#empath reader

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Chapter Seven

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Chapter Seven: Cruising Test

Summary: It seems like a routine test, but a distress signal calls the Enterprise into a mystery.

            “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” teased Kirk as he stepped from the shuttle and airlock onto the Enterprise.

            As (Y/N) had said, Kirk had decided to come aboard for “inspections.” Sulu, Bones, and Uhura were with him (which was a pleasant surprise for (Y/N) and Spock). In their red, pressed uniforms, (Y/N) and Spock nodded (and (Y/N) smiled). (Y/N) in particular was glad he was there since Kirk was, undoubtedly, holding himself back to act as an admiral instead of being himself and doing what he was good at—leading.

            “Welcome, Admiral,” said Spock. “I think you know my training crew.” Saavik stood beside them. “Certainly, they have come to know you.”

            “Yes, we’ve been through death and life together,” said Kirk, smiling in amusement. He walked forward, and the rest of his former crewmates followed. Saavik trailed after them. “Mr. Scott, you old dog. You’re well?”

            “I had a wee bout, sir, but Dr. McCoy pulled me through,” said Scotty.

            “A wee bout of what?” asked Kirk.

            “Shore leave, Admiral,” said Bones. Scotty despised leaving the Enterprise.

            “Oh, yes.” Kirk smiled. He went down the line of trainees and paused. “Who do we have here?”

            “Midshipman, first class, Peter Preston, engineer’s mate, sir,” said Preston.

            “First training voyage, Mr. Preston?” asked Kirk.

            “Yes, sir,” said Preston.

            “I see,” said Kirk. He walked farther forward. “Well, shall we start with the Engine Room?”

            “We’ll see you there, sir,” said Scotty. “And everything is in order.”

            “That’ll be a pleasant surprise, Scotty,” said Kirk, smiling and leaving the entryway.

            “We’ll see you on the Bridge, Admiral,” said Spock.

            “Company dismissed,” said (Y/N) to the trainees.

            The younger officers quickly walked to their posts. (Y/N) felt their apprehension with amusement. They were still awed by higher officers. They’d come to learn that having a higher rank didn’t mean people needed to be respected or were capable. Of course, (Y/N)’s crewmates were respectable and capable, but the principle still counted.

            “He’s never what I expect, sir.” Saavik spoke up, using Vulcan to disguise her meaning.

            (Y/N) smiled. They understood. They weren’t perfect at Vulcan yet, but they were adept with languages, and they practiced with Spock.

            “What surprises you, Lieutenant?” said Spock, again in Vulcan.

            “He’s so…human,” said Saavik.

            “Nobody’s perfect, Saavik,” said Spock.

            “Do you understand them? The humans and beings with emotions?” Saavik glanced at (Y/N).

            “Logic and empathy are both tools that can be used effectively,” said Spock. “My T’hy’la is a capable and efficient officer, better than most, with their empathy.”

            “Hm,” said Saavik.

            “Thank you for the compliment, husband,” said (Y/N).

            Saavik stood straighter, realizing (Y/N) could understand the whole time. (Y/N) chuckled.

            “I apologize, Commander,” said Saavik. “It was not my intention to judge—”

            “Don’t worry, Saavik,” said (Y/N), raising a hand. “You’re hardly in trouble for asking questions, especially since my culture is different from your own. You’re going to meet all types of people as a Starfleet officer. Asking questions to understand is better than making assumptions.” They turned around. “Now, let’s get to the Bridge. The Admiral will be announcing our training flight soon.”

            “There is none scheduled,” said Saavik.

            “Not yet,” said (Y/N), smiling.

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            “This is Starfleet Operations.” The announcement played over the Bridge, and (Y/N) smiled. “Enterprise is cleared for departure.”

            Saavik furrowed her brow slightly. “How did you know?” She had heard the decision to do a training flight, but she was still unused to these illogical proceedings.

            “I know my Admiral’s emotions and how he acts.” (Y/N) smiled. “I made a logical conclusion.”

            “Admiral on Bridge,” said Sulu as the doors slid open. Kirk walked in with Bones sullenly at his side.

            “Running lights on,” said Saavik, getting to work.

            “Very well, Mr. Saavik, you may clear all moorings,” said Spock, sitting in the Captain’s chair. (Y/N) leaned on the back of it.

            “Aye, sir.” Saavik ensured it was done. “All moorings are clear, Captain.”

            “Thank you,” said Spock.

            “Lieutenant,” said (Y/N). “Have you ever piloted a starship out of Spacedock?”

            “Never, sir,” said Saavik.

            “Take her out, then,” said (Y/N). Spock rose from the chair.

            “Aye, sir,” said Saavik. She took Spock’s spot and sat back in the Captain’s chair. One day, she would be a captain, after proper experience.

            “For everything, there is a first time, Lieutenant,” said Spock. “Don’t you agree, (Y/N)?”

            “I do,” said (Y/N).

            “Aft thrusters, Mr. Sulu.” Saavik was intent to do her job as expected, with each decision precisely what was needed—a real Vulcan Captain.

            “Aft thrusters,” confirmed Sulu.

            “Ahead one-quarter impulse power,” instructed Saavik.

            “Ahead one-quarter impulse power,” echoed Sulu as he maneuver the Enterprise.

            The ship flew out of the Spacedock. The Enterprise was free in space once more. The former Enterprise crew smiled to themselves. This was their favorite place to be.

            “We are clear and free to navigate,” said Sulu.

            “Course heading, Captain?” Saavik looked to Spock for orders.

            Spock raised a brow and looked at Kirk.

            Kirk smiled. “Captain’s discretion.”

            “Advice, Commander (Y/N)?” said Spock, looking at (Y/N).

            “Mr. Sulu?” said (Y/N). “Indulge yourself.”

            Sulu grinned. “Aye, sir.”

l

            (Y/N) and Spock sat quietly in their quarters. Their trainees were working under their respective trainers—currently Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, and Bones ((Y/N) hoped he wouldn’t scare away the medical officers-to-be). They were in capable hands. So, as the hours passed without incident, (Y/N) and Spock got a moment to relax before any more work had to be done. Spock was playing a game of 3D chess against himself, and (Y/N) was laying across his lap with a book on their holopad.

            Knock. “Spock? (L/N)?”

            (Y/N) sat up and frowned. They felt Kirk’s worry like a cloud through the door. “Come in, Kirk.” Spock saw their expression and set aside his chess set.

            The door opened, and Kirk stepped inside. “We have a problem. Something may be wrong with Regular I. We’ve been ordered to investigate.”

            “If memory serves, Regular I is a scientific research laboratory,” said Spock.

            “I believe so,” confirmed (Y/N).

            “I told Starfleet all we have is a boatload of children, but we’re the only ship in the quadrant,” said Kirk.

            “But there may be a problem, and you want to find out.” His emotions made that clear.

            Kirk nodded. “Spock, (L/N), these cadets of yours, how good are they? How will they respond under real pressure?”

            “As with all living things, each according to their own gifts,” said Spock.

            “They’re skilled and eager, but no one can predict how they’ll act in difficult circumstances,” said (Y/N).

            “Of course, this ship is yours,” said Spock.

            “No, that won’t be necessary.” Kirk waved a hand. “Just get me to Regula I.”

            Spock raised a brow. “As a teacher on a training mission, I’m content to command the Enterprise. If we are to go on actual duty, it is clear that the senior officer onboard must assume command.”

            “Besides, you’ll always been our captain,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Kirk suppressed a smile, but (Y/N) felt his emotions warm at the idea. “It may be nothing. Garbled communications. You take the ship.”

            “Jim,” said Spock calmly. “You proceed from a false assumption. I’m a Vulcan. I have no ego to bruise.”

            “Neither of us want to be captains for the sake of power. We’re just doing our jobs. We’re ensuring the next generation is capable,” said (Y/N).

            “If we may be so bold…” began Spock “…it was a mistake for you to accept the promotion. Commanding a starship is your first, best destiny. Anything else is a waste of material.”

            “You’re happier as a captain of a starship, too,” said (Y/N). “You’re not…you behind a desk.”

            “I would not presume to debate you,” sighed Kirk. His friends could see him too well.

            “That is wise,” said Spock. “In any case, were I to invoke logic, logic clearly dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

            “Or the one,” said Kirk and (Y/N) at the same time, familiar with the saying.

            “You are our superior officer,” said Spock.

            “You are also our friend,” said (Y/N).

            “We have been and shall always be yours,” said Spock.

            Kirk smiled, and his worry dampened as the warmth of friendship grew like a glow around him. He had his friends beside him.

l

            Kirk, Spock, and (Y/N) walked onto the Bridge of the Enterprise, expressions serious. Kirk stepped out in front of everyone.

            “Stop energizers,” said Kirk.

            Sulu obeyed. “Stop energizers.”

            “Prepare speakers,” said Kirk. Uhura clicked a button. “An emergency situation has arisen. By order of Starfleet Command, as of now, 1800 hours, I am assuming command of this vessel. Duty officer, note so in ship’s log. Plot new course, for Space Laboratory Regula I.” The announcement ended, and Kirk pressed a comms button. “Engine Room. Scotty.”

            “Aye, sir,” replied Scotty over the intercom.

            “We’ll be going to warp speed,” said Kirk.

            “Aye, sir,” said Scotty.

            “Course plotted for Regula I, Admiral,” reported Sulu.

            “Engage warp engines,” said Kirk. He wasn’t wasting any time.

            “Prepare for warp speed,” said Saavik from the captain’s chair.

            “Ready, sir,” said Sulu.

            Kirk paused and faced all the trainees, the young cadets all gazing at him. “I know that none of you were expecting this. I’m sorry. I’m gonna have to ask you to grow up a little sooner than you expected.” He turned away to Sulu. “Warp five.”

            Sulu quirked a smile. “So much for a little training cruise.”

l

A few hours later…

            “Approaching Regula I, Admiral,” said Sulu.

            “(L/N), status on communications?” said Kirk.

            “No response from Dr. Marcus,” reported (Y/N). “The signal is going through, so the jamming reported earlier is gone. However, there is still no response.” That was more worrisome.

            “There are two possibilities,” said Spock. “They are unable to respond. They are unwilling to respond.”

            (Y/N) nodded grimly.

            “How far?” asked Kirk.

            “Twelve hours and forty-three minutes, present speed,” said Spock.

            Kirk frowned and paced. “ ‘Give up Genesis,’ she said.” Dr. Marcus had spoken vaguely of strange instructions and plans that left Kirk with many questions and no answers. Not only was there the communications mystery, but Regula I’s scientific inquiries were their own mystery. “What in God’s name does that mean? Give it up to whom?”

            “It might help our analysis of the situation if we knew what Genesis was beyond the biblical reference,” said Spock.

            Kirk nodded. “Uhura, have Bones join us in my quarters.”

            “Aye, sir,” said Uhura, buzzing him.

            “Mr. Saavik, you have the conn,” said Kirk. “Spock, (L/N), with me.” They were going to start putting together this mystery so that they faced whatever situation was waiting at Regula I with a proper plan.

l

            “Well, I’ve got the Sickbay ready,” said Bones, strolling into Kirk’s quarters. “Now will someone please tell me what’s going on?” He waved a hand.

            “We’re going to find out ourselves,” said Spock.

            “Kirk got a call from a Dr. Marcus. The communications were being jammed, but she mentioned him—and Starfleet—taking ‘Genesis’ from her and Regula I,” said (Y/N).

            “I hate the science missions. We always end up subjects of some test,” grumbled Bones.

            Gem the Empath, Spock’s brain being taken…Bones might be right, thought (Y/N). Still, when had danger ever stopped them from trying to help people?

            “Computer,” said Kirk. “Request security procedure and access to Project Genesis Summary.”

            “Identify for retina scan,” said the computer.

            Kirk leaned in so that it could scan in. “Kirk, Admiral James T.”

            “Security scan approved,” said the computer.

            “Summary, please,” said Kirk.

            On the viewscreen, Dr. Carol Marcus appeared. “Project Genesis. A proposal to the Federation.”

            “Carol Marcus,” observed Spock.

            “Yes,” said Kirk.

            (Y/N) glanced at him. His emotions grew brighter, especially those of fondness, as he saw her. Huh.

            “What exactly is Genesis?” said Carol. “Well, put simply, Genesis is life from lifelessness. It is a process whereby molecular structure is reorganized at the subatomic level into life-generating matter of equal mass. Stage One of our experiments was conducted in the laboratory. Stage Two of the series will be attempted in a lifeless underground. Stage Three will involve the process on a planetary scale. It is our intention to introduce the Genesis device into the pre-selected area of a lifeless space body, such a moon or other dead form.” Onscreen, a simulation moon appeared, and as her explanation continued, the video demonstrated what the desired result of the experiment would be. “The device is delivered, instantaneously causing what we call the Genesis Effect. Matter is reorganized with life-generating results. Instead of a dead moon, a living, breathing planet, capable of sustaining whatever lifeforms we see fit to deposit on it.”

            (Y/N) blinked in surprise. This would be a technological marvel if it succeeded. The possibilities were endless. Creating life? It would change the course of history.

            “Fascinating!” remarked Spock.

            Onscreen, Carol continued. “The reformed moon simulated here represents the merest fraction of the Genesis potential, should the Federation wish to fund these experiments to their logical conclusion. When we consider the cosmic problems of population and food supply, the usefulness of this process becomes clear. This concludes our proposal. Thank you for your attention.” The recording finished.

            “It literally is Genesis,” said Spock.

            “It’s no biblical allusion; it’s an aspiration,” said (Y/N).

            “The power of creation,” said Kirk in awe.

            “Have they proceeded with their experiment?” said Spock.

            “Well, the tape was made a year ago. I can only assume they’ve reached Stage Two by now,” said Kirk.

            “But, dear Lord, do you think we’re intelligent enough to…” Bones frowned, rightfully concerned about people having such power. In the wrong hands, it could be dangerous. All inventions had good and bad uses. Even generating life could become damaging if the wrong person was allowed to take control of it. “Suppose, what if this thing were used where life already exists?”

            “It would destroy such life in favor of its new matrix,” said Spock, straightforward.

            “It’s new matrix? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” said Bones, incredulous.

            “I was not attempting to evaluate its moral implications,” said Spock. “As a matter of cosmic history, it has always been easier to destroy than to create.”

            “And any technological advancement can be used for harm if the wrong person got ahold of it,” said (Y/N), nodding. It was a terrible truth that some people would always exist to cause harm, but as long as they were around—and people like them—then they could stand up to those who would hurt others.

            “Fantastic,” said Bones sarcastically. “Now we can destroy and create life in a whole six minutes instead of six days!”

            “Really, Doctor McCoy,” sighed Spock. “You must learn to govern your passions. They will be your undoing.”

            “Logic?” said Bones incredulously. “My God! The man’s talking about logic! We’re talking about universal Armageddon, you green-blooded—”

            “I think that if Regula I has gone offline and someone was worried about Genesis being taken, then we need to worry about all the implications of the use of Genesis,” said (Y/N). “Bad and good. If we don’t know what’s happening, it’s too easy for something to go wrong. It already could be.”

            “Indeed,” said Spock.

            “Of course he’s listening to them,” groaned Bones.

            “Bridge to Admiral Kirk,” said Saavik over the comms.

            Everyone paused in their discussion to listen.

            “Admiral, sensors indicate a vessel in our area, closing fast,” said Saavik.

            “What do you make of her?” asked Kirk.

            “It’s one of ours, Captain. It’s Reliant,” said Saavik.

            “Reliant!” said Kirk.

            “Isn’t that the starship Chekov is stationed on?” said (Y/N).

            “I believe so,” said Spock.

            “Let’s find out what’s going on, then,” said Kirk.

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[barnesonly]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7709

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter One | Next Chapter

The hallway reeks of metal and blood scrubbed too clean.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses down on you, thick and heavy, until even your own breathing feels like a violation. Overhead lights flicker with a dull hum, casting a sterile white glow that drains every shadow of warmth. You walk barefoot. The concrete floor bites at your skin with every step.

You don’t remember much anymore.

Not your name. Not where you came from. Just scattered pieces — the way sunlight used to feel on your skin. A voice calling you something soft. A memory of warmth. It all slips away when you try to grab it. Hydra made sure of that.

Now, you’re just a number. A subject. A tool. A thing.

Two guards flank you, their boots echoing alongside yours. You can feel them watching you, not with interest, but suspicion — like you’re a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet. Their fear is sour, thick like rot in the air. You feel it pressing against your skin. Your abilities hum at the edges of your nerves, always waiting, always restrained. You’ve learned to keep them quiet. Hidden.

At the end of the hall waits a door. Heavy steel. No window.

They key in the code. The lock hisses open.

And then — they push you inside.

The cell is dim and cold. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You don’t see him at first, not clearly. But you feel him — that looming, quiet pressure of someone who doesn’t just take up space… someone who dominates it.

The Winter Soldier sits in the corner, chained, silent. His hands rest on his knees. One flesh, one metal. The restraints attached to the floor look thick enough to hold a monster, not a man. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Your breath catches. He’s still. Too still. Like a statue. Like death itself, waiting.

The door seals behind you with a mechanical clang. You don’t bother trying it. You know better.

You’re locked in. Alone. With him.

They didn’t give you a name. Not for him. They just said: “Calm him. Please him. Be useful.”

You inch forward. Not because you want to — your body screams to run — but because that’s what they trained you to do. That’s what keeps you alive.

When your eyes finally adjust, you see his face.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t make sense. All sharp edges and silence. Cheekbones like carved stone, a scar cutting across his jaw. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s caught mid-breath. But it’s his eyes that stop you — dark, distant, unreadable.

You meet them.

And for a moment, nothing else exists.

There’s no heat in his stare. No hunger. Just… observation. He watches you like you’re something foreign. Not a woman. Not a threat. Not prey. Just something strange and quiet.

Your heart pounds.

Your powers shift inside you, stirring without permission. You feel it — the heaviness radiating off him like gravity. Pain. Loneliness. A dull, aching emptiness buried beneath cold steel and tighter programming.

Your chest tightens.

Is that… him?

Is that what he feels?

A voice crackles over the speaker embedded in the wall.

“Subject 09. Proceed with Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t move.

“Proceed.”

You swallow hard.

Every part of you wants to scream. To lash out. But you kneel instead — slowly, careful not to appear like a threat. You lower yourself in front of him, your knees hitting the cold floor.

You’re wearing only the white shift they gave you. Thin. Useless. It barely covers your thighs. You hate it. You hate that they make you wear it. You hate how small it makes you feel.

But he doesn’t look at you like the guards do.

He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t reach for you. He just… watches.

You reach out slowly, your hand hovering over his — not the metal one, the human one. The skin there is rough. Calloused. Real. You hesitate, breath trembling.

He tenses.

Not a lot. Just the smallest shift in his posture. But you feel it. Like a ripple through still water. He’s waiting. Watching.

And then, he speaks — voice rough, low, like it hasn’t been used in days.

“…Don’t.”

It’s not a threat. It sounds almost… tired.

Your hand falls back to your lap. You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You don’t touch him again.

But you stay. You sit there on the cold floor, knees burning, pulse thudding in your ears.

And he doesn’t look away. He just… watches you. Like he’s trying to remember something.

You don’t know why you speak. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you — not like an enemy, not like a target, but like something foreign. A strange shape in his world of chains and blood. Whatever the reason, your voice leaves you before you can stop it. Barely a whisper. Scraping at the edges of your throat like it forgot how to be used.

“They think I can calm you.”

He doesn’t move. The words feel too loud in the stillness, like they don’t belong here. You drop your gaze, ashamed, fingers tightening in the folds of your shift like they might anchor you to something real.

“They didn’t tell me much. Just… that I’m different. That I feel things I shouldn’t.”

You pause, trying to find the right words. They never come out right. Hydra never gave you language for what you are, what your powers are — there were only orders, injections, silence.

“It’s not just emotions. It’s deeper than that. When someone’s near, I feel everything. Fear. Pain. Anger. It crawls under my skin like static. Loud. Constant. Sometimes I can push back. Soothe it. Dull the sharp edges.” You hesitate. “It makes people easier to control.”

He’s still watching you. But his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s parsing your words. Measuring them.

You shift on the floor, your knees sore against the concrete. It’s freezing. But the cold is nothing compared to the way his presence settles around you. Heavy. Unmovable. Like gravity itself has chosen him as its anchor.

“They said if you ever lost control again… I could stop it. That I could make you come back.” Your voice falters. “That if your memories returned, and you remembered things you weren’t supposed to, you’d still come back. For me.”

You don’t say what they really meant. You don’t need to. You’re not here to comfort him. You’re not here to heal. You’re here to bind him. To become his chain.

A new silence falls. It’s different now — heavier, coiled. Not quite threatening. Not safe either. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. But the shift is undeniable. Like a breath held too long. Like a storm poised on the edge of the horizon.

And then his jaw tightens. Barely. A flicker of tension across his face, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking right at him.

You feel it before you see it. The emotion that pulses beneath the surface. Fury.

Not at you. At them.

And buried deeper still — like something lost in a cave of ice — is a quieter, colder thought. One that brushes against your mind with the gentlest ache:

I don’t want to hurt her.

The realization settles over you like a shiver. You hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anything beyond blankness. You’d been told he was a machine in a man’s body. Programmed to kill. Nothing else.

But machines don’t feel lonely.

And they don’t try to protect things.

You meet his eyes again, slower this time.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. But they think… I’m the key to you.”

That lands.

Not visibly. He doesn’t lurch forward or speak or flinch. But something changes. A thread of something unspoken, strung tight between the two of you. Not trust. Not yet.

But not nothing.

There’s a shift in the air — slight, barely perceptible. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just the barest flicker of something that isn’t rejection.

You exhale, slow.

For the first time since they locked the door, your limbs start to unclench. Not because you feel safe. Just… less cornered. The danger is still here, still heavy in the room — but it’s no longer aimed at you.

You watch him. Not like the scientists do. Not like the guards. You’re not measuring him. You’re listening.

