#his armour SUCKS to draw but i also only recognise him with his armour on . so politely dont comment on it

[singscribbles]

tactitician’s tent

[one-boring-person]

Hii, I'm unsure as to who do you take requests for :( I'll just hope that you write for the yautja!

Could you maybe write a yautja's reaction to his furure mate seeing his face for the first time and they are like "😳" and all of the sudden they are even more shy around him since their crush on him only got stronger?

Thank you for reading and sorry if I requested a character you don't write for, haha. Please, feel free to ignore my request if that's the case! Have a lovely day! 💙

All of the characters I write for are listed on my character list, which can be found via my masterlist, but I'm glad you requested this, because it's given me the chance to try writing something new. This is my first time writing for a yautja, so I'm sorry if it sucks😅💛

Are You ill?

Yautja x reader

Warnings: some minor bad language

Masterlist

They're tapping under his mask again, the rhythmic clinking of their blunt nails on the dented metal drawing the yautja's attention to the human in his arms. He looks down at them, finding their wide eyes fixed on him, clearly curious, as they always have been, their lips drawn into what he's come to recognise as fascination - he's still a little unsure of which emotions are displayed by which expression, but he has a pretty good idea. Their hand rests by the chin of the face mask, fingers running over the covering, their other hand splayed on his chest to keep them balanced. He's not wearing his chest and shoulder armour, or the majority of his arm greaves, and his legs are bare of their metal shielding to make him more comfortable, but his face is still covered, and that means (Y/n) is likely to fidget with it.

Inside his mask, the yautja clicks questioningly, his mandibles and mouth starting to form awkwardly around unfamiliar words.

"What are you doing?" His voice always sounds unnaturally coarse to him as he speaks the human language, whichever dialect it is, the lexis unnatural to him as he forces his way through the question.

They look startled, but only momentarily, their eyes flicking up to the eyes of his mask, a smile playing at their face. He knows that expression - content.

"Oh, nothing. Just...Curious, is all." (Y/n) sounds so much sweeter when speaking their natural language, their voice running through the sentences smoothly and wonderfully.

"Curious?" He coughs up the word, stilling his hands on their back, lightly caressing his fingertips over their hips instead, careful to mind his shape claws; he can still feel the scar where he once caught them on their side.

"Yeah." The affirm, nodding. 

"Why?" 

They don't even have to think through what they're saying.

"I'm curious as to what you look like without your mask on." They inform him, shifting to lean up on their elbows, putting their weight on his chest, not that there is much weight. He could hold them up with two fingers, easily.

At their words, however, he has to take a moment to process them, roughly translating them in his head. As he figures it out, his body stiffen slightly, mandibles clicking together in consideration.

"You will not like what you see." Is all he says, turning his head away - he's not displeased with how he looks, but he is aware that humans are more particular when picking mates than yautja are, and his looks are not the norm for them.

"How do you know?" (Y/n) shakes their head, "And anyway, appearance shouldn't change anything in a relationship. It's not the most important factor."

Their response is encouraging to him, once he's deciphered the foreign words, but he's still hesitant. Inadvertently, he makes a sharper clicking sound, one of contemplation this time, but they just smile and lightly rub at one of his dreadlocks, sending small sparks of pleasure through him. Purring lowly, the yautja relaxes, enjoying their touch, feeling more at ease now.

"If you wish to see my face, I will show you." He eventually says, sitting up with the human still cradled against his chest, settling them in his lap as he lifts a hand to unfasten the gas tubes. Hissing sounds ensue as he plucks the tubing from its relevant inserts, his nerves sparking up slightly as he notices (Y/n) watching intently. Internally, he scolds himself for being weak: a hunter like him should not be so afraid to show his face to another.

Slowly, deliberately, the yautja reaches up and hooks his fingers under the lip of his mask, taking a firm hold of it as he pulls it upwards, clearing it of his dreadlocks and jaw. As his face is exposed to the light of the room, he has to let his eyes adjust slightly, unused to seeing in this light without his helmet. He drops the mask to the floor beside them, returning his gaze back to the human sat on his thighs, mandibles clacking together nervously.

(Y/n) is silent. Their eyes are fixed on him, roaming his every feature, his every scar, lingering on the powerful tusks jutting out from his jaw, their mouth falling open in surprise. Purring to help calm them, the yautja tilts his head to the side, keeping still as he waits for them to respond, his breath catching as he runs through every possible scenario in his head. They don't seem to be reacting badly, but they've stayed quiet for a good minute now, and that worries him. 

"Holy mother of god…" They finally say, voice quiet as they lean back to look at him properly, eyes wide. A blush is quickly rising to their cheeks, but the yautja doesn't say anything - The red flush on human faces has never quite made sense to him.

"You are afraid?" He clicks, misreading their tells as he reaches for his mask again.

Hastily, they shake their head, mouth opening and closing as they struggle for words.

"No! No, I'm not. Quite the opposite." They laugh shyly, turning their head away as they shift in his lap. 

Purring again, he lifts a hand and takes their chin in his grip, gently, like he's seen humans do before, tilting their head towards him, scrutinizing their expression. Their skin is warm to the touch, and their face is bright red, signs that draw a worried click from him.

"Are you ill?" He asks them, pressing his palm to their cheeks, trying to gain a more accurate reading on their skin temperature. 

Surprisingly, they only chuckle, carefully pushing his hand away as they lift their own, hesitantly placing a finger on one of his upper mandibles. Gently, they run the digit along the curve of his face, tracing over the strong muscle in his jaw, marvelling at the power there. He has to fight the urge to nip at their finger as it draws close to his inner mouth, unable to help it as his tongue slips out in its stead, teasing at the appendage playfully. They giggle, cupping his face in their hands as best they can, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lower mandibles. Ecstatic, he purrs loudly, wrapping his arms around them so he can pull them flush against his massive body, his head ducking down to nuzzle at their hair, glad that they seem comfortable with him. His dreadlocks create a shield around them, and he feels a sense of relief and joy go through him as they return the embrace, small hands coming round to bury themselves in his black locks. 

"You are not afraid?" He hums into their hair, still feeling some tension in the air, though there is also a new scent, one he recognises from other humans.

"N-no…" They admit, keeping their head down as they allow some nerves to creep into their voice.

Confused, the yautja breathes in the scent deeply, trying to remember what it is. After a moment, he figures it out, leaning back to look into their face. Naturally, they bite their lip and look away, face blushing a furious red now.

"You are attracted to my face?" He questions in surprise, mandibles clicking together.

It takes a moment for them to reply, their head nodding very slightly.

"Yes…" They confess, covering their face with their hands.

Elated, the yautja doesn't say anything, just pulling them in to nuzzle affectionately at their cheeks, remembering that humans often do similar things to show fondness.

(Y/n) giggles, hiding their face in his chest.

"Humans are strange." He remarks in amusement, cradling them back against his chest, running his hands over their back comfortingly. 

"Yeah, we are."

[jaskicr]

for buffskier, for some reason jaskier has to wear geralt’s armour (this is like @spielzeugkaiser’s art) and geralt realises that his armour fits jaskier extremely well. and also jaskier can lift his (rather heavy) sword and can also fight with it

i love a good clothes swap and i had a lot of fun writing it, so this got longer than expected, oops! (also known as: let me see how many of my favourite tropes i can gleefully shove into this) and thank you to @spielzeugkaiser for letting me write a ficlet inspired by their art<3

“No, no,” Jaskier says frantically. “That village - it’s not a good idea. Let’s find another place to get a contract.”

Geralt frowns. “Why not? There’s a well-paying contract there.”

"Trust me, it’s better if we find another one,” Jaskier insists. 

“There are no other villages that are within a day’s ride,” Geralt points out, annoyed. Why is Jaskier being so adamant?

Jaskier sighs, pinching his nose. “I’ve been there, okay? They weren’t very - receptive towards my songs. They loathe you.”

“That’s not news,” Geralt comments dryly.

“You don’t get it, Geralt.” Jaskier rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “The Blaviken thing - they’re really, really set on that.”

“We need to stock up on supplies, and we’re basically out of coin,” Geralt grumbles. They could camp for the night, but it really wouldn’t be ideal. Besides, Geralt is used to the boundless hate thrown at him for Blaviken. This will just be another hateful town, and he can handle it. “I need to take the contract, Jaskier.”

Jaskier throws his hands up with another loud sigh. “Geralt -”

“I’m used to it.” It’s the truth, but familiar anger ignites in Jaskier’s eyes at the thought of the injustice directed towards Geralt, and it warms Geralt to see Jaskier so protective of him, even if it isn’t anything either of them can change.

“They truly hate you, Geralt, and I don’t want you to be subjected to that.” Jaskier’s voice is concerned, worried. “If only we could…” his voice trails off, and he murmurs, “oh.”

“What?” Geralt asks warily. There’s a glint in Jaskier’s eyes that Geralt has come to recognise as Jaskier having one of his ideas, ideas that usually end in disaster.

“What if...” Jaskier pauses, grinning, which does not bode well. “Gods, I’m a genius. They’ve never seen you, so they don’t know what you look like.”

“... And?”

“Well, they’re expecting the Butcher of Blaviken to be a white-haired, golden-eyed witcher with big fuck-off swords and a surly demeanour,” Jaskier rambles, eyes brightening. “But if we swap clothes, and I pretend to be a witcher and you can pretend to be a bard, then they won’t suspect anything!”

“That’s...” stupid, Geralt wants to say, but as crazy as Jaskier’s idea sounds, Geralt needs to take the contract, and as much as he hates to admit it, Jaskier’s idea is likely their best shot. Gods, is he really going to go along with one of Jaskier’s harebrained schemes? 

“It’s genius, isn’t it?” Jaskier says with a proud smile on his face, looking expectantly at Geralt. “We can waltz into town, me as a witcher and you as a bard, take the contract, you can slay the monster, then I can collect the payment, pretending to have killed the monster. It’s perfect!”

Jaskier’s idea is one of his better ones, though Geralt is still dubious about pulling it off. “Our clothes won’t fit each other.”

“Oh, trust me,” Jaskier reassures him confidently. “They will.”

After some needling from Jaskier, Geralt eventually gives in reluctantly, softening slightly when Jaskier sends him a triumphant grin. He doubts that this will work - after all, his armour will likely be too big for Jaskier, and Jaskier’s frivolous, vibrant clothes will undoubtedly be too small for him, but Geralt always gives in to Jaskier in the end. It won’t work, but Geralt might as well let Jaskier indulge for a few moments. 

They turn their backs to one another as they strip off their clothes to swap with each other, and Geralt can’t stop his eyes from wandering over to Jaskier. Jaskier’s doublet is strewn on the ground, and when he pulls his shirt over his head, Geralt’s mouth goes dry.

Jaskier’s back is unexpectedly broad, the strength evident in the width of his shoulders, and Geralt sucks in a breath as Jaskier bends over to take off his trousers, his firm bottom directly in Geralt’s view, and as Jaskier pushes his trousers down, Geralt gets an eyeful of thighs that are thick with muscle, built up over long hours of walking, and strong, shapely calves.

Geralt hurriedly whips his head around, his face heating up suddenly. 

Well. That had certainly been unexpected. 

Where had Jaskier been hiding all of that?

Geralt keeps his mind on taking his own clothes off, determinedly not thinking about the sight he’d just seen. When Jaskier’s clothes land next to him with a thump, Geralt tosses his own armour over his shoulder, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to not turn around and catch another glimpse of that expanse of tantalising skin. 

Picking up Jaskier’s cream-coloured shirt and sky blue trousers, Geralt eyes them dubiously, reluctant to put them on. They’re rather too bright for his taste, and Geralt fears that he might accidentally rip Jaskier’s clothing - though after what he’d seen earlier, that doesn’t seem to be the case. 

Geralt gingerly pulls the sky blue trousers on, grimacing inwardly at the way the too-bright colour stands out against his pale skin. To his surprise, his legs slide in without much resistance, and he barely has to struggle for the trousers to fit, with the trousers only squeezing his calves and his ass the slightest bit. 

