#Hopefully you didn’t take the volcanic one

[totally-oregon]

i stole your nose, sorry

@gimmick-nose-thief

Can you at least take the broken one :(

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And Eat It, Too - Chapter Five: An Offer

In which Martin plays peacemaker, Elias is creepy, and Michael makes A Very Interesting Offer that sends Jon into one heck of a tailspin...

>>> NOW ON AO3!

There is monster-wooing afoot.

Also, this is the ONLY time Jon smokes a cigarette in this entire fic. He didn't like it.

(Masterpost including playlist)

*

CHAPTER FIVE

Jon’s charging his phone.

Everyone is hungry. It all smells of smoke. The firefighters are upstairs, and Elias is busy with police and insurance (and, Jon thinks, hopefully not pinning anything on anybody).

The rest sit in his office, staring at each other in the gloom.

His desk is the same—piled with papers, with cassette tapes, with hastily-scribbled notes and a filing system that makes sense only to him.

Tim and Martin sit across from him. Basira, Daisy, and Melanie are all missing, but there’s a reason for that. Nobody asks, so Jon doesn’t tell.

“You,” says Tim, and he’s shaking so hard with rage and bitterness that it practically oozes out of his pores. “You kept this from me.”

“Nobody kept anything from you, Tim. You haven’t been talking to anybody,” Martin tries, placating, gentle.

Jon looks at his phone. Five percent. He wants to get it to ten before he takes it upstairs to listen to his voicemails.

“How dare you do this to me,” says Tim.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon snaps. “Nothing’s been kept from you. You haven’t spoken two words to me since I came back, and—”

“Oh, right, and you just happened to keep the Circus out of my hearing, is that it?”

What does that matter to you? Jon wants to say, but he doesn’t, oh no, because it isn’t just a question.

He can feel the statement in Tim, a story untold, and the urge to make him say it is so strong that Jon’s mouth tastes strange.

“Nobody’s kept anything,” says Martin. “Tim, talk to us. What’s going on?”

No, Jon thinks. I won’t compel him. He was my friend. No, you big bloody eyeball.

Tim breaths hard. Runs his hand through his hair. Glares at Jon.

Jon throws his hands in the air. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a start.”

“Well, fine! I’m sorry I didn’t magically know  who killed Gertrude and might be out for me! I’m sorry I had to be sure it wasn’t any of you because I didn’t want to die!”

“I’m sorry, too,” says Tim.

“Oh?” says Jon, allowing the tiniest flutter of stupid hope.

“Sorry I didn’t call the police on you while you were stalking my house!”

“All right, enough, this isn’t helping,” Martin says with more force than usual, and by some miracle, it works.

Or at least, it quiets.

Jon’s face burns. He doesn’t know how to apologize more for his behavior, when he hadn’t realized he was being fed paranoia like air. If he had the words, he’d use them.

He misses Tim. Misses his invasive and unnecessary cheer. Misses his stupid pranks.

He doesn’t know the words.

“Let’s focus, all right?” says Martin. “The Circus. Tim… why does that mean something to you?”

And Jon can feel the story, feel the truth rising up in Tim like volcanic spew, and he wants it, he needs it, he craves it—

Jon literally bites his tongue, locks it down, fights the power that would drag this statement from Tim whether he wanted to speak or not.

“Fine,” says Tim.

Jon exhales in relief. Then Tim starts talking, and Jon forgets to breathe.

#

“I’m sorry, Tim,” he says, very softly.

“Me, too,” says Martin.

Tim isn’t looking at them. He started crying at some point, but nobody called it out; crying as he described his brother, crying as he touched on the last, brief time he saw him alive, crying as he confesses the shame that if he’d known it was the last, he’d never have just left him there on the living room couch.

Then the rage comes back, and the tears stop coming.

(And fear, oh yes, Jon can feel the tremors of old terror eating away at Tim’s nerves as he describes the thing wearing Danny’s skin, tries and fails to excuse his half-mad flight instead of staying, fighting, doing something, dying for brotherly love.)

“It’s why I joined the Institute. I wanted answers,” says Tim, wiping his face with a napkin from Martin’s impromptu tea service.  He wouldn’t accept the tissues Jon offered. (“Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re not poisoned,” Jon had snapped, and Martin had to calm them both down again.) “I’ve been looking for years. And If you think,” Tim continues, “for one damn second that you can keep me out of this—”

“No one’s going to keep you out of anything,” soothes Martin.

“I am,” says Jon, and they both look at him with equal levels of exasperation—but only one of them is fond.

“Like hell you are,” says Tim.

“This is dangerous! Do you think I want you hurt? Do you think Danny would want you to die for this?” says Jon.

Martin’s face tells Jon that was a bad thing to say.

Tim half-rises from his seat. He’s not as large as Michael, no, but he is a strong, fit man; his fists are clenched, his shoulders tightening.

Breekon and Hope’s handling flashes through Jon’s mind, and he freezes.

“The Stranger is very cruel,” says Michael from the side. “Far worse than me, if you think about it.”

Martin scrambles off his chair and to the opposite wall, trembling.

Tim stands, fist raised. Hesitates.

Jon is so tired. “Hello, Michael. Thank you for getting rid of the book, and… you know.” He makes a snipping motion.

Michael hasn’t decided on its form, apparently—it’s human-like, but too long, too stretched out; the hands are terrifying, and something in its eyes swirls like galaxies. “I can’t have you going mad yet, Archivist. You haven’t stopped the Unknowing.”

“You are working together!” Tim accuses, as if catching Jon red-handed.

“As of two days ago, yes,” snaps Jon, “because no matter what you think, my primary goal is preventing us all being skinned alive without remembering our names!”

“Oh, like they were about to do to you! How clever, Archivist!” Michael claps its hands.

Tim looks confused. “What?”

“Tim,” Martin stage-whispers. “He’s been kidnapped. For a month. By the Circus.”

Tim’s expression hits so many things at once that Jon can’t follow them, and can only hope at least one of them was favorable. “I don’t care!” Tim shouts. “Maybe he was there on purpose! Or maybe he did it to himself, spying on the wrong person!”

Jon can’t do this anymore. Not now, not today. He unplugs his phone and walks out the door.

“Jon!” Martin calls.

Michael laughs.

Jon does not engage.

#

Jon, did you get a new place? You owe me that address, Oh, and the Admiral says you’ve never fed him once in your life. Georgie.

Jon, call me back. We found Melanie, but... it’s not good. Call me. Basira.

Hey—don’t go quiet on me now, Sims. Not after everything. Georgie.

Jon. She’s killed someone. I don’t know if we can do this. Basira.

Hi… Jon? I… I don’t… I’m scared. Melanie.

Jon, just to remind you, I’ve still got your tapes, so you really need to call me back. Georgie.

Jon exhales. The phone is down to seven percent, is still updating itself over cellular data, and will not last if he tries to make calls.

He doesn't need a phone for his next step, though.

There was a statement from New Zealand in 2014—just one. The good news is he doesn’t have to go there; the bad news is, he has to go chase down a traffic warden.

He checks his phone. Six percent.

“Great. A metaphor,” Jon mumbles, and reaches for a cigarette.

He hadn’t smoked in years before all of this started. He’d been so proud of himself, quitting, but here he is, in the back courtyard, staring at dead trees and puffing tar.

So powerful, me, he thinks wryly, blowing carcinogens into the wind. Remarkable specimen.

“Really, Jon?” says Elias, coming up from behind him. “Smoking, after the place has been on fire? That seems rather pointed.”

“At least it’s only a cigarette and not you,” Jon mutters, unthinking, then stiffens.

Elias doesn’t take the bait. “If, in all this research, you ever find out why Gertrude decided to firebomb the place she’d called her own for fifty years, do let me know.”

Jon pushes. “Pity you didn’t bother to learn how she planned to stop the Unknowing before you killed her.”

“Yes, well. I saw her with gasoline and flame and I… overreacted. I don’t do it often, Jon.”

“Oh, I know,” he scowls, studying the lit end of his cancer stick. “Getting a real reaction out of you is almost impossible. Apparently, it’s this,” he gestures at all of Elias, “or murder.”

Elias smiles. “How nice of you to say.”

Jon sighs, puffing out his cheeks. “Why did she do it?”

“I don’t know. As I’ve repeatedly said, I stayed out of her head as much as possible.”

Jon is not sure he believes that. “How do I earn that honor?”

“You don’t. I’m afraid I learned my lesson with her.”

Yet another sin of Gertrude’s that Jon has to pay for. “To hell with Gertrude, then,” says Jon, toasting nothing.

Elias smiles tightly. “Martin is looking for you.”

Jon flinches. “And Tim?”

“Hiding in the archives. You won’t see him if you go before closing.”

Jon looks at him sidelong. “Go?”

“To Piccadilly. A traffic warden, isn’t it? Don’t worry about any of the forms. I’ll count this as work hours.”

Jon rubs his face. “You know, you could make yourself useful and actually help us.”

Elias smiles again. His coat flutters a little, caught in a low breeze. “I do help—just not in ways you see. It would do little good for me to approach your traffic warden, anyway. I may have some abilities—”

Jon scoffs.

“—but you are the Archivist. You have power to pull the truth from people in a way I never could.”

“You read minds.”

“That is not the same as summoning one’s past, eloquently and without deceit.”

Jon knits his brow.

“You will have such powers as I could never dream, in time. You will thank me someday, Jon.”

Jon doubts all of that.

He stubs out the cigarette (it wasn’t satisfying, and he chooses to blame Elias), starts to leave, stops. “Why did you even hire me?” He stands to Elias’ side, not looking at him. “I was in research, not library science or archival anything. You know I wasn’t qualified for this position.”

Elias turns toward him, gray eyes alight. “Perhaps not in the traditional sense, Jon—but you are qualified for it. More than,” he says, low and strangely warm.

Then he touches Jon’s arm.

Jon jumps back and hurls a scowl.

Elias is smug, getting whatever he gets out of Jon’s stupid little reactions.

But eye contact has yielded things, or maybe that unexpected touch, because Jon knows all of a sudden a thing that makes no sense, that needs context, that sticks out to him like a heated poker. “She was trying to kill you.”

Breeze picks up around them, ruffling Elias’ hair, skittering leaves across the cement. “Oh, Jon, you are improving.”

(Why? What did she know? Why would she place Elias on the same level as a fear-god’s ritual? What did she think burning the place would achieve? Would Elias actually die?)

Jon opens his mouth, unable to stop, unable to keep them all inside—

“Jon?”

Martin has found them.

Jon suddenly fears putting Martin in danger. “Hello, Martin,” he says with poor exuberance, trying to take attention as he marches for the door.

Elias looks amused. Jon ignores him.

“I listened to that pig thing,” says Martin. “What was that about?”

“Fear,” says Jon.

“A monster pig? Really? It’s so weird.”

Because Martin hadn’t read the statement. Martin wasn’t close enough to the Eye to feel some poor vintner’s horror by just listening to a tape. “They’re all weird, Martin,” says Jon expansively, and drags the larger man back inside.

#

He hasn’t talked to Georgie.

Basira won’t answer her phone.

Neither will Melanie.

Jon will not call Daisy.

He hopes he hasn’t sent them all to their deaths.

“Penny for your thoughts, Archivist?” says Michael from across the Chinese food cartons.

Jon won’t look at it. He feels heavy. “They’re not worth anything, I’m afraid.”

“Poor Archivist.” Michael uses its fingers like chopsticks and steals a few noodles. “Always so worried about all the wrong things. Gertrude was much more focused, you know.”

Jon makes a note not to eat anything from that particular carton. “I don’t care about Gertrude. Though I have to go to Beijing because she did.”

“That is a sentence,” says Michael.

Jon leans back. He hasn’t removed the sheets from the furniture. He may have come back here a second night, but that just feels a step too far. “There’s a… sister organization to the Magnus Institute. Gertrude did something there, and I have to go see what. The flight’s going to be hell,” he mutters.

“I could take you,” offers Michael. “For a price.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even asked me what I want yet.”

“I thought you were a what. Since when do you want anything?”

Michael laughs and offers him the carton.

To hell with it, says Jon, who really likes lo mein, and takes a bite, anyway. It probably won’t kill him.

“All I want is to have an… easier time giving you my nightly gift,” says Michael.

“Mm?” Jon blinks at it, mouth full.

Michael sighs, twists, peers at him upside down. “You do fight me. Constantly, you know. All I want is to be closer while you sleep.”

“I do not fi- closer! You’re already practically on top of me.”

Its fingertips touch his cheek. It moved so quickly he didn’t see it, and he nearly chokes. “You do fight me. Every night so far, Archivist. It is tiresome.”

Should he feel guilty for that?

Should he not feel guilty for that?

“If I make contact with you while you sleep, you will recall I am there. That is all, Archivist.”

“Closer than just in the bed?”

“Oh, yes.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I’m giving a lot,” it says with a too-wide smile.

Jon is so tired.

“I suppose it makes sense, in a way,” he says to the fried rice. “The only people who want to be near me are either deluded, or monsters.”

Michael laughs. “And which category would you say I fall into?”

“I’m fairly sure you are in a category all your own.”

Michael finds that absolutely delightful. It’s still laughing as Jon tucks all the cartons into the fridge.

A trip to Beijing for a touch as he’s sleeping.

What is it trying to do? Is it telling the truth?

Surely it would make no difference to his safety. If the thing wanted to stab him through the throat at night, or in the day, there is precisely nothing Jon could do to stop it.

Powerful, he thinks, bitter. So powerful I can make traffic cops confess to taking bribes, but know nothing about the monster asking to touch me in my sleep. Yes, I’ll shake the foundations of the world, for certain.

Wearing someone else’s pajamas, he sits on the settee.

“The bed would be more comfortable,” Michael suggests in a tone too syrupy to be anything but a facetious come-on.

“Oh, good lord,” Jon mutters, and then his phone rings. “Georgie,” he says into it with great relief.

“There you are! Settling in? Got a hotel? Moved in with a monster, maybe?” says Georgie, who is clearly just ranting, but she’s also too close.

“I… it’s a borrowed place. For now. I have to head out of the country.”

A pause. “Did Elias kill someone again?”

“No.” Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s only done it twice.”

He doesn’t have to be able to see Georgie to know the face she’s making. “Okay,” she says. “You’re not staying with him, are you?”

“No!”

Another pause. “You’re not giving me your address, are you?”

“This is a temporary location. I don’t have an apartment yet. Just… send things to the Institute, and I’ll get them there.”

“Sure.”

He’s hurt her. “Georgie…”

“You’re a big boy, Jon. You can make your own choices.”

“Georgie—”

“Let me know when you’re back, at least. Okay? Night.” She hangs up before he can say anything else.

“Oh, Archivist,” thrums Michael, and how did Jon not notice it stretching out like some kind of play-doh, leaning over the table and coming so close that its face is right next to his? “Such uncertainty!”

Jon presses back against the settee. One corner of the sheet comes loose. “What are you talking about?”

“Your friend,” Michael says with a face that is not at all human, all teeth and none, all eyes and none, too many heads or no heads, and every variation makes Jon doubt the one he thought he saw before. “So much uncertainty when it comes to your friend.”

(Did I do the right thing, was it worth it, was I a fool, was she a fool, should I have stayed, should I have never asked for her help, should I have never said yes when she asked me out in the first place, should I just have said yes when she wanted to go further, did I damn her when I did say yes to going out…)

Michael is right, but Jon’s not happy it knows. “M…” He swallows, pressing back further. “My friend is… my life is none of your business.”

“I disagree.”

Jon breathes too fast. “Are you going to kill me right now?”

It’s so close as it sighs. “It seems the subtle approach is useless with you, Archivist.”

“Subtle approach? To what?”

And it practically purrs: “Do you want to be seen?”

Whatever that means, and yet—

Oh, thinks Jon.

“No,” says Jon.

Yes, feels Jon, feels everything inside him that he doesn’t want to be, but is, and he shudders.

“It doesn’t matter in the end,” says Michael, “but I wonder if it is connected: you need to see, to be seen—so why do you resist?” says Michael, and rests its knife-sharp hands on his nightshirt.

Jon is frozen. He swallows. “What do you mean?”

“It Knows You would bless you with all its gifts if you would only give yourself to it fully,” Michael says, smooth, its distorted voice coated in honey. “It likes you.”

“It doesn’t like anything,” snaps Jon, sharper with his rising fear, sharper with his rising confusion because he isn’t asking Michael to stop, and he should be, he should be, but he is so curious. What the hell is it doing? “It’s just an… an eye, a great big… paranoia machine, watching everybody all the time, and… and not giving a flip about any of it!”

“It does, Archivist,” Michael purrs.

Jon swallows. (Is it trying to intimidate him? Is this about getting closer at night? What is it trying to do?) “Nonsense.”

“It likes you very much. Almost as much as I do.” And it kisses the tip of his nose.

Jon startles badly and tries to shove it away.

His hands sink into the shoulders, up to the wrist with the force he put into it, and he wrenches them back with a little cry.

They tingle.

They… both tingle.

Jon stares at his right hand.

The bandages have come loose, pulled by whatever the hell Michael is made of. The old burns are clearly visible through it—burns in the shape of a hand, cruel indentations, marring his flesh like wax.

He never feels anything with this hand. He can’t. Jude Perry saw to that.

“Archivist,” Michael sings at him, ignored.

“I felt that,” Jon whispers, and touches his hand. But no, he imagined it. His right hand feels dead, as always; the Eye healed it enough that he can move it, write with it, do whatever, but it has no sensation where Jude burned him.

Michael draws its fingertips along the ugly valleys Jude’s grip made.

Jon was wrong. It tingles, like the cells are coming awake. He gasps. “How are you doing that?”

“Delusion, Archivist. All sensation is but what is perceived, after all.”

“So it’s a lie, and the hand feels nothing.”

“Oh, Archivist, why do you insist on labels?” Michael sighs again, and draws its claws down his chest.

It isn’t cutting him—isn’t even catching on the sleepshirt—but every scar from Prentiss’ attack suddenly comes to life just like his hand, and he gasps as they light up, everywhere, dancing over his face and torso and legs, brilliant spots of past pain and now…

It feels like stars, he thinks inanely.

Then he panics.

“Get off me!” he says, shoves it again, but this time, Michael is solid, and Michael goes—sliding back across the table, retracting to its position on the couch, smiling at him in elongated-Michael form.

It licks its lips at him.

“What was that supposed to be?” snaps Jon.

Michael tilts its head. “An offer,” it says.

“For what?”

Michael’s look is pitying. “Oh, Archivist.”

Oh.

The penny drops.

Never in his wildest dreams—literally—had he considered that a creature made from fear and nightmares would proposition him.

(Is a monster actually trying to seduce me? Would it get anything out of it? Do they even have parts? Why would it ask for this? Am I misreading this? Will Michael be angry if I answer wrong?)

He knows he’s terrible at picking up that particular kind of clue. He only figured out Georgie was interested when she fisted his t-shirt in both hands and said, I want to date you, you absolute nerd.

Michael is still silent, watching the cogs turn.

It can’t be serious.

The Eye helpfully sends a few key statements through his head, the very few where sex came up in any way, and they are rare—the Entities love trauma, but they don’t seem to care about sexual trauma. Which means the only mentions of sex, anywhere, are about bliss.

No, he thinks, panicking, no, it’s about infesting people, and infecting them, and turning them into something else—

“You are very afraid now,” observes Michael, looking riveted.

“Of course I am! Do you… what does… why would you even offer such a thing?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Jon curls his legs on the sofa.

He’s still tingling, faintly, a memory of stars.

Michael just watches him, and right now, Jon can’t do the silence. “I need to know why. Can you even do that? What’s sex, to you? What, turning people’s reproductive organs into corkscrews? Making them think they’re having sex with the wrong people?”

“When asked,” says Michael.

“Someone asked for that?” Jon blurts.

“You are not asking for that,” says Michael as though it’s supposed to be comforting.

“Is your… sleep offer a sex thing?” Jon says, preemptively bristling.

Michael laughs. “No? Do you want it to be?”

“No!” He stammers. “You… what would you even know about sex?”

“At least as much as humans do,” says Michael, who has somehow slithered to lie facing the other direction on its own chosen couch. It peers at John, chin resting on its too-long hands, looking freakish. “You know how humans worship, Archivist. Praise, artistry, destruction, sacrifice, intimacy…”

Jon feels pale.

“Humans give themselves to what they worship,” says Michael, as if Jon’s just not quite getting it.

Jon is getting it. “You’ve had sex?”

“Yes.”

He has to know. “The… worker-of-clay?”

“When asked.”

It looks amused.

Jon is in shock, affronted in a confused and distant way,  but…

He’s also curious.

He does not particularly want sex. It doesn’t come to mind at all, usually. Orgasms are fine. Occasionally necessary. Messy and blessedly over quickly. But one of the reasons he and Georgie couldn’t make it work was she wanted sex, and he didn’t.

This doesn’t feel like that. Jon’s not sure he dares to define it. “You swear the… touching me when I sleep isn’t a sex thing.”

Michael tilts its head. “It is not a ‘sex thing,’ Archivist,” it reaffirms.

“You won’t… you won’t touch me anywhere I… don’t want.”

“I will not.”

“Well, good. Well… good,” says Jon, desperately casting about for a subject change. “You said the Eye likes me. It doesn’t have opinions.”

“Of course it does, Archivist. It prefers you, in fact.”

Leitner told him it didn’t think at all, much less have tastes. He frowns. “How would you know?”

Michael tilts its head. “You yourself are a tapestry devoted to its love. It has preserved you through that which should have taken your life—and received so little in exchange.”

Jon huffs, looks down, tensing. “That’s… that’s just….”

Michael laughs. “Do you think just anyone could survive what you have suffered?” And it’s sliding closer again, coming nearer again, and Jon doesn’t move (though he should), but instead he sits there and waits for it to get to him.

Michael pauses over him. It hasn’t rested against him yet, hasn’t lowered its weight. “Do you want me not to touch you, Archivist?”

What a question.

“I…”

Jon isn’t sure.

“I’m…”

Michael has not moved, close, hovering, not making contact. Its human face is unreadable, but whatever lies behind its eyes focuses on him, fixed, intense, waiting.

Jon swallows. “If I say no, you’ll go back to your couch?”

“If you say no, I will withdraw.”

No one—absolutely no one—in the last few years has ever bothered asking Jon’s permission.

He’s been burned, scarred, cut; groped, thrown into the air, threatened.

No one has asked whether he wanted them to touch him. No one has cared if he said no.

For some reason, Jon believes Michael means it.

It makes no sense. Why would the Distortion give a damn about consent? It eats people inside itself, driving them slowly crazy.

But this isn’t the Distortion, he thinks. This is Michael.

Jon isn’t sure what that means. The Eye, maybe, trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t make sense. It is the Distortion. And yet—

Michael waits.

“What would you do, if I said… what are you going to do now if I say yes?”

“Rest upon you. Acclimate you to my touch, my presence.”

Jon swallows. “Nothing more?”

“Only if asked, Archivist.”

“What if I change my mind?”

“If you say no, I will withdraw.”

Jon wants to know if it means it. Jon wants to know how it feels. Jon wants the power of saying yes or no.

Jon wants to say yes. “All right.”

It settles against him again, neither heavy nor light, neither warm nor cold, confusing his senses, making the room slightly blurry around them. Michael’s fingers are so sharp, so long, so careful. “The Mother of Puppets marked you as a child—long, long ago,” it says, and touches his temple.

It could kill me so easily, he thinks, but does not ask it to stop. “The Web.”

“But It Knows You claimed you before that, did it not?” Michael moves its fingers to just below his eyes.

Jon swallows again, breathing more quickly. “The Eye. I… Elias says so. I was… I was insatiable, as a child. For knowledge.”

“And now, too, I think,” Michael chuckles, and this close, Jon can feel it, shiver with it. It’s not quite the stars of before, but it is… distracting.

That’s when he realizes he’s not wincing at the laugh anymore.

What did that mean? Was it due to exposure? Had Michael done something to him? Was he growing strong as Elias? (He knows that’s not it.)

“I marked you here.” Its fingertips touch his left forearm, where a long, dull scar shows evidence of its attention. “When you tried to… attack me most unwisely,” says Michael, and its amusement is a palpable thing.

Jon scowls. “That took five stitches, by the way.”

“A warning, Archivist, nothing more. I could have done much worse to you.” 

“You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it,” Jon grouses.

Michael makes a dreadful sound, a humming, pulsing sound that Jon can feel in every nerve in his body, and it is terrifying, and it is wonderful,  and he thinks, Another warning and Maybe that’s what the Spiral itself sounds like laughing and Can a living embodiment of a concept laugh and—

And he’s still not asking it to stop.

“Be careful touching that, Archivist. It is my mark, and it is connected to me.” And then before Jon can parse that little gem, “While I cannot speak for anyone else who’s left you alive, I found I… did not want to kill you just yet. It was a very strange moment for me. Almost memorable.”

It’s more on him now, pressing him into the settee. “I have to wonder why,” Jon says, heart thumping (it feels so good why does it feel so good).

Michael doesn’t answer that. “And look what happened next! The Flesh Hive nearly had you, Archivist, in spite of my warnings.”

Jon swallows, thinking of Prentiss, thinking of Benoît Maçon blissfully embracing his giant cockroach bride while its children ate him. Why was it that the most repulsive of the Fears—the Crawling Rot, the Filth—seemed to engender the most intimate love from its victims?

When Prentiss came, Jon heard their song. Heard them call. He did not listen.

(What if he had? Would they have even let him die? Would he be shambling through the night like Prentiss, dripping worms and hissing weirdly at people and seducing them to death by infestation and horror?)

Michael lets him spin until his heart rate picks up, then slides its fingertips back to his chest, over his shirt, and all those tiny pricks where worms tried to kill him flare back to life.

Jon inhales.

“I would like to continue, Archivist.”

Is it asking for further permission? Why? “Yes. Yes, she—Jane Prentiss. The Corruption. You warned us. Y… your help is the only reason we survived.”

“Yes.” Michael’s almost-human eyes don’t leave Jon’s as it slides those fingertips to his right hand. “The Ravening Burn.”

“Jude Perry,” Jon growls. “The Desolation.”

“Mm.” Michael seems less impressed with the wielders of the Lightless Flame, and moves on. It slides its fingertips back to Jon’s chest, spreading them wide as his lungs. “The Falling Titan.”

Jon does not understand what’s happening. He’s never felt like this in his life, not once; a strange hyper-awareness, nerves a-buzz, skin both too tight and too warm.

He wants Michael to touch him. Actively wants it.

“Th-the Vast.” Jon stammers. “Mike Crew. He... he was….” Jon stops. It had ended so badly.

Michael’s fingertips go to his neck—to the ragged, white scar there that Daisy carved into him after she shot Crew, to the place where she was going through the voice box, until Basira arrived to stop her. “The Call of Blood rarely leaves victims breathing.”

“She wouldn’t have. The Hunt… It was close.” It’s not over, his gut instinct says, it is only delayed.

He won’t listen to that. He has to trust that Daisy won’t kill him. Has to.

“I Do Not Know You has marked you very deeply,” murmurs Michael, “which is why, without me, you would dream them still.”

“The Stranger. The Circus. I know.” It’s a whisper.

“And now, the Slaughter.” Michael touches Jon’s shoulder, which looks like the stitches are ready to come out.

Jon hopes Michael doesn’t do that now. Things feel… good, and that most definitely would not.

Michael’s voice is smooth, penetrative, buzzing under his skin. “I have existed since there has been awareness itself, since the very fear of delusion, Archivist… and I have never seen anyone as broadly claimed as you.”

It’s not smiling.

Jon doesn’t know what to do with that. “I suppose I’m bait for bullies of all stripes, then,” he tries to joke.

It says nothing.

“I’m not lucky,” Jon says, unsure what he’s trying to deny.

Michael laughs, and the sound pulses through him, flickering the edges of his vision, and leaving his whole body humming. (Is it better up close? Is that the secret?) “No, I would say you are not.”

“I’m not… clever. I don’t have any... powers, or—no, don’t you argue with me. The ability to make a… a mailman confess to tax fraud is nothing compared to what everyone around me can do, and I almost think that’s why I’m alive, because I’m just not worth going through with it, because there’s a cost to using powers, isn’t there, and maybe killing me wouldn’t even be enough to fill the vacuum it left behind, and it’s just more fun to hurt me for some stupid reason, and—”

It touches his lips with one sharp finger.

He blinks at it. He wasn’t aware he’d begun to tear up.

The sharpness of Michael’s touch is grounding.

If he moves at all, it will cut him.

He is tempted.

He can’t work out why.

“I have spoken so much this evening, Archivist,” says Michael. “I am trying to give you what pleases you, but it’s not something I am… used to doing, and I do not enjoy it.”

All this reasoning, Jon thinks. “But you’ve given it anyway. Answers. Why?” he whispers, and as he thought, his lips sting as the skin lightly splits.

He makes a small sound.

It doesn’t feel like normal pain.

It echoes the stars all over his chest, the line of gleaming white across his throat, the valleys in his hand where Jude burned him. It hurts, but it doesn’t. It feels…

(Good? Can pain feel good? I’m not a masochist—what is happening? Is Michael messing with my mind? Is this its fault? What is wrong with me?)

He still doesn’t ask it to stop.

Michael brings its fingers to its own mouth and licks off the tiny spot of blood.

Jon stares. The intensity of his own feelings is beginning to scare him.

And Michael suddenly changes tack. “I tire, Archivist. Tomorrow, I will make you your door to Beijing.”

What? “You get tired?” More questions.

“This form, this mortal uselessness bound to me, using it to communicate in ways you seem to find titillating.”

(All of this was flirting? Giving him knowledge was certainly more appealing than flowers or something, but still—)

“I…” Jon licks his lips, tastes himself, tastes something else he could never name. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. I consider it a worthy investment. After all, I am trying to woo you.” It touches his mouth again. The tingling resumes, eating the pain.

Jon sighs a little, and without thinking, parts his lips. “B… but.. this is coming out of nowhere.”

“I have been indicating such an offer for a while now, you know.”

Jon stares. “You have?”

Michael finds that hilarious. “Oh, Archivist.”

“Then what was all that in the warehouse?” Jon says. “Killing me, revenge, all of it?”

It won’t answer that, but iInstead, withdraws. Back to its own couch, looking at him, just watching, probably scouring his thoughts, doing who knows what else with its cosmic horror self.

Jon touches his own lips. There’s only a little blood. It doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts. That’s not the word for any of this right now. Jon frowns. “Are you still going to kill me?”

Michael actually looks confused. “Yes. What does that have to do with it?”

It doesn’t add up. He bristles. “Everything, unless you’re a necrophiliac.”

“Time is an illusion, Archivist. Today, tomorrow, what does it matter?”

It’s changing the subject, he knows it is, but—“The Unknowing is time sensitive, I’ll have you know.”

But Michael is done. “Rest well, Archivist. I shall come to you when you sleep.”

Whatever is wrong, whatever is going on (Internal conflict? In a concept?), Michael has clearly reached its limit. Jon blinks at it. “Are you sending me to bed?”

“Yes,” it says, almost primly.

And for the first time in his memory, in the presence of Michael, Jon laughs.

Shocked at himself, he flies to brush his teeth.

And he wonders.

His physical response is definitely… intense.

Georgie didn’t feel like that, he thinks, and that is unfair, and he kicks himself for thinking it. Of course she didn’t. She’s human.

Still. He didn’t respond like this to her—and he loved her.

It is so new. Jon wants to run his hands over himself, feel his own skin, see if it’s as good to touch as it is to wear. See if an orgasm would be worth the trouble, now.

Like hell he’s doing that with an audience.

Jon stares at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t like what he sees. What’s going on behind his scarred face. “There’s something very wrong with you,” he whispers, and is only half relieved his reflection won’t answer him.

The lights are out when he returns. He is grateful.

He lies down. Pulls the borrowed duvet over him.

Wonders.

A wide-eyed, hungry part of him wants to see what it would be like, and Jon faces that part with panic.

Is it the Eye? Is that doing this to him? Giving him desires completely not his own?

No. It’s not the same.

If he listens, if he stills, he knows the Eye would certainly love him to do all sorts of things to and with other people.

It would enjoy him if he were a torturer.

It would enjoy him if he just had sex.

Fear is what it feeds on, but all his experiences are things it… well.

Say it, Sims: LIKES.

This flies in the face of everything he thought he knew about the Dread Powers.

And here’s why he knows this weird, niggling curiosity about Michael doesn’t come from the Eye: there is absolutely no revulsion or numbness with the idea.

Sex with humans—even one he once cared for very deeply—leaves him uninterested, not repulsed, but off, no matter how the Beholding nudges him.

He does not feel that way about Michael. Jon is unsure what that says about him.

