#it only takes five seconds to put her and blue out of commission. simply fire an ion canon or two directly at her and then the other

[swagging-back-to]

naur seriously can we talk about how allura was even like 'the lions were made to be piloted by you and you alone'referring to the fact they are the only five people in the entire multiverse to have pure quintessence corresponding to the colors oftheir lions....

if one paladin is MIA then that lion should be inactive, benched. you dont simply play musical chairs with the lions. if it waa that easy then ANYONE could be the paladins at ANY time and theres no reason for the human paladins to be there at all especially if they dont want to be. but no the human paladins are NEEDED or else keith and allura would have no problem with pidge leaving in the first two episodes. nor would they mind if lance went home. but they DO mind. they PREVENT pidge from leaving and they make lance believe going back to earth isnt an option at all--that it isnt even on their iternary.

So no. i refuse to acknowledge the lion switching as canon.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛  Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit. 

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.” 

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

--

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time. 

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle. 

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips. 

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation. 

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water. 

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

--

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade. 

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

[phis-corner]

Could you do a 23 Jason x Marinette? I also want to say I really love your fanfics.

Ohhh yes one of my favorite ships to write (and hurt.) Enjoy!

23- “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Of course, it’s just her luck that she stumbles across a Gotham vigilante bleeding to death from not one, not two, but three stab wounds in the alley across from the fabric store she’s headed to.

And obviously, she’s not about to let him die.

So she gets Trixx to cast an illusion so no passerby sees a five foot girl carrying a man who must weigh at least 230 pounds without breaking a sweat through a blue portal, then asks Kaalki to open a portal home.

Marinette scoops up the vigilante, a red bat splayed across grey kevlar and red helmet hiding his features, and enters her bathroom, setting the guy down in the bathtub (because she is not getting blood all over her apartment, okay?), grabbing her medical kit, setting up a blood transfusion because there was a lot of blood in that alleyway (this guy is so lucky she’s a universal donor) and getting to work disinfecting his wounds.

Just as she’s about to start stitching them up, the vigilante awakens.

Marinette would probably have been more impressed if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

She threads a needle. “Oh, you know, just preparing to sew up the three stab wounds in your torso that made you bleed half to death in an alleyway. Nothing major.”

The mystery guy (she’s already calling him Red Helmet in her head) hums, still only halfway conscious. “Sounds kinda major to me. Ya shouldn’t be sewing stab wounds.”

“Well then, maybe you shouldn’t get stabbed.” Marinette retorts, tying the first laceration shut. “You didn’t seriously expect me to just let you die in the alleyway next to my favorite fabric store, did you?”

“This is Gotham, babe. Nobody even blinks an eye here.” Red Helmet mutters.

She doesn’t really know how to respond to that depressing statement. “That’s not right.” She finally says.

Red Helmet snorts, then winces. “Tell me ‘bout it.”

Marinette ties off the second wound. “So, do you have a name, Mr. Vigilante Person? Is it Red Helmet? Because that’s what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

“What? No!” Apparently-Not-Red-Helmet protests. “It’s Red Hood! And I’m an antihero!”

She waves her non-dominant hand lazily. “Eh, technicalities. Besides, Red Hood is stupid. You don’t even wear a hood. I’m going to call you Red Helmet.”

“But it’s Red Hood!”

“I’m calling you Red Helmet and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it, monsieur.” She ties off the third stab wound and leans back, admiring her handiwork. “There. Now I just have to bandage them, and you’re free to leave after your blood transfusion finishes, which should be in another two and a half hours.”

“Two and a half hours?” Red Helmet yelps, twisting around and finally noticing the IV in his arm. “I can’t stay in a civilian apartment for two and a half hours!”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “Will all due respect, Red Helmet, your average civilian doesn’t have the medical equipment necessary to set up a blood transfusion.”

“It’s Red Hood.” He barks. “And if you’re not a civilian, what are you?”

“Not a criminal, if that’s what you’re asking.” She grins. “You’re a Bat, aren’t you? Find out.”

Red Helmet leans back in her bathtub, grumbling. “How’d you even know my blood type, anyway?”

“I’m a universal donor.” Marinette tucks the last of her supplies back into her massive medkit and puts it back in her cabinet, stretching and feeling her spine crack. “Would you like something to occupy the next 150 minutes? A book, maybe? I have a large selection of classical literature.”

“Do you have Pride and Prejudice?” Red Helmet asks, somehow managing to look like a cute puppy even with the helmet on, and she smiles.

“Of course I do. I’m not a heathen.” Marinette goes to her living room, plucks her copy of the book off of her bookshelf, and returns to the bathroom to hand it to him. He takes it with eager but gentle hands, flipping to the first page and immediately buries himself in the book.

Marinette exits the room and sets a timer for two and a half hours, then settles at her desk to do some designing. All too soon, the timer goes off, and she returns to the bathroom.

“Time’s up.” She announces, and Red Helmet’s head snaps up. “You’re free to go now.”

“Already?” He asks, taking out the IV with precision that can only come from prior experience.

Marinette nods. “Would you like to exit through the front door, the balcony, or do you have a specific window in mind?”

“Balcony will do, thanks.” Red Helmet says breezily, not realizing that she was joking. Sort of. The sarcasm was heavy in her words.

She opens her balcony doors, and lets him out, the cool night breeze ruffling her clothes as she looks out over the Gotham skyline.

Red Helmet whistles, an odd sound when coming through the audio filters of his helmet. “Wow, that’s some view you got there.”

Marinette shrugs. “Yeah, well, you get paid very nicely when you’re Jagged Stone’s designer and get commissions from all sorts of big names.”

The helmet’s eye slits narrow. “Wait, seriously? You’re Jagged Stone’s mystery designer? MDC? And you’re apparently not a civilian, as you said earlier? Who the fuck are you?”

Marinette grins and says nothing, simply booting him off her balcony and giving a cheerful little wave as he curses and fires his grapple, swinging away.

A week later, Minette purposefully runs into Red Helmet along his usual patrol route, handing him a card with ‘MDC’ emblazoned on it in curling golden script, with a phone number and a smiley face drawn underneath.

That night, her phone buzzes with a text.

Unknown Number: What’s cookin’, good lookin’?

She smiles as her fingers tap out a reply.

M: That’s the second time you’ve used it on me.

M: You have got to find some better pick-up lines.

Unknown Number: Well, it worked, didn’t it?

M: Yeah, I suppose it did.

permanent tags

@wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fantasyislive @chocolateherringtacofan @junarvion @susiej1118 @aestheticnpoetic @toodaloo-kangaroo @ladybug-182 @itsmeevie01 @g-arya @souleateralicestein @nightstarblue @i-is-mysterious @moonystars14 @vixen-uchiha @the-flapdoodle-noodle @labschaos @nathleigh

unspecified @momothefemur @indecisive-mess-named-me @laurcad123 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @sassakitty @fusser90

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH11

18+ Explicit Content: Graphic descriptions of gore, violence, and smut; oral sex (male recieving), vaginal sex. Din Djarin/Third Person POV. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. Chapter Word Count: 12,951 holy fuck Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use of y/n

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

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN: STORM BOY

Tense. That’s the only word to describe the atmosphere—maybe a little suffocating, too—in Peli’s hangar; she’s been highly adaptable in regards to the Mandalorian’s extended stay, though he suspects she doesn’t mind one bit when the Child is in her arms. Speaking of which, he had eventually reawakened in the earlier hours of the morning when the twin suns were making their reappearance over the town. He hadn’t been acting like his usual self—hadn’t demanded attention nor nutrients all day and the Mandalorian doesn’t know how to restore his regular demeanour. 

Mando isn’t a caretaker—he’s uneducated and inexperienced in regards to performing as someone’s guardian. It’s discouraging not being informed on what to do and there’s not a soul alive that can provide their insight into this situation. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of people in the galaxy who might understand the Child’s abilities, much less the side effects that come with it such as his recent behaviour changes.

Not to forget the Girl.

The Girl—the source of the leaps in his heart, twitching in his fingertips, and the harassing ache in his head. She’s impeccable in contrast to him, beautiful and soft and sweet but dank farrik if she doesn’t know how to invade his thoughts as if they were her own; splayed out in the midst of his consciousness serving as a constant reminder of everything he desires. 

Between needing to prioritise the Child and wanting to surrender himself to the Girl, he’s going stir-crazy being confined in such small spaces surrounded by them, which brings him straight back here—pinned down by blaster fire and frantic screams in Huttese. It’s as though he likes it; enjoys the adrenaline coursing through his veins at every laser shot his way. It gives him an edge and provides a distraction from his thoughts, or it used to but since he took in the foundling his mind hasn’t had a chance to take a break—the arrival of the Girl only made matters harder for him. How’s he supposed to focus when all he can envision is her laying bare underneath him or wearing his shirt, only his shirt. It sends him numb from the waist down.

A twinkle of red flies overhead Mando as he army crawls along the metre-high wall to alternate positions, allowing him to gain an upper hand against the cluster of enemies defending their post. There’s a lot of them, fifteen at the least, all equipped with weapons ranging from vibroblades to flame projectors—he hadn’t prepared himself adequately for such a hefty job only armed with his handheld blaster alongside his amban rifle, though he’s running short on cartridges and decides to save them for when he’s in a pinch. Amongst his blasters he’s low on fuel for the flames in his vambrace, having used a vast majority of it on a heavy-duty lurker mere minutes prior to this shootout.

Putting it simply, Mando was in a dilemma—forced between a rock and a hard place—a real catch-22. He’s reliant on his blasters and that alone as he hadn’t communicated to the Girl about his commission received nor his departure from the hangar. There’s nobody coming to aid him—nobody here to watch as he takes one too many blaster bolts—but he doesn’t mind; actually, he prefers it. It’s as though he’s returned to his earlier years of being a Mandalorian, dependent on himself and his tools and unafraid of death; equipped with nothing but the beskar on his back and the decades-worth of abilities fine-tuned to suit his combat style perfectly. 

Mando won’t go down easy, it’s not in his blood; not the blood of his relatives, but his manufactured Mandalorian blood. He’s been taught to fight - survive and to die here from lousy Klatoonian troopers wouldn’t be warriorlike—especially not with his head wracked with stubbornness regarding his crewmates. Nevertheless, there’s a heaviness in his chest - deep and thick and pleading with him to turn around; to return to the Crest with the Girl and the kid. It’s warning him—the increased beating in his ribs suggesting things aren’t in his favour, but he can’t just leave, not without figuring out what he’s to do for the Child.

And if he was to die here on this scummy rock of a planet, surrounded by nothing but sand, heat, and blasters, it wouldn’t necessarily be all that bad—it’d salvage the Girl and the kid from having to see him die, see him take his last breath.

They’ll be okay in the long run. They’ll care for each other and the Crest will protect them; be their support anchor.

They don’t need to be there when his heart stops beating.

They don’t need to see that.  

It’s a macabre series of thoughts. He sighs groggily and hoists himself up to peer over the barricade, observing two Klatoonian soldiers communing at the top of their post, neither of their eyes on the Mandalorian stealthily underneath—it’s a good opportunity, one with a short duration to act. Mando scans the area for any others on the lookout and climbs the wooden rungs carefully, ensuring he’s making minimal sound to not drag their attention to him. 

At the peak of the tower, Mando fires a bolt at the back of the head to the one on the right and it drops stiffly, the left’s turning around sharply and thrusting a spear in his direction. Mando’s leathers wrap around the shaft and yank it from his clasp, turning it around and penetrating the Klatoonian in the chest above his heart plate. His body plummets to the surface with the spear lodged inside of his torso and Mando steps up towards the edge of the watchtower, counting the visible heads aimed at the barricade he’d been behind a few moments ago. There’s eight to his left, five with rifles and three with melee weapons, and six to his left, all equipped with short-ranged blasters, and another couple secured in the structure below him. 

It’s way out of his comfort zone—there’s far too many for him to take down without receiving some new scars to paint his flesh; he’d already obtained one today. It’s small, not something to fret over, but the gash on his side pulses each time he raises his arm to fire a laser. He’d been distracted while in the midst of combat, his thoughts preoccupied with large green batwing ears, and one of the Klatoonian’s managed a nasty slash to his waist. The assailant was taken care of, of course, but the damage was done and now his movements had been slowed by a hairline fracture—not a lot, but every second counted when on the battlefield.

Mando unclasps the strap of his amban rifle and rests it on the trim of the watchtower’s partition, gazing through the scope as he assesses the situation. There are only three canisters left. Three opportunities to disintegrate and put an end to an overabundance of hostiles. He needs to play it smart; needs to ensure he doesn’t exhaust his ammunition needlessly.

His eyes lock on to an unscathed, ominous-looking canister perched upon a table beside one of their campfires where six of them have gathered around, devouring what looked to be a scorched womp rat. They’re confident in their abilities, not concerning themselves with patrolling the borders for the Mandalorian’s reappearance—a mistake they won’t live to regret. Mando twists the mid-section of the rifle’s scope, scaling in to focus on the canisters’ hazardous symbol painted into the sides. 

Surely they’re not that foolish.

It’s worth a shot—Mando aims for the weakest point in the canister and squeezes the trigger, leather crunching underneath his force and he traces the bolt of red as it nestles a burning hole through the capsule and explodes abruptly upon impact, producing a very loud bang that echoes through the valley for klicks. So they are that stupid to leave out combustible materials, right beside an open flame no less. Four of the six instantly plummet to the ground from the explosion, while the other two attempt to fight off the suffocating flames engulfing their bodies. It’s no use and they, too, fall to a charred heap among the grit; it sticks to their melting flesh with vengeance.

The remainder of the adversaries stand in stunned silence as their heads frantically spin and twist, searching for any sign of the direction the bolt had originated. Mando pops out the empty cartridge from his rifle, listening to the satisfying tink as it bounces along the wooden surface beneath his boots and rolls to a stop beside a corpse. Heaving his leg upwards, he slips another cylinder out of his boot and slides it into the chamber. The nest of Klatoonians have scattered throughout the campgrounds, shielding behind walls of sandstone and supply crates where they blend into a mass of dark greens and browns—Mando activates his thermal vision in order to distinguish the bodies as they peer curious heads out from behind their positions.

His sight is isolated to stone-blue over the landscape except for a blush of orange-red jutting out from the top of a crate, the unsuspecting Klatoonian’s head twisting and turning wildly. Mando shouldn’t fire—shouldn’t waste a shell on a singular soldier, not when there’s still plenty left—but, perhaps, if he eliminates one that’s hiding, they might fall into hysteria and rush out of their concealments. There’s not a whole lot of options from this position—if the watchtower was on the opposing side then he’d be set; easily pick them off one by one with his blaster pistol, but that’s not a course of action now.

Mando flexes his finger against the small of his trigger but doesn’t get the chance to squeeze before there’s a weight on his pauldron—faint, but enough for him to blindly thrust his arm against the figure and knock them against the railings, his hand retrieving his blaster from the holster on his thigh and directing it at the orange heat. Its hands raise swiftly, empty, and the familiar soft, sweet voice he’s grown accustomed to fills his ears, “Hey, hey, it’s me!”

“What’re-”

“Peli told me you went out. Something about a kidnapped girl? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffs, returns his blaster to its sleeve and disengages his thermal; returning the colour and the Girl’s features to his vision. She’s eyeing at his side, her eyebrows stitched together in concern but decides not to ask. “It was a ploy. There’s no girl.”

She sighs in relief but notes down his dismissal to her questioning. “Okay, let’s go then. I took out three on my way here and there’s more coming. We’re sitting mynocks up here.”

“No.”

The Girl cocks an eyebrow at Mando and he returns to his scope to avoid her attention. “Let’s go,” she whispers through clenched teeth, digging her fingers into the soft of his shoulder where his pauldron couldn’t shield. She drops the appendage when he shrugs underneath her clutch, obviously peeved at something she couldn’t read on him. “Mando, come on. There’s no girl, there’s nothing to prove to these guys.”

His throat grumbles as he attempts to stifle the thoughts in his head, not wanting to implode at the Girl and potentially startle her, but it’s difficult keeping everything caged up all the time—from his miserable thoughts regarding himself to the domineering cravings deep within his core. It’s too fucking much. If there was a key to it all he’d surely have tossed on a desolate planet by now, somewhere nobody, not even himself, will discover it. 

He snaps.

“I have something to prove—I need to know I’m still useful.” Mando involuntarily groans at his childish outburst. It’s on par with the Child’s when he doesn’t get his way.

He’s not someone to express his emotions and especially not to direct it at another; not the Girl.

“Of course you’re useful, Mando. What’re you talking about?”

Caf-coloured eyes flicker behind the visor and he squeezes them shut, discarding the threats below as he tries to focus on not derailing all of his insecurities at the Girl. He doesn’t want to confess all of the little nitpickings he’s accumulated throughout his life—he’s learned to keep them buried underneath the rubble of trauma that is his daily life—and he especially doesn’t want her to see him so….sensitive; it’s not an attractive feature on him.

Mando’s mouth moves on it’s own accord, suppressed beliefs regarding himself misdirecting at the Girl in surges of angry jeering, “I used to be feared, used to wear this armour with pride; represented the Creed with the beskar the artisans forged for me. Ever since you waltzed in my life, I’ve…” He sighs, his shoulders visibly sagging as he exhales. “My competence has crumbled to dust that resolves from a gentle wind. I’m getting hit, shot, stabbed because I can’t get you off my fucking mind.”

He unknowingly strokes a finger down the barrel of his rifle, as if to imply he’d been shot with one of the pellets—nothing more than mere particles left of him.

He doesn’t need to look at her to acknowledge he’s gone too far—gone and pushed her away—and the lack of noise she produces is mockingly deafening. 

But then there’s that faint, gentle weight on his pauldron again, dragging him from his dissecting and to her eyes filled with reassurance and tenacity. Mando finds himself like an icy dessert underneath the twin suns; liquefying beneath her gaze. 

There’s a lot on his plate right now with the Child’s current situation and the Guild still coming after them—she knows this, and he knows that she knows; she’s accommodating to the unavoidable bursts that may escape him occasionally. She doesn’t need to, but she’s willing to; volunteers as his subject until it’s all out in open air and they can proceed. Mando simultaneously respects that—that he’s allowed to vent even if it means she gets a little bit of venom splattered at her—and despises himself for his misguided resentment.

Mando doesn’t genuinely blame the Girl for his lacking; he’s well aware it’s his own negligence. It’s his responsibility to maintain the upkeep of his abilities, his responsibility to protect himself and his companions as a Mandalorian. It’s just easier to push the blame on another; to pretend it’s out of his reach—out of his control.

“Let’s go,” she repeats, slower. “Please, Mando.”.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I don’t mean it.

He’s never been good with words.

Hands more experienced than his vocals, he draws a line with his thumb across the curve of her jaw and settles it on the tip of her chin to crane her head back just enough that enables his eyes to swallow the stretched skin of her neck. “Okay,” he murmurs and releases her, withdrawing the rifle from its perch.

She sighs when his leather retires from her face and stumbles over one of the corpses in her daze. She takes the lead down the ladder while he keeps watch from the top, ensuring no Klatoonian’s sneak up on her while vulnerable, and she reciprocates the favour when she’s at the bottom.

“There’s a speeder bike just beyond the walls,” the Girl says once his boots are on firm ground, the sand crunching underneath his weight.

“We won’t both fit on it.”

“Sure we will,” she chuckles. “It’ll be snug, is all.”

