#my fanfiction was fun for me to write

[2btheanswertothequestion]

Eddie's porn stash is a pretty conventional one. An 'if you've seen one stash you've seen them all' type. It basically only consists of skin mags, some of them kinky but most of them vanilla. Normal stuff.

The oddest thing in it is a two-year-old calendar. You know those sexy firefighter calendars? Usually a charity thing? A hit with the housewife crowd? Yeah. Except this calendar decided to branch out and include a bunch of sexy men from a bunch of sexy professions.

So, in this thing, joining the sexy firefighter is a sexy doctor, a sexy construction worker, a sexy police officer (whose month Eddie tore out and burned because fuck cops but don't ever fuck cops), a sexy librarian, and so on. They're all really good-looking, but none of them hold a candle to the paramedic.

It's weird. Paramedics aren't normally part of the traditionally sexy professions. It's messy and sometimes tragic, but lacks the high-paying glamour that doctors and nurses enjoy. Eddie's had his fair share of fantasies, and none of them involved fucking a paramedic.

Until two years ago.

The guy in the calendar simply is that hot.

There's not even anything risqué about his picture. None of the pictures go beyond "this dude is chiseled and shirtless", because veering even slightly past the softest softcore territory would scare off the little housewives or something.

(Eddie is actually pretty fucking sure it'd increase the sales, but hey, what does he know.)

The point is, there's nothing that obscene about the pic. Just a guy kneeling in the back of an ambulance, first aid equipment scattered between his powerful thighs, shirt open to reveal his sculpted torso…

Dark hair spanning across his pecs, over his abs, vanishing down his tight tight tight pants. Hips canting upward, bringing attention to the size of his bulge beneath the zipper. Broad shoulders, ripped arms and large hands, veins protruding across the back. A pretty yet masculine face, with a strong jaw and a straight nose, full lips, a smattering of moles going down his biteable neck. Voluminous, golden brown hair swooped away from his twinkling eyes.

He's got this look in them, this slant to his mouth. Like he knows he's the hottest guy in the calendar.

The one month everyone will go crazy for.

Eddie has become intimately familiar with that look. No joke, in two years it's made him crack his marbles more than anyone else has done in his quarter-century lifetime. When all else fails, November-paramedic has his back. It's basically his longest relationship to date, which sounds a lot sadder out loud (and it sounded fucking sad inside his head, too).

You might wonder why any of that is relevant now, as he sits on the curb outside of The Behemoth with blood trickling from his temple, his band giving their statements to one cop while another hauls away the snarling douchebag that clipped him. How does it play a part in this god-awful night out, you ask?

Well.

"Sir?"

Eddie startles, too caught up in the thudding inside his head, made worse by the buzzing crowd, to notice the man approaching him. He looks up, his gaze gliding past uniformed legs, muscular forearms, a curved neck and honeyed eyes appraising Eddie, and oh.

Oh God.

Eddie's breath sticks in his chest and his tongue becomes a cognate to sandpaper, because it's the paramedic.

It's the paramedic. From the calendar.

He's hallucinating. He has to be. He collapsed on the sidewalk, and now he's having one last weird sex dream before his brain finishes seeping out and he fucking dies.

November-paramedic crouches in front of him. Eddie continues to gape like he's getting ready to catch the peanuts no one is tossing at him.

"My name is Steve. I'm with the ambulance," November-paramedic says. "What's your name?"

Eddie makes a noise incomprehensible to most Earth cultures before his brain registers the meaning of the question and stutters out the answer.

"I- Uh- E-Eddie. It's, it's Eddie."

November-paramedic – Steve – smiles kindly. Heat prickles across Eddie's cheeks and neck. It's not the same as the cocky, sexy smile he's got in the calendar, but still. He's smiling. At Eddie!

"Hi, Eddie." He nods toward Eddie's temple. "That's an impressive cut you got there. May I take a look at it?"

"Yeah? Yeah. Um, g-go ahead."

As Steve sets down his bag and rummages through it, Eddie scours his face to confirm that it really is the guy from the calendar. To his chagrin, it is. There's no mistaking it. Those eyes, like liquid gold. That jawline, a weapon in its own right. Those moles, applied so skillfully it must've been by an artist's hand. That hair, coming straight out of a commercial for luxury shampoo. It's lying flatter than in the calendar, either lacking product or having sweated it out, but it's still glorious.

Steve, having finished washing his hands, tugs on a pair of disposable gloves. The plastic snaps against his wrist, sending a shiver through Eddie. It centers between his legs. Shit, if he pops a boner now…

"I'm going to ask you some questions, okay?" Steve says while pressing a square piece of gauze against the cut. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Eh, Thursday?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"The Behemoth."

Steve nods and, with a lopsided smile, asks, "And are you a patron or did you and your head injury just wander onto the scene?"

Eddie laughs. Loud, merry, and verging on too long. It wasn't even that funny. Steve seems pleased his joke was a success, though. Unless his smile is the uncomfortable kind that one wears when faced with the unhinged. Eddie isn't sure how much blood he's lost.

"No, I, like, my band…" he says, stammering like talking isn't what he does best. Jesus Christ, it's just a hot guy! Eddie has made a fool of himself in front of those plenty of times – no need to get flustered about it. He clears his throat. "We had a gig and, after, at the bar, some guys got into a fight. Got ugly, so we tried to leave, but… alas!" He makes a dramatic sweep of his arm, nearly clocking Steve. Steve expertly ducks away without lessening the pressure on the wound. Eddie soldiers on, not daring to pause lest he lose his steam. Hopefully his burning face is enough of an apology. "Fucker wasn't even aiming for me. He missed his intended target and struck me instead."

"Right. Did you lose consciousness after he hit you?"

"Nope."

"Good. Did you drink tonight?"

"Half a beer, at most."

"Do-"

"Eddie!"

Gareth's nasally voice cuts off Steve's question. The next second, he's materialized beside them with a slightly alarmed expression. "Dude, are you…!"

He trails off, eyes growing into dinner plates. There isn't that much blood, is there?

Steve looks Gareth up and down, a crease between his brows. "Is this your friend?"

"My drummer. Gareth."

Eddie half-expects Steve to demand Gareth leaves so he can do his job in peace, but nope. That kind, calm smile is back. He even gives him one of those little upward-nods 'cool guys' like to do.

"What's up, Gareth? I'm Steve; I'm with the ambulance. Just making sure Eddie won't keel over later tonight."

"Uh huh…" Gareth kneels opposite Steve. He's smiling too, but his is shit eating. Eddie frowns in confusion, because what does Gareth have to be happy about? He was freaking out right after Eddie got hit, but now he's staring at Steve like-

Oh.

He's staring at Steve.

No. Noooooooooo! Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh why, why has he kept his porn stash in a drawer without a lock all these years?! He can't recollect the reason Gareth opened that particular drawer on that particular day – all Eddie remembers is how Gareth, Jeff, and Marv snickered when he explained the inclusion of the calendar.

That was it, though. They moved on. Sure, there has been the occasional roasting after the fact, but it's not like he hasn't also mocked them for their weird shit. But that's not the point. The point is that Gareth is staring at Steve like he recognizes him.

Gareth's attention flicks toward Eddie. Eddie shakes his head as subtly yet pleadingly as he can. Gareth's grin gobbles down another turd. Eddie makes a valiant effort to explode Gareth's eyeballs with his mind.

"Say…" Gareth turns to Steve. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. Eddie, do you have a headache?"

"Yeah, man," Eddie says, voice trembling. "Hurts like hell."

"I could've sworn I've seen your face before," Gareth says. "Like, I'm 100% sure."

"Are you dizzy or nauseous?" Steve asks, ignoring Gareth.

"Um, a little dizzy but no nausea?"

"Hmm, okay. Blurred vision or uneven numbness?"

"No."

Steve nods, glancing at his watch. Then, to Eddie’s dismay, he looks at Gareth. "I've never been to this bar before."

"Nono, not here. Somewhere else…"

Steve's lips purse and his brows knit into the most adorable thinking-face Eddie has ever seen. His heart skips a beat, then skips two more as Steve's free hand gently cups Eddie's cheek. The skin catches fire where Steve's gloved fingertips touch it.

"Let me have a look at your pupils…" Steve says, guiding Eddie's face and, holy shit, leaning in close for a better look.

Eddie gulps, half his blood rushing up and the other half down; he squeezes his legs together to prevent the little guy from saying 'hello' to everyone present. His eyes rove over Steve's face. His lips are chapped and the skin on his nose is dry. The nose itself is somewhat crooked. Did he get into a fight between the calendar photoshoot and now, or did they make the nose straighter for the photo? Why would anyone think it necessary to edit a face like this one? Even with its imperfections mere inches away, it's still the handsomest Eddie has seen.

Steve hums. It's a perfectly preserved vinyl. It's a metal festival. It's Eddie's new favorite song.

"Same size but pretty dilated… Keep your eyes open, please." He shines a tiny flashlight into Eddie's eyes before nodding, satisfied. "All right, looks good."

He leans back out of Eddie's space, returning Eddie's ability to breathe, and removes the gauze. His smile tells Eddie that the bleeding has stopped. As great as it is that he won't hemorrhage to death, it also means their encounter is approaching its end.

"You might've seen me at the university campus?" Steve says, fiddling with some plasters; it takes Eddie's horny brain five full seconds to deduce he's talking to Gareth again.

"No-" Gareth freezes, mouth hanging open. His smugness has evaporated. "Actually, I might have? You're a student?"

Steve chuckles as he patches the last of Eddie's cut. "No, but my friends are. None of them own a car, so I end up driving them everywhere. Right, Eddie, I think you're good to recover at home. Unless you feel like you should head to the hospital?"

Great question! Does he? On the one hand: riding in the ambulance with Steve, ensuring a few additional minutes of his lustrous eyes and smooth voice.

On the other hand: hospital bills.

"… no."

"Okay. Do you have anyone who can keep an eye on you?"

Eddie shakes his head. "I live alone."

"Then maybe Gareth could hang around for the next 48 hours?"

"Sure can," Gareth says without hesitating. Eddie's heart swells with affection for him, despite his (failed! Hah!) plot to mortify Eddie to death.

Steve is already packing his medical bag.

"I want you to rest and avoid stressful situations," he tells Eddie. "No alcohol, no recreational drugs, no driving, and no working until you feel completely recovered. You may take tylenol, but not aspirin or ibuprofen. And if your symptoms worsen or you develop new ones – seek medical attention. Got it?"

The last part is sterner, reminding Eddie of every male authority figure he's strived to disobey during his teenage years. He has no such desire this time.

"Got it."

Steve raises his eyebrows as if to say 'have you really?', and Eddie has to wonder if it's he who seems contrariant and/or stupid enough to ignore the medic or if this is something Steve does with every patient. If it's the former, he mustn't seem that contrariant, because Steve's features soften into trust. He stands, brushing dust off his knees.

"Great. You boys take care now. Have a nice night."

"Yeah, you too, man," Eddie calls after him weakly as he retreats to the blinking ambulance. "Thanks…"

He keeps his gaze on the broad expanse of Steve's back, soaking in the rippling of his muscles as he walks and, oh would you look at that, his ass is as nice as the rest of him. Eddie's been wondering for two years now…

"Dude!"

Eddie jerks toward Gareth. Did he say that out loud? Did he drool? Is his boner showing? But no, Gareth isn't disgusted or disturbed – he's excited.

Shit.

He'll never hear the end of this.

"Don't!" he hisses.

Gareth just laughs, eyes twinkling.

"That was-"

"Don't!"

"I can't believe it!"

"Gareth-"

"You are so red right now!"