His head is tilted slightly, his eyes lowered now, the long shadows from the overhead light cutting across his face like prison bars. The metal of his arm reflects just enough to catch your attention — stark against his skin, against the concrete, against you.

He hasn’t said anything else. But his silence isn’t empty.

There’s thought behind it. Tension.

You wonder what they took from him. What they left behind.

And without meaning to, you open your mind to the weight of him — that fractured storm you felt earlier, still coiled tight in the pit of his chest. There’s no invitation. No trust. But emotions bleed even through walls when they’re strong enough.

And his are screaming.

Pain. Rage. Regret. A low, smoldering grief that hasn’t gone out in years. It lingers at the edge of your senses like smoke in your lungs.

Your mouth goes dry.

You don’t know what they’ve done to him. But whatever he used to be… it’s still in there. Deep. Buried. Gasping for air.

He doesn’t meet your eyes again, but his jaw tenses.

He knows you felt it. For a flicker of a second, you’re afraid he’ll shut down. Close himself off. But he doesn’t. He just… breathes.

And you realize this is the only thing you’ve both been allowed to do without permission.

Breathe.

You shift slightly on the cold floor. Your knees ache. The concrete has started to burn into your skin, but you don’t move far. Just enough that your shoulder touches the wall, spine curling, chin dropping to your chest.

A whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I don’t think they know what they’ve locked in here with me.”

Still no response.

But the quiet deepens. Less hollow now. Almost like he’s listening.

You don’t need him to speak. You just need him not to leave you alone in this silence.

And he doesn’t.

You sit together in that strange, fragile stillness — not allies, not enemies. Just two ruined things in a room built for ghosts.

It isn’t peace.

But it’s something.

———

The door hisses open again.

Same hallway. Same guards. Same cold bite of the floor under your bare feet… But this time, your hands are trembling. You hate that.

You hate how they shake, how the silence between the guards feels sharper than it did before, how one of them keeps glancing at you like he’s hoping you won’t come back out. Like he already knows the Winter Soldier might snap your neck this time. Or worse.

You try not to think about it. Instead, you focus on your breathing. One inhale. One exhale. Keep your heart steady. Keep your power quiet. You know what they want from you. You know the routine. Be soft. Be calm. Be useful.

Be what he needs. Not what you are.

The steel door seals behind you before you can change your mind.

He’s already watching you.

You feel it before you see him — that cold, oppressive weight in the air, like the temperature has dropped just because he’s breathing it. He’s seated in the same corner. Shackled. Still. But his eyes are locked on you this time.

Last time, he didn’t move until you were in front of him.

This time, he was waiting.

Your stomach tightens. You take one step. Then another. The light above flickers, humming quietly.

He’s expressionless, unreadable — the same carved face, the same ghostlike silence. But his gaze doesn’t slide off you. It lingers. Follows.

There’s something new in his eyes. Barely there. A flicker. Recognition.

It hits you in a strange way. Not comfort. Not hope. Something sharper. Something heavier. Because if he remembers you — even just your presence — then it means something stayed. Something got through.

And if something got through… they’ll notice. They always notice.

You stop a few feet away.

He’s still watching.

You lower yourself again, carefully. Knees to concrete. Hands in your lap. Not too fast. Not too slow. Everything you do has to be measured in here — every movement choreographed like a dance you weren’t taught properly but still expected to survive.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches long between you. Not hostile, but not easy either. Just… thick.

You press your palms into your thighs to stop the shaking. It’s colder this time. Or maybe you’re just colder. More hollow.

He shifts. It’s so small, so subtle — a tilt of the head, a change in the rhythm of his breathing — but you catch it.

You don’t look at his metal hand, not yet. You don’t reach for him. But your powers stretch — gently, invisibly — reaching without permission toward that emotional gravity he carries like a second skin.

And this time, it’s different. There’s still pain. Still loneliness. But buried beneath the weight of programming and silence… is hesitation. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why you’re here. Why you’re not afraid of him.

You exhale slowly.

“Do… do you remember me from yesterday?” you ask quietly. “I told you how I feel… things. How they sent me here, do you remember that?”

His eyes don’t change. But he blinks. Once. A long silence follows. You don’t expect an answer. You don’t even know if he’s allowed to speak without orders. You’ve never seen him talk to anyone else. Just you, just once, just one word.

You shift slightly on your knees, the concrete unforgiving beneath you.

“They don’t know everything though,” you whisper. “They don’t know I can feel when you’re not angry. When you’re just… tired.”

His jaw clenches — almost imperceptibly. And for a second, you swear his gaze softens. Not much. Not warmth. Just… less frost.

But not nothing.

It’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not invisible to him anymore.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there, eyes on his, breathing the same still air, and wait.

Your knees start to ache.

The cold from the floor seeps into your bones, and still, you don’t move. You don’t dare. Movement feels like it might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

There’s no warmth in it — not yet. But there’s no command, either. No dismissal. Just that same silent pressure, like he’s trying to figure you out molecule by molecule. And beneath that, something raw. Ancient. Exhausted.

The kind of tired that lives in the marrow.

You lower your head, just slightly — not in submission, not entirely. More like… reverence. Or maybe you’re just trying not to cry. It’s hard to tell the difference these days.

You try explaining once more, “They think I can fix you,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “That I can get inside your head. Soften you. Make you easier to control.”

You don’t say again. But it hangs there. Between you. They’ve tried this before. You’re just the newest tool.

You lift your eyes, searching his face. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Mercy? Recognition? Maybe just proof that he’s still human under all that steel.

“But you don’t feel broken,” you add. “You feel… caged.”

His brow twitches — so small it could be imagined. But you don’t think it is.

The chains at his wrists groan as he moves, just barely, shifting his weight. He leans forward — not much, not enough to be threatening. But enough to remind you what he is.

Powerful.

Lethal.

Close.

Your heart skitters in your chest, too fast. He must hear it — you’re sure he can. But he doesn’t react.

Instead, he breathes in — deep and slow, like he’s pulling you into his lungs, dissecting you with every breath. His eyes scan your face, not with hunger, not even with hostility. Just a kind of quiet, deliberate observation.

Finally, he speaks. “…They sent others.” The words are gravel, unused and dry.

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. That his voice — low and rough and scarred — is meant for you.

“They didn’t last.”

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, hard. You nod, slowly. “I know.”

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances away. Just slightly. As if even that costs something.

You follow his gaze. It doesn’t land on anything in particular — just the far wall, the flicker of the light above, the slow drip of a pipe you hadn’t noticed before. But the shift in focus speaks volumes.

He doesn’t want to remember them. And maybe he doesn’t want to remember you, either.

But he does.

Something stirs in your chest. It’s not hope. Hope is too dangerous. Too delicate. You don’t let yourself have it anymore.

But it’s something close.

You fold your legs beneath you, careful, quiet. Not because you’re relaxing — you’re not. You never are in here. But because the kneeling was starting to feel too much like worship.

And he doesn’t want that.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches so long, you start to think he won’t.

Then, finally — softly, without looking:

“…No.”

One word. Small. But not nothing.

Your breath catches at his answer. You don’t know what you expected — silence, maybe. Indifference. But not that. Not no.

You sit with it for a moment, staring at the floor between you, watching how the shadows stretch and shift with the flickering light.

“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s not defiance. Just… curiosity. Raw and unfiltered.

His eyes snap back to you. Not harsh, but sharp — a warning in their depth. Like you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t.

But you don’t flinch. You hold his gaze, even though your pulse is skittering against your ribs.

“I mean,” you continue quietly, “you don’t need me here. You didn’t ask for this. And they’re not giving you a choice. So why no?”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

But he watches.

And that says something.

You shift forward slightly, hands on your knees, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it because I didn’t try to touch you today? Because I didn’t follow protocol?”

He doesn’t answer. His expression doesn’t change.

But something… cracks.

Barely.

His jaw flexes again, and he glances away — not toward the door, but toward the floor this time, like the concrete might give him better answers than you.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You could reach for him. You could touch his hand, risk the consequence. But you don’t. Not yet. Not until it means something. Not until he chooses it.

Instead, you lean in — just enough that your voice lowers to something secret.

“I don’t care what they want me to do to you,” you murmur. “I care what you want.”

A silence follows — thicker than the rest. It hangs in the air like a held breath.

You think he won’t answer. You think you pushed too far. Then—

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Three words. Bare. Cracked.

And somehow heavier than anything he could have shouted.

Your chest aches. It’s not a confession. Not really. But it’s more than silence. And you can feel the weight behind it — the emptiness of someone who’s spent too long in someone else’s control. Who hasn’t had a choice in so long, he’s forgotten how to make one.

You nod, softly. “That’s okay,” you whisper. “You don’t have to know yet.”

He looks at you again. This time, slower. More deliberate.

You think — just for a second — that he might say something else.

But the speaker crackles above, sharp and sudden. “Subject 09. Session complete. Return to holding.”

You don’t move. You glance back at the door, then to him again.

“I’ll come back,” you say, standing carefully. Your knees sting, your body protests. But you force steadiness into your voice. “If they let me. I’ll come back.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t answer… But his eyes follow you to the door.

And just before it seals shut behind you, you see it.

A flicker.

Not warmth.

But not frost, either.

Not indifference.

But not control.

Just… him.

Still buried. Still cold.

But not gone.

———

The room is colder than his cell.

Not physically — but it feels colder. Like something was scraped clean too many times. Like warmth doesn’t belong here.

You sit on a metal chair. No restraints this time — that’s supposed to be a kindness, you think — but the table between you and the door is bolted to the floor. There’s a camera in the corner. Watching. Recording. Always.

Across from you sits Agent Kern.

Late forties. Clean-cut. Buttoned-up. The kind of man who smells like antiseptic and control. He’s not one of the guards who escorted you. He’s not muscle. He’s something worse.

A voice with authority.

He glances at a tablet. Then at you.

You keep your face blank.

“I’ve reviewed the footage,” he says, voice crisp. Clinical. “The Soldier did not become aggressive.”

You say nothing.

“He spoke to you.”

Still nothing.

He tilts his head, watching you with a kind of sterile curiosity. “Do you know how many personnel have attempted verbal contact with him over the last year?”

You do.

Because they told you.

And you saw the aftermaths.

Kern continues anyway. “Twenty-three. Nineteen are dead. Two were crippled. One remains comatose. The last… was transferred. Quietly.”

You swallow.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So you can understand our interest.”

You nod slightly. “Yes.”

“Good.” He taps something on the tablet. “Describe the interaction. From the moment you entered.”

You hesitate. Not long. But enough.

He notices.

“I sat,” you say quietly. “Same as before. He was watching me already.”

Kern doesn’t interrupt. He waits, stylus poised like he’s sketching your words into the tablet with each movement.

“I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak right away. I just… waited.”

“And then?”

“I asked if he remembered me. From the day before.”

Kern taps the stylus once. “A violation of Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t flinch. “Yes.”

“But he didn’t react violently.”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You hesitate again. But this time, you answer.

“Because I didn’t treat him like a weapon.”

Kern blinks, expression unreadable. “Interesting.”

He writes that down. You shift in your seat, the metal groaning softly beneath you.

“I told him I could feel when he wasn’t angry. When he was tired,” you add. Quiet. Careful.

“And how did he respond?”

“He didn’t deny it.”

Kern leans back slightly. “He told you to leave.”

“No,” you say, voice firmer than you meant. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted.”

Kern’s eyes narrow. Not cruel. Just… focused. Like he’s trying to pin your soul under a microscope.

“You believe you’re making emotional progress.”

You say nothing.

He continues. “He remembers you. He hasn’t lashed out. He hasn’t shut down. That’s more than we’ve gotten in years. You’re aware of what that makes you.”

A tool.

A trigger.

A leash.

You meet his gaze. “It makes me useful.”

He smiles again. You hate that smile.

“Exactly.”

He taps the tablet again. “You’ll be sent back in tomorrow. Earlier this time. No medication. We want to see if the absence of suppressants alters your dynamic.”

You don’t move.

“Is that understood, Subject 09?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, already standing.

You clench your jaw. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

The door hisses open. Two guards step in.

Interview over.

———

You returned to your cell.

Your door slides open with its usual hiss — but tonight, it sounds sharper. Like a blade.

You step inside and don’t bother pretending. Not this time.

The moment it shuts behind you, your back hits the cold metal wall and you sink to the floor. The breath you’ve been holding since the interview comes out in one ragged exhale. Your knees draw up to your chest. Arms wrap tight around them. And for a second — just one — you let yourself feel everything.

Because there’s no one watching now.

Probably.

The cameras hum in the corners, but they don’t care if you break. They don’t care if you fall apart, as long as you’re whole enough to be put back together before morning.

Your fingers shake again. Not from fear. Not entirely.

It’s the feeling. The weight. The constant, crushing hum of emotions that don’t belong to you, pressing under your skin like trapped lightning.

You feel too much.

You always have.

It’s what made you a target. What made you a test subject. What made you useful.

Useful.

You choke on the word.

They don’t see you. Not really. You’re not a girl. Not a person. You’re a pressure valve. A chemical bond. An emotional sedative wrapped in skin. All they want is to know if you can keep him calm — if you can hold the leash without being bitten.

But you’re not a leash.

You’re not.

…Are you?

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until your vision sparks white. You want to scream. To claw at the walls. To tear the shift from your body and burn it. But you don’t.

Because if you scream, someone might come.

And you’re not sure what would be worse — the punishment, or the fact that no one might come at all.

So instead… you whisper to the walls.

Your voice is hoarse. Quiet. But not empty.

“I don’t want to be useful.”

The words taste strange in your mouth. Unpracticed. Dangerous. Like you’re admitting something that was supposed to stay buried.

“I just want to be me again. Whoever that was.”

Silence answers you.

But your eyes drift to the wall behind you. Cold steel. Same as always. But you let your fingers rest on it — just for a second — as if you could feel through it. As if, somewhere on the other side, he’s there. Sitting in his corner. Watching the dark. Remembering you.

You wonder if he’s thinking.

If he’s feeling.

You wonder if he wants to.

A shiver runs through you, not from cold — from the sheer wrongness of this place, the things it turns you into just to survive. You press your forehead against the wall.

“Please don’t forget me,” you whisper.

Not because you’re afraid to disappear.

But because the more he remembers you…

…the more you remember you, too.

———

The guards don’t speak this time.

You almost prefer it that way. Silence is easier than pretending.

But there’s something off today. You feel it the moment you step into the hallway — the air heavier, tighter. Like the walls are listening harder. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

They didn’t give you the suppressant injection.

You noticed right away.

Your nerves are louder. Your power hums closer to the surface, like it’s tasting everything around you — the quiet fear from the new guard on your left, the sharp tension from the veteran on your right. You try to tamp it down, but it flickers regardless. Restless. Alive.

The door hisses open.

And he’s already watching you.

Same corner. Same chains. Same silence. But this time, the moment you step into the room, your skin prickles.

He feels… closer.

No one moves. No one speaks. The door seals shut behind you.

And then — slowly — you walk.

Every step is deliberate. You can feel his eyes on you, not just looking, but registering. Studying you like a puzzle someone threw against a wall and told him to rebuild with bloody hands.

You stop in front of him.

His shoulders are tense. Posture tight. But he isn’t recoiling. He’s not resisting either.

You kneel again, the concrete familiar under your knees now.

“I didn’t get the shot,” you whisper.

His brow barely twitches — the subtlest sign he’s listening. But you feel the flicker of something through him. Uncertainty. Caution.

“And now everything’s louder.”

You don’t mean your voice. He knows that.

“I can feel more of you,” you add, quiet. “Not the programming. Not the violence. Just… you.”

It feels like telling a secret. One you’re not supposed to know.

And still — he doesn’t speak.

But something shifts. You feel it before you see it. The weight inside him — that tangle of pain and silence — it stretches. Brushes up against your power like two ghosts testing the same room.

Your breath catches.

Because for the first time, he feels you back.

Not just your presence. Not just your voice.

You.

Your grief. Your loneliness. Your ache to be seen. It leaks through in threads — not enough to overwhelm, just enough to whisper. You don’t mean to let it out. But you’re raw. Wide open. And the moment your energy brushes against his mind, something inside him slows.

Not calm. Not peace. But stillness. Real stillness.

His head tilts slightly.

Like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. Like it doesn’t belong to him. And maybe it doesn’t. Not entirely. But you sit with it anyway. Breathing slow. Letting him adjust to the noise of another soul in the room.

Minutes pass.

Then — his voice. Rough. Like gravel scraping through silence. “You’re… different.”

You blink. Stare at him. Your throat tightens. “So are you,” you whisper.

Something flickers in his expression. Not emotion — not quite. But awareness. Like he knows what he just did. Like he knows it matters.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You want to reach out. But you don’t.

Instead, you say the one thing you’ve never had the chance to say out loud — not to anyone in this place, not even yourself.

“I don’t want to be their weapon.”

His jaw tightens. You don’t expect an answer. But after a long moment, you hear him exhale.

Slow. Heavy. Almost human.

You sit with the echo of his words.

You’re different.

They’re not some words he’s spoken — they’re intentional. They’re not a reaction. Not a command. They’re his. Chosen. Given.

It feels like a fragile thing, sitting in the space between you. Not quite trust. Not yet. But maybe something like recognition. Like the first bloom of something trying to grow in soil that’s only ever known blood and control.

You lower your gaze to your hands, folding them in your lap. They’re still trembling slightly, but not from fear this time.

“You said ‘don’t’ the first time I tried to touch you,” you say softly, voice barely above a breath. “Not because you were angry. Not because I scared you.”

You look up at him again.

“You said it like someone who didn’t want to be felt.”

His eyes darken, but not cruelly. Not coldly. Just… deeper. More guarded.

“I get it,” you say, quieter now. “I wouldn’t want someone inside my head either.”

He doesn’t respond, but you feel it again — that shift. That pause. Like your words are brushing up against something sharp inside him, and he doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or lean into the pain.

“I try not to,” you add. “Feel too much. It’s hard, though. Sometimes it’s like standing in a storm with no shelter. Everyone else gets umbrellas, and I’m just there — skin to the sky.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him this. Maybe because no one’s ever let you. Maybe because he’s the only one in this place who looks at you like you’re not some experiment in a dress.

Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked away once.

You take a shaky breath.

“I don’t know if you feel anything. Not really. I know they rewired things in your head. I can feel the static where your thoughts should be. But there’s still… something there.”

Your power hums again, subtle, just beneath the surface. You’re not reaching for him — not directly. But your emotions leak regardless, and you know he can feel it too now. The raw edge of your hope. The dull throb of loneliness that never really leaves you. The exhausted ache of wanting something real in a place that’s never allowed it.

“I’m not trying to break you,” you whisper. “I just want to know if there’s still a person under all of it.”

His metal fingers twitch. It’s small — barely more than a flicker of movement — but you see it. You feel it. And when you lift your gaze again, his expression has changed.

It’s not soft. Nothing about him is soft.

But it’s not empty anymore either.

There’s something there. Flickering. Tense. Alive.

“You don’t talk to anyone else, do you?” you ask, quieter now. “Just me.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak.

But his silence says enough.

Your throat tightens.

“I think that’s why they keep sending me back.”

He looks away for the first time. Not because he’s retreating — it doesn’t feel like that. It feels more like… shame. Like he doesn’t want to be seen in this moment. Not even by you.

And still — you stay.

You don’t try to move closer. You don’t beg him to meet your eyes again. You just sit there, grounded in your own stillness, and offer him the only thing you have left.

Time.

The silence lingers.

It’s not heavy, not hostile. It’s a watching kind of quiet. Like something is beginning to shift in the spaces between breath and heartbeat, like the air has thickened with something unspoken and uncertain.

He turns back toward you.

His head tilts, just slightly. You can feel his gaze press into you, not cold or clinical — just curious. Quietly human.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

His voice is rough but it’s gentle, too, in a way that surprises you. Not a demand. Not a test. Just a question. A real one.

Your breath catches. No one’s asked you that in… you don’t know how long. Not since they took it from you. Scrubbed it out of your mind like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

“I… I don’t remember,” you say, and the words sting more than you expect. “They— I think I had one… But now it’s just… gone.”

You don’t realize your fingers are curling into the fabric of your shift until you feel your nails pressing into your palms. Your voice lowers.

“I forget everything, sometimes. Not just my name. Whole days. Faces. Sounds. Like I blink and pieces of me disappear.”

A beat of silence.

And then — he nods.

He doesn’t offer false comfort. Doesn’t pretend it’s okay. But he listens. He hears you. His eyes linger a second longer than they did before.

And something subtle shifts in his expression — just enough for you to catch it. The faintest crease of thought. A flicker of something almost… protective. Like he’s already started turning the idea of you over in his mind. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a person. As someone who needs a name now. Someone he needs to remember.

A soft one.

Small.

Fragile.

Like a dove. Little dove.

He’s thinking it.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you move — careful, quiet, a ghost in bare feet. Maybe it’s the way you look at him without fear. Maybe it’s because in all this silence and blood and concrete, you’re the only living thing that doesn’t flinch when he breathes.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

But it’s there now. A name. His name for you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

—

Behind reinforced glass, above the cell like a god in a cage — one of the guards — Agent Voss watches the live cameras footage in silence.

He doesn’t blink.

The screen before him flickers with muted color — cold concrete, dull light, two figures seated on the floor like ghosts caught in a snowfall. The Winter Soldier is motionless, as always. But his eyes tell a different story.

They linger.

They watch.

Not with disinterest. Not with mindless submission.

With intent.

Voss leans back in his chair, arms crossed, a fresh page of notes untouched on the desk beside him. His sharp eyes flick between monitors, cataloging every shift in posture, every microscopic glance. He zooms in. Watches your lips move. No audio in this room — only the feed. Hydra didn’t want unnecessary noise interfering with judgment.

But Voss doesn’t need sound to understand what’s changing.

You’re close again. Closer this time. His body is still, but engaged. No tension in the shoulders. No signs of impending violence. And when you lower your head slightly — defeated, perhaps — he doesn’t look away.

