#his cloak wrapping around him like a fucking cocoon???

[ayrennaranaaldmeri]

ngl outside of the obvious jokes i will never understand this shitting on the beast's transformation like he's a human again, but i am sorry it's worth it alone for literally one of the most beautifully animated scenes to ever exist.

[servicpop]

✶ ﹑ㅤlate nights ﹏

NOW STARRING : hockey bf Suguru x male!reader

「ㅤNSFWㅤ」ㅤyour boyfriend can't help himself before the big game, he has some sort of jinx!

✙ warnings — thigh fucking, size difference, use of "prince," hand-job

notes ,, tbh I know nothing about hockey i just wanted to make an au with suguru that isn't just the normal jjk plot... / also this was inspired by Jinx manhwa... the sex jinx thing you know

1:00 AM

The room is cloaked in the silence of the night; the soft light of the moon filtered through the half-closed blinds casting gentle shadows across the walls. The air is still, filled with the faint scent of lavender from the nearby candle. On the bed, you and Suguru lay intertwined, your bodies molded together with you as the little spoon, and Suguru as the big spoon. The soft fabric of the sheets cocoones the both of you in warmth as you find solace in each other's embrace. At this point you're already fast asleep, lulled into a deep slumber as you lay in Suguru's arms. However, no matter how hard he tried to push the growing heat beside, he was kept awake from the raging boner he had.

With one arm wrapped around your waist while the other propped his head up, he watched your chest rise and fall steadily. You looked so peaceful. The pale hand placed on your waist snaked down to your thigh, caressing it slowly. "Hey, wake up, prince" He shook you awake gently, not wanting to jolt you awake but his saccharine, honeyed voice was enough to pull you back to sleep. A light hearted chuckle left his chest when he saw your sleepy eyes blink to conciousness, and the way your nose scrunched like a kitty was adorable to him.

Suguru's palm kept massaging your thigh as his breath tickled your neck, "I can't sleep," He whispered, groaning softly when his hips involuntarily grinded against your ass. It was an accident he swears, it wasn't his fault he couldn't sleep because of his erection... it didn't help how you were still half asleep, trying to process what was happening. You realised immediately when you felt something poke your back. "I'm tired..." you mumbled, your words barely reaching Suguru's ears. It was 1am, of course you'd be tired. "How about your thighs? I'll do all the work," you knew Suguru had a thing for your thighs, he would always squeeze and grope them any chance he got. He mentioned something about how it was the warmest and softest part of your body but you never really understood his rambles.

"You have a game tomorrow, Suguru," You scold but don't push away his grabby hands. You know about his "jinx" but to be honest it was most likely just an excuse to fuck you before games; it was probably a way for him to get rid of his stress. "I won't win if I don't feel you," He groaned, his fingers dipping in-between your thighs, trying to hoist them apart. At this point you let him, too overcome by your sleepiness to care.

The noise of fabric shuffling filled the otherwise quiet room as Suguru slots himself in between your thighs, pushing your plush flesh together to secure him. You could tell he enjoyed it as you heard a shaky and breathy moan from behind you. To be honest, you got off on it too, seeing the way his tip would peak out from in-between your thighs. You always knew he was big but it never failed to suprise you each time.

Slowly, Suguru moved his hips in a thrusting motion, drawing them away before pushing back in with a small noise of his skin making contact with yours. His breaths stuttered with each movement and his hands wandered up your shirt, caressing and feeling your stomach underneath his fingertips. Suguru wasn't extremely vocal but with the small grunts and huff he lets out when he's enjoying himself... drives your body insane and you can't help but grow aroused as well.

"You lonely?" Suguru chuckled, his hands moving down to the waistband of your pyjama pants. With a small mumble of 'there we go,' he slips off your pants, tossing them aside carelessly. He continues his thrusting, slipping his dick in-between your thighs rhythmically. With every thrust, you could feel Suguru's cock slip along the underside of yours. It was such a light feeling that it almost tickled. Suguru coos in your ear, whispering sweet nothings that barely register in your sleep-ridden brain. All you can focus on is his warm palm trailing to your cock. His hand clamps around you as he cradles it in his hand for a bit, allowing you to really feel the warmth from his hand. God you were already leaking. "Hah... feels good Sugu'"

"Does it now?" he hums in a sickeningly sweet and innocent tone, but the way his hands pumped your cock was far from innocent. His movements get faster, his hips went from slow and calculated thrusts to slamming his hips against the back of your thighs, chasing his pleasure alongside with your own. Both his hand and his dick sliding in between your thighs made whimpers slip out your lips. Suguru uses his other hand to hold you close to him, pressing his palm flat against your stomach to push you flush against his body.

"Gonna come," he grunts, his voice getting louder and more raspy as he keeps thrusting. The hand wrapped around your cock was still pumping with vigour, like he wanted you to lose yourself with him. Your voice wavers as moans flow out of your throat — Suguru's hands are way too skilled for their own good. You feel a knot forming in your stomach and your cock twitches in Suguru's hand. Your tip is so red its practically begging for him to have mercy but he doesn't stop. He wants to see your pleasure as much as he wants to feel you. Suguru's voice breaks slightly as he groans, white spurting out of his dick and coating your thighs as well as the sheets. He keeps pumping his hand until he feels you pulse and twitch before you come, "Mm... good boy, yeah just like that."

With a few more slow thrusts, Suguru finally stopped. He wrapped his arms around you in a bear hug-like way, letting his face fall into the crook of your neck. He littered kisses all over your cheek and your jawline before speaking, "I'll do well tomorrow, thanks prince," Suguru chuckled softly, letting his eyes close while he settled down with you to catch up on the sleep he missed beforehand.

♡ little gift — X nsfw video that inspired this !!

a/n : this was meant to be an oc fic but decided I wanted it to be suguru...

[noxspost]

it is not weak to cry after tragedy

it was weird in the cabin of Ares because there would be some form of music like rock or some of band. yet this once threating place that was filled with the aura of tough and strong Ares kids, felt hollow cold and sad there was darker since they black out the windows that makes it seem like it was a cave cold and big. frank was staying for the sake of trying to help the grieving warrior who was in the bunk in the corner.

she looked like a worm. she was staring into nothing and her eyes were glossy thanks to her tears which haven't fallen yet and she just cutch her cocoon tighter.

Clarisse was wrapping herself back into a cocoon of her blankets and cloaks. mark and Sherman looked at each and Sherman walked over and sat down next to his sister "well how are you fairing?" he looked at her eyes don't have her usually spark but are now dull and theirs is dark with hurt, regret and guilt, she looks at him and spoke her voice broken like she had been screaming for a long time.

"They took the only meaning of my life and killed her before my very eyes." her brother nodded and then he wraps a arm around her and said, "hey it is okay to cry and mourn the loss she fought bravely."

this makes her looks at him with a wide eye looks and she spoke sounded scared and trembling which was mixed with guilt "i should have fought sooner and maybe she wouldn't have died. i fucking failed and she had paid the price i fucking fail!" her voice was choked and she just broke-down crying as if that her breaking point and then Mark went to his sister and said "you did not fail." she was leaning into his touch as all of her tears fell.

she was shaking and she was now grabbing her hair which Frank let go and his face was twisting in fear and worry as he was trying to help but Clarisse was trying to hurt herself and sparrow one of the daughters of Ares was now holding her hands in her scared hands. "Listen to me Clarisse don't pull on your hair. you are not in danger you are safe in the cabin." her voice was low and soft as she was rubbing Clarisse's knuckles.

Mark was looking to the others, and he walked to grab a vulture plushie which was sitting next to a trans egg. this was a gift from Ares. he was smiling as he gave it to Clarisse, and she took it fast from him. 

Clarisse was breathing heavy and she was still looking at her and she looks at them "why do you care i am a monster." this makes her just snarl as she was trembling and then her other sister spoke "why do you think that?" her voice was kind and soft but Clarisse knew why foxglove was dangerous, she was more of the Cabin mother than a fight but her bracelets on her could turn into the twin fist of Malphon a gift from Zagreus. 

"Well i killed so many people when i pulled an Achilles and i am a Ares kids and trying to tell others that i am not a monster... it like getting the boulder up the hill."

they all looked to her with empathy as they knew that too the strange and annoyed looks from the others and sure the toilet thing was a bad thing to do. Foxglove and Sparrow didn't get those looks but they had seen those looks which were always at their siblings.

"well if they treat you like a freak and a monster might as well be the monster they so much want." spoke Frank who looked at them with eyes fill with sad and shame then Clarisse spoke her voice was gruff and low "you are not a freak not at all why must you put yourself down."

she sounded more tried and like she had given up on trying in the world and it had 6 days since they buried Silena. Clarisse only drank water and maybe a few crackers. then Sherman spoke "okay that is enough of starving yourself." she was shocked, and her jaw tighten.

he was holding her in a hug from behind and he had felt how thin she was. it had been 4 months after the battle she did eat but enough that she wouldn't die but still it worrying.

Sherman always gave the best hugs with his muscular build and sparrow was the best spar partner and Mark was the best at being the annoying brother that would have your back and was best at making you smile yet here was Clarisse who the most like her father a monster and funny enough both of them were trans.

Ares was aggressive spiteful and fought and he wasn't one to not getting dirty. he was a freak and a asshole, Clarisse was a freak and a monster, so it made sense that she got a bit of his curse, and his anger and wrath and she hated it...

he then went to grabs from bread since she hadn't eaten in while he gave her something small. Clarisse looked down in shame and remorse. Sparrow didn't have pity but she did hold fear and anger in those green pools but not at her sister but herself.

"well Clarisse you are not weak only grieving and i believe Silena doesn't want you to die." she was careful of her words but all that did was make Clarisse cry more but then she tried to stop saying "i am not weak and shouldn't be crying."

when Foxglove looked at her then Frank went to the door making sure it was locked and she spoke as she pushed gently Sparrow out the way and she did move getting the hint and then Foxglove held the other girl in her arms which was hard since Clarisse had done a move called pulling a Achilles.

Foxglove met the other glazes and then they got what she was wanting and they went out of the cabin and locking it behind them leaving Foxglove and Clarisse alone "look people don't cry cause they're weak, they cry because they've been strong for too long."

she was crying more and Clarisse spoke "i know but i can't protect her and Beck..." she was so shakily and Foxglove didn't speak but only bushed the hair out the way of her sister's face. "Yet all of them don't respect us and our dad even though he does most of Athena's dirty work in the wars and he was in the middle of the 2nd world war!"

she was nodded and Clarisse spoke again "why does everyone think that i am a monster and i didn't ask to be a bully and i just a hug from dad... but of course i am failed so many times that he hates me and he did said that he was disappointed with me."

she said as Foxglove who had Ares's white and peach hair, her eyes looked like her mother's one was a blue and the other one was brown and she was had Ares's dark skin.

"i think maybe you will," spoke Foxglove as this makes Clarisse to turn to her and she looked the most confused and angry "listen how can that happen? our dad is busy and he--" 

"well i don't where you got the idea that i hate you is beyond me." spoke a familiar voice which was sharp yet calming "dad?!" they both see Ares who was wearing a tank top and a pair of jean legging and his black combat boots. he had some of Deimos's hair clips in the white and peachy colored hair which was long and buzzed on one side but the other side was buzzed and shaved, his eyes were they normal pools of black and red like apples. 

his skin wasn't cloaked to be white or white passing but it dark and rich color. his bird bee was on his shoulder where a shoulder amor pad was. he looked at his kids and sighed "i was disappointed since you didn't tell off that Percy kid for making those comments about me not being controlled by Kronos in that fight."

he walks to them and sits down and he was now next to both of them and he had his messenger bag and his face was sharp and he had a resting bitch face but his eyes sparkle with worry and he spoke "Clarisse come here, out of the cocoon i want to see all of you." she did and she was in her pjs which was sweats and a bagged short sleeve shirt.

"okay dad." then he grabbed both of her hands and he said "now you are going to shut up while i will tell how you are wrong to doubt yourself and yes i can felt it rolling off like waves."

Clarisse was smiling bitterly and then asked "why you have better things to do, i am just being weak and not strong." she got a look from Ares and he wasn't trying to anger her but comfort "well for one, when i look at you i see myself and just with less family trauma you still have those metal scars and wounds from us. yet you haven't let the other hurt you all the way you still show kindness and trust just not to all like if i was you with my mental shit... now tell me what you see that you think bad about yourself?"

Clarisse felt the warmth in her father's hands and there were the semicolon tatts on both hand on the back. "Well i hate my hands and arms they look to big and scared. look at how the arms look so many scars and big i have seen the looks some of the kids who see me and i hate some of the kid starting a rumor about me being..."

Ares sat down and listen "well what i see with your hands and arms well it shows how strong you are, and those scars shows that you have gone through the dumb bull shit that we have through at you and so what my daughter who were amazon were strong women and there are the spartan women were strong and powerful women who were clever. i don't see a monster only a strong battle beaten teen who loves like her father. you should have been 16 teen age year when you should have be trained and yet i glad you haven't change."

this makes Clarisse cry, and he hugs her in a strong beat hug "well i was born a boy how do you feel about your "daughter" being a freak born in the wrong body?" her voice was muted by her face in his shirt, and he had his hand in her hair, and he had another arm around Foxglove as he held both of them in his arms. his wings were out.

he was shielding both of them in his wings "well Clarisse that is enough out of you! you are a girl not a boy you know that better than your mother's family and i am glad you told me and another thing do you see me as a woman since i was born with woman's parts?" he asked and Clarisse sniffed and then she spoke "well no you are Ares the god of war?" 

this makes Ares laugh "well when i look at you i see a daughter not a son. a woman can have muscle." this makes Foxglove smile as she speaks "yeah and also dad why in the photos you wear the dresses and skirt and more traditional femmie things?"

Ares smiles "well i don't have dysphoria with that type of clothing. also, men have worn dresses and skirts and makeup. it is fun to dress like that." he was holding Clarisse and then he spoke "well Clarisse i am sorry that you lost Silena. you would have my blessing if she ever asked for your hand and trust me when i said it is okay to grieve but not okay to hurt yourself i have been down that road and it got Artemis and mama Hestia so scared and mad. Mama Hestia never let me go from her home till i was better. grams got involved." 

Clarisse nodded and she spoke "it is just so hard to not being it is my fault that she died, she let herself get killed because i had to not fight, i wasn't trying to be labeled as a blood thirsty freak... by some of the Athena kids." Ares sighed "same kiddo, Athena is the worse and she acts all high and mightily when most of the time she acts just like Zeus, and she makes me sick... i can said that since i am also like that but that she choice because she wanted you to live trust me i visited her trying to stop it but then Athena tried to be an ass."

this makes Foxglove laugh which was like bone snapping "also i am not a complete blood thistly freak too because it is pointless without the chance of death. Clarisse us gods die but is temporary some of gods come out of the Styx or the celestial pools. i crawl out from the Styx into the house since i got disowned by Zeus." this makes Clarisse speak "so we are all rejects of the gods, mortals and fate?"

"well no you have a family of a coffee addict Hypnos and a kind god named Zagreus and siblings." Ares said as he was smiling "well yeah i guess we do..." Clarisse was feeling better as she was eating some more bread and drink a water bottle "also don't tell Percy this but i was about to kill Kronos or at least try since back then i was a wreak when i was trying to find Thanatos since mortals were dying but not free so i could feel the pain and panic. i am glade Thanatos was saved from this again."

Foxglove nods and Ares spoke "welcome them back in and yes frank too."

---

after they were talking more the other kids came back in and Annabeth see Ares asleep with his kids and also Frank shielded in his wings and arms and Clarisse was hidden in two thin blankets and her dad's arms.

this was strange for her to see and Ares looked peaceful and calm no longer fighting and killing. he looked too mortal for her since she saw the scars and then Chiron walked in "so i heard Ares was here--oh since he needed some rest. too much panicked for him glad he is a better than his own family." then he walked out with Percy standing in the door frame.

"Wow Ares looks a lot like Foxglove." Annabeth rolls her eyes as she walks to him "well seaweed brain, that is his real form he just hid because it was easier for the gods." they were soon closing the door to the den of warriors resting after war. they got the glares from the birds and boars which sit at the door.

[thefunnyrabbid]

for the hurt/comfort prompts you should do the "ive got all night" one

for a romantic mlm pairing

omg yesss here we go

cw for r@p3

———

griff was huddled under a blanket in the middle of the carpeted floor, arms wrapped around his knees like twin boa constrictors. his breathing was unsteady and his shoulders shivered despite the thick plush fabric covering him.

cyrus sat in front of his partner, a few feet away, legs crossed. he was keeping himself as calm as he was able, but the seething anger and panicked concern was bleeding through. he was leaned forward over his legs slightly, wishing to touch griff’s shoulder, give him a reassuring gesture, but he knew that would make it worse in this particular situation.

cyrus did really have all night. it was a friday night, so he didn’t have work in the morning, and there was no chance he’d be able to fall asleep now. not after seeing the man he loved more than anything reduced to a shuddering ball of fear.

a nearly silent sob came from griff’s throat. “i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry,” he mumbled in a weak, high-pitched voice.

“don’t- don’t be sorry, you did nothing wrong. nothing,” cyrus said again with a firm but gentle emphasis. “you didn’t deserve this.”

griff was walking back home from work, which was a small karate dojo. this was one of two jobs, and he only taught karate classes on wednesday and friday nights. those were the only two nights he walked home in the dark, down roads lit only by flickering streetlamps and the moon. he’d never met any shady characters on his commute before, but he was always acutely aware that it was a possibility.

tonight, he was sore and tired, and the only thing he wanted was to get home, fall into bed with his boyfriend and doze off in his arms. the mental image made him smile as he stared at his feet, which were setting a leisurely pace that didn’t bother his thighs and calves as much as a quicker speed would.

they came out of nowhere.

well, not technically nowhere- griff had walked past a pitch black alleyway between a barber shop and a restaurant. as with all the alleys around the small town, there were no security cameras outside.

a large man grabbed a fistful of griff’s long, tangled hair and yanked backwards, dragging him into the alleyway. before he could cough out a cry for help a strong hand covered his mouth roughly, pressing down hard enough that griff couldn’t open his mouth to bite.

once his assailant and him were both cloaked in the alley’s shadows, the man lifted griff off the ground an inch or two by his hair. his mouth was still covered.

“what a pretty little boy,” the man murmured, his voice surprisingly soothing. “i’ll turn you into my slut, and fuck the living shit out of you, alright?”

to his dismay, kicking and scratching did nothing but anger the stranger. the man’s knee hit hard into griff’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. then a punch to the face silenced him before he could speak, a flash of pain searing across his face as he blacked out.

cyrus had left their apartment when griff had been late getting home by 20 minutes. he found his partner on the ground in the dark, shaking and crying and scared, and naked.

it took a minute to coax griff up, and by the way he walked it was evident that despite his desire to be home and be safe, he was in a great deal of pain and couldn’t speed up much at all. cyrus was silent, fuming. if he had arrived early enough to see griff’s attackers he’d have mauled them.

griff did not want to be touched. he wanted to disappear, he wanted to tear his skin off and burn it. he wanted to take a shower but he couldn’t bring himself to come out of his blanket cocoon that cyrus had provided for him.

he couldn’t stop feeling guilty. the emotion crashed over him like unruly waves. if he hadn’t gone home alone, if he had brought his pocket knife, if he had fought harder…

“griff. do you want to tell me what happened?” cyrus’s voice was dangerously loving, the anger at what happened to griff struggling to stay hidden. but, the last thing cyrus wanted to do was make griff more anxious.

griff just shook, whimpering as he stared at his shoes.

“hey, griff. i’ve got all night. okay, love? i’m here to help.”

griff didn’t want to say what happened. he didn’t want to think about the two other men that emerged from the shadows, tore off his clothes and scratched and sucked at him as the large man pounded into him. they had been delighted to find that griff was trans, and had been on testosterone long enough to have significant bottom growth. griff was dry and completely unaroused, but his assailants didn’t seem to mind, much to griff’s horror. the three men disappeared when they heard cyrus searching for him, first kicking him across the ground and then disappearing into the darkness, somehow gone. griff was sobbing, snot and tears and saliva blurring his vision. his clothes were gone, but cyrus had worn a large sweatshirt that covered griff enough to walk home. griff didn’t speak.

griff didn’t speak for nearly an entire week, except for choked apologies and unintelligible sobbing. mostly, it was just silence.

then, one night when cyrus was watching a show on the couch, griff came into the living room after a shower. he was wearing the same pajamas he had worn since the incident, baggy and soft plaid pjs that belonged to cyrus. he held his coffee mug squishmallow tight to his chest as he walked up behind the couch.

after a few minutes of a calm quiet, griff moved around the couch and sat next to cyrus, draping his arm around his shoulders and leaning into his shoulder.

cyrus froze. this was the first time griff had touched him in a week.

after a few minutes cyrus realized his boyfriend was crying. carefully, gently, he wrapped his arms around griff and held him firmly, kissing the top of his head.

“you’re okay, love. you’re okay.”

“i know. i’m… i f-feel safe.”

cyrus choked up, his eyes wet. they sat in silence for a while, tears falling.

“you cry as long as you need, griff. i’m here, i’ve got you… i’ve got all night.”

[husbandhoshi]

thinking of joshua who, after making sweet love to you, wraps you up in blankets like a cloak so you stay warm before getting up to grab all the aftercare necessities (he even carries you around, blanket cocoon and all which he definitely teases you for since you look so cute and soft in his arms, because he doesn't want you to waste any more of your energy)

"put me down!" you squeal, unwilling to leave what feel like the softest sheets you’ve ever laid in (although they are freshly laundered, something joshua insisted on despite the fact that you both know it wouldn’t really matter when it came down to it).

the blanket he’s draped over you is also right out of the dryer, and it makes your heart feel a little funny that you've fallen for someone so meticulous.

god, his linens must be so fucking expensive, is your first thought. your second involves something about how he's picked you as if you were a feather, and you certainly don't weigh like one.

instead of listening to you, he kisses your forehead. "what makes you think i'd let you walk all the way to the bathroom? do you even know where it is?"

"can't be far, i hope." with the size of his place though, it might as well have been a mile away.

you start to wonder how you've never connected the dots on this one. the fancy dinners, the nice car, that humongous watch on his wrist—it made sense how they were all attached to a rich dude, but even after almost a month of dating joshua (more humble than you would ever be if you owned half the shit he did), you never really comprehended that this was your life now.

he plants another kiss on your nose, and your tummy does a somersault.

"can you even walk?" he teases. "kinda made sure of that one."

"very romantic. i'm actually swooning right now." you roll your eyes, and he smiles, all goofy and charming.

you tighten your grip on his shoulders so he can free up a hand to flip on the light switch.

"nice place," you remark. you think his toothbrush costs more than your entire rent, but you're not about to say that just yet. not after you just railed for the first time.

"thanks, i bought it." joshua sets you down on the counter and turns to the bath to start the water. "lavender or rose?" he holds up two clearly unopened bottles of bubble bath.

