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pedrito-friskito · 2 months

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// track 9 - the prophecy //

-> can I write a fic about din djarin without piling on the exposition? absolutely not. also bonus, this is my submission/entry/funtime for @prolix-yuy’s #bangathon2024! the wheel bestowed upon me the placid embrace, and I embraced the HELL out of it. fair warning this is unedited, I’m squeaking under the bangathon deadline here, but I had an idea and I ran with it! hope y’all enjoy 🤍

word count: 8.4k

warnings: canon-typical violence (a bit bloodier), possibly slightly OOC din djarin, descriptions of female body, unprotected p-in-v (wrap your shit in space too ok), din has a lot of feelings and has zero idea what they mean, the helmet comes off, reader is a seer/has visions, still not sure if I love the ending but here goes nothing!

He just can’t seem to catch a break.

“I don’t have the parts,” the smith is telling him, looking at Din’s broken vambrace with a pinched brow. “I can order ‘em in, but it’ll take a day or so to get ‘em here, another day or two to fix it. You gonna be here in four days?”

He takes the hunk of metal back, sliding his hand through the opening with a shake of his helmet, securing it back around his wrist. “Thank you for your time.”

The market is bustling with people. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he was on Batuu, but Black Spire Outpost is the same as it was the last time he touched the Crest down for repairs and refuelling. Except this time, there’s a tracking fob at his hip, a puck detailing his current bounty tucked into one of the pockets on his belt. The fob has been beeping slowly since he disembarked at the port, reluctantly paying the obscene amount of credits it cost to leave his ship for a day.

Not that it matters — the amount he’ll make on this job more than covers it. Two times over and then some. Once he delivers, he can go back to Nevarro, get his armour fixed, and onto the next one. The cycle continues, such is the life of a bounty hunter.

It’s not the life he would have picked for himself, he muses as he makes his way through the Outpost. But then, he wonders how many people in this galaxy have the lives they would have chosen, given the chance. Even the one he’s hunting.

Especially the one he’s hunting.

Din had been half-listening to Karga’s regular spiel about the bounty, but his ears perked up at the number of credits waiting for him at the finish line. “The ones who ordered the bounty, what planet are they from?”

“Savareen,” Karga had replied with a slight shudder. “Some backwater place on the Kessel Run. Don’t know how this coven got their hands on enough credits for something like this, but I know better than to ask questions. And the bounty isn’t on Savareen. She escaped and made it to Batuu somehow; I’m fuzzy on the details. All I know is the intel we have has her there still, and she killed both the fighters the witches sent after her. Feisty thing.”

“They didn’t give you anything else?”

“Only that she’s very valuable and they need her back before the next full moon.”

He’d slid the bounty puck across the table to Din then, the hologram flickering to life as he did. The face before him was too young, too innocent. You’d killed two fighters? Looking at you, Din wondered if you knew which end of the blaster to hold. But he held his tongue; he’d judged other bounties too quickly in the past, and had the scars to prove it.

Continuing through Black Spire, Din keeps his head down, but his eyes peeled. The fob is still beeping slowly, but as he turns down an alley, away from the busy market, the noise picks up. He keeps going, coming to a stop ahead of a small group of people. He lingers back, not making himself obvious as he observes.

An elderly man with a thick beard stares up at the sky, murmuring under his breath while two younger people seem to hang on his every word, holding his arms up for him. More people sit on the ground before the man, all staring at him intently.

The cloaked figure hanging at the edge of the group, hood obscuring their face, catches his attention. Their stance is tight, nervous, feet shuffling in the dirt with every word the elderly man says. To an untrained eye, they would look no different than Din himself, observing the group, lingering at the edge. But Din knows better.

The figure takes off as he takes a single step forward, hand resting on his blaster. In a flutter of dark fabric, he takes off after them, dodging the enthralled people on the ground, careful not to knock anyone over as he darts up the alleyway.

The fob is beeping rapidly now, quickening with every inch he gains on the cloaked figure, on you.

He grunts beneath his helmet, arms pumping as he runs, legs burning with exertion. He can’t remember the last time he sprinted after a bounty.

You’re relentless, taking hard lefts and rights any chance you get, but your scared movements are predictable, and Din finds it too easy to follow you, despite his racing heart and the sweat gathering on the back of his neck beneath his helmet. But your constant turning leads the chase back into the heart of the Outpost, and you’re moving too fast to stop from sliding into the large cart that pulls out suddenly into your path.

Din winces at the crash, your body crumpling to the ground and the cart’s contents pouring over your head. The merchant pushing the cart tries to help you up, but Din is quicker, hiding his heaving chest by straightening his shoulders, grabbing you by the arm and hauling you up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” the merchant starts, and Din lifts a hand, silencing him as he pulls a set of cuffs from his belt and slaps one around your wrist. You don’t fight him, surprisingly, offering your other wrist for him to clasp the cuff around. He’s grateful you can’t see his expression, the mix of confusion and surprise that has his brows shooting up beneath the helmet.

Strange.

He flicks the merchant a credit. “Did half the job for me,” he says, and grabs you by the shoulder, maneuvering around the stalled cart and back in the direction of the Razor Crest.

You don’t protest, keeping pace beside him, the corner of your mouth twitching as you walk. “You took longer than I thought you would, Mandalorian.”

The visions started when you were small.

They’ve always been a part of you, long as you can remember, and before you knew their true purpose, you thought them dreams, blips of darkness that occasionally came to call, taking you over and leaving you with knowledge that, most of the time, you didn’t want.

You were only seven when your family gave you to the coven. Your parents — scared of you, scared of the truths that spilled from your lips, truths you had no right knowing — sent you off without a second thought, assured by the coven’s leader that they would do right by you, that you’d grow to control your gifts, and could someday return home to Naboo a different girl.

But the control never came. The visions only grew more sporadic when you were under the coven’s care. They cared for you, that much was true — they fed and clothed you, gave you a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in. Someone watched you constantly, and anytime a vision struck, you were to immediately relay what you saw, provide as many details as you could, and on life would go.

Twenty years later, and still your control has not surfaced. But something changed.

The visions showed you the truth. You don’t know what gods are watching over you, if the Maker has any hand in it, but you know what you saw.

From the moment you had been handed over to the coven’s care, they had been poisoning you. Your drinking water sullied with a rare toxin from plants only native to Savareen. The toxin blocked out any control you might have over the visions, leaving you at their mercy. And you weren’t the first — they’d done it to a hundred seers before you. You just happened to have lasted the longest.

Anything you saw that was of use, names you couldn’t make sense of or planets you’d never been to, was cross-referenced across the coven’s expansive database of knowledge, created by the seers’ visions. And anything of true import was fed directly to the Empire.

And if you revealed what you knew, the truth of their game unraveled, they’d sacrifice you in the name of their god, as they had with every seer come before you.

When the vision finally released you, your warden of the day ready to record what you’d seen, you spat out a lie. A pretty one, with as much detail as you could muster that wouldn’t sound suspicious. The lakes on Naboo you once swam in, cool water warmed by the sun, the glint of sunlight off metal. A dream you’d had many times. Your warden seemed to believe it, scribbling away in a journal before sending you on your way.

It was obvious, what needed to be done. If you wanted to live, you needed to leave.

Easier said than done, unfortunately. The coven lived in a commune deep in the Savareen forests. Far from any marketplaces or spaceports. You would be travelling for days just to get away from them, and days longer until you came upon anything of use.

So it became a process — quietly gathering what supplies you could, explaining it away when your warden questioned you, sneaking around in the night while the coven slept. The first time an opportunity presented itself, you grabbed your things and ran, ducking away under the cover of dark.

More than a week, you walked. You rationed the food you’d taken, slept on the hard ground with a knife in your hand. You only slept a few hours at a time, forcing yourself to your feet and travelling another few hours before allowing yourself more rest. The further you got, the better.

You drank only fresh water from the streams, boiled over a fire to make it safe, and as you travelled, something akin to control settled over you like a blanket. The visions still surfaced, peeling away the edges of your mind, but they were easier to push back, easier to hold at bay until you had a moment to entertain them, to watch with a keen eye rather than a startled one.

You saw him on your fifth night. Stopped at the edge of the forest, the desert spread out before you, you rested. The coven elders rarely let anyone past the commune’s borders, though you knew they’d send someone after you. But that night, your visions promised peace, a good night’s sleep beside your small fire, the blanket of stars and moons above you standing vigil.

So you let the vision take over. You saw a helmeted man, his armour having seen better days. Your mind recalled the style of the armour, a holo-pads the coven used to educate you about the galaxy as you grew — or to make your visions more potent, you wondered now.

A Mandalorian.

A torn cloak fluttered behind him, a rifle strapped to his back. As you watched, he held out one gloved hand to you, the other lifting his helmet just enough to expose his mouth — unfairly full lips and a patchy beard. His name whispered on the wind, a voice that sounded like your own.

Din Djarin.

He stepped toward you, hand still outstretched, closer and closer until the warmth of his palm cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping your cheek.

“Safe,” he whispered, the word sinking into your chest with a warmth you couldn’t quite understand.

And then the vision faded. You came back to yourself, to your small fire and your blanket of stars, and without another thought, you slept.

The moment you reached the spaceport — if you could even call it that — you snuck onto the first cargo ship you spotted, tucked yourself in with the crates and hid the best you could. It didn’t matter where it was headed, you just needed out.

The cargo ship brought you to Jabiim, and it was safe, for a time. You stole when you needed to, found the odd merchant willing to pay you for a day’s work, sold the few things you’d taken from the coven for credits. You holed up in a boarding house, flexing your control over your visions like training a muscle.

You waited for your Mandalorian to appear.

He didn’t, but two of the coven’s warriors did.

They couldn’t have known the visions had warned you. Couldn’t have known that you’d booby-trapped every inch of your room in the boarding house. They didn’t know you’d seen not only that they’d come for you, but the how and the when, that you knew how you’d keep yourself alive.

It was bloody business, and had you slipping out the back door before morning came, hiding on the next cargo ship that left the spaceport.

And the cycle continued, until you landed yourself on Batuu.

You haven’t been here long. Black Spire is the biggest outpost you’ve ever seen — not that you’ve seen many to compare it to — and it works to your advantage at first, offering a plethora of trails to lose your pursuer. You know it’s him, knew it was him the moment he stepped up to the group of people listening to that old man preaching about the stories in the stars. The tinted armour, each piece damaged in some way, the pristine helmet. The way he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall was familiar to you, and your chest fluttered with the word he’d murmured to you in your vision.

Safe.

Except, you’re anything but. You can hear the beeping, see the way his hand hovers over his blaster. As soon as you see an opening, you take it, and it’s almost enough.

Until that cart comes out of nowhere — you didn’t see that in any vision — and knocks you on your ass. You give your hands over willingly to the Mandalorian when he hauls you to your feet, letting him cuff you, start to drag you off through the Outpost.

You try to suppress the grin that tugs at your lips. “You took longer than I thought you would, Mandalorian.”

He seems to balk at your claim, his shoulders going tight, not that you can see his expression. But you can imagine those full lips clear as day, the patchy beard, the bare spots the perfect size for your thumb to fit into.

Strength and a certain kind of ferocity seems to roll off of him, pushing every person out of your way as he leads you back toward his ship. Your head throbs with every step, your tongue numb where it got caught between your teeth when the cart hit you. It makes your blanket of control waver, a hole appearing in your armour, and your pulse quickens.

The Mandalorian all but pushes you up the ramp and into his ship. It’s nothing fancy, full of spare parts and rusted metal, but when he steers you toward the back of the ship, you see the carbonite chamber, people of every species encased in black, their expressions pained. Your heart is in your throat, rioting around, making your palms sweat.

“Go,” he tells you, gesturing at the empty platform in front of you, the chamber’s tubes steaming as he flicks a switch.

“P-please,” you manage to squeak out. Your control is gone, replaced with fear and anxiety. You pull against the cuffs, trying to turn your body away from the machine, but it’s too late.

The vision takes over, and everything goes dark.

Din catches you before you hit the ground.

In an instant, you shift from every other pleading bounty he’s shoved into the carbonite chamber, into something more. Your eyes roll back in your head, your body going limp, and it’s a miracle he manages to grab you before your head cracks off the metal. But he does it, grunting with the effort, wincing when he feels the jab of your shoulder in the crook of his elbow.

And he freezes.

Something in his chest goes tight, a taut string that has his ribs in a vice. It whispers that he knows you, that he’s seen your face a million times before even though this is the first day he’s ever set eyes on you. Like a part of his heart calls for yours.

It makes him stumble back a step, jostling you, your body leaning more fully into his. He’s enveloped in your warmth, the scent of you sneaking beneath his helmet, tormenting him.

I know you I know you I know you.

His gloved hand shakes as he brushes the hair from your forehead, looking at your face more fully. He studies you, the slope of your nose and the fan of your lashes. He has half a mind to take his gloves off, to feel your hair slip between his knuckles. The blood in the corner of your mouth makes something like panic shoot through him and he slips his other arm behind your knees, lifting you up and off the ground.

It takes some maneuvering, using his elbow to jab the button that lifts the door to his bed. He lays you out carefully, reaching for the medkit he keeps stashed near his pillow. He pushes back the strange feeling, focusing on the task at hand. He’s dealt with his fair share of head injuries, knows how precarious they can be. And he’s figured it out, over time — the best place to put the bacta patches, what mednog helps more than it hinders.

Din places the last of four patches behind your ear, right along the curve of your neck. You let out a quiet hum, arching your head into his palm, and he inhales deeply.

“I know you,” he murmurs, and doesn’t quite realize he’s said the words out loud until your lashes flutter, eyes shooting open and your body following suit. “Easy,” he commands, grabbing your shoulders, making you flinch. “You’re alright, just don’t move too fast.”

Your breath comes in short bursts, and Din realizes there are tears lining your eyes, one single drop sliding down your cheek. His fingers itch to brush them away, but he resists the urge, releasing you and curling them into fists instead.

Your eyes finally land on him, and the corner of your mouth twitches, like it had in the Outpost.

“Who are you?” he asks. You know her, his mind counters.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you retort, rubbing a hand across the back of your neck. You must find the bacta patch, because your brow furrows. “You…helped me?”

“Don’t think much of it,” he tells you, bracing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up off the cot. “I’m taking you back to Savareen.”

He sees the fear cover you like a veil, watches it pinch at your eyes and tug at your lips. The feeling rears its head, screaming at him that he’s doing wrong, but he beats it back.

“Please,” you say again, the same squeak you’d let out before you passed out in the carbonite chamber. “Please don’t take me back. They’re going to kill me, they’ll—”

“They’re paying me a ridiculous amount of credits to bring you back,” Din answers, cutting you off and turning his back on you. “And I’m gonna do just that.”

“At least listen to my side of the story,” you call after him. You pause a beat, and then— “Din Djarin.”

He can’t remember the last time he heard his name on a woman’s lips. Hearing it on yours is something else entirely.

His mind is at war with itself as he whirls. “How did you—?”

“Let me tell my side,” you reiterate, holding your hands up, surrendering. “And if you still want to take my back and collect your bounty, fine.”

He doesn’t say a word, but leans back on one foot, crossing his arms over his chest. You take it as a yes, leaning back slightly, straightening your back. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and Din clenches his teeth.

