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parkers-gal · 4 months ago

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promise J.B.

summary: bucky is protective over reader, the new lab assistant and resident doctor at the compound

wc: 2k

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

a/n: no warnings (lmk if i missed anything). barely proof read. requests are open!

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the first time he met you, he was expecting dr. cho’s usual lab assistant. it was meant to be a brief check in after his latest mission with sam, just a minor tweak to a piece of tech on his uniform.

“hey, do you thin-” bucky strides in to dr. miller’s office, full tactical suit still on. he’d came straight from the quinjet, but glancing up from his arm holster he notices that dr. miller’s office is now replaced by your office.

you look up from your lab report, a pile of open wires laying beside it as you twiddle with the machinery. “oh, i’m sorry. i think dr. banner forgot to notify you: dr. miller transferred to shield co-op missions. i’m his replacement.” you wipe the sweat from your hand onto your white lab coat and stand from your chair. “i’m y/n.”

bucky reads the nametag on your labcoat, dr. l/n. “oh.” his eyes move from the tag to your eyes. “sorry.”

your smile immediately shifts whatever emotions he just had about the situation. your expression is soft and for a moment, bucky thinks you’re too innocent to be working in a business surrounded by violence. it provokes something deep in his stomach, something he can’t quite place.

“i’d be happy to assist you with whatever you need, though!” you smile again, this one giving bucky an even warmer feeling through his chest. “i already read all of dr. miller’s previous lab reports, and i’m just as good with needles as i am with technology.” you shift your head towards the mutilated hardware on your desk, then smile back at bucky.

he almost chuckles. almost. instead, he adorns a smirk, so subtle you might not have caught it had you not been staring at him, waiting for a reply. hesitantly, he steps forward, holding his arm out to show you what he needs changed.

that was four months ago. now, bucky looks for any excuse to head to your office, whether it be a slightly twisted wrist, a broken button on his suit, or even a question about a new weapon for his next mission.

“what can i do for you today, james?” your back is turned to him. you’re busy fiddling with a microscope, but bucky can hear the smile on your face.

“bucky,” he corrects. “are you going to tony’s gala this saturday?”

you stop squinting and stand upright, turning to face him. you have a quizzical look on your face. “do doctors usually go to those sorts of things?”

bucky shrugs. “i think dr. cho has before.”

you hum, turning back to the microscope. “well, i do need to catch up with natasha…” you turn the knob for the lens. “is that why you came to see me?”

he pauses. you hear his feet shuffling and smile to yourself. “i just wanted to ask about… my… belt.”

you suppress a laugh and face him again “really?” you grin. “your belt?”

he hums, a tint spreading on his cheeks.

“well, i haven’t had lunch yet, if you would like to get something for us, we can talk about your belt during my break.”

his head perks up at that. “okay, i’ll be back in twenty.”

he’s out of the room so quick and it makes you smile again. as you turn back to the microscope, somebody else enters.

“back alread- oh.”

john walker.

you have never been particularly fond of him, especially after a heated argument he had with sam and steve a couple months back. he works for shield, but sometimes they send him to the avenger’s compound to retrieve specific types of upgrades or get intel about an overlapping mission.

“aw, don’t seem too disappointed, sweets.” he smiles, the image disgusting you.

you walk away from the microscope towards a centrifuge sitting on the opposite counter.

“what can i help you with?”

“what, i come all this way and i can’t just talk to you?”

you bite your lip. “i’m afraid i don’t understand.”

he laughs. “i want to get to know you.”

“like right now?”

“right now… over dinner…” he smiles again, the same disgusting one. “whichever you prefer.”

unsure on how to reply, you turn back to the machine. “i don’t know if that’s appropriate.”

“but it’s okay if you do it with bucky?”

“what about me?” bucky steps through the door with a bag of food in one hand. once noticing john, his jaw clicks. “what are you doing here?”

“just wanted to talk to the lady, that’s all.” he shrugs his shoulders. “is that against the law?”

“it is if she doesn’t want that.”

your gaze shifts to bucky. his blue eyes are piercing, and his gaze is colder than any he’s ever given you. you sense the tension growing the longer he stares at john.

john interrupts the silence. “what’s the issue, man?” he steps towards bucky. it’s a small step, but it has bucky rigid. “it’s not like she’s taken. she’s free game.”

bucky scoffs. “if you speak about women like they’re prizes to win then you don’t deserve to speak to them.”

your heart flutters. after all he’s been through, bucky still chooses to be an amazing guy. your admiration for him only grows.

“nobody said anything about that.” john raises his hands in surrender. “don’t get jealous… it’s not like she’s yours…”

his jaw clenches again. you can see his hands are balled into fists at his side. faintly, you hear the whirring of the metal plates in his arm.

“i think you should leave.”

bucky steps aside, clearing a space for john to walk out the door. reluctantly, he leaves, but not before sparing you another glance and whispering a “call me.”

when he’s finally left the room, you exhale, glancing back to bucky and his tense shoulders.

“thank you… for that.”

he blinks. his eyes finally find you and he blinks away the tension.

“of course. you shouldn’t have to put up with that, especially in your place of work.”

you nod and a shy smile takes over your face. you move a strand of hair to behind your ear and turn back to the machine so bucky doesn’t notice your face. he does anyway.

“so, lunch?”

═══════════ ⋆★⋆ ═══════════

saturday evening rolls around and, after having double checked with tony and natasha about the validity of your invitation, you get dressed for the gala. the dress fits your form and drapes down to just below your knees. you pair it with a simple pair of heels and your favorite necklace.

you hope bucky likes it.

stop. that’s inappropriate. we’re work colleagues. he would’ve helped out any girl that needed it, he-

oh fuck.

you notice him immediately. he’s sat at the bar talking to steve, legs draped off the bar seat, thighs thick even in his dress pants. his long hair is neatly swept back, and the glass of bourbon in his metal hand clinks from the ice.

natasha spots you first. she was just by the entrance, and she immediately greets you.

“how are you?”

you smile at her, happy to be with her after having not had the chance lately. “good, busy in the lab as always.”

she chuckles understandingly. “seems like tony has everyone working overtime.”

she goes on about one thing or another, but at some point you tune her out because bucky has finally noticed you. you can tell he’s tuned steve out too.

he can’t stop staring. granted, he always stares at everyone, but the way he looks at you differs from that so much. it has your knees weak and you can feel your heart pound a little harder in your chest. his tongue darts out to wet his lips and the faintest smirk appears on his face.

steve turns around to see what his best friend is staring at. noticing you, he leans his head back at the sudden enlightenment and faces bucky. he speaks lowly, “why don’t you ask her out?”

bucky jerks his head towards steve. “what?” he’s defensive at having just been caught. “why would i do that?”

steve rolls his eyes. “because visiting her office everyday is totally normal…” his tone is laced with sarcasm.

you’ve been spending too much time with sam.

“shut up.”

“so you don’t like her, then?”

“i-” bucky huffs. “i never said that.”

“well, i’d act fast.”

his brows furrow. “Why?”

steve points towards you and bucky’s gaze shifts from his best friend to you. there, john walker attempts to offer you a drink, and bucky can tell even from his distant spot at the bar that you’re smiling to be polite.

he doesn’t reply to steve, abandoning his drink and his friend at the bar as he makes his way over to you.

“can i help you?”

john has to turn to look at bucky, his smile dropping. you can tell he’s aggravated by the presence of the former winter soldier.

“no, i think we’re good.” he doesn’t even attempt to make his smile look genuine.

“i don’t think we are.” bucky steps closer to you. his head dips down, lips close to your ear as he speaks in a low whisper. “you okay, peaches?”

you smile, giddy at the sudden pet name. you nod gently, grateful for bucky’s care, and try not to bite your lip from the interaction.

“why don’t you go somewhere else?” bucky’s gentle tone is replaced with a stoic one, his annoyance for john returning.

“why can’t i just talk to the girl?” he looks at you expecting your defense.

bucky’s left hand wraps around your waist. his fingers rub your side softly, gracing your hip. your stomach flips in a fit of butterflies. the sudden act of affection has your knees buckling. you want him to pull you closer in case you collapse.

“she’s not interested.”

john’s eyes widen slightly and he backs away, muttering something under his breath. you feel bucky’s metal fingers squeeze your side slightly. he turns to look at you.

“i’m sorry about him.”

you can barely hold eye contact. “it’s not your fault.” a sudden boost in courage has you pulling your hand up to smooth out the lapel of his suit. “besides, you’re my hero.”

his eyes flicker with appreciation at having been called that. “yeah?”

you hum in agreement. his other hand reaches towards your face, tracing the hair that sits behind your ear, pinned up in the updo you’ve done for the gala. another stomach flip.

“in that case, does your hero get any reward?” he has a playful smirk, his tone light.

“i suppose…” you smile back. “got anything in mind?”

he pulls you until you're facing him directly. his other hand sits at your waist, too. now you can’t look away, forced to look into his eyes as he undresses you with them. he hums as if the answer sits on his tongue. his metal hand pulls you forward, forcing you to take a step closer to him. his flesh hand moves from your waist to your cheek, nose brushing against yours, delicate, like a dance. his breath fans against your face and your eyelids flutter shut. you exhale, a bundle of nerves leaving too.

his lips ghost against yours, waiting to see if you’d pull back or say you’re crossing a line. you don’t dare stop him. you feel his lips curve slightly; he’s smirking against you. before it grows anymore, his lips connect with yours, warm and supple and tender. he kisses you like every second is a promise, like he wants the world to know you’ll never be anyone else’s.

and now, you know it’s a promise he’ll never break.

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fangirl-in-general · 7 months ago

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How would Rhys and Pierce react that reader who a friend of Ava is a witch?

OOOOO I love this idea!! Rhys and Pierce are not my number one characters so forgive me if I screw up their personalities a bit but here goes!!

Warnings: slight suggestive content, I am not a practicing witch so I intentionally left it a little vague when it came to actual practices, some language, slight violence in Pierce's oneshot, lmk if I missed anything!

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Rhys

It hadn't been more than a month since Ava called me screaming and crying over some 'demons' taking over her life.

"Please you have to get them out!! They're driving me crazy!!"

"Get them out?? I'm not an exorcist! I'm a witch!! And a new one at that! I can barely cast a hex much less dispel evil spirits! Girl, call a priest!!" Aca and I have always had each other's backs, ever since high school. I was always the one she would call when she needed something and considering how lonely we both were and how hard it became for her to rely on other people, I felt it was an honor. Though she did overdo it from time to time.

"Spirits? What no! There's actually five men in my house claiming to be demons!!" Wait what...

"IT'S DAEMOS HUMAN!!! CORRECT IT OR I WILL!!!" The unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone made my heart sink to the floor and I immediately grabbed my keys and a can of wasp spray and raced out the door.

That was about two weeks ago, and I haven't left Ava alone since. They don't seem intent on taking advantage of her 'hospitality', but I wasn't going to take any chances. Especially not with how comfortable she had grown letting them wander about her house unsupervised. One of them went through her bra drawer like a lunatic for crying out loud!!! talking about 'sources of power' and what not.

Creeps...

Rhys, the only one who seemed relatively well adjusted, came and sat next to me at the kitchen counter. I kept my eyes glued to the cards in front of me.

The Tower Upright...

interesting

"Excuse me, I don't mean to intrude. What are those?"

A distracted smile makes its way to my face as I continue to shuffle the cards, another pops out. "Tarot cards. And you're not intruding as long as you don't take them from me like Asch did."

The Chariot reversed...

Rhys lets out a nervous chuckle and continues to inspect my actions. "Do they...do anything?"

I steal a glance; his brows are pressed together in concentration and his eyes pass between expectance and curiosity. "More or less. They're kind of like a guiding tool. We can use them to better understand ourselves and connect with the universe around us. They can be a useful way to prepare for coming events, or to better handle current ones. But most people don't believe in it so it's whatever I guess."

He gasps slightly. "Intriguing. So you use them to see the future and read minds?"

The snort that came out of me was far from intentional, but I honestly had no other idea how to react to that statement. "I mean, sure something like that."

"Can you read mine?"

I turned to him. "You want me to do a tarot reading for you?"

He nodded with more excitement than I had seen from any of them besides the pink one. I shrugged and began to reshuffle the cards. "Fine but just a basic one. I'm still a new witch and I don't wanna hear anything mean or judgy from someone who doesn't even-"

"You're a witch??"

For some reason I felt my blood run cold. I felt like a bug under a microscope, and I couldn't tell if the gaze he had fixed me with was simply observation, or calculation. Similar feelings with vastly different intentions. But both managed to send a shiver down my spine and a reluctant blush to my cheeks.

All I could muster was a nod before forcing myself back to shuffling.

"That's incredible!! Why did you not tell us before! Ava told us she was a powerful sorceress but TWO powerful magic users working together is surely a force to be reckoned with!! You must tell me what you know! I want to learn everything!"

His words forced a smile to my face, and I couldn't help the blush that accompanied it.

His praises continued. "I knew you had to be quite skilled to be so close to Princess Ava, but this explains it all! You were simply trying to hide your abilities so that we wouldn't expect your attack if something went wrong!! How incredibly intelligent!" He leaned forward, excitement practically bursting from him. "Please read this 'tarot' I simply must see your skills firsthand!"

I let a chuckle escape and went back to shuffling the deck. Two cards fell out.

"Death, and High Preist reversed..."

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Peirce

"You know what Leif!! One of these days you're gonna wish you kept your dirty little mouth shut for once!!"

Leif was (as usual) doing nothing but being the biggest menace he possibly could be. Stealing my phone, going through my things, screaming in my ear, shit talking, etc.

To say I had enough was an understatement. The only thing that kept me from wringing his neck was a large muscley arm wrapping around my torso and throwing me over his shoulder. "Hey! Wha- PEIRCE!!" My screaming didn't stop him from wordlessly lugging me to my room and tossing me onto the bed. Now I know what you're thinking 'omg that's so sexy this is totally about to get fun' well I thought the exact same thing the first three times this happened, and I'll admit the thought still crosses my mind the twelve times it's happened since then but NO! This is still a (mostly) family friendly blog after all (for now).

Anyway, I sit up with a groan and glare at Peirce who has made himself comfortable in the chair in the corner of the room. This happens so often that it's practically scripted at this point. Leif is an ass, I get frustrated, Peirce gets tired, carries me to my room, then babysits me so I won't go out and try to strangle the antagonistic fiend in the other room.

At this point I'm done. I'm so sick of Leif and his attitude and lack of consequences. Just because they think Ava is a powerful sorceress and they don't think I'm anything more than her confidant doesn't mean they get to push me around. Leif is gonna get what's coming to him.

I glance at Peirce who is sitting arms crossed, still watching me though his gaze is softer now. I jump off the bed and head to my desk. digging through the drawers I pull out some candles and begin flipping through the book of incantations I keep tucked under a floorboard. I used to store said book in my nightstand drawer but surprise surprise, the guys went rummaging through my things and I don't trust them not to mess with it.

I'm missing a key piece to the puzzle. "Hey Peirce?"

A hum can be heard from the corner.

"Could I talk you into stealing some of Leif's hair for me?" I turn and give him the sweetest least guilty smile I could muster. He rises slowly and stalks over to me looming as he stared into my eyes as if inspecting for a motive. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't realized how much larger than me he was, because I had defiantly noticed, and it was absolutely something I thought of frequently.

He let out quiet grunt and left the room. I was probably imagining the blush on his cheeks, but the image was going to stay in my head for a painfully long time.

"Peirce w- OW!!! YOU PRICK WHAT THE HELL!!!"

