#they are two planets orbiting each other round and round until one gets knocked into a star

[dark-night-star-light]

Breaking my silence to say: Shane and Abeke were never romantic to me.

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

I really wanted to get the next chapter of Nothing Sacred, All Things Wild up this week, but work was crazy and I also got caught up in another story (I can’t control my muse)...so instead I’m offering up a long snippet of the dystopian/space colonist fic I started off a prompt I got a while ago for an “Arranged Marriage + a/b/o” request I got from an anon.

A/B/O is not my cup of tea, so I twisted it into an arranged marriage by an artificial intelligence instead: 

He wakes up angry, sweat soaking through his pillow, heart racing, stomach cramped. The alarm is buzzing from somewhere beneath the bed, where he must have knocked it. 

“Turn it off,” Ygritte mutters into his shoulder, before rolling away with the rest of their thin blanket.

He complies, letting the shock of the cold floor against his feet spur him into full wakefulness. “I take the test today.” It’s raining. He watches the drops splatter against the small window near the ceiling, and he wonders if Ygritte remembered to check the bucket beneath the leak before she crawled into bed the night before. 

Their garden apartment doesn’t do well in the rain. Jon still doesn’t understand why it’s even called a garden...there’s nothing green about their cramped basement residence, besides the mold growing beneath the sink.  

“Oh yeah. Happy birthday...we’ll get drinks when you come home.” 

“If I come home.”  He could be part of the one percent, after all. That is the Institution's promise. Everyone is SOMEONE. Anyone can be part of the 1%. Are YOU?

Jon knows it’s unlikely. How could he, an orphan from Mole’s Town, have the magic combination of pheno-, geno-, and personality type to be chosen for the Colony? No...he’s just another loser of the 99% who will waste his twenty-first birthday behind the Brutalist concrete walls of the Institution’s testing center, playing lab rat for the day, until the examiners come to the inevitable conclusion that he’s just another nobody. 

They’ll spit him back out on the street, leaving him free to carve out a pathetic existence on a slowly dying planet. 

He doesn’t bother washing. It’d be a waste of precious water when he knows full well they’ll scrub him down at the testing center. Instead he spends his last moments at home drinking a pot of weak coffee, trying to remember anything he was taught in the schools he barely attended. His energy would be better spent bracing for the coming indignity of having every part of his body and mind exposed and dissected. 

“Is the area of a circle, two pi times the radius? Or is that the circumference?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ygritte lights a cigarette at the stove before joining him at the table. “It’s not that kind of test.”

He knows that. It’s another Institution promise. The Test doesn’t ask WHAT you know. It asks who YOU are. Are YOU the 1%

How the fuck would Jon know? It’s easier for him to remember that the area of a circle is actually pi times the radius squared, than it is for him to explain who he is. He has no idea. That’s kind of what being an orphan is all about. 

Ygritte could at least throw him a bone and tell him what the test is like. She took it two years ago, though she won’t talk. Most people won’t. There are no rules against it, but The Test is treated like dysentery. Unless you live behind the gates, you’re going to get it at least once in your life, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna go around describing your diarrhea to the world.  

Grenn went to White Harbor for the test a month ago, and though Jon had to buy him six beers and two shots of whiskey before Grenn would shut up about his first-ever train ride, he did give Jon a few insights into the rest of the experience. 

Not that the train isn’t worth the excitement, especially when the ride is paid for (another Institution promise. No matter your means. No matter the distance. EVERYONE makes it to the Test. Are YOU the 1%?) Technically, Jon has taken it once before, from Winterfell to Mole’s Town as a baby, but he doesn’t remember.  

Now he can’t believe anything that moves so fast could feel so smooth. He’s topped out at ninety miles per hour on the best snowmobile Donal Noye patched together, but that left his teeth rattling and his ears buzzing for hours afterward. The train is moving at double the speed, but he could be in the godswood, for how quiet the near-empty economy cabin is. He shares it with a twitchy young man who never looks up from a cheap tablet, and a black raven perched in a large cage who spends the entire ride staring at Jon with one eerie black eye. 

The testing center is located just across from the train station, in an intimidating building that used to have a name. Jon has a vague memory that it was a prison before the Institution took it over. Before that it was something else. 

He doesn’t balk when a masked orderly leads him to a small room, tells him to strip, and then takes off with his clothes. He knows they’ll be returned at the end of the day. Of more pressing concern is the man and woman who enter talking too quietly to make out at the other end of the room, while a nurse rolls in with a small cart covered in collection tubes, gauze strips, and butterfly needles. 

Everyone wears surgical masks, latex gloves, long white coats, and black clogs. 

Jon remains naked beneath a small paper covering. 

He has given blood before, and the messy, life-saving transfusion Mance performed to save Tormund three years ago was far scarier than the rapid, methodical draw that's taken from him now. Still, it’s disconcerting to think of the secrets the Institution will glean from his blood. He’s uncomfortably aware that they’ll know who his parents are before the day is over, even as he’ll continue living in total ignorance. 

Another Institution promise. The Institution values EVERYONE’S right to privacy. YOU control the right to tell the world who you are. Are YOU the 1%?

Before he’s finished the recitation in his head, five tubes are full, and the nurse pats a cotton ball and a band-aid over his arm. She tosses a granola bar on his lap before rolling out of the room with her cart of samples. 

Next comes a physical exam, where the other two examiners speak only to each other as they record his height, weight, blood pressure, and note his every blemish and scar in flat affect. 

“Post-burn contractures across the palmar and dorsal aspect of the left hand, adduction and extension in the metacarpophalangeal joint of thumb fall outside normal range of movement.”

“Keloid scarring along the right gastrocnemius muscle, five point three centimeters in diameter.”

“Slightly hypertrophic scarring beginning at left brow and running medially down across the left orbital cavity to the cheek. No ptosis noted. No apparent damage to the eye.”

He should feel worse beneath the weight of each fault. Instead he relaxes. He was nervous for nothing. Failure was always inevitable. The Institution would never invest in a malnourished kid with a burned hand and a badly healed leg wound. They are famously secretive about their selection process, but some reasons for failure are common knowledge. As the crows like to say, no cripples, bastards, or broken things. 

So, he chews his granola bar slowly and even closes his eyes for a bit, letting the examiners move his limp limbs as necessary for their measurements. He imagines himself a cadaver during the early stages of an autopsy. 

As long as they don’t cut me open….

When an white-haired man enters and lays out what look to be a series of tiny torture devices, Jon wonders if he stopped caring too soon. He white-knuckles it through an excruciating dental exam that ends with his first real exchange of the day. 

“Have you ever been to a dentist, kid?” 

There is still a tube in his mouth, sucking up his spit and a hook pressing at his gums, so Jon just shakes his head. There are no dentists in Mole’s Town. Just Chett, who used to work at a slaughterhouse down south and will pull a rotten tooth for the price of a bottle of whiskey. Jon wouldn’t give the creep the lint in his pocket, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let him near his mouth. Instead he brushes his teeth so hard his toothbrush regularly snaps in half, and prays something else kills him before gum disease has a chance.

“You’ve got better teeth than I see behind the gates, boy,” he pulls the hook from Jon’s mouth to dictate into a small microphone hanging from his mobile workstation. “Review DEFB1 on ID 17630343BA. At some point the focus will need to expand beyond the holy 22 and get back to the basics. Who is going to care about neuron growth if every fourth planter is born with anodontia?” 

Jon understands little of what the man is saying, but he’s heard enough to know he’s at least got as good of teeth or better than some of the rich tossers who live within the heavily guarded gated communities where the Colonists are actually culled from. Behind their high walls, wealthy sons and daughters of the only one percent that really matters, spend their youths preparing for the Test in homes and classrooms pumped with filtered air, where the water runs clear, and no one ever goes to sleep with their bellies cramped from hunger or disease. 

The Institution promises that ANYONE can be the 1%, but EVERYONE knows that's a lie. 

---

The physical exam ends at last, after several more rounds of sterile humiliation. Jon isn’t sure which was worse; having to lie within a noisy cylinder while a disembodied voice reminded him not to move, or being asked to run naked on a treadmill, wired with electrodes. 

When it’s over, the last examiner provides him with a sweatsuit that is softer and better-made than anything he owns, and he wonders if there is any way he can smuggle it out with him at the end of the day. Another orderly comes in with a waxy crisp apple that hardly seems real even as a spray of tartly sweet juice hits the back of his tongue. He’s given a pill as well that he swallows down with a cup of water so clear and so cold, it’s an act of incredible will-power not to ask for more. 

It’s only after, when he’s led to a small room with two chairs, a table, and a pulsing white orb in it’s center that he thinks to ask what it’s for. 

“This will make the answers come more naturally during your interviews,” the man explains before leaving him alone. “We want you to answer as truthfully as possibly, but we understand that can be difficult under the stress of the Test.”

He supposes people lie all the time on the Test, trying to game the system, though Jon doesn’t have the first idea how he’d go about doing that, nor does he have any reason to try. He’s not going to the Colony. This is all just a spectacular waste of time, and it’s a race day, which means he’ll have to pull extra shifts at the Rookery to make up for what he would have made beyond the Wall. 

By the time a petite woman with a neat low bun, and cracking, grey scar across half her face and neck enters, Jon is reckless with anger. 

“I’d like to go home.”

“Hello, Jon,” she smiles as she sits across from him, and she’s the first person he’s seen since he entered the building who isn’t wearing a mask. She’s also the first person to call him by his name. “My name is Shireen.”

“Where’s your mask?”

Her smile dims slightly, but she maintains her gentle tone. “I’m here to facilitate the interview portion of your Test today. Before we begin, is there anything you need to feel more comfortable? Something to eat, drink, a bathroom break? Should the temperature be adjusted?”

He’s sour with anger so he takes everything she offers, suddenly eager to make everything as inconvenient as possible for the Institution. Shireen takes his requests with an easy smile, however, escorting him to the restroom herself. When they return to the room, there is a bowl of hearty soup with a chunk of bread that is soft and airy beneath it’s golden-brown crust. Beside it is a tall glass of water and a smaller cup of green liquid that Jon eyes suspiciously. 

“What’s this then?”

“I thought you might like some juice. It’s mostly apple, with some kale, cucumber and celery in it as well, I suspect.”

It’s the best thing Jon has ever tasted, and while part of him wants to fling the rest of it at her frustratingly serene face, it’d be a horrible waste, and he’d be the biggest loser. So, he takes his time, savoring each bite and sip, rolling the bright flavors across his delighted tongue. 

“Feeling better?” she asks after the tray is cleared. 

“Is that an official Test question?”

“No.”

“Let’s get on with it then. I can’t afford to miss the train home.”

“As you may know, it is not individuals who decide the 1%. Our artificial intelligence algorithm, The Seven, determines who is the best fit for the Colony. That is how the institution guarantees objectivity in its selection process,” she taps the pulsing orb on the table. “Though we find people are more comfortable responding to another person, so I will be facilitating our discussion as The Seven records and analyzes your responses. Are you ready to begin?”

He shrugs. 

“I’ll start with a series of statements. After each, please say a number to indicate the degree to which you agree with that statement, wherein one equals strongly disagree and five equals strongly agree. Three indicates you neither agree nor disagree. Do you understand?”

“Five.”

“Okay. Statement Number one: At social events, you rarely try to introduce yourself to new people and mostly talk to the ones you already know.”

Jon knows everyone in Mole’s Town, and he doesn’t want to socialize with most of them. 

“Two.”

This goes on for a while, each statement absurdly divorced from anything relating to Jon’s life, but the numbers spring easily from his lips as he relaxes under Shireen’s soothing voice, and kind face, and the lovely feeling of a full belly and soft, warm clothes. 

It’s when the format shifts, that he begins to feel strange. Shireen starts with questions that are easy to answer. Where were you born? How many years of education have you completed? What was your favorite class and why?  What do you do for work? Describe your strengths. When are you most satisfied in your job?  Do you live alone or with others? How many others do you live with? What is your relationship to the person you live with? 

At this point, the questions grow more invasive; more personal. A voice tells Jon that the Institution doesn’t need to know how many times he and Ygritte fuck a week...but the answer escapes all the same. 

“Four or five times a week.”

“Do you use contraception methods?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to have children with your partner?”

“No.”

“Given your age and your partner’s, without contraception, given your regular intercourse the odds of conception are--”

“She’s sterile.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Most everyone in Mole’s Town is. It’s something in the water, or the air, or our weak genes. It doesn’t really matter the cause. If it’s not the one; it’s the other. She’s been fucking since she was fifteen, and nothing’s ever caught.”

“How do you know that you aren’t the sterile one?”

He shrugs. “I probably am too, but I’m not her first partner as you say. I’m not her second or third either.”

“How does that make you feel?” 

He glares, and Shireen clarifies. 

“Your partner’s sterility?”

“How do you think it makes me feel?” he pushes back from the table, letting his chair lean back on two legs. 

Shireen only gives him a minute shake of her head, and waits for him to answer the question. 

“Angry. I feel fucking furious about it.”

“So, you would like to be a father?”

“I’d like the freedom to choose. I’d like Ygritte to have that freedom.”

“What is your least favorite thing about humanity?”

She can’t be serious with that question. It’s like asking him to name all the stars. He takes a deep breath. Shireen waits. He stands up and paces. Shireen waits. He finishes his water and asks for another. Shireen calls for a refill. He drinks that too. Shireen waits. 

“My least favorite thing? That we’ve given up. We let this machine,” he points at the orb, “decide who doesn’t have to. It’s like….it’s like the men in Mole’s Town who wander into the snows when winter grows too cold, and there’s not enough food or warmth to go around. Grown-ass men who could be fixing furnaces and braving the cold to find the resources their families so desperately need. Most of the time they don’t even have the fucking guts to tell anyone  what they’re off to do. They just wander away one day, and winter takes them. 

That’s what the fucking Institution is. We’re all those men in Mole’s Town who’ve just given up, despite the blood still pumping through our veins. We’re sitting around, waiting for winter to kill us, so that a few can live. And there’s no one left to be mad about it either, because it’s a fucking machine that decides our fate. It’s like being mad at the wind. What’s the fucking point? But just because there is no one to be angry with, that doesn’t mean the rage goes away...and winter isn’t killing us fast enough."

“So you want to live?”

“I want humanity to want to live. I want humanity to want most of humanity to live. I want us to care about more than the one percent.”

It feels radical, saying it here; behind the walls of the Institution. It feels like he’s put the last nail in his own coffin. Shireen watches him as he cracks his knuckles, one at a time, waiting for her to say the interview is over; it’s time to go home. 

Instead she asks an even crazier question. 

“Do you think there is an essential connection between the morality of an action and the morality of the intentions behind it?”

[concussed-to-pieces]

Stay Safe Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Part two of the tale! Also, I will do my best to tag who I can, but my browser tends to crash after tagging three to four people. So please forgive me if I don’t manage to tag you, I still love you <3

Thank you for reading! Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @toxiicpop @helplessly-nonstop @huliabitch @culturalrebel @literal-fand0m-trash @sinnamon-bunn @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3

Part One

You had to take numerous breaks for the child, the small being clearly not used to this level of 'forced march through uncertain terrain'. "You're going to sleep like a rock tonight, aren't you?" You asked, chuckling when the kid babbled wildly as if to reply. 

Up ahead, you saw the Mandalorian pause once again. "Everything alright?" He called, his hand resting on his blaster.

It's not like I'm going to run away on you, you thought uncharitably, rushing to force a smile. "Short leg syndrome!" You responded loudly, choosing to swing the child onto your shoulders and trot briskly up the path. "He did good, I'd say, but he's getting tuckered out." You continued once you were close enough for the beskar-clad man to hear you without raising your voice. 

He simply nodded, turning and continuing along the well-worn trail. You shifted your attention to the massive trees flanking the path, gawking a bit at the height and lush greenery of it all. Your drifting often brought you to orbital stations or desert planets, so this verdant forest was a rare sight indeed.

"Not used to it?" His voice broke the silence and you glanced at him, a little confused that he was trying to make conversation. He was still staring straight ahead. He must have been watching you out of the corner of that visor.