“I’m a seer,” you say slowly, eyes darting everywhere except his helmet. “I have visions. Always have, long as I can remember. I was born on Naboo, but my family gave me over to the Savareen coven when I was seven. They raised me, and it was all well and good until my visions told me the truth.”

You don’t continue right away, eyes finally landing on Din’s visor. “What truth?” he prompts.

“They were poisoning me,” you said, your voice shaking. “And the poison took away my control of the visions. A seer should be able to allow the visions to come when they wish, not be constantly at their mercy. They wanted me to see as much as I could, and everything I saw, the elders ran through their databases. Anything useful they fed to the Empire.”

The mention of the Empire makes him jump.

“And I’m not the first. They’ve done this to a hundred seers before me, and killed them all as soon as they figured out the truth. It’s a cycle, one I played into the moment I escaped. They know that I know the truth, and they’ll kill me for it and tell the rest of the coven that I was a willing sacrifice, for the safety of the rest of them.”

A sad laugh passes your lips, and Din’s chest feels hollow.

“And the worst part is: they’ll all believe them. The people that raised me, my friends, if you can call them that. They’ll believe I died willingly, for the greater good.”

You drop your face into your hands and everything in him begs him to comfort you, hold you, keep you safe.

No good will come of this, the rational part of him says. He could ruin his reputation with the Guild, and where would that leave him? Bounty hunting has always been his trade, his talent. He would go back to the Covert, ashamed.

But the sound of your voice has him quickly grasping for compromise. A final kindness, to please the beast in his chest.

“I’ll give you one thing,” he says, and your head shoots up. “One last…wish, I guess. Before I take you back.”

Din swears there are stars in your eyes. “A wish?”

He nods the helmet slightly. “Name it,” he says, “and don’t say setting you free.”

You think for a moment, a million emotions crossing your face before you seem to make your decision. “Naboo,” you say, your expression calm, almost serene. “Take me back to Naboo. I want to swim in the lake, like I did as a child. One last time, before I die.”

You think he’s going to fight you on it. You studied galactic maps with the coven, part of the studies they allowed, and you know just how far it is from Batuu to Naboo — you know it’s about the same distance as Batuu is from Savareen, in the complete opposite direction.

You wait for the no to reach your ears, for the disappointment and acceptance of your lot to settle in. But instead, he just nods again, turns on his heel and disappears from the ship’s hold, leaving you alone, still sitting on the edge of the Mandalorian’s bed.

A moment later, you hear the tell-tale hum of the ship’s engine. Another beat, and his voice sounds through the intercom beside the cot. “Get up here and strap yourself in. Don’t need you getting thrown around down there.”

Swallowing hard, you get to your feet and walking slowly toward the ladder he’d disappeared up. The rungs are cold beneath your hands, a reminder that this isn’t all a dream, or one of your visions.

He doesn’t turn his head when you step into the ship’s cockpit, doesn’t say a word as you settle into the chair in the corner of the space. You fumble with the belt straps, tightening them around you as his gloved hands move across the ship’s dashboard, pressing buttons and turning dials. The engine grows louder as the ship starts to hover, and you brace your hands on the armrests of your seat.

You’re both silent, the entire trip. After the initial jolt through hyperspace, you find the movement relaxing, and you don’t realize you’ve nodded off until you feel a warm hand on your ankle, the Mandalorian having reached for your outstretched foot to nudge you awake.

“The drop out of hyperspace can get a bit rocky around this sector.”

You nod at the warning, ignoring the sharp tug in your stomach at the rumble of his voice through his helmet. Adjusting yourself in the seat, you find yourself staring at the back of his helmet, the curve of the metal. When he turns his head to speak to you, you catch a glimpse of his chin, dipping as he talks.

“Hold on tight.”

The jolt makes you shut your eyes, gripping the armrests as tight as you can. The ship wavers and dips, the hull shaking and groaning with the effort and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Almost there.”

You don’t open your eyes until the ship has stopped completely, the sound of the engine whirring into shutdown making your breath come easier. When you open them, you’re met with a lush forest, a clearing just large enough for the ship to touch down in.

Naboo.

You’re out of your seat in the flash, nearly tumbling down the ladder back into the hold, desperate to be out and breathing in the fresh air so close you think you could taste it. The Mandalorian follows at a slower pace, reaching around your bouncing form to activate the ramp and open the door.

“Don’t go far,” he tells you, warning lacing his tone. “If you—”

“I won’t leave your sight, Din Djarin,” you tell him, quietly revelling in the way his entire form stills at your use of his name. “I promise, you won’t need to chase after me.”

You leave him to ponder your words, and step out and into the sunlight.

He stands on the Crest’s ramp longer than he should, watching you step out into the clearing. He found a good spot to land, forest wrapping around, a large lake sprawled out before you. The air is warm, fresh, invading his senses.

He watches you take off toward the water, shedding your cloak and top as you go, tossing the fabric aside. The bare expanse of your skin makes his throat go tight, makes the waist of his flight suit feel tighter than normal. As you reach the water’s edge, you crouch to pull off your shoes, straighten to shuck your pants down your legs.

Din only gets a brief glimpse at your bare lower half before you’re sprinting into the water, your laughter loud enough to send birds to the skies, disturbed from their homes in the trees. Beneath the helmet, he smiles.

You swim for hours. Din lets you take your time, your excitement getting the better of him. He tracks your head along the surface of the lake, turns his gaze to the ground when you float on your back. Din calls you back when the sun starts to set, finds something resembling dinner from the crates and boxes in the Crest’s hold. He leaves a blanket at the water’s edge as you swim back, and you eat sitting side by side on the ship’s ramp, your warm body inches from his.

A million questions dance on his tongue, the heat gathering beneath his helmet spurred by the way you lick your fingers clean when you’re done eating, sucking the juice of the fruit he found off your thumb.

How did you know his name?

Why does he feel the way that he does?

Why does he know you?

The sun dips lower, painting the sky a brilliant array of colours, orange into yellow into lavender and back again. The air is still warm, but a cold breeze blows, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Or maybe it’s the way you rise from your seat, the blanket draped around your shoulders, the way the sun covers you in a glow. He watches you make your way back to the water’s edge, but when you’re halfway there, he stands and follows you.

Din pauses when you reach the shore, the blanket dropping into a puddle of fabric near your clothes. You’re backlit by the sun, a silhouette he wants to trace again and again. “You could join me,” you call over your shoulder, stepping further and further into the water. “The water’s warmer than the air, you know.”

“Helmet takes too long to dry out,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I—”

“You could take it off,” you tell him, and his blood spikes. He wants to.

He knows you.

Din looks at you, and you meet him eyes through the visor, whether you know it or not. “I’m a Mandalorian,” he answers, “I don’t—”

“I know what you are, Din Djarin,” you answer, and he wants to record the sound of your voice saying his name, play it on a loop over and over until he has it memorized. “But I’ll be dead this time tomorrow.” You wade out further into the water, until it laps against your chin. “The secret of your face dies with me.”

You turn away from him, disappearing beneath the surface and reappearing further out. The sun is nearly gone, the last dregs of the sunset fading from the sky, the stars and planets taking their rightful place. The water still has a certain glow about it, the sounds of frogs and other night creatures filling the silence of the clearing.

Before he can second-guess himself, he hooks his fingers in the edge of the helmet and takes it off.

“Don’t turn around,” he calls out, reaching up to release the clips holding his cloak to his shoulders. It slips to the ground and he leans down to set the helmet atop it. One by one, he sheds each piece of his armour. The chill in the air makes him shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin as he slides down the zipper on his flight suit. He’s acutely aware of his nakedness, his eyes glued to the back of your head, bobbing in the water.

You listen; you don’t turn around.

He can’t stop his sigh when he steps into the water. You weren’t lying — it’s warmer in the water than out, and he steps quickly, feeling the ground slope beneath his feet as the water rises to his knees, his waist, his chest. Then it evens out, and he realizes you’re standing on tiptoe in the middle of the lake, your arms floating at your sides, head tilted back as you stare up at the sky.

“I’ve seen so many things,” you murmur as he comes to a halt behind you, leaving a good few feet between your body and his. If he lets his eyes dip, he can make out your slightly blurred figure beneath the water’s surface, but he keeps his gaze on the crown of your head, your face upturned to the stars. “So many places and people in the furthest corners of the galaxy. Things I’ll never truly see, but I’ve seen them just the same.” You take a deep breath, raising your arms just enough that your hands break the surface of the water. “And yet, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the skies on Naboo. I remember swimming in a lake like this, as a child. Before they sent me away. I remember the stars looking just like this.” Your eyes flutter shut. “Thank you, for bringing me here. You’re a good man, Din Djarin. A better one than you allow the galaxy to believe.”

“How did you know my name?” he asks, the words spilling past his tongue before he can stop them. “How do you know my name?”

“I dreamt of you,” you say simply, as if it’s the most normal thing. You push your hands through your wet hair, and Din’s fingers long to copy you. “A long time ago, if we’re telling truths. Your face has come to me often —first when I was small, when we both were. I saw the destruction of your home world, though I didn’t know what I was seeing. I saw you pledge yourself to the Mandalorians, saw you earn your armour in the Covert. I dreamt of you long before I started running for my life. I always knew you’d be the one to find me, Din. The one to save me.”

It’s guilt, he realizes, that pools in his stomach, propels him forward until there’s barely any space between you. Until you’re close enough that he can hear your sharp inhale as he lifts his hand from the water, lets his dripping fingers trail up the curve of your shoulder, follow the curve of your neck to the space behind your ear, where he’d placed the bacta patch earlier. He’s so close he can feel the shiver that runs like a current through your body.

“Close your eyes,” he tells you, his voice a low rumble, “and keep them closed.”

You nod your head slightly, and he waits a beat before letting his fingers hook around your chin, using that leverage to turn you to face him. Your lips part gently, your breath warm on his skin. He drags the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, presses softly as you release another shaky exhale.

Din hasn’t kissed anyone in a long time. Longer than he cares to admit, and nervousness replaces his guilt as he tilts your face toward his. His hand rounds your head, cupping your skull in his palm, and your hair slides like wet silk through his knuckles.

The first kiss he gives you is soft. It’s tentative, your bottom lip captured between his, a quiet sound rising in your throat as he pulls away. Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes don’t open, and your hand reaches up, curling around the back off his neck and pulling him back down to you.

He grunts at the second kiss, your body inching closer to his beneath the water. His other hand finds purchase on your hip, digging his fingers into your flesh, and he swallows your groan, leaning deeper into your kiss, tightening his grip on your hair.

You give as much as you take, your free hand flattening against his ribs, your fingers fit in the spaces between his bones. The kiss is so familiar and so new, all at once. He’s done this a million times, and has never once done it before now.

I know you I know you I know you.

Pleasure shoots through him when your teeth scrape at his lip, your tongue darting out to soothe the ache you’ve left behind. It’s a welcome ache, and his hand drops from your hip to your thigh, hooking around the back of your knee and dragging your thigh over his waist. The sound you let out goes straight to his cock and he drops his lips from yours only to close his mouth around your pulse. You lean into him, both hands around his shoulders now, more soft noises of pleasure meeting his ears as he kisses a line up to the shell of your ear.

“When you dreamt of me,” he murmurs, your head leaning into the sound of his voice, “did you dream of all the ways I’d touch you?”

He accompanies his question with his fingers along the inside of your thigh, toward where he can feel you burning hot, your body warmer than the water that surrounds you both. Your lashes flutter again as you moan, digging your nails into his skin hard enough he’s sure you’ll leave little half-moon marks behind.

“This is better than anything I could ever dream up,” you whisper back, using your grip on him to pull your body flush to his. “I knew you’d find me, but I didn’t know you’d want me, that I’d want you.”

He pulls away, heart racing in his chest. Rejection flickers across your face, pinching your brow, but he grabs your hand beneath the water, squeezing. “Come with me.”

Din leads you out of the water, his grip tight on your hand. You still don’t open your eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as he wraps you in the blanket and then leads you back toward the Crest. He brings you inside, back to his bed, and pushes at your shoulder until you’re sat at the edge.

“Don’t move.”

He head back out into the night, the sun now long gone, and collects his armour and your clothes. His body hums with need, leaving his armour on top of a crate, your clothes and his flight suit tossed into the fresher to deal with later. He closes the ramp, locks the door to the hold, and returns to where you’re still sat, the blanket tucked around you.

“Move back,” he tells you, and you obey instantly, letting the blanket fall away as you slide back on the mattress. Electricity shoots through him at the sight of you, the dim light above his bed a meagre replica of the sunset. He can’t stop himself from reaching out, dragging his hand up the centre of your body until he reaches your chest. He cups the weight of your breast in his palm, swipes his thumb over your nipple and revels in the way it peaks at his touch, the way you shiver as he does it again and again.

“Din,” you murmur, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.

“Say it again.”

“Din.”

He leans over you, plants a hand on either side of your body as you lean back, your head resting on his pillow. Still, you don’t open your eyes.

He kisses you again, angles his head so his nose brushes along yours. You arch up into him as he settles some of his weight against you, making a home between your spread legs. He can feel how wet you are, the heat nearly radiating against his cock, and he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, burying his face in your neck and fitting his mouth to your pulse once more.

“I want to be inside you,” he murmurs, and your nod is nearly frantic.

“Please.”

Din lifts himself off you, leaning back to kneel between your legs. His palms ride the curve of your spread thighs, thumbs swiping at the crease of your hip. It makes your whole body twitch, and he swipes a finger along your cunt, the wetness coating his finger, and your back arches up off the mattress.

He sucks his finger clean. “Sweet,” he whispers, and you let out a soft whine, a whimper.

Hands dragging down your legs again, he curls his fingers around your calves and lifts your legs until your knees are hooked around his hips. He feels your ankles cross at the small of his back and leans forward slightly, taking his hard cock in hand, shuddering at his own touch.

“Open your eyes,” he tells you, hearing the hitch in your breath as he drags his tip through your wetness, “the moment I’m inside you. You understand?”

You don’t answer at first, writing against the blankets, but when he taps his cock lightly against your clit, you shudder. “I understand.”

Dragging down through your folds, he notches his cock at your entrance, pleasure making sparks shoot across his vision as he moves his hips ever so slightly. He reaches beneath you, both hands at your lower back, and lifts your hips off the mattress, holding you aloft as he drives into you.

Your eyes shoot open, and you see his face. His whole face.

And Gods above, he’s more handsome than you ever could have imagined.

Every moment since you stepped off the ship has been more than you could have dreamed, but seeing his face, studying those dark eyes as he pushes himself inside you, it’s everything.

His brows knit together as he forces himself deeper. Your body jolts with the movement and you bear down, tightening yourself around him. It makes him tip forward slightly, close enough that you can wrap your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his dark hair.

The lips you remember, the patchy beard that scratches your skin when he turns his head and places a kiss against your wrist. His nose is different than you pictured, more hawkish with a scar cutting across the bridge. There are other scars too, littered across his chest and shoulders, a few even snaking down his front. You want to trace them all, memorize every ridge and dip.

He gives you a particularly hard thrust, and your vision goes white with pleasure. Your thighs quake with the intensity of it, feeling him drag against that sweet spot deep inside you. You tighten your grip on him, clenching your legs around his waist and keeping him where you want him.

