#but I want to put those snippets and noise somewhere

[frostybearpaws]

If I fucked around with the whirlwind of noise and colors in my head and occasionally wrote original stuff and posted it to AO3 would people read it?

[molter-writes]

little grey ridge interlude (as a treat)

originally a bare-bones cut snippet from ch. 8, pls enjoy this little nugget of hurt/comfort for your viewing pleasure—

for more of this, check out grey ridge (ríl liatroma).

and for something saucier—the very messy public divorce au (lies, sex, videotape, 2x03-coded) bodhrán beat .

*******

Rhaenyra cannot physically handle the sound of it.

It reminds her a bit of Alicent in the early years, maybe—that very slight panic she feels at the thought of it, and that look—allergic as ever still to her daughter’s tears; half-rushing in with arms open and that noise in her head like a drumbeat: fix it, fix it, fix it—

And she’s such a hypocrite, to boot. Used to always be the one always preaching self-sufficiency, self-confidence, let her try. Holding Alicent’s hand in folding chairs sat beneath a little primary school stage—watching her staring out at the audience in her little costume with apprehensive eyes almost but not filling with tears—putting a hand on Alicent’s knee going no, don’t get up, she’s got it—and with a pride she could never even express, with a triumph she couldn’t help but feel, how she’d been loud and clear, emotionless though it was, declaring (like a Targaryen, really) her one, her only, perfect line.

(And she’d scurried back to them, after; wings and facepaint and all—smiling small and wide, reaching for Rhaenyra to lift her proud and possessive (my very own girl) into her arms, wresting messy hands in the silk of her jacket going Mummy I said it perfect and smiling that secret smile as Rhaenyra rocked her soft back and forth amid the noise and said you did, you did indeed, my little princess.)

Later, when she’d been asleep under Rhaenyra’s suit jacket in the car—

(Alicent, with that small smile, that fond one. Your little princess?

Rhaenyra at the stoplight, braking slow. That’s absolutely right.)

But gods above, if Alicent couldn’t have travelled literally any other week—

(She’d know, Rhaenyra knows; she’d know what to do.)

“Sweetling?” She knocks again at the bathroom, tries to set that panic aside. “Sweetling, I need you to tell Mummy what’s wrong.”

We never lock doors. It was something Alicent insisted upon, when they were small—we never lock doors, we always knock, your space is your own, your space is safe—gods alive if she doesn’t want to jimmy the lock now.

(The sound of those tears, intolerable as always.)

Jace is at football practice, so no one would see her hammer the handle off its screws, at least—

“Blood.”

“What? Helaena, what?” Rhaenyra presses her ear up against the door, tries the knob again—knocks uselessly. “What blood, love?”

“There’s blood.”

And then fucking absolutely not—pushing off and making for the utility closet and right it’s coming off the hinges—

The lock unclicks.

Helaena’s seated on the toilet, lid closed, when she tears in; tear tracks down her face and blood on her hands, and on the front of her little blue nightgown, and the inside of her knee.

(And Rhaenyra’s rushing rushing rushing—kneeling and wiping her tears and show me, show me—putting her hand on her little knee, okay, my love, just gentle, to move it—)

And then she sees the colour.

Oh.

(Sweet seven above, this week of all weeks you’ve gone.)

“Right.” She leans up, kisses her little brow; lets Helaena knot her fingers in the shoulders of her sweater, brackets her knees with her arms, focuses her. “Helaena.” She murmurs; waits for her eyes. “This is your moonblood. Do you remember what that means?”

Helaena nods. And then wet eyes are somewhere else. “Mummy told about it.”

When did that happen? (Of course she did.)

(Thank the gods for you, my love, and curse them all for this timing—)

Helaena’s hands are blood-stained; she places them away from herself, like she no longer wants them. Rhaenyra takes them in her own. “It’s perfectly alright, my love, yes? Nothing’s wrong.”

Helaena doesn’t reply.

“Mummy has it, too. And me.”

But Helaena’s still off somewhere else. Rhaenyra wipes a fresh round of tears from her cheeks; watches her hands fidget and her fingers splay, terribly disgusted, terribly uncomfortable, sticky—right, of course, sticky—stamps another kiss to her forehead and retrieves the wet cloth by the basin and crouches again—takes her hands, one by one, and rubs.

Wipes the speck off her knee, then; moves them apart, just gentle, to rid that smear inside of her knee, her thigh, and Helaena bites her lip.

“Mummy is home tonight,” she whispers.

(Rhaenyra knows it’s a question—they’d had to get conservative about travel estimates, eventually, especially when she was little, back when she’d been up and down from Scotland—Friday is an expectation, not a rule, remember—her daughter had never particularly appreciated that particular flexibility.)

“Yes, my love.” And she turns the cloth over to the clean side; reaches, deposits it in the linens bin by the sink. “She should be—” She checks her watch. “Well, she’d ought to be coming off the airplane just now, I expect.” Thumbs her little cheek. “Does your tummy hurt?”

Helaena nods.

Rhaenyra raises her brows; thumbs her chin. “Would you like to know a very special secret?”

Helaena seems to consider, for a moment; she watches her lower lip worry again, those eyebrows ever slightly raise. Gods you’re adorable. My little egg. “Yes please.”

“When my tummy’s hurting, this way, I’ve got to have a very nice, very hot lavender bubble bath. And that always makes it feel better.” She adjusts Helaena’s nightgown, then, wrinkled and stained. “And we’ll give your nightie a wash, too, shall we?”

Helaena fixes her fingers along the hem. Her voice is thick. “It’s ruined.”

“No, my love,” she says, even though yes, almost certainly, and gods I’m not sure I remember how to run the wash, actually. “Nothing’s ruined.” She smooths her hair; leaves her eventually, only ten minutes later, with her novel, and her tea on the tray table, and silver hair half-wet against a little bath pillow, and her tears dry. “It’s going to be right as rain.”

***

Some nights when her wife comes home she’d like nothing more than to push her onto the counter with their vibrator in hand—

(Unfortunately for that, they’ve had babies, and those babies have become something of a priority, in fact.)

Rhaenyra watches, almost simply, as Alicent murmurs hello, my heart, presses a kiss to her lips and sets a paper bag of a boatload of something from the pharmacy onto the countertop and heads immediately, calmly and surely, toward the bath.

“Helaena?” It’s only a couple knocks before she goes, slowly—Rhaenyra watches in the open door, only silently, as Helaena rockets her arms out of the water and mumbles Mummy and reaches—clings as Alicent presses a kiss to her forehead and smooths back wet strands, and Rhaenyra can hear it, soft.

You’re having a nice bath time, are you? Yeah? Does your tummy feel better? Another kiss to her brow. You gave your mummy quite a scare, there, didn’t you, love.

“Let me see these, then.” Alicent’s lifting her hand up, gentle; examining little fingers. “You’re going to be our little prune, soon, I think.” Squeezes them gently. “Is your towel rail on?”

Helaena nods. “Mummy turned it on.”

“She did, did she?” Stamps a kiss to her head. “Right. Go on and finish your bath, love, and come and sit with me, please? In Mummy’s room? And you’ll let your mummy speak with you for a minute?” Helaena nods, then; loosens her fingers from Alicent’s sweater, just slow. “Good girl.”

And then when she stands and passes—with her sleeves wet with bathwater, and her eyes tired—shuts the door and nudges Rhaenyra’s hip, just a little, to follow her into the hall.

Looks up under long lashes, half-smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take this one.”

Rhaenyra dimples her chin; exhales through the mouth. “Not my area of expertise, really.”

Her wife’s smile grows wider. “Haven’t had your moonblood, have you?” Raises a brow. “Is that why I’ve got the pleasure of the episiotomy, then?”

“Right, yeah—no, I just.” She drums her fingers along her waist; sighs. “I got mine at—well it was late. Like, late. Fifteen.”

“I well remember. Alicent, call me, it’s everywhere—”

“Thanks.”

“Please please it’s obscene—”

“Right, thank you—"

“You know my father got to that voicemail first.”

Rhaenyra shuts her eyes, inhales through the nose. “I’d like a divorce.”

“I told you I didn’t have a phone.”

“I am not hearing this evil.”

“Right.” And Alicent leans up; presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I’ll start, then.” Takes her hands, just easy; rubs a little into her palms. “And maybe you could give us a few minutes? And then come join us?” Softer, then, with her eyes on their fingers. “You make her feel safe, you know.”

(Rhaenyra only nods.)

It’s when she pushes the door open, slow—to the lamplight, and the soft king bed, how it casts yellow on the silk.

Helaena’s tucked into her side, when she finds them; and Alicent, sitting with her legs folded. The paper bag’s on the ground.

(And before them, perhaps every single menstrual product invented by mankind—)

“And this one,” Alicent murmurs, gentle, hands something to her—Helaena takes it, ginger and gentle—“You use more than once. But you’ve got to clean it each time, and it’s got a special soap.”

Rhaenyra watches, for a moment, how methodically and easily and gently she moves through each one—and it’s got a sticky side, and you press it down, just like this—the way she tears plastic silent, the way she painstakingly never crinkles the paper—and this pushes just outward, just push right there—and this is just a little disc, love; it’s quite the same as the other—

And then it hits her, sort of from nowhere, sort of at once.

(You had to do this alone, didn’t you?)

She smooths Helaena’s hair, damp at the ends; adjusts her pyjama sleeve where it’s catching. “Does that all make sense, my love?”

And kisses her crown, again, gentle, before her eyes flicker upward—and that warmth, in sherry brown, same as always.

And that smile. “Ah, look who’s here.”

Helaena looks up—

And reaches, when Rhaenyra rests on the edge of the bed; captures two of her fingers, like she did when she was young.

Rhaenyra smiles, soft, as the owl hoos outside. “My little princess. You’ve been very brave today.” And looks up again; that brown, that auburn glow. “Got that from your mother, I think.”

***

When Helaena’s gone to sleep—when Rhaenyra’s hair’s wet and it’s the midnight hour, and the sky’s deep blue, and the moon amber—

Alicent’s bare in her arms; bare and smooth and silent—tracing circles on her chest.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, slow. “That you made it different.”

Alicent nods, again; almost as silent as the breeze.

“I’m never travelling again.”

(And Rhaenyra laughs, then, despite herself; there, together in the dark.)

[mokkadere]

❝ Be Your Fix ❞ | Chapter One

A/N: I have too many ideas and too little time to write all of them. Sigh. Well, here you go - a small snippet of what could be yet another pretty long story. I'll probably break it down in snippets and one-shots displaying different scenarios + time jumps to experiment a little with this as well. Anyways, there are too few yandere doctor/psychologist/psychotherapist stories out there, so this is yet another contribution. :')

synopsis: yandere!psychologist (OC) keeps returning home to his lawyer!darling (OC) trying to cope with her mental struggles with alcohol instead of seeking his professional help. When will you learn?

this story includes the following themes: alcohol abuse + dependence, mental health struggles (intrusive thoughts, burnout, breakdowns, anxiety), manipulation, infantilization, obsessive behaviour / fixation, briefly mentioned self-harm

word count: 2.4k

Yandere!Psychologist Theo Reed who returned every evening from the ward to find his darling shivering against the warmest corner of the living room and clutching a bottle of wine.

You looked like such a mess with your unfocused gaze and helpless trembling, but at least he could call this mess his own. He'd never let you down and especially not now that you needed him this desperately.

With long strides, he walked up to you before sitting down on the floor and carefully scooping you into his arms. Even though the situation wasn’t exactly optimal, he loved keeping you close to him like this; he loved having you need him to make you whole again.

„Darling… You really have to stop doing this to yourself,“ he murmured into your ear as he slowly began to rock you back and forth, the steady rhythm stirring your mind awake. His hands - freezing from the December cold - soon found their way to yours, gently wrapping around them before taking away your liquid escape and putting it somewhere out of reach. You didn’t need cheap substitutes anymore, now that he was there to help.

He wanted to ground you. It’s been a long day, after all, and both of you deserved it. His softness slowly guided you back into reality, leaving this numb, hazy state that made you feel like you were hovering outside your body behind. „Come to me,“ he’d coo as he tucked you even closer into him, letting you listen to his heartbeat. You barely registered it but you felt his presence and that was enough for your body to find some respite from this self-induced numbness that now made your head spin. 

„H-Hey…“ you slurred as you nuzzled against his neck. Your voice had a certain rasp to it that usually wasn’t there. It seemed like this breakdown had done a number on you, leaving your throat sore. He made a mental note to make you some tea with honey. He’ll be your caretaker tonight.

„Hey, you,“ he mumbled into your ear before giving it a small peck, getting a small noise of satisfaction out of you. He lived for these noises. For them and for the way you squirmed in his arms when he did things to you. But he clearly couldn’t go there, not when you were so out of it, that is. Still, he couldn’t help but smile at your neediness, rewarding it with the kind of pets that always made your entire body tingle.

„I missed y-you…“ you whispered, your tone way too whiny to come out of your mouth on any other sober occasion but you couldn’t help it right now. If you weren’t so intoxicated, you would’ve died from embarrassment from how pathetic you sounded, but right now you were just too exhausted to care. You’ve been waiting for him for hours now, and you were quite literally desperate for him to do his magic and rearrange those broken parts that kept chipping time and time again off that usually so perfectly curated façade of yours.

„I can tell, baby. And I missed you too. Work is always so lonely because you’re not there. My mind constantly kept wandering to you, wondering if you were okay, if you were doing alright on your own… I wish you could’ve been there with me.“

He feels you nod against him, your nose tickling his neck. „H-How w-was work?“ you asked, barely able to string your question together. Every word was a struggle, but you liked struggling for him. Hearing his deep, calming voice in turn made it worth it to you.

„It was very busy, but also quite productive. Some of my patients are making great progress, actually, so I’m really proud of them. I’m sure you’d be proud of them too considering the fact that you were the one that negotiated in their favour in court.“

„Amalia? Reynolds?“

He nodded with a small smile. „But… what I’m way more interested in knowing is how your day went.“ At that he pulled away, letting his fingers tilt your chin up for him to look into your hazy eyes. His thumb rested on you lower lip for your hot breath to warm it. „Mind telling me what happened? Why are you sad again? I thought we agreed that you’d wait for me instead of drinking…“

You stammered countless slurred apologies as your eyes watered, telling him what you always did: that you were sorry, that you didn’t mean to go back on the promise, that you didn’t mean to disappoint him, that you’ll do better in the future, that you were sorry—

„I know you are, darling.“ His calm demeanour painted a stark contrast to the way words seemed to anxiously bubble out of you. „Let’s get you to bed where you can feel a bit more comfortable. That’s enough sitting on the cold, hard floor. You’ll get sick at this rate.“

You clung to him needily, your grip tight despite (or perhaps because of) how much the world was spinning.

Once he set you down on the plush blankets of your shared bed, he carefully cocooned you in them, wanting to make sure you were absolutely tended for while in this compromising state. He knew he’d done a good job when you hid a little further under the sheets, your eyes going half-lidded in comfortable satisfaction. 

You let a sleepy hum when you felt him hug your lower body, his head resting on your stomach - one of his favorite positions. It felt so nice to run your fingers through his silky brown locks while his hot breath caressed your sensitive skin. This soothing intimacy he managed to create between the two of you never failed to make you feel safe and cared for. It truly was the only thing that managed to quieten your constantly buzzing mind - it swirling with perpetual, unwanted thoughts.

„Talk to me, darling…“ he pressed once more. „What happened? Was it work?“

„No… ’s fine. I’m alright again… You’re here.“ While those words never failed to make Theo’s chest swell with this desperate need to protect you and to make sure you keep saying those words for years to come, he knew he should try digging deeper. You always did this, you always shot down any attempt at actually talking it out with him. Couldn’t you see how much that hurt him - to have all the necessary tools to help you in terms of knowledge of human psychology, but you refusing to let him in?

„Please… Just talk to me. I want to help you. I want you to be there for you.“ Theo kept quiet, hoping that perhaps the fact that you hated silence would make you open up more just to fill it. 

„I’m sorry…“ you whispered once more, making Theo sigh before he pulled himself up to spoon you, making a wave of warm tingles spread throughout your numb body. 

„I just wish you’d share with me. It breaks my heart to keep finding you trembling from nerves every evening, clutching those bottles. It’s… unlike the strong and confident woman I married.“ He hesitated saying that last sentence, knowing that you hated being compared to your old selves, the very thought of you having changed for the worse and having lost a perfectly good version of yourself along the way causing you anxiety.

For a long while you didn’t say anything and he figured you might’ve dozed off at this point. It certainly wasn’t the first time you did that. Wine made you sleepy quickly like that, and while he found it adorable, he found it equal parts frustrating. He was about to leave bed to make you some tea for when you inevitably woke up an hour later, but then you finally spoke up hesitantly: „I don’t know how to explain it without sounding absolutely unhinged…“

„Come on, try me,“ Theo countered, feeling hopeful.

