#one season flop like if you remember share for a moment of silence

[aturnoftheearth]

3 years later i can confidently say that jared padalecki crying and screaming on twitter about not being included in the supernatural prequel managed to be the most memorable thing about the supernatural prequel. i can’t believe i just said 3 years later im sick.

[violetarks]

"i like you, i like you, i like you!"

show: alien stage

characters: till, ivan, luka

summary: in an attempt to make the new season of alien stage even more riveting, the pr team has decided to stage a relationship between you and one of the other contestants. despite it all being for show, can you two really keep it strictly business?

warnings: g/n! reader,, fake dating lmao, till has never seen someone else's back before, LUKA IS 30-YEARS-OLD????, you two share a room in till and ivan's, luka is condescending in his

↣ till

flashing lights from cameras and yells to 'look over here' are tiring to you now. while you were accustomed to it, being a model and all, you found this limelight to be much different. 'alien stage' wasn't like your job. and your guardian seemed far less hesitant to sign away your life than you would've hoped.

you hooked your arm around till's, standing in front of the back drop with 'alien stage' written in patterns on it. your 'boyfriend' was never one for this kind of thing, whereas it was your specialty. putting on a gentle smile and standing still for the audience was all you were made out to be. till couldn't help but squirm beside you, hands in his pockets and his face scrunched up in irritation.

"this freakin' sucks." he grumbles to you as more yells go out to you two and the other contestants.

"we'll be back in our rooms in a few minutes." you retort, not sparing at look at him. you only slide your arm to rest against his hip, pulling him taut against your side.

he squeaks, feeling his face heat up at the touch. but at the empty look in your eyes and the faux smile, he groans, placing his own arm around your shoulders lazily.

a reporter begs you forward, and one of the pr managers nods at you. you sigh softly, leading till towards them. they speak in a different tongue, and the tablet they provide give you real-time translations, showing up in holograms. a camera is shoved into your face and till scoffs, pushing it further from him.

"how long have you two been together for?"

"four months." you respond, brain reading off a script. you look to till, who suddenly looks back at you. your smile is superficial, but you hold his arm with urgency. "isn't that right?"

"yeah." he replies shortly.

"how have you been encouraging each other for this season?"

"we practice every day together." you say, tilting your head a little. your signature smile earns some more camera flashes. till can barely see, making his cover his vision with a hiss.

"any fear that you two might be facing each other?"

you freeze up for a moment, swallowing your nerves. you're running through every line possible, what was the answer? did you remember what you needed to say? why were you now drawing a blank? "well, thats—"

till drags you by your arm, taking you way from the reporter before scoffing out, "not a chance."

the walk down the carpet, behind mizu, sua and ivan, consisted of more flashes and calls. you don't answer them, only walking beside till and grinning at every reporter you see. this brand deal with some few names depended on you. meanwhile, till was showing them all his index finger, mouthing curse words at everyone who looked his way.

you have your arm around his waist again, and he wraps his around your shoulder. you look to him for a split second to see him already looking at you.

the doors close behind you two as you enter your shared room. two beds, two bathrooms, pretty much two different bedrooms, just meshed into one. till's one is to the left, and he flops onto it, not even bothering to rid himself of his clothes. you, on the other hand, open your closet.

"thanks." you say, breaking the silence as you unbutton your top.

till lifts his head to see you facing your closet instead of him. the sight of your bare back makes his face the ceiling again, red face. you don't notice, instead continuing to change into comfortable clothes.

"it's nothin'." he retorts, hands behind his head as he rests on his bed. you let out a hum, pulling a shirt over your head to cover your stomach. he finally looks back to you. "you don't get tired of all these questions, or do you just like hearing your own voice?"

he's been like this ever since you were little, teasing you and all. while you entertained him, teasing him back, you grew older and soon lost that part of you when you were adopted into the real world. till would rarely see you after that, only on billboards. it would be a lie to say that one of the few reasons he didn't oppose to joining alien stage is to see you again.

he doesn't know whether you feel the same about him. he can't tell from the way you act with him in public, all clingy and happy, compared to how you are in private. have you always been this distant?

"of course i get tired." you reply, changing into your sweatpants. your head hurts. "but they think it's better if i talk than if you do."

"tch." he clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes as you close your closet door, "whatever..."

you go quiet again, rubbing your face, as you hear till get up from his bed. you continue to get ready for bed and you assume he's going to change his clothes and do the same as he ruffles through his closet. but after a few seconds you come back into the room, he's laying on your bed, resting his head upon your pillow. you look to him as you turn off the bathroom light.

"what? 's cold." he's wearing a tank top and sleeping shorts.

"right." you scoff, shaking your head. you blink at him, slight smile on your lips with upturned brows. he furrows his own brows and pout his lips as he turns to the wall. your stupid face...

you turn off the lights to your shared room, sliding into the bed. you can hear till's breathing and how he swallows his nerves. his back is nearly touching your shoulder. it wasn't a small bed, a queen size, but till was laying right in the middle and you didn't like being right against the edge. you face the ceiling, listening to him.

he doesn't know what to do. he's slept in your bed with you before. it always feels the same; it's always awkward. this is the closest he ever gets to you.

till is more than surprised when he feels your hands snake around his waist, pulling yourself to mold against him. your warm transfers to his back and your legs nudge against his. with your head against his shoulder, he's sure that you can hear his pacing heart.

"are you still cold?" you question, breath hitting the back of his neck. he shivers in your arms, making you hold him a little more taut against him. "i, uh... i don't want you to get sick."

"n—no." he stammers, breathing heavier. he's staring into the faded outline of the bedside table with your lamp and your headphones, trying to calm his heart. "thank you. you feel nice."

"really?" you hum out, hair tickling his neck. your lips brush against his skin at how close you are to him.

he shivers again and he mutters out, "sh—shut up! go to sleep!"

you go quiet after that, and till almost believes you listened to him. but your sudden movement to sit up behind him makes him turn his head to face you. except he catches the outline of your face, leaning close to his own. he has no time to react before you're pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

he's still, unable to move at how close you are to him. your chest is pressed against his, hand on the other side of the bed. till holds his breath, eyes wide as you barely kiss him.

when you pull away, he's staring at your figure. he doesn't know how you really feel, but maybe it's similar to how he does. before you can say anything, till's arms are wrapping around your neck and pulling you down.

you lay on your side, facing till and he hugs you to his chest. he's on his side as well, nose buried in your hair as he squeezes his eyes shut. due to your position, you can hear his heartbeat pumping as fast as it can. you chuckle, pulling your arms around him and feeling him shiver.

you chuckle, hugging him again, "goodnight, till."

"night, y/n." he sighs out. you were too much.

↣ ivan

"another photoshoot?" you sigh, looking away from the city-scape in your window. ivan, with his arms crossed against the wall, nods his head. you roll your eyes, eyes to the window again. "i'm not going."

"there's no debate." he retorts, shaking his head. he lifts himself from his position, moving to the clothes set on your separate beds. unzipping the bag, he sees the dark red material inside. this was just for the public view, not for the shoot itself. still, it was so... 'out there'.

you look at him, knit brows. "are you being serious?"

"you better hurry, we have to be at makeup in thirty minutes." he tells you, unbuttoning his collared shirt, "you don't want them to drag you out, do you?"

you click your tongue, getting up from your chair and marching towards your bed. ivan followed your movements with his eyes, turning to see you still annoyed as you roughly open the clothes. "stupid brand deals... why are you so freakin' popular, ivan?"

he sighs at your question, looking at you with pointed eyes, "you always complain."

you glare back at him before you both turn around and start changing. it's not long before you're ready and you have to be escorted by the guards to your photoshoot with some new designer brand. the ride down in the glass elevator shows you the crowd outside waiting for your arrival. the guards in front of you shield you from the flashes as soon as you land on your floor and walk outside.

ivan holds his head up high, showing a soft smile and waves at the fans and paparazzi. he wasn't afraid of the fame, it was just a product of how hard work. glancing down at you, he sees how you glare at the floor, clutching at the fabric around your wrist.

he internally groans, slipping a hand through yours and tugging you to stand closer to him. you make a small noise, bumping shoulders with him. "just relax." he whispers to you, giving you a smile that makes you feel a bit belittled, "we'll be in our ride soon. smile."

you glare at him a little before squeezing his hand, turning to the cameras and giving your most comfortable smile possible right now. with both you and ivan showing off your faces, the flashes doubled. it blinds you, and you're almost thankful for the car taking you to your photoshoot as it separates you from the public.

"ugh." you grunt, rubbing your eyes after dropping ivan's hand, "i'm gonna' lose my sight. i'm... i'm actually crying from how bright their lights are."

he glances at you, leaning his arm against the window. you were literally tearing up from the bright lights. ivan raises a brow before reaching forward towards you with his free hand.

"you're fine, stop whining." he huffs, brushing your tears with his thumb. he begs you to look at him, fingers guiding your chin to face him. you drop your own hands from your face, showing your irritated face. "don't look at me like that."

"i'm not doing anything." you claim with the same expression, letting him hold your face in his hand now. he was somewhat warm, even with the gloves he was wearing.

"right." he hums to you, bringing you closer. you let out a scoff as you shift closer to him, one hand grasping at his wrist and the other pressed against the cushion of the seat. your loose hold on him doesn’t do much.

ivan can feel your cheeks heat up under his touch, but your annoyed look stays. “don’t ruin your pretty face like that.”

you blink at him before pulling away, clicking your tongue, “shut your mouth.”

he watches as you face the window, crossed arms. it was cute how you played this act no matter what. ivan knows when people like him, it’s a skill he had acquired from being so popular. and he knows that you don’t hate him.

when getting into the photoshoot, ivan walks in front of you, having been here a thousand times before. the other individuals of all different space races stop to stare at you. ivan’s partner. you’ve never had a photoshoot done before.

you hold into the edge of ivan’s sleeve, walking close with him. you look around at everyone, accidentally bumping into ivan’s back for the lack of attention you were paying. he’s talking to who is probably the director, explaining to him what was going to happen. you understand very little, but you hear your name and suddenly feel another hand on your elbow.

“ivan.” you mutter out, now clutching onto his hand tightly. he looks back to you and the stylist asking you to come along. you look scared, not wanting to go alone.

he talks to the director for a moment before nodding at you. “let’s go. we have an hour before the shoot begins.” he says, holding your hand gently and leading you to the change rooms.

you are given your outfit not long after, the stylist setting up a divider so you can have privacy. ivan sits on the sofa on the other side, leg over his knee and an arm resting on the back of the couch as he waits for you.

when he hears you stop shuffling around, he listens closely. “ivan…?” you call quietly.

“i’m here.” he retorts. he watches as you step out from the divider and show your outfit. it fit you nicely, you looked breath-taking, yet you stand there nervously. he stands, clearing his throat and walking over to you. he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. he finds himself staring. “it looks good.”

you look at yourself in the mirror. “i don’t know.”

he stands behind you, peering at your expression in the mirror. “you look amazing.”

you stare at him for a moment before you sigh, “okay. you can go ahead—“

ivan presses a kiss to your cheek, lingering for a moment before pulling away slowly. he doesn't know what came over him, he's never acted out like this. but you were just so captivating in that moment, how could he not kiss you?

you seem just surprised as he feels. you turn to face him, palm resting against where he kissed you.

“ivan—!” you mumble out, your face unbearably hot. he smiles a little before the stylist and makeup artist come in.

they talk with ivan for a moment before handing him his outfit and gesturing to the divider. he gives you a nod before you are whisked away to a joint room, where your makeup would be done.

your eyes never leave ivan, not until he goes behind the divider. and now you have to sit and get your makeup done while your mind is running.

↣ luka

he loves the attention he got on stage. the way his singing was appreciated was like nothing he had ever gotten. the press was always on luka, being a past alien stage winner. and since you were assigned as his partner, that meant all eyes were on you too.

you knew who he was, he was all over the billboards and the tv back at home. you were surprised when you saw him in real life, and even more-so when you found out that you were going to be his 'partner' in order to up the popularity in alien stage's new season.

sure, you had your fair share of popularity as well, but did that really make you the best candidate for this task? at first you were afraid of messing it up, but now? you wish they would fire you.

"singing is everything, y/n." luka says to you, watching as you put the mic back on its stand.

the stadium is nearly empty, which is perfect for you and luka as it was time for the both of you to practice and the stage was the best place. however, you despised the camera crew that had to come along. luka was in the middle of filming this documentary based off the behind the scenes of his shows. since alien stage was his most recent, and you happened to have struck a deal with the producers, that meant you were also going to be in this.

you glance at the camera as it zooms in on luka, sitting in the chair directly in front of the stage. he continues on, "you need to practice those runs, sweet thing. we don't want to be pitchy, now, do we?"

you want to throw the mic stand at his stupid face. he was so condescending, showing off his fake smile as if to lighten the blow of saying you were 'pitchy'. you click your tongue, masking your irritation with a nod of your head.

"good." he replies, clapping his hand, "now, shall we take it from the top?"

you internally groan at him. he had made you run through the song three times already, and it wasn't dwelling well on you. "why don't you start practicing, luka? my voice is about to give out." you offer, rubbing your throat.

he thinks for a moment before looking to the camera. "i suppose i can show off a little now." he sends a wink, as if to swoon anyone watching. you roll your eyes and head off the stage.

the camera pans to the both of you in the single frame. luka hands you your drink bottle, standing from the seat and allowing you to rest on it. as you sit down, you stretch your neck, closing your eyes.

luka reaches a hand around and cradles the back of your head. it's supposed to be comforting, but the feeling of the camera on you makes it the opposite. he has this dazed look in his eyes when he stares at you. a few seconds later, he seems to snap back to reality, opting to lean down and press a kiss to your forehead. "rest up, my star."

you watch as he gets up on the stage, fixing the microphone to his height. luka begins his warm-ups and vocal runs, and the camera suddenly turns to you.

"what do you have to say about luka's singing?" the director asks you.

"he's talented for sure." you respond, opening your drink bottle, "he knows what he's good at and excels at it. luka's got a beautiful singing voice and he uses it very well. like his falsetto, not many male contestants can hit his notes comfortably. he uses that to his advantage."

the camera lingers on you as you turn back to luka, who has started his music up.

it was all from a script, luka had given you clear instructions to say those things. you were hesitant at first, thinking you should be honest, but after seeing how strict it was that luka have a good reputation, you decided it was best just to listen to him. in return, he said he would hold back on the passive-aggressiveness. that seemed like a lie now.

an hour or so later, the others leave, claiming that they had more than enough footage for the day. it was good to leave you two alone to practice, not having to act with the cameras up.

you sit on the edge of the stage, utterly exhausted with your legs dangling on the edge. your drink bottle is beside you, and you gulp the rest of it down. luka stretches his back as he stands up from the chair, letting out a sigh of relief.

"well done, maybe you have a chance of winning this." he claims, walking towards you, "don't worry, just do your best, lovely."

he comes to stand in between your legs, hands on top of both of your knees. you glance at him finally, raising a brow. he was being somewhat nice to you, despite there being no cameras on around you. you give one last look around the stadium. "y'know there's no cameras. you can drop it."

luka grins, tilting his head. "i'm not acting, good-looking. you don't think i'm telling the truth?"

the smile he has on his face tells you the opposite. he has that look on his face when he's playing around or when he's trying to seem like a charmer to the audience. you've seen luka when he's not like this. you've seen him lash out, frustrated and on the brink of tears. and you've seem him in a way that just looks blank. this facade he carries around annoys you to the core, because you know nobody else has seen this side of him. they think he's a prince.

"you never compliment me out of the good of your heart." you reply, glaring at him a little. he raises a brow.

he holds your chin in his hand, bringing you closer to him. with a small grunt, you obey, furrowed brows. "such an adorable thing like you shouldn't be thinking that way." he claims, smiling at how annoyed you are, "i just love seeing you flustered."

you push his hand away from you, closing your eyes. "shut up, luka."

he doesn't reply to you which is odd. opening your eyes again, you see that he looks almost upset at what you say. at the kicked puppy expression, you go to apologise when luka suddenly leans forward, capturing your lips against his own.

you freeze up, blinking in surprise at his actions. you let his hand go and luka rests it against your neck, pulling you closer towards him. you ultimately melt against luka, reaching a hand to his chest and clutching his shirt. you begin to kiss back without thinking. his lips are cold, much like his fingers are, but with your warmth they heat up.

it lasts only a few seconds before he pulls away, letting go of your neck and resting his hand against yours on his chest. he sees your stunned expression and chuckles, "i'm sorry, love, am i too much for you to handle? you look the cutest when you're all confused like this."

you cover your face, all about embarrassed now. "luka...!"

he laughs some more, bringing you closer and cradling you against him as you sit on the stage. you're so humiliated, how could he catch you like that?

regardless, you slip your hands from between the two of you and hug his waist. while luka might play this game for the publicity and his reputation, you couldn't say the same. you hate to admit it, but in this world, it's nice to have someone who holds you like this. even if it is someone like luka.

[lou-struck]

The All Nighter

Kenma Kozume x reader

W.C. 1.1k

~ Your favorite video game series just released a new installment, and you are eagerly prepared to spend all night playing through it with your Boyfriend.

'Why is being a CEO of a startup so hard?' Kenma Kozume wonders as he tiredly shrugs his way down the long hallway to his apartment doorway. 

If it weren't for the seasonal wreath you hung on his front door, his tired eyes would've missed it. All he wants to do is go inside, lay down on the couch with you, watch a show, and order some takeout from that one place you like. But when he opens the front door to a darkened penthouse, those tantalizing plans of his seem to crumble before his eyes.

" Y/N? "He calls from the doorway, kicking off his shoes. "Are you here?"

When he is met with silence, his suspicions are confirmed: you are not home, and he is stuck missing his favorite person.

With a sigh, his tired legs carry him across the threshold into the home he shares with you, navigating the darkened halls to the bedroom so he can change out of his work clothes and put this long day behind him. His button-up shirt hits the floor, and he slips on his favorite sweatshirt.

The faded garment is littered with holes from years of washing, but it still feels like a second skin to the man. He runs a hand through his two-toned hair as he flops onto the couch. 

"Where could they be?" he murmurs to himself as he tries to remember you saying anything about having plans tonight. Although he tends to miss certain details when he is deep in one of his games, Kenma always pays attention to you.

Knowing that you will be home later, he just decides to rest his eyes since he is too tired to do anything else for the moment.

~

It's here…

It's finally here…

One of your favorite video game sagas just launched its latest installment in the series, and you can hardly contain your excitement. Ever since Kenma first introduced you to the series, you have been obsessed. You have played through the original game too many times to count and have been eagerly waiting for the latest installment to come out so you guys could play it together.

Lately, the two of you have been so busy with work and other adult things that the launch date of the game completely slipped your mind until you passed by your local game store today and saw a suspiciously long line out the door.

Your bag from that very store sways back and forth, bumping against your knees as you rush to Kenma and your apartment. Swinging open the door triumphantly, you see someone (Kenma) roll off the couch, startled.

"Ken Ken, You'll never guess what I got for us," you say in a sing-song voice. You hold the bag in the air and swing it back and forth, temptingly, as Kenma gets slowly to his feet.

"Y/n, did you really have to come in with that much energy?" he mumbles, blinking his catlike eyes sleepily up at you. But when he sees the bag, his face seems to light up with a newfound energy. "No."

"Yes," you grin as he takes it from you to get a peak at the goods. 

"You mean it came out today?" he asks, looking just as excited as you and somehow more awake.

"It sure did," you laugh, kicking off your shoes. "I hope you didn't have any plans tonight because now you and I are going to stay up and play through the whole thing."

"I'll order us some food." He says, reaching for his phone. You can tell from the satisfied look on his face that he has nowhere else he would rather be in this moment.

-

It's been a few hours, and the two of you are slowly making your way through this goliath of an RPG. If you thought the previous game was massive, then this is otherworldly. The two of you take turns manning the controls, crawling through dungeons, slaying monsters, and leveling up your skills.

There's so much content in this game that you haven't even been focusing on the main quest line, the main quest getting pushed further and further back beneath the miscellaneous questlines. 

"This is so cool," Kenma says, looking at the enchanted weapon you found in the depths of the dungeon you had just completed. 

"I-"you are cut off by your own abrupt yawn. "Sorry, I know. The graphics on this game are incredible, too."

"Are you getting sleepy?" Kenma chuckles. His body is warm next to yours as you hand off the controller. Gently, you rest your head against his shoulder.

"No," you murmur. "I still wanna play."

"Okay, then just relax a bit." He says gently. But there is something else in his voice that makes you not trust him all the way. "I'll tap in for now. Just try to stay awake a little longer."

"Good plan, you humm, watching as the avatar you created runs through a tall grassy field. The soft ambiance from the soundtrack is peaceful, and after a whole work week, you are more than willing to embrace it.

But at the same time, you want to stay up and keep playing. 

"Oh," Kenma says, pulling you from your thoughts. "It's a bit cold in here, don't you think? I'm gonna grab us a blanket so we won't have to stop later on."

You nod, and he stands. With your headrest gone, you are forced to support yourself with an arm until he returns with a blanket for you.

"Here, this will help us see the game better," he says softly, turning off the lights behind you. You only nod as he lovingly wraps a fuzzy blanket around your shoulders and returns to his spot on the couch next to you. 

As he plays on, your eyelids feel as if they are doubling in weight by the second. Strangely, the warm blanket and the darkened room make you feel much more tired. 

"Ken. Did you trick me?" your fuzzy mind murmurs. "Are you trying to get me to go to sleep?

"No, why would you think that?" he says, never taking his eyes off the screen. "I just want you to be comfortable."

Your heart flutters at his thoughtfulness. "M'kay", you say. But you're pretty sure your loving Boyfriend is trying to make sure you get some decent rest tonight.

How dare he…

"Oh, this game is a bit loud, I'll just turn down the volume a bit," he grins, knowing that you are falling for his little trick.

You cannot open your eyes, not that you want to. You are warm, comfortable, and curled up against your Boyfriend. As far as a Friday night goes, things can't get much better than this. 

The last thing you register before you drift off is the feel of his soft lips brushing against your temple and the sound of your game console shutting off.

Tagging:@pixelcafe-network @sleepyyshroom @isaacdaknight @qardasngan @dog55teeth

[fruitcoops]

Accidental Family

Hey folks! This is one of two fics for the six month celebration of this blog! Woohoo! Blood on the Ice is one of the most popular series I've written, and expanding it into Josie’s (@prohibitionincurls ) Winging It world with her was unbelievably fun. Disclaimer: one of the OCs has ADHD and it is a central theme of the story--while Josie based some of his characteristics on her own experience, we both recognize that this is not a one-size-fits-all situation. Thank you again for six amazing months, and I hope you enjoy!

Lots of love,

Eve <3

TW for mentioned injury

“Oh my god, they’re gonna kill me,” the kid whispered in a wavering voice, sounding much younger than he actually was as he left the penalty box.

“They’re not going to kill you,” Bowie soothed, still watching the tunnel where Remus had disappeared mere minutes earlier. From what he saw, there had been a bit of blood, but the bruising didn’t look too bad. Then again, there had barely been enough time for anything to visibly swell before he was whisked away.

“Can I just stay in the box?” Felix cast a look toward the Lions bench and his voice cracked. “They can’t yell at me in the box, right?”

“Hey. Look at me, Marty.” Bowie took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “The Lions are good guys. They’re not going to hurt you, but you did just fuck up one of their best friends. What would you do if someone hit me in the face?”

“Come on, man, I’m a terrible fighter. I don’t know how well I’d be able to defend your honor after something like that. It was an accident. Do you think they know it was an accident? Should I go tell them?”

“I know. They know. Loops definitely knows. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re a little cold at first.” He ruffled the rookie’s hair and turned back to the game; the Lions were moving fast and brutal, slicing right through their defense for yet another goal. Shit. Felix clearly felt bad enough already--losing the game wouldn’t make him feel any better. 

They ended up losing the game.

Bowie had figured it might happen; he would have had the same fire if it had been his teammate that got clocked like that. Hell, he used to have the same fire when he and Remus had played together, so he completely understood. 

