#my memory is sieve i just remember the take and not the face giving it LMAO

[officialgleamstar]

oughh peoples weird takes have shifted from my girl to ur guy i see 😭😭 i am so normal about bad takes i promise

in the masses' defense!! i understand where a lot of grant takes come from. hes been a bad father, he has a lot of improvements he has to make, and i think its really cool that matt is doing a plot line rn where linc is cutting his dad off. thats awesome! like, genuinely, i love it. it hurts my feelings a lot as a Wilson Enjoyer(tm) but i think it makes so much sense story-wise and im really enjoying seeing where the plot is going with it!

however i just think its really fucking weird of some fans to imply that mentally ill people arent allowed to have kids or try to love other people when they dont love themselves! maybe im just projecting though </3 i like to think that most people are just wording their takes poorly, or that theyre being dramatic, and i can recognize that i can be really overly sensitive about characters with intrusive thoughts/low emotions. i project onto them too much! i get it! but like, i dunno

i relate a lot to grant and while i dont want kids, i do crave connection with people despite my more... asocial aspects lol. i only recently have gotten to a point where i let myself have community instead of isolating myself for my constant intrusive thoughts, low emotions, lack of empathy, etc. so it just kind of sucks to have this turn in the story that have people acting as if grant is the worst for thinking that maybe he could love a son and have a family. definitely similar vibes to sparrow where people are like "he only had a kid for daddy magic!", which is a take i dislike for ALL of the kiddads but that i can start to understand-- but then also just genuinely, there are people seeming to say "you shouldnt have kids if youre mentally ill" which... no? no. like. i recognize the idea that you shouldnt have kids if you cant even take care of youself, but all evidence points to that grant was capable of having a kid when linc was adopted. linc was socialized well as a young kid, he had friends his age, he visited his grandparents, etc. it was only later that grant's mental health took a downturn again and i think thats fair when everything going on with the doodler/code purple was going on. by no means is grant a good dad. but i think its really harsh and verging on ableism to imply that his mental health makes him incapable of being a dad at any point in his life.

but i dunno!! thats just my thoughts!! lol <3

sparrow is always going to be taking the brunt of weird takes though, i think o7 she truly is taking on the worst of the worst. godspeed to my beautiful weirdgirl

[dancinglikebutterflywings]

Cookies | Kim Hongjoong

-> Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader

-> Request: No. This is a repost from my old account. It was from my Christmas celebration but it doesn't mention Christmas.

-> Synopsis: Baking cookies goes wrong.

-> Warnings: pure domestic bliss.

-> Word Count: 772

-> Requests: Open.

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©️ 2024 dancinglikebutterflywings - do not copy/modify/repost anywhere. reblog instead.

Likes, comments & reblogs are welcomed and appreciated, thank you. 

“Are you okay?” Hongjoong asks his girlfriend as he walks into the kitchen after hearing her let out a string of curse words. He’s unsure if he should have asked anything when he spots the tray of burnt cookies in on the kitchen counter.   

“I was trying to make cookies for our movie night and for you to take back to the dorms for the guys,” she rambles. When she looks at him defeated and about to give up, he steps in, grabs a tea towel and picks up the tray of burnt cookies. He makes his way over to the rubbish bin and tosses the cookies into it.  

“Let’s try again,” he says placing the tray back on the kitchen counter and rips off some baking paper from the roll lying beside the ingredients. “Where’s the recipe?”   

“I was going by memory of how eomma makes them,” she tells him, going through the ingredients.  

“Why don’t you just ask her for the recipe?” he asks looking over the ingredients.  

“I did have the recipe,” she admits with a sigh. “I lost it.”  

“How did you lose it?” He questions as he starts searching for the piece of paper covered in ingredients from all the other times she’s used it. When he can’t find it, he goes back to over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders he looks deep into her eyes. “We’ll just have to wing it. Are you willing to give it one more shot?”  

“Only if you help me,” she nods, feeling slightly better that he wasn’t making a big deal about the missing recipe and the last batch of burnt cookies.   

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says pulling her in for a hug and kisses the top of her head. “Now what’s the first step?” He says, moving to the sink to wash his hands.  

“2 cups of flour,” she says remembering that part clearly. She grabs the bag of flour and pours it into the measuring cup.   

While she does that, Hongjoong grabs the sieve and puts it over the bowl. Y/N then pours the flour into the sieve before measuring the next couple. Relief filled her when there’s just enough flour to fill the second cup. Hongjoong sifts the flour as she moves on the sugar and salt before moving on to soften the butter.  

An hour and a trip to the grocery store later, both Hongjoong and Y/N have batter smeared on their faces, their clothes are covered in flour, salt and sugar, two burnt batches of cookies are in the bin and they’re looking skeptically at the gloop that is meant to be cookie dough in the bowl.   

“I think we should ask your eomma for the recipe again,” Hongjoong scrunches his face up, feeling gross and in need of a shower. “I need a shower.”  

“I’ll call her tomorrow,” she agrees, feeling the same. “I have cookies in the cupboard we can have instead.”  

Hongjoong eyes widen as a look of frustration crosses his features. “Yah! Why have we been trying to make cookies this whole time?”  

“Homemade cookies always taste better than store bought,” she shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “And I thought it would be fun. And then you decided to help me out so I thought that could be even more fun. But I lost my eomma’s recipe and now we’re both a mess and have to use the store-bought ones,” she pouts slightly.   

Hongjoong lets out a breath. “Let’s clean this up, go shower, get into something comfier, and eat those store-bought cookies while watching a movie?”   

“Sounds good to me,” she agrees again.   

They quickly clean up and have a shower and get dressed into some pajamas. As Hongjoong makes them some hot drinks, Y/N grabs the chocolate chip cookies she has stored in her pantry. She takes them into the lounge, places them on the coffee table and takes the blanket hanging over the back of the couch and unfolds it.   

Hongjoong joins her in the lounge, carrying both cups of hot chocolate. He hands her cup to her once she’s settled on the couch and sits down next to her. She turns on the tv and finds a movie they both like to watch.   

“Thank you for helping me try to make cookies when you didn’t have to,” she rests her head on his shoulder, quietly thanking him a few minutes into the movie.   

“I had fun,” he smiles kissing the top of her head. “And I’d do it all over again. Let's just make sure we have the recipe next time.” 

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@trinxt

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[prince-toffee]

Birthday

Kind of a sequel to 'A New Breed of Rose'

Blaze almost had a heart attack as she entered her personal royal office.

“SURPRISE!” Silver had come out of nowhere, cake in hand, and a party cone hat on each of his five quills. Eyes wide, lit up with joy and excitement. That goofy smile arching from ear to ear showing his gap tooth on the upper right side. He looked so silly. Blaze would have loved it if not for the shock. Her fight or flight instinct kicked in and of course Blaze being Blaze chose fight, and kicked the big cat themed cake directly into Silver's face. The hedgehog froze like a cat when you place anything on their head. Blaze covered her gaping mouth in realisation of what she had done.

After a brief second, she spoke, “S- Silver, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?” She quickly moved to him. A tongue suddenly appeared bursting through the thick layer of cake and began to lick the sweetness of his face. Eventually a teal aura permeated the cake remains and floated it off Silver’s face, revealing his bright eyes and even brighter smile.

“I'm okay. Just said that the cake got ruined.”

The cat sighed in relief, “Good... WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!? You scared the Hellfire out of me! I thought you were an assassin or a badnik or- or my mom!”

“Oh, sorry- wait what?”

“I could have killed you!”

“No, you couldn't.” He waved it off.

“With my superior firepower, and your petite, frail frame, you wouldn't stand a chance!”

“I- I wouldn't say that.”

“You could be ash right now.”

“I- I'd say I'm pretty strong.” He shrugged he scratched his arm awkwardly.

The purple feline turned up her nose and made her way to her work desk. She pulled out her chair and sat down, placing the stack of papers she held in hand onto the wooden desk. She looked up from her work as she was beginning to sign the documents to see Silver awkwardly standing in the same spot across the room. Her eyes returned to the papers, “So, what was the cake for?” She couldn't stay mad at him.

He swiftly glided over, crouching, placing his chin on her desk in front of her. “It was for you. Your favourite: coconut and banana, with extra chocolate in case MarMar wanted some.”

“You baked an entire cake by yourself? And Gardon allowed you in the kitchen? That’d be a first.”

“I snuck in while he was busy. And I tidied up after myself! I know you don't like big gifts, but I had to make cake! Had to! It's a special gift for a special girl on a special day!” He beamed happily. As he raised his arms in the air, teal psychokinetic energy shot out of his fingers and palms creating an Aurora Borealis-esk affect over his head. She half looked up, then back down, never stopping signing the papers. She read the whole document in a micro-second and weaved her signature onto the paper. And then placed it off to the side. The stock of unsigned papers was quickly shrinking as the stack of signed papers quickly grew. Her hyper speed was really giving her an advantage.

She asked with a smirk, “Did you really miss me that much? I was only gone on the business trip for a few days.”

“No. I mean yeah, always. But no, it's your special day today!” He proclaimed again, giving her his best jazz hands, teal energy shooting out like tiny fireworks. She just looked at him puzzled with a raised brow. Not looking down, but still not stopping the signing. “B- Blazey, come on, do you not know what day it is?” He asked genuinely worried. Blaze just shrugged; brow still raised. He floated up close to her, almost nose to nose, “Blaze! It's your birthday!” He exclaimed with a pout. That confused the cat even further.

“No, it's not. My birthday is in May, remember? You gave me the rose?” She pointed with her thumb to the windowsill behind her on top of which was ‘The Blaze’, the new breed of rose he cultivated just for her. The only one in existence in their current time. “Silvy, are you forgetting things again? Did you take your pills today?”

“Yes! I know my memory is like a sieve sometimes, but I remember the important stuff! I remember you! Yes, your birthday was last month... in this timeline.” He specified, pointing his fingers at the ground. Wide smile on his face, “But today is your birthday from the previous timeline.” Blaze rolled her eyes. Silver twirled his fingers, pointing up to the ceiling.

“Silver.” She spoke up unamused.

“I know you can't remember all of our previous life, but I do! And I thought it might be nice if-” She silenced him with a single finger.

“I already can't stand one birthday, I can't handle two. I don't need two.”

“But Blazey-”

“Ah. You see the finger? That means ‘Silver time’ is up.”

“No need to be so grumpy...” He said pouting. The greyish-white hedgehog looked down away from her eyes to her hand. She was still signing papers, even as she talked to him, “You're not even looking at it. Do you even know if you're writing in the right spot?”

She didn't look down. Kept her eyes on him. Took a paper from one pile. Signed it. Slapped it on top of the other pile. “Well? Am I?” She smirked.

He pouted. “Yeah. It's remarkable, actually.” She managed somehow to perfectly write her name, in cursive, on the dotted line at the bottom of each page. Over and over again. At hyper speed. “How do you do that? That's so impressive.”

She shrugged, “Muscle memory, I suppose. Been doing this all my life. I've been cramping since I was nine years old.”

“Can you write it backwards?”

She did so, without hesitation, starting with the ‘e’ and ending with the capital ‘B’ and in a split second it was on top of the signed stack.

“Upside down?” She turned the page upside down and, in cursive, wrote her name out perfectly. On the stack. Silver leaned in, amazed. “But seriously, it won't be anything elaborate or expensive-”

“Silver, I don't want any presents or parties. All I want is to finish this work, and then just for the two of us to relax later. You can tell me all about String Theory and quantum something something-“

“Quantum Reinstatement.”

“Yeah, that's it. I love to listen to you talk about that stuff. Maybe we can play that stupid video game you like so much or something.”

“TomatoPotamus 06?!”

“Sure.”

“That's the best one in the series!” He looked back down at the paper, “What if you stand on one hand and you alternate between cursive and standard?-“ Blaze’s pen swiped across Silver's forehead. Her name was now on his forehead.

“That's to make sure people know who you belong to.” Silver's markings lit up across his whole body, his equivalent of a blush. “Now shush. You're distracting me. Go bother Marine. I heard she wanted your help with a new project.” She remarked smiling. Silver just pouted and barrel rolled through the air out the window. “Silver.”

“Yeah?” He returned hopeful.

“Clean the cake mess up before you go.” He frowned.

-     - -

Blaze didn't believe him, chose not to. She, of course, believed that he was a time traveller, that he did in fact patrol time. She trusted him implicitly, trusted him with her life. And she knew that he was unable to lie, not very well anyway; He’d just light up like a Christmas Tree and stammer and trip over his words. It was more the fact that she didn't want to believe in the possibility that this wasn't her first life. That there was once a reality where she wasn't what she was now. It scared her. Made her uncomfortable. The fact that she saw that reality in half-remembered dreams, in her mind's eye, did not help. After their reincarnation Blaze hadn't reclaimed her previous life's memories.

But Silver did. He didn't know why. Maybe it was due to his tie to time travel. Maybe it was perhaps because when time reset he was plunged back into an apocalyptic future, so it was easier for him to accept that there was more outside of his miserable reality. Silver had nothing. But Blaze was different. Blaze was reborn into an alternate pocket dimension, as royalty, into a lineage of cosmic protectors; she had wealth, power, influence, land, a nation, a people to look after, a divine purpose assigned to her by a collective of ethereal relics. Blaze had everything. It was harder for her to let that go. She had more to lose. Silver was always a street rat in the apocalypse. Blaze escaped that fate. She had a new identity and a new place in the universe, and she was, justifiably, afraid of losing that. Silver never wanted to make her uncomfortable by mentioning their previous life. All that mattered to him was that she was safe and comfortable.

But-… It was foolish to feel so… But he was nostalgic for that time. It was a time of tragedy and misery and sorrow. But among the misery they had each other. There were some good times. He often reminisced about their childhood, about them growing up together, and he just wanted to share those memories with her. That clearly was not going to happen. He realised his gift might not have been as meaningful as he first thought.

“Hey! Mate!? Are you orderin’ or what?” The young little raccoon snapped him out of his train of thought. She was aggressively tapping the laminated menu. Silver quickly became re-aware of his surroundings. The hedgehog and the raccoon were sitting in a booth in a mostly empty diner, situated at the beach. “You promised you'd pay. You owe me.” She pouted, leaning over the table.

“Sorry MarMar, I was somewhere else.” His smile returned to him, “Anything you like, on me.” It was true, he did owe the young engineer a favour as right after he left Blaze this morning he made his way over to Marine’s workshop at the docks. The girl had requested the telekinetic’s help with building her new ship. He always helped whenever he could, with him around construction always went much faster as to him the massive components of metal and wood felt no heavier than a paperweight. However, today, his mind was elsewhere and absentmindedly he allowed his powers to slip up slightly and the massive piece of hull he was levitating pancaked another equally important component. Marine almost lost her mind in grief. All Silver could do was say he was sorry. He offered to take her out for lunch, anywhere she'd like, and that he'd pay in full. Marine took the offer. And they went to the same place they always did; a hole in the wall called ‘Meh Diner’. ‘It's food!’ Their slogan read. Which never really sat well with Blaze or Silver, neither did the ‘food’ they served, but the young shipwright loved the greasy fries at the ram shack establishment. So, they went. They chose not to argue with her apart from an occasional comment about how she should ‘slow down’ or ‘maybe eat something a little bit healthier’.

“Something's up with you.” Marine narrowed her eyes at him.

“Huh?”

“You're quiet. There's always a lot on your mind when you're quiet.”

“I don't know what you mean. I'm fi-”

“Like that time, we went to the gala last week and you just stood in a corner not talking to anyone for the whole time with a blank serial killer expression on your face.”

“That was the day I saw myself die in seven different time branches… the eyes were so empty.”

“Exactly my point. What's up with ya?”

“It's nothing, just... it's Blaze’s birthday, and I wanted to give her a present to show her how much she means to me. But she said she didn't want one.”

“Isn't B’s birthday in May? Oh shoot! Did I forget again?”

“No, her birthday from our previous life. It's today.” He placed his head in his palms, his arms supporting up his chin. “I had something special planned, and now- I don't know.”

“Oh this again?”

“What?”

“The ‘previous life’ thing.”

“Ugh, you think I'm crazy too.” He gave out a pitiful groan.

“No. I don't think you're crazy. I believe ya, mate.” The girl slammed her hands down on the table standing up on her seat.

“Really?”

“Totally! You know everybody thought my mother was crazy, she always talked about the doomsday, no one ever believed her, drove her out to who knows where with pitchforks and torches,” she clapped her hands and snapped her fingers, “And here you are. You deal with apocalypses all the time! Everything you've described to us is right on the mark about what she said! People always said: ‘She's crazy!’ ‘Don't listen to her she eats garbage out of the trashcan!’ ‘Marine, she's not your mother, she's a badger!’ You get what I mean?” She plopped back down on her seat.

Confusion was written all over Silver's face, but he answered, “I... think so... you believe me... right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Heh.” A smile returned to his face.

“Soooo-” Oh no. Silver unfortunately knew that devilish smirk all too well, his markings began to glow bright once again, “What were you planning for tonight? A smooch party? Hehehehe!” She clasped her hands together and began to kiss the air.

Silver picked up the menu trying to hide his blushing markings, but he couldn't, “S- So, fish fingers? Cheese sticks?”

“I'm not going to stop unless you tell me.” She was insufferable sometimes.

He pouted. “Okay, okay, just don't start spreading rumours again. The gossip about... ‘us’ makes Blaze uncomfortable.”

“Oh, yeah? I think she likes it. Well?”

“Well, I know she doesn't like big gifts, so I thought I'd make something small, something personal. To show her how much I lo- how much she means to me. In our previous life, in Crisis City, most infrastructure laid in ruin, we had to scavenge for anything and everything; food, shelter, medicine. It was a tough life, but we had each other. She was the only person who was nice to me, so I shared my food with her, and we stayed together ever since. There wasn't much for children to do in the fiery hellscape that we lived in, but we made do with what we had. We had each other. Tag. Who can kill the most spawns. Who can catch the cockroach first.” He named all of the ‘games’ with a genuine nostalgic smile.

“Wow, that's... sad.”

“Very rarely were stores and homes intact. One time we found an apartment with TWO mattresses! What a score! Then there was a day we managed to break into an old jewellery store and took as much jewellery as we could, put it on, and pretended to be fancy rich people at a ball like the princesses in all the storybooks we found in our favourite abandoned library. Ha! The irony, right? But our favourite spot was an old basement club with a stage and a karaoke machine. Anytime Blaze felt down, I brought her there, and it never failed to cheer her up! The machine only had a handful of songs on it, so we learned them off by heart by going there over and over again. It was our spot. Or thing. She's been so busy lately. Every night she's exhausted and stressed. Whenever I'm stressed, listening to music always helps me relax. So, I thought maybe I'd make a playlist of all the songs we loved when we were kids. You know, I don't know, maybe it’d help her relax too.” He remarked grinning stupidly to himself just at the thought of her. Silver looked up from his fidgeting fingers at Marine, who was entirely engrossed in the story.

Her eyes wide and sparkling with joy. Her big eyes began to water. “Oh my God, you two really are perfect, aren't you? My ship has set sail.” Her voice shook as she wiped away tears of joy.

Silver bowed his head in embarrassment attempting to hide his own face in his fluffy chest fur, “N- No, we’re j- just friends.” His voice quivered.

“But seriously, give it to her, she’d love it. She loves literally everything from you. Flowers. Brownies. Chocolates. Books. Poems. All that dorky stuff. She keeps all of it.” She said as she waved her hands around.

“Really?” He grinned wide, his legs kicking back and forth underneath the table. Marine just smirked.

-     - -

Blaze was exhausted and the day wasn't even over yet, it was only 8:00pm, she still had a mountain of work to get through. The Flicky Preservation Union meeting ran over time and she completely forgot about the conference for grants for the local museums. Marching from one side of the castle to the other had exhausted her, physically and mentally. Somehow, she managed to lose her hair tie, and that meant her hair was dishevelled and all over the place. Bags under her eyes. She clutched a stack of papers, crumpled up, unaligned and dog eared, covered in notes she wrote herself, but couldn't comprehend now. She once again made her way back into her personal office. She closed the doors behind her with her foot and leaned back against it. Though foolish, she hoped that closing the door would mean that all the pressures of the world outside would be locked out and she’d safe in there. She sighed, she was both tired and relieved that she was away from the boardroom and all those vultures... literally, all her business advisors were vultures.

She looked around the office, yep, just as she left it. Her work table at the far end, the window behind it framing the landscape outside, her bookshelves at the sides filled with numerous tomes she'd loved to read one day, but never had the time to, one bean bag chair on the side where Marine usually sat while shovelling whatever unhealthy food she chose that day into her mouth. And one potted rose at the windowsill… and so she looked around once more, half expecting to see a familiar silver hedgehog somewhere in the room ready to surprise her with another gift. To her dismay his smile was nowhere to be seen. Blaze’s posture slouched, her shoulders loosened, her head sagged, and her ears fell flat. The sound of her heels clacking against the tiled floor stopped as she kicked them off her feet, and reclaimed her soft armchair. Blaze resumed with signing the documents, wanting to get it over and done with and go find Silver as soon as possible. She was meant to be done hours ago, but the work just kept expanding. She hoped that maybe they'd at least have an evening together.

But then she noticed that something was, in fact, not as she left it. A small white box with a little red bow stuck on it sat on her desk. There was a sticky note on it as well, she immediately recognised the handwriting, “You're so naive, Silver.” She tried to stay annoyed at him but couldn't help but smile. It read:

‘I know you said no presents, but I know you've been really busy lately. I know it can be stressful. Hope this helps. :) - Silver’

Blaze gently lifted the lid of the box and there inside sat a cassette player and a pair of headphones designed for her cat ears. Another note was set on the player:

‘Our playlist.’

She couldn't quite pinpoint why, but as she placed the headphones on her head and pressed play, tears began to stream down her face. So many different emotions swirled around in her mind. A feeling of melancholic nostalgia washed over her. So, for a moment she just sat there, just listening, her legs tucked up into her chest. A smile accompanied with tears. She just allowed the feeling to wash over her, a feeling she could only describe as ethereal. And for the first time in days; Blaze The Cat took a break.

---

If you’re interested, here’s the Silvaze playlist (feel free to add on, I’m looking for recommendations):

All Things End – Hozier

Through Me (The Flood) – Hozier

Paradise Warfare – Carpenter Brut

Out of Touch – Hall and Oates

I Gotta Try – Michael McDonald

Another Dimension – Pop Money

Mona Lisa – Dominic Fike

Hummingbird – James Blake

Link Up – Don Toliver

Take Me To Church – Hozier

H.S. – Tom Cardy

Adore You – Harry Styles

Need Each Other – TWRP

Out of My League – Fitz and Tantrums

[hunnicute]

so I used to be rly into MASH like a solid decade ago so my memory of it isn't great, but that time loop post sparked a memory of a groundhog day fic that I was convinced I had read back in the day, but furious searching unearthed nothing and I was losing my mind a bit because I swear I had read a fic just like that!!

anyway I just now realized the fic I was thinking of was in fact a Band of Brothers fic so. that happened.

but this fruitless search did lead me to discover the sheer volume of MASH fic that's on ao3 now so all this is to say, do you have any recs?

Wow I love this story. I've had that experience too though so you're not alone 😭

Now I have to apologize for this response taking a while, I've been busy the last couple days and wanted to take care in compiling this list.

There's quite a collection of hunnihawk fics on AO3 and I have gone through all of them because I don't have any self control. So yes I do have a few recs! You won't see any pwp fics in here, I'm the type who reads fanfiction for the plot lol so keep that in mind. These are in no particular order btw, and I'm sure my list will expand over time but for right now these are my top favourites.

I won't have comments for all fics and for that I apologize. Some of these are incredibly long and I don't have the time to re-read them and collect my thoughts. Whether there's a comment or not doesn't reflect the quality of the fic, only reflects the sieve like quality of my mind and how it cannot hold onto information for more than five minutes.

[This post got very long so I am including the recs under the cut]

HUNNICUTE'S HUNNIHAWK FIC RECS:

~~~

First off I am going to mention my absolute all time fav hunnihawk fic. Let me tell you, it took me by surprise because for mash fics I really don't enjoy mash aus as a concept (I think their relationships and personalities are really reliant on their circumstances) HOWEVER the film noir genre lends itself to mash very well. So I cannot recommend highly enough tallsinspace's hunnihawk noir au, if you don't read anything else on this list (tho please do!!!) you have to give this one a try:

over and over and over again (and the ending still will never change) by Talls [@tallsinspace]

Rating: M, Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Words: 28,380

The door opens to reveal a pair of the best legs you’ve ever seen in your life. The dame who comes attached is a treat as well, even with a silk scarf and big sunglasses obscuring her blonde hair and most of her face. She’s in a fashionable little black number that she fills out marvelously under a shorter winter coat, a string of pearls wrapped around her neck.

She looks like trouble. You smirk. Just your type.

“Welcome to Blake & Pierce investigations, how may I help you?” you greet in your most professional tone.

“First, you can pop those eyes back in their sockets, gumshoe,” she says flatly. “I didn’t come here to be leered at.”

-

In which Private Investigator Hawkeye Pierce gets in too deep with a couple of married blondes, runs up against some trouble, and makes a series of panic-fueled decisions. Story of his life.

I usually find it difficult to talk about exactly what I like about fics I read and recommend, however this one really lends itself to comment. Not only are the characters extremely well written, but the plot and situations are as well. This is the kind of story you find yourself paying attention to every word. Also this includes Hawk playing with gender, it works so well and feels incredibly true to character. Really well done.

Nostos; or, the Journey Home by Anonymous

Rating: M, Words: 65,903

The last place Hawkeye expects BJ's journey home to end is his own front steps

This one is special for me. Not only was it the first BJ goes to Maine fic I read, but the first MASH fic I actually read! Yeah it had had an impact, I couldn't read anything else for a day or two after because I remember I was thinking about it non-stop.

Your Love Made It Well Worth Waiting by msculper

Rating: T, Warnings: suicidal thoughts, Words: 13,217

"Maybe getting abandoned was like death: inevitable. Maybe knitting was like a machine gun, or mortar fire, or mustard gas: it only expedited the process."

An exploration of the sweater curse as told through Hawkeye's romantic relationships.

Will You Take Me As I Am? by msculper

Rating: T, Warnings: PTSD Words: 7,633

“Why the hell are you here?” The sudden hostility threw BJ off, although he supposed he should have been used to it. Hawkeye had a short fuse since his extended stay at the end of the war. BJ couldn’t help but laugh in shock. “Because I miss you and I’m worried about you?” “You know what Margaret does when she’s worried about me? She calls.”

lucky to be by kaiyen

Rating: none, Warnings: implied suicide attempt, Words: 39,296

Peg leaves BJ. Naturally, Hawkeye drops everything to fly 3000 miles and take up residence in his beach house.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

BJ nods. He’s more okay than he’s been in a long time. “I used to worry that if I were to see you again, it’d be like meeting a stranger.”

“Come on,” Hawkeye says, smiling. “We were never strangers.”

Bait and Switch by apollojusticeforall

Rating: G, Warnings: Discussion of PTSD, Words: 13,974

“We can make it a game, for old time’s sake. Tell me three things about yourself, but make one of them a lie.”

AKA a story told through storytelling, and how the truth is usually (but not always) easier to swallow if it tastes like a lie. Featuring M*A*S*H unit sleepover shenanigans, BJ goes to Maine, and BJ’s Complete Lies.

a notion deep inside by kaiyen

Rating: none, Words: 18,472

All of BJ’s letters sit in a draw in his desk. He reads them sometimes and remembers why he stopped writing back. They feel false, cheery in the way BJ used to write to Peg about the war. A story about a life Hawkeye has no place in.

Maybe he’s not doing such a good job of moving on.

or; two people meet at the wrong time and then re-meet at the right one

my guy pretty like a girl by Talls [@tallsinspace]

Rating: M, Words: 12,366

In which Hawkeye wears a dress for the glory of the 4077th and BJ reacts like any normal person would under the circumstances.

Okay so I do remember this one because I love the concept of Hawkeye playing with gender. I think he would look so stunning in a dress and any drag at all. But really my favourite part of this fic is BJ's reaction. Gotta love angsty moment's fuelled by our favourite repressee from California. Also if you couldn't tell, I'm very much in love with talls' writing.

mind field by Granspn [@calicogirlfriendsamba]

Ratings: M, Warnings: Period Typical Homophobia, Trauma, Words: 48,612

hawkeye is impossible, or so he’s been told.

Part character study, part experimental non-linear narrative, part a place for me to project and put all my unnecessarily specific headcanons in one place, today we’re taking a trip through hawkeye’s chaotic train of thought after being asked a simple question: “tell me about the bus.”

This one has a strong sense of melancholy to it, and I mean that in a very positive way. I found myself really sucked into Hawk's feelings when reading it. If you want something immersive and introspective, this one's for you.

last night, in tokyo by 4x01welcometokorea

Rating: T, Words: 21, 647

Hawkeye gets back from Korea in July, BJ shows up at his doorstep one night in November. In the time between, Hawkeye writes letters he doesn't send, he forgets a night in Tokyo he shouldn't remember, and he remembers he doesn't like Rice Krispies.

gibraltar may tumble by JustStandingHere

Rating: M, Words: 10,350

"Now the world seems open and full of unknown things. And so quickly, too. He feels like if he acts it'll be reckless. And it's very, very easy to be reckless around Hawkeye. The man practically invented the term for him when he escorted BJ around Korea in a stolen Jeep."

Lover, Where Can You Be? by fieryphrazes [@fieryphrazes]

Rating: E, Warnings: Period Typical Homophobia Words: 43, 540

“Do you think she’s alone?” He looked at me with his lips pressed in a thin line. He was studying me; I don’t know what he saw, but he must have liked it fine. “No,” he finally said. “I don’t think she’s alone.” “You’re a special kind of husband, if you mind as little as you seem to,” I observed, and he laughed, a sharp, brittle thing. “You have no idea what kind of husband I am,” he said, and disappeared behind the frosted glass of the office door. He was right: I didn’t have any idea. But I knew I wanted to find out.

When Peg Hunnicutt disappears without a trace, BJ is the prime suspect. He enlists hardboiled Hawkeye Pierce to track her down and clear his name, but how can Hawkeye be sure he's as innocent as he seems?

Yes, this is another noir AU, and it is very different from the last and just as incredibly well done. I especially love the way the relationship between Peg and BJ is portrayed here. And Erin <3 the way that both BJ and Hawkeye take care of her!! I just really love fics that pay attention and include BJ's love for his daughter and his goodness as a father.

someone is waiting by horaetio

Rating: M, Words: 16,628

“i’m right here, hawkeye.” it’s BJ. it could be no one else. MASH but make it sondheim; a hunnihawk fic.

You Can't Go Home Again by nimuetheseawitch

Rating: M, Words: 13,332

BJ has to learn how to find home again. He might actually have to admit that he has feelings.

I'm also going to be a little cheeky here and leave a link for my own hunnihawk fic here, I hope you don't mind but I'm a little proud of it :)

Driver by dammitspawk [@hunnicute]

Rating: T, Words: 1,832

BJ knows that he and Hawkeye are headed towards something that he has no control over. He can't decide if it's what's going to ruin his life or make it bearable, and he is terrified of the answer.