"For Jesus fucking Christ's fucking sake-"

------------------------------

Dedicated to @rougenancy for always listening to and encouraging my various thoughts, opinions, and ideas (they are constant).

Part 2

AO3

[ultravioletbrit]

“gone” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 518 words

Part 4/5 (part 1, part 2, part 3 /part 5)

For a moment, Regulus still considers making a break for it but instead he takes a deep breath and turns to face his brother. They stare at each other for several moments, a myriad of emotions flicking across Sirius’ face as he opens and closes his mouth without saying anything. Regulus is struggling to find the right words also, but he’s saved when James breaks the silence.

“Did you really just try to sneak out the front door?” He asks.

Regulus’ stare slowly shifts from Sirius to James.

“And I was almost gone, if you didn’t notice.” Regulus defends himself.

“But we’re standing right here.” James gestures to emphasize that they are in fact standing very close to the front door.     

“Your point?” Regulus defiantly crosses his arm.   

“Hey guys?” Regulus faintly hears Sirius in the background.

“My point is that this is apparently your brother, which I’d still like a bit of an explanation about.” James starts.

“I can—” Sirius tries to interrupt.

“But regardless, there’s obviously something going on between you two.” James continues, ignoring Sirius.

“Yeah, but that’s—” Sirius tries again.

“So clearly, he’s not letting you leave without talking to him. And I’m definitely not letting you leave without getting your number.” Again, James talks over Sirius.

“You’re what?!” Regulus and Sirius ask at the same time.

“What makes you think I’d give you my number?” Regulus asks.

“Hey Reggie, good to see you, what are you doing here?” Sirius turns to the side—not facing Regulus—and dramatically asks no one.

“Do you not want to give me your number.” James smirks.

Sirius turns the other way, still talking to no one, “Hey Sirius, long time, no see. Funny story actually.” Sirius says in a mocking voice.

“I… …” Regulus tries to answer James.

Sirius turns around again. “Oh yeah? I’d love to hear it.” Sirius continues talking to no one.

“So, you do want to give me your number.” James’ smirk grows.

Sirius turns again and continues in a very dramatic mocking voice. “Well, Sirius, I just love you sooo much, I couldn’t be without you.”

“I never said that.” Regulus fires back at James—but also inadvertently answered Sirius’ statement.

Sirius turns to respond to Regulus until he realizes that Regulus wasn’t talking to him, then drops his shoulders. “I might as well be talking to a mirror.” He tosses his arms up.

“No… but you hesitated, love.” James’ smile softens and Regulus hates to admit that he has to fight to restrain his own smile. James opens his mouth, but Sirius cuts him off.

“OKAY, that’s enough!” Sirius stands between them and grabs Regulus by his ear and starts pulling him towards James’ couch.  

“OUCH!” Regulus yelps. “You are hurting me!”  

“Well, normally, I have a very sweet disposition, but you lost that right when you ignored me!” Sirius shouts and Regulus continues to yelp.

“Okay, wait a minute, Sirius.” James tries to jump in.

“I did my waiting! Twelve minutes of it, while you two were doing… whatever the hell that was.” Sirius throws Regulus on the couch. “Now sit. I want answers!”

[mellohiizz]

mel mellohiizz............ can i beg for uu!parrot and uu!clownpierce art

i love the parallels between them, it's so fun to think about

[marysdonuts]

Tom and Jerry

school clown!Hoshi x top student!reader

Synopsis: After transferring schools the attention seeker Soonyoung keeps getting on your nerves. Fortunately it is way too easy to make fun of his somewhat lacking intellect. One day you take your snarky comments too far and Hoshi is all fun and games, until he wasn't

Warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, high IQ (f.) x low IQ (m.), slight angst, school setting, classmates, public sex, revenge sex, dirty talk, crack, spanking, fingering, penetration, inferiority complex, questionable fashion choices

WC: 1.4K

Status: part 1 (ongoing), part 2

a/n: join my taglist to get notified about new chapters

Changing schools was easier than you thought it would be. You were halfway through your senior year of high school at the crisp age of 17. The family had to move to different city for work. Making new friends was effortless - you were intelligent, good looking and fun to be around. Of course, big part of your popularity was thanks to the charm of the next new thing which always attracted many admirers. You were getting straight A's, enjoyed busy social life, everything seemed perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

If it wasn't for Hoshi Kwon. The school's appointed clown, now pushing 19 years old, he failed his senior year twice. Pathetic, how could somebody be so stupid? You hated him the moment he showed up on the first day of school - in purple suit, tiger print on the collar with matching hat. Cane in hand. Kicking the door open while singing Sherlock from Shinee he danced can-can. His legs flying up to the rhythm of - I'm so curious yeah! Everybody loved the performance. Everybody except you. The fuck? Where did he even get that ugly ass outfit and apparently his real name was not Hoshi but Soonyoung. Who the hell calls themselves Hoshi? Does he think he is a celebrity? Stupid ass name.

After the teacher assigned him as your desk-mate he made it his mission to annoy you. Teacher's reasoning being - he might calm down sitting next to the top student. Such a nonsense. Isn't it their job to know how to control the kids? You weren't getting paid enough for this. In fact, weren't getting paid at all!!

//

On Friday he arrived to class more excited than usual.

"Look at my fit!" kicking his foot proudly on the wooden desk in front of you. Before you had time to push him off he continued

"Do you like my new shoes?" expecting compliments

"I haven't seen uglier shoes in my entire life." you responded with no emotions what so ever

"What do you mean ugly" his already small eyes squinting into straight lines, eyebrows frowning comically

You couldn't help but laugh. He looked like cartoon character

"Now you laughing at me too?!" Stomping the foot that was still resting on your desk " They are Balenciaga!" still stomping

"They look like boats," lazily resting your chin on the top of you hand "if refugees used these," pointing at the monstrosity "instead of those tiny motor boats, their survival rate would be 100%"

You could hear an audible *gasp* leaving his mouth and muffled laughs from the classmates sitting behind you.

"You are the worst!" he cried out "Do you even know how expensive they were.." tear forming at the corner of his cartoony eyes

"Probably as expensive as the donations your parents must be sending to the school each year to keep you studying here" your voice full of disdain

"wow a kick under the belt now, huh?" you could see the wheels in his little hamster brain spinning at full speed

"You will regret this" was all he could come up with in the moment

"I don't think so" smirk on your face beamed with satisfaction but the sudden dark shadow crossing Soonyoung's usually friendly face put a knot in your stomach

//

Much later that day, after your extra-curricular classes finished, you are standing in the dimly lit locker room reorganising the mess compiled after busy week. School was already empty and you loved the silence. The long halls full of lockers did look a bit spooky now but it wasn't your first time being there alone.

Squeeky steps approaching from behind you. Sounded like one of those Crocs.

"Anybody there?" you were sure it was just your imagination, simply asking the ghosts a rhetorical question

"What if there is.." vibrations of low growl echoed thru your ear sending shivers down the spine

"The hell..?" catching a glimpse of Hoshi in your peripheral vision. Why is he here this late? You knew damn well he ain't taking any extra classes.

"I was waiting for you..." his voice even closer now, hot breath touching the exposed skin of your neck. He was so close to you. You could hear his heart beating. Du dum. Du dum. Du dum. Stable. Confident. In control. Yours on the other hand reaching high frequency of dudududududum.

"What do you think you are doing, Kwon?" forced annoyance in your tone trying to mask something that was hiding a bit deeper. Panic perhaps?

"You tell me," he laughed but it sounded more like a threat "aren't you the one who knows it all?" Pressing the weight of his athletic body on yours, something hard forcing itself against your bottom made you gasp

"h-hey what's your problem.." you tried to sound intimidating, voice betraying you suddenly, only producing shattered whine

"You" not waisting one more second Soonyoung licked the curve of your neck completely sandwiching you between his throbbing heat and your cold locker. Kissing your sensitive skin as if he was waiting for it for so long. Wet kisses quickly becoming possessive bites leaving marks as his signature.

"oh fu-" was all that managed to escape your quivering lips as his hand spanked your ass with such force, it took your breathe away. You didn't want to admit it, but this situation? It was making you so incredibly wet.

Yes, you did hate him. Yes, he was annoying and loud. Always wanting to be the centre of attention. Apart from that you couldn't deny how good looking he actually was. Only person in school who could pull off blond hair and those horrendous outfits.Oh and how the lean muscles played on his body during P.E. class..? Except for his personality, he was 10/10

"You don't have any smart comeback now, do you?" Slapping you once more. Making you loose your breath - again.

"You look much nicer like this" the hand on your bottom started to move lower. Pushing your legs apart with his knee, making a way for his long fingers. Lightly tracing the center of your soaked panties

"stupid uniform-" you cursed. Why the hell did boys wear trousers but they made girls wear skirts? The last line of defence has been crossed.

"Oh?" rubbing the wet fabric "you are dripping all over your pretty panties" the strokes becoming spirals, combining your folds and the textile into unified mess

"I-I'm not..!" knees weakening into his skilful movements

"Mmm, I thought top students are not allowed to lie" forcing two fingers inside of you without warning. Deliciously thrusting into your pool of need.

"shut up-" already moaning. What the fuck am I doing? Now pushing your ass to meet his motion.

"If you are going to fuck me, at least do it right" another push against him "or are you too stupid even for that?" you mocked him, taking at least a bit of your power back

All you could hear was Hoshi's sinful laugh and clinking of metal as his jeans came undone collapsing on the tiled floor. His throbbing member now on your clit soaking in the wetness you produced. Gliding teasingly over it

"What if I don't want to?" rubbing in painfully slow rhythm, making you see stars

Hoshi was very much enjoying this moment. Moment of having upper hand on somebody he couldn't challenge intellectually, on somebody who always knew what to say, somebody who was making him feel and look small. Crushing his ego on everyday basis. Fortunately you were just his type.

"P-please..?" heard yourself saying. Almost as surprised as he was. But fuck it, his dick felt so good on you pussy and it was long time since you had any intimacy. It made you uncharacteristically needy. What's wrong with little steamy sex in the locker room? Nothing. Yeah.

"Please Soonyoung, I want to feel you inside of me. I can't take it anymore. You win."

Grin from ear to ear Hoshi finally entered you with such an enthusiasm like a kid getting the toy he really wanted.

Holding you by the wrists you were hanging off in empty air. Slapping the balls against your needy pussy he was pounding you mercilessly. Waves of pleasure running thru every inch of your body. You didn't notice it before but now you could feel it clearly. His dick had a curve to it and it felt fucking good. On every thrust the tip hitting you exactly where you wanted. You were full of him.

Why is it always these good for nothing guys who fuck the best? Or maybe you were just too harsh on him? You pondered as the following thrust almost took you over the edge, making your head fall forward.

And down there between your trembling legs pair of hideous Balenciaga sneakers

[ikeasharksss]

hey im curious

feel free to rb & explain your answer in the tags!

[zara-renata]

Roleplay, Undercurrents, and Rising Curtain: Sylus's POV

It really bothers me in the game that the clearly traumatic experiences MC undergoes in the canon storyline don't seem to have any consequences for MC's character development. Yes, yes, this is a self-insert gacha mobile game, blah blah. MC has PTSD from chapter 4 (you know the one), and no one can convince me otherwise, so I re-wrote the auction bits from Sylus's POV to fix this grievous oversight, because I am also firmly convinced he is a champ at handling MC's issues.

Third person POV (Sylus), second person POV (gender-neutral reader/MC) CWs: violence, murder, foul language, cursing, mentions of trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, Sylus is giddy being able to be near MC again even though MC is still mean to him

SFW if you think murder and Sylus's singing is SFW

ao3 link here

He is watching you from the shadowed doorway as you examine yourself in the mirror. He can almost see your mind tick, tick, ticking away, evaluating the quality of your costume for tonight, the slight frown on your face betraying your uncertainty that you, and he, will be able to pull tonight off and emerge on the other side in one piece.