„It’s like my brain is constantly screaming at me to do or not to do something - constantly buzzing, nagging, always making me so anxious that my entire body starts t-to shake,“ you whispered, those long unsaid words finally being splayed in the open. Faint anxiety began to creep into your voice once more. It felt numb, but it still lingered, threatening to spill over once the wine’s soothing effect has been washed away from your system completely. „I feel messed up. Fifty percent of the time I’m so frustrated because there’s so much work for me to do, so many cases to look over and so many letters to write, and my mind keeps yelling at me to keep going and going and going— to just do one more thing, despite having said that ten things ago, despite feeling like I’m running on fumes.“ 

You drew a shaky breath, feeling defeated by your own words. It hurt to admit things like that. You knew what you had just said, it didn’t require a psychology degree to recognize symptoms of burnout for what they were.

„My darling girl… come here.“ Theo murmured into your ear as he pressed you closer to his body, and you would’ve pulled away like a child and glared at him for patronizing you like that but you didn’t have the energy to put up a fight this time. You just let him hold you tightly, finding a comfortable sense of calm in the way he petted your head affectionally. 

It was clear to him that you needed his help — not just as your husband but as your doctor, too. He didn’t mind taking hours off to care for you, far from it. He welcomed it, with excitement even. He’s always wanted to have you as his little patient, for what was more beautiful than healing his own most treasured person the way you had healed him?

He felt a tiny bit bad that a part of him longed for this broken version of you, when he knew just how unhappy you were with your vulnerability. He loved you, he cared for you and he didn’t want you to suffer a second of your life. In fact, if he were to decide, you’d forever life in bliss, just you and him forever and ever with no distractions… ah, how perfect that would be. Perhaps bliss could be him taking care of you, if only you would let him.

But you were so damn stubborn with the way you kept to yourself like this, bottling your feelings up until they exploded in your face in the form of yet another destructive breakdown, and making him question time and time again if he should maybe just hurry and lock you at the hospital to take care of you better. You absolutely needed his professional attention, that much he knew. In fact, you’ve been needing it for a long time now.

He’s known you for 6 years now and even in the beginning he was able to tell that you had some underlying issues tied to your work ethics specifically. 

What had begun as quiet admiration for your ambition and will to work hard and succeed didn’t take long to morph into worry whenever he saw you study until exhaustion, pulling one allnighter after the other. Sometimes he couldn’t tell whether blood or coffee was primarily coursing though your veins, with the way you chugged one Americano after the other to sustain your absurd lifestyle. Either way, you were too jittery by default for him to come to a solid conclusion. 

Still, in the back of his mind he always kept thinking that it wasn’t normal how much you obsessed over your work and how badly you stressed yourself out over achievements and academics. Pacing for countless hours in your room, surely trying to figure what’s wrong with you if your google history was anything to go by; crying yourself to sleep whenever you had tears to spare; hurting yourself when you didn’t have any because of the sheer numbness and resignation that were accumulating within you - all these symptoms were worrisome, to put it mildly. But all that disappeared once you got your fix, just for everything to start anew in the next semester. And now you perpetuated this cycle by applying those distructive habits to your work and even escalating them in the form of alcohol abuse.

He never addressed the fact that he was indeed aware of your hyper-fixation on success and your clear need to do everything in your power to achieve it, mainly because it didn’t make sense to do so in his mind. Countless strained discussions between the two of you have shown that you were the type of person that needed to experience a burn first hand for the lesson to stick (and that wasn’t even guaranteed), so he figured that he just had to wait and support you until you inevitably wore yourself out. He just never would’ve thought that it would take six years for that to happen. 

Needless to say, he was truly amazed by your year-long resistence to the way you were torturing your own mind, but now it was time to rest. He’s always known that you were the strongest person he’s ever had the honour of knowing, yet your strength was paradoxically also creating a blind spot in your psyche that let a special kind of fragility to fester.

One that he’s always been meant to mend to perfectly match his own.

„Don’t worry, my Ana, I’ll help you feel like before. Just rest for now… You trust me, don’t you?“

[kiwiana-writes]

Fic Pride Friday

Thank you to the fabulous @rmd-writes for the tag! As always, though, with 239 fanworks on AO3, this is a beast of a task lmfao.

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

This got long (and I'm like... actively trying not to Feel Bad™️ about that), so four fandoms' worth of snippets under the cut!

Tagging: @agame-writes @affectionatelyrs @anincompletelist @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise

@dumbpeachjuice @firenati0n @getmehighonmagic @happiness-of-the-pursuit @hgejfmw-hgejhsf

@indestructibleheart @inexplicablymine @sparklepocalypse @stereopticons @whimsymanaged

And, of course, an open tag to whoever wants to play!

Red White & Royal Blue

What a beautiful tone aka introspective rimming:

Henry has touched Alex in a thousand different ways since he shook the hand of a beautiful boy with a yellow ipê-amarelo in his pocket and fell in love, so he doesn’t quite understand why he’s trembling as he rolls them both until Alex is on his back, hair spread out on the pillow, lips parted slightly and eyes filled with trust as Henry settles on top of him. With his arms bracketing Alex’s shoulders, Henry places a hand on Alex’s jaw and pours all the love and pride that’s been coursing through his veins since Alex delivered his speech into a deep kiss, his tongue running along Alex’s bottom lip, coaxing it further open. The noise Alex makes in response is devastating. He’s a live wire, arching up into Henry’s touch in a way that is somehow both entirely nonsexual and an unbelievable turn on. Alex moves like he’s trying to crawl inside Henry’s skin, letting out soft moans and shivering gasps that burrow their way between Henry’s fourth and fifth ribs and carve out a place for themselves there, somewhere only Alex has ever reached.

All the Lonely Starbucks Lovers, the coffee shop 5+1 where Alex is so hot it very literally makes Henry stupid:

“How can I do you today?” Bollocksing, buggering fuck. Henry’s going to have to migrate to Tristan Da Cunha. Actually, while that’s the most remote place he knows of, he’s also fairly certain they’re a British Overseas Territory and therefore speak English, which isn’t particularly helpful in his current predicament. He’ll brainstorm, though he expects that the long and sordid history of global British colonisation is really not going to be his friend here. Walking Wet Dream blinks slowly—once, twice—before his face splits into a wide grin. “Tempting fucking offer, sweetheart.” A tongue peeks out to wet a pair of plump lips, which only provides Henry with some extremely vivid ideas for what else might look good between those same lips, and oh Christ, if he actually gets hard underneath this hideous apron he’ll have to lock himself in his own basement. The fact that he doesn’t have a basement is immaterial, really.

A Practical Arrangement, the arranged marriage AU -- tbh I'm proud of ALL of Alex's internal narration about Henry in chapter one but this is a particular favourite:

“I thought Windsor valued courtly manners?” Alex grins widely, tampering down a smirk at the way Henry’s ridiculously chiselled jaw twitches, obviously displeased at the way Alex is going off-script. “As your betrothed, surely you should be showering me with compliments as you greet me?” Henry raises an eyebrow, and looks at Alex in a way that makes him suddenly, viscerally aware of the four inches of height Henry has on him. It’s a height difference that has always put Alex on edge; it never used to be the case, Alex is pretty sure from the vague memories he has of them in their younger years, but between one meeting and the next, suddenly Henry was no longer at his eye level. “As soon as I find something to compliment, I assure you I shall do so.” Alex almost laughs; that was funny. Rude and untrue, but funny. It’s a shocking amount of personality for Henry to display. “Back in Texas, they extol my many virtues, Your Royal Highness,” he drawls, pointedly ignoring June’s scoff. “Do you need me to give you a list?” “I’m sure they do,” Henry says gravely, but there’s a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth that could almost be a smirk. There’s a long pause before he adds: “…in Texas.” Alex’s jaw drops before he can stop it. That absolute fucker.

Kinda think that I might be his type, the Alex and Bea fake dating fic that blew up in a way I wasn't expecting but am forever grateful for; I'm proud of this whole damn fic but this line made me get up and walk away from my computer after writing it lmao:

“Don’t worry, though.” He winks at Bea, tampering down a grin at the way she bites her lip as she realises whatever he’s about to say is at serious risk of making her laugh. “We’re not going to wait until I’m out of school to start popping out great-grandbabies for you. I wanna be papi for real, not just to my little honeypot here, if you know what I mean.” The sharp clatter of Mary’s teacup against her saucer thankfully drowns out the choked wheezing sound from Bea’s throat; Alex only risks glancing at Bea for a moment, just enough to realise she’s fighting for her life not to burst out laughing. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up before he sounds like he’s reading lines from a terribly scripted and vaguely racist porno.

Puck It, the college hockey AU with my favourite analogy I've ever written:

Alex is aware that he might be bisexual in the same way he’s aware that he might be allergic to cats; there have been a few brief interactions to make him think it’s probably true, but so far it hasn’t had any impact on his life, so he hasn’t really had a reason to look into it and find out for sure. Now, faced with Henry’s clavicle and the sudden, vivid mental image of sinking his teeth into it, he’s not sure how theoretical it is anymore.

Handprints in wet cement, the 5+1 celebration of Henry's Oxford Slut Phase that is just so important to me:

“It’s not.” Alex’s fingers flex a little, digging into Henry’s skin. “It’s— you had all these experiences, and sometimes I can’t believe you want to share them all with me. That you’ll just tell me about them, and if it’s something we’re both into, we can just… go for it. It means a lot. You know that, right?” Henry blinks at him. If he’s honest, he’s never really understood Alex’s eagerness to hear about Henry’s uni hookups; Henry himself, while not bothered by Alex’s own past, has never felt any particular need to seek out stories about it either. He’d just assumed it was another facet of Alex’s insatiable need to understand things; he hadn’t realised it was important.

I've carried this song in my mind, the Arthur-from-beyond-the-grave fic, have one of the many MANY passages that made me cry to write lmfao:

You don’t need to find Orion, Arthur wants to tell him. I’m in every constellation, in your heart, in your soul. I’m here. I’m always here. But Henry can’t hear him.

Schitt's Creek

Wander Where They Will, aka the swans fic:

It felt like only a moment later that something woke him, though the pitch-black room made it obvious it had been several hours since he dozed off. It had been so long since he was in such close proximity to other people that David didn’t realise what he was hearing, at first. The gasp that rang out in the silence made his eyes snap open and his body tense up, and there was a thump and a high-pitched, muffled moan before the realisation slammed into him. He shifted in the bed, trying to block out the sounds out of a sense of… privacy, he supposed, or decorum. That must be why his stomach was clenching, so tight he could barely breathe. Patrick, it seemed, approached lovemaking the way David has seen him approach everything else—quiet, determined, methodical. All the noises coming from their corner of the cottage seemed to be Rachel’s; only a rhythmic panting betrayed Patrick’s part in the process. Even at the end, he barely made a sound. David couldn’t help thinking, as silence filled the cottage and pulled him backwards into sleep, that it was a terrible shame; that everyone deserved the kind of pleasure that rushed through them, untamed and uncontrollable.

Femslash February 2021, where I decided one entry needed to not only be a drabble (100 words exactly) like every other day's prompt, but ALSO a sonnet:

A princess resides in a castle fair Who Stevie beholds when sneaking ashore— With aquamarine eyes and golden hair, She’s all that Stevie is so longing for. If she had legs, or the princess a tail, Perhaps Stevie could be part of her world— But fate's harsh currents their union assails, Separating them with an eddy's whirl. So Stevie lingers, and watches, and dreams About a union between sea and land, Wishing it weren't as complex as it seems For them to lie together on the sand. But unbeknownst, a princess dreams, too— Of a raven-haired mermaid, pure and true.

And all the rest's illusion, the fic where Patrick works through his feelings about the word queer and every single comment made me cry:

And that’s really the crux of the issue, because it’s not that he’s uncomfortable in his sexuality. If he was, that would be easier to explain — right from the start, David never put a label onto him. Patrick was the one who’d whispered I’m gay into the sliver of space between them that night at Stevie’s, and David had just given him the same easy smile and nod that Patrick’s sure he would have received if instead his declaration had been I’m bi or I’m pan or I don’t know right now. His discomfort is more of a nagging, deep-seated fear that he’s not entitled to queer; that because he’s never been called a slur or worried about whether or not it was safe to kiss his partner in public or even come out to his parents, the word isn’t his to reclaim.

I haven't met the new me yet, the fic where I just dragged everyone onto the Jake/Rachel train with me by force, no I don't care that they never met in canon:

Despite herself, her eyes keep finding her way back to one of the pool players. He’s tall and well-built, with a close-cropped beard; he carries himself easily, joking with his friend, the flannel shirt stretching across his back as he lines up his next shot. When he stands up after sinking the ball easily, he turns around too quickly for Rachel to pretend she was looking elsewhere and their eyes meet. The smile he gives her isn’t quite cocky, though it’s close; it’s just confident, and confidence has always done something for her. She smiles back before picking up her beer, draining the last of it and trying not to grin around the neck of the bottle when his eyes drop to her throat as she does. She’d forgotten how good it can feel, to flirt with a stranger across a… okay, this isn’t exactly a crowded room, but still. Across a room. She doesn’t make any secret of watching as the guy and his friend finish up the game, the one she’s watching sinking the black easily with several of the stripes still on the table, and he hands his cue to his friend before striding over to the bar and leaning over to get the bartender’s attention.

Meet me out at the end of my rope, aka angstapalooza. The outline @ships-to-sail gave me for the end of chapter three just read "David leaves after possibly the most tender but heart wrenching kiss they’ve ever had, that’s ever been written, ever, in the history of written kissing" and then I had to... write that???

Patrick puts the box down gently before he holds his hand out. When David places the key in his palm Patrick wraps his fingers around David’s, their palms pressed together. Despite everything, it still feels like coming home; before he quite realises what he’s doing he presses Patrick back into the doorframe, his free hand wrapping around Patrick’s neck as he pours all the emotion swirling around inside him into one final kiss. Patrick, for his part, tugs David in close, his fingers winding through David’s hair as he shakes under David’s touch. When David finally pulls away he can see Patrick’s cheeks are wet with tears, and he knows his are too. He doesn’t know if they’re his own or Patrick’s or both. Patrick stares at him, his tone helpless. “You’re the love of my life, David Rose.” David closes his eyes as his resolve almost breaks. When he opens them again, Patrick’s face is blurry and indistinct in front of him as he tries not to let more tears fall. “No one is ever going to love me the way you did.” The words are choked out, but when Patrick opens his mouth to reply David shakes his head to stop him. “But no one ever lied to me like you did, either.”

How much love will you happily take -- I apparently awakened a humiliation kink in multiple people with this one and I will never not be proud of that 🤣

“No, that’s not— it’s not for lack of trying.” David being so kind about this is making it ten times harder to spit the words out and he drops his gaze, picking at Stevie’s faded bedspread so he doesn’t have to see the look in David’s eyes. He can feel the all-too-familiar crackle of humiliation crawling up his spine, knows his embarrassment is clear on his face, and it makes his throat tighten and his stomach clench and his cock twitch and he hates it, loves it, wants to poke at it like a bruise until it consumes him. “It’s been, um, a size issue?” There’s a beat, and then David is placing a gentle finger under his chin and turning Patrick to face him. His face is warm and open and Patrick likes him so much it’s kind of terrifying; he desperately needs this night not to end up another disaster.  “That,” David says, voice soft, “is only an issue if we make it an issue. And I don’t plan on making it an issue.”

Wearing glass slippers, I got my Chucks, the Stevie/Alexis tattoo/flower shop AU my beloved:

“Did people send you flowers when your aunt passed away?” Alexis asks pointedly.  “Yeah.” She doesn’t say, It was a huge pain in the ass, actually, because I had to throw them all out when they died, but from the look Alexis is giving her at least some of that must show on her face.  “Congratulations and commiserations,” she says slowly. “That’s when everyone wants to give flowers: births, deaths, weddings, anniversaries. It’s like, human nature or whatever. There’s something…” she takes a deep breath. “It’s a sign of trust, I think. To be a tiny part of someone’s biggest moments like that. Even if just from the sidelines.” Stevie has tattooed children’s names and wedding bands, handprints and pawprints and important dates. She’s never thought about it quite like that before. “I get that,” she murmurs. 

Great Acoustics, aka the cast did a Zoom thing in-character during Covid and had a throwaway line to justify David and Patrick not being in the same room and I just entered a fugue state and wrote porn about it in like an hour:

They make it ten days before their first noise complaint, which is frankly about nine days longer than David expected. They’ve been worse than usual, to be fair, with something as simple as a lockable door apparently now an aphrodisiac to both of them. Patrick goes about twelve shades of red when the official notice is pushed under their door, and then the pillow makes a reappearance.  It’s all very fucking hot, actually, seeing buttoned-up, in-control Patrick reduced to a whimpering, begging, uncontrollable mess. Eventually, David manages to convince him that if something must go in his mouth during sex, there are several better options. No, not that. Well, obviously, sometimes that.

