#tow rig

[onlyhappyvibes]

Moving patches to a new storage unit

[uras1995]

Goin for some skids

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Something you don't want to see while doing 80 on the interstate

[pouchedmilk]

Today we turned a 4 hour drive into a 13 hour drive :D

[mssorceressupreme]

Wanna Be Yours | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

———

The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

[callooopie]

Modern!Davos Blackwood headcannons (pt. 1?)

— SFW —

I’ll hit it from the back, just so you don’t get attached — i like the way you kiss me // artemas

I can definitely see myself making more of these. Adding to the modern! Davos lore. Not proofread. LMK if y’all have other ideas or headcannons too!

Benjicot Davos Blackwood. People call him Davos. Only close friends call him Ben. Only you can call him Benji. Although, he goes by his middle name usually. Now, bloody Ben? That’s a story to be told later on how he got... (There is no story. It’s just people saying “Shit.. there’s bloody Ben..” or something like that. There’s no violence to the name, only pure exasperation when people see him)

This is the boy you need to hide away in your closet or under your bed when your parents come checking in on you randomly. You could’ve been working on homework, or just hanging around. And somehow this ��annoying” guy appeared outside your bedroom window—and you just had to let him in. “C’mooon, let me in sweetheart.. you think I can’t climb up there? Stand back, I’ll show you.”

He is the type of person to rant about how the education system is rigged, set up to fail students, or rant about it in general and as a whole. Anyway he’s got a 4.0, and makes it onto the dean’s list every semester in college. However he is always late to class—complete with either a Monster or Red Bull drink in tow.

He invites you over to his place like a gentleman. Ignore his “annoying fuckass” roommate.. (it’s Aeron.) He does the whole (“it’s a little messy :3”) as he leads you down the hall of their apartment. “Hello MTV, welcome to my crib.”

He cooks at that desk, game-wise. Faceit level is between 5-6. CSGO rank is Master Guardian II (He does tell you he once hit Global Elite. But he stopped the grind to focus on school, not because he’s washed or anything—maybe you could be his Valorant duo? Or be his support in League; he’ll have you know he makes a mean ADC.. do you do overnight discord calls?—)

If you play more casual games (Minecraft, stardew, etc) he will play with you, HOWEVER, he will either ruin the aesthetic of the minecraft world via automated farms OR speedrun the mines in stardew (he passes out so much it starts to affect the money you’re trying to save for farm upgrades). Every time he goes fishing in either game he puts on a country accent and makes “gone fishing, getting away from my bitch wife” jokes. “I’ve uh- carved out an area for the iron farm. Nothin’ too big—just something to get started.” (Shows you an utterly decimated and leveled biome)

Davos Blackwood fun fact no. 43; he does rallying (rally racing). He went to a rally school for fun over the summer. Ignore the price tag; yes he saved up for that! no it’s not dangerous! Regular driving wise he does donuts in empty parking lots, and takes corners way too fast. He is the type to street race a random ass pickup truck or some other car that pulls up beside him. It is thrilling, and he knows you enjoy it too despite your protests and how you grip the handle above the seat. “No it’s fine.. pfft—don’t worry don’t— I’ll smoke him. Just watch.”

Speaking of cars. Do not complain about his car. This is his baby. His one and only. It’s an old car; it’s so old it’s bordering not being considered street safe anymore. Ignore the anime girl stickers with their tits and ass out, that was there already he didn’t do that. “It’s safe don’t worry—I’m getting the bumper and everything fixed like Monday I swear.. no I did not hit anything why would you say that-“

He’s oddly in-tune with his emotions and emotions of others despite appearances. He’ll KNOW if something’s bothering you. Maybe you’re just a little too quiet, you laugh at a joke a little too late or even if it sounds unenthusiastic. Whatever it is, Davos is on the case. A hug, some pep talk, he’ll let you punch his palms to get any anger out. He’s your ride or die, of course he’d do anything for you. And maybe if it’s a person who upset you he might pay them a visit.. “Who was it this time? Oh—that bitch? Ugh. I’m sorry about that… I have a gun just saying—“

Needs your hand in his. Or some part of you touching him. Whatever works. If he does not get a modicum of affection in 5 minute intervals he shrivels up like a plant—no he’s not being dramatic. Is the type to whine loudly about it regardless of where you’re at. On occasion he lets out bloodcurdling screams as a joke, lamenting about being denied tender love from you. You think it’s funny in private, you do not think it’s funny in public. Which is why he always does it in public. “Gimme your hand. Wha? What do you mean ‘it’s too hot out’? I wanna.. I wanna hold your hand… I don’t care if you’re sweaty—LET ME HOLD YOUR HAND”

I do believe his brain would be.. a little rotted. He sends you tiktoks, niche memes, shitposts. He will watch twitch streams or league/csgo content creators on YouTube. His vocab is normal, but does consist of slang from the gaming community. This can be good and funny, or sometimes bad if he uses it during serious moments. However he’s at least a normal human being and knows when to talk ‘normally’. He says joever unironically

Shadow boxes you. No matter what’s happening or where. You could be looking at something in a store and you just see slow, dramatic punches going toward you. He makes the whooshing sound too. This is how you know he’s bored. He’s also the type to tackle you to the bed. Not in a sensual or cutesy way but in like a WWE way that initiates a caged fighting match between you two.

Regardless of your mastery level of skateboarding he will hold your hands and pull you around on his board. Late at night when the parks or lots are empty, you both will be there. And he’ll be a smiling goof as he gently steers you around on the board. He usually says fuck helmets (his one big flaw), but carries one around just for you. His safety be damned. Yours? No question about it, you’re wearing all the gear required.

Smoker. Red flag. Marlboros, sometimes he uses zyns. It’s bad. Yes he knows he’s going to get lung cancer and succumb to nicotine. But he just can’t help it—it helps him relax. It’s why there’s a plethora of gum and also a cologne bottle in his car. Does it help? That’s to be determined. Does not smoke near you however if you don’t like that, he’s not that bad of an asshole.

[bullet-prooflove]

Engine Parts: Tyler Owens x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hunterthecharmer @heylookwhoitis @shakespeareanwannabe

Companion piece to:

The Mechanic - Tyler faces a problem when Boone brings his mechanic ex girlfriend back into the fold.

Rigs -Tyler reflects on history with you

Ford Mustang - Tyler extends an olive branch.

The garage is a minefield of memories for Tyler, everything from the song on the sound system to Ford Mustang you’re still working on because it required ‘extensive restoration’. The thing had barely been more than a shell before he’d helped you tow it home. Now all it needs is a little more work on the engine and a new paint job.

Four years is how long you’d estimated it would take to fix up if the two of you worked on it together. Even then you were thinking in the long term, and it turns out he was too.

It’s why he bought that ring when he was passing through Arkansas, the one with three sapphires embedded in the silver band because he was paranoid that any stone that stuck out would get caught when you were wrist deep in engine parts. He’d carried it around for weeks, waiting for the right moment and then it was gone in the blink of an eye, swept away by the harsh winds of the tornado that almost killed you both. He wonders if anyone ever found it, if his misfortune gave way to someone else’s happiness.

When he sees you working there inside the garage, your upper body tucked under the hood, singing along to Zach Bryan’s ‘Sun To Me’  it takes him back to the weekends you spent teaching him how to take apart an engine. His thoughts slip to the evenings sat on the picnic bench out back, sipping beers and staring up at the stars, the nights he spent tangled up in your sheets, whispering sweet nothings against your skin.

Time hasn’t dulled any of those memories, in fact it’s sharpened them because Tyler re-lives every detail of your relationship when he’s alone those motel rooms. It’s you he thinks of when he looks in the mirror and sees those scars that linger on his own skin, the ones from the rodeo and the ones that came after.

“Sophie.” He says softly so he doesn’t startle you. “Can we talk?”

You don’t say anything as you use that rag to clean your hands. Instead you open the old refrigerator tucked alongside the work bench and take out two beers, snapping off their caps with the magnetic bottle opener, before drift past him and head towards the picnic table around the back. Tyler follows a step behind, the scent of orange blossoms and motor oil flooding his senses.

“You wanted to talk.” You say as you take a seat on the bench. “So talk.”

He doesn’t know what to say as he sits down, there are so many thoughts, so many feelings riling up inside of him, he finds it difficult to articulate. He should outline the program, tell you the work he’s been up to, explain why they need you on this project but being back here, it fucks with him. It brings back everything he’s spent the past three years trying to shove into a box inside his head.

“You left.” He says abruptly as you raise the beer to your lips and you pause before you set it back down and meet his gaze.

“And you didn’t follow.” You say, shrugging your shoulders. “I guess there are somethings that just aren’t worth chasing.”

Your words, they eviscerate him. They cut like a knife into his chest, tearing out his insides until all he can feel is the agony spilling out of him.

“Is that what you think?” He asks you, his voice raw with emotion. “That it didn’t mean anything to me, that you didn’t mean anything to me.”

You don’t answer and he understands in that moment that he fucked up back then, that he’s been fucking up ever since.

“Sophie…” He begins, his hand reaching out for yours. “Something awful happened to you, something traumatic and I was responsible for that. I…” He trails off, his eyes stinging as he gropes for the words. “I thought you needed a clean break, away from me, from the Wranglers.”

“I left because I didn’t want to chase anymore.” You tell him as his thumb strokes over the hollow of your wrist. “I needed to come home and recover, I wanted you to come with me, to take some time away from it so we could do that together but…”

“But I needed to face it.” He says quietly. “Because if I hadn’t I would have never gone back.”

“I can’t go back.” You tell him. “If I do this, I can’t chase. I’m happy to work with your crew, maintain the rigs either here or out there but I’m not heading into the storm with you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He tells you, squeezing your hand lightly. “You’d be support only, tailoring the rigs to what we need, ensuring that they can function under intense conditions. Those are the only things that I’d ask of you, I promise.”

It’s his sincerity that convinces you, the intensity in his eyes as he studies your features. He’s willing to try to make this work and you guess you can too because the goal here, it’s so much bigger than the both of you. The project he’s apart of, it saved lives a couple of months ago, it’ll do it again with the right equipment.

“No cameras.” You say as you pull away, your fingers slipping out from underneath his. “You can take videos of the rigs, the workshop, the alterations that have been done. I’ll even coach Dani or Boone to explain it but I don’t want to be camera. It’s taken long enough for the people in this town to get used to the way I look, I don’t need it to be a topic of conversation on the internet.”

His jaw clenches as his eyes linger on the scar. To him it’s a symbol of your resilience, your strength. You took on Mother Nature and you lived to tell the tale. It’s only now that he realises how self-conscious you are, how much of your confidence has been stripped away.

“Alright.” He promises you as he takes a sip of his beer. “No cameras.”

Love Tyler? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[corellianhounds]

An alternate universe where the Mandalorian never turns the child over to the Client.

Pilot episode begins as normal with the Mandalorian retrieving a bounty and heading back to Nevarro. This Mandalorian moves a little more stiffly, handles the bounty a little more harshly, as if he’s had an even harder life than the one we the audience have come to know. His armor is a different patchwork assembly of materials and trophy pieces scavenged from his successful hunts, in addition to a beskar helmet and one vambrace with what one might assume is red paint. It’s hard to tell.

The Mandalorian is even more on guard once inside the Stormtrooper safehouse, obviously uncomfortable, and his gaze never wavers as he listens to the Client while he makes the offer. His hand is never far from his holster.

When he accepts the job and goes back to the covert, down payment of beskar in tow, everything proceeds as normal, save for the conversation with the Armorer as she prepares the forge for the casting process. His voice is almost unrecognizable, hoarse from disuse, a gruffness that’s more pronounced and world-weary than we’ve come to know in canon, further evidence of an even harder life.

“This is extremely generous,” the Armorer says, looking over the ingot. “The excess will sponsor many foundlings.”

“That’s good,” the Mandalorian says. “… How are they faring?”

“They are doing very well,” the Armorer replies. “They will be happy to see you.”

The Armorer prepares the forge to make the pauldron for the Mandalorian, and as the music ramps up we see the same flashbacks as before, the stamp of the forge and flickering lights harkening back to that day on Aq Vetina so many years ago. The Mandalorian remains rigidly in place, unflinching as the Armorer works, his mind’s eye filled with images of a terrified family racing through the streets as their friends and neighbors are shot and killed in the midst of an assault on their city. The flames of the forge settle once more and we barely get the glimpse of a brown-eyed child in red robes being rushed to the safety of an underground shelter before we cut back to the expressionless mask of the Mandalorian. The Mandalorian leader bestows his armament, placing the pauldron on his shoulder herself, and we cut to the Razor Crest’s descent on Arvala-7.

Events proceed as normal all the way up through the assault on the Nikto bandits’ encampment. Though the Mandalorian’s disdain for droids is clear, he and IG-11 still blow a hole in the hideout and follow the tracking beacon to the metal pod half-hidden beneath netting and supplies. When it opens to reveal a small green creature with large, dark eyes, the Mandalorian stills in his tracks.

He never asks IG-11 for clarification regarding the target’s age. He never asks IG-11 anything because the second the pod opened the Mandalorian realized what the occupant was and had already made a decision.

A shot rings out. The assassin-turned-bounty-droid falls to the floor inert, and the Mandalorian cautiously reaches out his finger to the child, seeing him reach back.

The Mandalorian leaves for his ship that night, pushing through the injuries sustained in the firefight with the Niktos. His dogged trek back to the Crest puts his arrival right at the beginning of the Jawas’ scrap haul, and he readily dispatches them with the rifle before assessing the damage to his rig. The Ugnaught helps him here too, piecing the ship back together and fortifying it for flight off-world. The Mandalorian thanks him, and the discussion turns back to the bounty before the Mandalorian is set to depart, asking for assistance with one other project.

“What do you suppose it is?” Kuiil asks. “I worked in the gene fields for years and I’ve never seen its like.”

“A child,” the Mandalorian says. “That’s all that matters.” He’s stooped next to the boy, keeping him steady with a gentle hand as Kuiil fastens a small bracer around his forearm. When it clicks into place it lights up, and Kuiil carefully presses a sequence into it before it emits a high-pitched whine that makes the boy shake his head, tugging at the Ugnaught’s grasp.

Kuiil gently pats his head with his other hand. “The noise will go away after a minute.” Then to Mando: “Do you have the code you wish to input?”

Mando nods and the Ugnaught watches as Mando presses another sequence along the bracer before locking it in place. The Mandalorian grunts, satisfied, shifting the boy’s sleeve back down around the bracer once all of the lights are blue. The tracking fob on the Mandalorian’s belt goes dark and silent. He picks the boy up and settles him against his hip as the boy wriggles his arm free, looking down at his sleeve.

Mando addresses Kuiil again. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. Please allow me to pay you for the trouble.”

The Ugnaught shakes his head, turning to walk away. “There will be no peace until the old ways of the Empire are gone forever. I’m happy to help.“

The Ugnaught stands at his homestead and watches as the Razor Crest swiftly lifts off red clay soil, turning its nose skyward and ascending to break the atmosphere. It does not return to Nevarro.

What follows is a season different from canon, one where the Mandalorian takes different contract jobs where he can but steers clear of official Guild business. The child is always by his side, and though we can’t see Mando’s face we see how he cares for the little boy, providing for and protecting him at every turn. The dichotomy of the Mandalorian’s character is seen in how quickly he falls into the parental role versus how he treats those he deems a threat, readily removing both pauldron and breastplate to let a baby sleep against his shoulder while in the same day snapping a man’s wrist for laying hands on the cradle. He removes his gloves and allows the child to play with his hands as he sits on the floor across from him, provides him with improvised toys, and he even seems to hum as he walks the length of the ship and back with the boy in his arms, bedtime accompanied by a gravelly voice finding use again in soothing a restless child. When the child absently gnaws on his calloused knuckle the Mandalorian lets him, gently stroking the boy’s cheek with his thumb as he pilots one-handed. It’s as though he’d always been meant for this role, slotting seamlessly into place.