That did not change the fact that once they got home, Felix was still borderline inconsolable. The 18-year-old wasn’t technically billeting with them, but the apartment he was renting just so happened to be in the same building, on the same floor, and right across the hall from his and Simon’s. This led to an informal adoption of the rookie and he was around their house at least five times a week, if not more. 

Felix Martin was a good kid, and that idea was confirmed when Kronk immediately took a liking to him; the cat loved nobody but the three of them. Bowie was grateful that he and Simon were there to quell some of the homesickness that came from moving out to a new city on his own for the first time. The transition was always tough, but they could provide a little support.

They parted ways from the team when the bus got back from the rink and drove to their building in silence. Once they made their way up the stairs and down the hall, Felix moved to go back to his apartment. 

“Nope,” Bowie said immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him through the door to his and Simon’s place. It wasn’t a good idea for Felix to be alone right now--there was nothing to do alone after a loss aside from beat himself up about it, and Bowie would be damned before he let that happen. 

Simon and Kronk were perched on the couch, but they both moved into the kitchen as soon as the door clicked closed. Simon took one look at the pair and carefully wrapped his arms around Felix; the kid practically melted. The three of them stood there for a moment until Simon pulled back a bit and tilted his head toward the living room. Felix nodded and Bowie followed the two, sharing the couch with Simon while the rookie curled up in the large armchair diagonal to them. 

He...well, if Bowie was being honest, Felix looked like hell. He chewed his lower lip like an anxious beaver and fiddled with the loose threads of the closest armrest; everything about him screamed discomfort. Bowie caught Simon’s worried glance in his periphery and let out a slow breath, trying to relieve at least a little of the tension in the room.

“You don’t have to relive it if you don’t want to. I saw the game. But if you want to talk about it…” Simon trailed off with a significant look.

Felix sighed and his shoulders caved in a bit. “It was just one of those moments. All of a sudden, I didn’t really have a grasp on what was going on, which feels like shit because I’ve been doing pretty well so far. I dunno. It was just...bad.” 

That was it. Bowie knew Felix had seemed a little off. When Felix mentioned he had ADHD at the start of the season during one of their ‘getting to know your neighbor’ chats, Bowie hadn’t thought much of it. But as they grew closer, he began to notice when Felix forgot to eat or drink, or got overwhelmingly excited about something, or when he suddenly spaced out. It wasn’t just Felix being Felix.

The whole team stepped up and became intensely protective, of course. They not only helped him remember meal times, but also scheduling, directions, and everything in between. Bowie felt especially responsible for reasons he didn’t entirely understand--there was just something about the kid’s sweet heart that struck a chord.

He also knew that Felix was highly emotionally intelligent, but had no concept of whether people liked him or not. He was someone who assumed the worst, all the time. So, Bowie decided to do the only thing he knew would work: after a few more beats of uncomfortable silence, he pulled his phone out, tapped a few buttons, and pressed ‘call’.

“Hey, Remus, are you alive?” 

An amused snort came from the speaker even as Felix blanched. “Hello to you, too, Bowie. Jeez, you’re worse than Sirius.  I’m one hundred percent alive, just a little swollen. Your rookie’s got a helluva shot, but maybe tell the kid to hit the puck and not my face next time.” 

Felix flushed red and put his face between his knees, though hearing the laughter in Remus’s voice and knowing that he was okay clearly took some of the weight off his shoulders. Bowie whooped internally and shot him a quick, reassuring smile.

“Yeah, the kid’s got spirit, but he’s also got ADHD. He’s great most of the time, but sometimes under extreme pressure he can’t figure out where the fuck he--or anything else around him--is. Something about focusing or neurons firing the wrong way, maybe? Either way, it’s why he’s a terrible fuckin’ driver.”

Felix flopped back against the chair with a groan. “How the hell am I supposed to know how far away the cars around me are based on the mirrors? And how am I supposed to park?!” 

Remus’s laugh echoed once again. “Don’t ask me, kid, I’m not allowed to drive, either. Not because I’m ADHD, but because I’m terrible at it.” 

“You can say that again!” a muffled voice called from behind Remus. 

“Please excuse my fiance,” Remus said politely. “He’s a jackass who’s trying to make me lay down again.”

Felix smiled, though it was a bit pained. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize earlier. That stick was totally on me. And--I mean, I heard some of the guys talking afterward and it sounded like you got pretty banged up, so I’m really sorry. Like, really sorry.”

“Hey, woah, you’re fine,” Remus soothed. Bowie recognized his ‘talking to newbies’ voice and hid a smile in the cuff of his hoodie. “It’s the name of the game, after all. Did Bowie ever tell you about the time I accidentally checked him into a wall? Or when I broke his visor with a puck? For context, this was when we were on the same team.”

“Or that time you kicked my legs out from under me and sent me sprawling across the ice during practice.”

“That one was on purpose.” 

Bowie glared at the phone, but Felix was snickering and his grin was genuine. It calmed him a bit. “Thanks, Loops.”

“No problem, kiddo.” Remus paused for a moment, then mumbled something inaudible to someone in the background before clearing his throat. “Bowie.”

“Yes?” Remus had never been a wild card, per se, but he certainly had a knack for asking strange questions out of the blue.

“Did you accidentally adopt a child or do my ears deceive me?”

Bowie was about to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then he took a moment to think, looking back and forth between Simon and Felix. “Fuckin’--maybe I did, Re, but he’s ours now. And if that’s the case, I’m going to formally request that you tell your fiance to quit being mean to my son.”

Remus laughed on the other end of the line. “Will do. Felix seems like a sweetheart, I’m glad he’s got you two.” 

Bowie nodded with a slight smile, even though Remus couldn’t see him. “So are we. I can practically sense Sirius hovering, so go let your boyfriend fuss over you for a little while.” 

An offended noise came from Remus’s side, followed by a lower laugh and the click of the call ending. 

Simon looked Felix dead in the eyes. “I’m seconding the ‘kid’ thing. You may just barely be a legal adult, but it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt you. Congrats on your new gay dads.” 

Felix’s bright laugh sent a wave of relief through Bowie. “You guys are only, like, eight years older than me.”

“Silence, spawn,” Simon said, pointing a playful finger at him as his grin widened into something sweet and lopsided. “Now both of you need to come eat something. I made cookies while you were getting pushed around for a living.”

Bowie was still worried about Remus’ face--he made a mental note to call the next day to check in--but all his concerns disappeared as Felix scooped the cat up for a snuggle and followed Simon into the kitchen. They may have lost the game, but he would lose a million Cups to keep that moment forever: his Simon fussing over them both, his cat purring in pure bliss, and his kid settling into place at last.

[redwinterroses]

for requests how about: impulse, encountering some or all of the day one crew and getting Very Uneasy because oh shit, the 3rdlife memories are coming back hard

Hey! Sorry this took me SO long to finish. It was a hard one to write because between you asking this (I think?) and now, Impulse had that whole encounter with Bdubs on the path and I was like "Well I don't want to just write that" and then Cleo showed up? And I haven't ever written her before (except for a few lines in another hero, another mindless crime) so I had to go watch a ton of vids and streams and--

