#ofc some of the things i write about have to be twisted in order for the plot to have a good flow

[gilsart]

Hello! Really love your art! I'm curious if you could tell us a little bit about your Frederick's thoughts or reactions on Maria Theresa or maybe even Elizaveta Petrovna? Could be a funny dynamic to hear from you! All the best!

hi! first of all thank you so much 💕

secondly, i really don't have much to say since his thoughts and opinions are 100% based on what you can read in a biography (i also don't know much about what he thought of elizabeth of russia to begin with!)

i'm absolutely not an historian so i don't think i can be taken as a reliable source on such matters, which is also why i decided to focus on a single aspect of his life (his teenage years and the katte-tragedy) instead of his life as a whole, which for what concerns me would've been way too complicated given i have no academic background, as previously stated.

hope you can understand!

[bellaxgiornata]

Life Worth Living |Chapter One|

Pairing: Matt x mutant!fem!Reader Word count: 6.7k [Series Masterlist] [Matt Murdock Masterlist]

tags/warnings: 18+; dark themes/content, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, smut, plot twists, fluff and angst, torture, mentions of sexual abuse, canon divergence, Reader has a fake name & is Matt's neighbor

Summary: All you'd ever wanted was your freedom–a chance at a "normal" life. Under the simple guise of Olivia Allen, you move to Hell's Kitchen in New York in an attempt to escape your past, but your past can't stay buried when your powerful and dangerous ex finds you. Forced to come to terms with who you are in order to protect the life you've built, you eventually learn there's secrets about yourself that you never even knew...

a/n: Some of you may recognize this as an old Matt x OFC fic I wrote a few years ago that's been on hiatus forever because I don't write OCs anymore. I'm completely overhauling this series and rewriting it now (I ripped out a few things and added over 1k to just this part). There's things I disliked about the original and I'd been contemplating back and forth on rewriting the series with a Reader, so now I'm undertaking the project since a vast majority on a poll I posted were interested. The original already stood at 240k, so there's a lot of content I'm polishing/rewriting. As always, feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @kmc1989

Multiple leather straps were buckled over your wrists, ankles, and neck, the thick cordage keeping you secured to the reclined leather chair. Eyes darting around the familiar sterile room, the straps pressed against your skin, gripping tight like strong hands. There was a faint tremble running through your body in anticipation of what was about to happen as Doctor Barlowe finished placing the final electrode to your forehead. Focusing back on her, you desperately attempted to catch her eyes behind those thick, black glasses she always wore.

“Please,” you begged softly. “I don’t like this one. Please don’t make me do it again.”

Her hands paused for just a moment, fingers lingering against your skin. Her eyes shifted from where her hands had paused along your temple to your face, an unreadable expression on her own.

“Please,” you tried again. “I’ll–I’ll try any of the other tests, I swear. Just not this again. It…it hurts.”

“Now, now, hush 647,” Doctor Whitlock’s harsh voice echoed through the room. 

The door closed with a solid bang behind him as he entered the testing room. Seconds later, he appeared just beside the place where your legs were strapped down to the chair. His expression was serious and stoic like always, not the slightest hint of sympathy anywhere on him.

“You know why we do this,” he told you.

Swallowing hard, the usual anticipatory fear began to swirl in your stomach as Doctor Barlowe took her place at the nearby machine. Turning your head against your chair, you saw a metal cart with a surgical tray placed on top. You recognized the two syringes filled with a familiar vibrant orange liquid laying in the tray, your eyes now fixated on them. Uselessly, you tugged at your restraints.

“647, let’s not make this more difficult than necessary, hmm?” Doctor Whitlock hummed. “You know what you have to do if you don’t like the pain.” He crossed his arms over his chest, the ID tag on his white lab coat obscured at the gesture. His eyes focused on Doctor Barlowe from where she sat at the machine beside you. “Administer the first dose of MGA.”

The younger doctor lifted one of the syringes and slid her chair across the tiled floor, coming to a stop beside you. Eyes snapping shut, you felt the sting of the needle in your forearm as she injected the first dose. Shortly after, the telltale burning raced its way up your right arm, igniting like wildfire in your veins. Your eyes clamped shut even tighter as your head slammed back onto the leather of the chair, a pained whine escaping your lips.

“Why don’t we increase the voltage a bit this time?” Doctor Whitlock mused aloud to Doctor Barlowe. “Maybe that will be the bit of motivation it needs.”

“No,” you pleaded between gritted teeth. “Please.”

“You can end the pain yourself, 647,” Whitlock answered. “If you don’t want to feel the shocks, stop them. Use your mind.” There was a pause before the sound of footsteps approached the other side of you, then Whitlock’s voice issued the order. “Begin, Barlowe.”

Sharp, burning pain immediately jolted your brain, your body abruptly tensing at the shock as the electricity coursed through you. Arms and legs straining against your restraints, the leather bit sharply into your skin. As your back arched involuntarily off the chair, your airflow briefly halted as the restraint around your neck bit so deep into your throat that the passageway momentarily closed. For a moment, you hoped you'd pass out just to have an escape.

But then a few seconds later–though it felt far longer–the pain disappeared and your body momentarily slackened in the reclined chair. Tears were stinging behind your closed eyelids as a light sheen of sweat began forming across your body. Breathing heavier, your veins still feeling as if they were on fire, your head weakly rolled to the side.

“Hmm,” Whitlock hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the monitor beside Barlowe. “It is showing more brain activity with the increased voltage this time.”

“There’s definitely a noticeable increase from the last time,” Barlowe agreed.

“Please, stop,” you whimpered. Eyelids fluttering open, you glimpsed Whitlock rubbing his chin in thought, his focus still on the monitor. You knew it was useless to beg because they never listened to you, but that didn’t stop you from trying. “No more,” you choked out. “Hurts.”

“Try again,” Whitlock ordered, disregarding you. “Increase the voltage.”

When another rush of electricity went racing through the electrodes on your forehead, a scream shot out of you before your body seized up at the pain. Your mouth clamped shut as bright white flooded your vision behind your closed eyelids. The pain was so strong, so pervasive, that you couldn’t think or feel anything else.

Eventually, the shock dissipated and a ringing filled your ears in the absence of the pain. Disoriented and worn, it took a moment for you to make out what the voice beside you was saying.

“It’s bleeding, sir,” Barlowe pointed out.

“Just bit its lip, it’s nothing serious,” Whitlock replied simply, his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears. “Though I suppose you should get the gag again, we don’t want it to bite its tongue off next.”

There was a rustle of movement in the room as you lay strapped to the chair, your body exhausted from the electrical shocks. Tears were freely rolling down your cheeks as you stared up at the white ceiling with its blinding bright lights above. Barlowe’s face came back into view, the clear mouthpiece they often shoved into your mouth when the electrical shocks had first begun now in her hand. Eyes widening, you sent her a pleading look, attempting to shake your head, but she kept her attention focused on the lower half of your face. Her gloved fingers roughly wrenched open your mouth before she forced the uncomfortable plastic inside. Choking back a sob awkwardly around the contraption, the hard edges cut into your gums.

“Let’s continue, shall we?” Whitlock said.

The electrical shock once more shot through your body before you seized on the leather chair, a strangled noise flying from your throat.

A scream escaped from your mouth before you bolted upright in bed, chest heaving as your breath came in hard. Momentarily confused and panicked, it took your brain a few moments to recognize that you were laying in your bedroom and not the testing room that often plagued your nightmares. A light sheen of cold sweat covered your body as you lay tangled up in the dark gray sheets of your bed.

It was only a dream–a memory.

“I’m in Hell’s Kitchen,” you murmured to myself. “Not The Facility. I’m home. I’m safe.” Closing your eyes tight, you drew your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around them. “They can’t hurt me. Just a dream. Wasn’t real.”

Trying to focus your attention on your breathing, you inhaled slowly and held the breath. You counted to five before exhaling it out long and slow. Repeating the process, you continued for a few minutes until your breaths gradually became more even and controlled. Slowly, you felt your body begin to relax back into a calm state. When you opened your eyes again, wiping a hand over your sweat-dampened forehead, you began to disentangle your legs from how they’d twisted into your sheets while you’d been thrashing in your sleep.

Reaching over to your nightstand, you grabbed your phone. The screen lit up in the darkened bedroom, causing you to squint your eyes while they took a moment to adjust. It was only 5:37 in the morning–still early. Setting your phone back onto the nightstand, you rubbed the heels of your hands roughly against your eyes. You’d calmed down from that dream, but you were certainly too wound up for sleep now. With a huff, you threw the sheets off of yourself and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Raising your arms up over your head, you felt the pull of muscles as you stretched before making your way to your dresser. Opening the middle left drawer, you dug around for a sports bra and a pair of leggings.

Beginning to change, you removed the loose tank top that you’d been sleeping in over your head before slipping on the sports bra. Swapping your sweatpants for black leggings, you tugged them on before crossing the room to your closet and pulling the door open. Eyes landing on the navy track jacket hanging there, you pulled it out and tossed it on. Afterwards, you headed back to your nightstand and grabbed your phone before sliding it into the pocket of your leggings. You grabbed your earbuds next before heading out of your bedroom and down the short hallway outside of it.

The living room of your new apartment was still covered in shadows cast from the lights just outside of the large loft windows. Outside, the sun still hadn't risen quite yet, leaving the city dark and quiet–or as quiet as it could be for Hell’s Kitchen. Pausing by one of the large windows, you took a moment to enjoy the beautiful view of the city that you had from up on the sixth floor. This place hadn’t been cheap to rent, but it was worth it for that view while you worked–a vast difference from your life spent nowhere near a window.

But that’s not what you wanted to think about.

Sliding the earbuds into your ears, you turned and walked over to the entryway hall, stopping to lean against the wall before tugging on your running shoes. Before stepping out of your apartment, you grabbed your keys from the console table near the front door. Taking a moment, you locked the door behind yourself as your mind focused on only one thing. 

You knew what you needed right now–an escape. Something to clear your head and refocus yourself. To keep your mind level for the day. As you headed down the end of the hall and pushed the call button for the elevator, you knew that a quick jog would do exactly that. 

While you waited for the elevator to reach your floor, you pulled your phone back out and spent a moment looking for something to listen to during your run–something to distract yourself from your thoughts. A minute later, the elevator doors opened and you stepped inside, pushing the button for the lobby before slipping your phone back into the pocket of your leggings. Music began to play through your earbuds, but as the elevator lurched downwards, the jarring movement somehow caused your dream to resurface. Wincing, you raised a hand to rub at your temple as the memory of those shocks returned.

“If you don’t like the pain, 647,” Whitlock chided, “use your mind. Make it stop.”

Shaking your head back and forth rapidly, you tried to push the sound of his voice out of it. That was not what you needed right now.

“No,” you muttered to yourself. “No, you’re not here. Go away.”

“You were born for this. This is your purpose,” Whitlock’s cold voice said. “Be good and sit still or we'll get the restraints.”

Your jaw clenched at the memory of his voice, tooth grinding hard against tooth as your nails dug into the palms of your hands. The elevator doors opened with a ding that barely registered around the music playing in your ears as a mixture of emotions welled up inside of you. Stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby of your apartment building, you moved with a determined purpose straight for the exit. The second you were outside and your feet touched the sidewalk, you took off at a run.

Pushing your legs past their limit, you felt them beginning to burn after you'd been running for a while. But you ignored the pain building inside of them, your focus only on your breathing and the music in your ears. Everything else faded out around you–which was exactly what you needed right now. As close to nothingness as your mind could reach.

It wasn’t until it felt like your lungs were on fire inside of your chest that you finally came to a stop. Breathing heavily, you threw your hands up over your head in order to catch your breath while you walked at a brisk pace, your heart racing inside of your chest. You could feel a sharp pain in your left hip with each step, but the pain only served to further ground you in reality.

Just above the multitude of skyscrapers looming over you, the sun began to peak its way up over the city of New York. All the dark shadows of the night gradually were replaced with the beautiful orange glow of the morning light. And with that change from dark to light, you shoved your fears aside and took a right turn, heading back towards your apartment building. You’d need to sit down at your desk and start work in almost an hour, but you wanted a shower before you settled down for the day.

The walk back to your apartment had taken just under fifteen minutes since the traffic had picked up with the rise of the sun. With a clear head, you made your way through the lobby and back to the elevators, grateful when a man exited one and left it empty. Stepping inside, you pushed the button for the sixth floor before leaning against the wall of the elevator, running a hand across your forehead as it began its ascent to the top floor. 

Retrieving your phone from the side pocket of your leggings, you turned off the playlist you’d been listening to before taking the earbuds from your ears. You felt better after that run, your mind and body both relaxed and that nightmare mostly forgotten. Which was what you’d needed to keep yourself calm and level today. You didn’t need to get emotional. You didn’t need to give into fear.

You were safe here.

When the elevator doors opened, you pulled your keys from the other pocket of your leggings, focused on your task of getting back to your apartment. Vaguely you were aware of a man knocking on the door across the hall from your place, calling something through the door. Out of politeness when you neared him, you sent him a smile before turning your attention to your own apartment door.

“Hey, you’re the woman who just moved in, right?”

Pausing at the man’s voice as you’d stopped in front of your door, your hand with your keys hovered over the lock. Your mouth twitched as you stood there with your back facing him, not having expected him to acknowledge you.

Normal people make small talk, you reminded yourself.

Letting your hand drop to your side, you plastered a friendly smile onto your face before turning around. The man who’d addressed you was unfamiliar to you, your eyes scanning over his shoulder length blonde hair and the bright, friendly smile on his face. He was dressed in a white shirt with a light blue tie, a gray suit jacket and matching gray slacks. In his hands he held a tray with two coffees and a brown paper bag that you assumed held some sort of breakfast food judging by the smell.

“Yes, just last week,” you answered him.

The man adjusted the bag and the tray of coffee in his hands before he crossed the small distance between you both in the hall. He held his now free hand out towards you, the friendly smile still drawn wide over his mouth. Eyes dropping down at the movement, you eyed his hand warily.

“My name is Franklin, but everyone usually calls me Foggy,” the man said.

He seemed either unaware or unconcerned with your stillness and hesitancy. Clearing your throat, you slowly extended your own hand towards his before giving it a brief shake. 

“Olivia,” you replied.

It was a fake name, one you’d chosen for yourself not too long ago. It had seemed simple and you’d liked it–and you’d never had one before it. 

Foggy’s smile somehow further widened in response. “Nice to meet you, Olivia,” he greeted warmly. “I was actually just waiting for my friend, Matt–he’s your neighbor. We work together.” He paused for a moment, straightening up as he readjusted his hold on the food and coffee in his hands. “We just started up our own law office, actually.”

Head tilting curiously to the side, you raised a brow as you silently studied him. He seemed genuinely friendly, albeit very eager to connect with you. You weren’t entirely sure why. From your experience, most people in the city weren’t this forthright. But before you could respond, the apartment door behind Foggy opened and drew both of your attention. You spotted the white cane before you caught sight of the man emerging through his apartment door. Your neighbor, you assumed.

“Ah, buddy, there you are!” Foggy exclaimed, turning and making his way back across the hall to his friend. He watched as the man locked his door, shifting the tray of coffee and bag of food in his hands once again. “I was just meeting your new neighbor, Matt,” he told him, his warm gaze returning to you across the hall.

Your neighbor’s head turned in your direction, the red glasses covering his eyes glinting in the overhead lights at the movement. For the briefest moment, his expression was entirely unreadable at his friend’s comment, but then a slow, friendly smile spread over his lips. 

Something strange happened in that moment as he smiled at you. You felt an odd, soft vibration pass over your skin–as if you could feel him looking at you. Breath catching, the hair on the back of your neck slowly rose as a small shiver tickled its way up your spine. His smile briefly faltered before he recovered, your sharp eyes catching the minute movement.

“Were you now, Foggy?” your neighbor asked. That smile remained on his face, though it seemed slightly altered now. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

You stiffened when the man took a few steps in your direction, his cane lightly tapping along the floor. What he’d said was true, you hadn’t met him yet despite having been living across the hall from him for a week already. Though you had heard some loud banging late at night coming from his apartment on occasion, you'd yet to actually cross paths with him. 

“I’m Matthew,” he said, stopping just before you and extending his hand in your direction. “But you can call me Matt.”

Eyes trailing down his face, you found yourself distracted by how attractive he was, your gaze scanning what wasn’t hidden by his dark glasses. Gradually, your eyes lowered, taking in the sight of his broad shoulders and the muscles of his arms and chest that were noticeable even under his black suit coat. Eventually your eyes dropped down to his awaiting hand. 

Swallowing thickly, still aware of that strange tingling along your skin, you extended your own and wrapped it around his. His hand was warm and calloused as he gently shook yours, the sensation causing something odd to stir in your chest at the contact. You’d never felt that before.

“I’m Olivia,” you offered softly, still confused by him.

“Well, Olivia,” Matt said, a small grin tugging at his lips as he released your hand, “it’s a shame it took us so long to meet.”

Behind Matt, you caught the way Foggy rolled his eyes at his friend. “Can you not charm every beautiful woman you meet? Just once?”

You felt your cheeks heat at the implication in Foggy’s words, your attention shifting back to Matt as he chuckled. He looked over his shoulder at his friend, that grin still on his mouth.

“I do not charm them all,” Matt disagreed.

“You do and it’s weird, man,” Foggy countered. He looked past Matt, focusing on you with a conspiratorial look as he cupped his hand still holding the bag of food awkwardly around his mouth before he whispered, “It’s like his super power.”

“Flirting with beautiful women?” you questioned in confusion.

Matt laughed loudly in response, the warm sound filling the hallway. Foggy rolled his eyes, a smile returning to his face as he lowered his hand back to his side.

“No,” Foggy answered. “Knowing that a woman is beautiful is his superpower. He always somehow knows.”

You shrugged in response, finding these two men to be more enjoyable company than you’d first anticipated. “I wouldn’t exactly consider that a superpower. Seems a little useless.”

Foggy’s eyes lit up with curiosity immediately, a look of interest washing over him. “What would you consider the most useful one then? Because I personally think–”

“Fog, we should probably let Olivia go,” Matt said, cutting his friend off.

Foggy’s face fell, his shoulders dropping a bit. A sympathetic smile spread over your face in return. You were surprised to admit it, but you found yourself a bit disappointed that they needed to go. But unfortunately, so did you.

“I do need to actually get ready for work myself,” you agreed.

“Right, I’m sorry,” Foggy said, gesturing to your workout clothes. “You just finished a workout, you probably want to have a chance to shower without being late.”

“Well,” you admitted, “I work from home so I doubt I’d be late. But yes, I would like to grab a shower first.”

“Either way, we shouldn’t keep you,” Matt said, a charming smile on his lips.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you smiled at them as the three of you exchanged goodbyes. While they headed down the hall towards the elevator, you turned around and unlocked your apartment, finding yourself missing the interaction already. It wasn’t often that you had an opportunity to connect with others. 

By the time you’d gotten back into your apartment, you had a half an hour to quickly shower and dress before you needed to be logged onto your computer. Getting ready in a rush, you moved as if on auto-pilot, though your mind kept wandering back to those two men you’d just met. More specifically, your mind kept returning to your curious neighbor who quite literally made your skin tingle. You’d never before met someone who could do that before and you didn’t know what to make of it.

Once out of the shower and dressed, you headed back to your living room and over to your desk that was situated between two of the large windows. Your computer and dual monitors sat atop the oak desk, the surface of it featuring a herringbone pattern you’d been drawn to when you’d first seen it. Beside both monitors sat a pothos plant and a few potted succulents–because you'd developed a fondness for plants. 

Reaching your hand out, you turned on your computer before setting your phone down on top of your desk. You still had a few minutes before you needed to be at work, which meant your run hadn’t made you late today. Settling into your computer chair, you began to pull up a handful of programs, logging into them and letting them start. But as you did, you could feel the exhaustion in your body from waking so early and your eyes shifted towards your kitchen. With a sigh, you pushed yourself out of your chair, deciding you’d make yourself a coffee before really starting the day.

Absently you set to work in your kitchen, grinding the appropriate amount of fresh beans into the portafilter before tamping the grounds down while your espresso machine heated. Then you slid the portafilter onto the machine and reached up onto one of the open shelves above you, grabbing down a mug to set underneath it. A double shot of fresh espresso began to pour out, the comforting aroma filling your apartment. 

As you waited for the espresso to finish, you headed back into the living room and picked up the television remote from your coffee table. Switching on the television mounted along the wall, you settled on the news. There was a fluff piece currently on, discussing a new local business that had opened up today. Increasing the volume, you turned and stepped back into the kitchen and began to finish making your morning latte.

