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himbodjarin · 3 years

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LUNAR; CH14

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Gore, general violence, Din/Third person POV. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE BOTTOM Word count: 16,019 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist / Playlist

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THIS IS THE WAY

The Sun stands off to Din’s side, silent in a comforting way, a placidness he’s unable to recover within himself, and he savours the company with a gloved hand roosting on a curve. She twists to face him, bestowing a grand smile of rays that encapsulate inside and furnaces his figure until he’s blanketed in a toasty buzz, a swelling in his internal organs that he’ll just never become accustomed to. Din reacts to the sensations the only way he knows how and drags her into his side, a hand slithering to her hip to steady her there; little engagements that he’d never considered partaking in before the Girl.

Hands carved of dormant radiation fuss with the makeshift strap slung across her shoulder; one of the more unfortunate after-effects of her victory. Din had to utilise his craftsmanship to gift her with a lash capable of taking the weight of the disruptor rifle—the harness he relied on was built into his bandolier with a small metal clasp. He cares for the Girl but she is no charity case; the rifle against her back is plenty more than he would’ve ever thought of parting with.

The meddling persists, tinking the steel of the barrel against his vambrace.

“What’s the matter?”

Her head shakes and sinks to indolently survey the turf beneath their feet.

He glances at her hand. “I thought you wanted it?”

She buckles into submission from his queries, not that it took much effort on his part, and drags a hand down the front of her face. “I did - I do but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not mine… With your religion and all this feels awry. I shouldn’t have this.”

“I want you to have it.”

It’s the truth. He wants to be endowed with the ability to watch her manipulate something that’s been with him for so long. He wants to bookmark how it frames her body—he doesn’t know how but it does and he’s eternally grateful for that—but most of all, he wants a part of him to be forever touching her.

Nonetheless, it still doesn’t satisfy her scepticism and she scratches into the leather strap until it weathers and flakes.

“It’s just—”

“What?”

A relieving puff of stale carbon dioxide dispels from her slim parted lips. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you for your rifles, for your protection.”

Helmet inclines enough for the tip of his T to connect with her eyes; a small shake of his head as if to enquire what she’s talking about. She’s more than capable of protecting herself. She’s demonstrated it time and time again and Din is the last person who’d assume such things from her.

“I mean it’s the only reason I hitched a ride from you in the first place. I felt like I deserved compensation for my rifle and I needed a way off that damned planet.” She stiffly eases her eyes to the ground and scrunches a stone beneath the toes of her boot. “I never could’ve anticipated all of what’s happened...happening to—to happen…”

Jumbled and stuttering as if she’d downed six flasks of spotchka is a new look on her. It spawns a bounce in his lungs but he stifles the deep chuckle in the interest of not distressing her more than she obviously already is.

Serrated seams etch into the ridges of her eyebrows laced with insecurity, as though peering through a distorted mirror; one concerned expression switching with the other.

She elaborates, with such a hushed volume he almost activates his sonic detectors to register the mumbling, “It just feels as though if this is in my possession there’s no need for me to stick around. You’ve cleared your debt. I’m of no use to a reinforced Mandalorian like yourself. I appreciate the offer, I do, but…”

“What about…” he suggests, two fingers tilting her chin upwards, “you just keep it warm for me.”

It’ll technically remain hers—radioactive fingers having tagged the trigger with her insignia, the rifle imprinting its framework into the soft flesh of her back whereas it never could nestle into his beskar—even if Din is the only one who believes so. His proposal appears to hit the nail on the head of her insecurities and she allows that pesky hand to cease its unjustified carnage on the strap once and for all.

He’s entrusted with a significant smile that he cradles in his palms gently, nurturing it to ensure its growth and progression—a curve of her lips he’s not worthy of possessing but she donates it nonetheless.

“I can do that.”

It’s a witless justification to continue this worldless pact they’ve got going on and they couldn’t give a damn whether it was a phony excuse or not. She’s deciding to stay as opposed to leaving the parsec with pieces of himself attached to her back and around her neck; she wants to stay. Peradventure, it’ll only be for a little while—Din wasn’t accommodating enough for people’s liking and they’d always leave eventually—but maybe she’ll outride his past acquaintances and remain.

Din silently sighs and glances down the path they’re idled along. Caben and Stoke should’ve returned by now, though he suspects they did and that they might have been accidentally exposed to his fixation on the Girl. They weren’t exactly being quiet in the Crest after all.

Still, it provokes an irresistible grin; she’s his and only he could arouse those sounds from deep in her stomach.

“Sweet girl.” His finger pets the peak of her cheekbone. “I think we’re going to have to walk back.”

She groans. “So much for an easy-going day.”

With their intended excursion back to the settlement coming up empty-handed, the two set out from the Crest and follow the path they’d been adhered to for the past hour.

It’s nearing dusk; vibrant blues and greens numbing to darkened blends of orange and purples. The Eclipse formally so highly spoken of from their taxi service approaches as the moon makes its tiresome journey above.

“D’you think we’ll get to see it?” The Girl’s questioning disrupts the flow of crunching gravel underneath their synchronized feet.

The sky is victimised by a leering tinted slit of transparisteel, analysing the steadiness of thick clouds rolling across the surface of the dual spheres. It scales inwards to observe the shadows of craters beneath the puffs. Sorgan’s secondary moon, much smaller in size or perhaps simply further away, is smothered in the overcast and lags behind its twin, silent and colourless.

“Clouds are moving fast. It should be okay.”

She nods. “Never had the pleasure of seeing one before. Heard they’re real pretty, though. What about you?”

“No. I don’t frequent a planet long enough.”

There’s a fork in the road, diverging off into three different paths but he’s got it all memorised in the back of his mind and continues onwards without a falter in his steps, the Girl to his side with a bounce in her step as she mulls over his candour approach.

“That’s too bad. Not one for settling down, huh?”

It’s a rhetorical question but Din doesn’t want to leave her hanging regardless, “No.”

“Yet here you are—” She prods a finger at his unarmoured side prompting a light swat to her hand. “—settling.”

“...I’m not settling.”

“No?”

His shoulders broaden and he hooks a thumb in the front of his belt. “No.”

She chuckles at him but mercifully leaves it at that, well aware what he says isn’t true but she’s none the wiser to what he’s settling down for—and it’s not Sorgan.

Leather clings to her hip for dear life, refusing to surrender its residency even when they drift from one another to avoid a dip in the path; fingers merely burrow into the cloth and drag the warmth straight back once they’ve passed. Din exploits the absence of inquisitive glances and looming queries to dedicate cloying touches and he’s not afraid to demonstrate it. Where, even a week ago, he couldn’t express these emotions without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the arousal pulsing in his core, but circumstances have changed—evolved into something fresh.

Something untouched that he wants to corrupt with his obscene hands.

It’s short-lived. Snooping eyes return.

Lanterns emitting orange hues reflect off the waters of the emerging krill ponds, softly rounded fluorescents mirroring against his polished beskar as he sweeps through the troughs. The majority of the inhabitants surround the central campfire, its flames a worthy competitor to the lanterns mellow gingers. They lick and lick and lick at the sky, the scorching embers puffing into the fading purples upwards; laughter and the tinking of spotchka-filled flasks circling the bonfire.

Leather collapses resembling the Crest plummeting through the atmosphere. Heavy, fast, and everything in slow motion while he processes he’s losing traction, a small hitch in his chest upon striking his own thigh. She’s right beside him, an inch away from brushing elbows, yet she’s still too far.

It’s not in his nature to act so possessively in front of people—out in the open for whoever to gauge thoughts, to probe his emotions—and he won’t start parading around now, in spite of the fact she’s accumulated fresh bruises that haven’t been fortunate enough to receive time to heal; or even grant the red inking to mollify into something a little less salient.

They’re the one factor he can pardon from his public displays of affection regulation. It’s simple and clean. An honest indication of what’s between them without needing to flaunt it, simply a demonstration to not infringe on their relations.

Din is accustomed to the turned heads, the watchful gazes as they make way to the midpoint, but the Girl still finds it intolerant; the exposure too confining and she slinks back a few steps. He continues onwards not wanting to draw further attention to her and they pass the spectators, eyes stooping and communication commencing after they’ve had a gander of their guests—their clothes and the Girl’s dishevelled hair evidence enough.

They’re really not as discreet as they pass themselves off to be.

Omera interrupts his motion with a sidestep onto their path. She offers a courteous smile. “Did you have an eventful day?”

“Yes.”

“Can we expect your participation tonight? It should only be a few more hours before the eclipse commences.”

Din nods, somewhat reluctant to agree. Social settings weren’t in his favour but there’s a persistent woman on the heels of his boots who longs to see the phenomenon, and whatever she wishes he will grant with a simple please Din.

Omera gleams at his accepted invitation and gestures past the campfire to a stationed bench compiled of dishes and brimming glasses of various liquids. “Help yourself to our delicacies. It’s all traditional for the celebration.”

He softly sighs, not enough for anybody to hear him over the uproar but it’s sufficient in getting his unimpressed thoughts regarding the taunting dishes—at least, the Girl notices. His helmet pans to the heft on his pauldron, caf-coloured eyes trailing along the limb and jumping to its partner gesturing in the direction of the hut.

“I’ll get you something to eat, all right?”

She doesn’t entitle him the opportunity to oppose her proposition before bounding through the crowd to collect a platter of high-grade Sorgan nourishments. He scouts for a moment, considering her with a slender tilt of his helmet; riveting, how enthusiastic and adaptable she is to the liability of his Creed.

The Way had forcibly distanced him from so many potentials, pulverised them before his very visor, and here she was, dirtying her faultless hands with the soot of his decisions simply to cater to him.

It wasn’t all that long ago he’d be seated up in the Crest’s cockpit, a helmet on his lap, a bowl of nutrients in his hands, a deadpan expression etched into his face as the stars skim past the viewport. Silence, he so often told himself he favours, accompanying him like a prodding rod at the back of his ears; loud and exhausting despite its very name.

It has been quite a while since he’s succumbed to the silence with the Child and all. While he wished the kid would actually comply with his requests, Din has a preference for the cooing and squealing of a baby than the hum and buzz of his haven.

Perhaps it won’t last long—the Child will be returned to wherever he originated and the Girl will journey on after some time—but at least he can savour the atmosphere until then; anything ranging from the snarky remarks to the comfortable quiet in contrast to the loud, resonating one he’s been inflicted by all these years.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” Omera announces, “I’m sure your boy would like to see you when you’re done.”

Another nod on behalf of him, another burden on his pauldron from her; a fleeting touch of her hand but it’s cold and sharp and Din yearns for the Girl’s radiation to cleanse him of the hypothermia.

He sighs and makes his way to their hut.

Their quarters are overfamiliar. The littered blankets untouched, the way Din liked it, lasting evidence of what occurred. The flimsy dress she despised neglected and long forgotten, though it resurges the crisp memories regarding Din’s Honour; how he nonchalantly stripped himself of what he’s constructed himself around simply to feel a smidge of liberation with the Girl—to highlight their connections in the cracks of their implicit relationship.

To show he’s more than just a rusting Creed.

Din exhales through his filters and sinks to the cot’s mattress. It’s not nearly as comfortable with all the beskar on but it’s not as though he’ll be inside long.

“Oh yeah, you just relax there why don’t you?” The Girl grumbles from the doorway, balancing an assortment of bowls and plates in either hand and the crooks of her elbows—she would’ve made for a poor waitress in another life.

He makes no attempt to aid her. “That’s too much.”

“It’s not all for you. Other people eat, too, you know.”

Oh, he knows all too well. The sugary goodness of a thick syrup running down her fingers and onto his tongue never strays far from his mind.

She tries for a bend of her knees to ease the dishes onto a surface but they more or less topple out of her grip, scattering pieces of fried foods across the burnished wood. “Shit...ah, it’s just yours.”

“Funny.”

“I like to think so,” she cracks.

Din strains from his position to observe the variety of consumables she’d pinched from the community; bone broth, assorted krill, an unidentified pastry of some sort—Din crosses it off his list, far too dry looking for his taste—among snacking foods.

They’re not worthy of the title ‘appetising’ but Din’s acquainted with tasteless stock; he only ever eats it for the nutrients anyways.

She hoards a bowl of bone broth to her chest. “I’ll be outside. If you want seconds just call me, yeah?”

Leather wraps around her wrist before he properly registers her words. “No—you can stay. It’s not like I haven’t taken this off around you before.”

“I thought you might’ve wanted to eat in peace.”

Din exhales a laugh out of his nose. “A girl of your build should be smarter than that, no?”

It rises a simper out of her, a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. Din retrieves the extended plate of krill prepared in a vast abundance of methods—fried, broiled, roasted, sauteed—he unenthusiastically considers a crustacean between two gloved digits.

Vibrant cobalt had grown to a dim grey underneath the golden breading, a fine sheet of oil coating leather skin and a drop of grease slipping down the curve of his thumb. Reluctance and dissatisfaction are apparent in his mannerisms and vocoder, emitting an exhaust laden sigh that crackles into the quiet lodge.

The mattress dips with her weight, the press of her back against his beskar. “Not one for krill?”

“I think I’ve had my fair dose,” Din broods.

“Still pent up about getting a little bit of water in your circuits?”

Another cheesy droid joke that pushes his eyes into the back of his skull but he lets it slide. Din’s famished. It’d been a while since he ate; well, not exactly but the Girl wasn’t much of a meal more than a treat. If he could draw out sustenance from her he’d never have to endure another stale dessert or salty meats from who knows where.

Their backs are pressed firmly together, practically leaning on each other for support, and Din doesn’t need to verify whether she’s looking away for him to unlatch his helmet. Its casual hiss signals for her to keep her eyes trained forwards and he lays the steel to rest beside him.

It’s the first time her eyes are open while the helmet is detached. Well, maybe not the first—he had lifted it the slightest back on Tatooine, in the cockpit while she busied herself with his Crest’s maintenance. The circumstances don’t much differ from now; both scenarios involve food of some sort and resolute trust.

Cobalt of the sweet dessert transferred to a chewy crustacean that’s comparable to grinding tar in his mouth, tough and fudgy but in all the worst ways. Din isn’t a selective person; he can consume the coarse flavourless product without a second’s worth of hesitance but he’s had the best of the best—jatnese be te jatnese, he’d said so himself—a gluttonous intake of the Girl’s taste and nothing will ever equate to that.

The mound of unchewable meat slips down his pipes, buttery and peppery but overall bland. Nutritional enough. He crams another cluster of the crescents into his gullet to appease his appetite.

The Girl sips on the pale cream broth behind him, head tilted against his as the liquid leaks from the carved bowl and between her lips. Din can’t imagine the taste is much better than the krill with the colours being so dull—as though they were eating the incarnation of unstimulating hues of greys and blacks.

“Do you want to try some?” she asks, extending the half-empty bowl to their side.

Din retrieves the grub with a low hum in his throat, uncertain, but ultimately decides it can’t hurt to give it a try. It’s obviously edible if it’s a Sorgan delicacy—how wrong he was. It’s saltier than the oceans with chunks in it; he doesn’t even want to think what they could be. He refrains from spitting the soup back into the bowl or onto the cot and feebly swallows the lukewarm puddle, a nubby leather wrist wiping the residue from his lips with disgust.

She bellows at his reaction, the back of her shoulders bouncing against his pauldrons as she struggles to contain herself.

The base of the bowl knocks against the closest surface available, a flimsy stool that accompanies the table, and he scowls with his arms crossed against the hump of his chest. “You’re wicked.”

“Seemed like you wanted a taste with the way you were looking at me.” Din’s head slightly tilts as he watches from the corner of the visor. “I can feel your eyes. Not sure how you ever catch bounties when all you do is stare.”

Bounties are intimidated by my staring, they’re smart, he wants to retort but saying bounties and smart in the same sentence is comical.

Appetite long gone, by consequence of broth that would serve a better purpose as blurrg feed, Din clips the rim of his beskar between two fingers and considers it among his lap. There’s no intent to lift it up and over his face. No intent to distance himself from the Girl just yet. It gawks at him; captivating in its own methods but still so ransacked of life. The black void of his false eyes darker than that of Space’s vacuum.

Din’s eyes ricochet from the slit to the back of the Girl’s head like a blaster bolt within a room of reflective duralloy and nowhere to go; pondering the morals of his very character as he aligns the crown of her head with the vacancy in his clutch.

She noticeably stiffens as his helmet envelopes her, the rim slack around her neck with nothing to latch onto. Fingers dismiss the fried krill she’s been feasting on and orbits the surface; Din amicably smacks them away and lays his hands on her shoulders to loosen the knots.

“Greasy,” he simply explains his reaction.

One would think such a valuable material as beskar could be cleaned with a small wipe of a damp cloth. One would be wrong. It’s a nuisance to maintain its condition and he’d been lagging behind with its upkeep as of recent—he couldn’t afford greasy fingerprints.

Soft vocals are replaced with a crunchy crackle, an unnatural graininess as if she digested a bucket’s worth of Arvala-7 terrain; sand and grit forming lumps in her ducts and spluttering into the internals of beskar, “What are you doing?”

His fingers rub into the base of her neck, the deepness of his unaffected tone eliciting a hum within the helm. “The rifle won’t be used to its full potential without the helmet.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not giving you the helmet. I just want to show you what it can do.”

“Is this...allowed?” She goes to scratch the back of her head but knocks against the steel and limply drops her hand. “It doesn’t feel like this is allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule in that big ol’ Manual for Mandalorians you’ve got hiding around.”

He scoffs. “Do you want to see it or not?”

It dips to a dainty nod.

“Gods, this is heavy. Don’t you get a sore neck?”

Din neglects her questioning and extends his vambrace before her, his other arm reaching around to point at the buttons—effectively sandwiching her between his gauntlets—and his finger focuses on one in particular. It’s a small circular button, a clone to all the others, but more weathered from the abrasive leather. “Click this,” he instructs.

She complies, her digit dainty beside the stocky hide, helmet perking up once the thermal activates and submerging her vision in cool hues of blues. Her curiosity matches that of the Child’s as she twists and turns her head side to side, surely discovering the warm tones of candlelight and heat signals radiating from their hands before her.

“Wait a damn minute—” The Girl aims to toss a suspectful glare in his direction but quickly dismisses the desire, his exposure never far from the forefront of her mind, “you cheating-”

“I told you, Cyar’ika,” Din coos against the side of the helmet. “Not a gentleman.”

“I...I demand a rematch.”

Din chuckles into her, the leaps of his laughter ricocheting against her back but he pays her decree no attention. There’s no way she’d reign successfully in a no holds barred condition, not when his visor contributes half of the rifle's potential of force. Then again, if things were to pan out the same way it did earlier perhaps he’ll take her up on it—just for fun.

“Good for calculating how many threats there are--”

“Yeah, that, or being a little-”

“Next,” he navigates her hand to a second preset.

The thermal deactivates with one push and the sonic detectors engage with another.

It must be disorienting for her to focus on all the surrounding sounds of the settlement, the steel swallowing her senses, Din remembers the first time he donned a helmet—one much smaller and lighter than his current but all the same in terms of abilities and desensitising him from the outside world. Pair that with the power to be able to hear a whisper from over a hundred metres away, it can turn situations sticky and muddled if not appropriately centred.

“What do you hear?”

She’s mute and motionless, suspended in the limbo of space and time.

Din presses a kiss to the nape of her neck in an attempt to declutter her mind but it does very little; sharp claws of concern grasping at the back of his head and scampering upwards until the pressure against his temples is unbearable and it finally conquers him.

He shouldn’t have imposed this on her. He of all people should’ve known better. It takes years of getting accustomed to it.

“Hey. Hey, okay, no more.”

It’s eased up halfway before she interrupts and pulls it back down. “I’m fine. Just trying to focus. There are too many conversations, it’s distracting.” She chuckles. “Good thing I didn’t have it this morning. You snore, you know. Would’ve rendered me deaf.”

Din grumbles beneath his breath—something even the detectors can’t distinguish with the crackles in his vocal cords—and sharply flicks the back of the steel with his forefinger, grinning when she compresses a hand against the side where her ear resides.

“Ow,” she whines. “Okay, okay, turn it off. I’m sick of hearing you breathe down my neck.”

It disables with a final push of his vambrace.

The Girl explores the surface of the beskar with either hand and Din subconsciously annotates how dilatory she is with it—her fingers dipping from the cheek ridges to the face and around the ear caps before resting against the sealed cooling vents at the back—solely dedicating the time to recognise the only face she can put a name to but from his perspective.

Combine that with being endowed with the pleasure of seeing her in his shirt and helmet provokes Din’s heart to stammer against the bones, his jaw to tighten and he seizes the beskar by the edge and twists it to face him. He enables virtually no time for her to comprehend what he’s planning and it’s undetermined whether she managed to shut her eyes before his face is frontwards, but he trusts they are.

It’s outlandish to gaze into the cold dark visor when there’s another lifeform beneath it. Sure, he’s encountered incalculable Mandalorians in his lifetime but never has anybody worn his helmet—it’s a fragment of his Creed, of Him, and he’d rather fall victim to a sarlacc and endure the agony of being digested for millennia than to witness another being wield his persona.

Omitting the Girl from the equation, naturally.

She could carve out his heart with his vibro-knife and he wouldn’t complain one bit. It’s incomprehensible what she does to him. Just a touch of her finger on his face and he’s primed to brandish a blaster and confront her greatest enemy even if he’s incapable of victory.

Nonetheless, it astonishes him how she can gaze into the nullity of a slit and not request—demand—for more. She’s more than deserving of it and yet she doesn’t wish for it.

Perhaps she sees a mirrored image of what’s before him. Not a slab of shiny steel nor a devout Creed but merely the living tissue, the pumping blood, beneath it.

Din trails a digit along the steel jawline and lifts as he reaches the transparisteel visor connecting to the curve at the bottom. It lifts only a little, just enough for her lips and the point of her nose to peek beneath. The soft hills separate instinctively and he wastes no time slotting his own in their place, cupping the back of her neck with his free hand to drag her in close.

Those damned words. They utterly refuse to vacate his mind—duplicating by the dozen and submerging his thoughts and sensations with foreign statements. It links together into a lengthy chain made of high-grade alloy, fortified greater than freshly smelted beskar, and packages his consciousness into overburdened disarray.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Din needs her to know; needs her to hear those words tumble out of his vocal cords.

He needs to enunciate them—to listen to himself admit the feelings hidden within him aren't pseudo.