He is used to this type of soirée, a viper’s den wrapped in velvet and silk, the veneer of civility paper-thin, where one wrong look or clumsy response can cost you your reputation, or much, much more. And as a betting man, he’d gamble that you, on the other hand, are not used to this type of gathering at all. You who are straightforward, with your fangs bared and guns blazing, the honesty palpable in your bright eyes and laughter, in your scowl and impatience and eagerness.

He steps into the light, revealing his presence to you through the mirror, and watches as you turn to him, draped in scarlet, and a pulse of satisfaction has his lips lifting. You look delicious, with your head tilted haughtily, the red jewels flashing from your neck and wrists. Your outfits match, and you’re dripping in stones and fabric the color of his eyes. He hasn’t felt this sense of satiation in a long, long time. He pins the brooch above your heart and looks into your eyes, and it doesn’t matter that even though you know the truth now, you are still looking at him with the cold unfamiliarity of someone constantly assessing the possible threat in every gesture he makes. It doesn’t matter that even though he’s helping you, you’re still treating him like the enemy, when it is everyone outside these walls who threaten you, and he is currently the only one defending the gates and preparing to shatter the siege.

None of that matters. Because you’re right here, finally. You’re allowing him to touch you, as he smooths the fabric around where he has just pinned the brooch, your heartbeat strong and steady under his palm—you’re reaching out to him, sliding your hand in his; he can’t feel your skin through your gloves but he can feel your heat at his side, in his palm. He will ensure that, with time, the look in your eyes changes when you feel him appear behind you, when your palms touch.

You say something biting to him, full of doubt, the wariness and spite palpable, and he revels in how safe you must feel with him already to extend your claws around him like this, to be reckless and treat him like an insufferable puppy that you’re forced to indulge instead of the half-feral wolf that he is to so many others. The progress from hate and fear from just a few days ago, to this snarky impatience is intoxicating, better than any gin fizz or successful wager—it’s faster than he had calculated as the blood poured from his heart and you spitefully jammed your palms into his chest in an attempt to stem the flow.

In short, Sylus is in a great mood tonight and he’s looking forward to exterminating the rest of the vermin that have been gnawing away at the foundations of his house in his long absence. And he’s going to make damn well sure that he gets to dance with you before the fireworks truly begin.

Things are going according to plan—he snickers, recalling that this plan is the one you accused him of not having. He will show you, in time, that he always has plans, with backup plans, and backups to the backup plans. He can forgive you for not knowing that about him yet. But you’re the only person he’s in a forgiving mood toward tonight. He has deposited you safely at the bidding room of the auction, the subtle glow of the protocores illuminating the lovely line of your haughtily upturned nose as you sauntered away from him clutching his black card, the other guests whispering in a painfully unsubtle manner behind their hands, speculating about who you are and the nature of your relationship to him. Mine, he had declared, as he handed over his proverbial wallet and told you to have fun.

As he strides down the dimly lit hall of the hotel in which the auction is being held, the deep carpet shushing his purposeful steps, he spots one of Sherman’s minions standing at attention at a closed door and can’t prevent the excitement rushing through him. He is so close to the craven idiot who dared act in his name, who sowed discord in his ranks, who hurt you so terribly and deprived you of your ‘family’, who, regardless of Sylus’s opinion of them, you clearly loved deeply. He is eager to kill two birds with one stone (apologies to Mephisto): wipe Sherman’s existential stain off this plane of existence, clean his house, avenge your loss, and be back to dance with you in a matter of minutes. The lackey finally notices him, begins lifting his wrist to speak into his earpiece, but unfortunately for him, he is little too late, as Sylus’ evol jerks him into the air by his neck—he is about to tighten it to snap the fuck’s spine in two when he hears your gorgeous voice through his own earpiece.

He pauses, suddenly anxious that something has gone wrong for you that and you’re in danger and that he’s not there, when he hears you say, “Do you mind if I use your card to buy one of these protocores?”

He shakes his head a little. Did he just hear you correctly? He might have to re-evaluate his estimation of your intelligence. He will continue to adore you even if you’re a little slow; your other qualities more than make up for any deficiencies in the intelligence department. Because why the fuck else would he hand you the equivalent of unfettered access to his bank account and tell you to have fun? Of course you can buy whatever the hell you want with it. But he knows you’re clever; the way you meet and counter his sarcasm, taunts and challenges without hesitation makes that clear. And you wouldn’t have survived for this long, risen to one of the elite teams in the Association’s ranks, if you were an imbecile. But he is busy, your sudden question made him anxious for you, and he's frothing at the mouth to get back to you to claim his dance.

“Do not bother me with such trivial matters!” he hisses into his own earpiece, and watches as the eyes of the idiot, who he still has by the throat, bulge further in response to his assailant angry-whispering into the empty hallway.

He’s about to finish this when he hears your voice again, offering an offensively low sum for the highest grade protocore this pretentious establishment has to offer.

“5 million!” he counters in a whisper-shout. He is not going to let these clowns think that your man is broke. He waits to hear your response, finally noticing that the guard he still has suspended in the air has passed out. When he hears you double the amount he had ordered you to offer, and then proceed to demand the rest of the items up for bid, Sylus laughs so hard that he momentarily loses control of his evol and the unconscious goon falls with an unceremonious, muffled thump onto the richly carpeted floor. Sylus contemplates his crumpled form for a moment, wiping the tears from his eyes. Suddenly he doesn’t have it in him to kill a guy who is probably only here for a paycheck, even if he does have atrocious taste in employers.

“You can thank my charming guest for your life tonight, if you manage to get through it alive,” he murmurs to the lump on the floor, before punching the door open with his evol-wrapped fist and striding in to find Sherman turning with a look of horror on his face as he recognizes who, precisely, was just laughing like a madman on the other side of the now ruined door.

After, once Sylus has successfully avenged himself and more importantly, you, he hums a little tune as he picks up Sherman’s detonator and saunters back to the ballroom. Maybe, if things keep going as well as they’re going now, and you like him a little better, he’ll sing it to you as a treat. Because of you, he's having so much fun.

*

And now, finally, he is going to claim his own treat before the action really begins. The utter boredom he was forced to endure while interrogating Sherman and uncovering his trite motivations is replaced by an eagerness bordering on mania to get back to his interesting little Hunter. He watches in amusement as a man sidles up to you and shows interest in your brooch, after having thoroughly shown interest in the rest of you before mustering the courage to actually speak to you.

He watches with slightly less amusement as your curiosity is piqued and you ask with your customary eagerness to learn new things, “Hightower? What’s that?” The man’s eyes light up at this apparent interest of yours, seeing an in with you and assertively requesting that you join him for the banquet dance.

Aaaand that’s enough. Sylus steps into the light and slides his hand around your waist, pulling you decisively into his side and feeling that dangerously seductive calm wash over him, as it always does, when he’s allowed to touch you. He knows it makes him weak. He does not care. His other strengths more than compensate for the crack in his armor you represent. Unlike Achilles, he knows exactly how to protect his vulnerability. His hand flexes involuntarily, fingers pressing a little too hard into your hip, until he is able to will it relaxed again.

“A Hightower is a type of gun. Just one can level this entire building,” he answers your question, fingering the detonator in his other pocket. He doesn’t need a Hightower to finish what he started tonight, and the thought translates into an the intense smugness as you frown at him for interrupting your conversation with your luckless suitor. “The brooch is a gift from me, I’m afraid,” he says smoothly, more than ready to send this guy scurrying along his way and draw your entire focus back to him, where he likes it best.

“You weren’t trying to sell it now, were you, kitten?” he goads you, just to see how you’ll respond to this blatant mischaracterization of the situation.

You don’t disappoint him: with your tight jaw belying your coy tone of voice, you run your hands  up his chest, underneath the coat draped over his shoulders, and pretend to be a spoiled, thrill seeking brat testing a sugar daddy’s patience. Finally, the insignificant obstacle standing between him and the dance he has been looking forward to all evening gets the hint and slinks back into the crowded shadows.

And finally, finally, the music begins, bodies are moving around the two of you, and you’re in his arms as he gracefully leads you through the steps of the dance. He soaks in the feeling of his arm around your waist, your hand in his, your chests brushing against each other as you sway together across the dance floor. He notices that your attention is split between expressing doubt about whether he’s telling the truth regarding knowing the aether core’s location and constantly assessing potential threats—but Sylus does not want your eyes drifting elsewhere. He smoothly draws your eyes back to his, where they belong, and ensures that the only thing you can see is him by tightening his arm around your waist, drawing you in closer, and refusing to give you a direct answer to all of your questions. He sees your little scowl, the frustration in the line of your mouth, suppresses a wince when you deliberately stomp on his foot—but he doesn’t mind. Just as he doesn’t mind that you might not believe that he’s fulfilled his part of the deal, that he knows exactly where the aether core is, and that he has his own house’s situation finally under control with Sherman’s demise. In time, you’ll learn that you can trust him. And he has all the time in the world, now that you’re finally here and not trying to kill him.

He's in such a good mood he’s floating like a feather, until you mention the protocore bombs and something changes in the expression on your face. If he hadn’t been staring at your lovely face for weeks now, from afar through Mephisto and hacked security cameras, and while you were sleeping under his roof (if you have an objection to him exploiting your proximity by watching you as you sleep when you’re right there, under his roof, then sue him), and if he wasn’t currently in the process of soaking in every microexpression flitting across your upturned face from this close as you dance together, he might have missed it. But he doesn’t miss it. And he certainly doesn’t miss the involuntary shudder that runs through your body pressed to his. He realizes in a flash of intuition that the idea of the bombs bothers you—

He watches your throat as you swallow, and the very light sheen of sweat gathering at your temples, he watches your eyes begin to dart around again, your hand flexing with what is likely the need to grab your gun from underneath the fabric of your outfit, and he realizes that you’re starting to panic. Or have a panic attack. At the thought of bombs—

Like the bomb that destroyed your family and came so close to killing you too

He has watched you for weeks, seen the way you’ve worked almost non-stop, taking on assignment after assignment with hardly any rest in between except for when you were on the brink of collapse. When you weren’t working, you were training, kilometer after kilometer on the treadmill, heavier and heavier weight sets. And when you weren’t training, you were trying to orchestrate a way to infiltrate his territory, to hunt him and the aether core down. You weren’t sleeping, and you weren’t attending counseling. You haven’t processed what happened to you at all, and no one around you has forced you to confront what you have been avoiding this whole time. The dark circles under your precious eyes, the short fuse and oh so transparent mask of a smile plastered across your lovely, exhausted face—how they just let you continue as you have been infuriates him, and only the thought that he’s here now, in your life, whether you like it or not, is the only thing that stops him from adding new names to his extermination list. He will succeed where they have failed to care for you, even if you hate him for it.

However, he takes a moment to reproach himself, as just a few hours ago he was gloating to himself that soon you’d learn that his contingency plans have contingencies, that you could trust him to think of all the variables and know how to dismantle any obstacles. Yet he has been missing something so obvious while making his calculations of how tonight would go. Of course you’d have remaining trauma from what you have survived and what has been taken from you.

He recalculates—it’s too late to change the state of play now, but instead of the fireworks he has been looking forward to unleashing into chaos, this is now going to have to be a controlled demolition.

He lifts his hand and runs his fingertips along the curve of your jaw to return your focus to him. Once your too wide eyes are locked on his, he tightens his hold around your waist again.

“Look at me. Look only at me.” He waits, and something inside of him crows in triumph as, your hands tightening on him, you follow his directions and stare into his eyes, letting him continue speaking without struggle.