That’s new.

“Unscheduled bonding,” he murmurs.

He picks up a pen, jots it down:

Soldier maintains eye contact. No evident resistance. Psychological tether forming.

He taps the screen with the back of the pen, right where your face is frozen.

Always the same posture. Always kneeling.

But he notices something else this time.

Interesting.

“She’s adapting faster than projected,” he says aloud, mostly to himself. “Emotionally reactive. Possibly empathic imprinting.” Another pause. “Still obedient, though. Still compliant. Kern will be pleased.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s there between the lines:

Useful.

One of the guards near the back shifts uncomfortably. “You think it’s working?”

Voss doesn’t turn around.

“I think he’s starting to recognize her as other. Not target. Not threat. That’s the first fracture. From there… he might begin to protect.”

The guard frowns. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Voss finally looks away from the screen, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But everything worthwhile is.”

He clicks the comms unit off.

“Schedule another session,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Give them twelve hours to reset.”

“And the girl?”

Voss pauses, glancing back at the monitor one last time. “She won’t break,” he says simply. “Not yet.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer.

—

Session ends. They drag you out. Back to your cell. The door hisses shut behind you with a mechanical sigh.

Same concrete. Same flickering light. Same walls that know more about you than you do.

But something’s different now.

You stand in the middle of your cell, barely breathing. Every inch of your body aches — not from injury, not from any visible wound — but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones. The kind that crawls under your skin and wraps around your heart like a vice.

You feel everything.

Too much.

You should be used to it by now. The cold. The silence. The forced calm you’ve taught yourself to wear like armor. But tonight, it’s heavy. Suffocating.

You sink to the floor slowly, knees folding beneath you, your arms wrapping tight around your ribs like they might keep you from falling apart.

Your fingers twitch.

There’s a residual hum in your veins — leftover emotion that doesn’t belong to you. It clings to your skin like smoke: the Soldier’s weight, his silence, his eyes on you.

You felt him today.

Not just his pain. Not just his loneliness. But the way he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an object. But like something familiar.

And it rattled you.

It still does.

You press your forehead to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the feeling away. You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to let him reach you like this. That’s not what Hydra trained you for.

You were meant to calm him. Soften him. Be useful.

Not… curious.

Not afraid.

Not seen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The worst part is — you’re not even sure if it’s you anymore. These feelings, this softness… is it yours? Or is it something you’re absorbing from him? Did Hydra put this in you when they put you in his room?

Did they make you feel this way on purpose?

Your fists curl in the fabric of your shift. It’s thin. You’re always cold. And no matter how long you sit here, how still you stay, it never feels like you belong to yourself.

You remember what he asked. The way his voice sounded—rough, uncertain.

“Your name.”

But you didn’t have one.

You still don’t.

And now, as the silence wraps around you again, you realize how badly you want one. Something to hold onto. Something that’s yours. Not a number. Not a protocol.

Just… something real.

You lean back against the wall, tilting your head to stare at the flickering light overhead. Your throat feels tight.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if Hydra saw it. If they noticed the way he looked at you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

You wonder what they’ll do if they did.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you don’t try to forget him.

You try to remember him. Even if it hurts.

———

The door seals shut behind you with the same brutal finality.

But this time, you don’t freeze.

You walk.

Slower than before. More careful. But not afraid.

You don’t know what’s changed. You’re still in the same white shift. Still barefoot. Still a numbered tool in Hydra’s eyes. But something is different. Something in the air. In the way he’s already watching you from his corner like he’s been waiting.

Not out of duty. Not out of protocol.

Out of something else.

You don’t speak. You just lower yourself onto the cold floor again, knees screaming from too many hours on concrete, but you don’t let it show. You fold your hands in your lap and meet his gaze.

His eyes stay on you. Calm. Dark. Almost… alert.

You breathe in, slow. Let your nerves settle. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you whisper.

It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course he’s here. Of course he hasn’t moved. The shackles wouldn’t let him if he tried.

But you say it anyway.

He blinks. One slow movement.

“Where else would I be?” His voice is low — like a drum buried deep in the earth. It rumbles more than it speaks.

You shrug, just a little.

“I don’t know. Thought maybe they’d… move you. Or maybe they’d decide to end our sessions.”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back slightly, shifting your weight off your knees. The chill of the floor soaks through your skin, but you don’t care. You’re tired. You’re always tired.

You watch his face. Still unreadable. Still stone. But there’s something just beneath it now — a flicker, a twitch of thought behind the eyes. He’s listening.

“They’re watching,” you murmur. “They’re probably expecting me to reach for your hand again. Or… say something sweet. Something useful.”

His jaw tightens.

“They want to see if I can control you.”

Silence. A beat. Then his voice again — quieter this time.

“Can you?”

Your lips twitch — not a smile, exactly. Just a break in the stillness.

“No,” you say simply. “I think they’re hoping you think I can.”

You glance down, fingers ghosting over the floor between you.

“I don’t know what they’re doing to you,” you say softly. “But whatever it is… it isn’t who you are. I can feel that much.”

His breath hitches. It’s small. Barely there. But you feel it. That same emotional current humming underneath his silence — low and bruised and buried under years of reprogramming.

Pain. Loneliness.

But this time — confusion, too.

Like he doesn’t know why he wants to believe you.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there with him, sharing the cold. The silence.

And then — his voice again. Low. Almost a breath. Like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

“You can’t know that, little dove.”

Your head lifts slowly.

“What?” you ask, not quite sure you heard him right.

But he doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t clarify. He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze, as if surprised by himself. As if he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

A flicker passes behind his eyes. Regret? Confusion? You can’t tell.

You blink, throat tightening.

He doesn’t call you anything else.

Doesn’t say another word.

But the silence that follows feels different now. Heavier. Like something new has entered the room — not just a nickname, not really. More like a thought given shape. An instinct he didn’t fully understand. A name he gave without knowing he was naming anything at all.

Your heart beats faster. You don’t ask again. You don’t break the moment.

You just let it settle there between you — the weight of it, the meaning of it, the why of it. You don’t know what it means to him yet.

But you know what it means to you. You’re not a ghost to him anymore.

You’re something else now.

Something he sees.

And you have a name.

Next Chapter

[scarletmika]

I Just Feel You : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Empath!Reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds was broken, and he knew that, but he was trying. He was trying to be better, to control himself. But like Stitch had said: broken, but still good. You were beginning to make Bob believe that he was, in fact, still good.

Warnings: fluff, maybe a TINY bit of angst but not really, idiots in love with some pining, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*, talk of mental illness and drugs, tiny bit OOC Bob

Word Count: 2,603 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“The uh, the glowing doesn’t, like…hurt, does it?”

“Your eyes glow, and it doesn’t hurt you, right? It’s the same thing with my powers,”

Bob was mesmerized as you sat beside him in his bedroom, the soft green glow that seemed to envelop your hands as the feeling in the room changed. It had been a low day for him, his insecurities seeming to catch up with him after a failed training session with Walker and Bucky, and he’d retreated into his room to attempt the meditation tactics you’d been teaching him. But then, you’d walked in behind him, and the aura of pure tranquility and peace that poured off of you engulfed him, and suddenly his low day wasn’t so bad anymore.

The team hadn’t known what you had been capable of, at least not at first. You were skilled with the twin daggers tied to your utility belt, and a decent enough shot when you got your hands on a gun, two things they’d learned quickly down in Valentina’s vault. The sudden addition of Bob, along with Valentina locking them into what they’d quickly learned was an incinerator, had only heightened the anxious feelings in the room as the shouting commenced again between the mercenaries sent to their doom.

“Everyone relax!” you’d suddenly called out, a wave of energy almost washing the room in a soft green for a second. They’d watched your body stumble slightly before you shook your head. “We’re on the clock, we have to work together if we’re getting out of here.”

None of them knew you, so why were they listening to you? It was almost as if the second you’d told them to relax, they were hit with a wave of peace, and they were quickly working together to get out of the vault.

An empath, they’d quickly learned, when you’d torn Bob and Walker apart and taken the former to the side, seemingly having a way of calming him down within moments. Walker had read about another empath in SHIELD files Valentina had managed to get her hands on, an alien woman of some kind that had helped fight off Thanos. Other than her, none of them had ever encountered an empath before.

They quickly caught on that there was no lying to you about how they were feeling, because their emotions radiated off them in waves that you could constantly feel. Yelena’s sadness, John’s guilt, Ava’s desire for a family, the pain that Bucky and Alexei tried so hard to hide, you felt it all, all the time.

That’s why, as Yelena had dug herself out of containment within the Void, she’d stopped to tug you out from under the shelf lying on top of you, pushing you forward toward Bob as he battled with his inner demons, running directly behind you.

You’d paid no mind to Yelena hugging Bob opposite of you, or the rest of the rag-tag team you’d assembled trying to tug him back. You simply clung to him, turning to rest his forehead against your own, hand on his cheek glowing a soft green color as you whispered to him over and over again.

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere…I’ll never leave you. I’m here, Bob.

So, based on what they’d already seen and known, it was no surprise to anyone on The New Avengers that you both gravitated to one another day in and day out.

“It’s just pretty to look at,” Bob had mumbled, still watching your hands that now lay in your lap. He lay on his bed, head resting against one of his many worn-in pillows, just watching you from where you sat cross-legged in front of him. “Make me feel something.”

You’d quirked an eyebrow at his request, before reaching forward and laying your hand on his arm. His tranquil demeanor invaded your senses, a stark contrast to how he’d been when you’d first gotten to his room hours before, and you thought back on Alexei’s story the night before about somehow getting to drive Chris Rock around Washington D.C. months before. You pushed the feeling of every laugh you’d all shared that night into that demeanor that felt so much like Bob, imbuing him with the feeling of that night.

A smile stretched across your face the second you’d heard his laughter begin, unable to tear your eyes away. Happiness suited Bob, you’d known that from the moment you’d joked with him outside the vault, seeing a peak of his smile for the first time. He deserved to feel like this all the time: light, happy, free.

“Thank you,” Bob could feel the flush cross his face as his laughter subsided, stumbling over his words for a moment. “For uh- you know, being here. With me.”

You’d simply smiled back at him, lying down beside him on his bed. Bob shifted to his side so he could look at you, and no matter how many times you’d both lain here talking in the past, it still made his heart race to know you trusted him enough to be here in such a vulnerable position with him.

“You don’t have to thank me. We’ll always be here if you need us,”

“Yeah, but uh, you don’t treat me like a child. Unlike most of them,” Bob had mumbled.

It was a harsh reality, but not incorrect, and Bob knew that you knew it. Bucky managed to treat him like a ticking time bomb around every corner, but given the explanation he’d gotten about New York and what he’d done, and the moments that had slowly come back to him, he didn’t blame him. John, Ava, and Alexei were the worst about it, talking down to him like a child, as if he weren’t a grown man capable of making his own decisions and needed to be babysat twenty-four seven.

Yelena tried not to baby him, but she had her moments still. She constantly had a way of asking if he was okay, no matter the situation, and sometimes it had Bob on the verge of snapping. If he wanted to talk about it, he would, he didn’t need to be babysat.

It was one of the best things about you. You never asked if he was okay, simply just sat with him. You talked to him like you did the rest of the team, you let him come to you with his problems. He’d overheard Walker once say to you that you were the “best means of controlling” him, that you could simply imbue him with any feeling you wanted.

Of course, you’d kicked Walker so hard in the shins for that comment that his skin had broken open and needed to be stitched up. In your eyes, Bob was a person, and you refused to ever manipulate him in any way, shape, or form. It’s what made it so easy for him to fall in love with you.

“You know they mean well,” you’d tried to reassure him. “Yeah, they have their…quirks about it, and maybe they don’t always go about it in the best way. But they do care.”

“Not- not like you do,” Bob shook his head, embarrassed to look at you as his gaze drifted across the room to his bookshelf, the one you’d helped personally curate for him with hundreds of books he’d come to adore. “No, you don’t treat me like- like I’m broken. I am, but at least you don’t treat me like I am.”

“Bob, you’re-”

“Don’t say I’m not-”

“You might be broken, but you’re still good,” the smile on your face slowly morphed into a smirk. “That’s from this Disney movie-”

“I grew up in Florida, I’ve seen Lilo and Stitch. I might’ve been addicted to meth but uh- it didn’t entirely screw up my memory,”

The shared laughter between you both died down as there was a shift in Bob’s aura, and it washed over you in another wave of emotion.

It wasn’t the first time you’d felt it, the affection pouring off of him and in your direction. It was always there, growing, and almost always buried beneath his everyday feelings. But in moments like this, it was the most prominent feeling radiating off of him, and it did nothing to stop the flush that covered your own cheeks.

Bob simply watched as your hand found his cheek, layin lightly ontop of his skin as you looked at him.

“That little blue alien has a point. We’re all a little broken, Bob, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t good, or can’t become good. Broken isn’t bad, you just have to put the pieces back together,”

Bob couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, until the feeling that seemed to be flooding off of you and seeping into his very skin and being washed over him. He closed his eyes for just a moment, humming to himself at the feeling as his flush persisted over his skin.

“I- I don’t know what you’re making me feel right now, but it’s…it’s nice,”

“I’m not making you feel anything,” his eyes shot open, to see you still simply looking at him with that tiny grin, thumb still running over the skin of his cheek. “It’s…it’s just me.”

“...I just feel you?”

“Just me,” you took your hand away, not missing the way he chased after the feeling. You held it between you, showing the soft glow around you. “I’d never force you to feel something, not unless you asked. What you’re feeling it’s just all of my emotions mixed together. It’s just…me.”

“I…I like feeling that,”

“I know you do,” your grin became a smirk again as you leaned your head closer to him. “I think you forget, I can feel your feelings…all of them.”

Bob’s grin dropped for a moment as the weight of your comment settled on him. His feelings, loud and begging to burst out of him, were clear as day to you. Of course you knew, but you weren’t making fun of him, you were simply watching him as if you were waiting for him to finally admit it all.

“Can- can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words, you answered with a simple kiss pressed to his lips. Bob responded fairly quickly after a moment, the feeling that he now knew was simply just you washing over him, as you reached out to hold you close to him, completely wrapped up in everything that was you.

Moving from the intimate friendship you’d shared to the now intimate romantic relationship between you and Bob hadn’t come as a shock to anyone, least of all to the pair of you. It was the softest of relationships, the softest of moments shared between you both. Bob always had his up days and his down days, but you were always at his side, allowing him to navigate his life as he chose to navigate it.

The team had been sent out on a mission that didn’t require everyone, and you and Bob had been volunteered to stay back. Neither of you cared much. After Walker had almost sent Bob spiraling in training the other day, a day to decompress was truly needed.

Bob found himself sitting on the common room couch, watching a random movie that he’d had on his list to watch for a while now, playing. You were lying across the rest of the couch, head resting in his lap as you watched along with him, sitting in a comfortable silence together.

One of Bob’s hands was in both of yours, your fingers dancing across his own, tracing the lines down his palms. His eyes flicked down to you every few moments, the smile on his face permanently etched there every time he looked at you.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

Bob paused, eyebrows furrowed as he glanced down at you, but your eyes were still locked onto his hand.

“Uh…an orange blossom. It was- it was my mom’s favorite flower. It’s the state flower of Florida,”

You���d hummed, before suddenly sitting upright, turning to face him, with one of his hands still sitting between your own. Bob watched you as you contemplated something before looking up at him.

“Do you trust me?” you paused for a moment before continuing. “There’s this thing I can do…I’ve only ever done it once, but…I had an idea.”

“I…I trust you,”

His hand laid in yours, palm up, as you closed your eyes. A single finger pointed down to his skin as Bob watched, that familiar green glow emitting as you began to trace over his palm.

There was the smallest of tingles at the feelings, of the tip of your finger and point of your nail tracing around on his palm. The moment you stopped and opened your eyes, you both looked down at his palm.

The smallest outline of a little orange blossom, just big enough to see, etched in that same glowing green on his palm. The light faded, as did the shape itself, molding into his skin.

Bob looked up at you, taking his hand back into his own lap, as you watched him.

“Pretend I’m not here, that I’m not in the room. You’re alone in your room…now think about it, the little flower,”

Bob did just as you instructed, closing his eyes and focusing his thoughts on that little flower. It didn’t take long until that tingle feeling returned to his skin, and he felt a wave of emotions rush over him.

Your quiet contentment, that same feeling you gave off every night as you read yet another book at one of your bedroom windows overlooking the skyline of New York. That hint of anxiety, the one that the team only noticed on missions in the most tense of moments. The overwhelming feeling of affection, adoration, and love that was directed straight at him and only him. Bob opened his eyes, tears threatening to fall as he looked back at you, at the nervous look on your face as you waited.

“I…I just feel you,”

“It’s called an imprint, an emotional imprint,” you explained gently as Bob looked back down at his hand, at the flower that was fading in glow once again. “I’ve done it once before, just never…on someone. I wasn’t sure it would work. I can imbue it with emotion, so say you want to feel warm and content under a blanket, I can place an imprint on it so that that’s what you feel the second you’re under it.”

Bob was watching you in pure amazement, flexing his hand.

“Why give me this?”

“So that you know that, even if I’m not with you,” you took a deep breath, a nervous smile still dancing on your lips. “I’m always with you. I could be halfway across the world, and I’m still always with you. So that you know…you’re never alone. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

There really weren’t words to say for the way you considered Bob’s feelings at every turn. The way you somehow managed to give him the space he needed to fix his own life, while also holding his hand through it.

In a rare moment of confidence, Bob reached forward and tugged you into a soft, sweet, loving kiss. A kiss where he knew you’d feel the way his affection and adoration shift: straight into love.

You did feel it. He never had to say it. A silent confession was all that was needed between the two of you in the dim lighting of the Watchtower’s common room.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

i'm down on my knees, i wanna take you there

summary: you are suiting up for your first mission, the only problem being everyone "forgot" (intentionally withheld) this information from Logan wc: 2.3k a/n: thank you thank you so much for all of your support about my other Logan fic!! I am really enjoying writing for him, and have a few ideas for this Logan as well as some for Worst!Wolverine aka Deadpool 3!Logan as well! More info about empath!reader's powers and her role at the school in this one <3 warnings: slight (incredibly) slight angst, protective!Logan, a bit of a hurt comfort vibe, Ororo, Scott and Jean are meddlers this is the previous fic with these two, not required reading at all, though!

The leather was cool and surprisingly soft against your skin. There had never been reason for you to have to accompany a mission requiring one of the suits before, and you were shocked at how comfortable the uniform was. Typically, when you were asked to help with a mission, you were there for intel. Scope the place out, get a read on the general vibe of the place. Your powers didn’t provide the same level of protection as laser eyes or a strong regenerative healing factor. You would typically arrive with Rogue, in clothes from your own closet and one of the least fancy cars from the garage. You would slip in, get your read, and get out. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help, you just lacked the training that the other members of the team had. And after all, someone had to stay back to mind things at the school. When Charles had approached you a few months ago about some possible applications for your mutation that would come in handy on missions, you’d been hesitant. It was so outside of your comfort zone to load yourself onto a jet that you’d never even considered the possibility. You were far more comfortable in the library where you held English classes for the students, or helping Charles keep students calm while exploring their powers. Neither scenario included the possibility of a lot of violence. 

Ororo helped you finish zipping yourself into the suit, smoothing her hands along the sleeves before giving you a final nod of approval. Jean and Scott granted you small smiles and you did your best to look as confident as you knew they felt. 

They’d promised it was a simple mission, the kind they usually took students on when Charles felt they were ready to join the team, if that’s what they decided to do after wrapping up their schooling. Charles had heard word of a young mutant who had some kind of telekinetic powers and had recently had an eruption while at school. Everyone agreed that it would be best to find them and convince them to return to the school for some training with as little force as possible, only expedited by the fact that Charles had found them hungry and afraid after running away from home using Cerebro. In the past, the kids had been resistant due to huge amounts of fear, causing them to lash out. You knew they were right that your powers would be useful at times like these, and if you were able to help in any way you were inclined to. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing to her?” You sighed. It wasn’t that you were all conspiring to keep this a secret from Logan. It wasn’t a discussion that you’d had to agree on group espionage. It just seemed that all of you had a sort of understanding that it might be better to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Not that you needed permission. 

Logan looked furious, and what’s worse, he felt furious. You and Charles had been working to extend your powers over further distances, no longer needing to touch someone directly to know how they feel. Though it certainly doesn’t hurt matters. You’d sensed him upstairs, seemingly pacing around and seething. You’d hoped one of the kids had gotten on his nerves, or something on tv had set him off. You could see that was foolish now. 

“We aren’t doing anything to her,” Scott had his visor on, blocking his eyes from view, but you didn’t need to see to know that he was rolling his eyes. “She’s chosen to accompany us on a mission.” 

“A small mission!” Ororo chimed in, doing her best to give Logan a reassuring smile. 

You checked back in with his aura. Still furious. But it was a nice try, you supposed. Logan’s hackles were raised, his chest heaving. This certainly wouldn’t do. “Can I have a moment with you,” you glanced around the room, briefly meeting the other three mutant’s eyes. “Alone?” 

Logan was still staring daggers at Scott. He wasn’t even the one who suggested you were ready to come along. Jean and Charles had approached you this morning. You laid a hand against his arm, hoping to lead him out of the room, but he flinched away. The pang in your heart was immediate. Did he really think you were so callous that you would ever use your powers without his express permission, or some kind of emergency. You could feel the tears starting to gather in the corner of your eye, your arms wrapping protectively around your midsection. 

Jean slipped one arm through Scott’s and took Ororo’s hand with her other, gently leading them out of the room. “We are going to check a few things with the jet, last minute.” She began to hustle them out of the room. “Call if you need anything!” 

The door shut firmly behind them, and you were left alone with Logan, who looked like he was going to start shaking. “I wasn’t going to-”

“You don’t think I know that?” You can’t help but recoil. You have never been afraid of Logan, even when it may have been in your best judgement to be wary, and you still aren’t. But you can’t deny that it hurts when he snaps at you. Especially when you thought, well. You thought you were growing close. You started to turn away, but before you could, a warm hand caught ahold of your arm. “I’m not… fuck.” He took a heaving breath, shaking his head as if he could clear whatever thoughts were bothering him. “I’m not mad.” 