"Not at all. I'm really familiar with the dust and sand. I mean, these trees are huge!" You exclaimed, humoring him. "Everything looks so alive and...soft, I guess?"

"Foliage alters terrain dramatically. Don't be taken in by how it dulls the edges." He grunted. 

"Yes sir!" You saluted him and he scoffed, waving the motion off. After a few more minutes of walking in silence, you spotted a large structure looming in a clearing to the side of the trail. 

"Be on your guard." Was all the Mandalorian said, tapping his holster. 

It was a settlement of sorts; a series of tents scattered around a towering, ramshackle yurt that appeared to be the central focal point. You did your best to be inconspicuous, but it was an uphill battle when you were walking drag for a Mandalorian in polished beskar.

Upon entering, you realized that the yurt housed a communal area and drinking establishment. The limited patrons of the bar started whispering to one another once the Mandalorian had stalked by, and you found yourself on the receiving end of more than a few inquisitive looks. 

You surreptitiously tried to mask the bruising on the bridge of your tender nose, pulling the cowl of your cloak up until it was just beneath your eyes. 

The Mandalorian settled down at a table with a clear view of the entrance, his head turning lazily slow to survey the area. The lone hostess, stars bless her, approached with no trepidation whatsoever. Clearly she had seen more than her fair share of strange or unusual characters pass through. 

"What can I get you folks?" She asked, wiping her hands off on the dishrag that hung on her hip.

"Bone broth for the little one." The Mandalorian ordered, then tipped his helmet in your direction. 

You hurried to scan the scrawled menu propped up at the bar while the hostess proudly informed the Mandalorian that she had taken down a grinjer earlier, so there was plenty of broth to be had. Mindful of the limited credits you possessed, you selected a dish made up of local vegetables and started to count out the amount it would cost you.

The Mandalorian exhaled audibly, the noise almost a sigh. "What did I tell you? Save your damn credits." He muttered. Then, slightly louder to the hostess, "get them a good portion of that grinjer meat to go with what they ordered." He slid his own credits across the table, knocking yours out of the way with his elbow. After the hostess had departed to put in the food order, he leaned back once again. "If you don't eat now you'll be sorry later, stowaway."

"I'm sorry." You whispered, staring hard down at the table. You absolutely were not going to cry in public. You refused to humiliate yourself any more than you already had! Gods, you wished you were back on Nevarro. At least there, things were normal.

His fingers tapped on the table twice, drawing your attention back to him, but he seemed to just be idly shifting his weight. The child babbled at him from their seat, tiny hands waving animatedly. "Is that so?" The Mandalorian replied, sounding for all the world like he was carrying on a conversation with them. "Very interesting stuff, kid." Under his breath he murmured, "we've got eyes on us, stowaway, and not the usual kind."

You went rigid in your seat, unsure why his words terrified you so much. Bounty hunters take down all kinds of desperate people, this is regular for a guy like him. "S-Someone you know?" You stammered.

"No." He answered quietly. Then, "Could be nothing. People who don't know any better stare. Be ready."

The hostess returned with the food that had been ordered (as well as two lurid blue cups of freshly-brewed spotchka, the luxury!) and after ensuring that the child could drink their broth safely, you fell upon your meal with gusto.

"Slow down, you're going to choke." The Mandalorian admonished you, his tone amused. "No one will take it from you, you know."

"Mm, but-" You chewed and swallowed. "But it's really good."

"Savor the taste, then." He abruptly got to his feet. "Watch the kid. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Oh. Uh, stay safe?" You replied uncertainly, blinking up at him.

He paused, and then shook his head like he was dismissing something. "I'll be back in five minutes." He repeated curtly. 

You watched him depart, pursing your lips before turning your attention back to the child. They whined, taking another noisy slurp of their broth. "We'll give him two minutes." You decided, nodding firmly and starting to wrap up the rest of your meal. "Then, we'll rescue him."

…

"You want some soup?" The Mandalorian offered, flat on his back with his blaster aimed at the head of the dark-haired woman opposite him. She was on her stomach, her own pistol lined up with his shoulder. 

You and the child stood several feet away, the child toting their small bowl of broth and you clutching your two cups of spotchka. You had stumbled upon the tense scene once the allotted minutes had passed, following the noises of what sounded like a scuffle between a few of the outlying tents. Your heart threatened to leave your chest when you finally caught sight of the two rolling around on the ground, struggling and swinging at each other with purpose.

The woman sighed heavily, holstering her gun after a moment. The Mandalorian rolled to his feet and extended a hand to her, helping her up off the ground. 

The two of them were covered head to toe in pine needles and detritus from the forest floor, which helped to defang her somewhat as she went on to explain that her name was Carasynthia Dune; she had been a shock trooper and this was her early retirement of sorts. 

You could tell she was former military just from the bold band of tattooing that ran around her bicep, never mind her well-built physique or the confident way she carried herself. The fact that she had gone toe-to-toe with the Mandalorian and somehow emerged relatively unharmed was more than enough to earn your silently-awestruck admiration.

"I knew you were Guild. Figured you had a fob on me, that's why I came at you so hard." She admitted to the Mandalorian by way of apology, nodding her thanks when you offered her the untouched tankard of spotchka. 

The armored man grunted, "I assumed as much." He started brushing himself off, leaving Cara to stand there awkwardly. 

"So, what happened?" She turned to you, tapping her nose. "Get a little too mouthy for the tin can?" The Mandalorian's motions hitched momentarily at Cara's query.

"Mouthy?" You repeated in confusion. 

"Yeah, your nose, it's all…" She traced a circle around her nose, pulling a strange expression.

"Oh! Oh, no. I got hit in the face with beskar. Not his beskar! An ingot of beskar." You floundered, chuckling nervously while you readjusted your cowl to conceal your nose once more. "It was all a big misunderstanding."

"Uh huh." Dune didn't sound convinced in the slightest, her eyes narrowed at you.

"Don't appreciate that insinuation, Dune." The armored man snapped.

"Well, I don't appreciate you muscling in on my turf." She fired back airily. "As fun as this little scuffle was, Mando, unless you want to go another round one of us is gonna' have to leave. And I was here first." With that ironclad logic, she turned on her heel and promptly walked away.

The Mandalorian sighed. "Looks like this planet's taken." He shook another handful of needles out of his cape, grumbling to himself. You moved forward without thinking to sweep a few dead leaves from the thick cowling draped around his neck, your fingers reaching out quickly. 

His hand jerked up, pinning your wrist to his shoulder and bringing you to an abrupt halt. You hadn't even had the time to flinch. "You've...y-you've got some leaves under your chin." You managed to stammer, the realization dawning on you that you could be in very deep trouble. He could snap your wrist like a twig, could do much worse than that.

He didn't let go of your hand for a long moment, leaving you to stare up at the blank void of his visor. You had obviously startled him, but despite that his grip wasn't overly tight. Leather worn smooth grazed over the skin of your wrist, his thumb momentarily pressing down on your palm before he released you and took a step back. "Just...tell me where they are." He muttered gruffly.

Through your concerted efforts of indicating around your own neck and his attempts to mirror locations on himself, he managed to rid his gorget space of all the debris. The child began whimpering and whining during the activity, finally plopping down on the ground.

"You all worn out, little one?" You soothed, hoisting the child up into your arms. They rubbed their eyes, fussing until you bundled them up in your cloak. "Shh, take a nap. Close your eyes. You're safe." You assured them, rocking back and forth slightly.

"We're heading back to the Crest. This planet's off-limits." The Mandalorian growled, his words clipped. "I have some repairs that can be managed with what I've got on hand. Leaving Nevarro wasn't kind to my ship."

"Can I help?" You rushed to ask, swallowing hard when he cocked his helmet. "Please, let me help. I can fix things, I'm good at-"

"We'll see." He cut you off, straightening his cuisses. "Can you carry him? I know you managed it all of the way here."

"He's not heavy." You assured him quietly. 

"Let me know if you need a break."

Maybe once you made yourself useful with repairs, he would give a request to return to Nevarro a bit more consideration. With your fingers crossed and your hopes cautious, you trudged along after him back into the woodlands.

...

The Mandalorian sighed for what seemed like the millionth time, sussing out the right spanner to hand up to you. Night had fallen and so the two of you were working by a combination of the landing lights on the Razor Crest and headlamps. 

"This portion is almost rusted through. You're definitely going to need at least one new blade soon." You called, doing your best to coax some patcher over the hole in one of the left engine's anterior rotor fins. "Also might want to clean your bearings more often than normal, what with all the sand." 

"I'll take that under advisory." He replied. "Will it still fly?"

You peered over the side of the fuselage, passing him back the spanner. "I mean, you tell me. You're the one that knows how it behaves." You tapped the roof of the craft and then aimed a finger gun at the armored man. "How do the landing hydraulics look?"

His shoulders drooped. "Not spectacular." He admitted. "Got caught by a ravinak a few jobs back. Didn't get out of it unscathed."

You scooted to the side of the cockpit's viewport, sliding off to land with a thud on the boarding ramp. "I imagine hydraulic fluid is tough to come by on a planet like this." You squinted up at his headlamp, half-blinded.

"You imagine right." The beskar-wearing man heaved a sigh so deep, it sounded like it came from the ground beneath him. "Damn kid, he's lucky he's so cute." He growled. "I'd be well on the way to my next bounty if it wasn't for this."

You tapped your foot while you thought. "Oh! I almost forgot. I…" You fumbled at your side pouch, pulling out the small bundle you had made earlier. "Here, I saved you some food."

"Why?" He inquired bluntly.

"Because you didn't eat and...I mean, you gave me that jerky earlier, and you paid for my food but I couldn't eat all of it, so I wrapped it up and saved it for you to...um...eat?" Your voice faded uncertainly as you struggled to get the words out, hideously sure that you had somehow managed to offend him. Please, please don't be upset, I just want to go home.

He held out his hand after a second that lasted an eternity and you quickly passed the food over. "That was very kind of you." He said quietly. "Thank you. I will eat later." His voice sounded slightly strained.

You scolded yourself inwardly for being shocked that he thanked you, nodding and then resuming your hunt through your tools for your hydroline sealant. With a little luck, you might be able to-

"Um, excuse me sir?"

You jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, whirling and being confronted by two bedraggled-looking men. "Can I help you with something?" The Mandalorian asked, his tone utterly flat.

"Um, well, yes actually. Raiders." The first man began warily. 

The other man extended his hand, the small bag cradled in it serving to illustrate their bargaining power. "We have money."

"You think I'm some kind of mercenary?" The Mandalorian asked sharply, his hackles clearly raised.

"Well, you are a Mandalorian, aren't you?" The first man appeared confused, stuttering, "You're wearing Mandalorian armor--um, that is Mandalorian armor, right?"

"It is."

"So you are a Mandalorian! I told him you were! Sir, I've read so much about your, your people--er, tribe?" This man was floundering worse than you. Your heart went out to him, watching the Mandalorian's posture stiffen more and more with each word out of his mouth. "If half of what I've read is true, then-"

"We have money." The second man reiterated, like he thought the beskar-wearing hunter hadn't heard him the first time.

"'Mandalorian' and 'mercenary' are not synonymous." Oh he was angry, you could feel him biting out his words even through the modulator. But the two men just stood there, looking like kicked puppies until the Mandalorian finally grunted, "how much?"

"It's everything we have, sir. Our whole harvest was stolen." The first man said dolefully as the Mandalorian busied himself tinkering with the landing gear.

"Krill. We're krill farmers." The second man clarified.

"We brew spotchka, our whole village chipped in!" 

The Mandalorian paused in his motions, turning and actually looking at the small pouch. "It's not enough." He announced dismissively.

"Are you sure? You don't even know what the job is-!"

"I know that it's not enough. Good luck."

"This is everything we have. We'll give you more after the next harvest!" The second man attempted to wheedle, glancing at you hopefully as if he expected you to help him reason with the armored man. 

You were uncertain of how to inform him without words that it was a lost cause, and your armored companion made his aggravation abundantly clear by activating the hydraulics on the boarding ramp. Steam hissed and billowed outwards, startling the two men into stumbling back a few steps so the ramp wouldn't hit them as it juddered up.

"Come on. Let's head back." The first man said dejectedly, tugging on his friend's sleeve.

The second man started pitching a fuss even as they slowly retreated to their cart, "Took us the whole day to get here. Now we have to ride back, with no protection, to the middle of nowhere." 

You saw the Mandalorian straighten up, turning his head slightly. "Where do you live?" He asked suddenly.

"On a farm. Weren't you listening? We're farmers." The second man answered him a little more petulantly than you would have advised.

"In the middle of nowhere." The Mandalorian persisted.

"Yes?"

"You have lodging."

The first man seemed to catch on to the Mandalorian's train of reasoning, excitedly saying, "Yeah, absolutely!"

"Good." The Mandalorian nodded, and then gestured to you. "Come up and help."

...

After a brief detour to acquire Carasynthia Dune (the Mandalorian playing the dangerous game of tossing the proffered bag of credits at her feet and asking her if she was ready for round two), the cart hummed along on the trail through the woods.

"So...we're basically running off a band of raiders for lunch money?" Cara sounded unimpressed.

"They're quartering us in the middle of nowhere. Last I checked that's a pretty square deal for somebody in your position." The Mandalorian reasoned, "Worst case scenario you tune up your blaster, best case...we're a deterrent."

The two men who had hired the Mandalorian (and shock trooper by extension) didn't seem to be able to believe their good fortune. They introduced themselves as Caben and Stoke respectively, and were more than willing to engage in conversation with you about their circumstances. 

You figured it would be in your best interest to make yourself scarce from the Mandalorian and Cara's strategy meeting, and so you plied the two men with questions about the surrounding woods and their village in general. 

You learned that Caben's past relatives had been the ones to start the krill, ensuring that the village would have a steady livelihood through dispensing either the raw material or finished product of spotchka. They were relatively self-sufficient, the woodlands they tended rich with game and plants alike.

Unfortunately, that same richness seemed to have attracted unwanted attention in the form of these raiders. Klatoonians had been harassing the small village for several cycles, stealing multiple harvests of krill.

"So uh, what do you do?" Stoke asked you curiously during a lull in the conversation.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you're traveling with a Mandalorian. You must be pretty tough if you're running with someone like him." He theorized, studying you in the dim light of their lone lamp.

"Oh! No no, noooo. I'm a temporary issue for him, I'm sure. Got tossed into his cargo hold at the last port like so much baggage." You confided with a grimace. "My only saving grace currently is that I can entertain younglings."

"Well, that's great!" Caben exclaimed, though Stoke looked a little less enthused. "We've got a host of young ones that I'm sure would love to have someone new to play with."

"I've bounced around a lot, so I've picked up a variety of different songs and games." You grinned. "Pretty sure I'll have something in my arsenal to keep your kids out of their hair." You continued, lowering your voice as you indicated at the fearsome duo behind you.

On your lap, the child yawned and snuggled into your cloak, clearly done for the night. You followed soon after, bidding the two men goodnight and curling up against the side of the cart. 

…

The day dawned clear, but with a humidity unfamiliar to one such as yourself. Mist danced in rainbow semi-circles through the tree trunks, the sun slowly burning it off as it rose. 

The child bounced in your arms when you carefully climbed off of the skiff to stretch your legs, easily keeping pace with the slow-moving vehicle. 

"How much further?" You whispered to Caben, doing your best not to disturb the snoring Cara and Stoke. You couldn't tell whether the Mandalorian was also sleeping, but it didn't hurt to be considerate.

"Only a few more minutes. Just over that next ridge." The man replied quietly, pointing ahead at said ridge. 

You propped the baby up on your hip and set off at a brisk walk, your body delighting in the fresh air of the forest. It was so strange, having something aside from the blistering climes of Nevarro or the stale, recycled air of hubs in your lungs. Maybe you had been directionless for too long, maybe...maybe leaving Nevarro was a blessing in disguise. 

As you reached the top of the hill, a little gasp escaped your lips. The whole valley was spread out in front of you, the small village dwarfed by the wetlands that surrounded it. Uniform pools lined the outskirts, obviously the krill fisheries the men had mentioned. Despite the early hour, you spotted several people already moving around. 

