#like im sorry but hes half feral all the time and turns into a beast and has long blond hair

[alicentsaegon]

Sarah J Maas can hype up Rhysand all she wants I'm still wet for Tamlin idc

[zhongrin]

rule two hundred and sixty nine

◇ characters ◇ zhongli

◇ tags ◇ minors dni, yandere!dragon!zhongli, unhealthy relationship dynamic, 'whore' used 1x, spanking, nothing too explicit - mostly suggestive

◇ a/n ◇ this is an expansion of this but it's kinda tame??? i wanted to go feral but i was scared and my writing is simply ✨not✨Good✨enough✨ and i got too embarrassed im sorry-

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

it started small at first.

since starting your relationship, you thought you’d fully understood that your lover is a man that has his set of rules and expects them to be followed at all times.

and at first, it worked well.

it provided you with some sort of structure - a clear guideline to follow, so to say. almost comforting, really, since following his rules meant smiles and sweet kisses bestowed oh-so graciously unto you, along with immaculate praises accompanied by his velvety rich voice. meanwhile, when the opposite happens, his disappointed glare burns into your mind and eats you up from the inside, searing the moment into your memory and deep into your heart so you remember to not do it again.

…. but as time passes, you find that the list seems to be unending, and you're pretty sure he’s been adding new rules more frequently these days. while it might not sound that bad at first glance, you start to notice that some things either don't make sense or suspiciously correlate far too close to what you recently did.

it’s overwhelming. and a tad irritating, to be completely honest.

so is it really your fault for disobeying some of the rules he set for you? for going out past his curfew and not telling him that you hung out with a few friends? that you let them hug and touch you since it's all platonic anyway?

you will quickly find out that yes, you're, without a doubt, at fault. at least from your lover's perspective, that is.

as soon as you step into your shared home, you’re pinned onto the floor by a furious dragon.

a weak mortal that you are, you struggle fruitlessly against the literal claws that have replaced your lover’s usually slender fingers. adrenaline pumps through your veins, your head pounding from the sudden escalation of your heartbeat. there’s a sudden pressure that makes it hard to breathe, partly because of his half-dragon body’s weight on top of you, but also caused by the two half-lidded draconic slits which are seeing into your very soul.

"rule two hundred and sixty nine," he growls, talons digging onto your cheek and neck, making indents on your skin, threatening to sink into your flesh, "you do not. come into my nest. smelling like a whore."

your breath seizes, both panic and embarrassment blooming rapidly from your chest and warming your whole body. you should be scared, you really should. a mythical beast eyeing you in displeasure, you're at his complete mercy - but when presented with such mean words, most would try to defend their honor, and you're no exception.

“zhongli-”

“how dare you disobey me like this.”

there is no gentleness to be found in his person, only blazing fire of fury, as if you’ve insulted him the vilest things known to humankind right in front of his face. to him, that’s awfully close to what you’ve done. undermining his authority, betraying his trust, and worse of all, breaking the rules- the contracts, which were supposed to bind both you and him together.

“i was just-” your tongue feels heavy inside your mouth when you see his glare harden. his hands moves off you, giving you more space to breathe, and yet you find that it’s even harder to do so, now.

“yes, [name]? continue.”

continue your excuses, see what it’ll lead to.

“…. n-no, nevermind…..”

a click of a tongue. his hand is back on you, but this time the sharp black claws grip around your clothes, easily tearing them off your body. you’re about to protest, not wanting the cold hard floor of the front entrance to become the place of… whatever this will turn out to be, when you feel the black scales dig onto your body as he lifted you up with one arm. he casts one last glance at the torn fabrics and mumbles something along the line of burning them later.

you don't dare to ask.

hell, you don't dare to even make any sort of noise.

“you broke the contract and you’re not even sorry. i expected better from my mate.”

“i’m sor-”

"silence."

you’re thrown into the bed unceremoniously, and before you can even think about escaping, the half-dragon is already caging you in, predatory eyes eyeing you hungrily beneath him.

his puny little human, sometimes too dumb for your own good. why can't you understand that the rules he has set in place, are all for your sake? for your safety, for your purity- for it is only him who’s allowed to corrupt you, to strip you bare and to breed you full until you can’t help but leak his cum for days.

your lips tremble and move slightly, but you don’t dare make a sound, his previous command preventing you to do so.

well, at least you’re obedient now, he thinks proudly. but if he lets this go unpunished, then what’s to say that you won't do the same thing again in the future? the thought makes him growl in irritation, and your arms press closer to your sides, to your chest, in an attempt to make yourself smaller.

his head dips down towards your neck, breath hitting warmed skin. at once, he’s attacked with a plethora of foreign smells. aside from the very faint smell that is you, none of them pleases him.

“you drank.”

you want to talk. want to explain to him that it was just a few sips. that it didn’t even make you tipsy. but he has yet to give you permission to, so you swallow those words and look at him with pleading eyes, trying to convey your thoughts through it.

“tell me. rule forty seven. what did we agree on regarding this topic?”

“that-that i shouldn’t drink alcohol when you're not around, but-”

“that you should not drink alcohol when i am not around, period. i do not think that there was a ‘but’ in the clause. unless you’re saying i misremembered?”

you shake your head fervently, tears of shame and frustration starting to creep beneath your eyelids.

“that’s not all, is it not? i can smell others, all over you, on your clothes, and worse - on your skin. and to top it all off, you’ve broken your curfew.... so many contracts broken within a day, [name]. this is unacceptable behavior,” the dragon’s eyes dilate, and you catch the sight of his long tongue swiping over his lips, “i’ll have to be sure to clean you all up… but first, you need to learn your lesson.”

your beloved retracts himself from above you, and you tremble in both fear and excitement of what’s to come. he’s manhandling you at this point, bruising grip maneuvering your smaller body and preventing you from escaping, the harsh glare and agitated sway of his tail making you quietly obey his silent demands.

you’re spread across his lap in mere seconds, his knees digging on your stomach and dangerously close to your weeping pussy. the scales and ridges of his tail wrap around your legs in a vice grip, trapping you in the position. one hand trails sharp nails over your jugular - a silent warning, you think with a shudder, and the other slides down your back before settling on your buttocks.

zhongli’s smirk widen when you jolt, realizing what he was about to give you. what he expected you to take.

“you will count, and for each and every single one, you will apologize.”

“b-but-”

claws dig into your scalp, your back arching desperately to follow his movement. a low snarl rumbles right beside your ear.

“did i stutter, [name]?”

“i’m sorry! i’ll be good! i’ll be g-good-!!”

the tail wrapped around your legs tighten momentarily before a loud slap echo in the room, along with the sting of pain shooting up your spine, staggering your senses. breath hitching, you’re not sure if what came out of your mouth was a cry of pain or pleasure.

“then start counting.”

© zhongrin | 2022 ◆ no repost. reblogs much appreciated. feel free to reach out to submit suggestions, feedback, comments, or if you just want to talk!

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[literaphobe]

Realistically, who'd win in a fight between the feral boys?

u know what? i’ll give u one more. i’m gonna go through each feral boy dynamic and determine who i think would win and lose in each face off. bear in mind that i might change my mind about this on any other day so take it w a pinch of salt:

Dream vs George: tie. george would do some dumb move or talk/react in a crazy way that’ll make dream laugh and go ‘ur making me laugh that’s not even fair 🤣’ he’ll like somehow twist it into claiming george is cheating because he did some dumb underhand move or found a ticklish spot n call the whole fight off saying he’d have won anyway unless george fouled like the filthy cheater he is n then george would probably b like ok fine then let me hit u once just to see if it would hurt and dream would let him and anyone watching it would find it incredibly bizarre but that’s just how they are

Sapnap vs George: im sorry but he’s drop kicking george the second he walks through the door either that or he hugs him and cries for a solid hour. they’ll end up hanging out for hours even after fighting tho n i think george would prob be the one to convince dream to get their home gym set up so he could have one more outlet to amuse himself with. he’d watch the Buff Sapnap arc unfold as he plays w a gym bouncy ball and tells sapnap he isn’t bench pressing enough weight n needs to double the load. anyway sapnap would crush him easy. he’s been loading up on protein n greens this entire time n playing basketball n going ollie on his skateboard. george had a grape the other day and thought it was gonna make him buff and his source of protein is mcdonald’s nuggets. he also struggles to open windows in cable cars. most importantly, he has NOT to my knowledge, went ollie on a skateboard. sapnap wins hands down

Quackity vs George: trickier than you might think actually. because funnily enough quackity is one of the biggest victims of the GeorgeNotFound™ effect. yes i think quackity if pushed past his breaking point could absolutely pummel the shit out of george but george has a mouth as much as quackity has fists and sometimes all he needs to say is ‘Are You Done Now?’ or ‘I’m Leaving, If You Don’t Stop/Give Me What I Want Right Now I’m Actually Leaving’ and then it becomes a REAL toss up. victor of this fight changes depending on the day

Karl vs George: hm. george wins. no. karl wins. no. they both lose

Dream vs Sapnap: sapnap talks a big game of how he could take any of these dudes he could kick anyone’s ass he’s so strong he’s gonna rip em all apart but—he can’t wake dream up for an among us game? :/ he’s too scared to go into dream’s room? :/ he HIMSELF thinks dream could kick his ass? sorry sapnap if u don’t believe in urself n think height is everything n whatever aura dream has is everything then what can i do 😔 guess dream wins this one