He hadn’t expected to be able to squeeze into Jaskier’s trousers, and certainly hadn’t expected them to fit so well. They’re slightly short on him, though not by much, since he and Jaskier are nearly of height, and Jaskier’s trousers don’t fit that much tighter than his own. 

Less tentative now, Geralt pulls on Jaskier’s shirt. Like the trousers, it’s a slightly tight fit, particularly around the chest and shoulders, but not tight enough to be uncomfortable, and looking down at himself, Geralt finds himself once again surprised at just how well Jaskier’s clothes fit him. 

Behind him, Jaskier lets out a teasing whistle. “Well, would you look at that lovely bottom.”

Groaning, Geralt turns around. “Jaskier, why -” He chokes on his own spit when he sees Jaskier before him, decked out in black leather. “Unf.”

The armour fits well. Very well. Unlike what Geralt had expected, the armour doesn’t hang loosely off Jaskier’s body but hugs it perfectly, fitting almost as well as Jaskier's own tailored clothes. The bulk of Geralt’s armour only serves to make Jaskier seem more broad, a hulking, dangerous presence. 

Geralt had thought that his armour would hang from Jaskier’s shoulders in an unflattering way, too loose to be practical, practically drowning him in fabric. Instead, the armour clings to Jaskier’s body in all the right ways, drawing Geralt’s eyes to the wide expanse of Jaskier’s shoulders and the thickness of his biceps. Geralt’s trousers are pulled taut over Jaskier’s thighs, the strength in them clearly visible through the tight fabric. 

For a moment, Geralt sees another witcher looking back at him, broad-shouldered and strong, ready to take down the monsters that roam the Continent, but the illusion is shattered when Jaskier sends him a slow, lazy grin. 

“Well, it seems that you’re wrong,” Jaskier purrs, prowling towards Geralt, and he makes quite a sight, looming and lethal as he approaches Geralt, and Geralt has to swallow down an involuntary gulp. Gods preserve him. “Our clothes fit each other quite well. Extremely well.”

His eyes rake down the length of Geralt’s body, something almost hungry sparking in his gaze as it lingers on the way his shirt is stretched just slightly too tight around Geralt’s chest, the way his blue trousers cling to Geralt’s legs and ass, and Geralt had to fight the urge to hide himself from a look so predatory that he feels as if he’s being sized up for a meal.

“Yeah, um, yes,” Geralt stammers, and why is he stammering? He tries again, grasping for words that elude him with every second he’s graced with the sight of Jaskier in his armour. “Hm. I - yes.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier’s eyes are sparkling, and Geralt gets the distinct impression that Jaskier is laughing at him. 

“We, uh - your plan worked,” Geralt mumbles. He wants to avert his gaze, wants to duck his head in embarrassment, but his eyes refuse to leave Jaskier, desperately drinking him in. “We can, uh…”

Jaskier chuckles. “Let’s head into the village then. Better not waste any time.”

“Yes,” Geralt says faintly, watching as Jaskier heads over to where Geralt’s swords are laid out. “Uh, right. Can you, uh, lift them?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, bending down and reaching for the swords, and sweat beads at Geralt’s temple as the tight leather trousers pull tight around Jaskier’s ass. “Lift them? Of course I can, my dear witcher - or my dear bard, I should say - they’re not that heavy.”

He closes his hands around each sword, one steel and one silver, hefting them thoughtfully in his hands. Geralt realises with a start that Jaskier is holding his swords like he knows what to do with them, like he’s fought with swords before. Jaskier keeps surprising him today, it seems.

Jaskier slides the swords into the sheaths on his back with practised ease, then grins at Geralt. “Well, my darling bard, shall we?”

My darling bard, Jaskier purrs with a low tone that makes Geralt’s too-slow heart beat just a little too fast, and Geralt swallows at how easily Jaskier refers to him as his. 

“W - what?” Gods, he really is distracted, and Jaskier smirks at him. 

“We need to take the contract, Geralt,” Jaskier reminds him, amusement dancing across his face. “Come on, grab my lute, and we can go.”

“Right,” Geralt mutters, turning away to hide the way his cheeks are burning. The weather is really quite hot today. Reaching for Jaskier’s lute, he slings it over his shoulder the way he’s watched Jaskier do thousands of times, and heads towards Roach, getting ready to leave. 

“You look good as a bard,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt startles, turning back to look at him in surprise. Jaskier winks at him, and surely Geralt’s eyes must be deceiving him, because Jaskier has that glint in his eye when he flirts with young men and women that catch his fancy - now, that glint and that wink are directed at Geralt, and gods, the weather is really hot. Maybe he should go take a dip in a stream later. 

Maybe he can even ask Jaskier to join him, and watch as water drips down his body, the droplets clinging to the bare lines of his muscles, and why the fuck is Geralt even thinking this?

Shaking the tempting image from his mind, Geralt croaks out, “We should. Uh. Let’s go.” 

His face still feels too hot as he clambers on Roach, resolutely not looking at Jaskier as they set out towards the town. Despite his efforts, images of Jaskier’s body bombard his mind - his wide back, his strong thighs, his shapely ass, and Geralt has to make a concentrated effort to stay on Roach. 

Though it wouldn’t be a hardship if he were to fall off Roach and have Jaskier catch him in those strong, thick arms -

And Geralt needs to get a fucking grip. One look at his surprisingly muscular friend and now it’s all he can focus on. 

When they finally arrive at the village, Geralt is beyond grateful for something else to distract his thoughts from how they’re spiralling into increasingly inappropriate territory. Jaskier is his travelling companion, his best friend, for gods’ sake, Geralt shouldn’t be thinking this about him. 

The villagers bristle with thinly veiled hostility as they pass, glaring at Jaskier, and Geralt hunches his shoulders and ducks his head, doing his best to hide his eyes, but no one pays him any mind. Their eyes slide over Geralt’s colourful clothing and lute to rest hatefully on Jaskier, who strides on with a blank mask on his face, unbothered by their stares, looking every part a dangerous, deadly witcher. 

Geralt can practically touch the hostility that thrums in the air, his enhanced hearing catching snatches of witcher and mutant and butcher, and he grudgingly admits that Jaskier was right - had they not swapped their clothes, Geralt would’ve been chased out of the village for being the Butcher of Blaviken. While the town is clearly not welcoming towards witchers, they’re likely making an exception for any witcher who isn’t Geralt.

They head into the village’s biggest tavern, and Geralt hangs back as Jaskier stalks up to the man who’d put out the contract, listening to the details of the monster - a few nekkers, nothing too dangerous - as Jaskier negotiates payment far more skilfully than Geralt could ever have done. After a few minutes, Jaskier returns to Geralt, and they leave the tavern with distrustful gazes on their backs.

“It doesn’t sound like a big nest,” Geralt murmurs, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear. “Let’s deal with it and get out of here.”

“How did you - ah, witcher hearing, yes, silly me.” Jaskier scans their surroundings warily. “If we get changed in the forest, you can take care of them and then we can change back, collect our gold, buy what we need, and leave. No one will even suspect anything.”

Geralt frowns as Jaskier steers them in the direction of the forest. “But the nest is in the forest, it might not be safe -”

“It’ll be fine,” Jaskier dismisses, waving a hand. “We’ll just make sure to be quick.”

Geralt wants to disagree, but he keeps his mouth shut as they head into the forest, trying to tell himself that it’ll be fine. After all, it’s not like the nest will be that close to the village anyway. They’ll be fine.

“We just need to be far enough from the village that no one sees,” Jaskier says cheerfully as they wander deeper into the forest. “Then you can go do your witchering -”

Then Geralt feels a rumble beneath his feet, and he barely has the time to shout out Jaskier’s name before several nekkers burst from the ground, surrounding them.

“Fuck!” Geralt curses. He’s not in armour, his sword is with Jaskier, who’s too far away for Geralt to get to in time, and Jaskier is drawing the silver sword, what the fuck is he doing -

Two nekkers leap at Jaskier, and even as Geralt raises his hand to cast Aard, he knows it’s too late to stop them from tearing into Jaskier - but then Jaskier dodges them easily, slashing Geralt’s sword through the air, decapitating one of the nekkers, and Geralt’s jaw drops at the skill and speed with which Jaskier handles his sword.

Geralt doesn’t have much time to stare in shock, however, as he detects a few nekkers trying to ambush him from behind, and he casts Aard to blast them back. He has his signs, at least, and with the nekkers pushed away from him, he quickly glances towards Jaskier just in time to see him run his sword through a nekker’s chest, then duck under a swipe from another nekker, rolling up behind it to deliver a deadly gash to it with his sword, and just like that, Jaskier has dispatched all the nekkers that had surrounded him.

Something burns in Geralt at the sight of Jaskier in his armour, wielding his swords, easily holding his own against a pack of monsters, and Geralt pushes it to the side for the moment. He has no time for distractions.

“Jaskier,” he calls, his hands ready to cast a sign as he watches the nekkers from earlier recovering from Aard, and Jaskier, as always, understands what Geralt wants before he says it, and tosses the sword to Geralt.

Geralt catches it just in time to slash his sword across a nekker’s throat, leaving one nekker snarling viciously at him. It lunges at him, and Geralt dodges its attack, swinging his sword and managing to catch it in the throat, but he’s so preoccupied with it that he doesn’t notice the shift in the air behind him until it’s too late.

Geralt braces himself for the pain of deadly claws digging into his back, but nothing comes, and he turns to see Jaskier standing behind him, Geralt’s steel sword in his hand as the head of a nekker thuds to the ground.

“You’re welcome,��� Jaskier says, only sounding slightly out of breath. “Well, wouldn’t you say that this contract has gone rather swimmingly?”

Geralt can’t answer, unable to formulate a response as he stares at Jaskier, standing before him with a triumphant smile, Geralt’s sword in his hand and Geralt’s clothes on his body, and well, Geralt had always been rather attracted to competence, and what Jaskier had done…

“You can. Fight?” Geralt stutters dumbly, tongue like lead in his mouth as his mind replays the last few minutes of Jaskier swinging his sword with an expertise that few can match, of how Jaskier had managed to hold his considerably heavy sword far longer than most humans can, of the way Jaskier’s thighs had tensed underneath those tight trousers when he’d crouched before lunging at the nekkers.

Jaskier shrugs, the movement drawing Geralt’s gaze to the breadth of his shoulders as he slides the steel sword back into its sheath in one smooth motion. “You sound surprised.”

“I… didn’t know,” Geralt says slowly. Since when has Jaskier been able to fight?

“I never told you, because you never asked,” Jaskier admits with a rueful smile. “It was worth the look on your face, though. You still look rather dumbstruck, my bard.”

Geralt opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I…”

Jaskier’s eyes gleam, and he stalks towards Geralt with predatory intent, mouth curling in a lazy grin. “Why, Geralt,” he purrs, stopping just in front of Geralt. He reaches out and captures Geralt’s chin in one hand, forcing his gaze up from where it had been wandering down Jaskier’s body. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Like what?” Geralt manages, held in place by the force of Jaskier’s gaze, their faces too close together for Geralt’s brain to work properly.

Jaskier laughs. “You do,” he murmurs, and for a moment, Geralt holds his breath, waiting for something -

But then Jaskier steps away, releasing his grip on Geralt’s chin, and some part of Geralt mourns the warmth. “Let’s go,” Jaskier says, casual as ever, like he hadn’t been pressed close to Geralt just a moment ago. He starts walking back to town, leaving Geralt staring after him, frozen in place.

He doesn’t move for several moments, blinking at Jaskier’s retreating back, and his eyes involuntarily wander downwards, appreciating the way his own tight trousers do wonders for accentuating Jaskier’s thick thighs and firm ass. It’s only when Jaskier turns his head back to look at Geralt with a raised eyebrow that Geralt is pulled out of his trance, realising that his mouth had fallen open rather embarrassingly when he’d been ogling Jaskier’s assets.

“You coming?” Jaskier calls, and there’s something teasing in his voice, a quirk in his smile that hints at a promise of more, a whisper of later, and Geralt’s breathing stutters.

