and orange suit was enough to deter anyone who didn’t go by Batman or Harley Quinn. Despite this, you remain on guard and on high alert. Meanwhile, your inner beast was waiting for any moves that you and it didn’t like.

“Jason sure knows how to draw them in. Especially the pretty ones. I still don’t know how he does it.” Joker said, his Glasgow grin widening.

‘Jason? So that’s the name of this Robin I’ve been seeing in my dreams…’

Joker then took a few steps towards you, trying to close the safe distance. You reacted accordingly and as quickly as you could. You immediately materialized an axe made of solidified ink, holding it in a batting position. With a near dangerous edge to your voice, you then said, “Not another step…”

“Oooh~ and you’re tough! Just like him! Thankfully, I know just the remedy for that~…” the Clown murmured, reaching to the inside of his coat.

Within a split second, you reverted back to your ink form, wings out and eyes glowing. You took off in a speed blitz towards him, eyes focused as you saw him pull out a small handgun. You swung your axe as you grew closer, Joker aiming his weapon at your right wing. And then…

SHCLIK…

BANG…

The pain of a bullet piercing your wing only lasted a second as you dismissed them. Your axe was now stained with the blood of the guilty party, who stood frozen in place. Until he started coughing and choking on his own blood before he collapsed limply to the floor.

You then dismissed your weapon and moved back to where Jason was laying. His expression was one of shock as he looked between you and the now unresponsive body of Joker. Taking out a pocketknife, you cut the ropes around his wrists. You then, as gently and as quickly as you could, pulled the tape off his mouth.

Once off, Jason began to suck in air through his mouth, hyperventilating slightly. Putting your knife away, you gently touched his shoulder, which he lightly flinched from. You lightened your touch in order to help him calm down. Keeping with your more gentle side, you then whispered, “You gotta help me out here if you want to get outta here. I can’t carry you out on my own.”

Still hazy and delirious, Jason looked at you and nodded numbly. He may not have been very coherent and intelligible yet. But what little consciousness he had, he was able to comprehend that you weren’t a threat. He held his arm out for you to grab, which you took hold of immediately. You pulled him up and grasped his utility belt while moving his arm over your shoulders.

You then looked around the room for a place to create an ink portal. You wanted to make a quick getaway before someone found you. You couldn’t risk Harley Quinn or another lackey discovering what you had just done.

Looking to the wall on your right, you stuck your hand out and thought about opening a gate home. As you did, a clump of bubbling glossy black tar began to grow and expand. Jason’s eyes widened as he mumbled, “You can…”

“Yeah, I can. Now, come on. We gotta go before someone finds us.” You answered as you guided him and yourself towards the portal. Within the blink of an eye, you were back in the bedroom of your apartment. The walls plastered with Alice Angel and Boris the Wolf posters, as well as posters of movies from varies points in time. Most of the other belongings belonged to you or your family.

You lay a now unconscious Jason on your bed before moving over to the en-suite bathroom. You took out a bucket and started to fill it with water for cleaning. As you watched the bucket be filled, one question crossed your mind…

‘Why did Joker have Jason locked away in Arkham for God knows how long?’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[anon-e-miss]

The Bull's Horn, 2 - Final

Every time that slave code tried to flare in Prowl’s beautiful processor, Jazz renewed his efforts, feeding his sweet and sloppy valve the whole length of his spike. There was no true resistance anymore, not after the first few rounds but Prowl’s valve still clung to Jazz’s spike, it was still tight around him, it always would be. Prowl’s belly bulged with more than just the Minotaur’s calves. Jazz was filling him with so much transfluid, his frame struggled to keep up with processing the transfluids. There was such excess energy, ichor energon had started to leak from the Praxian’s swollen wells, though Prowl was too far gone to notice at this point.