"mmm...rose." you kick your feet back and forth, enjoying the feel of the marbled counter under your skin. you admire him as he runs the bath, the strong plane of his bare back and his tousled dark hair, looking like some cover model. it genuinely makes you dizzy all over again.

and then you think about businessman joshua hong, standing in line to buy some soap he'll never use, just to impress his girlfriend visiting his place for the first time. "you're sweet, you know."

joshua turns to you, and you can swear there are hearts in his eyes. it kind of shocks you—undoubtedly, your hair's a birds nest, your makeup is probably smudged to hell, and you're literally drowning in a swaddle of sheets. you think you look like the caterpillar from alice in wonderland.

still, he cups your cheeks in his big hands and brings you in for a kiss. and another. and another, until you tell him the water's overflowing, to which he replies, i don't care, and kisses you again.

(needless to say, you do get to witness the treat of watching joshua on his knees, toweling up bubbly, glittery water. it's a wonderful excuse to invite him into the bath with you.)

[mox-writes]

Baby It's Cold Inside (Bucky Barnes x Reader) MoxMas Day 30

Warning: some language, fluff, shirtless Bucky

Word Count: 1,684

Pairing: tfatws!Bucky x Reader (no pronouns/nondescript)

Summary: You find warmth in your roommate Bucky's bed.

Prompt: Crawling into their roommate’s (S/O’s) bed because it is too cold in their own and they want cuddles.

A/N: MoxMas is a shitshow lmao, I finally found the motivation to write a full-length story, and only because I already had 400 words of this written on Christmas. Crossposted on moongoddessmox! All feedback is very appreciated, thanks for reading!!

MoxMas Masterlist | Prompt List 2

It was Christmas Eve, and Lord did the universe want it to be a white Christmas. The blizzard outside the large windows was blinding and deafening. The wind sounded like a train as it rattled the glass, and the pelting snow was like tiny bullets that you thought could shatter it at any moment.

Fuck. You couldn't get comfortable, flipping and wrapping and flipping and wrapping, until you were cocooned in your fluffy duvet. The temperature read a crisp 17 degrees Fahrenheit on the digital thermostat in your room. You struggled to get warm, pushing yourself as far as possible into the corner of your bed, surrounded by pillows and other blankets. Anything to provide some kind of warmth.

You watched the white flurry, imagining it was a warm and sunny island. Somewhere that you could bask in the sun for some much-needed vitamin D. Mm, vitamin D, you know who could give you some D? Your roommate Bucky. You shook the intrusive thoughts from your mind, coming back to reality and seeing the cold death outside again. You groaned, flipping over to stare at your door.

It had been seven months since you moved in with Bucky. You were a rough, emotionally damaged mess of an assassin when he and Sam took you in from Madripoor. Your life had never known peace, just criminal dealings such as theft, spying, counterfeiting, oh and a big one, murder. You had run into them while working with the Power Broker, and after they needed your help and vice versa, they had offered to bring you back to the States for “rehabilitation”. You were anxious at first, never knowing the feeling of love and friendship, but it was something you had grown to welcome.

Since Bucky was all alone in New York, he figured you could stay with him until you got your bearings. As the months went on, it became increasingly obvious that you both liked each other and he didn’t want you to move out. Though, it was only obvious to those around you. Both you and Bucky were oblivious to the mutual pining and it had surpassed being annoying to others since you acted like a couple that was on the brink of marriage.

You clicked your tongue, deciding whether or not to go find Bucky for warmth, running all the scenarios through your head. What if he gets weirded out? What if he’s already asleep? Surely, he is, I don’t want to bother him. What if he’s masturbating? Does he masturbate? Does he use the metal hand? I wonder if he has more stamina if he does…you shook the thoughts from your mind, springing up out of bed with your blanket wrapped around you like a cloak. You anxiously tiptoed out of your room, peering around the corners to investigate for any signs of life.

Sometimes Bucky would be awake, unable to sleep because of the nightmares and he would just sit on the floor in the living room. You practically had to beg to get furniture so there was actually a couch in there now. When you didn’t notice any signs of him outside of his room, you went to his door, hesitating before gently tapping your knuckles to it. No answer. There was no light under the door and no sound, so you figured he wasn’t in any sexually explicit positions. You gently knocked again, this time you opened the door slowly. Peeking inside you saw a lump on the bed. Curled up under the blanket was a sleeping Bucky.

You tiptoed over to him, seeing the lump of his body slowly rising and falling with each calm breath he took. You smiled, your body rushing with warmth at the sight. His resting face was so peaceful, his eyes gently closed and mouth slightly agape; his lips were pink and looked soft, so soft. You couldn’t see any of his body because he had the blanket pulled up to his chin, just as you had, so you figured he was probably freezing as well. You took a deep breath to prepare yourself for the closeness and hoped not to scare him, then you pulled his blanket back enough to slide into the bed.

Bucky immediately felt the dip in the mattress as you climbed in, whipping around startled to see you like a deer in headlights. Your descent into the bed was already in motion, so when he turned around, you toppled over and fell right on his chest. Unexpectedly, he let out a very loud scream which caused you to audibly gasp and start choking on the air that whipped into your throat. The noise he made surprised even him, causing his cheek to burn red with embarrassment. You were tangled in your blanket and pressed against his chest as you tried to calm your cough, Bucky was frantic, unsure how to help or even register what was happening. He tugged your blanket away from your body as you squirmed, trying to get out of it, and finally, he got you free.

You calmed down and sat up, sitting on heels and covering your face with the blanket.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” your voice was shaky and coarse, riddled with humiliation as you tried to hide under the thick fabric. Bucky was equally as embarrassed, maybe more. The last time he remembered screaming like that was when he fell off the train.

“It’s okay, I didn’t mean to scream at you like that, oh god…” he covered his face with his hands, trying desperately to stop the painful blush that turned him into a tomato, “what are you doing in here?” he asked through his hand, not wanting to make eye contact with you.

“Oh–oh yeah, I was just cold…I thought we could be warm together…” your sentences were broken by long sighs. You peeked over your blanket to look at Bucky. He had separated his fingers to glance at you but upon meeting your gaze, he shuddered away again.

“I see, well, if you’re not too weirded out, you can stay. I’d actually love the company,” he moved his hand and you could see how red he still was, it was cute. Your own embarrassment subsided as you were overtaken by how sweet and innocent he looked. Bucky only grew more red as you stared at him. He was sure you were making fun of him in your head, probably laughing at how he was blushing, but you were actually awestruck. His dark hair was messy and blue eyes were illuminated by the snowy moonlight that leaked into the room.

“What are you looking at?” he braved the question, worried about the answer.

“You’re gorgeous,” you said immediately, eyes widening as the words fell haphazardly from your lips. Bucky’s eyes twitched wider, the blush getting brighter as it took over his whole face. He was speechless. That was not at all what he was expecting you to say but he couldn’t help but love hearing it.

“Sorry…that was, oh god, sorry. Maybe I’ll just go back to my room,” you rustled around the blankets to get up. You needed to hide, to get away from him, why would you say that?? Now he knows you like him, you idiot. You’re going to have to move, he’s never going to want to talk to you again, oh god, oh g-

“You’re gorgeous too,” the words struck the thoughts right out of your head. You looked at him, your blanket wadded up in your arms like a child holding too many toys. Bucky was sitting up now, his body turned toward you. He was shirtless, in the fucking winter? Seriously, Barnes, and had extended his arm out to you. “Stay, please?” His voice was soft and inviting.

You took his hand, dropping your blanket and climbing in next to him. Bucky helped cover the both of you with each blanket and wrapped his bare arm around your body, pulling you against his skin. You rested your head on his shoulder and laid your hand on his chest before hesitantly pulling it away, unsure if he wanted you to touch his naked body.

“Sorry,” you whispered, settling your hand between your bodies with it tucked under your ribs. Bucky chuckled, reaching his metal hand over and pulling your wrist until your hand was free. He laid it over his heart, his palm against the back of your hand, fingers gripping it tightly.

“After you had to hear me scream like that, I think we’ve crossed over the ‘just friends’ border. Next thing you know, I’ll be taking you on a date,” Bucky laughed, looking down to meet your eyes. He wanted to see if the words scared you off at all, or if you’d be into going out with him. When your eyes lit up, he smiled, the knot in his stomach relaxing.

“Good, because I don’t usually lay naked with people I’m not dating,” you winked.

“Technically we’re not laying naked together seeing as you still have your clothes on, but feel free to change that,” he returned the wink, eyes traveling down your body for a moment.

“Maybe after the date, Barnes,” he scrunched his nose with a big smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You nuzzled his neck, glad you decided to come to his room, you were already so much warmer. Bucky broke the peaceful silence, the earlier event still on his mind.

“Did you even knock? I could have been masturbating,” he questioned, eyes still closed. You laughed, looking up at his face. The movement caused him to look down at you.

“Ah, so you do masturbate. Do you use the metal arm?” he pulled his eyebrows together for a moment, a million questions running through his mind. He didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes with a smile and shook his head in disbelief. You shrugged and rested your head back on his shoulder. After a few long moments, Bucky kissed the top of your head, whispering low.

“Yes.”

[suicidalslasher]

𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠 ➤  𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑙. & 𝑠𝑡𝑢 𝑚.

In which the reader comes home, completely broken-hearted and her two friends, Stu Macher and Billy Loomis, come in to put a smile on her face and show her how much they love her.

WARNINGS:  This is a smut but not well written, lol. It’s mainly just oral, both receiving and giving. (male and female.)  Also, if you squeeze your eyes really tight, you may get a glimpse of slight foreshadowing in which Billy and Stu killed the guy that broke the reader’s heart but blink and you might miss it. Anyways. Enjoy.  

(Y/N) lied upon a soft feather mattress, cocooning herself in the silk sheets. A sad sigh surpassing her lips as the realization settles in, hitting her like a ton of bricks, like a cold bucket of water was thrown on her. She's alone. The room feels empty. Wait, no, scratch that. 

It is empty.  It's dark and cold and lonesome. As many blankets that surround her and although she has many draped around her body, her skin still somehow prickles with goosebumps and she's shivering.  

Though, she knows it's not because she's cold. She isn't shaking because of that. Not really. Before she could stop herself, her eyes start to glisten with tears, the corner of her eyes pooling with water and slowly but surely, they slide down her skin, wetting her cheeks. Goddammit. God fucking dammit, she thinks, reaching over and grabbing the duvet comforter,  she slides it over her head. Broken, silent sobs then proceed to escape past her lips, although she oh so desperately tries to hold them back. She fails miserably.  Then, out of nowhere, she hears a little knock, followed by another.   Rolling over to lay on her stomach, (Y/N) buries her face into the nearest pillow, causing mascara tears to soak and stain the cushion as she continues to cry and sob. Before she realizes it or even can acknowledge it, the window to her bedroom is being pulled up and her friends, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher, step inside her bedroom.   "(Y/N)?" (Y/N) is quick to flip around upon hearing her name, her heart hammering wildly against her chest. 

 "S-Stu? Billy? What the Hell are you guys doing here?"  She relaxes, having  seen her friends standing by her bedroom window rather than the man everybody was fearing lately in Woodsboro.  

A masked man with a dark cloak and a spine-chilling voice. She was lucky she hadn't heard what he sounded like, she had enough nightmares as is. It was hard to say whether or not it was a man behind the mask but regardless, whatever sex the person was, they were crazy, inside and out. End of story. (Y/N) makes a mental note, reminding herself to lock her window next time and to keep track of that before she gets comfortable and goes to bed. Especially with what was happening everywhere in Woodsboro. "We wanted to make sure you were okay."  Billy said, walking over to the girl as he sat down next to her,  the mattress sinking beneath his weight. Stu followed, nodding happily as he shows a few VHS tapes, gesturing them over to (Y/N).

 "We brought movies to watch and snacks, too!" He exclaimed as he then pulled out a small plastic bag, dumping out the items onto her bed. 

There was chips and candy and they were all her favorite flavors and brands, too. (Y/N) felt the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes again at the sweet gesture her friends were sharing with her. "Oh... c'mon, don't be such  a cry baby." Stu snickered but he wrapped his arms around (Y/N) and pulled her into a side hug, Billy following right behind, hugging her from her right. 

 "We love you, we've got your back, always, okay?" "What Stu said. Besides, this world doesn’t deserve an angel like you, (Y/N).” "Mhm." Stu nodded.   "I really liked him, that's all..... I should've known it was a set up to get back with his ex." (Y/N) said with a sniffle, running a hand over her face as she tries to rid herself of any left over makeup, especially getting rid of the mascara, although, if she were positive, that and her eyeliner were most likely now resting on the pillow she had cried into rather than on her face. "Well, he's a fucking idiot." Billy growled.   "He doesn't see how perfect you are, (Y/N)." "Billy and I see that, though." Stu said, taking his hand off from her shoulder as he now rests his hand on her thigh, giving her a reassuring squeeze. It made (Y/N)'s breath hitch in her throat and she bites on her lower lip, nervously. 

What were they doing....? She thinks. “We would do anything for you. Absolutely anything.”  Billy said. "We'd do anything just to see you happy, just to see you smile..." Stu continued. "You deserve nothing but the best, deserve nothing but happiness." "So, please... (Y/N)... let us give you that. Let us show you how beautiful and loved you really are. We love you.... we love you so much-" "We love you so much we'd kill for you." Billy looks over at Stu, giving him a questioning glare and (Y/N) goes to ask what that stare meant but her words are loss and any train of thought she had left the building once she feels both hands of Billy and Stu's on her thighs.

 One on her left, the other on her right. "So.... no movies then?" (Y/N) asked jokingly. Her heart, like earlier, was pounding so loud she swore both boys could hear it against her chest. Her body was trembling as it had done earlier but now, it wasn't from sadness or feeling broken but rather hot and bothered. 

She did always have an attraction to Billy and Stu, she'd be a liar to say she didn't. "We can watch them later. Right now, we want to see those legs of yours sprawled out, give us a view of that pretty pussy." (Y/N) whined softly but she obeyed, and while she did, Billy grunted while Stu spoke softly, "Such a good girl for us. You're our good girl, aren't you, sweetheart?" (Y/N) nodded as she stretched her legs on either side of her. All she was wearing was a thin gown, one that matched her sheets, being the fact both were silk.  

 "Oh.... so pretty, so beautiful." Stu purred, licking his lips, his eyes growing darker while Billy's did the same. "Naughty though.... aren't you, baby? Not wearing any panties." Billy chuckled as he stood up, feet landing on the carpeted floor with a soft thud as he walks over to (Y/N), undoing his jeans and the belt that had been neatly placed in the hoops of the pants.  

"Is it okay if you suck me off, darling? You want to be a good girl, don't you?" (Y/N) says nothing, she's unable to speak. It was as if a cat had captured her tongue and ran off with it, and she couldn't get it back from the creature. She feels paralyzed, too. Everything feels as if it's going by too fast.

 What an odd day.... she thinks. She didn't expect this to happen, not now, not ever. But she wasn't angry at it or the outcome of tonight's misfortune. It was just crazy how fast the night changes. "Baby? I asked you a question... If you know what’s good for you, you better answer me.”   "Y-yes." (Y/N) stammered, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.  "I'd love to suck you off, please, may I?" "Oh!" Stu chirped, giggling as he shook his head from side to side, a wicked grin playing out across his lips. "She's got manners, fuck - we really found the perfect girl, haven't we, Billy?" "Mhm." Billy said, pressing his cock to her lips. "Open up, sweetie. Let's see how pretty you look with a mouth full of cock." While (Y/N) parts her lips open, and as Billy pushes himself in her wet and warm mouth, (Y/N) feels heat against her clit and before she can put two and two together, Stu's devouring her pussy with his tongue and she squeaks, bucking her hips up into his touch.   "Fuck! She tastes incredible. Can't believe I haven't gotten to you sooner." Stu said before pressing his face back in between her thighs, licking and lapping her cunt with his tongue, making her tremble and shake. 

(Also makes her almost choke and gag on Billy's cock as he presses his cock further down her throat.) Above, Billy nodded as he rocked his hips back and forth, eyes half-lidded, not quite shut but not all the way open either, as he grunts out an answer; "She's good with her mouth too, Stu." He said.  

"Not sure I can last long, sweetheart..." He warned and right as the words slip from his lips,  it didn't take less than a second until (Y/N)'s mouth is being filled with Billy's creamy, white load.

 "Oh.... fuck!"  He grunts, pulling back  as he drops down next to her on the bed.

 "Go on, baby. Cum for Stu. You wanna be good for him too, don't you? Go on and cum.... cum all over his tongue, beautiful. I'm sure he'll love the taste of your juices, exploding into his mouth." And fuckfuckfuck.....

FUCK~!!

"O-Oh!"  (Y/N) mewls, bucking her hips into his mouth once more as the sweet release of her orgasm floods out of her and into Stu's mouth. Happily, Stu licks every drop up, pulling back with a very much pleased and satisficed smile.  

 "Both her and her pussy are so sweet." Stu complimented, now crawling up onto the bed and resting beside her, tucking his face into her neck as he presses a few  ghostly kisses on her skin. "Love you."

"I love you, too."

"And what about me?" Billy said with a playful pout.

"I love you too, Billy Loomis." (Y/N) admitted, grinning as she scooted a few inches over, patting the empty spot next to her. "Sleep with us?"  

Billy smiled in reply as he plopped down next to his now lovers, curling up in (Y/N)'s side and kissing the other side of her neck, the way Stu had done previously.  

 "I'll treat you to a good time too,  tomorrow," (Y/N whispered, mainly to Stu but she turned and repeated the sentence to Billy as well. The boys look at each other with a smirk, giving one a knowingly glance before they turned back to (Y/N). 

"Sounds like a plan, baby." The smile she wore across her lips falls into a frown and the boys are quick to sit up, having seen the smile turn upside down. "Baby, are you okay?" "Yeah." "Babe....don't you lie to us." "I'm not." She answers truthfully. "But.... this- I mean, us three, it's real, right?" She gestures in the air with a wave of her hand.  "You won't play with my feelings and hurt me-" "Baby." Billy's voice is rough and cold,  and his grip on her is far from affectionate and soft. "We'd kill for you, remember?" "We love you so much, (Y/N) you have no idea to what limits we'd go to prove that to you.” She didn't understand why the two kept repeating that very first sentence but she didn't question it, didn't think anything of it. She smiled and nodded, rubbing at her eyes now tiredly.

 "I love you both, too. Now... before I get too tired, can we watch those movies you rented?" Billy laughed softly as Stu scrambled up and on his feet, grabbing the candy and the films that had fallen on the bed off of the floor and goes to set the VHS player up, clicking the TV on with a push of a button. 

"You're gonna love these, (Y/N)! It's a new horror movie that came out!" "As long as it's not a slasher with a mask like the one that's hanging around in Woodsboro, I'm fine with anything. Whenever that monster goes away, I'll be fine and more than happy to watch slasher films again... just not now." She says with a laugh. "Don't worry, baby. With us around, you’ll be safe and sound. We’ll protect you.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

[moongoddessmox]

Baby It's Cold Inside (Bucky Barnes x Reader) MoxMas Day 30

Warning: some language, fluff, shirtless Bucky

Word Count: 1,684

Pairing: tfatws!Bucky x Reader (no pronouns/nondescript)

Summary: You find warmth in your roommate Bucky's bed.

Prompt: Crawling into their roommate’s (S/O’s) bed because it is too cold in their own and they want cuddles.

A/N: MoxMas is a shitshow lmao, I finally found the motivation to write a full-length story, and only because I already had 400 words of this written on Christmas. Crossposted on mox-writes for notification purposes! All feedback is very appreciated, thanks for reading!!

Masterlist| Mox-Writes | MoxMas Masterlist

Prompt List 2

Fuck. You couldn't get comfortable, flipping and wrapping and flipping and wrapping, until you were cocooned in your fluffy duvet. The temperature read a crisp 17 degrees Fahrenheit on the digital thermostat in your room. You struggled to get warm, pushing yourself as far as possible into the corner of your bed, surrounded by pillows and other blankets. Anything to provide some kind of warmth.

It was Christmas Eve, and Lord did the universe want it to be a white Christmas. The blizzard outside the large windows was blinding and deafening. The wind sounded like a train as it rattled the glass, and the pelting snow was like tiny bullets that you thought could shatter it at any moment.

You watched the white flurry, imagining it was a warm and sunny island. Somewhere that you could bask in the sun for some much-needed vitamin D. Mm, vitamin D, you know who could give you some D? Your roommate Bucky. You shook the intrusive thoughts from your mind, coming back to reality and seeing the cold death outside again. You groaned, flipping over to stare at your door.

It had been seven months since you moved in with Bucky. You were a rough, emotionally damaged mess of an assassin when he and Sam took you in from Madripoor. Your life had never known peace, just criminal dealings such as theft, spying, counterfeiting, oh and a big one, murder. You had run into them while working with the Power Broker, and after they needed your help and vice versa, they had offered to bring you back to the States for “rehabilitation”. You were anxious at first, never knowing the feeling of love and friendship, but it was something you had grown to welcome.

Since Bucky was all alone in New York, he figured you could stay with him until you got your bearings. As the months went on, it became increasingly obvious that you both liked each other and he didn’t want you to move out. Though, it was only obvious to those around you. Both you and Bucky were oblivious to the mutual pining and it had surpassed being annoying to others since you acted like a couple that was on the brink of marriage.

You clicked your tongue, deciding whether or not to go find Bucky for warmth, running all the scenarios through your head. What if he gets weirded out? What if he’s already asleep? Surely, he is, I don’t want to bother him. What if he’s masturbating? Does he masturbate? Does he use the metal hand? I wonder if he has more stamina if he does…you shook the thoughts from your mind, springing up out of bed with your blanket wrapped around you like a cloak. You anxiously tiptoed out of your room, peering around the corners to investigate for any signs of life.

Sometimes Bucky would be awake, unable to sleep because of the nightmares and he would just sit on the floor in the living room. You practically had to beg to get furniture so there was actually a couch in there now. When you didn’t notice any signs of him outside of his room, you went to his door, hesitating before gently tapping your knuckles to it. No answer. There was no light under the door and no sound, so you figured he wasn’t in any sexually explicit positions. You gently knocked again, this time you opened the door slowly. Peeking inside you saw a lump on the bed. Curled up under the blanket was a sleeping Bucky.

You tiptoed over to him, seeing the lump of his body slowly rising and falling with each calm breath he took. You smiled, your body rushing with warmth at the sight. His resting face was so peaceful, his eyes gently closed and mouth slightly agape; his lips were pink and looked soft, so soft. You couldn’t see any of his body because he had the blanket pulled up to his chin, just as you had, so you figured he was probably freezing as well. You took a deep breath to prepare yourself for the closeness and hoped not to scare him, then you pulled his blanket back enough to slide into the bed.

