#waking up terrified that I would discover horrible cringe

[hannahssimblr]

And then I see her every day. We laze on the beach, we swim, we queue for ice creams in the local shop and eat them on the pier. We point at the ships sailing toward France, making up stories about what they are doing, none of which involve carrying cargo, but mystery and scandal and intrigue. She tells me my ideas are stupid, and I agree with her. Most things I say are stupid, but I suspect, somehow, that she likes this part of me. 

In the evenings, we'll play PlayStation games and watch TV with the gang, where, from our spot at the back of the room she will lean into me during the scariest part of the horror flick where the dreaded monster reveals itself, and whisper, “Is that you?”

We will stifle laughter with our sleeves until tears roll down our cheeks, and once the giddiness has subsided, and those who have thrown us filthy looks turn away, I will risk a secret glance. She’ll be wiping her eyes, the room so dark that I can barely see her face, and I’ll know, beyond any doubt, that I would already be kissing her if there was nobody else in the room. 

Late into the night, I will take her home and let my car idle outside her caravan park for an hour, because we keep talking. We can’t stop. There is always more to say about people we’ve known and the things they’ve done to us. Of how it feels to be a particular person, in a particular place at a particular time. The things about our lives that are so different, and the things about the insides of us that are the same. I have never spoken to other people like this.

I am enthralled by the way her stiff awkwardness melts when she lets herself talk, by the movements of her hands in emphasis of her point. When she mentions her mother, she claws a hand over her throat like pulling back a phantom hand, strangling her words, stifling her self expression, and I feel like if I ever drew that motion I would be making art of something so deep, like the core essence of her. It would be more intimate work than if I captured her without any clothes. 

Sometimes she’ll say something offhand that puts so precisely into words, a feeling I’ve suffered, but could never express. I remind myself every time to write these things down, but I never do it. I get home and I forget the words, recalling only the feeling.

I’ll ask questions to keep her talking until it is clear that we’ve sat and talked in my car for longer than what’s acceptable. Then she’ll slip out the passenger door and I’ll watch her go. 

I’ll follow her path all the way through the park until she disappears behind that big mobile home on the corner, and I sit for longer, needing to bathe in the feeling of being around her for a few more minutes. 

I’ll go home and climb into bed. Sometimes Claire stays over, and I have to listen to her having sex with Shane in my sister’s bedroom. At those times, I feel weird and lonely, yearning for something more in my life. I put in my earbuds and block out the thoughts with my iPod until I fall asleep.

And tomorrow, I’ll do it all over again. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[elizabeethan]

Watch the Sunlight Fade: 13 / 17

Emma Swan finds out that her boyfriend has been hiding something from her: he’s in a gang and trying to get out. Reluctantly, she decides to support him, sticking it out with him until they have enough money to flee to Florida. All she has to do is wait and ignore that feeling in her gut that something is seriously wrong. With the help of a kind and handsome stranger, she just might make it out alive.

Or, alternate summary: I’m horrible at summaries, please just read it.

Something of a cross between a What Still Remains AU and a Sons of Anarchy AU.

A/N: Heyooo time for more smut! And more answers. And more cliffhangers.

Rated M

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~~~~

The destruction in the apartment is clear the moment she walks in, feeling Killian’s watchful eye leave her as she shuts the door. There’s broken glasses and plates on the floor, Neal having cleared off the counter in what she assumes is his anger. She can’t think of another reason for him to be so destructive, picture frames smashed in the living room and fluffy pillow feathers flying through the air, but she certainly allows her mind to wander. 

  What if he knows? They’ve been careful, but what if someone besides Rufio had seen them? 

  “Neal?” She asks tentatively, clutching the strap of her purse tightly. 

  She hears another crash from his bedroom in response to her voice and cringes. The door opens forcefully, slamming shut behind him as he storms into the living room to meet her. 

  “Where the fuck were you?” he asks threateningly. 

  “I was at the store,” she answers, her voice small and weak, although she thinks it unwise to make a show of strength. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” he spits. He fumes in anger again and picks up a vase that she had filled with flowers she bought herself, hurling it at the wall to her right and sending water and glass towards her. “Rufio is fucking dead , that’s what’s wrong!”

She pales immediately, realizing that he must know of their involvement in his death. There’s not much for her to say, unable to defend herself as she and Killian both know that their actions were wrong. She only wonders now if he also knows of the affair they’ve started. “Neal…” she croaks out in terror, unsure how to continue. 

  But to her surprise, he falls to his knees, his hands catching his head as he lets out a sob. “Who would do this?” he cries, sending her mind racing. “Who would kill my friend?”

  She shifts, the sudden realization striking that he isn’t angry at her, he simply finds it appropriate to take his anger out on her. She has to adjust now, unable to hold onto the fear of him discovering her dangerous secret and required to shift into her role as doting girlfriend. She has to keep up appearances, as much as it pains her to do so. 

  “Babe,” she says softly, “I’m so sorry.”

  Once she’s close enough to him, he grabs at her hand, pulling her roughly into his arms and squeezing her too tight. His actions are forceful, but not at all surprising. He holds onto her, sobbing into her hair and making her cringe as he cries for his loss. He says things like, how could someone do this to me, and it makes her realize that he isn’t sad about his friend’s death. He’s sad that someone has hurt him. He thinks this is personal. 

  While he cries, she looks around the apartment and wants to cry herself. He’s broken so many things, and even though almost none of it was hers, she still feels sadness in the wake of the destruction she sits in. When she looks to the bookshelf frightfully, she realizes she doesn’t see the one and only object that she covets as hers and lets a tear escape. 

  He’s angry. But he didn’t have to take his anger out on the one thing that he knows means something to her. 

  ~~~~

  “The Kings of Elsinore will pay for what they’ve done to us,” Peter says commandingly, his fist slamming against the table before him and making Emma startle. Many of the men around the table nod, grunting in agreement, including Killian. 

  He’s careful not to stare at her too much, although it’s difficult. Aside from his love for her and his disbelief at her beauty, it’s hard not to stare in an attempt to ensure that she’s alright. They haven’t been able to talk since she left this morning, but he doesn’t see any evidence that she’s been harmed. He knows that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been, though. 

  “The murder of Rufio was a heartless and psychotic act with the intention of hitting us where it hurts. Rufio was heir to one of our club’s founding members, and his death will not go unpunished.”

  Killian shudders in his seat, the action making Rob turn to look at him and cock his head. He’s sure Peter means it, and he’s sure Killian’s punishment will be worse than anything he doles out to the Kings if he finds out. 

  He can’t find out, though. Because if he does, he could find out why it happened, and he can’t risk Emma’s safety like that. 

  “We’re going to hit back, which is why Miss Swan is here today,” he continues. His words draw Emma’s attention up from her hands as her big eyes stare at Peter. “It has become imperative that you identify something we can use against the Kings. Any help you need, you’ll have. Hook,” he calls, shifting his focus.

  “Aye?” 

  “Continue to assist Miss Swan in her search. Remove the security features if you have to.” 

  “If it’s alright,” Robin starts, causing Killian’s eyes to grow twice their size, “I’d like to help as well. I believe my tracking skills may be useful in helping Miss Swan decide where to look.” 

  “Fine,” Peter agrees, waving him off. “As for the rest of you, prepare for a battle. If it’s a fight they want, then a fight they shall have.” 

  ~~~~

  She drops into the too-firm chair and it squeaks under her weight, a groan escaping her lips as she jimmies the mouse of her computer. He can’t help the small smile that pulls at one corner of his mouth, her dramatic entrance bringing him joy despite the stress they're all under. 

  No one says anything at first; it’s awkward with Rob being here despite him being one of Killian’s closest friends. Even though he trusts him with his life, he isn’t sure he’s ready to hear the truth of their relationship after how many times he insisted that Killian avoid this. 

  Once her computer boots up, she straightens and he takes a seat in his usual spot, gesturing to another folding chair across the room in an invitation for Rob to sit. “Want me to remove the securities, love?” 

  “No, I don’t want you to remove the securities ,” she responds in a mocking tone, mimicking his accent as she rolls her eyes. “I’m not a damn child; I know how to take off parental controls.” 

  Killian raises his brows, looking at her in surprise, and asks, “then why haven’t you?” 

  “Because I’m also not an idiot,” she responds, glaring at him before turning back to the aged screen. “I’m not stupid enough to try and go against Peter’s rules.” 

  He gives her a small smile, one that he can’t seem to give to anyone else, and can't seem to help giving her, and nods. “That’s right,” he agrees softly, his voice just barely above a whisper. He almost forgets his place, wanting nothing more than to lean forward and plant a kiss on her beautiful-- if not thoroughly chewed up-- lips. It’s obvious enough that something’s irritated her, and he wants to get to the bottom of it and console her so that the light comes back into her eyes. He’s greedy like that, he supposes. 

  “I bloody knew it,” he hears, Rob’s grumbling voice yanking him violently from his thoughts and his desires. 

  Killian turns quickly, as does Emma, both of them staring at Robin in surprise, as if they forgot about their audience. 

  “You’re fucking her,” he accuses, nodding and tightening his jaw. “Killian, mate, how many times have we talked about this--” 

  “Rob,” he starts hurriedly as he stands, his hands held out in a plea. Without words, only his eyes communicating to his friend, he begs for forgiveness and discretion and kindness. “Mate…” 

  He can’t even look at Emma yet because he knows that the look on her face will break him. He knows that she must be gnawing at her lip, her brows high on her forehead and her eyes desperate and terrified. “I’m not going to say anything,” Rob finally says, his eyes meeting Emma’s rather than Killians, confirming his hunch. “You two have royally fucked up, but your secret’s safe with me.” 

  He hears her sigh and worries that she could be crying, so he turns to her. He’s met with her dropping her head into her hands in relief, and he hurries to squat in front of her, taking her hands in his. “It’s alright,” he whispers, running his thumbs over her knuckles. Her dim, glassy eyes meet his and she shakes her head. 

  “We can’t-- he knew after two minutes. We have to go,” she murmurs softly, but he sees something shift in her. She sits up slightly straighter and gazes into his eyes seriously. “Can we trust him?” 

  “Yes,” he confirms while he squeezes her hands. He knows they can, but he turns back to look at Rob anyway. 

  “You can trust me, lass,” he vows, understanding as Killian begs him to. “I swear I won’t say a thing, but you’re playing a dangerous game. What’s the plan here?”

  “We’re leaving,” Killian answers simply. “As soon as possible. We would have tonight, but Neal came back early.”

  “He didn’t come back early, you dolt. They never left.”

  He pales, his face falling, and he feels Emma's squeezing his hand. She must be thinking exactly what he is. They had both assumed that Peter and Neal somehow heard about Rufio and had returned, but the fact that they hadn’t even left is somehow more concerning. 

  “How… how did they find out?”

  Rob snorts, shaking his head. “Right, you were too busy to-- hang on. Killian… tell me you didn’t--”

  “Rob--”

  “You didn’t. ” His face falls pale as well, the look he gives his friend chilling. Killian can feel the disappointment and terror radiating off of his oldest friend easily, and it does nothing to quell his nerves. “Killian, tell me right now that you didn’t kill him.” 

  “I had to,” he whispers, shaking his head in self hatred. “He attacked her. Said he would-- he said--”

  “ Fuck, he caught you, didn’t he?”

  “Robin,” Emma interrupts, trying to stop the two of them from going at it and speaking too loudly. They’re bound to tip someone off if they keep this up. “What Killian did… He knows it was wrong, but there wasn’t much of a choice. Rufio attacked me. He was protecting me, and now… I have to protect him. We have to get out of here, because if they find out that Killian shot Rufio, he’ll be worse off than your friend, Liam.”

  Rob is quiet for a moment, allowing Killian to absorb her words. She’s right, of course. They’ll deliver him a fate much worse than that of his brother if they find out. 

  “Too right, love,” Rob agrees finally, nodding and running his hands over his face. “I’ll help you however I can, so long as the two of you take me as well.”

  “Of course, brother. I’d hoped to grab Tink and Elsa as well.”

