#how many people can say they crashed ao3 through sheer force of will

[thatuselesshuman]

Y'ALL I FUCKING CRASHED AO3 WHILE TRYING TO FIND MARIOLORE LMAOOOOO

[djarinsbeskar]

EXPLORATION ARC: PART 3 - CRASH LANDINGS

A/N: I think I’ve read and re-read this part so many times that I’m not sure I’m fully happy with it anymore. However! I do hope you can all enjoy the latest instalment, with our lovely Din (finally) getting some well earned attention.

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 14.4k (I have no self control I’m sorry if it drags on)

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: language, (some) dirty talk, SMUT! - oral (m receiving including deepthroating and gagging), handjobs, fingering, Din being slightly awkward before embracing his dom side

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

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You could say with some confidence that most times in your life, you had smooth landings.

A small swell in your stomach as a ship glided down into atmosphere. The gentle, paced approach of land or sea, of mountains, forests and cities materializing as you descended. The gradual growth of buildings, speeders and individuals from pinpricks into distinguishable features of the landscape. A smooth landing was like sliding into a warm bath, where you only realized how good the water felt when it was lapping around your ears and soothing away the aches of a bad day; the touch down of a ship letting you bask in being on solid ground once more.

Sometimes, you admit, there were rough landings.

Your heart hammering in the back of your throat while you desperately tried to smother the creeping nervousness with every bump of turbulence or rattle of a ships’ engine. The rapidly approaching planet being anything but a welcome sight; the hollow, raw sensitivity to every noise both inside the ship and out suspending you in time before the worst passed. Rough landings to you, were like rolling down a hill as a child from a grassy knoll, the incline of which – to an adult – was nothing more than a slight slope. Chaotic in the movement as your head became dizzy from spinning, but once laying on your back and laughing breathlessly up at wispy clouds, you realized it wasn’t so very bad after all. The same could be said when a ships mechanical functions and sensors righted themselves through automation or a talented pilots guide to land… not so very bad in hindsight.

And then there were crash landings… rare but staggering in the impression they left.

Moments where you weren’t sure if you were hyperventilating or holding your breath, if up was down and if the ship you flew was evening functioning beyond alloying gravity to pull it mercilessly towards wreckage and death. Total clarity and yet, an inability to focus on any one thing as the rapid descent fogged any ability to see the ground coming hard and fast. The shrill alarms and warning lights ceaselessly reminding you of how fucked you really were. The adrenaline it inspired – having nowhere to go – could make you giddy and exhilarated despite the danger. In your life, the feeling of a crash landing couldn’t be compared to the physical; they were the sinking realization of someone falling out of love with you, of the betrayal from a loyal friend, the abandonment of a lifelong support. They were the serendipity of a chance meeting, the recognition of a hidden talent and the reciprocation of long held feelings. Crash landings were all the times you had ever been blindsided and helpless to prevent them: an embodied vulnerability.

The day you landed on Nevarro was a crash landing in more ways than one.

One being the literal – survived by the seat of your pants – landing that had you questioning Mando’s ethnicity beneath the helmet. Was he from Corellia? Or Maker-forbid, Pamarthe? Because there was simply no way, no way, that he managed to pull off that landing with one engine blown and a fleet of pirates on his tail. But he did, and you were all alive because of it. He guided the Razor Crest like it was an extension of himself, completely in control of every movement and never anything but calm as he did so.

For as long as you had known the Mandalorian, he had owned the fossil that was the Razor Crest, and now you could see why. You wanted to weep and apologise to her for every stray thought you had about how old and outdated she was. You knew a brand new gunship that people paid obscene amounts of credits for wouldn’t have survived the same strain the Razor Crest was just put under.

You had come to think of the two – Mando and the Razor Crest – as mirrors of each other; intimidating, ageless and well able to endure more than a ship – or a human body – was naturally capable of. It endeared you to both of them more than you already were.

The other proverbial crash landing you experienced that day, was the incident that preceded your less than desirable entry onto the Nevarro; the one that stripped away all pretense and ignorance that had strained your relationship with Mando in the weeks prior.

After hastily grabbing the child from his pod and staggering back up the ladder one handed as the ship shook violently to strap you both into the co-pilot chair, you didn’t have the presence of mind to notice the heavy scent still permeating the cockpit, or the slightly uncomfortable feeling of your release drying on your thighs. You couldn’t even begin to wrap your mind around the fact that Mando, that stubborn, stoic, recklessly unattainable man you had spent years patching up over and over again, had gotten you off with just his thigh and a few well placed rolls of his hips.

You were too busy trying not to panic at the prospect of dying or being captured which really, would just be your rotten luck after finally seeing the immovable control the Mandalorian exerted, waver. You were distracted from those thoughts right up to the point where the rough rasp of Mando’s voice as the pirates engaged with the Razor Crest’s commlink made your prior activities glaringly obvious. His voice, still thick and heavy with his unfulfilled released gradually morphed into a cold anger as he shut off the connection when the pirates’ demanded payment for your lives.

Of the things you came to realize about Mando since travelling with him, one of the few that surprised you was his refusal to negotiate with nearly everyone he encountered. It gave the small allowances he made when you treated him – and the many he gave the kid most days – a lot more weight. But you didn’t have time to think about that as he dodged shot after shot.

Your landing on Nevarro was a combination of whiplash, soot and precarious rocking before the Razor Crest skidded to a final, jarring stop a few meters away from the closest ship docked outside the main town entrance. Only when the ship stayed upright instead of bowling over from the momentum did you allow yourself to breathe again, grounding yourself back in the cockpit despite your stomach being left somewhere in space.

The return of your breathing and the realization that you had in fact survived, allowed the reality of what happened before to slam to the forefront of your mind.

You dry humped a Mandalorian. The Mandalorian. Him. Mando.

Like a kitten in heat… the echo of his words had heat instantly returning to your face at the memory. You remained flushed even as you attempted to distract yourself by running an unnecessary mental check on your body for injury. Apart from a small ache growing in your head from the whiplash, you were good as new. Too good if you were being honest, and the reason for that was hardly a mystery.

You ran your eyes over the child, smoothing a hand soothingly over his wrinkled head and along one of his ears to make sure he wasn’t hurt, cooing at him gently as he nuzzled back against your chest with a string of sleepy babble. He was more concerned with being woken up than the manner of your landing apparently,

“I know darling, I’m sorry I woke you,” you muttered against his head, the sheer relief that he was out of danger roiling in your stomach and made you close your eyes as his familiar scent invaded your nose while he settled back down to sleep.

As he settled, the cockpit swelled with a heavy silence, reality catching up with you both now that the distraction of pirates and possible death was gone.

The red warning lights and occasional alarm were flicked off one by one with every resounding click of a button. When you first entered the cockpit earlier that day, you struggled to keep your eyes off him and now, now your eyes focused on anything but the man who had groaned your name so sinfully. Those clicks and snaps of levers and buttons – while quiet – were the only sounds that filled the air, enhancing the silence you sat in.

Mando was tenser than before, his shoulders stiff and movements more forceful than necessary as he geared the ship down. A malicious thought surfaced momentarily that he might be regretting what happened already.

You rolled your eyes at yourself, recognizing the ridiculousness of the notion immediately; you had just spent several heart-stopping minutes being chased and shot at and only landed mere moments ago. Of course he was tense. Stars, your muscles had yet to relax from the anxiety inducing minutes before Mando finally out maneuvered them with an unfazed countenance.

But heightened emotions and the insecurities they could bring with them weren’t uncommon after an orgasm. You merely tried to keep the more ridiculous ones at bay, a benefit of maturity and age you appreciated. It allowed you to have had your fair share of purely physical relationships; one night stands and friends with benefits over the years. It wasn’t in you to get overly attached to a sexual partner after the uncertainty of the war. You were certain Mando would be no different. You appreciated sex for what it was; a release, a coping mechanism or simply just something fun to do.

Mando’s arm reached across the small distance in front of you, one final switch and silence reigned once more. He hesitated as he withdrew his hand, resting it heavily on the dash and his helmet turned marginally to look at you, your eyes instantly lifting to the visor. You cursed the damn shiny thing silently; you had never felt the lack of expressions, or small facial tells that might have given you an indication of how he was feeling more than now. The feeling of his gaze didn’t however stop the pang of arousal reawakening after being doused so suddenly before; it simmered low in your stomach now as he watched you.

Your eyes searched his visor, hopefully conveying – if nothing else – that you didn’t regret anything. A soft quirk to your lips and he released a long breath, hanging his head slightly before pushing back up to his seat. Your smile increased subconsciously; he seemed exasperated, not ashamed and that would have to be good enough for you.

It didn’t take long for the silence to turn more comfortable after that, more familiar as he stood from his seat to make his way past you, cape brushing your arm as he did so. He hesitated at the door, considering something before he left. When he evidently came to a conclusion, he turned back to look down at you, forearm resting above his head on the doorframe as he did so,

“I’ll be gone a few hours. The Guild will be by to pick up the quarries so…” he trailed off and you waited expectantly for what he was trying to tell you, “get some fresh air. We’re leaving as soon as I pick up the next batch of pucks.”

You craned your neck to keep your eyes on him and the sudden déjà vu of looking up at him wasn’t lost on either of you as a sharp exhale left the warrior. You nodded a few times to his suggestion, mulling over anything that was low or might need restocking, mind running a klick a minute before an idea sparked in your mind, making you sit up straighter in excitement,

“Mando? Is there an automated banking center here?”

Your question seemed to throw him because he didn’t answer immediately, mind more pleasantly distracted by your appearance,

“Why?” was his only response in the end.

“I want credits, that’s why,” you rolled your eyes in playful exasperation as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which it was. Why else would you go to a bank?

“The New Republic pay a pension for anyone who served in the Rebellion. It gets fed into an account that can be accessed from most galactic banking centers,” you explained, excited by the possibility of actually having your own credits and being able to contribute rather than living off the credits Mando earned from his bounty hunting.

“Oh,” came the lackluster response, “I don’t know. I’ve never used one before,” he finished simply, dropping his arm from the doorframe and turning to make his way down into the hold without another word.

You deflated a bit in your seat before perking up. No. ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t a negative answer, just an unhelpful one. You chuckled quietly so as not to disturb the child sleeping again you, he was still no better at talking than when you first met him. Perhaps it was simply a case of not being able to teach an old Massiff new tricks. Funnily enough, you didn’t think he needed to. You were adapting well enough to his silence as it was.

You could find out for yourself. You were dying to get off the ship and it was the perfect excuse to explore a new town for the precious few hours you had planet-side, a chance to stretch your legs and get some much needed fresh air. It was also a much better alternative to sitting on the ship and replaying the last few hours in your head, working yourself up over a husky voice and a hard body.

No, that would just drive you mad.

Since he left the cockpit, some of the heat left with him and you were able to lean back and take a long, deep breath. Fuck… but he was still able to get to you without even trying, you admitted yourself as you closed your eyes. You didn’t even have the chance to touch him beyond that momentary glance against the smooth, burning length of him. You never believed in karma before, but you must have done something truly rotten to have been stopped from touching that man.

A warmth filled you at the thought of how good he felt under you; the promise of more taken away before either of you had a moment to think. You felt wrecked from the orgasm he gave you and that hadn’t even required the removal of clothing, let alone his hands or cock.

But he hadn’t finished.

Your brows furrowed at the thought, along with a small swell of guilt in your stomach. You considered yourself to be a generous lover and wouldn’t cheapen the sentiment of wanting him to feel satisfied by thinking you owed it to him. You wanted to make him feel good, knowing the bliss someone else could give you was infinitely better than one’s own hand. You wanted to preen with the knowledge that you could bring this man, this immovable force to his knees in ecstasy.

You wanted to make him feel that good now, not later.

Steeling your nerves, you gracelessly wrestled yourself out of your seatbelt, hindered by the loss of one arm that supported the child. Finally free, you followed the same path the Mandalorian took down the ladder (equally as inelegant but climbing a ladder was awkward with two hands let alone one so you forgave yourself). You hurried over to the child’s over-pram and, once he was tucked in and the pram itself closed, turned to where you had glanced Mando preparing to leave.

He was adjusting something on his vambraces’ control panel, so he hadn’t acknowledged your presence yet, but when he picked up the control that opened the ramp down, you opened your mouth,

“Mando!” you called just before he lowered the ramp onto the lava flats that made up the improvised spaceport on Nevarro.

Your voice stopped him in his tracks, and he turned his head slightly to indicate you had his attention.

Your feet were moving before you knew it, rounding in front of the warrior and removing the push-button control that hung from the wall of the Razor Crest; obviously, a temporary fix that had become a permanent solution. The remote fell easily from his grip when your fingers caressed the back of the hand that held it, your gaze never leaving where you hoped his was behind the visor.

You kept your hand on his as he lowered it down to his side, enjoying the tactile sensation of the buttery leather of his gloved fingers as they netted across your own before you pulled your hand away just far enough to trace along the duraweave at his hip and across the softer, more flexible ribbed armor on his abdomen.

“I—need to check the damage to the ship,” he rasped quietly after the control clattered loudly back against the wall it was attached to, no bite in his words as you stepped into his personal space. As expected, he didn’t move, your eyes searching for any indication of discomfort in his body language and – finding none – drifted down his body appreciatively, a knowing smile dancing across your lips.

“Gotta… collect the payment for---” he trailed off when your fingers returned to where they had been before you had been interrupted in the cockpit. His words petered off on a low exhale and you hummed in approval when you felt he was still half-hard under his flight suit.

“I don’t just take, Mando,” you said quietly so as not to break the little bubble you found yourself in with the Mandalorian. You were almost gentle in your cadence, as if anything louder would spook the intimidating man. Something inside you told you that his acceptance of your touch was no insignificant thing, not to him. You couldn’t pinpoint the reason, whether it was his devotion to his Creed he mentioned or some other personal reasons. Whatever it was, you didn’t take the liberties he afforded you lightly.

You wanted to make him forget his reservations, completely.

Your fingers easily undid the fly at his crotch and fit inside to wrap around the thick girth of his rapidly hardening length. Your stomach flipped at the sheer size of him, making you swallow while Mando braced his forearm on the wall behind you, folding over you slightly from his greater height. The deep sigh he released, a shuddering sound of relief and pleasure spread electricity across you, your body instantly reacting to the guttural sound instinctively. You gave his cock an experimental squeeze as you pulled him out from his flight suit in the hopes of hearing that noise again.

But Maker, your mouth watered when you finally tore your eyes from his helmet to his exposed length.

Rich, tan skin stretched taut across the thick length of his cock as it sat heavy in your grip, a shade darker than the skin you had seen while treating him before. Pearly precum was already beading from the blunt, swollen tip and your thumb automatically swiped through it to spread over the head. You reveled in the low moan you heard in your ear as Mando’s head dropped forward to rest on your shoulder, a shaky inhale making his shoulders shudder.

“It’s okay?” you whispered, needing to be certain. The immediate nod against your shoulder settled the last of your reservations and you gave him a long stroke in return. You wondered briefly if the dryness of your hand was uncomfortable so, releasing his cock briefly, you spat on your palm before wrapping it back around the base and started stroking him steadily.

“Fuck…” his voice was barely above a whisper, his cock heavy and rigid in your fist that barely managed to close around him as you squeezed him firmly.

Stars, he felt divine. All hard ridges covered in velvet skin, a hot pulsing weight in your hand that made you chew on your lip as you imagined the size and weight of him on your tongue or the sweet sting of him stretching your cunt around him. He was bigger than you had had before, and you knew you would probably feel him for days afterwards.

He twitched under your grip, but apart from the occasional shiver and low groan in your ear, he allowed your hand to explore and learn this part of him at your own pace. Your free hand skirted down his side to gently draw his tight balls out too and when you massaged them in your palm, you received a gravelly moan in your ear. It was followed by a heady rasp in that language you still couldn’t place; the sound of it running down your spine pleasantly and making your body react viscerally, your nipples peaked and sensitive against the material of your chest band and wetness soaking your underwear again.

His shoulders sagged as the tension began to bleed from his body, his helmet turning on your shoulder to watch your hand stroking his cock rhythmically.

You were throbbing with renewed arousal from just the feel of velvety steel in your hand and from hearing those low, gravelly sounds you had been thinking about for weeks. Nothing you had fabricated in your mind came close to the reality; deep and rich, they rumbled through his whole body until you could feel their echoes in your own.

Twisting your wrist on an upward stroke, his hips snapped forward and a groan left him. His free hand unexpectedly lifted to grasp the side of your neck, his staunch control wavering. His fingers spread around easily to tangle in the hair at the base of your neck to anchor himself and you had to bite down on your lip hard to keep from moaning at the sound of him panting your name in your ear. Your eyes fluttered closed when he tightened his fingers, holding your head in pace as you increased your pace to match his hips, random twists of your wrist making him curse and groan your name desperately.

“Fuck… kitten, don’t--- fuck, don’t stop,” he panted against the side of your head, the words interspersed with quiet moans as his control continued to bend, his hips thrusting shallowly into your hand as he chased the release that he had been denied earlier. You tightened your grip and it made him practically shake with pleasure. You were only using the weeping precum leaking from his head to smooth your hand along his length but Mando didn’t seem to mind the dry friction that tethered on discomfort. He seemed to like the added sensation that made his cock throb and his mind cloud with a primal desire to fuck.

“You feel so good, Mando…” your own voice was nothing short of a moan itself, heat gathering at your core and reminding you of how empty your pussy was. But you wanted to finish him first, to bring him to the height of pleasure like he deserved before you considered your own release again. The next time you got off, you wanted to feel him completely overwhelm your body with his own, whether that was with his cock or his fingers or hell, even his thigh again. Whatever he would give you.

You massaged his sensitive head at the thought, your cunt clenching. His fingers flexed in your hair, tugging on the strands and pulling a soft gasp from your lips as he lifted his head enough for the cool beskar to press against your forehead. Your eyes flickered frantically across the visor, the strength of his fingers tangling in your hair making your lips part,

“Fuck, you want more already, don’t you?” he growled with a hitch in his labored breathing when your thumb circled the head of his cock again. You didn’t try to hide the way he was making you feel, there was no point with the desire written plainly on your face.

Drunk on the heady, heavy scent of arousal that filled the hold, you nodded desperately to his question and released his balls to run your hand along the perfectly polished beskar on his chest, the warrior shuddering as if he could actually feel you through the armor,

“I want you…” you purred against his helmet before sinking your teeth into your bottom lip when he groaned.

His hand loosened in your hair, fanning up over your cheek and across the edge of your jaw before he cupped it roughly. His thumb swiped across your bottom lip to release it from the hold your teeth had it in. He repeated the motion, slower this time to savor the pillowy softness of the flesh before pressing his thumb into your willing mouth, the fingers he had around your jaw tightening to encourage your mouth to open for him.

You accepted the supple leather eagerly, letting it rest on the flat of your tongue before you closed your lips around it, the stagger in his shallow thrusts and the sharp, distorted exhale through his modulator telling you just how affected he was.

You moaned around his thumb when he pushed it deeper into the warm cavern of your mouth, letting your tongue circle it before sucking on it hard, showing him exactly what you were imagining doing to his cock and eyes still trained on the black shine of his visor. Your mind was filled with the sounds of his raspy groans and the quick drag of your fingers of the soft skin of his cock. You matched the pace of your hand as you sucked on his thumb and when he pressed closer to you, caging you against the wall, you arched against him and keened under his movements.

“You’re fucking filthy, aren’t you?” he muttered breathlessly and slightly awed, as if he had come across something so unexpectedly amazing when he hadn’t even been looking, “you wan---”

He was cut off as his commlink came to life.

“Mando! You ever going to come out? What’s taking so long?” the crackled, disembodied voice sounded from his vambrace, your eyes widening slightly before you deviously picked up the speed with which you stroked him.

Mando hissed, his helmet falling back on his shoulders at the pleasure that set every nerve in his body alight. He pulled his thumb from your mouth but kept his grip on your jaw firm,

“Dangerous game you’re playing, kitten,” he panted, his voice strained as you felt him twitch and grow harder in your grip if it was possible, the thrill of danger you both felt at someone else’s presence turning you both on more than you anticipated.

You ignored his words and watched him from under heavy lashes with a cheeky glint in your eye, “Aren’t you going to answer that?” your question was saccharine sweet, as if you didn’t have your hand wrapped around his thick cock.

Playing Mando at his own game – challenging him – might have been a stupid move, but he had you riding his thigh that very day and now you wanted to even out the playing field. You ached a brow when he didn’t respond, your hand slowing to a stop on his cock even as his fingers dug into your jaw. With a vicious snarl in his own language, you knew you had him beat and started stroking him again as a reward.

“You’ll regret this,” he promised darkly when he released your face to press the connection link on his vambrace currently braced against the wall above your head,

“Looking after the kid, won’t be---” his head snapped down when you sank to your knees now that you were free from his hold, eyes sparking with mischief while you tried to smother the smile that turned your lips up when you looked up at him,

“Don’t you dare,” Mando hissed down at you, even as his head feel forward against his arm when your tongue flicked out to glance across the tip of his cock, a choked moan caught in his throat.

“Dare? Dare what?” Confusion was evident in the booming yet jovial voice on the other end of the link.

“N-nothing Karga. The kid…. The kid is just somewhere he shouldn’t be,” he directed the emphasis down at you as you lapped around his head teasingly, giving him a taste of the soft, wet heat of your tongue and only a taste.

“Ah! Bring him out! I’ve missed the little womprat.”

“Just give me----”

Mando cut the connection off on a loud moan as your lips suddenly engulfed the head of his cock, your own moan at the salty precum on your tongue making you salivate and lap up every drop. Maker, he was big. You circled the head with your tongue a few times and pulled your mouth off him after a few wet suckles so that you could lick a thick strip along the underside, eyes still shining with mischief despite the dark lust clouding them as he shook above you.

Fuck, he was so sensitive. A rush of arousal pooled low in your stomach and you moaned around him when you took him into your mouth again and sucked on the head while stroking the rest of his length. You would have to get used to his size before taking any more of him. But damn, if your eyes weren’t bigger than your belly and you let him sink deeper once, getting about half of him along your tongue before you felt yourself gagging.

“Stars, yes—” he groaned, the tight heat of your mouth making him want to sink his cock as deep as it could go before you pulled off him with a gasp, your saliva making his length glisten.

Neither of you had the time to dawdle; you could feel the coiling tension radiating from him as he dropped his hand to card his fingers through your hair. You could have spent hours kneeling there with his cock in your mouth, happily keeping him on the verge of pleasure, but he needed to go sooner rather than later. Reluctantly, you gave the tip one last lick before using your saliva as lubrication to stroke him quicker when you stood back up, his hand never leaving the back of your head.

“Tease--- fucking tease, always---” the staccato of his speech was dotted with more frequent rumbling moans and when he bit out a curse as your fingers massaged along the thick vein under his cock, he dropped his head back to your shoulder, the space between you reducing to only as much as your hand needed to jerk him off.

“You can get me back later, Mando,” you purred, squeezing the head lightly, “but right now I want you to cum.” Your free hand went back to palming his balls, rolling them between your fingers and you could feel them tightening in your hold. Your cunt clenched needily when the Mandalorian actually whimpered.

He had slipped back into his native language as he muttered darkly in your ear and even if you didn’t understand the words, the rasp and sinful promise in them as his tone became more and more desperate was enough to make another gush of wetness drench your pussy.

You knew it hit him the moment his spine went rigid, and he choked on a gasp, his hand tightening almost painfully in your hair reflexively. You slowed your pace with a whimper, lazily stroking him through his orgasm as several thick ropes of cum splattered against your jacket, the rest coating your hand as it dribbled down his cock.

His breathing returned in short, stagnant gasps, his arm taking most of his weight while his forehead rested heavily on your shoulder as he recovered. He hissed tiredly, pushing your hand away when the overstimulation made his spent cock twitch even as it softened. It gave you the perfect opportunity to lift your hand and delicately swipe your tongue along your finger to taste him. Slightly salty and a bit sharp, you sucked the finger into your mouth with a hum and let your eyes drift closed at the taste.

A long groan pulled your eyes open again to see Mando lifting his head lethargically from your shoulder, tilted down to watch you clean your fingers of his release,

“Don’t waste any, kitten,” he rumbled, his voice rougher than usual and you felt a swell of pride at the fatigue you heard in it. His hand wrapped back around your wrist to lead your other fingers to your mouth, as if to be part of this ritual of you eating his release. You were only too eager to lap each of them clean, eyes heavy-lidded as you sought his invisible gaze. His chest was still heaving from his release, breathing labored and he looked absolutely wrecked.

You moaned your approval at his taste, enjoying his eyes on you as you did so. You spread your fingers and turned them to rest against his chest and he hummed a “good girl” as he fingers released your wrist to trace up along your arm and across your collarbone lazily, curious in their exploration as though he had never thought to take the time to simply touch for the sake of touching. He probably hadn’t, you realized when you thought about it a little deeper.

His fingers roamed up along the column of your neck and settled there, flexing before they relaxed into a content hold that made you lean into the solid weight of his caress,

“Be here when I get back,” he rasped, fingers spreading to spear up through your hair at the base of your neck for a brief moment.

He only released you when you nodded, mesmerized by the lights that caught on his visor and the shine of his unpainted helmet.

And then his hand dropped and the overwhelming heat and presence of his body leaning over yours was gone. A single input into his vambrace and the child’s hover-pram followed him dutifully. You leaned back against the wall to gather your own breath that you seemed to have lost and pressed the forgotten control button to release the ramp for him and when it flattened on the lava fields below, he offered you a nod before wandering down to his… welcome party?

You snorted on a laugh to yourself, turning back into the bowels of the ship to shower and get changed before going out yourself.

That’s a first.

  You wasted no time stripping out of your clothes, flushing slightly at the stains on your jacket and pants from Mando’s release. You showered without washing your hair to save time and pulled on a new pair of pants along with a cream, loose linen top. For warmer climates like Nevarro, you were glad you had picked up the piece despite not wearing it often. You liked the feeling of not having layers of fabric clinging to you, the wispy soft length of the fit caressing rather than constricting and the dip in the neckline was tastefully offset by a string tied across your collarbones that gave it a breath of femininity. You stretched your arms above your head and enjoyed the occasional brush of the material on your back before you grabbed a satchel to make use of the unexpected free time you had been afforded without the child.

You greeted the mechanics setting up by the Razor Crest. Mando had obviously sorted the repairs out, whatever they entailed when he left the ship. Poor old girl was in some state after that landing but her condition wasn’t enough to wipe the content grin off your face as you walked in through the main gates with a small spring in your step. Despite the slight hiccup, today hadn’t gone quite so bad as you thought.

Nevarro was an… interesting place, you came to realize after a short while walking through the ragtag streets and down dusty roads. It boasted the same clientele as most Outer Rim planets, but the place wasn’t nearly big enough or significant enough to garner the attention of anyone more dangerous than a petty thief. The presence of the Bounty Hunters Guild also had a hand in dissuading criminals from setting up on Nevarro. It was charming, in a way. But then, you always were drawn to… unconventional things.

The marketplace – when you arrived – was, in a word, chaotic. There was no clear system of stalls or shops, hardly any signage and people seemed to make do with the most uncharacteristic objects upon which to sell their wares. You had seen no less than four sabacc tables, what looked like the carcass of an old mining trolley and you were nearly certain the Jawas were using stacked stormtrooper helmets beneath a large cloth to make a very wobbly table. You hadn’t managed to confirm that one unfortunately, instead trying to garner what information you could about what each stall and shopfront sold to know where to come back to after doing a leisurely loop of the market.

People bustled here and there, chatter flowed freely, and it felt similar to when the Empire first fell; as though a great weight had been lifted from these people, excited to enjoy the liberties freedom gave them. It was infectious, and you were charmed by it; swindling Jawas and all.

You had been delighted to learn from a helpful human man tinkering with the wiring of a pit droid outside a non-descript repair shop that there was a banking center on Nevarro – a New Republic one at that – recently installed with all the changes happening on the planet.

You threw your silent thanks to the Maker that at least now you had access to your own funds and could stop feeling guilty about living off Mando’s hard earned credits. Noticing the stiffness in the man’s legs when he stood to point you in the right direction, you stalled your journey to the bank to enquire about it.

“Only age, love. Nothin’ to be done about that,” he had waved you off with a dismissive chuckle.

You smiled in return with a brief nod before you took your leave, filing through information in your head about age-related joint stiffness as you did. You simply couldn’t help yourself; you hadn’t had a patient in months and Mando was the worst possible one whenever he was injured so you indulged yourself on your way to the bank with a pain relief plan for someone who had been kind to you. Not just because he reminded you of an elderly Mirialan who complained of similar pains what seemed like a lifetime ago.

The banking center was thankfully, a straight-forward experience. A gatekeeper droid scanned your chain code and then all you had to do was select the service you required. Withdrawing the sum of your accumulated pension that had been deposited but untouched for the last few months left you with a satisfying weight to your satchel as you left and was hardly dented as you went about your errands.

After a few wrong turns and your insistence that no, you didn’t need whatever piece of junk the Jawas were trying to peddle, you managed to replenish the food supplies you felt had either been running low or knew the other two enjoyed along with a few much-needed additions to the medical kit you were building and maintaining. You even went so far as to purchase a few tools you had been without since leaving Mynock, medical and otherwise that would no doubt come in handy eventually. The medical supply store was quite well stocked on Nevarro and given the number of bounty hunters you had seen prowling; it really came as no surprise.

A few tubes of heating liniment added to your satchel along with the other bags you carried, and you returned to the repair shop to hand them to the elderly man there. Your hastily demonstrated number of gentle exercises had him chuckling at you good naturedly and an hour later, you were still chatting over tea and some sort of oat biscuits.

 “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked conspiratorially when you had first sat down gingerly to accept the mug he slid over to you. The question had made you laugh,

“What makes you say that?”

He hummed in contemplation around a bite of his biscuit before pointing what remained of the biscuit at you, “Folk ‘round here are too caught up in their own lives, they don’t be worryin’ about others.”

“It could also be because I’m a medic, no?” you aired your thoughts aloud after a sip of the fragrant tea, a mix of what tasted like ginger and something floral.

“Ah, but you’da charged me if you were workin’ here,” he tapped his nose, a fond wink thrown in for good measure, “go on so, where are you comin’ from then?”

You weren’t able to stop the bubble of laughter that rose, “Pamarthe, for my sins,” you admitted.

“Ah!” he clapped a hand on his knee jovially, “A Pamarthan! Great pilots. Great drinkers!” he chortled, and you snorted into your cup on a laugh, nailed it. You chuckled as you took two biscuits off the table with a small explanation that they were for a child you were looking after. That led you to fielding questions about if the child was yours, but you were able to skirt away from that topic with a well-placed question,

“So, have you ever been to Pamarthe?”

“Me? No, no not with the Empire. Very hard to travel back in those days, very hard. Now, well. I’m not the lad I once was, love. Can’t be off planet hoppin’ anymore at my age. But a few of your people have been known to pass through here, like you.” he explained while you nodded along politely.

“Mores the pity, I can imagine you’d like it. It’s… very different to Nevarro,” you admitted with a glance around the bustling crowds kicking up ash and soot from the extrusive ground underneath. The temperate climate of Pamarthe brought grass and mud, not rock and ash.

“Is it true that all the islands are connected with rope bridges? And not something more modern?”

Your eyes widened pleasantly, the same rush of warmth anyone experienced when faced with the welcome surprise that someone knew about their homeland while not being native themselves,

“You do know your stuff!” a wistful smile broke out on your face at the thought, “and you’re right. It’s just always been that way,” you shrugged, “I’ve never really thought about why some of the old ways were kept; technology is used to prevent erosion of the islands themselves after all.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it? The things we miss that are right under our noses. Simply because that’s the way they’ve always been.” he hummed sagely, and you couldn’t help but agree.

And on your conversation went. It was refreshing, to have a conversation again. You had gotten so used to one-sided chattering on your part to the child and the simple answers from the Mandalorian that didn’t invite any more speaking than necessary.

This was nice, it was a change from the norm. But a part of you started to long for the quiet hum of the ship the longer you stayed away. Perhaps it was down to being unaccustomed to the prolonged sensory overload between the bustling crowds and loud bartering that had you eager to get back, and not just the thought of seeing a roguish warrior who seemed to embody the safety silence could provide. At least, that was what you tried to convince yourself of anyway.

So, bidding your new acquaintance a good evening along with a stern instruction to do his exercises that held no real bite, you left, your pace a little quicker than could be described as casually strolling, “be here when I get back” echoing in your mind and setting flurries of anticipation off in your stomach.

Life still seemed to go on even as the suns in the sky began to age and the shadows they cast on the low buildings and narrow streets shifted. There was still plenty of activity and you casually ruminated on where all these people went when the day was done as you reached the Razor Crest. The Guild had finished unloading the quarries in the time you had been away, and the engine seemed relatively repaired if your untrained eye was anything to go by. Lowering the ramp, you lugged the progressively heavier bags back up into the hold and unpacked them merrily; the outing and the fresh air had done wonders for you a world of good.

With the last of your supplies tucked away under the galley counter, you found yourself with nothing to do. Dismissing the thought of making something to eat after just eating biscuits, you found yourself climbing the ladder to the cockpit instead.

Chewing your lip contemplatively once there, you gingerly sat in the pilot’s chair before you could talk yourself out of it and took in the sweeping view of lava flats as far as the eye could see from this higher vantage point.

Honestly, you chided yourself internally, it’s a chair.

But in the same way you would never sit in your mother’s favorite seat at the table, where the view of the vast ocean framed by towering cliff edges of far off islands was best – even when empty – you still hesitated before you relaxed into the large seat.

Maker, was it always this big? It seemed much narrower when he sat in it… but with space on either side between you and the armrests, you were once again reminded of the size of his presence, unconsciously and perhaps foolishly dwarfed only by your familiarity with seeing him so frequently. You remembered how big he was on your examination table when he had been poisoned. The table had groaned under him and while you had seen taller, you had seen broader, his was the aura that told you he could put every inch of height, every pound of weight to better use than anyone larger or stronger than himself. Heck, even a Houk warlord hadn’t stood a chance against him.  

Your fingers ran along the sturdy leather of the armrests, the dry fabric catching the pads in their exploration and reminding you vaguely of a tookas tongue, an abrasive yet gratifying sensation on your softer skin. Your muscles sagged as you relaxed further, the trepidation of being somewhere you shouldn’t be beginning to melt away and causing your head to rest back.

You enjoyed the tactility more with your eyes closed, the deprivation of sight transforming your awareness of the leather beneath your fingers; the shallow veins of aging cracks along the material, the dips where more pressure was repeatedly placed when the Mandalorian sat here and the small fraying of the stitching at the seams. It became a map under your fingers, with rivers and valleys and mountains and you lost yourself in the idle relaxation it brought to you.