The landscape was idyllic, almost achingly so, and peaceful. 

Tears sprang to your eyes unbidden and you quickly dashed them away on your shoulder, huffing out a trembling breath. "Well little one, let's see whether your papa can help these people." You mused.

...

Caben hadn't been lying about the younglings. There was a group of eight children that rushed to greet the cart as it arrived, small bodies crowding around you to ogle the tiny being in your arms. Said being didn't appear to mind the attention, waving their little fists in excitement.

The Mandalorian seemed on-edge the instant he moved from the cart. Despite the serenity around him, you could feel tension radiating from his form. He was wound tight and you couldn't understand why. Even if raiders had been known to attack the place, right this minute all was calm and tranquil.

That unease was made abundantly clear an hour or so later, while you were being shown your housing for the foreseeable future. One second, he was nodding along to what the lovely young woman (a widow?) was explaining to him about the large hut being a barn previously. The next, he had whipped around to face the doorway, his blaster already drawn.

Gods, he was so fast.

The deadly would-be assailant was none other than the widow's child, the small girl cowering a little beside the door. 

"Easy." You hissed, surprised nonetheless when the armored man clumsily shoved his weapon back into the holster. 

Cara moved to the doorway, crouching in front of the child. "Hey squirt. You're pretty quiet, huh? Think you could teach me how to sneak like that?" She asked. The child seemed to recover from their scare quickly, pulling on Cara's arm to haul her away for 'training'. "You owe me, Mando!" The shock trooper yelled back over her shoulder as several other children joined in on the 'lesson'.

"I'm sorry, she's just not used to strangers." The widow apologized uncomfortably, wringing her hands.

Seeing how distraught she was, you impulsively decided to speak up. "No no, don't worry about it. We're just a little tired. Jumpy, you know." You explained, attempting to play it off before the Mandalorian could sigh or say whatever he had in mind. "Some of us are quick on the draw. But not here." You muttered the last part under your breath, stressing the final word. 

"I apologize for startling your child." The Mandalorian added stiffly, and you thanked the Maker that he wasn't about to undermine your shaky attempt at diplomacy. 

"She will be fine." The woman assured, giving him a tentative smile and then departing.

"I don't need you to speak for me, stowaway." The armored man snapped once she was (probably) out of earshot.

"I know that, but I wasn't sure what you were going to say and I didn't want you to hurt her feelings." You shot back, "You did kind of, almost maybe, consider putting a slug in her kid." 

"I'm not used to this." The Mandalorian stated bluntly, his honesty shocking you anew. Would the surprises never cease?! "They're respectful but they're not scared."

"Isn't it better that way?"

"Scared people keep their distance. Other people want to get close. They want answers." He shook his head, clearing his throat. "I...should probably take Dune so we can start with our reconnaissance." Despite his words he moved at the barest meander to the doorway, where he proceeded to lean nonchalantly for several long minutes as he watched the children drag Dune around. He finally murmured, "I'm probably going to need assistance when I attempt to extract her from the Fou...younglings. Think you can run interference?"

You cracked your knuckles and then hoisted the child up onto your hip. "Once I get there, they won't know what hit them." You promised firmly.

...

"Can you pay, can you pay, calamari flan? Fly my ship as fast as you can!" You chanted, your hands clapping out a gentle rhythm as you recited the nursery rhyme. "Fuel it and park it, Dropship Three, and leave it in the hanger to be flown by me!" 

The children around you all sang their own haphazard versions of the song, hands clapping and slapping against each other in almost-unison. It was incredibly entertaining to listen to some of the verses they came up with. In your time spent roaming after the death of your parents, you had heard a lot of different iterations of this rhyme. No matter where you traveled, it seemed that kids always gravitated to you. With them came songs and games and sometimes, sometimes, joy.

In spite of that, you still tried to keep everyone at arms' length. You would always have a new planet or station to breeze off to, a tumbleweed through and through. So you clapped, and you smiled, and when it was time to go, you vanished in the night like a wraith. It was better that way. Let younglings come up with their own conclusions.

The Mandalorian and Cara emerged from the forest on the edge of the village, and the man tilted his head at you to indicate you should join them. 

"Sorry guys, looks like duty calls." You apologized to your giggly, rambunctious audience, getting to your feet and dusting yourself off. You then bowed dramatically at the large-eared baby who had been sitting beside you, extending a hand for them to hold. "By your leave, my lord." The child quickly latched on, toddling in the direction of the Mandalorian.

When you arrived at the barn, however, Cara looked grim. "We've got a big problem." She informed you softly.

"The raiders have an Imp walker." The Mandalorian dropped the bombshell on you without quarter, and you took an unintentional step back. "I don't know how they got it, but I've seen those things in action. No matter how good I and Cara are, it won't be enough."

"Wh-What are you going to tell them?" You asked once you found your voice again. Even though you knew it was silly, you found yourself nervously scanning the woods surrounding the village. 

"The truth." Cara shrugged. "I'll give 'em their credits back. Hell, maybe we can help them move. They can't stay here, that's the takeaway. Sooner they come to terms with that, the better."

...

The Mandalorian broke the news to the village much like he had broken it to you, consideration thrown to the wayside in favor of expedience. "Bad news. You can't live here anymore." He addressed everyone bluntly from the front steps of the barn.

"Nice bedside manner." Cara grimaced, shifting her weight awkwardly as the villagers began to stir and protest amongst themselves.

"You think you can do better?" The armored man huffed.

"Can't do much worse." The woman snarked under her breath before stepping forward. "I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options." Cara announced clearly and firmly, the former soldier obviously rising to his challenge.

"But you took the job!" One man shouted.

"That was before we knew about the AT-ST." Cara said loudly. 

"The what?"

"The armored walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn't tell us!" She snapped, frustration bleeding into her tone. 

Over the building hubbub came the voice of the widow, Omera. "We have nowhere to go." She stated calmly, her child tucked against her side.

"Sure you do. This is a big planet." Cara replied dismissively. "I've seen a lot smaller."

Now emboldened by Omera, several other individuals raised their own voices. "My grandparents seeded these ponds!" Caben informed Cara. 

"It took generations!" Stoke added.

Cara's shoulders slumped. "I understand, I do. But there are only two of us." She said, gesturing at the beskar-clad man. You were more than happy to be left out of this particular equation, your brain still stuck on the fact that somewhere out in those peaceful woods, there was an actual mobile assault tower.

"No there's not, there's...at least twenty here!" Stoke fired back, his arms spread wide to indicate all the people in their village.

"I mean fighters. Be realistic!" Cara protested.

"We can learn!" Caben insisted, starting a new wave of murmurs as the villagers began to nod and agree with him. 

Dune heatedly spat, "I've seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes!" 

That only brought a momentary pause to the debate. "We're not leaving." Omera said, her words soft but firm. Resolute.

Cara's voice shook when next she spoke and you got the impression that she wasn't seeing a village spread out in front of her, but a munitions-blasted battlefield. "You cannot fight that thing." 

You hesitantly put a hand on her arm, offering what little support you could. She shot you a grateful look, her smile thin.

The Mandalorian, who until then had remained silent, abruptly spoke up. "Unless we show them how." He cocked his head in your direction, ignoring the incredulous look Cara was sending his way. "Remember all those crates I had you lift?"

...

Blasters. A multitude of different makes and models, more than enough to arm half the village. You wondered in the back of your mind why the hell he had brought so many weapons.

Targets were quickly thrown together and anyone who was confident was instructed in the art of long range combat by the Mandalorian, his cape billowing behind him as he walked down the line to adjust foot placement.

Cara took over the melee weapon options, setting the rest of the men and women up to defend themselves with long, sharpened sticks and various other methods. You began to understand how she had gone toe-to-toe with the Mandalorian as you watched her cycle through the steps, every motion impactful and economic.

The two ran drills and you alternated between them, the child residing in a back sling you made out of your cloak. Maybe, maybe you could be useful in this type of situation, you hoped. Maybe you could help keep these kind people safe. 

The Mandalorian pawned a spare vibroblade off on you to replace your dull knife and you quickly adopted the techniques he and Cara showed you. You were constantly mindful to keep your fingers well away from the blade after you lost a chunk of knuckle skin when you tried to show off, the bandage you gained serving as a visual reminder to be cautious, that this was not your old knife.

When the Mandalorian finally nodded in approval at the shot you took, you felt proud enough to burst. When Cara grinned broadly at you after you ran through a defense drill, you could have cried.

The plan of attack was simple, as all plans should be: Topple the AT-ST as quickly as possible, use high barricades to divert the Klatoonians into more strategically viable locations and then pick them off. 

And now, up to your knees in mud, you goaded Caben, Stoke and several other villagers on into competition. Which fishery-pit would be the one to render that walker powerless? Whose shoveling would be triumphant in the long run? Bets were placed as the trap holes grew deeper and the barricades were raised on the edges of the village, fortifying the front line.

The rain had started during the afternoon and continued on well after dusk, making the work a thousand times muddier than before. Once you were finally done digging you were a filthy, shivering mess. Waving a goodbye to the others, you slogged back to the barn. Your boots were heavy enough to impede your movement, so your progress was admittedly slow.

"Stay at the door." The Mandalorian ordered sharply when you managed to trudge up to the raised porch and start struggling out of your boots. 

You groaned unhappily but obeyed, wondering if he intended for you to stay outside all night so the rain could rinse off the muck.

He came back with a bucket, his cape hanging over his arm instead of his shoulders. "I'll hold this up so you can clean yourself." He muttered after passing you the pail of hot, soapy water. "Dune is already asleep, so this is the best I can do."

"B-B-But what if you g-get wet?" You asked through chattering teeth, already stripping down to your underthings as he threaded one end of the cloak through the woven twigs that composed the barn wall. You were too cold and wet to be overly worried about propriety.

"I'm going to be wet anyways, I have the second watch. I'm not worried." Even from behind the cape, you could hear the rain softly ping off his helmet and pauldrons. "Blanket is just inside the door, left side. Let me know when you're heading in so I can turn."

You quickly dunked the provided rag into the bucket, scrubbing furiously at the grime on your skin. "W-We think we made them deep enough. We dug a good six extra feet each, I w-would s-s-say." You informed him proudly.

"Good. That's really good." You could hear the smile in his voice, as strange as that sounded. "Means the walker will have a nine to eleven foot drop, which should be more than enough." He then added, "You've done well."

You flushed hotly despite your freezing body, stammering out, "o-oh, I'm just doing wh-what I have t-to-" 

"No. You could have dropped into a funk and refused to do anything once we left Nevarro, but you...you've been good with the kid. With these people." The bounty hunter paused. "I've been thinking about leaving the kid here," he continued quietly. "Once we get rid of the raiders, this village will be peaceful again. And...and he seems to like it here." He shifted his weight, heralded by the clank of beskar. "You seem to like it here, too."

"I do." You replied honestly. "Nevarro was home for a while. I was used to it. It was normal. But this place…" You trailed off, a little perturbed with how much your heart was aching at the idea of having to leave this behind. 

You had never felt any sort of attachment to a location, always knowing that you wouldn't be there long. Nevarro marked the longest you had stayed in an area, sitting proud at a whopping thirty-two days.

"I won't be able to bring you back to Nevarro." He admitted quietly. "I can't...I can't go back there."

What could have gone down on Nevarro that would make a Mandalorian unable to return? Curiosity burned at you and you opened your mouth to ask the question.

"What is the name of that song you taught the younglings?" He inquired before you could get the words out. "The one with all the clapping."

"Oh, that's just...i-it's a nursery rhyme. Originally I think it was something about...baking?" You theorized, rinsing the rag. "Everyone has a different version of it, though."

"It reminded me of home." The wistful tone of his voice took you by surprise. "We would...when you have the armor, to keep time you would rap on your neighbor's. We stomp, clap, slap hands, beat the armor...no matter what we do it's loud." After a brief pause, "Do you have other songs like that?"

"Stomping, I'm not so sure about. See, a lot of flotillas and mining platforms have rules structured around excessive noise. Keeping younglings entertained and quiet...now that is the challenge." You informed him, scrubbing roughly at your elbows and knees. "I have a few others with the clapping. Some of them up the complexity of the motions depending on how long you're playing for, though, so maybe you could adapt one of those for your stomping needs?" was your tentative suggestion.

"Leave your clothes where you dropped them. Omera brought some dry things for you earlier." 

His abrupt shift in topic made your head spin and you panicked momentarily before blurting out, "Maker, please tell me there's pants and not one of their confusing skirts." 

"I didn't look at 'em, stowaway. I just know that she put them with the blankets." The Mandalorian replied testily. "You'll find out soon enough."

Mercifully, the widow had provided a soft, knee-length tunic. Thank the Maker for small favors, you did not want to try and figure out one of their skirts at this hour. Intricate hook-loop closures and trews were great and all, but right now you were exhausted and bed was calling your name.

You slipped the garment over your head, taking a moment to run your fingers along the blanket-stitched hemline. The fabric was dyed a rich teal, a trait shared by most of the apparel in this settlement. One of the krill byproducts was the brilliant blue carapace that gave spotchka its distinct hue. According to Stoke they had to strain nearly half of the unprocessed carapace from the spotchka mix lest it turn unbearably bitter. They then utilized this excess to color their fabrics, bathing the entire village in a myriad of indigoes, teals and cobalts.

The long sleeves of the tunic flopped down over your hands, banishing some of the chill from your body. "Huh. Guess I'm not as tall as Omera." You observed aloud, waving your sleeve-covered hands around to illustrate this incredible fact.

The Mandalorian shook his head at your antics and busied himself tucking his cape back under his pauldrons. "Get some rest, stowaway. As long as nothing happens tonight, tomorrow is when we'll strike. I need you at your best." He said curtly. Then, a little softer, "I need you to keep an eye on the F...younglings." He sounded slightly pained. "They'll need assurance. And if anything happens during the fight, they will need to be defended."

"Of course!" You promised, fisting your hands tightly in your sleeves. "I'll do everything I can to keep them safe. We all will."

Cara raised a sleepy fist of acknowledgment from her own cozy pile of blankets, the soldier mumbling something before rolling over.

"This is the Way." The Mandalorian stated, the black void of his visor boring into you. He seemed to be waiting for something, so you finally bobbed your head in agreement. He then departed without another word, the woven mat over the doorway whispering against the rough-hewn planks of the floor in his wake.

You wondered at the quiet sadness in his voice long after you went to bed, your dreams haunted by glimpses of rain-speckled beskar.

Part Three

[geminimoonbeamx]

Moon lit Serenades

A/N: Dedicated to the reader, may you find happiness. I am so nervous for TROS, I saw a rumor that Poe dies and lost it. That plus the fact that there is literally no Plus Sized ReaderxPoe community? I had to remedy that. This is porn.

Warnings: This is porn. Serious smut from pretty much start to finish. Please enjoy.

Summary: Poe seeks comfort after a particularly hard mission in the only way he knows how. A Poe x Plus Sized Reader story

I am a moth, who just wants to share your light.

I’m just an insect, trying to get out of the night.

I only stick with you, because there are no other’s.

You we’re all I need.

I’m in the middle of your picture.

Lying in the reeds- Radiohead 

War had finally caught up with Poe Dameron.

Had finally taken it’s toll, and far more then it’s chunk of flesh. Battle wary and blaster shocked, it was hard to think of the resistance these days as just that- a resistance. No, this was more of a bloodbath.

War.

He’d never thought of it like that before, always held his head high, a defiant flame in his eyes. This was fuck the system- fuck the First Order. Fuck anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was willed, motivated by the sheer rage that anyone would have to live their life in oppression. Under the thumb of Snoke or Phasma, dead and gone now- Hux and Ren hopefully to follow sooner rather than later.

And that fire to see them fall was still there...but it was dimmed.

Had been stomped on, choked out.

Watching people you love die for you, because of you on a daily basis...it wasnt something he’d wish upon anyone. Friends, family. Allies, brothers and sisters in arms. His fleet which had once flourished with dozens of pilot’s was down to a mere handful of lucky ones.

