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clangenrising · 4 months ago

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Month 20 - Leaffall

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Things in camp were busy these days. Hunting to prepare everyone for winter was a top priority for anyone who wasn’t keeping their combat skills sharp for the inevitable fight with Sardine. Slatepaw and Pantherhaze had taken to daily hunts and she was finally starting to feel like her skills had improved.

“Amazing catch,” Pantherhaze purred as she proudly lifted up the rabbit she had chased down. “You’ve come so far, Slatepaw. I’m so proud of you.”

“Fanks,” she grinned around the prey in her teeth. Her thick, winter coated tail furled up over her back and she let the praise roll over her like warm sunlight.

“Let’s grab the rest and go back,” he said, butting his head against her shoulder which he could do now that she was almost taller than he was. They collected a few more rodents from their cache and returned to camp as the morning sun started to peek over the mountains.

“Nice catch!” Barleybee congratulated as they passed her and Aldertail on their way out.

“She caught it herself,” Pantherhaze boasted for her. Slatepaw blushed at the look of amazement on Aldertail’s face.

“Wow,” she breathed. “I could never do that. That’s amazing.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” Barleybee said, touching her nose to Aldertail’s ear. To Slatepaw, she added, “I bet you Ospreymask would really appreciate that right now.”

“Her specifically?” Pantherhaze tilted his head in confusion.

“You’ll understand in a bit,” laughed Barleybee. “She’s been telling everybody.”

Slatepaw’s stomach fluttered in excitement. Could it be what she was thinking it was? She and Pantherhaze said goodbye to Barleybee and Aldertail and she began her search for Ospreymask.

It wasn’t hard to find her.

She sat outside the Healers’ den with Oddstripe and Songdust, saying loudly, “I don’t think I’ll be moving my nest quite yet. Might as well give the boys a bit more time to themselves.”

“Osprehmahsk!” Slatepaw called around her catch and she bounded over.

“Slatepaw!” Ospreymask beamed and lifted her tail in greeting.

Slatepaw dropped the rabbit at her feet and asked, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?!” She felt like her paws were full of bees the way they were vibrating.

“Depends,” smirked Ospreymask, starting out slow but increasing in speed and volume as she neared the end of her sentence, “do you think I’m saying that I’m going to have kits?!”

“Yes!” squealed Slatepaw, ecstatic.

“Then I am!” Ospreymask cheered in kind, rubbing her head all down Slatepaw’s side and looping around to lean against her other side. “I’m gonna be a mama!”

“That’s so exciting!” Slatepaw felt on the verge of happy tears. “Who with?”

“You’ll just have to guess, won’t you,” Ospreymask laughed.

“Lots of queens don’t feel the need to tell people who the sire is,” Songdust explained. “I know that hasn’t really been your experience but it was a lot more common when I was your age.”

“Oh, okay,” said Slatepaw, a bit confused. She didn’t understand why you wouldn’t want to shout your mate’s name from the mountain tops but she supposed everyone was different. Fogpaw would probably think she was stupid for feeling that way, for one.

She brushed the thought away with a twitch of her tail and said, “Here, you should have the rabbit I caught! You need to eat up to help the kits grow, right?”

“That’s right,” winked Ospreymask and Oddstripe nodded in agreement.

“Congratulations,” Pantherhaze said more calmly, butting heads with Ospreymask.

“Thanks, buddy,” she purred. “I’m absolutely thrilled.”

“It’s a shame on the timing though,” he said. “You’ll have to miss out on mentoring Yellowkit and Bluekit.”

Ospreymask’s face fell suddenly. “Aw, man! I didn’t even think about that!” She plopped down into a pouty loaf and pulled the rabbit closer, sourly starting on her meal. Slatepaw giggled and Oddstripe laid his tail over Ospreymask’s shoulder.

“There will be more chances in the future, I’m sure,” he said.

“I know,” sighed Ospreymask. “I guess waiting a moon or two to recover is better than having to wait six moons to have kits or having to stop training halfway through.”

“Yeah, exactly,” agreed Pantherhaze. “StarClan knows when to send us our blessings. I’m sure the timing will feel perfect when you look back on everything.”

“Slatepaw, guess what?!” Fogpaw’s voice called and Slatepaw turned around to see her sister loping in from the southern edge of camp.

“Ospreymask is having kits? I know!” she squealed, bounding over to meet her sister. “It’s so exciting, I can’t wait!”

“She is?” Fogpaw gaped. “Wow, that’s awesome!”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Slatepaw blinked. “What was your ‘guess what’ then?”

“Ghost is on his way!” grinned Fogpaw.

“Really?” Slatepaw lit up before confusion made her frown again. “Wait, I thought you hated him.”

“I don’t hate him anymore,” Fogpaw rolled her eyes as if that had been common knowledge. “But yeah, he’s coming to talk to Goldenstar about battle plans! Isn’t that great?”

Slatepaw felt her insides shrivel up in fear. “I guess,” she lied. That meant there was going to be a fight. That meant people were going to die. She didn’t want people to die!

“I hope we get to go!” Fogpaw chattered, tail curling back and forth. “I barely got to fight in the last battle.” Slatepaw swallowed. The last battle had killed Lakepaw and Sagetooth. She looked around the clearing at the smiling faces of her Clanmates and wondered who of them wouldn’t make it. She felt like she was going to cry.

“Hey,” Fogpaw frowned, “are you okay? You look sad.”

Slatepaw was surprised her sister had noticed, although she was pretty terrible at hiding her emotions to be fair. “Um, I’m just nervous,” she said.

“Of what?” Fogpaw wound her tail with Slatepaw’s.

“I- I don’t know,” she balked. Suddenly she was struggling to put her words together. “That people will die?” Was that so unreasonable?

Fogpaw hummed thoughtfully and said, “I’m sure it’ll be okay, Slatepaw. This time we’re gonna be prepared so it’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she relented, not wanting to make a fight out of it.

“Slatepaw!” called the friendly voice of Jagg from the top of the hill. Beside her was Ghost, wearing an uneasy half smile that made her heart soar in hope. Scorchplume followed up behind them, tail twitching, and headed down into Goldenstar’s den without a word. Fogpaw smiled at Slatepaw and then started over to meet them so she followed.

Ghost cleared his throat and said, “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi dad, hi Jagg,” she responded shyly. “How are you?”

“Pretty good,” said Jagg with a friendly arch to her tail. “How’s your training coming?”

“Good,” smiled Slatepaw. “I caught a rabbit today.”

“Wow! A whole rabbit? That’s amazing,” said Jagg brightly. Slatepaw blushed under her praise and leaned closer to Fogpaw.

“She’s ready for you,” Scorchplume called from across the camp, and Ghost’s ear stumps twitched in her direction.

“Well, looks like we’ve got to go,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Will you share tongues with us after your meeting?” Slatepaw asked as loudly as she could muster.

“We’ll have to see,” he said, not looking at her.

“It depends on how long the meeting takes,” added Jagg. “We’ll come say goodbye at the very least.”

“Okay,” Slatepaw nodded meekly. With that, the two adults joined Scorchplume at the entrance to Goldenstar’s den and slank inside. Scorchplume scowled in Slatepaw and Fogpaw’s direction before following them with a twitching tail tip.

Slatepaw pursed her lips angrily. “Why is she so mean?”

“Who, Jagg?” Fogpaw asked incredulously. “She’s super nice, what are you talking about?”

“Not Jagg,” Slatepaw’s ears pressed back in frustration at her sister’s density, “Scorchplume! She’s such a bully!”

“No she’s not!” Fogpaw puffed up furiously which made Slatepaw flinch. “She’s just doing her best! Being nice is hard for her!”

“Hah!” crowed Slatepaw in victory. “So you admit that she’s mean!”

“Nuh-uh!” bristled Fogpaw. “I said being nice is hard for her, that’s not the same!”

“How is it not the same? That’s stupid!”

“You’re stupid!” Fogpaw snapped. “I mean- no, I didn’t mean that.”

“Then why did you say it?” Slatepaw said, starting to tear up but determined to stay strong.

“Because I’m angry,” Fogpaw said. “Look, I-” She took a deep breath and pushed it out sternly through her nose. “I’m sorry, okay? I just care a lot about Scorchplume. She’s really nice to me. I wish you would try and get to know her like I do.”

Slatepaw swished her tail defensively around her paws. “What if she’s nice to you ‘cause she’s a liar?”

“What would she get from lying to me? What does that do for her?”

“Maybe she gets a cat who will swear she’s good and kind,” accused Slatepaw. The idea solidified in her head as she said it and it scared her. “Maybe she’s using you to trick everyone into trusting her so she can take over the Clan!”

“Slatepaw, that’s crazy, you sound like FallenClan,” Fogpaw rolled her eyes.

“I’m not crazy!” Slatepaw sat up straight. “I’m not.” With that, she turned and stormed off.

“Slatepaw, wait, come back!” Fogpaw said, chasing after her.

Luckily, Pantherhaze swooped in between them and said, “Why don’t you let her get some space, okay, Fogpaw?” Slatepaw paused to look over her shoulder. She kept a scowl on her face but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to scare Fogpaw off or make her stay.

Fogpaw swallowed, looked at her, and then nodded. “Okay. Sorry, Slatepaw. I’ll give you space.”

“Good,” she huffed and twitched an ear. Fogpaw stepped away and went to sit near the leader’s den. Slatepaw decided to go into the apprentices’ den and lay down in her nest.

After a moment, Pantherhaze poked his head inside. “Hey, do you need anything, Slatepaw?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled sullenly into the moss.

“Okay,” he said. “If you can think of anything just tell me, okay? I’m here for you.”

“I know,” she sniffled. “Thanks, Pantherhaze.”

“Of course, sweetie,” he smiled tenderly and retreated, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

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somewherebetweendisorder · 2 years ago

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Touch Starved

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Warnings: slight angst I guess? fluff??