Leif's screaming was nothing new, but it almost made my heart swell to know that Peirce was willing to potentially start a confrontation just to get something I asked without any context at all. 'I should definitely kiss him for that'

He came back into the room holding a suspiciously large chunk of blond hair and handed it to me. I smiled at him, and he nodded before following me over to my desk.

"What are you doing?" His voice always caught me off guard. It was a beautiful, gentle, sound that filled my ears like a deep breath after drowning. I wish he would talk more but I didn't ever want to force him.

"I'm gonna hex him."

"Leif?"

I hum a confirmation and turn to the desk with the supplies. He continues his questioning. "On Daemos it takes a very skilled witch to perform such a task. Are you a skilled witch?"

I nod. The 'skilled' aspect was more or less true. My mentor was very skilled, and I'd been training under her for almost two years now, but I still had a long way to go, and she'd probably scold me big time for simply attempting this... but who said she had to know.

"So you are...magic?"

I turned to look at him. He stood next to the desk, eyes fixed on the task before me, and I couldn't help but smile as I responded. "Yea, something like that. Why?"

A flash of concern passed over his face, but it was quickly replaced with a soft smile that almost melted my heart to the floor.

"It's good to be powerful. I'm glad to know you can keep yourself safe while I can't." Pierce's words shot straight to my heart and tears instantly welled in my eyes.

"Thank you...Pierce." The blush that filled his cheeks at my words was enough to distract me from the fact that I had already lit the candles and was now burning the hair I held in my hands. "OW! SHIT!"

The hair fell from my hands right onto the carpet below us causing a mini panicked stomp dance to shake the room and probably the downstairs neighbor's entire apartment but that also probably the least obnoxious thing they've heard from up here so what can you do I guess.

Welp...there goes that hex...

Pierce begins to walk out the door. "I will bring you more." and despite the screams from the other room, the only expression I could muster was a flustered smile.

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I hope you enjoyed!! Please feel free to send feed back, this whole blog is an attempt to work on my writing skills so I'm completely open to suggestions and constructive criticism!

Hope you all have the best day!

#aphmau #minecraft #x reader #aphmau pierce #aphmau mid #aphmau rhys #my inner demons #daemos #mid rhys x reader #mid pierce x reader #aphmau x reader #oneshots #headcannons #aphmau pierce x reader #aphmau rhys x reader

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princesssmars · 10 months ago

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victoria with lab tech reader…nsfw.

when you were approached at your basic post-grad biomedical science research program with the opportunity to "study and develop a potentially groundbreaking medication", you immediately, but politely, called bullshit. but your boss and coworkers encouraged you once they heard the pay, so you accepted.

it was…challenging to say the least.

the lab and the workers were shady as hell, not telling you any details about the company you were working for, if you were even working for a company, what exactly this medication was for, etc etc. but the pay really was good, enough to help you splurge on yourself while also saving and paying off your student loans, so you couldn’t really complain.

after about two months of great work and progress on your tasks, the leads of your team told you that one of the head donors would like to “talk about utilizing your full potential”. you were expecting further praise for your work and maybe a pay boost, not to walk into an office with the super attractive congresswoman you’d seen on tv sitting at the desk.

she has just as much mysterious charisma as she had then, keeping eye contact as she pulls out your chair, waiting for you to sit before she places herself on top of the desk, pantsuit-covered leg only a few inches from yours. she gives you a mini rundown of why she personally picked you out from your university and she's been keeping a close eye on your personal progress to develop a cure for an unknown but deadly disease you had been keeping track of.

"so that's why im here? we're working on a disease?"

"yeah, you could say that."

her smile unnerves you but you don't mention it. nor do you bring up how weird it feels that a congresswoman would be following your manic studies over a disease that only ten thousand people in the world had. you do have to reel in your ego slightly, figuring this meant that your theories were legitimate.

things are weird after that. now that you have some more hints about what you are actually doing your work starts to move along slowly, even impressing your lead with the progress you started to make.

ok, maybe a tiny little part of it was so that when victoria came in on her weekly walk-throughs she'd observe your work and give you that pretty smile of hers, maybe even a 'great job, hun' if you were lucky.

as the weeks went by and the medication came along her affection only grew in intensity, from leaving coffee at your workstation to inviting you to take lunch breaks with her. it was odd and completely unprofessional, but when those slender fingers would move one of your stray hairs back in place while telling a story you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

but then it happens - that dreaded period in any medical science where just one stupid little thing stumps you for a week. you should be used to it at this point, having been through this process since you bought your first microscope in middle school. it doesn't make it any easier to power through though, especially when you know everyone on your team is depending on you to finish up your labs.

so now you've resorted to this, three red bulls and a heap of paperwork around you while you frantically rework the math on some of the work you need to turn in. you're a few minutes away from slumping over when a loud door slam forces you upright, looking to the entryway to make eye contact with victoria.

you dont know how it happens but you go from hunched over in your chair to lying on the comfy couch in her office, a short blanket draped over your body as you drowsily explain your conundrum to the older woman. she nods along the entire time, a soft hand rubbing up and down the bare expanse of your arm while she listens to your rambling.

'what on earth are you doing?' your brain asks yourself when you shift closer to her body that's sitting next to you, head delicately resting in her lap. 'are you really going to jeopardize your career like this?' when your eyes flutter when she runs her hand over your cheek and down your neck. she leans her head down ever so slowly until her lips are just barely pressing into yours, corners pulling up when she sees you arch your back in wait for her neck action.

"but you'll figure it out for me, won't you smart girl?"

you solved the problem the next morning.

i dont even wanna write for her GIVE HER BACK TO ME

#this was gonna be a lot h0rnier but I'm really tired so #the boys #gen v #the boys x reader #gen v x reader #victoria #victoria neuman #victoria x reader #victoria neuman x reader #victoria neuman fluff

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onefleshonepod · 1 year ago

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ID: A digital collage of "The Empress” tarot card as Commander Wake from the Locked Tomb series. The card shows a framed daguerrotype portrait of Wake at a wayside stone shrine reminiscent of a shrine to the Virgin Mary, with offerings of candles, syringes, microscope slides, and a diver’s bell. Wake is a Māori woman with moko wearing a hei-tiki, crowned with the twelve-star crown of the Virgin Mary. Above the shrine is an image of a baby floating on water, from Taranga by Robyn Kahukiwa, a contemporary Māori artist and scholar. In the background is an abstract swirl of teal, red, orange, and black. Wake’s image is from a photograph in the collection of Te Papa of an unknown Māori woman from the 1870s. The left side of the card shows the upright meaning of The Empress and reads, “Motherhood | The Natural World | Sensuality | Pregnancy | New Opportunity | Nurturing | Abundance” in all caps. The right side of the card shows the reversed reading and reads “Unwanted Pregnancy | Stagnation | Financial Issues | Negligence | Smothering | Lack of Growth” in all caps. The base of the card reads "The Empress | Wake” in a retro 1970s-style font. Before “Wake” is her full name in smaller text: Commander Awake Remembrance of These Valiant Dead Kia Hua Ko Te Pai Snap Back to Reality Oops There Goes Gravity.”

I think Wake, if she were a real person, would resent being used as an image of motherhood — an experience she hated and found so traumatic that her memories infected and destroyed Harrow’s River bubble in Harrow the Ninth. However, as a literary symbol of the Virgin Mary, narrative foil of The Emperor, and mother of the main character, I thought she was a fitting choice for the Empress. She embodies the meanings of the card in many ways:

As the commander of Blood of Eden, the group fighting the necromantic empire, Wake is symbolic of life and the natural world. As someone whose impulses in love led to affairs with not one but two enemy leaders, she symbolizes sensuality as well. Her story fits perfectly with the reversed meanings of this card, especially unwanted pregnancy and stagnation as a revenant in Gideon’s sword.

For the design of this card, I was inspired by the framed portraits of Wake we see in the Blood of Eden shuttle in Harrow the Ninth and in the Troia Cell meeting in Nona the Ninth. I imagined that Blood of Eden might have a tradition of leaving offerings at wayside shrines similar to the outdoor shrines to Mary and other saints seen in Catholic countries around the world.

We know that the Nine Houses only have early, labour-intensive forms of photography and print-making, so I chose to use a very old photograph for Wake. She is wearing the twelve-star crown of the Virgin Mary, just like the twelve-star crown of the Empress in the Rider-Waite-Smith card. The top of the card, showing Gideon as a baby, brings in the water and nature imagery from the RWS card.

#commander wake #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth #the locked tomb #tlt fanart #tlt #ours #tarot

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astracora · 6 months ago

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Turning Point - Part 4

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, Xavier Anecdote and Lightseeker Myth mentions.

Word Count: 4584

Written: 7th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. This one was rough for a lot of reasons. Also I think about how Xavier is the only confirmed character to watch MC die in his arms, way more than I should. So I feel like guilt is an emotion he would have to contend with the most. I'm also beyond heartbroken we didn't get him sobbing or reacting in game. Also I wrote like, so many side things while I was trying to work this bit out. But I've also gone back to chapter 3 to change the timeframe for Raffy's exhibit, so I can write out the chapter for him properly. (chapter? part?)

Now Playing: Starlight, by STARSET

Masterlist AO3

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Xavier can't focus, he knows Nero is talking to him. If he had to make a guess, he knows the topic… he just can't make himself hear it.

He doesn't dislike Nero, and while he couldn't care less about the topic of Lumiere, least of all when you talk about him, he normally listens. Because Nero likes Xavier, and is comfortable talking to him, and has zero interest in flirting with you.

It's a low threshold… he's aware he's a selfish creature. If the new companions he'd acquired weren't willing to die for you too, he probably would have less patience for them. Even if sometimes they do press on the edges of his tolerance.

It's probably part of his punishment…

For not being there.

For letting you get hurt.

"Xavier?"

"Xaviiiiiier?"

"Hey!"

His nose is held, and he jolts upright, looking forwards with wide eyes at Tara and Nero who are frowning.

"Are you alright?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bore you."

He shakes his head, trying to clear what you've dubbed his 'storm cloud', "Just tired."

Tired. Angry. Hurting. He let you down, and now you're suffering even more.

He thinks about the you he left behind, the future he turned his back on. He thinks about the throne, and the ship he chartered.

He thinks about every life he's taken to protect yours. All the blood on his hands.

With all of his vigilance, all of his love, it took moments to almost lose you. Again.

"You should head home, we don't have any missions, and you'll just fall asleep again." Tara laughs, pushing a paper bag towards him, "And take this back for them, alright?"

He's about to do so, when he sees documents on Nero's desk. Sketches of prosthetic arms, augmented with wanderer designs. "What are you doing?"

Nero jumps, shoving the paper back but too slowly, Xavier picks it up to peer at it. Alongside the sketches are notes.

'Adjust the metal casing so it can be used as an emergency shield.' 'Nerve transmitters that work from the brain, requires less input from residual limb.' 'Bioorganic materials from wanderers reduce rejection rate?' 'Will they want patterns? Or something more skin-like?'

He looks at Nero, from all the notes, even some he can't read because the handwriting is quick and frantic, "What's this?"

The man in question looks down, his glasses almost falling off his nose, "I was talking to some of the other hunters who have a prosthetic. or lost a limb."

"I was doing the talking, Nero was taking notes."

He nods, looking a little more backed up with Tara next to him, "I wanted to find out what they could have used more when they started working again. Ways I could help them." He blinks then, looking startled, "They're coming back right?"

Tara looks at Xavier too, and he feels like he's under a microscope, because her face has changed. Fear lurking in frantic eyes.

"They will." He affirms, because you're aiming to, and he knows you don't give up. You'll stumble, trip, fall and bleed… but you'll get up and start running again.

He thinks about the you he left behind, and the you now.

Scarred and angry, aching at the edges. He thinks of the laughter when you finish a mission, fist bumping him with glee. The photos he has of you where you're smiling. Even if you don't smile as wide as Tara does, even if the scars tug at your lips. He thinks about your eyes, glittering with mischief, as you steal something off his desk.

When you can't stop laughing when you ask to try his light blade, flashing teeth like a cat. Heated cheeks but amused. He shares a blush, but he wishes you wouldn't tease.

You're different, with overlaps in parts.

He misses your smile.

"Nero, can you help me with something?"

—-

When he gets back to the apartment building, the moon high in the sky, he wants to see you straight away… but his hunter uniform is dirty, and he wants to relax. Release the strain of the day. So he stops off, changes, and sees some of the doctor's clothes next to his bed.

He's not sure what made him offer his apartment as a secondary place to stay. He's not sure if it was the relief in your eyes when you saw them all there the next morning, or the guilt that he wasn't enough alone to protect you.

Regardless, he made a choice. Even though only the doctor seems to use it. Rafayel prefers to sleep on the floor, if he sleeps at all with his projects, Sylus drifts in and out like a ghost… he only stays when he stays next to you.

He finds himself sleeping against your bed when you do, when he's not fighting. Trying to chase out the guilt with his sword.

As he makes his way back to your apartment, he sees a note on the fridge.

Plate in fridge, reheat it.

With a sketch of a round crow… he thinks it's wearing a neck ruff?

"Courtesy of kitten," The voice is even, and he sees Sylus at the kitchen table. Prosthetic in hand, as he goes through motions they all know. Cleaning and tending to it. "The crow, that is. The food is me. An extra plate is easy."

Xavier would question the intelligence of eating food made by a criminal, but if he trusts Sylus' food in your hands, he doesn't fear it in his own. "Thanks." He doesn't want to think too hard about this. About the state of things. The people around him that he never would have met without you.

He fractures at the idea that he can't be enough to protect you.

He'll eat it later, when guilt doesn't turn his stomach.

"If you're going to check in on them, do it quietly." Sylus doesn't look up at him, content to ease leather with careful hands and cloth, "They finally got to sleep."

He bristles a little, at being told to be careful with you, eyes narrowing and cold, but it is not received. The man even has the nerve to begin humming, low and under his breath. Out of tune. Xavier doesn't think he's ever met another man so impossibly unbothered by the world around him.

The words are ignored, received with a huff, and he walks past, towards your bedroom. You're alone today, no Rafayel lay on the bed with you, sketching, no Zayne, reading in the dark, as you sleep. You are curled around a large plushie of a narwhal, arm clutching it to your chest as you mutter through your dreams.

It is a relief to see the steady movement of your breathing. Though he still does not settle down until he places a hand on your cheek, feeling the exhale. You're alive, you're here, and you're under his hands.

The guilt calms down, as he reminds himself of that.

Instead of going back out to eat, Xavier settles down on the floor, back pressed to the bed, cheek on the mattress. Watching you. It is one of the few times he is relieved for his ease of sleep. So he can drift off, watching you live.

—----

The next morning, he places a cup of coffee next to your bedside table, and gives a nod to Sylus who has been reading one of your books, before returning to the Hunter's Association. He comes face to face with an excited Nero.

He almost takes a step back. Very nearly turns around and walks out, before he remembers he asked for something, "Xavier!"

Tara is following close behind, hiding her laughter behind her hand, "He's been waiting by the door for you."

"Three people responded that they're interested in talking to you. They're also happy to have notes taken, so I can help."

He wasn't sure he'd hear anything this quickly, he supposes he shouldn't be that surprised. Nero fixates on something, just as much as you do. His fixation tends to come in bursts of problem solving, yours comes in biting and tearing and clawing to the solution.

"Alright, let's go."

Jenna gives him time to talk, and he walks with Nero to a room where the three people are sat, chatting between themselves.

They still, and watch as he hesitates. An older man chuckles at him, waving his one hand, "Sit down, lad. We don't bite."

It moves his feet, into a chair, but not his mouth. He needs to move forwards, but he's not sure how.

What can he say? How can he help you? What words are there to help you move forwards?