But he can’t; his lips cease their endeavours against hers yet he still can’t discover the courage to say three little fucking words. Thank the stars he disabled the sonic detectors because he wouldn’t be able to take the speculative questioning upon hearing the thumping in his chest, deep and muffled pulses of his heart struggling to compete with his nerves.

“Din,” she whispers. “You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?”

“No…”

“Come on, you need to get some fresh air. Let’s go see the kid.”

No, not yet, he thinks. Please, just a little while longer.

She hoists the beskar from her head slowly, inches of her impeccable face unmasking at a time. He cups her jaw and tilts her head to peck at her chin, her cheeks, and forehead as the helmet is relieved from each section.

Din records the movement of flesh underneath his lips as she smiles against his intimacy and it urges something intense and unexplored in his centre, his core, and the helmet bounces off the cot and crashes to the floor below with a small push of his three fingers; his lips refusing to curb their hunger for cushiony skin and his weight slowly applies against her until she inclines onto her back with him above.

“Din.”

“Mmm,” he hums, leathers stroking the strands of hair out of her face before reconnecting his lips to her cheekbones.

“We—we can’t. The kid is waiting for you.” Her actions overpower her words; a hand slides down his cape feebly, her fingers catching on the folds to thrust him closer.

“You’re addictive.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Din emits a gravelly groan and slides a knee between her legs, the edge of his cuisse brushing against the peak of her groin. “Can I have a taste, Cyar—sweetheart, please?”

They don’t have the privilege of time on their side, Din’s more than aware of this fact and yet he can’t stop the glove from slithering down her neck and the curve of her chest to idle at the hem of her pants.

“You’re insatiable,” she says, fingers firmly rooted within the scratchy cloak.

She’s hitting the nail on the head with that proclamation; he’s utterly unsated and deprived of her sweetness. Din requires it like sustenance—like medicine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Never.”

The aftertaste of her slick is on his tongue and he needs more. He wants to binge on her for eternity and, maybe, then he’ll finally be content; a belly full of her translucent flavours, the gums of his throat and mouth coated in the thickness to the brink of suffocation.

Din’s fingers toy with her buckle loosely, queuing for approval.

“Can’t,” she whines pitifully. “We’ve already made our presence known. They’ll be expecting us out there. Besides, you should spend time with the kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

She grins. “Well—maybe back to the Crest. Has that offer got an expiry date?”

“Offer?”

“Already forgotten, huh? If I remember correctly, you said you’ll fuck me in your bunk whenever I want.” She mimics his words, “Name the time.”

Shit—it wasn’t just pillow-talk.

“Why didn’t you mention it while we were there?”

“Oh no, Din.” He’s dragged inwards, his lips brushing the tip of her ear as she diabolically whispers into his, “I got something special planned for that.”

A chill runs beneath his beskar, brandishing his flesh with a bumpiness the dunes of Tatooine would envy. There are endless possibilities for what she’s got in mind but Din’s been excluded from her brainstorming. It doesn’t cease his imagination to run wild with disgusting thoughts of deviancy; ones involving her bent over on that shitty cot of his, the familiar manacles capturing her wrists, shameful noises slipping past those beautiful lips as he takes her night long and into the rise of the sun.

It had to be bigger than that. Don’t get him wrong, he wants to give her all of that, badly, but she could’ve done it earlier. They would’ve had the equipment on hand, no preparation necessary. No, she’s suggesting something else. Something bigger.

But she won’t indicate anything further, won’t give him a little taste of what’s to come, and cruelly urges him back onto his feet to recollect his helmet with a heavy hand.

She observes him upon hearing the click of his locking system inside the helm, either hand on his hip with an inclined head that just reads don’t leave me hanging.

“Suspense makes it all that much better,” she sweetly says.

He’s beginning to realise that sweetness is all exterior, a disguise for all the hot and heaviness she possesses within. A decoy that he’s fallen victim to. He’s like that of a fish foolishly nipping at a too good to be true enticement, the Girl laying in wait for him to latch on and reel him into his doom.

But she’s inexperienced. Unsuspecting of his abilities. Oblivious to his attachment to her lure.

She’s sweet but she’s also sour.

Salty in the heat of the moment.

Bitter in times of hurt.

Saliva constructed of pure savoury goodness.

She’s got all the nourishments he requires and there’s an endless supply; flavours he can taste straight from the source.

So, one can assume the agony, the clenched fists in his gloves, as they saunter through the chatty crowd, her hips swaying ahead of him a little too provocatively. She knows what she does to him, he’s demonstrated his need in various positions, and she’ll go above and beyond to find one way or another to fuck with him—to poke and prod to test his self-control before he drags her behind a hut and fucks her against the walls, whether it was outside or not he couldn’t care.

To fuse her fingers with the puppet strings attached to his pauldrons.

“This should be quiet enough,” she announces and throws herself onto the handcrafted bench, tossing a leg over the other and patting the empty space beside her. “I know you like quiet.”

Din plops down with the Child on his lap, a slothful hand massaging the green wrinkles at the summit of his head. There’s a handful of farmers in their own respective groups scattered around them, producing enough noise that allows thoughts to wander without concerning themselves with maintaining a conversation.

Sorgan’s moons are at their pinnacles, puffy grey plumes illuminated into off-whites from their luminescence. One sphere perches in the vast black, performing as a repellent to the swarms of haze, while the other is blinded by the thickness of the clouds; a circular radiance perceived through the fluffiness the only indication the planet possessed more than one.

A vague shadow surmounts the moon’s edge, the dawdling process of the eclipse having commenced but it’ll be quite some time before anything worthwhile transpires—Din sullenly groans at the missed opportunity to give her his tongue back on the cot. It’s not as though they were missing out on anything. It would’ve only taken him a couple of minutes to work her up to the brink, a couple more to—

“I never asked,” she says. “What’s the deal with you and the kid?”

“What do you mean?”

She shifts in search of a comfortable position among the splinters. “He’s a bounty and you’re a bounty hunter; please don’t make me explain further.”

Din sighs and swipes a finger across the leafy brim of his ear, provoking a gentle burble into the Crest’s gear knob. “I handed him over but they were doing experiments on him and I couldn’t leave him there. Things didn’t go to plan--”

“Because you don’t plan.”

“--and there was a shootout with the Guild.”

“So,” She ponders, “you’ve got a bounty of your own now.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late.”

Din entertains her amusement with a quiet huff of air through his filters, soft enough for her to register it’s not an annoyance. The subject of the Guild raises some questions he’s not wanting to voice—they’ll only ruin the mood and he doesn’t want to admit defeat—but he’s to play the hand he’s been dealt.

“We need to discuss where we’re heading next,” he says.

“So soon? It’s only been two days.”

“Should consider ourselves lucky we’ve managed to survive this long here. There could be hunters stationed from the last time I was here.”

“Right—and the Crest would’ve got their attention,” she agrees. “Okay. Where are you thinking?”

Somewhere reclusive. An isolated backwater planet much like Sorgan but one where nobody knows their names or reputation. Although discovering a planet with the aforementioned qualities is easier said than done, especially with the threats of audacious bounty hunters on their thrusters. Idling in space until they stumble across a safe-enough planet—or if pirates picked them off—was always an option.

Din sighs.

The Girl was right; he doesn’t plan. He’d just been traversing from parsec to parsec all his life, picking up commissions for fuel and a bite to eat, partaking in activities that simply aided his survival. Now with the Child, he’s expected to have a procedure—to shield him from the dangers Din automatically puts him in upon rescuing him from the client. But he doesn’t have the scheme to save their lives, literally.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Nothing wrong with not knowing. With my skills behind a rifle and your—uh… Point is, we’ll figure it out. Lighten up a little, you’ll wrinkle that pretty face of yours.”

With a roll of his eyes behind the visor, he settles for her words of reassurance and heeds her suggestion to relax his forehead.

“Mandalorian—Mando,” Omera’s abrupt panic-stricken tone is plenty for both of them to straighten their posture and bury the quips. Din twists his helmet to where she stands behind him, noting the fumbling hands before her lap, the twitch in her eyebrow ridges.

Din deposits the Child into the Girl’s arms and stands. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Caben and Stoke...they—they weren’t with you?”

“No, they never returned for us.”

The Girl interjects, “We assumed they headed back before us.”

“No, no. Nobody has seen them.”

Shit—he should’ve realised something was wrong when they failed to show up. Raiders? There was no sign of them on that trail—but Din wasn’t exactly in the right mindset, being too haunted by the Girl’s temptations.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you...at an unfortunate time, no less, but-”

“I’ll go trace their route and see if I pick anything up,” Din says.

“Thank you, thank you.” Omera clasps his hands in gratitude, her thumbs brushing along the stitching.

“It’s not a problem. If I don’t come across them on the trail, I’ll question the neighbouring settlement. They should have some information.”

“I’m coming with you,” the Girl pipes up.

“No. Stay with the kid here.”

She shoots him a curved eyebrow and places a hand on her hip, her other cradling the Child into her side. “I hardly think watching the moon is of importance right now. I won’t let you go out there alone and it’ll be quicker if there’s two of us looking.”

“I don’t want-”

“Don’t want, what, to drag me into this? I think we’re far past all that, no?”

Din sighs. “Fine.”

No use arguing with someone so cocksure like her. Besides, when push comes to shove she’ll be resourceful with the rifle.

The Child isn’t happy at the circumstances, to say the least. He finally finds serenity wrapped in cold beskar edges and has been stripped away so soon—he glares at his guardian in the warmth of poncho-clad arms while Din and the Girl retreat into the woods once more. He’ll make it up to the kid when he gets back; Din’s certain he’ll face the wrath of a foot-long baby if he doesn’t.

“I think you should take the rifle. Just in case.”

“No. You need something to protect yourself.” Din brushes her suggestion off and activates the thermals on his vambrace.

“I’ve got my blaster.”

“That’s not enough. Here, hold it up. Press that. Be careful with the bayonet.”

She glances at him with questioning eyes and rests the rifle against her hip. “What’d you do?”

“It’ll administer electricity to anybody who touches it. There're only so many cartridges—” Din presents a cluster of steel cylinders in his glove and she shoves them in a pocket in her pants, “Pair your blaster with the bayonet and use the ammunition sparingly.”

“You think we’ll need them?”

“Just be prepared.”

They fall into a sharply cold silence, Din utilising his sonic detectors as they trudge through the bush to discern any commotion that may be of use. The Girl retains a pace a few steps behind his own, purposefully slotting her boots into his prints to avoid a stray twig snap here or a tumble there. It’s wordlessly recognised if there are raiders in these parts it’s best not to disclose their presence, especially not when there’s two of them. It supplies them with a lead on their opponent, at least until they identify how many there are.

The thermals are nothing but counterproductive. If they had passed through recently the track would surely be lit in fire-orange but it’s all blues and greys; Din thumbs the button to restore his vision, relieving the burden of having to focus on where he steps and clicks another for his sonic detectors. His vambrace was really getting put to the test today.

“Where——or….hurt you.”

Din freezes, the Girl sharp in his guide, and adjusts his helmet to pinpoint the muffling in his sensors. It’s quiet. Shallow. It could be flooded with a singular flask of water.

“Does….Child,” It’s speech tears.

East, about ninety metres out. The forest is thickened around these parts—too dense to trace any campfires or shadows—but there’s somebody there and they’re referencing a child; there’s not a doubt in his mind it’s The Child.

They’re not raiders. They’re not people who’ll go down without a fight.

“Guild members,” Din slips.

“Any clue how many?”

He hones in on the vocals, isolating each individual muffle or change of tone that could indicate there’s more than just the one. Even if he’s wrong, it’s best to be over-prepared. “Two. No, wait...three. I think.” She quietly mulls the possibility over, the strap of the rifle flinging over her shoulder as she makes way inwards. Din seizes her wrist and suspends her movements. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll get the high ground and see if I can spot Caben and Stoke. There’s no point starting something if they’re not there.”

“High ground?” Din questions.

She grins and breaks his grasp. “How’d you think I got those targets up in the trees?”

The Girl cracks her knuckles, the clicks and pops of joints puncturing his eardrums through the detectors like a bubble underneath a needlepoint. Either of her hands sprawls on the sides of a trunk, fingers dig into the bark for traction, and she hoists her feet up—she’s like the Crest in its ascent, agile and coordinated as she frog-kicks herself up into the branches.

Din’s eyebrows raise in dismay; he didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that.

The potential one possesses outside a suit of steel is still an astonishing concept to Din even after all these years of branding himself to the insides of his helmet. There’s an endless list of skills he’ll never be able to master—untapped aptitudes that have greyed into a colourless nothing.

Steel platings obstruct his movements, the helmet an obstacle to his sensations; his birthrights.

Brittle tree arms creak and whine above him, the leaves rustling as she navigates the long-arm’s lens to her sight. He’ll be left in amazement if she can distinguish the bodies from the swaying of blunted foliage. The land is too compact with trunks reaching the clouds, even with the magnified scope it’ll be near impossible to identify how many there are or whether the missing duo is being held captive.

His thermals would come in handy right about now for her; with her height advantage and his helmet, she’d assuredly recognise their precise positioning. Hell, she’d be an unstoppable force—a marksman even the greatest of bounty hunters would shake in their armour witnessing.

The Girl’s low tone sails through the treetops, gliding with the bitter night edge, and into his sonic detectors, “I see them—they’ve got them in the middle of the camp. Minimum six hostiles. All equipped with blasters. I can take two of them out from here.”

Well, he’s definitely left in amazement.

That’ll leave him with the remaining four, so long as there’s not more concealed within the shadows.

A lack of communication between them serves as nothing but an impediment, but time isn’t on their side and Din can’t waste any more of it to collect the comm units from the Crest. Weapons locker, second drawer, to the left.

If only he had thought of it earlier.

Din’s helmet inclines skywards, his visor scaling in and outlining her frame.

They’ve got each other's credibility and that, strictly, is sufficient for Din to jump into action; cutting through the undergrowth and stealthing between pillars of wood, each succeeding stride premeditated.

His scanners crackle against his ears, a gruff voice laced with croaks and coughs slipping through the beskar, “Where is he? Look at me! You’ll tell me where he is, boy, otherwise I’ll gut you right here. Perhaps watching you die will encourage your friend to speak, yeah?”

Caben and Stoke quake ahead of the lambent light illuminating their features; previously happy expressions replaced with terror, identical to when the AT-ST had broken through a dozen sturdy trees to gaze upon its victims with hollow eyes.

A burly Weequay paces before them, twin thumbs hooked on the hoops of his trousers in an attempt to appear stockier.

Fuckin’ Weequays.

Din’s blaster will come up short in a confrontation with that layered flesh of his and, with the lack of communication between them, he can’t depend on the Girl on being able to snipe him—he may not be one of the two she can manage. Another Guild member sits off to the side of the farmers, intimidatingly polishing a small vibro-knife in his fist. The remaining four she spoke of patrol their encampment; all either human or made with skin he can puncture.

It won’t be easy and the Weequay has the advantage; Din will need to take him out first and foremost.

He’ll put his faith in the Girl’s abilities that she can ward off the other’s long enough.

Din shovels a cluster of rocks into his hand and hurls them overhead and into the copse recesses, the rustling effectively tearing the hunters’ focus from their posts—Din springs to action and leaps from behind the greenery boscage, blaster pistol in his dominant hand and vibro-knife in the other.

The Weequay’s back faces Din and he exploits the factor, pouncing like a predatory loth-cat onto him and slicing a gash into the leathery hide of his neck. It does minimal damage, a small notch for a dribble of blood to meet with the neck of his shirt. He’s thrown off of the hunter and stumbles backwards into a tree, grunting and raising his blaster outwards; the trigger snaps against the alloy hold, a burning beam of cherry drilling into a fleshy build. It drops to the dirt, blaster bouncing astray.

“Mandalorian!” Caben exclaims into his detectors.

Din doesn’t reply nor impart his eyes to analyse their condition - they’re alive and that’s all that mattered while in the midst of battle.

The Weequay restores his attention to his surroundings, scowling at the Mandalorian before him and dipping calloused fingers into the wound of his neck. He snarls at the amassed blood on his tips. “You’ll pay for that, Mando, just as soon as you tell me where the bounty is.”

Child--bounty.

Any doubt that he had about them being after the kid is shattered, obliterated entirely.

Din’s vibro-knife pulses in his fist, his finger planted against the trigger in his other. The four scrawnier minions gather around his position against the tree, brandishing arrogant smirks as they languidly handle their blasters.

“I said-” The Weequay spits between his boots. “-tell me where the bounty is. You may have taken one of us but there are plenty more. There’s only one of you—your friends here aren’t much fighters.”

One. He scoffs.

A henchman, typically made of flesh and bones and blood, pops beside the Weequay; organic matter dissolving to flaky dust onto the forest floor. It leaves nothing behind that proves it was once a humanoid, barring the hunter’s blaster which plummets to the soil and knocks against the boot of his partner.

“What the pfassk!” One of them cries.

His detectors pick up the familiar whistle of a rifle pellet.

The Weequay raids his surroundings, concluding Din’s ally to be the in the only place that’d see them from this distance: “In the trees! Go!”

The hunters follow their orders but abruptly stop; a second member obliterating the moment his boot sole leaves the ground. Particles scatter with the breeze through the leafy canopies. They lie in wait, suspecting of another incoming granule but Din knows it won’t come—they’re well out of her sight.

But he can’t let them head in her direction; Din flicks the point of his blade between two fingers and slings the knife through the air and into the Weequay’s gullet once more—deeper and thrumming out splotches of plasma, an unnerving outcome of the intensity the knife is throbbing.

He staggers backwards in shock but Din focuses on the others, administering two perfectly aligned bolts into either of their unsuspecting chests; they nosedive into snapped twigs and gravel where sticky liquid accumulates underneath their bodies.

One to go.

Din didn’t act in accordance with his plan—the Weequay winding up as the last he’s to tend to—but this works, too.

The blade is ripped from his gullet, a spurt of hot blood following its dislodging, and the Weequay balefully boasts the dagger in his clutch. “Come now, Mandalorian. It’s going to take more than that,” he snarls.

He scoffs to himself in response and edges closer to one of the hunters drift melee weapons, footsteps precariously slow to ensure he doesn’t allude to his intentions—the bushes swish, a deep crack of a stick, and they freeze as one.

Visor and darkened pools of black sharpen against the lightless forest, apparently having forgotten about each other’s threat to concentrate on their snooping bystander.

The Girl steps out from the dusk, amban rifle hoisted forehead level with the Weequay. She stands stout on her feet, the wooden stock butting into her shoulder, eyes perfectly trained on her target before her. She doesn’t shoot, she won’t without his expressed permission.

The hunter recognises defeat and tosses the Mandalorian’s vibro-knife before his boots.

Din decompresses somewhat, allowing a sigh to flee from his filters and swoops up the knife and creeps past the defeated frame to shred through the rope bindings around Caben and Stoke’s wrists. “Thank—thank you,” Caben hisses and rubs the rash they’ve left in their wake.

Stoke imparts a gratified nod and smoothes out his clothing. “We’re sorry. They ambushed us on our way back---wanted to use us as leverage to draw you out. We’re just glad they didn’t track us back to the settlement.”

“Are you okay?” Din asks and quickly glances over their appearance. Some creased clothing and maturing bruises but for the most part untouched - no blood, no wounds.

They nod their heads in unison.

“He’s--” Caben glares at his captor warily. “He’s after the kid—your kid.”

Din suspected as much. “We’ll deal with him. Where’s the speeder?”

“Destroyed!”

He sighs and contemplates his options as if he had any. No speeder, no ride. “Follow the trail back to the village. We’ll be right behind you.”

They share a concerned look between each other but heed Din’s instructions, slipping past the growling figure and bounding through the bushland towards their escape route without glancing back.

“Quit wasting moonlight, boy. Get your hands dirty,” the Weequay sneers.

Judging by the bravado performance he puts on, he reckons he won’t suffer at the hands of an irritated Mandalorian tonight—he couldn’t be more incorrect even if he were to claim Din was of another species underneath his armour. A nettlesome Gungan. A hard-headed Klatoonian. An emotionless droid. He’s heard it all and they’re all closer to being more correct than he assumes of his safety.

There could be a message to send; violate every bone in his body to signify not to challenge the wrath of a well-equipped storm.

He’ll be in pain, Din’s sure of it, only, it’s undecided to what extent.

The Weequay grins, a sharp menacing clenched-teeth smile that puts Din back in his place, a guffaw that transmits a surge of electricity down the bumps of his spine; sounds of self-assuredness he shouldn’t possess in his perspective, unless...

No—he’s laughing at their idiocy. He’s pending for the upper hand.

Din spins on the heels of his boots, blaster pistol scanning the thicket. There’s more. There’s fucking more of the bastards and they’re smart about it; they laid in wait and let Din kill their teammates, let Din think he had the advantage, and only to fucking swoop in once they’ve noted all of his abilities—his sonic detectors. They’re too quiet for him to sense.

He thumbs his vambrace to activate his thermal but he doesn’t get the opportunity before he’s kicked in the back, staggering a few steps before crashing to the ground in a heap of steel. Grunting and groaning, he surveys behind him for the abruptness. The Girl is preoccupied in a feud of her own with three ambushers, applying his previously described strategy of paralysing with the bayonet before finishing them with her pistol.

She’s tossed around a bit; slammed into the trunks of trees and thrown onto the ground but she recovers and snaps the trigger of her sidearm with such ease. She’s capable, she’ll be fine.

Din needs to focus on this fucker—he needs to kill the scumbag.

Who knows how many of these guys there are. They literally came out of the fucking woodworks; the Girl wasn’t the only one who thought of taking the high ground and with it being so dark out Din hadn’t even thought to assess the treetops.

But they still didn’t know the extent of his capabilities. The hidden gems implanted in his vambraces. They weren’t just for show, after all.

The lurkers are dismissed for the time being—they’re distant, patient until he makes a miscalculation, and he can work with that—his attention focuses on the leathery neck oozing taunting blood. Din’s fingers curl around the vibrating hilt of his blade and lunges while the Weequay is empty-handed, delivering another slash across an arm this time.

It’s too protective, too tough for him to pierce and really leave some damage.

If Din can get one good stab in his throat, he could fucking skin him alive.

But he’s being surrounded. Hunters making their debut from behind bushes and circling him as if he were a fire in the midst of a snowstorm. It just doesn’t end; this was supposed to be a calming few days away from combat and here they were. Din anticipated this happening—tranquillity scarcely presenting itself to him—but he didn’t expect it so soon. The last he was on this planet, he’d been endowed with a few weeks at the least.