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY, REPOST, OR USE MY WORK IN ANY WAY

~~~

You were used to Jason coming home broken and bloody. Or at least, you should be used to it after two years, but it always comes as a paralyzing shock when he stumbles through the window, eyes wary as they land on you. Tonight is no exception. Just as he is inside the room, he falls to his knees, looking up at you.

"It's bad tonight," he warns, not quite meeting your eyes.

You step closer with the caution you would use to approach a wounded animal. There are days you forget this is your reality. Days when Gotham City didn't demand your fiance's time and soul. Days when the streets didn't deliver your boyfriend back to you, worse for wear and half dead. Days when the thought of having to stitch Jason up didn't even cross your mind.

Those fleeting pieces of normalcy were what propelled you through these nights. The hope that there would be another sunny day, sitting across from Jason at your favorite cafe, soaking up the heat like the baguette in your hand soaking up the minestrone in your bowl. Spoon froze in space halfway to your mouth as he recounted stories of growing up with Dick and Tim. Love weighed down the air around you, heavy with desire and longing and words you were both too terrified to verbalize. But you knew, you both knew what lingered there, in the tiny space between you.

So with that image in mind, fading in potency as you helped Jason to his feet, brought back to reality, you vowed to get him through tonight so that another day was possible. No matter what it requires of you. No matter how brutal the task, like a lighter held to wax, melting away your optimism.

"No."

The word is a cacophony in your bedroom, not a word he uses on you often. You struggle to remember the last time he said it. You can't. Meeting his eyes, a deep green, like spring foliage, you are alarmed by the apathy projected at you.

"What?"

"Not tonight. I'll do it."

"No, Jason, let me help. Please." You know the edge of panic is unmistakable in your voice, but you don't care. If he shuts you out now, it'll take ages to fix the damage.

He shakes his head but doesn't stop you from helping him into the bathroom and easing him down onto the closed lid of the toilet. He grunts in pain, and you wince, reaching for the first aid kit below the sink. The cache of gauze and hydrogen peroxide was long ago depleted from the original case. You have to buy more every couple of weeks.

Twisting the cap off of the brown bottle you set it on the edge of the counter along with a roll of gauze, a tube of ointment, and a pair of scissors that you just sterilized. You force your mind blank as you avoid his hard stare and hiss of pain as you work off his leather jacket and toss it on the floor. You cut off the black shirt he's wearing. It's beyond saving.

Once his torso is bared you set to work, cleaning the numerous wounds. You press a little too hard on a deep cut and he growls, hand encircling your wrist to stop you.

"Y/N."

"I'm sorry, Jason. I'm sorry. It's just-"

"Y/N," he repeats, firmer this time. "Stop."

He pries the antibacterial-soaked cotton pad from your hand and stands, towering over you.

"I'll finish. Go to bed it's late."

His words are dismissive, and he's already turning away from you, but your hand on his uninjured bicep stops him.

"Jace," your voice breaks on the nickname, your frayed nerves catching up with you. "What's going on? Why are you shutting me out?"

He doesn't answer, keeping his back to you. As the tears begin to track down your face, you trail your fingertips down his skin. The touch is soft, meant to soothe, but it's too much for Jason. He's been touch-starved his whole life, and on his worst days, your affection is overwhelming.

"Just stop!"

"No! It's been too long for you to revert to this self-destructive behavior. Stop shutting me out! Let me love you. This is how I love you. Just- Stop Jason, please."

His eyes finally meet yours, bloodshot and overflowing with emotion. Before you know what's happening he's easing down to his knees again, burying his face in your chest, breathing irregularly.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. It was so close tonight I just-"

"It's okay. It's okay," you repeat, fingers gently combing through his hair.

His lips seek yours out, desperate and hungry. You can sense it all, the toll that tonight took on him and the fear that lingers. You give in to the kiss, parting your lips and allowing him to deepen the kiss. As his hands begin to creep up your sides you struggle to tap back into the rational side of your brain. Mind foggy from the kiss you take a small step back, fingers ghosting over his lips.

"Let's finish getting you cleaned up, Jace. Then you can take me to bed."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd angst #jason todd fluff #jason todd

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frannyzooey · 1 year ago

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On The Green: 3

Ezra x f!reader

Rating: Mature-ish? More space violence, gratuitous descriptions of Ezra’s body 🤡

A/N: thank you to both @the-scandalorian who always sets me in the right direction and gives me the best reassurance and @bageldaddy who, I’m pretty sure, is giving me more of an education than any English teacher I’ve ever had and thank god ❤️

Series Masterlist

—

For the next couple days, it rains.

Sheets of it pour down, a steady drum against the roof, trails of it sliding down the windows. It creates rivers in the rich soil, deep trenches that lead to even deeper puddles, and the world outside looks like a muted blur from your seat inside. A smear of dark green, a blot of rich brown, the watery shape of roots that distort with every drop.

Tucking your knees tighter under your chin, you give your legs a squeeze, hoping to squash the restlessness that thrums through them.

“Anything new out there?”

You sigh, knowing he’s teasing. “No.”

“Fitting, the way you can sit still for so long, Birdie. Perched there in your little nest.”

The only blanket you have pooled at your hip, your headphones on the floor, and your notebook open and face down next to them, you suppose it does look a bit like a nest. You shrug. “Not much else to do.”

Ezra fiddles with a ship part in his hand, his head bent in focus. “Always something to do.”

After days stuck inside, it doesn’t feel like it.

You’ve combed over every inch of the pod, putting it back to rights. Cleaning every surface, organizing every cupboard. The med supplies were pulled out and meticulously sorted, the food stores combined with Ezra’s meager offerings, the dash scrubbed free of every particle of dirt that’s collected on it over the years. Your fingers finding a few rusty drips of blood that were missed, you spent more time than necessary scouring every inch of the pilot’s seat until your fingers ached.

One untouched compartment remained: your father’s private belongings.

“Hand me that wrench, would you?”

Ezra extends his hand, and you crawl over to the open tool kit, rifling through it until you find the one he’s looking for. Handing it to him, you abandon your seat by the window and sit next to him. His fingers are thick and long, marred with the nicks of small scars, his fingernails short and black with permanent dirt—but his handling of the part is graceful, his touch deft when he uses the tool.

“Tell me everything he said again, from the top.”

Resting your cheek on your knee, you recite every detail you can recall, your voice monotone with boredom.

“He didn’t say much. A group of mercs hired him to help with the dig, but I don’t know where he met them. Called “The Queen’s Lair,” it’s supposed to be an untouched dig site that holds more gems than any other on this planet. A deposit the size of this pod. Depending on his source, the whole thing could be real or it could be nothing, but either way, he thought it would make us rich. He said it would be enough to retire on, that this would be our last run.”

Ezra huffs. “If the rumor is true, then he’d be right.” He passes the wrench back, looking at you. “If it’s true.” He waits a beat. “Do you think it is?”

You still had to get used to that – someone asking your opinion about something. You shrug. “It’s possible, right?”

“Sure, it’s possible,” he agrees. “Probable, though?”

You pause to think, and his expression softens into a smile. “A dreamer like myself, I see.”

“I don’t know about that,” you reply. “But as long as we’re stuck here, might as well look, right?”

He nods, thinking for a moment.

“The Queen’s Lair,” he muses, dragging the words out in a slow drawl. He looks up, wiggling his eyebrows, and a small smile pulls at your lips.

Mirroring it, he goes back to work.

It had taken you all of a couple days to tell him about the reason your father came here. Tossing in your lot with Ezra the second you agreed to his deal, the idea of a hidden cache of gems that had the potential to make you both rich was too valuable to keep to yourself. You had the location; he had the digging skills. You had, as minimal as they were, details about who was waiting, and he had the skills to navigate the situation.

You needed each other.

Cautious around him for the first couple of days, you were surprised by his geniality. For someone who appeared so ruthless when you first met him, he was…kinder than you thought he would be with you. You had remained hesitant, convinced that it was a ruse to get you to lower your defenses, but after a while, you came to see that he was just desperate for someone to talk to.

So were you, it seemed, for how easily the words slipped out once you let them.

After a lifetime of being left to wilt alone in empty apartments, or being dragged around the universe only to be ignored until your father needed something from you, it felt good to have someone’s attention. His curiosity about you was endless, his questions never ending, and when you answered, he really listened. Not like he was searching for anything to give him a leg up on you, but rather just openly interested. His face was expressive, his eyes fixed on yours whenever you were talking, and even when you tried to shy away from the direct attention you weren’t used to, he never faltered.

He was patient, a gift you’d never been given from anyone.

Unfortunately, along with that came a blossoming attraction to the man, but you pushed that down. The pod was a tight space with two people, and he was broad. You couldn’t help but notice his presence. Especially at night, when it was just the two of you.

When a blanket of tension seemed to build across the small space between your cots.

When it was just you and him and the darkness; the steady sound of his breathing over the thrum of your restless limbs.

Squashing down the nagging shame that surfaced every time you remembered that he was a stranger and also a murderer, you ignored that logic and leaned into the warmth of his companionship instead.

Besides, even if he was planning on taking advantage, what could you really do about it anyway?

“You mentioned a map?” he says, his brow furrowing in concentration.

You tilt your head towards his cupboard. “I haven’t checked, but it should be in there. I remember him looking at it.”

Knowing you’ve been avoiding that particular cupboard, he nods.

“How many mercs are waiting for him at the dig?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“What terms did he negotiate?”

“He didn’t say.”

Ezra shakes his head to himself, looking up. “The more you tell me about this old man of yours, the less I’m impressed with how he treated his partner.”

“I was never his partner,” you correct. “Just his daughter.”

He gives you a level glance, and you look away. Fiddling with the leg of your thermals, you change the subject. “Do you think it’s safe to leave the pod unattended?”

“I’m not assured that she’s fit to fly in the state she’s in, but just to be sure, we’ll take this with us wherever we go.”

He holds up the part in his hand with a smirk, and you give it a closer look, huffing a laugh when you recognize it.

The starter.

He stands with a soft grunt, stretching. The muscles in his shoulders shift underneath his threadbare thermals, and you keep your eyes on them when he tucks the part away in his case.

“I’ll need a digging partner out there, if this opportunity is what you say it is,” he says. “I think we should practice some, to get you ready. Is that amenable to you?”

You bite the pillow of your lip. “He never taught me that. How to dig,” you clarify.