He was willing to breathe and bleed for the cause. It was in his blood- the sticky substance that matted his dark hair to his head as he climbed out of his X-wing. His parents had been the same.

Was he willing to keep watching others die for it though?

He couldn't stop form pondering the question as he and his unit arrive back to the makeshift base, in the middle of nowhere on a planet in the outer rim- the name of it he could barely pronounce. The shabby hut like quarters made the memory of D’quar and its green covered everything throb longingly in his gut.

That seemed so long ago, now.

No matter. No time for getting attached. They’d be on the move again within a fortnight, never staying any one place longer than a month at a time. Rey usually kept them one step ahead, connected to Ren through the force in a way that made Poe’s stomach churn, but that came in handy with them not getting caught.

Thinking about Kylo Ren always made him sour from the inside out. Muscles clenched in memory of the torture he’d endured at the hands of what used to be Leia’s son, but was now just a shell with his dead fathers nose and the mark of his dead uncles betrayal on his black soul.  

Poe would kill him in an instant if he got the chance. He prays to fuck that one day he does.

Clenching his fingers into fists is painful right now- the small mission had gone awry and they’d had to punch their way out of it. Literally. He’s feeling the aftermath of it all over, aching and sore.

He doesn't have it in him to attend the debrief. Can't muster the will, not right now. Maybe after a hot shower, maybe after he gets some food in his stomach and allot’s himself a moment to wallow. He forces himself to stand straight, spine elongated in a way that has his bones and muscle screaming.

Poe tries not to limp, as he scurries away to lick his wounds. He fails.

“Poe, you need to see a medic!” Finn insists, somewhere behind him. Always worried, always caring. Poe has nightmares about the night that he eventually loses him, too.

“Don't worry, I will” Finn wonders how someone who looks like they’re going to keel over at any moment- can manage to sound so cheeky.

Rey, who stands beside Finn, bruised bleeding herself wonders if he realizes that Poe is on the verge of tears. The pilot rippling and vibrating so hard she could feel it, taste it on the air.

Neither of them say anything though. The just watch him disappear into the stormy, starless night.

----

Sleep isn't something that comes easy to you as of late.

Not only did you spend your days(and most hours of your nights, too) in the Med Bay, you had never been the kind of person that could handle big changes, sharp adjustments. This hop forts every couple of weeks trend was killing you.

Your mind couldn't relax, R.E.M. State was always just out of reach.

Especially when he was gone...which also seems to be a trend these days. The missions just kept getting longer and longer- the time that he was on base shorter and farther between.

But it was raining tonight- the soft rhythmic  pitter patter of it on the roof of the hut reminding you of your home planet, you could almost pretend you were there; the smell of petrichor tricking your brain. Making it easier to curl up on the bed that was really more of a cot and cozy into the Resistance standard blanket.

For the first time in two weeks- you sleep. Hard. Like a rock. The exhaustion finally overtaking your body, and putting you out of commission. General Organa was right to send you back to your bunk, physically removing you from your post.

You feel kind of, extremely, guilty for the attitude you’d thrown at her -

“I’m fine, if I don't do my job, who’s going to?”-

aimed her way even though she didn't deserve it. She was right, of course. She tended to be most of the time. Why anyone ever doubted her, why you ever doubted her, you didn't know.

The sleep is dreamless, just the way you prefer it...you hadn't always, but nothing was better then the nightmares. Nothing is far from peace, but close to quiet. A middle ground that could be called purgatory, depending how you looked at it.

So when there's a knock at your door, the wooden one that gave you more privacy then you’d had in months, that wakes you from your much needed slumber, you can't help but feel the irritation surge through you. Your hypothetical feathers bristled as you huff and puff and pull yourself out of bed, yanking a pair of breezy sleep pants up your chubby legs and a robe over your shoulders- not wanting to answer whoever it was in the near nude.

When you pull open the door- well, it was the one person who wouldn't have minded if you had greeted him in your panties.

“Poe?” You question, because your eyes still haven't adjusted, your mind still three fourths asleep and one fourth confused.

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart” And oh? Sweetheart? In that gravelly voice, tired and worn and fragile...you're instantly aware of what kind of state he’s in.

When you pull him inside, flipping on the light orb, and are able to see him. Clearly now; all bloody and bruised, you inhale sharply. His eye is blackened on the same side of his face that seems to be saturated in crusted crimson.

“Stars, Poe” You whisper as you crowd him, urging him to sit on the cot that’s still warm from your body heat. Poe frowns, pretty lips pulled down as he takes it, and you in. Your hair rumpled, your robe falling off your shoulder as you gather medical supplies from what seems like all over your small “room”

The first thing you do is take out a small capsule full of neon blue liquid from a jar and hand it to him. He takes it gratefully, tossing it down the hatch before you can even offer him water. Painkillers aren't the easiest to come by since they’ve been on the move.

“I woke you up, didn't I?” He inquires, after he swallows.

“Obviously” You answer as you step back into his orbit, close enough that he can smell your skin. That his eyes can trace each of the freckles that dot across your nose, your cheeks. You put your finger under his chin and tilt his head up, and fuck, isn't that a pretty view?

“I’m sorry” He whispers, hissing between his teeth as you, gently but deftly, begin to clean his head.

“Mmm, it’s fine. I’m awake now,  Kriff Poe, you look like warmed over shit. This gash in your hairline is going to need stitches” You’re focused, wiping and dabbing as you speak.

He didn't realize, until that moment, just how much he missed your voice.

“Your bedside manner is spectacular as ever” He grins as he says it, even though it hurts to do so. His busted lip is next on your itinerary.

“Well when you show up at my bedside and not the other way around, I’m pretty sure that changes up the rules”

“Didn't you miss me...at your bedside, that is?” He pushes on, he wants you soft and sweet for him but he knows from experience it takes a bit to get there. Especially since he’s been gone so long.

“Stop distracting me” You mutter. You're only half pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand, at this point you could probably stitch a wound with your eyes closed.

“M’sorry” He’s not. It’s selfish, but he really isn't. He’s not sorry for barging in on you and waking you up, or for sitting in your bed reeking of blood and days worth of dirt. How can he be, when this feels so good? Your soft little hands working at him, healing with every touch. There’s no hurt when he’s around you- only good.

The painkiller makes the edges fuzzy, makes the fact that your repeatedly pulling a needle through his skin seem mild. It’s not like it’s his first time getting sewn up, and he highly doubts it’ll be his last.

Poe can't stop staring at you, dark eyes hooded. Hungry in a way that he doesn't care to hide. Drinking you in, gulping. It’d been almost a month and he was dying to get his fill. Your round body, nothing but curves and dips that he was itching to touch, is mostly covered, but the robe is still hanging off your shoulder. Satin skin exposed, so pretty and pristine.

It’s almost out of his control when his hand skims up our arm, skin seeking out skin. His palm sears as it settles on your upper arm. The plush flesh so soft under his calloused hands that he’s almost worried that it would give if e pressed down too hard.

In the back of his mind he knows better, though. Recalls just how much you can take.

“Poe” You warn tightly, lashes fluttering as you shoot him a look. One that makes him chuckle, because you're not fooling him.

He’ll play, mostly because he wants to, but he knows you missed him as much as he missed you.

You wonder if he can feel the way that you're trembling, already shaking for him. It’s stupid, you feel stupid, and yet you cant stop it. You have healers hands, medic’s hands- and at least you can get them to stay still as you finish with his head, then his lip.

Going insane from the simplest touch, from the way that he rubs his thumb in circles over and over on your upper arm. You remember when that would have made you uncomfortable, big arms that you wanted covered at all times used to be a big no-no.

But with Poe it was different. He wasn't there to judge. He just wanted to feel.

You don't want to pull away, but you have to. Your brain is torn, but ultimately resorts back to it’s resting state: health driven. Medically inclined.

“You need to go take a shower, wash the rest of the blood out of your hair. The hot water will help to start to bring down the swelling” you instruct, and it would be how you talked to any patient. Except for the way you cradle the side of his face, your voice breathy as you touch is thick locks that are greasy. A bit tangled.

Poe nods, he knows your right. Knows he should have done that before he even came here…

“Can I come back?” It’s hopeful, he spits it quick- desperate.

It feels like someone yanked, hard, on a loose thread inside your chest.

“Always. You know that”

--

While he showers, forced to go a few huts over to the community bathrooms, you’re a flurry of anxious thoughts and movement. Tidying up the small space and yourself the best you can. You’d showered earlier in the evening, using the last of the last of the Obsidian Lily oil that you’d carried with you. You still smelled good, pretty.

Your hair was wild, but not untamable and you end up brushing it smooth. You hadn't shaved since before he had left and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. How were you supposed to know that he was coming back tonight? Growing up on your home planet, there was a moss based soap that everyone used that minimized body hair. But still…

You wished, like you had more than once, that you could be better for him.

You're trying to swallow that horrid ugly little thought back down when your door opens, Poe not bothering to knock this time. Barges in, and he seems a bit more like himself in that moment.

His hair has gone back to his natural curls, thick and bouncing, dripping and the navy, loose materialed sleep clothes hang on him. Dont cling to him with dirt and sweat...all and all, he looks so much better.

Or so you think. Until you see him in the right light, his top falling open and revealing his chest.

“Poe!” You exclaim and his thick brows furrow, he had been drying his hair with one of your spare towels.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt” You demand and one side of his lips pull up- a smirk that doesn't meet his eyes.

“You know if you ask me nicely, sweetheart, I’ll give you whatever you want” It’s a purr, a ploy. Many a person- male, female and Wookiee had fallen for that charm of his. Your own name thrown in that pot.

But he was hurt, had to be in pain, and that thought cut through the others that that coy tone had stirred up.

“I’m serious, that bruising looks deep- why didn't you show me this earlier? You could have internal bleeding! Something could be broken”

Poe would never let it be known, would deny it to the ends of the galaxy...but he loves the way you fret over him. It makes him feel warm.

“Okay- Okay!” He sighs as you start to reach for him demandingly, knowing that you'd pull it off yourself if he didn't. There's a handful of winces as he tugs the fabric up and over his shoulders. You’re silent the whole time, and then for a long moment after.

“Oh...baby”

It’s the first time you've called him that tonight. In weeks. The first time an affectionate name has slipped from your mouth.

You can't help it, can't help the overwhelming feeling of...horror. Of shock and worry. His tanned chest and abdomen are hard, dusted with ebony hair that matches that of which grows from his scalp...and covered in bruises.

Four huge patches of yellow, and black and purple and blue...he looks like a fucking water color painting. You’d seen him in some pretty bad states over the years, and this was up there with some of the worst. The worst? Well you didn't like to think about that particular bloody day.

You reach out, fingertips tracing the purple bloom on his left ribs.

“It’s not so bad” And that’s Poe in a nutshell. Always trying to convince not only the people around him, but himself, that things were going to be okay.

“That one’s a deep tissue bruise” You point out to him, fingers gently probing, trying to detect if anything is broken “It has to hurt like a bitch, it’s going to get worse before it feels better”

“Not so bad” He loves the way you're touching him, and his hand, that big paw, goes to our waist. Holding you. Urging you to keep going “Those painkillers are something else”

You snort through your nose. He’s something else- you tell him of that fact, often.

Poe can only be so patient, can only allow you to touch him, feather light, for so long. Eventually, his impulses win out. Just like the always do.

You’re almost done, checking his bones, when he grabs your hand, envelopes it in his large one. It’s still for a moment- the air sparkling with energy. His eyes are mahogany, dark wood. Deep forests as they stare down at you.

The want in them is raw, unbridled.

“I missed you, so fucking much. Every day. Have I told you that yet?” His words, mixed with the timbre- vehement. Honest. It makes you want to squirm.

“No- you haven't” You wish your voice at that moment wasn't so anxious, weak and almost a whisper. Something about Poe had always brought this out in you. He was so bright, beaming. Everyone around him flocked to him, in hopes of just being able to taste a fraction of his light.

Sometimes, you still couldn't believe that he let you fill your cup, that he sought you out, parted the crowd for you.

You had never been a weak woman; had never let your weight or your too loud opinions or your tendencies to be overly emotional make you feel small, or less then...but being with Poe-- the level of intimacy was suffocating.

You felt burned up. Icarus who flew too close to the sun, who willing allowed himself to be burned up just to feel its warmth for a moment...you could relate.

“I did” Poe continues “I missed the way you feel, the way you taste-”

You close your eyes at that, images of the last time you’d gotten a moment alone with him, of a head of dark curls between your legs, assaulting you. Smacking you right in the face.

“-You taste so good, Y/N. Should've bent you over when you came to say goodbye. You would've let me, huh? Let me get one more taste- you have no idea how bad I want to stick my tongue inside of you. All the time. No one else gets to taste, right?”

Poe is well on his way to being rock hard, already. It had taken all of him to not jerk off in the showers.

“No one, Poe. You know that” you’d meant to tell him to fuck off, that you didn't belong to him. That he couldn't just have you whenever he wanted you. That came out instead.

“I need you” He tells you, roughly “feel how bad I need you, Y/N, fuck” he still has your hand in his grasp, againts his chest. When he begins to slide it downward, you know where its destination will be.

That doesn't stop the thrill, the flip flop of our tummy that comes with Poe pressing your hand to his crotch, hard and hot. The thin pants the only layer between your palm and his erection.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this, I need you to make it better, Y/N”

The switch is flipped then. Hard.

You’re surging forward, and he's meeting you halfway, your mouths slotting together. Lips and tongue, so much tongue. He talks all about how you taste, but stars, the way he tastes is intoxicating. Want to suck the taste of him off his tongue, off his cock.

Its blurry and ferocious. Hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing. While you are gentle with him and his tattered body, he doesn't extend that same sentiment. He’s groping, fingertips bidding into flesh. Groaning into your mouth as he clutches your thick, dimpled thighs. Reaches around to squeeze our ample ass.

Best ass in the galaxy, he'd write fucking sonnets about it, if he was good at anything but flying.

Clothes are shed, way too fast you worn Poe who doesn't listen. Because he never does- and he ends up hissing in pain, and relenting, sitting on the cot and letting you take off his pants. Slowly. You make it up to him by standing over him, grabbing his hands and guiding them to strip you. Slow drags of fabric over supple skin.

You’re so fucking sexy, and he tells you so as he urges you into his lap, you stay on your shins to mind his middle. Poe worships with his words. His fingers and lips do their fair share of praying next.

“Fuck I missed these the most” your breasts are large, heavy globes. Puffy sweet nipples are pebbled and just begging to be sucked on. He licks them messy, wet before he does just that; sucks them into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, ugh” Your hands are twined in his hair, dripping down onto his thighs already, when Poe feels the wetness drip on him, his fingers go searching, hand pressed in between your thighs. Fingers slipping through sopping, heated flesh. You grasp, a high sound as he presses up and circles your clit, firm and pointed.

It’s so good, pleasure shoots down your legs, all the way to the tips of your toes.

It’s not enough. For either of you.

“Poe, fuck. Please” He’s injured, and you know it hurts him to do, and you should scold him for it, but when he manhandles you, flips you easily onto your back to that he can climb on top and situates himself between your thighs-

It’s just as hot as it always is. You know you have to be dripping down onto the cot, can feel your slick covering your thighs, slipping down your crack.

Kiss, Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and…

You get lost in it, caught up in the way his stubble burns. His fingers slide back inside you and he watches your face as he crooks them, pumps them fast. Finger fucks you until you’re sobbing, letting out animal sounds.

“Do you still have the implant” he pants, head swimming. He gets like this when you let him make you feel good- wants to go down on you, but wants to be inside you even more.

“No, I took it out in the last few weeks” You’re cheeky, even with his fingers burried inside you. He loves that about you, “Of course I do, Poe”

You’d be damned before you ever brought a child into this world.

Poe holds your thighs wide, staring between them, your pussy wet and clenching around nothing. You’re so vulnerable for him, it makes you dizzy. He lines himself up, clock head dipping into your slit, resting against your hole, when thrusts inside of you it’s in one fluid movement.