The Mandalorian’s vicious protective streak reaches new heights too. Instead of what we’re used to seeing in Din offering everybody at least one chance, this Mandalorian only offers it half the time and even then seems reluctant to do so. He can’t take as many chances— The patchwork armor of trophy pieces and improvised protective gear isn’t as resilient as Mandalorian iron; there’s no full beskar cuirass or whistling birds since he never returned to Nevarro to collect payment from the Client. During all of their travels he fends off thugs, mercenaries, and hired guns of every kind, showing no mercy to those who threaten or try to use the kid as leverage against him, demanding what beskar he does have. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Interestingly enough, however, none of his adversaries are other Guild hunters. Anyone he runs across are people trying to prove something by gunning for a fight (something he’s used to, having been a Mandalorian for almost thirty years now), or trying to scavenge the beskar, or they’re enemies from his past with scores to settle.

The job he takes with the crew at the chop shop has a very different feeling to it. For one, it isn’t Ranzar Malk running the garage but his brother Tyko. Mayfeld is still the same as he is in canon, and though Burg is similar to what we know, he’s not sizing up the Mandalorian like before, and the Devaronian is missing most of one horn. He lingers in the back, his arms crossed as Zero joins them, Xi’an not far behind.

There’s no catty Harley Quinn-esque taunting and flirting with Mando this time around. When Xi'an joins the group she’s collected and silent, watching Mando from the corner of her eye as Tyko briefs the lot of them on the mission and plans out their route to and through the prison ship. Mayfeld, the only one not familiar with Malk’s crew from before, tries for a couple of jabs but none of them really land because nobody else joins in, and we can see him slowly start to feel the creeping unease the Mandalorian gives the others from his presence in their midst. On the Crest the Devaronian and Twi’lek give him a wide berth, keeping to the other side of the hold, and when Mayfeld’s the one to prompt a scuffle, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet, Mando reacts swiftly and fends him off. The door to the bunk still opens, revealing the kid, but before Mayfeld can close the gap to pick him up, Mando lands his last blow with a vibroblade straight through the edge of Mayfeld’s shoulder padding, just to the left of his bicep, pinning him to the wall.

Mayfeld’s doing his best not to show his panic, and though the others approached when the fight started they’ve still stopped several feet away, this time telling Mayfeld to back down. That Mando’s still needed for the mission.

Mando lingers with his hand on the hilt of the blade, his thumb hovering over the safety that would switch the vibroblade on and easily slice right into the meat of Mayfeld’s arm. He stays there long enough to make his point clear before jerking it out and letting Mayfeld stumble away, Mayfeld swearing as he does. Zero latches onto the prison ship and they drop down below as planned.

Everything in The Prisoner still goes as it does in canon (though with the characters changed just a little to the left in their regard of Mando), and when Ranzar Malk is revealed to be the prisoner they’re extracting, Mando’s caught in the middle of the ambush from the others, putting up more of a fight when he realizes the betrayal. The sequence that follows is harder hitting and bloodier than we see in canon: Burg eventually gets his hands around the Mandalorian’s upper arms, holding him in place for Ran to get a couple shots in.

“That’s for Alzoc III,” Ran snarls, ramming a fist in Mando’s gut and spitting on the face of the helmet.

The Devaronian lets go of one of the Mandalorian’s arms as he’s doubled over, putting both hands onto one shoulder and wrenching his arm out of socket. The Mandalorian lets out a strangled yell. “That’s for double-crossing us,” Burg growls.

The Mandalorian gasps, barely standing as Burg holds him by the arm. Xi’an ends with stabbing him between the ribs, up close and personal as she digs the knife in to the hilt just to the side of his armor. “And that’s for my brother.”

They shove him into the prison cell, harsh laughter echoing down the halls as they make their escape.

The Mandalorian looks down for the count. We watch as he drags himself, bleeding, upwards against the cell wall, assessing the droids outside in passing. He pants unevenly, gingerly assesses the stab wound with a shaking hand and grunts again in pain. With a steadying breath he steels himself and rolls his dislocated shoulder back into socket, yelling again. One injury fixed, he peers out of the jail cell again with his hand on his side, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike.

When Mando breaks free the hunt that follows is severely personal and merciless. Blood drips down his side and leaves a trail through white corridors. How he separates the criminals is similar to before, getting each of them pinned before ending with his stand-off with Malk. Ran makes the same bargaining negotiation as Qin does in canon and Mando still shoots Zero in the cargo hold before returning to the Roost with Ran in tow.

Tyko pays out the money to the Mandalorian, as promised, though it’s clear the brothers aren’t happy with how things shook out with the rest of the crew. Mando departs, they get ready to fire on his ship, the New Republic X-wings show up as before, having followed the tracking beacon Mando took from the prison ship and planted on Ran, and the chop shop is destroyed just as Mando planned.

The Mandalorian is uncharacteristically stiff in the cockpit, his movements jerky and labored. The kid coos, trying to get his attention, but as soon as the navicomp charts their course and they jump to hyperspace, the Mandalorian exhales raggedly, adrenaline finally running its course as he slumps over in his seat.

The child can sense something is wrong and wriggles out of his own seat, padding over to the Mandalorian. He shakes the man’s leg, worried when he doesn’t respond, and we see his gaze track to where the Mandalorian is still bleeding from Xi’an’s stab wound, his flightsuit darkening by the second.

The child’s eyes widen in alarm and he clambers up over his guardian’s boot, climbing his pant leg and over his lap until he can reach the Mandalorian’s side, blood pooling where his breastplate doesn’t cover. The child strains to reach the injury while keeping his balance, closing his eyes and holding out his hand, and very slowly we watch as the flow of blood beneath the suit stops and the wound knits back together as if it were never there.

There’s a long moment still before the Mandalorian takes a shuddering breath, jolting upright and nearly dislodging the child before catching him on reflex as the boy’s eyes slip close and he slumps against Mando’s chest. The Mandalorian looks around, feels at his side, and— in frustration at not being able to see with the angle he’s looking— takes his helmet off just above the view of the camera. He pulls his glove off with his teeth and he goes to feel his side again, his hand only bloody on its retreat from skimming his clothes. The knife wound from the Twi’lek is healed entirely, the muscle smooth and the skin unmarred. He gasps again, disbelieving, before he realizes the child is unconscious in the crook of his opposite arm. We see over the Mandalorian’s shoulder, just past brown hair going silver at the temples as he worriedly checks for the child’s pulse and breath. The tense moment holds, silence in the flickering light of hyperspace, before we can see the Mandalorian relax with a shudder, reassured that the boy is still alive. He gently tries to wake him, slipping his thumb into the boy’s hand, but the child doesn’t move.

Mando brings the child up against his chest, squeezing him gently in an all-encompassing hug before tucking him under his chin and standing from the pilot’s chair, the audience still never seeing his face. He turns back towards the ladder behind him while the camera lingers on the dash and the helmet smeared with blood, his retreating reflection warped in the visor.

Though we leave the found family on a good note, the next episode begins back on Nevarro with the Mandalorian covert that still remains below ground, having never had to expose themselves because Mando never returned with and subsequently stole the child back in the first place. Above, the marketplace is a buzz of gossip: rumors travel fast in a town like theirs and it becomes apparent to the audience that both the Guild hunters and Imperials from the safehouse are angry about the biggest target that sector had seen in a century suddenly dropping off the grid. Karga, a veteran Guild broker and diplomatic businessman, has his hands full mediating between short tempers left and right. Regular citizens are wary of leaving their homes and Karga sees hunters harassing others in town as competition for work stokes tempers even higher. The Client is furious, his stony expression betraying nothing but the tone of his voice making it quite clear what he thinks of Karga’s “most valuable partner.”

The Mandalorians of the covert discuss their options, knowing that if any of them are seen aboveground now of all times, they’d immediately be considered a target by association and hauled in for questioning, if not killed on the spot. The foundlings are packing bags, tools and supplies and blankets and toys hastily assembled or forced to be left behind. They don’t know what happened to the bounty hunter but it’s clear Nevarro is no longer safe for them to remain there.

Night’s beginning to fall as a rumble of thunder shakes the earth. The Client and Dr. Pershing’s furtive argument is cut short as they glance in the direction of the noise. Civilians halt in the streets, searching the sky for approaching ships. Hunters straighten in the cantina and go to the windows, looking out as others in alcoves outside begin to emerge, on guard. Mandalorians in the tunnels freeze for only a moment before mobilization efforts pick up double time at the Armorer’s orders, all of them knowing trouble when they hear it.

Three ships kick up dust and gravel as they land on the port city of Nevarro, two carrying troupes of sleek, efficient gunmen that pour out into the town square as an Outland TIE fighter descends behind them.

The next episode picks up with the Mandalorian muttering to himself as he unfastens hidden compartments in his ship, obviously in search of something. His visor occasionally darts to the cradle where the child sleeps cocooned in a muted red blanket. Frustrated by whatever it is he can’t find, the Mandalorian sighs and answers an incoming holo from another employer about a job.

When he arrives at his destination he places one ungloved hand on the child’s chest, needing the reassurance that he’s still breathing and just asleep, before he leaves and locks the ship behind him. The hunt follows the Mandalorian like normal— a local fetch and ferry to get enough credits for food and fuel— but it’s clear he’s impatient to return. How the camera moves as he wraps up the job and cuffs the target gives the audience the distinct impression that he’s being followed.

The Mandalorian has to intimidate the commissioner into paying out the full price promised for the job and he leaves silently once the man forks over the credits. He slips between people in the crowded marketplace, and as he rounds a corner the camera follows him, only to reveal an empty alleyway.

Greef Karga scans the alley, confused, and behind him in the blurry background we see a figure silently lower from the scaffolding and drop to the ground, grabbing Karga’s shoulder and whirling him around to slam his back against the wall.

The Mandalorian remains still as Karga yelps, clasping his wrist and breathing a sigh of relief at realizing who it is.

“What are you doing here,” the Mandalorian demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Easy Mando, it’s just me, I���m sorry—”

“What are you doing here, Karga? Start talking.”

Karga shoves him off, irritable but evidently unafraid of the Mandalorian with a blaster still aimed at his chest. He looks around, lowering his voice too. “There’s a problem. We need to talk.”

“You followed me for two hours to talk with a gun in your hand?” Mando says flatly.

Karga scowls, holstering his pistol. “This is the Ring of Kafrene, you think I’m stupid enough to let my guard down here? Listen, I had to find you— Something’s happened on Nevarro.”

With the finale nearing, it turns out Karga himself was the only one capable of tracking down the Mandalorian, familiar with his old haunts and sources. None of the other Guild members or informants had seen hide or hair of either the Mandalorian or the target— It appeared the kid was listed on multiple registers and posting boards by a number of different entities and clients gunning for him. The Imperial warlord on Nevarro just happened to have the largest reward. When the child’s bio-signature disappeared and all tracking fobs were rendered useless, thanks to the bracer Kuiil was able to configure for the kid to scramble his chain-code, it caused a number of issues between the Guild, the still-operating ISB (through which the Bounty Hunters Guild operates), and posting agencies across the galaxy.

There in the hold of the Crest Karga says he’s there to warn Mando: a few days before this, an Imperial Moff arrived on Nevarro, establishing a despotic hold on the town and holding it hostage until the Mandalorian that disappeared from Arvala-7 returned to his base of operations with the target in tow. Karga managed to persuade the Moff into giving him time, saying he could find the Razor Crest but had to do it alone, and that he could convince Djarin to return.

Until then Mando had stubbornly refused to budge an inch, but when Karga says his family name— one very few are privy to— he jerks in surprised anger and stalks forward and demands to know how Karga got that information.

“The Moff,” Karga says, backing up, hands raised. “He says he has your family as ransom for the kid, that you would know what that meant.”

“My family is dead,” Mando states flatly.

“He had one of them,” Karga says, confused. “Another Mandalorian? A woman?”

At that, Mando freezes. “… Another Mandalorian.”

“Yes!”

“What did she look like?”

“I don’t know, you all wear the masks, she wasn’t—”

Mando grabbed Karga’s collar and shoved him against the bulkhead. “What did she look like?!”

“A gold helmet!” Karga says, floundering. “Red armor, I don’t know, a— a fur mantle! She was still alive when I left!”

Mando dropped his broker back to his feet, stumbling back in astonishment. “They have her?!”

“Yes! I didn’t know who she was, I’ve been hailing the Crest for weeks since you went dark but you didn’t answer, never got the holos, I didn’t have any other comm—”

Mando whirls on his feet and stalks towards the ladder, Karga forced to catch up. “Who is she, Mando? What’s going on?”

Karga followed him to the cockpit where the child lay curled up on one of the seats, still asleep. Mando scooped him up onto his lap and hurriedly flicked through his pre-flight checks, manually priming the Crest for takeoff. “He found the covert.”

Karga pitched to the side as the ship rumbled to life. Mando hardly spared enough time to make sure they were clear of their surroundings, hydraulics groaning under the strain of a cold liftoff. “The- the other Mandalorians on Nevarro, the tribe hidden beneath the city— Karga, there are children down there—”

Karga stumbled again, barely grabbing the other seat behind him; he hauled himself into it and strapped in. The Crest took off at a juddering pace, Mando pushing it to the limits to break atmo and set his course.

“Tell me everything,” the Mandalorian demanded once in hyperspace, turning back to Karga. The child made a soft sound in the crook of his arm, still asleep. “We’re going to get backup, and then we’re going to take back our city.”

—

Whatever allies Mando has made along the way are swiftly recruited to his and Karga’s cause. Kuiil and the reconfigured assassin droid join their ranks (the latter at the Mandalorian’s obvious loathing), one or two others from the season in tow. Either the Moff wiped out the covert, or had the rest of them under armed guard to ensure they didn’t interfere in an attempt to free the Armorer, or she gave herself up as a hostage in order to distract the Moff and let everyone else get out of harm’s way until the Mandalorians could make a coordinated attack against the remnant Imperials. If it’s the latter (and he prays that it is), Mando knows without a doubt who will be leading the charge and says they’ll need to find him first.

If it’s either of the former scenarios, then… Their prospects are much more grim. He says to plan for that, saying it’s possible the rest of the covert may already be dead or well on their way to it.

The child wakes up sometime during the flight and recruitment phase, and the Mandalorian is relieved to see he, at least, is doing better. He’s not exactly sure how the kid did what he did the night of the prison break gone awry, but he can see why the Client and the Moff may be eager to get their hands on him. During the retrieval of their allies we see Mando poring through what appear to be old codices and scrolls of some forgotten religion, finally found in the hidden recesses of his ship. The leather binding is cracked and the pages are yellowing with age, but it’s clear in how reverently he handles them that they mean a great deal to him.

There’s a quiet moment where we see the rest of the crew asleep in the hold while Mando sits up in the cockpit. He allows the child to crawl into his lap, turning the pages to bookmarked passages with drawings so the child can see. The child makes no sign that he recognizes anything Mando points out to him, murmuring the names of things, until he curiously lands on the page with an iridescent drawing of a cluster of crystals. The child perks up, leaning forward to tap the page, looking between the Mandalorian’s visor and the book expectantly. The Mandalorian re-reads the passage to himself before asking the boy:

“You know what this is?”

The boy tilts his head.

“Kyber crystals? You recognize them?”