So immersed in your tactile exploration, your ears didn’t pick up on the ramp lowering, nor the presence that paused in the doorway of the cockpit, startled at first before he relaxed against the side of the doorframe, admiring the sight before him where he could leisurely take you in while you were caught unawares.

“Planning on stealing my ship?” his voice came out rougher than either of you anticipated and your eyes immediately snapped open to look over your shoulder from where you sat, lips parted in a surprised ‘o’ and looking very much like you had been caught.

You took him in from your position and, after running your hand along the armrest to find the correct button, swung the chair around to face him. You were quite comfortable where you were and didn’t fancy getting up despite your prior hesitation. One leg crossed delicately across the other, you rested your chin on a propped-up hand with a grin,

“If I wanted to steal your ship, I’d have gotten it months ago,” you teased, the familiar ground you had somewhat lost with him over the last week making a welcome return, “you’d have never even known.” you finished confidently with a wink.

Mando said nothing for a moment, assessing your words and mannerisms, “You think you could steal a bounty hunters ship from right under his nose and not get caught?” he hummed, his disbelief evident in his dismissive tone, “Please.”

“No?” you tapped your fingers along your cheek where they rested, “You seemed pretty out of it after I had your cock in my mouth,” you threw at him casually, tone light as if you were merely discussing what you wanted for dinner, smirking at the surprised choke it pulled from him, “probably be pretty easy for me then, wouldn’t you say?”

His body stiffened as he collected himself at the abruptness of your words, fingers flexing on his arms where he had them crossed across his chest and head shifting to look away from you before his visor refocused itself on where you sat,

“I don’t think you were much better, kitten,” his husky voice was deeper than it had been, thicker.

Your stomach fluttered at that stupid fucking nickname, the rolling rasp of it on his tongue only enhanced by the natural lilt of his accent. Your flare of temper gave him the time to push off the wall and saunter over in that arrogant way you hated as much as loved and pressed a hand to the back of the seat by your head,

“I think sucking my cock got you wetter than riding my thigh, didn’t it?” he rumbled, as though his question was merely a token gesture, used to amplify the truth in the statement that came before it, “I don’t think you’d be able to do anything, let alone steal my ship.”

It was your turn to be flustered now, dammit. You had the high ground for all of two minutes before he effortlessly flipped the control. Your body thrummed with how close his was but not one part of him even brushed against you; not the coarse fabric on his arm where it was braced on the seat, not the solid beskar on his legs against yours, nor his helmet against your forehead as he leaned over you. Touch was not a language Mando knew well beyond violence, but he was well aware of how to use his body to intimidate… to dominate… to captivate.

Your eyes stayed on his visor, focusing your attention on breathing normally and to not let the effect he had on your body show. You could feel the heat of his gaze running down your face, over the exposed skin at your collarbones and down the light material of your shirt. The appreciative grunt slipping through his modulator had your thighs clenching together instinctively as the craving you had been distracting yourself from all day reignited with a soft gasp when gloved fingers traced over the bend of your knee that sat crossed over your leg.

“Take these off,” he muttered, patting your thigh once as his fingers traced up from your knee, running them along the outer seam of your pants before pulling his hand away as though it had never touched you and rested it on his belt expectantly as he looked down at you, “I want to see how wet sucking my cock makes you.”

His crass words, so unlike his usual stoic statements were characteristically blunt but filled with a vulgarity that simultaneously shocked you and turned you on. For such sinful words to fall from the mouth of a man who kept his thoughts and emotions in a chokehold, there was a thrilling sense of depravity that exceeded the fact that you had gotten each other off already today.

You leaned back languidly against the pilot’s chair, watching him leisurely as he stood over you and made no attempt to hide the way your eyes trailed down his body. You rode his thigh and sucked his cock already; was there really any point in trying to hide your attraction to him anymore? Life was too fucking short.

“Are you asking me to go down on you again, Mando?” you purred, loving the virility in his tone; there was nothing you loved more than an insatiable lover, it boded well for him being able to keep up with you.

“I’m telling you that if you don’t remove them now, you won’t be allowed to.”

There was a barely restrained thread of anger surfacing in his voice, possibly the residual effects of making him answer the commlink from his contact in the Guild while you had your hands and mouth on his cock, but instead of the spark of fear your instinct would usually alert you with, a trickle of desire kissed your senses instead.

“An interesting punishment,” you hummed, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants, “given that you’d be missing out as well.” Even as you said it, you were uncrossing your legs. He pushed back a pace or two from where he loomed over you to give you room or to get a better view, you didn’t know. Lifting your hips from the seat, you shimmied the form fitting material over your ass and down your legs, kicking the material off one foot before the other, panties staying on.

His helmet snapped up from the smooth skin of your legs to your face and, in a move that had a sense of déjà vu settling over you both, you reclined back comfortably against the chair again, your eyes dancing with the same challenge he had thrown to you on Klatooine.

The pants can come off, but the underwear stays on.

For now, you told yourself, but he didn’t need to know that right away.

The warning growl he emitted was the sweetest response you could have wished for. Revenge after all, was better served ice cold.

Your move. Your eyes dared him with a glimmer of amusement and a quirk of your brow even as a knot of anticipation began to curl in your stomach.

He surprised you by sitting in the co-pilots chair you usually occupied after a tense few seconds, leaning back into the leather, relaxed.

You frowned, breaking the nonchalant façade you tried to deceive him with as your mind scrabbled to figure out what he was planning. You hadn’t anticipated him sitting away from you and simply watching you. You were about to question him when your lips parted as the hand resting on his thigh lifted to palm himself through his flight suit slowly.

Your teeth dented your bottom lip, shifting yourself in the seat while your eyes immediately focused on the way his hand flexed and curled around the prominent bulge and your fingers itched at the memory of his cock filling your hand.

His game, obviously, was to drive you bantha-shit insane, because the moment he unzipped his fly to pull himself from the tight confines of the flight suit, already hard and leaking, you wanted him.

You’ll regret this…

The growl reverberated in your mind from hours before. He was using the very thing you had used against him, on you. Your eyes glazed over as they followed the steady path of the Mandalorians fist as he stroked himself, small grunts the only sounds he seemed willing to let you hear.

You swallowed, heat rose to your cheeks and your skin becoming uncomfortably hot. It made you increasingly aware of your own arousal as you remembered the weight of his cock in your hand, the pulsing length of him on your tongue… your tongue peaked out to taste your bottom lip, all traces of his earlier release unfortunately gone.

Your eyes darkened when a quiet groan was picked up by the modulator, his head dipping with a ragged breath as his thumb swiped over the swollen head. You had to stifle a moan of your own when you recognized that the movement of his hand was mimicking yours, twisting momentarily on the upward stroke and squeezing as it came back down to the base.

Your idle fingers itched to touch yourself and one hand began subconsciously moving between your thighs as they spread enough give you space. But the Mandalorians sharp eyes – even clouded with lust – didn’t miss a thing as his head rolled around to look at you,

“Hands by your sides, kitten.”

His voice was dangerously low, thick with lust as he slowed his strokes to a lazier pace, prolonging his desire and by default, prolonging your inability to touch yourself. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke, and it made you huff indignantly, but you fisted your hands on the leather beside your bare hips nonetheless. The ease with which he gave commands, the casual control he exuded, it sent tremors of need through you, a baser side of you eager to obey even if it conflicted with your stubborn nature.

“Good girl,” he rasped with an unmistakable tease lilting his voice when you settled, “keep behaving and I’ll let you taste it.”

You hated to admit it, but the promise of having him in your mouth again was almost worth the silent torture you were being made endure now, cunt throbbing in neglect and skin humming with sensitivity. You had always been able to succeed with a mind over matter approach, with the constant knowledge that the reward was worth the work it took to achieve it but Maker, was he making it difficult.

The minutes he sat away from you felt like hours despite your resolve and the temptation to touch yourself only grew as the air grew thick with tension. Your eyes drank their fill of the warrior getting himself off mere feet away from where you sat half-naked. The sound of his hand stroking himself and those breathy exhales were going to drive you mad.

Your panties felt uncomfortable against your sensitive skin and you cursed your stubbornness in keeping them on, shifting in your seat and making yourself whine quietly when they brushed against your clit, drawing Mando’s helmet down to look at you once more,

“Take them off,” he repeated breathlessly, and you wanted to weep in thanks, eagerly lifting your hips to push the offending piece of clothing down your legs. You didn’t have time for shyness or modesty when the cool air on your bare cunt was soothing for all of five seconds before the throbbing heat made you ache with a renewed need to touch your clit, to somehow relieve the pressure. The approving groan that rumbled from the Mandalorian was a stroke to your ego as you spread your legs for him, revealing your damp folds to him and tempting him to break the rules of his own game.

“Maker, I can see how wet you are from here,” he moaned and picked up the pace of his stroking momentarily, caught up in the vision you presented him with, half naked in his pilot’s chair; you were a veritable galactic pin up girl.

You made a small noise of impatience, your darkened eyes pleading with him as your body burned under his unseen gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” he grunted, squeezing the base of his cock to slow himself down from simply getting himself off as quickly as possible as he would normally.

“Your cock,” you answered shamelessly before tagging a quiet “please?” to the end which seemed to break him just like you hoped it would.

He stood not a moment later and made the few steps to stand beside you and you wasted no time in greedily wrapping your fingers around the thick base of his cock. You turned your head so your lips could instantly wrap around the head of his cock again, beyond teasing him and addicted from the brief taste you had of it earlier in the day and making you moan around him in both pleasure and relief.

The vibrations made Mando hiss as they ran through him before his head tipped back on a moan when you relaxed your jaw to take a bit more of his length into your waiting mouth, tongue massaging as much of the underside as it could reach. You began a steady rhythm moving up and down his cock, your muscles relaxing to let him move easier along your tongue.

Your hand stroked what you couldn’t take into your mouth, using your saliva to glide your hand down to his base with a firm squeeze. You knew it would take a little time to get familiar with taking him in fully, so you enjoyed each drag of his length over your tongue and lips, along with the occasional teasing scrape of your teeth that had his breath hitching.

He gripped the headrest behind you when you pulled off him to latch your lips wetly along the length, licking and kissing your way to the base nestled among dark, trimmed hair, your hand massaging the head as you did so. The sight made you hum and lick a long strip back up the underside to suckle on the head once more. You had deduced he was probably dark haired given the beautiful tan of his skin, but having it confirmed made your stomach clench giddily.

Your eyes lifted back to Mando’s helmet when he cupped your jaw, pressing his thumb slightly against your cheek for you to open your mouth so his cock could settle back on your tongue. You moaned, taking his none too subtle hint and started sucking him off again in earnest, your saliva and his precum leaving his cock messy and wet and the sounds it made as you sank your head down on it were profane and loud in the otherwise silent cockpit.

You keened when you felt a gloved hand trace down your front, ghosting under the swell of your breast before giving it a tentative squeeze that had you whimpering around him and relaxing your throat to ease more of him into your mouth. He grunted and kneaded the soft flesh of your breasts above the thin linen shirt at the perfect heat of your mouth, learning you as you were him.

You dug your nails into the backs of his thigh to stop yourself from gagging when his tip pushed against the back of your throat, the sudden sensation making him jerk his hips forward with a gasp of your name and a hard squeeze to your breast while tears formed in your eyes. The slight burn was delicious, and the sounds he made as you took as much of his cock into your mouth as possible were even more so.

“Fuck yes…” he groaned, your mouth molten around his cock while he rocked against you shallowly, his gaze roaming your entire body and when it fell on the thin ring of ink surrounding your left thigh, his cock twitched in your mouth and caused you to pull back enough to swirl your tongue around the sensitive head before sinking back down on him to take in as much as you could.

The sound of him choking on a moan encouraged you to hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, your eyes glittering up at him with a mix of tears and teasing when he jerked his hips forward again, pushing his length that bit deeper.

“Such a… fucking filthy thing---” he moaned, releasing your breast to tangle his hand in your hair to slow your movements as you withdrew your head eagerly and sank back down on it, “but so… so fucking thorough in your examinations.”

You pulled off him, a breathless laugh leaving your mouth even as trails of saliva kept you connected to his cock and messed up your mouth and chin. You pumped him with your hand while you rested the head against your cheek,

“What did you call it again? Coercive medical attention?” your voice was hoarse, but it dripped with a lovely mix of amusement and desire.

“So long as it ends with my cock in this perfect fucking mouth, I’ll accept medical attention of any kind,” he bit out, the slight tremble in his voice when you gave him a long hard stroke was endearing in a way you hadn’t anticipated the warrior being.

“I’ll believe that when Mustafar freezes over,” you chuckled, giving his cock a squeeze for good measure before taking him back into your mouth.

“Maybe we’ll go there then---” he cursed when you let him hit the back of your throat again, “be—be the only way to shut you---” he never did get to finish that sentence, his head falling back on his shoulders with a sound that got caught in his throat when you took the remaining few inches into your mouth valiantly and swallowed hard around him, breathing deeply through your nose.

Feeling yourself start to gag, you pulled off his cock halfway, gasping around him before starting to lazily bob your head in order to get your breath back and do it again. His hand tightened in your hair but allowed you to move at your own pace. Your attention was pulled back up to him when he leaned over you slightly, a slap to your inner thigh making you moan and spread them for him eagerly.

“Fuck…” he groaned, and you felt the soft leather of a finger swipe through your folds, making you whimper. He growled something you couldn’t quite pick up with your blood pounding in your ears from that single jolt of pleasure he gave you but when you felt him again, it wasn’t the cool leather of his gloves, but the warm skin of his fingers instead.

The realization made you jump on contact with a mewl as he spread your wetness along your dripping cunt. You knew what he would find there without him having to say a word. Slick, swollen and burning with need as you keened, your sounds were muffled by his cock filling your mouth. You struggled to keep the lazy pace of bobbing up and down on his length when you forgot how to breathe from the slight calloused tips of two of his fingers spreading your slick lips and pulling a vicious growl from the Mandalorian.

“All this from sucking my cock?” his voice was labored, control razor thin as he struggled not to merely grip your head and fuck your mouth to chase the release dangling before him. It seemed every part of you was hot and wet and soft as his fingers spread through your folds and his cock buried in your mouth. Your bright, wide eyes, glassy with lust looking up at him made that struggle even harder as his hips rolled involuntarily, your cheeks hollowing and wet tongue massaging under the prominent vein pulsing on the underside of his cock.

You were addicted to the way he sounded, the ever-present discipline he exuded daily was being pulled taut as more primal urges overtook him. It was an intoxicating reminder of his humanity, of the man under the armor and the mere thought of his possible expressions beyond an impassive helmet as curses and moans and filth fell from his lips, had a wave of wetness slowly pulsing from your neglected pussy.

“Oh fuck--- fuck what, what was that--” he rasped, his fingers diving into the arousal that dripped down your open thighs and over your cheeks to the seat underneath you, making a mess. The sudden gush seemed to short circuit something in Mando, his mind struggling to focus on anything but the soaked cunt under his fingers.

When the pads of his fingers brushed over your aching clit, you cried around him, squeezing the base of his cock, and making him hiss your name; a surprised hitch that had him nearly doubled over you in pleasure. The next brush of his fingers was not as surprising, but no less intense before he began a stead rhythm of circling your clit, dipping his fingers down into your sopping folds before dragging that wetness back to soothe over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You tried to mumble something, your head foggy with the need to cum from being filled with something other than your own fingers, but his cock garbled your words, the two of you slipping into that tangled, desperate side of lust. You couldn’t bring yourself to take him out though, lamenting the loss even for a moment as you greedily tried to take more of him again, the choked gasp above the only reward you needed when your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. It had to be a sin, to feel this good from giving someone else pleasure. Maker, you could get off just by sucking this man’s cock for hours and be satisfied.

Mando however, didn’t seem to share that sentiment and when he suddenly pushed a finger into your tight cunt, your eyes rolled closed as you both moaned in unison. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the thick, foreign digit and you felt your orgasm cresting at your sensitivity before it abated somewhat when his finger settled knuckle deep inside you.

“Stars, so tight for me, kitten--- tight and wet and fuck,” he spat as you clenched around him again at how wrecked he sounded, giving his cock a particularly hard pull into your mouth while you whimpered around him, “can just imagine, shit, imagine how tight you’ll be around my cock.” His words were almost slurring in their delirium and you knew that if you tried to speak, you wouldn’t sound much better. Especially not when he added a second finger into your pussy and started pumping them achingly slow and more controlled than he sounded.

“So big, you- your fingers--- more,” you whined after pulling his cock from your mouth to suck in a breath, the task suddenly becoming manual as you struggled to remember what came first, inhale or exhale? “I want more, always more,” you were babbling against his cock now, begging words interspersed with wet licks and kisses to the length as if you could convince him with affection to give you what you wanted.

“That’s it kitten, fuck, t-tell me what you want—” Mando was panting now, the quick jerks of your wrist along his cock, slippery from your drool and saliva making his own breathing an unbearable task as his fingers pumped inside you harder, the wet sounds filling the cockpit both mortifying and evocative, “such a greedy, hungry, smart-mouth medic I—shit.”

He almost sounded angry, the tempestuous rumble rolling from his voice like thunder, but paired with one hand roughly thrusting a third finger into you and the other carding his fingers reverently through your messy locks, you knew he was as unhinged as you were with the intensity of the pleasure you were somehow able to give each other. As if the tension that had been steadily growing from that first fateful night on Klatooine was suddenly boiling over, spilling, and hissing as it stoked the flames beneath; a closed circuit that could no longer be stopped or broken.

When his thumb began working tight, practiced circles around your clit as his fingers fucked you into the chair, you knew you wouldn’t last long. The looming pressure that had been building the moment he asked if you planned on stealing the Razor Crest was coming at you faster than a TIE fighter,

“Gonna cum, Mando--- Mando, feel so good, please---” you whimpered, grinding your hips down on his hand desperately as your orgasm drew near.

He slowed his fingers despite your protestations, and he gentled your frustration with a well-placed curl of his fingers inside you, “Shh, shh—fuck, not yet---” he started and you whined as you sucked the head of his cock back into your mouth ardently, as if somehow, that would change his mind, a mixture of saliva and precum drooling down the sides of your mouth as you messily lapped at him, “fuck… kitten--- wait.”

He pulled himself from your mouth and his fingers from your cunt, chuckling breathlessly at your frown as you glared up at him, “wait…” he purred, the sound running down your spine and across your overheated skin while he hooked one hand under your knee to drape your leg over the armrest, giving him a better view and greater access to your soaked pussy.

You shivered as he gathered some of your arousal to coat his fingers before your jaw slackened when he spread your juices along his cock – the shudder down his spine evidence of just how effected he was – until it glistened with a combination of your saliva and arousal. The visceral image of your arousal coating his cock had any last shred of control or shame disappearing, impatience taking its place.

 It was filthy, and your mouth watered at the sight of him. You dragged your eyes up to his visor slowly, eyes dark and cheeks flushed, lips parted and chin messy from your ministrations. The resounding growl he released had your cunt quivering, missing his fingers and it pulled an impatient whine from your lips as your nails raked down his covered hip.

“Mando…” you began, eyes dropping back to his cock with a silent plea.

He led his cock back into your waiting mouth, running the head along your plump bottom lip and smearing the mess already at your mouth and chin before pressing it back against your waiting tongue. His fingers immediately returned to push into you and began fucking you in earnest. The tangy taste of your own arousal mixing with his made you moan around him and your eyes flutter shut, your hips grinding down on his hand immediately once he found a rough, fast pace to bring you over the edge. You greedily engulfed the length of him, your hand stroking along the base as you hummed when you felt him get impossibly harder on your tongue.

His fingers curled against that small patch inside of you and made your hips jerk up to his rough chuckle, “there we go, good girl---” he panted, his thumb once again returning to your clit which had you practically sobbing around him with the need for release. You had orgasmed only earlier today and yet, it felt like you had been edged for weeks, months even. You were so desperate to come apart that when it did hit you, you were blindsided.

“Fuck, fuck! That’s it, kitten---” Mando pumped his fingers through your quivering walls, slower as they clamped down around him, trying to keep him inside while your cries bounced off the steel surrounding you in the cockpit and soaking his hand in your release. It kept going, for several long seconds and you were certain your brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen with how you were unable to take in a full breath and all you had to ground you, was your hand working over the solid thick length in front of you.

“So good, it’s so good---” you heard yourself babble, moaning his name like a prayer as you latched your lips to his length to drag open-mouth kisses to the shaft, hips still rocking against his hand as the last convulses ran through you, “want your cum, Mando- “

He didn’t respond, his fingers running sloppily over your clit once more as you whined with the overstimulation and tried to pull away despite being trapped against the seat,

“Another. Give me another,” he groaned, his fingers leaving no room for negotiation as they began a renewed onslaught on your sensitive nerves, already raw and frayed from coming so hard already. You shook your head even as you lapped at his head, eyes teary and unfocused as you looked up at him, “I can’t, it’s too much—”

“’More’ you said…” he released your hair to grip under your chin, pulling your head up to be pressed against his helmet, “I’m gonna… shit, I’m gonna give you as much as you need.”

His voice was strained, and you could hear it wavering the closer he got to his own release. But even in your foggy mind, you could feel the steel determination rolling off him. He wasn’t going to cum until you did. The thought alone made you whimper and despite your earlier declaration, a fresh wave of arousal pooled around his fingers as he pressed them back into you.

“Do it…” you heard yourself whisper, lowering your head enough to nuzzle the head of his cock against your cheek while he still held your jaw and you hoped you were meeting his eyes behind the helmet, “give me everything, e-everything I’ve been missing.”

His answering growl and the press of his thumb into your mouth for you to bite down on was all you could remember clearly before he built up a brutal pace once more. Your head fell back against the seat once he released you at the overwhelming friction on your swollen cunt, but Mando wasted no time in guiding your head back to his cock and with a whimper, you took him back into your mouth easily, his tip brushing the back of your throat now without hesitation as you swallowed.

His fingers stuttered while he groaned before regaining their rhythm and curling up against that spot inside you, a flick of his thumb against your clit sending flames scorching over your skin again as your release approached embarrassingly quick,

“Better than I ever imagined… this mouth—” he moaned, “you’re so wet and fuck… I bet you taste—” he was cut off on a long moan as you let him sink down your throat, breathing heavily through your nose before pulling back and repeating the action, your hands reaching into his flight suit to fondle his heavy balls once more.

You were equally determined to make him cum, a small taste earlier hadn’t been enough to satiate your craving and with a second orgasm about to overtake you, you were ravenous with the need to have him cum down your throat before you were struck dumb with the pleasure his hands would give you.

His breathless chuckle, such a foreign sound to come from him, made you want to smile had you not been preoccupied, “trying to beat me, kitten?” he asked, slowing the thrusts of his fingers so they were longer and harder, the change in pace heating you up beyond boiling point and you gave his balls a gentle squeeze in retaliation.

He was breathing hard, trying to limit his hips from thrusting into your warm mouth but even you could tell the shallow thrusts highlighted how close he was. But given his stubbornness, he doubled down on his efforts and with a final hard press on your clit and a perfect curl to his fingers your release crashed over you, less intense than the first but more surprising as it washed over you and kept you quivering and shaking under him, trying to ride it out with a silent cry. He pulled you through it once again with lazy strokes of his fingers, but they were messy, sloppy as he finally allowed his head to drop back on his shoulders, the tight leash he had on his control finally snapping,

“Yes, fuck— you want my cum, kitten?” he snarled when you nodded around his cock, eagerly pumping him and the change in his breathing told you he was nearly there.

He braced the hand that had been inside you to the back of the chair while the other tangled in your hair to keep you in place, his hips movements uneven and erratic before he stilled, your mouth opening for his cock to rest on your tongue while you pumped him.

He growled your name when his cock pulsed, a rope of cum hitting your cheek before you closed your lips around the head for him to continue coming in your mouth, the thick fluid coating your tongue and making you moan at the taste of him before you swallowed it down. You sank your lips slowly down the length of him, coating him with any residual cum in your mouth while you languidly basked in both your orgasms with a fond lick to his tip.

His shoulders lifted and fell in great rolls as he struggled to catch his breath, the heat in his invisible gaze not lost on you as you held his cock up to lick it clean languidly, reveling in every twitch you could feel in his muscles as a result.

“Maker…” he whispered into the cockpit, now filled only with your combined breathing. He hadn’t stopped stroking your hair as you cleaned his cock up, and the gentle act belied the gruff exterior he presented. It wasn’t lost on you, even if it might have been unconsciously done on his part in his post-orgasmic haze. Your leg dropped from the armrest to fold closed, and you hummed at the pleasant ache you felt once they were together despite the stickiness of your release drying on your thighs.

Once your tongue had become too much for him, he pulled back from you slightly, just enough to push himself back into his flight suit and with a fleetingly soft caress to the side of your head, he dropped back down in the co-pilot seat where he had first begun. You swiped the warm cum from your face and licked your thumb clean while you both basked in the afterglow.

His helmet tipped back against the headrest but kept it turned towards you, his chest rising and falling in large swells. You probably should have grabbed your underwear to cover up, but you were still basking in the euphoria of two breath-taking orgasms that the most you could do was stretch an arm over your head with a soft moan to release any remaining tension in your muscles, your eyes blinking tiredly at Mando all the while.

“Keep that up, and I’ll fuck you right now,” he rasped; his voice lower from how much he had used it in the last while. He didn’t speak often, but you were tickled to find out how vocal he could be when aroused.

You hummed at the thought, relaxing your arms back by your sides as an amused laugh left you, “A tempting offer, but I think my bones have been liquified.” Your words inspired another unencumbered laugh from you, still high from your orgasm and his posture adjusted slightly as if proud of putting you in this state, “I wouldn’t be much use.”

“Until next time then,”

He sat up, the smooth words making you smile tiredly at the familiar phrase. He ran his bare hand behind his neck, a lethargic groan leaving him as he tried to wake himself up from a stupor and your eyes followed the movement. The flash of tan skin made you chew your lip on a smile, knowing exactly where those fingers had been not a few minutes earlier.

You finally pushed yourself to sit up properly, toeing your underwear closer to you so you could bend and shimmy them up your legs, feeling his eyes follow the movement silently. You decided against your pants, the length of your shirt covering your modesty somewhat and you released a long, satisfied breath before turning your gaze to inky darkness that had engulfed Nevarro while you were occupied.

“Did you finish up with your Guild contact?” you posed, and he nodded once,

“Five more pucks,” he explained simply, standing from the co-pilots seat, and you wrinkled your nose, you guys would be travelling for a while, so it seemed.

“Is the kid still asleep?” you hummed tiredly, “I have biscuits for him.”

“Still knocked out from earlier. We had come back to leave when---” he trailed off to your laughter, standing up once you felt your legs wouldn’t give out from under you and turned the pilot seat back to face the viewport,

“Are you saying I made us late, Mando?” you threw over your shoulder, startled when you found him standing directly behind you, his hand falling heavily to your hips and his chest against your back while he hummed in agreement,

“Exactly. You’re as troublesome as the kid,” he murmured against your temple with a squeeze to your thinly covered flesh while you rolled your eyes at him, no heat in the action as you were more pleasantly preoccupied with the comfortable weight of his hands and the warmth that flowed from them into your body.

“Please. Go on then, get us up in the air since we’re so far behind schedule.” You pressed back against him cheekily before his head leaned back to look down at you as he pondered something for a few moments,

“You do it,” he replied simply.

You blinked, he had never asked you to fly before, excluding the time he came back injured on Scipio, and even then, he hadn’t asked. You had taken it upon yourself to do. You couldn’t help but feel that this was a tentative move on his part, a small gesture of confidence he had in you that you didn’t want to refuse.

“I’ll… check on the kid,” he continued with one last caress to your side before he released you and disappeared out of the cockpit, leaving you floundering.

Orgasms put Mando in a much better mood, you determined with a chuckle, taking a seat again and beginning the routine procedures to take you up and off the planet, running your hands back over the dry leather of the armrests fondly.

Crash landing or not, today had been a pretty good day.

 Stitches Taglist:

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[robininthelabyrinth]

part 3 of Escape Your Destiny (Star Wars Wangxian AU) - on ao3 or tumblr part 1, part 2

-

He had been right to reject seclusion, Lan Wangji thought grimly. The sweet siren call of calm contemplation had nearly seduced him, the Dark Side seeking to eat away at him through other means now that anger and hatred had not done the work – he would have meditated himself into a stupor, becoming little more than a vacuum within the Force, a black hole of deathly intent.

More than that, though, he would have missed – this.

This disaster.

Wei Wuxian’s lips were pale from blood loss and hypothermia. Two of his limbs were at odd angles, probably broken, and Lan Wangji feared that there were more like them beneath the body that was bruised like a tender peach – he had been shielding as many people as he could, Lan Wangji knew, because he knew his Wei Ying too well to think that he might have done anything else.

Lan Wangji still didn’t know all the details, what exactly had been the disaster or why Wei Wuxian’s starfighter had crashed when he knew (with painful recollection) exactly how good a pilot Wei Wuxian was, but it hadn’t really mattered. Xue Yang had rushed into his chamber shouting excitedly - not exactly a rare event - saying something about an alarm and a disaster and a crash and can I have one of these gadgets? possibly two, maybe, I’m thinking two but haven’t really committed yet, it’s a big decision you know, and Lan Wangji’s blood had run cold when he realized what alarm he was referencing.

(A proper Jedi would never have tagged the object of his affections like an endangered bird or a criminal, injecting the tracking chip so deep into bone and muscle that standard scans wouldn’t pick it up and even in-depth scans might register it as a naturally occurring aberration. A proper Jedi would think of such intimate surveillance as cruelty, dehumanization, the caging of a free bird –

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have known what happened.

A proper Jedi wouldn’t have been able to rush over at once, wouldn’t have been in time to retrieve the body from the wreckage, finding it still warm and breathing but swiftly fading into the Force.

A proper Jedi would have been worthless.)

“That looks pretty bad, Master,” Xue Yang said, the comm crackling in his ear, and for once his tone was almost solemn. Perhaps the lessons on empathy were working, following the introduction of the rancor Xue Yang had named Chengmei with an expression so pained and vicious that Lan Wangji had refrained from asking. Perhaps it was that he’d grown so obsessed with his pair of bounty hunters and their foundling assistant, a little not-blind Bothan girl who liked to mouth off at him. Or perhaps it was just something as simple as knowing that if Wei Wuxian were lost, Lan Wangji would have no reason to –

No reason to anything at all.

“It is within the limits of what a bacta tank can heal,” Lan Wangji said, because it was, it would be, as long as he got him there in time. 

Time that was swiftly running out.

Later, when Wei Wuxian was safe, Lan Wangji would return to that obscure little space station that had nearly caused his beloved’s death and he would find out what had happened properly. He would find out, and he would slaughter every one of them that caused it, torment them for days if he needed to in order to know who to blame – it didn’t matter if their contribution were accidental or deliberate, major or slight. He would offer up a sacrifice of their suffering to the Dark Side, as solemn as lighting a stick of incense at a temple –

When Wei Wuxian was safe.

Because he would be. He had to be.

Lan Wangji’s Wei Ying would not die so easily.

“Uh, Master? We don’t have a bacta tank.” Xue Yang was silent for a long moment. ���I don’t know that many people around here that do. This is Outer Rim, remember? Not even the Hutts have one.”

“There is one in an outpost in the Quiberon sector,” Lan Wangji said. His attention was split between piloting their stolen ship as fast as he could and monitoring Wei Wuxian’s vital signs. He had transferred a certain amount of energy into him already, but the Dark Side was poisonous in overly large quantities, especially if one was not accustomed to it; a pure Jedi like Wei Wuxian couldn’t tolerate it, and Lan Wangji would not risk making him worse. “Inat Prime system. I’ve entered the coordinates. Set us up for a jump to lightspeed.”

“Inat Prime,” Xue Yang repeated, instead of doing as he was told. “Isn’t that – near Rothana?”

Lan Wangji said nothing.

“Rothana’s a manufacturing planet. Heavy engineering – warships. It used to belong to a subsidy of the Jin Engineering Corps, maybe still does, I don’t know, but either way manufacturing planets like that are where those sleemos keep their precious IP. And that means it’s going to be guarded and booby-trapped up your chubba. Who in their right mind would set up an outpost anywhere near there?”

Xue Yang was descending into Huttese slang again, Lan Wangji noted to himself, keeping his calm only by sheer force of willpower even as the Dark Side screamed in his mind that now was the time for rage and pain and blood. Given his hatred of the entire species, Xue Yang only did that when he was especially anxious and didn’t want to admit it.

Later, when he didn’t have more pressing things on his mind, Lan Wangji would have to inquire of his apprentice – which he had previously believed was as transparent to him as a sheet of transparisteel – how he had learned about things like top-secret Jin Engineering manufacturing planets and IP and such things like that.

Later. Right now, he didn’t care.

“Prepare for jump,” he said again, the threat in his voice clear, and this time Xue Yang scrambled to obey, mumbling curses as he went. This was more typical of Xue Yang, but in this case it signified that he was concentrating, and that was all Lan Wangji cared about.

The rest of the trip passed as if in a daze, time counted in the beats of Wei Wuxian’s heart. Still strong, because Wei Wuxian was strong – this wouldn’t be the end of him. It wouldn’t.

Lan Wangji would make sure of that.

“We’re here,” Xue Yang said, breaking through Lan Wangji’s extreme focus on the rise and fall of Wei Wuxian’s chest. “I’m going to guess that our destination is the third planet? If you can call those other ones planets, they’re barely more than asteroids…”

Lan Wangji hummed, affirming.

“So, you going to tell me what this place is? Some super-secret Sith hideout?”

“No.”

“Smuggler’s base? Bounty hunter lair? Mandalorian terrorist cell? Clone factory?”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. Xue Yang had been reading too many historical action comics again.

“No, but seriously, Master! I deserve to know what we’re getting into, don’t I? What is this place?”

Lan Wangji was tempted to say you deserve nothing but what I give you, you filthy-tongue swamp-rat, but that was the Dark Side speaking, not him, and not only because the Gusu Lan Jedi order in which he had been raised did not permit cursing. It was simply anathema to him - he was Sith, but not a Lord, and he had encouraged this self-same insolence because it was better than having Xue Yang cringe before him like a kicked dog.

No matter how irritating it might be at times like this.

“It’s Jedi,” he said shortly, and to his amusement that actually shut Xue Yang up for a solid minute.

“I’m sorry, Master, I think I temporarily went insane due to Dark Force poisoning,” Xue Yang finally said. “But did you say that we’re planning on popping over and ‘borrowing’ the bacta tank of a bunch of Jedi?”

“Mm.”

“Master. Master. Please tell me you remember that we’re Sith, right? Sort of the sworn enemy of the Jedi? Arrest-on-sight orders? Any of this ringing any bells here? No? In short, have you lost your mind?”

Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s pulse again. It was getting increasingly thready; he frowned.

“Take us in,” he ordered, and Xue Yang made a whining sound not unlike an especially agitated cat, but he obeyed, finding the planetary base and flashing them with a urgent medical attention required signal and transmitting the passcode Lan Wangji recited to him.

The base opened its doors in silent invitation.

Xue Yang took them in, apparently resigned to his fate and determined to pointedly suffer and judge him without saying a word.

This determination cracked the second they passed through the gates.

“Master!” he shrieked. “Master, Master! That’s the Qinghe Nie emblem!”

“It is,” Lan Wangji agreed. Foreseeing Xue Yang’s next question, he added, “It is here because this is an outpost of the Qinghe Nie Jedi order.”

Xue Yang sounded a bit like a rusty door when he hyperventilated, and even more so when he started laughing hysterically. How had he ever survived being a Sith before, if this was how he reacted to stress?

“Great, right, yes,” he said, nearly howling. “Sure, why not? Let’s go knock on the door of some Jedi and ask them for a bacta tank like we’re borrowing a cup of sugar, sure, okay, we can do that. Jedi are chumps, they’re all about mercy and sympathy and bantha fodder like that; we can con ‘em - it’ll be tricky, but it can be done when you’re in a pinch. I’m fine with that, up for it, it’s cool, all cool. You know who we can’t con? Qinghe Nie, that’s who. ‘Suppress evil no matter the cost’ Qinghe karking Nie.”

Lan Wangji ignored him, scooping Wei Wuxian into his arms and heading out into the saber hall.

Three grim-faced Jedi dressed in the immediately identifiable colors of the Qinghe Nie were waiting there, hands on their lightsabers and droids lingering in the corridors, but they did not attack. Instead, they led Lan Wangji, a nervous Xue Yang dogging his heels, to the medical bay, never uttering a single word.

The medical droids took Wei Wuxian from his arms – Lan Wangji forced himself to recall the Lan sect mantras on restraint and allowed them to do so without ripping out their wires for daring to touch him – but it wasn’t until Wei Wuxian was firmly encased in the bacta tank, the oxygen-rich liquid flowing into his lungs to heal him, the colors on all the screens all showing positive signs, that he was finally able to release the breath it felt that he’d been holding since he first saw the broken starfighter that encased Wei Wuxian’s broken body.

This was fine.

“Wangji,” a low voice said from behind him, and Lan Wangji’s back stiffened.

This was not fine.

The Qinghe Nie were a strange order of Jedi – almost heretical, really, by any traditional measure. The orthodox Jedi order, for the most part, valued calm and serenity and selflessness, prioritizing the logic of the mind over the yearning of the heart, preaching detachment from worldly concerns and attachments…

Qinghe Nie, in contrast, valued righteousness, and cultivated rage.

Halfway to Sith, Lan Wangji’s uncle had once remarked after a glass of something stronger than tea. He’d regretted it later, of course, and tried to walk it back, smooth over his uncharacteristic rudeness, but Lan Wangji still remembered.

The adherents of Qinghe Nie were of the view that for every virtue there was a fault – that the Jedi’s emotional remove would at times render them passive, that self-control could too quickly shade into indifference. They argued that it was the duty of the virtuous to be enraged by evil, intolerant of it, and that only through that anger would they be motivated to act to eradicate it.

Their philosophy often led to their deaths, whether through reckless action or through the corruption of rage into madness, but even their harshest critics had to concede that they were devastatingly effective. 

Lan Wangji had always thought that there was something heartbreakingly sincere about all the Jedi that took the harsh vows of Qinghe Nie, each one willingly trading away long lives for the sake of righteousness, for the ability to make a change in the world, each one unable to tolerate life if it meant they weren’t striving to make things better. Perhaps they did not match the Jiang for creativity or the Lan for elegance, perhaps their techniques were more brutish and less refined, their diplomacy little short of appalling, but no other Jedi order could match them for sheer power.

Very few people wanted to be between a Qinghe Nie Jedi and their target, and still less if they had allowed themselves to succumb to the beserker rage that sometimes took them on the battlefield – indeed, in a crisis that called for force of arms, most people who knew what they were about would rather have a single Qinghe Nie on their side than an entire battalion of war-droids from the Jin or Wen engineering corps.

Still, even that efficiency might not have been enough to convince the ancient sticklers of the Jedi Council to condone such a Sith-like view of the Force, but the Qinghe Nie also had an unsurpassed connection to the kyber crystals that were essential to the creation of lightsabers – the mines under their hands were far more numerous and more fruitful than any other order, and for all that they seemed to have dubious connections to the lightsabers they crafted and wielded, with their highly unusual one-sided edge, they were always open-handed and willing to let other Jedi pick freely from their stores. 

With the ancestral weapon of the entire Jedi order at stake, even the Jedi Council unwillingly bowed its head to reality and compromised.

Not very happily. Especially since the fierce young head of the Qinghe Nie order – the great Chifeng-zun, Nie Mingjue – had been constantly causing trouble for them ever since he had been admitted to their deliberations.

More relevantly, though, was that Nie Mingjue was also a good friend of Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s elder brother by blood, and it had been the gift of his token, his passcode, never revoked, that they had used to enter through the gates.

(Look what happened to the Twin Jades you prized so much, my old clansmen, Uncle, Father, Grandfather. Look at me now. Begging for scraps from a Nie -)

Lan Wangji turned and saluted, bowing deeply and ignoring Xue Yang, who had progressed so far into hysterical laughter that he was now hiccupping.

Nie Mingjue caught his hands and raised him up, just the way he always had, and that grim face surveyed Lan Wangji from top to bottom, those searing eyes seeming to pierce into the depths of his corrupted soul.

“You look well,” he said, which surprised even Lan Wangji, who had thought himself beyond surprises. “That’s good.”

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang muttered. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck – you guys are with me here, right? This is kriffing insane…”

The Qinghe Nie Jedi ignored him.

“Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji said politely, and ignored the man’s raised eyebrow. He was not about to fall back into calling him da-ge the way he’d done back when he was in the Jedi crèche, no matter how tempting – everyone had called Nie Mingjue da-ge back then, too young to be afraid of his fierce and barely leashed energy. “Thank you for lending us temporary use of your base.”

There wasn’t really a polite way to say I wasn’t expecting to run into you here under the circumstances, but from the way Nie Mingjue snorted, Lan Wangji suspected he’d understood regardless.

“Checking up on the Jin,” he said, an explanation that Lan Wangji didn’t deserve to hear. “Treasonous svapers, the lot of them. Is this Wei Wuixan?”

Lan Wangji nodded. His heart was unexpectedly in his throat as Nie Mingjue studied the other Jedi through the glass of the bacta tank, though he wasn’t sure why.

He was Sith now, after all. Why would he care what Nie Mingjue thought?

It would have been easier if Nie Mingjue had been angry at him, full of rage the way he so often was. Easier if he’d turned his tongue as sharp as any lightsaber to scolding him, or turned his face away in coldness. Nie Mingjue notoriously despised the Sith, had probably meant to call the Jin Sithspawn instead of svapers earlier, had probably switched the word only in deference to Lan Wangji’s current occupation – which meant he knew, because of course he knew, there was no way Lan Xichen hadn’t told him even if his position on the Council hadn’t already entitled him to all such secrets.

He knew, and he still persisted in acting like – like –  

“Cute enough,” Nie Mingjue commented, and Lan Wangji covered his suddenly burning face with both hands. “You have good taste.”

“Please stop,” Lan Wangji mumbled, mortified beyond all belief. Xue Yang was looking back and between the two of them with his jaw gaping wider than a Gungan’s.

Nie Mingjue snorted, amused. “I carried you around on my shoulders when you were knee high, Wangji. I think I’m entitled to torment you a bit about your crush.”

Xue Yang looked like he was going to forsake the ways of the Sith, convert to Qinghe Nie, and start logging prayers at the temple of Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame him.

“Don’t you have anything to say about –” Lan Wangji shut his mouth with a snap. 

He didn’t actually want to hear Nie Mingjue exorcising him for his choices, no matter how little he regretted them.

Nie Mingjue was silent for a moment, contemplative. “No.”

Lan Wangji blinked, not understanding.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Nie Mingjue clarified with a shrug. “I can’t say I entirely understand why you chose what you did, but we all choose our own paths in the Force, Wangji. I have faith that even though your path leads you to the Dark Side now, it will eventually lead you back to us once more. If you keep your sense of righteousness about you and continue to stand up for what you believe is right as you always have – and avoid engaging in the wholesale slaughter of innocents the way so many Sith do – I will never be disappointed in you.”

…maybe Lan Wangji would allow the people in that spaceport to live.

But only because it would hurt Wei Wuxian to know that he had sacrificed so much for nothing, of course. It was pure selfishness, nothing more. 

(The Dark Side hissed in his head, bitter-angry-vicious-hate-hate-hate, but Lan Wangji hadn’t been Hanguang-jun for nothing. He controlled himself, allowing for only the influences he chose to accept – it was his independence that had led him to the Dark Side, and his independence, he believed, that would allow him to forge his own path, as Nie Mingjue had said, even inside the ways of the Sith. His uncle would say that such thoughts were pure arrogance, pride before the fall, but, well. He’d already Fallen, hadn’t he?)

“Would you like to stay with him until his vital signs have recovered?” Nie Mingjue asked, and Lan Wangji nodded, grateful despite himself.

Grateful, too, that Nie Mingjue did not speak of Lan Wangji reconciling with the rest of his old order.

“I will not stay longer,” he added. “I know it must be a burden to you, opening your doors to one such as me –”

“Ridiculous,” Nie Mingjue scoffed. “This is a secret base, Wangji. If you don’t say anything about it, who’ll know? And before you ask, I’m going to tell Wei Wuxian that you saved his life whether you’re here for him waking up or not, so take that into account when selecting your leave time. And I’ll exaggerate.”

He would, too, Lan Wangji thought fondly. Nie Mingjue had always been big brother to all the Jedi younglings, no matter how grown up they eventually got, and he never let them forget it.

“I’ll consider it,” he allowed, and settled into a meditation pose at the side of the room.

“As for you,” Nie Mingjue said to Xue Yang, who straightened up so quickly that he might as well have attached a ruler to his spine. “I hear that you’re the one that’s been attacking Hutt palaces?”

Xue Yang glanced at Lan Wangji, who sighed. 

“You shouldn’t encourage him, da-ge,” he murmured. “He gets into enough trouble as it is.”

“Comradery does more to defeat evil than any amount of solitary philosophizing,” Nie Mingjue proclaimed, certain as ever in his own righteousness. It would be unbearably irritating if it was anyone less sincerely bullheaded about it, earnest but full of flaws. “Anyway, it’d be good for some of our padawans to see a Sith in action without needing to go up against one right off the bat. You in?”

“…in? I don’t – there aren’t any Hutt palaces around here..?”

“They take their travelling palaces on the Quiberon Line,” one of the Qinghe Nie Jedi said, and Xue Yang’s eyes lit up at the promise of what he undoubtedly thought was an opportunity for wholesale slaughter. It wouldn’t be, of course, not when he was going to be fighting alongside the strict Qinghe Nie, but it would keep him busy for the time it took Wei Wuxian to stabilize and recover.

Maybe Lan Wangji would even stay long enough to speak with his Wei Ying before retreating to be his silent and unwanted protector again.

Maybe.

[babypandawrites]

Allies, Pt. 9

The Northern Air Temple 

Pairing: Sokka x F Reader Warnings: None Word Count: 3,813 Summary: You thought that the chance of there being Airbenders other than Aang was too good to be true, sadly you were right. 

Note: How I completely forgot about this until now I'm not sure but! Another piece of this series I’ve done for the fun of it is outfit designs- If that kind of things in fics isn’t your cup of tea then feel free to act like these don't exist! But for those who are interested or who might just wanna see; here you go.  This is just what I personally envisioned while writing, again feel free to ignore it if you want, but I figured I might as well share :)  I was also going to wait until tomorrow to post this bc Wednesdays is my upload day for it on Ao3 but I’m also a chapter ahead there and wanted to get my tumblr uploads caught up- so back to back post today and tomorrow :) Yay 

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Taglist: @boomeraangin​ | @brokennerdalert​​​

“So, travelers, the next time you think you hear a strange large bird talking, take a closer look, it might not be a giant parrot, but a flying man! A member of a secret group of air walkers who laugh at gravity and laugh at those bound to the earth by it!”  Aang smiled. “Aren’t airbender stories the best?” “Was it realistic? Was that how it was back then?” Katara questioned.  “I laugh at gravity all the time. Haha! Gravity.”  A pair of hands holding a hat suddenly appeared in the space inbetween Sokka and Y/n. The storyteller shook the hat, the jingling of coins being heard.  “Jingle, jingle.”  The two searched their pockets for any money. Y/n didn’t have anything, and the only thing Sokka pulled from his coat pocket was a small ball of lint and a bug.  Y/n offered the storyteller a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”  “Aww. Cheapskates!” The man left them, going to ask other audience members for donations.  She turned to look at Sokka, a disgusted expression apparent on her face at the bug that wiggled around in his hand. “Why… was there a bug in your coat?”  “Hey! Don’t question a man and his bug.” The bug rolled over, and started to crawl up his hand. Sokka yelped and shook it off.  Her expression twisted into amusement. “A man and his bug, huh?”  “It’s not my fault we can’t afford to keep him fed.” 

The next morning, the group found themselves on the way to the Northern Air Temple. Apparently, the airbenders in the story they heard were seen the previous week. It seemed a little too good to be true, that there might be airbenders other than Aang still out there, but Y/n wasn’t going to be the one to crush the kids' hope.  That was Sokka’s job, not hers.  “Hey, we’re almost at the Northern Air Temple! This is where they had the championships for sky bison polo.”  Y/n looked at Aang with a smile. “Sky bison polo? That sounds fun.”  “It is fun! So much fun!”  Katara moved to sit next to her brother. “Do you think we’ll really find airbenders?”  “You want me to be like you, or totally honest?” Sokka asked, focusing on whittling a piece of wood.  “Are you saying I’m a liar?” Katara crossed her arms over her chest.  “I’m saying you’re an optimist. Same thing basically.”  “They’re not the same thing at all.” Y/n commented. The boy just shrugged his shoulders.  “Hey guys, look at this!”  Appa was starting to approach the Northern Air Temple. It sat up on a sheer peak, several people flew around it, and smoke rose from a few pillars.   “Huh! They really are airbenders!” Aang leaned, crossing his arms unhappily. “No, they’re not.”  Sokka pointed up at the people flying around. “What do you mean they’re not? Those guys are flying!”  “Gliding maybe, but not flying. You can tell by the way they move. They’re not airbending. Those people have no spirit.”  Y/n tipped her head to the side, watching the gliders. “I mean, they look like they're flying to me, but you would know best.”  As she finished speaking, a glider passed over the group's heads, nearly taking them off. The glider’s pilot laughed, turning to pass by Appa again. Getting a closer look at the kid, it could be noted that his glider was built out of the wheelchair he sat in.  Katara pointed in the glider’s direction. “I don’t know, Aang. That kid seems pretty spirited!”  The glider made another pass, and soon Aang was standing up glider in hand, before taking off. Another glider flew in front of Appa, startling him and causing Katara and Y/n to fall backwards into Sokka. The three grunted at the impact.  “We better find some solid ground before it finds us!”  Appa made a landing on one of the temple’s outer terraces, the trio getting off him and watching as Aang and the boy in the wheelchair glided through the sky. Aang eventually came down and landed next to them, the other boy also coming to a landing. A few kids came other and detached the glider from his wheelchair, before he wheeled over to the group.  “Hey! You’re a real airbender! You must be the Avatar! That’s amazing! I- I- I’ve heard stories about you.”  Aang rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Thanks.”  “Wow! This glider chair is incredible!” Sokka rushed over to the kids who had the glider setup, inspecting it.  “If you think this is good, wait until you see the other stuff my Dad designed.”  He began to wheel away, the group following. They were led through the huge main gate of the temple, into the main chamber. The room was dominated by steam-powered machinery with many wheels, gears and pipes.  “Wow!” Sokka ran forward, looking around the room excitedly.  “Yeah, my dad is the mastermind behind this whole place! Everything’s powered by hot air. It even pumps hot air currents outside to give us a lift when we’re gliding.”  Aang took a look around. “This place is unbelievable.”  The boy in the wheelchair smiled. “Yeah, it’s great isn’t it?”  “No, just unbelievable.”  Y/n tried to hold back a laugh, clearing her throat to force down her laughter.  “Aang used to come here a long time ago. I think he’s a little shocked it’s so… different.” Katara said, before following after Aang when he walked off.  “So better!”  Rolling her eyes, Y/n elbowed Sokka in the shoulder. He gave her a look.  “Come on, you don’t think this is cool at all?”  “Not really.” 

Soon they followed the boy, Teo, to another part of the temple. This time it was a courtyard of sorts, it was untouched, and there were statues of airbenders.  Aang was much happier about this, than he had been about the other room. “It’s nice to see even one part of the temple that isn’t ruined.” He spoke, as him, Y/n and Katara looked at a huge statue of an airbender monk.  “Look out!” A voice shouted out, shortly before a wrecking ball crashed through the statue. The three flew backwards with the debris, and everyone started to cough from the dust. As the dust settled, several people could be seen through the hole that’d been created. One of the people walked forward, a middle aged man with a mostly bald head who wore a monocle, a green tunic and an apron.  “What the doodle! Don’t you know enough to stay away from construction sites? We have to make room for the bathhouse!”  “Do you know what you just did? You just destroyed something sacred! For a stupid bathhouse!” Aang, clearly upset with the man, took on an airbending stance.  The man waved a hand in front of his nose. “Well, people around here are starting to stink.”  Aang pointed at him. “This whole place stinks!” He slammed his staff against the ground, sending a strong gust of wind through the hole in the wall, knocking the wrecking ball and it’s rig off the building's foundation. “This is a sacred temple! You can’t treat it this way. I’ve seen it when the monks were here. I know what it’s supposed to be like.”  “The monks? But you’re twelve!”  Teo wheeled over. “Dad, he’s the Avatar. He used to come here a hundred years ago.”  Aang walked closer to the man. “What are you doing? Who said you could be here?”  “Hmmm… doing here… A long time ago, but not a hundred years, my people became refugees after a terrible flood.” He gestured his arms for effect, before moving to stand behind his son. “My infant son, Teo, was badly hurt and lost his mother.” Sniffling, he held back tears. “I needed somewhere to rebuild and I stumbled across this place. Couldn’t believe it! Everywhere pictures of flying people. But empty! Nobody home! Then I came across these fan like contraptions!”  He held his arms out as if they were wings, making flying motions with them as he walked about the courtyard for a short moment. He stopped in front of Aang, who was clearly still upset.  “Our gliders.”  “Yes, little light flying machines. They gave me an idea. Build a new life for my son, in the air! Then everyone would be on equal ground, so to speak! We’re just in the process of improving upon what’s already here and after all, isn’t that what nature does?” Aang was still upset, while Sokka and Katara stood behind him, teary eyed from the story. Y/n rolled her eyes at the siblings, before moving to stand next to Aang, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sure, the story was sad, but to her the boy’s feelings were more important.  The Mechanist turned to look through the hole in the wall he’d created. “I suppose that’s true. Unfortunately, progress has a way of getting away from us.” He looked down in a bout of sadness, before his head snapped up to look at an odd candle device..? A bit aways from them. “Look at the time!” Three candles burned brightly on a stone pedestal, each separated into their own sections. Next to the pedestal, a large mallet rests, sitting head down. The Mechanist turned to one of the scribes behind him. “Come the pulley system must be oiled before dark.”  Sokka approached the candles, observing them. “Wait, how can you tell the time from that thing? The notches all look the same.”  “The candle will tell us. Watch.”  The candle’s flame snapped four times in a row.  “You put spark powder in the candle!” “Four flashes, so it’s exactly four hours past midday, or, as I call it, four o’candle!”  Sokka let out a laugh, as The Mechanist looked at him, seemingly pleased he was interested. “If you like that, wait till you see my finger safe knife sharpener!” Y/n’s attention moved to the man at the mention of that, watching as he held up his left hand, where three of his fingers were made of wood. He detached them from his hand, before tossing them to Sokka. “Only took me three tries to get it right!” Sokka let out a scream, as he caught the wooden fingers. “Follow me!”  The Mechanist turned to leave, the men who were with him and Sokka quickly followed. As the boy passed by Y/n, he grabbed onto her wrist and dragged her along with him. She offered a quick goodbye wave to Aang, Katara and Teo as she was dragged away. 

Quiet steps echoed through the narrow hallway, as Y/n, Sokka and The Mechanist descending a narrow staircase. Each of them held a lantern, glowing with sparse blue light.  “These lanterns are terrible! I can’t see.”  Y/n ran into Sokka’s back, as he abruptly stopped to open the jar to his lantern. She flicked the back of his head, as he continued to speak. “Why would you want to use fireflies for light- Hey!”  She snickered, watching the firefly that escaped from his lantern.  The Mechanist turned to look at them. “Hey, close that up! They’ll get loose. Fireflies are a non-flammable light source.”  “Are you meaning to say that something down here is flammable?” Y/n asked, as they all continued walking.  “Well, why else would I need a non-flammable light source?” The Mechanist offered a chuckle, as they approached a door. The edges of it were blocked by some sort of sealant, which he felt around, probably to check for leaks.  After checking he turned back to them. “Cover your nose and hold your breath.”  Once they’d done so, The Mechanist slid open a panel in the door, which they all looked through. It just showed a dark and empty room. “Okay, so you brought us all the way down here to see an empty room.” Sokka spoke with a somewhat confused tone.  “Wrong.”  Eyebrows furrowing together, Y/n watched as the panel was slid shut again. “You brought us all the way down here to see a room full of flammable explosive gas?”  “Correct! It’s filled to the brim with natural gas. Came across it my first time here. Unfortunately, I was carrying a torch at the time. Nearly blew myself and the whole place even more sky high. Thought my eyebrows would never grow back! Anyway, there’s a vital problem that needs solving. From time to time we have gas leaks and they’re nearly impossible to find.”  Y/n took a few steps back, as Sokka helped check the door for leaks. “So this place is an explosion waiting to happen?”  “Yes, until I figure out how to locate something I can’t see, hear, smell or touch.”  “Right, is it safe for us to be around this gas? Should we be wearing masks or something, in case we come across a leak so we don’t, you know, inhale it?”  “Oh don’t worry, we should be fine.” The Mechanist paused for a moment, straightening up after finishing checking for leaks. “Well, as long as you aren’t a firebender or something- hah!” He let out a laugh, which Sokka quickly shared.  Sokka nudged her in the arm, as they started walking back. “Oh come on, that was funny. You know that was funny.”  “Yeah, hilarious.”  He threw an arm over her shoulders. “Come on, loosen up. We’re gonna be fine, even if we do come across a leak.”  She put her hands up in defense. “Okay, okay.” 

The Mechanist led the pair to his workshop, and very clearly told them not to touch anything, before going to look over some papers on his desk. Sokka, of course, did not listen to that and started poking through things the moment the man's attention wasn’t on them.  “Sokka, he said not to touch anything.” Y/n whispered, smacking his hand away from something he was about to mess with.  He gently pushed her away a bit, before going right back to poking around. “Calm down, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m going to break an-” Sokka cut himself off, as he knocked some stuff over. Grimacing, he tried to keep it from falling to the ground.  “I said don’t touch anything!”  When The Mechanist spoke up, Sokka dropped the things to the ground. Y/n crossed her arms over her chest. “Not gonna break anything, huh?”  The Mechanist came over, to help Sokka pick the things up. “Oh, don’t worry, that experiment is old and that egg was just part of last week’s lunch.”  Y/n kneeled down to help them too, as Sokka sniffed the air. “Ugh! Week old egg smell!”   “Quick! Find that egg!”  The three started to crawl around, looking for the egg, but none of them were having much luck.  “How could something that’s so small you can’t even see it make such a big stink!?” Sokka complained as they looked. The Mechanist perked up at the comment. “That’s the solution to our problem!”  “Yeah!” Y/n looked at the two, confused, as they faced each other with excitement. “What?”  “If we put a whole mess of rotten eggs in the cellar where the gas seeps up..” Sokka started the thought, which The Mechanist continued.  “The gas will mix with the smell of rotten eggs…”  “Then, if there’s a leak…”  “You smell rotten eggs! Then you just follow your nose to the place where the smell is coming from..”  “And plug up the hole where the gas is escaping!”  “You’re a genius!” The two spoke in unison.  Still, Y/n looked between the two with a confused expression. “ What? ”  Suddenly, a large bell started to ring, and The Mechanist was quick to get up and rush from the room. “Something’s wrong I’ve got to go.”  “Wonder what that’s about.” Sokka said, getting up himself. He helped Y/n up, grinning. “We should follow him.”  “Always a snoop, huh?” Laughing softly, she shook her head. “Alright.”  Grasping onto her wrist, he dragged her out of the room to follow after The Mechanist. They’d followed him to another room, one that was filled to the brim with different war machines branded with the Fire Nation’s insignia. 

“You make weapons for the Fire Nation!?” Sokka was clearly angry with his words, rightfully so. Y/n was pretty mad about this development as well. She pointed a finger at The Mechanist.  “You! You're terrible. Horrible terrible!”  The Mechanist looked at the ground in humiliation and shame.  Teo looked at his father angrily. “Explain all this! Now!”  “It was about a year after we moved here. Fire Nation soldiers found our settlement. You were too young to remember this tale. They were going to destroy everything, burn it to the ground. I pleaded with them, begged them to spare us. They asked what I had to offer. I offered… my services. You must understand, I did this for you!” Teo turned his wheelchair away, clearly upset. The Mechanist turned on his heel, and walked back down the hall, leaving the five kids in the room.   Teo shook his head. “I can’t believe this…. This is terrible.”  “I know..” Aang looked at the weapons with disdain. “There’s so much here.”  Y/n crossed her arms over her chest. “The Fire Nation could be coming for this soon…”  Aang breathed out a sigh. “Your right… I’m going to go figure it out.”  “I’ll come with.” Teo said, as Aang started to leave the room, before following the boy.  With Aang and Teo’s return, they found out that the Fire Nation was coming soon. And they were intending to burn this place to the ground. They were all outside on one of the walkways, trying to figure out a plan.  “This is bad! Very bad!”  Katara looked over to Aang. “Aang, what are we gonna do? How can we possibly keep them all away?”  “I’ll tell you how.” He pointed to the sky. “We have something they don’t. Air power! We control the sky. That’s something the Fire Nation can’t do. We can win!”  “I want to help.” The Mechanist approached the group, as he spoke up.  Aang offered the man a smile. “Good, we’ll need it.” 

“We finally got the war balloon working, thanks to Sokka. This boy’s a genius!”  “Thank you. You’re a genius!” “Thank you!” Y/n rolled her eyes at the exchange. “Can we get on with this?”  Sokka cleared his throat. “Right. See, the problem with the old war balloon was you could get it airborne, but once you did, it just kept going.” He demonstrated with a model that flew up and hit the ceiling. “You could put a hole in the top, but then all the hot air would escape. So the question became, how do you keep a lid on hot air?”  “Ugh, if only we knew.” Katara commented. Y/n, Aang, Teo and Katara herself all laughed at the remark.  Ignoring them, Sokka pulled the model down from the ceiling, now showing off the mechanism to open and close a lid on the top. “A lid is actually the answer. If you control the hot air, you control the war balloon.” He demonstrated again, but this time the model didn’t fly up to the ceiling, thanks to the lid that could be pulled open with a string.  Katara crossed her arms. “Hmm. That’s actually pretty smart.”  “Okay, we’ve got four kinds of bombs. Smoke, smile, fire and-”  The Mechanist cut Sokka off. “Stink. Never underestimate the power of stink!” 

“We’re going to have to modify this to the new design, and fast.” The Mechanist said, as him, Sokka and Y/n worked on bringing the War Balloon he’d already constructed outside. “With both of you helping we should be able to get it up and running pretty quickly though!”  “Yeah! And I’m pretty sure Aang and Katara will be able to hold off the Fire Nation with everyone’s help.”  Y/n furrowed her eyebrows. “They’ll be able to hold them off, but we can’t count on them too for too long, even if we have the skies. The Fire Nation’s army is huge, who knows how many soldiers will show up.”  They got the balloon set up to do the necessary modifications. “Oh she’s right, time is not something we have on our side right now.”  Sokka nodded in understanding. “Right. It’s only one modification though, so it can’t take terribly long, right?”  “Let’s hope not.”  Getting to work on the War Balloon, they probably could have gotten things done a little faster. But nonetheless, they got it done, and just in time too apparently. While Sokka and The Mechanist got ready to take off in the war balloon, Y/n went to find the others to see how they were holding up.  “How are things going out here?” She asked, once she found Katara, Aang and Teo. The three looked at her with slight concern.  “Not well.” Katara started. “Please tell us Sokka is coming with that war balloon soon.”  Before she could give an answer, the war balloon rose up from behind them all, and started moving towards the battle field. From where they all stood, they could see Sokka and The Mechanist dropping giant slime bombs onto the Fire Nation soldiers. The bombs that they had didn’t stop the soldiers, however, and they were starting to advance closer to the Temple.  Katara put a hand on Y/n’s shoulder, to get her attention. “What are they doing..?”  She squinted in the direction of the war balloon, trying to see what was going on. “I’m not sur-” She cut herself off, watching as something fell from the basket of the war balloon. Was that the balloons fuel source? “Did they just push out their fuel source..?!” “What?!”  A sudden explosion set off, a really really big one. The entire Temple got clouded in a ginormous wall of grey smoke. When the smoke dissipated, it was revealed that the Fire Nation was retreating.  Aang pointed to where the army was leaving. “Look! They’re retreating!” Everyone started to cheer at the success, but the joy was cut short, as the war balloon started heading downwards quickly. Thankfully though, Aang was able to get Sokka and The Mechanist before the balloon crashed below.  Currently, they all stood outside on the main terrace of the Air Temple.  “You know what? I’m really glad you guys all live here now. It’s like the hermit crab.” Aang spoke, as he carefully picked up one of the hermit crabs near them all. “Maybe you weren’t born here, but you found this empty shell and made it your home. And now you protect each other.”  Teo offered a smile to the boy. “That means a lot coming from you.”  “Aang you were right about air power.” Sokka pointed to the sky. “As long as we’ve got the skies we’ll have the Fire Nation on the run!”

[ka-writes]

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Notes- Did I decide I was gonna write a fic at 2:00 AM? Yes yes I did... anyways I don’t have an archive account yet but I wanted to get it out there.... um here is chapter one of my space AU, because I absolutely fell in love with the AU.

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Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Ohh also challenge if you wanna do it, fill in the Title! And another one... if you were an alien what question would you ask a human other than basic questions, like name and age.

Also suggestions are always appreciated! And if you wanna support my main blog it is kadoodle.. also I have no updating schedule so I will when I want to.

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Warnings: Cussing, mentions of tight spaces and characters being trapped, mentions of corpses, and needles.

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“Humans are [Insert text here]”

Chapter 1: Idiots kidnap the wrong kid..

Honestly, life hasn't been bad. His needs were met, most of the time, and he had a.. place to sleep…

Yeah no life wasn’t great.

Tommy was easily, barely, avoiding Social Services. Sleeping on benches and occasionally grass. He got whatever wasn’t wanted and had an official bag for the first time. He had some spare clothes, and no money. The authorities stopped looking for him after a while and the only main challenge was getting essentials.

No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Therefore he was the perfect target among many others. The only thing setting him apart was his sheer ability to survive, not a want, like many of the others, it was a fact he would survive. Not that his captors knew that of course.

Alternative: Tommy gets kidnapped by aliens and sbi rescues him.

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He woke up in a cage.

Not a cell or a room, a fucking cage.

There were a few others in various cages around the room. All of which were either dead or close to it. Most of the ones still alive had been there for months, possibly years. No one knew of course.

The smell of rotting bodies stenched the place with a coppery coating. The room wasn’t large but not quite small. It was dull grey with layers of grime settling on the floor and cages. The room was long and skinny, lined with cages against either wall in a zig zag format. The only light was coming from the small door window, which happened to be positioned right in front of Tommy. It glowed a faint yellow and was blurry, not allowing Tommy to see into the hall.

Shadows would occasionally pass by the window. None ever stopped at it. Causing the ever growing hunger to grow more. Once one had stopped at the door, not for more than a second, before it screeched. It was inhuman and sounded like a hurt hawk from one of those nature documentaries. Tommy shoved his hands onto his ears and waited for it to stop. The thing chuckled, not like a human, but something close to it.

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Tommy waited for what seemed like hours before something happened. The door opened, sliding into the ceiling. A weird looking creature stepped in. It looked like it had a porcelain mask over its face with a painted smiley face. There were no ears or hair, instead just more porcelain, which formed a spear which sat on shadows. The thing was wearing a lime green hoodie and black leather pants that seemingly faded into the creature's legs. The knees bent inwards causing it to look awfully awkward as it crouched near Tommy’s cage. The hands were long and lanky with no real palm. The creature also had a tail that looked close to how Tommy pictured a devil's tail to look. This was the first time in ages Tommy was glad to be behind bars.

The thing pointed at itself and said,

“Dream.”

In the most heavily accented English Tommy had ever heard. That didn’t matter as much of the fact that the seemingly painted smile moved with the words.

“Come.”

The creature unlocked the cage and half dragged Tommy out of the cage into what Tommy presumed to be the lab. He noticed a window. The only thing for miles was stars. He was in space. He had been kidnapped by Aliens. Fuck.

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Humans were a heavily avoided species. The things were what kids would expect to come out of their closet. They were feared, and for good reason.

The first ship to find Earth was ecstatic. Finding another intelligent species in what would’ve been deemed as a planetary desert was a scientific breakthrough. Causing the entirety of the media to go insane for a couple of years.. That was until the first ship ventured onto the planet. It was immediately shot down. The entire crew was killed and the entirety of the ship was destroyed in a matter of minutes. The ISF (Intergalactic Safety Force) deemed it as a no flight zone and claimed to punish anyone in the desert. Even so poachers smuggled humans and within days had their ship crashed.

The only ones allowed to take humans were scientists, who were specialized in taking care of difficult species. They were allowed to test on said species and do whatever they wanted, in the name of science of course. Most people didn’t care how they treated them and were really only interested in what could kill them.

Which is where Wilbur came in. He was a toxicologist, a scientist studying poisons, he also dealt with various potions and other chemical mixes. This knowledge is what gained his entry to the Dream Team Ship.

He had been testing on around nine different humans for the past six months on the celestial calendar. This time Dream, his boss and the captain, brought in a juvenile human. He was skinny and lanky. Clearly had been starving before being taken. He felt bad before shaking off his pity.

“V74 and V83. Make sure he can communicate beforehand.” Dream promptly stated before leaving the kid in the room.

