#tried VERY hard to get the extra rings on there but with the star shape it didn't read well at all. you'll just have to imagine it

[starflungwaddledee]

oc ask meme time hi

i am SO SO sure someone's asked this already but in the small chance no one has... i am so curious: 🥀 (Wilted Rose) - Do they have a Soul form? What would it look and act like? How much control over themselves do they have? Is it still possible to save them, or are they too far gone?

additionally 🛡️💜🕸️< any of these if you'd like!

[ >>> kirby oc ask meme <<< ] fourth time i've been asked this one and i've already buck passed on it, so you know what.... i decided to bite!!!

just for you, because you asked so nicely 💖

🥀 (Wilted Rose) - Do they have a Soul form? What would it look and act like? How much control over themselves do they have? Is it still possible to save them, or are they too far gone?

i think the circumstances for a soul form to happen to her would be near impossible, but not entirely. i think this would be nothing less than a catastrophic printer error. i think it would be bad!! i think it is not supposed to happen, and if it ever did it would be really, really bad. i am not at all confident you'd ever get her back. attacks would not be necessary. i think i'm hardly skilled enough for this and that there should be at least three more rings (i couldn't make it work) and possibly some other things going on, but here's my best estimate:

[acevity]

sun moon pokemon notes

since i keep seeing people in the tags asking about it and so i dont forget

SUN

the main reason i chose Leavanny was because im tired of seeing him as a fire type! i almost leaned to an electric type until i saw that leavanny is the Nurturing pokemon and has those big leaves on its head and is known to make clothing! since i'd already settled on moon being a banette, that just seemed to really fit

sun is partially blind in this. he can 'see' with his antennae in a similar sense to that scene in Wolfwalkers. His eyes can see shapes and shadows, but its more like being severely near-sighted.

he can always find moon no matter how hard he tries to hide or disappear. he may act dramatic when moon scares him but moon knows it wasnt real. it doesnt stop them from doing this frequently and pretending it is

his job is something typical for one of this species. daycare [duh] or teacher or something, something that he wouldve enjoyed more had it not been expected of him just because he was born a leavanny.

hes got the ability insomnia which combats moon's ability, bad dreams

i also just super like sun not being a fire type!! a lot !!! i actually hc that he dislikes fire and, if he could choose any pokemon to be, it would probably be a heliolisk! [although he does very much enjoy the extra senses and the ability to manipulate vines to wrangle his charges] [he does NOT appreciate how he is assumed to be weak because hes a grass/bug and makes it a point to show his strength sometimes in subtle ways]

He's actually. very fond of moon even if he acts dramatically annoyed. dont talk about moon or he will rip u to shreds.

MOON

Im surprised more people don't make moon a banette. seriously. a plush who was once beloved and was forgotten and filled with so much grief and anguish that it came to life? seeking the life it once had but losing all memory of it? the zipper mouth and cat ears and Hat Tail?????

he met sun when he was near death. sun found him and stitched him back together. [ i also hc that banette are still filled with stuffing <3 no blood and guts only stuffing and squishing ]

the patterns on his body were leftover fabric that sun had on hand. the only real part of his original body are the white bits, the rest too torn to salvage.

you cant tell in the art bc ive decided this Now but the stars on the black parts were either drawn on or patched on by sun, requested by moon. he thinks the star patterns are cute<3

he.. likes sun. no surprise there of course. but hes the one who falls first, hanging around all the time just because he enjoys it. enjoys his colors, the way his leaves twitch when hes annoyed or how his antennae curl when hes flustered.

he haunts naughty students who make sun's life unnecessarily difficult. unless its something funny that makes him laugh, then they get One pass and a simple whisper of their name in the dead of the night to freak them out a little.

the bell at the end of his little 'hat' thing doesnt really ring unless he makes it. the pros of being a ghost; manipulating your own body and anything attached to it

[mcsquared789]

They were still in the desert. In an endless expanse, miles long and miles wide. 

It was a late, cloudy night. The stars, for how much Jane tried to see them, remained unseen as they were trapped underneath a vast cloud blanket of darkness. The only source of light was from the headlights of their van, the additional searchlights they had installed on top, the dim screens of their monitoring equipment�� and the frost gathering on the van's windows.

Jane zipped up her coat, feeling herself become more restless. She needed to be — for one, it was fucking freezing.

For two, her forecast had predicted another atmospheric disturbance in the air tonight. She was already seeing a visual appearing on her laptop, and it was only getting stronger. More clear. Coming closer. They would only have a few minutes to capture it before it passed them.

Or maybe… she realized, her breath catching. It's already here. Was it too subtle to notice? Is the auroral above us?

We have to take precautions. She whipped her head to the window, and lowered her head down below the handle — pulling back her long hair, trying to see above as vertically as she could. She gained a peek of the featureless sky beyond their van roof. 

Nothing yet. It was still too hard to make out anything — they needed to dig deeper.

"Erik," she breathed. "Get the barometer. Darcy, turn off the headlights."

A grumble came from the front seat. But the lights switched off, and Jane quickly blinked the rest of it out of her vision. If it was dark before, it was black now.

In the seat next to her, Erik Selvig groped for the ring-shaped barometer. It took a few attempts, but he plugged it into the equipment. He glanced listlessly at Jane, the shadows outlining his weathered wrinkles. The skeptic in their midst.

"Open the sunroof," he muttered, his jaw clenching. His thick accent truly exemplified his current exasperation with her. But ignoring him, Jane pulled it open.

A faint breeze swept into the van, and Erik clenched his teeth from the cold — but he handed the barometer to her. She wriggled herself up through the sunroof, taking extra care not to hit her head. Not to let her jacket slip. She placed the meter down on the car roof, switched it on from underneath, yelped as her fingers brushed over a cold jagged piece of metal, and ducked back into the van quickly.

She stared at her laptop, watching the pressure indicator as it slowly started to rise. "Something's happening."

"Jane," Erik told her quietly. "Something has been happening for the previous several nights. The last seventeen occurrences have been predictable to the second —"

"If they were, we would have left a long time ago," Jane whispered. "But look. They're getting stronger each night. This is the most drastic it's been."

"This is the coldest it's ever been."

Jane ignored him. You can't deny this, Selvig. There's a connection between these events and the research. She found herself becoming somewhat excited. I might just be on the verge of a breakthrough here.

First, the hammer… now, this. This is just the beginning, as far as I'm concerned.

"Can I turn on the radio?"

"No," Jane snapped.

"Ugh, whatever," Darcy responded unenthusiastically from the front seat, and rolled her eyes. From where Jane could see her out the corner of her eye, she reclined in her seat with her beanie firmly pulled over her head, her medium length black hair trailing into her waistcoat. She reminded Jane of a gremlin. She shared the same attitude of one.

But Jane focused on the barometer in front of her. The pressure was building steadily.

Erik watched her, shaking his head slowly. "We can't keep doing this, Jane."

"Not right now."

"We're astrophysicists, not storm chasers. Everything we've stayed out here for, it's — it's a complete fluke. There has been very little worth picking up on a video camera."

I'm not having it, Jane thought, determined. There's something here that I need to get to the bottom of.

"How do you explain this then?!" Jane demanded, nodding at the monitor. "I wouldn't have asked you to fly us out here if I hadn't been absolutely sure. Now, look outside the window for me. The auroral should be on us at any moment."

The same pattern. A drop in temperature, an increasing pressure, a flash of green light in the same spot. The subtle signs of something slowly manifesting into existence. As if coming out from a point in space and time.

A possible wormhole?

"Oh — oh my god," Darcy blurted out from the front seat. She leaned forward. "Jane? I think I see it."

"What?!"

"Look —"

Jane leaped out of her seat, squeezing in between the monitors. She rolled herself up to Darcy, staring out through the windshield. She gaped too.

Up ahead, faint green rays of light were shimmering through the clouds. A vaguely visible area of light in the approximate shape of a circle — ones with criss crossing lines and patterns.

"That's it!" she cried. "Oh, shit —" She almost hit her head against the car mirror, but settled in the passenger seat and called back to Erik. "You see it from there?"

"Sort of? I thought you said it would be a more subtle auroral."

"Well, thank goodness it's not! Pass me the camera."

Erik reached out to her, and Jane took the old video recorder. Now long since outdated by mobile phones and newer devices… but it had something that none of them had yet. Flipping it open, she switched it on to the infrared mode and started recording, trying to keep it steady. She was able to get a good view of the lights in the sky.

"Okay, we need to get closer," she panted. "Get ready to drive."

"Um, okay…" Darcy straightened up and turned on the ignition.

The headlights turned on again. The engine rumbled underneath them loudly, causing the camera to jitter.Jane silently swore, wishing they had gotten a better van.

RUUUMBLLLE…

Thunder. Jane frowned. I didn't recall there being a storm.

Jane looked through the camera again, and balked at what she was seeing. The light in the sky was now starting to fade. That was not good.

"Damn, we're losing it," she hissed. She started rolling down the car window next to her, and looked to Darcy. "GO! NOW NOW NOW!"

SKKRT. The van lurched, traipsing over the sandy plains, past the outlines of bushes, sticks and stones, at several miles per hour. The spectacle was awaiting them on the other side.

Ignoring the cry of protest coming from the back, Jane stuck her head out the window — the wind blowing in her face, her hair flapped behind her as she aimed the camera up at the clouds, straight at the auroral. She whooped, and her voice was drowned out by the motor of the van.

She peered through her camera, as they came closer and closer. The heat signatures she was picking up were different, far more different from what she could see. Something warm — no — hotter — was rapidly descending from above. From the area in the clouds with no name, which seemed to be far colder than anything else surrounding it.

She kept an eye on it, as it formed into a comet. dropping down to the dunes. And as it made impact —

CRACK. BANG!

Jane was jolted by the sudden crack of lightning, a sudden BURST OF LIGHT and heat that had appeared in front of them. She almost lost the grip on the recorder.

An enormous cloud of dust and sand arose from the point of impact, and dissipated into the darkness just as quickly. As Jane stared at it, she felt specks of dust brush over her, vaporizing into the central atmosphere. They were racing towards a sudden sandstorm, sparking with something she couldn't make out.

Jane lowered the recorder, bewildered. What had just happened?

SKKRT. The van started to decelerate, pinning Jane against the side of the window. She cried out in pain, and retreated from the window, back into the passenger seat. She held up the recorder again at the windshield, but glanced at Darcy. "What are you doing?!"

Darcy looked absolutely terrified. "I'm not dying for six college credits!" She shouted. "I'm slowing us down!"

Jane leaned forward, watching as they skidded into the sandstorm. With her quick thinking, she remembered to roll up the window to stop the outside elements from creeping in.

SSSSHHHHH. The headlights were their only source of visibility. They were trapped in the storm, the center point of impact, racing past grain after grain of infinitesimal sand. Jane held on for dear life, seeing Darcy trying to control the stick, trying to halt them. She stared into the darkness, watching out for obstacles.

I don't understand, she thought wildly. What was that??

She looked down at the recorder… but every color signature was the same. The moment had passed. She snapped it shut.

Her eyes rose up to the windshield — and widened as they saw a silhouette.

WHAM.

The van went spinning. Darcy's hands gripped on to the wheel, stark terror plastered on her face. Jane, for a brief second, felt like she was the one who had just gotten hit.

SCRREEEECCCH. The van dwindled, slowed down as it spun and spun in circles… before finally, slowly stopping — throwing them all back in their seats.

There was an oppressive silence.

Then — Jane clapped a hand to her mouth, her brain catching up with her. "Oh, Christ."

"What? What happened?!" called Erik from the back.

"Okay, look," Darcy started shaking. "I think that was legally your fault —"

"DARCY!" Jane shrieked. "Where are the torches?"

"Here. In the glove compartment."

She grabbed two, and tossed one to Jane. Throwing caution to the wind, Jane threw open her door. "Come on!"

She was a few steps away from the van, casting light over the ground when the rolling door opened. Erik came out, stumbling, and followed her too. Darcy came around the side of the van.

"I don't understand," Erik said, groaning. "What —"

"We ran over someone," Jane hissed. "Get the first aid kit!"

"Oh… God." Erik paled. He turned back.

Do me a favor and don't be dead. Please please please.

Jane swept her torch over the land. She honed in on something that resembled flesh, not far from where they were. She raced towards it, too terrified now to even care about the creeping weather.

No no no! She thought desperately. Don't be dead.

She came to a stop, and bent down to look closer at the poor man — and she almost fell over in shock. The man was completely naked.

And as it seemed… this man was huge and muscular as well. Her torch shone over his perfectly-sculpted abs, his stretched bare shoulders, and up to his chiseled face with a trimmed beard and long, dirtied blond hair that swept down to his neck. Jane gaped at him. And as she shone the light down past her torso, she made out the subtle definitions of his thighs and calves… and beyond that, if she angled her light closer…

No, that was all Jane was willing to see. Focus. She starkly remembered, noticing the man's eyes rolled up in his head, completely vacant, that he had just been hit by a van. Already, she could see the cuts and bruises that had resulted from what had just happened to him.

She put down the torch, checking his pulse. She exhaled, seeing that he was still alive. Oh, thank God.

Someone walked up behind her. "Jane?"

"Erik! Give it to me!" She rose a hand up at him, who was staring at the body on the ground with utter confusion.

He gave the kit to Jane. She tore it open. "Okay, come on, come on."

"I don't understand," Erik said, looking around. "Wh — what was all that just now? Who is this? Where did he come from?"

Jane froze.

She stared down at the unconscious man. She found herself wondering the same thing.

"Erik. I… I don't know."

Where DID he come from?

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, don’t kill me because of the ending, sebastian and reader are the definition of right person wrong time, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, also this part has some funny moments but overall it’s a big SOB

part: 6/6 (there will also be an epilogue)

(other parts)   (masterlist)

This is how it ends: broken hearts from crashed dreams.

Sebastian holds you until his muscles ache and your lungs burn from the feeling of too little oxygen. It is cold and dark, almost midnight, too dark, a starless night.

No more stars for you and I.

“Here,” Voice hoarse, eyes heavy-lid and itching from almost crying. He gives you one of the rings he wore in the movie. “I want you to keep this.”

Keep it close to your heart. Forget me not.

He takes a breath and a step back, tries to regain all the strength he still has, steady feet and shoulders fixed. He digs his nails into his palms, red marks in his skin, air catching in his throat, he’s on the verge of falling but he stays standing.

He remembers tears glistening down his cheeks, maybe they were yours not his, and the cold autumn wind hitting his face and he remembers feeling like he’s dying.

And then he closes the door of Argyris’ car and looks at you.

And his heart stretches and stretches and stretches and then somehow splits in half.

/

It goes like this:

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment from now on. In the living room. Sitting on the couch. And it has steel blue eyes and a familiar heart. And it whispers a love story, half-finished, and you cannot make it stop.

The ghost touches your collarbone and he’s gone but there’s a ring in a golden chain around your neck and a white shirt forgotten in your laundry. And it smells like him. The clinging scent of his aftershave sticking to your pores. Eucalyptus. And no matter how hard you try to wash it off, it still lingers.

How could I ever forget someone like you?

The ghost lives here, but the place is empty, so empty. And it’s hard not to cry.

/

Sebastian calls and texts a lot.

He tells you he’s tired but excited because he started filming a new movie. It’s very indie and experimental, I can’t wait for you to see it. He tells you he’s missing his days in Greece like hell and that one night he dreamt of you. Didn’t want to wake up. What he doesn’t tell you is that he’s coming back in a month, Argyris needs him for some extra scenes. It’s nearly killing him but he doesn’t tell you. He wants to surprise you, see the pure light in your eyes when they’ll meet his.

/

You try sexting. It doesn’t go very well.

23:50, sebastian: if you were here in my bed right now what would you be doing

06:51, you: probably falling asleep hahaha

06:51, you: oh fuck was i supposed to sext back

06:51, you: sorry seb i just woke up and i have a class in an hour, love you <3

23:52, sebastian: fuck timezones

/

(three weeks and 10 seconds later)

“I can’t believe she doesn’t know you’re here,” Argyris shakes his head as he’s driving home from the airport, “If I were her, I’d kill you.”

“Good thing I didn’t fall in love with you.”

Sebastian laughs and looks out of the car window. The stars. There are so many stars tonight. He holds his breath; he’s finally feeling whole again. His heart isn’t split in two anymore.

/

You don’t know how long you stand there at your door, staring at him, but it feels like a century before he grins, almost laughs, takes your hands in his and you start considering that perhaps this isn’t a hallucination. Perhaps it’s real.

“Surprise?”

Something inside of you bursts, your organs twitch. You can’t think, you can’t speak, but you can move. You don’t lose any more time, you take a step forward, attach your bodies, your face buried in his neck, your fingers clutching into the rough fabric of his jacket. You breathe him in like an antidote.

“How?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

You kiss him and it’s like poetry, like art, like honey and you can’t separate yourself from him, not even hours later.

/

(looking back, these were the golden days)

You pretending to be mad at him for not telling you he was coming back and him pressing his lips on your skin, drawing patterns on your naked shoulder. A feathery touch.

Sebastian always touches you like you’re something made of gold and porcelain, something cherished that constantly needs to be treasured. And nobody has done that before. And you love him for it.

You try to decorate your Christmas tree together. He messes with the lights for a while, eventually gives up and goes on to eat too many reindeer shaped cookies.

He massages your muscles when you write a boring essay for college.

You go with him when he has to shoot a “driving a motorcycle naked in the centre of Athens” scene and you bite the inside of your cheeks to stop smiling like an idiot.

He gives you a dress he bought for you in New York.  

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

He calls you sweetheart in the mornings, still half asleep and later joins you in the shower.

“Why are you so hot?”

“Climate change”

“Oh, shut up”

It’s tender and it’s soft and it’s human.

And that’s the saddest part.

/

Soon you realize that him leaving two months ago was merely a rehearsal and you still haven’t said your actual goodbyes. Your chest starts to feel as if it’s full of crushed glass.

And it’s ridiculous because you fell in love with Sebastian sometime between the first ten days you spent together.

Who falls in love in ten days?  

Ridiculous or not, you know you are in love with him just as you know that sooner or later, whatever he is feeling will fade and wither. Maybe it’ll be in a week, maybe it’ll be in a month, maybe in a year if you’re lucky. But there will definitely come a day when he will step out of a gala or a party or a fancy gym in New York with a beautiful model in his arms and two paparazzi’s following him around.

What will you be then?

A past small cameo in his life. A side character. Will he remember your name?

He is your whole world.

(a bottle of cheap prosecco helps you decide that)

He is your whole world.

And yet, there will come a day when he won’t even remember your name.

/

It was difficult. No, it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. Telling him how you think it’d be better if you didn’t talk after he leaves.

“I don’t agree with this.”

“Seb, it’s for the best.”

Your body doesn’t feel strong enough to carry your heart. And you’re certain it will only get worse once he’s away. The world around you will melt. You’ll obsess over a phone screen and his messages. You’ll start chasing ghosts again. You can’t handle that.

“Why?” He says urgently and his fingers dance over the flesh of your palms.

“Because this”, you motion your hand between the two of you, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t want it to become ugly.”

He nods, he understands.

“I love you, you know,” he says smiling and tugs you closer to him, “And I may not be here to show you but I think I’ll love you for a long time.”

Your hand grips his waist right to the bones and something flares in your eyes, something wild that wrenches you around.

“I know, I’ll love you the same.”

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Only if I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.”

He laughs and you look at him, fully aware he’ll be ripped out of your life like a page from a cheap leather notebook. And when you kiss for the last time, there’s a hole forming in your soul.

And just because endings don’t leave visible scars to one’s body and soul, that doesn’t mean the scars don’t exist. You know they do, because you feel the aching pain of every single one of them.

/

(every night when you close your eyes you see him)

(every night you look at the stars and think of him)

/

A month passes and Argyris asks you if you miss him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“He said the exact same thing.”

You tell him not to mention Sebastian again.

Two months pass and you need to stop stalking his instagram profile.

Three months pass and you almost text him.

Four months pass and you go to watch Endgame with some friends and you cry. You cry when Black Widow sacrifices herself and when Iron Man smiles at his wife while dying, and when Bucky Barnes appears on screen.

The others don’t understand and you don’t blame them.

Five months pass and Argyris’ girlfriend wants you to meet someone. A charming boy your age with blonde hair and a lip piercing.

And he's cute but you compare him to Sebastian even before he has the chance to say his name. His eyes are not the right shade of blue and he doesn’t look at you like you’re made of the world’s finest jewel.

And he doesn’t know any constellation names.

And then more than a year passes in a second and you learn to not look for him. Not anymore.

/

It’s early March 2020 and despite the rising fear of the upcoming pandemic, you’re doing well. Scars are starting to fade. And after spending two weeks in Prague, your best friend being there with an exchange program, Sebastian Stan is the farthest thing from your mind.

Until he literally comes crashing into you. At the airport.

No, it can’t be him.

You have your suitcase on one hand and a bottle of antiseptic gel on the other. He has two bodyguards on his sides and a black hoodie on.  And while half of his face is hidden behind a mask, you can see his eyes perfectly. A frozen lake in December. You would know those eyes in your deathbed, at the end of the world.

Your vision gets blurry and suddenly you feel cold.

He won’t recognize me, he can’t.

But then he looks at you and every memory you had buried inside of you resurfaces.

He motions to his guards to wait for him and he starts walking towards you. You breathe slowly, one breath at a time. He takes his mask off and you hesitate to take yours, not sure if you truly want him to see you.

You exchange the typical and very awkward hi, how are you, i’m glad you’re doing okay and then he smiles and it feels comfortable. Familiar.

It’s the whiff of another time that you always kept around. A reminder that you were once loved by a god.

“What are you doing here?”

“Filming Falcon and the Winter Soldier”

If you hadn’t unfollowed him on instagram, you’d known.

“Ah yes I heard about that, congrats.”

He nods a thank you.

“And you? In Prague?”

“I was at a friend.”

He looks conflicted, hurt, turns his gaze to his shoes on the grey cement. You want to say something, but you feel like throwing up.

And then he laughs.

“I was right.”

You’re confused, he notices.

“Back in Greece,” he swallows, “I told you this would happen.”

“It would have been an airport, different gates for each of us, but same waiting hall. Or a Greek island, where we’d both be for the summer.”

“I would have found you.”

You remember and you cannot help but smile. He was right. He found you.

“I didn’t believe you then.”

I barely believe you now.

He touches your hair. And his touch is like a knife. And you want to cry. Magnolias under your tongue. A love long lost is whispering in your ears until it hurts to listen. He’s like a magnetic field and you feel yourself drowning in him.

“I bet they’ll ask me a hundred questions about you later.” He says and looks at the two men waiting for him.

“And what will you tell them?”

“That you’re most probably the love of my life.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

“There’s no way we’d meet here if you’re not.”

“Sebastian,” His name sounds like a prayer coming out of your lips and you're ready to tell him you love him and you can swear he looks like he’s ready to faint, “I-”

The guards yell his name. And it's the same feeling people have just before a car crash.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

One last look.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You repeat it over and over again. But you fail.

“No, don't cry” He smiles, one last smile, “Just look at the stars and wait for us to meet again, because we will.”

He caresses the back of your palm for a second and you think your ribcage is shattering but it’s only your heart drumming frantically. Pushing your fragile bones to break. 

You want to stop him, wrap your arms around his torso, never let him go. Not again. But you don’t.

You just watch him leave, one more time, your knees weak, your head heavy and dizzy. For the split of a moment he turns and glances at you but then he’s nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was all in your imagination. Perhaps it was nothing but a wonder.

You get into your plane and you silently sob.

/

And then it’s summer.

And you overhear he was seen with a girl, the day before your vacation starts and you find a picture of them together a week later, a pretty blonde girl clinging to his side with a colorful bikini somewhere in Spain. And he’s smiling. And you feel so ashamed. And so stupid.

They say time heals all wounds but they must be wrong because you can’t forget how he used to smile at you or how he used to call you the love of his life.

Was he joking when he said you'll meet again? You bet if you asked him now, he wouldn't even remember saying it.

I’ll love you for a long time.

So long for nothing.

/

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :) also i’m really sorry if you asked me to tag you and i didn’t  but i lost a lot of asks and the urls of the people that sent them :( 

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree @sara-1705 @dorothea-hwldr @freshfreakoaftrash @drinkfantasy @christinamcdonnell ​@partypoison00 ​ @90ssantiago

[delldarling]

diving stars | hior

male bog mummy x male reader 3754 words citrus | mild description of death, minor mention of blood, mild description of mummy having stitches (though not getting them), kissing, implied future relationship test match-up: Waaaayyyy back when, I decided I should try my hand at some match-ups. I wanted a unique experience for those coming to me for commissions, and so went through several versions of a 'choose your own adventure' kind of personality questionnaire. Matt, or @severedreamerbeard, was one of the people lovely enough to let me test out my match-up process! Thank you a whole gosh darn bunch Matt, for letting me do so in the first place, and I'm going to heap on extra thanks because I've been such a snail about it! <3

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Much of the bog is a terrible endless black, with nothing to reflect but the cloud covered nighttime sky. Scrubby, dried grass circles the edges of the water, the torchlight making their flickering shadows look like creeping, growing thorns across the opaque surface, ready to snag the unwary and drag them down into the depths. There’ll be no coming back out of that dark water, Hior knows, not once he’s been pushed in.

I’ll close my eyes before I go under, he silently promises, though either way he supposes it shouldn’t matter much. The last thing his body sees will only ever be darkness. He swallows, tucks auburn hair behind his ears, calloused fingers catching at his skin, and pastes on a grim smile, turning to face the gathered people. He can’t linger any longer, no matter how much he would like to, not if he wants the rest of the village to make it through this. Not many of them have gathered, either. Just enough to see the ritual through to the end. Honestly, it’s better this way. If his brother had been allowed to leave the defenses, then Hagan would have interrupted Mother Gree, ritual or not. He would have tried to stop her, tried to stop Hior, even if it meant the loss of the village.

Hagan will be angry.

Hior sweeps his eyes over the surrounding villagers, their frightened faces and trembling hands, their teary eyes reflecting the torches in the misty dark. Hagan will be angry, but the fact of the matter is that he will still be alive to hold onto that anger. Hior can’t find it within himself to regret that.

There’s no time for being maudlin, Hior tells himself, and his smile becomes a bit too wide, stretching painfully at the corners.

This will be the last he ever sees of the village if the Gods deem his offering worthy, but that’s alright. Really. As long as he knows the village will be protected, as long as he knows that his people will do their best to endure, he's willing to fight his way through the Beyond and stay there.

Mother Gree begins to speak in a rough, ragged voice, worn through by years of pipe smoke and leaning over heavily herbed fires. Her words—the spell, the prayer—drape themselves around Hior’s shoulders like a heavy blanket, sweeping away the tension of his worries and the fear of the crowded villagers. Hior’s smile softens.

Mother Gree’s only warning is the icy grasp of her fingers, twisting sharply into the hair at the nape of Hior’s neck. The blade pinches. Wet heat spills down his throat and over his chest, soaking his clothes as he begins to fall backward.

Overhead, the clouds part, and a fierce rumbling fills the air, punctuated by sharp screams. A star, smaller than a pebble, but more brilliant by far than any flickering fire, falls out of the sky. It dives after Hior’s falling body, following him down into the depths of the bog.

The last thing Hior sees is light.

————-　🌠　————-

It’s midday, or just after, and there are odd shapes in the clouds, like reaching hands backlit by the sunshine. The shifting shades of them make it look like they’re trying very hard to break through the atmosphere, a primordial being grabbing for mortals like marbles. The wind picks up, and the flicker of pale warmth and the cloud hands are blown swiftly away, hidden by a tumult of grey and violet. It shouldn’t rain for hours yet, it’s not supposed to, but you’re starting to doubt the truth of the weather forecast. The sky is very clearly telling all watchers that a storm is on the way.

And here you are: distractedly doing your best to carefully skirt the edges of dreary, muddied water, hunting for a folktale. There are weak spots throughout the area, and one wrong step will have the ground turning to mush underfoot. Which, while fitting with the tales, is the last thing you’d ever want. Risk of drowning aside, all the local stories claim that it's your soul you really need to worry about, or you'll be trapped for eternity as 'a ghost given solid form'.

In other words, from what you’ve pieced together, that might mean something like a zombie?

Water sloshes, lapping strangely at the grassy shore and pulling you clean away from your thoughts. You know you shouldn't linger with the storm on the way, but something about the water keeps you from getting more than a few paces past. The noise, rising steadily, almost bubbling, draws you closer even as tension weighs down your steps. Whatever might be down there, you doubt it's anything pleasant, and you’ve had stories of zombies running through your head all afternoon. You edge closer anyway.

The shore grows terribly soft underfoot the closer you get, and it looks like something is struggling just under the surface, wriggling, a bit like—the water fountains. It soaks your shoe and the hem of your pant leg, while icy droplets speckle over your shirt and face. For a moment, a breath, your eyes fall closed as you attempt to wipe the water away. Something smooth and cold grabs hold of your ankle, yanking your foot forward so you slam back into the ground, a quick burst of pain flares in the back of your skull. Fingernails dig into your skin. You can’t remember shouting, can’t remember a loud noise, but your ears are ringing, adrenaline rocketing through your veins as the hand—the literal hand—heaves with all it’s might, pulling you towards the water. You scrabble backwards, you kick, trying to get free, but the arm tenses, fingers curling tighter around your ankle, heavier than iron. You haven’t gotten loose, but you’re starting to pull whatever is in the water out as you struggle.