“We are going to detonate the bombs now that were originally intended later for me, kitten. It’s going to be loud, and most of this place will be rubble when we’re done.”

Before you can ask the how and why, he continues. “I have the detonator. I know you’re frightened. I’m sorry this is the method that I have tonight. But keep your eyes on me, and breathe. We’ll get through this together, do you understand?”

He can sense the shift in the energy of the room, the metaflux fluctuations and the increasing violent mood of the crowd, but he will make time for this and deal with any fallout from this slight delay. He will ensure that you get through this without spiraling into a panic attack and possibly getting hurt.

“Do you understand?” he asks again. And that same satisfaction, the sense of calm, that only you seem to be able to give him floods through him as you take a shuddering breath and nod, ever so slightly, eyes never leaving his.

He lets his fingers drift down your face, takes your hand in his and slips both of them into his pocket, pulling you even closer, your cheek coming to rest against his chest. He guides your hand around the detonator in his pocket, squeezing your hand gently in reassurance. “We’ll do this together. You’re in control,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd now, having utter faith that you will have the courage to press the button despite the dread that must be filling you right now.

And you, with your cheek pressed against his warm chest, his steady heartbeat drowning out all the other sounds, including the ringing in your ears, your own thundering heartbeat, flashes of memory, a door closing, Caleb’s last words to you—you close your eyes and press, and the world explodes around the two of you. But you’re breathing, and Sylus is still holding you tight, and you’re alive, and you’ll deal with the terror threatening to drown you after you’ve gotten what you came for.

After you take one deep, slow breath, you reach for your gun, shove Sylus to the side and shoot the wanderer that was about to stab him in the back.

[yurozo]

resident evil (university au headcanons)

a/n: this is purely based on the beginning of my last year :( feeling bittersweet

chris redfield: a third year sports medicine/kinesiology student. if you're looking for someone who almost always has a water bottle full of creatine in his bag, chris is your guy. he's never the type to dress up, especially because he insists on 8am lectures to 'increase his productivity', so he's usually in sweatpants and under armour compression shirts. he joined the rock climbing club at claire's insistence of getting involved around school, but is unfortunately still getting the hang of it. it's hard to lift all that bodyweight, so the majority of the time he just hangs there. has very little social life. he'll go to a party, drink a single beer, then leave. turns women down because it would mess with his schedule. he's paying a lot of money to be there, and save for a bit of attitude towards his professors, he takes his studies seriously. diet-wise, this man preps like a mfer. protein peanut butter shake at 7.30 am no exceptions, within a 20min time limit of his workout. the dorm fridge has an ungodly amount of boiled eggs. toxic trait: does that white man hand raise when he has a question, and usually only thinks about what he's going to say after his hand goes up. jill valentine:

sociology major, criminology minor. has her schedule perfectly planned out so nothing is before 10am. she can and will ignore chris' pleas to meet her on campus beforehand, usually preferring to go for a coffee before a lecture. is never seen without some source of caffeine in her hand. jill isn't a huge fan of sociological theories, instead choosing to focus on the statistics aspect of it.

her dorm room is an absolute nightmare. there is not a single space on her floor that is not covered in clothes, but has no shame in bringing people over despite this. she'll just kind of awkwardly shuffle them away with her foot to make a pathway.

isn't part of any clubs, mostly because she can't be fucked for that kind of socialization. people always hit on her during class anyways, so it's not like she's hurting for company. she usually hangs out with chris or claire on campus, goading chris into doing something with her or letting claire drag her along into studying. toxic trait: has a windowsill full of empty monster energy drinks. leon kennedy:

a math major, criminology minor. has absolutely handed in multiple sheets of homework with tear stains in the corners. for how nonchalant he seems to be on the outside, he really does take his studies seriously, and always shoots for a perfect gpa. he's primarily seen haunting the third floor library, always looking like he's in a perpetual state of agony.

despite all the silent attention he gets from people during lectures, he does not entertain it whatsoever. the man is there to learn. he has one class with jill where they sit in complete silence together save for a couple of witty jokes at the professor (or other students) expense. the professor both loves and hates him. he's a frequent visitor of office hours, but his assignment is always printed and crushed in his fist. he's had a few short-term girlfriends in university, but nothing long-term. he firmly believes that he has rizz, but he does not. most people just let it slide because he has that attractive weird aura around him. toxic trait: unironically shushes people during a lecture. claire redfield: engineering major, communication minor. another person who takes her studies fairly seriously. the fortunate thing about claire is that she doesn't particularly have to try, the good grades just descend on her from the heavens. it makes chris furious. however like jill, she is not a fan of mornings and is usually seen frowning angrily at the board.

has a friend with a house off campus to store her bike so she can fix it up on her days off, using her engineering notes of course. she's part of a few clubs, but isn't fond of being part of leadership or anything. claire goes purely for the vibes.

goes on a couple strings of dates with guys, but always refuses to go out with people from her classes. she's seen it crash and burn so many times that she's not doing herself. will, however, recommend other people to her brother. toxic trait: pulls up to campus at 9am with the loudest motorcycle engine known to man, and always slams her helmet down on her desk when she sits down.

[myokk]

fast sketch of ominis & fast intro to the ominis longfic I'm working on!! This is going to be the most self-indulgent pride and prejudice ripoff that ever existed, 100% based on the ominis of my oneshot💘

I am just OBSESSED with exploring the idea that he’s a natural legilimens & OBSESSED with the thought that he thinks too much for his own good🫶🫶🫶

Ominis Gaunt has always suspected he is cold-blooded.

It makes sense, really.

He always seems to be cold: frigid, long fingers that are often stiff and difficult to move; goosebumps raising the skin of his arms and the back of his neck any time he walks through the drafty halls of the dungeons; even his eyes, he has been told, are reminiscent of ice. They are apparently quite unsettling. The only time he feels comfortable in his body is when he basks in the heat of the sun.

His earliest memory is of the cold. It went like this: he was four years old: his older brother, Marvolo, had led him outside as a joke, he swore up and down that it was just a small joke, and how was he supposed to know that poor, blind Ominis would not be able to find his way back home? When his parents had finally found him, his frail mother sobbing and holding his tiny, blue, hypothermic body to her chest, Ominis remembers feeling quite perturbed at the disturbance. Couldn’t he just be left alone, in the silent soft snow?

He does not know if he has ever felt warm since.

As he strides through the dungeons, the copious amount of warming charms he casts on himself do not seem to be enough, but he keeps casting them anyways and also: wrapping his wool scarf more tightly around his neck, quickening his pace in the hopes that blood flows more easily through his limbs, wishing that he had remembered his gloves. Winter is always a terrible time of year (this winter more terrible than usual), and every breath of warm air leaves his lips reluctantly. How he wishes that he could just hold on to it a bit longer and yet the warmth leaves him precisely fifteen traitorous times a minute, the frigid air gleefully entering and burning its way down his throat in response. Maybe it’s a punishment of some sort.

His whole life has been defined by punishments and sometimes he preoccupies himself with the thought that it is the only way he can view the world. Most of the punishments are manifested in curses inherited from his family. (His parents and Marvolo insist that they are gifts, but Ominis begs to differ.)

First, his blindness: the only true punishment-curse that even his family rejects: caused by inbreeding, no doubt. He did not cry after his birth and his mother cradled his tiny body in silent arms, lovingly whispering nonsense-evil-Parseltongue to him but when he opened his eyes and she saw a brilliant celestine blue with no iris, she screamed in horror and shattered the frigid peace of the room. His parents tried everything to fix him, make him whole, throwing money at various possible solutions to no avail. Magically induced disabilities are not, apparently, curable by magic.

Ominis is not sure that he hates being blind, although he suspects everyone thinks that he should. It is as much a part of him as his fifteen-breaths-per-minute, and he thinks that vision is not all it’s cracked up to be. He is always terrified at the thought that his tenuous hold on sanity is only due to the fact that he cannot see, until he realizes he shouldn’t be terrified of hypothetical situations that cannot come to pass. He consoles himself with the thought that maybe, if he has had to give up his vision for his sanity, it is a small price to pay. Although, he also thinks sometimes that it would be nice to live a life without any morality holding him back.

He is entirely too introspective, after all.

It is precisely this introspection that is his downfall in this moment (and his cold blood). Ominis is so busy casting warming charms on himself and thinking in circles that he cannot use his wand to help him sense his environment and so he should not be surprised when he crashes into her.

And yet he is. Terribly surprised.

Maybe if he were not so caught up in his own thoughts he could have paid more attention to his surroundings. Instead, he spent too much time ruminating on his reptilian heritage and has now barreled head first into his arch-nemesis.

Rosalie Harris.

The girl who has stolen his oldest friend from him.

The girl who is currently making angry noises as she clambers to her feet and is picking up the things that he has crashed everywhere. Even if he could see, Ominis is not sure he would help her. Helping her would be akin to betraying himself, after all.

“Hey! Watch where you’re - oh, hello, Ominis.”

“Rosalie,” he says shortly, nodding his head where he thinks she might be standing and stepping to the side. He tightens his grip around his wand, feeling the texture of the wood change from rough to smooth as he runs his thumb down it. Smooth where he always seems to worry it, rough where the wood refuses to yield to the brushes of his thumb.

He surreptitiously casts the spell - he has at least done it so many times he no longer needs to say it out loud - and his surroundings light up. Or, he supposes that is the most apt description, considering he cannot actually differentiate between light and dark. He senses Rosalie’s silhouette to his left - she is standing with her arms crossed and her foot taps impatiently as she waits for him.

Waiting for what? he thinks, slightly irritated. She never seems to leave him alone and he wracks his brain trying to think of something, anything he can say to get rid of her.

Maybe if he speaks in Parseltongue, she would finally be scared away for good. He does not really want that second reminder of his family’s curse, though.

His family preferred speaking in Parseltongue with each other, believing the ability made them morally superior to everyone else and Ominis had not even realized until he had arrived at Hogwarts that no, it was not normal. When his name had been called at the Sorting, furious whispers had erupted amongst all the students, and his every step (terrified, confused, unsure - he had still been getting used to using his wand to navigate his surroundings) to the stool at the front of the Great Hall was plagued with a susurration reminiscent of snakes. Except these whispers, sneaking their way into his mind, had been unkind and overwhelming.

(He had not realized in that moment that he was also hearing their thoughts.)

Maybe now, with Rosalie standing in front of him and just annoyingly waiting for Merlin-knows-what, Ominis should use his Legilimency to find out what Rosalie wants. (He hates it, though.) It would not be difficult. (The thought makes him shiver in horror because he doesn’t want to abuse the ability.) He can feel the edges of her mind, her magic, and all he has to do is reach out - she is right there, and -

“Ominis?”

Her arms are crossed, he hears an impatient huff.

Why hasn’t she left him alone yet?

Hadn’t the Hogwarts Express already left the station, bringing all of the students home for the winter holiday? Ominis had thought he would be one of the only students left in the castle, and if he is being honest with himself, he had been looking quite forward to having the place to himself.

Ominis’s winter has just gotten infinitely worse.

Going to Gaunt Manor for the holidays is out of the question (he will not think about the nightmares that have been plaguing him ever since he received the owl demanding he go home), and Ominis does not want to be more of a burden to the Sallows. They already do enough for him over the summer, and Sebastian and Anne have convinced him to go to Hogsmeade with them at least twice over the next two weeks. Besides, with Anne’s curse progressing, Ominis does not want to be in the way.

“Why are you still here?” Ominis asks. He knows his voice comes across as cold as his blood, blunt, but he cannot help himself. Ever since Rosalie arrived - her entrance to Hogwarts also causing quite the stir - Ominis has been intensely annoyed by her presence. She is too happy. Too carefree. Too…well, everything he is not.