Bucky immediately felt the dip in the mattress as you climbed in, whipping around startled to see you like a deer in headlights. Your descent into the bed was already in motion, so when he turned around, you toppled over and fell right on his chest. Unexpectedly, he let out a very loud scream which caused you to audibly gasp and start choking on the air that whipped into your throat. The noise he made surprised even him, causing his cheek to burn red with embarrassment. You were tangled in your blanket and pressed against his chest as you tried to calm your cough, Bucky was frantic, unsure how to help or even register what was happening. He tugged your blanket away from your body as you squirmed, trying to get out of it, and finally, he got you free.

You calmed down and sat up, sitting on heels and covering your face with the blanket.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” your voice was shaky and coarse, riddled with humiliation as you tried to hide under the thick fabric. Bucky was equally as embarrassed, maybe more. The last time he remembered screaming like that was when he fell off the train.

“It’s okay, I didn’t mean to scream at you like that, oh god…” he covered his face with his hands, trying desperately to stop the painful blush that turned him into a tomato, “what are you doing in here?” he asked through his hand, not wanting to make eye contact with you.

“Oh–oh yeah, I was just cold…I thought we could be warm together…” your sentences were broken by long sighs. You peeked over your blanket to look at Bucky. He had separated his fingers to glance at you but upon meeting your gaze, he shuddered away again.

“I see, well, if you’re not too weirded out, you can stay. I’d actually love the company,” he moved his hand and you could see how red he still was, it was cute. Your own embarrassment subsided as you were overtaken by how sweet and innocent he looked. Bucky only grew more red as you stared at him. He was sure you were making fun of him in your head, probably laughing at how he was blushing, but you were actually awestruck. His dark hair was messy and blue eyes were illuminated by the snowy moonlight that leaked into the room.

“What are you looking at?” he braved the question, worried about the answer.

“You’re gorgeous,” you said immediately, eyes widening as the words fell haphazardly from your lips. Bucky’s eyes twitched wider, the blush getting brighter as it took over his whole face. He was speechless. That was not at all what he was expecting you to say but he couldn’t help but love hearing it.

“Sorry…that was, oh god, sorry. Maybe I’ll just go back to my room,” you rustled around the blankets to get up. You needed to hide, to get away from him, why would you say that?? Now he knows you like him, you idiot. You’re going to have to move, he’s never going to want to talk to you again, oh god, oh g-

“You’re gorgeous too,” the words struck the thoughts right out of your head. You looked at him, your blanket wadded up in your arms like a child holding too many toys. Bucky was sitting up now, his body turned toward you. He was shirtless, in the fucking winter? Seriously, Barnes, and had extended his arm out to you. “Stay, please?” His voice was soft and inviting.

You took his hand, dropping your blanket and climbing in next to him. Bucky helped cover the both of you with each blanket and wrapped his bare arm around your body, pulling you against his skin. You rested your head on his shoulder and laid your hand on his chest before hesitantly pulling it away, unsure if he wanted you to touch his naked body.

“Sorry,” you whispered, settling your hand between your bodies with it tucked under your ribs. Bucky chuckled, reaching his metal hand over and pulling your wrist until your hand was free. He laid it over his heart, his palm against the back of your hand, fingers gripping it tightly.

“After you had to hear me scream like that, I think we’ve crossed over the ‘just friends’ border. Next thing you know, I’ll be taking you on a date,” Bucky laughed, looking down to meet your eyes. He wanted to see if the words scared you off at all, or if you’d be into going out with him. When your eyes lit up, he smiled, the knot in his stomach relaxing.

“Good, because I don’t usually lay naked with people I’m not dating,” you winked.

“Technically we’re not laying naked together seeing as you still have your clothes on, but feel free to change that,” he returned the wink, eyes traveling down your body for a moment.

“Maybe after the date, Barnes,” he scrunched his nose with a big smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. You nuzzled his neck, glad you decided to come to his room, you were already so much warmer. Bucky broke the peaceful silence, the earlier event still on his mind.

“Did you even knock? I could have been masturbating,” he questioned, eyes still closed. You laughed, looking up at his face. The movement caused him to look down at you.

“Ah, so you do masturbate. Do you use the metal arm?” he pulled his eyebrows together for a moment, a million questions running through his mind. He didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes with a smile and shook his head in disbelief. You shrugged and rested your head back on his shoulder. After a few long moments, Bucky kissed the top of your head, whispering low.

“Yes.”

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

I just wanna give you a prompt that is essentially just permission/a challenge to get as fluffy and smoochy and sappy as possible and make the SOFTEST, SWEETEST, make your teeth ACHE fic you can. Go all out. Pure chinchilla fluff, make this bitch S O F T. I do require smooches (and preferably geraskier) but beyond that: you have permission to make a fic out of candy floss.

don’t let your brothers bully your bard

tw: minor snowball related injuries

---

Geralt dodges to the side, laughing brightly, and realizes his mistake a moment too late. His quick thinking leaves Jaskier unprotected and the enormous snowball, thrown with all of Lambert’s Witcher strength and aimed at Geralt, slams against the back of the bard’s vulnerable, unenhanced skull. The force of the blow sends him crashing forward into a large drift of powdery white; all three Wolf Witchers go totally still. Lambert inhales once, sharply, and then they all fly into motion.

Eskel dashes towards the kitchen door, already shouting for Vesemir, while Lambert and Geralt approach Jaskier. The bard makes soft whimpering sounds but is otherwise unmoving and unresponsive to their quiet entreaties. “Jaskier? Are you okay?”

Only another quiet moan answers Lambert’s question. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt murmurs, suddenly terrified that this one silly day in the snow has led to tragedy. 

Then the bard rolls over, grabs both bent Witchers by their collars, and yanks them down into the snowback on either side of him. Their shouts of alarm are quickly muffled by mouthfuls of snow and Jaskier laughs, beaming more brightly than the winter sun, and darts up towards the protective walls of Kaer Morhen. He gets most of the way to the door before stumbling and swaying, slowing to a stop and dropping to his knees. 

Geralt recovers from his surprise in an instant and rushes to kneel at Jaskier’s side. “What’s wrong?”

“I got up too fast,” Jaskier giggles, still beaming. “I’m dizzy.”

“You might have a mild concussion,” Lambert says, jogging up beside them. “Sorry about that, Buttercup. I really didn’t think Geralt would move out of the fucking way like that; I figured he’d remember just how damn squishy you are and take the hit like a fucking gentleman.”

Geralt growls up at his brother and Jaskier gently sets his hand on the White Wolf’s arm, silencing him instantly. “Now, Geralt, I don’t think I’m going to make it up those stairs alive. Do you mind carrying me, good sir knight?”

The Witcher’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink, as close to a blush as Witchers ever get, and nods solemnly. “I can do that.”

“Good, because I can no longer feel my fingers or toes.”

Geralt scoops the bard into his arms like a pair of newlyweds and carries him up to their tower room, apologizing to Vesemir along the way for any undue panic their antics may have caused. Eskel leans in the kitchen doorway and shoots his younger brother and father a knowing look. “That Witcher is in it deep, eh?”

Vesemir nods sagely before his expression changes and he cracks a conspiratorial grin. “How long do you think it’ll take him to figure out the lad is half nymph?”

“Fifteen more years,” Lambert says. 

“I’m saying eight,” Vesemir adds. “He recovered too quickly from that blow for Geralt not to notice. Eight years is about what it takes for him to have important revelations.”

Both of the younger Wolves guffaw at their brother’s expense. Eskel finally decides on: “Ten, because I think Jaskier will get bored with the game and admit it.”

“Alright, lads. You two don’t have companions to take care of; off to the kitchen so we can get a decent spread on the table tonight.”

---

Geralt peels every layer of their wet clothing away one-by-one before briefly wrapping Jaskier up in a dry cloak. He settles them both down in front of the fire and pulls a heavy fur blanket around his own shoulders, cocooning Jaskier within his arms. He tugs the bard up against his bare chest, “Are you feeling better, Julek?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier smiles, pressing their naked torsos even closer together. “I think so. It might take me another minute or two to warm up.”

“Alright,” the Witcher intones seriously. He nuzzles down into Jaskier’s damp hair and breathes in the gentle floral scent that emanates from him so naturally. Like a patch of wildflowers right after it rains. “I love you, little bird.”

“And I love you, Witcher mine.”

“Am I really yours?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier glances up, “Are you?”

Geralt leans forward and presses their lips together for one long, slow, comfortable moment. He smiles at his bard and tightens the fur around them a bit more. “Always.”

[wille-zarr]

The Mandalorian: “Kissing is Disgusting”

In Fields of White ~ Chapter Eight ~ “Kissing is Disgusting”

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x f!reader

warnings: rated M for language; angst; threats of violence; alcohol consumption

word count: 12.7k

chapter summary: after waving goodbye to life on arvala-7, you anxiously continue along your journey to nar shaddaa... but when tensions erupt and dangers arise, your bond with the mandalorian is put to the ultimate test.

story summary: fleeing from the life you wish more than anything to forget, you are left to navigate the galaxy alone as a wide-eyed wanderer. in the process of evading the dangers linked to your previous life, your destiny is forever altered when you cross paths with an intimidating mandalorian and his unusually gifted child.

a/n: fluff and angst awaits!

also found on: Ao3

In Fields of White

Chapter Eight: “Kissing is Disgusting”

Well, so much for promising yourself to behave around the Mandalorian… Only ten days since you were gutted like a colo claw fish, and you’re already back to flirting with a vengeance.

You will never learn, will you?

“Not bad, Ka’r’ika.”

You stare at the target, your brows creasing as you assess your hit.

“Not bad? Kriff it, Din! Look at that!” You fling your arm out in the direction of the target. “My vibroblade hit the inner target ring this time! Almost the bullseye!” You spin around, glaring daggers at him. “How about you give me just a little bit of positive praise for once?” You cross your arms tightly across your chest, a smirk tickling on your lips. “Or would that kill you?”

The Mandalorian tilts his head to the side, hooking two fingers in his belt as he stares over at you. “I did give you praise,” he grumbles through his vocoder. 

“Not bad? You call that praise?” You purse your lips, a smile threatening to break the character you were playing. “Din Djarin, have you ever taught anyone anything before? Positive praise is a crucial part of the learning process.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the heavy, long-suffering sigh that slips beneath his helm. 

“Fine. You’re doing… okay.” His voice is dry, utterly unbothered by your grievances.

“Well, if I’m still not meeting the Mandalorian’s standards-” you march over to the target, yanking out your vibroblade from where it juts from the board- “you’ll just have to show me how to throw the blade again, step-by-step.” 

You casually stroll towards him, twirling the blade between your fingers. Flashing Din an impish grin, you hold your vibroblade out expectantly.

The Mandalorian sighs, heavy and tired. But you’ve spent enough time with him that you could now detect the jest, the amusement layered within his tone.

Spinning around to face the board, it takes every ounce of your willpower to keep from giggling like a schoolgirl as his hands curl around your shoulders, pulling you back against his chest. 

Maybe it was a tad conniving of you, but…

You’ve been, uh… faking bad throws… Lots of them.

In fact, you really didn’t require any training from the Mandalorian in vibroblade throwing. A few days prior, you took the initiative to do some independent practice. It only took a few initial swings, and your muscle memory kicked back in, each one of your throws hitting the bullseye, true and center.

But, well, let’s just say you have a reason- a good, though admittedly mischievous reason- for feigning incompetence at the moment… 

“Okay, Ka’r’ika-” Din’s gloved hand glides around your shoulder, gently inching its way down your right arm. He pauses at your wrist. “Relax this,” he rumbles right above your ear, his left hand lightly squeezing your shoulder. 

“And stop tensing.”

Oh, karking hells. You clench your teeth, trying to ignore how big and warm and close he is. How the kriff are you supposed to just not tense with the Mandalorian glued to the back of your body like a blasted Mynock? 

“Breathe.”

“I am breathing!” you squeak. Okay, maybe you had been holding your breath, but, again, he’s glued to your back like a Mynock leeching off electromagnetic energy. How the hell are you supposed to just blasted… breathe?

“Loosen your stance,” he whispers in your ear, releasing your wrist. He takes a step back, and you frown at the loss of his comforting- though admittedly distracting- presence.

You stare at the bullseye, letting your eyes drop-drop-drop down to the outer ring. 

There. 

Your target. With one last little smirk, you fling your arm back, shift your body weight forward, and give a sharp snap of the wrist.

Bang.

You hit exactly where you intended, the outer ring. Holy shavit, your dad would be proud! 

“Hell yeah!” 

You catch Din staring at you, head angled curiously at your elation over an apparently even worse throw than before. “Oh, um-” you shrug, flipping your grin for a scowl- “Din, I, uh, I’m just really bad at this. Please, let’s practice hand-to-hand defense now. I’ll have more use for that anyway.”

“No,” he grunts, stalking towards the target to yank your blade out. “You aren’t healed enough.”

“Come on, Din!” You drop down into a fighting stance as he slowly strides back towards you. “I am perfectly healed. Omera’s slathered me in enough bacta to heal a chopped-in-half dewback.” 

He moves closer, and you playfully reach out to slap the back of your hand against his Beskar-armored chest. 

“Come on, Mandalorian, what are you- WHU- HEY!”

He’s bent you over backwards, trapping you against his side with an arm wrapped around your waist.

“OOF! DIN!”

“This is what you wanted.”

“Let me go! I wasn’t ready!” 

“You weren’t?”

Stars, you hate that stupid smugness in his voice! You wiggle against his hold, but he only presses you tighter under his arm.

“Blast it, Din!” You fling out your hand, landing a sharp smack against his ass. “Let me go, you rusted tin can!”

He drops his hold, and you stumble out from under his arm. You promptly flip around, shooting daggers into his darkened visor. He just stares right back, resting both hands on his hips, all cool and calm against your fire.

You reach up, bunch your hat in your hand, and smack it down against your thigh. “Din Djarin!” you snap. “You take too much pleasure in dominating me!”

He does not answer. Just… stands there- his visor latched on you. 

You open your mouth to speak, but you slap it shut when he sharply angles his head to the side. “Ready to try the blade again?” His voice is gruffer than usual, gravelly. Deep and, blast it, okay! 

Fucking sexy.

You yank the hat back on your head, crossing your arms tightly across your chest. “Yeah, sure,” you mumble, averting your eyes from him. “And I will hit that karking bullseye.”

You will. Kriff it. You’re done playing your little flirtatious game for attention. It’s time to show the Mandalorian what you’ve been holding back. Make him bloody well proud of you…. Not that you care to make him proud or anything…

You dig the heel of your foot into the dirt, marking your distance from the target. “Watch and learn, Man-do.”

A hand slips under your arm, gripping your elbow from behind. “Relax this time,” Din rasps, low and deep, into your ear. He releases your elbow as swiftly as he had grabbed it. You swallow, ignoring the little lurch in your stomach.

Stars, this man is a menace.

You shake your head, trying to clear it of… uh, distraction. Sighing under your breath, you stare out at the target.

There.

The bullseye.

Pull back.

Aim.

Throw-

“Hello!”

“Pablo!” you yelp, watching as your vibroblade flings well above the target, missing the board altogether. “You absolute dune worm!” Spinning around, you stomp straight up to where Pablo stands a few feet behind Din. 

Pablo leaps back, hands forward in surrender. “Wait, what did I do?” He points a finger at himself.

“You-” you slap his hat back- “made me miss!”

With a sharp snort, he leans down to stare you directly in the eyes. “Maybe you just need more practice, sweetheart.”

“Oh, look who’s talking!” You push against his chest. “A man encased in carbonite until I saved-”

“Oh, here we go again! I told y-”

“Din kicked your ass.”

“I was distract-”

“Froze your ass.”

“He was lucky-”

“And I melted your ass.”

“Now look-” 

Pablo stills, slapping his mouth shut.

At the same time, a heavy shadow drapes over your body, cloaking you within a protective cocoon. You look to the right.

“Mando,” you smirk up at Din. “I’ve changed my mind. Teach me to use a staff. Then I can keep Pablo six feet away at all times.”

You hear a puff of modulated air. “As you please, Ka’r’ika.” The words are husky through his helmet’s vocoder. He hooks a finger in his belt. “But not until you’re completely healed.”

“Works for me,” you grin, letting your lazy outer rim accent slip forward. “Pablo, scram, blurg-brain. But get my blade first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pablo sighs, throwing you a half-hearted salute.

“You did well today.”

The grin on your face grows, practically ear-to-ear. You peek out from under your hat’s brim, meeting the Mandalorian’s dark visor boring into your eyes.

“You’ll be as good as me one day.” The Mandalorian says it so low, so quiet that you could barely hear it over the breeze whipping through the homestead. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just turns to watch Pablo walk up, your vibroblade extended from his hand.

Pablo winks as you take the blade from him. “Later, sweetheart.” Chuckling, he strolls towards the hut, thankfully leaving you and Din alone once again.

“Come on now-” you turn back to Din- “I could never be a professional such as yourself.” You snort before continuing, “I mean, how long have you been learning all this Mandalorian stuff? Years, I imagine.”

Din drops his hand from his belt, slowly turning, pausing upon finding a few of the children running in the distance. “See the children?” 

You nod. 

He drops his visor away from your face. “I wasn’t much older than they are now-” his voice slows, warming with each word he speaks- “when I was taken in as a foundling.” 

You blink. “Oh.”

You might not be able read his face, but you recognize the raw emotion hidden in his tone all too well.

“I owe them my life,” he rasps, the words scratchy through the vocoder. “After my parents died, the Mandalorians took me in as one of their own.”

Silence.

Oh…

You- you hadn’t realized. Din mentioned his parents died during the Clone Wars, but not that the Mandalorians had rescued him, taken him in. The thought of a young Din, alone and scared, trapped in the middle of a war a child could never comprehend…

Kriff. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. It… hit too close to home.

“We really do have a lot in common,” you mumble, your eyes drifting along the gleaming sunlight crowning his Beskar helm.

He barely nods at your words.

Then the air turns… awkward, tense… neither of you knowing what exactly to say or do next. You mindlessly flip your vibroblade over in your hand, afraid any words would make the air even more uncomfortable. I mean, what do you say? Hey, Din! It’s great we can bond over our dead families?

“To be honest-” you nearly drop the blade at Din’s voice- “I… didn’t learn much about blade throwing from the Mandalorians.”

You raise an eyebrow, questioning the hesitation in his voice.

“When I was younger, a woman... a Twi’lek…” He shuffles his weight back and forth, looking everywhere, it seems, but at you.

Oh. 

Oh. 

You raise an eyebrow. 

“A woman?” You smile a bit too sweetly, nudging the Mandalorian with an elbow. “A lover, perhaps?”

He stares out at the distance, but you think you notice a slight shrug.

You force a laugh, more a bark, to be honest. 

“Was she pretty?” 

Silence.

You lean forward, tapping his armor with the end of your blade. 

“Did she… break your heart?”

He looks at you. 

“She tried to stab it.” 

You sheath the blade.

“Well,” you puff, “that’d certainly kill a relationship.” 

Yanking your blade back out, you fling it over and over and over in your hand, trying to ignore the burn searing up your throat. 

Whoever she is, blast her.

Kriffing blast her.

You gasp- a glove shot out, gripping your wrist before you can toss the blade again. 

“Are you trying to lose a finger?”

You rip your hand away, twisting around to hide the warmth exploding across your face. “Don’t coddle me, Din. I’ll never learn if I don’t face peril.”

He makes a noise you cannot decipher. 

“My dad taught me,” you blurt, eager to change topics. “With knives, a little bit, I-I mean.” You slowly turn back to the Mandalorian, finding him still, patiently waiting for you to continue.

You bite your lower lip, picking at the edge of your sleeve with the blade. “But I never took his lessons very seriously. I…I just wanted to make him laugh at my stupid antics, which, of course, he would.” You smile wryly. “But, still, I wish I’d taken a lot of things more seriously back then... I was too busy being a terror.”

Din makes a noise. A breathy “not surprised” slips out from beneath his helm.

You crinkle your nose, choosing to pretend you didn’t hear that. 

Spinning your blade a few times, you stop, sheathing it once again. “You know, he’d sneak me up into the ice caves sometimes. Stars, from as young as I can remember. Taught me to use vibroblades and, eventually, even how to swing a staff. I guess he had it in his head he could turn us into little snow warriors or something.” 

You throw Din a cheeky, lopsided grin. “But then me and my sister started beating each other with big sticks when we’d get angry at each other. Then we’d gang up on my middle brother- two sticks against one.” You burst into warm laughter at the memory. “Kriff, did we ever get a long lecture. Even longer than the time I taught my siblings to use the curse ‘kark’.” 

“Doesn’t sound like you’ve changed much.” The Mandalorian’s tone is layered with amusement, and a hint of… something else.

“No,” you snort. “That’s the problem.” You crouch down on the ground, pretending you’re aiming in the distance with a weapon. “But he loved showing me how to use his hunting rifle the best, even though I had horrible aim…. Uh, still do, actually.” You let your eyes droop closed, releasing a heavy breath into the air. “That thing was his baby.”

Damn it.

Damn it. 

You miss him.

The clank of Beskar forces you to open your eyes. The Mandalorian’s standing in front of you now, a hand stretched out.

“I thought he was a herder.”

Taking Din’s hand, you let him pull you back up. 

“Oh, he was,” you chirp. Bending down, you brush the dirt off the knees of your pants. “But weapons were his hobby, practically his religion, as my mother would tease.” With a small smile, you toss the Mandalorian a pointed look. “I think he would have liked you. Or, at least, your big-ass rifle.”

The Mandalorian just shrugs.

“Well,” you sigh, staring out at the target again while simultaneously removing your blade from its sheathe. “I think I’ve gotten the hang of this now.”

Pull back.

Aim.

Throw.

Slam.

“Not bad,” you sniff, staring at your blade protruding from the center bullseye. “You’re a good teacher, Din. We’ll have to find something else for you to teach me.” You slap him on the back. “I have a few ideas.” You turn to walk away, biting back your giggle.

You hear him make a noise, barely audible with the distance.

“Looks like you could teach me...”

-------

You’re gunna throw up.

You can’t believe you’re leaving this- this haven tomorrow… for kriffing Nar Shaddaa.

Holy Hutt. Nar Shaddaa-

The planet you actually just fled from with only the clothes on your back…

Oh, flutterplume at a festival feast! 

You’re insane. You’re actually insane.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting hard to restrain any sign of outward distress. After all, if there’s one lesson the galaxy beat into your brain, it’s that you never, ever show any sign of weakness. Got to keep the upper hand. Got to stay ten steps ahead… Or, in your case, at least appear to be… 

No, as far as anyone on Arvala is concerned, you’re excited for Keolith.

…Kriff Keolith.

You release a heavy sigh, continuing to bounce the child up and down on your knee, a small smile growing on your face with every little giggle that falls from his mouth.

“Make sure to take it easy, not overdo it,” Omera calls at you from the other side of the room.