“Course he didn’t,” Ezra frowns, his voice sliding low with unamused disappointment. He shakes his head clear of whatever dark thought seems to pass through his mind, his expression softening. “All the more reason.” He bends, peering out the window. “Looks like it’s tapering off. The sooner we get some practice under your belt, the better.”

A swoop of relief flowing through you at the thought of leaving the pod, it mixes with excitement at the prospect of learning something new. Your father never trusted you with the actual digging – you had been brought along to carry things, made to follow for “assistance”, but he never let you touch the blade. You’d once thought it was a father’s way to protect his child from the dangerous job but quickly realized it was born out of impatience.

Unfurling your tight limbs when he holds his hand out to help you off the floor, you grab your suits from the closet. Slipping them on in silence, you click your helmet into place while he secures the connection of your filters, and hunching to get through the door, you follow him outside.

The ground is saturated with water, your boots leaving clear impressions in the soil as he leads you into the forest. He’s broad, even more so with his suit on, but the trees that surround you are still big enough to conceal his entire body, not to mention yours. The canopy of lush growth glistens with droplets, shafts of misty light piercing through it to highlight the floor of moss and growth underneath you. Vines and tree roots spread and crawl underneath your feet, no visible path that you can see.

You follow the beacon of his worn yellow suit, his voice carrying through the comm into your helmet.

“So, Birdie,” his voice sounds deeper through the link, scratchy with static. “If your father never taught you how to dig, what did he teach you?”

You huff under your breath. “A lot of things.”

Missing the low tone of your sarcasm through the radio, he continues in his conversational tone. “Anything useful?”

“I know how to navigate.” You think of using your father’s last coordinates to find him in the seedier part of town. “I’m resourceful.” Rationing your vouchers, making sure they bought you enough food to last. “I’m actually not a bad mechanic.”

“Oh yea?” He turns to look to peek back at you for a moment.

You immediately backtrack when you see a glimmer of hope on his face. “I mean, nothing like we need. I can try to help though, if you show me how. My father used to bring me with him everywhere but always left me behind, so I got pretty good at fixing things around the ship. He always wanted me to do the wiring because my hands were smaller than his. He said my fingers were more precise.”

You remember the rest of it silently: the way his hands trembled and shook between doses.

Ezra hums in acknowledgement. “And yet he never taught you how to dig?”

The moss softens your footsteps, flakes of dust floating through the thick air.

“No,” you reply. “He tried, but…I don’t know. He was too impatient, I think.”

Memories of his harsh words come back: the biting clip of his reprimands, the disappointed yet dismissive tone he always had when it came to you.

Ezra’s voice pulls you back. “Seems like a waste to me. If I had access to those fingers of yours, I would have made use of them.”

Your steps falter as his unearned praise catches you off guard, at his automatic assumption that skills he doesn’t even know if you have were wasted. Warmth unfurls in your chest, the edge of your mouth unconsciously lifting. Feeling slightly foolish and young at your reaction, you look down at your feet.

You’re still thinking about it when he pushes through dense bush, halting you with his arm.

Peering over his shoulder, you see a dark, gaping pit of disturbed earth obstructing your path. He creeps closer, toeing around the edge of it, and you follow, taking in the size and depth. Shallow but with steep sides, roots bulge out from below the soil, extending into the sky with gnarled fingers. Looking closer, you note pockets of earth gaping open just underneath each one. The whole site is eerie, appearing abandoned – though Ezra seems to know what he’s looking for.

Standing on the edge of the pit with a narrowed gaze, he crouches, studying the crater.

You watch with curiosity as he eases down the slope, into the dig site. Sitting on your butt, you carefully slide down the embankment to join him.

You’re not experienced enough to know for sure, but everything about this looks barren to you.

“Is there anything left in here?”

He flashes a smile your way. “If you know where to look.”

He paces the length of the pit, studying it. “Many sites were depleted during the Rush, but carelessness left some treasures behind.”

He squats next to a thick, gnarled root, his helmet tilting in study.

“Come here, Birdie.” His voice slipping into something softer and quieter, he motions you closer. “Here. You see it?”

His gloved fingers splay over the earth, dusting along tiny pin-prick holes that pierce the rich dirt, and he brushes away the crumbling top layer to reveal a deeper set. As if whatever is buried underneath needs access to the toxic air.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he coos.

Blinking, it takes you a second to understand he’s talking to the hole he’s gently unearthing. He hums to himself, one of satisfaction when the earth tumbles away and an involuntary shiver of pleasure at the sound surprises you by rolling down your spine. Shifting your crouch, you push it down.

“Hand me my kit?”

You reach for it, watching as he preps his tools.

“I’ll go first, and then teach you how to do it. Watch my fingers.”

Bracing his hand on the side of the site, he uses the strength in his other one to scoop into the pocket of soil until it completely opens. His arm disappears as he reaches into the dark pit, and trepidation spreads through you. He searches for something, his eyes lighting up when he finds it.

"I knew somebody oughta give her a go,” he says with a smile.

His hand wrapped around the root like a rope, he tugs with a soft grunt of exertion, and a thick, milky white root pearl spills from the hole. He keeps pulling, coaxing everything out and a bulbous pod covered in mucus emerges, sliding out onto the ground by his feet. Shifting onto his knees, he picks up his knife.

“You want to be careful when you cut,” he starts to explain, motioning you to scoot closer. “Easy does it, with delicate things like these. One wrong move and the whole thing will go to shit.”

You hold your breath as he makes a careful incision, his knife slowly drawing across the top of the pod. Your eyes widen in half revulsion and half curiosity as it splits open, strands of thick mucus connecting each side.

“I saw my dad do it once,” you say lowly, mesmerized by his deft movements. “Mess it up.”

The dark crown of his shorn curls shakes under the dome of his visor. “It’s a shame to waste it. All the effort it takes to get her to give it up, only to be ruined with a misplaced touch.”

A hissing sound slips through the thick air, and his fingers form a vee to hold the slick seam open.

“That's the price for a dry breach,” he explains. “My chem will calm the brine.”

You have the bottle of pre-mixed chemicals ready in your hand, and he gives you a nod in thanks, taking it from you. Pouring it slowly into the crack, the pod disintegrates into a steamy cloud, a slimy puddle forming underneath. A core remains, and setting the bottle down, he holds up the unpolished gem.

“Small, but still worth it.”

“You made that look so easy.” Clear experience in every movement he made, you’re still looking at the gem when he speaks.

“Your turn.”

You look up at the words, unsure, and his gaze is steady and encouraging. “I’ll be right here. If you slip, it’s just a trial run.”

You frown in hesitation, and he chuckles. “Don’t look so serious, Birdie. The stakes are about as low as they can get. Come on.”

He jerks his chin towards something behind you, and crawling over to it, you follow.

“Just there,” he says. “You can see her. Look.”

You follow his finger, and reaching your glove out, start to brush the crumbling soil away from the side of the pit. He guides you through every step with a patience you’ve not encountered before, every instruction murmured in a cadence so soothing that would be distracting if not for the intensity of your concentration on the task.

Watch it, girl. Straight finger.

You got it?

Hold it nice and tight.

Oh. That’s perfect.

The sense of accomplishment you feel when you hold up the gem is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. All of your other skills discovered through the lens of isolation, forged by way of necessity without the luxury of help, this one feels different. A safety net beneath you every step of the way, you know if you were to mess up, he would have saved you – but you didn’t.

The faith he placed in you when he handed you the knife suddenly feels so much more earned, and you beam up at him with pride.

“Not nearly as daunting as you thought now, was it?” He smiles back at you, holding his hand out for the gem. “Your father was right, by the way. Your fingers are nimble. The most precise and steady I’ve ever seen.”

You know he must be humoring you but the flush of validation flourishes in your chest as he tucks the stone carefully into the soft foam padding of his case.

“I would have us stay out longer, but we didn’t charge the filters as much as we should have. Let’s head back and admire our loot in a more hospitable environment.”

Clicking it shut, he climbs the slope of the pit before turning to help you out.

“Your first gem,” he muses, leading you back into the forest. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” you breathe, a small smile still on your face and you follow him, his constant stream of words fading into the background.

Entirely dependent on the whims of your father, you’d been existing inside of an isolated bubble until now. You hadn’t been lying when you told Ezra you had no idea what you wanted to do, because the freedom to choose your own path was something that had never occurred to you. You’d been self-reliant, but always within the shadow of a burden. Your dad forced you into a caretaker role, and for the first time in years, as Ezra’s voice flows into your helmet from his, you feel the possibility of something else breaking through the fog.

A glimmering edge of potential, the hue of an amber colored gem.

The shift inside you sparks to life, a realization dawning on you: a life you never thought possible. For the first time since you landed on this planet, you see opportunity stretching out in front of you instead of a dead end. Pride kindles in your chest as you walk back to the pod, and you think about sharing it with Ezra, but stating your excitement over something as routine for the competent man in front of you seems foolish. Like something you should keep to yourself, in order to protect it against the power you know other’s words hold.

You make it to the edge of the clearing before it spills forth from your lips.

“I can’t wait –” you start, your words interrupted by Ezra’s arm whipping out for the second time that day to stop you in your tracks.

“Hello, stranger.”

Your head snaps up, both at the greeting itself and the tone his voice has slipped into: something colder than the easy geniality he’s been using with you all morning, an edge to it that you can sense without seeing his face.

“Can I help you?” Ezra’s hand rests on the thrower attached to his hip, and from your place behind him, you slowly reach for your own weapon strapped across your back. Peering over Ezra’s shoulder, you spot the edge of a man.

Sneering through the visor of his dirty helmet, he looks starved, almost feral underneath the dome, his eyes dead with hunger. Dangerous is the first word that comes to mind, and when the man’s gaze settles on you, you shrink back behind Ezra.

“Pretty ship,” his voice crackles through the comm link. “Pretty girl.”

Your stomach bottoms out, but Ezra remains still.

“Both of whom belong to me,” he replies, steady and sure.

Your fingers bury themselves into Ezra’s suit at his side, and you feel him straighten, standing taller in front of you.

“Seems like a lot for one man.” The man’s chin tilts up in a challenge, stepping closer. “Maybe I can take one of em’ off your hands.”

“As generous as that offer is, I will have to decline.” You can hear the casual smile on Ezra’s face, meant to disarm. “I’m partial to both, you see. I wouldn’t be able to choose.”

The stranger takes a step closer, testing. When Ezra doesn’t move, he takes another.

“Actually,” the stranger confesses, “I’ve got a ship. It could use some parts, and I intended to take them from you…but I’d be willing to walk away.” He pauses a beat, tilting his head to look directly at you. “For her.”