And, she does not seem to leave him alone.

Rosalie is always there, always hanging around Sebastian. (Taking Sebastian away.) He even showed her the Undercroft, which had almost caused a rift in their relationship. Ominis could not believe that Sebastian would be so careless, showing someone who for all intents and purposes is crashing her way into their lives, forcing them to pay attention to her. They barely even knew her, and yet Sebastian thought it was a good idea to show her such a sacred place?

(It does not help that she is intelligent, and Ominis has caught himself on more than one occasion about to ask her about her opinion on something before he catches himself.)

“I was looking for you.”

Ominis tilts his head at that and fiddles with his ring. He considers walking away, leaving -

“I mean…Sebastian said that you were also going to be here over the holidays and since everyone else just left I thought -”

“Thought what?” Internally, Ominis winces at the biting tone to his voice. It came out harsher than he intended, his voice loud and echoing through his mind, bouncing off the cold, stone walls surrounding them.

[thefrogdalorian]

Ner Aliit

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: Travelling through the galaxy in the Razor Crest with a formidable Mandalorian is a harsh, unforgiving life. The feelings you have developed for him as you soar through the stars together have mitigated the unpleasant aspects. Still, you know it can't last. After all, you and Din are from different worlds. He follows a strict Creed and you know that you do not have what it takes to be Mandalorian.

Journeying with the best bounty hunter in the parsec has often brought you face to face with danger. It has never fazed you before. Until one day you come face to face with danger without Din's reassuring presence at your side, and everything changes.

Word Count: 5.4k ✯ Rating:  Teen ✯ Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, reader kills someone with a blaster in self defence (Nothing is described in graphic detail) and subsequently deals with anxiety/panic attacks.  ✯ Author's Note: Today is four years since I watched Mando for the first time so I wrote this to celebrate! Inspired by a little daydream I had while looking at my own Mythosaur necklace. It's an AU where Din never had Grogu but still had shiny beskar, allow it ahah. Really hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading! 🤍

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

You can already tell from how Din’s footsteps thud a little heavier than usual against the ramp that something has angered him during his latest hunt. Perhaps he will share what precisely has troubled him later when you hurtle through hyperspace towards Nevarro. For now, you head towards the door, ready to help Din haul his latest bounty into the antiquated ship you call home.

Except, the man who stands before you is not Din Djarin.

Instead of the gleaming beskar you had been expecting to greet you on the ramp, a gloomy silhouette moves into view. There is something far darker about your presence than the man you had expected to see. It is not just the grimy, worn clothes he wears that send a shiver down your spine. Nor the way his beady eyes bore into you. They are sunken in his wizened face with a look of pure malice which sickens you to the pit of your stomach.

You are initially so shocked by the fact that the man standing before you is not Din, your eyes frantically examining the features of this stranger, that you almost fail to notice the weapon aimed at you.

Your heart skips a beat when you notice that the man is holding a blaster up at you. He stands unmoving, with his long, grungy fingers curled around the dark handle. The gesture sends a shiver down your spine. However, there is something even more terrifying than the reality of having a blaster aimed squarely in your direction. 

It is the expression on his face.

His glare is unrelenting in his coldness as his finger hovers over the trigger. You do not doubt for one moment that he will pull it.

Throughout your life, you have been exposed to danger many times, even before you met Din. Such brushes with death only increased when you started travelling through the galaxy with a bounty hunter. It was to be expected, of course. You think of the numerous occasions when you witnessed Din becoming embroiled in terrible binds and scrapes while you sat back and watched the carnage unfold. At first, you had been terrified by such violence. Now, you have come to expect it.

Perhaps before you met Din and began travelling with him, someone holding a blaster at you and gazing at you with such viciousness as the man before you would have been utterly petrifying.

However, it seems that the best bounty hunter in the parsec has somewhat hardened you to the realities of the galaxy. 

After the initial shock, you feel yourself accepting your current predicament with remarkable quickness. You assess the man's vulnerabilities and weak points, as Din once trained you to do. You notice a slight quake in his hand, the greyness of his scraggly beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He is not invincible. Soon, the terror you initially felt is replaced with anger; a simmering feeling in your gut as you are incredulous at the audacity of this man to threaten your life in this manner. You are furious at his attempt to intrude into your and Din's safe refuge like this. You are disgusted by him.

You have encountered plenty of unsavoury characters throughout your travels across the galaxy with Din. This pathetic coward does not faze you.

"Where is he?" the man finally speaks. His voice is gruff, his tone sharper than you imagined. It matches his wizened, wrinkly face, seemingly hardened by the decades of experience he undoubtedly possesses.

“Who?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

You know that the man will not buy your plea of ignorance regarding The Mandalorian. Yet, your act will buy you a few precious seconds to execute your plan. Plus, the more you converse with the man, the higher the chance his nerve may waver and that his sympathy for you might increase as you humanise yourself. You hope that by talking to him, his determination to mow you down in cold blood may decrease.

“Don’t play with me and give me a story full of bantha crap,” the man snarls, jabbing the blaster towards you, "I know you know where he is."

“I’m sorry,” you respond apologetically.

You know you must diffuse the situation and undo the damage you have caused with your blatant lies. Without hesitation, you raise your hands in a submissive gesture. Then, when the man does not take issue with a simple movement, you begin backing away from him. Fortunately, he lets you go. You can barely contain your grin as you know what you have in store for him.

Unknowingly, this man is playing right into your hands. 

This old rogue may have thought he could get the upper hand on The Mandalorian by returning to his ship and threatening his travelling companion. Unfortunately, he has underestimated the advantage you gain from knowing the Razor Crest inside out, including all of this old ship's quirks.

When you are satisfied both by the distance you have placed between you and your assailant and your relative proximity to the control panel, which is the key to your plan's success, you fake a stumble backwards. Your hand collides with the button that, when depressed, rapidly releases a cloud of pressurised gas into the hull. The jets that shoot out of the walls soon fill the Razor Crest and form a temporary barrier between you and the man that obscures you from his view. The distraction gives you just enough time to grab a blaster from Din’s workbench and aim it towards your surprise visitor. 

Then, without really consciously thinking about the consequences, you squeeze the trigger.

The sickening thud of the man’s body hitting the floor is the last sound you hear before you retreat up the ladder to the cockpit and seal yourself inside behind the secure door. You are pretty sure he will no longer prove a threat to you, but you have no desire to stick around and find out for definite. The reinforced door will provide sufficient protection, hopefully long enough for Din to return. 

Given that someone managed to reach the Razor Crest and callously threaten your life, you cannot imagine that Din will be far away. If the man has accomplices, you do not doubt Din's capability to take them out before he returns to ensure your safety.

Yet, as the minutes pass by Din is nowhere to be seen.

You are unsure how long you sit on the hard floor with your back to the door, trembling as you sit there. At first, the tremors that have overtaken your body may well be thanks to the frigid metal. Its coolness certainly does not help. As the adrenaline wears off and the realisation of what has just transpired dawns on you, you rapidly become reduced to a jittery, trembling wreck. 

Your state of mind following the skirmish is made worse by the paranoia which overtakes you. 

Initially your primary concern is for your own safety. You brace yourself for the companions of the man whose body lies below you to barge in and finish the job their ringleader started. You wonder which weapons they may possess. 

Would you try to fight them off, or should you flee?

You wonder whether you could even begin the launch sequence of the Razor Crest and fly away in search of Din. He has attempted to teach you how to fly the ship for emergencies such as this, but to your presently terrified brain, the dashboard looks like a confusing conundrum of buttons.

At the first thought of him wandering through the forests which cover the planet’s surface, your overactive imagination now runs away with the worst scenarios of what could be happening right this instant, elsewhere on this planet. 

Visions of the Mandalorian you love, lying in a ditch somewhere on this forest-covered planet, injured and frightened after being ambushed by the same band of dastardly scoundrels overwhelm your senses.

The fear that Din will never return to you, that the depth of your feelings towards him will remain unsaid forever, shatters you. 

You are unsure how long you sit there. Each creak and noise of the ship, noises that you are usually so familiar with and accustomed to now work against you, startling you each time. It is a constant cycle of alarm as your breathing rate picks up and your pulse rate thunders in your ears each time there is a faint thud. You feel your resolve draining with each disturbance.

So when you hear the sound of the Razor Crest's ramp whirring as it lowers to the ground, you barely have the energy to react. Instead, you are relieved that you are now seconds away from meeting your ultimate fate. One way or another, you will finally be put out of your misery. Whoever enters the Razor Crest will not be met with much fight from you, whatever their intentions.

When you hear footsteps this time, you believe that the thuds are indeed the familiar rhythmic, certain sounds of your favourite bounty hunter. Until you lay eyes upon him, however, you will not allow yourself to believe that fact.

Fortunately for your anguished soul, you get confirmation of Din’s return before ever laying eyes upon him. 

“Cyare?” Din calls, his deep voice cuts through the ship up to the cockpit where you continue to cower in the cockpit, “Are you alright?”

You are so relieved to hear him that you could almost burst into tears. Before that happens, you must give him some acknowledgement that you were unharmed in the skirmish.

“I’m up here in the cockpit, Din,” you respond, alarmed at how your voice trembles as the adrenaline has worn off, “I’m alright.”

You push yourself up on shaky limbs to stand and prepare to reunite with the man you have grown so close to. You aren't entirely sure when it happened, falling in love with Din. You certainly never intended it, nor did you imagine that the aloof bounty hunter who was so stoic and barely spoke could reveal himself to have such a beautiful soul beneath his cold, metallic armour. Yet, somewhere along the way, as you hurtled through hyperspace together, you did fall in love with Din. 

It was not one moment but rather a collection of smaller fragments which, when pieced together, form the warmth that spreads in your chest each time you think of Din. It has been the late-night conversations sitting in the red leather chairs of the cockpit, reminiscing on your past lives. The ability that Din possesses in never failing to make you laugh. Even on days when you feel despondent. It is how considerate Din is of you; he never fails to check on your well-being and ascertain whether you can handle one more job or whether you should return to Nevarro for a few days of rest.

All of those moments and more contributed to your present feelings for Din.

You realised how deeply you cared for him when you first noticed your overwhelming desire to please him. The fact that, without even realising it, you had learnt how he liked his ration packs prepared even if you could never enjoy a meal together, given the helmet restriction. You realised that you had attentively watched how Din polished his weapons and studied how he stored them so that you could alleviate some stress when he returned from another hunt and needed to rest. You have noticed that, even though your lives are in many ways different, you both retain the same core values and principles. Honesty, integrity and loyalty are traits you both hold dear.

Only moments ago, it had crushed you to think you would never get to enjoy such moments with Din again.

Now, you stand here, practically bursting with joy as you realise you will soon be back with the man whose presence you yearn to always be in. You can hear his feet hitting the rungs of the ladder that leads up to the cockpit and take a deep breath to steady yourself, even though your entire body quivers with the last dregs of adrenaline and the anticipation of seeing Din again.

The door opens. The familiar glint of the Beskar you had been expecting to see earlier finally comes into view, soothing your nerves instantly. Din surges towards you. You barely have time to react before his arms are around you. He brings a gloved hand up to your chin, holding your face in one hand while he secures his other arm snugly around your waist. You are grateful that he is holding you so tightly. Without his strong arms, you are unconvinced whether you could remain vertical. 

“Oh, cyare," Din exhales, his voice trembling under the weight of his emotions. "I was so worried when I saw the body down there. What in Maker’s name happened here?” Din asks, deep voice full of concern.

“I heard footsteps that I assumed were yours, but when I got there, the door opened. You weren't there, Din. I was so scared," you confess, your voice trembling too.