Wilbur tried not to think about his terrified face, before he clipped on the translator. Usually it is worn on the back of the head, since humans brains are vastly different than most species, it is clipped to the left side of the head.

The translator looks like a simple device when in reality it took dozens of celestial years to perfect it. It’s a small silver disk that ingrains into the part of the brain that controls communicating. After the body gets used to the device it can translate any language into one you understand instantly.

It took a couple more years for the translator to incorporate the estimated 7,000 languages spoken on Earth. For a planet that has been isolated it has a more complex and diverse set of cultures and languages, than Pellucidian has had in centuries. To say Wilbur was jealous, wouldn’t be far from the truth. Not that he studied cultures for a living. It was something that always interested him.

He put the device on the kid’s head and grimaced at the pain that was on the kid’s face. He quickly dried up the blood and mixed a solution that would ease the pain. It was clear and tasted like water, which is the only way they got humans to take the pain reduction.

The kid relaxed for a spilt second before tending at the unfamiliar setting.

“Where am I?” He snapped, causing Wilbur to jump back a bit, before collecting himself and standing up.

“The Dream Team craft’s labatory.” The kid’s face flashed with panic for a split second, “You have two testings scheduled for today. It will go quickly.”

“Will it be painful?” The kid asked. As standard for testing, Wilbur ignored the question and measured the substances. He quickly cleaned the puncture spot before giving him the needle.

The kid winced in pain. Wilbur swiftly led him to the testing chair. It had restraints that moved with the patient's body, which prevented bruising while keeping them in place. Wilbur clicked them on and sat at the desk located to the left of the kid.

“What did you inject into me?” The kid asked clearly trying to fight off the anesthetic.

“A dosage of Lidocaine, which is an anesthetic for your species. It’s only to numb pain that may come with the solutions we will be using today.” The kid’s face flashed with a deeper panic than before, causing Wilbur to tense. “We won’t start yet, since we have a list of questions to go through before we begin.” Wilbur lied. He hated testing people, especially kids. Dream of course didn’t care, like the rest of the Dreamon species. It made him sick. That was when he made a split second decision. Hoping he could get a distress signal out, without alerting the other crew members. He was gonna get the kid off the ship, at the next stop of course. Which was in three celestial hours.

The kid scoffed, clearly not believing the lie. He paused a moment thinking over his options before he smirked,“Fine. Ask me what you want bitch-boy!” Wilbur gasped, clearly not anticipating the insult.

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Chapter 1 End

1406 words

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End notes: Why the hell does google docs make it so hard to copy and paste??

Also I had to do some intense googling for this... I hope you enjoyed!

(Also also this is my first ever fanfic... please give feedback and reblog!!)

Minor mistakes are forgiven... don’t expect me to be perfect... I am dyslexic.

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Tommy: ....

Wilbur: ....

*intense starring*

Wilbur POV: I am kidnapping it.

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Chapter 2:

[reluctant-mandalore]

The Artist (Din Djarin x gn!Reader)

Word Count: 3821

Warnings: Fluffy with some angst and an angry Din. He’s a bit mean at first but I promise he makes it right. Not beta read because I wanted to get this out asap. 

Pairing: Din Djarin x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: I couldn’t resist writing, it was just such a sweet idea. I ended up getting carried away, so it’s kind of long lol. As per usual I got some angsty din in here but it’s all fluffy and happy at the end I promise!! Also, Din is a bit mean at first, he’s a grumpy grump who’s mad about his face being plastered everywhere, but he turns into a softy fairly quickly. I tried to stay gender neutral but I may have slipped up sooo yeah. Enjoy!

Original Post: The original post is here and the lovely darling who came up with this idea was @mandowhorian​

Edits: (4)**Reader blushing was removed to made to be more inclusive** (1)Just some grammar and spelling edits done. Also fixed up some of the paragraphs I felt were a bit weird. (2) I was looking back at this so I could post it to AO3 and noticed that the @ to the original poster of the idea was wrong, sorry for any unnecessary notifications!! (3)More spelling and grammar fixes, also fixed a pronoun error. ^-^

  The bounty should have been simple enough. The mandalorian had been tasked with bringing in a lone artist from the outer rim. The artist was overdue on some payments to a lone shark and had seemingly gone into hiding to avoid these payments. Originally, he hadn’t planned on taking the job, but the pay was decent enough and it should have been rather easy. It wouldn’t take much to bring in the little artist, though he had been warned about them having some weird abilities. 

  Din wasn’t too concerned in that regard. He’s seen some weird stuff in his time as a bounty hunter. Honestly he wasn’t sure anything could top the child and his strange powers anyway. Although with that in mind, nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to walk into.  

 The bounty hunter had approached the structure quietly, it was later in the evening and much of the busy crowds were leaving for the night. The studio was small with tables propped out front, most likely used for sales, though today they had remained empty. He had asked some locals about the artist, learning how the artist was currently grieving and wasn’t offering or selling any services at the moment due to it. Many of the locals even saying that they hadn’t even seen the artist emerge from their studio for some days now.  

  Din had ended up watching the little studio for most of the day anyway, looking for signs of the bounty. Truth to the locals words, the bounty never emerged to sell their works. So, with the streets having become empty and with no signs of the artist, he made his way to the entrance of the building. 

 Pulling back the cloth to the entrance of the bounties private studio, Din was met with something he had never expected to see within. His face. Specifically, his face plastered everywhere on canvases around the studio. 

Din had stumbled back in shock at what he saw, knocking over some paint cans as he did. He felt frozen in time standing there staring at the works of art and suddenly felt himself become overwhelmed with a multitude of emotions. 

  Managing to collect himself, he straightened and slowly walked through the room, taking in each painting he saw. Every painting was unique in some way, whether it be from the paint used or the style in which it took. Some were younger versions of himself while others reflected his current aging features. His fingers had trailed lightly across the surface of one painting in particular, a dark and gloomy piece hidden away in a corner. Similar to the others, it was of his face, but this time it was bloody and bruised. His portrait self almost looking to be on the brink of death. 

  Din had a feeling of when this painting had been painted and why it was done in the way that it was. How did they know what he looked like that day? Did they see? He wasn’t even aware of anyone else, other than the droid of course, being there. How did he not notice them? 

  Many thoughts and feelings were pouring through him while looking at the piece of art. Feelings of confusion, anger, and distress had soon consumed him, but the worst of it all had to be the feeling of fear. 

Fear because someone had seen his face. Fear because this meant his creed was crumbling to ashes before his eyes. Fear because it was possible that it may have been like that for longer than he ever knew. Fear because in this moment everything he had worked for was crashing down around him and he wasn’t even exactly sure how it happened. 

  Engrossed with his worries, the Mandalorian didn’t even hear the artist approaching. Coming through a back hallway, the artist had suddenly appeared from around a corner, stopping when their eyes landed on his form. They looked at him from afar, watching him take in the painting before him. Not even aware of the distress that currently wrecked the Mandalorian’s body and mind. Their own head tilting to the side as confusion began marking their own soft features, and wondering why a Mandalorian of all things had stumbled into their studio. 

“Can I help you there? Customers aren’t supposed to enter the studio and I’m not currently taking any orders.” 

  Hearing them speak had snapped him out of his confused daze and he slowly turned his head to stare at them silently. He knew instantly based off the description from the client that this was his bounty standing before him. The Mandalorian’s mind soon beginning work over time to try and comprehend exactly what his target was doing. His mind trying to work out the answers to his bundles of questions. 

 Were they trying to mock him? Trying to act as if they had no idea who he was or what they had done? This had to be a plot that they came up with. They must have known he was coming and had plotted how to distract him. Maybe they just wanted to taunt him? A sort of ‘fuck you I know your face and have ruined your life’ kind of taunt. 

“You’re a mandalorian right? Are you after a bounty-” 

  Din was swift and predatory in his movements, not giving them time to finish their sentence as he grabbed and pinned them to the ground. Their tiny wrists held in his one hand, pinned above their head, while he roughly shoved a blaster to their cheek. His body had soon pressed into theirs as a way to use his size and weight to keep them still underneath him. He radiated danger and had waves of anger rolling off of him. The sight of him in this angry state certainly would have had any number of people running, included the artist if they weren’t currently pinned underneath him. 

  The artist had squirmed under him in panic, attempting to free themselves, but not being able to due to his sheer strength. He could feel the heat from their body seep through his armor into his own, and any other time being this close to someone would have made the Mandalorian flush. However, at this moment, Din wasn’t concerned about such things. He was more worried about the fact that the person underneath him knew his face. 

“What’s with all the paintings? How do you know?” He growled out, his grip tightening around them, his helmet now inches from their own face. 

  A whimper sounded from the artist below him and tears had begun to form at the corners of their eyes, “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Their voice was shaky and their form trembled under his. They were utterly powerless and weak when compared to the Mandalorian. 

 He scoffed at their response, it wouldn’t be the first time a bounty had tried to play innocent and dumb. Shedding some fake tears wasn’t going to soften him up any bit. “Don’t act dumb. How did you find out? Where did you see it?” 

“Find out what? I-” They paused as he had moved the blaster closer to them as they spoke. “I-I really don’t know what you mean!” 

  Admittedly, the job was far from his mind at this moment, all he cared about was dealing with the fact that someone had seen his face. That this person before him had decided to taunt him with the knowledge of them having seen it. Job be damned, it felt like his whole self was destroyed, his creed most likely broken. He could care less about the dumb bounty job. He just needed answers. 

  Din growled again, his anger continuing to grow as they proceeded to deny any knowledge of what he was asking. He ended up hulling them to their feet, his grip never loosening as he did. He turned them around to face the corner which held the painting he had looked at not too long ago. He had pressed himself into their back when he did, a hand coming to roughly grab their chin to force them to look at the painting before them, the blaster still at the ready if needed.

“That face.” He gritted out, his fingers beginning to dig into their skin, “Where did you see it?”

  He watched as their fearful expression morphed into that of one marked with sadness. A frown had now etched across their lips, and they looked away as a few of their tears finally slid down their cheeks. 

Din was surprised by their reaction, he thought for sure they would have given up the whole innocent act by now or would have at least slipped up a bit. However, they didn’t and if anything it only made them seem to be more genuine in his eyes—a thought that both angered and confused him more than anything. 

 Mumbled words was the only reply he got from them at first, their voice barely audible to him, “What was that?” 

“He’s my soulmate... or he was supposed to be at least.” 

  Din could feel himself pale under the helmet at their words, a feeling of shock once again spreading throughout his body, as he found himself letting go of them in an instant. His anger had disappeared completely at hearing their explanation—leaving only confusion in its wake.

 It crossed his mind briefly that they could be messing with him still, but the expression they wore and the sincerity in their voice had stomped the idea completely. They were being serious, and Din had no idea how to handle such information. 

Stepping back from them, the blaster fell to his side. “I.. what?” were the only things he could manage to say in his stage of shock and confusion. 

“Do you know what the force is?” 

“Barely.” 

“Well, through the force, I get force visions of him all the time. They’re usually just his face, his surroundings were always blurry to me, but his face was always clear.” They began to explain as Din listened while remaining silent, “The force is not strong with me, so I think that’s why the visions were not always so clear to me.” 

“So this isn’t just some sort of sick joke of yours to try and mock me?” He asked, still having some trouble in believing what the artist was expressing to him. “You’re not lying just to try and get me to not take you in?”

 He watched as anger had marked their once saddened features, “A joke? You think I would joke about something like this? That I would spend years of my life painting and wondering where he was—wondering if he was safe?” 

  Din stood and just listened as they went off on him. Their anger about the accusation evident as they bitterly ranted to him about his behaviour during the past half hour or so. He continued watching as their rant died down to them just fuming while looking at anything that wasn’t him—clearly upset and hurt by his remarks. 

“If you’re here to collect me for a bounty just get it over with, don’t deepen my grief.” Sometimes he could forget how insensitive he could be. It was already clear enough to not have been some joke or plot. So why did he have to continue suggesting such things? 

 The room had filled with silence after the artist had finished their long winded speech to him, and it felt stuffy with the new atmosphere between them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” His voice was the first to break the silence before he had trailed off again, “What made you think the visions were of your soulmate?”

 They had seemed to calm again with his question, a sigh escaping their lips as they went to continue their explanation from before to the Mandalorian, “Honestly? I didn’t think such a thing at first, but eventually, I could just feel it.” They paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to word their thoughts before speaking once more, “I guess you could say I just knew that this was the man I was connected to for life. I could feel it in my heart—in my soul. He was the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, or at least I thought so until the last one….”

 The artist trailed off again, a habit of theirs that Din had noted to himself as he watched them go over to look at the painting properly. Their arms had crossed over their chest now, hugging themselves as if they were cold, but it seemed to be more for personal comfort than anything. Din had took note the expression they wore on their face and suddenly felt a rush of guilt flow through him for how he had previously handled them.

“The last one?” He couldn’t help but question. 

 They nodded and smiled sadly at him as they wiped the tears falling from their eyes “I think I saw him die some months ago. The last vision I had of him was of him looking like that and I haven’t had any visions since.” They had motioned in the direction of the painting before them, only providing more evidence that it was in fact a painting of the face he had wore while on the brink of death that fateful day. 

“So I think he...” their words died in a quiet sob, one of their hands clasping over their mouth as he watched their figure become consumed with grief. 

The words from the locals of the artist grieving came back to him as everything began to fall into place. This person was grieving who they believed to be their soulmate. They were grieving Din and they hadn’t even met him. It was something difficult for him to fathom at first, but seeing how it broke them had made his heart sink none the least. 

“He’s not dead.” The words left him before he could stop himself. The urge to suddenly comfort the distressed artist before him coming to light. 

 The artist turned to look at him suddenly, almost doing a double take from his words “Wait do you know who he is?” They questioned, their expression changing from one of sadness to wonder. “What’s his name? Is he ok? Can you take me to see him? I’ll pay you…” 

Their voice stopped registering in the hunters mind as he tried to comprehend their questions and excitement. They weren’t lying. They were being truthful in everything they spoke and they had no clue that the face in the paintings were his. They truly didn’t know anything about him other than what they had seen in their visions and yet they loved him enough to grieve for him. 

  Din didn’t know how to answer all those questions of theirs. It was him. The answer was simple yet also hard to articulate. The man in their paintings, in their visions, was him. 

That was his face. His face which no one was supposed to see. He almost wanted to yell out that it was him. He wanted to scream to them about the creed and how it was everything to him. 

 The creed he swore might be in question now and he didn’t know how to feel about it other than dread. He understood how some circumstances were accepted in regards to others seeing his face. Did a soulmate having visions fall within those categories? He didn’t know, but really hoped so at this moment. 

  “It’s me.” The words finally wafted out his modulator in a whisper, barely audible, but the artist had clearly caught it. 

The artist had stared at him with shining wide eyes. A hand had come to their mouth again but this time in surprise. Not being able to bear looking at them anymore, the Mandalorian turned away again. as his heart began beating rapidly in his chest at the confession. “It’s my face. It’s me.” 

Their reply was equally as quiet, a mere whisper through the air, “R-Really? You’re not lying?”

 The only response he could muster was a small nod, as he was afraid of how his voice would sound. There were so many things to discuss with them. Things like his way of life and the danger it entailed. He also needed to tell them about the creed, and most importantly, the child in his current care. All of this didn’t even include the things he was sure they had to tell him. 

 Din had jumped at the sudden feeling of their body pressing into his back. His mind blanking at their touch and smell engulfing him. The feeling of them wrapping their arms around his waist had caused a flush to spread over his skin and a shaky breath to barely sound through his modulator. It had been so long since someone had touched him in the slightest and he wasn’t prepared for it to happen like it just had.

 “I was beginning to think I’d never meet you, I mean, I literally thought you died.” Their words were muffled into his armored back and hearing them he felt his heart clench again.

  Seeming to catch themselves, the artist pulled away from him, shyly looking away at the realization of their impulsive actions. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to hug you out of the blue like that.” They had managed to stutter out, “It’s felt like I’ve known you forever even though we’ve really just met and I literally thought I had lost you. So I guess I’m just happy.” 

“It’s fine” He replied quietly, feeling his heart skip a beat at seeing the small smile that graced their cheeks from his words. “It should be me saying sorry for how I treated you earlier anyway.” He continued, turning to face them properly and looking down at their wrists he had grabbed so harshly not too long ago.

“I mean you're a mandalorian right? Your kind don’t show your faces to anyone, I’m sure it was quite a shock to see all the paintings.” 

  He was surprised with them having some sort of knowledge of his way of life. Even if it was so little, any amount was better than none. “You know of mandalore?”

The artist shrugged, looking down at their hands as they twirled their fingers. “Only a little of what I have heard. People say you're the fiercest warriors in the Galaxy.” 

  He nodded in reply to them as they fell into an awkward silence once more. Honestly, Din had never talked much in the first place and he had already talked more than what he was used to within the last hour. He also wasn’t really sure where to start. 

  What did they do now? Did he invite them back to the ship? Ask for them to pack up and move in? Maybe they should just call it a night and worry about it in the morning. It was late after all, and of course the child still waited for him to return.  

“Are you going to turn me in? That’s why you’re here right? I’m your bounty.” The artist was still smiling at him even after such inquiries, “I won’t stop you if you want to. Just knowing you’re ok is enough for me. I don’t want to get in the way of your job.”  

Sweet. Too sweet. Maybe even naive. That was how Din would describe them in this moment. He believed them too in their claims, that they would happily let him take them to their impending doom at the hands of some scummy lone-shark. 

Din was honestly surprised to see how easily they just offered themselves up to him. How easy would it be to just take them up on their offer and turn them in. After turning them in, he could then just shove the whole experience into the back of his mind to be forgotten. It would be a simple and easy process for someone of his kind.

“No.” He answered, not even needing to think about the answer for long. There was no way he could turn them in now. “I… it's just…” He trailed off, even now trying to find a logical response to his reasoning. Even if one wasn’t needed in the first place. 

  Many others wouldn’t care. They would turn in the artist without a thought, soulmate or not. It wouldn’t matter to them, but to Din. To him it mattered more than he ever thought it would.  

“Are you good with kids?” He asked them, thinking of the child waiting for him. He could already see the child taking a liking to them and the idea of having some help with the child was something he looked forward to. 

“You have kids?” 

He shifted uneasily at their question, feeling oddly vulnerable in this moment, “Sort of, I have a foundling in my care and have been thinking about getting someone to help with caring for him.” 

 Din couldn’t explain the sudden concern that he felt at telling them of the child. He didn’t understand the sudden want for them to accept the little womp rat. The thought of maybe them not wanting anything to do with him now that they knew he had a child in his care actually scared him. Even worse, he found himself fearing their rejection, already having a desire to keep them with him. 

 Which is why he was happy to see the large grin that had spread across their cheeks at hearing about the child, “I would love to help you with that.” 

“The position is permanent.” He said with a teasing undertone in his voice, not being able to help the sudden bubble of happiness which had swelled within him. 

“Oh I would hope so.” 

  A grin had spread across his lips under the helmet at their own teasing reply, and he found himself closing the distance between them once more. One of his gloved hands had came to their cheek, tilting their head to look up at him. In response one of their own hands, paint stains and all, covered his. He had watched them for a bit like this, before finally pressing his helmet against their forehead. 

A Keldabe kiss.

  He wasn’t sure if they knew exactly what he was doing, but he would explain everything to them soon enough. For now, he just enjoyed the moment he was sharing with them. His eyes closing, as his arms had moved to wrap themselves around the artist to hold them closely. 

They had then stood embracing each other for a while, just allowing each other to take in the other's presence while they did. Honestly Din found himself never wanting to let go of them again—a feeling foreign but not unpleasant for him. 

  Din couldn’t explain why it felt so right to be this close to someone he barely knew. He couldn’t even understand why he had suddenly wanted to spend the rest of his life with this person. The only thing known to him in this moment was that before him stood a person who would be forever intertwined with him.

 His clan of two had become a clan of three.  

-- 

Tags:

@murdermewithbooks @hdlynnslibrary @imalovernotahater @askalphapazvizla @​onlydarth @mandodjarin  @pedrosdoll @fleurdemiel145 @anothermoronintransition

I think I got everyone that either wanted to be tagged or seemed interested in it. Sorry for any missed tags and for any unwanted tags >.< 

[minuteminx]

Revolutionary

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

Chapter Five: Coast’s Clear

Chapter Summary:    Charlie doesn't know many things for certain since she woke up in the future, but one thing she does know is that she will never watch someone she loves die again. Not if there's something she can do about it.

[First Chapter]

[Previous Chapter]

[AO3 Link]

“For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.”

― Jennifer Donnelly, Revolution

Quincy Ruins, June 2288

Charlie hadn’t lived in Massachusetts for long when the bombs fell.   She and Nate moved up from West Virginia in July of 2077, she’d gotten a position as a postdoctoral fellow in neuropsychology at Medford Memorial Hospital, more than a  little  excited to make use of her shiny new degree.  Shaun was born two months later.  After spending most of her life moving from place to place for her education, she was ready to settle down. She never made it that far.

Needless to say, she’d also never made it down to Quincy.  Though, at the moment, she desperately wished she had.

Preston had this way of looking at her sometimes when he thought she didn’t notice, a lingering glance over his shoulder, a careful observation of her face as if he expected to find some twinkle of pre-war nostalgia in her eyes when entering a new area, memories from a time when the air didn’t reek of sulfur and rotting flesh, and no one had to worry whether or not they’d be run out of their homes and mowed down by mercenary cults.  She could offer him no solace.  She could barely even look him in the eyes.

In more comfortable times over the past eight months since they had met, he simply asked her if she was familiar with locations or landmarks.  Once, he asked her if she had fought in the Battle of Bunker Hill, and she informed him that she was two hundred and thirty-seven years old, not well over five hundred.  His smile had wrinkled up his eyes that day as he laughed away the embarrassment.  Today, there were no stories to be told, no jokes or laughter, just Preston, Charlie, Amelia, a handful of other Minutemen and a large pile of ashes that used to have names.

“I don’t like this,” Charlie muttered, more to herself than anything.

She jumped when Preston replied, “Me neither.  Not one bit.”  

She hadn’t expected him to hear her, or even pay attention.  She could barely see his eyes from under the shadow cast by his hat, but she didn’t need to see to know that he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t one to wear the overwhelming grief he experienced on his face, anyway.  The last time they’d visited a Minutemen graveyard, as the Lexington Super Duper Mart had turned out to be, he had to excuse himself from a barricaded room filled with deceased members of the militia.  She found him in the feral-corpse littered hallway, green around the gills and sweating.  He didn’t have a weak stomach, but reminders of his loss seemed to impact him viscerally.  She wondered how he managed to keep his composure now, standing in the place where it all started.

She was drawn from her thoughts by a thunderous boom that left her ears ringing.  She hated that noise. Looking up towards the direction of the blast she saw a small, mushroom-cloud pouring up from a nearby building.  A fucking nuke. Hadn’t people learned a damn thing?

Charlie scanned the area for someone holding a Fat Man.  She’d been toe-to-toe with wielders of those atrocities enough times to know that she had to act, and fast.  Movement on the roof of the nearby church.  Just right if the belfry stood a large figure, someone in power armor, with the exact weapon.  Without another thought, she charged in his direction.  If she got close enough in range she could keep him from firing again.  He wouldn’t get another shot. Not if she had anything to do with it.

She tangled with very few Gunners on her way to the church, thankfully.  Most of them were distracted by the small militia that accompanied her.  A couple of grunts took shots at her once she made it inside, but they missed and she fired back, hitting each of them once.  She didn’t stop to make sure they were incapacitated.  There wasn’t time. She needed to get to the roof.

The stairs that led to the belfry were worn and rickety.  In less of a panic, she probably would have made her way up them gingerly, avoiding the obvious areas of dry rot.  Still, she managed to make it to the top without event.  She hoped the luck would stay on her side just a little bit longer.  She just needed to take out the Gunner with the Fat Man, or at least distract them long enough to protect the Minutemen. Her Minutemen.

“Hey,” Charlie shouted, pointing both of her pistols at the man loading a mini nuke into his gun, “Asshole!”

“What the--” he looked up from what he was doing just in time for her ballistic round to strike him between the eyes.

“Yes,” she said under her breath.  How had she gotten to the point where she felt relief at another person’s death?  Is this what the Commonwealth made of all its inhabitants?

She moved in closer to examine the man’s corpse, still standing erect in the power armor shell. A whole lot of good that did him. He was a relatively young man, mid-thirties, and she wondered if he had a family.  MacCready had been a Gunner once, he’d told her as they sat drinking whiskey in The Third Rail, bloodstained and bathed in red neon light.  It was a gig, a way of making money to support his young son when he had no better options.  What if this man had been just like him?  Charlie didn’t want to think about it.

Noting a fully loaded, modified laser pistol on the ground near the dead Gunner, she picked it up, discarding both of the 10mms in her hands.  They’d just been spares, and she was out of ammo anyway.  She also looted a stimpak and a good chunk of caps before standing up and adjusting her belt.  A loud crash of metal and puffing of hydraulics rose up from the street beneath her and she rushed to the edge of the roof, crouching to keep out of view.  

Preston. A more practical person would have noticed the handlebar mustache wearing the T60 first, the actual source of the commotion, but then again she never claimed to be practical.  Why was he alone?  Why hadn’t he fallen back to the gates with everyone else, where it was safe?  She’d run at a man shooting nukes to protect him and there he was out in the wide open, staring down who could only be the notorious traitor Clint, if the militia hat and sheer aura of son-of-a-bitch were any indication.  It was out of character for Preston to be so reckless.  Maybe he’d forgotten that was her job.

The two men spoke, but she was too far away to make out any of the conversation.  She’d never seen Preston look so visibly angry or shaken.  She needed to get to him before something bad happened, but she needed to be careful.  Frantically, she dug through her various pockets looking for one item in particular. Hoping, praying she still had it.

She smiled and let out a sigh of relief as she pulled the stealth boy from her satchel.  That Railroad operative, Deacon, had given it to her as a welcome gift when she’d agreed to help him out.  At the time, she’d shrugged it off as a passive aggressive commentary on her lack of discretion.  She’d have to thank him next time they crossed paths.

Charlie rushed back inside the church tower, and down the rickety steps as quickly as she could, flipping open the cap of the stealth boy and pressing the button as she did so.  By the time she reached the street, she was completely invisible.  Later, when she and Preston were safe and sound back at Sanctuary, she’d ask Sturges how it worked.

As she crept her way up behind Clint, the man reared back and punched Preston so forcefully it sent him flying into an old junked out Corvega parked nearby.  She brought her invisible hand to her invisible mouth to keep herself from gasping audibly.  As far as she knew, stealth boys weren’t sound proof.  She took some deep steadying breaths, ignoring the burn of tears in her eyes.  Now wasn’t the time to lose her shit.

Moving into position directly behind Clint, she noticed Preston’s eyes on her.  He must have noticed the movement in the air.  She lowered the stealth field, watching relief wash over his face as she smiled and drew her finger to her lips.  Clint would not take him away from her.  She wasn’t in a cryochamber this time, and she would not stand helplessly by and watch someone she loved die.  Never again.

“What’s so fucking funny,” she heard him ask Preston who was, despite it all, laughing.  

“Nothing man,” Preston answered, slurring his words in a way that made Charlie uneasy, “Nothing at all.”

She took that opportunity to fire, aiming her fancy new pistol at the legs of Clint’s power armor.  She had noticed that they were damaged as she moved in, knew it wouldn’t take much to disable them.  Sure enough, after a half-dozen or so shots, the T60’s leg’s locked up, forcing the man to jump out.  He turned in her direction as soon as he did so.

“You little bitch ,” he snapped, and christ, if Charlie didn’t hate being called a bitch.

He tried to raise his weapon and fire at her, but she’d already pulled the trigger, launching a blast of burning red energy into his chest, and filling her nostrils with the sterile scent of ozone.  She holstered her weapon and hovered over him for a minute, shaking her head.  “I’m not a bitch.”

Charlie then brought her eyes back up to Preston, where he sat leaned up against the car, worry tightening her chest.  It wasn’t a good sign that he hadn’t even tried to stand up yet, so unlike him to not make an attempt to brush off his injuries and press forward.  She ran over and knelt down in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and turning it to the left, then the right to check for any signs of external bleeding.  When she saw nothing more than a couple of superficial scrapes she brought up her pip boy and flashed a bright beam of light into each of his eyes.

Shit , she thought, but hid her worry behind a laugh as he flinched and squirmed away from the light.   Only one of his pupils had responded to the flash, which meant that he had a concussion at the very least.  She refused to entertain the other possibilities at the moment.  The tears she had held back just minutes earlier returned to her eyes, and she didn’t fight them this time.

“You’re okay,” she told him, kissing his forehead reflexively, “Looks like you might have a concussion, but you’re safe.  I’m here.”

He blinked up at her a few times, and she wished she could live up to that version of her that reflected in his eyes.  She wished desperately that she could be everything he needed her to be, but with Shaun, and the Institute, and--

“You’re really scary sometimes,” he interrupted her snowballing thoughts, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, “You know that?”

She knew she shouldn’t take any of his concussed statements seriously, but an embarrassed laugh bubbled up from her chest, and she couldn’t hold his gaze.  “I’m sorry, I just… I’d just watched Clint knock you into the car, and he was about to kill you, and I just…”

She trailed off, internally chastising herself for failing to conjure up a coherent response.  She wasn’t even the one with the head injury.  A gentle tap, and tug at her chin guided her eyes back to Preston.  He let his hand linger where it was as his smirk turned into a full-on smile.

“No,” he said, laughing softly, and shaking his head, “It’s kinda hot.”

Heat rose to her face and she snorted gracelessly at his compliment.  She didn’t know how or what to feel, couldn’t put her finger on why his affection made her so overwhelmingly sad.  She shrugged it off and wiped a tear from her face. “Jesus, you hit your head harder than I thought.”

He didn’t respond, and his eyes fluttered closed instead, hand falling limply from her face.  Panic surged up into her chest and she leaned forward to catch him from falling over on his side.

“Preston,” she called out frantically, as she repositioned herself so that she could ease his head down onto her lap, removing his hat and setting it on the ground by her hip. “Preston?”

Again, no response.  “God damnit,” she snapped, slamming the side of her fist into the metal of the car door behind her, body finally giving into the sobs she’d been fighting, sobs that weren’t solely in response to present events.  She doubled over, knuckles turning white around the fabric of his duster she clenched in her fists.

“I’m sorry, Preston,” she whimpered, knowing he couldn’t hear her, knowing it didn’t matter because she would continue to let him down. “I’m so sorry.”

Charlie stiffened at the sound of footsteps, straightening up to see Amelia, her long brown hair flying out of it’s braid, followed by the others who’d accompanied them.  She found herself wishing MacCready was there, Codsworth, Sturges, anyone except the contingent of unfamiliar faces peering down at their commanding officer having a temper tantrum. Amelia glanced between Charlie and Preston, pretty blue eyes filled with concern.

“He’s okay,” Charlie explained, scrubbing tears away from her swollen face, “Just unconscious. He hit his head pretty bad.”

“What happened?”

“Clint-- at least I think that guy over there’s Clint-- hit Preston so hard he sent him flying into this,” Charlie pointed to the car behind her and watched as Amelia approached the body of the man Charlie’d just killed.

The woman frowned, shook her head, and kicked the corpse before returning to Charlie’s side. “That’s Clint alright, the bastard.”  She offered Charlie a reassuring smile, and then glanced down at Preston, “You got a stimpak on you, General?”

Charlie recalled the one she picked up from the Gunner she’d taken out.  She could have slapped herself for not thinking of it sooner.  She reached into one of the pouches on her belt and pulled it out, showing it to the other woman.  

“Perfect.  Let’s give it to Preston, just in case he’s more banged up than he looks.”  She took the syringe from Charlie’s shaking hand gently and removed the cap, and jammed it into Preston’s upper arm.  He jerked slightly at the pain, but didn’t stir.  Amelia continued speaking, “What do you say we have a couple of the boys move him someplace comfy?  There are some abandoned apartments up the street.”

“Yes.” Charlie nodded.  “What about the--”

“Coast’s clear.  Any of the Gunners we didn’t kill ran off.” Amelia smiled.  “Quincy’s ours again.”

[gothhisoka]

ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬 𝔵 𝔒ℭ 𝔖𝔪𝔲𝔱

Warnings: minors DNI, 18+, nsfw, smut, too seggcy for tumblr?

Word count: 3.9k

Background: This is chapter 19 of my fanfic called Hunter University! You can read it on either Wattpad or AO3 by clicking here. Right now, both my OC and Chrollo are drunk after a night out at a ball. They had their first kiss there, and now Chrollo showed up for more(?). He got in trouble at the ball and said he would meet Reiko later. And here he is now.

Chrollo was surprised Reiko looked so intact. He was sure she would come waddling to the door in pajamas as she did the last time he visited her room. Although it had been an hour since the ball ended, her makeup hadn't smudged a bit. Sure, it was faded, and her hair was significantly messier, but overall she looked as remarkable as she did at the start of the ball.

Her tired eyes widened with surprise at the sight of him. He was just as unimpaired as she was. Though now he was missing his suit jacket. His hair had become slightly disheveled, losing its styled waves. He still had on those signature silver rings and little cross earrings.

Reiko attempted to soak in his sight with her intoxicated brain. He looked even more captivating in this particular state.

Her drunkenness had faded a bit but it was surely still there. With a quick rest, she had come to comprehend all that had transpired in the courtyard. Although she had a couple of first kisses to go off of, none were quite like this. Not one made her as flustered as this. Perhaps it was due to Chrollo's quiet yet domineering personality that she didn't know what to make of it.

But after all, he was true to his word. That meant more to her than he could ever imagine. However, it was unclear why he had come back. Maybe for a second round? Reiko could only hope.

"What happened?" Reiko asked. She had the right to know after he left her on the dance floor alone.

She couldn't even bother to be mad. Her intellect said to be angry but her heart failed her. It fluttered at the sight of him. He hadn't even stepped into her room yet.

"Nothing you should worry about," he replied.

Ok, maybe she could bother to be a little mad. How much more would she have to not worry? She ached to know his business. That's what comes after a first kiss, right? They owed it to each other to be truthful. At least as truthful as they could be without getting into the matter of secret missions and such.

Reiko stepped aside to let him in and shut the door. Her room was the same as the last time he saw it, with her drawings hung on the walls and lights strung above the desk. Their small bulbs reflected against the night-stained window.

Upon shutting the door, the tension noticeably rose. It was dark in the small space and they were alone. Again. The last time they were alone like this was only hours earlier in the courtyard. Reiko hoped that this encounter was heading in the same direction.

"No, really what happened?" Reiko looked at him with worry, despite his comment.