The water burbles and the haze of panic begins to clear. This isn’t a story. Someone has just grabbed hold of you. They’re not trying to pull you in, they just want you to pull them out. Because they’re trapped. You suck down air, scrabbling at the hand wrapped around your ankle, trying to get them to grab hold of your wrist instead. Their skin is strange under your touch, hard and smooth and fragile, like flowers dipped in paraffin.

A head finally crests the water, a choking, wheezing noise filling the air as liquid cascades off of his body. His breath sounds wrong though, and his cheeks are hollowed, hair and skin stained with peat. He releases the death grip he has on your ankle, bony, wet fingers smacking against your arm so you can grab hold and pull. His other hand twists into the scrubby grass, ripping handfuls of it free as he does his best to work with your desperate bid to get him out of the bog. And then a few startling things happen all at once.

Your eyes drop to his throat and the wide, old injury spanning the entirety of his throat, stitched shut with a pale cord. His eyes snap open. An eerie light gleams in his eye sockets and you do shout this time, words tripping over themselves as you give up on holding him to try and yank yourself out of his grasp. Lightning quick flashes of the zombie stories and a variety of undead flicker through your mind. He’s too strong for you, you can't push him off, even with the wasted-looking muscles of his arms. He holds on terribly tight, knees and calves and feet splashing in the water and sliding through the slick scrub grass. You continue to try to get his hands off of you, breath coming far too fast, but he lets go as soon as he’s clear of the water. His hands fall away, clutching at your thigh for balance before he finally removes his hands from you entirely. He drops to the grass, retching, and then grabs at his own throat. The tie keeping his hair back crumbles, falling away like drying clay, and though most of his hair is still slick and dark with peat, it looks like it’s normally a bright coppery red underneath the muck.

He wheezes again, hands hovering over the injury, fingers feather soft over the strangely clean stitches. After a moment, he lifts his chin, spotlight eyes roving over your face with awe.

"..you..you answered?" He asks, voice warped by withered musculature. His stained cheeks stretch, a painfully tight smile exposing teeth that don't look altogether human. They're even, and clean, but they gleam with a deep blue patina, as if they’re actually polished stones. “I—I must conf-fess,” he rasps, hands falling to his knees, nails digging into the tattered trousers barely clinging to his body, “I doubted. I..” He leans forward, gasping once more as he stares at the ground. “He answered,” he whispers, and his eyelashes flutter, the light of his eyes flickering. Despite his apparent frailness, despite his inattention, you can't bring yourself to run away now. You’re caught, the desire for knowledge outweighing the potential danger. “What would you ask of me?” He breathes, and your heart twists painfully in your chest. He sounds wretched, reverent and fearful, both, anxiously waiting for you to strike out.

"What would I ask?" You struggle to murmur, tongue thick and too-dry in your mouth. Slowly, you get up, rubbing awkwardly at your wrist and forearm. His grip had been a shade past 'uncomfortably tight', but you don’t think you’ll get anything more than faint bruising.

"In exchange," the man says, clutching tighter to his knees. He doesn't notice when you flinch, not with his head still bowed.

Your heartbeat nearly drowns out the distant thunder, adrenaline chasing the wariness out of your veins. "For what?" You demand, pleased when his head jerks up. He's acting like you're going to kick him back into the bog with a boot to his chest. "For saving you? Why would I want anything? I was just-" Your mouth snaps shut, brain desperately clamoring for you to acknowledge that there's a mummified man currently speaking to you. He’s talking, not groaning, not calling out for brains or blood or violence. He may as well be straight from the local legends and he’s… Fully conscious of his actions, nothing like the eerie embellishments all the tales carry.

"I was being decent. Helping. I didn't do it so you would owe me." Any further words slip your mind as soon as your eyes catch on the stitches in his neck again. The rest of him is withered and warped by the peat in the bog, permanently stained—but the stitches are still silvery pale. What on earth happened to make him this way?

Hesitant, he raises his head, the inhuman brightness of his eyes more than enough to make you wince. Your gaze darts to the soft glint of metal in his earlobes, trying to keep from squinting.

"For… For saving my village," he finally clarifies. "You accepted my sacrifice and allowed me the chance to speak, but surely I must complete some task to prove my faith? To win a boon and guarantee their survival?"

Thunder rattles your bones and the mummy tenses, looking past you to the sky. Nerves or not, you can’t stay out here in this, not if you want to escape the weather… Or the panic that will spread like wildfire if anyone happens to catch sight of him. You offer him your hand.

"You'll help me?" He asks, hand lifting from his knee, but not yet reaching for yours. Mist dots his cheeks, rain trying desperately to break free of the heavy cloud cover.

"Help? Yes. In the way you’re asking me to?” You can’t stop yourself from cringing, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred the bog mummy still kneeling in front of you. He’s still staring with rapt attention, caught on every word you speak. “I—I don't know if I have any answer you want, but I do know we shouldn’t stay out here in the rain." You take a single step closer, fingers splaying as you reach for him. He slips his hand into yours and the rain falls heavy upon your heads.

————-　🌠　————-

From what you’ve gathered from Hior on the trip back here, he has for all intents and purposes, traveled through time, via his death. You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, mind whirling as you attempt to puzzle out whether he can eat or drink anything. He hasn’t needed to, not while he’s been in his enchanted… sleep down in the bog. But he’s actually dead, isn’t he? You hadn’t felt a pulse when he’d taken your hand, but you hadn’t been searching for one either, keen as you were on getting him out of the torrential rain and out of sight. He hasn’t asked for any food or drink, but your brain has seized onto hospitality like a lifeline. No matter what age Hior is from, sharing what you have is always appreciated.

Decision made, you fetch the glass, ears straining for any noise, for any hint of where he is in the house. He’s done nothing but stare at modernized gadgetry since you brought him in, taking the towel you’d offered as if he were in a dream, but he’s bound to get curious eventually. You move a little faster, though when you find him back in the living room, sitting straight backed on the edge of the couch, dampened towel around his shoulders, you feel rather silly. He just crawled out of a bog, knowing that he’d given his life for his village. Maybe he’s frightened? This can’t be like any afterlife he’d expected. “Would you like some water?” You ask, still unsure as to whether he can actually drink it or not. He’d been gasping for air when he’d broken free of the bog, but that might only be reflex, seeing as he is very much mummified.

Hior clambers to his feet, lamplight eyes skittering over your face and then down to the floor before he kneels, towel flaring out like a cloak. You pause where you are, fingers tightening around the glass in your hand, but your brain doesn’t catch up to what he’s trying to do until he speaks. “I must thank you for your hospitality. Truly. To be welcomed into the home of a God-”

You nearly spill the water, breath caught fast in your throat as you hurriedly urge him to get back to his feet, fingers brushing over his shoulder. “Ah, no, not—how about some water first?” Hior rises, the fine hairs of his eyebrows catching the light as he furrows them. They’re the same coppery red as the hair on his head and arms, and even on his legs when you take the time to glance down. “Here,” you mutter, slipping the glass into his hand as soon as his fingers uncurl. “If you don’t want it, or, or you can’t, then it’s fine. But, uh, I’m not a deity. Not a God. Just a man.” Like you, weighs down the tip of your tongue, but you clamp your jaws shut. You can’t honestly claim similarity, seeing as you still have blood flowing through your veins and your neck doesn’t have eerily clean stitches from ear to ear.

"A man," he repeats, but he doesn't sound like he believes you, "of course." Hior sniffs at the water, but he must not need it. He cradles the glass against his chest, water untouched and risks another sly glance at your face, waiting, as if he expects you to change your mind and confess to a different identity. Your brain buzzes, skipping over the hint he’s attempting to fish for.

“Those… It looks like that was a bad injury,” you murmur, gesturing to the neat stitches, a permanent, unsettling necklace. It doesn’t really help change the subject.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, reaching up a single hand. For a moment, he marvels at the sight of his own skin, turning his wrist this way and that before he finally ghosts his touch over the stitches. Hior doesn’t shy away from them, or even appear concerned, fingertip dipping between each rib of cord. “I’ve little idea how I came to possess these,” he confesses. “It wasn’t you?” You grimace, and Hior croaks out a laugh when he notices. Warmth blossoms in your chest, the sound of a real, genuine laugh soothing away some of your nerves. “No. I can see that now. And it wasn’t Mother Gree either,” he says softly, eyes lowering. “No one would have taken me from the water. The… the star?”

“Star?” The God you think I am? You want to ask, but the stiffness is easing from his limbs, memory returning, and you don’t want to interrupt. Frankly, you might be a little shell shocked yourself, but something about his question makes your brows furrow.

“It followed me into the water,” Hior adds, and your heart skips a beat, your own memories a cacophony in the back of your head. You’ve read something about that before, you’re certain of it.

“The star followed you?” You ask, clarifying. “Dove after you?”

For the first time, Hior isn’t staring past you or searching your face for any hint of divinity. A wry smile twists his lips, exposing the polished stones serving as his teeth. “From what I recall, yes. Of course, I was dying at the time,” he says quietly, humor in the arch of his eyebrows. “Perhaps I could not comprehend the visage of our Gods? They often take other shapes, so as not to cause alarm. Such as that of a man,” he says. He’s hinting again, gaze heavy on your face, but all you can think about is the phrase: the star followed me into the water, on repeat.

You lick your lips, darting past Hior for the stacks of books you’d left out this morning. “The Diving Stars,” you explain, pushing two volumes to the side and letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. You seize the elderly green book, whirling so you can brandish it in Hior’s direction. The title glitters, faintly golden but worn away by the passing years. “It’s a folktale, a legend, about… About you, I think.”

————-　🌠　————-

Hior never does drink the water. He sets it aside, fingertips lingering along the rim before you settle down on the floor, book laid open across your knees. He joins you, and as respectful as Hior has been up to this point, he sits close against your side, pressed against you from shoulder to hip so he can better see the pages. It’s intimate, and strange, and he’s… He’s not cold, not exactly, but the lack of human warmth is enough to have the fine hairs along your neck prickling with awareness. It only takes a moment before his attention drifts from the book to your face, staring at your mouth as you read the short tale aloud.

The Diving Stars

For the greater good of a war torn village, a sacrifice was made. A favored son was chosen, one beloved by the village, and kind to all he knew. He was strong, and clever, and though he was leaving behind his family, he knew he must act for the well being of all. When it came time for his sacrifice, he smiled and walked willingly to his ending, hoping that the Gods would accept his service and defend the village from invaders.

A God took notice.

You do your best not to lift your eyes from the text, heat spreading over the back of your neck when you realize how hard Hior is staring at you. You might keep trying to ignore his assumptions, but Hior isn’t going to let you forget about them completely. He still fully believes that you’re the deity from his tale.

Moved by his plight and coveting the favored son’s courage for his own hall, the God left his domain. He dove from the sky as a star, following the favored son into the depths and setting the entire blog ablaze with his magic. When the light faded, when the villagers uncovered their eyes, two men stood by the side of the water, the light of the stars in their eyes. One was the favored son, strange and withered, having sacrificed his vitality to the Gods. The other was the God who had accepted his bargain, and behind them, marching up out of the water, was a brigade of the village ancestors, led back from the underworld to help defend the home of their children.

When the battle was won, and the ancestors had marched back into the water, the favored son wished his people farewell. Lit up from within, the favored son and the God slipped back into the depths, and then two brilliant lights fountained up out of the water, diving back into the sky as stars.

When you lift your gaze away from the book, Hior’s eyes are still on you. They’ve grown even brighter than before, the shine of them sharp enough to make you wince. His hands, resting gently on his knees, are steadily curling into fists, and he’s smiling. Small and sweet and absolutely enchanted. “I knew it,” he whispers, voice tight and low, and then Hior yanks you by the neck of your shirt halfway into his lap, knocking the book completely out of your hands. He kisses you, in want or in gratitude, you’re not sure, the taste of rainwater and the chill of stone heavy on his lips. It’s… It’s not unpleasant at all, the kiss. His lips are smooth, and cool, and tingling, like the sharpness of static in the air, seeping through your skin and racing through your veins. When Hior finally allows you to wrench yourself away, lungs heaving as you attempt to remember how to breathe, all you can think about is the way he’s smiling, arousal pooling heavily in every limb.

“No matter what you might believe,” you mutter, trying to keep your thoughts in order, “I’m not a God. Not of any sort, Hior. I swear I’m not lying.” You lick your lips, the taste of rainwater still lingering on your skin. “Though, even if I don’t know how to help you yet?” You take his hand off of your arm, lacing your fingers with his. “We’re bound to find out together.”

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[nightshade-minho]

-Blue Book- (12)

Warnings: negative emotions like heartbreak, envy etc, alcohol, excessive consumption of alcohol, making out etc.

Wc: 6.1k

You shot awake, groaning as you clutched the bed sheets tightly. Fuck, that was a terrible nightmare. You pushed the sheets off you, your skin feeling clammy and your hands sweaty.

"Y/n? You okay?" 

You turned to see Minho looking at you, his face covered in concern as he tentatively placed his hand on your arm, tilting his head.

"I'm fine..." You sighed and shook your head, sitting up straighter. "Really...it was just a bad dream." You mumbled, sliding out of the bed and glancing back at Minho with a reassuring smile. 

"Oh. Okay...' He stood up as well, adjusting the sheets and tucking them back in. 

"What do you want for breakfast?" 

You sighed and looked at the clock on Minho’s wall, pressing your lips together. "It's almost lunchtime. We definitely slept in...I am hungry, though." 

"Fine, call it brunch. Either way, it's food." He chuckled, heading out of the door as you followed him with a giggle.

Minho opened his fridge, glancing over at you. "Your phone was ringing at midnight, by the way. i was going to answer it but whoever it was gave up before I could pick up. I didn't want to wake you.” He said as he took out ingredients for omelettes, placing them on the counter. 

"Oh...it was probably Felix. I didn't exactly tell him I was staying at your place." 

"Ah, that explains it. Go, call him. I'll be done with this soon." he said, pointing to the currently empty pan.

You nodded and went back to the bedroom to grab your phone, heading to Minho's balcony as you dialled Felix’s number.

***

Felix was cleaning the dishes when he heard his phone ring. He looked over at the contact ID quickly, heaving a sigh of relief mixed with anger. He glanced at Chan before answering your call, putting you on speakerphone.

"Y/n! I was fucking worried sick! Chan told me you walked out without any explanation and then you didn't come back home, and-" 

"Woah woah, chill. I'm at Minho's, I stayed the night." 

"Oh..." Felix paused. He didn't miss the way Chan's already dull expression morphed into something even more sour at the mention of Minho’s name.

"I’m glad you're safe but...that still doesn't excuse what you did. You could have called. Instead, you let me worry." 

You sighed, guiltily. "I know...that was a dick move. I’m sorry, Lixie."

Felix sighed reluctantly. "I accept your apology, Y/n...you know I can't stay mad at you when you call me that." He pinched his forehead, trying not to let affection overcome him.

You giggled. "I know. My sunshine boy~ You can never be angry for too long, huh?" 

Felix fought off his smile, shaking his head. 'Yeah, enough of the buttering. You need to get back here soon, and help me with the decorations to show me you’re really sorry."

"Decorations?" You asked, confused as you heard Minho call out for you. Turning back around, you went back into the kitchen, grinning as you saw the buttery golden omelettes he'd placed on the plates. 

"They look so fluffy..." you mouthed, as Felix replied. "Yeah, for the party." he explained. "It's Jisung's birthday today, I thought you knew? Don’t tell me you forgot! The party's at our place-" 

"Oh! Fuck, I did forget about that, Lix- "

"It’s okay, just come home quick. Bring Minho if you’d like, we could definitely use the extra help." 

You nodded. "Sure, I'll be there right after breakfast." 

You shut down your phone, sitting down at the table and grabbing a fork, digging into the eggs. Minho looked up, swallowing before he spoke.

"Jisung’s birthday, huh? I can't believe you almost forgot. He's going to be very mad." Minho teased, waving his fork in the air at you and smirking.

"Too bad he'll never find out." You said smugly. "Right?"

"Right." Minho chuckled. "How are the eggs?"

"Amazing. Why are you and Felix such naturals at cooking? And then there's me, nearly burning down the kitchen the last time I tried." 

"Hey, it’s not your fault. It was the oven’s. We needed to fix it anyway." He laughed, continuing to eat his food. 

"I guess so." 

There was a comfortable silence for a bit as Minho watched you eat what he’d cooked for you. He hummed, realizing how calm he felt around you. Your presence made him feel so safe and secure. 

You seemed to really be enjoying what was on your plate. Moaning softly in appreciation, you took another bite, his cheeks flushing at the sound.

“This is...wow. Perfect.” You grinned up at him, chewing enthusiastically.

Minho wished he could cook for you every morning, for the rest of his life.

***

"You're finally here!" Felix shook his head, flinging the door open wide as he beckoned the two of you in. 

As you entered, your eyes immediately spotted Chan standing on the couch, hanging up a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner onto the wall. You inhaled sharply, your heart already beginning to pound errantly at the sight.

"We already did a lot of it without you..." he sighed. You gasped as you looked around the room, which had been completely transformed. There were tiny star-shaped lanterns hung from the ceilings, and the couch had been moved to the side, to provide space to dance. The living room was much cleaner, a stark contrast from how it looked yesterday.

"I know, I'm so sorry. I just overslept. Last night was weird. At least my headache is gone." You admitted. You felt Chan glance at you at that, quickly looking away before you could return his look.

Chan swallowed. His heart had dropped when he saw you and Minho walk into the room, together. One could only presume you'd stayed the night at his place. He felt overcome with jealousy, his chest rising and falling as he breathed heavily, desperately trying to focus on the task at hand.

Envy. It was an emotion he had always been quite familiar with, unlike happiness. The person he was envious of had been and still was Minho. Minho, who he'd used to call his best friend. 

First Miyoung, now you. Everything somehow circled back to him.

However, the jealousy he was feeling was a lot more profound this time. With Miyoung, there had been no illusions. Chan had been trying his best to win her over, but with no luck. Deep down, he’d known she was a lost cause.

With you, though...there was a time when he’d been almost sure you were the one, that you belonged to him...a time when he’d thought you were in love with him too. 

It wasn't like Chan to dream. He wasn't one to believe in happily ever afters, really. They just weren’t realistic enough...

But, for a brief moment, you had made him want one. 

Maybe that was why the bitter reveal had been all the more cruel... Minho, taking away what he considered his once more.

The thing was- Chan knew you were a human being. Not an object for him to claim. He wanted you to be happy...but would you be happy with Minho? He’d despised you back then. Chan still remembered the pure hatred that spewed out of Minho every time he talked about you. Had that been a ruse? Had he ever hated you? Or were you two secretly seeing each other the whole time, working together to undermine him and ruin the rest of his life?

Okay, so maybe that was a little far-fetched and absurd. Still...he didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Chan sighed and looked back at his banner, deciding to ignore the both of you.  

You tore your eyes away from Chan. Looking back at Felix, you hummed and tucked your hands in your pockets, breathing in.

"So, what do you want us to do?"

"Hm, let's see...we've got decorations and catering left. Minho can help me cook and you-" 

Your eyes widened. No way- Felix wouldn’t suggest you help Chan with the decorations, right? He knew better than to leave the two of you alone again.

You saw Chan freeze for a moment as well, although his back was turned away from you. Good to know he felt the same way.

Felix sensed the tension rising, quickly trying to salvage the situatiom. "Hm actually, Y/n... I think I’ll need your help with the food. Especially with the drink choices, you're always the best at that!" He turned to Minho, clapping his hands decidedly. 

"You can help Chan with the decorations, Min." 

Minho nodded after a moment of reluctance, grimacing as he went over to inspect the banner Chan was putting up. Felix took you to the kitchen as you heaved a sigh of relief, placing your hand on your chest. “That was a close call.”

He took out the menus he wanted you to pick from, as he watched your expression. 

"Why'd you leave last night, anyway?" He muttered sadly, carefully inspecting your face. 

You thought back on it. Why did you? Last night was kind of fuzzy in your mind, to be honest. You couldn’t even recall the final straw that had made you storm out of the house. It wasn’t like you to be this spontaneous. 

"Chan was annoying me, and making my headache worse. So I left." You shrugged. 

"...Right." Felix rolled his eyes. "Look, I didn't want to say anything at first, but you do realize we're all grown up now, right? It's time for us to put all that high school shit in the past. I know Chan did some pretty shitty things but is it really that hard to forgive him? Minho was terrible as well- maybe even worse, yet you forgave him." He pointed out. 

"Minho spent years grovelling and apologizing for his behavior. So what if he was mean, he's changed! It's clear to see. With Chan, I'm not so sure. I can feel the hate he has for me practically rolling off him.” You stared at the floor, trying not to let those memories overtake you. “Besides...I thought I told you. Chan’s betrayal hurt more cause I genuinely thought he cared about me.” You mumbled.

“Then again, I was stupid and naïve, so I don’t really have anyone else to blame but myself."

"Chan doesn't hate you..." 

"Really? I find that hard to believe." You raised an eyebrow. "If he’s a mature adult, I think he should come and try to talk to me about what he did. I'm not the one who did something wrong here, so I won't approach him. If he wants to apologize, he can."

You sighed as you pulled the menu over to yourself. "But, as long as he continues to be petty, you better believe I'll play his game." 

Felix sighed and nodded. "You know what...sure. Whatever." He made a mental note to himself, deciding to talk to Chan later. He couldn’t bear to stand on the sidelines any longer. He had to do something. 

"I'm staying at Minho’s until he leaves." You added, ripping Felix out of his thoughts. Humming, you examined the drinks menu he handed to you.

Felix shrugged, noting down the names of the drinks you circled. "Okay. Ooh, the old gang will all be here tonight!" He let himself smile, ignoring your icy demeanor. Looking up, he sighed as he noticed the scowl still present on your face. “Come on Y/n, lighten up! Let’s forget about Chan for a second, shall we? Forget about what he did to you. Forget about whether or not you want to forgive him. Just...treat him like you would any other normal person, okay?"

You groaned, standing up straight as you rubbed your forehead. Ugh, maybe you should listen to him. All these negative emotions were really exhausting, and you could definitely do without them. 

"Sure...fine. I can do that...I think." 

"Good girl.” He smiled proudly. “Now, let's do food..." 

***

Minho and Chan hadn't said a word to each other for the past hour. They communicated mainly through grunts and hand gestures, as they decorated the space in silence.

Between the mutual hate and jealousy, there wasn’t much room for a good relationship between them anymore. They were virtually strangers, and honestly would prefer to keep it that way. 

Chan kept glancing at Minho though, biting his lip. He inhaled, working up his courage to say something.

“So...how’s Y/n? Are you taking care of her?"

What kind of question was that? Minho frowned, nodding. "Uh...yeah?" 

Chan nodded, biting his lip as he looked at the decorations again. "Cool." He hated the way his heart was filled with dull hatred, anger and pain. A mass of negative emotions had settled in him over the years, and they definitely weren’t going to budge any time soon.

However...when he’d seen Minho again, some of the anger had melted away, kind of. The man was no longer the same person he’d been back then. More confident, yet also more vulnerable...he strangely reminded him of you, before you'd shattered your rosy view on life and opted for a more practical outlook.

There was an awkward silence as they continued their work. Minho felt guilt slam against his ribs as he caught a glimpse of Chan's face.

He looked void of hope. Calm, yet not in a good way. The kind of calm that came from losing everything.

There was a tiny part of him that wanted to make it all better for Chan. Tell the truth to you, and come clean. After all, Chan was once his closest friend. The two practically grew up together. Minho recalled how he’d go over to Chan’s every day after school, playing video games in his basement and generally horsing around. He smiled to himself as the memories came back to him. Memories of helping him steal his dad’s Playboy magazine...consuming an unhealthy amount of energy drinks and crisps as they hung out, content in each other’s company.

But then, he thought about you. No. He just couldn't lose you to Chan. Besides, he wasn’t even completely sure if the truth would make you forgive Chan. Maybe it would just turn you against Minho.

Chan was handsome...he was kind, muscular, loving. He would have no problem finding someone. 

Minho on the other hand...he'd never loved anyone the way he did you. The emotions were alien, and yet so exciting. It was confusing, really- he couldn’t tell if he liked these feelings or not. 

It wasn’t like he was stripping Chan of his soulmate or anything. It just wasn't a big deal. Right?

Then why was there so much fucking guilt, heavily weighing down his heart? Why was it impossible to breathe?

**

Despite having been thrown together last minute, the party was admittedly going well. The rest of the boys came soon after you and Minho, helping Felix finish off the preparations and transform the space.

Jisung of course, true to his nature, came ‘fashionably late’, after the rest of the guests had already arrived. His grand entrance lacked the raining confetti he’d initially wanted, but it was still cool. After all, he should have known putting Hyunjin in charge of it was a bad idea.

By now, the party was in full swing. Jisung loved being the centre of attention, and that little fact was made increasingly evident with the way he was dancing in the middle of the living room, a pink feather boa thrown around his shoulders. There were drinks being passed around everywhere, people dancing and having fun in every corner. it reminded you of the few college parties you'd gone to. 

College, safe to say, weren’t exactly the best years of your life. You didn't really have any friends, and Chan had been on your mind throughout it all. He was a barrier; blocking you from living your life as a normal person.

He sat in the back of your mind, a memory from high school that threatened to never leave you. To always stick with you, reminding you that you weren't worthy. You weren't deserving of his love...all you did was play the part of a tool, to help him get the girl he was really after. Was that really all you were good for?

It wasn’t Chan you were hung up on. The implications were what truly hurt. The thought that you wouldn’t ever be worth enough to anyone, the thought that love just didn’t exist for you.

You stood in the corner with Felix, sighing as you finished your third shot of the evening. Forget it. Focus on the party right now, the one you’re supposed to supervise. 

Nodding your head to the beat, you looked over the crowd. "Damn, Changbin's a really good DJ. We saved so much money on that one..." You eyed a drunken party goer almost knocking over the vase on the table, wincing. 

"This place is going to be a fucking mess by tonight, and I'm sure at least one thing will end up broken. It’s good we managed to save some money." You sighed, and Felix nodded. "Amen to that. It’ll be a nightmare to clean.'' Felix sighed, running his eyes over the floor which was already covered with a thin layer of trash. 

Minho suddenly slid next to the two of you, swallowing the remnants of the clear liquid in his glass as he grabbed your arm. His words were already slurred, and he’d definitely had a lot more drinks than you.

"Don't worry, we'll all help clean up! What are we here for?”

“Hm, does that mean you guys will be staying here overnight?”

Your eyes widened slightly. No. Minho noticed your expression, humming thoughtfully before shaking his head.

“Can’t. My cats. They don’t like being alone for too long." He took your hand in his. "Y/n and I will be here early tomorrow morning to clean up." 

You looked up at him thankfully, and then back at Felix. "Yeah." 

He eyed the two of you, gaze flitting from one to the other. "Okay...sure.”

The music was way too loud, the floor and walls thrumming to the beat. The three of you relaxed against the wall, collectively watching as the man Hyunjin was dancing with whispered something in his ear, a cheeky smile gracing his face. The bedroom eyes were clear to see, even from here.

You frowned, narrowing your eyes at the sight. "Oh god, please tell me he's not going to-" 

Hyunjin smirked, taking the man's hand and leading him off in the opposite direction, through the small crowd. 

Your eyes widened. "I swear to god, if it’s my room they’re going to be fucking in, I’ll-" 

Felix giggled as he patted your back sympathetically, Minho holding you back and chuckling. "Hey, hey- it's ok. I’m sure they won’t go all the way here, they’ll probably just make out in the bathroom and then go back to his place. Don’t worry." 

You groaned and slumped in Minho’s hold. "I guess Hyunjin does know better." 

Felix hummed in agreement, chortling. He looked over at the plates on the table that were gradually emptying, and sighed.

"Guys, wait here for a bit. Gotta refill those." 

You nodded as Felix left for the kitchen, turning back to Minho. Sighing, you leaned against the wall as you looked around the room properly. 

"You and Chan did a good job on the decorations." 

"It was mostly him." Minho exhaled. You pressed your lips together, shrugging. 

The room was dimly lit in a purple glow thanks to the lamp in the corner, as well as the plenty of stars that were hung from the ceilings. It was beautiful, and you were a little miffed that none of the guests were sober enough to truly appreciate it.

Jisung danced over to the two of you suddenly, shaking his neck and laughing loudly. "Hey you two!!” He wiggled his body to the music, grinning. “Come on guys, stop being wallflowers and come partaayyyy!" 

You chuckled and shook your head. "I don't know about-"

Jisung pouted at you, coming really close to you and placing his hands on your shoulders. "Pleeeaaase? For the birthday boy?" he asked, his eyes big and puppy like, his lips formed into a pout. 

You stared him down, but just couldn't resist as a smile broke out on your face. "Ugh, fine." 

"Good girl!" Jisung exclaimed drunkenly as Minho smirked, chuckling to himself as Jisung took his hand as well as yours, leading the two of you into the crowd. 

Jeongin was on the floor as well, surprisingly dancing up a storm as he grinned at you. Ah well. If Jeongin could, why not you? You might as well take advantage of the buzzing in your veins.

You immediately started dancing, moving your body to the beat and trying your best to look graceful and sexy. However, the alcohol was messing with your system, and it was difficult for you to coordinate your moments right. 

Minho laughed fondly at your failed attempts. It was adorable, how you danced like a baby giraffe learning how to walk. 

"Hey." He grabbed both of your arms, making you look at him. You looked into his eyes, a questioning look in them. 