“Mhm,” you mumble, barely paying her any mind.

“I mean it. Din, make sure she obeys, okay?”

He makes a noise. “I’d wager-” the Mandalorian lays his rifle down on the table- “it’d be easier to wrangle a varactyl.”

“Din Djarin-” you keep your eyes focused on the baby, wincing as he yanks on your hair- “did you just call me a varactyl?”

“… No.”

“I give up,” Omera groans, taking the chair across from where you sit. “I learned a long time ago; patients never listen-” she sighs- “until they’ve reinjured themselves.”

You lift your eyes to meet her own. “Wait, Omera, you were a doctor?”

She laughs at the question. “I suppose it’s safe to say so, now that the Empire is gone.” She rests her elbows on the table. “I was a nurse in the Rebellion, which is where I met my late husband, a patient of mine. When I found myself expecting Winta, we felt it was time to step away together, leave the battle behind.”

“Pin two ears on a gundark!” You lean back in your chair, laughing in amazement. “No way! I knew I liked you!”

The Mandalorian angles his head to the side, eyeing Omera up and down. 

“Don’t give me that look, Din,” she chuckles, giving his shoulder a light shove. “You never asked.”

“Maker-” you shift the baby to your opposite knee- “sounds like a story straight out of a holo. Meeting the man of your dreams in a rebellion, nursing him back to health.”

“I suppose,” Omera smiles, that certain gleam in her eyes you’ve seen before.

Uh oh.

“What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

Omera smiles, not about to let you get away with your game. “You can’t tell me you’ve never been in love before.”

Oh Maker. 

Dangerous.

This conversation is dangerous. 

“Maybe,” you grumble, bouncing the baby on your knee again.

Oh kriff.

“Well, maybe one day you’ll find someone.” You can see Omera is trying her absolute hardest not to laugh, but she’s obviously failing. 

Stars.

Someone. 

Anyone. 

Help! 

As if answering your plea breathed into the force, Winta dashes over, pulling on her mother’s hand and whispering for assistance. Omera nods at you, that sly smile still etched on her face, and steps away from the table.

Oh, thank the Maker! Bless all the little children. 

With a weary sigh, you sneak a glance over at Din from the corner of your eye. He’s watching you… intently, helmet angled to the side in that curious Lothcat way of his. He begins to lean forward, as if he’s about to ask you a-

No. Kark that. 

Kark that shit!

You’ve had enough awkwardness for one day!

You burst up from your chair, cradling the baby against your chest. “We’re going to take a walk,” you speak to Din as much as to the baby. You shoot him a quick glance.

He’s still leaned forward, visor still trained on your face. He’s motionless, but relaxed, shoulders slightly slumped forward, the way they do when he’s tired. You read his silence as permission, and so you turn and walk out the door, trying to ignore the lingering sear of heat on your back, that lingering prickle of being watched.

Once you are through the door, you put as much distance between you and Kuill’s hut as quickly as possible, worried the Mandalorian might try and follow you outside. Grumbling under your breath, you stop at the fence line. You point up at the moon and stars, whispering for the baby to look up at them along with you.

“See those?” you whisper, grinning as the child’s large, soulful eyes fill with the reflections of hundreds of sparkling stars. “You’re just as special as those stars. Your force abilities are special, a gift.” You feel your heart swell with familiar, motherly warmth. “Special- just like you are to your father.” 

You tap your finger against his nose, and he bursts into a fit of giggles. “You little womp rat, quit laughing.” You shoot him an exaggerated frown. “It’s against the law to laugh.” 

He laughs even harder. And so you start laughing.

“The child’s grown fond of you.”

You startle at the voice, relaxing when you see it’s just Kuill, limping forward to stand beside you at the fence. “Yes-” you turn your eyes back to the baby’s face- “I suppose, like most children, they’re drawn to whomever shows them the most attention, ya little attention-seeking womp rat.” You caress his ear, smiling wistfully. “Mando doesn’t hug you enough, does he?”

“You’re very good- with all of the children,” Kuill rasps, leaning his weight forward on his cane.

“Yeah, well, I had four little siblings.” You throw Kuill a pointed look, and you continue on with your ramble. “They were such little monsters.” You grin. “And then there’s all the children from my village. Oh, and I often helped the other mothers with the children in the camp and-” 

You freeze. 

“…I- I mean-”

“Labor camp?”

Your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat. “H-how did you-”

“Omera described the tattoos on your arm to me. I understood their meaning, immediately.”

“Oh, no,” you breathe, panic bubbling, swelling up in your chest. “I- I can explain-”

“I did not tell Omera- their meaning, and I suggested, for your privacy-” Kuill waves his hand aside- “she should not discuss them with anyone else.” 

No. No.

Blast it. 

Blast it!

Kuill reaches out, resting a hand on your arm. “Do not concern yourself. It is your story… to tell when and if you wish. I myself- have spent time in such places. You were a victim of the Empire… as we all were.”

Raw emotion… grief… guilt- bubbles up your throat, threatening to cut off air. Choking. Suffocating. 

“No, Kuill,” you mumble, barely audible. You place the baby down on the ground and use your free hand to tug up your sleeve.

Kuill brushes his fingers, gentle and light, across the marks, lifting his eyes to meet your face. “A life sentence.”

You rip the sleeve back down, resting both hands on your hips. With a sharp intake of air, you pull on a mask- the tough, outer rim girl persona: the same one that’s simultaneously kept you both safe and in trouble for far, far too many years. 

“And I did what the Imperials sent me in for.” Your voice is hard, tired. Hells, you are so blasted tired. 

You shake your head. “I didn’t deserve to have my sentence commuted by the New Republic, once they took the camp over-” you rub your eyes a little too hard, filling your vision with blurring, swirling lines- “b-but I guess they figured it’d be easier to release everyone than to try sorting between the political prisoners, innocent families, and… actual criminals.”

Plus, there was the issue of the children to consider…

“I’m-” your words catch in your throat, sticking against your tongue, afraid to emerge fully from your lips. You force your eyes closed. “I’m… not as a good a person as you think, Kuill.”

Kuill grunts, tapping his cane against the fence. “I’d think your recent sacrifices-” he motions the cane towards the child, toddling beside your feet- “would contradict that statement.” 

“Maybe,” you mumble, avoiding looking Kuill in the eyes, “or maybe I’m still the same.”

“I think not.” Kuill rests against his cane. “For when you’ve lived as many years as I have-”

“-you learn to recognize patterns in behavior.” You smile wryly.

“It seems the galaxy has smiled upon you… given you a second chance.” 

“Well,” you sigh, pressing your forehead against the top of the fencepost. “I’ve been doing a fine job of botching it up already, I’m afraid.” 

Stars…

“I’d say you have one path open to you at this moment,” Kuill grunts. “But what will you do with it?” 

“I appreciate it, Kuill, but… I can’t stay here.” You give him your classic, lop-sided smile. “Gotta keep exploring this big galaxy, ya know?” 

Kriff the galaxy.

Kuill chuckles under his breath. “That wasn’t the path I was referring to.” He reaches out, patting the top of hand. “I wish you luck… my child.”

You blink, watching as Kuill moves away. You wait until he’s just far enough in the distance before releasing a strained breath of air. 

Maker…

A light coo, a tug on your pants, shifts your attention away from yourself, away from your tumultuous thoughts. With a small smile, you reach down and pull the baby up against your neck, letting him nuzzle there as you glance back up at the stars.

Always running. 

You’re always running.

But one day- one day, you will choose your own damn path.

-------

“Wipe your eyes, Birdie-” you ruffle the top of his head- “or you’ll flood the planet and put Kuill out of business.” 

Birdie launches straight into your legs, knocking an oof from you.  

“But- but what if I n-never see you- you again?” He buries his face in the fabric of your pants.

Dropping down to your knees, you peal Birdie off of you, holding him back by his shoulders. “Of- of course I’ll see you again, hm?” Your heart throbs as you speak the lie into the air, wishing it would just carry away on the desert wind.

Karking hells.

Your heart explodes, pain seeping from every new little crack. You tug Birdie into you, wrapping him up in your embrace just as new set of arms snakes around your neck from behind. 

“We-we’ll miss you!” Winta says between sniffs.

“Come now,” you chirp, straining your voice to be as easy and care-free as you can muster in your compromised state. “I’ll have a thousand new stories to share when I come back, hm?” Your empty promises are apparently working, the heaviness easing off of their shoulders before your very eyes.

An approaching presence shifts your attention away from the children.

“All of us, the parents, felt like you should have this.” You blink, eyeing the satchel in Omera’s outstretched hand. “We owe you so much more, but-” Omera’s face tenses- “it’s a thank you to remember us by, to help you get started on Keolith.” She slides an arm around Winta’s shoulders, pulling her against her skirt.

You can’t do anything but… stare at the bag, stunned by the absolute generosity of the gesture. “I-I can’t take anything for-”

“Please.”

You don’t want it. 

It feels… wrong to take it.

But you won’t risk insulting them by outright refusing their kindness. 

“Go into town-” you give Winta and Birdie a sly wink- “and buy the children something fun. To remember me by. To make them laugh.” You wiggle your hat back and forth, pulling it tighter against your scalp. “That’s my payment.” 

A good decision, or so the little sunny grins on Birdie’s and Winta’s faces tell you. Omera hesitates- then smiles. An agreement. And so, you return the expression with equal warmth. 

“Kekthar, Rukia.” 

You gasp- eyes tearing over to discover… Kuill?

Sularian. 

A Sularian farewell.

You haven’t heard your native language spoken by another in, well… years.

“Kekthar, Sudbia,” you return, a small smile tickling at the corner of your mouth. As you share the smile with him, a silent understanding, a knowing, passes between your eyes:

You are always welcome in my home.

You will never deserve such kindness.

“Thank you, Kuill,” you whisper, bowing your head with respect.

As you continue sharing goodbyes, your heart grows heavy with each one spoken aloud. Part of you wants to just barrel into the Razor Crest, dive into the bed, and hide under a blanket just like the baby. 

Stars, goodbyes reek.

“Be careful, Din.” A faint conversation to your left shifts your focus away from your misery. “Come back as soon as you can.” You turn, eyes widening as you watch Omera wrap her arms around Din, enveloping him in a warm, heartfelt embrace. He returns the gesture, going as far as to… rub her back… affectionately.

A pang.

A punch in the chest.

Shavit. 

Just… shavit!

Spinning around on your heel, you stomp towards the Razor Crest, grumbling under your breath like some bitter old man.

Blasted seven Corellian hells- just-

Stoopa. Stoopa!

Kriff everything a-and-

You stop.

Kriff, wait, what is this? Corellian hells, what- 

Oh.

You blink, gritting your teeth.

You’re… jealous?

…

You’re jealous.

You groan, yanking your hat low across your eyes. You have got to stop bantering so much with the Mandalorian… flirting. You’re- you’re getting too attached. And there’s only one way this could possibly end:

Like a nuna at a Hutt roast… 

Uh, not so good, in other words.

You turn and frown, watching the pair speak in the distance.

Omera is… incredible. That Beskar idiot should marry her. Settle down. Have a family. He… deserves to have that. To be happy. 

He’s a good man.

“We really need to get going,” Cara grumbles, walking up beside you to stack a crate next to the ramp. “I’ve gone way, way over schedule, and Karga is breathing down my neck, even though he knows I lost my ship.” Cara pauses to sigh, leaning forward against the stack. “He says the town has gone to hell without me.”

Blinking away any lingering physical signs of your jealousy, you slip on an indifferent, bored expression. 

“Why so, Cara?” Your voice hardly veils the tension brewing in your head, but Cara, thankfully, does not seem to notice.

“I’ve been acting as a sort of-” she waves her hand in the air- “part-time Marshal, in a sense, on Navarro. Cleaning out a lot of the criminal rings scumming about,” Cara sighs, rubbing her face. “Still have a long way to go, but-” she lifts her eyes, giving you a sly smile- “I think I’m going to talk to Karga about dropping the Guild work completely, instead working full-time cleaning the streets. Maybe get a school up and running. And a doctor’s office; we need that too.”

“Cara,” you chuckle, stooping down to sit on a crate. “You surprise me. A dreamer lurks under all that brawn.”

“Maybe,” Cara chuckles. “But even so, my reason for visiting Arvala is dead, and I’m needed on Navarro.”

You blink. “Dead?”

Cara shoots out a hand, pointing at a lone Pablo approaching with his satchel. “Dead, according the Guild registry, that is.”

A bright grin bursts across Pablo’s face. He throws his hands out at the side, spinning around until he is facing the approaching Mandalorian. “Hey, shame you and Cara lost such a priceless bounty, right, Mando?”

The Mandalorian saunters up to Pablo, pausing to stare him directly in the eye.

“I was paid for killing you.” 

The Mandalorian knocks into Pablo’s shoulder as he moves past.

One glance at the panicked expression on Pablo’s face, and you burst into loud, obnoxious laughter. He twists, shooting you a murderous look, which you happily return with only sweetness and a smile. 

At least, on the bright side, you now have someone new to torment besides Din.

After all, it’s the little things that matter.

-------

“Dad!” You climb up on top of the huge fallen log, waving wildly to your dad in the distance. “Look! Watch!”

He pauses at your words, giving you a cheeky, lop-sided grin. “Okay, Starlight-” he leans forward against his rifle- “I’m watching.”

“You’re watching?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, don’t look away!”

“I won’t.”

“Still watching?”

“Starlight-”

With a grunt, you spin backwards off the log, landing a perfect backflip… 

…straight into a hidden snowdrift.

“DAD!” you shriek, buried up to your hips in snow. You continue to wriggle, desperate to free yourself… to only sink down further with every shift. “Dad!” you yelp. You hear a rustling noise, and you jerk your head up.

Your dad- ever the helpful, supportive parent- is leaning over the top of the log… 

laughing at you.

“Starlight,” he chuckles, “very impressive. Ten out of ten for style.” He crosses his arms across the log, angling his head to the side as he stares down at you. “But you made that fatal flaw we’ve talked about before.”

“Dad!” you growl, in no mood to be lectured nor teased. “Get me out of here! I don’t care!”

“What’s that fatal flaw?” 

“I don’t care!”

“Starlight?”

You shoot him a pathetic frown. “I didn’t observe my surroundings first.” You twist your head away, pouting your lips. “I acted before thinking.”

Gloved hands wrap around your arms, lifting you up out of the snow drift.

“Good girl-” your father pulls you up against his side, rubbing your back. “Remember-”

“-think first, show off second.” You release a puff of air, watching as it crystalizes in front of you. 

Your dad laughs and slips you that characteristic sly wink.

“My little snow warrior-” he grabs your hand, leading you back towards the mountain path- “such a little show-off………”

-------

“I’m not a show-off!”

Pablo flashes you a grin. “Come now, princess-”

“Okay, fine.” You crinkle your nose, lifting your hand up, two fingers spaced closely together. “Just a little bit. But still, it’s true.” 

“Oh sure.”

“Yes! I could out-drink both of you, and ten Corellians on top of that.” You shove against Pablo’s shoulder as you move past, sitting down beside him.

“Speaking as a Corellian man, that’s big talk, sweetheart,” Pablo slides his glass of whiskey back and forth on the table between his hands. “But are you willing to try and prove it?”

“Pour me some of that-” you tap your fingers on the table, smirking at Cara- “before you and Pablo wipe out our supply.”

Cara pours and slides you a glass, a questioning expression on her face. You take a deep breath, lean back, and down the whiskey in one shot.

“Oh-” cough- cough- “wow, that’s-” cough- “that’s defi-” cough- “de-definitely Corellian.”

Cara smacks her hand down on the table, clutching her stomach as she doubles over with laughter. “Oh, dank farrick, your face!”

Pablo snorts. “Still think you can out-drink ten Corellians?” Resting his elbows against the table, he slides the bottle towards you. 

Feeling your face flush with warmth from the shot of whiskey, you can only grin and tilt your head. “I’m certain of it.”

Pablo leans back, chuckling as he crosses his arms behind his head. “Fine. The minute we land on Tatooine-” he points at you, raising an eyebrow- “I’m dragging you into the first cantina we find.”

Your smile plummets.

“Tatooine?” You fling around in your chair, gawking over at the Mandalorian on the other side of the hull. “Tatooine?”

He stops cleaning his blaster, lifting his helmet to meet your eyes.

“He didn’t tell you?”

You spin back around, now gawking at Cara. “Obviously no. I thought we were heading to Navarro!”

“No.” Cara shrugs, leaning back against her chair. She lifts a brow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Tatooine is closer than Navarro. We’ll jump transports from there, letting you and Din continue on to Nar Shaddaa.”

“Hell,” you breathe, flopping back against your chair. 

Tatooine?

“I’ll be loath to part from you all.” Pablo lifts his glass in the air. “I’ve grown so attached to everyone…. Well-” he raises a brow at you- “minus one.”

“You know, Pablo-” you jump forward, slapping both hands down on the table- “you’re being awfully rude for a man who’d be cargo right now if it wasn’t for me.”

“Oh, don’t start on-”

“I will!”

“You know good and well-”

“You’re so rude!”

“I am not!”

“Carbonite man.”

“Don’t call me-”

“HEY!” You both rip your heads towards Cara. 

Silence.

She slowly leans forward. “Are you two done?”

“Absolutely,” you sniff. Leaning into the palm of your hand, you release a long, heavy sigh, choosing to just ignore Pablo. 

“Stars,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling, beginning to reminisce. “I haven’t been to Tatooine in, well… years. Pretty sure I still owe some people money,” you grumble. “Dank farrick, I got into so much trouble there.”

“As an exceptional speederbike racer.”

Your eyes rip up, trailing the Mandalorian as he sits beside Cara. “That is, if I remember correctly.” His tone light, almost… airy compared to his typical grumpy snaps. 

Oh. He’s teasing you. 

You raise an eyebrow.

You know you should stop. Stop teasing him back. 

But…

“I’m better than you, Din Djarin-” you lean across the table, smiling slyly as you stare him down- “that’s for certain. I’m the damn best, too.”

He shifts back, folding his hands against his stomach, just…. gazing at you.

“Damn best, huh?” Cara takes a shot of her drink. “Then you should have joined the Nar Shaddaa professional circuits. High risk, high reward.” She slides the bottle of whiskey towards you. “I imagine the violence, death, and insanity would have been right up your alley.”

“Well…” With a small sigh, you drop your eyes, beginning to play with the edge of your shirt. “Actually I- I would have.” You lower you chin. “But… uh, had someone I needed to stay alive for,” you discreetly add under your breath.

Cara grins and lifts her glass at you. Din, on the other hand, stretches his neck, dark visor pinned to your face. You snap away, staring over at the slightly tipsy Pablo instead.

“Boyfriend?” Pablo mumbles, taking the whiskey bottle for himself.

You only smile.

“Well, either way-” he sloshes his glass high- “to Tatooine!”

“Hell,” you grumble.

You lift your own glass.

To Tatooine.

…

Dank farrick.

-------

The darkness moves in. Closer. Suffocating. Gnawing away at the light.

…

“I know why you chose this.

… 

You love power. 

…

Crave it.”

…

You bury your face in your hands. “Shut up! You know nothing!”

…

“You can’t hide forever.

…

I know what you’ve done.

…

And you’ve seen what I’m capable of………”

…

Something presses into your neck.

…

Shit.

Your eyes blast open. 

Can’t-

Can’t breathe!

Wriggling and squirming, you claw at your neck, kicking the covers off Din’s bed as you twist and turn and push and fight.

“Urf! C-Cara,” you hiss, slapping at her arm slumped across your neck. “Move!” 

Cara snores louder, oblivious to the fact that she’s, you know, smothering you. She mumbles something in her sleep, pulling her arm back to flop over to her side of the mattress. Launching up from the bed, you gasp, sucking in deep gulps of air. A few more seconds, a few more gulps, and you glare over at Cara.

You can put up with snoring.

But you draw the kriffing line at actively trying to suffocate you in your sleep.

“Stars…” you hiss, pressing a palm to your forehead before pulling it back, blinking at the sweat dripping from your hand. 

You’re… drenched. Trembling, shivering- your soaked nightshirt and pants stinging like ice in the cool air. Sliding down to the foot of the bed, you wrap your arms across your chest, squeezing tightly in a vain attempt to slow the trembling tearing at your body. 

You groan, your head sloshing with exhaustion and fatigue and tension, but then… the threat from your nightmare slips past it all, the memory growling in your head-

You can’t hide forever…

Your throat catches.

Oh hell.

Oh hell.

You slap both hands over your eyes.

You’re dead…

-------

Some people turn to religion. 

Some people talk to a therapist. 

But your newfound cure for anxiety?

Apparently, the smell of Andorian Mountain Roses. 

Specifically, the faint scent of Andorian Mountain Roses lingering on the Mandalorian’s flannels.

After Cara’s murder attempt, you waited several minutes on the edge of the bed for the trembles, the shakes, to dissipate… but no such luck. Desperate, wet, and cold, you had peeled off your soaked nightshirt, swapping it out for a flannel shirt stolen from a heap on the floor.

You bury your nose into the sleeve of the thick shirt, inhaling deeply as you pad gently across the floor of the Razor Crest’s hull. 

It smells like Din.

…

You’re safe with him.

…

He promised.

…

“Ka’r’ika?”

You freeze, dropping your arm at the faint voice, low, barely a rasp.

You tiptoe closer to the base of the ladder leading up to the cockpit. “Din?” you whisper, staring up into the dark void above.

“Come up.”

Biting your lip, you tentatively rest your foot on the bottom rung. One hesitant breath, and you scamper straight up.

“Din?” you question again, poking your head up into the space above. You blink, your eyes shifting towards the cockpit windows, smiling as you admire that familiar sparkling, dancing hyperspace light bouncing off everything within the cockpit.

Your eyes follow the streaking lines… forward… straight to the Mandalorian. He’s turned around in his chair, studying your every move.

“Hi.” You smile, a bit… shyly. 

Hm. That’s new.

Resting back against in the pilot’s seat, he folds his hands- gloveless hands- across his stomach.

Fiddling with the edge of your shirt, you gently pad into the cockpit. A sharp glance to the left- you smile. The pram is sealed again, cocooning the child as he sleeps. 

You glance back to Din, and as you step closer, you notice his right pauldron is missing. “Hey-” you slip into the right co-pilot’s chair- “I hope I didn’t wake yo-”

“I was already awake.”

“Oh.” You blink, chewing on your lower lip. He seems so… close. Stars, you didn’t remember the cockpit being quite this… uh, tight. 

“Um, I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper, not wishing to risk waking the baby. After all, from the looks of Din and his missing pauldron, it must have taken quite some time to get the baby to sleep.

You slide forward, resting on the edge of the co-pilot’s seat. “Between Pablo’s and Cara’s snoring-” you grimace- “it’s like trying to sleep in a kriffing zoo down there. They’re both drunk off their socks.”

Din makes a noise. “Really?”