He thinks about the trembling in your body, the tears that won't fall in your eyes. He is stuck. Xavier is stuck, like he's holding you under a meteor shower again. Shaking you.

Begging. For something.

A miracle.

"Nero already told us about your partner." A woman speaks, she sports a flexible keel prosthesis, "Not that we don't know about UNICORNs, you lot don't half make some noise." Her voice is cool, level, but she has a small smile. Warm eyes.

It eases him. "I wanted-"

"To ask questions right, lad? I can talk for hours for you."

So he lets them, as he listens. The old man works in analytics, collating information for the Association. He was born without his hand. Tried prosthetics, none took, he didn't want to keep trying.

"I accepted it straight away, my husband stood beside me. There are problems, but we work through them."

The young female hunter is from one of the Beta teams. Lost her foot in a fight with a wyrm, saved her partner in the process.

"I thought I'd accepted it, took the prosthetic training, everything went well. It was two years later, when I woke up one day, burst into tears. Couldn't stop." She fidgets, toying with her fingers for a moment, before straightening up, "Sometimes I still get sad, like I'm finally processing it, but normally it's just another day. It's a tool, not part of me, but it gave me most of my independence back. So even when I'm sad, I hold to that."

The third hunter twirls a pen around their prosthetic fingers, they're an arctic hunter, in the area for training. There's a large scar down their eye, and they don't react visually to the others, but leans forward to speak. They don't reveal how they gained their prosthetic.

"Didn't accept it, not for a long time. Woke up everyday angry, got reckless. Almost died." They exhale, deep, slow, tired, "Sometimes I'm still angry, but I'm still a fighter. I can still help my squad. So it's worth it. Took me longer to get around to using it than most, I dragged my feet, didn't want to learn for ages. It was my partner that got me moving, came to check in on me. Called me a fool, 'one life, idiot, keep living it'. So I did."

"It's hard sometimes, but people handle it differently."

Xavier sits and listens, they give tips on coming back to working as a hunter, they share everything he could even think to ask. Warm and ready, and understanding. They ask to meet you when you're back, tease him about his name and yours.

You're one of Jenna's best for a reason. Those hunter's reels certainly get watched a lot.

He tries not to think about the advertisements he's had to star in, either alongside you or alone. He's just relieved he doesn't get recognised as Lumiere.

That conversation would be even longer.

Hunters live a job at risk, he's aware of that… he can't stop thinking about it.

"Kid." He looks up, wants to correct the man, decides against it, "It's alright to be struggling, worrying about your partner. They're not gone though. Don't sit in the past. Get help yourself, but remember to share with them. Let that partner of yours know how you feel, they'll feel less isolated."

His shoulders jump, the chill in his back. He's been fatalising. Acting like you're broken when he knows that's what you're fearing. Thinking of you like you're gone, when you're right in front of him.

Stuck in the past…

Guilt and pain and worry making him think about you like he'll lose you if he stops.

You're alive, and you're moving forwards, and he needs to as well. With you. "Thank you." This thanks, he thinks, feels more honest. Like he's not biting his tongue to say it.

When Xavier returns home, he doesn't mind the plate left in the fridge for him.

He doesn't mind that the most wanted man of Philos is chuckling with your head in his lap, because he joins you on the sofa, and listens to you tell them about your sessions.

He has to remember you're capable of protecting yourself, you've always wanted to stand equal. Protecting others, as much as they protect you. Stubborn, and proud, to a fault sometimes.

As you smile, small and crooked at him, he offers you the notes he and Nero finished compiling.

You read them, eyes wide, and glimmering, before wrapping your arm around his neck.

"Thank you Xavier."

It's good to not be alone, he thinks. It's been far too long. Too many he's had to lose… That he's forgotten how to reach out, how to even take a hand, let alone stop himself from holding too tight out of fear.

He doesn't want to forget your future.

Even when Sylus smirks, calls him a little knightling, and he debates if you really need a support system that includes the criminal.

—----

Progress is steady. You struggle, and you stumble. But you remember the laughter in the kitchen and the beast dropping off your back to curl about your ankle.

You think about the notes handed to you by Xavier, carefully recorded accounts of acknowledgment, support… life.

You think about Tara, Simone and Nero. How much you want to get back to standing alongside them.

You think about gentle hands taking care of you in the bathroom while you shivered, and warm meals with arguing voices.

You think about Caleb. What he'd say if he were with you.

And you take one step at a time.

When you are not in front of Doctor Rin, clinging far too tightly to whoever's hand is turning bone white in your grip, you are practicing at home.

She's asked you what your goal was, the point you're aiming for.

It is easier, she reminds you, to have something to achieve.

It's an easy question, you want to be back in the field again, you want to make your life mean something. You want to fight alongside the people you trust, and not leave them to flounder alone.

When you are a hunter again, and taking on missions, that's when you'll have achieved your goal. You tell her, hand in a fist.

Her smile overlaps with Gran's, the day you'd told her and Caleb you got into the academy. You think about the way he'd poked you in the forehead, then ruffled your hair, 'Way ta go pipsqueak.'

You think he'd be pulling your hand, running forwards, if he were here. Just like he pulled you forwards everytime you got injured in a fight. Just like he pulled when you wanted to give up.

The memory keeps you from stopping.

Over the course of weeks, you set yourself challenges.

It starts with challenging yourself to hold your prosthetic.

It's not as heavy as you think it should be. The logical part of your brain reminds you that it's built for hunters specifically, and is replacing your arm.

It's that logical part of your brain that stops you from throwing it away from you. It is a tool, you tell yourself. Something that will ensure you can still be a hunter. That eventually, at the end of this, you will be able to go back to doing what you should be doing. Using your life to help others. No matter how short it is.

Some days it feels like it burns you when you place your hand on it. Those days, you leave your room, and sit by Rafayel as he paints. Watching him work, seeing the world he sees.

You ask him questions about his work, even though part of you worries you'll disturb him. He never indicates you are, answering you happily. You think he's happy to share, you hope he is. You're happy to listen.

One day you see his open sketchbook.

For a second, you see a sketch of you, worn and tired… but alive. Your body scarred, but you tremble to see yourself looking like art on his page.

You close the book, placing it back by his canvas, and go back to the prosthetic. To try again.

You learn to wear it, for short periods of time a day, to build up to throughout the day.

You start off, managing twenty minutes, before you have to rip the thing off. Relieved when Zayne catches your hand, stopping you from doing any damage to it. Before he helps you ease yourself out.

The straps are easy to adjust with one hand, but when you want it off, it feels as though you are on fire. Tearing at clothing melting into your skin.

He sits next to you and massages your residual limb, fingers easing hair from your face, tracing lines on your cheek. The fire in your body settles at the cool touch of his hands, and you settle again.

Later, you try again. When it burns, you remember the ice of Zayne's touch, and keep going.

The next stage is to clean it. You learn the motions, you study how to do it. Sat in the living room, tools to your side, figuring out how best to do it with one hand.

There are days when you drop the tools. Trying hard not to sob as they tumble to the floor. Choking back tears as your hand doesn't work the way you want it too. As you fail to follow the steps correctly. As you spill leather conditioner on the table, or the carpet.

In those moments, someone will join you at your side. Sylus will pull the tools away, and sit next to you, running through the motions he's been learning as he's watched you. Overtime, it becomes routine. He masters the steps before you do, assisting you, cleaning out the inner socket alongside as you gently clean the leather straps. Other times, Xavier, hesitant and unsure about touching your prosthetic, joins you. Head in your lap. You speak the steps out loud, running through them so he can learn them with you. The next time, he does it himself, calm and kind and warm. Smiling at you as he does so.

Everyday is a day to take your medication, your wounds are healing well, and with the care of those around you, you are coming away with scars, but no longer bleeding through bandages.

The final challenge is the practice, the movement and the acquainting yourself with the movement of your limb.

You sit in the hospital room you can't stand, hand anchored in Sylus', who has joined you for today. It is another day, and the weight of walking through corridors has eased somewhat. You know the passage of time means things become easier, you're used to that. The flow, the adjustment. The steps forward, and stumbles back.

Your heart has given you some experience in this.

Doctor Rin greets you easily, awaiting your arrival. As soon as she sees you, she smiles. It is that same warm smile that makes the ghosts lurk at your shoulders. It is an exhale to steady you, before you return it with a half smile. Hard enough to offer expressions, without the added grief pulling you back.

It passes easier than you expect. An introduction to the exercises you need to practice, information about not forcing yourself until you hurt. To take breaks and come back to it, if you fail five times, stop. Try again later.

To practice every day. It is a skill you have to learn. Not unlike when you were learning to use your weapons, struggling to learn how to aim. Falling down everytime you swung a claymore.

It is simple things. Can you open and close your new hand? Can you rotate your wrist?

It is a mountain, one you are scared to try to climb.

There is the stable hand in yours, a man who chuckles at you as you look at him, seeking out something in molten eyes. You don't like being weak in front of Sylus, despite him offering you the space to be yourself. It is a long standing fear.

You are more scared to be alone, however, so you turn back to the doctor.

You remind yourself of boxing training with Sylus, who teases you when you don't punch fast enough, but takes you in earnest. Rights your stance. Watches you practice. Praises you for improvement.

Challenges you to be better.

This is another tool you can use, something to enable you to fight again. To stand by him and fight again.

So you follow the doctor's instructions. It is an almost unconscious feeling. She has explained how the transmitters work, but you don't want to think about it too much. Understanding is something, you need it to be instinctual. If it's not, you won't be able to fight again.

Still, you feel yourself overextend. Overcompensate movement where it was once easy. The hand stares back at you as you watch it, and you try to remember what you used to do. Extend. Feel where the muscles should tense along your shoulder. Close. Open.

It reacts, but it is slow. Metal fingers steadily opening, closing. You try to twist your wrist, but it doesn't move the way you want. Frustration builds. You try again. You feel your shoulder twitch but nothing happens.

Your teeth grit, and you try again.

"Kitten." The voice calls you back, a firm grip takes your chin, turning your head to focus on his molten eyes again. There is a twinkle in there, his normally ever present smirk has evened out. Serious but calming. You watch the red of his eyes swirl, and you feel him smooth his thumb across your cheek. "Don't chase your tail, take a deep breath, try again."

He pushes you forwards. Always. Testing your limits, watching you grow.

You think about ways you'd trained your body to fight, ways you made yourself stronger. Running with Zayne, practicing with the blade with Xavier, maneuvers with Rafayel, strength training with Sylus. You are not going to stop until you learn how to use this.

Until you achieve that goal.

This time, when you try, it comes a little easier, as you calm yourself down. Heart settling into a steady rhythm and you watch the hand move. Twisting the wrist, opening and closing it. Pride settles in your chest, as you grin at it. Relief and satisfaction, that you haven't failed. You turn and you twist and watch in awe.

The fingers open a little quicker, you practice moving them but the individual movements are sluggish, and you try to pick things up, but you drop them more than you hold them.

When Sylus nudges you with his shoulder, smirking at you, you take on the pride in his eyes, and you keep moving forwards.

You hit a wall when you have to stretch it out properly, bending the elbow joint, but you settle.

You take the challenge.

It is a mountain you will learn to climb.

You learned how to be a hunter, you can learn this.

As you walk home with Sylus, twisting the arm despite your fatigue, he chuckles, "You look like you've received a new toy. You're like this when I get you a new gun."

You sniff at him, poking him with the metal hand, though its clumsy and more of a full hand than a finger. Marvelling at the feeling of heat from him that comes through the prosthetic. "You just wait, soon I'll be swinging a sword again."

He pauses, looking at you, and then laughs. A chuckle that shakes his hand in yours, and then pulls you in to flick your forehead, "Alright Kitten, let's get you there."

The exercises continue at home, you move into the kitchen while Sylus cooks, to practice with a ball. The more you do it, the easier it gets to learn the motions. Every new thing you try, however, is a hurdle you feel sick to overcome.

Sometimes the movement refuses to do as you want. So you remove it, and try not to cry, try not to drown, and find a distraction.

When you try to pick up a cup, you watch in horror as you drop it, smashing it across the floor. Sylus pulls you away from the fragments, soothing the upset, over breaking something. Over failing. Over being this.

After that you stick to things that won't break, won't hurt you. It still aches when you drop something, when you fail. You're never alone in the pain for too long, there is always a constant, someone there to keep you from spiralling.

The more they catch you, the less you need catching. Until you pick up a cup, and you laugh. Pride brimming. An achievement, no broken shards. A tool you are learning to use.

Later, when you're tired, but relieved, you sit at the kitchen table as Sylus sings along to a song in your playlist as he cooks, there is no Rafayel to argue with, so he seems far calmer. Happy. He always seems happy when he sings.

"Sy?"

He hums, looking back at you. His smiles are often more warm eyes than movement of his mouth, quirks and twitches. "What's wrong Kitten?"

You hesitate, thinking about how many days you've seen him stood at the counter, preparing food for you, and the others. It is guilt on your shoulders, but it is also relief and thankfulness. He is a warm presence, always answering the phone when you need him. "Can I help?"

He shrugs, "Sure, come and stir." So you join him, it is not a hard task, but you feel a little more like you're here. Helping.

Living and not existing. The creature at your ankle stirs and purrs, eased and happy.

You haven't heard it settle in such a long time.

"Thank you." You speak, staring into the pot, watching the swirling at the end of your spatula.

The man stands next to you and shrugs, unbothered, "Not a problem, kitten. I've told you, ask, demand, request. You can be greedy with me." He reaches over and flicks your forehead, before tapping your nose. "I'm always here for you. Even if you do let our food burn."

You panic as the heat bubbles over, and quickly turn it down, and he simply laughs at you. So you elbow him in the side, and revel in the way his laugh blossoms harder.

When you eat with everyone that evening, you help ladle out food, and set the table. You don't run away to the darkness of your room, and you add the laughter around you to your collection of reasons to keep moving.

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hsmleindia · 2 years ago

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Stereo Zoom Microscope -HSM-650

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ballsandbabes · 5 days ago

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Slipping into love: GOM + Kagami

authors note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIFs not mine // Have fun <3

pairing: Named Characters x gn!reader

summary: Just little stories about the reader being a little clumsy. So lets see how the boys would handle the situation :)

genre: romance, fluff, comedy

word count: 6.2k

___ _ _ _

Kuroko Tetsuya

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, the kind Kuroko Tetsuya appreciated. The sun was soft behind clouds, the wind was gentle, and you—his favorite person in the world—were beside him. The two of you had decided to take a walk through the park, a drink from Maji Burger in hand, just enjoying the breeze. Well, he was enjoying the breeze. You, on the other hand, were busy trying not to fall for the third time in ten minutes. “I swear this sidewalk is out to get me,” you muttered, regaining your balance after tripping over a completely flat section of pavement. Kuroko blinked at you, his face blank as usual—but his eyes were definitely not helping. You could see it—the tiny twinkle of amusement, the microscopic twitch at the corner of his lips.

“…Don’t laugh,” you warned, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “It’s a serious medical condition. I have Clumsy Feet Syndrome.”

“I wasn’t going to laugh,” Kuroko said, utterly deadpan.

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he said, but the way he very subtly looked away made you suspicious. You kept walking, pouting a little, until you spotted a low wall near the path. “Ooh, look at this,” you said, stepping up onto it like a balance beam. “Bet you didn’t know I could do this.”

Kuroko stopped walking and turned to look at you with his usual blank expression. “Please be careful.”

“Relax! I’m an expert, Tetsu.” You held your arms out for balance and took a proud step forward— —and promptly wobbled, flailed, and landed with a soft thud on the grass below.