Despite the serious energy of the conversation, you couldn’t help the incredulous look you shot his way. He tried his best to hide it, but you could see the corner of his mouth turning up at you. “Fine, I’m not mad at you.” 

“You know, you really can’t be mad at anyone, they were just doing-” you were cut off when you fell Logan’s hand traveling down your arm, and pushing your sleeve up gently from where it was covering your hand. He slipped his hand into yours and you felt yourself relax a bit. “Just, take a look, yeah?” 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“I trust you, bub.” You searched his eyes for any sign of hesitancy, but all you found was trust. Complete and utter trust. You nodded, tightening your own grip on his hand. Doing your best not to let the gentle rub of his thumb against your knuckles distract you, you took a deep breath and opened yourself up to his feelings. 

At first you did feel anger, bright red and hot. You sifted past it, steeling yourself. The first time you had encountered such strong anger, you had felt as if you were going to collapse. But you were stronger now, more prepared to deal with these kinds of feelings. The anger was strong, but also surprisingly shallow. In the depths of his emotions, Logan was worried. Terrified. A deep dark purple that made your own hands shake. His grip on your hand tightened, effectively drawing you back to yourself. There was more, a soft inviting pink that you didn’t dare to touch and shiny bright gold, which told you he was proud. 

You opened your eyes, fighting back the heat you felt creeping onto your cheeks. His expression hadn’t changed, pure trust and tenderness. It should have been disarming, or at the very least surprising. Logan wasn’t so open and honest with people. But the two of you had always had different expectations for the other. 

You couldn’t help it, a smile crept over your features. “You’re proud of me?” 

He rolled his eyes, but his smile only grew. He took your free hand in his, pulling you in closer. “I’m always proud of you.” He hesitated for a brief moment, and you did your best to bite your tongue. You could tell Logan had been making an effort to open up lately, and not just to you, but that didn’t make prolonged silences and easier to bear. “I know it’s not my place to demand anything of you.” 

“You’re my… friend.” You cut him off, wincing at the pause. It didn’t feel like the time to pressure him into labeling whatever feelings may be floating around. “And I always want to hear my friend’s opinions. What’s bothering you so badly?” 

“I could hear your heartbeat from upstairs.” Your eyes grew wide, too shocked to try to school your expression. Logan had told you several times that he had learned to block out his enhanced hearing when he was quite young. Usually to tease you when you got on a long tangent about something you enjoyed. He pretended to zone out and ignore you, but he would always remember small details about your rants, bringing them up nonchalantly at a later date  “I, uh, keep an ear out sometimes. Helps with the worry.” 

He worries about you? Even more surprising, he’s listening to your heartbeat like background music to his day. You promise yourself you will ask him about it when you don’t have a room full of your friends waiting on you. “I thought we’d covered this. I can take care of myself.” 

He sighed, bringing a hand to rest gently where your jaw meets your neck. “Sweetheart, I know you can. But that doesn’t stop me from watching out for you.” 

Your hand moved to rest overtop of his. “The good news is that I will have lots of people watching out for me. You know they won’t let anything happen.” You receive a single huff in return. He’s not convinced. “You know that these are the kinds of missions we send the kids on. I’ll be fine.” 

He considers for a moment, before dropping his hand and nodding. “Give me a second to get changed, and we will head out.” 

You grabbed for his hand, but he was already out the door, and moving too fast for you to stop. “Logan, don’t be ridiculous.” 

“What’s ridiculous is you thinking that I would ever let you go out there alone.” 

“As we already established, I have three very capable friends coming with me. I am only going as a contingency plan.”

“Well then consider me the contingency to the contingency plan.” You huffed, following him next door. 

You darted around in front of Logan, pushing against his chest with all your strength, even if you were fully aware that it was the equivalent of a fly buzzing around him. He stopped all the same, eyebrows pulled together in frustration. “I know you’re worried and I know that this is you trying to help.” Logan had his I’m about to interrupt you look on his face, leaving you to shove him again. Thankfully, he understood your intention. “This is important to me. You can’t be there every time, and I have to stand on my own two feet. I want to contribute to the work we do here more than just teaching kids about how awesome Shakespeare is.” The look was back. “Which is still an important contribution.” You added, which seemed to appease him. “But, I don’t want it to be my only contribution. So I am going to go and make sure that this scared kid who is all alone out there makes it back here safe. And you are going to stay here and make sure that everyone gets dinner and help with their assignments. And then when I get back, we are going to have a talk about all this.” 

“All this?” A smile crept back onto your face, hearing the teasing tone in his voice. 

“Oh my god shut up!” He caught your hands before they made contact with his chest, but he was slow to let go this time. He brought the back of both of your hands to his mouth, dropping a small kiss on each one, before returning your hands to your side. 

“If you come back with so much as a bump to the head, Scott’s dead.” 

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, and pointing out that this was exactly what you were talking about earlier did little to sway him. So you gave in, agreeing to give him a full report before slipping your hand into his and tugging him towards the jet. 

“We’ll be back in a bit.” You promised. You could feel the others staring from just inside the jet, but you barely noticed. Logan was checking over your suit meticulously, tugging zippers a few more clicks up and making sure that the collar wasn’t too tight around your neck. He kneeled down, checking to make sure the laces on your boots were double knotted. “Logan,” you laughed, reaching down to tilt his head up to look at you. “I’m too seconds away from sending a lot of exhaustion your way and leaving you passed out in here. You have to let me go, it’s going to be fine.” 

He remained kneeling for a second too long, a look in his eyes you couldn’t entirely place. The sound of the jet powering on broke the both of you out of your trance. He was on his feet in a flash, checking over you one final time. You rose up on your tippy toes, balancing by resting your hands on his shoulders, before gently kissing him on the cheek. You pulled back, nose scrunched up from the tickle of his facial hair. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Hold down the fort for us, yeah?” 

He nodded, pupils slightly blown out and a dreamy look on his face. You giggled, walking backwards for as long as you can before turning around and finding a seat on the jet. You could feel Jean and Scott’s eyes on you as Ororo began maneuvering the jet out of the garage. “Don’t even start.” You muttered, settling firmly into your seat, doing your best to soak up the pride and confidence the others were projecting into the cockpit. 

as always, feedback is so appreciated! if you have any requests for these two/wolverine in general, please leave them here!

next part

[getosbabymuva]

i feel like suguru is definitely the type to immediately recognize your change in behavior and can tell if you’re struggling as much as you try to hide it. he never pesters you about it though, he often just lingers around until you’re ready to open up.

you look through disheveled hair as you tiredly stir around some vegetables in the searing pan in front of you. you sharply exhale. this has probably been the worst week of your year, if not your life. your usual schedule consisted of coming home, being a able to take a long shower, and cooking dinner within a decent amount of time to get enough sleep. but now, with your boss insisting you work overtime for the last week, everything’s been thrown off. to make it worse, your office job is not the most friendly environment and you often have to deal with rude coworkers.

while being lost in thought, the burnt vegetables underneath you start to sizzle violently. you curse under your breath and hurriedly turn down the stove in an attempt to save the edibility of the food. this fails, of course, some smoke wafting from the burning pan.

this was the last straw for you. your grip around the pan handle loosens and you sigh deeply. before tears can threaten to leave your eyes, you sense someone’s presence behind you. strong arms wrap around you firmly, pulling you closer. geto rests his head on top of yours, some of his hair falling over your shoulder. he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. but with the way he sways slowly back and forth with you, your nerves are just a little bit at ease.

[visionarymystics]

What do you need to know right now?

-close your eyes and take a breath then pick the first sun you feel drawn to

[revasserium]

had me at hello

todoroki shouto; 4,082 words; fluff, tiny sprinkle of angst, no "y/n", summer camp, canon-divergent, domestic fluff, teeth-rotting fluff, summer-time romance, self-indulgent as all living fuck

summary: nothing lasts forever, not even goodbye. or, in which todoroki shouto discovers that summer flings really aren't his thing

a/n: chat we are SO back. back on this todoroki brain rot GRIND!!! and as opposed to posting at the last possible second for @pixelcafe-network's challenge friday like i did last time, i'm posting mine first this time to make up for it! the theme was "saying goodbye to a summer love" ♡⸜(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⸝♡

It was to be a whirlwind summer, one that’s different from every one that came before it. Todoroki had thought, naively, that summer training camp would end up being just that — just another summer thing.

And he’d never been fond of the heat.

But you — you’d swept in like the rain, all bluster and brilliant, summer-thunder laughter. You struck across his storm-ridden skies like a spark of lightning, setting all his forests ablaze.

At first, he didn’t think much of it. Didn’t think much of the volunteers that the Pussycats had brought along to help around camp. Groupies, he’d dismissed, and thought of it no more. But the first night everyone came back, exhausted and sore and sweating in places they’d never thought could produce sweat, you’d been there along with the others (he doesn’t remember their names now, but he remembers yours), passing around cold water and setting up the food for dinner.

“Here,” you hand him a water bottle; he dips his head, his chest still heaving from exertion. He twists off the cap and gulps down half the bottle, feeling a cool trickle escape the corner of his mouth to run down his chin. He wipes at it with the back of his hand just as you cast him a grin before turning around to hand another water bottle to Kirishima.

Todoroki swallows, his palms warm, watching as you laugh at something someone says. He lingers on the gloss in your hair and the ease of your smile. He wonders what kind of quirk you might have; he catches himself wondering, and then proceeds to wonder why he’s wondering at all.

He thinks it’s the heat — fanning himself, he looks away — glancing up at the smoldering sky before sighing and capping his water bottle.

“They must love you at school, huh?” you ask, your voice jolting him out of one reverie and into another. Dinner’s almost done, and he’d wandered toward the edge of the wood for a moment of quiet, of peace or sanctity. He hadn’t noticed you following him, and that in and of itself should have set his senses on high. But, the air is tepid and the humidity heavy, and Todoroki only has time to cock a single eyebrow before you smile and continue —

“Your quirk — keeps you cool in the summer, and warm in the winter. Useful, no?”

He watches you watching him, your eyes huge and full of the dancing flames. He looks back towards the rest of his classmates, all chatting and laughing, grouped loosely with one another, Ashido flitting from one group to the other like the social butterfly she is.

“It’s alright,” Todoroki answers, surprising even himself. He drops his eyes, fixing his gaze on a point just above his own feet before you laugh, the sound drawing his attention back towards you.

“You’re not a very good liar, but that’s okay. It’s not a bad thing.”

You shoot him another grin.

“Your quirk,” he says, clearing his throat slightly as he feels a distinct heat prickling up the sides of his neck, “can I ask what it is?”

You list your head to one side, your expression curiously blank. Before you shoot him a smile that can only be called devious.

You nudge him with an arm before dancing away, but that momentary contact is all you’d needed. Todoroki feels his whole body relax, feels some of the tension drop from his shoulders, the strange nervousness that had been coiling in his stomach unclench.

“Guess!”

Someone calls your name from over your shoulder.

“Coming!”

You give him one final wink before dashing off, leaving him dazed, head reverberating as if someone had rung him through like a bell on a Sunday morning.

The weeks had passed in a strange blur after that, as if some vengeful giant had gone stomping through his memories, dragging a large hand across the vivid scenes, smearing the colors and scrambling the timelines. He remembers the ever-present ache in his muscles, the eternal shortness of breath that had accompanied the first few weeks, but he also remembers your presence in the evenings — always in the evenings, the shadow of you flickering around each and every one of his classmates, mostly asking about their days, but sometimes placing a comforting hand here or there.

He remembers your touch well, the gentle anchor of it, the immediate relief.

“Your quirk… it has something to do with feelings, doesn’t it?” he asks one night, a towel draped around his shoulders from a recent shower, his hair still damp in the early evening dark.

You flash him an enigmatic smile, swinging your feet as you turn your head back towards the liquid moonlight casting pale shadows along the edges of the summer-still leaves.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just…” Todoroki joins you, letting his arm brush along yours, his eyes following your gaze as he too sweeps the now empty campgrounds, the remnants of the barbeque fires still smoldering in their pits, the smoke twisting towards the cloudless sky like so many misty-tendrilled streams.

“Had a feeling.”

“A feeling, huh?” you echo, laughing softly, looking back down.

Todoroki doesn’t push you, but you don’t deny it either.

“You’re not wrong,” you say, after a brief moment of silence, “my quirk — it’s not offensive, or even defensive but… if I’m touching someone, I can… siphon their feelings into me,” and as if to demonstrate, you gently press your leg to his, and Todoroki feels the tired wariness drain from him, the feeling of ease trickling through him like hot water cascading down his skin.

He stifles a soft groan, feeling a blush press up against his cheeks.

You move your leg away, leaning back till your head is resting against the back of the park bench, poised at the edge of the large encampment.

“But that’s…” Todoroki searches for the right word — somehow ‘useful’ doesn’t seem quite right.

“No, you’re right,” you say, giggling even as you save him the necessity of finishing his sentence, “it’s a good quirk to have. It’s… necessary.”

But the way you say that word sounds a little too much like heartbreak for Todoroki to ignore.

“You said siphon…” he says, after a brief stretch of quiet, and he tastes the word on his tongue as if saying it for the first time.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you say, and longing is too close a friend of his for him not to notice it threaded through your voice like a secret.

“Which means… whatever you take from the person you’re touching… you have to feel it too, right?”

You lick your lips, your eyes flickering down to your hands, palms open.

“Yes.”

It’s a simple answer, but one that lands with a gut-punch of implication. Todoroki swallows, shifting ever so slightly to let his knee rest against yours. He tries his hardest to focus on calmness, to project relief. You turn to flash him a smile.

“You’re sweet,” and he hadn’t meant to blush, hadn’t meant for his heart to kick up like a drumbeat, but does. And he knows, instinctively, that you’d felt it too — passing through from his skin to yours by some strange glitch of nature.

He makes to pull away, but you reach out to rest a hand on his arm.

And almost instantly, he feels his heartbeat calm, feels the heat receding. But it isn’t like before — it isn’t the feeling of having something leave his body, but rather having something pressed in. Like a warm blanket settling over his shoulders, or a cold hand to ward off unwanted heat. Your calm seeps into him like summer rain, cooling his mind until he’s breathing steady.

He blinks down at you, startled.

“It goes both ways,” you say, and he can see the twin glow of warmth high in your cheeks. He spares a moment wondering if that blush had once belonged to him, if you were just holding onto it for a bit longer before letting it go. You move your hand away and he has to fight down the urge to pull it back.

“Oh,” is the only thing he can think of to say.

You are everywhere after that — perhaps not in the physical sense, but Todoroki seems to have lost the ability to not notice you. Or maybe he’s just gained the ability to — to what? Develop a crush? Is that even what this is? He doesn’t know — he’s never had one before to compare it to.

But he can’t help now how instantly his attention snags on the sound of your voice, like a stray thread on a mesh-wire fence, or how an unshakable shiver traces down his spine whenever you’re near. He feels childish, like he did when he was too little to control his quirk. But he’d learned since then, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he?

“It’s all just hormones!” he overhears Ashido say to Uraraka one night, the girls all clustered together on a single long sofa, limbs against limbs, cheeks pillowed on shoulders, a careless sort of closeness threading them all together. Todoroki’s never thought himself a jealous person, but watching them now, he wonders what it might be like to be able to touch a person with little to no thought at all, for it all to be second nature.

Uraraka blushes something furious, crinkling her nose.

“I — I don’t know…”

“I’m pretty sure whatever Mineta-chan is feeling can’t just be explained by hormones,” Asui says, her eyes huge and dark even as Ashido rolls her eyes.

“Maybe not just hormones, but that’s a large part of it!” Ashido insists.

Dangling on the side of the sofa, one foot tapping to music only she can hear, Jiro glances over and shrugs.

“Boys are weird.”

The girls all make varying sounds of agreement, and Todoroki forces his feet to move, thankful for the thick slab of shadow that had kept him from view of the general common area. He stares ahead as he walks down the long length of hallway, wondering if hormones really are the culprit behind whatever the hell this is.

The grueling days bleed into sweat-slick weeks, and somehow, he finds himself seeking you out more and more often. Sometimes after a particularly hard training session, under the guise of needing some “help” recovering (it had come out that Recovery Girl couldn’t make it so the Pussycats had volunteered you as the next best thing), sometimes without any reason at all, other than the simple want of your company.

He finds himself laughing, finds himself reaching for you — and he blames it on the weather, blames it on the tiredness now eternally sunk into his muscles, the soreness that won’t ever quite go away. He tells himself that it’s just a summer thing, to feel so hot that he gets lightheaded, to laugh until his stomach hurts, to feel the inexplicable itch to graze your hand with his when you’re sitting too close and not nearly close enough.

Thinking back, he’d known it would never last. You’d told him early on that you don’t live in the city. But that it’s not too far, if ever he wanted to visit.

“Camp’ll be over in a few weeks,” you say, lying back on a patch of sun-dried grass, beneath a swirling canopy of stars, Todoroki sitting beside you, his arms propping up his torso as he stares up at the sky alongside you.

“Yeah. I’m surprised it’s been so peaceful,” he says.

You laugh, shooting him a curious look.

“Used to getting in trouble?”

“There… seem to be a few of my classmates that attract trouble. Of all kinds.”

“I don’t mind a bit of trouble.”

“Don’t you?”

You grin up at him as he glances down at you.

“Not one bit.”

You feel him shifting as he lies down next to you, your elbows brushing in the grass. He feels a jolt of electricity snake up his arm, coiling in the base of his belly. For a second, he wonders if its a him-feeling, or a you-feeling. And then, he realizes that it doesn’t really matter — and before he knows it, he’s twisting to his side, leaning over just far enough to press his lips to yours.

In the grand scheme of kisses, Todoroki thinks that it might not have been the most well-positioned kiss, or the most well thought-out. And for all everyone calls him genius, this is one thing he’s never really had the chance to practice. Still, by the time he realizes that he’s kissing you, he barely has the chance to reconcile with the fact that you’re kissing him too. You, pressing up against him and pulling him down all at once.

His lips on yours, and yours on his — an endless echo of this kiss, and this kiss, and just this kiss. He feels his heartbeat like a reverberation, because he thinks he can feel yours too. He loses feeling in all his limbs, and wonders briefly if this is what free-falling might be like — to feel weightless, to be lifted outside of yourself.

You reach up to press a hand to his cheek, and he feels himself being shunted back into his body. He feels each of his limbs like discovering them for the very first time — his fingers tangled in your hair, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you in, holding you close. He does not remember pulling away. But he must have, because he remembers gasping for a breath he’s long since lost to the heave of your lungs.

He feels fire, and ice, and the spinning song of a million overhead stars.

“Is this — are you —” he struggles for words but you just smile.

“I don’t know — sometimes when I’m too —” you swallow, a bit breathless yourself, the head-thrumming heat of it all passing between the pair of you like a whisper, or a secret, “when I’m too excited I — I’ll accidentally make someone else feel it too but —”

You look back up to catch his eyes, and he finds himself smiling.

“It’s not just you,” he says, quiet and sure. Because this, whatever this is, is more than just a quirk — more than just the accidental bleeding of feelings from one body to another. More than simple empathy — it’s entropy.

A chaos of feelings.

Because he’d felt it bubbling inside him, alone at night, staring up at the moon-slatted ceiling. Wondering what it might be like to hold your hand.

And maybe this is what Ashido had been talking about — with hormones and urges and all the woes that come with being a teenage boy. But he doesn’t care; there’s time to worry about that later. For now, he thinks he’d just like to kiss you again.

And so, he does.

Time passes by strangely after that — and though neither of you had intended on it, the budding relationship between the pair of you had become a known secret. No one had ever called it out by name, but no one questions Todoroki either when he wanders off after dinner. No one blinks twice when you press a hand to the back of his neck after morning drills, smiling when he lets out a soft, pleased sigh.

Even years later, Todoroki can’t quite piece together the exact timeline of things. He remembers the late nights, staying up just to talk to you, wandering through the woods, you jumping at a rabbit or a squirrel, and him slipping his hand through yours with a silent reassurance. He remembers telling you about himself — even though he doesn’t remember you asking. About his father, his mother, his siblings, his scar.

He remembers how you’d reached out and held his anger and sorrow and resentment in your upturned palms, how you cradled them like bruised fruit, with delicate fingers and a smile that looked not one bit like pity. How you did not run.

He remembers you telling him about your childhood too, of your quirk being used and abused by careless adults and ruthless children alike. Of how your parents had used you as one might use a bad therapist, like a dumping ground for unwanted emotions. Of how you learnt to deal with the unbearable weight of all those feelings — things that a little girl should never have to learn how to deal with on her own.

He remembers how you held him and he held you, and how you both had allowed yourselves to hold and be held by each other.

But what he remembers most is the ending — the last night of camp, when he knew he’d be leaving the next morning. All the bags are packed, and they’d all come out stronger. It had been an uneventful, tiring sort of camp, where nothing happened except daily training, but for a class full of teens with super-human powers and the uncanny ability to attract life-threatening situations, it could be called a resounding success.

“Excited to be going back to school?” you ask.

He watches you drag a pale pink nail polish over your fingers, one by one, blowing on each finger as you smooth out the color with steady swipes.

“I guess so. We have provisional license exams coming up, so I doubt we’ll get much rest after this.”

“Aww… but I guess no one ever said becoming a hero was an easy thing, right?” you laugh, tossing him a good-natured wink.

He sighs, leaning back against the wall of your camp room.

“Nothing worth having is ever easy.”

“Hm…” you hum, finishing off your manicure and carefully screwing the brush back into the nail polish bottle.

Todoroki turns to find you frowning slightly at your nails.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just…” you press your hands carefully into your lap, “it got me thinking — this was… easy, wasn’t it?”