And then he realizes that Elias’ little comment about inviting it into his bed meant it had been obvious even then what Michael was doing.

Jon pulls the spare pillow over his head and groans.

What was the giveaway? Just being on the bed? The way it lay there?

Had Michael tipped Elias off in its note, like some kind of courting rite?

Jon knew he’d never figure it out. Whatever hints were dropped, he just couldn’t see them.

Speaking of which—

Michael settles on the floor beside the couch. “Yes?”

Jon swallows loudly. “Yes.” This being-asked-first thing is… heady.

Instead of crawling on him, grabbing him, poking him, doing any of the things he fears, it just rests one sharp hand on his right arm.

Jon waits. Nothing else happens.

It shouldn’t be comforting. It really should not.

Somehow, it is. Makes all the rest of the world slide just a little into unreality. Feels… grounding.

Feels safe.

Something is very wrong with me, he thinks again, and does not ask it to stop.

Sleep is slow to come, after that, but it finally does.

Tonight, when Breekon and Hope arrive, with thick and cruel hands, and grins and smelly gags, and ropes that burn and cut too tight, Michael follows to snip each rope with a bored expression, and then it tells a joke.

Jon can’t remember the joke in the morning, but it made him laugh, and when he did, Breekon and Hope vanished into mist.

(part six)

[aquaquadrant]

nature’s productions - chapter nine

Rated T for: Language, canon-typical violence, blood/injury, mentions of death

Summary: Three years after the disaster at Jurassic World, Claire Dearing and Owen Grady are contracted for a mission to save as many dinosaurs as possible from the impending eruption on Isla Nublar. But when they arrive, they experience an unexpected complication; six teenagers who were left stranded on the island when the park closed.

Surviving has left the campers scarred in more ways than one, and they’re pretty sure that their would-be rescuers have less than good intentions. But with a volcanic eruption at their heels, they’ll do whatever it takes to get a ride home- and save the dinosaurs while they’re at it, because that’s kind of their thing.

A/N: Hey y’all! I do apologize for this chapter taking a bit longer than normal, but it’s nearly 10k words so hopefully it’s worth the wait! Also, I’ve decided to write a separate epilogue (instead of tacking it onto the end of this chapter) that should get posted next Sunday. As always, you can find the fic on A03 for full tags and previous chapters, hope you enjoy, please reblog/comment if you do! - Aqua

~*~

chapter nine - on the affinities of extinct species to each other and to the living

~*~

Ben sprints down the hallway on silent feet, Brooklynn and Darius right beside him.

The ringing in his head has died down a bit, but there’s still no return to his hearing. Which is disappointing, but not surprising. He’s staying firmly on Brooklynn’s left side as always, guarding her blind spot. In return, she’s keeping a hand latched around his wrist, so she can give nonverbal cues to stop or change direction if needed.

He has no idea where they’re going. He has no idea what the plan is. Normally, that wouldn’t be a huge problem. It’s not the first time he’s rushed headfirst into a dangerous situation with only his instincts to guide him. But this time it’s different because he knows, logically, that there is a plan, and he just doesn’t know it.

From the few times he’s been able to glance over at Darius and Brooklynn as they run, he can tell they’re talking about it, their mouths moving to form silent words. He doesn’t resent them for it, of course. It’s not their fault they don’t have time to stop and try to paraphrase it out for Ben using their very limited and clumsy signing system. He might be able to glean at least a little context from reading lips, but that would require him to be watching them instead of their surroundings.

He’s kicking himself for not coming up with a more complete, fluent language beforehand. But the system was originally designed for Darius, and hearing wasn’t a concern back then. It was more about finding ways for him to quickly communicate important information without being slowed down by his stuttering.

Sure, the signs helped Ben out if someone was trying to talk to him at a distance, or with lots of background noise going on. But he never imagined it would take the place of his hearing entirely. He didn’t know he’d need to rely on sign language like this. He wasn’t supposed to lose his hearing so soon.

He thought he’d have more time.

He’s trying not to dwell on it. He can’t afford to dwell on it. But he’s never felt so disconnected from his herd before, not even during those first few weeks spent readjusting after his time alone. Watching their conversations and not being able to hear them. Knowing that whatever brief signed explanation he’s given is only a fraction of what was said. Having to piece together everyone’s feelings from visual cues alone, when facial expressions have never been his strong suit.

It hurts, more than he expected.

Not to mention there’s the very real fear associated with not being able to hear his surroundings. He already got snuck up on by mercenaries once, and now there’s a Velociraptor running loose on the ship. Brooklynn always does a great job keeping an ear out for him, but she can’t be with him every second of every day. Survival was already hard enough before, and he’s worried that being unable to hear his surroundings will eventually have deadly consequences.

(The notion that he won’t always have to be on constant alert for danger hasn’t even occurred to him, despite being fully aware that they’re about to be rescued. For Ben, being rescued does not equal being safe. In fact, he might never feel truly safe again.)

If Ben lets himself think about spending the rest of his life like this, he’s going to have a total breakdown.

His only hope is that there’ll be something they can do for it once they’re back on the mainland, with access to doctors and specialists. But even that comes with its own uncertainties. He hates the thought of a complete stranger poking and prodding at such a vulnerable area. Or, god forbid, if they try to put him under anesthesia.

But those are considerations for another time.

They don’t run into anyone on their way outside; it’s been long enough since Brooklynn’s announcement that everyone interested in fleeing must have headed for the lifeboats, while the remainders probably barricaded themselves in a room to avoid Blue. Either way, it isn’t until they step back out onto the deck that they see mercenaries again.

A small group of them are attempting to deploy a lifeboat off the side of the ship, with a couple flashlights between them to illuminate the rigging. Ben freezes as soon as he sees them, before Brooklynn even has a chance to squeeze his arm.

The mercenaries have noticed them- probably from the sound of the access door closing, because Ben knows from previous experience that all three of them have near silent footsteps. The mercenaries turn around, faces twisted into angry scowls and mouths moving in what’s more likely shouting.

Ben feels Darius and Brooklynn tense beside him. He doesn’t know if they’re trying to talk to the mercenaries- he won’t take his gaze off them, not even for a second- but they aren’t in a great position for running. It’s a narrow passage that would easily put them in arms reach of the mercenaries, and the only other place to go is back inside the ship.

So Ben pulls Wheatley’s gun out of his waistband and holds it up. The mercenaries jolt back with raised hands and wary eyes.

“We’re going now,” Ben tells them, hoping he’s loud enough to get the point across.

There’s slight nods from the mercenaries. Brooklynn tugs Ben’s arm, and he lets her lead him past, keeping his eyes and his aim firmly locked on the mercenaries. Once they’re at a safe enough distance, Ben tucks the gun away and turns to follow Brooklynn and Darius properly, so they can start to run.

He can’t hear if the mercenaries are giving chase, but he finds the possibility unlikely. The mercenaries might’ve wanted revenge against the ones responsible for sinking the whole operation, but not at the cost of their escape.

Darius leads them across the deck and down into the hold, and Ben’s incredibly tempted to shout out for Bumpy as they go. He desperately wants to know if she’s unscathed from her conflict with the mercenaries. But he’s also aware that Blue is around here somewhere, too, and would just as easily hear him. He doesn’t know how Darius plans to deal with Blue yet, but it probably doesn’t involve broadcasting their presence to her as they run aimlessly through the ship.

Their first stop is by a stack of crates pushed up against the wall; Brooklynn motions for Ben to stop and then signs ‘safe,’ which reassures him of the mercenary problem. Kneeling beside the crates, Darius draws his knife and starts to pry open the lids, speaking to Brooklynn as he does.

Ben keeps watch and tries not to feel left out.

A vibration shudders through the floor, making him look over. Darius has gotten the crate’s lid off- though judging by his wince, he didn’t mean for it to fall. Inside the crate is what looks to be a bunch of netting. Darius grabs a handful of it, holding it up as he talks to Brooklynn, and Ben can tell by the way it moves that it must be weighted or reinforced somehow.

Which makes sense, since these guys came prepared to catch dinosaurs.

“We making a trap?” he asks, trying his best to keep his voice down but having no idea how successful he is.

Darius nods, apologetic, before continuing to talk to Brooklynn, and that’s that.

Ben turns away, back to keeping watch. He trusts Darius and Brooklynn’s skills and judgement implicitly, and knows whatever they come up with will work just fine without his input. As much as it stings, he knows it’d be a waste of time and energy to insist they fill him in every step of the way. There’s no room for egos in a life or death situation.

Keeping watch while unable to hear the others is lonely. Despite himself, he finds his thoughts straying to Kenji. Ben isn’t normally one to have separation anxiety; he’s had to work apart from Kenji far too often for that. But right now, he’s keen to finish up this dinosaur business and get back at Kenji’s side. Not that there’s anything else he could do for amputated fingers, but still.

It’s important to him to make sure Bumpy is okay and that Blue is recaptured, but Kenji’s important, too. He just hopes Kenji’s holding up alright without him.

Soon enough, Brooklynn is tugging on his arm. The pair of them have opened a couple more crates; Brooklynn has a thick coil of nylon cord draped around her shoulder and what looks like a folded tarp to go with the bundle of netting in Darius’s arms.

They set off again, their pace a little slower now that Brooklynn and Darius are carrying cargo. Ben still isn’t used to this all-encompassing silence; he scans their surroundings almost constantly, out of paranoia that there could be someone or something nearby that he just can’t hear. Even the knowledge that Brooklynn would alert him if there was anything coming isn’t enough to settle his nerves.

Darius keeps them moving along the wall of the hold, scanning every vehicle and shipping container they pass. He seems to be looking for something specific- which, of course, Ben has no information about. He’s about to ask, because they’d probably find it faster with another set of eyes, but then they come around the corner of a shipping container and nearly stumble over a body.

It’s a mercenary, whose throat and chest have been torn open.

(Wheatley’s corpse flashes through Ben’s mind. He quickly shoves the thought away.)

Ben instantly reaches for his gun. He’d hate to shoot Blue, but if it was a matter of life or death, he would do it without hesitation. He can’t see any sign that the raptor is around, so he glances at Brooklynn.

Brooklynn’s face is pale, one hand resting on her bat’s handle, but she shakes her head, indicating that she can’t hear Blue nearby. Of course, that doesn’t mean the raptor isn’t there, but it reassures Ben a little.

‘Careful,’ Darius signs, before gingerly stepping around the body.

They push ahead. Ben is now fully resigned to staying quiet; any questions he has aren’t important right now. It takes all his focus just to make sure his footsteps aren’t loud. He can’t hear them, so he’s being extra cautious and hoping his years of practice will carry him through. The minutes pass in nerve-wracking silence- which Ben supposes he ought to get used to- before Darius finally stops in front of a nondescript section of wall.

Two large shipping containers have been loaded parallel to each other in such a manner that one end of them is flush with the wall of the hold, forming a sort of narrow, dead-end alleyway between them. Darius’s calculating gaze sweeps over the area before he gives a firm nod. Turning to Ben, he puts a hand on his shoulder and signs ‘wait.’

Ben gives him a good-natured smile and nods. Standing at the mouth of the makeshift alleyway, he keeps watch as Darius and Brooklynn work behind him. He’s starting to see why Darius picked this location for the trap; the shipping containers are almost twice the height of a full-grown man, which means going over top of them would be a difficult feat even for a raptor. That just leaves one way in, allowing Darius to ensure that Blue goes exactly where he wants her.

Assuming she takes the bait. Whatever that’s gonna be.

It’s not long before Brooklynn’s careful hand taps Ben’s shoulder to get his attention. He turns to see the net has been laid out flat on the ground, a couple feet from the alley’s entrance. The netting itself is black, and in the hold’s dim lighting, blends in fairly well with the dark floor of the ship. The nylon cord has been strung through the outer loops of the net in some intricate kind of pattern Ben can’t make heads or tails of- no doubt a skill Brooklynn learned during an old unboxing excursion.

She’s holding the free end of the cord, which still has quite a long length to it. Darius points at her and then at one of the shipping containers, before signing ‘help.’ Ben catches his meaning and quickly steps up against the container, locking his fingers together to form a sling.

Between the two of them, Brooklynn manages to catch hold of the lip of the container and pull herself up, holding the cord between her teeth. Once up top, she starts looping the cord through some metal brackets on the container that are probably used for crane rigging, if Ben had to guess. When she’s done, she eases herself back down over the edge so Ben can catch her, ensuring she doesn’t land too hard and sprain something.

Then they repeat on the other side.

Despite being completely out of the loop, Ben’s starting to piece it together. By stringing the cord between the two containers, Brooklynn is giving the net trap leverage. It’s a little obvious, but only if you know what a trap is. For a Velociraptor on a ship full of strange, new, unfamiliar human things, it should be easily overlooked. Of course, the details of how Brooklynn intends to trigger it are beyond him, but at least he can help with this.

Ben moves into position to catch her again, but Darius waves him off. He picks up the folded tarp, which they’d set aside, and hands it to Ben. Then he points up at Brooklynn and makes a throwing motion.

Well, that’s easy enough to decipher. Ben tosses the tarp up to Brooklynn. She catches it and starts to unfold it, keeping hold of the free end of the cord as she does. Ben wonders what she’s going to do with it, but then Darius takes his arm and nods over at the end of the alley.

Ben points at the net and tilts his head.

‘Safe,’ Darius assures him, before walking over the net himself. Apparently, it’s a manually triggered trap.

Ben follows Darius across the net and to the end of the alley, their backs against the wall. Up on top of the container, Brooklynn has draped the tarp over herself, laying flat on her stomach with only her face peeking out. It’s camouflage, Ben realizes- helping her blend in with the top of the container. So she’ll spring the trap from up there, then.

Which means Darius and Ben will be down here, with Blue.

‘Ready?’ Darius asks Brooklynn. He waits for her free hand to poke out and sign ‘ready’ before turning to Ben.

There’s equal amounts of apprehension and determination in his eyes, a look Ben knows all too well. He can’t pretend what they’re about to do isn’t extremely dangerous, but he’s also confident that they’ll succeed. It’s an expression that instantly fills Ben with resolve, and reminds him why the herd’s accepted Darius as their leader.

‘Ready,’ Ben tells him. ‘Plan?’

Darius cups his hands and lifts them to his mouth, pursing his lips like he’s going to whistle. Ben recognizes the motion; it’s the way he makes his raptor calls.

So they’re the bait. Ben isn’t even surprised.

‘Help,’ he signs, nodding to show he understands. Then he tilts his head and asks ‘stay?’

Darius nods; they need to stay put where they are so Blue has to cross over the net.

Hopefully she’ll come out of pure curiosity like back on Nublar, instead of out of a desire to kill them. But Ben hadn’t been joking when he’d said she likes Darius best; he’s saved her life a couple times now, and she’s certainly intelligent enough to remember that.

Now, the real question will be whether or not she cares.

Side by side with Darius, Ben turns to face the alley’s entrance. Taking a deep breath, he puts his cupped hands to his lips and makes the call, with nothing but muscle memory to go off of. A quick glance at Darius confirms his call was good, so he repeats it a couple times before waiting.

It’s a gamble using the same tactic twice. But Blue is a curious animal at heart, and since she’s one of the fastest dinosaurs on Nublar, there’s never a lot of risk for her to check things out when she always has the option to run away. And while she might not be fooled into thinking there’s another Velociraptor around, not by using the same call as before, she’ll probably want to investigate anyway. They’ve made their presence known, in a way that’s directly calling for her. That’s bound to catch her interest, whether she’s seeking companionship or a snack.

Hell, she might just want something familiar in this strange new environment. Ben can’t imagine how stressed and confused she must be, running around the ship.

The minutes trickle by, with no indication from Darius that Blue has responded. There’s no way of knowing whether she heard it. She might not have, if she’s above deck right now. She also could’ve heard the call and decided to ignore it. They could be wasting their time sitting here, and they wouldn’t know it.

Darius’s brows are furrowed as he motions for Ben to repeat the call. But just as Ben is about to, Darius freezes, his eyes widening in clear recognition of something Ben obviously can’t hear.

Relief sweeps through Ben. Blue must’ve heard him, after all. That’s a promising sign; if she was confident enough to respond to the call, then she doesn’t suspect that anything’s off, which will make trapping her much easier-

Then Blue steps around the corner, clicking her talons silently against the floor.

~*~

If Kenji’s being completely honest, he’s had better days.

Strangely enough, the pain of having his fingers bitten off by a raptor is the least of his concerns. He doesn’t even really notice it unless he’s concentrating on it or he accidentally moves his hand. It almost feels like the pins-and-needles of a body part that’s fallen asleep, that weird balance between total numbness and stinging pain.

The shock and blood loss probably have something to do with it. Shivers race across his skin. Every time he sits up or moves his head too fast, a wave of dizziness crashes over him. If he isn’t careful to regulate his breathing, it starts getting quick and shallow. He’s not necessarily scared of the injury itself, because he knows it’s not life-threatening and the bleeding finally seems to be under control. But it’s rendered him pretty much useless; he can’t fight or run in this condition, and he’s only got one working hand.

Not a great position to be in, considering there still might be mercenaries out there who want them dead.

Brooklynn might’ve convinced some of them to abandon ship, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Kenji wouldn’t be surprised if the stragglers get desperate once the lifeboats run out. Plus, there’s still the matter of the raptor running around and killing people.

That’s another concern. Half of his herd- including his boyfriend- is out there right now trying to capture Blue. He has near infinite faith in their abilities, but he still worries. Especially now that Ben is completely deaf. Which he knows Ben would hate, because he’s always resented the idea that losing his hearing would make him less capable, but Kenji can’t help it.

He thinks he’ll always worry. Even after this is all over.

Sammy seems to be thinking along a similar vein, her expression troubled as she peers out through the front windows of the bridge. They’re quite high up from the deck and the faint moonlight makes for poor visibility, so the chances of her actually seeing anything are low. But still she watches, drumming her fingers along the command console with nervous energy.

Kenji slowly turns his head, letting it rest on his knees. Yaz, sitting against the wall beside him, is fiddling with her ankle brace. Her head is bent and her shoulders are hunched, which is Yaz-speak for ‘leave me alone.’ The sight makes Kenji’s heart tighten because he knows exactly where her mind is at; she’s blaming herself for his injury.

He’s never seen her freeze like that before. Sure, it was scary, and the timing was… unfortunate, to say the least. But he certainly doesn’t blame her for it. As someone who prides herself on her strength- physically and mentally- he knows it must be hitting her hard.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Your foot okay?”

Yaz tenses and doesn’t look up. “Shut up,” she huffs without venom. “It’s just strained, you’re the one who got his fingers bitten off.”

Kenji hums noncommittally. “Hey, I’ve got like, seven others. You’ve only got two feet.”

Yaz lets out an exhale that might be a sigh, might be a laugh. “Is that how we’re ranking injuries now?” she asks dryly. “Based on how many backups we’ve got?”

“More like how easy it is to get along without them,” Kenji says, cracking a grin. “So some of my fingers are a little shorter now, what’s that gonna change? My ability to make shadow puppets?”

That gets Yaz to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “Shadow puppets?” she repeats, quirking an eyebrow. “That’s really the first thing you thought of?”

Kenji shrugs. “Hey, I could be a master puppeteer. You don’t know everything about me.”

Over by the console, Sammy giggles. “Now that I’d love to see sometime.”

Kenji tilts his head up to grin at her. “You couldn’t afford me,” he says self-importantly. “And you know what they say; never make shadow puppets for free, lest your fingers be bitten off by a dinosaur.”

Sammy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sheesh, how much blood did you lose?”

“Oh, you know.” Kenji shrugs a shoulder. “Four or five.”

“Four or five what?” Yaz asks incredulously.

“Maybe six,” Kenji amends.

Before they can question him further, the radio crackles to life.

“Sammy, are you there?”

It’s a man’s voice, low and brisk with urgency. He speaks with a Hispanic accent, and Kenji distantly realizes this must be the guy who responded to Sammy’s distress call. Who’d she say it was, the Mexican version of the Coast Guard, or something?

“Oh, shoot!” Sammy hurries over and grabs the receiver. “Yep, I read ya loud an’ clear! What’s up?”

“I wanted to update you on the situation,” the voice continues. “The United Nations are assembling an emergency response committee to discuss our options moving forward, and the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation has dispatched a team to Lockwood Manor.”

Yaz lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” she murmurs to Kenji, “they aren’t messing around, huh?”

Kenji nods sagely. “I guess ‘dinosaur’ is the magic word to make the government get shit done fast.”

He supposes the speedy response is more than warranted, considering what a huge security risk this ship currently poses to the entire west coast of the Americas. He doesn’t know if the mercenaries rounded up any dinos that can swim or fly, but he doesn’t want to find out. And apparently, the government feels the same.

“That’s great to hear!” Sammy says, relieved. “Thank y’all so much.”

“Of course,” the man replies. “Have there been any changes to your situation?”

Sammy hesitates, glancing over at Kenji with a questioning look. Kenji just shrugs. They’re bound to find out about Blue, anyways, so it wouldn’t hurt to tell them now. Doesn’t matter to him if people know he got his fingers bitten off. Not even a little.

“Well, funny you bring that up,” Sammy starts haltingly. “Turns out, the raptor got free. My friends had a run-in with her and she sorta… bit someone’s fingers off.” 

“What?!”

Kenji can’t help but snicker at the shock in the man’s voice. All things considered, he’s super lucky Blue didn’t do anything worse. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that if she hadn’t recognized them, if she had attacked first and asked questions later, they would’ve been lunch meat. So really, losing a few fingertips isn’t the end of the world.

At least it wasn’t his thumb. That would’ve sucked.

“Not all the way!” Sammy says quickly. “Just a couple of ‘em are missin’ some bits. Plus, Kenji’s doin’ alright now, I just figured I’d warn y’all we’ve got a dino on the loose. But Darius, Brooklynn, and Ben are on their way to round her up as we speak, so it oughta be taken care of before y’all get here.”

“Uh- no, negative,” the man says, sounding alarmed, “you should all remain inside the bridge until help arrives.”

Sammy winces. “Sorry, bit late for that,” she tells the man. “But it’s alright, they know what they’re doin’. Darius has a way with dinos, and Blue owes him one. I’m sure she’ll be agreeable.”

That doesn’t seem to reassure him. “I must advise you all to stay inside,” he repeats.

Kenji snorts. Does this guy know they survived on Nublar for three years? On one hand, it’s kinda nice for an adult to try and keep them out of danger, since so many of their previous experiences involved adults trying to hurt and/or kill them. But on the other hand, it’s a little annoying to actually be treated like kids for once, when they’ve spent all this time looking after themselves.

It’s like, too little too late, dude.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Sammy says cheerily, like the ray of sunshine she is. “Me, Yaz, and Kenji are holdin’ down the fort here. The others will be back soon as Blue’s handled. Shouldn’t take too long, but if you like, I can let you know when they get here?”

“Alright,” the man finally relents. “Please do that. The rest of you-”

“Remain inside,” Kenji calls tiredly. “We got it, dude. Thanks.”

Sammy shoots him a look, though she’s holding back a smile. “Don’t mind Kenji,” she says good-naturedly, “we sure appreciate the help! Now, I don’t wanna keep you too long, so I’ll be sure to let you know when the others get here, alright?”

The way she’s treating this like a casual housecall seems to have taken the man aback. Must be that Southern hospitality. “Copy that,” he says after a moment.

With that, Sammy hangs the receiver back up. “Man, can y’all believe we’re finally gettin’ rescued?” she asks, turning to them with a bright smile.

“Oh, don’t say that,” Kenji groans. “You’ll jinx us.”

Yaz lightly smacks him on the arm- an affectionate gesture that Kenji never thought he’d be so happy to receive. “Let her have this.”

“Alright,” Kenji laughs, “but you’d better knock on some wood.”

“Does your skull count?” Yaz asks flatly, though Kenji catches the teasing glint in her eyes.

“Oh hush,” Sammy chides them, amused. She knocks her fist against one of the console’s wooden cabinets. “There. Now seriously, y’all, does any of this feel real to you?” she asks, walking over to sit in front of them.

“No,” Kenji admits, picking at the bloody jacket wrapped around his hand. “I never thought our escape would involve an animal trafficking operation. But in hindsight, I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Yeah,” Yaz huffs. “I don’t know why people are still so crazy about dinosaurs. I feel like everyone wanting to make or buy them should have to spend a month on an abandoned island full of them. They’d change their tune pretty quick.”

“Please,” Kenji sniffs, “those rich jerks wouldn’t last a week.”

“Unlike you, rich jerk?” Yaz quips, folding her arms.

Kenji scoffs with false outrage. “I’ll have you know, I’m a special case.”

“That’s for sure,” Yaz chuckles, as Sammy hides her laugh behind her hand.

Kenji grins along with them. Even though he knows they aren’t in the clear yet and this might be a premature celebration, he greatly prefers it to the tense anxiety from before. He’s always sort of considered it his responsibility to lighten the mood when he can.

Of course, if it was someone else whose fingers got bitten off, he’d be approaching the situation with a lot more consideration and tact. But the last thing he wants is for Yaz to feel guilty for what happened. He doesn’t want to be pitied, either. So, making light of it is the best play he’s got.

And if Yaz feels comfortable enough to tease and banter with him, then he’s on the right track.

“Well,” Sammy says with a rueful smile, “it’s a darn good thing people still care about dinos, even just in a greedy way, or we never would’a gotten off the island.”

“You’re probably right,” Yaz agrees, sighing. “I can’t see any other reason for someone to go there, and our attempts at getting home on our own were all non-starters.”

Kenji clicks his tongue. “I still think my idea for a giant slingshot was a winner,” he jokes.

Yaz rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

There’s a sudden pounding on the door. Kenji jolts upright- and then immediately regrets it as his vision blacks out for a moment.

“You brats better open up right now,” a loud, angry voice yells, “or we’re breaking this door down!”

Kenji and Sammy lock eyes.

“Sammy!”

“I knocked on wood!”

~*~

Darius stares at the raptor twenty feet away from him, hardly daring to breathe.

Putting it bluntly, Blue looks rough. The bandage on her side has started peeling away, the stiff gauze a patchwork of dried and fresh blood. She’s panting, her head low and jaws hanging wide. There’s blood streaked haphazardly across her chest and muzzle, painting her teeth. But what strikes Darius most are her eyes.

Her pupils are fully dilated, almost perfectly round. It completely obscures the color of her eyes and makes them look pitch black. Darius knows it’s a normal response to being in dim lighting- as a way of increasing visual input- but that combined with her wild appearance makes her look all but possessed.

Like a real monster of nightmares.

Blue stares at them from across the alley. Even from this distance, Darius can read her body language fairly well.

She heard Ben’s call but didn’t return it, which means she’s wary. She doesn’t look surprised to see them- not in a way that Darius can interpret, at least. She certainly doesn’t seem happy, which he wasn’t expecting, anyway. She’s not outright hostile, either, but there’s an intensity about her that’s unsettling. It’s a world of difference from the raptor that approached them back on Nublar, what feels like days ago.

This raptor is scared. She’s tired, and in pain, and highly stressed out. She’s in a completely new environment and being exposed to completely new stimuli, which must be overwhelming for an animal with such refined senses and high processing ability. She’s also fresh off of who knows how many kills, each a result of what she likely felt was a threat to her life.

She’s in total fight or flight mode. And on a ship like this- which is big, but unfamiliar and largely inaccessible to a creature without thumbs- there’s a hard limit on how far she can run.

So, if pressed, her first choice is going to be to fight.

They just need to avoid reaching that point.

Slowly, Darius lowers himself onto his knees. Ben takes the hint and follows suit.

Blue’s head jerks to the side. Her face twitches with microexpressions- rapid widening and narrowing of her eyes, flaring her nostrils, curling her lips. She lets out a string of chirping noises, tilting her head, and takes a step forward.

Darius doesn’t dare look at the net. Blue’s never seen a trap before, or anything else comparable, but she’s also insanely intuitive and would know to avoid it if he gave it any special focus. So he keeps his gaze directed at Blue, but not quite meeting her eyes, lest she mistake it for a challenge. And despite being unable to check, he knows Ben is doing the same; they’ve honed the same instincts during their time on Nublar.

Blue looks them up and down before examining the alleyway. Her gaze drifts over the net and its rigging without stopping, probably being filed under ‘new weird human stuff’ in her brain. She’s only a couple steps away from the trap.

If it doesn’t work, Darius and Ben will be stuck in a dead-end alleyway with a very pissed off raptor.

God, he hopes this works.

Blue lingers where she is, rumbling uncertainty in her throat. Still moving slowly, Darius reaches out to squeeze Ben’s arm, prompting him to make the call again. Darius is insanely grateful they had so many practice sessions when a pitch-perfect chirp rings out.

Something changes in Blue’s expression. She turns a circle around herself, head whipping from side to side, almost searching as she hisses in warning. Tail lashing and claws flexed, she sniffs the air. After a couple seconds, she goes stock-still, tremors of barely-constrained energy running through her body.

Then she looks up at Brooklynn, hidden under the tarp.

Darius’s heart jolts. But before he can do anything, Blue’s head snaps around to stare at him. Her pupils have constricted, letting that blazing amber color shine through, and her eyes are narrowed in what can only be described as hate.

Darius realizes what that look means, and his blood runs cold.

Blue’s highly developed sense of logic has kicked back in, overruling base fight or flight instincts.

But her logic has decided that they’re enemies.

Screeching, Blue turns and runs back out the alley- but she doesn’t go far. She jumps up onto a nearby truck, climbing onto its trailer; the end of which is only about six feet away from the edge of the shipping container that Brooklynn’s on. As Blue’s legs coil beneath her, it suddenly dawns on Darius what she’s about to do.

Ben reacts first.

“Brooklynn, run!”  he screams.

In the same moment, Blue leaps off the truck and lands on the shipping container. Feet pounding against metal, she charges towards Brooklynn with a furious shriek, claws outstretched and teeth bared.

Time seems to slow down.

Brooklynn swings her legs around to drop off the edge of the container. But the tarp draped over her is bulky, constricting her limbs, slowing her down. So when she’s finally able to pull herself over the edge, she’s not quite fast enough to avoid Blue’s claws as the raptor sideswipes.

Red sprays through the air, Brooklynn screaming as she falls.

Ben’s already there to catch her, quickly steadying her on her feet. Three red lines are scored along the back of Brooklynn’s right shoulder; the gashes don’t look particularly deep, but Darius feels his stomach drop anyways.

Metal screeches above them as Blue’s claws dig into it, the raptor trying to change direction against her own momentum and sliding on the tarp. With an outraged roar, she leaps at them-

And snags on the trap’s rigging.

The net shoots up off the ground; Blue’s not inside it, but it flies up in front of the raptor, wrapping around her snout and claws. She hits the ground with a thud, snarling as she thrashes against the rapidly-tangling lines.

They won’t hold long, though. 

“I’m okay,” Brooklynn says quickly as Darius rushes over. “Let’s go!”

The three of them bolt out into the hold. Ben and Brooklynn take up their usual formation, Ben in Brooklynn’s blind spot and her hand wrapped around his wrist. Together, they shift behind Darius, letting him take the lead.

Their earlier run is nothing compared to this. This is a top speed they have reserved specifically for times like these, with endurance built up over three years of running for their lives. It’s still not faster than a Velociraptor on flat ground; even with their head start, it won’t take Blue long to catch up. Already, Darius can hear her chasing after them.

But they have an advantage that she doesn’t: rubber-lined shoes that actually have traction on concrete.

“R- right!” Darius shouts as they approach another shipping container.

With the heads-up, Brooklynn is able to alert Ben in time for them all to seamlessly change direction without slowing down. The ship’s hold is a virtual maze of large vehicles and shipping containers, and Darius fully intends to use it to their advantage. The more turns they make, the harder it’ll be for Blue to gain speed.

He lets himself go on autopilot as he leads the way through the hold, frantically trying to come up with their next move. They lost their one chance to trap Blue, so that’s out. The best move now would be to bring her somewhere out in the open, where the authorities can easily see her when they arrive. That’ll increase the chance of them attempting to capture her alive, instead of being ambushed by her elsewhere, which could result in their (or her) death.

And the only open space on this ship is the deck.

Of course, they can’t just run laps with Blue at their heels until the authorities arrive, especially with Brooklynn injured. They need somewhere to hole up in. One common feature in the vehicles brought for this expedition is that they very rarely seem to have front doors. There are trailers, sure, but most- if not all- of them are currently occupied by a dinosaur, and they really don’t need more of those running around. However, there’s one kind of vehicle Darius spotted earlier that does have doors. And it just so happens that there’s two of them out on the deck.

He just hopes they didn’t think to lock the helicopters’ doors. If that’s even a thing. Worst case scenario, Ben still has his gun.