The boy coos, his ears alert. He taps the page again.

Mando flips through the adjacent topics on either side of the page containing information on the crystals. “Ilum? Christophsis?”

The child doesn’t respond, instead trying to turn back to the page containing the crystal drawings. Mando flipped forward some more.

“The Whills? Jedha?” No response. “The Final Protector? Does any of this ring a bell?”

Still the child showed no interest. No other drawings or names elicited the same response.

Mando sighed. He wasn’t even sure the boy understood Basic, let alone human speech at all. He’d never spoken.

Still, the passage on the crystals themselves gave the Mandalorian an inkling as to why the boy might have latched onto them, and if his hunch was right, there was only one explanation for why the Mandalorian hadn’t bled out in the cockpit after he left the chop shop.

The thought was concerning.

The rallied forces aboard the Razor Crest descend far out from the outskirts of Nevarro’s port city. Not wanting to alert the Imperials should they be listening over the covert’s comm channels or their own, they maintain radio silence and depart on foot across the flats. They access the old pyroduct exit on the flats and Mando leads them down to the lava flow under the city.

Before they make it very far down the tunnels, though, he’s grabbed by hands reaching from the dark and shoving him up against the igneous wall.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your skin around here,” Paz Vizsla growls. Mando’s crew snaps to attention, blasters raising as two other Mandalorians materialize from the shadows, their own guns brought to bear. Mando scrabbles at the infantryman’s wrist as Paz tightens his grip around his throat. His feet dangle above the ground. “I ought to kill you myself.”

IG-11 raises his blaster and immediately fires a shot that ricochets off of Vizsla’s helmet— The action spurs a flurry of activity as other Mandalorians appear, bringing their guns up in a line of defense the same time Mando’s group does. The cacophony of threats only dies down as Kuiil raises his voice above theirs, stepping between both groups and mediating until both sides calm down. IG-11 lowers his blaster, following Kuiil’s command.

Mando brings his vambrace down hard on Vizsla’s gauntlet, forcing Paz to drop him. He’s pretty sure Paz let him go just to see him fall, but he doesn’t care.

“Where are the foundlings?” Mando asks hoarsely, rubbing his throat.

Paz scoffs. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have done whatever blasted fool thing you did to bring the Empire down on our heads. Where have you been? What did you do?”

“I’ll explain when I can,” Mando says. He gestures to the crew behind him. “I brought backup. Are the foundlings safe? How many people do we have left?”

“You’re not calling the shots here,” Vizsla snarls. “The Armorer’s being held until you turn yourself over to the Moff, and if I have to drag you up there tonight myself—”

“There’s a kid,” Mando interjects. “The Moff is after a child.”

Paz glances to his right where Mando’s allies stand, unsure as they look between themselves.

“Start making sense.”

Mando turns to his group, gesturing for Kuiil to come forward with the boy’s pod. The cradle opens to reveal the small green boy with pointed ears, staring curiously up at those around him with big brown eyes before Mando continues. “I didn’t know the target was a kid when I was hired to find him. He’s barely old enough to walk. The client that commissioned me promised a camtono of beskar for him but I would never have been able to make that exchange. I couldn't turn him over.”

Vizsla’s hackles seem to lower at the sight of the boy and Mando’s explanation, the fire in his tirade dying down. “Why would he want a kid? Is it his?”

“I doubt it. I’ve never seen this species before, I can’t find anything about him anywhere. He’s… different.”

“Different how?”

“He’s Force-sensitive.”

“A Jedi?!” Paz asks, incredulous. The Mandalorians’ grips on their blasters tighten again and Mando’s friends shift uneasily. “The Jedi were wiped out, they’ve been gone for decades, how did you—”

“I don’t know, I’ve only heard of them in folklore, but he can do things I’ve never seen before, I didn’t think—”

“You weren’t thinking at all. You picked up an enemy’s child and you kept it.” Paz shook his head in disbelief. “Of course you would, of course you’d grab something that would bring the Empire to our door—”

“They would have killed him,” Mando snaps. Paz turns away and stalks down the tunnel to where a small cache of guns is propped next to some meager supplies. “The Empire destroys anything that doesn’t fit their mold and takes every good thing the rest of us has for themselves. Beskar or the Force or our land, it doesn’t matter, they wipe us out and scavenge the pieces—”

“Us,” Paz emphasizes, straightening up. He jabs an accusatory finger against Mando’s breastplate. “You had other options. The elders only took you in because you wouldn’t let them go without you. You were old enough, you could’ve gone back to the rubble they picked you out of and stayed there and we would have been fine without you and we wouldn’t be here right now and the Armorer—”

It was Mando’s turn to shove Vizsla against the wall, whipping a vibroblade up to hum beneath the lip of his helmet. Paz went still.

“Don’t speak to me of Aq Vetina,” the Mandalorian says viciously, the antechamber deathly quiet. “I lost everything, Vizsla. And I earned my place here. You’re no better than me because you were born into it.”

The cavern is silent for a long moment as they eye each other.

“If you’re one of us,” Vizsla says slowly, “Then what’s your plan to get everybody out?”

—

Vizsla’s and Mando’s groups come to an uneasy alliance, working together to plan an ambush on the Imperial forces. As Vizsla tells them how part of the covert managed to escape when the Imps started flooding the tunnels, his narration provides the voiceover for the scenes as they happened in the days prior, several warriors taking the foundlings out of one of the hidden exits to escape while the rest of them remained behind to fight and stall for time. The Imperials managed to get the Armorer separated from the group, those who took her no mere Stormtroopers but slick, black armor-encased Deathtroopers. She killed six alone before they stunned her, hauling her back towards the entrance they’d blown in the tunnels as the rest of the Mandalorians fought. Though they’d surged after her they were beaten back by a barrage of cannon fire, an E-WEB stationed up on the street that would have annihilated them had the tunnel not collapsed and blocked them in first. Vizsla’s tone is grim as he details the loss of another four Mandalorians who had gone above together in an attempt to retrieve their leader. Vizsla pulled the rest back to regroup and strategize farther outside of town, should the Imperials come back down to finish the job.

After spending the entire night strategizing it comes down to this: Kuiil and IG-11 would leave to take the boy back to the ship for safekeeping while Mando’s group used the tunnels to get up to the cantina on the other end of the main drag with the kid’s floating cradle as bait, and then they’d proceed to negotiate an exchange with the Moff for the Armorer while the Mandalorians placed detonators around the central bazaar. While Karga stalled for time with the Moff, backed by Vizsla, Mando, and Mando’s allies, the rest of the Mandalorians would move into position for an ambush and strike from above, using the Phoenixes to mount an aerial assault. Vizsla would destroy or commandeer the E-WEB to take out the Imps while Mando retrieved the Armorer. With luck, there’d still be enough Mandalorians with jetpacks able to grab each of them on the ground and fly out of range, finishing off the Imperials with the detonation from above.

The rescue party begins to bed down for the night, only a few hours between them and sunup. Paz can be seen looking over at the child’s cradle as Mando rolls out his bedroll. He looks back at Mando.

“How do you know the kid’s really Jedi?” he asks. “What did he do?”

Mando glances at Paz, getting settled. His hand rests on his ribs as he lies on his back.

“He saved me.”

The scene cuts to Dr. Pershing and the Client, frustratedly discussing something between themselves in the lab of the Stormtrooper safehouse. A comlink on the table behind them lights up and crackles to life, a familiar voice saying, “Come in, Doctor. It’s me.”

The two quickly come to the table, the Client picking up the comlink. “Yes? I presume you have answers?”

“Yes,” the voice says. “I can tell you where the child is.”

The next day brought with it a sense of unease. Everything was contingent on their bluff holding up long enough to keep the Moff’s attention while the Mandalorians snuck into the city from the outside, remaining undetected. Mando comm’d Kuiil to have him on standby once he reached the ship, ready to fly the Crest out to them on their escape.

Mando, Karga, Paz Vizsla, and the rest of Mando’s few recruits split off and made for the surface. They cut an exit from the maintenance access grate in the common house, quietly slipping out and barricading themselves behind upturned tables for safe measure. Karga makes his announcement and gives their terms to the Moff from the cantina.

The Moff seems entirely disinterested in what Karga has to say, however, unresponsive and unperturbed. Mando can see his focus turn almost to face him, as though he can somehow see through the architecture blocking him from view. The man in black outside projects his voice to be heard through the latticed window.

“A chain-code is a curious thing,” the Imperial says. “Individualized for each citizen, archived upon their demise, and until recently thought to be irreplicable. Falsified perhaps, but never revived.”

Mando goes very still. Karga and Paz looked between each other. “What’s he talking about, Mando? Who is this guy?”

The Moff continued. “When I saw this one crop up for the first time in almost thirty years, I thought our intelligence had found a glitch in the system, or perhaps someone was able to slip by unnoticed for decades before making some crucial error in revealing themselves.”

The familiar flashback of a mother and father racing through city streets begins to flicker in and out as the camera focuses on the Mandalorian, explosions and laser fire raining down around them as the man carries his young son in his arms. Neighbors, disciples, friends… Bodies fall as ships fly overhead and battle droids stalk the streets of Aq Vetina.

The Mandalorian strides for the door, halted in his tracks by the crew grabbing his shoulders, standing between him and the exit. “Mando,” one of them hisses, “Mando, what are you doing?”

The music builds, and though we can’t hear it we see the woman scream as another explosion rocks the ground beside them, a nearby wall crumbling and collapsing. The boy’s father course-corrects and races down a different street, his eyes darting between the chaos for somewhere to protect his family. The boy clings to his neck and squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his father’s coarse beard against his cheek as strong arms tremble around him. Plasma and smoke fills the air.

“It’s Moff Gideon,” the Mandalorian snarls. “He was an ISB officer during the Purge. He knew my name— He knew how to draw us out—”

The man stumbles to a knee but the boy’s mother helps him up, dragging him away from the wreckage of yet another building. Their hearts thud wildly in their chests as they race for the cellar beyond the pavilion, adrenaline fueling their feet and clearing their heads of all other thoughts but to run, and survive.

“Gideon gave the order for the Night of a Thousand Tears,” Mando said venomously, jerking in their grip. “He ordered the attack on my home.”

The scene in the ravaged cantina melts away, and Aq Vetina takes center stage.

—

The reinforced cellar doors come into view. The man skids to a halt, looking around them as his wife takes the boy from his arms so he can open the doors. He turns his son to look at him, cradling his round face in his hands as he does.

“Look at me,” he says as steadily as he can manage. “I will come back for you. It’s going to be okay.”

The boy nods, wide brown eyes mirroring his father’s. His father kisses his brow and his mother helps lower him below ground. There isn’t time for him to tell his wife goodbye as he helps her clamber down to meet their son, and as he takes one last look at the faces of his family he tries to smile in reassurance, praying they don’t see his tears as he closes the doors, sunlight dissipating to darkness around them.

The man turns to run, to lead their attackers away from the shelter. Four battle droids march down the streets. He waves to draw their fire, dodges another volley of shots and darts away from the cellar—

But the man in red only makes it twenty feet before a deafening clap of thunder knocks him back, the blast from the battle droid’s missile sending a concussive ripple through his body.

There’s a long, deafening silence accompanied only by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The man tries to move, rolls over, thinking No, no, please… Please, not them… and his head falls at a painful angle to see the cellar doors beyond him, caved in and hanging from the hinges in a smoldering black crater.

His heart seizes. He chokes, the painful realization of what he’s just lost washing over him. An agonizing cry of fury, despair, and heartbroken anguish tears from his chest as he screams.

The man shoves off the ground in a rage-induced burst of defiance, grabbing a broken spade and wielding it like a quarterstaff as a battle droid comes into view. He darts beneath its uplifted arm as turmoil rages on, uncaring and unseeing beyond the singular purpose of dismantling the creature piece by piece by any means necessary. He jabs the broken-off metal tip into the droid’s unarmored shoulder joint high above him and shoves it up into the carapace, sparks flying. He pulls back and strikes again as the droid twists to grab him. Unfeeling metal locks around his upper arm and yanks him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. The uncaring optical sensors turn his way as the arm locks in another shot.

He doesn’t care. He’s already died once that day.

But before he can pass into the next life with a mouth full of blood and a demand for answers, a different shot rings out, hitting the battle droid in the opposite shoulder. The man blinks, and the droid pivots, only to be shot in rapid fire succession by blaster-fire of a different kind, collapsing it to the earth and releasing the man as it does.

Several long seconds pass and the man tries to gather his strength. He turns over and looks up to see the visor of a warrior clad in armor, more like them descending upon the city and swiftly taking out every battle droid in the streets, shielding survivors with their own armored bodies, deflecting blaster-fire, pushing the advancing assailants back.

When the warrior extends their hand to him, the man takes it without hesitation and stands to his feet.

“The Imperial Security Bureau has records dating back decades.” Gideon looked to the common house from the side. “It’s curious to see a child’s chain-code come back from the dead.”

Mando’s allies struggle to hold him back, the whole group straining and clamoring for him to wait, to stick to the plan. Outside, more soldiers file in behind the Deathtroopers.

“Tell me, Tomás Djarin, for how long did you think you could use your son’s code as a cover for this substitute?”

A growl rips from Mando’s throat and he breaks free, lunging for the exit and slamming against the door, narrowly seized only by Karga and Vizsla hauling him back by the shoulders. Mando seethes, straining against their hold, his boots losing traction and sliding over gravel as he fights.

“What do you propose?” Karga barked to the Moff outside, gritting his teeth in the struggle.

Gideon smiled.

“Reasonable negotiation. I have in my possession an E-WEB cannon, with which I know many of your Mandalorian’s brethren are already intimately familiar. Come outside, lay down your arms, and we’ll consider sparing the city.”

Thick tension bore down around them in the silence. Mando sagged defeatedly, the reminder of the city held hostage shuttering his ire. It was time.

“Kuiil,” he murmurs into his comm. “Kuiil if you can hear me, take the kid and get out of here.”

He keeps his hand on the cradle as they leave the common house.

Moff Gideon towers above them, encased in black, his face inscrutable. The Client stands off to the side, seeing them march out in front of the squadrons of Deathtroopers and Stormtroopers alike, five against fifty. Gideon regards them almost with disinterest, and Mando seethes beneath the mask.

Karga acts as spokesman, but Mando is barely listening, his hatred of the Moff boiling under the surface until Gideon gestures for his troopers to bring out the Armorer. As Deathtroopers exit one of the crumbling buildings to their right, Mando's blood runs cold.

The covert leader is bound by the wrists, bloodied and devoid of all armor save for her helmet. The once-gleaming brass is clouded with ash and blood, smeared to a dull finish, and she’s hiding a limp as she walks. The Deathtroopers on either side of her hold onto her upper arms, escorting her to the center as Moff Gideon comes to stand directly behind her, his blaster drawn.

“The child,” Gideon says coolly, nodding to the cradle. “As soon as you hand him to me alive, your leader and the city are yours.”

The scene cuts to Kuiil and the assassin droid approaching the Crest on foot, still a good way’s away. The child sleeps against Kuiil’s shoulder. A high-pitched whine fills the air, quiet before steadily increasing in volume, and as Kuiil and IG-11 register the noise they turn, only for a bolt of red blasterfire to hit Kuiil in the shoulder. Kuiil falls to the ground, the child tumbling from his grip. Another laserbolt hits IG-11 at the same time, ricocheting off his head plate and sending him down. Four speederbikes begin to converge on the trio, the child sitting up from his blanket on unsteady feet. The Scout troopers split to flank the group, slowing to a stop. One hops off and goes to retrieve the child, who looks between the four of them, his ears turning down in fear. The Ugnaught’s body doesn’t move, but strangely enough the droid’s does; his servos spin as his motor functions return to life, the reinforced head plate Kuiil installed with care successfully protecting IG from the same fate that had befallen him on Arvala-7.