~~~

OKAY

So that was. More than a few... I hope you don't mind? I really wish I could have left a detailed comment for every single one of these but it's been quite a while since I've read most of them. These are all such talented people and I really hope you can take the time to enjoy the words of as many of them as you can.

I've included the tumblr urls of a couple of the authors, if any of you know the urls of more of these authors, please reply to this post or message me and I will add them as well :)

Happy Reading <3

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Hold On Tight, Learn To Behave (Ao3)

[Wenzhou one-shot set post-canon, after episode 36 but before the bonus - NSFW and a quick warning as well for some blood/rough sex]

@evilteddybear requested: I’d love WKX and ZZS to have a conversation on all they’ve hidden from one another by the end of the series. WKX lied about his death, then ZZS, then WKX again. Talking isn’t dramatic enough for TV so they never reach true honesty. They love each other but also hurt each other. And I am not sure that WKX ever realizes that hurting himself hurts ZZS too.

and an Anon requested: I would love to see something set post-canon where ZZS's body is like a live-wire where instead of it being hard (lol) to get off, he manages it really really easy bc suddenly everything has come back and it’s A LOT. I just wanna see WKX fuck several orgasms out of ZZS (literally or in other ways) and ZZS being a mess about it bc holy shit he can FEEL again.

(special thanks/shoutout to @omgpurplefattie for suggesting that these two prompts go well together, you gave me the idea to combine them!)

--

“Lao Wen!”

Zhou Zishu sits up sharply, tongue still locked to the roof of his mouth from shouting his lover’s name, and he raises trembling hands to scrub tiredly at his face.

“Ah-Xu?” Wen Kexing’s voice is sleep-ragged at his side and Zhou Zishu does his best to slow his breathing, to try to stop his heart from pounding in his chest. He tries to stop seeing his zhiji dead right in front of his eyes, but if it’s not the sight of him falling off a cliff then it’s that of him lying dead and still in a burning shed, and if it’s not either of those two haunting memories then it’s the most recent, that of opening his eyes to find Wen Kexing fading right in front of him, hand in hand as his qi drained out of him like water through a sieve. A sob manages to escape his throat despite his best efforts and Wen Kexing is on him in an instant.

“Ah-Xu!” he gasps as he sits up and wraps long arms around him, hugging Zhou Zishu close to his chest. “What is it? What happened?”

Zhou Zishu knows even as he does it that it’s petty, but he pushes Wen Kexing away. Not as strongly as he has in the past, perhaps, but he does it, an elbow to his lover’s side that makes him wince and loosen his grip though he still doesn’t let go entirely.

Zhou Zishu’s hands curl into tight fists in the blankets still covering their laps and he tries to forget about Wen Kexing’s hands, ice cold and limp in his grip as Zhou Zishu had scrambled to find some way to pass his qi back. His arms remember the weight of Wen Kexing’s corpse, the way it had felt to gather his lifeless body close to his chest and bury his face in that silver-white hair, the only outward sign of the strain Wen Kexing had forced himself through just to make Zhou Zishu immortal - with no regard for his own life, or for how empty Zhou Zishu would find the world without his zhiji at his side.

And mourning these incidents feels so strange when the man himself is not only alive and perfectly fine at his side, but at fault for each and every one. It’s this thought that sends him staggering from their bed to shove his feet into his shoes.

“Ah-Xu wait, where are you going? It’s the middle of the night,” Wen Kexing points out like he doesn’t already know it. It doesn’t take Zhou Zishu long to find his outer robes to shrug on over the layer he sleeps in and he doesn’t even bother tying them shut before he stalks from the room and out into the rest of the sprawling armory around them.

He hears Wen Kexing curse and tumble out of bed behind him but he doesn’t stop to wait for him, he just starts wandering in an attempt to soothe the itching under his skin. In the aftermath of everything, after Zhou Zishu had found a way to pass their refined qi back and forth, after Wen Kexing had remained unconscious for over a month recovering from nearly fizzling out into nothing, they’ve been too happy about being reunited in the past few days since he woke for Zhou Zishu to find space to comfortably fit the fact that he’s angry as well. It hardly feels fair to say anything now, and he’s been forcing himself not to give a voice to the ugly thing in his chest mainly because he feels that he knows what Wen Kexing will say. That he lived, that they’re here now, that they finally have as long as they want to be together so why spoil it with unhappy things?

And Zhou Zishu is trying, but it’s so hard. He shoves it all away in his waking hours but then it comes back to haunt him in his sleep and he has to watch his zhiji die over and over again, every single fucking night.

Zhou Zishu comes to a stop at random and begins idly running his hand over the books on the closest shelf, searching for something he hasn’t read yet, or even just something he read so casually first as to be able to enjoy it a second time. Anything for a distraction, anything to try to get rid of the sourness of the bile rising in his throat from the remembered panic of opening his eyes, his senses fully restored, only for the first thing he felt properly since the application of the Nails to be his lover’s dead body. Well, nearly-dead, but it had certainly felt close enough to his newly awakened senses.

Wen Kexing finds him as he’s still brushing dust off of the contents of one of the cubbyholes in the shelf.

“Ah-Xu,” he calls, quiet in the gloom of the sparse few lanterns and the moonlight filtered through vents in the mountainside high above their heads, reflected and magnified by a neatly hidden collection of mirrors far above their heads. “There isn’t light enough to read by tonight. What are you doing?”

“Go back to bed.”

“Ah-Xu -”

Zhou Zishu moves without conscious thought when Wen Kexing reaches for him, fingers just catching on his sleeve before Zhou Zishu whips around to grab him and pin him to the shelves, a furious glare in his damp eyes. The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it scuffle isn’t nearly enough to wind either one of them, but they’re both breathing hard anyway into the scant space between them. Perhaps Zhou Zishu shouldn’t be surprised to find that it only takes the span of a single breath for Wen Kexing’s concerned gaze to go steely, rising to meet the fury he must find in Zhou Zishu’s glare.

“Go ahead,” Wen Kexing challenges with a haughty jerk of his chin. “What is it?”

It’s easier like this, with Wen Kexing seemingly angry right back at him. This is not his Lao Wen, this is the Chief of Ghost Valley - fitting, when he feels less like Ah-Xu and more like the leader of the Window of Heaven, full of a cold sense of merciless righteousness that usually ends with blood on his hands.

“I’m tired of dreaming about all the times you ripped my fucking heart out,” Zhou Zishu finally manages to spit and when Wen Kexing bares his teeth at him in a parody of a smile it’s almost a shock to see his teeth gleaming white rather than stained pink with someone else’s blood.

“Is that so? The feeling is mutual.”

“How many times would you have continued to make me watch you die if we hadn’t trapped ourselves in here?”

“You trapped us here with your avalanche trick, and I would have kept doing it as many times as necessary to keep you alive!” Wen Kexing is practically snarling, though he doesn’t fight against Zhou Zishu’s hold keeping him pinned to the shelf.

“You didn’t have to follow me here!”

Wen Kexing does fight back a bit then, just a savage jerk of one arm that frees it from Zhou Zishu’s grip so he can reach up to curl his fingers into a fist in the front of his robes for the purpose of jostling him, as if shaking him will help him understand as he shouts, “After all this anger over my plans to save you, you have the nerve to also be angry that I didn’t stay put when you left me behind to go die anyway?!”

Zhou Zishu is the one to bare his teeth next, but Wen Kexing takes advantage of his moment of trying to formulate a reply to flip their positions so quickly Zhou Zishu nearly becomes dizzy even before his back is slammed against the shelf and Wen Kexing’s forearm presses against his throat.

“After everything we’ve done, everything we had just lost, you left me,” Wen Kexing says next, no longer shouting but the faint glitter of tears in his eyes and clumping his lashes together is somehow more cutting than if he were. “If you die I die, how dare you take my choices away from me!”

“Your choices?!” Zhou Zishu bites back, finding his metaphorical feet again even as he has to go up on his toes a bit to accommodate the way Wen Kexing is pressing him higher with the arm on his throat. “Your choices are why I was dying so quickly in the first place! I was going to be healed, Da Wu was going to fix everything but your plan that included everyone but me forced my hand! Why would I continue living without you after watching you die? How could you not have known I would try to follow you even after Ye-qianbei stopped me from jumping with you?!”

“How could you throw your life away so quickly?!”

“There is no me without you!”

Zhou Zishu’s shout rings off the stone around them. Wen Kexing slowly releases the pressure on his throat as the reverb of it fades into nothing but silence again broken only by their breaths, too fast and out of sync. But they’re both here. They’re both breathing. They’re glaring daggers at each other, but they’re both here.

“A day without you, a week, a year, an eternity? I don’t want any of it,” Zhou Zishu continues eventually, voice low and fervent. “Of course I tried to follow you. What else would you expect me to do?”

“And then at the last, you turned around and abandoned me. Are you really such a hypocrite, Ah-Xu?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t refute that, though he can’t quite help but grind his teeth and curl his hand still holding one of Wen Kexing’s wrists a little tighter.

He is, abruptly, exhausted. Perhaps it’s the sleepless nights of relieving Wen Kexing’s ‘deaths’ from every angle. Perhaps it’s the stress of having kept all of this tucked close to his chest since the moment Wen Kexing returned during the second heroes’ conference. Perhaps it’s the way the fight leaves Wen Kexing’s eyes as quickly as it had appeared. Perhaps it’s none of these things, or all of them, but whatever the reason, the thought of somehow keeping score for the next however many years they live, of holding onto resentments and bitterness and playing a constant game of who-owes-whom makes him so tired.

Zhou Zishu tips his head back to rest against the shelf at his back, baring his throat (perhaps unwisely, when Wen Kexing is still so angry at him) and closing his eyes against the sight of the filtered moonlight overhead.

“We can’t keep living like this,” he mutters and he feels Wen Kexing’s body go stiff against his where they’re pressed together practically from chest to ankle.

“Like what? Don’t tell me you regret this already, Ah-Xu. It’s not even spring yet, you have to at least wait for the thaw before you can decide to leave me behind again.”

“Lao Wen!” he protests sharply with a jostle of Wen Kexing’s arm in his grip. “Like this, angry with each other for things that we’ve done because we don’t know how to live for each other. This is getting us nowhere.”

Wen Kexing takes a long, slow breath in and Zhou Zishu is about to drop his head again to look at him when he’s abruptly stopped in his tracks by the feeling of teeth on his neck, too sharp and insistent to be comfortable. He gasps and can’t help but jerk a bit in Wen Kexing’s grip, a frisson of heat slinking down his spine and out towards his fingertips as he follows it with a soothing but possessive pass of the flat of his tongue, hot and wet against his skin.

“Lao Wen?” he manages to gasp around the too-intense pressure of Wen Kexing’s teeth around a different section of his throat, more sensitive than the last - so sensitive his knees nearly threaten to buckle, though that may also be because Wen Kexing chooses that moment to dart a clever hand between the drape of his robes to grab him through his trousers. There’s nothing gentle in the gesture, it’s hard and possessive. Painful.

They haven’t been intimate since Wen Kexing had finally regained consciousness. Between adjusting to their new reality, Wen Kexing finally having an opportunity to begin grieving for Gu Xiang, and Zhou Zishu working to build them something of a permanent living space in the armory, and with an as-of-yet undefined eternity stretching on before them, they’d just...settled. Tried to relax and let time pass as it would now that it’s no longer their master.

Zhou Zishu realizes belatedly that he should have anticipated that it would feel different with the return of his senses, but he is somehow still blindsided by the shock of it, crystal clear and overwhelming. He can feel Wen Kexing’s too-quick exhales against his freshly bruised skin, hot and damp in the chill of their new home. His hand is painfully tight between his legs and Zhou Zishu gasps again as his grip tightens even further, bucking his hips back to try to escape Wen Kexing’s groping but there’s nowhere for him to go. He bites down again and Zhou Zishu swears he can feel every single one of his teeth - no longer just the muted sensation of more pointed pressure than his hands could provide, now he can feel his skin protesting the sharp crush of capillaries, red bruises blooming like aching flowers under his lover’s mouth.

“If you want to be angry then be angry,” Wen Kexing growls into the point of his collarbone, and the bite he leaves there has Zhou Zishu’s back arching without his permission though he at least manages to keep a pathetic whimper locked in his throat. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

Under such an onslaught, it doesn’t take long at all for Zhou Zishu to find his temper again. Wen Kexing is harsh and cruel with him, offering no reprieves or mercy as he takes what he wants. Zhou Zishu has absolutely no qualms about giving him the same in return, digging in with his nails until he pierces his skin, and only then does he scratch up his back and leave bloody furrows in his wake. He bites whatever part of Wen Kexing he can get his mouth on, and finally when Wen Kexing is ever-so-slightly distracted with gathering all of Zhou Zishu’s hair into one hand to yank on it, Zhou Zishu manages to get his ankle hooked behind Wen Kexing’s to kick his leg out from under him. Paired with a shove of the hand he has bunched up in the front of Wen Kexing’s robes, it’s a perfect move to unbalance him and send the pair of them tumbling to the hard ground.

Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother feeling guilty for cushioning his own fall with Wen Kexing’s body, he just sets about continuing what they’d started with a sort of hunger that startles even him, but that Wen Kexing seems to take in stride. He had started this, after all, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise that he’s prepared to see it through to the end no matter how rough it should get.

It’s a messy thing, quick and aggressive with absolutely none of the finesse they’ve managed to find together in all the times they’ve done this before. By the time they’ve finished, Wen Kexing’s bared torso is a mess of blood and come - from both of them. Zhou Zishu brushes the back of his hand against the swollen curve of his bottom lip without any regard for the flare of aching, burning pain he finds there where Wen Kexing has bitten him bloody.

“You got hard,” Wen Kexing finally mumbles through bright red lips. Zhou Zishu can see that his teeth are pink as he speaks and he wonders if it should worry him that that feels right. What he had actually said filters through the haze a moment after and he huffs a humorless laugh as he shakes his head a bit and leans back on his heels where he’s straddling Wen Kexing. The motion grinds his ass down against his softening cock and Wen Kexing hisses a little, shuffles his feet like he’s going to try to get away though he settles again after a moment, allowing the overstimulating pressure.

“Philanthropist Wen so kindly traded his life so that I could have all my senses restored,” Zhou Zishu retorts as he crosses his arms over his chest and grinds himself down more purposefully into Wen Kexing’s lap until the man’s back arches and his hands fly down to grip his hips tight enough to bruise there too.

“A fair trade,” Wen Kexing mumbles, still staring at him in bleary wonder. Well, not at him. At his cock, which hasn’t even managed to go entirely soft. How can it, when he can finally feel Wen Kexing’s hands on him properly? When every place their bodies are touching feels like the spark of a struck match?

“And if I hadn’t found a way to pass the qi back to you such a ‘gift’ would be absolutely wasted on me living here alone!”

“You’re still angry after that?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t even deign to respond to that with words, rather he just grinds his hips again and Wen Kexing chokes on some sort of wounded noise that ends with a whimper. His teeth are no longer bloody though he certainly looks worse for wear, his lips still red even where Zhou Zishu hadn’t split his bottom lip straight down the middle with a particularly vicious bite. There are bruises already blooming dark and possessive all over his chest and shoulders, the imprints of Zhou Zishu’s teeth stark on the pale canvas of his skin. His silver hair is a tangled mess underneath him, his robes equally dishevelled where they had been shoved aside to give Zhou Zishu room to work. As he watches, Wen Kexing releases his hip to drag one elegant hand up his own stomach, his long fingers smearing through the mix of blood and spend to swirl them together before he continues his dragging touch. He smears the mix up his own chest and then pops his fingers in his mouth as he looks up again to meet Zhou Zishu’s gaze.

“In that case, you can have me like that again, if you’d like,” Wen Kexing mumbles as he withdraws his fingers, seemingly uncaring of the mess he’s making of himself as he reaches down to scoop more of their come onto his fingers. Zhou Zishu reaches out to stop him with a hand tight around his wrist.

“Hurting you isn’t going to make me less angry about what you did.”

“Nor I, but it’s nice to get the energy out anyway.”

Zhou Zishu licks at a trickle of blood he can feel beginning to weep from his own split lip and Wen Kexing tracks the movement as if mesmerized by the briefest glimpse of his tongue. Zhou Zishu releases his wrist then and he expects Wen Kexing to return to his task of licking his fingers clean, but instead he drops his hand down again, this time to press his whole palm to the mess on his abs. Before Zhou Zishu can wonder what his fascination with it is, Wen Kexing is wrapping his slicked hand around his cock - and he goes properly hard again so quickly his head spins.

“Oh,” Wen Kexing says softly, eyes wide, as he strokes him just once and Zhou Zishu can’t help but shudder with a punched out little noise that he’s too late to stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward until he can rest his weight on one hand pressed to the floor next to Wen Kexing’s shoulder, his lips parted as he suddenly struggles to catch his breath. “Oh Ah-Xu, our first time when you can feel me properly shouldn’t have hurt you so much.”

“It’s only fitting that it should be too much,” Zhou Zishu manages to grind out. He opens his eyes to find Wen Kexing looking anxiously back and forth between them, his eyebrows drawn up in open concern, so different from the furious hunger of just a few minutes ago. “Too much - and not enough. Try again.”

“Mn?”

“Hurt me again.”

“Ah-Xu -”

Zhou Zishu catches Wen Kexing’s chin in his free hand, harsh and unforgiving. “Again, Lao Wen. You think I’ve been waiting for you to wake up all this time just for you to be afraid to touch me? Make me forget what it was like to feel you dead in my arms.”

That seems to do the trick. Wen Kexing’s eyes flash and Zhou Zishu isn’t even startled to find their positions reversed; the only concession for the stone floor that Wen Kexing gives him is a hand behind his head to keep him from hitting it too hard as he’s thrown down on his back - other than that he’s just as harsh as he was before. They’re already ragged and bloodied, it doesn’t take nearly as much effort the second time for Zhou Zishu to lose himself in the ache of Wen Kexing pressing on his new bruises, biting even fresher ones next to them.

He gasps and exhales a moan that echoes off the stone around them as Wen Kexing bites his neck hard enough to draw blood there too at the same moment he slides two spit- and come-slick fingers inside his body with absolutely no mercy. It hurts, but his Lao Wen and so he doesn’t complain. He’ll never complain as long as it’s Wen Kexing who’s the one bearing down on him, pressing into him, working him as expertly as ever even though so much internal attention isn’t necessary now that he can finally get hard again. It doesn’t seem to matter what he needs or doesn't - his entire being belongs to the man on top of him and he knows that Wen Kexing enjoys reminding him of that.

The only reason the second round lasts anywhere close to the same length of time as the first is because this time Wen Kexing forces him to wait every time he trembles close to the edge of orgasm, until by the time he finally allows it Zhou Zishu is so overstimulated it hurts as much as it pleasures.

“Enough,” Wen Kexing pants when he’s finished and they’re now both sporting the same messes on their chests. “Enough Ah-Xu, no more angry sex tonight. Alright?”

“Fine,” Zhou Zishu pants as he stares unseeingly up at the ceiling. “Tomorrow, then.”

“No.” Zhou Zishu closes his eyes as Wen Kexing starts stroking his cheek with his hand that’s still relatively clean, but he frowns when he feels the now-familiar sensation of shared qi flood through his meridians.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ll heal faster if we share it.”

Zhou Zishu darts his hand up to grab Wen Kexing’s wrist to force his hand away from his face and he opens his eyes with an effort to meet Wen Kexing’s confused gaze.

“Leave it.”

“Ah-Xu?”

“Penance.”

Wen Kexing blinks at him for a long moment and then the last of the fight truly drains out of him as he hangs his head, his hair sliding over one shoulder to hang between them and the rest of the room. In the moonlight backlighting it it almost seems to glow and Zhou Zishu’s breath hitches in his chest as he looks at it, this reminder of how much Wen Kexing had tried to give up. For him. He had never asked so many people to want to die for him. All he had ever wanted was the people he cared about to live, why were they all so determined to leave him behind anyway?

“Come back to bed,” Wen Kexing says and Zhou Zishu can hear the tears thick in his voice though he can’t see his face. “Please.”

Maneuvering up off the floor and righting their robes at least enough to make the chilly walk more bearable takes a surprisingly long time, but thankfully Wen Kexing had kept track of where he was going as he had followed Zhou Zishu through the armory and so he just has to follow behind him as they return quickly enough to their ‘bedroom’, for lack of anything better to call it. As they walk, his own anger ebbs back out of him, as it always does, to be replaced with a soul-deep grief. His anger is really only a poor cover for that lurking sorrow anyway, and it consumes too much energy to maintain the front for too long. By the time Wen Kexing is helping him out of his outer robes and nudging him in the direction of their bed he feels so weighed down by the ghosts of his mistakes that all he can do is obey and sit heavily on the edge of it.

“ ‘Penance’,” Wen Kexing muses with dark humor as he returns Zhou Zishu’s robes to their spot and begins to strip out of his own. “Are we not already paying penance having to spend the rest of our lives in the cold? Away from Chengling and Four Seasons Manor? It’s a price I’m willing to pay a thousand times over in order to live this life with you, but it is still a sacrifice. Don’t you think that’s penance enough?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t even bother looking up from his hands between his knees as Wen Kexing talks to him, only raising his eyes with a sharp inhale through his nose when the other man comes to kneel in front of him, though he can still only stand to look around the vicinity of his chin.

“Ah-Xu. What are you punishing yourself for?”

“You have to ask?”

“I do. We’ve already forgiven each other for the lies we told, you don’t fool me. What are you really angry about?”

“I’m not trying to fool you, I am angry that you lied to me.”

“And you have lied to me. We’re even as far as I’m concerned, and I think it would be useless to keep score from here on out. What are petty disagreements to immortal lovers, hm?”

Zhou Zishu finally lifts his gaze the rest of the way with an effort to look Wen Kexing in the eyes. They still manage to shine somehow even in the dim light of the candles guttering in the corners of the room, and Zhou Zishu can’t quite resist reaching out to hold his face with both hands. Hands that can now feel how soft his skin is, how warm. He strokes his thumb slowly along the plush curve of his bitten bottom lip and the softness of it, the easy give of it beneath his touch, have him aching to bite him again. Again and again and again until he no longer feels quite so hungry for him, so desperate.

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing murmurs seemingly for no reason other than to call for him. Zhou Zishu lets his thumb move with his lips as he does so, the drag of the warm, damp skin against his fingertip a concrete reminder that he hasn’t lost Wen Kexing. He’s here, alive and breathing and determined to live for the rest of their forever at his side.

“I want to stop seeing you dead,” he confesses, much less angrily this time than the first as he allows his grief and fear to take their rightful place at center stage. “I want to but I can’t. You were so cold, Lao Wen, the first thing I felt was you so cold-“

Wen Kexing’s brows knit together as he turns his head just enough to press ardent kisses to his palm, his long fingers curling around Zhou Zishu’s wrist to hold his hand still for it.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes and Zhou Zishu’s breath hitches in his throat. “I’m sorry, Ah-Xu.”

Zhou Zishu coaxes Wen Kexing into turning his head forward again with a press of his palm to his cheek only to meet him more than halfway in a kiss that’s messy and clumsy and perfect in every way he needs it to be. Wen Kexing surges up to deepen it, to loom over him and then press him back insistently with his whole body as he climbs onto the bed first to straddle him and then to lay him down, kissing kissing kissing all the while.

Even in what Zhou Zishu has come to think of as his ‘first’ life - his life before Wen Kexing - he doesn’t think anyone’s touch ever affected him as much as Wen Kexing’s does now. His hands, though they’re cool simply by virtue of where they live, feel like branding irons as they skim down his chest and arms, dragging his dishevelled sleeping robe off in their wake. He shivers in the chill of the cave as the cold air meets his flushed skin and even that, somehow, adds to the overwhelming flood of sensations from Wen Kexing’s hands alone.

“I’ll make you forget it all,” Wen Kexing promises as he drags those burning hands up to grip the sides of his neck, press his thumbs under his jaw to coax him into tipping his head back so he can kiss the bruises he’d left. “I’ll make you forget everything but me right here with you like this. Alright?”

“Alright,” Zhou Zishu breathes, at a loss for anything else to say. Why shouldn’t he agree? It’s impossible for him to forget it all but he’d like to try, and Wen Kexing has made so many impossible things happen already. Maybe this one is in his power as well.

He lets himself get lost in the way each kiss and caress feels brand new, and so quickly it could almost be embarrassing he feels his cock growing stiff again, his entire body reacting to each brush of fingertips or soft hair or lips against his skin like it’s the first time he’s ever felt such a thing. It’s the first time he’s ever properly felt Wen Kexing, at least, and he can’t help but think that that’s good enough; his first time feeling his zhiji’s touch the way it’s meant to be felt. If this is what he’s felt every time Zhou Zishu touches him then it’s no wonder Wen Kexing has so often begged and coaxed him to go just once more, to kiss for just a little longer, not to separate yet if they don’t have to. Not that Zhou Zishu hadn’t understood the desire to be close before, of course he has, but this really elevates things to a new height he had been incapable of even imagining.

Zhou Zishu sees stars the moment Wen Kexing leans in to take him into his mouth. He doesn’t come but it’s an extremely close thing, and there’s no stopping himself from whimpering and shifting restlessly as he tries to chase the pleasure Wen Kexing is offering him. He’s stopped by Wen Kexing’s wide hands heavy on his hips pressing him down into the bed and keeping him still so he can focus on working himself down the length of him painfully slowly. There have been times, usually in the afterglow of particularly good orgasms, when Wen Kexing has told him that if he could use all his best tricks then Zhou Zishu wouldn’t stand a chance against him, and Zhou Zishu has always scoffed, never believed such assertions could be anything but empty bragging. He should really know by now that Wen Kexing doesn’t brag without reason - if he says he can kill someone then he will. If he claims he can exact a fitting revenge against the world that wronged him, then he will. And now Zhou Zishu knows intimately that when Wen Kexing has said that he knows precisely how he wants to rip Zhou Zishu apart, he has meant every word.

He feels like he’s being slowly flayed apart, seen and known at every level of his being solely so that Wen Kexing can understand best how to destroy all of his defenses. Not that he should be surprised, of course - this is hardly the first time Zhou Zishu had thought he was fine only to suddenly find that his walls have been smashed to rubble and Wen Kexing is standing too close to him in the aftermath of it, smirking at him and leaning in to say something filthy in his ear to make him blush and snap at him even as he tries to pull him closer.

Zhou Zishu comes for the third time that night with his hands in Wen Kexing’s hair and his legs wrapped haphazardly around his ribcage, head thrown back and throat tight around a strangled moan that ends on something that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

Wen Kexing gives him absolutely no time to recover. He keeps his mouth on him until it turns genuinely unbearable and then he’s back, kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t taste every inch of his mouth at that very moment and slamming home inside of him between one breath and the next. Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother trying to restrain the pained noise that escapes him at the intrusion but Wen Kexing ignores it, instead just setting up a punishing rhythm that leaves Zhou Zishu no time at all to try to come down from his third orgasm before arousal builds in him again.

Wen Kexing is an absolute monster, and Zhou Zishu loves him so much it’s a physical ache in his chest. And there, at last, is the root of his anger. Wen Kexing makes him hurt so much, it’s only natural for him to want to protect himself from it, to put distance between them with frustration and bluster, to keep the unbearable ache of such consuming love from taking him over completely. It’s been necessary, until now, to maintain that distance even after they were in agreement that they were all either of them needs in this world. The fact then had been that Zhou Zishu was going to die and leave Wen Kexing behind to mourn him, a fact they had frequently done their best to ignore but at least Zhou Zishu had never managed it, and he was fairly sure Wen Kexing never had either. He’d spent so much time expressing concern for Zhou Zishu and his injuries, it stands to reason that he’d spent even more time thinking about them than talking about them, and any time the barest whisper of a possible cure had reached their ears Wen Kexing had always pounced on it like a street cat, vicious and single-minded as he’d dug in with his claws to drag out any information he possibly could.

Zhou Zishu’s fourth orgasm of the night leaves him feeling hollow and satisfied, finally, even as Wen Kexing spills inside of him, fills him up. As they share hot, too-heavy breaths in the aftermath, as Wen Kexing presses wet kisses to his lips and cheeks and jaw, as Wen Kexing settles his weight over him and slides a hand up into his hair to cradle him and hold him close, Zhou Zishu releases the anger that’s nothing but a smokescreen for the ache of loving too fiercely for his heart to contain it all.

“I love you,” he says into the intimate silence but for the rhythms of their living and breathing and the soft rustle of skin and cloth rubbing together as Wen Kexing readjusts his legs and attempts to get comfortable on top of him. “That’s what I’m angry about. I love you.”

“Reasonable,” Wen Kexing mumbles muzzily into his shoulder with a lazy kiss. “Will you elaborate or am I meant to just understand why loving me should make you so upset?”

“You expect me to believe that you don’t love me so much it somehow becomes other emotions as well just so your heart can contain it all?”

Wen Kexing is silent for a few long moments as their breathing slows in tandem, fingertips tracing slow, gentle circles around the ball of his shoulder as he turns his head a bit and shifts a few times until he’s settled even more comfortably.

“Ah..Perhaps I do understand, then,” he finally murmurs, and Zhou Zishu can hear a faint smile in his voice. “Is that what you’re seeking penance for? Loving me?”

“Maybe. Or maybe for everything else I’ve done before you. Maybe I have to pay for it to deserve being able to keep you until we get tired of this life and decide we’d like to end it.”

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing tuts and he’s definitely smiling now. “You’ve said it yourself that if a man sets aside his weapons he’ll become good. I don’t believe you need to punish yourself like this. You don’t need to find a replacement for the pain of the Nails just because you’ve survived your torment.”

Zhou Zishu’s breath catches in his chest and he tips his head enough to try to look down at Wen Kexing. One of his eyes is visible at this angle and Zhou Zishu is unsurprised to find his gaze full of a quiet understanding.

“That’s...hm. Alright. I suppose it’s useless to argue that, I’m sure you already know exactly how to win against me.”