A focused moment made, kinkverse part one that I very much intended to be a oneshot lmfao RIP

For a few moments, the only sound is their combined harsh breathing as they recover. Almost before David realises what’s happening he’s being pulled gently to his feet, and then Patrick is framing David’s face in his hands and kissing him soundly. And David’s been kissed a lot during a scene, and a few times before one, but never once has someone kissed him in a sex club after they’ve already come. He lets out a startled but not unhappy yelp and Patrick takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue into David’s now-open mouth, chasing the taste of himself, making them both groan. Finally Patrick releases him with one last, almost chaste, kiss. He drops one hand but leaves the other on David’s cheek, gazing carefully at him, his face soft and open. “I’ve never done that before, with a guy,” Patrick confesses after a moment of silence.  David raises an eyebrow, quirks a lip. “The flogging or the blowjob?” “Uh,” Patrick scratches the back of his head as he flushes slightly. “Both? But also, um.” His eyes flicker down to David’s lips and back up, and David gives a soft little Oh of understanding.  “Baby dom and baby gay, huh?”

Your heart is keeping time with me, the 50 First Dates AU that I think has the best ending I've ever written? So, uh, spoilers-ish, I guess:

This isn’t a romantic comedy. There will be no miraculous, medically impossible recovery. Every morning for the rest of his life, David will wake up and have to be told that he has a husband he doesn’t recognise; a husband who loves him. But after he’s been told, Patrick will set out to prove it to him, with laughter and music and patient understanding. And because love is so much more than conscious memory, David will go to sleep each night in Patrick’s arms, safe and secure and content. Even though it’s not a film or a fairytale, they will still live happily ever after.

Other

We always walked a very thin line, aka the fic I furiously spite-wrote in three hours after watching Happiest Season lmfao:

When they were little, they were convinced if they practised enough they could develop some sort of psychic link; talk to each other over long distances without tying up the phone lines their dads always used for important business calls. They gave up eventually, but Riley finds herself desperately wishing for the talent now. Come on, Harper. Be braver for her than you were for me. “She’s lying!” The words burst hysterically out of Harper’s mouth, and Riley’s heart sinks.

We knew we were the fortunate ones, because obviously I watched episode 3 of The Last Of Us and immediately started writing, what do you take me for?

He knows that the last four years have been kinder to him than to almost anyone else; he also knows that he doesn’t look like those men in the magazines, the ones he used to drive thirty miles out of his way to buy, shoulders hunched and not making eye contact with the store clerk in case he found himself subjected to judgement — or worse, conversation.

[brightlotusmoon]

Snippet from "Shattered Light"

When his little brother woke up screaming behind clenched teeth, Raphael was ready. He paused the TV and with one hand he stroked Mikey's forehead while cupping his cheek with the other.

“It's okay, Mikey,” he murmured. “It's okay, it's just a dream. Come on, wake up.” He gently tapped Mikey's face.

Mikey gasped and his upper body spasmed. His eyes shot open and the glassy look faded. “Raphie?”

“Yeah, it's me.” Raph let himself smile. “You're safe. You're home.”

Mikey’s eyes immediately softened, shining. “Home. Yeah. Mm. Where’d Leo go?”

“Don's lab. Ya fell asleep to his Big Brother Reiki again.”

“Oh,” and Mikey began to sit up, “Sorry.”

“Nah, no need to apologize. Yer healing.” Raph carefully helped him, mindful of the long thick scars crossing the skin between Mikey's plastron and carapace.

Mikey shuffled, lightly grunting in pain, until he was settled next to his brother, shoulder to shoulder. “Are you watching Supernatural?”

Raph shrugged. “Thought ya might like it when ya woke up.”

Mikey blinked at him. “Did you watch a bunch of episodes just in case I woke up during them?”

“Yup.”

Mikey smiled shakily. “Thanks, bro.”

Raph smiled back, putting an arm around him. “Yup.”

“Let's watch more episodes,” Mikey said.

“Sure,” Raph's smile grew. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Oh, those words come with a warning,” came Donnie's teasing voice. He sat on Mikey's other side while Leo sat next to Raph.

Mikey looked at Donnie fondly. “Yeah they do.” He held out his fist. Donnie bumped it with a delighted look in his eyes.

Raph watched Mikey watch several more episodes, blue eyes wide and slightly distant. On the screen, a massive explosion filled the screen and Mikey's entire body flinched. Raph felt himself wince in sympathy. Donnie wrapped an arm around Mikey, rubbing his shoulder.

“It was on fire because of me,” Mikey whispered.

Leo barely moved, then was crouching in front of him, taking both his hands. “If it hurts too much, you don't have to remember.”

Raph held his breath.

“I can, though.” Mikey leaned into Leo. “I want to. I'm glad it happened.”

Raph exhaled quietly. He began to massage Mikey’s thigh, the right one with one of the biggest scars. He remembered when that was still an open wound, spilling between Leo's fingers as Donnie drove staples into it, and Mikey barely reacted, the way he had barely flinched when Raph put his dislocated ankle back in place on the same leg.

The trembling had started up as soon as the wounds were secure. And Raph had lifted him bridal style, and Mikey in his delirium had flung his right arm, the less damaged arm, around Raph's shoulders and pushed his head against Raph's collarbone, and it meant he was still there.

Raph honestly couldn't remember what happened next, but he knew he'd been stopped by Casey, somewhere outside the burning warehouse. And Casey had lifted Mikey from him and used his taller longer body to settle into the back of the van, resting Mikey on a stretcher.

Mikey had made a deep wounded animal noise that had made Raph’s entire body tense up. There had been April's voice, soothing, promising, loving. Donnie had been crouched above Mike, cleaning reopened wounds. Leo had appeared at his shoulder, and Mikey had leaned into his touch, breathing beginning to slow down.

Now, it felt familiar, as Mikey's breathing softened.

“It got better when you guys showed up,” Mikey said, and Raph continued the massage.

“I sensed it,” Leo said. “Our minds were still connected. You were in so much pain. But you smiled.”

“I was happy to see you. The doctor would have kept going.”

“He's dead,” Leo said.

The corner of Mikey's mouth lifted. “Maybe.”

“There was something so familiar about him,” Donnie said.

Mikey tensed up, staring at the TV screen. “He couldn't hide it.“

Raph eyed him, a chill already rippling through him.

“Hide what?” Leo asked.

Mikey sighed. “He was a Bishop clone.”

“Well, fuck,” Raph exhaled.

“Oh,” Donnie said in a tiny voice.

Leo worked his jaw, eyes narrowed. “He might not be dead.”

“Yeah,” Mikey whispered.

[tulip-simp-artist]

Look-Alike (Cove x Riley)

A snippet into Cove and Riley's married and parenthood life together! Their little baby, Luca, is 6 month old here (Cove and Riley are roughly 25 years old).

Riley uses they/them pronouns and is AFAB (they carried and gave birth to Luca).

Warning(s): References to past pregnancy and well children lol

Word Count: 1124

   Riley laughed with the baby situated between their legs. Their baby boy, named Luca, giggled at the game of peek a boo going on. He was utterly amused by his parent's game. He even tried to mimic Riley by putting his chubby hands on his face; more under his eyes than actually covering those ocean blue eyes. Riley smiled brightly at his attempt.

   "Oh Luca, guess who's gonna be home soon?" Riley poked their baby's nose, causing him to laugh more. Obviously Luca couldn't respond, beyond baby noises, he was only 6 months old. "Your dad!" Riley eventually answered. He may be 6 months old but Luca knew what "dad" meant and who Dad was. The little excited kicks he did said as much.

   Riley sighed a bit, Cove had to get groceries. Usually the two did the shopping together when possible, Luca made such a task impossible. Well, sort of. Luca hated his carrier/car seat— not to be mixed up with being carried, he loved that. And therefore he dislikes his stroller too. If that wasn't enough reason to not take him shopping, Luca touched, grabbed, and ate anything in reach of his small hands. If he couldn't do any of that, he'd kick it to the ground… RIP that one milk carton.

   So Cove and Riley agreed to just send one or the other with a list to the store. Lord knows, Riley wouldn't get anything they need without a list and Cove wasn't far behind on that same judgment. Whoever didn't go stayed home with Luca.

   Riley had to admit they missed being able to do grocery runs together. On the other hand paying for undrinkable floor milk wasn't high on their list of things/wants to do. Luca, annoyed that Riley wasn’t looking at him, kicked his feet harder against them. "Jeez, you're out of my womb and you still kick my bladder." They grabbed his chubby legs to prevent more kicks.

   Before they could decide on another game to play, there was a knock on the door… well more of a thump. "Oh no, your dad is definitely carrying all of the bags… in one go." Riley mumbled while picking up Luca. With the baby on their hip, they rushed over to the front door to let in their husband; mindful of the coffee table they had stubbed their toes on one too many times. Of course, once the door was unlocked and opened, Riley saw Cove standing there with many reusable shopping bags in his hands.

   He gave a goofy smile as he thanked them and walked the bags to the kitchen. "I could have helped you with those," Riley said with a small frown. Cove took a moment to set the bags down.

   "I know, but I figured I could get it all here in one trip and then you'd help me put it all away. Then you wouldn't have to leave Luca either," Cove responded with a small smile. "It was no trouble carrying it all; well except the door." He gestured at the now closed door before silently offering to take a wiggly Luca.

   Riley passed over the baby who was so eager to be held by his dad. "Well, thank you." They kissed Cove’s cheek before they started the process of putting the groceries away. Their husband mostly passed them things while making small talk. Riley was admittedly better at putting the food away in the most logical places. Cove was more likely to put it somewhere… in probably the right place (example the milk and eggs would be somewhere in the fridge). Luca tried to "help" too, but Cove didn't let him actually hold anything— or kick anything.

   After a few minutes, the food and other stuff was all put away and Riley gave Cove a proper kiss on the lips. And then kissed Luca's cheeks for good measure (they never thought they'd agree so much with Kyra's statement on young boys needing to be kissed by their parents). "How did the little guy treat you while I was gone?" Cove asked with a chuckle, Luca was trying to wiggle away from more kisses.

   "He decided to revisit the days of kicking my bladder." Riley jokingly pouted, getting another laugh from Cove. "Oh and like always, he is hungry ALL the time."

   "Haha yeah, that sounds right," Cove said while holding Luca in the air like the baby could fly.

   "Okay but he already looks just like you! Why does he have to be just like you too? Did those 9 and a HALF months in my womb mean nothing to him?" Riley feigned sadness as they watched the two play.

   "Besides kicking your bladder?" Cove teasingly asked with a grin on his face. The gasp he got from his spouse being exactly what he was after.

   "I'm about to take Liz up on that offer to turn Luca against you," they lied. To which Cove held Luca's face close to his own and gave a small pout. The baby immediately tried to mimic his dad's pout.

   "How could you say such a thing?" Cove’s question was followed by a loud "Ah-" from Luca. Both parents couldn't hold in their laughter at their son's comment. "Um…" Cove hummed in thought as he held Luca in front of him.

   "What is it?" Riley asked seriously after all the teasing from before.

   "I don't know, do we really look that much alike? I always thought he looked more like your mom than me." Cove brought back the joking.

   "He looks just like you when you were a baby! Besides the freckles!" Riley responded. "Besides his freckles, he is all you Cove. He even has your eyebrows!" How Luca got Cove’s wavy eyebrows, they didn't know. Genetics were weird like that. In all honesty, Riley didn't mind how much their son took after Cove. It was endearing to have two people they loved look so similar. However that didn't mean the two did tease the other about it a lot.

   "And he is very cute with my eyebrows." Cove decided, half complimenting himself with that one.

   "Yes, very cute. My two boys are cute, wavy eyebrows and all." Riley walked around the counter top and hugged Cove and Luca. Life was good like this and the smiles on everyone's faces said as much.

Bonus: The hug though tender and loving was interrupted by a loud meow. The group looked over at the kitchen to see Poppy, Riley’s cat, sitting on the counter. A look at the clock would tell them that it was her food time, but for now they all laughed at the interrupted moment. Well Luca tried to reach out for the cat.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

If you’re still requesting them, could to share what Hanko Spring is about?? Love your works, thank you!

As long as the game is pinned to my blog, I’m absolutely requesting these! It’s helping me focus on my WIPs so much, and talking to you folks about them really inspires me, too ❤️

Hanko in Spring is a little fic based on my headcanon that Joe has a hard time with emotional boundaries— he’s very empathetic, and it can make him really burnt out/depressed. Hanko in Spring is one of those rare times where it still gets the better of him, and Nicky sweeps him away to someplace quiet, where he can take care of him.

Here’s a snippet from the beginning of the story 🥹

“Oh Hayati,” he sighed, letting Joe’s wet lashes press against his neck, the tip of his nose burrowing into the crook of his shoulder. “My Love, everyone gets tired. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“He needs help, Nicky,” his ribs shook like something was going to break loose from his chest, his arms crushing the two of them together, “we can’t go yet— he needs us.”

Nicky was shaking his head into the puff of Joe’s hair even before the words were out of his mouth. “And you need to be away from him. What use are we to Booker like this? Hm?” Joe sobbed, and Nicky kissed his temple, ignoring the way his heart squeezed in his chest at the idea of leaving Sébastien. They should never have come here. Equally though, he knew Yusuf wouldn’t be able to take anymore of this.

They needed a place that was completely different from Marseille, maybe away from the Mediterranean all together. A place where they could purge the poison weighing down Joe’s bones, and come back better.

“We can’t help him right now.”

Nicky knew that he had been the worst of them over all these years, exhausting himself trying to give from an empty cup, but this was different. It was different when it was Joe. The logic was all too clear when it was for Joe, and he wouldn’t hear anything else about it.

“Pick a house.”

He got a hiccuping shake of his head.

“Pick a house, Joe.” Nicky tried to put an edge of authority that he didn’t feel into his words, stroking the line of his back and feeling him close. “We’ll call Andy, she can come up with a job to get Booker out of Marseille— she can keep him occupied, yeah? Just pick a house, please.”

Nicky knew he’d been heard when there was a shuddering sigh against his collarbone. Joe sagged into him, his sniffles and cries being the only thing Nicky heard now— damn the rest of the loud city night, there was nothing else Nicky could give a modicum of his focus to. Not with Joe in his arms.

“You want to go to Valletta? Or Provence? Provence is close.”

Joe’s nose nuzzled his neck as he shook his head, grunting an unhappy little noise. “Far away— not too far, just no, no jetlag. You pick?”

Nicky hummed, letting himself drift back and forth on the spot, rocking them ever so gently with his thoughts. A bead of sweat joined the others in matting the hair at the base of his head, and Nicky could feel the warm damp along Joe’s back.

“You want to cool down a little, Hayati?”

“I want to be somewhere that feels different from here.”

Well, Nicky knew just the place.

Thanks for playing! ❤️

[winter-spark]

Another pov/voice practice snippet. For now called Bonus 5: Navel

Others: Bonus 1: Tangerine, Bonus 6: Orange(not yet posted)

Setting: In the palace study, Navel is overexerting himself for information, and Orange is a bit concerned.

Characters: Navel, Orange, mentioned Citron, even less mentioned Tangerine

This one is lowkey very spoilery for that unposted fic that doesn't actually focus on them. Also, it might be unfinished. I The writer did add to it in attempt to finish it but idk.

~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~

Navel was seated at the study table. Zeroing in on one conversation took a lot out of him, but he had to know…

"What are you listening to?" Orange. Navel should've heard him enter.

"He's… not in town… that's probably obvious by now but…" Navel was trying not to miss much. "Father's gonna have someone check the grass plains… Guy–"

Orange's hands covered Navel's ears. "Stop."

"But–"

"You're straining yourself."

Navel relented. He was exhausted…

"I had the kitchen staff prepare you a snack. I made sure it was not poisoned."

"No one is going to try and poison us, especially not me." Not when he was barely a contender. Navel laid his head down on the table spotting the tray with the snack and tea. He could hear everything but it was all over lapping becoming loud, pretty much unintelligible noise. It hurt.

"You never know…" Ah he was still thinking about the mixup with Citronia's food. Orange had seemed to think it was a strange accident but never voiced as much to anyone who would do an investigation. He just always made a point to try food first, sometimes going as far to switch their plates once he's certain his own food tasted fine. Navel had even seen Orange snatch food from Tangerine's plate when opportunity permitted. But he seemed overall like he thought it would be weird to ask or make his poison taste testing obvious.

"Yea."