okay. Excuses over. Please enjoy this little "Impulse has a bad time but Friends Are Good" drabble. <3

~~~

Sweet Dreams

The Crastle was bigger than he remembered. Had this hallway always been here? This doorway? This arch that led to another hall…which branched and spiraled and led up stairs and down Escherian ramps in a labyrinth of stone walls and a floor dotted with pressure plates?

Impulse found himself running, breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he dashed down the halls, throwing open doors and darting around corners, leaping over the pressure plates—someone was chasing him.

They were coming for him, glowing red eyes and white teeth—fangs—glinting in the shadows. And over all, the ever-louder beat:

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It pounded in his ears, deafening, and he stumbled to cower against a wall, hunching with his arms over his head, trying in vain to drown it out. But no—no, it was even louder now, thumping so close it rattled his teeth, and he looked down to see blood spreading across his shirt and at the center where his heart should be: a golden clock embedded in his chest.

“They gave me a clock, Impulse.”

His head snapped up. Bdubs, eyes blank and red like two burning embers, stared down at him, no expression on his grey face.

“Ride or die?” Cleo’s voice came from behind him, and Impulse spun to see her glaring down the length of a crossbow, her eyes as scarlet and expressionless as Bdubs’. “How about… die.”

She fired the crossbow, the bolt exploding into flames that swarmed toward Impulse’s face—

He shot upright in bed, gasping for air. He swallowed hard, rubbing his chest as he gradually caught his breath. His heart pounded so loudly that for one horrible moment he thought it might really have been replaced with a bloody golden clock.

But no. Around him, the night was cool and dark, the silence of the Boatem village broken only by the faint rattling of a distant skeleton and the lowing of cows.

Just a dream. Just a nightmare.

Just another nightmare.

Impulse slumped back against his pillows, flopping one arm over his eyes and letting out a long, shuddering sigh in the darkness. It had been months since they’d moved on from the 3rd Life server, months of good times and laughter and the excitement of new projects and builds… and yet at night, when the voices of his friends faded away and Impulse was left alone with himself—he found himself back. Time and again, his sleeping mind returned to the Crastle, or to Dogwarts, or to the sandy dunes of the Red Desert. And inevitably, he found himself face to face with nightmare versions of his day-one crew: Bdubs and ZombieCleo, red-eyed and vengeful.

“I never betrayed them,” he muttered to the darkness. “Never.”

So why did he feel guilty?

Well. If he was honest with himself… it wasn’t really guilt. Or it was, but not because of anything he’d done in 3rdLife—no, the guilt he felt was because the primary emotion associated with Bdubs and Cleo in his dreams was fear.

These were his friends! Being afraid of them went against every instinct he had, every good memory and inside joke and shared experience. And that was a different world anyway—different rules, different lives. It didn’t change anything here on Hermitcraft.

And yet…

And yet when he saw that clock on Bdubs’ belt the other day, or when he’d come up out of the mines that first morning in Boatem and Cleo had been standing right there, Impulse hadn’t been able to suppress the rising wave of panic that swept over him. Panic over being caught in his web of lies, panic that he might hurt the only people he trusted, panic that they didn’t trust him—

Enough was enough. He needed to get past this; he couldn’t spend the rest of the season (the rest of his life?) having anxiety attacks whenever he encountered any of the other Crastle crew members. Talking with Bdubs on the trail had helped, but… he hadn’t seen Cleo since the first days of the server.

That needed to change.

Impulse threw off the covers and pushed himself out of bed, padding down the stairs to the main level of his house. Grabbing his communicator from where he’d left it atop the crafting bench, he tapped out two quick messages:

<impulseSV> you whisper to ZombieCleo: hey, can we meet up and chat? Spawn egg, around noon?

He set down the communicator and turned to go to bed, but to his surprise, it buzzed with an immediate reply.

<ZombieCleo> ZombieCleo whispered to you: everything alright?

<impulseSV> you whisper to ZombieCleo: yeah sure, I just |

Impulse stared at the blinking cursor for a moment, then backspaced and started again:

<impulseSV> you whisper to ZombieCleo: not really. but it’s nothing major. just want to chat a few things over with you.

<ZombieCleo> ZombieCleo whispered to you: Impulse it’s 3 in the morning. you wouldn’t be messaging if it wasn’t major. want to talk now?

He blinked. That… wasn’t the response he’d expected. He hesitated, finger hovering over the touch screen.

<impulseSV> you whisper to ZombieCleo: sure.

<ZombieCleo> ZombieCleo whispered to you: i'll come to you.

.

///

.

Impulse was waiting on the roof when Cleo arrived, swooping in with the dry rustle of elytra wings to land on the cobble-and-slabs rooftop.

He looked up at her with an automatic smile, but she didn’t even wait for a “hey” before plopping down beside him.

“Alright, Impulse,” she said, her brisk tone ordering, rather than inviting him to speak. “What’s going on?”

Pulling his knees into his chest, Impulse wrapped his arms around his legs, the cobblestone beneath him still radiating a bit of warmth from the day’s sun.

“I…” he let his voice trail off, not sure where to begin.

“Out with it.” Cleo held out her hand, palm up, as if waiting for him to drop something into it. “Spit it out. It’s not gonna get any better for stewing on it.”

This was a dumb idea. Impulse closed his eyes and, before he could talk himself out of it, let the words spill out in a rush:

“I keep having dreams. Nightmares. About being back… back there. At the Crastle, mainly. And, ah—” he chuckled nervously and opened his eyes, looking sideways at Cleo. “You and Bdubs are there. And you’re… mad. Yeah, you’re really mad. And you don’t trust me. And—" he took a deep breath. “I keep dreaming that you’re so mad you kill me.”

Cleo tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “But we didn’t. Well,” she corrected herself. “I didn’t.”

“I know, I know—it’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense, and I know that, but…” he swallowed, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I need to get it off my chest. Because even thought I know it’s not real, and I know this is an entirely different world, and I know that nothing from that server really changes anything, I can’t just… turn off what my brain does when I’m not paying attention to it. You guys are my friends and I’m getting real tired of feeling like I need to start running every time I see one of you. To be honest, sitting here right now even is making me antsy.”

Overhead, the stars continued on their paths in silence, and somewhere in the village a couple of sheep baa-ed at each other plaintively.

“Well. That’s… something. That’s certainly something, isn’t it.” Cleo was quiet for a moment, examining him. Impulse looked away, suddenly finding his fingernails deeply interesting.

“Impulse.”

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm, and he instinctively flinched away. Cleo raised both eyebrows at him this time, pulling her hand back—then deliberately replacing it, her fingers cool and firm through the thin fabric of his sleeve. “Impulse,” she repeated, her tone gentle but brooking no argument. “You… you know I’m not good at this stuff. But at the risk of getting in way over my pay-grade: we’re good. We’re your friends.” She gave him a shake. “We love you, you idiot. No amount of murdery games on another server gonna change that.”

Impulse gave a little laugh, pretending neither of them could hear the emotion that made his voice catch in his throat. “Wow, Cleo,” he said. “Love. Big word.”

“Bah.” She shoved him away, throwing her hands in the air. “I love everybody, you’re not special.” But there was a grin in her voice. “And anyway—why me? You’ve got a lotta nerve, Impulse, having nightmares about me killin’ you.”

“Hey, you were scary with that crossbow.”

“I was, wasn’t I.” Cleo sounded satisfied about that.

The knot in Impulse’s chest was slowly loosening, and he glanced over to see Cleo leaning back on her hands, staring up at the sky. The faintest tinge of pinkish-grey was starting to appear on the eastern horizon. The Boatem crew would be up and about soon—Grian in particular had a tendency to be up at an ungodly hour of the morning.

“Hey—” Impulse said, lowering his voice again. “Um. Thanks. For swinging by. Sorry for being weird about all this.”

“Impulse if you start apologizing for being weird you’re never going to stop.” She made a face at him. “Because you’re very weird.”

“Thaaaanks.”

Cleo gave him an easy punch on the shoulder. “You know you adore me,” she said. “And if it makes you feel any better, I can promise you this: I will kill you again at some point, I’m sure. And it’ll have nothing at all, whatsoever, to do with Third Life: it’ll be because you deserve it.” She paused. “Or because I just want to.”

Somehow, out of all the things she could have said, a casual threat of violence was the thing that did the trick. Impulse laughed—out loud, for real, a genuine laugh that shook loose the tension in his shoulders and chased away the phantom of Cleo standing over him with a crossbow.

“Thanks, Cleo.”

Cleo stood, and patted him on the head, ruffling up his hair. “There’s the obnoxiously-cheerful Impulse I know and loath,” she teased. “Can’t have you being all maudlin over here—I’m the gloomy one on this server.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Impulse asked, smoothing down his hair and also standing.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. You know me—I don’t do the sleeping thing much. Too much work to do: graves to dig, bodies to—” she grinned darkly “—find. ‘S a lot for an entrepreneuring zombie like myself.”

“Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to it.” Impulse tried to stifle a yawn. He wasn’t entirely successful.

“Go to bed, Impulse,” Cleo laughed, activating her elytra. “And try to only have normal nightmares about me for a while. Ya know—ones where I’m properly zombie-terrifying, not this Crastle nonsense.”

“I’ll do my best.” He watched her fly off, and yawned again, this time wide enough to pop his jaw.

Alright. Let’s try this one more time. Sleep.

He left the roof and reentered his house, which suddenly felt much more cozy and far less empty and cold than it had when he’d first awakened. Sliding back under his blankets, he tugged them up around his ears and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Something exploded outside, and his eyes popped back open.

Maniacal laughter echoed over the hills of Boatem, and Impulse deliberately rolled over, burying his head under the pillow.

Tomorrow’s insanity would come soon enough. For now: sleep.

((sweet dreams, Impulse.))

[justthehiddleswrites]

Make It Hard For Me | Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Summary:  The hotel lost your best friend’s, Tom Hiddleston, hotel reservation. So now you are sharing a room. A room with one king sized bed. Add in that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend. This is a recipe for disaster. Tom has a very arousing dream the first night in the room which only further complicates matters.

Warnings: Dom/sub Undertones, Light BDSM, Sub!Tom, Female Dominant, Friends to Lovers, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Dom/sub, Light Dom/sub, Begging, Dry Humping, Grinding, Smut, Sharing a Bed

-

Tom shoved the heavy hotel door open with his shoulder, hands full with his luggage. You followed behind him, ladened with your own bags. Tom scowled and huffed when he dropped the bags just inside the door. You stumbled around him.

“I can’t believe the hotel lost my reservation!” Tom groaned. You put your bags down on the ground and sighed. Tom hadn’t stopped whining since he discovered they would share a room for the next two days.

“At least they didn’t lose mine.” you responded. “Then we would really be up shit’s creek.”

Tom stepped into the room. “Fuck. We are up shit’s creek.” He chuckled darkly.

You peeked around him to see what caused your normally composed friend to curse. You spied a single king sized bed. Your cheeks heated at the thought of sharing a bed with Tom.

“It will be fine. I’ll just take….” you scanned the room. “… that chair over there.”

Tom screwed his face up, and then his shoulders relaxed, taking a deep breath. “If anyone is sleeping in a chair or on the floor, it will be me, darling. It is your room.” He removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I apologize for my mood. I don’t travel well.”

You flopped onto the bed. Tom’s eyes widened as your boobs bounced. He stuck his hand in his pocket and adjusted while your eyes were closed. “I remember that trip to New York two years ago. You were an absolute bear until you slept.” you groaned, wincing as you dug underneath your hips extracting a TV remote. “Speaking of Schitt’s Creek, want to watch the latest season?” You waggled the remote at Tom, whose hand was still in his pocket. “I’ll even pay for room service.” you sing-songed the last sentence.

Tom’s lips curled in a smile and he chuckled, dropping his chin down. “Let me take a shower first and wash off the flight.” He headed towards the bathroom.

“Don’t use all the hot water!” you yelled after him, grabbing the room service menu and flipping through it.

Tom’s head popped around a corner. He gave a brief salute. “Yes, ma’am.” he smirked before disappearing again.

You fell back onto the mattress. “Fuck me.” you hissed.

-

Two hours later, Tom lied on the bed, his curls still half wet, eating room service chocolate cake and watching the latest escapades of the Rose family. You stifled a yawn next to him. Tom paused the episode.

“Sorry, the jet lag is finally hitting me.” you yawned again. Tom turned off the TV and stood up, pulling his shirt off. Your eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?”

Tom stared at you, confused. “Getting ready for bed? I sleep in boxers.”

“Oh.” You squirmed under the covers.

Tom held out his hands. “Unless you are going to be uncomfortable—”

“NO!” you snapped back a bit too quick. “No. It’s fine. You are the one who has to work, you should be comfortable.” You flipped his side of the covers back. “Get in.”

Tom blushed, but slipped under the sheets just the same. You leaned over and kissed his cheek, ruffling his hair. His blush deepened. Tom turned onto his side to hide his face. “Night.”

“Night.” You snuggled under the covers and switched off the light before slipping into a deep sleep. Tom stared at the ceiling, too worked out to even consider sleeping.

-

Tom’s moans pulled you out of a restless sleep. The room was dark from the blackout curtains. You squinted to make out his form on the other side of the bed. He was on his stomach and grunting. It took several moments before you realized what Tom was doing. Your breath caught in your throat. You should have turned away, but you didn’t. Your friend, your crush, the starring role in all your sexual fantasies was grinding against the mattress next to you. Moaning.

“Please.” Tom whined in his sleep, hips rocking. “Please, ma’am, let me…”

You gasped, loud enough to disrupt Tom, who rolled onto his side. Whether or not he woke up was unclear. You rolled over in haste, not realizing how close to the edge you had scooted to stare. The loud thud of your body hitting the unyielding hotel room floor woke Tom for certain. He bolted from the bed and rushed to your side of the bed.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked, his face masked with worry, brow furrowed. He was unaware of the raging hard-on stretching against his boxers until it was too late. Tom prayed you hadn’t noticed.

You had, but were in too much shock to say anything. “Fine. I’m fine.” You brushed off his offered hand, scrambling to your feet. “Just a nightmare.”

Tom straightened himself up and twisted his body into an unnatural position to hide his clear arousal. Still deluded that you hadn’t noticed. “Must have been some nightmare.” Tom chuckled and his laugh disappeared into the dark night, leaving nothing but an awkward silence.

“It was something alright.” you retorted, slipping back underneath the covers. You punched the pillow back into shape. “I’m going to get some more sleep. You?”

Tom couldn’t go back to sleep now, next to you. Not in such a state. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming about before you hit the floor. The dream drifted out of his mind like tendrils of smoke, but considering his state, it must have been a sex dream.

“I’ll hit the bathroom first.” He hooked his thumb behind him. “Don’t wait up.” He joked before ducking away.

You settled in and feigned sleep until Tom returned, and the two of you drifted off.

-

The alarm rang too soon for Tom’s taste. He groaned, reaching out for his phone, hitting the snooze.

“Five more minutes.” he muttered into his pillow.

You stood up and slipped into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. When you emerged, Tom still laid asleep. His bare back exposed to the air. You marveled at the form of him, wondering how it would feel to run your hands along the planes and angles of Tom’s body. Your body heated at the thought of what you would or could do to him.

“You’re staring.” Tom’s voice cut through your daydream.

You jumped a bit. “Sorry.”

Tom sat up and smiled, ruffling his mussed ginger curls. “It’s okay. Just not used to the stares coming from you of all people.” He reached over and grabbed his shirt from last night, pulling it on.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy.” You slipped the last word and smiled as Tom blushed at the moniker. As you suspected he would. You stepped toe to toe with him, tilting your chin to see his face. “Now go take a shower while I order breakfast.”

“I love it when you boss me around.” Tom smiled, trying his best to keep his body from betraying his true feelings.

You curled up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “One of the many reasons we are best friends.” You smirked as Tom slid past you, smacking his butt.

He spun around in shock. “What has gotten into today?” The corners of his lips twitching into a smile.

You shrugged your shoulders. “Maybe I thought you needed to be punished.” Your eyes twinkled. “Have you been naughty?”

The blood drained from Tom’s face. Had you seen something, he panicked. “No.” he choked out, digging through his luggage to find clothes for the day and ducking into the shower.

You stared at the spot where Tom once stood, hands on your hips. “Liar.” And then went hunting for the room service menu to order breakfast for Tom and yourself.

-

Tom ate his entire plate of pancakes and bacon, along with not one but two cups of coffee.

“Are you planning on running a marathon today?” you questioned as you nibbled on your fruit, having finished up some eggs earlier.

Tom wiped his mouth. “I don’t know when I will get time to eat again. Low blood sugar is a common problem at cons.”

“Well, we can’t have you passing out, can we?” you giggled.

Tom stood up. “Are you going to head over with me today?”

You shook your head. “Nah. I thought I would lie out at the pool for a bit.”

Tom nodded back. “Just as well. I’m only over there in the morning. Meet you back here for lunch?”

“Text me when you head back?”

“Will do.” He kissed your forehead.

“Good boy.” There goes that blushing again. “Have fun.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Right.” He pulled on his pair of well worn grey boots, grabbed his phone, sunglasses and hotel key before leaving the room.

-

The weather was hot, but a light breeze kept you from overheating poolside. You brought a book along to read but were too distracted to focus on William Joyce. This morning had brought some answers, but more questions. Questions about your relationship with Tom. By the time he texted you saying he was 15 minutes away, you resolved to clear the air once and for all.

No one noticed how distracted Tom was that morning. The perks of working with strangers. Had Luke or even being Benedict been around, he would have to explain why he couldn’t remember people’s names and his sudden case of butterfingers. Something was going on with you. That was all Tom knew. That and the fact he was hopelessly in love with you. Sharing a bed last night tipped him over to the point of confessing his feelings, just to clear the air. But he chickened out.

“Tom!” you called out from the bathroom as you heard the door slam to the hotel room. “I need help.”

Tom rushed to the sound of your voice. He stopped in his tracks when he spied you standing in the bathroom wearing just your swimsuit, still damp from your swim. It hugged your curves and Tom swallowed hard.

“I can’t get the strap undone. Will you help me?” You glanced over your shoulder at him. Tom blinked several times, not answering. “Tom?” You barely contained your smile. “Did you hear me?”

“What?”

“My suit strap.” You gestured around your neck. “Untie it for me.”

“Sure.” He choked out. “I’ll just…” You backed up until you pressed your body against him. You wiggled your ass against his crotch. “You are a bit too close.” He commented as he struggled to keep his fingers from shaking.

You jumped forward. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it hard.”

Tom’s fingers stopped picking at the knot. “What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t mean to make it hard, you know, untying the knot.” Tom finished undoing the knot, letting the straps fall on your back. His hands lighted on your shoulders, hot from the time in sun. You turned to face him, holding your suit up with your arm. How he wished you would move your arm. “What did you think? I was flirting?” You quirked an eyebrow.

Tom fidgeted, hands twisting in front of him, rocking back on his heels. “Well… no… of course not… that’s… you’re… and we are…” he mumbled and fumbled, cheeks turning a deep pink.

“Because I was.” You brushed past him, allowing the suit to drop as you stepped out of Tom’s sight.

It took Tom a second to register what you said. He turned on his heel to catch you digging for some clothes and pushed you against the wall, his lips crashing against yours. Your fingers weaved into Tom’s hair and you pulled his head away.

“So…” Your chest heaved against Tom’s, your nipples grazing along the fabric of his shirt.

“I want you.” Tom breathed, leaning to kiss you again. You tugged him away.

“I want you too.” You pulled him to whisper in his ear. “I saw you last night humping the mattress, begging. Will you beg for me, Tom?”

Tom gulped. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” You smirked at Tom, whose eyes grew wider every second.

“Yes, ma’am?” He ended his sentence with a question mark.

“Good boy.” You pressed your lips onto his as Tom moaned into your mouth. Tom’s tongue explored your mouth hungrily. Your hands slipped down to squeeze his cock through his jeans. “Very good boy.” you muttered, pushing Tom off of you. You shimmied out of your suit and took a seat at the edge of the bed. “Strip for me.”

Tom furrowed his brow. You frowned. “I don’t enjoy repeating myself, Tom. Now strip.”

The speed in which Tom peeled off his clothes probably broke records. You giggled as he hopped on one foot, tugging at his boots. You raised a single eyebrow and licked your lips when Tom pushed his jeans and boxers to the ground. “See something you like?” Tom responded.

“Just thinking all the rumors are true.” You leaned back onto your elbows and beckoned Tom over. He crawled on top of you to kiss you again. You pulled him away by the back of his head, pushing him down your torso. “Let’s find out how talented that mouth is.”

Tom pushed your legs open with his broad shoulders. His beard tickling your thighs. Tom sucked on the delicate skin before ghosting his lips over yours, earning a hitch in your breath. You tugged his hair hard.

“Stop teasing.”

“Yes. ma’am.” He licked a fat stripe along your slit. You shuddered and sighed.

“Yes. That’s a good boy.”

The praise only spurred on Tom’s efforts. His nose nudged your clit. You bucked up into him. As Tom sucked and licked you, your orgasm near.

“Tom, I’m…”

Your nails dug into his scalp when he sucked hard. You came with a scream and gushed onto Tom’s face, who continued to eat you out. You pulled him up and spun the two of you so Tom laid flat on his back. You teased the tip of his cock along your slit.

“You tell me when you are close.” You kissed his lips, his beard glistening. He tasted of you.

Tom nodded against you. You lowered yourself onto his cock. Tom hissed and grabbed your hips. You pushed his hands away. Tom whined.

“This is not about you. This is about me using you for pleasure. I will decide whether or not you get to cum, understood?” You stared down at him.

Tom twitched inside of you. “Yes ma’am.” You rocked against him. Tom bit his lip.

“I want to hear you.” You continued to ride him, flattening your palms against his chest.

Soon you could sense Tom getting close. “I’m…” Tom panted. You stopped moving on him. You clenched around him. Tom groaned, his eyes closing and his hands fisting at his sides.

“Do you want to cum, Tom?” You mock pouted.

“Please…” You clenched his shaft again with your walls and wiggled a bit.

“Please, please, please let me cum. I want to cum. I need to cum.” Tom pleaded. His eyes wide as you moved so slow on him.

You reached down to find your clit and rubbed it with your fingers. Your hips rocked back and forth frantically. You reached up with your other hand and squeezed your boob. You came with a gasp, squeezing tight around Tom.

“Come for me.” You hissed.

Tom bucked into you twice before spilling into you. You collapsed against Tom’s chest. He panted, his chest hair tickling your face. His hands reached up to draw swirls onto your bare back, goosebumps popping up. You rolled off of him to the side. Grabbing his chin and turning his head, you kissed his lips with a tender touch.

“I think we need to talk.” you commented with a smile.

Tom’s eyes fluttered open. “That is an understatement.”

The two of you giggled in each other’s arms.

[tealquacks]

They Share a Kitchen 3: Grocery Gathering

Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317644/chapters/58625389

@alexalexisalexej

I’m sorry this took so long, but I hope y’all enjoy!

It had been a little over a week since Remus made the croissants, and the daily routines still hadn’t quite recovered. At breakfast, Virgil showed up ten minutes later than usual, and stood nervously in the doorway, checking to make sure nobody unexpected would be in the kitchen. Roman never came to visit the kitchen, but Patton brought him meals three times a day— 9:30 am, 1:20 pm, and 5:50 pm. Virgil would occasionally join him. 

Patton and Janus still met for tea every single day, but they never stayed in the kitchen anymore. Patton would ask Janus to take walks with him. They’d stroll through Roman’s side of the imagination, then drink their tea and talk. The only reason Logan knew this was because Patton brought it up at dinner one night. Virgil left shortly after. 

The only people who remained unaffected were Remus and him. They kept to their usual schedules. Except now Logan found himself staying up late to talk to Remus while he cooked. He had yet to make paella— something about wanting to save it for a special occasion.

Every day felt like a special occasion. Logan couldn’t help but stare at the charts he had made, one pre-Remus, and one post-Remus. Color coded and organized. Pristine.

“It’s surprising,” Logan had said at breakfast that morning, eating some waffles Patton had made, “that Remus spending one day in the kitchen threw all of our schedules into chaos.”

Virgil glared at him silently. Patton stared down blankly at his waffles.

“I don’t like him,” Patton murmured.

“You seem to get along with Deceit just fine,” Virgil spat, lip twitching in silent anger. Patton sighed.

“His name is Janus, Virgil. Be polite.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because it’s rude to call him Deceit— Logan, how would you feel if we only called you Logic?”

Logan sat straight. If he said he didn’t care, that would be mostly honest. If he said he did care, that would make it seem he had some sort of emotional attachment to his name. He swallowed.

“I don’t care either way. However, Janus now seems to prefer we address him by his real name. Besides, deceit is not his only function.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, staring angrily down at his plate of waffles. That was the end of the conversation at the breakfast table. Logan ate in silence, slowly sipping water out of a glass with a lemon on the rim. 

Now, he sat at his desk. The clock said it was 2:28 pm. The kitchen would be perfectly empty, since Virgil and Patton no longer had their little talks in the kitchen. Logan didn’t know where they went, and he didn’t care to ask. Of course he worried about them, but he didn’t think where they talked mattered so much. He set down his pen, thinking of when Roman had run from the kitchen in horror, Remus doing nothing but sitting at the table.

Suddenly, someone knocked at his door. Logan stood from his comfortable office chair, and walked to the door. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his hair down before calmly opening it. That calm facade almost broke when he saw Remus on the other side, wearing a painfully bright yellow bucket hat, a fishnet shirt, and a green pair of cargo shorts. He had a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hello, Remus.”

“You remember how you said I should make paella? Well I thought real long and hard and I thought that you could not only help me with the cooking but you could also help me with gathering the shit that goes in it! Like clams and mussels. One recipe says squid but I’ve honestly never cooked with squid and I’m not interested in fucking with that.”

Logan blinked, slowly trying to take in the information, and the sight of Remus before him. Remus never came to his room. Nobody did. It seemed like there had been an unspoken rule made, that he was never to be interrupted. Now the matter at hand.

“You want me to accompany you in collecting the ingredients?”

Remus nodded violently, causing the bright hat to flop off his head. He picked it up, and put it back on. Logan blinked.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And this involves going under the water?”

“No shit Sherlock! That’s where the mussels are! Unless you count these guns—“ Remus flexed his arms, a stunning smile on his face. Logan looked at the bag he carried, then to the yellow hat on his head.

“I think it would be best if you changed into something more… sensible.”

Remus wagged his brows, leaning up against the doorway.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m wearing a speedo under these shorts.”

“I meant the hat. It will make you very, very visible.”

“It’s okay,” Remus rebutted, “I think fish are colorblind. Maybe. Do you know?”

Logan gnawed on the inside of his lip. He didn’t know. He couldn’t say so, that would be seen as weakness. But Remus was… different, somehow, uncaring about strength and weakness. He took a slow, deep breath.

“I honestly don’t know,” Logan responded, “most fish only see two colors, but I’m unsure how many can see yellow. However, if your plans are to go underwater, it would be wise to forgo the hat.”

Remus shrugged, took off his hat, and tossed it into Logan’s room. It landed on the neat sheets of his bed.

“We won’t be in the water the whole time,” Remus said, “we still have to get other things? Like, erm, I don’t have the recipe on me but we’re almost out of apples, and honey— honey will be a bitch to get but you know what I have?”

Logan furrowed his brows, staring at the bag.

“A beekeeping suit, a smoker, and an apiary of some sort?”

“Nope! Just my morning star and overwhelming hubris!”

Logan didn't know what he’d expected. Of course Remus wouldn’t go about getting honey in any sort of logical way. 