Quackity vs Sapnap: huh. would it be weird to say that i think they are evenly matched based on what i know of them? like they’re equally physically intimidating as they are physically not intimidating. they would both talk SO much smack tho. so much that they might not actually fight. idk. quackity’s like boxed right? but also sapnap’s won that mr beast extreme tag thing. but also i literally do not know. not to give a cop out answer again but… t-tie? but in the sense where. they know it would be So evenly matched that if they actually fought for real they’d just both end up super injured w no clear winner

Karl vs Sapnap: karl paints his nails and that gives him super powers. he could probably knock sapnap out in one punch. PROVIDED he can find him. not only is sapnap a hide and seek champion he is clearly a full fledged skater boi now. he is so fast. he is zooming away on those wheelies as we speak. where will he go

Quackity vs Karl: i think karl would win but it’s an accident like. karl kicks a chair and it goes flying and quackity takes 10 damage. or karl falls over and crashes onto quackity. the whole fear of accidentally getting murdered by karl’s clumsiness/recklessness might throw quackity off enough for him to lose

Dream vs Karl: my mind is admittedly blanking at this one. i don’t know. i don’t think either of them would fight each other even if u forced them. i don’t think there is a Bone in either of their bodies that r willing to or care for antagonizing the other. they would probably hug n then like stage some half assed fight where it ends with them Winning Together or they take turns winning or dream ‘lets karl win’ and someone might point out that implies dream thinks He would win and then karl gets like jokingly passive aggressive about it

Quackity vs Dream: in some ways? fight of the century. absolute hoedown throwdown. this is the shortest person in the gc vs the tallest person we’re talking about. the two people who are Known for ‘fighting’ over the ‘love’ of ‘GeorgeNotFound’. buuuuuuut they also like each other a lot n want the other to like them a lot so much. buuuuuuut they also have a propensity for shit talking each other. i think dream might win but he might also cry from whatever psychic damage q inflicts but at the same time quackity might like pretend he threw on purpose n let dream win or he would use his loss as leverage over dream somehow and call him a very mean not good bully who bullies people physically over getting shoved slightly during the ‘fight’. OR dream makes one joke about how quackity is so short he has to bend over just to fight him or he purposely misses a punch and says he couldn’t reach because quackity’s too low and this causes q to see red meaning game over for dream

[izusun]

Goblin anon here absolutely screeching over feral quirkless Midoriya, it's everything I wanted

I would like to also introduce a brand (my brand) of feral to Midoriya: pyromaniac.

Imagine Midoriya getting through the entrance exam by saving people, but also by bringing makeshift Molotov cocktails and wrecking almost as much shop as Bakugou.

Imagine the battle trials where Bakugou tries to blow up the building because "that's the only way to keep this little shit down" and in response Midoriya dodges and then sets the building on fire.

Imagine the USJ incident, which goes about the same, but his first instinct is to set the Noumu on fire. Yes he does so. He also nearly sets the stadium on fire at the sports festival so much that they had to evacuate sections of the stadium.

Midoriya (say it with me now) sets Stain on fire. When Tsukauchi meets with the murder trio after the Hosu incident, he just sighs and is like "Midoriya, really?" And this is when we learn that Midoriya has a history of coming across random villains and setting them on fire. When Inko arrives to pick him up she's just like "You're grounded."

There's theories about what Midoriya's quirk, everything from increased intelligence to extremely shitty luck to the ability to make anything he touches explodes (due to his inane ability to make a bomb/lighter out of the most insane things). When it comes out that he's quirkless, it just makes everyone even more afraid, as Midoriya can make a bomb out of some LSD and a rubber duck quirkless-

Pyromaniac quirkless Midoriya.

- Goblin anon

GOBLIN ANON IT’S BEEN AGES IM SORRY IM JUST RESPONDING NOW (ive been so bad at responding asks my god i struggle but thank u for ur au dumps, i love loVE THEM SO MUCH!!!!)

IM IN LOVE WITH THIS AU

feral quirkless gremlin midoriya going through shit by setting things on fire is just the way to go im duwldjwksk

i read midoriya with molotov cocktails and i have not stopped simping for and thinking about this midoriya

genuinely swooning at this ver of him

midoriya probably has a collection of lighters and basically does those hand tricks to calm him down or to take his mind off of things

bakugou and midoriya being more familiar with each other in their middle school days compared to canon and bakugou gifting midoriya with personalized all might lighter god that’s adorable

ok but they’re talking about their favourite heroes and bakugou goes, “shocking that you don’t like endeavour.”

and midoriya just shrugs, twisting his hand and fingers to orchestrate the fire’s dance from his lighter, his viridian eyes brighter and says, “his fire feels wrong.” and they leave it at that

midoriya being inspired by bakugou’s explosions and attempting to copy those so bad that bakugou thought midoriya’s trying out for support classes

OK BUT FIGHT WITH SLUDGE VILLAIN?

he yanks out makeshift molotov cocktails from his bag, lights them up and throws them at the bastard. the sludge villain screams and retreats slightly because not only was he facing the fires but also the exploded glass shards. it gave enough time for bakugou to explode the villain and escape enough to allow him to breathe. in the end, all might still defeats the sludge but he misses bakugou and midoriya who escaped. no ofa for firey green bean.

bakugou helping midoriya create more explosions.

“but kacchba i want fire, not explosions!”

“same difference you pyro asshole!”

midoriya learns them anyways and enjoys it.

THE EXAM!!

i have two ways:

one: midoriya appealed to the staff that he needed support items and they allowed him and they watched in shock as this little boy explodes the arena worse than the explosion-quirked student. of course he passes and aizawa took him on as his student.

two: midoriya appealed to the staff that he needed his support items but the staff did NOT allow him because they’re considered weapons (as if quirks are not genetic weapons but i DIGRESS) and so when the exam starts, he stays at the very back of the other examinees. this was so that when he arrives at the scene, there are already spare parts for him to scavenge so that he can build makeshift explosions (foregoing whatever shit he learned from katsuki because all that’s on his mind right now are molotov cocktails)

so that’s what happens. he scavenges parts and hides inside one of the buildings so that he can focus more on making explosions and be less worried about being attacked. when he was fully geared, he steps out and begins to retaliate.

he works fast as to not waste his time and the makeshift explosions. because of this, others (ahem-aoyama-ahem) had no opportunity to steal his score.

same thing happens: uraraka gets caught and midoriya explodes the zero pointer. this time, however, the robot is utterly destroyed.

aizawa and majima saw midoriya’s performance, adored it, and began fighting for midoriya.

“majima, he’s here for the hero classes.”

“great. now give him to me.”

nezu pretends that he’s not planning on splitting midoriya’s schedule anyways.

BATTLE TRIAL OH MY GOD rip all might i bet you keeled over so bad, you were one second from turning to small might there and then.

all might: ok so one explodey kid to look out for. that’s not bad.

all might, one minute later: this green kid looks familiar…

all might, ten minutes later: what the fuck.

NO BECAUSE bakugou and midoriya being excited to explode things (well, more like midoriya’s excited and bakugou just wants to fight midoriya) and having a blast when fighting each other.

1a’s probably thinking “oh no” followed by “they’re hot” (literally too because yk the building’s on fire.)

MIDORIYA EXPLODING THE NOUMU??? king shit

midoriya saw this monster running to aizawa and he just points a more eloquent looking flame thrower (thank u mei for working with midoriya with that) at this beast and sets it on fire.

it effectively slowed the noumu and gave the others an opportunity to pull aizawa from the hit zone. it also granted all might more freedom when fighting the noumu because it was slowed enough that all might didn’t have to worry about exceeding his time limit.

the fire damaged some of its nerve processes that the scientist and afo had not accounted for. of course this review is returned to them and many of the noumus become fireproof because of this incident.

OK BUT DURING THE SPORTS FEST

midoriya crushing on todoroki because fire.

he was actually very interested in todoroki prior to sports fest but something about todoroki’s fight against sero sparked something more in midoriya. midoriya saw the anger from his ice, now he wants to see the same intensity from his fire.

his spiel of “that’s your power, todoroki” goes differently. todoroki still pulls him aside and trauma dumps on him but this time he goes, without missing a beat, “that fire is a waste on you.”

todoroki full body pauses because that’s not something he’s ever, well, considered to hear after trauma dumping.

“what?” he croaks, confused at the bubbling feeling. it’s a miasma of anger and hurt, but to a scale so unfamiliar.

midoriya shrugs. “fire is unique, more so as an elemental quirk. you think it doesn’t make half of you—well, i mean you’re right. it doesn’t. you make it. you control it. fire is often uncontrollable and yet here you are, having it as your power. it’s yours to control, so control it. use it.”

todoroki’s ears are ringing.

“you have it as your power.”

“so control it.”

and so he did.

midoriya watched todoki’s fire; watched the way the flames lick up up up and leaves no air bathed in heat. midoriya sees the rawness of anger and determination and thinks, “this is how fire should always look like.”

unconsciously he also thinks how todoroki’s fire is far more beautiful than endeavour’s.

midoriya loses and he’s not as sad about it. losing to something sentient (fire, not todoroki), for him, is a blessing.

todoroki advances along with bakugou.

bakugou who is jealous of todoroki because he saw how midoriya eyed todoroki’s fire and knew todoroki’s a competition in other more ways.

bakugou wins again, this time less angry because todoroki used his fire against him.

STAIN THINKING MIDORIYA’S JUST THIS WEIRD HERO STUDENT WHO HAS NO SPECIFIC QUIRK UNTIL HE FEELS FLAME KISS HIS SKIN AND SCREAMS BECAUSE DAMN IT GREEN EYED KID JUST SET HIM ON FIRE

todoroki full on pausing because he thought he’s the one who set stain on fire unconsciously only to follow the fire’s trail and sees it’s from one of midoriya’s many support items.