Mando scoffs to himself and peers around a sandstone corner, squinting as the suns disorient his vision, but he gets a quick glance at a stroke of red about a metre ahead of him—and then a familiar symbol: hazardous product. 

“Get down!” he yells, but it’s not fast enough - not fucking fast enough - and he’s flung into the parallelled wall. There’s pressure in his neck and spine, his helmet reverberates against the sandstone, and he slips onto his shoulder in the grit; his lesion collecting the sand molecules and painting them red. Pain stretches from the heels of his feet to the back of his head but he hasn’t got the opportunity to examine himself over—the Girl, where is the Girl?

Mando hisses as his head flexes, searching through the cloud of dust and rubble for his companion; heart hurdling over the gaps of beating and his fists balling against the land to keep him off his side.

“Mesh’la,” he croaks. “Where-oh, are-”

She’s hastily beside him, unscathed besides a few grazes across her forehead and hands—hands that are trembling against his beskar, investigating his condition with manic eyes. “Shit, shit, sh-”

There’s an attempt to calm her nerves on his part, placing a stocky leather weight on top of her hand to indicate he’ll be okay, but she doesn’t believe him—he’s still on the ground, apprehensive of moving in fear of what he may discover.

He moans at a twinge in his neck and carefully scrambles to his feet with her aid, her hands submerging into the flight suit for leverage, but it’s a mistake; his legs are numb and can’t support his weight and he has to rely on the wall to remain perpendicular and not tumble on top of her small frame. 

She navigates a hand to his throbbing lesion, covering it with her palm to protect it from further invasion of particles, and the other rests against the back of his neck for reinforcement.

It’s exhausting standing like he’s made of beskar and not just wearing it - anchoring him to the ground, and it’s even worse attempting to move, his legs hot and heavy as his soles drag through the terrain. 

“I got you,” she mumbles to herself, tucking into his side.

There’s a warmth at the back of his neck, his head, underneath her hand; hot, scalding and threatening. It fucking hurts—this isn’t a concussion, he quickly realises, he’s had plenty of them to discern easily; this is different, worse, concerning. The adrenaline is doing very little to conceal the pain and he emits half-groans-half-exhales in protest to his body’s tensing. It’s something he hadn’t experienced before, something that he can’t prepare himself to face the facts.

His leather tugs at the hand on his neck and the Girl hesitantly complies with his request, removing it from the cowl and bringing it ahead of his visor for examination. “What’s the mat- Shit, is that from your head?” she asks, hand trembling. ”

Mando confirms his suspicions; a dark thick coating of the finest Mandalorian blood staining the Girl’s delicate fingers. It’s not good, not ideal, but he wasn’t dead yet and they couldn’t stay pinned down here. “It’s not that bad,” he professes.

“Not that b- your fucking head is bleeding! Fuck, okay, okay. Sit down, here.” She aids him to sink onto an underturned crate against the stone wall and removes a small satchel that rests among her hip. “There’s a medpac in there. Fix yourself up while I go take care of these assholes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“No, wait-” Mando slips his blaster out of his holster and into her free hand, his leathers discreetly caressing the backs of bruising skin before letting her retreat. She glances at him one last time, doing her best to convince herself he won’t bleed out before she makes it back. “You better return,” he whispers as she disappears behind the corner, dual blasters aimed high in her sights.

You better return to me.

Mando turns his attention to the pounding at the back of his neck, the blood pooling inside his helmet, seeping into the thick of his cowl, running beneath the material of his back. What good was a helmet if not to protect your head?

Tatooine’s desert is no match for his throat, it’s suns mere wisps of flames—he’s starting to go into shock and he strives to fight it, his fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically but he can only hold on for so long before it overcomes him. Fuck, he’s so exhausted, his legs numb and throbbing with short bursts of tension beneath the muscles.

The satchel is heavy like a bantha offspring in his lap - taunting and restricting - but he raids its contents in the hope it’ll distract him; it doesn’t. Mando can’t—won’t—dress the wound, not here, not when there’s Klatoonian’s running around with murder on their mind and the Girl in their sights. It can wait—he can wait.

But he’s no help in this condition and he’ll only be a nuisance if he were to go against the Girl’s orders—he’s not that foolish.

He groans, deep and scratchy that tickles his dry throat, and tosses his head back against the wall—prompting a red reservoir to leak from his wound, his vision fuzzy with black and piercing white spots. Fuck. Stupid. So stupid.

“Mando. Mando?”

There’s a tapping against his visor that triggers his ears to ring and his head to throb. His eyes open to see the Girl before him, her face contorted into unpleasant angles of concern; he misses her smile, how her eyes squinted when she laughs.

“Come on, there’s a gap. We need to go.”

“Can’t move,” he whines.

“Use me then.”

He’s apprehensive; she’s small and dainty compared to all the beskar and with his worsening condition his weight will only multiply each step they take.

“Mando!”

She’ll only continue to persist and, to avoid her casualty along with his, he fists the fabric of her shirt and drags himself to his feet, utilising her as a crutch as she navigates him through the narrow alleys of the encampment. They follow a trail of corpses, blood, and blaster holes that he hadn’t even heard ring throughout the desert, his senses so colourless. His boots are alike durasteel; heavy and tight around his feet, constricting and dragging through the sand behind him. He yearns to kick them off, stretch his toes. 

“Left here,” she instructs, twisting his body to a breach in their wall that’ll serve as their escape route perfectly; out of sight, in the far back that’ll provide them enough time to head for the dunes before they’re on their tail—or not. A bolt tinks against Mando’s vambrace grappled around her shoulders, but she’s not messing around - not letting a foolhardy Klatoonian interrupt their evasion. She bends her body just enough to point her blaster at the soldier without disturbing Mando’s positioning and crushes the trigger against the hilt, a vibrant red shooting out of the barrel, skimming through the air and whistling as it burrows a burning hole into his chest—all without looking.

Mando groans, impressed, “Where - where’d you learn that?”

She scoffs in amusement and continues trudging to the hole in the wall. “Well, you’re always so quick to point blasters you never let me show off. Could’ve aided you if you weren’t so metalheaded all the time.”

“Is that so?” Mando huffs a breath as a laugh. “Might have to upgrade your blaster then.”

“I think you need more upgrading than me right now.”

“Not - not a droid.”

She chuckles and assists him in ducking through the hole. “No, but you do need some repairs.”

The speeder bike sits only a few metres away from them; small, dainty, not suitable for a passenger. “Won’t-” he gasps, “-fit.”

She pats his chest for reassurance. “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get on.”

Mando slings a leg over either side of the speeder and lowers onto the back of it, uncomfortable and awkwardly positioned but it’ll have to do. “I can’t drive.”

She teases, “Oh, I know, I’ve seen you pilot.” She seats herself between the handlebars and Mando’s hunched body, patting the side of his thigh to indicate him to scooch closer. “Come on, you’ll fall off back there.”

Mando obeys her commands, his inner thighs pressing against the outside of her frame and beskar squeezed between both of their bodies, an arm gingerly curves around her midsection for greater support and it permits him an opportunity to be close to her - to hold her even if it’s not exactly how he imagines it.

“Go,” he instructs, visor tilted at the influx of Klatoonians emerging from the exit way.

Speeder hums to life, repulsorlift engine vibrates underneath their bodies and sags the vehicle towards the ground at the additional weight of him. She flexes her fingers around the throttle and zips off in the opposite direction of the gathering army, zigging and zagging to dodge the incoming bolts that kick up the dust ahead of them, one of them just barely managing to skid against Mando’s pauldron from this distance. She’s a good driver—avoiding missable dunes and anything else that might jolt him off, but the constant sharp turns don’t assist with his increasing headache and he tucks the peak of his helmet between her shoulder blades, concentrating on the rise and fall of her lungs.

In, out, in, out; fast and shaky like a collapsing tree in a brutish storm.

“Passed by an abandoned cantina on my way here,” the Girl says, mostly to ensure he doesn’t fall unconscious. “We can set up there. Take care of you. Be back before nightfall. Sound good?”

“Nnngh,” he groans. “Out of fucking action, again.”

“There was no way to know they had explosives. Don’t blame yourself.”

“That’s not true - used it against them. Should’ve - should’ve figured they’d do the same.” 

The Girl’s back flexes as she twists the handlebars and sharply turns behind a cluster of boulders, casting them in a thick shadow and providing a break in blaster fire. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mando. I’ll fix you up and we’ll go see the kid, yeah? He’ll be waiting for ya.” It falls on deaf ears, Mando too preoccupied with not passing out and sliding off the speeder—there’s so traction, nothing to support his weight, and he maneuvers his chin to rest against her shoulder questing for the cushioning of flesh to soothe the throbbing in his head.

Normally, the heat of Tatooine suns posed as a nuisance with all of the layers he donned, but now it’s comforting and Mando welcomes it with open arms—the heat equalising with that of his neck—like a temperate bath drawn just for him and he sinks his toes in the waters, moaning at the buoyancy and how light he feels - how unrestricted he is without the beskar.

The Girl slaps his thigh, though it does very little to draw him out of his daydreaming; perceptions desensitising as his weight gradually distributes to her, forcing her shoulders down so she’s almost laying on the speeder with him atop of her. 

“Mando, fuck, come on. Get up, you’re heavy - we’re gonna crash.”

“Can’t.” 

It’s all he can manage to slip out of the drought of his mouth, his lips catching on his teeth. He’s so heavy, blood converted into uncured duracrete that sags through his veins, thick and clumpy and asphyxiating.

“Just hang in there, all right? We’re almost there. Stay awake.”

She sounds so far away, so out of his reach, and his fingers subconsciously dig into the shirt—struggling to latch onto her as though she’ll disappear if he doesn’t—but it feels like he’s grasping at mist; the particles just floating through his digits as he clenches around nothing. He’s breathing it in, dense and cloudy with a taste like smoke and rotten flesh, coagulating in his lungs until he’s spluttering inside the helm at the assault.

Mando doesn’t feel the speeder come to an abrupt stop, doesn’t register he’s been relocated inside the cantina she spoke of until he’s on the floor propped up against a wall; beskar scraping against the stone as he fights off not collapsing to his side and welcome the duracrete as his eternal resting spot. She blocks the door with a bystanding chair, just in case, and returns to his side on her knees, hands frantic and gliding all over his heaving body; it’s oddly comforting - her touches crafted with the healing properties of bacta and his eyes slip closed to envision them slow and grazing along his skin, along his chest and neck, dainty fingers wiping away the dark circles underneath his eyes.

“You didn’t dress the wound?” she questions, dipping her fingers into his cowl and amassing metallic crimson at the tips. “Stubborn son of a-”

“I won’t make it,” he interjects, helm twisting to admire her—memorising her beauty in hopes it’ll remain with him in the afterlife. Her lips raw from the onslaught of pearly whites, her eyebrows taut with concern, eyes shifty as she investigates his bodily injuries; it’s an unfortunate circumstance, yet her beauty knows no bounds—she’s in fear and shock of letting him slip through her fingers but she’s still so fucking breathtaking.

“You’re getting out of this.” 

She files through the medpac stocked with minimal medical supplies, having used a vast sum of it on her the night prior. There’s not enough for both of them, her lashes still needing tending to, and Mando tries to stop her; tries to explain there’s a good chance the bacta won’t even make it to his system before he shuts down, but nothing but a soft groan flutters past his lips - his subconscious taking control over his obscurity. ”

The Girl’s scared, terrified, more than he’s ever seen her before, more than back on the spacecraft; more than when she speculated he would kill her. It shoves needles into his heart looking at her like this, looking at her be so fucking concerned for his health more than her own—she should leave, she needs to leave. They’ll be coming for him. This is why he came alone—why he didn’t want anybody around when his heart stops beating—why he’s been sidestepping around her.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so detached she’d be back safe in the Crest and he wouldn’t be slowly hemorrhaging to death.

She’s been around him too long; her brain picking up the most minute details he lets slip past his beskar walls. “I’m not leaving you,” she reassures, reading his mind.

“Need to.”

“I won’t.”

Mando whispers her name in short puffs, uttering the beautiful title that is solely her into the sand-buried cantina and strokes a delicate line across her cheekbone to her jaw where he rests his hand. It clenches underneath the leather - Mando swipes his thumb over the front of her chin sweetly, tenderly, just feeling her contours and arches. “Go.”

“Mando,” she forcibly smiles, “you’re an idiot if you think you’re dying here.”

She’s as stubborn as a Bluurg - he smiles.

He’s beginning to understand now—why the Girl hadn’t notified him of her past—or, then again, maybe he already figured it out and chose to ignore it, to replace desires with rationality. Perhaps that’s why, despite all of the suppressed emotions expanding against the confines of a metaphorical transparisteel bottle, he subconsciously found ways to distance himself from her. Utilising the Child’s priority, feigning resentment, straight-up leaving her in the dark—why he was still isolating himself even after their cin vhetin. 

After all, it’s easier to care for a skeleton in the closet than the very alive passion in his chest. But it’s easier to neglect the corpse—forget the closet entirely—than the mania; that never stops, never allows him a brief moment to recuperate his thought process.

“I forgive you,” he mumbles with a smile, a smile she won’t get to see. “I forgive you, ner mesh’la.”

It’s only when you’ve forgiven her that you’ll truly move forward.

That’s what he wants; to move forward.

If he doesn’t make it out alive, she deserves to know—she should know how he feels towards her, even if it’s not reciprocated.

She freezes, hands hovering over him with a tremble that matches his heart’s; her eyes sliding close—it’s for his benefit, he realises, she doesn’t want her pathetic sobbing to be the last thing he sees. 

It’s not pathetic in the slightest; how could somebody so intangible ever be considered pathetic?

With quivering muscles, Mando presses his leather flat against her cheek to collect a stray tear. It rolls along the curve of his thumb and soaks into the wrist of his flight suit, the moisture felt against his skin and he moans in a blend of delight and pain; a drops worth of Her converging against his flesh, staining it with salt. 

“I forgive you,” Mando repeats to himself.

Grief is etched into her eyes when she finally peels the thin lids back, her pupils flickering across the visor desperate to discover the eyes behind the cold blackness. There’s a pang in her heart that pulsates each time his chest collapses underneath her hands, counting down the rise and falls until it inevitably discontinues. “You’re not dying here.” Her lips are pulled taut against her teeth, cheeks wet with tears. “I won’t allow it. The kid needs you. I need you. End of discussion, all right?”

Mando’s head tilts, an overly enthusiastic tug in the corner of his mouth.

“All right,” he permits. 

“Good.” The Girl wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of the shirt; his shirt. “Sit forward, let me fix that head of yours.”

“Helmet,” he groans.

Oh, how his creed screws with him, obstructs him from the most basic aspects of life.

“It doesn’t need to come off.” She drives him forwards off the wall and wraps an arm across the front of his shoulders, a leg clipping behind him and another in front over his lap, snuggly positioning him between her legs so he doesn’t collapse either side. She’s tepid, pillowy, and he allows himself to lean into her, his pauldron squishing into her chest. “It’ll just be hard to tell if it’s sealed,” she narrates to herself as she digs through his cowl where it obscures the underneath of his helmet. “Is this okay?”

He nods, fingers itching in his gloves.

Delicate, smooth fingers trail beneath the rim of his helmet—his breath hitches—and slip through the gap. Mando swallows the moans and twitches she produces when she brushes around the wound, charting out its size, location, and severity. She’s so close to him, so fucking close; her hand is inside the helmet, inside his personal space, inside his Creed—fingers tangling with his overgrown locks, curls knotting around creeping digits dragging them in and holding them against his skull while blood cakes onto her skin.

Bacta spray expels from the flacon in her clutch and adheres to the wound, the properties immediately getting to work reconstructing the fractured cells. It’s sticky, burns against the sensitivity, the groaning is unavoidable but he centres on his breathing and slacking his muscles.

“That’s it,” she coos, patting his far-end pauldron, “relax.”

The consoling reminds him of the nights he’d spent staying up with the kid, murmuring reassuring words he’d plucked from the depths of his memories as a child and he hums at the bittersweet remembrances—they’re faded now with his age, as though he watched it through the eyes of a passerby in a dense crowd, too difficult to focus on the exact detailing but everything that mattered remained; the scratchiness of his father’s beard against his forehead each night, his mother’s subdued tone lulling him to sleep, both of their warmth encasing him on chilly nights surrounded by the village’s campfire.

Mando didn’t have the luxury of a rewarding life - the privilege - the right. There’s not much he remembers from his youth, much less than the average with the trauma he’s endured. He doesn’t want that for the kid, doesn’t want him to forget Mando; he means too much to him and it’d tear his heart beyond death if those memories were buried by the same trauma that keeps Mando awake—the same trauma that draws him right back to a battlefield as a coping mechanism. 

Mando’s been living the way of Resol’nare for decades now—ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor - An vencuyan mhi, he recites the rhyme, obey the commands of Mandalore—his soul intact and a designated spot in Manda reserved just for him; it’s a great honour, one any dar’manda would be envious of, yet he’s uncertain - tentative of the afterlife. He’ll be alone again. Just like before the Child was placed into his care. Just like before he met the Girl. Nobody will be there to welcome him—no parents, no relatives, no friends, no-one.

Twitches coursing along his spine and the back of his neck does little to soothe his nerves regarding his mortality, his body tense and rigid as though he was already proceeding with rigour mortis. He mustn’t be concealing it well as the Girl draws him closer into her chest, his helmet resting against the side of her head as she continues administering the spray, a hand smoothing along the curve of his neck to rest there.

He’s positioned just like he had that night the Mandalorians rescued him, the same fear and panic pulling at his tendons and compressing his lungs, seeking comfort from his saviour—like a scared little boy. 

It’s both humiliating and heartening; the Girl being so delicate with him despite being dipped in a coating of sharp, cold beskar head-to-toe. It’s committed to protecting him, to aid him when all else fails, and yet she’s the one he wants to surround himself with. She’s elastic-y and pliable—versatile for any situation he throws her way—made of exotic materials from the most desolate planets in the Outer Rim. 

Mando wonders what her hands would feel like elsewhere; tending to the wounds he accumulates among his torso, rubbing at the aging lines of his face—always taking care of him. Mando forages underneath the stockiness that is his heart plate and cowl, leathers wrap around the small beskar pendant amidst his chest and rips the lace from around his neck. It’s shiny, rarely exposed to elements and harsh sunlight, but still worn with age and he runs a padded thumb along a steel tusk protruding from the skull.

The Girl pats him on the curvature of neck and shoulder one last time before retracting her hand from his helmet and returning him against the wall; he nearly mopes at the lack of her. “That’s that. I applied a thick coat so you should be okay, give it a moment to settle in.” She wipes her bloody hand against the thigh of her pants and clips the bottom of his helmet between a thumb and forefinger, twisting it to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

Mando considers. The majority of the pain had vanished, or numbed, and his senses are making a steady comeback but the whole ordeal has left him drained, too exhausted to even think about manipulating his muscles to utter a sentence in reply. He does, though, he doesn’t want her worrying more than she already is. “It’s an improvement. Thank you.”

“Let me take a look at this.” She lightly taps around the gash on his side to test his reactivity. It’s not a deep wound—no cauterising today—and he sighs with relief when she fingers through the medpac to recover a bacta patch. He’ll need proper care eventually but it’s all they possess way out here.

Mando flinches when she inches the flight suit out of the way, hissing.

She searches the satchel and retrieves an all-too-familiar pouch, his eyes hardening. “Why do you have that?”

“It can be used as medicine,” she mumbles, suddenly uncertain. “It helped me, it can numb the pain.”