He smiles, and the sight of his rotted teeth causes bile to rise in your throat.

“That is a bold offer,” Ezra drawls. “Unfortunately,” his voice dropping into a firmer tone, “She stays with me.”

The man’s greasy smile disappears, replaced with a menacing frown.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” he growls.

Ezra stands firm, shifting to cover you with the whole of his body and a tight tension fills the air, crackling amongst the slow floating dust.

“Then I guess I’ll have to take her by force,” the man says, taking another step forward.

Without any warning, Ezra whips the pistol from the holster attached to his hip and fires. You shrink at the first shot, scrambling to hide by the pod at the sound of a second one, and by the third, your ass hits the ground with a thud. A cold sweat soaks through your thermals, your pulse pounding as you watch Ezra saunter closer to the dead man with a relaxed gait and aiming his gun right between the man’s vacant eyes, you flinch when he pulls the trigger again.

A crash echoes through the field, followed by silence.

–

“It’s really a thing of beauty, isn’t it?”

Still reeling from the confrontation outside, you blink numbly at the refresher.

“Um,” you swallow, taking a seat. “Sure.”

He seems so unbothered it’s disorienting, and you tug your boot off, placing it on the floor next to the other one. Needing him to go somewhere else so you can process what just happened alone, you attempt casualness. “You just gonna stare at it, or are you gonna shower?”

“You just gonna watch me, or are you gonna turn around?” he mimics.

You pause, and he grins.

“Either way suits me just fine, little bird. Just fine.”

He crouches to dig through a bin of his belongings, and you turn your back to him, your body slipping into the rote memory as you take off your suit. The difference between who he’s been the last several days with you versus who he just turned into is jarring, a slap in the face, a stark reminder of what he’s capable of.

“You want to bathe first, or do you mind if I have the honor?” he asks from behind you.

“Go for it,” you reply.

You hear him pause behind you and turn to face him. A frown pulls between his dark brows as he studies you. “Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting for you to get your own relief. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

You shake your head, just wanting him to give you space. “I’m good. I’ll wait.”

He nods and before you can turn back around, reaches over his head to strip his shirt off with a tug. Marks of rough won survival litter the skin of his back. A gouge here, the thin stripe of a scar there; some cleanly healed, some not. He leans forward into the fresher, turning the water on to let it run for a moment and you eye the dark curls that edge the nape of his neck. The wings of muscle that make up his broad shoulders seem so much wider with his suit off, so much wider against the small opening he stands in front of, and your eyes follow the strong plane of his back down all the way down to the dimples on either side of his spine, just above the waistband of the pants he’s already working open –

Turning, his face registers surprise when he sees you’re still looking – yet he makes no effort to cover himself. Instead, he stands taller, confident in his bareness. His chest is covered in the same marks as his back, visible strength held in his arms, and dark hair collects in a swirl around his belly button and leads down, his hand obstructing where his pants hang open.

“I’m – sorry,” you hastily apologize, heat rushing to your face. Averting your eyes, you get a glimpse of his amused smile before you turn your back on him again.

You expect him to tease you, but he doesn’t. Instead, the door to the fresher clicks shut and you let a breath out you didn’t know you were holding.

Finally alone, you close your eyes.

He killed…again. Right in front of you, shamelessly, so confident in his own skills that you never sensed even a fraction of fear. Going back to the moment you both saw the man, you focus on the memory of his calmness, on the image of confidence he presented delivering that final shot. Almost lazy with it, like he was so desensitized by killing it didn’t even register with him.

Searching deeper, where you should find fear, you find reassurance instead.

He’s the one that took out the initial threat of his original partner, he’s the one who buried your father like it was nothing, he’s the one who has taught you about this place. Treating you like an equal except for when he needs to take out a threat, the way he slides into territorial protection should make you worry…but instead, it makes you feel safe.

You don’t belong to him, but you don’t find yourself rebelling against the idea as much as you probably should. The stranger meant to take you, and when Ezra told that man you belonged to him, you should have shrunk away, probably should have mentally protested. Instead, you silently clutched him tighter.

You hear him behind the door, water splashing against the tiles as he moves around and that swirl of hair above his waistband flashes behind your eyelids, along with an image of his thick fingers. The width of his chest, the rounds of his shoulders. The muscles along his ribs.

You jam the heels of your hands into your eyes, willing it to stop.

He’s a murderer. He’s a thief. He’s a dangerous man who has taken advantage of a situation in order to save himself.

And yet, you breathe out, listening to the shower – he’s saved you every time too.

–

You stay quiet the rest of the night, sitting with your thoughts.

He notices, those dark eyes resting on you every now and then over the map. He’d waited until you were in the shower to go through your father’s belongings, a courtesy you silently thanked him for.

Picking at your dinner, you finally ask him one of the questions weighing on your mind. “Am I really that much of a commodity around here?” you ask. “Is a girl that…rare?”

He stops eating, his expression turning solemn. He holds your gaze for a moment, answering honestly. “You have no idea, Birdie.”

There is a weight to the answer that gives you pause, and a clear implication that confirms the worry that you’re really not safe here – not just for the reasons you thought.

You go back to eating – or rather, picking at your food – and you feel him watching you.

“It is not my intention to scare you,” he starts, “but it is important that you stay close to me. If anyone asks, you’re mine. You understand?”

You nod, the words sparking to life an empty ache inside you, and you swallow hard.

“Not because I own you,” he continues, “but because they need to think I do.”

“Wouldn’t being your partner be enough?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I wish it was, but they…” He pauses, being careful with his words. “It’s been a long time since these men have seen a girl. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one. Your father was foolish to bring you here.” His hand splays on his chest, his thumb catching the worn collar of his thermal. “I would never hurt you, Birdie. But them? They’d do it in a heartbeat.”

You go quiet again, and he puts his fork down, leaning in.

“Again – I don’t say this to scare you, but –”

“That man today,” you interrupt. “How can you kill like that?”

He misunderstands your question, his body language shifting into defensiveness.

“It was all in the name of self-preservation, Birdie. It was nothing personal. Out here –”

“Can you teach me how?”

Your question takes him aback, his eyebrows popping up with surprise.

You let the question hang in the air between you, fully expecting him to say no. He shouldn’t help you learn to protect yourself, you know it would be in his best interest not to. Despite that, you hold eye contact with him, pleading inwardly for him to say yes.

You know he’d protect you, but you want more freedom than that. You want more, just like he taught you earlier.

Taking in your measure for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifts just a fraction, his dark eyes glinting with warmth – and pride.

“Of course.”

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect/you #ezra prospect/reader

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mariacherry · 3 months ago

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I present to your attention the finished version of the modified Sims Medieval launcher :

⭐TSM+ ⭐

What is it and what is it for?

This is a simplified way to install mods and cc. Add content to the game:

The Mods folder, Packages and the Resource file are fully configured correctly, lying in their places. All you need to do is put them in your The Sims Medieval folder, and you can use the mods without any unnecessary movements. No more modding failures due to accidentally incorrect location or spelling!

A new program to launch TSM to quickly change the appearance of the kingdom.

How is that?

📍 Inside the Mods folder there are several ready-made EMPTY subfolders (Winter - winter, Summer - summer, Fall - autumn, Spring - spring, Dark_world - gloomy world, Rural_life - rural life), which should be filled with default substitutions of worlds on the appropriate themes (or wait for our filling using special kits 💜) 📍After launch After selecting the desired option with a number, the current type of kingdom will be automatically replaced and the game will start. 📍You can change the appearance of the kingdom with one click at least every time you log into the game (which we are doing ourselves now, creating a set of seasons - we need a different season for the screenshots each time) 📍Make yourself a shortcut to the new launcher on your desktop and forget about the native version of the game

UPD: I changed the encoding (because the old one didn't work for many) and added automatic cache deletion before starting the game.

#tsm #the sims medieval #sims medieval #mods #other #guide

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bradleysass · 6 months ago

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Tower - @black-brothers-microfic - Word Count: 590 - Black Brothers

The creaky, gilded silence of Grimmauld Place was broken only by the faint rustling of Sirius Black’s restless movements. Under his pillow, his fingers brushed the jagged edges of a small treasure—a cache of colorful, mismatched Legos he had painstakingly collected. Each piece was a defiance, a shard of rebellion against the suffocating weight of pureblood expectations.

He had found the first one on a summer afternoon, a tiny red brick lying forgotten on the pavement outside their house. A neighborhood child, likely Muggle, had dropped it on their way down the sidewalk. Sirius had pocketed it impulsively, the unfamiliar, plastic texture thrilling in its alienness. Over the weeks, more Legos appeared—a blue one, a yellow one, even a translucent piece with a little scratch across its face. Enough to begin building something.

It had been a game at first, a secret between him and the shadows of his room. But secrets were hard to keep in Grimmauld Place.

"What are you doing?" Regulus's voice had been sharp the first time he caught Sirius crouched over his growing tower. His younger brother’s eyes, so much like their mother’s, narrowed in suspicion.

Sirius’s heart had leapt into his throat, but he had played it cool, shrugging as if it were nothing. "Building something."

Regulus had tilted his head, curious despite himself. "What is it?"

"It’s...a castle," Sirius had said, hastily reshaping the haphazard stack into something vaguely turret-like. "Or a tower. Doesn’t matter. It’s better than sitting around waiting for Mum to shout about something."

Regulus had hesitated, then sat cross-legged beside him. "You’re not supposed to have those."

"Neither are you," Sirius retorted, a grin tugging at his lips. "But you’re here now, aren’t you?"

From that moment, it was no longer just Sirius’s secret. Regulus’s sharp eye for symmetry and Sirius’s reckless creativity turned the pile of mismatched blocks into something remarkable. They built when the house was quiet, when their parents were occupied or out. The tower grew taller, more intricate, until it nearly reached Sirius’s windowsill.

"Kreacher won’t tell," Regulus whispered one evening as they worked. "I gave him that silver button from Mum’s sewing kit. He’s loyal to us too, you know."

Sirius snorted. "I’ve been bribing him with biscuits. But sure, a button works."

Regulus’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. It was rare to see him like this, relaxed and almost carefree. Sirius treasured these moments, knowing they would be fleeting.