  He and Emma hadn’t spoken of his previous dalliances, and he only hopes that his intention to bring Tink along with them doesn’t offend her. It’s not as if he plans on staying with her long, but she deserves to get out just as much as they do. 

  “Only because of Liam, and Tink is--”

  “It’s okay,” she cuts him off with a smile, her hand squeezing his. “Of course we’ll bring them.”

  He can hardly take the amount of love he has for her, her unequivocal understanding of every piece of him hard to wrap his mind around. He gives her a genuine smile, and her gaze meets his, giving him the beaming sunlight in her eyes of which he’ll never tire. 

  ~~~~

  The service they hold at the Rabbit Hole is only slightly deranged. The message is clear enough: Rufio’s loss of life is seen as a personal attack against the club. His death is not sad because his life ended, it’s sad because the club is suffering. 

  It’s nauseating. 

  The only thing that keeps her head on straight is Killian, the gentle looks he shoots her from across the bar where he sits with Rob shooting warmth through her heart and to the pit of her stomach. His presence is so soothing, so grounding. It makes her feel steady and strong to be with him, to even be near him. 

  Each time she catches him glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, she feels her heart rate picking up. He drives her mad, she’s discovered. They’ve only just begun their relationship with one another, but it feels stronger than any she’s ever been in if only based on the physical connection they have with one another. She’s never felt this way about anyone before. She’s been with men before, men before Neal, but it was always transactional and cold. It was fine, but it wasn’t great. With Killian, it’s mind numbing. 

  He reads her effortlessly and flawlessly. He knows exactly what she needs when she needs it. He’s known exactly how to bring her over the edge each time, and she can only foresee their sex life getting better as they grow closer and closer. She can’t wait to grow closer to him. 

  The overwhelming feelings of disgust and discomfort are washed away easily each time he stares at her and are replaced by a feeling of undeniable need. The pressure builds where she needs him the most, arousal washing over her and through her until she can barely stand it, and the feeling of Neal’s hand landing on her shoulder makes her jump. “Want a drink, babe?” he asks, as if completely forgetting the conversation they had last night. He hasn’t even bothered to ask her of the results of her tests yet. 

  “I’m actually gonna just run to the bathroom,” she says with a smile. “Not feeling great, I’ll be back.” 

  She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before she stands and heads towards the bathroom, relying on the dank darkness and the slowly dripping faucet to distract from the overwhelming moodiness of the bar and her overwhelming arousal at the thought of Killian’s hands on her. 

  She focuses on her breathing for a moment, hoping to slow things down around her and calm her racing pulse. The sense of peace is short lived; the door opens slowly, making her heart rate pick up. But when she sees him, she relaxes easily, a smile creeping onto her face. “You need to be careful,” she insists quietly, although she can’t help but giggle as he locks the door and pounces on her. 

  He lifts her onto the counter and his lips are on hers instantly, his hands gripping her ass and pulling her towards him. Her legs wrap around his and her arms grab for his shoulders, her nails digging into the rough fabric of his button down shirt. 

  With his mouth trailing hot kisses along her flesh, his teeth scraping against her neck, he finds his way to her collarbone and murmurs, “I couldn’t stand being away from you a moment longer.” 

  She gasps in surprise at his words, a wave of arousal rushing through her and landing in her core, twisting her and encouraging her to tighten her legs around him in search of friction and pressure. “Fuck,” she whispers as his hands and lips move the cup of her bra to the side. 

  “Do you want this?” he asks, seeking consent before latching his lips to her hardened nipple. She nods fiercely. “ Gods , how I crave you.”

  “Killian,” she breathes, “touch me.” 

  His mouth devours hers again, his hand sliding down the front of her and finding the waist of her jeans. He tugs, drawing her closer to him and, without breaking their lips apart, snaps her button undone and slides her zipper down quickly. 

  “Are you wet already, Emma?” he asks roughly, his fingers sliding over the cotton that’s already nearly soaked through. He growls. “You are; that’s a good girl.”

  “Yours,” she mumbles, her arousal taking over and her mind barely able to keep up with what her mouth says. 

  “Aye, mine,” he agrees, nipping at her bottom lip. He pushes her garment aside and slips his fingers through her folds, groaning when he finds her sodden for him. “So responsive,” he praises. “So perfect for me.”

  With a moan as his mouth presses to the sensitive skin under her earlobe, she nods again, wanting to reinforce to him that she’s his . Only his. Simply, she tells him, “I love you.”

  His fingers glide over her clit, pinching quickly and dragging a whimper from her throat. “I love you so much I can scarcely breathe,” he whispers. “I can’t stand to be away from you.”

  “Then don’t make me wait,” she begs in a whisper herself. 

  He moves his hand away from where she craves him and quickly moves his own jeans, and Emma wriggles until her pants are falling around her knees. “We’ll leave tomorrow,” he vows, smoothing his weeping cock along her clit as she wrestles with the condom wrapper. When she finally has it open, she places it over his tip and slides her fist down to the base. 

  “Where will we go?” 

  She gasps when one finger slips into her followed closely by a second, curling against her expertly and sending her searching for his mouth with hers. He swallows her cries when his thumb gently presses against her clit. 

  “Your heart’s desire, Swan,” he says, lining his cock up to her waiting entrance. “I promise, that’s all I want you to have.” 

  Their foreheads press together, their noses too, and she bites her lip as he pushes inside. She clings to him, her fingers gripping the back of his shoulders, her heels digging into his backside, her core squeezing around his cock. After a few perfectly timed, perfectly angled thrusts, she whispers, “I just want you.”

  He holds her so close to him as one hand grabs onto her ass and the other holds her jaw and neck. His thrusts are quick, but deep and effective, striking her exactly where she needs him. He groans when she clenches around his cock again. 

  His hand slips around from her back so that his fingers can dance over her clit with each thrust. Emma moves her hands up to the back of his neck, gripping his hair and begging him for more in each moan against his mouth. It’s not long before he has her a writhing mess in his arms, pleading for release. 

  “Come on, angel,” he encourages gently but firmly as he gives her another flawless thrust. “Nice and tight for me, aren’t you? I know you’re ready, love. Come for me.”

  His voice is tenacious, but still so tender, so caring in the way that he loves her. She’s never felt so loved and safe while being spoken to in such a dominating tone, and she loves it. She loves the freedom that comes with being commanded and feeling safe at the same time. She never knew the two could coexist. 

  At his behest, she clenches once more and cries out his name, his mouth muffling the sound as he spills into her. They hold each other firmly, panting as they ride out their highs together, although they’ll never be sated. They’ll never have enough of each other, always craving more. 

  “Bloody hell, I love you,” he says when they catch their breath. 

  She hums happily, if only because she’s still panting too hard to speak. She kisses his neck, her lips lingering on his soft, sweat coated skin. “I love you,” she whispers. Then, because telling him once will never be enough, she moves so that her tongue traces his earlobe and repeats, “I love you.”

  He moves her hair out of her face when she pulls away slightly, then presses a kiss to her cheek. “I’m sorry to come in here so… rudely,” he laughs. “But I--”

  “I’m glad you did,” she smiles. She winces slightly as he pulls out, stepping away to dispose of the condom and exposing his bare ass to her, tempting her to pull him back to her. “Are we really gonna be able to go tomorrow?”

  “Aye,” he smiles and returns to her to kiss her once more. “I just need to tell Tink and Elsa. We’re to meet by the docks; Robin knows already.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Somewhere quiet,” he answers, “hidden away, unsuspecting… but it must be by the beach, aye?”

  “Aye,” she giggles and he straightens her shirt with a smile. “And?”

  “Nantucket.”

  “Nantucket?”

  “Mmm,” he hums as he helps her off of the counter so that she can fix her pants. “Quiet, secluded island, enough tourists to help us blend in. Plus, infamously beautiful beaches for an infamously beautiful woman.”

  She wraps her arms around his neck, pushing onto her toes and kissing him. “Sounds perfect.” 

  “Emma…” he starts, and she can sense the shift between them. He’s thinking, his self-anger and self-hatred sneaking through the joy he felt moments ago. “If it weren’t for what I did--”

  “Please,” she whispers. “You know that I love you. The fact that you killed Rufio doesn’t change that. I know you regret it, but if you need forgiveness, you have it.”

  He leans against her heavily, forehead to hers again, and nods. “I do regret it. But I know it had to be done.”

  “Exactly. And where will I meet you?”

  “I’ll find you, my love. The less you know, the safer you’ll be with Neal. Robin knows the plan, though.” She nods against him now. “You’ll be alright,” he whispers, and she almost wonders who he’s promising. 

  “I know; I trust you.”

  ~~~~

  A knock sounds against a heavy door. It’s pushed open slowly, and behind it stands a young and conflicted soul, trying to make the best decision for her family. The things she overheard as she stood outside of the women’s restroom serve to threaten the family she has found, and she cannot let that stand. 

  “Enter,” commands a strong and powerful voice, the man looking up from his ledgers and giving the woman a pensive look. “Elsa, to what do I owe this pleasure?” 

  “Peter,” she answers, moving towards the chair across from him. “I’m afraid I have some… troubling news.”

  The man hums, leaning forward and pressing his arms to the desk. “And what is that, my dear?”

  The woman takes a deep breath, sadly shaking her head at the truth she’s uncovered. She didn’t think her friend Killian capable of such a thing, but discovering that he’s murdered a member of the club has stunned her. “It’s Rufio,” she says wistfully. “I found out who killed him.”

  “That’s very interesting indeed,” the man agrees. “Are you implying that it wasn’t a member of the Kings of Elsinore who murdered a member of our family?”

  “Yes,” she nods with a deep sigh. “But it pains me to put the truth to words.”

  “Elsa,” he starts again, leaning back in his chair authoritatively. “If you know something, you must tell me. How can we protect you if you don’t protect us in return?”

  “Of course. After what happened to Liam, of course I want to protect the club.”

  The man nods in sad agreement. “Yes, his death was a tragedy, but the club has been keeping you safe ever since.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Go on, then,” he gestures towards her. “Whatever you’ve discovered, you must remember that the club’s interests as a whole must come above those of one.” 

  The woman nods once more and takes a deep breath in, feeling the cool air hit her lungs. “It was Killian,” she whispers. “Killian killed Rufio.”

~~~~

~~~~

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[stubbychaos]

Let These Words Set You Free

Chapter 6 of Saviin’ika

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4 | Part 5

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: After finding it impossible to break off your relationship with the Mandalorian, you let him claw his way deeper into your heart as you two spend the night together after he tends to your wounds. Deep conversations ensue and the Mandalorian gives you not one, but two gifts to cheer you up.

Rating: T 

Word Count: 7,900

Warnings: There’s really not a whole lot of warnings for this chapter to be honest. Mostly non-descriptive mentions of abuse, tending to wounds, and Saviin’ika struggling with self-deprecating thoughts because of how horribly she’s been manipulated.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the kind words on the last chapter and I absolutely can’t believe that it has over 200 notes?? Like, you guys are all amazing and keep inspiring me to write more and I absolutely love reading all your replies/reblogs/messages/and even the tags!! <3

You’re certain that you must be the most selfish woman in all of Nevarro--in all of the entire galaxy.

Instead of listening to your father’s grave threat against your life, against your Mandalorian’s life, you find yourself letting your fearless warrior stay with you throughout the entire night so he can hold you close to him after a traumatizing week. At one point, he removes his cuirass and the padding that covers his stomach so you can rest your head more comfortably and your heart swells that he’s willing to shed something so precious, just for the sake of your neck not aching, come morning.

You’re half asleep and unaware of how much time has passed since dozing off when you feel him slowly shifting your sore body against him, turning you until your cheek is pressed against his softly defined belly and you bring a hand up to curl into the warm fabric covering his side. You find it slightly amusing that the last time he’d been lying on the medical cot with your hands on his ribs, you’d been absolutely terrified of him and now--

Well, now you’re letting him hold you in such an intimate, vulnerable way and you’ve never felt safer.