We see a split-screen HUD from IG’s point of view as his optical sensors spin to assess each target in millisecond timing. The scout trooper that had dismounted his bike stumbles back as the assassin droid comes to life, lifting off of the black earth. The troopers collectively fire at the droid, who in turn takes Kuiil’s blaster from the ground as he stands and returns fire, effortlessly spinning, evading, or deflecting the troopers’ bolts as he advances towards the child, firing at each of the troopers in turn. One of the speederbikes explodes, taking its trooper out with it. IG scoops up the child, spinning his torso to shield the boy as two more troopers are shot and fall, one after the other; none of them stood a chance against the cold and calculating processor of an assassin droid with both his manufactured skillset and a reprogrammed duty to protect, and as IG turns, the last trooper standing stumbles back in terror, firing wide as he falls onto his back. IG-11’s long strides close the distance between them and he kneels down to grab the man’s neck and slam his head back into the ground.

IG stands, spinning his torso back to the front. The child is unharmed, his ears perking up as he surveys their surroundings.

“It seems our position was compromised,” IG says mechanically, holding the boy out to peer down at him. “I surmise by the attack on our party that the Mandalorian’s plans have gone awry and that our allies are in need of assistance.”

There’s a groan somewhere off to the right, and IG turns with the boy to see Kuiil struggling to roll over, grunting in pain. The droid goes to the Ugnaught and kneels, assessing him with a clinician’s eye.

“You have been badly injured,” IG says as Kuiil sits up, extending his arm as a nozzle flips to take the place of his pincers. It sprays a mist into the opening where the laserfire burned through Kuiil’s coat, and Kuiil sighs in some relief. “But it appears our adversary’s shot missed anything vital. The bacta spray will heal you within a matter of hours.”

“IG,” Kuiil grunts, gingerly getting to his feet. “Mando is going to need your help.” He gathers his few belongings as the droid follows, the Razor Crest visible in the distance. “Take one of the bikes and get to town as quickly as possible. I will take the child with me. Do what you can to protect the others.”

“Affirmative.” IG hands off the boy to Kuiil and rests a hand on his creator’s good shoulder. “I hope to see you again soon.”

The Ugnaught nodded and the two turned and parted ways. The child watched as the bounty droid picked up two rifles and mounted a speederbike, kicking dust up behind him as he sped away.

Back in the city the negotiating party faces the Imperials. Moff Gideon’s serene expression reveals nothing.

Mando hears Vizsla yell from his position on the other side of the street, jerking his head to the Armorer. “How do we know she isn’t a decoy?” His voice is unsteady. At this distance Mando can hear her breathing raggedly through the helmet’s modulator. They needed more time.

Gideon almost smiles, then digs his free hand under the edge of her helmet. The Mandalorians jolt on reflex, but stop as the Moff holds her in place in front of himself.

“Would you like a guarantee?” he asks. “Or would you even know, regardless?”

“Do not give him the child,” the Armorer grits out, and they freeze at the confirmation. She stands as straight as she can, her voice hoarse but unmistakable. The Moff remains impassive.

“What assurance do you give that you’ll leave these people in peace?” Mando says, gesturing to the town. His joints have locked up. He’s barely breathing.

“Only this,” Gideon says plainly, and then he gestures to the side with his blaster. “Give me the child, or I promise to return to you tenfold what you had planned for us.”

At that, Deathtroopers from the shadows of the surrounding streets march out with the rest of the Mandalorians at gunpoint in front of them. Mando’s shock turns to outrage and despair as he sees each of the ambushing party lined up around the bazaar, and it’s then that Karga smoothly steps past Mando, pulling Mando’s blaster from his holster in one move and crossing the line of troopers, a grim look on his face when he turns back.

“I’m sorry Mando,” Karga says, and he almost looks as though he means it. “I have people to take care of too.”

The broker steps beyond the ranks of troopers, receiving a nod from Gideon before passing the Client. The Client slips something into Karga’s hand and Karga tucks it into his breast pocket, the two of them retreating from view as Mando trembles with helpless rage. The Deathtrooper at the E-WEB primes it to charge. Moff Gideon steps forward with the Armorer still directly in front of him. “The child, Djarin,” he says. “My generosity and patience have run their course.”

Mando hesitates as he steps forward, his hand still on the cradle, desperately trying to think of anything that might give them a chance to escape. A shadow passes over Gideon’s face, and he brings his pistol up under the Armorer’s jaw. Every Mandalorian jerks against their captors and Gideon digs the muzzle of his gun against the Armorer’s neck, a sliver of skin now visible above her collar. They go still. Mando’s fist clenches so tight he can feel his bones shift.

“Now.”

Defeated and without recourse, Mando presses the button on the cradle to open the shield, revealing the empty space within.

This time Moff Gideon does smile.

“It appears only one of us is a man of his word.”

And then Moff Gideon rips the Armorer’s helmet off her head.

Absolute, unfettered rage bursts from every Mandalorian in a vitriolic war cry as all hell breaks loose in an instant, every Mandalorian rearing back against their captors with unparalleled ferocity, breaking free and firing at the Imperials without mercy. Mando tears the Armorer away from Gideon and unleashes the full power of his flamethrower in Gideon’s and the Deathtroopers’ faces, hauling her back from the blaze as both sides fire shot-for-shot at one another.

The Mandalorian closest to Mando dives forward to grab the Deathtrooper’s rifle and cover their retreat. Vizsla shoots a white-hot spray of molten plasma from his gauntlet across the four troopers that had restrained him, their screams following them to the ground as their armor melts and they convulse. The firefight descends into chaos, Mando’s allies working together to cover one another and retrieve arms and munitions all across the square, ducking for cover behind the debris. The Imperials are caught off guard, having thought disarming them would be enough to keep them from retaliating, but they quickly find that even an unarmed Mandalorian is a weapon.

Mando shields the Armorer as they run, feeling blaster fire streak across his bicep, glance off the beskar pauldron and helmet, sear his vision white. The Armorer stumbles, trying to keep up but buckling under the weight of exhaustion and her injuries. He pulls her behind a large chunk of a fallen archway, breaking the binders holding her wrists together and looking wildly around for somewhere to get her to safety. He sees a clear path from their position back to the common house and the two of them begin to run.

A grenade lands in their path and Mando has seconds to react. He tackles the Armorer to the side, shielding her as best he can as the explosion blows them a dozen feet away, their ears ringing. Mando felt the lance of shrapnel embed itself in his leg, and his head slams against a piece of the barricade, stopping his trajectory and sending him to the ground. As he tries to make sense of which way is up he can see the Armorer struggling to pull herself up next to him, pulling a scavenged rifle from the wreckage of the street. He can’t breathe, and as his vision swims he catches sight of the covert’s leader, resilient even now, forcing her hands to cooperate as she fires back at their assailants from behind a broken wall. Her face is streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears streaming down through both. Her helmet lay distantly in the dirt in the middle of the street surrounded by rubble and the bodies of dead Imperials.

Of everybody there, she was the most justified in leaving him for dead, and still she fought.

The Imperials start to gain ground as Mandalorians are killed or incapacitated. Their forces start to bottleneck, forced backward in the onslaught, but just as the Imperials start to catch them on the backfoot a high-pitched whine fills the air. Seconds later a speederbike slides into the fray, an assassin droid leaping off and firing with deadly accuracy against the troopers. A rallying cry goes up from Mando’s allies, even Vizsla crowing in triumph as IG advances, his body twisting and limbs spinning to fire in every direction.

“Paz!” Mando yells, struggling upright. “Cover her!”

The heavy infantryman picks up one Deathtrooper and slams him bodily into another, toppling both. He dashes over to their place amongst the craters and plants himself in front of the Armorer; she grabs hold of his shoulder for support, firing around him and shouting orders as they clear a path to the E-WEB. Mando drags himself to his feet and ends up back-to-back with IG-11, feeling an odd sense of gratitude towards the droid he’d left for dead all those weeks ago. The two of them twist and turn around each other, IG deflecting shots as readily as he fires.

“IG unit! Where’s the kid?!”

“The child is safe aboard the Razor Crest,” IG says, taking out three more troopers. Vizsla takes hold of the cannon and rattles the Imperial forces, decimating a fresh wave of Stormtroopers. “Kuiil is en route to our location.”

“No! Tell him to take the child and get out of here!”

“There is no time,” IG says. “My duty is to nurse and protect: you and our allies are in need of protection.”

Mando growls at the droid’s obstinate refusal to listen. He’s about to drag one of the Mandalorians with a jetpack closer and order them to fly out to Kuiil, but then he sees an arc of flickering white through the smoke of battle.

Time almost seems to slow. A swipe of black void edged in white light cuts through the haze beyond Vizsla and the Armorer. They haven’t seen him yet, but the figure in black carrying the blade materializes through the smoke, and in the breadth of a second, Moff Gideon raises his arms and brings an otherworldly saber clean down through the barrel of the E-WEB. Paz jerks back from the recoil of the cannon falling apart in a series of smaller, sizzling explosions, and as his attention turns to the Moff he blocks the still-vulnerable Armorer, shoving her back. Gideon brings the phantasmal sword up again and carves a downward slash at the infantryman— Paz blocks it with his vambrace in a skitter of sparks.

Mando moves without realizing it. He darts through the tumult of battle, honing in on the angry, half-burned face of Moff Gideon, not knowing if or for how long Paz’s armor can withstand the heat of the spectral blade. Laserfire streaks around him, each of their allies and adversaries fighting for their lives.

Gideon cuts through the chain gun’s connecting line, rendering Vizsla’s heavy repeating rifle useless. The next slash is caught by his other vambrace, Gideon pressing the sword in long enough Paz’s gauntlet starts to blaze orange, melting the circuits of his plasma thrower and leaving hot beskar intact to burn through his armor cladding. Though he easily towers above the Moff he’s forced to fight defensively as Gideon darts and weaves, aiming for the Armorer behind him, throwing off his blocks and parries. Vizsla’s vision burns with hatred as he sees this aruteii— this outsider— wielding what he knows is his ancestor’s sword against them. Imperials advance from the side, forcing the Armorer to shoot them and protect Vizsla, leaving him to fight Gideon. It’s only when they’re backed into the fallen debris of the city that the saber’s trajectory is halted mid-swing.

Mando stands resolute between his enemy and his tribesmen, the beskar tines of his pulse rifle catching the sword in the air. Gideon’s shock morphs to immediate outrage and he rips the saber back, twirling his wrist to cut upward, blocked again by Mando’s gun. The Mandalorian advances, using his rifle like a spear in a flurry of movement, energy crackling off the blade’s contact with every strike. Vizsla and the Armorer work together against the Imperials, and Mando advances on the Moff.

Back against the Imperials, the Armorer sees an opening, the door of a building near the Imperials’ base of operations buckled inward. She turns back to see the Moff fighting the bounty hunter forty feet away. They’re too close together to get a clear shot and smoke continues to billow from the explosions surrounding them. If the Moff finds an opening she knows the bounty hunter’s armor won’t hold against the Darksaber.

And then she looks down to the opposite end of the decimated street, seeing a distinct silhouette over the horizon growing closer every second.

The Armorer breaks the latch on the door with the butt of her rifle. “Get everybody towards the dockyards,” she orders Paz over the din of battle.

“What are you doing?!” Paz barks over his shoulder. He fires again, killing two more soldiers.

The Armorer kicks the door in, determination written across her face. “Reclaiming what I can.”

—

Moff Gideon spits insults between his strikes, and Mando fights just as viciously in return. Thrust, block, parry, jab— Every close-quarters maneuver is accompanied by the unsettling hum of a blade dipped in the void of space, light bending and refracting around its edge. Gideon swings at his head and when he ducks, the sword carves through a support column, bringing part of the decimated building down with it. Mando rolls to the side, hearing the hum of the blade miss him by inches.

Mando swings the rifle upward again, aiming it at the Moff. Gideon deflects the bolt of energy, his face twisted in a snarl. The Amban rifle crackles with electricity, but as Mando jabs the end of it towards the Moff, the barrel and its current are redirected by Gideon into one of his own troopers. Before Mando can twist free and put enough space between them to fire, Moff Gideon pulls back and twirls the blade directly up towards the Mandalorian’s chest.

There’s a gnarled crackle of energy as the saber cleaves the pulse rifle in two at the wooden stock, a piece of the gun in each of the Mandalorian’s hands. That split second shock is enough of an opening for Moff Gideon to thrust again, stabbing through the Mandalorian’s lower breastplate.

Mando feels the searing edge of white-hot fire dig into his body; he cries out in agony, doubled over at the shock. Time slows yet again, and all he can see is the helpless face of the boy he saved in his mind’s eye, knowing that if he cannot defeat the Moff, it won’t matter if his allies escape with the child. Gideon will keep sending hunters after the boy until he’s killed everybody standing between him and his prize.

With the greatest effort he’s ever exerted in his life, Tomás Djarin brings the barrel of his rifle up and jabs it against the hilt of Gideon’s blade once more, trapping it between the tines. Moff Gideon’s eyes widen, and the Mandalorian shoves him off with an agonized yell.

There’s no time to recover— Mando messily blocks the black blade with the barrel of the gun. He stumbles, shoves himself up and forces himself to fight through his injuries, but it’s clear he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

He’s bent at the waist and clutching his midsection, leaning against a stone column. He manages to duck and the move forces Gideon’s blade to become lodged into the stone, and Mando stumbles around the column, ducking when he hears the telltale hum behind him. Another spray of stone flies over his head— He twists, evades a second thrust from the sword, and punches Moff Gideon in the face.

Gideon howls in infuriated pain, messily swinging the sword as the Mandalorian parries it with what remains of the rifle. Hit after hit strikes stone until another slash glances off Mando’s beskar pauldron, singeing his flak vest. This time when he stumbles Moff Gideon brings his foot up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him sprawling a dozen feet down through the rubble. Mando yells in agony, the rifle skittering from reach. The Moff stands triumphant beneath the crumbling building, breathing hard, the saber in hand. Mando drags himself to one knee, refusing to die without standing up.

“You and your kind should have been eradicated long ago,” Gideon snarls. “The Empire will not make the same mistake twice.”

Before Gideon can advance, however, the Mandalorian aims his gauntlet and fires.

Gideon easily evades what he assumed to be a projectile, the Mandalorian firing wide. It isn’t until he sees Mando wrap both hands around the whipcord and pull it taut that Gideon’s glare hardens in confusion, and as he looks behind him there’s a grating, crumbling sound of stone on stone, the whipcord wrapped around what remained of the support column.

With wild eyes, Moff Gideon looks up as the structure groans, and with one final heave Mando wrenches the cable through the broken, weakened support, and the overarching section of the building finally gives way.

A tremendous rumbling crash brings the building down in a massive cloud of dust, shaking the ground. Mando runs as well as he can to a barricade, barely evading several large pieces of rock cascading behind him. When Mando looks back, Moff Gideon is gone. All that remains is the towering pile of rubble, carved out of the connecting buildings in the bazaar.

He wishes he felt relief. All he feels is pain.

A sudden ripple of force shudders through the square and extinguishes several flames, and all eyes turn to see a heavy artillery gunship descending to hover at the other end of the street near the dockyards. There’s a whoop of defiant hope from Mando’s friends and allies and they start trying to make their way down the long market street.

His head pounds. His leg is shredded. Exhaustion hangs on his limbs and his abdomen burns where the blade seared through his flesh, every movement sending lancing pain radiating through his torso. He looks beyond to the tumult of battle and surveys the scene.