And as he stumbles after Jaskier, who’s still clad in Geralt’s armour and looking unfairly good as he struts in front of Geralt, all he can think is, gods, he’s going to kill me.

dkjfgn i made geralt very, very thirsty. this was so utterly self indulgent and i just threw in a bunch of my favourite tropes lmao

update: here’s the sequel!:)

[whumperscorner]

Hello! I've just discovered your whumpy FFXV fanfics and oh my gosh I absolutely adore your writing and ideas! I love a whumpy Prompto story! I've looked over the whump bingo and I think Prompto and "Strapped to a bomb" would be a really interesting/whumpy story! Of course please don't feel pressured to write this if you don't want to and I'm so sorry if this comes across as rude. I hope you have a lovely day!

Ah thank you anon! Don’t worry it definitely doesn’t come off as rude :3 I’m really happy you’ve enjoyed my writing!

Decided to try someone kinda new with this, going with Cor’s pov for the first time, so hopefully that will still be somewhat enjoyable eheh

BTHB #6- Strapped to a Bomb

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Characters: Prompto Argentum, Cor Leonis, Nyx Ulric (a little bit)

Whumpee: Prompto Argentum

Word count: 2568

Warnings: none

This work can also be found on ao3 :3

Cor lets his eyes finish skimming through the document in his hand. Then he throws it onto his desk along with all the other documents he’s read through and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s been a very long, very uneventful day. Glancing at his watch, Cor is relieved to find there’s now only a little over an hour until he can leave. Though of course then he has to make his way through the traffic of the streets surrounding the Citadel, which is always a nightmare at this time of day. Now with the furrow between his brows made even deeper than usual, Cor returns to the paperwork. He’s moving on to what he thinks should be the last document in the pile when heavy breathing and rushed footsteps sound through the otherwise empty corridor.

"Marshal-"

"What." Cor's voice is tinged with irritation. This better be damn important for someone to barge in right at the tail end of his workday.

"You’ve been summoned at the entrance," says the breathless recruit. "it’s something about your son."

It doesn’t even take a full second for Cor to react and be up on his feet. He grabs his jacket and phone and hurries out of the office along with the recruit. Not that it’s out of the ordinary for Prompto to come to the Citadel, whether it’s Cor he’s coming to see or Prince Noctis whenever he’s around. Normally he would just let himself in though, and that along with the frantic look on the recruit’s face - no, something has to be wrong.

"What’s the situation?" Cor asks, not bothering to look back and just assuming the recruit is following him as he strides down the hall.

"I don’t know, I was just told to get a hold of you quickly." Comes the answer from behind. Cor almost has time to get annoyed at the lack of information, but the recruit keeps going. "Glaive Ulric and Glaive Altius are there already, and when I left they'd started working to evacuate employees outside of the Glaive."

Cor curses under his breath. Evacuation of the other employees? He trusts Nyx and Crowe enough to make that call, but since they have it has to be something serious. Cor enters the elevator and taps his foot impatiently on the floor, infuriated by how slow the descent is seemingly going. His mind races through all the different possibilities for what could be going on, and how Prompto could be involved in it.

The familiar dingand the sound of elevator doors opening cannot come soon enough, and the second it does he's on the move again. It takes him almost no time at all, though still too long in Cor's mind, to make his way to the doors at the main entrance. From the vantage point there he can already see parts of what's going on. Further down the staircase are multiple glaives already at work. Cor recognises Crowe where she stands at the side, gesturing to the people around and obviously in the midst of the evacuation work. He spares a short moment to send the recruit, who is still following behind him, over in her direction with orders to assist in the evacuation work. Then he sees Nyx, standing a bit further down, and then finally he sees a familiar tuft of blond hair. Prompto is talking to Nyx. Cor can't hear what they're saying as he makes his way towards them, but he can tell from meters away that something is wrong with Prompto. It's the way he's holding himself, tense and unnaturally stiff in his movements.

When Cor is close enough, he sees Prompto’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens in a silent plea. Cor lets his own expression soften some and sends him a reassuring nod. It’s at least intended as one, but he’s not sure it helps. Prompto still looks so very scared, and it pricks Cor’s heart painfully. He's about to turn to Nyx, to demand an explanation as to what's going on, but his attention is caught by something else. Peeking through behind the half-open zipper on Prompto's hoodie is some foreign object.

"Open your hoodie Prom, let me see that." Cor says. His mouth feels too dry all of a sudden, but he keeps his voice low and calm despite it. Prompto shifts uneasily but complies. With two shaky hands he fumbles a bit with the zipper, eventually getting it up. What reveals itself is a jumbled mess of wires and various cylindrical objects in black and grey, all fastened together with tape and zip-ties, strapped around Prompto's stomach like a horrid belt. It's most definitely home made, but there's no mistaking it. Cor recognizes explosives when he sees them.

"The hell-" Cor hisses. Though he immediately regrets that and cuts himself off when Prompto shrinks in on himself as if the curse is directed at him. Worry and disbelief swirl around in Cor's stomach. He turns his head to Nyx so fast his neck nearly twists. "What's going on here?"

The look on Nyx's face mirrors Cor's own emotions, and the crease to his brows deepens as he answers in a hushed voice. "Crowe and I found him standing here just earlier, says someone put that," and he motions with his head towards the device. "on him and dropped him off here with orders to go inside. He didn't see their faces."

Now anger flares up in Cor along with all the other conflicting emotions. Someone had dared to put a godsdamn bomb on his son. Cor feels his body tense up, and his hands balling into tight fists. He wants his hands on them, to make them regret ever thinking they could touch Prompto. But that will have to wait, Cor knows it. The top priority has to be getting that thing off of Prompto safely. He bites back another curse by pressing his lips into a thin line and wills himself to loosen the fists, though the tension still lingers in them.

"Bomb squad?" He asks.

"Already called, should be here any minute." Comes Nyx's answer, and Cor nods. He'd rather they were there already, but pushes that thought aside, they'll just have to wait. He then turns his attention back to Prompto. His son's eyes are wide and fearful, darting in between Nyx and Cor. His hands clutch the ends of the hoodie hard but even then, Cor can see them trembling faintly. Now that nobody's talking anymore, he suddenly becomes aware of Prompto's breathing. How strained it is, coming in short, shallow gasps. As if he's trying not to breathe at all.

Now every part of Cor's body urges him to rush to Prompto's side. To reassure him and tell him that everything will be alright. He knows he can't do that but takes one calm step forwards regardless. "Prompto-"

"No!" Prompto gasps, jerking back a step and stumbling slightly. It catches Cor completely off guard, and he stops dead in his tracks. Lifting his hands in a placating manner.

"Wha-"

"Don't come closer, please." Prompto's voice is barely more than a whisper, but to Cor it seems he might as well have been shouting. "If- if it blows, I don't want to hurt you."

Cor feels like he's just been hit in the chest with something hard. This isn't how things are supposed to be. Prompto, his sunshine, should not have to be this scared- for himself or for Cor. Cor sucks in a sharp breath, and despite what his brain is screaming at him to do he takes a step back to where Nyx is standing. It takes considerable effort to keep his voice calm when Cor speaks up again. "Okay, okay. Prompto look at me," he urges, trying to hold his son's gaze intently with his own. "I'm going to be fine, and you're going to be fine. Do you understand?"

After another moment Prompto nods weakly, even as his eyes glaze over with unshed tears. Cor sighs, and wonders what on earth is taking the damn bomb squad so long. He's about to turn to Nyx with this same question when, as if on cue, Prompto's breath hitches and his eyes fixate on something over Cor's shoulder. He turns around and there, finally, he sees a group of about seven or so men and women prepped with armoured suits making their way down the staircase. It draws some stares and gasps from the few not in the Glaive who are still there, but thankfully the evacuation work has come so far that there aren't many around.

Cor lets his shoulders sag ever so slightly in relief as the woman who seems to be in charge of the group comes over to him and Nyx. They exchange a few words and what little information they have on the situation, and she nods in affirmation and begins her work. Ordering three of her people to secure the streets and immediate surroundings to the bottom of the staircase, and the rest to come with her as she movies calmly towards Prompto. Cor tries to send him another encouraging nod, but he looks possibly even more terrified than before. The wide, unsure eyes and trembling lips are not something Cor wants to see on his son's face ever again if he can avoid it.

"They," Prompto tries, but it comes out more a choked gasp than anything else, and he hurries to try again. "they said not to touch it." The words almost trip over themselves in the rush to get out, and Prompto sends Cor a pleading look. Almost desperate as members of the bomb squad are getting closer to him.

"These people know what they're doing, kid." Cor urges on, thankful that his voice carries such authority and doesn't betray any underlying worries. "Let them help. I promise it will all be fine." Anything else is out of the question, he thinks, but he doesn't say that. Instead opting to take on as soothing and confident an expression as possible.

Prompto nods again, but doesn't look any more convinced, letting slip a tiny whine when the approaching bomb technicians are close enough to touch. The woman orders the hoodie to be removed, and her associates make quick work of it. It's close to torture, Cor finds, having to stay where he is and only watch. Prompto stays stiff and unmoving as the hoodie is removed and thrown to the side, where Nyx goes to pick it up. In the clutter of people now around him, Prompto looks like a forlorn kitten, fixed to the ground and scared to move in any significant way.

"Timer?" asks the woman loudly.

"None ma'am." comes the answer.

At this the woman turns her attention back to Nyx and Cor. "We're sure it's timed?" She asks. "No chance it could be remote controlled?"

Cor opens his mouth to answer but to his great surprise, and the woman's too it seems, Prompto beats him to it. "It's timed," his voice shakes slightly as he speaks. "they said so when they dropped me off… f-fifty minutes." he stammers, then his voice dies down again.

A moment of stunned silence goes by, then the woman curses loudly. "You should have said so sooner!" She snaps. Cor sees how it makes Prompto shrink in on himself and hears his stuttered apologies. They need to figure out how much time they have left, and the last thing he wants is for Prompto to panic now. So he takes a careful step forward, intent on getting Prompto's attention away from the lady.

"Prompto look at me!" He implores loudly, cutting Prompto off in the midst of his train of apologies. "Just look at me. I need you to tell me how long you stood here before anyone arrived, can you do that?"

"I- 6 maybe 7 minutes, I think." He answers, swallowing hard. Cor nods at him again then hastily checks the time on his phone. It's been almost 30 minutes since he left his office, though to him it feels like much longer than that. Still, that doesn't leave them with much time, only a little under 20 minutes. Cor relays the information out loud, to which the woman nods and goes back to her work, not wasting another second on talking.

Through all this Prompto has been keeping his eyes locked on Cor, exactly as told. So Cor sees it the second he returns his attention to his son. That now with the working hands of multiple people back around his waist, and the knowledge of just how long he has left until an eventual untimely death- a little under 20 minutes, it's all too much. Cor can see it all swirling around in his head, can read it in his face. It's one of the effects of having cared for someone from when they were a small child, Cor knows his son, and he knows the breaking point is coming.

"Prompto," he begins softly, "keep your eyes focused on me, okay? Only on me, ignore anything else." Prompto nods, chokes out a sob, and lets the first few tears come. Cor sees them rolling down unhindered, and the wet streaks they leave on freckled skin. "It's okay," he hushes, barely even noticing that he's taken a few more steps towards Prompto. "you've been brave today. Now just let us fix the rest, okay? It'll be alright."

Cor keeps speaking softly like that for what somehow feels simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all. The tears are still running down Prompto's face, but he's managing to keep his attention mostly on Cor and not on the rest of the situation. It's working exactly how Cor was hoping it would. When, after some time, the bomb loosens from around Prompto's waist and movement surges all around it catches Prompto entirely off-guard. But not Cor. Cor rushes forward the second he sees that the explosives are removed and Prompto is being shoved away from them for the bomb squad to finish their work, and when Prompto stumbles Cor catches him. Relief floods through Cor's body like a breath of fresh air, and he wastes no time before dragging Prompto a few secure steps back. He's holding his son, and it's okay now.

Prompto cries for another while, not at all surprising given the rush and tension from the day, but he's at least safe. In a move uncharacteristically tender for Cor when they're anywhere other than the privacy of their home, he runs his hand through his son's soft hair and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. "You're okay Prom, you're okay."