“You feel…” he trails off, his lips parting as his hips roll into you over and over and over again. “I can’t…”

His groan spurs you on, lifting your hips off the mattress to meet his thrusts. The friction between your bodies grows more and more intense, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in a perfect rhythm. You can feel the pleasure growing, coiling at the base of your spine, and when he drops his head to your chest and wraps his lips around your nipple, you’re done for.

Your release rattles through you, seeming to draw Din’s from him. You shudder together, feeling the warmth of him spread through the deepest parts of you. He plants his head on your chest, hot breath fanned across your skin as you both move through it, limbs twitching and soft moans filling the air. He tries to pull himself from you too soon and you whine, refusing to loosen your hold on him.

Eventually, you let him go, instantly regretting your decision when the welcome weight of him moves off of you. He disappears for a time, but returns with a damp cloth from the fresher, and cleans between your legs before letting you move.

He doesn’t tell you to close your eyes again. You leave to use the fresher and when you return, he’s laid out on the cot, laying slightly to the side so there’s space for you. His eyes lock on yours as you slide into the bed, watching as he lifts the blankets for you and tucks you against his side.

Sleep seems to come easily for Din; you aren’t so lucky.

He wakes to an empty bed.

The hum of the night echoes through the hold, and Din scrambles out of bed when he realizes the door is open, that the cool night air is pouring in, and that you’re gone.

A million different possibilities flit through his mind; have you seen what happens? he wonders.

He pulls his underclothes on and finds his blaster, stepping slowly onto the Crest’s ramp. The clearing is the same as you left it, the only difference is the water is now as still as anything, the moon perfectly reflected in the surface.

You’ve left an obvious trail, and he tracks you easily through the forest. It’s a good distance from the ship, and when he finally finds you — and the altar before you — he hides in the brush, listening.

He doesn’t know what gods the carvings in the stone depict, and he wonders if you do, or if you’re just talking to anyone who might be listening.

“It’s not fair,” you say, your voice loud enough that he can hear the waver in it. You sink to your knees before the carvings, your hands dragging on the stone as you stare up at the sky. “I can’t see what comes next now. I don’t know what he’ll choose. I never asked for this!”

Din holds his breath, wondering if the sky might cloud over at your shouting, that thunder might rumble in response to your plea.

“Why lead me to him only to put my fate directly into his hands? Why allow him to bring me to life, only to snuff me out?”

The guilt returns, turning his blood black, making his mouth run dry.

“Is anybody even listening to me? Does anyone even care?”

I care, he nearly shouts in response, but the guilt ties his tongue in knots.

“I don’t want to die!”

Your hands curl into fists, slamming against the stone wall, flattening and your nails dragging along the carvings. Your shoulders shake with sobs, and half of him wants to run to you, the other half wants to disappear.

He returns to the Crest, the guilt crawling up into his chest and making a home there, a rival to the beast that demands he keep you close. They spar between his ribs, demanding to be heard.

Only he can decide which one he’ll listen to.

Din is right where you left him, when you return to the ship. Sprawled on his back, his arm outstretched where you’d laid your head. You close the ramp and the door, press the buttons you’d watch him press to lock the ship, and climb carefully back into the bed. Your tears are still wet on your cheeks as you fit yourself against his side. His arm curls around you, holding you closer, and fresh tears fall.

You wake up alone. Your body aches in a good way, your limbs groaning as you find your clothes. The ship hums, and it takes you a moment to realizes you’re moving. Not through hyperspace, just flying.

When you climb into the cockpit, he’s sat in his chair, all his armour back in place. He doesn’t acknowledge as you sink down into the same seat. You force your eyes to move away from his helmet, to the world outside the ship, and your heart feels as though it may shatter in your chest.

Savareen.

It’s good to know, in a way, that Din Djarin is a man of his word. You misjudged him, it’s true, but you can’t fault him. He’s doing his job. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen.

Maybe not all your visions come true.

The spot where he lands the ship is not one you recognize. You’re far from the coven’s commune, that much you know for sure. As the engine’s hums die out, Din comes and stands before you, the same cuffs he’d used on you on Batuu in his hands.

You give your hands to him willingly. You won’t fight him, if this is your fate.

You don’t know what comes next; you haven’t seen it.

He’s silent as he leads you out of the ship and onto the planet’s surface. The air is that same cloying heat you remember, clinging to your skin and making it crawl.

As you descend the ramp, you see a familiar face — one of the coven’s elders, flanked by two of the same warriors who had come for you on Jabiim. The same man who had come to collect you from your family on Naboo, all those years ago. Who lied to your family and said you’d be in good hands. Who lied to you your entire life, forcing you to be at the mercy of your visions.

Bile rises in your throat as you draw closer, Din’s hand tight on your shoulder, your bound hands limp in front of you. “So good to see you again, my dear,” the elder starts, and everything in you screams at you to run away, but you never get the chance.

And you don’t need to.

As the elder reaches for you, Din draws his blaster and fires a single shot. The man drops to the cracked desert floor, a smoking scorch mark in the middle of his forehead. The warriors lunge forward, drawing their swords, but Din produces another blaster and moves in front of you, his stance protective, both barrels aimed at the warriors.

“Take another step, and you die,” he nearly growls, and your fingers curl around the fabric of his cloak. The warriors’ weapons clatter to the dirt. “Go back to your coven, and give your elders this warning: if they do not stop harming the seers, they will all share the same fate as him. She leaves with me, and if they send anyone after her, they share the same fate as him.”

With a nod, the warriors turn tail, sprinting off into the desert, leaving you alone with your Mandalorian. He turns to you, unlocks the cuffs from around your wrists. Your mind reels, trying to catch up with what’s happened, what it all implies.

“You…”

Din removes his helmet, holds it against his hip as he leans in, two fingers beneath your chin as he leans in to kiss you. You sink into it, elation seeping through your body, cupping his scruffy jaw in your hands, your thumbs fitting into the patches in his beard.

The kiss feels like a promise, like an oath.

“I’ll take you back to Naboo,” he tells you when you break apart only to breathe. “You can go back to your family, back to—”

“What if I want to stay with you?”

The corner of his lips twitch, and you lean in to kiss it. “Then you’ll stay with me.”

The moment you step foot back on the Crest, you freeze. Your gaze goes out of focus, your body a lead weight against his. Fear floods Din’s body and he grabs you, worrying you’re going to pass out again, that he didn’t do enough with the bacta, that you’re—

You come back to yourself quickly, blinking hard and gulping down air. “Nevarro,” you tell him, your voice tight. “We need to go to Nevarro, to the Guild.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you. “I just broke my contract by not delivering you to them. They won’t—”

“Shh,” you hush him, two fingers pressed against his lips. “Listen to me, Din. We need to go to Nevarro. Karga will believe you when you tell him what happened, and he has a new bounty for you. An important one.”

His brows lift. “You had a vision? You saw Karga?”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I saw much more than Karga,” you reply, your breath slowing. “I saw your son.”

the end

// TTWD track list //

#my fics #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #din djarin fic #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #din djarin headcanon #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian headcanon #the mandalorian fanfiction #bangathon2024

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hanckocks-dagger · 2 months

Text

Shake, rattle, and roll

masterlist

John Hancock x f!reader

Description: After three weeks on the road, you come home to Goodneighbor to find a sweet surprise from Hancock. Naturally, you fuck him about it.

Tags: Such sappy smut guys, holy shit theyre in love, Hancock is a simp. Reader could be viewed as SoSu or not, no y/n, female anatomy

Warnings: smut! Pretty vanilla though, honestly, so nothing else to mention

Word count: 6K

Cross posted on my ao3

The last day of travel was always the worst; with the end goal in sight

The morning sun beat down on you, the trek from Lexington having seemed almost endless. There was only one thing on your mind as you marched over the Harvard bridge; Hancock's bed. You had the full intention of crawling right into it and staying there, comatose, for several days.

Of course, it wasn't quite that simple. You needed to unload the spare weapons you'd picked up, throw those to KL-E-0. You also had some things to drop at Daisy's, some things to pass on to Ham for the Third Rail...

You pulled your pack higher onto your shoulders, ignoring the ache of your back from the weight of it, all the junk you'd decided to ferry back with you. The straps of the bag were sure to leave deep, painful indents in your skin, almost permanently rubbed raw after weeks of travel.

Downtown, you skirted between Diamond City outposts, making your usual wide berth around the city itself. Despite being human and technically welcome inside the city, you'd taken to avoiding it, as if their prejudice was infectious. You hadn't entered the gates in months by now, and even though you missed Power Noodles and stopping by the agency to bother Nick, you felt no real urge to step inside.

The inhabitants' paranoia, towards the institute and towards outsiders, made the air in the city oppressive. Compared to the freedom of Goodneighbor, even with all of its own problems, Diamond City felt tyrannical in comparison.

You made a wide berth around the old scrap yard, overrun by feral dogs, climbing a fire escape to reach the elevated turnpike.

The closer you got to Goodneighbor, the hard it was to push forward. With the end in sight, close enough that you could practically count the steps you had left, aware of every finite amount of energy you had to eke from your body. Still, you reused to break, pushing forward, hands wrapped tight around the straps of your pack, like a schoolchild with their brightly colored schoolbag

Just a little further. Just a little more. The turnpike turned North, and you had to duck and pause as some gunner scouts passed, the highway connected to some high-rises, precarious wooden planks forming bridges.

Crouched down low, your calves burned, your fingers ached as you gripped your revolver, checking the bullet count on autopilot and lining up a shot, just in case you were spotted.

You weren't, the mercenaries passing from one end of the bridge to the other, wood creaking under their weight, loud, unconcerned conversation passing between them.

You sneaked past them in a crouch, knees and back protesting, familiar flood of adrenaline humming through your blood, heartbeat in your ears. The thrill stayed even once you were out of eyesight, until you'd shaken out your joints and rolled your shoulders, back to your brisk pace.

One of these days, you promised yourself, zeroing in on the broken jaw of the freeway that you used to find your bearings, you'd find a way to make a portable Ham-radio. Staying away so long was making you half-insane. You hadn't heard his voice in over two weeks, and at this point you would have sold all the loot you were lugging around to see his face a few minutes sooner. You'd pay insane sums to be able to hear him on the regular while you were away. Joking, complaining, hell, even just reading off his fucking caravan logs.

The body of the freeway dropped to the ground, crumbling concrete surrounding a Gunner camp, probably the one those two idiots earlier were supposed to be protecting. Well, you thought, pulling a trip-mine from your pack, it wasn't your fault if they were fucking morons.

Behind the rusted body of a truck, you waited for the perfect moment to strike, listening with patience to the Gunners as they yelled and laughed, carefree in the way only over-confident assholes ever could be. On a different day, you would have attacked with something more complicated, something that could blast the entire camp in one go, but today, you were tired and homesick.

At the right moment, you activated the mine and tossed it, scurrying from behind your car to drop off the side of the freeway, landing in a crouch in an alley a street over from Goodneighbor, booking it as the mine went off and the yells changed from happy to panicked.

You'd often thought, as you and Hancock laid spread eagle on the bed, or sprawled over the couch, that between the two of you, you were by far the one more likely to turn feral. He was too clever, his mind too sharp, even dulled by drugs. You were the one running around the wasteland, scampering like some little creature, hoarding old-world junk, killing nearly indiscriminately. You survived on the high of your own adrenaline, surviving scrapes by the skin of your teeth, by clawing, biting, crushing, choking.

You held your breath until you could see the glow of the welcome-sign, neon arrow pointing at the door, like to the entrance of a dingy nightclub. It shone like a beacon even in the daylight, beckoning you home.

When your fingers touched the door, you swore you gained a second wind, the eerie stillness of downtown Boston turning into the hum of bustling Goodneighbor residents. You greeted the Neighborhood watch as you entered the town, and they variously tipped caps or winked at you, hands always on their guns.

Daisy's was full, the sure sign of a newly passed caravan. You spotted that Railroad guy, sipping from a bottle on the bench in front of the store, doing his usual job of completely failing to fit in by being almost unnaturally nondescript. That might work in Diamond city, but not in Goodneighbor.

Your steps were slow as you maneuvered through the crowd, aware of the pack on your back and the guns slung over your shoulders. You headed for Kill or Be killed, planning to unload some ammo and spare rifle you'd picked up. You kept your eyes peeled for that flash of red in your periphery, the heat that filled your chest whenever you were near him.

KL-E-0's store was empty, meaning she was probably on the second floor, conducting some less than savory business. You'd hustle out of there if you heard the sound of her laser powering up, but you decided to spare a few minutes.

You leaned your forearms onto the counter, taking some of the weight off your sore feet and back, eyes running over the visible apparel, wondering what things you should offload.

Sure enough, barely a minute passed before you could hear the wood creaking above you, footsteps descending the staircase and an achingly familiar voice:

"-Talk when my girl brings something new, call it a uh- personal favor."

You raised your head from where it had been lolling, that familiar voice sending a sweet ache through your chest and a giddy smile onto your face. His girl.

Hancock was turned away from you, speaking to KL-E-0, trusty shotgun in his hands.

If your pack had been lighter, you would have bounded into his arms and dragged him right back to the old State House. You would have indulged the exhibitionist in him, wrapped your legs around his waist and let him stick his tongue down your throat right there in the street.

Instead, though, you settled for walking over, supporting the bottom of your pack to keep it from rattling. KL-E-0's red eye flickered over to you for a moment, inscrutable as always, but she stayed quiet, allowing you to surprise Hancock as he chattered about the recoil of his gun.

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, smushing your face between his shoulder blades. You breathed him in, the familiar smell of tanned hide, cigarettes and that ever present old-museum-smell that he'd tried many times in vain to get rid of. You inhaled with a shudder, pressing a kiss to his back, feeling his momentary frozen shock melt away as he seemed to register who was touching him.

He spun in your arms, leaving you face to face with soft eyes and a softer smile, a hand coming up to cup your cheek.

Warm lips pressed to yours and you melted arms sliding up to hook around his shoulders, pulling him flush to you. A corner of your mind– or your heart– which had spent the past two weeks growling about being apart from him, finally quieted down.

"Is that your gun digging into my hip, or are you just happy to see me, love?" He asked you when you separated, leaving you to snort and hide your face in his shoulder, so giddy you thought you might burst with it.

You swallowed past your joy, composing yourself so that you could lean back and flick the tip of Hancock's tricorn-hat upwards, giving you a better view of those lovely dark eyes, always so emotive, crinkled at the corners.

"Good to see you too, Mister Mayor," You breathed, hands sliding from his shoulders down to his waist, backing out of KL-E-0's store, dragging Hancock along with you. He came willingly, not allowing even an extra inch between the two of you.

All thoughts of bartering, even your own body's complaints were forgotten, your heart singing. You blinked against the sunlight, convinced suddenly that the weather was reflecting your mood.

"What's your plan for the day?" You asked, when it became clear Hancock was too busy staring at you to say anything. The two of you seemed to be wandering in a leisurely pace towards the old State House, but you didn't care where you were going. You'd follow him around all day if you had to. You could be going right back into the Wastes for all you cared. You'd trail behind him as he did whatever he needed to do, collapse from exhaustion and let him carry you back to bed.