“There are other things we will need.”

“You have a special request?”

Logan shook his head.

“I don’t. But paella requires saffron,” Logan explained. “Saffron is derived from the stigma of Crocus sativus.”

“Huh? What’s uh….” Remus trailed off, snapping his fingers a few times. “What’s the common name of that?”

“They are also known as autumn crocus, or saffron crocus. Do you know where these flowers grow?”

Remus raised his eyebrows, tapping his fingers to one another— thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to pinkie. 

“Lemme think… I have a spice garden in my side, but I didn’t know that saffron came from a fucking flower! But I do have a bit of land I could… flowers. Goddamn! Saffron from flowers! That’s pretty cool! I have to ask— how did people think of putting it on shit?”

Logan suppressed a smile as Remus flapped one of his hands a little. It felt nice, being asked harmless questions, not being interrupted. Even then, he couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop, for Remus to tell him to shut up. He took a deep breath.

“It is commonly believed that saffron originated in Greece, however most of it is grown in Iran, I believe.” He paused, giving Remus ample time to say something. Instead, Remus waved his hand at him.

“Well? Go on.” 

Logan shifted from foot to foot.

“Saffron is incredibly expensive due to the fact that one flower only produces three strands when it blooms, and the flowers only bloom for one week each year. Saffron has been used and cultivated by humans for more than three thousand and five hundred years, and has been used not only as a seasoning, but also as a dye, fragrance, and medicine.”

Remus grinned, eyebrows raised. 

“Cocaine used to be used as a medicine! Freud diagnosed it to some of his patients for depression, I think! Did you know that cocaine, like meth, can cause people to hallucinate vermin crawling under their skin? And they’ll scratch at their skins to get them out!”

“Ah, yes, delusional parasitosis, also called formication.”

“Fornication?”

Logan shook his head.

“I doubt formication and fornication could be mistaken for one another, unless ones idea of fornication is subdermal penetration.”

“Oh, talk dirty to me!” Remus cried, rolling his shoulders. Logan couldn’t stop his lips from twitching up into a small smile, but turned his expression back to a straight face as quickly as he could. 

“So what are you looking to retrieve?” Logan asked. Remus reached into one of the many pockets of his cargo shorts, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He dramatically unfolded it.

“Apples, honey, saffron, I guess, and mussels and clams and whatever else we may find. So is that a yes?”

Logan paused for a moment. He’d been to Roman’s side of the imagination, and the land was bright and beautiful, filled with fantastical creatures and lush landscapes. However, Remus was the opposite of Roman, or at least the bits of creativity that Thomas considered unpleasant enough to purge from his consciousness. So what did that include? The horrifying, the macabre, and the explicit. Dicks, drugs, and the disturbing. None of it could hurt him. And judging by the fact Remus sought him out to come with him, he wouldn’t even be threatened. As long as he was cautious, he would remain unharmed during their journey. That was reasonable enough to assume.

 But what about the others? He would be expected back at dinner, which was at five pm. That would only give him two and a half hours with Remus, and time seemed to go much faster while around him, probably something to do with how Remus’ nature distorted reality around him, that reality including the way one would perceive time passing. Logan looked into his room. If he left the door closed, the others wouldn’t bother him. Patton would leave dinner outside of his door, he’d done it before, many times, but he wouldn’t come in. So he could miss dinner. If they asked questions, he could say he was busy. And they’d believe him.

Logan stared at the yellow bucket hat, garish and blinding on top of his sheets. He swallowed.

“Yes, I will accompany you.”

Remus flapped his hands expressively, smiling like a million and a half suns. He hopped from foot to foot, then did a little spin. 

“Fuck yeah! I’ll let you get changed, meet me in the kitchen as soon as possible! It’ll be so much fun!”

Just as Logan opened his mouth to tell Remus he would be wearing his usual clothing, Remus sprinted away. He let out a deep sigh. He wore his usual outfit— black dress pants, a black polo, indigo tie, dress shoes. Comfortable and professional. If he were to open his closet, there would be exact clones of the exact same outfit. Of course there was always the clothing he wore on Halloween, but a bulky, velveteen coat would be even less practical. The Sherlock costume would be out of the question, and he’d long since gotten rid of his onesie. 

So that left him in his typical outfit. However, the tie around his throat could possibly get caught and damaged. Logan touched his striped indigo tie, and slowly loosened it. Halfway through doing so, he realized he would look like an absolute fool without his tie. Even to Remus. Logan pulled the tie tight, so tight it almost choked him, and walked out of his room, slowly shutting the door behind him.

Logan silently crept through the hallway then down the stairs, making sure to skip the one squeaky step. If Virgil caught him with Remus, willingly spending time with him… well, he didn’t know how he would react. Virgil hated him, saw him as a nuisance, and there certainly was some history between the two of them. He had no clue what, despite the fact Virgil had once been a ‘dark’ side. 

He stepped into the kitchen. Remus sat on the table, kicking his legs back and forth. Somehow, even wearing those ridiculous clothes, he looked like he belonged in the kitchen. Logan pushed his glasses up. Remus smiled at him, hopping off of the table and grabbing his arm in a tight grip. His hands felt burning hot.

“Are you ready to go?”

Was he? If the others—

“—Yes, I am.”

Remus tugged on his arm, and they both sunk down into the white tile of the kitchen floor.

A gust of warm, sweet air hit him in the face. Logan gasped at the sensation, staggering backwards. He tripped on a stone, and landed on his ass in tall grass. All around them grew wildflowers and grass, and the clouds gently danced in the sky. The flowers swayed in the wind, blossoms of all hues growing around them. Truly, a beautiful landscape. Strange.

“Is this your side of the imagination?” Logan asked, ignoring Remus’ offered hand in favor of standing up by himself. 

“Yup! Wild and uncivilized. I had an idea for a monster— it’s an intelligent being that’s made of fungi that connects to the roots of plants, like how a brain makes neuron paths! Earth brain! We’re currently standing upon the brain of the smartest being in the imagination! Well, except for you, now that you’re here.”

Logan nervously looked down at his feet, face flushed. He really didn’t want to ask what the thing looked like, but his curiosity begged him to. His ego, meanwhile, preened at the small praise.

“Does it have a body?” Logan asked, “does it need to feed?”

“Yes to both questions!” Remus proclaimed, “The body is like. Laying down sort of? It’s like a big, smart pancake! And it eats! Don’t worry, it won’t eat us. Or any other side. Or cows since it’s lactose intolerant. But it won’t eat any sentient beings, like us sides! Except for Roman and his creations of course.”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

“Why only him?”

Remus twirled around, then pointed off into the distance. Logan looked to where he was pointing, and there in the horizon he spotted a massive palace, one he immediately recognized as belonging to Roman.. 

Remus opened his mouth, then suddenly shut it, a manic smile splitting his face. 

“Look, here comes a unicorn! Oh, you’ll love this.”

And just as Remus had said, a white stallion with a gleaming horn pranced into the field of flowers. It wandered forward, then bent down and started to graze. As it opened its mouth to take a bite, the plants suddenly burst to life, wrapping around the unicorn. It fought and kicked as the thick grass dragged it to the ground— no, into the ground, as if the prairie earth had turned into quicksand. The unicorn whinnied and thrashed, until it was pulled fully under the ground, horn disappearing in the thick foliage. 

“It absorbs its prey, like a protist.” Logan said breathlessly. If he could feel, he wouldn’t know if he felt shocked or impressed. 

“Yeah! This land, in like a mile wide stripe, is the border between my land and Roman’s. And I don’t want anything to do with his shit. So anything that comes over here gets chomped up by Bartholomew!”

“Bartholomew?” Logan asked.

Remus crouched, patting the ground. He flopped onto his front, pressing a little kiss to the earth.

“It goes by Bart for short. And don’t worry, we had a conversation and it’s fine with it/its pronouns. Anyways what should we get first?”

Logan stared at the earth, shifting from foot to foot. Thousands of questions were bubbling in his head, but Remus had brought him to gather ingredients, not to ask questions. 

“Apples,” he croaked out. Remus leapt to his feet, looking him in the eye.

“I said it won’t absorb you. It only eats Roman and Roman’s shit. And even if you did get eaten, you’d be able to sink out. You’re safe.”

Logan inhaled slowly, then let out a deep breath. He didn’t care if he was safe. He wanted to ask how Bartholomew dissolved its prey, what acid it used to break down prey, he wanted to ask about the ph of the soil—

“Let’s go get the apples,” Logan insisted.

Remus nodded.

“The orchard is like, ten miles away? I don’t know but I can teleport us. Will it make you puke? Since Jannie told me that when he and Patton were in the imagination they saw Roman and Roman teleported them away from him and then Patton puked his guts up!”

“I don’t puke,” Logan explained, “I’m not human, and I can’t pretend to be.”

“You are a part of a human. Anyways, let’s go!”

Remus grabbed his arm, and the world shifted around them, the ground fell out from under his feet— for an instant, he felt like he was flying and falling all at the same time.

Then the ground appeared again. Logan stumbled. The sun was filtered through the branches of tall trees, taller than any apple tree he’d seen. The ground felt hard, and thorny bushes grew between each massive tree. Strangely enough, even though the air felt warm, the branches had no leaves, as if winter was coming. Logan looked down at his feet. The earth was covered in a layer of frost. He crouched down and touched it, and his fingers brushed coarse weeds and warm frost.

“This is fascinating,” Logan said. He scooped a little bit of frost into his hand. It didn’t melt. 

“How so?”

“Where do I start? The trees— they’re far too tall to be apple trees, yet they still bear fruit. And they have no leaves, which raises the question of how they perform photosynthesis. Not only that but the ground is covered in frost, and the frost is warm. The frost is warm, but it also doesn’t melt in my touch. Truly fascinating.”

Remus flicked his wrist, and a red apple the size of a fist fell into his palm.

“I like the way that frost looks, but I fucking hate the cold! So I made this place! And the branches are high so I can climb them and see out above the entirety of the land! But if you take issue with the height of the trees…”

Remus took a bite of the apple. He stomped his foot. Suddenly, one of the trees shrank, smaller and smaller, until it was the size of an actual apple tree. Ripe, beautiful apples hung off the branches.

“There,” Remus said, “that should be low enough for you to reach.”

“I’m not that much shorter than you,” Logan said, “do you have something to keep the apples in?”

Remus reached into the bag, and pulled out a wicker basket. Logan almost asked how he managed to do that, but realized it would be pointless. This was Remus’ land, it ran by his rules.

“I have a question!” Remus proclaimed.

“Go ahead,” Logan said, silently glad Remus had gone back to asking questions.

“Why are you so touchy about shapeshifting? Like. You never do it. I mean when the cameras aren’t rolling. You look exactly like Thomas and you never change it up!”

Logan froze. He pulled an apple from one of the branches and set it carefully in the basket.

“Patton is emotionally unstable. Virgil is a ticking time bomb. Roman tends to prioritize fantastical ideals over reality. Janus is level headed, but Thomas only just accepted him. And I’m unsure if he’ll ever accept you.”

Remus took another big bite of the apple.

“And what does this have to do with you not shapeshifting?”

Logan sighed.

“Thomas needs someone to be steady. Someone for him to rely on and trust no matter what the situation is. I don’t want to lose his trust.”

Remus giggled. Logan picked another apple.

“He trusts Patton even when he’s a fucking puppet. It’s not about trust, is it?”

Logan set the apple down in his basket.

“How many of these do we need?”

“Fuck if I know, fill the basket. But if it’s not about trust, then what is it about?”

Logan picked an apple, staring at the deep red color. He rubbed it against his polo, and he could see his reflection.

“Thomas hasn’t been listening to me as much as he should. I’m hoping that if I maintain the same appearance as him, he’ll be more inclined to listen to what I have to say.”

Logan stared at the apple. He shouldn’t be here. If the others found out he’d spent so much time with Remus, then what would they think of him? Would they consider him a friend anymore? That plus the fact he was picking apples, something they didn’t even need to do because they could be summoned with the snap of a finger. He didn’t need to eat. Logan set the apple in his basket.

Remus hummed. He flicked his wrist again, and apples began to rain from the sky. They struck the ground hard enough to bruise, and the noise they made was thunderous.

“Do you think the apple rain helps or diminishes the experience of apple picking?”

Logan stared up at the sky— cloudy, with a chance of apples.

“I don’t think catching apples in a basket counts as picking.”

“But it does count as fun!” Remus insisted.

“It’s not very effective.”

“Really now? Watch this!”

Remus pulled another wicker basket from the bag, and held it above his head. One, two, three apples hit the basket hard. The fourth made a sickening crunch as it hit the basket, and Logan flinched.

“What was that?”

“Some of the apples have bones!”

Logan furrowed his brows, looking at Remus. Another apple fell into his basket, thankfully lacking the crunching.

“An odd feature for an apple to have. What are the purpose of the bones? Structural stability? Do the bones assist in reproduction?”

“None of that!” Remus responded, “I just like the crunch! And Jannie likes the extra calcium!”

Logan nodded. Somehow, the fact that nothing made sense was logical. This was Remus’ land, it obeyed him. He plucked another apple from the tree.

“You know, Logan,” Remus said after a moment,  basket held over his head, “I think you’re Eve.”

Logan raised his eyebrow.

“And what do you mean by that?”

Remus shrugged. Another apple landed in the basket with a crunch.

“Well, you see, Eve ate the apple from the forbidden tree, because she wanted to know the difference between good and evil, she wanted to see like god. In all honesty, I don’t think she was tricked. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she was getting into. She was just scared to be held liable. She was scared of the judgement.”

Logan plucked another apple from the tree. He had to stand on his toes to reach it. What Remus was saying made no sense. If God had dropped him in the garden and told him to not eat the apple, he would’ve followed the rules. And he certainly feared no judgement. Certainly.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t? So you would have rather stayed ignorant? Unharmed by what you don’t know?”

Logan froze. Remus continued talking.

“I remember Janus told me you really went off at him when he suggested that ignorance is bliss. So, I think you’re just like Eve. I mean, would you give up peace for knowledge?”

Logan plucked another apple. Of course he would. What he wanted more than anything was a life full of books and reading, knowing everything there was to know. Being an academic.

“That isn’t my choice to make. Thomas has chosen his path in life.”

“But what if it was your choice? Then what would you do?”

Logan picked another apple. The basket was close to full.

“I would choose knowledge. I have told you what I would do as a human, I would pursue knowledge above all. I wouldn’t be able to stop my pursuit. I would never be satisfied.”

Remus snapped his fingers, and the apple rain stopped as suddenly as it started.

“Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. Proverbs 1, verse 20.  You’d never be able to stop learning once you started. Which I think is pretty cool!” Remus looked him dead in the eye, lowering his basket from his head. “You’re a passionate guy, Lo. Show it. I liked hearing you talk about saffron. And if they won’t listen? Then—“

“Then make them listen. Yes. You said it before.” Logan sighed. “I must admit, I don’t think I would be able to. Once they see me as a joke, it’s over. I’m only listened to when I’m being used to counter something that inhibits Virgil and Patton. For example, when you and Janus first appeared. I… I think we have enough apples.”

Remus took his basket, full of apples, and shoved it into the bag. Logan gave him his basket, and watched Remus make it disappear.

“If they won’t listen to you just because they see you act improperly, because they see you smile and feel happy, then they’re a bunch of hypocrites that I want to punt into the fucking sun.”

Logan took a deep breath in. A tiny little voice inside of him screamed to lash out, punch a tree in anger and frustration and pain, but that would be illogical. The apples had been picked. That was all. Now saffron, or honey, or whatever Remus would drag him to next. Then he’d be back in his room, asleep in his chair, then in the morning—

“I honestly don’t know why you care so much,” Remus said.

Logan exhaled.

“They’re all I have.”

Remus set a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, you’re have me now, too. Let’s go get the saffron!”

The earth suddenly fell out from under his feet. Logan couldn’t help the surprised yelp that escaped his mouth, hand flying out to grab Remus’ arm. Then as quickly as it disappeared, the earth came back, and his feet hit the ground. He yanked his hand away from Remus, brushing invisible dust off of the front of his shirt. 

They had appeared in a desert. The sun beat down bright and strong, no clouds in the sky to inhibit it. His feet sank into the sand. A harsh wind kicked up the sand, and it flew around in a flurry like a blizzard. Logan gazed at the horizon. Nothing for miles and miles, just sand, low and level.

“Is this where you find saffron?” Logan asked. Remus crossed his arms.

“You should know better than anyone that flowers can’t grow in a desert! And besides, I just found out saffron came from flowers. So I have to grow them!”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

“Why bring us to a desert then?”

Remus smiled.

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Remus turned away from him. He raised his hands out, like he was conducting a band. He slowly breathed in. Logan felt the sand under his feet shift, pull together, and shake. Logan’s eyes went wide.

“What’re you—“

Remus turned back to Logan, eyes filled with fire.

“What is the best condition for crocuses, Logan?”

Logan swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“Saffron crocuses bloom in early to mid fall, and prefer sandy loam and lots of sunshine. They prefer soil with good drainage, as well as a pH range of 6.0 to 7.0. Crocus grow best in hardiness zones 5 through 8, not too hot, but not too cold either.”

A cool, fall breeze ruffled Remus’ hair and the fishnet shirt he wore. Logan raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t tell the temperature, but it certainly had gotten cooler.

“What is sandy loam?” Remus asked, knocking Logan’s train of thought off the tracks.

Logan paused for a moment. Remus really wanted to know. But why? The imagination didn’t follow the laws of physics or nature, why would he want to know? He said he liked hearing him talk. But did he?

“Sandy loam is soil that, while containing silt and clay, has primarily sand in it. It is a good soil for gardening because of its draining abilities… Does it matter?”

Remus tilted his head.

“Well, if you were to be making a big ol’ crocus field, you’d care about the soil! Everything about it! So since it matters to you…”

Remus smiled brightly, and grabbed Logan’s arm, tugging him. Logan let himself be pulled, finding himself right in front of Remus, stumbling as the ground shifted under his feet. Bright sand melded together and changed, turning into dark, rich earth. Logan knelt, scooping a little bit into his hand. Sandy loam. 

The soil in his hand moved, like a miniature earthquake. A small, green sprout rose from the dirt, reaching towards the sun. Delicate green leaves grew, and so did a small, purple bud. It opened. Vibrant amethyst petals showed themselves to him, but so did three red stigma. Saffron.

“My god,” Logan said, “that was amazing!”

Remus snorted out a laugh.

“What, you've never seen Roman do something like that?”

Logan shook his head. Roman preferred to run his side of the imagination like an actual human kingdom, planting saplings and waiting patiently for them to grow. Sometimes, he’d see Roman in the wheat fields, harvesting wheat with a large iron scythe, just how a human would do. He let everything take its time, and grow at its own pace. 

“Really?” Remus crowed. “Well then— watch this!”

Remus cackled, and snapped his fingers.

The ground shifted under Logan’s knees, and hundreds of little green sprouts poked out from the dark earth, basking in the gentle sunlight. Glorious purple buds opened to reveal perfect crocuses, each with three sprigs of saffron inside. Logan gazed out to the horizon. The desert had turned to a field of purple, as grand and never ending as a sunset.

Logan’s jaw dropped open in shock. For miles and miles, nothing but crocus…

“Amazing,” Logan whispered, “absolutely amazing.”

With a thud, Remus sat down next to him. He leaned forward, and tore one of the crocuses from the ground, holding it up to Logan. Then, the petals shuddered, as if blown by an invisible wind, merging and shifting until they had formed a purple frog.

“Look,” Remus exclaimed, “it’s a croak-us!”

Logan couldn’t help but snort with laughter, covering his mouth quickly. His eyes went wide. Remus didn’t seem to have any intention of poking fun at him for laughing, but it was better safe than sorry. Though he couldn’t help but think of Remus, sat at the kitchen table in nothing but an apron, saying that he’d beaten him fair and square, and could do so again. Logan lowered his hand from his mouth, chuckling quietly. It was a pretty funny pun.

"Yes," Logan opened his mouth, closed it, then exhaled. "'It's quite ribbit-ing." 

Logan looked up, meeting Remus’ eyes. There was no judgement, no smugness. Remus looked absolutely fucking delighted, a manic glint in his eyes.

"You've toad the line!” Remus cackled. Logan laughed quietly, staring right at the little frog in the flower, trying to think of another frog pun. His brows furrowed in thought. 

"Did you know that in South America, there's a species of big frog with enough poison to kill two thousand men?” Remus said, interrupting Logan’s train of a thought. 

"I don't believe that's true. The golden dart frog grows only up to five millimeters, as opposed to the goliath frog, which can grow up to three-hundred and twenty, and weigh just over four pounds."

“Damn, you know a lot about frogs,” Remus said, “it’s pretty cool!”

“I researched them extensively after Patton turned into one, just in case another problem arose.” 

They stared at each other, much too long to be considered normal. Remus's lips twitched. The silence grated on Logan’s nerves. Had he said something wrong? 

“Would you like to play a word association game?” Logan nervously asked.

"Part two: Electric Boogaloo!" Remus exclaimed, startling the croak-us enough to hop into the fields of its former kin.

He brought his hand down onto Logan's in a low five, purple petals smeared onto his palm. Remus was still grinning, parts of his moustache standing on end, like he'd been shocked. Electric Boogaloo. Remus sat, cross-legged in the new soil so they were face to face. Logan brushed against him, and felt the burn of a spark go out on his leg. Electric Boogaloo, again.

"Vampire,” Remus said.

Logan’s mind jumped to when Virgil had dressed as a vampire for halloween.

"Halloween."

“Black?”

"Orange."

"Bok choy!” Remus chirped.

Logan paused. What led to that connection? Remus shrugged.

"Plant,” Logan said, brushing off his previous confusion.

"Maple.”

"Canada.”

"Pancakes."

"Syrup."

"HONEY!"

Remus snapped, loud as a cracking whip. Logan watched him shake a freshly printed page he clutched in his hand, peering at it intensely. 

“It says on our list that we need honey!”

Logan looked back out at the field of crocuses. Every single one of them had three sprigs of saffron inside, red and beautiful. He could smell it, the aroma beautiful and heavy. 

“We have to harvest the saffron first, for the paella. How much will we need for the recipe, Remus?”

Remus sighed.

“Harvesting saffron ourselves sounds like a big waste of time. Don’t you think?”

Logan brushed his fingers on the warm, rich soil. He imagined Remus and him in the field of saffron, carefully plucking saffron from the flowers, putting the delicate threads in jars to be dried later. Then he could ask all the questions in the world about the soil, the saffron. He could spend hours talking to Remus about everything he wanted to. He wanted to say so much. And yet his mouth wouldn’t obey him. Remus wouldn’t tell him to shut up, so what was stopping him? Nothing was stopping him.

“Yes,” Logan said, “it would take up a good deal of time. But honey won’t take that long, will it?”

“I don’t even need honey,” Remus admitted, “I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you without any of the others popping in or having to wait until like five am. You’re the functional one, you gotta get some sleep.”

Logan’s eyebrows shot up. Oh. Remus’ words slowly went through his head. His heart did a backflip— even though that certainly was anatomically impossible— and his lungs stopped taking in air.

“Yeah,” Logan said, voice quiet, “I do. I mean— uh. Spending time with you is much better than laying unconscious for eight hours.”

“As if you get eight hours of sleep,” Remus said, a bright smile plastered on his face.

“So. We don’t need honey?”

“We still need mussels.”

“Mussels, yeah,” Logan said, breathless, standing up, “lead the way.”

“What about the saffron?” Remus said, raising an eyebrow. He stood.

“...Well. We can always come back for that some other time.”

Remus nodded, a bright smile plastered on his face.

“Yeah, some other time. Well then. Off we go!”

Remus grabbed Logan’s arm, and the world fell away from them. Logan closed his eyes. 

Waves crashed gently. He could hear them, and feel a cold sea breeze blow on his skin, ruffling his hair. He slowly opened his eyes. Apparently, night had fallen while his eyes were shut, and moonlight bathed everything in a pearly pale light. The air smelled like salt. Both of his feet were solidly on a wooden dock. Remus’ hand still felt warm on his arm.

“How long did that take?” Logan asked. The sun had still been up when they left.

“It’s always night here,” Remus explained, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I like it better that way. Look at the beach and you’ll see why.”

Logan turned his head. The moon shone gently on the black sand beach, but more impressive were the waves— each foaming, rushing wave carried with it an ethereal teal glow, like all the stars in the sky were gently ebbing with every wave. Logan stared at the water, eyes wide. 

“The waves glow like that because of an algal bloom, right? And when the water moves it causes the algae to glow. It is absolutely wonderful, Remus.”

Remus smiled, running his hand through his hair, almost as if he was shy.

“Thanks, this place is one of the first places I’ve ever made, and the first one I felt satisfied with. The rest of this place I like to keep constantly changing, but not here.”

Remus walked to the end of the dock. He calmly set his bag down, then yanked off his fishnet top, holding it in his hand. Logan watched his hands undo the button of his shorts, then watched Remus toss his shorts onto the dock, revealing the bright green speedo he wore, leaving nothing up to the imagination. Remus raised his arms out like Christ on the cross, looking up at the full moon. Then he tilted backwards, gracefully falling off the dock, and landing in the water with a loud splash.

Logan slowly walked to the end of the dock. He knelt, knees pressed against wet wood. Even through the glowing waves and the dark water he could see Remus’ back, his legs, pale skin disappearing quickly underwater. 

Logan’s hands clasped the indigo fabric of his tie. Then they drifted down. He sat down, cross legged, staring down at the water. Slowly, he took one shoe off, setting it carefully behind him. Then the other. He pulled off his socks and placed them in his shoes. Then his pants, leaving him in boxers, his shirt, and his tie. He took off his glasses.

His hands clasped his tie again. He gazed at the water, dark as the night around him except for the beautiful waves and the occasional glimpse of Remus’ skin. Then he raised his head, staring out into the distance. He could see for miles. Empty, dark ocean, with no land in sight. Slowly, he loosened the knot. His hands shook. 

Remus wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care if he took off his tie. He wouldn’t see him as less. He would see him as Logic, as Logan. Nothing less. 

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of cold, salty air. pulled off his tie, setting it with the rest of his clothing. Before he could lose his nerve he yanked his shirt off, threw it haphazardly in the pile of clothing, and ran to the end of the dock. He jumped. Time seemed to slow as he rushed through the air, flying to the water—

He landed with a loud, graceless splash. The water around him lit up like fireworks. Surprisingly, the water felt warm compared to the bite of the wind. Logan couldn’t tell where Remus was, he just knew he was underwater with him now. Logan kicked and paddled until he reached the surface, gasping for breath. A sharp laugh escaped him. His heart pounded in his chest— he could feel it beating, even though he knew he didn’t need one to function. The waves rushed over him, bright as all the stars. 

Logan treaded water in place, then let himself tilt back, until he floated on his back. Waves gently rocked him, and he let them. What had he been so scared of? He laughed again, much quieter, listening to the waves rush to shore. 

Next to him, he heard Remus surface, taking a deep breath.

“You good?” Remus asked. Logan turned his head a little, looking at Remus. His hair was soaked, plastered to his forehead.

“Perfectly fine,” Logan responded, “and you?”

Remus didn’t answer, just smiled and sunk into the water. The wind blew cold over his skin, sending a shudder up his spine. Remus had to be swimming under him, collecting the mussels he’d use for the paella. Logan couldn’t help but wait for the time they’d be able to spend in the kitchen, knees bumping, or the time they’d spend collecting saffron, the sun shining on violet flowers in a golden gleam. 

Logan breathed out slowly. There was something with Remus that made all his thoughts become portraits. Cohesive, yes, but coated in a loveliness that never used to be there. It might have to do with the imagination. It might not. 

The waves beneath him swelled, then gently ebbed out. Remus surfaced again, treading water as easily as breathing. He’d changed his fishnet top into a net, which was full of mussels and what looked like clams, maybe? Logan couldn’t tell. 