"Eat your snack."

"Heal my headache." Navel whined as he closed his eyes.

"You're such a child." The door closed, that helped a bit.

"Am not." If being a child meant he wasn't seen as a serious option as prince he didn't want that label. He renounced it.

"Sit up."

"Mm." Navel sat up.

"Not much but…" Orange put a cloth on Navel's head to cover his ears and placed earmuffs on top. It did help muffle and remove some sounds.

"It is enough."

"If we had a soundproofed room…"

"We should really soundproof your room."

Navel frowned. "Where do you think he is?"

"I am unsure. But probably off being stubborn somewhere." Orange seemed extra bothered… "Now, eat and then take a nap."

"Okay." Navel pouted. He took a sip of his tea then started eating. 

Wait, when did Citronia say that? Oh yea, the other morning when he had all those books…

"Orange."

"Yes?"

"I think he went to see fairies in the mountains."

"Huh?"

"The other morning… He had all these books. One was the history of fairies, one was on mountain ranges…" Though that didn't explain the rest of the books… Maybe they were traveling and camping? Did they have books on that?

"To see fairies?"

"Yes, do you think I should alert Father?" Navel started to get up. Mountains or not, it'd probably be useful. Orange grabbed onto him but he didn't say anything immediately. Navel looked at him. "Do you… not think I should say anything?"

… "I do not."

"But… Father is looking for him."

"Father is always looking for him."

"Yes but going so far away from the palace by himself… He's never gone so far out before. What if—"

"He chose this."

Navel was quiet. He didn't quite understand. This wasn't like when they spotted or heard him sneaking in or out of the palace and didn't say anything. This was different. So shouldn't they say something? 

"They are going to check all the boxes anyway, I see no point in you getting yourself involved." But Orange was well aware of the worst case scenarios, wasn't it something they should be concerned about? Was… Orange showing support for Citronia's decision or… was he waiting to see how this played out?

Navel pulled away. "Okay."

"And it would be most wise to not inform Tangerine of this either." That's right, Navel heard them agreeing to see the fairies together. What was Citronia thinking?

Running off into potential danger to see something he knows the rest of them… he knows Tangerine wanted to see too, alone. It's not important to see them in person, they could see them on tv.

If Navel stopped to think about it, there was probably good in this situation. Whenever the stars have it told of Citronia's return, Father will have to see how unfit he is to be next in line. What kind of Crown Prince goes mia without warning for such a selfish desire? Yes this would definitely give Orange a leg up. Everyone will see that Orange is much more responsible than Citronia.

…Navel was too but that was less important. Well it was… hm… the most important thing was that when Citronia returned he will have tarnished his own standing with their father at least.

If he returned.

If….. Navel shook his head. Of course he would. Stories and legends be darned, Citronia was born under a lucky star. So his worst case scenario was definitely being removed from the throne and even then that might not actually happen.

He looked at Orange who seemed elsewhere mentally. Navel hated when he didn’t fully get what Orange was thinking, but he would trust him. If Orange wanted to explain more he would. Whenever that would be, only the stars knew… Just like whenever Citronia returned.

[egopocalypse]

Could I get some c!discduo pls

Vote me in this poll for a ficlet, sweet message, or WIP snippet!

TW: Mentions of character death, vomiting

There was a time in exile where he thought about giving up the discs. He thought that if he handed them over to Dream—if he gave them up like he gave up all his armor every day—then he would be welcomed back to L’Manberg, then he could go home, then Tubbo could forgive him, and they could be happy again like were before Wilbur—before Wilbur died.

Now he knows it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Dream would’ve just killed Tubbo sooner.

He croaks out a single word, the sound dying right as it escapes his throat. “Why?”

“I told you it wasn’t your time to die yet, Tommy.” Memories flit through his mind: lava bubbling and spitting flares far below; a tight clamp on his shoulder pulling him back under control; the stern, displeased voice that holds enough ice to chill his blood and bones. “I’m not letting our game end so easily.”

“It’s never been a game. Not to me. Not when it’s cost me and my friends, my brothers, our lives.”

“Your lives,” Dream muses. Dread curls in Tommy’s gut. “Are you sure it cost you those?”

“Of course it fucking did,” he says. “You killed me twice! You took—” 

He stops, a breath catching in his throat. He can’t say it. You took Tubbo.

Saying it would make it real. Saying it would do nothing to fix it. Saying it would hurt.

He’s so tired of being hurt. He’s tired of people being hurt for him.

“I took them.” Dream takes slow, steady steps around the cell, moving away from the wall of lava. “But what if I could give them back?”

A strangled noise rises in Tommy’s throat. “What?”

He steps back, putting more and more distance between him and Dream. 

Dream nods. “Did you ever wonder why I fought for Manberg? Did you ever think about what I got from JSchlatt?”

He extends his arms out, makes it a show for an unwilling audience of one.

“I have the key to resurrection, Tommy,” he says. “I can bring back anyone, even if they’ve lost all their lives. I can bring back Wilbur—”

“Tubbo,” Tommy croaks. “You can bring back Tubbo.”

Of course he’s the first to come to mind. How could he live another day without Tubbo? What is he except a vessel for his friends—a conduit for them to direct and command? What can he do with nothing else to live for?

“I can.” Dream tilts his head to the side. “But there are some conditions for that.”

“What are they?” 

“You can’t leave,” he says. “If you make this choice, you’ll have to listen to me, no matter what I say—”

“I’ll take it.”

Because at the end of the day, the conditions don’t matter. Dream could make—and has made—his life a living hell, and he would do it if it meant Tubbo was alive. He would do anything. 

Tubbo died because of Dream’s sick fucking obsession with him; he won’t let him rot because he wants to live.

Dream tilts his head to the side, and a cold sweat washes over Tommy’s skin. He knows the fucker is staring at him, probably smiling at him the way he used to in exile, but it doesn’t matter. Dream found everything he could use against him and twisted it, throwing him into a living nightmare. Even if he had chosen the discs over Tubbo, Tubbo would’ve died. Even though he chose Tubbo over the discs, Tubbo still died. 

There’s nothing Tommy can do. As long as Tubbo’s dead—as long as Dream has the means to bring him back—he’s trapped. He’s walking into the snare of his own will, even when he knows the rope will snap around his neck and crush his throat. He doesn’t have a choice.

“Then we have a deal,” Dream says. 

He slides something off from around his neck, then tosses it into the cell. 

“I’ll be back to visit you soon,” Dream says. “In the meantime, keep an eye on that for me. You’ll know when I kept my promise.”

Somewhere in the prison, Sam does something to summon Dream back. (He must’ve—Dream can’t teleport. He can’t.) Tommy stares at where he stood for a long time, fighting the nausea swirling in his gut, before he finally peels his eyes away and finds the thing Dream threw at his feet.

As soon as he sees the scratched, yet intact glass and the faded blue ink, he hurls into the basin, gagging on what little is left in his stomach. He hangs over the bowl, waiting until his shaking settles down, then peels away and clutches the compass to his chest, brushing his thumb over the etching he memorized (and lost) months ago.

Your Tubbo.

[fallowsthorn]

Fakepatine Imposter AU

This is a series of ficlets from the Clone Haven server, after some discussion of what would happen if an Among-Us-style imposter replaced Palpatine without doing any research re: his extracurriculars. A thousand million thanks to the friend who wrote a script to convert Discord's special snowflake markdown formatting into HTML tags, which I had been banging my head against for ages and which was the main hurdle to uploading all these little extemporaneous snippets. (They did not want to be credited.)

Also for some reason tumblr no longer supports horizontal line breaks! Why would you do that! I need that! So I guess we're just doing the "extra empty lines means a new scene" thing.

somewhere along the way dooku tries to have fakepatine assassinated. fakepatine is entirely too fascinated by this and wants to help. fox says they're there to protect him, since fakepatine has so far distributed 100% less torture than realpatine. some shiny points out that technically, he outranks them and can do whatever he wants

"okay," says fakepatine, gets up from behind cover, avoids both the clones grabbing for it and the assassins firing at it, mimic-judders its way down the hallway faster than should be possible, and vanishes around the corner the assassins are hiding behind

there's a series of wet grinding and scraping noises and screams, and then fakepatine strolls back out looking none the worse for wear. "that was fun!" fakepatine says. "what's next?"

Fox rounds the corner and puts his hands on his hips, surveying the scattered pile of weaponry interspersed with occasionally recognizable small body parts. "Huh," he says. "Looks like it was a false alarm."

"Score," says someone whose name Fox definitely doesn't know and therefore will not have to discipline.

"Um," says Rift, their newest shiny, in the tones of someone who knows he's missing something but doesn't know how to ask what that is.

Fox takes pity on him. "See, if this were an Incident," he says casually, leaning down to free a rather nice dagger from the half-a-hand still holding it, "we'd be required to log all this as evidence and submit it to CoruSec to be put in a warehouse while we hunted down the perpetrators. But it's not." He flips the dagger over, eyes it, and nods to himself. "So if somebody just happened to leave a lot of really nice gear lying around, it'd be our job to take it to the Lost and Found." The same Lost and Found where items are legally up for grabs if no one claims them in a month.

"Oh, do you want these, too?" a new voice says brightly, and Fox turns to see whoever (or whatever) is pretending to be the Supreme Chancellor offering him two holdout blasters, both thankfully pointed at the ground. There's a short silence, during which everyone looks between Fakepatine, the pile of weapons and gore, and the significant distance (and multiple clone troopers) between the two. Fakepatine's smile acquires the fixed quality that means he doesn't understand why the Humans aren't Humaning correctly. Fox can relate.

"Where did he get those from?" someone whispers. Too loudly, because Fakepatine opens his mouth and takes a breath.

"PLEASE DON'T ANSWER THAT, SIR," Fox says in his best Command voice, and if there's an edge of hysteria to it, well, he dares anyone else to do better.

This isn't right. Something is going on with the Chancellor, and unlike Obi-Wan, who apparently just wants to star in a spy holothriller, Anakin is worried about both his friend and the leader of the Republic. He opens his mouth to ask straight out about it, because this dancing around it is getting them nowhere, but he's interrupted by the office's holoprojector chiming an incoming call.

"Ah, we should leave you to your work," Obi-Wan says, in a tone that implies... something. "You must be very busy."

"Nonsense!" Palpatine(?) says cheerfully. "Anakin at least is one of my closest friends, I have nothing to hide from either one of you." He grins at them a little, like he's sharing an inside joke. "Perhaps seeing a pair of Jedi Generals with me will make whoever it is get to the point faster, hmm?"

Maybe-Palpatine-or-maybe-a-shapeshifter-or-something turns away to answer the call, allowing Obi-Wan and Anakin to throw confused looks at each other. Palpatine usually cuts his meetings with Anakin short if he has to talk to someone else, not because he's trying to hide anything but because politics is a delicate job and he needs all his attention for it. Besides which, in Anakin's experience, seeing a Jedi immediately makes any given Senator harder to work with, not easier (with some exceptions, of course).

And then the call connects and Anakin just. Stares.

There's a long silence. Anakin sneaks a look at Probably-Not-Palpatine, who seems to be trying to keep his expression on the blank side of "crazed panicking," and then at Obi-Wan, whose expression actually is blank and whose Force presence has gone very still.

"Chancellor," Obi-Wan says, almost pleasantly, "why does the leader of the Separatists have your personal, heavily-encrypted comm frequency?"

Because standing in front of them, life-sized in washed-out blue, is indeed Count kriffing Dooku. Anakin has to clench his teeth together to suppress the hysterical laughter that wants to pour out of his throat.

To the credit of whoever's pretending to be Palpatine, they miss only a single beat before saying, in such a wildly confident voice that it's clear they're making this up as they go along, "Be...cause he's not the leader of the Separatists."

"He's not?" Anakin hears himself say, in unison with Obi-Wan. Dooku's mouth twitches like he had to stop himself from asking right along with them.

"He's not," Not-Palpatine confirms, suddenly serious. He fixes the two Jedi with a severe look. "But nothing you see here can leave this office, do you understand me? Count Dooku has been undercover as a spy for the Republic for almost the entire war."

Anakin glances at Dooku. If nothing else, at least they can be pretty sure whatever's happened to the real Palpatine isn't a Separatist plot, because Dooku clearly doesn't know what the kriff is going on either.

"Has he," Obi-Wan says, just as clearly not buying a word of it.

"Yes," Fakepatine decides, confident in the way of the desperate and poorly-informed. "Everything he has done has been in the service of the Republic, however it may seem."

"He cut my arm off," Anakin says faintly.

"And I'm sure he's very sorry about it," Fakepatine covers flawlessly, in exactly the same voice Anakin once heard a crechemaster use to explain that hitting is wrong. "Aren't you?" And then he looks at Dooku like he's actually expecting the man to answer.

Dooku looks at Anakin. Anakin shrugs minutely, indicating that yes, he finds this just as weird as Dooku does, and no, he doesn't have a better idea than just going along with it. Dooku blinks. "You have my most sincere apologies," he says, and then looks as surprised as Anakin feels that the statement wasn't entirely sarcastic.

"That's lovely," Obi-Wan says, suspicious and edging on furious, "but if the leader of the opposing faction is actually on our side, what are we doing fighting a war?"

Oh shit practically appears in neon above Fakepatine's head. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak he's rescued by Dooku, of all people.

"Nominal leader," Dooku says. Everyone swivels back to him. Anakin wonders vaguely if this is what being high feels like. It's extremely weird. "Who profits, in a war?"

Obi-Wan is doing his best impression of an overdue volcano, so Anakin hurries to supply the other half of the... lesson? "What do you mean?"

Dooku crosses his arms. "Wars are expensive. Not just metaphorically, but literally. They cost money. But those credits don't just vanish into thin air when they're spent; they get paid to someone. You've been to Separatist planets, you know that their galactic coordinates are the only thing stopping most of them from defecting to the Republic. They certainly aren't getting much out of it, so, if not them, who profits? Where is all that money going?"

"...the trade unions," Obi-Wan says, into the perfect silence that follows. "You think the trade unions have orchestrated a galactic civil war in order to profit off the sale of weapons to both sides."

"Weapons, supplies, armor, ships, reconstruction, anything and everything they can put a price tag on," Dooku says. "In fact, I know it. I just need proof."

"Which is why you must not even hint at this to anyone," Fakepatine says. It would be grave, except they've all forgotten he's there, and startle when he speaks. "We don't know who might be on their side. Do I have your word?"

Obi-Wan and Anakin exchange a look. Don't say anything, just nod after me, Anakin hears, right before Obi-Wan says, "Very well. On my honor as a Jedi Master, I will not share what I have learned here with anyone outside this room."

Anakin nods, wondering what Obi-Wan is up to, and allows Fakepatine to end the call and hustle them both out of the room. "Don't you want to tell the Council about this?" Not that he's generally in favor of the old coot brigade sticking their noses everywhere, but at this point, even Anakin has to admit they're in over their heads.

"Where do you think we're going?" Obi-Wan says, quietly enough that no one will overhear them.

Anakin frowns. "But you said--" His mouth shuts with a click. He'd said. Anakin hadn't promised anything at all.

Obi-Wan smiles grimly. "Precisely. I'm not going to tell the Council a thing. You are."

Mace is having a very long day. Mace has been having a very long day for about two years now. No one had ever told him that when he became Master of the Jedi Order, his unofficial title would be updated to Someone Else. As in, "that's Someone Else's problem." As in, "Someone Else will deal with this." As in, "let me go ask Someone Else." He's going to drown in paperwork one of these days and that'll be his epitaph: Mace Windu, Someone Else.

Which is to say that when Kenobi walks into Mace's quarters, way too chipper for ass o' clock at night, and says, "Ah, good, I thought Someone Else ought to hear about this," Mace thinks he can forgive himself for the brief but understandable urge to stab the man. He closes his eyes and releases the irritation and frustration to the Force. There is no peace, there is serenity. Er, wait. There is no passion-- Fuck it. There is no sleep, there is caf. Close enough.

"If this is about the supplies from Cato Nem--"

"The Chancellor found a bunch of Sith stuff," Skywalker bursts in, to the room and also the conversation.

Mace goes very still. "The real Chancellor or--" He stops himself from saying "Fakepatine" just in time. "--the imposter?"

"The fake one," Kenobi clarifies. He has perhaps left the realm of chipper and is fast on his way to the land of manic. "We still don't know where the real one is."

Mace turns back to Skywalker. "Found it where."

"In a secret room in his apartment," Skywalker reports, practically vibrating with concern. "This has to have something to do with what happened to him! The real him, I mean."

"If it does, why would Fakepatine comm us about it," Kenobi says wearily.

"All right," Mace says loudly, before they can descend into the fiftieth repetition of the argument that clearly led them here. "Council meeting, let's go." At least if a Sith Lord kills him, he won't have to fill out any more forms in triplicate.