You mewl, so full it’s hard to breathe and Poe makes a punched out sound. Like he’d been shot by a blaster in the chest and his hips start undulating, needing to be deeper. It feels so right inside of you. Feels safe. He wants to tear into your softness, rip you open and nestle inside. Settle himself in your bones.

You let him take what he needs, how ever he needs it. On your back, on your hands and knees. You bounce on his cock when he gets to achy,letting him run his hands all over your tummy, sides, breasts.

He can have it all.

After, the two of you lay spent, cuddled tight to one and other in the small cot. Standard issue thrown over your naked bodies, the sound of the rain starting up again mixed with Poes breathing is a lullaby you hadn't known you needed.

This...thing between you might have started as a way for both of you to numb the pain. To seek support. But it was more now. You were so in love with him that it made your eyes sting if you thought about it for too long.

“You’ll always come back to me, right?” Its so, so timid that he almost doesn't catch it and you almost hope he’d miss it.

Poe does what he always does; tries to convince you both that it’s going to be okay.

“Always”

You let yourself believe him.

Well I wasn't expecting this to turn into pure porn, but here we are lmfao. I loved writing for Poe and there will definitely be more of him coming soon! If you are able- listening to All I Need by Radiohead and the Hot Like Fire cover by the XX really sets the tone for this. I actually dropped a line from hot like fire in this- who can point it out?lol

As usual, I'm going to ask that if you can please give me some feedback. I truly love interacting with my readers and would love to hear your thoughts and opinions.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Final stand

Compared to the time spent in the boarding craft, storming the human ship was proving relatively easy for Loski assault team. 

In the space surrounding Lepitus VI a raging war of fire and light was being waged between the Loski Republic and the Dominion of Man fleets. Dominion ships had been caught unprepared in their orbital docks when the Loski strike fleet emerged.The first barrage of streaker missiles had crippled a large portion of the fleet before they could even ignite their engines.  The Mul’ta, Highlander, Vincent, and Spanish Prince took critical hits that knocked them out of the fight instantly. Through their bleeding reactor cores the Sovereign and New Delhi battleships pressed forward from their dry docks and began returning fire as the smaller escort fleet began pulling out of dock. Their guns racked across the strike fleet as their anti missiles screens turned the space between the two fleets into a dazzle of explosions. 

The largest vessel of the Loski brought their solar cannon to bear and fired at the Sovereign as she delivered a full broadside of her mighty guns. True to its name the super heated energy burned through her hull like a hot knife through butter, ripping out her midsection and nearly splitting her in two. Though her largest turret continued firing the Sovereign had become trapped in Lepitus VI’s gravity well and was slowly dragged plummeting to the planet below. 

Emboldened by the destruction of one of the human’s main ships the rest of the Loski strike fleet began moving closer. Each time New Delhi’s guns spoke they swatted another ship from the star ways; but it was as if swatting a single fly from a swarm forcing fleet admiral to make a heavy choice. 

The New Delhi spun around and provided rear guard to the Dominion fleet as they began speeding away from Lepitus VI at full burn. The fleet could not risk their battleship in the face of the solar cannon and chose to flee with as much strength left intact as they could. This however left the Argos station at the mercy of the encroaching Loski fleet.  The main bulk of the enemy fleet broke off to chase down the remaining human vessels while the smaller craft headed for Argos station. The station was far from defenseless and as the vessels came within range her guns roared out their anger at the invaders. This defiance while impressive hardly hindered the enemy ships as it took several Argos weapon platforms firing together to pierce their shields. The return fire was less blinding but surgical as one by one gun emplacements were neutralized and as they drew close enough to the station they unleashed a dozen boarding craft. 

The strike teams inside shook with every evasive action the small craft took. Clenching their weapons tightly they waited in silence as the displays inside their helmet counted down. 

Latching on to the side of the station laser drills bore deep into the hull. Twenty seconds after the drills start boarding doors opened and the assault teams poured in. The inside of the station was in complete chaos. Sirens and klaxons blaring, red strobe lights flashing and flickering down the length of the corridors, and smoke so thick you could feel it pressing down on you. 

The initial attacks from Loski vessels hadn’t just been to silence the gun emplacements, but to also target the areas surrounding the breach points to ensure enough chaos would ensue making any defense impossible.  Resistance wasn’t encountered until they had left the damaged areas of the station as the strike force moved rapidly to secure critical systems. Makeshift barricades lined hallways manned by security forces and injured crew members hastily pressed into service. 

Armed with assault rifles and standard pistols these barricades proved nothing more than a speed bump to the Loski commando teams. Their armor was thin mesh of interlocking scales which defused the kinetic energy from the human weapons easily. This light weight armor allowed them to close the distance within a few strides bringing them within range of their shredder rifles. They fired a single projectile that entered the enemy body and then exploded outward like a shotgun shredding the target from the inside as if a reverse shotgun. 

Barricade after barricade was overrun until finally the teams reached the control station. The doors had been sealed tight but the commandos had prepared with a hacker module. As the device began encrypting the security the teams prepared to rush in. All they had to do was secure the stations commander and have them order the remaining humans to stand down. They had easily secured a path from the excursion point to the heart of the station but they were still outnumbered a fifty to one and the shock of the assault had worn off. Already the outer guards were reporting humans with heavier weaponry attempting to fight their way to them and drive the Loski from their station. 

The device beeped and the doors slowly began opening. Just as the passage was wide enough the first commando rushed forward and was met by a hail of gunfire. The intensity of the fire overloaded the scale armor and the commando dropped backwards to the decking as their body had been riddled with slug rounds. 

With the doors finally fully open the entire strike force moved in at the same time and was once more met by the gun fire storm of the defenders. Overturned command consoles and chairs formed a improvised wall for the command staff to huddle behind as they fired at the entrance.  A few of the humans appeared to be part of the elite security detail and were armed with energy rifles. They would emerge from their combat shields long enough to fire a short burst before returning to cover to wait for the weapon to cool down. 

The elite security was gathered around a single human who must have been in charge of the station. They were dressed in much finer clothing than the other humans and carried more unique weaponry as they drew a energy pistol and shot a hole through one of the Loski commandos helmets. 

Even with the increased fire power the humans were only delaying the end. The Loski pushed forward into the command center and covered the no man’s land between them easily and were among them in an instant.A crewman brought their head up to fire once more only to have it taken clean off by a shredder round exploding in his skull. Another tried to use a torn off metal sheet as a club and took a swing at their attacker only to miss and be disemboweled in return. 

Behind the human final barricade the Loski saw the remaining crew had been destroying consoles and ripping out wiring. They were ensuring that when the Loski took the heart of the station they would have no access or control for any other sections of the massive dockyard. 

One by one the human defenders fell to the commandos until the thickest fighting remained around the station commander and two surviving elite security guards.  

The Loski slowly circled the group as they backed towards one of the viewports, the outside of the station still a battlefield of explosions and fire. Three of the Loski rushed forward at the same time to subdue their prey as the guards brought their rifles to bear. One was able to get of a shot that grazed the leg of one of the commandos but the other had their rifle swatted out of their hands before they could fire. With the rifle now out of reach the guard raised their shield and instead rammed forward, knocking the commando off their feet before bringing the shield down hard against the neck joints of the Loski armor with a loud crunch. 

The remaining Loski opened fire on the guard and tore apart their upper torso with shredder rounds as the remaining guard took a round to the head as they brought the rifle to fire again. 

Now standing alone the human commander continued backing up until they found themselves pressed against the viewport. Their eyes darted left and right as if searching for some hope, some sliver of a possibility to escape; but when none presented itself the tired human’s shoulders sagged. 

The Loski now were very cautious as they needed the human alive. Their weapons were not trained on him but could easily be brought to bear in a heart beat should the human raise his weapon. 

The commander reached into their pocket and pulled out a small communication device and spoke into it as his other free hand clutched the energy pistol tightly.

“To all surviving crew, this is your commander speaking....” they began. The Loski seemed to relax some, thinking that the human was about to order the surrender of his station. 

The human paused, taking a deep breath and looking out at the aliens that had slaughtered their way through his crew to reach him. His features tightened and his stare turned as hard as stone as he spoke what were to be his final words. 

“Give them hell.” 

Calmly raising the pistol over their shoulder, the human fired into the viewport. The glass took the impact and shattered as the molten hole the shot had created exploded outward violently taking everyone present into the cold embrace of the void. 

Across the entire station the crew of Argos took their commander’s final words to heart and resolved themselves. Gun crews manned their stations until shells ran dry, security details held checkpoints to the last man as more boarding parties were dispatched to the station, engineers took their heavy tools and formed living tides of flesh as they rushed commandos over mounds of their fallen just to bash them in their last act of defiance.

Argos station had fallen, but the legends that were forged from fire that day would carry on for generations to come. 

[welllpthisishappening]

The Period of the Long Change (6/15)

It’s quick. One second she’s standing there and everything is fine and then Emma looks up and it’s not. It’s awful. And the lights are too bright and there are too many rooms and too many opinions and her phone won’t stop ringing because everything seems to be changing all at once. She’s never been great at coping with change. But, maybe, if she can just figure it out and stay right where she is, with Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, at her side, it’ll be alright.

It’s slow. One second he’s standing there and everything is fine and then Killian’s breath catches and it’s not. It’s terrifying. And the noises are too loud and there are too many questions and he can’t find the right answers to any of them, not sure how to cope with everything changing all at once. That’s never really been his forte. But, maybe, if he can just figure it out and stay right where he is, with Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations, at his side, it’ll be alright.

It’s another season and another challenge and Emma and Killian are both struggling to get over the boards.

Rating: Mature Word Count: A lot happens this chapter. There are a lot of words.  AN: Today’s update also comes with some promises that what you’re about to read absolutely, one-hundred percent happens in real life. But! If you’re like Laura, that is absurd, these are grown men, not idiots, I would say, au contraire and then present you with these links. One, from the Rangers last year. And the second from the Blues this year, a team that not only got a puppy after this incident, but is now in the playoffs. So, yeah, this happens. I promise. If you’re still reading and clicking, I can’t thank you enough. It’s real nice. 

Also on Ao3 and FF.net and Tumblr if that’s your jam.

“Go back to sleep.” “I can’t.” “Swan.” She flipped, hair flying everywhere and almost getting in his mouth, and Killian winced when her knee collided with his shin. “Ah, shit,” Emma mumbled, untwisting the blanket that had, somehow, moved in between them. “I wasn’t trying to do that.” “You mean to tell me you weren’t actively attempting to incapacitate me?” Killian asked, and he knew the joke didn’t land before he’d even finished making it.

Emma laughed, but it was more an exhale and a sigh, and she licked her lips quickly, like she was being timed and that was kind of true because it was Saturday, but she still had meetings with Zelena and Aurora and something with Sam and Joe about MC’ing an event they’d done for the last thirty years.

And Phillip’s memorial or whatever.

That wasn’t the right word at all, but it was some kind of celebration because, it seemed, setting a of rookie scoring record was a pretty good starting point for a career and Phillip had reached three-hundred points before anyone expected him too and, apparently, that meant there had to be some sort of ceremony.

That was the word for it.

It also meant Emma had to plan it and he knew there were, at least, fifty-six post-it notes detailing the breakdown of the whole goddamn thing on every inch of her desk.

She’d run out of floor space two days before. And Merida had to get her a new chair the day before that because Emma kept piling paperwork in her own seat.

Killian wanted to go back to sleep.

“We’ve got time,” he muttered, ignoring whatever the air was doing around them. Filling with tension and bad jokes and he was so goddamn tired of being worried and, generically, tired.

It was a miracle their bedroom door hadn’t been knocked over yet.

Or at least slightly checked against.

Matt liked to try and check the door.

“I have no time,” Emma argued. “I have, like, negative amounts of time. I should be in the shower already.” Killian grinned, tongue against the inside of his cheek and eyes a bit wider than usual, and Emma’s laugh sounded genuine that time. He swore he could feel it, fixing the air and probably all of the greenhouse issues on the entire planet and she closed her eyes when he pulled her against his chest.

“That could be very easily fixed, you know,” he muttered, mostly into her hair. Her whole body shook against him, which wasn’t really helping their cause or his desire to go back to sleep because it was Saturday and there wasn’t a game, and they should be able to linger in each other’s space for awhile.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“How do you figure?” “Are you kidding me?” Emma asked, propping her head on one hand and her hair fell over her arm. “I’m counting the actual seconds until someone throws something at that door.” “I really doubt Peggy’s got that kind of upper-body strength yet. Maybe if we add some weights to her workout.” “Really confident in your own sense of humor, huh?”

Killian hummed, smirk back on his face and something that might have actually been butterflies in his stomach, which didn’t make any sense at all because he was flirting with his own wife and talking about their thirteen-month-old attacking the half-closed door on the other side of the room, but it was nice in a way that home was nice and comforting and safe and maybe he could hide Emma’s phone.

That seemed kind of immature.

“Occasionally,” Killian said, dropping his hand to trace over the curve of Emma’s hip. Her eyes fluttered again, teeth finding her lower lip and the butterflies disappeared almost immediately.

“Sometimes,” Emma amended, and her voice was just a bit breathless. He was going to count that as several different victories. “You know she almost kept her balance without holding onto anything for, like, a solid two seconds yesterday afternoon.” “What?” Emma nodded, smile wide despite her obvious efforts to stay cool and Killian was only slightly worried that his heart was going to do permanent damage to his chest cavity. Ariel would be pissed about that.

He’d walked too quickly on the treadmill yesterday, so she was out for blood.

“Yeah,” Emma continued. “You were making jokes about upper-body strength, but that kid is ridiculously strong. Like He-Woman or something.” “Is that a compliment?” “It is when I’m saying it.” “Ah, of course,” Killian chuckled, kissing between Emma’s eyebrows before he could stop himself. Maybe they didn’t have to go back to sleep. Maybe they could just evolve into some kind of picture-perfect family of his fluff-type dreams and he wouldn’t miss Peggy’s displays of upper-body strength because he was trying to keep his heart rate at a medically approved level.

It wasn’t at the moment.

He was sure.

“So, we were in my office and Zelena was waxing poetic about food choices, which is absurd because we’ve done this before and the food is always the same and Gotham has, like, one catering option and--”

“--Focus, Swan.”

She stuck her tongue out. He kissed her jaw. He kind of wanted to kiss everywhere else.

“You are impatient,” Emma accused, and Killian couldn't really argue with that. “Anyway, we were in my office and I was ignoring Zelena and Pegs totally pulled herself up, waddled around for approximately two and a half seconds and then promptly fell over. But it was a very impressive two and a half seconds.” “Two and a half, huh?” “Eh, maybe closer to three. We'll round up for the kid, you know?”

“Naturally,” Killian muttered, but he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening to his entire body and it felt like a mix of happiness and disappointment and a little frustration and he wished he could just pick one emotion and stick with it.

He wished he hadn’t missed that.

He wished he didn’t have more PT that afternoon.

“Hey,” Emma said, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt she could tug on. She settled for brushing her fingers over his forehead instead and, that time, it was Killian’s turn for his eyes to flutter shut, a ragged breath falling out of him and he wished he had the answers for several dozen questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask. “You ok?” “You keep asking me that, love,” he muttered. He hadn’t opened his eyes.

“It’s because I’m consistently curious. And worried. Probably more than curious.” “I know, Swan. I don’t want you to worry though. You’ve got enough to think about already. Zelena shouldn't be talking about the food. It’s the same every year.” “That’s true,” Emma agreed. “But, strange as it may seem, I’m almost ok with worrying about you. It’s part of the deal.” Killian opened his eyes, arching an eyebrow and he wasn’t entirely prepared for the slightly nervous look on Emma’s face. “The deal, huh?” “Yeah, you know, indefinitely or whatever. For concussions or worse.” “I don’t think that’s exactly what we said.” She couldn’t shrug when she was on her side, but she certainly made an effort and Killian briefly wondered if maybe that was where their daughter got her distinct lack of balance from. Emma wobbled a bit, eyes widening a fraction of an inch and it was all green and emotional and for concussions or worse didn’t really sound that bad.