A shrill scream erupts, resonating through the forest and waking the creatures dormant in their hides, but it’s so much louder within his helmet on the account of his detectors. His ears pulse with frigid blood. His windpipe snaps closed, lungs thumping against his ribs.

He doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t. But he needs to - needs to reassure himself that it wasn't the shriek of a girl who’d just obtained something severe, something that makes her screams force time to fall dead.

It’s blurry and hazy, his cloddish eyes simply refusing to cooperate, like observing the scene unfold through a brimming glass of steaming caf. Din manages to discern a pillar, mobile with a rifle in its arms, but it’s not the Girl. Din’s learnt her figure greater than the Creed he wears. He’s felt all of its curves and bumps underneath his callouses. He’s dedicated the inches of his tongue to its sweat.

Din could sculpt her physique out of a slab of concrete with nothing but his fingernails.

That pillar isn’t the Girl—so why does it have her rifle?

Eyes stoop lower, the haze clearing and the Girl becoming so clear-cut it aches his retinas. She’s on the ground—the dirty fucking ground—being suppressed with a boot on her midsection; her hands claw at what little shin she can reach but her efforts are depleted, slowed and weak.

The knife thrums intensively and numbs the tips of his fingers, complementing the tingling billowing through his veins, his organs, wrapping around his bones and urging his legs towards her but a hunter steps before him to block his view.

His heart stutters inside his ribs. Stopping and starting. Leaping and dropping.

Pull your head in and kill these assholes, Din demands himself the willpower to snap his scrutiny around the four hunters caging him in a circle. He’s not in the mood to entertain their wishes for a brawl and triggers the flamethrower in his gauntlet, swirling on his feet to enkindle them with orange heat that’ll leave a mark if not end them.

Clothes of two of them ignite, hastily engulfing their frames and biting its brand into their flesh.

Din relishes in their screams, their desperate tries to distinguish the unforgiving flames, and, in his foolish stupor, he’s forced onto the ground—two thickset weights on either of his arms, the front of his helmet slamming against the dirt and knocking against his nose with a vengeance.

He struggles underneath their grip but hardly moves an inch.

The Girl whimpers, faint but oh-so lively with his detectors. Din’s helmet scrapes across the ground as he cranes his neck to peer at her—the hand that’d been working at a shin now flat against the ground, her writhing the only indication she’s still conscious.

Din wants to look away, wants to shut off his sonic detectors and close his eyes.

It hurts to look at her; that pain he’d receive the day after a tussle with a high-end bounty but intensified by a dozen and stripping away at his internal organs as opposed to muscle tissue.

She’s being brutalised. A boot on her abdominals milking her of pained mewling.

“You’re impudent, Mandalorian,” the Weequay gurgles. “Should teach you some manners. Oi, bring her ‘ere.”

Din’s muscles tense. No armour can conceal the visible discomfort those words bring to him but he tries for his voice anyways, “What is it you want? To take me back to the Guild? I’ll go--leave her alone, she’s not a part of this.”

“She killed my men.” Leather-face huffs a breath. “Bring her ‘ere.”

The lackey complies, rugged gloves tearing into her skin and thrusting her in their general direction. Din scans her body for injuries, the spotlight of his eyes staring at the dark vermillion patch seeping through the black of his shirt at her belly. He struggles for a breath. Struggles to swallow the rising liquids that burn the back of his throat. Struggles to not implode with cusses that’ll only edge their retaliation over the brink.

Fucking vermillion.

A colour that looked fantastic on his foes but so fucking unsettling on His Girl.

Her competitor wears the same colour as her, a circular bolt wound in his shoulder and it doesn’t take a genius to piece them together. She must’ve been fooled. She must’ve been attacked with the knife in his hand while tending to the other hunters that now lay dead among the bark.

She can’t stand upright without the arm fisting her shirt and she drops to her knees and successively her stomach before him. They’re both a quivering mess, though for wholly different circumstances, and Din can’t fucking take the look she gives him. So painful. So devoid of that sweetness.

“Sorry, Me’suum’ika,” she whispers.

She feels as though she failed him—that somehow her getting injured resulted in him immobile, anchored to the forest floors and staring at his companion face-to-face while she bleeds out unattended to. Not the fact he can’t control the emotions that overwhelm him. Not the fact that it’s his own incompetence.

“No—pretty girl, look at me. Look at me.” Din trashes his weight against their hold but the position is awkward and his legs are unable to administer any power into his core. He’s as hopeless as captured krill, simply flailing about in hopes it’ll get him somewhere.

The Weequay wipes blood from his neck and nudges a foot into her side, squirming it underneath her stomach and flipping her onto her back to expose that hellish colour tainting her midsection. It melts through the shirt and adheres the fabric against the invisible wound beneath; Din’s eyes refuse to cut away.

It’s painful. Identical to those atrocious holodramas that’d screen late at night in the sketchy areas of town—it’s a shootout of a mess and he just can’t look away.

“She’s dying,” the Weequay announces. “There ain’t no medicine out in these parts. She’ll be gone before you can even lift her off the ground.”

Din’s stunned into silence. What’s he to do? His Girl is an arms-length away from him, bleeding out and moaning in pain, and he can’t do so much as stroke the hair out of her face and reassure her that she’ll be okay.

The Weequay snatches her rifle from his men, twisting the framework in his arms and hovering the prongs directly over her forehead—barely an inch of space between beautiful soft skin and a fatally paralysing influx of electricity.

“Don’t,” Din warns, tone more emotional than he wants to display. “Touch her and I will never stop looking for you.”

“I can end it all for her right now. Turn her to dust. Take mercy on her. Look at her, she’s in agony.”

The Girl’s mouth opens and closes rhythmically, an arm strewn across her front to stop the gush of blood—it’s fucking bad. It worsens when she looks at him, the angle causing tension to find a path along her neck and down to her belly but she shuns the idea of glancing away. Din’s throat tightens.

“All you need to do is point me in the direction of the bounty.”

The fucking choobies on this guy.

“Get her assistance and we’ll talk,” he bluffs.

They’re not impressed by his demands, a singular knee from either of the hunters digging into his forearm. The vambraces support a majority of the weight but it’s still hefty, still——

Vambraces. He’s exhausted what little fuel remains for his flamethrowers but there are still a few tricks in wait up there—techniques that they’ll never anticipate.

Din strains his arm beneath the hunter, flicking his fist as best as he can manage for specks of bright blue to ignite within the cavities of his wrist. A handful of the explosive tips dispense into the still air above him. The birds sing their tune as they coordinate their attacks, dedicating themselves to targeting each individual quarry. One dives into the side of a hunter to Din’s left followed by another to his right, the muscles pinning him down becoming limp, the third impact into the chest of the Girl’s half-defeated foe.

They lay lifeless among the forest; scorch marks where they’d been touched with his beskar sparrows.

Two birds remain circling overhead.

Two?

One dips through the air targeting the Weequay like a missile with his name written on it but Din conducts a staredown with the last, his eyes swiftly tracing the projectile. It makes its move—identifying the bleeding woman coiled on the floor as a threat to his safety, but Din matches its tempo and hurtles himself atop of her body.

His weight stimulates a displeased groan from her throat.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.

Din cages her head in with his arms and tucks her face into his cowl before caving in on himself, a poor attempt to cover every inch of soft flesh with reverberating beskar and it works.

He feels the menacing tink through his spine as it bounces off the steel and into a tree.

He peels himself from her, cherry liquid having been smeared across his beskar platings, and examines her condition—the shirt drags up and tracks the blood to her ribs, a wide three-inch chamber in her stomach that convulses with each unsteady exhale.

She grunts incoherently and latches her fingers onto the perimeter of his vambraces, beseeching eyes demolishing the resolve within him. “We’ll get you fixed up, all right?” Din examines the incision with trained eyes, plush grey-purple tissue beneath all the vermillion causing his heart to drop.

It’s not that she was trying to stop the bleeding; she’s trying to prevent her fucking intestines from spilling out.

They’re still tucked away inside, where they belong, but if she moves too much they’ll slip out with ease.

His glove compresses around the fabric, wringing out the garment of her insides. His helmet sharply tosses in the direction of a small explosion by his final whistling bird. Weequay remains upright. Din’s insides boil.

This fucker. This son of a bitch.

This is his fault.

His Girl lays beneath the stars, her essence draining from her disoriented body, all because a handful of good for nothing guild members needed to get their hands dirty for a lousy couple thousand credits.

Din’s knees crack as he raises to his feet, his shoulders contracting and fingers crunching around a blade’s hilt. She sputters for a breath, her lungs failing to cooperate with her demands; the distressing audio flourishes the growing rage within him and he scowls under his visor.

He wishes it wasn’t there—wishes he could pluck the damned steel from around his face to burn the Weequay’s leather hide with stewing caf; a tribute of his ire. To permit the one who attributed so much agony on his beloved to gaze into his eyes as he snips his vocal cords through the wound in his gullet; darkened eyes that haven’t touched daylight in decades to swallow him whole in their shadows.

Like a hibernating beast longing for its first meal upon awakening.

Din cocks his vambrace controls and fires out his grappling cord, cleanly winding it around the maimed throat of his opponent, jerking forwards and concurrently rushing into his physique so they tumble to the turf and fend off each other’s clamouring.

That message he had been planning on distributing for the galaxy’s eyes is burnt to ash, much like that of the Weequay’s comrades. Din simply wants to murder the bastard—murder. An act far worse than killing. Killing somebody had always implied his survival, a requirement to take matters into his own hands so that he returns to the Crest with a beating heart.

This wasn’t survival.

This is harsh tidal waves crashing against the foundations of a lighthouse.

This is the crack of lightning in the sky in an unstoppable catastrophe.

This is a whole new side to Din that he’s never witnessed before. Anger that drowns him from the inside out. A bitterness that prods his taste buds. Overheating caf scorching holes through the visor.

Din registers the whipcord and how his fingers hook around the thread.

Din registers the dire clawing at his helmet, the Weequay’s desperation urging him on.

But what Din can’t register is anything in between; his consciousness, usually so clouded with his own grievances, is utterly blank as if he were a wiped droid. All circuitry and no sentiments.

“Ash’amur,” Din spits and applies every pound in his build.

The whipcord is constructed of refined shivs that slice through the thick neck and into Din’s gloves, drawing blood from his palms and fingertips.

It’s the gurgling that does it for him. That vile bubbling of blood and saliva in his pipes as it rises upwards and leaks from clenched teeth down his frilled jowls. It’s too horrendous to sustain—Din cringes and seizes his vibro-knife, only to be punched in the side of his neck the moment he removes a hand from that rubbery fucking throat.

Din groans and slams the cord-entangled hand into his jaw, roughhousing his cranium into the dirt and presenting the vulnerable wound like the perfect target to practice his precision. The blade dips through the seams and excavates deeper through the muscles, intensifying his suffering and crackled spluttering. Coriaceous hands fumble at slippery beskar, mouth belching and spraying ruby drops across the surface of his Creed.

He digs his knee into the fleshy stomach beneath him, extracts his knife and plunges it directly through the crevice once more.

The appendages slink down his torso and thighs, accumulating in a motionless mound atop of twigs and stones—dull eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

That filthy noise pollution continues—fluids frothing and popping in the oceanic limbo of fucking somewhere. Din’s mouth reshapes into a sneer and he impales the blade through the muscle again and again, but the ruckus persists; striking his eardrums with more zeal than his efforts to numb it.

It’s too loud, too distracting, his senses simmering down to solely auditory perception as it spikes in volume. It needs to be stopped, he needs to vanquish it.

Din white-knuckles the rubber hilt and repeatedly thrusts the blade in and out of the wound with rigid movements, his chest heaving with floundering breaths as he falls into a mania of knife-plungings.

The Weequay is long-lifeless but its body rocks with each frantic stab, the blood squelching within the open wound, and Din doesn’t realise the chilling mass beneath him isn’t the cause of the carnage on his sonic detectors until it’s splintered and calling his name between cracks and coughs.

He visibly recoils.

That agonised suffocating on blood wasn’t him at all.

The Girl coughs again, liquid gargling in the deep of her throat.

Vibro-knife rips through the skin as he withdraws the blade and reverts back to the Girl’s aid, flipping her onto her side and smoothing out the hair. “Spit it up, Sweetheart,” he instructs. Vermillion amasses into a puddle beneath her mouth and floods the forest floors. “That’s it, keep going.”

She mewls, incapable of urging up the last swish of metallic liquid—Din intervenes and slips his hand free of his glove to wedge two fingers into her mouth, sweeping out the remainder of accrued blood and clearing her airways.

“Breathe in, there we go, and out.”

She exhales and nods to her wound. “Didn’t—didn’t see the knife in time. Thought I-I killed him.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, all right?”

There’s disbelief written on her face, her eyebrows and teeth tense as she chews on soft gums, but she gives him the faintest of smiles and a nod that’s more to reassure him than it is her.

She’s lost too much blood and the volume is only ballooning with time. Din acts fast and slashes a load of his cloak with his knife, again, the woollen trimmings serving as a tourniquet around her midsection; it’s a shitty solution and functions more to irritate the wound than anything—the fibres of the garment eating away at the uncovered pulsing muscle—but it’s all he’s got. They’ve got nothing going for them here and the Crest had to be a decent twenty minute trek outwards on a good day which this is fucking not, maybe thirty with her condition.

It has to last until then. It needs to.

If he can make it to the Crest in time and without dumping her guts out she has a chance—a chance, not a high one, but a fucking chance—of survival but he needs to go now.

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She’s light. All that weight sitting on his shoulders mere hours ago is replaced with a floatiness that makes her feel non-existent, like a figment of his imagination. She compresses against the beskar while he zips through the forest like the pellets she’d administered to the hunters; agile, coordinated, but his concentration bounces from his path to her face every few leaps.

“Hey! Hey. Open your eyes. Show me your pretty eyes, sweet girl...there they are. Keep them open for me.”

She strains, “Sorry.”

The syrupy goodness of her tone he starved for—binged on—has boiled over to a sticky mess that only drags him in closer at the touch of his heart. It coats the organ like tar and hardens until it struggles to continue beating, slinking downwards and catching along the walls of his lungs to harass his breathing.

Din chews on his lower lip, his teeth burrowing into the pillows with each step of his boots and shredding them with his enamel until he tastes his blood at the back of his tongue.

She hums and allows her head to roll into the soft bicep beside it, situating her lips against the flight suit to commit a forceless kiss onto the only part of him that she can reach.

“Guess - guess I won’t be taking you up on that offer.” She smiles and exhales a breath—a laugh but she’s too weak to give anything more.

“Don’t… Stop acting like you’re--”

“Dying?” She scoffs. “Well, I-I am, aren’t I?”

No, you can’t Din thinks, you can’t fucking leave me here.

The urge to vomit creeps upon him; disguises itself among the churning of his stomach and the soreness in his throat. Perhaps he would empty his stomach right here and now, discount the concealing of his identity before the Girl just to have the opportunity to bend over and heave until there’s nothing but saliva expelling, but he doesn’t have the luxury of slowing down. In fact, he needs to pick up his pace.

He does just that—albeit not by much but every difference counts.

Din risks another glimpse at her; skin all pale and face scrunched to not let the pain escape from her throat or eyes. She struggles to restrain herself from allowing her eyelids to snap close, to let that twinge in her retinas finally rest—because Din asked to see those pretty eyes and what Din asks, Din receives.

She takes notice of his lack of reassuring words, the shortage of comforting glances, the cold absence of her Mandalorian as he distances himself from his emotions.

“Me’suum’ika.”

He regrets teaching her that word. It sounds so pleasing coming from her vocals, all soft and bouncy like a mattress he wishes to rest on, but currently, it’s pained. It’s croaky and poorly pronounced. It sounds dreadful—tainting the beautiful memory of exchanging nicknames.

She tries for his attention again, “Me’suum’ika…”

No. No, no. Don’t say it. Do not fucking say it.

“Din.”

Their motion suspends as fast as a string snaps. Boots kick pebbles ahead of their path. They’re in a wide clearing, the firs having been repelled at least a twenty-metre radius around them. Quiet. Open. Peaceful.

Forearms quiver with her maturing weight, mysteriously so fucking heavy like he was supporting a thruster of his Crest. The helmet is inert on his shoulders, staring off into the distance where the path narrows between rows of evergreen. Fingers on her waist and the underside of her thigh tunnels into the flesh, his one ungloved hand perceiving her dwindling warmth.

Despair overcomes him like an explosion. No ticking to warn him, no preparation. Just one big fucking detonation that blasts against his calves, staggering his stance and plugging his lungs and helmet with clotted smoke particles that stings his eyes and throat. His tongue liquefies and slips down his pipe where he gags on his own muscle.

“Put me down.”

“No,” he chokes. “I can do it, we can make it. I just—”

His vocals fissure. They crack and pop and it’s not on the account of his vocoder.

The hook underneath the rim of his helmet drags it downwards and every bone in his body tenses at the sight. The sight of His Girl so emptied of expression that she can barely hold eye contact with his black slit. The colour deficiency in her face leaves a sharp taste of salt on his lips, streaks on his cheeks.

Din she says softly, no—not softly but so devoid of strength that it comes out oh-so weak and quiet, put me down Din.

His knees buckle. His arms quake. He sinks to the gravel brutally.

The stones poke and prod against his caps, sharp edges cutting through his garment but he’s completely numb except for his hands and face—enduring the physical touch of a falling star versus the tides that roll beneath the steel.

He doesn’t want to drop her.

He doesn’t want to let her touch the planet's crust because he knows she won’t get back up.

“Me’suum’ika.” She wipes at his armoured chest with her sleeve. “You’re all bloody.”

Din shakes, scrambling not to cave into the overwhelming itch in his forearms—to not permit her perfect figure to be tainted with more grime than it already has been subjected to—except she’s made of duracrete, weighing him down like an anchor on a flimsy rowboat and he can’t come out victorious.

It’s a sluggish descent, all slowed to record each millimetre until she’s flat on the ground. A vermillion reservoir spawns beneath her and trails to seep into his flight suit, his ungloved hand gently laying rest on her concealed wound—the cloak lumpy and outlining something soft, squishy.

He retracts his hand as if it were in the mouth of a rancor.

There’s an unspoken statement that floats above them, circles them and weighs their shoulders down.

She’s dying.

Din knows it. He can see it. He can see her life vacuuming out of a three-inch slit in her abdominals and there’s nothing he can do to delay the inevitable. There’s nothing he can do to save her life. He’s never felt more incompetent but there’s a flicker of hope that she’ll make it. That she’ll just reabsorb the sticky liquid and suture her tissue back together—denial. He’s in utter fucking denial.

“Come here,” she breathes, fingertips stroking the scruff of his jaw underneath his cowl.

His teeth clench. “No, Cyar’ika. Sweetheart, please. I can make it. Just hold on for a little longer.”

“I can’t.”

Eyelids pinch together behind the tint but it doesn’t stop the nipping at his retinas. Gloved hand remains at the rear of her skull, cushioning it from stray rubble but he clenches around air when she hoists herself onto her elbows—approaching him since he’s too shaken to go to her—and knocks against the front of his helmet.

Din forces his eyelids to peel back and it’s a huge mistake.

All he can see is the bottom of her chin, the curve of her jaw, but he’s clever enough to string the clues together; the diminishing heat of her breath warming him on the inside.

The gentle press of her lips against the summit of beskar.

She doesn’t allow him to think, to speak, she does it all for him. But they’re not words he wishes to hear. They’re not I’ll be okay or let’s go home.

“Look.” She nods upwards. “Me’suum’ika.”

She’s not referring to him, but the real moon; its silver-white glow snuffed out and overtaken with oranges as warm as the sunrises that’d rebound off his beskar as he strides back to the Crest, a bounty in hand and dark crescents forming underneath his eyes. Reds as deep as the blood besmirching her gorgeous soft skin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

Pretty?

It’s obscene. It’s nauseating. It’s not fucking pretty.

It’s mocking them—mirroring the scene laid underneath it reminding Din of his foolish missteps; she’s all red and bloody because of you; she looks like me because you allowed her to tag along.

Din wants to pilot his Crest all the way up there and put an end to the disrespectful satellite.

How dare it look so full, so complete, while he’s disintegrating before it.

The Girl said he was one and the same with the moon—she fucking said that—so how can it be so unaffected by the loss of life beneath it?

The loss of their Girl.

Din isn’t the moon. He’s the abyssal milky ways that attract eyes at first impression only to exploit that and drag unsuspecting victims into the black holes in the galactic centre of his chest—he’s destruction and chaos and unrelenting, his gravitational pull too great for escape and it only ever ends one way.

“Don’t...don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” he snaps.

It’s unintentional. An overload of emotions that’s been festering for too long and shows its ugly face in the form of a pitch curated with venom and tears.

“You can’t even see me.”

He’s going about it all wrong except he’s right—she can’t see him nor can she feel his warmth but that never intimidated her. She’d found ways to adapt; ways to read his mannerisms and speech rather than facial expressions.

Din has the opportunity to seize that from her; to show rather than tell.

Explosion smoke splutters from his lungs and his fingertips ache as they fumble for the switch beneath the rim, the Girl’s blood soiling his clothed throat and the insides of his Creed. It unclasps, detectors maximizing its violent hiss. He has it maybe below his lips before she pulls and pins it down.

“You’re not ready.”

Din’s heart fractures; the beskar steel of his organ—that’s made to withstand a lightsaber—cracking and creaking at her words.

“No! No, no. You told me you weren’t going anywhere—you said that. You said you would look if I wanted you to see and, Mesh’la, I want you to fucking see.” Din’s fingers tremble against the back of her hands. “Sweetheart, please look at me. Let me do this...I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“Din…no.”

“Let me,” he demands but all the authority is suppressed with a heartache that chews him up and spits him back out.

There’s an attempt to conceal the groans and hisses—an attempt—as she breathes in deep, gathering as much fresh oxygen in her lungs as possible.

Din tries for his helmet again, employing her hands beneath the rim to lift, but she overexerts herself to stop him; tight fingers latched on the insides, knuckles brushing against a sharp jawline and collecting the wetness that streams directly into her grasp.

“This is the Way,” she says it as a reminder and a reassurance that she’s content with never seeing his face because This is the Way, but it only frustrates him; boils the tears on his face until they convert into vapour that attacks his visor, leaving only the crust of salt residue on his cheeks.

You’re dying in my fucking arms he thinks the least I can do is desecrate my Creed.

It wouldn’t even be a desecration, not really. That would imply a disrespectful act was to occur and this was anything but. It’d be an honour, a homage of an unspoken pledge uttered in the dead of the Crest that outweighs the one he took among tinted visors and enkindled torches.