One night, as they added the finishing touches to a precarious spire, Sirius asked, "Do you think it’ll ever fall?"

Regulus considered the question, his fingers pausing mid-air with a blue brick. "Maybe. But we can always build it again."

It was a simple answer, but it stayed with Sirius long after the lights were out and the house fell silent again. The tower became more than just a project; it was a symbol of their shared rebellion, their bond in a household that sought to crush individuality.

When their mother eventually discovered the tower—as Sirius always knew she would—her fury was volcanic. She swept her wand through the room, scattering the blocks across the floor like broken glass. Sirius had stood defiant, his jaw set, while Regulus stared at the wreckage with a blank, unreadable expression.

But later that night, as Sirius lay awake, he felt a familiar nudge at his side. Regulus slipped something into his hand—a single yellow brick.

"We’ll start again tomorrow," Regulus whispered, his voice barely audible.

And Sirius knew they would.

#marauders #regulus black #sirius black #black brothers microfic #microfic

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lizbethborden · 11 months ago

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Started listening to American Predator while doing my chores etc. Something I didn't realize or even think of, and I guess it's just unfamiliarity with this style of business, is that Samantha Koenig worked at one of those bikini kiosks.

If you're not familiar with him, the book is about Israel Keyes, a very recent American serial killer who committed suicide in prison in 2012. He has a mythology about being the most meticulous serial killer of all time, because he buried multiple caches of supplies, or "kill kits," all across the country, and traveled hundreds of miles out of his way to retrieve these kits and commit his murders, exploiting jurisdictional boundaries and the isolation and lack of resources in rural and underprivileged areas to make people disappear.

He was caught after he kidnapped and murdered Samantha Koenig, a teenager working a night shift at a coffee kiosk in Anchorage, Alaska. He held her hostage, raped her, killed her, froze her corpse in his shed, later returned and thawed her body, sewed open her eyelids, and staged a "proof of life" photo so that he could collect ransom for her. Later, he dismembered her and submerged the pieces of her body in an Alaskan lake. It's been implied in what I've read and listened to that he committed necrophilia with her corpse and the corpses of other victims.

Samantha Koenig worked at a coffee kiosk. In the American Northwest this seems to be a pretty common business, and to be stereotypically staffed by young, attractive women, especially because in the summer, the female staff wears bikinis to serve coffee. The first 48 hours of the investigation into her disappearance were squandered by investigators assuming she had just run away. Even when surveillance footage was discovered showing Keyes holding her at gunpoint, forcing her to empty the register, tying her up, and kidnapping her, it was considered "unclear" whether this is what was actually happening, because they'd appeared to be having a friendly conversation beforehand. The police did not publicize her disappearance until after her father's activities--standing outside the kiosk for hours, handing out flyers with her face on them--forced them to act.

When I realized she worked at one of those bikini shops, I thought about the video publicized a few months ago of a young woman at a similar shop on the West Coast, who, after a male customer berated and threatened her and threw coffee at her and the kiosk window, took out a hammer and smashed his windshield. She was interviewed afterward through a lens of how she should be regretting or questioning her own actions. Luckily, this woman was totally unrepentant, as she should be.

Something it makes me think about is the extent to which these women and girls are considered disposable. If Samantha Koenig's father had not advocated on her behalf and widely publicized her disappearance, what actions would the police have taken? What did it matter if it initially appeared that she was friendly with her attacker in the video--how does that possibly confuse the issue of her being held at gunpoint and tied up with zip ties? She didn't have her own bank account, not even her own debit card. She didn't have her own car. How was she going to run away?

I don't have a full conclusion here. But this is what's circling in my head right now:

Objectification/dehumanization of these women and girls, especially because of working in a sexualized environment

The role of women and girls, especially in customer-facing service roles, as absorbers of cultural (male) aggression and unhappiness

The indifference of authorities to these "disposable" women (something which Keyes not only exploited here, but to the nth degree when he victimized Native communities, people of color, and prostituted, drug-addicted women--Gary Ridgway was similar)

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unsoundedcomic · 8 months ago

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Whumptober 2024 - 16 - "Necrosis"

It could take up to six weeks before the people he ate were fully digested. So Murkoph wasn't too fussed when he rolled over one night and a bulge rose from his abdomen like a hernia, or a log of shit that had lost its way, or a toddler's mitt reaching for the sky. He pushed the lump experimentally. Firm. Bit squishy. It hurt. But with only a little pressure he was able to collapse it back into himself and soothe his cold grey belly smooth again.

He wasn't fussed. But he should find some light.

His nights were always a game of tag with the light. Days were easy; find a dark lake or sea to sink into, doze on the bottom until the sun fucked off. Once it did, and the sky rolled over to pitch and star pricks, light grew more dangerous in its furtiveness. During the day, light didn't hide. You could always see it. You always knew where it was.

At night, a bloke couldn't predict when light was going to set upon him. He could be dick deep in a warm torso and then whoops! A wright's burning palm! Or a traveller's burning torch! A globe of starfly lymph. A pocket flask full of lambence. And then you best beat feet towards the shadows because you were hungry and you were fast but you weren't no senet and ya couldn't last.

His insides lurched excruciatingly. On an abandoned beach ringed by fronds and trash he fell to his knees in the moonlight. A white crescent hung above him, a boardwalk rose behind him. At hand the breakers talked over each other like a dementia ward, throwing themselves off endless cliffs towards endless splattered demises, and always more. Always a rolling parade of waves making for that showy, gory end.

Murkoph jammed his favourite knife into his navel. The old surgical Y there burned a garish black up over his ribs. He traced it with the blade, grunting at that sore point where the three lines kissed. He worked his knife beneath the incision, methodically, found the old fissure down the centre of his ribcage, twisted. The cartilage popped open. Inky ichor bubbled and ran. The knife fell to the sand. He curled his fingertips into the aperture and opened his chassis up like a salt lizard.

If he leaned back just a hair, his putrefying prizes would not tumble free. It was a beautiufl cache inside. He had no internal organs of his own but plenty of others': two hearts, a whole mess of intestines, kidneys, livers, a bit of spongy something that might be part of a lung but it was all snaggled with pink tubing that made him think of… kedis kits playing in yarn. There was a penis somewhere. A tongue. Half a dozen eyeballs of lots of different colours. He caught them all up in his giant mitt, rolled them, hefted the pleasant weight. One by one he popped each between his lips and felt them plink back into the morass like skeet balls.

Where any of it had come from he had no memory, but that wasn't important. They were his now. He could see and feel the necrotic tar of his innards assimilating the organic material; digesting it, distributing it, maintaining his slinky body with it. A dark and efficient ecosystem breathed its bitter funk inside of him, and every few weeks he added to the compost.

It was warm as it roasted; as it rotted. It warmed him.

And the Confoundments kept at bay.

Combing through the slime, his questing fingers found nothing squirming or living or pushing though. Huh. With the flat of his hand he gave the fetid cauldron a stir, then slammed himself shut with a satisfying squelch-

Boot treads on the boardwalk.

Murkoph melted from the moonlight to the shadow strip beneath just as lantern light intruded rudely upon the pale blue sands. He crouched there, still as the spent fags and empty bottles. A man and a woman passed overhead. He smelled like rum and unwashed ass. She smelled like peach hair treatment and she'd had something mint, recently. Mint and spirits. He panted.

Her skirts were full and fluffy; a barrier to the yellow lantern carried by her companion. A kind moon eclipsing that unwanted light. As she passed directly overhead and bathed him in that brief blackness, Murkoph contemplated zipping through the boards, punching a hand between her legs, dragging her down into the trash with him, bones all breaking and neck all snapping along the way. The Confoundments thought yes, yes, there are some missing pieces in us, and what we have grows so grey and cold and soft.

The lantern stabbed through the slats. Murkoph felt it lash his face in long and glowing strips. Mint and spirits.

Then she and her companion were already moving along. Away.

Why was he here?

A wet snuffling against the back of his knee twirled him in place. He hissed, laughed, grabbed at his leg through his pants. There! Here! The lump! It squealed when he grabbed it and fought his fingers as he guided it down, down, down his pants leg and out the bottom.

A wee mouse.

"All a'burgle in me undercarriage," he whispered, petting its gory head, "Did ya find some requisition worth the expedition?" The little whiskers trembled with beaded blackness. The beads looked like fleas on wire; like flea circus trapeze artists. He'd seen a flea circus in Sharteshane when he was a boy. He had paid a copper sem for the privilege. It had been very cold and they'd needed that copper for lamp oil. His brother had called him a rube.

Murkoph opened his palm. The mouse scurried in a frenzy from out the boardwalk shadows and into the moonglow. An owl's sudden screech explained its prey's desperate hiding place and Murkoph frowned to watch his little passenger taken from the world in a burst of talon and feathers.

"Oh, she scored one!" called the man's voice, laughing.

"Don't be awful," answered the woman. "Maybe it got away."

"So you can find it in the pantry tomorrow and scream for ME to come and bash its little brains out instead?"

Her prim treads and his heavy boots turned, began tracing back the way they'd come. The yellow lantern light swelled again. It streamed through the boards. A black tongue dabbed at the brightening brightness, as though to taste its citrus burn, and a knife fell into each of the shadow walker's sticky hands.

How long would he still be able to smell the mint inside, after he'd swallowed.

#whumptober #unsounded #All my OCs eat people

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celenawrites · 2 years ago

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safe and sound

Pairing - Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x f!Reader

Warnings - Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots-in-love, pining, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of needles, mentions of death, mentions of religious metaphors and the like (is it obvious that I have some religious trauma?), lots of yearning and tender moments(they should probably talk it out, but they won't - what a bummer), kinda whump/whumpee scenario, Gaz is forward with the praise, a lot of subtle yearning, somewhat open-ending.

Summary -

You're bleeding and bruised when he finds you.

Category -

1. One-shot

8. Safe House

Prompts -

5. 'I'll take care of you.'

11. 'Let me see you.'

14. 'Stay still.'

15. 'Take it off.'

Word Count - 2.8k

AO3 Version

Note -

This fic was written for 'Gazfest 2023' being organized by @glitterypirateduck. This event has led me to discovering so many writers and so many great stories for Gaz!