The two are awarded some peace and quiet before Nyx comes to check on the two of them and provide them with the news that the bomb has been properly taken care of. When he does Cor gives him a grateful nod. He knows it's time for him to take Prompto home, but before that there's one last thing he needs to do.

"Make sure the security footage from today is thoroughly checked." Says Cor, his voice every bit as serious as the situation calls for. And now it's Nyx's turn to nod, knowing without needing to be told what he's on the lookout for. "I want them found and identified."

[headfulloffantasies]

Distress Call

Part3 of Clones and Kings.

Rex couldn’t remember the name Mando had given the youngling, and at this point he was too afraid to ask.

Ao3 link

Rex couldn’t remember the name Mando had given the youngling, and at this point he was too afraid to ask.

“What are you doing?” Mando found Rex leaning over the baby Not-Yoda.

“Nothing,” Rex jumped up. He refused to admit he was looking into the kid’s eyes to try and see Master Yoda in those liquid depths.

Rex followed Mando up into the cockpit of Mando’s rust bucket. The old thing was pre-Imperial. Older than Rex. Though he supposed that wasn’t saying a whole lot considering he’d been an eight-year-old soldier at the rise of the Empire.

The green bean waddled his way into the cockpit and somehow wiggled into the seat behind Mando.

Rex didn’t ask about the coordinates Mando punched into the controls. He just remained grateful to have a ride off Jakku.

They hit atmo and broke into the endless black of space. Rex never got tired of the tiny cold stars. A million worlds lived out there. Rex had been fortunate enough to see a few, even help save a fair number. But seeing them spread out in an endless array of unconnected lights never ceased to send a thrill up his spine.

Those same lights reflected off Mando’s silvery helmet. Mando never took his bucket off. Rex didn’t question it. He’d had shinies in his ranks who’d clung to the safety of the helmet; proud of their paint and afraid to show the fear on their faces during battle. It didn’t really matter. Rex could read his vod’s body language better than he could read Basic. Applying the same to Mando continued to startle and stab at the old wound.

The radio suddenly cackled. Mando reached over and jiggled something. A garbled voice tried to speak.

“It sounds like a distress call,” Mando said.

Rex leaned forward, straining to hear. Mando gave the radio a thump. The signal suddenly came through loud and clear.

“This is CT- 5097. Requesting backup. I need help.”

Rex’s blood ran cold. He knew that voice. Vod. He took a steadying breath.

“He sounds like you,” Mando said.

Rex shook his head. “Most clones do, to outsiders. No offense.”

“None taken.”

The other clone gasped, “CT-5097 in need of assistance. Any troopers receiving?”

Rex shook his head. “Turn it off.”

Mando looked at him sharply.

“Shut it down,” Rex said. He slammed his fist against his armrest. “Turn it off, dank ferrec!”

Mando flipped the switch.

Rex threw himself to his feet. He paced up and down the cockpit running his hands over his shaven scalp.

“What’s going on?” Mando asked. “Do you know who that was?”

“No,” Rex shook his head. “That’s the problem. I don’t know any trooper 5097. Clones don’t use their CT codes. We have our own names.” He jabbed a finger at the silent radio. “Whoever that is knows nothing about clones. He’s not using proper channels, or code phrases, or even a damn name.”

Master Yoda Junior whined in his seat.

Rex realised he’d shouted. His chest heaved and the blood rushed in his ears. He gulped a breath.

“That’s not a clone trooper. That’s someone who wants to catch a real clone trooper.”

Mando nodded. “Alright. It’s a trap. So, avoid it.”

Rex scoffed. “Avoid it? Kriff that. I’m going.”

“What do you mean you’re going?”

“It’s not a trap unless there’s bait,” Rex said darkly. He checked the blaster at his hip was loaded. “Are you in or out, Mando?”

Mando trusted Rex. It probably had something to do with Rex almost sacrificing himself for the foundling. But he also knew something about bonds forged in battle. Rex knew Mando was in before he nodded.

“Then I guess I better suit up,” Rex grabbed his bag and descended to the fresher. Rex couldn’t keep all his armour with him. It was too bulky to carry everywhere and he sure as kriff didn’t want to wear it on the daily in a post-Empire galaxy. But he kept a few pieces.

The blue paint had almost faded from the pauldrons. Rex smoothed a thumb over the stripes. Honestly, he should find some new paint. But every chip and scrape had been earned in battle beside his brothers. He named each piece of armour in Mando’a as he fit them on. He fastened the haalas gaid over his chest and the gadi guards around his wrists. He wished he had his cetare boots, but he’d taken a blaster bolt through the ankle ages ago, damaging the boot beyond repair. Rex looked up at himself in the tiny fresher mirror. He looked like an old soldier, worn and weary with battle.

He pulled out the buy’ce last. The painted eyes on the helmet had not faded. The rows of tally marks, one for every battle, stood proudly against the white. Rex sighed. He pressed his forehead to the brow of the helmet in a keldabe[CS1]  for his fallen brothers.

Rex climbed back into the cockpit with his helmet under his arm. The Mandalorian stiffened.

“You wear Stormtrooper armour,” Mando noted, his voice deceptively calm.

“I wear clone armour,” Rex snapped. “It was ours first.”

Mando tipped his head the way he did when he didn’t understand. Rex huffed.

“I know about Mandalorians,” Rex said. “I know how you feel about your armour. It’s part of you. Seeing someone else wearing your armour would be like seeing someone wearing your skin. Clones are the same.” He pounded his chest plate with his fist. “We are our armour. Think how that feels.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Think what it feels like to watch your brothers die and then to watch a whole army march around in their skins. Betraying everything we stood for. Everything we were made for.”

Mando bowed his head. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I know,” Rex said softly.

“Did no other clones survive?” Mando asked.

Rex shrugged helplessly. “I hope so. I’ve never met another since the Execution Order.” He sucked his teeth. “Probably I’m the last one. I truly don’t know. I ran, went into hiding with Commander Tano- Ahsoka,” he corrected.

Rex reminisced in the silence. He side-eyed Mando. “You’re not that young that you don’t remember the War?”

“Imperials killed my parents,” Mando said. “After that, I was raised in a strict Mandalorian sect. I had little contact and no interest with the outside world.”

Rex snorted. “You missed a few things.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Mando’s voice betrayed his smile.

Yoda the Younger babbled from his seat. He waved his clawed hands at Rex. Rex wondered again if the child shared memories with Master Yoda. Did he recognise Rex’s armour? Rex offered a hand. The child touched his claws to Rex’s wrist guards and traced the lines of blue paint.

Mando kept his helmet facing the ship’s controls, but Rex knew he watched out of the corner of his visor.

“Don’t give him anything you don’t want chewed on,” Mando advised. “I think he’s teething.”

Yoda Junior bit down on Rex’s gloved thumb. Rex barely resisted the reaction to rip his hand away. He gently extricated his fingers dripping with drool. The child’s wrinkled features twisted into a pout.

A few hours later, they dropped out of hysperspace. The distress call came from a space station. It disguised itself as a derelict, but a quick scan showed a dozen lifeforms and enough weapons to kill a planet.

“Wonder what they’re guarding?” Mando asked.

Rex smirked. “Let’s find out.”

Mando radioed in a distress call requesting emergency landing. The station management probably took one look at Mando’s junker on their screens and gave him permission to dock before he lost another heat shield.

Mando and Rex exited the ship with their blasters ready. Two woefully unprepared guards tried to draw their weapons. Mando and Rex shot one each. Rex scanned for more security. The hanger seemed empty.

“Get back on the ship.”

For a second Rex thought Mando was talking to him. He turned with a sharp retort on his tongue, until he noticed Mando wasn’t looking at him. Rex followed Mando’s line of sight. Baby Master Yoda toddled down the ship’s ramp. The tiny Jedi completely ignored his father and waddled over to grip Mando’s shin.

A sigh crackled through the helmet raised to heaven. “Fine. Stay quiet.”

Mando scooped the little one up and slung him into the pack hanging from Mando’s belt. Rex could only see the tips of little green ears. He shrugged and followed Mando out of the loading bay and into the heart of the space station.

Rex had served on Republic stations. They had order and fluidity to their construction. This Empire base was a nightmare. There seemed no rhyme or reason behind the set up. Rex was not an engineer or an architect, but surely the med bay and mess hall should be further apart to prevent the contamination of sick individuals and food sources.

They ran into guards in flimsy Imperial armour shouting chaotically around every corner. Mando dealt with them swiftly and brutally. Rex hardly needed to raise his blasters. By the time they made it to the correct lab, Rex was pretty sure the only lifeform left on the station was behind this door.

The door slid open to reveal a carbonite chamber. The hiss of pipes extinguished fog into the room. Through the smog, Rex could make out a single slab of carbonite leaning against the wall. He approached with his blaster at the ready.

The carbon fog parted. A gasp fell from Rex’s lips. He surged forward.

“Vod.” Rex reached up for the frozen planes of a face that looked exactly like his own. Rex searched the face for scars, or features to put a name to his brother. He couldn’t tell through the carbonite. The clone looked peaceful, like he’d simply fallen asleep. Rex had never seen a carbonite freeze without the rictus of pain. It sent a shiver down his spine.

“Do you know him?” Mando’s voice ripped through Rex’s clouded thoughts.

“I don’t know yet,” Rex grabbed the controls for the carbonite slab.

An alarm suddenly pierced the room. Mando flinched. A red light accompanied the blaring siren.

“That’s the intruder alert,” Rex said. He met Mando’s visor. “Somebody sent for backup.”

“I’ll deal with it.” The red light flashed over Mando’s helmet. He vanished into the swirl of fog.

Rex returned his attention to the carbonite controls. He started the unfreezing process.

The carbon melted away. Rex held his breath as if he were the one deprived of oxygen. The last of the crabon sloughed aside. The man inside took a shuddering breath.

The vod collapsed. Rex caught him around the shoulders. He lifted the man’s face.

“Wolffe?” Rex recognised the scar carved through his brother’s eye.

The clone’s forehead creased. He groaned. “Rex? What’s going on?”

“We’re getting out of here, brother,” Rex said. “Are you alright? Can you see?”

“I still got one working eye,” Wolffe touched the cybernetic implant.

Rex slung Wolffe’s arm over his shoulder and put one foot in front of the other. Carbon sickness sent tremors through Wolffe that Rex could feel racking his body.

Wolffe’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the ground. He gradually gained his bearings. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, obviously.”

“You stupid di’kut,” Wolffe growled. “Can’t you remember your dadita?”

Rex paused. He hadn’t thought of the numerical military code in years. Not since the Clone Wars. “What do you mean?”

Wolffe huffed. “CT-5097? 5097 is a trap, you idiot.”

“No kidding,” Rex resumed dragging Wolffe towards the lab doors. “But did you really think I’d leave you here?”

The doors suddenly swished open. Rex had his blaster up and ready in an instant. The fog parted. Mando stood silhouetted in the doorway.

Rex lowered the blaster. “Kriff, I could have killed you.”

“I lost Grogu,” Mando answered.

“What the kriff is a Grogu?” Wolffe groaned.

“His foundling,” Rex said. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

Mando shrugged. “He does that sometimes.”

Rex rolled his eyes to the ceiling and thanked the Maker for his helmet. “Where did you lose him?”

Mando didn’t respond. “I need you to help me find him.”

“Fine. Split up?”

Mando nodded and slid back into the shadows.

“I’m not hallucinating, right?” Wollfe asked. “That was a Mandalorian?”

“Yeah,” Rex trudged forward. “A kriffing stupid one.”

They left the lab behind and began making their way through the illogical corridors again. Wolffe hung off Rex’s arm, still too weak to walk on his own.

Now, how to find a baby Jedi. All of Rex’s experience with Master Yoda the Elder revolved around riddles wrapped in backwards phrases and a cane that would massacre ankles at every opportunity. That wouldn’t help at all. Rex’s Jedis had all been recklessly dangerous kriffers with a penchant for pulling victories out of thin air. If Rex had a cliff to throw himself off of, he was sure the baby Jedi would come running. But no cliffs presented themselves on the starship. So, what else did Jedi like? Lightsabers, senators, killing droids, and cloaks that reached the ground all came to mind. Still not helpful. What did Rex know of Yoda Junior specifically?