Mando glares at the narcotics, shaking his head obstinately. “No -- no, it’s addictive. You shouldn’t have that. I don’t want you using it.” His muscles tense at his plea, hoping she doesn’t read into it and discover its underlying reasonings—how concerned he is. “It should - should be disposed of. It’ll only entice-”

“I’m not addicted to it, Mando. It was a one-time thing.”

“It’s-”

She cuts him off with a gentle sigh and shoves the pouch back into the satchel. “Was just trying to lessen the pain, ya know, guess you’ll have to endure it. Might teach you some manners.”

His eyes soften, his chest lax; he’s starting to make a habit of blowing things out of proportion—it’ll only drive the Girl away if he persists. His thumb assaults the surface of the pendant in his clutch, rubbing it raw, and folds his adjacent hand over hers poignantly. She understands his sentiment, offering him a small smile that puts his concerns at ease.

She’s too benevolent for her own good—too compliant to his immaturity.

She changes the subject. “This is all getting old real fast, you know. All this patching up we keep doing for each other. We oughta take a break somewhere. Could be good for the kid.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t take breaks, not when he’d been injured and definitely not when he’s a fugitive but hearing the Girl suggest one makes his thoughts run wild creating phony scenarios where the three of them could spend time somewhere secluded other than the Crest. Somewhere far away from all the fucking sand. 

It could be good for the kid, could help him return to himself being out in free lands without the worry of a lurking Guild member aimed to either kill or capture him.

Mando parts his lips but he’s cut off before he’s even constructed a sentence in his mind; the rhythmic strums of speeder bikes nearing their quarters. He activates his sonic detectors and isolates the audio, concentrating on the alternating warbling while the Girl fists the hilt of her blaster instinctively in preparation. “There’s two,” he claims.

“Okay, wait here.”

“Wait, wait.” Mando catches her wrist as she stands to arrest her raring thoughts. He unclasps the strap across his chest and maneuvers the rifle around from his back and shoulders, gingerly pressing the wintry steel barrel into her palm. “There’s one cartridge loaded.” His hand snakes to his boot and retrieves the final cylinder, relinquishing his paramount foundation to survival.

She stares at him with wide eyes filled with wonder and questions he can’t pinpoint, hands examining the Amban-phase pulse rifle loosely clutched in her palms. A soft, genuine smile sketches into the curve of her lips and she gratefully accepts his offer, perching herself against a window to observe the vastness outside. 

Mando can’t manage to see past her, the window too high from his angle, so he entitles himself to travel her frame; monitoring—recording—her posture, alternating foot and knee flat against the duracrete and her shoulders pulled taut where the stock rests in the crevice. The posture of a Sharpshooter.

She sucks in a shallow breath and slowly exhales, her lips curling into a smile as her eyes lock onto an unguarded Klatoonian through the lens.

Mando quietly chuckles underneath his beskar and subconsciously runs his thumb along the beskar pendant once more, his eyes never tearing away from the Girl—she’s like the Child when he’s given the knob of his control throttle; devilishly grinning with a mischievous glimmer in their eye. 

He recounts how curious she had been regarding his rifle, how she used to pester him just to get a glimpse of the silver barrel. I’ll get my hands on it one day and I won’t be giving it back, she had said once and seeing that excitement in her eyes now only insisted on the claim. 

A micro pellet shoots out the fork-tipped tubing, the sound reverberating inside the structure for a moment before it settles to silence. Assessing the expression on her face, she hits her mark. A surge of pride runs underneath Mando’s muscles—the Girl utilising his sniper as if it belongs in her arms, fashioned just for her hands and fingers—followed by an unrelenting tide of arousal through his veins and to his crotch; maybe she can keep the rifle.

The Mandalorian has only ever had material possessions, so seeing her exercise his tools of survival like her own—squeezing the trigger, hugging the stock, peering through the lens—pressing her body up against the exact rifle he’d press against - fuck, if it doesn’t stimulate dark, inappropriate, disturbing thoughts and a tingling sensation at the base of his stiffening cock. 

Embarrassed from his condition—wounded and bloody and fucking horny—he droops his eyes to the opened bacta gel. It’s laughable. It seems each time he’s injured and she’s touching him, taking care of him, his arousal decides it’s time to awaken. She must think he gets off on it; that’s enough to make him cringe under his helm. 

Another blast echoes the spacious room and this time he hears the pop of the second Klatoonian, followed by a soft exhale from the Girl at her accomplishments. “That’s taken care of,” she sighs. “Sorry, Mando, I don’t think you can have this back.”

Mando rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“How do you suppose you’ll use it without any more ammunition?”

She huffs and props the rifle against the wall beside him. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty hidden away. I mean, why not gimme yours? I’m a better shot than you--”

“We don’t know that.”

“--and you did destroy mine, remember?”

Actually—he’d almost forgotten. It’s the entire circumstance that scripted their journey through the Outer Rim together, but with everything that’s happened within the past few days, he wasn’t exactly in the right mindset to be thinking about their agreed-upon reimbursement.

The Girl continues, “We should make a contest for it. Whoever's the better shot, gets to keep it. Sounds fair to me.”

Mando scoffs and reminds, “There’s no ammunition, mesh’la.”

“Come on, just admit you’re scared of losing.” She pauses to allow him to pipe up. He doesn’t. “Okay then. I’m getting you fixed up and then we’re going to the Crest to get ammunition and then I’m gonna kick your ass in this challenge.”

“I never agreed--”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily, Mando.”

He hums in feigned thought; she seems satisfied with herself and lowers to her knees beside him once more, hands uncorking a canister of water to flush the lesion of grit and administer a clump of soothing gel. She’s astonishingly fast and precise; she’s not joking about this competition—he’ll be in trouble if she proceeds. Nevertheless, having her hands so close to—fuck—he jolts abruptly and repositions himself so he’s concealing the bulge in his lap, extracting a concerned yet confused glare from her.

“It’s sensitive,” he lies through his teeth, but she nods her head with the allegation.

Her hands smooth over a bacta patch underneath his flight suit—another ripped garment alongside his cloak—and he moans as the patch pulses a soothing burst that numbs the slash and lessens the tenderness. 

“Okay, you’re all set. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

Always taking care of him; always so concerned.

Beskar is weighted in his palm and he returns his attention to the pendant, shimmering in the sunlight cascading through the windows and reflecting onto the ceiling above them. Mando’s head angles to the side as he slips the torn threads through his fingers and pries them apart, the beskar dangling in the middle of the lace, to slide his knuckles along the sides of the Girl’s neck until he’s at the rear. She gazes down at the pendant stowed against her sternum as he secures a taut knot, mindful of the strands of hair as to not entangle them together.

Pulling away, he hooks a forefinger along the thread and collects the beskar at the bottom where he rubs a thumb along the face of the skull. 

His vocoder whirrs a humming sound, “Better, mesh’la, much better. Thank you.”

“What’s this for?” she questions, examining the necklace incredulously.

“You.” It’s simple - sweet - truthful; it’s all hers. She doesn’t seem entirely content with his answer, her eyebrows stitching together as she mulls the symbolic gesture. He takes mercy on her rationalising, albeit awkwardly, “I can’t return a mutual connection. Can’t give you me - wholly. I received this necklace as part of my initiation to the Creed denoting my trust, my devotion, and it’s been with me since I was a boy.”

She lifts her eyes to the visor as he shares, her hands resting atop his still playing with the pendant. 

“It’s a part of my Creed—a part of me. I want you to have it.”

“Mando,” she gasps. “You’re sure?”

He simply nods.

She leans into his personal space until her warmth invades the confines of his undershirt that puts Tatooine’s twin suns to shame. Mando’s throat bobs when a hand tunnels through his cowl to splay across the side of his neck and her face looms near the side of his helmet. He doesn’t twist to look at her—doesn’t want to unnerve her with the leering tint—but his shoulders sag at the vague tremor through the beskar; her lips weakly compressed against the curvature on his helmet.

He’s not one for words, but it seems he succeeded on that front.

It makes his heart flatten and swell in succession as though she was kneading the organ with her hands, the contact so placid and gradual - just taking her time tenderising the muscle.

Not to mention the boost of blood that flows through his abdomen and finalises below his waist, causing a twitch in his pants and she hadn’t even touched him except for a delicate hand on his cowl. 

Mando really was like a boy—a pining, desperate, hormonal boy.

The Girl withdraws somewhat and trails the hand from his neck over the bump of his heart plate and seats it in the cushioning covering his stomach, her eyes bounce from his visor to his reviving arousal with her bottom lip clamped between rows of teeth. She softly snickers, “You don’t need to get shot at for me to touch you, Mando.”

He swallows, his helmet twisting on its axis to watch her expression—eyes darkening and tonguing crawling through her parted lips to apply a coating of saliva on them. 

“Is that what you want?” she croons. “For me to touch you?”

He’s speechless—choking on his own spit—and she doesn’t help matters when she glides the hand lower, her fingers catching on the hem of his waistband and her palm enveloping the curve of his bulge. 

Mando recollects all the instances he’d thought of the Girl like this—touching him so sweetly, pulling moans from his mouth—all the times he’s wanted more, needed more. Even with her hands down his pants he craved more, required her warmth—wanted to be buried in that warmth.

“Yes,” he musters up, his words coming out staticy through the modulator. 

It’s all she needs to continue, r hand snaking beneath the hem and she wraps slender fingers around his length, sluggishly pumping twice that has his back arching off the wall and she smiles smugly in her endeavours. 

His heart is in his throat, his stomach, his crotch—everywhere. 

The Girl tightens her grip some, her fingers catching on his skin without any form of lubricant but it reminds him of being back on the Crest in the pilot's chair and he has no criticism of that. She drags her hand to the top and gradually slides back down, her thumb following a pulsating vein back to the base. It has his muscles tensing, constricting underneath his layers, but his fingers dig into the cloak underneath him. 

He greedily whines, “Need more.”

She seems to understand his request and reaches for the hem with her other hand, scrambling to yank his trousers down and he assists by lifting his weight off the ground with his forearm until the hem rests at his mid-thigh; the beskar cuisse preventing the fabric from lowering any further but he couldn’t give a shit. It’s enough.

She hums at the sight of his cock—large, hard, and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. Digits contract at the base, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat, and the Girl tosses a flirty smile at him as she gradually dips her head down for her lips to meet the tip. 

“Fu-ck,” he moans, his eyes widening as she flicks her tongue to collect the drop of white and it just melts into her tastebuds; brands them with his cum. She teases him, just barely making contact with a modest brush of her tongue against the head and he’s forced to restrain himself from bucking each time she spawns a coating of saliva that the hot air wipes dry in a matter of seconds.

Mando scrunches his fists against the duracrete and listens to the tinking his helmet produces each time he twitches his head against the sandstone, if it wasn’t made of beskar it'll surely be scraped to hell. He’s fortunate the bacta spray was so efficient—there’s no doubt in his mind he wouldn’t be able to enjoy this as much as he is without it working wonders on his wound. One of his hands occupies the back of her head and he unintentionally drives her downwards until her lips seal around the head of his cock and he’s gasping for air—the filters of his helmet breathing violently to supply the oxygen he’s lacking.

It’s exhilarating being inside of her mouth—albeit very little of him—and he lifts his hips to delve deeper, exploring the uncharted territory of her tongue and throat; so fucking soft, like her gums are fabricated out of clouds and her tongue a bed prepared just for him to rest on. “Gods,” he chokes. “Such a — pretty little mouth, mesh’la.”

She half-moans around his length, sending pulsations that makes his knees weak and toes curl. She bobs her head up and down rhythmically, her hand stroking what she can’t fit inside, and his gloved fingers twirl around a cluster of strands at the nape of her neck just to hold her - to feel the muscles stretch and loosen each movement she makes.

Mando is gluttonous for her—so fucking desperate to quicken the pace or attain new limits—and he experimentally sinks her head lower onto his shaft, slowly but with some level of authority that makes the Girl moan and comply with his proposal.

The curve of her nose brushes against the flock of unkempt bristles at the base—it’d been a while since he last tamed them, though he suspects the Girl doesn’t mind—and her sharp hot exhales through her nose can be felt dancing along the soft flesh of his groin, the head of his cock nudging against the back of her mouth before it slips past and eases down her throat an inch. Along with the newfound pressure around his length, the Girl flattens her tongue on his underside and sucks—generously hard, might he add. 

There’s an ache in his abdomen, a crack in his knee as it jerks, and he’s forced to gnaw on his lips to refrain from spewing out shameful noises from deep within his throat. His sonic detectors pick up the faintest of audio; the squelching of his cock slipping in and out of her throat, her short puffs of exhales, and her cut-off gagging noises she makes each time he explores a little more than she can withstand. It’s unrighteous how turned on he’s getting from the noises alone, but she makes her presence well known when her lips glue around at the base just sits there taking in his entire length in her throat; tears brew in the corners of her eyes and she swallows a heap of saliva—consuming all of his rationality as her throat tightens around his width.

“Oh, f-fuck, shit. St-sto-op.”

He reflexively yanks her head up until only the head of his cock is situated in her mouth, twitching, leaving the remainder of his length sodden with stringy pools of her saliva that streak to the brown curls.

Mando observes the mess she’s made, mouth drowning with lust. As much as he could sit there and fuck her mouth like this, he aches for more contact—requires it like the oxygen he breathes.

“I want more, pretty girl, need you.”

His hand travels from the base of her neck along the curve of her spine and rests on the soft of her rear, indicating his proposition. She reluctantly pries her lips from his tip and glances up at him with filthy eyes to murmur, “Need me?” she swallows. “Need me to take care of you?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“Need me to ride you -- to fuck you?”

“Yes, mesh’la.” His fingers bite into the flesh of her ass and dip in the waistband at her tailbone, lazily tugging at the material but it fails to budge against the defence of her belt. 

“Fucking so needy,” she sings.

Mando is needy—dehydrated and starving for her—utterly insatiable. 

She unclasps her belt and unbuttons the two little dimes at her groin, but he beats her to the belt loops and slips either thumb on the farsides and tugs. His eyes soak in the exposed flesh; how cushiony her thighs look, how they must feel squeezing the sides of his head. There’s a rumble in his chest and it finds its exit through his filters, shooting straight to the Girl’s core.

The Girl guides a leg out from beneath her and he continues undressing her from the waist down until she’s only left in her undergarments, the length of her legs being explored by crunchy leather. She doesn’t allow him the opportunity to take initiative and remove his gloves—he wouldn’t be able to control where his hands led if he had—and tosses a leg on either side of his thighs, the underside of his cock rubbing against her clothed pelvis to evoke a muffled moan from his throat.

One of her hands rests on his side atop of the bacta patch and she gazes into his helmet, silently inquiring her concerns.

“I’m okay.” She continues eyeing him, her pupils flickering to the bottom side of the helmet his lesion laid in slumber. ��Mesh’la, I’m good.” He proves it with a minor thrust of his hips that has her scooting against his lap, distributing her weight among his thighs.

She seems pleased with his condition, tearing her hands from his wound to bunch up the overhanging fabric. Mando stops her, clinging to the hem of the shirt. “No, keep - keep it on. Looks good on you.”

An imposing heat rises to her cheeks and paints them hues of reds and pinks at the implication Mando gets off on her wearing his clothing. He’s watching her, she feels the leer of his visor, and she bows her head and strokes his length in an attempt to hide away, to distract him from the mortifying blush gracing her cheeks and nose. Mando’s insistent, stubborn, refuses to look away from her ‘pretty little face’—his words, not hers—and just scouts as her features contort shyly.

He won’t look away.

Especially not when she lifts her thighs and hovers over his readying cock, the head nudging against her clothed sex; warm and damp from her secreting through the fabric. She wants this, he acknowledges, just as much as himself.

She dips her hips enough, just barely, so he’s firmly pressed against her; his twitches travelling through to her, sparking her fingers to dig into the pads of his shoulders in shock. Mando groans, powerless underneath her, and bucks his hips plenty to maintain a pleasant caress against the tip of his cock.

“You’re taunting, pretty girl.”

She smirks. “Why not do something about it?”

Oh, he will—he’ll make her applaud the ground he walks on if he has to.

With one foul swoop, Mando plunges his hand between her legs and eases the garment aside, positioning himself between her folds and collecting the slick with his head. It makes something erupt inside of him, in his abdomen, and he freezes like that; his cock scarcely pressing against her entrance - she flutters against him.

The throbbing at the back of his head pulls him out of his relishing but he’s not willing to interrupt—not when he’s waited so fucking long to feel her like this. “Sit down,” he breathes, lightly pushing on her thighs. “S-slowly.”

She abides by his commands and gradually sinks on his length—so fucking slowly. He asked for it, but she’s just torturing him at this point. His eyes tear from what lays between them back to her face, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth latching onto the flesh of her poor hand. His muscles lack, his hands caressing her legs. “Sweet girl,” he coos, “you can do it.”

“Gods, what else are you hiding under all that beskar?” she moans and continues, stretching herself around his impressive size; Mando’s not small in the slightest.

His helmet inclines with a soft chuckle, clashing against the wall behind them—the wall he was ready to die on and now he’s fucking her against it - he hadn’t even cleaned himself of the blood soaked into his cowl and caking his hair - it’s fucking dirty.

He hums her name in reassurance. “Should’ve - should’ve prepared you with m-y fingers first.” 

“Yes,” she winces. “You should’ve.”

“Doing so well, so good. That’s it. Nice and slow-ly.”

There’s a silence that fills the air once he’s completely sheathed inside her, the both of them tardily comprehending the reality of the situation—they won’t be able to return to normal after this, won’t be able to look at each other without thinking of the other naked. This is their new normal, at least for today, and they carefully descend back to the scene with clarity. 

Her - his shirt’s hem rubs against his garbed stomach, loose and large on her, and he slithers his hands up the back of it to clamp down on her shoulders; holding her firmly against his pelvis so she’s restricted and refuses her the opportunity to move—he wants to savour the feeling of her stretched around him, the feeling of her warmth welcoming him. She hisses at the cold steel of his vambrace along the muscles of her back and arches on him.

Mando basks in her warmth, shifting his hips side-to-side to rub against the inside of her canals, and resting the peak of his helmet against her sternum above the pendant’s residence to breathe in her scent. It’s faint with the helm’s filters stripping the air of her but there’s a hint of sweetness that he jostles around among his tongue and a speck of her musk, alongside a whiff of his personal scents from his shirt—gun oil, leather, his own musk fusing together with hers.

“Mando, I got-ta move.”

The grip on her shoulders loosens, enabling her to move slightly but doesn’t allow her to take initiative this time; his ass flexes against the ground as he thrusts up into her, pulling soft gasps from her tongue. It’s so hot, so enticing, a sound he’s dreamt of hearing but actually triggering the noises from her is intoxicating. He could bury his face between her legs and listen to her all night if she’d allow it; if his Creed allowed it.

“Pretty girl.” His hips slam into hers. “Always - always taking care of me.”

“Fu--fuck, Mand-o,” she chokes, her breathing staggering each time his groin rolls into her pelvis. A delicate hand runs along the front to the back of his cowl and sweeps underneath the steely brim, never breaching his comfort zone until he imparts his consent with a faint nod. She inches her digits up till they disappear inside his helmet—there was a time he wouldn’t let anybody get within arm’s length of his helm and now the Girl was freely raiding the unexplored depths of his skull for the second time that day. 