“shoot i didn’t mean to burn him that fast!”

“that’s your issue!?”

midoriya gives them a “duh?” look and todoroki feels himself warming up (HAH another fire pun) at midoriya’s ease.

flying noumi still comes and picks him up but midoriya also sets this thing on fire. the difference between a winged noumu and a normal noumu is that the wings are far more flammable and midoriya had quite a bit of fun at setting it on fire and hearing the crackling of flames on rubbery wings.

endeavour casts him a glance that speaks of approval and midoriya doesn’t know if he hates it or not.

tsukauchi arrives and sees not only stain, but the noumu and heaves up a very big sigh. “midoriya, really?”

GOBLIN! PYROMANIAC QUIRKLESS MIDORIYA IZUKU IS A FAVE IM SCREAMING

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[buckyskorpion]

tess brain go hnnnnnnngh

hello this is only thing ive written in like a week and its for a new fic im SORRY but i thought i would post it anyway bc i have nothing else to offer hehe. it’s the beginning of my fic for laur’s writing challenge and boy oh boy has this morphed into it’s own beast. under the cut for those who dont care

“You know she’s not going to be happy about this,” Sam says.

“She’s never happy about anything,” Bucky replies. He flicks at a photograph pinned to your corkboard, your arm around some guy kissing your temple while you grin at the camera. There’s a bunch of photos just like it with the same dude; receding hairline, squinty blue eyes, tall but skinny in a vaguely malnourished way. One photo from what looks like a Halloween party catches his interest. You have a cardboard sign hanging over your shoulders to look like a square from the periodic table, and it reads ‘AH! The element of surprise’. Nerds, Bucky thinks with a scowl, and turns away from the corkboard.

Your office is nothing like he thought it would be, and that aggravates him. It’s hardly surprising - most things about you aggravate him. You have statues of Star Wars characters on your desk, a dying pot plant in the corner, books on quantum mechanics and Deutsch propositions left open and scribbled in on the coffee table. There’s too much personality left carelessly lying around, and none of it is yours. Bucky can’t wait to get the hell out of here.

Sharon walks in first, closing the door softly behind her and shoots them both a grimace. “She’s coming, but, uh- she’s not happy about this.”

“See?” Sam says, gesturing to Sharon as if she’s proving his point when Bucky agreed with him. He turns to face Sam lounging in the armchair on the other end of the room and flicks him the finger.

“Let’s try and contain this situation, shall we?” Sharon says. She’s nervous, Bucky notes, moving to stand in the middle of the room and smoothing down non-existent creases in her slacks. She refuses to look at Bucky, and that gives him a bad feeling. “Just listen to her yell for a bit. Bucky - let us do the talking, ok?”

Sharon is still not looking at him. Bucky nods instead of replying, baiting her to glance over, which she does. She trains her eyes on his nose and gives him a frankly insulting smile of recognition, immediately turning back to the door as her face drops. Bucky’s bad feeling intensifies.

Before he can try and figure out why one of the best Agents of SHIELD and former CIA operative can’t seem to pretend everything is fine, the door to the office slams open. It bounces back, smacks you in the shoulder as you storm into the room, and you push it back again with an aggravated shout. Sam rolls his lips together to smother his laugh but Bucky doesn’t bother. You turn a murderous glare onto him, and the shouting begins.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” You march up to Sharon and jab a finger in her chest, forcing her back a step. “You gave me this job, why the hell are you coming in here fucking it all up?”

“We have some new developments,” Sharon says, keeping her voice even like she’s trying to placate a feral dog. It does not have the desired effect.

“Ever thought of picking up the phone?” you shout, throwing your hands wide. “Sending a text? A letter? A carrier pigeon? Anything but showing up to my six month long deep cover mission with two of the most recognisable faces on the fucking planet! Really, Sharon? Captain America?”

“She’s right, y’know,” Sam says, smiling through Sharon’s warning glare. “My face is pretty unforgettable.”

“It’s good to see you, Sam” you say, gritting your teeth like it physically pains you to derail your tirade for some niceties. “You should’ve left Barnes at home.”

“I offered to stay in the car,” Bucky says. He smiles, all teeth, and you poke your tongue out at him.

“Do you know how difficult it has been to be stuck here playing dumb with this bunch of incels for six fucking months?” You say, spinning away from Sharon now to open the small fridge in the corner. You pull out one of those mini bottles of whiskey and down half of it, baring your teeth at the sting. “Please don’t make it all for nothing or I will kill you all, and then myself.”

“The timeline has moved up,” Sharon says. She shakes her head when you offer her the rest of your whiskey and you shrug, chugging the remaining half. Sam makes an offended noise and you grab another one, chucking it towards him as he makes grabby hands. Bucky doesn’t even bother asking.

“That’s funny, because as far as I remember it’s me who sets the timeline,” you say. “And I say it’s staying exactly the fucking same.”

“Look, I know this has been a rough mission-“

“Rough? I am watching a bunch of psychopathic virgins reinvent time travel at a snails pace whilst entertaining their neo-nazi purist ideals and I haven’t been able to physically hurt any of them? Rough is an understatement.” you say.

“Sounds terrible,” Bucky says with an eye roll. Everyone in the room turns to glare at him.

“I’d like to see you spend one day with these scumbags,” you seethe, stepping forward with your teeth bared.

“Something tells me it can’t be any worse than having my brain fried by Nazi’s, sweetheart,” Bucky says. You hate when he condescends you like that, and Bucky knows it. You make to throw the empty mini-whiskey bottle at him but Sharon steps in-between you two, holding her hands up with a disappointed frown.

“Bucky, you were supposed to leave the talking to us,” Sharon says. She turns to you and adds, “And you would do well to remember that I’m your boss, agent. I give the orders.”

“Aw, let them fight,” Sam says from the armchair. “It’ll be fun.”

“Enough,” Sharon says. She claps her hands together to regain control of the room, but it’s tenuous. To you, she says, “We need you to speed up __________’s research. Find a way, I don’t care how, but in a month they need to figure out Stark’s theory of time travel.”

“Excuse me?” You glance between Sharon, Sam, and Bucky like someone can offer an explanation but no one does. Incredulously, you say, “I’ve been here slowing them down so they don’t figure it out, and now you want me to- speed them along? Give them the answer?”

“Yes,” Sharon says. Her eyes are saying something else to only you and Bucky aches to know what it is. “Sam and Bucky have come across some new intel that requires the _____ to finish their machine. We need you to help them get there in one month’s time.”

“Am I allowed to know this new, game-changing intel?” you ask. There’s a muscle ticking in your jaw that looks set to explode any second.

“Only that there is someone who is very interested in buying into what the ________ come up with,” Sharon says. “When you’ve completed your mission, you will be fully briefed.”

“Oh, great,” you say with an eyeroll. “I love ambiguity.”

“You’re a spy,” Sam says, staring at you. “That’s literally your entire life.”

“Can we focus?” Sharon asks, shooting Sam a warning glare to which he holds his hands up in a Gesture of innocence. To you, she asks, “Do you understand your mission?”

“No,” you say simply, turning away from Sam to have a silent conversation with Sharon that involves a lot of eyebrow movements. Softly, as if no one else in the room can hear you, you say, “You know why I can’t let them figure it out.”

Sam and Bucky share a look while the two spies in the room have some kind of telepathic argument. It doesn’t seem to last long. Once again, the bad feeling in Bucky’s gut returns when you look to the floor and don’t make eye-contact with any of them again. As per usual in Bucky’s life there are things left unsaid, omitted by silence, and he itches to know what has your shoulders rounding and the fight you always fling around like confetti, dying out as quickly as it flared up.

“The goal remains the same,” Sharon says, “but as I said, the timeline has changed. We will see you in a month or so, agent.”

“I guess you will,” you say. Sam claps you on the shoulder as he walks out and Sharon hands you a dossier with your new mission parameters. Bucky always feels awkward with goodbyes, especially with people he doesn’t particularly like and who don’t like him in return. You glare at your toes and say, “Don’t even think about touching me, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks past you and adds, “Don’t fuck it up.”

“You’ll know if I do,” you bite back, just as the door closes behind him. Your words follow him down the hall, past the laboratories blinking with dull red security lights and the fire exit door they left chocked open when they broke in. He doesn’t like the way that sits in his brain. It clunks around, tinkering with things he’d rather leave untouched.

Spies, Bucky thinks. They always find a way to get inside his head.

[vacuousauto]

📃🎥🏳‍🌈

tysm for tha ask molli!! ill talk abt kny here bc its takin over my life rn qwq

spoilers ahead 4 tha whole series!!

📃 what is the plot of your hyperfixation? and is it a movie, game, show, etc?

kny is a manga w an anime adaptation thats had 1 season so far n a movies bein made of my fav arc!! (also this plot desc may not b perfect bc i havent read it in like 4 months)

its abt a boy called tanjirou whos whole family got killed by a demon, n his sister nezuko got turned into a demon (which fun fact: in kimetsu theyre man-eatin creatures w different powers called blood demon arts!!)

hes sent by giyuu (a demon slayer!) 2 join tha demon slayer corps so hell become stronger n mayb get a little revenge. as a treat (and also mayb find a way 2 turn nezuko human?)

as he trains he learns how 2 do water breathing (a sword technique taught by him n giyuus mentor, urokodaki) n his final challenge is 2 cut a massive boulder in half w his sword

its real hard 4 him (as u can imagine) so 2 kids in fox masks named sabito n makomo come n help him, but after tanjirou cuts tha rock n tells urokodaki abt him its revealed theyre dead???