"Oh, you know," He said, pulling you up the steps to the Old State House, opening the door for you, ushering you inside, "Was gonna get high and mope around all day, waiting for you." He had no sooner shut the door than he grabbed you by your belt, pinning you to the wall, your heavy pack hitting the wall. "Probably drive Fahrenheit crazy with my pining–"

You hum, smoothing out the lapels of his coat as his hands wander.

"Now, I'm thinking we go up and let the whole town we're reunited."

"Sounds perfect," You agreed, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pushing him gently in the direction of the staircase. He led the charge, half toppling over every step in his desperation not to let go of you.

The second you hit the landing he whisked you back into his arms again, hands restless as he squeezed your sides, traveled up your arms, touched your face, all before coming right back down again to squeeze your ass. Another breathy laugh escaped you, so happy you couldn't put your smile away even as you kissed him.

His hand slid up to your lower back, guiding you towards the bedroom, your lips still locked together.

you pulled away at the door as Hancock filled with the stubborn doorknob, always jammed right when you needed it to open. You keep your arms hooked around him, but you give a salute to the neighborhood watchman stationed in front of your door. His face stayed stoic, either used to yours and Hancock's antics, or from copious threats from Hancock. Both seem equally likely.

He did give you a nod, though, as Hancock crooned in victory, having managed to fling the doors open. You gave him a smile, right as Hancock grabbed your arms and pulled you in. You kicked the doors shut behind you, already laughing as Hancock showered your face with kisses, dipping you like a dancer.

You separated from him enough to finally drop your pack, which thumps to the floor. Your guns come off, placed down with more care, followed by your bandolier and scavenging jacket.

Hancock cracked the doors open as you busied yourself, calling out, "Make sure to keep all the riff-raff out today, yeah brother?" And then the doors were shut and locked. A peaceful quiet descending over you.

He takes your hands, pulling you to the center of the bedroom, leaving you bathed in afternoon sunlight peeking in from the open balcony door. The room was as clean as it ever was, five hundred years of grime that you'd long given up on trying to get rid of.

With the door open and the spring air flooding in, everything felt fresher, not weighed down by centuries of history, but just a normal bedroom. Your books had been stacked in neat piles on the dresser, where you could see one of your shirt sleeves peeking out from the drawer. The bed was newly made, and....

"Is that..?" You stared, taking in the sharp white color of the fresh sheets, looking brand fucking new. Not Commonwealth new either, no, this looked like the bleached and pressed sheets of a fucking prewar hotel.

Your eyes sought out Hancock's, expecting to find him grinning, boastful, the usual exaggerated ego coupled with his general cool-demeanor, but instead you found him looking... uncertain. One hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was... bashful.

"Where did you get this?" You asked, stepping over to the bed. You ran a hand almost irreverently over the fresh sheets, feeling the starched, crisp texture of it, not rotting and mildewed like almost everything was.

"Oh, a uh– new trade caravan passed through last week. From somewhere out west, they've been growing cotton and weaving shit.

As if in a trance, you started shucking off your clothes, not wanting to sully the fresh sheets with your blood and dirt stained layers. You only get as far as your outer shirt when Hancock's hands sneak back onto your waist, almost timid in their touch. You half wanted to slap them off in your urge to get naked, get under the sheets and let him touch you there all he wanted.

Instead, you spin around to face him, guide his hands under your shirt to the warm skin of your stomach. "You're an angel, you know that?" You said.

He laughed, "Only for you, sister. Devil to everyone else."

You laughed back at him, finally shedding your shirt. As you try to wrestle off your boots with the force of your heel, all the examples to the contrary fly into your head: Every kind action he'd done, every willingly shared drug, every situation where he'd chosen less violence than he needed to. The nights you'd spent watching him agonize over whether he was good enough for his community, whether he was making the right decisions.

Instead of bringing those up, you pecked his lips in thanks. With his 'help' (groping), you got your undershirt and bra off, leaving your torso bare.

You leant down to unlace your boots, your earlier attempts having been futile, but before you could Hancock had you off your feet, tossing you head first into soft, fresh sheets. He took over, hands trailing teasingly over the waistband of your pants before he turned to your boots, sliding them off and taking your socks with them.

You groaned, cheek smushed into the mattress, as nimble hands pull your pants down and off. Trailing fingers, tickling the backs of your naked calves, up into the hollow of your knees. You had to stifle a giggle as a feather light touch against your inner thigh made you jump.

The bed shifted as he climbed onto it, his legs bracketing yours, knees pressing into the flesh of your thighs.

Fingers on the waistband of your underwear.

"How about we get these off?" His voice, low and gravelly, suddenly hot in your ear. A gentle bite to the cartilage of your earlobe, the drag of fabric as your underwear was pulled down your legs and then tossed somewhere.

"You know," You breathed, raising yourself onto your elbows so you could crane your neck and tried to catch him in a kiss. You missed, but settled for kissing his shoulder, hovering just by your head. "I'm feeling a bit exposed here. You've stripped me bare and you're still clothed."

You turned underneath him, determined to get him to kiss you again, were met with his grinning face just above yours. "Well, let no one call me an unfair man," He said, sinking onto his haunches, just out of reach of your desperate mouth. He plucked his tricorn from his head, settled it onto your.

You raised yourself to him, stole a quick peck, languishing in every brush of his lips against yours. It was dangerous, how much you'd missed him on the road, pining to the point of distraction. The times you'd ducked into buildings to ease an ache brought on by reminiscing, imagining him besides you, or on you, or in you. Imagining him being beside you as you stumbled into firefights, imagined his hands patching you up, rather than your own.

"You didn't happen to remember to take any Rad-X this morning, didya?"

His words pulled you from your stewing. You groaned. In your excitement to get home, you'd completely forgotten.

"Can't we just... skip it? This once?" You asked, pulling on his collar, dragging him down to lie on top of you, his mouth in reach again. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, hooking one leg around his waist to ground him to you, keep him from getting distracted.

"You and I both know you'd regret that in the morning, sister."

He was right, the bastard. Spending your morning throwing up, hooked to a Rad-Away was not your ideal first day back. So, lamentably, you release your grip on him, hands and leg flopping to the side as he leant over to grab a bottle from the nightstand.

"I'm sure we can find something to... entertain you, while we wait for it to kick in."

You pouted, making a show of how frustrating his interruption had been, how desperate you were to get him back. Here you were, naked, spread-eagle and waiting, with patience you didn't have.

You watched, silently, as he dug into the bottle, drawing out two pills. As he stepped back over, you pulled yourself back onto your elbows, waiting for him to hand them over, or maybe deposit them into your mouth himself.

Instead, as he kneeled onto the bed, he put them into his own mouth, leaning over you to meld his lips to yours. You grabbed at him, feeling his arms wrap around your waist to support your weight as you melted in his arms. Slowly, in long, deep, searing kisses, the pills moved from his mouth to yours. Once they were on your tongue, he pulled his mouth off yours, scarred lips shining with spit, and moved to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin as you gather enough saliva to swallow the pills.

Rad-X was quick to kick in, but the effects weren't instantaneous, leaving the pair of you with at least ten minutes to kill. On a normal day, you would have been happy to spend those minutes making out, taking your time in stripping Hancock off his clothes, egging each other on with dirty words and dangerous fantasies. But you'd spent over three weeks away from Goodneighbor, over three weeks of precarious mental foreplay, dreaming of his touch at night, fantasizing of him in the day. Suddenly, even the prospect of radiation sickness was not enough of a reason to stay away.

You tore at his coat, rucking his frilly shirt out from under his sash, exposing his slim stomach. You watched the muscle there tense under your touch, as you ran cold hands over his hips, tugging him closer to you. With practiced hands, you made quick work of untying the sash at his hips, satiny fabric sliding from your fingers and onto the floor like a waterfall.

Hancock bit into the flesh of your shoulder, making you hiss and dig your nails into the skin by his hip bones in retaliation.

You pull his chin upwards, leading his mouth to yours again, keeping those teeth from doing any more damage just yet.

Your generous hands wandered, up and under his shirt, roaming over the breadth of his chest, feeling it expand as he inhaled. You nipped at his bottom lip, drawing out a rumbling groan, felt both in your mouth against his, and in the vibrations against your fingertips.

You scooted to the edge of the bed, bracketing his hips with your thighs, freeing his hands so you could tug his coat off. Your hands slipped up under his collar, pushing his narrow shoulders backwards, giving you enough leverage to push the heavy coat backwards, the heavy fabric thumping to the ground.

Sometimes, when Hancock looked particularly vulnerable, usually collapsed on one of his couches, bleary with the haze of jet, his outfit reminded you of a child playing dress-up. In ancient coat tailored for a man with broader shoulders, a hat fit for a pirate and a disdain for the sort power he wielded.

You pulled your lips off of his, formulating a plea that would get you what you wanted, what words would make him understand just how badly you ached for him, just how unbearable the emptiness in you was. You pressed a chaste kiss to his sternum, bare but hiding in the ruffles of his shirt, and made a blind grab for the waistband of his pants, words suddenly elusive.

His hands stopped yours, stilling them just by the button on his pants, so close to their goal.

You whined, the sound almost entirely involuntary, tilting your head up to meet Hancock's gaze with your own, sure now that he was teasing you.

"John," You managed, "This is cruel."

His eyes crinkled, as if you were the one making the joke, as if you weren't the one burning from the inside out.

"Well, now, I can't have you destroying my reputation. I worked hard to be known as a generous lover."

"Then stop teasing and fuck me."

But he only snickered like a bawdy teenager, gentle hands guiding yours to grasp at the fresh sheets. You watched helplessly, heartbeat in your throat, as he stepped back, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows before sinking to the floor in front of you, guiding your legs over his shoulders.

"This'll coast you over, sister."

He grabbed you by your thighs, tugging you closer until you could feel his breath on your [core]. Your thighs trembled, heels digging into his back, desperate to push him closer, to get his mouth where it needed to be.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, hands balled into fists, half convinced you would burst into tears if he didn't do something. You swore you could feel him laugh, right up against your pussy, unable to hear it over the rush of blood in your ears, a split second before his tongue was finally, mercifully, on you. The slick drag of it landing quickly on your clit, lapping at it teasingly, every strike on your nerves making you seize, already so worked up from being near him.

You cursed on an exhale, lungs burning, every nerve in your body sparking, your blood heating. There was an obscene slurping as he sucked hard against your clit, pressure just on the right side of pain, his fingers digging into your thighs.

Your head pushed hard into the mattress, Hancock's hat falling into your eyes, rendering the outside world suddenly dark.

Suddenly, all pressure vanished, making you let out a long, pitiful whine, releasing your death grip on the sheets to raise the hat and see what the ghoul would be torturing you with this time. You raised your head, found Hancock on his knees by the bed, looking at you with pure reverence, fingers running up and down over the plush, soft skin of your inner thighs.

You could feel the way his ministrations had spread your juices, the way the skin at the meet of your thigh and pelvis were glued together, sticky, pulling at your pubic hair just enough to be uncomfortable.

"What are you starin' at?" You panted, trying to get his wandering mind back to the matter at hand.

He grinned up at you from his perch, "What do you think?"

Fingers, crawling slowly, teasingly, up your thigh, into the divot where leg meets hip, tickling. Then, slow, gentle strokes through your pussy lips, scooping up all your wetness. A teasing, fleeting touch across your clit, making you seize, arching off the bed with a whine.

Then, the slick, slow glide of those fingers inside you.

"F-Fuck," You huffed, meaning to say something more like 'fucking finally, you torturer'.

"Such a pretty girl for me," Hancock says, that sly purr sending its own spark up your spine, mixed with his fingers, a slow, tantalizing in and out, "Been thinking about you for days, love. All alone out there, with no one to help you out. Running back home, to me, to let me help."

His fingers stilled. You clenched around him, every muscle in your legs seizing, your chest heaving.

"Is that what you were doing?" His voice was delicious, closer now. There's a bite into the flesh of your stomach, just above your belly button and you tensed against it, squirming into his fingers.

"Yes," You breathed, grinding hard onto his fingers, willing something, anything, to put pressure on your clit. You try squeezing your legs together, but Hancock's arm is in the way. A pathetic whimper escapes you.

"Wanna tell me about it, sister?"

You get out a "Please," legs moving restlessly, trying to get him to do anything, go in our out, anything at all. Blindly, you reach out and get him by the back of the neck, trying to push him downwards. You can feel his smile against the skin of your hip.

"Nngh- mmm, yes, I thought of you. Every day I was away." His head sunk lower, chin resting on your pelvis. "Thought about this, or sharing a hit of jet, or letting you pour wine into my mouth."

His mouth found your clit again, and you were sure you could cry, feeling his tongue flicking at the little nub, fingers starting to move again, a slow, languid in and out.

You arched off the bed, hands gripping the back of Hancock's head, legs going over his shoulders, pressing into his back.

"Shit," You breathed, one hand shifting to grab his forearm. The pressure on your clit increased suddenly, sending a spark through you that left you limp. Your hands slid from their grips, spilling onto the bed.

You looked down, finding Hancock's eyes on you. Then, he twisted his fingers in a way you didn’t recognize increasing the suction on your clit until you felt like he was trying to give you a hickey. You gasped, fingers digging hard into the bed, fabric rustling in your palms, hips snapping upwards, further into his mouth.

"Wait, that felt– do it again," You panted, to which he happily obliged, tongue and fingers twisting in a way that lit a spark in your body, like the strike of a lighter. A few more repeated movements and you moaned, probably loud enough to wake the drifters in the attic. Hancock's free hand wandered up the bed, catching one of yours in his own with a gentle squeeze. A moment so sappily romantic it managed to push you over the edge, your orgasm cresting over you like a warm wave.

Slowly, with a few extra nips to your inner thigh, Hancock sat back. Face wet with you, mouth curved up into a smile. You squeezed your legs together, shading your clit from the open air, chest heaving as you recovered from over stimulation.

"Get up here, please," You called, voice languid, hands reaching out to embrace him, crush him to you, hold him there forever. He obliged, crawling up against you, the texture of his pants against your naked thighs sending goosebumps across your skin. He slotted perfectly into your arms, pressing his mouth to yours.

You ached for him, wanting to get him closer, to tangle with him until you were impossible to separate. You kissed him like you were starving, all teeth and desperation, hands moving to shove off his vest, to unbutton his shirt, to get him naked, get him closer. He helped you, tossing the vest and then the shirt to the floor, warm chest pressing to yours, your tits trapped between the two of you, his rough skin grazing against your nipples, heat building behind your sternum.

Between your bodies, you felt his hand work at his pants. You were pressed so close together that every fumble grazed against your core, sending shocks of heat through you. You were so overwhelmed with need you couldn't decide where to put your hands, sure you'd be more of a hindrance than a help if you tried to get involved.

He made quick work of it, tugging down his pants, followed by his underwear.

He lined himself up, your excitement mounting until you were sure you would come again the second he entered. He captured your lips in another searing kiss, and finally your hands moved without you having to think about it, settling low on his hips in an effort to drive him closer.