There’s a slight pang around his lesion when she tugs on the curls and it only roams upwards when she shoves her palm up as far it’ll reach in the cramped space, her fingers working out the tight knot. He jerks at the sensations, all so foreign, so new and exciting he’s struggling to withhold himself from doing something stupid.

“Been thinking about this for so lo-ng,” he whispers, quickening his pace to drive up and nudge against her cervix that has her flinging her head back. “Thought about fucking——fucking you over the control panel ea-ch night.”

“Maker,” she purrs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move. Nearly crawled in your fuck-ing bunk with you.”

Mando groans. “Yeah? I’ll fuck you in my bunk whenever you want, mesh’la. Name the time.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Mando.”

“Din,” he slips, freezes, muscles stretched and tight—he went and did something stupid. The Girl notices his wavering, his thrusts having abruptly stopped, and joins his absence of movement. A layer of nervous sweat breaks out across his forehead, his heart paced faster than a Kaadu. Everything is distanced, the Girl seemingly klicks away, thoughts clouded with analysing his psyche’s outburst; a foolish slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. 

He hasn’t heard that name since he was a boy—hadn’t uttered it aloud since he became a foundling—so it’s a huge fucking shock when he hears the syllable trip past his lips.

And it’s an even bigger shock when the Girl repeats it back to him, “Din?” 

It does sound nice coming from her, though. He can’t deny that. Like his name is made of nectar, sweet and thick that dribbles from her tongue and down her chin—he could just lick it up from her, catch the remnants before it plummets the duracrete.

She grinds herself against him to pull him back to reality, twirling a curl around her finger curiously; cloyingly. 

“Din,” he repeats, firmer, with authority, “Say it, mesh’la, say it for me. Please.”

She tugs on his locks, forcing his helmet to tilt up to look at her and his heart misses a beat when she parts her lips and moans into his visor, “Din.”

Dank Farrik—she always knows just what to do to get his blood pumping. She doesn’t even know the significance of the word, just acknowledges how his cock quivers inside her from speaking it and then she’s a mewling mess muttering along a never-ending string of Din, Din, Din’s.

“Hold still,” he warns, a sturdy vambrace wrapping around her coccyx and propelling himself upwards and unto his knees with her below him, a gloved hand at the back of her head to protect it from slamming against the hard duracrete.

She’s even more sublime from this angle; spread out underneath him, the backs of her thighs pressed against his hip joints—purely on display for him and only him. 

Din can’t stand not being inside her, not feeling her slick walls hugging him so fucking tightly it drags pleasure through the core of his shaft, and he sheathes himself back into her quickly. Propping up his weight with a forearm beside her head, and pounding his hips into hers vigorously - the clap of their skin snapping through the air. 

She grinds her hips upwards into his lap to massage the swollen nub of her clit against him, jerking at the sensitivity - though she’s so restricted between solid flooring and a just as solid beskar figure that she more-or-less humps into Din’s body - her fingers slither behind the beskar margins of his cuisse’s to stabilise herself.

The abandoned cantina air is hot, sweltering, thick with sweat and sex—versus the dry, dusty stench prior that left his lungs ticklish. They’re fucking each other so desperately they’re emitting a skyrocketing heat, it’s dumbfounding.

Her lips are pulled invertedly to force back the whiny incoherent moans. Beads of sweat along her forehead. Eyes glued close. 

What a beautiful sight. All for him. It’s contrasting to the last time they were in a similar scenario—her hands on him, him sitting there licking every crumb off the plate of food she served him—but their positions had changed and now he’s the one working those noises out of her. A flurry of youthful pride rushes through him and he slips two fingers to touch where they connect, feeling the ridges and veins of his cock through the leather as he pulls out and slides back in - feeling what she’s feeling - memorising what she’ll memorise.

“I - I can’t…shit...Din,” she croons.

She’s close to her apex—her walls tighten around his cock even further. If she gets any tighter Din will come right here and now. He’s still not done - still needs more of her - thirsts for it.

“I know, mesh’la, I know. A - a little longer. Just a little longer.”

The digits between her thighs compile a coating of her slick seeping down the sides of her leg, applying it to her clit and drawing fast circles. She doesn’t complain about the scratchy leather on the sensitive bud, doesn’t gripe that he’s not allowing her the touch of his bare flesh—she thinks it’s fucking hot; he can’t take his hands off her for a fucking second to rid himself of the confines, can’t keep her waiting to inch his pants down past his thighs. He’s still completely clothed, permitting only his cock and thighs to spring free of his flight suit enough to fuck her into the ground—into the ground. It’s unadulterated filth through and through.

Din’s tattered and slashed cloak droops to the side of him and the Girl wads a horde of the scratchy fabric in her hand, tugging on it that brings him to meet with her hips like she’s coordinating his movements. “Oh, fu-ck. Right there, Mando, right there.”

“Din,” he growls a reminder all-while maintaining the pace and posture she’s arching into, her moaning of his name an addicting motivator, “my - my name is Din.”

If he wasn’t hitting something so unreachable—something so itchy she never knew existed—she might’ve wrapped her arm around his neck, pulled his helmet in for a kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in response to his confession. She can’t though - he doesn’t give her a second's worth of breaks. Unable to demonstrate her appreciation, she wrenches her head to the forearm beside her and administers a laden press of her lips to his leathered wrist; a small but incredibly sweet gesture that has his lungs tugging on his heartstrings.

She whispers his name as if testing it out on her tongue, this time with more sentiment. It’s a soft, short, and rounded-sounding name—everything he’s not—such a breathy syllable it doesn’t require much mouth manipulation and the Girl takes advantage of that; chorusing the word in sync with her pleasured writhing. 

Din extracts his cock from her gradually and sharply slams back into her, shoving her spine across the ground that she jumps from her position an inch, the grip on his cloak tightening.  “Fuck, Din!” Pearly whites sink into the leather surrounding his wrist and he grunts at the stimulation, his thrusts beginning to stagger as he reaches his climax. He won’t allow it - he’ll postpone his relief until she’s had hers if he has to; she deserves it.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You take care of me so-so well, let me feel you relax; come.”

She does relax, becomes nothing more than a boneless pool of flesh and blood beneath him that yelps at each smack of his hips, tingles at the squelching of his cock slipping through her lubricant and coating the base of his groin in a wet sheen of her. 

Din’s fingers continue on her nub only periodically stopping to delve deeper and amass her juices. He hits a sweet spot and she writhes into his chest, ripping her teeth from the leather to sink them in the thick padding of his shoulder where she freely moans into the fabric—deliberately putting on a show for Din that makes the head of his cock twitch.

Din increases his pace, maintaining a speed that compensates for his lack of back with the explosion—delivering a steady tempo fit for a week's worth of workouts.

She’s so close to his ear, if the beskar wasn’t there she��d be pressed right up against the cartilage, her risque whining intruding the tunnels of his eardrums. It’s too much to consider, too fucking much. 

She clamps down on his cock, tight and vice-like that he struggles to move inside of her. Her body rocks and jolts as she cums on his cock—he can feel the warmth dripping over the head and running along the sides like syrup sliding down his throat. “That’s it, pretty, do-ing so good.” She transmits a low drone from his words of praise, her bite deepening enough to leave a groove of her teeth in his muscle.

Din pinches her nub once, twice, savouring the impact of her chest against his with each jerk he pulls out of her. He aids her descent back to Tatooine, luring out the remainder of her orgasm with slow lazy circles until she politely relieves his hand from her clit—too sensitive and sore to continue.

The Girl shakes and trembles below him, feuding with the hot air that won’t stay in her lungs. She’s glazed in a gloss of sweat from her forehead all the way to her thighs; drained and overstimulated, but she extends a helping hand to the base of his cock and pumps the few inches not inside her. 

“Can’t - can’t stay there all day, Din,” she teases.

It’s on the verge of abusive how she engages him, every inch of her knowing exactly what to touch and how to touch it as if he’s just constructed of mere text on a holorecord. 

He disagrees; he could stay here for eternity.

Although, he takes her laboured breathing into consideration and rewards her with his sympathy; dragging out his own climax. Din experimentally rocks his pelvis, his cock pulling on the tightness of her channel—feeling all the grooves so distinctly, the gentle flow of warm cum trickling past his length—he’s managed his own undoing, his fingernails digging into the leather of his palm, cock rigid and violently palpitating. 

She observes his shoulders tightening, his breathing shake, his thighs flexing as he anxiously pulls out of her sex—buries it somewhere safe in her memory for later—it’s a glorious experiencing watching a Mandalorian—The Mandalorian share something so vulnerable with her; like the after-effects of a meanspirited storm, all tranquil sounds and apprehensive touches. She seizes a hand and presses the leader against her cheek, mildly gnawing on the thumb that impishly slips past her lips, her remaining picking up the pace on his cock drawing out his high.

It’s so cordial watching her tear at his thumb, pull on his length, stare into the visor knowingly; too personal, too spellbinding. He takes the bait. “Fuck, fu-ck,” he moans, staggering on his knees and firing out a sticky white that pains the insides of her thighs—trademarking her.

She’s unrelenting, milking every drop out of him until he’s lagging and softening in her palm. When she’s finally conducted his orgasm, she presses a quick peck to his thumb and retreats her skull to the duracrete, officially out of stamina for anything more than a breathy: Shit, Din. That was-fuck.

Her thighs are wet with their combined juices—a shiny translucent mixing with the softening white. He gathers it up on the tips of his fingertips and lifts it to the Girl’s mouth, wiping the sex on her tongue she’s poked out in compliance. “So good to me. So pretty,” he strums. “How’s it taste? Did we do good?”

She nods, humming and rolling her tongue around inside her mouth to blend the liquids with her saliva. 

“Sweet,” she exhales. “Salty.”

Din can only imagine the flavour they spawned together; a mouthwatering syrup that leaves a savoury aftertaste from the sweat laminating her thighs. He longs for a taste, salivating with need, but resolves. 

The Girl’s slick coating his softening cock sticks to the insides of his pants as he fixes the hem back to his hips—rubbing the remnants on his thighs and gluing the short hairs to his flesh. Din reaches behind him to detach his cloak and uses the edge to wipe away the accumulated mess he’d created between her thighs, mindful of keeping the bloody end far away from her, taking his sweet time to cherish how the flesh judders in the direction of his digits and the muscles tense when he delves closer to her sex.

She props herself up with her elbows and observes him still firmly planted between her legs, a pink blush encroaching her cheekbones at the sight of her nakedness compared to the Mandalorian. 

He notices her shyness and decides not to comment, simply places a hand on either of her knees and trails them up to her torso and across her arms where he interlocks his fingers with hers - bending down atop of her to tuck his helmet in the curve of her neck, shielding her from the prying eyes of the twin spheres peeking through the window.

She rests her cheek against the side of his helmet, murmuring soft praises. Fucked me so good, she whines, gonna leave me sore all night.

Din groans into the helm and settles his weight on her, too exhausted to move, but she welcomes his physique—invites the dense muscles to recuperate on her for as long as he requires—and she wraps an arm around the back of his helmet, cradling him into her sweat-slicked neck.

“So about that break…”

_____________

“ner” - my/mine “mesh’la” - beautiful “cin vhetin” - fresh start/clean slate “Resol’nare” - Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life “Ba’jur bal beskar’gam, ara’nov, aliit, Mando’a bal Mand’alor- An vencuyan mhi” - Education and armour, self-defense, our tribe, our language and our leader, All help us to survive” “dar’manda” - one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity

taglist: @ohhersheybars​, @greatcircle79​, @northernpunk​, @tanzthompson​, @djarrex​

[thisisawonderfulusername]

let’s save the world

season two, episode five

five hargreeves x reader

summary: gathering the family together never ends well, but at least you can relax with a few of the siblings.

trigger warnings: cursing, drinking

word count: 5k

a/n: it took me literal years to find a gif for this one. not even kidding. i ended up settling. i am also sorry about how long this took to come out, i was very busy with school and some other health stuffs😂 anywho i hope you enjoy it

you all watch as reginald’s car gets farther away, and you sigh softly. it’s the eyeball all over again. time to chase after it before it bursts into flames before your eyes.

“you know, i’m starting to get the impression that dad’s avoiding us.” you look to five, away from all the people that filed out of the consulate.

“what gave you that idea?” you chuckle quietly, shaking your head as you look down at the dress you wore, and hated. you couldn’t wait to get it off, but you frown as you notice the missing piece. “i lost my bow to choke that guy, and it didn’t even work.”

scratching the back of her neck, lila glances to the three of you. “i hate to be the boring one, guys, but we need to get the hell out of here.”

as she moves to leave, you getting ready to follow, five steps in front of you to look at the woman with narrowed eyes. “when you mean ‘we’, who exactly are you referring to?”

your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you look at the boy, and lila seems just as confused, shifting her gaze to the side for a moment. “not a lot of ambiguity in that sentence.”

five doesn’t back down- by now you’re used to that. “listen, i don’t know who you are or where you came from, but i’d advise you return posthaste.”

diego leans towards him, “five, she’s right, we have to get out of here.”

“i just saved your life, you kinder shit!” lila spits out, “if i hadn’t stepped in, all that would be left of you is a blazer and some bloody socks.”

looking to the side as you chew on your lip, you felt quite ready to leave right about now. the dress was starting to feel a little too tight, enhancing the pain you felt from the hits you had taken.

“that’s the problem.” five points out, “you’re too good, you ask too many questions. you know too much. and you fight like you know what you’re doing.”

looking back to the small group, you think about what he had said, and it was starting to make sense. “he’s got a point.” you mutter, looking at the girl with a raised eyebrow, almost asking for an explanation.

“so i know how to handle myself, and that makes me the bad guy?”

you wanted to believe she was a good person, the ‘crazy lady’ who you had met in the car who just seemed to be tagging along- but she was starting to seem more suspicious the more you hung around her.

“whoever you are, you’re in my way.” five tells her, “if i see you again, i will kill you.”

he starts to walk away, and for a moment, you’re planted in your spot, staring at his retreating form. quickly shaking your head, you leave the other two behind, catching up to him.

-

when you got back to elliott’s, you had crashed on the couch after changing back out of the dress, and as you did, you had seen that one of the punches you took left quite a gash in your side, and you assumed the only reason you hadn’t noticed it before then was because of the blood that had clotted and dried around it, or maybe the adrenaline from such a fight.

either way, it didn’t matter. you were use to getting injured by now, it was a part of working for the commission and now, apparently, it’s a part of saving the world. you simply cleaned it, put some bandaging over it, and called it a day.

now, you sat on the same rolling chair that you always claimed in the door frame to the kitchen, leaning your head against the wall as you watch luther- who had finally decided he was ready to help, apparently- made some scrambled eggs. the mug that you held, filled as much as possible with coffee, was still scalding hot, but that didn’t stop you from taking the smallest sips every so often.

diego paced the kitchen floor, “no, no, no. i don’t understand. they keep following me.”

luther doesn’t even look up from the pan, which was basically overflowing with the eggs. “who?” he questions, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“those dutch sociopaths!”

“they’re swedish, you idiot.” five corrects him, leaning against the wall across from you, “hired guns paid to eradicate us before we can do any more damage to this timeline.”

“yeah, but why now?” diego raises an eyebrow at the boy, “i mean, i’m-” he snaps his fingers, “-fine. for three months until you showed up.”

luther nods slightly, “yeah.” he finally looks away from the eggs, “i was here for a year and no one messed with me.”

looking back to you two, diego holds his arms out, looking for an explanation. rolling your eyes, you stand up, kicking the chair away from you and into the living room. “so you’re saying it’s our fault, hm?” you raise an eyebrow at them, “even if it was, and it’s not, it doesn’t change the fact that we only have six days left before the end of the world.”

nodding, five glances at you for a second. “the closest anyone’s gotten to dad was that driveway, at the consulate.”

as his stirring slows, luther looks up. “well, that’s not exactly true.”

your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you watch as five steps closer to him. “what do you mean?”

“i saw him.”

you listen as he recounts the time he landed in the alley, when he got on a bus and went straight home- to the umbrella academy. when he arrived, there was some sort of house party going on, as people filled the building, all chatting and drinking champagne.

reginald stood with a circle of people- coincidentally talking about the end of the world and the uncertainties with time. when he walked away to get another glass was when luther stepped in, and was brushed off and humiliated in front of all the guests.

“that’s pathetic.” you all watch as the man scarfs down the eggs he had made, diego being the first to speak when he finished his story.

luther looks to him as he shovels more eggs onto his fork, “yeah, well, at least he didn’t shank my ass.”

“no, bro.” diego leans forward slightly, “he shanked your heart.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you at the comment, and five looks between the two of them as luther hums in acknowledgement.

elliott enters the kitchen, looking to the large man. “is that my bath robe?”

luther looks to him, his mouth full and his eyes wide as if someone caught him sticking his hand in the cookie jar. “no.”

“look, who cares what he shanked?” five finally speaks from beside you, moving to the more important business. “he knows something about time travel.”

raising his hand slightly, elliott looks to him, “uh, why don’t you just do your thing and, uh, time travel us out.”

with a sigh, five stands up to refill his mug, and you quickly hold out your own in a silent request. “anyone care to explain?” he questions as he takes the cup, walking over to the counter and grabbing the coffee pot.

“first time he tried, he got lost in the apocalypse.” luther states.

diego is next, “second time, he ended up without hair on his balls.”

chuckling quietly, you finish, “this time he scattered us all across the timeline here- in dallas, texas, also possibly triggering a doomsday.”

five turns as he finishes refilling the mugs, looking to the man. “any more questions, elliott?”

he quickly shakes his head, and diego starts to speak again. “guys, you’re all missing the big picture here. dad is the ringleader of a sinister cabal that’s planning to kill the president.”

you take your mug back with a quiet thank you as five hands it over, and luther looks to luther with confusion written all over his face. “a cabal?”

“ignore him.” five tells him, leaning against the counter, “look, the way i see it, we only have one option.”

without looking away from his eggs, luther raises the question everyone has. “oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“it’s time to get the umbrella academy back together.”

oh god

you’re not sure if you can handle them all at once again.

diego looks at the ground for a second. “hell yeah. family meeting.”

“okay, then can one of you guys get allison?” you look to luther as he stares down at his plate, suddenly incredibly invested in his eggs.

raising an eyebrow, you take a sip of your coffee. “are you two still... uh, canoodling?”

the man doesn’t answer, only tilting his head to the side a bit. diego slowly leans towards him, “do we need to talk?”

“no, she’s married.” luther speaks through his mouth full of eggs, and you scrunch your nose up slightly.

diego nods slightly, “dude, that’s rough.” he leans back into the back of his chair.

luther forces a chuckle, “i can handle it.” the expression on his face only a second later, as you honestly think he’s close to crying his eyes out.

“i’ll get her.” five sets his mug down, and you watch as he walks towards the archway into the living space. “do you think you can get vanya without, uh, squeezing her to death?”

luther looks at him with a deadpan expression from the comment. “i’ll try.”

“good.” he looks to you, “you should go with. just to, you know, supervise.” you nod with a light laugh, though luther doesn’t look nearly as amused as you are from the light jab at him. a second later, five is gone with a flash of blue.

you down the rest of your coffee as elliott stutters for a moment. “uh, what should i do?”

with a small smirk on his face, diego looks towards him. “prepare for company.”

-

“y’all know, jell-o used to be a delicacy.”

you sit in the living room of the apartment after you had managed to get vanya, along with her, luther, and diego, as elliott goes on about the disgusting concoction in front of him.