Kuill has the ramp of the Razor Crest lowered, hovering in place for everyone to get onboard while there’s still time. More and more Imperials start to march on the bazaar. Mando can barely hold his head up to see Kuiil frantically gesturing from the cockpit, and with great effort he stumbles further to the second concentric barricade while his allies fight their way down the street. Very few covert members remain, and the battered few have to dodge through enemy fire between the razed buildings, trying to get out of range as Mando’s friends fight with them, shoulder to shoulder. Two of the remaining Mandalorians with jetpacks help draw the fire of the Imperials, but even they are forced to the ground, too much laser fire flying from too many directions. IG-11 sees the Mandalorian struggling to even stand as he holds one hand to his middle before he finally falls to his knees.

—

The Armorer twists, shattering another Deathtrooper’s chest-plate and caving their chest in. Two Stormtroopers emerge from an alley, targeting the droid and the hunter, and she brings the hammer up in a strike beneath one’s jaw before bringing it down on the helmet of the trooper behind him. She doesn’t wait to see them fall as she jerks her attention back to Mando.

Soldiers quickly file indoors and shoot outward from broken windows into the street now, the bazaar becoming a shooting gallery from both sides. The droid is far more accurate than any of them could hope to be, but even he can’t move without a barrage of laser fire forcing him down.

The bounty hunter is blocked from the assault by the debris shielding him and the assassin droid. She’d seen the Imperial stab him in the chest and knows he can hardly move. She doesn’t know how he even got to his feet.

The Mandalorian is dying, and his only chance of survival is extraction.

She quickly assesses their surroundings, but the moment she goes to step out of the mouth of the alley and slink down behind the lower-level stonework, a heavy hand clamps down on her shoulder, jerking her back.

“Don’t,” Vizsla says grimly. “We can’t save him. We have to go.”

“Let go,” the Armorer warns him, rolling her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. “If we don’t try, his death is guaranteed.”

“Alor,” Vizsla says, the pain in his voice evident. He nods to the shots raining down into the street from above, troopers filing onto the roofs of several buildings now. “Please. I cannot block them all.”

The Armorer shakes, wavering for the first time since she was unhelmed, but her eyes are filled with fire and flint as she twists out of the infantryman’s grip. “He wouldn’t leave us,” she says. “He’s the reason we’ve made it this far.”

“He knew what the cost of saving you could be,” Vizsla grits out, pulling her again. “And it would be a waste of his sacrifice to die now.”

A shot sails past them, missing them by inches as another strafing run of fire jutters against the earth. Vizsla wraps an arm around her from behind and pulls her forcibly back. The ship beyond falters in stasis, shots from larger artillery scorching off the hull.

“We need to go,” Vizsla says, dragging her with him despite her shouts of protest. “We can still save the others.”

With a heavy heart the Armorer is hauled away from enemy fire, praying the droid can find a way to secure their freedom. He’s the only hope the Mandalorian has.

Kuiil can’t fire from the angle he’s at and is busy trying to maintain a steady position for the survivors who climb onboard, who in turn are all so busy helping one another and crowding into the hold none of them see the small child in their midst, his stature and familiarity with the gunship allowing him to slip between them unnoticed the same way he avoided Zero weeks before.

Stormtroopers fire from rooftops down at the escaping heroes below. Mando and IG-11 are pinned down, unable to fight their way out as they cover the rest of the escaping party. A streak of silver catches the light and Mando realizes the Armorer is there, hammer and calipers in hand as she dispatches Deathtroopers with vicious precision and ferocity, vengeance exacted against those who held her captive. Vizsla follows behind her and the remaining covert, dodging through the wreckage as he covers their backs. He makes it to the Armorer’s helmet lying in the street, picking it up as they move. Mando can feel the adrenaline bleeding from his body, the stab wound beneath his breastplate buckling him with every step.

Of all the ways the Mandalorian expected to die, fighting side-by-side with a droid was never one of them. IG-11 was a crack shot, but there were simply too many Stormtroopers coveyed behind buildings for them to advance without being shot in the back. Mando’s gut throbs and black spots swim in front of his vision. He knew he was dying.

“You are in need of medical assistance,” IG says, peering at the Mandalorian between the laserfire. He shoots another Stormtrooper, and two more take their place.

“It’s too late for me,” the Mandalorian says miserably. Strength seeps from his body as the blackness presses in around his eyes. He can taste blood on his tongue. “Go. Get to the Crest. Tell the rest of them I’m— I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for th-them to be hurt.”

Another explosion goes off nearby, closer than the ones before it. Mando leans his head back against the stony debris.

“I am programmed to protect you,” IG-11 says.

“There’s no way out,” Mando replies, coughing wetly. “Please, just— Keep the rest of them safe. Tell the kid I’m sorry. For everything.”

Mando had always known it would only be a matter of time before his sins caught up with him. You didn’t get to where he was in life without making mistakes, but now as he thought of the little boy in the floating cradle, he couldn’t help but wish he’d had the chance to tell him goodbye.

Another ripple sweeps through the street, shuddering the architecture, and in an instant the laser-fire sounds far away and muffled. Mando tries to turn his head to the side, and what he sees perplexes him.

The Crest was a blur behind the near transparent, blue-green bubble that had formed in a hemispherical dome over Mando and IG, the blaster-fire outside being repelled by whatever invisible force sustained it.

“What- What is that?” he chokes out.

“Ah,” says IG-11, sitting up from behind the rubble. “It appears the child is no longer safe aboard the Razor Crest.”

Paz heard the sound of the battle change first. He looks around them, then hangs out of the docking ramp to see the boy a dozen meters away with his back to them, one hand raised as he summons a force field around himself, the last Mandalorian, and the droid. Paz hollers for the others’ attention, but as soon as he tries to step off the ramp the boy’s other hand comes up, throwing him backwards and rocking the ship with a violent shake.

In the cockpit Kuiil tries to pull up on the yoke, seeing Imperial ships on the distant horizon, but the Crest remains seized in stasis. “What’s going on down there?!” he barks over his shoulder.

Vizsla rams the invisible barrier covering the open doorway with his shoulder again, all of those in the hold trying to break through. “The foundling’s blocking us in!”

Mando sees the boy concentrating fifty feet away, retaining some invisible hold on the ship and on his position next to IG-11. His allies yell somewhere distantly behind the child, and Mando realizes he’s buying them time.

“Go,” IG-11 says. “The child needs you. I can protect you until you both get to the ship.”

“Come with us,” Mando says, half using the droid for support, half pulling him along.

The droid gently pulls his arm away. A barrage of lasers and small explosions continue to hit the outside of the bubble. He hoists his gun up.

“If you assure me the child will be safe, I can revert to my original function. You must go.”

“But you’ll die,” Mando protests.

A larger explosion hits the outside of the bubble and it wavers, the child’s brow digging deeper over eyes closed in concentration. The repurposed assassin droid pushes Mando towards the boy.

“And you and the child will live, and I will have fulfilled my purpose.”

“Please,” the Mandalorian pleads. “We need you.”

“The child needs you.” The droid gently pulls his arm away, and Mando doesn’t have the energy to reach for it as the droid steps back, turning to walk in the opposite direction of the ship.

“Goodbye, Mandalorian,” IG said. “Tell Kuiil I give him my thanks.”

Another explosion hits the force field and it dissipates in shimmering ripples of blue and green. Mando’s heart rate spikes as he sees the child stumble, exhausted and exposed, and with one last burst of energy he dives through the smoke, scooping the boy up into his arms and running for the ship. Behind him the assassin droid’s voice can be heard from down the street.

“Manufacturer’s protocol dictates that I cannot be captured…”

—

A Mandalorian races with a pounding heart to his ship, leaping towards the ramp with a child curled protectively against his chest. He grabs the brace and lurches to the side as the pilot pulls up, and allies old and new reach with arms outstretched to pull them to safety inside the cargo hold.

The explosion on the streets of Nevarro sends a concussive blast rippling up through the surrounding buildings as the Razor Crest pulls away. The pitch and roll of the ship forces the survivors to brace themselves; Kuiil pulls up, firing with deadly accuracy against the Imperial ships bearing down on them. Several successive shots blast the ships apart and with a burst of acceleration Kuiil flies through the wreckage and smoke and soars skyward, leaving the destruction behind them.

Mando hears his friends cheer. Laughter and relief suffuse the hold with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years. His tribesmen and his newfound friends look over each other’s injuries, helping each other stand. The ache of his own injuries throbs with his slowing pulse, and he finally exhales a grateful sigh of relief.

The child squirms under his arm, and as Mando sits back against the bulkhead, the darkness pressing around his vision overtakes him and everything begins to fade. The last thing he feels is a small, three-fingered hand reaching up to him, slipping beneath the chin of his helmet.

Dim light filters through the helmet and someone shakes his shoulder. He couldn’t have been out long and as his blurry vision clears he can see the distressed face of the Armorer through his visor in front of him. He thinks she’s saying his name, but it still takes several long seconds for him to register her voice. The fire in his abdomen is unlike anything he’s ever felt. He’s barely clinging to life.

“Can you hear me?”

He tries for a nod, but even that sends pain through his neck and shoulders. His visor tilts down to see the child, large eyes watery and full of fear, his distressed coos tugging at the Mandalorian’s heart.

“He- He shouldn’t-t be here,” Mando croaks.

The kid crawls over his leg to perch next to his midsection. Mando’s arm feels leaden, too heavy to raise, and as he tries to sit up again he bites off a choked out yell of pain, the Armorer pushing him flat as she works to rid him of his belt and bandolier. Sweat pours from his brow and chills course through his body.

The child climbs up onto him. Mando watches as the boy moves, frantically gesturing for the Armorer to remove the fabric staunching the flow of blood beneath Mando’s breastplate. She does, swiftly following it with both breastplate and plackart to reveal the extent of the damage caused by the saber. Mando chokes in pain despite her care, his leg kicking out weakly on reflex as he writhes, vulnerability clawing at every nerve.

And then, for some unknown reason, a sense of gentle assurance washes over him like a tide. He gasps, relaxing immediately as tension releases from his chest; lost and confused, helpless to stop what comes next, he looks down at the boy.

Awake this time, Mando watches the child close his eyes in concentration; he hovers his hand over the charred, bloody wound with blackened skin lining the edges and depth of the laceration.

And over a long, tense moment we see the vicious injury begin to close up before their eyes.

Mando’s eyes prick with tears, seeing the depth of care on the child’s face. For so long he had worked to keep the boy safe, fighting off any and every assailant that dared try to take the child from him or put the boy in danger. He’d held him as he slept, picked him up when he stumbled, kept him close and loved him the only way he knew how, and now he watched as the child selflessly returned that care a hundred times over. No matter what he did in this life, Tomás knew he’d never truly be able to repay the boy for what he did.

Mando heaves a sigh of relief, the strain of survival being lifted in an instant. The boy turns, carefully coming up to his shoulders and tapping his small hand against the metal of the helmet. Before he can register what’s happening, the Armorer has joined him and has carefully cradled the sides of his helmet in her hands.

Alarm cuts through his senses and he immediately clasps her wrist, shaking his head and looking around wildly. “No- I shouldn’t- I’m fine—”

“You are in the captain’s berth,” she says, her face calm. “The child and I are the only ones here. Let us help.”

He’s shaking his head, trying to sit up, pull away, dislodge her hands without tipping the boy over, but he’s still so weak he can’t muster the strength. “I can’t— I’m not s-supposed—”

“Tomás,” the Armorer said, catching his protesting hands, and the sound of her weary voice makes him stop fighting. “I was the one who bestowed your armor. Of all the people on this vessel, I am the one best suited to help. Be still.”

The injustice of her own oath being broken by Moff Gideon weighs on his conscience to an unbearable degree. Though she remains stoic and reserved, the lines on her face are shadowed and deep, and there are still streaks of blood and tears on her skin. He can only imagine the toll it’s taken on her.

“Alor,” the Mandalorian said roughly, tears filling his own voice. “I— I’m so sorry. Please— Please forgive me.”

The Armorer sighs, her jaw working to maintain her composure, but she remains where she is with her hands on either side of his face. “You are not the cause of my pain,” she said. “Cuyir su. Be still.”

Somewhere beside him he heard a plaintive sound, accompanied by a tug on his cowl. The boy appeared in his periphery, his little face filled with concern.

Slowly, the Mandalorian lets go, and the Armorer lifts his helmet free.

The man we see is a sight older than Din Djarin, deep set wrinkles lining his face and silver hair prominent at his temples. He has the features of the father in the flashbacks, though his facial hair has more silver as well, and though his brown eyes are the same, they are much more tired, and much more sad.

He starts to choke up as he looks at the Armorer. The child moves and places his small hand on the Mandalorian’s face. The Armorer watches intently, and suddenly the pain at his temple and the base of his skull abates, the wounds he’s sustained closing up.

The child sits back, exhausted, and immediately curls up to the side of the Mandalorian’s chest beneath his arm, falling asleep. Tomás looks at him in awe, gently stroking the boy’s hand with his thumb.

“So this is the one whose safety deemed such destruction,” the Armorer murmured. “I see why you thought it judicious not to return.”

Tomás cleared his throat, sitting up and cradling the child gently. “If I’d known what would happen, I- I never would have put the tribe at risk.”

“We knew what could happen if we were discovered,” she said. She stowed medical supplies in a footlocker, and Mando could see that his leg was bandaged as well, a metal washbasin with bloodied shrapnel also set to the side. “Moff Gideon is the only one to blame for all that happened on Nevarro, the danger he posed to the child included.”

There’s a beat of silence as he looks at his leader, her at the child.

“What will you do?” he asks.

She knows what he means. “I will return to Mandalore in search of the Living Waters,” she says, taking a seat nearby. “There I will seek out redemption.”

“… The Empire turned the planet to glass,” he says thickly. “How do you know they still exist?”

“I don’t,” she says simply. Her expression never changes. “But I have faith. This is the Way.”

For the first time under her leadership, he doesn’t feel like he’s permitted to echo their mantra. He still feels responsible for the desecration she experienced at the hands of the Moff, and the injustice only compounds his anger now.

“Let me help,” he says. “Let me come with you.”

“No,” she replied, taking his helmet in hand and beginning to clean it. “You have a charge to care for, and a new mission.”

“Mission?”

“Yes.” The Armorer nodded to the boy. “You must know that this is a Jedi child, yes?”

“Yes…?”

“Then you know that he must be reunited with his own kind.”

Mando’s jaw works as his eyes fill with tears once more, and he clutches the child closer to himself on reflex. He knows she sees it, but he can do nothing to curb the impulse to hold him tighter.

“… You wish for me to search the galaxy for some long-forgotten enemies— people we have never met, who may not exist— and relinquish him to them?” he asks carefully. “Enemies of the Mandalorians?”

The Armorer smiles sadly, resting a hand on his pauldron. “The child of our enemies found safety in you.”

Tomás has to look away from her as his emotions war on his face, his breathing stilted and harsh as he tries to keep them under control.

“Their kind were enemies at one time,” she says. “But the both of us have a common enemy in the Empire. The truth of the matter is that the boy is capable of more than either of us understand, and there are those who would stop at nothing to use him for what he can do. He needs training we cannot provide. Without it, he will not survive.”

The Mandalorian sagged, hearing her say what he knew out loud. He looked at the little boy in his arms, still stroking his fingers with his thumb as the boy slept.

“He may already have a family, Tomás,” she says gently. “It would be an injustice to keep him from them, should they be looking.”