Minho inhaled. He almost forgot what he was going to say. Fuck that, he almost even forgot his own name. Did he have to feel like this every single time you so much as glanced at him?

"I'll help...this is how you dance." He moved behind you, pressing your back to his chest lightly. Your breathing turned shaky as he started guiding your movements carefully.

"See...like that. Got it?" 

You nodded. "I think so..." You continued dancing, now looking a lot more sensual and less like a baby animal.

You got the hang of it soon enough. Minho was about to let go of you, but you held onto him before he could. 

“Dance with mee.” You giggled, pouting up at him. He smiled down at you, inhaling. 

“Okay~”

***

Chan watched from across the room as Minho and you danced, pressed to each other. He downed yet another shot, hoping the stinging alcohol would help him forget his worries and pain, at least just for a bit. 

Fuck envy. It was definitely the worst of them all. Despite the anger he had towards you, all he wanted to do was march onto that dance floor and pull you away from Minho. He wanted to be the one dancing with you instead.

He was so...so unsatisfied. The alcohol melted away his inhibitions, and now his emotions were all over the place, even more so than before.

Unsatisfied. That was it. He wasn't able to be productive, wasn't doing anything with his life merely because of his unfinished business with you. 

He knew he couldn’t blame you. You’d definitely come to know about the bet, probably why you’d left him. Although why Minho? God, the shock of seeing you two together that day was still fresh.

You were more than just a bet to him, and he wished you knew that. More than a blue book. 

You were...you. You were the prettiest, sweetest, most talented girl he’d ever met. 

You’d changed since the last time he saw you. More cynical. Rough, defensive. He didn't blame you. That...that was his fault. The reason why you were like that.

Despite that, he could still see traces of the old you. The you he’d fallen in love with. It had not gone anywhere, really. It was still inside you...somewhere.

Chan was starting to feel profound regret at the way he’d treated you. Was it stupid of him to think you’d still want him, after learning what he’d done to you? 

Chan sat up as he watched Minho's hand slide around your stomach, pulling you closer to him. 

Fuck, he almost wanted to throw up. He felt the anger course back into him, anger directed at you, at Minho, at his parents, everything.

That was it. He couldn't watch this, sitting in the corner drinking booze like some sort of pathetic idiot. 

No, you had to get a taste of your own medicine. 

Chan noticed the blonde in the crowd who had been eyeing him for ages. She was pretty enough, her features soft and smooth. On top of that, she was wearing possibly the shortest red dress he'd ever seen. Her fake tan was excessive, her cleavage abundant. 

In other words, she was perfect. Perfect for him to use as he put his drunken plan into action.

Chan stood up, finishing off his drink and setting the glass down. He made his way into the crowd, sidling up to the blonde. 

She smiled welcomingly, blinking up at him through her eyelashes. He grinned, glancing to the side as he moved closer to her. 

Hm, you hadn't noticed yet. He had to step it up. 

Placing his hands on her waist, he started moving her to the beat. Slowly he brought her closer to Minho and you, hoping that you would just look over for a second-

FInally! You noticed! A triumphant smirk formed on his face.

He wanted you to know that he didn’t need you. He wanted you to feel at least a little bit of the envy he was feeling. Again, it was the small victories that counted.

***

Your eyes wandered back to Minho, your throat feeling constricted as you tried your best to avoid the sight of Chan and the girl.

It was painful. So fucking painful. 

You still haven’t moved on from him, as much as you would have liked to. Watching him dance with her was leaving a bad taste in your mouth, your throat going dry.

They were all over each other. Her hands were around his shoulders and his were on her waist, their lips dangerously close as the racy music filled the room. 

You knew you were in a similar position with Minho at the moment, though. It was the alcohol blurring the lines, or you wouldn't be caught in such a compromising position with him, really. 

Still. This was different...right?

Fuck it, you just wanted an excuse to be angry at him. 

Chan somehow pulled the girl in closer, his hands slowly creeping down her waist and towards her ass. You swallowed and looked back at Minho before those hands could find their destination. Minho was looking at you with his eyebrow raised, his hands a little tighter on you.

"Everything okay, hm?" 

"Kinda..."

"Are you sure?" 

When you didn’t reply, Minho followed your gaze to Chan and the blonde, and then back to you. He put two and two together, sighing deeply.

"You deserve better, Y/n. You've got to move on." Minho swallowed. 

Yes, you did deserve better. Better than Chan, and better than him. You deserved someone who didn't keep any secrets from you, someone who would never even think of manipulating you. 

He despised himself for what he'd done. The way he behaved. As every second passed, the guilt grew. But how could he tell you? How could he even stand the chance of losing you? 

It was his fault. Everything was his fault. 

You noticed the sudden devastated expression on his face, frowning and cupping his cheeks to make him look at you. 

"Minho...are you okay?" 

"Mhm." Minho mumbled. "Uh...I need to go to the bathroom." His face was white as he let go of you swiftly, stumbling away as quickly as he could and disappearing in the crowd. 

You watched as he left, puzzled. Fuck, now you were alone. Just great.

You groaned under your breath, feeling Chan's gaze on you. Turning around slightly, you tried to avoid him, but unfortunately your eyes had already moved of their own accord.

His lips were on her neck, her back turned to you. However, he was looking right at you, an intoxicated smirk creeping on his face as he ran his eyes over you, all alone in the middle of a dancing crowd.

Biting your lip, you clenched your fists. You turned around, wading through the sweaty, grinding bodies, and made your way to the kitchen. You needed some peace and quiet. 

You filled up a glass of water, lifting it to your lips. The cool liquid ran down your throat, making you sigh in relief. It was so refreshing, a sharp contrast to the alcohol you’d been consuming all night.

You turned around, ready to go back into the room and find Minho when you slammed into a firm chest, blocking your exit.

Ugh. This couldn't be happening. 

"Move." 

"Shh.'' Chan shook his head, placing a finger under your chin and forcing you to look up at him. He caged you against the counter with his other arm, his eyes glazed over.

"Look. We both know- hic- that you and I have incomplete business-" 

You groaned, pushing him away slightly. "You're drunk, Chan." 

"I am not." He glared at you, placing his hand over his annoyingly broad chest, an offended look on his face. "Just a little tipsy, that's all..." 

You cringed, looking past him at the crowd. Ugh, where was Minho? Where was Felix? 

"Look at me..." 

You looked back at Chan, inhaling sharply. "What do you want?" 

Chan looked taken aback at your tone. He recovered slowly, stepping back and humming.

"I want…” He closed his eyes, sighing. “I want to know why you hate me." He said, his tone surprisingly even considering the amount of alcohol he’d knocked back.

"I- are you seriously asking me that question right now?" You asked incredulously. Seriously, how fucking dense could he be? 

"I am, Y/n. answer me." His slurred voice turned into a growl as he leaned in close. 

"I was nothing but nice to you, when no one else was...I loved you, I-"

You scoffed, interrupting him. "Oh wow, thank you so much.” You said sarcastically. “I think you and I both know all that was fake. You were fake, Chan- it didn't mean anything to you-" 

Chan slammed his hand on the counter next to you, making you flinch. 

"But it did! It fucking meant everything to me. It was the only thing that ever meant anything, and I'm sorry it had to happen the way it did, sorry I lost that damn boo-" 

"A simple sorry is not going to make me forgive you." You shook your head. "Get off me, Chan." 

"I don't want you to forgive me! For fuck's sakes, I just-" He breathed in, his voice turning soft as he ran a hand through his hair, his breathing shaky. 

"I just want to know why you chose him over me. He- he was worse-" 

"Huh?" His words were too slurred for you to recognize. "Look, Chan-" 

"Shut up." Chan shook his head, leaning in further. For a second, he scanned your eyes with his.

Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was about to do this. 

Inhaling softly, he smashed his lips against yours. 

It took you by complete surprise. Your heart felt like it was exploding- like a million, elephant sized butterflies were threatening to burst out. Shit, his lips were so fucking soft.

Was this actually happening?

It was. Insistent, yet gentle...his lips were all you could focus on. It felt overwhelmingly real, nothing like a dream. 

Warm. He’s so warm...

You resisted him for all of half a second, before melting into the kiss. Your hands snaked around his neck as he placed his under your thighs, lifting you up onto the counter. You were quickly getting yourself lost in him, the feeling of his lips on yours so familiar and yet so new. 

"Can't- can't get enough of you, don't think I ever will-" He mumbled incoherently against your mouth, his grip on you tight as he pressed against you.

Your mind was completely blank. There was no pride or anger in your head anymore, just Chan Chan Chan. His plump lips, moving against yours so passionately and swallowing all your breaths. It was partly due to the alcohol, yes- but also all the tension. Years of wondering if this moment would happen again.

And now it was.

“Chan-” You whispered into the kiss, tears pricking at your eyes.

This was a bad idea, it really was- you shouldn't be kissing him back like this. You were supposed to be mad at him- you were supposed to prove to him that you'd moved on. That you wouldn't let anyone use you like that ever again.

And yet here you were, right back at square 1. 

"Please, please..." he whispered, nipping at your already swollen lips with fervor as he dove right back in, caressing your back. 

His heart was pounding, unable to believe you were actually in his arms. Shit, he knew this was such a terrible idea. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

It was wrong, he knew it. Even if he believed he loved you more than Minho ever could, it was still wrong. You weren't his, and he had to learn to accept that. 

But...he needed one last kiss. One last kiss to let him know if you were a lost cause, or if you truly were meant to be his. He wanted to know. And so he deepened the kiss further, making you let out a small squeak that only made him want you more.

"Guys?" 

Chan pulled away, dropping you to the floor quickly as soon as he heard Seungmin's voice. 

Seungmin eyed the two of you, suspicion covering his face. You swallowed, subtly pulling down your skirt as you blinked, trying to adjust to the light that flooded your eyes. “Seung-”

Shit. Was that Minho, slumped against Seungmin’s body? 

He looked between the two of you, sighing as he saw your eyes on Minho. Minho’s eyes were closed, his forehead covered in sweat and his body limp. You moved forward, quickly rushing over to his side. “What happened?”

"Found him in the bathroom. He threw up, was crying on the floor. He didn’t tell me why...I’m assuming he’s just way too drunk." 

Minho looked up slowly, blinking and staring at you as he registered your face. "Y/n...." he stretched out an arm towards you, whining.

Seungmin groaned, Minho's weight clearly too much for him to support. "Y/n, please take him home. He needs rest. I'll explain to Jisung."

You couldn't look at Chan as you nodded. You carefully trained your stare on Minho as you went over to Seungmin, letting him transfer the man to you. 

"Min...you okay?"

He shook his head, gasping as he tried to take oxygen in. His eyes travelled past you, landing on a very remorseful Chan, his face covered in embarrassment.

You bit your lip, stroking his hair. “I’ll get him to the car. Tell Felix we’re going home, okay?” 

Seungmin nodded, heading back into the living room to find Felix after shooting a last glance at Chan.

You pressed down the urge to look back at him. Don’t do it, Y/n. You need to go home and re-evaluate your decision-making. Fuck, why didn’t you push him away?

You ignored the delightful tingling of your lips as you helped Minho out, most of the partiers completely oblivious as you dragged him out to the car, with a lot of difficulty.

You opened the passenger door with one hand, helping Minho in. He looked like he was on the verge of falling asleep, his mouth slightly open as he let out a soft snore. Chuckling to yourself, you patted his head before getting into the driver’s seat. You weren’t drunk enough to warrant calling a taxi, so you might as well save some money.

Tonight was...eventful, to say the least. 

Minho cracked one eye open slowly, watching as you drove. His eyes were burning, his throat aching. He hated feeling like this, he really did. He wished he hadn’t gotten this drunk. The alcohol and his sudden overflow of emotions did not mix well, and had ultimately resulted in him bent over the toilet bowl.

There was only one way to get rid of this fucking guilt. Minho wasn’t quite sure yet if he could go through with it, though.

There was a lot of thinking to do.

***

Chan stood near the counter. He couldn’t bring himself to move, his eyes unfocused as he replayed the scenes over and over in his head.

He couldn’t believe he’d done that. The one thing he’d told himself not to do. Don’t fall for her again. You got your heart broken once, why are you so eager to let it happen once more? 

Regret. It was on all three minds, tonight. 

[queenmuzz]

Heat of the Moment

A Dante x Reader Valentine’s Day Special!

Your mom had always told everyone, in a disapproving tone, that you were too impulsive for your own good.  You darted into the road to get a runaway ball.  You bought that awesome looking jacket, without checking to see if it was on sale.  And now, because you were craving pizza, and didn’t want to shell out the four bucks extra for delivery, you were in a mighty fine pickle.

You decided that taking the deserted looking street at near midnight, just to shave a few minutes off your walk to Angelo’s Pizzeria was a perfectly splendid idea.  So splendid, you didn’t notice the shadowy figures following you, until you were grabbed from behind, and a cloth covered with some sort of chemical was placed over your screaming mouth.

So now, here you stood, or rather...laid, on cold grey stone, that seemed to leech all warmth away from your flesh.  It was still dark, but illuminated by torches, you seemed to be surrounded by columns of stone, like you were in some knock off kid sized version of Stonehenge.  You immediately attempted to get up, only to find to your irritation, your wrists and ankles were bound by industrial grade chains.   

“The offering has awoken!” called out a woman’s voice, and from the darkness, like the damn Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings, nine cloaked figures came out of the darkness.  You tried to make out their faces, but both their pitch black cloaks, and blood red masks hid everything about them.

“Brothers and Sisters, we are gathered here tonight to call forth from the very bones of the earth, a power far greater than any human can imagine.  The stars have aligned, the incense has been lit.  All now,” she motioned to the cultist beside her, who handed her a leatherbound book, “Is to speak the incantations, and complete the rituals.”

And then, with the help of her assistant, the group began to chant.  You had no idea of what was being spoken, but it sounded Latin. 

“Really... Latin?  Guys, there are a tonne of other languages you could use!  What happened to originality?!” you grumbled, but while you could feel their glares, none stopped their inane chants

Upon each pillar,  a letter lit up, one at a time.  You couldn’t recognize the script, but it looked like a five year old’s attempt to write Hebrew. For some reason, that irked you. This makes no sense.  Latin is an Indo-European language, and Hebrew is a totally different family! These idiots are mixing everything up!.

But the incantation seemed to do the trick, and the flames grew, and changed to a sickly green colour.  And now, all these cultists raised their arms in exultation 

“Lord of the Underworld, we present you this offering, a Virgin Offering, for you to consume!” The lead cultist chanted.

“Wait!” you blurted out, in a desperate attempt to avert your fate, “I’m not a virgin!  I’ve had sex before, dozens...no, hundreds of times!”

Her assistant leaned over you, their mask barely concealing his skepticism.

“Name one person you have laid with,” he tested.

“Well…” Your mind was blank, and so you went with the first thing that shot through your brain.

“Your mom, for starters.”

You could have slapped yourself for such a dumb comeback, had your wrists not being tied up, but you needn’t have worried about not getting slapped.  The cultist’s lips twisted into a snarl, and you felt white hot pain radiating from your cheek, and the taste of blood filling your mouth.  Even though it hurt like hell, one part of you was mentally high fiving at that comeback.  His hand raised up one more time, to give another strike, but the leader quickly grabbed his wrist.

“Calm yourself, brother… the offering must remain undamaged. Besides,” and you could swear you  heard a smirk in her voice, “It’s not their body that must be virginal, it’s the blood.”

Well shit, you thought, as you placed your burning cheek against the cool stone to relieve the pain.  

The ritual continued.  “We humble servants provide both the firstfruits of this offering to open the way.”  The woman took out a jet black dagger, and approached you with steady steps.  Would she cut out your heart, Temple of Doom style?  Rip out your entrails?  Slit your throat?  All you could hope was that it would be quick and painless.  

What you hadn’t expected was for her to grab one of your restrained hands and with surprisingly gentleness placed the edge of the obsidian blades against your palm.

As she dragged the razor sharp edge, a line of crimson bloomed, like a trail of bubbles.  It almost didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t help but get upset.  All this pomp and ceremony, and they were just giving you a cut that would irritate you for weeks...if you lived that long. Whatever happens, you said as the cultist began using your blood to paint the two largest stone pillars, in a perverse parody of the Passover ritual, I hope whatever these bastards are summoning crushes them.

“COME FORTH!” The whole group chanted in unison, “Taste the blood… DEVOUR THE FLESH!”

And without warning, the blood...YOUR blood, burst into flame, racing up the pillars as if gasoline had been pumping through your veins.  At the top, the flames connected and  formed a gateway...a hellgate.  And within it, an orb, an inferno expanded...and a roar that sounded nothing like any earthbound animal emanated.

And then, an explosion of heat and sulfur knocked down the stones, and the cultists, sending the leader flying back several feet.  Only you, chained to the granite altar, remained in place.

You squinted as the searing light dissipated.  Among the now dying flames stood, or hovered… a demonic sight.  You could swear you saw the air distort from the heat that seemed to generate from within his chest.  Four leathery wings splayed out, the inner skin swirling designs constantly shifting, almost hypnotising.  And the horns!  A good foot long that curved  and twisted, glowing like charred wood both above and around his face. A face that reminded what was in front of you.  A demon.  Teeth as long and sharp as paring knives, eyes glowing like the pits of hell.  As if Satan himself had come up from the depths.  And for all you knew… he probably had.

You heard the sound of crumpled paper.  “Oh man,” the demon rumbled, his voice distorted by the sound of the exhaust coming from between his teeth, “I was just getting to the good part…”

“Oh Great and Powerful Lord…”  the devil stared at the surrounding area, at the the cultists that had recovered began following their leader’s motions and bowed prostrate on the ground, and you still chained.  It was hard to make out his expression, but it seemed like...surprise?

 “We are your most humble servants,” the leader continued,  “All we ask...is a scrap of your power...a trifle for one such as you, as payment for summoning you..My Lord?”

The demon didn’t even spare a second glance as he strode past her, past the other shrouded forms, and made a beeline towards you.  This was it, you thought, time to come up with a witty parting remark. But of course, your impulsive nature wouldn’t cooperate right now.  At least the demon seemed to be the ‘fire and fury’ style, he would probably consume you quickly.

He towered over you, and even now, the stone, which had been ice cold the entire time, began to heat up beneath you...sweat, both from terror, and the inferno looming above you,  beaded on your forehead.  

“My Lord?” the assistant asked, “Is the offering suitable for your arrival?  They have a wicked tongue, but they are perfect for summoning.

“I think you got it all wrong buddy,” the demon turned his eyes on the unholy congregation, and strangely, a chill appeared in the air, “You guys didn’t summon me….” A razor claw extended out and pointed at you, “THEY did… and if they summoned me…” the cultists slowly became aware of what he was implying, the quicker ones started making a run for it, “YOU guys must be the offering!  Who’s volunteering first?”

The answer was nine sets of panicking feet trying to sprint out of the stone circle.  The demon glanced back at you, “You might want to cover your eyes for this, it’s gonna get a little messy,” and with the speed of a racing forest fire, he charged, blades of superheated air swirling around him.  

The scream of the lead cultist was enough for you to clench your eyes shut, and then followed by a multiple of cries of terror and death, as the coppery scent of blood, not your own this time, scented the air.

A few minutes later, there was nothing but silence, except the sound of boots on gravel.  You couldn’t help it, you took a peek.

Instead of the cultists, or the demon, there was just a guy, shaggy white haired, with a worn t-shirt that clung juuuuust right against his broad chest, and a smile on his face.  You looked around, trying to find either a surviving cultist, or the demon, but all you could see in the darkness were void black shapes, lying on the grounds, their robes moving slightly in the breeze.

“That can’t be comfortable, let’s get you out of there,” the man said, and without a hint of effort, he gently grasped your hands, and with the other, he gave a quick yank.  Immediately the sound of snapping metal, and to your amazement, your arms were free.  And if you had thought he had done a sleight of hand with those chains, the way he effortlessly ripped the chains around your ankles off immediately clued you in that this man was more than he seemed.

You rubbed your wrists as you slowly sat up, staring at him. “Who are...you?”

“Ah, yeah...forgot to introduce myself in the whole hubbub.  Cultists always ruining get togethers.”  He stuck out his hand, “Name’s Dante.”  And as you shook his hand, with your uninjured one, you noticed that for a brief moment,  his eyes momentarily glowed red, like embers.  Embers that had once been blazing coals.

He must have seen the flash of panic in your eyes, because he backed away, his hands raised in surrender. 

“Don’t worry!  I ain’t going to hurt you… yeah, I’m the demon those jackasses called for” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “but I’m not the ‘MUST RULE THE WORLD’ type, I usually am the one people call to get rid of what was being summoned, not actually BEING the ‘sommonee.’  Wait, is that the correct term?”  He paused for a moment to think it over, before he seemed to come back to the present. “Anyways, I was just relaxing in my office, reading a magazine, and then POOF, I’m in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people with horrible sense of fashion.  Speaking of my magazine...where did I put it?”

You saw the magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind, and picked it up.  A copy of ‘Half Cocked’, and on its cover, a buxom young brunette was getting a bit too friendly with a revolver,  alongside a well toned man wearing little more than a bandolier.

“Oh thanks!… that” he quickly snatched it out of your hands,  “I read it mainly for the articles…” he explained lamely, before hurriedly shoving it in his back pocket, as he looked you up and down. “Besides...I got a feeling I won’t need it much anymore…”  And in the flaming remnants of ritual, you swore you saw him turn a shade of pink...although that could just be the fire.

“Welp,”  He stretched, “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?  All that work made me famished.”

You had no idea where the hell you were, but you were still ravenously hungry.  Which reminded you how you got into this mess in the first place.

“I could go for some pizza or-”

You felt a blaze of warmth, and suddenly you felt your legs swept under you, and you looked up at Dante, now back to his demonic form carrying you bridal style.  But no longer did it strike fear in you, just a sense of awe...and admiration

“You truly know how to get to this demon’s heart,” he practically purred, and with a slight grunt, he leapt up and started flying towards the nearest collection of lights on the horizon.  “Pizza it is, then!”

Despite the remnant of chill from spending God knows how long on that stone, and the brisk breeze of the upper atmosphere blowing past you, you didn’t feel a little bit cold. It was like being held by a flying furnace.

“You know Dante….” you spoke, barely audible above the wind.

“Hm?”

“You’re pretty hot.”  Instantly, you realized what you had said, and would have preferred him to just drop you to your death at this very moment.

You heard him chuckle.

“Yeah, this form runs a bit warm….”

And even though he didn’t say it, you were almost certain he knew exactly what you meant.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 11 second part

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Absurdity) 

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Message from the Lan Clan

After dinner the Yunmeng bros go to talk to Jiang Fengmian in his study. They're quiet and respectful here, with no shoulder-shoving or arguing. This scene has such Brady Bunch energy, where Dad's Study is the Man Place where boys come to talk about Serious Things.

The boys tell Dad Jiang about the Yin Iron and he says yeah, I know. This is probably why he let them run off on their road trip without punishing them, but he could have, like, shared data with them so they might have actually achieved something related to the Yin Iron, rather than just wandering around the countryside bonding with Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang.

He shows them a letter from the Lans that basically says the Lan Clan is in the shit, and he tells them they've got to go to the Wen indoctrination because otherwise they will also be in the shit. 

He gives the boys a warning about the Yin Iron, which is that 

1. it can be refined and 

2. if you refine it carefully, it will not control you. 

Awesome tip, will definitely use, thanks pop.

(more behind the cut)

Jiang Cheng wants to argue about going to the Wen party, but Wei Wuxian vocally gets on board, not leaving any opportunity for whining. 

Wei Wuxian is only sucking up a little bit in this scene. He obviously has a lot of affection for Jiang Fengmian, but WWX doesn't play up to his favoritism nearly as much as he could. Compare, for example, how he leans into Yanli's preferential treatment of him.  

Fight Outside the Cold Cave

Over on the Gusu side of the country province township, the disciples have gathered outside the cold cave that previously none of them knew about, and Su She is freaking out. 

Most of the acting in The Untamed is naturalistic, but then there are occasional characters who are portrayed with a much more theatrical, broad style. Su She's villainy is not given a lot of layers; he's playing a type, more than a person.

Many of the villains in The Untamed are played this way, but not all. Wen Zhuliu, for example, is a genuinely horrifying bad guy while also conveying depth and ambivalence--despite having hardly any lines. And JGY is a masterpiece of a performance. For Su She, the directors or the actor have opted for "sniveling backstabber" as a type, which is unfortunate, because it robs his final scenes of emotional impact.

Lan Qiren tells the disciples to get to safety. He rushes forward, gamely getting his ass kicked by human cuisinart Wen Xu.  He's not as effective a warrior as either of his nephews but he's a brave S.O.B.

Hanguang Jun to the Rescue

Before things can go completely pear-shaped, Lan Wangji sails in with his guqin.

The Blue Steel technique of the Lan Clan

Like many gifted learners, Lan Wangji's musical abilities are more advanced than his social skills. Here he musically makes the ground literally explode, almost as if it had been specially rigged with incendiary charges.  

Lan Wangji is very pretty when he's worried, and his affection and concern for his uncle is touching. He's 100% not interested, as we will see, in Lan Qiren's whole "lets all die for the future of the Lan Clan while my nephews hide" agenda. He's on his own agenda of smiting the wicked and protecting the weak.

Notice how Su She is standing right next to Lan Qiren here, even holding his arm? The next thing that Lan Qiren says is to tell all the disciples to keep up as they run into the cave. Somehow Su She totally does not keep up, and he gets caught outside along with a bunch of other disciples.

Giving Up

Wen Xu and his men kill most of the other caught disciples, and then threaten Su She, asking him how to get into the cave. In fear for his life, he tells them. Not cool, Su She, but possibly forgivable. Although when you voluntarily join a, you know, battle cult, physical courage is kind of an important qualifier.

But this shit here...

They didn't fucking ask about the books, douchebag.  

Su She was there in Lan Qiren's house when the two heads of his clan knelt to each other, each claiming the right to be the one to stay behind and die. And he heard Lan Qiren say that the ancient books are the foundation of the clan and that only if LXC and the books survive, will the clan continue. By giving up both men, and pointing out the book situation, Su She has totally earned his expulsion. 

Lan Wangji Takes a Stand

Lan Wangji decides, for the first but not last time, to openly defy his uncle...and it's got nothing to do with Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji is a hero, who follows the dictates of his conscience. His conscience is extremely filial and extremely orthodox, but he’s got a growing open-minded streak.  This is going to cause a whole lot of conflicts for him over the next few years.

This time, however, he manages to skate out from under the whole disobedient, unfilial thing by citing Lan Yi's directive, which means Lan Qiren has to accept it because she's his predecessor and elder relative (She is probably not a literal ancestor, since she spent her life in a cave putting fucking headbands on fucking rabbits which probably didn’t leave time for having babies).

This is a pretty extraordinary moment for Lan Wangji and for Lan Qiren, because Lan Wangji just asserted his own form of authority to do the exact opposite of what Lan Qiren wanted, and Lan Qiren just sucked it up and let him.

It's also very different from western stories involving a holy McGuffin such as the Yin Iron. Lan Wangji's solution of "fuck it, just let the bad guys have it, it's not worth so many people dying for" is refreshing and surprising to me, a westerner raised on The One Ring, the Grail, the Death Star Plans, etc.

Lan Wangji steps out of the cave and uses a sword blast to save Su She, the ungrateful bastard, from getting stabbed by Wen Xu. Then he surrenders, and they break his leg to slow him down. This does not actually incapacitate him, because he is Lan Fucking Wangji, already a BAMF at like 17 years old. When they whack his leg, his chunk of Yin Iron falls out onto the ground.

That thing was in a magic bag of holding before. So...it just falls out when you whack him? If they whack him again will his guqin fall on the ground? What about candy?

Archery Practice at Lotus Pier

Meanwhile, back at Lotus Pier, the brothers are enjoying some quality time together before they head to the hostage-taking indoctrination.

Wei Wuxian is such a great cultivator that he can hit a distant target even when he jerks his bow upwards as he releases the arrow.

Jiang Cheng seems fairly pleased, and proud of his brother. He's competitive and fundamentally grumpy but not, at least here, a sore loser.

Club Ruohan

We go over to Da Club, where Wen Ruohan is yelling at Wen Qing for letting Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian go. He names them both, so they're becoming more and more known to their enemies. Which is not a good thing.

He menaces her with the zombie mosh crew, having them kill a dude in front of her and then saying her baby brother will be next in the circle of zombies if she tries any more stunts. Neither of them can imagine how much zombie ass her baby brother is going to kick, later in his (un)life.

Side note: What is up with WRH’s hair? Why bother pulling your hair up over your ears if you're going to leave an enormous curtain of it over your face? It's because he knows there's a wind machine next to his throne, isn’t it?

Leaving Lotus Pier

Jiang Cheng: when I ran off earlier in the year on my road trip you didn't pack a goddamn thing.

Wen Indoctrination

Is it even possible to stand next to this much active volcanic shit and not, uh, die? I live in the tornado part of the US so I don't know much about lava (yet. 2020 still has 2 months to go). But it seems like it would be hard to breathe the air. Also they appear to build houses on lava piles, which seems imprudent.  I say that even as someone who plays The Elder Scrolls Online, which is full of lava towns and nonsense like “ash farming.”

Nie Huaisang is adorable at all times, but particularly here, when he's so happy to see his friend who *didn't* fuck his gege and then abandon him without an explanation. 