Din’s taut. Rigid muscle constructed of resolute alloy.

It’s not comfortable to rest among sharp edges that prod into her sore skin but rather than peel away—rather than let her breathe without the weight of steel to her side—Din cradles her against his chest, transferring the most minuscule amount of body heat that slips through his seams into her.

His hand is glazed with sticky deep vermillion that oozes from his fingertips, the gravity magnetising droplets onto the beautiful cheek it hovers above. Din wants to touch her, wants to feel the sun warm his flesh and blood, but he’s scared that if he touches her he’ll ruin her iconic softness with coarse fingers.

Blood smears onto her face and fills her sinuses with metallic scents to match those flavours in her mouth, her cheek gluing itself to his hand for him. She offers him a weak smile and entitles herself to a moment to browse his solid face, following the edges of his cheeks and swiping a thumb across the chin’s rim.

“Kiss me,” Din requests. “Just—just once.”

“Just once?”

He nods. “Just once. Do—can you manage one?”

The Girl chuffs out a laugh but cringes at the disturbance in her core. “I might have one in the bank for you.”

She elevates the beskar to the dip in his nose, scenic eyes securely held shut to preserve the Creed he’s already decided he would renounce for her if she would just let him. She deserves to see him, to gaze into his simmering caf. His thoughts range from disloyal alternatives that scour against the sincerity of his mind, wiping him clean of the trust he’s built around himself, all the way to options where he doesn’t go against her words—thoughts where the beskar lifts no higher than his mouth.

He condemns both of the options; either tricking her into seeing him for his own greediness or listening to her pleas despite how much it fucking hurts.

It’s not fair.

Din’s lips hurtle themselves into her; hungry and distraught, a false hope that if he engorges on her taste alone it’ll dispel those macabre thoughts from his consciousness. All he can fucking taste is salt and metal that’s been left in the rain. Her zest, her sweetness, the flavours that taste of her, is gone.

It doesn’t stop him.

He compiles it in the back of his throat simply to have something of her inside him. He’s indulged in her tasteless saliva, the saltiness of her sweat, the syrup of her slick, and now the rancid warmth of her blood.

He can’t hear. He can’t see. He can only feel and touch.

She’s hardly lukewarm, the sun’s rays disappearing over her horizon.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.” Din brushes the hair out of her face. “Not a minute passes where you’re not in the forefront of my mind, Sweetheart. I’ve never encountered somebody so...extraordinary as you. I just need you to know before—before…”

“Din…” Her voice pops, tears of her own brewing.

“I love you,” he confesses, wet beads plummeting from his jawline to her neck. “You taught me how to love; you are my love and that will never change. I love you, ner Cyare—my beloved.”

Din recoils like he’s poked in the chest. The snuffling and mewling that erupts from her vocal cords upon his confession burn him—singe his lungs until they’re tender with each inhale. Nothing could have prepared him for this reaction; the unmasked sobs and vulnerability she’s never shown, not to this extent.

Fingers that dig into his flight suit feel like minuscule vibro-knifes in his biceps. Statements that gush out of her mouth and landslide his heart into submission—I love you, Din. I love you. I love you.

A star and a satellite falling in love; it’s an implausible outcome bound for disaster.

The sun manipulates its flames that allows colourful flowers to bloom or for lively forests to ignite. The moon pushes and pulls the tides fit for a gentle roll across a beach or to capsize rigs with a single flick.

The Sun and the Moon.

Fire and Water.

They’re polar opposites and, despite everything in the universe working against them, they’ve merged as one. Two equally fractured vases exchanging their missing pieces for compensation; a bright orange that’s warm to the touch in Din’s heart and within her lies a sparkly silver shard, a piece of his beskar residing within her to ward off onslaught.

He’s trawled inwards, naked cheek against naked cheek; scruff pricking against the bone of her jaw. Their tears fuse as one and wedge between their pressed flesh. She sobs against him, the hand on his helmet dipping underneath the silver to tangle her fingers within his knotty locks.

I’m fucking scared Din she breaks, I don’t want to go.

Din’s lip trembles. He can’t paralyse the pain that brings forth the donning of a brave face when confronted—that crinkle in her brow isn’t fooling anybody—but, perhaps, he can distract her. Draw her attention away from the gnawing of her intestines against scratchy wool.

“I know, Darling, I know.” Voice so soft and comforting it encourages her fraught muscles to slack and abandon her awareness. “Focus on me, okay?”

Her lips part when he nudges against them, accepting the tongue that requests entrance. It’s one final deliverance on both sides; a diversion for the Girl and a concluding act of love for Din—something to burn into his lips for decades to come, something to remind him he’s deserving of love.

He takes it slow for her sake, concerned that his usual greed would be too overstimulating. They’re lackadaisical; movements so weakened they’re hardly moving, simply holding each other as they quietly sob into the others mouth.

His scalp is heavy with her fingers and he synchronises his own to the nape of her neck, dirtying her pretty hair with sticky plasma. Pretty hair he’ll never be able to touch again—he’ll never be able to feel the strands between his knuckles as he tilts her head back and deepens their devout kisses. Kisses he’ll never be blessed with again.

Fuck.

He can’t stomach it, can’t bear the thought that he’s going to be abandoned all over again.

First, his parents and now his beloved girl—everybody he cared for is slipping through the gaps of his fingers.

It’s not even a gradual process; there’s not enough time for him to tell her how much he loves her, how he’ll never love another lifeform a fraction as much as he does her.

It’s as rapid as a waterfall, a suffocating surge that’s stern against his protests; his silent pleas of please don’t take her away from me.

Din feels the pulsing in her tongue fade; acknowledges how her fingers lax against his scalp, registers how he’s been deserted despite their tongues intertwined. Beskar slips down the slope of his dewy face as he recedes within himself.

The Girl is static, still, silent.

She’s not got a fingernail’s worth of oxygen in her lungs, not a twitch in her eyebrows.

Din’s beloved Girl is gone.

The sun’s solace warmth has been wiped from the face of the galaxy, leaving residual liquid flames that paste in thick layers to his armour. Only an odious sphere of blended carmines remains perched in the celestials—a blood-red lunar eclipse that penetrates through the solid of his heartplate and devours his internal organs.

Din remains idle for what feels like a century, his consciousness paralysed with a stab of her amban rifle’s bayonet. Deprived of sensation—drained of emotion and thoughts—the tears have stopped and left behind an ache beneath his eyes.

When he does eventually move it’s wearisome. The momentum of a dawdling crawl; a by-product of the corpse in his arms and bedrock in his boots.

It takes him longer than it should to reach the Crest.

It takes him longer than it should to lay her body to rest atop the hold’s crates.

Din tries to tell himself she looks peaceful, that she’s somewhere better, that's what people said to others in times of grief, but what could be better than roosting between his arms in the comfort of a secure body of beskar?

The Razor Crest’s lethargic humdrum probes his sockets, the absence of a thumping heartbeat so fucking apparent that it’s harrowing and Din can’t tolerate it for another second. His Creed rips from his head and hurtles through the air to slam into the duralloy walls of his supposed sanctuary, denting a dome where the summit of beskar impacts but it’ll never be enough to damage that fucking helmet.

His trademark steely stoic persona is substituted for tan mien; his inability to conceal his expressions from years of never needing to palpable at the faintest indication of an eyebrow twinge.

Din presses his lips against her forehead, a frigid and stiffness that transfers to his mouth. He luxuriates on her, delivering docile pecks across her face that burns his lips. Din surrenders the last of his breath to her but he’ll never receive any equivalent ever again.

Memories are all that remains—reminiscences that tug on his lungs. They obscure his mind's eye with dull images of the individual circumstances he’d separated the man from the religion.

He wasn’t to ever remove his helmet. His heart sinks. Din had never contemplated the impact of the decree—the implicit statement that it included whether one’s eyes were shut or not.

His heart’s arteries melt into the muscle and flood it until it capsizes within itself.

Din had been subconsciously unearthing methods and plot holes to eliminate beskar from the equation to indulge in the Girl’s temptations—to permit him the opportunity of a lifetime and experience affairs that scarcely presented themselves to him—but it had backfired.

The helmet was removed, whether her eyes were shut or not it didn’t matter.

His Creed was tarnished the moment he even thought about being with the Girl and it only continued downhill from then on—a terminal illness that burrows its relentless claws into his core and carefully conquers each inch of his body without ever drawing attention to itself.

“Cyare.” His vocals crack and pop. “Open your eyes.”

Look at me. I’ve dishonoured my vows for you. Open your eyes and look into mine—savour the caf you were so curious about. You have to look at me. You need to. Please don’t let my sacrilege go undervalued.

They’d been wasting precious moments this entire fucking time. Din’s Honour was non-existent and he could’ve bestowed her with the knowledge of how his eyes brightened whenever she glanced his way, how indentations of shallow dimples formed in his cheeks when he’d smile at her snarky remarks.

His fist slams against the crate beside her. “Stubborn girl.”

Why couldn’t she be like the no-good schemers that yearned to see beneath the steel?

Why did she have to be so protective of his oath?

She died never knowing what the man who loved her looked like.

A sparkle beneath her shirt catches his eyes, solid alloy beckoning his hands. Beskar is still warm to the touch from her sternum. Din rubs the face of the pendant's skull raw, dried blood flaking off onto the steel, his thumb heating with the friction. It’s not much, hardly anything actually, but it’s something that she claimed ownership of—something physical that he can touch and hold that was once pressed against the beat of her heart. With nothing else in her possession of her own, it’s all Din’s got.

It’s knotted around his neck, the thread weighing like a bantha and the pendant torching a permanent mark into his chest. He welcomes it, remains stoic and unflinching as it intensifies and scars over—he wasn’t afraid of being burnt, after all.

Din wipes away the scarlet meadow of clumped hair adhered to her cheek and sets the hem of her shirt as low as it'll reach, concealing the hump of soaked wool. He believed himself to be incapable of shedding more salty liquid from his ducts but tonight is full of surprises. Their foreheads pin against each other, wetness streaming down the curve of his cheekbones and into her hair.

He’s uncertain where he stands with his Creed—it’s not of importance right now—but he was raised on their culture, their words so beautiful that it only felt right to say a final remembrance.

My Sun, Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

----

jatnese be te jatnese - the best of the best ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - i love you me'suum'ika - moon choobies - testicles ash'amur - die ner cyare - my beloved ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - i'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

A/N: i'm so sorry. there might be an epilogue if you guys are interested in that.

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex, @omgreally, @spideysimpossiblegirl

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pixiebuggiewrites · 3 years

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Sorry Wrong Number!

Masterpost - Previous - Next - Ao3 link

Chapter 2: Hawkmoth has really bad designs and perhaps even worse timing

Since it was her off night from patrol, Ladybug was the last one onto the scene. She landed down on a building next to Viperion, who was observing the akuma’s skillset as Kuro Neko played distraction down below them.

The villain of tonight's look was... interesting to put it nicely. They were a boy around the same age as the heroes that seemed to be wearing a slightly oversized purple and blue three piece suit with a not-so-subtle lightning pattern running up the arms. His hair was shock white and seemed to be defying gravity while his eyes were protected by bright blue goggles-possibly where the akuma was residing. More importantly, he seemed to be covered in electricity, which was gonna make it difficult to get any hits in. He also had a laptop with him- another contender for the akuma’s hiding place but most likely just a weapon.

Not Hawkmoth’s worst design, but it definitely wasn't his finest work either. Though to be fair she had run around in spotted spandex for two years before she found out she could change her costume, so those in glass houses she supposed.

Viperion, noticing the team leader's arrival began to fill her in on what they knew so far.

“They're calling themselves ‘Elect-Trick’, keeps sending out shockwaves to try and knock us back which is frustrating but our suits seem to take the brunt of it which helps but Neko’s staff is a no go at the moment since there's no way to know if it’ll conduct the electricity.”

It likely would, something they had found out the hard way during the last weather akuma they had to face. While magical it was still metallic in nature sadly, which meant she needed to also be careful with her yoyo. She still isn't really sure what it’s made of besides magic, but this was not the way she wanted to find out.

“Alright, in that case we’ll continue to keep him away from the Eiffel Tower, it’s likely the akuma’s going to try and use it as a large conductor. I’m gonna head down, stay up here and be ready to use your second chance at the signal.” She instructed

Viperion nodded and went back to watching the fight just as Ladybug swooped down to join in. She was just in time as the akuma had begun to corner Neko, who had no choice but to rely on playing defense while her staff was out of the mix. The two heroes nodded their heads in greeting as Ladybug yoyo-d her cat themed friend over putting the duo back on even ground with the villain, who seemed to be ranting about school elections of all things.

Which would be a probable explanation for the first half of his name.

The two continued to fight back against the akuma, neither side quite able to grab the upper hand. Ladybugs yoyo-as it turned out, did not conduct electricity afterall. And, seeing as it's practically indestructible she was able to land hits on the akuma without getting shocked. But the akuma had realized the issue with Neko’s staff and was using that to their advantage, aiming a decent chunk of their attacks at the cat hero which forced them to go back on the defense.

As the fight had been going for over an hour at this point, the spotted heroine decided to bring out the big guns. After doing a silent signal letting Viperion know to start his timer, she got in position to call on her lucky charm.

But she didn't get a chance to. Just as she went to throw her yoyo in the air, Viperion called out a warning that sent a feeling of dread through her.

“LB watch out, There's an amok headed straight for the computer!”

Sure enough, there was an all too familiar purple feather floating through the air on track for the laptop that she quickly caught and purified it before it could land. Thank the Kwami for the power of second chance, nobody wanted to deal with a sentimonster on top of everything else tonight.

Keeping Kuro Neko on the lookout for anymore feathers, She finally activated her lucky charm. Throwing her yoyo up she manifests… a slingshot! She could work with that, just needed to find ammo. Looking around her eyes land firmly on the window of a small toyshop.

Bingo!

Having Viperion keeping an eye out in case he was needed temporarily as backup, she sneaks over and breaks the window with her yoyo. Typically, the heroine would feel bad about causing this much property damage but tonight she’s tired and wants to get this over with so she can make a plan of action for the whole ‘Mayura seems to be back’ thing with her team and maybe get at least a couple hours of sleep. Anyways her miraculous cure would fix the window and return the bouncy balls she was actively stealing so no harm done? After finishing committing what was technically a misdemeanor, she made her way over to the roof Viperion was on and handed off the slingshot supplies before making her way back down.

Luckily Neko had managed to keep Elect-Trick distracted enough for the team to catch him off guard. On Ladybugs call Viperion began to pelt the Akuma with rubber balls, drawing his sight away for long enough to tie him up and take his glasses. One cataclysm later, the teen had been successfully deakumatized and she was able to cast her cure, fixing the decent chunk of property damage caused that night. After making sure the teen was okay to get home safe and getting his address for the interview she would have to conduct later, she turned to her team.

“Good work today guys, let's meet back at base in 30.” Her eyes communicated the urgency of the meeting despite the neutral tone of voice she tried to maintain.

From there the teens all departed in separate directions to recharge their powers and head to the team's secret base.

----------

Okay so secret base was a bit of an overstatement. It is a secret place that the team uses as a base of operations but it was less of a Batcave and more of a repurposed hotel room in Le Grand Paris.

Chloe had brought up the idea after one too many close calls with Marinette's parents while the girls were investigating Hawkmoth. They needed a place to discuss hero work safely without having to talk in code but the question was where. Obtaining an apartment would be difficult as all of them but Luka were still underage, not to mention the issue of trying to pay rent without any parental suspicion. Luckily for Chloe, it's surprisingly easy to just claim a hotel room without being questioned when your Father owns the hotel.

And while it was no Batcave, it wasn't anything to scoff at either. The four teens had been able to pool together enough money in the beginning for the basics, which meant that now any small snuck away chunks of commission money, music gig payments, competition winnings, and allowances were all able to go to improving things bit by bit.

The room was already quite nice, having a separate bedroom that they used as a gym and a kitchenette that was kept well stocked with kwami snacks. Then there was the main area, which had been split down the middle. The first side was dedicated to the investigation and housing Marinette's Guardian materials, While the second half was a hangout zone where they could chat or decompress after any particularly rough fights.

The base was also secure, Marinette had put so many spells and protections on the room with the help of the kwami that it might as well be a pocket dimension of sorts. The magical security system of sorts was extremely complicated, being tied to the teams auras in a way so that the only way to even find it without being one of them was to be taken there by Ladybug herself. It had taken weeks to pull off but was well worth it to give her team a place that was safe from the outside world.

Ladybug was the first to arrive this time, having flopped down into a chair at their meeting table as her two friends entered the room and joined her. They all sat there for a moment, processing the fact of Mayura’s return. Of course this would happen when they were down a member, it wasn't a complete surprise that the peacock miraculous would come back into play at some point but it was really bad timing.

“So what exactly is the plan?” Viperion asked, finally breaking the silence.

Ladybug sighed, knowing that their workload was going to increase once again. At least it was close to summer vacation.

“First we need to increase patrols- especially around the typical hot spots, Neko do you think we’ll be able to finish those jars by this time next week?”

The cat hero nodded “They're almost done, we’ll need to test them somehow though.”

The two of them had recently been working on a variation of an object enchantment technique mentioned in the grimoire. The original object was dubious in nature, having been used as a cage of sorts that kwami wouldn't be able to phase through. Marinette was disgusted by the thought, further feeding into some suspicions she had about the old order. As she was ranting about it to Kagami about it, her fencer friend got an idea for a way to repurpose the spell to trap akuma when Ladybug couldn't easily get to a fight. It would also allow them a new way to prevent possessions when Ladybug wasn't actively on patrol.

“That's good. Lastly I need Bee’s new number, I was going to ask you for it tomorrow but I need to give her a heads up to start on a new case file. We also might want to move up our plans to contact the heroes there.”

Kuro Neko quickly jotted down the number on a nearby notecard and handed it to Ladybug. After hammering out a few last details about their new patrol schedules the heroes were all free to head home for the night.

The trip home was uneventful, and she arrived home to see that it was just past midnight. She also noticed that her bath bomb had been fixed! It was sometimes a gamble on if something like that would count as akuma damage so it was a nice victory after the day she’s had.

Marinette quickly put in Chloe's number, eager to get to bed. She sent her blonde friend a summary on what happened and let her know to be on the lookout for an email tomorrow with the information to assemble a case file. And with that, Marinette drifted off to sleep.

She had made a small mistake though. In her tired state the young designer’s finger slipped, putting a 5 where there was meant to be a 4.

Meaning Chloe Bourgeois was not the recipient of her intended message.

Good thing she wrote the message in code?

----------

Across the ocean, Damian Wayne received a strange text message.

--------------------------------------------

Taglist (open!!):

@queencommonsense

#maribat #daminette #maridami #ml x dc #sorry wrong number #buggiewrites

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satoruvt · 4 years

Text

the color of you - blue (6)

ITS HERE. I HOPE I DID WELL. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT AKDSHKFJSDH

pairing → keigo takami x reader

word count → 3213

summary → you’re not really dating, so you can’t really be in love with him... right?

song inspo → hell of flying by jeremy zucker, cassette by demian, a lil of bugbear by chloe moriondo

this chapter → y/n comes to conclusions, keigo’s a dork, tension, a fight, crying.

So it’s been… strange.

Or rather, it hasn’t been strange at all, which makes everything even more strange, somehow. You feel like things should be so much different, but they’re not. You reached a wild conclusion that threw you for a fucking loop, made you sit in your kitchen at Angel Cakes and contemplate what the hell you were going to do about anything that would ever occur to you from here on out. Sometimes you almost ask Keigo how things haven’t changed at all, since you’ve decided that you like him, but then you have to stop yourself from saying anything because, oh, right, you haven’t told him.

You don’t plan to, either.

It’d just mess everything up, wouldn’t it? To say “hey, I know we’ve been fake dating for like two and a half months now but I’m kind of liking the idea of really dating you”? Kinda fucked. Not to mention, from a professional stance, what if it ruins your guys’ chemistry when you’re being watched by the entire world? If someone finds out that the whole thing is fake - regardless of your feelings - it means Keigo’s public image and your entire life at the bakery. Everything would go to shit, and after it’s burned down, you doubt you’d even have Keigo.

So you’re not telling him. You’re in love with one of your closest friends, who you are also fake dating, who is also the Number Two hero in the country, and you’re not telling him how you feel. Yes. Okay.

You’ve had a lot of time to reflect about your own feelings, because after Keigo left to fight that villain the other day (and after you managed to get off the ground and clean up) you were sure it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. Yeah, he looked pretty, and there was something dreamy and domestic about laughing and throwing baking ingredients at each other, so maybe your heart just got confused.

But you’d called him to ask if he was okay (instead of a usual text) and he’d picked up the phone and laughed and your heart had not done that before. Not with Keigo, not on the phone, and not like that. And usually his pet names amused you, but he’d called you “sweetheart” over the phone and his voice was tired and drawled a bit. It made you dizzy. You said goodbye pretty soon after that.

You’re barely walking up the stairs of your apartment complex when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Butterflies (and moths, a few) erupt in your stomach when you read the name, and then immediately die when you read the text itself.

keigo baby 🐦

Do u want to have a playdate with me 👉👈 I could come over if ur mom says its okay

Why him? You think to yourself, swallowing the vomit in your throat and fishing your keys out of your bag to unlock your door. You text back when you get inside, throwing your belongings on the nearest surface.

y/n

don’t ever talk to me again

keigo baby 🐦

Is that a yes??

y/n

….fine, but if u ever use those emojis again i’ll break up with u. legally

keigo baby 🐦

baby no!!!!

You throw your phone down onto your sofa before flopping over it, letting yourself sink into the cushions for a moment. It takes no more than ten minutes for Keigo to be at your door, letting himself in without so much as a knock. You know that it’s technically your doing, since you didn’t lock it when you came in, but you still whine at him about it, and he mocks you jokingly.

It seems he either senses your tiredness or didn’t have anything in mind to do anyways, because all Keigo does is lift your legs up from where they’re sprawled out on the couch and sits down in their place, letting them flop back onto his lap. He adjusts so his wings aren’t smashed against the back of the couch (or, at least, not as much). You move your feet off of his lap.

You’ve come to really appreciate days like this, where you simply bask in his company and he does yours. As much as Keigo is nonchalant about his lifestyle, you know it’s exhausting for him to do what he does every single day, and then to have to talk to people (fans, reporters, anyone). He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know. And, well, if you can give him a moment of comfort -

God, no, stop thinking like that. You can’t afford to think like that right now.