“in order to make it, you have to boil down a whole mess of hooves... you know, horses, cows, pigs, it doesn’t matter.” fire begins to dance across your fingertips as you stare at it in boredom, your lips pressed into a thin line. “but not everybody has a bunch of hooves lyin’ around. it wasn’t until, uh, a couple of sassy new yorkers figured out how to dry it out for the rest of us to use to... enjoy this ambrosia.”

diego looks to him after sticking all his knives in a little sheath, clearly as bored and annoyed as the rest of you. “if we have some, will you shut up?”

your nose scrunches up at the thought of having to eat that... sludge, and the fire immediately dies out. “maybe.” he quickly grabs one of the bowls around the table, beginning to distribute the thing he called food.

“i’m good.” you mumble, waving your hand as he looks to you, clearly disappointed from your refusal, but you could handle that. there was no way you were going to eat whatever that was.

luther’s face is scrunched up as he watches the man scoop up the ambrosia, deciding to look away and to vanya instead. “how are you feeling?”

the woman, who was slouched into the couch with her hands resting on her stomach, glances towards him. “pretty shitty, to be honest.”

flipping one of his knives in his hand, diego looks to her. “how would you say you are on a scale from one to... ending all life on this planet?”

sighing heavily, you lean forward and rest your elbows on your knees, ignoring the searing pain in your side. “seriously? put the knife away, idiot, she’s fine.”

his gaze doesn’t move from her. “the last time i saw this one, she had me suspended midair, sucking the life out of me with energy tentacles.” he stops flipping the knife to point it towards you, “i think i’m allowed a little time to process.”

“i would love to see an energy tentacle.” elliott looks up from his creation, looking between the three of you.

shaking your head, you sigh. “no you don’t.”

vanya sits up, looking to the man. “i don’t remember what i did, but i’m sorry.” she shrugs slightly, “if that means anything.”

he looks to her for a moment before he finally stops pointing the knife around, instead holding it at his side on the armrest. “it does.” that surprised you, but at least you wouldn’t have to stand around for another family argument. “just going through a lot right now.”

beginning to speak about ‘a girl he likes’, you roll your eyes. before he’s able to speak too much, the bell on the door downstairs jingles and you can hear laughter- allison and klaus.

“anyone here?” she calls out, and you stand from your seat, as does everyone else, going to stand at the railing of the balcony.

you can tell that the two of them are at least a little drunk from the amount of giggling from the two of them. they stop to look up at the five of you, and klaus takes his glasses off. “i know this is impossible, but did we all get... sexier?”

rolling your eyes, you watch as everybody else goes down to have a heartwarming family reunion, allison and vanya hugging before klaus joins in.

“alright, let’s get down to business.” five turns and goes up the stairs, everyone else following. as they come up, you take your seat once again, all of them taking their own places around the room.

standing in front of all of you, five sticks his hands in his pockets. “first thing i want to say is i’m sorry. i know i really screwed the pooch on this whole going back in time and getting stuck thing.” diego nods slightly, and you prop your feet up on the coffee table, nudging the empty bowl out of the way. “but the real kick in the pants here is, we brought the end of the world back here with us.”

“oh my god, again?” everyone looks to klaus in silence. “all of you knew? why am i always the last to find out about the end of the- oh my god, my cult is going to be so pissed, five! i told them we had until twenty-nineteen!” he whines.

you sigh softly as you run a hand down your face, “well, better inform them it’s coming sooner than that. we have six days.”

“is it vanya?” he takes a sip from his drink, and allison scoffs, “what? it’s always vanya.”

deciding to ignore it, vanya looks to five and you turn back in your seat, shaking your head. “do you have any leads, five?” the woman questions, and diego is already handing him the file that holds the picture of their father in the knoll.

“yeah, we have one.” five tells them, passing the folder over to allison, who doesn’t waste time in opening it up.

“holy shit, is that dad?” she looks at it in disbelief, and vanya quickly leans toward her to examine the photo as well.

after a moment, five continues to explain. “we’ve been trying to talk to him about what exactly this means, so far we’ve got nothing.”

“not nothing,” diego quickly adds, “we know that he’s planning to kill kennedy.”

“possibly,” you make your entrance into the conversation, “but we don’t know who or what sets doomsday in motion.” you remove your legs from the table, leaning forward slightly, “could be kennedy, could be something that doesn’t have anything to do with him.”

five nods, “but, if we know something changes the timeline, we have to make it right.”

her eyebrows furrowing, allison cuts in. “yeah, but how are we supposed to do that if we don’t know what to fix?”

“oh, come on, do the math.” diego tells her in irritation, “we know dad’s having shady ass meetings with shady ass people. we know he’s on the grassy knoll in three days to kill the president. so i think we all know what we have to do.”

“kill dad.”

“find dad.”

the two have very different ideas, apparently, and five turns his head to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from laughing at the incredulous look.

it’s quiet for a moment before vanya speaks. “none of us are supposed to be here, right? i mean, what if it’s us?” she looks around, “has anyone here done anything to screw up the timeline?”

another bout of silence surrounds you as looks are exchanged between everyone, before luther takes a deep breath to start a circle of accusations.

“diego has been stalking lee harvey oswald.”

pointing a finger at the big man, his voice raises immediately, “and you’re working for jack ruby!”

“allison has been very involved with local politics.” klaus pipes up from his seat beside you.

“okay, and you started a cult.” she points at him, giving a mocking smile.

while klaus hissed as if he were a cat, vanya sat up in her seat slightly. “i’m- i’m just a nanny on a farm, i don’t have anything to do with all of that.”

allison looks at her, “well, maybe you do, we just don’t know it yet.”

a loud whistle catches everyone’s attention, looking towards diego. “look at yourselves. everything in our new lives is connected to kennedy. that can’t be a coincidence. luther works for ruby, allison is protesting against the government, dad’s on the grassy knoll, klaus-” he pauses for a moment, looking at the man, “is doing something weird and pervy, but it’s probably connected in some way. clearly we were sent here for one special reason. save john fitzgerald kennedy.”

rolling your eyes as everyone starts to argue, you stand from your seat, feeling a headache coming on from being around this incredibly dysfunctional family, unable to not think about how peaceful it was when you were normal for once, just working in a diner.

“guys, you all die.” you look back at five as he speaks, cutting through all of the clashing voices. “i was there. i saw it. i wish i could forget it, but i can’t. i saw russian nukes vaporize the world with all of you in it, in a war that never happened until we brought it here. hazel gave his life to save us so you may need to shut up and just listen to me.”

you frown slightly at the confession, feeling bad that he had to see his family die yet again. you couldn’t imagine seeing your family buried in the rubble of your home, or actually watching the blazing fire that wipes them out from a nuke that takes out the city.

“i don’t know if the things we all experienced here are connected. i don’t know if there’s a reason for everything. but dad will.” he looks around at his family and to you, “we need to him before everyone and everything we know is dead.”

you’re about to voice your agreement, but luther is the one to speak first. “okay. i’m out.”

with furrowed eyebrows, you watch as he stands from where he sits, already heading towards the stairs. “were you even listening, luther?” you question in disbelief.

he looks to you. “yeah. yeah, i was. i heard a fifty-eight year old man who still wants his daddy to come and fix everything.” he gives a derisive grin, “and you can count me out. it’s time we all grew the hell up.”

everyone begins to call him back, and you can’t believe what you had just heard, quickly running around the chairs and being able to step in front of him before he starts making his way down the stairs, you walking backwards with each step he takes. “you’re kidding, right?”

five appears next to you with a blue flash, and luther finally stops as he stares up at him. “no one leaves until we figure this out.”

he looks between the both of you for a second, before suddenly he’s grabbing your arm and tossing you over the railing of the stairs as if you’re as light as a feather. you yelp from the surprise, and five is gone before you can grab onto him, landing on the tile floor with a groan as you curl in on yourself.

“asshole!” you call out to him as he leaves the building, diego following after him for who knows what reason.

standing from the ground, you hiss in pain as you feel the gash in your side sting like hell. you lift your shirt slightly and peel the bandage back a bit to see that the scab that was starting to form had teared apart, and you press your lips together as you let the bandage and your shirt fall back into place.

“let’s go!” you hear klaus call out, and you see the remaining three siblings start to make their way down the stairs. “oh, y/n!” he calls when he sees you standing at the bottom, smiling slightly, “would you like to get some tacos with us?”

looking to the side for a moment, you sigh, before looking back to him. five was gone and you didn’t know when he was coming back, so why not? “tacos sound amazing right now.”

-

music played from the radio resting in front of the mirror on the table matching the rest lined along the wall in the hair salon, and allison ranted about her husband, comb in hand as she messes with klaus’ hair.

with a groan of annoyance, she continues. “the nerve of that man.” she chuckles bitterly, shaking her head, “i mean, one thing goes wrong, and he’s on a warpath! i mean, doesn’t know who i am?” she looks into the mirror in front of him, pointing the comb, “no, no. no ray, you know exactly who i am. you just can’t handle it. i’m protecting him.”

you take a sip from the bottle of champagne on the table next to you, already feeling the alcohol taking effect as you smile slightly, watching the two of them as you hum along to the music. “protecting him from what?” klaus questions, his cigarette between his lips as he raises an eyebrow at her.

“the end of the world, for one.” she responds, the irritation clear in her voice.

vanya speaks from her seat across the room, her feet propped up on top of the table. “hey, is the world really going to end in six days?”

it’s quiet for a moment, and you take another drink from the bottle. “it did last time. i saw the aftermath.” you shrug, “sure, i didn’t see this one, but five wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

klaus gets up from the salon chair, and allison puts the comb she was using to the side. “hey, wouldn’t it be weird if five grew up all hot?” he asks, moving to stand in the middle of the room, grabbing one of the extra bottles to fill up his flask. allison expresses her disgust. “oh, ew! ew! please, miss ‘luther was my lover.’“

holding her hand up, the woman started defending herself. “we have never even kissed.”

“yeah, but you guys were making little sick moon-dog eyes at each other, all through puberty and breakfasts and all that.” he argues, motioning wildly with his hands.

turning her seat around so she can look towards all of you, vanya voices her confusion. “aren’t we all brothers and sisters, or?”

klaus snorts at the question, and you look to allison as she sits in klaus’ previous chair. “well, technically, it-”

“technically?” you cut her off, sitting up in your seat with a chuckle as you look to her, “if you have to use the word technically, you’re already in trouble.”

klaus giggles from where he stands, looking to vanya for a moment, “okay, can- can we focus?” allison dismisses the conversation, “i mean, clearly, we’re not saving the world tonight, but maybe, maybe, we can at least try to save my marriage!”

“no!” klaus cries out, and you grin, “no, because that’s- that’s like asking a nun how to hump someones leg. i mean, who in this room knows shit about relationships, huh? this one-” he points at vanya, “in secret love with some... farm frau,”

“her name’s sissy.” the woman whines.

“which is an improvement from her last lover, the serial killer.” he laughs, and vanya looks very confused from that comment, her eyebrows furrowing. “meanwhile i’m carrying a torch, for a soldier i haven’t technically met yet, luther is... in love with his sister. and you!” he spins around to point at you now, and you’re surprised by his sudden call out, “y/n, you don’t even realize that you’re ridiculously in love with five!”

you gape at the declaration, not even able to comprehend the accusation, but it doesn’t matter, because he keeps on. “face it, the only healthy long-term relationship in this family, was when five was banging that mannequin.” allison crosses her eyes, falling back into her seat, “the only thing the umbrella academy knows about love,” he holds his flask up into the air, “is how to screw it up.”

the two women mutter their agreements, and you take a long drink from the bottle, sighing as you let your head fall against the back of your chair, the champagne resting on your leg.

“how do you guys deal with this?” vanya questions, and you lift your head slightly to raise your eyebrows in question, and she continues. “all of it. the time travel, seeing the dead, the end of the world...”

“well i get really high,” klaus tells her, plopping into the chair behind him, “allison, allison... lies to herself.” the woman kicks a rolling stool towards him in irritation, causing him to flinch, “y/n works herself to death helping five, and you suppress all your emotions, deep, deep down, until you... you blow shit up.”

rolling your eyes, you decide to ignore his comments, looking to vanya. “yeah, i’d like to not do that anymore.” she looks to the floor.

“well,” you stand up, stumbling slightly, “you have six days.” you look at the nearly empty bottle of champagne, and you scrunch your nose up. did you really do that?

“what are we supposed to do with six days?” allison scoffs.

klaus mutters an ‘i don’t know’ and vanya seems like she has an ah-hah moment as she sits up in her chair. “i’m going to tell sissy i love her.” she announces, and klaus looks at her with raised eyebrows, his hands up in the air at his sides, “i don’t want any secrets.” she shrugs her shoulders.

“yeah-” allison grabs her bottle and stands up from her seat, “yeah, you’re right! ‘cause if everything’s going to go tits up, the least i can do is be honest with my husband!”

klaus rests his elbows on his knees, “oh... does that mean i’m going to have to face my cult?” he sighs, “i just hate group breakups- it’s why i stopped dating twins.”

vanya throws her hands out to the side, her eyebrows furrowed. “this family is amazing.”

the other two chuckle, and you shake your head with a grin on your face. yeah, their family is incredibly dysfunctional, but at least they were connected on some level. “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” allison giggles, and klaus stands to hug her, both of them struggling to stand upright on their feet.

they motion for you and vanya to join, and when the woman hops over to engage in the group hug, you sigh and join in, having to lean against them all to keep yourself up.

taglists:

main: @horrorklaus @megasimpleplan4ever

tua: @rasberrymay @noodlextrash @atomicpillar

five taglist: @anapocalypseinmymind @five-hargreeves-official @insatiable-ivy @coffee-e-addict @xplrreylo @fandomfreakff @colie-babi @flowertoty​

let’s save the world: @aspiringwriter1 @thetrashypanda423 @lilacs-lavender @wow-lookit-all-the-fandoms @ohmyitsfaith @xplrreylo @fandomfreakff @onedollarduck @sleepygal124 @faith-quake @stripedchickens @youcandalekmyballs @pettyjayy @libidinexx @bts-chub @theoriginalkat @flowertoty @whenyouwantdeath @ot7purple @ purblerain @megasimpleplan4ever @whenyouregrungeaff @dumdumsun

[johnkrrasinski]

𝐄𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞

Chapter 2: Those Eyes Add Insult to Injury

full masterlist // series masterlist // commission open // support my work

Pairings: Dark!Steve Rogers (in future chapters) x Reader

Word Count: 2,554

Summary: Steve Rogers; a Hollywood A-lister and your clandestine occasional hookup. Best friends since childhood, but people change and friendships fall out. Now you were merely strangers with benefits. What happens when one day you stopped being his doormat to be a better man’s queen? The selfish Steve Rogers would not like it. How far is he willing to go to get his favorite possession back?

Warnings: smut, non-con/dub-con, dark Steve (in later chapter), angst, Steve Rogers is an asshole in this one, no redeeming qualities. (MUST BE 18+)

A/N: this series is dedicated to the lovely @belovedcherry​​ who commissioned this story and developed the concept. thank you for being a friend when i truly needed it. i’m really glad that you trusted me to write this story for you. with all my heart, i sincerely hope you like it. this series will be updated everyday, there will be 4 more chapters ahead.

Several years had passed since you graduated. You and Wanda remained close despite the bustle of life would get in the way sometimes. She got accepted in Yale University and she chose to study Psychology. Maybe that’s why she and you got along so well. You both were humanitarians at hearts.

College was a lot more fun than high school but that also meant the bigger pressure would come along in one package. Nothing that you didn’t expect. You went into social study major to groom yourself for the future you had set for yourself. Life went along as methodically as you originally designed.

But fate was a comical thing sometimes. When it has settled its decision to place two people who have such a rich history in their past together, it would be inevitable and inescapable one way or another.

The past couple of years of high school, you and Steve were practically strangers who went to the same school. He never greeted or talked to you anymore in class and he abandoned every ritual you had in the good old days. He stopped calling or texting, he stopped answering and he stopped coming over.

He just… stopped knowing you.

There wasn’t a day that passed by without you pondering about where did it all go wrong? How did the fair-headed friendship that bloomed like the flowers in spring slip away as briskly as a bottle of wine? A million questions rushed through your nostalgic head and as the season changed, the gap between you and Steve kept extending wider and wider.

You didn’t even know whether he really went to college or not. Or perhaps, he decided to go straight into auditions and found himself a good agent who was willing to manage his career. You still remember when he was so eager to do whatever it takes to study in NYU but you assumed that things had changed since then. He was a different person, after all, maybe he had new plans to pursue his dreams. But of course, life deprecated its surprises being spoiled.

Who would’ve warned you that you would get accepted to New York University as well as Steve?

You didn’t know until you ran into him at a sorority party that you were reluctant to go at first because you were never that much of a party gal, but your roommate, Natasha coerced you to.

Natasha was a kind person but she could also be a little bold than you were used to. You were grateful that she was your roommate though, you were a little worried that you might have to live with someone who was mean or untidy, everything that Natasha was not. You could imagine the relief when you learned how organized and sensible Natasha was. You had a feeling that the friendship you and Natasha had was going to last a lifetime.

“My sweet girl, y/n, I love you but you really gotta put yourself out there, okay? Forget that motherfucker Steve Rogers. He ain’t shit. If you go to the party with me, you might actually find yourself a decent guy who’s a lot cuter than him and who will treat you right. Because if he doesn’t then I’m gonna kick his ass and he will think twice before cheating on you.”

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend, Nat. Besides, I don’t care about Steve anymore,” you lied. “It’s not even about him, I’m just simply not much of a partier.”

“Bullshit. You are now. Let’s go. I won’t hear any more excuses.”

So you had no other choice but to put on a simple dress and went to the party with Nat. There was no saying no to her when she had made up her mind. Plus, you thought it would be a good idea to familiarize yourself with the vicinity and your potential classmates.

You also wrote a new resolution in your invisible diary that you were going to expand your connection in college and socialize more. You were only really friends with Wanda back in high school. You also shared a few classes with Pete Parker who was nice and smart, despite being a little gauche sometimes and you would often talk to him but that was it.

You also lost your childhood best friend who knew you better than anyone else before Wanda did. It truly deteriorated your trust issues and that’s why it was difficult for you to insert yourself in social situations and just effortlessly talk with any stranger.

You stood in the corner with a red plastic cup in your hand that was still almost full of beer. You didn’t drink either so you had no idea why you even bothered holding it. Maybe it gave you a sense of comfort that you wouldn’t be totally alone in this party.

Natasha had asked you to dance but you knew you’d look like an untrained clown at a circus, so you refused to join her. Natasha was currently lost in the music, dancing with a guy named Clint. You had no idea who the hell he was but he seemed nice, and you knew that if Clint had bad intentions with Natasha, he wouldn’t stand a chance and you wouldn’t let him so you assigned yourself the job to watch over Natasha and bring her home safely in case she chugs down a little too much alcohol.

Your eyes wandered around the room, trying to recognize and learn some faces. It felt like you were the only lonely person in the room as the exuberant music faded into the background. Everything felt slow and steady until the person who just walked through the door made your heart stop.

It was Steve. Steve Rogers.

The person you had incessantly wondered about. You hadn’t seen him in over a year even during the gap between graduating and starting your freshman year in college. You were too occupied in moving out, spending as many time as possible with Wanda and your family and filling out college requirements. Steve would emerge in your mind every once in a while but you tried to erase him away as quickly as possible when it happens because you didn’t want to waste your time missing a ghost and someone who probably never spared a second of his life thinking about you too when you are surrounded with your loved ones for the last time.