"Ready?" He asked, and you felt your mind flash back to your first time with him, a rushed affair after a night drinking with him at the Third Rail. Even then, as it was a desperate fumble to get naked as fast as possible, spread over the couch in his office, clawing and biting with ferality, both of you desperate to get closer, even then, he had paused, hands on your panties, and asked, in that same soft tone, if you were ready, as if he expected you to have changed your mind.

"Yeah, I'm ready," You breathed, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation.

It's a slow, slick, delicious glide that has both of you groaning. Something in you slots into place, all your frenetic energy calm, as you grip at Hancock's back, burying your face in his neck as he starts to move.

"God, that's so–" you gasped, unable to finish, unsure of the words. You hitched a leg up onto John's waist, dragged him in for another kiss.

His pace was achingly slow, his touches sickeningly sweet. You focused on the fullness of it, the way the glide and drag of it seemed to fill your lungs even as he stole your breath with his tongue.

You wanted to live in this moment forever, here with him, inseparable in every way, as close as you could be. Hancock's hips drove deep, making you arch your back with a gasp for air, his lips vanishing off yours. The pace stayed sweet, sentimental, and you relished every sound that came from his mouth, every trembling breath.

"Wait," you breathed, tapping his shoulder like a time out, "Lemme, ugh–" With a few moves, you've twisted the two of you around, him on his back, you supporting yourself over him. He looked up at you, eyes twinkling with pure adoration, as you settled yourself with your legs under you, hands moving to his chest so you can keep your balance.

You settled yourself down onto his cock, your hips flush with his, and his hands found your waist, squeezing with that same softness. You set a pace, still calm, but decidedly faster, enough that your tits jiggle as you move.

"If this is some fucked up hallucination," Hancock rasped, voice choked, "I swear I'll lay off the drugs."

You laughed, breathless, grinding down to find that perfect spot inside you, hitting it over and over again, until the pleasure of it turns the inside of your eyelids white and your hands buckle, give out.

Arms caught you, of course, Hancock flipping you back over, managing to land that sweet spot again, enough that the tension spreads across your body, every muscle tensing up as you moaned, inches away from your second orgasm. His fingers on your clit do the trick, a few tight circles and the tension suddenly seeps out of you, a long, silent exhale. He fucked you through it, pace slowing down as you catch your breath.

You lean up to capture his lips again, grinding your hips to meet his thrusts, encouraging him to speed it up, to chase his own pleasure, relishing in the way his pace grows frantic, sloppier.

He gripped your wrists, bringing them over your head, held tight in his hands. Your torso lengthened, chin tilting upwards, exposing the length of your neck to him. He pulled away from your mouth so you take the chance, craning your neck upwards to nip at his skin, finding the soft tendons and sucking hard.

Through gasping breaths, he asked, "Where– nngh– where do you want me?" Your legs tightened around him, hands clawing at his back, using all the strength you had to keep him where he was.

Already, you can feel the way your own pressure is building back up, the way the repeated slide of it drives you right back to the edge.

"In– in me," You gasped, muscles shaking as he managed to hit that perfect spot in you over and over, back arching clean off the bed. You still weren't ready to let him go, even as you neared your third orgasm, still desperate to keep him where he was.

"Are you–"

"John," You cried, his hips slowing as he stopped again to check, your welfare always at the front of his mind. Sure, it would leave you raw and burning, making the next round a bit more pain than pleasure, but all you could think about was keeping the sensation of him imprinted on you as long as possible. "I'm sure, please."

He rutted against you, hips grinding against yours. His head dropped to your shoulder, gasping against your sweat slicked skin, two fingers sliding down against your throbbing clit.

You whimpered against him as pleasure flooded your body again, your grip on him weakening as your muscles shook, legs slipping from around his waist.

You mumbled words of praise as he came, hands roaming around his back, onto his cheek, your whispers of, "So good, so perfect, you're perfect, baby," audible only to him as he moaned. You felt the heat of him inside you, the slow building of fullness even as he softened.

You felt the slow, familiar tingling that preceded the lightly burning pain that would start. You felt Hancock shifting out of you, his mouth twisted into a guilty frown in the skin of your shoulder.

You clenched, feeling the slow dribble of heat spilling onto your skin.

Hancock's lips traced a path across your shoulder, down your arm, the occasional wet smack or nip at your skin pausing his journey. He detached himself from you slowly, regretfully, as if taking his skin off yours was some great sin. And it was, but in the service of a greater good, grabbing a clean strip of cloth from the bedside drawer, cleaning you up in gentle caresses, stickiness removed from your inner thighs, even softer touches over your pussy lips.

You let him busy himself, even as your fingers itched to get him back, wanting to tell him that you'd had worse pain, that you'd hurt for him every second if you had to. Instead, you only smiled at him when he glanced up at you, reaching up to pull him back to you. He came willingly as you pulled him back into your arms.

Tension faded out of your muscles and you melted into the bed, hands wrapped around Hancock's middle. "Did you miss me while I was gone?" You asked, smiling, voice soft. You just wanted to hear him say it, your own little version of 'I love you'.

Hancock raised his head, pecking your lips gently, leaving them tingling.

"More than you could ever know," He said, painfully earnest.

"Mmm, I think I have some idea."

Notes:

The smut chapter took me ages to write for some reason, so if it sucks... uh. No it doesn't (if u see any spelling errors pls let me know tho)

Thanks for reading! Please leave me a comment, or request something, or just come chat with me!

#hancock x reader #john hancock x you #john hancock #john hancock x reader #hancock #hancock fo4 #hancock fallout #hancock x sole survivor #hancock x you #fallout companions #fallout imagines #fallout 4 companions #hancock smut #my writing #fo4 companions

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zymzwei · 12 days

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Creepypasta residencies headcanon

The original map is on yaguyi deviantart

Slender Mansion

Slenderman (of course)

BEN DROWNED

Jeff the killer

Laughing Jack

Sally Williams

Skully (?)

Smile Dog

Pinkamena

ENOS Lake

Zero

The Puppeteer

Bloody Painter

Judge Angels

Kagekao

Abandoned houses

Jane The killer

Suicide Sadie

Lazari

Nina the killer

Homicidal Liu

Giant tree

The Rake

The Scarecrow girl

Hobo Heart

The seed eater

Church

Lulu

Lost Silver

Laughing Jill

Ruins

Eyeless Jack

Will Grossman

Mr. Widemouth

Unknown factory

Rainbow factory (yep, it's her factory)

Lifeless Lucy

Jason the toymaker

Candypop

Firewatch tower

Clockwork

Nathan the nobody (kicked out)

Abandoned hospital

Dr. Smiley

Nurse Ann

Glitchy Red

Chris's territory

Chris the revenant

Nathan the nobody (rip)

Proxy outpost (north)

Kate the chaser

Skully (?)

Proxy outpost (east)

Ticci Toby

X-Virus

Proxy outpost (south)

Rouge the prowler

Wilson the basher

Proxy outpost (west)

Masky

Hoodie

Bonus headcanon!

Skully rarely stays in one place.

Lulu prays every night to have her eyes back.

Clocky and Chris really like their privacy.

Remember these are my headcanon. Some of them based on what i thought would suit them and the rest is randomly placed. Let's pray that nathan soon find his place in the world.

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survivalove · 11 months

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Air Temple Island, the Water Tribes & the Real Life Influences that bring them together

I was gonna screenshot a post I saw and add it to my post but I don’t feel like giving that individual attention (and the 300+ notes they got), so I just decided to make my own standalone post debunking this narrative that air temple island is this fully air nomad brothel (yes they said this) with ZERO water tribe motifs which katara is forced to live in until aang passed away.

frankly it just reminded me of how little people in this fandom actually bother to analyze the actual content, instead preferring to write entirely made up scenarios of katara being reduced to an air nomad incubator along with dozens other female acolytes (yes they also said this lmao. also them acting like both male AND female acolytes weren’t living on the whole other side of the island 😭)

when in truth, i’ve come to find a lot of elements of both water tribes as well as traditional inuit elements across air temple island:

1. the paifang

a traditionally chinese element that for some reason is exclusively found in the northern water tribe (why do they have a gate inside a throne room, you ask? ask the white people that made this show). the one on the left is actually one of two aang BUILT, at the main entrance and another at the temple entrance. this is just one example of water tribe design on the island.

2. the bagua mosaic

another structure is the bagua mosaic on the training grounds. bagua is a set of traditional chinese symbols of the cosmology, taoism. the bagua composes of 8 sets of broken or unbroken lines that represent yin and yang. where have we seen yin and yang in the original series? oh yeah, as tui and la of the water tribe! (because atla is a mess of asiatic and indigenous motifs joined together and spread out across each nation, mainly traditionally chinese elements at that.) aang building this right next to the air nomad training grounds is a symbol of the dual bending heritage their children will have.

3. gold and blue accents

now, gold and blue are the main colors of the exterior structures but is also very strong inside the air temple itself. note, the massive air nomad symbol designed fully in blue in the center and the blue banners and rugs throughout the temple. this is no doubt, for me, a visual depiction of both katara and aang’s representative cultures, but of course this is not limited to color only.

4. cloud carvings

now, this is a slight detour since clouds aren’t a significant part of either of their individual cultures (that we know) but i love the kataang monopoly they have on clouds as a couple so i’m talking about it. if you look at these images very closely what do you see? CLOUD CARVINGS!! specifically near the ceiling of the pavilion (left) and the arches and walls of the temple (right) just imagining aang painting and etching these very consistent swirls, like he’ll never be the selfish inconsiderate unromantic loser you people want him to be, but let’s get more into the southern water tribe style interior.

5. interior design

so here is a southern water tribe white lotus outpost vs the air temple island main dining room. first thing, the seat cushions and rug! while we don’t see air nomad eating quarters we do get to see enough SWT customs both in atla and lok, to know this is how they traditionally eat compared to the north (limiting myself on pics cuz mobile).

another thing is the dining table itself. both have what i believe to be built in fire pits (i couldn’t actually tell for the air temple island one cuz of the quality but if you zoom in you can see the lines go in the table plus the hanging kettle on it makes it obvious to me idk). the southern water tribe one however is clear and likely a more traditional version of what aang and katara have.

thirdly, the exposed timber on the ceiling. i actually looked it up and found this is a common element of these two inuit structures: left is an aasiaat peat house and right is an igloolik turf house. all this for me to believe not only did aang build air temple island to be a haven for the TWO of them but also that katara herself had a lot of input on the interior than people care to notice lol.

maybe instead of projecting these loser fantasies of katara being some unwilling air nomad baby making machine so you can feel better about your fantasies of katara living in a red palace with people that tried to wipe her out for a whole century, you all can go study the actual canon you were shown and the real life cultures the franchise takes from.

6. lastly, some of my own headcanons/stuff i want to see in the movie

the bathroom because I LIVE for a white marble tiled bathroom. i just know katara has to have a HUGE tub and they have one of those insane glass showers that can fit like 3 people, with cloud swirls everywhere because aang clearly got it like that

the KITCHEN, i imagine it being timber like the dining room and is probably on the other side behind the built-in shelf (get into the details like hello). in a perfect world, it would be open plan but hey

the bedroom, now we saw it in lok a bit but i wanna see it in the gaang movie too. i’m on pic limit but there’s a lot of artwork and flowers throughout the whole house which i give katara credit for because I can. like the desk, the bookshelf, that fancy looking vase thing? these two clearly have taste like don’t talk to me rn

I also didn’t show the rooms and aang’s study but there’s a lot of blue decor in those places which makes me think katara decorated the whole house, even the acolytes’ hall has blue sitting cushions and columns which i think is such a nice detail.

if you guys have any air temple island headcanons of your own please reply with some i’m feening lol

big shoutout to this user:

atla-annotated (their page is so great and filled with a lot of incredible information if you guys like this sort of stuff)

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graphicpolicy · 2 years

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Get an extended look at Outpost Zero: The Complete Collection

Get an extended look at Outpost Zero: The Complete Collection #comics #comicbooks

View On WordPress

#alexandre tfenkgi #graphic novel #graphic novels #image comics #outpost zero #sean kelley mckeever #skybound #skybound comet

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padawansuggest · 1 year

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Took a shower (thank the lord right) and accidentally created a new AU in my noggin be warned this one is super wild. Includes: Baby-Wan and ouchies and time travel

Obi-Wan goes back in time (whatever maybe he did it himself maybe someone did it to him maybe he did it on accident but it’s post ANH okay) and suddenly finds himself in his toddler body.

You know what his first thought is? Cody. And absolute grief because his soulmate HAD been there in the force with him but now he’s gone. So what does Cody make him think of? Jango. Which means he’s all ughhhhhhhhh I have to go save him, and manages to mindcontrol some guy into getting him off planet. So here he is four whole years old with all the adult emotions trapped in a baby body what can go wrong??? Pirates. Obviously.

Frankly the only reason he doesn’t feel bad about the guy he mind controlled cause he was already gonna end up here so. Whoops.

So who manages to find them of all the damn people? Jaster’s entire ship headed to Korda Six (yes I’m going there the force said ‘I’m gonna give the gays everything they want’ and started with a happy baby’) but having been waylaid by a sudden four year old WITH A KNIFE AND FERAL STUPIDITY on the bridge. He says his name is Cody, he cut Montrose on his calve and it IS gonna require surgery and he bites everyone. Especially Jango. Who is only ten and crying because an ik’aad bit him and Jaster is very torn between giving Jango kisses for his ouchie and helping catch the toddler that knows how to escape through vents and is staging a one toddler zero men mutiny and is loudly telling everyone he’s going to the Jedi.

Maybe he’s possessed. Maybe they can just take him to the Jetii for a quick exorcism and play blaster-armor-saber for who gets the honor of adopting his feral ass.

Till they come across a pirate ship beating up a stranded ship and that’s just not nice so well shit they gotta save them.

Which is how they end up with a traumatized Captain and a stowaway toddler who’s demanding to see Jango once he realizes what ship he’s on. Jango is grumpily dragged in to see him, gets baby attached to his chest (listen he is so over babies now you can let go anytime he’s not interested in getting bit again) and then the vent to the medical room and a feral toddler with a knife comes flying out and demands to get his love back right this fucking instant.

Jaster finally gets a hold of him, disarms him, and puts him in time out before asking who taught him that word that’s not an ad’ika word!

Cody, repentant because adult emotions in a baby body fills you up so much, cries and asks for cuddles. Jaster gives him cuddles before putting in on a cot with Obi-Wan who promptly forgets Jango exists and gives Cody shy baby kisses and holds his hand. Jango is relieved to not be the center of attention for a moment. Till Jaster promptly realizes no one told Obi-Wan who Jango is, why did Obi ask for him?? Obi says he’s a Jetii master trapped in a baby’s body.

Yeah so possession it is. They call up the Jetii and ask if they can come over for exorcisms n chill, the Jetii say they can give them one better can you plz pick up some stranded Jetii along the way? Don’t worry they can assess the situation and see if they need to come in for it. It’s Master Windu and Padawan Billaba! What a surprise! Obi had no idea this could be so easy!

Anyways. So he’s having trouble talking because let’s just say I’ve decided so, so he sorta throws his mental shields down and starts projecting at people, which along with giving EVERYONE a headache, instead of just Mace for once, gives the force the chance to snap a BUNCH of bonds in place. Like a master-apprentice bond with Mace. And vod’e bonds with Depa and Jango. And a Buir bond with Jaster. And a full fledged soulmate bond with Cody.