“Of course I do,” Wen Kexing replies with a tired chuckle. “But there’s also no point in arguing it simply because I’m right, and as I said before - what use is there in keeping score? Time and debts and the measure of good and evil are nothing to us anymore. We’ll do as much good as we can from here, and when we’re ready we’ll re-enter the world and continue to do good there until we die together. The past doesn’t concern us anymore.”

Zhou Zishu hums softly and finally finds the energy to raise one hand to begin combing his fingers through the snarled mess of Wen Kexing’s hair, keeping his touch light even when he encounters snags and knots. Wen Kexing melts into him as he works and when he starts breathing deeply, the rhythm regular, Zhou Zishu doesn’t bother resisting the desire to turn his head and press a long, slow kiss to his forehead. He lifts his free hand to curl his fingers around Wen Kexing’s wrist and, as has become a habit that’s as natural as breathing, he lets their energy circulate together, fitting himself easily into the familiar paths of his love’s qi and speeding up the healing process as much as he can, for both of their sakes, as the love of his life sleeps comfortably in his arms.

[wutheringmights]

Call Them Brothers - Chpt 6 Preview

Since it’s taking me way longer than I thought to write the next chapter, here’s a preview of what’s to come! (Be warned that this is lightly edited only, which means there may be some typos and awkward phrasing).

--Chapter 6 Preview--

“Embarrassing is what it is.” The general paced the central tent, hands thrown around in large gestures. “We have not one, but two holders of the Hero’s Spirit on our side—and what does Hyrule have to show for it? We are cornered in Hyrule Field. We have lost thousands of men, and for what? A scant fifty-mile radius that we have not fully reconquered. You—” Here, he returned to the table, just long enough to smack his palms on it. The bang was loud, shaking the glasses set over unrolled maps, yet Link refused to flinch. He kept his shoulders squared and his face carefully neutral. He stood before the table, too low-ranking to earn a seat. Behind his back, his hands shook. “—should be ashamed to even call yourself a hero of Hyrule.”

“I ask that you reframe from slander, General Balder,” Impa said, red eyes turning sharp. “Our aim today is to determine the best course of action for our kingdom—not assign blame.”

A cough—another general, this one younger and green around the gills. If Link remembered correctly, he inherited his position from his father. “At the very least, the display you both put on the other day was an insult to the title of hero,” he said.

“Captain Walton was pivotal in ensuring our victory against the enemy,” Impa said.

“We still lost the northern front.”

“The burden of that blame does not fall onto him.”

The young general raised his hands. “I’m only stating my opinion. Am I not allowed to voice my thoughts, General Impa?”

Link could see the covert snarl on Impa’s mouth, but before she could explode, Zelda raised her hand. She sat calmly at the head at the table, having witnessed the argument with nothing more than the tight pressing of lips. Sweat gathered at her hairline. She turned her forced neutrality onto the rest of the tent. “Wisdom is cultivated through diverse perspectives,” she said.

Link wanted to scoff. What a pushover.

“The goddesses despise us.” General Balder lowered himself back in his seat, pensive. “Giving us an incompetent fool for a hero. And what of that other hero you keep around? He couldn’t even make it through one battle. Perhaps the goddesses want us to fail.”

Refusing to let his anger show, Link subtly looked at Zelda. She sipped her wine, refusing to make eye contact.

He fidgeted. He wanted to yell at her until she spoke in his defense. He wanted to remind her that about the roles she played in all the legends—the princess always supported the hero. Their dedication was mutual. They were supposed to be equals. Yet it was always him having to swallow the disappointment of her people.

But he did his job. He kept his face neutral, but his chin high. His body felt the echoes of a cane striking his back and shoulders until he held himself like a well-bred noble man—Impa’s regiment to take an average infantry man and turn him into a poster body of legend. “I have a series of suggestions for our next series of attacks, sir,” he said.

There was a pause—the vague hope from the older generals that this young brat would give them more of a reason to be mad. But Link held his ground, and they relented.

The army would split in three, each going in a different direction. Lana would take her men and some trusted generals southward to reclaim Faron. Impa would lead the forces west for Kakariko and Death Mountain. Zelda and Link would go north through Zora’s Domain until they reached the Gerudo Desert in the east. Link had intel on enemy movements mapped for the generals to observed. He had bore through a long series of letters with Lincoln to figure out where he should assign the Knights of Hyrule. He had calculated the costs of battle, plans for where to allocate supplies, and had written a draft for a proclamation to be sent to every village across Hyrule to reassure the people the crown had the war under control.

The generals grumbled and shot out objections to each idea, and Link politely countered them. When common sense failed to persuade, Link adjusted the finer details until it was palatable. Eventually, their hemming and hawing turned into a reluctant agreement. Zelda said a few more words of encouragement and dismissed the meeting. Just in time too—Link was ready to scratch his skin off.

“Stay, captain,” Impa ordered, rising from her seat. “I would like to exchange a few words with you.”

Link remained at attention as the generals mingled for a few minutes longer, chatting as they gathered their notes and bags. They didn’t even seem to see Link, not even when they walked by.

It wasn’t until they had left that Impa rounded the table, saying, “At ease, Link. You did some good work today.”

He loosened his shoulders, smiling when Impa clapped a hand on his shoulder. He glanced at Zelda, finding her slouched in her seat, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Sweat gleamed on her skin and, for once, it made her look sickly. Seeing her without her royal façade felt like an invasion of privacy.

“Thanks, Impa,” he said. “Now my plan just has to work.”

“It will. Despite what they say, you have never led us astray.” Impa held out a slender package wrapped in simple brown paper, tied up with string. “I got this in the mail this morning. Arrived just in time, didn’t it?”

He grinned and took the package. “Thanks. Was there any problems with the money?”

“You were short about a hundred rupees.”

“A hundred! How?”

“Inflation has already hit the kingdom. Paper’s in high demand.” Impa smirked, teasing. “I took the difference out of your paycheck.”

Link pressed his lips together. Impa had made sure his pay improved when he was promoted to captain, but a career in the royal guard did not make a man rich. Even as the hero, his salary was an insult. Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about sending money back to a loving wife and three kids. His only expense was his monthly fee to store what few of his mother’s belongings he managed to hang on to after he had to give up her tiny store in Castle Town.

“What do you have there that is causing so much trouble?” Zelda had sat up, if only to uncork another bottle of wine. Here, her royal grace had returned to the grip of her gloved hands. Link wondered if her feathery touch and lofty hands were a genetic gift passed down through the lineage of Hylia.

Link held up the package, settling back into his professional persona. “A gift for the engineer, your highness,” he said. “Today is his birthday.”

“Oh.” Zelda poured another glass of wine. “How old is he now?”

“Sixteen, your highness.”

“Not much younger than us.”

“Yes, your highness.”

She scowled at her chalice. “If you had mentioned this to me sooner, I could have given him a proper celebration worthy of a hero of Hyrule’s past.”

“I appreciate your offer, your highness. But with all due respect, he’s not one for formal events. He’s as common born as I am, so we and a few of our fellows are going to the civilian camp to celebrate. If it pleases you, we would be honored if you would join us for the festivities.”

Zelda nodded. She chewed on her lip, a hunch forming in her shoulders. She seemed shrunken, her chair gaining height. A scant ten feet stretched between them, yet she seemed like she was far away on a stage. “You honor me with your invitation,” she said at last. “But unfortunately, prior engagements have already claimed my time. Please give Link the Royal Engineer my congratulations and well wishes.” She paused, considering. “If you would be receptive, I have a friend who may attend in my stead.”

Resisting the urge to smile, Link pressed his fist to his chest in a salute. “I will welcome him with opened arms.”

She smiled, a crinkle in her eyes. They were as blue as water and reflected light just the same. Link’s chest fluttered. He felt his heart pounding against his knuckles. Her passivity always made him frustrated, but that ugly emotion always passed through him like water in a sieve.  How could it stay when she could look at him like that?

The giddy feeling carried in from the central tent. Gift tucked under his arm, he felt like dancing with every step, and he could not rip the toothy grin from his mouth even if he wanted to. He felt like a fool, but in a good way. The last time he had felt so young was when he got his first kiss back during his training days. It was a lifetime ago— he, along with Uri, Toto, and Anders, had shucked off their duties to crash a party at a nobleman’s Castle Town residence. A girl, blue blooded as they came, let him press her against a window and kiss her. He didn’t remember her face or name, but he could still taste the wine that had graced her lips before him.

Memory brought the ghost of that taste to his tongue now, intoxicating him better than any whiskey.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

Carry Me Home (A Din Djarin/Reader Fic)

Summary: Din and Reader find themselves on a jungle planet hunting a bounty, but nothing goes as planned, and secrets are shared.

***Based off this line from a previous fic in this series: "Then the mysterious bounty hunter told you his name one day when you were trying to hold his femoral artery together with nothing but bacta gel and hope."

No spoilers. Set in Season 1 between Episode 6 (The Prisoner) & Episode 7 (The Reckoning)

Pairings: Din Djarin/Reader; Din Djarin/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, gore, & violence. Brief mentions of past slavery. 

A/N: In true Star Wars fashion, I'm just writing shit out of order lol. But the idea for this fic kept bugging me, so i just had to get it out on the page. 

You don't need to read the previous fics to understand this one, though (since the others are set in s2.) I have some more ideas for out of order stories, too, so I'll most likely be continuing this series.But let me know if you'd be interested in a fic from Din's POV! I think that could be fun, but if y'all are digging Reader POV, I'll stick to that.

And in case anyone cares, the title is taken from the lyrics of Arcade by Duncan Lawrence, which I was listening to on repeat as I wrote this. 

As always, I’ve posted this piece on Ao3, but I’ll paste the text below. 

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763814

I’ll also include the links to the other two fics here: 

The Sea Like Glass Ch 1: Here

The Sea Like Glass Ch 2 (includes smut): Here

“Dank farrik!” you hissed as the wire in front of you sparked and sent a jolt of electricity through your already singed fingers. Not for the first time, you wished you could wear your gloves, but some of the pieces that needed repairing were too small to feel through the bulky material, so you could do nothing more than sacrifice your flesh for the cause.

Didn’t make it hurt less, though. You sucked the smarting tips into your mouth, glaring at the trashed circuit board in front of you, but the ruined hardware only crackled in response.

If you were back in Hanger 3-5 in Mos Eisley, you would have probably trashed the whole part and dug through Peli’s stock for a replacement, or gone down to the market and haggled for something newer, but you weren’t on Tatooine. You were smack dab in the middle of a jungle planetoid you couldn’t remember the name of, and it was up to you to get the Razor Crest running again on what you had available.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot.

You sighed as you sat back on your haunches, using the back of your wrist to swipe at the sweat trailing down your temple. The pre-Empire ship towered over you as you dug into her innards, having pried off one of the semi-melted lower side panels to access the appropriate circuits. Your thin tank top was already drenched, and the hair sticking to the back of your neck kept giving you phantom itches. You wanted nothing more than to tie it up completely, but you always felt naked when your nape was exposed. You weren’t necessarily ashamed of the scar there, or the past connected to it, since it wasn’t your fault you were born into shackles, but… still. It was a… personal story to tell, and you weren’t sure you were ready to share it with your new boss.

Well, “new” was relative. You’d been employed on the Razor Crest for several months now, but you didn’t know much more about the Mandalorian than you did when you’d first set foot onto his ship. You knew he was a bounty hunter, from a race of legendary warriors. You knew he had a partially sordid, and dangerous, past if your encounter with Ran and his crew of mercenaries was any indication. You knew the green baby was his ward, or foundling as he called it, and Mando was tasked with returning the little guy to his people. And you knew his Creed forbid him from removing his helmet.

That was about it. The Mandalorian didn’t talk much, but it didn’t particularly bother you. You’d always been a quieter person, and after years of Peli’s constant chattering, you were kind of relieved for the silence.

Most of the time, anyway.

“How’s it looking?”

You gasped in alarm, jolting yourself off balance and falling back onto your ass in the dirt.

“Maker, Mando,” you panted as you craned your neck back to stare up at the bounty hunter. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me when I’m working on electrics?”

The impervious mask of the Mandalorian stared down at you silently, blotting out the sweltering sun and providing you a modicum of relief. A moment passed, then two, and you shifted uneasily under his unblinking gaze.

“I thought you heard me approach,” he said finally, his modulated voice flat and unaffected, but he didn’t move from where he was looming over you.

“Well, I didn’t,” you grumbled as you flopped your head forward and popped your neck, stretching your legs out in the dirt.

The tight leggings you wore ended not too far past your knees, so your shins were streaked with the red soil of this planetoid. The dirt didn’t bother you, but the heat sure did. It was different than Tatooine’s dry desert. This heat was oppressive, stifling, almost cloying, and every time you took a deep breath, a small part of your brain panicked, images of drowning flashing through your mind even though you knew it was irrational. You were just grateful your clothes didn’t look a fraction as hot as the Mandalorian’s all black get-up and what had to be twenty-five kilos of armor.

“So,” the bounty hunter said after a few more moments of silence, interrupted only by the call of exotic birds in the canopy, “how are things looking?”

“Honestly?” you sighed as you pushed yourself off the ground, dusting the red dirt off your hands but not even bothering with your pants. “Not good. The bounty’s guns must have grazed us when we were still outside orbit, and entering the atmosphere certainly didn’t help matters. Some of the side paneling has been melted beyond repair, and a lot of the wiring is fried, too.”

“Can you get it flying?” Mando asked, crossing his arms over his chest and making his silhouette all the more imposing. The sun glinted off his silver beskar, and you squinted in the glare.

“Maybe.” You pursed your lips and averted your gaze, turning back to stare at the charred panels and sparking wires. Sweat trickled down your neck, and you reached back to cup your nape, feeling the bounty hunter’s eyes on you.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes.”

“You’re not paying me at all if you can’t even catch that quarry,” you snorted before your brain could catch up to your mouth.

You froze when the words finally registered, nails digging into the back of your neck. Stupid. Your mouth always did get the better of you. You used to mouth-off to your former owner until he backhanded you into silence, and now you’re starting shit with a bounty hunter you’d seen kill half a dozen men in just as many seconds.

Stupid.

You waited for Mando to say something, staring at the Razor Crest without even seeing it, and even if you didn’t really believe he’d hurt you for a simple off-handed comment, your body didn’t get the message. Muscle memory was a hard thing to forget, and every fiber in you braced for the blow.

The birds chittered in the towering blue-green canopy above your head as sweat poured from every single one of your pores, and you were just about to come out of your skin when the Mandalorian finally spoke.

“Well, to catch the quarry, I need my ship to fly,” he said, and when you chanced a glance over your shoulder, you discovered he’d somehow moved further away from you, like he took several steps back.

Was he… giving you space?

His tone was still flat, but after several months spent in close proximity with the bounty hunter, you were now able to parse out several different minor inflections in his modulated voice. You were by no means an expert, but you knew for a fact he didn’t sound angry in this moment. When he was angry, his voice took on a softer, menacing quality. The few times you’d heard it—thankfully never directed at you—every hair on your body stood on end, and the lizard part of your brain had screamed to run and not stop running until you were in a completely different star system.

This wasn’t anger. This was… something else. You almost wanted to say… amusement, but that would have been crazy.

Still, the tension bled out of your shoulders like sand through a sieve, and you dropped your arms as you turned to face the Mandalorian fully again.

“Alright, this is the best I can do,” you said. “I can get her flying again, I think I can even get her shielded enough to withstand leaving the atmosphere when we’re done here, but it’s gonna take some time.”

“How much time?” he asked.

You glanced over your shoulder again at the damage, did some calculations in your head, and added some padding to give yourself a margin for error. Then you turned back to the bounty hunter.

“At least two days,” you replied, confident in your abilities. “Anything less, and we risk blowing ourselves to the Inner Core and back when I go to start her up.”

“Hmm.” Mando stared at you for a moment and then shifted to gaze into the jungle. “The bounty will most likely be off planet by then.”

“I don’t think so,” you contradicted him, and your heart actually skipped a beat when the T of his visor turned to look at you. There was something nerve-wracking about staring into the dark, reflective glass, but then you noticed your red-streaked appearance, and you cringed self-consciously as you looked away.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because,” you started, stooping down to pick up the tablet beside your tool bag, “when I first came out here and saw the damage, I was afraid we’d end up in this situation. But then I remembered that the quarry’s ship took more damage than we did in our little space battle. I know for a fact we landed at least one solid hit, I saw it myself.”

“And?”

“Well,” you said as you tapped at the screen, “given the make and model of his vessel, and the location of where we struck the ship, I was able to deduce that we most likely damaged his engines. If his engines are damaged, then there is a maximum distance he could have gone before he would have been forced to land, or even crash landed. With all this information, plus the fact that I knew the general location of where we lost visual of him when we entered the atmosphere, I’ve estimated the quarry can’t be farther than five klicks from our current coordinates. And with his entry trajectory, he’s most likely in this triangulated area three and a half klicks to the west, which should be easily reachable on foot.”

You turned the map on the tablet to face the Mandalorian, and he stepped forward to take the device from you. His gloved fingers brushed across your singed ones, remnant electricity shooting through your veins, and you stifled a flinch as you dropped your arm.

Mando studied the map for a long moment, cocking his head and zooming in to get a better look. You shifted uneasily in the silence, scuffing the tip of your boot into the red soil, but then the bounty hunter finally looked back up at you.

“When did you have time to do this?” he asked, and he actually sounded… impressed. “You were out here for less than ten minutes after we landed.”

“It wasn’t that hard.” You shrugged as your cheeks flushed with heat, but you blamed the sweltering sun overhead and the soup-like air.

“I didn’t realize you were so good with numbers,” he said, his helmet staring directly at you.

“Numbers are easy,” you replied, shrugging again as you raised your hand to chew nervously on your nails, but you stopped yourself when you saw the crimson dirt still caked on your skin. “They don’t lie, once you understand the rules.”

“Did Peli teach you how to do this?” he inquired, and you were surprised by all these questions. Most of the time, the bounty hunter asked you one-or-two-word questions and expected one-or-two-word answers. You couldn’t figure out why this situation was any different, but you found yourself responding anyway.

“Partially,” you explained, and you wondered how you could phrase your answer to be vague but satisfactory. “She… taught me a lot of the specifics for bigger jobs like ships and larger machines, but I’ve always been good at numbers and tinkering.”

That seemed good enough. You didn’t think it was relevant that you first started tinkering because your former owner used to lock you in his shop’s basement with broken droids when you misbehaved, and putting the discarded machines back together kept you from going crazy when your punishments lasted days. You also didn’t think it relevant that when your former owner found out and realized he could profit off your skills, you fine-tuned your abilities to become indispensable. The bastard still hit you occasionally, and his other slaves weren’t treated any better, but you had to admit, him locking you in the basement all those years had saved your life. If you hadn’t cultivated the skills you had, Peli wouldn’t have bought you at auction when the bastard bit the sand, and she wouldn’t have dug out your transmitter chip and effectively freed you the moment you walked into Hanger 3-5. The tiny woman had said she needed an apprentice, not a slave, and so that was what you became. Now, you were a mechanic in your own right, and a damn good one if you did say so yourself. Mando just didn’t need to know how you’d gotten there.

The bounty hunter seemed to think the same thing, too, because he nodded once before he looked back at the tablet.

“This is good work,” he said, and something in your chest preened at his words before you squashed it down. “If these calculations are correct—”

“They are,” you interjected before you could stop yourself.

“Then I think I can set out on foot, find the quarry, and bring him back tomorrow just as you’re finishing the repairs,” Mando went on, and he glanced up at you again. “Does that time frame sound right to you?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. “Should work for me, but it could take you a little longer. I’m unfamiliar with this terrain, and there are too many other variables, like jungle beasts or indigenous species, for me to be sure.”

“The terrain won’t be a problem,” the Mandalorian said as he handed you the tablet back. “And neither will any beasts or natives.”

You cocked an eyebrow at the bounty hunter but didn’t contradict his confidence. “Alright. Then, yes, I should have the ship up and running by the time you get back. Are you leaving now?”

“Once I grab some supplies,” Mando replied before he paused and seemed to consider you. “Will you be… okay until I return?”

It was a familiar question, albeit still surprising. The Mandalorian was a stoic, usually silent warrior, literally a wall of beskar steel. You’d seen him kill men as easy as breathing, and he threw each bounty into carbonite without an ounce of remorse.

And yet, every time he had to leave the ship alone, he asked you if you would be alright until he got back. The question and concern would have made no sense… if you hadn’t seen the bounty hunter interact with his foundling. He tried to hide it, but he treated the little green baby so gently you knew there had to be a warm, beating heart beneath all that beskar. You just never expected any tenderness to be aimed at you, so it drew you up short every time.

“Yeah.” You smiled. “I’ll be fine. Besides—”

You trailed off as you felt something touch your lower leg, and when you looked down, big brown eyes set in a little green face blinked back up at you. Then little green hands lifted in your direction, and you laughed as you swooped down, picked him up, and set him on your hip.

“Besides,” you continued, still chuckling as you booped the child on the nose and left a smudge of red dirt behind, “I’ll have this little guy to keep me company. Right, kid?”

The baby cooed and reached out, his three tiny fingers settling on the bridge of your nose as he tried to boop you back. When he withdrew his hand, though, his skin was dyed black.

“Huh?” You frowned at the slick ooze on his fingers, your eyes crossing as you tried to bring his hand into focus. “What’s on your hand there, bud?”

“It’s grease,” Mando supplied.

“What?” you asked as you turned your head to the bounty hunter.

“Grease,” he repeated, and he touched the intersection on the glass T of his visor, right over where the bridge of his nose would sit. “You’ve got some just there.”

“Oh.” You blushed, your hand flying up to cover your face. Not only were you covered in dirt and sweat, but grease now, too. Typical. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you knew,” the Mandalorian said, but there was that faint undercurrent in his voice that you were sure was amusement now. “Don’t you have any rags?”

“I did,” you muttered as you tried to rub at your face with your shoulder, “but I had to throw most of them out after that oil leak we had on the moon we left about a week ago. It’s fine. I’m already a mess anyhow, and I’m just going to get dirtier as I fix up the ship.”

Mando seemed to stare at you intensely for a moment, and you had the feeling he was taking in just how filthy your clothes were. You could read nothing from his body language, though, and since he wasn’t speaking, there was nothing to infer from his voice, either. Embarrassed heat crawled up your neck, and you suddenly felt naked in your tank top and leggings. You shifted the child in your arms a little to bring him more in front of you and block more of you from view, but the effort was useless because Mando was abruptly spinning on heel and marching toward the ship’s ramp.

“I’m going to gather supplies,” he said gruffly over his shoulder. “Don’t let the kid touch any of the wires.”

And then he was gone, his cape flapping behind him as he disappeared into the bowels of the Razor Crest.

“Okay, bye,” you muttered, and you frowned after him before looking down at the kid and lowering your voice. “Your dad’s a little weird, you know that?”

The child blinked up at you and then seemed to nod his head in solemn agreement.

You laughed and kissed the top of his head even though you knew you were toeing a dangerous line here. You knew you were just the ship mechanic, the hired help, but you and the foundling had spent a lot of time together when the Mandalorian was out hunting bounties, and you couldn’t help loving the adorable baby like he was your own. He was mischievous and always looking to put things in his mouth that he shouldn’t, but something about his presence was calming, soothing. Plus, those big brown eyes were to die for. You weren’t even that surprised the kid had managed to wiggle his way under Mando’s beskar. It had only been a few months, but you knew without a shadow of a doubt that if it came down to it, you would give your life to save this child.

Which was wildly inappropriate, but you chose to ignore that fact.

“It’s just gonna be the two of us again for a bit, little man,” you told the foundling, turning back to face the Razor Crest. “But we’re gonna have some fun, yeah? Do you want to help me fix up the ship?”

The child gurgled into your ear and patted your cheek, which you took as an affirmative.

“Alright,” you laughed as you set him on a large root right next to your tool bag. You dug around until you found a tool you would need eventually, and then you handed it to the kid. “Here, hold this until I need it, okay? But don’t put it in your mouth.”

The foundling seemed to pout at that last bit, but he dutifully wrapped his three little fingers around the tool and held it firmly.

“Thank you.” You smiled. Then you turned back to the ship, put your hands on your hips, and furrowed your brow. “Now, where to start?”

You spent the next ten minutes assessing what was completely ruined, what was salvageable, and what you had on hand that wasn’t necessary and could possibly be retrofitted to fix the damage. The skeletal beginnings of a plan were already forming in your mind by the time the Mandalorian was clomping down the ramp again. You set down the tablet you’d been tapping away at and picked up the child once more, and the foundling babbled as he waved around the tool he was still holding.

“Be careful with that,” you chuckled, and you craned your head back to avoid getting smacked in the temple. “I’ll need it soon, so keep holding onto it.”

The child cooed and then shifted to wave the tool at the bounty hunter as he approached.

“Putting the kid to work now?” Mando asked as he stopped a few feet away. The crescent-shaped hilt of his favored Amban rifle jutted out over his left shoulder, and a small bag was slung over his right, probably filled with spare ammo, cuffs for the bounty, and possibly some food. You’d never personally seen the Mandalorian eat, though, and a part of you was convinced he didn’t, even if you rationally knew that wasn’t possible.

“Nah, I’m just teaching him a thing or two,” you said as you settled the foundling more soundly on your hip. “You’re never too young to learn something new, and on the plus side, being my little helper keeps him out of trouble. For the most part, anyway.”

“Thank you for watching him,” the bounty hunter said, tilting his visor down minutely to stare at the child, who grinned a gummy grin and waved the silver tool again. “I know it isn’t exactly what I hired you for—”

“I don’t mind,” you cut him off, and you glanced down to smile at the kid. “He’s pretty good company, and some of Peli’s droids have given me more trouble than he does. It’s really no problem.”

“Well, regardless,” Mando replied as his visor returned to studying you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You nodded, flushing again under his scrutiny. Then you cleared your throat and gestured at the bag on his back. “All ready?”

“Yes,” the bounty hunter said. “Days are longer here, but the sun will set eventually, and I want to try and find the quarry before moonrise. If all goes well, I should be back tomorrow before sunset.”

“Good luck, then,” you told him, and you lifted your chin with confidence. “I should have the ship ready when you return.”

“Thank you.” He inclined his helmet.

The baby suddenly burst out babbling something, and you glanced down to see him reaching out with his free hand toward the Mandalorian. His three little fingers made grabby motions, and the bounty hunter sighed.

“Listen to her while I’m gone, okay?” Mando murmured as he stepped closer into your personal bubble and held out his finger for the foundling to latch on to.

The child cooed, swinging the Mandalorian’s finger from side to side, and the breath stilled in your lungs as the bounty hunter’s glove brushed the edge of your mouth. You smelled something like leather and smoke, probably blaster residue, but then Mando was stepping back again, and the baby was forced to drop his finger.

“Keep alert,” he addressed you as he adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “We’re pretty far from any civilization out here, so I don’t think you should encounter anyone, but don’t assume you’re safe. And get inside the ship once the sun sets. The jungle will be more dangerous at night. I’ll have my comlink on me, but it’s affected by proximity, so you most likely won’t be able to contact me until I’m on my way back.”

“Don’t worry, Mando,” you said, and you patted the blaster he’d given you that was almost permanently attached to your hip. “I can defend myself if need be, and I have no desire to be caught outside after dark. We’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he replied, but you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself. Either way, he seemed to compose himself because he nodded once. “I’ll be back soon.”

“We’ll keep a weather eye on the horizon.” You smiled. “Try not to die of heat stroke.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said dryly, but after one more moment of staring at you and the foundling, he turned on heel and marched off into the jungle without another word. The multi-colored trees swallowed him almost instantly, and suddenly you were alone.

The child cooed sadly as he stared after the Mandalorian, and he turned his big brown eyes on you as if to say, Where’d he go?

“Don’t worry, bud,” you said, turning back to the ship. “He’ll be fine and back before you know it. Now, let’s take a look at those power converters, shall we?”

You set the foundling down beside your tool bag again, but you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder in the direction the bounty hunter had disappeared in.

He’ll be fine and back before you know it, you repeated silently to yourself.

~~~~~

Two days later, you were starting to doubt the validity of your statements.

The sun had set and risen twice, and there was still no sign of Mando. Now, the celestial orb was steadily making its way across the horizon for the third time, and you sat on the ramp of the ship and glared up at the chattering canopy.

The child was down for a nap in the hammock the Mandalorian had set up in his own bunk, and your eyes burned with a similar exhaustion, but the anxiety slowly mounting in you made it impossible to sleep. The past two days had passed uneventfully. You’d spent every hour of sunlight you had at your disposal patching together the ship, and since days were longer on this planetoid, you estimated you’d spent over seventy-two hours getting the Razor Crest in working order again.

And you’d done it. It wasn’t perfect, but the ship could fly, and you were ninety-eight percent certain it would withstand leaving the atmosphere.

Now, all that was missing was the Mandalorian and his bounty.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you grumbled under your breath as you dragged your singed, cut-up, and bandaged fingers through your hair. “Where the Maker are you?”

The chittering birds and critters in the underbrush didn’t have an answer for you, and you huffed out an aggravated breath as another bead of sweat dripped into your eyes.

By your estimate, there were about six hours left before the sun set again. Part of you, the illogical, irrational part, wanted to charge into the jungle in search of the Mandalorian. You had a general direction and location he should be in. Maybe you could find him.

But the rational side of your brain thankfully pointed out all the problems with that plan. For one, leaving the ship unattended was dangerous. You hadn’t seen anyone in the past two days, but that didn’t mean you were alone in the jungle, and now that the ship could fly again, someone could potentially walk right in and steal the vessel if you weren’t here to stop them.

Then there was the issue of the foundling. Sometimes, Mando took you and the kid along with him when he was hunting a bounty in a more populated area, but he was always there to protect the two of you if something went wrong. What happened if you brought the child with you into the jungle and you couldn’t protect him? And you couldn’t exactly leave him behind. Someone could steal both the child and the Razor Crest in that scenario.

The most compelling reason to stay with the ship, though, was Mando himself. Before he left, he’d confidently declared that neither the jungle itself nor the beasts or peoples therein would pose any problem for him. If he was wrong, and these things had posed a problem for the bounty hunter, what luck did you have of doing something he could not?

Anddddd that’s where the irrational side of you chimed in again with, Well, if he did run into an issue, he could need your help, so you should go look for him.

It was a vicious cycle, and your head was pounding with how fast it was running in circles.

You groaned as you dropped your face into your hands, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.

“Fine,” you sighed into the darkness. “I’ll give him until morning.”

If the Mandalorian hadn’t returned by then, you’d start up the ship and fly over the area you’d triangulated for him. If you couldn’t find him from the air… well, you’d cross that bridge when you came to it.