You didn’t know when you were going to be able to see Wanda again. She was going to New Haven and that means, it would take at least at two hours drive to visit her so you cherished the last moments that you had with her. She was like a sister to you. You still talked to Wanda nearly every day through texts but you also didn’t want to intrude her study too much. Besides, you had your own duties too as a college student now.

So why did it feel like your lungs stopped functioning when you saw his gorgeous face and those familiar pair of cerulean blue eyes? He had a grin on his face as he walked in with five other college boys. You didn’t know who they were but you assumed they were his new group of nitwit friends. Steve was wearing a brown leather jacket with a black shirt underneath.

He walked to where the kegs were with the boys trailing him along like they were his security team. They joked with each other boisterously as if they owned the place. Typical. Nothing you hadn’t seen in high school. But you couldn’t avert your sights from Steve. You were too riveted by the fact that Steve was here, at a sorority party of NYU.

It couldn’t really be him, right? I mean, is this serious? You two really attended the same university? This must be a joke.

Your thoughts were quickly interrupted when Nat pat your shoulder with her energy still blazing from the dance floor. “Whew, that was fun but I need some drink now.”

You didn’t respond as your lips were still agape, not knowing what you were supposed to say to her.

“Y/N? You alright? You look like you saw a ghost.” 

“He’s here.”

“What? Who?”

“Steve Rogers. The guy that I told you about.”

“Where?!”

You pointed in his direction where he was surrounded by a bunch of pretty girls in skimpy dresses now. One of them was groping his bicep shamelessly and Steve had his arm around her waist. She threw her head back as she laughed cheerfully at something he just said.

“You gotta talk to him! Have some closure.”

“What? What the hell am I supposed to say to him?”

“Tell him that you and him are through and maybe, throw a drink at him afterwards. That scumbag deserves it.”

“Nat, no! Are you insane? I don’t wanna cause a scene.”

“But you can’t just let him get away with whatever he wants, y/n!”

“No, let’s just go home and forget it, okay?”

“Alright, if you’re not gonna talk to him, then I will.”

“No, Nat! Stop! What are you doing?! ” But she was already approaching him with ardent footsteps and fire in her guts as she brazenly inserted herself into the middle of the scene.

“Excuse me,” she sarcastically greeted the group. “Yeah, hi, I just need a minute. Are you Steve Rogers?”

You followed behind her but you stood just a few feet away from the incident so that Steve wouldn’t see you. But you could see from over Nat’s shoulder that Steve had a perplexed look on his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and all the girls around him were staring at Nat like she was a crazy person who just randomly popped up uninvited.

“…yeah.” He answered.

“Oh, so you’re the asshole that my roommate has been talking about. Man, she really didn’t lie.”

“Excuse me?” The puzzled look on his face turned into an offended one.

“Yeah, my roommate y/n. Does that ring a bell?”

He was aghasted at the mention of your name. Before he was given a chance to answer, Natasha filled his silence with more of her venomous words. “You really have the audacity to show your face here, huh? I swear to you, the next time I see your irritable face again, I will make you regret for ever breathing in my direction, but for now, I think this will do.” She threw the beer in her cup onto his face, humiliating him in front of everyone who was entertained by the drama.

Steve wiped his face with his hand and he was too stupefied by the information that had just been dumped on him like a cold water. Well, it wasn’t entirely figurative though.

Before Natasha walked away, she sneered with a sly smirk on her face, “enjoy your party.” She shoved the empty cup to one of the girl’s chest as she reflexively caught it, with a flummoxed expression, her eyes didn’t stray from Natasha.

She walked away vauntingly from the flock towards you, “let’s go, y/n.” as she kept walking towards the entrance. You were still frozen in your spot as she was already going for the door. But before you could follow her, your eyes landed on Steve’s doused face as his eyes were already fixated on you.

For a moment there, there were only you and Steve and the intimacy of unspoken farewells and muted longing that were encapsulated in one bubble of silence that comes when two people understand each other. It was like the drawer of Steve’s things that he left with the memories and he never asked you to return came hurdling back like ocean waves and everything just evaporated in the ticking time.

There was no need for words because your eyes delivered more than both of your lips had in the past couple of years.

“Y/N?” He uttered your name. That was perhaps the first time he had called you in years. And with that, it was like every broken piece you had intensively woven back together ruptured and there was no safety net that would prepare you for this fallout.  

He was bewildered by seeing you here and you had no clue what you were supposed to say. So you threw him a poignant smile, forcing yourself to put on an impassive facade in front of him. You were good at that, you had years of practice from all those times you found Steve making out with Janet in the parking lot. You wonder if they were still together?

You wordlessly walked away and joined Natasha to the front porch. Steve watched you turn your back on him, not knowing whether he should call your name again, follow you or he should just let you go. You on your way back home were filled with so many thoughts. You couldn't help but wonder, what would’ve happened if you had stayed and talked to him at the party? What would he say to you? Would he even care at all?

But on the other hand, you were relieved. It’s like, you truly got the closure Natasha said you deserved. Never in a million years, you would ever dream about standing up to Steve like that. Hell, you weren’t even brave enough to tell him how you feel back when you were younger. But may God bless Natasha and her parents for creating her, she defended you in a way that you could never do. And she showed you that maybe, it’s time you hold on to your promise that you vowed to yourself, that you were finally going to move on and bury him into your memory dump.

You were in college now. You had no time to wallow in sadness and heartbreak caused by a douche like Steve Rogers. So you made peace with the fact that it was probably the last time you were ever going to see him. You might run into him around college but you weren’t going to let it shake your ground. You unlocked the door of your dorm with a contented smile on your face as you sat on your bed.

Natasha instantly went for the small closet to change into her pyjamas but was briefly delayed by your mumble. “Thank you.”

“Pardon?” Natasha turned her head into your direction.

“Thank you. For doing that… At the party.” You smiled at her. You sincerely meant every word.

“I’d never let a man walk over a good woman like you, y/n.”

You nodded as she carried on with what she was doing. She went into the bathroom to wash herself off and you laid in your bed, feeling lighter than you had ever felt in years. Maybe she was right. It was time you realize your worth. You spent too many years doubting yourself just because Steve was too much of a reprobate to cherish you.

You closed your eyes, relishing in the comfort of your bed without fearing a ghost looming in your sweet dreams anymore now.

Letting tomorrow surprise you with whatever it has in store. Sometimes it involves a charming devil standing on the other side of your door with flowers in his hands and a wicked scheme to accomplish.

[ask-demon-princess-astarte]

Inspired by the beautiful commission done for me by @dovaahkiin I wrote this fic. Enjoy.

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

Night fell over the land over Skyrim, stars glittering in the darkness. In Whiterun, aside from the guards patrolling the streets, all was still and silent. Farkas sighed as he rolled over in the bed, his beast blood keeping him from getting a restful sleep. He looked up to see Azirina reading a book. 

 "You can't sleep either huh?" He asked, sitting up. 

 "Lucia was coughing earlier. I gave her a potion to help her sleep, but I am just checking that she will not wake herself up." She explained, closing the book. She turned to look at him, her blue eyes glowing in the darkness. He sat up beside her, the only sounds in the house the occasional movement of the other residents or a cough. 

 "So, not only are you the Dragonborn, Harbinger and the nine knows what else, but you're also an alchemist now?" He asked as he sat up. She chuckled softly, resting her head on his shoulder. He lay his head atop hers, enjoying the silence when a pounding at the door made them jump. Azirina hopped to her feet, padding down silently to the door. Farkas sat up as he heard Aela speaking. 

 "Another giant is attacking the farms outside the walls. They have asked the companions for aid." She explained to Azirina. Farkas didn't hear exactly what she said in response, but the door soon shut and she reappeared, grabbing her armour and pulling it on. He went to pull on his own then paused. 

 "I will stay here with the children." He said, standing and taking her hands. "Just shout should you need me." He added slyly, placing a kiss on her forehead. Azirina simply chuckled before heading out the door. He sat down, listening to the fire crackle and the occasional guard pass by. 

 After an hour, he frowned. It shouldn't take this long. He got to his feet, grabbing a blade whilst Lydia came down the stairs. "Stay here, guard the children." He said as he headed out of the door. Even in Whiterun, the distant sounds of a battle could be heard, the grunts of the giant sounding like a distant thunder storm. 

 In the darkness, a mighty shout echoed through the stars. "Mid Vur Shaan!" His head snapped up and he ran up to the wall to see the battle. The companions, as if empowered by the shout, appeared to glow as they battled the three giants. One fell to Aela's arrows. The second soon succumbed to Vilkas' and Aethis' blades. But the third was proving stubborn, numerous arrows and cuts upon the great beast's body. Then he saw the glow of magic. 

 As the giant swung its club, smashing into the ground and sending soil skywards, magic glowed, healing Aela of an injury from debris. Azirina stood out, a blue star amongst the warriors. Seeming to sense her strength, the giant turned to her. Azirina moved back, firing three arrows rapidly. He heard a faint gasp as several guards joined him by the parapet. All of them watched as one of the arrows caught the giant in the eye. It groaned, swinging blindly. In the darkness, his eyes caught the blue of her armour as she moved backwards. 

 "Yol Toor Shul!" A second shout filled the air, a ball of fire striking the giant. 

 "Was that a dragon?" One of the guards cried, looking skywards. 

 "No. It was the Dovahkiin." Another said. Farkas held back a laugh as more gasps of astonishment filled the air. He sheathed his blade, knowing he was not needed. The giant stumbled backwards, howling in pain. Azirina followed, running after the beast and bringing her blade into its belly. As the giant roared in agony, she pulled back. 

 "Rii Vaaz Zol!" The giant crumpled on the ground as a blue aura hit it. The beast lay, on the ground. Azirina sighed as she sheathed her blade, going and helping Ria to her feet. The group turned to return to Whiterun, pausing as the guards cheered from the walls of the city. Azirina stood, letting the others enter ahead of her, pausing only to share a brief conversation with Vilkas. Farkas remained on the wall as she approached. 

 "Why did you come from the house?" She asked him, leaning on the parapet.

 "You were gone a while." He replied. "I was starting to get concerned." 

 "There was only one to begin with. But then more appeared. There were five at one point, and a mammoth. But I managed to get the mammoth and one of the giants away using a shout. That big one though, the last one, proved resilient." She explained. 

 "I saw. The big bastard was truly putting up a fight." He chuckled as he wrapped an arm around her. She smiled, leaning into his embrace. She turned, her arms wrapping around his neck, his arms embracing her waist. For a moment, it was merely the two of them. No dragons, no civil war, no expectations. Just two lovers embracing beneath the stars, silence filling the space between them. Until she spoke to him softly. 

 "Farkas?" 

 "Hmm?"

 "Where is your hand going?" He merely chuckled in response.

[kiss-my-freckle]

The Girl - Masha Rostova - Elizabeth Keen

Up until the point Scottie confirmed it was Alexander Kirk who hired her, all I see when I look through S3, is the Townsend Directive. One should question HOW exactly Masha was outed in the news. When you follow the dialogue, you can see it. 

“Elizabeth Keen was well hidden from the demons of her past until you went after her, until you told the world she was Masha Rostova."

"The world" makes a huge bit of difference. I’ll show you why. 

“That’s why she allegedly walked into the ocean. She wanted the world to believe she drowned.”

This includes Dembe’s scene with the woman from Paris. 

"Let’s record this for the world to see, shall we?"

This doesn’t speak to Kirk, he was coming for his daughter. 

Liz: But I don’t know anything. Red: They don’t know that. You can’t walk away, Lizzy. They won’t let you.

Even while questioning Scottie, Red had to be sure. 

Red: Who hired you? Scottie: You know exactly who hired me. Red: I’d like to be sure. Scottie: Alexander Kirk.

Not so simple if Red has to be sure. Neville Townsend is involved. The very difference between “he” and “they” that I’ve been pointing out since the start. I don’t care if 100 characters spoke of Liz being outed as Masha Rostova during the course of S3. We can agree that she was outed, but not a single character spoke to HOW she was outed. Back in S2, she was simply referred to as “the girl” at the fire. 

"I know all the stories, Red. I know where it was and I know when it disappeared. I know about the house, the fire, the girl.”

Even Walter Martin referred her that way. 

“The girl - Agent Keen - was she worth all this? Getting captured?”

No one knew her by name. Red didn’t give it to the Cabal. Constantin sure as hell wouldn’t because his life depended on her stem cells. Braxton didn’t. 

Director: Where is it? Braxton: I’ll have it to you by 9:00. Director: I thought you said you had it already. Braxton: And I do. I wanted that Fulcrum in my hands before I negotiated with you. Director: Need I remind you that the price had already been set? Braxton: That was before you volleyed missiles at me and my men. Now the price has gone up. Director: Mr. Braxton, I don’t think you fully appreciate the power of the people who have engaged your services. Braxton: Well, if they’re that powerful, then I’m sure they can afford an extra 10%. Go find the money, chief. You do that, and I’ll have what you want by 9:00. Hey, I want you to call me just as soon as you get confirmation of funds.  

An interesting parallel when compared to Red’s scene in S5. Long after Rostov came and went and they dug into the suitcase Kate unearthed.

"We know the truth, Masha. That’s your real name, isn’t it?"

The news: Elizabeth Keen vs Masha Rostova. 

Director: They are based upon information provided by Raymond Reddington, a traitor to our country and a fugitive who is helping ex-FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Keen avoid arrest. The daughter of a notorious KGB spy, Keen is a wanted terrorist. My accusers are criminals, the subject of one of the largest manhunts ever conducted. Who are you going to believe is telling the truth?

Television: And we are just now getting reports that former FBI Agent Elizabeth Keen has been shot and killed. No comment yet from the FBI, but moments ago, this photo appeared on the Washington Chronicle website. The paper, quoting anonymous sources, is saying Keen was one of several victims shot at an undisclosed location outside of New York City. Keen stands accused of committing the worst acts of terrorism on American soil in over a decade. She’s been a fugitive for the past five weeks, the subject of one of the largest manhunts in FBI history. The details are still coming in, and we are working to confirm them for you, but it appears, on day 37 …

Hitchin: But on a personal note - please. I just wanna say, when I think of the horrifying nightmare that Elizabeth Keen has endured - branded a traitor, hunted as a fugitive by the very law enforcement agency she swore an oath to serve - Well, there are no words. There is no apology I can give on behalf of the government that could ever be sufficient. I only hope that she can take some solace in the knowledge that in the end, the system worked. Thank you. 

Matias Solomon -

"Elizabeth K– Is that the one from the news?”

Grocery store man -

"Are you that woman? Elizabeth Keen?”

Liz’s double -

“I guess I’m you. Elizabeth Keen, right?”

Landlord -

"Um, soon as possible, Miss Keen. Elizabeth Keen?"

“Elizabeth, this is Barbara Menninger. Look, I wanted to apologize. When I realized who you are, I just - I overreacted. Frankly, I thought you were a pretty terrible person, and that was wrong. You’ve been exonerated. You deserve a second chance, and so I want you to know, the apartment’s yours, if you still want it.”

Cash -

“It’s that Russian bitch.”

Adoption Agency Lady -

"They hadn’t put it together that you were that Elizabeth Keen."

Benjamin Stalder -

Ressler: Mr. Stalder, do you have any connection with Elizabeth Keen? Stalder: The fugitive. Right? Uh, no, only what I hear in the news. Whatever happened to her, anyway?

Everyone saw Elizabeth in the news. Constantin saw Masha. 

“I never thought I’d ever see you again… until there you were in the news, you… and Reddington, the most wanted fugitives in the world.”

The newspaper: Elizabeth Keen vs Masha Rostova. 

Kaplan: Are you sure this is a good idea? Red: Yes. Get the photos to Sandquist at the Chronicle. I want everyone to know what happened here today.

To be clear, this newspaper is keeping up with the date and timeline of Liz’s pregnancy. Krilov still hits the mark in Tom Connolly’s episode. The woman’s dialogue also handed us an estimate of Agnes’ age.

Woman: That man is one of our agents. He’s staking out Keen’s building. Four years go, Reddington and Keen went on the run together. She was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Denora: It says here her name is Masha Rostova. It also says she’s the daughter of a KGB agent. Woman: A notorious KGB agent named Katarina Rostova. The agent out front He’s not looking for Reddington. He’s looking for her. As bad as he is, Rostova’s worse. Berdy: The child you’re being asked to care for is their granddaughter. They’re in Keen’s life, and if you take this job, they’ll be in yours, as well.

How interesting it'd be if S8 brought Agnes' birthday like S6 brought Red's.

“I’m worried they’ll find Masha, try and leverage her.” - Dom S7

"As soon as the name Masha Rostova hit the 24-hour news cycle, they came for her.” - Red S3

“They” being the Townsend Directive.

“Do you know what the Sikorsky Archive is? It’s a blackmail file. It has compromising information on very powerful people. I’ve been accused of stealing it.” - The woman, S7

"The secrets she took with her could compromise any number of players on that map. They’ll be coming. They’ll be coming for you." - Red, S3

The Sikorsky Archive contains secrets. 

“You put a target on her back and invited someone to take a shot. Do not try my patience, Laurel.”

Similar to the Fulcrum. 

"All this, Luther, and you don’t even know what the hell you’re looking for. It’s not what you think. It’s not a golden ticket. It’s a target on your back." - Red, S2

This is why I think Constantin Rostov will be what outs this woman an imposter. Red thought the Townsend Directive was coming. It was Kirk. Now that the Townsend Directive is here, Dom is suddenly referred to as a Rostov. 

“The Cabal is in green. Their affiliates are in red. Their competition is in blue. Since I’ve been a fugitive, the pestilence on this map has only grown. This is what we’re up against - a multi-headed hydra. You cut off one head, it grows two others. You have to cut off every head and burn the rest of it. It’s a mythic battle, and it’s not anywhere close to being over.”

The Devry map. What Liz will be facing if she screws shit up. 

"As soon as the name Masha Rostova hit the 24-hour news cycle...” - Red S3

Red: Where’s Rostova? Allond: Who? I don’t know who– Red: Nine days ago, a painting was commissioned. It was sent to this address, shipped to you - Mr. Paul Allond.

Allond: Yes. I - I’m a dealer. A private art broker. I received a call. No name was given. She said a piece had been acquired and was nearly finished. She asked that it be sent to me. Red: For pickup. Allond: Yes. But not by her. By you. I assume you’re the one she spoke of. Reddington. She said you would come.

Red: I may not have told you what you want, but I told you all you need. You’ll never find Rostova.

Woman: But when the time is right, when I have the answers, I will find you. Might be a week or a month, but I will find you. We will end this. 

“Does he know about you as a child?” (Masha Rostova)

“Does he know about the fire?” (The Girl)

Red: Her husband wasn’t who he appeared to be. She was in jeopardy. I had to intervene.

How Tom and Katarina connect back to the pilot. The Cabal, the Townsend Directive, Constantin Rostov, the Fulcrum, and the Sikorsky Archive. 

[ask-de-writer]

DARING DO and the ADVENTURE of the X'IBIAN VASE! : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 5 of 21

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

DARING DO and the

ADVENTURE of the X'IBIAN VASE!

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck) @ask-de-writer​

And

Carmen Pondiego @askcarmenpondiego​

Cover Art by

Doctor Dimension

52630 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 08/26/15

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Down in the comfortable lounge, with its dark, almost cave like atmosphere, she relaxed and had the waiter sit with her.  They were quietly chatting in X'ibian while watching the front doors, over in the area of the lounge open to the public.