Chrollo decided to give a partial truth. Better than no truth at all. He shrugged, "I got off with a week-long addition to my suspension. It's really nothing to worry about. I could have got off with a lot worse but..."

Chrollo took his black dress shoes off near the door, placing them neatly side by side.

So he plans on staying. Reiko tried to hide a smile. The hour of his visit was surely suspicious. There could be only one thing on his mind.

He paused, noticing a drawing on the wall behind the place where the door would otherwise be covering.

He had begun to walk around the room, absentmindedly stopping at a piece of art from time to time. Reiko was too tired to care. The collection included nature scenes, portraits of people he didn't recognize, anatomy studies, and...

A full-body anatomy study of Reiko herself. To be specific, it would fit further in the category of a glorified nude. It was on a miniature piece of parchment sketched in charcoal. It was obviously her: the woman had her long wavy hair and distinct mouth and nose. The paper was hardly noticeable amongst the scatter of papers. You wouldn't see it unless you had a careful eye such as that of Chrollo.

He continued his sentence, now making a terrible attempt to hide a smile, "...But I'm in good standing with the school."

Reiko hardly noticed when he reached the particular spot on her wall. Her tiredness had waned significantly with Chrollo's entrance, but it still fogged her mind.

Additionally, she had long forgotten about her secret behind-the-door location for her drawings that were not meant to be seen by a single soul, including herself.

At the time, she had thought the self-nude might bring her some confidence. It had not. This explains the placement of it in her room.

She didn't lack confidence with her physical form, necessarily. If anything, she felt lewd and embarrassed by any sexual expression. She was not used to being open about it. Being brought up in a small town with a watchful mother had resulted in years of repression and secret partners. This restraint had begun to wane in college, to now, where she was finally becoming comfortable with herself.

She wanted nothing more than to experiment with the boy in front of her. He wouldn't be her first, but certainly, he would be her best.

The sheer amount of tension in the room proved this fact. Reiko was sure they both felt it. She wasn't about to suggest anything outright though. She wasn't that forward.

I probably shouldn't be looking at him like that. This man reads minds, remember?

"Well, that's good. So what're you doing here?" Reiko spoke nonchalantly, acting like she didn't just fantasize about putting the sheer amount of tension between them to use.

Chrollo opened and shut his mouth, his response escaping him. He turned back to her and used his eyes to convey a craving far deeper than any words could admit.

"I said I would come to find you, didn't I?" He said lowly.

When will we stop beating around the bush? Reiko smiled darkly. That was the answer, or lack thereof, that she had anticipated. The heat in the room shot through the roof. She was sure if she checked the temperature it would be well above its normal chilly state. Perhaps it was the heat in her cheeks that was causing such a change.

Reiko thought she had a good idea of why he had come to her room at one o'clock in the morning after a night of drinking and questionably close dancing. She couldn't be certain, though, because that was just how he was: unpredictable and exceedingly complicated.

Luckily, Reiko was prepared with a response. She never failed to come ready for something she could expect. And this, the direction in which their encounter is headed, is inevitable. She had been rehearsing the line in her head for the duration of their conversation like reviewing terms for a test.

This was the only way to test if her assumptions were correct.

Blame it on the champagne if I am wrong. But I really hope I'm right.

Reiko looked directly at him. Time to be daring.

She took a breath and did her best to maintain eye contact, "Oh, did you?"

Walking towards him, she placed a hand at the hem of her dress. Her delicate fingers wrapped around its lacy fabric.

"Well, I actually do need some help. You see, this dress is quite difficult to take off by myself..."

Chrollo looked amused. He sized Reiko up, looking from her hand holding the hem of her dress to her unfazed expression. Unfazed, yet her cheeks were slowly turning a shade of scarlet. Nice try, Chrollo thought.

He gestured, "Turn around."

Reiko obeyed. She desired something far more than the unzipping of her dress, but she was not presumptuous enough to say it. The expression on Chrollo's face told her that he was hoping for the same thing. He hid many emotions well, but being turned-on wasn't one of them.

Chrollo brushed Reiko's hair away from the zipper, delicately placing it over her shoulder. His fingers purposefully grazed her back as he did this, causing Reiko's breath to hitch slightly.

His hands moved to the zipper, carefully pulling it down. It went past the clasp of her bra to her lower back. There was complete silence. Both were still.

Chrollo was the first to move. He pulled Reiko close to him so that her back was touching him. His left arm wrapped across her chest possessively, holding her in a tight embrace. With his other hand, he brushed her hair back from her ear. He still smelt of sweet alcohol. Clearly, he was slightly drunk as well, for the next words he said couldn't be uttered by a sober man.

His whispered breath tickled her neck, husky with the threat of sleep, "I want you so bad right now."

Reiko tensed with a surge of want. Her impression had been right. He let his strong arm remain around her, patiently waiting for a response.

She choked out her reply, "The feelings' mutual."

Under his touch, her streak of audacity from earlier dissolved into compliancy. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to submit to his words.

With complete control, Chrollo took her shoulder and turned her around. Her dress was now loose on her shoulders. He placed his hands around her hips firmly. He looked at her under his thick eyelashes and slowly leaned in. The pressure was growing to an unbearable level, but he still wouldn't go all the way.

Then his lips crashed against hers with the force of weeks of pent-up desire. It was unbelievable how different this kiss was from the one they shared only hours ago. This one didn't speak of courtesy, of patience. This was raw passion. It was furious and messy. Reiko preferred this to sensitive steps around the intensity they both craved.

"You must still be drunk," Reiko said playfully as they both pulled away to catch their breath. She held her hand to Chrollo's chest. His heart was beating surprisingly fast.

Whats happening isn't connected to any feelings. He's drunk, that's all. As Reiko thought this, she still couldn't help but beam up at him.

"If I'm drunk, then what are you?" Chrollo said with a lazy smirk.

"I'm drunk as well."

Chrollo threaded his hands through her hair, pulling the long strands through his fingers. He pulled her in close again with his hand at the back of her head.

Reiko opened her mouth to allow for Chrollo's tongue to slip in. He lessened the intensity and slowly moved his tongue against her own tongue and lips. She couldn't help but let out soft moans that made Chrollo weak at the knees.

He pushed her against the wall to deepen their kiss. Drawings fluttered down, becoming detached with the sudden movement. Including that drawing.

Chrollo pulled away, much to Reiko's shock. She was left panting with reddened cheeks. Please don't let this end now.

He displayed a shit-eating grin. Even with his ego, in the current moment, his expression made Reiko melt. His face was inches from hers, looking down into her blue eyes.

He shifted his gaze down to the floor and said, "Nice drawing you have there."

Reiko finally noticed what he had been so smug about. Shit. Her face flushed ten different shades of scarlet.

Chrollo leaned in as he did before and murmured in her ear, "I wish I could see the real thing."

Reiko failed to not show her excitement. The way her eyes lit up exposed her. "I can arrange that."

At that, Chrollo leaned in again, this time moving to Reiko's neck. His lips fluttered down her throat to her collarbone. Reiko leaned her head back and tried to control her uneven breath.

His lips reached the edge of the neckline on her dress. He raised his eyes to meet Reiko's, asking for permission to go further.

She let out a breathy, "Yes. Please."

What she wanted to say was, Please, take me now.

It could be too soon for him, they had their first kiss that very night. But based on how this was going, Reiko expected it was leading to something more. Whatever that was, she wished she could know right now. The growing tension between her thighs began to ache.

Chrollo slipped his hand across Reiko's pale skin to the hemline of her dress, moving it completely off of her shoulder and down her arms. Her black see-through bra was now in full-view. Her nipples grew hard at the sudden exposure.

At least I went with my fancy bra. She suddenly grew very shy. The last time she went even this far was years ago. Her slim body resulted in average-sized breasts, but Chrollo didn't seem to care.

He evidently liked the lingerie as well for his hands immediately traveled to her breast to caress it as he continued to kiss her.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her neck. Reiko's heart fluttered at his words.

Chrollo then moved his lips progressively further down as he slipped her dress off of her body. Soon her underwear came into view, then her feet. He helped her step out of the dress.

"Your turn," Reiko said, unbuttoning his shirt. All the while he continued to distractingly leave lazy kisses upon her face, one on her forehead, her cheek, her lips.

After an agonizingly long time, Reiko pulled off his shirt. Fuck.

She knew he would be defined. But him, this boy standing in front of her, resembled more of a greek statue than an actual human. It looked like his body had been sculpted by the finest stone on earth. He had a six-pack, defined pectoral muscles, and prominent collarbones. His biceps flexed as he leaned his hand against the wall, bracing himself. It was Reiko who needed to brace herself. Her breath hitched again at the sight of him.

She ran a hand up his firm body as she planted her lips upon his once again. This time Chrollo put his hands beneath her thighs, his fingers pressing into her soft skin. He picked her up easily. She wrapped her legs around him as he brought her to the bed, kissing him all the while.

He dropped her down gently, releasing his grip off of her thighs. Reiko took this time to look up at him and admire the beauty of his aroused state. He had a dangerous and wild look, with touseled hair and a constant smile playing at his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes were lazily focused upon her.

They continued to make out on the bed, its white silk sheets creating an angelic halo around Reiko. Chrollo couldn't stand looking at her like this, underneath him. It was far too much power for one man to hold.

Reiko reached to her back to undo the clasp of her bra. She threw it to the ground. Chrollo immediately began to touch her naked tits in a way that made her want to dissolve. He moved in circles around her nipples first, watching as they grew harder under his expert touch. Then he moved his mouth to the sensitive area, playing with her and biting slightly. Reiko audibly moaned at the gesture. Damn the neighbors.

Chrollo sensed her desire to take it further. He looked up, grey eyes filled with lust, "Reiko...let me pleasure you."

It wasn't the suggestion Reiko was expecting, but she was satisfied nonetheless. She didn't care about anything in the world besides what he could do to her at this moment, whatever it may be.

"If you say my name like that you can do anything you want to me," Reiko said breathily. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Chrollo smirked and moved to take off her soaking underwear. Under his pants, his dick grew visibly harder. He threw the underwear onto the floor.

Gently placing his finger at her throbbing core, he began to stroke. Upon receiving his touch Reiko's back arched involuntarily. She was beyond eager.

"Fuck... Chrollo..."

This served as encouragement for him to insert his finger deeper into her, curling it slightly. It hit Reiko's g-spot repeatedly, illiciting ungodly sounds from her.

As he was doing this, he slowly positioned himself on top of Reiko, grabbing onto the bed frame with his spare hand. He just wanted to look at her face as she opened her mouth in delight.

He inserted one more finger which caused Reiko's arousal to heighten. God, he really knows how to do this.

Just as Reiko felt the heat in her core escalating, he slid his finger out. She whimpered in protest.

Chrollo looked down at her with a wicked smile. "Beg for it."

Oh fuck.

She gladly would. It was more her instincts speaking than any coherent thought.

"Please... Chrollo..." she said between breaths.

She wanted to not only plead for him, she wanted to worship him.

"More."

He belonged in line next to holiness. His fingers and mouth were sacred. He had made her feel like a divine being with his gentle to intense strokes. And oh god, did she eat it up.

"FUCK please do that again," Reiko exclaimed.

It was enough to convince him. Chrollo moved his face towards her slickened pussy.

Is he about to...

He pushed his hair back out of his face with his clean hand, his forehead tattoo revealed. For only a second, he raised his eyes to gaze into Reiko's. She fell for him all over again at that simple glance.

Then he entered her. His tongue made her want to weep. He devoured her insides, soaking up the salty juices. She couldn't help but hold his head, pulling it closer to her body. She ran her hand through his soft black hair. There was so much heat between them that they were both perspiring.

Reiko began to shudder." I'm going to... oh... fuck," she gasped.

She felt the sweet release of cum spread below her onto the sheets and Chrollo himself. She felt self-conscious for a moment. That is until Chrollo began to lick up her juices. He ran his tongue up her soft thighs.

"You taste so fucking good, darling."

Chrollo looked at her like he had fallen all over again as well. Reiko grinned back at him. Her cheeks grew even redder, if possible. Her heart screamed at her to continue but she was too physically exhausted to move. Still, wouldn't Chrollo want his turn?

She laid there, naked and panting on the silk sheets. Chrollo flopped next to her, unaffected beside his flushed cheeks and a wide grin.

The lights were still low in the little room. Looking out the window, Reiko saw that the sun had yet to rise. This was a positive fact because the only thing Reiko needed to do now was to sleep. And preferably, cuddling with the boy next to her. She hoped he would stay. It was more than hope, really. Her body couldn't spend any more time away from him after that.

Damn. He was good. He was really, really fucking good.

He knew his way with words, to begin with. He said exactly what needed to be said to escalate her arousal. She wanted to worship those fingers, the way he so expertly felt around her like he had memorized a map. And his tongue was even more worthy of revere.

Reiko flipped over to her elbows. Her breasts brushed against the bedding, noticeably making Chrollo gulp. Reiko boldly reached to touch the front of his pants.

"You don't want a turn?" she smirked.

"This was more than enough for me."

He stared into her eyes as if he was calculating a complex math problem rather than looking at the girl who just received the best head of her life.

Reiko yawned, despite herself. Her body ached with all the action of the night.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll be here."

Those were the last words she heard before her eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion stilled her naked body. Chrollo reached to turn off the bedside lamp.

He wasn't nearly as tired. He could've gone for a couple more rounds, perhaps take it a step further if Reiko so desired. But he knew she needed the sleep. Most of her makeup had rubbed off, displaying the dark circles under her eyes.

She must have not slept for a while. He wondered if it was his doing.

He hadn't been sleeping lately either. Ever since the painting theft, to be exact. The guilt ate at him in the late hours of the night. I shouldn't have used her like that. But why? What do I feel for her? Why do I feel for her, in particular?

He had a feeling this would be his first sound sleep for a long while.

He slipped off his pants and threw them onto the floor with the rest of the clothes. He found the soft sheets and pulled them across Reiko and himself. The bed was small but cozy. His strong chest was flush against her back.

Her soft brown hair smelt of a summer day, like sunlight and wildflowers. He took this opportunity to feel up the rest of her glorious body. He ran his hand lightly from her shoulder to her hip-dips, to her thighs. All of it was holy to him.

He moved her closer with his arm, protectively wrapping it across her front. Somehow holding her like this felt far more intimate than any sexual activity. The way the moonlight graced her skin was majestic.

How had he fallen so hard, so fast? It was unlike him to act with such recklessness.

Through it all, he still had his mind. Reiko had no way to tell the extent of his feelings. He made sure of this. His libido could act one way, that was clear from tonight. But he was an expert at controlling his outward emotions. She would never know. If she did, it would be over for him. All the planning will be for naught.

He closed his eyes before he could fall upon any more worries. He had already pondered the issue for many sleepless nights.

He fell into a dreamless slumber, Reiko safe in his arms. They both slept soundly until the sun peaked through the window, signaling the first day of the rest of their lives.

[bloodfromthethorn]

CPR

When Bozer hits the floor and stops breathing, a little part of Mac dies too.

Part twelve of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3.

..

Despite Jack’s insistence that Mac had only done it to keep him safe, there had actually been a whole host of reasons behind his decision not to tell Bozer about his job. There was all the legal stuff, for one – Mac might know that Boze was no threat to anyone, but that didn’t mean that telling him the truth wasn’t a violation of the espionage act. He also didn’t want to worry him. Bozer had been devastated to learn that Mac had signed up to join the army, and he’d spent a solid two weeks not talking to him in protest; when Mac did eventually have to ship out, he made sure to send a care package every single month, without fail.

Then there was the simple fact that not telling him had been easy. Not the keeping secrets part, that bit had been a total nightmare literally every day, but sometimes choosing to not have a difficult conversation was a lot more tempting than the alternative. As more and more time went on, it became even harder to consider telling him – now, not only would he have to explain his work and what he did, but he’d also have to justify lying to him about it ever since he’d arrived back in the States.

The problem had been a complicated one and ultimately, Mac had been a little relieved in the end when it was taken out of his hands. He wished that Bozer hadn’t been put in danger because of it, but as soon as he was in the know it felt like something was finally settling into place in Mac’s life in a way it hadn’t done in years. Even through all of the hardships Boze had suffered as a Phoenix agent, Mac hadn’t ever truly regretted his secret getting out.

Or at least, he didn’t right up until the moment Bozer’s body hit the floor and stayed down.

Mac thought he might have been screaming, but truth be told he was so far out of his own head with rage and pain and grief so sharp it cut right to bone that he couldn’t be sure. What he did know was that the sight gave him the sheer desperation he needed to finally, finally move the level on the bulkhead door. There was an almighty hiss as air swept through the cracked seal, restoring the lost pressure in Bozer’s cell; Mac alternated between watching his friend for any sign of movement and the pressure gauge on the wall beside him, impatiently waiting for it to stabilise enough for him to get the door open. As soon as the needle hit green, he was through.

“Bozer! Boze, can you hear me?” He rolled his friend over, uncaring the moment of being too rough with bruised skin, and dipped his head to put his cheek against his mouth. Nothing.

He wasn’t breathing.

The first time Mac had been taught CPR, he’d been 13 and spent most of the time bothering the instructor with what his teacher would later scold him for as too many questions. He’d found the process fascinating in a sort of abstract way, the very tangible essence of literally breathing life into a person, but he hadn’t really been able to grasp it on any deeper level. Then, the second time, he was 19 and sweating in an excessively warm gym, combat fatigues heavy on his skin. It hadn’t felt quite so distant when he could already hear the desert calling his name.

In the end, it had been that fear, that surety that sooner or later he would have to use that lesson to save the lives of innocent people, that had gotten the lesson to stick. Even now, a decade later, he could still remember the cushioned gym mats beneath his knees, the overly bright sunlight casting the room into flashes of gold and shadow, the rubbery taste of the dummy on his lips.

This was nothing like that. The metal floor was cold and unforgiving, the room barely lit by the flickering, dim halogen bulb hanging above him. Bozer’s skin damp with sweat.

He didn’t let it phase him. In the same instant he established that his friend wasn’t breathing, he was already tilting his head back and pressing their mouths together, waiting just long enough to make sure his chest was rising. A memory of his instructor rose, unbidden, reminding him that for asphyxiation and drowning he should start with five rescue breaths to restore the air that had been lost. Terrified and wholly refusing to acknowledge it, he obliged.

Even with the hurricane that was his thoughts rattling around in his head, it was surprisingly easy to fall into a rhythm. Thirty beats, pause for breaths; thirty beats, pause for breaths; thirty beats, pause for breaths – on and on. He made no attempt to keep track of how many cycles he worked through, monitoring time instead by the heaviness of his arms, the dripping sweat on his brow from the exertion, knowing all the while that eventually he wouldn’t be strong enough to keep going.

He didn’t care. His own comfort didn’t matter. Not when Bozer was lying here, was limp and lax and gone and all Mac could do was cycle through the same pattern he’d been taught so long ago in his desperate attempts to save him. If he had to keep going until it killed him too, well. There were worse endings.

A drop of sweat ran down his nose, clinging for a moment before his steady motion knocked it free and it splashed against his layered hands. Another followed it a few seconds later. It wasn’t until the third one fell that Mac realised it wasn’t sweat at all – it was tears. He was crying.

He was forcing himself not to think of the person beneath his hands as Bozer, trying to distance himself from the moment in a vain attempt at keeping himself together, but he suddenly realised that some part of him had already accepted the truth. Deep down, in a place so deeply buried even he couldn’t reach it, he was starting to drown. Grief welling up in his throat, threatening to choke him – if he let it get its claws in, there would be no coming back.

With a sob of effort, he pushed it away, and continued his compressions.

A sudden presence at his back startled him, but he didn’t falter in what he was doing. If it was an enemy here to kill him, then he was already dead and it didn’t matter; at least his last moments would be spent trying to save a friend. If it was Jack, then he didn’t need to worry.

Fortunately, the latter proved correct, and his partner crashed to his knees opposite him, his face as serious as Mac had ever seen it. He took in the entire situation with a sweeping look, lingering on Mac’s tears and the trembling in his arms, then nodded.

“Switch out on next breaths,” he said, so calm and sure that Mac didn’t even entertain the idea of arguing. He just kept counting until he hit thirty, then ducked down to breathe for his friend. When he leaned back up, Jack was already in place and pressing down hard on Bozer’s chest.

Robbed of his constant, steady pattern, Mac felt oddly bereft. The repetitive action had given him something to do, kept his hands occupied – without that, he was left to sit there, stunned, with nothing to do but think. That was something he couldn’t bear. Instead, he forcibly turned his attention to the chatter that had been going on in his earpiece the entire time.

“The tac-team is closing in on the ship now,” Matty was saying, her voice empty and strained. “ETA to your location is about six minutes.”

Back up was good, at least. It meant that if Jack had missed any hostiles while he was off sweeping the ship, there’d be someone around to deal with them. Mac couldn’t even pretend to care about the state of the mission in that instant, but he was adamant that the people who had done this to his friend would not be allowed to get away with it. One way or another, he was going to make sure they faced justice.

The reminder of why Jack had been absent suddenly redrew his attention, and he quickly gave his partner the once over he hadn’t had the capacity to do when he’d been the one giving CPR. Jack didn’t look injured at all, and if there was anything hidden under his dark clothes, he certainly wasn’t letting it slow him down as he jolted down hard over Bozer’s heart-

Mac’s throat snapped closed with sudden, shocking grief. Boze hadn’t moved an inch from where Mac had put him in his desperate rush to get him on his back and start resuscitation, laying there still as the-

No.

No.

He didn’t know if he made a noise, or if Jack really was just that in tune with Mac’s inner workings, but his partner glanced up at him while he continued his compressions. “Stay with me Mac,” he gasped breathlessly, the effort of the cycle getting to him. Sweat was beading on his forehead. “He’s okay.”

It was an obvious and clear lie, but Mac could at least appreciate the effort.

He could feel his sanity hanging by a thread, noticeably straining past the point of endurance. Ever since that door had closed on Bozer and the air pump had started up, something in Mac had curled up and dropped through the bottom of his stomach; until his friend was breathing again, he wasn’t ever going to get that back. Some part of him would always be here, buried in the depths of a cargo ship in the middle of the Indian ocean.

This time he felt the sound building up in his throat before it emerged, and he swallowed it down. Jack was busy enough right now; he didn’t need to be worrying about Mac too. Instead, he stuck out an arm and gripped Bozer’s hand like a lifeline. He knew it wouldn’t help, but it might just give him something to anchor to.

“C’mon Boze,” he murmured, his voice thick with tears. “Come on.”

There was a rumble of feet on metal floors, and a couple of seconds later a medic appeared in the doorway, flanked by two members of the tac team. Mac recognised all three, but his senses were stretched so thin with stress that he couldn’t immediately recall any of their names. Rather than worry about it, he forced himself to move, reluctantly releasing Bozer’s hand so that the medic could settle at his side while Jack continued CPR across from him. Now hovering directly beside his best friend’s head, Mac couldn’t bring himself to do much more than stare.

“You’re both doing great,” the medic said calmly as he hurriedly dug through his bag. “Keep that up Dalton.”

“Wasn’t planning on stoppin’,” he grunted back, straining with the effort. If Mac’s arms hadn’t turned to jelly when he wasn’t paying attention, he’d offer to tag back in.

The doctor smiled at the attempted humour but didn’t let it distract him. In practiced motions, he used his brief access to Boze’s chest while Jack was doing rescue breaths to slice open his t-shirt with scissors, and connected him up to the AED he’d apparently had the foresight to bring with him.

“Agent MacGyver?” The medic said tentatively, suddenly pausing to send him a steady look.

Mac stared back.

“I know you’ve been trained with this,” he said, indicating the defibrillator. “Can you monitor it while I do my checks?”

If he’d been more with it, Mac might have recognised that he was being given an incredibly easy job just to keep him in the present without the others needing to monitor his mental state. As it was, all he could do was nod solemnly and take the AED when it was handed to him. The machine beeped and whirred, trying to pick up Boze’s heartrate.

“Do not touch the patient. Analysing heart rhythm.”

Mac pressed a shaking hand to Jack’s shoulder, pushing him ever so slightly backwards until he snapped out of the trance he’d fallen into and obediently sat back on his heels. The pair of them stared at the little machine, holding their breaths as they waited for its pronouncement. The medic, having completed his own checklist on Bozer’s condition had turned to have a conversation with the tac team in rapid, hushed whispers.

“Shock advised. Do not touch the patient.”

Mac let out a faint, breathless sob – it was about the best outcome they could have hoped for. If it was detecting a shockable rhythm, there was a chance. There was a loud, ear-splitting beep, then a couple of seconds later it chirped, “Shock delivered. It is now safe to touch the patient. Continue CPR.”

Jack was already there, waiting. As soon as he heard the announcement, he felt right back into his pattern.

Apparently finished with his conversation, the medic turned back to them both. “Okay boys, I think it’s time to get out of here, don’t you? We’re going to get him onto this backboard, and our friends here are going to do all the heavy lifting, okay? MacGyver, I need you watching that AED.” He waited until they’d both nodded before pulling the backboard he’d abandoned by the door into place and gesturing to the tac team. “Alright. On three.”

..

The helicopter ride back to the mainland was probably one of the longest of Mac’s entire life. It could only have been about half an hour, but to him it might as well have been years. The AED had determined Bozer’s heartrate was stable just as they made it off the ship, but even with his fingers pressed against his friend’s steady pulse, he couldn’t quite let go of the quiet horror that gripped him. Apparently neither could Jack, because the most he was able to manage when comforting his clearly-falling-to-pieces partner was to sling an arm around his shoulder and tuck him in tight to his side.

They stayed like that, still and silent, for the duration.

As soon as they hit the hospital’s landing pad, Bozer was rushed away by a swarm of doctors and nurses before either of them could even think to protest. Instead they were left sitting there, pressed together on the lip of the helicopter with absolutely no idea what they were supposed to do now.

“He wasn’t breathing Jack,” he said quietly. Despite it all, his voice was steady.

“I know, bud.”

“The pump was pulling air out of the room. He couldn’t breathe.”

“I know.”

“I was trying to get the door open, but the lever was rusted shut and I couldn’t-”

“Mac. I know.” Jack finally moved, swinging himself down from the helicopter to plant himself in front of his visibly spiralling partner. “I was on comms. I heard what happened. It was not your fault – not a single second of it. And- And I’m so sorry kiddo. I should have been there to help you.”

Mac shook his head fiercely, suddenly becoming aware that he was crying again but utterly unable to do anything about it. This wasn’t Jack’s fault. It wasn’t really his either and he knew that, but he couldn’t stop coming back to the fact that if he hadn’t signed up to work at DXS all those years ago, Bozer would be in LA right now, sitting on the couch and drinking a beer. Instead he’d been whisked off into an unknown hospital in India, in a city Mac didn’t even know the name of because he’d found himself incapable of tracking comms during the flight. He might not have been directly responsible for what happened, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t on him.

“I brought him into The Phoenix Jack,” he said, cutting off the steady stream of assurances his partner had been offering him. “I did this.”

“No, Mac. This is not on you. Not one bit.”

“He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me-”

Jack was shaking his head. “You can’t think like that man. I’m the one who dragged you into DXS in the first place. Do you blame me every time you get hurt?”

Mac hissed, offended by the very idea of it. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. And I was already a soldier- Boze was a civilian. He had a normal life!”

“I dragged you just as much as you dragged him,” Jack said firmly. “You think he didn’t make his own choices? Even when he started working at The Phoenix, he didn’t have to make the jump to the field. He could have stayed back in the lab, nice and safe, but he chose to be out here. It was his choice Mac. You don’t get to take that from him.”

The severity of Jack’s voice cut to the core of Mac’s panic, and it was a moment before he was able to properly process what he’d just said. Jack wasn’t wrong, not exactly, and yet- It didn’t feel like enough.

“He wasn’t breathing Jack.” That time his voice broke, and he along with it. Like a flawed house of cards, he crumbled into Jack’s arms with a gasping sob, letting the stress and anxiety and exhaustion finally wash over him like a tidal wave. Everything he’d forced himself to bury bubbled up in his throat and he choked on it, crying and gasping in equal measure as he utterly came to pieces.

Jack, steady as a rock, simply held him, silently running a soothing hand up and down his back. It was all they could do.

..

Neither of them had any concept of how much time had passed before a nurse managed to hunt them down to tell them that Bozer had been moved to a private room and was willing to receive visitors.

The announcement brought Mac up short, snatching at Jack for support. “Willing-? He’s awake?”

The nurse offered him a surprised smile. “Well, yes-” She must have caught their frozen expressions of shock, because she turned on her heel to face them head-on, adopting a calm, collected demeanour. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d been told. Your friend is going to be fine. He’s on an oxygen feed because his stats were a little low, but otherwise, he should make a full recovery in the coming days. I know it must have been scary, but there doesn’t appear to be any lasting damage at all. He was very lucky.”

Not lucky enough to not be friends with Mac, is what he didn’t say. In its place, he let out a gasping sigh of relief and just barely resisted the urge to sink to the floor in sudden, sheer exhaustion. There would be time for that later – right now he had to go and see his friend.

“Hear that Mac?” Jack murmured quietly as they followed the nurse inside. “He’s going to be just fine. It’s all okay. It’s over.”

For the first time since Bozer had stopped breathing, Mac thought he might just believe it.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, skylar102!

For @skylar102. I was overjoyed to see your likes included crack fic - which is exactly what I bring you this Christmas. You may recognise the concept and some of the scenes chosen for this fic. What can I say? You’re a very inspiring person!I hope I did the idea justice and that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 Much love,Your Secret Santa <3

Read On AO3

*****

Alec Lightwood: The Musical

Rolling drums accompanied him as he ran down the corridor, the sounds of woodwind and strings building as he drew closer to the doorway where he’d heard the commotion. The music drew him in and honed his focus, preparing him for the fight ahead. He strode through the doorway to find an unknown Warlock fending off a Circle member.

The Warlock was tall, almost as tall as Alec. Slender, with figure hugging clothing that hinted at the strong physique beneath. His hair was styled tall and striking, his outfit designed to draw attention. Clearly it was working, as Alec sucked in a shuddering breath. He couldn’t quite explain what he was feeling, but now wasn’t the time to let emotions cloud his judgement.

At that moment, the music broke, a scratching interlude cutting through the air and causing him to wince slightly before giving way to a new song. Alec narrowed his eyes, focussing his stare up at the corner of the room as if he could glare the speakers into submission. As if there were actual speakers there. He sighed and tried to block out the beeping and clapping, focussing instead on the Circle member in front of him.

He scoffed slightly, the arrogant Shadowhunter forgetting all his training in favour of taunting a warlock and not even noticing Alec was there. His limp grip on his seraph blade designed to look intimidating rather than actually being deadly as he waved it mockingly in front of his foe. Holding back an eye roll, Alec raised his bow, taking careful aim and loosing an arrow straight at the man’s heart.

Or he would have had the insipid voice echoing in the room not started moaning in a frankly inappropriate way, distracting him.

You got me trippin', stumblin', flippin', fumblin'

Clumsy 'cause I'm fallin' in love (in love)

This wasn’t a song he knew. Usually, in moments like this, whatever higher power decided to curse him with a personal playlist at least chose swelling instrumentals, epic and strong in their crescendos, that helped him focus on the fight - like the song that had been rudely interrupted by… Well, this. Today, apparently someone wanted to taunt him with the kind of music Izzy liked to dance around her room to.

He snapped back to attention as the Circle member yelled in pain, Alec’s arrow piercing his thigh instead. It wasn’t a lethal shot but at least it was enough to drop him to his knees, clutching the wound in agony and cutting off his frankly tedious monologue.

The warlock conjured a ball of electric blue energy, circling his hands to shape it before pushing it forwards into the rogue Shadowhunter, his shoulders flexing elegantly under the patterned material of his jacket. The circle member collapsed backwards, completely incapacitated or possibly even dead.

“Well done.” Alec almost immediately chastised himself internally for the dumb statement. As if a powerful warlock couldn’t take down a wounded Shadowhunter with ease.

Can't breathe, when you touch my sleeve

Butterflies so crazy, ummm, ummm

Whoa now? Think I'm goin' down

Friends don't know what's with me, mmm, mmm

“More like medium rare,” the Warlock responded, turning to face Alec. “I’m Magnus, I don’t think we've been formally introduced?”

The way Magnus’ body swayed as he made his way over to Alec could only be described as a saunter. Every part of his body moving in sync, like each step forward was part of a carefully choreographed, sensual dance. His warm brown eyes scanning Alec up and down, making Alec’s blood feel like lava coursing through his veins.

“Alec,” he stuttered out, cursing his own ineloquence. “Uh, we, should, uh, really, uh, probably, get, uh, you know.” He knew his face would be plastered with a dopey smile. He tried to focus on the mission, remembering all his Shadowhunter training and not let himself be distracted by how handsome Magnus was.

“We should join the party,” Magnus replied kindly, taking sympathy on Alec’s inarticulate stumbling.

You got me slippin', tumblin', sinkin', fumblin'

Clumsy 'cause I'm fallin' in love (in love)

Songs:

Moscow Symphony Orchestra - The Charge of the Light Brigade

Fergie - Clumsy

II

Alec fought to steady his breathing, schooling his features into as close to a smile as he could manage. This was supposed to be a happy occasion after all, he was marrying a good match. A woman of strong standing with the Clave, a woman who would help him restore his family’s name and lead the New York Institute to greatness.

The delicate instrumental that flowed around him was more sombre than your average wedding choice, but the music that had followed him for as long as he could remember was always in tune to his feelings as well as the wider situation. No one could ever explain where the sounds came from, no one else could hear them but he had his own radio station that followed him everywhere he went.

To his side, Brother Zachariah finished the traditional introduction. ‘No turning back now,’ he thought grimly, dragging in a deep breath. Lydia gripped her stele, reaching out to touch the tip to the ceremonial adamas block with a small smile tracing her lips. A smile that actually managed to reach her eyes. Alec supposed this was less of a compromise for her at least - she wasn’t hiding herself for the sake of a marriage. Objectively, he could see that she was beautiful. The dress hugged her lithe figure perfectly, her hair elegantly braided into an intricate style. But his observation was purely theoretical, based on appearances only with no deeper meaning behind them. It was like observing an exhibition in an art gallery or appreciating the orchestral chords currently filling his ears. He could recognise the grace and the skill, he could appreciate how other people would form a deep emotional connection, but for him it went no deeper than that.

Taking his hand, Lydia brought the glowing tip of the stele to his wrist to trace the wedded union rune when Alec’s head jerked up. At that moment the door slammed open in the distance, causing everyone else to look up in unison. A fraction of a second later, Magnus Bane appeared in the archway, halting in the middle of the aisle that Alec’s bride had not long since walked down.

Simultaneously, the instrumental had come to a stuttering halt only to be replaced by jarring guitar riffs and sirens.