Nie Huaisang: I'm so glad I can count on Wei-Xiong to be consistent and not vanish for months, or become a traumatized shell of his former self, or, like, horribly die.

Jin Zixuan isn't quite as happy to see Wei Wuxian.

Wen Chao enjoys the sound of his own voice way too much, and is malevolent and boring. On the plus side, he likes to stand with his hand stuck out in the air, which is fun for your resident photoshopper.

Nie Huaisang is so miserable every time he's holding a sword, or blade, or whichever we're supposed to call this. He's got his fan tucked into his belt, which is sweet. He is happy to give up his sword but don't you dare try to take his fan.

Meanwhile Wei Wuxian is worried about Lan Wangji, and Jiang Cheng isn't.

Lan Wangji shows up under guard, and takes his position at the front of the line, but without any extra disciples. The Wens let him change into snowy white robes after breaking his leg which will go well with arterial blood spray. He's focused and is determined not to interact with Wei Wuxian in this public context.

When I was little, I would sit near my best friend at church on Sunday, but not be allowed to talk to her until church was over, and it was exactly like this. She was good at churching and I was hyper and hated church. We are still best friends and these things are still true.

This interaction is like a thumbnail for the whole dynamic of these three boys: Lan Wangji outwardly ignoring Wei Wuxian while having many interior feelings about him; Wei Wuxian demanding attention and creating a bit of a scene, due to his very genuine caring; Jiang Cheng telling him to leave that boy alone for fuck's sake.

Lan Wangji: Stop trying to talk to me Wei Ying, I’m busy composing a song in my head about the two of us and our love for each other. 

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #144: Quetzalcoatl

Today on Fate and Phantasms we’re making the Ruler of the West, Lord of the Day and the Winds, and the White Tezcatlipoca, Quetzalcoatl! She’s a Battle Master Fighter to get her lucha techniques, an Ascendant Dragon Monk to throw in muy caliente jumps and drops, and a Circle of the Land Druid for some extra bonuses and her faithful companion.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here, yes!

Next up: I’ll sleep when I’m dead!

Race and Background

As a divine demiservant, you certainly fit the mold of an Aasimar, but given the fact that you’re half bacteria, you’re probably closer to a Scourge Aasimar. This gives you +1 Strength and +2 Charisma, as well as Darkvision, Celestial Resistance to necrotic and radiant damage, Healing Hands to help your loyal followers, and the Light cantrip.

Raising your own personal army out of anyone brave (or stupid) enough to face you makes you the Goddess Alliance Legionnaire. This gives you proficiency with Athletics and Intimidation, as well as an expanded spell list we’ll get into when it comes up.

Ability Scores

If you’re planning on flipping Ivan the Terrible on his back, mammoth and all, you’ve got to invest in Strength. Lucha’s also just as much about how you hit people as it is about how hard you hit them, so make Dexterity number 2. After that is Wisdom, yes! You are a great judge of character! (Character is found by fighting people, right?) Your Constitution isn’t particularly amazing, but you typically got your opponents in a crater somewhere before they can hit you. Sadly we couldn’t make your Charisma as high as I’d like, but your racial bonus helps a bit. Finally, dump Intelligence. Like a lot of these builds, it’s just the least bad ability to dump. Sorry Quetz.

Class Levels

1. Fighter 1: Starting in the fighter class gets you proficiency in Strength and Constitution saves, as well as two fighter skills. Acrobatics will make your mid-air maneuvers more amazing, and Animal Handling will help you control your pets. And Jaguar Warrior.

You also get the Unarmed Fighting Style, giving your unarmed strikes a serious power boost. Now they deal 1d6 damage, or 1d8 if both your hands are available.

You can also take a little siesta once per short rest thanks to Second Wind, healing yourself as a bonus action.

2. Monk 1: Bouncing over to monk real quick for a second, just here to pick up Unarmored Defense, giving you an AC of 10 + your dexterity modifier + your wisdom modifier as long as you’re not wearing armor. You also can’t wear a shield which is unfortunate, but trust me, it’ll be worth it. 

Your Martial Arts also lets you use your dexterity when attacking with a monk weapon or your fists. You can also make an unarmed attack as a bonus action after attacking with your main action, and all your monk attacks can do at least a d4 of damage. That last one doesn’t really apply, given the circumstances, but it’ll get bigger over time. Again not to a point that matters, but it tries, dammit.

3. Fighter 2: Back in fighter for a bit to grab an Action Surge, letting you slap an extra action onto your turn once per short rest. Now you can make your enemies tap out in round one! You also gain a Necrotic Shroud, transforming yourself for 1 minute. When you transform, creatures nearby have to make a charisma save (dc 8+proficiency+charisma mod) or be frightened of you for a round. Plenty of people would say this should charm them instead. They aren’t wrong, but we work with what we’ve got.

Also, once per your turn you can add extra necrotic damage to an attack, equal to your level. You can pull out your scary face once per long rest.

4. Fighter 3: As a Battle Master, you become a Student of War, giving you proficiency with one artisan’s tool. Statues are big in Babylon, or at least those are most of the things that survive, so I’d look into that. 

You also learn Combat Superiority, giving you three maneuvers that you can use with superiority dice, four d8s that recharge on short rests. This gives you a Commanding Presence, adding the die to an intimidation, performance, or persuasion check so you can become a star in the ring. You also gain a Pushing Attack to launch rudos out of the ring, and a Tripping Attack to land them on their culo before going in for a pin. The latter two also add the die to their damage roll.

5. Fighter 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to grab the Grappler feat, giving you advantage on attacks against grappled creatures and the ability to pin them with another grapple check, restraining both them and you. Not super useful, but it is very flavorful.

6. Fighter 5: Fifth level fighters get an Extra Attack each attack action. It’s not that flashy, but it is useful.

7. Fighter 6: Your last fighter level is another ASI, bumping up your Dexterity for a higher AC and the ability to use dexterity or strength for equally powerful hits.

8. Monk 2: Second level monks get Ki, which will be very useful later, but right now lets you attack twice, dash/disengage, or dodge as a bonus action. You get a number of ki per short rest equal to your monk level. 

Your Unarmored Movement also lets you move just a bit faster. It’s handy now, indispensable later. Trust us. 

Finally, you can spend a bit of time with your Dedicated Weapon to make any non-two-handed weapon a monk weapon. I’d say a macuahuitl is a bit too big to count as a short-sword.

9. Monk 3: As a ninth level character you can finally take your monk subclass, the Ascendant Dragon. This lets you change the damage type of your unarmed attacks to fire damage (and others, but c’mon), you can read, write, and speak Draconic, and you can re-roll a failed intimidation or persuasion check, turning it into a success once per long rest.

The Breath of the Dragon also lets you replace an attack action attack with fire (or other energy type) breath, dealing two martial arts dice worth of damage to creatures that fail a dexterity save within a 20′ cone or 30′ line if they fail a dexterity save (dc 8+wisdom mod+proficiency). You can use this a number of times per long rest equal to your proficiency bonus for free, or by spending 1 ki point.

Like all monks, you can also Deflect Missiles as a reaction, possibly sending them back if you reduce the damage to zero.

10. Monk 4: Use this next ASI to bump up Dexterity again, bringing up your attack power and AC. You also learn how to Slow Fall as a reaction, preventing an amount of falling damage equal to five times your monk level. Trust me, this is good.

11. Monk 5: Fifth level monks get Stunning Strikes, letting you spend ki points to force constitution saves on your opponents, stunning them for a round if they fail. You get nothing else. Certainly not any “extra attacks”, where did you even get a silly idea like that?

12. Monk 6: Sixth level monks get Ki-Empowered Strikes, making your unarmed attacks magical for overcoming damage. You also get the big selling point of the dragon monk, Wings Unfurled. When you use Step of the Wind to dash or disengage as a bonus action, you also get wings until the end of the turn, giving you a flying speed equal to your walking speed. This means you can now grapple someone with your action and pull them forty feet into the air for one hell of a piledriver.

You can use this a number of times per long rest equal to your proficiency bonus, or by spending an extra ki point when using step of the wind.

13. Druid 1: We’ve had enough of beating the crap out of people, let’s make you a proper rider! First level druids learn Druidic. It’s a language. You also know how to cast and prepare Spells based on your Wisdom modifier. I’ll be honest, it’s not good. 

You can cast Resistance and Gust as your cantrips, and you also get first level spells. Thanks to being a legionnaire, you also learn Fire Bolt and Sacred Flame for some muy caliente casting, and Guiding Bolt and Heroism so you can properly lead an army. This is also usually where I’d explain the kinds of spells you might want to prepare, but we’re literally only here for one third level spell, so let’s get cracking.

14. Druid 2: Joining the Circle of the Land gets you the Guidance cantrip so you can do everything just a bit better. Your Natural Recovery also lets you regain spell slots of combined level equal to half your druid level as a short rest once per long rest. 

You also get Wild Shape, which isn’t in-character, and Wild Companion, which you can use a combined total of two times between short rests. The latter lets you cast Find Familiar without spending any money. The creature also only lasts a number of hours equal to half your druid level.

15. Druid 3: Third level druids get second level spells, including your circle spells Spier Climb and Spike Growth. Neither of those are particularly in-character, but you also get the more military-minded spells Aid and Scorching Ray from your background.

16. Druid 4: Fourth level druids get a Wild Shape Improvement if you’re into that sort of thing, an ASI to bump up your Wisdom so your spells are stronger, and the Produce Flame cantrip, because you couldn’t do that plenty already.

17. Druid 5: Fifth level druids get third level spells, including your freebies: Lightning Bolt, Meld into Stone, Beacon of Hope, and Blinding Smite. This is also the level you can finally prepare what we came here for in the first place, Conjure Animals. This spell takes an action to summon a beast of CR 2 or lower, which hey, look at the stats for a Quetzalcoatlus, it fits the bill exactly.

18. Monk 7: Okay, we got the silliness out of our system. Getting back to monk, you get Evasion, turning your failed dexterity saves into successes and your successes into ignoring the fireball entirely. Your Stillness of Mind also lets you spend an action to end one effect charming or frightening you. You are the one doing the frightening around here.

19. Monk 8: Use your last ASI to become Tough, getting an extra 38 HP now, and two more the next time you level up.

20. Monk 9: Your ultimate level gives you an Unarmored Movement Improvement, letting you run up walls and over water, as long as you don’t end your turn there.

Pros:

Flight is always a great addition to any build, even a limited amount like in here. Having an effective 90 feet of flight gives you great mobility, and it gives you a decent piledriver to boot! Grapple something with your action, fly up using your bonus action, and drop them for a guaranteed 4d6 damage!

Spells like Spike Growth, your own pins, and your maneuvers mean you can control enemy movement as well. Fly/push enemies off cliffs, box them in with spikes, or pin them to the ground so they can’t cast any spells.

Taking so many classes gives you great flexibility, with healing and fighting spells from druid, as well as combat skills from monk and fighter.

Cons:

Your flight only lasts one turn, and if you use all your movement getting someone up into the air that means you’ll probably take as much damage as they do when you fall. Obviously being a monk helps, but then you’re eating all your reactions just to pile drive people into the ground. Totally worth it, but something you’ll have to work around.

Since we have to focus so much on your strength and dexterity, your wisdom lags a bit, making your spells and AC a bit weaker than I’d like. 

We spent five levels in Druid for just one spell. Unless you really want that quetzalcoatlus, I’d suggest just putting that into fighter and/or monk for consistency. 

[beskarberry]

Ghosts of the River Styx

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 8

(The Mandalorian x f!reader) (+18)

“The last embers of a fire were still smouldering under a protective lean-to, but the rest of the area had been thrown apart, with tents and bodies littering the trampled grounds, cold as the grave in the torrential downpour. The taste of bile stung at the back of your throat when you saw the size of the tiny corpses, are those… younglings?”

<-Previous Next->

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 16.4k

Content warnings: SEXY THINGS: More fluff than a bag of marshmallows, food play, power play, orgasm denial, fan favorites fingering/handjobs/p in v/ praise kink/ cream pies etc. UNSEXY THINGS: Bounty hunters doing their thing, blood n guts, near-death experiences, mentions of death, PTSD/ mentions of trauma.

A/N: I put entirely too much into this chapter, its a lot to put it plainly. Lot of backstory for reader, some good (read: terrible) scary moments between the two of them, but overall just some good old fashioned love-conquers-all for this pair of sappy badasses.

 The rain that was coming down on the forest moon of Endor was like nothing you had ever seen, drenching sheets of water flooding from the sky so hard and fast that it felt like an entire ocean had been turned over above you. You were warm and dry on the flight deck of the Razor Crest, watching the downpour through the rounded transparisteel window over a ration tin, though you knew you wouldn’t be comfortable for much longer. Your choice of stars had sent you to the wooded satellite in search of smugglers, and you were a little more excited than you probably should have been at the bounty puck’s instructions to leave no survivors; though you wondered how you would find anything in this weather.

 In your arms the foundling watched the riverettes of water streaming down the window, pointing with his little claws at the fat drops racing by between stealing bites of your dinner. His cosmic eyes blinked up at you expectantly whenever lightning crackled above, and his ears went straight up at the roar of thunder, making you laugh. “What was that, booger? Scary noise?” He chirruped and wiggled closer to your chest, torn between trying to hide from the storm and wanting to watch the light show. You rubbed his ears affectionately, trying to console the little beastie when someone else’s hand came around to join yours. Din pat his son’s fuzzy green head, leaning heavily on your shoulder while he did so, pressing kisses to the side of your face. “Well, what do you think?” you asked your partner, “Are we gonna have to put some rubber boots on and get going?”

 “Unfortunately yes. This rain’s not going to stop, and if we don’t move soon we might lose the trail.” The green terror was lifted from your lap, “You ready to go outside, womp rat?” The baby started to gibber a response, but the flash of lightning outside made him curl in a little ball against his fathers cuirass, frightened of the inevitable boom of thunder. “Sorry kid, you’re going to have to get used to that while we’re here.” Your armored companion offered you his hand to help you from your seat, and your trio got to work on preparing for a few days in the rain.

 Everything that you owned had come from Tatooine, where water had to be collected from dew in underground pits instead of falling from the sky, and nothing you had was waterproof. Your muckboots were at least partially hydrophobic, ensuring that the only thing on you that might be dry after this excursion would be your socks. Mando’s equipment wasn’t any more helpful, he had a large oilskin cloak and a couple of tarps that could be fashioned into a waterproof tent, but nothing else. You tucked the tarps into your bag while Mando tied the cloak around the child’s pram, deciding that if anyone was going be to warm and dry, it should be the foundling. In his many lockers there was a collection of cold weather clothing, heavy fur parkas and long johns, but the rain that was coming down would turn all that into dead weight, and you forwent warmth for dexterity. At the armory you picked out a good selection of blades rather than loading yourself down with extra blasters, which could get finicky in the wet weather, and steel would never let you down, rain or shine.

 Din fussed lovingly with your gear while you tried to dress yourself with the miss-matched collection of blades, lingering over each holster and sheath as if you couldn’t see clear through him. He loved watching you arm yourself to the teeth in his collection of armaments, and you knew as much as he enjoyed watching you put them on, he would have even more fun getting them off of you later. When he caught you snickering at his antics, he pulled you to him by the straps that criss-crossed your body, unable to keep his wandering hands to himself. He drew you close, allowing you to push his helmet up so he could kiss you. His kisses were hungry, as though you hadn’t spent every jump through hyperspace in each other's company on the way to your next target.

  The Mandalorian had spent so long alone, only having the company of other iron-bound warriors and the odd reluctant ally for kinship, but never knowing the feel of another’s skin against his own until you came into his life and knocked down all his walls. The feel of you against him was intoxicating, and he happily let himself get caught up in your affections every chance he got. Your lips were so soft against his, matched only by the softness of your body, and he praised your beauty and strength until your cheeks burned from his lust-laden devotion.        

 He wanted to be a good husband to you, to earn the right to be by your side every day as if that wasn’t what you already knew he would be. Not a single inch of you was spared his affections, kisses that whispered ‘cyare’  whenever his lips reached your ears and warm palms on your hips that rocked yours against his whenever you were in his arms. Though of all his touches, the one that made your heart sing the sweetest was whenever you were just near enough to each other that he could sneak his fingers in between your own, locking your hands together with a gentle squeeze.

 A new hunt was before you now, and you stole one more kiss from his lovely face before the beskar fell back down. The access ramp of the old ship fell open slowly, and the change in pressure sucked cold spray into the cabin, making a chill run through you, of course it has to be cold rain. You pulled your mask down over your eyes and tightened your cloak around yourself before marching out into the storm. The rainfall was blinding, and you jacked with your mask’s settings to get some kind of sight back. Thermal was useless, everything coming back as purples and greens in the chill. Night vision almost worked well enough, and you turned to glance back at your comrades, watching the eerie green figure sauntering up behind you with a large, jellyfish shaped blob floating along behind. Water coursed over his beskar and down his many plates, pooling in the indents of his pauldrons and the ridges of his chest piece; giving him a ghastly, wraith-like appearance. You were thankful that the foundling was up off the ground, you, on the other hand, were sinking into the mud with each laboured step. You yelled to your beloved spectre, but your voice was whisked away by the falling rain, making your heart sink with the realization that you could be cut off from him and the child if you lost visual on your crew.

 The forests of Endor were renowned throughout the galaxy, not for their hurricaine-like rainstorms, but for the colossal trees that grew like living skyscrapers, clustered together so densely that they would have blot out the sun if it was shining. You couldn’t tell if it was day or night under the sprawling branches, between their thick canopies and the harrowing rain, it was darker than a sarlacc’s backside on the forest floor. The sound of water roaring through the tree branches and the sound of your own breathing echoing in your audio processors made the world somehow seem sprawling and also very, very crowded. Your lungs were already becoming strained with the chore of plowing through the mud and climbing over the serpentine roots of the gargantuan foliage, the strain of your muscles becoming your only source of heat.

 Your crew plodded along through the rain and mud, following the slow, lazy blink of the fob on Mando’s belt; and you shivered with the cold that was sinking into your bones. The weight of your drenched clothing was starting to become a burden, and you pulled your cloak around to attempt to wring the water from it, but it was quickly resaturated as the rain bore down on you and soaked you through. You craved the warmth of conversation, or even the heat of your mate’s body, but the storm drowned out any sound you would have made. As if he could feel your loneliness, Din reached for your hand, giving it a reassuring, soggy squeeze that gave you just enough of an ember of warmth to keep you going.

 You hiked for hours, and it wasn’t until you were shaking from the cold damp that you noticed the speed of the fobs blinker, it was quicker; indicating that you were getting close. After another hour or so through the sleeting downpour, the flashes of the fob were speeding as fast as your racing heart, the thrill of the hunt spurring you through the timberlands. Between the mammoth trunks you caught something in your visor, a lighter color against the dark grey-greens of the trees, and you flipped your senors back to thermal detection. Ahead, flicking faintly between the now blue and purple of the ice cold foliage, was a tiny spec of red. Fire. You pulled a blade from your belt and knocked the pommel against your beskar, the high pitched ringing getting Mando’s attention for you to signal what you saw, pointing at your eyes then at the target. He signaled back to you, indicating that you would flank the location on either side, and you nodded before vanishing alone into the dark.

 The rough-barked skyscrapers provided almost too much coverage as you approached the scene, making it difficult to get a visual on the campsite. Between each living obelisk, you slinked your way closer, catching snippets of the area between the wooden walls, trying to piece the scene together in your mind; and an uneasy feeling began to creep it’s way under the cold of your skin. Something was wrong, though you couldn’t be sure why until you were almost on top of the ruined campsite. The last embers of a fire were still smouldering under a protective lean-to, but the rest of the area had been thrown apart, with tents and bodies littering the trampled grounds, cold as the grave in the torrential downpour. The taste of bile stung at the back of your throat when you saw the size of the tiny corpses, are those… younglings?  

 You drew your knives on reflex like a nexu puffs its barbs at the approaching body coming through the mist, sheathing them quickly when you realized it was your Mandalorian. He bent down to inspect the bodies in the mud, turning a child-sized corpse over and revealing its wounds. Up close you you could tell it wasn’t human, it looked like some kind of two-legged bear, wearing a little cloth hood around its furry head. You’d never seen anything like it before, it had a snubbed face and little gapped teeth, and in life it was probably pretty cute. The other bodies nearby all had the same gaping blast holes in their chest, and whatever had made these kills, it had to be big.  

The remains of the campfire cast uneasy shadows around the already oppressive darkness, and in the faded light you could just barely make out the edges of tracks in the mud. Large, rectangular indents sank deep in the waterlogged soil, and your guts flopped grossly when you realized what their source had to be: Imp Walker. Both of your visors locked on the widely spaced tracks, and even through the pouring rain you could see him clench his fists. You started to say something when movement caught the corner of your eye through the sheets of rain, and you snapped on where you thought the threat might be; but there was nothing there. You cycled your sensors, trying to pick anything up on your visor, but the kaleidoscope told you nothing of value; maybe you were imagining things.

 Rustling from the nearby bushes confirmed your sanity, and you lept back towards your crewmates with blades drawn, ready to defend them from the incoming assailants. Your oathsworn pushed you behind him on instinct, doing his human shield routine while you tried to do yours, and if you weren’t in immediate danger the situation would have been hilarious. You raised your vibros, sending fans of spray arching off of your pulsating blades, ready to tackle whatever tried to hurt your foundling or your husband. The surge of adrenaline warmed your insides and stoked your fire until it was burning at your eyes; but the squat creature that wobbled out from the bushes had you almost dropping your weapons with how fucking cute it was. What the actual fuck is that?  

 A living version of the casualties around you emerged from the underbrush wearing an adorable little coat and brandishing the tiniest spear ever, and when it was close enough to you it only came up to your waist. Its scruffy, soggy face made some kind of muffled roar noise while it pointed the stone spearhead at you, but it only made the damn thing look more cute instead of intimidating, and you lowered your blades back to their sheaths to address the beastie. Several more of the delightfully stubby creatures materialized from the sleeting shadows, and as cuddly-looking as they were, you felt sweat break out under your mask with the realization that they had you surrounded.

 You heard something behind you, a rattling and thumping that got your attention, and you turned to see Mando doing something with his hands.      Sign language?    Your BSL was rusty, but you were able to pick up a few words including ‘hunters’ and ‘danger’. The toddler-sized teddy bear threw its furry arms around quickly, throwing water everywhere in its response. ‘Bad men’, ‘friends’, ‘stolen’. Stolen? You glanced over at the ruins of the campsite again, and between the waterlogged bodies you caught the glint of chains sinking in the mud, putting the puzzle together in your mind. Your bounty puck didn’t specify what your target was smuggling, but by the urgent sounds of the ursine creature, you guessed that they had been smuggling live animals, and whatever had decimated the camp had taken their ill-begotten quarries along with them.

 Mando signed at you, but you only shrugged at his flurried hands. He went slower, and you picked the word ‘help’ out of all of his gestures. You nodded, and he signed back at the bears with the same phrase. The mysterious collection of soggy beasts melded back into the darkness of the forest; disappearing from view and leaving you with your packmate. Alone again, you pointed at the machine tracks, signaling your intent to follow them to their source. Mando nodded, taking a moment to check on the foundling that hovered along at his side before joining you at the trail. Cycling your visor again, you looked for the strange bear people you had just met, but your sensors picked nothing up in the pouring rain, where’d they go?  

 Like a pair of mist-wraiths you stalked your prey, following the deep indents of the machine that had ruined the smaller trees and shrubs that it had passed through, leaving a fearsome wake of broken branches and fallen leaves. Torrential rain filled the indents like so many small pools, threatening to wash even the deepest set tracks away, and you hurried to follow them before they were lost to the muck.

 You felt the tremors of lumbering, mechanized steps through the soles of your boots long before you heard the Walker, the thunder of heavy equipment eventually making its way over the sound of the storm. You ran side by side with your Mandalorian through the mud, gliding like ghosts as you zeroed in on the prize, only splitting up to flank the repurposed Walker and its entourage when the blink of the bounty fob went nearly solid. Target acquired.  

  Under the towering robotic biped, a collection of boarish looking poachers trudged along beneath the behemoth, dragging loaded cages behind them on hoverskiffs while they kept pace with the towering tank. Its crisp titanium white had been stained and striped over by years out in the weather, and its rusty joints creaked with every stride. You weren’t sure if you were pleased or      pissed     that the collection of raiders accompanying the hulking machination were very-much not Imps, but that begged the question: where the hell did they find that thing?    

  Even through the drenching rain you could see more of the bear people in the tiny cages, clinging to the bars of their confines; the sad sight making your heart drop and your blood boil. The collection of raiders would be the easy part, but the AT-ST could blast you to smithereens if it caught you in its sights, so it would need to be taken out first; or at least distracted. The best way to do that was from inside, and the only way in was through the eye sockets of the durasteel beast.

 You kept pace with the poachers, slinking silently through the shadows while you formulated a plan. The rain had put a serious damper on your communication abilities, and you wished you had been able to talk with Din      verbally    before taking on such a challenge. A slew of poorly fabricated plans sped through your mind before something plinked off of your mask, like a pebble hitting a window, and you took your eyes off the rag-tag raiders to squint upwards into the pouring rain. Another nut hit you square on your armored nose, and you flipped your sensor settings until a gaggle of warm splotches appeared in the trees above you. There they are! Scurrying through the sprawling branches, the wildlings were traversing bridges and platforms built high in the trees, running over top of you with ease compared to your laboured muck trudging.

 A rope ladder was thrown to you, and you clambered up the narrowly spaced rungs until you were high up on the platform with the wooly creatures, who signed furiously at you, making you shrug. Sorry, I don’t speak munchkin.The smugglers were getting away from you, and you sped along the rickety wooden parapets, pushing the bears aside to get closer. At this height you were above eye level with the Walker, and you scanned ahead along the platforms to where a bridge was going over the iron giant’s path. If you could get to the bridge before the Walker passed underneath, you would be able to get the jump on the monstrosity.

 You flew to make your target, shaking water down with each step that blended right into the still-pouring rain and hid your approach. Down below across the muddy path you caught the glint of beskar between the dark foliage, a quick flash, but unmistakable. Through the wooded underbrush he ghosted like quicksilver, and though he was no stranger to you, you felt a sickening curdle run up your spine at the reminder of his ferocity. The armored bounty hunter was a living weapon, and you felt your heart skip a beat at the sight of him in his natural element. These poor bastards don’t stand a chance.     The blood in your veins burned like acid when you saw him draw his rifle, signaling the start of the attack. Visor contact was made between you and your oathsworn, nodding in succession: Three… two… go!  

 The Mandalorian sprang from the darkness like a phantom, torrents of water streaming off of his silver as he clocked the nearest man with the butt of his rifle. You flew into action high above the vengeful poltergeist, launching yourself off of the bridge and onto the slippery roof of the Walker. With the security detail distracted by vicious beskar below, you were able to swing into the eyehole of the Walker unchallenged, howling like a banshee while you drew your blades. The vibros sang their wicked song as you sliced with abandon, carving a bloody path through the interior of the leviathan. Vorpal blades went snicker-snack through the guts of your first target, then cried steel tears when you blocked a swinging vibro-axe, kicking your mud soaked boots at the shins of your assailant until they keeled over, revealing the soft spot of their neck to your iron bite.

  Twang! Twang twang! Blaster shots ricocheted off your armored face, bouncing around the cabin as you pounced on the last man, knocking his blaster away with one singing blade and sinking into his chest with the other. Surrounded by your kills, you grabbed at the steering controls, veering the durasteel behemoth through the infantrymen still on the ground; cackling like a madwoman at the crunch under your metal feet. Below you, Mando dived to avoid your enormous steps, rolling away into the safety of the underbrush where he wouldn’t get crushed by your bloodthirsty dance. You bore down on the steering trigger, firing the main turret in a wild spray that did more damage to the surrounding woods than to the ants crawling at your feet.

 The Walker responded poorly to you hauling on the controls, teetering around on its big chicken legs like a drunk until the hydraulic pinions became crossed and you were riding the thing to the ground; narrowly avoiding the prisoner skiff as you fell. You were thrown against the wall when the legged tank hit the mud, along with the bloodsoaked bodies of your victims, smothering you with their dead weight. The fallen assault vehicle tilted sideways as it slid face first into a waterlogged ditch, and the cabin began to fill with swampy, silt-laden water. Kicking and thrashing at the corpses, you struggled to get free as water and muck began to seep into the cabin, threatening to drown you in a grave filled with your own kills.

 Outside in the storm, the remaining poachers met a quick death between Mando’s armored fists and the end of his blaster, soaking the already oversaturated soil with their blood. The beskar fiend claimed the last of the smuggler’s souls before he bound over to the fallen Walker that had you trapped inside, and the thud thud thud of his boots kicking at the stubborn hatch bar resonated in the cabin until he loosened it enough to turn the release wheel. Rain drenched your face as the door opened high above your head, just out of reach of the yellow gloves that were grasping for you. You tried to jump, to climb up the overturned floor to get closer, even launching off of the pile of corpses didn’t put you close enough for your companion’s reach. If you waited long enough, you might be able to swim to the door, if the mud didn’t suck you under first.

-fwip!- SNAP! The familiar grapple shot out from his vambrace and tangled around your outstretched arm, hauling you up painfully by your wrist until you were close enough for him to grab, and you let him scoop you out of the sinking tank and into the heavy rain. You both slipped down the wet durasteel and over the twisted legs of the beast until you were up on the muddy path, slogging through the dredged up sediment as best you could until you were at the loaded hoversled. Aboard, the frantic bear creatures whooped and hollered, looking like a pack of excited mops with their rain soaked fur.