“Semantics,” Emma mumbled. “Worrying about you isn’t...it’s not a job. It’s instinct or something that sounds way less lame than that.” “That doesn’t sound lame,” Killian said, and he probably shouldn't have responded that quickly or that enthusiastically, but he’d kind of lost control of everything and the world consistently felt as if it were spinning out of orbit, even when he was walking as slowly as possible. So, really, shouting emotions in Emma’s face was kind of a return to the usual.

She laughed softly, a sound he would have been more than willing to hear for the rest of forever if that weren’t even more lame than what Emma had just said.

“When’s the last time you had a headache?”

Killian clicked his tongue, trying to think back through the last week and they’d played in Vegas the night before, a loss that was dangerously close to a blowout and Jeff had broken his stick after the final whistle and Arthur had, undoubtedly, broken several whiteboards, but Husinger had gotten another point and it was a good assist.

They were going to be back on Garden ice that afternoon.

Will had texted him when they landed.

Robin complained about Husinger talking loudly on the flight.

“Not in awhile,” Killian said when Emma made an impatient sound at his silence.

“That’s not a date.” “I’m not writing it down, Swan.” “Shouldn’t you be?” “Those weren’t part of the instructions. I was told to stay off the ice and not walk too quickly and take medicine. I’m doing that. I was not told to document symptoms.” She didn’t say anything immediately, eyes tracing over his face as soon as his jaw snapped closed and the whole thing had been kind of ridiculous. This wasn’t the doctor’s fault. Well, not completely. It wasn’t even that kid’s fault – even if he’d led with his shoulder and he probably should have gotten fined. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

It had happened.

And he hadn’t done anything about it because he was…

It was fine.

That Husinger guy couldn't get a point in every game. That was impossible. And he talked too loudly on the team plane. Arthur wouldn't let that happen on another road trip.

He wouldn’t be first line very long.

And Killian couldn’t get playoffs, at the earliest, maybe out of the back corners of his brain.

It was fine.

“You know I bet we could get Pegs to weeble around the apartment for a little while,” Emma said. Killian grinned. And kissed her. Again.

“Weeble?” “Yeah, you know, weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. She kind of looks like a weeble in a ridiculous amount of Jones-branded merchandise.” “Jones-branded?” “Please,” Emma scoffed, sliding across the bed and slinging one arm over his middle. It was difficult to keep up with what she said next when her fingers started tracing over his spine, drawing patterns that weren’t much more than straight lines, but felt a bit like vaguely emotional brands and it was way too early for those kind of pointed thoughts.

“Neither one of them realize there’s another person on this team,” she added. She’d moved again at some point, legs tangled with Killian’s and head tucked against the curve of his neck. He could feel her breathing, not entirely sure if the brush of her lips against his skin was wishful thinking or actually happening, and it didn’t really matter because Matt had thrust a piece of paper into Killian’s stomach when he picked him up at school the day before.

Of the New York Rangers winning a Stanley Cup.

And Killian in the middle.

Next to Matt.

They were stick figures and not quite an exact likeness, but there was some dark hair and a few shakily-drawn twenties drawn in open space and he’d folded it up and put it in his wallet.

He didn’t think he’d ever take it out.

Maybe he was just thinking pointed thoughts at all times now.

“He told me about the picture,” Emma whispered. Her lips were definitely touching his skin. “He was super proud of it. Wanted to make sure I knew it was him and you and Uncle Will. Robin will probably be very disappointed he wasn’t included.” Killian laughed, but it turned into a bit of a grunt as he snuck his arm around Emma and she mumbled a quiet apology when she landed on his chest. “I’m totally going to brag about it to Locksley.” “I mean, he’s your kid, and your his hero, so I think you’re getting a bit of an unfair advantage.”

Killian didn’t say anything, wasn’t entirely sure he could over the rather large lump of emotion that had landed in the middle of his throat, and Emma’s fingers had moved to his stomach, dancing over skin and muscle and an appendectomy scar that she always liked to linger on when they had a few moments to breathe.

He wasn’t sure he’d really, truly breathed in the last two weeks.

“I love you,” he whispered, finding his voice and Emma’s fingers froze. “Just...more than anything. You know that, right?”

Emma tilted her head up, lips brushing across his collarbones and the scruff he’d been far too lazy to shave. His hand shifted again, flat against her back like he was trying to keep her there or next to him and it was decidedly possessive and a little absurd because he knew neither one of those things were in danger of changing. There were several different and meaningful things to prove that, least of all the name he could feel on her back and the Stanley Cup ring currently pressing into his sternum, but the world was still out of orbit and not skating felt a bit like not breathing and, well, he was kind of a selfish asshole.

He wanted to win.

Again.

Indefinitely.

God, he hated that word.

“I know,” Emma said, voice a little shaky and eyes a little glossy and he wished he could stop making her cry. They were both going to be late. And something was probably wrong because no one had attacked their door yet.

Killian nodded, clenching his jaw and the question had been lingering on the tip of his tongue since Wednesday, but Emma hadn’t wanted to talk and didn’t have time and he hadn’t really forgotten, but then their kid started drawing Stanley Cup stick figures and he’d missed their other kid weebling and it kind of felt like something short circuited.

Her breath caught when he moved, flipping on her onto her back and moving into the cradle of her hips and her fanned across several different pillows at once.

“And here you were advocating the benefits of going back to sleep,” Emma muttered, and he didn’t have to look at her to hear her smile. It was another absurd thought, but that seemed to be par for whatever course Killian’s life had become, and he nipped against her neck when her fingers found his hair.

She rocked up at the same time he moved down and it was all friction and heat and something that might have been desperation, but that sounded decidedly negative and that wasn’t what this was. At least not entirely.

This was how much everything had been out of control and out of their control, a slim difference that seemed to make all the difference and Killian was more than willing to suffer through an entire PT of Ariel cursing him to a variety of different hells if it meant Emma made that noise as her right leg wrapped around his calf.

The bruise on her thigh had long since disappeared, but his hand drifted toward the spot anyway, some type of feelings-based magnet and how much he wanted her to be ok, and Emma inhaled sharply when his fingers grazed over the jut of her hip.

“It’s fine,” Emma muttered, the words sounding bigger than that and they weren’t talking about some ridiculous mechanical bull anymore.

She probably knew he kept the picture in his wallet.

She definitely knew he kept the picture in his wallet.

“That’s true,” Killian agreed, chuckling when Emma tried to swat at his shoulder. He caught her hand mid-air, brushing his lips over her knuckles and lingering under her ring She pulled her lips behind her teeth, tension almost visibly disappearing and back arching slightly and he was only ever going to be able to think about whatever the hell her leg was doing for, like, the rest of his waking days and possibly several lifetimes after that.

So, really, it didn’t matter where Ariel cursed him because he’d have this to remember and think about and he probably shouldn’t have been thinking about PT while trying to actively undress Emma.

“That wasn’t even clever,” she accused, nails scraping lightly on the back of his neck. Killian hissed, gaze meeting hers and she looked almost triumphant, smile wide and eyes unfairly bright. “And I really don’t think this is part of the post-concussion--”

“--Fine, Swan,” he interrupted.

She stared at him, like she was waiting for a different brand of honest or the actual reason he’d never told her about the headaches and the terror that seemed to rise up his spine and linger in the forefront of his brain every single night, like some kind of twisted hockey-future clockwork, but she either didn’t find it or wasn’t willing to wait any longer and Killian exhaled when she tugged him down and kissed him.

Hard.

And, really, that should have been it. It should have been kissing and getting rid of t-shirts with his name and number on it, but they were both kind of worried about the inevitable four-year-old attack and looming schedules and budgets that were probably changed, again, and the question seemed to fall out of Killian before he’d really decided he was going to ask it.

He’d been thinking it.

And Emma had been avoiding it.

“What exactly was the job?” he asked, leaning back to meet her slightly stunned and clearly frustrated gaze.

“What? Why aren’t you kissing me still?” “You’ve got to shower.” “And you made some terrible joke about showering with me before trying to take your shirt off. I thought we’d moved passed the shower thing.” “My shirt?” Killian asked, and Emma squeezed her eyes closed.

“It is kind of weird that you own t-shirt jerseys, but I was changing last night and you and Matt were watching film and it was the first thing I grabbed. You really couldn’t tell? It’s way bigger than usual.”

“I wasn’t really concerned with the size, honestly,” Killian admitted. “My mind tends to go blank when I realize the name on the back.” Emma opened her eyes, gaze a bit softer and eyes just as green. “Seems kind of clingy, Cap.” “Yeah, a little.” “A very quick agreement.” “No point in arguing that when I was making veiled allusions to showering together, right?” “Were they veiled?” Killian shook his head, nosing at the bit of skin just behind Emma’s ear. “You’re avoiding the question, love.”

“That’s because you’re a really bad interviewer. Maybe you should get Rubes to give you some pointers or something.” “I don’t think Red would appreciate her interrupting PT like.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Emma mumbled. “And I’m not avoiding. Technically. I’m trying to deflect and distract with your own name.” “Yours too.”

He kind of shouted those words too, but it kind of felt necessary and another instinct because he wanted everything with Emma, including hockey and whatever promotion she could get with the league and maybe if he just followed Peggy around with his phone all day, she’d wobble or wobble on camera and he’d be able to see it.

“Ah, that was stupid romantic,” Emma said. Her fingers carded through his hair again, moving across his shoulders and another scar, courtesy of a particularly hard check when he was fifteen and some kid from at the Team USA camp didn’t appreciate how good Killian was at scoring.

“Charming,” he corrected softly. “We’ve been over that so many times, Swan.” “True. You’re not going to let the job thing drop, are you?” “I don’t know why you want me to.” Emma sighed, but she didn’t try to push him off her and he was more than content to linger on top of her while discussing some nebulous future that was only sort of overwhelming. He really wanted to shoot at something.

“It’s not so much that,” Emma started. “It’s just...there’s so much here and so much to do and I really think Mer is sleeping in her office again.” “I doubt that.” “Have you met Merida?” “Strangely enough, I have,” Killian nodded. “And I know she’s not sleeping in her office because she told me that she was going to Gristedes last night to make sure there were bags of dried cranberries in your office for the next week.” “Did you ask her to do that?” Killian glanced up at the sound of the question, Emma’s voice shaking slightly and cracking a bit and his mouth dropped when he realized what she was doing to her lower lip. He moved his thumb over it, doing his best to pry it away from her teeth without causing any more damage and it wasn’t that big of a deal.

He’d been telling Merida to make sure Emma ate since he got hurt, and even before then – when playoffs got crazy or she ordered the same salad from Pret the entire time she was pregnant with Matt and that was just part of the deal, slightly different versions of vows he’d promised twice.

And she still looked kind of stunned.

He needed to get back on the ice.

He needed things to be normal again.

“You’re deflecting again, Swan,” he muttered, and not kissing her was a very specific type of challenge. “What did Tink say?” “C’mon answer, the question. And please don’t talk about an attempted set-up while you’re also being charming. It’s a lot of mixed signals.”

He chuckled against her hair, fingers working back under her shirt and maybe he was the one deflecting. “What was it you said? I wanted to have kids with you, so I think you won, Swan.” “Ah, it sounds crazy when you say it like that.” “Maybe a little clingy.” “Oh my God.” “The job, love,” Killian said, pulling back and he wasn’t sure if he appreciated Emma’s laugh.

“You went all dad face on me. I couldn’t take it seriously.” “That doesn’t bode well for the future.”

Her expression changed again, a blink and a twitch of her lips and it would have been great if the Earth’s atmosphere stopped abruptly shifting like that. It wasn’t helping his lungs at all. Or his head. Tuesday. That was the last headache he’d had.

“That’s not true at all,” Emma said softly. “And, uh...the job is basically what I’m doing now, just...everywhere.” “Everywhere?” “This would probably be easier if you didn’t just repeat everything I was saying.” Killian rolled his eyes, but Emma was smiling again and her fingers were incredibly distracting. “So, the idea is to kind of grow the fanbase I guess. Especially the youth fanbase. Which apparently, rumor has it, I’m great at.” “But,” Killian prompted.

“How do you know there’s a but?” “Swan.” She stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes and it looked a bit like Peggy when she didn’t appreciate that they were were feeding her cut up sweet potatoes again. Emma Swan and Peggy Jones both hated sweet potatoes.

Killian didn’t say that out loud.

“It’s just a lot,” Emma said, probably waving her hands through the air over his back. “There’s a lot of kids and a lot of would-be fans and...I don’t have time to think about that now. I can’t think about that now. Not when everything is so…”

She gritted her teeth, the rest of that sentence practically flashing on a neon sign above her head. It was a pretty good imitation of what her desk phone usually liked.

“Emma,” Killian said, and she groaned loudly, an arm draped over her face and a pillow falling on the floor and they were on borrowed time already.

The door swung open, slamming into the wall hard enough that it probably left a mark and Killian winced when a four-year-old threw himself at his left leg.

“Dad, Dad,” Matt yelled, somehow getting the sound to move directly into Killian’s ear at the same time he dug his feet into his calf. “Are you awake?”

Emma laughed, turning her head into a pillow so it wasn’t incredibly obvious, but Killian was still half on top of her with his hand under her shirt and they were going to have to come up with a better way to avoid ruining their kid’s psyche.

Maybe after they dealt with everything else.

He still needed to get a tux for Casino Night.

“We’re very awake, Mattie,” Emma promised, twisting around to tug him further up the bed and Killian was sure one his kidneys suffered for the effort. “The real question is why are you awake? And what are we going to make for breakfast?” “I’m hungry!” “Yeah, I kind of figured that’s what this was about.”

Emma glanced at him, lips ticking up and whatever they’d been treading towards with the job discussion had been appropriately deflected. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to regret that as much as he did.

“What do you say we make breakfast today, Mattie?” Killian asked, sitting back on his heels and it was a precarious position, but that felt like a metaphor and he ignored it completely.

Matt jumped up, just barely missing both of Emma’s knees in the process, and Killian could hear Peggy yelling a few feet away and they were going to have to buy a real bed eventually because that kid really did have an absurd amount of upper-body strength.

“Yeah,” Matt yelled, but it came out a bit like a question and Killian was almost ready when a head collided with his shoulder. “Mattie, be careful,” Emma chastised. Her hand moved, hovering over Matt’s back and another Jones-branded t-shirt, but Killian shook his head deftly.

Another deflection.

Another slightly selfish move because that seemed destined to end with him half choking to death, but he hadn’t had a headache in days and maybe indefinite could end a little earlier than scheduled.

Probably after they ate their weight in chocolate-chip waffles.

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian said, pleasantly surprised when he absolutely meant it and none of his joints cracked when he stood up.

Emma stared at him incredulously. “He’s gone full koala on you. I really don’t think that can be healthy. Physical activity was, like, at the absolute bottom of the list.” She groaned when he grinned, eyebrows twisting and there were so many pillows on their bed. He barely heard when she fell back against them. “You know what I meant,” she mumbled.

“I did. But I’m not all that concerned with the list at the moment.” He took a step forward, Matt still clinging to his side, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. She smiled. “Go shower, love. We’re going to eat way too much chocolate.”

They did, in fact, eat way too much chocolate, Matt’s lips covered and, somehow, his chin had gotten into the mix, perched on the counter next to a bowl of batter with even more chips in it.

“Dad, can Mar have some too?” Matt asked, trying to yank the spoon out of the bowl and Killian wasn’t sure what his plan was, but he assumed it was flinging waffle batter at his sister. It’s probably what he would have done.

“Hey,” he said sharply. Matt’s shoulders slumped. “What did we say about sitting up here?” “Not to touch.” “Yuh huh.” “And not to swing.” Killian nodded, eyeing Matt’s swinging feet intently. They sounded incredibly loud when they collided with the front of the cabinet and he thought he was being very impressive when he snuck his hand into the bowl, grabbing a few chocolate chips that hadn’t mixed in yet.

“You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are,” Killian muttered, and Matt widened his eyes in a way that was equal parts familiar and entirely uncharted territory. And it probably counted as physical activity, but his kid was laughing and smiling and happy and it didn’t really take much to sling Matt over his shoulder, socked feet bumping against his chest and fingers gripping at the back of the shirt he’d finally put on.