“And if he doesn’t?” he demands. He’s trying to temper his reflexive impulse to protest but the weight and warmth of the child in his arms is making it difficult not to object.

The Armorer watches him silently, though not unkindly. He can’t muster the will to face her.

“… This child is a foundling,” she says with finality, standing. She sets his helmet beside him and goes to the door. “Until it is of age or is reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

Mando jerks his head back to her, watching her with a look of confusion and, perhaps, hope.

“We will be landing soon,” she says. “Where you go after this will be up to you.”

[steddieasitgoes]

Detours & Second Chances

written for @steddie-week Day 5 prompt: Reunion / Getting Back Together Rating: T | wc: 3545 | no cw Another big thank you to @sidekickjoey and @thefreakandthehair for giving this a beta read for me! Read on ao3

Steve had high hopes for this road trip. 

Just him, the twins, and the wide open roads with the promise of the beach and Disneyland on the horizon. He knew better than to plan it down to the second, especially when traveling with Mabel and Ollie, but he did hope to keep to some kind of schedule. A few nights here, a couple of nights there, a handful of free time hours carved into nearly every day so the kids could pick which tacky roadside attraction they could visit and then gloat to Aunt Robin about seeing. 

What Steve hadn’t planned for was the Winnebago going up in smoke four and a half hours from Disneyland on I-15. 

The good news is that it happened just as they entered Las Vegas, Nevada, and not thirty minutes later in the middle of the Nevada-California desert. The bad news is that it happened just as they entered Las Vegas, Nevada on a Sunday afternoon when everyone was trying to leave. 

Steve expects the drivers around him to curse and flip him off. At the very least, he imagines them shaking their heads in disapproval as they slowly inch past the smoking Winnebago broken down in the middle of the three-lane highway. And there is some of that, honking horns and judgmental gazes, enough that he has to explain to Mabel and Ollie that showing someone your middle finger is not nice and no you shouldn’t do it to each other. But there’s also a handful of Sunday travelers who take pity on him. 

Two truck drivers manage to get their rigs off onto the shoulder and then mosey their way over to see if they can help Steve identify why the RV is smoking. A woman in a mini-van full of preteens in sports jerseys offers him an entire ice chest full of snacks for Mabel and Ollie. Some good Samaritan even makes the half-mile hike to the nearest pay phone to call for a tow truck so Steve doesn’t have to leave the kids or make the track himself with them following behind him. 

Forty-five minutes later, they all climb into a yellow taxi while Winnie the Winnebago gets towed away. For a moment, he thinks he’s ruined the entire vacation, but listening to Mabel and Ollie talk about how cool it was to watch the “toe man” do his job eases the guilt. 

Unfortunately, the repair shop is nowhere near as exciting as standing in the middle of I-15 — at least, that’s what Ollie tells Steve five minutes after they’ve walked into the garage. Steve tries his best to keep everyone’s spirits up in between filing out paperwork and bargaining with the mechanic over the price of the repairs. He lets the kid raid the vending machine and spread it all out on the worn plastic chairs in the makeshift lobby like some kind of five-star buffet. It’s mainly cookies and chips, a few candy bars, and a granola bar Mabel even generously spent $1.10 on for him. 

It’s not the worst meal they’ve had on the trip — that honor goes to the gas station in Kearney, Nebraska, and the hot dogs he knew were a bad idea — but it’s definitely the least nutritious. And, in hindsight, it’s not the best idea now that Mabel and Ollie are hyped up on sugar in a small space with no central air conditioning. He gets it. He’s almost at his wit’s end, too, and he has several decades of patience over them. 

He’s hot and tired and so frustrated, he’d break down and cry if he could, but he doesn’t want to upset the kids or ruin the day more than it’s already been ruined. Instead, he puts on his brave Dad Face™, leaves his pager number with the mechanic’s receptionist, and takes the kids to explore Las Vegas. 

The city wasn’t on their list. It’s not kid-friendly, and the July heat is anything but welcoming, but thankfully, they luck out and stumble across a hybrid game and music store a few blocks away from the repair shop.

The bell above their door announces their entrance to the quiet storefront as the sweet, sweet relief of the AC hits them. Steve closes his eyes, soaking in the cool air for a moment before Mabel and Ollie are tugging on his hands, trying to drag him in different directions. 

Steve knows he should put an end to their bickering that borders on full-on sibling bullying, especially judging by the way they’ve dropped his hand in favor of pinching each other’s arms, but he gets distracted when a figure emerges from the back of the shop. 

The footsteps are uneven, which makes sense when an ornate cane enters Steve’s line of sight. He studies it, taking in the impressive woodwork and paint job — Max’s own can is pretty spectacular, but this one is a close second. Soon, his eyes drift from the cane to the hand holding it, a ring on each finger. Silver and gaudy and eerily similar to—

“Holy shit,” the voice says. “Are my eyes giving out on me too, or is Steve Harrington really standing in my shop right now?” 

Steve’s eyes shoot up to meet the man’s face — to meet Eddie’s face. It’s been years, shit, almost a decade he thinks, but Eddie looks the same. Older, sure. A few wrinkles around his eyes and a softer belly. But he’s still him. Unruly curls barely contained in a bun at the base of his neck, mischievous eyes, and a smile that makes Steve’s stomach flip in a way it hasn’t done in too long. Yup, definitely him.

“Eddie?”

Eddie laughs, throwing his head back with the same carelessness as he had at twenty years old. Only this time, when he rights himself, he has to reach a hand up to his neck to massage the ache. “Man, this is some cosmic, universe shit!” 

“At least it’s the good kind this time,” Steve jokes. 

Eddie goes for a full-on hug, Steve an awkward side one, and as a result, they end up with their bodies smushed against each other, arms pinned between each other in the world’s worst hug of all time. But it’s also the greatest, as far as Steve’s concerned. 

When they separate, Eddie gives Steve a quick once-over before shaking his head again. “So, what brings you all the way to Sin City?” 

“A family road trip.” 

“Ah, so the six nuggets and a Winnebago dream came true, then?” Eddie muses. 

“More like two nuggets, a piece of shit rental that’s in a repair shop after crapping out on me on I-15, and a co-pilot that doubles as my son’s emotional support stuffed animal,” Steve says, then smiles. “But I can’t complain.” 

“Wheeler never jumped on the Harrington Express?” 

Steve’s interrupted by Ollie running at him with a vinyl record thrust above his head. Mabel appears a moment later, holding a giant box in her arms that’s clearly too heavy for her. She passes it to Steve, who hands it over to Eddie, who has taken refuge behind the glass counter. As soon as the kids appear, they’re gone again. Steve shouts after them to stay together and not to touch anything. It goes in one ear and out the other if the loud crash that follows a moment later is anything to go off of. Steve winces and looks at Eddie apologetically. 

“I promise I’ll pay for whatever they break. They’re a little stir-crazy from being stuck at the repair shop all day.” 

Eddie doesn’t look worried about it in the slightest. In fact, Steve’s willing to bet he didn’t even hear the crash, judging by the fond look on his face. It’s a soft smile, almost bittersweet if he had to put a name to it. It looks out of place on his face — almost too earnest, which makes no sense because Eddie is the most earnest guy Steve’s ever known. 

“Eddie?” 

“Huh, what?” Eddie blinks himself back to the present. When he shakes his head, the elastic holding his hair back snaps, sending his curls cascading down to his shoulders. It’s easy now to see the hints of gray peppered into the locks that used to keep Steve up at night — occasionally still keeps him up. 

Steve gestures toward the row where Mabel and Ollie are frantically trying to restack things on the shelves. This time, Eddie snorts and meets Steve's gaze with that familiar crooked smile. 

“Don’t worry about them. S’just boxes and shit.” 

Steve nods and then grabs a pen out of the cup on the glass counter. He twirls it between his fingers, something about the rhythmic motion calming the silly nerves running wild in his body right now. 

It’s just Eddie. 

“Nance would kill you for even thinking she’s a part of this circus,” Steve says, then panics. “To answer your question from before. No misses at all actually. Or misters either,” Steve says before he chickens out. 

Eddie left before he realized that little fun fact about himself. It was ironic (and tragic), considering he’s the reason Steve even realized it to begin with. Chalk it up to cosmic, universe shit — the bad kind that time. 

“Cause that could be an option to, you know. Obviously you know, but it’s an option for me too in case you didn’t know and—“

“Woah, breathe, Steve.” 

Steve takes a slow, deep inhale. His exhale is strong enough to send a few of Eddie’s stray curls fluttering before settling back amongst the rest. “Sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing!” Eddie throws his hand across the counter, squeezing Steve’s wrist, 

It’s silly, but something about the simple touch relaxes the nervous energy that’s taken over him ever since Eddie emerged from the back. A part of Steve wants to blame the relief on the touch, but he knows better. Knows it has everything to do with finally telling Eddie about this part of him he helped him discover. 

Steve’s been out to just about everyone he cares about, and now he’s certain he’s told them all. 

“So no misses or misters,” Eddie says, before hiding his growing smile behind a curl. “What about Buckley? Is she on the great American family road trip with you?” 

“Robin refuses to get into Winnebagos after, well, you know.” 

“Can’t say I blame her for that one.” 

“It’s just me and the kids. Mabel and Ollie. They’re my kids…I mean, well, obviously, they’re mine, and anyone who says they’re not are fucking idiots, but they’re not blood mine or whatever people say.” Christ, he’s rambling again. “I adopted them. Actually, I was supposed to be their temporary foster parent. I was in my second year as a social worker, and they were two and six months old when they came in the middle of a Saturday night and we had no one on standby. They came home with me, and then they just never left.” 

Somewhere in his rambling, Eddie made himself comfortable, pillowing his chin on his hands, elbows sinking into the giant mouse pad that’s stretched out on top of the glass counter. He’s dropped the curl, his bright smile on full display, dimple, and everything when he looks at Steve now. 

“I love a good foster fail story,” he cooed. “I have a few myself. Fosters that turned into full-on adoptions. I mean not human kids, cats. And a few dogs. Even a bird. But they’re my kids, you know. I mean, not that what you did is the same thing as me or anything, but I… I’m just going to stop talking now.”

This time, it’s Steve's hand that breaks the barrier between them, reaching out to pat Eddie on the shoulder. A reassuring thing that he hopes conveys that he’s not offended. Just in case, he spells it out for him verbally too. 

“I get it. Kids mean a lot of things to different people. If you say they’re your kids, they’re your kids,” he says, smiling. “Robin has a plant, Ferguson. When she first got it she carried it around in Ollie’s baby bjorn because she needed to ‘bond’ with it.” 

Eddie laughs, this time hard enough that the case between them vibrates. “Lesbians, and their plants, man.” 

“She rescued it from her ex, who was drowning it.” 

“We’re just all patron saints of lost things, aren’t we?” 

“Guess so.” Steve smiles, then adjusts his own stance so he’s leaning against the counter. Something pops in his back, and for once, he doesn’t make an excuse. Eddie knows all about their aches and pains — the way their bodies are thirty years older than they should be, thanks to their teenage years. He runs a steady hand through his hair, hoping beyond hope that it’s not as greasy as it feels and then turns his attention to Eddie. “What about you? Game and record store sounds like a pretty sweet deal.” 

Eddie blows out air in a whoosh and reaches for another curl. “I mean, yeah, it’s pretty cool. Closest I could get to being a rockstar, I guess.” 

“Do you still play?” 

“Occasionally. There’s a dive bar a few streets over that I perform sometimes. No band, though. At least, not yet. I’m giving myself a few more years; let the gray really come in,” Eddie says, fluffing his curls. “And then I’ll join one of those mid-life crisis dad bands.” 

“Solid plan.” He fiddles with the pen again, contemplating if he should ask what he wants, too. Screw it. Who knows when he’s going to see Eddie again — if it’ll ever happen again. It’s best not to leave anything on the table. “What about a partner?” 

“Me?” Eddie asks, pointing to himself before laughing. “Nope. No partner. No lovers either, really. It’s just me and the petting zoo. And Wayne, when the old man makes the trip out to visit me.” 

Eddie being alone all these years shouldn’t make Steve happy. He should want him to be settled by now, grossly in love with someone who makes him feel special like he deserves. But Steve’s heart is a traitor, and his brain is no better, already imagining ten different ways he could change that. 

Had he known Eddie’s been in Vegas alone all this time, he would have visited a lot sooner. Hell, he would have made this their final destination — he’s sure he could find something family-friendly here for Mabel and Ollie. There’s a lake around here or some shit, right? They could have—

“Shit,” Steve says, reaching for his beeping pager. The repair shop number appears on the small screen. “Could I borrow your phone? This is the repair shop.” 

“I suppose I could make an exception on my no-customers rule,” Eddie teases. “Phones in my office, straight back there.” 

Steve nods and rounds the counter towards the backroom but stops short. The kids. He almost forgot about the kids. “Do you mind keeping an eye on them?” Steve asks, tilting his head to Mabel and Ollie who have finally picked up the mess they created. 

“Of course! Don’t worry about them. I’m great with kids.” 

“I remember.” 

___

Eddie’s office isn’t unlike his teenage bedroom Steve spent many nights in. It has his typical brand of messiness but with an added layer of professionalism. Like, there’s an honest-to-God filing cabinet in the corner, but next to it is a three-foot-tall Yoda statue.  Papers lay haphazardly on the desk beside a calculator. 

There are posters all over the walls — some Steve recognizes, some he doesn’t — and endless photographs in mismatched frames. At least three wallet-sized frames with pictures of his pets — kids — sit on the desk. There’s one of Wayne and Eddie on his graduation day on the bookshelfnbeside photos of him with Dustin and some of the other kids over the years. 

He even spots himself amongst the familiar faces — a polaroid they took one summer in Hawkins. It feels like a lifetime ago, but a part of Steve remembers what it was like to have Eddie’s arm slung around him like that with the sun beating down their faces, causing them to squint in the photo because Jonathan refused to shoot directly into the sunlight. 

Steve gives himself another second to soak in Eddie’s office, searching for any other details he can find to fill in the years he’s missed — a pride flag draped over a chair, his business license framed on the wall, packs of half-used nicotine gum instead of cartons of cigarettes. Finally, he makes it to the phone and punches in the number of the repair shop. 

___

When Steve resurfaced twenty minutes later, the neon “open” sign that flickered in the window had been shut off. Eddie’s abandoned his post behind the counter, taking up space at a table in the game section of the store. Mabel and Ollie are sitting on either side of him, listening intently with wide eyes as he moves two figures across a board toward a hoard of waiting miniature figures. 

“I leave you for twenty minutes, and you’re already corrupting them with your nerd games?” Steve teases, ruffling both Mabel and Ollie’s hair in the process. 

Eddie scoffs. “You expect me to believe Dustin hasn’t put them through D&D boot camp yet? Please.” 

“Your stories are nothing like Dustin’s,” Ollie says, voice full of awe. 

“Yeah, he always wants to skip the fun adventure stuff and get straight to the battles,” Mabel chimes in. “That's why we like it when Daddy gets to be in charge.” 

Eddie’s head swivels so fast that the irrational part of Steve’s brain fears it’s going to fly right off. “You DM for them?” 

 “I wouldn’t call it Dungeon Master-ing,” Steve says, grabbing the back of his neck. The room feels ten times hotter all of a sudden. The AC must have shut off, he reasons. There’s no other explanation for his sudden flush. Not at all. “I really just make sh— stuff up.” 

“He’s the best make-believer! You should play with us sometime. Like tonight!” 

“Mabel, Eddie’s busy running this store; he can’t just stop to play with you. And besides, we have to get going soon.” 

“They fixed Winnie?” Ollie asks, jumping up from his seat. 