A few minutes later, with your morning caffeine dose in hand, you were ready to focus on work. You walked back over to your computer chair and set your mug onto a coaster before making yourself comfortable. Pulling up the first email of the day, you began to skim through it, responding to a co-worker of yours before moving onto the next email. As you worked, you listened to the background noise of the news until a particular story caught your attention.

“Breaking news on last night’s murder in Hell’s Kitchen,” the reporter on the television said as the news segment changed. “The woman responsible is now in police custody. Hope Shlottman is currently under investigation for two counts of murder–both of them her very own parents. The young athlete shot them both dead in an elevator last night, and despite video surveillance, she is still claiming to not be responsible for their deaths. Her defense? She says that a man told her to kill them.”

Tensing at the reporter’s words, your head slowly turned towards the television still playing across the room. There was a video of a young blonde woman being dragged out of an apartment building in handcuffs, blood covering the front of her. She was crying, her face red and splotchy with a twisted expression of genuine grief drawn over it. She kept repeating over and over: “It wasn’t me! He told me to do it!”

A cold chill ran down your spine as you sat there staring at the screen. The hairs along your arms rose, a prickle of fear running through you. Breath coming in a little sharper, you glanced around your apartment, eyes sweeping around the entirety of the space. There was no one else here, though. You were alone.

Coincidence, that’s all, you told yourself. 

Rising from your desk, you made your way back over to your coffee table and snatched the remote from off of it. With a hard press to the power button, you turned the television off, your apartment falling silent once more. Pausing for another moment, you looked around your living room and kitchen, both bathed in the soft glow of morning light. 

No one else was here.

Walking three blocks while carrying six full bags of groceries by yourself wasn’t easy, but that’s what happened when you spent the past week putting off doing any real grocery shopping. You’d only grabbed a few things for quick meals, choosing to order takeout most nights instead of cooking. But after work, you’d gone for yet another run to ease that feeling twisting in your stomach, and on your way back home you’d decided to stop to grab groceries.

Now, you found yourself struggling to navigate your way into the elevator with three large and very full grocery bags in each of your hands. Pushing the button for the sixth floor with your pinky finger, you willed the doors to hurry up and close. The plastic bags were threatening to cut off the circulation to your hands at this point.

Almost there, almost there.

Huffing a relieved sigh when the elevator reached the sixth floor, you groaned a second later when the doors felt like they were opening slower than normal. But as soon as you stepped out of the elevator, you paused. At the end of the hall was the blonde lawyer you’d met just this morning–Foggy, if you recalled correctly–and a pretty young blonde woman in a dress standing beside him. They were banging against Matt’s door and laughing loudly, and it was clear that the pair of them were obviously drunk. With a resigned sigh, you knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid them, so you set off down the hall towards your apartment.

“Come on, Matt!” Foggy shouted, slamming his hand against the door.

The young woman loudly shushed Foggy between giggles, resting a hand lightly against his shoulder. Smiling wide, Foggy reached out a hand in return to her as he stepped back, waving at the apartment door.

“You try,” Foggy slurred to the woman. “Maybe he’ll listen to the pretty girl.” He leaned towards her and attempted to whisper, “Pretend I’m not here.”

Your brow quirked as you neared the pair of them. He'd just been banging on the door, there was no way she could pretend he wasn’t there. Unable to stop yourself, a small, amused smile slipped onto your lips as you neared your apartment door across from them.

“Matt,” the young woman called out, her voice cracking a little at the pitch as she leaned her weight against the door. “It’s Karen,” she continued, voice slurring. “And I’m very, very sorry about this. If I were you, I would not come to this door.” She paused, glancing at Foggy and giggling before she continued. “But I think I also drank the eel.”

Clearly forgetting the part about wanting to pretend he wasn’t present, Foggy began shouting again beside the woman known as Karen, his attention so fixed on the door that he hadn’t noticed you across the hall as you came to a stop in front of your own. Attempting to carefully set all of your grocery bags down so you could pull out your keys, you couldn’t help overhearing the commotion behind you.

“And we are now filled with mighty eel strength,” Foggy shouted, pounding on the door again as Karen broke into yet another fit of giggles. “Matt! Come on! We’re staying out until sunrise!”

A soft gasp came from across the hall just as you managed to slip your key into the lock. 

“Oh, no,” Karen breathed out.

As you unlocked your door, you heard Foggy’s distinct voice call out your name.

“Olivia!” he exclaimed.

Eyes widening, you pulled your key from the lock, shifting your head over your shoulder towards the pair. Foggy was already stepping across the hall towards you, roughly clapping you on the shoulder.

“Do you know if Matt is home?” he asked.

A breathy laugh left you before you looked over at the door they’d been yelling at for a few minutes now. “I mean, he’s blind and not deaf right?” you replied. “I’m pretty sure he’d have answered by now if he was home.”

Karen let out a laugh from her place against Matt’s door. “She has a point,” she said, pointing a finger at you.

Foggy’s eyes dropped down to the bags at your feet, his brows furrowing for a moment. Then an overexaggerated look of surprise flew across his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you were carrying all of those!” Foggy exclaimed.

Without warning, he began quickly scrambling to take the grocery bags from off the ground, lifting them into his own hands. You stood there shocked, but Foggy completely ignored the dumbfounded expression on your face.

“Foggy, you shouldn’t just–” Karen began, but she broke off on a laugh at his overeagerness and didn’t finish her thought.

“Let me help you bring these in,” Foggy said, somehow holding all six bags in his hands as he looked up at you. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

Your lip tugged upwards at his words, a hint of a smile ghosting over your mouth. “But you’re not my neighbor,” you pointed out.

Foggy only sloppily waved a hand at your words, your eyes going wide as it looked like one bag was dangerously close to tearing. 

“Potato piñata” he answered simply.

Looking over at Karen who had taken a few steps closer, you hesitated and contemplated the offer. They seemed harmless enough, just incredibly sloppy drunk. And it did feel nice to not be carrying six bags.

“Alright, fine,” you relented, turning and opening the door to your place. “I appreciate the help.”

Waving a hand at your opened door, you allowed the pair to enter first. You followed in behind them, closing the door after yourself and tossing your keys onto the console table. Karen and Foggy had already made their way into the kitchen, the pair laughing about something as they disappeared around the corner. 

When you finally made your way around the entryway hall, you saw Foggy had already placed the bags he’d brought in onto the kitchen counter. He was pulling items out and curiously scanning them in his hands as Karen leant against the breakfast bar, her chin resting on one of her hands. But when you entered the kitchen and her eyes met yours, she stood tall and held her hand out towards you.

“I’m Karen,” she introduced herself, a friendly smile on her face despite the way her eyes were glazed over from the alcohol. “Suppose that’s important.”

You reached out, accepting her offered hand. “Olivia.”

“They mentioned you this morning,” Karen said as she released your hand.

Stepping over towards the counter where your grocery bags were at, you looked curiously back at her. “Who mentioned me?” you asked.

“Foggy and Matt,” she replied.

Your eyes turned slowly towards Foggy, watching the way he was eyeing a head of cauliflower in extreme interest. His cheeks were pink and you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or embarrassment at what Karen had just told you. Slowly, your gaze traveled back to Karen who was grinning. Leaning against the breakfast bar, mimicking Karen’s relaxed posture, you found yourself unable to resist asking her for more information–you hadn’t forgotten the way your skin had oddly tingled when Matt had ‘looked’ at you earlier. That wasn’t normal.

“And what’d they say about me?” you asked.

She leaned in towards you as she spoke, that smile still on her face. “Apparently Matt thinks you’re sweet. And interesting.”

Feeling your palms beginning to nervously dampen at her words, you absently wiped them against your leggings. You knew that information wasn’t important. You didn’t do relationships. You’d only been in a relationship once and–well, you weren’t going to think about him. But apparently your racing heart and the heat creeping into your cheeks didn’t appear to care about that fact with what Karen was telling you about your handsome neighbor. 

“He’s met me for all of five minutes,” you casually pointed out.

You pushed off the counter, focusing on putting away groceries now. Though you couldn’t completely ignore the way something pleasant unfurled in your stomach at her words.

“Well, Matt told us that he’d been trying to find a chance to bump into you in the hall for days now,” Karen continued, her smile growing wider.

Your hand momentarily paused on the fridge door, her words catching you off guard. Opening it, you knelt down and began unloading some fruit from a grocery bag into the fruit drawer. He’d been wanting to meet you for days?

“He said he’d…overheard you screaming a few times at night,” Karen added, her tone abruptly switching to something a little softer. “Said he’d wanted to check on you but that he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You swallowed hard at that information as you placed a bag of apples into the drawer. He’d heard you in here? Crying out in your sleep? That did make you uncomfortable. 

“Sounds like he’s paying far too much attention to my apartment,” you commented.

Foggy appeared beside you, cauliflower still in hand. He held it out to you and you took it, placing it in the appropriate drawer before he began handing you more vegetables from a bag on the counter.

“I told you,” Foggy began, his words still partially slurred. “He always knows when there’s a pretty girl. And usually he’s a sucker for the ones with questionable morals,” he told you, “but I think he’s got a bigger soft spot for damsels in distress.”

Snorting at his comment, you glanced up from your position on the floor in front of the fridge. “I am not remotely a damsel in distress,” you replied.

“I don’t know,” Foggy said, his tone already taking on a note of disagreement. “You are a young woman.” He waved his hand at you as if to prove his point. “And he says he’s heard you screaming a few times in the middle of the night–”

“I get nightmares,” you cut in defensively.

Foggy raised his hands in a placating gesture at your words. “I’m just saying, you sounded in distress. Ergo–damsel in distress.”

You let out a quiet, frustrated grunt before getting off of the floor and closing the fridge door. Making your way back to the counter with the grocery bags, you began grabbing more items out and putting them away in the pantry cabinet next.

“Unfortunately for him,” you began, trying to sound disinterested, “I don’t do relationships. Or one night stands. Especially not with…guys like him.”

“What’s that mean?” Foggy asked.

Closing the cabinet door, you turned and focused on him and Karen. They were eyeing you curiously now, both of them wearing serious expressions on their faces despite the alcohol in their systems.

“Flirts,” you answered simply.

A sheepish look crossed Foggy’s face at the word, slowly nodding his head. “Yeah, I’ll admit, Matt is pretty popular with the ladies.”

“Yeah, not my type,” you stated flatly.

Clearing the grocery bags from your counter, you could feel both Karen and Foggy watching you. You expected them to pry further about your dating history, or to question you more about Matt. But you were surprised at what came out instead.

“You want to come out with us tonight?” Karen asked you.

You paused at her question, not having expected it. Meeting her gaze with a raised brow, you stood across the counter from her. 

“It’s just, I don’t feel like being alone in my apartment right now,” Karen said, the words practically spewing from her when she saw the look on your face. “And we were planning to stay out until the sun rose. Matt said you just moved to the city this past week, so I’m guessing you don’t know anyone here yet. So,” she paused, catching her breath before asking again, “would you like to come out with us?”

Biting your lip as her invitation hung in the air, you saw the hopeful look Foggy was sending you. It was true, you didn’t know anyone in the city. And having friends would be nice, it was something you didn’t usually get to have. But you also weren't great at relationships–the lack of experience from growing up in The Facility made sure of that.

But it was something you’d always wanted. A normal life. Friends. Maybe someday a normal, healthy, safe relationship. And you’d truthfully been antsy in your apartment all week, unable to really settle. If you stayed in, you’d most likely just go to sleep soon. Probably wake up from another nightmare covered in sweat and spiraling mentally. 

…or you could go out with these two seemingly friendly individuals and attempt being “normal” for once.

“Yeah,” you answered slowly. “I’m not doing anything right now.”

Foggy pumped his fist into the air while releasing an excited noise that startled you, causing you to jump on the spot before a light laugh fell out of you. You definitely liked him. Across the kitchen counter, Karen let out an excited gasp, clearly surprised you’d given her that answer.

“Really?” she asked.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Sure, why not,” you replied. “You’re right, I don’t know anyone here. Might be nice to make some friends.”

“Yes!” Foggy exclaimed. “I can absolutely, positively assure you that you will not regret making friends with us.”

Somehow, you had a feeling he was right.

[sheepispink]

A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT

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

Masterlist AO3

pairings: Simon Ghost Riley/ Reader (platonic or romantic, up to you)

tags: probably loads of military inaccuracies, anxiety attacks (possibly?), heavy angst, angst and comfort, paranoia, bad mental health, cuddling and literal sleeping together (up to you romantic or platonic)

A/N: I’d appreciate if no one complained abt the accuract/realistic of the story (ofc if its the characterisation of ghost that’s perfectly ok!) i’m open for criticisation for how i write etc etc but this is a sensitive topic and.. based off personal experiences 😅😅 so it’s very realistic to me even if its not to you!

This technically takes place after this fic but it’s not a big deal in which the order you read it

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

You’re an introvert, even if you do get excited really quickly, loud around people you’ve known for a while and love meeting new people. Yet still, you call yourself an introvert, even if that technically still makes you an extroverted introvert. You don't like the sound of an extrovert— someone who thrives off of others' attention and loves to be the center of it, who brightens their days with their friends and always wants to make plans with anyone and everyone. You like the attention sometimes; when Price mentions your name in a conversation, praising your skills, your heart thumps a little louder. Being at the limelight of the party isn't always the worst thing either, especially when everyone laughs at your jokes so hard they double over, grinning so wide you can't help it either. You love your friends, your teammates, even the random soldiers you’ve only exchanged small greetings with. The love for others is held tight in your heart’s vessels, bursting each and every time they make you smile or you just see their presence. You feel so warm and alive when you give them a grin in the mornings, even more so when they seek out your presence throughout the day.

Though, that only applies sometimes— never always.

A familiar soldier could ask you out to lunch and yet your chest begins to twist uncomfortably, like someone is wringing your intestines with their hands. Something screams at you when they say those words, like an invisible line had just been crossed that had been clear in everyone's heads. You had only ever spoken to those soldiers in the gym or around base, there was nowhere else even remotely personal you’d think to take them to. One on one conversations were not common either, since it wasnt that often. It’s not that you don't like them, it’s just.. not right. You’d shake your head apologetically as you force an excuse between your teeth. The regret you then express is a lie, along with the love you felt before— only reduced to a being who could never hold any of those things.

The truth is, you have a sick little parasite in you, it claws at that heart muscle, tearing away the flesh and devouring any love you feel for the people you care about and replacing it with an empty feeling which is always followed by an unreasonable hatred. Your mind grows dark, headaches permanent, as you live through the day as a skeleton of yourself— no longer able to hold any love within you as it slips past your bones in seconds. You don't like the boundaries you’ve mentally set for each person to be crossed, even if it’s a perfectly normal task. In fact, some may even say you’re scared of change. You don’t like to put a label on these things, hell you don't even like to think too hard on these things. It begins to make sense when you sit and reflect, piecing all the reasons for your behaviour together until you hit the final point. Soon you’re done, finally aware of the most significant reasoning behind your antics. The only issue is, being self aware doesn't mean you get any better; no matter how many nights you sit and stare at that mirror, nothing changes.

The only thing you gained was the ability to squash down the parasite from prying eyes. Excuses fall from your lips quickly, no matter how bad you feel when they give you that look of disappointment. It’s not your fault— you know you won't be able to handle an outing like that, you’d get too worked up. Why? You don't need to dwell on it, not right now. This continues for multiple people, multiple soldiers for two weeks, until you're ‘normal’ and you hang around others again. People begin to subconsciously catch on and so your little routine continues to carry on moving so well, staying right on track.

“Sarge? You aint comin’ to team night? Why?”

Ghost stands at the door of your quarters, dressed in his typical training attire whilst you’re sitting in something cozy, made for home wear. You have to fight the urge to cover yourself up. “Oh right.. i, uh..yknow, lot of paperwork to do. Thought i’d stay in.”

You say with a small smile, attempting to ease any concerns he had before but little did you know, he was already growing aware of your little issue, or at least the fact there was one within you. “Paperwork? On a Friday? You should be relaxin’.” You grit your teeth a little, the burning urge inside of your chest returning just like the sick pit in your stomach. It felt so awful fearing just a simple team night out, but it was just so late and you were so tired— you didnt have the energy to be rational the whole time, to think of your next move constantly.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll come to the next one.” You shrug, turning back to your small desk as you pull another small stack of papers in front of you. His boots thump loudly against the floorboards, sounding like the heavy thump of your heart in your ears. It stops, suddenly, behind your back and your body stiffens as he leans down, looking at the paperwork you’re going through. It’s a lie— naturally, you finished it all. He doesn't even have to stare at you first nor visibly raise a brow; you’re already waiting for him to call out your bluff just as quickly.

“You can just say you want some time alone, yknow.” That catches you off guard, half expecting him to just tell you to stop whining and grab some drinks. His words were still difficult though, how could you easily just say that? Of course, the words itself aren't the hard part, nor speaking it—it’s the implications behind said words. An excuse means you have other things to occupy you, so no one dares to disturb you much after that, however explaining you want some alone time gives way to more questions. Specifically the first being: why? Then they begin to wonder if you’ve been doing okay recently or if you’re struggling with something. You dont like the idea of that at all— people thinking about you in that way. It feels weird, almost like it’s wrong. Sometimes you wished people would just not care, and leave you alone to wallow with yourself.

“Sarge?” You snap out of it, sheepishly scratching the back of your head as he still stands behind you and you turn in your chair, putting the best meek face you can on for the night. “What? No, that’s not why I declined. I’m not really feeling any alcohol today and a new episode of a series I previously binged on the weekend just came out. Sorry.. didn't want to make it seem i was ditching anyone for a show.” Perfect, an awkward grin had tied it all off into a well constructed excuse. Even if it was partially true and this really wasn't fake, it sure felt like everything you did was an act. After all, you really didn't want them to think you were ditching anyone, and you didn't feel like having any alcohol tonight. “A new series” He says gruffly, and you nod with a tight smile, teeth gritting so hard you’re sure they’ll break in a few seconds. “I’ll join you then.”

You blink once, twice, three times in pure utter confusion. Ghost—The Ghost, whose name is rumoured across the battlefield and known for never giving into idle small talk—wants to watch the series you lied about, with you.

You’ve never felt more guilty in your entire life, practically fumbling for a solution. You could just tell the truth, say no and admit you needed to be alone. But this is the first time he’s ever expressed wanting to hang around you, actually together and alone— and miss out on a team night?! He may just want an excuse out of it, but still, you can't just say no now. “Well yeah, i just..” You hate how there’s no easy way out of this in the slightest, torn between saving your own mental health or finally getting close to the teammate who you’ve been on eggshells around for nearly a year now. “My room’s not exactly clean--“

He cuts you off with a gruff, shake of his head, a scoff resounding in his next words, promptly embarrassing you too. “There ya go— knew you wanted to be alone.”

You fumble, not understanding how he managed to pry it out of you so fast, just a simple lie blowing your cover. “I said it wasn't like-“

“See you tomorrow.” He’s gone just as fast as he silenced you, heavy footsteps disappearing out of your door and down the corridors. What you couldn't wrap your head around is how fast he had figured it out and made you confess to your lies that fast— it was a real problem, something you couldn't just let slide. If he knew, did others too?

Unfortunately for you, the very much needed alone time didn’t help as well as it usually did considering this new information has threatened everything that made up the core of your very being—specifically everything keeping you glued together. You just couldn't sit there and possibly relax like you usually did when alone (more specifically think over everything you’ve done wrong until you quite literally fell asleep mid thought)— not when Ghost could clearly read everything you had ever thought about in your life.

That being said, you’ve been a nervous wreck all week, concentrating so hard on looking sane that you’ve barely paid a second of attention to things you should’ve listened to. It’s not like you slipped up regularly, but before that day you were already feeling pretty uneasy and now with still no relief and the added stress, you feel like you really might lose it any second now. Every time you see him, every word exchanged with your teammates—with another person—it eats at you, tugging further on the ropes you’re hanging onto. They’re already been pulled thin, especially since you’ve been put in charge of a group of rookies for the past few weeks now. Of course, you had pulled the short straw when assignments went round because not only did your group love to talk back, but they loved to test every limit by asking the most stupid of questions possible. It’s the second time now you’ve had to lecture one of the rookies about why you can’t just ‘throw a grenade at the enemies’. It’s only temporary, just basic training exercises and medical procedures they need to know until the Officer, who usually oversees them, returns from their sick leave.