After dodging and weaving their way towards the ramps at the end of the hold, they sprint up onto the deck. Darius is thankful he was out here earlier, because it’s almost completely unrecognizable in the scarce moonlight. The helicopters should be towards the bow; they just have to get through another maze of shipping containers and trailers.

Blue screeches somewhere behind them. Darius takes a deep breath and plunges ahead.

Now that they aren’t in an enclosed space, their footsteps and heavy breathing don’t echo as loudly. On the bright side, it might make it easier to shake Blue off their tail. But on the other hand, Blue will also be less audible. Darius will have to rely on Brooklynn’s hearing to alert them if Blue is getting close- if she’s still able to focus with her injury, that is.

Darius’s lungs are starting to burn as they race through the cargo. He can see the very tips of helicopter blades ahead of them, almost tauntingly out of reach. Just a few more swerves around this shipping container, and then-

Brooklynn inhales sharply. “Wait!”

Blue jumps around the corner, landing in front of them with a roar.

Ah.

Darius skids to a halt, his heart sinking. Rather than continue following right behind them, and thus being led on a wild chase through the maze, Blue has realized which direction they’re trying to go and circled around the outside to cut them off.

Clever girl.

Panting, Darius backs up a couple steps, his mind racing. They could try screaming to get Blue to back down, but she seems fairly committed at this point. Plus, Brooklynn and Ben are similarly winded and he fears it wouldn’t be a very impressive display, anyway. There isn’t a clear path to the helicopters, but there are still the shipping containers behind them-

Blue lunges at them, and Ben fires his gun.

The shot rings painfully in Darius’s ears- not quite as bad as the one Wheatley fired in a small room- and echoes out across the deck. Ben hasn’t actually hit Blue, but she swerves away from them, snarling. Whether he intended to only fire a warning shot or it’s his inexperience with a gun at play, Darius doesn’t know, but it’s given him an opportunity to act.

Trusting that Ben will keep Blue from getting too close, Darius grabs Brooklynn’s arm and runs to the nearest shipping container.

“Up,” he says breathlessly, locking his fingers together. Brooklynn immediately gets the picture, grabbing his shoulder to steady herself as she puts a foot in the sling he’s made. Darius boosts her so she can grab the edge of the container. She starts to pull herself up, grunting in pain as she strains her injured shoulder.

Another shot rings off. Darius glances over his shoulder.

Good thing, too. Because Blue has dodged the bullet without breaking stride, forcing Ben to dive out of the way. Which results in Blue charging right at Darius.

He jumps away just in time, Blue slamming against the side of the container. Just above her, Brooklynn’s legs kick wildly for a second before she’s able to swing them up and over. Shifting onto her knees, Brooklynn whirls around to meet Darius’s gaze, her eyes wide with panic.

“Darius!”

“St- stay there!” Darius shouts to her before sprinting away.

He comes up on Ben right as the other boy is getting to his feet. He takes in the sight quickly- Brooklynn on top of the shipping container, Blue shaking herself off, Darius running towards him- and turns to run, too.

Together, Darius and Ben race towards the closer of the two helicopters. Ben still has the gun in his hand but seems to know that shooting at Blue while they’re both moving would be pointless, and stopping to take the shot would be a fatal mistake. Darius can hear Blue shrieking behind them, furiously giving chase. Her steps are gaining fast, rapidly approaching from the side and Darius realizes they aren’t going to make it.

Grabbing Ben’s arm, he sharply turns them to the left. Blue lands in the space they were occupying only a second ago, claws skidding on concrete as her jaws snap closed on empty air.

Ben stumbles a little at the unexpected turn but manages to keep going. They’re running towards the second helicopter now, on the other side of the deck. They’re twenty feet away when Blue starts bearing down on them again. Darius squeezes Ben’s arm to warn him. The helicopter is ten feet away. Five. Three, two, one- 

Darius nearly slams into the side of the helicopter, grabbing the door’s handle. Next to him, Ben has turned around to shoot at Blue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Darius sees a small puff of powder from where the bullet strikes against the concrete, right in between Blue’s feet. Whether it actually hits her or just startles her, he isn’t sure, but it’s enough to knock her feet out from under her.

It doesn’t, unfortunately, stop her momentum.

So suddenly, Ben has a Velociraptor flying at him.

Blue’s side slams against Ben and throws him backwards, towards the edge of the ship. His back hits the railing just low enough that he tips over it, disappearing off the side of the ship with a shout.

Darius forgets the helicopter. Darting over to the railing, he sees that Ben has managed to grab hold of it, dangling over the ocean below. He’s lost hold of the gun, both hands gripping the bottom rung of the railing with white knuckles, his eyes blown wide. He doesn’t scream- over the years, they’ve all fallen out of the habit of screaming out of fear- but Darius can see it in his expression, clear as day.

Leaning over the railing, Darius strains to reach Ben’s hands. Wind roars in his ears as the inky black waves churn beneath them. He’s just managed to grab Ben’s wrists when he hears Blue growl.

Glancing over his shoulder, Darius’s heart just about stops beating.

Blue has gotten back on her feet. She doesn’t look to have sustained any further injury, but she’s holding herself tersely, weary from all the rough punishment her body’s been taking. Even so, she’s snarling at him with all her teeth, eyes blazing with a fury so intense it’s pinned Darius to the spot more surely than the weight of trying to pull Ben back up.

This is not a mindless killing machine. This is an intelligent apex predator who has decided she wants them dead.

Them, the tricky little humans who lured her into a trap, who got her shot, who helped take her away from her home. The humans who stood by as she laid helpless in her restraints, terrified and in agony. The humans who then had the audacity to try and trick her again- to save her, but how could she possibly know that? All she knows is that they cannot be trusted, no matter how they helped her in the past, and they are too dangerous to leave alone. Them, the funny little humans who travel in a pack and speak in her tongue but tell only lies.

Darius is defenseless, trapped by his unwillingness to let Ben fall (he can’t, not again). When Blue leaps for him this time, there will be no escaping her claws. It’s a fact they’re both aware of, an understanding passing between predator and prey.

Blue tenses her legs beneath her-

Then Bumpy rams into her side.

Blue is thrown against the helicopter, which actually shakes from the impact. With a heavy thud, the Velociraptor drops to the ground in a heap. Screeching in pain and alarm and confusion, she scrambles to her feet and staggers back a few steps, blinking at the Ankylosaurus that has suddenly appeared before her.

Bumpy roars, slamming her clubbed tail against the deck. She shifts in front of Darius and Ben, blocking them from Blue.

Darius doesn’t pause to marvel at his good luck. Gritting his teeth, he digs his heels in and pulls. Ben manages to swing a foot up and hook it under the railing, giving himself more leverage to climb. As soon as his head pokes up and his eyes fall on Bumpy, his jaw drops open.

“Bumpy!” 

Darius helps Ben over the railing, though it’s hardly needed at this point. Ben leaps onto Bumpy’s back, sliding into his usual place as if he’d never left. The light in his eyes is wild and fearless and free, and Darius knows he is witnessing Ben in his most raw, untamed state.

Jungle-man and Ankylosaurus roar together, and for one glorious moment, they are one soul in two bodies.

Blue hisses as she backs away from them, tail lashing uncertainly. Although she’s tackled much larger foes before, an Ankylosaurus is a tall order- particularly in her weakened state. Her hatred is a strong thing, but it’s not strong enough to win out over self-preservation.

Her weight shifts, and alarm shoots through Darius. She’s about to run- which will put them right back at square one. He scrambles to think of a way to warn Ben, to tell him not to let Blue get away, but Ben’s back is to him and of course, he can’t hear-

But then a dart appears in Blue’s neck.

A startled yelp escapes the raptor. She thrashes her head from side to side, clawing at her neck in vain, swaying dangerously on her feet as the movement unbalances her. Then a second dart hits her side. Blue takes a few steps before finally slumping to the ground, not quite asleep but unable to get up.

Darius’s head whips around to follow the dart’s trajectory.

Across the way, Owen lowers a tranquilizer gun. Claire comes up beside him, with Brooklynn leaning heavily against her shoulder.

“Sorry we’re late,” Brooklynn calls with a grin. “What’d I miss?”

~*~

Yaz’s gaze snaps over to the door, her heart jolting.

A man’s face is glowering at them through the door’s small window, with a second one visible just over his shoulder. She doesn’t think they’re the same guys who tried to get in earlier, but it’s hard to tell. They look properly deranged, though, eyes alight with a desperate sort of fury.

If she had to guess, they didn’t make it to a lifeboat in time. This must be their back-up plan.

She has no way of knowing if anyone out there managed to repair the ship’s engine. But if these guys are trying to take the bridge back, they must be trying to make a break for it, and that would only be possible if the engine was functional.

Unless they don’t know the engine is sabotaged? Wheatley called mechanics to the engine room earlier, but he didn’t say what for. It’s possible they’re under the impression that the only reason the ship isn’t moving is because the engine was turned off from the bridge, leading them to think they might actually have a chance to escape if they get control back.

“You’re not getting this ship moving again,” Yaz calls over to them, keeping any trace of nerves out of her voice. “We took out the engine.”

“Shut up!” one of the men yells. “Open the fucking door or we’re smashing our way in!”

Well, there’s also the possibility they’re just acting on blind rage and desperation.

“Don’t listen to them,” Kenji says easily. “They’re just bluffing.” Then he turns to call over his shoulder. “Nice try, idiots! You can’t get in here.”

The man’s face disappears from the window. Then there’s a deafening bang as something heavy slams into the door. The door rattles in its hinges, holding fast, but Yaz hears the unmistakable crunch of metal bending under metal.

Whatever they’re using out there will almost certainly do the trick.

“Oh.” Kenji blinks. “Maybe they can.”

“Woah, woah, stop!” Yaz shouts, holding her hands up. “Okay, we’ll let you in, just don’t break the door down! There’s a fucking Velociraptor out there, for godsake.”

There’s a pause before the man’s face reappears at the window. “You’ve got from the count of five!” he barks. “Five…”

“What’s the plan?” Sammy whispers urgently.

Yaz’s mind races as she quickly scans the room. There’s the other door they could escape through, but she can’t run, and neither can Kenji. Fighting is their only option- because she knows that these people will try to kill them. Or maybe take them hostage, as bargaining chips to save their own hides when the authorities arrive. Yaz refuses to give them that opportunity, but they probably have guns and all she’s got is a dull knife-

Her gaze falls on a fire extinguisher hanging from the wall.

“Four…”

“Kenji,” Yaz says lowly, only loud enough for them to hear. “Stay put and cover your face. Sammy, get up and unlock the door, slowly. Then get out of the way quick, behind the door.”

Yaz knows how tall Sammy is, and knows that her standing in front of the door will block the rest of the room from view through the tiny window. Yaz, being a fair few inches shorter, should be completely hidden behind her- which will allow her to grab the fire extinguisher without being seen.

She doesn’t have time to explain this, but they obey without question. Kenji hides his face behind his knees, putting his arms over his head, while Sammy slowly rises to her feet and turns to the door.

“Three…”

Yaz tucks her legs into a crouch, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle. As soon as Sammy steps in front of the door, obscuring the window, Yaz darts over to the fire extinguisher and lifts it off its hook. It’s not a full-sized canister, only about as long as her forearm, but there’s still a decent weight to it. And based on the dust coating the handle, it’s likely never been used before. That means it should be fully charged.

“Two…”

Sammy puts her hand on the door’s lock. Yaz steps behind her and pulls the extinguisher’s pin.

“One.”

The lock slides back, and Sammy swings the door open with enough force to create a breeze. Moving with the momentum, she quickly steps behind the door, sandwiching herself between it and the wall.

At the same moment, Yaz aims the nozzle forward and squeezes the trigger.

A cloud of chalky white foam sprays out of the nozzle in a wide arc, immediately flooding the doorway. Shouts of alarm and confusion fill the air, but Yaz doesn’t give them the chance to figure out what’s happening. Adjusting her grip to grab the handle with both hands, she holds her breath, closes her eyes, and steps into the cloud.

Then she swings the fire extinguisher up and out.

It connects hard with what she thinks is someone’s head, based on the solid thunk that rings out. There’s a heavy thud shortly after it, which she assumes is the man dropping to the ground. Stepping forward will probably end in her tripping over him, so she makes a split-second decision and launches the fire extinguisher forward like a javelin.

Thunk!

That definitely hits the second man. Once he topples over, Yaz waits for a few more precious seconds- blind to the world and still holding her breath- just to make sure neither of them are getting up.

Then she stumbles back out of the cloud, falling to the ground as her ankle gives out on her. She lands flat on her back with a pained grunt. The impact knocks the wind out of her, making her wheeze for breath- and then immediately curl onto her side coughing as she inhales some of the dry foam.

Her throat stings, but she forces herself to cough deeply to get it all out before sucking in fresh air. Her eyes are starting to water, so she pulls the collar of her shirt up to wipe her face with the inside of it, since the front is probably covered in foam. Blinking through her tears, she pushes herself up into a sitting position and looks around.

The cloud has finally started to settle, dusting the two unconscious forms in the hallway like freshly fallen snow. A large sledgehammer is laying on the floor beside them- which she supposes answers the question of how they intended to break through the door.

Sammy steps out from behind the door, gasping. “Yaz! You okay?”

‘Okay,’ Yaz signs, as she struggles to catch her breath. She waves Sammy off with her other hand, pointing at the open doorway.

Sammy catches her meaning immediately. Hurrying over to the door, she leans down to grab the sledgehammer and drag it inside the bridge. Then she slams the door shut and locks it.

Yaz leans back on her hands and exhales slowly. Hopefully the authorities will be here before the mercenaries wake up and have time to go track down another sledgehammer or something.

“That was incredible!” Sammy exclaims, racing over to wrap Yaz in a hug. She pulls away and looks Yaz over, her brows creased with worry. “But are you sure you’re alright, sweet pea? That looked rough.”

“Yeah,” Yaz says hoarsely. “It’s just a mild irritant, should clear up quick.” She stretches her leg out and flexes her ankle experimentally, wincing as it throbs. “And you know, I’m used to this thing giving me grief.”

Sammy clicks her tongue sympathetically, smoothing a hand over Yaz’s hair. “Well, thank you,” she murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to Yaz’s cheek.

Yaz gives her a warm smile. “Anytime.” She coughs into her fist before glancing over at Kenji. “You okay, Kenj?”

“Holy shit!” Kenji’s gaping at Yaz with wide eyes, the top of his head dusted white. “That was, hands down, one of the top five coolest things I’ve ever witnessed. But only because we’ve been fighting dinosaurs for three years.”

Yaz snorts. “Wow, top five? I can die happy now.”

“Yeah, well. It’s pretty exclusive.” Kenji shrugs, some of his humor falling away as he gives her a considerate look. “Seriously though, thanks. There’s no way I could take a fight right now, so I owe you one.”

Yaz huffs a laugh at that, even as the knot in her heart loosens. “We’ll call it even,” she amends.

“Alright,” Kenji says softly. He runs his good hand through his hair, shaking off the powder. “So where’d you learn how to use a fire extinguisher, anyway?”

Sammy gives him a funny look. “Uh, didn’t you pay attention durin’ your school’s fire safety drills?” she asks.

“No,” Kenji tuts, “that would require me actually going to school. Rich jerk, remember? Private tutors all the way.”

“Actually,” Yaz says, a fond smile tugging at her mouth, “when you have a single mom who works a lot, you spend a lot of time home alone. So, she made sure I knew how to use one in case of an emergency.”

Sammy breaks into a broad grin. “Probably not the emergency she was imaginin’, huh?” she chuckles.

“Nope,” Yaz laughs. 

Over in the corner, the captain lets out a string of unpleasant sounds. His words are muffled by the gag, but Yaz can catch their meaning by his tone well enough.

Kenji shoots him a look. “Come on, man,” he complains, “we’re having a moment here.”

“No, look!” Sammy says suddenly, jumping to her feet.

Yaz follows her gaze out the bridge’s front windows. Squinting past their own reflections and out into the dark night, she can just make out a tall shape approaching off the bow, flashing with yellow and red lights. The siren hits her ears a heartbeat later, and the sudden tears that spring to her eyes aren’t from irritating chemicals, but relief.

Help has finally arrived.

~*~

[felswritingfire]

April Brain Rot #8

89. Volcanic

36. "Need a ride?"

16. “I’m overreacting? Sweetheart, if anything I’m going easy on you.”

Divus Crewel x Professor!Reader

Summery: Divus gets a little ahead of himself and you two get into a whole ass fight.

TW: Fighting; Yelling; Cursing; Accusations of cheating

Word count: 1,208

A note from Fel: Idk how well this turned out? I'm never sure about how well I can depict fights- so hopefully, it works tho. My gf said I did a good job so like, I'm living tbh- anyway. Enjoy!

“I should have never fucking said yes to dating you.”

You’re going to regret saying that to him later but, right now, red was threatening to cloud your vision the longer you stared at Divus.

He crossed his arms, raising a dark, perfect brow at you. “Really?” He drawls. “Maybe I regret asking out someone as… overdramatic as you.”

You knew he didn’t mean it, but it still stoked the coals that were already red hot in your stomach. “I’m overdramatic? You’re the one who’s overreacting about me and Sam-”

“I’m overreacting? Sweetheart, if anything I’m going easy on you.”

“‘Going easy on me’?” Lord help you- you were about to beat a man. “What in the fuck does that mean, Divus.”

“It just means that I should be acting a little- well, how do I put it?” He leans against the table behind him, crossing one leg over the other and tapping his chin with one of his fingers. You cross your arms, the coals steadily becoming a roaring flame. “Ah! I should be reacting a little worse when there’s a threat that my lovely partner is cheating on me with one of our coworkers.”

You feel something in you snap and suddenly you’re preciously loud- borderline on yelling- voice comes to an eerily calm tone. “Cheating? You think I’m cheating?”

“You tell me.”

The two of you stare at each other, until an ugly feeling mixes in with the anger. “You really think that? You think-” your voice warbles as you spit out your words- “that I’m that I’d do something like that?”

He pushed himself from the table, his mouth frowning in discomfort, but he didn’t say anything.

You sigh, digging through your coat pocket and pulling out a black box, throwing it at him with a bitter glare.

He fumbled with it (the most uncoordinated you had ever seen him) and stared at it. He looked at you with wide eyes. “What’s this?” He asked, a tremble in his words.

“Happy fucking birthday, asshole.” You turn on your heel and walk out the front door.

Divus winces at the deafening slam and suddenly everything was silent. He realized, somewhere in the back of his mind that he had never felt so alone. He shook his head forcing the frown back on his lips as he looked down at the black box. It’s probably nothing spectacular. He thinks, knowing he doesn’t mean it even in his mind. Probably wouldn’t even fit in my aesthetics- they never had an eye for fashion-

He feels his eyes sting as soon as he sees the little earrings: twin silver 1967 Chevy Camaros, in the center of the tiny rims of the tires sits even smaller diamonds. He shuts the box before running a hand through his hair; he knows he just messed up his hair- feels it in the way that the strands don’t sit right anymore on his head- but he can’t seem to care. The only thought racing in his head is you and how much of an ass he was (as loathe as he was to admit it).

Divus rushed to the bowl that held his car keys (you had gotten it for him when you saw the sheer amount of them strewned out on his countertops), grabbing a random one before almost tripping over his own feet to get to the garage.

************************************************************************

“Stupid Divus. Stupid weather-” you hiss as another sharp drop of rain pelted your head, pulling your coat closer to you to try warm yourself up despite it already being drenched with cold water.

You should have just told Divus what you were up to: that you were getting a present for him with the help of Sam (who, mind you, milked you for your paycheck, the little shit).

But you wanted him to be completely surprised, a stubborn part of you pipes up and you can’t help the flare of rage that continues to fan itself in the back of your mind. I wanted to get those stupid limited edition earings that he was looking at and if anyone had some it was Sam. Not my fault Divus doesn’t trust me.

You winced, shivering into your coat as the rain changed directions. You felt tired and cold- hurt, if you wanted to be frank. “Maybe I should just crash at the school- not like my boys are going to be going to classes tomorrow- it’s the weekend.” You smiled weakly at the thought of your trouble makers: Ace and Deuce- though, they were always sweet to you.

A familiar car rolls up next to you and you scowl, turning your head away. You hear the sound of a window rolling down. “Need a ride?” Divus asks.

“From you? No.”

“Darling, you look like a sopping wet dog, please come in?”

You turn your glare on him, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. “Woof. Woof.” You drawled out before you continue walking. Where? You have no idea. But you didn’t want to look at him.

He sits dumbfounded for a moment before shaking his head and continuing to inch along in his car to match your pace. “Darling- I- you know I don’t see you like that-”

“Than what? What do you see me as?” You stomp up to the car and lean down to scowl at him through the window. “Because obviously it’s not a trusted partner, Crewel.”

He winces at the use of his last name. “You are, I just-” he squeezed the steering wheel, catching his smooth lips between his teeth. You wait for an answer, somewhere in your mind swirls a wonder at how he hesitates with his words. “I recognize…” He takes a deep breath as he looks you in the eyes. “I recognize that Sam is an attractive man: charming, easy on the eyes, charismatic… He’s-” he gulps glancing away for a brief moment- “he’s not high maintenance like me.” You blink in surprise. “And I am also painfully aware of how long the two of you have known each other. He knows things about you that you have yet to share with me- if you will. It’s up to you, but still-”

“I’ve never thought you were high maintenance.” You look just as surprised as him when the words come out.

“You… don’t?”

You snort. “No, why would I be dating you if I thought that?”

He looks away but you can still see the way the tips of his ears warm to a soft pink. “Just get in. Please.”

You debate with yourself if you’re going to actually climb in when you decide against it. “Do you have a towel?”

“What?”

“A towel, silly man. I don’t want to ruin your seats- I’m sopping wet.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m more worried about you getting a cold, Darling.”

You sigh before opening the door and sitting on the grey leather, you wince at the way your clothes stick to your skin.

Divus turns on the heat before he reaches over to hold your trembling hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

You feel like, maybe you should say more, but the way he shakes his head and squeezes your hand makes you feel like everything’s alright.

<The Next Chosen Character>

Thank you for reading!

[myhockeyworld87]

What Happens In Vegas...Doesn’t Always Stay There - Jacob Markstrom - Part 5

Word Count: 6,353

POV: Reader

Warning: Language, Smut, NSFW, Pregnancy stuff

Notes: Sorry I meant to post this last night, but that game left me barely able to function. As such, you are getting this today. This fic takes place during the 2018-2019 season and during that season Jacob’s dad was still with him, so I will be mentioning him in this and the next chapter, along with his cancer. If that bothers you, please skip this and the next chapter. I just felt that it needed to be written into the story. As always feedback is welcome. Happy Reading!

What Happens In Vegas…Doesn’t Always Stay There Masterlist

It took three weeks back in LA to get everything taken care of before the move to Vancouver. Work thankfully wasn't a problem. With more and more movies and television shows being filmed in Canada, the firm liked the idea of having someone closer. Most of your work could be done remotely anyhow and you could just video chat conference calls or anything else you needed. It ended up being a win for everyone.

 By the time you could actually move in, Jacob was on the tail end of a ten-day road trip. He'd insisted on hiring you a moving company, even though you said you could handle it, not that he thought you couldn't; he just felt you didn't need the added stress. Though packing wasn't the stressful part. It was the unpacking and not knowing where to put things with Jacob not being there that was causing your anxiety to rise. You felt like you were invading his home. Most of your furniture you kept in storage, but you still had a few things you wanted to take with you, yet you didn't know where to have the movers place it. Then there were your clothes. Jacob had a gorgeous master bedroom, with a closet to die for, but all his things were in it. You were unsure if you should move them to make room for yours or just take up the closet in the spare room. Which while spacious, was nowhere near as nice as the one in Jacob's room. Everything would've been much easier had he been here.

 In the end, you split everything up, putting half your stuff in his closet and half in the other room. You figured the two of you would be doing a lot of compromising and this would just be one of them. You had his office moved around to accommodate your work desk, since you'd be working a lot from home, and you had to wonder how often he came in here, as the pile of papers on his desk looked like the size of Mount Fuji, volcanic eruption and all. You were tempted to straighten it out for him, but opted not to, not wanting to invade his privacy.

 You were just putting away the last of your stuff when you heard Jacob walk through the door. "Prinsessa, I'm home." He'd taken to calling you his Swedish princess lately and you had to admit you didn't hate it.

 "In the bedroom," you hollered back. It was late in the evening, too late for you to be up, but you wanted to see Jacob and make sure everything you'd done so far was fine with him.

 "I was surprised to see all the lights on when I pulled up. Couldn't you sleep?"

 "I just wanted to finish putting away a few things." He dropped his bag on the floor and came over to you, wrapping you up in his arms and dropping a few kisses to your lips.

 "I missed you these last couple of weeks." It was weird but you'd missed him as well. You had talked every day, sometimes several times, but those few days that you'd spent in Vancouver, had just brought a new closeness to this relationship. If a relationship was what you could call it. He did refer to you as his girlfriend, but the way you two had gotten here was definitely the road less traveled.

 You slid your arms up his chest, savoring the feel of his well-toned muscles there. "Funny...I didn't miss you at all." You had a hard time keeping a straight face.

 "Really?" Jacob asked. There was this twinkle in his eyes, right before his hands slid under your ass and he lifted you on him. You didn't even have a chance to wrap your legs around him, though he held you with ease. "Maybe I need to do a better job at leaving you some reminders for next time." His mouth went to the crook of your neck where he sucked on you and gave you little love bites. You were pretty sure there were going to be marks there.

 "And here this whole time I thought they called you Marky because of your last name," you teased, yet moved your head to the side to give him greater access.

 "Oh, I plan on leaving more than just this one." He carried you over to the bed, where he gingerly lowered you down. You loved how he could be slightly rough with you one minute and then next so gentle.  Admittedly, you'd like to see a little bit of his rough side, but hopefully, that would come with time.

 His hands slid under your shirt, along your sides; the callousness of them rough yet the touch tender, making you shiver. "No bra?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up with delight as he skimmed along the undersides, before cupping each breast.

 "I opted out of it a while ago." Though your body hadn't changed much in these last ten weeks, you did notice your breasts were more sensitive and sometimes you just couldn't stand having them confined longer than necessary. Tonight happened to be one of those times.

 "Well if it's an option, you don't ever have to wear it again." There was a devilish look in his eyes. "I like this ease of access." He was rolling your nipples between his thumb and index finger, eliciting moans out of you so that you had no chance to answer. Scrunching your shirt up, he dipped his head down to lavish attention on those same nipples he had been tweaking. Your body squirmed, as he swirled his tongue around it before sucking on it gently. He wedged his thigh between your legs and you found your body grinding against it while he played with first one nipple and then the other. "Oh prinsessa, I think you did miss me."

 There was no denying that your body missed this. Craved was more like it. You had a feeling there would never be a time that you didn't want him. What was surprising was the sense of loss that came with just simple day-to-day actions, like brushing your teeth together and sharing a meal. Those were the things you'd found yourself longing for these last few weeks.

 Jacob started to travel down your body. Trailing kisses as he went, yet stopping to whisper something in Swedish to the baby. He didn't spend long there, and before you could ask what he said; he was pulling your sweats and panties down. "Du gor mig galen med hur vat du ar." (you drive me crazy with how wet you are) You were going to have to start picking up Swedish or something in your spare time, as he seemed to always revert to his native language in the heat of the moment. There was no time to ask what he said, as he dove right into your pussy. Licking a stripe right up to your clit causing your hips to lift off the bed.

 You sucked in a breath when he repeated the action again, your body on fire like never before. When he flicked his tongue over your clit, you were gone. The orgasm hitting you hard and fast like never before. "Fuck," you screamed out, as your body trembled and spasmed.

 Jacob worked you through it, somewhat astonished with how little he had done to make you cum so quickly. Once, you finally stopped shaking he picked his head up from between your legs. "Are you alright, prinsessa?"

 "Yes," you sighed in a state of bliss, not knowing if it was the pregnancy or the fact that you hadn't seen Jacob in three weeks that made you climax like that.

 You lay there panting, still catching your breath. "Shall we do that again?" The smirk on Jacob's face had you laughing, but after a long day of unpacking, you knew your body wouldn't last long.

 "Do that and I may be done for the rest of the night." You were only half teasing but he chuckled and made his way back up your body, taking the hint.

 "Rather have this," Jacob flexed his hips into you and moaned out into the room again. He was out of his boxers in no time. Cupping his cock in his hand, then guiding it into you. "God, prinsessa, you always feel like heaven."

 "Mmm," was all you could answer back as he was buried deep in you, for he felt like heaven as well. When he finally started to move it felt like every nerve in your body was alive and tingling. With each thrust he took you to new heights you never knew were possible. "Oh Jacob," you moaned. "Don't stop...please...yes...oh god..."

 "Yeah, you like that prinsessa?" A smirk of satisfaction crossing his lips at knowing he was bringing you such exquisite pleasure. "Does my cock make you feel good?" He was pounding into you and you didn't know how much longer you were going to be able to hold on for. He must have felt the small flutter your pussy gave, as the first tremors of orgasm began. "Cum for me (Y/N)." You shattered at his words, climaxing once again with a force you never felt but just minutes ago. "Fuck, ya." He groaned out, spilling inside you as his orgasm hit as well.

 Your body was still quaking as he rolled you both onto your sides. His cock going flaccid yet still inside you. "God, you're beautiful," Jacob whispered those words, as he pushed strands of hair out of your face, before dropping kisses to your nose and lips. "If this is what happens when I get home from a road trip, I can't wait to go on another one."

 "Stop," you said playfully swatting at his chest.

 "I'm just teasing, prinsessa, though I do like coming home to you here. I think this will be good for us." You hoped it would, considering that you both had a lot banking on this working out. If this were to go south, then what would you do? Move back to LA with the baby? Stay here so that Jacob could be a part-time dad? There were so many questions swirling around in your brain, but when Jacob softly took his thumb to rub your cheek they all seemed to evaporate. "I didn't get to ask how you're feeling today?"

 "I'm good, well, we're good. That's three whole days without morning sickness." It was small, but it was progress. Hopefully, you were on the upswing of that as you went into your eleventh week.

 "Good, I can't see how that's good for either one of you." You couldn't either, even though everything you read and everyone you talked to, said it was normal. "When you were moving in did you figure out which room you wanted for the baby?"

 "I thought the smart thing would be to keep it next to our room. Oh, I mean your room."

 "No, you were right the first time. This is our room." He kissed you quickly before adding, "If we're going to make this work then everything is ours."

 You yawned, completely exhausted from the babe and moving in. "Ok," you somehow managed to get out, agreeing with Jacob.

 "Sleep, (Y/N). It's late." You weren't sure if it was the combination of his soft whispered words while he rubbed your back or sheer exhaustion, but the minute you closed your eyes you were out.

 Jacob just chuckled to himself as he watched you fall asleep. He was fighting the feeling himself, though he just wanted to steal a few more glances as you slept on peacefully in his arms. It was strange to him, someone who wasn't ready to settle down, how much he loved this. Just holding you in his arms and watching you sleep. Ever since he'd met you, something inside him had changed. You made him want more than just random hookup after random hookup, and now he had that something more with you. Though pretty soon there would be a little one as well. His hand stole down to your belly. He thought for sure there would be a bump there, after not seeing you for three weeks. The little blueberry inside you had grown to a strawberry now. He knew this because of course, he had to google it, along with so many other things. Like how to change a diaper, and what he should expect at each week of your pregnancy. He knew that right now you could start with mood swings, and be crying one minute and happy the next. He was just waiting for that to happen. He was trying to be prepared as best he could to help you out with the baby growing inside you. His baby. God, it sounded weird, yet so good at the same time. It was thoughts of his little one that had him drifting off to sleep.

 Jacob was home for the next five days before off on a short road trip before Thanksgiving. It was after a one point loss that he brought up finally being able to tell people about your pregnancy. The two of you were driving home after the game and you could tell his mind was preoccupied, you just assumed it was about the game. That was until he spoke. "I think we should tell everyone." It was sort of out of the blue and you had to admit you weren't sure if you were ready.

 "I don't know Jacob."

 Before you could say more, he looked over at you saying, "why?"

 "It's just...I'm the new person here. I've only been to three games counting tonight." He looked over again when you came to a stoplight, confused by what you were saying. "They're going to judge me." When he still didn't understand, you added, "They're all going to think I baby trapped you."

 "No, they won't."

 "Please, I know women, and you said it yourself; they're a family. I'll be looked at as the outsider that wanted to get her claws into a famous athlete."

 "I don't know about famous," he joked and you noticed that he tended to do that a lot. When you just gave him a look, he reached over and squeezed your thigh, letting his hand rest there after doing so. "I'm teasing (Y/N). I know these guys, they aren't going to think that way once we tell them. Hell, I'll take full blame. I mean I should've worn a condom, but if I'm being honest...I'm glad I didn't."