Remus gingerly grabbed Logan’s arm. The waves under them swelled. 

“Let’s go back up onto the dock,” Remus whispered.

Logan nodded. Within the blink of the eye, they both appeared on the dock, both of them soaking wet. Remus shook his head like a dog, water flying everywhere. Logan raised his hand to keep the water from hitting him, even though he was already absolutely soaked. Remus set the bag of shellfish on the dock with a clatter. 

He calmly took one out of the net, and Logan realized they were oysters, not clams. Remus grabbed his bag, unzipping one of the pockets and pulling out a knife. He held the oyster carefully, curved side flat against his palm, and wiggled his knife into the hinge between the shells. Remus’ hands were surprisingly steady, even as the knife slipped between the shells and the oyster popped open. He scraped the knife against the inside of the shell, freeing up the meat, then knocked the oyster back like a shot.

Silently, he offered Logan the knife. Their fingers brushed as Logan took the hilt of the knife, grabbing an oyster from the net. He mimicked Remus’ movements, trying to slip the knife between the two shells. Remus chuckled, and grabbed the hand that held the knife. 

“You have to press harder,” he said, “you can’t finesse your way into the shell, you have to put some oomf behind it. If you don’t, it’ll never ever open up.”

Logan swallowed. He felt oddly lightheaded as Remus guided the knife between the shells of the oyster, helping him push the knife into the space between the shell, easing the hinges apart with the flat of the blade. The shell slipped into the cup of his fingers, just so, supported by the weight of Remus's hands over his, thumb pushing against his, twisting the hinge open with a pop.

"See?" Remus was grinning, that ever-present expression of glee, and Logan tore his eyes from it to the movement of hands again, guiding the knife under the oyster to lift the flat shell off. 

"These would be good for the garden," Logan blurted out. Remus looked up, just as attentive as he'd always been, and the words caught in his throat for a second. "For- for the soil, oyster shells, when ground into powder, have been shown to improve soil pH and nutrient status, strengthening cell walls due to an increase in calcium, overall resulting in healthier produce.”

Remus tilted his head. Logan’s face flushed.

“...I know you employ an extraordinary method of growing and cultivating, and therefore have no need for this knowledge, but tossing them aside or simply letting them disappear seemed.. unnecessary."

"I think you need to stop worrying about what I need to know, and start asking what else I'd want to hear,” Remus said with a grin, “But it is flattering that you think it's extraordinary. Now why don’t you try the oyster?”

Logan stared at the meat of the oyster.

“I just… drink it?”

“Like a shot, yeah.”

Logan slowly brought the oyster to his mouth. Slowly, he tilted his head back, opening his mouth.

The taste made his eyes go wide. The meat of the oyster was plump against his tongue, but it tasted like coppery brine. He swallowed it without chewing, since he hadn’t noticed Remus’ jaw moving. The coppery taste lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh, ocean air.

“Why don’t you stay here?” Remus suddenly asked. Logan’s eyes shot wide open. He had another oyster in his hands, wriggling his knife between the shells.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Remus looked down at the oyster, face surprisingly blank and unreadable.

“You spend all day in your room except for when you come out and cook with me. I have a feeling that I almost wasn’t able to get you out of your room today. So why don’t you just stay here? I can make you a castle or a cottage for you to study in, and you won’t have to worry about the others bothering you. And you’ll be able to come here whenever you want. So what do you say. Will you stay?”

Logan stared down at his hands. He could. He could say yes, and watch Remus make him a place to stay, a place that was truly his. No worries of anyone walking in and seeing him disheveled, just himself and Remus.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say yes. I’m needed with the rest of the sides, and Virgil may see my leaving as betrayal, or a sign of untrustworthiness. I need to keep them on my side. I need them to trust me, to listen to me.”

Remus still was fixated on the oyster. The knife slipped between the two shells, and it popped open. Remus’ brows rose.

“I still think you’d enjoy it here more than you would crammed in your little room all the time. And I don’t know how to tell you in a way that’ll make you listen, but they need you more than you think they do. You are all of Thomas’ cleverness and wit. Where would he be without you? Creativity is nothing without knowledge— whether its working with or against knowledge.”

Logan shook his head. Remus slowly reached for Logan’s hand. Logan let him take it, pull his fingers open, and press something into his palm. It felt like a pebble. Logan felt his hands ball into fists.

“Roman seems to mostly work against me, but at least Thomas heeds his words. I really can’t stay here. I…. I should honestly go. It’s late.”

Logan awkwardly stood, fists still clenched. Remus looked up at him with wide eyes, brows furrowed.

“Are you sure?”

Logan opened his mouth, but no words came out. A part of him still wanted to stay, to sit with Remus at the dock and watch the glowing waves, to eat oysters with him. He closed his mouth and nodded. Remus sighed.

“Alright. I’ll teleport you and your clothes back to your room. Just… you’re welcome back whenever you want. Don’t be a stranger, Logan.”

Logan smiled. He wanted to say something, but the next thing he knew the world vanished around him. Then it reappeared, and he saw the door to his room. There was a bowl of spaghetti in front of it. It had long grown cold, but Logan picked it up anyways, and stepped into his room.

He set the bowl of spaghetti on his desk, and haphazardly tossed his clothes on the floor. He felt soaked to the bone, and started to shiver a little, even though he knew he couldn’t feel cold, couldn’t feel pain, couldn’t feel the cocktail of conflicting emotions inside of him. With a sigh, he sat in his office chair. His hands, still curled into fists, shook slightly. What had Remus given him? Slowly, he relaxed his fingers. 

Resting in his palm was a round, black pearl. 

Logan stared at the black pearl in his palm. A million different thoughts rushed through his head, most of them strange and illogical. He could go back to the pier and watch the luminescent waves, or help Remus grind the oyster shells down into fertilizer. And they would eat oysters together until they had enough pearls to make a necklace, a necklace he’d wear wherever he went.

Then what? 

Then Logan would wear the necklace, and someone would ask where he got it from.

This was for the best for Thomas’ stability. It had to be.

Logan let his head flop against the headrest of his office chair, and shut his eyes, hoping sleep would take him.

He never let go of the pearl.

[nugnthopkns]

eyes full of stars

word count: 3.1k

warnings: insinuated!fem reader, cursing, alcohol consumption, slight sexual innuendo (kind sorta maybe, minors please be aware)

recommended listening: cowboy like me | taylor swift

a/n: it’s cold and snowy. to combat the winter blues i wrote about a sunny minnesota summer with brock :))

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen Brock this carefree. 

The season was hard on him. There were large periods where he didn’t put up any points, and trade rumors started to circulate. Halfway through, before the playoff push even started, the negative social media comments came rolling in. You frequently saw fans request a trade or say that the organization should regret drafting him. Brock did his best to brush everything off, but it was beginning to waer on his mental health. You’re devastated when they fail to make it to the postseason, but you know it’s for the best. The injured team will spend the offseason recuperating and be ready for the next one. Besides, it means you and Brock will get to spend more time on the lake. 

So here you are, packing the car for the twenty-seven hour drive to Minnesota. Brock insists on driving, says it’s relaxing, but you aren’t sure you agree. Prone to car-sickness so fierce you can barely look out the window, you’d much rather fly. Everything is exasperated by the fact you’re a nervous traveller to begin with, afraid of taking a wrong turn or missing an exit. You’re a terrible road trip partner but at least Brock could talk to the dogs. Coolie and Milo loved car rides, and you can typically hear your boyfriend having full on conversations with them as you fade in and out of consciousness. 

“Ready to go babe?” Brock asks as he closes the trunk. The question is delivered with a bright grin, and despite your anxiety you return it with ease. 

“I don’t really have much of a choice do I?”

He shakes his head, chuckling as he moves towards you. Sliding his hands into the back pockets of your jeans he kisses you lazily. It’s comforting and all-consuming at the same time; doing a great job of occupying your mind with thoughts of him instead of the journey ahead. “I suppose not,” he says, planting a final kiss on your forehead. “It’ll be fine. You can take a Gravol right before we cross the border and you’ll be asleep before we hit Seattle.”

It’s the best plan of attack, so you agree immediately. After taking one last run into your shared apartment to use the bathroom and make sure everything is in order, you make yourself comfortable in the passenger seat of Brock’s jeep. Music filters through the speakers at a low volume, and you focus on the retreating skyline of Vancouver. You’re excited to get back to Minnesota, to relax and see your boyfriend in his natural habitat. Countless days are about to be spent lounging lakeside enjoying each other’s company. It will also be nice to spend time with Brock’s family: they’ve been incredibly welcoming over the years and you can’t wait to catch up with them. You know Brock’s itching to spend time with his nephew, and just to be at home. 

Just as Brock said, you’re asleep before Bellingham. It’s fitful, and you’re frequently woken up by the dogs barking a little too excitedly in response to something Brock said. However, it does a good job of keeping you from emptying the contents of your stomach onto the floor. Somewhere in Idaho, a good seven hours after you left Canada, you awake for the final time. 

“Look boys, Mom’s finally awake!”

You laugh at the comment and lean over the center console to ruffle his hair. It’s still long from the season, and curls slightly around your fingertips. 

“You’re hilarious.”

Brock takes his right hand off the steering wheel, unravelling yours from its resting place and entwining your fingers together. He places a kiss to the back of your palm. “You know I’m just teasing,” he whispers. “I know these drives are hard on you. Thank you for doing it twice a year.”

Instead of answering verbally, you squeeze his hand tighter. Though it’s true you hate driving through five states, you’d do it twice a week if it would make Brock happy. It seems a bit much to convey with a single gesture, but you can tell from the smile that graces his features that Brock understands. The two of you sit in silence, enjoying the scenery and trying to scout for a rest stop. Coolie and Milo are getting antsy and you’re also due to stretch your legs. 

After letting the dogs run around to release some energy and using the bathroom, you start the final leg of the day. Missoula, Montana, is the destination. Not quite the halfway point, but close enough that you could tackle the rest of the miles tomorrow, the city has a wide variety of pet-friendly lodging. You insist you drive the rest of the way, giving Brock a well deserved rest. Looking at the interstate for hours can cause serious highway hypnosis. Not even twenty minutes after getting back on the road he’s asleep, snoring softly as he rests his head on the window. 

You take a moment to admire your boyfriend. He looks so relaxed and peaceful, and the forehead creases that are starting to develop from over analyzing hours of tape disappear. Brock looks years younger, and you know the youthfulness will creep back into him the longer you’re in Minnesota. You can’t wait to see him without any cares again. 

Less than two hours later, the hotel creeps up on your left. Pulling into the first available parking space, you turn the car off before waking Brock. 

“Brock, we’re at the hotel,” you say softly, jostling his shoulder. “Let’s get checked in and then we shower.”

The mention of washing off a day’s worth of travel has him letting the door fly open. You had made sure to pack your overnight bags in an easily accessible spot, and work at getting them out while Brock wrangles the dogs. For being cooped up all day, they’re extremely well behaved. Once cleaned up you imagine you’ll take them on a long walk and grab some food. 

“Hey, give that back. Milo!” you hear Brock yelp, and peek around to see what’s happening. The younger pup has Brock’s bucket hat between his teeth and is in the process of tearing across the parking lot. 

With a giggle you call him back. “Milo, come here baby,” you say. Without a second thought, the dog bolts towards you, knocking against your shins when he fails to stop in time. You lean down to scratch Milo’s ear, and as soon as you ask him to drop the object he places it in your open palm. “Good boy,” you coo, letting him lick the side of your face. 

“He’s your dog alright,” Brock huffs from where he’s standing, Coolie running circles around his ankles. 

You toss the hat over the roof of the car as you laugh at him. “You’re just jealous he listens to me.”

“I sure fucking am. He’d be an absolute nuisance if it wasn’t for you.”

The rest of the night is spent unwinding from the long day. Dinner consists of the greasiest burgers you can find, and you roam around the city hand in hand, the dogs leading you. By the time you get back to the hotel you’re spent. Sleep takes over rather quickly, and you’re dozing off before Brock gets back from brushing his teeth. Once ready for bed, he slides his body against yours. The pair of you fit together like a puzzle, and after a quick kiss you let sleep consume you. 

The second day of travel is much the same, except you do a better job of staying awake. You take a different anti-nausea medication and frequently switch with Brock. Conversation flows easily, ideas for summer excursions and repairs that need to be done around the house. The Boeser’s are kind enough to lend you their lake house during the off season, but the property can be a lot to manage. Brock takes it all in stride, and somehow actually enjoys spending hours mowing the grass. He says it’s relaxing, mind numbing work, so you let him handle it. Country music flows from the car speakers, and eventually talking turns into a full on concert. Milo and Coolie do their best to harmonize with Brock, and it’s too cute not to post somewhere. You sneak your phone from your pocket and manage to catch some of it on video, posting to Instagram immediately. Those from the Canucks organization you have on social media will love it; Brock’s teammates will most definitely chirp him for being tone deaf. 

It’s late by the time you pull into the driveway of your temporary home, almost eleven. Grabbing only the essentials and leaving the rest to be unpacked tomorrow, you unlock the door before flopping on the couch. The dogs follow suit, laying on top of you. When Brock walks in he shakes his head, but still leans over to kiss you. 

“Make sure you text your mom and let her know we made it,” you call to his retreating figure. “And let her know we’ll be over in the afternoon once we get situated.”

You swear he flips you off, no doubt poking fun at your maternal instincts. “Yes ma’am,” he replies. 

“Ma’am?” you shriek. “I am not fifty. You’re so gonna get it Boeser.”

After gently nudging the dogs off your legs you’re chasing after him, laughing all the way. Brock’s a lot faster than you, being the athlete he is, but you don’t give up hope. In a last ditch attempt to get him back, you launch yourself forward, square into the middle of his back. The change in weight distribution has him falling to the floor, sprawling the width of the hallway. Both of you are giggling messes, delirious from lack of sleep and the knowledge you get to spend four months of uninterrupted time together. 

“I love you, you know that right,” Brock murmurs into the crook of your neck. He dots chaste pecks along the skin and you sigh at the feeling. 

Pulling him closer, you make sure to properly enunciate your words as you respond. “Yes sir.”

Brock eyes darken visibly, and he shifts his body so he’s resting on top of you. “You’re in for it now,” he groans, dragging himself to his feet. You quickly follow, meeting his lips in an eager kiss. The pair of you stumble the rest of the way to the bedroom, bodies intertwining like ivy vines, and Brock makes sure to kick the door shut to ensure your pets don’t interrupt the salacious activities he has planned. 

☼☼☼☼

You settle into a routine fairly quickly. Mornings are spent alone while Brock works out, and afternoons are for lounging in the sun. The hours after the sun fades away are spent huddling around a bonfire with friends, and midnights are for just the two of you. Sometimes Brock lets himself rest and spends the day in the middle of the lake doing his best to fish, leaving you to spend time with his mom and sister. They’re lovely; warm and welcoming, making sure you’re never too lonely or bored. You and Brock also spend a lot of time with his nephew, doting over the toddler. Seeing your boyfriend with him makes you want kids, but that’s a conversation that is yet to be had in any serious light. 

Sometimes you join Brock when he does typical professional hockey player in the summer things. It turns out you're quite the golfer, and have put him to shame many times. Countless days are spent helping him fix the roof of the lake house because he insists on doing it himself even though he knows nothing about roofing. At least seven phone calls to his father and a desperate run to the hardware store later, it’s completed; sealed and free of cracks. Though you’re a terrible fisher, Brock tries his best to teach you. Truth be told, you don’t have any interest in the sport, but his tongue pokes out slightly when he’s thinking about how to explain a concept and you think it’s adorable. 

Coolie and Milo are loving being able to roam free, and you both spend a lot of time outside with them. You’re only ever really in the house at night, reading or playing games on the patio furniture Brock’s mom picked out. It’s peaceful; existing like this. You swear you could do it forever. 

Being home allows an invisible weight to be lifted off Brock’s shoulders. There’s a pep in his step, and he’s always smiling. Even the intense at-home workouts can’t seem to bring him down. You’re delighted, how could you not be? It’s as if the only things that matter to him are enjoying a few beers lakeside and coaxing you out of shorts in the dark. You suppose that’s the truth. 

☼☼☼☼

It’s incredibly warm out. The sun beats down on your back as you turn the pages of your novel, half listening to the conversation Brock is having with his friends. A group of you are on the boat, enjoying one of the last full days of summer. Later in the week you and Brock will pack up the car again, making the long trek back to Vancouver. You’re sad time has passed so fast, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited to be back in the city. It’s your home, and the boys seem to be really fired up for the new season. You have a feeling some really good hockey is going to come out of Rogers Arena. 

“Yo Y/N, who’s the better driver. Me or Boes?” 

The question pulls you from the fantasy taking place on the pages, and you look to see who’s speaking to you. It’s Brock’s dearest childhood friend, someone you consider family at this point. “It’s absolutely not Brock,” you shrug. The comment earns a loud laugh from everyone and you find yourself joining in. 

“Ouch babe, that hurts,” Brock says as he slides into the free space next to you. Casually wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder, he leans down to whisper into your ear. “Looks like you need to be taught a lesson.”

His words have a vaguely sexual connotation, and you look around nervously. Your swimsuit won’t cover the flush that will be sure to rise on your skin if Brock tries anything. Everyone seems to be engaged in their own conversations, but you still feel queasy about getting caught. Though Brock’s friends are the type to laugh it off, you’d be absolutely mortified. 

Before your brain can overthink anything else, you’re being lifted from your seat. It only takes two seconds for Brock to hoist you over the side of the boat and throw you into the cool water. You land with a glorious splash, but take your time coming to the surface. Partly to bring your temperature down, partly to make your lover squirm. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you yell to him from below, but the bright smile you flash him lets Brock know you don’t mean it. 

He sets his hat on top of your book before climbing over the edge. “Shut up,” he fires back, diving gracefully to join you in the water. 

A small splashing match breaks out, and soon everyone else is in the water, picking sides. You swim until your skin is wrinkled beyond recognition, pruned and puckered something akin to a raisin. Only once the sky begins to redden do you head for home. Brock keeps the boat at cruising speed, and you sit comfortably in his lap. Once back on land, dinner is quickly thrown together. A mish-mash of what’s left in your fridge and what others have brought, but it works. The boys huddle around the grill and everyone else swoons over the dogs, who are on their best behaviour. 

Later in the night, once the dishes are cleaned up and some guests with day jobs have left, you settle into Brock’s side at the fire. Not caring if you get chirped for the PDA, you hold his face in both your hands and rest your forehead against his. The scruff that’s grown in since the last time Brock shaved tickles slightly, but you’re too in love with him to care. It’s been so refreshing to see him relaxed, acting without a care in the world. Hopefully the attitude he currently has will stick and not disappear once you hit the Vancouver city limits. 

Brock takes a sip of his beer before offering the bottle to you. You gingerly place it to your lips, making a face at the taste. He laughs at your reaction, pushing a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

“Still tastes disgusting,” you mutter, reaching for your own drink to wash away the taste. 

The fire crackles gently behind you but you barely register the sound, in your own little world where everything is perfect. It’s you, Brock, and the dogs living in a house similar to the one you’re currently residing in, living life to the fullest. 

“You gonna come back to me, space cadet?” Brock chuckles, tracing the outline of your nose. 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” you apologize. “Was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Us. The future. Living in a lake house just like this one and spending all our time being so in love with each other that our friends constantly make fun of us. Maybe having kids in a couple of years. How I love seeing you like this; so at peace and full of life.”

In lieu of a response, Brock kisses you passionately. It’s a soft kind of passion: one that holds you tenderly and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. He tastes like the Coors Light he’s been drinking, but somehow the idea of beer is much more appealing when mixed with Brock. You lose yourself in him for a while, relishing in the gentleness of his hands resting on your waist. Eventually you return some of your attention to the others, but even then you can’t find it in yourself to focus. Your mind is filled with nothing but love for Brock. 

It’s seems that he’s feeling the same way, because he continually leaves kisses across your shoulder blade. “I really, really love you,” Brock confesses, and you feel him smile through the thin material of your worn hoodie. 

You intertwine your pinky with his and let them sit comfortably in your lap. “I love too. So much that it’s all consuming.”

Brock often leaves you breathless in more ways than one, but sweet sentiments like this will always take the cake. Especially when they happen on summer nights where he’s free to be his authentic self.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales​ @kiedhara​ @tortito​ if you want to be added shoot me an ask :)

[americancowgirl19]

Mutant not Monster - Part One

Part One: Background; this is basically a background part. Dean will be in the next part with Sam. I highly recommend you read this part so you can understand the plot.

Summary: Y/n and her twin brother, Warren, are both mutants. In a world where mutants aren’t accepted, Y/n and her brother have to go on the run as anti-mutant extremists begin hunting their kind down. Sam and Dean are hunters, just not mutant hunters. However, their paths cross and despite a rocky beginning they become allies against not only the war against mutants but the war against mankind. 

Warnings: angst, curse, fluff, anti-mutant terrorism

Reader: Female Reader; Y/n Worthington 

Pairings: (Eventual) Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,794

A/n: This is more of my own mini story than a specific part of X-Men and Supernatural. I’ll stick as close to supernatural as I can but if you see things that are different than they were in the show, just roll with it. This is kind of a crossover with X-Men and Supernatural but I’m just doing my own thing with the X-Men characters and Supernatural. I’m not going along with any specific movie or comic book. When Dean and Sam come in it’ll technically take place around the season 4 of Supernatural where they know about angels. Also gif is from google and it’s Miley Cyrus from the ‘Can’t Be Tamed’ music video.

Part Two

Masterlist

1989 - Y/n POV - Reader is 9

“Warren slow down!” I shouted after my brother as he scales up the tree. I try to keep up with him but struggle to maintain a steady grip on the bark. My twin brother just laughs and continues to climb branch after branch.

“Y/n! Warren! Be careful!” Our mother shouts approaching the tree. I take a second to look down at her. She stands by the trunk with her arms crossed. Her eyes squint as she looks up into the tree but I doubt she can see us through the branches and leaves. “Don’t climb too high!”

“Come on, Y/n,” Warren says regaining my attention. He motions for me to continue following him. Huffing I reach for the next branch and pull myself up.

“How much farther? Mom doesn’t want us too high,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” Warren says ignoring the uneasiness in my voice. While I didn’t have a fear of heights, in fact I liked being higher than everyone else, I was afraid of losing my grip from being too tired. As much as I tried to keep up with my brother he seemed to have energy for days.

“Warren, look at this,” I say finding a birds nest. My brother looks down at me before quickly climbing to my spot.

“Wow,” He whispers as the newly hatched birds chirp for their parents. “They’ll be big enough to fly before we know it,” He tells me.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like to fly?” I ask looking at him.

“All the time,” He says. “I wonder what it’s like to soar with the birds and fly through clouds,”

“You’ll probably get wet,” I warn him. “Clouds are water after all,” Warren shrugs.

“Never been afraid of a few rain drops,” He smirks at me. I smile rolling my eyes. I look back at the baby birds.

“Warren! Y/!” Our mother shouts for us again. “Come down from there, it’s time for supper!”

“Can’t she see we’re busy in the tree?” Warren grumbles. I laugh.

“Come on, I’ll race you to the bottom,” I challenge him. He smirks and begins climbing down at the same time I do.

“If I win, I get your ice cream!” Warren shouts.

“Like hell you will!” I shout back.

“Language, Y/n!” Mother scolds.

“Yeah, language, Birdie,” Warren teases.

“Oh, why don’t you- Ah!” I screech when my feet slide off the branch. I go to cling to the tree but I fail to get a grip. Before I can fall too far Warren has my hand in his.

“I’ve got you!” Warren says quickly.

“Don’t you dare drop me, Warren Worthington!” I shout holding his hand as tightly as I can.

“Never,” Warren reassures me with a playful grin before swinging me to the next branch.

1994 - Y/n POV - Y/n is 14

“St. Joes Catholic School?” I ask with disbelief in my voice. “They’ve got to be kidding, right?” I ask my brother as I flop down on his bed. He walks into the room after me and shuts the door.

“I don’t think they are,” Warren says taking a seat at his desk chair.

“Why are they sending us away?” I whisper but don’t expect an answer. In fact, I’m terrified of what the answer would be. Warren stays quiet as he mulls over the information our parents just dropped on us. “We never fit in here,” I admitted whilst sitting up. Warren glances at me. “They may be our parents but we’re practically strangers to them. We share nothing in common with them except some similarities in our looks. We don’t belong here Warren and they know it,” I sigh looking down at my fingers.

I expect Warren to argue against me like he usually does. This isn’t the first time I’ve voiced my opinions on this matter. Ever since I could remember I’ve felt as if Warren and I were outcasts in our own home. Our parents used to try and connect with us but they gave up years ago.

I didn’t even notice Warren standing up until the bed sinks beside me. I spare him a glance before looking back at my hands. We sit in silence for a few moments before I lay my head on his shoulder. His head soon rests on top of mine.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find a place where we belong,” He reassures me. “We’ll find a home,” I smile as my mind begins imagining what this home would look like. “It’ll be a place where we do fit in and we’re not strangers,”

“As long as you promise we’ll stay together,” I say lifting my head. Warren looks at me. “Don’t you dare leave me, Warren Worthington,”

“Never,” Warren smirks winking at me. “Lighten up a bit, Birdie,” He says nudging my shoulder. “Who knows, maybe St. Joes Catholic School is where we’ll find people to connect too,” He shrugs.

“It would be nice to talk to someone who doesn’t have your ugly mug,” I comment standing from the bed.

“Well, it shouldn’t be hard for me to find someone who doesn’t crack mirrors when they look in them,” Warren fires back. I don’t dignify him with a verbal response. I simply flip him the bird and leave his room.

1997 - Y/n POV - Reader is 17

“Go Warren! Run!” I scream from the stands as my brother overtakes the lead runner in the track meet. I clap loudly and scream when he takes first place without a problem.

“He won! He won!” My brothers girlfriend, Amanda, shouts from beside me. We jump up and down together before laughing excitedly. 

When the meet ends the two of us instantly go looking for my twin. I weave through the crowd in his direction. Amanda follows me knowing all too well about my inner Warren Compass. It didn’t matter where I was or where he was, we could always find each other. Amanda also swears that we have some sort of telepathy between us or that we could read each other’s mind. While I knew that neither of those things were true, I did have a sixth sense when it came to my brother. Warren has the same feeling about me as well.

“There he is!” Amanda shouts surpassing me to go to her boyfriend. Warren spins around and pulls her into his arms. She giggles as he spins her around. I gag when they romantically kiss.

“Did you see my last run?” Warren asks us.

“Of course, baby,” Amanda smirks leaning into him not even caring about his drying sweat.

“You mean the one where you look like a flailing chicken without a head?” I ask before doing a dramatic imitation. Amanda snorts while Warren lunges for me. I laugh evading his attempts to put me in a head lock.