You let out a long breath as you enter the small break room, also known as taskforce 141’s meeting room but they’ve let you lounge in here too many times to count. It’s quiet in here, Soap and Gaz both on missions and you assume Ghost must be too. It’s the first time you’ve been able to relax all week, knowing damn well Price is down in London with Gaz. Your shoulders sag, the miserable look returning to cover your features now that you don't need to pull that tight smile anymore. Your chest physically aches from how anxious you’ve been all day, the weight of the day’s mistakes and fears of the future swelling deep in your gut. You know it’s a Friday, know you should just take a long sleep but you can’t help but think about all you have to do for the days to follow. You’re busy the whole day tomorrow, a team outing you can’t deny no matter how much you really do not want to go. Just thinking of all the final work you’ll have to cram in on Sunday makes a splitting pain run along the bumps in your brain. Even your breaths begin to feel shorter, an uncomfortable feeling that you just still cant rid of no matter how long you take deep breaths. Your eyes are weighed down with exhaustion and yet your brain refuses to let you sleep yet. No, you cannot. If you sleep the night away then you’ll only have Sunday left for yourself, and that won't work out, will it?

You pick up the mug you had just stirred, hoping the drink would soothe at least something if not your dehydrated body. Taking a small sip, the hot liquid spills down your throat, leaving a warm feeling in your ribs. “Alone by choice or force?” A gruff voice rings out behind you, along with an arm reaching around to supposedly grab a teabag as well, is enough to make you flinch. Stumbling on your own feet, your mug jolts and the steaming water splashes against your shoulder. If you were worried about someone catching you so vulnerable before, you were certainly terrified now, especially since your skin was burning from a small startle.

“Fuck— sorry—“

Ghost’s gloved hand settle on one side of your waist while the other quickly takes the mug from your hands and places it upon the counter. You cant respond, barely processing the situation and everything just feels like too much and your skin feels so hot, you know he’s seeing you fall apart and still there’s nothing you can do—

Your thoughts snap to a blank when he presses the cold rag against your burning skin. Thankfully the layers of the training uniform stops any severe marks from forming. His other hand rubs your cheek, his mask so close it could brush your face, and you can actually see every speck of brown in his irises. You can't look at him for long though, moving your gaze away quickly, not when you know what you’ve done. For the past week or two you’ve hated him, painting the most horrible picture in your mind. It wasnt even on purpose, you’ve just started seeing everything wrong about him. He doesnt give the rookies much mercy, nor does he particularly entertain any of Soap’s antics even when the situation is pretty lax. He’s boring, he seems to care about nothing but himself somedays, he refuses to let you do something stupid and he never takes that damn mask off even when you’re all supposed to trust one another. You’ve lied to him, yes, forgetting about your hatred when he made you laugh with those gruff remarks. But he’s not the only one— no, you’ve began to hate everyone in this task force, picking at them and every little thing. It’s weird, you don't want to victimize yourself, because you know you’ve done just as much wrong too. But still, somedays you really can't look past the list of things you dislike about your own friends.

“Are you alright? I havent seen you all week.”

Of course he hasn't, you’ve been avoiding them all. It’s nearly impossible to think straight these days and you knew you wouldn’t be able to fake it so naturally, you just stayed away. The more you did it, the better it began to feel. Avoiding them was the solution— you were just the thorn in their side with your tricky mood swings and anxiety always painting them to be the villain. You couldnt just allow this to happen, to destroy them with your issues even if they had no idea about it.

But now, face to face with him, all you feel is unexplainable guilt for everything you’ve done to them— how could you even hate them for a second? His hand is still rubbing at your skin, nudging your face gently upwards just so you’d at least look at him for a second. “Really? The silent treatment now?.” He sighs and you hate yourself, how did you let this spiral to this point— to where he’s apologising to you and yet you wish you could just disappear. Isnt this what you wanted? For everyone to be kind to you? So why are you running— why do you refuse care?

Your lips press together as your teeth bite down on the soft flesh, torn from how much you’ve picked at the skin the whole week. It aches with anxiety, and your teeth hurt from how often you’ve clenched them so hard they scraped against eachother. The only thing you can do is stand there as Ghost fusses over you, trying to get you to move a damn muscle instead of falling apart silently like some kind of broken watch, unable to move forward or backwards. Just still.

“Sarge— snap out of it, look, I'm sorry. Okay?”

His hands are still on you, and you’ve begged for a day where someone would care this much about you and still, you step back, almost afraid. “I’m sorry, Ghost.” You croak out, your hands reaching up to your eyes as you wipe at your skin obsessively, trying to hide and stop anything from leaking. “Why’re you apologising?” He says gruffly, confused by all of this, this sudden onslaught of emotion.

He’s not stupid, he had a feeling you weren't quite yourself this week. Stupidly, he figured you’d just deal with it on your own. That's what everyone did, right? He knows he just takes a breather when he feels a little rough— even Price had his own battles. Comfort isn't a strong point for Ghost, not even when he was Simon Riley, never has and he never thinks it will be. He’s born and bred on violence and the coldness that comes after it, the lack of warmth even as hot blood trickles and emptiness consumes the space where his fellow soldiers should be. So watching you crumble right before him, apologising profusely while your body wracks with shaken breaths, makes something stop in him too. He doesn't know how he’ll do it, but he knows damn well no one fights alone anymore.

“Look at me.”

He says firmly, both his hands landing firmly on your shoulders, one hand even tempted to just force your chin up but you shake your head profusely. “Why not?” He stays patient for you, even if he knows he may have to force you soon— its the least he can do for you. “I cant look at you. Not after everything i did.” He pauses, hands now settling on your jaw in confusion, he knows this is moving towards an interrogation but he has to know. “What are you talking about?! What did you do?”

“I hated all of you! I avoided you all and destroyed our relationship, i fucked it all up.”

With that he cant stand to see this continue, a gloved hand firmly planted over your mouth as the other wraps around your back. He leads you to the couch even as you squirm, not caring in the slightest. He knows he has strength and not comfort, so he’ll use it to shut you up whilst the truth comforts you instead.

“Look at me.” He says sternly and you do, eyes snapping up with wide fear as you look at him. “That’s not true— okay? None of us consider our relationship with you ruined, not one of us has even mentioned you in a bad light at all.” He makes sure your whole body is pressed against the back of the couch, considering that you didnt particularly look as if you could hold yourself up right now.

“Soap has only talked to me about you once recently— he told me you helped him organize the training schedules for the rookies. Told me to thank you for it because he felt he did not express his gratitude enough. Do you understand now? No one’s mad at you– not one of us have even considered anything to have gone wrong.”

His hand grabs your own, settling it on the center of his chest so you can feel the pattern of his breathing, silently praying you’d try and match it. You can only blink at him though, slowly processing his words with each passing second until his hand leaves your mouth and your lips part, breath hitched before you swallow a sharp breath. “I’ve avoided all of you– i’ve been hating all of you.” You choke out, chest clenching with regret and the weight of unreasonable guilt and his other hand moves to hold your face again, his brown eyes piercing into yours with his silence.

“What is like to hate someone?”

“What?”?

“What is it like to hate someone?” He repeats, his thumb pressing gently into the curve of your cheek.

“I-...” You falter, thinking for a moment before your lips part again. “I dont like things that they do— the way they act and everything about them.”

“You’d avoid them too, right? Like that general you hated. Remember when he touched you and you pushed his hand away?

You nod along in agreement, breathing a bit slower to hopefully ease the pressure on your chest at the moment.

“Y-yeah.. i’d express my dislike clearly..”

“So why did you never push me away the past few weeks? You said you avoided us, but you would always speak to us if we needed to. You still helped Soap too.”

You pause, blinking at him in confusion now, you had convinced yourself that you hated them so why did you never.. actually express it?

“You’re also letting me touch you now and last week you didn't want to hang out with us, but you didnt want to hurt our feelings by saying that.”

You’re left silent, baffled and confused because in your head, you were being horrible to them, hating their guts like it was nothing.

“I think… whatever is going on in that head of yours.” He says slowly, tapping at your forehead gently as you look up at him with widened eyes. “You’ve held it in for too long. You’ve dwelled on those thoughts, so self aware of your own anxieties that you’ve distorted reality. You think you’ve done something bad, because you can't understand why you always feel so bad.” His voice is softer than usual, even if his words are still gruff and holds his thick Manchester accent.

Somehow that alone reminds you that Simon has never lied, not even once, to you. That stern voice of his is straightforward, doesnt mess around and forces his way through any problem. Just like he had just pushed himself to the root of your mind and destroyed your seeds of doubt.

“You’re allowed to talk to us you know. I have a funny feeling you’re scared o’ somethin’. Not sure what just yet.”

He doesnt force you to respond, just speaking his thoughts even if that’s what you usually do when you’re together. The couch creaks as he stand up, pulling you to get up aswell beside him. He places a hand on the crook of your back, gently encouraging you to begin walking towards the door. “Cmon, back to my room. Lets get you cleaned up properly.”

Before you know it, you’re sitting against the headboard of his bed, something you had only felt months ago when you first came here, scared and confused over a stupid hornet. You trusted him to help you then, but you dont understand why you suddenly felt that fear again. Meanwhile, your shirt is half off, Ghost sat on the bed beside you as he inspects the burns on your chest from the tea. It’s harsh, the skin reddened but not enough to be something serious thankfully. He presses a cool towel against it, soothing the stinging skin but he knows it’ll fade out soon enough. You’re wearing his old shirt, and he gave you some comfortable sweatpants too for good measure. You just watch all his moves so quietly, feeling like a ghost yourself in this moment from how detached you are. It’s weird, feeling so much yet nothing at the same time.

“Nothing too bad, should be alright by the morning.” He hums, lifting the fresh mug of tea he brewed for you and brings it to your lips for you to sip before he steals some for himself. “Is your chest still tight?” You blink, not expecting him to ask that of all things because you hadnt exactly mentioned that part and yes, it was. “How did you know..?” Your hand reaches out, silently asking for more of the tea he graciously lets you sip, unable to fathom how he brews it so perfectly each time. “You were clutching at your chest before and your breaths are a little shorter than they should be.” He’s seen straight through you again so you slump your shoulders and just nod quietly. “Yeah, it’s really tight. It’s always like this and i dont know how to make it stop.”

His gloved hand reaches out, gently rubbing at your chest thus making you sink a little back into the pillows. Before he can respond, you speak up with a quiet confession. “That day, when you came ‘round, I was upset. You said you wanted to watch the series with me and I felt so bad. I didn't want to give up my only chance of spending time with you, but I knew my head couldn't take it.”

He nods along quietly, letting you reveal it all to him. “T-then you figured me all out and i got scared— i didnt want someone to know everything about me because i didnt want to be a problem. I want someone to listen but i dont want to be seen as something different. I just.. i dont know how to handle all of this. I dont feel like the person i am when i look in the mirror.”

The strangest thing of all is that it didnt actually take you long to figure it out. You knew all along, of course, but when you’re fighting against yourself, you’re supporting both sides and so a part of you decided not to dwell on a certain bit of information too much. The reason for that to be pushed aside is no part of you wanted to face it.

Your heart always secretly wished someone would find out— that someone would push past the walls you’ve banged so hard against even if they were crafted by the webs of your brain. You prayed and prayed that they’d read through it all, express their concern and one day, one day you’d be saved from this hellish feeling. It was a common daydream for you and yet you were terrified of it. If someone knew, there was no guarantee they’d follow the fantasy. They could ridicule you, or they couldnt be able to comfort you at all, maybe they’d try and it wouldnt even do anything or maybe, just maybe— they wouldnt give a damn about it. What happened then? If that daydream was real, and that was the final outcome, there was no turning back in time. It seemed like only one person would ever figure you out, after all, no one had up until this point.

But then Simon became aware, and you got terrified. You hid away because you were too scared to know his reaction to your problems, even more so his reaction to you. You wanted someone to help, you really did, and yet your brain feared to know the uncertain future of it.

His ungloved hands card through your hair, the callouses gentle against your scalp as he slowly scratches at it. “You need to speak with us, and the others. Your feelings are real— hell, we all have our doubts. I used to feel it before every mission. Soap began to tell me his, then Gaz joined too. Price always looks for a way to solve it, and i give my two pence when i feel i want to. Just cause you feel different, doesnt mean you are. Plenty o’ people felt the same way you did before.”

“Really..? I’m not like.. crazy?”

“No, never. Even if you do some stupid shit sometimes.”

That makes you finally crack a real smile, even if its small and you’re unable to stifle the small chuckle that bubbles in your throat and although he’s the epitome of stoicism, he smiles beneath the mask. “Everyone’s out on a mission, ya can't leave me alone tonight. C’mere.”

You settle yourself in the crook of arm as he lays back against the bed with you, propping up his laptop on his lap as he searches for a good movie.

“You better report back to me everyday this week, alright? I want you here at nine pm sharp, dressed in your pajamas. That’s an order.”

Thinking over all your previous daydreams of how this would eventually go, this was far from how you expected it to be. Firstly, you never expected Ghost, nor it to happen in the military at all. Perhaps you thought maybe later in life it’d occur or maybe Soap or Price would figure it out. Either way, you arent actually upset over it. No one would be your fairy tale saviour in life, coming forward to fight the demons that plagued your head all the time. Even so, the way Ghost had shut you up and calmed you down makes you think he’s pretty damn close to being one, even if knights usually dont scoff at their princess.

He doesnt even look like he’d be willing to give a little kid a hug, but still, you couldnt be happier with how this turned out in the end. Compared to fairytale princes and men in the movies, you knew Ghost and you knew he was serious— so if he wanted to help you, he would. And no, he wouldnt ridicule you throughout the process, nor ever feel like you’ve been misheard. You know that if you spoke to Ghost, he’d listen earnesty and never forget, carrying that around with him even if those anxieties eventually died out.

You knew he’d always linger around, never forgetting you or leaving you behind. Just like a Ghost.

“Okay, i promise i will.”

You say softly, pressing your cheek against the curve of his chest, the faint thump of his heartbeat drowning out any lost thoughts. He was your support, and no matter how bad it got for you, no matter how many times you get overwhelmed and lash out, not even when you avoid everyone— he’d never break away. No, he would always be beside you.

[spctrsgf]

cold wires

summary: you crashed in maldo kreis. and it’s cold.

word count: 752

warnings: language like once, i can't write blurbs

a/n: HELLOOOOOOO omg it feels so so nice to be back to writing after all this time !! thank u all for bearing with me as i went thru my slump :((( life has been a lot recently and im in over my head but ANYWAYS ofc i had to come back w shiny<333 will get on my requests asap too 🫡

“It's frigid on this damn planet.” 

Din lets out the smallest huff and your remark, so small that you wouldn't have heard it if it weren't for his modulator. He's to your left, working on another panel of the ship as you try to get the electricity up and running. 

It's been a good few hours since the Crest had crashed down into Maldo Kreis, and the ship had already gained a thin sheen of ice and touched freezing temperatures. Your companions were all dancing about, trying their best to help to no avail. 

“Less grumbling, more working.” His voice cuts through the crisp air like a sword, shaking you from your frozen thoughts and back to the problem at hand. The wires were all frosted as well, apparently, even though you had warmed them not long ago. You twist them in your fingertips again with a sigh, careful not to shock your fingers.

Bustling about, you and Din fall back into a serene sort of silence as both of you focus your attention on the work in front of you again. His presence makes it easier for you to do the said thing, getting the wires to where they needed to be in order to start up the engine again. 

“Good job.” Din nods his head at you in a sign of thanks and respect, noticing the lights flicker on. You beam, happy to have helped in some way. You both reenter the hull, content in your achievements and ready to start up the Crest again. The ice planet was– surprise surprise– not the most pleasant to spend one’s time. 

Aaaaaaaaaand your hands were still freezing.

You hated complaining, really. Din had been so generous as to take you under his protection, to let you tag along as he and the Child traveled to countless planets. He had opened up, even if only in the slightest, making you feel more at home in the tiny ship then anywhere else you had been previously. Because of this, you felt a little weird complaining much, as silly as that seems and as small as this issue was. 

But it was cold. And you couldn’t really feel your hands. Before you could think too much harder on it, the words roll off your tongue and tumble out of your mouth in a nearly pathetic grumble. “My hands are still fucking icebergs.” Your cheeks dust a shade pinker and your eyes drop down to your shoes as Din turns from his spot near his bed. 

It’s silent in the hunk of the ship. You don't dare to peek up at the beast of a man in front of you, regretting even saying the words that had just come out of your mouth. How could you even say that? After he had just spent the whole time next to you in the cold? How inconsiderate. The urge to apologize rushes up into your throat before you can process it, ejecting from your mouth in some wicked sort of word vomit. 

But, before you can even process that he’s moved at all, Din’s got your hands in his own, enveloped. The words of apology that were about to leave your mouth sputter and pop, dispersing into nothing more than a gasp of surprise. You forget he can move that fast sometimes. 

His hands are warm. Tucked beneath gloves, they must feel quite soft, you think. You wish you knew. Sighing, you let his hands warm your own. And it's comfortable, this moment. There was no awkwardness in the silence, in the proximity, in the way your breaths match to create a melody that adorns the warmth in your hands and your cheeks.

You muster enough courage to tilt your head up to meet the sharp line of his visor, since turned soft by the way his thumb rubs back and forth on the back of your hand, barely any movement at all. “Thank you.” You breathe out, earnest in the way the words dance out of your mouth. He only offers a small nod, surely adorned with one of his soft smiles you know hide underneath his beskar visor.

And that's when you hear the Kid’s giggle.

Your eyes widen, Din’s head ticks up. “We should probably go check that out,” You quip, turning away from your moment before a second thought can be formulated. “Make sure he’s okay.” Your companion nods, streaking ahead of you as you draw your gun.

Something tells you he won’t be.  

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Bonus Part 4: Never Knew I Needed You

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF from @perotovar

A/N: this is a bonus post with OFC + Mando's POV

*Part 4 of 4* in an extended flashback episode I'm writing for Volume 4: Smart Girl like You. We go back to the beginning of Mando x ofc!reader's relationship to help set up some important events that will occur in the climax of Vol 4.

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Rating: Explicit - graphic violence, torture, language, 18+ MINORS DNI (read with ⛔️ )

“Are you sure this stuff will hold him?”

The Trandoshan’s slitted pupils narrowed, eyeing the rigid foam warily, as though it might shatter under the sheer weight of the Mandalorian's reputation. He shifted on his clawed feet, tail flicking nervously.

Strung up from the rigging, Mando hung imprisoned like an insect encased in amber between the towering rows of crates stacked inside Kosar’s cargo hold. His legs were immobilized, his arms trapped, the resin creeping up his chest, tightening with each shallow breath. His neck and head were still free. That was the only thing giving him hope.

Farrik! If it reached his neck…he’d never escape. Mando twisted his shoulders, trying to leverage the mass of his body, his ribs heaving against the confines of polymer.

Had the Guild hunters quieted their chatter, they might have heard his exertion through the modulator.

“He’s not going anywhere.” The other hunter huffed, leaning against a nearby crate with his arms crossed over his chest, unimpressed. “Just another piece of cargo.”

A very expensive, very disgruntled piece of cargo.

“Maybe.” The Trandoshan frowned. “How can you tell this isn’t the cheap stuff?”

The foam shimmered faintly, its bonds visibly tightening.

“If he gets out, we shoot him.” The Nikto hunter shrugged.

“Right,” the Trandoshan rolled his eyes, clearly regretting the decision to take this job. “It’s so obvious, no one will have tried that.”

The Nikto scratched his chin before pinching a tab of stim between his fingers and tucking it behind his lip. “I’ll give you five hundred credits to take off his helmet.”

“And I’ll give you five hundred credits to stay away from his helmet.” The Trandoshan blinked both sets of eyelids. “Are you insane? Know what happens when you mess with a Mandalorian’s helmet? There are legends. Actual legends. I’m not looking to get cursed by some vengeful warrior demon.”

The Nikto’s lips curled around the stim. “Didn’t realize you were that superstitious, Richi.”

Richi bared his fanged teeth. “You take it off him, then, if you’re such a tough guy.” He tilted his snout. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Being possessed by a demon might just grant you a personality.”

The Nikto’s grin faltered, but before he could say anything, a voice cut through their bickering like blaster fire.

“Tell me—when exactly did I give either of you the impression you’re welcome to lurk about my ship?”

Kosar’s boots clanged against the grated deck as he stepped into the hold, his long coat sweeping behind him.

The two Guild hunters straightened, suddenly reminded of their rank. “Just checking in,” one muttered.

“Good. I have a job for you. Rrsuba can keep the baby. Get me the girl,” Kosar ordered, his eyes passing over them to gaze at the Mandalorian. “Don’t make me wait.”