It hit Rex like a lightning bolt. Food. The little one was always hungry. Rex changed course and headed back towards the mess hall they’d initially passed.

They stepped over the body Mando had left sprawled in front of the cafeteria door. The glaring white lights illuminated industrial grey tables and a buffet style offering of food selections at the other end of the room.

Rex leaned Wolffe against the door. “Watch my six.”

Wolffe lifted a limp hand in a salute.

Rex approached the trays of food. He whispered. “Grogu?”

A chirp came from one of the steaming pans. A green ear poked over the edge. The kid sat in a plate what looked like meat rations. Crumbs and sauce smeared his chubby face and dribbled down his clothes.

“You’re going to give your dad a heart attack one of these days,” Rex told him. The baby twitched his great big ears and munched on another stick of meat.

Rex picked up the kid. Predictably, the child whined and reached for the food he’d left behind.

“We got to go,” Rex told him.

A proximity alarm blared, warning about a ship approaching.

Rex raced back to Wolffe.

“I told you it was a trap!” Wolffe snapped.

“You’re very smart, shut up.” Rex slung Wolffe’s arm over his shoulder again and hurried the three of them down the corridor towards Mando’s ship.

Mando came running around the corner. “Did you find him?”

Rex passed Yoda Junior to his father. Mando cradled the baby close. He wiped some of the mess on Yoda the Younger’s face with the edge of his cloak. “What did you get all over yourself?”

“Barbeque sauce,” Rex responded deadpan.

Mando sighed. “Alright, let’s go.”

They loaded onto the junk ship.

“What a piece of crap,” Wolffe muttered.

“You want to go back?” Rex asked.

“It’s a nice piece of crap,” Wolffe cocked him a mischievous grin.

“Buckle up,” Mando yelled from the cockpit. Rex shoved Wolffe up the ladder and followed. Wolffe fell into the co-pilot’s seat. His fingers fumbled on the harness. Rex swatted his hands aside and did the fastenings himself.

They shot away from the station. Mando hovered in space with the station filling the viewscreen. Rex gripped his armrests, waiting for the jolt of hyperspace. The seconds dragged out. Mando sat perfectly still.

Rex cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we-?”

Three Imperial ships dropped out of hyperspace on the other side of the station. Mando slapped the controls and their view melted into the rays of starlight shooting by at faster than light speeds.

“What was that?” Rex demanded. “You let them see us.”

“And now we know who we’re dealing with,” Mando replied.

“You’re crazy as a bantha, you know that?” Wolffe piped up.

“It’s been said.” Mando shoved back from the pilot’s seat and headed down the ladder. “Make yourself comfortable. It’s a long ride.”

Rex stood and approached Wolffe. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Wolffe shook his head. “They didn’t care to hurt me. They just wanted me to send that message.”

“Why exactly did they want a clone trooper to broadcast into deep space anyways?” Rex asked.

“Because of you,” Wolffe skewered Rex with his single natural eye. “Even the Imps know you run with Commander Tano. They wanted to draw you both out.”

Rex sighed. He ran a hand over his short hair. “I’m sorry, brother.”

Wolffe laughed a choked sound. “You need to let go of that commander complex you have, Rex. I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

“Of course, you are,” Rex squeezed Wolffe’s shoulder. “You’re my brother, no matter what.”

A cooing noise drew Rex’s attention. Yoda the Second sat at his feet, making grabby hands. Rex lifted the kid into his lap.

Wolffe stared open mouthed at the child. “Is that a baby Yoda?”

“Thank Maker you see it too.”

End

[ddagent]

Lol the anon who is still thinking about Nikolaj's very cute bum WEEKS later. Lol, my first thought was porn star au but I didn't have enough imagination to figure out how B would believably get into the industry (there's a reason you're the writer and i'm the reader) so I went leaked unintentional sex tape route but now that you've said it I have to prompt: porn star au please

Anon, I do not blame you: I regularly think about Nikolaj’s cute bum. I love my environmentally friendly danish pastry. ANYWAY, I have a couple of ideas relating to JB + porn: I, too, struggled with Brienne getting into the industry, but I could totally see her doing unsimulated sex for a proper film. And, also, I have porn star!Jaime/fan!Brienne. Which is what I shall write for you now, because I want to write some filth. This is probably not for the faint of heart, but I hope you enjoy. 

Brienne was looking through her latest student essays when her phone buzzed beside her. Grateful for the respite, she put the papers to one side and reached for the device. Perhaps it was her new tenant needing help with the boiler. But it was just Margaery, who had only left two hours ago. 

Margaery: I KNEW I recognised your renter B4!! FUCK B, check out this link: www.littlefingerlegends.com/vid/74561

A crease formed across Brienne’s forehead. Jaime Lannister had seemed nice enough when he’d replied to her ad looking for a tenant downstairs. He checked all her boxes: non-smoker, polite (well, not overly rude), no musical instruments, had first, last and a deposit. Of course, when her friend Margaery had found out she’d rented the flat downstairs to a man, she had to check him out. And check him out she had. 

“I know I recognise him from somewhere,” she’d whispered to Brienne, ogling him blatantly in the stairwell. “I just can’t think where.”

“He’s probably a model,” Brienne had explained. “He’s certainly—”

Brienne’s assertation that her new neighbour was attractive had certainly distracted Margaery from his identity. Long enough for Jaime to head into his own flat, and for Brienne to usher her friend upstairs where she spent the majority of her visit checking fashion shows and perfume ads, and giving Brienne tips on how to seduce the renter downstairs. Not that she was even interested. As if he ever would. 

I told you he’s a model. 

Margaery: He is NOT a model. Just watch, B, and use your 7mas present from urs truly. 

She shot a sideways glance at her bedside table and the vibrator inside, still in its original packaging. Where it would remain, no matter what this video was. Brienne knew she should respect Jaime’s privacy. But she also knew that Margaery would badger her until she viewed it. And...she really didn’t want to read any more inaccurate interpretations of Goldenhand the Just. So, Brienne’s thumb pressed the link included in Margaery’s text. 

A site sprang up in colours of black and gold. The video was entitled ‘The Queen and her Guards’. Hmm. Maybe Jaime was in a documentary series. She imagined they needed actors for those silent reenactments. So Brienne settled against her pillows and watched. A tall, blonde woman in flowing blue robes entered the frame. A silver crown rested atop her head. A door opened, and in walked her downstairs neighbour! Jaime was dressed in a rather poor imitation of the Kingsguard armour. One snap and those things would come straight off. 

“Your Grace, your silence worries me so.”

“Lord Commander, I am silent out of grief. Grief for a pleasure I will never experience again. My husband offers me no passion in our marriage bed.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“You should have said something, Your Grace.” The camera panned close to Jaime as he wet his top lip. “There are seven of us who would gladly serve our Queen, in any way you wish.” 

No...Brienne’s eyes widened, yet she could not look away.

The actress on-screen placed a hand atop her forehead. “You mean, you all would pleasure me? But you swore an oath—”

“—to take no wife, to father no children. That does not mean we can’t fuck your cunt, Your Grace.” 

Brienne was affronted on behalf of the brave men of the Kingsguard who would be disgusted that the white cloak had been tarnished in such a fashion. But then the actress playing the Queen tore off Jaime’s white cloak. And his armour. Soon enough, her downstairs neighbour was in nothing more than his nameday suit. Taut muscle; firm cock. Brienne gasped as he took himself in hand and pumped his shaft. 

“Brothers, get in here. Let’s serve our Queen.”

Brienne lay, hand over her mouth, as she watched six other...porn stars enter the frame. They were all young and golden and handsome, but not nearly as captivating as Jaime. Whilst the camera wanted you to focus on the six men touching their Queen – and each other – Brienne was focussed on her downstairs neighbour. The way he stroked his cock; how his thumb would swipe over the head and the moisture beading at the tip. Her body flooded with warmth; arousal stirring in her belly. 

“I should—”

Oh, but then Jaime was crawling onto the bed beside his Queen. One of her hands was sifting through his golden hair; longer than it had been when Brienne had seen him earlier that day, but no less soft, strokable. The Queen reeled Jaime closer and pressed her mouth to his in a searing kiss. Whilst the Lord Commander’s tongue slipped inside Her Grace’s mouth, one of the Queensguard began swirling his tongue around one of the Queen’s nipples. Brienne ran the palm of her hand over her own breast, feeling the erect tip through the fabric. She tweaked the bud until she gasped; the shame at touching herself to her neighbour washed away by sheer lust. 

“Is this what you need, Your Grace?”

Jaime’s hand slid down the actress’ bare form whilst Brienne’s knuckles brushed the crotch of her jeans. It didn’t take much for her hand to slip inside her waistband, or for Jaime’s fingers to enter the Queen’s cunt. Her hand mimicked Jaime’s movement; Brienne’s eyes transfixed to the screen as he fingered her clit before thrusting two deep inside her. The Queen’s back bowed, mouth formed into a perfect ‘o’, as two of her Queensguard began to suck at her breasts. 

“Fuck. Fuck.” 

The camera seemed to know who it’s moneymaker was, as it lingered on Jaime rather than the other six actors, or the young woman having her legs spread wide by eager hands. Brienne watched, the pads of her fingers rubbing her clit, as Jaime’s mouth left soft kisses across the Queen’s sternum and down her belly. And then he settled himself between her legs; one hand on the top of her knee whilst the other stroked himself even harder. Drawing in a ragged breath, Brienne’s touch grew firmer; two fingers inside herself, now. 

And then Jaime was inside her. 

In the few porn videos she, Margaery and Renly had watched back at university, Brienne had been put off by the seemingly gargantuan appendages the men seemed to possess. Jaime was nothing like that. He looked like a golden god as he took his Queen; his cock thick and hard and almost beautiful. The wet sounds of him fucking the actress sounded far too loud in her quiet bedroom, but they were soon joined by the noise of Brienne’s fingers sliding against her clit as she fucked herself in unison to Jaime’s thrusts. As one of the Queensguard lifted her leg to rest over Jaime’s shoulder, taking the Queen deeper, Jaime glanced towards the camera. 

It was at that point that Brienne came, biting her pillow so as to not scream her neighbour’s name into the stillness. 

[holdyourfire]

taylir gar tracyn

hold your Fire (Mando’a)

Chapter 1  Chapter 4

***

Chapter 5 - Flame

No warnings for this chapter.

2.2k words

      ***

      Poe was guiding the Ember into Naboo’s atmosphere when a loud thud sounded behind, startling him. 

      He whirled around in his chair to see Deccol grinning and he scowled heavily.

       “Really!?”

      “I told you, I like startling people.”

      “Not while I’m piloting, thanks!”

      She slumped into the chair next to him, still smiling to herself.

      “Where should we land? Somewhere outside the city, right?”

      “Um, no,” she began, frowning slightly. “We should set down in the city. In a landing bay. This ship won’t draw many eyes, so a city bay would be more convenient.”

      “Yes, but is it safer?”

      “It’ll be fine. I know how to deal with cities. If we land on the outskirts, it’ll look as if we don’t want to be noticed.”

      “And… we don’t want to be noticed,” he countered, knowing he was aggravating her. “So where’s the harm?”

      She turned her chair to face him, obviously getting bothered. 

      “But we don’t want them to know that do we? The best way to hide is to blend in. A city landing bay will do that.”

      Poe smirked and Deccol just gave him a sharp look.

      “You were doing that on purpose. Arguing just to argue. Just to be annoying.”

      She shook her head as he continued to grin. 

       “This is going to be a long mission,” came a sigh.

       ***

       Theed was beautiful. 

      Deccol and Poe leaned into the viewports to see the city below as they flew over smoothly. 

      Cream-coloured stone buildings, with tall pillars and arches, topped with blue domes. The warm glow from the street-lights turned the roads and paths gold. The setting sun had cast the west-facing sides of the buildings into pink and red and the rest into darkness. Arched bridges littered Theed’s winding rivers.