As he tenderly caresses your face and hair while you rest your eyes, his cloak wrapped tightly around your pliant form, you realize you’ve never trusted anyone the same way you trust this massive warrior of a man. You’re in an extremely vulnerable position, too lethargic and drained to fight back against anyone who would want to harm you in that moment, but he’s proved to you, time and time again that he couldn’t even bear the thought of causing you such pain. 

You’d witnessed it in the way he continuously went out of his way to brighten up your day by showering you with sweet, simple gestures, or how he held no reservations in taking care of you and your injuries. He hadn’t believed you to be a foolish woman for wanting to fiercely protect the sweet crystalline fox that still comfortably sleeps on the flat pillow you had surrendered earlier, nor had he admonished you for being reckless enough to go anywhere near that dirty cantina where the Trandoshan had discovered you. 

The faith and confidence he has in you to simply be nothing more than yourself is overwhelming and breathtaking in the most beautiful way, as you’ve never had anyone show you such interest in all the little quirks and personality traits that he believed made you unique, compared to anyone else he’s encountered before.

Your heart soars when you think of the pride that had been prevalent in his praises upon finding out that you had kicked your attacker hard enough to get yourself out of a bad situation. You want to learn how to become stronger, for both yourself and him, but the weight of your father’s threats press down harshly on your thin shoulders and you fear that it is such a weight that not even your heavy-infantry warrior would be able to relieve you of.

You ponder if he thinks you’re fully asleep as he gently removes the metal cuffs from the tail of your braids, skilled fingers working at the tangled locks that your father had angrily dragged you by just a day prior to your reunion with your Mandalorian. The stark contrast leaves your lungs bereft of all air as he takes his time to unwind your long braids, taking great care to not tug at them or cause you any discomfort while you get some much needed rest, and you marvel at how someone who possessed so much strength and such a terrifying reputation can touch you so sweetly, so tenderly.

“You are so pretty--so beautiful,” He murmurs with a soft, dreamy sigh as he tenderly rubs your sore scalp with the utmost precision, “I promise I’ll take you away from this awful place soon--just hang in there, ner cyare. ’M gonna take care of this whole situation you’re in.”

You think you must have simply dreamed the excruciatingly sweet sentiment because of the way he utters the promise with complete devotion, his thumb moving to tenderly stroke your bottom lip. It makes you feel like you’re trapped in a lovely fantasy, rather than the nightmares that typically prevent you from getting a good night of sleep.

You let out with a little hum when you feel him shift a little, fearing that he’s going to leave you, but his hand hastily moves to the spot between your shoulder blades and reassuringly rubs up and down the length of your spine.

“I’ve got you, cyar’ika,” He whispers so lowly that you only hear it from underneath his blue helm, “Always.”

Underneath the care and skill of his hands, you eventually fall into a peaceful sleep, letting the Mandalorian comfort you in the only way he knows how. Before you let exhaustion completely take over, you briefly wonder what cyar’ika means and if it will replace the other names he’s gifted you with.

Only hours pass when you feel fingers tenderly squeezing your nape and you slowly wake with a big yawn against his stomach, your fingers curling into the thick fabric covering his ribs as he coaxes you from your restful slumber. Despite being a little tired and there being a dull throbbing aches in the back of your skull from being concussed, you think it’s the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had.

“I am sorry for waking you, mesh’la,” The Mandalorian’s voice pulls you completely out of your dreamy state and you groan a little as you rub the sleep from the corners of your eyes, “I was not sure when your father would be back and did not want to cause you anymore trouble with him.”

You ignore how nauseous you suddenly feel from both his words and the promise you had broken to your father, “Wh--What time is it?”

He hums a little, his hand easily sliding down your spine like it’s only natural for him, “About an hour before sunrise.”

“We do not have much longer then,” You reluctantly sit up, letting out another soft groan as you stretch out your arms high above your head, cringing when your hear several bones in your back and joints in your shoulders crack. You hear the Mandalorian sigh behind you as you roll your stiff neck and you both understand that you aren’t sore from the position you slept in, but more so the grueling shifts you’ve been working the past two weeks.

Your Mandalorian voices his concern as you begin to part your hair so you can braid it, “This job takes a toll on you, does it not, mesh’la?”

“Yes, but it is worth it to me,” You murmur, shivering a little when his cape falls from your shoulders, “I wish the people were kinder, but sometimes I get someone who is grateful. Yesterday one of my patients was a little girl who had scraped her knees pretty badly--she was the cutest thing, just a little Togruta, no older than six. She was so upset because apparently her older brother told her that I was going to amputate her legs. I had to reassure her for nearly half an hour I would not be cutting off her legs because of scraped knees.”

The Mandalorian laughs, tilting his helmet as he watches you gracefully style your hair and brush it away from your face, “You like children?”

Something about casually talking about children, all while sitting between his thighs on the cot you two had shared the previous night makes your cheeks viciously flush and you’re grateful your back is facing him. You’re not sure how to change the topic and choose your next words carefully.

“Yes, Mandalorian. I think they are... precious and I admire their curiosity and innocence. It is not often my patients are younglings though.”

“Someone like you must be good with little ones,” He voices his thoughts out loud and you think he sounds amused as he grazes his thumb along the outer shell of your warm ear.

For some reason, an intense pang throbs in your chest and you lower your head a little when unpleasant memories surface to the forefront of your mind, causing hot tears to brim your eyes and you quickly squeeze them shut.

“I could only wish to be better.”

His hand falters at the shakiness in your sad whisper of a voice and instead of teasing your ear, his hand moves to your nape and squeezes in an attempt to comfort you. He doesn’t ask what or who’s haunting you and you’re grateful, for you fear you do not have the strength to confide such horrific thoughts and memories to the massive Mandalorian without crumbling to pieces.

It’s silent for a few moments and you hate that you’ve completely ruined the comfortable atmosphere, so you miserably continue to braid your hair with now shaking fingers.

The Mandalorian, however, is determined not let you feel such dejection and speaks as softly as his helmet will allow him to.

"I wish I could watch you do this every morning."

“I am only braiding my hair, Mandalorian,” You smile weakly, forcing yourself to forget about the topic of children as you lift your elbows high above your head, deftly parting three separate locks of thick hair on the right half of your scalp, “It is nothing special.”

“Yet you make it look like art,” He hums, reaching out to softly stroke the half of your hair that you’re currently not braiding; for a moment, you think he’s going to attempt to style it for you, though he simply continues to trail his hand down your back, “I haven’t really touched someone else’s hair in a long time--I enjoy touching yours.”

“How long has it been?”

His hand freezes against the small of your back and before you can even begin to fear that you’ve asked a terrible question, he answers you in a much softer tone, “At least twenty years, mesh’la. My mother used to let me try to style her hair much like how you do yours, but I was never as good as she was and I would usually give up. She would always tell me that she felt bad for any future grandchildren I would give her because of how terrible I am when it comes to such things.”

The thought of this intimidating warrior being a child, attempting to braid his exasperated mother’s hair makes you smile fondly as you keep forcing yourself to not let your mind wander to a dark place that cause you unnecessary pain.

He sounds utterly nostalgic and you marvel at the images his words conjure in your imaginative mind, “Her hair was a lot more stubborn and curlier than yours, but she always made it seem so easy to braid it--you both make it seem so easy.”

“Then it would be good for you to learn as well, Mandalorian,” You quietly inform him, turning your head slightly to regard him with quirked eyebrows as he reaches out to stroke the thick plait with admiration before finishing it off for you with one of the metal cuffs he had dutifully held onto all night.

He sounds utterly amused when he speaks up again, mirth evident in his modulated voice as he continues to thumb the soft weaves and crevices of your graceful work, “Why would I need to learn such things when braiding someone else’s hair has never been a part of my studies in the tribe? What could hair styling possibly come in handy for if I am in the middle of a battle, little nurse?”

‘Braiding the hair of the future grandchildren your mother spoke of.’

You nearly say the words out loud, though you think them to be too personal and you do not wish to cause the Mandalorian any sadness upon bringing up old memories of a different time.

“I am sure the little ones in your tribe would not mind having their hair out of their faces,” You hum as you cross thick locks of hair underneath one another and gently tug to make sure they are tight enough where stubborn pieces won’t escape; you frown at the way his hand falters against your nape and you think you’ve made a mistake in your words, “Unless there are no little ones that don’t wear helmets? I j-just figured--I did not mean to disrespect your tribe or--”

“It’s okay, you are not being disrespectful,” He chuckles, shaking his head a little as he continues to watch your fingers work at your smooth locks, “I just… I was not expecting you to say that--you never ask about our helmets.”

“It is something sacred and none of my business,” You refuse to meet the emotionless gaze of his visor as you hastily bring your braid over your shoulder to continue the lower you get, cheeks burning as you lower your voice into a sheepish whisper; you feel shameful for bringing up something so personal, “I would never--I don’t ever want to--”

“Saviin’ika--you are far too sweet and precious for your own good,” His chuckles dissolve into laughter at how flushed and shy you’ve suddenly become at something that truly does not seem to be a big deal to him, his fingers squeezing your nape in a comforting way, “Yes, we do have young children in the tribe that have not yet sworn to the creed and we have some that put on the helmet as early as their sixth birthday. It is something that they choose whenever they are ready, not something that is forced upon them.”

You awkwardly shuffle your body around until you’re facing him, his thighs still splayed wide and feet dangling off either side of the cot as he lazily reaches forward to grab the loose tail of your braid. He seems utterly focused as he skillfully wraps the silver cuff around the bottom of your plait, fingers lightly stroking the ends of your hair that aren’t weaved together. You think there must be some sort of comfort and reassurance the warrior gains from helping you tame your own unruly locks and you smile warmly at him when he continues to stroke the soft tip of your braids with great reverence.

Curiosity gets the better of you and despite your better judgment, you find yourself speaking a question that’s plagued you since he first opened up about his tribe during one of your first meetings when he finally began to trust you more.

“Are there people who simply do not wear the helmet at all?”

He makes a small humming noise as you shyly lift your gaze to peer up at him through a thick abundance of eyelashes, “Sometimes uh, people who would not be considered to be foundlings are brought to the tribe, but it is rare that they are accepted by everyone. It is a long process that goes into permanently bringing in an outsider and very rarely are they accepted. It usually ends in an intense fight of some sort.”

“M-May I ask why?”

His helmet tilts to the side and his bare hand comes up to gently caress your healing cheek as he easily quells your curiosity in that comforting baritone that must intimidate so many others, “Because, saviin’ika, we need to make sure that whoever is deemed worthy of joining our tribe is able to provide for us in one way or another--no matter how little or big the job may be. We need to be sure that they will not turn their backs on us or do something that will draw attention to the tribe. It is a very delicate and difficult process, but it is for our own protection since our numbers are now so low.”

“I think it is honorable,” You murmur as you sheepishly tuck your hands between your thighs and gaze up at his emotionless visor, “That you value your people so dearly that there is a long process that goes into joining the tribe. It shows that you have respect and love for one another--it’s admirable.”

He hums, his thick fingers twitching against your healing cheek as he heaves a grave sigh and brings his other hand to tenderly cradle your head between his big hands. He cocks his scuffed up helmet to the side as he curiously strokes your skin and you certainly notice the strange shift in the atmosphere when his chest heaves a little and he simply holds your head up between warm palms.

You nervously fidget with the tail of your braid as he remains deathly still and silent, almost making you think he’s fallen asleep or passed out underneath that blue bucket.

He eventually shakes his helmet a little and clears his throat as he reluctantly releases the gentle hold he has on you, your skin now warmed and tinged pink, "I don't think I will ever truly be able to understand you, mesh'la."

You frown a little, confusion pinching your brows together with worry, "Did I say something wrong?"

He chuckles a little when you move to carefully climb over his thigh to slowly slide off the cot, his hands hastily moving to your hips so he can steady you when you nearly fall face first into the floor.

"No, you just--" He makes a funny noise as he moves so his thick legs are dangling off the side of the cot and you're caged between them; you smile when he brings you closer without having to use much guidance. You think the Mandalorian could guide you through your darkest, scariest nightmares and you would still trust him not to let any harm reign down on you--that he would be able to lay waste to anyone or anything that attempted to cause you pain or discomfort, all while holding your hand.