Steve sighs. “Not yet. That’s why we have to leave. I need to find somewhere for us to sleep tonight that’s—

“—I have a guest room.”

Steve blinks. Is Eddie offering his place to them? His hearing may be spotty lately, but he’s never imagined entire phrases before. Which means—

“I mean if you want,” Eddie says sheepishly this time. “I have a hoard of kittens running around right now, so if you’re allergic, it might not be the best place but—“

“Kittens!” Mabel squeals before rapidly asking Eddie a hundred questions about them, but he doesn’t stand a chance of answering. 

“Can’t we stay at his house, Daddy?” 

“I really do have a spare bedroom and bathroom. Plus, a couch and a semi-stocked fridge. And I wouldn’t charge you. The hotels around here are going to sense your need and charge you an arm and a leg, trust me.”

Steve would be stupid to turn it down. A free stay in an actual house. A meal he can cook with his own two hands that don’t involve a shitty stove that gives out after a few minutes. Not to mention, a shower with actual hot water. 

Plus, it comes with the added bonus of a few more hours with Eddie. Yeah, there’s not a chance in hell he’s turning that down. Not again. 

“Alright, yeah. Let’s do it.” Mabel and Ollie shout in excitement, spinning around the table. Eddie might not have the same energy level as them to join them, but his smile says it all. 

“It’ll be just like old times.” 

“Wait! You guys know each other?”

Steve laughs first, but soon Eddie’s cackle joins him and it really does feel like old times again. “Of course, I know him. What? You think I would let us stay in a stranger’s house? Don’t you know me at all?” 

___

Three days later, Steve finds himself behind the wheel of Winnie the Winnebago as she makes her grand return to I-15. When he glances over his shoulder as the traffic crawls for miles in front of him, he spots Mabel and Ollie throwing Fruit Loops at each other to see who can catch the most in their mouth. And when he looks to his right, Eddie’s there — feet up on the dash, hands protectively clutching Ollie’s teddy bear as if he’s hoping it offers him the same comfort it does for the six-year-old — handsome as ever.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be back in one of these,” he says fondly. “Especially not with you behind the wheel.” 

“Really?” Steve lets the corners of his lips twitch upward. Doesn’t try to fight the blush he knows is creeping across his cheeks. “‘Cause this is all I’ve thought about for years.” 

[humanoidhistory]

Space Shuttle Challenger towed by a custom-made big rig through Lancaster, California, July 1982. Photo by George R. Fry.

(UCLA)

[hanniebaeee]

Taste of Love

Lee Felix x fem!reader

Warnings: cursing, cravings

Genre: strangers to lovers, soulmates au, fluff

Summary: You have been craving so many random things recently. Your best friend Mila is a believer of the soulmates theory - everyone has their own way of meeting theirs. Mila thinks yours will be through food.

You wake up in the middle of the night, craving an extra cheesy pizza. This has been happening too often lately. Craving very specific things, in the most inappropriate of times.

Your best friend Mila believes in soulmates. A lot of people do. And she keeps saying its because your soulmate must be having some very interesting food out there. Hence the craving. You hardly believed any of it. If this was actually true, why didn't this craving thing happen before? Why now all of a sudden?

Mila had a theory for that too. It's because these things get stronger and stronger and unbearably so, when they're really close and your first glimpse of them is just around the corner.

But, what does it have anything to do with love?!, you thought. Well, here you are, craving hotdogs and crab and rice cakes in class or late at night.

One night, things got so difficult, you were literally in tears.

'But I need to have a wrap right now! Like RIGHT NOW!!' You wail.

'This is fucking insane. If I ever find that guy of yours,  I'm going to fucking murder him!' Mila cried. 'It's fucking 2:30 am, Y/N.'

'Please!' you begged. 'I'll owe you. Please.'

'Fine fine!' Mila sighed, searching what place was open at this ungodly hour.

She found a little shop that was open and quickly grabbed her car keys. Throwing on jackets above your pyjamas, you set off to find this restaurant.

'I never knew of this place before.' Mila said,  pulling in at the parking lot.

You didn't care. You just wanted to eat. You were at the counter and saw the menu held way too many wraps. You hadn't eaten any of them before and you were nervous seeing all the options.

'So?' Mila asked. 'What's it gonna be?'

You bite your lip, feeling totally stupid. You had no idea what you wanted, but it felt like your body would shut down if you didn't eat that fucking wrap.

'I don't know!' You wail, looking around.

'What the hell do you mean, you don't know?!' Mila asked with narrowed eyes, giving you a sharp glare.

Your eyes fell on two men sitting at a table near the window. The third man, with a wrap in hand stood beside them, chewing away. He seemed to be enjoying his meal, his tongue peeping out to pick up the extra sauce from his bottom lip.

'That.' You said looking at him.

'What?' Mila asked, eyeing them. 'Y/N?'

Your feet were already taking you to him, with a helpless Mila in tow.

'Hi.' You said with an embarrassed smile.

The blond haired man looked at you with his mouth full of food. He swallowed quickly and said, 'Sorry, hi?'

'May I ask, what are you eating?' You asked, hoping you didn't look as crazy as you felt.

You felt Mila's right grip on your arm. You were usually a very socially awkward person and would never talk to people unless it was absolutely necessary. And so, you didn't know why this was happening.

The man gave you the name, and you almost dashed to the counter to order your food. Mila (and the guy) watched in amusement as you took a bite and let out the most satisfied moan.

'Wow. That was some craving.' Mila said, sipping her drink. 'I think it's him. Either that or you're magically pregnant and didn't even know.'

'What?' You asked through a mouthful. 'Who?'

'Don't you see? We never knew of this place! Yet we came! And you had to eat what HE was having! It all fits!'

You stared at Mila, dumbfound. You turned to the boys slowly, looking at the particular guy. He was tall and lean, with the most playful smile you've ever seen. His beautiful honey skin was sprinkled with just the right amount of freckles.

As if he sensed your eyes on him, he looked at you and smiled. Shooting him a nervous smile, you turned back, chewing frantically. Mila can't be right!

'You stop it with your soulmate thing, OK? It doesn't exist!' You scold Mila, who just scoffed at you.

'Whatever, Y/N, but I KNOW it's Wrap-Boy.' she said with a giggle.

They left before you did, and the freckled man gave you a quick wink on his way out. You hated to even think Mila's concept was real, but he set your heart racing. You wouldn't mind if he was indeed your soulmate. He was gorgeous. You turned back to your food once they left,  the fact that you may never see him again sinking in.

'How about these ones?' You said, pointing at a tray of pretty powder pink macarons.

'They look so good!' Mila said, asking for two of them to taste. You were in and out of bakeries the whole day, tasting macarons. Mila wanted the perfect ones for her sisters baby shower. You ended up trying so many flavours from so many bakeries, you thought you would throw up with another bite.

You sigh as Mila tested one. Her face went through an array of expressions as she chewed. You glanced around the bakery, taking in all the other yummy treats as the door to the bakery opened making the little bell above the door jingle. Turning around to look casually, you freeze. No way.

The person walking in was wearing a simple light blue shirt and jeans, his long blond hair in a bun. Looking as good as he did that night, only brighter, literally glowing in the daylight. If anything was different, it would be the look of distress on his face.

Mila noticed your sudden change, and followed your line of vision and said, 'Wrap-Boy!'

He went straight to the counter and said, 'I would like some macarons please.'

You stood staring, your body feeling hot and cold all at the same time.

'Macarons!!' Mila squealed in delight. 'I told you!'

You felt your cheeks heat up as the few customers in the shop stared at you and Mila. More than anything,  he was staring at you.

'Why, Mila.' You whispered, wilting with embarrassment. 'Why?'

He made his way towards you, and said, 'You're -'

'Yeah, hi.' That was all you could manage to say. You both look at each other, a blushing stuttering mess.

His eyes bore into yours as he tried to study your face. There was a warm familiarity that you weren't able to ignore.

'What macaron is that?' he asked, eyeing the paper plate in your hand.

'Would you like to try?' You asked, giving him your untouched plate.

Eyes still on yours, he munched on the goodie a smile spreading on his face.

'This is amazing' he said, his deep voice setting your heart on fire.

Mila looked so happy, she could've cried. She placed an order for the exact same macarons and said, 'Can I ask you something. Just for research purposes.'

'Mila.' You said in a warning tone.

'Did you have an unbearable craving for macarons?' Mila asked innocently, ignoring you completely.

'Mila, come on!' You said, shaking your head. She could be weird with you, ok. But not with this achingly handsome stranger!

'I did!' said Wrap-Boy with wide eyes. 'How did you know?!'

'Oh, just a hunch.' Mila said, smugly. Then she passed on a small box of macroons to him.

'Oh no, you don't have to. I'm good, Thanks.' he said, shaking his head, cheeks turning pink.

'Please, you'll need them today.' Mila said and you feel your whole body blaze with heat.

He gave you both a questioning look.

'Will it be really weird if I invite you to my sister's baby shower? Like, it's also her birthday, so technically, it's a birthday party, with a surprise baby shower. Would it be weird? Will you come?' Mila asked, like it's the most normal thing to do.

'Um.' he looked absolutely lost. 'I mean, we don't even know each other. So, won't that be weird?' He asked, eyes moving from you to Mila, back to you.

'Mila, darling, what the hell are you doing?' You ask, giving him an apologetic look. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Oh no, please, there's nothing to be-' Mila cut him off quickly saying, 'We can solve that problem. I'm Mila. This is Y/N. You are?'

'I'm Felix.' He said. 'I'm sorry, is there something going on here? Or do you always invite strangers to your parties?'

'My dear Felix, I'm trying to test a theory, here.' Mila started. 'Gimmie a chance yeah?'

Felix laughed. A beautiful deep laugh you didn't expect. He was an angel with the voice of a demon. Your eyes land on his pretty plump lips, oh, he was so so pretty! You didn't know if you were simply biased at this point.

'And since we are no longer strangers, you will have to come to my party. You can be Y/N's date.'

He looks at you, no longer protesting.

'Is that ok?' He asked.

Every time your eyes meet, you're a little bit more fond of his little freckles and that kind smile.

'Yeah, ok.' You said and Mila is so happy, like as if you said yes to marrying him.

'But for Y/N's sake, I hope you're not a serial killer or a -' Mila gave him a sheepish smile.

'Me? Oh no. No, I'm not.' He laughed.

'So what are you?' Mila asked.

'I'm a musician. I have a little band and things back in Seoul.' He said smiling.

'Oh wow. Really? You're a celebrity?!' Mila squeaked.

He just looked embarrassed now.

'Oh no, nothing like that.' He said, blushing. And the look on Mila's face made him ask, 'You're gonna Google me, aren't you?'

'Am I that obvious?' Mila asked with a laugh.

Felix laughed too, and you were lost in that beautiful sound.

You meet Felix near Mila's sister's house and go in together. Mila's sister was just like Mila, welcoming Felix to the party like she had known for years now. You just smile, knowing that Felix just made two best friends for life.

You were on the quieter side, hanging back, watching everyone and mostly being part of a conversation only when you didn't have to initiate it. Felix caught on immediately and then, he didn't leave your side at all. You were embarassed and you tried to tell him that it was alright, but he wouldn't have it.

'I'm your date. Can't leave you. You know?' He said with a shrug.

You had a permanent blush on your face, trying not to show how much his presence had you worked up. After a while, he asked, 'So, are you gonna tell me what I'm doing here?'

'What?' You asked, you heart thumping away.

'Darling, I know something is going on. That day at the restaurant? Then the bakery? There is something. Isn't there?'

'Felix, Mila can be silly sometimes-' You try to dismiss it, but Felix just raised an eyebrow, giving you a look. 'I'm sorry you had to come. And I'm sorry if you're bored. You can leave whenever you want.'

'Y/N, I'm not bored. At all. I like talking to you. Besides, I wouldn't have come if I really didn't want to. I just know that you two are up to something. And it has something to do with me.' Felix said and you felt guilty.

Mila came by to your rescue just then, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

'Come on, we're gonna cut the cake now.' Mila said, taking your hand and Felix's, and leading you into the crowd. You did your best to not be left alone with Felix again. By the end of the day, when Felix was ready to leave, you were sad again. What if this was really the last time you saw him?

Felix found himself unable to look away from you. He thought you were so pretty, and he loved how shy you were. And he didn't want to leave you. He would have to go back to Seoul in a couple of weeks and he didn't know when he could come back next. So he mustered all his courage and asked you for your number.

You froze for a moment before nodding yes and holding out your hand. He placed his phone in your hand with a grin and watched as you save your number in his phone. He gave you a ring so you could save his number as well and then you went your separate ways.

'Heyy, I got the pictures from the party!' Mila announced, walking into your room. 'I'll send them to you. Please share them with Felix yeah? He said he wanted them.'

You look through the pictures and smile as you come across a few of you and Felix. He looked so cute in pink. And your pictures together looked so good. You sent him some and he texted back almost immediately.

Felix: These are great!

Felix: Thanks for sending them, Y/N

Y/N: No problem😊

Y/N: How are you, Felix?

Felix: I'm good, thanks. You?

Y/N: I'm good too

Y/N: Are you still here? Or back home?

Felix: I have a week left before I leave

You really wished that you had the courage to tell him how much you liked him. True that you didn't know him at all, but isn't love strange?

Felix: Y/N?

You look down at your phone, realizing that you had left him on read.

Y/N: Sorry, something came up

Felix: Busy I see

Y/N: Not really

Y/N: Just hungry I guess

Felix: You know what, I'm hungry too

Felix: Let's go get some dinner. If that's ok?

You stare at your phone before screaming. Mila had the fright of her life, and came running into your room. You push your phone to her and she screams in excitement.

'Say yes. SAY YES!' She said, eyes glowing.

Y/N: Sure. Let's do it.

Felix: Great! I'll come pick you up. We'll decide something on the way.

Y/N: Ok

Felix: See you in an hour?

Y/N: Sounds good👍

You were way too nervous. Mila helped you get ready and Felix was at your doorstep with a bouquet of pink tulips.

'Hello beautiful.' He said sweetly, making you combust on the spot.

'Hello Felix.' You said with a smile, accepting the flowers and inviting him in. You walk into the kitchen to find a vase to place the flowers in. When you come out, you find Mila and Felix in a conversation. Felix was frowning a bit, but seeing you, he smiled again.

'Take care of my Y/N, got it? I'm just lending her to you for a few hours.' Mila said, squeezing you in a hug. 'You have a good time, ok?'

'Yes, ma'am.' Felix said with a grin and you both leave.

'So, what are we having?' Felix asked. 'Any favorites?'

You weren't in the mood for anything fancy so you decide on a pasta place that you have been wanting to try for a while. You both order a few different things and share. Felix was so sweet and caring, it didn't feel like you had just met.

He had even called his bandmates and introduced you to them all, and they were so excited to talk to you. It warmed your heart so much that thinking about him leaving in just another week made your heart sink.

'So, if you leave, when do you get to visit again?' You asked, trying not to sound too heartbroken.

'I try to come whenever I get the time. We usually don't get long vacations. Just a week or two every now and then.' Felix said.

Your heart breaks when he drops you home, tells you how much fun he had and he will miss you when he has to go back. Your voice shakes when you tell him that you'll miss him too. He lingers for a moment,then places a quick peck on your cheek before walking away.

You are sad and frustrated and everything else in between for the next two days. And then you are craving again. Such intense cravings at that. This made you angry. You are sobbing in your room when Mila finds you. Wiping your tears with the sleeve of your top, you look at her.

'I'm fine. Ok? Just fine.' You said, standing up. Quickly pulling on a pair of jeans and a jacket, you decide to go out.