In the end, every physically present Council member comes with them to meet Fakepatine in his fancy senator penthouse. They're wary, but honestly Mace can't sense anything from the man(?) besides worried confusion, and the Force is quiet, if... anticipatory. Which is unsettling in its own way, but not in a lethal one. Hopefully.

"When did you find this?" Mace asks. Two lightsabers rest on an office desk near a previously-concealed lift. He can feel the kyber screaming from across the room.

"Tonight, a few hours ago," Fakepatine says. "I've never seen any of it before in my life."

The thing is, he's not lying. Even the best liars can't hide themselves from the Force: to tell a lie is a form of division, between the self that knows the truth and the self that doesn't, and that duality is obvious. Shielding one's mind to hide the duality is also obvious. Fakepatine is doing neither.

"You live here," Allie points out.

Now it's there. "Um," Fakepatine says.

It's too early in the morning for this circus. "We know you're not the real Chancellor," Mace says bluntly.

"Oh."

"What did you do with him?"

"Um," says Fakepatine, wincing in a way that indicates Mace isn't going to like the answer. "I, uh. Ate him."

There's silence. "What the fuck," someone mutters.

Mace closes his eyes. "So no body, then."

"...No."

"If he was a Sith Lord, how did you ever get the drop on him?" Fisto asks. Mace notes with amusement that aside from Skywalker, who is bickering with Kenobi, no one is bothering to pretend Palpatine might have been innocent. Slimy bastard.

"Oh! Ah...." Fakepatine glances around the assembled Masters, like he's surprised they want to know. "I was pretending to be a clone. He called me into his office alone." He frowns. "Actually I think he was going to torture me. He was monologuing about something, but I wasn't paying attention, I just saw he had his back to me and. Went for it."

Went for it. Mace wants to sleep for the next thousand years. "He didn't notice your approach?"

"Oh, no, I've got a...." Fakepatine gestures vaguely. "Harpoon. Sort of. Thing. Would you like to see?" His jaw starts to work.

"NO," everyone else says, suddenly united in their desire to not see the Chancellor's face invert itself. "Maybe another time," Mace adds unconvincingly. Whatever. The hurt feelings of the bodysnatcher who ate the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic, who was also probably the Sith Lord, are currently very low on his priority list.

"Hmm," Yoda says, which means Mace's workload is about to either double or evaporate. "Take the sabers now, we will. Much more to do in the morning, we will have."

Fantastic. It's both. Mace is blaming Skywalker, just on general principle.

[lov3nerdstuff]

I've got you

*James Conrad x reader*

Parts: Oneshot/Drabble

Words: 1.7k

Prompt: "Imagine being on Skull Island (or somewhere equally as fucky) and Conrad shines a flashlight out into the darkness, only for several pairs of eyes to reflect back. His hand tightens around yours and every muscle in his lean body tenses. That deep voice gets low and quiet, warning you not to run. The second you try to bolt--because duh-- he tugs you against his firm chest and his lips are on your ear."

A.N.: This is a gift for @hopelessromanticspoonie who had this idea yesterday 💚✨ She (and her lovely anon) deserve some Conrad goodness! I hope you guys enjoy this quick little snippet 🖤 I am actually writing a longer Conrad series currently, but that will still take a while ☺️

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The low growling sounds outside your tent should have been warning enough, had they already sufficed to wake you up in the first place. If not that, then at least the distant screeching that carried through the cold night air at a bone-chilling frequency, haunting echoes in your mind filling the silence in between.

You should never have left your tent, should never have come on this bloody excursion to the middle of nowhere in the first place! But of course, you just had to be curious and go check on the noise by yourself instead of waiting for one of the men with the heavy guns to take care of it. Just had to prove to them that you weren't just the frail and frightened little thing they saw in you no matter what you did. You had to prove it to him. James Conrad, the man of both your daydreams and sleepless nights. Gods, you had been falling for him from the first day of this doomed mission. Him, with his incredible blue eyes and that unforgettable voice that could put the fear of God into every soul when he bellowed commands across any battlefield, and that yet would recite Shakespeare in the softest flowing melody like he was born to do nothing else. A voice dipped in liquid sin that should not be uttering compliments like languished breaths in the dark. Not without unravelling you softly in the sweetest torture known to man.

Well, you should have gotten a grip on yourself and your pathetic insecurities and just told him how badly you'd fallen for him days ago. Now, however, you were going to die lonely and frustrated, a mere hundred yards away from the well protected camp you'd been stupid enough to leave. Great job, idiot…

The same growling that had woken you up was all around you now, louder, so much louder than before and you couldn't believe that you had been so stupid to walk into this trap of… whatever was lurking in the darkness around you now. You didn't dare to move, didn't dare to make a sound… and simply clung onto the childish belief that if you couldn't see what was stalking you right now, it couldn't see you either. Not that you would've been able to see much anyway, with the stream of tears that was running down your cheeks now.

"Y/n! Are you out of your mind?! You shouldn't be out here alone in the middle of the night!" Conrad's scolding voice behind you, in that delicious British accent nevertheless, sent an immediate shiver down your spine, but unfortunately for more than one reason this time around. Gods, he was here… you only hoped that he had come as your salvation and not a second course to the hidden predators' nightly meal.

"James… They're everywhere, in the darkness… I'm so sorry." You whispered in a tear laced voice, too far frozen in your fear to turn around to him even when you felt his radiant presence coming up right next to you. So close that his warmth was almost seething on the chilled skin of your arm and shoulder. Gods… you had been so stupid indeed; you were absolutely bloody frightened and helpless out here, who had you been trying to fool!

When Conrad finally switched on his flashlight to shed some literal light onto the darkness ahead that you were still staring at relentlessly, you barely held back your startled scream by biting down hard on your bottom lip. There were eyes, so many eyes that reflected the light right back at you from the undergrowth in a glowing hollowness that spoke of nothing but hungry fixation and thus, impending death. Conrad next to you tensed in an instant, every muscle in his lean body coiling in a display of controlled strength, preparing to fight and defend himself. Or rather to defend both of you, for not even a broken second later his hand wrapped tightly around your lower arm as if purely on instinct, and your breath caught in your throat in return. A few deafening heartbeats long you both stayed frozen like that, until slowly, painfully, deliciously slowly, his hand slid down your arm to hold your hand instead, interlacing your fingers with his in the same unfaltering, strong hold.

"Don't move…" He drawled under his breath, commanding you with the deep tone of his voice alone to surrender his will no matter what he said. Thus you could only clasp his hand in a death grip in return, breath coming out in shallow pants as your heart thundered in your chest like the storm approaching in the distance.

And yet, when another loud growl announced that these beasts were drawing closer to you still, almost up your neck already with their teeth or claws sunk deeply into your tender flesh, the sound startled you so far beyond your reason that your flight instinct grew unbearable at last. Every fibre in your body burst in panic, and you bolted without thought, without reason, but you did not get far. Fast as lightning to match the thunder in your heart, Conrad's arm wrapped around your waist and he pulled you flush against his chest, holding you tightly against his strong body while your excess adrenaline merely caused you to whimper into the soft fabric of his shirt.

"Shhh... I've got you." His voice was surprisingly soft now, reassuring and calming almost as if just to soothe your fears, while the gentle brush of his lips against the shell of your ear caused you to shiver for entirely different reasons. A soaring heart and tingling exhilaration made for an odd mix combined with the prominent fear of death, but in the end it only heightened your every sense to the incredible. If you were to die now, you at least would do so wrapped up in the arms of the man you loved. La petite mort, only in the opposite direction of what you would have wanted for him and you.

"James…" You breathed into his chest, desperately trying to keep yourself from trembling too noticeably, which only made him tighten his hold on you with a sharp intake of breath.

"Shush now, darling, and listen to me…" He replied in an equally quiet tone, still staring into the hollow eyes of death with his head so closely next to yours. "I will throw the flashlight ahead into the forest as far as I can to cause a decent distraction, and then you and I will run back to camp without turning back. We should be safe behind the barriers we've set up. Do you understand?"

You nodded slowly with a shuddering breath, then turned your head ever so slightly to glance up at him with all those sharp lines of his stern features, while at the same time he dropped his arm from around you and instead took a tight hold of your hand again. Then in the matter of broken seconds, he threw the flashlight as far away from your path as he could, and finally dashed off back towards your camp while pulling you along by your hand. You were quick to comply, running as fast as you could while your lungs burned all the more, but both Conrad's death grip on your hand and the howling behind your back made for a magnificent motivation to keep running either way.

The hundred yards still were torture to your mind and body, but even without the light you could see the barriers drawing nearer and nearer. When you finally reached the gate of the improvised defenses, Conrad didn't waste any time to rush you through before it was barred off from the inside right behind you. The howling, however, remained right outside before the gates and still made your blood freeze over even now from the safety of your camp. Good gods… you really had cheated death. Again.

Panting, you finally dared to look up at Conrad once more. He was still clutching your hand as if he was afraid you would vanish if he let go, and when his burning gaze met yours in that undivided intensity, you couldn't keep your lips from trembling, nor your words from spilling over at last. "I'm so sorry, I… I really didn't mean to cause you so much trouble, I'm so sorry, I just… wanted to prove to you that I'm worth your-..."

You didn't get any further when his hand rose to cup your cheeks with a start, elegant fingers entangling in your hair as he pulled you close to him and pressed his lips to yours in every bit of passion and urgency you had been yearning for for so long. It took you but a broken second of surprise before you melted against him with a faint moan, returning everything he gave you and everything you had beyond. This was heaven… A heaven you were granted only after surviving in hell.

When you finally pulled back, both breathless far more thoroughly than just from your run, Conrad leaned his forehead against yours so very gently, and yet refused to release you from his incessant hold. "You are worth all there is and more, darling. I can bear absolutely anything for you, and with you, you must know that. All except for losing you."

"I'm so sorry." You breathed, eyes closed as you revelled in the roaring waves of unadulterated affection washing over both of you now. "You won't lose me, I… I won't let that happen. I've got you just the same."

Your words brought a smile to his face, you could feel it all around you, could feel it against your lips a second later. He wasn't a man of many words, you knew that, but the ones he spoke were always the most beautiful and honest to his soul. So you did know indeed, you both had each other and that was all you would need.

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General Tags:

@wegingerangelica @dreary-skies-stuff @wiczer @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @theweirdlunatic @caretheunicorn @kthemarsian @lady-of-lies @strawberrysandcream @noplacelikehome77 @theoneanna @mishaandthebrits @i-am-a-mes @nonsensicalobsessions @exygon @hiddles-lobotomy @rjohnson1280 @annwhojumps @spookycatqueen @salempoe @headoverhiddleston @fanfiction-and-stress @thecreatiivecorner @themusingsofmany @kinghiddlestonanddixon @scorpionchild81 @crystal-28 @adefectivedetective @lokis-girl-in-mischief @booklover2929 @iamverity @lovesmesomehiddles @akk4rin @whitewolfandthefox @stuckupstucky @kassablanca13 @delightfulheartdream @hayalee8 @lemonmochitea

[space-lynn]

Hey I just wanted to say I love the unintentional gods au! Will you be posting more by any chance?

Yup! Here's Sasha's POV! But if you mean more after this... probably. The original character Dawn Kaen belongs to a friend of mine, while Nash Viseriox belongs to me. Enjoy reading!

~~~~~

Being a god wasn’t easy. It wouldn’t be if you still had a few things from your mortal life to fix. And even if Sasha no longer had any of those, being a god still wasn’t easy. Sure, she’s free from school, free from political jobs (she might as well do something nice for her girlfriends for juggling mortal and cosmic duties), but she wasn’t free from her godly duties. Never will be, she supposed, but there were small instances that she enjoyed. Such as laying on a random rock in the middle of space, watching the ever changing multiverse around her.

A little much needed break from her cosmic duties. Peaceful, relaxing, and quiet--

“Hey, Sasha~”

“Waybright! There you are!”

--if it weren’t for her companions.

A soft groan escaped her lips and she cracked one eye open, tiredly glaring at the owners of those voices.

“Nash. Dawn,” she greeted.

If anyone thought that the Calamity Trio were the only deities around, they were wrong. There were others like them, modern gods born from unfortunate mortals who fully tapped into their prophesied power and became celestial beings. The two standing over her were examples of those mortals.

“Awwww. Don’t sound like that,” Dawn Kaen said, a bipedal fox, from a planet that worshipped her, and a goddess of death. Sasha had met her during an unsavory trip to another planet.

“Something on your mind, Waybright?” Nash Viseriox asked, sharp teeth bared into a grin she’s come to know as worried. She didn’t know what species he was or where he’s from, just that he reminded her of a dragonborn Marcy excitedly explained in a DnD session when they were ten. He was a space god much like her and they’d met when two kingdoms fought one another to prove which space god was best: him or her.

A dumb thing to fight over if you asked her.

“Was just trying to relax,” she muttered, stretching. She looked over at Dawn and asked, “What are you doing here, Dawn? Haven’t you got work to do?”

“Too many deaths,” the fox grumbled, then shrugged. “It’s gotten… meh.”

“Seriously?” Nash asked.

“Hey!” Dawn snarled, whirling to glare at him. “You try your hand at being a god of death!”

“Sure thing! I’ll be better at it than you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? If I were a god of the cosmos, I’d be doing a better job than--”

A deep rumbling noise echoed from somewhere to her left, interrupting her. Dawn’s ears stood up at that, her tail going in between her legs.

“Well,” she squeaked, “nevermind about that. I’ll go do my job and I’ll let you guys do your work! See you soon!”

She disappeared not a second after, leaving her and Nash alone.

The sound echoed once more and the two space gods turned towards it.

Devourers, shapeless creatures of the void who reincarnated after countless deaths and who loved to eat everything. It was the fucking reason why Sasha was gone for week or months, the reason why she couldn’t come home to her girlfriends everyday because she had to fight months-long battles against these things. Devourers weren’t the only celestial problems in the multiverse, and it was a space god’s calling to deal with those problems.

A loud whooshing sound came from beside her, and she glanced over to see Nash compress a hand-made black hole into a battle axe.

He smirked, “You ready?”

She stood up slowly and lazily smiled, star-forged swords appearing in her hands. “Always.”

-----

She came home late at night a week after that, the eldritch beast a foe she’d already met in battle. A foe she’d already know the weakness of. She slipped through the front door, locked it and padded into her and her girlfriends’ bedroom. Marcy and Anne were already asleep, so she carefully tiptoed around to snatch a few things for a quick shower, to ease her aching muscles, and a comfy change of clothes.

She silently made her way to their bed, slowly settled herself behind Marcy but the soft creak of the bed woke her partners’ up.

“Sash?”

“Sasha?”

Two groggy voices asked.

Fuck-

Two pairs of brown eyes slid to her.

“Hi,” she smiled softly. “Go back to sleep, I’m just… tucking myself in.”

“Hrmmm,” Anne grumbled, breathing almost even. “Welcrm hrm.”

“Thanks.”

Marcy rolled over, one hand out to grab at Sasha’s shirt. She tugged and the resulting pained hiss that escaped Sasha snapped the two in bed awake.

Damn her traitorous mouth!

Anne sat up immediately, brows furrowed. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” Sasha lied, trying her best to hide the pained expression on her face.

Marcy narrowed her eyes, the hand still touching Sasha’s shirt skimming across the fabric until it softly pressed into Sasha’s side. The blonde flinched, hand flying to her side.

She heard Anne curse under her breath, and Sasha felt the area around her flicker. She found herself on the bed soon after, in between Anne and Marcy. Anne had an arm wrapped around her, her free hand underneath Sasha’s shirt putting pressure on one of the very deep wounds as her powers helped it heal.

Sasha whimpered, eyes shutting tight and pushing herself deeper into Anne embrace.

“Sorry,” the brunette kissed her head.

“I didn’t know Devourers could do this,” Marcy frowned, arms coming around the blonde to comfort her.

“Bane,” Sasha gasped and Marcy winced.

“Makes sense.”

Anne and Marcy held onto Sasha as she bucked, whined or yelped, whispering sweet nothings into her ear to ease her. The blonde slumped afterwards, barely able to keep herself awake, energy drained from Anne using it to heal her grievous wounds.

“You okay?” the brunette asked.

“Yeah,” she muttered, “thanks.”

“No prob, Sashimi.”

Marcy held her hand and squeezed, “You should sleep.”

“You, too,” a mumble.

Anne and Marcy shared a smile, then took turns to press a kiss to Sasha’s lips. The blonde smiled sleepily.

“We will,” Marcy assured her.

“Good night, Sash,” the gods of life and knowledge said.

“G’night.”