~~~~~

You huffed in irritation as you tossed and turned in Mando’s bunk that night. You turned one way, rolled another, but then you found yourself with your nose buried in his pillow, and you instantly flipped back over, face hot with embarrassment even though it was dark and you were practically alone. You weren’t sure if he slept with his helmet on when he was alone in the closed confines of the bunk, but either way, the small space smelled of him intensely. You tried not to put words to his scent, told yourself it was inappropriate and he was your boss, a Mandalorian to boot, and you had no room or right to think of him in any way other than strictly professional… but that apparently didn’t work because you knew he smelled like the cheap soap from the fresher, and the rest was a blend of smoke, leather, and metal, the degrees of which varied by the day and yet was still always uniquely him.

You knew you were playing a losing game even just having these thoughts, but you somehow couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t stop yourself. Ever since Mando stepped between you and Ran’s crew all those months ago, blocking you with his body, a startling, protective rage in every inch of his armored silhouette, this little voice had come to life in the back of your head and wouldn’t shut the kriff up.

What if? the little voice whispered. What if it’s not just you having these thoughts? What if you could have him in more than just your dreams and fantasies in the darkness of this bunk?

Usually, you shoved the voice into the deep, dark recesses of your thoughts and recited equations until it grew quiet. You knew that was nothing but wishful thinking at best and delusion at worst. The Mandalorian was just that: a warrior closed off from the world by a shell of silver beskar. He cared for the foundling, yes, but that was entirely different and bore no correlation to the bounty hunter’s relationship with you. There was little he could possibly want from a former slave turned mechanic, aside from your skills, of course, so you clenched your eyes closed and tried to take shallow breaths through your mouth, but nothing you did could get his scent out of your nose, your memory.

You sighed for the umpteenth time and rolled to face the wall of the bunk.

When the bounty hunter was on the ship, the two of you usually slept in shifts so you could share the bunk, though sometimes the Mandalorian slept upright in the cockpit. It had been his idea originally. You’d been fine with a thin sleeping mat on the floor of the cargo bay, but he’d insisted in his strange, stoic, nonchalant way. So, you shared, and when it was just you and the kid on the ship, the two of you had the run of the place.

The child was currently in the hammock above your head, but you were pretty sure he wasn’t asleep, either. Every so often, he’d gurgle or make some other noise, and more than once you peeked up to find big brown eyes staring down at you in the dimness. You wondered if he could sense your anxiety, and you shifted so you could glare past your feet, out of the bunk, and at the closed ramp door.

You wanted to be angry with Mando, but by the time the sun set a few hours ago, you’d moved past that anger and straight into worry. The bounty hunter had never been gone this long before without contact, and your gut told you something was wrong and wouldn’t let you sleep. You wished you could blame your insomnia completely on your concern, but sadly, that wasn’t the case.

As if on cue, a sudden, piercing shriek echoed through the ship, and all the muscles in your body locked up on reflex.

The child gasped and made a worried noise as he poked his head over the edge of his hammock and stared down at you, and you tried to plaster on a fake, reassuring smile.

“It’s alright,” you murmured, reaching up to gently rock the foundling. “The ship’s closed and locked up. They can’t get us in here.”

The baby made an unconvinced sound, but he settled back into his bed without any further argument.

You sighed as you continued to rock the child, and you did your best not to flinch when another high-pitched screech sounded outside the ship.

You weren’t entirely sure what “they” were, but you knew they were nocturnal and carnivorous. And hungry. The past two mornings, you’d found bloody animal remains torn to bits and strewn along the edges of the clearing the Razor Crest was parked in like gory, crimson confetti. You’d kept the child practically glued to your side during the days because of this, but nothing ever attacked you during the day. They just circled the ship incessantly at night, howling and screeching and keeping you from finding a moment’s peace or rest. They hadn’t outright attacked the ship yet, but you were ready for it, your borrowed blaster a cold and heavy weight tucked under your pillow.

Reaching for it now, you curled your fingers around the familiar hilt and tried to block out the crescendoing, bloodthirsty shrieks of the mysterious jungle beasts.

You didn’t know how or when, but you must have dozed off at some point because all of the sudden, you jolted awake with a panicked gasp.

The bunk was dark and close around you, but since you’d left the door open at your feet, it wasn’t claustrophobic. Your vision was still blurry with sleep, so you swiped at your eyes with the back of your left wrist as you scrambled into a seated position. In your right hand you grasped the blaster, and you pointed it blindly in front of you, toward the rear of the ship.

You couldn’t remember what had woken you up, but it had been something. Your heart pounded a frantic tattoo into the underside of your ribcage, your arm shaking minutely with adrenaline. The ramp was still closed in front of you, so it hadn’t been Mando opening the door and returning. You squinted in the darkness but couldn’t see anything beyond shadows and vague shapes in pale, muted moonlight. It must have still been night, then.

You strained your ears, listening for the howling, but it was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The jungle beasts usually didn’t go silent until right before dawn, but it was dark enough in the ship that you estimated it was still the middle of the night.

Where had they gone?

Your heart rose up into your throat, sweat beading at every one of your pores, and your mouth was so dry that your throat clicked when you swallowed.

The child made a noise of inquiry above you, barely louder than a breath, but it still made you jump all the same. Your gaze darted upward to find brown eyes staring down at you, but they were wide in an alarmed sort of way. One three-fingered hand poked over the edge of the hammock, making grabby motions at you, and the noise he made this time was more urgent, louder.

Had he heard something, too?

“What is it, little guy?” you whispered, reaching up with your free hand and awkwardly grappling him from his sling-bed.

He tumbled gently into your lap with a soft “oof,” but almost immediately he was standing up, turning around, and frantically patting at your cheek.

“What?” you asked with a frown.

He babbled and continued to tap the side of your face, and his noises grew increasingly distressed until he was grunting with frustration.

Then his tiny palm actually slapped down right across your ear canal so hard that both of your ears rang, and you hissed as you jerked your head back.

“Kriff, what was that fo—” you started to ask, but another hiss cut you off, and this one wasn’t from you.

Your heart stuttered, eyes skipping over the child’s head and out into the cargo bay, and your right hand tightened around the blaster you’d lowered to your side.

But there was nothing there. Nothing moved in the shadowy ship beyond you, and you frowned, thinking your mind was playing tricks on your startled and sleep-addled mind, but then the hiss came again.

And this time, you recognized it.

“Oh, pfassk!” you cursed as you craned around and shoved your hand under the pillow. Your fingers scrambled wildly across the sheet but encountered nothing, and you growled in aggravation, shifting the child off your lap and coming onto your hands and knees. You tossed the pillow over your shoulder in a fit of frustration, and your right hand slapped at the wall around your head until the bunk light came on.

You squinted in the flood of harsh light, the child gurgling behind you, but when your vision cleared, you spotted the thumb-sized comlink off the edge of the cot, shoved up into the far corner of the bunk. You lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around the small device, and the words were falling out of your mouth before you were even sure you had hit the button.

“Mando?” you called into the comlink, cringing when your loud voice echoed back to you in the close confines of the bunk. “Mando, can you hear me?”

Mild static crackled back for a moment as you huddled around the tiny communicator, but then a louder burst of static—the hiss from earlier—exploded to life.

And you were sure you heard Mando’s voice in there.

“Mando!” you shouted as you heart did its best imitation of a speeder, and you cupped both hands around the comlink like that would help him hear you better. “Mando, it’s me! I’m here. Can you hear me?”

Another burst of static. Then…

Mando yelled your name, clear as day, followed by a scream of what sounded like “help” and a chorus of familiar howling, and your stomach bottomed out inside of you.

“Mando!” You were gripping the communicator so hard you were afraid you were going to break it. “Mando, where are you? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond. You sat there frozen for a full minute, ears straining to the point of ringing, but only quiet static crackled back at you.

“Dank farrik!” you cursed, punching the side of your fist into the bunk wall.

The child cooed at you, brown eyes big with concern, and he put his tiny hand on your knee as you raked a shaking hand through your hair.

Your chest heaved up and down as you fought for breath, your mind spinning off into a million directions at once.

Mando was in trouble. Mando needed your help. He was fighting jungle beasts, and he was far enough away that you couldn’t hear the shrieking with your own ears, but close enough that he could partially reach you over the comlink. You had to do something. You had to go help him.

But what about the child? What about the ship? You couldn’t take the Razor Crest. It was pitch black outside, and you wouldn’t be able to see Mando below the thick, dark canopy. You had to go on foot.

And you had to take the kid with you.

“Come on,” you said as you tucked the communicator into your pocket, grabbed the foundling and blaster, and scooted to the edge of the bunk. Your boots were on the ground below you, and you shoved your feet in them blindly, tying the laces in three deft movements.

Then you were on your feet, turning on the cargo lights, and jogging the child over to his floating silver carrier. You grabbed the spare remote on top of it, pressing the button and watching the top slide open with a hiss. Then you set the foundling down inside of it, and in the same motion you were tucking the remote into your pocket, turning on heel, and striding for the armory.

Another button press, followed by the hiss of hydraulics, and you were left staring at several walls of guns and weaponry. Some of them you knew. Mando had even taught you how to shoot a few, but those were typically smaller blasters.

And based on those howling screeches, you needed something with more of a kick.

Your eyes skipped over the blaster pistols since you already had the one on your hip, and after a moment’s indecision, your gaze settled on a midsized rifle you’d shot once before. You hadn’t been very good at it, only hit four of the ten targets Mando set out, and you remember it being very heavy.

But it was better than nothing, and you needed something to fight back against the dark jungle.

So, you took the rifle down and looped it around your shoulder, pursing your lips as the strap dug into your skin. You spent a moment checking the power cell and gas canister, and even though both were full, you still stuck a few spares into a belt that you wrapped around your hips. You also added a few grenades to your arsenal, both explosive and ones set to stun, plus a pair of Mando’s vibroknives, as a last defense measure. If you were being honest, if the rifle and grenades failed you, you probably wouldn’t live long enough to use the knives, but it made you feel better to clip their sheaths unto your belt.

The rifle and belt weighed you down with an extra five to six kilos, but you had lugged far heavier burdens through Tatooine’s desert, so you knew you could handle it.

The last two things you grabbed were the head lamp you typically wore when working under or inside ships and the cuff you’d programmed to work the twin lights—along with a variety of other tasks aboard the Razor Crest—resting at each of your temples. The cuff was a haphazard creation of yours made of old leather, metal, and glass, but it worked and was comfortable, which was all that mattered. It also had a small magnetic slot that was specifically meant for the remote of the foundling’s floating carrier, so you fished that out of your pocket and felt it snap into place with a satisfying click.

You were armed and ready now. All you had to do was move.

“Mando,” you said as you stuck the comlink in your ear and synced it to your cuff, which had a built-in frequency booster. You were already moving toward the ramp, tapping at your wrist and listening to the foundling’s carrier humming after you. The rifle felt heavy as you maneuvered it into your slick palms, and your heart hammered a war song in your ears. “Mando, I’m coming for you. Just hold on, okay?”

Static crackled in your ear, and your chest began to heave up and down as adrenaline flooded through you.

“Okay, little man, you’re going to take a nap, alright?” you said as you looked down at the child in his pod, your voice shaking even though you tried to stop it. “And when you wake up, your dad will be back with us.”

He cooed up at you with a fearful expression on his face, but you only spared a moment to press a kiss to his head before you were tapping at your wrist again. The lid of the pod started to hiss close as the ramp of the ship began to clank open, and you slid your finger onto the rifle’s trigger as the door slowly lowered before you.

The ramp finally thudded to the jungle floor, and you took a moment to stare out into the foreboding darkness. The moon was pale and wan in the purple-tinted sky, and all you could see were shadows along the edges of the clearing. Your eyes darted back and forth, every muscle in your body locked and braced for an attack, but nothing happened. Nothing moved save the indigo clouds over head, and the only sound you heard was the muted chirps and hums of insects.

“Okay, come on, quit stalling,” you muttered to yourself even though your heart felt like it was about to roll off your tongue. “Mando doesn’t have time for this.”

At the sound of his name—or at least, the only name you had ever known the bounty hunter by—some of the fear inside you vanished, and you were suddenly jogging down the ramp without further thought. The child’s carrier trailed after you quietly, and you jabbed at your wrist to close and lock up the Razor Crest.

You spared half a glance over your shoulder to make sure the ramp was secured, and then you looked down at your cuff. Mando’s comlink had a built in GPS transmitter, but its range was limited. However, if he was close enough to briefly contact you…

A dot flickered in and out on the grungy screen on your wrist, and you spun in a circle to figure out which direction had the strongest connection. The dot flared brightly when you angled toward the west, and you started running before you even had a plan.

You crashed through the underbrush with the child’s pod hot on your heels, and the thick, humid air sawed in and out of your heaving lungs as you gasped for breath. The lights at your temples provided enough illumination to see several steps ahead of you but not much else, and you tripped and careened over root and vine as you tried not to lose your grip on the rifle.

The good news was the dot on your read-out was no longer flickering, and it was now a strong red point about a kilometer ahead of you.

The bad news?

The jungle was no longer quiet around you.

As your feet pounded into the red soil and carried you forward, static crackled loudly in your ear, and the howling returned, faint at first but growing closer. Shivers wracked your sweat-slicked spine, and every fiber of your being was screaming to run the other way.

But you couldn’t. Because now you could hear Mando grunting and shouting over the comlink, clearer and clearer with each step, and as you vaulted over a protruding root in your path, you distinctly heard a roar of rage directly ahead of you.

You would have shouted his name if there was any breath left in your lungs, but instead you just lowered your head and sprinted as fast as you could.

The howling was nearly deafening now, echoing all around you, seeming to come from every shadow in the jungle. Your ears rang with the soul-piercing shrieks, and the cacophony was so disorienting, you tripped over your own feet and crashed into the dirt.

“Kriff!” you gasped, your knees and palms stinging as you skidded to a halt. Dots danced in front of your eyes as you panted harshly, and the rifle knocked painfully against your sternum.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the child’s pod come to a stop several feet away, the silver orb glinting in the pale moonlight barely filtering through the canopy.

Then you saw something else shift in the shadows behind the floating carrier.

At first, you thought it was your swimming vision, but then the weak lights of your headlamp reflected off several glinting eyes, and the breath stalled in your lungs.

A guttural, wet growl echoed out of the bushes beyond the foundling’s pod, and in the next instant the beast was lunging forward, vaulting over the carrier in one bound.

You yelped as you scrambled backward, fumbling for the rifle’s trigger, and you got the barrel up just in time to block a bifurcated jaw of gnashing fangs. The beast let out a piercing shriek as it snapped at your face, and the familiar sound nearly popped your eardrum at this proximity, but the pain barely even registered as you wedged your legs up under the creature’s chest and heaved it off you.

The beast let out a high-pitched yip as it smacked into a tree trunk, but you didn’t give it the chance to regain its feet. In one swift movement, you brought the rifle up, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The blaster must have been set on full-auto because a continuous stream of energy screamed out of the weapon, and the barrel jerked upward with the recoil. Bolts of energy shredded through the vines and branches overhead, and some kind of bat-bird creature screeched as it dove out of the canopy and swooped over you. It thankfully wasn’t trying to attack, merely flee, and the avian-beast cawed angrily as it disappeared into the jungle.

“P-Pfassk,” you panted, your voice as jittery as your racing pulse. Still, you scrambled to your feet, with the smoking rifle held tight in your shaking grasp, and you stared wide-eyed at the corpse of the beast that had attacked you.

The thing was almost two meters long, and six disjointed looking limbs jutted out from underneath it. Your would-be-killer looked vaguely canine yet also insect-like, with its long snout and what looked like scaled plates along its spine. The combination made your stomach churn. The blaster had carved smoldering holes into most of the creature’s flesh, but the uncharred remains were blackish-purple, mottled with spots of blue and green that matched the jungle’s underbrush. The beast was entirely hairless and slick-looking like an oil spill, and its bifurcated maw hung open to reveal rows of rotted black fangs. Two pairs of pale white eyes stared blindly up at the dark sky, and purplish blood seeped out around the carcass to stain the jungle floor.

Bile rose in your throat, but before you could even process your fear, terror, and revulsion, a very human sounding scream echoed through the dark night, and you whipped your head in the direction it had come from.

“Mando,” you breathed, and you spared the dead beast one last glance before you took off running again, every sense on high alert.

You didn’t dare blink as you crashed through the underbrush, and you pushed your aching limbs as fast as they would go. The din of snarling and howling was so loud now it was rattling your teeth, and all of the sudden you were stumbling out of the thick tree line and into a small clearing.

A clearing riddled with bodies, both living and dead.

Your brain stuttered as it tried to assess the scene before you. The canopy overhead was broken in a perfect circle, so the moonlight here was strong and bright after the deep shadows of the jungle, and it illuminated everything perfectly. The Mandalorian stood in the center of the carnage, half collapsed against a rotten log twice as tall as he was. Carcasses of the canine-like beasts were piled up in mounds around the clearing, some shot but some charred into blackened skeletons, and the stench of burnt flesh invaded your nose and sat heavy on the back of your tongue.

For every dead beast, though, there were two more still snarling, and boy, were they pissed.

The pack of creatures prowled in a semi-circle before the bounty hunter, all their attention centered on him, and they growled and snapped their bifurcated jaws in his direction. They didn’t seem to want to attack him head on, and a moment later you saw why.

One of the beasts must have reached its breaking point, because with the same piercing shriek that had kept you up the past two nights, it lunged for the Mandalorian, the moonlight glinting off the armored plates along its spine.

The poor bastard never made it.

While the creature was still in mid-air, Mando jerked his wrist up, and a blast of flames roared out of his vambrace. The beast screeched as it was swallowed by the inferno, and its charred corpse crashed to the ground at Mando’s feet a moment later. The remainder of the pack snarled in fury as they paced in front of the bounty hunter, but you felt your throat tighten with fear.

The flamethrower was obviously a great weapon at repelling these creatures, but judging by the radius on that last spurt of fire, you estimated Mando had enough fuel for one, maybe two more attacks.

And there were dozens of the beasts left.

What were you going to do?

You heaved for breath as your eyes darted around the clearing, trying to look for a solution, but you knew the answer was obvious: you were going to have to fight.

You blindly tapped at your wrist, and a moment later the child’s carrier rose up above your head and nestled against the lowest branch of the tree you were standing under. You didn’t know if the beasts could climb, but the pod was made of a strong, reinforced metal, so as long as the creatures didn’t notice the kid, he should be fine.

The same couldn’t be said for you.

Maker, you were going to regret this, weren’t you?

You didn’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

“Hey!” you shouted as you stepped further into the clearing, one of your hands dropping to the belt on your waist.

The chorus of snarls and growls tapered off for a moment as the pack whipped around in unison to face you, and the saliva evaporated in your mouth as you stared at the dozens of glowing white eyes.

At the sound of your voice, you could see Mando jerk upright in your peripherals, but you didn’t dare tear your eyes off the pack as they started to stalk toward you. Sweat dripped down your face and trickled along your spine as you palmed a cold, heavy orb in your right hand, and you watched the distance between you and the creatures shrink bit by bit.

Mando shouted your name, but you ignored him.

“Yeah, that’s right!” you yelled at the beasts instead. “You guys hungry? Why don’t you come and get me?”

“What are you doing?” Mando roared, but you still didn’t pay him any mind as you tracked the pack. There were maybe three dozen left alive, and they bared their black fangs at you as they drew closer and closer.

Twenty meters… fifteen… ten…

Now.

“Take this!” You heaved your arm back, aimed at the beast in the center of the pack’s line, and threw with all your might, and the creature yelped as the stun grenade struck him in the skull.

A moment later, a web of electricity exploded out of the orb and arced through half of the pack, and the poor bastards screeched and screamed as they fell spasming to the jungle floor. The beasts on the edges snarled as they jumped away from their sparking brethren, and you saw some of the canine-monsters retreat into the shadows of the clearing.

This was your chance.

You darted forward the moment you had a clear path to take, and you vaulted over the pack’s twitching bodies in three swift strides. When you landed on the other side of them, you spun around and faced the fallen creatures as they whined and spasmed on the ground. Then you lifted your rifle, aimed haphazardly, and pulled the trigger. You swept the barrel from side to side for a moment, energy bolts tearing and searing through flesh, but then you whirled back around and sprinted toward the Mandalorian’s prone form.

He was propped up against the log with his legs splayed out in front of him, and you inhaled sharply when you saw the dark stain of blood on the ground beneath his right thigh. His Amban rifle lay beside him, but since he wasn’t using it, you assumed he was out of ammo. The bounty hunter listed heavily onto what you first thought was a rock of some kind, but as you skidded to a stop in front of him, you realized the lump was the body of another humanoid, except it didn’t look to be breathing.

“Mando!” you gasped as you crouched down in front of him. “Maker, w-what happened—”

“What are you doing here?” he cut you off with a snarl, and the absolute rage in his voice drew you up short.

You gaped at his visor, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “W-What… you called—”

“I didn’t call you, he did, right before they tore out his throat,” Mando growled and shoved the prone form beside him.

The body flopped over with a thud, and you stifled a gag when you realized the poor bastard had been eviscerated. He was torn open from gut to gullet, intestines and innards gleaming wetly in the dark, and his bulging black eyes stared up unseeingly at the moon.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you breathed in horror. “What happened?”

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet up to look at you, but then his gaze seemed to shift over your shoulder, and he was suddenly latching onto your wrist with an iron grip and tugging you forward.

“Watch out!” he shouted as you tripped over his legs and landed on the other side of him, and a moment later you heard and felt the roar of flames at your back as another beast met a smoldering end.

You scrambled up onto your knees and whirled around, rifle held at the ready, but there were only the two new dead creatures sprawled at Mando’s feet. Their corpses smoked as their blackened flesh crackled, and this time you weren’t successful in stifling your gag. You dry-heaved off to the side, tears blurring your vision, but when the chorus of bone-chilling howls started up again, you blinked away the tears and clenched your rifle in a white-knuckled grip.

“We gotta get out of here,” you panted, your eyes darting from place to place as you tried to track the beasts slithering through the shadows.

“Can’t,” Mando grunted, and all of the sudden, you realized his voice sounded off, slurred.

You whipped back around to face the bounty hunter, and your gaze immediately fell to the dark stain under his leg. It had grown since you’d first seen it, and then you realized a haphazard tourniquet was lashed around the top of his leg, right above the metal plate that covered the front of his thigh.

“You’re hurt,” you breathed. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Mando’s head jerked up and down in an unsteady nod. “Just… happened. One of them got me… when I was trying to save the bounty. Pretty sure they nicked my femoral.”

His words were softer and definitely slurred now, and panic rose up in your throat like a burning coal.

“Then we need to get back to the Razor Crest now,” you said as you reached for his shoulders, but the Mandalorian sluggishly shoved you away.

“I’ll… only slow you down,” he grunted. “The bounty and I… are easy meals. The pack should stay to finish us off while you make a break for the sh—”

“No,” you cut him off, and the snarl in your voice surprised even you. “No, Mando. I’m not leaving you to die. We’re only a kilometer away from the Razor Crest. I have extra power cells and grenades. We can make it.”

Mando’s head thunked back against the log he leaned on as he stared up at you, and even if you couldn’t see the face underneath the visor, you could see the resignation in every inch of him.

And it ignited a fury in you unlike anything you had ever known.

“So, what?” you growled, bending down to bare your teeth in his face. “You’re just gonna sit here and die? What about the kid? You just gonna abandon him?”

You’re just going to abandon me? you didn’t say, but the words rattled against the backs of your clenched teeth.

“He’ll… have you,” Mando said, and suddenly his gloved hand reached up as if to touch your face, but he didn’t seem to have the strength, and the tip of his index finger barely grazed the edge of your jaw. His touch left behind a warm streak on your skin, and you didn’t have to look to know it was blood.

“That’s not good enough,” you snarled before you stooped down and grabbed the ends of his makeshift tourniquet, yanking tightly on both ends until Mando groaned in pain and latched onto your shoulders.

He murmured your name, his modulator crackling in your ear, but you ignored him as you looped his spent Amban rifle over his shoulder and shifted to slide your left arm behind his back, throwing his right arm over your shoulders. You took two deep breaths to brace yourself, and then you dug your fingers into his waist as you tried to leverage the both of you onto your feet.

It was nearly impossible. The Mandalorian had to weigh nearly ninety kilos in his beskar, and with the added weight of the weapons and grenades you carried, you could feel the muscles in your legs, core, and back scream at the strain.

“Dank… farrik,” you hissed out between clenched teeth, but you managed to get the two of you upright, even if Mando was practically limp against you. Still, you had to leverage your back against the log behind you to keep from collapsing.

“We’ll never make it… back to the ship like this,” Mando panted, his cold helmet brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Shut up,” you gritted out, listening to the howling beasts closing in again like they could sense your weakness. “I refuse to leave you behind. So, unless you want to kill us both, you need to get your ass in gear, Mando. I can keep them off our backs as we go, but you need to walk with me. Understand?”

“Cyare,” he slurred, and the unfamiliar word sounded pained as his helmet thunked into your temple. “I… don’t want you to die.”

“Then walk,” you grunted as you tightened your grip on his waist and lurched forward a step.

Mando staggered behind you, half draped over your back, but you widened your stance and refused to go down.

“Please… Mando,” you panted, shoving the barrel of your rifle into the loamy red soil to act as a crutch. “Help me save us. Just… just put one foot in front of the other.”

“Wait,” the Mandalorian said, and he actually lifted his head off your shoulder. “The bounty…”

“The bounty’s dead,” you grunted as your eyes darted to the trees again. You could see the sinuous shapes of the pack weaving between the towering trunks, but they kept their distance for the moment. They’d lost more than half of their numbers by your estimate, and you prayed to the Maker they would just give up, but you knew that would be way too convenient for your life.

“The puck… said dead or alive,” Mando sighed, his arm weighing down on the nape of your neck like a yoke, and it reminded you of the slave’s collar you once wore.

“I can’t carry both of you back, Mando,” you growled in frustration. “I can barely drag you.”

“Don’t need the whole body,” he clarified. “Just… the head. It’s… a big bounty.”

You groaned as you glanced down at the quarry’s corpse, and then you tilted your head back to try and look at Mando.

“Can you stand by yourself for a minute?” you asked.

“Maybe,” Mando grunted, but he shifted his weight off you bit by bit and leaned up against the tall log at your backs. His boots slid a few inches in the blood-soaked dirt as he almost collapsed, but he dug his gloved fingers into the rigid bark and stood there shaking.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes,” you parroted his words from days ago back at him in an attempt to take his mind off the pain, and it seemed to work because he actually huffed out a strained-sounding chuckle.

“Hurry,” he panted, and you nodded as you quickly stepped away from him, stood over the bounty’s corpse, and shoved the barrel of your rifle between his shoulder and neck.

It was so dark, and you were running on so much adrenaline you couldn’t even be sure of what species the man used to be, but you pushed the thought away as you took a deep breath and held down the trigger.

The rifle screeched as it tore through flesh like a hot knife through butter, and you tried to ignore the feeling of lukewarm blood splattering across your lower legs. Moments later, the jittery, rapid-fire motions of the gun ceased, and the bounty’s head rolled away from the smoldering stump of his neck.

Bile rose up in your throat again, but you swallowed it down as you picked up the decapitated head and started punching buttons on your cuff.

Instantly, you heard the familiar hum of the child’s pod drone closer and closer, and behind you Mando inhaled sharply as the jungle dogs yipped in curiosity from the shadows.

“You brought the kid?” he growled.

“Well, it wasn’t like you left me much kriffing choice, but you can fire me later for child endangerment,” you snapped as the carrier floated down to stop in front of you. Then you turned to the Mandalorian and held out your bloodied hand. “I need your fibercord whip. Eject it.”

Mando didn’t even question you, he just did as he was bid. Within moments, you had the thin but strong wire wound up in your palm, and then you started the gory process of wrapping it securely around the bounty’s bloody head. Your stomach churned at the slick warm goo covering your skin, but you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth as you tapped at your wrist again.

The child’s pod opened with a hiss, and you made sure to lower the decapitated head so it was below the carrier and out of the foundling’s line of sight.

“Hey there, bud,” you said as you leaned down and tucked the end of the fibercord into the interior of the pod near the hinges. “Look who I found.”

The foundling cooed and gurgled happily when he caught sight of the Mandalorian, and he lifted his arms and made grabby motions at the bounty hunter.

“Not yet,” you said as you stepped forward and blocked Mando from view. “First, we need to get back to the ship, so I need to close you up again. Don’t worry about anything you hear, though, okay? I promise we’ll be fine.”

The child murmured a soft sound as you bent down and kissed his wrinkled brow, but then you tapped at your wrist, and the pod closed with another hiss, locking the wire with the dangling head in place. You keyed in a few more commands, and the carrier rose up high above you, hovering at least six meters off the ground. Blood dripped from the severed stump of the quarry’s neck as it dangled from the pod, and you flinched when a speck of it landed on your cheek. It might be disgusting, but this way, the child and the remainder of the bounty would hopefully be out of reach of any of the beasts, and you could focus all your energy on getting you and Mando back to the Razor Crest.

“Alright.” You tore your gaze away from the silver pod and shifted your grasp on the rifle, wedging the stock against your right shoulder as tight as you could. You knew your aim would be abysmal since you were going have to shoot one handed while dragging Mando, but you hoped the full-auto setting would grant you some leeway. “Let’s go.”

“You really should—” the Mandalorian started, but you clicked your tongue to cut him off.

“That wasn’t a request,” you said as you sidled up against the bounty hunter and double checked that his tourniquet was secure.

“Fine.” He reluctantly draped his right arm over your shoulder, and you wrapped your left one around his waist. Then the two of you pushed off the log at your backs, and you staggered forward several steps, trying not to trip on any dead jungle dogs.

Mando’s cold beskar felt like it was burning you wherever it brushed against your bare, hot flesh, and he groaned in your ear as he practically dragged his injured leg behind him. The agony of his voice made you want to stop and sprint forward all at the same time, but you settled for stumbling several more steps.

“That’s it,” you panted in encouragement. “One step at a time.”

The pack howled and shrieked as you painstakingly shuffled your way across the clearing, but you haphazardly aimed your rifle into the jungle and held down the trigger. Rapid-fire bolts of energy careened into the darkness, illuminating white eyes and flashes of twining vines and snarling beasts, but several yowls echoed through the night, so you knew you’d hit at least some of them.