And he doesn’t have to ask what you’d meant by this. Because he knows. And with a jolt, he realizes that yes. This was easy. It was so easy, being with you, in this secluded place. So easy to laugh without worrying about the outside world, to forget, if only for a while.

Easy to kiss you, to hold you, to push away the thoughts of tomorrows and endings until — well.

“Yeah…” Todoroki breathes, “I guess… I guess it was.”

Silence blooms between you like a plume of smoke.

“But… I mean,” you say, waving your hands through the air to help your nails along, before slumping back into your pillows, “it was never going to be forever, right?”

And this time, Todoroki can’t quite tell if you’re talking about this or perhaps — he can’t help the tiny bead of hope coalescing in his chest — a future where your goodbye is the thing that doesn’t last forever.

“No,” he answers, allowing himself a small smile as he looks down at his own hands, “nothing really ever is.”

You giggle, rolling over to peer at him from your stomach, “You’re so serious.”

But by the time he lifts his head, you’d already crawled over to press your lips to his. It’s a sweet kiss, a simple kiss, and Todoroki feels his chest seize inside him, his arms going heavy with a liquid weight. When you pull away, he notices your eyes are fractured with tears. You wipe them away with a laugh.

“Look at me — I’m so silly.”

Todoroki shakes his head, reaching out to cup your cheeks gently between his hands, the way you’d taught him to with his own jagged emotions. And he feels it then, your sadness, your uncertainty, the stomach-twisting knowledge of endings.

“The beginning might’ve been easy but… this isn’t.”

You hiccup, going still as he holds you.

“So… I guess we were worth it after all, huh,” you say, looking down at the space between you.

Todoroki nods, leaning forward just enough to press his forehead to yours, nudging your nose with his for a second before bringing you in for yet another kiss. He pulls away and tastes salt on his lips.

“That’s how we know — because the ending is hard. That’s how we know it was worth it.”

When the next morning comes, you don’t cry when you wave them all off, though many of the girls are. You catch his gaze and hold it for just a second longer than you’d done with anyone else. Beside him on the bus, Aoyama makes a soft, knowing kind of noise.

“Ah… first love is always such sweet despair,” he says, twinkling in his usual way.

Todoroki clears his throat, leaning back in his seat, a strange stillness settling over him as he thinks about the days ahead.

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Todoroki says, to Aoyama’s dramatic surprise. But he recovers quickly and begins a soliloquy about something or other that carries them all the way back into the city, and to their assigned dorms.

He never forgets you, though there are moments when he’d wonder if that summer had really happened. Years later, when the memories have all gone watercolor-pale, and the edges blurred with time, he’ll still find himself reaching into the part of his mind that feels like the soft, steady weight of your hand on the back of his neck to calm him down, the smooth of your skin as you’d pressed against him and held him close.

And then, the year that he turns 24, it happens — he’d been called out into a small town just outside Shizuoka, for some kind of event that Fuyumi swears would be good for his publicity (as if he needed any more). Even after all these years, it still unsettles him to travel alone to these places, and he subconsciously reaches for the feeling of your palm pressing to his skin.

“Shouto?”

He turns at the sound of his name, and though a part of him assumes it’s yet another adoring fan, the deepest, most honest part of him whispers that it isn’t — that he knows this voice.

“Oh… its you,” the words slip from him like pebbles into a thawing stream.

And there you are, standing feet from him, your arms full of groceries, a red and white muffler strung around your shoulders, looking every bit as brilliant as the you from his memories.

The smile that splits your face is beautiful as heartbreak.

“Well, someone very wise once did tell me that nothing lasts forever… not even goodbyes.”

Todoroki takes half a step closer to you, a smile spreading across his own lips as he reaches out to help you with your groceries, taking the bags into his arms. The movement as natural as coming home.

“Yes but… I was thinking about it the other day and —”

“Oh? Just the other day?” you tease, bumping him slightly with your elbow was you set off down the half-empty street. It’s almost sundown, and the days are getting shorter again. Your breath fogs up the air before you and Todoroki suddenly thinks that winter looks good on you.

Even better than summer had.

“Yeah, but I realized…” he says, casting his eyes up at the cloud-strewn sky, the colors fading fast, the thick velvet of night inching up across the world like a curtain being drawn.

He turns his eyes back towards you, only to find you watching him with an indulgent smile on your face.

Todoroki blushes, feeling suddenly bashful, like the teenage boy he was when you two first met.

“I realized,” he says again, determined to finish his thought this time, “that when we first met… we never really said hello.”

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[cynicalmusings]

“Boothill, don’t chew on bullets. It’s bad for your teeth.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘bad for ma teeth’? They’re made of fudgin’ metal!”

“They’ll get blunt. Just because you can use your teeth to cleave through a bullet doesn’t mean you should.”

[sha-brytols]

i am literally not even halfway done with the book but so far i'm not super sure i actually agree with that fandom consensus that celene/briala belong in the "bioware writers are weird about gay women" category. so far the only thing celene has in common with marjolaine and branka is that she was a VERY BAD lover

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Chapter Fifteen

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Reversing Loss

Summary: The crew has Spock in sight. But is he the same Spock they lost?

            As the Enterprise crew approached the group of lifeforms, they slowed, keeping to the woods and trees for cover. Only a single Klingon was left, and he had Saavik and Spock at phaser-point. Instantly, Kirk ran out with his own phaser. The Klingon turned on them, phaser drawn, and Kirk fired. The Klingon was hit and went flying. He hit the ground, dead. Saavik and Spock were left free.

            (Y/N) ran fastest and fell to their knees beside Spock, who was unconscious on the ground. “Spock,” they breathed. “Bones—”

            “I’ve got him,” said Bones, scanning Spock instantly.

            Kirk looked around himself at the camp. Several Klingons were dead from the fight that had left Saavik and Spock at the final Klingon’s mercy, but Kirk only cared about one body. David’s lay in the grass, and Kirk knelt beside him, gazing mournfully at the body of his son. Honorably, he took off his jacket and covered David in it. Then, he rose and returned to his crew.

            “What happened?” he asked Saavik.

            “He gave his life to save us,” said Saavik.

            Kirk nodded. At least his son had died bravely, protecting people. “Bones?”

            “He’s rapidly ageing,” said Bones. “All genetic functions highly accelerated.”

            “What about his mind?” said (Y/N) worriedly.

            “Pretty much a void,” said Bones. “Just instinct. It seems I’ve got all his marbles.”

            (Y/N)’s gaze softened in concern as they looked at Spock.

            “He asked for you,” said Saavik.

            (Y/N) looked up to her. “He did?”

            Saavik nodded. “He is not lost.”

            (Y/N) knew she was merely relaying facts, but they suspected some kindness was involved. They nodded, thankful for Saavik’s words.

            “Is there anything we can do?” said Kirk.

            “Only one thing,” said Saavik. “Get him off this planet. His ageing is part of what’s going on around us.”

            A few meters away, a small sinkhole opened up, and Genesis crumbled in. Flames shot out moment later. It seemed David had spoken the truth; the Genesis experiment was a failure.

            “So we still need to get Spock to Vulcan to remove his Katra from Bones and give it back to him,” said (Y/N).

            Saavik nodded. “Yes.”

            Kirk looked around for inspiration and picked up a Klingon communicator. He made eye-contact with his crew, and they nodded. They trusted whatever decision he made. And there was only one ship left in the sky—the Klingon Bird of Prey.

            Well, we’ve already committed a few treaty violations. So have they. And I’m willing to do anything for Spock.

            “Klingon Commander, this is Admiral James T. Kirk,” said Kirk. “I’m alive and well on the planet’s surface. I know this will come as a pleasant surprise to you. Our ship was the victim of an unfortunate accident. Sorry about your crew, but, as we say on Earth, ‘C’est la vie.’ ”

            (Y/N) raised a brow. It was a unique choice to provoke a Klingon, but psychological games were always effective.

            “I have what you want,” said Kirk. “I have the secret of Genesis. You’re gonna have to bring us up there to get it. Do you hear me?” Around them, Genesis trembled. “I’m waiting for you! What’s your answer?”

            The earthquake grew stronger, and (Y/N) held onto Spock’s body tighter. They were not losing him again.

            “Drop all weapons!”

            The crew whirled to find a Klingon with a phaser pointed directly at them. Kirk obeyed, tossing his phaser to the ground. It was time to risk everything.

            “Over there.” The Klingon gestured to the side. “All but Kirk.”

            The crew obeyed, but as (Y/N) tried to pick up Spock, the Klingon pointed at them.

            “Leave the Vulcan,” said the Klingon.

“Why?” demanded (Y/N).

“Because you want him with you,” sneered the Klingon.

            (Y/N) curled their hands into fists, eyes flashing angrily. “Let me fight for my Captain and Spock.”

            Everyone looked at them in surprise.

            “(L/N),” said Kirk.

            “Please, Admiral. For Spock,” said (Y/N). They looked at the Klingon. “I was here when Genesis detonated. I understand it.”

            “Very well,” said the Klingon.

            “(L/N)!” said Kirk in alarm.

            But the Klingon spoke into his communicator, and the crew began to dematerialize. (Y/N) just kept their gaze on the Klingon.

            “Give me Genesis,” said the Klingon.

            “It’s all around you. And it’s dying,” said (Y/N). “It’s a failure. What you’re looking for is pointless.”

            “It is the ultimate weapon!” said Klingon.

            “It is a failed experiment,” said (Y/N) calmly.

            They sighed and rolled up their sleeves. The ground shook around them, caving in to reveal fire and lava. Spock’s hair was graying, too. He was almost the age he’d been when they’d lost him. (Y/N) was running out of time to finish things. So they wouldn’t waste anymore.

            “We’re both going to die,” said (Y/N). “If we don’t beam out.”

            “Then that is how it shall be!” said the Klingon.

            He rushed them, and (Y/N) took the hit. They tumbled down a hill with the Klingon, rocks scraping their back and side. (Y/N) hit the bottom where a rift was opening up and scrambled away from the heat. The Klingon grabbed their leg, dragging them back, and (Y/N) kicked him. He tore at their uniform, pulling them under him to strangle them.

            (Y/N) placed two fingers on his head as they strangled them. “I’m going to get my husband and leaving here, whether you like it or not!” Their golden eyes glowed brighter, and fear pulsed through the Klingon. “So get out of my way!”

            The Klingon wrenched back at the onslaught of terror, tripped over a root, and fell into the lava teeming beneath Genesis’s surface. (Y/N) didn’t waste a second and ran for the top of the hill. They scrambled up the roots and rocks, pulling themself back to Spock’s side. His features were not his own, the dignified, wise age of their husband. (Y/N) smiled at him, held onto him, and picked up the remaining communicator. Taking a deep breath, (Y/N) copied the order the Klingon had given to get the crew beamed up.

            (Y/N) held Spock close, and as the world caved in around them, they closed their eyes. Whatever happened, they had Spock. That was all that mattered.

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            (Y/N) and Spock rematerialized on board the Klingon vessel, and (Y/N) looked around themself, instantly on edge. They were on the Bridge, but no one was fighting. In fact, the only Klingon was handcuffed. Kirk had already taken control of the situation and defeated the remaining Klingon, promising to “kill him” after they got away.

            “You made it,” said Kirk in relief.

            “Thank god, goldie,” said Bones, staring at them.

            “Do we already have control of the ship?” said (Y/N), bewildered.

            Kirk sighed. “We will once those three decide what is the anti-matter inducer.”

            Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty were huddled around a control panel. (Y/N), filled with adrenaline at being alive and having Spock, let out a surprised laugh.

            “This?” said Sulu.

            “No, this,” said Chekov.

            “That or nothing,” said Scotty decidedly, pressing the button.

            “Did it work?” said Kirk, helping (Y/N) support Spock.

            “If I’m reading this right, we have full power,” said Sulu.

            “Go, Sulu,” ordered Kirk.

            Sulu didn’t have to be told twice. He punched it, and the Klingon Bird of Prey flew away from Genesis as fast as possible as the planet swallowed itself up into a mass of magma.

            “Goodbye, David,” said Kirk softly.

            “I’m sorry, Jim,” said (Y/N), resting their hand on his shoulder.

            “We are free and clear to navigate,” said Sulu.

            “Best speed to Vulcan,” ordered Kirk. “Mr. Chekov, take the prisoner below.”

            “Wait! You said you’d kill me!” said the Klingon.

            (Y/N) sighed. Klingons and honor and dying.

            “I lied,” said Kirk. He wasn’t interested in more death. He looked at (Y/N). “And now we’re going to get to Vulcan.”

            (Y/N)’s heart thumped, and they held Spock tightly. They were going to be alright.

l

            “Ambassador, they are on approach.” Uhura stood before Sarek. “They’re requesting permission to land.”

            “Permission granted,” said Sarek. “Tell them—tell (Y/N) we’ll be ready.”

            Uhura smiled and nodded.

l

            “Mr. Sulu, you’re on manual,” said Kirk as the Bird of Prey approached Vulcan.

            “It’s been a while, sir,” said Sulu. “Here we go.” Carefully, he brought them through the mountains of Vulcan and towards the landing pad where Uhura and the Vulcans were waiting. “Retrothrusters.” Gingerly, he lowered the ship down until they landed properly. Sulu was an expert, even in a ship he’d never been in before.

            Solemnly, (Y/N) stood and, together with their friends, picked up the cot with Spock on it. They walked down the gangplank silently, approaching the awaiting Vulcans in their ritual regalia. Torches lined a path over the mountains, a fountain stood before them, and every Vulcan was ready for Spock’s Katra to be honored.

            Uhura and two guards stepped forward to them. She hugged (Y/N), understanding the emotional turmoil they were still going through, and (Y/N) held her in return.

            “Sarek is waiting above,” said Uhura softly, looking at the stairway.

            A gong sounded, and (Y/N) nodded. They held Spock’s cot tighter, and they led the trek forward. This was for Spock. This was for their husband. This was for the man they loved.

            They stepped towards the stairs, and several Vulcan attendants interceded, taking the cot from them. Sarek held up a hand, and the Vulcans paused, allowing (Y/N) to remain beside them as they walked. (Y/N) was Spock’s T’hy’la—that would be respected at this ceremony.

            (Y/N) watched him be carried before a Priestess and laid down so she could examine in. Their hand hovered over their ring, trying to assure Spock they were there, with him, always.

            The Priestess raised a hand and touching Spock’s temples. “Sarek.” She spoke evenly, voice echoing in the silence. The attendants raised a single hand each, the white dresses fluttering around them as if moved by the Priestess’s voice. “Child of Skon, child of Solkar…the body of your son still lives. What is your wish?”

            (Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat, and they looked at Sarek, gaze asking him to help Spock. Sarek looked at them and then to the Priestess.

            “It is not my wishes that are needed,” said Sarek. “It is his bonded’s, (Y/N) (L/N), child of Nikomedes. They are the family.”

            (Y/N) straightened as everyone looked at them.

            “(Y/N) (L/N), child of Nikomedes, the body of your husband still lives. What is your wish?” said the Priestess.

            “If there is a way to give him his mind back, I wish for it,” said (Y/N).

            Sarek spoke to them. “They ask for the Fal-Tor-Pan. The refusion.”

            (Y/N) nodded, not understanding the words but trusting Sarek.

            The Priestess’s eyes remained on (Y/N). “What you seek has not been done since ages past and then only in legend. Your request is not logical.”

            “It is not. But I am not entirely logical,” said (Y/N) honestly. “I will not pretend to be.”

            The Priestess raised a brow, impressed by the straightforward answer. (Y/N) did not hide behind pretense. The Vulcans could at least respect that, if not logic. “Who is the Keeper of the Katra?” she asked.

            “I am,” said Bones. “McCoy, Leonard H. Son of David.” He spoke awkwardly, but he was as firm in his desire to help Spock as any of the others.

            The Priestess now gazed at him. “McCoy, son of David, since thou art human, we cannot expect thee to understand fully what (L/N) has requested. Spock’s body lives. With your approval, we shall use all our powers to return to his body that which you possess. But McCoy, you must now be warned! The danger to thyself is as grave as the danger to Spock. You must make the choice.”

            Bones didn’t hesitate. “I choose the danger.” He looked at (Y/N) and Kirk incredulously. “Hell of a time to ask.”

            (Y/N) smiled slightly, grateful to have such supportive friends.

            Sarek gestured for Bones to step forward, and he did.

            “My lady priestess,” said (Y/N), and all eyes went to them. They slid Spock’s ring from their finger and held it up. “This is part of our marriage bond, beyond just our minds. And I am an empath. Whatever I can do to steady Spock’s katra or Bones’s mind, I will to ensure they’re both same.”

            The Priestess regarded them thoughtfully before inclining her head. (Y/N) was allowed to approach with Sarek and Bones. The other crew members were escorted out of the ritual hall to await the results.

            (Y/N) barely noticed as they walked to the podium. Bones lay down beside Spock and closed his eyes. The Priestess stood over them both, the wide sleeves of her robes draping across them.

            “Ben, wal, navu,” she said, speaking with purpose.

            (Y/N) placed their ring back on their finger and touched Spock’s face with one hand and Bones’s shoulder with the other. Closing their eyes, they focused their empathy on their husband and the bond they could still feel with him.

            Come, Spock. Come back to me. Come back. I love you.

            It was all they wanted.

l

            A gong sounded and brought (Y/N) out of the empathic meditation they’d been in. Their eyes snapped opened to find sunlight filtering through the clouds onto them, Spock, and Bones.

            Sarek stepped back from the podium, and the Priestess took her hands away. (Y/N) stood and walked down the stairs. They understood that all that could be done had. Now it was time to wait. Slowly, Bones opened his eyes and sat up. (Y/N) supported him and helped him down the stairs until he could stand. Together, they exited the ritual room. (Y/N) looked back at Spock lying on the podium.

            Please. They reached out through the marriage bond one last time. Come back to me, Spock.

            “Bones. (L/N),” said Kirk as they left. The entire crew was waiting for them, never having left for a moment.

            “I’m alright, Jim,” said Bones.

            “So am I,” said (Y/N). Their empathy was certainly tired, but it had been used for a good cause. They paused and looked at Sarek. “Will Spock be alright?”

            “Time will answer,” said Sarek.

            (Y/N) turned around, and their eyes widened. Spock was standing and being clad in a white robe. On their left hand, their ring felt warmer. “Spock,” they said softly.

            Spock turned as if hearing them, and his dark, steady eyes landed on them.

            “(Y/N),” said Sarek, and they tore their eyes from Spock’s to look at him. “I thank you. What you’ve done is—”

            “There is no world where I would not have fought for him,” said (Y/N) softly. They loved Spock. They always would.

            Sarek gazed at them and inclined his head. “Spock chose well.”

            Two attendants guided Spock down the stairs before leaving him. He stood in the white robe and was escorted past the crew. Each member of the Enterprise crew kept their eyes on him the entire time, and (Y/N) twisted their ring.

            Spock passed each crew member, and he looked at them. His eyes landed on (Y/N), and he paused. He turned to them fully, and (Y/N) gazed back. Slowly, Spock shed the hood of his cloak, and sunlight hit his face. (Y/N) looked back at him warmly. Spock took a few steps towards them.

            “…I know you,” he said.

            “You do,” said (Y/N) gently.

            “You…fought to bring me back here,” said Spock.

            “You would have done the same for me,” said (Y/N).

            Spock furrowed his brow slightly. “Why would you have done this?”

            (Y/N) slipped his ring from their finger and held it up. “Because sometimes the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many.”

            Spock paused before reaching up and taking the ring. He looked from it and its blue stone to the Vokaya in (Y/N)’s ring to (Y/N)’s golden eyes. He gazed at them intently. “…You’re safe.”

            (Y/N) smiled at him with tears shining. “Yes, Spock.”

            “And the ship…?” he said.

            “It’s safe, Spock. You saved all of us,” said (Y/N), stepping towards him.

            “(Y/N),” said Spock, slipping the ring properly onto his finger. (Y/N) felt the bond solidify between them once more. “You are (Y/N). My t’hy’la.” He held out two fingers.

            “I am.” (Y/N) touched two fingers to his. “I am.”

            Spock pressed his fingers back before looking back at the others. Bones winked and tapped his forehead. Uhura, Sulu, Scotty, and Kirk grinned. Saavik nodded to him. Spock looked back at (Y/N).

            “T’hy’la,” he said firmly. This was the person he loved, his spouse, his t’hy’la. Even without his mind, he’d longed for them. His heart always would.

            “Always,” said (Y/N), pulling Spock in.

            And Spock pulled them in right back. In both Vulcan and Celian manners, he kissed them. Spock was back. (Y/N) and Spock were reunited.

Taglist:

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[barnesonly]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

MASTERLIST POST

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

playlist | pinterest board

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

ONESHOTS (take place after the main story)

Sam’s BBQ

[thehighpriestexx420]

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

in the refrigerator light

summary: you are somehow unprepared to run into Logan while on the quest for a midnight snack... in the house you both live in. wc: 1.9 k a/n: to be fair I did warn you that this would happen. I have a few more ideas kicking around in my head, but feel free to send requests if you have any! this doesn't take place during any particular movie, fyi, but you and Logan are both teaching at the school warnings: fluffy fluff, mutant!reader, empathic powers!reader, soft!Logan

You should have been asleep. Even after choosing to stay on at the school past your education, you’d had a hard time shaking habits of the past. It still felt strange to walk freely into professor only areas, and you were always in bed by 11:00 pm every night. Sneaking down to the kitchen to steal one of the chocolate bars you knew Scott had stashed deep in the back of a cabinet felt wrong, but the siren song was too strong to resist. 

You’d been quiet, making sure to avoid the creaky stair (third from the bottom on the right) before shuffling into the kitchen. You rubbed at your eyes as you made your way to the proper cabinet. The only problem being that it was much higher up than you remember. It was times like these that made you wish for a more helpful mutation, like telekinesis or at least a few extra inches of height. You struggled for a few moments, on your tippy toes, stretching your arm as far as you could reach before you gave up. You sighed, raking your hands through your hair and making your peace with the fact that chocolate was not in your future tonight. 