@ final selection (basically a demon slayer entrance exam where u win by surviving on a demon-infested mountain 4 seven days) he learns from a real fucked up demon that hes exclusively been targetin urokodakis students n that not even sabito could slice its neck open?? (thats how him n makomo died)

after tanjirou kills tha demon n basically puts all tha water breath students’ souls @ peace he passes tha exam!! its been 7 days n now he gets his nichirin blade (the only kinda sword that can kill a demon, tha only 2 ways they can die is thru a slice 2 tha neck from a nichirin blade n sunlight)

turns out nezuko was turned by the strongest demon of all, michael jackson muzan kibutsuji, n so he sets out 2 hunt him down n try 2 kill him

but he aint so strong @ first so he needs 2 try 2 take down tha twelve kizuki first (the 12 strongest demons besides muzan)

another reason he needs 2 kill tha kizuki is 2 gather their blood for a demon named tamayo n her assistant yushirou!! tamayo can make a cure if tanjirou can gather blood samples 4 her (the stronger tha demon tha more of muzans blood they have so hes gonna have 2 aim high)

he meets a bunch more slayers along tha way, includin zenitsu (a scaredy cat thunder breath user who basically simps 4 nezuko n becomes a badass when hes asleep) n inosuke (a rowdy beast breath user who wears a boar mask n lived in tha mountains)

after lower moon 5 gets killed by giyuu, nezuko unlocks her blood demon art (exploding blood!) n tanjirou remembers how 2 use tha hinokami kagura, him n nezuko get captured by a slayer called shinobu qwq

turns out she n giyuu are 2 of the nine hashira, the strongest of all tha demon slayers!! but theyre all havin a debate over whether they should kill tanjirou n nezuko 4 goin against corps rules n travelin w a demon

eventually oyakata-sama (tha leader of tha slayer corps) comes in n tells em its ok, urokodaki sent a letter explainin that nezukos never hurt anyone n if she does, tanjirou giyuu n urokodaki all have 2 die basically

oyakata-sama also tells em that tanjirous met kibutsuji, at which everyone goes feral at (and understandably, none of em had ever even seen him before hes that elusive)

so they get 2 live bc theyre like. tha best hope the slayers have @ findin kibutsuji

the rest of the hashira are kyoujurou (flame), muichirou (mist), mitsuri (love), obanai (serpent), gyoumei (stone), tengen (sound) n sanemi (wind)

theres also kanao (shinobus pupil, flower breathing) n genya (sanemis brother, eats demons 2 gain power n basically become a demon temporarily, also He Has A Gun)

ive gone on a lot here so ill try 2 keep it brief now but i HAVE 2 explain infinity train or ill die (slight suicide tw but no one actually does that outside of dreams)

BASICALLY the lower 6 moons have a meetin @ kibutsujis infinity castle, muzan decides 2 dismantle tha lower moons bc they keep fuckign dying

all of em get their shit wrecked except enmu, who avoided death by usin muzans “dont tell me what 2 do” rule against him n beggin 4 death basically

so he gets a metric fuckton o blood n goes off 2 kill tanjirou

turns out he keeps killin people on his train n kyos gone 2 investigate!! the main gang (the kamaboko gang as the fandom calls it) are there too bc tanjirou needs 2 investigate what hinokami kagura really is (turns out its sun breathing, the og form and ones that only folks w the same mark on his forehead can use) n if anyone knows abt the alleged “fire breathing” as they know it rn its the fire hashira!!

so they get on tha train (inosukes lovin tha experience bc hes Literally Never Seen A Train Before) n kyo basically adopts the whole group

they take some tickets n promptly fall asleep HERES WHERE ENMUS DEMON ART COMES INTO PLAY!!! DREAM MANIPULATION BABEYYY

BASICALLY he can make people fall asleep in a buncha ways (the mouths on his hands, his weird eye thingies, the tickets) n once thats happened he n his henchmen can access said dreams (he can even control em!!) n if they find tha “spiritual core” they can destroy it n essentially leave em as an empty shell thatll never wake up!! yaaaaaay /s

he fails bc tanjirou realises a way out n its by cuttin his own head off in his dream, eventually everyones awake again n tanjirou finds enmu on tha roof(?) of tha train

after a while he does manage 2 decapitate him but surprise!!! hes not dead

turns out he literally FUSED WITH THA TRAIN n is plannin on eatin everyone inside, includin kyo n the gang

but he doesnt bc Main Protags Cant Die(tm) n dies while complainin that he wants a redo (sorry enmu, ily but u cant turn back time unless ur yoshikage kira)

also sidenote enmus tha only kizuki w/o a canon backstory as far as i can remember and????? H??

ANYWHO after that whole debacle basketball akaza (UPPER moon 3) shows himself!!! FUCK

n after all that struggle against the 8th strongest demon of all time now they gotta deal w tha 4th strongest????? damn,

so yeah it goes how youd imagine, its a tough fuckin battle n its Not Fun but it turns out kyoujurou fucking dies n i genuinely didnt realise until he said “kamado my boy, lets have one final chat” bc i was so in denial n lets face it i still am now

long story short idk how im gonna manage 2 get thru the movie w/o breakin down @ the end

anyway after that horrible horrible time tanjirou goes n meets senjurou, kyos little bro, who gives him kyos sword guard thing (its shaped like a flame!!) n i havent read it in a while so i cant FULLY remember but i think this is where he learns abt sun breathing??

after that they end up goin on a mission in tha red light district w tengen, his 3 wives are there 2 serve as spies (theyre kunoichi, which i think are ninjas of some kind??) n the boys have 2 find em

they do manage 2 find em but not after runnin into upper moon 6, who are 2 twins called daki n gyuutarou

after that fight tengen has 2 retire bc he got fucked up p bad from that fight n he wants 2 make sure tha girls are ok above all

so after that arc tanjirou n nezuko go down 2 tha swordsmith village (bc the guy who usually makes his swords is fuckin tired of repairin it) n run into mitsuri!! she tells tan that theres smth in tha forest thatll make him stronger

ngl this is tha arc i remember tha least abt so this desc is prolly SO inaccurate despite havin 2 o my favs in it)

but muichirou shows himself too n hes mean 2 tanjirou >:/ (he does get nicer eventually but 2 him specifically)

a 10 y/o kid named kotetsu shows tan this 6 armed trainin robot called yoriichi type 0 (based on tha first slayer 2 use sun breathin) n tanjirou breaks it by accident qwq

but he keeps trainin thanks 2 kotetsu but tha kids a harsh fuckin trainer ill tell u that

anyway so we have a whole buncha demons 2 deal w here except most of em are 1 demon split into different parts

hantengu n gyokko, upper moons 4 n 5 respectively!! mui deals w gyokko while mitsuri genya nezuko n tanjirou deal w hantengu

in these fights mitsuri n mui get their demon slayer marks!! these are marks that they get when they surpass the limits of tha human body n they look like tha marks demons have (muis looks like clouds on his cheeks n mitsuris is 2 hearts on her collarbone)

next up is tha hashira trainin arc!! everyone gets trained by each of tha hashira 2 try n unlock their slayer marks

each have a dif trainin style that focuses on dif stuff (for example gyoumei focuses a lot on physical strength n stuff like that, obanai is more abt accuracy) n this is where giyuus backstory gets revealed bc he doesnt think hes worthy o bein a hashira :((

basically him n sabito were absolute besties!! they both trained together n sabito basically told him not 2 die ever

but it all goes wrong @ final selection- sabito manages 2 take down every demon on tha mountain but one of em, that bein the hand demon that exclusively targets water breathers (theyre easy 2 distinguish bc of their blue haoris n custom made fox masks)

he manages 2 save giyuu n everyone else from tha selection except 4 himself (this is why giyuus haori is like that- its made from his sister n sabitos haoris)

giyuu blames himself 4 both of their deaths bc he failed 2 protect em n says that he doesnt deserve 2 have passed tha selection let alone b a hashira,, but tanjirou convinces him otherwise!! ^^

then one day while giyuus trainin w sanemi disaster hits- oyakata-sama, his wife n two of their kids just died

the 2nd to last arc- the infinity castle!! thingsre gettin real n muzans revealed himself

in tha infinity castle EVERYONES there but can u really blame em theyve been workin up 2 this 4 millenia

shinobu runs into upper moon 2- douma, aka the bastard that killed her sister as well as inosukes mum

she is. justifiably pissed. n she gives it her all but he kills her :(( douma ily but also FUCK YOU.

so perfect timing!!! heres her adopted sister!! as well as inosuke!!!! revenge battle time >:0

in the end shinobus poison is what kills him- her whole body is filled w wisteria poison thats deadly 2 a demon so he basically consumed her whole body weight in poison rip

but ofc word gets out via messenger crow that shes dead n its just a real sad moment tbh :( but theres no time 4 that bc giyuu n tanjirou just ran into akaza >:((

so tanjirous pissed as hell now n w their combined efforts they take down tha basketball lookin bastard (bastardball??)

meanwhile obanai n mitsuri (n yushirou iirc?? he uses his own art 2 control her @ some point tho i cant remember when) deal w tha new upper moon 4 (nakime, whos also shiftin tha rooms around w her blood art n makin tha fight super fuckign annoyin tbh) n muichirou genya sanemi n gyoumei deal w kokushibou (upper moon 1, also tha original sun breathers twin brother so he gets moon breathin >:3)

mitsuri n obanai fake their deaths w help from yushirou n muzan falls 4 it, which comes in handy later ;3

zenitsu also deals w his former bully, upper moon 6 aka kaigaku aka dickhead supreme who if zenitsu didnt kill i would personally kill w my bare hands

so after everyones taken down all thats left is muzan >:( muzan kills tamayo real early on n everyones goin all out on him

we also learn that he has multiple brains n hearts in his body eww

also the hashira have their marks now!! but all but sanemi n giyuu get killed n giyuu loses his arm :((((

genya also gets killed noo

eventually ofc the battle is won thanks 2 everyones relief, it took for fuckin ever bc the only way muzan can die is tha sun so they had 2 kill time n keep him out in tha sun 4 a long time

also nezukos been cured!! shes a human!! n shes comin 2 help!!