      In the distance, rolling plains of grass surrounded the city.

       “It really is beautiful.”

       Deccol just hummed in reply, still absorbed in the view. 

      A beeping noise sounded from the dashboard.

      “We’re being hailed by city landing services,” said Poe shifting to press the flashing button.

      “Hailing the Ghtroc Seven-Twenty, please proceed to Landing Dock E, Pad 3. The south side of the city.”

      “Pad E3, copy that.”

        The landing was swift and hardly a jolt was felt as Poe directed the Ember down. 

      Deccol disappeared to her cabin to change and Poe sauntered down the freshly lowered ramp to meet the dock officer waiting below, BB-8 at his heels.

       Naboo’s cool air was a sharp contrast to D’Qar’s humid climate and he sucked in a breath, filling his lungs, enjoying the sight of the river on the other side of the landing pad.  

       The smartly uniformed dock-officer was approaching.

      “Hi there!” 

      “Hello, sir,” she replied, “may I have your ship’s manifest please?”

      “Of course. BeeBee?”

      BB-8 whirred and extended the Ember’s projector chip in his claw.

      “Any other crew or passengers?” the officer asked, taking the chip and slotting into her datapad to read.

      “Just my co-pilot.”

       Though Deccol wasn't really his co-pilot.

       Poe waited for a few seconds, until the officer looked up with a polite smile, tugging the chip out from her datapad to hand back to BB-8.

      “You’re all good to proceed. Payment for the use of the landing pad can be organised up in that building there,” she said pointing towards a building across the river. “Enjoy your time here.”

      “Thank you.”

       “Oh, one last thing,” the officer called just as he was turning away. “Blasters are not permitted in public,” she said, pointing to his empty holster.

      “Oh, alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

        Poe strolled back to the ramp, only to find Deccol coming down. She had changed, removing all her armour and was just wearing a simple black shirt on black pants and a dark grey scarf tied around her neck. Her blaster was tucked into her holster at her hip.

       “All fine?” she asked peering at the departing dock officer.

      “Yep. No blasters allowed in public though.” He gestured at her gun. “Ok, so what's the plan then?”

      She jerked her head behind her. 

      “We should talk inside.”

       They ended up outside the kitchen to discuss, Poe leaning back against his cabin door and Deccol standing in front of hers.

       He got the feeling she always stood so straight because everyone was taller than her.

      He had to hold back an amused smile at the thought.

       “Tonight, we should just go out and find out what we can about this Luc Shinn guy. If we even can. If we get enough information, tomorrow the mission can be completed and we can be out of here.”

      Poe frowned.

      “Don’t you want to spend more than just a day here? I mean, it’s so nice. We’ll also have extra time to plan.”

      “This is an assignment, not a holiday, Dameron,” she said, exasperated. “We need to do these tasks as quickly as we can.”

      He sighed.

      “Yeah, yeah, fine. It just seems like a nice place.”

      “Hmm. It does seem nice,” she admitted, nodding. “So, ready to head out? I’ll just go remove my holster.”

      “Same, one sec.”

      He turned, ducking into his room to quickly discard his holster and grab his commlink. 

      “Ok, let’s go.”

       ***

       About fifteen minutes later, Poe was leaning against a light pole on a street corner as he waited for Deccol. BB-8, the poor thing, had been left behind on the Ember. 

      Deccol was just across the street, talking with a couple of locals about where to find the best cantina in town.

      It was a known fact that if you want to know who people are and what’s happening in the area, a cantina was where to go. All information just seemed to flow through bars.

       He glanced down the street. Not many people about, the occasional loiterer or the groups of people who were out for a late evening stroll. 

      The sky was dark blue now, just a hint of an orange glow to the west. 

       “Hey!” 

      He turned at the call. 

      It was a man who had just come around the corner. He was swaying on his feet and he had a slight leer on his face as he stumbled towards Poe.

      He stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable as the man neared. He was just reaching out to roughly grab Poe’s arm as he backed away, when Deccol appeared next to him, seemingly out of nowhere. 

      She firmly stepped in between Poe and the drunk man, lightly shoving him away.

       “Is there a problem here?” she snarled as she squared her feet.

      The man scowled and backed off, mumbling incoherently as he stumbled away from them, down the street.

       “C’mon let's go. There’s a cantina down that path and-”

      “I can take care of myself y’know,” he snapped, annoyed at the pang of relief he’d felt when she’d intervened.

      “I never said you couldn’t. Now let’s go.”

      She turned, walking toward the path she’d pointed out. 

      Poe followed, pursing his lips.

             The cantina was bustling with people. One long and crowded serving counter expanded across the back wall with human and droids serving the various people their drinks. 

      Dialects from all across the galaxy could be heard, in shouts and whispers alike. The lighting was dim, and the air was hot and muggy due to the crowd.

      “Seems like travellers and locals come here regularly,” Poe muttered, leaning down into Deccol’s ear.

      “Good for us. We’ll blend in,” she whispered back. “Drink?”

      “Obviously. I’ll get them. What’ll you have?”

      “Ask if they have tihaar. If not just get me one of whatever you have.”

       Tee-har? 

       “I don’t know what that is, but I’ll ask.”

      She nodded her thanks and he slipped through the mass of people to reach a gap at the countertop, raising a hand to catch the attention of a drink-droid.

       “Hello, sir, what will you be served today?”

      “One bottle of Elba beer and do you have a drink called tee-har?”

      “It appears we do,” the droid replied after a second of computing. “It is a Mandalorian beverage, if my memory banks are correct.”

       It clunked off to fetch the drinks and Poe turned his attention to the people in his surroundings.

       A trickle of music from a group of musicians in the far corner of the cantina accompanied by a low beat was encouraging some to dance sensually with drinks in hand. Two Twi’leks were getting very friendly against a wall and Poe couldn’t help smirking at the sight, watching for a second before a sharp noise drew his attention to the other side of the cantina. 

       An argument appeared to be taking place between a Keshian and a member of a species he didn't recognise. Increasing in volume with both almost shouting, until the Keshian received a slap, followed by the furious exit of the slapper. 

       Poe huffed a laugh, wondering what they did to get that. 

      The Keshian glared around the room furiously, as if daring anyone to say something and ended up locking eyes with a grinning Poe. 

      The smile was hastily wiped off his face as he turned back to the counter, trying to avoid any trouble.

       “Sir.” 

      The drink-droid had returned. 

      “Here are your drinks.”

      It handed over the familiar-looking bottle of Elba beer along with a small glass of a clear liquid.

      “Thanks,” he said, handing over credits.

       Holding the drinks, he turned on his heel peering through the crowd to search for his partner. 

       There she was. She was standing near the band, deep in conversation with two locals.

      Spotting him hovering a few paces away, she waved him over.

       “They had it,” he said, holding up her drink.

      She smiled, delighted. 

      “Thank you.”

      He took a sip of his and she took a large gulp of hers with a satisfied sigh, before introducing him to the men she’d been talking with.

       “This is my friend, Snap,” she said, gesturing to Poe. 

       Snap? Huh. 

       Poe nodded politely in greeting.  

      “And this is Jaeto and Enri,” she continued. “They’re brothers who tell me they used to work at a nearby plasma mine. However, they don’t anymore, as it’s been bought by a new owner who seemed to have also brought in his own workers.”

      Poe looked to the two brothers in surprise.

      “An entire mine was just bought? Must be wealthy,” he remarked sipping his beer.

      “Yeah. All of us workers were put out of our jobs,” said Enri. “Apparently this guy has influence in the Galactic Senate. Must’ve been able to pull some strings or something, because that sort of thing never usually happens on Naboo.”

      “Yeah, rumour has it he’s a big shot in the First Order,” Jaeto added in a low voice.

       Poe and Deccol exchanged a look. 

      “Oh? That’s not the best news. I always get uneasy when I hear about them,” supplied Poe, trying to ease into the conversation.

      The brothers nodded enthusiastically in agreement. 

      “They're a nasty piece of work that’s for sure,” muttered Jaeto.

      “This new mine owner, is he from Naboo?” 

      “He is, actually. From one of the wealthier families in Theed. House Shinn. Although I don’t know why we still call it a family. The parents are dead, it’s really just him now.”

       Poe struggled to keep his face neutral. 

      There he is. Time to hunt down a First Order plasma miner.

       “Is plasma mining the biggest industry on Naboo?”

      “It is, after all, the planet is pretty much made of the stuff. And it’s used all over the galaxy too, so it’s not just important for Naboo.”

      “What is it used for, most commonly?”

      “It can power weaponry and transport, mostly.”

       Both very important things for the First Order.

       Poe suddenly grabbed Deccol’s arm in an attempt to look urgent.

      “Oh, Maker! We said we’d meet Jess five minutes ago. She’ll be upset that we’re late!”

       Deccol caught on quickly.

      “Oh, kriff, you’re right!” She turned to Jaeto and Enri. “I’m so sorry, I forgot we had a place to be.”

      “Oh, no worries. It was nice to meet you,” said Jaeto, and Enri nodded in agreement.

      “You too, I hope the job search goes well for you,” said Poe as he and Deccol backed away.

      “Goodbye!”

      Deccol gulped the last mouthful of her drink before setting the glass down on an empty table they walked past. Poe elbowed her triumphantly, chuckling before swallowing more of his beer as they walked through the cantina’s doors. 

      She looked up at him with a smirk.

      “Done well,” he said.

      She nodded.

      “That was way quicker than I expected. Things like that usually take a long time. Now let’s go meet Jess.”

      He grinned.

      “Do you know the way back?”

      “Of course I do.”

        They walked by a river for a part of the way before turning down an alleyway. 

      Halfway through, Deccol stiffened.

       “We’re being followed,” she muttered out the side of her mouth.

      “You sure?”

      Two figures appeared on the path in front. 

       Deccol stopped moving, pulling Poe to an abrupt halt with a hand on his wrist. He glanced over his shoulder.

      Two behind them as well.

      He swallowed nervously. 

       Now was really not the time to get jumped.

       He slid a small knife out of his pocket, gripping it tightly in his right hand, the blade pointing downwards, opposite from his thumb.

      Deccol pulled out a vibro-blade from under her left sleeve and another from her right boot. Automatically they shifted, standing back-to-back.

       “What are you looking for?” Deccol called, voice level.

      “Oh, nothing in particular,” came a reply from a shadowed face. “Maybe some credits. Those vibro-knives look good. I have one just like them.”

      “You’re not getting anything without a fight,” Poe said, surprised with how calm he sounded.

      "Fine by us.”

      ***

E/N:

   Chapter 6 coming soon :)

[agentbarton12]

Remember Me (In the Morning Light)

A/N: here is my fantasy!spideychelle contribution for day two :). this was supposed to continue, but this was already so long. let me know if i should do a part 2!

WARNINGS: none.

—

Honestly, wizards suck.

Like, they think that just because they can cast spells, and make random stuff apear out of thin air that they’re “superior” or something, and Michelle was having none of it.

No one asked them to be gifted and whatnot, so why did they have to shove it down everyone else’s throats?

It didn’t help that almost Michelle’s entire family was made up of magical beings. Her father, the king, was a mage. Her mother, a witch. All her siblings were younger than her and had yet to find out what they were.

As Princess of Queensland, Michelle got a lot of perks. Free anything in the markets (although she insisted she pay), all the food in the nine realms, spells and potions—it was all pretty neat.

The only downside of all this was the fact that she was a princess. And somebody somewhere decided that princesses by nature have to have a hard time.

Which is why she’s cursed.

That and the stupid wizard that cast the spell.

According to old laws, every princess of every kingdom in all the realms had to be cursed, locked in a tower, half-dead or, put simply, in a position for princes to “save them”. Apparently it builds their courage and bravery, performing an act of heroism like that.

But, the thing is, Michelle curse is just the worst.

Like, she would have prefered to be asleep for the rest of her life until her ‘true love’ came and saved her like her friend, Princess Elizabeth of Brant House. (Lucky for her, her prince was her best friend and she was only asleep for a week before Prince Ned kissed her. Michelle wishes she could be so lucky.)