“Mando,” you gritted out as you neared the tree line. “I need you to hit my cuff. There’s a button on the side that will turn up my headlamp. I want it at maximum. Since these bastards are nocturnal, I’m guessing they don’t like the light.”

The Mandalorian grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, and then his left hand was swatting blindly at your cuff. After fumbling for a moment, his thick, gloved fingers encircled your wrist, his thumb brushing faintly over your thudding pulse point.

Your feet nearly tangled beneath you, but then Mando found the button on your cuff, and he pressed on it until the lights at your temple were bright enough to blind. The beams of white light cut through the oppressive darkness of the jungle, and the canine creatures yelped in pain as they darted back into the shadows. You swung your gaze back and forth, your lamp dragging over the scenery like a burning laser, and the beasts whimpered as their tails disappeared into the bushes.

“Come on,” you groaned as you dragged Mando forward, and the two of you finally stumbled into the thick of the trees.

You didn’t know how much time passed as you and the Mandalorian struggled back to the ship. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes hours. The moon appeared frozen in the sky above your head, and more than once you had the thought that you were already dead, and this was some messed up version of an afterlife where you were tortured for eternity.

In the end, though, you knew you were alive.

If you weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Left,” Mando slurred in your ear, half draped over your back, and your feet stuttered as you swung both of you around to the left.

The rifle screeched as it fired off into the darkness, followed by the yelps of dying dogs, and you hissed as the stock dug into your already sore shoulder. The pack snarled and gurgled as they encircled you, but they were hesitant now that you’d killed a majority of them. You wondered why they just didn’t give up, but you realized they could most likely sense you weakening, slowing.

Sweat ran in rivers down your face and spine, and every tendon in your body felt like it was on the edge of snapping. You could tell Mando was trying to take some of his weight off you, but he was becoming more and more unsteady with each step, his breath jagged and uneven as it rasped out of his helmet. He probably wouldn’t remain conscious for much longer, and if he passed out before you reached the ship, you were both dead. You couldn’t fully carry him, and you would not even entertain the idea of leaving him, so it was all or nothing.

Either you both reached the ship together, or neither of you did.

But, as you glanced up at the child’s pod hovering high over your head, you knew the second choice wasn’t really an option. The kid needed you. Needed both of you.

So, you were going to kriffing live, even if you had to break your body down to achieve your goal.

“Come on,” you encouraged as you stumbled over a tree root. “Come on, Mando. We’re almost there. Stay with me, okay?”

You had no idea if you were almost there or not. The homing beacon on your cuff was beeping steadily, but with all the howling, and the blood pounding through your ears, you couldn’t approximate how close you were to the Razor Crest.

“I’m… trying,” Mando mumbled, lifting his head just slightly. “B-Behind us.”

You cursed under your breath, letting the rifle dangle against your chest as you fumbled at your waist. Your fingers curled around a cold, metal orb, and you clicked the button in its center before you lobbed the grenade over your shoulder with all the strength you had left, which wasn’t much.

Then you staggered forward a little faster, dragging the bounty hunter behind you, and five seconds later, you heard the stun grenade go off, followed by the crackling of static and the yelping of beasts.

“That’s my last… stun grenade,” you panted, and the hair on your arms stood on end with all the electricity in the moist air. “I have some explosive ones… but…”

“But we’re not fast enough to get out of range in time,” Mando finished for you, his helmet bumping into the crown of your head as he sagged a little more.

“Yeah,” you huffed, but then a crunch to your right had you whirling and firing in one motion.

The canine yipped and screeched as the energy bolts tore through its chest mid-lunge, and it crashed into the ground at your feet as you staggered into a tree. The bark scraped painfully across your bare shoulder blades, and Mando groaned as you almost lost your grip on him.

“No,” you growled, tightening your arm around the bounty hunter and tugging you both upright. “Dank… farrik!”

The muscles in your arm burned hotly from the strain of keeping the Mandalorian on his feet, and you bit through your tongue to keep from crying out, the metallic taste of blood coating your teeth and whetting your parched mouth.

You stumbled forward blindly as you tried to work through the pain, but all the sudden, the claustrophobic darkness caused by the towering trees lessened a few degrees. You thought you were hallucinating it at first, but then you lifted your head a fraction and realized the trees were thinning out ahead of you.

And the beacon in your cuff was beeping like mad.

You were almost there. The Razor Crest was so close.

Of course, that’s when the snarling behind you reached new frantic heights, and you knew the pack was gearing up for one final assault.

“Mando, listen to me,” you gasped as you shifted to shove him against a tree, using your palm to keep him rooted at the sternum and on his feet.

He groaned as he listed there, mumbling something that didn’t sound like it was in Basic, but he remained upright, so you seized the opportunity to jab at the screen on your wrist. A moment later, the child’s pod swooped down from where it had been hovering near the canopy, and the bounty’s head dragged against the jungle floor with a dull crunch. You tweaked the carrier’s settings half blind, one eye on the encroaching darkness and the beasts therein, and then you grabbed the floating orb and shoved it against Mando’s gut.

“Ugh,” the bounty hunter grunted, his feet starting to slide out from under him.

“No, lean forward,” you rushed out, grabbing one of his shoulders and tugging him toward you.

Mando moaned as he collapsed onto the child’s pod, but since you’d cranked up the carrier’s power output to the max, the bounty hunter didn’t crash to the ground. Instead, he hung there half suspended, the pod whirling angrily from his added weight, his feet limp and dragging behind him.

“Mando,” you said as you tapped the side of his helmet, eyes still on the shadowy trees. “Mando, I need you to hold onto that pod as tight as you can, okay? Can you hear me?”

“Hear… you,” the Mandalorian just barely breathed, and you saw his arms wrap around the bottom of the silver carrier.

“Hold on like your life depends on it,” you instructed as you tapped at your wrist again. “Because it does.”

“What—” he started to ask, but he didn’t get to finish the question because the pod was suddenly surging forward, in the direction of the ship. The bounty’s head and Mando’s feet dragged loudly against the ground, but with one last jolt of power, the pod lifted away from the jungle floor and began to float away.

The pod would probably have just enough power to get Mando back to the ship before it died, but that was fine. That was just what you needed.

The jungle dogs howled and shrieked as they watched the Mandalorian drifting away through the trees, but as you listened to them start to skirt around you in his direction, you finally gripped the rifle with two hands and aimed into the dark.

Then you pulled the trigger, full-auto, and the shrieking of the energy bolts collided with the screeching of the canines and crescendoed into a deafening cacophony. You sprayed the jungle in wide sweeps as you slowly started to walk backward toward the Razor Crest, the rifle stock jolting into your shoulder in time with your racing heart. You just needed to give Mando time to reach the ship. You had programmed the pod to open the ramp at a certain distance, so they would just fly on into the cargo bay, and it would close behind them. Once they were safe, you could make a break for it and—

Suddenly, one of the shadows broke away from the trunk directly to your right, and you turned too late to see it was a slavering beast, its bifurcated jaw wide open and aimed for your throat.

“Ahh!” You stumbled back, trying to crane away from those jagged black fangs, but your feet got tangled up beneath you, and you came crashing down. A root slammed into one of your rear ribs so hard you heard and felt the snap as the bone gave, but you didn’t even have time to register that pain before the jungle dog smashed into your chest.

You instinctively shoved your arms outward, wedging the rifle between those deadly, snapping jaws. One of the beast’s jagged fangs scraped down your forearm as you tried to keep the bastard from swallowing you whole, and you screamed in fury and pain as blood spilled from your rending flesh.

Then you brought your knee up and smashed it as hard as you could into the jungle dog’s ribcage, and this time you felt its rib snap, and grim satisfaction burned like a wildfire through your blood. The warmth filled your limbs until you thought you would burst into flame, and you kicked the beast again and again as it yipped.

You were just starting to think you had the upper hand when the creature’s jaw started to close with a creaking sound of bone on metal, and your eyes widened in horror as the canine jerked its head back, taking your rifle with it. Then its bifurcated jaw snapped close with a horrible crunch, and the rifle shattered into shards of metal and sparks.

The beast roared in pain and rage as it tossed the remains of your rifle aside, but now you were acting on pure survival instinct, not thought, not logic, and you were already wrenching two grenades and a vibroknife off your belt when the nightmare dog finally settled its four milky white eyes on your face.

“Eat this, you bastard,” you snarled as its terrible jaws, rowed with serrated teeth, descended on you.

Then with one hand you stabbed the vibroknife into its neck just above the shoulder, and with the other you activated the grenades and shoved both of them down the jungle dog’s throat.

Warm blood sprayed down on you like humid rainfall, and you twisted the blade in to the hilt, feeling as it tore through flesh in a jittery fashion. The creature gagged and gurgled as its throat muscles convulsed around your other wrist for just an instant, but then you yanked your arms back with all your might, teeth catching on your elbow again, before you crashed into the dirt.

You were scrambling up in the next instant, barely listening to the creature heaving and choking behind you as you staggered forward into a clumsy sprint.

The rest of the pack howled at your back, but you were flat out running now, and you could see the Razor Crest through the trees. The pounding of paws on dirt sounded at your heels, and you couldn’t tell if you were gasping for breath or sobbing as you tore the final grenades off your belt, activated them, and let them fall through your numb fingers.

In the next instant, you broke through the tree line, and you could see the ramp of the Razor Crest, closing. You slapped at your wrist blindly as you sprinted as fast as you could, lungs heaving to the point of seizures, legs at the point of collapse. You didn’t know if the dogs were still right behind you, but the grenades…

You must have finally hit the right command because the ramp suddenly shuddered before it started to lower again, and you were ten meters away when the grenades went off like dominoes falling.

The first two explosions—of the grenades you shoved into the jungle dog—only shook the ground hard enough to make you stumble forward, but then the rest of them detonated much closer, and the combined shockwave hit you moments later and catapulted you into the air.

Thankfully, the ramp was just low enough that you scraped over it and crashed into the ship, smashing into a bulkhead with a dull crunch. The howling shrieks of dying dogs reached you through the ringing in your ears, and you felt a wave of heat hit you as the grenades engulfed the jungle trees. You curled into a ball on the cargo bay floor, your back to the ramp, and you just barely had the presence of mind to tap at your wrist one last time. A moment later, you heard the whirling of the ramp closing, and when it clanked shut a moment later, you rolled over onto your back and stared blindly above you.

You could just barely hear the roar of the building wildfire outside the ship, and the screeching of the jungle dogs died down within seconds. Your entire body—your lungs, your heart—heaved up and down as adrenaline pulsed through you like a bad hit of spice, and your ears ached in the relative silence.

Then the child cooed, and Mando groaned weakly, and you jolted upright like you had just been struck by lightning.

“Mando,” you rasped, flipping over onto your raw hands and bruised knees.

The bounty hunter half-sat, half-sprawled on the floor at the foot of his bunk. The foundling’s pod lay askew on the ground in front of the fresher like it had crash landed there when it finally died, but the child stood unharmed beside the Mandalorian.

Who was currently bleeding out on the floor of the cargo bay.

“Kriff!” You scrambled forward when you saw the spreading stain of blood below his leg, and as you drew closer, you realized his tourniquet must have been loosened when he collapsed.        

The Mandalorian barely even seemed conscious at this point. His chest stirred only slightly beneath his beskar chest plate, and if it weren’t for the soft groans he was exhaling, you would have thought him dead.

“Mando!” you shouted as you shakily rose onto your feet and staggered the rest of the way to the fresher. Your hands were shaking as you tore one of the storage compartments open in search of a med kit, and your voice cracked when you said his name again. “Mando! Stay with me. We made it back. We’re on the ship. Just stay with me for a few more moments. Please.”

You crashed down onto your knees beside the bounty hunter, tearing the med kit open with bloody hands and broken nails. His helmeted head lolled onto the edge of the bunk behind him, and you could barely hear his raspy breaths through the modulator.

The child stood between Mando’s splayed boots, eyes large and frightened, but you couldn’t pay him any mind right now. Your frantic gaze darted between the bacta gel patch in your hand and Mando’s bleeding leg, and even though it felt crazy, you set the patch down for a moment and reached for the last vibroknife on your belt.

Suddenly, Mando jerked awake with a gasp, and you reached out without thinking, pressing your left palm over his heart and feeling his faint, fluttering pulse.

“Mando, I’m right here,” you murmured soothingly. “Keep breathing for me.”

The Mandalorian muttered your name as his head lolled toward you.

“Yes, that’s me, I’m here,” you said, rising up on your knees and leaning over him. The vibroknife glimmered in your hand, looking like a real-life glitch, but you shook off the unsettling feeling and fixed your eyes on Mando’s visor.

“Mesh’la,” the Mandalorian slurred. The word was soft and elongated to the point of sounding like gibberish, but his hand settled firmly on the wrist you still had pressed to his heart, like he was talking directly to you.

In any other situation, your own heart would be fluttering with a feeling you didn’t want to name, but as the bounty hunter’s blood started to soak into the knees of your pants, all you could feel was dread.

“I need you to stay still, okay?” you said as you dropped your hand from his chest to grip the top of his injured thigh. “I need to cut your pants away from the wound.”

“O… kay,” he muttered, and his hand fell to settle over yours again on his leg like he was grounding himself by touching you.

“Nice and easy,” you cooed, trying to blink the tears out of your eyes so you could see to cut through his pants and not his flesh. “I’ll have that bacta patch on in just a moment. Why don’t you talk to me, huh? Mando, talk to me. Tell me something. J-Just stay awake.”

“Aw…ake,” he whispered, but it sounded like he was just repeating you now, barely clinging to consciousness.

Your hand shook as you slowly sawed through the blood-soaked fabric, and an aborted sob rose in your throat. But you shoved your hysteria down, down, down, you had no time for it, you had to stay level-headed, steady-handed, Mando was counting on you, Mando was dying.

“Mando,” you choked as you finally pulled the cloth away from his wound. Three parallel gashes, each nearly five centimeters deep, ran from his hip crease and nearly all the way to his knee, and blood pulsed sluggishly from the wounds in crimson gobs. “Oh, Maker, Mando.”

You dropped the vibroknife with a loud clang as you lunged for the bacta patch, and out of your peripherals you could see the child waddling closer, standing in between the Mandalorian’s knees, the hem of his little robe slowly staining scarlet. You didn’t have the heart or the strength to shove the child away now, so instead you focused on settling the bacta patch over the bounty hunter’s grisly injuries.

Mando twitched and inhaled sharply as the bacta adhered to his skin, and you sent up a million prayers to the Maker that you had administered aid in time.

“There y-you go,” you sniffled, unable to stop the tears from coursing down your cheeks now. “I got the patch on, Mando. You’re going t-to be okay. You… you have to be okay. Do you hear me, Mando?”

You felt like a glitching holotape repeating his name over and over, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You wanted, no needed, him to stay awake, and every time you said his name, he seemed to jerk a little, like he’d been recalled from a long distance at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, there was only the faint, raspy wheeze of the Mandalorian’s breath through his helmet, but then he suddenly mumbled something.

“What?” You shuffled closer, slipping in blood. You practically had your ear pressed against his visor. “What was that, Mando? Say it again. Come on, talk to me, Mando.”

“Not… Mando.”

The words were stilted, sluggish, and you frowned in confusion. “Huh? I-I don’t understand.”

“My… name isn’t… Mando,” the bounty hunter struggled out, and his helmet tilted forward a fraction like he had lifted his head and was looking right at you. “It’s… Din. Din Djarin.”

The shock you felt was muted, distant and removed, like a crack that formed deep in the heart of a glacier, buried beneath the adrenaline, horror, and helplessness warring within you.

“Din,” you breathed, and the word somehow tasted like the exact moment Peli dug out your transmitter chip. It tasted like freedom, like infinite possibility, and you didn’t understand why.

Mando—no, Din, Din Djarin—exhaled heavily as his head thunked back against the bunk, and even if you couldn’t see it, you could tell his eyes were slipping closed. “I… wanted at least someone to know before I—”

“No,” you cut him off vehemently, reaching out to cradle the sides of his helmet like you were cupping his face. “No, you’re not going to die. Not now. Not when… no, do you hear me, Din Djarin? I will not allow you to die. Not when I worked my ass off to fix this ship and drag you back onto it by the skin of my kriffing teeth.”

“Mmmm.” Din’s head lolled in your grasp, the weight of him growing heavier and heavier. “I knew I would like the way… you say my name.”

Oh, Maker. He was nonsensical now, and terror gripped you by the throat and squeezed.

“Then stay awake, Din,” you begged, and your heart felt like it was on the edge of a great precipice. “Stay awake for me.”

“’m so… tired,” he sighed.

“I know,” you breathed as you guided his head back to rest against the bunk, and you couldn’t speak above a whisper because your voice was thick with tears. “I know, but just listen to my voice, Din. Just—”

You trailed off as the child suddenly waddled into your line of sight, and you dropped your gaze slightly to find him standing between the Mandalorian’s thighs, right next to the bacta covered wounds. The foundling stared up at the bounty hunter with a furrowed, seemingly determined expression, and then he closed his big brown eyes as he reached for Din’s leg.

“Oh, buddy, don’t,” you started, reaching out to stop him, but Din—Maker, his name felt delicious and forbidden even in your mind—weakly placed his hand on your wrist to stop you.

“It’s… okay,” he panted. “He can help.”

“Help?” You frowned down at the child. How could he help? Was this one of the “powers” the bounty hunter had vaguely mentioned before? You thought the foundling’s ability dealt with physically moving things, not healing, but honestly you could do for a miracle right about now.

The child gurgled a small noise as his three fingers settled over Din’s wound, and the Mandalorian inhaled sharply at the same time that you felt… something. You weren’t sure what it was, but it was like the very air shifted, became magnetic, charged somehow. The air stilled in your lungs as you feared even the barest breath would fracture this fragile spell you were bearing witness to, and you watched with wide eyes as the gashes on the bounty hunter’s legs began to close right in front of you.

Bacta worked fast… but not that fast.

Several still, endless seconds passed as the foundling healed the Mandalorian, but then just as soon as it began, the moment ended. The atmosphere snapped almost tangibly, time jolted back into motion, and the child suddenly started to pitch backward.

“Oh!” you gasped as you lunged forward, your hands cupping the baby and bringing him close to your body. The foundling’s eyes were closed, his face slack, but his little chest still moved up and down with breath.

“He’s okay.”

You snapped your head up, more tears spilling down your cheeks with the motion.

Din was sitting up a little straighter, and his helmet looked squarely at you. His voice sounded stronger, too, and you gaped at him in bewilderment.

“He’s okay,” the Mandalorian repeated when you continued to blink at him. “He usually… tires himself out when he uses his powers.”

“I d-didn’t know he could do that,” you breathed, and your tongue felt like a disembodied lump of flesh in your mouth. “I… wait, how do you feel? A-Are you okay?”

You suddenly realized how close you still were to the bounty hunter, practically kneeling in his lap, but you ignored this as your eyes darted back to his leg. It was a little hard to tell through the dried blood and blue bacta, but it looked like the three gashes had closed altogether, leaving behind faint pink lines.

“I’ll survive,” the bounty hunter sighed, thunking his head back against the bunk again, but he tilted it to the side to regard you still. “Thanks to you.”

“I-I’m not the one who just healed you with magic,” you stuttered incredulously as your cheeks flared hot, and you cuddled the child against your chest even though you realized you knew almost nothing about the apparently powerful foundling.

“No,” Mando said evenly, “but you did charge out into a dark, unknown, dangerous jungle, fight off a pack of wild dogs, and drag both me and the bounty back safely.”

“Well,” you snorted with an edge of hysteria in your voice, and you gestured to the discarded head that lay sprawled against the corner of the fresher. “I don’t know if I’d say he got here safely.”

Maker, you felt a little crazy, hollowed out and wrung dry by the sheer amount of emotions you’d just experienced in a span of a few minutes.

“I’m serious,” the Mandalorian replied. “You… saved my life. I am in your debt.”

“I-I’m not one for debts.” You shook your head to try and clear it, dropping your gaze to the foundling’s face, nuzzled against your sternum. “I don’t like to owe anyone or be owed. You’ve stuck your neck out for me before, so let’s just call it even… Din.”

You saw the bounty hunter freeze out of the corner of your eye, and you bit your cheek until you tasted blood.

You should have known that was too much to ask for.

“Sorry,” you muttered, peeking up at the Mandalorian through your lashes. “You… mentioned your name when you were—”

“I remember,” Mando said, cutting you off, but you couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his expression hidden as always and his voice pitched in a way you didn’t recognize, couldn’t identify.

“Right.” You cleared your throat, feeling the adrenaline starting to drain out of you and be replaced by every ache and pain you had ignored in lieu of survival. “Of course, I can just forget about it. You weren’t exactly in your right mind, after all. I’ll just… using ‘Mando’ is fine for me.”

The Mandalorian’s visor stared you down unflinchingly for what felt like an eternity. Then…

“You can… use my name, if you like,” he said haltingly, then quickly amended himself. “But only when we’re alone, on the ship. I… my name could be a dangerous thing in the hands of my enemies.”

You blinked in shock at the bounty hunter.

“A-Are you sure?” you asked, and you tried to keep the hope out of your voice, but you knew you failed miserably. “O-Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You’d thought giving up his name had just been a delusional, dying declaration, and you didn’t want him to regret it. What you said had been true enough. You were fine using “Mando,” even if the traitorous feelings buried deep in your chest said otherwise.

“I’m sure.” The bounty hunter nodded minutely. “I… trust you.”

The admission flooded your whole body with warmth, and goosebumps broke out across your skin. You’d known the Mandalorian trusted you, he wouldn’t have left his ship or his foundling in your care otherwise, but hearing him say the words felt like something out of a dream.

“Okay, then.” You smiled, heart thudding against where the child was pressed into your chest. “Din.”

At the sound of his name, the tension in the Mandalorian’s worn body seemed to bleed out of him entirely, and he sighed as his helmet fell back again.

“Let’s get off this Maker-forsaken planet,” he grumbled.

“I second that,” you chuckled dryly before you slowly clambered to your feet, careful not to slip in Din’s tacky blood or jostle the sleeping baby in your arms. You very gingerly leaned over the prone Mandalorian to set the foundling in his hammock, but you hissed when the movement jarred the bruised or fractured rib in your back.

“What’s wrong?” Din asked below you, and he was so close you could feel the rumble of his modulated voice against the bare skin of your stomach, your tank top having lifted up a fraction.

“Nothing.” You took a quick step backward, trying to put distance between you and the bounty hunter, but now that he was no longer actively dying, you were starting to realize you were a little more beat up then you’d previously thought.

The moment you stepped back on your right leg, your hamstring seized up, and when you went to grab at it, you realized your fingers were a little numb. You glanced down and saw fresh blood dripping down your forearm—your blood, not Mando’s—and the sight of the wound seemed to flip a switch in your brain because a moment later, pain crashed over you like a wave.

“Dank farrik,” Mando cursed lowly as he tried to shove himself up.

“No, no, no, no,” you babbled, holding out your less injured left hand in a gesture to stop him. “Don’t get up so fast.”

“You’re hurt,” he grunted, and you could practically hear the scowl in his voice as he tilted his helmet back to stare at you. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” you stressed, even though you could still taste blood on the back of your tongue. “Also, you seriously have no room to talk. You were literally just bleeding out less than five minutes ago.”

“How much bacta do we have left?” he asked, completely ignoring your statement. “We should take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“Maker, you’re not even listening to me, are you?” You rolled your eyes as you leaned your shoulder against the bulkhead, but when the Mandalorian started to get up again, you held your hand out once more. “Alright! Alright. Let me at least set the coordinates to meet up with the client and get the ship in the air. I’m pretty sure the jungle is burning down around us as we speak anyway, so the sooner we lift off, the better.”

Din stared up at you silently for a moment like he wanted to argue.

“It will take me two minutes, max,” you reasoned with him. “I won’t pass out or die in that time frame, okay?”

“Fine,” he finally sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. “Just… be careful climbing up there.”

“I’ll try my best,” you snorted, wincing when pain flared through your body, but you still slowly made your way to the ladder.

It took you way longer to climb five rungs than it should have, but you thought not falling back into the cargo bay was a feat in itself, given how every muscle in your arms and legs twitched in pain. The blood pouring down your arm also did nothing to help your grip, nor did your scraped up palms, but you still made it into the cockpit relatively unscathed.

Dawn was just breaking beyond the windows, but you could barely see it through the black smoke that hung thick in the air. Guilt sat heavy in your chest as you saw the charred trees and the birds fleeing the flames overhead, but you told yourself you did what you had to in order to survive.

And it wasn’t like you were walking away scot-free, either. Your arm pounded painfully in time with your slowing pulse, and every time you took a deep breath, you became a little surer that the rib in your back was, in fact, broken.

You punched in the client’s rendezvous coordinates without sitting in the pilot’s chair since you knew if you sat down now there was no way you were getting back up. While you waited for the Razor Crest to power up, you cringed at the blood you were dripping all over the floor, but there was nothing for it at this point. The whole ship would need a thorough scrub down the next time you made a pit stop, but that was a future-you problem. Right now, you were mainly focused on getting off this planetoid and out into orbit without crashing and burning.

You held your breath as the pre-Empire ship rose up above the now smoldering jungle, but no warning alarms or messages sounded. The Razor Crest glided steadily upward, and you leaned heavily on the control panel as you breeched first the clouds and then the atmosphere. Entering orbit rattled the ship and you more than you cared for, but nothing broke off or burst into flame, and before you knew it, you were drifting through the familiar black void of space.

“Thank the kriffing Maker,” you sighed as the autopilot took over, and then you turned and shuffled back to the ladder, exhaustion starting to make the edges of your vision go fuzzy.

Or maybe that was blood loss?

You were a little less graceful with the descent than you were with the ascent, but you at least landed on your feet before you nearly collapsed into the fresher.

“Careful,” Mando’s modulated voice murmured, and suddenly his bare hand was on your left, uninjured elbow, skin against warm skin.

“What are… you doing up?” You frowned as you studied the Mandalorian, trying to make sense of what you were seeing as he led you to sit in the open mouth of his bunk.

“I told you,” he said, reaching over and grabbing another med kit from the fresher. “We need to take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“You should be resting,” you grumbled, but you were too tired to put any real heat behind your voice.

“I’m fine,” Din parroted your earlier proclamation back at you. “The kid did a thorough job.”

Then the bounty hunter sat on a crate before you, a crate that hadn’t been there before, and you realized he was no longer wearing a majority of his beskar, save the ever-present helmet, of course. Instead, a faded but clean pair of duraweave clothes covered his body, and the bloodied outfit you’d basically sliced off him was piled up between his feet. It also looked like he had haphazardly tried to mop up some of his blood with the dirty clothes, and you wondered if you’d been up in the cockpit longer than you thought.

“Hey,” you chuckled suddenly, and you distantly noted that your voice was a little slurred with exhaustion. “Looks like I’ll have some new rags after all.”

You giggled a little loopily as you gestured to the Mandalorian’s blood-soaked clothes and then to the blood and dirt your outfit was also currently coated in, but Mando didn’t seem as amused as you were.

“Let me see your arm,” he said as his helmet stared at you impassively, but then he paused and added, “Please.”

“It’s really not that bad,” you tried to argue as you held out your injured limb, but since it was still actively dripping blood, your words didn’t carry much weight. Then the bounty hunter gingerly gripped your wrist with tentative fingers, and you hissed through your teeth as pain lanced up your arm.

“Osik,” Din cursed in a language you didn’t recognize, slowly rotating your arm to take in the extent of the damage. “Did one of those dogs get you? The bastard almost flayed you to the bone in some spots.”

“Yeah, well I shoved two grenades down his throat, so I think we’re even,” you gritted out.

Din froze and lifted his head, your blood, sweat, and dirt-streaked face reflecting back at you from his visor. “You what?” 

He must have really been on death’s door if he didn’t notice or remember you literally blowing the jungle dogs to Tatooine and back, but you just shook your head.

“Story time later,” you huffed, narrowing your eyes as you tried to breathe through the pain. “Bacta time now, please.”

“Right.” Mando jerked back into action, and in the next moment he was shifting into medic-droid mode.

Few words were shared between you two as the Mandalorian tended to your bumps and scrapes. Beside the deep lacerations on your forearm, your palms and knees were scraped bloody from tripping your way through a dangerous jungle in the dead of night. Your upper back was in the same condition since you’d been wearing a tank top when you decided to grapple with blood-thirsty hounds, and when Din accidentally brushed against your lower back, a small whimper squeezed out between your clenched teeth.

“This rib is probably broken,” the bounty hunter said, and there was a heavy quality to his quiet voice.

“Thought as much,” you grunted, trying to sit up straight without breathing too deeply. “Too bad we don’t have a full bacta tank to soak in.”

“I could always… drop you back off on Tatooine,” Mando muttered. “With the payment that I owe you, of course. Should be enough to pay for a full treatment and then some.”

You froze sitting there in the doorway of his bunk. The Mandalorian wasn’t looking at you, too busy double checking the bandage he’d wrapped over the bacta on your forearm, but you could see how rigid his body was as he awaited your answer.

“Do you… want to drop me back off on Tatooine?” you asked hesitantly, the breath shallow in your lungs. You could hear the child snoring softly in the hammock directly behind your head, and the thought of leaving him opened a dark pit inside you.

And that was nothing to say of the thought of leaving the Mandalorian. Of leaving… Din.

Now that you knew his name, the feelings you had done your best to ignore came surging up to the surface, that little voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

He told you his name. He trusts you. He wants you here. Maybe he wants you for more than just your skills.

You shoved the thoughts away as quickly as they cropped up, but that didn’t stop something small and fragile from unfurling in your chest. You almost wanted to call it hope.

“I—” Mando started, stopped, fidgeted on his crate, and then sighed as he scooted back a little to stretch out his injured leg. “No, I don’t want to do that. You’re a talented mechanic and… good company. I’ve… enjoyed having you on my crew.”

“Oh.” You blushed as the breath whooshed out of your lungs, leaving you feeling lightheaded and buoyant. “T-Thank you. Current circumstances notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed being on your crew, too. A-And not just for the payment. Seeing new worlds, as dangerous as they are, was something I never thought I’d get to experience. So, even if the price to pay is a few bumps and scrapes, I think that’s a fair deal.”

“You have a skewed idea of ‘fair,’” the Mandalorian chuckled dryly as he reached down beside him, picked up a pair of his gloves, and slipped them back on.

“No kriff,” you snorted, the scar on the nape of your neck tingling. “But it works out in your favor, so I wouldn’t question it too much.”

“Fine.” Din held up his hands, but then he lowered them to his knees and cocked his head at you.