The hunters exchanged a quick glance before shuffling off toward the hatch. Kosar remained, standing there, studying the contours of the resin while the hum of the ship’s engines filled the silence.

That, and a faint whining noise emanating from the foam. The Mandalorian was still fighting.

Finally, Kosar spoke, his voice quiet. Almost affectionate.

“You always did go down swinging,” he said, tone nostalgic. “Pride, or just a flair for the dramatic? I was never sure.”

Kosar circled slowly, staying just outside Mando’s reach. Not that it mattered anymore.

“I meant what I said. The baby’s too much of a headache—they’ll keep hunting him. But I’ll get you the girl.” His eyes narrowed, lips curling slightly. “I can be reasonable, brother. Just tell me how to make this work. We’re both men of principle, after all.”

A pause. Then a tilt of his head.

“Well. You were.”

“No negotiation.” Mando ground out between clenched teeth. It made the foam climb faster toward his throat, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re going to die tonight.”

Kosar let out a sharp, barking laugh, tipping his head back, genuinely delighted. “Ha! There’s the audacity.” He smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. “Strange, the things people attach themselves to…”

The word hung in the air for a moment, but Mando gave no response.

Kosar chuckled, brittle and humorless.

“Not judging. Everyone gets tempted by a clean slate.”

He drew in a slow breath.

“Still, odd seeing you turn your back on the ones who made you. After everything you did to save them after the Purge. A few soft words, a softer bed… and suddenly they don’t matter?”

The Mandalorian’s fists throbbed with the intensity of his anger. He still hadn’t moved, but the resin popped faintly near his wrists.

Kosar leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret between old friends.

“You want to protect her? Fine. But don’t pretend that makes you different.”

A glint entered his eyes. His expression darkened.

“You still think I’m your enemy?” Kosar's voice remained light, but the bite was clear. “I’m offering you a chance at something better. After all, what’s a few more bodies after what we’ve done?”

The words hit Mando like a gut punch. His eyes burned with the memory—the screams of the people as fire engulfed the city. Sometimes, between sleep and waking, he heard the thud of their bodies hitting the ground as they’d jumped from windows and rooftops. He didn’t want to remember what they had done on Lakaran. Or his part in it.

Kosar’s voice cut through the silence again.

“I’m offering you a future. A place at the top. Together.” He stood, gaze boring into the Mandalorian’s helmet. “You don’t owe her anything, brother. You owe me. You think someone like her would bleed for you the way I have?”

Kosar’s eyes narrowed, studying the Mandalorian with a trace of disappointment.

“You think she can’t see it? That she doesn’t suspect what you’re truly capable of?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You think she’ll stick around when she finds out? Think any of them would?”

A dark thought crept into his mind. Kosar’s taunts were like daggers. Mando could feel the truth in those words, the cruel certainty.

Thulani would leave eventually. One day, she’d see him for what he really was. He wasn’t a man who could be loved. Not for long.

Kosar let the silence hang a beat longer before continuing, his voice now cold. “You can pretend all you want, but it’s just a matter of time. Once she’s gone, you’ll have no one left to lie to.”

Mando’s chest heaved beneath the resin. The foam creaked in protest as his muscles strained, his head thundering from the pressure.

“I’ve always respected you, brother,” Kosar said, venom dripping from his words. “But you’ve got to understand… this is who you are. You can’t run from it anymore.”

Mando’s hand twitched. The memory of Lakaran felt too close. His old partner was right—there were things in his past that he couldn’t outrun.

Kosar pulled back, smoothing the shift in tone like brushing out a wrinkle.

“Let’s not waste this opportunity.” He tapped the resin with a faint smile. “Take some time to consider my offer.” Kosar’s gaze lingered on the Mandalorian, his expression softening with a feigned sigh. “Maybe you’ll realize just how much this new life has cost you.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked toward the hatch, coat trailing behind him. And Mando was left alone in silence.

Inside the helmet, shame gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the bonds that held him—it was the crushing weight of guilt, the burden of his failure.

Every breath dragged with the gravity of what he had gotten them into—the Child, Nito, the Healer. All of them. Caught in the blast radius of his bad decisions. Mando had known the risk when he let them close, but still… he hadn’t expected it to cut this deep.

The kid’s face flashed in Mando’s mind—those trusting eyes, the way the Child had reached for him. In his mind, he saw it all unraveling. Their faces in peril because of him.

With a low growl, Mando gritted his teeth beneath the helmet, summoned every last reserve of strength, and pushed. With each crack of the resin, a fresh wave of panic gripped him—not just for his survival, but for them. For all of them.

Whatever Kosar had said about sparing her, he wasn’t a man who dealt in mercy. Thulani. He thought of her, her face—her fear—it filled him with an anger he hadn’t known he possessed. Mando could already imagine her terror when Kosar’s hands were on her. How she would hate him for dragging her into a fight she never asked for.

Thulani had been a skilled medic, but she was not a warrior. Not like him. His whole purpose, his whole reason for existing, was to protect them. But now? Now he questioned whether he even deserved that responsibility. If he failed to keep the Child safe, if he couldn’t protect them, what was the point of everything he had done? 

It wasn’t just that he feared for her—it was the thought that she might never forgive him for getting them into this mess. That thought terrified him more than the polymer tightening around his limbs.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Pressure surged through the Mandalorian’s body, armor digging into his skin with the strain. The bonds fought back, tightening reflexively—but it was too late. The crack spread from his knuckles, a brittle lattice fracturing outward. Pain lanced through his muscles, but it only pushed him harder.

He should’ve done more. Been faster. Smarter. He should have kept them further away. Kept them hidden. But in the end, it was his recklessness that had led them here. And in his failure, they were still in danger.

Mando couldn’t undo the choices that had brought them here, but he could make damn sure they weren’t the last ones he made.

With a guttural roar muffled by the helmet, Mando wrenched his arm forward. His knuckles throbbed, tearing through the hardened material. He couldn’t stop now. This wasn’t about his survival anymore—it was about theirs.

A splinter. Another fracture.

The resin screeched—a sickening crunch of material failing. Shards snapped off and skittered across the floor.

Mando’s hand tore free.

Without hesitation, he smashed his gauntlet against the foam encasing his opposite arm. Once, twice—on the third strike, the brittle shell shattered, exploding in a cloud of fractured dust.

Now both arms were free.

Pieces of foam still clung to Mando’s legs, but he only fought harder. A flash of fury surged through him—not just the desperation to escape, but something else. A need. He needed to prove to himself that he could still fulfill his promise.

He had said he would come for her.

Mando’s arms screamed, his body wracked with exhaustion, but he fought on. He couldn’t fail. Not now.

Beads of sweat traced down the inside of his helmet, mixing with the grit on his skin as he fought the resin’s unyielding grip.

Then, the resin broke open with a sharp, satisfying crack, shards flying like shrapnel. Mando lurched forward. His knees screamed in pain, his hands burned, but he didn’t care. Adrenaline flooded his body. Protecting them was all that mattered now.

He dropped from the rigging, boots slamming onto the deck with a reverberating clang.

The foam still clung to his legs like wet concrete, but Mando didn’t stop. Every step was louder than the last, each one filled with an unrelenting determination.

He stood, barely steady on his feet, and staggered forward. His legs were stiff, still shaking with the effort of breaking free. The armor felt heavier than ever, as if the burden of his purpose had settled into the Beskar.

As he approached the hatch, his helmet turned toward the empty corridor where Kosar had disappeared. His breath came steady through the modulator, slow and seething.

He didn’t need to think. He just had to act.

“Nito!” the Mandalorian spoke into the com-link. “Are you there?”

He would save them. He wouldn’t let them face whatever came next without him.

-----------

You stand over the crumpled bodies of the two bounty hunters. Not dead—just unconscious. A sharp ache pulses behind your temples, making your knees wobble. Thank the gods for Mando’s blaster. You don’t have enough strength of will left to channel your power. And it’s not over. 

Someone’s still out there—another bounty hunter, coming for the Child. With a swift motion, you flip over the kitchen table and duck behind it.

You crouch low against the overturned table, pulse hammering against your ribcage. The grain of the wood presses into your fingertips as you force yourself to slow your breathing. 

The blaster tightens in your grip, ready for the next round. Every muscle in your body is taut, ready to spring.

It’s been too quiet, too long. You can feel the tension in your bones, an itch that keeps you alert. Poised. The baby is bundled tightly next to you, his small body trembling. His tiny heart races against the rising tension, but he trusts you. 

You hear footsteps. Slow and cautious.

Fingers flex around the gunstock, thumb pressing into the cool metal as you adjust your stance, ready.

The door creaks.

Concentrate on feeling their heartbeat. You have a better chance at taking them out if they’re down.

You hold your breath, pressing deeper into the shadows. Every movement, every creak of the floor, could give you away. But then you hear it—a faint, but unmistakable rhythm. A pulse. It cuts through the pounding of your own heart.

It's…familiar. You know it. You’ve felt it before.

Nito.

Your heart surges with recognition. You don’t need to see him to know who it is. 

For a second, you almost stand up to face him, but you stop yourself. What if he’s being followed? Or coerced? You can’t give away your position. 

The footsteps pause outside the door, and you sense him just beyond it. There’s a calm in his presence now, a resolve that you didn’t sense in him before. He’s ready for whatever’s coming.

Your gaze shifts to the Child, who watches you with those wide eyes. We’re not alone. 

You swallow your fear and make a snap decision. 

“Nito!” you whisper under your breath, with a mixture of relief and dread. You need to get back to the Crest, but you also need to stay one step ahead of whoever else is out there.

“Come inside, Nito.” You know he’s listening. “We need to stay hidden.”

The broken door slides open with a groan, and Nito steps into the hut, his silhouette sharp against the dim light of the lamp. He pauses for just a moment, his eyes scanning the space with an intensity that goes beyond fear. 

“Nito,” you say again, louder this time, your voice steady despite the adrenaline that’s running through your veins.

His gaze flickers to the baby, then back to you. He doesn’t need to say it. You both know what’s at stake.

“I heard them coming for you over the comlink,” he says, his voice low but resolute. He’s braver than you expected. 

But he’s also nervous. You can see it in the way his hands hover at his sides, like he’s ready to act but doesn’t want to screw this up. He looks at you, then at the baby, and then back to you again.

“What do we do now?” His eyes hold a quiet desperation.

“You need to get him to the Razor Crest,” you tell Nito, your tone low but sharp with urgency. “Whoever is still out there, I’ll draw them away so you can make it."

“But you—” 

He starts to speak, but you cut him off, your voice more forceful this time. "Now, Nito! Take him. Get him to safety.” 

Nito’s face contorts with the urgency of your command, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He opens his mouth to argue, but the words stall, swallowed by the silent terror in his chest. 

You exhale slowly, letting the tension melt from your shoulders. “You can swing through the trees, Nito. You’re faster without me. You’ll make it.” You say the words firm, as much to reassure yourself as to convince him. “He needs you.”

Nito’s jaw tightens, a flicker of protest flashing across his face. “I don’t want to split up. Not now. Not after...they’ll hurt you.”

You know what he’s thinking. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you not to let them go, but you’ve made up your mind. The truth is, you can’t save them if you don’t give them the chance to run. 

“It took so much courage to come here. Now all that’s left is to get him back to the ship. He’s counting on you.”

There’s no hesitation in his heartbeat now. No second guessing. 

“Mando’s still alive. Trapped. But he’s here, too. On Kosar’s ship.”

“Then he’ll escape,” you assure him without a trace of doubt. “We just need to keep the baby safe until Mando gets free.”

You don’t wait for a response; you just hear the sounds of feet shuffling quickly and the soft, nervous rustle as Nito prepares to do what you’ve asked.

You crawl out from behind the table, press your back against the wall, and slowly peek around the corner of the door frame. There’s a clear path to the beach, and beyond—into the jungle. Your fingers begin to tremble again. Time to move. 

Nito crouches, moving swiftly toward you, a shadow in the dim light. For a moment, you watch him cradle the child with tender care, the way his hands adjust, gently securing the small bundle in his arms. There’s strength in the way he holds the kid, and it’s enough to make your throat tighten.

“I’ll come back for you,” he says, choking down a sob.  

“Don’t. Whatever you do, Nito, don’t leave the ship. Mando will come for me.” 

You don’t say it. But the thought stings—he'll prioritize the baby. You have no illusions about it. When the Mandalorian gets free, he’ll head straight for the Razor Crest. And if he’s smart, he jump into hyperspace. You’re certain of that. There’s something bitter in that thought, something that twists in your chest. But it’s the truth. 

You don’t say it because then Nito might not leave you behind. And the safest place for Nito and the kid is on the ship.

“I’ll be fine,” you continue, forcing yourself to sound confident. “I’ll run. Then I’ll hide in the jungle. I’ll be safe.”

Nito looks at you, the concern in his eyes unmistakable. 

“I’ll be fine,” you repeat. The words taste sour in your mouth, but you say them anyway. It’s the only thing you can offer. You need him to believe it. You need him to see that you’ve made up your mind. “I’ll draw them away long enough for you two to escape.”

His eyes flicker to the baby, the silent trust in the Child’s gaze pulling at something deep inside him. The same thing that pulls at you. And, finally, the moment stretches between you both, taut with the enormity of what’s being asked.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he says. 

You choke back the lump in your throat, your words coming out more clipped than you intend. “Then let’s go. Now. Before they realize what’s going on.”

You rise from your crouch, and for just a second, you catch Nito’s gaze—something raw and vulnerable in his expression. A flicker of gratitude, maybe, but also something darker. The fear of losing you.

“Mando will save me,” you say emphatically, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You believe that, don’t you?”

He nods once, swallowing hard, then reaches down to secure the baby in his arms. The Child’s tiny hands wrap instinctively around Nito's neck, and you can feel the bond between them—the same bond you’ve felt building all this time. Dammit, you love them both so much. 

One last glance. Then, without another word, Nito turns and moves toward the door. You stay low, keeping your breathing steady.

You want to scream. To beg them not to go. Because once they’re gone, you may never know if this was the right choice. 

But you don’t. You swallow it, bury it deep, because this is what love is—letting go so they can live.

You nod at Nito, a silent reassurance.

“It’s time,” you murmur, gaze locking with his for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Quiet and slow.”

There’s no hesitation in the way he stands now. His pulse, steady as stone, says everything. This isn’t the boy who was so unsure of himself moments ago. This is someone who’s ready. Ready to fight, ready to do whatever it takes.

You let out a long breath. It feels like a weight has been lifted. “Thank you,” you murmur, though the words seem too small. If you can make it back alive...maybe you'll get the chance to thank Nito properly for his courage.

His lips quirk upward in a quiet smile, a brief flicker of pride in his eyes. The smallest spark of a hero, the one you’ve always suspected was there.

Nito turns quickly, shifting his attention to the baby, who watches him intently. The Child’s hands reach out to you—innocent, seemingly unaware of the danger swirling around him—but Nito tucks him into his jacket with the kind of gentleness you never expected from him.

He gives you one last nod before he slips toward the beach, a shadow in the half-light. The rain has picked up now, but you wait for the faintest sounds of his footsteps on the pier to fade, then you take a deep breath and exhale. It’s done.

Now, it's your turn.

You take a final breath, steadying yourself, then let the tension snap. Your body moves before your mind can catch up. 

And then, you’re running. Moving into the shadows. Into the jungle.

You’re already sprinting, your feet pounding against the boards, loud enough to draw attention, but you don’t care. 

You’re the bait. Let them chase you. The bounty hunters will be on your tail soon enough. You’ll give Nito the head start he needs.

You won’t run far. But far enough to give them a chance. Far enough for Nito to be safe, for the Child to be safe. And if the Mandalorian never finds you... Well, hopefully it’ll have been worth it.

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

The moment the hatch of Kosar’s ship swung open, the night air hit Mando like a wall—a stifling, oppressive weight that clung to his flightsuit, soaking through the layers of thick canvas fabric beneath his armor. The humidity pressed down on him, almost suffocating. Sweat beaded on his skin, mixing with the seep of resin. But he barely noticed. 

The storm was gathering—low rumbles of thunder echoed through the dense jungle, a harsh prelude to the deluge that was about to break. The clouds churned above him, thick and ominous, as if they, too, were aware of the battle that raged within him.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him as he broke into a run, still feeling the sting of the polymer’s hold on his joints, but unwilling to stop. The world around him was a blur—dark shadows and faint streaks of lightning illuminating the jungle in quick, jagged bursts of light. The trees were thick with the gathering storm, their leaves trembling as the winds began to pick up.

The Mandalorian’s breath came in ragged gasps beneath his helmet, the humid air hot and oppressive as it filled his lungs. The night seemed to stretch on forever, the storm clouding his senses, the air thick with the scent of rain and rotting vegetation. But he pushed on.

The village. The baby. Thulani.

He could already picture it in his mind—the narrow sandy paths of the fishing village, the rickety huts with their thatched roofs, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The small, quiet place they had found refuge, where he had promised them safety. Where he had promised himself he would protect them. Now that promise was like an anchor pulling him down into the depths of his shame, reminding him of the failure that still loomed over him.

A flash of lightning cracked through the sky above, and the first heavy drops of rain began to fall—slow at first, then faster, like the sky itself was trying to wash away everything. The storm was upon him in full force now, the rain pouring down in sheets, drenching him within seconds. His armor, which had once been a shield against everything, now felt like a prison he couldn’t escape, trapping him in the suffocating heat of the tropical night.

The dense jungle around him seemed alive, as if it were pushing back against him, the trees and vines clawing at his path, trying to slow him down. He swerved around a large fern, his boots slipping on the slick ground, but he kept moving. 

He had to get there. He had to make it to the village.

The thunder cracked again, louder this time, and the rain turned into a torrential downpour, drenching the jungle and blurring the Mandalorian’s vision. His breath came in harsh gasps, steam rising from his body in the humid air, mixing with the rainwater that streamed down his helmet. But still, he ran. 

They were counting on him.

He reached the edge of the village, his body burning with fatigue as his boots hit the wet sand with a soft thud, the tide lapping at the shore just beyond the beach. He staggered forward, feet sinking slightly into the sand with each step. His head swiveled, searching for any sign of them.

As Mando scanned the village’s edge, a small, hunched figure emerged from the shadows near the pier.

It was Nito.

The Ardennian moved quickly, his four feet hitting the wet sand with a soft slap. He clutched the baby in his arms, his pace quickening when he spotted Mando.

The Mandalorian’s breath hitched beneath his helmet as Nito’s face, grim and strained, came into view. In his arms, cradled gently but with visible urgency, was the baby. The Child’s ears drooped, his small form utterly still, but alive.

Nito's pace quickened, his face pale under the flickering lantern light. “Mando!” His voice was breathless, full of panic. “You made it. I—I thought you’d be too late—”

The Mandalorian’s hand instinctively reached out for the baby, his pulse hammering as he took the Child from Nito’s arms. The relief was overwhelming, but it was short-lived. Nito’s terrified eyes never left him, his anxiety palpable.

“Thuli—she’s—she’s—” He swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.

The Mandalorian’s gaze sharpened. “What happened?”

Nito’s face twisted with regret and fear. “She—she led them away. The bounty hunters—she drew them away, made them chase her.”

A sickening knot coiled in the Mandalorian’s stomach. His fingers tightened around the Child, his heart racing.

“Why?” The word came out in a low rasp. It didn’t matter why. He didn’t need to understand her bravery–he needed to save her. He’d failed her before. He couldn’t fail her again.

Nito’s fear was a palpable thing. But there was something else, too—the ache of losing someone he cared for. The Mandalorian nodded, his gaze unwavering. This wasn’t just about duty. It was about keeping a promise.

“She’s still out there, Mando.” Nito’s voice broke with a tremor of desperation. “But they’ll catch her. They’ll hurt her. Worse...You need to get her. Please. Please.” His hands trembled as he grabbed the Mandalorian’s arm. “She sacrificed herself to get us out. You can’t let her die. Please.”

The Mandalorian stood still, holding the baby close. His chest tightened with the anguish of Nito’s plea, but his mind was already racing, calculating the next steps.

He nodded, slow and deliberate. 

“I’ll find her,” Mando’s voice was low, almost a growl, edged with something too raw to hide.

Nito breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you, Mando.”

The Mandalorian shifted the Child carefully in Nito’s arms. “Get to the ship and activate security protocols. I’ll bring her back.”

He looked out into the darkness, toward the wall of trees beyond the village. Somewhere out there, she was running—alone and outnumbered.

He adjusted the rifle on his back.

Not for long.