You laid there in defeat, arms sprawled dramatically. “…Did the wall move?,” you groaned. Kuroko stepped closer and knelt beside you,“The wall didn’t move.”

You looked up at him, half expecting sympathy— —but what you got instead was silence, a pause… and then the tiniest huff of air escaping his nose.

“Kuroko.”

His shoulders trembled just once.

“Kuroko.”

His lips were pressed into a thin line, trying so hard not to curve upward.

“…You’re laughing on the inside, aren’t you?”

He reached a hand out to help you up, expression still mostly neutral. But there it was again—that almost invisible twitch, that shimmer in his eyes. When you were upright, he spoke calmly:

“I’m simply…appreciating how lively you are.”

“Oh my god, you are laughing.”

“…A little.”

You finally laughed too, bumping your shoulder against his. “Next time I fall, you’re going down with me.”

Kuroko looked at you with a tiny smile this time—genuine, warm, soft. “Then I’ll be sure to fall gracefully.”

You huffed. “Show-off.” But your hand found his, and even if you tripped a few more times on the way home, he didn’t let go once.

Taiga Kagami

The sun was blazing in the afternoon sky, and the neighborhood basketball court shimmered faintly with heat. Taiga Kagami was in his element—sweat on his brow, ball spinning on his finger, his red hair catching the light like fire. He looked every bit the towering ace he was. You, on the other hand?

“Whoa—!” Thud. Flat on your back, arms splayed, the basketball rolling off somewhere behind the court fence.

Kagami froze mid-dribble, turning toward you with wide eyes,“Are you okay?!”

You groaned from the concrete. “I told you I wasn’t coordinated enough for that crossover move…”

“I didn’t think you’d try it barefoot.”

You stared up at him, breathless. “I was inspired.”

He hovered awkwardly for a second, clearly trying to assess whether or not you were actually hurt. Once you gave him a weak thumbs-up, the panic eased off his face. And then… it started. First, a sharp breath. Then, a hand covering his mouth. His abs actually trembled as he tried not to laugh.

“…Don’t you dare,” you warned from the ground.

“I’m not,” Kagami said too quickly, his voice strained.

“You are! I can see it in your stupid face!”

He turned away, facing the chain-link fence, shoulders shaking now.

“I swear, Taiga, if you laugh—!”

But it was too late. A huge, hearty burst of laughter exploded from him, echoing around the empty court. It was that loud, warm laugh that only Kagami could do—completely unrestrained, contagious, and way too charming for his own good.

“Y-You looked like a cartoon character flying through the air,” he managed between wheezes,“Like—like you slipped on a banana peel!”

You scowled and rolled onto your side,“I’m never playing with you again.”

“Nooo, don’t say that!” Kagami was immediately at your side, still grinning like a goof but clearly guilty. “I mean, okay, it was kinda funny, but I swear I didn’t think you’d fall like that.”

“Like what?” you narrowed your eyes.

He blinked. “Like…beautifully?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Smoothly?”

“…Try again.”

“Gracefully?”

“You’re digging your grave, Taiga.”

“…Like a majestic brick in slow motion?”

You smacked his shoulder and finally cracked a smile despite yourself. “You suck.”

He laughed again and offered a hand to pull you up,“You know you’re adorable when you’re clumsy, right?”

You stood, brushing yourself off,“Yeah, yeah. Now go get the ball, hotshot.”

“Only if you promise not to break your neck trying to dunk again.”

You rolled your eyes and jogged after him. “No promises!”

Kagami grinned, eyes shining under the sun. Honestly, he didn’t mind how many times you tripped, fell, or fumbled. As long as he got to be there when you got back up—he was happy.

Even if he laughed every time.

Kise Ryouta

“Ne, Y/n-cchi, this would totally look amazing on you!,”Kise held up a glittery, oversized sweater with a gleam in his eye and a dramatic pose, as if he were unveiling a new designer line. His golden hair seemed to shimmer under the store lights, and his grin was so bright it could probably power the building.

You squinted,“Ryouta, that looks like something a disco ball would wear to bed.”

“That’s the charm! Fashion is about bold statements! Come on, try it on~!”

He twirled toward the fitting room, clearly more excited about this shopping trip than you were. Honestly, you came along just to window shop—but then again, you forgot that shopping with a famous model like Kise meant zero chill and maximum runway energy. You sighed and reached for the hanger—and immediately caught your sleeve on a nearby rack.

“Wait, wait—uh oh—Ryouta, I—!”

Clatter!

In a spectacular tangle of limbs, fabric, and one very unlucky clothes rack, you ended up on the floor surrounded by scarves, hangers, and a lone mannequin head that somehow landed perfectly in your lap.

Silence. You slowly looked up at him, your face burning,“Don’t. Laugh.”

Kise stood there, frozen, lips twitching violently. His hand covered his mouth, shoulders rising with the effort of not bursting out laughing. His amber eyes sparkled with unspoken amusement as he knelt beside you.

“Y/n-cchi…” His voice trembled,“A-Are you okay?”

“Physically? Yes. Emotionally? I’m suing this store.”

You tried to stand, only for your foot to catch in a scarf and send you stumbling again. Kise caught you mid-fall, arms strong and warm around your waist—but now his composure cracked. A single giggle escaped him. Then another. And then—an explosion of laughter that had nearby customers turning to look.

“Y-You—!! That mannequin! And the way you fell—it was like slow-motion comedy gold!”

“I hate it here,” you muttered, hiding your face in his chest. He gently shook with laughter, rubbing your back affectionately, “Nooo, don’t be embarrassed! You’re the cutest person alive, even when you take down half the store display like an action movie hero.”

You groaned into his shirt. “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

“I know, right?” he teased, ruffling your hair. “But seriously—you’re okay, yeah?”

You nodded reluctantly, and he leaned back with a grin. “Good. Because I still think this sweater would make up for everything.”

He held up the glittery monstrosity again.

“…Only if you try it on first,” you challenged.

“Oh?” His eyes sparkled. “Deal. But prepare yourself, Y/n-cchi. Once you see me in it, you’ll fall again—for me this time.”

You burst out laughing, and he grinned like he just won a championship.

Midorima Shintaro

Midorima sat stiffly at the bench in the quiet gym, extending his hand toward you like he was handing over something far more serious than a set of fingers. You stared down at his hand, a roll of athletic tape in yours.

“I can do this,” you muttered to yourself, determined.

Taping his fingers before practice had become a sort of tradition between you. A quiet moment before the chaos of drills and passes. He never asked for help—of course not—but he never refused when you offered, either. You started with his pinky, the one he always taped with meticulous care. You tried to follow what you’d seen him do a hundred times. Over, under, snug, not too tight—

The tape got stuck to itself.

You frowned, tried to peel it back, and somehow ended up taping two of his fingers together instead.

“…Oops.”

Midorima’s mouth twitched. You didn't notice, too focused on untangling the mess. In your attempt to fix it, you dropped the tape. It bounced off his knee and rolled away in a perfect arc across the court like it had plans. You scrambled after it with a flustered, breathless sound. When you returned, flushed and tape in hand, Midorima had both hands folded neatly in his lap, glasses pushed slightly up, his gaze fixed firmly on the wall.

Too firmly.

You raised a brow, “Are you… laughing?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too quickly.

Your eyes narrowed,“You are. You’re totally laughing on the inside.”

His shoulders were too still. His face too neutral. But the edges of his lips were just barely upturned. Barely—but there.

“I am not,” he repeated, now avoiding eye contact entirely.

You reached for his hand again, mock suspicious. “I see. The great Midorima Shintarō, composed and focused—falling apart because I taped your fingers like a rookie.”

He exhaled slowly, as if trying to cleanse himself of your chaos. But the corners of his mouth twitched again.

“…It’s a very simple task,” he said, ever the serious tone.

“Then do it yourself next time.”

“I didn’t say you should stop.”

That caught you off guard for a second, but you smiled, softer now. Carefully—this time slower, more deliberate—you taped his fingers again. Properly. No fumbles, no flying tape. He stayed quiet, but his gaze lingered on your face, watching your brows furrow in concentration. When you finished, you looked up proudly,“There. See? Nailed it.”

He looked at his hand, flexed it once, and gave a small, approving nod,“Acceptable.”

You beamed. And just before he stood to head to practice, you swore you saw it again—that tiny flicker of a smile, hidden behind his usual reserve. He never said it, but you could tell: your clumsy efforts were his favorite part of the day.

Aomine Daiki

The final bell had barely rung on exam week, and already Aomine had dragged you to the outdoor court like a man set free. Summer air hung heavy, cicadas buzzing, concrete still warm beneath your shoes. He was already in motion—shirt loose, sweatband tugged low, the ball dancing effortlessly between his hands like it had a mind of its own. Fast, fluid, annoyingly smooth.

You had one goal: try to keep up. Just once. You pounced forward, eyes locked on the ball, feet just a little too quick for your own coordination. He didn’t slow down. Your hands reached, missed, and momentum carried you just far enough to trip over your own foot and skid forward with a dramatic flail. He stopped mid-dribble, looked over his shoulder casually. You were on your back, limbs splayed, hair in your eyes, dignity somewhere back at half-court.

A long pause. Aomine turned away quickly, his back to you now, but you saw it—his shoulders shook once. Then again. And again. The ball thudded gently to the ground as he leaned on his knees, clearly losing a battle with himself.

You groaned,“Don’t laugh.”

No response, but his hand came up to cover his mouth.

“You’re laughing,” you muttered, rolling onto your side. Still nothing. Just a low, muffled snort. When you finally stood, brushing yourself off, he was back to dribbling—like nothing happened—but his smirk was absolutely criminal. He didn’t say anything, but you could hear the unspoken “nice try” in the way he casually tossed the ball behind his back and caught it without looking.

You narrowed your eyes, taking a defensive stance. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, lazy grin in place, and this time—this time—he let you have a chance. The dribbling slowed. Just a fraction. You managed to steal the ball, stumble a bit on the landing, and somehow—miraculously—keep your balance.

“Not bad,” he finally said, voice low, amused.

You turned to him triumphantly,“Told you I’d get one!”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter, but the proud glint in his eyes betrayed him. Aomine was the kind of guy who never said much—but you knew: behind that lazy grin and almost-laughter, he loved watching you try. Especially when you got back up.

Even if he definitely laughed later when he thought you couldn’t hear.

Murasakibara Atsushi

The apartment smelled like cocoa powder, scorched sugar, and something vaguely… suspicious. You stood in front of the oven, holding a warped tray of brownies that had risen wildly on one side and collapsed on the other. Some bits were still bubbling. One corner had fused with the foil. It was not what the picture online promised.

From the couch, Murasakibara peeked over the backrest, long purple hair falling over his shoulder like a curtain. His lollipop drooped slightly.You turned, hopeful,“They're for you.”

He slouched off the couch and lumbered into the kitchen, towering behind you like a sleepy storm cloud. His gaze dropped to the tray, expression unreadable.

A silence. Then a quiet snrk. You looked up,“Atsushi—”

His cheeks puffed slightly, mouth twitching. He covered it with one hand, trying—failing—to keep a straight face.

“Don’t laugh,” you said, half-defeated, half-embarrassed.

But his shoulders rose in a lazy shrug, and he let out a small laugh anyway. Deep, slow, and rumbling like distant thunder. You crossed your arms,“I tried, okay? I wanted to make you something sweet.”

His hand reached over your head to grab a piece—somehow choosing the most questionable-looking corner. He popped it in his mouth without hesitation.

Chewed slowly. Blinked. Then he gave a slow nod,“Mm. Still good.”

You blinked,“Really?”

He licked a bit of chocolate off his thumb, then leaned his weight against the counter, half-wrapping an arm around you.

“Even if it looked like it got hit by a truck,” his eyes half-lidded, voice low and amused.

You nudged him with your elbow. He didn’t budge. But there was something warm in the way he kept close, already reaching for another mangled piece, unfazed by the chaos you’d created.

He didn’t care how perfect it looked. You’d made it for him—and that was more than enough. Even if he’d laugh about it for the rest of the week.

Akashi Seijuro

The private tea room was quiet—golden light from the shoji screens casting calm shadows over lacquered wood and delicate porcelain. Everything was serene. Graceful. Perfect.

Except for you. You sat rigidly across from Akashi, trying very hard to follow the formal etiquette he'd mentioned. Back straight, hands placed properly, every movement intentional. You lifted your cup with both hands, just like you'd seen in a video. And promptly dipped your sleeve into the tea.

A quiet gasp escaped you as you tried to recover—without sloshing more tea, without breaking eye contact, without looking like you were internally panicking. It was a losing battle.

Akashi watched, ever composed. Not a word. Not a change in posture. But something flickered. His eyes softened. His gaze lowered briefly to your soaked sleeve, then returned to your flustered face. His lips barely moved—but the corners curved, just so. The most subtle twitch. He was holding back a laugh.

You narrowed your eyes. He looked away politely, clearing his throat too carefully, like the act itself was its own form of amusement control. You, red-faced, attempted to salvage your dignity by placing the cup down with ceremony. Too fast.

It clinked.

Too loud. He inhaled through his nose—the faintest, most proper breath of someone trying not to break into laughter. Your eyes met again. His were gleaming now, calm and unreadable to anyone else—but you could tell.

He was thoroughly entertained.

You gave up. Sighed. He reached over gently, taking your wrist with practiced care, dabbing your sleeve with a folded handkerchief he had ready, of course.

Still silent.Still smiling.

The moment passed, and you sat together again, the quiet stretching comfortably now. You may not have mastered etiquette. But you'd definitely mastered making Seijūrō Akashi laugh.

A rare honor, clumsy sleeves and all.

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sturns-mermaid · 16 days ago

Text

CHAPTER ONE: MYSTERY JUICE

master list | intro | ask about them here

WARNINGS: mentions of death/dying, drinking an unknown substance, coughing up dirt, mentions of being burried, frankenstein transformation?

wc: 1.1k

The faint clink of the glass slide against the microscope’s metal stage echoed softly in the quiet basement. Matt leaned in, furrowing his brows as he adjusted the lens, one eye squinting through the scope. The air smelled faintly of dust and old paper, cool against your skin as you shifted in the squeaky swivel chair.

Its wheels rolled lazily over the cracked concrete floor as you leaned forward on the counter. "Find anything interesting?" you asked, breaking the hush that hung between you.

The chair’s wheels squeaked softly as you shifted, watching Matt hunch over the microscope. He only hummed in response, too focused on the experiment he was running for class. It was always hard to get his attention when he slipped into his zone, his brain running a mile a minute as he carefully tried to collect every scrap of data.

Your fingers tapped absently against the counter as you watched him adjust the slide for the fifth time, eyes narrowed in concentration. You’d long given up on trying to follow what he was doing; science talk wasn’t your language. The lights flickered overhead, washing the room in a cold, sterile glow. You hated to admit it, but his basement gave you the creeps. One slide after another, Matt studied them all, some twice, no matter how many notes he took, he still couldn’t pinpoint the answer to the experiment. Matt didn’t notice you slipping away, too lost in the science world to care.

You were bored–and maybe a little thirsty. The mini fridge in the corner caught your eye. The fridge door groaned as you opened it, cold air brushing your face. Among cans of soda and half-eaten sandwiches sat a clutter of test tubes glowing faintly under the flickering light.

One test tube stood out–tall, capped, and filled with a shimmering green liquid that caught light when you shifted it. The label on the tube was written in messy handwriting, but it was now faded.

“Hey, Matt, what would happen if I drank this?” you giggled, watching as the liquid moved while you shook the tube. Matt didn’t even bat an eye; you weren’t sure if he even knew you were in the room anymore. It couldn’t be so bad, maybe it was some random beautifying serum he made, what’s the worst that could happen? The glass tube felt cold and slick in your hand.