~~~~~

Will I make more for this AU? Probably... If I'm uninspired to write other snippets or continue my fics (I really need to focus on those XD). Always giving my thanks to @fermented-writers-block for this wonderful idea. I'll be taking a break from this AU to answer other requests and work on my fics.

I hope y'all enjoyed reading this! Have a nice morning, afternoon or evening! Until the next snippet!

[yourheartonfire]

Hi! Your an amazing writer and I often stalk your page. I was wonder if you could do a civilian x villain prompt? Have a great day/night!

Thank you! I do have at least a couple 'villain x civilian' snippets around here somewhere, but it's a fun dynamic and I'm happy to do more...

The villain slammed through the front door at full strength, out of breath and just barely shy of panicking. "Leo!" he screamed.

Okay. Maybe he was panicking.

There was a long, horrible moment of silence. And then in a rustle of throw pillows Leo's head poked up over the back of the couch, blinking owlishly as he pulled his headphones off and pushed his laptop aside.

"Mal? What're you doing home at...?" His eyes widened. "What happened to the door?!"

"Oh thank god!" The villain sprang at him to grip him in a hug. Leo made a surprised umph noise as the villain pulled back just as fast. "You have to go. Now. I'll pack your bag." He darted off to the bedroom.

The villain's go bag was under the bed and he cursed himself bitterly for not making Leo one too. "I'll get your clothes!" the villain yelled. "Grab any personal items you want. You've got two minutes -"

He turned from the closet and smashed full speed into Leo. Sweaters went flying and Leo grabbed the villain by the shoulders.

"Malcolm! Slow down," he said in that voice that brooked no nonsense.

The villain grabbed Leo's wrists. He could break the grip. Hell, he could toss Leo across the room and through a couple walls too. But this wasn't an attack. Breath ragged, the villain hung on to his partner's arms and held still.

"Good, babe. Okay." Leo was doing that little stoop in his knees and his back, to bring himself down to eye level with the villain. "Talk to me. What's happening?"

"You..." The villain swallowed. "Have to get out of the city. Like, evacuate. There's gonna be, uh, weather?"

Leo blinked again. "Weather," he repeated, in a carefully neutral voice.

"Fine, not weather, but danger!" the villain snapped. Reluctantly he brushed the warmth and safety of Leo's hands away and bent to pick up clothes. "I can't explain - I'm sorry - but you are in very real danger and I need you to get away."

Slowly, Leo crouched beside the villain, sitting himself on exactly the pair of pants the villain wanted. "Because someone cracked your secret identity?" he asked softly.

"Because someone..." The villain stopped dead. Leo was looking at him sideways, giving him room to not answer. The villain flung down a sweatshirt and sat back on his heels. "You knew. How long have you know?"

"Well, I wasn't completely sure until just now when you smashed in our door like it was balsa wood," Leo said wryly. "But, yeah. I started putting things together after you moved in. How all those work emergencies lined up with cape battles around the city -"

"Technically, work emergencies," the villain could stop themselves from muttering.

"- the many, many grevious training mishaps, at your boxing gym," Leo went on. "And I started thinking how I almost died in thst [hero] on [villain] crossfire, except somehow I was inexplicably transported to an ER 5 miles away." He glanced over, almost shy. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Civilians aren't supposed to get hurt," the villain said automatically. It was a Rule. He felt himself going shaky again, remembering the feel of the lanky body half buried in the rubble beside him, the terror that this poor rando was going to die because he, the villain, hadn't ducked hero's heat blast fast enough...

Hesitantly he looked up. To his shock, Leo was still looking at him with love and understanding in his eyes. "You're not... mad?"

Leo shrugged. "It was obvious why you'd guard that secret. I figured you would tell me when you were ready." He threaded his fingers through the villain's. "I'm here for you. Or..." Leo looked up sharply, as if remembering what started this. "I guess I'm gone for you."

"I'm sorry," the villain started. "But he knows who am I... "

Leo waved him off, started gathering up clothes. There was just the slightest tremor in his hands. "And if he knows you then he'll find me and I'm an obvious leverage point. I get it. I can go upstate, stay with Javi and Kay a few days..."

"Leo -" Leo glanced up. The villain grabbed his hands, stared into his soft eyes. "I won't let him hurt you again. I'll burn the world before I let that happen."

"Oh babe." Leo swallowed, smiled so bravely. "I know."

The villain pulled his lover closer and Leo pressed against him, solid and gorgeous and so unbelievably real. "I trust you," he whispered in the villain's ear. "I'm proud of you. I love you so so much, [hero]."

"Oh," was all the villain said, as Leo buried his face trustingly against the villain's shoulder, right next to where the villain's heart had just shattered.

Slowly, the villain brought up his arms around Leo's back, careful not to squeeze too tight around all those delicate nerve endings and internal organs and spinal columns. "Love you too," he whispered, "Angel."

[fridayfirefly]

Homecoming Confessions

Read Homecoming Confessions on AO3

Masterlist

Written for Maribat March Day 25 - School Dance

"Marinette. Wally. You two will be going undercover at the school. You'll be posing as a couple, which should give you an excuse for how much time you will be spending together. Be prepared to keep up your cover for a while - I can see this mission taking several months."

Marinette glanced over at Wally, who was already staring at her. She quickly looked away, flushing. Of all the people I could be fake dating for a mission, why did it have to be the one person I have a crush on?

The mission itself wasn't exactly standard. Young Justice usually dealt with the typical supervillain. However, this mission was a favor to Batman, who was investigating a remote boarding school in the Allegheny Mountains to be a cover for a money-laundering scheme concocted by the parents of many of the students enrolled. Marinette, Artemis, Wally, and Dick would all be playing the part of students in order to snoop around and gather evidence. Wally and Dick were in a suite with two other boys, while Marinette and Artemis shared a suite with two other girls.

After a month undercover, the teens had finally discovered their best chance for apprehending all involved in the money-laundering scheme. There would be a Donor Appreciation Night the same night of the Homecoming Dance, held in the Headmaster's Office for select parents who had donated above a certain threshold. It was the make-or-break night of their mission. No matter what, their time at the boarding school was up.

As much as Marinette wanted to focus on her mission, her mind always seemed to be somewhere else. It was torture to pretend to date Wally when that was all Marinette really wanted. Getting ready for the dance, Marinette reminded herself, It’s just for a mission. Nothing more, nothing less.

Beside Marinette, her dormmates were getting ready as well. Artemis was painting her nails a shade of green so dark it looked like black, Caroline was putting on eyeliner with the focus and precision of a neurosurgeon, and Betty was cursing as she tried to squeeze her feet into too-tight heels.

"I swear my feet grow half a size every time I go off to school. As soon as I can't buy a new pair of Jimmy Choo's, none of the ones I already own fit anymore," complained Betty.

"I think that we have a similar size. You could borrow a pair of mine, if you'd like," offered Marinette. In truth, she would be glad to get rid of some of her shoes. To blend it at the school, her wardrobe had been given a very expensive makeover. Marinette loved fashion, but even she felt uncomfortable with how

Betty brightened up right away. "I love your closet, Marinette. If my Dad wasn't so strict about my spending money, I would have a closet like yours. Could I borrow that pair of Miu Miu heels your parents sent you last week?"

"Sure." It was good luck that Betty asked for that pair of shoes. Batman had fitted a select number of shoes with listening devices, hoping that if Marinette lingered outside of doors, the shoes might catch snippets of conversation slipping out from under the door. The Miu Miu heels were one of those select pairs. If Betty's parents were involved (which, after a little snooping through Betty's laptop, Marinette was almost certain that they were) and Betty knew about it, there was a chance that the heels could be used to gather evidence.

"When is Wally coming to pick you up?" asked Caroline.

Caroline and Betty had both been very supportive of Marinette's very fake relationship. "He's coming at seven with my corsage."

"I wish I were getting a corsage," sighed Caroline. "I'm so jealous of you. I hate being single."

"Than you shouldn't have dumped Michael two weeks before the Homecoming Dance," criticized Betty.

"I didn't want him in any of my group photos," Caroline defended herself.

"Fair point, fair point." Betty shrugged.

Marinette giggled at the antics of her friends. "Can someone help me get the button on the back of my dress?" There was one tiny silver button right at the nape of her neck that Marinette could never reach.

"Sure." Artemis leaned across the bathroom counter to get the button.

The dress was custom made - but not by Marinette. Marinette secretly hated the dress, though she cooed over it along with the rest of her dormmates. It was navy blue with silver accents, and it had a microphone sewn into it, so well hidden that not even Marinette, with her knowledge of its existence, could find it.

A knock at the door startled Marinette from her thoughts. She rushed to get her shoes on, slipping her feet into the two-inch heels. "Does my hair look okay?"

Caroline nodded. "It looks absolutely perfect. Wally will be drooling over you all night long."

Marinette forced herself to giggle at the comment, even though she knew it was false. Wally would spend the night playing the part of the doting boyfriend for the mission. He would tell her that she looked beautiful and he would be lying. Marinette wanted to cry over how unfair it was to watch the boy she liked pretending to like her back.

Marinette opened the door. Wally stood behind it, holding the corsage in his hand. It was at that moment that Marinette realized she had never seen Wally in a suit before. He tugged at his collar uncomfortably, but still smiled when his eyes landed on Marinette. "You look beautiful, Marinette."

Exactly as Marinette had predicted. She forced a smile on her face, hoping that it looked genuine enough to fool her dormmates. "Thank you. You look very dashing in a suit."

"Hey Rudolph, I didn't think you knew how to tie a tie," Artemis raised an eyebrow. Artemis and Wally had been playing the part of cousins at the boarding school, their cover being that their education was being funded by their wealthy Grandfather.

"Dick tied it," Wally grumbled. He then whispered to Marinette, "I might be ditching the tie. I think Dick might be trying to strangle me with this."

Marinette giggled, whispering back, "I have a clip-on in my closet. It won't match my dress, but I can live with that if it means you're alive and breathing."

"You're a lifesaver, Mari."

Marinette's heart gave a flutter as he called her by her nickname. He had started using it in public right when they began the school year, to convince everyone that they were dating. However, when it was just the Young Justice team, Wally always called her by her full name. It was just another reminder that their relationship was all an act.

Marinette went into her room and started digging through her closet. As she searched for the clip-on tie, Artemis entered the room, lingering at the closet doors. "What were you and Wally whispering about?"

Marinette replied, "We decided to replace his tie with a clip-on."

Artemis raised an eyebrow, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "Sure."

"Artemis, I've told you a million times. Wally and I are fake dating."

"There is nothing fake about the way he looks at you," Artemis continued stubbornly.

"I already told you the truth. Just because you don't believe me doesn't mean it's not true."

"I know for a fact that there is something between the two of you."

Marinette sighed. Damn Artemis for being so persistent. "Fine. You're right that there are some feelings involved, but they aren't Wally's. I'm the one who has a crush on him, not the other way around."

Artemis looked shocked. "Really? I could have sworn..." Artemis stopped herself, a devious look growing on her face. Marinette could tell that she was scheming up some sort of plan.

"We just need to get through this one dance, and then we're done fake dating for good. Please, don't interfere," Marinette begged.

"Alright, but only if you promise that you'll tell Wally you like him. It doesn't have to be tonight, but you do have to tell him."

"Fine," agreed Marinette. With no time limit on the promise, who was to say when Marinette would tell Wally. After all, plenty of people confessed life-altering secrets on their deathbed.

By the time the group made it down to the banquet hall, the Homecoming Dance was in full swing. Pop music was blasting through every speaker in the room, and Marinette winced at the volume of noise.

Using the loud music as cover, Wally whispered in Marinette's ear. "Dick's already in position. He found a way up into the vents, so he has a good position to listen in on whatever is said in the Headmaster's Office."

"Good. I'll go find the best window to view the Headmaster's Office from, to make sure we can keep track of everyone going in and out."

Wally nodded. "I'll catch Artemis up to speed, and then I'll join you."

Marinette scouted out the tables at the edge of the dance floor, eventually finding one that had both a view out the window of the entrance to the Headmaster's Office and a view of both entrances to the banquet hall that the dance was held in. A minute later, Artemis approached, dragging Wally along beside her.

"I'll watch the entrances. You two need to go dance. It'll look weird if you don't," said Artemis.

Artemis was correct, but that didn't stop Marinette from feeling a little indignant about being bossed around.

Wally just shrugged, seemingly unaffected by Artemis's bossy tone. "You ready to dance, Mari?"

Marinette froze, searching for the words. "Uh, sure."

Marinette was prepared to dance along to a pop song. Marinette was prepared to pretend that it didn't pain her to pretend. What Marinette wasn't prepared for was the slow song that came on - a song that could only be danced to with a slow dance.

"I guess we'll have to slow dance," said Wally with a shrug. His tone was light, but there was an edge behind it. Marinette assumed that he felt uncomfortable dancing with a girl he considered just a friend.

"I guess so."

Marinette tried not to be stiff in his arms. She was acutely aware that this moment would have been perfect if it were real.

"You can relax, you know," Wally said as if his words were a joke, but his voice was flat.

"Sorry." Marinette forced the stiffness out of her joints, swaying in his arms.

Wally sighed. "I know this isn't ideal, but at least it's over after tonight."

"Yeah." Marinette couldn't keep the frown off of her face. Though it would be nice to stop pretending, Marinette was disappointed to know that she would never dance with Wally again.

Wally grimaced. "It's one more night. You don't have to look so miserable. I'm not that bad to spend time around, am I?"

Marinette's eyes widened. Wally had interpreted her disappointment over their relationship being over as something else entirely. "No. I-"

"Whatever," sighed Wally, pushing her away as the song winded down. He walked off the dance floor and toward the table, leaving Marinette behind.

"It's not what you think," protested Marinette, rushing after him to explain. "I'm upset that we only have one more night."

Wally looked shocked. "What do you mean?"

"I like spending time with you. I like you, Wally. It's so hard to pretend to date you when that's all I really want."

"Why did you never tell me?" asked Wally.

"Because I know you don't feel the same way about me. If I can't have you as my boyfriend, I at least wanted to have you as my friend."

"You think I don't feel the same way about you? Dick and Roy make fun of me for my crush on you all the time, how have you never noticed?"

Now it was Marinette's turn to be shocked. "Wait, you're telling me that you have a crush on me too?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Wally. "I thought you already knew about my crush and were ignoring it. I never brought it up because I didn't want to make things uncomfortable between us."

Marinette shook her head in exasperation. "This whole time we were both keeping our feelings a secret and it was making us miserable, and it was all for nothing."

Wally groaned. "We're so stupid, aren't we?"

"Yep," chimed in Artemis, who had snuck up behind them. "But we don't have time to unpack that. Cars have started parking out front. I think the meeting will be starting soon. I'm going out to document their license plates and plant trackers on the cars. I need you two in position to assist Dick if he needs it."

"Got it." Marinette grabbed Wally by the hand and started leading him to the door. It took them no time at all to get to the Headmaster's Office, but once they were there they needed a plan. "How are we going to remain inconspicuous?"

"Like this." Wally pulled Marinette into an alcove, giving her direct line of sight of the door to the Headmaster's Office. "If anyone catches us, the worst we'll get is detention - which we won't even have to serve, given that we're leaving after tonight."

"Good idea." Marinette stared up into Wally's eyes. "Now that we're alone again..."

The buzz of a text message distracted Marinette from Wally. It was Dick, on the team's encrypted line.

Dick: The meeting is wrapping up. Marinette and Wally, you two need to get away from the Headmaster's Office as soon as possible. I recorded enough evidence to convict, so we don't need to stay any longer. Everyone head back to the dorms and get changed. We leave in 20 minutes.

Marinette: See you in 20.

"I guess it's time to go." Wally looked disappointed, even though their mission had been a complete success.

"Don't worry, Wally. I have a sneaking suspicion that this won't be the last night of us dating." Marinette pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then twisted out from behind him. "See you in twenty!"

Marinette turning around just before she turned the corner to get one last look at Wally. His face was lit up with a goofy smile, and Marinette couldn't help but laugh. More than one mission was a success that night.

@maribatmarch-2k21

[sanghyukstattoos]

next door neighbours!SF9

A/N: Read more here~~

Youngbin:

The grass on his lawn is neatly trimmed, no weeds in sight and the tiles are sparkling white

Definitely stands on the lawn in the morning with his hands behind his back, probably in contemplation of life or whatever wearing those white jeans and stripped t-shirt as he did in their Into The Night performances

Dad! Youngbin vibes

Says ''Hi'' to you the first time around but says nothing and even though you shouldn't feel the need to affiliate, it feels very awkward.

Turns out that the inside of his house is a chaos, his kids are running everywhere first thing in the morning, there's probably also some scribbles on the wall and it's like, you finally understand why he needs a break (kids are a handful)

Will give you a ride to school if you don't have a car, regardless of how close the school is

Inseong:

You don't see this guy all that much and when you do, it's mainly the back of his head as he leaves for work.