"I'm just daydreaming, like you always do."

You smile at the slightly wistful tone he manages through his crackly modulator.

"About what?"

He lets out a deep exhale when you bring your hands up to tentatively cup the sides of his clothed neck to hold him in place, though he could easily shake you off if he desired.

 "I’m daydreaming about you, mesh'la--always about you."

Your breath catches in your throat when he wraps his arms around the back of your thighs and drops his helmet against your stomach, resting it there as if it's the softest pillow he's ever owned. A small, desperate groan has you nearly giggling and you hesitantly choose to firmly massage the tense muscles in his broad shoulders and the back of his neck. He gently squeezes the back of your legs with gratitude and pulls you impossibly close; you remember with burning cheeks what he had admitted to you last night.

"The things you do to me… The things I would do for you."

You're not used to feeling wanted in any way shape or form, but something about the way he strokes the back of your covered thighs and melts into you makes you think he’s not toying around or jesting with you. Despite never trusting anyone enough to want to pursue some sort of physical intimacy with them, you find that you're absolutely flushed at the sound of every little groan and grunt he lets out as your fingers work at his tense muscles. You’re unfamiliar with the dull ache that’s burning something fierce in the pit of your stomach, but you find that it’s not an unpleasant sensation. 

You’re absolutely certain it has nothing to do with your healing injuries, but more so with the way one of his hands finds the small of your back and gently squeezes.

It’s not until your fingers manage to curl underneath the bunched up material that covers his neck that he lets out with a groan so loud and a shuddery breath that you nearly yank yourself away from him, fearing that you’ve somehow managed to harm your Mandalorian.

“You’re good--fuck, you’re good,” He reassures you before you can remove your hand from his warm skin and you fear that your skin will actually be set ablaze, “Feels really nice, is all.”

You glue yourself to that spot and continue to provide him with any relief he’s willing to accept from you. Happiness and dread burns hotter than coals in the pit of your belly when you realize that you are somehow able to reduce the huge warrior to this kind of state. Something about him displaying such vulnerability is humbling and satisfying, but you realize just how accurate your father was when he spoke of being able to hurt the Mandalorian in other ways. Judging by how upset he had been the previous night upon first noticing your injuries, you are certain that your father would wish to cause him pain through your own suffering.

“If he ever hurt you to the point where you could not be healed, I would not hesitate to act so cruelly and I would not let anyone stop me.”

You remember the Mandalorian’s grave promise and lower your head in shame--fear and sadness suddenly threatening to drown you underneath its massive tidal wave. You do not wish to be the reason for your Mandalorian displaying such acts of violence and you realize that the soft words he had spoken in your sleepy state about taking you away from the village was only part of a silly dream.

“It seems as though you need rest as well,” You whisper, hating that your voice shakes from excitement and fear, “I’m sure your own bed is far more comfortable than this dinky little cot. You should go back to your tribe and get some sleep since you didn’t seem to get any last night.”

“I’m sure my bed is comfier than yours as well,” The Mandalorian huffs, completely disregarding the last sentence, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks and your heart leap at his next words, “Perhaps you would like to test it out sometime?”

Your chest heaves a little at his boldness and you struggle to shrug it off, “I think you just want a body to keep your bed warm at night and I am not that kind of woman.”

“And I am not that kind of man.”

“Yet you would still invite me to sleep in your bed?”

“Did we not sleep together last night?” His shoulders are shaking from what you think is him trying not to laugh and you roll your eyes, though a warm smile stretches across your lips.

“Besides, your skin is always freezing--I doubt you would be doing much to warm my bed, though I don’t think that’s a bad thing, mesh’la,” His voice drops into a deep, low rasp as he slides his hand up the base of your spine, fingers splayed wide against nearly the entirety of your lower back, “I would not mind warming you up every night, especially in my bed.”

“You cannot say these things to me, Mandalorian,” You huff at the tenderness and intimacy of his words and his impossibly tight embrace, “I am not--I’m not used to others wanting me the way you seem to want me.”

“Has nobody--” He seems to struggle with his next words as his hand tenderly squeezes your hip, “Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are? Or how pretty your eyes are? How soft your hair is and how nice it looks when you wear flowers in your braids?”

Your breath hitches at the utter conviction in his modulated voice and you loathe how shaky your voice is when you speak, “I cannot say anyone has said such things to me before, nor do I feel deserving of those kinds of compliments. I know I am nothing special.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

You look away from the warrior shamefully, even when he sits up a little straighter, his visor piercing your soul as you answer him, “It is what I know.”

The tips of his warm fingers curl firmly into the back of your thighs as he moves his helmet backwards to gaze up at you and you think that this kind of skin contact must be so rare for him that it brings more pleasure than anything else. He seems so vulnerable like this--sitting on the medical cot where the two of you had just spent the night together, his helmet pressed against your ribs that had been intensely bruised and aching only hours ago. Though there’s still a small amount of pain that lingers, it is now significantly milder after he used your bacta salve to heal the worst of your bruising.

“Don’t speak lies about yourself, cyar’ika--it hurts me too,” He almost sounds like he’s in pain as he holds you so close to him, “You are by far the most beautiful person I have ever encountered in Nevarro--in the entirety of this galaxy. You are deserving of so much more than my words and I would never stop trying to convince you otherwise.”

“You are too sweet to me,” You murmur, voice still shaking with intense emotions that you’re not used to feeling, “I wish there was more I could give you in return.”

With little hesitation, you curiously burrow your fingers deeper underneath the thick fabric of his tunic as you massage the soft, pillowy muscles of his tense shoulders, enjoying the way he groans and pushes himself closer to you when you rub at a particularly tender spot.

“Being able to hold you is all I could ever ask from you, but having your hands on me like this is a nice bonus,” His voice is deliciously hoarse and low, even through the guise of his modulator and he practically keens when your fingers squeeze the tension away from just underneath his nape, where he carries stress the most between his shoulder blades, “Vor entye--thank you, cyar’ika.”

You’re well aware of the way his hands barely move an inch up the back of your thighs as you reluctantly remove your hand from the heat of his cowl, finding purchase on the hollows of his cold Beskar cheeks instead. He makes a small humming noise when you urge his helmet backwards a little to properly gaze up at you and you can’t stop yourself from smiling from the comfort that the shine of his visor bestows upon you. His hands move to cover yours and you beam when he places them on top of your much smaller ones, carefully squeezing your fingers.

“One day--” He sighs and cocks his helmet to the side as his voice drops, “One day I will feel your hands on my cheeks--on my skin.”

“But your helmet--your creed?”

“There are ways, cyare,” He informs you, his modulated voice crackling a little, “I will show you some day.”

You smile weakly and barely nod at him, deciding it was probably one of those traditions sacred to his people.

A few stray beams of crimson sunlight infiltrate your tiny office through the cracks of the blinds and you reluctantly pull away from one another; you feel the pull he has on your heart, as if beckoning you to remain close to him. You fear him leaving to go back to his tribe will unravel you completely, though you remind yourself that if you rely on him like this, it will only cause more pain when all is said and done.

He stands tall above you, still observing you as you make your way over to the vulptex that is barely starting to wake up, her eyes narrowed in the Mandalorian’s direction. 

After checking the state of her minor wounds and hand-feeding her some dried meat--much to her utter dismay--the beautiful creature seems to be in better spirits as she allows you to tenderly pet her rocky coat. You can’t help but to grin and giggle a little when she squeaks happily, letting you tenderly scratch her rocky little chin with admiration.

“What are you going to do about her?” Your Mandalorian questions when you eventually face him, watching with interest as he easily adorns his chest with that scuffed up cuirass before turning to his much larger equipment, “Would he not be angry about you taking in a stray? It’s just a weak runt, saviin’ika, are you sure she’s worth all this?”

“Do not speak of her like that,” You frown, turning to the tiny vulptex that is staring up at the two of you with curiosity, “Of course she is worth it.”

The Mandalorian sighs and shakes his head as your crystal companion clumsily rises from her pillow and quickly hobbles over to you for comfort; you’re quick to reach down to scratch just behind one of her large ears. Her crimson eyes blink slowly at you with adoration and you wonder how anyone could possibly have the desire to harm or kill a creature so beautiful and sweet. You think it must be difficult for your Mandalorian to be able to relate to having feelings of helplessness, what with being a trained warrior and you wonder what it must feel like to be a feared man in a village like this.

You can’t even begin to imagine not feeling like an easy target.

“What if he--?”

“I’ve been able to hide my smaller patients before,” You inform him, grabbing his large hand in both of yours before he can put his glove on; his helmet cocks to the side and you think he must be amused, “I’m sure she will not be difficult to keep hidden.”

“She is not the first stray you’ve taken in?”

You raise your brows at the blue warrior who seems utterly content to let you explore the coarse, calloused skin of his knuckles, “You’re still here, aren’t you, Mandalorian?”

“Funny,” He huffs in an incredulous manner, shaking his helmet at your teasing voice, “I’m being serious though, please be careful. I would rather you not be bruised and broken the next time I see you because of you having such a soft heart.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod slowly, dread creeping through you as you whisper your next words, “When will I see you again?”

“I--” He watches you as you lower your head, not wanting him to see the fear and despair in your eyes that he seems to find so expressive, though he still seems to have an easy read on you as he speaks with anguish evident in his crackly voice, “I am not sure, but I promise it won’t be more than a few days this time. It is for the well-being of the tribe, something that will benefit us.”

“Then that is good,” You murmur, though the ache in your chest still burns painfully and you force a meek smile, one that he easily sees through “They are your biggest priority.”

You wonder what it must feel like to have that kind of intense love for your family--that willingness to walk through flames and the most dangerous of situations, all to protect the ones you love. You find it absolutely beautiful--the dedication that Mandalorians have to their tribe--and you briefly ponder if you’d ever get to meet any of the warriors from his tribe, if he would ever trust you enough to even entertain the thought.

“You both are my biggest priority, mesh’la,” You absolutely loathe how vulnerable and scared you feel as you keep your tear-filled eyes away from his visor and you hear the heavy-infantry warrior grunt a little, stepping closer to you, “Please don’t cry. Stars, I’m not worth your tears.”

“You are worth every single one of them,” You inform him in the form of a breathy whisper, quickly shouldering away a tear that manages to slip from the corner of your eye, “I will wait for you, I just fear that you would not come back for me. I have--I have been abandoned far too many times, Mandalorian. I am afraid.”

“I will always come back for you,” His back straightens and his helmet jolts to the side a little, as though the thought of not returning to you has him feeling distraught, “That is a promise, ner cyar’ika, and I never break my fucking promises to those I care for.”

Your breath hitches at the utter devotion that’s apparent in his deep baritone and you can’t stop yourself from bringing his massive hand up to your face, barely aware of the way he grunts and shifts when your lips find the rough callouses that cover his knuckles. You’re used to dealing with tough criminals and bounty hunters that have no reluctance in displaying their dominance or strength, but as you gently kiss the rough marks and scars that he’s willingly exposed, you think it’s the first time a man has ever been utterly relaxed and pliant under your touch.

“What are you doing--? Saviin’ika are you--?”

He chokes a little when you maneuver his hand until his palm is facing upwards and he’s gently grasping your lightly bruised cheeks, not quite as tenderly as the previous night, but still making sure not to cause you any pain. You think the bruises must linger on your skin like some sort of beacon, judging by how tenderly he squeezes the supple flesh. 

A part of you gains satisfaction in the way the massive warrior groans loudly when you firmly press your lips into the warm, bare skin of his rough palm and you’re stunned and lightheaded at the thought of having this kind of power over such a fearless man.

“You said last night that you wished you could kiss me,” You remind him and you swear he shudders against the light hold you have on him, as though you somehow have the same effect he has on you whenever he decides to grow bold around you, “This is the only way I know how to give you one.”

His chest heaves a little upon feeling that warmth of your lips in the valley of his thumb and index finger, “I wish I could give you more. I wish I could show you how precious you are to me--so fucking precious to me, saviin’ika.”