 Your vibroblades screeched against the bars of the cage, making your ears ring, and you stuffed the singing daggers back to your belt. Drawing your blaster, you waved the little creature away from the cage door, shooting at the lock until it blew apart. Behind you, Mando did the same, signing at the sentient animal to cover their face before he blasted the confines apart. All the captives were freed in short order, and you helped them down into the mud one at a time. They scuttled away from you into the open arms of their tribemates that were waiting for them beneath the trees.

 Soft, soggy bear paws patted your knees when you reached the welcoming party, and you guessed that was their way of saying ‘thank you’. At your side, your armored companion was signing quickly at the first bear you had met, who signed rapidly back at him between garbled roars. Through your rainstreaked visor you saw him beckon to you, and you cupped your hands around your ears in an attempt to hear him yelling through the unrelenting downpour.

 “Go...camp...shelter!?” You nodded enthusiastically at the few words you caught, the idea of getting out of the ice cold rain was enough for you to agree to, and you ran back over to the battlefield to where you had squashed the poachers beneath the boots of the iron giant. There was no way you would get the ruined corpses into carbonite, so you would have to consign yourself to bringing back a trophy in lieu of bodies to collect your credits with. With a fury you carved away at a busted skull until you were able to pull one of the boarish tusks; hoping that it would have enough of a biosig to register on a code reader. When you rose back up from your butchery, you caught the black hole glare of the Mandalorian’s visor, watching you intently over the heads of the wildings that surrounded him. The two of you must make such a sight, you thought to yourself, an armored ghost and a bloodsoaked banshee.  

  You sauntered through the mud up to your man, letting the rain that fell wash the gore off your gloves. He pulled the fob from his belt, the light flashing rapidly when he touched it to the bloody tusk until it went solid, indicating a successful chain code link. That’ll work! You could tell by the tilt of his helmet that he had watched you take your trophy, and knowing how much he loved your ferocity you guessed he was flashing you those sharp canines of his behind the beskar. Taking a clean blade from your belt, you dragged the tip of the knife up the plate of his chest until you were tapping it against the edge of his helmet, a gentle reminder that you didn’t fuck around. The show of prowess had him grabbing at your waist, groping at your waterlogged sides til you were pressing your body against his frigid armor.

  The pat pat pat of paws on your leg again startled you back to reality, and you cocked your head down at the wildlings that were trying to get you to follow them back to camp. Your riduur pulled away from you to fuss with his buttons, summoning the cloaked jellyfish to float out from behind the trees, and you dashed over to check on the state of your foundling. Inside the hoverpram he sat like a little sultan, still warm and dry, though he was covering his ears to try and save himself from the roar of the rain. Poor little guy! That’s gotta be so loud in there! He squeeked as though he could read your mind, tugging on his sail-like ears with the saddest face you’d ever seen.

 The bear people guided your party through the inky woods, seemingly uninhibited by the slithering roots underfoot as they bound through the dark. Something thundered over the sound of the storm, a low, continuous rumble that got louder as you followed the warm splotches in your thermal sights. You soon came to a furiously raging river, its banks swollen almost to the breaking point with the floodwaters, and the white-capped rapids nipped at the underside of a narrow bridge that ran over top. The short, woolly bipeds scuttled over the swaying bridge, and you waited for the lightweight creatures to cross the sprawling length before you took your first step.

 The soaked boards squeaked underfoot with a threatening creak, making adrenaline surge coldly through your veins at the prospect of being lost to the raging waters below. You could tell that Mando had drawn the same conclusion, and ushered you ahead of him, the foundlings crib floating to your side. You grabbed at the baby buggy, opting to push the floating pram ahead of yourself, determined to make sure the foundling made it to the other side even if you  didn’t.

 You hopped back and forth, trying to sow some courage into your legs without thinking about the raging waters you were about to challenge, locking eyes with the wildings far across from you so you wouldn’t look down. Don’t look down, whatever you do, don’t look down. You took a deep breath, letting your lungs fill with the icy spray of the galewinds before legging it at full speed over the swinging bridge.

 Only when the sound of mud squelched underfoot did you stop, throwing your arms up in a silent victory cheer at your success. Far behind you the faint grey smear of your husband barely contrasted around the grey smears falling from the sky, but the glint of his visor reflected back at you as he started over the bridge. Even over the churning waves you heard the creaking of the boards with his heavily armored steps, and you willed him to hurry up in your mind. The black hole slowly got closer, inching its way to you, then the -crack! of wood breaking and the glint of his helmet falling below eye level made your guts turn over with fear.

  Fuck! He’s broken through! You tore back over the soggy bridge, deaf to the protesting whines of the wet suspensions until you were to him. He was stuck to his chest, the wide ridge of his breastplate having caught on the wood that still supported him while he clawed at the slippery boards. You dove to hook your arms under his shoulders, digging your heels into the flimsy planks in an attempt to lift him from the splintered hole. He latched onto you, trying his best to help with your efforts until you got him up high enough that he was able to get a knee out of the breach, and promptly broke the board under your combined weight, dropping you both into the cascades below.

 Everything went dark as the river swallowed you alive, and the cold of the icy depths made your flesh burn, but not as much as your lungs were burning as you fought for air. You broke the surface, only to be pulled right back down into the inky blackness of the raging river that was carrying you away. Something coiled around your waist, and in your drowning panic you flailed and punched at what you imagined was a serpent, but the muffled clang of ironsong rang wet and ugly in your flooded half-bucket.

  Din! The weight of his armor was pulling him down, and though he was probably at a higher risk of drowning than you were, he was still trying to keep you above the water while he thrashed beside you. Locked together, you spiraled through the swells, the pair of you being thrown through the darkness of the raging river like toy boats in a hurricane, the ravenous waves promising to drown you if you weren’t dashed to pieces by the rapids themselves.

 Sunk below the waves you heard the hiss of the imaginary snake in your ear, and you were jerked against the flow of the tide by something halting your course downstream. Something wrapped around your waist, tight and constricting and threatening to slice you in half like a wire as it coiled under your ribs. You couldn’t see anything out of your visor, and you squinted through the rain streaked glass and crashing waves at the silvery line going up from below the swells into the branches overhead.

 Sputtering and gasping for air, you clawed at the line, wrapping your arms around the armored body that was still under the waves. You coiled around your partner, desperate to keep Din’s body against yours while you waited for the line to pull you to safety, thrashing against the waves like a fish on a hook. The rapids smashed into you again and again until you groped blindly for the winching mechanism on Din’s arm; wondering why he hadn’t hoisted you out of the water yet. His grip on your waist was starting to loosen, held to you only by the grapple’s snare, and you smashed at the button panel of his wrist until the line went taut and you were both pulled against the raging tides toward the branches overhead.

 Hanging over the roaring waters by the line tangled around your body, you could see the brown smear where the river bank should be. Tightening your guts, you started to swing the pair of you over the water like an oversized pendulum until you were launched at the muddy shores, crashing unceremoniously into the muck. Nearly coughing up a lung, you gasped for air on the sodden ground, shaking the water from yourself in a futile act of defiance against the raging storm. Beside you, the dark form of your partner was motionless, and you rolled him over until he was face up. Water drained slowly from the underside of his flooded helmet, and your blood ran cold with the realization that there was nowhere else for it to go except into his lungs.

 “Fucking bucket!” You screamed against the raging gale, grabbing at your waterlogged cloak to throw over the two of you, trying to protect not only his body but also his creed as you dug your fingers under the edge of the armor. You hunted for the latches that kept the damn thing locked to his face until you were able to yank the fucker off; sending a flood of entirely-too-much water gushing out over your hands. It was dark as the void underneath the impromptu cover, and you flipped through your visor options around til you got to thermal, and choked at the cold violet hue of your husband’s face.

  “Oh no you fucking don’t!” Rising to your knees, you locked your palms together and pumped against where his sternum was hidden by his cuirass. “Get… back… here… you… fuckin… ass… hole!” You roared between chest compressions, only stopping your fervent tempo to toss your mask off and pinch his nose closed; tilting his head back to breathe what you hoped was life-giving air into his mouth. “Don’t… make… me… come… in… there… after… you!” You breathed into him again, fighting the urge to break down from the terror of losing him. “You’ve… gotta… take… care… of… me!” Still you pumped, the salt of tears on your lips as you pressed your mouth to his frigid face. “Take… care… of… our… FOUNDLING!”  

  “HuuahAHCH!! ACH! *cough! coUGH COUGH!*” Brackish water spewed violently from his mouth between broken gasps for air, his arms flailing until his hands tangled in the soaked fabric of your clothes. He sputtered in your arms, desperate to fill his lungs with oxygen while you rolled him over on his side, letting the water flow out of him more freely.

 “Din! Oh fuck thank the motherfucking Maker! You’re alright! Just breathe!      Breathe!” Cradling his head in your frozen fingers, you tried to soothe him by brushing the water from his hair, but maybe it was to comfort yourself even more. He heaved in your hands, coughing up lungfuls of water until he could start putting words together.  

 “Cy- *cough!* Cyare?” You nodded, but in the dark of the cloak he probably couldn’t see you, so you bent to kiss his chilled face, hoping that you could usher some warmth into his veins.

 “I’m here! I’m here, my love, It’s ok. You’re ok!”

 “I’m...I’m so- *cough!* I’m so sorry…”

 “You should be, you bigass fuckin’ rustbucket.” You were unable to refrain from giving him hell, trying to use your venomous tongue to hide the tears that choked your words and threatened to leave you weeping at his side. “You swore an oath to me, mister, and you think that going for a little swim is going to get you out of it? I don’t think so.” His heavy head rested on your knee, and you could feel tremors coursing through his body in quick bursts. You rocked with him between your hands, pressing more kisses to his damp face and stroking his wet curls. “You’re stuck with me, bucket boy, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

 “F-foundling? Where?”

  Shit, good question. The last you had seen the child’s pram was when you’d booked it over the rickety bridge, and you had left it with the other alien toddlers before rushing to save your man. “I can only handle one of you boys at a time, we’ll find him as soon as I know you’re good.” The hands that were clinging to you started to push against your chest, and you grabbed him before he could haul himself up. “Oh no you don’t. Not til I say so, damnit!”

“Gotta… g-gotta get...get the child.” He squirmed weakly against you, a far cry from the muscle and sinew you knew he was made out of. “Our...our baby...”

 “He’s probably fine, those bear thingies are probably running for their lives from that little terror, he can handle himself. Believe me, I know.” Din had gotten one arm under himself and was trying to prop himself up, and you wrapped your arms around him to guide him into a seated position, letting him lean heavily against you. “Take it slow. We’ll go get him soon enough, but I gotta make sure you’re good first, alright?” You felt the cloak blanket wiggle with his nod, and you kissed his face in the dark to thank him for following your wishes.

 Over the sound of the pelting rain you caught the slosh of many quick footsteps, followed by chittering and growling noises, and you grabbed at your belt for a dagger to defend yourself with; but Din pushed at your hands until you lowered the humming blade. With strengthless arms he pulled his helmet back over his head, allowing you to lift the shelter’s edge high enough to see the big, curious eyes of one of the bear people staring at you. More appeared behind the first, and many damp paws were reaching into your space, trying to help the two of you up out of the mud.

  You breathed a mighty sigh of relief when a gaggle of them came into view, tugging the floating pram with them. The foundling had managed to push the edge of the oilskin back over the top of his crib, and though he was now sitting in his own private swimming pool, he looked overjoyed to be back with his buir. Since he was already drenched, you lifted him from the bucket and into both your arms, and the tiny beastie chirped away between you.

 “Booger! You’re alright! See, Mando? Told ya so.” Your husband only groaned, pushing his helmet against your unarmored forehead as best he could. You let the foundling out of your arms and into Din’s just long enough so that you could reach down and pull your own beskar out of the muck, giving it a couple of good shakes before setting the dirty thing back on your face. The grit of the riverbank soil felt horrible on your skin, but like hell you were going near that raging torrent to clean it off. With all three of you soaked to the core and covered in mud, you pressed your shoulder up underneath Din’s arm, demanding that he lean his weight on you while you followed the munchkins back to their camp.

 Through the howling rain you heard a new sound, a low, deep blare like a klaxon, but the notes changed in between pitches; and you realized what you were hearing was some kind of music. Firelight peeked out from under the edge of a structure that was in no way naturally formed, the darkness of rusted durasteel absorbing any light that tried to illuminate the surrounding dark. When you got closer you felt your chest clench at the sight: it wasn’t a building, it was a ship, left abandoned to sink into the muck in one of the few clearings between the trees. The star cruiser was now awash with tangled overgrowth, saplings and ferns growing around it as it was slowly being claimed by the forest of Endor.

 The bear people led you into the wreckage, and you breathed a mighty sigh of relief when you were finally out of the rain. Handmade structures littered the interior, built from wood and pelts that were cobbled together into a miniature city inhabited by the cutest creatures the galaxy had to offer; next to your foundling, of course.

 In the center of a ruined mess hall, a massive bonfire had been lit, and the wildlings were spinning and cheering around the pyre to the sound of bone horns; celebrating the return of their captured kin. The folkish music echoed joyously in the open space until it was reverberating in your very core, shaking the icicles from your bones. The rescued creatures ran circles around you, splashing you with their wet fur as they cheered your party on. If you had the energy, you would have laughed at the even tinier wildling cubs that scurried to you, how could these things get any cuter? You set the foundling down, ushering him to go make friends while you dealt with your meat popsicle.

 When you were close enough to the roaring flame, you dropped the two of you onto the loam covered floor, falling on your waterlogged backsides beside the blessed heat. Your stuffed sinuses finally drained, and you could smell something wonderful cooking nearby. You waved at the attending munchkins that had brought you here, rubbing your belly in an attempt to communicate your wishes. Thankfully, they understood your bogus sign language, and a bowl of steaming hot something-or-other was pushed into your outstretched hands. The spicy broth cooked you from the inside out, and you felt your cheeks go rosey at the delightful burn that trickled down your throat. After taking another generous chug of the delicious soup, you turned to Din, trying to push the bowl into his feeble hands; but their tremors threatened to spill it on himself instead of into his mouth.

 “Tilt your helmet back.”

 “I’m fine.”

 “This is not up for debate, tilt your fucking helmet back or I’ll do it for you.” You rolled onto your knees until you were nearly on top of him, blocking any eyes that might catch a glimpse of the secrets that only your clan was privileged to. His hands fumbled at the side of his beskar, and you took it upon yourself to lift it for him, carefully tilting the drink to his lips. He coughed at the peppery tang of it, and you waited patiently until he nodded for more, holding on to the undersides of your hands with his own. When he drank what you determined was his fill, you set the steaming mug at your side and let the armor fall back into place. His iron body was still shaking, the heat of the fireside not strong enough to penetrate his many layers. “Sweetheart, your armor’s gonna have to come off, you gotta get warm.”

 “No.”

 “No? If I don’t get you out of there you’re going to get sick, is that what you want? To get sick?”

 He sighed, letting his heavy bucket fall forward. “No...”

“Good.” You began the arduous labour of stripping him down, shooing away the wildlings that kept trying to help with their soggy bear paws. Diligently you peeled the layers off, disheartened at the water that gushed out from each lifted plate, fuck, no wonder he was so heavy. Beskar at your side, you started on the flack jacket, making sure that it was kept the closest of all his gear with its precious secrets. “Arms up.” Suspenders fell at his side, and you pulled the sopping wet undershirt off of him, tossing it aside with a splat and leaving him sitting in his trousers. His skin was clammy and damp, cold as ice under your fingers that sent fresh chills to your spine. All you had to offer was one of the tarps that were in your bag as coverage, and you threw the crinkly thing over him and crawled underneath to start working off your own soaked layers next to your oathsworn.

 Getting your clothing off was almost more difficult than getting Din’s peeled away, the drenched fabric making it nearly impossible to lift your tired arms. Tangled in the heavy garb, you struggled to pull yourself free when you felt chilly fingers digging in after you, the zesty broth having worked some strength back into the mighty warrior's muscles. You smiled at his glossy visor when you were out of your tunic, wishing you could see his lovely eyes instead, but you were happy enough that he was moving again. You kissed at his armored face, then started to collect the scattered clothing to find somewhere to hang them up to dry. The wildlings gawked at you, but you guessed that they were more concerned with your change in appearance than your actual partial nudity.

 With your gear drying by the fire, you sat back down next to where your man was sipping at the mug on his own, and you squished yourself up against his side, trying to foster some body heat between you. He rumbled at your touch, knocking you almost too hard against the side of your unarmored noggin with his helmet. With the tarp wrapped around the two of you like a blanket, you watched the fuzzy creatures that tropsed past you, giggling at their antics. A couple of the bear people came up to you with baskets of fruit in their paws, pushing them toward you with more trilling growls that you could almost imagine as words.

 You tapped your fingers to the bottom of your chin, then gestured outwards without turning your palm, signing ‘thank you’  to your furry hosts. They chittered at you before going to fetch more baskets of goodies for you to take until you were surrounded by stacks of produce that you would never be able to finish; and you guessed that something had been lost in translation. Laughing, you tried to get them to take some of it back, but they growled at you and bared their teeth, so you sat like a pair of forest deities as the pile of offerings stacked around you grew higher.

 Eventually one of them carried the foundling back to you, the stout creature struggling to hold your tubby buddy, followed by a parade of bear cubs that almost had you in fits. “Heya booger, did you make some friends?” He squeaked and wiggled in the wildlings arms until it let him go, and he tottered toward you on his stubby legs, tripping over the many baskets until you had him in your lap. “There’s my guy. Look, papa’s here too.”

 Battle-scarred arms took the child from you, coiling around the alien baby like a living castle, rocking him softly side to side while he rubbed his child’s ears. The heartwarming moment was somewhat interrupted by a snub nosed cub trying to crawl into your lap, looking up at you expectantly with their wondrous eyes and making grabby paws at you for uppies. You tutted at the creature, “If y’all don’t stop being so cute, we’re going to end up adopting you as well.” Two more clambered onto you, sitting on your knees while they started digging through the many baskets at your sides, and you were more than happy to share with them. Sneaking one of the baskets up over their furry heads, you nudged at Din’s side, trying to offer some to him and his son. He turned the foundling around, and the little devil gleefully dug into the harvest, stuffing his itty bitty mouth full.

 “Mando? You want some?” He shook his head, though he should have learned by now you weren’t actually asking. “You gotta eat, get your strength back.” After some silence, he nodded, and started to dig through the bucket of fruit. Between trying to pick out the berries, holding the foundling, and lifting his helmet up to eat, he was nearly dumping everything all at once, and you swatted at his fumbling hands. “Fucksake, let me help you.” Grabbing a handful, you picked a small berry out and pushed it up under the edge of his helmet; knowing that there was just enough space between the metal and the man for a finger or two.

 He flinched at the intrusion, but you felt the fruit pass over his covered lips and away, and you  waited for him to swallow it before fishing for another. You gently guided another berry up into the cold dark of his armor, brushing past his scruffy chin as you withdrew. "More?" You asked, and he nodded softly. You plucked another treat from the basket, but when you pressed the sweet up to his hidden mouth you jumped at the feel of his tongue flickering over your fingertips, the smooth muscle sending tendrils of heat up your arms. You cocked him a sideways glare, and the tilt of his visor flashed with the reflection of the fire.

 "Can I have another, please?" His voice was groggy with the dampness still settled in his lungs, but the gentleness of his request was too sweet to deny. You went for a juicier fruit this time, and again he lapped at your fingers, a soft hum breezing out of his modulator as he cleaned the nectar from your hand. Once more you fed him, doing your damnedest to keep a straight face when he sucked your digits into his hot mouth, nipping at your tips just enough to make your insides clench around nothing. Stars above.

 "Thank you, mesh'la." He purred when he released you, and you tried to distract yourself by wiping the berry juice from the foundling's face, ignoring the heat pooling in your belly that wasn't from the soup. The baby cooed at you from his father’s knee, then pointed at the cubs that were still clustered around you, gibbering excitedly. Din lifted the baby up in front of himself so that the child would be at eye level with his visor. “What’s that, womp rat? You- *cough!* You want to go see your friends? Alright, but mind your manners.” He set the baby down so that he could scurry away, and the collection of tiny wildlings went galumphing after him. With just the two of you under the tarp now, you watched as your half-naked companion reached for another one of the baskets, this one loaded full of bright purple plums. “Would you like one, cyare?”  

 He selected one with a soft, colorful rind, holding it up for you to taste, and you leaned forward to accept his offering. The succulent treat was pushed to your lips, and you sank your teeth into its flesh, trying, and failing, to keep the juice from running down your chin. The tilted visor watched you with its fiery gaze, and you imagined his soulful eyes tracking the droplets on your face. The pad of his thumb caressed at your mouth, and you let him push the stray juice to your lips, licking at him playfully. Again he brought the fruit up for you to take another bite, and you sucked at the pinkish flesh almost too noisily to be anything other than flirtatious. Din held the plum to you for as long as it took for you to finish it, careful not to let you swallow the stone at its center. When the fruit was finished, he tossed the pit aside and ran his thumbs over your lips with a gentle touch.

 “I want another one.” You said, kissing at his hands, and immediately another plum materialized in front of you. You bit into the fruit, not even bothering to stop the juice that ran down your face and onto your bare breasts, amazed that you were so brazenly flirting with each other in the dead center of the wildling community; but the creatures paid you no mind, busy with their own grooming and eating to care about the strange human activities. Din pulled the plum away from you before you could finish eating it, instead opting to tear off a small chunk. You held your mouth open, sticking your tongue out for him to place the fruit on, but the treat wasn’t the only thing that made its way past your lips. The pad of his thumb brushed over the edges of your teeth while you balanced the piece in your mouth, cupping your chin with his fingers so he could circle your lips. You swallowed the fruit, lapping at his thumb while you sucked it down, and the low rumble he made was heavenly. “Do you wanna try one?”

 “I don’t think that will fit under my helmet, cyare.”  

 “Well then,” You ran your hands over his arms until you were dragging your fingers down his chest, relieved to feel that his skin was warm to the touch. Phew. “Why don’t we go somewhere that you can take that thing off, hmm?” He glanced around the sprawling room, and though there were plenty of wildling homes, none of them would be big enough for a human, let alone two. Noticing the way he scoped the area, you rose to your feet, pulling the edge of the tarp closer around his shoulders. “You stay here, I’ll go find us somewhere private, ok?” He nodded, catching your hand before you got too far away and pulling your knuckles to tap against his brow. I love you, too.  

 You pulled a stick from the blaze to light your way, leaving your visor by the fire to dry, and delved into the darker reaches of the fallen craft. Starships were once your home, long before the Razor Crest there were the Corellian-built cruisers that you had grown up on, and this one was no different. Though its walls were creeping with vines and its power source had long died out, the layout was familiar enough for you to make your way through the ruined hold. Skirting around the many ursine dwellings, you walked down a long corridor, poking your head through the half-open doors.

     Med bay, galley, Walker bay -oh- officers quarters, captains quarters…  

 Towards the bow of the ship was a closed door, and you knew from your history that this had to be the bridge. The other rooms had been messed pretty badly by the bear people, but it looked to you like they hadn’t been able to get through the blast shielding of the flight deck. You set your torch upright and got to work on the panel in the corner, even without power you could get the bulkhead open if you could pop the locking mechanism manually.

 When you were just a scamp, freshly plucked from Corellia's sickly shores, you had tried to make yourself useful by getting into small spaces; though more often than not it just got you into trouble. Bilgerat they had called you, a common nickname for stowaways. Vent and duct work was where you’d cut your teeth, but as you grew and your fingers became more agile you were given tasks around the rest of the ship, gruntwork to keep a teenager busy; but those small odds and ends made you a jack of all trades and an asset to any crew. It wasn’t until your wagging tongue and listless singing caught the ears of your superiors were you given a real job. A title. A name.

Taking a blade from your belt, you carefully unscrewed the durasteel cover and started picking away at the gunk that had built up over time. You could hear the chief of engineering nagging at you in the back of your head, ‘Ya can’t shout a door open, no matter ‘ow much ya point that vile tongue a’yers at it, ya gots’ta use somethin’ sharp.’ Let’s see… move this here, get my blade right under… there! The CLANG of the safety lock echoed ominously down the empty hallway, and you held your breath as you waited for the curious beasties to come investigate.

 No soft footsteps echoed back to you, so you started prying the door open, fighting against the overgrowth until you had a hole big enough to slip through. Holding the fading firelight aloft, you checked your surroundings,and were pleasantly surprised at the state of the wide, triangular space. The years had been kinder to it than the rest of the ship, and though it was cluttered with dried leaves it could still almost be considered clean. You held the firelight aloft as you padded carefully through the once-proud space, the sound your footsteps silent against the roar of the storm.

 Above you the rain pelted against a sloping transparisteel window, though you could hear the weather raging away more than you could actually see it. Something besides the cold air gave you chills, and you squinted into the dark, almost chucking your torch when you caught the glint of white armor. Still seated in the captain's chair was the captain himself, and though his withered husk was no longer a threat, you still fished a blade from your thigh holsters before you got closer. The tarnished white of his duraplast and the flash of his lipless grin made your flesh crawl, and the urge to light him up like a papery firework became almost overwhelming.

 The day had been soaked more thoroughly with death than it had been from rain, but the decaying corpse made you more uneasy than every kill you had made out in the storm. Inching closer, you caught the glint of steel in his teeth, the remnants of a shock capsule still wedged between his molars. You coward, you took the easy way out, didn’t you? How could you expect anything less from the Empire, lily-livered skinks, the lot of them. Enough of you! I’m the captain now! You lifted the human piñata out of his grave, marching to the trash chute and dumping the husk down into the dark. Bye bye, fucko.  

 Alone, truly alone now without the grinning skull of the forgotten captain, you paced the room, checking for more surprises. Dust had settled on almost every surface between the vines that creeped their way over the many consoles and monitors where once entire platoons of engineers and navigators had guided the mighty ship through the stars. As dark as it was, you closed your eyes, imagining the hustle and bustle of crews long past, the bark of captain's orders and the salty rebuke of their officers echoing in your memories. Your legs moved on without you, eyes open or closed mattered not as you wandered through the bridge on muscle memory until you were at the communication officers post.

     How long has it been, you wondered, since you had sat in that chair? A decade? Maybe more? The chair in question was garbage, but the microphone was still jutting out of the dashboard, and you brushed your fingers against the indents of the receiver. If only there was power in this old girl, you could really make those wildings think you were a god.  

 It was only by sheer arrogance that you had been given that chair, your ability to snake your tongue into the mind of any who opposed you was unparalleled. You weren’t qualified by any stretch of the word, but your superior officers had become ensorcelled by your siren songs, and you had been seated at the microphone to relay the bridge’s orders to the other units by day and unleash your starborn melodies by night. Though your captain’s word was law, your voice was what brought your crew solace when they would rest their weary heads. You hummed to yourself in the dark, unable to resist the call of days long gone.

“In a tower of flame as my starship fell, I was there. I know not where they laid my bones, it could be anywhere. But when fire and smoke had faded, the darkness left my sight, And I found my soul in a spaceship's hold, riding home on a trail of light.”  

 Your starsong resonated high and mighty through the bridge, oh those      acoustics! You loved the Iron Mistress that you’d been wed to on the arm of a Mandalorian, but the Crest’s cramped quarters couldn’t compare to the amphitheater that was a cruiser's bridge.

“And my wings are made of tungsten, my flesh of glass and steel. I am the pride of stars gone by for the power that I wield. Once upon a lifetime, I died a pioneer; Now I sing within a spaceship's heart. Does anybody hear?”  

 As if the sky itself heard your pleas, the storm roared and flashed wickedly outside the window, but lost in your reverie the thunderous boom sounded gunfire.

 Repressed memories exploded to life behind your eyes, and clear as day you saw it all come rushing back: the swath of stars above a glowing world, the streaks of cannon shots blasting at your eyes, colliding with the star cruiser’s shielding in vicious cerulean ripples of St Elmo’s fire. Your ship wouldn’t last much longer under the assault, the order had to be given.

  Fire.  

  Forecanons erupted to life, snuffing out the assailants like a reaper's scythe, carving a fiery path through the fray. The strength of the canons rocked your ship to its core, the thud thud thud of ionized plasma decimating the scrambled jets in your line of sight. Another hailing of shots peppered overhead, flickering across the transparisteel and drawing your attention to the radiant green halo that was coming to life on the surface of the mechanical moon your ship had been charged to escort. The corona of hellfire blazed and shot a beam of decimation into the world below.

 And then it was gone.

 Nothing but dust remained of the planet below, wafting away on the solar winds like the seeds of a dandelion. Around you your crewmates cheered, but all you had heard that day was the sound of screams.  

 You never set foot on a star cruiser again, and though you doubted the rebel alliance would take you in, the Guild asked no questions; and the next years of your life were spent hunting down the remnants of the Empire that had raised you.

 “Permission to come aboard, captain?”

 The modulated words behind you tore you violently from your recollections of despair, but you were thankful to be rescued from your tumultuous spiral. In the doorway that you had pried open stood the man you had chosen to walk the stars with, leaning against the sabotaged bulkhead. He had thrown his flack jacket over his shoulders, and under one arm was a basket full of fabric and beskar. A light on the side of his helmet shone like a sunbeam through the dark room, rivaling the torch you had since forgotten.

 “Heya bucket boy, you feeling better?” You asked, happy to leave your nightmares behind on the rusted dashboard as you wandered back to him.