Soon the doors opened and a confident young looking mare with a forelock, mane and tail of an amazing blue that was almost black walked in.  She had a single eye, centered in her forehead.  She was carrying a document case.

Two big earth ponies, easily half again her size got up from a table and stated, “Just hand over the papers, Miss.  We are Doctor Do’s personal secretaries and we will give them to her.”

“No.  My orders are to put them directly into Daring Do’s hooves ONLY.”

One edged behind her, pulling a knife.  The other pulling threatening hoof, ready to punch, demanded, “Hand over the papers or we are going to have to get REAL rough, got it?”

Her smile of sheer delight should have been a warning.

She dropped the dispatch case and backed hard.  That slammed the one behind her into the stout doors of the club.  Reaching back and grabbing, she had the thug’s foreleg.  She lifted it to her shoulder and snapped down, while driving forward with her hind legs.  With an audible snapping and rending of the joint, he flipped up, horror on his face.  She slammed him down like a big meaty hammer on top of his fellow thug!

That unfortunate was trying to make a grab for the case when he was flattened.  The mare, an expression of pure joy on her face, hauled her “hammer” back and whipped him over again.  He not only hit his fallen comrade, his head flopped back as he came down.  The shattering of his neck could be heard throughout the room.  

She hoof rolled the corpse off his buddy and leaped almost to the ceiling, landing on one hoof, putting the full weight and force of her body on the last one’s spine.  The splintering of ribs and the softer snapping of his spine announced the death of the second thug.

He twitched once and lay still. The cyclops eyed mare, simply glowing with delight, carefully rolled both bodies to the tiled part of the entryway.  She examined the carpets and gave a high hoof!

Speaking at last, she exclaimed, “Perfect!  Not one drop of blood on the carpet!”

With her face composed to a light professional smile, she came to Daring Do’s table.

She placed the case on the table.  Daring Do smiled up at her and said, “Thank you, Cyrene. It is an honor that Eris sent her documents in the company of her best bodyguard.  That was amazing to watch.”

Cy replied, “The honor is mine, Doctor Daring Do.  In here are not only Eris’ releases and other documents, I have the honor of delivering the Royal documents and a formal notice that your expedition is under the Royal Wing.”

Turning to the Guadian, she made a deep formal X'ibian court bow and said, “I thank you, Guardian. I saw you draw your knife to throwing position but withhold your strike.”

He returned the bow and replied, “I saw that you did not need my assistance, Watcher of the Exalted One.  We of the Guardians have been given the honor of watching recordings of your many actions on Her behalf.”

Cy replied, “I began by watching the works of your ponies on Her behalf.  I learned much.  I am pleased to be able to thank one of you in person.”

He put his hooves together and bowed his head.  “The greatest compliment that a teacher may receive is a student who excels.  The Student has far surpassed the teacher.  We are proud.”

Daring Do, ignoring the nearly frantic police at the club entrance, opened the case and began to inventory the contents.

She was delighted at what she found.  Expedition clearances, of course.  Letters of credit.  Travel documents from Equestria and the Chineighese Empire.  There were even documents for X'ibia, even though it was technically a province of the Chineighese Empire.  Her eyebrows rose at PRE CLEARED Chineighese Artifact transportation and export.

She muttered to herself, “They must not want a repeat of the Darkling collection fiasco.”

To her surprise, her comment brought a smile from both the normally impassive Guardian and Cy.

She had just packed it all back and sealed the case when a pony in the uniform of a Canterlot Police Sargent Major strutted up self-importantly and made a grab for the case, snapping, “This is evidence in a double murder!”

Cy’s blindingly fast move snapped his foreleg away from the case.  She said in an utterly level voice, “Sargent Major Haystring, I would think that you would remember the last time that we met.  It only took you five years to recover your rank.

“This is a formal legal statement in regard to the present double ponycide.  I, Cyrene Yvonne Clopes, was given detached duty from Eris, Inc.  My duty, given under the Royal Wing, was to deliver a case containing documents for Doctor of Antiquities, Daring Do.

“Entering the Adventurer’s Guild, I was accosted by two thugs attempting to steal the case and documents.  They first tried the ruse of being Doctor Daring Do’s secretaries.  When that failed they attacked me.  I killed them both and delivered the documents properly.

“This whole event is legally protected by the Royal Wing of Equestria.”

Sargent Major Haystring sourly examined the ID’s offered by both Cy and Daring Do.  Smarting under the memory of a five year dent in his career, he handed them back.

Truculently he demanded of Cy, “Don’t you ever let anypony live?”

To his surprise, she replied promptly, “Of course I do, if they have useful information for Eris or the Princesses.  Otherwise, no.  Where is the fun in letting slime ooze away?”

Defeated, he retreated to his fellow officers and held a conference of whispers with much hoof pointing at Cy and Daring Do.

The Guardian smiled serenely and offered, “If your personages will be so good as to follow me, we can avoid further foolishness on the part of these most unwise police.”

They both followed him into the tidy service areas of the Adventurer’s Guild.  They passed through the surprisingly busy kitchen and on to a service elevator.

They went down two levels and got out in a big underground service tunnel filled with heavy cables, mains for water and other things that Daring Do did not have time to identify.

Cy did, though.  She happily twirled several handwheels and pried open a big gray box.  She pushed the button inside and neatly shut the box again.  The Guardian watched with sparkling eyes.  He quit trying to maintain an impassive face and started to chortle as he led them down the dusty and spider webbed service tunnel.

Cyrene, smiling angelically, explained, “The police were setting up a hard point in front of the Guild.  They use the ponyholes for the electric and gas when they do it.  Those all have emergency fire fighting pressure spray systems in them nowadays.  I just routed the sewer into the fire fighting line and set off the sprinklers!”

Daring Do joined into the merriment as they trotted away down the rarely used tunnels.  They emerged near the Canterlot Central Railroad Station.  Daring Do bought them all tickets.

Almost as an anticlimax, the ride to the modest seaport of Milestago was uneventful.  They enjoyed the scenery along the way and dark had fallen by the time that they arrived, but that was the worst of it.  

Soon they were all relaxing around a table in the Rusty Barnacle.  Their rooms were paid and a modest meal of the locally famous sea-grass, harvested only days before, was in front of them.  Daring Do was studying the ship schedules and docking reservations.

Cy pushed back from the table and said, “Doctor Daring Do, It has been an honor to deliver the documents to you.”  She paused and her face took on a grin that was paradoxically both savage and serene at once.  “It was FUN, too!  I am so glad that it did not upset you like it does so many others.”

Daring Do looked up from her schedules and asked, “Has been?   Are you leaving us?”

“I will be with you until time to sail, Daring Do.  Then I have duties for my Mistress, Eris.”

The next morning, they were assembled about the scarred and battered table in the Rusty Barnacle. With daylight, the delightfully tacky decor of the place stood out starkly in view.  There were the usual nets festooned about, antique looking whale spears, phony treasure chests and, though it was easy to miss, in the corner, enmeshed in the net, dangled a lovely fake skeleton of Sea Unicorn.

Daring Do did take the time to admire the place once again.  She had started many expeditions here and the management used that knowledge in their marketing.

Daring Do was picking at her breakfast while making many Magic Net mirror calls.  Finally she sat to eat seriously.

She snickered as they all set out to examine the many assorted goods that she had ordered from the many Chandlers of Milestago.  “Never turn your back on food.  Who knows when you will get the chance to eat again?”

Their expedition’s supplies finally seen to, they reported to the ship that she had engaged.  The Captain met them at the gangplank.  He had a phony smile pasted onto his face.  “I am sorry, Miss Daring Do.  We have been otherwise engaged.  They paid twice the lading deposit that you did.  I have your deposit right here.”

He started to hand her a check. Before he could complete the action, Cy had him down, one hoof on his back, his foreleg bent up at an unnatural angle.

Over his yelps of pain, Cy said clearly, “GOLD ONLY.  You were paid in gold.  I do recognize the name that check is drawn on.  R.O.T. will not honor it.

“Get Doctor Do the coin NOW. If you do not, you will be known as Captain Svien the three legged. If you survive.”

Perhaps it was the sheer happiness that was radiating from his assailant that caused the Captain to fold at once.  “Nicor!  Get the bag of coin from my quarters now!”

When Nicor showed up with the bag, he handed it over promptly.

Cy said cheerfully, “Count it, Doctor Do!  It is five gold short, to make it look like a miscount of stacks.  The good Captain has the missing five right here in his pocket!”

Betraying himself, the Captain demanded, “How could you know that?”

Daring Do instantly replied, “She is Eris’ personal bodyguard.  Where there is anything amiss, Eris lets her know.  Not sure how that works, but I’ve seen it happen often enough.”

They took the gold and left the Captain trying to rise on his twisted foreleg.

Sitting in the Rusty Barnacle, they were approached by an elderly faded red sea-pony with a wooden stump replacing part of his left hind leg.  He had a battered captain’s cap worn around the stump of a horn.  His eyes, though, nothing old about them.

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[motherfushiguro]

Survivor Boy

Summary: Five gets stuck in the apocalypse, but he’s not alone.

Word count: 1954

A/N: This is my first fanfic ever, so feedback would be greatly appreciated. Also, PLEASE send me requests, I would love to do some.

“Ugh, dad, I don’t want to get the laundry from the basement,” you whined.

Your father sighed, and without looking up from his book asked, “Why not?”

“I told you before. There are spiders and stuff down there. It’s so creepy!” you huffed.

“I don’t care,” your father responded. “Besides, you need to toughen up.”

You spun on your heel and stomped to the stairs. As you descended, you told yourself that it would be okay, the spiders weren’t going to get you, and they were probably harmless. Probably.

You flipped the light switch in the basement, not that it really helped. It was so dark, and there were no windows because it was so deep in the earth. Your eyes darted around the room, looking for any bugs that might scare you. When your decided the coast was clear, you crept your way over to the dryer. You flung open the door and begun putting the dry clothes into a nearby basket.

All of a sudden, everything around you started rumbling with great force. You fell to your knees from the violent shaking. Your eyes could hardly handle what you were seeing as dust started falling from your ceiling. In a panic, your eyes landed on the now-empty dryer. You crawled in, your small body barely managing to fit.

It seemed like it would never stop. After an eternity though, it did. Claustrophobia overwhelmed you and you pushed the dryer door so hard that you tumbled out when it opened. You inhaled deeply, thankful to be out of that stuffy dryer.

Your eyes immediately saw all the fallen debris from the ceiling. Tears began to well up in your eyes as you sprinted up the stairs, not caring that there were now numerous broken steps. You prayed for your father to be okay, but you knew it was a lost cause. Seeing his body in the rubble of your former house only confirmed your fears. Unable to do anything else, you sunk to your knees and screamed. You tried to scream out all the pain, to scream out the world around you, but it was still there when you opened your eyes.

You pulled yourself to your feet. You had no idea where you were going, but you just felt the need to be anywhere but here. You walked for hours, ignoring the pain in your legs, desperate to find anything at all. But you were simply met with rubble and fire as far as the eye could see.

The sun began to sink in the sky, and you decided to find a place to rest. You noticed one wall of a nearby building was still standing, and you figured that was the best you were going to find. You stepped over a fallen gate, not seeing the large umbrella logo on it.

When you reached the wall, you noticed a blanket on the ground. Before you could question it, you heard a click from behind you. “Who are you?” a mysterious voice said.

“My name is Y/N,” you replied nervously. You had no idea who this person was or what they were capable of, so you needed to be cautious. “Please don’t shoot,” you said, slowly turning around. When you saw the boy behind you, the first thing you noticed were his shockingly green eyes.

When he saw that you were his age, he lowered the gun. “I’m Five,” he said. “How did you survive the apocalypse?” he asked, shock visible in his eyes.

“Um, I kinda hid in my dryer in my basement,” you replied. “I guess I got lucky,” you said softly, a hint of sadness coming through in your voice. “What about you?” you asked the mysterious stranger.

His eyes met yours. “It’s kind of a long story,” he said.

You looked at the world around you. “Well, we’ve got nothing but time.”

...

“Wow,” you said when Five was done, his story rendering you speechless.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking up from the ground.

You thought for a moment. “But if you can time travel, why can’t you just go back?” you asked.

A smirk crossed his lips. “My powers seem to have conveniently stopped working,” he responded, annoyance clear in his voice.

Your eyes met his vibrant green ones. “I guess this means you’re stuck with me, survivor boy,” you teased.

The corner of his mouth tugged into a smile, and he let out a faint laugh. “I guess I am.”

45 years later

“Hey, Y/N. You’ll never guess what I found for dinner,” Five called out to you. He now barely resembled the young boy he was when you first met him. “You remember that old mansion just outside the city limits? Well, it turns out the wine cellar was untouched. I picked up a few cases of your favorite Bordeaux.”

A wide smile spread across your face. “That’s amazing, babe!” you exclaimed. Five kissed you on the cheek, which made you blush like it was the first time. “You’re so resourceful, I’m lucky to have you.”

When you turned around, Five wrapped his arms around your waist. Tingles erupted on your skin where he touched you. “I love you, babe. And if I had to get stuck in the apocalypse with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

You turned around and planted a tender kiss on his lips. “I love you t-“

You stopped halfway through your statement, as you heard rubble being shifted behind you. You and Five simultaneously grabbed your guns and took aim at the source of the sound. Your eyes saw a woman with gray hair. Her wardrobe was straight out of the 1950s, and you wondered what on earth she was doing here. Through the scope of your gun, you could see that she was waving.

“Who the hell are you?” Five shouted.

“I’m here to help,” she replied.

She started advancing towards you. You shouted, “Tell me why we shouldn’t put a bullet through your head right now!”

“Because,” the woman began, “if you did, you wouldn’t hear the offer I’m about to make you. Which would be rather tragic given your current circumstances.” She took a seat on a chunk of rubble opposite the two of you. Five and you glanced at each other, and you lowered your guns. The woman continued, “I work for organization called The Commission. We are tasked with the preservation of the time continuum through manipulation and removals.

You and Five exchanged glances. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Sometimes people make choices that alter time,” the woman explained. “Free will, don’t get me started. When that happens, we dispatch one of our agents to eliminate the threat.”

You and Five simultaneously raised your guns back up, thinking she meant you. The woman chuckled. “No, no, no, no. You misunderstand me. You’re not targets. You’re recruits.” You and Five once again lower your weapons. The woman continued, “I’ve come to offer you jobs, Number Five and Y/N L/N. We’ve had our eye on you two for quite some time.” She paused for a second. “And we think you have a lot of potential. Your survival skills have made you two celebrities back at headquarters.” She looked at Five. “That, and your ability to jump through time.

Five met your eyes. “You’re saying that we could actually leave here? Go back?” he asked.

The woman smiled. “In return for five years of service. Once your contracts are done, you can retire to the time and place of your choosing, with a pension plan to boot.”

“If you can alter time, why not just stop all this from ever happening?” you blurted out.

“That’s quite impossible, I’m afraid,” the woman replied. “You see, all of this, it was supposed to happen.”

“That’s insane. The end of everything?” Five questioned.

“Not everything,” the woman answered. “Just the end of something.” She extended her hand. “So, do we have an agreement?”

“Can you give us a moment to discuss?” you asked.

“Of course,” the woman replied. “Take your time. After all, we’ve got plenty of that at The Commission.”

You pulled Five off to the side. “So, what do you think?” you asked.

He met your eyes, and you saw an expression you had rarely seen: desperation. “I don’t think we have any other options,” he said.

You put your hand on his face. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow, survivor boy.” You turned around and shook the woman’s hand. “We’re in.”

...

Work at the Commission took a bit of getting used to, but you and Five were naturally great. You made an exceptional team, and you quickly rose through the ranks, even above Hazel and Cha Cha. However, you noticed Five writing in his notebook a lot. Sometimes he grew frustrated and would throw his pen for whatever reason. You never knew what he was doing in his notebook until the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

You were peering over the fence, looking through the scope of your gun, when you heard Five exclaim, “I’ve got it!”

You turned around to face him. “Got what?” you asked.

“The equation,” he replied. “The equation that allow us to stop the end of the world.”

You walked over to him. “Let me see that,” you said as you grabbed the notebook out of his hand. You peered over his notes for a second before you made eye contact with him. “Your calculations are off.”

He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. We need to stop the apocalypse.” You chewed on your lip, thinking about the consequences if you broke your contract with the Commission. Five put his hand on your face and tilted your head to meet his eyes, which were just as bright green as the day you met him. “Are you with me?” he asked.

You stared into his eyes for a moment. “I’m with you till the end of the line, survivor boy.”

Five’s mouth curved into a smile. You wrapped your arms around his bicep, and blue energy began to flicker between his hands. You watched as it grew larger and larger, threatening to consume nearby objects. “Follow me!” Five shouted, and you nodded in return. He began to push his way into the energy, and you followed. The pressure pushing back on you was intense, so intense you almost didn’t see the fire extinguisher fly out off the portal. You kept forcing your way through, arm still linked with Five’s. The world began to flicker, and suddenly you were falling about ten feet towards the ground.

You hit the grass with a thud. Your entire body ached, and it felt like someone had shoved cotton up your nose and into your brain. You slowly stood up, and saw a familiar looking young boy a few feet away from you. You instantly recognized Five, as young as the day you first met him.

He looked at you, and then down at himself, before saying, “Shit.”

You rolled your eyes at him, and helped pull him off the ground. “I fucking told you the equations were off,” you quipped.

“Is it just me, or does anyone else see little Number Five?” a man with curly brown hair asked.

“Excuse me, I’m standing right here,” you shot back.

“And who the hell are you?” asked a big, blond man in a large overcoat.

You and Five exchanged glances. “It’s a long story,” replied Five.

“We’ve got time,” said the man dressed in an all-leather ensemble.

“Actually, that’s the one thing you don’t have,” you stated. Everyone’s eyes went to you, curiosity burning behind their pupils. You continued, “The world ends in eight days.”

[purkinje-effect]

The Purkinje Effect, 16

Table of Contents

Hancock had paid Geek entirely in caps for the reconnaissance task, a first for the pink ex-vault dweller. He’d known the Commonwealth now used caps, but up until that point they’d always been a matter of supplementary funds for bartering. The two kicked around Goodneighbor for just over two days while Hancock ensured his house was in the best order it could be, and Geek... well, he started warming to being called that.

He bought himself a full set of sturdy leather armor which Daisy offered for sale, and reinforced the whole thing with a few extra layers of fabric inside, adding as many pockets as he could, wherever they’d be comfortable against his skin. Anything could be useful now in the wastes, he reasoned. Especially as the landscape shifted to grey the definition of edible. Besides, this way he could leave the duffel behind, and rely more upon himself. A few extra pockets inside his jumpsuit didn’t hurt, either.

You’re gonna want a gun, Geek remembered the mayor commenting before the two parted to wrap up business in the area. Even if y’don’t use it, you’re gonna want to bring one. And make sure you clean Daisy outta bobby pins. No tellin’ what trouble we’ll end up getting into. An odd laundry list, for sure, but he heeded the suggestions, and in addition to seven snippets of crimped wire, he also nabbed a .44 bull barrel pistol and two boxes of bullets. At the very least, they’d be emergency rations if they found themselves in a spot where food for him was scarce. He kept the bobby pins in a pocket he’d put in the side of his left boot, as far away from his absent appetite as he could manage. The fistful of caps he had left after upgrading his attire and arms went in his zippered thigh cargo pocket, to the same effect. The only thing he purchased for food rations was the lone carton of shortening Daisy had left. She adored that he was making such use of the Is It Food or Not? section of her shelves of stock. He hadn’t yet started reading the book she’d given him, but when she asked, he insisted he’d have the time for it while he and the mayor were away for a week or two.