You feel your eyes brim with hot tears at the utter conviction in his raspy crackle of a voice and you want to tell him that he’s already done plenty to make you believe his affection and intentions with you are completely genuine. His shoulders drop as you tend to a rough callous on the heel of his palm with your lips and you think you feel his fingers tremble against your cheek. It is then that you realize just how much you two have in common, both of you not used to the tender touch of another soul and you marvel at the thought of someone so much more powerful and far larger than you being just as touch-starved and vulnerable.

“You took care of me last night and helped with my wounds. You saved me from that cruel criminal and held me all night to keep me away from my nightmares,” You remind the aloof Mandalorian, peering up at him with a soft, kind gaze that seems to only unravel him further, “I have… I’ve never been someone else’s patient before--at least not since before my mother cared for me--but what you did for me was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me and I could not ask for more from you. You have given me more happiness and hope in the last decade than anyone else."

“I want to give you more,” He pleads, almost sounding helpless underneath all that armor, a thought so ridiculous and shocking to you, “Cyar’ika, I would give you anything you wanted if it meant you blessed me with that pretty smile of yours.”

He seems hellbent on giving you some sort of gift and you wrack your brain for anything within reason your blue warrior could possibly conjure up for you.

For some reason, you think of all the nicknames he’s affectionately gifted you with, along with knowing your real name, and your cheeks flush when you realize the only name you have for him is ‘Mandalorian’. It feels too formal for your liking and you wonder if he feels the same way--if he longs for you to murmur his real name when you’re whispering soft praises underneath the tender care of his hands whenever he’s softly caressing your bare skin.

You don’t know enough about Mandalorian customs or traditions when it comes to their real names and you think that perhaps it’s taboo for him to share his name with outsiders. The last thing you want is to cause any offense or disrespect to his people that he evidently cherishes and you let out a soft sigh against his palm.

“Always thinking so much and never saying what’s on your mind,” He observes thoughtfully, not seeming upset by your quiet reluctance, “Your thoughts are safe with me, always.”

“I would not wish to offend you for what I want from you,” Another gentle press of your lips against the center of his palm has the huge warrior grunting once again and pushing himself further against you, “It would be selfish of me.”

“I would give you anything you wished for--” He breathes as your lips graze across his rough fingertips, “And knowing you, it is something that is not selfish.”

“How could you possibly know that, Mandalorian?”

“Because I know you are not a selfish woman,” He chuckles as your soft lips continue to praise his warm skin with great tenderness, though every time you think of the promise you made to your father and how easily you broke it, you feel like the most selfish woman in the galaxy, “Tell me what it is you wish for, cyar’ika, and I will give it to you in a heartbeat.”

His hand tenderly moves to cup your cheek and you know that he must feel how hot it burns for him--for the promise that his deep baritone carries and you fear that your heart will actually fail its main purpose.

“Even your name?”

“Anything for you, cyar’ika--anything.”

The way he doesn’t hesitate in the slightest almost leaves you in tears and steals the air from your lungs.

You smile at the way he grunts, as though he doesn’t know how to respond and you relish in the way you are able to reduce him to a state of being speechless when you’re certain that there aren’t many who had such an effect on him. For what you think must be the hundredth time in the last few hours, he leans down to gently nudge his forehead against yours and you shiver when he pulls you in close. Something about the way he holds you this close or how he softly rubs his scuffed up helmet against your head makes you think that these gentle headbutts hold more meaning and sentiment than you originally thought.

His hands find their home on your hips and you loathe that his cuirass and all the padding and equipment he wears prevents you from melting into him as he simply holds you close. Carefully, he drops his helmet into the curve of your neck and you hear the way he inhales deeply before releasing it and you think you feel some of his warm breath tickling your exposed skin. You remember him admitting how he oftentimes swore he could smell your hair--your flowers--and you wonder if that's what he's currently trying to do, even though you lack your usual violets.

“Paz.”

His voice utters a single syllable and your heart leaps high into your throat, threatening to choke you with the intense emotions you’re currently feeling.

Immediately, you grin when he reluctantly lifts his helmet to observe you, as though he's nervous of your reaction and you decide you don't mind seeing the Mandalorian act as sheepish as he often makes you feel.

"Paz," You repeat the three-lettered name out loud with a sheepish grin, your voice sounding so soft and quiet compared to the way he says it in that deep baritone; you say it again, a little louder and more sure of yourself,  "Paz. I… think it suits you."

He hums, shaking his scuffed up helmet at you and you think he must feel embarrassed, for whatever reason, "What's that supposed to mean?"

You force yourself not to giggle at the terseness in his crackly voice, “It is sweet and sharp, kind of piercing, just like you. It is gentle, but also rough--just one syllable and so short, but no less meaningful. It suits you and I… I love it.”

“My name?” He chuckles, and you almost loathe how amused he sounds as he hunches over to press his forehead against yours, "You love it?”

Your cheeks burn something fierce as you nod a little against his helmet, "Yes, but I also wonder, do you have a last name as well?”

“Yes, cyar’ika,” He hums, his deep baritone rumbling like roaring thunder against your eardrums, “Perhaps one day I will give it to you.”

Your frantic heart instantly falters and your eyes widen as he gently grazes the apple of your cheek with his knuckles that you had previously been praising with your lips. You realize you must be overthinking his words, judging by how calm and cool he sounds as he murmurs soft words in his native tongue that barely make it past his vocoder. Though you've only known the Mandalorian for a few months, the thought of having such a future with him fills your belly with an intense heat and you don’t say anything out of fear of your voice shaking.

Suddenly, he pulls his helmet away and you frown at how frantic he suddenly seems to grow, immediately fearing the worst.

“Shit--I almost forgot after everything that happened last night.”

You watch with utter curiosity as he pulls away from you and makes his way over to where he had left his utility belt on your desk, carefully shuffling through one of the pouches with great intent and precision, “When I was traveling the last few days I saw something and it reminded me of you. I want you to have it.”

Your brows pinch together in confusion and you frantically shake your head when he turns around with a white cloth that’s wrapped around your unexpected gift, “You...? You just gave me something so precious--I couldn’t possibly--”

“It is nothing special,” He chuckles as he begins to unwrap the object, shaking his helmet at your anxious tone, “It didn’t cost me anything other than my pride when everyone in the tribe found out.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp when Paz reveals a beautiful white flower that’s the size of your palm, it’s long petals wispy and curled around the ends. You don’t even realize your eyes are brimming with tears and you can’t remember the last time someone has made you cry out of happiness, your cheeks aching from how big you’re smiling.

“I’m not sure what kind of flower it is,” He explains sheepishly when you don’t say anything, “Underneath the moonlight, the tips of the petals turn blue. I thought it might...”

He turns his visor away from your face when you grin up at him, “You thought what, Paz?”

“That it might look pretty behind your ear.”

“You--” Instead of saying anything else, you launch yourself at him and you’re surprised when he actually stumbles backwards the tiniest amount as you squeeze your arms around his broad shoulders. He chuckles and easily holds you close, his arms wrapped around your waist and you’re too distracted by the beautiful gift to feel any discomfort from his gauntlets digging into your back.

“No one has ever given me a flower before,” You press your face into the crook of his neck and listen to the way he sighs your name when you kiss the bunched up fabric, “Th-Thank you.”

Paz reluctantly lets go of you when you move to tuck the flower safely behind your ear where he thought it would look prettiest and you give him an inquisitive expression, as if silently asking him to confirm his suspicions. 

“You are so beautiful,” He reaches out for you and for a moment, you think he’s going to touch your ear or stroke the big flower, but instead, his hand cradles your cheek in a way that steals your breath, “I... I don’t want to leave.”

“You must,” You remind him with a sympathetic smile, understanding his pain all too well, “We both have important jobs to do. I could walk with you as far as you would let me?”

He huffs, the thought of you walking with him no doubt an amusing one, but he nods as you carefully scoop up the vulptex in one arm and grab his elbow with the other, letting him lead the way. You notice that he walks slower, visor dutifully scanning his surroundings and you wonder if he’s always this cognizant of his surroundings or if it’s because of your presence. There’s a slight chill in the air, but not enough to make you shiver and you smile a little when the sun continues to slowly rise and warm you with it’s early-morning rays.

You close your eyes for just a few seconds, pretending you’re elsewhere with your Mandalorian, somewhere far more beautiful, and you’re certainly not aware of the way he stares down at you as he leads you further from the infirmary.

“I could not let you go any further,” Paz finally speaks about twenty minutes later, just outside the marketplace, and you turn to face him with a soft little smile, “Someone else from the tribe has been taking jobs in the village for the past few weeks and it is not safe for more than one of us to be above ground for too long.”

“There is no need to explain--I understand,” You reassure him, giving his elbow a firm squeeze and your heart soars when he taps his helmet to your forehead one last time, “Then I will see you soon again?”

“Yes,” He sighs gravely when you two reluctantly pull away from each other, “I mean it this time too. I am hoping the next time I see you, I will have good news, cyar’ika.”

You beam and cradle the vulptex securely to your chest with both arms. Though you don’t know exactly what kind of news he could possibly have that will affect you in any way, shape or form, you’re still excited to hear more about his tribe--his people--and you give him a frantic nod. After saying your goodbyes and blushing when he gives your chin a little tap and a reminder to keep your head up, you make your way back to the infirmary, a bittersweet sensation lingering like a dark cloud over your heart.

“It’s okay, little one,” You gently shush the vulptex when she lets out with a sharp whine, as though your downtrodden disposition is affecting her also, “At least we have each other, right?”

You give her a soft smile when her eyes slowly blink up at you and even though you should feel ridiculous for talking to an animal, it doesn’t stop you and you continue to tell her of your hopes and dreams for the future--your wants and desires pertaining to your blue Mandalorian. A part of you realizes there’s something cathartic about speaking to someone or something that doesn’t actually know what your saying, perhaps because you know that your crystalline companion won’t judge you.

Before you can tell her that you long to run away from all this, you freeze when you look away from your confidante to check your surroundings, only to be met with the sight of a figure storming towards you with a blaster trained on your vulptex.

You’re not sure what fills you with more fear--

The fact that you’re already going to lose your precious companion, or the familiarity of the t-shaped visor that’s pointed directly at you.

Ner= My, mine

Mesh’la=Beautiful

Saviin=Violet

Cyar’ika=Darling, sweetheart

Cyare=Beloved, loved, popular

Taglist *If I missed anyone or anyone wants to be added, please let me know!*:  @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild  @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst @anakinsittinginsand @yes-music-is-my-religion​ @tangledlove27 @justrunamok​

[11jj11]

Stargazing -- Alain and Mairin One-Shot

I completely forget to upload this fic onto tumblr, I wrote it a few months ago. xD

Anyways, here’s Stargazing, focusing on a younger Alain and Mairin’s friendship (when they’re 14 and 11 respectively). 

Alain had memorized the ceiling of his tent.

He stared up at the tent above him, eyes wide open as the night pressed on. His limbs practically ached with exhaustion, but yet there was not one ounce of desire to sleep in him. He wasn't sure how long he had been awake for, but he was sure that they were currently in the early hours of the morning.

His tent door was zipped open, allowing the cool autumn air to rush in and not leave him trapped in his stuffy tent. He flipped over in his sleeping bag, as if hoping to find some position to drift off in, but he knew that sleep wouldn't be coming for him. Most nights he managed to slip off for an hour or so, but that level of exhaustion simply hadn't seemed to hit him yet.

The daytime was no better, his exhaustion still as powerful as ever. He wasn't sure how he had managed to get through the days, but a few weeks ago he had discovered the miracle he called energy drinks. At first it had simply been one from a vending machine to keep himself moving through his travels, but he had become reliant on the liquid. It was the only thing that gave him the energy to keep walking.

He was sure the caffeine wasn't helping with his insomnia– but it was helping him to at least be alert, so he continued consuming it with each meal.