 You were shocked at his words, to the point that you had none yourself. "Don't look so shocked," Jacob said breaking the silence. "I'll admit, that kids weren't in my plans right now, but they were in them. And I have to say now, once I saw blueberry, who's now strawberry; I'm kind of excited to be a dad. I guess that's why I want to tell everyone."

 Well, shit, now he had you all weepy. You understood where he was coming from, there was something about seeing the baby on the ultrasound, even though you had no clue what you were looking at, and then hearing the heartbeat, well it made you feel the exact same way as he did. "Ok."

 "Ok?"

 "Ok, we can tell people."

 "Really? I didn't say that to make you change your mind or anything." His hand was running up and down your thigh now, more in an excited manner than seductive, yet it still sent tingles through your body.

 "I know, but I'll be twelve weeks in a couple days and then we're pretty much out of the woods according to the doctor." That had been your main concern, having a miscarriage. It would be hard enough on you let alone having to tell everyone who was sharing in your happiness.

 "Oh," Jacob exclaimed and you could tell that was something that hadn't really crossed his mind. "Well, we can wait then."

 "What if we compromise." After all, the two of you had been doing that a lot recently, no reason to stop now. "You're only gone a couple short days. We can tell everyone when you get back, at Thanksgiving." When you were with the other wives and girlfriends tonight they had mentioned that they were going to be doing a group thanksgiving dinner for those who wished to celebrate and didn't have family in town. It was a no-brainer to say yes, though you probably should've talked to Jacob first. It was too late for that now, as you were already down for bringing a couple pies for dessert.

 "That actually sounds like a good plan. Even if I didn't know we were officially going." There was that damn squeeze of your thigh again to let you know he was teasing. This time you played along.

 "Hmm, I don't remember you being mentioned in the invite, but I'm sure I can bring a plus one." You were half tempted to reach over to grasp his thigh, but you settled for just linking your fingers together with his, liking the fact that you two had this easiness with each other.

 "I'm fine with being your plus one anytime, prinsessa."

 Once the matter was settled the two of you concentrated on other things until you got home and he whisked you up to the bedroom. You had read that your sex drive might decrease some during these weeks of pregnancy but you were not finding that to be the fact. If anything, you were constantly, well the only word for it was, horny. Just being in Jacob's presence drove you wild, and it seemed to be the same for him. Though the two of you did have your tender moments, where you cuddled up on the couch to watch hockey; Jacob explaining the premises of the game better to you. There were also nights you would just lie in bed and talk about the baby. Jacob gently caressing the small bump on your belly that wasn't even noticeable unless you were naked, which around him seemed to be often.

 Before you knew it, he was off on another road trip. Immersing yourself in work during the day was easy, it was the nights that were long. Game nights, you found yourself at one of the other ladies houses watching the game together or just laughing and enjoying each other’s company, but then you would head home to an empty house and an even more vacant bed. It wasn’t lost on you that just a few short months ago, this was the life you wanted. No craved. Now here you were wishing that Jacob was home with you, preferably in bed, but just being in the house would be enough for you. Though you couldn’t complain too much as Jacob would call and facetime you several times each night.

 It wasn’t too long of a roadie, and before you knew it, he was back in Vancouver and you were getting ready for Thanksgiving. With each pie you baked, you had to admit you were getting more and more nervous at the idea of telling Jacob’s teammates. You’d taken the morning to tell his parents, who while not exactly thrilled about the way it happened, were happy for the both of you and excited about having a grandchild. Yours were pretty much the same, now understanding that your move to Canada was more than just business.

 Hours later, you were in the car headed to Chris Tanev’s place, where he and his girlfriend Kendra were hosting. You couldn’t stop your legs from bouncing as you went past neighborhood after neighborhood. “I’m telling you there’s nothing to be worried about,” Jacob insisted, placing his hand over your knee in an effort to get you to stop.

 “Yeah, well I’ll be better when it’s over and I don’t have to see the disapproving stares.”

 “You weren’t this nervous telling our families.”

 “I was for yours. I just wasn’t showing it on the outside.” Admittedly, you had been scared about telling them, but Jacob’s parents were just so kind. There were also words exchanged in Swedish which you had no clue as to their meaning, but Jacob assured you it was nothing bad at all. “Besides our parents aren’t going to judge us at the end of the day. Family kind of has to love you, even when you make mistakes.”

 “Mistakes, huh?”

 “That’s not what I meant.”

 “I know, just trying to take your mind off of everything. So, you’re cool with my parents coming over for a bit. I mean dad and I will be on the road a couple of days, so it’ll just be you and my mom, but I know she’s really excited about meeting you.”

 “Yeah, I’m actually looking forward to it.” Which was the honest to god’s truth. You wanted to learn all about Jacob and his family, for no matter what happened between the two of you, they would always be a part of the baby’s life. “I’m sure she’s got some good stories about you growing up. You know the ones that are way too embarrassing to tell, but mom’s do anyhow.” He groaned and you laughed. There were obviously some he didn’t want to be told and you were looking forward to hearing about those the most.

 “Maybe I should be rethinking this.”

 “Don’t you dare.” As the words rolled off your tongue, you realized you were pulling up to the Tanev residence.

 “Ready?” You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the next few hours. You planned on just following Jacob’s lead. It wasn’t like you were going to walk in and simply announce that you were pregnant; however, and whenever, he wanted to tell them, was his choice.

 He squeezed your hand one last time before the two of you exited the car. You grabbed the desserts, tossing two pies at Jacob before taking the last two, and heading to the door. “Welcome, guys,” Chris said as he opened the door, then took one of the pies off your hands. “Come on in.” Not everyone was there yet, which was rather nice. There were a few of the single players there, along with Sarah and Erik. You knew for sure Holly and Bo were coming as well and a few more of the couples, that you weren’t extremely close to yet, they just hadn’t arrived yet.

 Mike Del Zotto was quick to come up and throw an arm around you. “Hey (Y/N), it’s good to see you. Glad you two decided to join us. I thought maybe this guy would keep you all to himself. I know I would.” He gave you a quick wink, but it was the look on Jacob’s face that had you laughing. He was not happy with DZ flirting with you by any means.

 “Keep it up and we may just have to head home,” Jacob countered, though in a joking manner.

 “Men,” Sarah said, grabbing you from Michael’s hold so that she could hug you. “Why don’t you boys run along and watch football or something. Let’s go put these in the kitchen.” She took the pies from Jacob and headed off.

 Jacob came over and pecked you on the lips, before slyly asking, “You good?”

 “Yeah,” with that he gave your hip a final squeeze then went with the other guys to the movie room.

 “These look amazing,” Kendra told you, checking out the baked goods. “Where did you get them from?”

 “Oh, I made them. I hope that’s ok.”

 “Ok? Oh my god, of course, they’re probably way better than store-bought. Though you have me feeling guilty now because I did not make any of the food.” It was then that you noticed large tinfoil pans here and there in the kitchen with a couple in the oven. “I like to cook, but not for this herd. I don’t have enough oven space for the number of turkeys we’d need.”

 “Well, I’m still amazed at you having everyone,” you told her, for it had to be a feat hosting this many hockey players along with their significant others. “Everything looks amazing and your house is gorgeous by the way.”

 “Thank you. Would you like a glass?” Kendra held out a bottle of red wine, literally your weakness any other time than right now. “I was just pouring us a second.”

 “Yeah, join us,” Sarah added. “We’re going to need it with all this male testosterone today.”

 Somehow at the last couple of get-togethers, you’d managed to get out of drinking simply by saying that you had work the next day, but that would not be the case tomorrow. “I really shouldn’t, but a bottle of water would be great.”

 “One water coming up.” Kendra headed over to the fridge when you saw Sarah eyeing you funny.

 “Ok, so I have to ask.” This from Sarah as she still had that look on her face. It was the one Kennedy always made when she knew something. Nine times out of ten your best friend was always right, but then this was Sarah, someone who you considered a friend but didn’t know near as well. “You haven’t been drinking at any games and you’re not today. Are you….?” She paused letting the word pregnant just hang in the air, for you to fill in the blank.

 “Are you?” Kendra asked now fully into the conversation, yet still, neither said the word.

 All you could do was take a deep breath and say, “Yeah, I am.” Still not saying the P-word as if that would change the circumstance of your situation.

 “Oh my god, congratulations.” Sarah came running around the island to hug you. "That's amazing." You were stunned there wasn't a hint of disapproval on her face. And when you looked back at Kendra who was waiting her turn to hug you, all you could see was happiness as well.

 "Jacob is going to be a great father," Kendra told you when she wrapped you up in an embrace. "How far along are you?"

 "How far along is what?" Chris asked.

 "I hope you mean dinner because I'm starving," Del Zotto added.

 Bringing up the rear of the trio was Jacob and all you could do was give him a sheepish grin as Kendra broke the news. "Congratulations, Daddy."

 Both Michael and Chris turned to him, with shocked looks on their faces. "Why didn't you tell us, man?" Chris spoke first, as he clapped Jacob on the back then gave him the standard bro hug.

 "I planned on it today," Jacob answered while giving you a look both shocked and thrilled that you were the one spilling the beans. "Just hadn't found the right time."

 Del Zotto came up and hugged you first, followed by Chris, and the next thing you knew the whole place was congratulating the two of you. It was nothing like you thought, not one person questioned the fact that you'd just moved in together or started to see one another. Jacob had been right all along. They were just like your family, supportive of the decision the two of you had made. You were beginning to believe that this may work out. Especially, as your relationship with Jacob only seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

 After Thanksgiving, things seemed to be moving in fast forward. You hit the twelve-week mark in your pregnancy, which meant another ultrasound and another chance for you and Jacob to further bond over the baby. It went from being a strawberry to being the size of a lime, according to the chart, and this time you could both see it was an actual baby growing inside of you. There was a distinct shape to its little arms and legs, which made the whole thing that much more real and exciting. Which is how you found yourself asking the girls how you would go about getting a little Canucks jersey with Jacob’s number and Daddy written on the back as a Christmas gift for Jacob. It was the first baby item that you bought and it felt so perfect.

 As Christmas drew near, you found yourself decorating Jacob’s house for the holiday season. Even though you’d been living in the house for several weeks, it still didn’t feel like your home quite yet. Jacob had few holiday decorations, so you found yourself shopping more than you cared to admit. By the time he arrived home, you had the house transformed into something worthy of a Hallmark movie. It wasn’t what Jacob was used to by any means considering the Swedes are more classic and subtle when it came to holiday décor, but he loved it all the same.

 Christmas was a quiet affair. You opted to stay in Canada with Jacob, figuring that you might as well start making some new traditions, like celebrating on Christmas Eve as is done in Sweden. The two of you tried to mesh your holiday traditions as much as possible, so you agreed to open one present Christmas Eve after you had eaten some classic holiday dishes from Jacob’s homeland, then opting to open the rest Christmas morning as your family had always done. Jacob bought you a beautiful charm bracelet. There was a Welcome to Vegas charm, as well as a hockey stick, and Canucks one, but the one you loved the most was the one that had Mom to be written on a heart.

 “This is beautiful,” you said leaning over to give him a kiss. “Thank you.”

 You handed over your gift to him, which he took with a silly grin on his face. Tearing through the paper, he unwrapped the box in no time, then pulled out the tiny hockey sweater. “This is great (Y/N). I can’t wait to see him or her in it at the game.”

 “There’s more.” He looked at you curiously then peered back inside the box, seeing the gold chain lying inside. You’d seen him wear one on a few occasions but this had a little charm on the end. He looked at it several times before you finally gave in. “It’s the doppler sound of the baby’s heartbeat. I had told you I’d record it for you before we did the ultrasound here in Vancouver, but I still wanted you to have something to remember that moment.”

 His eyes started to well up, just like they had that day when you heard the heartbeat. “This is…wow…I love it.” It was Jacob’s turn to plant a kiss on your lips, only this one became a little more heated. He finally pulled away, but only to say, “Can you put it on me?”

 Thankfully he was seated on the couch, so you got up and placed the chain around his neck. The moment it was secure, he looked down at the charm and smiled, before reaching to grab you and pull you close again. This time speaking hushed words to the baby in Swedish as he always did.

 “I think for my New Year’s resolution, I’m going to learn Swedish. I’m dying to know what you tell the baby.”

 “That time, I said that they are so lucky to have the most wonderful mom in the world.” Well, if that didn’t make the heat rise to your cheeks. “There might have been a few other things as well. I’m more than happy to teach you though if you’d like to learn.”

 “I think I would. It would be nice to teach our child your native tongue, and they say to start as early as possible. Which it seems that you are.” He just grinned then hauled you down on his lap, cradling your small little bump once you were seated.

 “Well here’s your first lesson. You say God Jul for Merry Christmas in Swedish.”

 You repeated the words, butchering them a bit, then repeated it again much better. “Very good, prinsessa. Obviously, you know that one as well.”

 “I do. Though I wonder if I shall still get that title if we have a girl.”

 “Hmm, might have to change it to Drottning.”

 “I have no clue what that means, but it’s not nearly as romantic.” Jacob let out a bark of laughter.

 “No, I don’t suppose queen sounds as good in Swedish as it does English. I guess I will just have to think about it.”

 “Which makes me wonder, do you want a boy or a girl?” Everyone knew that all you both wanted was a healthy baby, but you wouldn’t lie and say that you’d love to see Jacob with a son. One he could teach all his hockey moves to, though he could just as easily do that with a girl. Maybe it was that you wanted a boy just so that you could see Jacob through him. One that had his sense of humor and good looks. Though your child would probably never be in trouble if he could replicate his father’s grin. It melted your heart every time you saw it. You had to shake yourself from where your thoughts were leading for you never saw yourself as this person; the kind that wanted to see the man that they loved reflected in their children.

 Did you literally just think that you loved Jacob? Certainly, you had feelings for him, but love; no, it couldn’t be that. You hadn’t known Jacob long enough to say you were in love with him. Hell, the two of you were in the process of getting a divorce. Weren’t people falling out of love when that happened and not into it?

 “Either will be fine, just healthy.” Jacob's voice brought you back to reality and where your train of thoughts was leading. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to explore those feelings; now was just not the right moment for it. Later, you thought, when you weren’t wrapped up in his arms with this warm fuzzy feeling from the holiday season already bubbling inside you.

 “Well, we both want that, but isn’t there one you want a little bit more than the other?” You probed further, ignoring those earlier thoughts.

 “Not really prinsessa.” He had to have some preference just as you did.

 “So, then you don’t want to know what we’re having?”

 “Not if you don’t.” He was too damn accommodating at times or was that he was disinterested. He was always talking to the baby, so you didn’t think that it was the latter.

 “We have a few more weeks to think about it.” No point in making the decision right now, maybe he would change his mind. “I made the next appointment for when you’re back, on the fifteenth. We’ll have to know by then.”

 He kissed your temple, hands running under your shirt so that he could caress the tiny baby bump. “We will, for now though, we better get to bed before Santa comes.”

 “Is Santa coming the reason you want to go?” you teased as you could feel his erection growing against you.

 “Well, if you let me, prinsessa, Santa won’t be the only one cuming.” God, you loved his sense of humor. There was that word again. It had you jumping off his lap in order for your mind to not wander down that path again.

 “Guess we better head to bed then.” He was swift to follow you, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you to the bedroom, where he definitely kept his word.

 It was two days later that he was headed off on a ten-day road trip. You were definitely not looking forward to it, as the house always seemed empty without him in it.

 The team played on New Year’s Eve and had it been anywhere else than New Jersey you would’ve gone to watch only so you could ring in the new year together. Instead, you spent that night with all the Canuck ladies, facetiming Jacob as the new year approached. Jacob was still going to be on the road for another five days, so you busied yourself by taking down all the holiday decorations. You decided to make the place a bit homier, adding pictures and artwork here and there. The place was really starting to feel more like home.

 The only room that still needed work, was the office. While your desk was neat and organized, Jacob’s was a disaster. Had been since the day you moved in. You were seriously starting to wonder how things got done with the mountain of papers on his desk. All those papers had been driving you crazy every day you came in to work. Jacob needed someone to organize him, or at least that’s what you told yourself as you sat in his chair and started to sift through piece after piece of mail and documents.

 There was a pile for bills, all of which somehow got paid, though you didn’t know how. A pile for legal documents and a miscellaneous pile that you needed to figure out where to put. Once you organized the first two, you moved on to the random ones that you weren’t one hundred percent sure of. You were halfway through when you came across a familiar envelope; the same one you’d sent the divorce papers back in. Why it hadn’t caught your attention when you first separated it, you weren’t sure?

 You opened it up, assuming it was a copy of the document you’d signed. What you found inside shocked you. It was the original paperwork. The blue ink you signed it in staring back at you, but that wasn’t the part that told you it was a copy. It was the fact that Jacob’s signature was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t signed it. Why? You’d both agreed to the divorce, it was practically a done deal, only now it wasn't.

taglist: @iculyrea​  @fiveholegoal​  @raysofcrosby @leafs-lover​ @sexysidney87​ @lovethepreds​  @miranda0102​  @stbluesbrat21  @perrieeloise  @mandypants95​  @hockeyunits​  @liz96893  @golfergirl1982​  @princessphilly​  @ajstylesworld​  @zinka8  @dontworrybeekappy​  @hiimana  @meishaabae​ @heatherawoowoo @beauvibaby @hockeybabe87 @leafs-forever @dancingonmyown87​ @himbos-on-ice

[skellebonez]

Could you do number 46. They have amnesia? With Monkie King and MK If you’re still doing the request/prompts

You didn't say who had to have amnesia, anon. Spoilers for episodes up to S2E6 inside.

They have amnesia?

"How is this even possible?" MK asked softly, not wanting to be heard but knowing that Wukong’s superior hearing would pick up most of what he was saying. Though given how distracted he was...

"It shouldn't be!" Tang exclaimed equally as quiet, watching his hero with a mix of curiosity and dismay. "He's the Monkey King, nothing should be able to hurt him like this."

"Maybe he wasn't hurt," Mei offered, watching Wukong herself as Pigsy held up another photograph and only recieved a confused look in response. "Maybe it's magic. He can be affected by magic that isn't directly hurting him, right? Even if it takes something big to hurt him physically a spell or curse could still something."

"That is a possibility..." Tang muttered under his breathe. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing as Pigsy seemed to exhaust photographs and illustrations to show the Monkey King. Sandy stood beside them both, Mo curled up in Wukong’s arms instead of his usual place on the big guy's shoulder, and said something in hushed tones that made the Monkey King's ears pull back. "There are no shortages of either that could cause memory loss, hopefully for us temporarily so. And he didn't seem injured in any way when we found him outside the shop... though he shouldn't even be here, he was on vacation! Wouldn't he have told you he was coming back?"

"Maybe..." MK started slowly, watching as Pigsy held up a group of photos and Wukong pointed to one of them excitedly. "But he's been acting... weird since he left anyway. Like he was distracted. I kinda just tried not to worry about it but..." He trailed off, jumping as a loud snap was heard and then wishing he had the staff out in his hands to wrap them around it instead of the mop he just snapped in two. "... crap..."

"You're worried," Mei said softly, laying her hand on her best friend's shoulder. "I am too, even though I may not know the Monkey King that well. But once we find out exactly how much he remembers we can find a way to help him."

"Yeah, about that," Pigsy's voice broke through their conversation as he made his way over. The chef looked perturbed. "So we went through all your pictures MK. He remembers going on the journey, though the details of it are lost, and he knows Mount Huaguo like the back of his hand. But he doesn't remember like 99% of the journey, can't remember any of his monkeys, can't remember us, can't even remember that he's the Monkey King or what that title means." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his snout for a second before continuing. "What he does remember clearly is that he lives alone on an island and that it's the modern day, he went on some big journey he barely recalls... and that he knows MK and that MK is important."

"What?" MK looked away from where he had glanced over to Wukong, staring at Pigsy in disbelief. "Wait, you're telling me I'm the only person he remembers!?"

"Barely!" Pigsy elaborated with another sigh. "Kid, whatever happened to him really messed up his memories. He knows your name and face and that you're important. He kind of remembers training you. But that is it. He doesn't recognize anyone else. And I don't know him that good, but he doesn't seem to be acting like his normal self either."

This was bad. There was no other way to put it. And they needed to figure something out fast.

"MK?" Wukong said suddenly, having wandered up to the group. He still had Mo in his arms, the cat looking up at him in concern. "Is everything alright, Bud?"

It most certainly was not.

~

"This is my house?" Wukong asked softly, one of the first things he had said since MK and he had arrived back on Mount Huaguo. Getting him home was easy enough, one of the few things he remembered was where he lived after all, but he seemed confused regardless. Perhaps he didn't remember the mountain as much as Pigsy thought he did. "It's... cozy!" He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "When your boss told me I was a king I kind of worried that... well, I don't know why, I was just worried for some reason. Weird."

Weird didn't even begin to cover it.

Pigsy wasn't lying when he said that Wukong hadn't been acting like his normal self. Instead of the loud and boisterous and kind of, admittedly, self important Monkey King MK expected, Wukong was oddly subdued. Maybe it was the amnesia making him weary, but he was acting so much like he had for just the shortest moments at the Lunar New Year festival (both before the fireworks had cheered him up and after the fight with the Spider Queen) that MK was starting to wonder...

"I really do live alone except for my monkeys, huh?" Wukong said softly, one of the aforementioned monkeys looking at him in their own concern.

When he saw them face to face he seemed to recall at least a bit. That he cared for them in some capacity both as an actual caregiver and as "I guess a King is right" as Wukong put it. But while he knew each one on the island by name before he couldn't recall a single one now. But MK remembered that the little one that followed them inside was called Yue, partly because he had been the one to help name her.

Knowing that Wukong likely didn't remember that day, let alone how important it had been to him to include his student in this endeavor, made MK's chest hurt.

"Yeah, it's, uh... yeah," MK attempted to confirm, coming off as awkward as he felt internally. Everything about this was awkward. But MK could not, and would not, leave his mentor while he could only barely recall how to navigate his own home island. "So... we didn't exactly get that much to eat at Pigsy's... you hungry?"

~

The two ate in moderate silence. MK didn't want to force Wukong to feel awkward by asking him about topics he couldn't remember (the last few confused and then apologetic smiles made him feel too bad to try again). He managed to find something, at least, however small it was.

Wukong seemed to remember little bits and pieces about himself. Not everything, obviously, but he remembered some important things. He knew he was immortal and invincible. He knew that he was very very old. He knew he was technically not a regular demon monkey but a stone monkey born out of a... well, a stone. And he remembered his dietary preferences.

This last one was news to MK, who had never actually seen him eat more than peaches and peach chips and food made from his own hair (which was not something he was looking forward to trying again). But it made fashioning something for them to eat easier. Something simple, rice for both of them with fresh peaches (he had so many of these things in his fridge and MK did not know how they lasted without spoiling, but he did not ask) for his mentor and rice with some tofu and green onions for MK (simple, but with seasoning and sauce that for some reason had his own initials on it tasty, he had to remember to ask about that... after).

It was... kind of nice, the situation aside.

"... am I your... absentee dad?"

And there that went right out the window and right into the volcanic inferno of the flaming mountains!

MK nearly choked on his rice, barely managing to chug a glass of water before managing out a "HWUH?" in his mentor's direction.

"I-I'm sorry!" Wukong stuttered out, the uncertainty in his voice sounding wrong. "I just... I thought... there's stuff in here with your name on it but there isn't a place for you to stay, the second room is just storage, so I thought..." He trailed off, biting his lip before sighing. "You told me you were my student. But that... it's doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel wrong but it feels... sorry."

Taking a moment to breathe in deeply, MK steeled himself.

"No, don't apologize," he started, setting his bowl to the side and staying quiet for a moment. "No, you're not... my dad. But I noticed those things too. I've never really been inside your house all that much, only a couple times before you left and only twice since. You don't..." He paused, trying to find the right words to express himself. "I guess I'm just realizing there's a lot of things you don't tell me."

"... it'd be kind of awkward if I just ruined some kind of big thing I was gonna tell you when I got back," Wukong said through another bite of a peach.

"Yeah, I doubt you were gonna tell me you'e adopting me," MK laughed out awkwardly... but that awkwardness lingered long after the conversation moved on to how much of the stuff in the house he remembered.

~

MK woke up in a sleeping bag in a room that didn't belong to him. He was confused at first, sitting up quickly and looking around before realizing that he was just in Wukong's house. On the floor of Wukong's bedroom, actually. The Monkey King had insisted that he could not sleep on the couch, comfortable as it looked, and they looked around in his storage room for any alternative until they found this.

It was comfortable enough. But not so comfortable he slept through what had woken him.

It sounded like crying.

Not loud, not enough to wake most people. But MK was already highly stressed from the situation and had developed much better hearing since obtaining the Monkey King Powers (how he had thought he needed to learn super hearing that one time he did not know now that he thought about it). So he picked up on the soft sniffs and whimpers and shakey breathes and now he would not be going back to sleep until he figured out what was up.

"Monkey King? You sure there isn-" MK froze as he turned to his mentor's bed, only to find it empty.

Well. Shit...

That probably answered that question.

MK wasted no time in jumping to his feet rushing out of the room and toward the crying before freezing in the door way to he living room.

Monkey King was sitting on the floor, TV on and VR set still strapped to his head.

"Oh... no..." MK muttered softly, making his way inside to stand behind Wukong. "Hey... Monkey King? What are you doing?"

Wukong flinched, he'd never seen him do that before, and gripped his controller tighter. He heard it creak worryingly under his grip.

"I... I saw this game earlier," he started slowly, and MK didn't need him to explain which one it was. The case, familiar to him now, was sitting in plain sight on the floor before them. "I dunno, it just... it felt important. And I couldn't sleep so I decided to go through some more of my stuff and... and..." He took in a shakey breathe, putting the controller down and taking the VR headset off. "I... it was weird looking at myself. Listening to myself tell me what do to. But it felt familar. So I kept playing and..."

MK put a hand on his mentor's shoulder and looked at the screen. He'd made it to the in game store, the temple. There Tripitaka, Tang Sanzang, resided to give the player passive abilities. "How long have you been playing?"

"An hour maybe?" Wukong offered, wiping the tears from his face. "I made it to Zhu Ganglie but I. I couldn't. I didn't want to... MK, I feel like I should remember these people. I can't look at them without feeling... sad. Guilty? I can't help but feel like I did something wrong to them?"

And MK's chest hurt once again, knowing that somewhere deep down in Wukong he hadn't completely forgotten his companions from his journey centuries ago. He should have pieced it together when he played. The art, the dialogue, the placement of the monk... he'd never seen the game on store shelves before either, never even heard of it.

But Sun Wukong had played this game for 10,000 hours.

"They're, uh... They're the people who were on your journey with you," MK started as he sat on the floor by his mentor. "You haven't gotten to Sha Wujing, but he's there too. So was Bai Long Ma. I could... tell you about them? I don't know all the stories by heart like Tang does, but I can try."

"You don't have to do that," Wukong said much more assuredly and firm than before. "If I did something that made me feel like this that should be my own burden to bear, not yours."

"Yeah... but I want to help you anyway."

The two sat in silence for a moment before Wukong stood and made his way into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a small bowl of peaches and a wrapped pack of pears (once again with MK's initials on it). He sat on the couch, gesturing for his student to join him before he spoke.

"I appreciate the offer, I do... but I'll be able to learn that on my own before my memories return," Wukong said, biting into one of his peaches with a sad smile. "You said Tang, the guy from the noodle shop, knows them. I can ask him tomorrow... well, later today. But as I said before, that isn't your burden to bear. And I don't want to put that on you. And even though I remember you the most out of everything it feels like I don't know you as much as I should. So, if neither of us is going to sleep again any time soon... tell me about MK?"

"... When I moved into the apartment above Pigsy’s I took on MK as a nickname."

Wukong looked up in confusion for a moment before his eyes widened and he put all his focus on his student with a soft smile. "OK..."

The two talked for only roughly another hour, Sun Wukong listening to MK tell him anything he felt comfortable telling him. When he woke up he was back in the sleeping bag, the soft snores of the Monkey King resounding above him.

As he laid awake, the small monkey Yue having made her way inside to sleep on his chest making a good excuse to not get up, he wanted to mull over everything he had learned. He'd learned more about his mentor in the 6 waking hours they spent together in his home than he had his entire apprenticeship, and the same went the other way.

MK wondered just why Sun Wukong hid all this from him so far. For so long. And he knew now he couldn't have possibly been on vacation. Not when it resulted in this. The Monkey King had been hiding so much from him and it clearly wasn't limited to what he was doing behind his back.

But right now Sun Wukong trusted MK, him coming back with him to Mount Huaguo was evidence enough of that. And MK trusted him as he was now... but didn't know how much of Sun Wukong from the past to trust anymore. He needed to get his mentor's memories back. And he needed to get answers.

Sun Wukong slept on, oblivious to the conflict in his student's head.

[jadekitty777]

Love on Borrowed Tai: Chapter 1

HI! I’m SO beyond late. Work kept me super late and then this chapter wasn’t even edited yet, or summarized, or titled and dfjkhdfkfjhfg. What a day!

But I’m finally here with the next entry for Taiqrow week! The beginning of the multi-chapter story! And believe you me when I say this, very loudly: THIS STORY WAS NOT MEANT TO GET THIS LONG.

But it did, all on it’s own. And it’s not even finished... but hopefully y’all will like it’s humble beginnings.

Prompt for Day 1: First

Rating: T overrall

Word Count: 4200

Summary: Tai’s life was simple. He rescued and rehabilitated injured Pokemon, helping them get back on their feet and back into the world. Then fate decided to throw him a curveball in the form of Qrow Branwen.

He had no idea how to rehabilitate a person… but his natural goodwill, and maybe a speck of loneliness, made him want to try.

~

Qrow was lost in more ways than one. With no home, no job, and his team and himself left severely injured, he finds himself desperately turning to the one man in Alola who could help him.

…A man he’d already met once before, but could never tell him how. [Pokemon AU]

Ao3 Link: Chapter 1

~

Tropical storms weren’t an unheard of occurrence in Alola. Though many wrongly believed the weather on the beautiful islands was crystal clear and perfect all year round, truth was they got some nasty rain showers and fierce winds throughout the summer and fall months – and when conditions were especially poor, even a hurricane or tsunami was possible. Probably the worst aspect of these storms was they tended to blow in fast and hit hard, with barely minutes of warning before the clouds blackened the sky.

Which was exactly the situation Taiyang found himself in. One moment, he had been scouring the grounds of the rescuer facility for anything out of place, the next he was drenched to the bone as he directed various Pokemon into their stables. He counted and recounted as his own team helped herd them inside, and only when he was sure everyone was accounted for, did he close the doors and head inside himself.

The first unusual thing that told him this wasn’t just any storm was in how short it was. Where normally he was ready to buckle in for the day, this time he’d hardly had a chance to dry up, before the sky was blue and clear again. He stared out the window with a frown, still toweling his hair, and murmured, “Odd.”

The next he didn’t notice until he got outside. Sunny Day Daycare was perched on one of the elevated levels of Melemele Island, just below Iki Town. It had been the only place left on the island with enough acres of land to make the creation of a rescuer and rehabilitation shelter for injured and mistreated Pokemon a realty. It also afforded him a great view of the island itself.

So it was hard to miss the sudden presence of the large corvid perched on the edge of Ten Carat Hill. The extinct volcano was at the southwestern side of the island and was the tallest point of Melemele, cutting between two halves of the beach. The highway ran so close to it, the traffic barriers nearly touched the rock. He knew that the peak of the mountain sunk in at the top, becoming like a basin. Centuries-old layers of volcanic rock solidified the interior and the passage of time had turned the fiery beast into a small haven of grass and other foliage, becoming a favorite home of many birds along with various other sky dwelling Pokemon. The Archipelago and Marine Vivillon migrations during springtime were particularly beautiful.

But this Pokemon was one he’d never seen in the region before – or in person at all – and the poor thing was a long way from Galar. He wasn’t sure what misfortunate had caused the Corviknight to come so far, but he couldn’t help but marvel at it, knowing that once it felt strong enough to take off again, he’d probably never see another.

Though, certainly such a rare thing was going to draw trainers…

Tai tsked at the thought, then put it out of his mind to instead go check up on his own ’flock’.

~

He got the call from Barty around one.

Dr. Bartholomew Oobleck was a historian from the Sinnoh region. He had traveled out this way a few years ago to study the various volcanic formations on each of the islands and how that had affected Alolan culture. He had even rented out the beachside house at the base of Ten Carat Hill. They’d gotten to know each other fairly well, because Barty’s companion, a Luxray by the name of Mocha, didn’t particularly like boat rides. Tai had offered to watch the finicky lion whenever the travel might be too overwhelming for her.