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

Branches whip past your face as you tear through the dense undergrowth, heart hammering against your ribs, a flare signaling to every predator within earshot. The jungle is alive with noise—chirring insects, unseen creatures rustling in the canopy above, the distant hum of ship engines. But none of it drowns out the one thought pounding through your head.

Run.

Every step you take feels heavier than the last, the humid air thick and cloying, your legs burning with the effort. But you don’t stop. You can’t.

Behind you, the jungle shudders. A snap of foliage. A huffing breath. Then—a voice. Not a voice, exactly. A filtered, mechanical parody of one.

“Fleeing. Very incorrect.”

Before you can turn, something slams into your side like a battering ram. The air leaves your lungs in a sharp cry. You hit the forest floor hard, the sharp tang of dirt and decaying leaves in your mouth. Fingers close around your ankle and drag you backward, scraping over tangled roots and stones.

Kicking, twisting, screaming—nothing works.

She looms over you, swathed in red armor, lichen clinging to her blond hair. That feline face twists into something that might be a grin—or a threat. Her eyes are pitch black. The translation device strapped against her throat buzzes.

“Asset? Small one? Where?”

The words—translated into Basic—feel wrong, like broken glass fused together at odd angles. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s mocking you or seeking information. Every jerk and tug of your arms is met with her relentless power and brute strength.

“Give location. Asset. Now.”

Her boot presses into your chest with calculated control—hard enough to threaten, not enough to silence. Your breath wheezes past clenched teeth. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Death is not profitable. Cooperation preferred.”

The device momentarily loops: “Where—where—where—”

Twigs and rocks scratch your scalp as you shake your head. “I’m not telling you shit.”

She leans closer, mouth twitching. A stream of incomprehensible syllables pours angrily from her mouth, picked up by the translator. 

“Incorrect. Pain teaches.”

Then she lifts you from the ground like a sack of grain, your arms flailing uselessly. You scream and beat at her armor, but it does nothing. She hauls you back toward the village by your collar, scraping your heels over the uneven ground. The flickering lights of a starship are just visible between the trees.

Is that where they’ve got Mando imprisoned?

The thought gives you hope. Maybe he’ll escape. No–he would escape. The question is whether he’ll come for you. Whether you can survive interrogation long enough for him to save you. 

And then—

The hiss of a blaster. The flash of red light through the foliage.

The bounty hunter jerks, curses, and drops you. You hit the ground hard again, but this time, you scramble upright, heart racing. 

Footsteps approaching.

Kosar.

“Let her go,” he says.

He emerges from between the trees like a phantom, the nearby ship’s lights casting dancing shadows off his long coat. He walks like a man in full command of every outcome. A man who knows he’s the most dangerous thing in this jungle. 

“That’s enough, Rrsuba,” Kosar says calmly, lowering his blaster.

Rrsuba snarls, blood bubbling from the edges of her split lip. She grunts out something from deep in her throat. The translator glitches.

“Her—noncompliant—futile.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kosar steps forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "She's mine now."

Rrsuba bares her teeth, but she doesn’t challenge him. Kosar's eyes, dark with intent, flicker toward you. A slow, almost pleased smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Her?” 

You don’t need to speak Rrsuba’s language to catch all the layers of scorn, absurdity, and confusion in her question. 

“He protect? But no helmet. No armor. Why?”

Overhead, thunder growls low and long, and the first fat drops of rain break through the jungle canopy. The storm has been circling for hours, but now it begins—softly at first, like a warning.

“Hell if I know,” Kosar says.

Rrsuba sneers. “No asset. Compensation required.”

The blaster sings. 

Rrsuba crashes backward into the underbrush, skidding in the wet earth. Her bandolier snaps, and gear scatters—tumbling into the ferns, down the slope, out of reach. The bounty hunter collapses, her body a dull thud against the mossy ground. 

Kosar holsters his weapon with the casual grace of a man untouchable. 

For a heartbeat, there’s only the flicker of starlight and your ragged breathing.

Then he turns to you.

Kosar steps over Rrsuba’s fallen body without pause or glance.

“Are you hurt?”

No words come. Your thoughts swirl in shock, trying to process what just happened. Rrsuba’s body lies cooling behind him, and yet Kosar looks… pleased. It's a brutal reminder—to him, people are just things to be used and discarded.

“Why?” you wonder aloud. “You sent her.”

“I did,” he admits, gaze steady. “I told Rrsuba to sell you along with the kid. That I had no use for you.” Kosar straightens, brushing off his gloves. “But that’s changed. Now you’re worth something to me.”

“So you shot her…to save me?” you ask, numbly.

He exhales slowly, not answering immediately.

“I shot her because she threatened what’s mine.”

You stiffen. “I’m not—”

“I don’t mean you.” His eyes narrow. “You’re a means to an end.”

You take a step back, but he moves with you. Then he softens.

“I saved you because you’re a valuable piece of leverage.”

“Leverage?”

“Of course,” he replies. “It’s not personal. It’s practical.”

Kosar steps closer, close enough that you can smell the blood on his coat. This time, your body refuses to move.

“Help me keep him under control. In return, I’ll keep you alive. Maybe even comfortable. But disobey me…”

He chuckles softly before lifting a finger and dragging it across his throat.

“I could kill you now. Let him think you died in the escape. That he failed you,” he brows lift curiously. “Or maybe I’ll keep you on a shelf out of reach like a toy, and he can play with you as a reward.” 

Your stomach flips. The threat lands like ice water in your veins. 

A surge of power pulses beneath your skin, but the ache of exhaustion is too distracting. You can’t summon the necessary focus. Kosar’s resolve is like iron, an unyielding wall that your abilities won’t overcome without touch. 

But you’re too afraid to force a confrontation. Hesitation crushes you, as fear keeps you from charging him. In this moment, you feel powerless.

Kosar tilts his head. “You think you know him. You think you’re strong enough to hold him together once this is over? But I’ve seen him break. You won’t recognize what’s left.”  

You say nothing.

“That’s right. You want to protect him. I know.” Kosar’s voice lowers, almost gentle. “So do I.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “You have an odd way of showing it.” 

Kosar’s gaze falters, a flicker of something darker in his eyes. The smile that had almost seemed pleased with your defiance slowly fades into something more sinister. His hand hovers at his side, fingers twitching as if calculating his next move. The gravity of his threats settles around you like a noose tightening.

“Don’t make me hurt you. I’m here to offer you a deal.”

“A deal?” you scoff.

“I’m offering you both a chance to survive this,” he says. “If he doesn’t come with me willingly, I’ll make use of you in other ways that force him to cooperate.”

A cold tremor runs through your body at the idea of being used to control the Mandalorian—but you hold your ground, determined not to let Kosar see your fear.

“Why would I help you? After what you’ve done?”

His voice drops, dangerously calm. “I’m not asking you to like me. I’m asking you to understand that you don’t have a choice.”

Kosar stands motionless beneath the dense canopy, his wiry frame barely visible against the tangle of vines and foliage. The rain had plastered his blonde hair to his forehead, droplets trickling down his sharp features. Yesterday, his eyes had seemed vacant and inhuman to you. Unfeeling. Now you realize your mistake. 

There’s something more beneath Kosar’s callous demeanor—an unspoken truth that gnaws at you, just as it gnaws at him.

“You say you want to protect him.” Your voice is barely more than a whisper. “Because you need him, or because you want to own him?”

Kosar’s eyes widen. His hand twitches toward the blaster at his side, but he doesn’t draw it. 

“I can give him a future. Purpose. Not this wandering redemption fantasy. You think you understand him? But you don’t. Not the way I do.”

The rage stutters beneath your ribs, and suddenly, you see it for what it is. Brother, he had called the Mandalorian. This isn't brotherhood. This is possession. It's fear. It's jealousy. You know it now.

“I’m sorry he left you behind.” You back up a step. “But this won’t work. There’s nothing I can do to give you back the man you loved. Even if I tried…” You shake your head, almost pitying him. “He’s not that person anymore.”

Kosar’s grin falters for a second. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, regret—but it hardens in an instant. His hand drifts toward his belt.

He steps forward, and this time you move back.

“Love? You think that’s what this is? You’re too weak to understand why he needs me." Kosar’s voice tightens as he says, “We were partners. I’m the one who kept him alive all those years. You don’t just walk away from that.”

Maybe Kosar is right. The sickening twist in your gut tells you this isn’t love. It never was. 

Kosar doesn't see the Mandalorian as a brother. He sees him as a tool. A weapon. A knight may feel reverence for his sword—its strength, its protection, its beauty. But it’s still a possession. 

The truth festers between you, swollen like the stormclouds pressing low and black overhead. 

If Kosar wanted to wield the Mandalorian as a sword, what did that make you? His sheath?

Absolutely not. 

You glance over your shoulder. There’s a narrow gap between the trees to your left—dense, but passable. Kosar is still six paces away. If you time it right…

Kosar sees it. He lifts his hand, not toward his blaster, but palm outward. A finger extends in warning.

“Don’t,” he says, voice flat. “You won’t make it two steps.”

You test him anyway.

In a sudden burst, you bolt sideways, racing toward the trees. Leaves slap at your face. Branches scratch your arms. You hear him curse under his breath before he tears after you—and then you’re thrown forward from the force of the blaster bolt hitting you from behind. The burn is excruciating. 

A harsh grip seizes your wrist, spinning you around. You stumble, crashing to the forest floor, breath knocked from your lungs.

Kosar looms above you, eyes blazing. His fingers tighten around your arm.

You reach for his face, but he shoves you back to the ground. Your hands spread out desperately, fingers grasping at a piece of Rrsuba’s armor amidst the roots. Swinging in a frantic arc, you slice Kosar’s hand open when he reaches for you. 

Instinctively, you begin to crawl away on your hands and knees—until the whipcord coils around your throat. Its metal strands dig into your skin, cutting off your breath in a vicious, unrelenting grip.

“Mando’s not the only one with a whip.” 

Kosar tows you upright until you're kneeling in the wet earth. With one hand, he tosses the whipcord over a low, moss-covered branch overhead. With the other, he yanks it tight. The cable snakes around your throat and cinches you back against the gnarled trunk behind you.

Your spine slams into bark. The cord bites into your skin. Your pulse spikes instantly, your heart pounding against your ribs as the pressure builds—tight, merciless, closing in with every shallow breath.

You struggle against it, hands clawing at the cord, but it only pulls tighter.

“Now let’s see what I’ve caught.”

The world begins to tilt, a dizzying swirl of panic straining your chest. The whipcord digs deeper into your throat, and your vision blurs as your lungs scream for air. You gasp for breath, but it doesn’t matter. 

“That’s what I thought.” Kosar’s grip doesn’t falter. With one hand, he removes your vizor, and the luminescence from your eyes surrounds you. A bright halo in the darkness. 

You taste the bile rising up in your throat. Did Kosar know about the bounty on your head? Hadn’t he told Rrsuba to sell you? 

“Clever of you to try and hide it. But my first master fucked enough Hapan girls, I can recognize the look. Even with the eyes covered, you’re all the same. Something about the mouth,” he grabs your chin in his good hand. “Always the same lips. Must be the millennia of breeding you as bed slaves.” 

This close, you feel the tug of his heartbeat. But you can’t build the connection. It slips through your consciousness, like trying to hold water in your hands. And then he pulls away. 

“For what it’s worth, this is a decent disguise. I don’t think Mando has any idea what you really are. He’s way too cheap to pay that much for pussy. My master would spend damn near a year’s worth of wages for one night with a girl like you.”

Wait! This was about…sex? It’s true, working as a courtesan is one of the only ways to obtain permission to leave the Cluster. They supplied intelligence back to the Consortium. 

If things had turned out differently, it might have been your fate.

“You know why a man pays so much for a Hapan like you? After all, you’ve got all the same parts.” 

Kosar’s stance remains unnervingly relaxed, his posture a study in unshakable confidence. His fingers are still wrapped loosely around the handle of the whipcord, but he doesn’t pull. He lets the tension build, savoring each gasp for air.

“It’s because he can wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze.” 

Now, his grip pulls. The jungle transforms into a dizzying blur of green and dark shapes. The cable tightens around your throat, crushing your esophagus like one of the rotting logs littering the forest floor. 

“Just squeeze and squeeze…”

Your fingers dig into the cord, but it only pulls tighter around your neck.

Then, the cable goes slack, and with a satisfied smile, Kosar watches intently as it begins to heal, muscles twitching. 

“But he can’t squeeze the life out of you.” 

A cough racks your chest, your heartbeat jagged and erratic.

I should do something. I have to. 

Your pulse is pounding in your ears as your body fights the loss of oxygen. A surge of power stirs within you, but it feels so faint against the torrent of fear crashing through you. The world is spinning, but amidst the haze of darkness, one thought rises to the surface—the Mandalorian. 

You just have to hold on until Mando rescues you. He will come. You know it now, with every breath. And that thought—it's enough to give you courage.

“You’re immortal.” Kosar holds up a knife to your face, just to see the flash of terror in your eyes before he cuts open your shirt, waiting for the blaster burn to heal. “Just not very good at getting away.”

If this man planned to rape you, he was about to learn a hard lesson in hubris. You will find your power. All you need is the barest brush of skin—if you wanted it to be tidy. Right now, the rage welling up inside you craves mess and gore. 

A cold, clinical thought rises from the depths of your mind as you try to distance yourself from the horror unfolding. You begin to assess how many pounds of pressure per square inch would be necessary to bite off a human penis. The sudden blood loss would be enough. 

But you can see he's not aroused.

He catches you looking between his legs and laughs. “Yeah, I never thought you were useful for much beyond that either. Until I met a smuggler who told me what Hapan body parts go for on the black market.”

Your body floods with panic. He watches intently as your hands resume grasping at the cable around your throat—fingers trembling, your heart beating frantically under your fingertips.

His lips curl into a smile. “Your bones? Powdered and sold by the gram. And the best bit is, you’ll just grow more for me to sell.”

Your hands weaken as the cord presses harder, tighter. Every breath comes slower, more shallow. You can feel the edges of your mind slipping, the pain in your throat, the burning in your lungs. 

How much longer can you survive this?

Kosar’s voice drones on, his words dull noise as your thoughts scatter. You try to force them back into focus, to free yourself from the chaos of your mind. 

“The problem is catching one of you. The Consortium keeps you all on a short leash, as I understand it. It’s why you never find a Hapan outside of Coruscant. Your handlers at the embassy keep a very close watch. Everyone gets very agitated when you go missing…” He pauses, letting the dawning significance of his words register, before adding, “And yet here you are, right within my grasp.”

He steps right in front of you, where you’re bound to the tree. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his gaze, whipcord still taut around your throat. Rain wets your face, and you glance up to see a tangled web of vines and ferns, blocking out the sky. 

Kosar lets the silence stretch, savoring the tension before he speaks again.

“You could be living large fucking senators and admirals. Money and privilege to keep you safe. But instead, you’re cruising the Outer Rim in that tin can, giving it up to a Mandalorian and polishing his armor.” 

He kneels beside you, his booted foot making a soft sound as it presses into the wet dirt. Kosar’s shadow stretches over you, swallowing you up, a deliberate movement that magnifies the tension between you. 

“Which makes me think you must be in some deep trouble,” he grins wryly. 

Above, the trees creak, bending under the downpour, their leaves catching the rain like a million tiny drums. 

“I was just a boy, but I remember seeing those Hapan girls when my master was done with them. He was a cruel man, yet all I could think about was the monsters who let him defile someone so precious.”

It’s not enough just to hurt you physically. He wants to see you break.

Of course, he’s not wrong. The things the Consortium asked of its most gifted novices were horrifying. It’s why you fled. 

“Now if that’s how they treat those in their favor…I can only imagine what they would do to those outside their favor.” His words crawl into your ears, taunting, “I think that’s why you’re with Mando. You think he’s going to keep you safe.” 

You can feel the tremor in your body as it reacts, a primal fight-or-flight instinct screaming for release. Your heart is hammering, your vision narrowing to a pinprick of clarity—Kosar’s shadow looming over you, cold and uncaring. He leans even closer, crouching over you, his breath warm against your face despite the humidity pressing in around you.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice low and almost fond, as though savoring the knowledge he holds over you. “Do you feel safe right now?”

The world spins around you in dizzying circles as the whipcord cinches tighter with every passing second. With a slow, deliberate motion, he eases the pressure just enough for you to draw a single, desperate breath—then pulls it taut again, forcing you to fight for the next.

You’re not sure how much longer you can hold on. 

"The Mandalorian is an asset. Do you have any idea what he could do for my standing? People would crawl to me. That’s why you’re going to help keep him under control."

Mando. He has to come. He has to kill this fucker. You think of Nito—of the Child. He can’t let them fall into Kosar’s hands.

"I don’t need him to love me—I need him to be useful.” 

Your vision flickers. Muscles scream for air. Each breath shallowing as your lungs burn for oxygen. You reach for your power, but it’s futile. All you can sense is Kosar’s cruelty.

Focus. Focus!

But the power feels so distant, as if it’s too tired to respond, buried under dread and your own weakness. I can’t…I can’t concentrate. 

"If you really care about him, you’ll keep him in his place.” Kosar’s hand reaches up to remove his gloves with a slow, deliberate motion, drawing out the moment, heightening the anticipation. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but his proximity makes the air thick with menace. 

He takes a deep breath, savoring the delicate power he holds over you, before dropping the gloves to the ground. Your eyes meet again.

“But if you keep trying to defy me...I will break you down, piece by piece, and make him watch.”

His smirk never falters as he lets his words sink in. 

Why didn’t I fight sooner? Why didn’t I—

“I’ll start with your fingers. There’s a whole market for them, you know?” 

Your stomach churns, and Kosar notices, his smile widening. The way he says it isn’t casual. It’s loaded with a knowing brutality, as if he’s already imagined all the ways your body could be exploited. 

"Or maybe I’ll take something more... intimate," he adds, his eyes roaming over you, and then back to your face.

I can’t let him do this. Not to me. Not to the Mandalorian.

“You’re only useful as long as you obey.”

His voice is smooth, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. When he grabs your arm, it’s too tight—not out of control, but close. He shakes his head once, sharply, like he's chasing off a thought.

“I hated my master,” Kosar says, almost childlike. “But I still wanted what he had.”

He blinks, slow and hard, against some internal struggle. With an almost casual movement, he lifts his other hand and runs his fingers delicately over the back of your neck, where the whipcord cuts into your skin. His touch is cold, deliberate. And soothing. That's what makes it more terrifying.

“There’s no escape,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, as though you’re already his possession. “Not from me. Not—”

Your body reacts defensively with what feels like an electrical current. The fear transforms into something incandescent. Your heart stops, the world skews off-axis, panic whiting out your vision like a sunburst while the jungle spirals around you. Kosar takes a half-step back, sensing the shift—then the air around you crackles. A wave of invisible force bursts from your body, slamming into him like a crashing tide.

Kosar is flung back with bone-snapping force, slamming into the thick trunk of a distant tree before crumpling to the mud. He doesn’t rise, he just lies there, eyes staring up into the canopy, rain streaking over his face. You can sense his heart beating in a slow, dull rhythm. 

But his thoughts are finally still and quiet. No rage. No threat. Just… silence.

You remain trapped there, chest heaving, eyes glowing faintly, staring through the dark, through the foliage, toward the only thing that matters now. The Mandalorian—and the fragile hope that he’s still alive.

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

Mando moved swiftly, his boots squelching in the rising mud. He reached for the keypad on his vambrace, activating the sensors. The Seeker program flickered to life with a burst of data. His helmet scanned the area, eyes darting between the vines and shadows. His thoughts churned, but he couldn’t afford distraction now.

She’s out there. I have to find her.

Each step he took splashed through the puddles nestled between gnarled tree roots. A faint hiss of rain pattered against his armor as he tightened his grip on the rifle.

Footprints began to glow—thermal echoes left by imprints still fresh in the damp ground. His gaze flicked between illuminated footprints, but the Seeker pulled him toward a cluster of faint heat signatures hidden in a narrow grove.

He stepped into a clearing and froze.

The smell of damp earth and blood seeped into his nostrils underneath the helmet.

Thulani’s body lay crumpled on the wet ground. His chest tightened, every muscle screaming at him to move, to do something, but his feet felt cemented to the spot.

For a moment, the world stopped.

The Healer’s body was still. The rain fell heavily around her, mingling with the bloodstains and dirt. A whipcord was wrapped tightly around her throat, its metal fibres trailing off into the mud. Her skin had turned a sickly shade of pale, and her lips were blue.

No. Not like this. Please.

He closed the distance between them in a few swift strides, kneeling beside her. His gloved hands trembled as he carefully pulled the cable from her neck. There were angry welts beneath the cable where the metal fibers had dug into her skin.