“Yeah, Cara tried to smother-”

“No-” the Mandalorian dips his helmet at you- “…is that really why you can’t sleep?”

“Am I really that easy to read?” you huff, raising a brow.

Silence.

“…You’re afraid.” 

You blink, falling quiet. Of course you’re afraid... 

You’re terrified.

You hear him shift in his chair, but you do not look up. 

“…Why did you leave Tatooine?”

How can his voice sound so gentle, so soft, even when modulated? Stars, you can only imagine it without the distortion… You glance down at the floor, spinning the chair back and forth, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Grandpa yanked us off overnight,” you blurt, a bit surprised by how the words hurt as they emerge. You continue spinning in the chair, this time in full circles. “…Because I was a damn idiot.” You stop rotating, and face Din’s seat. Your eyes trail down his helmet… down his arms… to those hands.

Large. 

Tan.

Scarred. 

And warm- so warm… 

Karking hells, you’ve spent too much damn time thinking about how warm they felt that day… How he brushed your chin- confident, no hesitation. And so blasted gentle, like you were made of glass.

…Oh, seven Corellian hells…

You’re done for. 

Thank the Maker your warming face is hidden in the dim light. 

A shift of movement draws your focus back over to the pilot’s chair. Din leans forward, resting his elbows against his thighs- a silent invitation.

Groaning, you pull a foot up into your chair, tucking it under your chin. “After… after it was just me and Grandpa-” you wave your hand in the air- “I, uh, had a talent for getting into… situations.”

You turn your eyes away, fearing you might not have the strength to continue if you shared even just one glance with him. “Grandpa- he kept having to pull us off planets. I’d always get mixed up with the wrong crowds, gangs, whatever. We could never stay one place too long.” With every word you speak, your throat tightens- constricts.

Your… your Grandpa deserved so much better than you.

“I just… kept acting out more and more the older I got.”

Stupid.

So stupid.

Flopping your head back against the chair, you stare up at the ceiling. “By Tatooine, I was pretty much… unmanageable. He tried- he really did- but, in a way, I think- I think he had given up on me. He stopped asking so many questions when I’d be gone for hours, sometimes days, at a time. He was… he was so used to me running off.”

Biting the inside of your cheek to keep the burning in your eyes at bay, you continue. “Remember the boy I told you about? The speederbike racer?” You venture a glance at Din, finding him in the same position, leaned forward against his thighs. He gives you a light nod.

“He…he was part of an illegal racing club. He got me in- I was good, great at it.”

“Damn best?”

You smile at Din.

“Hell yeah,” you chuckle, pulling your second leg up into the chair, tucking it under your chin. “I pulled a lot of ill-advised stunts. Got me noticed by the right, or rather wrong, people. A Hutt sponsored me as his challenger in the biggest speeder race Tatooine had seen in years.” 

You groan, burying your face in the palms of your hands. “And, under no uncertain terms, I was to win… or else. And, of course, my stupid self thought-” you throw both hands in the air- “‘Great! I’ll win, no big deal! Win lots of money and fame! What an honor to be a Hutt favorite!’”

You shoot Din a knowing look.

He sits back, tapping his fingers against his thigh. 

“What… happened?” His words are hesitant.

 “I karking won, of course.” You cross your arms. “What else did you expect?” 

He just stares at you- tilts his head to the side.

You make a noise. “Grandpa flipped when he found out. He knew how’d things would inevitably end- entering those kinds of races, working with the Hutts.” You let out a dry laugh. “He yanked me off that planet, kicking and screaming. I thought he was ruining my future. Turns out, I did a fine job of that on my own.”

Stars… you can’t think about Grandpa right now- don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry-

“A-anyway-” you force a laugh- “um, enough about me.” You lift your chin, tossing Din a forced grin. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Such as?” 

A slight smirk grows on your face. Actually… there is something you’ve been dying to ask him, but… it just never felt appropriate- you felt too intimidated to question. But here, draped in the dancing blue hue of hyperspace, he somehow feels less like a Mandalorian and more like… just a man.

“Can you ever take that helmet off?” you blurt. You instantly cringe, regretting the words the second they leave your lips. “You don’t ha-”

“I can.”

You blink.

He spins around away from you, facing the console. “For my children.” He flicks a switch. “And a… a wife.”

“…Oh.”

You tilt your head to the side. Huh.

“Stars, wait-” you shoot up in your chair- “does that mean you’ve never kissed anyone before?”

He freezes. 

One second-

Two seconds-

Three seconds-

“Sorry!” You press a hand against your cheek. “Sometimes I- I blurt before thinking.” You flop backwards, sighing heavily. “Anyway, you’re not missing a thing. Kissing is disgusting. Think about it- swapping spit? Touching tongues? With another person?” You crinkle your nose. “It’s nasty.”

You lean forward, eyes widening. “Oh, my Maker! One time, I was dared to kiss a Gungan, and I think I’ve had lingering trauma ever…. uh, since…” You press your face into your knees, your face warming. “Ah, um, you know what? Never mind.”

Kark- maybe try thinking before speaking just once- JUST once?!

The Mandalorian resumes fiddling with the switches on the console, as if you hadn’t been speaking at all- thank the force. 

After all, the Gungan story was rather hard to explain.

 A few minutes pass, no word spoken aloud, and the cockpit falls into a stillness.

A calm stillness.

Just… tranquility.

You suck in a deep breath of air, sinking deeper into your chair. Even with your awkward blunders, you feel more comfortable, safer in this moment than you have in far, far too long. 

Eyelids drooping, time begins to swirl around you, mixing, blending with the hyperspace light. Lost in the realm between consciousness and sleep, you are barely aware of a lingering presence that looms beside you.

You drift away from sleep, sailing closer to consciousness. Parting your eyes just enough to see, a small smile slips onto your lips. He- Din- hovers over you. He reaches up, removing the cape from his back, and drapes it over you as your eyes slip back closed. You feel the weight of it pause halfway. 

A slight tug- a pull- on the edge of your shirt.

Your eyes part, your groggy smile returning.

“Keep it,” Din rasps, barely a whisper. He continues rubbing the fabric of his shirt you wear between two fingers. “Looks… nice.” 

The weight of the cape moves up, fully cocooning you, safe, warm, much like his son that sleeps beside you.

“Sweet dreams… Meshla.”

“Mmf,” you mumble. “What’s… th-at… mean?” 

Skin traces the outline of your ear.

“Nuisance.”

“Kriff… you.”

“Go to sleep.”

You smile, letting your mind sail back towards the shoreline of sleep.

-------

“HEY! Get away from there! You know he doesn’t like droids!”

You lumber down the ramp after the Mandalorian, squinting against the unforgiving rays of the twin Tatooine suns. You lift a hand to your eyes, blinking as a woman- head full of tight curls- marches towards the Razor Crest. 

“May as well let them have at it,” the Mandalorian grumbles. “The Crest needs a good once over.”

“Oh! So, he likes droids now. Well, you heard him.” The woman waves at a crew of droids. “Give it a once over!... I guess a lot has changed since you were last in Mos Eisley.”

The Mandalorian pauses in front of the stranger with Cara, Pablo, and yourself gathering around him. 

“Well, looky here! You’ve made new friends!” The woman narrows her eyes, leaning in towards Pablo. “Hopefully you three won’t try and kill me like the last one this Mandalorian dragged in here.” 

She leans into you this time. “If you ask me, I think your Mandalorian here needs a good group of friends,” she whispers under her breath. “The man doesn’t live well.”

You slap a hand over your nose, pressing to muffle your burst of laughter.

But then Pablo laughs, and you just can’t hold it in.

The Mandalorian sighs, not sparing the two of you a glance.

“I’m Peli.” The woman nods again, oblivious to the effect her words have had on you and Pablo. “I am a very- OH ho!” Peli launches forward, swooping the baby out from the Mandalorian’s satchel. “I’ve missed this little one! Let me guess, I’m needed for babysitting services? Don’t ask! Yes!” She rocks the baby against her hip, and the baby, delighted by the attention, grins and giggles- clearly very pleased to see Peli again.

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” The Mandalorian reaches out, stroking the child’s ear. “The girl and I need to resupply. I’d rather leave the child here.”

“I have a name, Mando,” you grumble under your breath, shooting him a glare.

He keeps his head straight, focused on Peli, ignoring your protest.

“Of course!” Peli shouts, walking several feet away as she rambles away to the child.

“Mando-” Cara touches his arm- “I’ll catch up with you later today before we leave Tatooine. I’m taking Pablo with me.” She eyes Pablo, a suspicious gleam in her eyes. “He claims he has a contact, can get Navarro hooked up with a good supplier.”

“Of course!” Pablo flings his hands out, grinning ear to ear. “Old Bolbo is a close friend! He completely forgave me for that incident with his sister in Anchorhead!”

Cara stares at him.

“Oh, hell.” She adjusts the rifle on her back. “Let’s get this over with.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head as Cara and Pablo walk off towards the exit.

“Peli-” the Mandalorian walks after her- still dashing back and forth, rambling to the child. “I want you to keep the doors secured until I get back.” He hooks a finger in his belt, his helmet following Peli back and forth, back and forth. “Don’t open them for anyone you don’t know.”

“Oh!” Her eyes brighten. “I actually have a defender droid now! 4PO!” she shrieks, waving her hand in the air. “Come on! Come on! Wa-iting.”

Your eyes widen, watching with a mixture between disbelief and dismay, as a silver droid stumbles forward- red light radiating from its joints. “Um,” you bite your lip, fighting against the laughter swelling up your throat. “Isn’t… isn’t that a protocol droid?” 

“It’s been refitted!” Peli slaps the droid with her free hand. “4PO! DEFENDER MODE!”

The droid wobbles back and forth- bolts and screws raining down, bouncing across the floor. You blink. “Is- is th-”

The droid’s head snaps to you.

“<death is but a relief from our meager existence>”

…

…

…

The Mandalorian looks at Peli.

“Keep the doors secured.”

His hand wraps around your upper arm, pushing you towards the exit.

“Blast it, 4PO!” Peli’s shouts from behind, pulling a giggle from your lips. “I can’t believe you’ve embarrassed me like this! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“<i am trapped in this shell. i cannot die.>”

“4PO!”

-------

Ah, Mos Eisley Spaceport:

Dangerous? Yes.

Scummy? Yes.

Entertaining? Also yes.

You grin beneath the scarf wrapped around your face, gawking at all the activity and interesting faces that swarm past you on the street. You are so enraptured with the sights and sounds that the Mandalorian is occasionally forced to grab your arm and pull you against his side.

“Stay close,” he’d grumble… before you’d inevitably leave his side again five minutes later.

“Mando!” you call from the top of a store’s steps, waving across the street for him.

He sweeps forward, stopping beneath you just at the bottom step. 

“Stop disappearing.” 

His voice is hard, all bounty hunter.

“What?” You grin, skipping down the steps to stand beside him. “The bounty hunter can’t hunt me down? Keeps losing me?”

He releases a heavy, long-suffering sigh and angles his head down at you.

“Move.”

Giggling under the scarf, you allow the Mandalorian to lead you inside the store. You don’t wait for instructions nor directions- you know what you want, and you’re going to get what you want. The Mandalorian finds you a minute later. He doesn’t say anything, just stands on the opposite side of the rack as you claw through the hangers.

You stop long enough to give him a look. “The baby needs clothes, Mando.” You continue clawing through the limited selection. “That sack he wears is ridiculous. Now go, leave me alone. I don’t need you hovering.”

He throws his head to the side, a small sigh slipping out- but he obeys your command.

You sneak a glance from the corner of your eye, a lop-sided smile stretching across your face. He’s off to the side, trying to appear occupied, but you know what he’s doing:

He’s not letting you get further than ten feet away.

The hovering- the lingering, keeping an eye on you…

It’s… kind of cute.

…But irritating.

Still, considering the incident on Arvala, he has good reason to hover… You’d do well to remember that yourself.

After making a few selections, you spin around, expecting to find the Mandalorian where you left him. But he’s gone.

“Hm.” You twist your head around but spying him nowhere in the store.

Fine.

Guess he took your command seriously this time. You make your purchases and step outside the door. Just as you go to sit on the top step, the clank-clank of Beskar jolts you around.

“Mando!” You throw both hands on your hips in mock frustration. “You left me.”

He rests a hand against his holster, and chuckles. “Make up your mind, Ka’r’ika.”

You drop the frown, trading it in for a blooming grin. “Fine. What was so important that you left me behind?”

His helmet angles down, his hands fiddling with something hanging off from his belt.

“I was next door… I… saw this.” He reaches out, presenting you what’s in his hand. “Thought it… suited you. Better than the one I have. Mine’s… too long. This suits your size. Suits your height… better.”

You tentatively take the plain metal bar, no longer than the length of your hand. “Ah, thank you, Mando! I… love it.” You blink. “Um, what is it?”

He points to a switch on the side.

“Is tha- OH!”

A blade slices out from the end. “Seven Corellian hells!” you laugh. “This is- wait, what’s this do- OH KRIFF!”

You nearly throw it from your hands. One flick of a switch, and the bar the length of your hand grows to be three, maybe even four feet in length

“Din!” you hiss, tapping the staff down onto the ground. “You bought me a weapon to kill people with!” You flick the switch again, grinning as it collapses back to the size of your hand. “I’m going to cry!”

The Mandalorian grunts, angling his head to the side. “Weapon to defend.”

You flick the switch again, grinning as the blade slides away, hidden within. “Well.” Hooking the bar onto you belt, you look up at him with an impish smirk. “Now you’re trapped. You have no choice but to train me with a staff.”

“That’s the idea.”

You can’t help but grin like an idiot.

-------

“Where are you going?”

“Refresher,” you shout, continuing to march away from the Mandalorian and straight towards a cantina. You step inside, grimacing at the smack of stench that punches you in the face.

Uhg, what’s with cantinas and unwashed masses?

Shaking your head, you let your eyes sweep around the dim, dingy, and nearly empty cantina. Ah, there’s th-

“OH!” you squeak, pulling away from the hand grasping your shoulder. “Din!” you hiss, pushing against his arm.

“I said stay close.”

“You can’t use your bounty hunter voice on me and expect it to work.” You march away. “Unless you’re coming with me into the refresher, wait for me out here.”

-------

You are only gone a few minutes, but you are frustrated to find yet again- yes, again- the Mandalorian has disappeared within that time frame. With a heavy sigh, you sit down at the bar, ignoring the other patrons beginning to trickle in as Tatooine’s work hours for the day come to a close.

“Hello there, miss.” A young man sits next to you at the bar. He throws you a smile. 

Ah, he’s cute.

“Never seen you here before. Mind if I buy you a drink?”

A sly smirk tickles at the corner of your mouth. 

An idea.

“I never refuse a free drink.” 

You flick your eyes back towards the cantina entrance. “Come on, Din. I want to have fun with you.”

“Say,” the man leans towards you as the bartender slides you your drink. “How about we go somewhere, hm?”

You crinkle your nose, lifting the drink to your lips. “No thanks.”

“But I bought you a drink-”

“I don’t remember leaving with you being part of that deal.”

The man’s facade drops, his expression twisting into irritation. “Girl, you hav-”

“Unless you want to talk to my husband into letting me go with you, I just can’t.”

You bite away the grin that begs to explode across your face as you watch the man’s eyes widen twice their typical size.

“Husband?”

You twist your head, and stare across the bar-

-directly at a looming, hulking, intimidating, Beskar-donning Mandalorian.

The man leaps from you, his eyes not leaving the Mandalorian- not for one second. “Uh, um, look I- I didn’t mean anything.” He throws his hands up.

“Honey-” you take another sip of your drink- “could you watch the kids so I can go with this gentleman?”

The Mandalorian’s visor is glued to the man- searing him to the ground. 

A bird stalking prey.

“You know the kids don’t listen to me, Cyare.” His voice is quiet, dangerously contained. “So, you chose.” 

He stalks around the bar, slowly, deliberately… 

“Do I string him up for the rancors… or do I shoot him now?”

“I like rancors,” you chirp, twisting to look up at Din. “They’re kinda cute.” You turn back-

“Hey, he’s gone!” You groan as the Mandalorian wraps his hand firmly around your upper arm, pulling you off the barstool. 

“Let’s go.”

“Just when I was making friends.”

“I’m getting you back before you get yourself shot.”

“But I have my stick now!”

“Staff, Ka’r’ika.”

“Yes, staff- a big stick.”

A beaming grin bursts across your face at the pained, long-suffering sigh that erupts from his helmet’s vocoder. He continues to lead you in silence through the streets of Mos Eisley, only coming to a stop after pulling you aside in an alley.

“I can handle myself, Din,” you teasingly smile, pressing your back up against the wall.

He hovers over you, tilting his head forward. “You’ve yet to convince me of that.”

You bite your lower lip, mischief tickling in the back of your mind.

“I’m fast, remember?”

He leans forward, closer into your face. “So you always say.”

You let your smile slowly drop… drop… drop…

His hands shoot out-

You lean back-

SMACK.

You laugh as Din stares down- stunned- at the staff held sideways in your hands, blocking him from grabbing you. You push the bar against him, ducking sideways to escape his grasp.

“Nice try!” you growl through your gritted teeth as you bolt down the alley. “Race you to the hanger!”

Burning every drop of adrenaline flooding your bloodstream, you blast through the twisting turns of the alleyway labyrinth, hissing each time you think you see a gleam of Beskar from the corner of your eyes.

Blast!

You slide sideways across the dirt, narrowly avoiding bursting through a vendor’s cart, cackling as the vendor hurdles curses at your fleeing back. Taking a sharp turn, you speed into another alley, sliding across the loose dirt as you stumble to a halt- unable to continue another foot without passing out.

“K-kriff!” you pant, twisting your head back and forth, spying for even just a hint of shining Beskar in the empty alley. 

“I’m out- out of… shape! I- I can’t- AHRG!”

You fall forward, hard, against the ground to escape what dropped from the roof behind you.

“DIN!” you shriek, baring your teeth at him.

“Keep up.” 

He spins around.

Kark that! 

You launch forward, grabbing onto his cloak, and- yank! 

“Bitch, get back here!”

  You stumble into his back and wrap both arms tightly around his neck- bursting into a fit of giggles as Din lifts you up and keeps moving forward. He reaches his hands back, pulling your legs up around his waist- essentially carrying you piggyback.

“Din!” you yelp between barks of laughter. “I-I’m slipping! OH!”

You plummet to the ground. You roll over on your back, rubbing the tears from your eyes. “S-stars! Oh.. oh kriff! I- I’m hu-hurting! From… la-laughing! Oh, ouch! O-Ouch!”

Your eyes finally clear of the blurring tears-

There he is- kneeling beside you- looking down- laughing at you.

“Din!” you giggle, slapping a hand up against his chest. “Jerk! You dropped me on purpose!”

His laughter gently fades away- and he stands, reaching a gloved hand out for you.

“Come, Ka’r’ika,” he rasps, his tone… deeper than usual. “Let’s get back to the hanger.”

You grin, looping your arm around his. 

“Anywhere you say, Din.”

Truly, anywhere.

At this point, the man could lead you straight into a rancor’s din, and you’d jump in if he did too.

-------

Something’s wrong.

You know how he normally walks- confident and striding.

…Something’s wrong.

“Din?” You tilt your head to the side, raising a brow. “What did Peli tell you? What’s…?”

He stops- pausing just before the cockpit ladder- and angles his head at your voice. 

“There’s a Mandalorian to the north. Mos Pelgo.” He turns around and starts slowly walking towards you.

“…Oh.”

You lower yourself into a chair, not exactly sure where this is going…

“That’s… good, I guess?” Crossing your arms together, you chuckle. “Sometimes it’s hard to imagine there’s more than one of you.”

He rests both hands against his hips, turning to face the hull wall.

“I’m going out there.” He throws you a quick look. “After Cara returns to keep you safe. I’m… taking the child with me.”

“Ah, sure?” 

He’s leaving something out… 

“But… why, exactly?”

“I’m hoping a Mandalorian can… lead me to someone. The child-” Din’s voice quiets. “He’s… special.”

Oh.

“Is this about his force abilities?”

“Force?” Din rips his head around. “You mean… Jedi?”

With a small smile on your face, you pull both legs up into the chair with you. “Jedi use the force. Think of it as-” you wave your hand in the air- “like an energy thing. The force binds all things, connects all things… real mystical stuff.”

Din does not move. Just… stares at you.

“What do you know of the Jedi?” His voice is quick.

You grunt, shifting your eyes to the floor. “I know they’re all dead now, for the most part. Hunted like animals by the Empire." You force a dry laugh. “They- they didn’t stop at the adults. No-” you shake your head- “slaughtered the children too. Kriffing creeps. Hunted down each last survivor- any force user- one by one.”

Silence.

“How… do you know this?”

“My Mom.” You release a heavy sigh. “She wanted more- more excitement than what life on Sularia offered. She was intelligent, and her intelligence earned her a job as a civilian contractor with the Republic during the Clone Wars.” You smirk at Din. “Grandpa was not happy with her.”

You tilt the chair backwards, staring up at the ceiling as you speak. “She worked among the Jedi. Friends with many of them.”

You hear Mom’s weeping in your ear… her eyes radiating such… pain and loss. You dig your fingers into your palm, willing the memories away, your eyes sliding closed-

“He must be trained.”

Your eyes blast open, flying straight to Din. “What?” 

“After Arvala- what he did to the woman on Arvala-” Din lowers his head, avoiding your glare- “I knew he was strong, but… 

“Din,” you grit your teeth- “you must forget he’s special.” You throw your hand out. “Forget Arvala ever happened.”

“A Jedi can train him.” Din is speaking more to himself than to you. “After I leave Nar Shaddaa, I will return to my quest. Find the kid a Jedi.”

Silence.

“What?” You launch up out of your chair.

“If what you say is true-” Din’s voice is level and even, barely audible even in the silence- “I can’t protect him. He… needs to be trained.”

“Trained?” You voice strains in your throat, tightening with every word. “Didn’t you hear me? It’s too dangerous to let him follow that path!”

The Mandalorian faces you. “Danger is all he’s ever known.” He turns and begins to stalk away. “I was wrong to not follow my quest. I… must follow my creed.” He stops. “This is the way.”

“The way?” You race over to his side, staring up into that emotionless visor. “To give up a child that loves you? That you’ve called son?” You grab his arm. “Refuse him a happy, normal childhood?”

“His life with me is not normal. It’s no life for a child.”

“And- and life as a Jedi isn’t either!” your voice raises. “They aren’t allowed to express love- hold attachments!” You clench your fists, willing your breathing- and voice- to level back out. “That is no way for a child to be raised.”

“That is their way.” The Mandalorian rests a hand on a ladder rung. “And… this is mine.”

Blood explodes in your ear.

“How can you be so cold!”

The Mandalorian’s head shoots to you. 

“If you cared about him, you’d- you’d keep him- fight for him- love him every day- thank the Maker he’s there every morning when you wake up!” Furious tears sting the corners of your eyes, but you wipe them away with your sleeve- refusing to let them fall. “Grateful you have more than just your memories and dreams of him to hold!”