"Dank farrik!" Din harshly exclaims. You startle in response, and he tightens his hold around you, bringing your chest flush to the cold metal of his armour, before apologetically adding, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay, Din," you whisper in reassurance.

"Forgive me for my outburst. I was just frustrated that I couldn't be there for you. The same group, I assume, ambushed me. It took me a while to fight them off. I should have been here," Din shakes his head, "Anyway, do you want to tell me about what happened?"

You nod, your bottom lip trembling. You take some breaths to steady your nerves as you try your best to ignore your reflection in Din's helmet. If you pause for too long and perceive how fragile and broken you appear, you know you will crumble entirely.

"Well, I stepped up to the top of the ramp expecting to see you. Instead, that man was standing there. He held a blaster up at me. I was so scared that he was going to shoot," you squeak, voice barely above a whisper now. Din moves his hands up and down your back in soothing motions, comforting you enough to continue: "I managed to distract him enough to retreat with my hands up. Then I pretended to stumble and push the button on the control panel, which discharged the pressurised gas. It gave me the cover to grab your blaster on the workbench. And then, well, you saw...” you squeak out as you feel hot tears trail down your cheeks.

You permit yourself to fall apart now, knowing that Din is here to pick your pieces up and place you back together. He brings a hand to your cheek, wiping your tears away with his gloved fingers. A smile ghosts across your lips at the sensation of the buttery texture against your skin.

“You did so well, cyare,” Din whispers. "I promise you, you're safe now. No one will hurt you," he adds soothingly.

Din brings your head into his cowl. He gathers you to him and protects you from the anguish. From this position, you can faintly feel the warmth which emanates from the man beneath the beskar through the coarse yet soft material. The dark brown material is a sharp contrast to the hard, coldness of his armour, a sliver of humanity amongst the many facets of the formidable Mandalorian warrior. You never feel safer or more protected than when Din takes you into his arms and holds you close. The relief is immediate, but it does not stop the emotional outburst. Tears continue to stream down your face.

“I was so scared Din,” you manage out between the sobs that have suddenly overwhelmed your fragile state of mind.

“I know, I know. But I’m so proud of you,” Din says.

His ordinarily steady voice trembles with emotion except when he emphasises how proud he is of you. To know that Din Djarin himself is proud of you makes your chest ache with joy. You have made this strong, stoic warrior proud. It makes your head swim with glee. Yet, it only adds to the myriad of emotions which overwhelm your trembling body.

Din holds you close, but you cannot stop crying. The embarrassment you feel at your outburst further contributes to your distress. The tears flow in earnest now, Din’s cowl surely becoming damp with the moisture that has escaped your swollen, irritated eyes.

“Shhhhh my love, ner kar'ta,” Din soothes as he rocks you, “You’re safe now. I've got you. You’re safe.” 

With his comforting words and the way Din holds you, your sniffles eventually subside. Still, Din holds you until you can barely stand anymore.

When you can stand no longer, when your body finally succumbs to the emotional toll of the day, Din is there to coax you into moving. Somehow, 

Din manages to skillfully manoeuvre you into descending the ladder. You are too tired to question quite how it happens. The next thing you know, you are tucked up in the bunk. There is barely enough room for Din, yet he manages to lie beside you, holding you until you drift off.

Finally, you allow yourself to fall into the warm embrace of sleep…

✯✯✯

You remain confined to your bunk for most of the return trip to Nevarro. The skirmish took its toll on you. In your lethargicness, you struggle to have the energy to do anything other than sleep. Din is patient and attentive with you, taking care of all the maintenance jobs and meal preparation that you usually assist with.

Yet, it is not just the stress of events and the inescapable fact that you have claimed your first life which weighs on your mind. It is trying to figure out what the future looks like for you and Din. 

You have never met anyone like him. He is intelligent, caring and skilled in anything he turns his hand to. He provides for you. Since you began travelling together, you have wanted for nothing physically or spiritually. Din is diligent and attentive, always on hand to pick you up if things prove too much. He makes you laugh like you never have with anyone else you have met. Until your ribs ache and your cheeks hurt from grinning. You think of the hours spent together sitting in the red chairs of the cockpit as the blues and silvers of hyperspace streak outside the windows, illuminating Din's armour in a way that leaves you mesmerised.

When you first started travelling with Din, you were sceptical that you would ever grow close to a man who kept so much of himself a mystery. His face was hidden behind a helmet and you knew him only as Mando. How could you ever form a bond with someone so elusive?

Now, you understand that you do not need to see a person's face to know them entirely. There is no doubt that you completely understand who the man underneath the beskar is. You trust Din Djarin with everything you have. 

Although it took him long enough to honour you with knowing that name, now you speak it often. While he vows that he will know yours eternally, for it is the Mandalorian way to say, “I love you.”

You cannot imagine your life without him. 

However, as much as you care for Din and are certain he cares for you in return, you know you will never have what it takes to become Mandalorian. It is why you have held back from your feelings, never permitting yourself to return the sweet words and affectionate nicknames. Your destinies lie in opposite directions. You will never be truly worthy of his love.

It is a thought that leaves you thoroughly despondent as you lie in the bunk. If you are this distressed after taking a life in self-defence, how would you ever be able to participate in his culture, his identity, which is so dear to him?

Without that fighting spirit within you, you are sure you would never be able to be Mandalorian. Without being Mandalorian, it will be impossible for Din to build a life with you.

Whatever relationship the two of you have is more than likely fleeting. You will part when it becomes apparent that you are too fundamentally different to prove a compatible pairing. You know that. 

Yet, it does not stop the melancholia that such a fact provokes in you.

You understand that one day, Din Djarin will leave your life.

Knowing that evidence of your fundamentally opposing ways of life will become evident once more shortly leaves you inconsolable. Once the Razor Crest lands in Nevarro so the bounties can be offloaded Din will leave you alone for an indeterminate amount of time to be with his covert. 

Since you are not Mandalorian, you are forbidden from joining him. 

The thought of not being with him devastates you. Yet, the prospect of being alone on a planet without Din downright terrifies you after your brush with death.

Although you are frightened, you are determined not to let him see your discomfort. 

After all, it would be unfair of you to hold Din back from spending time with his tribe.

You know you will never be able to join him, yet you still respect Din's creed. You admire his devotion to his Way. You do not judge him for it, even if you are baffled by some rules Din must adhere to.

Yet, there is another reason you keep your emotions to yourself. 

You do not want to worry Din any further.

Following your brush with death, Din has been fussing over you so much that you almost feel smothered. He is watching you intently to check that the fact you have taken another’s life does not leave a scar on you. He constantly reassures you that it was self-defence and that you did the right thing. When you wake up screaming after terrible visions haunt you, Din is there in an instant to soothe your anguished soul.

Even though you are grateful for how much he cares, you want to be left alone. You feel guilty, as though you are a burden to him. Here you are, taking up so much of his precious time and energy when you are not even a member of his tribe. 

So, when Din informs you he will depart the Razor Crest to join up with his covert after the old ship finally touches down on Nevarro, you are glad to see him go.

Even if being on such a skughole makes you unsettled. You wish that you had Din’s comforting presence around to soothe your soul. But non-Mandalorians are not permitted to enter the covert’s hideout, and you respect that rule. 

So, you are alone. 

You pass the time polishing and reordering Din's assortment of weapons so they are exactly how he likes him upon his return. It is penance for the tremendous amount of extra effort he exerted in taking care of you during your journey here.

After you finish cleaning Din's most prized possessions, you stand before the weapons locker, adjusting each blaster and rifle until they are arrow straight. Din is fastidious when it comes to organising his armoury. You want to please him.

It is a task that you are still engaged in when you hear the ramp whirring. The noise makes you panic initially. Until, for your benefit, Din calls your name to reassure you that it is him returning; no one is here to harm you.

Your initial anxiety is soothed instantly by the sound of his deep voice. The apprehension is replaced by a smile at the way the syllables of your name warble through his vocoder.

You hastily close the doors to the locker. You weren't quite finished with your task yet. You do not want Din to catch a glimpse before everything is perfect.

"You're back quicker than I expected," you observe, greeting him with a look of surprise across your features.

"There was only one matter I wished to settle," Din shrugs.

"Oh?" you raise your eyebrows, wondering if it is connected to the drawstring pouch made of dark material he carries in one hand.

"Concerning you," Din simply says.

You are rendered speechless. Your initial concern is that Din has confessed to travelling with a non-Mandalorian. Perhaps it is forbidden for his tribe to befriend outsiders. Your stomach drops as you panic that Din has been forced to leave his covert in disgrace.

What if, after the skirmish, Din decided to leave you behind here on Nevarro and simply needed to ask his tribe's leader for advice so his nerves did not waver?

Your frantic train of thought halts at the thuds of Din's footsteps approaching you. Mercifully, it seems you are about to discover the nature of their conversation.

"I have something for you," Din explains as he reaches into the drawstring pouch and produces a shiny object attached to a string.

You are curious about the mysterious relic before you. You do not hesitate to reach your hand out, your palm up, ready to accept it. It glints in mid-air before Din places it into your palm. 

The sensation of the cool metal of the mysterious object

proves to be an intriguing yet comforting presence in your hand. It soothes you instantly. It is a grounding sensation you badly need. Especially after the dark places your mind has wandered to. Terrible visions and eventualities your imagination has frequented a lot recently since your brush with death.

You realise now that it is in your hand that Din has brought you a necklace. Peculiar. You wonder what in the galaxy an item of jewellery could have to do with his covert.

The metallic pendant is a shape you do not recognise; there is a long, thin strand of dark brown leather attached to the charm.

“Do you know what this is?” Din finally asks after he has left you alone to survey your gift.

You shake your head, looking up at him questioningly.

“This is the Mythosaur, an ancient creature our ancestors once rode. It is a symbol that belongs to all Mandalorians,” Din explains, gesturing a gloved fingertip at the shiny object.

You see now that the metallic outline appears to be the skull of a creature you have never heard before. With its sunken black eye sockets and intimidating, sharp features; the Mythosaur is a little intimidating. Still, you are mesmerised by its pointy teeth and long tusks. It is quite unlike anything you have ever seen. You run your thumb over the ridges, enjoying the sensation of the metal in your hand.

"I had it forged by my tribe's Armorer from the excess beskar of my new armour," Din explains, "The chain is taken from a strip of my bandolier, too."

"The craftsmanship..." you whisper, awestruck, "It's beautiful."

Then, Din says something which catches you completely off-guard. 

“I want you to be part of my Clan, cyare,” Din announces.

Your mouth falls open. You look up at Din, stunned at his declaration. He does not want to leave you behind or cast you out. He wants you to be with him forever. You begin to feel the rumbling of tears somewhere deep inside your gut. You almost allow yourself to smile.

Almost.

Your moment of happiness shatters when you realise joining Din's Clan likely comes with an expectation to be Mandalorian. You hope the necklace does not come with the assumption of committing yourself to something you remain unsure that you want for yourself. 

Yet bringing that up to Din would surely disappoint him, a terrible prospect. His Way is of utmost importance to him.

“But, Din… I’m not Mandalorian,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as you remind him of your differences.

“It doesn’t matter,” Din shakes his head.

"Are you sure?" you breathe, stunned.

"I'm positive, cyare. You can take this necklace to any Mandalorian and say my name. If you present this to a Mandalorian covert and tell them Din Djarin set you, they will ensure you are protected and safe for as long as you need. No matter where you are in the galaxy.”

“Even though I’m not Mandalorian?” you whisper, astonished. 

“Yes. One does not have to walk The Way in order to be protected by us," Din nods.