He'd grown to like the company – both Mocha’s and Barty’s. He found an instant connection with the other, as he also hailed from Sinnoh, though his mother had moved them out of Floaroma when he was still fairly young. They could chat for hours, like they were friends catching up on old times. However, the minute they strayed into their respective professions, the other man would talk his ear off about ecological effects of introducing outside species to the environment. Or, like, the ‘complicated history’ that became the invention of the video phone or something.

But today definitely didn’t sound like a social call.

“Tai! Oh thank Arceus you answered!” Barty’s speech was more rapid than usual, frantic. “We’re having a bit of an emergency over here!”

Tai frowned at that, setting down a bag of Poke-feed. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, did you see that storm earlier today? Wait – scratch that, of course you did. You’re not blind. Well, unless that’s changed since-”

“Barty.”

“Right!” The other man cleared his throat in a fit of embarrassment, “Sorry, uh, so, I don’t know if you also saw that storm blew in a Corviknight! Quite fascinating, really, because they have no flight patterns this far west. So I thought, well, what a great opportunity to study an unexpected phenomenon! Except, well,” He hesitated, “When I started going up the trail it uh, may have attacked me? And uh, maybe started attacking the cars in the street and the people at the beach too?”

“What?!” Tai sprinted around the house, looking out across the horizon. He couldn’t hear it, but the Corviknight seemed to be crying out warnings as it paced around the mountain’s edges. Every once and awhile it would raise a wing and it would glow bright white, before releasing torrents of white blades of air down below.

Air Slash.

Barty made a distressed noise. “I made a mess of things, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s not you. It must be protecting something and you just triggered its instincts.” He doubted it had had time to lay a clutch, but maybe it was just in the nesting stage. Or perhaps it hadn’t come alone and there were a few Rookidees hiding in the basin. On top of it all, lost and knocked off course, it must have been terribly frightened, maybe even injured. Without calming it down first, no one was going to get close.

“The authorities are trying their best but they can’t even get close! So I thought maybe you could help?” Barty asked hopefully.

“Yeah.” Tai agreed, already hurrying back for the house. “Just let me get my stuff and I’ll be there in a few!”

He ended the call, whistling down Liusha and Sunflower as he went.

~

As if the day couldn’t get any stranger, riding up the highway to find half the police force and their Pokemon snoozing on the asphalt definitely was the whipped cream on top of this weird pie of an afternoon. Taiyang dismounted Sunflower, giving his loyal Arcanine a grateful pat before approaching the scene, calling out to one of the still awake officers. “Having trouble Captain?”

Clover Ebi turned, smiling despite the situation, “Ah Taiyang! The good doctor said you were coming. Glad to have you.”

He nodded in turn. He’d worked with the police a few times before, when the wild Pokemon got riled up or became dangerous. A particularly memorable one was when bad high tides beached a whole school of Tentacool; it had taken a lot of hands to get the Pokemon back into the water without getting poisoned.

The Captain of the squad also happened to be one of his oldest friends. They’d met while undertaking the Island Trials, both stuck on Akala Island as he tried to figure his way through the water trial while Clover was struggling with the fire. They’d ended up coaching one another through them and, when that had paid off, traveled together through the remaining islands to finish the others. When Tai’d returned home to Ula’Ula Island, he figured that would be the last he’d see of the other man; but less than a decade later, they’d both happened to relocate to Melemele for work and had stayed close ever since.

“So what happened here?” Tai asked.

“Ah, well, we tried to use sleep powder.” Clover spared his team a sheepish look. “Afraid it doesn’t work so well when your opponent can blow it back.”

He arched a brow, snorting down his amusement. “Might have to enroll back in school after that one, Captain.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” He shoved him, grinning all the while. “So what do you need from us to get close enough?”

He surveyed the situation above them. The Corviknight was twisting it’s head this way and that, keeping an eye on them, on Barty’s house, on the beach. With diligence like that, there was no way he’d go unspotted. “Liusha and I can use the sand as cover but, I’m gonna need it’s attention off me.”

“Got it. You can fly up from Bart’s place while we draw its eyes to the Hau’oli Beach. Once you’ve got it calm, we can stage a relocate.” Clover decided, holding out his communicator, “We’ll signal you when we’re ready.”

With a plan in mind, the two split.

“Alpha team, on me!” He heard Clover calling as he headed back to his team.

Tai fit the communicator in his ear as he settled back onto his mount. He curled a hand around the reins, giving her flank a pat. “Alright Sunflower, to Bart’s.”

She barked, sprinting down the highway.

~

“This is incredibly reckless I hope you know.” Bart said. “Not that I expect anything less from you.”

Tai clipped together the last strap to Liusha’s harness, making sure it was secure but not tight. “Heh, you saying I got a reputation?”

“I watched you dive headfirst off Kala’e Cliff to rescue a Meowth from the ocean.” He replied flatly.

“Well, at least I’m not the one who almost fell into lava because he was too busy trailing a Marowak to notice.”

“I’ll have you know that was very important classification research!”

Tai conceded with a shrug. “I’m just saying, we all have our passions doctor.”

“Taiyang,” Clover’s voice cackled in his ear. “We’ve got it distracted. You’re ready for take-off.”

He tapped down the button, “Roger that.” Then he nodded to Barty, “Looks like I’m off.”

The other man sighed. “Just be careful, alright?”

“I’ll try.” Tai hopped onto his Flygon’s back. “Alright Liusha,” He pulled up the goggles from around his neck, before curling his hands around the reins, “Let’s disappear.”

“Fllly!” He called, beating his triangular wings rapidly. From how fast they moved a melodic noise could be heard. The sand around them stirred, Sandstorm kicking up a tornado around them until it was so thick, they seemed to vanish within.

Not willing to talk and get a mouthful of sand, Tai instead pulled up on the reins. Liusha took that as his cue and took off. They soared across the beach and followed the length of Top Carat as close as they dared, the whirlwind of sand continuing to hide them as they continued to climb upwards.

It seemed no time at all that they were cresting the peak of the mountain.

As Tai feared, despite the ruckus Clover’s team was creating below, the Corviknight was not so preoccupied that it wasn’t keeping a close watch on the other sides. Its head turned just as they’d come into view, piercing red eyes staring right at him.

As he’d hoped, it saw them as nothing more than a dusty cloud and turned its attention away again.

Tai let out a nervous breath, urging his Pokemon forward. Easy now…

As they drew nearer, he lifted up his right arm. Strapped to his wrist was a large, plastic band that had a round, silver disc mounted at the top. There was a button on the side facing towards his elbow that, when pressed, would shoot the disc outwards. He could then control the movement of that disc simply by moving his arm, the infrared light in the docking station mimicking his movements like a remote control.

Tai jokingly referred to it as his ‘calming agent’ but it was more properly known as a Capture Styler – a device that transmitted feelings of safety and friendship to wild Pokemon. It did this by using a small pulse oximeter on the inside of the band to monitor his heart rate. As long as it was steady, it would transmit that back to the disc, which would then release electromagnetic waves as it circled around a Pokemon. Those waves would then trigger a chain reaction in the synapses of a Pokemon’s brain, causing a rush of endorphins that resulted in a relaxed and passive Pokemon that might even listen to commands, if given. That’s why they were often implemented to temporarily control wild Pokemon when their assistance was needed on the field.

But for him, it’s only purpose were on days like today, when he needed it to quell a furious Pokemon before it harmed itself or others.

Foot by foot, they inched closer. Tai took a few deep breaths, hand curling into a fist to avoid the discharge as his left thumb got ready to deploy the disc. Though his heart was racing in his chest, he did his best to quiet it and his mind, focusing on positive thoughts.

It’s okay.

I just want to help.

You’re going to be fine.

He repeated the mantra over and over until he was just twenty feet away and – Now! – he punched down the button.

The disc flew through the air. The Corviknight gave a surprised squawk as trails of blue started to surround it, Tai guiding it with the remote control by rotating wrist, helping it complete its first circuit.

That’s when it all went wrong.

The trails turned red abruptly and the bird flapped out a wing with a furious trill, knocking the disc off course. He barely had time to see where it flew, before the Pokemon’s glowing wing told him they were in danger as it turned towards them.

“Pull up!” He cried, coughing on dust as he yanked at the reins.

Liusha ascended like a rocket, the powerful air slash just barely skimming under his tail. The storm of sand fell, revealing them entirely. The Corviknight tracked their movement, emitting a fearsome screech as it clamored along the length of the rim.

But didn’t fly.

Realization hit just as Clover’s voice cracked through static.  “Tai, get out of there!”

He didn’t have time to respond as the Corviknight opened its beak, sparkles of light starting to form. Tai’s heart jumped, and he ordered, “Liusha, Dragonbreath, full power!”

“Gon!” His Flygon took in a deep breath.

As one, the two Pokemon unleashed their power upon each other – the bird’s mighty white beam colliding with his dragon’s fiery green fury. The attacks exploded on impact, creating a cloud of black smoke. Tai used obscurity to their advantage, kicking in his heels and leading his Pokemon into a dive, aiming for them to dip behind the far side of the mountain where it overlooked the ocean.

As they ran for cover, a bright bloom of red down below caught his eye. He chanced a glance at it, and his breath caught.

There was someone down there. He could barely make out the features, but the form was sprawled in the grass, a pool of crimson surrounding him.

A second later, the sight was hidden from him as Liusha ducked behind the wall.

Trembling, Tai tapped on the communicator, voice a stutter, “My Styler’s not gonna work. This Corviknight has an owner. He’s hurt.”

It wasn’t yet fully understood why the Styler was ineffective on owned Pokemon, though the suspected theory was that the waves somehow triggered a response from the Pokemon’s pokeball. The pokeball would react by letting out an inference signal – a feature that was only meant go off when a trainer tried to capture another’s Pokemon. The interference was strong enough to create breaks in the electromagnetic waves and, thus, would cause the disc to fail.

In short, his Capture Styler was useless.

“Shit.” Clover hissed. “Okay, come back, we’ll come up with a new plan.”

“I don’t think they have that long Clover. They’re-” covered in blood. He swallowed down the words, “They’re in real bad shape.”

He could hear the screech of talons on rock, alerting him to the Corviknight’s approach. A second later, he caught sight of its hulking shape; too far to launch an attack, but getting closer every second.

“I get that but-”

“Just let me try something.” He cut in, a new determination filling him as an idea formed. It was crazy and only had a fifty percent chance of working, but knowing another’s life was in jeopardy, he refused to back down without at least giving it his all.

A resigned hiss was his reply, “Alright but if it doesn’t work, get your ass out of there!”

“I will.” He promised, but he prayed he wouldn’t have to. His hands tightened around the reins once again, “Let’s go!”

Liusha gave an unwavering call, soaring upwards once more to face their opponent. Upon spotting them, the Corviknight gave an answering shriek, beak beginning to light up with another Flash Cannon.

They only had one shot at this. He pointed forward, ordering, “Now Liusha, Attract!”

He slid down his Pokemon’s back slightly as the dragonfly drew himself up taller, giving a captivating trill as he beat his wings to perform a melodic and whimsical tune.

The odd display gave the Corviknight pause, and Taiyang held his breath, hope clutching his heart even as the sparkles in its beak still formed.

Then they spluttered out all at once, the bird giving a lovely trill of her own, body weaving in answer.

“Thank Arceus.” Tai whispered gratefully. He tugged on the reins lightly, “Alright Liusha, let’s bring her down slowly.”

Not missing a beat of his song, his Flygon flew backwards, descending down into the basin until his feet touched the earth. The Corviknight, despite her injured wing, followed them with surprising ease, her powerful talons gorging right into the rock so she could walk down the slope to follow. It was kind of impressive – and also terrifying.

Only once she’d made it onto level ground as well did Tai dare slip off his mount’s back. He took a few steps towards her trainer and, when that didn’t raise her alarm, decided to risk it and all but sprinted to the prone form lying several meters away.

Upon his approach he noticed two things immediately: firstly, that the other was a man. Secondly, that he wasn’t actually surrounded by blood; what Tai had mistaken for a life-threatening injury was in fact a cape, pinned underneath his body where he lay on his side.

The unconsciousness still worried, and as he knelt in the grass beside the trainer, he could hear his whistling breathes, like they were struggling from his chest. Not dying but definitely not out of the woods either. Still, it afforded Tai some time to deal with their initial problem.

He ran a finger over the tops of the three pokeballs on the man’s belt, but the warmth they emitted told him they were all occupied. With as much care as he could muster, he gently shifted the other onto his back, wincing as the other’s breathing hitched in pain. He reached for the other side of his belt where two more pokeballs were, finding the last one felt cold and unhooked it, tapping the middle button to enlarge it.

“Return.” He called as he pointed it at the Corviknight. There was a beam of light and then she was gone. He frowned down at the ball, murmuring to it, “I’ll get him help, I promise,” before reducing it once more and clipping it back to the man’s belt.

He placed his index and middle fingers to the man’s throat, counting the beats while he used his other hand to tap on the communicator, “Everything’s under control up here. I’ve got the Corviknight recalled, but her trainer is out cold. Pulse is steady but I don’t think I should move him.”

“Copy that.” Clover sounded relieved. “Harriet’s on her way to see if she can provide any first aid. I’ll call an airlift; paramedics should be there soon.”

He couldn’t think of how to respond other than with, “Okay. Good.”

“And Tai? You did great up there.” Was the last thing he heard from Clover before the line went silent, no doubt to call the hospital.

He let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. Now that the worst of it was over, Tai felt the first threads of exhaustion creeping into the spaces his adrenalin had once been. His eyes drew up as Liusha came fluttering over, landing at his side. He gave the dragon a pat before his gaze ultimately dropped back to the man.

His skin was pale, but his face was abnormally so, making the dark shock of hair on his head and the stubble around his angular jaw stand out more. In fact, most of his face seemed angled in some way; his nose was pointed and his eyes slanted, framed with thin, sharp eyebrows. Despite his condition, it was hard not to notice how handsome he was.

A rougher, wheezing breath from the unconscious man’s parted lips drew Tai out of his disgraceful thoughts. He gave the other’s slender form a quick sweep, but beyond the concerning twist to the elbow of his left arm and some obvious damage to his clothes, revealing surface level scrapes and burns through the rips and tears, he couldn’t spot the main cause of the other’s pain.

But he worked too long as an acting Pokemon nurse not to recognize the noise.

With detached ease, he started to unbutton the man’s shirt. He’d found his culprit immediately. Though the right half of his chest was as white as snow, his left had taken on a concerning purple-black hue where bruising had spread across his upper chest. So close to his lungs, a puncture was a definite possibility.

How had he gotten so injured? Maybe the flash storm had caused him and his mount to lose altitude, resulting in a nasty fall?

A sudden beep broke him from his musings and he looked down, surprised to find a Poketch Watch on the other’s wrist. He hadn’t seen one since he was first setting out on his own journey, the technology having been antiquated by the C-Gear when he’d been in his early twenties – which was a decade and a half ago. Even still, he hadn’t forgotten how to use one and carefully pulled it off the man’s wrist, tapping through the functions to get to the Pokemon List app, which was linked to each of his Pokemon’s current health.

Tai’s stomach immediately dropped out upon seeing each health bar underneath the five names were in the red and blinking rapidly. Critical status. He understood Corviknight, but… all of them?

He looked between the watch to the man. “What in Arceus’ name happened to you all?”

Of course, there was no response.

Tai clicked his tongue, before he began unclipping each Pokeball from the other’s belt. They needed to get to the Pokemon Center right away.

“I hope that’s not your resumé for Team Rocket or something.”

Tai clutched his heart, jerking his head around. “Don’t do that Hare!”

Harriet shrugged unapologetically. “Fast and silent is kind of my thing.” She slipped down the back of her Braviary, the blue, red and white Pokemon matching extraordinarily well with her own white, blue and red uniform.

As she trotted over, she gave the items in his hands a pointed look, so he explained, raising the watch. “They’re injured.”

“Where’s this guy from? The 90s?” She snorted, giving it a glance over. “Guess you better get going then. I’ve got things here.”

The strangest urge to decline welled inside of him, at least until the airlift arrived, but he furiously beat it down. He was a Pokemon rescuer, not a human one. It wasn’t like he knew what to do other than sit there and be useless.

“Right.” He pocketed the pokeballs, starting to get to his feet, “I’ll-”

A hand grasping his wrist froze him faster than an Ice Beam.

Tai looked down, sucking in a sharp breath as the man squinted back at him. The shade of his eyes struck a nostalgic chord in him, because they were-

Pale red, the same color as the Fairy Flowers his mother always had in the dining room vase.

The stranger seemed confused, his gaze darting around as if trying to make sense of things, before landing back on him. His brows twisted, and in a gruff voice, said only one word:

“Yang?”

Then his eyes rolled back, grip falling as he fell unconscious once more.

Tai was still frozen, eyes wide with shock.

Harriet tilted her head, “You know him?”

“No, I…” He stood, patting Liusha when the dragon pushed his snout into his shoulder, sensing his distress. “I’ve never met him before in my life.”

So how did this mysterious man know his name?

Maybe it was just a coincidence? Or maybe he meant to say something else and just got mixed up? He did have a lung being crushed after all.

“Hey!” Harriet snapped her fingers in front of his face. “It’s probably nothing. Don’t explode your brain over it. Now get out of here.”

It did work to snap him out of it, and with only one last look at the stranger, hopped onto Liusha’s back and took off for the sky.

But the question wouldn’t leave him.

He didn’t know him.

…Did he?

[perriwinklesblog]

I know some people prefer consistent content but I like to take it as it comes and sometimes life happens and other projects need to take priority. 

So right now, I consider this to be a mid season break. Techno going into the prison was like the midseason finale for the Dream Prison Arc and Wilbur and Ranboo’s stuff was like their midseason finale and the Red Banquet where the egg was contained, was a midseason finale and alllllllll the mini episodes we’ve had since there are like specials etc. 

You know, like how in Dr Who you can go a few years without a solid season but get a special at Christmas and New Year? You know like that. 

So like all other programs, stories, videos I watch, I am coming up with ways in which the next bit could go. Some are a bit out there and definitely not happening, others I could see happening. 

This is long and pointless and full or errors both grammatically and spelling wise but I had fun thinking of what could happen next. Read if you want.

Dream escapes prison with Technoblades help. A server wide man hunt comes for Dream but unlike his videos he had stolen the spare armour in the prison and so is pretty OP making it easier for him to put distance between his enemies and himself. 

Technoblade returns to the artic and him, Phil and Will come to an in pass, a slight disagreement. Philza whilst having sided with Dream before, knows he’s not a good guy. Only used him to help destroy lmanburg for his own morals. It was not because he agreed with Dream. In his eyes, he was using Dream for his own goals. Plus, now he’s seen the aftermath of Dream’s terror on the citizens he realises the man perhaps shouldn’t be set to run entirely free. This slightly goes against Techno’s beliefs but the main issue of tension between them is Technoblade willingly placing himself in danger when he didn’t need too and helping release the man who tortured Tommy and clearly has something going on with Ranboo thats bad. 

Wilbur is angry because Techno won’t say where Dream has gone due to an agreement between the two and Technoblade is a man of his word. Wilbur wishes to thank and meet the man who saved him. This also worries Philza because he’s worried he’ll revert back to the man he saw the day he blew up L’Manburg. Over all tension between the three

Niki and Wilbur finally meet and it is as heartbreaking as it is beautifully tragic. Wilbur apologises but misses the mark, misses what hurt her which hurts her more. There’s an explosion with their argument that leaves a stunned silence. Niki asks Wilbur to leave. He does so. 

This leads to a Wilbur and Ranboo conversation where Ranboo tries to reason with Wilbur about Niki’s side. Wilbur brushes it off because much like the blue counterpart we all miss, he’s not a fan of the negative emotion. He tries to focus on the business etc and let’s slip that Dream has escaped somehow. Ranboo leaves. Wilbur is confused but distracted by a confrontation with Quackity.

Ranboo then starts his stream and he’s in the fucking panic room and he’s panicking because there are signs so many signs and they don’t make sense. Theres lesson rules, asking about the missing journal and it’s like every issue he’s ever faced is staring right back at him because Ranboo has never really resolved any issue, just pushed and moved on. He’s tried but that usually failed and for a while he’s ignored all the issues and here they are in front of him, all at one. A big volcanic eruption of anxiety and stress, and it ain’t sitting with him. 

Dream appears. But is it really him? We never know because after a conflict and a back and fourth about everyone in Ranboo’s life eventually landing on a threat about Michael and Tubbo, he blacks out and the stream ends. 

Quackity is livid with everything thats happening, the careful empire he’s building is falling apart and he’s shifting the blame around from person to person. He manipulates everyone around them into believing this is somehow their own fault and that they must make it up to him because he has been nothing but kind and loving to them. He gave them a place, a roof on their head when they had nothing. He misses out the parts where he insulted and or destroyed their homes, but it works and his employee “family” become the main bounty hunters for Dream, with Bad and Ant tagging along since they’re guards. 

Now the streams relating to the manhunt displays everyones wants. They’re all doing this wanting something, and whilst it’s to gain Quackity’s favour back they’re all doing that for different reasons. Their motivations are somewhat different even if on the surface they are the same and so on the man hunts, because there will be many, this is slowly picked apart and through that the manipulation of Quackity is revealed and then we see a parrallel between Quackity and previous people in power where they start to get desperate to keep control over the thing they’ve created. Because that’s been one of (not the only) issues with every leader on the server, the control and their feeling of lack of, even if thats not truly the case. But you get these moments between all the characters where they’re trying to outwit one another, trying to figure it out without blatantly saying it. Maybe Foolish does. He’s a bit of a himbo. 

Ponk always said he’d leave the door open for Sam and I truly think something happens, whether it be a look in the mirror with one of his guards going too far with someone or a conversation with Quackity where Quackity holds the mirror up to Sam maliciously, that causes him to hit the rock bottom and just break and I want that breakdown in front of Ponk. And I want Ponk not necessarily to give him the second chance off the bat but give him that peace offering, give him that hand to pull him up. I want him to take Sam to Niki and explain to Niki we’ve done bad things in the past, this is a safe haven and I believe Sam needs help and a place he can truly feel safe and for a moment Sam does and this begins his raid to redemption in gaining back the trust of the people in his lives. He becomes Tubbo 2.0 spying on Quackity like Tubbo did for Wilbur, but maybe less... bad.

But what of the Fiances? Wellllll,. With Dream escaping him and George meet in secret. George confesses he doesn’t believe it’s real and for a long time has been struggling with reality. He misses the early days, misses when they’d just have fun. Dream says he was having fun and George says I wasn’t. Dream shows true regret for George but says its too late now, can’t change the past. George agrees. Dream asks him what he’s going to do and he simply replies with “Sleep” Ending stream. 

Sapanps stream is a lot more WE ARE GOING ON A DREAM HUNT WE’RE GOING TO CATCH A BIG ONE, I’M NOT SCARED. vibes. He’s gearing up, he’s suiting up and he’s saluting pets on the way. He made a promise and with everything else going on in his life, he’s ready to throw himself into a distraction. He tries to convince George to help him but he waves him off saying, what’s the point? and mumbles something about divine powers and dreams which Sapnap just shakes off. He tries to find Karl in Kinoko but instead comes across Quackity. They have a blow up about how They abandoned each other, both did wrong but neither see the other side of things and eventually he tells him to leave. Quackity says okay, and the place blows up. Foolish cries in the corner. All that heard work but the boss said so. Sapnap ends the whole thing saying at least he’s there for Karl and Quackity pauses and is like why? And Sapnap is all like you care. Just go, you’ve done enough damage, I can’t have you damaging him too. And after a little more but but but between the two, Quackity goes. Sapnap leaves the place to burn, going to find Dream and hopefully Karl on the way. 

Karls in space. That’s where his latest travels have taken him and where the other side decided was his time to visit. Here I see a Wizard in Oz scenario where solutions to some issues will be revealed for Karl in relation to the other side. When it comes to his Dream SMP stuff, he starts confusing names and people more and Sapnap is worried about him, considering keeping him in a safe place. The only place that survived was the library with Karls books. Karl says he’ll stay there. Thats where the answers are anyway. Sapnap is unsure and gets bad vibes but is distracted by a lead on Dream and agrees, he tells him he’ll be back soon. 

They don’t see each other for a long ass time 

I’m not sure on the egg stuff but I do feel Niki and Puffy should have a conversation about all the shit thats happened and Puffy trying to help Niki and vice versa. I feel like Puffy should reach out to Foolish and try and comprehend what the fuck is he doing with Quackity. They have a little argument but it comes to a point where Puffy realises she cannot shield Foolish from harm and that her son ,just make his own decisions. All she can do is guide him where she can and hope that when it comes down to it he will make the right choice. She hopes she didn’t fail this dependant like she did with Dream her duckling. Though only she sees it as failure. 

Jack and Niki finally talk. She goes searching for some things and comes to his new place, he tells her to fuck off and that he doesn’t need anyone. They all abandon him. Niki pretty much does the verbal equivalent of slap some sense into him as she and him discuss how he is not the centre of everything, how he is not the sun. She was hurting, and he didn’t bother, no instead they just fed off each others anger and once he couldn’t feed of her or anyone else he isolated himself. She tries to convince him there are better things in life, there are better ways to place your energy etc. A lot of healing talk with Jack being stubborn. Eventually Jack finds himself at the door of Quackity after sticking to stubbornness, not quite ready to heal and he becomes the next member of Las Nevadas. A big blow to Wilbur too. 

They finally destroy the egg with magic. I dunno how but either destroy or hatch. Either or would be great. Red comes out the thing and I want a gay ass villain please. Bring it Red. Let’s go. Invite him to the server, bring the fire, bring the plant power Red. He can be the villain that unites everyone in a begrudging way. Like they all hate each other but fine i guess we’ll team to stop Red and Ant. 

Skeppy’s dead. 

Tubbo and Ranboo have a fight but Ranboo says “Weren’t we enough?” and it’s in relation to him and Michael (this happens before panic room). Thats when Tubbo realises where the wires got crossed and he immediately rectifies it but explaining he’s happy with the two of them but he wanted a job, something to work towards. Family wise he’s got it all, he’s content with it all but he wanted a project and one that didn’t incite violence. Fun rivalry sure, but he’s done with violence, he’s doesn’t want to add to the nightmares he already has. He wants competition but not one that will put all he loves in danger. So they talk it out and Ranboo feels more confident and Tubbo asks him to tell him if he ever takes anything too far because he can get a little carried away sometimes. Ranboo agrees and then they have a cute playdate with Michael. Then Ranboo does the thing with Wilbur and ends up in panic room.

Tommy and Tubbo discuss everything and lay it all out on the table because Tommy doesn’t want to be on the other side again with Tubbo. Tubbo doesn’t understand why everyone is making such a big deal about his burger business and Tommy tries to explain the issues with Quackity and the level of intensity he’s seen with Wilbur but Tubbo just laughs it off. They eventually talk about Ranboo and Tommy relents saying he likes Ranboo although he does sometimes get jealous of how Tubbo seems to have it all. Tubbo tells Tommy of his nightmares and so does Tommy to Tubbo. They come to an understanding with each other and understand that no matter how long they go apart, there is always a space shaped to fit them perfectly in their lives for them. Tubbo and Tommy then go play some pranks. 

Wilbur is unhappy with the pranks and gives a lecture and they get into a fight. This leads to Wilbur talking man to man to Quackity. Theres some weird sexual tension. Once again they’re trying to outwit one another. That when we get to the crazy stuff. 

And here’s where I get crazy with my stuff. 

Ponk is digging in his lil cave when he accidentally breaks through to a random room buried deep underground. Tommy’s there trying to scam him out of something he has. Tubbo and Ranboo too. When they get to this room Ranboo thinking it’s the panic one and freaks out, but the others calm him down. Ponk thinking theres diamonds in the room storms ahead setting off some traps but surviving. Tubbo opens one of the chests and just says theres a bucket in there. Ponk pulls it out and says it has a named fish in it. 

You see where I’m going. 

They empty the bucket whilst asking what the fish is called. They are interrupted by a voice. It’s Sally. 

Dream had captured her and bound her to a bucket and put her in the chest and hid her from Wilbur. 

She has been released. She freaks out over how much time has past because for her nothing has changed at all. She thought it might have been a couple of hours or something since Dream pulled that prank on her but clearly not. 

They all catch up and the season ends with Sally and Wilbur meeting in front of Quackity, Dream in the shadows and Sally and Wilbur turning to see Fundy who just freaks the fuck out. 

Oh and just a side, Callahan is the last member of the syndicate and God of the server and is having fun playing with the mortals. 

And then I have the next season planned out and how I’d end the whole thing but like until then. This is it. Mid Season to finale. How I picture things happening. 

None of this will happen but isn’t it fun to imagine? 

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Wrong Number, Asshole - A Bakugou Katsuki Soulmate AU 

All Parts

Part 20:

As it turns out, finally finding out the identity of your soulmate was not an easy piece of information to sleep on.

Bakugou had hung up hours ago, hopefully to listen to your advice, and since then you’d done nothing but search up his name. Obsessively. Since apparently that’s who you were now when it came to him. 

You scoffed as you read another shitty headline.

Pro Dynamite saves the day but recklessly endangers 17 innocents in Hosu - Where is the line between hero and villain?

What follows is another biased recap of events that happened over a year ago: Bakugou had stopped an entire group of high-powered villains but was only able to do so by exploding the entire top floor of the building they were hiding out in. He successfully wounded, incapacitated, and captured all of the targeted criminals, but blast debris and smoke inhalation harmed civilians that had chosen not to evacuate.

You rolled your eyes, hardly able to understand why it seemed every news outlet was blaming the injuries on him. From videos and news coverage it seemed like there was no other option Bakugou could have taken, and he’d nearly sacrificed his own life with the blast. You wanted to scream. 

They should be fucking thanking him! You thought.

At least- you did. Until you saw the clip.

Further in the article was a link- a simple, deceptively innocent link that led to a horrifying video.

It was taken on a hand-held camera, the lens pointed at the floor as the recorder enters an alley slowly. They duck behind a garbage bin and tilt the camera up, just minutely, and it falls on Bakugou who’s leaning against the alley wall. He was clearly tired, deep-seated bags rooted under his eyes, with one arm in a sling and the other holding his phone. The person recording held the camera still, bated breath, and kept themselves hidden. Whoever it was, they obviously didn’t want Bakugou to see them recording him.

“No- fucking- I know, Shitty Hair, Jesus!” Bakugou roars, and then his face screws up, and he rubs at his chest. “You think I don’t fucking know? I fucked up! I did! I know, but I just- I couldn’t stop!”

There’s silence again and Bakugou rolls his eyes at whoever is on the other side of the phone.

“You don’t- don’t fucking say that! Of course it fuckin’ matters! I shouldn’t of fucking let them fire me up like that!” Bakugou coughs, voice hoarse as he continues yelling. “They just kept runnin’ their fuckin’ mouths about me being a villain and I was so fuckin’ angry I couldn’t stop- I knew there were people still in there and I didn’t care! I didn’t fucking care!” 

It’s quiet again, the only sound is Bakugou’s ragged breaths. Suddenly his face screws up again, this time not in pain but in anger. Rolling, hot, boiling anger that sets his jaw back and pulls his eyebrows in and darkens his expression into something terrifying. His eyes are voids, shadowed by the dim light of the alley, swirling like vacuous black holes set into his face. He looks murderous- nearly vibrating with rage as he shakes his head so violently you’re surprised he doesn’t snap his neck. Bakugou slams a hand against the alley’s bricks, leaving a steaming indent in the shape of a fist.

“I should’ve killed them.” Bakugou seethes, voice deep and dark like solid steel boiled down. “ Every last fucking one of them. “

 Then he hangs up, violently, and explodes the phone in his grip. The recorder startles, knocking loudly into the garbage can in front of them. 

“Who in the fuck-” Bakugou screams, voice rolling thunder as he launches himself toward the bin.

All you see is Bakugou’s snarling face, a flash of blinding orange light, the sound of a scream, and then a black screen as the recording cuts.

With a sick fascination, you rewind the video, just a few seconds, pausing on the still shot of Bakugou’s face as it nears the camera. He looks senseless and demonic; mouth curled around too-sharp teeth, his jaw shadowed and angular- but it’s his eyes. It’s his eyes that scare you the most. 

Where they were black holes before, dark and empty and void, they’re raging fires now. Red, and dark, and angry like an infected wound, something volcanic and uncontainable rolling viscous and thick just beneath the surface. You’ve never seen anyone else with eyes like his- have never seen anything so hellish in your life. In that moment Bakugou doesn’t look human. He looks evil- like a vengeful war god slowly being consumed by his own bloodlust.

You shiver.