but OH GOD OH FUCK MUZAN TURNED TANJIROU INTO A DEMON N GIYUUS CRYIN N INOSUKES CRYIN THRU HIS MASK N ITS GOIN SO FUCKING WRONG but he gets tha will 2 turn back bc Fuck You Muzan, The Power Of Friendship Defeats All

the 2nd to last chapter is tha happy endin, the kamaboko gang visit tanjirou n nezukos house, giyuu cuts his hair n SMILES n tha hashira have their final meetin w oyakata-samas son kiriya

i cried readin it ngl their sufferin is finally over...... it cost a lot but now theres no more demons,,,

chapter 205 is set in tha modern day! kanao n tanjirous descendants are shown, as well as zenitsu n nezukos

everyone who died/never had kids get reincarnated (for example gyoumei is now a daycare worker, kyos reincarnation toujurou is besties w one o tans descendants n giyuu (giichi) is friends w sabito again!! makomos their friend too!!

ALSO KIRIYA IS STILL ALIVE hes the oldest man in japan!! this is huge bc the ubayashiki family dont usually live past 30 bc of a curse that was put on em when they had muzan

yushirou is still alive too but thats bc hes a demon n he paints tamayo for a living qwq

it just made me cry so hard bc waaah,,, everyone gets 2 live a demon-free life now,,, anyway typin this took me like an hour im sorry mint (as well as anyone else who read this)

🎥 do you have any favorite scenes from your hyperfixation?

tha infinity train arc as a whole tbh??? its basically enmu n kyoujurous big moment and. i care them sm. i cant wait 4 tha movie qwq except 4 their deaths ofc

🏳‍🌈 do you have any headcanons (lgbt, race, neuro, etc) that are important to you?

i have a lotta headcanons really!! outta my f/os favs tho i hc:

giyuu is trans bi n autistic

kyo is gay n has adhd

muichirou is nb n pan

mitsuri is pan

douma is gay

enmu is nb pan n autistic

[bluraaven]

We are the Flame

5. Dismas

"Lux, tueri animas nostras!"

When Dismas turns around, Junia has one hand curled on her chest, and her pallor is almost indistinguishable in colour from the white of her nun's headdress.

Mallory has stopped mid-stride, her lips parted in a gasp that never makes it past them, and Paschal –

Paschal's eyes are wide as a child's as she takes in the unnatural spectacle happening outside of the window.  "Wow!  Have you ever seen anything like this?" the doctor exclaims in wonder, peeling her nose from the glass to look from one person to another.  She appears to be completely oblivious to the fact that none of them are as excited about a giant magical hole in the sky as she is. 

Whatever she's taking, Dismas wants some for himself, if only to help him sleep at night.

But it seems rude to outright ask for a drug recommendation, and since he's all about becoming a better man, Dismas instead chooses to observe the last member of their group.

Reynauld is as straight-backed and tight-lipped as ever, and his face betrays neither fear nor disbelief.   The knight has the infinite blackness of the Void reflected in his eyes, and Dismas wonders what kind of man it takes to gaze into the Abyss and not flinch back from what he sees there.

Dismas looks away again.

He might not speak the Heaven's language, but he doesn't have to in order to understand the Sister's prayer – he's heard its like often enough.

 Light, save our souls.  

But why would the Light choose him for salvation?  Him, a man already damned on account of his sins?

He is all too aware that in this company, he is the odd one out, standing beside a doctor, a noble, a Sister Vestal, and... Reynauld.  So here they are; a warrior of Light – someone who would claim communion with the Divines – and a back-alley cutthroat, sharing a purpose and a room upstairs.  It's madness.

And it is all around them, invisible but just as deadly as toxic gas in a mine shaft.  It has poisoned this place and already he can feel its sharp teeth gnawing at his mind, his sanity.

Dismas rubs both palms over his face, hard enough for it to border on painful.  He can feel several days' worth of stubble as well as the bony ridges of his face, sculpted by too many hunger days and nights spent sleeping in roadside ditches.  It brings back a sense of who he is, and where.  It also banishes these unbidden thoughts, for now.  'Tis good enough, at least until Dismas can get his hands on some alcohol.

Thankfully, he knows just the place where he can get some.  Grandfather Dumont liked to have his booze close at hand – and now Dismas understands why, if this kind of shit happened regularly around here.

He isn't looking forward to the prospect of descending the stairs to the cellar, but the only other alternative is the bar, and he wants to track all the way there even less than he wants to face the darkness of the mansion's underbelly.  

Only Reynauld notices him exiting the room, and the knight doesn't comment on it.

Dismas carefully searches the doorway for any signs of magic, even gives it a few pokes with the hilt of his dagger to make sure there is absolutely nothing supernatural about it.  But this time there is only wood and stone, ordinary as can be.  He leaves the door wide open nonetheless and whistles a tune as he hurries down.

The circular room looks the same as the first time they descended down here and Dismas tries hard not to focus on the walls, how they seem to be closing in, eager to trap him as they have their group earlier.  Only this time he is alone, and the thought is enough to make him shiver and break out in a cold sweat.

Fighting the urge to turn and flee back upstairs, Dismas instead busies himself with inspecting the shelves.  They are full of bottles cocooned in a thick layer of dust that sticks to the dull glass.  The labels are yellow and wavy from humidity and the ink has run, making most of the writing indecipherable.  Not that it would do him any good if it hadn't.  Dismas knows his numbers well enough; his mother had made sure of that, but letters are something reserved for the upper classes.

In the end, he just grabs the nearest three bottles – better to take one extra than have to go back for some more later – and returns upstairs, taking the steps three at a time.  When he kicks the door shut behind him, it feels like muzzling a feral beast.  The danger is still here and to be wary of, but for the time being it is contained.

Just as the highwayman returns to the living room, the gloom is lit up by a net of lightning racing over the sky.  A storm of thunder and magic rolls over the countryside, and then disperses, wisps of swirling blue and purple lazily drifting through the sky, becoming paler and paler until they fade into nothingness.

"Thank the Light," the Vestal breathes, her relief audible.  

"What do you think this was?" Mallory finds the courage to ask after a few more seconds of shocked silence.

"Nuthin' good, that's fer sure," Dismas says to announce his presence.  All heads turn to him, even that of the crusader.  Dismas lifts the bottles.  The heiress sure doesn't look like she disapproves.

"Court'sy o' yer gramp."

Mortimer Dumont is watching them from his spot on the staircase, eyes black as a pit adder scales glimmering with malicious amusement.

"He shot himself to close the wards until someone of his bloodline reopened them."  Mallory speaks slowly, and her voice gains sureness with every word.

"Stab 'im in the dick!"  The suggestion comes out in a low growl as Dismas struggles to get the cork out of the first of the bottles.  He stops short in surprise when Mallory passes by him and actually does just that.

Under different circumstances, the highwayman may have winced in sympathy as several inches of spear are thrust into the portrayed old man's crotch and the wall behind him.   This time though he feels it is wholly deserved.

"Do you know what would have happened if I had ventured down there alone!?"  Mallory whips around, two angry red spots blooming on her cheeks.  She wipes at her sweaty brow to get a few strands of wild hair unstuck from it.  The spear, white-tipped from scratching the stone but none the worse for wear, is still in her other hand.

Dismas makes a mental note to never piss her off.  He is rather attached to his balls and he prefers they stay attached to him.

"Aye, lass."  Dismas replies and takes one of the silver cups that Paschal has found in a nearby cabinet.  "But ya didn't, so best not dwell on that."

"What have you got there?"  The heiress picks up a bottle, and turns it so she can read the label.  "152 Reserve."  Her eyebrows lift in surprise.  "This is a pleasant vintage."

Dismas wipes the inside of the cup clean of dust and pours Mallory a generous amount of the dark red liquid.  "Boss first," he announces, because already Paschal is thrusting another cup at him, and even Junia is lining up for a little pick-me-up.

Mallory knocks back her drink without waiting for the others.  Half a heartbeat later, her face scrounges up and Dismas can jump out of the way just in time before she spits it back out.

"Wine's gone bad?" the highwayman asks, his heart sinking.  Seems this is to be one of these times.

"This isn't wine," Mallory croaks, and hurries to the kitchens to wash out her mouth.

"What is it then?" Junia asks, reaching for a bottle to see for herself.

Dismas sniffs the dregs.  Immediately, a cloying coppery and sweet smell assaults his nose, and Dismas has to admire Malory's iron self-control. He would have just hurled right on the carpet.

Junia puts her cup away again, the expression on her round face as weary as Dismas is feeling all of a sudden.  Meanwhile, Paschal is eying Mallory's abandoned cup and its contents with interest.  "Huh."

Dismas can hear her mutter, "How did they keep it from congealing?  I wonder... ," before he catches the doctor dipping her pinkie finger into the leftover liquid and holding it to her tongue with an expression of intense concentration.  "This is most curious."

"Fuck this," Dismas mutters and just like that he is done with this day.  "Sorry folks, I'm off ta bed."

Junia tears away her eyes from the doctor and picks up her mace.  "It seems best we rest and pray to the Light for guidance," the Vestal agrees in a tired voice.