The two of you talk, occasionally sharing posts from social media and laughing at dumb little cat videos (there was one that was five whole minutes of one of the guys from that k-pop band being compared to cat pictures and it’s the most wholesome thing you’ve ever seen to date). Before you know it, it’s been a few hours, the sun just fully covered by the distant mountains. The sky cools down in purple and blue hues, dressing up for the night to come. You and Keigo are laughing over old vines, and in your mind you think that it really couldn’t be that bad for this to be every night instead of just… some nights.

At the end of the compilation Keigo groans out a lingering laugh, stretching his legs out as best he can without hitting your coffee table. You stand up, feeling the need to move around as well, and walk towards your kitchen for a drink. Keigo stands after you but doesn’t move, letting his wings flex and stretch from being contained for so long. You get a glass of water, lift it to your lips just as Keigo lifts his arms above his head and holy fucking shit, his stomach -

Tummy! the tiny voice in your head squeals, but the hornier one screams at the top of its lungs ABS and honestly you don’t know what the fuck to do and neither does your body so you choke on your water. Keigo startles, eyes wide, and with a mumbled “holy shit” makes his way over to you as you cough and sputter over your sink.

It takes a minute, but you eventually come back, eyes watery and face red for multiple reasons. You take a deep breath and Keigo rubs your back, eyeing you, which only makes the entire situation worse.

“Jesus, are you okay?” He asks, and you nod, but you can’t look at him.

“Yeah, uh,” you clear your throat, blinking a few times. “Just… went down the wrong pipe, I guess.”

Fuck.

You barely recover from seeing a sliver of Keigo’s stomach, and the memory haunts you for days. You attempt at willing it out of your brain, try to tell yourself that you just didn’t see it at all, but your heart is strong as hell and refuses to let your head forget it. You think about it multiple times a day. You think about it for at least twenty minutes each time. You think about it until Keigo texts you a little less than a week after it happened.

Your phone buzzes on the counter in the kitchen and you finish up your bread dough, putting it into a bowl gently and setting a timer to let it prove. Once your hands are effectively clean, you open the message, letting yourself scoff.

keigo baby 🐦

Just finished a photoshoot, could really use a donut right now :/

Attached to his message is a picture of himself, and honestly, he looks really fucking good. It takes pretty much everything in you not to collapse and die. God.

You look up a picture of a donut on Google - they sold out today, and you are not going to make one just for Keigo - and send it to him. For my hardworking fake boyfriend, you send with it. Mostly to emphasize fake for both of you. Yourself especially.

keigo baby 🐦

Fake??? :( sweetheart, u hurt me

Your mind stops working when you read his text, so you leave him on read.

The next time you see Keigo in person is when you’re contemplating whether or not you should keep… hanging out with him.

The contract only has a little over a month left, so it’s not as if it’d be that hard to deal with… besides, it’d be easier on the both of you when this whole thing inevitably ends. You don’t see yourself being able to be around him without thinking about kissing him over and over. Not now, at least. You hope it changes. You hope it’s a weird phase or something.

Keigo texts you and invites - demands - you over (his excuse is that with the hero conference coming up soon many of the smaller heroes are taking care of villains and giving him more time off) and honestly, if you’re really gonna try to stop talking to him as much, this could be your goodbye or whatever. Also, he mentioned wine, and you need to get drunk. Like, “give me an entire bottle so I can cope with the idea of falling for you because I know that you don’t feel the same and I am simply trying to ride out the rest of this “relationship” so I don’t ruin our dynamic and chemistry while we’re being watched by literally the entire world” drunk.

Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.

Every time you go to Keigo’s apartment it reminds you of just how broke you are, but you suppose the apartment itself is fitting. It’s definitely modern, but it holds the clutter of Keigo’s personality - blankets strung everywhere, LED lights, a poster of Endeavor hung up in his closet (but you’re sworn to secrecy about that, you pinky promised). When you knock on his door he doesn’t answer, and it’s a good minute and a half before you get a text that says “it’s open, come in” and you sigh, because again, why him?

He’s sitting on the couch, and when he sees you he smiles like he didn’t just refuse to open the door because he’s too lazy. “Well, if it isn’t the love of my life,” he says, and for a second you can fool yourself into believing it’s genuine.

“I’m just here for the wine, dude,” you tease, and he mocks offense at your words.

“Ouch. Mid-relationship rejection.”

Nonetheless, Keigo gets the wine himself (selective little shit) and two glasses, pours each of you one. It isn’t long before you’ve had at least three glasses but no more than five, and you’re maybe, perhaps, a little drunk.

Keigo is, too, so you’re not really alone, but he’s talking about something Endeavor did like he’s the greatest hero in the world. It makes you smile, just a bit, but then again, you’re usually sentimental when you’re drunk, so maybe it’s just that. Or maybe it’s because you like him. It doesn’t really matter now.

“Hey, Kei,” you murmur when he’s done with his story. He hums, takes another sip out of his glass. “What happens when this is over?”

You look at your feet, scrunching up your toes inside your socks so you have something to look at. Then your eyes move up more, to the top of his coffee table, and then finally they land on him, and he looks gorgeous. He always does.

Keigo blinks once, twice, then shrugs, goes back to his wine. “Dunno. I hope we’re still friends, though,” he says.

“Friends? You want to be friends?”

You’re drunk. You should go to sleep, or go home, or something. Talking is not something you should be doing.

“What?” Keigo asks, but more like he didn’t hear you rather than he didn’t understand, so you take your chance, even through your hazed mind.

“Nothing,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. “Forget about it.”

And it seems like he does, because when you wake up on his couch the next morning with a killer headache and he stumbles out of his room with a groan he doesn’t mention anything about it even when he talks about everything else.

Keigo texts you a few days later, a picture of him posing with another wine bottle.

keigo baby 🐦

round 2??

The picture is cute. He’s smiling, all lips and curves and blonde hair and tan skin. He’s dressed in sweats, you can see, but he still looks like a model. It makes your heart sink and fly at the same time.

y/n

can’t, sorry. have to stay late at angel cakes. i’ll see u at the hero conference tho

He doesn’t text you for a while after that.

The conference comes quick, and before you know it you’re in another hotel suite, getting makeup done. It doesn’t take as much dressing up - your dress is shorter this time, less formal, your makeup less extravagant. You don’t feel nervous, not like last time, but you don’t necessarily feel comfortable either. Your makeup artist is different this time.

It takes a considerably less amount of time for you to get ready, and you stare at yourself in the mirror before it’s time to go. Your dress is beautiful - blue, royal, deep and light at the same time and gorgeous. Simple, too, nothing too out there. When you step out of the hotel room you notice Keigo’s still in his hero costume, but you suppose he has to be. You don’t match with him like you did last time.

There’s no banter, no teasing, no compliments. The ride to the venue is quiet. Keigo sends you a look at one point - a “tell me what’s wrong” look - but you only shrug, offer him the best smile you can, which apparently isn’t convincing, because he frowns when he sees it. You wish he wouldn’t frown so much.

The conference is short, but maybe you’re just distracted. An usher walks you to your seat at a VIP table and it seems like you sit down and then it ends. You clap for Keigo, smile like you’re endlessly proud of him - and you are, even if it doesn’t show that well tonight - and watch him make a scene becuase that’s what he does. He winks at you at one point during the night, while he’s talking into the microphone, and you know it’s for the publicity. The conference ends significantly earlier than the awards show, however, so you don’t have to stay in the suite for the night.

The ride back to the suite seems shorter than the ride to the venue and it takes you maybe twenty minutes to wipe the makeup off of your face and take off your dress. You walk across the hall to Keigo’s room, knock on the door. He answers.

“Okay, I’m gonna head out, I’m feelin’ kinda tired,” you tell him with a small smile. “Just wanted to say bye.”

“Let me walk you home,” he says instead, and your brain yells at you no!

“No, it’s fine, Kei -”

“Please. I want to.”

He’s never said that before, and a part of you knows you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if he hadn’t, so you nod and let him follow you out of the hotel and to your apartment. The walk is silent and it makes you feel uneasy but you can’t really do anything about it, not with what you’re trying to do, so nothing happens until you reach your apartment.

You know where this is going, even if you don’t want to, so you take a deep breath, hold the door open for him so Keigo can come inside. He looks at you weirdly for a moment but then enters your apartment, standing in the junction of your entryway and living room like he’s uncomfortable. You let him, then walk to the kitchen for something to drink.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

Keigo scoffs. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

You know he noticed - it’s impossible not to, but you didn’t think… you didn’t think he’d call you out on it. Your pause is evident, but you pretend like it didn’t happen at all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.

“Yeah? Wanna rethink that, sweetheart?”

The almost-malice in his tone when he says your usual pet name startles you, and when you look up at Keigo it seems like it startled him, too, doe-eyed and looking at you. You shake your head, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room behind him to throw your things down, try to pass the message to him that this is not good. “You’re wrong,” you say.

“I’m not - I’m not wrong, Y/N,” he says, turning around to look at you. “Every time I see you it seems like you’re pushing me away, like you’re not here, and I don’t know if I did something, but I -” he pauses, runs a gloved hand over his face and you want to tell him that it’s not his fault, but that would lead to you telling him everything, and you can’t. “I miss you.”

His voice is broken. When you speak again, your voice sounds like his, but somehow worse. Smaller. “You’re wrong,” you insist. You know he’s not.

“I’m not,” he pushes back. “I’d like to think that in the months we’ve been -”

He stops himself, and you take your opportunity. “That we’ve been what? Dating? We’re not dating, Keigo, we both signed a fucking contract to benefit your public image! This is nothing!”

You have no idea what you’re doing. It’s not nothing. It will never be nothing.

“You think this is nothing?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you know for sure we’ll still be friends when this is over.”

He can’t, and he won’t. You’re trying really hard not to cry, but it hurts to fight with him like this, and it hurts that you think you’re falling in love with him, and it hurts that if you tell him it’ll ruin everything and it hurts, so a few tears slip out anyways.

“Y/N,” Keigo says, and his voice is so soft. You want to melt into him, but you shy away when he reaches for you. “Please just tell me -”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you choke out. “I can’t - I’m - I’m calling it. I’ll send my lawyer if you need anything but I just…”

You can’t even look at him. Has he always been so far away?

“Get out, Keigo.”

It sounds so cold, so unfamiliar, coming from your mouth and you half expect another person to have said it entirely. This isn’t you, this isn’t how you and Keigo act, this isn’t… this isn’t it. There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for something, but then you hear him sigh - practically feel him deflate, and then he walks out of your apartment, door shutting quietly behind him.

It’s so quiet when he’s gone.

You take a deep breath, walk back to your bedroom, curl into yourself on the bed, and cry in the blue light of the sky left behind by the sun.

#GUYS I LOVE ANGST I HOPE I HYPED THIS UP ENOUGH #AHHHHHHH #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia imagine #my hero academia imagine #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha hawks x reader #hawks bnha x reader #keigo takami imagine #x reader #reader insert #imagine #tcoy #the color of you

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diamond-song42 · 3 years

Photo

Card Shark 122: Alicorn Amulet

Happy 2021 everycreature! I know it’s been a while since the last Holiday Dumpster Fire Shark - and my website still isn’t finished yet - so you may be asking yourself, “what in Equestria is happening?!”

Well, I’ll tell you what’s happening. University has, as usual, been hectic. Building a website with many multilayered tags for organization purposes is harder than it sounds. I’ve also been applying to internships as they are vital in the field of work I intend to enter - and got approved for one starting this June, which I am over the moon about! But add all that to some stressful family and social events - surgeries, layoffs, online feuds - and you have another extended Shark break!

So because of that, I have a new plan. I am going to finish the Holiday Dumpster Fire Card-a-Thon, even though we are well past the holidays. I also have a certain card I want to write about for my birthday, even though it will be long past my birthday. After that? I’ll see where my writings and the cards take me.

But with that comes an announcement. This will be the final Shark I post to The Di-Light Zone.

I have decided that since we are moving on to cards labelled as legal in the current Core format, it would be fitting to continue writing about them on the new site. I don’t know when everything will be finished, but I want everyone to know that Card Shark has never left my mind. During class sessions, showers, viewings of my favorite shows... I’ve thought about how I don’t just want to end Card Shark. I’ve fostered it for too long to let it go this easily. And because of that, I cannot wait to share with you all this archive of writings that I have been working long hours on!

Now to continue with business as usual one last time here in The Di-Light Zone. Today we’re covering Marks in Time with a Resource that seems like a prime farming tool... I’m surprised I haven’t seen more of it. Let’s pick apart the “Alicorn Amulet!”

Just put one of these on and you too can be a highest level unicorn! There aren’t a lot of Resources you can play on Troublemakers, and this one might be the most powerful of them all. This costs 1 AT, 1 Purple req, and 1 White req, which is... amazingly cheap for a Resource of this rarity. You play the Amulet on any of your Troublemakers. (No opposing Troublemakers will be sporting this thing!) There are two parts to this Amulet: first, it makes the host Troublemaker Epic and gives it +3 power. Epic Troublemakers can be challenged by either player and are usually associated with big villains like the Pony of Shadows or the Legion of Doom. By itself, that is pretty great. You can turn non-Epic Troublemakers into Epic Troublemakers to farm for your own gain. But then there’s the other part: during your Main Phase, you can pay 1 AT to move that Troublemaker. Moving a Troublemaker can be useful when your opponent sets themselves up to continually confront a Problem and avoid your Troublemaker. And just to recap, this can all be done for a minimum of 1-2 AT. THAT is scary. A smaller Troublemaker like Winterzilla can be boosted to 7 power while a higher Troublemaker like the Pony of Shadows (even if it is already Epic) can be boosted to 10. You can get rid of your own Troublemakers and get points when your opponent doesn’t want to. And you can play leapfrog with a Troublemaker, jumping from Problem to Problem. It’s a pretty ingenious farming technique, especially if you use Troublemakers that benefit you and you wouldn’t normally use for farming. There’s a reason this amulet is Unique.

So where has this thing been on the competitive scene? Frankly, besides the Resource removal, I don’t see many technicalities that could be wrong with it. It’s easy to play, it’s cheap, and it’s got a fun niche! Yet I think the biggest problem facing this card is that it is too niche. Besides already-Epic cards, most commonly seen, useful Troublemakers only have a maximum of 0-1 bonus points. I rarely see any farming technique use Troublemakers with less than a 2 point turnout. And the few non-Epic Troublemakers that have at least 2 bonus points don’t exactly have a lot going for them in what they do. The first Pony of Shadows can frighten a Friend at its Problem. Grumpie Pie is coming close to hitting a lot of banlists. The goal of The Smooze, Creeping Crud is to stick around and repeatedly flip off any opponents who try and defeat it. Timberwolf... well, we don’t talk about Timberwolf (at least until I write a formal Shark on it). Even if played on an already Epic Troublemaker, depending on the Troublemaker, the extra power can be easy to overcome. Regardless, if played on the right Troublemaker, I still think this could be a threat against certain decks.

Here’s a few more cards that may or may not be wearing one of Zecora’s doorstops:

*Scootaloo, Creature Catcher. Ok, so I frankly couldn’t find a lot of cards that I thought meshed well with this thing. Scoots here exhausts and lets you play a Troublemaker for free. That’s 1 AT (maybe more?) you can save to play an Amulet on the Troublemaker once it is revealed. Blue/Purple/White just became a more viable option for a tricorn deck with the inclusion of Legion of Doom, Frightful Foes and Being Big Is All It Takes in New Dawn... even if neither of those cards really heavily support Troublemakers. Time to reiterate my Card Shark catchphrase: “Every AT counts”. It’s just a nice little trick to help you keep some pocket change.

*Hoity Toity, Discerning Eye. If Princess Luna, Midnight is any indication, Orange/Purple/White might be an even more viable tricolor combo than Blue/Purple/White. Hoity Toity essentially allows you to recycle Friends and Resources in your discard pile once - if those Friends or Resources would leave play after that, they are banished. I don’t say this lightly: Hoity Toity is one of my all-time favorite MLP:CCG cards. Here, he will allow you to replay Amulets on your Troublemakers. Once one of your Troublemakers is defeated or dismissed, you can just replay your Amulet on the next Troublemaker you play, simple as that! As with any Hoity Toity strategy, I advise two things: one, you need to keep a close eye on your discard pile and make a plan in case your opponent is able to shut down access to your discard pile before you can get to it. Two, I’d run multiple copies of every card in your deck so you have as many opportunities as possible to replay things with Hoity Toity.

*Cozy Glow, Double Dealer/Fluttershy, Pony Pirate/Repulsor Blast/any card that allows you to bypass Troublemakers and confront Problems. The Alicorn Amulet does make a Troublemaker Epic - even if it’s your own Troublemaker, it prevents you from confronting your own Problems. At least it does... when you don’t have any cards like these at your disposal. If you still want to get points off your Problem while your Amuleted Troublemaker sits there, you have several options at your disposal. Depending on your overall deck strategy, you’ll have to pick the option(s) that’s right for you.

Thank you so, so much for reading this edition of Card Shark! It feels bittersweet to say goodbye to The Di-Light Zone... but the magic of friendship will always be strong here. The (not Holiday anymore) Dumpster Fire Card-a-Thon will continue on the new Diamond’s Corner with an Event from Defenders of Equestria that was frankly hard to pick because DoE has so many decent Events. As I’ve said previously, I’ll make a formal announcement here once the site goes live. But until I see you again, my friends, whether on this site or the new one... Diamond out!

#my little pony #mlp:fim #my little pony friendship is magic #mlp #trixie #alicorn amulet #mlpccg #mlp:ccg #ccg #resource #marks in time #card shark #holiday dumpster fire card a thon

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Changes - part six Word count: ±5000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work together. Summary part six: Zoë remains one step in front Dean, which annoys the cocky hunter. As new details about the case unravel, both Winchester brothers find out that the independent woman is not planning to share. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Dean squints when he steps into the light. A clear blue stretches out across the sky, the bright color gradually turning paler as it closes in on the horizon. He’s outside in the parking lot crammed with cars; the desk clerk wasn’t lying when he said he was fully booked. The place doesn’t have a sinister feel to it anymore like it did last night, allowing the hunter to let his guard down on this caffeine-deprived morning. The older Winchester brother needs a fix and he needs it badly. Sam drank all the instant coffee and he refuses to drink that shit from the machine in the lobby.

He expected it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. Sam woke him up, turning up the volume of the radio completely during the drum solo of a Guns ‘N Roses song. Not because his little brother likes that particular music, but he does like to watch Dean bolt upward in bed. Payback, because the older Winchester can’t deny that he pulled a similar prank on his brother more than once. Honestly, he’s glad Sammy is starting to mess with him again. It’s been a while since they acted like siblings. The joke was a good wake up call, too, he has to admit, but he still feels hungover: wrecked, tired and in desperate need of a cup of coffee, or several.

Traffic rushes by, most of the cars and trucks entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big town, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment, he thinks of those the shapeshifter already took. Sam found a string of at least three disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had access to offline while Dean was driving up north. These people could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find that bastard’s hideout fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs food, too. Dunkin’ Donuts, now that would be a treasure in this town.

When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by, “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. He went outside anyway, in need of some fresh air. His shoulder is throbbing, shooting daggers through his arm whenever he moves it, but as long as he keeps it still, it’s not too bad. In the bathroom earlier, he did peel the gauze back slightly to check the injury, and he has to admit that he was impressed. He might not be able to stand Zoë, but she did an awesome job removing that bullet and sewing him back together. Plus, the painkillers she offered are a God’s gift.

Slowly, he strolls towards his car. The pitch-black Chevrolet Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glistening. Dean smiles; what a sight for sore eyes. He’s honored to own the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to drive, but because it was Dad’s first car. He kind of owes it to his old man to take good care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to look after the family. “Hey, Baby,” he greets his Chevy, letting his fingertips glide over the trunk. “Since when have we reached the phase that you call me ‘baby’?”

Dean looks over the top of the Impala and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot the owner. When he moves around his car he finds her, laying on her back underneath her bike. “Who says I was talking to you?” Dean returns, leaning against the hood. She crawls from under the Road King and judgmentally observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench and slips back under. “Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that,” she nags.

Dean grins and decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he has the sudden urge to pull his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But Baby is fine, she doesn’t need any TLC right now. “What’s wrong with your bike?” Dean asks curiously. “I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speed bump. It’s just the gasket, nothing serious,” she explains, keeping her eyes on the exhaust. “And what’s wrong with you?” he rephrases his question. “Excuse me?” Caught off guard, she pauses, but doesn’t make an effort to get out from under her Harley. Dean doesn’t bother to repeat himself. “You heard me.” “There’s nothing wrong with me, Shortbus.” Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago, annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “Then what is that bandage doing there?” Dean asks smartly. Startled, Zoë sits up and hits her head hard against the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang. Cursing like a sailor she lands back on the ground. “Ow! Fucking hell!”

She didn’t realize her shirt crawled up. Dean smirks at the string of strong language, but hides his smile when she surfaces from under the bike. Irritated, she pulls down her buttoned shirt to hide the gauze through which a little bit of blood has formed a perfect circle in the shape of a bullet wound. She uncomfortably pretends like neither he nor she saw it and disappears under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn’t going to let it go. “Did Sam shoot you?” “What?” “Last night he fired two bullets. Did he shoot you?” Dean repeats. The huntress scoffs. “Ha! Your little bro isn’t that fast on the draw.” “I’m not kidding,” he states seriously. “Someone apparently was.”

She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed, she looks up at him, lightning in her brown eyes. Zoë is nowhere near admitting to him what went down. Shit. How the hell is she gonna talk herself out of this one? “Don’t worry, Sam won’t get the credit,” Zoë comments snarky, as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away. “If he didn’t do it, who did?” he interrogates, clearly not accepting a smart answer. “What does it matter? It’s nothing serious,” she mutters, getting up. “It is. You got shot, damn it,” Dean argues. “So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?” Zoë quickly changes the subject, but Dean is smart enough not to take the bait. “No - no - no,” He shakes his head and grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that one. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question.” She sighs; seems like there’s no way out of this. “It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot,” she assures, still avoiding Dean’s question. “Did you get the bullet out?” Dean asks, almost parental. Zoë narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I got the bullet out.” “Who shot you?” he asks again, slowly this time.

Zoë doesn’t answer and saunters up to him, after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy as well. Her hair, still damp from the shower she took earlier and seems black. Despite the crappy night, her natural tan gives her a healthy appearance. The only thing that gives away that she’s tired, are the slightly visible dark circles under her eyes. When she looks aside, she meets Dean’s gaze, who’s waiting for some kind of response. With a sigh, she gives him an answer. “The shapeshifter.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, needing a moment to analyze her words. He doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first. “You ran into him?”