Check it out here: - Gazfest 2023

The mission had gone smoothly, for the most part.

No one had died, no one was compromised and your team had been able to locate the weapon cache the cartel had been hiding in their expansive warehouse - stashed in the very heart of their operations, surrounded by drugs, guns and blood money.

And yet you cannot help but feel like you have failed somehow.

You lean against the wall, sitting on the island of the wash basin as you calmly debate the merits and demerits of forgoing a much-needed bath. You make a little game out of it - writing in your little mental lists about how fucked you’d be if you decide to not clean yourself up.

Pros - you can go to sleep on the uncomfortable cot laid out in the small bedroom, you can go eat some awful MREs, you can talk to your captain and get an update on when you will leave, and did you mention that you can finally hit the hay?

Cons - you stink, your uniform is soaked in blood and sweat, you have injuries that you need to tend to (something that you do not look forward to), and you’re sure that you’d feel so much better if you take a steaming hot shower.

Too bad that the water runs cold here.

It is when you’re wholly absorbed into completing your mental checklist, when you see the door in front of you shake and hear the incessant sound of someone knocking on the wooden barrier as if it has personally offended them.

You call out hesitantly, unsure about your ability to get up from your uncomfortable seat without worsening the injury into the side of your torso.

“The door’s unlocked”.

And that is where you seem to have messed up.

The doorknob twists and the door is pushed open to the side, revealing a very pissed Sgt. Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick standing on the threshold of the room. You stare at him with wide eyes, and he wears an almost enraged expression on his handsome face, despite his best efforts in schooling himself to appear nonchalant to you.

He has shed off his heavy jacket, his undershirt peeking from the few buttons of his military shirt. In one of his hands, he carries a first aid kit. And you take a secret oath in your mind to kick ass of whoever tipped him off about you.

Probably Soap, that fucker-

The sergeant was the last person you wished to see at the moment, within reason.

There has been a weird tension between you and him for the past couple of weeks. Ignored texts, brushed off advances, physical barriers and distances initiated by him that made you wonder if the bond you shared with the man had been nothing but a mirage that helped you tether your sanity as you survived the everyday grimness that haunts a person working in the military. The ache in your heart had soon turned into a silent indignation of sorts, egging you on to match each action of his with a petty counteract of your own. You refused to seek his company, and malevolent compliance had been your best companion when the direct chain of command forced you to listen to anything the sergeant requested; clearly the head on your shoulders worked well enough for you to prioritize the mission and the safety of your comrades over anything else, but it was extremely satisfying to watch your friend (The same friend who had just cut you out of his life in all regards like an invasive weed - forgetting that once its roots take place, the weed is nearly impossible to get rid of; and you’d be damned if you let him get rid of you so easily.) seethe in anger as you obey his commands on your own terms. It all came to a head a week prior to the mission you were supposed to go on with the entire team. You had been minding your business, really - barely sparing Garrick a glance as you went about your way to brew yourself a pot of coffee when you heard him muttering something under his breath. You ask him to repeat himself, and next thing you know is that both of you are screaming your heads off - him for your ‘insubordination’ and you for him being a major bag of dicks. With defeat sagging your shoulders and a deep exhale to calm yourself down, you detach yourself from the scene, leaving the man behind to his own devices in the rec room. It’s a miracle you didn’t raise your fists against him - you’d certainly have ended up with a broken wrist had you not retreated like a poor prey with your tail between your legs. And Gaz would’ve ended up with a broken nose. It was more astonishing that the angry cacophony of yelling had not summoned your captain to the scene of the crime.

You hadn’t spoken to the man since then.

He takes long strides towards the wash basin, and you are mere inches away from your superior - close enough to take note of the pensive look on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and enhancing his crow’s feet under the pathetic yellow glow of the shitty bulb-light illuminating the otherwise grim room.

If this was a lighter moment, you’d have eased the tension by pressing between his eyebrows - massaging away his tension with a simple roll of your thumb against his skin. If you were not mortally wounded and your sergeant wasn’t pissed at you right now, you’d have cracked a joke at your expense to see him laugh, his chuckle warming you up like the flames that licked at your fingertips whenever you got close to the fire to cook at home.

Unfortunately, this is not the moment for you to attempt to make merry.

He slams down puts down the kit on the island, next to your thigh and you flinch at the sudden movement. Your skittering only seems to make your injuries sting worse, and you grab at your abdomen, groaning at the sudden pain that shoots through you. You look down at your clenched hands, and notice how the blood paints them red. Your eyes widen a little at the scene, your fingers shaking with tremors as you try to appear unfazed at the crimson staining your skin and your clothes.

You are always surprised at the mortality you possess whenever you get a close brush with death, not knowing when it will be your last.

Gaz opens the metallic box open, meticulously pulling out various instruments to put at his disposal - gauze, bandages, rubbing alcohol, sterilized needles, and sutures. He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your pained expression and your crimson fingertips twitching mid-air.

With a ticked jaw, he demands, “Take it off”.

“W-What?” you mumble out the question, slightly confused at his sudden order.

With a sigh, he repeats himself for you, “I said, take it off”.

The blood loss, while not fatal, seems to be impairing you cognitively.

Dumbly, you ask again, “Why?”

He rubs at his forehead in frustration, and you’re almost inclined to apologize for worrying him. You wish to run your nails through his curls, quietly pinching at his nape as you rest your forehead against his and beg him to forgive you for being such an idiotic mess.

Instead, you lean against the tiled walls like a delirious fool, losing blood fast.

Patiently, he explains to you, taking into account your slowing brain, “You need to get those wounds checked, don’t you now?”

You nod at him with pursed lips, not at all happy at your current predicament. You can try and refuse, and he’d only end up butting heads with you again. Or you can swallow up your pride, and let him fix you up - awkward as that might seem.

“Let me see you, then”, he asks you, and the shake in his otherwise firm voice makes you comply.

Silently, you unfasten the buttons of your military-issued uniform shirt with shaky fingers.

One by one.

Your fingers give up on the task just shy of the last two buttons of the garment, the tremors making it almost impossible for you to even steady your aching arm.

“Shit, shit, shit”, you curse to yourself, your fingertips constantly missing the plastic buttons on the shirt despite your best efforts. Irked at your inability to master such a simple task, you cannot help the tears of irritation that well up in your eyes, blurring your vision and giving you a much harder time with something you could’ve been done with in seconds.

Calloused hands touch yours, and you can feel your skin set ablaze at the fragility of the touch as you look into the eyes of your dear friend and coworker. Glassy eyes look into his dark ones, conveying every little thing you wish to tell him - anguish, yearning, guilt, remorse, and love.

Every little thing that you fail to put into words and speech because your mouth is suddenly very dry, as if you have swallowed cotton and your tongue is weighed down by a block of lead.

He always made you feel so nervous.

He calls out your name (it sounds so sweet, so pristine when he says it - he exhales out each syllable of your moniker in reverence, as if you were a prayer to be uttered with utmost vigilance and devotion) and you snap out of your thoughts - your ears heating up partly due to embarrassment and partly due to the sudden proximity you share with the man standing before you.

“I’ll handle this, ‘k?” his fingers toy with your button, and you do not protest as he unbuttons the last few of them near the hem of your shirt, leaving the center of your torso exposed. The cotton fabric sticks to your skin, thanks to the oozing wound on your waist that you had been nursing in the bathroom for the past half hour or so.

You feel bashful, and yet you do not have the energy to express it - your eyes feeling heavier with every blink and the deft fingers of your sergeant feel warm against your cold, pallid skin. You fight yourself to stay awake, not eager about sleeping with untreated injuries and the dizziness that plagues you due to blood loss.

You feel him tap at your arms, and you raise them just high enough so that he can lower down the sleeves of your shirt and undress you, leaving you in nothing but in a pair of khaki pants and your plain black bra. This is the closest you have come to being nude around the man, and if you weren't in enough pain to want to shoot yourself in the foot for your stupidity, you’d have tried to cover yourself up with your hands at least.

Sadly, all modesty flew out of the window the moment you decided to get hurt on the field.

Sometimes, modesty seems to leave your brain whenever you’re around him too.

Kyle observes you with narrowed eyes, assessing the damage you had accumulated because of him. A lapse in judgment on his part had resulted in him not keeping a close eye around him and almost taking a bullet to his head - had you not tackled the henchmen to the ground; the scuffle had ended when you had slit his throat with your favorite knife, but not before taking some injuries of your own.

When he had asked you about it, you had shrugged it off at the moment, assuring him that whatever you are inflicted with is something you can handle just fine.

Clearly that was a lie, if your bloodied body is anything to go by it.

Your face bears a few nicks and cuts that have already ceased bleeding - nothing too bad. Your body from neck down, however, seems to be a macabre masterpiece. Purple and yellow bruises litter across your shoulders and love handles. There are a few cuts that are closed up with dried blood; some of them are long enough to warrant some surgical assistance for recovery. And then he takes into notice your bloodied waist - the gash still oozing with fresh blood.

You probably got it from the henchmen who almost blew his head off.

He cannot believe he had let you get hurt on his watch. And he chides himself even more for believing your lies so easily.

He is still so angry. At you. At himself.

He tears out a piece of gauze from the packet he had laid out beside you, before slowly soaking it in a generous amount of rubbing alcohol. Your shoulders tense at the implication, and Gaz notices. (Of course, he does. He always noticed everything when it came to you.)

“This one’s gonna sting” is all he says before he’s pressing the gauze against an open wound and you prevent the scream that works up your throat by biting your tongue, grinding your molars against the muscle and tasting iron in your mouth.

Your body twitches like a wild livewire as Gaz tries his best to treat your wounds, barely giving you a warning before you can feel the alcohol burn into your skin. You do not scream, but your sensitivity to pain leads you to shed a few tears of agony as you wait it all out with baited breath.

“.....So fucking stupid”, you hear the sergeant grumble to himself in your haze as he cleans your wounds and every time the gauze touches your skin, you cannot help but inch away from his hands, unable to handle the painful aftermath.

“Cannot believe…”

“You really had to-”