'Where are you going Y/N?' Mila asked.

'Out.' You said. 'I think I'll fall dead if I don't eat some brownies right fucking now.'

'Brownies?' Mila asked.

You just hum in response and grab your purse to head out. You were pulling on your shoes when you heard the doorbell. You open the door and see Felix smiling at you. This would probably be the most pleasant sight you've ever laid your eyes upon.

'Felix, hi.' You said, stepping aside to let him in. His smile falters when he sees your teary eyes.

'Y/N, we're you crying? Are you ok?' He asked, stepping closer to you, his worry evident on his face.

'I'm ok, I'm sorry. I am not -' you stuttered, eyes filling up again. 'Why don't you sit and talk to Mila. I will be back in a minute, ok?'

'Where are you going?' He asked, looking around for Mila.

'I have this crazy craving for brownies. I've been craving them since the morning. I NEED some. I can't explain this, ok. I'll just be quick.' You said, but quickly fell silent as Felix held out a box to you.

'You were craving brownies?' He said in a small voice, like he was finding it difficult to believe. His eyes drifted past you to Mila and back to you.

'What's this?' You ask and he opens the box for you.

You're silent again, staring at the brownies he got you.

'I've been making them with my sisters all morning.' He said. 'I wanted to bring some for you earlier, but -'

He watched as you took the box from him.

'You made these?' You asked, tears blurring your vision.

'Yeah, I did.' He said and he looks nervous as you take a bite. Then you are crying. Felix makes a bold move and puts his arms around you, holding you close to his chest as you cried.

'Tell me this is real. I'll believe you.' You cry. 'I've been feeling like an idiot, craving things I've never even tried before. And then you're here and I don't know what's happening.'

'Baby, please don't cry.' Felix said, rocking you gently in his arms. 'I want to believe it's true, too. I didn't when Mila told me. But it's a little too much of a coincidence, yeah? And I really don't care if it's true or not, 'coz I know I like you. I want to give us a try.'

'You're leaving. What happens then?' You asked, tears streaming down your tired face.

'Sweetheart, we can figure it out. Ok?' Felix said softly. 'I promise we will. Can you please stop crying now?'

You wipe your tears away, and take a good look at him.

'Y/N. I'm sorry. I feel like this is all my fault.' Mila said sadly. 'I feel so stupid! I never really stopped believing in my grandma's stories. I-I'm sorry if I confused you.'

'No. No, don't.' You say, hugging your friend. 'I'm not mad at you ok? I just want to know if it's real.'

The restaurant was so pretty, lit with a golden glow of the yellow lights and it was so peaceful. You sat with Felix on one side and Mila on the other. You couldn't keep the smile off your face as Felix held your hand in his under the table. It felt so childish, but also so so romantic.

Mila was ranting on about something, but no one was actually listening. You and Felix just shared timid glances and smiled so much. His fingers intertwined with your, his thumb rubbing at your skin gently. You loved it.

And then all of a sudden, Mila yelled. You watch as she holds up her hand and a little red mark begins to spread on the smooth skin of her wrist.

'What the hell?!' Felix said, looking at the mark that had magically appeared on her hand.

'Is that a rash? Are you feeling ok?' You asked, examining the mark.

Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened, and a tall man stepped out. He was wearing a black apron and was holding his right hand up.

'Soobin! I burnt my hand! Where's the first aid box?' The man called out, and the three of you stare at the red burn mark on his wrist. The exact replica of Mila's mark.

Mila puts her hand over her mouth, staring at the man. You look at Felix, before covering your mouth with both hands.

'It's true?! It's actually true?!' You cry out.

'What?!' Mila squeals, before standing up and hugging you over the table.

The man in the apron is now staring at you all, and you sit down, blushing.

'Is he my soulmate?! Am I gonna get injured every time HE does?!' Mila whisper screams.

'What?!' Felix joins in.

'Oh my god! You get the food and I get the pain?! So unfair!' Mila wailed, making you roll your eyes.

'You should be thankful that you have a soulmate with your level of psycho.' You said and Mila swats you across the table with her napkin.

'Calm down ladies, he's coming over.' Felix informed you and both of you sit back.

'Sorry about that. Are you guys ready to order yet?' He asked, bringing out a little tablet from his pocket.

Mila and you are studying the man closely as Felix placed your orders. He steps back after Felix hands the menu over.

'I want to ask him his name!' Mila said. 'I mean, I should right?'

'Why didn't you just ask him? You didn't mind ambushing me at all.' Felix said.

'Hey, you're not my soulmate. But he's potentially mine.' Mila said. 'I have to be careful.'

Just then, the guy was back and he seemed a bit embarrassed, but he asked, 'Aren't you Felix? I'm sorry, I had to ask.'

'Yeah, I am. Hi.' Felix said, blushing, but standing up and shaking hands with the guy.

'Oh wow! I'm Yeonjun. I've heard your music-'

'Yeonjun!' You mouthed to Mila who was absolutely, lost in him.

A few months later:

You wait, nervous and excited all at the same time. Even though you spoke every single day he was away, the thought of having him in front of you was overwhelming.

'I am so nervous, Mila, I can't even breathe.' You complain.

'Don't worry, that look on his face says he's not planning to let you breathe anyway.' Mila laughs before getting off the car. You watch as Yeonjun, who was leaning against the car waves and hugs Felix before taking his backpack from him. Felix then hugs Mila before getting into the car.

You freeze as you watch him get his mask off and then yours away. Then pulling you onto his lap, he kissed you. Months of not being able to touch you or kiss you had him craving you.

'I missed you so much.' He mumbled against your lips.

'I missed you too, baby.' You said, kissing him again.

When you were both satisfied for the moment, Yeonjun and Mila joins you in the car.

'So, what next?'

'Let's go to that wrap place.' Felix suggested. 'You haven't been there, have you Yeonjun?'

'Nope' said Yeonjun, starting the car.

And that's where you went. Where it all started.

[onlyhappyvibes]

Brother slid in to my truck on his trike 😓🙄

[charminglyantiquated]

Nautilus update! I’ve written more in-depth about all of this on the gofundme page and our social media, so I won’t get into the nitty gritty detail here as well, but I wanted to share the news here, for anyone wondering how things are going! Under a cut because it’s long, but tl:dr is we're moving forward, and we'll be okay.

Good news first: The owner of another local sailing company had put one of their boats up for sale the same week as the accident, and after the surveyors told us to expect the worst, he got in touch. She’s now ours, and we’ll be sailing again next summer! We were lucky enough to work on her in the past, and her previous owner wanted has told us he’d initially meant to offer her to us at the end of this season. With a working boat, we can keep our company going, which in turn means we have a means of making money that still allows us the flexibility to work on repairs, and deal with matters in the shipyard as they arise. (The marina also had a multi-year wait for commercial boats, so we were worried about what would happen if we had to bow out for a few years!) We're extraordinarily lucky and so, so grateful - this literally would not have been possible without the fundraiser, and the safety net it gave us, and the way our whole community has supported us. Without exaggeration, it changed our lives. I will never be able to fully express how grateful I am.

Nautilus is written off as a loss, which we've been expecting. They offered us the chance to buy her as salvage, which we obviously accepted. So insurance wrote us a payout for what she’s insured for, plus reimbursement for getting her hauled and towed, less the value of her as salvage. Because she’s a loss, we have to pay off the loan that we took out this spring to buy her. After that's done, we'll have enough left over from the payout check to launch the new boat next spring (insurance/marina fees/haul and tow) which in turn leaves us free to use the proceeds of the fundraiser to make a start on repairs this winter! In the meantime our insurance is pursuing subrogation: essentially (as I understand it) after paying us out of their pocket, they are going after the other insurance for reimbursement. If we do see any lost income, it would be through this process, but we’ve been told several times it will take months - we don’t know if that means ‘december’ or ‘next august’, and don’t know how much, so we’re crossing our fingers but not making any plans around it. The crisis point was these last two months, and honestly the fundraiser got us through it - now we have our feet under us again, it would definitely be welcome but our stability and livelihood isn't hanging on it, so we can afford to wait.

Repairs - rough estimate from the survey is $83k, but half of that is labor costs. We can do much of the labor ourselves, which should lower it a bit. There are obviously areas where we'll need experts (welding!!), but we have the skills for a lot of what has to be done. Right now we’re getting the boats covered for cold weather, picking up some odd jobs around the shipyard, and clearing room in the woodshop to build a new main mast - that’s the project this winter! We are also going to start tearing up the teak deck to access the damaged fiberglass below, and figure out what, if anything, can be salvaged from the wreck of the mast/rigging (the jib furler sheared in half, but the sail itself made it out with only four small, easily patched punctures! Which is frankly a miracle, given how it was literally jammed through the mast). Anything that seems sound will be checked over by an expert, and a lot of it might still be too stressed to safely use, but after months of looking at the wreck of the thing, it’s honestly just a relief to be able to go through and start taking pieces apart.

Tl:dr is we’re going to be okay. Money is tight, we’re living with family and working 6 days a week, but we’ll be on the water sailing again in May, our company will survive, and we’re hoping to have Nautilus fixed in two or three years. Just wanted to share that with you all; I'm really glad to finally have some good news to offer. It's not easy but it's better, and we're going to get through it, pretty much 100% because of everyone who has been so kind to us both. Thank you all so, so much for every single kind word and share and donation. I am never going to be able to say how much it has meant to me, and what a difference it has made. I won’t be posting much more about it on here now that we're back on our feet, but if anyone wants to keep updated, detailed news about Nautilus repairs will go on the gofundme page, and our instagram will have lighter posts about both boats, repairs, and the 2025 season.

[cetaceous]

A North Sea Oil Rig being towed past Wind Turbines off the Coast of England at Redcar image credit: Alan Dawson / Alamy

[captain-hawks]

maybe kuroo + vouyerism for your spicy sleepover weekend?

tetsurou kuroo x f!reader

c: 18+, past relationship, pining, masturbation, voyeurism

Tetsurou’s too many drinks deep for this monumentally questionable decision.

This is his fault—the fact that he’s sitting on the cold tile floor of yours and Bokuto’s girlfriend’s dual ensuite bathroom, damp swim shorts doing nothing to hide his half-hard dick as he leans his head back against the door and stares up at the ceiling.

He’s the one that let you go, who ran like a goddamn coward the moment your situationship started to feel too much like a relationship.

He knows he fucked up, he’s been well aware for months on end, the endless ache in his chest a persistent reminder. 

But you’re happy now—something Bokuto’s girlfriend mentioned thrice at the bar last night, threateningly waving a fork in his direction for emphasis. 

“So you’d better fucking behave at the party tomorrow, Kuroo.”

He’d behaved all right. 

He’d behaved all damn afternoon, even when you finally showed up late with your new boyfriend in tow, plopping down in his lap on one the lounger chairs beside the pool and resting your head against his shoulder as you laughed and recounted the events of his baseball game.

He’d even managed a cordial fucking wave when the two of you locked eyes.

But it all started going downhill when you caught him alone in the kitchen, his hands slipping on the condensation on the side of the Coke can he was holding as your gazes locked on one another.

“I’m sorry—”

“Tetsu—”

He paused, an odd ache unfurling in his chest as you corrected yourself, “Kuroo.”

And maybe he could have made it through the rest of the day unscathed, if he hadn’t noticed you were still wearing the stupid ankle bracelet he’d won for you on the boardwalk last summer. The one with the silly little cat charm on it, which had been a pitiful consolation prize when his best efforts still couldn’t win the obnoxiously rigged balloon pop game, but you insisted he immediately tie it around your ankle all the same.

“I’ll wear it till it falls off,” you’d promised with a grin as Tetsurou offered the underpaid teenager at the booth and the obnoxious assortment of gigantic, impossible-to-win stuffed animals one last parting glare.

He should have left then—Akaashi even offered him a ride home.

But he’d stayed.

He’d fucking stayed and tortured himself even more as you lounged atop a floatie, your damp swimsuit leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Especially not one that already knows all your dips and curves—every little sound you make.

Sounds you’re making for someone else in your room on the other side of this goddamn door while Tetsurou’s head spins.

He’s too drunk for this.

But he can’t bring himself to get up, not when his mind’s readily conjuring images of you splayed out beneath him on your mattress, his hands cupping your breasts through your still-wet swimsuit. His thumb dragging across your nipples, the buds hard and sensitive in the air conditioned apartment.

He has to shove the heel of his palm against his dick when he thinks about untying your top, the way you’d arch your body up into his as he mouths at your breasts, your skin warm and wet under his touch.

On the other side of the door, you moan.

And fuck it, he lets his cock spring free from his shorts, nearly groaning in relief as he finally wraps his fingers around his achingly hard shaft.

He thinks about peeling off your swim shorts and spreading your legs, rutting his throbbing cock against the mattress as you drag your fingers through his hair while he eats you out. 

The bed frame creaks, and you moan loader, and Tetsurou spits in his palm, teeth biting into the side of his free hand as he tries to stifle his own groan while he fucks his fist.

He thinks about you climbing into his lap, the damp feeling of your skin flush against his, the familiar taste of your kiss as his mouth slots against yours. That little sound you always make as he eases his thick cock into you—the ghost of a laugh tangled in a whimper at the stretch.

The satisfied, languid noise that crawls up your throat when he bottoms out inside of you.

The desperate way you say his name when you’re about to come.

“Tetsu!”

Tetsurou’s eyes shoot open.

Did he just hear you—

A tidal wave of pleasure punches through him as he messily pumps hot, thick spurts of cum from his cock, his seed splattering across the floor tiles, and he rakes a hand through his hair, heart pounding erratically against his ribcage.

Fuck.

[dcdreamblog]

i Have to Aks and This May be a bad One

THE F—K WAS GOING ON WITH ZANDIA IN THE 2000 OLMPICS?!?!???.

AND WHY DID THEY SENT SUPERVILLAINS TO THE GAMES?!?!?!? THE F@#K

I JUST NEED TO KNOW

So for the longest time (and extending somewhat into the now) the European island nation of Zandia has been something of a pariah state for a couple of reasons. 1 being that its government and laws were under the very strict control of the violent "Church of Blood" well into the modern day. The second being that, because of the "rule of the strongest" principle espoused in the Church of Blood's ideology, the state has functionally been an anarcho-state since the beginning of last century if not before. And not the nice kind with communes and mutual aid. No I mean the mad max kind where crime lords and psychopaths and the Church of Blood's own murderous zealots had their lay of the land simply because no one could stop them individually. With that in mind Zandia has always towed the propaganda line that "metahumanism is not a crime". As some sort of progressive whataboutism when in reality what they MEAN is that the nation has been a haven for supercriminals the world over. Zandia has no real police force and because a supervillain is always more than able to overpower the Church of Blood's executioners then by the Church of Blood's own teachings they have every right to do as they please inside the nation's borders. (No, I do not know how this nation actually functions day to day save that it's propped up almost entirely by the sanitized international Church of Blood scamming suckers out of their life savings for their alpha male, return to tradition, prosperity gospel BS) With that in mind, the Zandian Olympic team decided, on Air Bud logic one assumes, the there's no actual rule AGAINST metahuman super criminals being entered into the Olympics that they could just use that loophole to violent rig the games in their favor. They even succeeded in breaking the arm of US Archery contestant Tina Thomas the night before the opening ceremony, though they still lost to her teammate Cissie King Jones who took home the gold. The rest of the team was disqualified when it turns out that while there is no rule about entering metahumans or criminals into the games, there ARE rules about flagrantly threatening and assaulting opponents. The entire team was flattened by Young Justice and the Justice League and either scattered to show up later or got carted off to international prison someplace.