“What?” you asked when he didn’t say anything for a full minute. His gaze made your skin prickle even if you couldn’t see his eyes, and with each passing moment, you grew acutely more and more aware of how dirty and disheveled you looked and felt.

“Nothing,” he said, fingers flexing against his knees. “Just… thank you. Again. For saving me, the kid, the bounty, and the ship.” 

You fidgeted in discomfort. You didn’t know what to do with praise and compliments, having never really received them before, so you shrugged your shoulders as you picked at the bandage on your arm.

“I told you, we’re even,” you muttered.

“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” he argued, and something about his tone told you he wasn’t going to let this go. “So, how about this: after we drop off this bounty with the client, you can pick the next planet we stop on.”

“Really?” Your eyes flicked up to the bounty hunter and widened. He’d never let you pick a destination before. You’d always just been along for the ride.

Mando nodded. “And make a list of parts and stuff you need to keep the ship running. We’ll stock up wherever we stop off next.”

“Okay.” You grinned as your heart did a little jig in your chest, and you stuck out your bacta-wrapped hand to shake on it. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Din Djarin.”

His name rolled off your tongue like a grain of sand spiraling down a dune, picking up momentum as it went, and it sent a shiver of pleasure straight down your spine. You knew you were playing a losing game with your own heart here, but as you stared into Mando’s visor, you also knew there was no stopping yourself now. You would just have to deal with the future heartbreak.  

The Mandalorian tentatively reached out and grasped your fingers in his gloved ones.

“Deal,” he rumbled back.

“Good.” You nodded as a yawn cracked open your jaw, and you reached up to cover your gaping mouth and scratch your nose. “Now, given the client’s rendezvous coordinates, we should have a few days of rest before we reach our destination, and if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to start right now by taking a well-deserved nap.”

You made to stand up, but Din gently placed his hand on your shoulder to keep you seated on the edge of the bunk.

“Take the cot,” he said as he nodded behind you. “I’m going up to the cockpit to send a message to the client anyway.”

“Are you sure?” you murmured around another yawn.

“I’m sure,” he said, but then his gloved fingers were suddenly ghosting over the bridge of your nose. “By the way, you’ve got a little grease right here. Just thought you should know.”

You went cross-eyed as you tried to draw his finger into focus, but when he stepped back, you noticed the fingertips of his glove were shiny, and glancing down at the hand you used to shake his revealed that your palm bore the same black sheen.

“Hey, this is your grease,” you muttered indignantly, but then Din was pressing gently on your shoulder, guiding you to lay back on the cot, and you went willingly.

“Get some rest,” he said, turning off the bunk lights. “We’ll worry about cleaning up later.”

You tried to grumble something, but exhaustion was starting to tug at your limbs and eyelids, and your body unwound bit by bit as you buried your face in the bounty hunter’s pillow with no remorse.

A moment later, Mando’s boots were clomping up the ladder to the cockpit, but he left some of the cargo bay lights on and the door to the bunk open, like he somehow knew you were afraid of the dark.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at your lips, but you spiraled into sleep before you could fully process the thought.

[atypicalsenerio]

How do you repay someone who's given everything you've ever asked for, with or without your knowing?

Ike's not even half as smart as Soren. He knows this. All this while, he's relied on him for many things; his objectiveness, his tactical analysis, and has always, always counted on him to have a clear mind when he could not.

But Soren-- Soren is also a living, breathing person, and that makes him much more than that. The icy mage can get distracted, shows irritation, huffs (but he knows he's satisfied, perhaps even happy) and veils himself behind a wall of words that say everything about him and also nothing to those who don't quite know him. Soren tries-- very, very much.

The grains of time had piled up like a mountain, each a glimmering gold. Soren had given all of that to him, since day one. He'd not noticed, because he was silly. He'd noticed, but knew that any he could pay back was but a dim silver.

And then, he'd not paid back at all, and the grains had continued to trickle still.

Fingers run across the portrait that he'd been gifted. A memory of the past, a rallying cry.

But to him, wouldn't need something like this. Unlike Ike, who forgets, who blunders.

Because-- all this while, Soren has forged his own path, looking onward. Whatever that drives him had always been ahead of him, so a token of the past wouldn't be as meaningful.

The night passes. The day breaks.

A knock comes to the mage's door. Ike invites himself in, greets Soren with a warm smile and a nod.

"Happy birthday."

"I thought that this one out of the rest would be the most meaningful for you. I wish I could think of more, but-- here."

“My memory’s not as good as yours, but this is as close as I can remember.”

The crinkling of oil paper reveals a simple meal. It's nothing special-- slices of bread and lettuce and bacon. The taste wouldn't be the same; he's not his mother, and neither does he know well enough the taste of homecooked lunch. The best mimicry he can make of it is in its shoddy craftsmanship.

But it's as much as he can make.

"... And, I also thought about what I should do for next time."

A faint rustling, and fingers unfurl to reveal a band impressed with a seal, strung up with a line of rope.

“The signet rings gave me an idea. These are meant to be heated and pressed into rock, and they’ll leave stamp marks. So if you see this on a tree or a rock, you’ll know that I’ve been along the way. And—”

A faint tinkle, and Soren should feel cool metal land in his own palm.

“Here. There’s one for you, too. So it won’t be just you who’s looking the next time.”

He spends the rest of the time there he has with Soren, as long as the lamps allow. Eventually, they have to say goodbye to each other, and Ike waves goodbye, knowing that they'll see each other the next day.

The door creaks shut.

...

There’s also another reason for them. Ike presses his fist shut around the ring, feeling as if it would deform under his grip. It’s but an illusion of flesh, but held so tight, the ring feels like it gains warmth of its own.

Perhaps it truly does, for when Ike releases, letting the string catch on his finger, it turns, twirling like a pendulum, swinging one way and the other.

He holds it out. The swinging doesn’t stop, not for a long time. Ike catches it, and its head faces south—towards the door he’d come from.

It could just be his imagination.

But also; whilst in Castle Nados, there was some evidence left. There wasn’t enough to make good for a teleport, as much as Ike would have loved to, but with what he had, he’d put it in the rings.

It was mostly sentimental value. There shouldn’t be any effect with this little, but even if he couldn’t feel the reputed pull that the powder brings towards linking two points in space, perhaps the metal could.

Perhaps. It’s a little edge more, one more tiny patch for a gaping hole. A trinket at best.

But it's transcended it's purpose in the past, and taken on a new one for the future.

The ring lands in his palm, twinkling like an eye.

Ike still can't find an true answer to the question-- not now, and not still. He's not smart enough for something that slices down to the bone.

That was always more Soren's thing. He just barged in like a brute, and did what he thought worked best.

Perhaps that's his answer, this time. Because it's in the present, which ticks by like a leaky sieve.

If you can’t cut the truth in two; warming it up little by little--

Ike supposes-- Maybe, that’s fine, too.

All day long, there had been one person Soren wanted to see most on his birthday. They were close enough that Soren wouldn’t have minded if Ike was busy, they spent so many of their days together. It was with a softened smile that he welcomed Ike to his room, other gifts on his bed.

“Ike. Thank you. It has been. I wonder who let the date slip to everyone else. I have to admit I’m surprised by it.” This amount of casual attention, perhaps bordering on affection from others, people who mostly barely knew him, was too much to pass off as just flattery from someone trying to get their way or a favor returned to him. Being a part of a community and seeing it manifest in the smallest of ways in notes and trinkets had touched him in a way he hadn’t expected, nor voice directly to anyone else.

Ike, however, was the highlight of his day. Even empty handed, he would be. When all else faded, when it was no longer his birthday, he would still have Ike.

Perhaps the events of the day had him feeling especially sentimental. Soren took the offered sandwich, looking up at Ike. “This is how your mother used to make your lunch, isn’t it? It’s simple, but it really is my favorite meal. Perhaps your love of bacon is contagious,” he teased, voice gentle. “I might have a plain palette, but I wouldn’t change a thing about it. Funny, how the mind works,” he said fondly, taking a bite. There was nothing inherently special about the bread, lettuce, or bacon, but the memory attached made it all crisper, sweeter.

He set the sandwich down and turned his attention to the ring in Ike’s hand, watching it lower into his own palm. His heart skipped a beat at the association, foolishly, of rings and someone he cared for. (Who was the dense one here, anyway? Was it in fact, Soren? He was giving Ike’s history of being oblivious a real run for its money if he was…) Soren swallowed, a slight blush on his face as Ike explained. Hopefully, there would be no next time they were separated, but if there was—

“That’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. Thank you, Ike. I’ll guard mine well.” He slipped the ring on his finger to admire it, and felt the cord it was attached to. He raised his head, and he took a step forward.

A rush of affection carried him the rest of the short distance to Ike. Soren couldn’t remember initiating a hug before, but he did it before he could think, taking advantage of the chance to hide his warm face against Ike’s chest and cling to him in a display he didn’t want to hold back from anymore.

Every admittance and display of his flaws over the years, every conversation that had been a burst of what had always eaten away at him, the grounds for which anyone else would reject him, every part of himself or his background that had made him feel alone and unlovable— every syllable had been like asking Ike, ‘Are you sure you want me? Are you sure I’m worthy of being your friend? Are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?’ And every gesture, every answer from Ike had always been a confident, steady, ‘Yes’, as though Soren had never needed to ask at all, had never needed to fear his own vulnerable spots.

Soren squeezed Ike’s body in his smaller arms for a moment, hoping he was doing this whole hug thing right, overwhelmed and happier than he knew what to do with, for once overflowing with something other than painful memories and a silhouette that used to feel more shaped by old wounds and recurring rejection than his own lived life. “Thank you, Ike. For being here.” For being you, the only way you know how, so natural to you you don’t see how exceptional you are.

“I think I’d like to keep celebrating birthdays from now on.”

[sirensignal]

part i.

Backstories always start with children. Before there are heroes or villains or captains or chroniclers, there are children with eyes so shallow and silent they’ll reflect tiny pinpricks of light. Eyes still waiting for a dyeing in ink, in memory, in blemish and bruise colours. Children with red mouths and red cheeks and red hearts where red doesn’t yet mean blood — it’s only a portrait of strawberries in summertime, only a delineation of roses plucked ripe and thornless. Putrefaction far-flung, so distant, so patient to wait.

This is the backstory, so let’s say they are children. Two children who do not know what that word means.

Let’s say they are friends. Let them clasp hands, palm to palm, let them hide in engine rooms and lamp-lit cabins and sit cross-legged for hours to talk about every stupid thing, conjure a house out of the words they build. A house with a door only they can find. Let’s say there is love. Let’s say love is enough.

—

It isn’t, of course.

—

But set the scene, the scene for the first time they meet: it’s some lilac layered sunset, a swollen sun that’s melted gold over the deck. There’s a moon under the horizon, restless to take back her sea and she sighs everything soft and silent, lays mist in the air that demands you quieten your steps. So Nour pads up to the only other person on the deck, a boy skulking on a barrel. They peer at the knob of wood in his hand, examine the concentration with which he holds a pocket knife and makes countless pale shavings on the deck.

Close up, the boy seems younger than they are. At least, he seems shorter. Nour grins, breaks the heady fog of twilight. “What are you doing?”

Dark eyes flick up. A mouth twists in a precipitous scowl. “What.”

“Are you carving something? I want you to teach me.”

A pause. “I’m busy.” Politeness is physically dragged as a stone through his mouth. A serrated one.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.” 

“Teach me.”

“Why should I.” 

—

It carries on in this vein for a long time. Minutes drag to hours to days to weeks. You wouldn’t notice the shift in tone until it slammed you in the face with a kiss. But this is that kind of genre, so maybe you can guess.

But hold it in the back of your mind: this is just the backstory for a woman who grows up vicious, grows into serrated edges that score wounds with each honed word. That won’t hesitate to leave shards in you. In this place, a backstory is a tragedy waiting to happen.

They could have chosen something else, of course. But how could they know what they were choosing?

So call it predestined, call it invariable. By invariable: see two points, two white dots fixed together on a map. Things so close get pulled into orbit. Take how neutron stars collide again and again and again. How gravitational radiation spirals celestial bodies inward. Inward. There are two ways it will end: one of them is not worth mentioning.

But for now, call them friends.

—

“We are not friends, and I hate this.”

“Well I don’t. Hurry up before they find us.”

“I hate this.”

—

Does it hurt to say? Does it render the breath thin and sour in the lungs? They’ll always yearn. This journey. This memory. Even when they forget. Forgotten but the chisel they took to their heart carved that organ into a separate shape. Carved it to hold a love that will slumber for decades.

They’ll lose the hatch to this place, soon enough. Clench their eyes and let the key take a straight drop, pitch into a mammoth and monstrous ocean. Drowned for a blue marlin to swallow. That marlin swallowed by a sea lion. That sea lion swallowed by an orca. It’ll lose form, unshape itself in the belly of mammoth beasts. But not now. Not for now.

—

"You have that many siblings?"

“Mhm.”

“Am I distracting you?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to hear about your brothers.”

A sigh with all the exasperation taken out of it. An acquiescing. “Fine.”

—

“You’re eating more than usual.” Their father has noticed it. For the past few weeks now, Nour’s plate scoured clean of seconds every night.

Their stomach groans in protest, scratches up a voice that writhes in the back of the throat — I’m still hungry, I’m so hungry. The hunger rendered immeasurable, become a growling noise of need. But their father’s brow is ill at ease, his mouth creased to murmur some unknown sentence. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I suppose you’re still growing. I knew I should have asked them to pack you more clothes.”

Nour nods. Keeps silent. Keeps their hunger quiet.

“And how are your studies going.” Dry-voiced. Already acceptant of defeat. “Or are you spending all your time with that cabin boy.”

Nour’s mouth splits in a grin. Toothy, before they remember to hide it. “Please don’t discredit him so, Father — our time together is wholly, entirely, unquestionably productive to my education. I swear. I’m teaching him more words.”

Their father sighs. “Alright. If he’s so helpful, you can take your history books and study with him.”

—

“So in the sixteenth century, Charles the fifth became king of Spain and was elected Holy Roman Emperor —”

“He was elected emperor?”

“Yes, it was an elective monarchy. The electoral college was, uh — wait, are you actually interested in this?”

“Why not.”

“Darling, you’re so terribly dull.”

“You sound like an old woman.”

“That’s deplorable.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“So what.”

—

The hunger enlarges like a gnawing thing, clawing at their stomach lining in reckless torment. When Nour mentions it offhand, their friend frowns. Gives them his share of bread. Bread is ashen in Nour’s mouth, they’ll stomach it but it’s never filled their gut, never sated them but they don’t have the heart to refuse.

It sates them for the first time in months. In months. They stare at their empty hands and their belly quavers with the slaking of such a terrible, enduring emptiness. And oh, for the first time in weeks they feel full. They push the meat on their plate and shake their head when asked if they want more. They go to sleep with no ache in their bones.

But hunger comes back. It doesn’t come back for days, but when it does. When it does. They take bread from their father’s plate and it tastes like nothing. In the night they gnaw their knuckles and starvation empties them like a sieve. Worse that they experienced fullness before it.

But they can still live with it. Still walk with it. Still bear it.

So they bear it.

— 

Maybe Nour becomes attached too strongly, too quickly.

Surely it can’t be helped. They’ve never been permitted a friend for as long a period as this. All their companions, all their life: clockwork replacements like freshly minted dolls with mechanical parts and chubby, round cheeks, pre-painted smiles in delicate colours. Here and gone, gone in a month, in two. Never more than three. Gone before Nour’s strange aging could become apparent. Could attract attention.

Their growth spurts are rarer now. Smaller. Easier to pass off.

The point is: this is the first time. Their first time.

—

“Tell me about anything.”

“Anything?”

“Tell me about your family again. Tell me about your home.”

He talks and Nour’s blood sings with the sound of it. Lights every vein electric. Enough but only for that moment. Only for those few hours.

That night they eat three steaks, served at the dinner table nearly raw but they’re so ravenous it’s not enough. Their appetite so ferocious it will not be glutted by —

By.

They do not think about it. Nour puts down their fork. They smile at their father and say they are full.

—

You should know: tragedy has always written history. Anything in between is just interlude. Just white noise in an ocean of black; congealing blood, ink splatter, a tower of coaled ash conquerors climb to reach the heavens. To find immortality in the glittering constellations.

This is not anything so grand. But it is an end to everything good. To the interlude that was their happiness. The two of them are fixed points on a map. A map of non-linear time. You might call it fate. Two things hurtling towards a predestined end.

All things end. They end faster when you’re content. There are truths to be learned from this, but none of them are parables.

—

Two days before they land, the boy takes a deep breath and it’s a hazy blur of words or it’s a clean-cut confession, it’s any number of things that burn up a flush on his ears before he dips forward and kisses Nour on the cheek. It barely connects, more like an awkward bump of skin that tingles. Still a child’s kiss and he pulls away with crimson on his cheeks, fists balled like he’s been mettling up all week to do it and still there’s something anxious, some uncertainty that quavers in his eyes when he opens them.

And they —

—

See, a series of realizations knock into Nour at this point.

One is the rising blush on their cheeks, the startlement. Another is the surge of a bottomless sea in them. The flood of it. Seizing their breath. Seizing their pulse, lashing it to stillness. To utter silence, no echo to be gleaned in their skull.

For a moment they think it is love. For a moment they think it is a fierce, terrible love, for a best friend, for the first friend in their life. For a friend they want to spend every day with for as long as forever.

For a moment, they think it is love.

Is it?

Is it?

This sea of them. This drowning. A tidal crash, a wave, a thousand simmering things teeming at their skin. The yawning heart of them, unfurling their chest, their ribcage. This love, these countless rows of teeth sprouting in their belly.

Oh, Nour realizes, dazed. So that’s it. So that’s what this feeling was. So that’s what they wanted all along.

They’re holding him. His frail body. His warm throat. The richness of blood filling their mouth. The give of skin and muscle, warm flesh running rivulets of blood down their throat.

Oh, they should have done this from the start. It’s everything they’ve dreamt of without knowing they dreamt it. He tastes better than anything Nour has ever had, better than sugar candy, better than steak, better than fresh cuts with still-warm blood. They’ll be sated for a thousand years just from this taste. Their heart so full with him they’ll never crave again. Forever, he’ll be with them forever.

Mine, they think. I like you too I like you so stay with me always with me always always —

They can’t stop laughing. The laughter spilling bloody from their teeth. They laugh until they’re sick with it, until vomit fills their mouth and they hold their mouth shut, swallow it back because it’s him, because they won’t reject him even if their body wants to. Because their body won’t reject him even if they want it to. Look at them, this sorry creature pretending to be a child — palms on the floor, an animal with teeth and tongue and they’re on all fours, gorging blood from drenched planks. Sucking all the red from it until there’s no red left. Licking all the wet from their face but it never dries, their face is sea-strewn, their face is breaking. They’re laughing and laughing and laughing.

—

But that isn’t what happens.

It could. It could have. A what-if. A ghost story. The ghost of a boy who never died. No, no. The probability will haunt for a lifetime, an imagined sin they can never wash off but it is not what happens.

No. What happens is —

They’re holding him too tight, fingerprints that will stain like a rupture of blueberries, of grapes, of peach tones spilling across his skin. Their nose is at his throat and his throat is so warm. All those veins, why do they run so clear, why are they mapped so well if they are not meant to be opened. In Nour’s ears, the thump of a rabbit pulse. So loud their heart quickens to synchronize with that strong beat.

They want. They want, they need —

Two hands shove him away, two hands with brutish strength. Nails digging laceration into his arm. He’s on the ground and in the flickering of the world there’s a vision of richness so heady, so sweet and so near, so mouthwatering they can still taste it. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.

“Mal.” His name is a prayer to famine, is terrified worship on their tongue and stupid that’s so stupid worshippers have always eaten their gods always crushed them between white teeth and ground them to meat and viscous liquid in the gut and named it transubstantiation. And Nour never realized until now. In the air his name is a dry heave or a wail or a quiet, stricken thing. The length of it unspooling on the ground. The length and span of them. That thin red thread. “Malachy.”

[firebirdsdaughter]

Random Writing Tidbit-ish Well…

… I said I was thinking about them.

@fluttering-by I dunno if you’re still thinking about this from like, last week (or was it the week before? my memory is a sieve sometimes), but it got stuck in my head.

You know how they killed the horizontal line and it was the worst thing ever? I suffer every day. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fuwa slammed the door behind him, stomping across the floor to dump his bag onto the armchair, the primary piece of furniture he still felt like he could consider his after Jin had laid claim to the sofa (when he wasn’t off patrolling the rooftops, jumping in and out of windows as he pleased, much to the annoyance of Fuwa’s neighbours), with a little more force than necessary, making it jump slightly. A brief glance in the direction of the couch, in a small break from scowling at the floor, revealed that the younger HumaGear wasn’t there now, at least—the only one present was his father, looking up from a book. Fuwa didn’t remember having many books—at least, not any Horobi would be interested in—but the fact that the HumaGear was doing something besides brooding about the apartment blankly was… Reassuring. He wasn’t in a particular mood to be relieved about anything, but the discovery still generated a soft ball of warmth in his chest, interfering with his attempts to stay angry. But the day had just been so…

“What is it?” Horobi’s voice sounded completely calm, but Vulcan prided himself on being able to detect the mild curiosity in the tone.

Fuwa groaned. “It’s… Politics.” He spat, giving the chair a sharp push with his foot in displeasure that still came out rougher than he intended, making it skid a small way across the floor. “People… Are…” He looked back up at the HumaGear and hesitated.

Horobi was gazing at him with that innocent, simple interest that was so indescribably beautiful it always made him lose his train of thought for a moment. At the same time, though… It fuelled his temper—especially since he had been upset on the HumaGear’s behalf in the first place.

He was pretty sure he knew why Yotagaki had it out for Horobi so badly—the man had had a permanently displeased look on his face ever since Horobi had both fully restored his son and been repaired himself (Yaiba had been sour for days after the dressing down the HumaGear father had given her, even while heavily damaged, for everything she had done wrong in trying to restart Jin’s AI). He scowled every time Horobi came up, and made pointed comments, generally about how he was a ‘dangerous influence’—which even Fuwa, who Horobi had nearly killed, could easily see was bullshit. Even if the two hadn’t moved into his apartment uninvited, or the… Other developments… But, especially after all the time he’d spent with the HumaGear, all it took was watching him for a bit to know that Horobi was very different than before—completely free of the Ark’s influence and with even just a bit of proper support, he was eons away from the picture Yotagaki loved to paint. Without a doubt, what the bastard actually meant was that Horobi was a threat to his coveted control over Jin, who had refused to speak to the ZAIA executive since reviving. 

Now the man was demanding that there be regulations placed on Horobi’s movements, because the HumaGear had been ‘too quiet,’ because there were rumours of ‘good HumaGear’ looking up to him—even to the point of insisting he be tracked permanently, clearly with the intention of making Horobi as vulnerable as possible. It had been all Vulcan could do to not punch the guy—no, he hadn’t even managed that, it had been Yaiba who came to the rescue, grabbing his arm before he could swing and backing him up that distrust and aggression had been what made things go wrong the first time.

He looked back up at Horobi, still watching him with that soft, naive curiosity, and a myriad of emotions swirled in his chest. Horobi was definitely in a better place than he had been back then, but… He’d seen the HumaGear turn on himself before, and recently the episodes he still had were always in that vein; tipping him back over the edge could result in… There was a sharp pain in his chest before he could even finish the thought. He remembered clearly the scene he’d come upon that night, something that had unexpectedly burned into his memory—though the results had turned out to be… More than pleasant, in the end, the experience had been… Terrifying. To the point that he was still reluctant to leave Horobi alone in public spaces.

The HumaGear frowned slightly, head tilting, and Vulcan quickly looked away, embarrassed. Pushing the chair with his foot again, knocking it further out of place, he groaned loudly, stalking to the other end of the sofa, acutely aware of Horobi’s gaze following him. “Just…” He struggled to find the words as he began to pace in short, quick steps, raking a hand through his hair, the other stuffing into his pocket. How much could he say? Yotagaki was already a tense subject for the HumaGear, who would always immediately look around for Jin whenever the man was so much as mentioned, like he was terrified the human was coming to take his son again. Fuwa didn’t want to cause him undue distress, that was the whole point—but lying to Horobi was equally dangerous. He was already on his sixth pass in front of the sofa by the time he continued, “Just… Yotagaki… ZAIA, being… Augh!” With a growl, he furiously dragged both hands through his hair, mussing it up completely in his outburst, “Being… Stupid!” He aimed another kick at the chair as he turned and missed—with another snarl, he whirled back around to continue pacing.

On his eighth pass in front of the sofa, fingers closed around his wrist and there was a soft tug on his arm stopping him short, followed by another, stronger one. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled down into Horobi’s lap—he squirmed instinctively, resisting out of residual anger—but the HumaGear’s arm curled around his waist, the other hand drifting up to cup his face, and he turned his head to nuzzle into the palm on an even stronger instinct. Horobi pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw, the upper hand moving up to comb slowly through his hair, fingertips trailing over his scalp. It was impossible to stay tense like that, especially when Horobi continued brushing lips up and down the side of his neck in slow, lingering kisses. The HumaGear’s long fingers carefully worked their way through his curls, hitting all the sensitive spots on his head—it wasn’t long before Horobi reached the particularly tender place right behind his ear, drawing a soft moan from his lips, making Vulcan sag against him.

“You know I enjoy watching your emotions…” The HumaGear’s voice was warm murmur right next to his ear, a musical, mesmerising sound that made his eyes flutter closed, his hand drifting up to hang onto Horobi’s sleeve, “… But you’re going to break your furniture.” Vulcan grumbled discontentedly—only it came out a bit more like a whimper. Twisting around, he snuggled against the HumaGear’s chest, pulling his legs up on the sofa and tucking his head into the crook of Horobi’s neck while the HumaGear continued stroking his hair, finding out the same spot on his head again. “I know, I know…”

Fuwa pressed closer, letting his eyes close completely. There was still a slight tug in his chest in moments like this, when he remembered what Horobi had originally been built for, because of how comforting it was. There was a small part of him that felt like a child again, curled up safe in the HumaGear’s lap, arms wrapped around him, a hand smoothing his hair—but the stronger, more dominant feelings were very different. With a little shifting, he leaned forward, nuzzling past the Horobi’s collar to press his lips to the HumaGear’s throat, unable to resist a small smile at the soft gasp he heard above him in response, the sound and the way Horobi’s arms tightened around him spurring him to continue. Keeping one hand holding securely to the HumaGear’s sleeve, he let the other drift up to lay against Horobi’s face, fingers brushing across his cheek, felt the HumaGear tilt into his touch, sending a wave of warmth through him.

Slowly, his hand crawled up, fingers brushing Horobi’s hair—until the tips connected with the HumaGear’s new earpiece, and he felt Horobi stiffen. Fuwa’s eyes snapped open, lifting his head slightly, “Sorry,” He whispered quickly, hand stopping, “Did that hurt? Do you want me to-”

“N… No.” The word was shaky, but firm, and the HumaGear even tilted his head into the touch slightly, closing his eyes. “… Don’t stop.”

Fuwa swallowed, hesitating for a moment just to be sure, but Horobi still didn’t pull away. So, very slowly, he traced his fingers along the metal rim of the earpiece, feeling the HumaGear shudder in response—but it felt different than the first one. Encouraged, he continued, exploring further, fingers moving across the area that used to be open mechanics and cracked artificial skin. Horobi’s mimic breathing caught, speeding up, and he made a soft noise that sounded wonderfully like a moan, fingers weaving deeper into Vulcan’s hair, pressing again to the sensitive spot on his head, making him sigh deeply as well.

They stayed that way for a long time, or maybe not so long. It was impossible to think about time when he was tucked in the HumaGear’s lap, one of the most comfortable places in the world, those amazing fingers tangled in his hair, gently massaging his scalp while his hands did the same on Horobi’s head. At some point, however, the HumaGear felt relaxed enough, curling around him like they were moulding together, and he didn’t feel like he could wait any longer.

“… Yotagaki wants to track you.” As he’d feared, Horobi went still, fingers freezing in his hair, and he quickly reopened his eyes, trying to sit up more and failing completely because of the tangle they had become. “He’s not going to! He’s not… He’s not going to.” He gave the HumaGear’s arm a squeeze, trying to be reassuring. “Yaiba-”

“It’s…” Horobi’s voice was unexpectedly steady, cutting him off with a firmness that was both reassuring but also slightly concerning because it sounded a bit like he did when he zoned out, “It’s… Okay.”

Fuwa frowned, giving the HumaGear’s arm another, even tighter squeeze, “No, it’s not.” He muttered, the words edged with a growl, “He’s…” For a moment, he almost got lost in the anger again, and pulled closer to Horobi to fight it off, “He’s a bastard.”

The HumaGear was silent for a long time. “I…” With a little shifting, Horobi repositioned so that they could see each other’s faces again, his hand in Vulcan’s hair drifting back down to his cheek. The vulnerability in the HumaGear’s expression felt like a stitch in his chest, but the hand on his face set a finger to his lips before he could say anything, “I don’t want to talk about him.” The finger disappeared, but was quickly replaced by Horobi’s lips in a determined, intense kiss, the hand dropping down from his face to trail along his chest. In an effort to keep his balance, Fuwa hooked an arm around the HumaGear’s neck, relishing how good Horobi’s touch felt even through the fabric of his shirt—and then there were buttons being pulled open, the magnificent fingers slipping in to brush his skin.

Vulcan gasped loudly, breaking the kiss, glancing down at the hand half inside his shirt then back up at the HumaGear questioningly. “Horobi…?”

Horobi’s head tilted forward, pressing his forehead to Vulcan’s. “I don’t want to talk about him.” He repeated, even more firmly, “I… I want…” The HumaGear’s hand moved slightly, tracing a tiny pattern over what he could reach of Fuwa’s abdomen, “I want you right now.”

Vulcan stared at him for a moment, searching his gaze for any uncertainty, panic, or glassiness. Even if Horobi was being point blank about it… After that night, he always wanted to check. The HumaGear’s expression, however, was completely clear and quite calm, eyes fixed on Fuwa’s face. Vulcan took a deep breath—after all, he would have been lying if he claimed he wasn’t feeling the same way. “… My room?”

Horobi hesitated for a moment, looking away shyly, and Fuwa almost backtracked to try and give him an out, but—“… Our room?”

Vulcan couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “Yeah.” He pulled himself up to give the HumaGear another quick peck on the lips, “Our room.” Just saying the words made a large ball of warmth form in his chest, made everything feel different.