You glanced over your shoulder–still no reaction from Matt. The tube felt heavier than it looked. Just a sip, you told yourself. It’s probably nothing. You hesitated, eyeing the strange liquid sloshing inside, then tipped it back and took a sip.

The strange, mysterious liquid tastes minty, and it fizzed in your mouth almost like some sort of carbonated drink. Heat bloomed in your chest, spreading to your fingertips. Your legs wobbled beneath you, and the floor seemed to tilt sideways.

“Hey–wait! Don’t drink that!” Matt’s voice finally broke through the haze, just as your knees buckled and the world went dark.

You jolted upright with a ragged gasp, like surfacing from deep water. Cold air slammed into your lungs. Your chest burned. Your spine arched. You weren’t sure if you were breathing or choking. Your skin felt…wrong. Clammy. Too cold. Like you’d been asleep in a freezer. Your arms moved sluggishly, muscles twitching like they were just learning how to fire again. You blinked hard. The light overhead was harsh, unfamiliar.

The basement was still there, but older. Dustier. Different. Your fingers brushed the side of your neck, raised skin. Stitches. Metal. A bolt. Your heart, if it was even still your own, thudded violently in your chest. Your head turned slowly. Heavy. Like it didn’t belong to you. A silhouette of a man stood wearing a white coat, stubble covering his jaw. Your eyes narrowed.

Your brain scrambled, trying to place him. “Matt?” you croaked as if you hadn’t spoken in years. Your voice didn’t sound like your own. He stepped into view, older, worn down–but his eyes still locked onto yours with something between relief and guilt.

“You’re awake,” he breathed. “It worked. After five years…it worked.” Your body felt stiff, and you could hardly move. You lifted your hands into view, slow, trembling and froze.

That’s when you saw it. Your skin…it was green. You blinked rapidly, thinking your brain was playing tricks on you, but it remained the same green complexion. “It’ll take some getting used to,” Matt spoke softly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name, regret, maybe. Pride.

He approached you, sitting on the side of the metal operating table. Your legs felt as if they were filled with wet cement. Still, you shifted, forcing your feet to slide off the edge of the table. The cold floor touched your heels–numb, disoriented, and your knees wobbled as you tried to plant your feet flat.

“Take it slow,” Matt murmured from nearby, but he didn’t move to help you. You, however, didn’t want his help. You wanted to feel something real. Anything. Your arms trembled as you pushed against the edge of the metal table. Every joint creaked in protest, like your body didn’t quite remember how to be alive. With a shaky inhale, you forced yourself up. Your knees buckled immediately.

The world tilted, vision dimming at the edges–but your hands caught the edge of a nearby shelf just in time. Test tubes rattled.

“You’re doing good,” Matt said softly, like you were some lab rat performing well. You glared at him, breath ragged, heart hammering beneath your too-cold skin.

“What... What did you do to me?” he didn’t answer right away, not meeting your gaze.

His jaw clenched.

“I brought you back.”

You froze. He brought you back? You couldn't remember anything, let alone what he brought you back from. Then you realized…your breath hitching at the thought. “Did I die?” you ask, you asked, voice cracking. Matt’s face was drained of color. He didn’t speak. You stared at him, the question echoing louder in your own head now.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer you, not when you were looking at him like he just committed the most heinous crime known to man.

“Matt,” you whispered. He nodded. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact. You died. You were dead, buried, gone. “If I died…then how am I even here?” you ask, your voice slightly scratchy as if you had something stuck in your throat. Matt just stared, silent.

“M-matt!” you tried to scream, but it came out as a dry croak. He couldn’t tell you, couldn’t see the reaction when you found out. You lunged forward, hacking violently. Clumps of dirt, spilled from your mouth. Dry and bitter against your tongue.

You stared at your shaking hands, soil caked beneath your nails.

You’d been buried. Underground.

Was this life? Or something stitched together to look like it?

dividers: @anitalenia @bleedingspiral

#𓏲࣪ ˖ ୨sturnsmermaid #mari's alternative universe's ꩜ .ᐟ #જ⁀➴ til death do us part #*୧ ‧₊ frankenstein reader x mad scientist matt #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #frankenstein #matt x reader #matt sturniolo x reader

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savorypink · 1 year ago

Text

king and queen seat

you, alex, and some papers.

contains smut. + tbhc!au.

"What do you think?"

It's breathtaking. You marvel at your home planet's brilliance as you gaze from the large office window. The vast darkness of outer space leaves you hollow, but tonight, it aids in the mesmerising showcase before you. The orb is luminous in the dead, black sky, adorned with deep ocean blues and swirling clouds of white.

Patches of earthy greens and browns emerge, though not in great detail. You can almost pinpoint each continent. Watching from your seat, you feel microscopic, too puny and weak to handle it all.

As Alex settles beside you, the couch cushion sinks under his weight. Only when his large, icy hand envelopes your clammy palm are you thinking: Who in the hell puts a casino up here? You scramble through the file cabinet of your brain to muster something—anything worthwhile to say — but when your mouth opens, nothing emits. Alex adores it.

"Any adjective will do." He says, his warm lips brushing your knuckles in a gentle kiss. Your heart goes into overdrive, unsure if it's from Alex's touch or from realising how silly you must look.

"Wow." Your voice is but a whisper, but awe blankets every letter.

"Not an adjective." He sets your limp hand on your lap before returning to his desk. "I'll accept it, though."

Your gaze fixates on him as he rolls the sleeves of his button-down, hauling you deeper into a lovesick trance. Under the warm ceiling lights, the gold band on his finger flashes in the light as he does so, causing you to fidget with your own. A certain feeling crawls up your spine, mirroring the same puny insignificance you felt observing the Earth. Your man belongs here; you don't.

In the past, he might have shown initial protest, and leaving you on Earth certainly didn't help ease his guilt. However, you never doubted his ability to run this place. No one else had the capacity for care and detail as Alex did. From the green nylon carpeting to the flashing neon lights of the casino below, he had everything and then some.

Was it too ambitious? It'd be dumb to say otherwise. However, you can only see one man behind the desk running it all. And he wants you in the passenger seat? You should be happy, yet you wish for the couch cushions to swallow you whole.

You startle when a stack of documents slams onto the desk and again when you hear the thud of the desk drawer closing. From the drawer, Alex retrieves a pen adorned with a cute rubber charm of an astronaut at the top. A pair of readers also emerges from the drawer, which he perches on the tip of his Romanesque nose. Yes, he's your husband, but you're here solely on business. What's with the teenage swooning?

In silence, you watch as he reviews the documents. He's already pre-signed them, and the dotted lines await your signature, but you know how thorough he likes to be. The pen looks like a plaything in his giant fist. The veins in his wrist pulse as he clicks the pen, obnoxiously echoing off the office walls. For a moment, you're convinced the clicking is in perfect synch with your frantic heart despite the inattention of the action.

When the clicking ceases, your heart does, too, only to start again once he brings the clicker between his teeth, his lips brushing the astronaut charm. You're realising how uncomfortable your pencil skirt and button-up are as you sweat like a sinner doused in holy water. Are you seriously jealous of a pen?

"Baby." The air loses its stillness when his velvety voice fills the silence, causing you to sit upright. "What are you thinking about?"

Where do you begin? This co-manager role is a lot of responsibility, and I'm terrified. Do I want to do this? Why do you look so sexy when reading stuff? We should kiss. Cute pen, by the way. None of these thoughts leave your mind. Instead, the sour tang of word vomit tumbles out.

"You look good in that chair." It comes out more gravelly than you wish, and Alex notices it. The smirk adorning his handsome features says more than enough.

"Our chair now." He leans further into the velour chair, playfully twisting until he gets up. "Unless you don't want it. I know my girl likes to decorate." He slides the papers in your direction, placing the pen beside them.

"She does. It's very...you."

The office could be mistaken as a set for Mad Men. The scent of the mahogany walls and a newly vacuumed carpet float through the air. Though you're worried your sweat may have soiled it, the orange couch under you is intact, comfortable and plush, with no signs of sinking. You also notice this in the two spare chairs, the same burnt orange colour as the couch. Men in suits should be scaling the walls to be here. Yet, the office feels uninhabited; the only lingering animal prowling is Alex.

It is muted and lonely. It feels just like space. It feels like Alex.

"Eh," he shrugs. "It could use some plants. Gonna need your name on these papers, little lady."

Temporarily, you don't rise from your seat. Your nervous system isn't sending the neurons to your legs. You're realising this isn't some fawn-in-headlights moment. You're aware of your surroundings and what you're here to do. Yet, the painful churning of your guts and the weight of this—what you're sacrificing your life on Earth for—is weighing twice as heavy. These aren't first-day jitters. This is a warning.

Ultimately, your legs take you to the desk, but you're shouting at your body to stop shaking. It's only you, Alex, and some papers. It's almost like your wedding day.

You can pick up the pen without spasm, and Alex smiles when you do. Before your eyes meet the papers, you spot your wedding photo in a brown frame on the desk. The picture shows signs of wear and tear, with some fraying around the edges. The imperfections stem from the photo being in his wallet for years, but the flaws increase its charm. From the sepia colouring to you and Alex's stiff posture, the picture looks antique and fragile, your poses complementing the retro feel. Regardless, you hold your bouquet of dried peonies and foliage, beaming ear to ear with Alex behind you. You recall his offer to decorate, and while there are some things you'd like to rearrange, that photo isn't one of them. Your poses? You would change in a heartbeat.

To kill time, you skim the papers as slowly as you can. Alex simplified all the legal jargon for you beforehand, but you feel like a child picking up their first book. The most straightforward words look like gibberish, and your head is reeling as it attempts to comprehend everything. Your skull feels as if two large hands are squeezing your temples, the pain throbbing even harder when you reach the dotted line awaiting your name.

With your mind muddled and the room doing 360s, you don't even register Alex has moved behind you, his lips ghosting over your ringing ear.

"Is everything alright?"

His hushed whisper is soothing, grounding even. You can feel the carpet under your heels again. The dotted line is no longer a blur, and your head is no longer doing pirouettes. The air stirs again, and the burning in your lungs drops a few temperatures. You can breathe once more.

"Yes," you say. You click the pen and scribble your name. Although it looks like chicken scratch, Alex is familiar enough with your penmanship to deem it acceptable. He knows how you write when in a hurry, not when you're trying to make him happy.

Alex's arms firmly close around you, squeezing air out of you with mere strength. Elated isn't a strong enough word to define his happiness. It overflows in the scattered kisses he plants all over your reddening face, and you can feel him even trying to pick you up for a moment. You bask in the affection as if you hadn't signed your life away moments ago. You even giggle as his beard tickles and scratches your face.

The tenderness spilling from him is the only thing that feels normal. It's almost possible to forget you're here, on a floating rock in the middle of celestial nowhere. But the gleaming Earth outside the office window will always remind you of your sealed fate.

You're stuck here.

His lips meeting your mouth don't evoke the same enthusiasm from you. Hesitantly, you kiss back, imitating the lip movements of a kid kissed on the playground. Your nerves go unnoticed by your husband, likely mistaking your hesitance for teasing. His hands are still frigid, unyielding in temperature despite caressing your burning face. As the kiss deepens, you allow your previous doubts to dissipate, though Alex's tongue has done it for you. His grasp on your skull is tight, headache-inducing, but your relief is in his restlessness.

You can't blame him for wanting to tear you apart, his tongue roaming your mouth as if you were a lifeline. You've been gone for too long. Saying that he missed you would only scratch the surface. When he pulls away, both of you are breathless, your lungs clinging to the surrounding air.

"We should celebrate."

A lopsided grin adorns his features, making you want to kiss him all over again. Before Alex heads over to the bar cart near his desk, he leans in to give you one more peck on the lips. The bar is complete with coffee, teas and cookies you sent to him from home. The only alcohol is a small champagne bottle, which he returns to the desk. After pulling a corkscrew from the drawer, Alex releases the cork with a loud pop. The sound makes your heart misstep, but you can't contain your giggles, as it all happens in a rather lacklustre fashion: no foam, no clapping, no cheering. It's a surprise party thrown for the wrong person.

Alex hands you a paper cup filled halfway with champagne. As you take the cup, your hesitation mirrors the one in your kiss. You gaze at the cup, watching the bubbles ascend and burst. When he's back in front of you, you keep your eyes on the cup. You don't waver, even as you feel his eyes boring into you.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks. "And be honest this time."

The revelation doesn't shock you. It's somewhat reassuring that he caught up on your lie. The part where you have to tell him is what tugs at your heartstrings. Your eyes remain on the cup as if your answer is in the bubbles. Telling him should be a cakewalk; say how you feel. It's not like you're trying to reverse a major decision or anything!

You let your eyes leave the cup, meeting Alex's concerned expression; you're looking at a kicked, beat puppy, and the sight is nauseating. Perching on the desk, you sigh, watching your trembling legs sway beneath you.

"I know you can do this. And you do it well," you state. "I'm just not sure if I can do it. At all."

The light against your feet goes dark as Alex's shadow eclipses your form. For a moment, you're freezing as his shadow looms over you. You're fighting with your body to stop shivering, the weight of his shadow heavy and biting; it's almost unnerving. Soon enough, you find warmth as Alex's hand cups your cheek. The tenderness washes over you like a tidal wave; it's what you've yearned for this whole time. This should feel like something other than a business meeting. This is you and your husband.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he begins. "I need you to be here."

You swallow a lump large enough to make you choke, fixing your unsteady eyes on his warm gaze. "Is that enough?"

"More than enough. We've always been a team. Now, we're a team on the moon."

You chuckle, leaning your head into his calloused palm. "In a casino. On the moon."

"Right. Treat like we're at home. You cook, I do the dishes. I wash, you fold. It's all 50/50." He leans in and lowers your head, planting a tender kiss on your scalp. "You'll never do it alone. I promise. You can say your husband loves you to the moon if it's any consolation. And it'll be true."

A boulder is gone from your shoulders. It's like you're breathing for the first time, feeling the knot in your chest finally come undone. Your doubts will continue to linger; that won't change. The bittersweet aftertaste lies in the comfort of Alex being there to remove those hurdles for you. And he'll continue to do it—always—just as he promised you.

Sighing, you rest your head against his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart. "One hell of a celebration, huh?" You snort, looking at your cup. "We didn't even make a toast."

Alex withdraws from you, lifting the paper cup halfway. "What shall we toast to?"

"I dunno." You shrug, mirroring his movements albeit meekly. "Teamwork?"

With a small smile, he taps his cup against yours. "To teamwork."

Before taking a sip, Alex raises the cup once more. "And to Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino's First Lady."

First Lady, it's difficult for the title not to make you smile. As you sip your champagne, a comforting chill travels down your spine at the fizziness. You glide your tongue along your lips to catch the hints of melon, an action that feels like a blissful eternity in Alex's mind. His sharp eyes wander from your champagne-coated lips down to the tan pencil skirt you wore to match his tan trousers.

With ease, the stretchy fabric lifts and sculpts the curve of your butt, accentuating your hips and supple thighs. The skirt's ability to cling to you is equally alluring and irritating, moulding your body into perfect form and embracing you better than he could. It's not fair; it should be him instead.

Alex downs the last of his champagne in a swift swig, pivoting his aching lower half away from you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches you clam up again, your eyes vacant and your hands pleading to shake. Your stress is infectious in the worst way possible, suffocating the office with unbearable weight, making his heart fall into his stomach.

Alex clears his throat before speaking, likely masking the shakiness threatening to slip out. "Can I do anything to make you more...comfortable?" He asks. "As far as your new position's concerned, I mean."