The worst part about Michelle’s curse, is that she has no idea what it is.

All she does know, is that on her twelfth brithday, every sunset (very original), she falls asleep and wakes up somewhere else and stays there until the next sunrise. The only way to end this cycle is to have her true love present himself when she’s a princess and when she’s a...whatever she is during at night, and for her to recognise him.

And to make things even more interesting, she never remembers what happened during the evening when she’s back to herself.

Also add to the fact that she has no true love and you get yourself the worst. Curse. Ever.

So, Princess Michelle tries her hardest to do everything in the short space of time before she falls asleep.

This tends to be difficult, because the curse does not care what she is doing before kicking in.

(Once, she was swimming in the Enchanted Lake with one of her ladies-in-waiting, and as the last hue of orange was cast, she promptly fell asleep in the middle of the water. It gave her father quite the scare.)

Today, Michelle went out to spend time with Betty and Princess Liz of Allen House in the villages. They didn’t spend much time out because they were aware of Michelle’s curse. Hell, the whole kingdom knew about it.

After a fun afternoon with her friends, Princess Michelle retreated to her chambers where she got comfortable and and awaited the inevitable sleep that would wash over her.

In that moment, Michelle learned that just because you know something is coming, does not make you any more ready for it.

••

The first time the princess woke—or as she prefers to be called around him, MJ—up in his workplace, Peter was not the least bit decent.

He had stripped his shirt since it was dripping with sweat and making it very uncomfortable to work. His back was to her, so he did not notice her until she let out a slight shriek of surprise.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” a younger, smaller Peter asked as he reached for his shirt and held it up in front of him. Her cry had caused him to jump in surprise and knock over the cauldron he was working on.

She sputtered, eyes wide, looking almost as lost and confused as Peter felt, and he softened. He offered her food and water, to which she accepted gratefully and it was then that realisation struck Peter. This was the princess. The princess of Peter’s home was in his workplace. But, if you had looked from far, you would never have noticed. She was dressed in commoners clothes; a simple dress, and workers boots.

“Where am I?” the princess asked. Peter knew about the curse. The whole kingdom knew about the curse and Peter figures that Princess Michelle’s must have started now.

Peter shrugged. “My workshop. My uncle gave it to me,” Peter admitted with a swell of pride. He was missing a tooth. The princess smiled.

He realised that, technically, she was not a princess at the moment and be needed to know what to call her. “I’m Peter,” he greeted, sticking his hand out.

She just stared at his hand and for a second, Peter thought he had just broken some royal rule, before she shook it and said, “MJ. I want to be called MJ.”

Now, when MJ wakes up, Peter is not the least bit surprised. He set up a little corner with a mattress and a few blankets so that when she arrives, she’s comfortable.

He stood over his workbench welding a piece of armour for his mentor, Tony Stark—the best blacksmith in the realm. MJ does not announce her presence, instead opting to watch Peter work.

It was a fascinating thing to watch.

Although Peter was a warlock—not a wizard, there’s a difference. At least according to Peter—he prefered building things with his hands. And MJ wasn’t complaining.

When she approached creepy level staring, MJ stood up and stretched, alerting Peter of her presence.

He turned around and a large smile spread across his face. “You’re here.”

MJ grinned. “When am I not?”

Every day, Peter wanted to say, but he couldn’t. Because to her, it wasn’t true. MJ wasn’t a princess. MJ was not cursed. MJ believed she was Peter’s best friend and spent every waking moment with him and Peter wasn’t going to be the one to tell her otherwise.

So, Peter jokingly says, “Oh, right, you never leave.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Parker, you love it when I’m here. I add value to your life.”

“Nuh-uh,” Peter shakes his head, “my job adds value to my life.”

“Right,” MJ drawled. “What’s it like being a wizard? You must be really popular with the children.” She moved to the table and leaned on her elbows on it.

“Funny, really funny. Have you ever considered being a jester?” She snorted. “And I’m a warlock, not a wizard. And it’s not my job.”

“What’s the difference?” MJ shrugged.

“Warlocks are cooler and far more superior to wizrads. They have better powers and get cool outfits. Have I mentioned that warlocks are cooler?”

“You have, it just confuses me how you’re one.” Peter glared at her and splashed water at her that he conjured from thin air. MJ laughed.

MJ hovered around Peter as he worked on the armour, handing him things he needed. Her work was not that important as she was completely out of her depth when it came to building.

When she gave Peter a tool, she accidentally lowered her onto a scolding hot piece of metal. MJ jerked her hand away immediately and cried out in pain.

Peter dropped what he was doing and hurriedly grabbed her hand and conjured water and poured it over her palm where she was burnt.

MJ squirmed in his hold, but he made sure to keep it firm, all while not hurting her too much. After cooling it, he dried it and began to wrap it. “Does it still hurt?”

She retracted her hand slightly as he added pressure and winced. “No,” she lied. Peter looked up at her with an unimpressed look and his eyebrows creased together. MJ stared back at him. Something fluttered around in his chest and Peter looked away quickly, returning back to the task.

MJ’s eyes never left his face.

When he finished and looked up, he noticed how close they were to each other. She was almost practically sitting in his lap. Peter’s heart pounded against his chest and he worried MJ could hear it.

Peter was in love with MJ.

He knew this. He really did.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Would actually.

Princess Michelle was destined to fall in love with a prince who could and would save her from her curse. And even though MJ wasn’t technically the princess, technically, she was. And pursuing anything wouldn’t be fair. On the faceless prince that would one day marry her, on her herself, and on Peter. When MJ would leave again. For good.

It is because of this that Peter clears his throat and moves back a little. “All better now.”

Numbly, MJ nods. “Thanks.”

The rest of evening passes with Aunt May coming to call them into the house for dinner. MJ shot Peter looks all throughout the meal and Peter ignored them.

When it was nearing the time MJ had to leave, she went back to her spot and curled herself on the mattress facing the wall, her back to Peter.

The action broke his heart a little. They always talked to each other until sunrise.

“Hey, Em. Can I draw on your hand? The bandaged one?”

Peter expected her to ignore him and pull the blankets over her head, so when she held out her arm for him, he was surprised. She kept her back to him, though.

Peter was no artist. He left that to MJ. She drew littles images of him on pieces of partchment she found lying around. His finished product is nothing to celebrate, but Peter is very proud of it.

He gives MJ her arm back and pulls the blankets up to her shoulders.

“See you tomorrow.”

••

When Michelle awoke, her left arm instinctively reached for her right. It was covered in cloth; a bandage.

She sat up and held her hand up in front of her face. There were drawings covering the bandage. Hearts and circles, little lines and arrows adorned the cloth with bright colours. On the palm of her hand, was what caught her attention.

MJ

She didn’t know an MJ. She wasn’t an MJ. So, what was it and who put it there?

After getting up, Michelle decided that it was far to early to ponder anything and took a nap.

During the day, she went out with her younger brother Miles to have lunch with a dutchess or countess about betrothal or something dull like that.

It was not Lady Gwen’s for her complete disinterest in the conversation. No, no, the princess blamed her bandaged hand (and the old men that thought having their daughters strive to be married off to continue their bloodline purely for monarchy sake instead of achieving something worthwhile was a good idea). Her mind was simply elsewhere.

Where did I get this? How was I injured? Who drew on me? Who is MJ? Am I MJ? These thoughts elicited an unwarranted gasp from the princess. She apologised profusely before excusing herself.

She wandered around the streets aimlessly, trying to calm her racing mind to no avail. She passed street vendors and purchased some candy for Miles as an apology for abandoning him.

While walking, a young man around her age yet significantly shorter, bumped into her.

“I am so...sorry.” He stopped moving all together as his eyes found hers and they looked strikingly familiar.

“It is perfectly alright. I didn’t see you either.”

The man merely nodded, shock evident on his face and said nothing. His eyes trailed down to her bandaged hand and widened. Then, he turned on his heel and walked away abruptly.

Michelle tried not to think too much about the interaction. Lots of people get flustered around her, it was normal.

But this turned out to be a fairly difficult task when Michelle laid down, ready to fall asleep, at sunset and nothing happened.

She stayed in her room and the sun went down and Michelle was awake to see it for the first time in nine years.

[wingletblackbird]

The Fabric of Life

Prompt: Destiny

Note: This is for @klorophile who read Follow One Thread, and wanted the sequel which was the, in her words, “the YES after the No.” This is for you! Also, this may technically be AU. Oh well...

The tension between the not-couple could have been cut with a sneeze, let alone a butter knife. Padmé is acutely aware that this is the first time in two weeks that she and Anakin have been alone together. It doesn’t help that this awareness is found as he’s escorting her to her chambers at the palace down an isolated corridor with low-lighting that somehow just seems to enhance the ambience, the ambience they definitely aren’t speaking of. They aren’t speaking of anything, in fact, but Padmé feels certain she can not be the only one to feel this…tension. Nor does she think she is the only one to feel the sense of anticipation, dread, and coming finality: The approaching of a decision of significance. This tension stems from the fact that this is the first time they’ve been alone since Geonosis, the first time since Padmé told Anakin what had been her most guarded secret: She loves him.

She had thought they were going to die. That is why she had told him. They were going to die, it had seemed inevitable that they would die, which had placed a burden upon her insisting she must tell him, because he simply could not die, his beautiful light could not be extinguished from this galaxy, without him knowing how greatly he was cherished, how sacred his existence was, if only to her. It had seemed wrong in the deepest sense to not tell him he was beloved. He was her beloved. Who could say if it had been logical? It hadn’t mattered really. They were going to die, but while Padmé feels that the logic of her actions might be debatable, she knows that the desire had sprung from something vital inside of her that had felt as ancient, and indomitable as creation: That was a realm which defied the rational or the irrational; it was existence. She had had to tell him. They hadn’t died though. It had seemed crazy that they could survive. She hadn’t known there was a clone army, hadn’t believed that the Jedi would get there in time anyway, but now they had survived, and she couldn’t take her words back. Padmé isn’t sure if she wants to or not. They had not died, but Anakin is going off to war after this assignment anyway. It can't hurt for him to know. He could still die. Hadn’t that been the point? Surely the same logic applied, but somehow it felt different, probably because his demise is not guaranteed which left the words just hanging between them, drawing taut, creating tension, a thread to bind them.

The Naboo have long known the power of words. They have the power to destroy and to save. All that is known is known through words, is explained through words. What is said can even distort the action taken. There is a Basic expression that goes “Actions speak louder than words,” but there is no such phrase on Naboo. The Naboo know that even the most powerful actions can be distorted with time, and the right wordsmith. Words are powerful and very, very dangerous, not to be thrown around lightly. Despite how innocuous, even common, they might seem, “I love you” are powerful words indeed. They are words she can not take back, and words make things real. You speak, and you create. There is an analogy which is that a cat could be locked in a box with poison until the moment of death, but it would be dead and alive simultaneously until the box is opened, and one or the other is observed. The state of being only exists when observed. It is used as a means to show the futility of quantum mechanics past a certain point, (the cat is dead whether you see it or not), but it is entirely applicable to words. When Padmé keeps her feelings to herself, they remain present, and non-existent, dead and alive. Now that she has spoken them, she brings forth their existence. It is a truly living creature now. It cannot be dead. There is no undoing it, no hiding it. It is done. It is now real. It is real, because she said it. Words create. The process is not reversible, and she has torn through her own armour. Words are dangerous tools. She should know. She’s been in politics long enough.