He hoped they didn’t burn the waffles.

Matt kept laughing and Killian, somehow, managed to get Peggy to eat a handful of bananas, some of which inexplicably ended up on his elbow, but it was good and healthy and-- “Dad,” Matt asked, moving to hang off Killian’s back and he’d gotten surprisingly good at that in the last few months. Maybe all their kids were just ridiculously strong.

“Yeah, kid.” “Did you like your picture?”

He wished he didn’t have banana on his elbow for this conversation.

“Of course,” Killian said, hoping his voice stayed even and confident and Matt wasn’t done. It was, he assumed, because they’d lost last night and Matt probably had the Rangers practice schedule memorized at that point and the prospect of hanging out with Leo Nolan that afternoon wasn’t nearly as fun as taking slap shots on Garden ice with Roland.

“Do you...do you think you’ll win?”

Killian had to take a deep breath before he answered, closing his eyes and trying to remember all the good things and the confidence he’d been flushed with that morning.

No headache since Tuesday. Good heart rate on the treadmill. Minimal glares from both Ariel and Regina in the last week.  

Husinger’s pass had been ridiculous.

“Dad,” Matt whined, tightening his hold.

Killian flinched when someone knocked on the door, biting his tongue in the process and he never actually answered Matt’s question, peering through the peephole to find it covered with what looked like a handmade sign.

He knew who it was when she kicked at the door.

“Oh my God,” Killian muttered. “Mattie, don’t try and climb over me when I open this door, ok?”

It was a pointless request – Matt was four and had no control over his limbs ever and he probably should have been more concerned about Anna anyway because she practically leapt at Killian as soon as there wasn’t a door in between them.

Killian groaned when her body collided with his, arms around his middle and more hair in his face. He stumbled backwards, wincing when Matt likely did permanent damage to his right eardrum.

The shower turned off down the hallway.

“KJ, is that banana on your elbow?” Anna asked.

“Did you bring a sign?” he countered. “This is not JFK. A sign seems unnecessary.”

“Ok, this is super cute and you know it. So don’t try and tell me that you’re not charmed. I can see it in your face and your banana elbow.” Killian rolled his eyes, but Anna was, well, Anna and she was already talking to Matt. “My guy,” she grinned, trying and failing to pry him away from Killian’s back and that was only because she didn’t have the kind of upper body strength either of the Jones kids seemed to possess. “You trying to choke your dad?”

“Anna, Anna, Anna,” Matt chanted. She beamed at Killian. And let go of him so she could crouch to Matt’s level and hug him tightly, peppering his head with kisses until he found that decidedly unpleasant.

“What are you doing here, Banana?” She laughed, tilting her head up to him and he was, somehow, holding her sign. “It’s almost like you planned the food shenanigans to match up with even more absurd nicknames.” “Several habits make it a difficult habit to break.” “That’s kind of my excuse too, honestly.” “What?”

“Anna?"

Emma was standing on the edge of the kitchen, hair still in a towel and bare feet and it took less than a full second for even more hugging and questions and Zelena’s meeting schedule was going to be completely pointless after this.

Killian looked at the sign in his hand, biting back a smile and a laugh when he processed the words: HERE TO FIX YOUR LIFE, KJ.

They didn’t burn all the waffles, cleaning Matt’s face and Anna kept Peggy on her knee the entire time they ate, updates on several different mountains and a spread in Condé Nast, because that was the kind of person she was and she hadn’t been to New York in months.

She’d come to New York to fix his life.

The sign wouldn’t have lied.

Anna wouldn’t have lied.

“Alright,” Emma said, nearly an hour and two slightly dramatic baths for both kids later. “Let’s move out, team.” “Where are you going?” Anna asked, and Killian knew he didn’t imagine the disappointment in her voice. He smiled.

“I’ve got forty-two Casino Night meetings and I’m sure Aurora has opinions about Phillip’s ceremony she hasn’t actually voiced yet and--” “--God, there’s more?”

Emma made a face. “So I’m going to bring Mattie and Pegs to Reese’s and David’s because he’s got a day off for the first time in forever and--” “--Why can’t KJ and I watch ‘em?” “I’ve got PT in an hour, Banana,” Killian explained, but Emma’s shoulders sagged a bit. “So you better explain yourself pretty quickly or Red will throw a treadmill at you too.” “Yeah, I’d like to see her try.”

“Wily.”

“Don’t be a jerk, KJ.” He flashed her a grin, turning back to Emma when she grabbed her keys and two different phones, one of them already lighting up in her hand. “Hot chocolate later?” she asked, a note of something in her voice that didn’t sound like confidence and he was nodding before she closed her mouth.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Swan.” “Good,” she said, kissing him quick and leaning towards him so he could make a face at Peggy and Anna might have awed when he worked a rather loud da out of her. “See you later, Anna.” Anna hummed, waving and settling herself into the corner of the couch. She dug her heels into Killian's thighs. And, to her credit, waited for the door to close before she started talking.

“I brought chocolate,” Anna said, and that might have been the last thing he expected her to say. She smiled when Killian blinked. “Yeah, not what you were thinking, right? Teach you to assume you know my conversational tendencies. I figured it was about time I repaid the favor or something.” “It wasn’t a favor Banana. It was a very vocal demand of yours for fifteen years.” “Not that long.” “You’re right, longer.”

“Don’t be like that. I made you a sign.”

“A rather opinionated sign.” “Liam yelled at you over the phone!"

“Not really,” Killian argued. “He advocated for making out and dates and getting away from practice.” “You follow through on any of that?” “At least the first two.” Anna clicked her tongue, another heel press and expressive look and he kind of expected her phone to ring earlier, honestly. “Is this why you came here?” Killian asked, swatting at her leg when her feet started masquerading as fifty-pound weights. “God, move your legs, Banana. I am on IR.”

“Because of your actual brain, KJ,” she countered. Elsa sighed on the phone screen.

“Are we fighting already? That was not part of the plan.”

“The plan was unnecessary,” Killian growled. “I’m serious about your feet, Banana. Did you come here just for this? That’s worse than the sign.” “The sign was nice!” “The sign was kind of judgmental. And kind of backed you into a corner. Here to fix my life?” “Aw, Anna,” Elsa groaned. Anna blushed. “That’s not what we agreed on KJ. Although it’s nice to see visual proof that you’re alive. How’s your head?” “No headaches in awhile,” Killian said, and Anna was never going to move her feet. Like, ever again. “So as good as can be expected.” “You snuck on the ice yet?” “Who do you think I am, El?” “I know exactly who you are, KJ,” Elsa answered evenly. She was in her office. There was snow on the mountains behind her. “Which is why I’m asking that question.” “Rude,” “Honest,” Anna corrected. “And I’m not totally here because of you. It’s been a while since I’d seen Kris and we’ve been talking about…”

Killian snapped his head around so quickly, he was sure he’d need PT for that too and Anna’s cheeks were red enough that it was difficult to differentiate between her face and her hair. “Talking about?”

“Not that.” “You haven’t actually said anything, Banana.” She groaned, slumping in the couch and he should have made her get the chocolate first. He couldn’t eat more chocolate. “I’ve just been thinking about home, and missing home and Mattie’s a cute kid and,” she rolled her eyes, “shut up, KJ.” “I didn’t say anything.”

“Nah, you’re really bad at lying KJ,” Elsa muttered, and he jerked back when Anna thrust the phone in his face. “And Anna’s even more sentimental than you are and totally homesick. It just helps that you’re part of home so now we can tag-team you.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Anna groaned.

Elsa shrugged. “You weren’t supposed to make a sign.”

Killian chuckled, some of his frustration dissipating and it might have been because of the copious amount of chocolate he’d eaten that morning, but he was fairly certain it was also because Elsa and Anna Vankald resolutely refused to let him be anything except happy.

“You guys know you’re kind of late to the intervention party, right?” Killian asked. “I really haven’t gotten on the ice.”

“That’s actually pretty impressive,” Elsa said, ignoring whatever he did with his face at that. “But, uh...not entirely, no.” Killian tilted his head, eyes flitting from the phone to Anna and her pursed lips and Elsa looked nervous. “What’s this actually about?” “The plan kind of evolved in the last few hours,” Anna muttered. “Although there really is an offer to watch your painfully cute kids because Emma sounds super stressed out in the group text and you’re not great at dealing and--” “--How can she sound stressed out in a text?” “It’s a feeling, KJ.” “A feeling?” “Killian,” Elsa snapped, and he nearly jumped off the couch. Anna hissed. “This really isn’t about the semantics of the text messages.”

“Although you should really be aware of how stressed out Emma is,” Anna mumbled.

“I know, Banana,” Killian said. The frustration was back. It kind of felt like fury.

And he didn’t hear Elsa at first.

There was probably a scientific reason for that.

Complete and utter denial and the desperate desire to deflect this entire conversation.

Probably.

“I said, have you seen The Post today?” Elsa asked softly. Killian shook his head. “You, uh, you might want to look at it.”

It took a moment to find it – searching and scrolling and his phone had been off, his quiet fuck when he landed on the Q&A sounding impossibly loud in the now-silent apartment.

He’d seen the feature before, a Saturday spread two pages from the back with a color headshot for the columnist and splashy photos for the subject and he’d answered those questions more than once in the last decade and a half.

It was the headline, really, that got the laugh out of him, slightly manic and a little surprised and he knew Elsa tried to glance at Anna through the phone.

Harping on Husinger: How the Rangers call-up is making this his team

“His team?” Killian asked. He didn’t take his eyes away from his phone, grip tightening and the words felt like acid working out of him. He was glad he didn’t melt. That’d probably ruin the couch. It’d at least scandalize Anna.

“So he says,” Elsa muttered. “Several times.” “He says this shit more than once?”

She made a noise, an agreement and a slight whimper and Killian’s lungs had never collapsed before, but this kind of felt like that. Or the world falling into a black hole.

Anna sniffled.

“He’s a dick, KJ,” she shrugged. “Just...forget the goals and that pass last night. He’s...trying to make it sound like you know you won’t come back and it’s his spot and his playoff run and..”

She didn’t finish. Killian wished she finished, but his eyes were scanning sentences and proclamations and promises, swallowing when they landed on my line’s been great, it’s been so easy to settle into the scheme and Arthur’s an incredible coach, and I can only hope I keep finding the back of the net. This is the moment I’ve been waiting my whole career for, I don’t intend to backtrack.

“This is bullshit,” Killian said, voice low and he kept shaking his head like that would get rid of the ringing in his ears. “It’s not his team.” “We know, KJ,” Elsa promised. “He’s just trying to get his five minutes.” “Or his minutes until the playoffs.” “What?” “That’s as soon as I can get back. Maybe.” “Maybe?” “That’s what they told me, El,” he growled. She widened her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I just...how did you find this? Were you looking for headlines? And why didn’t Lucas tell me?” “I don’t think she knew Husinger was going to say all that. And you’re kind of terrifying, KJ.” “And Belle texted me,” Anna added. “That’s why the plan changed. I think she was trying to talk Scarlet out of killing this guy at practice.”

There wasn’t much thought after that.

It was just anger and red on the edge of his vision and Killian stuffed his phone in his pocket, mumbling I’ll be back later when both Anna and Elsa questioned where he was going.

He left his wallet in the bedroom.

“Hey, uh, you see that story this morning, Cap?” the driver asked, and Killian grunted or nodded and neither one of them said anything else the entire drive down Columbus Ave.

He didn’t say anything to the security guard either, just tugged up the collar of his jacket and kept walking, eyes on his shoes and mind nowhere near rational. He could hear pucks hitting the boards already.

The tension was obvious, even through Killian’s own cloud of anger and fury and several other words that were equally irrational. Will was standing on the far edge of the ice, helmet off and stick clutched in his hand tight enough that Killian would have bet him several different things his knuckles were white under his gloves.

Robin was taking faceoffs, Husinger just outside the circle and neither of them looked particularly pleased to be sharing the same few feet of space. Phillip kept glaring at them both.

Arthur blew his whistle.

“Again, Locksley,” he growled. “And try not to fuck it up this time. You looked like shit last night.” “He won more than half Arthur,” Will pointed out. Another whistle blow.

“I’m not paying him to win half. I’m paying him to win seventy-five percent. At least.” “You’re not really paying him at all, you know, unless you got a promotion none of us heard about.”

Arthur let go of his whistle, the stupid bit of plastic landing on his chest with a soft thump and Husinger chuckled. And, for half a second, Killian was worried the whole goddamn team was going to kill him.

Phillip’s eyes narrowed and Will dropped his stick, Robin standing up to his full height and rolling his shoulders – the same exact way Roland did when he didn’t like a call on the ice.

Arthur skated across the circle.

“You want to try that again, Husinger?” Arthur muttered. He laughed. Again.

Killian swallowed. And swung his legs over the boards.

He was always better on ice than he was anywhere else, more confident and more controlled, and, admittedly, more talented, but in the moment, he was simply thankful he kept his balance, a distinct lack of traction that may have been due to the excessive beating of his heart.

“Cap,” Will gasped. “What the hell. Get off the ice?” Killian shook his head, certain he would fall over if he stopped moving and Husinger stopped laughing when he saw him.

He hadn’t actually seen him in person yet.

He wasn’t that big, no taller than Killian and a little stockier, leaning on his stick with half a smile on his face and a confident attitude that was treading dangerously close to complete and utter dick. He clicked his tongue when Killian was a few inches away, jaw tight and eyes tracing across his street clothes and sneakers.

“Looks like you’re still not quite ready to suit up, Jones,” Husinger grinned.

Will nearly jumped forward.

Killian shook his head, crossing his arms lightly and he still couldn't really come up with any coherent thoughts. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked, ignoring both Robin and Phillip when they mumbled Cap under their breath.

Arthur looked torn between blowing his whistle and making them all skate blue lines.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do,” Killian muttered. “Or you wouldn’t look that nervous.” Husinger blinked, smile wavering for half a moment before he schooled his features and pursed his lips. He shook his gloves off. “I’ve never met you before, man,” Husinger continued. “All I know is the legend.”

“There’s no legend.” “Ah, sure there is or you wouldn’t be here to defend it. You worried about your squad? Is that what it is?” “It’s not your team.”

“Not yet. You see that pass last night? Rocket right across the ice. That’s what they were saying on all the talk shows this morning.” “A spot on SportsCenter’s not going to get you a Cup.” “And yet you’ll still be on the bench no matter I do, won’t you?” Husinger asked. Killian fisted his hands at his side, biting on the inside of his lip and he could hear Will breathing behind him. “It’s a talkative team. Not really like that in Hartford, but they do talk about you Hartford and you’re out of commission for awhile.” “Seriously, what is your problem, man?” Phillip balked, huffing when Robin pushed his hand into his jersey.

Husinger shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care about Jones. I don’t care about his fucking brain or his cognitive reasoning or the kids everyone keeps talking about. This is a a hockey team. And it’s supposed to win. I’m here to win. I don’t care about anything else.” “That’s not how this works,” Killian muttered, voice barely audible and Arthur stared at him. “You can’t win if you’re just here for you.”

“Did you miss the part where I don’t care?” “Nah, I heard you. Strangely enough the concussion didn’t affect my hearing.”

Will tried to turn his laugh into a cough, but he was grinning when Killian glanced at him and he’d never picked up his stick. “That was funny, Cap,” he said. “You hear that Locksley? Cap’s making jokes about concussions.” “Don’t tell Emma,” Robin yelled.

Killian rolled his eyes, but Husinger was still standing there and, presumably, still a piece of garbage, absolute dick looking for a moment in the spotlight and they all really should have expected it.

It had already been in print.

“This is my spot now, Jones,” Husinger said, shrugging like it was obvious and Arthur put the whistle back in between his teeth. “And I’m not going anywhere. You can come back and it won’t matter. You’re gone. Might as well get used to it now. Make it easier to explain to your kids next season.”

It wasn’t really red.

It was kind of like...magenta. Burning and searing and so goddamn hot Killian had to glance down at his hands to make sure they hadn’t exploded into flames.

And Killian barely heard Will, a quiet “ah, fuck that guy,” in the background when he walked forward, lifted his hand and punched.