 He nodded. “Thanks to you, mesh’la. I thought I heard your voice and I got worried. I’m glad to see you’re ok.”

 “You’re glad I’m ok? You almost fucking died!” He stiffened at the reminder, shirking away from you.

 “I’m so sorr-”

 “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, rustbucket.” You crossed the last few steps to him and grabbed his helmet by the recess of its cheeks, forcing him to dip his head to yours as you crashed your brow against his, maybe a little too hard for your unarmored skull; but you were determined to connect with him in the most sacred way he knew. The loaded basket under his arm hit the ground with a thwump when he dropped it, clutching at the sides of your jaw to hold you to him.

 “Cyare… please, I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

 “Shush, I don’t want your apology. I want you.” You met his visor, trying not to squint while you pawed at the highbeam on the side of his armor until it was out of your eyes. “I want you here with me, alive and well, and I got you now, so it’s all good, alright?”

 The pads of his thumbs brushed lovingly at your cheeks as he pushed you gently away so that he could see you better. “No, it’s      not    alright. It’s not… I can’t…” Fuck, he was so bad at stringing words together in Basic. Mando’a was so much easier, so much less clunky. He could parse entire lines of poetry to you in the words of the ruined world he had left behind, compare your beauty to the light of the stars, your radiance to the glow of many moons. Mando’a could be so much deeper than Basic, too. He wasn’t lying when he’d told you      cyare was like cyar'ika but with more meaning. It carried the weight of the galaxy with it, and the first time he had spoken it to you was when he had accepted your silent, albeit accidental proposal. Cyare means love, love like no other. A love worth dying for.  

 You couldn’t hear him over the galewinds that threatened to blow you into the river as you flew over the bridge to his rescue, but in that harrowing moment he had been telling you to go back, to leave him, let him go. He would sacrifice himself a hundred times over for you or for the foundling, but the thought of      you dying for him made him as sick as it had when you had laid bleeding out on the cot aboard the Crest. That’s not how this is supposed to work, damnit! I’m supposed to be the one protecting her and the foundling. I’m supposed to be the one who risks their life. Gladly he would have laid down his life, as long as the last thing that he knew was of your safety, but then you had dashed to his side, and plunged into the icy depths along with him.

 He was honorbound to you now, first in body and then in soul by the sacred oath of riddurok. You were the foremost thought in his mind as you were both swallowed by the raging swells, but as the weight of his armor dragged him under and his eyes began to darken when his flooded helmet tried to make its kill, he knew it was all over for him. He’d fired the grapple, making sure that his last act in the waking world would be to save you, even if it meant he would drown.

  Swear to me to protect me with your life was the vow that he had sworn, and he was determined to keep it to the bitter end, as your own oath had entailed. You only knew a few words of his adopted tongue, and maybe in time that would change, but for today the universal language would have to do. He breathed deep, trying valiantly to cobble together what he wanted to say. “Putting you in danger is not something a good husband would do.”

 He hoped that was enough to convey what he was feeling to you, but the way your brows cocked in that crooked way told him that his sentiment might have gotten a little lost.

 “Ok… but getting you out of danger is something that a good wife would do.”

  Oh.

 He hadn’t expected that, just like he hadn’t expected to wake back up on that muddy shore with you tearing him a new asshole, but maybe that's exactly what he should have expected. You were more stubborn and headstrong than a wild blurg, and you would lock horns with death itself to protect the ones you loved.

 And you loved him.

 Your hands had drifted down to his chest, noticing the faint purplish bruise that had begun to creep its way over his sternum from your compressions. He winced when you brushed against it, though you guessed it was more from the reminder of your ordeal than from actual pain. “We’re in this together now, and if that means I have to break a rib or two to keep you kickin’, then so be it.”

 He pulled the jacket off of his shoulders, digging through the breast pocket, the jingling, scraping sound making your heart sink at the memory of what he kept there. What if you had crushed them? The opalescent fossils were pulled into the light, as perfect and steadfast as they had been when you had pushed them onto his helmet and asked him to walk beside you for all your days. The flak was tossed to the basket on the floor while he turned the teeth over in his palm. “I guess these really are good luck.”

“Well obviously, that’s why I gave them to you.” You sassed the mighty warrior. Din pushed the jewels into their recesses with a cocky tilt of his visor, and you kissed at each of the radiant fangs, asking him with your lips for him to finally take that damn helmet off, regardless of how pretty it was now. “Is this private enough? I need to check your face for leeches.” He turned away from you to the bulkhead, sliding it closed before doing as you asked. The beskar was lifted away, taking the light source with it, and you took the helmet from him to use the spotlight for your inspection. “Fuck me sideways.”

 “Well, I mean, if you insist.” His lopsided smile curled upwards under sunken eyes, and you almost dropped the light when you reached up to touch his pale skin, still cold and clammy from keeping the wet armor on for too long. You brushed his matted hair off of his brow, swearing that you could feel ice crystals against your fingertips. Fucksake, he looked like death.  

 “Shit balls of hell, Din, that fucking bucket is gonna be the death of you.” You turned and set the offending beskar down on a low table, pointing the light as best you could towards the pair of you and throwing shadows around the room. The shades that danced over his face gave him the same haunted look as the corpse you had chucked down the garbage chute, and you felt a nasty chill run through your spine at the memory of that lipless grin. Not on my watch.  

 Though your skin was still a little cool, it was leagues warmer than his, and you pulled him in for a world-erasing hug, letting him bury his nose in the crook of your shoulder. His body was warm enough, but the insulated armor had kept the heat of the fire from reaching his head, and you hoped the heat of your heart would be enough to thaw him. Whether it was or not didn’t seem to matter to him, and he sank against you, dragging his hands down your back until they were resting against the span of your hips. You kissed his frigid face, feeling the pricks at the corners of your eyes when you realized his skin was no warmer than it had been on the river’s shore.

 You dug your fingers through his curls, trying to squeegee the water out until it was running down his spine. He groaned against you, and you felt him shiver at the cold drops against his warm back; under better circumstances you would have laughed at the goosebumps that prickeled his skin.

 “Who were you talking to? I know I heard your voice earlier.” He whispered softly against your ear, punctuating his question with more soft kisses.

 “Just singin’ to myself.” That wasn’t a lie, but maybe it wasn’t the whole truth either.

 “Can I hear it?”

 You nodded sheepishly against the side of his head, taking a deep breath that pulled the off-kilter scent of him into your lungs. He smelled like the rain, though it was probably more river water than petrichor. That mixed with the smell of woodfire smoke on top of his persistent warrior musk brought the tranquility of the forest without the storm through your mind. Peaceful. Caught in the cold limelight of the helmets glare, you sang the starsong back to him, lower and slower than you had when you were by yourself for your solo audience. It was just above a whisper, only enough for him alone to hear. A full house was overrated anyway.  

 It wasn’t until you’d gotten a few lines in when you felt it, the gentle sway    between the two of you, not quite dancing, but just as meaningful. You couldn’t dance, and you were willing to bet good credits that neither could he, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. It was just the two of you, arms wrapped around each other while you tried to warm him away from the grave, and him lovingly holding on tight. Din’s hands glided over your bare back and around your shoulders until they were sinking back down again to your waist, rocking you slowly with him back and forth to the ballad of the stars.

 You sauntered through the chorus again, and this time another sound beside the tenor of your own voice met your ears. With his face still pressed to the side of yours, your husband was humming, not in the way he usually did like when he was trying to flirt. No, he was humming along, just a tad off key, but his rich, wavering baritone swelled underneath your own voice until it was carrying your words up to the riveted sky where they could contest with the roar of the rain.

 And it was beautiful.

 Nobody in your years had ever made you cry as much as this man did, and as the last words of your song floated away you wiped the corners of your eyes off on the scruff of his face, hoping that he wouldn’t catch the stars caught in your lashes. His honeydark pools missed nothing, and they fluttered shut as he kissed your tears away, but the feel of warm skin on yours brought more of them anyway.

 “Please don’t cry, Starsong.” He soothed, slowly kissing over the ridges of your cheekbones until he was pressed to your lips. The sound of your new name made you smile against him. Stars above, how many names had you been given? Of all your titles, this one was your probably favorite, especially when it poured out from the mouth of the man you adored. You met his doe-like eyes with your own, watching the way they darted back and forth, still amazed that there was so much expression that was hidden by the beskar. He smiled back, a little bashfully, but nevertheless his sweet face sent warmth to the depths of your heart.

 Unwilling to resist him any longer, you crashed your lips against him, hearing him inhale sharply at your bravado. He still tasted like the fruit you had given him, sweet and succulent as a summer day, the flavor of him vaporizing the sound of storms, both inside and out. Your lips fit so perfectly against his, as if they had been made for each other, and you hummed into him when you felt the faintest touch of his tongue. Deepening your kisses, you went after the smooth muscle with your own, making him groan and dig his hands into your sides.

  Maker save him, he just can’t help himself with you, and the tender moment between you is engulfed in fire as he licks deeper into your mouth, rumbling at the whine you make. The whiskers on his face tickle at the side of your nose, almost making you sneeze when he tilts his head to chase the taste of you further. Sharp teeth catch on your lower lip when he bites at the edge of your mouth, the snag of his canines are soft, but demanding, and you gladly throw him off his attack when you bite him back. He pulls away from you to growl in your ear, but the effect is immediately lost when your chest tears away from his with a -shtiiiiiick-.  

 The fruit juice. You’d thrown your modesty right out the window many moons ago, and had completely ignored the fact that your tunic had been left drying by the fire when you went to go find a space to let Din free himself of his armor without tarnishing his creed. The plum juice from your devious game at the fireside had long since dried, but mixed with the sweat of your bodies it had become sticky again, and your unarmored companion only cocked his head at the strange sensation for a moment before he was diving for the nectar on your chest.

 “Riduur’iiikaaa~”    He crooned against your flesh, dragging his tongue over the swell of your breasts and up the length of your neck until he was nipping at your jaw. “You taste delicious.” You could only giggle at the flip-flopping desires of your man, letting yourself get caught up in the affections of the mighty warrior that loved you so. His lips curled upwards in a wicked grin against your skin at the sound of your laughter, and your mirth was gracelessly snuffed when he sucked at the tender side of your neck, leaving a trail of blooming marks down the side of your throat. Mine.    

 You laced your fingers in his damp hair as he made his way over your collarbone and back down to lap at the ambrosia coating the flesh that bounced so sweetly between his palms. He took a hardened tip between his lips, sucking the tender bud into his hot wet mouth, and though he was already sending you spinning, you couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of pride that you had cast all the ice from his veins. The residual worry floated back out from the edges of your mind, and you kissed the top of his head to get his attention, if only briefly.

 “Are you feeling ok though? Is it warm enough here for you? You’ve already been through enough shit today and the last thing we need is for you to get sick.” The half-lidded gaze that hauled itself up to meet your eyes made you feel like a lust-drunk fool. Stupid question.  

 “My wife, my love.” Stars above, the way he just let those words flow so readily made the heat in your chest surge all the way to the fingertips that he held so lightly between his own. He brought your hand up to his lips to kiss at the backs of your knuckles in that slow, deliberate pattern that sent electric shocks through your spine until it couldn’t stand you up straight anymore. The Mandalorian pulled you to him with another round of fervent kisses before leaning away from you, flashing you a devilish grin. “I know exactly where I can get myself warmed up.”

  Hot damn. “Oh yeah? Where’s that?” He chuckled darkly at your feigned ignorance, as if you didn’t know.  

 “Between your legs, cyar’ika” The last of your moxie dissolved like mist against a wildfire, but you knew he liked it when you made it a challenge, and you faked your best bemused face at him while he spooled himself around you.

 “Hmm… I dunno… There’s probably fish swimming around in my chonies after being in the rain for so long.” You snickered, but the look you got from him was decimating. “What? Can’t take a joke?”

 “Your pussy belongs to me, there better not be any damn fish in that sweet cunt of yours.”

 “Din!!” The audacity of this man! His rumbling laugh sent blazes over your skin, and your mouth was swallowed by his again to distract you from his wandering hands. Your startled cry disappeared down his throat when he plunged his hand down the front of your pants,hunting for the offending sea life that vexed you so. Calloused fingertips searched blindly through your folds, and you sank your nails into his shoulders while he pushed the devious digits through your slick heat.

 “Hm, no fish here.”

 “Fuck you.”  

 “Alright.” You floundered against his chest as he sank a finger into your dripping cunt, quickly followed by a second all the way to his knuckles. He had you squirming around his strong hands, but you became determined not to lose a game he didn’t know you were playing, and you stuffed your own mitt down the front of his sodden trousers to grope at his cock.

 “Found one.”

 “It’s cold.” 

“-Snrk-” You snorted an ugly laugh at him, but he ignored you and speared his fingers into you harder, pumping against your insides until your body was quaking in time with his thrusts. Not to be outdone, you palmed at his cool member, dragging nimble fingers along his shaft until you were cupping his balls. A choked, needy whine broke its way out past his teeth, and you gleefully watched his resolve break down across his handsome face. The pace of his pulsing hand fell out of time, the slick digits worming their way out to tease at your clit. His dark eyes flashed with shameless lust at your mewls, no doubt enjoying the same show of dissolution that you were.

 “Why don’t you pop a squat and let me take care of you, eh tinman?” You moaned breathy in his ear, biting at his lobe and making him sink his teeth into the meat of your shoulder while he tried not to crumble from your assault. Another gentle tug on his cock had him twitching at the waist and leaning heavily against you while you stoked his fire.

 “Haven’t… haven’t you t-taken care of me enough f-for one day?” His voice was haggard and broken, wavering over the fine line between spoken words and feral growls that burned against your skin.

 “Never.” You yanked your hips away from him, pulling him free of your sweet spot so you could drag him by his groin over to the captain's chair. Reluctantly you released him just long enough to push him into the seat, forcing him back until he was nice and reclined for you to unzip his pants and free him from the confines of the duraweave. The force of your excavating sprang the flushed member out so quickly that it bounced against his belly, leaving a glistening string of precum that made your mouth water.

 Fucking stars he looked so beautiful like this, the color had come back to his blissed-out face, making his cheeks look all rosey under sex-craved eyes. You knocked his armored thighs apart with your knees to tower over him, and the spectacle of those chocolate depths going wide turned your lips upwards in a devious sneer.

 “M-mesh’la, really, I s-should be t-taking care of… of  you...” So thoughtful of him to offer, but you were dead set on lighting his insides ablaze    .

 “Nah, you might be in the chair, but I’m the captain’a this ship.” You recklessly threw a leg over his thigh to straddle him with your still-clothed crotch and took a generous fistful of his shaft between your hands that nearly knocked the wind out of him. Dragging your thumb over his weeping head, you circled the blunt tip, smearing the slick down and around the length of him and making him shiver. When he’d been lubed to your liking, you wrapped your hands around him and languidly jerked him off just to watch him fall apart.

 The eyes that you had earned the right to see rolled and fluttered under his long lashes, squeezing shut whenever you tightened your grip as though you had a joystick in your hands and not his swollen flesh. You wondered then if you would have the same effect on his steering as you did on the Walker’s, chuckling to yourself at the thought of riding him to the ground. With his leg between yours you started gyrating against him, slotting the ridge of his legplate against where your slit pressed at the fabric of your pants; and his eyes shot open at the new sensation of you riding his thigh.

 “You know I c-can do that for you, right?” He asked with a whine, nearly choking on his own tongue when you palmed at his sack.

 “No touching, that’s an order.” Ohohoho he didn’t like that one bit, his eyebrows nearly dancing off his forehead while he tried to process the thought of not being able to touch the body of the woman he had sworn himself to. His plush lips curled up and bore his teeth at you in a rabid snarl that morphed into a villainous grin.

 “Yes, captain.”

 You ground down on his legplate in time with your fisting, feeling your own warm slick sticking to the inside of your trousers and slipping down the insides of your thighs. Your Mandalorian rocked his hips up against your downward strokes, clawing his hands at the armrests of the iron throne you had sat him in, forbidden to grope at your rolling breasts like he so desperately wanted to. The way you rolled your hips over his thigh had the gorgeous dewdrops swaying right in front of his eyes, nearly hypnotizing him with the way they moved. Just a little closer and he could take the tip of one in his mouth where it belonged, where he could suckle the taste of the plum nectar off of them until just the sweet, delectable taste of you remained.

 The hard beskar grinding against your cunt felt wonderful, but not as marvelous as you knew the feel of his living steel would be. Without releasing him from your grasp you stood up from his hot armor and pushed yourself up between his legs. “Get me out of these.”

 Brown eyes twinkled at you from under sly brows. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you?”

 “Either you take them off of me or I let go of mini mando. Your choice.” You twisted your fist around him to make your point, making him convulse in your grasp and moan right in your face. You heard the sound of your pants hitting the floor before you even felt him digging at your waist, and you couldn’t help but look down at your bare legs in surprise. “Impressive, now hands off, mister.”

 “Vixen.”

“Captain.” Kicking your boots off you clambered up into the chair with him, setting your knees on the bulky armrests so that you hovered just out of reach of his throbbing cock. His hips jutted upwards, trying to reach wondrous warmth, but to no avail. The shit-eating-grin you flashed him made him growl    , he was getting so impatient, but you didn’t give a single fuck. “You want this, hmm?” You ran a hand through your folds, circling your own clit for him to watch while you played with his dick. At his sides his fingers curled and uncurled into fidgety fists, simultaneously loving and hating the order you had given.

 “F- fuck yes please, cyare.”  

 “Is that begging I hear?” You chuckled venomously, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “For shame, a Mandalorian begging to have his cock fucked.” The muscles that usually bore the weight of beskar twitched on the sides of his neck, making the glare of the visor that usually hid him easy to imagine. “Go ahead then, beg me to take you.” Another flick of your wrist had him arching his back and running his hands up through his disheveled locks until he was grabbing at the headrest for support. You were turning him into such a mess, and the lids of his eyes fought to keep his gaze on where your hand was fanning and spreading your own burning need around for him to see. “Say my name.”  

 A ragged gasp of your birthname sang its way into the dark of the bridge, but the sound of it sounded so strange now, as if it didn’t belong to you any more, and you tutted and shook your head. From between his raised arms he waggled brows at you, surprised that he hadn’t given you what you’d demanded. “No, not that one,” you whispered, letting the heat of your breath collide with the steam of the living locomotive.

“C-c-c- cyare…”His stuttering words punctuated the rock of his hips, and he throbbed hard in your palm. You swapped hands, dragging your own hot slick over his length, but only a single stroke, can’t have him coming undone just yet.

 “Nope. Pick another one.”

 His head rolled back against the headrest under his elbows that were now over his eyes, trying to hide himself from your vicious teasing. You knew words weren’t his strong point, but watching him writhe to meet your demands was a show worth waiting for.

 “S-ss- Star-ssong?” The term of endearment hissed through his clenched teeth, Hmm, closer. You rewarded him with another slide of your soaked hand, swiping a thumb through the weeping slit of his swollen length.

 “Lemme hear that in Mando’a.” 

“Tra’laaar-! Please Tra’laar!” The agonized whine that he barked out practically echoed through the stately chamber, and it was perfection. Through one tightly-screwed eye he saw you flash a smile at him and nod, and you sped your efforts up and down his length, making him almost cry at the sensation.      “Tra’laar, ner Tra’laar, gedet’ye! Gedet’ye ni linibar gar!” The words of his native tongue poured out of him like the river he’d nearly drowned in, and though you only knew the sound of your gifted name, the agonized prayers told you enough.

 Carefully you lifted yourself down from the armrests and into the seat, squeezing your knees in between the durasteel and the side of his hips and letting your molten core swallow him inch by delicious inch. Under you the Mandalorian rutted hard up into your heat, and you caught his hands in yours before he could grapple at your waist. “I said no touching.”  

He fought in your grasp, nearly clawing his way to your feverish flesh, but settled for being able to finally be inside of you. The muscles of his abdomen rolled his hips up into you, trying their damnedest to quench his thirst, and you tossed his arms away from you to drag your fingers through the soft treasure trail of his belly. Beneath your fingertips he twitched and heaved, caught between the need to feel you sliding over his cock and the terror of having his soft underbelly exposed.

 Sparing his vulnerable guts for now, you glided your hands up to his chest, riding him slowly and deliberately while you took your sweet time. Your eyes watched his as you rose higher up on your knees and sank back down again and again, reveling in the way his gorgeous eyes flickered every time he disappeared into you. Though he wasn’t allowed to touch you, that didn’t mean you couldn’t tease him, and you swiped your thumbs under the buds of his chest, almost getting your lights knocked out when he balked at the sensation. In the corners of your eyes you could see his white-knuckled fists still clenching at the sides of the chair, and you gently pinched and rolled the sensitive little nibs between your fingers until he was shaking between your legs.

 “P-p-p please, Tra’laar, I… c-can’t take much m-m-more…” You were supposed to be the minstrel of the two of you, but the way he practically sang like a canary made your blood run hot and your fluttering coils seize around him. “Please, please let me touch you?”  

 “Since you asked so nicely, but only if you keep begging.” Instantly he was on you, holding you by the indents of your neck and back and pulling you down against his chest. With you fixed in place he catapulted up into you, slamming into your slick cunt with a force to be reckoned with. In your ear he spilled long strings of mando’a, though his ragged tempo broke the sweet phrases down into meaningless, lustful jargon. The hot palms on your neck and back broke loose and slapped down on the swell of your ass, giving him complete control to thrust up into you with abandon. The speed and strength of the beskar bronco had you seeing stars in no time, and the shameful squelch of you coming around his length was only drowned out by his own filthy groans.

“Such a good girl, coming around my cock.” He purred in your ear, the sultry words dripping with more malice than your cunt was dripping with cum. “My turn.”

 He threw himself forward, flipping the two of you like a slutty pancake down onto the dirty floor, carefully cradling the back of your head while he did so as not to crack your skull open from the force of impact. You weren’t given a single second to process the change of scenery before he was leaning back to set you at the perfect angle for him to chase his own release. Strong hips thrust against the backs of your thighs, sending the head of his cock bumping against the sensitive patch of nerves over and over until you were clenching around him again. He threw your legs over his shoulders and plowed, giving you a front row ticket to him grinding himself to completion.

 His face was a disaster, brows furrowed and lips pulled back in a snarl that only broke apart with a victorious roar while he spilled everything he had into you until it was nearly frothing out around where you were melted together. He let one of your legs sink off of his shoulder, but coiled his arms around the other, hugging the only part of you he could reach to keep himself steady. For a moment he looked so lovely, almost delicate, as if he was running his hands over a stringed instrument instead of your shaking leg. Whiskered kisses dotted along the side of your leg just moments before he was biting it, hard. With a yelp you fought back in the only way you could by clamping down on his cock that was still buried deep inside, making him falter and release your captive calf. He sank over you, jackknifing you under him while he hunted for your mouth. Through the fiery kisses you could feel the sides of his fuzzy lips turning upwards until his devious grin was making it difficult to kiss him back.

 “You’re such a jerk.”  

 “You started it.”

 “I didn’t do shit.” You giggled and fought against the meat of his shoulder to let your leg go, and when you had your limbs back to yourself you wrapped all of them around him, locking him to you while you both caught your breath. High above you the storm had started to wane, down to a siegeworthy drizzle from a rampant monsoon, though it was still darker than the midnight sea under the frumious cloud cover. There weren’t any stars for you to get lost in outside that sloping transparisteel, but when your lover turned his eyes to meet yours you knew you didn’t need any celestial bodies to navigate the cosmos with.

 Din kissed you again, sweet and slow in his promising way, swearing to love you without a single word. A low, warm rumble of a laugh made its way through his ribs and resonated against your chest, “You’re so beautiful like this,      riduur’ika.    I wish you could see what I see.”

 “I think I can take a guess.” A stray curl had flopped over his sweatstreaked brow, and you gently brushed it back into place with tired fingers. If you looked anything like he did now, blissful and sweaty and exhausted, then you supposed you were probably as beautiful as he said. “Sorry to take away from the festivities, but I gotta ask, where’s our foundling at?”

 Your husband propped himself up on his elbows to address you better, “He’s with the Ewoks, I haven’t heard any screaming so he must be behaving, which is unlike him.”

 “Ewoks?”

 He cocked a brow at you, “Yes, Ewoks, I think you called them ‘bear thingies?’”

 Now it was your turn for crooked glances, “That’s not an ewok, ewoks are some kind of animal, I’ve had ewok and I can assure you it didn’t taste like fur.”

 Din turned away from you with a horrified expression that flattened out the crinkles around his wide eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything…”

 “The fuck does that mean?!” You ignored the feeling of him slipping out from your soaked core to deal with the sudden bantha in the room. “Din?!”

 “Those poachers we dealt with? Yeah… um. Ewoks are… a… delicacy on s-some planets… ”

  “Your pillow talk needs work you big fucking waffle iron!”  

 Obscenities flew like bullets between the two of you, though as lecherous as you could both be, everything was said with a hefty serving of affection as you both sauntered your way off of the desecrated flight deck. You were glad to leave the pit of memories behind as you spat venom to your husband, who gladly returned fire with more playful jabs. Maybe one day you would tell him of the time you had spent on those mighty star cruisers, though you would just as much rather let bygones be bygones.

After all, you knew how much he hated Imps... 

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[manychocolatefactories]

CatCF Ruby Chocolate: Part 1, Kids and characters

This version is the last of the "four main versions". It is named after the new, fourth type of chocolate discovered in 2004 but only publically released in 2017. It is a modern version, supposed to take place in the 2010s. In this version, there are six Golden Tickets released in the world.

First Winner: Augustus Gloop

(Based on: Augustus Gloop)

This version of Augustus was inspired by the 2013 musical, more specifically by the idea of a cute little boy that eats "pigs limbs from limbs", and also swallows whole little dogs. So, something quite dark.

Augustus has a very cute face. A chubby, angelic face, like the puttis of the Renaissance paintings: blond curls, puppy eyes, a radiant smile. If he wants, he can make your heart melt like the video of a little kitten purring.

But Augustus is hungry. All of the time. He eats and snacks all day long. He dreams of food. He sleep-walks to eat. And while he adores candies and chocolate, there is one thing he loves more than anything else: meat. Meat and blood. He is a true carnivore, for him every meal rhymes with "meat". And if you leave him unattended, he will try to get meat by himself. For exemple, by attacking a living pig and devouring it on the spot. Or by biting off the fingers of a plump woman. But, of course, all of that with a cute smile and while saying sorry in the most adorable way.

Nowadays, if your cute you must be innocent, and thus forgien.

Augustus' body is not as cute as his face. It is said to be a "bloated mass of pink flesh", actually very similar to the body of a pig. His fatness is described as "ill-fitting", as if it was "forced" onto his body. His overweightness is not natural. It is puffy, flabby, bloated, but doesn't feel "natural".

Augustus also always wear ill-fitting clothes and suits.

Mrs. Gloop is a tiny woman, usually wearing a pale pink skirt suit, with her hair arranged in a crown of braids. She might be tiny, but she is bold, energetic, and speaks both clearly and loudly. She has so much presence, she often intimidates people. She keeps reminding others of how cute her son, and how eating makes him grow strong. She insists that she is a good mother who makes sure her son eats of everything (to have a balanced diet), eats well (by giving him only the finest and best-quality products (such as the Wonka bars and not their cheap rivals knock-offs), and of course, she only feeds her son because he "needs nourishment".

And don't dare criticize her, or she will scream so much, so hard and so high your ears will bleed. Just like the "original" Mrs. Gloop, this one keeps pointing out the "hooligans", saying it is better to stay at home eating food than being a violent thug on the street. My iteration sincerely believes that violence and criminality is due to poverty, hunger and lack of food, and if everyone was well-fed the world ould be at peace.

(For her, think of Mrs. Gloop the original, mixed with Bernadette from the Big Bang Theory )

Mr. Gloop (full name, Gordon Gloop, parody of Gordon Ramsey) is the son of a butcher, and the grandson of a slaughterhouse worker. He was always knee-deep in blood, and as a result grew accustomed to killing animals and cooking them (in fact the sight of blood makes him peckish). He is a tall and strong man, but suffers from a bad sleep due to his wife's horribly loud snoring.

He tried to teach his son the refinment of haute cuisine, for Mr. Gloop is a world-renowned cook, but to his disappointment Augustus only cares for raw meat and drinking blood-dipped candies. Mr. Gloop is so obsessed with having good dishes and best-quality ingredients, he keeps at the back of his house a little barnyard full of cattle (if he ever has to serve some steak or ribs to his guests). Trouble is, Augustus keeps sneaking into said barnyard to devour the poor animals.

Second Winner: Elvira Entwhistle

(Based on: Veruca Salt)

Veruca Salt being a pretty solid and complete archetype in herself (the girl who wants it all and has her parents buy her all), it is quite hard to reimagine her. So, I tried thinking about "why" she wants things - given the actions are settled and confirmed, it is the goals that are important, the motivation. And , in our time of modernity, what makes people want things? Trends, fashions, what is "in".

This reinterpretation of Veruca, named Elvira Entwhistle (after one of the old drafts names), is a mix between Chanel Oberlin from Scream Queens and Esmé Squalor from a Series of Unfortunate Events. She is a girl living for trends, for fashions, buying and acquiring all of the latest things "in", only to discard them as soon as they are "out" or not trendy anymore. Spending her time on social media, following models and influencers, she keeps going to luxury shops with her "personal assistant" (a nice name for what is a modern slave) to buy accessories, jewels, clothes, pets and whatever corresponds to the current trend.