"Kiss me again."

You say it without delay. It's the most confidence you've had today. Alex quickly grants your wish, almost tripping over his feet to kiss you again. This kiss holds more ferocity than the one before. It's painful when your lips meet, the alcohol burning, teeth colliding. Your tongues are lacking in grace, twisting and fumbling over each other, rough and greedy. When you moan, he calls back to you with ten times the intensity, his groans deep, almost primal.

Both of you are equally breathless, like the first kiss, panting as you two separate. With your foreheads against each other, you realise nothing needs to be said between you. Besides a question from Alex, you two are pure telepathy. But sometimes, Alex likes to hear it from your mouth.

"What do you want to do?"

Through your quivering lip, you utter the command. "Sit."

The desk beneath you rumbles as Alex drops to his knees. He wastes no time from there, his hands mirroring the same insatiable hunger as his tongue. To your dismay but with delight, his impatient hands form tears and holes in your stockings. Your gooseflesh expands as your bare skin becomes exposed, your body tingling when his hands graze you, sending delightful shockwaves to your core.

Alex's eyes lock with yours, holding a gaze that swirls your heart and head. The fabric of your skirt wrinkles as his hold on the hem tightens; he's beyond eager to please you. He's a chess piece awaiting your skilful hand—a jester desperate for the royal's approval.

You give a simple nod, and to Alex, you've moved the piece that will lead you to victory. He hikes your skirt up to your stomach, releasing a swarm of butterflies with his movements. Alex tears through the remaining material of your stockings to access your drenched panties, his breathing ragged and hot against your flush skin. He yanks the flimsy fabric to the side and glides his fingers along your leaking entrance. The touch may be minimal, but the impact is immense; you clutch the edge of the desk tightly, unable to hold back a moan as his fingers glide into you.

"Deeper," you command. Alex's fingers delve even further into your core. His knuckles flex as your walls shut around the digits, his teeth clenched in a tight hiss. Your thigh quakes when you feel it, the frigid metal of his wedding band sliding past your warm walls. It's as deep as he can get, but your ache refuses to subside. Using your hips, you buck to motion for Alex to take the wheel or do anything. Your walls morph into quicksand around his fingers, rendering them immobile as his fingertips strike the area of your rioting ache.

His eyes, devoid of focus, shift back and forth between your quivering, moaning form and the fingers plunged within you. Your arousal dribbles clear and hot on the mahogany desk, and it's pretty—fuck, it drives him mad, but solely for the time being. He's thankful you can't hear the annoyed 'tch' he lets out.

Below your stomach, the heat is scorching as his fingers work you further, poking and prodding your bits as your vision turns cloudy white. A tender kiss on your knee jerks your head downward, and your eyes meet your husband's once more. There's a glimmer in both of your gazes, ample in heart-stopping warmth; it's unshakable, too loud to ignore. The sight of you is ghastly, sweat clinging to your body like a second skin, and your makeup melting off your face. You're aware of it all, but it doesn't matter to Alex, and it never will. He'll look at you all the same; he'll hang you in the Louvre while holding the same gaze that put a ring on your finger. You'll always be perfect in his eyes.

The sounds bouncing against the office walls assault your ears, echoing your moans and those wet, squelching noises. Alex is inaudible through it all, but you can decipher his words by studying the curves of his lips.

"Close?" Alex asks.

Your body betrays you before you can answer, moaning instead of a simple "yes", yet you're able to nod your head. His fingers curl as they thump against your core once more, the bricks you've stacked steadily beginning to crumble. Alex is saying something else, and you are pretty familiar with it. You recognise the curving of his lips. He utters the words–your favourite words.

"I love you."

You don't say it back. Instead, you allow yourself to come undone on his fingers, your walls collapsing around the digits as you cry out to him. Your vision is a lovely cloudy white when you spasm. Through your haze, you forget entirely about the remaining liquid in your cup, accidentally pouring it on the documents that still lack your signature.

As the clouds roll out, you can hear Alex cooing you back to reality as he utters sweet nothings against your skin, rubbing away the never-ending gooseflesh. He slides his fingers out of you with fragility, as if you'll crack again at the slightest touch.

You will.

Alex stands up with a sigh, observing the mess formed on the desk. The champagne seeps into the documents, causing the ink to bleed and smear your signatures. When you look like this, it's hard to let his anger rear its horrid head. He knows better than to ruin your bliss, to rip you out of your cosy headspace, but he's your boss now. His words are merely a slap on the wrist.

"First Lady, you've ruined my desk."

You gulp as you try to regain your breath, your chest burning hot as you pant. "Our desk."

#mickey is typing…#alex turner x reader #alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #alex turner x you #yay :D it’s here :DD

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ask-outside-stars · 2 days ago

Note

a planned baby is just as good as an oops baby @ ford BREED 👏 THAT 👏 (NOT A) TRIANGLE 👏

Now if only those two goobers could stop dancing around each other and communicate openly and honestly about what they both want XD (To breed that triangle/be bred lmao)

Spoilers for the Outside Stars sequel fic below the cut 👇

Stan punched in the code for the vending machine - which had thankfully been repaired after Will’s rampage years ago - and descended into the bowels of the lab, whereupon he found Ford face-down at his desk and snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

In the past few years it seemed that Ford’s decades of sleepless nights had finally caught up to him. Despite a significantly better sleep schedule, it wasn’t uncommon to find him napping while slumped over a table, sprawled on the couch, or in one memorable instance, standing upright on the deck of the Stan O’ War II while a seagull made a nest in his curls. Will was usually with him more often than not, but at the moment he was alone.

Stan padded forward on slipper-clad feet until he was standing directly beside the sleeping scientist. He smiled. Ford used to be such a light sleeper, flinching and waking at the sound of a pin drop. Now, however, he actually managed to sleep through the night, no longer plagued by hyperawareness. Stan supposed Will was the one to thank for that vis a vis being a good spouse and bedmate.

Cipher being a good influence. What has this world come to?

He reached down to jostle his brother awake, but stopped when he caught sight of what the man had been working on. A drop of Will’s time potion was sandwiched between two flat glass panes and lifted to a microscope for examination. A journal - one of the many newer ones that Ford had made - was turned to a page covered in his looping, swirling script.

I’ve taken the liberty of examining William’s gift in greater detail. It’s not that I doubt the veracity of his claims to its potency, but rather that I find myself curious about its chemical composition. Liquid time, what is that precisely? On the microscopic level, it is completely sterile like an unopened bag of saline. It does not appear to be organic in nature, but rather manufactured. This aligns with what William had previously mentioned about it, that he had made it himself in Time Baby’s absence. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be made of molecules heretofore unknown to science, which I have dubbed “Chronatoms” for simplicity’s sake.

Stan gave a derisive snort. Chronatoms, really? Ford made a sleepy little sound and shifted slightly, revealing more of the page.

William has stated that this concoction is roughly fifteen years worth of time, reverse-engineered to have the opposite effect of its more traditional form. Theoretically, upon consumption, Stanley and I will age back fifteen years to when we were in our mid-forties. However, I find myself curious as to what effects this serum could have on beings who are not as old as we are. If Dipper or Mabel were to get ahold of it, would they revert back to childhood? The thought disturbed me, so I decided to test the serum on a fruit fly, Drosophila Melanogaster. With a lifespan of only fifty days, they would make a perfect test subject.

I had hypothesized that exposure to the serum would revert the insect back to its larval form, or even an egg, but it disappeared completely! Out of curiosity, I examined its habitat that I had been keeping it in and saw that the banana it had been feeding off of earlier this morning had also reverted back to a more complete state.

This brings up the frightening possibility that, in great quantities, William’s gift could potentially make it so that one never existed to begin with. My mind reels at the possibilities. Fifteen years equate to countless generations of fruit flies, erased from the timestream with the application of a single dose. All the more reason to be wary…

Stan’s mouth turned down at the corners a little. Ford’s findings were disturbing, to say the least.

“Mnm… Stanley?” Stan flinched at the sound of his brother’s sluggish voice, which sounded all the louder in the stillness of his lab. “What are you doing down here?”

“Came down to talk to ya, but I see you’re busy,” Stan replied with a nod to Ford’s haphazard setup. “I’ll come back another time.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I always have time for you,” Ford said as he sat up and adjusted his glasses, his back popping and crackling like bubble wrap being wrung out.

Damn if hearing that didn’t bring a smile to Stans’ face. “I just wanted to talk to you about why you’ve been moping around the house all week. It’s got me, Shermie, and the kids worried.”

Ford seemed to sit up straighter at that. “I didn’t mean to frighten anyone. I’ve simply been… preoccupied with my studies.”

“Uh huh. Pull the other one, why don’t ya?” Stan scoffed.

“Pull the other what?”

“It’s an expression, ya knucklehead. I’m just sayin’ that I know you’re lying to me. Can’t con a con artist, remember?”

Ford sighed and leaned back in his chair, thoroughly chastened. “Yes, you’re quite right, Stanley. I apologize for attempting to deceive you. I suppose I’ve had quite a bit on my mind as of late.”

Stan twirled his wrist in a go-on gesture, and Ford did so.

“Even with William’s generous gift, I find my thoughts turning towards the future and what that means for me. For us as a family, you included. If we accept his gift, what will we do with the extra time? Could William’s gift be provided ad infinitum until we eventually grow bored of eternal youth?”

“Yeesh. That’s kinda dark, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“And besides, once again you’re thinking too hard. The answer is simple: we do whatever the hell we want with this extra time! We can watch the niblings get married and have kids. We can explore even more of the world. We could, I dunno, build a new Mystery Shack somewhere and scam tourists on a global scale. And I bet you could probably invent all sorts of new nerd gadgets.”

“Hm…”

Stan perched on the edge of the desk and Ford barely managed to swipe his journal to safety with an offended noise. “But the question, Poindexter, is what do you want to do with that extra time?”

To Stan’s not-quite surprise, Ford’s face flushed beet-red and his glasses fogged slightly. “W- well, I… I’ve had some thoughts. Things that I wasn’t quite able to do while I was in the portal.”

Stan leaned forward with a playful leer, his eyebrows bouncing. “I sense something juicy you’re not telling me.”

Ford pushed his chair back from the desk, clutching his journal to his desk and rose with a huff. “That is none of your business, Stanley.”

“But it has something to do with Cipher, am I right?”

Ford squawked indignantly and fumbled for his journal as his hands suddenly spasmed and nearly caused him to drop the thing.

“Th- that… how did you know?”

“Call it Twintuition, but I bet there’s something you want to do that you’re too scared to talk to Cipher about.”

“I…”

#outside stars #gravity falls #stanford pines #stan pines #billford #spoilers

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illuminatedquill · 2 months ago

Text

Story Summary: Ursa is met with fierce opposition from Sabine over her plan. The Rite of Hearts challenge is revealed to the suitors. Ezra realizes how much danger he is in and begins to doubt himself.

Part 2 of 4

(Part 1 here)

Ursa Wren: She's a child. Kanan Jarrus: I believe you're underestimating the woman she's become. - Star Wars Rebels, Legacy of Mandalore

If you are a lover, you have to be a fighter. - Keanu Reeves

~ the call, part two ~

Hera Syndulla let out a huff of annoyance as she finished re-wiring a section of the Ghost's main control console. She had been noticing a certain amount of lag in the freighter's responsiveness to her steering in their last hit-and-run on an Imperial convoy. To a less capable pilot the delay would seem negligible, but Hera was no rookie - even a microscopic nanosecond's worth of lag could mean the difference between certain escape or being turned into floating scrap metal.

Rolling out from under the console, she paused to remove her safety googles and wipe the sweat from her brow. "Alright, Chop," she said. "Try the sequence again."

The astromech droid let out a surly beep of acknowledgment but did as he was told, his servo-arm slotting into one of the console's open ports to run a diagnostic. She couldn't blame him - they had been at it for hours now, performing maintenance all over the venerable freighter. It wasn't strictly necessary, but there were enough unknown variables that could spring up during combat against the Empire.

Ensuring that the Ghost stayed fully maintained at all times was a variable she could control, which is why she insisted upon performing it during any down time they could get.

"Chop?" asked Hera, wearily clambering onto the pilot seat to rest for a moment. "Can I get a diagnostic now?"

The astromech droid buzzed out some information. Hera frowned.

"I meant for the Ghost. I know you're tired. You've been complaining non-stop for the past several hours."

Chopper gave an annoyed squeal and then rattled off the correct information. She clicked on the main console's computer screen, confirming with her own eyes but as usual, Chopper's information was accurate. The lag had been fixed, and the Ghost was ready for action.

The veteran pilot slumped into her seat, wincing at tired muscles and aching joints that were making their presence known after hours stuck in the cramped workspace. At least, she could get some -

The main console chimed softly. A call was coming through on a private channel.

Hera stared at the beeping communicator and groaned. "Perfect timing," she muttered. "Sure, I'm already up."

Chopper queried a question at her in a series of beeps.

She growled at him. "Yes, you can leave to recharge now. Thanks for all the help."

The astromech droid wheeled himself out of the cockpit with an annoyingly cheerful buzz, leaving her to answer the message. Hera rubbed at her temples, trying to head off an impending headache.

Finally, she reached out with an exasperated sigh and let the call through.

"Hera," came a familiar voice. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

She straightened in her seat, surprise jolting through her. Flicking a few more switches, the holo-communicator flared to life revealing the hazy, blue tinged image of Ursa Wren, the matriarch of Clan Wren. The formidable woman was sitting upright in a chair, dressed in what appeared to be casual sleepwear.

Her headache instantly vanished. "Ursa," greeted Hera cautiously. The matriarch kept her affairs private, only reaching out to give updates on the Mandalorian war effort or exchanging intel with the Rebellion. But those conversations were always scheduled well-ahead of time since Ursa liked to keep to a strict schedule. Hera suspected the woman disliked surprises.

"What brings you at this late hour? I don't think we had any scheduled conferences for today."

Ursa shook her head. "We did not. I bring news regarding my daughter."

Hera's eyebrows shot up in concern. "Sabine? What's going on?"

There was the noise of rapidly approaching footsteps towards the cockpit -

Ezra burst inside, almost falling flat on his face, still dressed in his pajamas, hair slightly ruffled from sleep. "Sabine? Hera, did I hear that right?"

She snorted. Like a moth to a flame, Hera thought. The kid couldn't help himself when it came to the Mandalorian girl.

Then again, who was she to throw stones? Kanan was the exact same way with her. He just hid it better.

Ursa seemed unruffled by the young man's sudden appearance. In fact, Hera suspiciously noted via the subtle smile flitting across her face, the Wren matriarch seemed pleased at Ezra's intrusion.

It was as if Ursa wanted Ezra to be there.

Hera felt a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"That is correct, Jedi Bridger," Ursa continued calmly.

Hera watched Ezra's brows furrow together in worry. "Is she in trouble?" he asked Ursa.

"Of sorts."

"I'll go," he said immediately. Hera felt her mouth go slack at the speed in which Ezra made this decision. No hesitation, whatsoever.

He glanced at Hera, as if noticing her presence for the first time. "Hera, is the Phantom fueled up?"

"Yes," she said. "Hang on, Ezra - let's talk about this."

"No," he said firmly. "I'm going. Have the Countess patch into the Phantom's private channel and she can fill me in on the way to Krownest."

Hera raised an eyebrow at him. "You're giving me orders?"

That gave him pause, finally. "Hera . . . look, I'm sorry, but it's Sabine."

She just looked at him, dread and anxiety mixing into a heady concoction inside her chest. The boy had grown up on her.

When did that happen, she wondered. How much longer can I protect him from this galaxy?

Had that time already passed?