“Ok! Ok!” Amanda shouts getting between us. “I want to get back to the dorms, get cleaned up, and go to the party,”

“Hell yeah, baby,” Warren smirking lighting up at the mention of a party. Amanda shakes her head wondering where he gets all his energy. It didn’t matter that he just spent all day running, he still has enough energy to take over the world.

It doesn’t take us long to get back to the dorms and cleaned up. Warren promises to meet us at the party before going to take a shower. Amanda and I both go to the bathroom to do our makeup and to get changed.

“Oh my God, is your back ok?” Amanda instantly asks.

“Um, it’s fine?” I say turning towards her.

“Where did you get all of those bruises?” She wonders.

“Bruises?” I ask before going toward the mirror. “Oh, shit,” I whisper seeing them. They weren’t too bad but they were definitely noticeable. 

“What they hell are you doing when I’m not there to supervise you?” Amanda laughs while returning to her makeup.

“I don’t know,” I whisper to myself. I take another moment to stare at the bruises before shaking my head.

A couple weeks pass and the bruises don’t leave. In fact, the grow darker. I take extra care with how I move but it doesn’t matter. The bruising just continues to get worse until things start to get even weirder.

I wake up in my bad with a sore back. That’s nothing new, it’s practically my norm by now. However, waking up to find several feathers in my bed is new. I sit there in confusion as I wonder where the hell these feathers have come from.

“Y/n! Open up!” Warren shouts slamming his fist against my door repeatedly. “Open the door!”

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” I shout hopping out of bed. He doesn’t stop knocking until I let him in. “What the hell?”

“You’re getting random bruising too?” Warren asks the instant I close my door.

“How do you know about that?” I ask.

“Amanda told me,” He said. I frown my eyebrows wondering why now, all of the sudden, she’s telling him about my bruised back. “She told me because of this,” He takes his shirt off and turns his back to me.

“Jesus, Warren,” I whisper looking at his bruises. They’re similar to mind in shape but they’re much darker and slightly bigger. “Wait,” I whisper stepping closer. I run my finger along a section of his back and he instantly flinches away from me.

“Uh, ow!” Warren snaps.

“Sorry!” I raise my hands defensively. “But you have something coming out of your back,”

“What?” He frowns his eyebrows and I nod. He goes to my full length mirror. He then notices the nubs that I pointed out. “Turn around,” He says coming over to me. I do as he says feeling nervous that he might find the same happening to my back.

“I woke up with feathers in my bed,” I whisper holding back a flinch when he touches my bruises.

“Sorry,” He whispers noticing me tense. “You have the same thing happening,” I slowly turn towards him. “I have feathers in my bed too... I thought they were from my pillows but...” His voice trails off.

“What’s happening to us, Warren?” I whisper. He pushes his lips together.

“I don’t know, Birdie,” He whispers back.

1997 - Y/n POV - Reader is 17

“Warren! Warren, open the door!” I shout pounding on his door like he had mine a week previous. “Warren, I know you’re in there, now open the damn door before I break it down,” I growled hitting the door even harder.

A few moments later my puffy eyed brother opens the door just enough for me to slide in before closing it again. He hangs his head as I stare at him. When he sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve I snap out of my trance.

“Come here,” I whisper pulling him into a tight hug. I frown my eyebrows when I feel something on his back but I don’t pull away. He holds me so tight that it’s hard to breathe but I just hold him. “What happened?” I whisper.

“She kept asking questions,” He tells me after a few minutes. “She kept wanting to know about the bruises and I just... I couldn’t tell her,” I close my eyes and hold him even closer. I try to hold onto him but he pushes me away. “Then this happens,” He whispers sniffling as he takes off his shirt. I look at his chest before giving him a look. He turns around and I gasp.

Two small white wings have sprouted from his shoulder blades. They look like a baby birds wings. Not nearly big enough to fly nor hold his weight. Despite they’re small size they’re beautiful.

Then it clicks. Our backs have been going through the exact same transition. Slowly, I step back to his bad and fall on it. Warren quickly pulls on his shirt again.

“We’re mutants,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Warren whispers.

“We’re mutants,” I whisper again. Warren sighs walking over to me. The bed bounces slightly when he collapses beside me.

“Yeah,” He repeats. We lay on his bed in silence as we try to come to terms with the... new development. “I quit track,” He tells me. “Not like I’d be able to hide these things at practices and meets... Plus who knows how big they’ll grow,”

“Warren,” I whisper lowly. “St. Joes is notorious for they’re anti-mutant beliefs,” I say slowly turning my head towards him. Warren continues to stare at the ceiling. He lets out a long sigh.

“Yeah,” He mutters.

“Shit,” I whisper.

1998 - Y/n POV - Reader is 18

‘Y/n Worthington,’

I frown my eyebrows as I slow to a walk in the middle of the empty hallway. I look around for the voice who said my name. However, the few people in the hallway pay no mind to me.

‘Y/n Worthington’ The voice says again. ‘My name is Charles Xavier and I am a mutant like you,’

“I don’t find that very comforting at the moment,” I mutter feeling standoffish. I can hear the voice laugh a bit.

‘No, I expect you wouldn’t’ He says. ‘I’ve been looking for you and your brother for a very long time,’

“Where are you?” I ask as I continue to search for him.

‘Not far from the school,’ He responds vaguely. ‘I need you to listen to me. There is someone on campus that wants to hurt you and your brother,’

“Warren,” I whisper no longer caring about this Charles Xavier. The only thing on my mind is finding Warren. Before I could start my wild goose chase the voice in my head tells me exactly where he is. I don’t bother to question him, I simply race to his location. “Oh my God,” I gasp seeing the building is engulfed in flames.

Before I even try to go into the fire something in the sky catches my attention. I then notice it’s Warren trying to save people. Sprinting into action, I leave the crowd. My pure black wings rip through my long jacket and take me to the sky towards my brother.

“There’s more people on the third floor!” Warren shouts over the noise of the crowd.

“There’s someone after us!” I shout to him.

“No shit! Who do you think started the fire?!” Warren snaps.

“Don’t get snippy with me, Angel!” I growl back at him.

“Just get the people out! I’ll handle the guy that’s trying to kill us,” Warren orders. I want to argue but Warren is already flying off and somebody has to get those people out.

My wings carry me into the building. They fold around my body protectively as I crash through a window and land on the hot floor. It takes some convincing but I finally get the people to trust me enough to allow me to get them to safety.

‘You’re brother is a mile to your left,’ Charles informs me. I send a silent thank you before quickly going towards Warren. I get to him in time to see him dropping a man to his death.

“Warren?” I ask slowly flying towards him. My large yet feminine keep me in the air beside my brother. Warren’s head hangs as he stares at the mans dead body on the ground below us.

‘If you both would join me, I’d like to talk with you,” Charles says in my head. I can only assume Warren hears him as well. 

“Angel?” I ask moving even closer to him.

“Let’s just go,” Warren says flying to where Charles wants us to meet him. I glance back to the dead body before flying after my brother.

1998 - Y/n POV - Reader is 18

“Wow,” I whisper walking towards Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

“Aren’t we a little old to be going to a school like this?” Warren asks as we follow behind Charles. I nod along with Warren’s question seeing as we’re both legally adults.

“This isn’t just a school for the gifted but a home,” Charles explains. Warren’s head snaps towards me at the same time mine snaps to him. “Here you can learn different skills you did not learn at your previous school. You will also meet students with various gifts, some like your own,” I slap Warren’s arm when I see a girl fly past us with wings that came off of a fairy. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you wish,”

“This place is amazing,” I laugh in wonder. Warren slowly beings to grin which only brightens my mood. Ever since the fire a few days ago, Warren’s smile has been nonexistent. 

“I’ll show you to your rooms, allow you to get settled,”

“Are we sharing a room?” Warren wonders.

“While school is in session, yes,” Charles nods. “But when most of the students return to their homes, you can have separate rooms,” I smile at my brother. Even though I didn’t exactly like sharing a room with him, it would be nice to have him close after someone had tried to kill us.

“Well, it’s not as big as the one at mom and dads but it’s cozy,” I say while walking around the room. Charles had left us to settle in a few seconds ago.

“Do you ever wonder what mom and dad are doing?” Warren wonders while tossing his suit case on one of the beds.

“Angel, they haven’t even contacted us since freshmen year,” I remind him. “The only thing they’ve done is financially support us and even that is over now,” I say sitting on my bed. “I try not to think about them because we don’t need them. We just need each other,” I say smiling at him.

“So, you’re saying I’m stuck with your ugly mug for the rest of my life?” Warren asks with a small smirk.

“Aren’t you a lucky duck?” I wink at him. Warren slowly shakes his head. “What happened?” I finally ask. “With that man that you let go?” My mind goes back to the day with the fire and how Warren had let a man fall to his death.

“I don’t even know his name,” Warren whispers. “Just some anti-mutant man,” He tells me. “He said our wings went against his religion and that we had to die,” I can feel my wings twitch but I don’t say anything. “I had him in my hands and I wanted to turn him into the police but then he went on and on about how he wasn’t just going to kill me but kill you as well... I just got so angry. He talked about how he was going to rip our wings off and rid the world of us. The thought of someone out there that wants to kill you as badly as he did made me so angry. Before I knew it I was letting him go and watching him fall.” Warren explains to me. I stand and walk over to him. Warren looks at me as I sit next to him. “I don’t regret killing him. I feel guilt about the fact that I’m not sad over his death,” He says. “But he threatened you, threatened us...” Warren sighs.

“You don’t have to justify your actions to me,” I tell him. “Warren, I would have done the same thing,” I told him. He glances towards me. “You think your need to protect me is one sided? I’d do anything for you. You’re all I have and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” I tell him. Warren smiles a bit.

“Don’t you dare leave me, Y/n Worthington,” Warren says quietly. I muster up a playful smirk.

“Never,”

2004 - Y/n POV - Reader is 24

“What do you mean they’re shutting the school down?” Warren snapped. “They can’t do that!”

“They can and they are,” Storm, one of the teachers, says calmly yet her eyes are raging in anger. “The students are to be sent back to there homes-”

“Where they’re going to be hunted down and slaughtered in front of their families,” Beast growls. I sigh rubbing my face tiredly.

Years of peace between mutants and mankind destroyed in one weekend. We tried to do damage control but our efforts were in vain. Almost every pro-mutant policy has been taken away. With the government turning their backs against us the radical anti-mutant organizations are rising against us in a dangerous fashion.

It didn’t take a genius to know that a war is on the horizon. This school is one of the only safe places for the students yet we’re being forced to send them away. We’re being forced to send them back to their families where they won’t be nearly as protected as they are now.

We all knew that with the war would come casualties. These extremists aren’t planning on taking prisoners. They see us as anti-human and a threat to the human race. They see us as monsters. They will kill us every chance they get.

“We have to protect them,” I speak up. “They’re children!” I practically shout. “We can’t just leave them to defend themselves,”

“We’re not going to do that,” Jean shakes her head. “We’ve fought for mutants this long, we’re not just going to give up now,”

“Jean’s right,” Storm nods. “There’s a war coming and it’s going to get ugly,” She warns everyone in the room. “But we’ve been through ugly times before. We can get through this if we work together,”

“We’re ready,” Bobby, one of my closest friends, assures her. “You guys have made sure of that. A lot of us are ready to fight,” Warren, me and the other alumni students nod in agreement.

“Professor?” I asks hesitantly. Charles continues to sit in his wheelchair as he goes over everything in his mind. It pained me to see the man who took my brother and I in in such a state of distress.

Warren and I share a nervous look. After years of living life just the two of us, we finally find out home. Not long after that, our home is threatened. It angers me to the core that people think they can threaten my home without retaliation. As far as I’m concerned everyone that lives under this roof is my family and I will do whatever is necessary to protect them, especially my idiotic twin.

“There here,” Charles whispers, his eyes widening. My head snaps to the side as an explosion shakes the Earth under our feet. Warren’s eyes meet mine and dread fills our hearts. The war’s begun.

@akshi8278​

[captaincravatthecapricious]

No Way To Get Help

@malevon​

Well... this was supposed to be about Jon, but it's about Tim instead. Under the wreckage of the wax museum, Tim isn't dead.

cw nausea, depression, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation (canon typical levels for Tim end of season 3), ambiguous mentions of injury, hospitals

Four more fics to go, and only one more prompt to send in, so if you have something in mind, get it in quick! I hope you know the drill by now!  Thanks @celosiaa​ for the wonderful card!

The silence is deafening.  Or would be if Tim wasn’t partially deaf already.  He hadn’t been wearing his hearing aids.  What would have been the point?  He knows the plan.  Daisy and Basira are ….were?  Hardly chatty.  He didn’t?  Doesn’t?  Didn’t?  Want to hear a single word that Jon had to say.  

God.  Tenses.  

Is anyone still alive?  Is it just him?  

He should clarify.  The silence is deafening after the explosion.  After the circus music that was somehow louder, possibly because it was at least partly inside his head.  There is probably the sound of rubble settling, and the groaning of burning building, and rushing emergency vehicles.  But… he can’t hear a goddamn thing.  Just that eternal ringing in his ears.  He has never been sure if that was tinnitus or just what silence sounds like.  Never thought it worth asking after he learned that people with tinnitus have higher rates of suicide.  And… well… if this stupid plan was nothing else, wasn’t it just some grand suicide scheme?  

One that looks to have spectacularly failed.  

Just him… probably alone.  In the dark.  

Then again, if he’s alive, maybe the others are too?  Does he want that?  

If he’s honest, he would rather just be dead.  

Not that that is a revelation.  

Then again, he could be dead in a minute.  

He can’t feel his legs.  Well… he can.  He wishes he couldn’t.  He wishes he couldn’t feel anything.  There is so much pain that it just… it’s too much for him to even register as pain anymore.  He just feels… cold and crushed.  Probably shock because there are actual fires burning around him.  He can smell it.  The burning plaster and plastic and wood and smoldering concrete… if that is even a thing?  Thick air.  He’s coughing.  And that hurts more.  

He can’t hear it, however.  

He can’t hear anything but that goddamn ringing in his ears.  

He thinks he might be crying.  

He can’t hear his own heaving sobs.  

Just that high-pitched whine of utter silence.  

Do you know what that sound is, highness?  Those are the shrieking eels…

That’s it.  

The only words his brain can find, as he grows ever more numb.  He has no doubt that darkness is eating at his vision, or would be if there was anything but darkness around him. 

Not even the words from the book.  Lines from the movie.   Which isn’t a bad thing…  He doesn’t even know his own feelings about his favorite book and his favorite movie.  

(That’s not true.  He was always a fan of the movie, but… he and Danny read the book to each other so often…  He has the work paperback in the pocket of his bomber jacket.  Wanted to die with it.  Ideally buried with it, but it’s not like he left a note.  Aside from that damn tape).  

The whine continues.  He doesn’t know how long it’s been.  

 Do you know what that sound is, highness?  Those are the shrieking eels…

That had been the first thing he had thought of when he first heard the worms.  

He curses the worms to the darkness.  If it hadn’t been for them… he could have lived in blissful ignorance about the darker nature of his job… well to some degree.  Sasha would still be here.  Jon wouldn’t have….  FUCK.  He doesn’t want to think about Jon while he’s willing himself out of existence.  But….

But Jon.  That little fucking moron.  Who he HATES.  Who he wants to hate.  

Does he hate Jon?  

Is Jon even still alive?  

If he’s dead, does he want to keep hating a dead man?  One who …wasn’t any worse than him.  

Which isn’t to say blameless, or not a twat at times….  But.  But not a monster.  And Tim can’t really blame him for not trusting anyone.  

Jon… was in the wrong, but so was Tim.  They have both been utter dicks.  Which has always been Tim’s least favorite plot.  God back in publishing… a Lifetime ago… he always hated books that hinged on characters fighting, not talking things out, not Understanding and that rift causing endless misery.  Has he really become something that he hated… still hates with every fiber of his being.  The number of books that set his teeth on edge from the first misunderstanding.  He actually hates most Rom Coms for that reason.  Which… surprised just about everyone he’s dated.  

He possibly groans.  He isn’t thinking clearly.  

He can’t hear himself groan.  

He really should give it up, and let himself pass out.  He hurts.  He’s tired.  If he wakes up… that’s a problem for later.  If he quietly slips away… well… maybe he’ll see Danny there.  Maybe he’ll see Sasha.  Hell, maybe if he sees Jon there, they can work something out.  If there is an afterlife… they’ll have all the time in the world.  (Or rather all the time in the next world).  And if not… well.  Eternal rest sounds pretty damn good.  

…But.  But Jon.  If Jon is alive down here… He should be close.  

And… Tim can’t let him die alone under this building.  He can’t lose someone else to the Circus while he sits idly by.  And Damn it, maybe he doesn’t want to meet Jon in the afterlife just yet, maybe he wants a break?  (And maybe he just loves him too much to completely give up on him… even though he knows he is far too late.  Too many bridges burned.  “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”  A line from Jon’s favorite play.)

Tim tries to move his fingertips.  And almost screams.  It hurts.  It hurts.  It hurts.  

He thinks he might scream.  But he can’t hear a sound.  

He braces himself and tries again.  Stretching his arms out as wide as he can.  Moving dust and ash and rubble.  He almost passes out.  Or maybe he does pass out.  Time has no meaning in this place.  

He finds a hand.  Cold.  And limp.  And his heart stops, first for fear that this is another mannequin.  Then for fear that this is all that is left of someone who was… could have been… is?  Something to Tim.  Everything to Tim.  

Tim thinks he might vomit.  

He feels out a little further as his head swims.  He feels the stretched and puckered skin of undoubtedly Jon’s right hand.  Unresponsive.  Possibly dead.  

Tim coughs.  Choking on the soot and heat and fumes in the air.  A massive weight both metaphorical and painfully tangible on all of him.  Aching pain breaking him into little shards, which turn right around and skewer him.  

Tim loses consciousness.  Old and cracked and dry paperback of The Princess Bride in his pocket.  Limp hand of his… friend? In his hand.  

Tim wakes up in hospital.  

His lungs hurt.  And everything feels distant and fuzzy.  Probably being pumped through with a lot of painkillers.  Probably for the best, or he might be more upset for waking up.  He wants to ask after Jon… but he can’t get his mouth to open.  

And suddenly he’s thinking about Westley.  Mostly dead.  Revived.  Head flopping around on his neck.  Danny had lost his shit laughing at that… it always made Tim feel sick after… everything.  The imitation of life… couldn’t quite shake the image of… that night.  Christ if he was on less drugs, he would probably puke.  

He would shake his head if he could move. 

“You just shook your head, that doesn’t make you happy?”

He is also struck by the thought that this is Kill Bill in reverse.  Nearly died getting his revenge, and then ending up in a coma.  (He watched those movies on Bad days.  When he downs enough whiskey to drown a horse.  He can’t say he really remembers much of them, but they were always cathartic.)  

He tries to look at his feet.  But he can’t even lift his head.  

He closes his eyes again.  

When he opens them, he sees Martin.  Worn and tired.  Looking older than ever, more haggard than Jon.  

Shit!  Jon.  Is Jon here?  Is he dead?  

He still can’t move.  

He looks at Martin again.  Martin is… talking?  Tim can’t make out anything.  Just the dull murmur of meaningless sound.  

…But.  

Martin is holding a book.  

A sooty, singed book.  

Martin sitting between two hospital beds, holding Tim’s old copy of The Princess Bride, facing Tim presumably so if Tim were to come around, Tim could read his lips.  

“I said, ‘What do you mean, “Westley dies”?  You mean dies?

My father nodded.  ‘Prince Humperdink kills him.’

‘He’s only faking though, right?’  

My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.

‘Aw shit,’ I said and I started to cry.  

‘I’m sorry,’ my father said.  ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ and he left me.”

Martin is also crying.  Just like Billy in the book.  

“’Who gets Humperdinck?’” Tim whispers.  Painfully aware of how dry his throat is.  It’s no more than a cracked whisper.  

And then he’s coughing.  

He can barely hear himself, but he swears he is coughing out a lung.  

Martin has dropped the book.  Staring in wide-eyed shock for a moment, before yelling something.  Scrambling up.  Probably getting a doctor.  Tim wishes he hadn’t gone.  

He looks are where Martin had been, but ends up getting a good look at the bed next to him.  And sees one, very still and very pale Jonathan Sims.  Very bandaged, and frighteningly still.  Tim can’t see breathing.  

And then he’s being poked and prodded and tested and Martin is talking to him.  And everything hurts.  Until it doesn’t and he’s lying still and Martin is smoothing his hair down and holding his hand and telling him that he’s been unconscious for a month.  That Jon is all but brain dead.  That Elias is in police custody.  

By the time Jon wakes up, five months later, Tim has decided to give him another chance, he and Martin are sharing a flat, there is another room ever hopeful that Jon will want to join then if- no, when he wakes up.  

Also.  Jon’s hair may or may not be dyed green.  

Maybe.  

No, Tim has no idea what everyone is looking at him like that for.  

[alienoresimagines]

Heart Meet Break | Eugene Sledge x Gender Neutral!Reader

Requested by Anonymous :  Hi could you please write number 1 prompt list imagines “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it" with Eugene Sledge?

A/N : Here we are after 9 weeks without posting and more than one year after receiving this request!😂😅 Hope y’all didn’t forget about me 🤣 and that you are all safe for this holidays season To be honest I had written this in october but I’m posting it just now because.. well I have no idea but it’s here now ;) (actually I do and it’s because @inglourious-imagines​ kicked my a**) I started so many times and I’m not completely pleased with how it turned out but I hope you’ll enjoy! Also a big thank you to @punkgeekchic​ for beta reading, hope you’re doing okay darling see you in January!💙💙Title from Heart Meet Break de Liam Payne, also stream his songs please!😘

Taglist : @murphyism​ @mavysnavy​ @speirs-sexy-ass​ @order-of-river-phoenix​ @inglourious-imagines​ @liebegott​ @tvserie-s-world @stressedinadress​ @warrior-healer​ 

Posted : 23/12/2020

Masterlist Taglist Prompts

-----

You could feel the beginning of a headache building behind your eyelids, and the welcomed pain in your feet after hours of passing on your bedroom's floor in a circle. Bringing a hand to your face to pinch the bridge of your nose and let out a long sigh, you let yourself fall onto your bed with a quiet flop. As soon as your back hit the soft sheet, the urge to go back to your feet and do something came back in a rush. A distraction would save your floor.

"[Y/N]! Could you take out the trash, please, dear?" Her sudden call startled you, too lost in your thoughts but you were quick to answer, knowing already there was only one good answer. 

"I'm coming, mom!" You shouted back, putting on your shoes in a slow pace. A distraction was your floor's savior but definitely not your heart's or mind's. You could only pray you'd meet your neighbor while walking through the yard. 

The stairs were cracking under your steps, as you still didn't know if you should feel nervous or hopeful. The twist in your stomach was a mix of both, the sweat on your palms said it all. 

Always so thoughtful, your mother had put the trash bag just next to the front door, ready to be taken out. 

"Ah, [Y/N], while you're out, could you bring this to the Sledges? Mary has been kind enough to share her pie with us, the least I can do is bake her one too." Your mother appeared at the door between the entrance and the kitchen with what you guessed was a plate wrapped in a clean cloth. 

The years passing didn't do her past beauty's justice but her eyes hadn't changed, nor did the way she looked at your father. 

"Sure, I'll go to the library after, do you know if Father needs anything?" You smiled, taking the package from her wrinkled hands carefully as she smiled at you, shaking her head in denial. 

With the black trash bag in one hand and the white cloth covering the quite heavy pie, you went out, but not before kissing your mother's cheek.

The warm air of this beginning of autumn was like the wind of freedom after having spent the day in your bedroom like a lion in a cage. You were about to take a deep breath when you remembered the trash bag in your hand. Right. No matter how good and sweet your mother's pie was and smelled, your nose still felt attacked by the trash. When you finally had put the black bag where it belonged you started to walk out of your parents' property, heading to the house next door. His house. All the feelings and thoughts you had forgotten came back, overwhelming you and making your legs shake. 

"Deacon! Deacon, where are you going?" Either your lucky star was laughing at you or pitying you. You'll decide tonight, hidden under your sheets with all your dreams and hopes. 

Just a few seconds later, a small dog went panting at your legs, presenting his head for ruffles. You chuckled and kneeled down to his level, giving him what he craved for.

"Good boy aren't ya, Deacon?" Cooing, you couldn help the warmth that spreaded through your chest, and refused to acknowledge the man with the bicycle approaching you. 

"[Y/N]! I didn't think I'd found you here." His tone was nervous and unsure as if he would've rather stayed silent. In some ways, you would've wished too.

"Fortunate we're neighbors, huh?" You heard him gulp and, with all the strength you could muster, you found in yourself all the treason, sadness, anger, uncertainty, confusion and hurt to finally face Eugene. Getting up, you looked at the sweet boy from next door in the eyes, searching for his thoughts.

"You've been avoiding me." He flinched. Your tone was harsher and colder than you intended, making you feel a pang of guilt but you didn't let it show. Instead, you crossed your arms on your chest, to protect yourself from things you didn't know.

"I- Hurting you was never my intention, it was actually what I wanted to avoid the most. But it'd seem I only hurt you more, I'm sorry, [Y/N]. " He was sincere, you could see it and it was harder to stay bitter about it. Your pride and feelings have been wounded, that much was a fact, but deep inside, you knew you simply couldn't be mad at sweet, loving boy Eugene. Heart and legal things.

"Can we be friends and not strangers again?" If you were in the right state of mind, you probably would've answered something witty and watch him laugh at you but you had enough of your games. The said and the unsaid, the little gestures and the avoidance. 

"We're not just friends and you fucking know it, Gene. We've always been more and if you don't want anything to do with it, it's okay. But don't you dare act as if we don't know each other and the next day as if we were best friends. We're more than that, you are more than that to me." And I hope I'm more than that to you too. From the sad and wounded look on Eugene's face, your unspoken thoughts must've been obvious. Like a fish out of water, he opened then closed his mouth, furrowing his eyebrows as he fumbled over his words. Finally, he spoke a meteors shower over your fragile world, crushing and burning it down.

"I enlisted. I'm leaving tomorrow." Whatever was left from your previous anger died in your throat and your heart started beating faster and faster in your chest.

"What? When? What about your condition?" You blurted out, not believing what Eugene just said. He smiled thinly at you, like he didn't know if he should let you see just how happy and proud he was to finally be able to enlist.

"I went to the marines office two weeks ago; as soon as I knew it was gone." Tears started to well in your eyes, your entire body to shake uncontrollably.

"Oh. That's... that's good. You must be relieved." You forced yourself to add just a bit of happiness in your tone for him, for you knew just how important it was to him, no matter how much your heart was breaking. Eugene gave a small nod, his fingers playing with the handlebars of his bike. At your feet, Deacon was sitting still, his tongue out and his head going from you to Eugene, and from Eugene to you, as if he was understanding far more than he was letting you know.

"I'll do my part." There it was. The pride, excitement of a young man going straight into a wolf's open mouth. What felt like hours was in fact just a few minutes, not even 5 but your mind was replaying it like a movie in a theater. At that moment, it hit you like a truck. Two weeks. The last time you've both been yourself together also was two weeks ago. You swallowed back the knot in your throat and prayed your voice wouldn't shake as much as your hands were, hidden behind your back in an awkward formal position.

"When were you going to tell me?" His silence said everything you needed to know as he shifted uncomfortably, his head down in shame and sorrow. He looked at you again through his eyelashes, apologies and guilt in his eyes but you couldn't take it anymore. Eugene was too kind for his own sake, wouldn't hurt a fly and by wanting not to hurt you ended up harming you in one of the most twisted ways. It hurt because you couldn't be mad at him, that his intentions were good and genuine. You took a deep breath and made a step ahead, one hand clenching on Eugene's white shirt, looking at him in the eyes. If yours were narrowed and dark, his were widened and looking everywhere but at your face. 