"Ya do that," Dismas tells her.  "I'll go ahead an' do the restin' part."  Turning, he almost collides with Reynauld – Reynauld who appears to have completely deserted his corporeal body and is just standing there, with his helmet tucked under one arm and an empty gaze.

Dismas raps one knuckle against his breast plate to get the knight's attention.  "You comin'?"

Reynauld startles like a person woken from sleep and looks around the room as if lost.  "Are we dismissed?" he asks no one in particular.

"I believe we are, brother," Junia replies before Dismas can.  "I'm sure the lady Mallory knows where to find thee if there are matters thou needst to discuss."

Reynauld hesitates before he slowly nods in answer.  Dismas observes that he has the mannerism of someone high on drugs, but the knight lacks the physical aspects of an addict.  Maybe holy water and incense have negative side-effects too.  Maybe Paschal's smoke bombs do.

"C'mon, Armour," Dismas says, not unkindly, tugging on the crusader's elbow to get him moving.  "If ya crash on tha floor, I ain't draggin' ya upstairs."

The words are running together in his mouth, but he is too tired to care, to pretend he is someone he is not.  Reynauld moves of his own accord, thankfully, although he seems to be favouring his left leg.

It isn't until the door falls shut behind them and the cool of the room begins to seep through his clothes that Dismas realizes he is missing something.

"Shite!" He doesn't know what to make of Reynauld flinching at the profanity.   He ain't in the mood for a lecture, but the crusader doesn't give him one, so Dismas simply adds, "Fergot me coat."

He doesn't have much to his name other than a nice bounty and a ban on the premises of several establishments, and he likes to keep what few possessions are his close.  Just in case.

Junia is gone and the fire in the chimney has almost burned out, given how no one had added any more wood since Reynauld had lit it right after their return, but there are voices coming from one of the adjacent rooms.

"I am sure you wish for reimbursement?" Dismas can hear Mallory ask when he sneaks into the living room, keeping to the deep shadows cast by ancient furniture.  Old habits and all that.  He sure ain't spying on the two women when he risks a peek.

Paschal, however, waves Mallory off, and takes the bottles of blood as payment.  Dismas prefers not to think about what she plans on doing with them.  He is beginning to feel a twinge of sympathy for Lenn.  Lenn, who now owes him a month's worth of supply with booze, he remembers, feeling marginally better.

Tomorrow he'll make the barman regret agreeing to the deal.

Dismas snatches up his coat and returns to his shared bedroom.  The pulling sensation in his side has steadily increased, but it is only now that he truly becomes aware of how his entire chest is aching, every breath putting strain on the newly scarred skin that has yet to stretch.

He is not the only one in pain.

A man in his profession knows to find and exploit the small weaknesses that most people like to hide, and so it doesn't take Dismas long to notice how the corners of Reynauld's mouth are down, his lips pressed into a firm line.  The knight uses his left in place of his right, his dominant hand, to tug open the straps of his armour.

"Need any help with that?" Dismas asks, tossing his coat onto his bed.

He expects the knight to rebuff him, but to his astonishment Reynauld nods after a moment's hesitation.  Up close, Dismas can see fine decorative etchings along the edge of the armour, as well as the cuts and miniscule dents that mar the otherwise shiny surface of the metal.

"If you could just undo this clasp."  The crusader dips and turns his head, to better observe the highwayman out of the corners of his eyes.

He does as he has been asked to, opening the clasp on Reynauld's right shoulder blade, and the one on the very top of his neck and watches as bit by bit the armour begins to come off.  Dismas gets to see how each piece is fitted so as to offer the best protection while still allowing the wearer their full range of movement.

He does his best not to think about how much the whole suit of armour must be worth.  More than everything  he had ever owned in life combined, that's for sure.

When Reynauld removes the cap, Dismas is amused to find that his hair sticks every which way.  He curses the sudden urge to run his fingers through the unruly tresses to comb them into some semblance of order.

It is a bad time for such thoughts.  An exhausted mind is a fickle thing.

The hauberk rattles as it pools on the bed, almost like a liquid, and the padded jacket is carefully hung over the back of the chair at the desk. Reynauld stretches his neck and rotates his shoulders.  There is a hollow pop that makes Dismas hiss in sympathy, but Reynauld sighs in relief, slumping now that all the weight has been lifted off him.

Summer is almost over, and in the crisp night air, the knight is steaming.   There's not so much as a nick in his tunic, but his eyes are red-rimmed.  Whatever Paschal had hit him with, left them puffy and irritated.

"Better go wash that shit out," Dismas says, circling a finger in front of his own face.

Reynauld's head snaps up, the tension returning to his posture.  He appears to have forgotten about the other man, but after a moment he relaxes again, a weary nod telling Dismas that he intends to follow through with that idea.

A soft knock announces Reynauld's return a couple of minutes later.  He has changed his tunic, so he has probably washed up too.

"I could do with a basin and some hot water," Dismas greets him from the depths of his bed, although now that he's gotten vertical he doesn't plan on getting up anytime soon.

"Is there a bathhouse?" Reynauld asks although he doesn't sound like he really cares.

"There was once.  It closed down," Dismas informs him.  He is ready to bet the last of his snuff that Reynauld will not follow his example and simply fall into bed.  He smirks when he is proven right.  Recognizing patterns is a useful skill to have, and one he has honed.

Reynauld checks his equipment, putting away each piece only after it has received a thorough examination.  Then, he kneels to pray.  Just like he had yesterday.

'He should learn to take care of his bodily needs as well as his spiritual ones,' is the last thing Dismas remembers thinking before he passes out.

That night, Dismas learns the hard way that Reynauld screams in his sleep.

His own dreams are uneasy, full of ever-shifting corridors and the search for an exit he knows he will never find in time.  A small bubble of panic begins to fill his chest, and it grows with every step he takes. He cannot find a way out of the labyrinth of hallways, and he is being pursued by someone or something that he only manages to catch glimpses of out of the corners of his eyes.  If he doesn't escape, he will die here ant he corridors will become his tomb.

In desperation, Dismas scratches at the stone walls with torn, bleeding hands and cracked nails, and he screams for them to  let him out.  He'd done his time, he'd –

Dismas wakes abruptly to a voice that is not his own, shouting in a language he does not understand.

He jerks up too fast, gets tangled in something, and crashes to the floor.  It's dark, too dark to see, and his heart is pounding in his throat.  All he is aware of is that he has to fight or flee – and he does not yet know which.

Before his situation or his surroundings become any clearer, the door bursts open, and it's pure reflex for him to point the gun at the intruder.  By the light of a single candle, Dismas can see Mallory charge into the room – she and her boar spear.   The fact that she's wearing a nightgown does not make the weapon any less intimidating.

The door bangs against the wall, and Reynauld wakes with a gasp, reaching for his sword by his side.  

The heiress looks around with wide eyes, taking in the scene – Dismas lying on the floor, blankets twisted tightly around him, Reynauld sitting up slowly, and her mouth opens and closes a few times.  It takes Dismas several seconds to realize he's still holding his flintlock and he quickly lowers the weapon.

"I thought I head – ," Mallory says in way of apology, her eyes briefly skittering to the crusader whose face is hidden in the shadows.

It's fairly obvious by now what she heard, but Dismas has to commend her dedication of rushing to their help.  "It's alright," he says in a rough voice, though his position on the floor might belie his words somewhat.  "Thanks."

Mallory nods a couple of times, as if she has to convince herself that everything is indeed alright, and much gentler than she had come in, she closes the door behind her.

Dismas rests his forehead on his knees and takes a moment to take several deep breaths.  The panic has passed, but he still feels shaky when he gets to his feet even though by now his heartbeat is slowing down.  Dismas shivers when the cold night air stirs his sweat-soaked shirt.

Being awake may have pushed back the terrors of the unconscious, but when Dismas remembers the previous day and the horror they had found under the mansion...

Shit, he don't even begrudge the knight his nightmares.

Dismas can hear Reynauld breathe heavily, though he cannot make out much more than the other man's hunched over form.  The crusader sits on the bed with feet braced and his sword across his lap, the exact opposite of someone relaxing and ready to return to sleep.  Not that Dismas can blame him, but the other man's tension is making him uneasy as well.

Dismas is about as awake as he's gonna be, and he really does not wish to lie around and let his mind come up with more ways to torment him.  

"Ya know what always makes me feel better?" Dismas asks suddenly, pulling on his pants and shrugging into his coat after a quick change of shirts.  "A walk."  He's certainly going on one, and the invitation stands; it's up to Reynauld to accept.

The crusader heaves himself to his feet, a motion more fitting for a man thirty years his senior.  His limp is less pronounced than it was when he was wearing armour.  Dismas cannot recall it being there yesterday, or even this morning, which means it is a souvenir from today's forage.

They do not speak, but Dismas waits impatiently as Reynauld dresses in something warmer than his tunic.   When they descent side by side, only the stairs creak in the otherwise silent mansion.  The air is musty, thick with dust and something else.  Dismas cannot put his finger on it, but he senses that Reynauld can feel it too.

Out in the open, the night envelops them like a blanket.  It's cold and fresh, and with the stars and moon out it's even lighter outside than it was inside.   Bright enough that do not need any additional light sources.

Dismas slowly begins to relax as the confinement of walls is left further behind him with every step.  He doesn't ask where Reynauld wishes to go, they just stroll around the old house as if that was a path they had agreed on before.  The sword Reynauld carries bumps into Dismas' hip a couple of times.  Reynauld does not seem to notice.  Dismas would have said he hasn't been like himself ever since going down into that cursed cellar, but the truth is he doesn't know the knight well enough to make that assumption.  