He was the picture of debauchery. Jazz held his lover’s thick thighs open behind his knees as he slowly, leisurely spike him. There were a limited number of positions Jazz could take him in, what with his advancing carriage. For the moment, Jazz had Prowl in the treasure room, played out over one of the many displays set about the vault. Prowl was Sentinel’s more valuable treasure and it seemed fitting to Jazz to take him here. His optics racked over his lover’s dear frame. The circlet on Prowl’s helm was askew, as was the mantle he wore around his neck. All of his armour was gone, left in the straw berth Jazz had been so long resigned to. But he kept the marks of kingship on Prowl.

As the slave code flared again, Prowl’s glazed optics flared and his glossa lulled out of his mouth. He made no sound by quiet mewls. Jazz stepped back. His kin were close, closer than they had been in ages and he knew that it was time. His optics settled on the river of transfluids that oozed from Prowl’s gaping centre as his swollen folds hung slack. Taking pictures, Jazz slipped his great girth into Prowl’s welcoming frame. Then he focused on his sweet lover’s faceplates, at the drool that drippled from his slack mouth. He sent all of these pictures to Sentinel, to ensure the Prime knew who had made him a cuckold. It suited him to send Sentinel to the Pit knowing how well he had been robbed.

Jazz did not know the exact moment the Prime fell, only when his kin approached the labyrinth that had been his prison. He wrapped Prowl in drapery and lifted him off the table. It would be joors before Prowl regained his senses and could think of ordering himself. The way his wells had swelled with rich energon, Jazz did not believe his chestplate would close anyways and he knew his girdle would not come close to fit. It was right for him to be naked. Prowl was swollen with calf, originators-to-be amongst his kind were never armoured, only clothed in silks or jewels. Prowl would look lovely in silks.

“Jazz,” it was a voice Jazz had not heard in so long. Tears prickled in his optics as he saw his ori for the first time in ages.

“Ori,” he said.

“What do ya got there?” Punch asked.

“Sentinel’s greatest treasure,” Jazz replied. “My treasure.”

It was on the vessel the new Prime had commissioned for them that Prowl woke from his stupor. He was shy, sweet and shy around Punch and Ricochet but Jazz’s kin were sweet on him and Prowl readily accepted them. As Matriarch of the herd and grandori of the calf Prowl carried, Punch took keen interest in the state of Prowl’s health. His wells had swollen further, engorged with energon. Just the feeling of cloth against his stiff nozzles made Prowl fidget. They would need to be drained, Ori explained, and often. Once the code was triggered, it did not go silent. As Prowl’s bull, it was for Jazz to drain him and he relished the task. Prowl mewled sweetly as Jazz sucked the energon from his nozzles.

Punch was there, directing Jazz as he did a spark check on Prowl. He guided Jazz through the process and reassured Prowl as the bull sank his fist into his aft examined the Prowl’s forge through the thin lining that separated them. Jazz grinned like a fool as he felt not one but two helms. Prowl carried not a single calf but twins for him. It was no wonder his belly had grown so large already. Considering their size this early, Ori advised Jazz to ensure Prowl’s valve did not tighten overmuch, to guarantee a smoother calving. Perhaps there were other ways to assure this, plugs as an example, but Jazz preferred a personal touched. He warmed his spike in Prowl’s valve whenever they were at rest, keeping it subtle and sloppy.

Home in their fields after a long absence and free of the Prime’s poaching, Jazz relaxed into his new role of breeding bull. Though Prowl was not a heifer, the herd treated him as one. Just at a heavy heifer was treated with honour, so to was Prowl. He gave emergence under a full moon to a pair of large, lively bulls. Though Prowl was no heifer, he produce more energon than even their twins needed and Jazz was quite content to continue draining his heavy wells whenever Prowl was too full Jazz thought he could not be blamed for putting another calf in Prowl while he was still nursing the Twins. Prowl was utterly irresistible, the sweetest and most perfect ori to their creations. Though Prowl was no heifer, he would give Jazz a herd of their own.

[sofiaaaaaaaa03]

Comms

Title: Comms

Pairing: Din Djarin x GN! Teen reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Rating: PG

Warning: Cursing, mention of wounds, blood, scared Mando.

Description: In an unexpected raid, Din finds himself unable to find his foundlings and searches for them.