Horobi didn’t respond, instead moving his arms to wrap around Fuwa’s shoulders and tuck under his legs, then lifting him easily as he stood up from the sofa. Vulcan pulled closer to the HumaGear’s chest, leaning his head back against Horobi’s shoulder and nuzzling lightly against his neck as the HumaGear started down the short hallway toward the bedroom—their room—closing his eyes again. Anger was already a faint memory that it was easy to put aside, especially as Horobi was already depositing on the bed, making a soft, surprised sound when Fuwa didn’t let go, pulling him down on to the mattress, too. It was impossible to hold onto it when they were tangled together, trying to manoeuvre to undress each other while also getting distracted by the urge to kiss again. Besides, it felt a little like poetic justice to be putting Yotagaki’s bullshit on hold to focus on making love, making Horobi feel good, especially when the HumaGear was showing even more signs of recovering.

They could worry more about ZAIA later. Much later.

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

I have no idea what time of day this is happening… They probably have plenty of time before Jin gets home.

I think.

[simsadventures]

Remember the Time

Summary: You are left alone in Sanctuary, and let your mind wander towards the time when you weren’t Negan’s wife, and his first I love you.

Pairing: Negan x Reader

Warnings: fluff, memories, mentions of zombies, swearing

Word Count: 1765 A/N: This piece was requested by anon for my Followers Appreciation Challenge (I know, it’s been too long, I’m so sorry), the prompt being I don’t know if we live to see the sunrise, but I love you (it will be in bold in the text). Thank you for requesting it, and I hope you’ll enjoy it xx

Masterlist

You were laying in your bed, awaiting your husband to come home. You hated to stay at the Sanctuary when Negan was doing something was outside the gates, but because a bullet grazed your arm not even a week ago, Negan didn’t want any infection to get it, or to someone use this against you. So you were patiently waiting for him to come home and entertain you somehow.

The only thing left for you to do was to go down the memory lane.

When you first got to the Sanctuary, you hated it, and you hated the leader even more. He was a smug motherfucker, owning 5 women for his own pleasure and calling them his wives. Pathetic! You could see that the girls were enjoying their privileges, always standing next to Negan, their make-up and dresses perfect, while the rest of you were glad you were alive and could afford a second-hand shirt.

At first, you were working in the kitchen, because you used to be a pretty decent cook. The people were quite friendly there, so you didn’t have much to complain about. But after about 4 months, you wanted more. You wanted to go out, kill some walking dead, or go on some hunts with the Saviours.

When you first tried to get in, everyone laughed at you, poked at your thin arms and legs, and told you to get lost, because you’d get killed too easily, or worse, would get someone else actually worth it killed.

But you didn’t give up that easily. You worked out every day after your work was done, running around the compound, doing push-ups, pull-ups, burpees and all that, just to get some muscle on your body. Once you felt comfortable in your own body, you approached the Saviours again. You knew you couldn’t work a gun, or throw a knife, but you were sure that with a little bit of training, you’d master it in no time.

It took you another 2 months to become a decent shot. Hell, more than decent, you became one of the best, even if they never agreed to that.

You were training with several others, even though you still weren’t officially admitted to be a Saviour when you heard a booming voice behind you.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Negan stood behind you, shamelessly ogling you, licking his lips. Someone tried to explain what you were doing there, but he shushed them with a raised hand. “I wanna hear from you, doll.”

You took a deep breath and told him about your plan. He just smirked and took a few steps towards you. “Pretty face such as yourself shouldn’t be put into an army, doll. You should be put on a pedestal and admired. What do you say you become my next wife, huh? I’m getting quite bored with those that I have, and I think you’d be a nice little addition to my collection.”

You stared at him for a while and then started laughing like crazy. “Me, a wife… have you lost your mind, Negan?” You looked at him, to see if he was having as much fun as you were, but his face was dead serious and probably pissed by now.

“What’s so funny, doll?”

You rolled your eyes because as much as you didn’t mind nicknames in ordinary life, you knew very well that this was something Negan called pretty much everyone with a pussy. “First of all, I’m not your doll. Secondly, I’m no trophy wife, ok? I’m here to be a Saviour, not to be pretty and do shit.”

Negan just stared at you, nodded, and walked away. You knew that nobody talked to him like that and that many people who did experience Lucille very up-close.

You smiled at that memory. He was such an intimidating asshole, but you weren’t afraid of him. Not then and not now. You thought that it was one of the things that made Negan so interested in you and that if it weren’t for your big mouth, you two would never be together. Funny memory was when he started to follow you like a lost puppy, trying to prove to you that he was worth your chance. Even though in his head, it was you following him.

“C’mon, doll. Tell me, what does a man gotta do for you to sleep with him, huh?”

You smirked, stood on your tip-toes, pressed your body against his, and whispered, “He gotta be single, for a start.” You pushed him away little and laughed at his expression,

“You want me to get rid of my wives for you? You are just one of many, my sweet little Y/N.” Negan really though he had the upper hand in that conversation, you just shrugged and smiled sweetly. “Fair enough, Negan. You’re the one who’s been behind my ass these past two months, not the other way around.”

And you just turned around and walked away. The next time you saw Negan, was while out on something like a date with Jeff, your fellow Saviour. He was asking you constantly and thinking that Negan would give a shit, you just gave in.

But boy, were you wrong. Negan walked in the room with a smug smirk on his face, but it quickly fell once he saw you, all but snuggled into Jeff. Were you any other girl, hell, probably even one of his wives, he wouldn’t give you two looks. But it was YOU! And he wanted you! He came marching towards you and yanked you up to a standing position. “What do you think you’re doing, doll?”

You tried to get your arm from his grip, but he wouldn’t budge. “I’m on a date, asshole. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

“On a date, huh? You think you can go out on dates now?”

You cringed and pushed him away. “You know what, Negan? Go on, and fuck your 5 wives and leave me the fuck alone, will you?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Y/N!” He yelled, pulled you to his chest and kissed you. You were shocked, at first, but after you realised what was happening, you melted in his arms, and let him in your mouth completely.

Just the thought of the first kiss made your face lit up with a small smile. He always acted so tough and bad-boy like, but the second you let him in, he abandoned all those wives, and let you in. He did it with no ease at all, he hated your prying for information, but once he understood you only asked because you genuinely cared, and just wanted to be a better partner for him, he let go. The funniest memory of them all, however, was the time he told you he loved you.

You were in the middle of what seemed to be 20 zombies. You didn’t even remember how you got there. You tried to get some supplies from an abandoned supermarket, and when you got out of there, suddenly, out of nowhere, zombie after zombie came “running” towards you. Negan grabbed his Lucille, smirked at you, started bashing skulls. You laughed out loud, pulled out your gun out of the holster, and started making a sieve out of those motherfuckers.

But more were coming still, and even though you were all trying your best, it just seemed it wasn’t enough. You retrieved a little, to gain some strength back, and to just calm your breaths down a little. Negan grabbed your waist suddenly, pushed you towards the nearest wall and kissed you passionately. You didn’t have that much breath to start with, but Negan took it all away. You were a panting mess when Negan finally let your mouth go.

“Look, sweetheart, I don’t know if we live to see the sunrise, but I love you. You are the most important thing in my life, so don’t you fucking dare die on me here, ok?”

“What’s the talk about dying, love? Just a few assholes we’re gonna kill, and then we go home and fuck like rabbits! Oh, and by the way, I love you too, Negan.”

He pecked your lips and led the rest of the Saviours towards the door.

It was only when you were in the truck, both safe and sound and on your way towards the Sanctuary that Negan mentioned his own words again.

“About what I said in there. Look, doll-“

“If you wanna take it back, don’t you even try, Negan. Just because you don’t want people to know that you actually have heart and that you’re able to feel something, doesn’t mean that you have to put that wall up even in front of me. So just, don’t, ok? I know you love, you know you love, so just-“

 “Damn, woman!! I wanted to tell you that I meant every single word and that,” he stopped talking and rummaged his pockets for a second before he pulled out a little box. “I wanted you to become my wife, you stubborn piece of ass!”

You were looking at him, dumbfounded, not comprehending a single word he was saying. Your brain completely shut off, and all you could do was stare at him, and the little black box in his hand.

“You with me, doll?”

“Oh my God, Negan, you can’t ask me to marry you, while going from a zombie murder land! And in a truck, and just-“

“Is that a yes, Y/N?”

“Of course it’s a fucking yes! But I expect you on one knee when we get back!”

He just laughed at that and squeezed your hand. “I’ll get on both knees for you, and eat you alive! I fucking love you!”

Because you were buried in your memory, you couldn’t hear the door to your bedroom opening and swiftly closing again. You almost couldn’t feel the bed dip under the weight of someone kneeling next to you.

“Whatcha do-“

“Aaaaah!” You yelled and smacked his shoulder multiple times. “Have you fucking lost your mind? Who do you think you are?”

“Hell, doll, what’s gotten into you?”

“I was thinking about something, and I didn’t hear you coming in. You wanna give me a heart attack or something?”

“Oh, shut up! You were thinking about me? If so, why the fuck aren’t you naked and wet?”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully and pulled him in for a sweet, welcoming kiss. Yeah, you were happy you came to the Sanctuary all those years ago.

Tags: @p8tn0lish​ @eileenalone​

[ao3bronte]

Unseen Scars by @ao3bronte Part 7 | Part 8  Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

This is my eighth prompt for @badthingshappenbingo ! Please reblog and enjoy!

Concussion (8/8)

A few hours later, both Plagg and Adrien wake up with a start as a brown paper sack lands with a crunch beside them. Within the blink of an eye, the kwami tears open the bag and pulls out a wedge of comté, attacking it voraciously. Adrien, on the other hand, can’t seem to drag his eyes away from Ladybug, all silhouette and cinnamon sugar against the haze of light from the streetlamps of Paris.

“Hey Kitty. I brought you some freshly baked bread. I figured after two days of soup, you would be hungry.”

Adrien swallows thickly and reaches for the bag blindly, still staring. She steps closer and her face is suddenly illuminated by the ambient light from his computer screen, highlighting the shape of her chin and the bow of her lips.

“Ladybug…th-thanks.”

She hesitates briefly before sitting at the foot of his bed. She’s as stiff as a board and a blush begins to speckle her cheekbones. Somewhere to her left, Plagg groans.

“You’re welcome,” Ladybug replies after a beat, keeping her voice as steady as possible. She closes her eyes briefly to remind herself why she’s here and opens them again, determined, “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he whispers, ripping off a small piece off the bun she’d brought him, “Much better.”

She smiles, “Good. How’s your head?”

“Um…” Adrien reaches back and gently pats the scabby lump still protruding from the back of his skull, “It still hurts.”

Ladybug settles more comfortably on the mattress, crossing her legs in front of her, “I’m not surprised, considering a building fell on top of you.”

“A building?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No…I’m not remembering a whole lot right now, to be honest.”

Ladybug presses her hand against the bulge in the duvet where his feet rest and squeezes gently, “I’m glad you’re being honest with me.”

“Who else can I be honest with? You’re my partner.”

Ladybug smiles and Adrien feels the gravity of the world start to lighten, “I’m glad. I was worried that…” she gestures between the two of them, “...this would make things kind of weird.”

“Our lives are pretty weird to begin with,” Adrien shrugs, wincing a little at the pain that slices through the base of his skull, “But yeah, no. I mean, I haven’t really had a lot of time to, um…”

She watches as his face scrunches up in concentration and tries to console him, “It’s alright...it’s been a lot to take in.”

“Yeah…” Adrien trails off, pointedly looking in any direction other than hers, “Sorry.”

He hears her sigh a little, “Don’t blame yourself for anything, mon minou. Now, Plagg,” Ladybug scoops the kwami into her palms and scratches his bloated belly, “Has Adrien been behaving himself this evening?”

Plagg’s elated purrs begin to fill the room, “Sort of. He threw up most of his dinner.”

Adrien blushes and shoves another piece of bread into his mouth, praying that it stays down this time, “It didn’t taste as good as yours. Your—your soup, I mean.”

Ladybug tries not to grimace at the graphic detail and glances back down at Plagg, “And you made sure he stayed hydrated?”

Plagg shoves his nose into the air, “Obviously.”

Ladybug shares a look of exasperation with her partner, “Good kitty. Now, go and eat your cheese.” She lowers her hand and lightly rolls him from her palm, smiling as he lays on his back with his cheese, eyes half-lidded in bliss, “Is he always this obsessed with cheese?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, now I see where you get your cheesy lines from.”

Adrien smiles, “You sure know how to hurt my felines.”

Snorting, she wipes a hand down her face in mock annoyance and tries to keep her own smile at bay, “You’re pawful.”

“M’lady,” he goes to laugh and blanches instead, his hand instinctively clutching his head. Ladybug is beside him in an instant, gloved fingers cupping his elbows and then carding through his hair.

“Are you alright? What is it?”

Adrien pinches his eyes closed and tries to stop the sensation of nausea from crawling up his throat, “I just…need a minute.”

Fighting her own panic coursing through her veins, she continues her ministrations, her thumbs rubbing circles on his temples, “You know, headaches are pretty common after a concussion.”

‘Y-yeah?” he stutters, his teeth chattering from the thundering of the axe splitting his skull. He tries to focus on Ladybug’s fingers as her left hand travels down his cheek and around his jaw, scratching at the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” she replies quietly, “By the way, when was the last time you had a shower?”

Adrien’s eyes shoot open, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation, “Uhhh…I don’t know?”

She laughs through her nose, “I can tell. Come on, smelly cat, let’s get you in the shower.”

“Sh-shower?”

“It will make you feel better, I promise. Now, do you need help getting over there?”

Adrien is struggling to keep up with the conversation, but the pain in his head has lessened and there’s a hand in front of his face, beckoning him to stand. He laces their fingers together and lets her pull him to a sitting position for a moment, pausing briefly to fight the acid building in his stomach. He swallows against it and she supports him as he stands, dizzy but otherwise stable. At last, she lets go and matches his wobbly strides as he crosses the floor, eyes focused on the open door of the bathroom on the other side of the room.

“I’ll be out here,” she says, the blush peppering her cheeks returning with full force, “Be careful and try not to slip. Yell if you need me.”

Adrien nods as she closes the door part way behind him, probably in order to save him more easily if need be.

The water stings his scalp when he dips his head beneath the rain shower and he winces when flakes of old blood begin to pool at his feet. Didn’t he shower after he got hit in the head? He doesn’t even remember when that was…a few days ago? Maybe?

Ladybug had said that a building had fallen on top of him as Chat Noir but his recollection was hazy at best. It feels like he’s trying to see his reflection through a fogged-up glass and the image he knows is there is somehow obstructed by some intangible force he can’t wipe away. Errant thoughts and murky memories filter through his mind like a sieve, ideas and entire sentences falling through the cracks.

He pours shampoo in his hands and begins to lather it through his hair, nearly screaming as he dislodges the scabs on his scalp with his fingertips. He doesn’t remember much of what happens after that, but his bottle of conditioner is wet so he must have used it. And his loofah is on the wrong shelf, so he probably washed his body with it at some point. Was it before he washed his hair? Or after? He picks it up and smells it, grimacing when he realises he’s just scrubbed his skin with conditioner.

Merde! He just can’t win for losing!

Tears brimming at the corners of his eyes, he shuts off the water and figures that he’s had enough stupid for one day. He towels himself off haphazardly as he steps out onto the shower mat and stares up at the all too bright ceiling to keep from letting his tears stream down his cheeks; he can’t let Ladybug see what an idiot he is, even if it means locking up what he’s feeling and throwing away the key.

She’s left him a pair of fresh pyjamas just inside the threshold of the bathroom door and he feels like crying all over again.

Ladybug is waiting for him when he finally leaves the bathroom, hovering just beyond mattress platform of his bed. She gives him a quick once-over, taking stock of his soggy hair and red rimmed eyes as he exits, and she leads him over to his divan.

“My Papa used to play football when he was a teenager,” she explains quietly, folding one leg beneath her before settling on the couch, “He said that he used to hit his head all the time on the field but they didn't know a lot about concussions back then.”

Adrien follows her lead and sits down beside her, “One day when he was at university, he was playing a practice match against his friends when he was tackled from behind and fell, hitting his head against his friend's cleat. He kept playing but he didn't feel very good and when he and his friends went to the bar for drinks afterwards, he fell asleep on the table and woke up in the hospital.”

“Papa said it took months for him to recover,” she continues, “He had whiplash and had to wear sunglasses all the time because the lights were too bright and he couldn't go out with his friends anymore because they were too loud. He failed a semester of school because he couldn't sleep at night and had headaches all the time.”

Ladybug sighs, “He flunked out of school and started working as a...well, it’s a kind of job where you don’t need to worry about weird sleeping hours. He still has insomnia and waking up really early is easy for him, which makes his job easier...things always happen for a reason, I guess,” Ladybug goes to place a hand on Adrien’s knee and hesitates, resting it on the cushion instead, “At least that’s what I keep telling myself.”

“So...you’re saying that I hit my head for a reason?”

“I know it sounds silly but…” Ladybug shakes her head, “I don’t know. I just know that I’m here for you now, to take care of you.”

“But what about the akumas? I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“Adrien,” Ladybug’s hand finally presses against his, “I can handle the akumas on my own for now.”

Adrien frowns, “What if you need help?”

“I'll find a way like I always do.”

“But—”

“No buts Chat,” Ladybug shifts her hand onto his knee and squeezes gently, “Besides, Plagg and I have already come to an agreement.”

“Plagg…” Adrien warns, his eyes narrowing at the little kwami. 

Plagg shrugs noncommittally, “Ladybug is right. You're grounded until you feel better.”

“I do feel better!” Adrien exclaims, tossing his arms in the air. His voice sounds fragile in his ears and he folds in on himself in defense, “I'll be fine in a few days.”

“It's going to take longer than that and you know it,” Ladybug replies sternly, squeezing harder, “I'll come and visit you every night to check up on you. You won't be alone.”

“I'm always alone,” he grumbles and immediately regrets it; it's like he's missing a filter or something!

“No you're not. You have your friends! You have Nino and Alya and...and Marinette. We're all here for you.”

Adrien pinches the bridge of his nose, “Why didn't your stupid purification charm work on me?”

He doesn't miss the pained look on her face as she lets him go, reeling back, “I...I don't know.”

Plagg appears over her shoulder, frowning as he licks the cheese off his paws, “It healed most of it.”

Ladybug and Adrien take pause, “It was worse?”

Plagg doesn't make eye contact, “Oh yes.”

He doesn't elaborate. Ladybug has a vivid enough imagination not to ask and Adrien just sinks further into his seat.

“You could have died…” Ladybug’s voice trails off and she looks suddenly stricken, blue eyes wide and brimming with something Adrien’s not used to seeing on her features. She holds her breath and moves before her mind can catch up with her emotions, wrapping her arms around his body. She crushes him to her chest and he squeezes back, burrowing his forehead into her shoulder.

“Oh Chat.”

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until it’s spilling down his cheeks, the hot tears catching on the waterproof fabric of her suit. He tries desperately to get a hold of himself but the dam he’s built has been leaking for days now and it all comes streaming out in a deluge he can’t hold back any longer. She strokes his back with one hand and buries her fingers into the hair at the base of his skull with the other, scratching calmingly against his skin. He feels himself begin to relax again, the pent-up storm inside of him dissolving like steam, the heat of her body and heart boiling away the emotions beneath. He’s so tired, so fed up with being useless and used and he clings to her like a lifeline, scared she’ll dissolve, scared she’ll leave him behind.

(Plagg, for all his eccentricities, falls apart a little at the seams.)

“It’s okay, mon minou,” she continues to stroke his back and card her fingers through his hair, “You’ll be alright, we will take care of you.”

Adrien doesn’t know whether he falls asleep in her arms or not, but when he wakes up at 4h in the morning buried in his bedsheets with Plagg at his side, he feels a little less alone.

fin.

(I have’t decided yet if I will continue)

[cyoza]

adrenaline

okay so we can all agree that ep 5 has been the best one so far of the season so I tried to something from that 

I did try to get a little dirtier but honestly I couldn’t get in the mind frame, even after 2 glasses of scotch so aqui estamos! that being said, i feel like my last couple of chapters were focused on big horny Kory energy so I’ve at least tried to flip that around.

as per, please like, comment reblog if you like it! thanks!! 

part two 

part three 

part four 

part five 

part six 

*******************************************************************************************

The mood back at HQ was indescribable. Somehow electric from the residual energy but sombre due to everyone’s exhaustion yet triumphant from their win. Safe to say the drive back was tense and silent. Arguably due to Jason being passed out in the backseat meaning he couldn’t fill the car with his nonsensical babbling.  That being said, the relief over him being okay was the premier emotion, everyone knowing how badly this could have ended. 

Dick and Hank had taken responsibility for him, carrying him from the car to the infirmary. They settled him with what was essentially a baby monitor so that they could keep an eye on him but still recuperate; any movement or change would send an immediate alert to Dick’s phone. He had sustained a lot of injuries, which meant that the night ahead could potentially be a long one; everything would be touch and go to make sure he didn’t succumb to any injuries from his fall. Though Jason would probably never admit it, the trauma of the night would more than likely haunt him for a very long time to come. 

Dick knew that more than anyone.

He had insisted Rachel and Gar go to bed, having to nearly twist Gar’s arm to leave Rose to get some rest ensuring him she would be okay now that everyone was back. Kory had been in the shower for the last 15 minutes, meaning she would be out soon but for now Dick was alone in the living room, bar the miserable company of the glass of whiskey in his hand. He let out a deep sigh before gulping down a mouthful, the liquid leaving a burning trail down his throat. He hoped more than anything it would at least allow him to unwind a little, the remnants of adrenaline still coursing through him fiercely. 

Tonight had been a cyclone of pure shit and he had no one to blame but himself. He couldn’t seem to make the right decisions no matter how hard he tried. Because of him Rachel was in crisis, Rose and Jason were in the infirmary, not to mention how tumultuous the rest of his relationships were and if it wasn’t for Kory, they’d probably all be dead.

Kory..

The thought of her had him instinctively taking another sip, swigging the last of it. He prayed that it would slow down the leap in his heart rate but all it was currently doing was aiding in raising the heat that was stirring under the collar of his navy t shirt. He’d never seen anyone move so fluidly and so effortlessly with such power. Donna had once joked that he had a ‘thing for dangerous women’ and after tonight it would be difficult to deny it with vim. He felt himself slide down his chair slightly as he remembered more from the fight, allowing himself to do so now he knew everyone was safe and sound; at least for now. He allowed himself to remember how strong her arms looked blocking the bullets from Deathstroke. Allowed himself to think about how powerful and lithe her body looked as she flew out of the window after Jason to catch him in her arms. How positively ethereal she looked as she lifted him back to safety. He always knew Kory was exquisite but tonight was something else, something he could never hope to imagine. 

‘Comfortable there, Grayson?’ 

Kory’s voice jolted him back up to a sitting position, causing him to almost drop his glass. He glanced up at her to scold her jokingly but found his mouth too dry to speak at the sight of her. She wore nothing but one of his button up shirts, her hair freshly blow dried to maximum fluffiness; all in all, she looked utterly irresistible

‘Dick? Hey, are you okay?’ Her voice broke his revere, summoning his gaze back her eyes where he met her worried gaze. 

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry, its uh, it's been a long night.’ He apologised, setting down the glass on the coffee table next to him. 

He watched as she took the seat opposite him, trying to ignore how the light from the lamp highlighted the muscular shape of her thighs as the shirt lifted. 

‘No pyjamas?’ He inquired. 

‘No, I was kind of in a rush to get back so I didn’t have the time and this is the first thing I could find when I came out of the shower. You don’t mind do you?’ She raised an eyebrow, as if she was daring him to object. 

‘No, of course not. You’re good.’ He cleared his throat before speaking again. ‘So..’ was his marvelous start. 

‘So…?’ Kory continued, questioningly. 

‘Uh, long night. And you can fly! When, um, did you find that out?’ 

‘Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that actually. I got a...jump start in getting my memories back recently and that was one of the things that I remembered.’ She shrugged it off as if it were nothing, as if she hadn’t saved multiple lives tonight. ‘That was the first time I’ve done it since. I don’t know, I saw Jason fall and next thing I knew he was in my arms. Call it instinct, I guess. I was as surprised as you were. But you - You’re not Robin anymore but you sure still have his moves.’ 

‘Yeah, you think so? Well, I try.’ He responded, her praise sent a warm prickling sensation all over his body. 

‘I’m sure you do.’ She smiled at him as she held his gaze, a smile of a siren, sultry and downright enticing. ‘You know, I forgot how good of a team we are. How well we work together. It was nice to be reminded.’ 

The air surrounding them seemed to be static, the electricity between them palpable in the room and the voltage seemed to ascend exponentially the longer they looked at each other. Kory was the one who broke the bubble, standing to make her way over to him. Dick could feel the typhoon of desire rising within him, like tumbling clouds and he knew it was only a matter of time that the feeling would tsunami him. Especially if Kory kept moving the way she was moving. Thankfully, she placed herself on the arm of his chair, far enough that he could at least form some relatively rational thoughts. But then she leaned over him, stupefying him as the sweet, rosy billow of her shampoo and conditioner. Kory grabbed the glass he’d been drinking out of and filled it halfway before throwing it back in one swallow. 

‘It’s no fun to drink by yourself. You’re not going to get in your head tonight, Grayson, I’m gonna make sure of that.’ She announced with conviction. 

Dick looked up at her, the alcohol making itself known at this point and giving him the liquid courage he needed to do what he did next. In all the recent events and tribulations, Dick had forgotten who he was. Kory frequently rendered him powerless to her but it was time he reminded himself and her of the attractive, tactful man he was. So he wound his arm around her waist and pulled her down into his lap, prompting a surprise squeal from Kory as she tipped backwards, her legs now placed over the arm of the chair. 

‘Oh? And how do you expect to do that, Miss Anders?’ He whispered, pulling her closer to him so she was flush against him. 

‘Why don’t you give me some suggestions...Mr Grayson.’ Kory’s face couldn’t have been more than a few inches from his, giving him perfect access for his following move. 

Dick seized her lips with his own in one swift move, revelling in how velvety they were and Kory matched his energy, kissing him back with just as much enthusiasm as he gave her. She lifted her arms to drape them over his shoulders, her hands landing at the nape of his neck to sieve through the tufts of hair there. The slight tug she gave them evoking a pleased grunt from him, his hips jerking instinctually. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to take her right there and then on the spot. 

Normally Dick was more patient, more explorative in his ministrations, but with the way the Kory was shifting in his lap and the exhilaration from the night coupled with the whiskey, he rushed to undo the buttons of the shirt she was wearing. 

It was Kory again who broke their mutual trance, pulling back from the kiss to halt his hands before he opened more than the two buttons he’d unclasped. 

‘Ah, we can’t do this here. I can’t have someone walking through here and catching us.’ 

And much to his dismay, she slid off his lap and stood towering over his position in the chair. He began to protest but was cut short when she continued to liberate the rest of the buttons, drawing open the collar of the shirt and permitting him a peek of the supple curve of her bare breasts. 

‘So? Shall we continue this in the bedroom, Mr Grayson?’ 

Well, he didn’t need to be asked twice.

[straykidsupdate]

Stray Kids are shaking up K-pop’s status quo

The South Korean pop band Stray Kids are clustered around a laptop for a Skype interview, pale in the screen’s glow as heavy rain turns New York City to grey. It’s a fitting backdrop for the group: from their 2017 pre-debut release “Hellevator” to the latest single, the snarling, trumpeting EDM of “MIROH”, the K-pop group have made similarly dystopian environs their visual backdrop, where neon and CCTV screens flicker and the group are hemmed in by skyscrapers, tarmac, and tunnels as they attempt to escape or defy their surroundings.

This concept – of attaining freedom – is central to the group, and it’s an idea that’s rooted in reality. The group’s leader, Bang Chan, handpicked each member for the group from their parent label JYP Entertainment’s roster of trainees, a process unheard of in K-pop, where that power lies with executives and creative directors. Stray Kids write and produce all their material, too, and are one of the few idol groups to do so. Their music focuses unflinchingly on their youth – the anger and frustration, the ecstatic highs and ragged lows – while questioning their own shifting sense of identity.

With bleached bangs falling into one eye, Bang Chan recalls not the gravitas of the opportunity to form his own group, but the pressure of picking wisely. “There was a lot on my mind,” says the 21-year-old, speaking during the band’s run of sold-out North American concerts. “Choosing the right people was a must, because I’m going to be with them for a long time. Because I’d been a trainee for so long,” – seven years – “I think I had the ability to figure out what potential they had.” He turns to his bandmates and namechecks them: Woojin, the eldest at 22; Lee Know; Changbin; Hyunjin; Han; Felix; Seungmin; and the youngest, I.N, who turned 18 in February. “With everyone around me right now, I’m really glad we’ve become this team.”

Bang Chan and 18-year-old Felix, whose cavernously deep voice is at odds with his Bambi-innocent looks, were both raised in Australia, and the broad twang of their accent conveys a cheerful, anything-is-possible resonance. It’s the former who helms the conversation. He’s an engaging speaker and a careful listener, stopping to translate questions for the non-English speakers. At times he falters, and at others he deflects to well-worn answers (a reflection of their newness), but he’s unmistakably a leader, a role he wears effortlessly.

As a whole, Stray Kids are known for their friendly, indefatigable rambunctiousness, but with nearly a dozen rookie awards and five EPs in just over 12 months, it’d be foolish to underestimate their tenacity. Their start was a baptism of fire. On Stray Kids, the eponymously-named survival TV show that they were formed through, they were required to write tracks and perfect performances to short deadlines, then ruthlessly critiqued by the CEO of their label, JYP Entertainment. Two of the group members, Felix and Lee Know, were initially eliminated, although eventually reinstated in the final episode via a public vote. Felix, axed due to his less-than-fluent Korean, hasn’t forgotten the sting. “I still think about my Korean and how I use the language,” he sighs. “I try to learn, and fix it.”

You can see his determination when Stray Kids appear on Korean variety shows to showcase their work and their personalities. Felix’s shyness in speaking had resulted in less camera time but, in recent months, his studying has appeared to pay off and he’s a far more confident presence, able to convey the charm that's endeared him to their fans. It’s the result of constant help from his bandmates, he says, radiating positivity (which is, delightfully, Felix’s default setting). Lee Know, however, who’d had only a short idol training period and was cut early in the series, favours a more stoic approach. “I think I’m here thanks to that feedback. I worked really hard then, and I’m still trying to work hard now too,” he says, and although his small smile seemingly hints at something more pronounced, he settles on a double thumbs up and sits back.