Works so hard that he comes back sweaty and out of breath and you can hear it because he's loud about it.

If you have thin walls, I'm so sorry because you can hear him practice his singing.

At first you think about how beautiful he sounds and sometimes you still enjoy listening to him but at important times like on a zoom call, your colleagues hear him singing and because of this, you are frequently interrupted when you speak.

You are so frustrated that eventually you wonder if you should just ask him to sing in your ear while you sleep because that's what it feels like

One day you meet him in the elevator and you wonder, 'He's that tall?' and he's all awkward with his shy little smile and bow

Takes you a little while to notice that he's just like that with the suspicious puns and laughs but yo eventually grow over some drinks.

Jaeyoon:

The one that all smiles, you can immediately tell that he's a loving guy but he'll be shy about it.

When's he's around you, he tends to smooth his hair down a lot even if it is okay. There's also a faint pink tinge on his cheeks when he speaks to you (it's because he ran to get the elevator, nothing else)

He works as a florist, arranging flowers and writing cards during the day and when he's done, he works out at your local gym.

He has got good endurance, even when he's tired and his muscles are begging for him to stop. Is an admirable person considering how much effort he has put in to keep himself fit, even when he doesn't feel like it sometimes, he always shows up.

He likes to hold hands, especially when he's tired, or link arms evens and really, it's kind of cute.

When he's drunk or just tired from whatever he's come from and he sees you, he always puts his hands in his pockets, stifling the overwhelming urge to hold yours.

Dawon I Lee Sanghyuk:

You'll instantly become friends with him and he'll invite you over to the parties he has.

When you are there, he'll show you a side of him you haven't seen before. Somehow he's more confident when you aren't meeting near the stairs, outside your apartments or in the elevators.

Then he's shy with his hands together, fingers fumbling around and pressing the wrong buttons when he's only trying to press it for you and he's an exceptional character.

He smiles as if he's over the moon and he's journeying with you, hand in hand when you two are only neighbours and he's not sure what you know about his feelings for you.

When you are at his apartment, he's doing things like kissing you on the cheek, giving you hugs, staying close to you and occasionally looking for where you are in the party.

Sings when he's drunk which serenades the life out of you

Rowoon I Kim Seokwoo:

On most nights, he comes home drunk and you can hear him stumbling into his front porch as his friends drive off after he makes it past the door and closes it.

He fumbles, almost landing into the garden, array of plants screaming in disgrace at their owner and you have to hold back your chuckles as you see this scenario from the window, as if he can hear.

On cue he turns and before he can completely see you, you dash behind, heart racing.

Next day, when he's sober, with his hair looking suspiciously clean, he tells about his drunk self encounters with you staring out of the window which you deny and he says, ''Yea, I've been dreaming''.

The ultimate contrast is when you both leave at the same time and walk to the same stop and he's dressed his best self, he's attractive

He starts a conversation and you settle into this routine of waiting for one another before leaving and telling each other that you aren't coming the day before.

You've become accustomed to his reasons, they are the same time and time again, as a result of what occurred the previous night.

You've also slipped into this routine of calling each other, at dawn and having this little snippet of conversation about your day, laughing at each other's encounters. At the end, you say whether you'll be coming, just to affirm.

However, when you take an off, it's rare. He's concerned, by the fact that his voice had raised a little

He guides you on what medicine to take and leaves you sleep and the next morning, you are woken up to him standing at your door with food in one hand and some DVD's in the other.

Zuho I Baek Juho:

Can only start a friendship by coincidence, like purely

Always tired, stretching his limbs when he takes a short break by walking outside.

The type to leave his keys outside and then wonder how they got there when you come from out and knock on his door to tell him

Very thankful, will pay you back in courtesy through some form, carry something heavy for you

Maybe, he might just point out how heavy it is and then realise that he could help you with it. But it's over the fence so he's struggling, you are struggling and you just wonder why he's doing this in the first place

Soft soul will play with your kids if you have some

Yoo Taeyang:

The neighbour that you won't speak to, ever

Smiles at people and greets them in the hallway, so he's cordial, but other than that, it's a full dash till he's in the safety of his house where he can bake what he's going to be eating

Carries like a hundred bags and you and your neighbours think he's going to drop but then he grows an extra arm and unlocks his door, safely tucking his groceries away.

Extra awkward at gatherings, hesitates to say anything, looks at everyone cautiously and you don't even know what he's seeing when he's that tall

One day you see him bopping his butt along to some song called ''Wild Wild West'', definitely is a good dancer but why he's dancing like that is beyond you and your neighbours.

Kind soul, bless him, he tries

Hwiyoung I Kim Youngkyun:

He's shy around you, not used to speaking to new people every now and then but he comes around and when he does, he's the cutest friend you've met in a while.

Occasionally, you go over or he comes and you drink beer or whatever, having conversations in your living room or balcony.

He loves sitting, drinking something and watching the light fade away into colours of purple and red or what's on today.

He listens to music or sings and you love to hear his voice, albeit he's a bit shy at first so you join in and there's days where you don't have to join in anymore, he'll sing if he wants to because he's that comfortable.

Otherwise, you put in earphones or air pods and sit there, playing your favourite songs for one another

If you're restless, you can dance with him, he'd do it with you but stop because he's shy and wondering why you're staring at him like he's good at dancing.

Pulls out the funniest moves though, very easy to feel comfortable around

Will take you along to buy groceries with him because he wants to know what you want to eat, a fan of barbeque but can't grill to save a life.

Chani:

Doesn't like to be disturbed, works extra hard so takes plenty of rest on the weekends

Is a very quiet neighbour, only sounds you may hear is when he accidentally trips over himself

Thinks he had bad knees because of it, you always see him clutching his knee in the same way that someone clutches their pocket because they think that they've forgotten something

A real sweetheart though, his smile is pretty enough to generate electricity for the whole hallway and his walk is broad enough to separate the Pacific Ocean, which he'll deny because he's humble

Has some wild friends that make horrifying noises when they come over and he tells them to keep it down but then falls asleep and they take over his apartment like those creeper plants.

He'll carry stuff for the elderly or volunteer somewhere cause he's cute like that

Won't tolerate if you are loud, he'll tell you off, ''Think you are the only one who lives here?'' but in that really nice way that will make you respond with, ''No, hehe''

[javier-pena]

bloodstain

Chapter 2 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: mentions of death and trauma | very brief mention of blood | brief description of a panic attack | still a lot of hurt and just a little bit of comfort | misunderstandings | mild to moderate language | but maybe there’s also a ..... soft scene ...... | Din’s hands

Notes: First, let me start with saying that at this point taking a bullet for Dani @javierpcna​ doesn’t feel like it would be enough. She literally drops everything whenever I send her a new or revised chapter to look over and i cannot thank her enough! I kinda surprised myself with how quickly I finished this chapter, but that’s also thanks to Dani because the highlight of my day is sending her small snippets of what I’ve written and having her reply with “?????”. I also want to thank all of you who read the first chapter and left comments and sent messages, it means the world to me! I was so nervous about sharing this with you all, but I’m so glad I did. And finally, let me end this with saying happy birthday, Chrisann @darksber​!!! I hope you have a fun birthday and I hope you enjoy the second chapter as much as you enjoyed the first one.

masterlist | join the tag list

The snow comes over night. The cold, clean smell is the first thing your mind registers, even before it has time to make you feel confused about the strange bedsheets wrapped around you. And then you remember.

The screams.

The blaster shots

The fire, the blazing heat engulfing you, burning your skin.

Those men on their speeder bikes, laughing, looting, taking whatever the fuck they want.

And you, unable to stop them.

The feeling of cold, all-consuming despair makes a shiver run down your spine, makes you curl up in a tight ball beneath your blanket and shake so violently it makes you feel sick. Then you cry, and with the tears comes the heat until you’re so hot you feel sweat collect at the nape of your neck and run down your back in icy beads. After yesterday, you hadn’t expected there to be any tears left, but there are, so many, and they don’t stop, they seem to be endless, like a river flowing, rushing, tumbling over rocks and down a precipice, drowning everything in its way.

You hate those men, you loathe them, you want them dead, torn apart by wild animals, you want them dead after they beg you for their miserable lives, you want them dead and forgotten. That anger and that lust for revenge that seem to take up every cell and atom in your body are what finally helps you to stop crying. They don’t help you to calm yourself – you are anything but calm – but they help you to focus your rage on one goal: kill them all.

Because with the memories of the pain and the despair and the utter helplessness you felt yesterday (and still feel today) comes the memory of him. The Mandalorian. And remembering him means remembering the hope you felt when he offered his services, when he pledged himself to your cause. Shit. You shake your head. He did no such thing. He accepted a job. He only cares about the money, he doesn’t care about the cause. Yes, he will help you achieve your goal, but he’s emotionally detached from it. And you need to remember that. You need to remember it for your own sake because as soon as you assume anything else, it’ll get messy.

And he terrifies you. He terrifies you so much, especially in the light of day. Because the morning sun makes him feel real, solid, and so much more dangerous. And you have a feeling you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

You finally sit up and roll your neck and shoulders to relieve the pain the previous day’s labors have left behind. You couldn’t defend yourself against the Mandalorian, even if the muscles in your body weren’t screaming with pain. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You don’t know why you would trust a complete stranger like that after everything that has happened to you, why you would trust a complete stranger who could snap your neck like a dry twig. Being around him feels like being constantly held at gunpoint. One wrong move and you’re dead.

But you need him.

Maker, you need him.

You get out of bed and stretch, then run your hand over your face to dry it off. There is a bowl of water on a small table next to the bed. You have to break the thin layer of ice that has formed on the surface, and when you splash it on your face, it is freezing, but at least it makes your burning cheeks feel numb and it eases the stinging in your eyes. You know you look a mess, but you don’t care. You get dressed in your soot-blackened clothes and then leave the small room. You have no idea if you’ll ever sleep in a bed again.

***

The morning air is icy cold. Two suns have risen, but the third one still hides behind the trees. The air is foggy, misty, and clouds of smoke pass you by. The settlement is already busy. In a shop next to the inn, a man heckles with the vendor in a raised voice. Two farmers lead a small herd of tauntauns down the street, while everyone tries to get out of their way. In the distance, a child is crying. It smells like fire and snow and life. You hate it.

The everyday noises are overwhelming to you; the melody of a hammer hitting metal in a nearby forge makes your skull vibrate, the voices of people talking makes you want to cover your ears with your hands and yell at them to shut up, the reverberations of the tauntauns’ claws against the frozen ground makes you want to take cover somewhere and hide until nightfall.

But you don’t run or hide or even just turn around to take a breath. Instead, you focus your attention on the Mandalorian.

He is waiting for you outside the inn. A thin layer of snow has collected on his shoulders, a sign he’s been standing motionless for a while. Even though the morning sunlight is pale and makes everything look hazy, you see him clearly. So clearly that you have to squint your eyes when you look at him. His beskar armor glistens from the sunlight it reflects, so much that the people on the street turn their heads to look at him. The wisps of smoke rushing past shroud him, but it’s not enough to dim the dancing shimmers. He carries a long staff strapped to his back, a kind of spear you’re pretty sure he didn’t have with him the previous night at the inn. And his face is hidden behind the helmet again, which probably shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. All of this just makes him look wrong. He looks so out of place standing in the middle of this dirt-poor settlement it makes you want to pretend you don’t have anything to do with him.

So you focus on what’s behind him. In one hand, he holds the reins of three orbaks, in the other a small bundle. He presses it against his chest like he’s holding a small child, not a lifeless piece of cloth. The orbaks are big, wooly beasts, dark grey in color, with two long, dangerously pointy tusks hanging from their mouths. Two of them have saddles strapped to their backs, the third one is laden with crates, saddle bags, even two long guns. The more you look at it, the more weapons you spot. What does one man need so many for? So much baggage will just slow you down. The bandits already have a day’s head start and travelling on heavily loaded orbaks will give them even more of an advantage. But this is probably the best the Mandalorian could do – the settlement is so poor, not even merchants sell speeder bikes – who would be able to afford them?

You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself, painfully aware that the fire destroyed everything except for the clothes you’re wearing. But they’re not enough to protect you from the bitter cold. You can see your breath hovering in a pale cloud in front of your face when you exhale slowly, you can feel the snowflakes on your bare lower arms as you walk toward the Mandalorian. You have no idea how he can stand there like the cold is nothing to him. Beskar doesn’t protect against low temperatures. To you, this is just further proof of how much he’s not human.

“Here,” he says, as you stop in front of him, holding the bundle out to you.

“What’s this?” you ask with a small nod at him, the bundle, and the orbaks. You don’t take it.

The Mandalorian looks behind him, then back at you. “Supplies,” he says.

You take the bundle from him and untie the chord that’s tightly wound around it. Folding back the thin cloth, you unwrap a long, dark brown leather cloak with fur linings and a thick, woolen scarf. The scarf looks itchy but feels very soft against your skin and the coat lies heavy in your arms, like a dead animal. The sight of these clothes leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you don’t move to put them on. Instead, you stand there, pressing the unwrapped bundle against your chest, and look at the Mandalorian with raised eyebrows.

“What’s this?” you repeat.

He doesn’t reply, just nods and makes a gesture with his now empty hand, motioning you to hurry up.

You don’t. You just look at him, shivering more and more with each passing second. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from the anger you’ve been feeling since yesterday, since waking up this morning, since unwrapping the bundle; everything is stoking up the fire, feeding your flaming rage

“Listen,” you start. You try not to let your feelings get the better of you, but it’s impossible. You don’t quite know yourself why this small gesture enrages you as it does, you just know you need to set some boundaries right now. “I don’t need your pity,” you continue. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

The Mandalorian huffs. “This isn’t a gift,” he says, his voice completely level. “I’m paying for it with your money. I’m not forcing you to wear it, but if you go on the journey like that,” he nods at you, “you’ll freeze. You’re no use to me dead.”

You feel heat rush to your face and settle in your cheeks. Without another word you put on the coat and tie the scarf around your neck. The coat rests heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down. It’s a size too big, but snug, and you stop shivering immediately. You run your left hand along the right sleeve under the pretense of fixing it, but you just want to feel the material under your fingers. It’s softer than it looks, which just serves to make you feel embarrassed and … stupid.

You feel stupid, so, so stupid. Did you really expect him to make you a gift? To look out for you? To care for you? You hired him to do a job and he’s just making sure you stay alive long enough to pay him. Much like the owner of a racing stable would do with his fathier. You scold yourself for having misread the situation. You blame it on the exhaustion you still feel, on the trauma you lived through, on the need for human connection you had no idea you even felt. There is no way to come out of this situation without feeling like a fool, so you just decide to ignore it. After all, it’s best if you just forgot about the whole thing. All you need to do in future is to be more careful around him so you don’t misinterpret his intentions again.

“Supplies?” you ask to distract yourself.

You wish you could see his face when he says, “Were you just going to follow them on foot with no food or weapons?” Because it doesn’t sound as if he’s mocking you, even though he should be. Hell, you should be mocking yourself. But he just sounds genuinely curious, as if this is a discussion about a topic you’re both not emotionally invested in, not a question of life and death.

“No,” you answer slowly, then look away. You have to admit you hadn’t thought about it yet, you were too focused on the idea of hunting those men down that you didn’t even consider you needed tools, supplies, food, and a means of transportation. “Thank you,” you add.

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod, accepting your words of gratitude. You’re glad he doesn’t press the subject, any subject really.

Without him, you would have been dead within a day.

***

It is still snowing when you and the Mandalorian leave the settlement behind. As you begin your journey into the unknown, tiny snowflakes settle in the fur of your orbak, making it appear white instead of dark grey. It blends in perfectly with your surroundings, where everything is light shades of blue, grey, and brown. And white, so much white. You squint your eyes and yet the light still stings to the point you tear up. You envy the Mandalorian his tinted visor and you wish you had something similar to protect yourself. Alvorine’s three suns hang low, their pale blue light filtered through hazy clouds. Everything you see is blurred and too bright to look at directly – it makes you feel vulnerable and exposed. Even as you enter the cover of the trees, their bare branches do little to help keep out the light and the snow and so you lower your eyes to your reddened hands holding your orbak’s reins as you trust the Mandalorian to lead the way.

The air is cold this morning, so cold you tie your new scarf over your mouth and nose and still feel it sting in your throat. Your face, still raw from crying, stings too. Your hands are frozen shut around the reins and you can’t feel your fingers. When you try to move them, the action is painfully slow. You shiver despite the heavy coat on your shoulders as you sit hunched over to give the cold air less opportunity to cover your body with icy touches. You would never admit to it out loud because you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, but the Mandalorian was right – you would have frozen to death within a few hours of leaving the shelter of the settlement.