“Scoot over, bub.” You jumped and let out a small shriek, before clasping a hand over your mouth. It was rare that anyone got the drop on you these days, your power more finely tuned and emotions tending to be strong around the manor, but your guard was decidedly down in the place you’d called home for so many years. But Logan was an exception to many rules. HIs hand gently gripped your wrist, pulling you against his chest for a brief moment before moving to stand in front of the cabinet. He reached up into the cabinet, the zip up hoodie he wore pulling up to expose a few inches of his stomach before pulling down a few bars of chocolate with ease. He smiled, the crinkles by his eyes more prominent in the low light of the kitchen. You did your best to appear like you hadn’t just been ogling him. 

“How did you know-”

“Scott’s shit at secrets.” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “You think he’d learn by now to not be such a loud mouth in a house full of people with enhanced hearing”. 

Your laugh was quiet, muffled by your hand in the interest of not waking the others. “Well, in that case, I hope one of those is for me.” 

Logan shrugged, eyes full of mirth. “What’ll you give me for it?” 

You blinked, unsure of yourself. You weren’t used to this Logan, yet. He was usually gruff and reserved, always reluctant to give into the kids in his history class that were trying to derail the lesson with a joke or two. He’d been playful a few times in your presence, and it almost always made you worried that the other shoe was about to drop. Seeing him in pajama pants and a soft grey sweatshirt only added to the strangeness situation. 

For the briefest moment, you considered using your powers. A single touch and you would know exactly how he was feeling. It was a blessing and a curse, to be able to be sure of how others were feeling with a single touch. A god-send on intel gathering or stealthy missions, a terrible temptation at midnight alone in the kitchen of the manor with the man you had harbored a crush on for as long as you’d known him. You make to grab one of the bars out of his hand, but he is too fast for you, quickly lifting them over his head. Your eyes narrowed. 

Fine, two can play at this game. You roll your shoulders back, drawing up your courage. “Depends what you want for it.” 

Logan grinned, dropping his arms and holding the bars behind his back. “Well, what I don’t want is to be an accomplice in your quest for cavities. Chuck’d have my head if he found out I had a part to play.”  

“I’m a big girl, Logan. I can take care of myself” You grab for the chocolate, but he’s too quick for you. For a brief moment, the two of you stare at each other, the moment charged. You lunged for the chocolate again, but Logan is already halfway across the kitchen, waving the chocolate around teasingly. 

“Logan, please” you laugh, following around the island. He cocked his head to the side, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. You were seconds away from stomping your foot and demanding he hand the chocolate over, when his smirk grew into a grin. 

“Alright bub,” he made his way around the island, depositing one of the chocolate bars in your hand. “You know I can’t say no to you.” 

You did your best to tamp down the butterflies that suddenly made a home in your stomach, but his smile was so gentle and he looked so soft, it was hard not to feel a little lovestruck. You snapped a piece of the bar off, and held it out to him. You dutifully busied yourself with breaking off a piece for yourself, ignoring the way that his affectionate gaze seemed to never leave you. 

“You’re not usually up this late,” he says, holding his hand out for another piece. You shrug, dropping another section into his hand. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

“Welcome to the club.” You knew that Logan had trouble sleeping, he was usually the first one hunched over a cup of coffee in the mornings, steadfastly ignoring inquiries into how he slept. 

“I, um” You hesitated. Usually offers of using your powers didn’t go well. You took a breath, steadying yourself. The worst he could say was no, right? “I could help with that, if you want.” 

Logan reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You could tell your eyes were the size of saucers, but you couldn’t find words. After a few moments, Logan took a step back, shaking his head slightly. You blinked owlishly, taking a breath to steady yourself. 

“That’s sweet of you, bub. But I wouldn’t want to tucker you out.” It was no secret around the house that although you had a less physical mutation, it still took some of your energy. Sensing emotions was as natural as breathing, but influencing them was newer, and took much more focus. 

You pointedly glanced at the clock over the stove, noting that it was well past any reasonable bedtime, before facing Logan once more. “That actually sounds really nice.” He mumbled something about not wanting to take advantage of you, but the words died in his throat when your hand found his own. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping that he would be able to see how earnest you were being. “I don’t want to force you, but I want to be asleep more than anything, and I can tell that you are too wound up about something to even begin to fall asleep.” 

His thumb stroked over the back of your hand a few times, before he stepped around you and led you out of the kitchen. You expected him to turn towards the living room, where you’d caught him ‘resting his eyes’ a few times in the middle of the day. Instead, he turned right making sure to skip the creaky stair (third from the bottom on the right) and right up to the door of your room. 

“A bit presumptuous, no?” You asked, before opening the door and walking through. 

Logan rolled his eyes, leaning against your doorframe. “I was there the first time you tried this. Figured it was best that no one has to pick you up off the floor.” 

You felt your face grow hot, remembering the unmitigated disaster that had occurred the first time Charles suggested that this application of your powers was a possibility. Your chin tilted up, doing your best to project confidence. “Well, it’s been a while since then, I’ve gotten better.” 

If the lighting had been better, you would have seen the faintest pink blush coloring his cheeks. “Rogue’s in my room.” You couldn’t help it, your eyebrows shot up near your hairline. “She and Bobby got into a fight, she wanted somewhere she would be left alone.” His hands were twisting in the pockets of his sweatshirt as he ducked his head down low. 

“Is that why you were prowling around the kitchen?” He rolled his eyes, but nodded all the same. “Well, do you wanna stay here tonight?” He looked like he was about to object, but you held your hand up, effectively silencing him. “You’re doing a favor for Rogue, let me do one for you.” 

“Thought you were already doin’ me a favor, sweetheart.” He protested, all while moving towards your bed. 

You perched on the edge of your bed, consciously doing your best to keep your heart rate in check. The students always joked that between Charles and Jean’s mind reading and Logan being able to hear cheaters hearts speeding up, it wasn’t even worth it to try and cheat in class. It hadn’t occurred to you that if he could hear your heart fluttering, he could definitely hear the measured deep breaths you were taking to mitigate the issue. 

You reached for his hand, and he accepted it readily. His palm was shockingly smooth under yours, it must be from his regenerative powers. Your thumb gently ran across his knuckles, still slightly red from the training session he’d had with some of the students earlier in the day. You tugged on his arm slightly, and he lowered himself down onto the bed beside you. “I thought that it’s important to work as a team, sometimes.” 

“You spyin’ on me, bub?” You sheepishly meet his eyes, but find nothing but tenderness waiting for you. “I’ll try to forgive you.” He drops a kiss on your knuckles, before motioning for you to lay down. “I’ll take the floor.” 

You tightened your grip on his hand. If he really wanted to, he could have broken away easily. Instead, he paused, eyebrows raised and waiting for an explanation. “Not much of a favor if your back hurts in the morning from sleeping on the floor” you shrugged. 

“Only if you’re sure-”

“Just get in the damn bed Logan.” He grinned, pulling back the covers and slipping into the bed. You followed shortly after, and slipped your hand back into his. The both of you laid in silence for a few moments, adjusting to your new arrangement. You were nice and toasty warm, able to feel the heat radiating off him under the covers. You were in the middle of working up the courage to actually use your powers, when soft snores began to emanate from the other side of the bed. You chanced a glance towards him only to find his lashes gently fanned out over his cheeks, and his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. 

After a few moments, you followed him into dreamland. In the morning, you woke up with his arm firmly around your waist, feeling fully rested for one of the first times in your life. Again, you waited for the awkwardness to come, for your face to flush and your stammer to pick back up, but you were left waiting.

feedback is very much appreciated, as I’ve never written for Logan before! let me know what you think <3

next part

[theetherealbloom]

THE SILVER LINING - CH. 6

Chapter Six: Show Me Where To Find The Silver Lining

Summary: After aiding the Republic and the fall of the Empire, you left the Jedi Training Clan on Bogden 3 to help families needing medical care with the call of the Force. You are a kind, warm-hearted healer on Nevarro, treating the citizens and the bounty hunters. Imperial remnants still linger in the shadows, waiting to strike at the perfect moment. Leading you to assist the Mandalorian with rescuing the Child has led you to your biggest adventure yet.

Paring: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive!FemReader (Empath)

Warnings: Violence, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, People pleasing, Flattery, Blood, Blasters, War, Religion References, Aliens, Sith, Character Deaths, Awkward, Plot Holes, Flying, Lava, Character Death, Jetpacks, Canon-Typical violence,

Word Count: 11.3k

A/N: I know… I know… I took so long to update this PLS– I went through several revisions for this… idk this episode just gave me insane writers block for some reason??? Like help???

Song: Home by Good Neighbours

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist

NEVARRO CANTINA, 9ABY – NOON

You find yourself caught in a tense balance between desperation and determination, surrounded by stormtroopers. Gripping your lightsaber hilt tightly, you stand ready to ignite it at a moment's notice. However, with no backup in sight, the odds of fighting your way out seem insurmountable.

"Is there another way out?" Cara queries Greef Karga, her eyes scanning the perimeter for any possible escape routes.

Greef gestures toward the outside, where stormtroopers are closing in. "No, that's it," he replies grimly.

Din interjects with a suggestion. "What about the sewers?"

Greef Karga's brows knit in confusion. "Sewers?"

"The Mandalorians have a covert down in the sewers. If we can get down there, they can help us escape," Din explains, seeking a potential exit strategy.

"Yeah, sewers are good," Cara agrees, nodding in approval.

You observe as Din manipulates a few buttons on his left armor bracer, causing it to emit a low hum as his visor begins scanning for access points. After a moment, he announces, "Checking for access points."

"What the hell are they waiting for?" Cara mutters, peering outside once more. Through the broken windows, you catch sight of stormtroopers assembling a heavy repeating blaster. Cara's breath catches, "Hold up. They're setting up an E-Web."

"It's over," Greef Karga remarks, a hint of fear evident in his voice.

Din's visor chimes, and he declares, "I found the sewer vent."

"Let's get the hell out of here," Cara urges, moving swiftly. You follow closely behind as she and Din begin tearing apart the furniture, revealing the sewer vent hidden beneath a seat.

The three of you struggle to pry open the sewer vent's panel, emitting frustrated groans as each attempt proves futile.

"It's assembled! How long until that thing's cleared?" Greef Karga's urgency fills the air.

"Blow it," Cara directs Din, her tone commanding.

"I'm out of charges," Din responds, prompting Cara to gesture towards him while she retrieves her heavy blaster. "Get out of the way!" she orders, attempting to blast open the sewer vent without success. Frustration mounts as she hits the unyielding metal gate.

"Your astute panic suggests that you understand your situation," the voice from outside remarks ominously. "I would prefer to avoid any further violence and encourage a moment of consideration."

"Members of my escort have completed assembly of an E-Web heavy repeating blaster. If you are unfamiliar with this weapon, I am sure that Republican Shock Trooper Carasynthia Dune of Alderaan will advise you that she has witnessed many of her ranks vaporize mid-descent facing the predecessor of this particular model," the Imperial Officer adds with malice.

"Or perhaps the decommissioned Mandalorian hunter, Din Djarin," the Imperial Officer's voice resonates with a tone of menace as he utters Din's name. Din takes a subtle step closer to you, his presence offering a silent reassurance amidst the tension. The officer continues, recounting the horrors of the Siege of Mandalore, where gunships armed with devastating ordnance wreaked havoc upon fields of Mandalorian recruits during the Night of a Thousand Tears.

"Or your Force-sensitive medic who wields a lightsaber," the officer's voice takes on a sinister edge as he delves into your past, revealing the painful truth of your master's abandonment. "Her Master had abandoned her, deeming her too dangerous for her own good. Betrayed by false promises of danger, she was cast aside, left to navigate the galaxy alone, while her Master chose another apprentice." The words cut deep, stirring a whirlwind of emotions within you, shame mingling with the ache of betrayal.

You avert your gaze from Din, Cara, and Greef Karga, unable to bear the heaviness of their curious stares. Shame grips your heart, its tendrils clawing at your soul, as the truth of your past is laid bare for all to see.

"I advise disgraced Magistrate Greef Karga to heed the wisdom of his years," the officer's voice echoes through the tense silence, urging surrender. "Lay down your arms and come outside. The structure you are trapped in will be razed shortly, and your storied lives will meet an unceremonious end."

"What do you propose?" Greef Karga's voice holds a hint of skepticism as he humors the Imperial Officer.

"Reasonable negotiation," the officer replies, his tone dripping with calculated confidence. Greef scoffs loudly at the notion, prompting him to question, "What assurance do you offer?"

The officer's response is chillingly blunt. "If you're asking if you can trust me, you cannot. Just as you betrayed our business arrangement, I would gladly break any promise and watch you die at my hand. The assurance I give is this: I will act in my own self-interest, which at this time involves your cooperation and benefit. I will give you until nightfall, and then I will have the E-Web cannon open fire." With those words, he turns and departs, leaving behind a tense silence.

You release a small sigh of relief, though you know it won't last long. There's the ominous menace of the E-Web cannon lingering over you, a constant reminder of how vulnerable you are.

"I say we hear him out," Greef Karga suggests, his tone cautious yet open to the possibility. Cara, meanwhile, shakes her head as she gathers blasters from the fallen stormtroopers scattered across the floor. "The minute we open that door, we're dead," she asserts firmly.

"We're dead if we don't. At least out there, we've got a shot," Greef counters, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of advantage.

Cara remains resolute. "That's easy for you to say. I'm a Rebel Shock Trooper. They'll upload me to a Mind Flayer."

Greef dismisses her concern with a hint of skepticism. "Those aren't real. That was just wartime propaganda."

"I don't care to find out. I'm shooting my way out of here," Cara declares, determination etched in her features.

Turning to you and Din, Greef seeks your input. "What about you two, Mando?"

"I know who he is. It's Moff Gideon," Din asserts, his voice carrying a sound of certainty. You furrow your brow in concern at the mention of the name. Cara freezes in disbelief. "No. Moff Gideon was executed for war crimes."

"It's him. He knew my name," Din explains, his expression grave.

"So? What does that prove?" Greef queries, searching for clarity amidst the confusion.

Your frown deepens as unsettling memories resurface. "I haven't heard that name spoken since I was a child," Din reflects, his tone distant as if retracing fragments of his past.

"On Mandalore?" Greef probes, seeking to understand.

"I was not born on Mandalore," Din reveals, his words tinged with a sense of identity and purpose.

"But you're a Mandalorian," Greef counters, puzzled by the revelation.

"Mandalorian isn't a race," you interject, offering clarification. Din echoes your sentiment. "It's a Creed."

You turn to Din, who stands motionless, his emotions noticeable even without words. Through the Force, you sense the silver streaks of his emotions deepening into a darker shade of grey. His sadness is tangible, a heavy burden weighing on his shoulders. Every ounce of anger and resentment he harbors towards the Empire, towards the droids that razed his village, his home, and his family, is laid bare. You feel the pressure of his baggage and brokenness, the scaffolding of his inner strength straining to support his weary frame.

Blinking, you find yourself immersed in his memories, transported to the horrors of Din's past. The air is thick with the acrid scent of blaster fire and the piercing screams of civilians. You witness the onslaught of battle droids affiliated with the Separatist Alliance during the Clone Wars, their relentless assault claiming innocent lives. Amidst the chaos, Din's parents shield him in a small bunker before succumbing to the explosion that engulfs them.

Tears stream down your face as you watch the young Din, his fear palpable as he braces for the end, only to be saved by a Mandalorian Clan.

"I was a foundling. They raised me in the Fighting Corps," Din's voice breaks through the haze of memories, bringing you back to the present. "I was treated as one of their own. When I came of age, I was sworn to the Creed. The only record of my family name was in the registers of Mandalore. Moff Gideon was an ISB Officer during the purge. That's how I know it's him. That's how he knows who we all are," Din explains.

Standing there, frozen in place, a myriad of questions race through your mind. How did you manage to delve into Din's memories? Every detail felt so vivid, so real. Tears continue to cascade down your face, overwhelmed by both his emotions and your own.

“Cyar’ika?” Din's voice breaks through the haze, distant yet urgent as your head throbs with pain.

A sob escapes your lips, tears welling in your eyes. "You were just a child,” you manage to choke out in your turmoil.

Din approaches, his hands gentle as they settle on your shoulders. You gasp for breath, hyperventilating as sobs wrack your body. "You were a child, scared and alone," you ramble, the words tumbling out incoherently. "I felt it all—your fear, your anger. It consumed you like wildfire, and—”

Din speaks your name softly, his gloved hand lifting your chin to meet his gaze through the visor. Tear-stained and with puffy eyes, you sob as your eyes meet his. He tenderly wipes away your tears, his touch comforting as you lean into it, placing your hand atop his.

"I'm sorry," you manage to choke out amidst the tears.

"It's not…" Din reassures you gently.

You sniffle, "I'm sorry you were alone. That you had to endure all of that by yourself."

His stomach tightens, a knot forming as he observes your distress. Underneath his helmet, his jaw clenches, a familiar frown settling on his face underneath his helmet. He's realized that he dislikes seeing you cry, feeling powerless to solve the problems that cause your tears.

Pulling you close, he envelops you in his arms as you tremble, offering a gentle shushing sound to soothe you. "It was like you were there in my mind and memories—" he begins, his voice soft.

You sniffle, attempting to regain your composure. "Yeah... I… I’m not sure what that was," you admit, shaking your head. "Never mind. We'll deal with that later. Right now, we should focus on getting out of here."

Din reluctantly releases you and takes a step back, addressing the group. "He says he needs us, which means the child got away safely," he informs them. "I was worried when the Ugnaught didn't respond, but if they'd captured the kid, we'd already be dead."

Cara nods and says to Din, “Hail them again.”

"Come in, Kuiil. Kuiil?" Din's voice echoes into the comlink, but there's no response. He shakes his head in frustration. "Nothing."

"They might have jammed the signal," Cara suggests, retrieving her heavy repeating blaster from across the room. Meanwhile, Greef Karga takes a swig from a blue drink.

Suddenly, the comlink beeps, and the sound of the Child cooing fills the room. Then, the mechanical voice of IG-11 follows. "Kuiil has been terminated."

Din's voice grows stern and accusing as he speaks into the comlink. "What did you do?"

"I am fulfilling my primary function," IG-11 responds calmly.

"And what is that?" Din demands.

"To nurse and protect," IG-11 declares with unwavering resoluteness.

A few moments later, the distant sounds of troopers screaming and blaster fire fill the air. "Look!" Cara exclaims, prompting you to peek out through the window. Outside, you witness IG-11 riding through the streets of the settlement, swiftly taking down stormtroopers with his twin blasters. Even a pair of troopers haggling with a local Jawa are not spared from his onslaught. With precision and speed, IG-11 fights his way through Gideon's troops, throwing a speeder bike at them and causing a massive explosion.

"Cover me," Din commands Cara, who responds by shooting through the broken window, taking out more stormtroopers with her repeating blaster. Chaos unfolds all around you, the cacophony of heavy blaster fire echoing throughout Nevarro.

Following Din out of the cantina's door as it hisses open, you find yourself amid the action. Din swiftly disarms a nearby stormtrooper, taking him down with a precise shot through the helmet. You trail closely behind him, activating your lightsaber. Its purple glow commands attention, causing some stormtroopers to hesitate in shock, which you seize upon.

You and Greef Karga join the fray, swiftly dispatching several death troopers. Despite sustaining a hit to his leg, IG-11 valiantly protects the Child and guides it to safety. Meanwhile, Din skillfully operates the E-web heavy repeater blaster cannon, eliminating multiple stormtroopers with deadly accuracy.

A death trooper detonates an explosive, blowing open the cantina's door. Swarms of death troopers flood in, but Cara skillfully guns them down, buying precious moments.

Your attention is drawn to Moff Gideon cornering the Mandalorian, firing a shot that grazes his shoulder. You cry out, "Din!"

Before you can reach him, Moff Gideon aims at a nearby box of ammunition, setting off a powerful explosion. The blast sends you flying backward, your ears ringing from the force. With a shriek, you scramble to your feet, dodging blaster fire with your lightsaber as you rush to the Mandalorian's side. He lies motionless, wounded and vulnerable.

Cara lends you a hand as you haul Din's injured form into the cantina, seeking refuge. With a determined tone, she reassures him, "Stay with me, buddy. We're getting you out of here."

Together, you carefully lay him down in a safe spot, your heart heavy with worry. "Din, please... Hang on," you plead softly, fighting back tears.

Din lets out a weak whimper, and you clutch his gloved hand tightly, offering what comfort you can. "We'll get you out of here, I promise," you vow, hearing Greef persuade IG-11 to aid in their escape by unsealing the grate.

Despite his pain, Din shifts his helmeted gaze to you, his voice strained as he says, "I won't make it. Go."

Tears blur your vision as you shake your head, refusing to accept the inevitable. "No, you'll be fine. We'll get through this," you sob out, your voice quivering with emotion.

Din's voice is strained as he insists, "Leave me." The warmth of his blood seeps through his helmet as you pull back your trembling hand, stained red. But you refuse to give up, determined to save him.

With shaky hands, you reach for the sides of his helmet. "I need to take your helmet off," you say, your voice heavy with urgency.

Din's grip tightens on your wrists as he protests, "No. Leave me. Keep the child safe, Cyar'ika."

Desperation fills your voice as you try to reason with him, "Din, I—" But he cuts you off, his tone firm and resolute.

"No. I don't… want this to be how you see me for the first time," he murmurs, his words strained with pain.

You don't care about appearances; all you want is to keep him alive. "I don't care. I just need you," you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Din reaches for his mythosaur necklace and hands it to you. "Take this," he says weakly. "Show it to the Mandalorian covert. Tell them it's from Din Djarin. You and the foundling were under my protection. They'll help you."

"We can make it. We have to make it… you can't leave me too… please… Din… Let me heal you," you sobbed out, your voice choked with emotion as you held onto him, your frame trembling.