You are stunned. For so long, you had mistaken Mandalorian covertness for exclusion. You had believed they disliked and distrusted anyone who did not follow their way of life. Now you realise that you had entirely misconstrued their seclusion. Mandalorians, it transpires, are fiercely protective over anyone they care about, an honour not restricted to their own kind.

"After what happened, I want to feel reassured by knowing that you would have somewhere to turn to for refuge if something like that were ever to happen again. More than that, I want you…” Din sighs, steadying himself. “I want you to be part of my Clan,” he adds, his voice full of certainty.

“I couldn't possibly be worthy of such a thing,” you shake your head, unable to meet his gaze, "I shot one nerfherder in self-defence and look at the toll it took on me," you scoff, fiddling with the necklace and avoiding Din's gaze.

Din is unsatisfied with your words. He brings his hand to your chin and tilts it upwards until your eyes are level with the steely gaze of his dark T-visor.

“You are absolutely worthy,” Din adds with finality and certainty in his voice that causes your chest to constrict, “You have shown as much fight and resolve as any Mandalorian warrior would be proud of. You may not be Mandalorian, but you have our spirit. Our manda, our soul. You do not have to be Mandalorian to be loved by one. So, it would be the honour of my life if you would join my Clan, cyare,” Din adds solemnly.

He takes his hand from under your chin and balls it into a fist. Then he raises his clenched fist to his chestplate and holds it over his heart. He bows his head in your direction, wordlessly demonstrating his affection for you.

With his beautiful words and deferent actions, how could you refuse such an offer?

“Then, I will happily join your clan, Din Djarin,” you whisper.

You watch with curiosity as Din takes the necklace from your hand. Then, he softly places a gloved hand on your shoulder and gently turns you around. You realise what he is doing when the pendant slides down over your chest. You smile as you feel the cool metal make contact with your skin through the cloth of the simple clothes you wear. The thin leather is a comforting presence around your neck, especially when combined with the weight of the Mythosaur.

You turn around to face Din once again. You are unable to prevent the grin that spreads across your features. For the first time since that terrifying encounter with that ghastly man, you feel a true sense of tranquillity. You no longer find yourself plagued by fear for the future.

You realise that you should probably make some profound speech of gratitude. Instead, you sigh in contentment as you stand before Din. You are too happy to find words, perfectly content merely to stand before the man you adore. A man whom, thanks to the necklace you wear around your neck, you are now bound to. 

Din brings his hands to your sides, resting them against your body as his thumbs rub fond circles into your hips. There is no fear, no uncertainty anymore.

The future for you and Din is bright.

Din eventually sighs fondly, cupping your chin with his gloved hand.

“It suits you,” he nods in approval.

You smile at the gesture and turn your lips into his fingers, placing a kiss on the soft leather there. Then, Din brings your forehead to his helmet in a gesture he has assured you is akin to a kiss in his eyes. For now, at least, it is the only way he can kiss you.

You stay like that for a few moments. 

Eventually, Din's deep voice breaks the silence. 

“Ner aliit,” Din whispers. Then adds in basic, for the benefit of your ears:

“My family.”

[three-drink-amy]

[beats head against wall]

Fanfic is just for fun. Criticism doesn’t belong in the comments.

Fanfic is just for fun. Criticism doesn’t belong in the comments.

Fanfic is just for fun. Criticism doesn’t belong in the comments.

Fanfic is just for fun. Criticism doesn’t belong in the comments.

Fanfic is just for fun. Criticism doesn’t belong in the comments.

FANFIC IS JUST FOR FUN. CRITICISM DOESN’T BELONG IN THE COMMENTS.

[whaliiwatching]

the flower (reprise)

[capnhanbers]

for all the tension this was a pretty tender chapter so uhhh this is unlike the story it was written to be / i was riding its back when it used to ride me

(scenes from chapter 140)

[arahusk]

Husk is tired once he reaches the home’s front steps, and maybe a little grumpy. His ears were still ringing from static.

He ignores the deer antlers perched over the door, like a morbid holiday wreath. But it’s both typical and so very predictable, and after weeks of this routine, Husk is barely put off by it anymore. Its winding antlers are almost like a beacon of sorts, pulsing and calling out to him as he traverses the city’s streets to Alastor’s home. 

Part of the deal is to keep his boss company. Nightcaps and the sort. Husk knows it’s risky every time but the prospect of a drink is always hard to turn down. That, and his radio back at the casino is on the fritz lately, static and noise playing over the speakers in both long and short bursts that was giving Husk a headache. Which probably meant Alastor wanted him over there right now instead of two hours later. Jackass.

But maybe, in some ways, Husk also craves for a little company. He’s not ready to admit that just yet.

“Boss, you in?” he calls out, pushing open the creaky door into darkness. He has his own key and everything, even though Alastor would usually just summon him without any warning. Maybe to see Husk get pissed off, or maybe because he was really that impatient. “Got your fucking radio message. Ever heard of using a phone?”

The house is evocative of the abandoned homes that are the staple of any low-budget horror flick—with rotting floorboards, cobwebs in every corner, and skull paraphernalia decorating every available surface. It had been a shock to Husk at first, but now it was just a little blasé for his tastes. He now expects Alastor to put up creepy decorations like hanging plastic bats or wearing a witch’s hat to liven things up.

But he only sees the same thing, with the lights completely out. There’s a fireplace from across the room, the wood dry, the flames gone. 

And it’s Husk’s first hint that something is wrong.

Every instinct is telling him to run, an instinct that he usually fucking listens to. After all, it’s the only damn reason he stayed alive for so long until an unfortunate slip up made him end up here in Hell. (He does not want to think about it, so he’s going to stop that right now). His foot is already half out the doorway, his wings opened up, in case something tries to grab at him from the darkness.

Instead, he stays. Instead, he walks inside the house. A sensation, a sound, pulls at him to move forward, hidden in the shadows, even as his mind is screaming at him to leave.

But he doesn’t think it’s Alastor that’s going to pounce on him in the darkness. If he did, he might have felt less afraid—mildly. But the feeling keeps moving his feet to further inside the home, to hallways that sometimes shifted for his own boss’s shits and giggles. Husk lost count of how many times he had found himself in a long hallway with no doors to leave through, just for Alastor’s own amusement. 

But the shadows that move around him, some of them with eyes, are frantic. The hallways keep rearranging themselves until he feels he has been traveling for miles. But there’s always another door, always another deer skull hanging around, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to leave again once the home brings him to where he needs to be. 

He also keeps hearing that same radio signal from before—those short and long bursts, high-pitched and keening inside his head. It makes him shiver, makes him grit his teeth, but he keeps going forward, even as the sound makes him want to rip off his ears. It’s distant, but it’s growing, and he knows he’s getting closer the further he goes deeper into this house.

At one point, he finds himself on the stairs. Old, creaking stairs that were covered in mildew, where a few steps in-between were entirely missing. He walks up them with no question, his wings fanning out to hover any missing places for his feet. The stairs seem to lead in a spiral, and then the wood slowly, almost subtly, begins to turn to metal grates. Instead of mold, there is now rust, much of it covering the railing Husk occasionally uses. It makes his claws screech against it, whenever he lets his hand place itself on it.

The radio tower is supposed to be on the other side of Pentagram City. But Alastor’s home was always a place to rend apart reality to suit where he wanted to be, whether that’s a murky swamp or a glaring red tower where the frequency is always at an awful signal—and it was that awful signal bringing him up, always playing that same deformed patterns, over and over again.

But then, Husk finds himself at the top, and the red decor that makes up this place is almost all gone. It’s just dark, and it’s cold, and there is Alastor—

—and he’s kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room before a woman that Husk knows, because everyone knows who she is. 

There are nights when Husk tries to sleep, and makes sure his damn radio is off. But he still hears singing, floating on the air, and he can’t help but admit that the voice makes him feel some sort of hope that he should have stamped out years and years ago.

She’s so tall, regal and timeless, with sleek and black horns curving from her head to tangle along her golden hair. In her hands is a chain made of a light that there is no name for. She looks over at Husk, who has just appeared from the dark like nothing, first with a curious lift of an eyebrow—and then finally a light laugh. The melodic sound of it makes his heart race, fends off exhaustion from his limbs.

But then he sees Alastor again who is on his knees, whose head is bowed, and over his neck is a manacle that is so tight—and then the chain pulls upward.

And the movement makes Alastor lift his head and there is a flash of something that’s terrified and broken, and any music that lives in Husk’s head is suddenly gone in a flash.

He makes the mistake of talking.

“What’s…going on here?” His voice doesn’t even sound like his own. The tone is tight, stripped of everything. It’s as if some part of him knows that if he breathes wrong, it’s over.

“Oh, look, Alastor. Your friend is here.” The woman finally speaks, her eyes flicking over the chained Radio Demon. His head is still turned away, and only Husk notices then that his once neat red hair is frazzled, unkempt. 

At her tone, Alastor starts visibly shaking. His ears lay flat against his head, and Husk can even hear him breathe faster. “No.”

“You don’t believe me? But you must have heard him.” The woman smiles, something that Husk can still see, even in the dark. “It seems he’s finally caught us.”

Husk isn’t sure he wants to understand what she fucking means by that.

She bends down from her great height so she can place her hand over Alastor’s head—so grand that it looks as if she could crush the demon’s head with just her palm. Her fingers tap along Alastor’s cheeks, a thumb playing with his hair. “You should greet him. It’s only polite.”

And in Alastor’s voice, he hears something akin to terror. Panic. Shame. The radio filter is off completely, leaving no room for error to what Alastor feels, to what he’s experiencing.

“Wait, wait, no—”

“Now, come on.” A hand that grips the back of Alastor’s hair, and a pull of the chain that yanks him upward, enough to lift him just slightly off his knees. “Say hello.”

“Wait, stop it, I don’t-!” 

And then Alastor turns.

Husk sees a face that is finally bare of every glimmer, of every facade, of every blistering smile. Alastor stares back at him, under the pressure of both the hand and chain. In his eyes, steeped in red that is now so dark, there is an awful and silent cry. 

But in that silence, Husk hears something. It’s coming from deep within Alastor’s chest, the radio waves that had been missing from his vocal chords. But Husk hears it, those same long and short bursts of awful sound, all as Alastor keeps looking at him with widened eyes. Calling him.

Husk then realizes what he had been hearing over the radio back home: a corrupted form of an S.O.S signal.

--

Inspired by this art.

Full fic on AO3.

[kitswag]

A little art about a headcanon of mine for Dragon and Sabo, and a little fanfic about it under the cut

"Dragon-san," a familiar voice, Sabo's voice came knocking from the door of the cluttered office. Dragon perked up, putting down the pen he's writing with- just a follow up rough plan for the revolutionary's next strike.

The door was opened and there was Sabo with a bleeding arm. Instinctively, Dragon reached for the cabinet on his desk, pulling it open to grab for a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

Sabo sat in front of Dragon, reaching out his roughed-up arm, his face not showing a trace of pain. (Dragon always knew the surges beneath his mask anyways.)

Dragon sighed as he saw the gnarly wound on Sabo's arm. The boy had a knack on being risky, sometimes even too keen on self sacrifice. Even though being a revolutionary always costed a price, Dragon couldn't help but worry about Sabo's knacks.

"I got a little reckless with my plans, " Sabo offered a little charming smile to Dragon (cut out the reprimands just this time?)

"I always told you to be careful. You're too good to lose, " Dragon said (again, Sabo?).

Sabo offered another cheeky smile, "Next time," he said, as if Dragon never feared for his name written on the list of fallen revolutionaries in a mission report.

When Sabo first arrived in Baltigo, still wrapped with bandages all over, not even able to move his wounded limbs freely, he would only turn to Dragon to replace his bandages, any nurses who tried to replace it would only make him flinch violently.