Behind the mansion there is another courtyard, wilder than the one in front.  It is flooded in silvery moonlight that reflects off the white marble statues that are wrapped in evergreen ivy as if they too had dressed for winter.  An ornate fountain takes the center, but upon having a closer look they can see that it is clogged with rotting leaves.  This place must have been beautiful once, but much like the rest of the Hamlet, it has fallen to decay.

When they find a low bench, they take the opportunity to sit down.  Instantly, the cold of the stone surface seeps through Dismas' pants.

"If I didn't know better I'd say it's pretty," Dismas says, surveying the gardens around them.  Talking is just another way to stave off the desperation, but when Reynauld doesn't react at all, Dismas' discomfort tips over into worry.

"Hey.  Ya sure yer alright?"

Reynauld looks up only when Dismas' hand lands on his forearm.  Dismas withdraws instantly, because he doesn't like how the knight flinches back.   Something sure ain't right there, but he'd be damned if he knows what it is.

"Fine," the crusader replies, but he does not meet the highwayman's eyes.

Yeah.  Sure.

But there's a change; Reynauld seems more alert than before.  He runs his fingers through his hair, then remains with his hands pressed to his eyes.

Dismas picks at a loose thread on his sleeve.  They remain like that for a while, but Dismas has never coped well with the quiet.   He likes the sound of a voice – even if it's just his own.

"How's the leg doing?" he asks eventually.  They're not on good enough terms for Dismas to tell him to drop his pants so he can check for himself.   The thought of the knight's face if he did does lift his spirits somewhat.

"It has suffered no greater harm," Reynauld replies, lifting his head.  "It should heal, Light willing."

The crusader had patched him up, he knows something about medicine.   Probably much more than the highwayman does.  Dismas drops the topic, and they lapse back into not talking.

"You are a very fine marksman," the crusader says out of nowhere.

It's nothing short of true, but to hear another one say so, ignites a spark of pride in Dismas' chest.  He's also a bit too shocked about the knight complimenting him to manage anything more coherent than,

"Thanks... Rey."

The smile Dismas directs at the other man sours and withers when the crusader keeps looking at the ground.

"I have seen much," Reynauld rasps after a while that us just long enough to make Dismas fiddle with his coat again, "but never the dead rise up to claim the living as their own.  And the things they whispered to me- ."  At this point he seems to be talking more to himself than to his companion.

Dismas shivers, happy not to have heard a thing.   Maybe Reynauld is talking about his dream.  Maybe he isn't.  Either way, Dismas doesn't want to know what the dead whisper.

"We made it out.  S' all that matters."  But even as he speaks, doubts assault him. This was just the first real run.  Will they have to go back?  He isn't sure he can face what hides under the manor again.  At the same time, he may have to if he ever wishes to leave he Hamlet.

He may deserve this hell, but that does not mean he can stand it.

"Let's go."

"What?" Dismas asks stupidly, so caught in his own thoughts that he has missed Reynauld getting up.  He swears he can see a muscle twitch in Reynauld's jaw.

"You said to go for a walk; let's walk."

They do so, passing dead flower beds and bushes that had long ago lost their artful trims.  On the other side, Dismas spots a low building that he had never paid any attention before.

"What's that?" Dismas asks, pointing.

"The stables," Reynauld replies, and picks the path that will take them closer.

"Huh. Didn't know there were any."  A silly thing to say, he realizes too late.  Of course there are.  Mallory's got to keep her horses somewhere.

As they draw near, he can hear a soft nicker greet them.  There are six animals in total out in the pasture; two are the horses who pulled their ill-fated chariot, and one is Mallory's sleek hunter.  One of the others is sway-backed and thin enough for its ribs to show under a shaggy, patchy coat, and it is the first to get its nose rubbed by the crusader.  Dismas chooses to stand a few steps behind.

Horses are fast, and appear to be even faster when you're on top of them, they eat grass and they kick.  That's the gist of his knowledge.  Not that he'd not stolen the one or other, but certainly never one as fine as most of Mallory's animals.

Reynauld seems happy to pet his furry friends, even one enormous steeds whose head is as big as Dismas' torso.

"Don't get your hand bit off," the highwayman grumbles, eying the beast warily.  He sure ain't gettin' anywhere near those teeth.

"They don't like meat," Reynauld says calmly with a look over his shoulder.   "If they take a couple of your fingers, they'll spit them back out again."

And that is supposed to be... comforting?  Dismas gapes, at least until the nearest beast snorts and sprays the crusader with a fine mist of snot.  Then he breaks out in a laugh that spooks the horses into trotting away.  That's what the knight gets – but Reynauld chuckles too, genuinely amused and Dismas watches the transformation in him with fascination.

They head back to the house soon, for what rest they can get for what is left of the night.

The next time when Dismas wakes, it is because the early midday sun is shining through the window and straight into his face.  Usually an early riser out of necessity, the only times he sleeps in like this is when large amounts of alcohol are involved.

By the time they returned to the house, a faint stripe of grey was visible on the horizon.  They'd both managed to find some more rest, and the rest of the night passes without any further incidents.

The highwayman casts a glance towards Reynauld's bed – which he finds made and its owner gone.  And he had not heard a thing.  A man of the crusader's calibre ought not be able to move so stealthily.  That trait should be reserved for rogues such as himself.  But even so, the water pitcher that Dismas knows for sure wasn't full yesterday, is most welcome.

When he finally makes it down, Mallory isn't around and neither are Reynauld or the Caretaker.  The latter also runs a small general goods store in the village, which might explain how he continuously fails to do his duties around the mansion.  The Heiress is convinced that it is because of the man's madness, and not out of any ill will or inherent laziness.

Dismas' feet take him towards the Hamlet, in the opposite direction of the path they had walked yesterday night.  Over the crest of the hill he cannot see the stables where Mallory's horses are undoubtedly noisily munching some fodder.  As always, the town seems to be half-deserted, although today he can see pale faces behind broken shutters that quickly disappear when he looks their way.

Dismas tries to shake off the strange feeling that suddenly assaults him and turns towards the one place where there seems to me some manner of activity: the abbey.   There, Dismas spots Liz and Darell hauling wooden boards, such as are used in construction.  The man is sporting a large bruise on his cheek and both of them keep their heads down and their mouths shut.  It seems someone's learned their lesson, as neither pays the highwayman any heed when he walks past.

Just out of curiosity Dismas decides to have a closer look at the church that his roommate has taken upon himself to restore, probably with the help of the Vestal.  She doesn't seem to be here now, but the highwayman instantly catches sight of Reynauld.  It's easy to make out the crusader's broad form next to that of another man who has to be the priest.  He's got a long face, too big ears, and tufts of hair that stand up just so as to best frame his balding head.   Dismas dislikes him at first sight.

He doesn't approach any further.  They seem busy enough with abbey work, and he isn't sure what he could contribute to that – or whether he wants to.

Dismas decides to look in on the smith, and leaves with a rack for Reynauld's armour, a lance, and a pouch full of newly cast bullets, which is the bribe that convinces him to help Farley carry the former two back to the mansion.

Unlike Reynauld or the smith, Dismas doesn't have work to do, and he is free to wander the village and to spend his time as he wills.  Eventually, he gives in to the pull and slowly makes for the tavern.  It's still early for drink, but there's bound to be food there, and company, and he craves both in equal measure.

As he nears the building, Lenn's booming voice spills out from the tavern.

"No!"

Grinning from the thought that the barman might have sensed his presence, Dismas pushes open the door – and immediately finds himself in the midst of a heated argument.

"Tis' a guesthouse or not!?" a stocky man in his middle to late fifties bellows.  He has a head full of grey hair that is on its best way to becoming white as snow, and is a stark contrast to the red in his round face which betrays his enragement.  But without a doubt the stranger's most memorable feature is the patch covering his right eye.

"Aye," Lenn growls without backing down.  "A guesthouse, not a bloody hospice!"

"Friend," another man intervenes, and his quiet, calm tone that has much more impact on his companion than anything Lenn has said so far.  "It is his tavern, and his good right."

Dismas is shocked to see the stranger's telltale getup.  A mask and clothing that leaves not an inch of his skin visible.  He now understands what the dispute is about and has to agree with Lenn; it's discomforting being even this close to the afflicted.

The leper's companion sits down, although he does so with a glower, and Dismas swears that even his moustache is bristling with belligerence.

"There's plenty of empty houses around," Lenn grunts, and he sounds more sullen now that he's no longer having his feathers ruffled.  "Bring or buy your own dishes, and I will provide you with food and drink."

"Well.  I shall go find us an abode then," the bloke who had argued with the bartender huffs, and rises again with the brusqueness of a military man.  He is not tall, but Dismas suspects that his girth is more muscle than fat, and he prudently steps to the side to let him pass.

Dismas takes the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to approach the bar.

"Who're they?"

"New arrivals," the barman grunts.  "Say they came here 'bout an hour ago.   The leper over there," Lenn isn't subtle in pointing the dirty glass in his hands at the man in question, "and two of his friends.  Offered them a room, but they didn't take it well w hen I said I ain't housing him, no matter what that witch says."

Two?  Dismas had not seen anyone else, but a careful look around reveals what he had missed at first – there is another figure leaning against the tiled stove, motionless and far too easy to overlook.  Dismas feels a surge of ire towards this person, although it is his own fault that he had failed to spot him.  At least he doesn't have to enquire who that witch is.  Nor is he surprised that the plague doctor would take an interest in the diseased man.

"What does she say?" Dismas wants to know.