And I'm glad I crashed the wedding

It's better than regretting

I could have been a loser kid

Who ran away and hid

But it's the best thing that I ever did

If Alec jumped in response, it was at least masked by the distraction Magnus Bane had caused.

Magnus held his head high, focussing his gaze on Alec. Alec felt his heart pound in his chest. In his periphery, he heard his mother speak out but her words were lost to the beat of the song filling the room for only his ears. His siblings were having a hushed conversation behind him, but all Alec could focus on was the warlock standing before him. Dressed impeccably as always, his hair swept high with just a hint of magenta glinting in the tips, his eyes lined with his customary makeup. This. This was what Alec was meant to feel when he looked at Lydia. The steady beat of his pulse, sure and certain. The thrum of electricity that vibrated across every inch of his skin. The way his breath caught in his throat. The sheer force of attraction.

His mom was stalking up the aisle towards the warlock, the set of her shoulders displaying just how angry the intrusion had made her. Magnus merely raised his hand, halting her in her lecture and moving further towards Alec. The display of determination and power frayed at the last of Alec’s resolve. Both Jace and Lydia were reaching out to him with words of support and encouragement. Lydia’s smile was wide but no longer touching her eyes as she tried to capture his attention.

“Alec, hey, Alec,” she leaned towards him, trying to angle herself into his eye line causing him to finally look away from Magnus.

“I- I can’t breathe.” He admitted. The bowtie knotted at his throat suddenly felt suffocating to him.

“I know, it’s ok,” she reassured, her voice soft but certain even over the crashing pop-punk that still assaulted his senses.

'Cause true love lasts forever

And now we're back together

As if he never met her

So looking back

I'm glad I crashed the wedding

“I can’t do this,” he admitted. “I thought we were doing the right thing but this isn’t it.” His words came out rushed, his breath constricting in his throat. He tried to keep his panic at bay but he felt trapped, surrounded by his family, his colleagues and clave delegates a like. There were too many people here expecting too much of him but he couldn’t go through with this.

“You don’t have to explain,” Lydia pursed her lips together.

“Lydia I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you deserve to be happy.” She reached out to cup his cheek, reassuring him with a soft smile. “OK? I’ll be fine.”

He could feel guilty about this later, find a way to make it up to her. Even though he knew deep down that he wasn’t just freeing himself from a future that wouldn’t make him happy, he was also freeing her.

He turned and scanned the room before his eyes settled on the one person that truly mattered in this situation, the one person who made whatever battles he was about to face feel manageable. It might be ridiculous, he might barely know Magnus but still, something told him this was a risk worth taking. He stepped down from the altar, putting a physical distance between himself and the ceremony he’d almost gone through with.

Magnus made no move, no indication of his intentions. Alec gulped, realising this was his move to make. He’d pushed the Warlock away so many times, ignoring their obvious chemistry. Now he had to be the one to make the next move.

Resolved, he pushed forward, long strides carrying him swiftly up the aisle. He saw his mom making her way towards him but he brushed past her, focussed only on the man in front of him.

He grabbed Magnus by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him in close and pressed their lips together. Ignoring everyone around him he focussed on this moment, their first kiss. The first of many he hoped. He felt the tension leave his body as Magnus’ lips moved against his. Around him the lyrics continued to echo, cementing in his mind that he’d made the right choice.

'Cause true love lasts forever (true love lasts forever)

Songs:

Chopin - Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Flat Minor

Busted - Crashed the Wedding

III

Alec knew that Max wasn’t the only person he loved who he could lose that day but the relief that his baby brother was alive, talking and already focussed on catching the bad guy was overwhelming. The moment was accentuated by a hum of soft piano music, hopeful notes filled with joy and family and love - a delicate yet mellow melody.

As Magnus made his excuses and turned to leave, the notes of the piano seemed to follow him, an air of yearning filling the room, a cloud threatening to overshadow Alec’s momentary relief. Izzy made eye contact with him, her pointed stare spurring Alec into action. With a sigh, he gave Max one last reassuring pat on the shoulder and followed Magnus from the room.

Magnus was still in the corridor, shoulders slumped and back to Alec. As had happened so often since meeting Magnus, the piano instrumental that had been moving through the day with him stuttered to a stop, almost as if someone had slammed down on the keys. Alec fought back the surprise, knowing that his relationship with Magnus needed to be the priority now. Knowing that he needed to reinforce to Magnus just how much he loved him, how serious he was about their relationship and building a better future for the entire Shadow World.

Magnus knew about his ‘condition’. He’d had no choice but to explain after a particularly ill timed joke from whatever decided his private torture for him. What should have been an intimate and emotional step in their relationship had been interrupted by Alec’s scowl as a crooning voice sang out “let’s get it on,” distracting him from his mission to divest Magnus of his clothes. It had coincided with the reveal of Magnus’ Warlock mark which had obviously not helped the tension in the room at all. Once Alec had explained rather awkwardly, Magnus had been understanding, if a little confused and they had managed to get things back on track. Magnus had even summoned a record player into the bedroom so they could share their first time together, in every way.

But even despite Magnus understanding, Alec was determined to focus on this conversation, determined to right the wrongs. They’d stumbled over communication and he wasn’t going to allow that to continue. He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, standing tall in parade rest trying to focus only on the man in front of him.

Please, tell me everything

That you think that I should know

“Thank you, so much, for being here,” Alec stumbled out. It wasn’t what he had meant to say. But it was still sincere. He still was grateful that despite all the drama surrounding their lives, Magnus was still kind enough to be here, to try to help in whatever way he could.

Magnus’s response was equally sincere, even if it felt like a brush off as he couldn’t meet Alec’s eyes as he wished Max well. As Magnus turned to leave, Alec realised this was his only chance to try to recover whatever they had.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Blunt and to the point, but again, his tone (he hoped) conveyed the sincerity he felt in every bone in his body. Magnus paused but didn’t turn. Fists clenching by his side, Alec continued “I should have told you about the soul sword.”

It's just for show, isn't it?

It's my fault that it fell apart

The catchy guitar riffs really weren’t helping him concentrate. And the lyrics, the lyrics needled at his every insecurity. By the Angel, if he ever worked out who was responsible for this ‘gift’ as the Silent Brothers put it, he would personally run them through with a seraph blade. Even Raziel himself would feel Alec’s wrath if that’s what it took. He needed the music to shut the hell up. He needed Magnus to turn around and tell him it was OK. He just needed this to be OK. Maybe if he admitted to his mistake, maybe they would have a shot at working it out.

Magnus turned to him though with such hatred in his eyes. He had finally made eye contact at least. Something which felt like it should have been an achievement but there was not even a hint of the love they had shared in those eyes.

Alec reached out, desperate and voice low, “You and me, we always seem to find our way back to each other.” He reached out and gripped at Magnus’ wrist as if hoping that he could push every single ounce of love he felt for Magnus, every bit of his apology, through that single point of contact.

“Magnus, I love you.”

Well, maybe you need this

And I didn't mean to lead you on

The nasally, pre-pubescent voice continued to grate at him even as he desperately declared his love for the man in front of him. Magnus’ expression softened. It was only a slight shift but it brought Alec a brief glint of hope that maybe this could be OK. Magnus reached up and rested his hand on Alec’s cheek, normally a sign of affection. Alec leaned into the touch as Magnus responded in kind, “I love you too.”

You were everything I wanted

But I just can't finish what I've started

There's no room left here on my back

It was damaged long ago

“But…” Magnus continued, grimacing slightly and sucking in a deep breath, “as a leader, there are difficult decisions I must make to ensure the survival of my people.”

Alec shuffled from foot to foot, searching Magnus’ eyes for any sign that he had completely misheard this. Surely the incessant guitar riffs had addled his brain, this couldn’t be happening? Could it?

Though you swear that you are true

I'd still pick my friends over you

“The only thing holding me back from doing that…” Magnus continued, looking down at the floor, “is you.”

“No.” Alec begged, fighting his stoic Shadowhunter nature. This couldn’t be happening. They could make this right. They could make this work. “We can figure this out.” He had complete conviction in that at least.

“You once asked me what I was afraid of,” tears had formed in the corners of Magnus’ eyes as he looked up at Alec. “It’s this.”

Magnus turned sharply and walked towards the elevator leaving Alec alone once more, the lyrics still echoing mockingly through the corridor, for Alec at least.

Though you swear that you are true

I'd still pick my friends over you

Songs:

Jordan Rudess - The Answer Lies Within

Marvin Gaye - Let’s Get It On

New Found Glory - My Friends Over You

IV

Alec paced the ops center, grateful for Izzy and Magnus’ presence even if he still felt entirely helpless. It didn’t help that the demons that had been previously swarming the city had vanished without a trace giving him nothing in New York to distract him.

Sending Jace to Lake Lyn with only Clary for back up had been a truly terrible idea. The distance made the emotions and understanding he could normally get through the parabatai bond fuzzy at best. He knew Jace was feeling unusually stressed, that much at least was evident.

This was slightly concerning for Alec. His parabatai was normally reasonably cool under pressure, thriving on the adrenaline that usually translated to excitement pulsing through the bond. When they went on missions together, Jace’s high energy would counteract Alec’s over-cautious nature, the two of them cancelling out each other’s extreme emotions to neutralise into a collected state of deadly precision.

Whatever was happening at Lake Lyn, clearly it was enough to even rattle Jace. He pushed through the bond further, trying to glean anything more concrete than the tension that currently nudged gently at him. In the background, ominous string music drifted through the room, juddering and foreboding. It was distant enough that it didn’t distract Alec from staring at the comms screen in front of him but it was just alarming enough to have him hovering on the edge of breaking down.

As time progressed his anxiety only grew. He’d ‘opened’ the parabatai bond further than he ever had before, allowing as much reassurance to flow through, but also allowing himself to tug at his parabatai for anything Jace could offer, be it a call for help or reassuring emotions. The more he opened it, the more intense the strings got, increasing in both tempo and volume, like an approaching army ready for battle.

He gripped tight on the edge of the table, the comms room long since empty of anyone but his sister and his ex-boyfriend. He’d snapped at enough of the Shadowhunters on duty that everyone realised it was better to give him a wide berth this evening. There was still no sign of demonic activity in the city and worse, no word from Jace and Clary.

Mmm, what'd you say?

His knees buckled as the voice rang out from nowhere, pain coursing through his body. A white-hot, searing heat emanating from his heart and being pumped through his veins. His parabatai rune pulsed under his flesh, the light graze of his cotton t-shirt feeling like the drag of sandpaper against the sensitive flesh. He pulled his shirt up, watching as the black rune faded to an angry red, then a barely there pink.

Mmm, that you only meant well?

An ethereal voice, distorted and haunting filled the room chilling him to the bone as image after image of his life with Jace flashed in front of his eyes.

The first day they’d met, Alec firing an arrow that just barely missed teenage Jace. The wide eyed stare the blonde boy had given him across the training room was as piercing now as it was when he had first been on the receiving end of it.

Well, of course you did

His arms barely held him up as he scrunched his face up trying to escape both the pain ravaging his body and the onslaught of memories.

Blue flames circled round them, as they gripped each other’s arms, reciting the ceremonial words. Back then Jace had been it for Alec, his entire life wrapped up in what he thought was unrequited love. At the time, Alec had pushed through with the ceremony, despite his doubts, because he thought it was the only way he could ever be close to Jace, the best way to keep Jace by his side. Now he realised, parabatai bond or no, Jace was his brother in all but blood. His teenage crush was just that, a crush. His own confusion around his sexuality manifesting itself against the closest friend he had.

Mmm, what'd you say?

His world was crumbling around him, he felt something solid against his head before his body hit the cool, hard floor.

Jace pulling him tight to him. The soft glow of Magnus’ loft surrounding them. The palpable relief that they’d found his brother, his parabatai, his best friend.

Mmm, that it's all for the best?

Arms cradled him in the present day, against the overwhelming swell of fear and anguish he felt he could almost pretend that this was Jace’s embrace. But he knew the truth. Deep down he knew, Jace was gone.

His breath came in dry, heaving sobs. It took him a few moments to realise that the physical sensations were gone. The pain that he had felt faded to nothing, not even a dull ache that normally followed an iratze. His body felt completely fine. His heart… That was another story.

Lifting his shirt once more, he saw nothing but clear skin where once his parabatai rune had been.

Of course it is

Songs:

Jeff Wayne - War of the Worlds (Instrumental)

Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek

V

Alec fumbled at the buttons of his grey shirt, checking his reflection in the mirror. Normally he wouldn't care about his appearance but today was an important day. He needed to make sure he looked his best for this evening and he had no guarantees that he’d have time after his meetings to come back and change. His movements were accompanied by that annoyingly catchy, synth heavy pop song again. He had to fight not to hum along.

We're no strangers to love

You know the rules and so do I

A full commitment's what I'm thinking of

You wouldn't get this from any other guy

Behind him, Magnus sat propped up in their bed at the Institute. Hair soft and falling gently against his forehead in the morning light. He held the New York Times in front of him, scanning the property listings and reading out anything that could be exciting for them. Planning for their future.

Realistically this should be reassuring to hear, that he wasn’t the only one who was in this for the long haul. But Alec’s insecurities were deep-seated and hard to budge. Yes, Magnus might want to live with him, but to commit to a lifetime together? That was harder to believe.

I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling

Gotta make you understand

He tried his best to hide his nerves and focus on the information his boyfriend was giving him but Magnus knew him too well.

“Alexander?” Magnus asked, voice tinged with concern.

“Yeah, yeah that sounds great.” Truth be told, Alec had no idea what the apartment Magnus had described was like. Or it could have been a townhouse? Possibly an open plan loft come to think of it?

“Is something wrong?”

Only that I want to marry you and there’s this damn song playing on a loop every time I think about it...

At the simple question panic swelled in Alec. Spinning to face Magnus, “What, no. On the contrary, everything is perfect. Now that you’re back to your old self,” he gestured at Magnus. His smile felt anything but genuine and his tone falsely cheery. He bit back a grimace at his terrible acting skills.

“Well, let’s not get carried away,” Magnus murmured, stretching to reach the coffee mug by his side, eyes downcast.

“I just mean now that you're healthy,” Alec clarified, not missing the slight derogatory quirk of Magnus’ eyebrow over the rim of his mug.

We've known each other for so long

Your heart's been aching but

You're too shy to say it

Inside we both know what's been going on

We know the game, and we're gonna play it

“So I was thinking we could have dinner tonight, on the balcony?” He changed the subject rapidly. Spilling out the details of his date night plan before he lost his nerve entirely. “The view of the city, the head chef can prepare something special.” He tugged at the cuff of his shirt, tweaking the folds where it was rolled up against his forearm.

“How romantic,” Magnus looked up at him, a barely there smile on his face but his eyes warm as they met Alec’s, “May I ask as to the occasion?”

Never gonna give you up

Never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

“There’s no occasion, I just thought it would be nice,” Alec bluffed.

Magnus merely smiled and looked down at his hands, only a slight quirk to his eyebrow betraying his opinion on the matter.

“What? I can’t do something nice with my boyfriend?” Alec probed.

Never gonna make you cry

Never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

“I am one lucky man,” Magnus looked up at him with wide, brown eyes warm with affection.

“Not as lucky as I am,” Alec replied, fighting back the instinctual blush that still threatened to creep up his cheeks whenever he broached conversations of feelings.

“OK, I’ll see you tonight at 8 o’clock,” he confirmed, pressing a kiss to Magnus’ cheek before heading for the door.

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Magnus’ answer was almost lost to the pop beats still bouncing around the room and assaulting Alec’s ears as he closed the door behind him.

Song:

Rick Astley - Never Gonna Give You Up

+I

The couple moved slowly together drifting in gentle circles, Magnus’ chin resting gently on Alec’s shoulder, a hand warm on his lower back. Around them, their family and friends watched on as they celebrated the love they shared.

Alec felt elated - just a few short months ago he wouldn’t have believed it was possible to feel this light, to feel this free. In that time he’d met (and now married) the most incredible, magical man; they’d defeated Valentine; brought down the Circle; taken down Asmodeus; defeated Jonathon and Lillith; and somehow made it through it all stronger and happier than ever.

Magnus’ hand tightened slightly at his back, causing him to check in with the Warlock in his arms, “I’m not stepping on your feet am I?”

“How could you be? I’m walking on air.” Alec could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. They’d got so used to the undercurrent of stress that punctuated their lives and somehow managed to bleed into even the most private moments of their relationship at times, the ability to just live in the moment was liberating.

“I’m confused though,” Magnus continued. “I thought we settled on ‘What a wonderful world’ for our first dance. Did you change the music?”

Alec stepped back, not breaking their hold but just positioning himself so he could see Magnus’ face. “You hear it too?”

I want to see that sweet smile

All of the time

And if I get you a drink, oh

You know I'll squeeze your lime

“I don’t even know what this is?” Magnus asked in confusion, tilting his head to listen closer to the strumming of the ukulele and the high pitched lilt of the woman’s voice.

“Neither do I,” Alec said, grinning in spite of the confusion. This had never happened before, not even Jace had ever heard what he heard and they, for all intents and purposes, shared a soul through their parabatai bond. “If you listen carefully, you can still hear our actual wedding song in the background. It just takes some practice to filter through to it,” he explained.

I wanna buy you things

I wanna make you laugh

When there's nowhere to sit

I'll let you sit on my lap

“Is this what it’s like all the time for you?” Magnus murmured as he pulled Alec back close to him.

“Not all the time. Only when you’re around. The rest of the time it tends to be more like elevator music or classical pieces.” The dainty, sweet sounds of the ukulele washed over him as they continued to dance to the song that only they could hear.

Like a cool breeze after a summer day

I see that smile and drift away

Little Mango

Mango my love

“Little Mango?” Magnus repeated, mischief colouring his voice.

Alec groaned and buried his head in the crook of his husband’s neck. “No. Just, no.”

“But surely this is fate’s way of telling me the perfect nickname for you?” Magnus teased back.

“This could actually be worse than pup,” Alec complained, silently cursing the whimsical lyrics for inspiring this. He prayed to Raziel that it wouldn’t stick.

When you take my hand and dance with me

There's nowhere else I'd rather be

Little Mango

Mango my love

In the end though, he wasn’t sure if he could deny his husband anything that brought such a beautiful smile to his face. After everything they’d been through together, Alec would do anything to keep the man by his side happy. Even if that meant succumbing to the nickname ‘Little Mango’.

Song:

Catey Shaw - Mango

[bonesaldente]

Caliginious I Darth Maul x Reader

Chapter 8: The Distraction

read this on ao3

last chapter

words: 3800+

warnings: violence, I guess, but it’s not like that’s new. same old same old

((gif has nothing to do with the actual chapter, I just love how Maul is really just an angry small gremlin. I mean look at him. so small.))

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It’s nighttime on Cato Neimoidia when you arrive and land a short walk away from Tarlson Zih’s palace. Your gear is weighing you down even more than usual, having brought every gadget and weapon you could think of. Tonight, it wasn’t in case of a fight - you already know you’ll face many enemies, which fills you with a certain nervousness, as well as adrenaline. The wound on your back is still hurting, even though it is healing fine. You’re glad to feel the pain, you feel like it makes you stronger to be uncomfortable in your own skin.

You get closer to the high walls that surround the palace. The only way in is either to scale the walls, that also have electricity running over them, or to walk through the front gate, where there are four guards in full armor, and some more further up the stairs that lead to the entrance of the palace itself.

Maul gives you a nod and turns right, following the wall closer to the palace itself. You, on the other hand, continue walking to the front gate. While you distract the guards, Maul should be able to slip into the palace - that’s the plan, at least. When you asked him earlier about how he was going to get over the wall without being electrocuted, he just answered he’d use the force.

You don’t have that option, so you have to come sneak up on the guards from the side.

Still crouched down, you toss a smoke detonator as close to them as you can. With their heads up high, they don’t even see it rolling to their feet, before it goes off.

Using the fact that you know their exact locations to your advantage, you hurry through the smoke and slice their throats almost blindly, eyes tearing up.

Of course the next four guards that are posted further up the stairs are able to see the cloud of smoke hanging over the gate, and you can hear screams, followed by footsteps.

Not caring about stealth anymore, you throw a detonator, that explodes as soon as it hits the heavy stone that the stairs are made of. The sound would be deafening to anyone not wise enough to cover their ears, and you are sure you must have taken out at least two of them through the explosion.

Leaving the smoke, you can indeed see two guards dead on the floor, and two more running in your direction. They don’t have time to react to you emerging from the smoke, your blaster firing before they can say a word, let alone shoot at you.

Hurrying up the rest of the stairs, you can already tell by the panicked voices from inside that your distraction is turning out to be quite effective. Sword in one, blaster in the other hand, you enter through the now unguarded arc that marks the entrance to the palace.

A small group of men shuffles to a stop upon spotting you, yelling something in a foreign language. You break into a sprint towards them, shooting two in the process, rolling over the ground to dodge the blasterfire, stabbing the third guard as you jump back up and delivering a solid kick to the other one’s jaw before slicing his throat.

You straighten your posture and try to dust yourself off a little before proceeding. It’s your task to cause chaos in the East wing, so that the West wing is all clear for Maul. You turn right, throwing another detonator into the large corridor, just trying to attract more guards. Pressing your back against a pillar you shield your body from the explosion and remain hidden until the next guards arrive.

This one is a group of at least six, so you wait until they’re close enough to be overwhelmed by your surprise attack from the shadows. The first three get shot in the head in a matter of seconds, the next ones are just able to cry out as you jump out from your hideout, knocking one over with your entire body and smashing his head into the floor, breaking his skull - it’s probably your least favorite way to kill, because of the sheer brutality of the act, but it’s still necessary occasionally.

You roll onto your side, just barely missing a blaster shot, and propel yourself onto your feet again, spinning and slashing at one of the two leftover men. He drops to the floor, clutching the gaping wound, while you finish off the last one.

You quickly move to the east corner, but shortly before you can reach it, you hear voices and many footsteps, coming your way at an alarming speed.

You have faith in your abilities, but you’re not stupid enough to think you’d be able to take out more than a dozen soldiers at once, not when they’re armed with blasters and you don’t have any way of blocking their fire.

You spin on your heel and run back to where you came from. Your heart leaps in your chest when you see Maul approaching from the West wing. Speeding up a little, you throw a glance over your shoulder, catching sight of the first guards who make it around the corner. Blindly, you throw a detonator over your shoulder. Screams are heard, then the force of the explosion almost knocks you off your feet, making you stumble. By now, you’ve almost reached the zabrak, your confidence feeling up again. You can still hear footsteps closely behind you, and without needing to look behind you to locate the exact position of the guard, you swerve to your right, running a step up the wall, throwing yourself right at him and impaling him with your sword.

Quickly, you get next to Maul, who extends his hand to the front, sending the enemy’s blasters flying his way. Terrified yelps are heard, and you close in on them again, now definitely having the upper hand.

Body after body drops - it’s worse than the massacre on Nar Shaddaa.

 Finally, the last man falls, and you walk back to the Sith Lord, about to comment on the scene, confident you had eradicated all nearby threats.

Everything that happens next seems to take place in slow motion. Maul grabs your arm harshly and pulls you to him at the same time that you hear a blaster being fired from the West side of the building, shooting right through the place you were standing seconds before. Your eyes widen in surprise as you collide with his chest roughly, breath catching in your throat. Your head whips around to see a single guard standing in the hallway.

Panting, you look up at Maul, who still is gripping your arm and holding you close to him, shock visible on your face, lips parted slightly. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he stretches out his hand and uses the force to choke the man. You can’t look away from his hypnotizing eyes, not even realizing you’re leaning in until his other hand lets go of your arm, instead grabbing the back of your head and locking your lips with his. You melt into the touch, your heart skipping a beat and your hand automatically flying to the side of his neck, the other resting on his chest.

You faintly hear a thud coming from your right as he lowers his still outstretched hand and places it on the small of your back, pressing you to him even more tightly. The hand he has on your head moves around it, now cupping the side of your face with a strong yet incredibly gentle grip. The intensity of the intimate touch is almost overwhelming to your senses and you feel like your legs are about to give in.

Your moment is interrupted by the sound of more guards coming closer, as well as your unfortunate need to breathe. Hesitantly, you pull away from each other, Maul’s eyes still hooded, giving him a briefly vulnerable appearance.

Slowly, he lets go of you and turns to face the intruders, a quiet growl rumbling in his throat. The sound sends chills down your spine and you try to snap out of the haze you’re still in, mentally preparing yourself for having to fight again, but instead, the Sith stretches out both arms, curling his fingers and sending the at least twenty men crashing into the high ceiling, before smashing them to the floor with the force.

“Let’s go,” is all he says.

You follow after him as he hurries to the exit, already seeing a crowd of people standing at the gates down the stairs from afar.

“What are we going to do about them?”

He assesses the situation. “We won’t walk through the front gates.”

“Then how-”

“The wall.”

You stare up at the wall that towers at least 20 feet above you with an even higher drop on the other side, and electrical power running over it.

“I can’t use the force to-” He doesn’t allow you to finish, instead using the force to send you hurling into him, one arm wrapping around your waist tightly, before pushing himself off the ground with a power you didn’t think was possible, successfully catapulting you two over the wall and slowing down just before meeting the ground on the other side.

Without meaning to, you have clutched his shoulders uncomfortably tight while burying your face in the crook of his neck at the sensation of falling about fifty feet, the drop much higher than you expected. Embarrassed by how scared you got, you let go of your hold on him and stumble a few steps as soon as your feet meet the ground again.

“Next time you do that, give me a warning.” Your high pitched voice betrays you, making your terror all too obvious.

“I assumed somebody with a life like yours could handle a little jump.”

There he was, teasing you with that unfaltering expression on his face. You are too exhausted and shaken up to retort, thoughts and emotions racing through your mind.

 The walk to the ship is short, and you immediately drop onto a seat in the passengers’ area, tired, but with too many things on your mind to even consider sleep at this moment.

“This will be a good planet to refuel and restock before we leave again.” Maul determines, already lifting the ship off the ground. “It won’t take long.”

In only a few minutes you’ve reached a fuel station. Maul tells you you can stay inside, which you’re thankful for. You move to the cockpit to catch a look at the place, but there is not much to see other than a long hangar. Leaning against the wall behind you, you wait for him to come back.

He returns not long after, taking off again. Setting the ship to auto pilot, he swivels in his chair to face you. At your position next to his chair, you’re close to him, and there is this unbearable desire to get even closer, to feel his touch again, feel the same tickling sensation of his lips moving against yours. You are sure he can see those thoughts you are having, they are practically screaming inside your head.

He looks at you with something that looks like confusion in his glowing eyes.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, your voice breathy and unusually soft.

He struggles to find the words to explain. “I… No one has ever…”

“Shown they care for you?” Something akin to a sad smile shows just how much you understand.

His gaze is now averted, eyes narrowed in thought. You feel tired, but don’t want to leave the cockpit just yet, so instead you slide down the wall and sit on the floor, hands resting on your propped up knees, head leaning against the wall.

You can see his gaze dropping to your hand, and ever so slowly, he extends his own, which you only now notice is ungloved, until his fingertips graze the back of your hand, moving over to your fingers, gently turning your hand so that your palms are facing up, then sliding his fingers between yours and intertwining them. It’s an incredibly soft touch, almost as if he is experimenting, for the first time showing affection like this.

You can’t focus on anything else but the warmth of his hand in yours while you stare at his tattooed hand, admiring the way the black lines move over his red skin. Never have you felt this connected to a person before, never have you shared a moment this deeply intimate yet innocent with anyone.

Your eyes flutter closed as the exhaustion overcomes you and you feel yourself drifting to sleep, hand still in his.

 You wake up when the ship comes to a halt. Slightly disoriented, you squint your eyes against the sudden light entering them from the front viewport. You realize you’re still sitting on the floor next to the pilot’s seat, one hand in your lap and the other…

Oh.

Your left hand is still intertwined with Maul’s, whose focus is on a list displayed in front of of him. Heat rises to your cheeks, something that’s rarely ever happened before.

“We’re going to stock up on some things inside. Synthskin, Bacta spray, pain medication, and some rations.”

You nod, even though he can’t see that, so you mumble an “uh-huh” right after.

Glancing at it, he slowly lets go of your hand while getting up. You follow his example and exit the ship together with him.

The hangar you’re in doesn’t seem too busy, but you can already see from outside that there are a few people inside the store Maul has chosen. You are not overly worried since you are still in the same gear you wore to the palace and heavily armed. If anyone would pick a fight with you, the odds would be against them, at least if it was only one or two people.

Entering the store, you notice that it’s not random travelers that occupy the sketchy place, but most likely a group of bounty hunters, judging by their equipment and the bounty pucks situated on their belts.

“You get some rations, I will look for the medical things.” Maul instructs you quietly, turning into an aisle on his left. You walk straight ahead, passing the bounty hunters, to where you can see boxes of ration bars stacked up against the wall. Grabbing one, you are about to head to the medical section to meet Maul, when you freeze in your movements.

The quiet chatter among the bounty hunters has stopped; it is suddenly suspiciously quiet in the store. Slowly, hand on your blaster, you turn around to face them.

All five of them are staring at you and you’ve got the feeling that you’re in danger.

“Is there something I can help you with?” You snap.

One of them slowly shakes his head before turning his back to you once more.

You hurry to meet Maul who is grabbing the last item and moving to the bored Neimoidian at the register.

“Something is up with the bounty hunters.” You whisper, looking at him intently.

“Let’s hurry then.”

You pay and leave the shop as quickly as possible, but you haven’t even made it halfway to the ship when the sound of the door opening and closing once more makes you stop and whirl around.

“What do you want?” Maul asks, baring his teeth.

“We don’t have any quarrels with you.” One of them answers in a heavily accented Basic. “We only want the woman.”

“That is not an option. Step off, and we may forget this ever happened.” The threat in his statement is clear, and he is stepping closer to them in front of you, in a kind of protective manner.

“Who sent you?” Your voice remains unaltered, unfazed by the threat they pose. You’re sure they won’t be a match for Maul and you together.

Another one of them starts laughing coldly. “Who sent us? We are the last link in the chain. The kind of credits that are on your head attract many organizations, hunters send out hunters, who send out more hunters.” He licks his lips. “I could buy a new ship with just half the reward I will get for you.”

Unsheathing your sword and pointing your blaster at them, you step up next to Maul.

“That seems awfully confident of you,” you start out, a sickly sweet tone to your voice. “Have you not even once wondered why the price might be so high?”

All of the five hunters get into a ready stance, raising their axes and heavy blasters. As if you haven’t had to fight enough today already, now they are going to fight you too? You’re just glad Maul is with you, despite him still not using his lightsaber. The chances of somebody seeing are too high.

You jump to the side and roll behind a thick crate, pressing your back against it as blaster fire ensues. In the shiny metal of a nearby freighter, you can see the reflection of one of the hunters running to the crate, unaware that you can see him. Without moving your head from its protected place behind the wood, you lift your blaster and shoot around the corner, only able to aim through the distorted reflection. The shot is fine, grazing his side, but not fully taking him out yet. You can see the others are distracted by Maul blocking their fire, so you sprint to the man who is now lying on the ground clutching his side and finish him with a shot in the head. The other four are still too occupied with the Sith to see you coming, it’s only when you slit one’s throat from behind him that the others notice your presence, too slow to block your incoming sword.

Silence falls over the hangar once again as you turn to Maul.

“This is going to be a problem.” You bow down to grab the bounty puck from the belt of one of the bodies. Activating it, you are faced with a hologram of your body from the waist up, as well as some basic information to your person.

“Human female, 19 years old, native to Kessel,” Maul reads out. “Tattoos on abdomen, ankle and back. Last known location: Lannik.” Following that is some information to your height and weight. It’s the last line that makes your jaw drop:

“Reward: 180,000 credits, dead or alive”

You grit your teeth. “Now that they can’t track me anymore they send others out to get me.” You kick an empty crate in frustration. You knew this would eventually happen, but something inside you hoped until now that they would just let it go after losing your tracking signal. Guess you were wrong about that.

“We can take care of this later.” The bass of his voice is calming, even though his tone is pressing. “Now, let’s leave.”

 “180,000 credits is going to have a lot of bounty hunters on my trail.” You state, a deep frown etched into the skin on your forehead. Maul has gotten up from his seat in the front, now standing leaned against the wall before you, arms crossed in front of his muscular chest.

“I need to find something I can use against them, some kind of-” “You need rest.” His voice is calm but commanding, catching you off guard.

“Huh?” You say dumbly.

“On the ride here you passed out on the floor within minutes. Your body is exhausted.” He looks at you intensely, your cheeks flushing again at the memory of the skin contact.

“So I rested on the way here!” You throw your hands up in frustration: Not at him - at the world, at the Concinnity, at the stupid bounty hunters, the kriffing tingling in your stomach-

“That was less than thirty minutes.”

“How can you be so calm? Do you have any idea what they do to people who try to leave? I’ll be better off dead than if they bring me back alive!” You jump up from your seat. “I have seen it myself, the things they-” Your rant is interrupted by black dots impairing your vision and your legs giving in, sending you stumbling into Maul who catches you effortlessly in his arms. You try to blink away the blackness and get back on your feet, Maul’s arm grasping your biceps, holding you steady.

You rub your eyes with the back of your hand and frown once more upon realizing you just proved his point.

He lifts his hand and, tentatively, strokes over your forehead with his index finger, smoothing out the ridges between your eyebrows. Your muscles relax and you allow your eyes to close for a second, taking a deep breath. When his hand drops back to his side, you look at him once more, his face so close to yours. The height difference is minimal, but it’s there, with him a few inches taller than you, forcing you to tilt your head back just a little.

He searches for a sign from you, his eyes roaming your face for a silent permission. You move in the tiniest bit and he closes the gap between you, this time pressing his lips to yours more softly. His hands cup your face on both sides, as if to just hold you in this place forever, just holding you between his hands.

Your hands fly up to his chest once more, feeling his heartbeat, no, two heartbeats. For the briefest second, you pull away, blinking in confusion.

“Two hearts,” he mumbles.

“I see.” You whisper, reconnecting your lips with his, revelling in the warmth he is radiating.

His hands move from your cheeks to your shoulders and gently, he pushes you back, forcing you to break away.

“You need rest.” He murmurs.

“You say that now?” You respond, amusement resonating in your tired voice.

“Come on.” His hand on your back, he softly steers you into the lift and to your sleeping compartment. You no longer fight it, since the tiredness is seeping deep inside every one of your bones.

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, sitting down on the mattress and starting to untie your combat boots. Next comes your belt, your jacket, the straps around your thighs and lastly, the small knife hidden directly on your person, under the fabric tied around your chest area to… keep everything “together”. The zabrak’s eyes widen in surprise as you reach directly into your shirt, pulling out the small weapon, though he recomposes himself quickly, clearing his throat.

“For what scenario was that one intended?” The expression on his face is unreadable again.