“I do care about him.” The Mandalorian’s voice cuts dangerously calm. “But unlike you, I can’t be selfish.” He steps forward, forcing you to take a step back. “Doing whatever I want; whatever I please.” He stops, his voice quieting. “I… I cannot give him what he needs. He… needs more than me.”

Selfish? Selfish?

The decaying stench of Nar Shaddaa wafts down the streets as you walk lower, deeper into the underbelly of the rotting city center. The tears have now dried on your cheeks, but you know the streaked mascara staining your cheeks will give their existence away. You will have to duck into the sink first before heading into your dilapidated apartment- you can’t let her see any evidence of your suffering.

It’s all for her, and that’s all that matters.

“You-” you swallow the lump cutting off your air, pressing your hands behind your back to hide their trembling- “You know nothing of my life! And frankly, you know nothing of me, Mandalorian.”

“I know enough.” His tone matches your still, quiet coldness. “You’d put your feelings and attachment over what’s best for him.”

“How can you say that while I stand here-” you jab at your side- “carrying scars I took for that child!” 

He takes a step forward, his hands raised almost as if in regret, but you cut him off.

“You sound just like a Jedi!” you shout. “Maybe you would be the perfect teacher for him!” 

His hands drop.

“I… will not dishonor him by denying him his way- his people.” He lowers his head to the floor, almost as if speaking to himself again. “I can’t let the way you are influence me.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” you hiss, the blasting blood deafening in your ears.

“You make rash, impulsive, emotional decisions.” The Mandalorian’s words slice your heart, cutting you down to the core. 

“You never take the bigger picture into account, the greater implications of your actions. Some things are more important than you or I want.”

“What about what he wants? You’re his father!” you yell, giving up on restraint. “That is more important than anything!”

“He… he will forget.”

You blink.

“A child-” your voice drops, quiets- “never forgets love.” You shake your head, nausea brewing in your stomach. “How can you be so cold? So… callus?”

He scoffs at you.

“You’re being foolish.” 

He turns to leave.

“Mandalorian-” your eyes are on fire, burning- “You’re the only fool I see. You’ve been given a gift; do you know what I’d give to have that again?”

He stares you down.

“But- but because you’re scared- you’re scared of failing him- you want to just dump him off on the first Jedi that crawls into your path!” You shake your head, using every ounce of control to keep from exploding.

You fail. 

“You’re the one being selfish, Mando! A coward!”

“I’ve sacrificed everything for him.” His voice takes on that dangerous tone again- warning you with every word spoken. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” 

“I thought you were more than a heartless bounty hunter under all that armor-” you sneer, tapping a finger against his chest- “but I guess I was wrong!”

Silence.

“You were wrong to assume anything about me,” he rasps under his breath, leaning into you. “I don’t have to explain myself or any of my decisions to you. We’re done here.”

He jerks around, sweeping up into the cockpit of the ship

“And I’m- I’m sorry I ever assumed I could know you, trust you!” You shout from the base of the ladder, hands trembling against the rungs. “Y-you don’t deserve the light you have been given!”

You burst away from the ladder, racing straight into the sleeping quarters and slamming the doors closed. You slump down into the corner, clutching a pillow tightly against your chest.

The nightmares, the memories, the voices, echo- scream- in your ears…

“Mama!”

-------

You stare straight ahead.

Exhausted.

You’re… exhausted. Emotionally. Physically.

Just- exhausted.

Ever since the Mandalorian left with the child for Mos Pelgo, you’ve been stewing alone in the cockpit, trying to make sense of your tumultuous emotions.

You- you just don’t understand. How…?

You lean forward in the pilot’s seat, burying your face in your hands.

How could he-

“Mando?”

You gasp, tearing your head up. The blue hue of the holo-display showers the dark cockpit in twinkling light.

A man- a stranger- stands in the display.

“Answer the holo, Mando.” He places both hands on his hips. “It’s important.”

You blink.

Hesitantly, you reach forward, flicking on the switch.

“Hello?” you question.

The man stares at you, taking in your unexpected appearance.

“I need to speak with the Mandalorian.”

“He, uh, he’s not here, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.” You lean forward, raising an eyebrow. “Can I… give him a message?”

“I assume you’re the girl from Taek?”

You slowly nod.

Silence.

“I wasn’t going to talk with you about this-” he glances away, his voice lowering- “but it appears I have no choice… Do you know who I am?”

“Ah, no.” You lean back in the pilot’s seat. “Should I?”

“My name is Greef Karga-”

“Oh, yes!” you interrupt. “Cara’s spoken highly of you.”

“Then you know my line of business.” He takes a few steps to the side, as if considering his words. “I was just visited by three individuals that should be… of interest to the Mandalorian… and you.”

“Oh no,” you breathe. “Is this about Taek again? Stars! They- more trouble from Nar Shaddaa?”

Greef slowly crosses his arms. “Not exactly.”

You blink. “Then I don’t… understa-”

“They sought you.”

Your blood freezes.

You- you can’t breathe.

“I told them nothing, of course. I informed them the Guild had no files, no information whatsoever. That you had never been on our radar.” Greef leans forward, his voice falling low. “They left most displeased.”

“No- don’t tell me this.” You press your head down into your knees. “Don’t tell me this.”

“I suggest you tread carefully, my dear-”

You lift your head.

“-they were Mandalorian.”

-------

You slip around the corner of the stone building, sliding right past the dumpsters lining the Mos Eisley street. You tighten the scarf around your face as you tip-toe into an alley- jumping at any hint of movement like a Lothcat on spice.

“Stars,” you hiss, tightening your arms across your chest, collapsing in on yourself as you walk.

Your life-

-is a disaster.

But it’s your disaster, for you to face. You will not endanger the child, put anyone else in the line of fire. 

With Mandalorians after you… Leaving- running away- it’s your only choice.

A sob erupts, and you slap a hand across the scarf covering your lips, pushing against the fabric.

You can’t give in. Not now. Not now.

You sink down into the dirt, pressed up against the wall tucked back behind a stack of boxes.

Trembling… You can’t stop trembling.

Something hard presses into your leg, and you glance down.

Your staff…

Din.

You take it off your belt, pressing it against your cheek. Groaning, you slide your eyes closed.

You’re- you’re going to miss him. All of them. You- you-

You part your lips, all the pent-up fear and heartbreak and pain and frustration bleeding out in in one long wail, the tears flooding, drowning your cheeks.

You’re all alone.

You’re all alone again.

You’re all fucking alone.

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

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

taglist: (in the comments)

a/n: I know what you’re thinking: OH NO! I forgot to get wille-zarr a Christmas gift! 

No problem! You can leave me a comment instead lol!

But seriously, OH. MY. STARS. The comments on chapter 7- you have NO IDEA how that pushed me to write this. I’ll be honest, this chapter probably would have taken another 1-2 weeks to write if it wasn’t for the love and comments last chapter! I spent countless nights staying up till 3AM trying to get this done. Again, thank you so much. You have no idea what it means to me- your comments fuel my writing! I love hearing from my regular readers! 

Special thanks for @sana-katarn​, whose endless knowledge of Old Republic terminology I inquired of endlessly while writing… really this entire story! She’s actually the best.

Also, this story will NOT being following season two. At times (such as in this chapter), some events from chapter two may pop up. But not often at all.  We’re going  for an ✨original plot✨ here. ;)

One last thing before I move into season 2 finale spoilers: next chapter, the action/angst kicks up- AGAIN. Like wow, I am so excited for everyone to read it! Things are kicking into gear! (And don’t worry, we will see the Arvala family again very soon!)

SEASON 2 FINALE SPOILERS BELOW YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED: ------- Okay, so W O W. That finale. Let’s talk.

I am 100% serious, I had this chapter, the scene where Din and reader fight over the child training to be a Jedi, planned out WELL before the finale! So, imagine my shock that this chapter and that particular scene in the finale happened to fall so close together! I felt a bit bad leaving chapter 8 on a sad note so soon after the finale, but it couldn’t be avoided. So, I’ll just say: trust where I’m going with things! It’s going to be surprising- in a good way! :)

[normaltothemax]

@lovepurposed​​

  He blinks once, and then twice for good measure, trying to let his brain catch up to spoken words, a foreign accent. Is she a sorceress? What is…Google? He shakes his head, accepting that the workings of his mind are a little dusty. Has he been poisoned? He feels well enough. He hasn’t had a drink from a strange goblet or the likes.  She will, of course, need to be taken to Camelot and dealt with, whether she is peasant or sorceress…or, a working girl. She cannot just stay out here, ready to steal the next unlucky passerby’s horse. Or go about poking people’s swords. She could be hurt.

  Warily, he sheathes his sword and unclasps his cloak, offering it to her before averting his eyes. “Please,” he asks kindly, before continuing, “Surely you must know there’s no village for at least half a day’s ride? Camelot is much closer, I can take you there. As long as you don’t mean to cause trouble or steal anyone else’s horse or food. My servant, Merlin can fetch you some proper clothes and a warm meal.  I am Prince Arthur, and I mean you no harm, only to see you to safety.  Where are you from?”

   And why so eager to escape?

  He realizes he’s been most unkind in his judgments. It is something he’s working on. A better understanding of his people, and the circumstances surrounding them. They all have stories, and it might be worthwhile to hear the girl’s if he can decipher any of the foreign words she’s using. “Speak slowly, your use of language is difficult to understand.”

God, he was really committing to this little bit, wasn’t he? He even looked confused by her words. Fuck a duck. But if that’s what it took to get her out of the damn woods, Max would suck it up and play along. Heaving a sigh, she accepted his cape and forced herself to give him a small smile and a quiet, “Thanks.” Seeing as his face was almost as red as the cape, she draped it over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself, essentially cocooning herself in it.

Whatever, she was cold anyways.

“I didn’t know that, actually. And I wasn’t stealing anything.” Seriously, where would she even keep a horse in the city? “This is the first time I’ve ever even seen a horse, and I figured, they don’t live in the woods, right? So that means people. Or...” she gestured to him, “person, I guess. I was just letting him sniff me---I didn’t wanna get bit.” Now that she was saying it out loud, it did sound kind of stupid. A light pink dusted her cheeks with the realization.

She decided not to comment on the whole Merlin thing, choosing instead to raise a brow at Prince Arthur. Of all the characters to play, he picked royalty. Full of himself much? As he had yet to point out which way she needed to go, however, she held her tongue. “Well, good. I’d hate to have to kick your ass, if you tried hurting me.” Big talk from a small woman, especially since he had a sword---that actually looked sharp, what?---but if he was allowed to be a prince, then she could make shit up too. As far as he knew, she could totally be an expert fighter. “I’m Max. From California. Here’s hoping that’s not too far away from Camelot.”

[florencwrites]

aphrodite 〚technoblade〛

in which his love finally returns to him, the voices trailing not far behind

(!) voices, mentions of trauma (!)

His mind was running a thousand miles an hour, heart in his throat. He knew very well that he was one of, if not the, most skilled warriors of the realm, however anytime an unexpected guest found their way to his chalet, he couldn't help but worry. Worry for not only his own but Phil's safety, too.

He moved stealthily, a thing he'd always been skilled in, stepping on just the right planks in his home. Letting his eyes roam over the surrounding lands through every window. A single pair of footsteps could be detected in the relatively fresh blanket of snow. It wasn't a straight line at first, it started right by the treeline. Phil was still sound asleep, the sun had barely peeked over the horizon after all.

They've found you.

Not a single noise could be perceived from anyone hiding outside, he was sure of it. He made sure of it. The path ran all the way to the walls of his base, despite that, his front steps were clear of any marks. He held his axe surely by his side, realizing that this might not be just any morning for him, after all.

With careful precision, he pushed his door open while immediately double-checking for any marks on the balustrade. None. They weren't in his house, he was sure there was no other way to enter. He'd learned that the hard way when he came back from one of his little adventures, one day.

They're here.

He remembered it quite vividly, the sweat that ran over his forehead, trailing from his eyebrows to his cheekbones before running down his neck. The blood spatter that had physically and mentally blurred his vision, the way he couldn't get a word in through his own running mind. He had just finished reinforcing his doors, there was no way anyone could've gotten in; how could they if he wasn't even capable of doing it himself?

He'd frozen his ass off that night, having no choice but sleep with his trusty steed in the muddy hay. Thankfully, Phil was supposed to arrive back at the cottage right before dawn, the savior of his own demise, many a time. He'd pulled him from the literal horse feces and dragged him to the stream just a while north, quickly rinsing him before hoisting him back into bed. Phil was nothing short of a father to Techno, he was sure they were meant to be. Phil was everything Techno had always wanted to be, brave, kind, caring, and vicious. Unpredictable, underestimated.

You'll never be half the man he is.

The fresh snow crinkled beneath his sturdy boots, his eyes were wary of any and all movements. Rabbits in the distance, a moaning undead somewhere beneath his feet. The clacking of hooves, restless whinnies. He pressed his back against the freezing concrete of his home, ducking a little before daring to peek around the corner. His eyes hovered over the stable, immediately taking notice of Carl's agitated sighs and disturbed snorts. The prints led right to the gate.

A very faint shush whispered itself out of Techno's mouth, barely loud enough for the horse to hear, nonetheless, it calmed him instantly. He crouched down right behind the shed, letting his fingers trace over the prints that lead into the stall. He delicately hovered over them, inspecting the trail that seemed to run through the footprints. A cape of some sorts, perhaps a dress, had been dragged through the snow. The prints themselves weren't made by any warrior boots, either. They seemed to have been any regular riding ones, leather, most likely. They hadn't been imprinted into the snow deep enough to belong to anyone of normal weight, nor anyone wearing armor. Not even iron armor would be able to lead to these featherlight touches in the frost.

You will die today.

His ears perked at the sound of soft snores coming from right behind the planked wall, rustling of hay, too. His senses were on high alert, his hog-like nose easily discerning the stench of lavender from horse dung at this distance. God, he needed to clean that fucking stable again soon. Perfume, they were wearing perfume. Nobody wore perfume around these parts, any parts really, except for.. L'Manburg.

Slowly, he rose to his feet again, making the tiniest of steps to the entrance of the stable. A deep, silent, breath. His eyes squinted at the sight before him. Right next to the watering trough, that desperately needed a refill, was a small body. Completely cocooned in what seemed like a brown cloak of some sort. Little tufts of hair stood from where their head was situated against the wooden structure. "Erm."

Just kill them.

"Hello?" His voice was still rough with sleep, way raspier than usual. He hid his snout into the seam of his cape a little, not immediately wanting to give away his person to whatever stranger decided to drop anchor in his stable. The body stirred a little at his comment, now revealing an icy hand from underneath the hem of the cloak. A dull undertone to the skin made him realize just how hypothermic they must've been, being out in the cold for God knows how long. he slurred his vowels a little as he tried again, "Hello."

This time the body turned around hastily, complete terror resting on their features. The cloak was still tightly wrapped around their torso, brown riding boots barely peeking from underneath it. A woman. A horrified woman. "Please don't hurt me."

Kill them.

"Give me one good reason why not to." He sternly spoke, not meaning a word he meant. He truly, utterly felt for her, no foe would choose to sleep in a goddamn stable when he was sleeping just two floors up, comfortably surrounded in feathered comforters, shielding him from any harm.

"I won't hurt you." She assured him hastily. He couldn't help but let out a chuckle at her vow, immediately reiterating in a tiny, meek voice, "You promise?"

"You're mocking me." Her voice wasn't any stronger at this point, he could even follow the line of a slight tremble in it as she spoke.

He crossed his arms over his torso, kicking the gate open with his foot. "C'mon." He mumbled, barely resisting the urge to dramatically roll his eyes. No movement from the stable, though, except for Carl's nervous trampling. "If I was going to slice your throat I'd have done it already."

A soft mutter rang from behind him as he made his way up the stairs to his home. "Fair point."

You can trust no one.

He held the door as she stumbled her way into the house, "Why didn't you call for me?"

She stumbled over the uneven planks in his home, quickly being caught by two large hands on her shoulders. He steadied her, meeting her eyes. His demeanor was soft, gentle. "I didn't- don't want to be a bother."

"You're always a bother." His hands still rested on her shoulders, he hesitated. He'd missed her so fucking much, all these weeks he'd been tucked away in the tundra, he'd longed for her warmth on his side. Were it her chest pressed to his back when they were riding through thick blizzards, or her ankles crossing over his when they slept. Her tiny hand in his when they ran from angry shopkeepers, he even missed her cold feet, pressed to his thighs in the middle of the night. Her eyes teared up a little, staring right back at him. He slid his arms around her neck, pulling her into a breathless hug. "You smell different."

"Do you like it better?" Her words were muffled against his chest, silently thanking God for his huge animalistic ears, he let out a croaky laugh. "Haven't decided yet."

❄  ❄  ❄

"She's safe here, Techno." Phil assured him as he hammered away at some sort of new contraction the older man had thought up. "She's safer with you than with them, you know that."

"Do I?" A harsh hit against the wood. "Do I know that, Phil?"

He was the worst-case scenario for her, he knew it. He was a goddamn war criminal, he shouldn't be taking in anyone, let alone her. She deserved a goddamn kingdom, a realm, but all he could offer her was a loosely woven bed in the attic. His bed, that is, but that didn't make it suck any less.

He'd sleep in the snow every single night if it meant she was safe inside. Right like she was right now, he'd pushed her up the ladder to his very own chamber, cladding her in his clothes and tucking her into bed. She hadn't been there for most of it, fast asleep in his arms as he hoisted her into the bed. He made sure to wake her before helping her change, "You've done it before." She softly muttered to him, eyes barely able to keep themselves alert.

He'd smiled down at his lap as he lifted some socks onto her freezing feet, "Just because it was okay then, doesn't mean it is now." He had gently taken her other foot, bringing the sock to almost halfway up her calf. Rather quickly, he exchanged the comforter for a pair of soft, almost corduroy-like trousers. She laid back into the pillow, letting her body fall limp as he handled her into a comfortable position. He crouched right by her head, tucking the blanket in so that she was completely encased in it.

"It's always okay for you." She sighed softly, her eyes closed with a whiff. She was gone, he knew it. He couldn't help but let his fingers carefully push a strand of hair from her face. "Get warm."

"Just because you can't trust yourself, doesn't mean we can't." Phil's mellow voice returned him back into reality, immediately cursing himself for drifting away in thought like that, losing his focus when they were both here. It wasn't just about him anymore, he needed to stay alert, keep them safe.

He huffed in annoyance at the man, secretly rolling his eyes as his back was turned towards him. "That's exactly what it-" Before he could fully finish his sentence, he heard a loud yelp come from behind him. He acted completely on instinct, already wielding his axe above his head, his other hand pressing a glowing, burgundy-colored potion to his lips before he could even truly process the sound. He hastily let his eyes shoot over the scenario, seeing no one near Phil. His eyes perked searching for any trace of the foe, his nose scrunching up; desperate to find a hint of despair in the slight tufts of wind that slid by his face.

"See." A smug expression plastered itself on the blonde's face, not even bothering to look up to meet Techno's eyes from where he was sat, replanting his crops. "She's got nothing to worry about."

Snap his neck.

And for the first time in a long while, he agreed with the voices that echoed through his head.

❄ ❄ ❄

"Morning." He tried his best to wake her as gently as he could, he even practiced it downstairs a few times, but his voice was too.. distinct. The croakiness of his words made her stir in the slightest, not enough, though. He placed his hand on her forearm as she continued her slumber, laying on her side with her arms somewhat crossed over her chest, burying her chin in the blanket. He couldn't help but let a faint smile crack through his normally hard facade as her tiny hand suddenly appeared from beneath the covers to rest itself on his own. "Princess."

A soft hum ran through her body, he could feel the tremble of it on her arm. "Just a little longer."

Nostalgia took over his body, something that had been happening quite often since she returned to him yesterday. Emotions he couldn't even distinguish ran rampant through his head, his veins filling with giddy youth. "Five minutes, that's it." He bit back a smile, taking his hand from hers, steadying himself to disappear down the latch again.

"C'mon, I know you're cold, too." She smiled, suddenly seeming a lot more alert than a few seconds ago. The corners of her lips tugged up almost unnoticeably, her eyes remaining screwed shut. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but she cut him off, "Don't argue, just lay down."

"Fine." He spat out with feigned agitated disinterest, meanwhile, his heart was bonking out of his chest. "Four minutes."

He moved to lay behind her in the tiny, extremely unstable, bed. She immediately went to share her blanket, making sure to cover him in her warmth. She laid on her side, still facing away from him, while he just rested on his back, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening, for him at least, he was convinced she'd already fallen back asleep. He laid intertwined his hands on his stomach, fiddling with the rings on his fingers to steady his unnecessary nerves. He could feel the bed shift from beside him, but he noticed only some of the most minuscule movements, right before he felt her warm hand take his, pulling his arm around her frame. He let it happen. She intertwined her fingers over her heart, keeping him to be her big. spoon. She knew very well that he hated being the smaller one, it made him feel inferior; useless. She shuffled in her place, desperate to feel his entire body flush against her, and he couldn't agree more. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, trying his best to let his soft inhale go unnoticed. God, he'd missed her. "One minute." She whispered softly into the darkened room, he could practically hear the stupid grin playing on her lips, barely resisting a snort at her. Complete silence engulfed them, only their beating hearts and shared breaths filling the room.

She opened her mouth to announce that it was time to get up, moving to free herself from his arms, assuming he had places to be. However, his gruffy voice quickly sounded from behind her. "Don't move."

"God, you've always been so easy to rile up-" He clamped his hand over her mouth, effectively shutting her up immediately. "Don't. Move."

She moved to playfully bite his hand, right as she heard it, the hammering downstairs had stopped for the first time in hours. Phil was adamant about not taking a break before he finished the entire thing, so something must've caught his attention. Techno held his breath, letting his eyes screw shut almost painfully so as he heard his friend's voice from the garden.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Dream."

You should kill them before he does.

And for the first time in forever, the words that ran through his mind scared him. Not because of their meaning, or their tone, no because he hadn't been bothered by them all day. Which was exactly when he realized that they had stopped the second he had safely tucked her into his bed.

When she was safe, so was he.

[unbridgeabledistances]

soft prompt ideas: comforting each other, cuddling, waking up together/going to sleep, going on a date, idk just being in each other’s company? i’m terrible at being specific but i hope these help!

hi bby<3 thank you so much to u (and everyone else!!!) for sending in prompts, they brought me so much joy and now i have SO many little soft things in the works:’)

yesterday ended up turning into a long day and i didn’t get to finish most of the things i started, but i wrote this while i was freshly showered and in bed and wanted to quickly whip up some bedtime softness to end the day right!! so here is the softest, quickest pre-11x07 bedtime one-shot and ode to the gallagher house, i hope u enjoy<3

--

Ian turned the creaky handle to shut off the shower, stilling the scalding water that had been beating a steady stream onto his body, soothing his aching muscles and weary bones. Ian was tired—after he and Mickey had gotten back from their various security stops around the outskirts of the city, he’d promised to help Lip track down and deliver parts to the people who’d bought the odds and ends of the stolen bikes, and then he’d somehow ended up in Lip and Tami’s living room that was half-packed into boxes for hours, silently sipping a beer and listening to them tag-team their attempts at persuading Ian to convince Debbie into wanting to sell the house— an effort that was a lost cause, and they all knew it.