Request: Hey! I love your stories and thought that I would submit a request myself. So this is about Din having a teen foundling/adopted child. They’ve known each other for a little over a year now and even if they don’t show it a lot they’ve grown attached to each other. So this particular story would be about the foundling nearly dying and Din being a scared Dad (I hope you get what I’m going for. Kind of a fluff/Angst story with comforting afterwards😅)

A/N: I'm so sorry this took forever to write, I've been travelling and my computer has been messing up so I have not had time to write at all. Anyways, here it is! I hope it's to your liking. It took me awhile for inspiration to hit but I am pretty happy with how it ended up. Enjoy!

....

“Okay kid, what do we do when we get in trouble?”

“Call for help and signal our location.”

Call for help and signal your location. That was all you were supposed to do, the one rule Din gave for you before he took you along with him anywhere outside of the safety of the Razor Crest. He considered himself lucky that you rarely wandered off without letting Din know where you were going, and that you always seemed to be able to handle most dangerous situations on your own. Maybe it was because you fretted to be too much of a bother for Din, seeing as he took you in almost a year ago when he could have easily left you. Din didn’t see it that way, if he was honest. You were valuable to the group, taking care of Grogu and the ship when Din could not, and he believed it his duty to protect all on the ship. Only once or twice did you call for him, and he was quick to come to your aid.

He did not think that today would be the day where his timing risked your life.

The Mandalorian found himself aiding a local trading village with a raider issue in exchange for information about a bounty he’d been pursuing. He’d led a group of men over to what they’d suspected to be the raider’s hideout and set up for an ambush. The Entrance of the cave’s dunes felt barren, and only after the mens’ legs grew sore from crouching and backs ached from huddling in the dark was it that Din began to suspect something was wrong. The quiet environment was abnormal behavior to the raiders he’d encountered before, no doubt this specific group would be any different.

“They’ll see you!”

Startling the men surrounding him, Din shot into the air and stalked the vicinity. The dunes’ walls stretched for meters long as he kept his piece raised, occasionally scanning weak spots for life forms or any piece of equipment. He paused, frowning a moment when his scanner detected nothing.

That was the first sign that things weren’t going as planned that day.

“...hiss…”

“...m..do... v.llage... here…”

There was the second.

Din raised his arm to speak into his comms.

“Y/N?” Nothing but static came back from the comms. Din fidgeted and smacked it a couple times before grunting in frustration.

Damn, comms were jammed.

Wait, they were jammed.

And in a moment of a horrible realization, Din was quick to grab the men and make their way back to the village. When they arrived they found the village in chaos- buildings were burning, villagers running, and materials and pieces and bodies strewn across the ground. For a moment, Din froze in fear and worried that you were on the ground as well, your comms still ringing static and Grogu taken from you, lost to the raiders, or worse, the Empire.

Din quickly made his way throughout the village, barely rounding the first corner when a group of raiders assaulted him. He threw punches at the first raider, using their momentum to kick them hard into another. After several dodges and shots from his blaster, most of them were dead aside from one that laid on the ground and clutched his blasted leg.

Din marched over and pressed his blaster against the wound. “Where are the hostages being held?”

As it turned out, the raiders had no plan of keeping hostages. When Din finally tracked the building where captives were supposedly held, he was unable to remain collected when he found that you and Grogu were nowhere to be found. Instead, he stood before raiders responsible for the attack, their blasters disturbingly put away as they argued amongst one another. Din didn’t bother listening, he looked around but saw no sign of his foundlings.

“Wrong door.” He said simply before taking out his blaster and shooting the raiders.

Pocketing his piece Din ran out of the stronghold and went outside, calling for you and Grogu. He thought about the worst possible scenarios that could have happened to you two as he took out the raiders pillaging the village, until all but one remained, the leader. He found him in the main courtyard of the village, his face hidden though his body seethed with labored breaths. He stood there for several moments before Din heard one last labored breath before the leader’s legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the ground with a sickening crack of skull on stone. Hm? Din didn’t know what to make of this, and further stalked over, hand on blaster, examining the body. Upon closer look a blaster wound to the stomach was made more visible. So, someone got to the leader before Din could. That leaves the question… who?