Anyways. Mace thinks he’s decided three things: he’s gotta (not wants to, but has to) get the senate to let them make an outpost in Mandalorian space so him and Obi can be with Obi’s new dad and family, he does NOT want to be a council member anymore because this is a fucking mess that’s gonna turn into a 6 day meeting for them, and yes, they need to go to the temple.

Anyways. Make Cody a small child and give him a knife is my solution to a lot of things actually.

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #clone wars #commander cody #jaster mereel #jango fett #mace windu #codywan #time travel #baby wan #tiny cody

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tallulah477 · 9 months

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Pretty, Pretty Panties

Kinkmas Day 3: Lingerie/Stockings

Pairing: Lo’ak x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Lo’ak, Grinding (cause I can’t think of a better word for this?), Size Difference

Word Count: 1.9K

A/N: I was trying to see if there was a specific word for this kind of sex act and Google decided to bring me hurtling back into the world of Urban Dictionary and y’all . . . Urban Dictionary is WILD

A/N 2: I have exactly zero other prompts prepped after this one so this is going to be exactly like Kinktober lmao

Summary: Lo’ak has always been intrigued by human items, but your panties may just be his favorite of them all.

Translations:

Tawtute - Human

Olo’eyktan - Clan Leader

Tewng - Loincloth

Yawne - Beloved

Lo’ak’s always been intrigued by human items.

It’s only natural - his father was a human, long before Eywa granted him a new life permanently in the body of his Avatar. He, himself, is undeniably part human. The hair on his brow bones and extra finger on both of his hands are features that can only ever come from one place, telling the story of his unique family lineage and the source of his low self-esteem during his teenage years.

He’s since grown out of the self-hatred his different traits brought upon him, learning to accept who he is and be proud of his differences despite where they come from. Besides, not all humans are bad. His grandmother had told them once that the humans that stayed behind on Pandora after the first war were all part Na’vi - not in looks, of course, but in soul. They are the ones who fought for peace, who heard the call of Eywa, even with their tiny, round tawtute ears, and earned their place amongst The People despite looking like the enemy.

His father was one of them, a long time ago, and he became Toruk Makto with his hairy eyebrows and extra fingered hands. It used to be suffocating, to be drowning under the shadow of such a successful man, always feeling like a disappointment, a failure, and never knowing if he was ever going to be half the man his father is. But things are different now. Lo’ak is older and wiser, and he can proudly say he feels honored to share in those similarities with such a great man.

Human DNA is in his veins, their technology now a staple in the Omatikaya Clan, introduced at the insistence of his father. Throat comms wrap around the necks of every hunter and warrior, tablets are used to help keep track and categorize supplies of both the clan’s reserves as well as the outpost’s inventory. Every warrior must go through vigorous gun training, learning how to handle the weapon, how to shoot and reload with military precision. The bad humans are gone now, with no sight of ever looking like they’re going to return, but the Olo’eyktan does not take chances, and he will not have his family run out of their home ever again.

Lo’ak knows it all, his long blue fingers fiddling with any piece of technology confidently. But it’s not just technology he’s interested in. He’s tried clothes before, stealing the largest t-shirt he could find from one of the science guys just to try it. It fit, but just barely, the material stretching across his lean shoulders a little too tightly and feeling way too constricting for his own taste, the bottom hem stopping about halfway down his torso. You laughed when you saw it, tears filling your eyes as you pointed at his midriff just barely able to gasp out the words ‘crop top’ through your full bodied laughter.

The shirt didn’t work for him, he was okay with that. He was curious, he tried, he learned - and that was that. He never really thought he would want to go around wearing tawtute clothing even if they would have fit him right.

You, on the other hand . . .

. . . well, those panties fit you perfectly.

It’s not like humans go out in their underwear, and Spider is the only human bold enough to regularly walk around in a tewng, so Lo’ak only finds out exactly what’s underneath those annoying layers of tawtute clothing when the two of you start fucking around. The chest covering, a ‘bra’ you called it, is completely unnecessary. There’s no need to cover up as much as humans do, and to hide such perfect tits in an uncomfortable wired cradle is a torture that he will never understand why someone would put themselves through, and, frankly, it’s a slight against Eywa to cover up such gifts.

The panties though? Yeah, they can stay. They look so much like a tewng, covering your most intimate parts like a privacy cover, only missing the front flap to make them identical in look. You have different ones - different colors, different textures, and different styles that show various levels of undress for your perfect ass.

Lo’ak loves them all, but currently, the one’s he’s fucking are his favorite.

It’s a tiny thing, like you, light pink with a cute little bow in the front, and the soft material feels like heaven on his cock as he glides through your wet folds.

You look so good underneath him, hair splayed out like a halo on your pillow as you gasp and whine every time the head of his cock slides over your clit, tiny hands fisting into the sheets for support as his own hands push your knees back against your chest to keep you spread open.

You’re still wearing your panties, and a part of him wants to growl in frustration and rip the delicate material from your body for not being able to have an unobscured visual of your puffy pussy. But you’re so wet, so so wet that the panties have all but become transparent with your slick, making them sticky and see through enough that he can see both the outline of your labia and his length as he rubs against you underneath it.

He shivers as he thrusts faster, the wetness of your arousal making the slip across your swollen clit all the more easy, and a growled moan escapes him as the wet sounds your pussy makes at the increased pace invade his ears. The tip of his cock is nudging against the wet fabric with each pass, the large bulge pushing the material away from your body with each thrust just from the sheer size of him. The underside of your panties is dragging against the length of his cock, working in unison with your silky pussy against the underside to tease him into insanity.

Your whines get louder, hips twisting in response to the never ending stimulation on the sensitive bundle of nerves, dripping hole clenching around nothing, begging to be filled. “Lo’ak, please,”

He hums at the sound of his name, his name, moaned in that beautiful voice of yours, eyes flicking up from the obscene view of where your bodies are meeting to your face. “Yes, yawne? What can I do for you?”

“P-please, fuck me,” You beg. Your legs are trembling in his hold, desperate to kick out and wrap around his hips to try and pull him in. “Please,”

“Hm,” He grins, sharp canines on display, glittering in the fluorescent lighting of your bedroom. “Does my pretty girl feel empty? Need some big Na’vi cock to fill you up?”

You nod, frantically, heat pooling in your cheeks as the coil in your belly tightens at the thought of his cock splitting you open. You want it so badly, want to feel his length push into you, want to experience it as it keeps pushing, filling you up more and more and feeling like it might never stop. You want to see that bulge currently working underneath the cover of your sticky panties in your stomach instead - want to watch it disappear as he pulls out only to reappear again when he thrusts back in, deeper and deeper as he fucks your cunt so good in a way you know only he ever could.

He wants that too, wants to feel what your gummy walls feel like wrapped around his cock. He knows the sight would just about kill him, to see your soaking hole stretch to its limits trying to take a cock that’s way too big for you. How suffocatingly tight you would feel, to finally be inside you (or at least as much inside as he can fit).

He can’t help it, he just wants to see what it looks like, and he stops the tortuous drag of his cock along your clit to slide down the length of your pussy. One of his hands let go of your thigh to pull your panties to the side, mouth watering at the sight of your soaked core and puffy clit now completely visible to his hungry gaze. His breathing is shaky when he presses the tip of his cock against your tight entrance, the head rubbing gently at the pulsing hole as you mewl underneath him.

“Lo,” You moan, back arching as you try to push your hips down further against him. “More,”

“More, huh?” Lo’ak groans, pressing just a little bit harder against you and watching as your entrance gives under the pressure, trying to stretch around him and welcome him in. “This slutty little pussy wants more? So greedy,”

Your wide eyes glisten with unshed tears, red rimmed and watery from the way he’s teasing you. He won’t push in, won’t give you anything more than the small presses of pressure against your sopping hole, just enough to get you to start to stretch around the tip only to snap back when the pressure releases. “Lo’ak, please!”

His fangs dig into his bottom lip, a soft growl echoing through the room as he steels himself to be strong. You’re not ready, he’s too big and he doesn’t want to hurt you. You gasp when he pushes against your entrance again, cock slipping against your wetness and running up your slit and across your clit roughly making you jump.

Lo’ak releases his hold on your panties, letting the soaked garment snap back in place over your cunt and his heated length.

“Can’t,” He grunts, once again beginning the agonizing stimulation of him sliding against your pussy. The soaked squelching sounds as his cock glides against your clit are obscene and wonderful, and your responding moans and whines sound even better as his ears flick to catch the sound. “Wanna fuck your pretty, pretty panties.”

Your hands latch onto Lo’ak’s wrists, nails digging into his skin as the coil in your belly tightens up more. The bite from your nails only intensifies the feeling, and Lo’ak can feel his own orgasm barreling towards him, and fuck, only you can make him feel like this without any penetration at all.

It’s all wet in your pretty panties, all wet and gooey, and your arousal soaks his cock so good as he rocks against your soft folds. The fabric of the panties are rubbing against the head of his cock with each thrust, the added sensation only adding to the intensity. And when you cum, back arched and whimpering his name as he slides against your clit over and over and over again, dripping hole clenching around nothing as your body shakes with pleasure, the sight sends him over the edge, too.

His orgasm hits him hard, ropes of pearly release painting your sensitive pussy and the inside of your pretty pink panties as he moans. Slowly, he pulls his cock out from underneath the fabric, letting the panties press back in place over your cunt with the sticky mess he left behind between you and the ruined material.

And you look so beautiful like that, so sexy as you lie there, panting and looking like you just got fucked within an inch of your life despite the fact that you didn’t even take his tip, let alone his entire cock. The pink panties are pretty, and you wear them so well.

But now he can’t help but wonder if you maybe have a pair in blue too.

**Special thanks to @neteyamsyawntu for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife @erenjaegerwifee @f-cklife @beautiful-brown-skin-05 @anastasia1777-blog @localjasmine @tsewtx @skywonder @neteyamswillow

#𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✎#Avatar12DaysofKinkmas #lo'ak smut #lo'ak x human reader #Lo’ak x female reader

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indierpgnewsletter · 6 months

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New Itch Games from Feb and March 2024

Rabbit Ronin: A samurai picaresque of wandering adventurers, who also happen to be rabbits or pigs or bears and so forth. (Thomas McGrenery)

Holdfast Station: A zero-prep, mostly one shot, hardscrabble sci-fi RPG about community survival on an isolated mining outpost. (Michael Low and Maurice Poplar)

Otherworldly Flesh: A one page sci-fi scenario, system neutral, about a group of scientists delving into an organic living spacecraft. (Francisco Lemos)

Stirring the Hornet’s Nest at Het Thamsya: A 28-page, one-shot TTRPG adventure module for Cairn and similar games about rescuing a meditating monk from a temple of automatons and wasp monsters. (Munkao)

Dungeons for Shepherds: Dungeons is a 26-pages for preparing and running dungeons in a map-free, montage style. Intended for the PbtA game, Shepherds, but adaptable to a lot of other games. (Airk Seablade)

Denique Aequales: A scenario for Cthulhu Dark about contagion and sacrifice, set in Italy during World War 2. The PCs are anti-fascist partisans in search of a young comrade who has gone missing. (Daniele Di Rubbo & Leonardo Lucci)

La Desbandá 1937: a historically inspired role-playing game where players take on the roles of civilians in the Spanish Civil War as they retreat from Franco’s fascist forces. (Pablo Lopez)

Solstice: A ’90s Folk Horror RPG about small town mentality, shame, and burning someone alive in a wicker man to bring back the sun. (Tanya Floaker)

Lingering: “Lingering is a solo journaling TTRPG about a lingering spirit in an animal form who must convince someone to help resolve their unfinished business so their spirit can move on. (Meghan Cross / Siren’s Song Games)

(This first appeared on the Indie RPG Newsletter.)

#indie rpg #ttrpg #ttrpg community #ttrpgsolidarity #ttrpg design #rpg

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redara · 6 months

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And Your Voice Was All I Heard

Pairings: Union of Light Bi-Han/Áila Havarôr Ratings: Mature Words: 6.990 TW: depiction and mention of abuse, blood, torture Summary: Post-MK1. Áila realizes the Lin Kuei is steering away from their purpose. She needs to escape the compound and return to Liu Kang in the Wu Shi Academy before the Grandmaster finds out what she's doing, for the price for treachery is death.

A/N: also posted on AO3. Áila is the OC of @tazahan and this fic is based on her work:

The bell rings.

Áila follows her peers – the group of Lin Kuei warriors – rushing to the main hall to attend the call for the urgent meeting. She is dreading the worst; it’s difficult to think of anything positive at this moment, not since the Grandmaster returned, alone and injured, and declared his two brothers as traitors. It’s the hot talk of the barracks; Scorpion and Smoke had defied order; they had attacked Sub-Zero and left him by the outer outpost of the Lin Kuei’s territory. Search parties have been assigned since then, and while it was fruitful, Scorpion and Smoke have fled Arctika.

Then, Sub-Zero suddenly announced that the Lin Kuei will not answer to Fire God Liu Kang or the Wu Shi Academy anymore.

Truth be told, Áila is confused with the whole ordeal. A part of her is telling her to trust the Grandmaster, yet deep inside she knows there is more to the story than what has been told. There must be a greater reason why Scorpion and Smoke forsook their oath and left the clan – either there is one reason, or she is still in denial, like any other Lin Kuei.

The main hall is already full of neatly lined warriors; Áila falls into formation, scanning the room. Tension is high, mixing with a variety of emotion – confusion, anger, anxiety, mixing as one. Hushed chatters being exchanged, questioning the reason for their assembly, questioning if it has something to do with the runaway brothers. Until the grand door opens, and the hall falls silent.

Walking into the room is the Grandmaster himself, dressed in his usual blue uniform. The lack of yellow and gray warriors who’d tail behind him is a new sight, one that makes Áila’s heart clench. Instead, there is a trail of ice following his footsteps, crackling, disappearing after a second. The torches of the hall sways as he comes in proximity. He takes his stand and looks down at his warriors; anger flashes in his usually stern gaze in the form of the warm fiery lights of the hall; the hardened feature of his face lets it be known how serious he is tonight, that whatever he is about to say will be of the utmost importance.

“I shall keep this brief,” he opens, his deep voice cuts the silence with such authority, echoing against the stone walls, “for as I am speaking, the two traitors have settled in Japan and built a clan to fight against ours. Carve this name in your mind: The Shirai Ryu; for mercy shall not be given to them or their allies.”

Sub-Zero paces slowly. “For centuries, the Lin Kuei have stood loyally by Earthrealm; our ancestors have kept the peace and protected the masses without recognition. We have stood, leashed to ridiculous rules set by Liu Kang, for no reason but to hold us back. You,” he waves his hand in a general direction, startling a line of warriors, “have trained and learned all your lives. Yet when the time calls, you have witnessed Liu Kang picking unworthy fighters to be tested against your might – a test of which you must fail. You have witnessed your brethren be sent off to fight by the demand of the Fire God; how little the number of those who returned, and our name remains unseen in the grand history of the world.

“Centuries of hard work, dedication, and loyalty… Would you like to know what the other Realms call us?”

His nose scrunches up in disgust as he continues.