Suddenly, a red-striped incinerator trooper, armed with a flamethrower, approaches the cantina, setting the furniture ablaze through the broken window. With determination, you throw yourself atop Din, shielding him from the flames, before turning back to look at him.

"Oh, Ner cyar'ika," Din murmurs, cupping your face with his gloved hand. You lean into his touch, seeking comfort in his presence.

"I'm not gonna make it, and you know it," Din admits, his voice heavy with resignation. "You protect the child. I can hold them back long enough for you to escape. Let me have a warrior's death."

The finality of his words sends a pang of sorrow through you. "I won't leave you," you protest, your voice wavering.

"This is the Way," Din asserts, his gaze steady behind his visor. You meet his eyes, unable to find the right words to express your emotions. Pressing your forehead against his beskar helmet, you hold onto his gloved hand, which caresses the side of your cheek.

You kiss the small patch of exposed skin on his wrist, feeling the gravity of the moment. Din takes a shaky breath before saying, "Ner cyar'ika, ni kar'tayl gar darasuum."

Before you could even ask what he was saying, the incinerator trooper strides into the cantina, but the Child reacts swiftly, harnessing the Force to deflect the flames back at the trooper, forcing him to retreat. You witness the surge of power emanating from the Child, and instinctively extend your own hand, aiding in redirecting the flames away from your group.

As the trooper is driven back, the Child's tiny form slumps in exhaustion, overwhelmed by the effort. Just then, IG-11 kicks open the grate, signaling an opportunity for escape as the flames around you is all consuming and melting.

“Come on! It's open, let's go!” Greef Karga's urgent voice echoes through the chaos.

“Go. Cy’are, go,” Din insists, his tone heavy with resolve.

“We have to move! Now!” Greef Karga urges, as IG-11 helps clear the way, lifting the Child with care.

You remain rooted in place, torn between staying with Din and fleeing to safety. The metallic footsteps of IG-11 approach, and the droid's voice breaks through the turmoil. “Escape and protect this child. I will stay with the Mandalorian,” it declares, passing the sleeping Child into your arms.

Meeting the droid's gaze, you plead, “Promise me you'll bring him. Please.”

“You have my word,” IG-11 assures you, and you exchange a final glance with Din. With a heavy heart, you press your forehead to his helmet and whisper, “I need you. Maker, I want you, please… come back to me.”

Before he can respond, Cara pulls you away, guiding you into the tunnels below alongside Greef Karga, the force of uncertainty settling heavily upon you.

Din's mind drifts, overwhelmed by the scorching heat and his own exhaustion. In his haze, he sees IG-11 approaching, a stark reminder of his past and the deep-rooted trauma it carries. Through the chaos, thoughts of you, his beloved Cyar'ika, provide a fleeting sense of solace. Objects tumble in the inferno's blaze, a testament to the chaos engulfing them.

“Do it,” Din gruffly commands, his head throbbing from the impact, blood trickling down his neck.

“Do what?” IG-11 inquires, its mechanical voice cutting through the loud burning flames surrounding them.

“Just get it over with. I'd rather you kill me than some Imp,” Din asserts, his words tinged with bitter honesty. Once, he would have faced this without hesitation. But you changed everything, and now his only regret is not kissing you, not feeling the warmth of your lips against his.

“I told you. I am no longer a hunter. I am a nurse droid,” IG-11 states.

“IGs are all hunters,” Din grumbles, his frustration evident.

The droid pauses before responding, “Not this one. I was reprogrammed. I need to remove your helmet if I am to save you.”

Din's grip tightens on his blaster, his voice dripping with threat, “Try it and I'll end you.” He struggles to breathe, teeth clenched, “It is forbidden. No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I swore the Creed.”

"I am not a living thing," IG-11 states plainly, the truth evident in his words.

With a hiss and a click, the mechanical hands of the IG-11 droid lift Din's helmet. His heart beats heavily in his chest as he awaits what comes next.

"This is a bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours," IG-11 explains as it sprays the upper part of Din's head. "You have suffered damage to your central processing unit."

"You mean my brain?" Din quips.

IG-11 tilts its head. "That was a joke. It is meant to put you at ease."

Din stifles a chuckle. In that moment, he realizes he still has hope. Despite his weariness and desire to depart, he closes his eyes briefly, thinking of you. The thought of needing you pushes him forward. Determined, he knows no grave can hold his body down; he'll find a way back to you, whatever it takes.

There is so much love in your body that you can't hold it in; it pours from your eyes and spills from your skin. As you cradle the Child closer to your chest, muffled explosions echo from above.

An ache settles between your ribs—a yearning for a different destiny and the resilience to keep hoping for a better outcome. You cling to the hope that Din will be alright.

A louder explosion echoes through the tunnels, causing you, Greef Karga, and Cara Dune to spin around. Cara’s flashlight cuts through the darkness, revealing the source of the noise. The heavy footsteps draw closer, and soon, you spot IG-11’s silhouette—along with the glimmer of silver beskar you’ve come to cherish so deeply.

Without thinking, you rush forward, your heart pounding as you reach Din. He’s still unsteady, clearly feeling the effects of his concussion, but he’s alive. Relief floods your chest as you pass the Child to IG-11, and you throw your arms around Din’s neck, tears streaming down your face. 

“Oh, thank the Maker,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

His arms wrap around your waist, his leather gloves squeezing you tightly as if grounding himself in your presence. You slide one arm over your shoulder, determined to help him walk.

“I got you,” you murmur, holding him close as you guide him through the dimly lit tunnels.

As you continue down the darkened tunnels, Din leans heavily against you, each step a struggle against the pain that wracks his body. Greef Karga glances around, uncertainty evident in his voice as he asks, "Do you know which way to go?"

Din grunts in response, his voice strained. "No. I don't know these tunnels. I've only entered from the bazaar." His words are clipped, every syllable laced with discomfort.

Greef Karga presses on, trying to find a solution. "Well, if we get the smell of sulfur and follow it, it'll lead us up to the plains where the river flows."

Din's voice cuts through the dark, gruff and insistent. "And the Imps will catch us before we make it to the ship. We need the Mandalorians to escort us to safety."

Your group presses on, delving deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels with each step. The air grows thicker, and the walls seem to close in as the tension between you mounts.

"Ugh, this place is a maze," Cara groans, her voice filled with frustration as she surveys the endless twists and turns.

"Stop. I can stand," Din says, his voice firm despite the strain. He removes his arm from your shoulder, and you give him a hopeful look, noticing the determination in his voice. IG-11 assesses his condition and confirms, "The bacta infusion is working."

Din nods, his determination solidifying. "I'll try to find tracks." He moves forward, the beam of light from his helmet cutting through the darkness. His gaze is focused, scanning the ground carefully. Then, he spots something and points to the left, leading the group as he says, "We're close. Turn here."

The group follows Din's lead, the tunnel narrowing as the beam of light from the flashlights dances across the walls. As you round the corner, a chilling dread settles deep in your bones. The covert lies ahead, but instead of the safety you hoped for, you’re greeted by a harrowing sight—helmets and armor, scattered and lifeless, marking the final resting place of countless fallen Mandalorians.

Din’s steps falter as he enters the covert, his helmet’s light switching off with a click. The darkness seems heavier here, pressing in on him from all sides. Slowly, warily, he moves forward, his exhaustion evident in every sluggish step. Kneeling beside the fallen, his head bows in silent mourning.

He reaches out, picking up one of the broken helmets, its once-proud beskar now marred and empty. You see it in waves of dark grey and sharp silver, a storm of anger and grief brews within him, coiling tightly in his stomach, a heavy silence hanging in the air around him.

You kneel beside him, your presence a tentative but necessary comfort. Din grasps your hand, holding on as if it’s the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by the void. His fingers tighten around yours, the touch grounding him, allowing him to feel something—anything—beyond the pain and loss.

Cara steps forward, her voice calm but insistent. "We should go."

Din's response is immediate, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with grief and fury. "You go. Take the ship. I can't leave it this way." His head snaps to the side, anger flaring as he locks eyes with Greef Karga through his vizor. "Did you know about this? Is this the work of your bounty hunters?"

Greef Karga scoffs, shaking his head. "No. When you left the system and took the prize, the fighting ended, and the hunters just melted away. You know how it is. They're mercenaries. They're not zealots."

Din grinds his teeth, his jaw clenched tight. The emotions rolling off him are palpable, a storm barely contained. He pulls away from you, the warmth of his touch replaced by the cold fury radiating from him as he steps forward, shoving a finger into Greef Karga’s chest. "Did you do this? Did you?"

Before Greef can respond, a new voice cuts through the tension, calm and authoritative. "No. It was not his fault."

All of you turn toward the source of the voice, a female Mandalorian stepping out from the shadows. She is clad in red armor, her gold helmet adorned with a series of horns that curve across the top. This must be the Armorer, the one who forged Din's beskar. The way she carries herself, with quiet strength and wisdom, leaves no doubt.

You rise to your feet, your eyes widening as you sense a powerful aura emanating from her, a blend of gold and red. Through the Force, you glimpse her true nature—patient, wise, and unwaveringly strong.

The Armorer surveys the fallen armor strewn across the covert, her voice measured and steady. "We revealed ourselves. We knew what could happen if we left the covert. The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter. This is what resulted." She lifts a piece of beskar armor from the pile, her tone resigned, as though she is stating a simple fact.

Din’s voice is strained as he asks, "Did any survive?"

The Armorer places the piece of armor onto a cart already laden with salvaged beskar. "I hope so. Some may have escaped off-world."

"Come with us," Din urges, but the Armorer shakes her head, picking up another helmet and adding it to her cart.

"No. I will not abandon this place until I have salvaged what remains," she replies firmly, her choice unshakable.

You watch as she begins to push the hovering cart away, and without hesitation, Din follows her, leaving the rest of you to trail behind. The path leads you to the heart of the covert—the Armorer's forge, a place of deep significance. The air here is thick with the importance of history and tradition, the forge itself a symbol of the Mandalorians' resilience and strength.

You take in your surroundings, noting the tools neatly arranged, the forge at the center, glowing faintly with embers, the table where beskar is shaped and molded, and the computer panel displaying holographic schematics of Mandalorian armor. Every detail speaks of the care and precision that goes into crafting the armor that defines a Mandalorian, a testament to their way of life.

The cryo-furnace burns brightly in the center of the forge, casting flickering shadows across the room. You watch as the Armorer, with practiced precision, uses a pair of magnetic tongs to lift a beskar chest plate. The metal sizzles and hisses as she dips it into the molten pool of the furnace, transforming solid beskar into liquid. Her voice is calm, yet it carries the tone of command. “Show me the one whose safety deemed such destruction.”

IG-11 steps forward, the Child sitting quietly in the brown backpack strapped to the droid’s chest. Din speaks, his voice steady, though tinged with reverence. “This is the one.”

The Armorer steps closer, her gaze fixed on the small creature. “This is the one that you hunted, then saved?”

Din nods, his response curt but sincere. “Yes. The one that saved me as well.”

The Armorer tilts her helmet slightly as she continues, “From the mudhorn?”

“Yes,” Din confirms, his voice clipped as he remembers the near-fatal encounter.

“It looks helpless,” she observes, her tone more curious than judgmental.

The Child coos softly in response, its large ears folding back as if understanding the conversation. Din shifts slightly, protective instincts kicking in as he explains, “It's injured, but it is not helpless. Its species can move objects with its mind.”

The Armorer nods thoughtfully, her tone reverent as she recalls ancient lore. “I know of such things. The songs of eons past tell of battles between Mandalore the Great and an order of sorcerers called Jedi, who wielded such powers.”

You stiffen at the mention of the Jedi, memories of old texts and scrolls you once studied flashing through your mind. Din instinctively steps forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, a subtle yet protective gesture. You can't help but ask, your voice shaky with uncertainty, “Is it an enemy?”

The Armorer regards the Child, then turns her attention to you, her gaze thoughtful beneath the gold helmet. “No. Its kind were enemies, but this individual is not.” She pauses, her head tilting slightly as she studies you with a depth that makes your heart race. “Including her.”

“I… How…” you stammer, the words tangled in your throat as you struggle to comprehend her meaning.

The Armorer’s voice is patient, her words measured. “You are different. The Force flows through you as well, though not as it does through the Child. But you are not our enemy.”

Din glances at you, his expression unreadable behind his helmet, but you can feel his concern and confusion.  The importance of this information is nearly too much for you to take, even while you strain to find your words. Even while you know that everything has shifted in this instant, the armorer carries on with her task, undisturbed, as if she has spoken nothing unusual.

Din watches as the Armorer opens a cabinet, her movements precise and deliberate. The flickering light from the cryo-furnace casts long shadows on the walls, the heat radiating from the molten beskar filling the room. "What is it?" Din asks, his voice low and gravelly, filled with the sudden push of responsibility he’s not yet ready to accept.

The Armorer doesn’t look up from her work as she replies, her tone measured and authoritative. "It is a foundling. By Creed, it is in your care."

The Child, nestled safely in the brown backpack, gurgles softly, its wide eyes shifting between you and Din, as if sensing the gravity of the moment.

Din glances down at the Child, confusion and uncertainty lacing his words as he gestures towards the small creature. "You wish me to train this thing?"

The Armorer continues her work, her focus unbroken as she dips the simmering ladle with the liquid beskar, pouring it with precision onto her workbench. "It is too weak," she states plainly. "It would die. You have no choice. You must reunite it with its own kind."

Din’s jaw clenches beneath his helmet, his mind racing with the implications of her words. You stand beside him, feeling the sudden new responsibility settle over both of you. The Child stares up at you both with innocent eyes, unaware of the storm brewing within the Mandalorian’s heart.

"Where?" Din asks, his voice strained with the weariness of the unknown.

The Armorer hums thoughtfully, her focus never wavering from her task. "This, you must determine."

Din feels frustration bubbling up inside him. He gestures helplessly at the Child. "You expect me to search the galaxy for the home of this creature and deliver it to a race of enemy sorcerers?" His words rush out, sharp and biting, and you can’t help but wince, though you know the remark wasn’t directed at you.

The Armorer remains unfazed, her hammer striking the beskar with rhythmic precision. "This is the Way," she remarks, her tone calm and resolute, as if the creed alone should be enough to calm his doubts.

Din’s eyes soften under his helmet, realizing the harshness of his words. He turns to you, taking your hand gently in his. "I apologize, Cy’are," he mumbles, his voice laden with regret.

You offer him a reassuring smile, squeezing his hand lightly. "I know," you reply softly, understanding his distress. He didn’t mean to hurt you.

The Armorer, ever observant, takes note of your interaction as she continues her work. The clang of metal against metal fills the silence until Cara speaks up, her tone practical and urgent. "Hey. These tunnels will be lousy with Imps in a matter of minutes. We should at least discuss an escape plan."

The Armorer pauses her hammering, then turns slightly toward the group. "If you follow the descending tunnel, it will lead you to the underground river. It flows downstream toward the lava flats."

Greef Karga looks to Din, concern creasing his brow. "I think we should go," he suggests, the tension evident in his voice.

Din, however, remains resolute. "I'm staying. I need to help her, and I need to heal," he replies firmly, his gaze locking with yours.

You meet his determination with your own. "I’m not leaving you," you state with unwavering conviction. 

The Armorer picks up her magnetic tongs and a circular pan, her voice steady as she addresses you both. "You must go. Your Riduur and the foundling are in your care. By Creed, until it is of age or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father."

The Child coos softly, sensing the affection and bond between you, Din, and itself. The Armorer, acknowledging this bond, turns to Din with a quiet reverence. "This is the Way."

The Armorer steps forward with quiet precision, affixing a signet to Din's pauldron. The emblem gleams in the dim light of the forge, its magnitude both physical and symbolic as it signifies the new identity bestowed upon him. She pauses for a moment, allowing the significance to settle in before she speaks, her voice steady and authoritative.

"You have earned your Signet. For now… you are a clan of two," she declares, her tone interim, as though the value of the galaxy itself rests on this moment.

The words barely register in your mind, their meaning lost as you stand beside Din. Your gaze is fixed on him, watching the way his posture straightens slightly, the way his head dips just a fraction in acknowledgment.

"Thank you," Din says, his voice rough with emotion but steady. "I will wear this with honor."

The forge's flames flicker, casting warm, wavering light on the scene, as Din steps back, the signet glinting on his pauldron—a mark of pride, responsibility, and the bond that ties the two of you together in this perilous galaxy.

The rumble of muffled explosions grows louder, each one sending vibrations through the walls of the covert. Instinctively, your group turns toward the source of the sound, tension tightening in your chest. Greef Karga’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp with urgency. “We should go,” he insists, his eyes darting between the shadows of the tunnel.

The Armorer, however, remains unflinching. She turns to IG-11 and then to you, her voice calm but commanding. “IG and the Jedi,” she begins, and before you can correct her misunderstanding, she continues, “please guard the outer hallway. A scouting party draws near.”

Without hesitation, the IG unit steps forward. It moves to Cara, gently handing the Child over to her. The soldier, caught off guard, stammers, “Hang on. I don't do the baby thing.”

The Child coos softly, and you exchange a quick, knowing glance with Cara, a slight shrug of your shoulders conveying that there’s little choice in the matter. Without another word, you follow the IG unit as it strides purposefully towards the outer hallway. The air grows colder, and the sound of your footsteps echoes against the narrow walls as you leave the others behind.

Just before you’re out of earshot, you hear the Armorer's voice, calm and steady as ever. “I have a few more gifts for your journey. Have you trained in the Rising Phoenix?”

Din looks down at the gleaming silver beskar Z-6 Jetpack in his hands, his breath catching slightly in his throat. “When I was a boy,” he says, his voice thick with the load of memories. “Yes.”

The Armorer’s voice is calm, almost reverent as she holds the jetpack. “Then this will make you complete,” she declares, a solemnity in her tone that acknowledges the significance of the moment.

Din’s voice wavers as he accepts the gift. “Thank you.”

She steps behind him, carefully attaching the Z-6 Jetpack to his back, her movements precise and steady. “When you have healed,” she instructs, “you will begin your drills. Until you know it, it will not listen to your commands.”

Din feels the weight of the jetpack settle onto his shoulders, its presence both reassuring and daunting. He nods, his determination hardening, his voice steady as he replies, "I understand." The words are a quiet promise, a vow to honor the gift he has been given.

The Armorer pauses for a moment, her gaze steady on him. "One other thing," she begins, her tone shifting slightly, "your Riduur… I assume you’re courting her."

The question hits Din like a bolt, and he feels a flush rise beneath his helmet, heat spreading across his skin. He’s never been one for public confrontations, especially not about something so deeply personal. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken emotions, as he struggles for a response.

But the Armorer doesn’t need words to understand. She reads the tension in his posture, the hesitation in his voice, and she nods, accepting his silence as confirmation. Without another word, she turns to her cabinet, her movements measured and precise. From within, she retrieves a smaller version of the Mudhorn signet, its surface polished to a gleaming finish. She hands it to him with the same solemnity that she had with the jetpack.

"You are aware of the customs?" she asks, her voice carrying the value of tradition.

Din takes the signet, its cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth flooding his chest. He slips it into his pocket, the significance of the gesture not lost on him. 

"Yes," he replies, his voice firm, yet laced with an undercurrent of emotion he rarely lets slip.

The Armorer inclines her head, satisfied with his answer. "This is the Way," she intones, her words both a reminder and a benediction.

Din nods, the phrase echoing in his mind. "This is the Way," he repeats, the words a binding promise, not just to himself, but to you as well. 

Meanwhile, in the outer hallway, you and the IG-11 unit stand alert. The sound of approaching stormtroopers reverberates through the tunnels, a familiar and unwelcome echo. Your hand instinctively reaches for the hilt of your lightsaber, and with a flick, it ignites, casting a purple glow across the darkened corridor. The Force flows through you, heightening your senses as you prepare for the oncoming assault.

Blaster fire erupts, red bolts streaking toward you, but you remain calm, centered. Your lightsaber hums as you deflect each shot with precision, the bolts ricocheting back at the stormtroopers, sending them sprawling—some injured, others unconscious.

Beside you, IG-11 methodically takes down those that remain standing. The droid’s movements are efficient, calculated. As the last of the stormtroopers fall, you and IG-11 exchange a glance. The droid peers around the corner, scanning for further threats, then turns to you and states matter-of-factly, “You are protected.”

"More will come. You must go," the Armorer states with quiet authority as you and IG-11 reenter the forge. The heat from the cryo-furnace pulses through the room, a stark contrast to the cold dread gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

Din turns to her, his voice firm with concern. “Come with us.”

The Armorer shakes her head with a firm tenacity. “My place is here. Restock your munitions,” she instructs, her voice steady as she gestures toward the scattered supplies.

She turns to the IG unit, handing Din’s newly earned jetpack into its mechanical grasp. “IG, carry this for Din Djarin until he is well enough to wear it.”

The droid nods in silent compliance, securing the jetpack carefully within its arms. Din methodically restocks his ammunition, his focus sharp despite the tension humming through the air.

“Now, go. Down to the river and across the plains. Be safe on your journey,” the Armorer commands, her voice carrying the weight of finality.

Din takes your hand in his, the leather of his glove warm against your skin. There’s a moment of unspoken understanding between you, the bond you share more palpable than ever in the face of the unknown. He turns to the tunnels, not dropping your hand, and with a quiet nod to the Armorer, he says, “Thank you.”

The two of you head into the darkness, leaving the forge and its fierce protector behind, every step forward a testament to the resilience that binds you.

You emerge from one of the tunnels and are immediately greeted by the sight of a large, bubbling river of hot lava, its fiery surface sending waves of heat toward you. The glow casts an eerie, red light on everyone’s faces, highlighting the tension in the air.

“This is the lava river,” Greef Karga announces, his voice filled with a mix of awe and urgency.

You and Din move closer to the boat docked on the riverbank, its hull crewed by a battered and seemingly inoperative ferry droid. Din assesses the damage, his gaze narrowing as he comments, “The ferry droid is fried.”