He laced his fingers together as he stared up at the ceiling of his tent, sighing. Nights were the worst, when there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Just him alone in the darkness of the night and his mind. His hand drifted towards his left wrist, fingering his tingling skin where his key stone had once sat.

Even after two months, it still felt like the bracelet should be there.

Alain let out a groan, the sound almost a growl as he flipped over on his side, trying to get the horrible thoughts out of his mind. Abandoning Charizard's mega and his key stone hadn't been enough. Seeing everyone around him safe and knowing that the threat was over wasn't enough. The knowledge that he had stood up and fought against... him wasn't even enough.

The guilt was still there– and it was eating him alive.

His hands curled, fingernails digging into his palm. No matter what anyone said to him, he was the one that had helped Lysandre. Even if he hadn't known what that horrible man had been planning, if it weren't for him Lysandre would have never had the mega evolution energy to use, to bend the Zygardes to his will and control them– Alain had even helped capture one of the cores! He had handed Lysandre the power that he had used to nearly destroy the world.

Even if he had turned against Lysandre, and had been part of the force to help stop him, that didn't mean no harm had been done. He had been avoiding the reports and statistics, but he knew that people and Pokemon had been injured in Flare's attack. He knew... he knew that lives had been lost as well.

He didn't know how many– but death had occurred because of what he had done.

And if Lysandre hadn't been stopped, many more would have occured. This was one of the few things that kept him going, knowing that in the end that he had taken a stand against that man. He had helped ended what could have turned into a horrific tragedy. He had managed to stop that man. He had saved Chespie.

He had seen Mairin smile again.

And Lysandre couldn't hurt anyone else.

But even these reassurances were few... for the things he had done were still there. How he had just stood by when Ash had been attacked and captured– he had known that there was no right in this, but yet he hadn't protected his friend. His friend that had been trying to help him find and protect Mairin. He had grown so use to– even reliant– on Lysandre's orders, to the point that he had been frozen when Ash had been taken. Watched him be bond and had boarded the same plane.

It had been so easy to let Lysandre's orders become his thoughts that he hadn't been able to save Ash until after he had let him be dragged off into Lysandre's grasp.

And then Mairin... the professor had told him that a Flare grunt had attempted to bring her in. What would have happened if Sycamore hadn't shown up to stop him? What would have Lysandre done with her?

The thoughts of 'what if' terrified Alain the most– especially the ones about Mairin.

Because deep down Alain knew he would have done anything for Lysandre if Mairin had been under threat.

He shouldn't be free. He should be locked up just like every other person that served with Team Flare. He shouldn't just be accepted back as the professor's assistant, not after he had cut off contact with the man and had left him without a word. Things shouldn't just be going back to the way they were before when he had done so many horrible things!

But yet they were, and somehow he was supposed to keep moving on through this horrible guilt.

Quiet whimpers pulled Alain out of his thoughts.

He raises his head slightly, trying to get a better grasp of the sound as it broke the silent night. Alain blinked slowly, heart tightening as he recognized the voice right off. He hesitated for a moment, before pushing himself up into a sitting position, his guilt surging as he heard the soft cries. He wanted to say something, but he found his mouth was dry. He sat there in the darkness for a minute, listening to the soft whimpers coming from the tent next to him.

At last, he found his voice. "M-mairin?"

His voice was quiet, but not a whisper– but it seemed that Mairin didn't hear him. The whimpers kept coming, each one making him want to flinch. He sat there for a moment longer, before rolling out of his sleeping bag and pushing himself to his feet. His limbs ached as he stumbled for the open exit of the tent.

The night was cool, but not chilly. It was a clear sky as well, not a cloud in sight as Alain made his way to the tent only a few steps from his. The soft cries became more clear as he knelt down in front of Mairin's tent, softly unzipping the entrance. He hesitated for one moment, before crawling in.

The eleven year old was fast asleep, sweat coating her form as she laid in her sleeping bag. Her red hair was down, messily falling across her face, but even in the dim light he could still see her tears. She twisted as she slept, those whimpers still pouring from her, eyes flickering under the closed eyelids. Her hands were clenched, as if grasping something, unintelligible mutters coming from her.

Alain hesitated, recognizing that she was experiencing an unpleasant dream, but yet he wasn't sure if he should awake her. He had been only having sleepless nights himself and that part of him would rather let her sleep, even if it wouldn't be restful. He shoved those thoughts to the side though, reminding himself that unlike him, Mairin would be able to fall back asleep. She was also young, so a nightmare would probably seem harsher to her than it would for him.

Alain internally scowled at the last excuse– knowing that his most recent dreams had been far from something for him to just shrug off.

He reached out, gently nudging the twitching girl's shoulder. "Mairin," Alain whispered. "Wake up."

She shivered, twisting in her sleep, but her eyes remained shut. He gritted his teeth, hating seeing the tears on her cheeks, and he grabbed her shoulder, shaking her.

"Mairin– wake up," He said, no longer whispering, but his voice was still quiet. Mairin went still for a moment, and he shook her again, trying to wake her, but not suddenly jerk her out of her sleep. She curled up slightly, and he gave another shake. "Come on, Mair, you need to wake up..."

At last her eyes fluttered open, a panicked and confused look in her amber gaze. Alain looked down at her for a moment as she looked about the tent, before at last staring up at him. She was breathing heavily, a few lingering tears in her eyes, and she simply stared.

Then suddenly she launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his waist as she buried her tear-filled eyes into his shirt. "D-don't leave– p-please!"

A sob rattling her chest as soon she forced the words out of her. Alain pulled back slightly, startled at the sudden embrace. It was only moments later that he returned the hug, pulling the young girl in close in an attempt to comfort her. She cried, her whole body shaking.

Some comfort you are... A part of his mind muttered, and he shoved the thoughts away.

"I'm right here, Mairin," He whispered to her, rocking her back and forth. "I'm not leaving..."

She shuddered at this, pulling back slightly and looking up at him. "B-but–" She stammered. "Y-you said–"

Internally he cringed. "Mairin, you were dreaming," He told her, his mind having several guesses on just what was in her nightmare. "I'm right here, okay?"

She blinked slowly, as if just barely becoming aware that they were in her tent. She looked around, arms pulling away from him and wrapping around herself as she took in her surroundings. She gulped after a moment, glancing at Alain as she finally caught up with the present, and she wiped away her tears.

Then her eyes widened. "Ch-chespie and Bébé–?!"

She sprang for her orange backpack, seizing the bag before Alain could say a word, desperately searching through it. After a moment she withdrew two red spheres, pressing them close to her heart as she held them– no– clutched them. Alain watched her, feeling helpless as she broken down again, sobbing.

He scooted towards her, not quite sure on how to comfort her. "It's okay, Mair, it's okay now," He whispered, and she looked away. She swallowed hard, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. "It was just a dream, it wasn't real..."

"I'm s-sorry I woke you up," She whispered, voice quivering. "I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes. "I... I was already awake..." He muttered. "You didn't wake me up..." He hesitated with his next words. "I'm the one what woke you up– I should be the one apologizing."

Not quite a joke, but his attempt to lighten the tension was received. She gave him the smallest of smiles, before looking down at her Pokeballs again. She pulled them away from her chest, tracing their shapes as she bit down on her lip. She looked up at Alain, looking as if she were about to start crying again. His heart pounded, knowing that was the last thing he wanted to see.

"Do you want to talk about the dream?" He asked, words slightly rushed, and she blinked at him.

"I... I d-dunno..." Mairin whispered, and she turned back to her backpack, slipping the Pokeballs safely inside. "It was just a stupid dream... nothing to w-worry about..."

"It was more than 'nothing'," Alain said, frowning. "But if you don't want to talk about it I won't press you."

She wiped away a few forming tears. "I... I just don't think I'm ready to go back to sleep," Mairin whispered, inching towards her sleeping bag, eyes sweeping the tent. "I'll be fine though, I don't want to keep you up..."

His frown deepened, knowing she was just pushing everything aside. She sat cross-legged on her sleeping bag, hands in her lap as she stared down. Alain hated that he knew exactly what she was trying to do. She was too young to try to bear any burden alone, but yet that was just what she was trying to do. He could see the fear and exhaustion in her empty gaze, and like him it was clear that neither of them were going to be sleeping anytime soon.

"That's fine, you don't have to go back to sleep if you don't want to," Alain said, and he pushed himself to his feet. "And I haven't slept a wink at all tonight, and I don't think I will," He hesitated. "I don't think I can stay in a tent for a moment longer– so I'm going to be outside. And if you want someone to talk to or just to be with, then you can join me, okay?"

She gave a small nod, still staring down on her hands. He hesitated, before slipping out of her tent. He headed back towards his, grabbing the bottom of his sleeping bag before dragging it outside. He didn't want to just leave Mairin alone, but he wasn't going to force her to be in his company. Besides, he wasn't exactly that good at comforting people, and he was sure that being alone would be better than being with him.

He laid his sleeping bag out on the cool grass, looking out over their small camp before crawling in. It was still faintly warm from when he had been in it earlier, and he settled in. He knew there was no way he would be able to sleep, but his limbs still ached with tiredness, so the rest would be more than welcome. He stared up at the stars, not wanting to dwell on anything, but was too afraid to let his thoughts wander.

It was only a few minutes later that he heard the sound of Mairin shuffling about her tent, and her sleeping bag sliding against the grass as she came outside. A faint smile pressed onto Alain's lips as he heard her coming, but he didn't say anything as she set up her sleeping bag near his. He tilted his head slightly, and found that she was worming her way into her sleeping bag. She had set hers up so it was opposite of him, their heads only a foot from each other.

"...It's cold," Mairin said after a moment, breaking the silence. Her voice was much steadier than before, but he still could hear a slight waver.

"Better than a stuffy tent," Alain replied, letting out a small sigh. "It feels... too confining in there."

Though he wasn't looking at her, he could hear the sound of her head moving against the sleeping bag as she nodded. Again he faintly smiled, and silence fell between them as they looked up at the sky.

"...Can I tell you about my dream?" Mairin asked after a minute in the smallest of whispers.

"Of course."

"I mean... is it okay if I tell you?" She asked again, a slight uncertain whimper in her voice.

"You can tell me anything, Mairin," Alain replied, voice firm. He heard her shifting, and she took in a deep breath.

"It was about the league," She said in a small voice, and Alain went still. "Um– with what happened after, you know–" Her words became rushed, neither of them wanting to mention the term 'Kalos crisis'. "B-but this time both Chespie and Bébé were in a c-coma– and no one was trying to help them! Professor Sycamore wasn't there, and Ly-lysandre kept trying to take them and I was running but the roots from the Zygarde were everywhere and there was nowhere for me to go, and then I saw you–"

She paused suddenly, taking several straggling breaths.

"A-and you said you were leaving," She whispered. "But Lysandre was right behind us, but you were leaving and I needed to get my Pokemon to safety and–" She hiccuped. "And then you woke me up, b-but it felt so real, and I know it's stupid but I was so scared and–"

He reached his hand back, finding her shoulder and holding it. "Mairin. There's nothing 'stupid' about it– and there's nothing wrong with being scared."

Her hand grabbed his wrist. "I d-don't want you to leave," She whispered. "Everyone always leaves."

"I'm not leaving," Alain promised, tone becoming almost forceful. "After what I've done to you in the past I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not going to abandon you again."

"Do you promise?" Mairin asked, voice a begging and quiet whisper. Alain was sure if they were any farther apart he wouldn't have heard her. He wasn't even sure that she had meant to be heard, because she took in a sharp breath as he replied.

"Yes Mairin, I promise," Alain said, and her hand tightened around his wrist. "You're like a sister to me– and I would never leave family behind."

You left Professor Sycamore behind. That voice muttered in his head, and his eyes pressed shut.

I thought I was protecting him.

You hurt him– refused to even talk to him. The voice taunted. And we both know now what your 'help' was really working towards.

"My brother left..." Mairin whispered, voice starting to crack. "When I was eight, I didn't want him to go but he did... He went to Sinnoh to do Contests..."

"We're on this journey together" Alain said, ignoring the voice in his mind– because right now it was Mairin that needed him. "Anywhere I'm going is going to be with you."