“‘Liu Kang’s lapdogs’.”

The deafening silence is replaced by a cacophony of gasps. The tension breaks into a unified anger and hushed protest. Áila tries to remain composed – no, no, it’s not true… Liu Kang trusts the Lin Kuei, in fact, he talks of them highly. There is no way he would let anyone belittle the Lin Kuei.

But the Grandmaster carries on, collecting the newfound disappointment of his Lin Kuei warriors towards the Fire God, “No more shall our name be wiped from history. I vowed to you that we shall be known throughout the Realms. A clan – a nation – of which others will fear and respect –”

What is happening? No, no, this is not –

“Never again shall we be shackled by Liu Kang and his tyranny. We shall stand on our own, not for Liu Kang, not for Earthrealm –”

Áila internally begs the Grandmaster to stop. This is madness… He is declaring war against Liu Kang and Earthrealm – against his own brothers!

He clenches his fist and raises it high, “For the Lin Kuei!”

Áila watches helplessly as fists are raised in the air – the decision has been made, the future of the Lin Kuei has been set – and her heart begs her to scream, only capable of hearing the warriors all around her chanting out their loyal reply to their Grandmaster.

“For the Lin Kuei!”

***

With each passing day, the Lin Kuei begin to undergo plenty of changes. For one, the Engineering Department is more active than usual; the sound of metals and tools screeches out of their workshop, day and night; tons of materials being sent in, raising curiosity of what they are used for.

Áila grows wary. The lack of information from inside and outside of the compound is making her anxious. She wishes she could contact her father and ask if their clan, the Sól Eldur, is aware of what is happening, but communication with the outside world is very limited. Her guts are telling her to run away, run to the Wu Shi, and join them, but… what if Sub-Zero is right, and Liu Kang has been ruling Earthrealm under his tyranny, and Scorpion and Smoke are truly traitors?

Gods… the need to find the truth on her own is itching her mind. It doesn’t help that this afternoon, a fellow warrior dropped a hint that only makes the itch worse.

“Do not quote me on this, but I think our Grandmaster is building an army,” said the curly warrior to the masked warrior who was sitting across from Áila, “because I saw plenty of body armor in the workshop – not your usual armor, mind you, these are full metal, with cables and tubes, a very complicated design.”

The masked warrior frowned, “You mean he’s building an armored suit for us?”

“No, an army. Mechanized army. Well, granted, I only saw them briefly when I had to deliver some paperworks, but I know what I saw.”

“That is a bit of a stretch. It can be anything –”

“And I might have overheard Sektor talking to Cyrax about needing a new mathematical model for the brain. Come on, why would they need one if they’re making armors?”

So now here Áila is, sneaking into the heavily guarded workshop, internally regretting her decisions by the second. There might not be anything of importance here, and she’s risking her life for nothing, but she knows she has to do at least something; at the very least she should see what Sub-Zero and his engineers are making.

It is eerie. The smell of molten metal lingers in the air, mixing with a hint of rust, of singed materials, and dampness. Áila tiptoes through the hallway, passing a few doors, hiding from security cameras, until she finally reaches the inner workspace, and –

By the Elder Gods….

Tall, skeletal, humanoid creatures made of metal are lining up in the workspace; one is laid on the workbench with an open chest, displaying a mess of cables and tubes and gears. What should be their faces are nothing but a jumble of unfinished circuitry. Approaching warily, Áila can see some sharp blades on another workbench, they are equipped with weapons? But before she can observe them in detail, a voice startles her.

“-- more time, Bi-Han, or would you risk injuries to the Lin Kuei?”

Without missing a beat, Áila slithers towards a stack of crates. She hears footsteps – the unmistakable pace of the Grandmaster, followed by a more hurried one – and soon she can see the owners approaching. Sub-Zero appears first; his maskless face is seemingly stuck in a scowl; Sektor is following behind him as if trying to get him to stop.

“I understand you want the Cybers to be ready soon, but this – all of this – is something beyond our calibers, but, Cyrax’s team is still figuring out the math. It is paramount –”

“-- for everyone’s safety. Have you no other reason to say?” Sub-Zero finally stops, and he looks around the workspace, until he settles on the metallic body on the bench. He heaves a long sigh, tensed shoulders slumping with the motion. “With the days we are losing, we are one step behind the Shirai Ryu, and they are already on our doorstep –”

BANG.

Áila tries not to flinch when Sub-Zero punches the metal workbench with his bare fist, creating a dent and sharp icicles that spread; Sektor takes a step backwards, jaws clenching. Sub-Zero continues, “Kuai Liang keeps sending his dogs to sniff around our borders, and you are giving me nothing but scraps! Are you that incompetent, Sektor, that you cannot make one of these move?!”

Sektor stammers, “I – I – I could, I could, but you have to know –”

“What?! Safety again?!”

“-- they’re deadly. Bi-Han, the Cyber Lin Kuei will be capable of destroying a major city in one night. I need to have the additional math for the safety precaution, it is for your own safety as well –”

Sub-Zero interjects again, but Áila has stopped listening; she uses the opportunity to slip by unannounced, tiptoing deeper into the workshop; the voices of those two men are becoming further. Her mind is racing, still trying to wrap itself around this new revelation. So this is what Sub-Zero wants, freeing the Lin Kuei from ‘tyranny’ to subject others to his tyranny?

Her guts win; she has to leave the Lin Kuei.

She stops in front of a closed door of an office with Cyrax’s name etched on the nameplate. The math, she recalls, I need evidence. Liu Kang should know about this… Cautiously, she opens the door; it swings without a sound; and she is met by the sight of an empty office. Three large monitors are on the wall, displaying numbers and documents with intricate writings.

Áila steps inside and closes the door. Immediately, she rushes for the desk, eyes flicking between monitors. The tech is next level, definitely something custom-made by Cyrax, but the interface shows similarity to what Áila knows – and by the Gods, she intends to make it work.

After so many clicks and navigating the menus, she finally finds the email function. Without bothering to change the account, she types the email address of the only person in Wu Shi Academy who is constantly glued to the phone.

Sender: cy.4d4 To: jcage Subject: SOS Johnny, it’s Áila. I don’t have much time, but if you can read this, please get to Liu Kang ASAP. The Lin Kuei is preparing some kind of a robot army dubbed the Cyber Initiative. It’s not functional yet, and I hope it never will be, but they said it would be able to level a city in a day. Details in attachments. I’m leaving tonight. If I don’t make it to the Wu Shi in a week, you know what happened.

Áila drags a few recent files to the email before sending it. She makes sure to remove it from the ‘Sent’ folder as well to remove the trace.

She should take her leave now, yet she stands still, reading the open documents on the monitor, how most of them can’t be sent through the email due to the size of the files. She tears her eyes from the screen for a moment to scan the desk for some kind of a hard drive or a flash drive, something portable to bring a copy of the documents with her. Just her luck, a red flash drive is sitting by a stack of papers.

Each second that she uses to copy the data into the flash drive raises the level of her anxiety. Only when it is completely full and packed that she pulls it out, and tucks it into her uniform, into her breastband, right under the fold of her ample breasts where she knows it would be safe and hidden. The hard part is done, now it’s time to –

The blaring of alarms sends her jumping in place.

The once quiet hallway is now echoing with the incessant ringing and the footsteps of incoming reinforcements, one of them is the familiar heavy pace of the Grandmaster. Áila bolts for a makeshift exit – a window – where she throws herself against the glass and comes out tumbling onto the snowy ground of the Lin Kuei compound. Without looking back, without acknowledging the ache and the burn from the small scrapes, she takes long strides and runs.

“THERE!”

“GET HER!”

Shoutings of orders. Crunching snow under their soles. The biting wind whistling in Áila’s ears. She manages to cross the courtyard, dodging a handful of guards. The gate is just right ahead, still opened, unguarded –

A net suddenly collides with her side and envelopes her – what is – when it suddenly shocks her is what gets her to fall. Áila can’t react much when her muscles contract and spasm involuntarily, she can only lie on the snowy courtyard, body jerking against her will. The pain begins to form, then the dread takes over when she realizes this is the end; the footsteps are coming closer; the exit is still further away; Sub-Zero’s boots come to her view, colliding with her face – Áila yelps as pain blooms on the bridge of her nose.

“Well done, Cyrax.” His praise comes out under a heavy breath.

“ Hah , I knew that would come in handy.” A tall Lin Kuei appears next to Sub-Zero, wearing a mechanized vambrace. He presses a button, and the shocking stops; Áila pants aloud, feeling light-headed when her muscles are finally relaxing. “Ah? I think I’ve seen her before. The Carrot-Hair woman from the Wu Shi Academy, right?”

Sub-Zero moves the net away – Áila jerks away from his touch – and his icy hand grabs her around the neck, bringing her face closer to him. He rips her mask with another hand, baring her broken and bloody nose to view. “ Tch , Áila Hávarôr. I should have known you’re in league with Liu Kang. Planning a little mutiny on your own, hmm?”

“N-no –” Áila grits her teeth to stop them from chattering.

Cyrax scoffs, “Still has the audacity to lie. I know you sent something from my office, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The grip around her neck tightens, “Is that so?”

Áila repeats, “No…”

“Liar.” Sub-Zero lifts her off the ground, rendering her clawing at his vambrace for purchase, as she feels her lungs burning from the lack of air. She tries kicking him, only to be replied by a firmer grip that darkens her vision.

“Aren’t you going to kill her?” She hears the muffled voice of Cyrax.

Sub-Zero chuckles darkly, “A swift death is not what this harlot deserves. But by the time I’m finished with her, she will be begging for it.”

***

Crimson blooms through the tear of Áila’s blue uniform. Clutching her stomach, she hisses, hunching over as she hobbles backwards; her thighs are shaking, trying to stay balanced while standing on the icy floor. Her vision is clouded by the blood that’s streaming down her crown, that no matter how many times she wipes it until her vambrace is drenched, she can’t remove it. The sight of Sub-Zero, blue and red, approaching her again at a rapid speed –

Áila lifts an arm to block whatever attack is coming. Her defense is futile, and her torso is met by the sole of his boot, kicking her backwards until she finally falls again.

Sub-Zero coos in a cynical tone, “Is that all you’re capable of? Pathetic. You dare wearing our uniform and displaying such weakness.”

Áila rolls over, pushing herself off the floor. She can hear him approaching again, and before she knows it, pain shoots up her side from where he suddenly kicks her. He grabs her hair, pulling her off the floor – hurts… she cries out, angry tears blurring out her sight, as he forces her to look at him.

“Not killing Kuai Liang and Tomas when I had the chance was a mistake, one that I don’t intend to repeat. Another traitor shall not be unpunished! Look at me!” He growls, voice ringing aloud in her ears. A snarl replaces his scowl. “A weakling like you is only good for two things: a bed warmer or a training dummy. So tell me, which one is it?”

The coldness in Sub-Zero’s eyes makes Áila wonder if he is truly the man she used to respect. It disgusts her to think she once admired his discipline and leadership. Her stomach turns at the thought that the Lin Kuei see this inhuman cryomancer and still choose to serve him. Is this what Scorpion and Smoke saw? Is this why they left him?

Shaking with rage and fear, Áila chooses not to answer him.

Her silence is taken as disobedience, and though it gives her a sense of victory – seeing his control snaps and he growls in frustration – the moment is short-lived. He lets her go with a hard shove, and in return, he grabs the wrist of her right hand, and twists it to her back.

“AHH!” Áila screams, feeling the stretch of her muscle mixing with the burn of the cuts she earned from his ice dagger. She can feel the tension of her bones warning her of their unnatural position. She tries to move to alleviate the pain, but Sub-Zero keeps her in place.

“Filthy harlot, your Grandmaster asked you a question.” His voice joins her cries, and soon, his ice dagger joins the conversation as well; Áila yawps, hoarse and painfully, as the sharp edge is dragged slowly against her skin, following the length of her arm. Her free hand grips her uniform tightly, trying to channel the pain. Her legs are kicking, thighs spasming.

The blade presses deeper, “No – no, please –”

“Oh? Now you have manners?” Sub-Zero drags the blade higher. The cold burns and numbing, but when it melts, the pain doubles. “Tell me what you want.”

Áila hisses, shaking her head, “S-stop… Sto – Ngh !” Sub-Zero presses his thumb into a fresh cut.

“Mind your place, you lying harlot.”

“Grandmast – Grandmaster, please stop!”

A deep, devilish laugh echoes in the room. “Say you're sorry, and I might consider stopping.”

“I’m sor – I’m sorry!” This time it is not the blade that hurts her the most, it’s the tight grip around her wrist, threatening to twist it. Her whole body shakes with disgust as she cries, “Forgi – forgive me! Please! I won’t – please! AAAH!”

A crack, followed by the numbing pain shooting up her now-broken wrist up to her heavily wounded arm, and Áila knows her fate has been sealed. Sub-Zero finally releases her, and though she can’t see him, she can hear his victorious chortle as he watches her lying on the floor, too scared to move. He turns her around with a kick; now she can see him towering over her, with wisp of cold dancing behind him, freezing the air.

“ That is one. I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are. Only then shall I reunite you with your family,” he crouches down. Áila jolts away when his fingertips meet her neck. He clicks his tongue, “Better fix your expression for the joyous occasion, for your father shall receive your head in a pretty box.”

***

Áila leans against the bar of her prison. Her hoarse breathing is loud in the otherwise empty dungeon. She cradles her hand to her chest, how swollen her broken wrist has become in mere hours. Her strength is dwindling down, and it terrifies her, for she knows when she is awake, she would have to face the same treatment again. There will be no winning against Sub-Zero, especially not in her injured state.

His voice… The threat lingers in her mind that she wants to cry aloud, for she knows he will go through with it. She can’t imagine it, her father opening a box and seeing her severed head. Her heart breaks for the potential future; if the Cyber Initiative has been completed, no one will be safe from the Lin Kuei; she fears even the Earthrealm Champions would have no chance to win against an army of destruction.

Something is poking her chest. At first, she thinks it must be one of her ribs, probably a broken one that she wasn’t aware of. But it’s small, and rectangular – the flash drive.

There is a chance.

Despite feeling ready to keel over, she forces herself to stand up; there is no way she would die in the enemy territory, dressed in the uniform that doesn’t bring her pride; her blood is not Lin Kuei, never has been, never will be. The power of the sun runs in her, the blessings of her ancestors, the Sol Eldur clan; it sings in her heart, guiding her to do what is right. Now, she needs to stay strong a little while longer.

Áila raises her hand over the lock of her cell. The cold metal won’t budge yet . She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath, so deep that her whole body trembles when her chest expands; the cuts on her torso sting from the action. Her father’s guidance comes to mind.

“Breathe in… And out… Good, do you feel that? There is a heat in your belly, and it expands to your chest. Let it spread, my dear, it’s fine, I promise. The next part is going to be tricky, are you ready? …Very good. Do you remember when we went fishing and you caught your first trophy? Lots of reeling, it was exhausting, right? You wanted to give me the rod because your arms felt like they were about to fall off, but I told you to keep going, because I know you got it. And you did!