There’s-there’s nothing good about that video. It’s scary and frightening and you’ve never heard his voice sound like that. So angry and full of malice and hard around the edges- like every word is a pointed knife stabbing at you. The Bakugou in that video, his anger scares you more than any explosion of his ever could. 

You want to text him, want to beg him to explain, to say something that will make the sick in your stomach stop festering like a poison. You don’t though. He’s injured again. Recovering again, just like in the video- and no matter how many questions are rattling around in your head, they’re nowhere near as important to you as his health. 

The diseased ill in your stomach didn’t let up though. No matter what you tried, you couldn’t get the look of his eyes out of your head. He looked soulless. Dark and unreachable and so very angry that it scared you. Terrified you. You’d dreamed your whole life of a happy future with a gentle soulmate, but you couldn’t seem to find Bakugou in that picture anymore. You didn’t know who he was anymore.

You closed your laptop, rubbing at eyes that were still puffy from earlier. Your heart was ripped raw, mind rattling in your skull, as your eyes burned. You laid back on your pillow, shutting your eyes and trying to forget the image of your soulmate eyes, untethered and feral as he attacked. 

--/--

Morning came and you didn’t feel any better. You still felt weightless, disconnected and confused by everything around you. 

You stalled through your morning routine, taking an extra long shower, sipping slowly at coffee you would have normally inhaled. It was a Saturday, and usually those were relaxing, but it didn’t feel that way this time. You were still unsettled by that video- that scream and the sound of it abruptly ending as an explosion drowned it out. It was like a horror movie, and you seemed to be caught in the middle of it. 

You understood now- why Bakugou didn’t want to tell you who he was. That video was pretty easy to happen across, even if you just did a little big of digging into Bakugou. It was a stain on his record and you supposed he was right, after all- everything did change the second he told you he that he was a hero. That he was Dynamite.

You sighed, rubbing at your aching eyes. You knew that you had to call him, you just wish it didn’t have to be this complicated. 

Bakugou was calling you before you even set your phone back down.

“Hey.” He said, voice still weak and uncharacteristically quiet.

“Hi.”

“Don’t- fuck, don’t sound like that.” Bakugou sighs a shaking breath, barely masked frustration lacing his tone. “I- you fuckin’ saw it didn’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“That’s-” He starts, and he sounds so desperate it nearly tears your heart in two. “I never wanted you to fuckin’ see that! That’s not- I wasn’t- that’s not me!”

“It was you, though!” You raise your voice. “In the video! Bakugou- you said you wanted to kill people, multiple people, and then you attacked someone! Without even taking a second to think about it! You were just so angry, so fucking furious and mad and y-you didn’t even sound like you! That kind of anger- it’s fucking terrifying, you know that?” 

He’s quiet, and you think you can still hear the beeping of the machine from last night.

“That- it wasn’t- I didn’t,” He struggles, voice cracking. “The camera. Not the person- I- fuck- I didn’t attack the person! Just smashed the fuckin’ camera!”

“You still jumped at them! You know how scary that must have been?” Your fingers shake as you grip your phone. “It’s- they shouldn’t have been there, fine, whatever, but it’s a fuckin’ civillian! It’s your job- as the ridiculously over-powered hero, from what I’ve seen- to protect them! Not attack them!” 

Bakugou says nothing. Minutes pass and you think you hear a poorly-masked sniffle.

“You’re mad at me.” He says, simple and desolate like he’s already convinced himself of it. “Shoulda known you would be.”

“No it’s- I am. I am mad- but I don’t,” You pause, trying to find your words. “I just- I feel like I don’t know you any more! I thought I did? At least a little bit- but now it’s- you were so angry, and I know that must’ve been a bad day from the looks of it but- your eyes. It was your eyes! That kind of anger- that hate- it doesn’t just happen in a fuckin’ day, Bakugou!” 

You hear a choked sound, something tiny and small and caught in the back of his throat, and the grinding of Bakugou’s teeth. 

“I-I can’t. I know- I fuckin’ know, okay?” He bites out. “I- just. Stay. Please- it was- you were supposed to be fuckin’ different! It’s not- I would never- you weren’t supposed to know.”

Something in his voice sounds broken. He’s screaming, tearing his throat just like he always did, but it didn’t feel the same. Bakugou had never asked you for anything before- he’d let you call the shots, let you talk his ear off and bother him, but he’d never, not once, in the entire time you’d known him, asked you for something. 

Your answer was simple- it never really was a choice after all. You would’ve never left, didn’t even think you could at this point; but something had to change. You had to make sure he understood.

“Bakugou- I- I would’ve never left. Not over this. Not over anything, probably.” You swallow thickly, blinking away tears. “But I can’t- I won’t accept the way things were before. When I ask you something, you need to answer me. Honestly and completely, from now on. No more secrets. Ever.” 

He just agrees, something deep and raspy and desperate as it filters through the phone. 

“So I need you to answer me, now,” You begin, taking a shaky breath and steeling your nerves. “How long are you going to be in the hospital for?”

“I-what?”

“Just answer.” 

“It’s-I’m- two days, alright. Two more fuckin’ days on watch and then I’m out.”

“Okay.’ You nodded. “Where are you staying- what hospital?”

“Why?”

“I’m coming to visit. We-we need to talk more and I can’t do it over the phone- I won’t do it over the phone.” You tried to make your voice stronger than you felt. “So, if you feel up to it, I’ll visit. If not, don’t text me until you are. T-that’s- that’s the way we fix this. The only way.”

Bakugou was quiet again, breathing in silence until a cough ripped through his chest.

“I’m- Jaku City. That’s where I am.” He finally says, voice smaller than anything you were used to. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Okay.” You say, still trying to catch your breath. “I- I think I need some time. I’ll call you when I’m almost there, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You hang up, fingers shaking as they hit the end call button.

The conversation was short- so short, and hardly even covered anything, but you just couldn’t take it any longer. When all you knew was the sound of his voice, it was a lot easier to get a read on him and what he was feeling. But it wasn’t that way anymore. You knew his face and his smile and his eyes from those clips and pictures and videos you’d seen all night. 

Hearing his voice wasn’t enough to tell you who he was anymore. You wouldn’t be able to read him- not without seeing those angry red eyes.

///-////

whewwwww angstY ;)))

[whatifxwereyou]

The Oncoming Storm Part 18: Nemuri Hime

Liu Kang x Reader and Kung Lao x Reader (gonna do both, two paths!)

Kung Lao gets serious. But forgets to tell you all the important things. Boy, he's good at talking. Lol. Hope you guys are still loving the Lao time! Liu will be back soonish. Planned out his whole part last night and then the future. Question! Are you guys READY for the choice or do you want it drawn out more? Also, for the future of this tumblr, is anyone interested in oc x reader stuff? I have so many ideas that I have never shared Lol. Anyway, thanks for reading. Much love. Update Sunday!

Part 17 Part 19 Chapter Index

“They’re going to have someone in there keeping an eye out now.” Kung Lao kicked a loose stone on the walkway, arms folded over his chest. “So much for that idea.”

“For now. We weren’t getting anywhere anyway.” You were still in wonder that any of that had happened. It felt like a fever dream. Your whole life kind of felt like a fever dream now. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it isn’t in there. I tried to trust the vision and my gut, but it led us in circles. Nothing looked the same as it did back then.”

“Why would it lead you there otherwise? Maybe this shrine has changed more over the years than we thought.”

“You think so?” You furrowed your brow. He had pushed you like you’d been doing something wrong for a small moment inside the shrine but there he was, preaching his belief in you. It’d been easy to escape the frustration of not knowing where you were going with all that had happened in the shrine, but it was back in full force now. You were grateful to Kung Lao for not making it weird, but it was also a little weird to act like it hadn’t happened. You had a feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I trust your gut, Y/N.” He shrugged as if it were nothing. That was nice. You weren’t sure anyone trusted you those days so to hear it put so plainly as if it were no big deal was wonderful. “Let’s take a walk and rethink our strategy.” Together you walked around the shrine and along the path slowly, making your way toward the volcanic cauldrons.

Some were surrounded by posts and signs, expressing what they represented and why the water was the way that it was, but you didn’t stop to try and read any of them. Many of the cauldrons had small statues lined up surrounding their edge, placed there for prayer. You didn’t speak much. It seemed that rethinking your strategy was mostly just thinking. You were okay with that. Your head was still buzzing.

It was important to try and clear the fog from your mind. Between the disorientation of this place being so different from the vision in your head and then everything with Kung Lao, you were dizzy. You stopped before one of the cauldrons and Kung Lao read the sign above it.

“One of the hells of Mount Osore…” He was not good at silence, it turned out. He hadn’t been when you were younger either. You’d asked him once back then and he’d said silence was too loud. The dizziness became a buzzing, and the buzzing became darkness. You thought that you’d drifted to sleep to the hum of Kung Lao’s voice.

When you opened your eyes again, you gasped for breath. Your lungs were on fire, as though you had been deprived of oxygen for too long, as if invisible hands had reached into your chest and grasped your lungs to force all the air out. You lost your footing and stumbled forward but before you fell, Kung Lao had his arms around your middle and was pulling you back to him with a forceful yank. You lost your balance and collapsed into him, grasping his arms in surprise with a yelp. He held you upright.

“What the hell, Y/N? You can’t just do that!” He scolded. You gasped to refill your sore lungs and the ache began to fade. You weren’t where you’d been when you’d been listening to Kung Lao but you recognized the place immediately. It was the lake of blood from your vision. You turned in his arms to apologize but the words didn’t come. How did that happen? How had it happened? His expression went from frustration to concern quickly. You wanted to ask what happened, you wanted to ask him how you’d gotten there, but in your mind’s eye, you could see your body falling into that pool and the horned creature staring over you as you drowned beneath the red water.

You shuddered and covered your mouth. Maybe Raiden was right. It hadn’t felt like there was a shadow hanging over you until then when your body had moved beyond your control.

“Y/N, did you hear me?”

“What happened? What are you talking about? What did I do?” The words came out extremely fast, all at once almost. Bless Kung Lao for understanding a word of it.

“I was reading about that cauldron over there.” He gestured down the path. It seemed so distant now but that was the last thing you remembered. “And you walked away. I followed you and you stepped up and just went to jump right in. Right into the blood lake. Didn’t respond to me when I called you.” He tried to joke but there was an underlying concern that neither one of you could shake. “If you wanted to take a dip, Y/N, then you just had to say so. There’s those bathhouses.”

“No, no Kung Lao. I… I’m confused, that’s all. I don’t remember coming here. I closed my eyes to listen to you talk.” His low and deep voice was soothing, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that right now. “Then I felt like I was falling, and I couldn’t breathe. Then you and… here we are.” You gestured to his arms that still held you and you felt his fingers sink a bit further into the clothing at your waist as if that would protect you somehow.

“You really don’t remember walking up to the creepy blood lake and almost throwing yourself in?” His face was flooded with concern. You shook your head no. “Okay.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course I do, Y/N. You’re white as a ghost. Why would you lie about something like that? Also, you’re terrible at lying.”

“Thank you?” You couldn’t decide if that was a dig or not.

“Okay.” He exhaled and you watched his face contort as his tongue ran over his teeth. “In that case no more wandering away from me. You stay with me at all times. Got it? We tell Raiden as soon as we can.”

“Okay except that I don’t remember wandering away from you, Kung Lao. You were reading and then…”

“What do you think caused this?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Honestly, afterward I saw this part in my vision. I’d been choking on ink but in my head, I was drowning.” You pointed toward the red volcanic cauldron. “In there. And I could see that creature. He was watching me. I… I thought it was just my brain interpreting the ink in my throat but… what if… Raiden’s right?”

“You doubted that Raiden was right?”

“This has been a lot, Kung Lao. Accepting it all at face value is difficult.” You responded somewhat defensively.

Kung Lao finally let you go and turned away. He pulled off his hat, pushed back his hair, and then cursed. That would have been funny had you not still been coping with almost drowning because your body had decided to try to kill you. “Okay. We’ll deal with that as we go. I’m changing the subject now because I’m not sure how to process what you just did without talking to Raiden.”

“Smart. Avoiding the problem. Like it.” You were happy to go back to thinking about literally anything else. Up until now you’d handled all this nonsense with relative poise. You’d like to keep it that way.

“Let’s discuss strategy. What do you remember from your vision about the room where this artifact is supposed to be?”

“There was a well. The creature placed something inside of it and I heard this horrible ringing in my head. It was… sad?” It was difficult to describe a ringing as having emotion, but it had been sad. You’d had the distinct feeling that it was sad.

“Back up. What about the well? There was no well in that room. In fact, the whole shrine is elevated. There was a step down in the back for dining, maybe? Could the well have been in that area?”

“I think the floor of the shrine used to be level with the ground. Maybe they built over it? I read that it was abandoned here for some time.”

“That’s a very distinct possibility. Great. Now we get to desecrate a holy place. Loving this more by the second.”

“Or we can hope there’s a hatch above the old well or a way to get beneath the shrine without destroying it.”

“There are way too many people here for us to search that thoroughly without being caught.”

“You’re right. We need privacy.”

“And I’m all out of excuses, honestly.”

“The excuse you came up with earlier only really works the one time before it becomes incredibly suspicious.” You felt your face flush despite yourself. Kung Lao stood just behind you and bent over to be closer. You could feel the smirk on his face.

“You kissed me back so… didn’t feel like much of a lie.” He made a kissy sound near your ear and you tilted away and swatted at him.

“Stay focused, Kung Lao! So, we spend the rest of the day and then pretend to leave ahead of everyone. Then we can sneak in after the monks are at rest, right? Hopefully, we find an easy way to get to where we need to go.”

“That’s as good a plan as any.” Kung Lao began to lead you away from the volcanic cauldrons and you were grateful. The air was thicker there and, quite honestly, the more distance between you and the blood lake the better. “And if we’re caught tearing up the floor of the shrine in the middle of the night, then I’m pretty sure that no amount of making out will get us out of it without getting into trouble.”

“If we’re caught then we could try to be honest about it like I wanted to be in the first place.” You stuck your tongue out at him. “You could try it every so often. It works.”

“Wow.” Kung Lao sounded truly insulted but also laughed as if surprised you had the audacity. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just talk like adults for a few seconds. I’m not that little girl that you teased all the time. You don’t have to come up with crazy fake-date schemes. Hell, I’m surprised that you didn’t say we could only afford one room at this point.”

“Oh.” He straightened his posture and furrowed his brow. You nodded as if to confirm that he was far more obvious than he thought he was. “Does it really bother you?”

“Bother is a strong word, Kung Lao. Sometimes you’re just… all over the place. You go from pushing me too hard to not listening to me to having unwavering faith in me. Sometimes in a span of like ten minutes. I don’t mind the teasing, honestly, but it’s difficult to focus when I can’t tell what’s going on with you.”

“Okay.” He puffed up his cheeks as he thought and then exhaled deeply. “So, I don’t quite know how to act around you.” You were genuinely surprised that he was speaking so candidly. You’d expected him to laugh it off and move on. He didn’t.

“Why? I only expect you to be yourself.”

“I know. That’s not on you. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“You don’t always act like there’s a whole lot going on in there.”

“Wow.” He winced.

“Sorry, it was easy. I get it though. I have a lot on my mind too, but you are all over the place since you got back. You tease me like we’re kids, then you flirt with me like we’re very much not kids, then you push me when I tell you that I can’t be pushed anymore. It is a rollercoaster spending time with you.”

“I guess I didn’t realize I was so all over the place.” He laughed and you walked together again. The further you were from the cauldrons the better you felt. “It’s funny. I’m still a little shocked that you’re here with me. Little Y/N. My Y/N. Weirder than that is that you are the person I found peace in when I returned home to clear my mind. I never thought I’d see you again. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” He avoided your eyes, and you got the chills but refused to shake them off. Him speaking so fondly of you in such a serious tone was freaking you out. These were things that you probably should have talked about far sooner. Instead, it felt as though he’d gone into some weird unspoken competition with Liu Kang for your attention. It wasn’t a competition. You just wanted to talk to him. “Your hair threw me off, I think. You didn’t keep it white. Same face now that I know. Cheeks aren’t so chubby anymore, though.” He pinched your cheek playfully and you scrunched up your face and swatted his hand away.

“I… didn’t recognize you either and you came into my store at least a dozen times over the last couple years. And the dojo just as many. I remember you fondly. You were always very kind with the students. And you look way different, I mean I can still see it, but you had these… dimples as a kid.” You poked the sides of your mouth. “They were so deep then. You still have them but they’re much more subtle.” It was funny. Something about his honesty cleared the air at least for the time being. “Also, I thought you were dead. So, I never considered I’d see you again.”

“You would have been crazy to have guessed it was me.”

“Sometimes I think that I have gone completely crazy and I’m in a hospital somewhere. That this is all an elaborate fantasy that my mind has conjured up to help cope with my madness.”

“I could see that.”

“What? The wild improbability of the truth?”

“No. You being in a nuthouse somewhere.”

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. He nudged you in return. “Some things don’t change, I guess.”

“I defaulted to sarcasm with you. Being together reminds me of when life was simpler. It’s easy to joke and get carried away but I understand that there is also distance with time and age and that this is extremely complicated. And that we haven’t talked about it. Talking about this kind of stuff makes me feel… uncomfortable.”

“What? No. I couldn’t tell.” You walked peacefully along the stone path. Across the way the monks were giving a demonstration and others were setting up tables for a meal near the white beach.

“Can I confess something?” He led you off the stone and down onto the white sand that bordered the beautiful, but absolutely artificial looking, lake. He offered you his hand to help you down and you took it. He didn’t let go of it as you walked together. Fun new game again: fake date or Kung Lao being affectionate? Your brain hated this game. Your heart hated it even more.

“That depends. Is it appropriate to say? Will I smack you when you make this confession? Will you be getting smacked and are you ready to risk being smacked?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to gauge how grown-up Y/N will react to most things.”

“Go ahead, Kung Lao. I’ll try not to smack you but no promises.”

“I uh…” He hesitated and then let go of your hand in favor of grasping the air in front of him as if trying to reach for the words to say what was on his mind. “I hate that you have the dragon mark.” You stopped in your tracks and Kung Lao stopped with you. Of all the things you’d expected, it hadn’t been that.

“What?”

“Yeah. Little Y/N. The girl with the gift, mom called you. You had enough problems. Now you’re here. A warrior chosen to fight for earthrealm alongside me and a bunch of other misfits with the same mark. Lost your home. Your life.”

“I could see your logic, Kung Lao, but I’m tough.” Your heart was racing again. Was this serious conversation better or worse than the rollercoaster ride that was Kung Lao? You couldn’t decide.

“Yeah, Liu showed me the bruises you’d left on him. I was a little impressed. However, you, just moments ago I might add, unconsciously almost drowned yourself in a lake of blood. Went completely gray, weren’t breathing, just walked over and almost threw yourself in.”

“Yeah, that is concerning.” He was right. The dragon marking and your arcana had awoken things within you that were beyond anyone’s control, especially yours. You were scared. You couldn’t imagine how it had to have felt to be watching it happen to someone you cared about. “You know, Lao, it’s probably not actually blood. I’d guess it’s algae making the water red…” You tried to joke but it was a feeble attempt. Kung Lao didn’t even smile.

“That’s not the point.”

You stepped in front of him and offered him a tired and forced smile. “I don’t regret where I’ve wound up, Kung Lao.” It was your turn to speak honestly. To say things that you’d meant to say and had been afraid to say for a long time. You’d kept waiting for the ‘right time’ but the time would never be right. “I’m terrified.” You searched around them just to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “I killed people, Kung Lao. I never thought I’d be capable of such a thing. My dojo? My shop? They’re gone. I probably won’t see my family ever again or any of the people I associated with home. That life is gone. It scares me. Everything I knew is… being unlearned and relearned. At the same time? I feel like this is where I’m meant to be.”

“Yeah. You didn’t really get to process much of that, did you? Just went straight to studying and training with Liu Kang.” Kung Lao sounded almost bitter. You hadn’t thought about it that way. Liu Kang had been a beacon of comfort to you but was that healthy? Maybe some of what had escalated your whatever-it-was you were had something to do with your sudden lack of control. You were attracted to him, sure, in a crazy way even, but you were also vulnerable. Maybe the attachment between you had gone from big to huge because of it. You felt guilty. Liu. Oh, no. You’d kissed Kung Lao. Not just kissed him but kissed him. Things were instantly that much more complicated and messy. You had to talk to Liu. You had to sort out your thoughts. You had to do the same with Kung Lao. But you didn’t know how and just kept kissing them. It wasn’t like you’d ever been good at romance.

“It’s been difficult. But also surreal. Easy to forget some of it.”

“I get it. Really, I do. Because I’m not done confessing things yet.” He still sounded uncomfortable but urged his hand to your back and continued your walk. “I’m also super grateful that you have the dragon mark.”

“Well, that’s conflicting as hell. I’m having a hard time processing that.”

“I never would have gotten to know who you were or get to know you again at all without the mark. It’s brought me closure, in a way. I never thought I’d see you again.” You walked in silence and you felt your eyes burn just enough with tears that you thought talking was a mistake. You breathed through the sudden urge to cry until it faded.

“I’d like to state for the record, that you being this serious is freaking me out a little.”

“It’s been known to happen now and again.” He bowed his head politely to you after tucking his hat beneath his arm. “I’m sorry that I’ve been weird since I got back.”

“It’s okay, Kung Lao. This has been difficult.”

“Y/N?” He started, as though he had something important to say. He hesitated then exhaled and replaced his hat back on his head, tucking the strap under his chin. “Let’s keep walking.” He turned away and did just that as though he’d said nothing at all. There was clearly something on his mind that must have been difficult to share. You caught up to him.

“What aren’t you saying?”

He turned to you and searched your face with a glint of worry that faded so fast you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it or not. Then he smiled.

“I’m starving. That’s what I’m not saying. The sun is going to set anytime now and they’re setting up food so we should grab some.” He started back across the sand. You grasped his hand and pulled him back. That was not what he’d struggled to say.

“Lao, really. You can talk to me.”

“I know, Y/N.” He smiled so you let go of his hand. Whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to talk about it and who were you to say he should be? “Let’s get some food. You’re still gray so I’d like to see you eat.” If nothing else, he at least seemed less all over the place. What were you going to do? You didn’t know so you couldn’t think about it right now. You’d take everything one step at a time. It was all you could do.

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH7

18+ ONLY Series Content: Graphic descriptions of smut and gore. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. Chapter Word Count: 6195 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of “y/n”

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

This chapter contains smut, DO NOT read if you are under the age of 18 years.

CHAPTER SEVEN: ALMOST THERE

She doesn’t even know.

The Girl is so oblivious to the Mandalorian’s lustful gazes and he blames it on the visor, but that’s just a pipe dream. Even a Miraluka could take one pathetic shot in his direction and see his thirst for his passenger. Kriff, it radiates off him in waves so powerful they could probably smell it lingering on his flight suit but not her. Or, at least, her body language and the way she holds herself together — with so little effort while he’s cursed with mental conflicts at every glance, every touch — didn’t indicate otherwise. No longer could he lie to himself and say it’s just ‘been a while’ since his last moment of weakness because he knew — and it terrified him — that the heart palpitations and lingering touches were more than a desperate attempt to quench some selfish ploy of relief.

Mando dabbles at the idea that maybe, hopefully, she feels the same towards him; that by some chance she finds herself with a hand down her pants, thoughts occupied by silver steel and the soft blacks of a flight suit with his modulated baritone urging her on. She’s always sitting in the darkened corners of the Crest’s hold, after all, a place where the light doesn’t stretch and provides minimal privacy behind the carbonite pods and supply crates. It’s the most solitude one can seek on the vessel outside the cockpit cabin and the Mandalorian’s berth. It’s a concept so beyond reach he doesn’t spend much time playing with the threads. He shifts behind her uncomfortably, nonetheless.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a mite of interest in her expression as her eyes briefly fall on his visor and dipping lower before swiftly returning to eye-level, it causes him to squirm and attempt to cover himself in fear she’ll see something profoundly embarrassing. She hasn’t seemed to notice and he sighs, relaxes some. It doesn’t last long. She’s too close to him. The Girl’s body heat radiates off her and washes over the beskar, engulfing him with the warmth of the sun's rays and it does nothing if not serve his desires. 

He feels hot underneath the helmet and he can’t blame it on the terrain. Not this time.

It’s such a precarious position that he struggles to keep his head on straight, thoughts of inappropriate actions flowing like the violent volcanic rivers on Nevarro—this wasn’t the time nor place to imagine such behaviour but it doesn’t stop there. His mind is a traitor against himself but his body demonstrates it’s betrayal even more so; a hot track of blood leading down his front and settling in his crotch.

“Wha-” he swallows, his throat dry, “what?”

Mando’s hard-on only grows as moments pass and he tries to preserve some decency by tilting away from the Girl, gnawing on his lower lip in a mix of frustration and disgust at himself. She doesn’t notice the stiffness scarcely brushing against her, and if she did she blames it on the holstered blaster—the one that was most definitely not in its holster. 

“It’s the kid isn’t it?”

The...kid? Oh yeah… “Right,” he redirects.

“He’ll be fine, Mando.” She sits back on her knees, edging rearwards against him, “I secured the cockpit door so he won’t be practising his piloting skills any time soon. We couldn’t have brought him with us and these people aren’t exactly the babysitting type.”

The words evaporate into steamy puffs of air dispelling from her mouth before him — it’s forlorn to even try to concentrate on her talking with her warmth so proximate. There are only a few layers of clothing and armour between them. He’s so close to pressing against her body and feeling her unhindered warmth on his bare skin. So close to touching something alive without the barrier of leather. There’s nothing, in reality, he can grasp onto, not when she’s so near yet so distant.

Especially not so when she unexpectedly twists her entire body to face him and braces one of her arms on his breastplate, his helmet tipping to eye the limb in confusion. “What’re-” he’s cut short when she applies pressure and slams him against the ground below him. When he makes impact with the hard stone underneath he can’t help but release a confined grunt and he curses the vocoder's disloyalty. The Girl doesn’t stop there, no, that'd be too fortunate — or unfortunate, he still hasn’t decided. She raises a blaster and squeezes against the antagonising trigger, a quick beam of light dispelling from the barrel and impairing a body he hadn’t realised was there; he let his guard down too easily. With a crane of his neck, he watches it tumble down a ledge of rocks and come to rest at the bottom, the wound billowing with smoke.

“Pull your damn head in the game!” she exclaims and glances down beneath her—between her thighs—where he laid in a heaving pile of beskar, his hands awkwardly placed on her the curve of her knee to steady himself or that’s what he tells himself. “This is the second time we’ve been pinned down in a week. I thought your kind is meant to be some sorta all-mighty warriors.”

“Can’t — fuck, can’t concentrate,” he growls.

Because who in the right state of mind would be able to concentrate with a Girl practically sitting on their lap, anchoring them between the ground and her very warmth; he certainly couldn’t.

“What? Why the hell-” Her eyes latch onto something in her peripherals and they widen, observing. Mando adjusts his head to follow her concern but he sees nothing. Nobody is attempting another sneak attack, no potential threats, no magical baby appearing out of thin air—nothing. “Shit! You’re hit, Mando. Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?” She goes to reach for his arm but decides not to, worried she’ll only cause the wound to irritate.

He questions her because how did he not feel getting shot, “Hit? I didn’t - didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t — do you hear yourself? You’re not made of beskar, Mando. Stop acting like a droid.”

Mando sighs and rolls his head against the ground, “Will you just take out the rest so we can leave?” And so he can lock himself away for the remainder of the night.

“Oh sure,” she grouches, “get a little love tap and get the armourless girl to finish the job for ya.” The Girl readjusts her position behind their barrier of rock formations to peer from behind them, her eyes skimming along the landscape and counting the enemies. “Seems like there’s only two left. Wait here.”

“Don’t go out there,” he groans and grabs his bicep, crimson coating the tan tips of his gloves. “They’ll shoot you as soon as you move.” She provides him with a look that suggests he be quiet and he does so, reluctantly, recognising her stubborn expression from many klicks away.

“Sit here and try not to get shot again. I can’t carry all this load.”

“Load?”

She slyly smiles. “You’re heavy.”

The Mandalorian stabilises himself now that her weight has vanished and her warmth with it. There’s an endeavour to lift his blaster and assist but his bicep aches more than he’s letting on, so he does as he’s told and sits there anticipating her safe return while clogging the wound with his thumb; the arousal in his pants long dissipated, getting shot would do that to a man. Echoes of blaster fire erupt in the tightly-packed cave and it lights the icicles hanging above in hues of glowing reds. It’s followed by pained grunting, a touch of additional blaster fire, and then silence. Mando holsters his blaster against his thigh and begins to stand up, confident the Girl has taken care of the remainder of the enemies.

The battlefield is in a right mess with the deceased strewn throughout the area, each one consisting of dedicated smoking wound somewhere amidst their bodies. Mando watches fresh blood spill from their gashes and traces through the pearly whites of snow to melt a trail in its wake, merging from man-to-man.  

He feels uneasy—like he was forgetting something and the Girl’s frantic yelling quickly reminds him, “Get down!” Mando was counting the fire on either end and the Girl had only shot once. There’s still one left — but he’s sluggish on his feet with his head so muddled, he doesn’t manage to follow her directions promptly. He feels the force of impact first, nothing more than a diminutive thrust against his back, and then the pain settles in and it’s ghastly.

It burns him from the inside, the beam nestling its way into the deep muscles and boiling the blood around it. Mando keels over in pain, dropping to his hands and knees and crunching the snow underneath his fingers to avoid yelling in agony. The fire of another blast falls on deaf ears but he takes satisfaction in watching the body limp to a pile on the ground, the prowling opponent void of life from a simple squeeze of the Girl’s trigger.

She accompanies his side in a kneel, her hands easing his cloak to that adjacent of the wound to examine the injection. “They - they fucking wanted me to leave your side. I didn’t see him slinking away. I’m so sorry, Mando,” she says, and he tries to console her but can only make do with a groan instead. He lurches when her fingers near the sensitive tissue and she curses to herself, “Fuck!”

“Th-that bad?”

“It ain’t pretty,” she confesses, “probably needs cauterising.”

Mando groans but she mistakes it for agony and readjusts her hands positioning, sliding one from his back and over his waist to rest on the cushioning of his abdomen. “Here, lift yourself.” He complies and clings to her as a support beam, noting the comforting hand on the solid of beskar plates lining his spine — beskar that was so close to shielding him from this hassle. 

He protests, “Need to report to the client.”

“That can wait.”

“Your credits—”

“It can wait, Mando.”

Even though the clientele was located closer than the Crest — and it’s only reasonable to make a pit stop to avoid having to return — she’s not backing down from her perspective and who’s he to argue in his condition. “Oh-kay,” he exhales in a whisper.

His mobility is limited with the panging burrowing in his back and he finds it challenging to keep moving. He could hardly even stand up straight without leaking blood, but he’s been through worse. As long as his legs continue to function, he doesn’t afford any breaks along the way. “We can take a moment,” the Girl says beside him, his arm limply thrown around her shoulders, “you can catch your breath.”

“I’m fine,” he professes. “Just a little more.”

The Crest enhances in the distance as they near, a thick coating of white submerging the hull in a cold layer but it’s surely a lot better inside than out — he just hopes the kid wasn’t going to get ill. He’s not exactly trained in dealing with sick children.

The Girl’s consistent glances behind never cease, her eyes surveying the plains for any potential lurkers organising an ambush though she’d taken care of the last of them back in the cave; Mando was sure of it. She studies the tracks of carmine contrasting against the frost behind them and tries not to fret for the Mandalorian’s blood loss. He labours an arm to his vambrace and clicks a button extending the hatch. It pushes the snow outwards as it scrapes along the ground, covering their boots with a thick frigid layer. “Okay, come here,” she reinforces her grip on him to avoid a scuffle against the slippery slope and he gripes under his breath as he leverages himself on her. 

The Crest is totally unrecognisable. There’s scattered wrappings of nourishments and the Mandalorian’s spare clothing lining the surface of the hold — it’s everywhere; in the corners, on the supply crates, hanging off the netting, you name it. The Child had a field day without their supervision.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left him alone,” she says.

Mando sighs and shakes his head before planting himself atop a crate, brushing one of his spare shirts onto the floor. “Wore himself out,” he gestures to the open sleeping berth where a mischievous little baby slumbered on the Mandalorian’s berth with a wrinkled forehead and blue goo staining his mouth. 

The Girl shuts the door to the berth. “Probably for the best, don’t want him seeing you like this. Where’s your medpacs?”

“There should be one in the weapons unit.”

She teases, “Trust me to go in there?”

He laboriously chuckles and thumbs his vambrace, watching the doors swing open. “Go right ahead.”

The Girl sifts through the lower half of the locker in search of medical supplies — which takes longer than it should with the abundance of junk he’s collected — and she returns with a small package, a hand sorting through the necessities. “All right, let me see that back of yours.”