Zoë averts her gaze, debating her conscience. Should she tell him? She knows he will keep digging until he does, but she could lie, obviously. Oh, what the hell. She might as well give him the whole story. “Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him,” she explains. “Wait… Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?” Dean double checks. She suspiciously tilts her head while looking at him. “Yeah.” “Shit.” He rubs his face, realizing what is going on. “You’re Sharon Evans.” “What? How the hell do you know my alias?” Zoë asks with a tone. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam technically did get you shot,” he starts off hesitating. “Beg pardon?!” she cries out, turning towards him, completely stunned. “We rang Cliffer around five yesterday afternoon, to meet up with him,” he admits. She stares at him as the missing links connect. She places a hand on her hips, switching her weight to one leg, radiating her attitude. “Let me guess! FBI?” “Yeah. He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’s partner. We didn’t realize we were on somebody else’s case,” he admits. “You son of a…”

She swallows down another waterfall of curse words and turns around furiously. That’s why the bastard changed! She didn’t give herself away, those dumbass Winchesters did! It’s a bit of a coincidence that two federal agents call, being on the same case without knowing it. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when it learned about the appointments, it changed shape quicker than planned. The fucker knew there was at least one hunter in town. It was on to her! “Fuck!” she exclaims.

Furious, she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that anything coming out of his mouth will only make her angrier, even if it’s just a smart attempt to lighten the mood. “What time’s that appointment?” “Five-thirty.” “Where?” “A bar. I’m not sure where.” “You don’t know?!” she snaps. “Sam knows. He made the appointment, not me,” he returns. Zoë rolls her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment.

“I don’t see why this is a bad thing,” Dean starts off, casually, but she doesn’t take it well. “You don’t see why this is a bad thing? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!” she hisses, lowering her voice when guests walk out the Motel Six. “You don’t know that. There could be two of them walkin’ around,” Dean argues. “The shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage. It doesn’t know we know.” “What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?” she taunts. “I don’t have a plan. Like I said–-” “- Sam’s the geek, I know. God, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second child,” she huffs, turning on her heels as she crosses her arms firmly in front of her chest.

Dean glares at her, offended. Not that she notices, with her back already turned to him. She picks up the tools she used for the repair and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. While she cleans up, Zoë tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure who Sam actually made that appointment with, then how can she work out a strategy? Big chance that she’ll meet the shifter, but it could very well be Terry, so she can't actually go in guns blazing. Cliffer hasn’t been reported missing yet, even though he has a wife and kids. If he did disappear, they would have called the authorities and Zoë would know about that. Nothing is certain, which makes this job so much more impossible to work.

She stops what she’s doing and stares at the asphalt. Gears are turning in her head as she goes over every scenario. Dean observes her for a moment. “Did you eat?” he asks out of nowhere. “Or have coffee?” “No,” she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything? “Then how the hell can you think properly?” he wonders. She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like there’s a war going on inside. She could certainly go with a good latte macchiato to jumpstart her brain, too. It’s no fun to admit, but Dean has a point. “You’re right. I’m off.” Zoë throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle. She picks up her old biker jacket from the handlebar and puts it on. “Can I come?” The way Dean asks is like a little boy would, innocent and hopeful, adding ‘pretty please’ with his green eyes without actually pronouncing the words. She chuckles and shakes her head. “Sorry, Dean. I fly solo.” Her engine starts with a satisfying purr instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier. Content, she smiles and puts on her helmet. Dean, on the other hand, looks at her just like that same little boy, disappointed, even though he tries to hide it. Without another word, she turns the throttle and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a smirk from ear to ear. “Thanks for lunch!” she shouts, overruling the sound of her Harley.

Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. Lunch? What lunch? He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. When the identical roar seems to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives up the ramp going to the city. She heaves her hand victoriously, holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his jaw dropping to the ground. That dirty little thief! She just stole my wallet! He gapes at Zoë, as she and her Harley merge into busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this…? Stunned, he scoffs. Un-fucking-believable. He, one of the best goddamn hunters in the world, just got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly. “Son of a bitch.”

An hour later, Zoë slips her key in the lock of room 82 and walks in like she owns the world, a straw coming from her iced latte on-the-go firmly between her lips. “Finally!” Dean complains. He made himself comfortable on the bed with his shoes on the bedspread again, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine Zoë doesn’t want to know the content of. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly. The older of the brothers smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding. It might have taken her a while to get back, but at least she brought the good stuff.

Without responding to his comment, she throws him back his wallet without Sam noticing, who is occupied by research. Dean catches it with his left hand and answers her victorious grin with an unintelligible mutter. She sets down a small tray with two more coffee containers. “I didn’t know how you guys like your coffee, so I brought you both an Americano,” she says. “Francis over there prefers a half-caf double vanilla latte,” Dean comments, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother, who on his turn glares at him and takes his coffee. As if Dean hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the burrito, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manners. Sam, however, can’t help but stare at his brother for a moment and clears his throat, disapprovingly. His sibling doesn’t seem to be bothered at all and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’. “This is good,” he comments with his mouth full. “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, after which he also takes a bite of his lunch. “Don’t thank me,” she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid.” The younger brother frowns and looks over at Dean for an explanation. Dean and paying the bill? That’s new. He doesn’t need to observe him for long before Dean stops chewing and his facial expression goes blank. Uneasy, he looks away and swallows his bite. Zoë watches him, too, smirking like a cheshire cat. “She - uh,” he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “She kinda… stole my wallet.” Sam almost chokes on his food and laughs out loud, the action earning a lethal glare. He then continues to look the huntress up and down. “That explains the new jacket.” Dazed, Dean looks up. New jacket? What new jacket? Then he spots the black leather Harley Davidson bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it. “You didn’t,” he reacts, shocked. She grins at him, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, I did.” He grinds his teeth, trying to keep calm. “How much was it?” “Not sure, actually. I didn’t bother to check the price tag when I slipped your card,” she returns, utterly satisfied. For a moment Dean just stares at her, his upper lip nervously twitching. What would that jacket be worth? 400, 500 bucks, maybe? “Oh, don’t be such a cheap jerk about it,” she comments, when she notices his expression, as if he has eaten something spicy yet disgusting. “You have at least a dozen more credit cards hidden in the trunk.” “How the hell would you know that?” Dean snarls at her.

As she takes a bite of her burrito, she looks up, digs deep down in her pocket and tosses him his car keys. While she casually continues with her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand with his mouth agape, trying to figure out how the hell she got those as well. Sam has a hard time keeping a straight face, and who could blame him? There’s no finer entertainment than this: Dean is getting played. “You touched my fuckin’ car?” his brother hisses. “Obviously. I need to borrow this, by the way.” Zoë holds up a demon protection amulet. “Give that back, Zoë,” Sam demands, trying to be strict. “What else did you take?” “Some herbs, nothing expensive,” she admits, carelessly. “You fucking thief. What did you take, Sullivan?” It’s Dean who rises to his feet, holding his hand out to collect the stolen items. Reluctant, Zoë reveals a dried vine of Viburnum from her inner pocket. “Gardener over here -” Dean nods at Sam, “- went through a lot of trouble to get ahold of that dead plant you have there. I’d give it back if I were you.” “No. I need it,” she decides a matter of factly. Sam narrows his eyes at the huntress, trying to read her. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a double shoestring. It only works for one thing… “Not for yourself, I hope?” Sam asks, carefully. “A case I’m working on the side, actually. Can’t find the damn plants anywhere,” she clarifies. “Keep the damn twig, but I want the amulet back. Get your own supplies.” Dean ushers Zoë to hand the item over, which she does with a sigh. He snatching his coffee from the table and returns to the bed without thanking her. In fact, he’s not happy at all that she has been sniffing around in his car. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.

“I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?” Dean nods, taking a sip of caffeine. “In detail.” “Let me get this straight.” Sam, seated on one of the chairs by the table, leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The shapeshifter knows you’re a hunter.” “It does, but it didn’t know that at the time of the meeting. It knew one of the callers was out to kill him, but for all it cared, I could have been an FBI agent. The fucker shot me anyway,” she elaborates, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What’s your point?” “Her point is that if we go to Beetles Bar, pretending to know nothing, it won’t take any risks. If the shifter shows instead of the real Terry Cliffer, it will try to kill us both,” Sam understands. “You guys are not going in,” Zoë makes clear right away, taking a mental note of the bar’s name that Sam just mentioned.

“So, what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?” Dean suggests. “Not until I’m sure it’s the shifter, not Terry,” Zoë replies, as she walks over to the fridge. Two confused faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside. “You’re not making any sense at all,” Dean returns, puzzled, after which he apparently gives up on the conversation and props his feet up on the bed again. “You might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy, not with that chameleon. No one would be able to tell, unless you shine a flashlight in his face,” she explains, as she takes out three beers.

Sam looks back at Zoë, who beckons one of the bottles to him, but he rejects it. Dean takes both the beers without hesitation. “You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours,“ Sam scolds at the older Winchester brother, astonished by the both of them. “It’s happy hour somewhere,” Zoë defends, puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig, earning a grin from Dean. “Want anything else, Sammy boy? Some juice, or milk perhaps?” she coos cheerily as if talking to a child. Dean snorts, almost choking on his beer, but when Sam shoots daggers at him, he quickly takes another sip.

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he warns the huntress, continuing their discussion on the case. “So, there is a possibility that we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer–-” “Okay, stop there for a second. Let me make something very clear: there is no ‘we’.” Zoë leans on the table, her knuckles resting on the surface. Her body language is strictly business all of a sudden; apparently she’s not very happy about Sam and Dean joining in on the case, especially not without her permission. Dean eyes her as he sits up. “You could use our help, Zo.” “Help?” She scoffs. “Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!” “That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can offer a hand. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer,” Sam argues. “I don’t care. This is my hunt. I’m going to that appointment myself,” she clears up. A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig up more information on her guy. The boys better get going. “No, you’re not. That’s our appointment,” Dean bounces back. “Seriously? You really wanna fight me on this?” she returns snappily, pushing herself from the table and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “That appointment that you scheduled fucked up my entire case! I was here first and I’m gonna end it!” “Oh, come on. How old are you? Five? Haven’t learned how to share yet?” Dean chuckles with an attitude, adding fuel to the fire.

Before Zoë can counter him, Sam comes between the two hot-blooded hunters. “Knock it off, both of you. It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together? You lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll probably be in the bar anyway, either as Terry Cliffer or someone else.” “No,” she decides without any consideration. “I’m gonna deal with this alone and I do not need your help.” “I can see that,” Dean comments, nodding at her abdomen, reminding her of the bullet wound that’s covered by her shirt. “Who’s fault is that again?” she snaps. “I’m gonna say it one more time: I fly solo. I don’t do teamwork, certainly not with you two. End of discussion.”

She takes one last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table with a loud bang. “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with your ‘end of discussion’? Our dad?” Sam bites back, defensive for the first time today. She freezes at the comparison and turns her head. The boys can see the fury burning in her eyes, as if they just lit the fuse of a bomb that’s about to explode. His comment stirred something inside of her they should have left alone. “I am nothing like your father!” she hisses. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean questions, offended. “Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester,” she counters with a tone. “What did he ever do to you? He exorcised that evil son of a bitch that was wearing you to the prom, for fuck’s sake.” Dean gets up and steps towards her, clearly not too happy about the way she’s talking about his father.

Trying to not lose her cool, Zoë chuckles sarcastically, looks away, and places her hands on her waist. “You owe him,” Dean pushes, halting before her. “I do not owe him a fucking thing,” she snarls fiercely, staring him down. Their eyes battle, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. Her anger towards John Winchester radiates from her; the brothers can both feel it. They struck a nerve, that’s for sure. “I want you out,” Zoë declares without even blinking. “And I’m serious.”

Dean's jaw tenses as he grids his teeth. “Fine.” With a sigh, Sam gets up from the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean already on his way out. The younger brother doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon. “If you need us-–” “- I won’t,” she immediately intervenes. “If you do, we’re going south.” He leaves a card on the bed. “Don’t bother, Sam. The stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway,” Dean responds, holding the door.

She ignores his words, annoyed by the slightest sting that his bitter voice leaves. In a quick glance, Zoë sees two phone numbers written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t angry with her. His eyes ask her to please reconsider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. The door closes behind them and the brothers walk down the hallway. “Unbelievable,” Dean scoffs. “What a fucking waste of time.” Their footsteps echo through the hall as they pass the front desk. Sam nods at the younger guy who took over for the day when they exit Motel 6, and enters the parking lot. The sun is still shining and shimmers on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, tires rush over the blacktop. Dean halts on the driver’s side of his Impala.

“Where to?” he asks, opening the door to get in. “We’re staying in town,” Sam decides before he sits down in the passenger seat. “What? No! We have better things to do, Sam,” Dean argues, still mad at the huntress. “I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam admits. Dean sighs. “Here we go again with that feminine intuition shit.” Sam rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He can’t understand why, but somehow he has the urge to look out for Zoë, almost like it’s instinct. Unnecessary, of course; she has been fine by herself for four years. Why should today be any different? “Let’s just go. You said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday? If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?” Dean reminds him. “One night. We book a motel, check on her, and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there,” Sam suggests. “I thought you were determined to find Dad?” Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response. “I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue where he is,” Sam points out. “Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling you, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all, ‘I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of,’ Dean bounces back, imitating his voice. “And now you’re ditching him for some chick?” “I’m not ditching him for some chick!” Sam denies. “Ah, come on. You like her and you know it,” Dean carries on. “I do not like her, Dean! Jess just died, damnit!” he exclaims.

Dean looks away and pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. He knows he went too far, so he keeps quiet and turns the ignition. When he flips the key, the V8 motor under the hood growls, impatiently waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road. “You said it yourself: Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I don’t know about,” Sam suggests. “Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep.”

He puts his car in reverse and looks in the rearview mirror as he guides her out of the parking spot. The shift of his body causes him to grimace, pain cutting through his shoulder. “Feeling alright?” Sam checks. “Yeah, just tired. I need more painkillers, that’s all,” he mutters. Sam takes out his phone and calls a booking agency he had listed in his contacts earlier. As the call goes through, he sighs. It’s going to be a difficult task to find a room with that poker event in town. He waits for someone to pick up on the other side, meanwhile wondering why Zoë got so worked up about their father. Dean has a point; John saved her from that demon, so how could she possibly despise him? Something must have occurred; maybe she crossed paths with him later on and John did something to upset her. She wouldn’t be the first to cross blades with him, after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seven here

The Sullivan Series tags: @a-gir1-has-n0-name @destielhoneybee @fookinghelljensensthighs @heartsaved @idksupernatural @laphirablack @magssteenkamp

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spidercakes · 4 years

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Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Tony gives him a once over and Peter feels a little self conscious on account of he’s the only one here wearing color. Well, a bright color. Carol is technically wearing color but her flannel is a dark blue and he hardly counts the yellow on her Nirvana shirt. “Come on, Peter. It’d be kind of fun, giving you a punk makeover. Bet you’d look real good in Nat’s clothes,” he says, drawing Peter into his lap. How is it that even Rhodey, who by all means is kind of a prep, is also not wearing color?

“I don’t know if I could pull that off,” he says honestly. He likes his pastels and his skirts and his soft aesthetic. Tony looks good in the leather and spikes and the eyeliner but Peter is pretty sure he’d look like he was playing dress up.

“I’m sure you’ve got something in your wardrobe that’s not pink. Humor me a little and give it a try,” he says, pressing a kiss to Peter’s cheek.

“Is anyone going to ask why the hell he offered up my clothing?” Nat asks, arms folded across her chest.

Bucky looks her up and down. “I don’t know, probably because he’s wearing the pink version of your outfit,” he points out. They both look down at each other and huh. Nat’s fishnets are black, so is her skirt and crop top, but it is pretty much the same as Peter’s except his skirt is pink and his shirt is white.

“This is kind of punk looking,” he says and Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Sweetheart, the black fishnets do not make that punk.”

When Tony sees Peter the next day he lets out a soft laugh. “Babe, that’s adorable but its so not punk,” he says, circling his arms around Peter’s waist and drawing him in.

Peter looks down at his outfit. “There is so much black here! Pretty sure this is like... all the black I own. And I think the shorts might be Liz’s, there’s like... not a lot of dick room.” But he can make do on account of he’s got no hips so it works out, if only barely.

When Carol sees him she snorts, “aw, he tried so hard! Its so close!”

“What’s wrong with this?” he asks, looking down at his outfit. He’s got the fishnets he worse yesterday, presumably Liz’s high waisted black shorts, and it took him forever to find those black garter belts to hold up the thigh highs he put over the fishnets. He only has them because he went through a very brief goth phase he no longer has picture evidence of, thank god. He even managed to find a black choker, he’s seen Nat wear those it counts!

“Well,” Tony says, “might be this very pastel pink shirt.”

“I don’t even think I own a black shirt! I did a lot of digging through my closet. I found things in there that should have never been there to begin with. I found the unicorn phase I went through when I was thirteen. I think this should count if for no other reason than I had to suffer looking at all that,” he says, pouting.

Tony grins, clearly having a good time with this. “No dice, baby. You can do better than this, I know you can.” Peter huffs because he found his unicorn phase. He should be spared a bad grade in punk due to psychological trauma suffered in his attempts to get there.

When Nat shows up she snorts, “aw, that’s so cute he almost managed it. Kind of. If punk were more pastel goth looking, anyway,” she says, looking as amused as Tony.

“This is why we call you pretty boy Parker,” Bucky adds, walking up behind her.

“You what?” he asks, looking to Tony, who rolls his eyes.

“That’s what he calls you because he keeps trying to make fetch happen,” he says.

Peter perks up, “you guys have seen Mean Girls!” he asks, excited. Usually their taste in movies is way different so its strange to find common ground.

One of Tony’s hands slip from his waist to his ass, “of course we’ve seen Mean Girls. What kind of savage hasn’t?”

“I haven’t seen it. Also how the blue fuck did I end up looking more punk than you?” Rhodey says, appearing from around the corner. Peter looks him over and he resents that Rhodey does look more punk than him and all he’s done is throw on a pair of black jeans, a black v-neck, and a leather jacket.

“You know what, I can do better than this,” Peter says, determined to outdo Rhodey of all people in punk looks. He can’t possibly go around knowing that a damn football player managed to out punk him.

He’s pretty confident that he’s at least managed to outdo Rhodey today in punk aesthetic and he had to steal a sweater from MJ to do it but he managed so. This time when Tony sees him he doesn’t immediately laugh so there’s that, but he does look amused. “Well, you definitely outdid Rhodey,” he says, gesturing to him.

Peter huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “Tony, he’s literally wearing a letterman jacket. How could I not outdo that?” he asks.

“I had my doubts. You still look more like a soft boy going to the library but you’re not too far off,” he says, hooking an arm around Peter’s waist and drawing him in.

“Its all black! I had to steal this sweater from MJ,” he says, pouting. And he had to go digging back through the depths of his closet to find the garter belt with the flowers on it and he thinks he did a good job.

Tony snorts and starts laughing. “That explains why it looks familiar. Punk is more than a lot of black though, but you’re getting there,” he says, grinning.

Peter curls his arms around Tony’s neck and leans in, “And here I thought you might approve. Guess you don’t get to see what’s underneath now,” he says, laughing when Tony gives him a panicked look, pulling him back in when he goes to move away.

“Oh, no, no it fine,” he says, kissing Peter softly. “Really.”

“Is it? Because he looks like he’s about to spend a few hours in the library and dressed comfortably,” Natasha says, frowning at him. Tony gives her a look and she rolls her eyes, “you can’t just approve because you want to get laid, Stark. Here,” she says, pulling off the thick belt she’s got wrapped around her waist and putting it on Peter. “That looks better,” she says, nodding in approval.

Tony frowns, “huh. It actually does.”

Peter looks down and sure enough it does look better and come on. “A belt? Seriously?”

“Quit whining, I sacrificed my look for this Parker. Be grateful,” Natasha tells him.

Tony pulls him back in, hands settling on his hips. “So I get to see what’s underneath later, right?” he asks and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Horndog,” he accuses. Tony shrugs, unrepentant and Peter lets out a long suffering sigh, acting put upon. “Fine, I guess,” he says and Tony grins, eyes lighting up with excitement.

Tony snickers as Peter stretches out on his bed. “What, didn’t have that in pink?” he asks as he climbs onto the bed, sliding a hand up Peter’s thigh. He can’t believe it took him this long to find a pair of black jeans in his wardrobe and he actually really likes them.

“Yeah, I have it in pink, and mint green but I decided to wear the grey one,” he says as Tony’s hand slips up the sweater in question.

Tony’s lips quirk up, “the pink one would look cute with these jeans,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss him.

Peter smiles, “I thought you thought I owned too much pink?”

Tony shakes his head, “nah. It looks good on you. Gotta admit, you in Carol’s Nirvana shirt, my jacket, and Bucky’s pants was a hilarious sight though.” Because they’d all given up hope that he could manage punk on his own and it turns out the look isn’t for him. As he suspected he looks like he’s playing dress up but he did snipe a skirt or five from Natasha and she can’t complain because he knows she stole at least two of his sweaters and a pair of jogging pants. They’re totally even now.

“Next time we should give you a pastel makeover. See how you come out,” he says, laughing at the way Tony wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, it looks fine on you but I draw the line at pastel anything. If you’ve got red I’ll let you put me in whatever, but leave the pastels at the closet door,” he says.

#tony stark x peter parker #starker #alternate universe #fanfiction

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zenithlux · 4 years

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Cadence - CH 27

I say, I thought you would be home You said you never would be gone But you are. You are

Gone - Daughtry

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When Vergil opened his eyes the second time (or was it the third? Fourth? Everything was blurring together), he was in Devil May Cry. At least he was sitting upright this time, back against the wall with his legs phasing right through Roxy’s body. She was still asleep (so what summoned him? That wasn’t something Kuro had mentioned), and he didn’t miss the way her legs just… flopped in weird ways. He glanced at his fingers but the threads were gone. Vergil frowned. How could he summon them again? How did he see them in the first place?

Could he heal her?

Roxy…

“Don’t worry, Mr. Vergil,” Aki’s quiet chirp echoed in his ear. Vergil flinched, glancing around. The owl wasn’t there. “I’m still in here,” his voice said. “I can’t summon myself as you can.”