When he and the mayor were to head out, Hancock did not port the crushed red velvet coat, or tricorner cap. Instead now wearing a tailored black leather road jacket and jeans, the hairless ghoul strode up to Geek, who’d been lingering with a bottle of whiskey in the Third Rail, waiting up on him. It was a dead time between performances, the dusty subway air filled only with the sounds of quiet chatter and a faint radio from the VIP lounge in the back.

“So we gonna get this show on the road?” the ghoul smirked, glancing furtively at him. Geek gave him a sly look and got up, taking the half-finished fifth with him.

“Let’s do it,” he affirmed, slurring a bit as the two ascended the stairs to exit the subway and skip town.

The pink Pinoy couldn’t much believe the mayor himself had eagerly agreed to travel with him. And he’d thought the historical attire had suited him well. The sweat was hard to hide as they walked north along the front face of the town.

“Two options,” Hancock remarked as they got to the first intersection, the one with the neon signs. “You feel like a lotta raiders, or a handful of Gunners?” He’d casually pulled out a hunting rifle from his jacket, eyeing the western route.

“I got through Haymarket Square all right, but seems you think risking the Gunner attention is warranted.”

“I tend to favor cutting in front of Mass Fusion whenever I leave out. Half the time, there’s not even anybody on guard. They’re too cocky about having occupied the plant. They haven’t even been bright enough to cut off our power supply lines from it, either.”

So they took that route, cutting left, then immediately right. The piles of sandbag walls still fortified the front entrance as before, as well as a few appropriated military green ballistics screens, vandalized in white with the grotesque skull the Gunners bore as their insignia. One pair of these screens blocked off the first left turn, but a high wall of sandbags as well as the gut of a rusted out car blockaded the next intersection. As Hancock had told, there was no one on duty out front of the nuclear facility as they passed through: merely an untended lantern and a miscellany of weather-rotted patio furniture.

“See? What’d I tell ya,” Hancock remarked quietly, trying to make his mind up which way to go from there. The ghoul’s dark, scleric eyes were hiding something, but Geek couldn’t tell what it might be, though he figured any paranoia must have been the whiskey he still nursed. “Here, let’s go left.”

Doing so, Geek walked along with him, the bottle empty by that point. Out of habit, he deposited in the next rubbish bin he crossed. His face screwed up, and he proceeded to fake that he’d intended to rummage through it for anything useful. Effectively he traded out the glass for four tin cans, which he stomped flat and added to a chest pocket for later. Hancock simply stood nearby and observed, badly hiding his amusement at his inebriated travel partner.

“Left here again,” Hancock called out after a few blocks. He hoped Geek was drunk enough not to notice they were now headed south, when the meetup location Deacon had provided Geek had been northwest of Lexington. "You’re sure this isn’t as time sensitive as it sounds.”

Now at the paved walkway along the shore of the River Charles, they approached a corner with a number of cast iron lamp posts, and a bricked embankment. The rotted-out skyscrapers imposed them to the left, the shadow of the Route 2 overpass to the right. A low fog had started to set in over the waterway, creeping up along the cobbled pavement.

“He told me he’ll wait for me until the end of the week,” Geek insisted. “We don’t gotta run the whole way, I swear.”

“Left here,” Hancock guided once more, following the side street in past the lamp posts. They passed several skeletons of automobiles, no longer more than rust. With one that had once been a van to their right, an eighteen-wheeler just ahead of them, having trapped itself in the perpendicular dead end side street. Hancock stopped before the multi-storied blue business building, and sat in the patio chair directly outside it, pulling out a flask to observe Geek while he whet his lips with something.

“Y’need t’stop already?” Geek wondered, looking around slowly. “That, that’s ok.” He sat on the wooden bench opposite the building, and took out a flattened can to snip it into strips for a snack.

“It is almost cute that you have no idea where we are,” the ghoul grunted, stretching. “And here you said you’d exhausted all the places you knew where to look for answers. When you didn’t object to my detour, it was obvious to me you either hadn’t been this way before, or you really hadn’t scouted it out yet. So here we are. Boston’s Vault-Tec Regional HQ.”

As the significance soaked in, Geek looked up from his gloved hands in a daze.

“Ready up, though. I see people treat this place like a live grenade. Guess we’re going to find out why.”

Geek armed himself with both fists and they entered. The lobby had an elevator to the right, and a hallway to the left of the reception desk which seemed to have offices. Three feral ghouls jumped them not five feet into the building, lunging for their faces.

Hancock shot one right in the face and kicked it in the chest to make sure it crumpled backwards. Steadying his aim to take out a second one, he seethed, “Had to be ferals.” Then, he fired again.

Geek slammed the third ghoul in the jaw with his mallet-knuckleduster, which he’d affectionately endeared the title of Left Hook, and sent the warped and naked wretch to land near the first feral Hancock had downed. The two made a pile of the three, and Geek walked back behind the reception desk with a huff.

Most of the papers scattered around had disintegrated or plastered themselves to the surfaces where they’d rested, if they hadn’t fallen to the floor. Geek helped himself to the pumpkin candy bucket on the desk, producing from it gumdrops. He popped a few in his mouth and sucked on the tough sugar-coated chunks.

“I tend t’forget it happened right before Halloween.” He sniffed and started going through the receptionist desk drawers as well as those of the two desks back-to-back behind it, finding little actually on printed paper. A wad of ballpoint pens and a few file cabinet keys later, he nearly slipped on something in the floor. He bent down, and stood holding a yellow ball of Bakelite. “...Billiards balls?” There were several on the floor, on closer inspection. He kept all of them.

“What are you even plannin’ on doing with those?” Hancock mumbled in a dubious whimsy. “Next you’re gonna tell me you can fit your fist in your mouth.”

The only response the ghoul received as Geek wandered off down the hallway was a nonchalant, over the shoulder “You can’t?”

Hancock exhaled hard out his nose with his mouth clamped shut, not sure whether Geek was joking, but he abruptly laughed it off and followed. The pink fool had come across what had been the company’s break room, outfitted with a refrigerator, seating, and several appliances, all no longer in commission. Over half the ceiling directly above it had caved in, the metallic prefab panel forming a slope one could scale to the next story. Geek already had gotten to the top of it by the time Hancock caught up, and was rummaging the various desks on the second floor.

“Do you know what we’re even lookin’ for?” the ghoul asked. “Not t’be pointed or anything, but it seems like this place is fulla nothin’ but junk.”

Geek looked up from the desk he’d been rifling through, caught with his mouth full of pens. He swallowed before responding.

“You don’t know either? That’s reassuring.”

“Mmh, oh hey, a terminal.” Hancock poked his head into a side office. “Watch your step right in front of it, but maybe--” Geek joined him in the small single office, where the ghoul had sat to browse the entries on the squat-screened box of prewar technology. “...Oh, hm. It’s got a password on it. No. ...No. There it is.” Once he’d cracked into it, the tip of his tongue slipped back into his mouth, and his brow furrowed increasingly. “...The employee that worked from this office had his suspicions Vault-Tec was going to experiment on its tenants. No shit.”

“What do you mean?” Geek sat down on the desk, next to him.

“Well, I’ve heard stories. Really haven’t done much Vault exploring of my own, and the one I do know anything about is 114. What happened with that one probably wasn’t any of Vault-Tec’s doin’. Money laundering kept it from getting completed, but a mob head named Skinny Malone’s got himself holed up in there right now. Might not be one hundred percent, but there’s not much defense quite like a vault door on your hideout.”

“...What kind of stories?”

“I’ve really only heard about Vault 95, but I’ve heard a helluva lot about it. And this guy’s suspicions were nail on the head.” The ghoul wagged a finger at the screen, then proceeded to read from it. “Here: ‘So we just shipped 15 cases of psycho and jet to Vault 95. Of course, that makes total sense... let's give these addicts more of what put them in this situation to begin with. Davidson says it's to force them to make the hard choice, chems or getting clean. I say it's to cause a bloodbath...’ It did exactly that. The vault didn’t die out, man--they killed each other. And here, it says they shipped liquid nitrogen to a Vault 111? ...Which vault was yours?”

“82. Why, did this employee have some kind of magic future sight about 82?” pink dreg’s face soured a bit, sobering up from the gravity of all this.

“Yeah, actually. He was incredulous noticin' the invoice for Vault 82 had half as many hydroponics rigs as were required for the population it was intended to support. ‘When I brought it to Davidson’s attention, he reassured me it was probably a typo, and if they need more, they’ll order it. He also told me that I’m not to question the Vault-Tec’s design insight again, or he’ll take disciplinary action against me. Telling me to my face that gross negligence like that is an oversight. He can’t fire me if I quit first.’”

Geek sat up and tried to process what Hancock had just read him, and his face screwed up tight a moment before he glared at him.

“...No, that ain’t right. There ain’t any hydro-whatsits in my vault. Either that idiot didn’t know what he was lookin’ at, or they never arrived.”

“He seemed convinced of it.” Hancock tried to shrug off the chill Geek gave him. “These entries talk about a guy named Walter in the warehouse downstairs. Maybe he’d have the invoices?”

“I’m not sure I’m gonna like what I find,” he admitted, standing up resignedly. “Let’s get this over with and get outta here.”

Once they got downstairs, he lagged behind a bit. The next sound was a large vase exploding against the wall next to the front door of the lobby.

“Got that outta your system?” the ghoul wondered vaguely, stiff where he stood. “Least give me warning next time.”

“...Yeah. Sorry.” Geek walked ahead of him and pushed the call button on the elevator, which still functioned according to the operating light of the display panel above it. When the door opened with a ding, he ushered Hancock inside.

“No,” Hancock replied dryly, “after you.” The doors shut, and the cab started on its descent. For a moment they stood in silence, arrested by myriad of gnawing. Without build or warning, Hancock produced a cigarette and planted it between Geek’s pursed lips. “You look like you could use this.”

The gesture elicited a heavy sigh, and Geek slouched against the wall of the cab to light it, falling slack.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.” The ghoul was about to offer a light, but Geek beat him to it. The elevator dinged a second time and the doors reopened, but the two lingered while the pink one collected himself a bit better.

The lights were still operating, to their fortune, but the small concrete warehouse, owing to its being a basement, had no windows, and only a loading dock door. It smelled like death and old plastic, and the two of them flinched. Geek took his smoke with him, puffing at it limply as the two browsed the shelves for loot. He stopped and took a long hit off of it and chuckled tiredly, picking up what had gotten his attention with the cigarette between his fingers.

“Hey, Hancock, check it out. A Vault-Tec lunchbox.” He opened it, producing a whimsical party-blower sound. In it was a souvenir magnet of the Vault-Tec insignia, which he swallowed promptly. “Ta-dah.” Before he knew what hit him, he was on the polished concrete floor.

In a whirl of claws and fists, Geek knelt on top of the ghoul and used the floor to add pressure to his punches as he beat the feral ghoul’s skull against it. He recognized he’d done in the feral and caught his breath, but quickly laid in a few more punches. Then, he got up to retrieve his cigarette off the floor just under the shelving where he’d stood and put it back between his lips. He grabbed the lunchbox, too, entitled to it.

“Remind me not t’make you mad,” Hancock joked awkwardly, having been sitting across the room on a palette of toilets watching. “The dock terminal’s up there.” He pointed up the stairs to the elevated landing where the loading dock door was.

Geek sat down in the desk chair when he got up there, already beyond emotionally done with the day. He nearly flung the keyboard when it booted up to another password screen.

“I know you probably gotta hangover right now, but you gotta chill, Geek. Did you try 4, 3, 2, 1?”

“Why would that even work?” Geek muttered sarcastically, trying it anyway. When it worked, he stared in shock. “How?”

“Prewar folks were just as bright as we present day folk, wouldn’t you say?”

Another long span of quiet between them as Geek pored over the files. Hancock briefly excused himself to the facilities located to the other side of the dock door. When he came back out, he found Geek sprawled across the desk with his face mashed into its top, arms hanging off the front. He didn’t sit up when he spoke, his words muffled by his arms and the desk.

“The invoices are all labeled that everything ordered for Vault 82 arrived on site. Where the fuck did they put them.”

“The invoices could’a been doctored,” Hancock offered. “I didn’t see a thing about the incomplete vault I mentioned, in that other employee’s journal entries.”

“No, I gotta gut feelin’ that guy from upstairs was right. You confirmed he got other things right. He might’a seen the stuff about the incomplete vault but didn’t have any evidence to back up his hunch yet. Anybody smart enough to leave a business like the one this place conducted, was smart enough to make sense of all the signs somethin’ was seriously ends-up around here. Still...”

“Come on, unglue yourself from that desk and let’s get movin’. We’ll figure it out. This is just proof we ain’t done sleuthin’. ...Are you really gonna take that with you?” The peanut gallery followed Geek out once a few more terminal commands had raised the dock door for them to exit.

“I hadn’t had one since I was a kid. Dunno what I’m gonna keep in it, but supposing it’s a decent enough souvenir for this little detour you set us on.”

“Food, Geek. Y’keep food in a lunch kit.”

“Right.”

[wildefiction]

Focus

WORD COUNT: 1,352

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Reader reminisces about how she became a convention photographer when she gets a phone call from an old friend asking for help.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: None

ONE

Rain fell in heavy sheets, pelting the glass windows of her home office. Glancing up from the screen that had monopolized the better part of Y/F/N’s Saturday morning, a wistful smile quickly replaced the look of concentration she’d worn only moments before.

It had taken the better part of five years, but what had started as a hobby had now become Y/F/N’s career. Always a bit on the nerdier side, as a child she’d suffered for her love of comic books, fantasy novels and dressing as her favorite characters. When she’d turned fourteen, Y/F/N had attended her very first Comic-Con, right here in the Pacific Northwest. At seventeen, she bought her first camera with savings accumulated from her first summer job. The cheap little point-and-shoot meant only to help preserve the memories experienced at conventions.

Although photography was her passion, ten years later she still found herself behind the desk of a large conglomerate – the steady hum of coworkers tapping away on their keyboards surrounding her as she sat in a grey sea of cubicles and windowless drudgery. Like most of her peers, she celebrated Friday afternoons with unimaginable glee. Unlike her counterparts however, her weekends were spent huddled over the small sewing desk crammed into a corner of her one-room apartment. Bolts of colorful fabric stuffed in every available space. Tirelessly she perfected the smallest details on what had, over the years, become award-winning cosplay. Y/F/N had quickly taken note of what good photography was, often hanging out with convention photographers as they wandered the halls, capturing the moments that would eventually become highlight videos and marketing materials for future events.

As she devoured every book in sight on the finer points of photography, Y/F/N discovered soon enough that she was in the market for a completely different camera set-up.

Months of research and countless interviews with other photographers helped hone her knowledge and the day she bought her first full-frame camera, she knew something was about to change for the better. She also knew that the new path she was turning towards had no room for grey walls and a corporate mentality. So, she quit. While some said the decision was hasty, she was confident that if she was to be successful in her new endeavor, a sharp left-turn out of corporate America was necessary.

****

Thoughts cut short with the melodic notes of her favorite Indie band, Y/F/N turned from the winter rainstorm and strode back to her desk. A smile spread across her face as she lifted the phone from the glossy surface. Chris hadn't called her in months, both of them busy with their own ongoing photography assignments.

“Chris! Hey man, how've you been?”

Exchanging pleasantries, you found yourself pacing the room - wiggling your toes in the plush cream carpet while you caught up with one of your earliest mentors.

Several years prior, you'd run into the man - quite literally - nearly knocking him to the ground in your haste to make a group shoot. Seeing the camera clutched in one hand, he'd only grinned while you stood there stammering out an apology as best you could in the very little time you had to spare. Ten minutes later, while you stood amongst a group of other cosplayers (still trying to steady your heart-rate), you turned at the sound of the ballroom door opening. Chris had come waltzing into the room, that same steady grin on his face, and for the first time you took note of his appearance. More than anything, the frosted ice of his eyes sent an actual chill through your body.

When you'd opened your email several weeks later and found the pictures from that event, you were impressed. The images were crisp, vibrant and well-lit. Comparing them to the work of staff photographers, who were usually volunteers with very little experience, you found his images inspiring and you'd immediately sent an email asking for pointers - explaining your desire to improve your own photography skills. He'd agreed almost instantly and over the years the two of you had shared information with each other. Eventually as you started taking more photography assignments and fewer cosplay commissions you'd started to build a name for yourself. More often than not you'd be on a flight to a different location nearly every weekend, but you couldn't fathom wanting to do anything else.

****

“Hey Y/F/N, what's your calendar looking like this next weekend?” Chris put the call on speaker, throwing the phone down on the non-descript mattress of the generic hotel he was getting ready to leave.

Slightly taken aback by his abrupt question, Y/F/N navigated to her schedule for the following week. There were no entries. Scrunching her nose in confusion, she tried to think whether she'd missed something. Free weekends were almost never a reality for her and she needed to be sure she hadn't simply forgotten something.

“Well..weirdly enough it looks like I'm free this weekend, but I'll double check. Why, are you going to be in town?”

Pulling the desk chair back over to sit in, you began scrolling through your notes, only partially listening to the man on the other end of the conversation.

“Yeah, I'll be up for a Supernatural convention and could really use a second set of hands. Usually Seattle has a pretty small turnout, but I've also got a workshop to get ready for, so I'd love some help.” “Besides, we should catch-up.”

You'd watched through the series on Netflix earlier last year and, while you were a fan, you'd yet to attend one of their official conventions. The disappointment of booking what was sure to be your only free weekend for the next several months was short-lived. Besides, the Westin was a really nice hotel. No way would you turn that down.  Accepting his invitation, you kept the call short. If you'd be in Seattle all of the following week, finishing your current workload would be imperative.

****

Friday morning saw you arriving to the city with the sunrise. The skyline lit with oranges and yellow, a dusting of pinky-purple faded into a clear blue sky. It would be beautiful today. Drumming along the steering wheel as you pulled into the parking garage, you were thankful for the compact car you’d purchased. Half the spaces were full and it was only just after eight-thirty. Grabbing your luggage from the back seat after firing a quick text off to Chris letting him know you’d arrived, you headed for check-in.

Clusters of people mingled in the hotel lobby, nearly all of them wearing flannel or shirts with the symbol you recognized as the anti-possession symbol from the show. Sometimes a combination of both. Hotel guests who weren’t there for the convention were instantly recognizable. Expressions ranged from confusion to outright horror at the sudden influx of questionable sigils and murmured conversations about devils and angel blades.

Winding through the groups of fans, their excitement was contagious and a wide grin spread across your face as you made your way to your room. Waiting for the elevator, you hastily rifled through the messenger bag slung over one shoulder when it began to hum. Pulling your phone from one of the pockets, you unlocked it to a text from Chris:

  Dumping your belongings on the queen-sized bed, you took a moment to fire a reply to let Chris know you were on your way.

 Shoving the phone in your back pocket, you stopped briefly in front of the mirror to run a brush through your hair and fix the eye-liner that had smudged sometime between six this morning and now.

A few minutes later, as you wandered through the brightly-lit corridor of the second floor, somewhere music began to play. The upbeat, fun play-list appeared to be coming from a set of double doors halfway between where you stood and the end of the hall. Making your way to the room and grabbing hold of one brass-plated handle, you slipped inside - the door closing quietly behind you.

CHAPTER TWO

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