“I can do it.”

“Oh, yeah? Then take this.” 

The cauteriser is held at the same height as his helmet ahead of him and it’s easily reachable if not for the twinge in his back and arm, but he’s not one to back down from a stubborn challenge. His arm extends for the instrument, his muscles twitching as he nears, and he barely feels the tips of his fingers touch the bottom of it before he retracts. “Fine — fine, you win,” he gasps.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she chortles.

The Mandalorian twists and hunches over to introduce the gushing wound underneath the cool lighting of the Crest. The dark liquid acts as an adhesive and causes his flight suit to cling to his skin, but she’s careful when she peels the fabric from the wound to slip her fingers underneath and gain traction on his skin. Mando straightens his back sharply.

“Am I hurting you?”

No… No - you’re…” The words stray off because what’s he to say? That the feeling of her fingers — albeit covered in bandages — on his bare skin induces a shiver that dances across his spine? He composes himself, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

The Girl nods and continues, spreading the slit of his shirt enough to insert the tip of the cauteriser. She warns him of the impending pain, “Do you want something to — squeeze?”

“No.”

The cauteriser hums to life and he swallows thickly at the sheer sound. It sparks against his reactive wound and fuck he should’ve got something to squeeze. The perpetual vibrations numb the skin around it somewhat, but it’s still predominantly inflicting agony on his lesion. He tries to focus on something other than the zapping or of his other wound still bleeding and just as sore. So, he retreats to the confines of his mind — an infrequent occurrence that seemed to only be increasing as of late — and maps out his intentions following the departure of this damned icy rock, but he comes up blank. He’d just been travelling from planet to planet in search of credits and he was still shorthanded in his savings from commissions. At this rate, the Girl would be sticking around with him for a little while longer.

Not that that was an entirely unfavourable thought.

She’s proven how resourceful—how benevolent she was and it’s an endearing change of pace from his usual passengers; the one’s he ultimately freezes in carbonite. It’s habitual how he presumes each character as shady or somebody to be on guard around, and he wants to break the tradition — wants to put his faith in another. Sure, the Girl had her secrets but so did he and every other person he’d been acquainted with. If her supreme plans are to seize the Child and return him to The Client, she’s taking an awfully prolonged route. Judging by her behaviour towards the kid, that’s the last thing on her mind.

“Almost there,” she whispers and it makes the hairs on his neck stand tall. The cauteriser dips further into his shirt to seal the remainder of the wound and he clenches his fists as it burns closed, “and done.”

The Girl relocates herself so she stands before him and gently grabs hold of his arm, urging him to twist it to showcase the other wound. “This one ain’t so bad,” she assures, “here, a bacta patch should do it justice.” The Mandalorian engages her outstretched hand, retrieves the patch, and fails to apply it. “Pass it here.”

He grumbles, “Just rip it.”

“Are — are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She considers his request, eyes the visor for affirmation, and proceeds to stretch the fabric until the threading loosens and begins to tear revealing the tan muscles she was denied from his back thanks to the blood. There’s more room to work a patch underneath the sleeve now, and she takes it upon herself to collect the dressing and shimmy it through the slit. “Is this comfortable?” she says, situating the patch across a muscle. He shifts it enough to test it’s mobility and nods his head when he’s satisfied with the placement. She administers the patch and secures it in position, but her hands don’t retract. They rest across the patch, her fingertips bent around the curves of his muscles, and they dig in. 

Mando grunts quietly and he owes his life to the vocoder for not picking it up. 

It’s only when a strong breeze of wind files through the hatch that she pulls away, shivering. He closes the door with a click of his vambrace and returns his attention to the Girl, observing as she rubs her arms in a weak attempt to provide herself with some warmth. He also takes notice of his blood on her bandages, his eyes latching onto the tips of her fingers as they trail up and down. “Come here,” he holds out a hand and ushers her towards him, his leathers working the strands and she shrinks back slightly but with two simple words, she permits him, “let me.”

Mando unfurls the bandages on either hand. She’d been consistently applying bacta — when he reminded her to — and it’s starting to show it’s progress. The wounds on her knuckles were nothing more than mere scratches now and the bumpiness and blisters had faded and been replaced with smooth flesh. They’re still red and appeared sore, but they’re much better than the last time he saw them. The tainted wrappings are discarded and he retrieves a pair of bacta patches from the medpac. “Should do it justice,” he mimics and she rolls her eyes. Mando supplies either hand with a patch, which takes up the majority of the backs so he rubs a thumb over the exposed knuckles in respite. “How’s that?”

“G-good,” she clears her throat and sucks in her bottom lip between her teeth. “You should get some rest and let those wounds heal. I’ll clean this place up, go report back to the clientele, and put in the coordinates for wherever we’re going next.”

He sighs as her hands retract from his and he lifts himself off the crate, pausing when the movement causes his back to twinge. “It’s fine, I can pilot.”

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

“Don’t want to disturb the kid. It’s too difficult getting him back to sleep once he wakes.”

“Fine,” she gives up, “just go sit down. I’ll clean the mess and be back within the hour.”

He wants to decline her proposal, tell her to forget the mess and leave the credits until morning when, hopefully, it’ll be warmer. Instead, he trudges to the cockpit ladder, removes yet another article of clothing from the rungs, and climbs. It’s troublesome and overwhelms his muscles but he makes it to the top.

The Mandalorian seats himself in his chair with a puff of exhaustion and extends his legs as far they’ll reach underneath the cramped space of the navigational controls which beeps as a greeting. The cockpit’s cabin must’ve been the only region of the Crest that remains untouched by the Child’s tornado of destruction, though the little knob of his control throttle had been pinched yet again. Hadn’t the Girl sealed the doors? Perhaps the kid already had the knob before they left — Mando couldn’t recall. It seemed so long ago.

The Girl’s rummaging downstairs clears into silence and he listens out for her footsteps, but they’re too light to pick up with Beskar surrounding his ears. He could enhance the range with a click of his vambrace but resolves not to pry and rather gaze out the viewport. It’s dark out there, only being lit by the twin moons in the distance. They’re half-full—half-empty maybe—and shine brighter than the one back on Arvala-7, but they still had a dullness to them and the clouds overhead obstructed their full potential of illumination. 

His eyes tear away and instead focus on the departing figure, watching as the Girl pulls her poncho against her body and her legs pick up pace in the direction of the small town they visited prior to the shootout; it’s not too far and with her momentum, she’d be in and out quicker than he would, but he can’t stop from grumbling to himself. He should have told her to wait until morning, then he could accompany her if anything were to go wrong. 

She’s more than capable of handling her own when put to the test so he tries not to think about it, lets himself remain guilt-free until something does happen. 

Mando concentrates on nothing, his mind transparent for the first time in a long time and it feels freeing. Until it isn’t. Until it's filled with the ghosting whispers of a tranquil voice mouthing encouraging words through his filters, “Almost there,” and he breathes deep, a hand groping his arousal with a do-or-die manner. He’s tried ignoring it and letting it resolve itself; even getting shot at. It’s not something he can continue giving the cold-shoulder to, and he concludes that if he delivers a swift relief — ideally — he’ll be at peace for a little while before ultimately recovering.

So he gets to work — because that’s all it is: work. It’s not a potential for indulgence just something he has to do to refrain from uncomfortable tension. He’s so preoccupied with just getting it over and done with that he doesn’t even remove his gloves, doesn’t reach inside his pants, just hopes it’ll be adequate succour with his leathers kneading through the material.

It’s not adequate at all. Palming himself through the thick of his flight suit doesn’t provide enough friction and he craves more intimacy. Intimacy he couldn’t find within himself but one he can, at the very least, feign a replication of. He sighs hopelessly and eliminates himself from the confines of his glove, places the leather on the control panel ahead of him, and slides the bare hand beneath his trousers to wrap tan fingers around his length. It’s an improvement—more personal—but his shoulders remain stiff and he can’t find it within himself to relax.

Wrist movements falter with each stroke and he can’t move his arm without inflicting pain — it’s so fucking unbearable. Here he was finally able to submit to his body’s pathetic desires having received privacy and yet, the rhythm is all off; the tempo he found most pleasurable so fucking far from reach, he was on an entirely different planet from it. Desperate, he jerks his hand in a rough movement and moans — but not from pleasure, far from it. The muscles lining his back cramp around the burnt lesion and strain the flesh, he throws his head back against the chair and draws in a shaky breath. 

He’s about to forfeit, surrender to a phantom of an enemy equipped with a blaster in its hand, and then, “Do you need my help again?”

The Mandalorian freezes; completely immobilising himself because what the fuck is he supposed to do in this situation? How does he explain this? He can’t explain it—not even if she was blind. A set of panic-struck eyes catch a glimpse of the Girl standing behind the pilot’s chair through the reflection of the viewport, her own pupils eyeing the outline of a hand through his pants. Fuck. He’s swift, retracting his hand and leaning forwards in his seat to cover himself in the hopes she won’t question him—won’t fret about the tension this will absolutely produce, and he ignores the sharp stings in his back that beg him to ease back. “Why — why’re you ba-ck so soon?”

“Been gone a while, Mando.”

Mando. She wasn’t even saying his name just his title, one that didn't solely belong to him, but fuck she says it so sweetly; so softly. Wait…. a while?

“Sit back,” she orders, firm hands on either pauldron and dragging him backwards. 

As if he couldn’t get harder. 

“What’re you-” Once his back flattens against the seat she dips her hands down his chest, fingertips trailing lines along the armour and he shivers. Fucking shivers. She hasn’t even touched him, but he can feel the weight through the platings and it’s enough to extract such a reaction from him. The Girl leans over the pilot’s chair, her chin resting on one of his pauldrons, and the new angle allows her arm to extend even further downwards. Mando’s heart rate picks up speed, banging against his ribs like a savage akk dog escaping its cage. 

Fingers play with the hem of his pants in a torturous manner, the tips dipping underneath and running dainty caresses along his skin before retreating again and he groans, his ungloved hand grabbing a fistful of the armchair to avoid bucking into her flirtatious gestures. 

Her other hand, one he almost forgot with the other being so fucking cruel, trails along his collarbone and rests between a shoulder and his chest in a half-hug from behind. It keeps him secured to the chair and the helmet inclines a little, his shoulders lifting underneath the weight of her chin. “I said to let the wounds heal,” she murmurs, her lips alongside his helmet. Mando can’t manage words, just breathlessly exhales and twists his head to gaze at her. She’s picturesque from this angle and he hums as she fixes cloudy eyes to his visor, boring a bright heat through the viewfinder.

She takes pity on him and slips her hand through the trim once more, slender fingers coming to slowly wrap around the length and contracts but doesn’t move — not straight away at least — because that’d just be too much mercy on him. It goes without saying he’s savouring every single second he can cling to, memorising the softness as he pulses in her palm and the fingers constricting every few moments to drag it out. 

Dank Farrik, he wasn’t worthy of this — he’s not a good person, but he must’ve done something right to be blessed with such a divine existence and equally ethereal touches. If he was told this was how his night would end, he’d think the world was at the point of termination because why would a Girl so breathtaking dedicate energy on him in such a manner without her own physical compensation?

It’s almost shameful how he’s so on the edge — so close to thrusting himself in her grip — and the sounds he produces are nothing short of pure filth. The Girl finally moves, her hand agonisingly slow as it traverses his entire length up and down in half-hearted strokes. Just like that, with such simple nonchalant gestures, it’s not just a task anymore—not just something he needs to do. It’s something he wants, craves, thirsts for and he grinds his hips into her hands once, twice, thrice. It’s so addictive. She’s so addictive.

“Fuck,” he moans her name causing her to flick her thumb over the tip as a response, a little smile pulling at the edge of her lips. The stranglehold eases some and he almost fucking whines at the lacking contact but her featherweight fingers brush so delicately, and maybe that’s why he nearly moans so ungodly loud and digs his boot into the durasteel wall to restrict himself. He croaks, “Gonna -- gonna fucking destroy me.”

“Hush,” she whispers, patting his collarbone with her free hand, “just let me hear you.”

Dank Farrik.

She hasn’t got the faintest clue of what she does to him, or maybe she does and that’s why she won’t pick up pace — won’t deliver what he beckons. A hand runs from his collarbone to his neck scarf and he feels the faint touch of digits pushing against his chin, inclining his head back. Mando complies with her requests and tilts the helmet back so that his eyes are searching the cabin’s ceiling for anything to lock onto. 

It’s not until his neck is exposed and her fingers run up and down his clothed throat that she gains momentum, her hand stroking the entirety of his length in quick pumps that leaves him with a sheen of sweat across his body and the helmet foggy — something he wasn’t informed could even happen. Not even when he sprinted after enemies did his helmet fog, the filters had always come in aid, but this time they established their boundaries; unable to keep up with his frantic breathing. It’s not a malfunction on their part — the Mandalorian is just so damned fractured from the Girl’s tormenting.

The tip of the Girl’s nose nudges against the neck covering and her face slowly disappears into the softness of the fabric, the thick layer interfering with the touch of her lips on his neck but the motion alone causes him to choke on a breath of oxygen and she takes the opportunity to escalate her wrist. The noises he makes are nothing but undiluted delight; the choking gasps of air, the moaning filtered through the modulator, the cut-off groans and whimpers he attempts to stifle — all of it. The distinctness from the sounds he makes now and the ones of agony earlier don’t go unnoticed by himself and his cheeks flush at the mere thought.

“Almost there,” she encourages and fucking hell it’s like she’s inside his head reading his desires off a holorecord.

He wants to feel more of her - no, he needs to feel more of her.

Mando reaches up with his ungloved hand and brushes a calm stroke along her cheek with his knuckles. She doesn’t move or acknowledge the touch, and maybe he’d take it personally if it wasn’t for the unexpected nip on his neck causing him to startle in his seat. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to recognise that she’s biting him through the scarf — through the fucking scarf. 

“Fu-uck,” he groans and involuntarily bucks his hips into her hand greedily, “keep go-ing.”

She generously listens to his pleads, continuing the same rhythm that he so desperately sought after and her teeth vigorously clamp over his skin, surely bruising the flesh and he couldn’t give a shit if it did. There’s a chunk within his heart that hopes it does in fear this is a one-time occurrence, he wants something there to remind him of the ungodly night he was bestowed. 

He’s reaching his climax, her strokes heavenly perfect, and he relaxes in the chair. The Girl’s hand remains sprawled against his throat and he grabs at her wrist, squeezing ever so gently so as to avoid hurting the sore skin underneath the bandages but enough that he can direct some of the pent-up sexual frustration through something other than unconscious hip grinding. 

The Girl must sense his impending peak as she readjusts her head, turns her face to suck in a breath of clean oxygen and mutter, “Come on, Mando,” before latching onto his skin yet again — and it’s all he demanded, a soft murmur of motivation to enable himself to surrender to his body’s pulsing.

What a fucking scene this must be—the girl’s face so deeply burrowed in his neck, her hand in his pants stroking his length with the other sprawled across his throat, and he’s just letting it happen. If only the Creed could see their little foundling now; so fucking submissive under the touch of an aruetii.

Mando’s eyes squeeze shut and he chokes on his saliva as thick ropes of white dispel from the tip of his length, coating her fingers and his pants in the fluid and it’s a lot. He’s always been one to cum more than the average but dank farrik this had to be a new record. He tremors in his seat and combined with his tarnished pants, he’s a complete fucking mess. It’s sticking to the insides of his flight suit but his attention is redirected immediately upon the Girl’s snaking hand withdrawing from underneath the material, travelling up, up, up and her cum-coated fingers plunge through her lips. She eyes him out of her peripherals.

It’s so fucking filthy.

“Maker,” he breathes. It’s not an expression he frequented but it's the only one that comes to mind in such a scenario. 

Bare fingers pop out of her mouth with a thin sheen of saliva and she swallows once they’ve locked eyes — then as if she didn’t just ingest his fucking load, she returns upright behind the seat with her hands on his trapezius massaging comforting circles into the muscles. “Will you please take it easy now?”

The Mandalorian is dumbstruck and all he can manage is a staggering nod. He tries to control his breathing and gets his heart rate back down, but it’ll take him a while before he’s finally relaxed again—who can blame him? He’s just had the best orgasm of his life and he didn’t even do anything.

She whispers, her lips brushing against the side of his helmet, “I’ll be in the hold if you need me again.”

“Stay.”

The Girl sighs and taps the back of his helmet. “You need privacy.”

“It stays on.” He wants to swivel the chair around to look at her, but the palming motions on his shoulders are too indulgent to interrupt so he settles on her reflection. “When I sleep, it stays on.”

“That can’t be comfortable.”

“This is the Way.”

But he wishes it wasn’t — wishes he could take the blasted beskar off, pin her against the wall again, and reciprocate the favour with his mouth on her. Abruptly, he remembers his ungloved hand resting on his abdomen and lifts it to reach behind him. The Girl takes his hand in hers and they both freeze, simply admiring the contrasting sensations on either of their hands. It looks as though it’d been too long since either of them had physical contact with another being. The Mandalorian gazes at the viewport and it aids as he navigates his hand along her arm, trailing lines through the bandages before landing his tips on her shoulder but it hurts his back at this angle and he can’t afford to last longer than a few seconds before she reluctantly swats him away. “If I have to tend to that wound again I’m gonna kill you myself,” she contended. 

He suppresses a chuckle and sighs at her stubbornness. 

The Girl departs from his personal space and plops down in the passenger’s seat, finding a comfortable position against the durasteel wall beside her. Mando twists his helmet to gaze at her through the dark of his visor, his pupils dilating as they drive over her figure. He considers her; considers how indecipherable she is—she just contributed to something he wouldn’t dare ask of another soul and yet she doesn’t seek her own high. She seems satisfied having assisted him and that alone appeared to be enough. It mistified him beyond comprehension.

What did all this mean to their — their what? This isn’t exactly a partnership and he wouldn’t go as far as to say relationship, even in a platonic sense, but what did that leave? Whatever it is, he’s dubious to let his mind wander in fear that it'll only damage their cooperation. It’s not something he wants to focus on after such a breathtaking act, so he doesn’t. The helmet reverts onwards. It had been a while since that whole ordeal started judging by the moons positioning; heading north-west to slumber behind a flock of gloomy clouds. 

Mando seeks solace in his leather seat, head tilted at an angle that’ll surely fabricate a stiff neck in the morning, and he gives the night sky one last gloss over before shutting his eyes and welcoming a blissful sleep he’s been starved off for far too long.

__________________________

“aruetii” - outsider

If you want to be tagged please send me an ark or a message to let me know tags: @ohhersheybars​

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

We've Got Tonight - Ch 2

Summary: “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This story is set hazily around season 8. Just squint a little, and it’ll settle in somewhere. I wrote this story after certain big revelations in the show, but before other big ones; you’ll most likely be able to tell which. I play with time a bit in the story itself, so if things seem out of order, they are. Hopefully, by the end, all the pieces will fit together.

What the hell, let’s give it a shot.

Image and major edits by the incomparable @there-must-be-a-lock . Heavy editing and cheering by @thoughtslikeaminefield . Thank you both so much.

This is the longest chapter, but it's worth it, I promise.

Word Count: Ch 2 - 2952

In case you missed it: Chapter 1 ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

...

We've Got Tonight

Chapter 2

Clutching the strap of her backpack in a death grip, Andy silently crosses the landing. She places her foot on the top stair just as Dean rounds the corner from the hallway below her, both hands fisted in his hair. Even from this distance she can read the lines of tension in his shoulders. Her stomach twists, nausea and joy warring at the sight of him, and she can’t decide if she should turn and sprint for the door or throw herself at him and admit absolutely every foolish thing she’s done.

No. No, not foolish. She’s saving the world. That’s only a little stupid. She’s saving Cas and Sam. That’s good. She’s saving Dean.

That’s non-negotiable.

Then her weight settles on her foot, and the goddamned step creaks. Dean’s eyes snap to hers. For one hopeful moment, relief and genuine happiness flood his expression, and he smiles. The unclouded light shining from his face scraps any thoughts she has of bolting, and Andy makes it halfway down the steps before she’s engulfed in his arms.

He embraces her fiercely, and Andy allows herself a couple of seconds of peace and comfort, of the sense that she’s somehow home even though she’s only known him for a few weeks. Then the overwhelming realization of everything she’s signed away comes crashing down, closing her throat, choking off her air, and suddenly even the heat and safety radiating from Dean into her very bones isn't enough to ward off the chill of dread.

But she’s doing this to save him, to save Sam, to save...everyone. So, really, she’s not losing anything. If you save something, it’s not lost, so, really, she’s not losing anything.

Right?

Then her face is trapped between his hands, his face inches away, his eyes boring into hers with that burning intensity. The lies evaporate on her tongue, and she wracks her brain. What was she supposed to tell him? She has to say it before he starts questioning her, or she’ll blurt out every single thing she swore she wouldn’t.

“Are you okay? Where the hell were you? Was it those anti-Jesus freaks? How did you get away?”

What? Oh, yeah. The cultists. The whole reason she has a lovely new scar on her left arm and she met the Winchesters in the first place. The source of all their current troubles. Well, the main source, aside from her blood. Yeah, that would have been a good cover story, too.

Shit.

“Andy?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” she manages, thankful at how little her voice shakes. She puts forth the effort of the ages and extricates herself from his grip, an act she recognizes as necessary while regretting it all the same. “I’m sorry I scared you. I had a lead, and I had to leave right away. They were really twitchy when I first contacted them, and I thought they might take off if I waited too long or tried to take anyone else, and by the time I realized I’d lost my phone it was too late to come back.”

Anger and disbelief seep into his expression, tainting the relief that animated him only moments before. “Okay, first of all, we’re going to have a long, detailed talk about taking off on your own for any reason without backup, much less chasing your own leads, because no. Just no. Second, what the hell? Did all phones between here and wherever the hell you went just vanish?”

“You programmed your numbers into my cell, but I never memorized them. I didn’t have any way to contact you once I got there, and-”

“And you couldn’t leave a damn note?!”

Deep breath. Keep steady.

“Look, I’m really wrecked, Dean, it was a long drive, and it ended up a bust. The guy never showed. I’m dying for a shower and some food. You can interrogate me all you want, but can we not do it right here, right now?”

She pushes past him, brushing him off in a way she’s never done before, but if he keeps gazing into her soul with those jade laser beams of his, she’s going to lose every ounce of self-control. Her fingers tremble with strain, and she clutches her bag tighter, determined to hold herself together for his sake.

She only gets a couple of seconds of reprieve, though, just barely making it off the staircase. He catches up with her as she passes the map table, aiming for escape through the library, and he snatches her elbow. His grip is harsh as he pulls her around to face him, and her fingers fumble at the fierce heat behind his eyes. Her backpack drops, spilling its contents on the floor.

Her stomach bottoms out. She immediately tries to crouch down, to stuff her papers and books back in before Dean can see them, but his grip tightens on her arm, and he forces her back up to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to disappear for two and a half days and then just-”

“Andy!”

Oh, thank god for Sam.

Andy takes advantage of Dean’s surprise to pull out of his grasp, but before she can bend down, she’s engulfed in a second, longer set of arms that feels almost as much like home as his brother’s.

God, what has she done? She really is going to lose everything. But this has to be worth it. Saving them is worth it, she knows it is. It’s going to be okay.

“Andy, are you okay? Where were you?” Sam is still in his concerned phase, and she’d like to make her exit to gather her thoughts before he hits Dean’s level of suspiciously pissed. She knows of no force in Heaven or Hell that can withstand the combined onslaught of Dean’s anger and Sam’s lectures.

“She says she found a lead,” Dean cuts in before she can try to explain herself. He’s definitely on the outer edges of pissed, and that’s fine. She can handle pissed, she just has to figure out what to do before he reaches volcanic levels of anger.

She drops down before anyone else can stop her and starts shoveling handfuls of papers in her bag. She needs to get them out of sight. She should have burned them, why didn’t she burn them, god if Sam sees some of it, he’ll know what she did without her having said a word to him, and -

“Andy, what the hell is this?”

Dean’s voice has dropped to a low, measured growl, and her eyes slide shut in dismay.

Don’t admit to anything, you don’t know what he found, just -

“You said you lost your phone, and now it falls out of your damned bag? You’re lying to me? Why-”

“Maybe because of this,” Sam cuts in, and she hears a rustle of papers from her other side, and she swears that it’s the loudest sound she’s heard in her entire life. It doesn’t matter which of her papers or which book Sam is showing his brother. They are all equally damning, and she really should have known better than to think she could get away with this plan.

“I had to do something. We were running out of time, so I made a decision while I still could.”

She’s impressed and surprised at the steadiness in her voice, the actual conviction. She is equally surprised to find herself standing when she opens her eyes, looking down at two of the most important people in the world, one of whom is regarding her with dismayed shock, and the other…

Her stomach wars with her brain; rational thought says the logical response to someone glaring at her with as much venom as Dean is packing is to run. Her stomach, on the other hand, is fully in favor of ejecting all contents in sheer terror. Somehow, she manages to shove down both impulses and stand her ground.

There’s a long moment where it seems like the whole bunker, the whole world, holds its breath, waiting for something to snap the tension. To Andy’s astonishment, Sam breaks in before Dean’s temper can explode.

“Tell me you didn’t. After everything we’ve told you, everything you know about us and our history, you called a crossroads demon? Where did you even find the summoning spell?”

She turns incredulous eyes on the younger Winchester. “Sam. I...really, Sam? When I asked to help, you put me on research. I didn't know where to look, and you gave me a stack of books, most of which had some variation of that or a similar spell in it. You gave me access to one of the world’s biggest fix-its, and you didn’t think I would do something with that?”

Sam opens his mouth, his face set with stubborn indignity, but he falls silent as Dean stands abruptly. He stalks past Andy, his silence far more worrisome than any shouting or lecturing could ever be. He stops at the bottom of the library steps, gripping the back of his neck like he’d rather have his fingers wrapped around something’s throat, and he stands like that for what feels like forever.

“I made a deal. To save you, Sam, Cas. Everyone. I had to do it.” Andy can’t stop the words that tumble from her trembling lips, and she can only be thankful that she doesn’t have to see Dean’s face as she says them. She should never have tried to lie to him, to them both, but especially not to him. Not after all the lies he’s had to live through.

“I won’t apologize. I found a way out of the end of the world when we had no other options, and I took it.”

Dean stands stiffly, unmoving as she confesses to his back. Sam wisely keeps his mouth shut, kneeling on the floor to look through Andy’s papers, avoiding looking at either of them. The gravid silence that hangs over the room is broken only by the thudding of her heart and the crinkle of pages as Sam rifles through her backpack’s spilled contents.

“Explain. Now.” Dean’s words are quiet and caustic, their bitterness cutting Andy straight to the heart.

This isn’t what she wanted, but their time is too short to try to work everything out. There will be nothing like a fairy tale ending for them, so she forces herself to say what she can. There are still some details she doesn’t want to tell him; if he knew everything, he could keep her here, keep her from going back to finish the deal, and she absolutely cannot let that happen.

“I did what you and Sam do every day. I did my research, I made a plan, and I faced the monsters. I made a choice, Dean.” She only just keeps the notes of desperation from creeping into her voice, though it’s a near thing.

He moves as she speaks, turning back to the table, his face inscrutable as he leans down to grip the back of one of the chairs. He holds onto it as if it’s the only thing keeping him together, and she feels a ridiculous stab of sympathy for the piece of furniture that’s bound to come to a bad end.

“And you think sneaking around, lying to all of us, and making a deal with a crossroads demon is going to magically fix everything?”

He’s too calm, too quiet. The chair creaks ominously under his fingers, and Andy takes a hasty step back. Sam rises, his forehead wrinkled with concern as he takes a step towards the table.

“Andy, just tell us the details,” Sam interjects, his tone low and placating, like he’s trying to calm a cornered animal. “We can figure out a way to get you out of the deal. What did the demon you met with look like? Did they tell you their name? How much time do you have?”

“God DAMN IT!”

Dean slings the chair to the side, and it skates over the floor, shredding through her papers before slamming into a support pillar with a deafening metallic clang and careening across the room. Sam steps up protectively next to her, his hands half-raised like he can’t decide if he should try to talk his brother down or block more pieces of flying furniture.

“Why, Andy? Why didn’t you just wait for Sam or Cas to find something? We were looking!”

“There was no time left, Dean!” She knows there aren’t enough words in any language to explain her decision in a way that will satisfy him. It doesn’t matter to him that she’s one of the sources of all their troubles right now, or that she is an adult who was perfectly capable of making decisions about her life long before the Wonderful Winchesters and their guardian angel rode into town.

“We had days left, at best! I don’t want this anymore than you did, but it was my blood that started this whole disaster, my blood the cult needs to finish everything, literally everything! It’s my blood that’s the solution to this whole shitshow, and that means it’s my mess to clean up. I learned that much from you and Sam, at least! You clean up the messes you make, whether you meant to make them or not. You, of all people, could at least try to understand!”

“Understand what?! That you think selling your soul will actually fix anything?”

Dean closes the distance between them, his fingers digging hard into her shoulders, knocking Sam to the side as he disregards all concepts of personal space.

“Selling your soul never solves a damned thing! And don’t you think for one second I’m gonna let you go through with this deal.”

“I’ve already gone through with it, I signed the contract. You can’t stop it, and you can’t change it. He said you’d try, and-”

“Wait a minute, ‘he’?” Sam cuts in, and Dean’s face flushes a deeper shade of crimson.

“You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t make a deal with that son of a bitch Crowley.”

Fuck.

“I made a call,” Andy finally answers. “I was either going to hell and taking the rest of the world with me, or I was going by myself and keeping the rest of you safe.”

“You had no right-”

“To make decisions about my life? The hell I don’t, it’s my life, Dean! Who gave you the right-”

“We were supposed to be in it together, you and me! It’s not just your life, and you damned well know it!”

The three of them stand frozen, the words echoing faintly through the enormous room. Sam gaping at the two of them, Dean grips Andy like he thinks she’s about to bolt, and Andy tries desperately to remember why she’s not simply throwing herself into Dean’s arms.

Castiel, with his impeccable timing, chooses this moment to enter the bunker. The creaking door catches their attention, and all eyes turn to Cas, who stands on the landing, surveying the tableau of chaos beneath him. His eyebrows lower, his consternation clear.

“Andrea?” Cas’s voice is confused but gentle as he cautiously descends the stairs. She knows from the stories Sam and Dean have told her that her friend has a fearsome warrior side that makes even the worst demons think twice before approaching, but she’s never seen a hint of that part of him.

She’s seen this man soberly examining a bowl of Cheetos, questioning their attractiveness to large, feline predators; she has a difficult time picturing him facing down the worst monsters the universe has to offer, and yet, according to Sam and Dean, he does so without hesitation on a regular basis.

Which is why his cautious approach should really worry her.

“Dean, is it really necessary to hold on to Andrea quite that hard? You’re bound to leave bruises, and she doesn’t seem to be attempting to leave.”

Dean releases Andy abruptly. His face is dark and lined with the effort of repressing his rage, and he storms past the bewildered angel. He stops at the bottom of the stairs, hand on the banister, legs flexing and trembling as if he has to force himself to stop even that long. Sam takes a step towards him, but Cas holds out a restraining hand, and for once, Sam complies, though he looks seconds away from protesting.

“You should’ve waited, Andy. You should’ve talked to me, given me a chance to find something, anything but this. I can’t...I’m done. I’m fucking done.”

He climbs the stairs three furious steps at a time and is out the door before anyone can think of how to stop him, leaving Andy lost in the remnants of his anger and her shoulders aching more from the loss of his grip than the roughness of it. Her throat is burning, her jaw aching with strain, but her eyes are dry.

There was no other way, there just wasn’t. I did the right thing, and damn Dean to Hell if he thinks I’m going to cry for that.

“Andrea?”

Cas reaches out and steadies Andy, his grasp gentle and comforting in stark contrast to Dean’s furious hold. He considers her for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Our lack of information regarding your whereabouts was quite troubling, and we assumed the worst.”

“Maybe not the absolute worst,” Sam sighs, leaning wearily against the table. He scrubs his hands over several days’ worth of stubble before rubbing his eyes. When he speaks again, he can’t even meet her eyes, and an acidic splinter of shame twists in her stomach.

“You really should have waited, Andy.” ...

Chapter 3

[annaraebananawriter]

The Day He, I, We Died

And here we are! The last oneshot I managed to get done. I gave you two days worth of fluff and light-hearted laughter, and now it’s time to attack with all the feels I’ve been holding back.

Hopefully, anyway.

Enjoy!

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically the UTMV

Characters: Nightmare and Dream (Who belong to Joku)

Warnings: Character Death, and I think that’s it. Let me know!