A quick look around the area pointed out a trail of blood.

The Mandalorian followed this trail without any real reason behind it.

He found the remainder of the villagers at some point along the way. Sullen masses of faces mixed together, mourning the loss of their villages and lost ones but kept busy with treating the wounded. Women sat in huddles cooking with what food was salvaged and children sat quiet. One stood out apart from the rest in Din’s eyes, a large male leaning over a group of medics. Din recognized him as Cyrukee, the villager’s chief, who noticed the lone bounty hunter from the corner of his eye and stood up. In his arms was the most beautiful thing Din had seen all day, Grogu. The baby gurgled in joy as he walked up to the chief.

“There you are.” Din didn’t realize that he was holding his breath when he sighed in relief, taking Grogu into his arms.

“Sir.” Cryukee barely got a word out before Din turned to him.

“I’m looking for a youngling- my kid. Have you seen them?”

“Sir, please.”

“They’re this tall,” Din rears a hand near to your height, “they were with this little green baby. Your husband, he took them to the school. Where is he?” The Mandalorian made a full turn around to look for the red robed headman who was last responsible for your care. He reached for his comms and tried to reach you again. His voice rang back at him, and in a terrible moment of realization he realized that that was your comms.

“Where are they?”

“Sir, let me explain.” Cyrukee wore an exasperated expression and looked as though he was about to speak before one of the medics from the group he was with requested to speak with him. He spared a glance at Din as though he struggled whether or not to say something. And then, Din followed his arm towards the medics he was just with. Din didn’t know what to make of it, not able to recognize any of them. The Mandalorian took one last look at the chief, whose grave expression gave him reason to worry, and slowly walked towards the group of medics. He buzzed through the comms, trying to pinpoint your location. As he got closer he heard medics speak in soothing voices and their patient hyperventilating. Had it not been his own voice coming from the center of the personnel he would have moved on, instead he could not find the will to move. Grogu looked at him expectantly.

One medic in particular took notice of the beskar-armored man. He and some others quickly got up and pushed Din away before he could force his way through the medics to take a look at you.

“Hey, wait-wait-please.” Din grunted at the force and staggered several steps back. He took a moment to collect himself and Grogu sneezed in his arms. Dust must have gotten into his nose during the scuffle. “Please, my ward- my kid. That’s my kid.”

“Just a moment,” one of the bloodied nurses kept her hands on Din’s chestplate longer than he would have liked. He didn’t push her away though.

“I need to see my kid.” Din looked her in the eye, hoping that she could see his desperation through his helmet.

His kid. When Din looks back on this he would think about how he’s never referred to Y/N as his own before. He would have liked to think he said that so the nurses allowed him to pass easier. But deep down, he knew it was because of how much he cared for them.

“I understand but please let me explain. Sir, Sir!” Din retreated in defeat on his second attempt to get past her and the other nurses. She stared into his eyes and patted his shoulders, Din didn’t know whether she was trying to comfort him or control his movements. “They’re traumatized enough right now, and you moving around in that armor of yours will only make it worse.”

“What happened to them?”

“They had an encounter with Jetwal,” Din’s blood boiled at the recognition of the raider’s leader who’d died before him. “according to the children, your child was leading them to the outskirts when he found them. They killed him, he was threatening the children, and they shot him. Now, listen to me. They did get injured. Several blaster wounds to their limbs and upper torso- sir, listen please I cannot allow you to go to them just yet- they’re still panicking right now but I assure you their wounds are being treated right now. They’ll be fine, but disrupting our work will only inhibit us from treating them properly.”

She watched his gaze linger to the sound of your crying. “How much longer until I can see them?”

Din was not pleased to find that he was only allowed to see you when the nurse came for him herself. Reluctantly he walked a little farther away from the medics when asked to give them more space, and sat down with Grogu bouncing on his knee next to a young Twi’lek running their hands over their lekku to soothe themselves. Between glancing at the medics to keeping Grogu entertained, Din didn’t realize how much time had elapsed before noticing the nurse had come to his side to collect him.