Spoiled, impatient, self-centered and short-tempered, she needs to have the latest fashion NOW or she will get insanely angry. She also doesn't hesitate to change her personal appearance to fit all the new trends (for exemple her hair changes color and shape every week). Of course, she got her Golden Ticket because it was the current trend. Everyone was searching for it, so she had to get a Ticket to be the most "in" person around.

 Third Winner: Mike Teavee

(Based on: Mike Teavee)

For this version of Mike Teavee, I wanted to get away from the usual hyperactive and hyper-violent kid. I wanted to take back this common idea that television makes you stupid and sluggish, by making Mike the perfect embodiment of a couch potato (even though he was designed to look at the same time like a mushroom and a zombie).

Mr. and Mrs. Teavee are hard-working people, who spend their entire week working and only come back at home for very brief periods of times (usually in the week-end) before going right back at work. As a result, Mike barely knows his parents. He doesn't even know what kind of work they do. To "babysit" their son, the Teavees bought an enormous, high-definition television with a 666 channels pack, and kept telling him to not go outside due to the outside world being "dangerous" and filled with crushing bikes, killing cars, kidnappers and the like. This is how Mike began his life as a shut-in.

Spending his days looking at the television, never going outside, he ended up closing all shutters because light bothered him. Living in the dark, barely lifting his body from the couch, he only survives on candies, snacks, television-plates and microwaved/defrosted food (and the Teavee family can afford to buy a lot of it, because they are really, really rich - Mike has accounts in three different banks).

The result? A chalk-white boy. A bloated ans shapeless body. A full-moon face covered in craters and scars due to a bad case of acne. Two dead, sunken, small eyes. Speakin slowly, and often pronouncing only half of the words, Mike refuses to answer or talk to anyone while television is on : he only speaks during "uninteresting advertisements". The only thing muscular in his body are his fingers, that got a lot of muscle mass due to twitching frenetically all day long on the remote to channel-hop.

Mike is actually a very intelligent boy, but all his cleverness and intellectual gifts are buried and wasted by the brain-washing of his shut-in life and his television obsession. He got his Golden Ticket because his parents often buy him Wonka bars as "television snacks". Even though, in his own words, he prefers food that "tastes like plastic".

Fourth Winner: Violet Beauregarde

(Based on: Volet Beauregarde)

What is Violet, originally? She is a girl that seeks fame and attention, that is snarky, that is nasty towards people, and that does stupid records. What reflects that perfectly in our day and age? Reality television shows!

Violet Beauregarde was strongly inspired by the most brainless and "sassy/nasty" stars of reality television and the Internet. She is a teenage girl wearing clothes of such bright, flashy and clashing colors it often hurts people's eyes. Her face is covered in makeup, her hair is covered in extensions and her hands are covered with fake fingernails.

She thinks she can be as rude and horrible as she wants, as long as she calls it "sassy". But on the other side, she considers "rude" anyone or anything that doesn't please her, or that is too "ugly" or "dirty" for her. She is the kind of girl that keeps screaming loudly "YAAAAAAASSS, bitches!" and "DAAAMMMNNNN", that calls herself "the queen", that chews ferociously on her gum all day long, and that says "Why are you touching me? See, you're touching me again!" while she is the one hitting people. She hates everything "old" and "boring". She keeps publishing musical albums that nobody actually buys, because she sings badly mere words (her singles being titled "Lalalala" and "Heyheyheyhey" - she never understood a song needed to have lyrics). Finally, her biggest dream is to be part of a TV-reality show.

Her father, Mr. Beauregarde, feeds his daughter's "bitchy diva" attitude and her delusions of grandeur by acting as his agent (just like in the 2013 musical). He is also the "ringleader" of Violet's circus (because Violet, with her clothes of ridiculous colors, and her enormous amount of makeup, has a clown subtext). As a result, Mr. Beauregarde is like a ringleader in acircus, a showrunner in a freak show, and also an agent. He "sells" his daughter, he organizes her interviews, he has people pay money for "extra time" with Violet, he shows her around, and finally he uses his whip (yes, he has a whip) to attack all those that try to "touch the product".

He is a short, flabby and balding man, that smokes very long and thick cigars, wears enormous rings and clothes that are garrish and clownish - his over-the-top and ridiculous fashion sense is clearly a compensation for what he lacks in height, hair and health.

 Fifth Winner: Marvin Prune

(Based on: Marvin Prune)

In the original drafts of Roald Dahl, Marvin Prune was a Mr. Know-it-All, a too-perfect schoolboy obsessed with studies, an arrogant bookworm, a haughty teacher's pet, you named it. In this version, i decided to keep the idea of Marvin being a "know-it-all", but instead of using school, books and the like, he rather uses modern technology and the Internet.

Marvin is a tech-obsessed boy. He lives for, with and through technology, to the point of neglecting to live in the real world. He thinks his over-use of technology, and all the knowledge it can provide him, make him an "intelligent" and "superior" boy (when in fact it does not).

He thinks he can claim to have been everywhere in the world because he visited virtually all the most important landmarks of the world. He claims he can speak all the languages in the world, but in fact he uses translation websites. He keeps tracks of all his bodily functions thanks to health monitors (heartbeats, blood pressure, cholesterole...) but not because he is concerned for his health, merely for the sake of knowing more things. For him, Googling something is the best solution to all your troubles, and as a result he is a self-centered and pompous boy.  

Due to his technology dependance, Marvin is actually quite a weak boy. Since he doesn't do any sport or physical activity, and since he rarely leaves his house (due to always ordering things online, having classes online and visiting places virtually), he is a quite thin and frail boy, if not emaciated - at least, a good chunk of his muscle mass has melted away.

The original parents of Marvin Prune were, in Dahl's works, teachers and school principals. I decided here to go with the opposite of a teacher : Mrs. Prune never does anything herself, and always blame it on others. There are problems in the world? For her people should fix it, but they are too lazy to do it - while she herself does nothing about it. Her son acts rude? "Someone should teach him good manners" she says. She loses all of her money? "That's because the people in charge of the economy are all incompetent!"

Mrs. Prune thinks of everything and everyone as stupid because it allows her to blame all of her problems and flaws on other people. But ultimately she never takes any kind of action herself. If someone should teach her son good manners, it is "those lazy teachers at school", certainly not her! She also dislikes things that are "foreign".

Marvin found the Golden Ticket when he ordered by mistake a chocolate bar in France : in truth, he wanted to buy a "tablet" (in French a tablet is tablette, and a chocolate bar is also a tablette de chocolat).

Marvin will also be incredibly frustrated inside Wonka's factory, because in there numeric devices mess up, stop weirdly or disfunction totally (the same way UFOs tend to mess up phones, radios, computers and the like). As a result, he becomes powerless and helpless.

 Sixth Winner: Charlie Bucket

(Based on: Charkie Bucket)

Here, I decided to really twist things up. To have a Charlie Bucket that isn't thin or malnourished, but fat! Yes, here's Chubby Charlie! (No, not Fat Charlie, this one is copyrighted)

Charlie's story is deeply linked to the story of the Wonka factory. The town Charlie lives in was built around the Wonka Factory a bit before the 20th century - it was a "worker town", created to allow the workers of the factory to live with their family next to their place of work. For more than fifty years the Factory was the only occupation and work of the town. But somewhere in the 1950s or 1960s, all the workers had to take an early retirement. They were kicked out, and the Factory closed to the public. The Factory was still working, but not hiring anyone anymore. This was an enormous blow to both the town's economy and moral. There was an economic crisis and poverty (since people were trained only to work in a candy factory).

But there was one good thing: since it was the town Wonka's products were created in, they were sold at must cheaper prices than anywhere else in the world, and all the ex-workers of the Factory got in exchange for their work coupons and reductions for themselves and all of their families - reductions on the Wonka products, of course. This was seen as a chance, because the Wonka products were world-renowned candies, even luxury goods in foreign countries. It was like being able to buy haute-couture as daily clothes and eat gastronomic cuisine every week-end.

But this good wasn't so "good". Indeed, given the poverty and lack of job in town, the ex-workers and their family relied more and more on the coupons and reductions, their diets filled with candy and sugary products. As a result, from the 1970s to the 2010s, the number of people suffering from obesity, diabetes and teeth problems blew up.

[ This background is actually a mix of two different real-world fact. Real-world fact 1: the Menier Chocolate Factory in France, aka the real-life Wonka Factory, was revolutionary for creating a town for its workers, and taking care of their health, education and the like, but closed after World War II, to the deception of everyone. Real-world fact 2: Coca-Cola, Nestlé and other big food industries tend to pay their employees with extra-sugary and extra-addictive if their own products in poor areas, such as South America - resulting in sicknesses and diseases.]

As a result, in this version Charlie is fat. Because in modern days, and in developped countries, poverty and malnourishment actually leads to obesity and diabetes, due to the cheapest food being candies and junk-food.

This version of Charlie is a very nice kid, but a kid addicted to the Wonka products. He grew up on the coupons, due to his family all being ex-workers. Grandpa Joe and Grandpa George both worked at the factory, but were too old or sick after being fired to find a new job ; Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had been trained for the factory and could barely afford new studies after its closing. Mr. Bucket became a street cleaner, while Mrs. Bucket became a receptionist and secretary for a dental office (due to the rise of tooth diseases, dental offices boomed in town, but most are actually crooked or scams).

Charlie grew up in a very humble home, with two parents working really hard to have enough money to buy food for everyone. Of course, fresh or good food is too expensive. Charlie tries to help his family the best way he can with his part-time job (making people fill surveys) and by working really hard at school. But as the years go by, his weight and his health are beginning to cause problems. Due to not having any money he can't do sports, wich makes him gain weight, and the fattest he is the hardest it is to do sport, it's a vicious circle. Every year, the scale reveals he puts on more and more weight, and faster and faster - if he doesn't do something quick, he may end up obese.

And, as I mentionned before, Charlie is truly obsessed with the Wonka products, it is an addiction. He dreams of them at night. He sticks Wonka bars wrappers on the wall of his room like posters. He drools at the mere mention of a Wonka bar. He isn't spoiled, cruel or nasty, but he is too addicted for his own good. In fact, when he finds money in the stret and buy chocolate bars with it, it is a pure act of selfishness, because he doesn't have the willpower to turn away from the candy shop and go back home.

[golgafrincham]

The Forest God

Late December into the beginning of January was....tense and grim to say the least. Staring out my window into my own little patch of forest and retreating into an alternate reality where anyone could date a forest god was a huge comfort. Thanks again and again to🍃🌳💚 @dateaforestgod 💚🌳🍃 for the inspiration (psst under no obligation to read this however). The only constructive distraction I could manage that whole time was writing (but not the thing I was supposed to be writing, uh-oh) so ...here is a story about the first person to date a forest god.

Ch 1 They meet Ch 2 They meet again Ch 3 First date

🌳 Once upon a time there lived a person who was neither so young as they used to be nor as old as they would become. They lived in a small village on the edge of a great forest that was not as vast as it used to be, nor as dark as it would become.

Siv, for that is what their parents called them, was the last child of the family.

As the youngest Siv had been doted on and indulged - as one should with a baby - long after they grew up. They loved their parents more than anyone and never bothered to imagine what life would be like if they had not been destined to care for Mother and Father into their old age and until the very end. The older siblings had all been married off long ago, some happily, some not.

When not chopping wood for the fire or carding wool for the spinning wheel, Siv sat at the foot of the village wise woman. Since before they could remember, Siv had been fascinated with healing and little everyday magic, though not everyone in the village still agreed that everyday magic was a good thing. When Siv’s great-grandmother was still a little girl, a new god had been carried into the village by a group of men in black robes. At first the people had driven them away, but they came back again and again, with promises of prosperity and peace if they knelt before the new god - a god who they said was humble, yet of all the gods insisted that he was the only one. By the time Siv was born no one sacrificed to the old gods on their feast days or prayed to them for luck or a good harvest - at least not in public. By the time Siv grew up, no one hardly ever mentioned the old gods by their names, instead calling them all “false gods” or, as the more modern and progressive villagers termed them, “devils.”

As the old gods were pushed to the edges of the villagers’ consciousness, so too was the wise woman pushed to the edge of village life. But they still came to her when the new god wouldn’t calm their colicky baby or return their lost goat to the flock. They came to her after sunset, or in a panic at noon. They paid her reluctantly in bags of grain, or a chicken, or a promise that they never meant to keep. But still the old woman did her best to help, and she passed along her knowledge to Siv.

Together they would often go into the edges of the forest to collect medicinal herbs. The old woman showed Siv how to talk gently to the roots before pulling them up, how to take only what was needed, and how to leave an offering for the spirits of the forest to thank them for their generosity.

One day, after all the chores were done and the orange light of the sun was falling through the remaining dry leaves that still clung to the trees, Siv went to see the old woman and give her a bit of extra food in preparation for the long dark season to come. But she was not in her hut, and the hearth was cold. Assuming she had gone into the forest, Siv started down the well-worn track. It was the first time Siv had gone into the forest alone, though they had been there together many, many times before.

Hours passed as Siv followed the track deeper into the forest. The repeated call of “Grandmother! Are you here?” faded into the trees and received no reply. They called out louder, venturing just a little off the track to head towards the clearings that would allow their voice to carry farther. Still no reply. In frustration, Siv finally decided to give up after realizing the light in the forest was growing dim.

Siv pulled the edges of the woolen cloak tighter and turned around. After what seemed like an hour, though, the track was still in front of them but the edge of the forest was nowhere in sight. A white puff of breath escaped Siv’s lips. The sun had gone down and it was getting as cold as quickly as it was getting dark. There was no tinder, no flint to make a fire, only some bread and a hunk of cheese that was for the old woman. Siv knew they had to keep going, but the track was so dark - strewn with rocks and roots - the going was slow.

The moon rose as a silver sliver in the sky, but it was too weak to cut through the dense branches and reach the ground. It must have been after midnight when Siv, shivering and exhausted, decided to give up.

I will freeze in the forest or I won’t. But I can’t go any farther. They spotted a huge oak on the edge of a rise. The massive roots of the oak had twisted and pushed the earth up forming a little hollow at it’s base. Siv did their best to push a pile of leaves into the hollow to make a kind of nest, but before they lay down remembered that they were a guest in the forest, and a guest should always bring a present for their host.

Siv felt along the ground until they had collected twelve little stones to make into a small circle. In the middle of the circle they placed a larger, flatter stone, and on this stone put a single leaf and the bread from their pocket, just as the old woman had shown them. Satisfied that they had done all they could, they fell back exhausted into the pile of leaves. Wrapping the thin cloak around tightly, they curled up and immediately fell into a leaden sleep.

The forest at night was normally quiet, but immediately after Siv fell asleep it passed into an even more profound stillness. Looking up from the ground, there were only a few places amidst the tangle of trees where one could see the tiny pricks of light that were the stars. Suddenly but silently, even those few lights were obscured. A dark shape nearly as tall as the trees moved towards the gift that had been left in the circle of stones. The shape hunched over and shrunk as it lowered itself to the ground. One long dark finger reached out and poked the bread.

Though it wasn’t much, it was the first gift He had seen in a long time. He turned towards the sleeping figure and the light of the faint stars caught the edges of His horns. He sniffed the air. He had sensed this person in the forest before. Harmless. He thought as He shifted closer. Only a small patch of Siv’s face was visible through the cocoon of fabric, already covered with a light dusting of frost. Weak trails of hot breath escaped through pale lips. Pitiful.

He stared at Siv for a few moments more, then looked back towards the gift. In the center of the dark shape, a dark heart softened. The outline of the shape began to recede and melt like a shadow disappearing into the greater darkness.

The crescent moon peered between the crowns of the trees and threw a cold shaft of light into the hollow, illuminating the edges of Siv’s clothes and the dark gray fur of the wolf that stood facing them. The wolf approached, circled three times, and settled down as close as He could. He rested His chin on His crossed paws and closed His dark green eyes.

Soon enough He could tell that Siv was warming up. The pitiable human stirred and stretched their legs just a bit. They rolled over, threw one arm onto the side of the huge wolf and buried their face in the coarse fur.

He sighed to Himself. Only a human would do such a foolish thing.

They slept.

~~

Dawn had not yet arrived when Siv began to stir. Wrapped deep within a dream of a warm fireside and a faithful dog, the undeniable fact of the hard forest floor only gradually reached into their consciousness to pull them back to reality.

For a moment, a handful of fur told them that the faithful dog was still there, and they wondered where they were. Siv rolled over and  tried to uncurl and sit up, but every joint and muscle refused to budge. With a little time and patience, feeling started returning to the ends of their fingers and toes and they managed to prop themselves up. 

I’m still alive. But also still in the forest. They knew they had to get moving, but before they could even try to stand up they saw it.

Not ten paces away was an enormous dark gray wolf. 

Siv froze in place, barely daring to move. The wolf was staring directly at them with piercing dark green eyes. 

Wolf. Dog. Wolf. This wolf is the dog in my dream. It kept me warm. 

Siv looked more closely at the wolf.

This is not an ordinary animal. 

The wolf cocked its head slightly and opened its eyes wide. It got up and slowly walked to Siv, stopping only two arm’s lengths away.

It spoke, or at least, Siv heard its voice.

You are not afraid.

“I am afraid.” Siv replied quite truthfully.

You do not run.

“If you were going to kill me, I would already be dead.”

“May I ask...” they knew that the wolf, not being a wolf, was best approached with deference “if you stayed beside me in the night to keep me warm?”

I did.

Awkwardly, with limbs still stiff from the cold, Siv got their knees and made a small bow. “Thank you for saving my life.” “I have no way of repaying you.” then they remembered the piece of cheese still in their pocket. That’s a poor present. But no, that’s not all I have. Siv looked around and saw a large brown oak leaf - they grabbed it and placed the piece of cheese on it. Then, slipping a small silver ring off of a pinky finger, placed the ring next to the cheese and slid the leaf towards the wolf.

“Please accept this small gift. Its insignificance is not meant as a slight, it is all I have.” 

It was. The slender silver ring was a gift to a young child from their oldest sister’s family when she married off, and was the only material thing of value Siv had ever owned. 

The wolf rose and lowered its head towards the gift. It smelled it cautiously before releasing a snort of hot breath. The cheese disappeared so quickly Siv wasn’t entirely sure it had been eaten.

The wolf sat back on its haunches. 

I am not fond of metal. 

By this time the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was fading into the blue white of morning. The outline of the wolf, however, was falling deeper into shadow. The shape of the wolf darkened until it became only a shadow, with two bright green eyes remaining.

Siv’s blood ran cold. Fool, fool, you have insulted a ....wolf...god. You’re going to….you deserve to die.

However, the voice continued I will accept your gift.

The shadow grew until its piercing green eyes were towering over the kneeling human. Within its darkness though, there were myriad things growing, myriad decaying, plants rustling in the wind, animals digging, running, flying. Siv was frightened and entranced. 

Only when the morning sun had peeked between the trees, and the shadow had coalesced into a new, more solid form, was Siv able move their head just enough to look up and truly see what was before them.

The sun’s rays outlined a figure twice as tall as the tallest man Siv knew. It was crowned with dull golden antlers that cradled the rising sun. 

The green eyes of the wolf looked out of a human, though somewhat long and sharp, face. The wolf was no longer there, but the figure wore a gray wolf pelt around its middle, tied with bands of ivy. Below the pelt the humanness ended, for it stood on the hind legs of a stag.

The being bent down and hooked one sharp pinky nail into the tiny silver ring before lifting it up to His face.

“Though I am not sure what to do with it.” This time when He spoke it wasn’t directly into Siv’s inner ear. Instead He spoke with a voice that was deep and rich as forest loam while gentle as a breeze passing through a copse of ferns.

Siv was transfixed.

He lazily twirled the ring around the end of his pinky nail for a few moments before seeming to remember the human in front of him.

“Why did you come into the forest so late at night with no fire or metal so necessary to your kind?” There may have been a hint of bitterness in His question.

Siv’s mouth opened, but there was nothing to say. 

 “Why? Come? Here?” He tried again, clearly and slowly enunciating. Perhaps I used too many words on this simple human He thought to himself.

Why...? For a few moments, Siv truly had no recollection of yesterday, or any moment before they had seen….Him. Think!

“I….had come…to the forest...with no disrespect.” Their mind shoveled through piles of frozen dusty thoughts until finally -

“the wise woman! I went to see her but she was gone. Her hearth was cold. I thought she had gone into the forest, so I went to find her and...I lost my way.”

“She is not in the forest.”

“Oh.”

“Thank you.”

“How...do you…?” Siv ventured.

“I know everything that comes and goes in this forest.”

“She is not in it.”

“Thank you.” 

“Thank you again for saving my life. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“No.”

The intervening silence was long enough for Siv to realize that the forest was no longer silent. Birds high in the trees called to each other, bushes rustled - the forest was awake.

Siv looked around - the giant oak, the piles of leaves, all looked more friendly and comfortable in the daytime than they had last night. Unfortunately, the daylight didn’t help the fact that nothing looked the least bit familiar. They were still hopelessly lost.

In the time they’d spent looking around, the forest god - for surely that is what He must be - had silently moved towards the deepest part of the forest.

“Wait! Please! Wait!” Siv shouted as they struggled to get to their feet.

The god didn’t seem to hear, continuing on in a stately pace. 

Siv ran, jumping over roots and brambles, trying desperately to catch up.

“Please” they could barely get a word out, breathing hard as they ran “I don’t know how to get home!”

The god stopped, but didn’t turn. Instead He raised his hand towards a golden branch of a nearby larch. A tiny sparrow hopped onto his outstretched finger and they appeared to be conversing silently.

This gave Siv almost enough time to catch up. “Please” they fell to their knees, though whether out of exhaustion or as a gesture of respect it was difficult to tell, “I am lost.”

The forest god gently placed the little bird back into the tree and at last turned towards the panting human at his feet.

So frail and easily confused, these humans, yet, so troublesome at times. “And?” He asked, His voice was so low it almost slipped into a growl.

“Please...can….you….point me towards the eastern edge of the forest. The...village?

The god didn’t answer.

Oh no, I am asking for a favor...and I have nothing to offer in return. Fool. Fool. He saved your life, and you are asking Him for another favor. But...if He doesn’t help me I could die here.

“Lord” Siv began again, but this time as respectfully as they could “I don’t deserve your aid - You have already saved my life once - but I must return home. It is my duty to care for my aging parents. They will worry about me and if….if I don’t return there will be no one to chop their wood or go to the market for them.”

“...”

“If I don’t return...the wise woman has no one else to pass down her knowledge of the old ways.” Ah, wait, that’s it. Siv dared to look up at the shining face of the forest god. His face was an impassive mask, at once both beautiful and terrifying. Siv avoided His emerald eyes and looked up - only then did they notice the faded chain of flowers draped between His antlers.

“If you help me to return, I promise to find the forest shrine and make it like new. I promise I will return at the full moon with gifts, and light the little fires to mark the changing of the seasons.” 

“...”

“Why should I believe you, human?” He demanded, though His tone was more weary than angry.

Siv was tired, and still cold, and by this time very very hungry. There was nothing more they had to give. There was no way they could prove that their promise would be kept. 

“I...there is no security I can give you but my word.” But what good is the word of a mere mortal like me? Worthless. Their shoulders slumped.

“Thank you for saving me. I will leave.” 

Dejectedly, Siv turned around and tried to make their way towards the direction of the still rising sun, hoping it would take them to the edge of the forest eventually. 

They made their way under fallen logs and over roots and brambles. The forest had woken up fully by now, and Siv could swear that the birds - there were more of them than seemed normal for this time of year - were mocking the lost and hungry traveler with their echoing songs.

After what seemed like hours of frustratingly slow progress, Siv sat down heavily on a fallen tree. How could I have been so stupid as to get lost? If I die here...and never see my parents again....what a foolish way to die. Like an ignorant child. Their eyes began to fill with tears. 

“You are going in circles.” 

Siv looked up. The forest god was directly facing them, where moments ago there had been nothing. The dappled light that filtered through the trees played across His warm bronze face and shoulders.

“The birds have been trying to tell you for hours. Can’t you hear them?”

Siv’s head shook and they quickly tried to wipe the corner of their eyes. Instead of a proper answer, Siv’s stomach gurgled.

The sunlight that fell on the god seemed to sparkle and the edges of his form became less distinct. He took one step forward and was no longer quite so tall, quite so imposing. He leaned down towards the dejected human.

“Hungry?”

Siv nodded. Everything about the forest god seemed to have softened - His antlers weren’t so large and sharp, His lips were full and curved into a gentle smile.

“Here, I saved half of the gift you gave me earlier. Do you want it?” He extended one long sinewy arm, and in his hand was a half of the piece of bread Siv had left as an offering the night before.

Siv stared at it. The sound of their stomach grew louder.

“No, thank you.” the hungry mortal shook their head, resigned. “I can’t. It is a gift, given in thanks for hospitality. It is Yours alone.”

The forest god took back His proffered hand and stood up. “Good. It was only a rock. I ate the bread last night.” He tossed the brown rock over his shoulder where it hit the ground with a thunk.

He shook his head. Pitiful. 

“I am tired of hearing the birds constantly yelling at you.” He straightened up to His full height, and extended one large hand towards the human. 

Siv stared at the god, awestruck once again. 

“...” He dropped His hand.

“Are you coming?” He said somewhat impatiently.

Siv immediately got up.

“Take my hand.”

Even reaching straight up, they could only just touch the ends of His fingers. In response, the god subtly shifted as if moving away from Siv - though He never actually moved. He was now only a couple feet taller than the confused human whose hand He grasped.

The moment the god took Siv’s hand, their heart began to race and stars filled the edges of their field of vision. Their whole body felt light and heavy all at once like they were going to faint. But instead of fainting, they were pulled forward. 

The trees seemed to part before them. Siv would look to one side, then look again only to see a completely different scene. It was like the forest was running past them in the opposite direction while they were walking calmly. Within moments they were on the well-trod path, within sight of the edge of the forest.

The god stopped and let go of Siv’s hand. To Siv, it felt like suddenly being ripped from a warm bed in winter and shoved outside. It took every piece of willpower Siv had not to reach out and grab that hand again.

“I go no farther than this. I trust you can find your way from here?” He gestured out towards the open land beyond the trees.

Siv’s eyes followed the god’s motion and saw familiar landmarks. They turned to answer, but instead of the forest god they only saw the retreating form of a giant stag passing silently back into the woods.

💚Chapter 2

[katyatalks]

Mob Psycho 100 - Kameda Yoshimichi’s Character Design Notes

With each blu-ray/DVD volume of MP100 Character Designer Kameda Yoshimichi gives some notes regarding his process designing each character. Here are all his notes for S1 in the order they are presented, regarding; Kageyama Shigeo, Reigen Arataka, Tsubomi, Dimple, Kurata Tome, Mezato Ichi, Hanazawa Teruki, Gouda Musashi, Kageyama Ritsu, Onigawara Tenga, Koyama, Awakening Lab Five, Terada, Matsuo, Sakurai, Ishiguro, Muraki.

KAGEYAMA SHIGEO

With Mob-kun, the first thing I had a bit of trouble with was - do I keep his design as it is in the manga!!??? Should I make him a little prettier!!!!!??? Should I make him taller!!!!??? Those were the kinds of things I thought about. During a meeting, we didn’t reach any conclusion, so I tried out a few things!!!! ONE-san’s recent designs for Mob Psycho 100 have been amazingly good, so I scooped up the taste of those illustrations and applied them to my anime designs. The atmosphere of the manga is lost if you make these characters too beautiful or make them taller, so I made the right choice!!

REIGEN ARATAKA

I feel I didn’t really struggle with Reigen’s anime design!!!! His suit is plain and there’s not many parts to his design, which was a little upsetting, but in terms of his character there’s no need to decorate him, so I thought that simple is fine. More than anything he pulls plenty of funny faces, so even if his design is simple he stands out as a character, so I think leaving his design as it is in the manga was the correct decision. In the manga, his tie is black, but here, to give a little extra to his design, his tie is pink - that’s a feature of the anime!!!!! Also, Something I particularly fussed over in the anime was the way he stands, with his hips cocked!!!! That’s the anime’s Reigen!!!!!

TSUBOMI

Fans of Mob Psycho 100 probably went, “Who the hell is this”, huh. (Laughs). A discussion was had in which I said I wanted to make her more heroine-like and sparkly - in the manga, she gives off the impression that she turns a lot of heads and puts on airs, but for the anime I thought it’d be good to make her into a more traditionally coded heroine!!!!!! From a directorial perspective I wanted to give her a country-girl-kinda look, so I gave her a hairpin. Regarding the colour of her hair and eyes, there was a lot of trial and error…... well, I think the way she is now is the most heroine-ish, isn’t it!!!!! She’s voiced by Satake-san, too, which is something symbolic!!!!!

DIMPLE

Dimple is a character that I had a good amount of trouble figuring out how to deal with design-wise - I’ll contrast him with Mob-kun, give him a flashy colour, then should I make him luminescent?? Have him slowly sway as he floats?? You could say Dimple’s facial expressions are the greatest in Mob Psycho 100, so I tried to draw as many variations in Dimple’s reference sheet as possible. Drawing expressions for this work was really fun! When I draw, I’m aware that I give distinct facial features!!! Well, not that distinct, but (laughs). Also, Ootsuka-san lending his nice, low voice to a character like Dimple gave the character depth, in a way that makes him quite profound. That’s the power of voice acting… but it made me a little worried, as I thought, I have to make sure the art lives up to his performance!!!!