“A worst case one.” You reply, yawning into your hand and letting yourself drop on top of the covers.

Quickly, all outside noise is tuned out and you fall into a deep slumber, half aware that Maul hasn’t left the room and is probably lying down too. At any other given time, you would have tried to sneak a peek at the sleeping Sith lord, but right now you are too consumed by sleep.

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next chapter

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It happened!! Yay! I would love to hear some feedback cause I was trying really hard to make him stay in character even during the fluffy parts

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know!

@princessayveke @spaghetti-666

[huilian]

Flameo, Batman!

AO3 Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain (Plus minor Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, and Alfred Pennyworth)

Summary :Bruce was kidnapped. Bruce Wayne was kidnapped, which means he can’t save himself because everyone still thinks he is a harmless non-bender. Incidentally, it is also why Dick is here in Gotham, as Nightwing, staking out this warehouse.

A/N: Written for batfamweek 2020, day 1! The prompt was meta AU, but I wanted to play with ATLA AU for so long that I decided ATLA AU was close enough to them having meta powers. There’s also some overprotectiveness here, so, I guess, you can count that? Anyways, enjoy! 

title is, of course, from ATLA

Bruce was kidnapped. Bruce Wayne was kidnapped, which means he can’t save himself because everyone still thinks he is a harmless non-bender. Incidentally, it is also why Dick is here in Gotham, as Nightwing, staking out this warehouse. 

Even Babs, with all her Oracle magic, can only narrow the possible sites to five different locations, and, as Damian is not old enough to do a stakeout alone, Dick came to Gotham to help with the stakeout. When the almighty Oracle can only narrow the possible sites of holding to five locations instead of her usual one-shot hit, you know that these people are at least good at what they do. They even have all their possible holding sites away from large bodies of water, which tells Dick two things about these kidnappers. One: they did enough research and have enough sense of self-preservation to know that the Bats have waterbenders in their ranks, and two: they do not have any waterbenders in their own ranks, or at least not one good enough to offset the advantage they would be giving the Bats by staying close to water. 

“Is it time to burst in yet?” Jason’s voice said from Dick’s comm. “I’m getting tired of waiting.” 

“I thought it was firebenders who are rumored not to have patience, Hood, not waterbenders,” Damian retorts. 

“Hey too, Robin! I’m a waterbender!” Stephanie cries out. Dick really should not have given all of them the same frequency for the comms, because he knows this would happen, but they would eventually figure out which frequency the others use anyways, and this would also happen. Dick decided to just save them, and him, the trouble and gave all of them the same frequency. At least this way he won’t have to switch between frequencies before they all collectively decide on which frequency to use. 

“Tt. My point exactly.” 

Dick sighs. “No, it’s not time to burst in yet. Agent A is going to give the signal, remember? We’re trying the nice way first.” 

Jason scoffs. It is really amazing how he could get that to transfer over the comms. “Why are we still doing the nice way first? When, in your nearly two decades of kidnapping experiences, have the nice way ever worked?” 

Jason does have a point, but Dick is not going to tell him that. The nice way, which is trying to negotiate with the kidnappers, only worked in about never. But the nice way is how the Waynes’ reputation of being a harmless rich family stays intact, and so they are going to always do the nice way first. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, Alfred’s voice crackles through the comm at that particular moment. “They do not accept our, frankly, generous offer. It seems we have to use force after all.” 

“Ha!” Jason cries out. “Told you so, N!” 

“Yeah, yeah, Hood,” Dick says. “Everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing?” 

There is a smattering of agreements from everyone, which Dick expected. His siblings may bicker and generally cause havoc that Dick would then have to sort out, but they do their job with a professionalism that is really unparalleled, especially when it is someone of their own on the line.

“Alright then. Everyone has to go in at the same time, or this won’t work.  If you have the jackpot, call it out on the comms. If you do not have the jackpot, immediately go and help the person has. Clear on that?” 

Another smattering of agreements. Okay then, Operation-Save-Bruce-From-A-Kidnapping-Attempt Number too many to count is a go. “On my count. One, two, three!” 

Dick hears glass crashing from one of the lines. Why do his family have to be so dramatic? But the best way into Dick’s warehouse from where he’s perching now is through the window, so Dick really doesn’t have much to stand on here. 

Dick jumps from his perch, bends the trace amount of metal on his suit to his toes, protecting them from broken glass, and breaks the glass window. At the same time, he wills the earth underneath his legs to raise up to meet him. People don’t expect Nightwing to be an earthbender because his fighting style is more like those of airbenders, so sometimes Dick doesn’t start bending until the very end of a bust, just to give himself that extra advantage. But these guys know about waterbenders within the Bats’ ranks, which a lot of people don’t know, so Dick is pretty sure they knew already that Nightwing is an earthbender. Might as well use it to his advantage. 

“Mine’s not it,” Jason says through the comms. 

“Not it.” That is Cass

“Not here either.” Steph. 

Dick scans the warehouse he is in. Thirty men, armed and armored. Their armor is not even metal, which goes to show that this group really knows about the Bat’s bending. All of them are aiming to where Dick is right now. 

“I’m it,” Dick says into his comm while changing the shape of the boulder he just ripped from the earth. He bends it so that it would cover him from the thirty guns all firing at him while allowing him to look around for Bruce. 

“You should have said so sooner, Nightwing.” 

“Damnit, Robin, I’m driving. You’re not old enough!” 

“And your driving skills are not up to par, Red, so I will be driving to get us to Nightwing’s location as soon as possible.” 

This is Dick’s life. Trying to shut down a fight between his brothers while he is literally being shot at. “Robin, let Red drive.” 

“Tt.” 

Dick can tell that Damian is not entirely pleased with that order, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else into the comms, which Dick took as him acquiescing to the order. That allows Dick to actually focus on his job, which is finding Bruce inside this warehouse. 

Even though the men did not wear metal armors, they somehow forget their guns and bullets are still made of metal, which Dick can bend. It’s really lucky that Dick is the one who found where Bruce is being held because none of the others can bend metal. 

From behind his boulder, Dick allows his senses to find all the guns in the room. Then, he jams them. Dick lets the final round of bullets hit his boulder and then listens to the curses that all the men are letting out. It’s really satisfying when the perps realize that their guns are not working anymore.

There he is. Dick spots Bruce handcuffed to a pillar at the very end of the warehouse. If he were being Batman, Bruce could have easily picked the lock for that handcuff. But he is not, and it is Dick’s job to save him. Divested of their guns, these men should not be that much of a challenge. 

Dick goes out of this protective boulder, and smiles. Yeah, these men look terrified with their guns out of commission. This should be fun. 

*

Dick is halfway through fighting the men when he hears a motorcycle coming into the warehouse. Jason, most likely. His place is the closest to Dick’s. 

Gunshots. Jason, confirmed. Dick can’t feel bullets flying through the air, so Jason must be using rubber bullets. That’s nice. Dick is hoping to avoid a conversation with Bruce after this is all over. (He does not have the time to check which bullets Jason is carrying before they have to move. If Bruce knew about that, there would be conversations to be had, and Dick doesn’t want that when he already has to work twice as hard tomorrow because he misses a night in Bludhaven.) 

Jason being there does help, though, because now Dick can almost reach Bruce. It’s really annoying to have to ‘rescue’ someone who is perfectly capable of rescuing themselves but can’t because they are keeping their identity intact. Dick should know, he’s been in both roles. Dick glances up to Bruce, trying to silently tell him to be patient and let Dick come to him, when he is tackled by Jason. Jason, who took the knife that was aiming for Dick. 

“What the hell, Hood? I knew that knife was coming, I could feel it. It’s made of ceramic.” 

“No thanks, N? I’m hurt.” Jason lets go of Dick to stand back up. “Ouch, the knife just went in deeper.” 

“No shit, Hood. Wait, why is everyone on the ground already?” 

There is no one left attacking the two of them when Dick could have sworn that there are at least several perps still standing when Jason tackled him to the ground. Then he sees Bruce, out of the handcuff, striking the last of the men. 

Of course it’s Bruce. Dick should have known that Bruce would not be able to sit still once he saw one of them injured. It’s really sweet of him, but if he keeps doing it, then they might as well just threw the whole ‘secret identity’ thing to the garbage. Everyone is going to know that Bruce Wayne is capable of a really scary hand-to-hand, and then questions will be asked. And it was Bruce who insisted on the secret identity thing in the first place. 

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, old man.” 

“Agent A won’t be happy about the knife wound, Hood,” Dick says. 

“As long as he still heals it, I’m okay with that,” Jason shrugs. Then cries out, because shrugging when you have a knife in your shoulder is really not a good idea. 

Dick sighs. “Okay, you,” he points to Bruce, “are staying here until the police arrive and they can take your statement, which I don’t know why they bother, at this point. I’ll stay here with you until the police arrive, let them see me for a bit, and then leave. You,” Dick turns to Jason, “are hitching a ride with whoever is here next to the Cave, and you are going to let Agent A heals that shoulder. Okay?” 

It is then that Cass and Steph come to the warehouse. They were not stationed near each other, at least not near enough that they could justify coming to Dick’s station together. Worse, each of their stations is further away from this warehouse than Tim and Damian’s station and they still manage to reach this place, together, earlier than Tim and Damian. 

“Why are you here together?” Dick asks Cass and Steph. 

They both shrug, but Steph actually elaborates. “From the sound of it, you two were handling this well enough. So me and Cass decides to just meet up and come here together, to avoid the disaster Robin duo.” Steph stops then, realizing that neither Tim nor Damian is present. “Wait, are we still earlier than the two of them?” 

Dick sighs again. “Batgirl, take Hood to the Cave to get healed by Agent A. Black Bat, please keep an eye on Hood and make sure he actually gets to the Cave.” 

Steph mock-salutes him. “You got it, boss.” Then, she frowns. “Wait, you’re not the boss anymore.” 

“Batgirl, please?” 

“Fine, fine! And you say I don’t do enough for this family.” 

“Literally no one ever says that,” Jason mutters. 

“Just, get him to Agent A. Please, BB?” Dick changes his tactics.

Cass smiles. It is not the smile that Dick wanted to see. That smile promises havoc. Why are his siblings like this again?

“A good time to start learning healing, huh, Batgirl?” Jason taunts. 

“Learn healing yourself, Hood! You’re also a waterbender!” 

“Enough! Come on! Just, go to the Cave and ask Agent A to heal you! It’s literally that simple, Hood. You don’t even have to do it if you had just let me handle that knife.” 

“Is this the repayment I get for saving your life?” 

“You didn’t save my life. I can literally feel that knife coming towards me. I’m an earthbender and that knife is made of ceramic, which is earth.” 

“And yet you didn’t bend it away from you until I have to intercept it.” 

Dick puts his hand to his head. Then, turning to Bruce, he says, “This is your fault. You’re the one who decides to give me siblings.” 

Bruce’s face is deadpan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nightwing. How could I, Bruce Wayne, a harmless non-bender, be able to decide who becomes your siblings?”

Steph is the first one to laugh, but Jason and Cass are not far behind. Dick would be the first to admit that Bruce being sarcastic is absolutely hilarious, especially while he is being Brucie Wayne, but it does not help Dick in this situation. Which, come to think of it, is saving Bruce from a situation he could have easily saved himself from. 

Screw it. Dick is washing his hands of this situation. “You know what, Mr. Wayne? Since this holding place has been secured, I’m going to leave you to the capable hands of Batgirl and Black Bat.” Dick smiles sweetly, which he is sure that Bruce knows is fake. “I’ll let them deal with the GCPD for a change. Oh, and I’m sure the Robins are going to be here any minute, and they are also very capable crimefighters. Between the four of them, I’m sure you are in good hands, Mr. Wayne. Good night.” 

Dick can see the panic in Bruce’s eyes. Steph is notorious for trying to get a rise out of Bruce, and with Bruce being in the Brucie Wayne identity, he would have no way of reigning Steph in. Cass would just help, because Cass is sometimes evil that way. Add the two feuding Robins in the mix, and Bruce had just gotten himself a very explosive mix indeed. 

“Wait, Nightwing…” 

“Good night, Mr. Wayne. Hood, if you’re not coming with me right now, I’m going to leave you to ride that motorcycle alone back to the Cave with that knife still in your shoulders.” 

“Jeez, alright ‘Wing, I’m coming.” 

Alfred would find himself with, at the very least, two patients tonight. God knows what Damian and Tim have gotten themselves into. Well, they are Bruce’s problem now. After Jason has been taken care of, Dick is going to ask Alfred to work his amazing healing bending on him, because this mission with his family is really making his headache flare again. 

(At this rate, either Jason or Steph really needs to learn healing, because poor Alfred is always being asked to heal something or another.) 

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Breathe fire into me 

Series: Promare

Pairing: GaloLio

Rating: T

Summary:

Lio might have a little crush on the cute barista from the boba shop he visited recently.

Only there's a catch: there's much more to Galo Thymos than what he seems.

Note: role reversal AU, boba barista Galo, archer main Lio 

Also on AO3

[Chapter 1]

Lio Fotia isn’t fearless by any means.  

After all, firefighting is a dangerous job. Fire burns. Fire consumes. Fires do not care. They're destructive, unpredictable. And in the case of Burnish flares, they’re alive.  

It takes courage to put out flames, it takes strategy. It takes many things Lio still doesn’t have and hasn’t learnt.  

It’s been about a year since Lio’s joined the FDPP, immediately assigned to the 3rd unit the moment he’d graduated from the Academy due to them being severely shorthanded at the time. He's braved through countless blazes since then, yet he still finds a slight tremor in his hands whenever he’s on the way to a scene. The sirens of the Rescue Mobile never seemed to stop sounding too loud, too piercing.  

Lio Fotia is afraid of fire. Afraid of what else they might take from him, because he knows they could never take enough.  

“Lio? Lio, are you listening?”  

He takes a sharp breath, pulled out of the lulling haze of siren wails by the Captain’s voice over the intercom. Don’t think. Don't let it register.  

“There’s people trapped in the fiftieth floor with flammable chemicals. Got it,” Lio affirms as he does a brief, habitual last-minute routine check on his Rescue Gear's controls. “I’ll get it over with quick.”

“Be careful,” he hears Ignis say, and he grits his teeth just in time before he’s launched into the air, shot out and up at a speed that sends his stomach plunging all the way down to his feet.  

Lio crashes through the windows of the building’s fiftieth floor, immediately surrounded by a hellscape of Burnish flames. They're hostile as always the moment they sense his presence, forming into massive serpents of purple and turquoise fire –honestly too beautiful to be so destructive—and diving towards him with obvious malice.  

Lio doesn’t have the time to deal with them; the fire could reach the chemicals and cause an explosion any moment. He freezes the serpents barely batting an eye, barreling his way towards where the projection on his Gear’s windshield indicates. He's not too far now. Sweat trickles down his jaw. Five minutes. Give him five minutes.  

He tears off the door of the room where the group of researchers have been taking shelter, not even sparing the breath to yell assurances before he’s ushering them into the rescue container. His pulse pounds in his ears as he waits for the last of them to climb on, fingers gripping his handles tight enough to burn against his palms.  

“Retrieval successful, Captain,” Lio says as he hoists the container up. “Proceeding to retreat.”

“Better hurry up, Lio,” Lucia warns just after Ignis acknowledges his update. “Things aren’t looking too good.”

Lio knows better than to jinx it by wondering what could be worse. He charges right back into the inferno, this time not bothering to even ward off the flame serpents. His Gear can withstand at least this much heat, he’s sure. There's no choice but for it to be so.  

He makes his escape not a second too soon, barely climbing ten floors down when the fiftieth finally erupts, sending entire building quaking violently and in palpable danger of collapsing altogether. Lio near loses his grip for a moment, thrown off balance by the shockwave and the ringing in his ears. He bites his lip hard to reel himself back, using the staticky, frantic voices of his teammates as an anchor.  

“I’m fine,” he assures into his communicator, though he’s yet to be able to properly hear his own voice again. “I’m coming down now.”

And by the universe’s mercy he does manage to eventually make the rest of the way down. He proceeds to transport the researchers a safe distance away where paramedics are on stand-by, hurrying back to the scene right after setting down the container. Lucia’s mentioning about picking up some unusual heat readings over the intercom, then as if on cue, Lio hears more explosions from the distance.  

Static. His other teammates frantically asking if everything’s alright. Ignis coming back online, his sentences choppy from interference.  

Then Lio hears what could only be described as the laughter of hooligans in the background.

Lio heaves an exhausted sigh. Of course they’d have to be there. Mad Burnish has a reputation for loving to gloat as much as they have one for setting random fires, after all. Lio really has his job cut out for him this time.  

“Lucia?” Lio waits until he gets a solid response from her before continuing, “Is Detroit good to go today?”  

“I haven’t had the time to finish fixing the bow’s mechanism,” Lucia says, her words peppered with the rapid clicks of her controls. “You’ll probably have ten shots, max.”

“Apart from that?” Lio arrives and assesses the situation. Mad Burnish are circling around the Rescue Mobiles on their bikes, hooting and jeering and generally making a ruckus and obstructing extinguishing efforts while outnumbering Lio’s teammates three to one. They’re too fast for Lucia to handle with the Mobile’s artillery and for Ignis to land effective shots with his gun. Varys, Remi and Aina are nowhere to be seen on ground; they’re still occupied with trying to control the fire above.  

“Shouldn’t have a problem,” Lucia affirms, and Lio’s cranking the lever to shift his Gear into Detroit mode.  

Mechanisms slide and click into place with flawless transition upon activation of the suit’s alternate form, shifting its center of gravity and losing redundant pieces as it takes a sleeker, lighter appearance more suitable for combat. Lio then reaches behind the back of his Gear, detaching the rod there which he then flips a switch to have it morph into the form of a large bow.  

Lio gets into position, and draws.  

It's stiffer than usual, he notices at once as the built-in arrows respond to his motion and take shape. Lucia’s estimates are rarely ever wrong; he’s going to need to make every shot here count.  

He takes aim, and releases the first arrow.  

It soars through the air and instantly encases a Mad Burnish member in a large bloom of ice upon contact. Lio’s notching the next one while the rest are still trying to process what’s happened, successfully freezing another in place before the finally spot him.  

Lio braces himself, seeing them exchanging signs to rally.

Then all at once, they’re charging straight towards him.  

Lio manages to pick off one more Burnish before he decides they’re getting too close. He presses another button and changes his grip on his bow, moving into another stance as his weapon shifts to next resemble a sword. He spends a second to analyze their positions and movements, then with a sharp breath, he rushes to engage them.

He enters a daze as he always does when close combat, letting his body and instincts take over as he maneuvers through and around his opponents. Slash, duck, parry. Lio’s received a number of questions and comments about the way he fights over his months on duty, but truthfully, he’s never really figured out how to respond to them. He just does what feels right, what feels the most effective.  

When he comes to this time, all six Mad Burnish members are encased in blocks of ice. Lio’s slightly out of breath as he checks his Gear’s condition out of habit, hoping he hadn’t accidentally overdone it again. There are some gashes on the armor plating, the usual singed spots from Burnish fire—but everything else seems good enough. His weapon is still holding up as well.  

Lio turns toward the blaze in the building; it seems that his teammates have also been making good progress with that. Ignis tells him good work, and Lio’s just about to take his hands off his controls to work the knots out of his shoulders when he feels an impact against his Gear.  

Whatever hit him detonates a split second after contact, sending him staggering sideways and almost toppling onto the pavement.

Lio grits his teeth, finding his footing again by almost the sheer force of will. Red warnings blink across his windshield, and Lio sprains to see a part of his suit’s left shoulder burnt and falling into pieces.  

And then flame serpents, even larger than those Lio had faced earlier, dive in out of seemingly nowhere to collect the frozen Burnish into their jaws. A series of slow claps follows, and Lio’s turning and notching an arrow the second he overcomes his surprise, gaze following the length of the flames until he reaches their source.  

Another Burnish seems to have just exited the building, waltzing out casually as his serpents retrieved his brethren. Lio squints, barely making out details from the distance between them, only seeing that he dons a ragged black vest unbuttoned, black pants, and the horned visor helmet signifying a Mad Burnish leader.  

Not again,  Lio nearly groans because Burning Rescue had just apprehended the previous leaders some months back and the stress and exhaustion from that alone had taken probably a few years off his lifespan.  

In contrast, the Burnish sure sounds like he’s having fun.  

“Whewwww, you sure made that seem easy!” he whistles, voice distorted by his helmet yet somehow carrying enough for Lio to hear him clearly. “But sorry, hotshot, looks like it’s time for us to—hey!”  

He's interrupted by a sudden bloom of ice near his feet. Lio clicks his tongue. His trajectory was just a little off—it must be the unusual stiffness of his bow that’s messing with him.

“At least let people finish talking!” the Burnish protests, to which Lio doesn’t even bother answering. He notches another arrow, pulling taut as he recalibrates him aim with the help of Lucia’s adjustments. This time, he will not miss.  

He doesn’t. It would’ve once again landed right on target, if only it wasn’t intercepted by a wall of fire, far hotter than what their ice are designed to handle. Lio barely has the chance to think when the Burnish bursts out from behind the flames riding a bike he manifested, cranking it to obnoxious levels of noise as he charges towards Lio.  

Lio prepares to intercept, prepares to be out-sped and still somehow deal with it because what else is he supposed to do —until the entire left arm of his Gear falls apart, and he flinches.  

The Burnish speed right past him in a blazing trail of fire, hollering victory cheers as he makes his escape.  

Lio fumes, immediately moving to give chase.  

“Lio, stop!”  

And he’s halted in his tracks upon a stern order from Ignis. Let them be, the fire has priority, he’s told in a tone leaving no room for arguments. And Lio knows the Captain’s right. He's getting too worked up, he's losing rationality. He clenches his fists, forces the roar of blood in his ears to subside.  

He glares toward the direction where Mad Burnish had disappeared to for just a moment more, then spitting a curse, he turns around and heads to help finish up their job for the day.  

xXx

“How’s that feeling?”  

Lio draws an arrow from his bow, trying to gauge the extent of improvement Lucia’s service had made on it. It feels much easier to use than the last time even in its down-sized mode; the string fiber more flexible, the overall weight of the bow more stable in his hands.  

“Like it’s new,” Lio marvels, eternally impressed by Lucia’s mechanical skills. Lucia smiles wryly and crosses her arms.  

“Good. You’re gonna have to be relying only on that for a while,” she says, then gesturing to Lio’s Gear behind her in the garage. “We won’t be able to do much with Detroit until the new parts arrive.”

“It’ll do,” Lio assures; his specialty has always been the bow and arrow from the start, anyway. “Thanks, Lucia.”

“Anytime,” Lucia says, slipping her goggles back over her eyes before turning to saunter off. “Now back to work!”

“Aina’s asked me to go with her to get some bubble tea later,” Lio calls after her, remembering at the nick of time. “What would you like?”

Lucia responds to just get her whatever, and knowing she’s now already too distracted to pay him attention any longer, Lio hurries off in search for Aina.  

It’s Aina’s idea to check out the new shop that’s recently opened just down the block from the station, thinking it could be a nice treat for the team after that hell of a fire they had to put out two days ago. The higher-ups had a lot to say about them failing to capture the new Mad Burnish boss as well, and while none of them has outwardly voiced their complaints about it, Lio knows everyone’s high-strung. Arsonist Burnish always pose more danger when they’re in groups; they become more daring, fearless. Even more so if they have a charismatic leader to head the way. It'll be the start of another manhunt for the new Boss.

Lio has never quite understood the point of Mad Burnish setting all those whimsical fires. They’re only giving the rest of the Burnish people a bad reputation, further feeding the stereotype that they are inherently dangerous just because they have the ability to control flames while the majority do not. Sure, perhaps setting things aflame does create a sense of unexplainable satisfaction, but is doing it at such a destructive scale really worth possibly endangering the rest of your people in the long run?  

“What did Lucia say she’d want?” Aina asks once Lio’s caught up to her and they’re setting out on their way to the shop. Lio shrugs as he trudges on, taking a moment to enjoy the mundane tranquility around him; the feel of the late morning sunlight on his skin, the sounds of traffic along the road. It’s not every day that he gets to talk casual strolls in the middle of a shift like this.  

“She says anything’s fine.” Lio tears his gaze away from the puppy going out on a walk with its owner just passing them to look at Aina while he speaks. “We could just get her one of their signatures?”

“Can’t go wrong with that, she likes anything as long as they’re sweet anyways,” Aina agrees with a little snicker. “What about you, Lio? Any preference in mind?”  

“I’m not really in the mood for anything too rich so maybe I'll just get some fruit tea,” Lio says, then halting in his steps at the sight that greets him. “That’s, uh, if we even get to order at all..?”

Aina follows his gaze towards the line of people spanning three shop lots from their targeted bubble tea place, and lets out a groan. Lio understands her disappointment; he was really looking forward to sipping on something cold and sweet and refreshing, too. Still, they should’ve expected this, the craze never really had signs of going away even after all this while. The place is probably also having some sort of opening promotion, so of course people would be scrambling to have a try for themselves over the weekend.

“Maybe we should just go to another place,” Aina suggests, already looking around to see what alternatives they have. Lio agrees, not quite wanting to return empty handed after all their anticipation. He fishes out his phone and does a quick search, knowing there’s sure to be some other shop nearby. They seem to be everywhere regardless of competition.  

He eventually finds one with decent reviews located just a little further down the street, past the first junction. Aina, with no better ideas in mind, easily goes along with it.  

So they make their way there, and to their relief, finds it with a more reasonable queue despite most of the tables inside being occupied. Lio goes over the menu with Aina as they get in line, trying to decide on what to get. Lio’s going for the peach tea, Aina’s getting the matcha latte, and since the rest of the team can’t really be bothered as long as it’s Aina’s treat, they’ll just get them each the signature brown sugar milk tea.  

Aina receives a call while they’re later waiting for their order to be prepared, and Lio soon finds himself scrolling through his phone alone while she leaves to answer it outside where it’s a little quieter. With just a couple of other customers with singular orders ahead of theirs, it doesn’t take long until Lio’s number is beeped through the prompter and he’s stepping out to collect the drinks.  

“Oh, you’re part of the FDPP?”  

Lio glances up at the crew member, not even sure if he’d actually been spoken to because it’s so unexpected. His attention is immediately drawn to the blue hair first, shaved on the sides and spiked in a way that’s almost comical yet strangely suiting the person it belongs to. Lio’s gaze then travels a little further down to see the staff’s face and um.  

Okay. He's kind of...  

Cute.

“I’m sorry?” Lio manages, just in case he really hadn’t heard right or something. Get it together, Lio Fotia.

“Your jacket,” the guy repeats with a vague indicative motion, eyes bright with curiosity, “you’re part of the FDPP?”

“Ah,” Lio’s suddenly a little too aware that he might’ve been staring and almost frantically averts his gaze. “Yeah, our HQ’s just down the block.”

Wait, did he really need to say that, though? Oof.  

“Cool, cool!” Then as Lio dares to risk one final glance at him, he sees him offering him an encouraging grin. “Thanks for all your hard work!”  

Lio can’t help but offer a slight smile in return, a little touched by the sudden appreciation. “Thank you.”

And as they’re on the way back to the station, Lio catches himself lowkey hoping that the drinks would taste good enough for him to have an excuse to return.  

[bigskydreaming]

Like, the thing you guys gotta understand is my loud opinions are far more defense mechanism than they are “I think I am right and nobody else is ever and people should listen to me only.”

Nah. They’re literally just me being as loud and as visible with the stuff that matters the most to me as is possible....because that actually minimizes the flack I catch for y’know...stuff I’m truly passionate about believing.

For example, my online behavior and tendencies in fandom on tumblr specifically....were largely shaped by my experiences in Teen Wolf fandom. Where I started out being as civil as possible wherever possible, and gradually got louder and angrier over time because THAT DIDN’T MATTER. Its why tone policing is bullshit, through and through. Because the real issue was never HOW I was saying what I was saying, it was what I was saying at all.

See, I flat out don’t like the fandom fave Stiles, as he’s portrayed on the show, and never did. Not from day one. He bothered the fuck out of me from the pilot. And this is a very controversial opinion in TW fandom, and was far more so back when I was first becoming ‘known’ in fandom, whatever the fuck that means or is even worth (seriously, its not worth a lot. You guys, stop putting so much weight in the visibility of more ‘well known’ bloggers....that doesn’t directly translate into the influence you think it does, especially when those bloggers are still holding what the majority of a fandom deems ‘unpopular’ opinions).

But back in my early TW days, I wasn’t really ‘known’ at all, for my blog and my opinions on the show. I was better known for my fics, which at the beginning, I was writing and updating fairly quickly. I’ve published somewhere just shy of 100,000 words of TW fanfic....and the vast majority of that was all written in just the first year or two in fandom.

And the thing is, for people who just found me on Ao3 and not on my blog originally....they weren’t as immediately aware of my bias against Stiles. Because I hate bashing ANY characters in fic. Even ones I don’t like, because the point of fanfic for me, is to FIX my personal issues with the source material, improve on the things *I* especially dislike....so even though I dislike Stiles on the show, in my better known TW fics, he was still present, and I was still trying to be as true to his core characterization as possible, WHILE addressing what I considered his core problem areas.

The kicker being.....a LOT of Stiles-fans LIKED my fanfic depiction of Stiles. A lot of S/terek fans included. You look at my TW fics like Where Wild Things Are or Lightning Crashes in particular....you’re gonna find a LOT of comments from self-proclaimed S/terek fans and Stiles stans....and those are just the ones I didn’t delete when I was forced to aggressively moderate my comments when a lot of those same commenters got loud and angry at me.

Which they did see....once they started connecting my Ao3 account to my blog, and my opinions on the show in general, which were starting to be more widespread in fandom due to some better known mutuals. I mean, its not like it was a big secret. My Ao3 pen name for my Teen Wolf fic is bigskydreamin’. It....wasn’t really anything I felt I needed to clarify, lmao.

But once people realized that the very same writer they liked for his take on Stiles very vocally disliked the show’s Stiles because of behaviors and scenes that I quote unquote deemed abusive (which I do, and stand by to this day).....they went fucking APESHIT on me. Like.....I can not even TELL you the extent of the nasty comments, anons, emails and reviews I got from some of the very same people who previously were glowing in their praise of my fics, especially the Stiles scenes.

All because I didn’t like the show’s depiction of certain behaviors and toxic dynamics, and set out to improve these things in my fic while being true to the characterizations....and which they had LIKED....until they realized my take didn’t come from a place of “oh I think Stiles is just the best.”

And then the fateful day came when one of them flat out asked me why I didn’t ship S/terek and if I would ever write S/terek....

And I had the balls to answer honestly. LOL. I wasn’t even insulting or offensive...just blunt. I told the person that I have serious issues with S/terek because of the power dynamics and the way they’re romanticized within fandom and most fics rather than called out and addressed, and I said I would never have any interest in tackling these topics myself in any kind of S/terek fic because my own past with abuse makes the ship just inherently unappealing to me because of how I perceive it, and I feel zero desire to ‘fix’ a thing I wouldn’t want on any level to begin with.

And they went and told all their friends and lol, RIP the rest of my TW years - and this was probably back in like, Year Two of my time in TW fandom. For a more accurate estimate, look for when I lost the will to update my big fics, because like. What was the point? Any positive reaction I got from updates at the time was just drowned out by the hate I got for adding to a story many of them were still reading, judging by the way my hit counts were still pretty steady with what they’d been with previous updates.....but that at the same time, they were heaping all kinds of shit on me for just....having opinions they didn’t like at the same time as I wrote stuff they still DID like.

The juxtaposition of those two things....lol. Man. Its a trip, I’ll tell you that.

And to be honest, the same thing has been happening ever since I started being more involved in Batfandom. You guys know how I reblog a lot of my own posts? That’s not something I used to do like, ever in TW fandom...because all the content I was making then was fresh. But I’ve always been a fan of Dick Grayson even while I was knee deep in TW fandom, so my longtime followers can tell you....I’ve been making these posts about him all along. A lot of my more popular Dick Grayson posts were written years ago, before I started getting active in this fandom....which only really happened over last summer. 

And the difference in TONE in a lot of my posts, is a lot of the ‘tamer’ posts.....which express the exact same viewpoints I have as in my more heated posts.....is because my ‘tamer’ posts were written as one-offs that I just wrote in passing while in a fandom that generally didn’t have any interest in my Batfamily musings....which did not at all stop me from still making those posts from time to time....because I don’t post ANYTHING for the sake of getting notes. Its literally just shit that’s on my mind, that I want to put out there for people to do whatever the hell they feel like doing with them. 

And so most of the posts I reblog, that seem more ‘mild’....its because I wrote them years ago, they got like maybe ten notes at the time, lol, and I’m reblogging them now because I have more of a platform and think they’d still be of interest to fans of that content specifically....but the stark tone difference is because when I wrote THOSE....nobody was jumping on my back the second I hit post to tell me how obviously wrong and stupid I was for not getting this or that or that and having this opinion on this character or just “caring too much about fictional characters.”

Like, you get what you give, people. You throw shit at me, eventually, I’m gonna start throwing shit back, and no, you don’t get to be pissed about that when all the evidence is there that I’m MORE than capable AND willing to have a good time just by myself....and more than happy to have people join in....as long as nobody’s being a douchebag. But if you get your douchebaggery on and start making my life hell....I’m gonna start raising my voice, because that shit fucking sucks.

The sheer vitriol I got for simply stating that I have no interest in writing a S/terek dynamic I see as inherently toxic due to the inherent power imbalances, BECAUSE of my own history as an abuse and rape survivor, which I was frank about.....it blows my mind. People are literally OFFENDED that in response to questions THEY asked me, I said....I do not like this thing, because of how it affects my feelings about my own trauma. 

Like, for years I have gotten monthly hatemail in my asks for spreading toxicity and hate through the TW fandom and ‘hurting real abuse/rape survivors by misleading people and calling S/terek pedophilic and misusing terms like that’....

And the utterly hilarious thing (in that not at all sort of way), is I have never ONCE called S/terek pedophilic, or anyone who ships it a pedophile. Never. Once!

You know why? Its not even because of my own personal view on whether or not that’s an accurate label for that ship....its because IT WASN’T EVEN RELEVANT TO THE SPECIFIC CRITICISMS I’VE ALWAYS FOCUSED ON MAKING.

Like, I literally never even got AROUND to expressing whether or not I thought that was a label that applies to that ship, because I’ve always had plenty of thoughts just purely on the specific power imbalances as I break them down in my view of that pairing....REGARDLESS of what you label those power imbalances. I don’t fucking CARE about the terminology. My concern has never once been what the fuck you call it, so I never made it ABOUT what anyone calls it, and purely focused on why I think it isn’t healthy just in specific terms.....and yes, pulled from my own personal experience and knowledge of abuse to back up why I feel that way, and to clarify why I feel so strongly about it.