"You better not die, you hear me? You come back, in one piece and we'll sort it out. At all costs, you come back!" You almost shouted to his face, not caring if the whole street had gone out to see you. Eugene's gentle hands came over yours, squeezing it lightly. In your wounded pride and building fear, you refused to face him and see his reaction, knowing perfectly you'd find compassion, and sweet understanding.

Forcing the once forgotten home-made pie wrapped in a white clean cloth onto Eugene's chest, you've waited to see his hand cover it before you turned around, fighting the urge to rub your eyes so the moisture in them would go. 

"For your mother. From mine." You whispered between two heavy breaths, nails digging into your palms painfully.

Before Eugene could fully apprehend what was happening and get out of the trance he was in, you were already in front of your house, looking at the floor.

"[Y/N], wait, [Y/N]!" You didn't look back, even though you ached to. But in a few hours he wouldn't even be in town anymore so what was the point? You just felt numb and empty, as if floating over your own body. Closing the door behind you, you walked up the stairs in silence and came into your room, your legs giving up on you as soon as the door closed.

You weren't sure how long you stood there, knees up to your chest, arms surrounding them and head buried in the safe spot it made. Your throat was still tight, making it hard to breathe.

Perhaps, it all would've been better if you hadn't spoken to him. 

Silence would've been preserved, fragile but there. Now all you could hear were those words said with so much pride and relief over and over again. 

I enlisted.

All you could hear was the sound of your heart breaking.

[fan4196]

Snowstorm

Hey everyone even though spring is not too far here's a snowy little fic for you. Hope you like it. Enjoy!

Thank you @angry-slytherin for beta reading again.

-

It's the second day, now, that a massive snow storm is raging over Seattle. Hundreds of houses are without electricity, heat and water. People freeze and all hospitals are packed.

In times like this Jo isn't too mad about the fact that she hadn't left the hospital since the snow started falling two days ago. As soon as they heard the news about the upcoming storm, Alex and Jo decided to stay at the hospital and help wherever they were needed. Luckily daycare decided to stay open 24/7, so their kids were safe too and still able to play with their friends.

The last few hours were hectic; Jo had been in the OR for five hours helping Jackson oparate on a man with bad frostbite. She then had to sprint to the OB floor because one of her patients had collapsed and needed an emergency c-section. After mother and baby were saved and out of the woods she tried to page Alex. He didn't answer, which was pretty unusual for him; this made her anxiety rises, so she started looking for him. After paging him multiple times and peaking into almost every on-call room, she is now on her way to the attendings lounge.

"Hey guys. Hi Scoutie. Hi Wills." Jo greets the Shepherd-Lincoln family that was currently having lunch on the table in the lounge .

"Hi auntie Jojo," Both of the Shepherd-Lincoln kids greet their aunt back, waving their little hands at her.

"I'm looking for my husband, you didn't happen to see him, right?" Jo asks the two adults in the room, walking closer towards them.

"Actually we did. He was here probably half an hour ago and got his jacket and winter boots. Before I could ask what he was doing he was gone." Link answers his friend.

"It looked like he wanted to go outside." Amelia adds as she looked up from their daughters hair she just finished braiding.

"You got to be kidding. Did he take the car keys?" She asks a little annoyed by her husband.

"No I think it was only his jacket and boots." Her friend answers, trying to remember what he saw half an hour ago.

"Great." Annoyed by her husband's stupidity, Jo sits down on one of the chairs and changes into her own winter boots then puts her jacket on. "Pray for him that I won't kill him after I found him."

Amelia and Link share a laugh as Jo leaves the attendings lounge again.

After looking and asking probably every single person in the hospital she finally finds Alex in the little back courtyard behind the cafeteria.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Jo immediately snortes as she sees the sign in front of her.

"We are building a snowman, mommy." Emery squeals happyly, showing her mother the big snowman in front of her.

"I can see that, Emy." Jo smiles, before she turns to Alex and her smile is gone.

"Can you explain to me why you are out here with our kids while it's eight degrees outside?" Placing her hands on her hips, she looks at her husband, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I wanted them to have some fun in the snow. Look at them. You know how much they love snow." Alex tries to explain as he comes closer, slowly putting his arms around Jo's hip to test the water.

"Yeah but not when it's eight degrees outside. What the hell are they even wearing?" Jo asks turning in Alex's arms to look at her kids again.

"The peads floor has this box with kids clothes. So I went there and found the snow pants and gloves and this cute snow overall for Eden." He points toward where their kids were still builting their snowman.

"They are wearing dead kids clothes?" Jo immediately snorts.

"No those are donated clothes." He tries to save it but the look on his wife's face says it all.

"God, that's even worse." Hitting his arm, she pushes herself out of his grip.

"Mommy come here. Look at our snowman." Parker shouts happyly from behind them, getting his parents attention.

"It's a pretty snowman. Good job you three." Walking towards her three monsters she admires their snowman, not missing the big grins on her kids faces. They really do love the snow. Even though they were all born in summer, winter was their absolute favorite season.

"Daddy helped us." Emery tells her mom, looking proudly at their snowman.

"This is the best snowman I've ever seen. But aren't you freezing, guys? Mommy is freezing. We should go inside." Jo tries to get her kids inside, which she knew will not be an easy task.

"No mommy. I'm not cold." Her oldest answers.

"Mmhh me neither, mommy." Parker agrees with his sister.

"Eden, are you coming inside with mo- Oh my God." Jo can't but laugh, as she turns just to witness how the smallest Karev flops face first in a huge pile of snow. But instead of crying she starts movig her little arms and legs to make a snow angel.

As her arms and legs stop moving Alex quickly picks up their youngest and she bursts out in giggles as he starts cleaning the snow out of her face.

"Alright guys I think mommy is right we should get inside again. Eden's face is frozen." He says as he wiggles the nose of their two year old.

"Come on let's go have some hot chocolate in the attendings room." Jo adds, knowing that right after snow, hot chocolate follows really close on her kids list of favorite things.

"Yes!" All three little Karevs agree much to their parents relief and quickly make their way inside followed by their parents. Jo starts undressing the twins in the elevator; now in only their shirts, leggings and socks the twins race towards the attendings lounge, while Jo follows with their snow gear and Alex with Eden on his arm.

In the attendings room they were greeted by their uncle Link.

"Hey Penuts, hi Eden." He greets them with a wide smile and a wave.

"Hi uncle Link." They greet him back as they climb on the chairs at the table he was also sitting on.

"Where are you coming from?"

"My amazing husband thought it would be a great idea to play with them outside in the snow. So I found them behind the cafeteria building a snowman and making face down snow angels." Jo tells as she puts her kids snow gear in the closet.

"Sounds like fun." Link answers, mirroring the big smiles on the faces of the Karev kids.

"It was so much fun, uncle Link!" He gets as a answer from the two oldest.

"Oh no you don't sit down you can go straight to the bathroom and give your kids a bath to warm up." Jo protests before Alex could sit down.

As she undresses Eden from her snow overall, Alex undresses himself from his snow wear and then disappeares in the bathroom of the attendings lounge with their kids. As soon as the door closes Jo flops down on one of the chairs her kids just sat on.

"Sometimes I wanna kill him so bad." She moans, closing her eyes for a moment as her head falls back.

"No you don't. You're saying this all the time, but you never did it. He wanted to have fun with your kids in the snow. You actually can't be mad at him for wanting your kids to have fun." Link tries to smooth Alex's stupid action.

"Who steals snow clothes from the peds floor and goes outside with his kids when it's eight degrees?" She asks, looking at Link again, arms crossed over her chest.

"Well ok- maybe he didn't though it through-"

"Yeah he clearly didn't. He never does. He's an idiot, but I knew that when I let him knock me up. Also their smiles were so big and their giggles- He's probably not the most crappy dad for my kids." She smiles, shrunking.

They talk for another half an hour when they get interrupt by the bathroom door opening.

"Mommy all warm." A budass naked two year old screams as she comes running towards her mom.

"You are? That's great-"

"Jo." Alex calls from the bathroom door throwing a towel towards his wife to dry their youngest. "She also needs a new diaper."

"Yeah I can see that." She answers, throwing a look at her husband.

"Come here Eden, uncle Link will dry you while mommy gets a new diaper." Link offers, taking the towel from Jo to wrap it around his niece.

While he dries Eden, Jo gets out the bag with change clothes and diapers that they store in the closet for accidents.

She quickly puts a diaper on her two year old and dresses her in warm clothes before she takes some of the twins clothes to the bathroom.

"Perfect. Thank you." Alex kisses her as he takes the clothes from her hands.

How could she be angry at this man? Link was right; he just wanted their kids to enjoy the snow and have a little fun. He is a great Dad, so she couldn't really be mad.

When everyone was dressed again they had their hot chocolates and some cookies and then decided to take a little nap in one of the on-call rooms. With the twins on the top of the bunk bed and Eden on the bottom one, Alex and Jo had to share the single bed, which they weren't to upset about actually. As they laid in each other's arms, enjoying the silence and little snores of their kids they realized once again that this is exactly where they wanted to be. Even though it started snowing again outside and they knew that they would probably get paged soon to new cases they wouldn't want to change a thing about their life.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

Carry Me Home (A Din Djarin/Reader Fic)

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

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

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

Pairings: Din Djarin/Reader; Din Djarin/You

Rating: M(ature)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sea Like Glass Ch 1: Here

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

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

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

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

Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot.

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

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

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

Most of the time, anyway.

“How’s it looking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid.

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

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

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

Was he… giving you space?

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

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

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

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

“How much time?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

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

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s grease,” Mando supplied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.” He inclined his helmet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where had they gone?

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

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

Had he heard something, too?

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

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

“What?” you asked with a frown.

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

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

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

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

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

And this time, you recognized it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another burst of static. Then…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you had to take the kid with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bad news?

The jungle was no longer quiet around you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A clearing riddled with bodies, both living and dead.

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

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

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

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

The poor bastard never made it.

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

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

And there were dozens of the beasts left.

What were you going to do?

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

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

The same couldn’t be said for you.

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

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

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

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

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

Mando shouted your name, but you ignored him.

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

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

Twenty meters… fifteen… ten…

Now.

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

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

This was your chance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You brought the kid?” he growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the beacon in your cuff was beeping like mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not… Mando.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’m so… tired,” he sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bacta worked fast… but not that fast.

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

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

“He’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked in shock at the bounty hunter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe that was blood loss?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal,” he rumbled back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Best Way for a Spy

A bright flash of lightning streaked across the sky. A thunderclap and a baritone bout of rumbling followed on its heels. The smell of rain crept through the air.

Alone on the muddy road wandered a figure of androgynous shape, robed in fancy attire, in all manners of bright red and deep black and gleaming gold. A porcelain mask of beauteous shape concealed their face. And they stopped. Stared skyward. Pondered.

Evening neared and the cloudy sky had stolen away the sun, bathing the idyllic countryside in a gloomy twilight, a fittingly bleak azure to accompany the chill in the air. A lonesome inn stood by the roadside. Warm and orange lights from the inviting hearth inside lured the masked figure.

The best way for a spy to stay hidden was to hide in plain sight. So spake their mentor. Thus, they always stayed on the road to deliver important messages. For spies who slinked across the rolling hillocks tended to get confronted and questioned more thoroughly by the knights-errant and the militiamen and the inquisitors. The spies and thieves who dressed in muted colors; those who dared to look inconspicuous, they always drew the most attention.

Hence the colorful jester's attire. The fancy mask, unsettling and like to draw questions, but also a face easily replaced.

First drops of rain bounced off the porcelain and turned the garb a shade darker wherever they landed, soaked up by the fabric.

A soft sigh escaped the thin line where the mask's mouth allowed its wearer to breathe, and the spy set into motion. They approached the inn's entrance.

The Boot of the Cockfosters, read the letters on the sign outside the inn. The colors painting the rooster dancing on a treasure chest had faded years ago. The iron rings from which the board hung now squeaked as the signpost swayed in the wind.

The spy, now going by the name of Gladstone—or Rain 'o Blades, or just "Rain", as people in the savvy of their trade referred to them—pushed inside. The wood of the door and the floorboards creaked. They stopped just beyond the threshold, just outside the weather's reach.

The heads of three people turned. Three men sitting at a table by the fireplace, huddled over tankards of ale. They stared. Studied the eerily serene porcelain mask, the garish garb. Did not notice the many knives strapped to Rain's body in different spots, concealed by frivolously fancy layers of cloth.

The men's eyes only ever rested on the darkness of the eyeholes of the mask, and on the short dirk sheathed at the spy's side.

"Who are you?" asked one of the men at the table. A local, given the ring of his accent.

Rain shook their head. Slowly. Tired.

The men still stared.

"Here for a room for the night?"

Rain nodded. Firm and resolute.

"Come, sit with us. My price for boarding is fair, and fairer yet if you share a drink at my table."

"And good news," said the next. "So few guests here this season that you need not share a bed. Unless you want."

Raucous guffaws exploded out from the three men's throats.

Rain approached their table. Crept with strange grace. Some of the beads and gilded rings on the spy's dress jingled.

Always jingled when Rain wanted to be heard. And stayed silent when they snuck.

The keen ear that seeks the sound always misses the silence, so spake the master. The best way for a spy to sneak was to be noticed whenever they wanted one to notice them, so less attention was paid when they wanted one to not notice.

The men watched Rain's approach with a strange glint in their eyes. A lopsided smirk here, carrying a smug sense of superiority; a leering, lustful gaze there, seeking for a feminine form hidden underneath the jester's cloth.

"You some sorta artist? A dancer mayhap?" asked another one of the men.

"Looks like you lost your carnival, eh?" asked another.

More guffaws from the round.

While rain loudly poured from the clouds, drenching the countryside, Rain stayed silent. Stopped midway across the room. Bowed deeply, flowing like water. The fabric rustled; the jewelry jingled. They flowed from bowing into crossing slender arms before their center, and spinning around in a series of elegant pirouettes, excess cloth flapping and twirling colorfully as Rain finished the series of dancing moves with a dazzling somersault.

The rings jingled one last time as they landed in a striking pose, one hand pointed at the men, splaying all fingers to punctuate the performance.

Another rumble of thunder ripped through the heavens outside the inn. Another flash of lightning lit up the windows. Then Rain bowed again.

The three men chuckled nervously. That made way to clapping and cheering in welcome response to the spy's impressive display.

One slapped the table and waved Rain over to sit with them, and the spy took the last steps. Only trained eyes would notice how easily and deftly they pulled out a chair and slid onto its hardwood seat without a sound.

The grin faded from the innkeeper's face. He leaned over the table, grabbed his tankard, and raised it between them.

"Good show, good show. But in these whereabouts, it's not proper polite to wear hoods and hats 'n masks in the presence of your fellow countrymen, jester."

Rain nodded. Slowly.

A hand gloved in black and silver finery crept to the mask. Into the hood. A latch and buckle clicked, thin fingers clutched the faceguard and removed it.

A lock of curly black hair flopped down before a narrow forehead, a set of piercing amber eyes, and the angular features of a long and symmetrical face devoid of facial hair. Rain's thin lips twitched, suppressing a smile in response to seeing the faces of two of the men fall—having expected to see a woman's face revealed behind the mask, now uncertain over what they beheld. The third was intrigued.

This range of reactions—it always amused Rain.

"Come, drink," said the innkeeper. His face beamed less with enthusiasm and more with curiosity as he turned.

Slapped the table again, causing the plate with the candle and a knife on it to clatter.

He shouted over his shoulder.

"Woman! We have a new guest for the night! More ale!"

Soon waddled from another room a woman dressed like a maid, muted earthen colors as her garb and skin flushed red from the heat of the kitchen.

Her eyes lingered for too long on Rain, searching the jester's figure for defining form and drinking in the sharp features of their face. The innkeeper noticed the awkward pause, and the spy felt his burning glare as it rested upon them.

"Give this good man his drink and get on with it," snarled the innkeeper.

Rain bothered not to correct him. Rain never did.

The woman fumbled with the fourth tankard of ale and placed it in front of Rain, some of its contents sloshing over the edge and splashing the tabletop, and not once did she break eye contact with the mysterious jester-dressed spy.

She had a strange air about her. The spy struggled sometimes to read overly subtle expressions, and the long road and the longer day had been too long for them to dwell on whatever they could have read in her face. Sorrow, perhaps. Despair, possibly.

Rain's lips twitched again, this time forming a timid smile. They nodded. The innkeeper's wife eked out a crooked smile of her own—genuine, warm, but feeble.

"There we go," said the innkeeper.

The very moment Rain picked up the fourth tankard presented to them, the innkeeper clapped a meaty palm onto Rain's bony shoulder and hugged them close, clinking their tankards together in a motion of merriment. The woman retreated into the kitchen, taking her time to peel her gaze away from Rain's captivating presence.

Asked one of the other men, "You don't talk much, eh?"

Rain shook their head. Kept a straight face.

The best way for a spy to be forgotten is to give them only what you want them to remember. The less you spoke, the harder it was to recall how exactly you sounded. So spake the master. These men would only remember the garish colors and the fanciful dancing, reckoned Rain.

"I know what I said, and I am a man of my word, but I'll tell you what. Drink's on me, stranger. You wanna pay less for the room, then you let us hear your voice—just once."

The innkeeper grinned. Missing a front tooth. Bad breath, damp and warm upon Rain's cheek.

Rain smiled, though they had to force it. It did not reach the spy's eyes.

"You're too kind," said Rain. Smoky, silky, and smooth.

One of the men gaped while the other squinted, both still unable to determine the spy's gender.

Copper coins jingled as they danced on the table. One of them almost landed on its edge, then toppled over to join the rest. Nobody had ever seen the "jester" produce them, or where on their body the currency had come from. Like all good magicians, they only saw what Rain wanted them to pay attention to.

Rain lifted the tankard to their lips and gulped away. And gulped. And gulped.

The three men watched in stunned silence. The logs in the fireplace crackled, exploding with a tiny shower of embers. Rain continued to gulp away until having downed at least half the tankard.

They finally paused, swallowing before a belch could arise. Exhaled sharply.

The men still stared. Brows arched, their curiosity still burning.

"It has been a long day for me, so if you'll excuse me, I shall retire for the night," said Rain. "Thank you very much for all your hospitality."

Smiled again, this time more in earnest. Gently put the tankard down and slipped out of the innkeeper's uncomfortable embrace—and out of the chair. Slinked away to the nearest flight of stairs. All eyes on them.

Rain swiveled and performed another low bow, as elegant as the entrance they had made, permitting rings to jingle once more.

Said one of the three, "G'night."

The other two nodded as a courtesy. Then they exchanged curious glances amongst each other, and Rain was already up the stairs, making nary a sound.

They poked their head into the rooms to confirm they were meant for guests, then chose the one in which the weakest smells lingered. It still reeked of onions and stew, but it would serve. The spy opened the window to let some air in while undressing. This attire always cost a lot of time to get in and out of.

Just like armor.

Armor for the identity.

The best way for spies to protect themselves from harm was to wear the proper clothing. For the right attire helped others manage expectations and manipulate them into not ever even wishing to do the spy any harm. So spake their master.

Outside, the storm whipped heavy drops of rain against the window, soon closed for the night by the spy to keep the cold and wet elements at bay. The sound of the downpour and the long and thunderous rumbles had a soothing quality to them, lulling them to sleep. Slowly but surely.

It had been a long day.

Rain jolted awake.

The rain had stopped. The storm had subsided.

The darkness of night had blanketed almost everything, broken only by silver moonlight that poured in through the window.

Neither the spy nor the man standing inside the ajar door to the room had seen how fast it happened, only the flash of the dirk, gleaming in that moonlight, held out in front of Rain. A sharp tip pointed at the man.

He blinked. One of the three men from earlier—not the innkeeper.

The smug sense of superiority admixed with a hint of fear as he went cross-eyed in staring at the pointy tip of the blade.

Said the man, "Pardon. Did not know you was in here." Drunken slurring rounded off each word.

He grinned, but it looked forced.

Rain just stayed sitting in bed, measuring the four paces of distance between them, the blade held steady and pointed at the bothersome man's face. They said nothing in response.

"I'll be leaving, then. Unless you want some company to warm your bed?"

Rain shook their head.

He grunted and closed the door behind him.

Rain sheathed the dirk in one fluid motion, then slumped back down into the uncomfortable straw-stuffed bed. The wooden frame creaked.

They sighed. Clamped their eyes shut and twisted and turned under the heavy, coarse blankets, trying to find slumber anew. Exhaustion from the road returned. Rain's world went dark once more.

Commotion from downstairs made Rain jolt awake again.

More time had passed.

The moon had wandered across the sky, judging by how its silver rays now bathed the interior of this guest room in a different light.

The innkeeper shouted something. Swearing, muffled through door and floor and walls. His maid-wife shouted something back.

Things clattered.

They fought with words and objects.

The familiar sound of a slap echoed through these halls.

Sobbing. Another slap, a cry in pain. More clattering.

Rain twitched. Twisted and turned. Rubbed their eyes, pinched the bridge of their nose, then gazed at the sheathed dirk leaning against the wall right within reach beside the bed.

Fighting the urge to act, they closed their eyes again, hoping to get more sleep. The noise might stop soon, after all. Why endanger the objective by interfering in some animated lover's spat?

The best way for a spy to succeed on their mission was to not get distracted. Distractions led to mistakes, and mistakes led to failure. In the end, the mission was all that mattered. So spake the master.

There was no need to get violent, reckoned Rain. They could just threaten the innkeeper a little bit to mediate matters, perhaps. The spy was very good at mediation. People rarely got hurt. Just a gesture here, a little threat there, and they would be quiet again.

But this was permitting distraction—even just thinking about ways to silence the fight downstairs. Rain perished the thought, and Rain's mind quieted again. The noises downstairs had stopped. Perhaps sleep would come again easily.

Several slaps followed, making Rain flinch more each time. The wet sound of something hard like wood or metal hitting human flesh. Repeatedly. The sobbing choked, sounds of pain and misery mixed in from the woman's subdued wailing, interrupted by brutal strikes.

The spy emitted a soft sigh.

Swung their feet out of bed with the grace of a trained dancer. Slipped on the jester's jacket—a tunic lined with several hidden daggers.

Rain made no sound on the way down.

Found the innkeeper standing over his maid-wife, who lay on the ground, sprawled out. Blood had sprayed iron pots and the door to the pantry. The innkeeper held the crude weapon in his hands; a now-bent pan clutched in a meaty fist.

A single slipper of the wife lay elsewhere, astray, the other still dangling from her twitching foot. It smelled of cooked chicken and rust in the kitchen. Two smells Rain never connected but would not easily forget.

A dark pool spread out underneath the woman. She tried to lift herself up from it, but her arms buckled like the legs of a newborn foal. Funny how closely that death and new lives danced together, reckoned Rain.

She looked like she was dying. They would have to act quickly if the innkeeper's wife was to survive the night. And the man raised his improvised weapon high over his head, ready to bring it crashing down in another, potentially fatal blow.

The final step that the spy took to enter the kitchen fully, they allowed some rings on the jacket to jingle.

The innkeeper's head snapped around. He glared at Rain with murder in his eyes.

Growled with a sneer, "What in the hells do you want?"

Rain said nothing.

Let the daggers do the talking. Let them spell out the name.

Rain 'o Blades.

The innkeeper gurgled and the bent pot fell from his hand, banging against the floor and ringing out from there until it stopped bouncing. He pawed helplessly at the knife sticking out of his throat and gripped the one in his belly with a trembling hand.

Rain had crossed the distance with little pause, a deadly pirouette accompanying the motion as two more small blades gleamed in the glow of fire and moonlight. Blood sprayed and then two more knives were sticking out of the man's body. Yet more blood splattered from his insides as Rain yanked out the first two to spell his demise.

The man continued to gurgle as he clutched his opened wounds where blood pumped out at an alarming rate—alarming to the man, at least. A cacophony of falling kitchen utensils and pots erupted as he dragged the entire surface of a table down to the floor with him in his final fall.

"You're going to pay, you basta—"

Whoever of the other two men had entered the same door as Rain just to utter that oath, two more knives greeted him. No gurgling escaped his throat, just a hoarse groan as he slowly teetered back and forth, a face gaping with surprise and one eye wide open while the other had a knife sticking out of it.

Rain already knelt by the woman in the puddle of blood before the dead man hit the floor. The spy turned her over and cradled her head in their hand.