Her heat signature was cold, so cold.

No. No, no, no...

The Mandalorian bent over her, checking for a pulse. Any sign of a heartbeat. 

Nothing.

His breath caught in his throat. He placed his fingers gently on her cheek. Her vizor lay in the mud beside her, knocked loose in the struggle. Mando hesitated, just for a moment, as he looked down at her face, exposed and vulnerable. More than he'd ever seen of her. 

He hadn’t known what he expected. But it wasn’t this quiet beauty, marked by strength.

His heart clenched as he ran his hand over her face. The touch was tentative and unsure, the gesture of a man who'd never been taught how to comfort. The rain continued to drum against his armor, indifferent to his pain.

She can’t be gone. Not like this.

He’d failed. He was supposed to protect them.

Then her eyelids fluttered. A small groan escaped her lips. 

The Mandalorian’s heart surged, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Gently, almost reverently, he picked up the vizor and placed it back over her eyes.

Not to hide her.

But because he knew what it meant to choose when to be seen.

Because she’d offered him that same respect.

“Stay with me,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper.

She was disoriented, but there was recognition there. Some fragment of her remained. She tried to speak, but only a rasping sound left her throat. Her face contorted in pain.

“Don’t speak.” 

She nodded in understanding.

He cursed under his breath, quickly checking her neck, looking for signs of further injury. Her throat was crushed—damaged.

The whipcord.

His hands worked quickly but gently, pulling the remainder of the cord from her neck. His leather fingers trembled—not just from the damp, but from the enormity of guilt pressing down on him.

She winced, her body tensed, and he froze, uncertain of what to do. How do I help her?

He looked down to watch her—so vulnerable—and something inside him twisted. His chest felt tight, as though the armor around his ribs had suddenly grown too small.

"You're... safe now," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. It was all he could manage. Comfort was something he didn’t know how to offer, even when he wanted to.

She brushed her hands over his chest plate. He felt her eyes searching his helmet. Her muscles released their tension, and her body softened in a way that made his stomach flutter. 

She’s still here. She’s still with me.

But…for how long? He couldn't ignore the doubt that ate at him. He had failed her. He’d failed all of them. He had promised to protect them, to keep them safe. But he’d been too slow, too distracted, too human.

As he watched the welts around her neck recede, Mando knew whatever Thulani was, it wasn’t human. Why she hid it from him, he didn’t know. 

The Mandalorian’s breath hitched, but he didn’t allow himself to linger on it. There was no time. He had to get her out of here. Now.

“Take my hand.”

He lifted her to her feet carefully, cradling her against his chest. Her hand moved weakly, resting on his arm, her fingers curling slightly. The gesture was small and fragile, but it made something inside him ache. Her body felt limp in his arms, but the force of everything—of his guilt, of the things he couldn’t say—hit him harder than any of the enemies he had fought tonight.

He headed toward the path back to the beach, but she tugged on his waist, steering him toward the body that lay crumpled beneath the trees. Kosar.

His eyes were still open, vacant and unfocused. The Seeker’s scan showed a flicker of heat from his chest, but his brain was inactive.

The Mandalorian didn’t hesitate. He raised the blaster and fired. One shot, center mass. Kosar’s body jerked, then went cold.

Thulani stood beside him, swaying slightly. She stared down at the corpse, her face unreadable in the dark.

She spoke—soft, sharp words in a language he didn’t recognize but somehow felt familiar. A prayer or a curse, he couldn’t tell.

Then she spat on Kosar’s body.

He blinked behind the visor.

Not at the act. At her. At what it revealed.

This wasn’t the woman who calmed frightened children or healed without hesitation. This was something rawer. Her fury struck something in him he didn’t know he’d left unguarded.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask.

Whatever Kosar had done to her… whatever she’d endured…

She wasn’t the same.

And maybe she never would be.

This is my fault. I put her in danger, and now she’s…

His grip tightened on her shoulders, and he cursed himself. He wanted to believe she would understand, that she would somehow forgive him. But deep down, the harsh truth gnawed at him. 

She’ll hate me for this.

The thought was a punch to his gut. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

She’d thrown herself into danger, made herself a target to keep the kids safe. And what had he done? He’d let her get hurt. 

I should’ve kept them safe. This is all I’m good for, and I couldn’t do it.

He wanted her to see him as a protector, the one who always had answers, who would defend her against any enemies. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? 

Without another word, he pushed forward, guiding her through the tangle of roots and ferns, the rain pelting down harder, the storm howling overhead. 

The Mandalorian’s boots hit the wet sand with a soft thud, the tide lapping at the shore just beyond the beach. The village lay ahead, perched on the edge of the water, a collection of rickety huts clinging to wooden piers. The air was thick with salt, the storm’s fury churning the sea beneath. 

He didn’t care about the storm or the rain lashing at his armor. The only thing that mattered now was getting her back to the ship.

The Mandalorian knelt, lowering her gently to the sand so she could rest for a minute. 

His chest still ached, but the tightness was different now. Not from fear, but from something else. Something he felt deeper—that he wasn’t ready to name.

The Mandalorian stood, watching the dark horizon, his hand still resting on her shoulder. The wind howled, the storm’s fury surrounding them, but here, in this moment, there was only silence between them.

She stepped away from him and, without a word, started peeling off the torn fabric of her shirt, letting it fall to the sand.

He turned his head. Not out of modesty—Thulani wasn’t embarrassed by vulnerability or exposure. But because it felt like something private. Sacred.

She’s alive, but the price of her survival had been too high.

She walked toward the water. The storm churned the sea into gray waves, the surf crashing around her legs, then her waist. She waded deeper, arms held slightly out as if steadying herself. The rain washed over her shoulders, blending with the salt spray and bruises.

He didn’t follow. He stood where she left him, boots heavy in the sand, watching.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t escaping. She was cleansing something he couldn’t reach.

He hated how much he understood.

When she returned, dripping and silent, he held out the cloak without a word. She took it, and for a second, their hands brushed. She wrapped it tightly around her, head down. Then the vizor returned to cover her face. It was hers to wear, not his to question.

The rain kept falling, but it felt quieter somehow.

He didn’t ask where she’d gone in her mind. He wouldn’t make her speak about what had happened. Mando only knew one thing.

He should have kept it from happening in the first place.

I deserve her anger. I deserve her hatred. I failed her.

Every part of him ached to make her understand, but how could he explain the regret, the frustration, the guilt that coiled in his gut? He didn’t have the words. He wasn’t good with words. 

But she...

She had done the thing he couldn’t. She had put herself at risk for someone who wasn’t hers to protect. She had made that choice.

He felt the same straining ache in his chest—not fear, not pain, but something worse. Something softer.

It was absurd. They barely knew each other. They had only been together for a few days, but it was there. He could feel it in every breath, every accidental brush of her body against his.

But what was his devotion if he couldn't protect her, if he couldn’t give her the safety she’d fought so hard for? If she died, if he failed her again... would he be able to live with it?

No.

The thought came with a visceral clarity that almost made him stop walking. He wouldn’t fail her again. He couldn’t. Even if she hated him for this, he would do whatever it took to make it right.

I’ll make it right.

But deep down, he feared it was already too late. That the moment she awoke from the haze, she would see the truth of who he was.

He didn’t deserve her. Not after this.

But a small, selfish part of him longed for it anyway. He wanted her to see the man he could be. He’d failed. But he was still standing. Still fighting. 

Maybe that was all he had to offer.

He pressed his lips together, that impossible distance between what he was and what she needed settling heavy on his shoulders.

I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her alive. 

The words settled in his gut. Resolute.

And if she hates me for it?

Just for a moment, he wanted to hold her close. To protect her from the storm. But the danger wasn’t out there. It was here. In his arms.

He knew that no matter how tightly he held her, no matter how hard he tried to shield her from it, it wouldn’t stop the truth from coming. 

She deserves more.

He wished he could be something else for her, to take off the helmet and let her see what was left beneath the Beskar. But he couldn’t. 

I don’t know how to be what she needs. I can only be what I am.

What could he give her? He couldn’t offer her a future. He couldn’t give her warmth or gentleness. He didn’t even know how to try. 

I’ll protect her. I’ll keep her alive. That’s all I can do.

“We should get you back to the ship.” 

His tone was steady, but something softer slipped through. Something he didn’t mean to show. It was the same softness he felt when he looked at her, when he thought of what she had done for them.

Her hand moved weakly, her fingers gripping his arm. The gesture was small but significant. She trusted him—even when he hadn’t earned it.

Without another word, the Mandalorian reached for her, his fingers lacing with hers as he pulled her under his arm, his touch gentle but insistent. The storm raged above, but here, in the quiet of that fleeting moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, steady but full of what had just passed between them.

He had one purpose now—to keep her safe.

For Nito. For the Child. 

They’re the ones who deserved her love.

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

The dull throbbing from the wound around your neck is a steady reminder of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. You shift, trying to get comfortable without making it worse, but the movement pulls at the sharp ache in your throat, and you wince, gritting your teeth. It’s not ideal, but it’s the price of survival, isn’t it?

The cargo bay is quiet. Only the hum of the ship's climate controls fills the silence. The air conditioning was set to full blast. Delicious relief from the humidity outside. Mando wasn’t usually so generous. He must feel confident about the money he’d make scavenging Kosar’s ship. 

Speaking of…you feel the tension in the cargo bay shift, and you know he’s watching you from somewhere just beyond the opening of the sleeping compartment.

When he finally steps forward to speak to you, his voice is cold and detached, cutting through the stillness.

"You should get some sleep." His words land like an order, blunt and to the point. 

You bristle at the command, the urge to argue rising in your chest. But before you can bite back with something sharp, you see him shift ever so slightly—his body stiffening, hands working around the fusion cutters he's holding. It’s not much, but you catch it. And you know that it’s not about the wound. It’s about something else.

"I will," you reply, trying to keep the steadiness in your voice. It’s not a lie—not entirely. But even as the words leave your mouth, you know that you’re not quite convincing yourself, let alone him. He’s not an emotionally intelligent man, but even he can see the way you’re barely holding it together.

Mando doesn’t respond right away. You can sense the tension in his shoulders, but it’s hard to gauge anything else. The helmet hides everything. 

"You need to stay on board," he says abruptly, as if the words are forced. "Until you’re healed."

There’s no warmth in his words, but something else. Something buried that makes your heart ache. 

"You can help with the Child," he continues, voice curt, still not looking at you. "And Nito. You’ll be useful here."

You might’ve thought he’d at least soften his approach, maybe offer some kind of reassurance. But the space he’s creating feels deliberate. Strategic. 

“I—”

There’s a pause before he speaks again, and you feel it. The turmoil. It’s like he’s calculating every word, weighing what he should say next. 

Surely it can’t be worse than ‘you’ll be useful.’

When the response comes, it’s as cold and indifferent as his bearing.

“Nito’s not reliable in a fight. You’re steady. I need that here.” He says it like it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Like it’s tactical—just logistics. “You’ll stay on the ship. Take care of them. I’ll handle the work.”

It’s not an offer, it’s not a suggestion—it's an ultimatum.

Congratulations, Mando. That was worse.

You feel yourself tense at the words, a small knot of frustration building in your chest. So...your role on the ship is just another set of hands. Well, you can’t deny that it’s practical, even if it feels dismissive.

And soul crushing.

The air grows thicker with every beat of silence between you, and you wonder—no, you know—he's hiding something. The armor, the helmet, it shields everything. But there’s that unspoken tension. You’ve always felt it between you two.

It’s never just been business. But it’s never been anything more, either.

Maybe that’s the safest way for him.

A long pause stretches on, and you find yourself staring at the armor, wishing you could read his body language, something to give you a hint of what’s going on behind the helmet. But there’s nothing.

You feel the weight of his gaze, even through the visor. 

"I... I should’ve done better." His words are blunt, heavy with something he doesn’t want to say. "I should’ve kept you out of it. That won’t happen again."

The silence stretches again, and you can’t help but notice the slight quiver in his posture. It’s the smallest of shifts. The gesture is so small it’s almost imperceptible. But this time, you see it. 

"It’s my responsibility to keep you safe."

You don’t know how to respond. Part of you wants to say you don’t need his protection. Part of you is angry at how he’s acting, like it’s just a job. An exchange. 

But deep down, you know that he’s giving you this role because he’s worried.

Not because he thinks you’re weak—because he can’t handle watching you break again. Because if he sees it, it’ll break something in him, too.

He just won’t admit it.

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything. For all the walls he’s put up, you can feel the magnitude of his actions. He’s trying to help without actually opening up.

"I’ll stay," you murmur. 

You could say something else, but instead, you lean back, exhausted in every way possible. He’s not really apologizing—but still, the admission hangs in the air. The unspoken weight of it is palpable.

The Mandalorian nods once, already turning toward the loading ramp. “Might take us a couple of days to finish boosting the ship. But I’ll be sure to keep the noise down so you can rest.”

You watch him walk away, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of circulating air. And it hits you now—the chasm that’s opened up. It’s one thing to know he keeps his distance, but it’s another thing to feel it in the silence he leaves behind.

You stare at the space where he was, the significance of his not-quite-an-apology still present in the room. 

You knew it was coming. You knew that this—whatever it was—couldn’t last. He was scared of getting too close. 

Or maybe you’d misread it all. The way he’d held you…it had felt like more. 

Now he can barely look at you. Giving orders, like all he cares about is the job. Like that’s all you are to him. Just someone who happened to be on his ship.

Maybe that was all you’ll ever be to him.

Of course, he was acting cold. That's who he was. You’re the one who let yourself believe there was more going on—more than duty, more than obligation.

Stupid.

You should be mad at him. Instead, you’re mad at yourself for wanting more. He hadn’t changed. You had. You’re the one who’d started hoping. Stupid, stupid mistake.

Kriffing hell, you can’t help the hollow feeling settling in your chest. It hurts more than you expected.

It would be easier to walk away. To say he made the choice for you. Vanish to the next port before the walls around him calcify for good.

But then you look toward the hammock where Nito sleeps, curled around the baby. You hear their soft snores and notice how the Mandalorian had angled the cooling fan toward them without saying a word.

You want to stay. Because this—however fragile and fractured it is—is the first thing that’s felt like home in…

Fuck, you can’t remember.

So you stay. Not for him. Not for the safety. Not for the money.

But for the people on this ship. For the quiet, unspoken ways they take care of each other.

And for the man behind the Beskar, whether he ever lets you in or not.

Because even the fractured things deserve a chance to heal.

Including you.

---------

Thanks for reading!

Continue reading the next series installment - Volume 4 - Post #10: Bellyache

OR

Go back to Volume 4: Smart Girl Like You

[osc-headcanon-confessions]

🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀🧀!!! Please! I need to share my passion and joyousness about this character with somebody!!! /nf :)))))

*clears throat and sets a stack of papers full of theories and headcanons about The Character, 2x the size of the dictionary on desk*

GO MY EVIL PAPER LORE DUMP 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

he uses he/him pronouns and is demiaroace (but like.. in a caedromantic sort of way (I think that’s how that’s spelled) if that makes sense), he has troubles trusting those around him due to his and Papers past. The only contestant who’s ever gotten him to actually open up to them is Knife (I see them as very similar characters, it only makes sense ofc).. 

he is a persecutor/trauma holder. The reason he tends to lash out at people is because he wants to protect him, Paper and the rest of the system (which by the way, I really like calling The Origami System!! :DD hehe.. paper pun.) and is mislead/doesn’t entirely know how to do such. He genuinely believes that his actions were necessary in order to keep all of them safe. He has troubles dealing with his emotions sometimes and often chooses fight or over flight when dealing with past traumas and other people, which is why he can be seen as being aggressive

He dislikes (almost hates in a way) Oj for giving him his canon name (Evil Paper). Besides that, he just genuinely believes that Oj isn’t that good of an influence for Paper, causing him to constantly push Oj away. He tends to use Looseleaf as a name (although I am personally rather inconsistent with it), in my gijinkafied version of him, his name is Papyrus.

I think he would enjoy metal/nu metal music (Korn, Slipknot, Limp Biskit, etc). Btw, did you know he canonically enjoys playing checkers? He would definitely have a bit of a sailor mouth, and tends to shorten his phrasing (ie: the word ‘aint’) a lot. In the way that I tend to write him, I always end up giving him some sort of state specific accent (currently, he has a New York accent!) 

As for ships I usually put him in?: Twisted Fibers (Looseleaf x Evil Paper) (specifically, kismesis/ hate love) (honestly, I could make an entire different post about that all together tbh, as I have a lot to say about this ship) and Evil Papercut (Looseleaf x Knife), although I see them more as moirails if anything, it’s still very interesting to think about. 

I have so much more than this, but here’s a few things anyways. I did not realize just how large this ask was when I put it in my notes app, hope it was enjoyable to read at the very least :))

PAPYRUS????? Brooo

[ihaveforgortoomany]

(Fic idea) What would a Sonetto and Vertin "breakup" look like (or the unintentional part 2/ I have another fun idea)

(This is a fun writing exercise and again feel free to take this idea and run with it and make a fic of it)

A battle between Sonetto and Vertin as Vertin finally realises in order to find the truth she must flee the Foundation (just like the Breakaway Incident) - have a flashback to a moment in their childhood where Sonetto and Vertin were paired to spar with each other. The outcome then was Sonetto winning ofc, but Vertin was able to keep Sonetto on her toes by evading and taking advantage of small miss steps Sonetto took.

Sonetto chases Vertin through SPDM, lets just say this battle happens in the Foundation at a critical point, tensions between Vertin and Constantine are at an all time high (maybe Vertin finds out the Foundation may actually know something about Vertin's mom). The situation I mentioned before happens, Vertin fakes Sonetto acutally hurting her to distract her, and begins to sprint away. They take the same path back in the Breakaway Incident to the door that leds to the outside.

While this is all happening a Storm is occurring right over them.

Vertin walks straight to the door she, the Ring, Isabella and the other kids went through thinking they had escaped and proceeds to run in the Storm drenched, her hat long gone in her fight with Sonetto, until she trips over something. Sonetto attempts to follow but realises she forgot to bring the Equilibrium Umbrella with her, only able to watch Vertin by the open door. To twist the knife further Madam Z in the chaos followed the both of them to the door and now must watch everything unfold again.

Sonetto pleads with Vertin to come back to her, desperately pleading that its no longer about the Foundation Vertin is leaving, shes leaving Sonetto again. Why do you always leave me? I promised to be by your side always. Sonetto calls Vertin by name, right now it is not the Timekeeper and Chief Assistant fighting before, its just Vertin and Sonetto once again caught at a crosswords in fate. Maybe they were always destined to be apart like this.

Hearing Sonetto pleading for Vertin, just her and not the Timekeeper almost makes her walk back. Almost consider the truth to be secondary if it meant going back to Sonetto, enjoying her presence at her side, seeing her every morning and talking about mundane things. This was until she realised what tripped her up was a metal bangle, slightly rusted over the years from constant rain. A little far off a pair of small broken glasses, a foundation scarf much tattered and drenched in the rain.

(Im referrencing a fic based on Harpy Hare, Vertin finding that the Foundation never picked up the remains after the Incident)

By this point Sonetto's pleads stop reaching Vertin as she picks up the ring, the Foundation won't change Sonetto. No matter what the Foundation will keep us all in chains for some grandeur of greater good and a false future. Vertin looks for a second at Sonetto distraught at the door unable to follow, others from the suitcase look on in horror unable to do anything.

"Goodbye Sonetto, may we meet again in better weather"

She walks to the Manus meetup point, broken glasses and a metal ring in hand, all alone once again.

(I have The Gleaming running in the back while writing this)

(I might keep adding to this idea, maybe put it under a tag as an AU, feel free to ask about this idea or any other ideas I have. But deffo I cannot write a full fledged fic, so take anything here)

[bluvlet]

since you said your inbox is open for trolley problem questions … no pressure ofc but I’d be interested in any thoughts/hcs you have about the chambers’ move to the countryside? it seems like they lived in london and left because of “that business” with ellie. how much do you think robbie knows about the ellie business, & do you think he was upset about the move? & do you have any theories about what happened to his mum? i would also be really interested in any thoughts you might have about the characters through the lens of class, sorry this is such a long ask aha but please feel free to pick out any bit of it you like & ignore the rest ❤️

Thank you for the ask, these are all really interesting to think about! I’m actually in the middle of writing a fanfic following Blake’s perspective, so I've been thinking quite a bit about the Chambers as of late..