KURATA TOME

Tome-san is a character that’s truly perfect as she is in the manga, so I tried to not ruin that! She has THE Mob Psycho face!!!! When I was choosing the colours for the school uniform, my decision was made based on how the colours suited her, Mezato and Tsubomi, but the bright blue in the uniform for some reason or another doesn’t suit Tome-san (laughs). The colour is lost a little on Tome-san. I thought Tome-san was quite a gloomy character, but her voice actress, Tanezaki-san, performs her in such a funny way that I ended up loving her! I think, out of all the characters, my view on her changed the most! “Tome Psycho 100” wouldn’t be a farfetched anime idea. 

MEZATO ICHI

I drew Mezato with the intention of making her the heroine!!! When drawing character sheets I draw any particular trait the character may have and then pose them and see what I think - the moment I drew her standing with her camera, I fell in love!! (Laughs). The round head she has due to the silhouette of her short bob - I love that!!!! Her caramel coloured hair also stands out in her design!! She’s fresh!! And her eyes are big and round!! In terms of what makes up her design she’s not too different to Tome-san, but I really felt a girlishness in Mezato!!!! My heart is racing!!! But she never appears!!! Director, please include her more!!!!!!!! Let’s make “Mezato Psycho 100”!!!

HANAZAWA TERUKI

[Written in Osakan dialect that gets more intense as it goes on]

Teru-kun is a character whose appearance changes a lot - I designed 6 variations of his hair and clothes!!!!! That’s way too many!!!!! I don’t know if the number has significance but we see him in his 150% form the most, so I’ve gotten used to seeing him like that!!!! It makes me laugh so much! I wasn’t satisfied - I made his hair extend so far that you can’t even see the top of it usually! In the anime you could say his hair is at 200%!! I can’t decide between the version of him we first see, his bobbed hair version or his short hair version. How can I!!!!! Let’s bring back his 150% hair!!!!!!! Wow, I’ve gone full Osaka dialect here. The colour of his sweater was decided to my taste. Director’s sole judgement was that it’s cute and resembles pyjamas.

GOUDA MUSASHI

As you’d expect, I really fussed over President Gouda of the Body Improvement Club as he’s a popular character!! His characteristics are his caterpillar-like sideburns and eyebrows, his soft mohican hair, and his brawny body. He’s unexpectedly hard to draw (laughs), I suppose I had trouble with him. Above all else The Body Improvement Club’s existence gives a sense of security within Mob Psycho 100 - they’re strong and brave, but it was pretty difficult trying to make sure their facial expressions weren’t too intense!!!!! Kumagawa, Sagawa, Yamamura, Shimura… these are characters who I’d love to delve deeper into!!

KAGEYAMA RITSU

I tried to make Ritsu-kun have more of an adult-like aura than Mob. He barely smiles, so he has an intense look in his eyes. I kept in mind that his eyes are only allowed to become soft when he’s with Mob. His irises are bigger than Mob’s own, so there’s a bit of a difference there. Also, he gets a mid-anime gloom story, so I decided to make his hair a little bit on the longer side. His hair is flexible - I’d make his bangs/fringe longer or shorter depending on his expression. When he’s possessed by Dimple he’s magnificent, using his powers as a weapon. His eyes become even more intense, his hair gets all ruffled up and spiky, and he’s overflowing with confidence. ONE-sensei’s manga have all become like that, too, actually!!!!! Ahahahaha!!!!!!!!

ONIGAWARA TENGA

With Onigawara and his three lackeys, I gave them baggy pants to try and up their rural-delinquent-trashiness factor. Onigawara’s anime features are his baggy pants and the tape he has on his cheek. It gives off the impression that he’s some king of the punks who’s always getting injured… but truth is, it’s probably just there to cover up a pimple (laughs). He’s in a situation where he’s bettering himself after the recorder incident, so perhaps the next time we see him he’ll have given up on those baggy pants and will wear the same clothes as everyone else!!!!!! Switching topics, what’s up with those two wrinkles he has under each eye?? Please enlighten us, ONE-sensei!!!!!!

KOYAMA

You know, since Mob and Reigen use flip phones I thought that was the standard for the Mob Psycho 100 universe, but then we have Koyama with his smartphone. Sakurai uses a flip phone, too. So, only Koyama has a smart phone? What videos does he watch on it? Which apps does he have installed… it’s a mystery… a mystery!!!! Please enlighten us, ONE-sensei!!!! Switching topics, I’m pleased with the unique aura that his special move, Telekinetic Helix, has. Mob, Teru, Ritsu, Claw… everyone has their own particular colours!!

AWAKENING LAB 

Hoshino-kun, Asahi-kun, Kurosaki-san, and the Shiratori brothers all have a sense of individuality, so I suppose it was easy to visualise what colours they might have!! For Hoshino-kun, the process was; Hoshino [star field] -> hoshi [star] -> star -> Nishikino Akira [A Japanese celebrity with a song titled ‘Passionate Star Disco’] -> white!! I thought, his clothes definitely have to be white (laughs). Kurosaki-san’s clothes are sporty but not particularly fashionable, Asahi-kun was designed with a ‘you’re almost there’ feeling, and the silent Shiratori brothers have plain clothes… it was with that that I decided the colours of these five, having them all be out of fashion. Episode 10 had Oda-san as its animation director - he drew a very good and cute Kurosaki-san!

TERADA

What stands out with Terada’s design is his T-shirt that droops below his left shoulder - is it a fashion statement, or is it simply worn out of shape? Who knows!! As something special to the anime, his middle fingers that present his special move, “air whip”, are adorned with jewelled rings! I’ll leave it up to you all to decide whether or not those rings have some hidden secret to them. Out of all the upper echelon members of Claw, Terada has the richest facial expressions -  plus, he’s voiced by Tachiki-san - so even when he’s undergoing water torture, despite the cruelty of the situation, he still comes across as good and charming!!!!!

MATSUO

Matsuo is monotone-ish in the manga, but, “I could give him a magician-ish feel?”. So now he has a dark green shirt with yellow lines. The vase he carries has a bunch of colourful stickers on it, so I tried to make sure Matsuo himself wasn’t too flashy or he and his vase would clash!! Candy-chan and Cookie-chan were also fun to draw!!!! Their colours are also good!!!!

SAKURAI

This simple, undecorated design is rather like him. I tried to make sure it didn’t look like he was wearing mourning clothes. I included red in the handle of his katana. I intended for his hair colour to be a natural, slightly dark brown… but looking at him on TV, it ended up being more of an unexpectedly lighter brown… Not my intention, lol. His slicked back hair was pretty hard to draw!!! The atmosphere of his design changes depending on how much of a forehead he’s given, the silhouette of his slicked back hair, and the application of highlights. Ah, this is unrelated, but me and his voice actor, Hosoya-san, are from the same area! We’re also similar in age, so I kinda feel an affinity toward him!!!!! You didn’t need to know that.

ISHIGURO

First off, I already knew that in the manga there’s an old man beneath that mask, so I gave him a hunched back! Following a request by the Director I made his boots plump, round, and cute!!!! With that, the woman’s voice that comes out of him with the mask on suits him!! You can really feel how cornered Ishiguro is during the season 1 finale, thanks to the power of his voice actor and the lead animator!!!!! It’s just, he has so many scars on his face that I felt sorry for him, so I want to find out more about him!!! I look forward to seeing him in an active role again!!!! ...Will he appear again, I wonder.

MURAKI

Muraki looks more like he’s in cosplay in the anime than he does in the manga (laughs). Following an idea from the director, I gave him a cloak and a mark on his chest that’s connected to the mark on his forehead!!! He’s even wearing boots!!! His design is all put together with purple in a fashion-conscious way!!! Anyway, it seems the director’s favourite colour is purple. Muraki, purple, muraki, murasaki[purple], director, murasaki[purple], muraki, purple. Something I fussed over with his suit beneath the cloak was giving it a gleaming lustre much like latex would have… makes you unsure of whether or not it’s a high quality suit. All in all, it costs 9800 yen!! A bargain price of 9800 yen! Now then, you there, sitting in front of the TV - together with the director, Let’s Muraki!!!!

--

Twitter crosspost here.

Season 2 notes here.

[writingandmore]

Hello! Can I have a matchup for HP (preferably marauders) and Star Wars? Thank you!

I’m an INFP muggle born slytherin. My enneagram is counter phobic 6w5 and my moral alignment is chaotic good. I’m about 5’1”. I have dark brown (almost black) layered hair with curtain bangs. I have dark brown almond shaped eyes and tan skin. Most of the time I’m the mom friend: always looking out and caring for my friends. I'm a bit quiet and introverted but once I trust you enough to open up I tend to be sarcastic and tease. I don’t trust easily, but once I do I’m very loyal. I’m also a very passionate person who feels emotions very deeply and can be pretty soft with certain people. I like doing adventurous stuff and exploring (intellectually and physically) and feel especially connected to nature and space. I love to try and understand things from different perspectives, however I don’t always agree with them. I LOVE music (anything from rock to classical). I like to read, write, and watch movies (fantasy, action, sci-fi, or mystery). I do martial arts and I ABSOLUTELY LOVE daggers (I also train with nunchucks, staffs, double stick, and butterfly knife, but daggers are my favorite). My fighting style and how I move is very smooth and sharp, much like water or air. I’d like to think I’m strong— both mentally and physically— but it’s more of a quiet strength. I’m confident in who I am and what I can do even if it doesn’t fit the way things normally are. I find my own way to express, defend, and present myself. I love fashion and my style/aesthetic consists of dark academia, indie, dark cottagecore, and vintage. I like silver rings a lot. I play piano, ukulele, sing, draw, and anything creative. I’m a dreamer with a big imagination.

Thank you :)

HP: Remus!

- Remus is also very much a mom friend-some of his other friends, like James and Sirius, don't have as much caution as he does, so he tries his best to look out for them when it's called for. He'd like your personality a lot since it matches his own, and he'd love to have an extra person around who he knows he can 100% depend on. He'd also get a kick out of your sarcastic and funny personality once he gets to know you too-again, he's very much the same way and only opens up once he's comfortable.

SW: Poe!

- Poe can be hot headed and also feels things very deeply when he's passionate about a topic or situation. It might be hard for you both to regulate your emotions if you're both worked up, but the sense of understanding that you'll share would help a lot in day to day interactions. He'd also love to go adventuring with you into the wilderness on different planets! He's definitely a free spirit at heart who loves to try new things, so that would work out very well for the both of you.

[greytoiletpaper]

Bathe Me in the Purest Water (I Don’t Feel Clean)

Yeah, so I wrote this like a couple months ago and i only just caught up with the manga and just... wow. I loved it, and I guess I just want this solidified here :). And yes, this fic was originally inspired by this comic, I love it so.

AO3 link

It is a shrieking wail bouncing off the walls of the Todoroki household at ungodly hours of the morning that has Touya bolting upright drenched in a cold sweat. Briefly, he wonders how fucked up it is that he thought he was hallucinating the sound. It is nothing like the cries of his siblings he has long since memorized. Yet, something about the sounds is so raw and so young, that refuting them as little Shouto’s cries is impossible.

Touya finds himself sprinting from his room, searching all over for the source of Shouto’s wails. The awful noise rings from every room and in his eardrums that he even considers whether the youngest Todoroki somehow developed a second quirk. Enji would have a field day with that. His mind is compartmentalizing, but joking is the only way he can stay sane when Shouto’s wailing turns into screaming. When he stumbles into the kitchen, he wishes that the joke was reality rather than the sight that greets him.

There is a kettle in the shaking hand of his mother while she mutters her husband’s name under her breath. Her eyes dart around every part of the room except the screaming face of her youngest son. A raw burn is on Shouto’s face, marred and angrily red as if a scalding liquid has run over it. There is evidence abound to figure out what happened, but that is yet to be Touya’s concern. For the rest of his life, no sound will ever haunt him as much as his baby brother’s screams turning into a weak gurgle.

He misses the way that Rei flinches when he moves closer, how his mother shrieks her husband’s name even though Enji only returns home from his mission tomorrow. Instead, all his attention is on the brother who looked up at Touya like he hung the stars curl up in a ball and shake. It is five seconds later when his other siblings rush into the room that Touya snaps out of his fugue. He gathers Shouto in his arms, whispering frantic platitudes in his ears and praying for the health of his baby brother.

Todoroki Touya is twelve when he has to bandage half of his five-year-old brother’s face. Their mother is sent to a mental health ward the next day, and their already-burning family peels more at the edges.

---

It is beautiful, the way that its form crinkles and curves at the edges. In all of his time with Cremation, he has never seen the azure flames seem so… gentle. Endeavour’s fire is like his rage, pure concentrated firepower that is only broken by small, consistent licks of flames at the edges. Touya’s flames are akin wildfire, they lash and lance and branch out in a chaotic collage that only he seems to be able to tell discern the individual licks of flame. Yet, in his hand, the flames seem so docile in their current shape, made of small bits of fire that skirt and weave themselves in a trance-inducing pattern.

Their shape is simple, but the forget-me-nots that his flames have formed are the product of the past three weeks of hard work and practise. Since Enji has stopped training Touya in favour of Shouto, he has had so much more time to focus on fine-tuning his quirk. His father taught him how to make his flames hotter and so much more destructive but here before his eyes is the proof that his fire can be used to make something instead.

He tries not to be guilty at the fact he gets to have this while his baby brother is beaten black and blue the floor below him.

Across him, his mother’s face lights up in her scarce, genuine smile that reminds him that even with all her cracking pieces, Rei Todoroki is still a mother that loves just as much as she is hurt. (She is so very hurt and there is nothing he can do to take it all away). It is thanks to her that he even learned controlling his quirk is possible.

It seems ironic, that he learned how to destroy with his flames from his pro hero father but is learning fine control from his civilian mother.

“That’s a beautiful flower Tou-chan,” He blushes at the nickname, but his mother is rarely happy, so he does not protest. “I hope one day all of you can do this with your quirks, it’s such beautiful artwork we can make with what we have been given.”

With her ice, his mother forms a beautiful, twinkling rindou flower and cups it in her hand. It is breathtaking to look at, seemingly ethereal with the frost emanating and little flecks of snow dancing in the lamplight. It is rare for Rei to use her quirk and every time, Touya is lost in the way that the ice seems to flow and skirt as if a small part of a blizzard appeared and made her craft. If he looks closer, the movement of his mother’s ice is familiar, shifting and undulating in ways so, so similar to how his fire is in his hand right now.

The quirk doctors said Touya inherited his mother’s constitution, everyone assumed it meant he was weak. He can apparently control his fire as if it were an ice quirk. Using Cremation for too long makes him feel like he is physically melting. In hindsight, he should have realised just how literal the quirk doctors were being.

---

He read in a textbook once that sometimes twins can swap their intended quirks in the womb. Fuyumi grabs the kettle from its undoubtedly searing bottom without even a wince, even though she has an ice quirk that freezes her arm at just a second’s usage. For the time being, it was the furthest thing from his mind. Shouto only barely breathing and all Touya wants is to hold someone so young and already so scarred in his arms and take all his tears for himself.

---

A week later, Enji puts Shouto back into training. Everyone protests this, but there is hardly anything they can say that can sway their father when he pulls his Endeavour face and disregards them in his own way of lovingly shoving his other children to the ground. Does Touya feel some satisfaction that the old man hesitated for a second before he lays his hand on Fuyumi? A little, but it fades as quickly as it came when there is still nothing stopping the prick from forcing their baby brother from being put back into what is no doubt extra hours to make up for “valuable training time gone to waste”.

Enji’s words, not his.

Frustration, anger and pain – so much pain – is what spurs Touya into action. He leaps onto Endeavour’s back, furiously trying to pry Shouto from the sick bastard’s hands and earns a knee to the gut for his efforts. Enji leaves him in the hallway and even though his other siblings are moving him to his room all he can think is how his baby brother looks so afraid as if he knows this time there will not be a mother to comfort any of them afterwards.

---

He wakes to the sound of Shouto’s tears slightly muffled in the central courtyard. The sun is only on the cusp of rising but sleep had eluded him for hours regardless. In the morning rays, his baby brother’s face is a mess of tears and aborted hiccups. A pang sounds in his chest, Shouto is so young (they all are) and he already has to learn how to make himself silent in fear of the flaming shadow that is their father. There is a small patch of ash by Shouto’s feet and soot on his face. Touya has a hunch as to what happened, but it never hurts to see his brother’s perspective.

“What’s wrong, Shou?” His question is met with silence, so he pushes on. “Did you burn yourself?”

Only an idiot would ignore how Shouto flinches at the question, so Touya crouches gently to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. His baby brother does not relax, but a soft mumble just barely escapes him.

“It’s scary.”

“What’s scary?”

“His half.”

Touya frowns, just because Enji is why Shouto has fire, does not make it solely their father’s fire. Even then, no child should live in fear of their quirk. Although, looking down at the skin grafts on his wrists, Touya is in no place to judge his baby brother’s fear.

“Why do you think it’s scary?”

Another silence stretches out, and Touya can see his baby brother’s struggle to process the words. He almost changes the topic when the rest of Shouto’s confession spills out.

“It looks too much like his. I don’t want to burn myself too much and I still can’t control it. But dad keeps pushing me and- and I don’t want to-.”

Shouto looks like he is going to explode with tears, the wicks of flame and ice coming off him signal how close he is to a meltdown that would no doubt bring their father in screaming. Without thinking, he pulls his brother close, enveloping his tiny shoulders with his arms and making soothing motions on his back. While Shouto quietly sobs into his shoulder, Touya ruminates on how to comfort the boy with how to control his fire, which is the exact train of thought that makes him huff a laugh.

“Hey Shou, I’m going to try teach you something Mom taught me. You wanna see?” Looking at the soft, tentative smile Shouto gives him when Touya pulls away, he cannot help but be drawn by how much it reminds him of their mother’s. He holds out his hand palm up before his brother. “She taught me how to control the pieces so that it hurts a little less.”

The courtyard is thrown in shadows highlighted by the blue of Touya’s flames, and he can see just how enamoured Shouto’s face is in the azure light. He has the curls of his fire shift and form the forget-me-not that he has been practising making for so long.

“See Shou? Fire is not always that scary.”

Shouto only makes a small noise of assent, his eyes still entranced by the small dancing movements of his eldest brother’s fire. He reaches out, hesitantly, and tries to cup his hands around the flames.

“Can I learn how to make one?” The change in attitude throws off Touya for only a moment, but the shy, almost hopeful look in his brother’s eye would never have him say no even at gunpoint. He smiles.

“’Course Shou,” It is still a gamble trying to see if Shouto can use his fire this way, but Touya cups his brother’s hands anyway. “Try making a little fire first.”

The flame in Shouto’s hands starts off as little embers before igniting into a small flame just about the size of the boy’s fist.

“If you start off small and make all the pieces of your fire slow down even just a little, you can make things with them.”

Shouto frowns at the words, mulling them over in his head as the fearful parts of his face fade away into the focus he is exhibiting now. Slowly, the licks of flame seem to move in a blend of wild, yet seemingly calculated movements as they form into a stem. Shouto giggles even as it holds the form for all of five seconds before they give out. Touya laughs at the adorable pout that crosses Shouto’s face and holds his hand out for a high five.

“That was a great job, Shou!” It is. Touya took way longer to have that kind of focus and he held the stem for only half the time. He says as much. “Don’t worry that you can’t make the full flower right now. Mom and I can teach you. One day, your flames make a shape that means a lot to you and you only.”

As he ruffles Shouto’s hair and the boy gives him that look like he hung the very stars, Touya sees the shadow of his father crossing the walkway above them. Moment over, Touya picks his brother up and faces him away from Enji while staring the man down.

“You want something to eat?” Shouto makes a mumble that roughly translates to ‘cold soba’ and Touya laughs in spite of himself. “Come on buddy, I’ll take you to mom and fix some up for you.”

---

The water scalds his skin and his thoughts are a jumble of painmakeitstopmompleaseimsorry on half of his face. It is not just the water that hurts, but the knowledge that that can be reminded to him is how half of him has fire just like his father’s. As the searing pain finally starts to die down, little but important pieces of him (memories of nights huddled with a mother to see his fire as his own, his brother making those shapes with his hands) seem to leak out with his tears.

---

Touya dies in a fire starting from his seventh attempt to pull Shouto from training with Enji. Touya dies when his wildfire swarms him and his skin blisters and melts. Touya dies as the skin grafts are stapled on to his body and even without nerves in those places, he can still feel the flames as they enveloped him. Touya dies… and Dabi rises from his ashes.

[corinnesamuels]

Takes A Little Extra Time, But It All Works Out

    I can’t live without you, set my goals around you

Takes a little extra time, but it all works out

    Lily never had been a morning person.

  And as the sun filters through the curtains of their bedroom window, casting shadows and streams of light across her face, James finds himself grateful for quiet moments like these, taking her in and marveling at how a sod like him had ever gotten so lucky.

  He can’t imagine a version of his life without her, even on their worst days.

  They’d had plenty of them. Their days as kids at Hogwarts before he’d grown out of being an arrogant berk. Petty disagreements that escalated into all-out rows . . . and then, as much as he’d like to forget it, there was the war. 

  He’d hated those days.

  They had given up their lives to become soldiers. They were too young to have seen the things they’d seen during those years. The disappearances and deaths, the stories of torture. It had challenged everything they had thought they were. But Lily had been a beacon for him. Not just a girlfriend or a wife, but a partner he could literally go to war with. James had thrown himself in front of more wands than he could count for her, ready to give his last without a moment’s hesitation. She hated it, but she understood. She had often done the same for him.

  And then they’d had Harry. Their beautiful, happy boy. James beamed with pride at the thought of their son, his spitting image, but with the same eyes he’d fallen in love with a thousand times over. He was perfect, even on the nights he cried all evening and couldn’t be consoled.

  . . . Okay, he was a little less perfect on those nights. But his son hung the moon.

  But somehow, before Harry had even started crawling, he’d ended up with a target on his back. He’d never forget the day Dumbledore told them that Voldemort believed the prophecy referred to their son. To his son.

  They’d gone into hiding right away. James and Lily did their best to make their small cottage feel more like a home and less like a prison, wanting to focus on creating the best life possible for Harry and for each other. Harry and Lily had been troopers and kept him sane. He tried his best to hide how difficult a time he had been having with it, but he never had been good at sitting still for very long.

  And just when it seemed like they were losing hope, Voldemort was gone, and they were free again. They could take Harry to the park and for walks in the pram. They went to quidditch matches, where he told his old teammates at Puddlemere that his son was a star chaser in the making and already had a better arm than them, the wankers. They retaliated by getting him pissed at the pub that night, and Lily was none too pleased. She spent the next morning hiding the hangover potion, letting Harry be as loud as possible in James’ ear, and cooing about what a great seeker Harry would be.

  He’d married an evil genius.

  Once she finally took pity on him and gave him the hangover potion, he took Harry’s miniature stuffed quaffle and did Quidditch drills with him in the back yard. Harry, still in nappies, spent most of the time distracted by various things and yelling “Kidish!” every so often. It mattered not. James had a point to prove.

  Now that Harry was approaching his fourth birthday, James’ work of indoctrinating his son was paying off. Harry pulled James outside nearly every day for a fly, insisting on riding the toy brooms Sirius kept buying him for his birthdays until he wanted to fly higher and allowed James to fly the two of them on his Comet. Until then, James always hovered alongside Harry on his broom, ready to jump into action if necessary, though he was never too worried. Harry had a remarkably strong grip for his age. But yesterday, Harry had gotten distracted by an owl delivering the post, and James had to leap over the broom to catch him. He wasn’t quite in the same shape he had once been in, so the two Potters ended up toppling over into the mud.

  Lily was none too pleased when they trekked mud into the sitting room after flying around for a little longer. James and Harry both grinned at her sheepishly, running muddy hands through their identical mops of jet-black hair. James tidied it up with a wave of his wand, and after giving Harry a bath and putting him down for a nap, he made sure to make it up to her thoroughly.

  He was thinking of making it up to her again right now, actually.

  He pulled her closer to him, and she nuzzled into his neck instinctively, still very much asleep. He ran a hand down her side, skimming the hem of her nightgown as he did some quick calculations. Remus was undoubtedly still exhausted from the full moon, so he wouldn’t have the energy to watch Harry, who had been giving the Marauders a run for their sickles lately. None of them remembered their joints being nearly as achy as they were after spending a day keeping up with Harry.

  He hoped Sirius had been doing his stretches because he was about to call in a favor. Making up his mind, he reached for the mirror in his side-table drawer.

  “Why do I get the idea that you’re up to mischief?” Lily said into his neck, making him shiver a bit.

  “I’m calling Sirius to watch Harry for the day so that we can get into some mischief.” He said, rolling on top of her and pressing his hips into hers to prove his point. “Harry needs a sibling.”

  Lily laughed, a tinkering sound that he could never get enough of. “Making this about Harry’s needs, are we?”

  “More than one thing can be true at a time, love.” He said, kissing her on the neck. She sighed.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have time for mischief this morning. I have to check on the potions stores at St. Mungo’s today.”

  “Have someone else check. I’ll pay them double their rate for the day.”

  Lily laughed again, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re too rich for your own good.”

  “We. What’s mine is yours, love. And I really don’t want to share you with St. Mungo’s today when we could be spending the day in bed.” He said, resuming his work on her neck and that spot behind her ear that he liked.

  “Not even with Harry?” At this, James paused his ministrations and propped himself on his elbows to look her in the eyes.

  “Harry is the most clever, beautiful boy in all of Britain, and a world cup chaser in the making.” He said, ignoring Lily’s eye roll. “But today is a day for him and his Uncle Padfoot to wreak havoc on some unsuspecting township not called Godric’s Hollow. I can feel it in my bones. And I’d very much like to feel you on my bones while they’re gone.”

  She giggled this time, clearly enjoying his suffering, but James powered through.

  “If we’re quick, we can get a round in before Harry wakes up and iron out the rest of the details la—”

  The pitter-patter of tiny feet, followed by a crash in the hallway and the angry howls of their aging cat, quickly derailed that line of thinking. James rolled off of her with a disappointed groan.

  Lily sat up and reached for her dressing gown. “I’ll go see what the damage is. You call Sirius and let Gringotts know your latest plans to be reckless with your galleons.” She said with a wink.

  James’ eyes nearly bulged out his head, and he dove for the side table drawer with such force that he very nearly knocked it over. “Our galleons!” he called, as an afterthought.

  He grabbed the mirror and called for Sirius. “James!” he smiled when his face appeared in the mirror.

  “Padfoot! Listen, I need a favor—”

  “James?”

   “Sirius, can you hear me?” Something wasn’t right. They had never had trouble communicating through their mirrors before.

  “James? Wake up—”

  “Wake up? I’m not asleep. What’s going on?” A rat raced across the bedroom into the hallway. Where did that come from? 

  No, something was wrong.

  He felt someone shaking him, and suddenly he wasn’t talking to Sirius, but Lily. He blinked twice in confusion, but there she was, shaking him awake, a one-year-old Harry—not four—babbling happily at her hip.

  He’d had that dream again. The one where they’d made it to the other side of the war and were a happy family in a comfortable cottage, and not a family in hiding because a madman wanted to kill his son.

  James deflated. It was the third time this week. It had felt so real this time . . .

  “Dah-deeee! ‘ake up!” Harry yelled, bringing a soft smile to James’ face.

  “Harry says it’s time for breakfast. Didn’t you, my darling?” Lily coos into Harry’s cheek.

  “No!” Harry said with glee. It had been his favorite word as of late. 

  James chuckled and put on his brave face again. “Is that so? Well, I can’t let the two of you go unfed, now can I?”

  He ran a hand through his hair before tickling Harry’s round tummy, kissing his temple as he giggled and squirmed in Lily’s arms. “Fairly certain this one wants porridge. But what does my beautiful wife want for breakfast?” James asked, kissing Lily on his favorite spot behind her ear.

  “Mmm . . . surprise me. You’re quite good at that, you know.”

  “Well, you know I’m not the type to pat myself on the back, but if you insist.” He lifted Harry up into his arms as she laughed.

  They walked to the kitchen, and James set about making breakfast while Lily made tea. Harry sat in his highchair playing with his stuffed quaffle and the stuffed black dog Sirius had gotten him last week.

  “You had the dream again, didn’t you?” Lily asked softly. James sighed and nodded, focusing harder than necessary on the empty stove in front of him. He didn’t want to worry her, but it was hard to do when he was worried himself.

  Lily glanced at him before making his tea just the way he liked, which was, coincidentally, the way she hated. She handed him the cup, and he took it gratefully, running a hand through his hair after taking a sip.

  She didn’t tell him it would be okay. They weren’t in the habit of making each other promises they couldn’t keep. But she squeezed his arm before coming to hug him from behind. “We’ve still got a lot of fight left.” She said.

  He took her hand and kissed just below her wedding ring, the solitaire diamond and gold band that had once belonged to his mother. “We do.”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head slightly, almost as if to clear out the dark clouds hovering over him. “Anyways, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What do you think about getting one of Hagrid’s pumpkins for next week? We can’t take Harry out for that barmy trick-or-treating thing, but there’s no reason he can’t have a great Halloween right here.”

  “Where on earth would we put one of Hagrid’s giant pumpkins?” she asked, looking around the sitting room.

  “We’re magic, love. We’ll find a way.”

    Author's Note: Ah! I'd had this idea stuck in my head for months and finally decided to give this a try. I don't get to do much creative writing these days, so it was a fun pandemic activity. The post is also here on ao3.