You raise your head briefly to look at him riding ahead of you, but he is the brightest object in a 10-mile radius, you think, brighter than your orbak’s fur or the snow-covered ground. Back in the settlement, you already noticed how the suns’ light reflects off his polished beskar armor, but out here in the forest with nothing around to distract your gaze, he is like a homing beacon, like a bright, blazing fire lit in complete darkness. This brazen display makes you shiver; he is on top of the food chain, too quick and powerful and deadly to hide his presence. He could be spotted from miles away by someone on a sentry tower and yet the person keeping watch wouldn’t stand a chance. The Mandalorian would catch them sooner or later, no matter how well they were trying to hide. Nothing can escape him, so there is no reason for him to hide his presence, to sneak from cover to cover like a thief in the night.

He frightens you.

What is also bearing down on you is the silence surrounding him, you and your orbaks. Yes, there is the sound of their hooves against the frozen ground, the swoosh of their fur every time they shake their heads, the soft thud whenever they brush up against a branch, making snow glide to the ground. But that’s it. That’s all you hear. The Mandalorian travels in complete silence. His armor doesn’t squeak or thump. You cannot hear the sound of his slow, steady breathing. Even his hands lie completely silently on the nape of his orbak’s neck, the reins resting against the worn leather of his gloves. And you envy him those gloves because the further you travel into the forest, the colder it gets, and the stiffer and more unresponsive your fingers get.

You cannot recall the last time you felt this uncomfortable. You wish there was something to distract you from – well – everything. Yes, you’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t ask you personal questions because you buried your old life beneath wet soil and dirt yesterday, and with it you buried any desire to share it with a complete stranger. He also doesn’t ask you about the men you’re hunting, and you feel like he doesn’t have to because he just knows. Maybe he talked to the people back at the settlement, maybe it’s the years of experience he’s had hunting people for a living or maybe it’s just instinct – he knows where he needs to be going, he knows what kind of equipment to bring along, and he knows what the best strategy is to catch his quarry.

You don’t know any of these things. And the more you stray from the bare minimum of human civilization and into the wilderness of Alvorine, the more you realize you wouldn’t stand a chance without the Mandalorian. You would’ve frozen to death if he hadn’t given you the coat. Or you would have starved, or died from exhaustion from trying to carry all your supplies yourself. You would have gotten lost and eaten alive by a wild beast. Or you would, by some miracle, have caught up with the men, but would’ve gotten killed by them because you didn’t bring a weapon. By the look of it, the Mandalorian brought enough for a small army. And the more you think about it, the more you are prepared to admit that you were never seriously planning on going after the bandits. You are prepared to admit you were just looking for a way out so you wouldn’t have to live with the pain. One or two rash decisions made from a place of hurt and despair, one or two unplanned steps can mean death on Alvorine. While wallowing in your revenge fantasies, you weren’t thinking about Brea – you were just thinking about yourself.

But somehow – and this time you’re convinced it’s because of his instincts – the Mandalorian offered you a chance at success, one you might not even have wanted. He listened to the people in that inn and decided helping you with your cause is the right job for him. You’ve never heard of a Mandalorian like that. You always assumed they were only interested in money or the thrill of chasing down the rich and the powerful, in letting them know that no amount of credits can keep them safe. But here he is, content with spending a week or more in the forests of Alvorine, hunting down base criminals for the ridiculous amount of 240 credits. It doesn’t add up. And you would ask him about it if he wasn’t an unapproachable, withdrawn man, covered in impenetrable armor. You would ask him if he didn’t terrify you so much.

You wish you could talk to him about … something, you just don’t know about what.

But he makes that decision for you. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His voice cuts so unexpectedly through the silence that you flinch. It somehow surprises you that he is real and not just a concept you’ve made up in your mind, and idea to help you live out your fantasies of revenge and vengeance.

When you don’t answer, he turns his head to look at you. You squint when you return his gaze, trying to make up your mind whether you are hungry or not (something that feels impossible when all you are is terribly, terribly cold), but then he pulls on the reins of his orbak and brings it to a halt in the middle of the path. He glides down from the animal in one swift movement; a small cloud of freshly fallen snow rises up when his feet hit the ground but there is still no sound and this is starting to unnerve you. It takes him a few steps until he’s next to you, the top of his head reaching your shoulder, even though you’re still mounted high on your orbak, and then he says in a rough, almost unkind tone of voice, “I asked you a question”.

And you remember the deal, you remember having agreed to doing as he tells you. It’s just, you don’t have an answer for him. So you just shrug.

He grabs the rein of your orbak and you finally – finally! – hear his movements make a sound, a low creak as the leather of his glove brushes against the leather of the bridle. The orbak shakes its shaggy head but he doesn’t flinch. His visor is directed at you and you know he expects an answer from you. He’s growing impatient, you can tell from the way his shoulders tense as he lets his gaze wander over your body.

“You’re hypothermic,” he observes, and as the words leave his mouth, so does the air you’ve been holding in and you start shaking uncontrollably.

Now that he’s pointed it out, there is no denying it. You’re cold, so, so cold, frozen and raw, you can’t feel your own lips, your nose, your cheeks. Your fingers are lifeless lumps against the coarse fur of your orbak. If the animal would decide to bolt at this very moment, you wouldn’t be able to hold it back. You’re not even sure you could climb down from the beast right now. Of all the deadly dangers of Alvorine it’s the cold that has finally gotten to you. It’s laughable, and you would laugh, if you could feel your face.

“Can you dismount?” he asks you then.

This is a question you can answer. “I think so,” you say, even though you know you can’t. Your legs are like two solid bricks of ice, too stiff to be moved.

“Do it then,” he says, and it sounds so much like a challenge that you’re determined to show him you can do it.

He doesn’t watch your pathetic display though. He lets go of the rein and walks to the third orbak that is carrying most of your supplies. You’re grateful for that because as soon as you try to dismount, you feel your body tense even more until you glide down from the orbak with a disgraceful plop and land in the soft snow with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The sounds you make draw the attention of the Mandalorian back to you, but he doesn’t rush to your side to offer you help. Instead, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, looking through one of the bags strapped to the pack animal. You’re convinced he rolls his eyes under the cover of the helmet.

You try to get up, and you manage after two fruitless attempts. Your legs are shaking, but at least they’re supporting your weight. Walking on them is another topic you’re not prepared to cover yet. And then you feel it again, that hot sting of embarrassment you felt this morning, trying to make itself known by speeding up your heart rate and adding a feeling of nausea to your general discomfort. You push it down without batting an eyelash. There is no reason to feel like this, especially if you compare yourself to the Mandalorian. Not everyone can be a ruthless killing machine, immune to environmental influences.

Then he’s back by your side, and with a gruff, “Hold this,” he pushes a heating pad into your hands. You’re not sure at first if it’s switched on because you don’t feel anything, but when you move it around in your hands looking for the on button you notice it’s cranked up to the highest setting.

“You need to tell me when you’re cold,” the Mandalorian continues in the same gruff tone of voice, while he unscrews a flask.

Once it’s opened, he pushes it into your hand with such force you stumble backwards. Your whole body tenses at the contact and you realize you’re completely alone with him. There is not another living soul around for miles except for the three animals next to you, and they won’t come to your aid if he suddenly decides to kill you. And he could. He is so strong; you had no idea how strong until he pushed you back like that with a motion that didn’t seem to take any effort at all. And with another effortless motion, he could close a hand around your neck and squeeze until there is no air left in your body. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Drink,” he orders.

You do. It’s a hot liquid – tea, you think – but with a bitter taste to it. It warms you up instantly, much quicker than the heating pad does. You still can’t feel your fingers.

“Just tell me next time,” he repeats. “Losing a finger to hypothermia is a nasty business.”

And now you do feel embarrassed again. You’re a burden, you’re slowing him down. You already lost a quarter of an hour because you can’t handle a bit of cold. It’s not surprising he usually works alone. No one is able to keep up with him, least of all you in your weakened, exhausted state.

But you can’t turn back. You refuse to give up so easily.

You nod to show him you’ve understood his instructions. Then you let your gaze wander around, looking for something to distract you. You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm drink or the heating pad. You know it doesn’t because you’re still shivering. But you’re not going to apologize to him. For some reason, you feel like he would just brush it off, act like it’s no big deal. But it is to you, and you wouldn’t be able to bear him acting nonchalantly. The other possible response to an apology from you would be him trying to comfort you and you definitely. don’t. want. that. The mere thought makes your heart beat so rapidly it feels like it’s going to explode any second. The mere thought of one of his hands resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture makes you want to run. You don’t want him to care for you because it’s entirely at odds with his character, his whole being. He is here to hunt and kill, not to hold and comfort. And this is what you need right now – a killer, not a caretaker.

You take a few steps, walk past him toward a fallen tree to calm your nerves. The deep breaths of cold air you take make you cough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Good. You’re usually not like this, you’re usually not someone who can’t take care of themselves. After all, you’ve lived on Alvorine your entire life, you know how harsh the winters can be and how dangerous the cold is. But yesterday’s events broke something in you, and the realization that you might never recover from it begins to dawn on you, take hold of you with a grip icier than the snow clinging to your worn-out boots. The weight of what happened to you slams into you with full force and you have to lean against a tree, its rough bark scraping uncomfortably against your cold, bare hand.

And then you see it – the bloodstain. One single, impossibly small, impossibly red bloodstain on the virgin-white snow. And everything stops.

You lurch forward and fall to your knees to examine it more closely. Yes, it’s definitely blood. You raise your head to look around, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just trees and snow and your own footprints. Your breath comes in short, labored bursts, and you suddenly don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all.

“What is it?”

The Mandalorian is there, crouching by your side. You point to the small, red dot, and he raises his hand to touch his helmet. His body grows rigid as he examines it, all the while not moving an inch. You don’t want to hear his verdict, don’t want to hear the conclusion he’s come to. That bloodstain stirs something inside you, a panic with such deep roots you feel it taking over your entire body, growing like weed, choking all other feelings, all life out of you.

Something in your body language must have given away this panic you feel, because suddenly the Mandalorian turns to you and says, “I need you to calm down.”

You nod, unable to speak. Then you turn your head away from him and throw up.

“Hey,” he says, and something in his voice catches your attention. It sounds almost … soft.

You turn back to him, running your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“I’m going to look around,” he tells you. Then he raises his hand as if to comfort you, but you flinch away from him. His hand hovers outstretched between the two of you for a brief moment before he lowers it again. “Just stay here. Try to eat something. I won’t be long.”

He pushes himself off the ground, towering over you. You stand up too, your legs shaking, but before you can embarrass yourself more by stumbling into him, he takes off in a slow-paced run and you stare after him until the trees swallow him up. And then you’re alone. Alone with three orbaks and your panicked mind.

It’s not Brea’s blood, you tell yourself.

But what if it is? a different voice asks.

It’s not. It snowed during the night, and we’re too far behind those bandits. It can’t be hers.

It can, you know it can. They could have left her here to die.

There would be more tracks.

Then why are you panicking? Why did you throw up?

You can’t argue with that. Instead, you sink to the ground again, bury your head in your hands, and scream. You scream so loudly that even though the sound comes out muffled, the orbaks still move their heads nervously. A few trees away, a flock of birds takes off, chittering in disapproval. You scream until your lungs begin to burn, until your throat stings, until you feel like you’ve just sprinted ten miles. Then you grow quiet.

***

When the Mandalorian returns, it’s almost dark. You’re not freezing anymore because you spent the last two hours or so pacing up and down the path through the undergrowth you’ve made earlier, your mind racing with scenarios of him not returning before nightfall. You fear the nights on Alvorine and you know you should have told him about the dangers these forests hold. Because how could he have known that it’s almost impossible to survive a night out in the wilderness? Almost because if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When he returns, the pauldron on his right shoulder is smeared with dirt and his chest is heaving with silent pants, but he’s alone. You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” he decides without so much as a greeting.

You open your mouth to tell him how dangerous that would be but then close it again when you remember the nearest settlement is miles and miles away and you wouldn’t reach it in time before nightfall. You don’t have any other choice.

He sends you to collect some wood while he moves to tie up the orbaks. You scold yourself for not having done that earlier when you were waiting for him, but you had hoped it wouldn’t take him quite as long and he would be back sooner. As you move around, picking up the driest branches you can find, you glance over at him from time to time. He is lost in his own task, tying the reins to nearby tree trunks, patting one orbak’s neck, then scratching another one’s muzzle. They trust him, stand completely still in his presence while he circles them, examining them for any injuries or anything that might cause them discomfort.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of you. “What did you find?” you ask, as you break a big, dead branch into two parts.

“Nothing,” he replies in his brusque fashion you’re slowly getting used to. “A dead animal.”

You nod, then focus on the task at hand. Your small discovery and subsequent … breakdown? … panic attack? … you don’t know what to call it, has already cost you so much time. You could’ve covered twice the distance today if he hadn’t stopped here because of you. But … this isn’t a rescue mission, you keep forgetting about that. This is a quest for revenge, and those bandits will be there, no matter how long it will take you to find them. It doesn’t matter if it takes you two days or two months to reach them.

“Did you eat?” the Mandalorian asks you, interrupting your train of thought.

You shake your head and he sighs. Then he reaches into one of the saddle bags and pulls out a ration pack, tossing it to you. He proceeds to clear away the snow around the small pile of wood you’ve collected before doing something with his arm, so flames shoot out of the vambrace, igniting the stack. You can’t help but stare in fascination because you’ve never seen anything like it.

It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going. You grab one of the two bundled up, coarse blankets from the pack orbak and spread it on the ground next to the heat source, huddling up close for warmth and protection. You tear open the ration pack and begin to eat.

“I should’ve told you before, but it’s dangerous out here at night.” Your mouth full, you watch as the Mandalorian sits down opposite you, the fire between you. The warmth spreading through your body and your steadily filling stomach make you talkative. “There’s monsters in these woods.”

He chuckles softly but you’re sure it’s just your imagination. There is no way you could’ve heard a sound like that over the crackling fire. But before you can ask him about it, he raises his hand to remove the dirty pauldron from his shoulder, and you’re so distracted by that piece of steel being lifted off the body it usually protects that you stop thinking altogether for a moment. It’s stupid, you know that, but a part of you still thinks he might be a machine, and seeing that pauldron being removed from his shoulder feels almost forbidden, like you’re the audience to some ancient, sacred ritual you have no right to observe. You lower your gaze to the flickering flames.

“I’ll keep an eye out for those monsters,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if he meant for it to sound mockingly, but it doesn’t.

You still don’t think he fully believes you.

“Alvorine is a dangerous planet,” you tell him in a quiet tone of voice. “It might not seem like it compared to what you’re used to, but to us the dangers are very real.” You’re still not looking at him, but there is no point – you can’t see his face anyway.

“I believe you,” he says. “But fire is usually enough to keep the monsters at bay.”

As a response, you nod, even though you’re not sure he’s watching you. So you finally raise your head again to look at him. The pauldron is back on his shoulder, but his gaze is directed at the orbaks.

“I’m going to feed them,” he tells you. “They’re getting restless. Try to get some sleep.”

You nod again and stretch out on the cold, hard ground. Shivering, you pull your coat tighter around yourself. The fire is barely warm enough to keep your fingers and toes from falling off, and once it dies down, there won’t be anything keeping you from freezing to death. Briefly, you’re considering pulling the blanket out from beneath you to use it as a cover, but then you wouldn’t have anything to protect you from the cold ground. With a sigh, you close your eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. Instead, you focus on the sounds around you, on the branches brushing against each other when a cold breeze tears at them, on the orbaks huffing impatiently and almost nervously, and on the crackling fire, the heat that makes a piece of wood snap in half ever so often. And then you hear another sound, footsteps, and your eyes snap open again.

The Mandalorian towers over you, and it’s the first time you were able to hear him approach. Instead of feeling proud of yourself, you bolt upright, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Whatever happens next, you know you don’t stand a chance against him. He slowly leans down, and you try to get away from him, but your muscles are frozen stiff and don’t cooperate. His arms move as if to grab you and a strangled cry escapes your throat.

But it’s just a blanket, just the other blanket, and he wraps it tightly around your shoulders. “Here,” he says with a low grunt. If he noticed your alarm, he doesn’t comment on it.

You look at his helmet reflecting the light of the dancing flames, and you wish you knew what was going on beneath it. Is he offended? Annoyed? Or maybe just as cold and exhausted as you?

“What about you?” you ask, grabbing the coarse material to hold it tightly against your body.

“I’m not cold,” he answers, standing up again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before sunrise.”

You watch him walk back to the other side of the fire and settle down on the cold ground with just his cape to keep him warm. And for the first time since you met him, his stoic presence doesn’t fill you with dread or panic or trepidation – he just makes you feel calm.

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