She reached out and gently gripped his wrist. "Ezra. You don't know what you're walking into."

The young Jedi gave her a small smile. "True. But I know who's in the middle of whatever mess this is. And she'll be needing me."

Hera huffed out a laugh. And, against her better judgment, she released her grip.

"Go save our girl," she said.

He nodded at her and walked out.

"Come back, safe" she said quietly to the empty cockpit.

"You have my word," came Ursa's voice, "that he will be returned to you, safe and sound. The boy will be under my protection."

Hera turned around to stare at the holo-image of the Wren matriarch. "I'll hold you to that, Countess," she replied softly. "Because that's two of my children that are now under your watch."

Ursa bristled at her words but said nothing. The woman owed the Ghost crew a debt for returning Sabine to her and she knew it. Sabine was back with her blood family, it was true, but both women knew where her heart truly belonged.

"If anything were to happen to either of them . . . " Hera did not finish the sentence.

The Countess cocked her head at the veteran pilot, her eyes intense. Hera held the intimidating gaze with her own.

After a few tense moments, Ursa let loose a grim smile. "From one mother to another," she replied. "You have my solemn vow. Both of them will be safe."

Hera held her stare for another second and then acknowledged with a nod. "Good. I'm assuming you have a plan to get Sabine and Ezra out of whatever mess is brewing for them."

"I do."

She leaned forward. "Tell me."

~ happy to see you ~

Three days later

Ezra had experienced plenty of bad days during his time travelling onboard the Ghost but being choked out by your best friend surely had to break into the top three or five if he could be bothered to make a list.

Thankfully, it wasn't the last day he would ever experience courtesy of the Krownest guards sent to wrangle Sabine off him. The latter now stood well outside of arm's reach of him, her hands placed in durasteel binders, flanked closely on either side by the same armed guards. The glare she was throwing his direction made Ezra feel unsteady and, not for the first time since he had arrived, he wondered if him being here was the correct move.

He risked a glance in her direction, silently pleading through his look: Please tell me that I'm doing the right thing here, Sabine. Please.

Alas, the only thing he could read off Sabine's glare was a silent promise intending to do more bodily harm to him. He sighed, running a nervous hand through his short-cropped hair.

Great job, Ezra, he thought miserably. Your only friend here is pissed at you.

"Forgive my daughter's unseemly outburst," said Ursa, her tone indicating no sign of surprise at Sabine's actions. "Our newest candidate is someone she is intimately familiar with."

Sabine's eyes popped open at Ursa's words, her head snapping towards her mother. Ezra felt his cheeks about to burst into flame, and he immediately raised his hand out of an instinctive need to correct the matriarch's statement.

He felt the stares of the other candidates fall upon him, along with Ursa's. Raising an imperious eyebrow, she said in an amused tone, "There is no need to raise your hand here to say something, Jedi Bridger. This is not an Academy classroom."

There was a ripple of muted laughter from the clan heads. The suitors, notably, did not join in that laughter. Ezra didn't know if that was a good or bad sign that they were not laughing at him.

He shoved that observation aside for the moment. "Uh, yes. Sorry. Thank you. I just want to clarify that our relationship was - is - very much platonic."

Ursa leaned forward on her chair, resting her chin on clasped hands. "You did not live together for a number of years before she returned home to us?" she asked.

Ezra blinked. "Uh. Yes, that's - that's true. We did."

"Dine together? Fight alongside together?"

His cheeks were warming up again. Sabine's lips tightened into a thin white line, her own cheeks turning rosy. "Well, yes, but - "

"You did not sleep together?"

"In separate rooms!" Ezra blurted out. "We slept in separate rooms, on the same ship. Not the same thing. Plenty of space on the Ghost, no need to share bunks. Although there were a couple times when we got space mite infestations and I did have to share a room with Sabine - "

He let out a hysterical giggle, realizing what he was suddenly saying after those last words clicked. Thankfully, Sabine stepped in.

"Mother!" hissed Sabine. "Stop this, now."

Ursa acquiesced, leaning back into her throne, eyes shining with mirth and amusement. "I jest, of course. Something to break the tension," she said apologetically.

She waved at the other candidates. "If the other suitors are ready, you all may present yourselves now to my daughter."

Ezra braced himself. Right - the reason he was here. The other suitors, fellow challengers for Sabine's hand in marriage.

He didn't know how this would go. Or what he would do to protect Sabine. But he was also a Jedi - and Jedi only acted to defend, not to attack.

Mandalorians were very different from Jedi, as he knew. The preferred to shoot first, ask questions later.

I might not have a choice, he thought. There was too much riding on his actions in the next few days. Ursa was depending on him.

More importantly, Sabine was depending on him. Even if she didn't appreciate it at the moment.

And he refused to let her down.

But he was still a Jedi. He would avoid all harm to the other challengers, within the best of his ability to do so.

He was protecting someone he cared about. But he would also do whatever he could to protect these others, even if they meant him harm.

Do or do not. There is no try.

Ezra pursed his lips, fighting down a sense of unease boiling up within him. He felt out of depth once again, amongst all these Mandalorians and their complicated politics.

There was only one glowing mote of clarity for him throughout this mess. He turned to Sabine, his eyes finding hers.

"Sabine," he called out.

She just looked at him, the anger still glowing hotly like fresh embers in her brown eyes.

Ezra just gave her a small smile. "Happy to see you again," he said.

Sabine's eyes softened. And, for a brief moment, the ghost of a familiar smile appeared on her face.

(Pictured above: Despite the tense situation, Sabine cannot help but give a gentle, affectionate smile to her friend, Ezra, as thanks for showing up when she needed him.)

"Me too, goober," she replied affectionately.

Feeling emboldened by that smile, Ezra turned to face the other suitors with a cheerful expression - aware that most, if not all of them, were plotting how to kill him within the next few days.

~ the debut ~

Sabine tore her eyes away from Ezra's earnest smile and focused on the first clan to present themselves. Stepping forward, the clan head and their chosen candidate shed their fine shimmer-silk cloaks with heads held high.

Clan Eagan, she remembered. The current head was Markus Eagan, a towering, gaunt faced man with storm gray hair that matched the color of his eyes. His beskar armor was dyed in the traditional colors of his clan, an intimidating mix of slate gray and white. It was unnervingly close to Imperial coloring, Sabine observed, but she had heard that it was unwise to point that out near any Eagan present - they detested the Empire with a passion matched only by Clan Wren, often volunteering for missions deemed suicidal that presented any opportunity to hurt the Imperials.

Their daughter, the heiress to Clan Eagan, was a depressingly familiar face from her early days in Mandalorian training: Anessa, the heiress to her clan.

(Pictured above: Anessa Eagan, a rival to Sabine during her early years of Mandalorian training. She was the first suitor to declare herself a challenger for Sabine's hand in marriage.)

The young woman had grown even more beautiful since Sabine's younger days: the sharp edges of her features inherited from her father's genes being smoothed over with youth. But the most striking feature were Anessa's eyes; Sabine was still unnerved by the sight of them after all these years - they were like dark pools of water with only the occasional predatory gleam surfacing to let you know the direction of her thoughts.

Anessa caught Sabine's look and gave a mischievous wink. "You look good in binders, Wren," she called out.

Sabine smirked at her. "Come closer and say that, Anessa."

Despite her bravado, Sabine felt a pit of cold dread well up inside her stomach. Anessa was vicious and brutal, raised in the style of her clan's tradition. She would not hesitate to find a weakness to exploit in an enemy's defense and use it to ensure complete victory - which, by Eagan standards of victory, would result in their utter annihilation. Clan Eagan was competent, ruthless, and dedicated to the art of warfare in a way that gave even the mighty Ursa Wren pause.

Anessa was a step beyond her clan, which made this situation all the worse: she enjoyed her conquests, relishing her victories with a zeal bordering on bloodlust. Sabine had seen it in the little competitions she held during the early Mandalorian trials. Even then, she was always pushing to see how far she could go before someone stopped her.

She stared hard at the Eagan heiress. I was always the one who stood against you, Anessa.

And now, it wasn't her standing against Anessa.

It was Ezra. Her best friend was the only one standing between Sabine and a potential marriage to the cruel Anessa Eagan.

Sabine's hands tightened inside her binders. Ezra . . .

The Eagan heiress just laughed at Sabine's remark, a melodic sound that seemed incapable of being issued from someone with Anessa's personality. Her father, standing behind, frowned and nudged the young woman.

Anessa shot her father an annoyed look, but she let the laughter die as acknowledgment. She bowed deferentially towards Ursa, waiting on her throne.

"Countess, I hereby declare my challenge for the right to marry your daughter."

Ursa nodded in return. "I accept your challenge, Anessa of Clan Eagan."

Anessa went to resume her spot standing in front of her father, Markus. But as she did so, she gave Ezra a flat stare, her gray eyes flashing with a hungry gleam.

Ezra seemed unperturbed by Anessa's look, only giving a cheerful wave in response. The hungry gleam only increased in Anessa's eyes.

Fenn Rau squeezed Sabine's arm as a warning. "Easy now," he murmured into her ear. "This is not the time."

Sabine blinked, suddenly aware that she had taken a step forward as if about to launch herself at the Eagan heiress. She took a deep breath, relaxing herself and pushing the feeling of protectiveness towards Ezra down into a deep hole . . . for now.

Ursa sat back into her throne, utterly relaxed. "The next clan will present themselves, if they please: Clan Reghabi."

(Pictured above: Jorge Reghabi, the heir to Clan Reghabi and second candidate to challenge for Sabine. He shares a deep-seated admiration and love towards Sabine for an incident during their early childhood when she stood up for him against a crowd of bullies.)

Instilling herself a sense of calm, she focused on the next candidate. A stocky, broad-shouldered figure, only dwarfed by the even more mountainous one standing behind them. The former took a decisive step forward, shrugging off their fine cloak, revealing a handsome, chiseled face that could have been featured on holo-dramas during the Old Republic days. His dark skin glowed with vitality, and he flashed a vibrant smile at Sabine.

Sabine let loose a gasp, her eyes widening in shocked recognition. "Jorge?" she blurted out, forgetting all sense of decorum. The image of a scrawny child, frail as a leaf, barely fitting into their first set of armor did not compute with this new updated image of the Jorge Reghabi she remembered.

The smile grew wider and with a whoop of excitement Jorge rushed forward to grapple Sabine into a huge bear hug. "Starbird!" he yelled. "It is so good to see you again, my friend!"

From the corner of her eye, Sabine caught her mother attempting to hide a bemused smile. "Stand down," she said softly to the guards who were alarmed at the sudden movement. They relaxed their stances to a more neutral position in response to the command.

Wheezing from the strength of Jorge's hug, Sabine gasped, "It's good to see you, too. Can you - ack - let me go before my ribs break?"

He let go immediately, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "Of course, of course," he said. "My apologies."

"No worries," she replied, wincing at her aching sides. She studied Jorge, taking in the sizeable growth in his frame. "You've grown."

"Yes," he said proudly. "Turns out I was a late bloomer. Now I am big and strong - and, more importantly, I can return the favor from when we were young."

Sabine frowned at him. "What favor?"

He leaned in close. "Now I can protect you, Starbird."

A memory returned her at Jorge's words: a crowd of young Mandalorians, jeering at a bruised youngling, Jorge, sprawled on the ground. In her mind's eye, she saw the younger version of her push her way through the mob, standing against them with nothing more than a sparring stick as a means of defense.

Smiling faintly, she merely said, "It wasn't a business transaction, Jorge. You needed help."

He winked at her. "And now you need help. I must save your clan."

From her throne, Ursa coughed loudly. "The challenger from Clan Reghabi. Please make your declaration, so we may move on?"

"Jorge!" barked the Clan Reghabi head. The matriarch of Jorge's clan, Asan Reghabi, slipped the cloak off her shoulders, her dark eyes sparkling with anger at her son. She was the spitting image of her child - or, rather, it was vice versa. Her hair was cut short in a military style, peppered through with gray throughout the long years of battle for dominance. The beskar armor she wore was in the colors of her clan, matching the vivid evergreen of a thriving forest.

"Jorge, by the founders, will you get your ass in line? Stop being affectionate with the girl, there will be time for that later when you win, you love-sick moron!"

The young man wilted from his mother's shouting but still managed to give Sabine a cheeky smile. He skipped back to his position and gave Ursa an extra deep, reverential bow by way of apology. "Countess, the candidate for Clan Reghabi hereby declares his challenge for the right to your daughter's hand in marriage."

The Wren matriarch looked down from her throne, a small smile forming from the Reghabi heir's antics. "I accept your challenge, Jorge Reghabi."

The Reghabi heir straightened himself and went back to his mother's side. The matriarch prodded her son sharply in the forehead, letting loose an exasperated hiss at his behavior. Sabine grinned for a moment but then sobered as she thought about the increasingly dire reality for Ezra who was watching the situation with a calm expression of polite interest.

Clan Reghabi was another clan of notable ambition but where Eagan could be seen more as a laser scalpel like approach to their enemies, Reghabi tended to be more like a battering ram. They were not known for their subtlety and the tactics they chose in battle were aimed to overwhelm and bludgeon their opponents into submission. For better or worse, Reghabi never surrendered and always ensured their enemies paid for any victory with no small amount of blood.

The pit of dread inside her grew even more but Sabine was determined to not let it show on her face. Ezra was smart, capable, adaptable to any situation and, more importantly, he was acting in accordance with a plan devised from Ursa.

It would have to be enough. It had to be enough.

"Final candidate, please present yourself," said Ursa briskly.

(Pictured above: Tal Cobel, the heir to Clan Cobel and final challenger for Sabine's hand in marriage. They grew attached to Sabine during their early years in Mandalorian training and fell in love with her when she encouraged them to embrace their true identity.)

The last candidate stepped forward, a tiny figure that was enveloped by the fine cloak bestowed upon them. With a subtle shift of their shoulders, the cloak fell to the ground revealing the heir to Clan Cobel, Tal Cobel. Their auburn hair was tied up in a loose bun with a face that could be mistaken for cute were it not for the determined, calculating expression that shined from their hazel eyes.

Tal caught Sabine's eyes and gave an awkward bow. Sabine acknowledged it with one of her own, saying, "Hello, Tal. It's been a while."

"Hello, Sabine," replied Tal softly. "I've missed you."

The Cobel heir paused before saying, even more softly: "You never wrote back to me."

Sabine froze, the guilt spreading through her. She caught Ezra's eyes, who watched the conversation with a frown.

"I know," replied Sabine. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I never forgot about you. My life just got . . . busy. I didn't want to involve you in that."

Tal nodded, their expression not giving anything away. "It's alright. We will have plenty of time to catch up when we're married."

"Tal," chided their mother, standing close behind. Mariza Cobel, barely taller than her child, wore the traditional colors of her clan: glacial blues and silvers. The Cobel matriarch's face was creased from the years of wear and tear and could be described as gentle, but the reputation of her clan preceded her: Clan Cobel preferred to have their victories be assured before the battle was waged, focusing on gathering enough crucial information to subdue their enemies without firing a single shot.

They were the spearhead of a new train of thought in Mandalorian warfare: spying, misinformation, and subterfuge. No less dangerous than the other two clans being represented; what they lacked in pure offensive capability, they more than made up for in superior tactical thinking and planning.

Tal blinked, cheeks turning rosy, and then turned towards Ursa. "My apologies, Countess. I hereby declare my challenge for the right to Sabine's hand in matrimony."

"Granted," replied Ursa. Tal nodded at Sabine again before returning to their spot next to Mariza.

With a clap of her hands, Ursa rose from her throne to survey the four candidates: Anessa Eagan, Jorge Reghabi, Tal Cobel, and last but certainly not least, Ezra Bridger.