She took a seat next to him. “They’re hurt very badly, but with time their injuries will heal. All they need to do is rest. You can see them now.”

Grogu giggled and played with the nurse’s finger that was threateningly wiggling on his little tummy. “Can you take him for a moment?”

Din stood up and gave Grogu a pat on his little head and rubbed his large ears out of habit. Something you used to do to calm the little green alien down after a terrible meltdown. Even under his helmet Din smiled at the alien before dredging towards you. You laid on a pile of fabrics that functioned as a makeshift cot, but you looked like you had a pile of fabrics on you with the amount of bandages that wrapped your body. You didn’t notice Din approaching you as you stared straight into the sky. Din wondered what you were thinking. What could you be thinking? From his knowledge, this was your first time dealing with major injuries from blasters. It must have made this whole ordeal so much more frightening to you.

Maybe Din was too light on his feet, recoiling instantly when you jolted at his touch and groaned in pain.

“It’s me, it’s me.” His voice was soothing, even more than normal which surprised him.

A sort of wheeze escaped your lips and you coughed. “Mando.”

“Hey kid.”

“I tried calling for you.” A gasp. “They jammed the frequencies.”

“Your message barely came through, kid. But it made us realize what was going on. We got here before more damage could be done because of you.”

Your form relaxed. “Good, good. Grogu?”

“With a nurse.” “The one with the sweet voice.”

“Yeah.”

“I liked her voice-” A cough. “Sounds like my mom’s. She was nice. She helped calm me down.” At this point Din had stared at you long enough to realize how puffy your eyes were from crying. He didn’t stop himself from reaching over to brush your H/C hair out of your face. You leaned into his touch.

“I’m pretty fucked up, huh?”

Your eyes were already locked onto his when he met your gaze. A tick passed, and Din’s eyes fell to the wounds you were referring to. He shook his head. “No, kid. That’s not what you are.”

“Feels like it.” Din scowled at your words.

“There are too many fucked up people in the galaxy, kid. You´re not one of them.” You look at him with a raised brow. “Y/N, you barely have any combat experience yet you took on Jetwal? What were you thinking?”

And you said something that surprised him.

“I was thinking of you.”

And Din couldn’t find any words. He cleared his throat and you continued, “We were alone and I had no idea when you’d come, I was scared something had happened to you because I couldn’t get a hold of you through the comms and that guy was coming at us and-” You inhaled sharply, wincing at what Din assumed was a jab in one of your wounds but he didn’t know how to help. You calmed a moment later, closing your eyes and furling your brows together. “I thought about what you would have done if you were there. You always looked like you knew what to do.”

To say that Din was proud of you would have been an understatement, he was beaming wonders underneath his helmet but realized that you couldn’t see through the beskar.

“I thought I’d lost you both.” Din admitted. “But I’m very proud of you. You saved lives, Y/N. That’s no easy feat for someone of your age.”

You grinned at him and laughed. “Did you do something like this when you were my age?”

“Yes, but I didn’t end up as fucked up as you did.” “Hey!” Din laughed and raised his forearm to block your playful hits.

A moment of silence falls between the two of you before you look at Din again. “Do you know how long we’ll be here for?”

“With your injuries, no clue. I’ll talk to the medics and Cyrukee to see what is to be done.”

“Okay.” You nodded, your fingers twitching involuntarily. Din’s hands find their way to your hair again. “Mando, I’m tired.”

“Rest. I’ll be here with you.” He watches you half-heartedly nod at his words and doze off in a matter of seconds. The injuries have taken a toll on your body, Din suspects, and he pulls a sheet over you. He sits with you, watching villagers talk amongst themselves, speaks with those who come by to thank him for his help, and accepts Grogu from the nurse when she comes over, thanking her for all she’d done for you. She told him that a thank you was not owed to her, and that if you were to need anything she was only a call away.

And when he was finally left alone, Mandalorian took one look to take account for his two foundlings. They slept soundly and with luck, heads full of dreams. Most importantly, they were safe in his care once again.

Din realized he’d been holding in a breath, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

.....

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