Eyes white, rolled back. Her crinkled chin quivered, allowing only unintelligible whimpers as the lifeblood continued to spill from her skull.

The spy had seen this sort of trauma before. Too late to save her, no such magic commanded they. The only magic Rain knew was mundane, the methods of toying with simple men's senses, the art of deception, and the sorcery of blades in the dark.

Gingerly, they placed the woman back down, bedding her in her own growing pool of blood.

They produced another knife from the jacket and inserted it. Lovingly. Slipped it right in, underneath the chin, driving the blade right from the soft gap into the brain. Stopping that mouth from flapping uselessly like a fish suffocating on land.

Ending it quickly for her.

The best way for a spy to complete their mission was to complete it without bloodshed, because blood always left a trail. So spake the master. But sometimes, death was inevitable. So, also, spake the master.

And sometimes, death was a mercy. So thought Rain.

They held her in her final moments. Her spark of life slowly dulled until fate snuffed it out entirely.

Rain slowly rose to their feet again. Undergarments stained with dark crimson from the carnage.

Wooden floorboards creaked. Something heavy hit the ground. Rain was out of the kitchen like a flash of lightning. The third man fled towards the inn's front door. Ripped it open, letting it slam against the wall.

He had seen everything.

When all had gone wrong, the best way for a spy to stay hidden was to leave no witnesses. So spake the master.

A lesson Rain always despised but understood the necessity of.

The third man took five flying daggers to the back. Rain did not rush, hurling two at a time with deadly precision, walking at an almost leisurely pace after him, slowing him down with each additional knife launched. A sixth blade flew right into the man's nape, and he collapsed outside, face down in the mud.

His hand helplessly clenched the muck, and mud oozed out between his fingers, just as painfully slow as the life escaped his body and his soul passed on to the afterlife.

Rain sighed once more.

Looked skyward. Observed and pondered.

The rolling thunder rumbled farther in the distance. Though the clouds still hung heavy in the moonlit sky, they had parted, and the rain had long stopped.

Not even a faint drizzle remained.

A short rest at best, this was no longer a safe place to stay. Lights still glowed inside the inn, but it had fallen deathly silent.

Now, Rain would have to go against the best ways for a spy to do anything.

Fully garbed and armed again, all daggers cleaned and back in their rightful place, and the porcelain mask back on their face; Rain stood outside the burning inn. Flames licked outwards from the ground floor windows, and the inside of the establishment glowed brighter than ever before.

The Boot of the Cockfosters would be little more than a husk come morning.

By the time anybody could investigate, the spy would have long snuck away across the hillocks, spending a miserable night in a cold crypt to get some muchly needed sleep.

But before all of that, Rain o' Blades unfolded the folded parchment that had been hidden inside their jacket this entire time.

The message.

The mission.

The best way for a spy to ensure their survival was to never read any messages they had been tasked to deliver. So spake the master. And so, Rain ignored the lesson, as this night had been a lesson of its own.

The note read:

PZHZERI UZROVW ZMW RH YFIRVW. GSLFTS IVTIVGGZYOV GL VMW GSV YOLLWORMV GSFH, GSV PMRTSG’H XSROW NFHG WRV HL GSV UZNROB’H HVXIVGH TL GL GSV TIZEV DRGS GSVN. HL HKVZPH GSV NZHGVI. NZPV RG JFRXP.

Rain studied the note. Let their eyes scan over the cryptic arrangement of letters. Then again. And again. All the while searching memories for different ciphers to unlock the meaning of this message.

Once they had understood, anger guided their slender hands—crumpling up the parchment and stuffing it back into their jacket in a huff.

The best way for a spy to live long and die peacefully in their bed one day was to carefully heed the master's every lesson. The best way for a spy to succeed at any mission was to not get personally or emotionally involved. So spake the master.

But that night, Rain decided that their master's way was no longer the best way. Watching the inn burn brightly, they found a new resolve. A new purpose. Someone to protect. A quest to prevent being a mere witness of another innocent death at best, or an instrument of murder at worst. A quest to shed any willful blindness towards the woes of the unfortunate.

That night, walking away from the inn burning bright, Rain decided to blaze their own trail. To no longer serve as a spy. To no longer bow to any kings or masters.

To make their own best way.

—Submitted by Wratts

[chrismho]

Lakmé

Summary: Is this not the closest I’ve ever been to living?  The Kurosaki Family invites Rukia along with them to the Opera. Ichiruki/Rukia-centric one-shot inspired by the opera scene in Moonstruck. Set a little bit after FB arc.

PS: It’s a pretty famous song but if you haven’t heard Flower Duet  before, I highly rec you give this rendition a listen, it’s breathtaking! : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9NK-EbUAao

“ICHIGOOOOOOO! RUKI-CHAAAAAN!” 

SMACK!

A day in the Kurosaki household was not complete without at least one collision between Isshin’s face and either Ichigo’s foot or fist. 

“I don't know how many times I have to tell you, old man: QUIT DOING THAT!” Ichigo roared, swiftly kicking his father back to the other side of the living room.

Rukia waited patiently for Isshin to complete this strange ritual, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, Masaki!” Isshin sobbed, throwing himself upon his poster. “H-how cruel, how unloving our son has become! And Rukia at his side, so pure and lovely! W-we truly have here a beauty and the beast!”

“SHUT IT!”

 The dark-haired shinigami watched them butt heads and felt a vague sense of nostalgia swirl inside her. I didn’t realize how much I…missed this, she silently admitted to herself. Seventeen months had passed and Rukia kept herself busy with work--very busy. Too busy to stop and realize just how much she missed life in Karakura. But now that she was back, the realization was sudden and overwhelming; she missed late night hollow-hunting, the bustling hallways at Karakura High, she missed Keigo, Mizuiro, Tatsuki, she missed indulging in her schoolgirl act, pretending that she was human and truly one of them. But most of all, she missed him. That was a realization that had set Rukia very much on edge. Ichigo was a comrade, a partner, a friend. A friend she found herself pining for in those seventeen months. She recalled a saying she learned in the human world, something along the lines of “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. 

Absence had only made Rukia’s heart confused as hell. 

Though almost two years had passed, her relationship with Ichigo picked up almost right where they left off. They bickered, laughed, they understood each other without need for words. But…now there was something new. No, not new; it had always been there. But now....now it was loud. And hard to ignore. It was something that Rukia couldn’t quite name, but its presence was undeniable. It wasn’t uncomfortable...but… but it was there. 

“What do you say, Rukia-chan? Oh, please say you’ll be joining us?”

Isshin’s question snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Eh? I-I’m sorry?” she asked, startled. 

“THE OPERA! An old buddy and colleague of mine has season tickets to the opera house here in Karakura. He’s away on a business trip so he gave me tickets to tomorrow’s show. We haven’t seen you in so long, the girls would just love if you came! SAY YOU’LL JOIN US!” 

“Don’t push her, Dad!” Ichigo said irritably. He turned to Rukia but didn’t meet her gaze. “Seriously, y-you don’t have to go. It’s really boring, the last time I went I wanted to die-”

“OH, BUT THAT’S NOT TRUE,” Isshin cut off gleefully, shoving Ichigo out of the way and putting an arm around Rukia. “The last time we went, Ichigo was but a boy. Though only eight at the time, he was so moved by the performance that he wept and blubbered all night long--” 

“HEY! N-NO I DIDN��T!”

“Yes, you did!” Karin called boredly from the kitchen. 

Ichigo hunched up his shoulders and scowled, his ears and cheeks an angry shade of red. 

“I’d be delighted to attend this...this ‘op-ohr-a’, Mr. Kurosaki!” Rukia declared, a cheerful and sparkly smile on her face. “Excellent! Come tomorrow evening at 7, and dress your very best, my dear! The opera is a most formal event,” Isshin beamed. 

“Whatever. And get your arm off her!” Ichigo grumbled, yanking Rukia away from his father and up the stairs to his room. 

“Ah, young love,” Isshin sighed after them.  “Eager to get her to your bedroom, I see? Yes, yes, I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do, if you catch my drift--” 

“SHUT UP!” Ichigo screamed over his shoulder. He hurried Rukia inside his room and slammed the door shut. 

“Nice to see the family dynamic hasn’t changed,” Rukia said, a sly smile on her face. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall alongside his bed. 

“1000 Yen says my dad’s got an ear pressed up to the door right now,” Ichigo replied. He sounded annoyed but there was a humorous glint in his eye. He looked up and met her gaze. They both dissolved into a quiet, gentle chuckle. 

“Feel free to sit, you know,” Ichigo said, gesturing towards the bed. “I know it’s been a while but time’s never stopped you from acting like you own this place.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m fine here,” Rukia responded, cursing herself for answering him a little too vehemently. Ichigo looked at her questioningly, and Rukia could have sworn she saw a very, very faint blush creep on his cheeks. A moment of silence passed. 

Tension. That’s what it was. 

“So what is this opera thing, anyway? I just realized I agreed to something I know nothing about,” Rukia asked, eager to change the subject and genuinely curious about this “most formal event” that moved a young Ichigo to tears. 

“It’s, uh, like a play. But with only singing. Really loud, annoying singing. And fancy costumes. And they usually end in tragedy.” Ichigo said, scratching the back of his head. 

Her amusement at his fumbling explanation made Rukia forget her discomfort earlier. She smirked and flopped onto his bed. “Sounds like fun. So this loud, annoying play moved you to tears, eh?”

“IT DID NOT-Hmph, *ahem*, It did not move me to tears, I told you already that I found it boring. And I SAID YOU COULD SIT ON MY BED, NOT LIE ON IT!” 

“Oh, Daddy, th-they’re on his bed already! They certainly are fast, aren’t they?” a muffled voice that sounded suspiciously like Yuzu’s could be heard saying from the other side of the door. 

Ichigo’s left eye twitched. 

He swung the door open and Isshin and Yuzu tumbled onto the floor. “SCRAM!” He roared, shaking his fist as they hurriedly fled the scene. 

_____

Giant, crystal chandeliers hung over the U-shaped hall, twinkling prettily in the warm, golden light. The house was packed with many well-dressed and well-to-do people. The euphony of various conversations and chatter rang pleasantly in the air. If Ichigo had been moved to tears by the place alone, Rukia would understand; it was truly, truly beautiful. She tilted her head back, taking in the glittering chandeliers and intricate paintings of flowers and stars on the ceiling. She must have looked visibly awestruck, for she turned to her side to find Ichigo looking back at her, an odd, almost tender smile on his face. She gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. “What? What’s with that dumb look?” She snapped. 

“AGH! What the hell, Rukia?” He glared, letting out a sharp exhale before putting on another smile, this one more teasing. “N-nothing, I was just thinking...the last time I was here as a kid, I remember looking up at the paintings on the ceiling and counting all the stars as a way to pass the time. I guess I was just wondering if you were doing the same.” 

Rukia blinked. It was rare for Ichigo to divulge….well, really anything about his past and his memories. To share this random little anecdote felt oddly intimate. She felt her cheeks warm slightly and turned away. “Heh, no I wasn’t counting, I was just...admiring. She looked back up and couldn’t help but laugh. “Ichigo, there are hundreds of stars, up there! Did you really count them all?” He looked up too and smiled wryly, shaking his head. “Nah, the show always started and the lights would go off before I ever finished. But...I like that I don’t know. It’s this weird, unfinished mystery that just...stays up there on the ceiling, y’know?”

His amber eyes and fiery-orange hair glowed in the warm light of the hall. He glowed. Does he even know how handsome he looks in that stupid tux? Rukia thought, torn between feeling endeared and annoyed. And spewing out weird, lovely musings like that, too. What an idiot. 

She looked down at the program in her lap. In intricate, gold cursive, the words Lakmé: Opera en 3 Actes shone smack dab in the middle. “Is...is this in French?” she asked. “Yeah, but it’s okay; you see those black screens above the curtains up there? They’ll have translations…”

The lights began to dim. 

Quickly, stealthily, Ichigo stole one last look at Rukia in full light. She was already a beautiful woman but tonight she practically glowed. With the help of Yuzu and Karin, she had parted her cropped hair to one side and teased it into elegant waves. She had reluctantly let them put makeup on her, too, and Ichigo had a hard time keeping his eyes away from her lips, soft and painted red like a pomegranate. She was wearing a dress that Ishida had surprised her with a few weeks ago, a wine-colored sleeveless piece that gently hugged her form and flowed past her knees. Yeah. She glowed. It was annoying. 

Y’know, I bet she knows exactly how good she looks and is only pretending to be oblivious. He thought. What an idiot.

The red velvet curtains pulled back to reveal what looked like a stone courtyard on stage, adorned with all sorts of plants and exotic flowers. But the set was nothing compared to the music that emanated from the pit in front of the stage. She’d never heard anything like this. Not on the streets of Rukongai, nor in the banquets and gatherings in Seireitei. What was it Ichigo had called them? An orchestra. An orchestra, an orchestra, an orchestra. She had to remember that word. How so many voices, so many different strange and wonderful-looking instruments, could come together and create a sound so unified and sweet amazed her. 

A procession of people dressed in long, unstitched garments came onto the stage, singing words Rukia could not understand. A big man, clad in a costume beard and yellow robe, opened his mouth and began to sing a solo.

Rukia froze. 

It was obvious what he was doing required much skill, but….he sounded...funny? Rukia narrowed her eyes and fought a smile, trying to reason with this deep voice that shook with such a fervent vibrato. 

She heard a snicker two chairs away from her, and turned to see Karin in the dim light, her face contorted humorously. Rukia was about to join her before Isshin turned to his daughter with a glare so scary and dangerous that any humor at all in both Karin and Rukia was effectively vanquished. 

So entranced was she by the costumes and lights and flutes and cellos that the dark-haired shinigami found herself forgetting to glance up at the translations above the stage. She looked just enough times to gather that this was set in a temple in which rites were being performed. The ritual ended, and as smoothly as they glided in, the singers drifted back off the stage, leaving behind two women. 

The women, arm in arm, walked down to the “river” on stage to gather flowers. The one dressed in red turned to her companion and began to sing:

Viens, Mallika, les lianes en fleurs

Jettent déjà leur ombre

Sur le ruisseau sacré

qui coule, calme et sombre,

Eveillé par le chant des oiseaux tapageurs.

Rukia froze once more. This time, there was no urge to laugh. Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her ears tingled. What, Rukia thought shakily. What is this?

The other, dressed in a simpler, sun-colored dress answered her friend in a voice just as haunting and sweet:

Oh! maîtresse, c'est l'heure

où je te vois sourire,

L'heure bénie où je puis lire

Dans le coeur toujours fermé

De Lakmé!

 Rukia clenched her teeth, maintaining a stone-cold Kuchiki expression while her soul inside shook and quaked. 

What is this?

                                                 Dôme épais le jasmin

                        Sous le dôme épais où le blanc jasmin

Like flowers landing on the surface of a pond, their voices floated, glided, rippled through the hall, lighter than air. 

                                                    À la rose s'assemble

                                        À la rose s'assemble

The melody seemed to follow some invisible wave that drifted down, then up, then down, and down again. It was elegantly unpredictable, like the path a feather takes on the way to the ground.

Rukia’s throat caught. The swelling in her chest bewildered and almost angered her. This...this beauty was almost cruel. Her eyes felt hot. Her face remained expressionless.

                                                 Rive en fleurs, frais matin,

                             Sur la rive en fleurs, riant au matin,

I never did get the chance to understand what it is to live, Rukia thought. She had, in fact, died when she was only a baby. 

I....could see traces of what life was in the youth and excitement of Ichigo and his friends...the sound of their laughter, their chatter about the future.

                                                 Nous appellent ensemble.

                                       Viens, descendons ensemble.

With each rise and fall of their voices, Rukia felt as though her soul was expanding. The singers’ figures became blurry behind the tears that began to well in her eyes.

But this…this swelling in my chest, and the goosebumps on my skin. My throat...feels tight. 

A tear broke free and began to trickle down her cheek. 

Is this not the closest I’ve ever been to living?

Ichigo gazed steadily at the stage, letting himself float and drift with the melody. It was no wonder the Flower Duet was such a famous song, even to those unfamiliar with opera. He cleared his throat as quietly as he could and turned to check on Rukia. His jaw clenched. 

                                               Ah! glissons en suivant

                           Doucement glissons; De son flot charmant

She stood absolutely still, upright, her small, pale hands clenched into fists on her lap. She did not look at him. He watched with well-hidden astonishment as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She stared solemnly at the women on stage, blinking slowly. Her amethyst eyes glistened with the water and salt that filled them. 

                                                         Le courant fuyant

                                  Suivons le courant fuyant

A lump began to form in Ichigo’s throat. He turned away, back to the stage. He couldn’t put into words what she was feeling, but he felt he understood it. He didn’t want to intrude on her moment, but he also wanted to let her know that she was not alone. Even when they were worlds apart, he’d find a way to reach her. Slowly, his hand moved towards hers. 

His fingertips lightly brushed her wrist, and traveled up towards the back of her hand. 

Rukia kept her eyes fixed on the singers. She gave no indication that she even noticed his hand on hers. A twinge of disappointment and embarrassment stung him. I...probably ruined her moment. I shouldn’t have-

His heart stopped. Silently, suddenly, the slender, cold hand seized his own. She intertwined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. She did not look at him. 

                                                     Dans l'onde frémissante,

                                      Dans l’onde frémissante

To this day Ichigo couldn’t say what the hell compelled him to do what he did next. Maybe it was the nearly two years of separation, or the swelling music and stupid, glittering, chandeliers messing with his head, or the way she gripped his fingers with such a quiet and loving intensity, or a mix of all of those things. Slowly, he raised her hand up, off her lap. 

                                                   D'une main nonchalante,

                                      D’une main nonchalante,

Rukia stirred, tilting her head slightly towards him. He brought her hand up to his face and slowly, gently, firmly, pressed his lips against her knuckles. Rukia’s eyes flashed wide open, and now she turned to look at him. Another tear rolled silently down her otherwise stoic face. Ichigo opened his eyes and looked back at her. 

                                            Dôme épais, blanc jasmin,

                             Sous le dôme épais, Sous le blanc jasmin,

Nothing was said, but a thousand words were exchanged between them. Ichigo lowered her hand but did not let go. They held their gaze for a moment longer, then turned their heads back towards the stage. 

                                                      Nous appellent ensemble!

                                    Ah! descendons ensemble!

[wavesmp3]

our corner of the world

pairing: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader genre/theme: apocalyptic au wc. 2k 

you come across him on the abandoned strawberry patch in the spring. when you first see him it’s through the barrel of your gun. you wait for him to beg or plead for you not to kill him or for him to make some indication that he’s no longer human. 

but he does neither. 

and you hesitate. 

you’re not one to show mercy, but something about his clean clothes and tousled blond hair stops you from pulling the trigger. 

“are you Gone?” you try asking, praying for some sign that he’s human and for another that he’s worth your mercy. 

he doesn’t look scared, laying on the brown dirt between the strawberry bushes. he looks free. he looks alive. 

but then he laughs, and you think he looks kinda high. 

he whispers, “i’m not Gone yet. put the gun down and lay with me.” for some reason you do. and as you settle down next to him, your dirty and mud-stained clothes centimeters away from his crisp, clean dress shirt, you assume that the divide between you two is much greater than the few centimeters keeping you apart. “and don’t worry, i’m as human as they get.”

you turn your head so that you can watch his face. and when his lips turn up in a dazed smile, you think he must be more human than you. 

“i’m jeonghan,” he says to you, meeting your eyes, “thank you for laying down with me.” 

you break the eye-contact and look up towards the sky. you don’t remember the sky ever looking this blue before. 

he’s still looking at you. you hope he’s waiting for you to say your own name back. you don’t. instead you say: “jeonghan’s a nice name.” then, as an afterthought you add, “let’s watch the clouds together.”

he complies all too happily. “you’re cute,” he mutters. 

and you swear the sun shines a little brighter in that moment. 

>>><<<

you remember the day it all began. the Gone roamed the streets and worries roamed your mind. you tried to forget that day. but it appears it's harder than it seems to erase the image of a bloodstained joshua sitting lifeless on the kitchen floor of the place the two of you called home. 

you push the memory away as soon as it had surfaced. 

>>><<<

jeonghan took you in that night. he stayed in the large barn at the edge of the farm, and after that day in the dirt, you did too. 

the Gone that appeared near the farm were slow and uninterested. for the first time since it all began, you felt safe.

you spent the days in the strawberry patch or underneath the shade of the peach trees. other days, you spent roaming the vegetable gardens, walking along the orchard paths, and taking leisurely dips in the lake. 

the blond boy was good, easy company. he never asked you to share your life before the day you met him. 

so you never did. 

>>><<<

“it was quiet for a few days before anything happened here,” jeonghan tells you one night. the night you spent in front of the fire in the living room. “by the time the Gone had reached our corner of the world, the chaos had already begun.” 

“our?” you ask carefully.

“me and my mom.” he says with a sad smile. a smile that says all you need to know. “this was her farm. i was only supposed to stay with her for the summer.”

with the glassy look in his eyes, you already know that you’ve gone too far. but you figure it can’t hurt to go further. 

“is she Gone?”

he doesn’t say anything for so long that you begin to wonder if he even heard you. 

“that’s enough for today,” he whispers as if talking any louder would physically hurt him. the next part he says with a chuckle. “especially coming from someone who’s name i still don’t know.” 

you decide it’s time to go to sleep. 

he decides to call you peach.

>>><<<

the days turn longer and hotter. but you swear, time hasn’t moved since the day you laid down in the strawberry patch and watched the clouds with him.

the day you spent under the apricot tree was the first time you had the will to ask. 

you sit with your back against the tree and his head in your lap. you twist and twirl twigs and flowers into his hair. you create a crown for the boy who took you in. the sun was bright and hot, but underneath the apricot tree, the sun was welcoming and warm. 

as you twist one last purple flower into the peaking brown roots of his hair, he says, “Gone. at the pig sty.” 

you watch the Gone unsheathe itself from the outline of the trees next to the empty pig sty. it’s slow and limping. but quiet and small. you almost don’t shoot out of pity. 

the ring of the gunshot and smell of the bullet echo in your ears. 

after the Gone drops to the ground, jeonghan’s head flops back onto your lap. a couple twigs fall out of his hair when he does. 

“jeonghan” 

he hums.

“how come the Gone don’t come here very often?” 

a cloud ghosts over the sun and for a small second the world is shady and cold. 

“my mother used to say it was because of the strawberries. something about the scent or the patch repel the normal ones.” 

“what about in the off season?” you ask, retwisting the twig that fell out. 

“i don’t know if that’s the truth. it’s just something my mom used to say.” 

you nod, in understanding even though he can’t see. 

a new question teeters on your tongue. one that fills you with equal parts of fear and curiosity. one that spills out from the corner of your mouth before you can even begin to repress the thought. 

“how long since she…” 

he stops breathing for a second. so you stop speaking. 

for a moment, it’s like the two of you disappear. and the only thing left on earth are the birds and the trees. 

“she was sick before anything had started,” he says in a low voice as if it’s only meant for himself to hear. “it’s the reason why I came to stay with her. she died in the winter.” 

he turns his head, and you follow his eyes to a small, crooked cross hidden behind the greenhouse. you didn’t take jeonghan to be a religious guy, but you suppose the cross was put up as a plea for normalcy.

you feel a tear drop onto the leg of your jeans. 

for a moment, it’s like the only thing left on earth are the birds, the trees, jeonghan, and you. 

>>><<< 

things are different after that day. jeonghan doesn’t smile as much. and there’s a pain behind his eyes. yet somehow, he manages to look even more alive. 

after that day, it’s like a piece of jeonghan was ripped from him. it’s like you broke him, and you aren’t sure you know how to put him back together.

the day he starts coming back is the day of the first summer storm. the windows slam against the barn, and lightning illuminates the sky. the rain beats against the roof with an intensity that shakes the walls a little. as if they’re trying to get rid of the spring. as if they are cleaning themselves for the summer. 

jeonghan disappeared that morning. you hadn’t seen him all day. 

you sit in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch. the rain brushes against the dark wood of the porch and sprays itself onto your extended toes. you flinch every time thunder sounds across the sky. 

you wait for him to return. you wait until the seconds and minutes and hours bleed into each other like water colors. you wait until you can’t any more. 

you find him behind the greenhouse. he doesn’t hear you come up behind him, sloshing your boots through the mud. for the first time since you met him, he’s dirty. his clothes are mud-stained and drenched with rain.

his head is bowed. he kneels in the mud by the crooked cross. the cries of his heart are silenced by the storm raging above, but the strife of his loss spreads to you like wildfire. and it burns all the way through you. it makes you ache. you didn’t know his mother yet in this moment you’re grieving with him. or maybe it’s just that you’re grieving for him. you want to gather his cries in your arms and throw them in the pig sty. you want to hold him and hug him and tell him everything is fine. but you’ve lost yourself in the muddy puddles beneath your feet and you aren’t sure if it would be any help anyway. 

he catches you standing behind him. the ends of your white dress dyed with mud. your boots are filled with rainwater. and water pours from your eyes with the same intensity that it pours off the side of your umbrella.  

he sees you for the first time. he sees you before you’re certain you’ve really seen him. 

you fall to your knees in the mud beside him. and you cry and let your heart ache for the first time since everything began. you grieve for joshua. jeonghan grieves for his mother. you grieve for each other. and when the next thunder claps across the grey sky, you both grieve for this world. 

things change again after the first summer storm. 

it was during the first summer storm that you realized your denial ran deeper than you had known. deeper than you had thought possible. 

it was during the first summer storm that you realized the beautiful boy who cried by your side was in denial too. 

it was during the first summer storm that you realized jeonghan was just as human as you. 

>>><<<

it’s two days after he makes strawberry jam for the first time that you tell him your name. it also happens to be the day you tell him everything.

you tell him about your life before the chaos. you tell him about joshua. you tell him about the day it all began. you tell him how you ended up at the strawberry patch that day.

when you finish, he wipes the tears you didn’t know were falling. he holds you in his arms. and calls you peach until you fall asleep. the last thing you remember from that night is the smell of strawberry jam off his shirt. 

the next morning he brings you jam and toast in bed. you eat with a smile. 

>>><<<

you think that the days after the first summer storm must’ve been some of the best days of your life. 

nothing about the world had changed, but something about you and jeonghan had. something about the way you felt when he smiled at you. something about the way he laughed so hard that you could see his gums. something about the way he stopped bothering to dye his hair blond. something about the way he brings you food when you sit by the lake. something about the way he sits with you after he does. something about the way your chest clenches and your heart contracts. something had changed. and every single day after the first summer storm, you prayed it’d never change back. 

you loved his corner of the world. you wanted to grow old between the strawberry bushes and listen to him tell you that strawberries don’t grow on bushes. you wanted to fight with him in the midst of the orchard. you wanted to thumb wrestle under the apple trees. you wanted to make jam at the end of each season with him. you wanted forever in the barn at the edge of the farm. 

the night he kisses you for the first time is the night that his corner of the world becomes your corner of the world too.