"Challengers, I thank you for your warm greetings to this sacred event." she announced, sounding sincere. "Your journeys have been long. I invite you to partake of our hospitality and rest tonight under our protection here in Krownest. Fenn Rau will show you all to your rooms and supply you with supper later in the evening."

Ursa's eyes flashed in warning, voice rising to make her next point clear. "I expect a quiet evening tonight. The Rite of Hearts will prove arduous in the day to come, and I will have you all compete on an even playing field. Fenn Rau will be watching closely to ensure no foul play occurs."

Markus Eagan stepped forward, his gaunt face twisting in annoyance. "What is the question will you be posing for the challenge, Ursa?"

Ursa favored the man with a look of grim amusement. "You don't wish to wait, Markus? The anticipation makes things so exciting."

The Eagan patriarch's expression turned sour. "No. You know I despise waiting, Ursa."

She smiled at him, in a way that showed off her sharp canines. "I know. That's why I'm doing it."

The man's face suffused darkly with anger but he somehow managed to keep from retorting. Sabine sensed there was an ugly history between her mother and Markus, one that was better kept under wraps for now.

Ezra raised his hand.

"Yes, Jedi Bridger?" asked Ursa exasperatedly. "I will remind you, once again, that this is not an Academy classroom. You need not raise your hand."

"Um, I would like to know. If that's alright. Something to think about over dinner later, at least," he said quietly.

Ursa regarded him for a few moments. Then, sighing, she asked, "Very well. The question I pose is this: What does Sabine need?"

Ezra raised his eyebrows in a questioning matter, his expression mirrored by the other candidates and their parents.

"I require clarification," Mariza Cobel said. Beside her, Tal studied Sabine as if searching for an answer. Sabine shrugged, unsure of what her mother meant by the question.

Ursa gestured at her daughter. "It's simple enough. The galaxy spins itself further into chaos with each passing day. If any of you are worthy enough to stand by Sabine's side as a partner, you must show me that you know her heart. What does she need to live in this galaxy? What will you provide her that the others cannot?"

"Well . . ." Ezra ventured. "I mean, she needs food."

Sabine stared at him.

Tal frowned at him; Jorge's face erupted into a broad smile; and Anessa glowered at the young Jedi. Their parents shared similar disapproving looks at Ezra's candor.

Ursa rolled her eyes. "Does she now?" she asked, her tone practically begging him to discontinue this train of thought.

Unfortunately, Ezra did not catch on.

"Well, yeah," Ezra continued, not reading the room's atmosphere. "She eats like a baby rancor. I've seen it."

Sabine wanted to melt into the ground and disappear forever. "Ezra!" she hissed. "Stop. Talking."

He looked at her and immediately deflated. "Uh, forget what I said. Sabine eats delicately. Totally healthy and normal for someone of her size."

Ignoring Ezra entirely, Markus Eagan asked, "And how are the candidates expected to present this answer? I assume that's where the challenge will come in. Or are we starting the galaxy's first Mandalorian poetry contest?"

There was a ripple of laughter from the assorted guests. Sabine shrugged and muttered, "That doesn't sound too bad to me."

"No, Markus," replied Ursa in a clipped tone. "The suitors will venture into the Krownest mines at early dawn tomorrow. There they will make their way through the caverns, find the rich vein of beskar that lies there, and mine what they need to create their answer to my question. It will be a journey that will last most of the day, from my estimates."

There was a shocked silence that settled among the guests in light of Ursa's statement.

"Krownest . . . you mean to tell me," Asan Reghabi said slowly, "has its own mines of beskar?"

"Why were we not told this?" demanded Markus.

Ursa stared coldly at the Eagan patriarch. "Because it is a Krownest secret. Mine to keep. And it will stay that way, or I will have you all shot on sight."

No one said a word. Sabine surveyed the group: the Eagans were stony faced, the Cobels looked thoughtful, and the Reghabis seemed impatient to move on.

Only Ezra seemed to be focused on something else other than Ursa: her. She caught his look and gave a casual shrug, pretending that the information was not shocking news to her also.

The Wren matriarch clapped her hands once. "Now, it is time for food and then rest. You all have much to think about."

As Fenn Rau began to shepherd them all out, Ezra made to move closer towards Sabine. She shook her head vigorously. "I'll talk to you later, Ezra," she said, inwardly regretful at how curt her statement sounded.

He stopped in his tracks, giving her a sad look before allowing Fenn Rau to lead him away with the group of people who intended to kill him tomorrow.

And then she was alone in the throne room with her mother.

~ the duel ~

Fenn Rau returned to the throne room after seeing the guests off to their rooms and ensuring their security. Sabine stood across from her mother, newly unshackled, arms crossed against her chest. The younger Wren's expression was alarmingly placid given the stressful events she had just experienced. In Rau's time here, it was an indicator that a bigger storm was brewing inside Sabine, and he braced himself for the eventual break in her facade.

Ursa still sat on her throne, chin resting on clasped hands. For the first time that day, the Wren matriarch looked exhausted. He wondered if it was because of gathering of hostile clans under her roof . . .

" - were you going to tell me about Ezra's involvement, mother? I deserved to know in advance that you blackmailed my best friend into this mess!"

. . . or if this was just a normal reaction to arguing with Sabine.

He edged closer to the conversation with a high degree of caution, keeping track of the guards standing watch around the room. They didn't seem perturbed by the escalating situation - yet.

"The Jedi volunteered, Sabine," answered Ursa. Rau knew she was being honest here, having listened in on that conversation. The Countess had barely said two words before Bridger's agreement to help. "There was no blackmail involved."

"I don't believe you," retorted Sabine. "He would never involve himself in something as asinine as this."

Ursa's eyes flashed sharply, cutting through her exhaustion. "Watch your words, daughter. Your freedom is not an asinine matter to me - and to him, as well. On that matter, we are in agreement."

Sabine gritted her teeth, her eyes darkening with fury that was now freely boiling over. "You've put him into a deliberately precarious position! I won't have it."

"Or what?" challenged Ursa. "You're afraid he's going to get himself hurt?"

Sabine stomped her foot. "Yes! And I'm also afraid he's going to hurt the others! On my behalf! Which goes against everything he believes in as a Jedi!"

Ursa cocked her head at Sabine, curious. "Jedi - especially in this day and age - are no strangers to violence, child."

"They're not trained as weapons like we are, mother," Sabine pointed out. "The Jedi are meant to be a shield. A means of defense. They never act, unless it is to defend."

"He is defending something," Ursa replied quietly. "The boy is defending you."

Rau watched Sabine freeze at that statement, her face twisting at some unknown emotion. Ursa observed this and remarked, "That's what vexes you, isn't it? That Bridger is putting more than just his life on the line - his code, the mantle of being a Jedi, is also what's at stake."

She leaned forward, eyes flashing with interest. "He's willing to compromise himself for you. And you cannot stand it - the feeling of be so helpless while a loved one risks it all to defend something as intangible as your heart and your freedom."

Sabine just looked at her - and Fau heard an alarm bell start tolling away. It looked like something vital, some deeply held personal belief, had broken inside the younger Wren at her mother's words.

(Pictured above: A defiant Sabine confronts Ursa regarding Ezra's involvement in the Rite of Hearts.)

There was an angry snap-hiss that crackled like lightning into the silence filling the room.

All the guards inside the room snapped their heads towards Sabine as she held the newly ignited Darksaber aloft over her head.

Ursa stared at her, rising slowly from her throne into a standing position. Rau shivered at the sight of such raw, naked fury emanating from the matriarch's face. It was only matched by the same emotion coming from her daughter, facing her mother with weapon drawn.

"That weapon," Ursa said, her voice eerily calm, "gives you authority over all of Mandalore."

"That's right," challenged Sabine. "So, mother - you will yield."

Ursa stepped down from her throne, walking slowly towards her daughter. The younger Wren tracked her mother's movement, shifting her footing cautiously.

"You forget where you stand, Sabine. This is not Mandalore," said Ursa.

She snapped her fingers. The guard nearest to her, standing against the wall, turned and threw his spear towards the Countess. She caught it deftly, slamming the end onto the stone floor.

It rang with the tone of a clear bell, indicating the strength of its beskar. Pure beskar, thought Fenn Rau. Strong enough to withstand a lightsaber.

"Your other Jedi friend, Kanan Jarrus, told me that I had underestimated you. That you are no longer a child," said Ursa.

Sabine didn't answer, except to just narrow her eyes. The Darksaber hummed angrily in her grasp.

"But he does not know you as I do, daughter. You still have much to learn."

"I won't let you use Ezra in this game of yours," replied Sabine through gritted strength. "It ends here, mother."

Ursa studied her daughter. "You're afraid. Afraid that he'll break himself to save you. And - then what? You won't be able to love him anymore? He'll be too damaged to be loved - like you?"

They were circling each other enough, close enough for a strike from either one of them but the battle was already being waged. Not through action but through words. And Ursa was winning, judging from the storm of emotions crossing through her daughter's face.

"Stop talking," whispered Sabine. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You do know. You're scared of the truth. And that fear blinds you. Makes you question him. And perhaps I should, too. If you have that little faith that your precious Jedi cannot overcome the challenge ahead then, when I'm finished with you here, I will go to his quarters and plunge this spear into his chest to spare him - "

Fenn Rau closed his eyes, feeling sympathy for Sabine. Ursa knew where her daughter's weakness was . . . and exploited it ruthlessly to her advantage.

Sabine let loose a primal, furious scream.

Ursa snapped the spear into a guard just in time as the black-white blade collided against the pure beskar in an explosion of sparks.

And the duel between mother and daughter began.

~ kanan ~

The rest of the day did not fare much better for Ezra.

Despite his best efforts, the other challengers - Anessa, Jorge, and Tal - kept mostly to themselves, along with their parents. Ezra had been met with either polite conversation that amounted to nothing or outright hostility (mainly from Clan Eagan). After several hours trying to get more information from anyone he could, Ezra felt frustrated with all the dead ends.

And he couldn't locate Fenn Rau, Sabine, or Ursa, either.

I'm way out of my depth on this one, he thought miserably. What have I gotten myself into?

With nothing else to go on and the hour growing later, Ezra decided to retire into his quarters for a while.

They were reasonably good accommodations - sparse on decoration but still comfortable with all the touches necessary for a good night's rest. It was certainly much nicer than the room he shared with Zeb back on the Ghost, not that he would ever complain to Hera about that.

He laid back on the bed, letting his body sink into the comfy plush, and closed his eyes. All he could think about was Sabine - namely, how upset she was that he had showed up. Yes, he had managed to get a smile out of her later on, but only just.

Ezra grimaced. As a Jedi, he was supposed to have the clarity of thought to see through any situation. But, as usual, when things came to Sabine and Mandalorians in general, that clarity was rarely present.

Sabine.

He had missed her greatly these past few months. And, admittedly, he was hoping that her reaction to his presence would have been . . . less angry at the very least.

Had he been wrong to come here? But if things weren't so dire, why did Ursa request his help? And what was he supposed to do, anyway? She hadn't been entirely forthcoming in their conversation as he made the trip to Krownest.

"I just need you to be yourself," Ursa had assured him. "I will handle the rest."

"Whatever that means," Ezra muttered. He rolled onto his side - and saw the holo-communicator built into the small desk that came with the room.

Sitting up, he reached over and keyed in a communications code. A call went out - and someone answered a few seconds later.

"Hey, kid," came the voice of Kanan Jarrus, his master. "I was wondering when I would get this call."

"Kanan," said Ezra, feeling relief pour through him. "Thanks for picking up."

"Of course. Everything going well over there? You and Sabine get hitched yet?"

Ezra felt his cheeks heat up. "That's not why I came here!"

"Really?" asked Kanan, his tone droll. "Because the way Hera explained it to me is that your plan is to marry Sabine . . . so that she won't have to get married at all. Or something like that."

"Well. When you put it like that - look, Ursa says Sabine doesn't want to be married. But she doesn't have a choice in this because of clan politics. So, if I marry her, Sabine won't have to marry anyone else."

"Uh-huh," replied Kanan. "And then - what? You two just pretend to be married until things settle down and get the marriage annulled?"

"Right," said Ezra. "We just . . . you know, put on an act, and when the time is right, Sabine can find a suitable partner for herself. On her own terms."

"And you're okay with that?"

Ezra ignored the pang of . . . he couldn't find the word to describe it. Loss? But that would imply that he thought Sabine was his to begin with. And the marriage wouldn't be real . . .

"This isn't about me," he answered back. "This is all for Sabine."

"If you say so, kid," said Kanan. "But I'm sensing there's more to talk about here."

"Yeah," said Ezra, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I, uh, am not so sure I thought all - well, any of this, through."

Laughter came through the call. Ezra grimaced. "Oh, you think?" asked his master. "Do tell."

"Pretty sure the other challengers are planning to kill me in tomorrow's contest," growled Ezra. "Really could use some advice here."

"Did you try talking to them?"

"First thing I did after we all introduced ourselves."

"Well," said Kanan, "that might be why they want to kill you. So don't do that anymore."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "Sound advice, master. Thanks."

"You're worried about losing," prompted Kanan suddenly.

He paused. After a few moments, he whispered back, "Yeah. I am."

"There's so much riding on this, Kanan. I'm still not sure what I'm doing here - you should have seen Sabine's expression; she was not happy. I think she hates me now."

Kanan chuckled. "No, she doesn't. I know her, and I know you. Don't listen to your doubts. They'll eat away at you. Listen to what your heart is saying."

Sabine.

"Are you listening to it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," said Ezra quietly.

"Focus on that and why you're there. Make it simple. Don't stray from it, and you'll find your way through this mess. Reach out to the Force for guidance."

He closed his eyes, letting his master's words sink into him. "Okay. Thank you, Kanan."

"Still worried about losing?"

"A little," Ezra admitted.

Another chuckle from Kanan. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager all my credits on you, kid."

Ezra frowned. "Why?"

"Because Sabine will be watching, I assume. You won't fail in front of her."

The young Jedi smiled faintly. "You're right," he said, feeling confidence bloom inside his chest. "I won't."

"May the Force be with you, Ezra. And keep our girl safe from the scary suitors," said Kanan.

Ezra laughed. "Same to you, master. Tell the others 'hi' for me."

"Will do."

He cut the call. Standing up, Ezra stretched tired muscles - and heard his stomach growl.

Well, might as well see if dinner's ready, he thought. Maybe the other suitors will feel more talkative with food in their bellies.

Ezra made for the door -

It hissed open before he reached it. Sensing a new presence, he reached for the lightsaber hanging off his belt -

And then recognized it a second later.

It was Sabine. One of her arms was, alarmingly, clearly broken encased in a thick cast held across her chest in a makeshift sling to prevent movement.

"Sabine?" asked Ezra, concern overriding all other thought. "What the hell happened - "

With her remaining good arm, she shoved him further inside the room before he could finish his sentence.

"I need you to do me a favor, Ezra," she said softly. Her eyes were scary wide, like a desperate animal cornered.

Regaining his balance, Ezra looked at her. "What is it?" he asked, bracing himself.

Sabine just continued to stare at him, breathing heavily. He couldn't make out the hurricane of emotions fighting for control of her face, but he could feel it through the Force: anger, despair, regret - and, impossibly, some small seed of what felt like hope.

"Kill them," Sabine whispered. "I want you to kill them all."

TO BE CONTINUED

#sabezra #sabezra fanfiction #sabine wren #ezra bridger #kanan jarrus #ursa wren #fenn rau #star wars #star wars rebels #screenshots are from pacific rim uprising for those curious #you might recognize some of these faces

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