"What about when the journey ends?" She whimpered, and he could hear the panic building in her voice.

"We'll worry about that when we get there," Alain said. "And just because our journey will end someday doesn't mean our friendship will," He let out a soft sigh. "...After what we've been through, you have every right to be scared– but I promise you, Mair, that everything is okay now. You're safe. Chespie's safe. And... and I'll protect you. You don't need to be afraid."

Telling her to not be afraid, but yet you're absolutely terrified. The voice mused softly in his mind. You said you were done with abandoning her and the lies– but yet you're lying to her right now.

Alain's jaw tensed, and he snapped back at the voice. No– I'm not! I will protect her– and that is not a lie!

He waited, silence echoing in his mind– the voice had no reply.

"I will protect you," Alain repeated, mostly to himself, but Mairin's hand wrapped tighter around his wrist. She pulled his hand away from her shoulder, but still maintained a strong hold on his limb, clearly not ready to let go.

"Thank you, Ali," She whispered. "Thank you."

He smiled softly. "Didn't I say not to call me that?"

"...Maybe," She muttered. "But you call me Mair, so I can call you Ali. It's only fair."

Alain sighed, but was in no way about to say no. He had never had a sibling before, but he supposed that teasing was simply part of the package. He stared up at the sky, startled at how much of his fear had been driven away within the last few minutes. Even though he had simply been trying to comfort Mairin, he was surprised by how much it had calmed him down.

"Only fair, I suppose," Alain muttered back after a moment, letting out a small chuckle.

"...I feel a lot better," Mairin said. "But I'm still not ready to sleep."

"Then what would you like to do?" Alain asked, staring up at the night sky. A part of him wouldn't be surprised if she asked for a snack or to play a game, but even if he was awake he wasn't sure if he'd have the energy to do much more than just lay here.

She let out a sigh. "...Can you just talk?"

He blinked. "About what?"

"Anything," Mairin said without hesitation, and her fingers dug into his wrist. "I... I just don't want to feel alone."

"Alright," Alain said, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't bring back the bad memories, and with his gaze skyward he talked about the first thing that came to his mind. "Do you know any of the constellations?"

"...I know the Big Dipper..." Mairin muttered uncertainly, and he smiled.

With his free hand he pointed up towards the iconic dipper. "Well, that's not actually a constellation, but just part of one- the Ursaring Major, to be exact. But see the last two stars on the 'dipper' part? They point right towards the North Star, which is part of the Little Dipper, or the Teddiursa Minor constellation..."

He wasn't really thinking about what he was saying, simply repeating information he already knew as he spoke. He pointed to various constellations in the sky, listing off the stars in it or simply the origins of its name. Mairin didn't say anything as he spoke, and even though he couldn't see her face from where he was at he could see her raising her hand out of the corner of his eye, trying to find the constellations in the sky.

"Then there's the one of Rayquaza," Alain said as his eyes located the 'head' of the constellation, gaze picking out the other stars that made up its long serpentine shape. "One of the few you can see all year around..."

He paused, trying to think of the legend that went with the constellation, but a soft sound pulled him out of his thoughts. He could hear the small puffs of breath coming from Mairin, and he tilted his head back so he could look at her.

He wasn't quite sure when she had fallen asleep– but a peaceful look was spread across her face. He let out a long breath, smiling as he saw that the tension and fear was gone from her face. Her hand still remained locked around his wrist, and her hand only tightened when he attempted to pull it away. He watched her for a moment longer, before satisfied that she wasn't going to wake up, and he relaxed.

He stared up at the sky once more, simply listening to the sound of Mairin's breathing and the wind rustling the leaves.

Sleep didn't come for him until much later– not until the horizon was lit gray with the approaching dawn– but with sleep so hard to achieve his whole body relaxed and embraced the feeling as he at last drifted off.

Perhaps they wouldn't be up with the sun that morning, but it had been so long since a look of peace had crossed the young friends' faces that nothing seemed to dare awake them. The Kalos sun peered over the horizon, its rays merely illuminating the two that had at last found some peace in their turmoil.

[aneternaldreamer]