But does any of this matter? Nope. Because all people cared about when directing hate my way for my oh so controversial opinions was not what was accurate to my views, but what was effective in discrediting them.

And the same shit is already happening in Batfandom, and its obnoxious, and tired, and yeah, its why I’m already kinda coming out of the gate hot and heavy, because within like....less than two months of me starting to post more regularly about Batfam specific content and getting some followers who have large fandom presences and boosted my posts to a pretty broad fandom circulation....

Its like, welcome to TW fandom, rinse and repeat.

Hardly any of the actual flack I’ve gotten in this fandom so far has anything whatsoever to do with my opinions on the Batfam....its almost all about the fact that I don’t like noncon/pedophilia/incest fics and am critical of the permissive attitude fandom spaces have cultivated around this stuff. And of the fact that I think the culture of false positivity fandom spaces try to enforce at the expense of marginalized fans who try to speak up about their experiences with racism and other forms of oppression and bigotry online, like, is similarly bullshit. Like, the thing people don’t like me for most of all, is that I’m LOUD and OPINIONATED about saying that these things specifically, fucking suck, and here are my own personal experiences that make me feel that way.

And notice the lack of actual argument with my actual posts. Notice how its all about ME....my volume....my ‘irrationality’....my obvious mental health issues (I’ve heard that one a couple times already, lol - no shit, I’m ADHD, have longterm PTSD, and a literal lifetime’s worth of trauma I’m still actively unpacking and sorting through, lol, what the fuck was the revelation in me having mental health issues? I’m not shy about it, and I don’t use it as an excuse for being an asshole.....guess what? I’m an asshole sometimes, and I can absolutely point to when and where I’ve been one. I’m not hiding it, and I’m not hiding behind mental illness).

Plus, y’know there’s my ‘fake wokeness’ because a white man can’t have any possible reasons or experiences that lead to him choosing to prioritize supporting people of color in fandom over other white people while still firmly being motivated by things that are born of his own life and his own lane, and just *gasp* happen to make me care more about certain shit than other white people do, like.....I’m as transparent as I am about my feelings and motivations for a REASON. I’m not UNAWARE of any of this or how I come across.....the thing so many of you don’t get is that none of this is a multiple choice test where you have to circle the right answer and you pass, you’re a good ally or a good influence or a good person.....all of this is just life. Its just us all making choices and everyone else reacting to those choices in whatever the hell way they choose. 

I’m not trying to win any points with anybody.....if I DID care about cultivating my own influence in fandom, I MORE than have the communication skills to couch my most controversial opinions in language that would be more palatable to the MOST influential corners of fandom, draw more people in, be less alienating or distancing to people who have a kneejerk defensive reaction to a lot of the things I say....like, however influential I may or may not be in various fandoms and various fandom circles....I am perfectly aware of how I could say or do things differently to have MORE influence in broader reaching circles....I just fucking hate that kind of game playing. 

I’m the opposite of trying to win points....I just want the people who are around me and who follow me to actually RESPECT me enough to fucking listen to me and what I have to say....because otherwise, how do either of us even benefit? What’s the point? Who’s gaining anything from any interaction?

So yeah. I’m loud, and vocal, and opinionated....I say exactly what’s on my mind and I don’t apologize for it. I’m an asshole to people who are an asshole to me first, and sometimes I fuck up and I’m an asshole to people who don’t deserve it. And if you call me on that and I pull my head out of my ass soon enough to notice in time that you’re right and I owe you an apology, I’ll do that! And if you don’t want to call me on it and choose to take the offense I caused as a reason not to follow me or interact with me any further....that’s perfect valid and understandable too, and absolutely your right! Do what you need to do for you!

But the one thing that will never ever ever win you any points with me and that I just despise more than anything....is the fundamental lack of awareness, and lack of respect for me and what I’ve lived through....that the S/terek readers of mine who started the chain of events that led to me settling on my current approach to interacting with fandoms.

That thing where some people in various fandoms think its perfectly acceptable and reasonable to like some of my fan content....but then get pissed and upset with me because I don’t like all of the same things you do, think all of the things you do, and am judgmental about various ships you might have or fics you might read or write......and then take this out on me.

Nuh uh. Not okay. Never okay. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, I DO NOT SIT THERE AND TAKE THAT SHIT.

Because the thing the people this describes seem incapable or unwilling to grasp is....

For all your talk of “don’t like/don’t read” and telling me and other survivors to take responsibility for curating our own fandom content and experiences and avoiding things that might trigger us....

Even when I TRY and do that to the absolute BEST of my ability.....some of you still get pissed at me and go on the offensive because I don’t want to interact or be around certain content or people who are inspired to create that content....because of what it brings up for me, because of my various past traumas.

Like, that’s what it boils down to, IN MY PERSONAL EXPERIENCES. People liking what I have to say, until I say I don’t like something they don’t like and here’s why....and then its open fucking season, because how dare I not want to associate with them because that association is likely to expose me to triggering things they also at the same time expect me to take responsibility for avoiding, so as not to blame anyone else for my exposure to such things.

Can you please maybe understand why that fundamentally DOES NOT FUCKING WORK??

And is not only utterly unreasonable, but offensive to ask of someone who’s just trying to participate in fandom and have a good time and simply STATE when and where relevant, that there are things that impact my ability to have a good time, just as there are things that impact the ability of other fans to enjoy themselves alongside you as well?

Or are we ever going to get around to some people admitting that their fandom experiences have absolutely nothing to do with caring about the ‘community’ people swear up and down exists, and solely prioritize their own personal enjoyment, and FUCK everyone else? (While meanwhile, also being all: but why aren’t they making more of the stuff that I at least was enjoying when they weren’t bitching about not having fun here?’ LOL. Can’t ever forget that part.)

Its just.

You all are fucking exhausting sometimes, I swear. And that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere, because I have as much right to be here as anyone, and I DO still manage to have a good time a lot of the time in spite of this crap, but that’s never gonna stop me from saying I have a right to have more of a good time and less of a literally triggered time, if any of you might ever care to prioritize that for me as much as you ask me to prioritize your good times for you.

This isn’t me doing anything other than saying....you all are fucking exhausting sometimes, I swear. Because sometimes, I just want to say that. Sometimes, it feels good to say that. And at every time, I have every damn right to say that in any way, shape or form I want to say it, at any volume I want to say it at, because none of this is me yelling at anyone, it is every single one of us sitting safe and comfortable in front of a screen of some kind, reading someone else express themselves and deciding how we want to take that expression and what’s being expressed, and how we want to react or not react in turn.

Like....just...its that fucking simple. That is literally all so much of this fucking ‘discourse’ is. People experiencing life in different ways than other people, and some people wanting to improve their experiences, some people wanting their experiences to stay just the way they are, some people wanting to ignore every experience that doesn’t fit their expectations or desired interactions, and other people just.....idk, just being fucking high, let’s face it, half the shit on this site is just plain weird and I like to assume the best of humanity and just chalk it up to half this site’s user base being high as fuck most of the time they post, LOL. 

*Shrugs* Congrats if you actually read all the way through to the end of this post....like....this is where I reiterate...I have ZERO expectations for this post. I have NO clue how people will react to it, how many or how few people will take it in the way I want it to be taken, especially because *I* don’t even know how I want it to be taken or what I would like to come of it. This is literally just me saying shit that is on my brain in response to my own personal experiences on this site and in this fandom. It is utterly, 100% up to you guys to decide what you do with it from here.

If I have one want for all fandoms, I guess it would just be.....for people to look to their own behavior and motivations and choices and take responsibility for their own shit before projecting onto other people and expecting them to do all of that while still refusing to do any of it themselves.

Too many people keep trying to drive one way on what are supposed to be two-way streets, and being shocked when that repeatedly results in collisions, pileups, accidents and blatant hit and runs.

We all live in a society.

Quit treating other members of that society like they only exist to cater to your existence alone.

[sunsetscurving]

CHASING STARS

Ch. 19

ao3 link

In a world where reincarnation is common and expected, people stopped to care for a reason or how many times they already lived – they have no memory of their past life anymore.

But Lucas Lallemant can feel that this isn’t his first life, some shreds of his former life still present in his new one. He has this feeling that something from his past life tied him so much to it that he has to find it again in his new life.

Something. Or someone.

TW: anxiety, death

Darkness.

Nothing but darkness.

And pain.

A lot of pain.

And a voice.

His voice.

Someone talking.

Lucas?

Lucas, where are you?

They had been dancing a second ago.

And then?

A shot.

A blinding pain.

His heart…

Stopped.

And his breathing?

Stopped.

He was going to die.

The immortal boy was dying.

Sirens.

No.

Someone talking to him.

Someone laying him down somewhere.

He would fight.

Fight for Lucas.

Fight for their love.

Fight for everything.

And suddenly.

Nothing.

No pain.

No Lucas.

Darkness.

Only Darkness.

.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea. We could also walk home”, said Eliott while holding Lucas’ hand.

But Lucas shook his head, pulling him to his motorbike and swinging himself on it.

“You act like I haven’t driven at night in ages.”

“Well… You haven’t. And there are cruel people out there at night.”

Lucas rolled his eyes playfully and handed Eliott his helmet, laughing.

“C’mon Eli. You’re my knight, you will defend me.”

Eliott couldn’t help himself and smirked now, climbing onto the seat behind Lucas and wrapped his arms around him. They had been dancing all night and the sexual tension between the two of them was high. Eliott’s hand slowly slid down Lucas’ chest, stopping just shortly above his jeans. And he could feel Lucas’ breathing faster.

“And if we would have walked home, I would have to wait even longer for you to undress me.”

Eliott laughed quietly and shifted even closer to Lucas.

“You’ve got a point.”

“I always do.”

And with that, they took off into the night. Eliott was happy with Lucas, the boy he couldn’t take his eyes off at college and he was happy to be in love with him. They were driving through the night, Eliott’s head leaning against Lucas’ shoulder.

“The project for my first short film is going really well. I just have to cut some things and put sound over it and—”

Eliott loved to listen to Lucas talking about the things he was passionate about. He imagined how his eyes were shining behind the helmet and how he beamed with light.

“And then I can hand it in and it will—”

Boom.

The noise come out of nowhere. Lucas lost control over his bike and before Eliott could even start to scream, they were crashing into a wall, both of them falling down from the vehicle. Eliott felt dizzy, his head was pounding with pain. But he pulled himself up, looking over to Lucas who was everything he cared for.

“Lulu? Are you okay?”, asked Eliott and crawled to his boyfriend who laid motionless in front of the wall.

“Lucas?”

Lucas was lying with his back to Eliott and he slowly turned him around, carefully in case he might be hurt.

And he was hurt.

Eliott had the feeling to faint.

Lucas’ whole body was covered in… blood.

Fucking blood.

“Lucas? Oh my fucking god. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

Eliott couldn’t see where the blood came from.

But he knew that he had to act.

“HELP! I NEED HELP!”, screamed Eliott and looked around. But he saw only one person. A person with a gun. A person with a gun who was grinning and now turning around, running down the street. He would never forget that face.

Eliott looked back to Lucas, fully in a panic mood right now as the realization hit in.

Lucas had been shot.

And he was dying.

“Lucas?”, Eliott’s voice was shaking now and he shook his boyfriend slightly. But Lucas didn’t open his eyes. His body was damaged too much.

And Eliott could do nothing as he watched the love of his life die.

He wept openly now, leaning down and whispering words into Lucas’ ear – a promise.

“I will find you again. I will wait for you and you will be reincarnated. And I will find you again in your next lifetime.”

Eliott cried and held Lucas’ close as he watched Lucas’ pulse faint more and more.

“This is not the end.”

.

Eliott woke up with a jolt. The light above him was blinding him and he had to blink a few times before his vision finally adjusted itself.

Where am I?

Eliott slowly turned his head, looking around. There were beeping machines, and sunlight was spilling into the room. Everything was white and clean and he was lying in a bed, not really able to move.

And suddenly, he realized.

He was in a hospital.

And he was awake.

I’m alive.

He was alive and not dead.

He made it.

But how…?

There was only one way to kill him and the fucker who tried to kill Lucas hit him directly into the heart as he threw himself in front of Lucas. He had to be dead by now.

But instead…

Instead he felt more alive than ever.

Because this is the case.

Eliott didn’t know where he got that information from, if his body told him all of this or some higher force whispered it into his mind.

But he knew that from this moment on, he wasn’t immortal anymore.

He could feel everything so clear, so much more. The pain he was in was not dull, it was a blinding fire. The colours looked differently and everything seemed to be… more real.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe it was sheer will to be together with Lucas and grow old with him without Lucas looking at Eliott who stayed young and regretting every decision in his life.

Or maybe it was fate.

But Eliott wasn’t immortal anymore and he couldn’t be happier.

“Monsieur Demaury, you’re finally awake.”

Eliott turned his head as someone spoke to him and the doctor walked over to him with a smile on his face, looking absolutely content.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I rose from death”, answered Eliott honestly and the doctor couldn’t hide a smile anymore.

“Which is exactly the case, monsieur”, answered the doctor and took position in front of Eliott’s bed, “But you and your body fought really hard. You were lucky that the bullet only skimmed your heart and not went through it. That’s why you survived. And because of you not giving up, of course.”

What a fucking lucky bastard I am.

Eliott could do nothing but smile right now and he hoped that the doctor knew how thankful he was for his work. But the doctor apparently knew what Eliott needed now more than anything in this world.

“There’s a young man outside who had been waiting the whole day for you to wake up.”

Eliott’s eyes lit up and he slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position.

“Please, send him in.”

The doctor smiled and opened the door.

And Eliott couldn’t hold back his tears anymore. Lucas was running inside as fast as he could and threw his arms around Eliott. It was painful because of the still fresh wounds but Eliott couldn’t care less right now. He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy and both of them wept for some minutes, just holding the other one while realizing that they had beaten death again.

“You’re here”, whispered Eliott and Lucas snuggled his face into Eliott’s neck.

“You’re here”, answered Lucas and pulled away just a tiny bit to look at Eliott. To see if he was really real after all.

“I thought… I thought I lost you forever.”

“I thought that too…”

Eliott suddenly remembered the dream he had. No – the flashback he had. Of Lucas dying. And maybe this was the point where his body decided, where Eliott decided that he could never ever make Lucas feel all the things he went through while losing Lucas.

“But you’re here now…”

“And I will never go away”, whispered Eliott and pulled Lucas into a tight hug again. They sat like this for minutes, just breathing in the other one while trying to understand everything that happened. Eliott survived and Lucas survived too. Both of them would be happy now, no one could stop them.

And they would grow old and grey together.

“Lucas?”

“Hm?”

“Would you still find me attractive with grey hair?”

Lucas lifted his head and looked at Eliott with big eyes. And Eliott could nearly see how realization hit him, how he understood what Eliott was saying. How he understood that Eliott wasn’t immortal anymore. And Lucas didn’t care where he got that information from and how he knew that. He just felt that it was right and that it was good and that everything would be okay from now on.

“You will be the hottest grandpa in town”, answered Lucas with tears in his eyes and Eliott couldn’t help himself and drowned Lucas into a million kisses.

[mc-dude]

Ólórë

Ólórë - noun.

a shared dream; a mingling of two fëar in Irmo’s domain.

on ao3

Threadbare cloth flapping in the wind. A child’s cry, quickly stifled by a mother’s hush. The creaking of ice against ice, the tinkling of frozen water over floating shore, the ragged breathing of his people as they huddle for what warmth can be found; familiar sounds, but not a comfort.

They cannot judge hours from days, days from weeks, weeks from months. There is nothing to guide them save the cold light of Varda’s creations, and a candle’s flame cannot survive in the harsh winds of the utmost North. They rest when they cannot go on, and go on when all logic bids them stop, for they must. The mountains grow larger behind: a gate shut closed on the only home they’ve ever known. They cannot go back.

Findekáno shifts uncomfortably, willing his thoughts to settle so he can get the rest he desperately needs. His entire shift he was scouting ahead, his wrists raw from where the rope line pulled tight around him, face red and sore from the ice crystals clawing at his skin. Every muscle aches, every breath coupled with a shiver and a throb of pain in his fur-covered feet. He stares at the ceiling of their tent with pursed lips. The sound of his sister’s snores are soft in his ear. Turukáno shifts restlessly against his back, Arakáno behind him. Itarillë lies between them all, still and silent, as warm as she can be in this desolate place. He tries not to think of the last member of their sleeping group, forever lost beneath the Ice.

Do not think of that now, he pleads to himself, taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes to defocus. Think of anything else, something benign. The scent of bread from the baker down the street from his father’s apartments in Tirion, the cry of a seagull as it flies in from beyond the sea– no, don’t think of the sea– the feel of his horse as he races over the plains of Formenos, the wind in his hair, the warm light of Laurelin flush upon his skin; he whispers to his horse faster, faster and laughs as they speed off across the field. He turns his head, cheeks sore from smiling so wide, a taunt on his lips–

A flash of bright copper catches in the corner of his vision.

The tent snaps back into focus, breath stolen from his lungs. Do not think of him, do not–

“Go to sleep, Finno,” Írissë whispers to him, one eye squinting at him in the dark. Findekáno glares at her; as if it is that simple. He opens his mouth to say so, but Itarillë mumbles between them, shifting in her sleep. Findekáno forces himself still, chastened.

He focuses on the eerie whistling of the wind, the minute rocking of the ice beneath them, and thinks not of anything red, nor of bad decisions once made, or of a trust misplaced.

Exhaustion finally claims him, and he slips into his slumber with a sigh of relief.

Anything to escape the cold, even for a few hours.

–––

When he awakens, it is to the scent of salt mixed with rust. Findekáno slumps, weary and guilt-ridden.

Alqualondë, again. Not even in his dreams can he get a moment’s peace.

He had visited the city many times in his youth, to sit upon the docks and stare out at the sea, to dangle his feet above the waves and wonder of the shores beyond. The Shipwrights were a peaceful people, unconcerned with the politics and ongoings of the nobility, and showed neither favor nor scorn towards a scion of the house of Finwë. Here he had learned to tie knots that would not unravel unless commanded, had caught his first fish with his bare hands, had collected shells on the shore for the sheer delight of it, unburdened and without expectation.

Now its pearled domes are torn asunder, its white walls stained brown with old blood. Bodies litter the docks that he once walked without care or consequence, their raiments soiled with gore. He has no choice but to move forward through the carnage. He knows from experience: if he does not keep moving they will come to him, their bodies rent and mangled, grasping at him with bloodied fingers as they cry out for a mercy he cannot, did not, give.

The once clear blue water is stained a dark red, just visible in the dim light of the stars. The city looks different in their light, without Telperion to reflect upon its splendor. Lonely and diminished, forever tarnished by the evil deeds that took place in its streets, upon its docks and on its shores. The Eldar have nothing but time until the ending of the World, but still he wonders if it will ever recover. He steps over another crumpled body, very carefully not looking at its face; he knows it has none.

With all that his people have lost, he is almost surprised that the death around him still affects him so; but then again, there is very little blood, on the Ice. When his people die, it is not by sword or bow, but the silent gasp of a body sinking under the waves, a strangled scream as they slip into an unforeseen crevasse, a quiet whimper as they shiver their last breath.

The planks creak beneath his feet as he reaches the middle of the dock. In the distance, their golden beaks still glinting in the fading light, swan ships: the pride of the Teleri people, burnt and broken, the blood of their makers stained against the polished wood, and for nothing. There’s a huddled mass at the dock’s end, and he starts forward once again, already hearing the ragged breaths of the slain not far behind.

It’s an elf, he realises as he gets nearer, kneeling on the wood and bent over a dark shadow. Still alive, perhaps: a last survivor to cast their judgement upon him. He will accept it, because he must. He continues forward.

The clouds part for a moment, and the starlight catches on the elf’s hair.

It’s red.

He halts mid-stride, first in shock, and then the anger crashes over him like a half-frozen wave against bare skin.

It’s rare upon the Ice to have any energy to dream at all, any measure of comfort stripped away by piercing winds, gnawed at by endless hunger, crushed beneath the fathomless depths of Ulmo’s domain. To find him here amongst the ruins they created– in the wreckage that he had made, for him– it makes him want to laugh. Or perhaps to scream. Of course, he thinks, with no small amount of hysteria. Of course he’s here.

He doesn’t remember the last time they’ve shared a dream. So much was fractured between their families after Fëanáro, Darkness take him, pointed a sword at his father’s chest. The glow of fires burning on distant shores only served to shatter what little remained.

It cannot be a true mingling of fëa, not a real joining of dreams. His thoughts might have strayed towards him in bitterness and anger before he slept, but Maitimo would have had to have been thinking of him as well before he fell asleep for them to connect like this as they once did, and after everything that’s happened, the notion is almost laughable.

Just his mind, then, reminding him of what he sacrificed his people’s future for: a murderer and a traitor, unfit to carry Finwë’s name.

His feet step lightly over decaying wood, eyes fixed on the shadow of Maitimo’s hunched form. There’s a body besides him, he notes as he approaches. Maitimo’s sword lies by his side, its edge dark with blood. Of course.

An opportunity, he thinks. A reprieve from the endless cycle of unanswered questions, of hours of asking why, why, why? He can take his vengeance here, and prepare for the real vengeance to come. Maitimo will receive no quarter from him, for none does he deserve. He steels himself.

“Nelyo,” he calls, hard and flat.

Maitimo doesn’t move, his head still bowed in some mockery of faux-penance. His shoulders seem thinner in the dimmed starlight, clothes fraying and stained. He says nothing, barely even breathes. The wind ruffles the air between them, silent and unrepentant, and the anger wells up in his throat, choking him with its ferocity.

“Nothing to say to me, even still?” he spits, fists clenching as he forces himself closer. Maitimo flinches back, dropping something to the ground. The body’s hand, he realises, but it’s not just a body: his own face stares skyward, eyes glazed and dark braids stained with blood. He’s so furious he can barely think, even in this dream world he’s conjured. How dare he, how dare he–

“Stop looking at that, you coward, I’m right here!” he shouts, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to turn. Maitimo falls back without a sound, eyes lowered, and finally he can look upon the man for whom he sacrificed so much, who clutched his hands tight with the waves lapping at their feet and whispered a desperate promise into his ear, and who broke that promise not hours later, abandoning him on distant shores for the sake of his father’s madness.

Findekáno stares.

Deep gouges run from eyebrow to jaw, across once enviously-smooth skin, down the contours of his neck. The bone below his right eye is sunken, as if smashed inward by some blunt force, and the skin covering it is marred and burnt. His namesake lies limp and tangled around his face, and his skin is sallow, his face so thin his cheekbones catch on the starlight and give him the appearance of one who is dead. His anger falters.

“Russo?” he asks, not quite believing it. He takes another step forward. Maitimo flinches and clenches his eyes shut. He’s trembling, he realises. Afraid, perhaps, but he’s only ever seen Maitimo fearful once before, in this very spot, fresh Teleri blood on the end of his sword, so he cannot be sure.

Afraid of him, he realises with a sickening lurch.

Good, some small part of him cries out. He has betrayed us all, is this not what he deserves? Quickly the thought is stifled, overtaken by nausea. His knees hit the deck. The body is still there, eerie and unseeing. He ignores it.

“Maitimo,” he calls, horrified, grabbing at his thin wrist and dragging it away from his face. Maitimo tries to draw away, but his movement is slow and overly-cautious. He has not yet met his gaze, still braced as if for impact.

Why would my mind choose to conjure him this way? he wonders, sickened. He is angry, yes, and rightfully so, but this– this is not what he wanted. He doesn’t want to see Maitimo wounded and afraid, emaciated and diminished, covered in grime save for where old tears have washed it away. Bile rises in the back of his throat as he runs his hand down Maitimo’s bone-thin arm. There are scars even here, twisting around puckered flesh, as if lashed and then stabbed.

He’s grateful, then, that it’s not a true shared dream between them. Grateful and horrified, for he did not know his mind was capable of something so hateful and cruel.

“Russo,” he tries again, sliding his palm down to his hand. Maitimo snatches his fingers away, curling them in a tight fist and holding them against his chest. He takes a deep breath, and looks up. The blankness in his eyes almost undoes him.

He doesn’t want to see him like this.

“Findekáno,” he finally acknowledges, voice unfathomably weary, as if the weight of all Arda has settled upon his shoulders. His voice sounds strange and thin, a mere rasp in the quiet sea breeze. Maitimo glances to the body on the dock, and then lets his eyes fall closed once more.

He had wanted– what had he wanted? A fight, he recalls in dismay. To extract his vengeance unhindered by the confines of reality. The water has already been stained red, a little more will not make a difference.

No, he insists, disgusted by himself. I did not want a fight, only an explanation. Not this, not Russandol beaten and defeated, waiting to accept his judgement.

“This is not real,” Findekáno states, insists, voice shaking. It could not be real, it could not–

“Of course not,” Maitimo agrees, eyes still trained on his doppleganger’s body. “You cannot be here. I killed you.”

Findekáno bristles, horror pushed aside. “You did not, however much it might have pleased you,” he retorts. “I am still very much alive.”

“Pleased me,” Maitimo repeats, whispering the words with a frown. His posture is strange, like he’s trying to make himself small. Always he has had to crane his neck skyward to look at Maitimo; it’s unnerving now that he must crouch down to see his face, knees pressed to the water-logged planks. He has to remind himself again that this is not real.

“You do not deny it,” Findekáno states, voice cracking on the end despite his efforts to remain impassive. A thousand years of friendship between them, centuries of easy trust and companionship, despite both their father’s misgivings. Years of huddling close in the last mingling before the new day, whispering doubts and worries in each other’s ears and taking comfort in a shared affection. All that history, tossed away as if worthless.

Had it meant nothing at all?

The wind picks up, rattling the clasps of his braids. Maitimo sways forward under its force, silent. He has never seen anyone look so tired, not even his own father upon the Ice. The circles under his eyes are bruised a dark purple, set so deeply into his skin they appear a permanent feature. How can he imagine him this way, when he has never seen anyone like this before?

What does it matter?

“What has happened to you?” he finally asks, his anger buried under the weight of his own sudden weariness. He is peripherally curious as to the excuse his mind will give. Has Maitimo been betrayed by his followers who have seen Fëanáro’s madness, perhaps? Or captured by his father’s command? What is a fitting punishment, he wonders, for the one who left him behind? What cruel torment has his mind imagined for one who was once closer to him than all others?

“What I deserve,” Maitimo replies at once, automatic and sure. He flexes his fingers with that same confused look on his face. “Will you not take your justice?” he questions, eyes flickering towards his own. “That is how this usually goes.”

Findekáno grows cold. “Are you saying I have done this to you?”

Maitimo laughs, and it’s a vicious sound, cold and hopeless. “Must we continue this farce?” he asks. “I grow weary of your games.”

“This is no game,” Findekáno spits, nails biting painfully into his palms. For him to make light of this situation, for him to laugh in the face of what he has done to him– “What are you saying?”

“I will not indulge you as you take his form, as you speak with his voice, as you try to corrupt his memory,” Maitimo says, voice dark with intent. “I will face Findekáno's judgement in the Halls, not here. Not from you."

"You will face it sooner than you think, for I am not dead," Findekáno snarls, chest tight and eyes hot. "Every day we move closer to Endor's shores. You and your father will pay for your betrayal."

Maitimo sighs, rolling his eyes. "Now we're back to my father again? Have you run out of ideas, creature?"

"Is this a joke to you?" Findekáno shouts, shaking and raw, aching with the need to lash out. Maitimo flinches again, jaw clenched, his arms curled protectively around his stomach. He's hurt, he realises, that was what he was hiding before. There's blood on his tunic, both old and new, and something is off about the placement of his shoulder, as if his collarbone has twisted the wrong way. Findekáno grabs his arm again, too fast for Maitimo to lurch away, and stares at the way his fingers fit around it with ease.

He cannot have imagined this. He has grown hard and cruel, he knows, he knows, but he is not capable of this– not capable of this brutality.

A sound in the water. Hands, grasping out of the depths of the sea. A moan in the night; the sound of a child crying. Findekáno closes his eyes, stomach sinking into the planks below. The truth settles over him like a warm shroud on a hot summer’s night, stifling and without relief.

He is more than capable.

He’s done this before, to those whose names he did not know, whose faces he did not see– just desperate movement in the night and a sword through soft flesh, the gurgling noise of blood spilling from split lips. Is it any better, that he did not call them friend, before? They are dead by his hand, all the same.

The water is red, but it is also thick.

“I did this to you,” he whispers, eyes wet as he slides his hand down over scarred skin. There’s fresh blood trickling down the side of Maitimo’s face. The smell makes him gag.

This is who he has become. He can never repent for what he’s done, for the terror he inflicted on innocents. For drawing Eldar blood on the end of his sword and condemning his people to the Ice. Every one of their deaths is on his hands, on his conscience, on his blade, for it was he who leapt to Maitimo’s aid, unthinking and brash, and his men, loyal and trusting, followed his command without question.

He had wanted vengeance, before, had wanted to make Maitimo feel his own pain, with weapon or fist. When had he become so bloodthirsty? When had his first instinct turned to violence? He has become as cold and empty as the Ice, a mere husk of his former self. He forces himself to look at Maitimo, chest tight with grief.

Maitimo’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion, darting over his face like he’s suddenly not sure who he is. How dare he, that voice inside him insists once again, weakly. He ignores it. He does not recognize himself, either.

“Findekáno did nothing, as you well know,” Maitimo says, hesitating. He’s testing for something, but for what, Findekáno knows not. He swallows, fingers light over the fraying edges of Maitimo’s threadbare tunic. There are welted bruises around his wrists, the skin scraped raw, the wounds blistering.

“It is my dream,” he says, chest tight with guilt. “So it must have been me.”

Weak and cruel, a blight upon his people. What hope have they in their plight? He has damned them all. If it were not for him, Itarillë would still have a mother, and his brother might not be caught half-way between life and death, desperate to fade but unable to leave.

Maitimo pries his hand from his arm, staring at his trembling fingers in confusion. The tips are dull and grey. They had quickly learned Eru’s first are not as invulnerable as once believed, the frost as deadly as any fire. How naïve they had been! His fault. It’s his fault–

“Findekáno,” Maitimo says, voice lilting like a question. His eyes are still pinched around the middle, unreadable in the dark. “You have done nothing to me,” he says slowly, as if explaining some intricacy of his father’s Tengwar to him back in Tirion, overly-enunciated and precise. Findekáno opens his mouth to protest–

“And this is not your dream,” Maitimo finishes, and Findekáno’s heart leaps into his throat.

“It must be,” he insists, looking at Maitimo’s mangled form with horror. It cannot be real. His fingers tighten around Maitimo’s own. “How can it not be, when you are here before me as you are?”

“As I am,” Maitimo mumbles, looking down at himself. He blinks, as if he did not notice the rags he wears, the blood and bruises that stain his skin. Maitimo’s free hand plucks at the tattered remains of the breeches he wears, unseeing. Anxiety starts to well in his chest, then, and doubt.

"What has happened to you, Russo?" he asks again, voice cracking. "You're not actually here, are you?" He turns Maitimo’s fingers over in his hand, noting for the first time the missing fingernails, the bloodied nailbeds. He chokes back bile in his throat. "Tell me this isn't a true mingling," he pleads, heartbeat loud in his ears.

Maitimo stares at the hand in his own, with that pinched look, still. His lips part, to confirm his beliefs, surely–

There's a sound from somewhere in the distance, like footsteps in a hallway. Maitimo goes very still.

“What is it?” Findekáno whispers, glancing behind them, around them, and then above. A star blooms overhead, and then fades into the darkness; the beginning of a cascade, their light disappearing one by one. There’s something in the air, as well: something charged and ominous, like the stillness of the sky before a storm. The hairs on the back of his head stand straight. Goosebumps erupt on his skin.

More footsteps, the scraping of metal against stone, something dragging heavily along the floor. Maitimo glances at him suddenly, startled, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Finno?" he asks, voice as small as he's ever heard it, eyes wide with disbelief. Panic seeps into Findekáno’s lungs, seawater pooling in his throat, choking him. A nightmare, just a nightmare, he assures himself, it cannot be real. The noise grows louder, and Maitimo grabs at him then, desperate fingers twisting into his furs. "Finno," he says again, incredulous and pained, the sound halfway between his name and a sob.

His appearance shifts, then, the gouges on his face growing dark with blood, the burn glossy and peeling. His hair darkens with filth and grime, and what little muscle he had melts from his frame like smoke on the wind. The fingers in his furs turn twisted and bent, and the marks around his wrists begin to weep with blood. Findekáno grasps at him, horrified.

“This is not real," he whispers, brushing the filthy strands back behind a ragged ear and biting his lip at the swath of bruises and scars revealed beneath his fingers. “It cannot be real, it can’t be.”

The sound of chains, of a door opening and Maitimo shudders, sinking his face into his furs with a muffled cry. Findekáno pulls him into his arms, dismayed at how light he feels, how fragile. Something rumbles: thunder in the distance. A storm begins to form out over the sea, wisps of blackened cloud shaped like hands that stretch towards Maitimo’s back. Findekáno curses and drags them backward away from the churning waves that begin to seep over the edge of the dock. The world shifts around him, blurring and twisting, and he stumbles.

"Russo, wait, do not wake–"

Well, well, what is this? A voice in the darkness, filled with malice, and with power.

Maitimo jolts off his chest, eyes wide with fear. The darkness begins to coalesce, pulling towards the middle like– like an eye, lidless and foul.

“Wake up, Finno,” Maitimo pleads, trembling. “Wake up, he cannot find you here, he cannot–”

“I will not leave you,” Findekáno insists, reaching for him once more. Of that much, he is certain: he will not let this darkness have him, will not let him become another body on the docks. It’s not within him to abandon him here, nor anywhere, in truth, for his heart has always been foolish, and no matter how many times it is broken and betrayed, he cannot force it to let Maitimo go.

“You must, you must,” Maitimo says, shoving to his feet and glancing about, desperate. Findekáno hurries after him, adrenaline pumping. There are swords about, he’s sure, maybe even his own, and in this realm of dreaming he is unbound by the means of his mortal hröa. He can fight whatever darkness has come to claim Russandol from him.

A flash of lightning, the rattle of chains.

Something in Maitimo’s face settles, expression going hard. He turns to Findekáno and looks at him for a moment, as if memorizing the contours of his face, and then tugs him into his arms. Findekáno clutches him close, startled. Maitimo’s hand digs into the muscles of his back, the other tangling in his hair, twisting around one of his braids. He hears him inhales once, nose pressed by his ear, and then he tenses, and– shoves him away.

Findekáno stumbles backward with a shout, tripping over his body on the docks, and then he’s falling. The last thing he sees before he hits the water is Maitimo sinking back to his knees, eyes clenched closed in defeat as the dark hands twist around his neck.

–––

He wakes with a gasp, tears frozen on his cheeks.

He does not dream of Russandol again.