“I’m not sure this counts as summoning,” Vergil said.

“You’ll figure it out,” Aki said. “Remember what Kuro said: find a form that doesn’t put pressure on her.”

Vergil still didn’t know what that meant. He thought this ‘form’ would be the easiest. She hadn’t shown much stress when summoning Kuro’s full form. Surely his human form couldn’t be that difficult. But even as he wracked his brain over the numerous possibilities, he was acutely aware that nothing would happen as long as Roxy was asleep. Kuro had been able to summon himself because he’d had years of practice. Vergil doubted he could do the same thing. And maybe that should have frustrated him. The… powerlessness he faced just sitting here, bound to someone he couldn’t even heal. Yet it was his ignorance on the matter that bothered him the most. He couldn’t escape that feeling of failure. Kuro had tried to teach him, but a few hours hadn’t been enough time to take over completely.

Had the dragon known something might happen? Was that what he was hoping to prepare for?

Suddenly, the door opened, followed by a slow-moving Nico and Kyrie. “Mr. Vergil,” Kyrie said as her eyes scanned the room. They didn’t fall on him, nor did he expect them too. “We’re here to take care of Roxy, okay? That’s all we’re doing.” Vergil didn’t quite understand why she was talking to him (or maybe more towards him) as if he were some kind of wild, unpredictable animal. How long had they been out? It couldn’t have been more than a few days. But the girls picked Roxy up with clearly practiced hands as Kyrie wrapped her arms under her shoulders and Nico picked up her legs. Roxy groaned, but her head simply flopped to the side.

Vergil followed them out of the room, both curious and uncertain how far he would be able to go attached to her like this. The girls led her into one of Devil May Cry’s bathrooms and slowly turned the dials to the bathtub. Someone must have convinced Dante to pay for the water, as it came out in an instant, crystal clear. Vergil looked away as they undressed her, and he felt a ping of recognition somewhere in the back of his mind. Roxy was awake but quiet. She might still be half asleep for all he knew, but she was aware of her surroundings. He heard a quiet slosh of water and he risked a glance as the girls lowered her into the bathtub. She stared back at them, her… his blue eyes glossy as she sagged in the tub. “Hold on, Roxy,” Nico said as she handed Kyrie the shampoo. We’ll have you out of here before you know it.”

Tears prickled at Vergil’s eyes, but he knew immediately that they were not his own. He hesitated, wondering if he should reach out to her in such a state. Could she even see him? He didn’t know. She wasn’t really looking at anything. More just staring into an empty abyss of her own making. Vergil could feel her sorrow weighing on his own heart. The pain of Kuro’s loss was clearly too much for her to bear. But Vergil didn’t know how to fix that. He couldn’t bring Kuro back. He couldn’t even summon himself.

Find a form that doesn’t put a strain on her.

He closed his eyes, pondering the dragon’s words. When had he seen Kuro summon himself? He’d been small, almost like a child with Kuro’s knowledge and memories. What would be the equivalent for Vergil? A part of him wondered if V was the answer, but he doubted summoning his human half was any different than simply summoning himself. No. It had to be something different. Something small and inconsequential, but something that could still help her if he needed to. A summon to bridge the gap until she got her own power back.

As the girls continued their ministrations, Vergil wandered back out into the hallway. He felt a gentle tug on his chest, but he kept it bay by pacing in front of the door. What could he do that wasn’t too taxing? His mind wandered as he walked, considering multiple possibilities. She needed something now. She needed to know he was still here with her. She had to see that Kuro’s death wasn’t for nothing.

“Mr. Vergil?” Aki said.

He paused. “Yes?”

“Your form is flexible like this,” Aki said. “At least, that’s what Kuro told me.”

“Summoning myself as a tiny human isn’t going to do us any good.”

“That’s not what I meant,” the owl griffon huffed. “Maybe try something that isn’t human at all.”

Vergil stopped dead in his tracks. Inhuman. He hadn’t even considered it. Was it even possible? A flexible form didn’t necessarily mean he could do something like that. But maybe… just maybe…

He closed his eyes and thought of his own familiars. Griffon had been able to speak, but she needed something more. Nightmare was much too large and had taken far too much of his own power to summon. No, he needed something flexible. Something like Shadow.

Shadow…

Could he really do it?

“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Aki said.

Or it might hurt a lot. Vergil wasn’t really certain. But what did it matter? This was the best shot they had. So, he closed his eyes and thought of Shadow. How sleek the panther had been. How flexible. All the ways she could transform however he needed. He thought of her claws, her sharp hearing, her demonic fur; anything he could think of he did, rolling it through his mind dozens of times. His limbs started to ache. He heard a crackling sound, and pain shot through every nerve imaginable. Vergil reached for his arm, biting his tongue to keep from crying out. He heard Aki’s voice, but it melted into the background as agony nearly overwhelmed him. But he held on, determined to make things right.

This wasn’t worse than the pain he experienced before.

This wasn’t worse than Mundus.

Roxy.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the floor. When he groaned, it came out as a purr. Surprised, he snapped his gaze to his hands - paws - and realized it had actually worked. He gently got to his feet, feeling his new, panther muscles moving in an unfamiliar way. His walk was clumsy, and he could feel his tail swinging in an effort to stabilize him.

Slowly, he moved back to the bathroom and gently pawed at the door. When nothing happened, he tapped it with his head. It shot open as Nico stared down at him in surprise. “Shadow?”

“Not quite,” he thought, but no words came out. Behind her, Kyrie had already drained the tub, and the two had managed to wrap Roxy in the biggest towel Dante owned. Vergil peered past Nico, trying to find Roxy’s eyes. And as her head gently turned to the side, her surprise was obvious. Tears filled her eyes as she whispered the single word that he wanted to hear.

“Vergil.”

-----------

“So let me get this straight,” Dante said in the most exasperated tone possible. “Roxy is paralyzed from the waist down for reasons we can’t figure out, and Vergil can only manifest himself as a cat.”

“Something like that,” Nico said. “Though that’s all conjecture on our part. He hasn’t said anything.”

“He can’t,” Roxy said quietly. At least now she was sitting upright with her legs propped up on the recliner Dante had gotten a few weeks ago. Vergil was on the couch beside her, tail flicking often in annoyance. It was the only expression he was capable of making, and nobody seemed to notice.

“And Mundus is still out there somewhere,” Dante said slowly.

“Seems that way,” Nero said. “So what’s the plan? We can’t exactly leave her by herself.” Vergil growled at him, and Nero threw his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re a cat, Dad. There’s not much you can do.”

Vergil didn’t know if he should be offended by the comment, or proud that his son had called him Dad without any sort of hesitation. Maybe it was a little bit of both. Not that he had any way to express it. That would just be too easy.

“They could stay here,” Dante said. Vergil growled again, and it was his turn to take a step back. “What other plan is there? You can’t exactly stay with Nero and the kids if Mundus is after you.”

“He just needs to learn how to heal my back,” Roxy said, wincing as she sat up. “Then we’ll be fine.”

“He’s still a cat,” Dante argued.

“I’ll be able to summon him properly once I’m healed,” She snapped back.

“How do you know that for certain?”

“I could summon Kuro.”

“Well no offense to him,” Dante countered. “But he’s a lot different beast than my brother.”

Roxy glared at him. “He was strong in his own right, and I suggest you watch what you say.”

“Look,” Dante said. “I get it. You miss him. A lot. And I don’t blame you in the slightest. But you have to look at the facts, Sunshine. Vergil isn’t just a dragon archdemon. He’s the technical ruler of the Underworld. It would be the equivalent of you summoning…” he trailed off.

“Mundus?” Vergil thought dryly. His tail flicked toward Dante, but he couldn’t will it to spike him. Not yet, anyway. That was something he was determined to figure out first. If his demon could do it, so could this flexible cat form. But Dante seemed to take the hint and kept going. “I’m certain you’ll figure it out. He’s clearly stubborn enough if he’s summoning himself like this,” He gestured in Vergil’s general direction. “To make it work. But we don’t know when that will happen.”

“So what?” Roxy said. “You’re going to sit in here and babysit me until things get better?”

The panic in Dante’s eyes might have been amusing if it were any other situation. “Well… I mean… If I have to.”

“Why doesn’t she just come with me?” Nico said. Vergil’s eyes snapped to hers in surprise, but she kept going. “I mean in the van when Nero and I are out. It’ll give Vergil access to some demon energy to help heal her, and you won’t have to be at home all day.” She shrugged. “Seems like a win-win.”

For a long moment, nobody said anything. Then, Nero sighed in a rather Dante-esque way and hopped off the back of the couch. “If that’s what it takes to fix this, then I have no problem with it.”

“You might draw more demons to you,” Dante warned.

“That bastard doesn’t have Yamato,” Nero said as he held the sword out to make a point. “That dragon-man couldn’t fight me, and I doubt he’d try again so soon.” He shrugged as he put Yamato on a special strap beside Red Queen. Vergil hadn’t realized he’d been wearing it but was rather proud to see it. He was more surprised Dante hadn’t demanded he take it back. Maybe he still felt guilty for losing it before.

“And I can help take care of her at night before we leave,” Nico said. “Sound like a deal, V-man?”

It took Vergil far too long to realize that everyone was staring at him. He simply nodded, his attention fixated on Roxy. She looked pale and exhausted. Maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised, though he hoped it wasn’t because he’d summoned himself. Surely this form had to be weak enough to count.

He didn’t let himself think about that statement for longer than he had to.

“You can rest here for tonight, Verge,” Dante said. “Just use your old room.”

“I’ve got her,” Nero moved to Roxy’s side. “If that’s okay with you.” She simply nodded, and he scooped her up as if she was nothing, hopping up the stairs before Vergil had a chance to leave the couch. Surprised, he did so rather clumsily, glaring at Dante before the latter had a chance to laugh at him. But Dante just shook his head with a small, lopsided smile. “I can’t tease you like that. Ruins all the fun.”

Vergil huffed and followed after his son, stepping into the room as he lay Roxy down on Vergil’s old bed. “We’ll come to get you tomorrow, okay?” Nero said. Roxy nodded again, but Vergil could feel that she had long since checked out of the conversation. Nero hesitated, so Vergil pushed his head against his son’s legs and managed to flick his tail toward the door. “You’ll take care of her then,” Nero said. Vergil nodded and hopped up on the bed with more grace than he’d managed since he’d first transformed. “Well this is weird,” Nero muttered.

“You’re telling me,” Vergil thought.

“But it’s probably even weirder for you.”

Vergil snorted. It came out as a huff. Nero smiled just a bit, but his expression was wary. Vergil didn’t blame him in the slightest. “You think you’ll be able to fight with me if she stays in the van?” When Vergil nodded again, Nero sighed as he reached for the door. “Sounds like we have a plan then. I’ll see ya then… pops.”

He left at that, and Vergil might have dwelled on his son’s words more if he hadn’t felt a tug between them. He saw the tears in her eyes as she stared helplessly at the ceiling. Her fists clenched at her sides. “He’s gone,” She mumbled. “Kuro’s…. He’s really…”

Vergil nudged her chin and, after a moment of hesitation, licked her cheek in an attempt to get rid of the tear. She sniffled and looked at him. “I’m sorry,” She said. “I’m so…” Vergil head-butted her as gently as possible. Her eyes watered more as she reached up to scratch behind his ears. He purred and lay down beside her, head resting on her stomach. “He’s gone,” She repeated.

“I know,” He thought.

“What are we going to do?”

Vergil didn’t answer, but he stayed by her side as she eventually cried herself to sleep.

#zenni-writes #cadence #update #vergilxoc #vergilxroxy #vergil #nero #dante #nico #kyrie #familiar lore #dmc #fanfic

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cherrimilkimochi · 4 years

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Mission one: pilots gauntlet

“of all the things that were seen on the battlefield the pilot was the true domaint force, fast and agile, graceful yet devastating perceptive resourceful and relentless. a pilot sees the world differently pure walls become flanking routes, pilots fight differently experience deception and maneuvers even overwhelming odds shift in their favor.. but what truly separates from all the robots and grunts is the pilots bond with their titan, when linked to a titan a pilot can only be stopped by and overwhelming force or an equal. the frontier has been the only home I've ever known for years our lands have been destroyed by the imc forcefully taking our resources polluting and destroying our planets, and killing us off if we try to resist with recent victories such as Demeter and beyond. we still have a long way to go for the imc to be truly stopped. i am a rifleman fighting in the militia to free the frontier and have a long way till becoming a pilot,.. but when that day comes.. i truly hope i can live up to the honor”

-jack cooper, titan fall 2 campaign

the day had started off with the normal training rifleman jack cooper and his sister Jacelyn cooper. just got done with rounds when captain lastimosa approached the two siblings.

“We have training to do!” he patted the twos shoulders before waving for them to follow jacelyn looked to jack who shrugged but followed anyways. “we will be putting you in Virtual reality for this training” lastimosa gestured to the two simpods. “wait.. are we doing pilot training?” lastimosa sighed a nodded she excitedly looked to jack who showed no motion she faltered and cleared her throat,

“hop on in” lastimosa gestured, doing what they were told the loaded into the pods huffing lastimosa began to try and power up the pods manually. “Ah hell, looks like the ship power cycled the simpods snice last time. well have to re calibrate it .”

jack and jacelyn pressed each of the buttons above their heads before it closed around them two bright shiny lights glimmered into their eyes an audible groan from jace “deal with it jj” jack cooper spoke coldly looking at the lights till they turned blue

she blinked spots of blue taking her vision

“does that feel right to you guys?” captain lastimosa said “feels fine, other then a bit blind over here” jacelyn joked, an aubile chuckle slipped from lastimosa “alright its your first time jacelyn well show you the ropes. jack lets see how much you remember from last time sending the neuro-link not the same as A titan link. but similar” there was a pause as Green little lights fluttered around and eventually consumed jaces view “to learn new things, we need to be in the a good state of mind”

jace had momentarily closed her eyes

before everything when white the sound of rushing water filled her ears she patted her virtual body like she was dead or something. she laughed then looked around taking into the beauty of the area leaning over the water she saw a pilot helmet over her head that is when jacelyn laughed and danced around her brother who folded his arms in disapproval “technically im not supposed to be training you guys,” lastimosa said sitting on a wooden beam, ”but just like i see everything, you guys have potential” he sighed standing “besides were at war...who has time for classes eh?” then gestured to the beam “jump, up and over” jace moved and jumped over the beam, jack quickly followed “alright there you go!, enabling jump kit assist. jump kits operate on the principle of relaxed stability. once it calibrates to your movement style the enhanced mobility becomes second nature.” lastimosa voice echoed and a blue line trailed to where lastimosa now sat on a fountain. “whoa that was quick” jacelyn said. “what this?” he phased again that lead to a little brick path way. where lastimosa gazed around at floating rocks and a grassy planes “beautiful isn't?” he quickly said before again phasing away.

“modeled after my home world harmony, this is where i grew up. this is what we are fighting for jace, a world not of metal and smoke”

jace was stunned by the beauty of the simulation she had never been to harmony, she didn't know how truly beautiful it was but this is virtual reality what was the real thing like?

“lets make sure you jump kit is primed!. a basic wall run here jack show her how its done” jack nodded before bending his knees and running along the wall effortlessly, jace copied the movements her hand gliding against the stone it felt real she looked at her hands after wards no wonder people loved the new tech of vr, jack continued and jace jogged behind him “over here stay low” sliding effortlessly across the floor then rounded the corner to a cliff like part. “a simple double jump follow your brother” jack jumped before activating a second jump looked simple enough she did the same jump but did a cocky flip and landed

“nice style, jack take notes” lastimosa teased as jack looked to his sister that nudged his arm playfully, “we have taken a quarter of space back snice the battle of Demeter. the militia is better organized now and more people join the fight against the imc.. people like you guys.” lastimosa voice traveled to the exit of the pathway “we used to run and hid from them. now we chase em’. “ before he vanished again jace pushed jack playfully and giggled before the both followed the trail of blue into a round open space, “in the field nothing goes as expected you must prepare to use any weapon that you find on the field”

walls of weapons surface around where the captain sat full of guns that might be on the field looking at all the guns “hello pretties” jacelyn said running her fingers along a r-01 “lets not call guns pretties?” jack stated taking wingman “why not they are pretty colored and depending on the shooter beautifully operated” she said aiming down the sight and pointing it at her brother “yes she is right, i mean there is an entire book on the art of war. and now there's a book on how make your own guns” lastimosa nudged jace with his elbow as jack shook his head “what's up with jack?” lastimosa asked jace shrugged “hasn't been the same snice our parents died “ lastimosa gave a nod of understanding before moving aside and gestured to the targets and she began to shoot them the reloaded after a few “good good, practice more if you want or we can head to the running gauntlet” lastimosa said before teleporting to the doorway of the gauntlet on the left hand side of the round room.

“alright got a new gauntlet up for you two because you guys did so well. par time is 2 minutes got to do better then that to continue follow the ghost or find your own path”

jacelyn and jack lined up at the door way looking around

”wanna race little sis?”

“thought you never ask!”

counting down to three jack and jace took off “pilots have to strike a balance in combat, speed is paramount but you must hit your targets” lastimosa voice spoke, as the siblings jumped slid and shot the modeled imc grunts before making their way to the finish line jace tumbled out first “i win. when this is over you have to buy me ice cream” she pointed at her older brother letting a pant out, jack held his hands up “fine fine you got it J.J”

lastimosa nodded and waved them over “ everyone has different strengths and weaknesses you both set a new speed record but if you want you can race against other pilots ghosts but these are the best pilots around in the SRS. so a bit of warning there but if you can beat them you are on your way to a real pilot”

he explained before leaning against the wall “so what do you say on to the next? or are you going to run the gauntlet more?”

jace looked to jack “this is up to you” he said stepping back she huffed and nodded “lets go to the next thing i think we’re ready”

lastimosa looked at something before the entire scene changed they were on a round floating platform a titan sat unmoving out in the distance “that's my partner. bt, hes a vanguard classe home grown militia technology the first titan chasiss that we designed ourselves and one we didn't have to steal from the imc” he paused looking them “look at your wrist and there she be a option to call in your first titan” excitedly turning her right arm to face her she pressed the button “look up at the sky here it comes” lastimosa said pointing jace put her hand infront of her face to watch the robotic suit fall from the sky before it touched the ground the simpod began to glitch her heart jetted in her chest at the unexpecting message on her screen “alright guys sounds like things are bout to hit the fan im pulling you out”

the display message faded and the bright green lights came back

“jace jack ready up out of the sim pods!” yelled captain cole “easy cole, they just left vr. but they’ll be ready trust me” the pod helmet opened seeing cole was sitting on the railing his titans ocular system in his hands "heads up their killing us out there or trying to anyway” lastimosa said closing the side compartment “jace and jack that was a good session in their” he spoke with a nod alarms blaring red around them jace had a hard time focusing on what lastimosa said watching riflemen run around the deck. “well make pilots out of you two but not today. no time”

before a man in a similar pilot outfit walked up grabbing the arm of lastimosa “lastimosa!”

“anderson” he nodded “you son of bitch.. well see you down there.” anderson looked to jacelynn “you look sick cheer up we got this” he spoke before walking off jace did feel sick because leaving the simpod “we all will be seeing a new planet today!. maybe even die on it” lastimosa climbed into the cockpit BT. Before he smiled at the siblings jack gave a thumbs up “stay dafe down there lastimosa” jace said in a sweet tone “always try. see you down there rifleman”

“get your ass out of the pods guys meet me down at the drop ship” captain cole said throwing a gun their hands. jack hopped out and ran after them whilst jace wobbled stepped along the walk way hand grasping the gun tightly

she was about to head into war

a war she was prepared for but one she hadn't imagine she might loose her brother

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crispychrissy · 5 years

Text

Sunsets

Summary: You spend some time with Castiel enjoying the beauty of nature. Characters: Reader, Castiel, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 1292 Warnings: Fluff, language, and hehe :) A/N: My birthday was yesterday, and I had this WIP in my docs for a long time. I was able to finish it this week thanks to a slow day at work, so I wanted to share it with you. It was looked over by the lovely @dean-winchesters-bacon. Gif made by yours truly.

The grass was soft under your fingers as you leaned back and stretched your legs out in front of you. There was a light breeze blowing the leaves of the trees around, and you closed your eyes, savoring the way the cool air made goosebumps appear on your skin. The sun was setting in the west, and you had the perfect vantage point from the spot you were in on the hill.

The sound of fabric rustling behind you made your smile grow, and you spoke without turning around. “Hey, Cas.”

A tan trenchcoat came into your peripheral vision as the angel somewhat awkwardly sat down next to you, mirroring your position. “Hello, Y/N.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you asked, jutting your chin toward the horizon and dark pinkish-blue sky surrounding it. Turning to face Castiel, you smiled at the soft look on his face as he took in the scenery. “You’ve been around for a long time, have sunsets always looked this beautiful?”

Castiel nodded minutely. “From what I can remember, yes. The sky was a lot clearer back then, but the few times I visited earth with my brothers and sisters, I was able to watch a sunrise and sunset. The earliest humans believed various Gods were responsible for the sun coming up every morning, and as part of their worship, would bask in the soft light of dawn and dusk.”

You snorted, turning your attention back to the sunset. “Until science came along and ruined it all.”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Castiel murmured. “With science and technology, humans began to understand the world around them. Elements were found and named, planets were discovered, and most importantly, they learned how and why things occur.” Castiel looked over at you and grinned. “Science allows you to appreciate the natural beauty of nature down to a molecular level. Devoting your life to studying science and developing advancements to help others… that’s a kind of worship all in its own.”

Leveling your eyes on the angel, you raised a brow. “You know, that’s pretty deep for a guy who wears a trench coat in the summer.”

“Angels do not need to regulate the temperature of their vessel. We do not sweat or become cold,” Cas deadpanned.

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your legs and rested your arms on your thighs. The silence between you stretched on for a few minutes, and you appreciated the soft chirping coming from the woods surrounding the clearing you were in. Castiel didn’t speak, only continued to stare out at the sunset, making the blue of his eyes look almost an ethereal purple color.

“What’s it like?” you asked, finally.

“What is what like?” Cas replied, glancing over at you. You pointed a finger straight up at the sky and he raised a brow. “Heaven?” You nodded and he smiled. “Well, for angels it’s a little different. We see the technical and business side of things; counting souls that enter, reading their soul to generate their personal heaven, and making sure there are enough angels staffed to ensure the safety of those souls.”