“Choosing the right people was a must... With everyone around me right now, I’m really glad we’ve become this team” – Bang Chan, Stray Kids

Their rough-meets-polished sound was set up by the darkly anthemic “Hellevator”, but the thundering EDM and guitar riffs of their official debut, “District 9”, cemented them as a fresh force in K-pop. In its music video, they flee a clinical-looking prison and use a school bus to smash through to the safety of the titular District 9, although even there they’re left searching. “I don’t know who I am, it’s frustrating, it always worries me / Answer me, then give me an answer that will clear it all,” Hyunjin raps with a volatile urgency.

This ceaseless quest weaves through last year’s EP trilogy (I Am NOT, I Am WHO, I Am YOU) and into their latest EP, Clé 1: MIROH, the clear narrative allowing for sonic experiments (from the minimalist electronica of “3rd Eye” to the bright pop drawl of “Get Cool”) without losing momentum. In their song “NOT!”, they celebrate breaking out the “system” – the status quo – and the strength of being different. For Stray Kids, this is more about ambiguous storytelling than holding a deliberate ’us versus them’ mentality. “We usually don’t compare (ourselves) to others,” says vocalist Seungmin, in English. “Like in the song ‘My Pace’, we’re saying we don’t care about others’ (achievements), we’re just talking about Stray Kids’ own way.”

While Stray Kids have definitely created a richly empathetic musical tapestry, their chosen path raises a pertinent observation: in breaking out of one “system”, they’ve joined another. The idol system that they’re now a part of often appears more restrictive than the one they leave behind, and as they move towards the bubble of fame and money, there’s also the potential to lose a sense of oneself. Both feel paradoxical to their story. Bang Chan pauses. “Well, honestly, we wouldn’t call it a system, let’s say a ‘world’, and we’d call it a decision that we made. In order for us to get out of the main system, we chose being idols, and through K-pop we can show the message we want to express.”

Han, the 18-year-old rapper, singer, and songwriter/producer, drapes himself, cat-like, over Felix’s head and neck to get close to the camera. “I think fame and success can be dangerous to a person, depending on how they feel about it, but we’re going to try to always be positive and good natured about it,” he opines, gesticulating rapidly. “We’re still lacking so much, but we’re going to try really hard to understand other people’s feelings and be a good influence.”

Given Stray Kids’ formation, creative freedom, and growing success makes them something of an anomaly, might their presence provoke change in the idol world? Bang Chan furrows his brow. “I suppose so,” he says with the questioning tone of someone presented with an unfamiliar concept. “I guess it’s up to how people take it in.”

Stray Kids, evidently, have been more preoccupied with looking inward, and, when examining their new EP, it’s apparent their gaze has been in flux. Clé 1: MIROH, which Bang Chan describes as “us being really confident because all nine of us are together”, presents a new fearlessness on tracks like “Boxer”, “MIROH” and “Victory Song”, where Han triumphantly raps:“A laidback victor, a smile spreads on my face / Who else is like me, there’s no one.”

“When I was becoming a singer, some people didn’t support my dreams, so I was sad. I remember that and put those feelings into this song” – Changbin, Stray Kids

They pose fewer existential questions than on previous EPs, but, says Bang Chan, “if you look at tracks like ‘Chronosaurus’ and ‘Maze Of Memories’, it shows nervousness or anxiety, and a feeling of being lost as well.” The latter, its doomy hip hop propelled by tense piano and bursts of foreboding strings, was an emotional outlet for their silver-tongued rapper, Changbin. “When I was becoming a singer,” he says, in English, “some people didn’t support my dreams, so I was sad. I remember that and put those feelings into this song.”

Yet despite sieving emotions and thoughts through the music, their biggest questions, says Changbin, remain unanswered. “But we’re trying,” he smiles. He points to the close presence of their fans, known as STAY. “Maybe we can find the answer soon, through STAY.” How does he intend to discover deeply personal epiphanies through others? “I’m young and lack a lot of experience,” replies Changbin, reverting to Korean. “There are still a lot of childish elements about me as well. By watching those around me, I can find out what I like through them. I feel like I can find myself through (others’ journeys).”

For now, Stray Kids simply continue doing what they’ve done so well thus far – capturing the human condition, including tackling difficult subjects like depression (“Hellevator”), anxiety (“Rock”), and negative thoughts (“Voices”), all of which, Bang Chan says, they’ve experienced first-hand. The group’s core writing team (Han, Changbin, and Bang Chan, together known as 3RACHA) have not only refined their style over the past year but, according to I.N, “improved on their speed of making songs. They’ve gotten really fast,” he says with a sunny grin.

3RACHA’s Soundcloud days are far behind them, although, to their credit, they haven’t deleted the handful of songs that were posted pre-debut. Some will remain just enthusiastic learning curves, but others were raw and powerful, such as “Broken Compass”, which was refashioned into “Mixtape #4” for Clé 1: MIROH.

The “Mixtape” songs, which are only found on the physical versions of their EPs, are where, Hyunjin says, “we all contribute, and fill our individual verses with our personal stories”. In January, 3RACHA revisited a few songs during a Vlive broadcast, and cringed to the point of sweating profusely. As Changbin and Han crease up, Bang Chan covers his face, mock-groaning. “We can’t listen to them now!” But there’s a glint in his eye. “We do have to do episode two of that,” he adds, grinning.

It’s not just the songwriters who are evolving; from being wide-eyed, ambitious and nervous trainees who didn’t always get along, as Hyunjin recently revealed, Stray Kids have become compelling performers with close bonds. They’d clung tightly to Bang Chan during their survival show, but do Stray Kids today feel less lost – or at least more secure in their responsibilities? “I’ll just leave the room so the guys can talk more freely,” jokes Bang Chan, even as Changbin, owner of a bone-dry sense of humour, simply yells, “No!” Vocalist Woojin leans in. “He was very good to us while we were filming the show. At that time we always followed him very well, and relied on him a lot.”

“I don’t have a lot of confidence but when he’s next to me, I know I can do this,” adds Felix, as they ready to depart for the next schedule in a packed day. “But,” Woojin says, “now we’re all developing our own selves, too.”

Source

[preface2adreamplay]

Under Your Spell (Chapter 24) - A Most Elegant Impediment

Summary: A Jared Padalecki/OFC /Oscar Isaac fiction.

Stef spends time with Oscar in New York. Old friends and new feelings?

Chapter warnings: Swearing, angst, fluff.

Chapter WC: 2,699

I want to be in every corner of your heart

To haunt your every waking moment

You close your eyes and live and breathe in me

Plucking at the strings mindlessly, Stef hummed a tune she had been working on. Curled up on the sofa, her bare feet tucked into the insides of her knees; something that Oscar had always found freakish, but she was supple, she couldn’t help it. 

It was snowing hard outside. 

Gazing out the patio doors, she was entranced by it, not hearing Oscar walk into the room, his boots making no sound on the carpet. Leaning in close to her he whispered, ‘what are you up to?’ Pulling back and holding his arms in front of him as Stef leaped off the chair and swung her arms around at him. ‘You jerk! You scared the life out of me.’

He laughed at his own mischief, grabbing her hands while she tried to playfully slap his chest. 

‘Sorry, I had to. You were goofing off.’

‘I could have been writing the one masterpiece of my career, and now I’ve forgotten it.’ Stef scrambled over the back of the sofa to get at him. Oscar held his arms up higher in protest. 

‘No, don’t start!’ He warned, grabbing her wrists as she fell over and toppled onto him. 

Playfully grappling with each other, Stef tried to use her teeth on his fingers. Oscar was giggling, deciding that grabbing her waist and spinning her around was the best way to beat her.

Finally, he had her in a grip that she couldn’t get out of. Both of them were breathing hard, laughing. 

‘Truce?’ Oscar asked.

‘Truce,’ Stef agreed, but he knew by her voice, she would attack as soon as he released her. He was broader while she was slimmer and weirdly bendy, but he had speed she didn’t have, when he pulled his hands away, sure enough she was after him with a war cry. Running through the dining room and into the kitchen, he found refuse behind the island. ‘You promised me a truce!’ He cried. 

‘I lied, you should know by now that I like to get my revenge.’ The mischievous grin on her face put a bit of fear in him. She was capable of grabbing something and hitting him with it, she’d done it before. 

Oscar eyed the door out to the garage, feigning a sprint to that side. She fell for it and lunged at the left side of the kitchen island while he slipped past her. Laughing with delight as she yelled in frustration behind him.

She appeared in the dining room holding a sieve. 

‘The fuck you gonna do with that?’ Oscar dived for the fly swatter by the windowsill, dodging the sieve that whistled by his ear. 

Drawing his hand back he hit her right on the round of her ass with a loud thwack.

Stef screamed, doubling over to laugh. Oscar had his hand raised to strike her again, but stopped on seeing her fall to her knees. 

‘OK truce, you got me.’ 

Oscar raised his eyebrows, ‘I don’t trust you.’ Neither of them could breathe very well through the exertion. 

‘Just don’t come at me if I put this down,’ Oscar reasoned, lowering his arm, still on guard. 

‘Nah, I’m done.’ Stef promised, holding up her hand for Oscar to help pull her to her feet. 

‘I’m so thirsty after that,’ Stef ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

‘There is beer in the fridge,’ Oscar kept his eyes on her, unsure if she really was finished or if she were only pausing before she attacked him again.

‘Bit early for beer.’ 

‘Egg nog?’ Oscar raised his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Ohhh, yes, that sounds better.’ Stef led the way to the kitchen, the next thwack of the fly swatter against her ass really took her by surprise. Oscar had run well out of sight. Stef cursed loudly at him, hearing him tear up the stairs and into the safety of the upstairs bedroom.

‘Don’t think I won’t go up there and get you!’ Stef yelled.

Filling two glasses with egg nog, waiting for Oscar to come out of hiding, Stef checked her phone, there were no messages. It had been a couple of days since she had spoken to Jared, a few texts had come through saying that he missed her, asking what gifts she had gotten. No pictures though and she missed seeing his face. 

She missed him, the heat of him against her, his long arms around her. Mostly, she missed his sweetness, when he gave her kisses she wasn’t expecting, or running his fingers lightly over her spine while she lay next to him, knowing it would make her squirm.

‘Penny for your thoughts.’ Oscar was munching on chocolate when he appeared by her side.

‘What?’

‘It’s a saying,’ Oscar replied, his mouth full.

‘I know what it means, you just caught me by surprise.’ Stef looked back down at her phone, locking it, she put it in her pocket. Out of sight out of mind.

‘He still hasn’t called?’

Sounding as if he were talking to his daughter rather than his ex lover. 

Stef didn’t answer, she took a sip of egg nog and tried to look past him into the garden. 

‘We should go out. You’ve been cooped up for days.’ 

Stef groaned, ‘I like being cooped up, it’s better for my mind. Besides,’ she added, seeing Oscar frowning, ‘last time I loosened up, as you said, I started an affair with a married man.’

Oscar rolled his eyes, ‘yeah you did.’ He sounded exasperated. Stef really wished they weren’t having this conversation.

‘You still have friends here, you could go see them if you don’t want to go somewhere with me.’

‘Nik said he was home for Christmas, actually. I wonder what he and his wife are doing.’ Stef pulled her phone out of her pocket again, typing a message to her bandmate. 

‘There, message sent. Happy?’ Stef teased, sipping her egg nog.

‘Happier,’ Oscar grinned, transferring the warmth of his humour into her, she couldn’t help smiling.

‘Thanks for letting me stay this week.’ Stef said bashfully.

‘Well, you always stay, why would this year be different?’

‘Darius is getting older.’ Stef sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking every day about him starting his own traditions and not hanging with us anymore.’

‘Don’t think about things before they happen. Why do you think about shit so much?’

‘Well, it’s gonna happen! I’m tormenting myself with thoughts, I know, I know!’ Stef leaned against the counter, wrapping her free arm across her stomach, chewing on her finger, watching Oscar’s brown eyes disappear while he closed his eyes and reached out for her drink.

‘Come here.’ 

Dropping her glass on the kitchen island, he pulled her into a tight hug. ‘You’re welcome here, always, Effie.’ He was rubbing circles into her back, his hand reached up to her neck, holding her close.

‘Even if you get married and have another family?’

She felt Oscar’s shoulders move as he laughed silently. ‘Even then. But, I doubt I’ll be having a family any time soon.’

Stef released herself from the hug and looked at him, ‘Why not?’

Oscar laughed again, ‘you sound like my mom used to when I told her I didn’t do my homework.’ 

‘Well homework wasn’t your thing, if I remember correctly.’ 

‘Don’t scold me!’ 

‘Why won’t you have another family?’

‘Do you want me to have another family?’

‘No,’ Stef started, not really sure how she was going to ask. 

‘Listen, I have no woman in my life right now. Maybe I’ll meet someone, I can’t predict those types of things. But I have no marriage plans.’

‘You said you wanted more kids though.’ Stef felt sullen.

‘I did, I said I wouldn’t mind if it happened, but I’m not on the hunt for a woman with roomy hips, Effie.’

Stef shrugged. 

‘You and Darius are my family.’ Oscar grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips. 

Stef watched his mouth kissing her hand, she didn’t want to say anything, if she broke the silence between them now, while his dark eyes met with hers, would she say something foolish?

She decided to say nothing and just give him a weak smile. 

Her phone buzzed, taking her hand from his warm grasp she checked her phone.

‘Look at that! Nik says he’s at home, his parents have gone out shopping with his wife and we should come over for beer and play some guitar.’

Oscar leaned in to see her screen, ‘Nik never says that much in a text, I don’t believe you.’ 

Stef giggled, ‘well, he said that just with less words. You game?’

‘Yeah I’m game. Let’s go!’ 

***

Oscar was in the yard on the phone to Darius while Stef pulled out another photo album from Nik’s various boxes in his mother’s kitchen.

‘How do you still have all this stuff?’ She asked, flicking through the sleeves. 

‘Mom won’t throw them out, I’m glad though, coz hey look at your outfit in that one!’

‘Oh fuck,’ Stef laughed, ‘the 90s were something else.’

‘But look at Oscar’s hair! Fuck me. Where is he? Get him in here so we can laugh at him instead.’  Stef ran a finger across a photo of herself and Oscar, they were just kids back then, it wasn’t too long after they had started dating. This one brought back sweet memories, she was laying across his lap on Nik’s sofa. 

‘You were obsessed with him.’ Nik piped up.

‘Was not.’

‘You fucking were! You two were inseparable.’

The next two pictures showed exactly what Nik was talking about, Stef was again draped across Oscar while he was speaking to someone out of shot. The other was Stef holding his arm in a photo with the early band line up.

‘Good god, you’re right. I was a bit full on wasn’t I?’

‘He loved it.’ 

‘You think?’

‘Well, he did pursue you.’

Stef snorted, ‘I remember that, he’d spin around in his seat in class and try talk to me constantly.’

‘Well, it worked. You wouldn’t see you without him or the other way round.’

‘I’m gonna grab the guitars from the basement, please don’t burn any of those photos, you’ll love them when you’re old and ugly.’

‘Thank you, Nik.’ Stef leered at him as he walked away, just as Oscar came in from the yard. He put his hands on her neck.

‘You’re freezing, get your hands off me.’

‘Or what?’ he teased.

‘Or there will be a repeat of earlier today.’ 

Oscar held his hands up and looked at if he were going to take a step back until he saw the photos Stef was looking at.

‘Wow, look at my hair!’

‘It’s no different now, you just got it cut.’

‘And I have more greys.’ Oscar’s face lit up seeing the pictures. ‘Oh man, that’s a trip down memory lane. Hey, look at your outfit!’

‘Nik just said the same thing, I looked cool!’ Stef didn’t really need to defend herself, teenage pictures were never good. 

‘Man, I remember this, we were together a few months. Already I felt like we were gonna be together forever. I’m pretty sure I wrote that on my music book, hey, we met in music class!’

Stef chuckled at his face showing his range of emotions, realisation to good memories to the more embarrassing ones. ‘That’s probably why I wrote Oscar loves Stef 4ever on it.’

‘I think so. That was cute,’ she added softly. ‘But wait no, you showed up in music class and stared at me the whole time. We didn’t ‘meet’ there. You introduced yourself to me at lunch break about two days later.’

‘Yeah, it took a couple of days of talking to your friends to see if you were cool or not. You were cute, I swear I fell in love right then and there when I saw you that first day.’ Oscar rested his head on her shoulder, watching as she flicked to the next set of photos. 

‘Uh oh, pregnancy photo.’

‘Oh, I may have to take this one, we don’t have any pictures of you like this.’ Oscar pulled it from the plastic film.

‘I’m sure we do.’

‘Nah we don’t,’ Oscar interrupted. ‘I don’t even know how we even managed to have a kid, I wasn’t allowed in your house if your mom wasn’t in the room with us.’

Stef giggled, ‘Yep. I think it was the ‘fucking any chance we got’ that did it.’ 

Oscar’s nose crinkled while he laughed. ‘You know, I think we almost did do it everywhere, since I was never allowed in your bedroom. In fact, I’m almost certain we did it on Nik’s sofa.’

Stef’s eyes widened, ‘oh we did, didn’t we.’ 

‘What are you two giggling at?’ Nik came back into the room, holding a guitar in each hand. Oscar and Stef both coughed at the same time, trying to cover their giggling. 

‘These pictures, man, they’re hilarious. I need to get that picture of Effie pregnant, I need to show it to Dar.’ 

‘No problem, take it. Show him how NOT to dress.’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Stef turned the photo album around to show Nik a photo of him wearing a long, black leather jacket paired with board shorts. 

‘Well, at least some things have changed.’ Nik screwed up his face.

‘You still have the jacket?’ Stef asked.

‘Yep,’ Nik stepped out of the room. ‘I still have the jacket and you two are still in love.’ He hollered as he climbed the stairs two at a time.

Stef didn’t need to see her face to know that she was turning bright red. Fumbling with the photo album, some pictures dropped out of the back. 

Oscar grabbed them quickly, turning them over. 

‘Oh hell, check this one out.’ Oscar said steadily, as if he didn’t hear Nik. 

The first photo was Stef on stage, dressed as a nurse for a Halloween show. The outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination. ‘That was after we had Darius, my god, the size of my tits in that!’

‘I remember, they were awesome!’ Oscar was smirking down at the picture, Stef nudged him with her shoulder.

‘Ever think of dressing up on stage?’ 

Stef was going to give him another nudge and tell him off when she saw the look on his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lip pulled between his teeth. There was lust in his eyes, but it was more than that. It was the look he used to have on his face before he would lean in to kiss her when they first started seeing each other. When every kiss would turn her inside out, every touch was electric. 

‘Uhm, I haven’t really…’ she stammered, trying to pull her gaze away from him.

‘I’m keeping this.’ He slipped the photo into his back pocket before Stef had time to protest.

‘And this one is interesting.’ Oscar held the other photo between his fingers, Stef was dressed as Lara Croft, Nik was Beetlejuice and Oscar was a pimp, top hat and cane had been lost at some point during that night. 

‘Wow, I still hadn’t lost the tits.’ Stef grumbled.

‘I want to know why Nik had the sexiest photos of you at the back of the photo album.’

‘Hey Nik,’ Oscar bellowed at his friend, who was coming back down the stairs, struggling with an amplifier. 

‘Why do you have sexy pictures of Stef?’

‘I have sexy pictures of Stef?’ Nik lumbered through the room, setting the amp in the corner, plugging in his beloved Ibanez iceman. 

‘Yeah, Halloween from about 20 years ago.’

‘Ohhhhhh,’ Nik laughed, ‘spank bank? Don’t tell my wife.’

‘You’re on a warning, buddy,’ Oscar teased.

‘A warning?’ Nik cackled, ‘she ain’t your girl anymore, man.’ 

Oscar snorted, stuffing the photograph into his back pocket. 

‘Why are you taking them?’ Stef whispered.

Oscar winked in response, causing Stef to groan inwardly. 

‘Right, come on dudes. Let’s jam!’ Nik switched on the amplifier.

[wyrmeleon]

The Monster

     I wrote this horror story for a Halloween writing competition for Creative Writing class! I based it loosely on False Memory Syndrome and my love for werewolf-like creatures. It’s a bit of a mess.

Side note: The main character, Dani, is in no way connected to the Adventure Zone character of the same name.

@mythgirlimagines @psychadelic-fool @captainschmoe

     There was blood under Dani’s fingernails. It was uncomfortable, weighing down every fingertip. Were they bleeding? Dani stared at their hands, wracking their memory. 

     A fog of confusion filled their mind. Where were they? Their mouth was dry. Every muscle throbbed. They sat curled in on themselves, chin to chest. The cold tile pressed against their knees, leaching the warmth from their body. 

     How did they get here? They grappled for understanding but the memories slipped away like water through a sieve. Tentatively they tilted their pounding head from side to side, trying to clear their thoughts. Immediately, their vision swirled and pain rose in their gut. Hot vomit splashed onto the cold floor, the acrid smell searing Dani’s nostrils. They hacked and rolled onto their side, dragging themselves away from the puddle. They felt their back hit a wall: cool, tiled like the floor. They sat still, trying to catch their breath as their vision swam. After a few shaky moments they could survey their surroundings as long as they moved gingerly. They were in a small, dingy white room. To their right was a dented iron door. The doorknob was torn away, replaced by a jagged metal plate. Above them was a row of tarnished showerheads - long, rusty streaks like bloodstains marring the walls below. They looked down at themselves. They were naked, covered in dirt. A few inches from their bare foot was a small drain through which the contents of their stomach were trickling. The sight made them grimace. 

     Dani decided to try to stand. Stiffly, they arranged their aching limbs. Just as they reached out to support themselves, they heard a sharp crackle. Their eyes darted to the sound. In the far corner of the ceiling was a small speaker with a slow, blinking red light. From the intercom came a low voice faintly tinged with a West Virginian accent.

     “Thirty-one people dead. Youngest victim: three-year-old Philip Eastman. Decapitated. Oldest victim: sixty-four-year-old Maria Valdez. Disemboweled.”

     As Dani began to wrinkle their brow in confusion, a memory struck them:

     People were weeping. A mother wailed, heartbroken. They were filled with guilt; it rose in their throat and threatened to drown them. They tasted blood.

     “Some were friends. Some were family. They all came to the fair looking forward to a night of lighthearted fun. None of them expected to be torn limb from limb before the day ended.”

     More memories: a Ferris wheel, glittering against the night sky. A group of faces, smiling and laughing.

     Dani’s knees buckled and they fell to the floor. What was happening?

     “Do you remember, Dani?”

     Dani looked up sharply to the drawling intercom, teeth bared for a hot retort. Before they opened their mouth, however, there was a sharp pop as the intercom turned off and a hiss as the showers above them turned on. Frigid water sprayed down. The sudden cold sent a shock through them, their vision shrinking to a pinpoint. One more image flashed in their mind’s eye, just before darkness overtook them:

     A young man’s face, horribly still, eyes glassy. An incredible rush of anger and pain.

     Dani had no idea how long they’d been unconscious. They sat in silence, skin clammy, paralyzed with confusion and dread. The voice’s words were stark in their mind. Yes, they remembered. But what exactly were they remembering? Darting from memory to memory, they scrabbled to make sense of it all. 

     Abruptly, their thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound, distant and muffled by the wall behind them. Something was scratching. Something with claws. Then, another sound- footsteps, approaching the source of the noise. There was a low whine, the sound of a man gently hushing something, the click of a door closing. Then silence once more. Dani cowered, hyperventilating. Hours passed, until they weren’t sure if they had only imagined it all. They were cold. Their jaw ached. There was a faint dripping as the remnants of the cold water trickled in the drain. An air conditioning unit clanked on. Then came the crackle of the intercom. The voice was steelier this time, accusing.

     “Where were you the last night of the fair, Dani? Were you lurking as the children and their doting parents were massacred at the petting zoo? Were you there when the carnage continued, carving a path through the midway? Witnesses are describing a horrible creature- rolling eyes and claws that could cleave through flesh like butter. Like nothing they’d ever seen before. The news is calling it the Fairway Terror. The police don’t know quite what to make of it yet, but they’ll put it together. They’ll map its path. They’ll find samples, take them in for testing. It won’t be long before they figure it aallll out. You know what you did, Dani.”

     The intercom shut off with a pop. Dani leaned against the wall, mind reeling. Footsteps approached their cell. A shadow passed under the crack of the door. There was a wet thud. Suddenly, a flood of blood came gushing under the door towards them, the coppery smell filling the room. It ran along the cracks in the tiles and pooled against their naked body. Dani screamed, trying to stand but slipping and falling into the rising puddle. It was everywhere, spilling across their skin. Their mind went blank with panic, then was filled with a terrible vision. 

     A terrible beast with rolling eyes and jagged teeth, its fur matted with blood. So much blood. The smell is everywhere, tinging its hot breath. Its haunches flex and it pounces, preparing to deliver the killing blow. 

     It was all so real. Whose blood was this? What was the creature? Who was trapped in its claws?   

     -Was Dani the monster?

     The lights flickered and went out. Dani’s mind was screaming, overloaded. The blood clung to their skin and soaked their hair. They writhed, moaning gutturally, scratching furiously at their arms until their blood mingled with the stickiness lacquering their shaking body. Sobbing, they frantically shook their head. What was going on? They didn’t know what was real anymore. There seemed to be a distant howl, the sound of panting. It echoed in Dani’s mind until it was deafening. Was it real? Was it just another strange memory? Or was it Dani themself?

     His eyes were glassy, lifeless.

     They staggered under the wave of emotion. Breathing heavily, they stared at the scarlet sea lapping at their clenched feet. A reflection appeared before them, warped and horrifying. The creature’s face stared back at them- eyes wide, mouth gaping, twitching horribly. Dani’s face.

     Their thoughts splintered in a thousand directions. Images flashed painfully in their mind’s eye. They saw blood running down their hands. Claws. They felt entrails split open in their mouth, left ragged by their slavering fangs. They heard the screams of the victims struggling under their weight. It’s all your fault. All your fault.

    There came the sinister crackle of the intercom.

     “How did it feel, Dani? How did it feel to have their flesh give under your claws, to watch the light leave their eyes? Did you hunger? Did it excite you? You’re a monster, Dani. You know what you did.”

     Dani breathed heavily, shaking uncontrollably. Monster. They were a monster. Thirty-one people dead. Dani shook the confusion from their mind, panic turning to cold decisiveness. They remembered the sounds of weeping and snapping jaws, the dead man’s staring eyes. What was going to happen when they were found out?

     They grit their teeth. Dani was the monster. They’d show him a monster.

    They let rage overtake them. Grunting, they launched themselves at the intercom. The speaker split easily as their fist struck it, the mechanism squawking and bursting in a shower of sparks. Landing easily, they turned towards the patched door. They exploded at it, pummelling it and scrabbling at the edges with blood-soaked hands. Their raw fingers slipped along the metal plating, prying it off and wrenching it open. They narrowed their eyes, surveying the darkened facility before them. Their head swiveled, hunting. There. A light. They took off towards it. As they approached, the sounds of panicked crashing grew louder. They threw open the illuminated door to find an office in disarray. Fumbling desperately for the landline was a silver-haired man in a rumpled lab coat. The tag on his lapel read ‘Dr. George Bray’.

    “Please, for the love of God,” the familiar voice begged, now trembling with terror. “Kill me, destroy me! Just spare him! I only wanted to keep him safe! He’s all I have lef-”

    His voice broke off into a strangled scream as his arm snapped easily in Dani’s grip. Wrenching him to his feet, Dani screamed, animalistic. They dug their fingers as hard as they could into Bray’s soft face, letting the gore run down their elbows. Then they tossed him roughly into the desk. There was a sickening crack and the doctor lay still, blood trickling from his gaping mouth.

    Dani sniffed and turned down the hallway. It wasn’t over yet. They returned to the door of their blood-soaked cell. Eyes narrowing, they turned to their left. There. Another door, slightly ajar. They nudged it open. Two luminous eyes shone back at them.

    There it was. The creature. It all came flooding back.

     A text message from Dani’s cousin: ‘im so bored lol. im going to die if i have to be stuck inside 1 more day’. 

     Dani shot back: ‘How bout the fair? It closes today’. 

     ‘that sounds awesome actually. wanna come?’

     ‘nah man, u kno i have work! Have fun tho, send lots of pix!’

     A smiley emoji. A picture of Dani’s cousin feeding a giraffe, surrounded by friends. A group of faces, smiling and laughing. A Ferris wheel, glittering against the night sky. Then nothing.

     The phone call with the news. The Fairway Terror. Thirty-one dead. Dani’s cousin never even saw what got them. And it was all Dani’s fault. All their fault.

     The day of the funeral. People were weeping. A mother wailed, heartbroken. They were filled with guilt; it rose in their throat and threatened to drown them. They gnawed on their lip, biting back tears. They tasted blood.

     Dani peered into their cousin’s casket. A young man’s face, horribly still, eyes glassy. An incredible rush of anger and pain filled Dani at the sight. This was all their fault. Their suggestion had killed him.

     Then there came a new memory, one Dani had not seen before:

     It was after the funeral. Dani was distracted. They had been walking for hours, the asphalt scuffing under their sneakers. They didn’t even know what part of town they were in anymore. Suddenly, something caught their eye. A dark shape shuffling and snuffling by the dumpster. It moved too quickly for Dani to react.

     A terrible beast with rolling eyes and jagged teeth, its fur matted with blood. So much blood. The smell is everywhere, tinging its hot breath. Its haunches flex and it pounces, preparing to deliver the killing blow. Dani’s head struck the pavement painfully as they dug their nails into the creature’s matted throat, fighting back. Dani faintly heard a man with a light accent calling out desperately:

     “No, don’t kill them!”

     Then it all faded to black.

    A shuddering sigh leaked from Dani’s chest. They looked at the creature. It looked back. It seemed so much smaller now. They weren’t any different now, were they? They were both killers.They were both monsters. 

     The creature smelled its father’s blood dripping from Dani’s clenched fists. It whimpered, chain clanking as it pressed itself to the far wall of its cell. The sound filled Dani with rage. They lunged. With a swift bite and a wrenching of the head, it was over. The creature lay dead at their feet.

    They didn’t stop to look at what they had done. Closing the door behind them, they shuffled down the hallway towards the red exit sign. As they slunk through the double doors, letting the emergency alarm blare behind them, they heard sirens approaching. Seeing the flashing lights in the distance, they steeled their gaze. They lay in wait in the shadows, tense and waiting. The officer approached, fiddling with her holster. They could see the whites of her eyes. Gore ran down their chin as they snarled, leaping. The blood was warm under Dani’s fingernails.