It was kind of funny— they’d all gotten so close to losing the house so many times before, from being pulled out by DCFS officers to being kicked to the curb by fucking Patrick, to feeling desperate ripples of fear as they watched the house be put up for auction for a bunch of Northsiders and boujee fucking families who picked through the bare skeleton of the rooms as they pleased— so it was funny that after all of that, after their front door being plastered with more bright orange eviction notices than they could count, that the eventual thing driving them out of the house in the end would be a Gallagher himself, just because Lip wanted some extra cash. Ian got it— they were older now, and Lip had a kid to worry about— but he couldn’t help but feel a soft pang in his gut, something muted and dull but still there, every time Lip nonchalantly mentioned “fixing the house up” and “making gentrification our friend” and “getting on with our lives”—even though he and Mickey had readily agreed, at the family meeting that Mickey now had a right to be a part of, that it made the most sense to sell the house and for the two of them to find a place of their own.

And honestly, that prospect was a little terrifying; it sounded silly, but this crumbling house, with its paint stripping away and its roof nearly caving in, had pretty much been the only constant in Ian’s life for as long as he could remember. He had memories, ones that were soft around the edges, of him and Lip and Fiona sleeping curled in the backseats of cars and, on a few of the worst nights, on playgrounds or stoops or streetcorners when Frank and Monica were too far gone— and then inevitably one day, one sunny afternoon, they would come home to this sturdy gray house, and even then Ian understood that this was a place he could always return to. He didn’t really know what a world without the Gallagher house looked like; he always found his feet leading him back to these four walls, even those months when he was living with Mickey and he’d walk the silent moonlit city blocks back home to splash in the pool with everyone on those muggy, late summer nights. Thinking about the comforting sag of the Gallagher house was one of the few things that kept Ian going in the colorless cinderblock walls of his prison cell; the concave mattress of his single bed at home wasn’t much better than the inch-think foam pad he scrunched onto each night in his cell, but it was still familiar, it was still home, it had still held him through all of these years.

Lip wanting to sell the house was just another bitter reminder, along with the changing storefronts of the Southside neighborhood stores, the people walking by with baby strollers and shopping bags of organic groceries, the notches on the closet door that showed how much Franny had already grown, and the tinny sound of Fiona’s voice wafting through a Facetime call, a voice too small and too quiet to fill the absence she’d left behind—that things were always changing, that life wasn’t going to stop for any of them.

Ian clambered out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, scrubbing his face with his hands to try to clear his head. The hallway outside the bathroom was still, the only sound the soft hissing of the radiator—when the fuck did this house get so quiet? There was no boisterous laughter wafting up from downstairs, no clanging in the kitchen, no WWE blasting from the TV at full volume; Lip and Tami had moved out, Liam was grown up and preferred steady conversation to the classic Gallagher screeching, and Carl was either off at the station for the night or doing god-knows-what in the basement— when did silence start to sink into these walls, without anyone really noticing? Even Frank was getting quieter, somehow, giving more blank stares than quick replies when they talked back and forth in the kitchen.

Ian stepped out of the bathroom and crept down the hallway, walking carefully in case Franny was sleeping; there was a comfort in the melody of the creaking floorboards, reminding him of all the nights when he’d lay awake staring at the ceiling, sometimes gripped by the swirling black thoughts he thought he’d never be able to shake off, and he would hear Fiona tiptoeing around in the hallway, checking in on everyone while she tried not to wake them. Ian gripped the handle of the flimsy accordion bedroom door and slid it open as quietly as he could muster, ready to crawl into bed and hopefully snap out of all this wallowing.

And… oh.

The lamp on the bedside table was still on, shining a soft glow into the cramped room— but Mickey was curled up and fast asleep on Ian’s side of the bed, his mouth half-open and his head tucked to his chin, his hair slightly mussed and ruffled by on the pillow he was gripping onto. Ian smirked—he knew it was getting late, and Mickey might be asleep when he got home—but there was something so soft and innocent about the way Mickey was laying, like he was breathing in the scent of Ian’s pillow, that made him stop for a moment before mindlessly crawling into bed next to him. Ian let himself linger in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the steady waves of Mickey’s breathing, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and the innocence in his sleeping face that was so bare and open that it almost hurt to look at.

Instantly, Ian felt something bloom in his chest from the pit of uncertainty that had been planted there. The Gallagher house had always been his home—but he realized in a sweeping moment that his best days here, ones where he felt solid and settled and himself rather than someone he was pretending to be, were the days when Mickey was nearby, the days when Mickey was just down the road.

Mickey made up the only other home he’d had, the only other place he’d felt this safe; they’d built a cocoon around themselves in the equally-as-shitty Milkovich house, smoking and laughing and whispering into each other’s skin in the darkness. Even as Ian’s grip on reality felt like it was slipping through his fingers, Mickey’s warm body next to his kept him rooted, in the same ways Mickey’s thrumming presence beside him kept him safe in all the blaring uncertainty of federal prison and imposing cell walls and the press of too many strange bodies in orange jumpsuits. Ian had always felt safe in the Gallagher house—but so much of that, since he was a scrawny fifteen year old, was because of the nights he spent awake in bed thinking up pipe dreams of a future with the loudmouthed kid he worked with at the convenience store, or when he could crawl into bed after a late night EMT shift and feel the solid, grounding weight in his chest as he remembered his road trip with Mickey to the border, and thought about Mickey having some kind of a better life in Mexico. So much of that feeling of home, especially through all of the epic highs and colossal lows, was just knowing that someone out there, by some miracle, loved Ian as deeply as Mickey Milkovich could— knowing he had a doorstep to run to when his own house was infiltrated by Monica and some stranger threatening to take Liam, or a bed to crash in for months when everything else in his life felt like shifting, unstable ground. So much of home was right here, and it always had been.

Ian quietly slid shut the squeaky folds of the door, discarding his towel and throwing a threadbare t-shirt over his head—and then he gingerly stretched out onto the opposite side of the bed beside a sleep-soft Mickey, his body radiating heat and the ends of his hair still damp from his own shower, smelling of the fresh scent of cheap shampoo and very slightly of toothpaste, mingling with the earthy smell of cigarette smoke and the other scent that Ian could only just describe as Mickey. Ian let himself lay there for a moment, listening to Mickey breathing— just breathing.

He reached over Mickey’s torso and shut off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in a heavy cloak of darkness—but this time the silence didn’t seem so bad with Mickey’s steady breaths punctuating the quiet. He slid a hand over Mickey’s waist, resting his chin on the crook of Mickey’s shoulder and breathing in deep—he could feel Mickey’s heartbeat vibrating into his own chest, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage as he held him close. Ian felt all the latent tension, the lungful of air he didn’t even know he had been holding, drain out of him—and it started to make him feel weirdly light and giddy to imagine sometime in the near future when he and Mickey would actually have a place of their own, a place where they could ride out the silence together just like this— a place with clutter and creaking floorboards and slanted moonlight of their own.

If the Gallaghers were “getting on with their lives,” like Lip had said—then this right here was the only thing that Ian was moving towards, just like he always had been.

[mishasminion360]

The Weight of Words You Can’t Take Back

Pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader

Warning: Language

Notes: The third, potentially final installment (or is it?) of what started out as a Javier Peña x Reader one shot. Thank you for helping this story grow with all of your kindness, likes, and support.

You remember the deafening bang, a noise so loud that it shook the earth, followed by the sound of twisting metal and crumbling stone. Then there were screams. So many screams. Some of them your own.

But as suddenly as that cacophony began, it ended just as quickly, replaced with blissful, gentle silence. And silence is where you stayed. You bathed in it, built a home in it, became it. You were a guest in the quiet for an indiscernible amount of time, maybe a minute, maybe a year, but that’s all you were: a guest. And at some point the silence had decided that you’d overstayed your welcome.

The world began to return to life gradually as, to some level of your understanding, you did as well. Sound returned slowly, muffled and distorted at first, but progressively gained clarity. You could make out indistinct noises: rhythmic beeps, the gentle tap of soft soled shoes and the sharp clack of heels, the whoosh of air and mechanical humming.

Words were the next thing to reach you, but they came in fragments:

“....hemorrhaging....”

“Cerebral....internal....”

“....damage....comatose....”

“....wrong place, wrong time....”

“Will she....?”

“Surgery....success....”

“....right here.”

“Just a matter of time until....”

“Come back....”

“Vitals Stabilizing....”

“Please.....”

“Recovery will be difficult.”

“Wake up, baby.”

“Come back to me.”

“Please, come back to me. Please.”

“I’m here.”

After awhile your sluggish brain was able to put sentences together, connecting words like puzzle pieces. The only voice you couldn’t hear was your own, and as hard as you tried you couldn’t seem to convince your mouth to open up up and let your tongue do it’s job.

You were unable to speak at all until around the time your sense of feeling returned as well. And your first word was “ouch”.

Your throat was painfully dry, made of sandpaper. It hurt to breathe, but even more so when you didn’t. Your eyes felt as if they’d been glued shut and your eyelids were tricky to separate. When the curtain of your lashes finally parted, the world was cloaked in shadow. Thank God for that. In this instant you felt that to look into any source of light would be too great a task.

As your faculties returned cautiously, you began connecting new puzzles pieces: bomb, building, pain, nothing, and now hospital. You were in a hospital. And you were sore as hell.

Tubes were going into your nose, your wrist. One of your arms was entombed in a cast, and you could feel one of your legs beneath the bedsheets was as well. You felt battered and bruised and stitched back together; Frankenstein’s monster brought back from the dead.

But all of these injuries paled in comparison to the weight that had settled on your chest. It was crushing your lungs, smothering your heart, and splintering your ribs. And this weight was a person.

Even with your eyes still adjusting to the world around you, you recognized that head of thick black hair, now a little disheveled. His face was buried in the sheets that cocooned you, and he snored into them softly. One large, gentle hand was clasped firmly around your own; he clung to you as if you were a life preserver and he were a drowning man at sea.

It took you a few painful tries to squeeze his name out of your raw throat. “J-Javier...?”

He stirred a bit, turning toward the sound of your voice in his sleep.

“Javi?”

His eyes finally fluttered open, red rimmed and bloodshot, and went wide when he realized you were also awake.

“Oh, God. Baby?”

His voice was as raspy as your own. You may have been mistaken, but you were almost positive his hands were shaking as they reached up to delicately cup your face. He smiled then, and a rarer sight you’d never seen.

“You’re...heavy,” you wheezed. He looked to see that he had practically mounted you and immediately pulled back to alleviate the discomfort he’d caused.

“Let me...let me get the doctor,” he stammered. He stood to leave the room, but you grabbed at his wrist.

“No...stay.”

He didn’t argue, only resumed his seat at your side and attempted to find new ways to touch you that wouldn’t cause you more pain.

“You look like shit,” you said quirking the corners of your mouth up in a weak little smile that made your dry lips crack.

He huffed out a small breath that was supposed to be a laugh. “Right back at you.”

Javi carefully stroked stray strands of hair from your face as his eyes grew noticeably damp.

“Baby, you scared the hell out of me.” His voice shook.

“What happened?” You had to ask even though you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Javier cleared his throat, the words obviously not coming easy to him.

“There was a...a car bomb. 220 pounds of TNT wiped out almost the entire shopping district. It’s nothing but a crater now. So many people...a lot of people...”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t utter the last word, but you knew just the one he was thinking.

Died. A lot of people died.

“Fuck, it was right outside your apartment,” Javi growled, burying his face in his hands.

“Escobar?”

“Who else?”

“How long...how long have I been out?”

“Almost three weeks.”

His voice broke on the last word and his breath began escaping in short bursts as his chest heaved. You’d never seen him this scared. This broken.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he sobbed. “For good.”

You tried to sit up but couldn’t muster the strength, so instead you placed a hand on the back of his head and gently pulled him down to you.

“But you didn’t. I’m right here. A little worse for wear, but I’m here.”

Javi wrapped his arms around you, desperate to feel you. To know that he wasn’t just dreaming this.

“I’m sorry. I so sorry. If I had just told you sooner, this wouldn’t have happened,” he blabbered, weeping between the words. “If I had just told you right from the start, then you could have been with me. Safe with me.”

Your hand traced soothing circles on his back as he cried into your shoulder. Javier Peña was human after all. Who knew?

“Told me what Javier?”

He lifted his wet, puffy face so that his glistening eyes could gaze into yours.

“That I love you,” he whispered. “That I’m in love with you.”

You smiled through the pain. It couldn’t be helped.

“Javi, you don’t have to say that just because I said it. It’s okay.”

“I’m not just saying it!” he protested. Javi carefully pressed his forehead to yours and squeezed his eyes shut. “I mean it.”

You couldn’t tell if the tears you felt on your face were yours or his.

“I have loved you since the day we met. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about anyone, and I was too scared to admit it. To you or myself.”

He pulled back, sniffing and wiping at his eyes. He wrapped your hand in both of his and kissed each one of your bruised, torn knuckles.

“When you told me you didn’t want to see me anymore, I realized that I was more afraid of losing you than loving you. And then...then this happened,” he spat, gesturing to your broken and battered body.

“This,” you interjected, “is not your fault.”

Injuries be damned, you pushed yourself up to a sitting position in bed and Javi helped you with a hand supporting your stiff back.

“I was scared, too, Javier. Scared of falling for you. Because love is a scary thing. Offering your heart, the most precious and personal part of yourself to someone is terrifying. Not knowing if you’ll get the same in return. Yes, you hesitated for awhile there, Javier, but hesitating doesn’t make you some unfeeling asshole...”

You brought your hands to the sides of his face and he mirrored the gesture.

“It makes you human, Javi. So very human.”

“Does this mean I get another chance?” he asked, his face soft but his eyes pleading.

“That depends,” you said, easing back into the bed and bringing him with you once again.

“On what?”

“Are you going to kiss me, or not?”

He wastes no time. Javi grins against your lips before deepening the kiss, filling it with every emotion that’s been overwhelming him for the past several days. And in that moment he vows to heal your pain with all the love he has to give.

@mamacitapascal @obsessivelysearching

[cas-kingdom]

Each Other

A/N: It’s kind of like there’re two separate fics in here, but they work well together so I stuck them both in one. Based on a prompt by @wecantgiggleitsafandom​.

Also… don’t ignore the pun in here, guys. I know you can see it. ;)

Find the OC version of this fic here.

Title: Each Other

Summary: Geralt would never have believed that he’d one day find himself braiding a teenage girl’s hair, never mind her braiding his… But here he is. And he isn’t complaining. 

Words: 2318

If you could describe the weather in two words, it would be: 'fucking. Windy'. With the pause for emphasis, of course.

You and Geralt had stayed in an inn over the night, a fire blazing in the hearth and the windows bolted shut to shield you from the raging wind outside, but the moment you’d stepped out of the door and a fierce breeze battered your face, you’d spun around on your heels and shoved past you witcher, who'd looked no less than confused, to get back indoors.

He'd got you out eventually after surrendering his cloak—he knew he didn't feel the cold as much as you did—and the both of you now sat upon Roach, plodding boldly on through the harsh gusts of winter wind.

You were fine, wrapped from head to toe in both your cloak and Geralt's, but Geralt seemed to be experiencing a little more trouble, despite the fact you couldn't exactly see from your place in the saddle.

It wouldn't have been a problem if you’d switched places, but Geralt had never had you sit behind him on the horse, and he wasn't going to start now. When you were in front, he could see you. That was all the logic there was, and all the logic he needed.

Nevertheless, this windiness was contributing greatly to his current troubles, for you see, when one sits in front of a girl with long hair on a blustery day, they're going to, quite frankly, get a mouthful of that hair at every possible moment.

He was battling crazily with your long locks, spitting stray wisps out of his mouth while simultaneously shaking his head to free his vision and removing one hand from the reins to whack it away from him like a madman. Of course, you couldn’t see this, as you were too intent on staying cosy, and the wild noise of the wind around you masked his sounds of frustration, so you stayed huddled in your cocoon of warmth, completely oblivious to his attempts at duelling your hair.

After a few moments, he pulled back on the reins to halt Roach, and you glanced at him over your shoulder. His face was red, but for some reason you doubted it was because of the cold. "What's wrong?" you asked him just as he reached down for his pack and began rummaging through it.

"Your hair," he all but ground out.

Your frowned. "What about it?"

"It's—fucking hell!" He swiped at it as a gust blew it right back in his face, and a grin spread across your face as realisation dawned on you. "It's blowing in my damn face."

"That's why I left it untied," you told him cheekily, though you both knew you’d been thinking about how cold the journey was going to be that morning, not about how much you were going to annoy him with your hair.

Despite the residual infuriation, Geralt poked your side. You yelped and he quickly returned to his rummaging, a moment later drawing out a small hair band. "Turn around," he informed you, coughing as your actions caused a good amount of hair to weave itself into his mouth. Growling, he grabbed as much of it as he could and expertly braided it, tying it off at the end with the band.

Surprised would be an understatement for someone if they found out the famed White Wolf knew how to braid hair, but he'd been forced to learn over the course of your life. He'd stuck with simply tying it up to begin with when you’d been small, but over time and as your hair grew longer, it'd required something a little more intricate. Intricate being a braid, which wasn't that at all, but for a man who was lucky to wash his hair once a week, it was as elaborate as he damn well pleased.

He tucked the braid under your cloak before pulling the hood up and over your head, feeling you shivering against him. Kicking Roach on, he gathered the reins up in one hand and used his free one to wrap securely around your stomach, pulling you further back against his chest. It was often difficult to forget that he had a little girl—who actually wasn't that little anymore—with him. After so many years alone, he'd grown used to the harshness of the weather and the trails he took, never once stopping to think about himself because there was no need to. He couldn't get sick or diseased, and he certainly couldn't catch a cold.

Taking you in had given him a new outlook on life; he'd learnt about mortality from you and what it was to be human, something he'd spent time wallowing over in the days before. He supposed having something to look after had made him look after himself more, too. What use was he dead? What would ever happen to you if he—

He tried not to think about it, though he wasn't blind to the fact that he was a witcher, and witchers faced death like they did an old friend. Well, they were supposed to. As he'd said… he'd gained a new outlook on life. He feared his own death not because of himself, but because of his child.

He flicked his eyes downwards as he felt something against his legs, and he watched you move one of your cloaks across them, supposedly to keep them warm. Once they were covered, you did the same to his hands, both the one holding the reins and the one wrapped around your stomach, before snuggling back down against him and shutting your eyes.

Even if he didn't look out for himself, he knew someone who did.

Geralt had broken many bones over the course of his long life. It wasn't a surprise, of course; he was constantly tumbling down hills and banging into rocks and punching things.

Mainly punching things.

That was how he'd ended up breaking his wrist—though it was strange, considering how professional one would expect his punching skills to be after how many times his fist had made contact with both people and objects.

But he had. He had broken his wrist, and for all he was famous for lack of emotions, a blind man could see he was in pain. Another strange thing. His body was battered and bruised more often than it wasn't, and yet in the past few days you had heard him hiss and grumble about his "fucking wrist" so many times you wondered how he ever coped with you when you did the same.

You supposed it was good that he was comfortable around you enough to leave his emotions unveiled, but either way you’d never seen him so pitiful before. He could effortlessly use a sword and ride a horse with one hand, but gods forbid he tie the strings on his tunic the same way. It was almost amusing to watch him get frustrated at himself because he was too prideful to ask for help, but, thankfully so far, the girl had managed to keep yourself from laughing.

Out loud, anyway.

You glanced up at the crunching of leaves to see him walking up from the river, hair wet and loose around his shoulders. He was holding his bandaged wrist out, old clothes hanging over his good arm, and you quickly hid a smile at the untied strings of his tunic. No doubt they'd stay that way unless he suddenly plucked up the willpower to abandon his dignity and ask for the dreaded 'H' word.

He'd sooner break his other wrist than that.

Trudging up with an ill look on his face, he tossed his clothes on his makeshift bed and walked further on towards Roach. On instinct you leaned over and grabbed them up, folding them over and stuffing them in one of his packs. That was all you’d been doing these past couple days—picking up after him. In truth, he never asked for it, you just took pity on his sick and self-loathing self by doing it for him so that he didn't exasperate himself by trying.

He despised being handicapped.

"Fuck."

You glanced over just in time for you to watch as he snapped the band he was using to tie back his hair. With one hand. Now, he was a talented man, but he wasn't superman…

"Do you need any help?" you called out to him. You received nothing but a harsh glare in your direction. He whipped around and began searching inside the pack hanging on Roach's saddle, supposedly for another band.

You quirked an eyebrow and lifted your arm to stare at the ones on your wrist. It would be an experiment, you figured, to see if he would rather go the easy route and take up the offer of using one of yours or remain his grumpy self and continue fruitlessly rummaging through his pack for a band you doubted he'd find.

The moment you heard him curse again, you shook your head and stood to your feet. "I've got loads if you want one," you said, loud enough for him to hear, and he paused, clearly deciding on whether it was worth it. Surprisingly, about ten or so seconds later he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, amber eyes meeting your own.

"Alright," he said with a hint of hesitation and impressively masked desperation.

A corner of your lips drew upwards in a victorious smirk, and you walked towards him, handing him one of your bands once you reached him. You received a gruff murmur of thanks before he moved to tie his hair up while you watched from beside him, your arms crossed and that smirk never once leaving your lips as he so clearly struggled.

A few times he almost succeeded, but was there seriously any actual way in which somebody could tie their hair up with one hand? You decided the answer to that was no. "Do you want me to do it?" you asked him.

He didn't reply, fingers grappling with the white wisps of his hair.

"Geralt."

Again, nothing.

"You're not going to be able to do it. Just let me—"

"Fine!" He spun around with an aura of absolute irritation, slapping the band in your open palm—like a petulant child, you couldn't help but observe. "Do it."

You rose an eyebrow. "Fine."

With a grinding jaw, he moved back to the blankets laying across the forest floor and sat down, legs outstretched. You knelt behind him, just about tall enough to reach the top of his head, and gathered his hair up in your hands. "I can braid it," you offered, "just so it has a lesser chance of coming out again and you don't have to, you know, ask for help."

Geralt rolled his eyes at the last three words which you’d said in a secretive-like whisper. Despite it, however, he nodded. "Yes."

If anybody had walked into the clearing of the forest in that exact moment, they would have seen a witcher sat on the ground, holding his bandaged hand to his chest, while a girl who barely reached his shoulder knelt behind him, plaiting his hair in complete silence. It took about twenty seconds, but by the end of it, his hair was neatly held back, and you could tell he was feeling a little less like punching something than he had been before. A result, you decided.