“So I guess it’s a little more boring for angels than it would for a human.” Chewing your bottom lip, you took a deep breath of the crisp air surrounding you. “Y’ever go peeping Tom and creep on someone’s heaven?” Castiel looked at you and tilted his head, obviously having no idea what you said, making you smile and clarify. “Have you spent time in someone’s heaven because you liked it, not because you were doing maintenance or whatever?”

“Oh,” Castiel nodded, “yes I have. There is the heaven of an autistic boy that I frequented quite a bit. The boy would be flying a kite, and I would spend time appreciating the flowers and trees of the park that surrounded him. It was where I discovered my fondness for bees.”

“He didn’t freak out that there was a strange man in a trench coat walking through his heaven and playing with bees?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

Castiel chuckled quietly. “No, he couldn’t see me. Angels can choose to hide ourselves from humans if we enter someone’s heaven.”

“So you went stealth mode like a spy.” You raised your eyebrows at him and pressed your hands together to form a gun with your fingers. “The name’s Bond. Castiel Bond.”

“I do not have a last name,” Cas informed you before a smile spread across his lips, “but I understand that reference.”

“I think giving you all of that pop culture knowledge was the best thing Metatron ever did.”

“Perhaps.”

The sun was still going down, but a chill had made its way into the wind, sending shivers down your spine. The sky was a myriad of oranges, reds, purples, and deep pinks that all came together in a smooth transition across the sky. The two of you sat in silence until the sun finally dipped below the horizon. There were stars dotting the blueish-black color of the sky above you, and you leaned back, laying down on the grass to watch them twinkle as the sky became darker.

The bottom of a trenchcoat appeared next to your head and you blinked, locking eyes with Castiel as he held out his hand. “It’s time, Y/N.”

Swallowing the sob that tried to burst from your throat, you took a deep breath and grabbed his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Silently nodding, you looked back down the hill behind you. Your body was still lying at the bottom of the slope, chest torn open and covered in blood, your salt shotgun still clutched tightly in your hand. You looked almost peaceful laying on your back – aside from the blood and wound – with your eyes open, staring at the sky above you.

Still holding Castiel’s hand, you squeezed it. “How long until they find me?”

The angel closed his eyes momentarily before squeezing your hand back. “Less than ten minutes. Dean found the cabin where the spirit’s bones were buried and is currently salting and burning them.”

Finally allowing the tears to fall from your eyes, you sniffled and looked down at the ground. “They’re gonna be so mad at me. I shouldn’t have gone off on my own.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Castiel replied, making you glare at him. Why are angels always so honest? “But,” he continued, “there was no way you could have known he was a witch and was able to still use his magic. A spirit using spells to revive himself? It’s unheard of. He must have been very powerful.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “powerful enough to phase through my body and rip my heart out.” Looking away from the grotesque sight of your body, you ran a hand soothingly down your chest, reminding yourself it was over.

Castiel tensed slightly next to you and you glanced over at the woods near the bottom of the hill, spotting the light of two flashlights getting brighter as they approached the clearing.

“Y/N?” you heard Sam yell in the distance, their rapid footsteps getting louder as they ran through the underbrush.

“Let’s go. I can’t watch them find my body. Please make sure they don’t go all martyr and sacrifice themselves to get me back, okay?” you requested, turning back toward the horizon, away from your body. “I know where I’m going and I’ll be happy and at peace. Promise me you’ll make sure they know that.”

“I promise,” Castiel whispered, giving you a soft smile.

The last thing you heard before everything went white was a loud shout full of pure anguish, followed by the brothers screaming “no” and yelling your name over and over again.

***

Forevers [CLOSED]: @katymacsupernatural @queen-of-deans-booty @your-modern-shakespeare @wheresthekillswitch @holyfuckloueh @growningupgeek @jensen-gal @mizzezm @there-must-be-a-lock @atc74 @pilaxia @supernatural-jackles @impala-dreamer @bambi95-blog @wonderfulworldofwinchester @batmmgray @brooke-supernatural16 @dwgrl1903 @hey-bxtch @kittenofdoomage @leanbeankeane @emoryhemsworth @xalgaliareptx @mhnfatima @bi-e-ne @speakinvain @pebblesz892 @lastactiontricia @kassablanca13 @mogaruke @tockettt @imagining-supernatural @wildefire @serienjunkiegirl @mrswhozeewhatsis @stars-and-seas @jaremish @ellen-reincarnated1967 @nyxveracity @andkatiethings @bamby0304 @deathtonormalcy56 @winchesterprincessbride @moonstar86 @missihart23 @mrs-meghan-winchester @miss-rebel-without-applause @dean-winchesters-bacon @wayward-angelgirl @bojabee @maddiepants

#spn fanfic #sunset #drabble #castiel x reader #platonic!reader #reader insert #fluff #castiel #surprise #witch ghost #because thats a thing #no spoilers in the tags guys #you're just gonna have to read and find out

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 4 years

Link

Local Teen Rebels For The Environment, Local Genius Reveals Odd Sensations, Local Bully Pranked, Local Dead Kid Vents and Makes New Friend

Sam carved through the sky on a trail of brilliant neon blue light that came from the engine of her board, diving down every time she saw a piece of litter on the ground and putting it in the nearest trash or recycling bin she found. "I need to ask Tucker about installing some soft of litter spotting function for the AI in the helmets, this is ridiculous.” Once she reached her house, Sam alighted on her balcony and hummed. Pulling it into the house on foot to show grandma would probably be safer. On the other hand, I've skateboarded through this place more times than I can count. Sam flew into her room, out the bedroom door, and down the hallway in search of her grandmother. Encountering a couple of people in the halls had Sam testing the strength of the magnetic boots by swerving to ride along the ceiling. "Woo!" Sam swerved once more as she felt the blood rushing to her head and slowed to a stop over the main staircase.

A search through her grandmother's study, the dining room, and several other fun parts of the mansion, Sam concluded that Ida had to be in the bowling alley. Halfway there, she was met with the only real obstacle between her and most of the more exciting fun in her life. "Samantha, what are you doing?" Her mother and father stared at her in shock, anger, and bafflement as Sam came to a dead stop in front of them. Dismounting the board, Sam grinned.

"I'm about to show grandma Ida something amazing, as soon as you move so I can get into the bowling alley."

"Where did you get this dangerous piece of technology?" Her father couldn't stop staring at the board long enough to glare at her, which her mother had covered as usual. "This is from that Fenton boy isn't it?" Sam rolled her eyes and pulled off her helmet.

"Yes, Danny and Tucker both made hoverboards and are helping me-"

"Endanger yourself with reckless stunts! Oh, you were bad enough with your skateboard inside but now you're riding this thing around my house?"

"Last I checked, Mother, it's Grandma Ida's house, not yours." Sam held up her helmet. "Also I'm perfectly safe. I have new magnetic boots to keep me on the board no matter how harsh the winds blow and a helmet in case the board goes out of control. I'm the one who taught Danny and Tucker how to surf in the first place."

"And look where interacting with them has gotten you! First, it's ghosts and monsters that attack you at the school and now this? What if you fall while trying to do a trick on a rooftop? What protection is this helmet then?"

Sam tugged at her jacket, shaking her head. "Dad, please, anytime I go high I'm wearing layers to cushion the impact. I was maybe 10 feet above ground level the whole time here." What they don't know won't hurt them. No interaction with Sam's parents would be complete without a screech of outrage from her mother, however, how could Sam forget?

"WHAT IS THAT?" Mother pulled her jacket back enough to reveal the new scar she'd received from being hit by one of Skulker's crossbow bolts. I've been doing so good about covering that up too - only use makeup has.

"I'm not sure if you've ever roughhoused with friends in your entire life, mother, but I tripped over at Tucker's house and scraped my shoulder on one of the trees in his backyard. It's nothing serious and should probably fade soon enough." Grabbing onto her board, Sam shouldered past her parents and walked toward the bowling alley door. "Honestly, you need to stop overreacting like that. You might lose your voice." Gods forbid I get any peace like that around here.

"That is it! I have had it! Bad enough that the Fenton boy and his insane parents have been influencing you to keep up with this ridiculous phase of yours-"

"All things in life are a phase, Dad, name one permanent thing besides death and entropy."

"But now their inventions and nonsense are putting you in danger! Baby girl, I'm thinking I should get a restraining order."

Sam felt her grip grow tight around the knob of the door and she scowled at her parents. "Never call me baby girl, and how much wine have you been drinking lately? You can't just put a restraining order on my best friend, Dad, I voluntarily hang out with him because he's fun to be around."

"How dare you speak to your father like that?" The look on her mother's face likely could wither all of Sam's precious plants at once. Sam remembered a time when that look would shut her down for days at a time and she'd simply say nothing to either of her parents. Wrenching the door open Sam rolled her eyes. Exposure therapy without the therapy I guess. "Young lady you will apologize this instant!"

"Oh, but Mother, you wouldn't want me to be insincere, would you? I didn't come to argue with you over something as ridiculous as a restraining order that would never work, I came to show Grandma Ida proof that we have the technology ready for my idea. Unlike you two, I'm trying to steer this company in a direction that'll contribute to helping the planet. Because, ya know, I care."

"What you should be caring about is respecting your elders!"

"As the elder here, Jeremy, I'd feel respected if you all would stop shoutin right at the door. It's barely even noon." Grandma Ida shook her head as she scootered over. Sam let go of the board and let it hover, gesturing grandly at it and her grandma stared for a long moment.

"Don't you see, mother? Samantha's friendship with that Fenton boy is opening her up to ridiculous amounts of danger and she refuses to respect even our concerns about the issue, much less show enough respect not to insult us to our faces!" Dad's scowl turned quickly to wide-eyed bemusement when Grandma Ida laughed hard enough to start wheezing. "Mother?"

"Babula you managed to bring me a little miracle just to say you can pull off a bigger one! Every day you remind me more and more of myself." She pulled Sam into a hug. "I will say that you shouldn't go insulting your parents - there's a difference between rewarding respect with respect and refusing to give it - but just going outside is dangerous for a child and you both know that. This hoverboard is no different from any other sport that Sam does, and it's a marvelous thing that she has friends willing to share such amazing gifts with her."

"Ida, why do you always side with her whenever she argues with us?"

"Because I agree with her, Pamela, why else? From all your shouting I heard something about a restraining order." Grandma scoffed and Sam grinned. "That's preposterous. The Fentons have done nothing wrong to us."

"They are a disturbance to the public peace-"

"They are wonderous inventors who provide the town with limitless, cheap power, mother. The Fentons do good for the town - what if we somehow had a blackout? With the whole town connected to the Fentons are you gonna sue them for coming out to fix whatever the problem is?" Sam crossed her arms and glared at her parents with as much anger as she could muster. The entire argument was getting tiresome more than anything.

Mother looked moments away from exploding before Dad took a deep breath, let it out, and put a comforting hand on Mother's shoulders. "Fine. No charges or restraining orders against the Fentons. But the next time I hear they've put you in danger, young lady, all bets are off." Her parents left before their blood pressure could be raised any higher, and Sam turned to her grandma, giving her another hug.

"Thank you, grandma. It's good to know you have my back."

"Of course, Sammy. Now, while this is amazing I'm not sure it'll convince the board without an actual blueprint for the car you want us to make." She smiled. "It does look fun though."

"It is fun but as much as I hate agreeing with Mom and Dad it's also pretty dangerous if you can't keep your balance." An old lady pouting was always the good kind of cute, even someone as cute adverse as Sam could admit that. "My friends helped out even more than I had planned, and we have the protoype for that car ready for a test drive if you wanna see it?”

“What are we doin still here then?”

“I dearly hope you understand, Mr. Fenton, that you cannot use your odd firearms on school property unless you have legitimately no other choice.” Danny feels his face burning as Principal Ishiyama gives him the rundown on the rules of the school, always rounding back to that. As if she hadn’t made it clear five times already. “It may not technically be illegal for you to own the weapons themselves and I understand that you might inevitably need them, but I better not see them out unless it’s an emergency. Am I clear?”

“Yes ma’am, you’re perfectly clear.” Danny did his absolute best not to grit his teeth when he spoke to the principal, aware that he was on thin ice. Still, he couldn’t be more relieved when he was told to gather his things and head to his new locker. Walking out into the hall to find Sam and Tucker there, Danny leaned on Sam and groaned loudly. “I’m tempted to ask for homeschooling.” His friends stare at him flatly for all of five seconds before he cracks and leans instead on Tucker. “Yeah, no, definitely not. You’re right.”

“Of course we’re right. Now, which locker are we taking you too so you can stop leaning and start walking?” Tucker ruffled Danny’s hair even as the boy pulled his hood over his head and groaned. Eventually, Danny stood up and pulled out a slip of paper.

“Locker 274, apparently.” Danny started checking numbers when he heard the most melodramatic of sounds. “Did you just. Gasp in unison? Did you practice that?” Turning around Danny saw that Sam and Tucker wore matching expressions of abject horror that went beyond what even a fight with a killer robot poacher could evoke. “Did my life just become a horror movie?”

“You don’t know the legend of locker 274?” Danny couldn’t tell if the horror in Tucker’s whisper was at the legend or Danny’s ignorance of it.

“Is there a vampire waiting to spring out and suck out my blood if I open this locker door?”

Sam snorted and shook her head, unease unravelling before his eyes from a tangled ball of prickly violet shards to verdant vines and leaves. "No, you dork. The locker is supposedly haunted - probably why she gave it to you." Danny groaned, long and loud, banging his head on the locker.

"Sidney Poindexter used to have this locker back in the fifties, you see, and people were even bigger assholes to each other then than they are now," Tucker said, voice pitched toward an old scary movie narrator. "When you're nerdy, your look isn't right and someone finds out you're not straight in the fifties, shit gets real bad real fast. Everyone bullied him all the time, and he got stuffed in this locker so many times that they say when he died here at Casper, his spirit lingered in the locker itself."

Danny stared at Tucker for a long moment, turning all of that over in his head. Then he pulled his backpack off his back and thwapped Tuck on the head with it. Sam snorted, laughing next to him and he got her too. "Watch it ghost boy!"

"That didn't hurt. Also, did you guys seriously just gay up not tell me about the haunted locker this whole time? Were you ever going to?" Danny opened the locker with a sigh, focusing on the second plane. The mirror at the back of the locker shimmered dimly with ghostly light but Danny could hardly see it. “There’s something there but it’s dim-” hands were on his body and Danny was shoved into the locker entirely, limbs folding to compact himself with as little damage as possible. Pushing himself out, Danny whirled around with a snarl.

“-cking hell, goth bitch, I was just helpin Fentonio check out his new locker.” Dash had one hand on his shin and the other was covering his crotch protectively - as though that could keep him safe from Sam’s steel boots. “It’s Poindexter’s locker, right? Perfect place for a geek like him.”

“Wow Dash, I’m impressed! A word with three whole syllables in it! Maybe you’ll be able to use your expanded vocabulary to get a good grade on an english test without cheating off of Mikey.” Dash scowled at Danny, his aura sparking and popping like fireworks and red as his jacket. “Or maybe football has damaged your skull beyond repair and you’ll never be able to get anywhere without swinging your fists around. Only time will tell, huh?”

Before Dash could follow up Sam’s manslaughter with his own attempt at Murdering Danny™ - the fun new game for people ages 14-105 - the bell rang and the trio slipped away in the ensuing crowd of students flooding the halls to get to class. Sam ruffled Danny’s hair, which he then covered up with his hood, and the three of them laughed as they tumbled into class together and sat down. “That was amazing, Danny! Dash is gonna try to actually murder you next time he sees you, but I’m proud of you for getting out of it so quickly.”

“The kinda bullshit he pulls, he deserves a lot more than just being talked around in circles,” Tucker grumbled. “Like… if you got him back while you’re invisible, no one could know it was you getting back at him, right?”

“True…”

“Actually, Danny, your parents would find out it’s you. Pretty damn quickly.” Sam nudged him with an elbow. “Or at least that a ghost did it. One tore through the school and now the principal is paranoid - ghostly revenge on Dash would just tell her to have the security system turned on.”

“Ugh, that’d be a pain.” Danny agreed with a slump, pouting at the board. “Still, just one prank might not hurt.”

“Or it’ll hurt a hell of a lot, Danny.”

“The system won’t notice Danny at all and he can wait till it’s turned off to do something again. Ow, ow, Sam my head is very precious and that textbook counts as a lethal weapon.”

“Please stop making horrible suggestions to our best friend then.” Sam flashed Tucker a smile with far too many teeth for comfort and he grumbled with his arms crossed. Sam’s grin slid from threatening to smug and Danny rolled his eyes.

The day was at first hope inducingly normal. Classes were unengaging, unchallenging, or just boring. Sam, while proud of the results of the test drives of the car project, was now championing a protest against having to dissect frogs in school. By lunch, Danny had to finally say something between all the nodding along. “Sam, as much as I agree that I don’t want to cut open frog corpses, I also don’t want to think about fro-any corpses while I’m eating lunch.”

“Fair enough,” Sam conceeded. “You guys have anything to add?”

Tucker jerked his chin in the direction of the table the jocks and cheerleaders were sitting at, rather close to them. Danny raised a brow and listened in. “And all of a sudden, this locker door flies open and nails me.” That had all three of them turning their attention to him. Paulina, dubbed by some as the prettiest girl in school, was brushing white foam out of her hair and Danny winced.

“I’m gonna be brushing this stuff out of my hair for a week!”

“It’s like the school is haunted.”

Sam arched a brow at Danny, leaning closer to him. “Sounds like somebody’s been busy.”

“It wasn’t me, I swear!” Danny grinned, barely holding in a laugh at the idea. “That’s fire extinguisher foam in her hair, I know how hard it is to get that out. I’m not gonna do that to anyone.”

“Ok but how’d that even happen?” Tucker chewed his chicken for a few moments before pointing his fork at Danny. “Maybe Sidney Poindexter’s ghost has something to do with this? You said you could sense something in the mirror right? It was pretty faint but I’m absolutely certain I heard like, buzzing or something coming off of it.”

“I- wait, buzzing? Like you could hear the energy?” Danny put down his food and stared at Tucker’s ears, trying to see if any ghostly light shone from them. Tucker nodded and Danny frowned. “That’s not normal.”

“Nothing about us is normal, Danny,” Sam said with a roll of her eyes. “I was shopping for books the other day and felt some weird vibrations coming off of it and when I picked it up I got the strangest feeling in the world.”

“I first started hearing it when I cracked Skulker’s stupid firewalls down, and now whenever I touch a piece of technology I can practically hear it singing to me.” Tucker shrugged, poking his chicken. “Maybe it’s like, something to do with the radiation that came from the portal opening? I mean, look what it did to you.”

“Yeah but I was in the portal when it turned on.”

“And we were right in front of it with no hazmat suits. Plus we’ve been around ghostly stuff a lot, so maybe we’re just getting super powers like you, but slower?” Sam nudged Danny’s arm and smiled. “I mean, the book I found was on magick, imagine if a charge of ecto energy is all it takes to make that work.”

“Hey, maybe that’s what’s happening with Sidney Poindexter in the mirror? Exposure to Danny’s power may have made it easier for Poindexter’s own power to leak out into our world.”

Before Danny could say anything to that, a football collided with the side of his head and he found himself leaning on Sam for stability. Reaching down, Danny grabbed the ball, looked around the cafeteria as though wondering who might’ve thrown it, and crushed it in his hand. In his peripheral vision, Danny caught Dash groaning over his foot and standing up to leave. Sam brought his attention back to her. “You ok Danny?”

“I’m peachy. I’m apparently radiating my best friends into ghostly mutants and the meathead quarterback just beaned me with his football and looks like he’s about to go grab another one.”

Tucker glared at Dash’s back and muttered, “I wonder how Dash would feel with one of those frog cadavers down his throat?” Danny felt his frown curl upside down in a smirk.

“Or 12, in his pants. I’ll be right back.” Before Sam could say something about morals and being the better person, Danny stood up and hurried off to the bathroom. Making sure no one was there to see him, he reached inside and let the icy chill of the void fill his body up in a flash of light, and slid immediately into the unreal space between spaces. In moments, Danny was in Falluka’s biolab, and grinned at the empty room. A box full of dead frogs invsible in his hand, Danny found Dash opening his locker, and yanked up his boxers, then the back of his jeans before dumping the frogs in his pants. Dash ran off screaming and Danny laughed so hard he started floating backwards.

“You think that’s funny, buster?” Danny flinched, opening his eyes to stare at the person in front of him. A ghost in the shape of a glowing white human, his edges rippling slightly despite the lack of a breeze. His eyes are solid white, but glimmer like polished opals, his mouth twisted up in a frown and his clothes clearly dated. Danny gawked at the transparent teen in front of him and checked mentally to be sure that he was still just as heated up as he should be when invisible.

“You can see me?”

“Yeah that’s right, bub! Now leave that poor kid alone.” The boy pointed a thumb in the direction Dash had run, and Danny felt his blood boil.

“Poor kid? Poor kid?” Danny slipped back into visibility, his voice reverberating with his anger. “That poor kid is the star quarter back of the Casper High Ravens! That poor kid is the guy who stuffs me and every other scrawny kid in his path into our lockers because he thinks it’s funny we can be forced to fit in them! That oh so poor kid’s wealthy, popular, and has put more kids through swirlies, purple nurples and indian burns than years he’s been alive! Oh no, he might have a hard life at home that’s not an EXCUSE and I don’t CARE! He’s been doing this shit for as long as I’ve known him!” Danny shoved a finger into the other boy’s chest, barely noticing the lights flickering and threatening to shatter. “If stuffing a few frogs down a guy’s pants in retaliation for being half drowned in toilet water is bad then call me the fucking Joker.”

The boy floated there, staring at Danny with wide eyes for the longest time and Danny took that moment to breathe and collect himself. By the time his aura wasn’t crackling at the edges like solar flares, Danny was being offered a transparent hand. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. Name’s Sidney Poindexter.”

“I’m Danny, Danny Phantom. Hey, we should probably leave before the security system comes on - do you remember where the park is?” If this was the Sidney Poindexter Tucker had told him about then he might not’ve been around when the Park was first there. Danny had no idea how old anything in their town was but he was beginning to feel he should learn.

Sidney smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Care to show me around?”

“I actually can’t leave the building yet, but I’ll meet you there, I promise.” Danny patted Sidney on the shoulder, considered what he knew about Sidney, and pulled him into a hug instead. The other ghost went stiff for a moment but relaxed and hugged him back not too long after. Danny patted his back and watched him fly through the ceiling before heading back to the bathroom, unseen and untouchable, and from there back to his friends. “Guys, you’ll never believe what just happened.”

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