Of Storm and Sky Part 2

~~~~

“We have to leave.”

Shandriz’s hand was on the knife she kept at her bedside table even before she came out of the half-slumbering haze of evening meditation. It took her a moment, so dazed and surprised, to realize that the voice belonged to Erov. Males were not supposed to be on this floor of the compound unless one of her sisters or her mother had brought them into their chambers for mating purposes. Certainly no male was ever to set foot in -her- rooms.

And her brother had only arrived home last night after her mother had sent him to the surface to raid for supplies following their successful mission against the kobolds. He’d been gone for weeks and he hadn’t even had a chance to say hello to her since his return.

“Erov?” she asked quietly, but he put a finger to his lips, indicating that they should make no sound lest they wake one of the slumbering females in another room. Drow were conniving, deceitful creatures and evil besides. Shandriz had learned from an early age to rely on no one but herself- her sisters would as soon slit her throat as any if they perceived her a threat to their own plottings. But Erov, she knew, was different. As long as she could remember, she had relied on him to keep her safe. He would never lead her wrong. He alone was worthy of her trust.

And so as he led her from the Compound, she followed him despite the panic rising in her chest that when he said “Leave” he had really meant -leave- and that her entire world was about to be turned upside down. He grabbed the packs that they usually took for hunting, handed her her weapons, and took her by the hand- red meeting violet as he claimed her gaze, “I want you to come with me,” he said quietly, “There is so much more out there in this world for you. I knew from the moment I saw you, facing off that bugbear when you were just a baby. Please, little sister.  You were destined for better than this.”

The girl bit her lip to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. She had been -right-. She didn't know why he was leaving, or how they'd survive in the Underdark on their own, or what destiny he had in mind for her. What she did know was that she would follow him to the ends of the earth, because he believed in her. If she stayed here, what sort of life would she live? Buried under the dark earth young because one of her sisters had killed her, most likely. She knew she wasn’t a match for any of them with their power struggles. And while she craved power of her own, what she wanted was not what Lolth could give her. She wanted freedom, adventure, excitement. Not subterfuge and death and decay. Somehow, she knew that Erov could help her find that.

“I’ll go.”

Her heart clenched in fear, but she pushed through it. Shandriz was used to fear- here in the Underdark it was her constant companion. She knew how to shove it aside, keep moving, pretending that everything was all right.

Erov squeezed her hand gently, a small smile on his face, “Then let's go.”

They traveled then in silence. She wanted to ask about why he had come to her so suddenly, in the middle of the night, but got a definite feeling that now was -not- the time to ask.  The deeper they traveled through the caverns, the louder even her silent footfalls sounded to her ears. Anything and everything could be lurking out here, and it was just the two of them against the world.

She kept close to her brother’s side, cringing at every rustle of fabric, peering desperately into the gloom as though she could see through the cavern walls to all the threats that they might hold. After several hours, her brother motioned with one hand, and the two of them tucked themselves into a niche so small they could barely sit side by side.

“We should be safe here for the moment,” Erov began quietly, “I've been here before, during journeys to the surface- none of the others know about this spot.”

The girl nodded, shifting uncomfortably, “Brother…” she looked down at the ground, not certain she wanted the answer. What was she going to do if he said something crazy, leave? Go home? She didn't even know if she could find her way back at this point- they'd never ventured this direction before. And she couldn't betray him like that- if she returned home without him, they would want to know what happened.

“I am afraid I have been keeping secrets from you,” Erov began, his own gaze mirroring hers as he looked down at his hands, “I hated lying to you, but if they found out..if I told you, they'd assume you were part of it, they'd kill you.”

Shandriz’s heart skipped a beat. Secrets? From her? But she had -trusted- him!

“Not all of my journeys to the surface have been raids. A few months before I became your guardian, I discovered a priestess of Eilistraee when separated from my raiding party on the surface. Since then, I have become one of her Devoted Followers.”

Shandriz gasped. Her brother was a traitor! Her skin started to crawl as though the eyes of a million spiders were now watching them, watching her, ready to shred her apart if she betrayed Lolth by refusing to kill Erov on the spot. The girl shivered in revulsion at the idea of those horrible creatures- or worse, Lolth’s horrifying hybrids the driders, coming after them.

She bit her lip, hard, so as not to cry out when her brother touched her arm again. This was -Erov-. He had loved her as no other ever had, had taught her and trained her and believed in her. She owed him her life, and he was offering her freedom. How could she condemn him in hatred?

“You are still so young,” he continued softly, “and you have seen so much evil, lived so many lies. Let me show you truth and beauty. I wanted to wait until you were old enough to choose your own path, but Matron Lo’rel knows. She tried to have me killed. I'm sorry, Shandriz, I really am.”

Her violet eyes filled with tears. She was so confused. She wanted to stay with Erov, but she was afraid to turn her back on the only life she had ever known, terrified of the wrath of their evil goddess, unsure whether or not she was strong enough to walk her brother’s path.

“I'm scared,” her voice was small and quiet, and Erov’s features softened visibly as he pulled her into his arms, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I will protect you. We can stay in the Underdark for now. Just us, until you are ready to leave.”

The girl nodded, allowing herself a moment of weakness. One minute, sixty heartbeats, a few slow, deep breaths.

“I'm with you.”

He squeezed her then, and let go of her while he pulled blankets out of his pack and wrapped one over her shoulders,  “I will keep watch. You rest.”

Shandriz’s lip trembled slightly as she met his eyes with her own, “You won't leave me?”

“Never.”

[enterinit]

Hollow and other games coming to Xbox One this week

Hollow and other games coming to Xbox One this week. 2urvive (June 12, 2019) In 2URVIVE, the world is devastated by a virus. Your only goal is to defend yourself against hordes of Infected attacking you. Infected are too numerous and sooner or later, your time will come ! If you're gonna die, fight till the end ! 2URVIVE is a top-down zombie shooter with tactical and strategic elements. Prepare yourself before every wave. Buy weapons and ammo, set up turrets and stay alive as long as you can. Each wave becomes more dangerous than the previous one and the Infected are more and more numerous. Features: 3 diffent game modes (2URVIVE, 28 days before, Mercenaries)2 player local co-op for all modes13 narrative episodes (with different areas and objectives) 10 weapons (shotgun, flamethrower, rocket launcher, etc...)10 enemy types (Walker, Runner, Colossus, Dog, Zero, etc... )Pixel art graphic style Bertram Fiddle: Episode 2 – A Bleacker Predicklement (June 12, 2019) Puzzles! Pigeons! And Puns! Take a journey deep into Victorian London with Bertram Fiddle. Explore secret passages, discover hidden objects, meet suspicious characters, solve befuddling puzzles and cringe at puns more terrible than ever as you unravel the mysteries of A Bleaker Predicklement. The Greatest Comedy Murder Mystery Adventure set in Victorian London you will ever play! At long, long, long last Bertram Fiddle is back! Unfortunately, due to unsufficient Expeditioning Opportunities he is currently working at Dulsworth’s Adequate Soap Factory… but not all is as it seems and the rumble of an Adventure once more begins. 85% historically inaccurate. A Bleaker Predicklement is Inspired by Victorian novels, Hammer Horror and Monty Python. It is literally bursting with pre-Brexit British Humour. This installment concludes the story started in Episode 1 of the Adventures of Bertram Fiddle, but is a stand-alone game. With almost 60 scenes, a unique jazz-prog infused soundtrack and fully voiced characters this Adventure can truly be described as epic! Doodle God: Evolution (June 13, 2019) UNLEASH YOUR IMAGINATION & BE A GOD! Create and change your planet with each new reaction. The whole world is in your hands. Doodle God: Evolution is a unique edition of the well-known game that includes not only the classic Doodle God, but Doodle Farm as well. And now, in this addicting all ages game, not only fire, earth, water and air but also plankton, mammals or birds will be at your disposal. Mix and match different combinations of elements to build an entire civilization and re-create the evolution of the animal world! Of course, the universe was not created in a day, a long journey full of joy and creative torments awaits you. Don’t worry, you will not be alone in this adventure! Every time you successfully create a new item you’ll be rewarded with an interesting scientific fact or wit and wisdom of some of the greatest philosophers and comedians of all time. But beware, the power of creation may have unintended consequences, inventing the wheel might just trigger a zombie plague! Unleash your inner god with Doodle God: Evolution! Features: Huge variety of wildlife awaits you in the new Doodle Farm mode!Over 500 Items to create!“Planet” Mode allows you to see your planet come alive as you play.“Mission” Mode offers new challenging puzzles."Puzzle" Mode. Can you find the final object?Various quests will not leave you indifferent.Hundreds of interesting facts and funny, thought provoking quotes! Hollow (June 13, 2019) "I never cared about this ship...I just…wanted to find myself. I had to. Something deep in my brain – deep in my very soul – clawed at me, struggling to make sense of everything. But the sad truth is that it never could. I never could. I still can't remember who I am." Hello, prospective crew member! Welcome to Shakhter-One, the first space mining ship to gather resources from the atmosphere of the planet Jupiter! Shakhter-One provides mass quantities of supplies to a resource-starved Earth. Thanks to Shakhter-One, we no longer have to depend on coal or oil! Still not sold on making Shakhter-One your new home? "I don't even know if this has happened before. Me, here, telling this same, exact story. …Surely not. I would remember that… Right?" Shakhter-One offers a fresh start among the stars! On Shakhter-One, everybody is important! Everybody is employed! All children have an equal start! We're confident you'll see that Shakhter-One is the perfect place to begin your family's future! "The only thing that I can truly be sure of is the constant, pervading feeling I have deep inside. I'm empty. I'm hollow." In "Hollow," you are one of the pilots that transports precious resource cargo from the mining ship Shakhter-One down to Earth. One day you wake up in an emergency capsule drifting near the facility. You don't remember who you are, or how you got out there… All you can remember is an autopilot docking code for capsule dock NR 6. When you dock with Shakhter-One, it is clear that something has gone horribly wrong. The crew is missing and the entire facility is dealing with catastrophic power issues. As you start to uncover the ship's terrifying secrets, Shakhter-One threatens to take your identity, your sanity, and – ultimately – your life. The worst evil is the one that knows us better than we know ourselves. The worst nightmare is the one borne in our past, emotions, fears, and pain. Features: Explore a derelict mining facility in orbit around JupiterFight through the nightmare and solve the mystery of the Shakhter-OneFace your fears head-on or use the environment as your allySolve puzzles and use your brain to proceedMaster fast-paced, frenetic gun combat to surviveReveal the backstory of the protagonist and set him free from his demons… or succumb to them. Hexologic (June 13, 2019) Immerse yourself in the beautiful world of Hexologic. Solve challenging, yet rewarding puzzles, listen to relaxing music and dive deep in the game’s atmosphere! Hexologic is very easy to learn and in the same time a highly addictive language-independent logic puzzle game. Based on hexagonal grids, the game reinvents sudoku rules and brings it to a whole new level. Combining the dots inside the hexes in three possible directions, so that their sum matches the one given at the edge, will be a rewarding experience for both puzzle games’ veterans and newcomers. A simple gameplay mechanics adorned with a beautiful graphic design, relaxing music and challenging yet not unbeatable puzzles, will guarantee long hours of fun for gamers of all ages. IN HEXOLOGIC YOU’LL FIND: 6 completely different game worldsOver 110 beautiful levelsChallenging yet not unbeatable puzzlesRelaxing, putting one’s mind to ease atmosphereAtmospheric soundtrack emphasizing the game’s ambienceEndless mode with procedurally generated leve Verlet Swing (June 14, 2019) Grab your hookshot and enter surreal fever dreams. An eccentric world where weird stuff happens. Where statues stare you down and you die on impact with any of your surroundings. That’s Verlet Swing – an abstract gauntlet that transforms into weirder and more challenging courses as you sail and soar through strange landscapes of koi fish, pizza slices and other bizarre obstacles. Features: 100 levels of fast-paced swinging actionIncreasingly surreal levels to swing throughProgressively difficult gameplay. Only the best of swingers will reach the final levels!Test your swinging skills with leaderboards and Challenges modeMixer broadcasting integration (Xbox One version only) Read the full article

[sageandwizard]

How to Create a Character

By Holly Lisle

No matter what sort of fiction you’re writing, you’re going to have to populate your story with characters, and a lot of them, if not all of them, you’re going to have to create from scratch. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately — there is no Betty Crocker Instant Character-In-A-Can that you can mix with water and pop into the oven for twenty minutes. There aren’t any quick and easy recipes, and I don’t have one either, but I do have some things that have worked for me when creating my characters, and some things that haven’t. You may find my experiences useful. For what they’re worth, here are my Do’s and Don’ts.

Don’t start your character off with a name or a physical description.

I know this doesn’t seem logical at first glance — after all, you name a baby before you get to know him very well. Why wouldn’t you give your character a name and blue eyes before you find out anything else about him?

There are a couple of reasons. The first is that you have a lot of preconceived ideas about names and body types. Perhaps every Charlie you ever knew was a great guy, while every Barry you knew was an idiot. So when you decide to name your protagonist Charlie before you really get to meet him, he is automatically going to carry along a lot of baggage that you probably aren’t even going to be aware of — but that baggage will subtly influence the direction of your story, and perhaps its outcome. And that influence won’t necessarily be a benefit to your story.

In the same way, maybe your heart has been broken twice by redheads, or the gorgeous surfer you dated briefly who stole your credit card, did drugs in the back seat of your car and got your twin sister pregnant before dumping you and vanishing from your life forever. So you might be carrying a grudge against redheads or good-looking men, and you might have a tendency to make every redhead in your books a bitch, or every hunk a creep in disguise.

Second, if you have a name and a physical description right away — Jane Meslie, 37, blonde with bright blue eyes and great legs and a habit of flipping her hair out of her face when she’s frustrated — you’re going to be tempted to look no deeper that her appearance. When she gets into trouble, you’re going to fall back on that hair-flipping thing, and she’s going to do it so often she’ll be bald by the end of the book.

Do start developing your character by giving him a problem, a dramatic need, a compulsion.

Even if you don’t have the foggiest idea what your story is going to be about yet, you don’t know where it’s going to take place, and you haven’t found anything compelling that you’d like to say to an audience of more than one, you can do this. Say “My main character wants _____ more than anything else in the world.”

What does the character want? Love, respect, courage, revenge, a kidney for his kid sister, to find the son she gave up for adoption when she was sixteen? Throw something down on the paper. It won’t be written in stone and you can always go back later and change it. Or you can, when you create the character, bank him for a later book if he doesn’t fit your needs once you get rolling. In writing as in life, nothing you do is ever wasted. So go ahead and jump in. Your character wants something. If he’s like most people, he wants several somethings, and about the time you allow yourself to start discovering them, you’ll begin to find out where your story is going, and what it will be about.

He also wants to avoid something — and these things the character wants to avoid can be more compelling by far that the things he hopes to gain. What scares him to death? Humiliation, disfigurement, pain, terminal illness, poverty? What will he do anything to avoid? What has he already done to avoid his greatest fears? Give him something that will wake him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, hands clutching his covers, body rigid with terror. If you want to really make your character come to life, choose something that terrifies you — you’ll find that when you write something that makes you shake, you’ll make your reader shake, too.

A rule of good storytelling is that the protagonist will confront the thing he fears the most and overcome it in order to win the thing he desires the most. This isn’t a hard-and-fast rule, and for every book where the writer followed it, you’ll find at least one where the writer ignored it completely. But overall, the most satisfying stories will at least approach this rule.

Don’t rely on crutches.

I’ve read a number of otherwise-decent writing books that have you start out creating your character by giving him a hook — some little device that characterizes the person. Nervous whistling, jangling car keys kept in the right front pocket, a complete wardrobe of blue shirts, the anxious stroking of a rabbit’s foot in moments of deep stress.

It doesn’t hurt to do this, but I recommend that you do it later rather than sooner — perhaps at about the same time that you name your character. Maybe even later — say when you’re in the middle of chapter three and you need your character to do something while talking to the bank teller that will make her wary.

And don’t mistake a few nervous tics and a jaunty saunter for characterization. Your own character is what’s inside of you — what you’re made of when things get ugly and hard; whether you’ll take something that doesn’t belong to you if no one is looking, whether you’ll tell the truth even if lying is easier, whether you’ll be faithful to you wife when presented with the perfect opportunity for a no-strings-attached one-nighter. Your character has nothing to do with whether you wipe your bangs out of your eyes with the back of your hand or always wear something yellow, and the same is true of the people you’ll be creating and writing.

Do empathize with your character.

This is sometimes easy. When you’re writing your protagonist, and he’s in deep soup, and you’re pouring your soul into his struggles and his angst and spending plenty of words and sweat making making people see that he’s a great guy in a tough spot, the empathy will be there. You’ll know who he is and you’ll care because you’ll see yourself as him in the same spot. In the dreams you’ve had since you were a little kid, you’ve been the hero. You know how the routine is supposed to go.

Sometimes empathy comes a lot harder, though, and I think it’s most important when it’s hard. Recently I had to write the toughest scene in my life, a scene where a woman that I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to make sympathetic over the course of a book and a half does something so utterly reprehensible, so unforgivable, that if I’ve done it right the readers will be praying for her death from that moment on. Given the choice between doing something right and doing something evil, she chooses the path of evil, and in the moment of her choosing lies the fate of her world and the rest of the story.

But her choice couldn’t come out of the blue. I had to build toward it. I had to make what she did understandable, and in order to do that, I had to be able to understand it myself. It was a truly terrible act, one of the most horrible things I am capable of imagining, and when I wrote the scene, tears ran down my face and I got queasy and I got cold and when I was through I went to bed and cried. I had to put myself in the place where that character was, and she was in hell, and she did a hellish thing — but she did it with my hands, and my mind, and my eyes.

When you write, you can only write those things you know (or the things you know will be the only things you write well, anyway.) So when you write the villain, you have to be the villain. You have to understand why the villain acts as he does, you have to know that if you were him in that situation, you would do as he does — because if you can’t do this, no one who reads what you have written will believe in the characters you have created. Empathy in those moments is an agony. You have to look into the darkest part of your soul and find the part of yourself that could be a monster, and you have to put that on the page for people to see. There’s no easy way past this, because your hero can only be as great as the evil he overcomes. If you can’t face the evil in yourself, you hero will only overcome straw villains, and your work will lie flat and lifeless on the page.

Don’t sympathize with your characters.

Empathy and sympathy are two sides of one coin — empathy is understanding, while sympathy is an affinity you share with your character that creates change, allowing the character to affect you. You must feel empathy for the characters you create, both the heroes and the villains, but you can never feel sympathy. In other words, you have to understand why your characters do what they do, but you can’t let that understanding tempt you to ease their suffering, or let them take the easy way out of situations, or experience sudden miracles that remove their obstacles.

Finally, do write from your own life.

This is no picnic, either, but it’s the single technique that has brought my best characters to life. I’ve found that when I take my worst moments, the painful, humiliating, disastrous, or simply dreadful ones that still make me cringe inside, and I change them enough to keep from getting sued, they make good fiction. And my responses, translated to the character, seem to live.

You can only write what you know, but you can take the fears and hopes and feelings you’ve experienced in a relatively mundane existence and translate them to a broader canvas with imagination and persistence. The fear you felt the moment your car almost slid over a guard rail or the elation you felt when you won first place on your 4-H project at the county fair translate very well into the fear your character feels on finding himself at the edge of a cliff with a sword-wielding army at his back, or the elation she feels on discovering the secret code that gives her access to the hidden passageway.

All paintings are done from the same basic set of colors, and all characters are built from the same basic set of responses and emotions. How you use these elements — how you mix them and apply them — determines whether you’ll end up with a masterpiece or something not even your grandma would hang on her wall.

I hope this list helps you get started and stay headed in the right direction while you’re developing your characters. If you’d like to do more with this, this link will take you to my Character Creation Workshop: Designing A Life; you’ll have a new character when you’re done.