The problem is that nothing has really changed for the better. They are at war now, but she is still a senator, a well-known, high profile, and royal one at that; he is still a Jedi. It isn’t so much the end of her career that bothers her too much anymore, as terrifying as that admittedly is, she’d have to leave the Senate anyway if she wanted a family. The Military Creation Act is certainly something of a moot point now too, but Anakin could be expelled. That is the greatest fear on the horizon. It’s the reason they haven’t been alone in weeks, because the Jedi know. They suspect how they feel for each other. Obi-Wan had been sent to her by Yoda to tell her in no uncertain terms that any romantic relationship must be terminated. She’d told him he needn’t worry. The subject had come up while on Naboo, and she’d turned him down flat. It had already been taken care of. It had been the truth. The best lies are always careful truths, and Obi-Wan had agreed that Anakin would escort her back to Naboo where her security team, with her new handmaidens, and new ship, were waiting. Prudently, Obi-Wan’d requested a diplomatic ship, complete with a pilot, and co-pilot, making it clear Obi-Wan didn’t trust the two alone, but hoped they’d clear things up between them once and for all. In other words, terminate the relationship, (which didn’t exist), but neither she nor Anakin had felt comfortable bringing the subject up with others around. Neither one of them had wanted to ruin what might be their last moments together. The only thing she had done was hug Anakin, and tell him she didn’t care about his right arm, as long as he was alive and well. That was what mattered. She had told him quietly about the Jedi; he’d known anyway. He’d quietly told her that he was sorry she’d been put in that situation, but that he still wasn’t too worried about expulsion; she’d said that it was her fault for acting so obvious when he’d been injured…and they’d talked about nothing else of true importance afterward. Now, they were here, stuck.

Padmé finds herself walking slower, and slower as the destination approaches. She feels like she is walking through custard. It’s hard for her to move, but she is also moving too quickly. She wants to preserve this moment she has with Anakin; it might well be her last. She is aware of every echoing footstep, of every breath she takes, of every breath he takes, and of how very, very close they are, but never close enough.

“Here, Ani.”

They have reached her private rooms. He nods, and walks her over to the door. Turning to look up at him, she finds him looking down at her with an expression she has never before seen on his face. It is awe, and admiration, and pain, and raw, wrenching grief, all focused on her as he seems to be trying to memorise her, to take her all in before he turns his back, before he never sees her again. Padmé recognises it; she is looking at him the same way, watching the contours of light and shadow on his face, the dark blonde of his hair, the piercing blue eyes…

Anakin sucks in a deep breath, steps back, and nods again.

“Senator, I’ll take my leave.”

She nods vaguely, words catching in her throat, although she does not know what words they are, as he turns stiffly on one heel to head down the hallway where he will be lost from sight in the darkness, to war. As he walks, she feels her heart swell with the pain of love. It is almost as if she can feel the connection, the tension of the thread that ties her heart to his being pulled taut, as her heart strains after him. She can feel that thread like a visceral, physical thing. It pulls her heart more and more with every step Anakin takes away from her, causing it to swell larger with the rage of separated love. If it keeps tugging, it will pop the balloon in her chest, and the connection will snap. It will be torn, and then where will she be?

“Anakin,” she gasps. The sound comes unbidden. It had never been a word trapped in her throat, but a name, the name, his name, the most important name in this universe: Anakin. In the hallway she sees him pause. His back stiff. He looks almost like he anticipates a blow. “I can’t watch you walk away twice. It’ll destroy me.” 

She would have laughed at the irony were the moment not so grounded in intensity. Once she had claimed that to be with him would be the destruction. Who knows? Maybe it will be. It almost certainly will have consequences, but she had told him on Geonosis she felt that their lives were “about to be destroyed anyway.” She doubted she was wrong. War won or lost brought devastation. May she not choose her on demise? She laughs internally as she remembers Ithané, the goddess of war and of love. Padmé had been wary of the dangers of passion, and the dangers of being ruled by it. She had never considered that losing love might be just as destructive. She knows one truth now: That either option, to have Anakin or to not, will come at a high price. She would rather be destroyed by her fire than by her ice. War is here now, and she wants the equal strength of her love to see her through it. They will burn together. Anakin has not turned. He’s still, like a predator, or prey. Is there a difference now? So, she adds, 

“If you’re suffering as much as I am, please tell me.” 

She has the greatest admiration for him. How courageous to have made himself so vulnerable to her that night! She has an idea of how much she must have hurt him now, and he has never once held it against her. She doesn't deserve such devotion, but she craves him. He turns around, and looks at her. There is dim hope in his eyes.

“Do you mean that?” he whispers. “I mean, yes, I do feel the same. I always have. I just...Do you really mean that?”

She smiles at him. He hesitantly walks over to her.

“Yes, Ani, I mean it. We can keep it a secret for now. You haven’t even been knighted yet--” She was not going to take his career from him. She was not going to chain someone who was meant to fly. She’d sacrifice her reputation, and career first, if it must come to that  “--and we’re both needed at the moment, you especially, but, yes, Ani, yes.”

The light in his eyes goes from dim blue to blazing azure, and he moves so quickly she couldn’t have seen it, but he was kissing her so she didn’t care. They’ve never kissed like his before. Well, they have only ever kissed twice. She buries her hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, and grips so hard she must hurt him. It doesn’t matter though, because he is gripping tight too, and the pain is its own pleasure, because nothing could draw them close enough-

-which brings a thought to her mind that has her moving one hand to open the bedroom door behind her as she pulls him through.

She isn’t sure where this falls in the spectrum of “follow one thread,” as her grandmother had been so fond of saying, but she feels she has tied hers to Anakin’s. If she is following any thread, it is his, because they are tied together now. It might be that much harder to follow two threads, even if they are joined into one, but they will also be that much stronger. There will be that much more impact, and meaning, and they will need each other’s strength in the time to come. The timing of these events is so uncanny, that Padmé can't help but feel the guiding hand of destiny. This connection has always been there between them. She had felt it even as a teen on Tatooine, when he had taken her hand to guide her through the storm. Certainly, Anakin had known it, had always known it, and been far more honest with it than she, but their lives had always been meant to be weaved together. This knowledge is an enduring truth. That is why it had felt agonizing to cut the thread. Whether it is the will of the Force, as Ani believes, or the Mornae like she's been taught, to deny Anakin is to oppose the fabric of life.

[darksiders-scenarios]

Congratulations on the blog! Can we have a scenario where the human is selectively mute and for a long time they watched War be blamed for the Apocalypse. One day, they are traveling, when the human suddenly lets out an "I don't blame you. I know you're not guilty of it. I'm really sorry you had to go through that." because they got too tired of that whole bullshit he's been through and just want to comfort him.

“Selective mutism is a situational anxiety disorder, which can be likened to a phobia of speech.” (Article)

A/N: I have that myself and it sucks. Part 2 with Death (link)

Imagine having an anxiety so powerful, it renders you speechless. Now imagine being repeatedly scolded for being ‘rude’ or ‘selfish’ for having this phobia. This was your life before the Apocalypse.  

And now this condition has been further exacerbated following the traumatic events of the End War.

Although meeting the horseman, War, didn’t remedy your muteness, it did somewhat alleviate some of the anxiety associated with it. At first, you were terrified of this daunting, unworldly and unholy creature found only in religious scriptures, but over time, this ‘unholy creature’ has become your main source of support.

The fact that he speaks very little and seeming unbothered by your selective mutism was as alien to you as it was welcoming. He has always been patient and never criticised your recurring nods and head shakes. When other races tried speaking to you, War would always speak in your place and if they pried or pointed out your inability to speak, he’d curtly respond, “It is their choice - I strongly recommend you respect that.”

War is always supporting you.

But now you wonder… How much are you supporting him?

You are torn when you witness him being incessantly blamed for triggering the Apocalypse. You are upset, enraged and frustrated at the unfairness of it all. If he indeed doomed mankind then why is he protecting you? Why can’t they see sense in that?

He is resilient, there is no doubt about it. But you’d be a fool to think that he was not suffering. This is not just the weight of one world he is shouldering, but an entire existence. War is mute about his suffering and perhaps, this is why you became empathetic to what he may be going through.

But all you can do is watch.

Like right now as you stare at his back as he’s striding in front of you. For the first time in a very, very long time, you find that the silence is unsettling.

And you desperately want to break it.

You feel the words clawing their way up your throat. The more you stare at the crimson cape swaying in the light breeze, the more frantic the words are trying to escape. Your pace quickens and your heart thumbs rapidly as you approach your friend. Lips part and you draw in a shaky breath.

He turns around.

And you halt.

“We shall rest here for the night,” War declares simply, placing Chaoseater against a charred tree and already readying a fireplace.

Your eyes prick at the corners as you struggle to contain your tears of frustration. You can only nod whilst setting your backpack beside his sword and assisting him in gathering the necessary materials.  

There is something soothing in the way the whetstone glides along the mighty blade. The slow piercing, grating sound it produces almost lulls you to a long rest and the sparks that flicker upon contact is almost hypnotic to the sight. Chaoseater appears ornate and resplendent under the bright stars of the unpolluted sky, which is antithetical to the horrors it was designed for.

War’s hood is down and you notice his soft teal eyes glowing in the bright moonlight. His right gauntlet is lying on the ground and your attention is fixated on the newfound anatomy that was his calloused hand as it handled the whetstone with an almost tender care. It was rare, almost a luxury even, to see these almost concealed parts of him.

As he continued with his ministration, you let your mind wander. He looks so peaceful and you wish that he adopted this expression more often. Chaoseater is being treated in the manner you would treat your phone if you still had it. Tenderly and prudently.

Your phone also acted as a gateway to escape reality.

Your gaze alternates between his sword and visage. He hasn’t once looked at you since you set camp here. And the urge to break the silence is gnawing at your conscious again.

You give in.

Abruptly, you stand up and rush around the fire. The sudden movement startles the horseman from his quiet activity, whipping his head in your direction. You grip the red cloth of his cape on his shoulder. But you say nothing.

You can feel his questioning stare burning through your scalp but you refuse to look at him. You feel your throat tightening again and that all too familiar pain of your neck and back muscles stiffening all at once.  

At last, he speaks. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs. “Are you in pain?”

'I was in pain?’ you mentally scoff. ’I’m not the one accused of dooming all of mankind.’

You shake your head stiffly and grit your teeth tightly.

A soft sigh escapes his lips. “What can I do?”

That was the trigger.

“I-I don’t blame you,” you all but squeak. You hear a sharp intake of breath but you don’t stop. “I know you’re not g-guilty of it.” You duck your head when you feel his shoulder stiffening but you’ve already gained momentum so you carry on. “I’m really… sorry you have to go through that.”

The last sentence was whispered and you are now panting from the strain on your vocal chords. Your throat is aching in a way as if you just screamed and you clamp your lips shut again. Your grip on his cape tightens even further until you feel nails digging into your palms through the soft material.

Too scared to look up. Too anxious to see his reaction.

You feel him shift before a solid, warm hand lightly grasps your arm. The sensation of his bare hand on yours is staggering compared to the cold metal feel of his gauntlet. A rough thumb gently pushes your chin up and you are now facing azure eyes.

The intensity of his gaze renders you vulnerable and completely exposed, as if he is able to see through your soul. He holds you like that for a long while, just staring at you. At last, you see the ghost of a smile pull at the corners of his lips and you couldn’t help but gawk at them, mesmerised. You feel your anxiety diminishing slightly.

Oblivious to you, War is regarding you as a warrior in this moment, almost akin to the time when a barely armoured angel stood fearlessly in his path at the White City gates. Although he knew little of the extensity of your disorder, he recognised enough of the signs, similar to that of a trauma victim, to know what you might be going through.

But looking at you again, he dismisses that earlier comparison. You lost everything, to the point where you nearly lost your voice. This was a psychological fear that ran deep and you’ve conquered it today.

He is proudest of you in that moment.

“It’s not right,” he hears you whisper. “You’re innocent. It’s not right,” you shake your head in disgust. “It’s not right.” It is all you can say.

The horseman’s eyes widen minutely. Only his brother would defend him so vehemently. He never cared what you thought about his involvement in the Apocalypse. His only concern has always regarded your safety and well-being. But to hear you verbally defend him - by breaking down your own barrier - for the first time since the ordeal started, he felt something similar to gratefulness for your companionship.

“Heaven’s noblest and Hell’s stoutest hearts are incomparable to your conviction, Y/N.”

He said it so quietly that it takes you a moment to process what he just said. You gasp at the sincerity in his voice and you all but gawp at him before fresh tears blur your vision and again you try hiding your face from his. But you were held firmly in place. So you smile weakly in defeat before burying your face in the crook of his neck, earning you a deep contented rumble and a gentle squeeze around the waist.