Because a lot of this episode is so ambiguous, and a lot of details and past events are left open to the imagination, I find it really difficult to stick to specific headcanons. I worry about restricting my interpretations of events and characters, but I also just worry that the episode can be so sparse with information/context at times that it seems like I’m pulling everything out of thin air without proper reasoning. But I'm happy to share a couple random things that I've pondered a lot, and I’ll try to justify them as best I can. 

We really don't get given much in the episode, but I feel as if Robbie has grown up being very sheltered by Blake. I just can’t really imagine a scenario where Blake would have broached the (honest) subject of Ellie to him. I think Blake probably told Robbie the same story he told everybody else - about Ellie being delusional and obsessed with him. The move was probably spun to him more like getting out of the city for their own peace of mind  – something like Blake ‘wanting a quieter life’, or ‘being afraid of staying in the city in case something happened to him or Robbie’ (him using his restraining order against Ellie as proof of this). It’s unknown if Blake has done anything similar to other patients, or if Ellie was the first. I don't think Ellie and Robbie ever really interacted with each other.

If we were shown how Robbie views his dad, then maybe I could possibly argue that he had suspicions, or found out himself somehow, or Blake had twisted it in some other way that made it seem okay to Robbie. But judging by his drawing being displayed proudly, the multiple photos of him around the house, how Blake talks about him throughout the episode, and their phone call I imagine Robbie does not see that side of his dad much, if at all. Ultimately, ‘The Trolley Problem’ is told from the perspective of the fathers; it’s hard to tell anything about Ellie and Robbie and their perspectives because the only bits of them we get to see are controlled by Blake and Drew. 

Of course, Drew’s opinion on the matter when he decided to bury Robbie could be entirely different. I’m restraining going on a tangent about Drew and Robbie’s dynamic again, but I do believe that Robbie’s role in the episode is as another victim of his father.

Just speaking from personal experience, I think Robbie would be quite upset by the move. If Robbie’s drawing in the bathroom is recent, then his shyness at school could be evidence of that. Or vice versa: him being a ‘shy kid’ implies he may have found the change difficult – new environment, leaving friends, etcetera. Although, if he’s ‘gone on a night out with his friends’ that night then he must be settling in alright. I think it may just be the ‘shy kid’ comment and because the only time we hear him is when he’s panicking, but I do envision Robbie as an anxious type.

Robbie’s mother…I actually think about her quite a lot. Assuming Robbie’s 16-18 because he’s doing his A-levels, and Blake is just supposed to be Steve's age, then Blake was around 38-40 when Robbie was born. I don't think that this is a particularly unusual age range to have a child but, given what we know about Blake, I headcanon that Robbie’s mum was quite a bit younger than him – in her twenties maybe?

In the script, the Chambers’ house is described as ‘comfortable and ordered, perhaps a little masculine.’ And Robbie’s mum is never even mentioned, so it’s probable she’s not in the picture anymore. Again because of what we know about Blake, I imagine their relationship wasn’t anything good for her. If she’s alive, it’s easy to envision a custody scenario similar to the restraining order business with Ellie — where Blake’s twisted whatever the reality is into a scenario where he’s the victim and the only suitable parent to take care of Robbie. I honestly don’t think she’s in Robbie’s life at all. I don’t think Blake would allow that if he had treated her in any way similar to how he treated Ellie (the only other character we know of who has had a sexual relationship with Blake). This is all just based on the pattern of Blake’s behaviour towards Ellie and then Drew in the episode. 

I’ll admit I’m not really the best at providing nuanced media analysis through a class lens; I haven’t read much on it theory-wise. But I did recently have a conversation with a friend (who is a lot more knowledgeable about it than me) regarding Blake and Drew’s class dynamic, so I can relay a bit of our conversation for you.  

When I watched the episode for the first time, I came away under the assumption that Drew was middle-class, as was Blake (my mate said he also thought this). It was only after I started to pick it apart that I became unsure about Drew. There were three distinct points that confused Drew’s class status for me: the rant about NHS waiting times, him working as an estate agent’s assistant whilst in his 50s, and him having given Ellie ‘some’ money to pay for her private therapy. Only one of these things is proven to be true – the fact that he paid for Ellie’s therapy. The scriptbook specifies that the estate agent story was made up, and Drew’s rant about the public healthcare system comes whilst he’s still playing a part for Blake (the more I rewatch the clearer it is to me that their entire conversation in that scene is Blake steering Drew towards becoming one of his patients, and Drew is playing into this. But that’s another post for another day). So now I’ve come full circle back to thinking of Drew as middle-class (or atleast coming from it). I don’t feel confident enough to properly go into it but part of our talk was about Drew’s accent, which had always sounded a bit posh to me, but I wasn’t sure why. My friend backed me up on this (‘It’s like he’s posh yorkshire/east mids,’ he said).  

But the persona Drew adopts of the ‘desperate man with nothing to live for’ is coded as a socially working-to-lower-middle class countryman, as part of presenting himself as somebody Blake can revel in being above and take advantage of. Things like:

BLAKE: Is cow’s milk alright? DREW: As opposed to what?

which is an interaction that Blake finds amusing. A lot of their dynamic is built on Drew letting Blake think he’s in control, before Drew then pulls the rug out from underneath him. So for me it makes sense if Drew was playing into the lower class stuff, rather than it being indicative of his actual background.

One thing my friend brought up that I hadn’t thought about before was the possible fragility of Blake’s status, saying that he thinks of Blake as being newly middle-class. To just straight up quote him during our convo, because he explains it better than I could: ‘He [Blake] almost revels in his new mobility as a form of power. Drew plays into the class dynamic almost as if he knows this. I think Blake would feel threatened if Drew was more honest. [...] His [Blake’s] situation is a lot more precarious and I think we can tell that from his route in, lower ranked universities or online training being taken by working class people moreso.’ 

Not only does Blake derive pleasure from Drew’s working-class persona being beneath him, but Drew also finds pleasure in mocking Blake’s validity and intelligence (‘anyone can call themselves a fucking therapist’ / ‘have you read all these books? You don't just have them here to make people think you’re clever? / ‘[...] print my own diploma from home!’) This is all foremost about Drew exposing that Blake is using his occupation as a means of preying on people rather than actually helping them. But I also think you could add the element of Drew undermining Blake’s intelligence because of his qualifications if you were to view Drew’s middle-classness as more stable or older than Blake’s. 

I’m afraid I really can’t explain any of it properly. If Blake did come from a more working-class background than his current status, his ability to be more knowledgeable than other people becomes a great source of pleasure for him, especially if his knowledge is what grants him access to his status. Though I’d personally argue Blake is not qualified enough for his job, he does fairly accurately explain every social and psychological concept he mentions; it's less about him not knowing and more about him abusing his position. And there is this moment:

BLAKE: It’s utilitarianism versus deontology- DREW: In English?

which suggests though Drew is mocking Blake and his degree and him flaunting his intelligence, it's not as if Drew knows anymore than Blake does. Returning back to the Szondi patient that inspired Blake, (in the shortened ver. used in the episode) the sadist’s desires to harm people supposedly originate from being oppressed by authority figures in youth. I’ve gone a different way with this in my fic, but taking the ‘Blake comes from a more working-class background’ route provides a very quick answer to the source of Blake’s past oppression, and his complex about his authority and what other people think about him. 

We also used this to explain why he’s so desperate to maintain his status quo, as if losing his status as a therapist is him losing his access to his middle-classness. Blake being a psychotherapist in general is just really confusing. Psychotherapists in the UK aren’t qualified to diagnose people or prescribe medication, so where he gets Ellie’s repeat antipsychotic prescription (and whatever those pills he puts in Drew’s tea were) from I have no idea. And it’s not clear if he’s licensed or how valid a ‘McCambridge’ qualification really is – but I’m inclined to believe not very. 

But yeah, You don’t have to agree with any of this (especially the Blake stuff, I'm still quite unsure about him myself). Anything in this episode could probably be interpreted a billion different ways. But I hope at least a bit of this was interesting to you!

[nerdieforpedro]

Beginners Guide to your Fanfic Tag game

I was tagged by @wannab-urs and @magpiepills

I didn't forget, I just had to write it down and save it in drafts because sometimes Tumblr will let me do stuff and other times not. 👀

Anyway, you pick however many of your fics you think readers should read first to get to know your work or what you would recommend to them. I think the two lovelies above picked five each so I'll do the same. 🫡 I put in bold themes that can be found in each fic, but do check the warnings. You picks as many as you like. 😄

Drops of Sugar - This ongoing series started with a two part fic that I wrote with Joel Miller (no outbreak - he deserves to be happy especially in my delusions) and Layla (OFC). It morphed into vignettes that I started writing about different points in their relationship. It's easy, breezy and beautiful. Domestic fluff and some smut.

Pleasure Principle - This was my first series (still ongoing) Dave York and Kiara were drawn to each other, have a lot of sex and are trying to figure out feelings. This series in particular had readers point out things that I didn't realize I included. 👀 Like not only a B&E but also that she was not mad at it. Which should indicate how twisted these two are. Also a domestic Dave, but manipulative with groceries and laundry? Smut, angst and feelings.

The Long Road to Together - My longest one shot (16k people like hydrate and have a bathroom break) to date. It features Tommy Miller (no outbreak) and Velora (OFC). My take on a friends to lovers trope that had a few twists because they're both messy. They need Joel and Sarah to be the voices of reason. Joel also has his own sub-plot, becuase Tess. Smut, fluff and angst.

Sard'ika Sessions - My neat six sexy sessions the reader has with Din Djarin, The Mandalorian. Is there smut in every session? Yes. Did I make it gradually increase? Sure and added some non-canon Mandalorian lore that I'm sure is true (in my delusions) which would be in chapter four. There are feelings because sometimes I stick feelings in between the sweaty bits. One thing in this series I did focus on was communication between Din and the reader given how their relationship starts and progresses. I was really happy when people commented and picked up on that aspect. Also a lot of beskar and hands. I in particular enjoyed writing the final session for the cameos I wove in, the blindfold, Din being a complete menace (Maker Yes!! 🙌) and a phrase I didn't realize I stuck in there, "not giving two wookies about what they said or did." 🤣 SMUT, feelings, dash of angst, fluff. (in that order)

Weddings 101 with Dieter - This is neck and neck with Sard'ika Sessions as my favorite. I enjoy all my work (why else would I write it?) But this holds a special place because it's ridiculous, the premise is flimsy and it's just fun. Maya (OFC) needs a lift, Dieter gives her one, there a villa. The goat is a supporting character and has Dieter's back no matter what. Oscar Isaac is slandered and injured (I'm sorry, but I was giggle wheezing while writing his parts it only gets worse) might be an enemy of Dieter's at this point. Oh and there's a wedding? Did we mention that? It's not that important. The weird cloud drum sexy dream I wrote for Dieter is what matters. Priorities people! I envisioned this as the rom-com that I've never seen Pedro in. That's why I wrote it. Not that all this would ever make it into one such movie. 🤓 My attempts at comedy, fluffy as a cloud or a goat, eventual smut, some drug use, future Oscar Isaac mishaps/slander, Dieter's MOUTH AND HANDS. Whatever else I think to put in this thing.

No pressure tags: @musings-of-a-rose @rhoorl @morallyinept @trulybetty @pedroshotwifey @megamindsecretlair @maggiemayhemnj @pamasaur @linzels-blog @avastrasposts @secretelephanttattoo @legendary-pink-dot @i-own-loki @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @gasolinerainbowpuddles @gwendibleywrites @undercoverpena @sin-djarin @soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @theywhowriteandknowthings

My bad I tagged so many of you, I wanna know about all your stuff. I'm greedy! 😆

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine I know what you're gonna say, but I'm curious what you think of this list. 👀

[hellfiresky]

Hey bestie here's for the wip asks 💙 💞

Hey hey thanks for the asks!

💙: how has the idea changed between starting it and where it is now?

Good question! This is going to be a long one.

For Seeing Red, the idea was always to challenge the common narrative that “Republic is Good (or the lesser evil)” by introducing a character so far removed from the system. Initially, Ge’tal wasn’t supposed to be tangled deep in GAR business - just in and out taking jobs. No romance, just her staying casual with Fives and directly influencing him to start questioning orders. She was also meant to be your classic bounty hunter archetype (think Aurra Sing or Fennec Shand) cold, calculating, and very good at her job.

I even planned to portray the Coruscant Guard as a textbook corrupt military police force prone to civilian brutality. But as I dug deeper into the clones’ struggles/issues - questions of personhood, identity, and just how fucked up their situation is - it felt wrong to simplify it like that. So, I pivoted. The Corries are still cops, sure, but their actions are now tied to conditioning and fear instilled by Palps. On the issue of the eventual clone rebellion itself - I decided that their rebellion shouldn’t come from an external saviour swooping in, but from their own agency and self-realisation. Thus, I shifted from the initial idea of having Tal directly influencing the clones (via Fives), and made her this background element in their lives that nudges their repressed urge to rebel.

Ge’tal also evolved from the “badass, cold, calculating” trope to someone more human, and borderline self-destructive. She’s just another person hustling in the galaxy’s gig economy, treating it like a 9 to 5. It gave me space to explore her questioning the morality of her work - something that ties into the clones influencing her, too. Making both sides push each other to rethink things, which I think adds depth to the story.

I could go on and on talking about her political stance within the Republic, her Mandalorian upbringing, and her work with the GAR shifted the initial plan towards the current development lmao. And also, the eventual romance with Rex (also a part of the shift from my initial skeleton) is there to humanise both characters. To give them moments of vulnerability that battle-hardened warriors rarely get. We can argue that romance isn’t always necessary to add a human touch, but in this case, it works. Why not Fives? Because I love their friendship too much to ruin it lol.

———

💞: which future scene are you looking forward to writing?

There are a few scenes I’m really excited to write! For the main fic, I’m excited to tackle Fives’ death scene. I have a twist planned for it that I can’t wait to write it down. But that’s still a long way off in this long ass fic.

The closest scene on the horizon would be in my Wolffe x OC fic. There’s this part where Tavi, the OC, tags along with the Wolfpack during one of their battles to document it. I’ve been heavily inspired by a specific scene from Alex Garland’s Civil War (if you haven’t seen it, it’s about photojournalists and journalists chasing a story in a dystopian future). The scene basically depicts the militia taking over loyalist-held building whilst hip hop playing in the background. And I’m hoping to channel some of that here (still nervous though lol). Ofc I’m also psyched to write a full-on in-universe war coverage piece from Tavi’s perspective on the battle. There’s something about combining journalism and Star Wars that just hits the sweet spot for me haha.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

i think it’s the fact that he can go so many directions that makes it hard for me to write him argh i want to write him soooo bad. AND STOP free his haircut let him live only he can pull it off 😣

if you write for kaiser pls do something twisted i would be SO invested you don’t understand. and omg let me hear about that nagi plot pls pls

i def feel that HAHA i think in every fandom people will interpret characters in their own ways but some characters (ex rin, shidou, barou) tend to have pretty standard fandom characterizations from fic to fic (now whether i AGREE with these standard characterizations is a separate thing but at least they are consistent) and others can be completely diff depending on who the author is. i think kaiser (and to a lesser extent nagi and sae) is subject to the latter where everyone sees him in a slightly diff way so it’s hard to nail down which version of him YOU want to write yk.

AHHH i feel like kaiser is a really good character to write darker stuff for so i do think that if i wrote for him it would be a heavier story than what i’ve been putting out recently. and we shall ignore the haircut…tbh rooting for a kainess breakup because long hair kaiser/man bun kaiser is so MAJESTIC i think ness gives him the shitty haircut on purpose so he can gatekeep

nagi plot under the cut!! heheh it’s pretty convoluted and also atm just a bunch of rough notes on my ipad…i would have to try writing the first chapter a couple of times to see if it even flowed the way i wanted it to and to make the according adjustments if it was something w potential so even if i do ever end up writing this particular story the finished product might be very different than this!! that said i am in fact sharing the entire outline so i fear you will not be very surprised by any plot twists if i ever work on this or post it

basically it’s a mix of a couple of fics for other fandoms that i never got around to writing + some newer ideas that i have had!! the main cast of characters is ofc y/n and nagi but also rin is there!! and sae and reo but they’re secondary to the main trio

it starts off in a post-apocalyptic world overrun by monsters and which has a loose oligarchy-type government. y/n is the bastard child of duke l/n, who is the head of one of the influential government families. when she’s youngish (twelve or so??) her mother dies and officials attempt to arrest her for identity fraud when she claims that she must be sent to the l/n estate as they are her only surviving family. she manages to escape and learns how to use some weapon (either a sword or a spear idk atm) to kill monsters as she has a strong desire to protect those less fortunate than her, as well as to prove herself and one day find her father so she can have a family again.

on the other hand nagi is the eternal warrior (there would be a more researched title for him but atm this is my placeholder) whose original self was there 1000 years ago when the apocalypse began and was the only one able to fight back against the monsters when they appeared. he has been reincarnating (though WITHOUT his memories LMAOAO he’s not ancient i prommy he just looks the same/has the same name in every lifetime) and once people viewed him as a defender of the people, but a while ago the mikages (another one if the influential families) took custody of him and he’s basically been their enforcer for the past 100 years so people kinda hate him. he is kind of jaded and lonely after witnessing/causing so many deaths and he doesn’t see much of a point to life besides following whatever orders reo/the mikages give him and killing who he’s told to.

at some point nagi is told to kill y/n (it’s revealed eventually that it’s because duke l/n realized she’s out there and called in a favor w the mikages but we don’t know that at first) but instead of killing her he ends up saving her life. even he can’t explain why he took the initiative to disobey orders for the first time so he decides he’ll stick with her for the time being until he can figure it out (plus going back to the mikages isn’t really an option considering he’s gone against them)

while y/n + nagi are on the run, they meet rin, who is VERY confused about a lot of things. the itoshis are basically the family above all of the other families, and he’s supposed to be their heir, plus he has memories of having a great childhood with his parents and older brother, but for some reason he finds himself on the street with nothing but a note in his fist that says “don’t trust father and sae”. nagi and y/n decide that rin’s goals of trying to reclaim his position as heir and figure out the meaning of the note (which is in his own handwriting though he doesn’t remember it) align with theirs of finding duke l/n and. just chilling ig?? idk nagi is kinda there at that point HAHA. anyways so they all decide they’ll work together.

a bunch of stuff happens blah blah this entire part will come to me when i’m actually writing LMAOOO. anyways then it’s revealed that before getting thrown out, rin realized that if he ever got to close to asking questions/getting curious about the apocalypse, he’d suddenly forget what he was doing (in an unnatural way not just him being dumb), so he began writing down notes to himself to keep track of his suspicions. however he is found out and his notes are burned before he’s cast out and his memories selectively erased, though he managed to save the note telling him not to trust his family so that he didn’t end up falling into the same pattern again.

rin reveals that sae has the power to alter memories, and that he suspects the itoshis (plus the other influential families) also have some knowledge of how the apocalypse began and how it can be ended/the monsters gotten rid of for good. y/n reaches duke l/n but he rejects her and says he wishes he sent nagi after her sooner, and that he also regrets sending them any money at all because things would’ve been better if she would’ve died as a kid. nagi manages to round up the members of the influential families (#boyboss 😜) and sae has a change of heart from seeing rin again after so long; he says that there is a way that they can stop the apocalypse from ever happening, but that means that the influential families lose the power they obtained after the fall of the world, so they’ve been hiding it from everyone since they discovered it.

every generation, an itoshi is born with the power to wipe memories and send one person back in time. with that power, they could conceivably return to the beginning of the apocalypse and prevent it from ever happening. sae is the one with that power in the present and he decides that having wealth/whatever isn’t worth the destruction of the world, so he agrees to send back y/n, as he believes she has the best chance at managing to set things right.

y/n travels back in time and meets the first version of nagi, who ends up falling in love with her. unfortunately even before the apocalypse things were kinda unsettled as everyone realized Something was going to happened, and eventually a world war breaks out, which og nagi and y/n get involved in. y/n is fatally wounded at one point, but before she dies she manages to tell og nagi everything about the future and how he has to stop the box containing the beginning of the apocalypse from being opened. sadly og nagi invented being down bad and he is so distraught by her death that he opens the box and curses himself to the cycle of reincarnation so that he can meet her in the future.

y/n wakes up back in the future unsuccessful and also shocked that the one who started the apocalypse was nagi (even though current nagi has no clue about any of this). sae is furious that she wasted his power and didn’t actually accomplish anything, but at some point rin realizes he also has that power?? not the memory part he just can also send her back to the past…not sure why this is the case but it’ll come to me as i’m writing and hopefully not feel like an asspull DHSKSJSJ. anyways even though she’s lowkey traumatized y/n agrees to try one more time.