Remember how happy you were? Yeah, you do? This is going to be like one of those moments. When you need strength, I want you to remember the good times we had. I want you to remember the things you’ve accomplished by being who you are… That’s it. Oh you feel the energy now? That’s it, my dear, let it take over, it’s going to be alright.”

There is a loud pulse accompanying the beat of her heart. It ebbs and flows like the waves her ancestors used to conquer. It’s warm and light like sitting by a campfire after a long windy day. It overwhelms her senses. At first, she can only see the dark, but it gradually becomes brighter, a glow, like the first ray of sun breaking the night. The more she breathes, the brighter her world has become. The pulse is snapping, ready to burst, ready to lash out like the solar storm against the cold, dark space.

And she lets it.

She cares not what she hears or feels – the cracks of metal, the crumbling of stone, the intense heat against her skin – she feels safe. Her heart tells her to open her eyes, and she does, seeing the bars of her cell bending outwards and the stone floor and walls are partially destroyed, still burning red. Her heart tells her to run, and she bolts, not caring for her injuries or the dungeon she is leaving. Her heart tells her to go one way, and she follows, the cold wind fails to caress her skin.

Her heart tells her not to look back, and she does not, until the ground is replaced by snow, until there is no more light, until the shadows of the trees are merging with the dark night, until it’s only her and moonlight, until the adrenaline has stopped pumping throughout her bloodstream that she begins to feel everything.

Áila inhales the cold air of freedom. The snow reaches up to her knees, seeping into her boots, making her bones ache. She persists, one step at a time, not caring if she is going the wrong way as long as she is going further away from the Lin Kuei compound. If what Sub-Zero said is true, then the Shirai Ryu might still be lingering around the borders of Arctika. She just has to find them.

She doesn’t know if her body is cold because of the snow, or because of the loss of blood and adrenaline; if she is still moving or she is kneeling on the ground; if the darkness is because of the night or because she has closed her eyes. She doesn’t know if she’s hearing the howling of the wind or the wolves or the dogs. She doesn’t know if she is still alive or stuck in a dream; if she opens her eyes, will she still find darkness or the face of Sub-Zero? But she does know the feel of the flash drive pressing against her chest, and it gives her a little bit of hope that whether she is alive or dead by the time the Shirai Ryu find her, the truth will still outlive her.

It’s going to be alright… It’s going to be…

***

The smell of agarwood incense permeating in the air rouses Áila awake. At first, it is faint, and she believes she is dreaming. Then she begins to feel the warmth, how stable it is as if she has been tucked under a blanket and the fireplace is roaring. Her eyelids are fluttering, blurry vision seeing a tall, dark red ceiling, with yellow lanterns hanging. She blinks repeatedly, where am I…?

She hears a movement to her left, and she turns to the source. Someone is moving behind a dark red partition; the sound of mortar and pestle, the clinking of glass, the pour of water, makes her realize that they are brewing something. The smell of a familiar tea assaults her senses, she knows that smell, can already taste it in her mouth – that is Madam Bo’s special brew .

Áila sits up gingerly. There is indeed a blanket covering her body – her bandaged body; someone has taken their time to clean her up and cover each and every cut she has. Her broken wrist is wrapped by a thick bandage and placed in a sling that’s hanging from the ceiling. She looks around the room; there is no mistaking it, this is the Wu Shi Academy. The smell is the same as she remembers. The interiors are what she is familiar with, all of the dark red and gold ornaments, wooden instead of stone. It seems her action had not been in vain; perhaps the Shirai Ryu had found her and taken her here – at least that’s what she hopes had happened, because she can’t feel the flash drive poking her chest anymore, and she hopes it didn’t fall out and be left in Arctika.

The person behind the partition has finished brewing the tea. Áila wants to call for them, wondering if it’s Madam Bo herself, but she chooses to wait. She watches eagerly as the person walks out carrying a tray of teacups and a teapot –

But her eagerness dwindles down upon seeing the light blue uniform. Her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach when she sees his face framed by the same shade of dark brown hair and the loose strands. His eyes meet hers, a genuine surprise, and his mouth moves to speak; the same deep, raspy voice comes out, and all that she can hear is the threat.

“I shall break every single bone in your body, a day at a time, until you can do nothing but wriggle like the worm you are.”

Áila shakes uncontrollably, no, this is not real… This is cruel, a mind game, exposing her to a sense of security only to show how wrong she is. She has to get out – she jumps out of the bed, and her legs immediately give away, causing her to fall right onto the wooden floor. Panic poisons her blood as she hears him making a move, placing the tray on the table, and his heavy footsteps come approaching. She pulls herself to move as well, but his boots are already in her peripheral vision, and she tenses, scrambling, clawing away like a defeated animal. The pain in her wrist jogs her memory, reminding her of the unbearable stretch, and her fear grows tenfold at the possibility of it happening again.

“Please no –” she curls on the floor, head bowing down, forehead kissing the wood, “-- Grandmaster, plea – please – I’m sor – sorry. I’m sorry… I’m –” She hiccups, already feeling too hard to breathe. But she persists, not wanting to take any chances of being seen as disobedient again by Sub-Zero. Her cries come out in desperate huffs of breath. “I beg – I beg of you… Grand – Grandmaster… I’m sorr –” she flinches when he takes a step forward, and already she can tell he is going to grab her by the head again, “ Mercy! Mercy! Please! Mercy!”

The door swings open – he’s bringing the guards – and a large hand makes contact with the back of her head, but the familiar voice is what gets her to look up, “Áila!”

Áila’s eyes are widening upon seeing the face of Liu Kang. This… This can’t – why is he here with Sub-Zero? She suspects foul play, but Liu Kang pulls her up from the floor with such gentleness and warmth, and there is remorse in his eyes, and she knows he is truly the Fire God, and she is safe. She clutches his shirt, her cries come out without restraint; tears can’t stop streaming down her face when he helps her get onto the bed again.

More familiar faces come into the room; Raiden, Johnny, Kung Lao, and Kenshi, the Earthrealm Champions. Following behind them are none other but the yellow and gray-clad warriors. “S-Scorpion? Smoke?” Áila rasps.

“Those are not our titles anymore. You can call us by name.” Kuai Liang scans her from top to toe. His expression hardens, sadness is evident in his eyes. “Did… Did my brother do this to you?”

Áila glances towards the light-blue-clad Sub-Zero in the room; he stands in place as if petrified, as if he is not the Sub-Zero they are talking about right now.

Thankfully, Liu Kang intercepts, “I think it is best for me to explain to you what happened. Everyone, please leave the room for now, give her some space.” One by one, the familiar faces are taking their leave, but not before giving Áila a sympathetic gaze. Sub-Zero, however, remains standing in place, until Liu Kang calls him. “Bi-Han, please, give us a moment.”

“Of course.” Sub-Zero replies without hesitation, even bowing down a bit before he begins to walk away. Áila follows his movement, still wary. He stops at the threshold, and with an expression full of remorse, his eyes meet hers, devoid of cold. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

And he closes the door.

***

“Don’t take it to heart, Bi-Han, it’s not your fault.”

Bi-Han glances at Kuai Liang – not his Kuai Liang, but he shares the same features that remind him of his brother, even the scar. This timeline still gives him whiplash where he is least expecting it. “Generally speaking, it is still my fault.”

“Bi-Han – our Bi-Han – did it, not you. It’s a pity, his obsession has driven him mad; I can’t believe he would stoop this low. Wounding me is one thing, it was a warning, but I should have realized it was only a matter of time before he lashed out on someone else.”

“At least Áila survives.” Tomas tries to sound positive.

“Barely. The scouts found her half-frozen in the tundra. If they were too late, the Sol Eldur would be building her funeral pyre.” Kuai Liang sighs heavily.

Bi-Han frowns, “The Sol Eldur, is that her family?”

“Her clan, yes. The last time I spoke to them, they were fortifying their village in case the Lin Kuei would ambush them first; I’m not sure if her father can come here when his presence is still needed there.” Kuai Liang sighs again. “But thanks to her, we now know what Bi-Han is planning. Forgive us; the Lin Kuei in this timeline must have stained the name of your Lin Kuei.”

They don’t exchange another word, as Kuai Liang walks away followed by Tomas, seemingly to lament their brother privately. Bi-Han remains standing, watching the life of the garden of the Wu Shi Academy, with a thousand conflicting thoughts running in his mind. He knows it was not him who wounded Áila to such an extent that she fears the sight of him, but the shame and the guilt still weigh on his heart; it is his name, his title, his face – it is him, but not truly him .

He recalls the night when Johnny barged into the meeting with phone in hand, “Guys! You’re gonna want to see this!” he had said, and he read the email sent by Áila. Kuai Liang took charge of the Shirai Ryu scouts to scour the tundra and the mountains. Even the blind swordsman, Kenshi, insisted on going, believing his ancestors could help as well.

At that time, Bi-Han thought what a remarkable person Áila must be, to be within the walls of the Lin Kuei, and still tried to reach out. Her action earned his respect, that at the moment, he innerly prayed to the Elder Gods to see her safety so he can meet this warrior for once.

But he was not expecting to see her being brought in on a stretcher.

She was blue and red, frozen and bloodied, that everyone believed she had been dead. The extensive injuries she sustained were a clear tell that she had been tortured, or beaten up within an inch of her life. Liu Kang had used his power to thaw her just enough to get her blood to run again, and then the monks took her to be cleaned up and patched.

And though no one is pointing fingers at him, Bi-Han knows this is his counterpart’s doing.

The door to Áila’s room is opened – Bi-Han turns to it – and Liu Kang walks out alone. He offers a small apologetic smile as he approaches Bi-Han. “Are you alright?”

Bi-Han returns the question, “Is she alright?”

“She will be. I have explained the situation, though she might need time to process everything. Please do not think you are in the wrong here. Neither of us anticipated this behavior from Sub-Zero.”

“I should have.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Liu Kang hums. “This Sub-Zero is not you, Bi-Han, you can’t expect to understand what he will do next. Our timelines may share similar people with similar lives, but that is where the similarity ends.”

Bi-Han feels his jaws tensing. There is a pull in his heart, tugging at his heartstring, when he remembers Áila’s reaction to seeing him; her expression of pure anguish is still fresh in his mind. “She begged for mercy… Three times, she did, I…” He huffs a cold puff of air, feeling rage forming in his chest at the image of Áila begging Sub-Zero to stop but he carried on nonetheless. What kind of a monster has he become? Bi-Han shakes his head. “Can I… Can I see her?”

Liu Kang shrugs. “Usually I’d tell you to give her time, but this depends on you. Are you strong enough to face her again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer when he adds, “I hope the two of you can find peace in this time of conflict.”

***

The pot of tea on the table is untouched, despite the smell beckoning Áila for a taste. She wants to, she truly does, but the fact remains that the tea was prepared by Sub-Zero – and though Liu Kang has explained extensively of what happened, of how this ‘Bi-Han’ is not the Sub-Zero who nearly maimed her wrist, she is wary nonetheless. She sits still on the bed, trying to quell her thoughts and senses, telling herself that she is safe now, that she is alright, that Sub-Zero will not go through with his threat of sending her head in a box. Her rapid heartbeat is slowing down. Her welling tears have dried.

Then the door slides open, and Áila sees him again.

Their eyes lock at each other for a moment. Her gaze is of fear, but his is of remorse, a palpable guilt. He stands unmoving by the door, which she is thankful for, because her body has begun shaking on its own.

“Bi-Han.” He breaks the silence, voice purposefully made a bit higher than the usual deep raspy tone. “Please call me ‘Bi-Han’. You do not need to call me by any titles. I am neither of those in your timeline.” He pauses, thin lips tensing and relaxing as if he is tasting the words he would utter. “Would you like some tea?”

Áila glances between him and the teapot. The idea of the Grandmaster serving her tea is wild – no, this is not the Grandmaster, this is Bi-Han . She shakes her head, “Are you really not Sub-Zero?”

“I am Sub-Zero, but ,” he hastily adds when she flinches, “I am not of your timeline. In my timeline, I am also Sub-Zero, and the Grandmaster. But I can assure you, I am not like him .”

She can see how genuine he is, how he seems borderline desperate to distance himself from the Sub-Zero she knows. But her body and mind are acting on their own, as tears begin to well up in her eyes again, and they roll down her cheeks when she blinks. “I’m sorry – I know you’re not him , but you look alike, and I – I don’t know…”

“I could change my attire if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, you’re – you’re already dressed differently.”

“Oh? Is Sub-Zero not wearing blue in your timeline?”

“Not in the same shade as yours.” Áila forces herself to relax. She cradles her wrist tightly, hugging herself to feel more at ease. “Liu Kang said you crossed the timeline to lend him your aid.”

“Liu Kang spoke too highly of me; I’m merely doing my part to help. Sub-Zero needs to be stopped before he destroys Earthrealm – given the information you brought, he is already planning to do it.” Bi-Han takes one step forward, a tentative action, and he looks at Áila as if asking for her permission. She nods, and he approaches quietly; the footsteps are softer, quieter, calculated for her. “I’m here to thank you, Áila. If it’s not for you, we would still be in the dark of what the Lin Kuei are planning. This gives us time to be better prepared.”

“I’m only doing what I’m supposed to do in the first place.” Áila lowers her gaze to the wooden floor – calm down, calm down, calm down. He’s not Sub-Zero. He’s not going to hurt you. It’s going to be alright – “Perhaps I should have done it earlier before they assembled the Cybers, but I –” she closes her eyes when she can see his boots entering her view, “-- I was in denial. I didn’t know which side I should support. Too weak. Too late. I should have known Sub-Zero was wrong when he drove his brothers away. When he –”

The memory flashes behind her eyelids. How Sub-Zero had dragged her to the dungeon by the neck. How he had goaded her to fight him. How, with every cut he made and the punch he landed, Áila slowly lost her hope to survive. At one point, she lost consciousness, and was woken up by the cold tip of the ice blade pressing against her cheek. The flooding memory is too much, breath turning ragged as if she is back in the dungeon trying to breathe the air that Sub-Zero had knocked out of her lungs.

Áila feels a warm hand pressing against her thigh. She opens her eyes, but the tears have blurred her vision. She can see a blurry light blue crouching beside her; she blinks until she sees Bi-Han in close proximity. Yet for once, from this close, she can truly see he is not the Grandmaster. There is grief in his eyes, and pain, as if he shares her burden. There is regret and guilt, and she swears those brown eyes are a bit glossy as well.

“You are not weak.” Bi-Han’s voice comes out as a calming whisper. His fingertips meet her wet cheek, interrupting the stream. “Your bravery will be remembered across all Realms.” Áila sees his lower lips slightly tremble. “There’s no need for you to fear me, I’m not the Sub-Zero you knew. You are safe, and I will try in all my power to keep you that way, and I will never, ever, hurt you.”

“Truly?” Áila rasps, barely audibly.

Bi-Han responds, "I give you my words.”

She doesn’t know who breaks first – is it him who pulls her close or is it her who falls to his lap? – but their bodies collide and he cradles her, surrounds her in his strong arms. She is holding onto his light blue gi, grounding herself to his promise. He is holding the back of her head, and yet for once, she does not tense, does not flinch.

There is no sound in the room but their shared, quiet cries.

#bi han #bi han x oc #bi han imagine #sub zero x oc #sub zero imagine #sub zero #mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #fanfic #redarader

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