Greef Karga steps forward, his practical mind already formulating a plan. “Yeah, but if we push the boat out, we can get it to float downstream. Come on,” he says, placing his hands on the boat’s edge and beginning to shove.

Din continues his inspection of the boat, noticing its age and the wear that time has inflicted. “Looks old. Will it take the heat?” he asks, skepticism lacing his tone.

“You got a better idea?” Greef Karga shoots back, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

Din shrugs, resigning himself to the situation. “Guess not.”

With a shared grunt of effort, the two men push against the boat, muscles straining as they try to dislodge it from the platform. But the boat stubbornly remains stuck, the dried lava around it acting as an anchor. Frustration mounts as Din groans and gives the boat a frustrated kick, before grabbing a metal paddle to try and pry it free—still to no avail.

Cara Dune watches their struggle with a growing sense of impatience, finally rolling her eyes before stepping forward. “You guys mind getting out of the way?” she says, her tone dripping with exasperation.

Din and Greef Karga step aside as Cara levels her blaster at the boat. With a few well-aimed shots, she blasts away the dried lava, freeing the boat from its fiery mooring. 

“Oh! Good job,” Greef Karga praises, a hint of relief in his voice as the boat begins to shift and move.

Without hesitation, the group clambers aboard the small ferry, the heat of the molten lava almost unbearable as IG-11 issues a warning, “Watch your feet. It's molten lava.”

“No kidding,” Cara mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she settles into the boat.

A tense silence falls over the group, broken only by the sudden electrical humming coming from the droid. Instinctively, Din, Cara, and Greef Karga draw their blasters, aiming them at the ferry droid as it begins to come to life. You stand back, watching as the droid chirps at you, its mechanical sounds echoing in the small space.

Din breaks the silence, his voice wary. “I don't suppose anybody here speaks droid?”

IG-11 steps in, his tone calm as he translates, “I believe he is asking where we would like to go.”

Greef Karga, still eyeing the droid with skepticism, eventually responds, “Downriver. To the lava flat.”

The ferry droid chirps rhythmically, as if in agreement, and with a mechanical whir, it begins to row the boat down the river. Your group holsters their blasters as the ferry glides smoothly over the molten surface, the droid content to fulfill its purpose, and the group can’t help but share a moment of quiet relief as they continue their journey downstream.

You quietly move next to Din, the tension in the air thick enough to feel, but neither of you speaks. Your eyes are fixed on the faint light at the end of the tunnel, the only sign of hope in this dark, foreboding place. You can feel the weight of everything that has happened pressing down on you, yet you hold on to the flicker of hope that you’ll find a way out of this.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at Din. The Force gently tugs at your senses, and you’re drawn to the swirl of emotions radiating from him in a kaleidoscope of colors. Where once there were dark, muted grays of pain and uncertainty, you now see lighter tones beginning to emerge, a sign that he’s slowly regaining his center after the injury that had shaken him so deeply.

Din turns his head to look at you, and you meet his gaze, staring back at him through the dark visor of his helmet. Though his face is hidden, you’ve always had a way of seeing through that thick, impenetrable black visor, straight to the heart of the man underneath. It’s a connection that runs deeper than words, a silent understanding that passes between you. 

A shiver runs up Din’s spine, the feeling of being so deeply understood and seen by you, even through the beskar, is both grounding and unsettling in its intimacy. He’s never quite sure how you do it, how you manage to see him so clearly despite the layers of armor he wears.

Neither of you speaks, the silence stretching on as the moment lingers between you. Eventually, you’re the first to break the gaze, taking a small step closer to him. You rest your head gently on his shoulder, the cool metal of his beskar pauldron pressing against your forehead. It’s a simple gesture, but one filled with a depth of comfort and connection that words could never convey.

Maker. The thought flickers through Din’s mind, almost as a prayer. He wonders what he ever did to deserve you, to be within your orbit. He’s lived his life in the shadows, never expecting to find someone who could see him so completely. And yet, here you are. He holds out a silent prayer to the universe, hoping for the strength to keep you with him, to protect you, to not let this fragile connection slip through his fingers.

The light at the end of the tunnel grows closer, but for now, you both find solace in this small, shared moment.

As the droid methodically rows the hoverboat down the molten lava river, the rhythmic sound of metal scraping against stone echoes softly through the tunnel. The eerie glow of the lava illuminates the cavernous space, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Occasionally, small, skittish mammals dart along the riverbanks, their eyes glowing in the dim light before they disappear into the darkness.

The boat glides steadily toward the mouth of the tunnel, where a faint light shines like a beacon of hope. The group remains tense, but as you approach the entrance, Greef Karga’s voice breaks through the tension with a burst of optimism. He points eagerly at the light, his voice filled with relief. “That’s it! We’re free!”

But Din doesn’t share Karga’s optimism. His instincts prickling, he taps a button on the side of his helmet, switching to thermal imaging. The world around him shifts into shades of red and blue, revealing what the naked eye cannot see.

“No,” Din’s voice cuts through the brief moment of hope, a grim tone to his words. “No, we’re not.” His gaze remains fixed on the entrance, his thermal vision picking up the heat signatures of countless figures lying in wait. “Stormtroopers. They’re flanking the mouth of the tunnel.”

You glance at Din, the unease in his voice sending a chill down your spine. He continues, his voice a low, measured tone as he counts the figures. “It looks like an entire platoon. They must know we’re coming.”

The tension in the air thickens as the boat continues to drift closer to the tunnel’s exit, the light growing brighter but more ominous with every passing second.

“Stop the boat,” Cara orders sharply, turning toward the ferry droid. “Hey, Droid, I said stop the boat.”

The droid only responds with a series of unintelligible chirps, its programming unable to process the urgency in her voice. Frustration tightens Cara’s expression, and without hesitation, she unholsters her blaster, her voice rising with authority. “Hey! I'm talking to you. I said stop!”

A single shot rings out, and the droid’s head is blasted clean off, leaving it a lifeless hunk of metal. The boat continues to drift forward, unaffected by the loss of its pilot. The Child whimpers at the sudden noise, and Cara immediately softens, trying to soothe him with a gentle, “Shh, it’s okay.”

Greef Karga eyes the boat as it glides along the river, still propelled by the momentum it had before the droid was destroyed. “We’re still moving,” he notes grimly.

Cara scans the tunnel ahead, her face hardening as she realizes there’s no stopping now. “Looks like we fight,” she declares, steeling herself for the confrontation.

But Din shakes his head, his voice low and steady. “There are too many.”

Cara’s eyes flash with defiance as she snaps back, “Then what do you suggest? 'Cause I can't surrender.”

Before anyone else can speak, IG-11 interjects, its voice calm and resolute. “They will not be satisfied with anything less than the Child. This is unacceptable. I will eliminate the enemy and you will escape.”

Din scoffs, unable to hide his skepticism. “You don’t have that kind of firepower, pal. You wouldn’t even get to daylight.”

But IG-11’s response is cold and matter-of-fact. “That is not my objective.”

A heavy silence follows as everyone processes the meaning behind the droid’s words. Din’s jaw clenches beneath his helmet, understanding dawning painfully in his mind.

Cara quickly hands you the Child, her eyes flicking to the tunnel ahead. “We’re getting close. Saddle up,” she says, her tone brisk and focused as she readies her blaster, preparing for the inevitable fight.

The tension is palpable as IG-11’s voice cuts through the air with a calm finality. “I still have the security protocols from my manufacturer. If my designs are compromised, I must self-destruct.”

Din takes a step forward, disbelief and frustration tightening his voice. “What are you talking about?���

The droid remains composed, its mechanical tone unyielding. “I am not permitted to be captured. I must be destroyed.”

Greef Karga’s voice slices through the conversation, sharp and urgent. “Are we gonna keep talking, or get out of here?”

Ignoring the interruption, IG-11 turns and hands the jetpack to Din. “I can no longer carry this for you. Nor can I watch over the Child.”

Din’s emotions churn beneath his helmet, a mixture of confusion and reluctant attachment rising to the surface. For someone who’s always hated droids for what they did to his planet, this particular one has proven itself different. The words tumble out, almost desperate. “Wait. You can’t self-destruct. Your base command is to protect the Child.”

Din’s voice softens, a note of pleading seeping in. “That supersedes your manufacturer’s protocol, right? Right?”

There’s a brief pause, as if the droid is processing his question. “This is correct.”

Relief flickers across Din’s features, even if hidden beneath the beskar. “Good. Now grab a blaster and help us shoot our way out.”

But IG-11 remains resolute, its next words heavy with certainty. “Victory through combat is impossible. We will be captured. The Child will be lost. Sadly, there is no scenario where the Child is saved, in which I survive.”

Din’s frustration mounts, his mind racing for another solution, any solution. “Listen, you’re not going anywhere. We need you. Let’s just… come up with a—”

But the droid cuts him off, its tone firm yet gentle. “Please tell me the Child will be safe in your care. If you do so, I can default to my secondary command.”

Din looks up at the droid, his voice low, almost anguished. “But you’ll be destroyed.”

IG-11 responds without hesitation. “And you will live, and I will have served my purpose.”

“No. We need you,” Din insists, his voice growing tighter, a rare crack in his stoic exterior. The droid’s next words hit him harder than any blaster shot. “There is nothing to be sad about. I have never been alive.”

Din, ever defensive, tries to mask his emotions. “I’m not sad.”

But the droid sees through him, as it was programmed to do. “Yes, you are. I’m a nurse droid. I’ve analyzed your voice.”

You watch the exchange, your heart heavy with the truth of what’s about to happen. Tears well up in your eyes, the reality sinking in that this droid, one that had grown to mean something to you all, is about to sacrifice itself. It’s a loss none of you are truly ready for, but deep down, you know it’s the only way.

The Child coos softly in your arms, its large eyes full of trust as it peers up at you. IG-11 pauses, glancing at the small creature, and then gently pats its ears in a gesture that almost feels… affectionate. A farewell, perhaps. You feel the sting of sorrow as the droid steps away, its purpose clear. 

Without another word, IG-11 hops off the boat and into the bubbling lava, the searing heat beginning to eat away at its metal frame. Greef Karga’s voice breaks the silence, tinged with confusion and a hint of alarm. “IG? What are you doing?”

The droid doesn’t respond, just continues its slow, deliberate march through the molten river, its body gradually melting, limbs faltering as it nears the mouth of the tunnel. Beyond, the light filters through, revealing the stormtroopers waiting, their blasters raised, ready to fire. But they hesitate, unsure of the droid’s intent.

Reaching the river’s end, IG-11 speaks, its voice unwavering, almost serene. “Manufacturer’s protocol dictates I cannot be captured.”

The sound of a pulse begins, low and rhythmic, a countdown to the inevitable. “I must be destroyed,” IG-11 states, its words a final goodbye.

And then, with a blinding flash, the droid detonates, the explosion erupting like a fiery inferno. The stormtroopers don’t even have time to react before they’re consumed by the blast. Their screams echo briefly before being snuffed out, leaving only silence in its wake. The fiery eruption floods the tunnel’s entrance, scattering debris and molten rock, neutralizing the entire platoon in an instant.

As the dust and flames settle, the path ahead clears. The way to the plains is open, and for a moment, all is still. The sacrifice of IG-11 rings heavy in the air, its selflessness ensuring the Child’s safety, and allowing you, Din, and the others to move forward—alive, but forever changed.

You finally emerge from the tunnels, the cool air of the open plains a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat of the lava river. For a fleeting moment, there's a sense of relief—until you hear the ominous roar of an engine in the distance. Your gaze snaps upward, just as Cara shouts, “Moff Gideon!”

Above, the silhouette of the Outland TIE fighter cuts across the sky, its distinct scream echoing through the air. Gideon’s fighter dives down, strafing your group with blaster fire. Instinctively, you ignite your lightsaber, the purple blade humming to life as you deflect the incoming shots, sending them harmlessly into the dirt. Din, Cara, and Greef Karga return fire with their blasters, but the bolts ricochet off the TIE fighter’s armored hull, doing little to slow its assault.

As the TIE fighter pulls up for another pass, Greef Karga shouts, “He missed!”

Din doesn’t look away from the sky, his voice grim. “He won't next time.”

Cara lowers her blaster, frustration etched on her face. “Our blasters are useless against him.”

Greef Karga, desperation creeping into his tone, glances at the Child in your arms. “Let's make the baby do the magic hand thing!” He turns to the Child, wiggling his fingers as if trying to coax a response. “Come on, baby! Do the magic hand thing!”

The Child stares up at him with wide, innocent eyes, cooing softly, clearly not understanding what Greef Karga is asking. The moment hangs in the air, the absurdity of the situation clashing with the deadly reality of the threat above.

Greef Karga sighs, “I'm out of ideas.”

Din's chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath, his thoughts racing for a solution. There isn’t much time—Gideon’s TIE fighter is already banking around, preparing for another attack run. The fighter’s engines scream through the air as it turns, ready to strike.

“I’m not,” Din mutters, almost to himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His voice is quiet but filled with purposefulness.

“Here he comes!” Cara shouts, urgency clear in her voice.

Without another word, Din moves with purpose, strapping the jetpack firmly onto his back. You can see the determination in his movements, each one precise, no hesitation. He checks the pack one last time, then ignites it, the blue flames roaring to life with a sharp hiss. The blast from the jetpack propels him skyward, and you watch as he rockets toward the incoming TIE fighter, becoming a streak of silver against the dusky sky.

The TIE fighter roars closer, and in a daring move, Din launches his grappling cable, the wire streaking through the air with a sharp whizz. The hook latches onto the wing of the TIE, yanking Din with it as it surges forward.

Your heart skips a beat as you watch him hold tight to the cable, the wind whipping around him, the ground a blur beneath. The TIE fighter dips and rolls, trying to shake him loose, but Din’s grip is ironclad. With each twist and turn, he inches closer to the cockpit, his movements precise, driven by sheer will.

Unable to force his way into the cockpit with his blaster, Din quickly tries to plant a detonator on the hull of the TIE fighter. But Moff Gideon sees the attempt and executes a sharp maneuver, causing the detonator to slip from its intended position and tumble away. Din barely manages to keep his grip as the ship veers wildly, but he’s not done yet. He moves with quick precision, planting a second detonator on the left wing joint. 

You watch from below, heart pounding, as Din releases his hold on the fighter. For a moment, he’s just a speck in the sky, free-falling as the detonator flashes red. Then, with a brilliant explosion, the TIE’s wing disintegrates, sending the ship spiraling out of control. The wreckage hurtles toward the ground, crashing in a fiery plume on the plains beyond.

Din activates his jetpack just in time, the blue thrusters flaring as he regains control of his descent. He lands hard, stumbling slightly as he adjusts to the new weight on his back. But he’s safe, standing tall, smoke rising in the distance where Gideon’s ship went down.

You disengage your lightsaber, the purple blade retracting with a sharp hiss, and holster it at your side. As you pass the Child to Cara, she cradles him protectively, her expression softening for a brief moment before returning to her usual stout-heartedness.

Without hesitation, you sprint toward Din, your heart racing with relief and something deeper. He sees you coming and barely has time to brace himself before you collide with him, throwing your arms around his neck. He catches you with steady arms, pulling you close, the firm grip of his gauntlets grounding you both. For a long moment, the world around you fades, and it’s just the two of you—alive, together, and safe.

You pull back slightly, standing on your tiptoes as your hands find the sides of his helmet. Gently, you press your forehead against the cool beskar, closing your eyes and letting out a shuddering breath. It’s a silent gesture, a keldabe kiss that speaks of everything you both feel but can’t yet put into words.

Greef Karga steps forward, a broad grin on his face. "That was impressive, Mando. Very impressive." He pauses, his gaze flicking between Din and you. "Looks like your Guild rates just went up."

You and Din step back from each other, but his hand finds yours, holding on tightly as if to anchor himself. He nods to Greef’s comment, then asks, "Any more stormtroopers?"

Greef shakes his head. "I think we cleaned up the town. I'm thinking of sticking around just to be sure." Cara nods in agreement, her expression firm. She sets the Child down, and it squeals with delight, waddling unsteadily toward you and Din.

Din watches the Child for a moment, then tilts his head toward Cara. "You’re staying here?"

Greef interjects, puffing his chest slightly as he looks around at the scorched streets of Nevarro. "Why not? Nevarro’s a fine planet. And now that the scum and villainy have been washed away, it’s quite respectable."

Din’s voice carries a note of skepticism even through the modulator as he replies, "As a bounty hunter hive?"

Greef chuckles, tapping Din on the shoulder. "Some of my favorite people are bounty hunters." He then shifts his attention to Cara, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And maybe this fine specimen of a soldier would consider joining our ranks."

Cara snorts, shaking her head. "I’ve got some clerical concerns regarding my chain code."

Greef grins, offering, "And if you’d agree to become my enforcer, clerical concerns would be the least of your worries."

The Child finally reaches Din, gripping his leg with both hands, gazing up with wide, trusting eyes. Din glances down, and even behind the visor, you can sense his heart soften. Greef notices too, then turns his focus back to Din. "But you, my friend—you’ll be welcome back into the Guild with open arms. Go off, enjoy yourself. And when you’re ready to return, you’ll have your pick of all the quarries."

Greef then shifts his gaze to you, his eyes warm. "And you, my dear, will always have a place at the med center. It’ll be there when you’re ready to come back."

Din adjusts the Child in his arms, his tone steady but resolute. "I’m afraid I have more pressing matters."

Cara reaches out, rubbing one of the Child’s large ears affectionately. The Child gurgles in response, and Cara smiles, looking at Din. "Take care of this little one." She then turns to you, her expression softening. "And her too."

Greef adds with a knowing twinkle in his eye, "Or maybe they’ll be the ones taking care of you."

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest as Din nods. He gently passes the Child to you, and as you cradle him, Din wraps an arm securely around your waist. His voice is low, almost tender, as he asks, "You ready?"

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance up at him through your lashes. "I’m terrified. Please don’t drop me."

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through the beskar. "Never."

With that, the two of you take off into the sky, the jetpack lifting you both. The wind rushes past, tugging at your clothes as your stomach flips. You squeeze your eyes shut, clinging to the Child close to your chest and Din as the ground falls away beneath you. Despite the dizzying height and the roaring wind, you feel a sense of peace—a quiet certainty that, no matter what happens, you’re safe in his arms.

The journey back to the Razor Crest is somber, the weight of loss hanging heavily in the air. Together, you and Din wordlessly bury Kuiil beneath the scorched sands of Nevarro. The burial is simple, just the two of you under the vast sky, the only sound the wind whispering through the rocks. Din kneels for a moment, his hand resting on the mound of earth, before rising slowly. Neither of you speak, the silence saying all there is to say.

With the burial complete, Din takes your hand, and together you walk back to the Razor Crest. His grip is firm, grounding you as the reality of the past few days settles in. As you step aboard the ship, the familiar hum of the engines provides a small comfort—a reminder that, despite everything, you’re still moving forward.

In the cockpit, you strap in beside Din, watching as he straps the Child into his seat. The little one’s eyes are wide, curious, and full of wonder. Din gently moves a bit of the Child’s shirt as he looks at the mythosaur necklace around the Child’s neck, allowing it to stay with him. The Child coos softly, fingers grasping the pendant as if it holds some great significance.

Din settles into the pilot’s seat, and with a few swift motions, the Razor Crest rumbles to life. The ship lifts off, the ground falling away beneath you as the stars come into view. The vastness of space opens up before you, dark and endless.

You lean back in your seat, trying to shake off the lingering unease. But as the stars streak past, that sinking feeling in your chest refuses to leave. It gnaws at you, a quiet but insistent reminder that this isn’t the end. This is just the beginning��of something larger, something more dangerous than you could ever have imagined.

The Razor Crest sails deeper into the galaxy, leaving the ashes of Nevarro behind, but the weight of the journey ahead presses down on you. Whatever awaits, you know one thing for certain: it’s far from over.

TAGLIST:

@wastingspaces@avengersheart@lunatic1012@keepingupwiththeskywalkers@mxltifxnd0m@syviiss@luckyzipperscissorsbat@avengersheart @dins-riduur-anthe @lizlil@n7cje @scoliobean @ofmusesandsecrets

[icycoldninja]

If requests are still open, could you please write Dante x male emotional empath?

Yes, of course. Hope you don't mind if I do headcannons.

Dante x Male!Empath!Reader headcannons

-So, what is an empath? An empath is one who has a deep understanding of people and emotions, and usually naturally has a nurturing nature.

-Dante hasn't been in a nurturing environment since he was a little boy, so having you around is both new and familiar all at the same time.

-He loves how you just seem to know what he needs without him having to say anything.

-You kind of remind him of his mother (even though you're a dude) in that regard, always knowing what to do or say, whenever he needed comfort or just someone to sit with.

-One downside of being an empath is that you're sensitive, which means Dante's witty jokes, if taken too far, can make you cry.

-Dante never wants to see you cry, ever; he hates watching you sit there all ruddy cheeked and teary eyed. It made him feel like a big stupid jerk and for making you sad like that, he kinda was.

-To keep this from happening ever again, Dante's mindful of what he says to you; what might be a meaningless joke to him could be a hurtful insult to you.

-Dante will be there whenever you're feeling down, regardless of whether he caused your sadness or not.

-He'll scoop you into his arms and cradle you, shushing you, assuring you he loves you, and trying to get you to talk your feelings out.

-You help him heal from his trauma, and in return, he protects you from anyone or anything that might try to hurt you. What a duo.

[lov3notts]

Hear me out: Theo actually has the hits for Cedric too and that’s why he teases him, so he likes the both of us 💋 and Cedric is so kind and submissive he would let him be part of the relationship.

Ngl you created a need in me, Poly!Cedric x reader x Theo

you know what… hell yeah.

but this has to be a completely different universe. Bf’s Enemy!Theo absolutely hates Cedric, he‘s to “perfect”. Everyone loves Cedric, parents- teachers- probably even the bloody portraits. He’s Everything Theo isn’t trying to be, but is constantly compared too. But i can totally see this in a different universe& will probably write about it in the future. just an excuse to write them both in smut with reader. 🫦