Dragon tapped a cotton smeared with antiseptic liquid on his arm, following it up with the roll of bandages. Soon, after falling into the familiar act of wrapping Sabo's wounds, Dragon couldn't resist the nostalgia that went flying right to his head.

But of course, they understood (despite being concerned) , that Sabo was a child, a child that had no one familiar except for Dragon in an unfamiliar, new building far far away from his home island.

When his burns healed, and when he finally got to trust the nurses, it still became a habit. He would knock on Dragon's door or tug at his coat, show his wounds, and Dragon would pull out his cabinet and fish out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and some bandages. And there it was, a repeating pattern of tapping a cotton smeared with the antiseptic against Sabo's wounds and wrapping it up with soft bandages.

Dragon always thought of it as a comforting habit.

It was not rare that he would receive reports about his fallen men, people that had died for his own cause. And being here, bandaging Sabo, feeling the warmth of his skin, reminded Dragon that his Chief of Staff, his son, was still here, still alive. Still able to go knock on Dragon's office and offer a smile and a wound.

Sabo's small hiss of pain suddenly brought Dragon abruptly out of his daze. He softened his pace and grip, finishing wrapping Sabo's arm with tying the end, cutting the excess bandage with a small pair of scissors.

"Thank you, Dragon-san, " Sabo smiled, softly.

Dragon couldn't resist reaching his hand out and ruffling Sabo's hair, "Be careful next time," he warned.

Sabo's smile turned into a grin, "This time is just a slip up. "

Dragon couldn't help but smile back. Thin, but soft with fondness for his son sitting in front of him. He pulled his hand out of Sabo's locks of blonde and hope that tomorrow, his name wouldn't be written on the list of the fallen.

[valengory1234]

More Fanfiction for Red xChloe

Red awoke with a start and found a dark figure looming in front of her bed. Fear shot through her as she cried out and searched for her bedside lamp. Not finding it where it would normally be, she realized she was in her dorm at Auradon Prep. How was her mother here? She was supposed to be back in Wonderland, what was she doing at the foot of Red’s bed? Her mother showing up unannounced was never a good thing. Red was trembling, thankful for the darkness that hid her. She tried to calm her nerves as she called out.  

“Mom?” The figure didn’t move. It didn’t speak. God, what was she doing here? Why wasn’t she answering? Wasn’t she supposed to be good now? How coldly was she glaring at her? What had happened to turn the sweet woman Red had seen just a few hours ago back to her old, heartless self? She couldn’t catch her breath, but tried again, this time louder. “Mom what are you doing here?” 

“Red?” the voice didn’t belong to her mother. It was sleepy and came from beside her in the dark. A light turned on and Red shut her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them, the figure was gone. Red shot out of bed and spun around to look for her mother. Hands grabbed at her and she stumbled. “Woah! Red, what’s going on?”  

A blue-haired girl held her by the shoulders gently. It was just Chloe, her pretty face marred with concern. Red looked about the room wildly one more time, trying to understand where her mother had gone, but there was no evidence that she had ever been there to begin with. This did nothing to soothe her, however as she still found herself choking for air. Chloe's grip on her became firmer. 

“Red, look at me,” the blue haired girl’s eye found hers. “Just breathe. Come on, in.... and out....” 

Red swallowed and tried to follow Chloes example as the princess softly chanted the instructions in front of her. It took a few minutes, but the red-haired girl was finally able to calm down. Relief and exhaustion flooded her, and she was almost glad for the other girl’s support as her knees buckled under her. Chloe led her back to her bed, and didn’t let her go until she was safely seated on the red duvet. She sat next to her.  

“Red, what happened?” Red didn’t answer. Chloe reached for her hand and tried to look at her again, but stopped as she jerked away. A small huff of impatience escaped her. Her tone remained gentle though. “Don’t pull away, I’m trying to help you.” 

Red glanced up at her before looking back down at her lap. She swallowed again, but no word passed her lips. After another moment, annoyance came over her face and she rolled her eyes.  

“I don’t know,” she finally said. Chloe tilted her head. “I woke up and thought I saw my mom, but that doesn’t even make sense because it was too dark to see anything at all.” 

She rolled her eyes again before Chloe had a chance to respond. “Whatever, I’m probably just overtired. I’m sorry I woke you up.”  

“No,” the princess flinched internally at her own harsh tone, but reached for the other girl’s hand again. She took a breath to compose herself. “You don’t need to apologize, that sounds terrifying.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not. Are you ok?” Red looked down at their entwined hands and tried to pull away. Chloe wouldn’t let her. Red still avoided her eyes.  

“It’s been a long couple of days, can we just go back to sleep?” The princess sighed as she realized she wasn’t going to get any further with the rebel in front of her.  

“Ok, fine, but we’re still going to talk about this in the morning.” She finally let go of the other girl's hand, but she stayed seated until she got a begrudging nod from her.  

The two got settled back into their respective beds. Chloe looked over at Red one more time, and found her frowning at the ceiling. She fought the urge to keep pushing though, and turned out the light.  

[the-eye-of-the-dragon]

(CW: canon-typical warnings for the game In Stars and Time, also spoilers) (Now also on AO3!)

The village of Bambouche is completely silent at this hour of the night, even after all the ruckus of the evening. It won’t be long before the fishers are up, getting to work before the sun rises, but for now the whole town is catching what few hours of sleep they can.

Lucky for them, you think, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

It’s not like you aren’t tired. When you finally got there, the village cooked up a feast for you and your family members, and the celebrations went on for hours. It was fun! And you finally got to meet Bonnie’s sister! Bonnie was so happy, and that made you happy too. After such a long and fun day, you're ready for some rest.

But…

Every time you close your eyes. You remember.

You aren’t sure why you can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe it’s because it was such a busy day. You don’t have the energy to stop yourself from thinking about things you don’t want to think about. If you can just get some rest, then you’ll be able to ignore it again.

Maybe it’s because you’re not in the same room with everyone. It’s nice to be in a real bed after weeks on the road, but the rooms the villagers had to offer were too small to fit everyone. So Bonnie isn’t here. To remind you that they’re fine. If they were here, it would be fine.

Maybe it’s because every time you saw Bonnie looking so happy, you flinched, because… because how could this be real? You’ve never seen them that happy before. What if it was just a dream? What if it all got taken away again? What if somehow you loop back and you’re there with the King and Bonnie is—Bonnie is—

You feel fingertips gently brush against your hand. You flinch, but don’t pull away. Instead, you turn your head to the side.

Isabeau is watching you from his side of the bed, a concerned crease in his eyebrows. He blinks a few times, like he’s just woken up.

You realize your hands are shaking.

You smile. “What’s up, Isa?”

Isabeau frowns at you. He seems to hesitate, then slowly shifts to fully cover your hand with his. “Sif, are you okay?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“I’m fine.” The words roll off your tongue as easily as breathing. Your hands are still shaking.

Isabeau looks at you for a moment, then sighs, blinking the last of the sleep out of his eyes. “Let’s try that again. What’s wrong, Sif?”

“Nothing! Really, there’s nothing wrong.”

“Sif.”

“Why would anything be wrong? It’s been a really fun night! Everyone here is so nice.”

“Sif!”

“And we found Bonnie’s sister, and we’re still together, and Bonnie’s happy and fine and everything’s fine—”

“Siffrin!”

The harshness in Isabeau’s tone cuts you off with a jolt. He softens immediately, meeting your wide eyes with a worried gaze. “You’re doing it again,” he says quietly.

What does he… Oh. Right.

You are. Of course you are. Why did you think you would change? Why did you think that somehow, after all this, you would do better? Be better?

You swallow down the thought. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Just tell him what’s going on. It won’t kill you.

“It’s—nothing, really, I’m just—I keep remembering something that happened. During one of the loops.” You exhale. “It didn’t stick, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Isabeau’s hand is still resting on top of yours. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

“No.”

“Okay. But you’re gonna anyways, right?” Isabeau says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “For your ol’ pal Isabeau?”

There’s a beat, but you can’t quite hold back the snort that escapes you. “My “ol’ pal”? Is that what you are?”

“Your ol’ pal,” he repeats with a grin. “Your best bro. Your good homie. Your bosom buddy. Just two guys who share a bed and hold hands in the middle of the night.”

You laugh, and his face lights up like he’s won the lottery. He’s beautiful.

You wonder if he’ll ever stop looking at you like that. You hope not.

The quiet of the night presses back down on you. You can feel his gaze still on you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes anymore.

“Tell me about what happened?” he asks again, his voice soft.

You breathe in, and out. “There was—” you start hesitantly. “In that loop, we—the King was—I couldn’t—”

Each word feels like pulling teeth. You can’t get it out. He’s watching you, waiting, and you want to tell him, but it’s all lodged in your throat, it’s stuck, and if you pull it out, if you say it, it will make it real—

No. No, you can do this. Start somewhere else.

“I had been… trying to learn more about the King,” you manage. Slowly, carefully, you start unwinding the story from there. You tell him about how you needed to learn more about Time Craft. About how you started talking to the King when you fought him. About how you realized the King was from the island north of Vaugarde. From your country. About how you thought you could reason with him, since you understood him. You talk, and he listens, nodding along as the words spill out of you and into the night. You build the story up, letting yourself be swept along as you tell him everything that happened, everything that led up to that point, and then…

And then you tell him.

The words aren’t lodged in your throat any more. They’re the opposite, pushing and falling over each other in a desperate rush to get out. You can hear the quaver of fear in your own voice as you describe what the King did, what he did to Bonnie, and you know you’re saying too much now, he doesn’t need to hear all this detail, but you can’t stop. You can’t stop until all the words come pouring out of you, one long torrential rush that finally, slowly, tapers away.

You look up at him.

Isabeau is staring right at you. Completely horrified.

You’re a monster you’re disgusting how could you do this why would you tell him you let Bonnie die! You let Bonnie die! You’re disgusting you’re awful you shouldn’t have told him now he hates you, he’ll never look at you like that again, he hates you, because you let Bonnie die you let Bonnie die and it was your fault your fault your fault your fault your fau—

Warmth suddenly envelopes you. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Isabeau, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you in tight against him. You can feel wetness on his cheek.

“Sif…” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to answer. What is he sorry for? Sorry because he can’t stand to look at you anymore? Sorry because he’s going to leave?

But he doesn’t leave. If anything, he holds you tighter. 

You have to ask. That’s what you’re supposed to do now, isn’t it? You have to ask, so he can tell you, and you can get it over with.

“Isa…” you whisper.

He pulls back suddenly, and you shiver as the cold air surrounds you again. “Sorry, was that not okay?” he asks. “I know you’re still not used to touch but I just couldn’t… after hearing that…” He trails off as he takes in the look on your face.

Your hands are shaking again. “Do you hate me?” you whisper.

“No,” he answers, immediately and firmly. “No, Sif. That wasn’t your fault. The King was a monster, but he’s gone now. And Bonnie is safe.” His eyes are starting to well with tears again, but he presses on. “Bonnie is safe. But I’m sorry you had to go through that, Sif. It must have been horrible. I…” He seems to run out of words, but he must have seen something in your face, because he leans in again, wrapping his arms back around you. Slowly, this time, giving you space to pull away.

You don’t pull away. You reach around him and grab fistfuls of his shirt, clinging on tight.

He’s murmuring something against your hair. You can’t make out the words anymore, but you don’t think it really matters. Just the sound is enough.

It feels like there’s a clamp around your throat, tightening with every breath. Your eyes sting. But you don’t cry. You don’t think you can, yet. Those tears will be even harder to get out than the words.

But you managed the words.

And your family is still here.