"There," you said, "pretty as a princess!"

The glare he gave you in response to that sent a bout of giggles spilling from your lips, and at the mere sound of them a flicker of light returned to his eyes. "Thank you," he said sincerely, leaning up to press a kiss to the tip of your nose in true Geralt fashion.

"You're welcome," you replied. "You know I don't mind helping you with anything… we both know you've done it all for me before."

He looked at you. "Yes, I know," he said quietly, "but that doesn't mean I like it."

"You don't have to like it; you just have to accept it."

He rose an eyebrow. "I wonder who told you that."

"Someone very wise," you responded with a knowing glint in your eye. His smile widened and he stood to his feet.

"I'm supposed to be the adult, here."

"You are. That doesn't mean you can never ask for help."

He hummed but said nothing more on the matter as he reached his free hand back to touch the braid. Satisfied that you hadn't sneaked any wildflowers or leaves in it—the morning he had woken up to that was something he never wished to speak of again—he walked back towards Roach. "Ready to move out?"

"Yeah, I'll grab our blankets. Where are we going?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere with a bed."

"Somewhere with a bed it is, then."

There were often times when Geralt would think back to a time before you. He'd been brutal. Selfish. Alone. And then he'd found the basket in the forest, and the baby wailing, and he'd picked you up, eyes still black from the successful hunt just gone by, and for the first time in an age he'd felt a spark of warmth in his cold heart. That warmth had since grown beyond his imagination. He was half witcher and half whatever he was when he was with his child—more one than the other, no doubt—and he was certain that somebody had dropped that baby in his arms on purpose. Perhaps to show everyone how emotionless he was supposed to be. How independent he was supposed to be. How unloving and unloved he was supposed to be.

He could almost laugh at how wrong they'd been.

Witcher Masterpost

[doriwrites]

okayo so continuation of the excerpt i posted wayyy back about bendis and nasar, IF YOU HAVEN’T READ IT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND NOTHING NADA RIEN DU TOUT (find it under the where stories go to die tag) (+completely IGNORE  the shitty worldbuilding you’re just here for the feels) (++ this is still somewhat relevant since even though the story has drastically changed, the characters are still the same so i guess i could almost call that a AU) (+++ it gets violent at the beginning)

One day, when she’s practicing touch, she notices the scars. There’s one on her stomach and one on her chest. There’s one on her cheek and one on her ankle. She’s happy— no, at peace with them. Because they’re a reminder. Of what she lost and what she gained. They’re a reminder that she survived. A reminder that she lived and that she will keep living. They’re a goal. They’re a promise. 

   One day, when she’s practicing sound, she hears something she doesn't like. At all.  Nasar left this morning and she’s alone in the forest where everything but the trees and the birds is quiet. He told her to stay put but. She hears it and she can’t unhear it. 

 “...from the institute… bad shape but good batch.”

 “Boss will be pleased… the Bel kid and his…”

 “...magic users? Damn, kids these days.”

 “Right? Look at all the good it does them.”

  There’s something like a struggle, a harsh sound and a whimper. And she knows. She just— she knows. But Nasar is not here and she can barely walk ten minutes without falling face first on the ground. And this is a forest with trees and roots and— and there’s nothing she can do and it’s been a while since she last felt so helpless she almost forgot the hows and the whys. 

 The footsteps and the voices get clearer and— and she does something stupidstupidstupid but she can’t. She can’t help it. She hopes Nasar will get there before they get close enough but he doesn’t. She thumbs at the little blade he gave her (“To protect yourself.”) and wonders how he’ll feel when he finds her dead body. When they pass by the trees she’s hiding behind, she lunges. Her war cry is cut short when a foot hits her in the chest and she hits a trunk. It hurts but she gets up and focuses on the sounds. There’s a harsh laugh, nothing like Nasar’s and she doesn’t have time to separate and analyse and compartmentalize because there’s a hand in her hair and it yanks. She’s dangling from the ground and trashing and snarling and— and maybe she’s crying, too, because her scalp is burning and it hurts. 

 “There’s a wild one. Look at that. Very… feral,” someone says in her face and she doesn’t think and just— She doesn’t know how because she’s a kid and they’re a grown adult but. She didn’t let go of the blade and they don’t seem to care and. She plunges it in flesh. Again and again and again and for as long as it takes for them to let her go. “Fucking… hell. What— What the fuck,” the voice says, and then, seething, “What the fuck.” 

 The threads— she thinks there might be four people. She’s not sure. She  doesn't now because there’s a fist in her gut and she falls to her knees. Someone is laughing and it’s mean. She wants Nasar. She wants. She wants. But there’s a fist in her face. Again and again and again. And she can’t hear anything but the blood in her ears and her bones breaking and. And she thinks about Nasar and how he will find her dead body. 

 But then. Then. The voice without a voice, the presence. Greedy, with its grudges. The magic. Hers. 

 did you forget that you were born in blood

 did you forget that you were born in war 

 did you forget that you must live

 Her threads. They feel alive and she forgot about them like one  forget about one’s body. It’s here, always, but. One only remembers when it hurts. 

 And so, they lunge, too. Wrap themselves around the toxic ones and yank, too. They slither around a hand and two. They slither up, up, up an arm and two. And they crush. They crush and she thinks she can hear the bones breaking. They crush and she thinks she can hear the screams. They crush hard, unforgiving and she feels the how dare you. There’s a bundle of them crawling up a leg, a torso and then a neck. The snake-like threads yank and the crack echoes through her bones. She wants to throw up and she wants to black out but there’s another one. 

 did you forget that you were born for blood

 did you forget that you were born for war

 did you forget that you must live

 They weave their way to a foot, they yank at an ankle, at a knee, they yank at a whole damn pelvis and for good measure, they wrap themselves around a neck and crushcrushcrush until there’s nothing left to crush but blood and bones. 

  She throws up. She throws up and she’s shaking and crying and she can’t hear anything but the headache pounding in her ears. Her body hurts. Everything smells like blood. Her threads smell— feel like blood as they wrap around her with nothing of the vicious killing intent from before. From a moment ago. They wrap around her limbs gently, like a caress. They wrap around her body and she throws up again. They wrap, wrap, wrap until they’re a mockery of the cocoon she likes to make with Nasar’s. 

 She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. She doesn’t know. But something touches her and she lashes out like an animal with no escape route. She trashes and trashes and trashes until she notices everything still hurts. She trashes because she can’t hear and she can’t see and she doesn’t— Hands take a hold of her own and bring them to a face.

  There’s a long nose and lots of eyebrows. There’s a beard and some wrinkles. She realizes there’s threads, too. Sharp but somehow soft. She sobs and goes limp in Nasar’s arms. Her own threads are still wrapped around her and she knows they’re healing her. She wishes they wouldn’t. Because she doesn’t like them. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She— She shudders as she remembers what they did (what she did?). 

 She doesn’t know how long she stays like that. Wrapped in her threads and his arms. She’s being spoon fed and drinks greedily from a flask. She sleeps a lot but does not dream. She moves only if she’s moved and can’t think much. When she wakes, however briefly, she hears voices like they’re behind a wall or in a bottle. There’s two. One familiar and one unknown. Sometimes she thinks she can feel something wet but warm nuzzling at her cheek. She wants to reach out. She wants. She wants. She— she sleeps. 

When she wakes up for good and her threads go back to hide in her body, there’s voices. Nasar’s and someone else’s. Her head is pillowed on something warm and. And there’s fur in her mouth and in her nose. She sneezes. And the nuzzling is back. She wants to reach out, so she does. It’s a snout. A tongue licks at her wrist. There’s pointy ears and she’s sure there’s a tail around her middle. It feels like a dog but she can’t be sure. 

  There's a hand in her hair and she flinches. She flinches so hard and ugly that the creature yelps. "Hey, hey," it's Ringo Nasar, her friend—protector—bounty-huntermurderer— her friend and his voice is soft when he says it's me. It shakes a little when he says you're fine. She grabs his arm and clings so hard and ugly that the man yelps. He yelps and she laughs. It's a small sound full of tears and relief and something like love. It sounds like a thank you and she hopes he hears it. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, soft, gentle, kind— kinder than most things, kinder than she deserves maybe. 

 At once, she remembers what she did, what her threads— what they did. She shudders. Hard and uglyuglyugly— Two lives. She took two lives and she's not sure she can ever forget the sound of breaking bones and the feel of someone else's blood on her threads. She took two lives and Nasar will not have to find her dead body. She took two lives and she lives. 

 She feels like throwing up but has almost nothing in her belly and knows it would be a really bad idea to puke on Nasar's cloak. She prepares for a word vomit instead but— "You don't have to talk about it now," he says and she remembers the dog-creature-familiar and the unknown voice. She reaches for sharp silver threads and it soothes raw wounds. "The dog is Remus," he says, "the kid is Valko." 

 There's some angry sputtering and a he's a wolf and she remembers the two lives she took and the three lives she saved. It’s not very much but it’s hers and the boy’s and his familiar— his familiar. It hurts to even think about and she buries deeper in her friend—protec— her friend’s chest. Her threads are somewhere she can’t see, chastise in a blind spot as she clutches harder at the silver ones. She can see the wolf’s and almost reaches out when she remembers the warm and fuzzy feelings his nuzzling brought but. She’s good where she is and the warm and fuzzy feelings are there, too. 

 Later, when she lets go of her friend but never of his threads, and everyone is settled around a fire, she notices the boy’s. They look like brimming, boiling water made of anger, desperation and sadness. She’s sure they taste like it, too. But they also look drooping and mopping and something like a pout. It’s both funny and miserable to look at them and she wonders if the boy knows they’re green. Instead, she asks, “What is the Institute?”

 The threads quiver. “It’s a school for people like us,” he says and she knows he’s not looking at her, “there’s two in the land alone. A dozen in the country.”

 “Do they— do you—”

 “Thank you,” he says quickly, quietly, like it burns him, like it frees him, “thank you. I— we wouldn’t… There’s things far worse than death out there and— and we would be it if you didn’t— if you hadn’t…” The threads flutter, quaver. The threads say everything he cannot. Then, he huffs a little laugh and his threads say just how fake it is. “Soft magic is a real pain. Not very useful against— against anything.” 

 She waits for a bit or two because these are words she ever only heard in passing. “Soft magic?”

 “Yeah,” he pauses, “have you never— I mean. Ah,” he sighs when Nasar’s threads sharpen in her hands, “they categorize magic. At the Institute. More like, umbrella terms or— whatever. Soft and hard magic at both ends of the spectrum. Intermediate’s in the middle.”

 She doesn’t ask him to demonstrate. She wants to but she doesn’t because it feels like he’s embarrassed or ashamed or both and she doesn’t like it. His threads seem flighty at best and she doesn’t want to scare them— him— away. “What did… what happened? What did it look like?” she asks because there’s no way she can ever know but she wants to so desperately it hurts her brain. 

 He explains. He explains how he saw everything, half-dazed, half-unconscious. He explains the threads (“They were orange.”) and the deaths (“They crushed until— until they didn’t.”). He explains how they came from right in the middle of your chest and how they wrapped themselves around her after. He explains the magic in the air (“I think I still got some stuck in my lungs.”) and how it was so potent it froze him in place. How it was so potent he could do nothing but watch you (kill-destroy-annihi—). Nasar says it was so potent he knew from a mile away how much trouble she was in. 

 When they go to sleep that night, all she can think about are her orange threads and the silver ones and the greens and the familiar’s. Before she falls asleep, she wonders if Paprika’s threads would have felt as kind as her and as brave, too. She wonders if Miss Cyn’s are warm and soft and like a smile. She wonders where the dead threads go. 

 Nasar takes it upon himself to see the boy and his familiar home safely. He surprises her every day and she likes him more each time. They travel far, far away from the forest and the stinky towns and the boy grabs her arm when she trips over roots. He grabs her arm when there’s a tree ahead and he grabs her arm when she stumbles over thin air. His familiar hovers behind and nudges her in the right direction when she wanders off the path. Nasar doesn’t say anything but he guffaws when it ends in flailing limbs and a three bodies pile on the ground. 

 When they stop to rest and Nasar helps her work on her braille, the green threads are curious and they watch over her shoulder as her fingers work the letters. When they stop to rest and Nasar lands her Little Death, the green threads are interested and they watch as she tries and fails to juggle the heavy weapon around. When they stop to rest and Nasar tells her about the smell of ships and seas and ropes, the green threads are thoughtful and they watch as she asks questions she didn’t know she had. The green threads are curious and interested and thoughtful but the boy is distant and aloof and stiff. 

 So she asks him if he knows braille and when he answers with a I don’t need to she hands him her book and gives him directions. She asks him if he knows anything about swords and when he answers with a some she demands he teaches her. She asks him if he ever saw the sea and when he answers with a no she tells him what she thinks it looks like. The green threads are content and the boy slumps a little. 

 They become friends and he tells her about his familiar. He tells how he awakened early and how the wolf didn’t find him for a long while after that. He tells her about the day he did and how it was the best of them all (“Like all the wrongs were righted. Like it made sense.”) and how they never parted from each other since. He tells her how much he loves him (“He’s like a limb. Or— a soul, yeah. Like my soul.”) and how he thinks he would die without him ("If anything were to happen to him…I don't want to think about it."). 

 She listens carefully and wants to tell him how he would live instead. She wants to tell him how he would feel cut in half and how his thoughts would feel lonely sometimes. Instead, she tells him about Ringo. She tells him how much of a good teacher he was to Nasar ("Because he protects.") and how he gave him Little Death even though it was his. She tells him how she thinks he's dead and how much she's sad about it ("Why?", "I would like to thank him.", "...Why?", "Because he gave me Nasar."). She tells him I miss someone I never met and how she will have a sword named after him someday. 

  The familiar— Remus— is always near. His threads are fluffy and she wants to pet them but doesn't ask because threads are special and a familiar even more so. It doesn’t keep her from the cuddle fest and she's grateful. He lets her talk to him and even though he never answers, she knows he is listening. He lets her lay close at night and it keeps the frowns and the nightmares at bay. He lets her pet him and be clingy and laughs in his ears and she feels warm. 

 One day, Valko decides that you can't keep walking into trees every other minute and that he's going to do something about it. He decides she needs a stick or a cane or something and she tells him yes, I do but ends up with a branch instead. He asks why she doesn't have one yet and she says she never really thought about it until now (silver threads tremble with something like shame and she reaches out). She tells him how she doesn’t like crowds much and how towns are difficult to deal with (green threads shake with something like intrigue and she recoils a bit). He tells her oh, so that's why we're in the middle of fucking nowhere and she says mind your language. 

 The day before they reach the Institute, he tells her about his magic. He tells her it's soft and meek and his voice is small and dejected. He tells her about shifters and a dad who wasn't one. He tells her about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf. He tells her about genetics and she's a little confused. At the end of it, he tells her just how funny he thinks it is that his familiar is a wolf but he can never be. He shrugs against her shoulder and tells her he got the sense of smell and hearing and— everything, I have everything but the wolf. 

 "You have the wolf," she says.

His thread feels fond when she grabs one, but there's longing there, where she thumbs at its middle. It's a little bit rough but all kind of soft. "I know." 

  She tells him about his threads. She tells him they're green and how she thinks they're more like moss than leaf but can't be sure because she forgot the little things. She tells him she hopes he looks just like they feel, half-tree, half-child. He tells her I am fourteen, thank you very much and what the hell. She laughs and tells him about birds and nests and he says duh. She tells him how trees can be homes. She tells him how they can be red and gold but she likes them green best. She tells him trees can look old when they're young. She tells him they can be damaged or marked or cracked but can never be moved. He says holy shit, I am a tree and she smiles warm and soft. 

 When the Institute is in front of her, she's surprised. They went around cities on their way but she thought the school for people like her (child—murderer—magic-user) would be in one. She's wrong. She's terribly wrong and they find themselves in the middle of fucking nowhere ("Shut it!") and green threads are restless. There's a pair of them in front of what she thinks are gates. They look muted somehow. Blurry. A not-even-a-color white. 

 She realizes she never asked how Valko found himself in the hands of slavers and why he was so far from home. She realizes he never told her. She realizes she never asked if he was alone before her and why he fakes laugh so often. She realizes she doesn't know him very much and she's sad. 

 They leave him with the muted threads and snot on his jacket. The wolf gets a hug and a lot of thank yous and apologies and petting. They wait until he's let in. They wait until she sees his threads for the last time. 

 That night, when she's settled in Nasar's cocoon and thinking about a boy and a wolf, she says, "The Institute. Didn't it— didn't it feel odd to you?" 

 The silver threads tighten around her, "Wait, do you mean the part where they send children to war or was it more about the titanic fortress?"

"...but. We're not at war."

He sighs like it pains him, "There's always a war somewhere, kid."

 "Is it— is it like a military? Because those were downtown all the time and Miss Cynn always said they were like leeches but I never understood what that means because I don't know what a leech looks like or what it is—" 

"They’re like vampires, they suck blood and happiness out of you."

"—and they were not really nice to the children and women but they were always nice to the drunk men pissing on Madam K’s shoes. I think that one is fair because Madam K was kind of mean sometimes and if they hadn’t pissed on her shoes, I might have—"

"That’s very bold of you."

  "—but. Valko was not like that. I mean… I don’t think he was."

"He was not like that. And yes, like a military," he sighs like it burns him, "Young magic-users are given the one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn how to harness, how to control, how to— how to optimize themselves, yeah," he chuckles lowly, "with the best teachers in the world."

 "Do you— do you mean for them?"

"Bendis. This world will take every chance it gets— every last one of them— to walk all over you. And these kids… these kids are running out of luck."

 "Do you mean luck or—"

"I mean luck. Those people... Bravery means death. Recklessness means death. And not in a Greater Good way but in a look-how-wrong-they-were way. The only way out is… deserting. Which is— it’s a terrible idea."

 "Why?"

"Deserters are hunted down. Once you get in, you can’t get out. If you were to leave... ", he sighs like it haunts him, "I— he never asked."

 "...We didn’t, either."

His threads buzz with confusion and regrets and protector-friend-protector-prote— They hum with a sort of disquiet she never felt from him before. "I know."

 "...You know a lot about them."

 "Mh. People seldom differ, kid. Give them power and they will abuse it. It's really that simple." 

 "What does seldom means and how—"

 They stop in a quiet inn, and Nasar leaves in the morning. She decides she has things To Do Today. She takes the branch with her and only runs into thirty two people (to whom she asks directions every time) before she finds the library. The librarian is harder to find still but when she asks her if they have any books in braille, brown threads brighten considerably and she hears a smack and a woman's voice says it's your lucky day! before it leads her to an empty section of the room. There's three books and one of them she already has. She's almost certain another one is about pirates but the last one. The last one says universal spellbook and she reads until she can't. She doesn’t understand everything and when she does it's about rankings and soft-hard-intermediate and category and— she steals the book.  

 When Nasar comes back and his threads are clean but he smells like blood, he tells her good job and helps her decipher the book. He tells her what he knows about magic ("Everyone has it. There's a hereditary thing going on and awakenings rituals everywhere.") and she levels him with an unimpressed look. He tells her what he thinks he knows ("There's something like neutral magic— the one out there, you know? Not inside us. The magic of the trees and the seas. The one we don't incubate until it implodes,  yeah?”) and she goes for his neck. He tells her the spellbook is what we can do with it and she gasps so loud because I didn't know that. Why didn't I kno— "The only way to learn this stuff is through institutes. Or whatever-council approved tutor. This is just a book of spells. Nowhere does it tell you how to— how to cast them. It tells you plenty about their nature but not the way you need to— to work the magic. Universal means for everyone. But everyone is too big a number." 

  "But people must have tried—"

"They do try. All the time. Sometimes they die trying and they're lucky. Sometimes they get caught and— It's ugly."

 She reads the book still. She reads it until she knows the twenty six spells ranked between the letter F and the letter D. She reads it until she knows the difference between soft and intermediate and hard ones. She reads until she knows their categories and common uses and her brain itches. She reads. She reads. She reads. Until the day she doesn’t.

  It's late and she's waiting for Nasar in another smelly inn room. When he comes, she has a pillowcase tied around her head and cotton in her ears. He takes her hands from the book and presents them with a cane. It's long and sturdy and nothing like the branch that broke after fifteen minutes a few days ago. She cries a lot. But mostly, she smiles until she can’t.

 Walking becomes easier but she makes sure to be as good without the cane as she is with it. It's difficult and it takes time but she wants a sword named Ringo. It's difficult and it takes time until she remembers her threads (orange-murderer-magic) and decides they might be useful. It's difficult and it takes time because she remembers the bones and blood and death on them and how it stuck for days. It's difficult and it takes time but they're like eyes who can see everything she can't. 

 At night, she dreams about a boy who was supposed to be a wolf and the wolf who is like a limb. She dreams about a tree  overrun by moss and a sword without a name. She dreams about a woman with a soft smile and calloused hands who is so kind she tells an orphan girl to run, run away before—  and she never remembers how it ends. She dreams about silver threads and spellbooks and institutes and child-soldiers. She dreams about green .

 They leave this town and the next, and she's got a book under an arm and a cane in her hand. She asks Ringo Nasar for more books about magic and his threads are not very happy but he asks when's your birthday? and she gets a book about bloodlines. She asks Ringo Nasar when's your birthday? and when he says I'm not sure she decides to give him one like Miss Cyn had for her. She realizes she doesn't know what to get him because Ringo Nasar does not like many things but Little Death and Bendis. But he gets a knife she found under a mattress and a stolen book about pirates. He gets hugs and kisses on the face and his laugh is so loud it echoes in her heart. 

  They lull themselves to sleep with whispered stories of a girl and her sword. She tells him how the sword saves the girl every single time and he tells her how the girl saves herself. He tells her how the girl becomes sword in the end and she tells him how the sword becomes him.

 The fire crackles at the night and her threads reach out. Tentative. Hesitant. They reach out. And there's no violence in the way orange wraps around silver. And there's no wrath where it weaves its way up, up, up. But Nasar stiffens and she thinks she might have done something wrong even if she didn't mean— But then his threads answer. They answer. They— she doesn’t know how he's doing it, if he's doing it, but his threads intertwine with hers and she thinks. She thinks she might be feeling his soul. 

 It feels like his threads and his sword and his leg. It feels like rainy days in shitty inn rooms and cold nights in the woods. It feels like it's known too many ends and not nearly enough beginnings. It feels like both the wielder and the weapon and how sometimes they're the same. But it feels like cocoons and  laughter and comfort. It feels like all the pieces that make Ringo Nasar and more. 

 “You feel like the sea,” he says quietly. And she thinks she understands. 

   She wakes with the sun and notices a new thread. It’s a little odd looking but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind because it starts in her chest and  ends in his. And it feels like chosen birthdays and hushed voices.