Word Count: 2011

~oOo~

The negativity in the air was growing stronger. It darkened the skies of multiple AUs, made people slow to a stop and stare blankly around, forgetting for a moment what they were just doing. Other people screamed, too much anger for a small instance. Others sobbed, crying out for people they missed, begging for anyone to come and help them. All around, people were hurting, good memories nothing more than just that—a memory, the calming and positive effects gone.

It was sickening.

Nightmare felt all of it. Every fear, every mourner, every heartbreak. He let it all wash over him like a wave, numbing any of his own feelings. The weight of it all coiled in his chest and made it hard to breathe, like the negativity from the Multiverse decided to come back and kill its guardian. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to absorb the power he was being granted, let it travel and spread throughout his body like electricity, a tingling feeling left behind.

He clenched his hands, extra energy thrumming through his soul. He wanted to run, to find people to mess with, AU's to massacre. He needed to calm down, find a way to get it all out so that he could go home and relax, hang out with his boys.

But...

Another pulse of energy jolted through him, stronger than all the rest. Nightmare froze, a mixture of joy and dread—his own emotions—spiking through all the noise. It felt like something clicked, something breaking and ever so slowly beginning to die off and never be felt again. One side of the scales was dropping, with nothing to replace the weight that had been keeping it level.

Positivity was dying.

But he couldn't bring himself to take the steps back home. He couldn't bring himself to tell his boys that he did it, they won, negativity now reigned supreme. They were free to live as they wanted, without being called evil. He couldn't bring himself to look away from the person whom he had sacrificed to get this ending.

He had ever wanted to kill Dream. Never. It had been an unspoken rule among his boys that they weren't to fatally injure the guardian of positivity, just wear him down and deal some damage. They mostly left him to Nightmare—which was good. He knew just how much to hold back to avoid killing him, knew when to deliberately pull back and stop attacking.

This didn't stop him from hurting Dream. Be it through words or actions, he knew that somewhere in their fights his brother had always gotten hurt in a way he couldn't fix. Maybe he could've, would've, once way back. But he wasn't that person anymore. It wasn't his job to help Dream, to console him after battles and hug him through rainstorms.

He had grown up.

Dream needed to see that.

Despite not wanting to kill Dream, something had happened in their last fight. He wasn't sure what. One minute Nightmare had been thinking about pulling back, already pulling at the magic necessary to teleport away. Dream had been getting quite unsteady and was stumbling into attacks he could've easily dodged. This was the time to call it quits and let him rest for a few days.

Then something bubbled and spit inside him, like a volcano on the verge of erupting. This caused Nightmare to pause and created a lull in the battle. He had vaguely registered Dream dropping to his knees, taking the time to catch his breath, staring up at him in confusion. Nightmare had focused on himself, a hand placed on his chest, where the volcano laid, frowning softly.

The silence had stretched, enough that Dream had found the strength to speak. "Night, what's—" He never got to finish. It was only a couple words, spoken softly, gently, concerned, but they were enough for the eruption to take action.

The red hot feeling of burning rage, hate, with an undertone of deep misery, overspilled.

Nightmare wished he could say that he didn't remember the next part, but he did. He remembered a desire overriding all of his rational thoughts and promises, to himself and others. He knew, on a subconscious level, that part of him that still remembered and still didn't want to see his brother dead, that this new desire was wrong and was an alarming thing. He felt sick thinking back on it now, shame riding up his throat.

It was a desire to kill.

Unfortunately, there was only one other person there with him.

Dream.

In his brother's defense, he did make an effort. He fought back and dodged as much as he could. He wasn't prepared to face someone actively trying to kill him, though, and that tripped him up. He had tried calling for Nightmare, trying to help him calm down and stop attacking (he must've realized something was wrong and Nightmare was himself yet also not himself and was a bit lost right now).

It didn't work.

The next thing either of them knew was that Dream tripped and a tentacle pierced right through his chest, right through his soul.

And like that, the volcanic negativity had disappeared, leaving just Nightmare behind. Once in his right mind, he quickly retreated his appendage, but didn't dare come any closer to Dream, who had dropped to the ground. He only watched as his brother coughed and coughed, hands shakily clutching the gaping hole in his sternum.

He only watched as his brother struggled to lift his head and meet his gaze, eyelights flickering bright gold to gold to bright yellow to yellow to light yellow to pale yellow and eventually growing white and fuzzy.

He only watched as Dream smiled.

"It's okay," were the final words of the guardian of positivity, Dream, his brother. Then his eyelights disappeared entirely and he slumped sideways, physical body all but dead.

Nightmare watched, blank.

He was slow to catch up, slow to gather the will to move, to walk across the clearing and kneel beside his opponent. He held himself back from reaching out and gathering the body into a hug. If he did, he knew he would never find it in him to let go and he would starve himself to death. So, instead, he slowly looked over Dream, taking in every detail possible, committing it to memory.

He expected guilt to bury him in its clutches, but it never came.

He felt numb.

He should feel something. He should be angry at himself, how he even thought for a second he had control over whether Dream lived or died, by his hand or not. He should be in misery, how his brother died right in front of him and he watched and was the culprit. He shouldn't be sitting here, staring blankly at the body in front of him, soul too absent to feeling anything.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

But they did.

Nightmare reached out, laying a forcibly still hand on Dream's shoulder. The body was still solid, so signs of breaking into dust yet. It was also cold, gathering from the small amount of white bones his hand was touching. Of course it was cold.

It was dead.

Nightmare blinked and hovering above the body was a little golden orb of flames. It wasn't as bright as it used to be, giving off a faint glow that barely illuminated them both. It was smaller, too. The orb flickered weakly; bright gold to gold to bright yellow to yellow to light yellow to pale yellow—

It was Dream, back to his origins.

And that's when it finally sunk in for Nightmare that his little brother was dying right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it.

All at once, the numbness disappeared and panic took its place. Nightmare sat on his knees, hovering over the body, eyes widened in helplessness and locked onto the orb—spirit. He had to do something. He didn't want to be alone. He couldn't be alone, not anymore.

Without thinking, his hands went towards the spirit, hoping to gather it close so that Nightmare could—

It flinched away.

A sharp pain went through his soul—heartbreak, he dimly recalled, bring his hands towards his chest and holding them there. He hunched in on himself. Dream flinched away from his hands. Dream was scared of him. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, just that it hurt.

His vision started to blur with tears.

Dream's spirit slowly drifted closer, probably confused as to why Nightmare was crying.

He closed his eyes as it grew closer until it was in front of him.

Warmth made him open them.

He gazed in surprise at the orb. Its glow had increased, although he could feel it start to drain away even faster because of that. Dream had recognized him. It was sending out waves of love for Nightmare, radiating the determination he had seen frequent Dream's eyes so many times in their battles. There wasn't an ounce of hate or confusion over what had happened, just pure love. Pure forgiveness.

A sob broke through his mouth, words finally starting up as if a dam had been broken. "Dream..." His voice was raw and hurt. He knew Dream noticed, as the love increased, a feeling of reassurance's coming too.

Nightmare swallowed. "Dream."

The orb floated forward.

"I-I'm...so sorry." Nightmare said, breaking into another sob at the end. He inhaled and wiped at the tears. He pretended he was looking his brother in the eye. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to kill you. Never. I'm sorry."

The orb gave a pulse of light, wavering slightly as it used up more of its energy.

"Don't do that. Stop." His voice came out as just a whisper now. "You're using up your energy."

Dream was stubborn and gave another pulse of light.

"Dream."

The orb shook, dulling into a gray colour. Nightmare furrowed his brow in worry, again reaching up and cupping the flame in his hands. Dream couldn't keep this up. The waves of love started petering out, being replaced by the growing negativity again. The warmth they gave stayed.

Dream mustered up the strength for a final pulse, growing smaller and smaller until it was just a speck. There was no love this time, no more warmth, but rather a whisper. A question. It was faint, the voice tired, but it was undoubtedly Dream.

"It's...okay?"

The speck waited as Nightmare blinked.

Funny. Dream had said that to calm Nightmare down before and now here he was again, the same words, asking if it's okay that he died and left him behind. So funny. Before it was a reassurance, to let Nightmare know that it was alright, even though it wasn't. Now he was asking permission to let go and die. From Nightmare.

Why?

Nightmare was the one who killed him. He should be scrambling to get away, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible. He should be jumping into the afterlife or whatever, relieved to get to rest. But he wasn't. He was here. Waiting for Nightmare to tell him it was okay.

...What did Nightmare ever do to deserve such a kind brother?

He started chuckling, though they weren't happy. They were filled with an aching sadness that couldn't be put into words. He looked at the speck, looked at his brother, trying to imagine his patient and awaiting look, bright golden eyes sparked in curiosity and worry—not of himself, but of Nightmare—and he tried to smile.

"Yeah." He whispered, talking through the tears. The pain was forced down. "It's okay."

The speck disappeared.

Nightmare watched the space where it used to be, silently breathing for a long time. Before he realized it, his shoulders were shaking and he thought for a moment he was laughing. But that would be cruel; his brother dying, and he laughed? No. He was crying. When he realized that he could hear the sobs and felt heavy as the weight of grief and pain and sadness and guilt all hit him at once.

He collapsed onto the body in front of him, felt it start to dust. He held on tightly anyway, fingers grabbing fistfuls of shirt. He buried his head in the neck, not caring anymore about not toughing the wound.

"It's not okay." He whispered it over and over, even when he was left holding nothing but clothes and dust covered him.

Positivity was dead.

Nightmare felt like he somehow died right along with it.

[multifandomsimagine]

Imagine dating Suki and being reunited after the war after having been taken prisoner

You had been so worried about Suki when you guys and the other Kyoshi Warriors had been defeated by Azula. Though you all had been able to buy time for Appa to escape, and hopefully make it back to Aang, the same couldn’t be same for the rest of you as one by one you had been beaten by the three Fire Nation girls.

“Well we can’t have you warriors be with your leader now, can we?” Azula said with a smirk. Waving a hand toward the nearest soldier once they had caught up to the trio, she motioned for them to pull Suki away from the group. “Take her to Boiling Rock. You’re close to the Avatar. Perhaps we can get some information about him from you there” Giving the rest of the warriors a disinterested look, she motioned for more soldiers to grab the rest of the group. “The rest to Capital City Prison.”

Not wanting to give the Azula the satisfaction of getting a reaction from you, you remained did nothing but glare at her even though your heart sank inside of you. You didn’t have to be from the Fire Nation to have heard about the reputation the volcanic island had and while you knew that Suki could handle anything thrown her way, that didn’t mean you couldn’t feel worried about her. So helpless to do anything with the tight grip the soldiers had on you, you could only watch as Suki was taken away from you.

But now, as you stepped off the war ship and down the ramp and saw Suki waiting for you at the pier, there was no need to hide the tears as you ran toward her as quickly as you could. Once close enough, you jumped into her open arms as the two of you embraced. “Suki!”

“Are you okay?” She asked you, pulling away slightly to give you a once over for any injuries. 

“No, no, I'm okay. Did they hurt you?“

Suki shook her head, giving you a watery smile. “No. I’m just so happy you’re here with me again.”

[parcy-anda]

I adore the idea of Ruv & Sarv together both platonically and romantically,  and that goes double for Whitty & Carol, but I’m also a piece-of-trash multi-shipper with a strong lean towards fluff.

Heads up: no ideas are my own — the inspiration came from  this. >v<; I just wanted to shake off some dust and enjoy what I thought was a sweet concept.

My silly rambles are below the cut if you’re interested, but I’m super awkward and will go hide now.

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I was a bit conflicted about posting art of these two, as from what I’ve read, drama following the mods ruined these guys+ for their respective creators but I keep up on some tags out of curiosity, and seeing the post linked above made me want to try something that condensed most of their ideas. I'm a sucker for anything soft and wholesome.

While I did visual research for the characters, dinghies and an intentional + aesthetically-appropriate design for Ruv based on a few species of cold-water [comb] jellies, I had no idea/was-too-stubborn-to-further-research how to draw [jellyfish] sirens or how to handle the lighting effects for a pic like this — and it shows.

Finally: GEEBUS, I don’t know if this is even worth sharing, but as prep, I did sketch a rough concept of siren!Ruv based on visual research. I have no idea if I’ll try to polish this concept, as while Jellies are often inherently frilly, it seems painfully out-of-place for him. @v@

Update: I wrote a silly ficlet to follow up this pic. I’ll hide it here, rather than put it on display in a fresh post. =v=; Apologies for address-repetition, rambling, and the obliviousness trope but if anyone actually likes it, sweetness.

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Whitty kept his eyes on the stars, of which there was no shortage out here. Beyond the light, passing swells, he'd heard the gentle splashing against the boat, and felt something slippery and mitten-like wrap around his shoe. His foot twitched, but he didn't pull away. He knew who it was; after, all, they'd agreed to meet here... in this general area. The open ocean provided few landmarks, but they'd settled on a few miles northeast of the dock Whitty always started from.

It was still really, really strange. He was getting better about trusting the siren, but jellyfish are jellyfish, and he was in no hurry to be stung, accidentally or otherwise. Without moving, he chanced a glimpse to the other end of the boat — Ruv was looking down at something. The sentient bomb heard a gravelly shift — oh... more "treasures".

Lately, the gelatinous merman had been in the odd habit of bringing stones and coral fragments with him, and this time, he'd brought a bucketful. Whitty stifled a hissing chuckle at what he could now tell was bright green plastic. Ruv must have taken some child's beach toy from somewhere. The only thing he didn't really get was why.

Ruv wasn't much of a talker, and was stone-faced as they came. All the bomb-man could tell was that the siren seemed to bring these things for him... and the slight glow of his bioluminescence flared every time Whitty looked at him or said so much as a word. And today, he was ALIGHT. Whitty tensed as he felt Ruv squeeze his shoe tighter... was this in his head, or did the siren look nervous?

Carefully, Ruv lifted the bucket out of the water completely, over the edge and placed it squarely on the floor of the dinghy by Whitty's outstretched leg... and stared. At Whitty. In the glowing, ember-y eyes. Inky drops of "sweat" seeped through the sphere of his head and dripped back down to the fuse... an anxious laugh tumbled between his teeth set in a forced smile.

"Thanks, man." He finally managed to say, glancing briefly at the bucket before looking back at Ruv, who hadn't moved, save for the lightest lapping  against the underside of the boat, to keep his balance and place. Whitty usually didn't mind the stargazing, but then, it had never been this quiet or... intensely awkward. You're making it weird, man. Whitty thought to himself worriedly, but gave it a few seconds.

Things did not get better. Silent as before, Ruv's behaviour drastically shifted once more. The glow faded, he sank out of Whitty's view, and the grip on his shoe loosened before disappearing completely. Just slightly alarmed, Whitty planted most of his weight in the middle of the small boat, before stretching his neck to look out over the edge — the siren was still there, face half-submerged and, by the angle of the lone, now-barely luminous eye, not quite facing the boat. With just a crescent moon to light the seascape, Whitty was relieved to see anything... if the glow had wholly vanished, he would have been impossible to distinguish from the water.

"... what did I do, now?" Whitty sighed, trying not to sound too annoyed. He was certainly intrigued by the merman, he wouldn't keep coming back to visit otherwise. They could probably be really good friends if Ruv would actually communicate. But he didn't. He always kept Whitty wondering, and the bomb hated that. He hated not knowing what to expect.

When Ruv stayed silent and with his back to the dinghy, Whitty huffed quietly and turned his attention to the bucket. It was quite the assortment, this time. Some where rough, some smooth, some glossy, some blue, some... very, very round. He picked up that oddball, and his eyes widened as he realized what it was. It was a pearl, a black one, and a pretty good size.

"Okay, w-why? Why do you keep bringing me stuff like this?" He sputtered, holding up the pearl and bucket. He'd tried asking questions before, but seldom got normal or satisfactory answers. He hoped this time would be different.

He got a reaction, at least: he caught the eye angling slightly back toward him, and a flicker of light returning. He could have sworn he saw the mouth twitch, though mostly into a frown. When Ruv's hands weighed delicately on the top of the stern, Whitty sat back in an effort to keep the boat level. Taking in what body language he could, Whitty saw now, just how tired Ruv appeared to be, as if it was all he could do to keep his one eye open. With a sense of urgency, Whitty dragged himself back to reality, gesturing emphatically as he asked again: "Why? What's this for? Use your words, man."

Immediately, Ruv's eye narrowed and his slight frown deepened, prompting a small flinch from the bomb. Whitty was fully expecting to be stung, and braced himself for it, eyes closed. He nearly jumped out of his skin when instead, he heard a THUD against the dinghy's edge. Then again, and again. Opening his eyes, he saw Ruv repeatedly, quite deliberately, throwing his forehead into the side of the boat. Apparently, he was frustrated, too.

Whitty was about to tell the siren to cut it out when it suddenly stopped. Ruv's head was now set still against the stern, shoulders rising, then falling in a quiet sigh, before he rested his chin on the rim between his hands. The face Whitty took for 'tired' before now simply looked defeated. The bomb-headed young man refrained from saying anything, realizing words were only flustering the merman, but he knew Ruv could talk. They'd talked before... mostly Ruv just said he wasn't going to sting Whitty, but still, Ruv had spoken. There was no point in acting like he couldn't.

So lost was he in his thoughts, he'd hardly noticed himself nearing the boat's edge. For a moment, he thought he'd leaned in on his own, as if to listen closely for an answer, but... no. The movement had been completely subconscious. Oh, f- this isn't some legit-siren shit Ruv's pulling, right? Probably not, hopefully not. I mean, I'm definitely in control of my thoughts. He was snapped out of those thoughts by another sigh from Ruv, even though he had yet to say a word.

Silently, Ruv took the pearl and held it up between his and Whitty's faces — he should get that, right? Looking around it, Whitty's face proved puzzled still. Agitated, Ruv snatched a piece of volcanic glass he'd found from the bucket, placing it over Whitty's hand and wrapping his own over both, before expectantly looking back up to his land-dwelling friend's face. That nervous smile was back, and Whitty had to laugh off the awkwardness while he searched for the words.

"Aha...ha... this stuff looks... kind of like me?" He asked more than said, glancing a few times between the contents of the bucket and Ruv — there were a number of articles reminiscent of his clothing and skin's colors, not to mention textures. Whitty's heart spasmed violently at the way Ruv's face quite literally lit up. Reluctantly, he spun his free hand in a wheeling motion, continuing, "... which means...?" The glow flickered, but remained and Whitty thought he saw Ruv's eye twitch. The bomb grimaced before trying to intuit the meaning behind this, "Yes, please! Spell it out!" It was weird as hell, but he needed to know what it meant, and it was high time Ruv just gave him a straight answer.

Mista-BIG MISTAKE. — was the only coherent thought Whitty managed, as for a moment, all his senses could register was a splash and icy water enveloping him face-first. He'd been hauled from the boat and into the dark, frigid ocean. On instinct, he struggled, panicked against the feeling of cold seeping into him, and he gasped the second he felt air on his face. He took a second to process what was happening now:

He was breathing, his head was back above water... he was... not being strangled, even though it felt terrifyingly similar. Ruv was thoroughly wrapped around him, his face pressed into the bomb's neck and... nuzzling? It made Whitty squirm at first, it really was a bit of a disturbing sensation, but then suddenly, he stiffened and warmed all over as a blush spilled across his face and the realization dawned on him. If the siren hadn't been keeping him afloat, he'd have sunk for lack of movement. He was frozen in an entirely different sense now.

[crystalessenceswrites]

Burden of the Survivors-- Chapter One

*not my gif*

Burden of the Survivors

Pairs: Din Djarin x fem!reader Rating: T (at the moment- subject to change) Warnings: a little bit of cursing but otherwise fairly tame *no spoilers- takes place in Season 1 timeline* Summary: Mando works alone- except for when he absolutely can’t. There are few people Din trusts – trusts as in he doesn’t expect a viroblade in the back the second he’s turned around. She’s one of them. Just as cautious and nearly as tight lipped about her past as he is, Din doesn’t mind her around too much.

[Masterlist] [Chapter One] [Chapter Two] or Available on AO3

A/N: It’s been ages since I wrote a reader series, I do my best to write them with as non-descriptive reader as possible but if there’s something I miss let me know. Reader does have a backstory and obviously has certain skills sets as a bounty hunter but I don’t believe that will cause any issues going forward. Also thanks to @fishingwithstring​ & @flyingmarshmallow64​ for kinda beta-ing for me

Chapter One--

When you had given the Mandalorian your commlink info you had not thought the stoic man would actually use it. He had a reputation to uphold after all- he couldn’t be seen willingly working with another bounty hunter. You could respect that; the Guild was cutthroat and there never seemed to be enough credits or jobs to go around these days. The New Republic was a blessing and a curse to those trying to make a living in the Outer Rim. Your regular contacts were coming up short on good jobs and everything Karga was offering wasn’t worth the cost of fuel. It all had you wondering if you should take up running with Tillis’s crew again, the cuts were always fair and at least you weren’t burning credits on your own fuel.

Yet despite your initial beliefs, Mando had called, and he’d called with an offer for a job. They were high rollers from the underworld, apparently. Nothing you had not worked before. The first job you had worked with Mando on had been an under the table job from Karga as well. You allowed yourself the slightest bit of pride that after how well you two had worked together, Mando felt you would be a useful addition on this job.

You jumped on the offer. Whatever job Mando had taken had to be worth a decent stack of credits if he was willing to go with an even split. Hopefully, this would be enough to hold you over for a while, maybe pay for a few fixes to your ship while you were at it. The navicomputer could use an update, and there was the leak in the cooling lines that could probably use a proper fix instead of your last patch job… but you were getting ahead of yourself. Mando had asked you to meet him at his ship just outside of town on Navarro, which was convenient considering you had been laying over on the backwater volcanic planet after your last round of bounties. Karga may be cagey but at least he paid you what you were owed in the end.

Mando was waiting for you, leaning against the side of the Razor Crest, looking as much the stoic and hardened warrior as ever when you arrived. Though he had upgraded a bit since you last saw him.

“Looking spiffy Mando! Is that a new pauldron I see?”

He shrugs, pushing off the Razor Crest, “maybe.”

Man of few words, some things never change.

“You mentioned before that we didn’t have much to go off of. What do you know?” Hitching your bag of gear up your shoulder you follow Mando up into the Crest.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been on Mando’s ship, but it amazed you every time you boarded how he managed to keep such a relic up and running. You would not be surprised if it cost him a fortune in repair costs over the years. Sure, your ship wasn’t a spring chicken either, but it had been built within your lifetime.

“Tracking fob.” He quickly fishes the device out of his belt, flashing it at you briefly. “Last known position and age.”

“Wait, not even a chain code?” That was just common courtesy in this line of work, and it kept mix-ups to a minimum. “Just the last four digits?”

Mando nods before clambering up the ladder to the cockpit leaving you stunned. Who exactly were you working for and who were they after?

After ditching your bag in the hull you follow Mando up to the cockpit. “How trustworthy is this client of yours?”

You lean against the doorway, watching him program the ancient navicomputer. “It’s underworld, what do you expect?”

“At least some minimal assurances,” you throw back, “I don’t want to end up a prisoner of the New Republic for the rest of my days if I can’t help it.”

“The chit came through Karga.”

Well, that was the definition of minimally reassuring.

“But no puck?”

Mando shakes his head, or rather, his bucket.

“Well, this will be interesting.”

.

“Arvala-7, can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.” You’re sitting in the co-pilots chair with your boots propped up against the dash, fiddling with one your rifle sights as Mando attempts to pull planetary info up on his navicomputer.

Your partners huff of displeasure filters through his modulator, you can imagine he’s rolling his eyes behind the visor. Over the course of working together you had managed to pick up on a handful of the man’s cues, his body language was fairly expressive, and irritation with you was one you were aptly familiar with. It had been obvious from your first meeting that the Mandalorian was all work and no play. So, your occasional flippant remarks were not always received well. You were by no means trying to agitate the bounty hunter- you had better self-preservation skills than that- but you were trying to lighten the mood a bit. Two sticks in the mud didn’t make for an entertaining partnership.

Even after a few smacks to the computer Mando cannot seem to pull up the data he wants. His fists clench and unclench rhythmically, the creak of his leather gloves filling the silent cockpit. This one was wound way too tight. You wondered what mandalorians did to relax and unwind, and how exactly could you get him to do that before you landed?

“You’ve got the tracking fob, we aren’t completely screwed, if that’s what you’re all upset about, Mando.”

The helmet snaps around, his black t-visor staring unblinking into your soul.

Maybe that was not the best button to push.

“I’ll- ah, go get my stuff together.” You wince at the crack in your voice but gather up your blaster parts before preparing to shimmy back down into the cargo hold. You were a bounty hunter, same as him. His attitude should not unnerve you like it did. He was human like you after all- or at least you assumed he was- one faceless man should not affect you so strongly. You were better than this.

Master trained you better than this.

“Coming into atmo,” Mando shouts down from the cockpit, “may want to hold onto something.”

The ship lurches forward, throwing you into the back wall. “Thanks for the warning,” you grumble, latching onto the refresher door to stay upright.

Mando comes in quick, the Razor Crest touching down shortly after entering the atmosphere. Moments later the helmeted man is down the ladder, amban sniper rifle in hand and already heading down the ramp. Always in such a rush. The Mandalorian really had no clue as to how to stop and assess a situation or take a moment to breathe.

You scramble over to your bag of gear, assembling one of your own blaster rifles without having to look. It was all second nature now; you know every weapon in your stash like the back of your hand. As you slide the newly fixed sight into place a roar echoes through the ship followed by a loud curse. Down the ramp in seconds your blaster is trained on the approaching creature, ignoring Mando with his arm trapped in the jaw of another felled creature.

The tadpole-shaped beast falls before you pull the trigger, sliding in next to Mando with a bright red electro stun dart sticking out of its side. You let out a sigh as Mando groans, freeing his arm. At least your partner in crime was not out for the count yet.

A third creature approaches, this one saddled and ridden by an aging ugnaught wielding what you can assume was responsible for the stun darts. You lower your blaster, hoping that there would be no quarrel after he seemingly saved Mando.

“Thank you.” Mando’s panting as he stands, his arm clutched tight to his chest.

The ugnaught nods before looking back between you two. “You are bounty hunters.”

“Yes.”

“I will help you.”

You shrug at Mando, if he wanted to assist you with this odd bounty you had qualms.

“I have spoken.”

.

Kuiil had been more than accommodating to you both at his moisture farm. Offering up his bed to you for the night and sharing his dinner and a warm cup of tea with you both after the sunlight finally fell below the horizon. You jumped at the offer for any food that was not freeze-dried rations or protein bars. Mando on the other hand stiffened when the ugnaught passed him the meal.

“You can use the bedroom to eat, Mando.”

This was not the first time you had run into this problem while working with the Mandalorian. He never took the helmet off around you, not even in the safety of his ship, not to stop and eat while you were drifting along in hyperspace, or to fix up wounds after a particularly nasty fight with a quarry. You wondered if he even took it off to sleep when you were on board with him.

It was not as if you did not understand the draw of a helmet. The lifestyle of the faceless. You own tactical mask offers a small sense of anonymity, bringing some comfort after years of running from your past, but you were not unnaturally attached to it. Whatever tentative relationship you had with Mando; you were comfortable enough to take it off around him. You could eat in his presence. The mask did not inhibit your job or your lifestyle. While it had been ages since you had been in contact with mandalorians-other than the faceless and nameless Mando- you did have shadowy memories of those you had met taking off their helmets in the presence of others. Not that you had dared to ask about it. Your first few meetings had been tense enough and you liked to think you were smart enough to not insult the beskar clad warrior who walked around armed to the teeth.

Kuiil did not ask until Mando had settled into the other room. “He does not remove his helmet in the presence of others?”

“For as long as I’ve known him,” you nod.

“And how long have you known him?”

That was a good question. How many years had it been since you worked that job with Tillis’s crew that introduced you two?

“Four standard years now, maybe?” You ponder, “but we’ve only been working together for about two.”

He nods, looking thoughtful, “like a Mandalorian warrior of old.”

“I suppose,” you shrug.

“You do not agree with his choice?”

“Oh no, my opinions have nothing to do with it. Can’t say it appeals to me, but I respect the restraint it would take to wear a helmet all of your life.”

Kuiil nods before pottering off, cleaning up his small cooking station. You cannot help but smile, the ugnaught reminds you of someone but you cannot recall exactly who. They are just echoes of memories now, a childhood long gone, but something about Kuiil’s wise demeanor picks at them.

Mando returns moments later, shaking you from your melancholy as he takes a seat next to you.

“Many have passed through. They seek the same one as you.”

What kind of job exactly had Mando gotten for you two?

“Did you help them?”

“Yes. They died.”

You gape at the ugnaught, unsure if his honesty was all that helpful now.

“Well then I don’t know if I want your help,” Mando scoffs.

Kuiil shakes his head, “you do. I can show you to the encampment.”

“Encampment?” Who in the galaxy would have an encampment all the way out here and how to Kuiil know about it?

He nods but divulges no further details.

“What’s your cut?”

“Half.”

Your head whips around, Mando had promised you half the cut already, that is why you had agreed to come in the first place.

“Half the bounty to guide? Seems steep.”

“No. Half the blurrg you helped capture.”

You left out the breath you did not realize you had been holding, gaze softening. The blurrg would not be an issue. “I can assure you Mando has no use for a blurrg.”

The helmet nods, “you can keep them both.”

“No. You need them. To ride. The way is impossible to pass without a blurrg mount.”

Mando sounds unconvinced, “I don’t know how to ride blurrg.”

“I have spoken.”

You did not happen to know how to ride a blurrg either, but you decided it would be best for everyone’s health to not mention it as the Mandalorian struggled the next morning to even stay on the creature. Mando had insisted on letting you attempt to ride first. Kuiil had kindly walked you through how to greet the beast and the best way to mount. You had struggled a bit, the tallest point on the blurrg’s back was nearly a head taller than you and required some interesting moves to get to but after some coaching you finally managed to get the hang of it. It was smooth sailing from there. They reacted to the reins about the same as most other animals and their walking rhythm was not too difficult to adjust to. After Kuiil seems satisfied with your progress and let Mando into the ring you thought maybe this job would not be all that bad.

Yet as you watched Mando fly off the blurrg’s back for the umpteenth you decided you had called that much too soon. For a man who always walked with such swagger you did allow yourself to enjoy the scene. Just a little.

Even the patient Kuiil was becoming frustrated with Mando’s slow learning curve.

“Perhaps if you removed your helmet.”

That would never happen.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, “perhaps he remembers I tried to roast him.”

Kuiil shakes his head, “this is a female. The males are all eaten during mating.”

You try, you really do, but all your willpower combined at the moment is not enough to contain the laugh that bubbles up in your chest. “Ha! They’ve got the right idea.”

Mando’s helmet tilts back just a fraction. He’s rolling his eyes at you.

Kuiil chuckles softly at your side while you stick your tongue out at the bounty hunter. He blatantly ignores you, going in for another attempt at the blurrg. It ends the same of the others, Mando flat on his back in the dust.

You understand he’s frustrated, Mando’s never been the patient type, and just wants to complete the job and get back to working alone. A wound up, frustrated Mandalorian was never a good combo. Your hand hovers over the blaster in your thigh holster as he stalks towards Kuiil, just in case.

“I don’t have time for this,” he snaps at the ugnaught. “Do you have a landspeeder or speeder bike that I could hire?”

“You are a Mandalorian! Your ancestors rode the great Mythosaur. Surely you can ride this young foal.”

Kuiil’s jab at his ancestry is enough to get Mando to try again. You look on as he approaches the blurrg, arms outstretched, murmuring calming words as he goes to pat the creature between its eyes. You would almost describe the scene as gentle. Not a word you’d have ever used to describe the helmeted man in the past. Where had this Mando been hiding all this time?

.

When you spot the compound in the distance the worries begin to creep up again. You wonder who exactly you were after and what Karga’s underground client wanted with them. People don’t just build fortified compounds on backwater, nearly uninhabited outer rim planets for no reason.

Kuiil points to the structure as the three of you come to a stop, “that is where you’ll find your quarry.”

Mando attempts to give Kuiil a pouch of credits. It was the least he deserved for all the help he’d given you. The ugnaught turns it down.

“Please. You deserve this.”

“Since these ones arrived, this territory has been an endless stream of mercenaries seeking reward and bringing destruction.”

“Then why did you guide us here?” you ask.

“They do not belong here. Those that live here come to seek peace. There will be no peace until they are gone.”

Mando turns to Kuiil, “then why do you help?”

“I have never met a Mandalorian. I’ve only read the stories. If they are true, you two will make quick work of it. Then there will be peace again.” The ugnaught guides his blurrg around, ready to make the return trip, “I have spoken.”

You and Mando sat for a moment, watching him ride away in silence.

For peace then.