He cuts himself off before he could finish his sentences, or maybe your brain is on a gradual process of shutting down - making it harder with each passing moment to pay attention to what he has to say to you. Through your muddled thoughts, all you can decipher is that he sounds angry.

He’s angry.

You shift just a little, hoping to brace for the pain by moving away from it - your pain-addled brain making you believe that prolonging the contact with the rubbing alcohol would help you recuperate from the pain much better. It only made the wound in your side bleed more, the droplets of crimson flowing down your abdomen like an endless rivulet.

Kyle notices that, and he quickly grabs you by your shoulders to stop you from moving too much. You squirm under his touch; his palms are far too hot for your freezing skin, and you’d have probably jumped at the impact, had it not been for the indestructible hold he has of you.

“Stay still”, he commands you, and you stop any and all movement immediately. You’re not sure you wish to fire the fuel that has been ignited in him when he saw your injured body on the island slab of the basin.

“That’s it, sweetheart”, he assures you, his hands playing with the tips of your hair to soothe you, and you can feel shivers run down your spine. It’s soothing, to still be able to feel and react to his touch as if it’s the first time.

“It hurts”, you sob out to him, your hands itching to grab at the wound near your waist - desperate to put any pressure on it, to stop the red liquid from leaving you lifeless. You’re scared and it shows.

You won’t die, not yet anyway. And that is the only comforting thought you can muster to hold onto.

You won’t die, even if your insides scream from the agony it feels from all of its open wounds and the ache your relaxed muscles throb with incessantly.

You feel like you’re dying, but God has favored you today yet again.

You wonder if the reason is divine intervention or a divine curse haunting you.

“I know, sweet thing. I do. You did so good out there, having my back, yeah?” he asks and you nod eagerly in response, hoping to make amends with Gaz just in case.

Just in case you breathe your last right here right now. In case you have run out of favor with the unknown deity who has protected you all this time without you knowing.

“I got this, okay? I got you”, he leaves a soft kiss on your forehead, murmuring the affirming words against your skin. You feel yourself lighten up just a little at the gesture, knowing that this was not only to console you, but his own peace offering to you for earlier. For every little transgression he had committed against you.

For the fight. For everything.

“I promise everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you.”, he assures you, and for a moment you have faith that you’d live through the pain if he’s the one tending to it.

Note -

I saw Prompts 5, 14 and 15 on the list and I couldn't resist writing a 'tending to your beloved in the bathroom while they're sitting and you're standing in front of them' scenario. Also a long lost fan art of the bathroom scene between Kaz Brekker and Inej Ghafa is a huge inspiration for this fic. (I have the books but I haven't gotten around to reading them. I have seen clips of the show, and I regret not having Netflix. Also, the yearning between the two is immaculate and the fanart is like stuck in my head, so if anyone can find it and send it to me, I'd appreciate it a lot.)

This is my first time participating for an event (at least for this fandom and blog). I seldom do these challenges because I tend to procrastinate for too long and forget to write before the due date.

When I finally finished the initial edit of this fic this morning, I almost entertained the idea of extending this fic, maybe by writing a second part of this story and incorporating a few more prompts in the Gazfest. But I have way too many WIPs to pay attention to, an original manuscript I need to start working on (and another one I need to edit), and I need to prepare for my final year of college too - so this is all I can offer, I am afraid. Maybe I will write a continuation of this, maybe I will write things from Gaz's perspective, but I won't be able to finish it in time, I am afraid. But I hope you enjoyed reading it, just like I enjoyed writing it. :)

Also, nevermind the title. I suck at naming things and I suck with names - can never get it right anyway. (also the Taylor Swift song being used as a title was purely coincidental - I swear on it)

#call of duty #cod #cod:mw2 #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick angst #gaz angst #call of duty x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty angst #gaz fluff #gaz fanfic #gazfest #char.gaz #celena.writes

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kitty-gray · 1 year ago

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“Your father was a con man and you wanted to be like him. Your duffel bag is probably full of things you stole from the Institute.”

“It . . . ,” Kit began, and trailed off as Ty reached over, yanked the zipper on the bag down, and eyed the cache of stolen daggers, boxes, scabbards, candlesticks, and anything else Kit had scavenged revealed in the moonlight. “. . . might be,” Kit concluded.

NO ONE IS DOING IT LIKE THEM

#kitty tda #kit herondale x ty blackthorn #kit herondale #ty blackthorn #lord of shadows #tda rereading #cassandraclare

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thetreehousechronicles · 29 days ago

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THE DIVIDE DISPATCH

"News You Can Survive On."

Issue #014 | Circulated via Deadwood Radio | Sectors 3–9A

State of the Wasteland

The Veloura strain continues to spread beyond containment zones. Once passive, infected flora now exhibits movement. Reports of “whispering trees” and fusion-zombies in overgrowth zones have prompted reroutes of major caravans. Travelers are advised to avoid Green Vein Ravine and outer sectors of Deadwood Divide.

Animal mutations have become increasingly volatile. A three-headed horse was spotted near Ruin’s Edge—locals claim it's Hellhound’s mount. It did not attack. It just watched. Gently. Spookily. With all six eyes.

“Don’t pet the wildlife. Unless the wildlife is named Kuki and comes with a field medic license.”

(A/N: For Kuki joke is because she's a wondered. She doesn't have a home other than her clinc and sometimes she stays at Wally's or Hoagie's place but she never at one spot to settle down)

BIO-FLORA CLASSIFICATION UPDATE

The following Veloura-Variants have been cataloged. Engagement is not recommended. If encountered, avoid conflict and reroute immediately. Prolonged exposure may lead to infection, disorientation, or worse.

DRIFTERS

Codename: Moss-Walkers

Behavior: Quiet. Bipedal. Humanoid in shape, but no longer human.

Notes: Often observed at a distance, watching silently. Passive unless followed, cornered, or startled.

CHORUS SKINS

Codename: Echo-Singers

Behavior: Non-verbal. Vocalizes only in death.

Notes: When terminated, they emit harmonic, choral frequencies. These sounds have been linked to vertigo, auditory hallucinations, and suicidality in unstable minds.

Warning: Avoid echo chambers, cliffs, and tunnels. Their song carries.

Warning: Do not follow them back. Survivors who do are rarely seen again.

THORNS

Codename: Blight Hounds

Behavior: Aggressive. Fast. Reacts to heartbeat, vibration, and movement.

Notes: Appears quadrupedal, often mistaken for mutated canines. They are not animals.

Anatomy: No eyes. Barbed limbs. Muscle growth exceeds typical organic limits.

Warning: Stay still. Hold your breath. If it finds you, you won’t outrun it.

SPIRES

Codename: Bloomers

Behavior: Stationary. Plant-like. Often mistaken for large trees or overgrowth.

Notes: Release airborne spores that induce confusion, memory loss, and hallucinations.

Observed Effects: Survivors report lost time, visual illusions of deceased loved ones, and temporary paralysis.

Warning: If the wind shifts sweet, leave immediately. Do not investigate.

If you encounter unclassified variants, contact Dispatch via encrypted shortwave—Channel 8-B, Call Sign: Cold Echo.

Or don’t.

Just don’t get close.

BOOMHATCH SCRAP & REPAIR

Run by The Junkyard King himself + Steve the Ghost-Tech™

LIMITED-TIME OFFER: Bring in two semi-functioning sprockets and get your next patch-kit for HALF RATIONS. WE TRADE, WE FIX, WE DON’T JUDGE.From busted bot-parts to retro-fusion drives, we’ve got it, fixed it, or thrown it at Steve until it worked.

Look for the busted tire tower east of Sector 6. No Ironclad interference tolerated. “If it ain't glowing, we ain’t throwing.”

Ask about the ‘Boom Special’ — it's probably legal.

SIGHTINGS & RUMORS

The Hellhound was spotted in Sector 4C riding his infamous three-headed steed, “Blue Lightnin” No confirmed casualties. Locals report he helped a traveling medic pass through ravine territory without injury. Ironclads are reportedly "not amused." A Broken Tooth cell claims they've intercepted a signal repeating a phrase: “The Vault wasn’t empty.” Interpretation unclear. Could relate to the original KND data cache thought lost post-Collapse.

Reports say Commander Uno is still transmitting encrypted messages east of Deadwood Divide. Why? And to whom?

SCRAPS & SURVIVAL

Survival Tip #92: “Moss-Eaters”

Some wastelanders have begun ingesting diluted Veloura spores. While it may increase vision temporarily in low light, it also causes memory leaks, paranoia, and a 12% chance of spontaneous root growth in the lower extremities. You’ve been warned.

THE GREEN GALE AID TENT

Operated by Kuki “Kale” Sanban – Former Medic, Certified Life Saver

NOW SERVING: Walk-ins, limp-ins, drag-ins welcome. No questions asked. Fusion burns, infection scrapes, emotional damage? We’ve got salves and sass for all that. Traveling across zones? Book a Safe Escort, or visit one of the multiple Mobile Tents with a Golden Butterfly mark on the cloth.

Mobile tent services are available – look for the Gold Butterfly tarp & waving hand.

“She’s got friendship bracelets and field surgery gear. Don't underestimate either.”

More to come in next week's Divide Dispatch:

Rumors of Broken Tooth Rebellion camps spreading into Sector 3.

Night sightings of ‘Ghostwire’ Maurice in Scraplands.

Was the explosion on Iron Clad's Supply Trains caused by the Broken Tooth Rebellion or was it Hellhound?

An exclusive report on the “Uno Doctrine” and its chilling enforcement...

Stay alive, stay aware, and if you can’t outrun it—outsmart it.

#codename knd #knd #codename kids next door au #knd au #au in progress #au info #operation F.A.L.L.E.N #fanmade newsletter

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charseraph · 2 years ago

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Rain poses a risk to any fire person in an open space. Cities subject to rain are responsible for having a contingency plan regardless of the current fire presence. This is due to the proliferation of fire populations post-exodus.

While fire people could feasibly survive off of being allowed into the nearest public or even private buildings for shelter, a more reliable solution is needed to ensure fire people are not extinguished by a sudden downpour and a lack of clearly designated escape routes.

City planners may propose rain shelters with unambiguous, non-language-based signage so that way they may be recognized by individuals who do not know the local tongue.

Rain shelter tunnels allow fire people safe access to transit and public buildings. Inside they sport emergency fuel caches and fire starter kits for the partially extinguished.

#pixar elemental #my art #the Ts’íts’àsh doesn’t mean anything

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toa-archive · 1 year ago

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While Trollhunters is aired on netflix, in some countries children's channels have also picked up a temporary contract to air it. Three such instances were Cartoon Network in Sweden, Norway and Denmark who shared identical websites and had video clips never shown on the English speaking side of things.

One of them did not stop there. Oh no, the Danish Cartoon Network site decided Troldejægerne needed youtuber sponsorship involvement! All three websites are now gone and all traces of Trollhunters on their respective youtube accounts have been delisted likely when the contracts ran out. This means the below is lost media now surviving purely from spamming friends/long suffering victims when they were first found. Due to the original language barrier and the videos being removed it is unknown who this person is. Should his name be found however this post will be updated with it.