"That the chance of someone getting infected converges towards zero," Lenn parrots.  "Well, it's a chance I ain't taking.  There's a reason they cast them out," the barman grunts.  "Poor sod – he ain't even the actual problem.  Been nothin' but polite since he came it."

"Ah."  Dismas can guess the pain in the ass has been.

The person in question returns just as he is midway through his second mug of rum-spiced berry infusion.

"I found a house," he announces.  "It's not much, but it has a room and a functional chimney."  He gives Lenn a dark glare which the barman returns without blinking, and Dismas is good and ready to find cover under the counter the second something other than dirty looks gets thrown.

"Thank you, Montfort" the leper answers.  "I am sure we will make it homely in no time."  He nods in the direction of Lenn and Dismas, and beckons to his other mysterious companion, who follows like a shadow.

"Let's go then," Montfort agrees, holding open the door as the entourage gathers to leave.  "There's some sort of congregation happening outside, I don't like – "

Dismas doesn't get to hear the rest of it before the door closes and cuts off the rest of the sentence.  All of a sudden, the bar feels empty and confining, and the urge to move again like an itch under his skin.  He chugs the last of his drink and hands back the mug.

Provoking the barman is the next closest thing Dismas has done to poking a snarling bear with a stick, but he cannot resist to grin up and Lenn and add, "See?  I ain't that bad."

The answering snort tells him otherwise.

Just as he is about to leave, there is a burst of noise as the door swings open again and a cloaked figure comes running up to the bar, almost knocking Dismas over.  A flash of irritation crosses Lenn's face, until the hood is thrown back, and he and Dismas both recognize Farley's wild hair and beard.

"She's not here?" the smith gasps, looking around, as if expecting to see someone familiar.

"Who?"

"Mallory!"

"No, why– ?"

Farley waves a hand to silence him, and hurries to explain.  "The townsfolk, they are planning to march on the estate.  Last night's magic has them scared witless.  I tried ta reason with some of them, but they think what worked on the old man might work on his heir."

It takes a few seconds before the words sink in, but when they do they do a better job of sobering Dismas up than being dunked in the horse trough by the city guard.

"I need to go," he blurts out and he gets up so fast he knocks over his stool.

"Wait!"  Lenn's paw on his shoulder stops him.  "Better take the back door."

Dismas doesn't have time to nod, because he is already on the move.  He hits the door at a full run and barely takes notice of all the people milling around, of the torches being lit.  Farley was right, it don't look good.  Angry shouts fade in the distance as Dismas hauls ass back to the mansion, as if the Holy Inquisition itself was on his heels.

Every step feels like being stabbed anew, and there is an irritating pinch in his knee and thigh, but he doesn't slow down.  He needs to get to the house before the mob does, or they're all royally fucked.  Funnily, enough he's not thinking about Mallory as much as he is about Reynauld.

Tin-man will help, he tells himself, because after sprinting all the way up the hill he ain't sure he'll be good for much more than throwing up on the threshold.

Dismas bursts into his room with enough noise that the crusader jumps up, actually jumps, and stares at him with wide eyes.  Ain't the time for him to worry what that is about.

Dismas' chest is heaving and his throat burns worse than after drinking fire whiskey, but he manages to point to the window and wheeze,

"We're in trouble."

In the distance, a fiery serpent has begun to coil itself around the alley leading up to the mansion.

AN: Fifth chapter is out and it took quite the unexpected turn!

You can also find this story here on AO3

[give-her-the-sunny-d]

swappin writing

@puchittothelimit i was up an hour early so i started this, and then i finished it over lunch break. i lied when i said id do it over the weekend:

a tribute to https://puchittothelimit.tumblr.com/post/157845944150/im-in-the-mood-for-something-depressing-can-you . everyone should fuckin read blood moon. i need to find every writing blog on here.

idk how to do the fancy looking title and summary stuff but i figured you wouldn't mind either way. i had to do this on a phone memo pad so if typo, sorry. "if" lol like i didn't already find one and just ignored it bc lazy

Suku's head rested heavily on Awilix's thigh, long body almost coiled at her side and paws tucked in under his body. Awilix's hand shuffled over his fur with increasing uncertainty, fingers curling weakly as they moved from head to neck and back again but twitching every so often. "Be a good boy, okay?" Suku heard Awilix say. "Suku's a good boy. Such a good boy." When Suku raised his head to softly butt his human companion in the side, Awilix's hand slid off and hit the muddy grass with a wet slap. Anxious to be pet again, Suku nudged her arm, and when that failed to get a reaction, he crawled up closer to the still body next to him until half of his body was all but resting atop Awilix's. Half hearted purrs and head butts did nothing to wake the goddess, and finally the jaguar rested his head just under her chin and let his eyes close as if to go to sleep. The occasional perk of his ears every time a branch snapped under the heavy rains was all that betrayed him. He was tired too, but he would stay awake for the both of them. "I know your heart must be breaking right now," someone was patiently telling Suku, "but we can't stay here. We've already tried bringing her back, she just...won't. I'm sorry, Suku." "Why are you even bothering, Ah Puch. Let's go." "Someone needs to try." The corpse god finally got to his feet with a raspy sigh. He looked on pitifully at the jaguar, who was still standing over Awilix's body that was still awkwardly sitting propped up against a tree. Suku's ears were pressed back and his mouth was open, lips drawn and exposing teeth. No one was going to be able to retrieve Awilix's body for a proper burial without paying a little blood for it, even if they had had the desire to do so. It wasn't worth the trouble. "Going to just stand there or are we getting a move on?" Hun Batz asked impatiently after tossing his staff up and catching it several times. "For all we know, the thing's too dumb to understand us anymore." "Shh, that's enough," Ah Puch urged, but he gave in and turned away to follow after the monkey god. For a second, anyway: he hesitated and threw another look back over his shoulder. "Well, you can be damn well sure that the thing isn't going - " "Suku." " - fine, Suku isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Dumb beast or not, it's probably spiritually bound here for the rest of its life. We have things to do right now, you can come back here later to talk with it. Assuming there's still enough of Suku to reason with. Besides, you know the body won't rot. Too much god in it for too long, even if the spirit's long gone. The meatsuit will still be here for you to collect later. Maybe." For all the monkey's crudeness, he was right. Awilix had given up her spirit to send them forward with hope. Ah Puch would be damned if he'd let that sacrifice be in vain, even if a certain beloved jaguar companion got left behind. "We'll be back," he promised Suku, whose mouth was still open in a fearless snarl at the god of decay. "Stay...stay this way as long as you can, I suppose. I'll see about bringing her back." And then they disappeared, leaving body and jaguar behind to soak in the pouring rain. The next seven days and nights rolled by in a misty haze, all running together in a muddy stream thanks to the persistent rain. Suku caught prey once in a while, but limited by how far he dared to leave Awilix's body behind, opportunities were only becoming more scarce. He brought some morsels to her every once in a while in futile hopes that she would respond, but on the eighth day, Suku finally wandered out to find whatever foolish prey might still be around in this part of the forest. There was a gnawing urge inside him that he had never really felt until now, an urge to find food, shelter, a water source, but Suku didn't dwell on the thought for too long. He just did as he needed to, finding shelter in trees instead of sleeping on the ground, traveling as far and as wide as he needed to to find prey and water, marking his territory with deep gouges in tree trunks as he went along. He retreated back deeper into the forest when he began hearing sounds of some kind of animal conflict in the distance one day. It took a while to find a place that pleased him, but find it he did.He stalked around familiar trees and noted with satisfaction that his scent had passed through here before, and he didn't recall being challenged for his claim over it. He could make this his new haunt since the easternmost boundary of his territory seemed like it would be encroached on soon. It wasn't much for prey availability, but it would do. There was fresh meat here too, downed by another beast no doubt, but left untouched for reasons that Suku didn't bother dwelling on. It was sustenance. Rejecting the indignity of scavenging was a luxury that a hungry jaguar could not afford to take. "Oh, nine hells," Ah Puch cursed when he came upon the sight of a jaguar gnawing on a bird carcass. "Suku." The creature disappeared like a phantom at the sound of his voice, reappearing high in a tree and peering down with yellow, feral eyes. "You..." Ah Puch sighed, and then picked his way over to the sizable pile of splintered bones at the base of the tree Suku was hiding in. He stared down at them, numbly noting the markings where sharp teeth had dug into the bones. "You've forgotten everything already." His only answer was an unblinking, yellow stare glowing between the foliage. "We took too long..." "Ah Puch, it's been weeks, how are we supposed to remember where she - oh." Hun Batz came to a stop next to his fellow god and surveyed the scene before them with thinly veiled pity and disgust. "I knew it. I knew this would happen - " "That's enough," Ah Puch snapped, but the sound of light footsteps over grass and leaves behind them made both gods turn around. "Well, well. Look who's here. Man of the hour, hero and savior. Didn't think you'd follow us all the way out here." Hun Batz leaned on his staff and gave the newcomer a distasteful once-over, looking as if he had just swallowed mud. "You were taking too long. I tracked you until a little ways back and then followed the sound of your voices as you combed the forest. We need to head back," the man said, but even as he spoke, he looked up at the tree branches overhead and fell silent when he locked eyes with the jaguar. Ah Puch allowed him a few seconds of peace, and then sardonically, voice dipped liberally in cyanide: "You know him, Xbalanque?" The man didn't answer. Not yet, at least. His eyes flickered down to mull over the scattered bones on the ground before darting back up again to search out the shadowy shape of the jaguar, but it had long disappeared. There hadn't even been a rustle of leaves to whisper of its escape. "Once," Xbalanque finally said. "I suppose I did. Let's go." They left.