og nagi falls in love with her again ofc (we’re three for three here if you all are keeping track) but before the world war can break out, y/n kills nagi. he is understandably shocked but instead of being angry at her he tells her she must’ve had a reason and dies decently happy considering he was murdered for something he hadn’t even done yet 😭 because nobody else has the knowledge of where the box is besides y/n, the apocalypse is averted, and the world war is concluded in a relatively typical way instead of supernaturally, so life goes on as best as it can.

however, y/n is then stranded in that timeline of 1000 years ago, without anyone she knows (as og nagi is obviously dead and the others aren’t born yet). she can’t return to a future which doesn’t exist so she’s just stuck there for the rest of her life.

the epilogue is a series of letters she writes to nagi and rin, detailing her life and how she misses them. the last letter is addressed to nagi, wherein she explains that death is coming for her soon and she hopes that wherever she ends up next is the same place that he is. it’s kinda unclear whether she’s talking to og nagi or her nagi from the no-longer-future but you know me and my open endings 🤩 leaving it up to reader interpretation is my fav thing and i will do so at the slightest provocation

[am3ya]

HI TOBSSSSS!!!!! May I ask that you share 5 (or more, or less) things that make you happy? Only if you want, of course. And, also only if you want, you can ask other people this too💗

SPREADING HAPPINESS YIPPEEEEEE

Ty for the ask and ofc!!💜

I don't have a particular order for any of these, and honestly they can be a little weird but I don't really care atm, this is tumblr. anyway, I might rant a lot here so be prepared <3

The first, and I guess most obvious would be Endeavor from MHA. He's a really interesting character and one I can relate to on many aspects. I love how Horikoshi wrote him, he's extremely complex and honestly underrated. I get peoples dislike towards him but he is more than what many people portray him to be, in terms of his character. I love how he's developing, and I love seeing him in artwork, and offical media, and fan made media. I love seeing people talk about him and try to understand him as a character. I am extremely excited for his development and I love where Horikoshi has taken him, I love his atonement and his design and finding out more about his actions, why he does them, what things influince him as a person. Fiction, in all honesty. I love creating fictional stories, I love creating characters, and indulging in fictional media, I love watching shows and looking at what people create with it. I love inserting myself into the fictional media I adore, It's so fun and is just a really good way to get ideas for my own stories. I love fictional characters, especially those with complex stories and minds, I love finding out more about the characters I like and reading those little fun fact pages in manga that tells you a little bit more about who the characters are. All forms of art, I love looking at sculpters, reading poetry and writing, I love seeing what people paint or draw, I love seeing the diferences in peoples artwork, I love listening to music and making things myself, Honestly no matter how much I struggle with drawing or writing I always come back to it. It's something that I am extremely passionate in even if I'm just a novice at it. I love making my own stories and artwork, and I love art in general. I love the idea of being able to write and draw out what I want to and turn my emotions into something everyone can enjoy and relate to. Clothing, I love how much you can do with clothes, I love accessories and looking at the different styles of clothing, I love playng games that have some sort of focus on dressing up your character. I don't have many cute clothes yet but I do want to get some soon, I want to experiment with different sweaters and hats and maybe even jewelery if I can. I love how personalized you can be with clothes, and I adore looking at different fashion styles, things like punk, emo, goth, and seeing how other cultures and time periods dressed is all so interesting to me. I love seeing how people can break rules with fashion and twist it into something uniquely theirs. plushies, posters, figures, funko pops, really any sort of merch of shows and media I like. I love looking for plushies and figures in stores and seeing what I can find, I don't even care much about the quality a lot of the time as I know it wont be that good coming from places like walmart. But I like to get them anyway because I just like having physical items from media I love. I love having figures and plushies of characters like Endeavor or Gojo, and I love being able to personalize my own space with my interests. One of the first funko pops I ever got I think was an Endeavor one. I still adore it to this day tbh.

[hislittleraincloud]

who is jerkrome?

"Jerkrome", i.e. "Jumpscare Jerome" is one of the Twitter Bitches. Calls himself a film critic and in the industry, but if you read his reviews or looked at his Stan-ass X profile, you'd understand that he's just special.

He didn't used to have such a stan pfp of Ortega, but I guess he's just given up his dick to the dark side.

He threw a whiny bitchfit because during an Anon exchange here in the dumping ground for people's Twitter Bitch shit my inbox, someone referred to him as "Jumpscare Jerome" and it stuck. And because of that bitchfit, some of his shitty little fangirls ended up Percy-cuting me with accusations of shit I never did. A slightly more thorough explanation...:

I made him this kewl AI pfp when he switched his pfp to a photo that just didn't do him any justice. He blocked me. How rude. 🥲

He cavorts with the creepier Wenclair/Jemma stans and drives my equally obsessed Inbox Feeders to point out their blindness and hypocrisy (and to me, he and his gaggle of gooners aren't much different than Trump Supporter types and they love to project upon me what they feel towards Ortega purely because of what I write). Sometime someone called him "Jumpscare Jerome" and it stuck for a little while until he threw the biggest tantrum about me and my blog on his Twitter, which ofc made the Twitter Bitches [who tolerate him/allow him be their Pick Me] come after me/my name, one in particular fabricating an incident intended to paint me as a predator*. He never once told these bitches to knock it off because I'm sure he thinks (or hopes) that what that little cunt about me said was true.

He also got real mad after I raked him over the coals for joining in with those bitches when they were mocking a Percy stan's suicidiality, and for just generally being a fucking asshole about Ortega with the rest of the Twitter Bitches.

After things were cleared and during a truce, a jobless stan took his name/identity and started harassing me with it. I asked him about the comments because I had a sneaking sus it wasn't him. Yet he still continued to stick around the people who are jobless enough to think to take his name and harass me with it. Dumbass is dumbass, but stans like him and his girls stick together. I still have one of the harasser's comments over on AO3 but have yet to publish it (I will).

But he kept opening his fucking mouth and cried AGAIN when I corrected his idiot mouth when he was tryna play off Miller's Girl as a role that Ortega had to take/make it sound like someone practically twisted her arm to do it (which is untrue, according to her own mouth and the very rare piece of Miller's Girl promotion from her that we have); all in the context of the shitastically shitty shit shit performance of ALL of her movies that are independent of prior legacy establishment (i.e. her movies AND TV do best when they're already connected to something people already love, like the Scream franchise, Beetlejuice, and Tim Burton). He didn't have to block me again, but he couldn't take being corrected about MG like he was. ❄️🤡

See, he's a Stan™ of the highest order, making excuses for her shittiness and communing with/Liking the Jenna Defense comments of hateful bitch Stans (but then deleting evidence of his crashouts/still sticking around them when they treat him like shit) that include the #cancelpercy crowd. He is part of that crowd. Tried to tell him, but he doesn't want to listen. None of them do, because to them, Jenna Ortega is perfect and can't be criticized.

TLDR; His nickname went from Jumpscare Jerome to Jerkface Jerome to just Jerkrome. Because he's a dumbass who doesn't want to grow up out of a stan brain (and instead is embracing it harder).

That's who Jerkrome is, in a nutshell.

[wcrldcfvtlvsarchive]

!!! Finished not 1 but but 4 BOOKS WITHIN 2 WEEKS. All spicy romances since I've always been curious about them and tbh? I think it helps with the writing? Not the spice ofc, I'm still working on that but it helps gives a voice to my muses and helps me develop a writing style! If anyone is curious about my book reviews, here is a list of the books I read under the cut.

While I'm at it, tomorrow I will be spending time with my bf all day in his city and getting more books, so there will be little to no activity unless you have me on discord ! But for the remainder of the night I will be working on writing things!

A Game Of Fate by Scarlett St. Claire, a retelling of Hades X Persephone in a modern Olympus/Greece. On the spice scale I rate it a 9/10 bc Hades stays BRICKED for Persephone, we love a man who's horridsouly down bad for the love of his wife. There is an order to read the books, but basically book 1 is Persephone's POV and then this one is Hades, then it goes back so Persephone so on and so forth. If you vibe the Greek God's, this one will do it.

A Court Of Thorns And Roses by Sarah J. Maas, this book deserves the hype it gets. Also is amazing palate cleanser after reading a book full if spice, the world building, the characters, and the main MC is the definition of "I'm not like other girls" AND ACTUALLY MEANING. Ole girl just wanted to survive and protect her family, she didn't have time for games or bullshit. The plot twist at the end tho???? AHHHHH I will be reading this series and making verses pages for this lore bc oh my g od

King of Pride by Ana Huang, second book in her King of Sin series. Now, I when I tell you, this author will get hook, line and sinker you????? SHE WILL HOOK LINE AND SINKER! I actually almost cried from the first book King of Wrath due to happiness for the outcome ( no spoilers tho ), and the slow burn makes sense for the enemies to lovers trope for that book. KoP was opposites attracted and the quiet ones do be the freakest. My heart swelled, I was on the edge of my seat. Just I loved everything. Spice for this book was 9/10 bc you see things from both male and female side and I had to re-read some scenes bc HOT DAMN. Also what's a bonus about this is the diverse characters. First book was Asian Woman / Italian man, second is Asian woman / Asian Man, and the best part is that the characters come from backgrounds of wealth, if not the millions the billions and its so endearing to see POCs in positions in power, but also giving recognition that POCs have to work twice as hard just to sit at the table. I can also appreciate learning news about the backgrounds of ethnicities ! So this is a series worth reading!

Last but not mf least, Icebreaker. The spice 10/10, the plot ? 10/10 , the characters and development? BITCH MY SCALE IS BROKEN. There are some sensitive topics such as ED ( not heavily talked about but implied ), there is a v*miting scenes (2) but it's bc the female MC was hungover and she was anxious before her competition, and a forced kiss, nothing graphic but it is a spoiler I must give in case anyone wants to read it. But overall? I felt like a college student and was truly vibing. I did re-read a spice scene bc it was that good. Once again, a book worth the hype.

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

I would really like to hold hands with u… platonically ofc. If you’re willing let me know and I will send over the proper paperwork you can sign in front of a notary and then you can fax it to my lawyer who will make sure I also sign it in front of a notary so we can then commit the scandalous act of… touching..

I’m writing an essay and losing my mind also ily

in case anyone is slightly confused or missed this post from last night - go read it for context lmao

this literally made me snort omg

I will hold hands with you -signed, Sunny's notary

LET THE SCANDALOUS TOUCHING COMMENCE

(Like fr though, people writing fanfics can be so ridiculous. consent doesn't need to be in fucking LEGAL DOCUMENTS. if you are doing your job as a writer, then you can show consent thoroughly through body language and positive language)

Also, I am a huge proprietor that safewords should never actually be used in fics, ever. The colour system is annoying enough, but if the character says their safeword during the sex part of the fic, you as a smut writer are doing the worst job possible omg. (Like unless your intention is to write an assault fic or a dark fic, then your characters should never actually be forced to say their safeword.)

Like you can mention that safewords are in place if you want the audience to know that, but if a character actually uses their safeword, then one: you are totally breaking the fantasy, and two: you are saying that they felt their boundaries were violated enough in order for them to want to cancel the playtime completely.

You are saying that they felt completely unsafe in their dom's care. Which means you are writing a bad dom. A good dom can read their sub's body language, words, expressions and everything about them in order to know how far to push things (combined with discussions of comfort level and boundaries beforehand) - so that safewords should never be needed. Safewords are a precaution, but they should never actually come into play.

Safeword use in fics is not only my biggest ick, but it is literally people saying 'I want him to make me feel so unsafe that I have to use a last chance safety protocol'.

(Also why is it that 90% of safeword use fics are about overuse of overstimulation or pushing the sub with massive orgasm denial or the sub getting spanked too hard? Like why do you want your dom to violate your consent when using kinks? Is it some weird twisted CNC kink? Why do you want sex hurt/comfort fics?)

Anyway, that was such an off topic rant!

I hope that you get through writing the essay with your brain intact <333 your brain is too pretty to suffer!!!!

[teyums]

okay so i can see this idea in my head SO well, but i’m not a writer. i love your writing so i really hope you’ll somehow be able to put this together. 😭 can i request #3, #7, #11 and #17 from the modern au prompts, with Lo’ak? So ig like a mini fic where reader is super annoyed by Lo’ak and the fact that they live together but is slowly starting to like him and it shows through how she acts! i’m srry if it’s too much </3

ofc sweetie, dw i see your vision! honestly, the modern au prompts do require some background since the setting is switched, so throwing a few of them together at once is a perfect idea.💗 this was fun to write, i hope it’s to your liking! sixth commission for the party. wc: 1,724

Human!Lo’ak x fem reader

prompt: #3, #7, #11, and #17 from modern au prompts

warnings: none!

It had been a little over a month now since you and Lo’ak found out that your supposed ‘temporary’ lease, wasn’t so temporary.

If someone had told you that you’d be living under the same roof as the youngest Sully brother, you would’ve looked at them like they were crazy. But back then when you made the decision, rent was ridiculously high, and you needed a roommate as soon as possible— just until you could catch up on your bills.

You’d asked almost everyone in your contact list to sign in on your lease before you’d picked up the phone and called him. And though he was a last resort, Lo’ak was someone you knew fairly well. Him and your brother were pretty good friends back in highschool and had him over pretty often, so scribbling your signature at the bottom of the contract next to his hadn’t worried you at the time.

It was only for three months, anyway. Or it was supposed to be. Then before you knew it, three months turned to four; four months into five.

And as each day went on, you were beginning to realize things about him that you could not stand, as if your life wasn’t annoying enough. Kudos to your shitty landlord.

If there had been an award for irritating the hell out of you, Lo’ak would have the trophy displayed on the shelf above his bed.

You were someone who liked to keep a very neat space and you hated when even a single thing was out of order. And Lo’ak, as chaotic as he is, was exactly the opposite.

You’d find lone pairs of his socks in the living room, on the couch, and even once— on top of the fridge.

“Lo’ak, for the love of God, stop leaving your dirty socks in my kitchen!” You’d yelled that day, barging into his room and dumping the armful you’d found around the apartment, down onto his startled figure.

He’d been laying in his bed with nothing other than boxers on before you kicked his door in, yet he made no move to cover himself, and you made no move to drop your gaze towards the toned abs on his stomach, even though you wanted to.

Luckily, you were able to pass off the flush of your cheeks as unbridled anger in that moment.

“Okay, okay, sorry. Jeez, someone’s got their panties in a twist.” He’d held his hands up on either side of his head in mock surrender as he spoke. Your eye had twitched so hard, you were almost certain it’d get stuck like that.

It aggravated you to your core how he’d constantly blast music with zero regard for the fact that your rooms shared a wall. And when you’d bang your fist against the thin barrier between you, telling him to turn it down, he’d respond by kicking the volume up a few notches to drown out your yelling.

Or other times, when he’d perch himself on the couch in the living room, as if he didn’t have his own room. It wouldn’t be an issue if he actually used the tv, wasn’t perpetually shirtless, or careless to the fact that you liked to invite your girlfriends over pretty often. And to make matters worse, he’d even made a pass at one of them one day, and she’d actually blushed. Gross.

“You are aware that you have your own room, right? Why the hell are you always sitting here?” You snapped, and they’d tore their gazes from each other, both looking at you with puzzled expressions as if you’d overreacted.

Maybe now, you see that you did, because after they’d left he told you he could’ve sworn he saw the steam puffing from your ears.

And yes, while these were seemingly insignificant things, you couldn’t help how much they ticked you off.

But what irked you even more than the random socks you’d find in the kitchen, or his childish antics that had you turning on the captions to your shows, were the little moments where you’d found yourself… caring about him.

“What do you mean you’re going to be away for a week?” You’d asked that day, arms crossed as you leaned your back against the countertop.

“It’s just a fishing trip my dad forces me and my brother to go on every year. Trust me, I’d get out of it if I could.” He scoffed out a laugh, and watched as you nodded and shifted your gaze off to the side.

“Wait a minute,” He quirked a brow and your heart skipped for some reason when he inched closer. He leaned both hands against the counter, on either side of your hips and effectively caged you between his arms. “Why do you care?” He tilted his head.

The two of you were face to face while his eyes searched yours for an answer. He hadn’t even touched you but for some reason your legs nearly turned to putty.

You were quick to come up with an excuse and kept your arms folded over your chest, though the subtle flush of your cheeks contrasted terribly with your reasoning.

“Oh, I don’t. I’m just making sure I have all the details so I can cherish the days while they last.” You quipped.

“Mm, alright then.”

His lips puckered slightly and his head turned when he nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe you. You tried not to make it obvious when you heaved out a breath you’d been holding once he retreated back to his room.

You thought you were in the clear, until you’d heard his voice project from down the hall.

“I leave tomorrow, try not to miss me too much!”

It’d already been a month since that odd exchange between you two, yet the memory clouded your mind every time you tried to deny the odd feeling that made your stomach flip.

You figured a moment like that was just a fluke, something you could easily brush off and leave to your forgotten memories. But now, it‘s well past midnight, and Lo’ak still hasn’t come home. And for some reason you’re still awake with that same fluttering feeling, except this time it’s worse. You’re unable to sleep because you’re actually worried about him.

You’ve checked his location at least five times and you’re resisting the urge to bite your nails off as you pace the small confines of your room. The small ‘L’ you’ve been staring at on your screen hasn’t moved from its spot on the map in the last hour, and you‘re seriously starting to get scared.

What if something happened to him?

After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide the only way to calm your nerves, is to swallow your pride, and just call him. Lo’ak always picks up your calls, so if he didn’t this time, maybe you wouldn’t feel so ridiculous for assuming something was going on. Maybe then, you wouldn’t feel crazy for thinking the worst, for thinking that his car was somewhere upside down in a ditch-

*Click*

“Hello?”

Lo’ak’s slightly fuzzied voice cutting in from the phone held up to your ear has your spine straightening at attention. You blink a few times as your shoulders relax and place a hand over the fast beating of your heart, and it takes him repeating himself for you to realize you haven’t answered with more than a relieved exhale.

“H-hey, I haven’t heard from you in a while, and It’s almost one in the morning…”

There’s a pause before he responds.

“Yeah, I’m at my boy’s crib. I stepped away to answer your call, though. Is everything alright?” Perhaps you were mistaken, but he sounded the smallest bit concerned.

“Yes!” How fast your answer comes has you silently mouthing curses at yourself, and you repeat it, calmly this time with a clearing of your throat. “Yes, I’m fine. Just checking in.”

Another pause.

“Hold on, you-“ It was nearly impossible not to hear the shit-eating grin on his face through the phone as he spoke. “You miss me, don’t you?”

You’re denying his claim almost instantly.

“I do not!”

The sound of him chuckling on the other end has a smile curling your lips before you quickly get rid of it, along with the butterflies swarming your belly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.” He jests.

You fake a gag and it only makes him laugh harder.

“Hell no, please, take your time. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t like… dead in a ditch, or something.” You murmur, the confidence in your tone dwindling with each word spoken.

“Oh, my apologies. So you care about me, then.” It’s not even a question, it’s a statement, because he already knows the answer.

“You know what, I hope you have your keys, cause I’m not letting your ass in again.”

“Wait-“

You hastily press your finger to the red X, tossing your phone from your hands like it burns as you fall backwards onto your bed.

“Yeah, I’m definitely an idiot.” You sigh.

And after only three steady knocks not even an hour later, the intensity of your bluff is made known when you open the door in nothing but a large t-shirt, to meet a smug Lo’ak standing in the hallway.

“Mhm, thought you weren’t gonna open the door?” He teases.

“Just get your ass in here, I’d rather not let everybody and their mother see me without pants.” And with a roll of your eyes and a grab of his wrist, you pull him into your shared apartment, shutting the door behind him.

You’re ready to call it a night and go to bed until he stops dead in his tracks, his back facing you before he turns on his heels. Your stance shifts as his eyes trail from your head to your feet, and shyness immediately takes over for a reason you’d rather not read deeper into.

“What?”

His head cocks to the side, then he answers.

“Is that my shirt?”

Your lids raise, eyes widening suddenly as you quickly drop your head to look down at the graphic t-shirt you’d mindlessly thrown on— though you vaguely recall realizing it was his the second you’d caught a whiff of how good his cologne smelled.

You go to scratch your head, mind racing for a way to explain why it was even in your possession, let alone on your body. Crossing your arms and acting nonchalant is the fastest recovery you can think of, and that’s what you go with.

“Well if you’re gonna leave your clothes around everywhere, then I’m gonna assume they’re free game.” You shrug and quickly shuffle past him, into the direction of your room, and you miss the way a knowing grin splits his lips.

Likes + Comments + Reblogs are much appreciated 💗

©teyums 2023