First up, a thumbnail! For whatever reason and possibly because search engines have an annoying habit of picking up things they shouldn't, the original still exists in cache form attached to an entirely unrelated video. Hopefully this proves it wasn't all a weird fever dream? Those who saw the video at the time I can feel you cringing at your screens.

The following were taken as the video was being watched as it was about 20 minutes or so long from memory. This abomination of chocolate, of which very little was in liquid form when it was poured in there and there were gummy worms involved too, representing 'mud'. Despite ground up brownies and who knows what else this thing was so thick the straw got stuck and had zero suction. The face is still being used as a discord emote because, well.

Then we had the fusion art because why not I guess?

Afterwards the chocolate abomination clearly was not enough. He melted gummies, mixed in flour and created slime for exact purposes I genuinely do not recall. The cake did not deserve it and this stuff got literally everywhere it was so sticky.

The last thing screenshot was pretty cute though! Grow your own crystal kits have never really gone out of fashion so he made his own DIY version. There was either two or three though only only the cute pink heart was screenshot.

Anyway enjoy this random bit of Trollhunters trivia!

#Trollhunters #Tales of Arcadia #ToA advertisement #This user is not a big chocolate fan but YERGH

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gingerlurk · 1 year ago

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Lovers' Crest | Chapter 12: The Visit

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You have more questions than before. The same goes for Din.

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, Calvinball with canon and Mandalorian lore (making it up), light angst.

A/N: A short chapter here, will post the next one fairly soon. Been an interesting week to be a Din Djarin/Pedro Pascal fan hasn't it? Hope you're hydrating! Thanks for reading, big love.

The leader of the revived Mandalorian people is not so proud as to deny you to work on her speeder. She has a refreshing air of keen intelligence and frank regard. You like her.

Bo-Katan Kryze stands beside you as you fiddle with a mess of pistons and shaft lines. She asks an occasional question, but mostly looks out across the work site. Her people move about with quiet efficiency. They’re on a ranging operation – a huge group surveying a ruined city. Din had said he needed to go out there to see her – pay respects or something. So, after a terrifying meeting with a leader named simply, the Armourer, your group of three had flown the Crest out to join them.

The shade of the hangar is surprisingly cooling in the rocky, hazy clime. You spy Din by himself across the expanse, lifting crate after crate from a transport tray and stacking them neatly against a craft. You make a mental note to bother him later about adequate rehydration.

You’ve decided the person standing next to you is your best option to ask about what’s been gnawing away at you in the time it took to reach Mandalore. She and Din seem to hold each other in a profoundly high esteem, and you can see she deeply cares for him, and Grogu.

And, since Din’s big speech about the ‘sacrifices’ you made and the ‘honour’ and ‘loyalty’ you exhibited in retrieving that beskar cache, she’s ensured you’ve been welcomed and your offers to assist their rebuilding efforts accepted.

Although it was mostly when she’d reached up, removed her helmet and looked you dead in the eyes that did it. When you realised there was so much here you didn’t know. So much about Din Djarin the Bounty Hunter. So much about Mandalorians. What little you’d gleaned from discs and stories. It was nothing at all.

Still, it was just the one question you couldn’t shake at the minute. Just ask it. She’ll give you an honest answer, you think, then you’ll know.

You twist a coil of wire around and around the kit, worrying at it over much as you force the words out.

‘What does sha--’ you pause on the unfamiliar word, push it around your mouth. ‘What does shareekah mean?’

Bo-Katan turns to you sharply, but keeps an even gaze that takes in your pinched features and nervous fiddling with the bit’s end.

‘Cyar’ika?’ she asks, putting more softness on the final syllable than you had managed.

‘Sure, yes. That,’ you strip more rubber from the coil and continue twisting.

You glance sidelong at her, see Bo’s eyes soften. Then you look out into the glare. She follows your gaze to see the lone figure straighten and stretch out.

‘It’s a form of endearment,’ she murmurs. ‘Generally, it means “darling”, “or “sweetheart”.’

The part ready, you slip it into place, plugging the ignition gauge into the new switch you’ve created, trying to remember how to breathe. You can handle this.

But, Bo continues. ‘It’s meaning is contextual though. In certain contexts, it can also be held to mean, “most beloved”.’

Oh. Force the new question past dry lips. ‘What kind of contexts?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she shrugs, arches a brow. ‘Bringing a stranger with no clan to a secretive people’s home world and convincing everybody present it was a really good idea?’

You jam the speeder’s hatch closed a touch too hard. Bo looks back at you. You give yourself a shake and huff, ‘Okay, she’s ready.’

A couple of flicks to the dash and the machine hums to life.

‘You’re going to see a lot more room at the top end now. And the glide will be tighter. I suggest heading out somewhere flat and opening her up.’

Bo-Katan gives you a small smile, a hand on your shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ she says. She replaces her helmet and swings a leg over the saddle, wasting no time zipping out from the sheltered spot. The engine roars overhead a moment later and you hear an honest-to-gods, ‘Wooooo!’ fade out.

That makes you smile. It’s a relief.

Another speeder glides in and you prepare to begin again. The towering rider dismounts and takes up a stoic vigil behind you, leaving you to your thoughts. You glance up and see Din out in the sun, looking back at you.

After witnessing a compelling ritual of armoured Mandalorians filing through a mess tent, some taking to gather around dotted fires to remove their helmets and eat, and others stepping away, fanning out to private spots – including Din, hand first squeezing your shoulder gently – you excuse yourself, begging fatigue, and head the short distance back to the Crest.

The dusk air finally brings a cooling breeze, and you settle on letting that carry your simmering nerves back down to the earth. Seating yourself in the opening of the ship, feet thumping out a nervous pattern on the ramp, you breathe the sharp air and try to calm. You’d been growing aware of the true depth of Din’s feelings for you – even before you’d finally reckoned with each other. The conversation with Bo-Katan confirmed it. And now you’re left to wonder why it has sparked such a sharp panic within you.

There was no question you’d fallen hard for Din Djarin. Who wouldn’t? You thought you’d experienced great, epic loves before – but they all paled compared to this.

A problem was that when those old romances had crashed and burned, you’d never been sure you could piece yourself back together. And now this. What would happen to you if you lost this? You angle to the side and lean hard against the wall of the Crest, willing its cool hard surface to draw you down into yourself. It seems to hum back.

‘Be honest,’ you say aloud. ‘Am I completely fucked?’

Silence. Your breath ghosts against the wall of the ship.

Another problem was the one that had settled hard over you since stepping foot on Mandalore. This was a devout people, with a troubled and difficult history. The customs and culture were rigid, out of a survivalist’s necessity. And, as far as you could tell, their beliefs revolved around mystic superstition and ancient scriptural doctrines. Even the more pragmatic among them, like Bo-Katan herself, had an air of fateful intent around everything they said and did.

It had all given you the distinct feeling that what you and Din had found together did not fit into their way.

Even if it did, what did it mean?

What did the love of a Mandalorian mean, ultimately? Where were you heading? What was Din expecting? You know he takes it all incredibly seriously – it’s his identity. How do you fit into all this?

You don’t know how to ask these questions. So, with an avoidant will, you push them to the side. Ferry them away like so much else. For now, you think dimly.

Out of the darkened evening, you spot a pair of lights heading for you. Din and Grogu emerge into the glow of the Crest a moment later. Grogu hurries forward to hop into your lap and you nuzzle the top of his head, enjoying his content purr and feeling calmness wash over you finally.

Din takes you in, huddled in the door of the ship with his son. ‘Shall we get some rest,’ he asks, approaching you with a hand outstretched. You take it and stand, letting him crowd you around and into the hold.

Later, when you’re asleep against his chest, cool breath tickling his neck, Din once again thinks back to his conversation with the Armourer.

After depositing the beskar and engaging in a stilted exchange of formalities, you and Grogu had been dismissed. You’d shot him a puzzled look as you followed the kid out. A what-the-fuck-is-her-deal kind of look.

Once alone with the Armourer, the two of them had sat down and discussed the best use of the beskar.

‘We have many needs, now that Mandalore is revived,’ she’s saying. Din just nods and agrees with whatever she suggests, flattered to accept an upgraded flamethrower. He’s just waiting for the inevitable. The Armourer’s perception and intuition were always an intimidating thing.

And sure enough, once the ingots of precious metal have been allotted, she goes still and stares hard at him.

He waits. Feeling not entirely ready.

She looks to the door you’d exited through, then returns her gaze to him.

‘You have coupled,’ the Armourer says.

‘Yes.’

‘She is not Mandalorian.’

‘No…’

A long, pregnant wait. She leans in.

‘Have you ever removed your helmet?’

‘No.’

‘Has it ever been removed by others?’

‘Never.’

‘This is the Way.’

She stands and strides to her forge.

That wasn’t so bad, he thinks. But then he’s thrown.

‘Do you know why we follow the Way, Din Djarin?’ she asks. He’s not sure what answer she is seeking. ‘The main reason?’

Once again, he waits.

‘To survive,’ she says. ‘We have been a diaspora, carved apart and hunted. We’ve followed the Way so we may continue. Do you think that holds true now that we are a united people of Mandalore?’

She turns back to him, seems to be genuinely waiting for an answer. He says, in all honesty, ‘I don’t know.’

It hadn’t even occurred to him to question it.

She tilts an appraising helm at him, moves back to sit opposite him again. He’s never witnessed her so restless.

‘Neither do I,’ she says, low and intense. He’s floored. ‘But I contemplate this question, every day, seeking the answers for the good of our people. As I do so, you should contemplate the questions that plague you now. Where do you fit? And where might she?’

The Armourer lets that shockwave wash through him. Then, changes the subject.

‘Your apprentice, Din Grogu, is due for his first Sojourn of the Will with his fellow students. There is one coming in a single moon’s turn. It is an important undertaking for every apprentice.’

Din welcomes the change in the course of this discussion and thinks. He knew he would have to face Grogu taking part in one of these things eventually. Had been dreading it actually. But it had to happen sooner or later.

‘I suppose now is a good time,’ Din ponders. He doesn’t want to be apart from his kid. But the Armourer’s right, it is an important rite of passage.

And, it means alone time with you. Time to figure all this out.

Time to tell you how he truly feels, maybe.

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(I am ambivalent about the movie announcement - swinging hard in positive-negative directions. But I don't think I like the new artwork that came with it at all. Something about the light reflected on Din's helmet is giving me BSG Cylon vibes? And is that an exploding ship he's jet-packing away from? Because if so, how is the poor child breathing...? Anyway, those are my thoughts byyyye.)

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin #star wars #pedro pascal #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you

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