A right hook, straight to the jaw.

Everything went to shit after that.

Killian landed another two punches before Husinger reacted, a fist in his stomach and the side of his cheek and he swore he heard something crack, the pain rushing straight through him. He was never entirely sure how he kept his balance, slipping and sliding and gripping the front of Husinger’s jersey like a goddamn anchor.

He didn’t stop.

He felt an arm around him, trying to pull him away and he didn’t know if it was Will or Robin, didn’t particularly care either way, particularly when another blow landed on the side of his ribs. That made it more difficult to breathe.

And keep fighting.

Arthur blew his whistle.

Phillip cursed when Husinger elbowed him, trying to fight him off as he worked to stay on his skates and there was blood dripping into Killian’s mouth.

He could feel the bruise blooming under his eye, and it was a bit like being thrown into ice-cold water. His legs shook under him, suddenly incapable of supporting his weight and Will mumbled something he couldn’t understand.

Arthur was shouting, yelling instructions and something that sounded a bit like get this asshole the fuck off my ice and Killian exhaled, desperate to blink away the spots in front of his eyes.

Will kept mumbling ambulance.  

“No, no, no,” Killian argued, shaking his head. That was a mistake. Weebles wobble and they absolutely fall down.

“Cap.” “No, no, just...just go find Emma.”

[nagareboshi22]

Ok so I had a dream about Klance, but Lance in general. Imma put it under a cut cuz it’s kind of long lol. Gets angsty so you’re warned.

So in this dream, they're on this planet with humanoid civilians, and they've been there before from a previous mission. We're gonna call these civilians Rugrats. Anyways Lance and Keith are sent on a mission with two Rugrat children that look like Phil and Lil from Rugrats lmao because apparently they had the power to extract the stone they needed to find.

Before they left the planet, a man gives Lance a weird communicator. It looked like a round vase and you gotta stick your head in it for it to work lmao. He told Lance to try it out, so he does, but when Lance pulls his head out, he's... different, and Keith notices it but can't put his finger on it.

They're all on what looks like a cargo ship, Keith is in his BoM suit, the kids are seated on the side while Keith and Lance co-pilot. Apparently, Lance says there's a code they can enter into the ship so the ship can just go straight to their destination automatically, basically coordinates. He tell Keith to punch them in, but they were wrong, so Lance is all "oh it must've been this" and they keep getting it wrong until the ship's panel overloads and the ship ultimately malfunctions. But the thing is, it malfunctions when they're passing by a sun.

The ship lurches and Lance hits his head against the panel, not hard enough to knock him out, but Keith notices that Lance is acting more like himself again. They’re all scared, because it’s their doom is obvious since the sun’s gravity is pulling them in, but instead of freaking out, Lance goes over to the crying kids and consoles them. Keith is a bit start struck because he’s seeing a side of Lance he’s never seen before, and when Lance comes back to his side with the kids hanging off him, they share a look before reaching out to each other to hold hands. Their world was coming to an end, but at least they were facing it together...EXCEPT THAT THEY WERE SAVED.

An orbiting planet passes by just in time, its gravity strong enough to pull their ship away from the sun and more towards it. They had to crash land on the planet but they were safe and that’s all that mattered to them! They had to look for another ship on the planet, but during their time on the planet, Lance was like a big brother to the Rugrats and Keith had the Soft Look™, and just when they were about to leave the planet on their new ship, Keith confesses his feelings to Lance. Lance is startled but very happy, and the share a quiet moment just holding hands before they board their ship with the kids. Keith then tells Lance to report to the others through the weird communicator, so he does, but when he pulls his head out, Lance is back to that strange cold and detached attitude. That’s when Keith decided to go back to the Rugrat planet because something is not right. Lance tries to stop him, but in the process they scuffle and Lance gets hit which snaps him out of whatever it is that’s making him act different. They figure out that it’s the communicator, so they destroy it before they head back to the Rugrat planet. 

When they get back, the others ask them if they found the stone, but Keith ignores them and asks Lance who gave him the communicator. When Lance points him out, Keith becomes visibly angry. Apparently the guy was the ex-king that Keith had the pleasure of dethroning the last time they were on the planet. When the Paladins round on him, he reveals that he was trying to kill off the Paladins, and he was going to use Lance to do so because he seemed like the dumbest one among them. 

That obviously wounds Lance a lot and infuriates Keith who, along with Pidge and Hunk, start fighting the ex-king. Shiro on the other hand stays back to console Lance, who says things like “He’s right you know. I’m just the 7th wheel, I’m not as smart or as strong or have anything to contribute to this team.” And Shiro was all “That’s not true Lance! You’re so valuable to this team, you mean so much to us. You’re the kindest, the most selfless, and funniest guy we know. You’re so self-sacrificing that it inspires but scares the rest of us because if we’re down, we know we can count on you to have our backs, even if it means your life.” It was super emotional, they were both crying and bruh in that moment in my dreams I was hyper aware that s7 is going to be super emotional lmao.

Anyways, after their heart to heart, Lance and Shiro join the fight, and the team is doing so well until suddenly the ex-king activates some powersuit that he’s been wearing. Sadly, he wipes the floor of them, and he goes on a villain rant of how he’s going to take back his planet and throne, but he needs to get rid of pests. The ex-king then points a gun at Allura, and suddenly I’m in Lance’s POV and I can hear my heart pounding loudly in my ears when the gun is pointed at Allura. I start running towards them, just as the ex-kin is saying “Starting with you!” I jump in front of Allura. I see the gun right in front of my eyes, the sound of it going off, and then everything goes white. I woke up after that and I just laid in bed thinking “bruh, Lance died.” I SAW HIM DIE THROUGH HIS EYES I WAS SO SAD.

[astudyinfreewill]

"i almost lost you" for pynch please

so this is 3 months late because i’m literally the worst but HERE ENJOY THIS THING that was gonna be a short drabble but devolved into 4k of angst/fluff. sorry for the wait anon, and thanks to @adamparrush for helping me navigate the intricacies of american high school schedules!

(you told me) this is right were it begins || read on ao3

‘Cause I clutched your arms like stairway railingsAnd you clutched my brain and eased my ailing

Is There Somewhere - Halsey

The aftermath of dealing with the demon leaves behind a wake of emotional debris they were not – couldn’t have been – fully prepared to tackle. They all have a lot on their plate: assessing the damage, picking up the broken pieces, allowing the wounds to scar over.

There’s the matter of Gansey, and what exactly he is now that he’s been brought back to life. There’s the matter of Noah, who had been fleeting and barely-there for a while, but is now completely gone, leaving the group to struggle with grieving someone who was already dead. There’s the matter of Henry, and how he fits into this new, fragile balance they have.

And, of course, there’s the matter of Gansey-and-Blue, and the matter of Adam-and-Ronan.

The first couple of weeks go by completely smoothly – dreamlike, almost. Adam goes back to school, and starts picking his jobs back up, shift by shift. Ronan drops out – officially, this time – and goes back to the Barns. Declan and Matthew come back to town for a short while, and Aurora gets a funeral, the elaborately carved white coffin as lovely and vacant as she had been in life. (Adam doesn’t really understand dream people, or what it’s like to lose a beloved parent, but he understands enough to recognize the fractures in the Lynch brothers: the cracks in Declan’s politician facade, the clouds rolling over Matthew’s sunny disposition. He understands enough to see Ronan break again: quieter, this time; with less anger than when Niall was killed. But he still breaks.)

They don’t talk about it, because they just don’t do that kind of thing – they never have; they wouldn’t know how. Instead of words, Adam offers himself: a shoulder for Ronan to rest his head on, lips trailing over his cheek, a hand lightly placed on his when they’re at Nino’s. Gentle, anchoring touches to keep him from spiralling into his grief. He drives down to the Barns after work and plays with Opal when Ronan is too heartsick to manage it; he lets Ronan crash at St. Agnes at 3 in the morning, when it’s pitch black outside and the world weighs hopelessly on Ronan’s shoulders, and shields him with his body, curled around the black hooks of Ronan’s tattoo.

Sometimes it’s enough. And sometimes it isn’t.

The fact of the matter is that before being Adam-and-Ronan, they were Adam and Ronan: two satellites orbiting planet Gansey, inevitably colliding with each other over and over, and only taking stock of the damage when the impact had already left craters in both of them. Even as they’d slowly become friends, then better friends, then something more altogether, Adam had never harboured any illusions that they would ever stop fighting. So, logically, he should not have expected them to stop butting heads now just because they were… whatever they were (…together? Boyfriends? That was something else they had not talked about).

But Adam hadn’t been thinking logically ever since Ronan had kissed him in his childhood bedroom, taking reason away and replacing it with soft white light and the foreign feeling of being loved, loved, loved. If he had, he might have seen it coming when their new, unspoken peace suddenly came unspooled around them on a winter night.

As it is, though, it’s ten minutes to midnight and Adam is tired. The end of the semester is fast approaching, Aglionby teachers apparently trying their best to fit as many test as they can in the last few days; his shift at Boyd’s has been relentless today, the garage drastically understaffed because three of the mechanics are home with the flu. He stayed up until 3am last night revising for an algebra quiz, skipped today’s lunch in favour of cramming in some last-minute Latin homework, and he knows tomorrow’s schedule is not looking any better. His stomach growls loudly, the grilled cheese sandwich he had for dinner not nearly enough to make up for the meal he missed, and all he wants is to crawl into bed and catch up on lost sleep, but he has college applications to write; he has sent out most of them already, but there are still a few he needs to finalise by the end of December, and they’re not going to write themselves.

He’s so absorbed in his work that he barely hears the first knock on the door, his head only jerking up when a second round of knocks comes, louder and more impatient. There’s no question of who it is – there’s only one person it could be at this time of night – and normally Adam would go greet him at the door, kiss him, pull him inside by his belt loops. Tonight, though, he’s just so exhausted and hungry and done that he can’t even bring himself to get up. “Come in,” he calls out wearily, scratching out a mistake in the rough draft of his cover letter.

Ronan walks in, bringing with him an eddy of cold night air and a metaphorical storm cloud over his head. Adam doesn’t know what it is, exactly – but something in him picks up on Ronan’s obvious bad mood, and his own already grim mood ricochets dully off it, grating at his patience.

“God, Parrish, how the fuck are you still working?” That tone, the bored, casually dismissive one, has not made an appearance since before – before the demon, before Aurora, before the kissing and this newborn thing between them. Adam can’t say he’s missed it, and his hackles instinctively rise with the muscle memory of a dozen previous fights.

“Because I have no choice,” he huffs, dryly. “I could’ve been more ahead of schedule if I hadn’t had to spend all of lunch break on Latin homework. I tried calling you to check if I had the vocabulary right, but you didn’t pick up.” As you never do, is the unspoken but still obvious add-on to that sentence. Adam knows it’s petty, but he can’t keep the petulance out of his voice. This is another thing he had expected to change after, even though he had no logical grounds for it, and it annoys him to be proven wrong.

“I was out,” Ronan shrugs, apparently unperturbed, but he has felt the silent barb, and his own defenses rise in response, in an all-too-familiar mechanism: guilt leading to self-deprecation leading to insecurity leading to anger. His shoulders are tense as he props himself down on the floor against Adam’s bed.

Adam watches him out of the corner of his eyes. Ronan is a spring coiled tight, the black cloud trailing after him apparently only getting denser and denser as he chews restlessly at the leather bands on his wrist. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are pink, as if he’d been driving with his windows down. As if–

Adam puts his pen down with deliberate calm.

“Have you been racing?”

Ronan snorts. “Okay, Gansey.”

Adam turns to look at him more fully, and despite the fact that yes, historically it’s Gansey who’s been the one dealing with a street-racing Ronan, Adam has still seen it often enough to know the signs. The adrenaline crackling in and around him, the restless way he taps his boot against the floor, the combative glint in his eyes.

“Well, have you?”

“So what if I have?” it’s a childish response, and once upon a time, Adam might have fired back something cutting for that alone, rolling his eyes at Ronan’s antics. Now, he knows better than to do that, but he’s unable to stop his thoughts from derailing frantically in another direction.

It’s mid-December. Even in Virginia, the weather has been hostile, especially over the past week, with on-and-off spells of merciless rain, which combined with the temperature dropping at night makes for a constant chill in the air. And it makes the roads freeze over at night.

There’s ice on the roads, and Ronan’s been racing.

Adam’s heartbeat picks up speed in his chest, going faster for every mile he imagines Ronan going over the speed limit, shooting down a poorly-lit country road, trying to outmaneuver some good-for-nothing delinquent.

“Are you an idiot?” he blurts out, before he can think better of it.

“What the fuck, Parrish? Just because you’re busy applying to fancy schools you don’t get to be all high and mighty with the resident drop-out,” Ronan sneers, but there’s a beat of genuine hurt under the sarcasm. Adam hears it, but he can’t make himself acknowledge it right now. His chest feels too tight, and his mind keeps reliving the same dreadful possibility.

Gas pedal. Gear shift. Wheels on slippery ice. Crash.

“I thought you’d stopped racing,” he says, forcing his voice to remain even.

Ronan shrugs. “It’s fun.”

That’s not a lie, not exactly; Ronan does love racing. But it’s a lie right now. Because this, this isn’t Ronan racing for fun. This is Ronan racing the way he did right after Niall died, or the way he did before he could master his night horrors. This is Ronan lost and helpless and grieving for his dead mother, reeling from almost losing his best friend, unmoored with the fear of Adam leaving for college. This is Ronan racing like maybe he doesn’t care so much if he wraps the BMW around a tree.

Adam slams his notebook closed. “Yeah? How fun is it going to be when you crash the damn car because you couldn’t be bothered to check if there’s ice on the ground?”

Ronan rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Parrish, can you relax and take the stick out of your ass for like five seconds?” he drawls. Adam knows, technically, that he’s just committed his first mistake: he’s getting angry, which means Ronan will act as infuriatingly aloof as he can to balance it out. But he can’t seem to stop himself, hurtling towards anger the same way he imagines the BMW skidding along a dark road to a fiery end.

He imagines Ronan on the ground, crushed under metal sheet and debris.

He sees Ronan on the ground, blood pooling around him as the demon unmakes him piece by painful piece, gasping for air and desperately creating with every ragged breath.

He can’t stand it.

“If you’re gonna be an asshole, you can just leave. I’ve got shit to do anyway,” he bites out, getting up and gesturing towards the door.

Ronan immediately gets up as well, hurt and rejection tumbling into anger. “Of course you do. Like you have time for anything apart from your fucking homework.”

“Oh, give me a break, Lynch” Adam exclaims, his voice rising in volume despite his best efforts. “Excuse me for wanting a future. Not all of us care so little about their lives they can just drop out of school and spend all their time racing cars.”

“What the fuck is your problem, huh?” Ronan shoots back, stepping closer to him in the cramped little room. “No, really, what crawled up your ass and died? It’s none of your business what I do with my free time now I’m not stuck in that shithole of a school anymore.”

It’s a sore spot – unlike Gansey, Adam has always recognised the futility of trying to force Ronan to stay in school against his wishes, but it doesn’t mean he agrees with the choice. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss him. He can’t help himself from leaning closer, into Ronan’s personal space, matching him step for step.

“Right, of course, because sticking it out a few more months in high school was gonna kill you, but speeding down frozen roads in the dark for shits and giggles isn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, would you get the hell off my back?! I’m fucking good at driving, and I know what I’m doing! Why the fuck do you even care if I race?”

“Because I almost lost you!” Adam all but yells at him. His fists clench spasmodically at his sides, and he feels the bite of it, wondering if he’s broken skin; he wants to punch a wall, kick a chair, something, but every time the idea of violence crosses his mind he sees Blue’s frightened face, and a wave of self-loathing clamps his muscles into place.

Ronan seems to be similarly frozen into place, his eyes wide. They’re both breathing hard, despite standing perfectly still. Adam takes a shameful step back, unable to meet Ronan’s eyes, his fists still balled hard at his sides.

“You don’t know– you have no idea–” he starts, low and unsteady, his traitorous accent weighing on every vowel. “I had to watch as that thing took you apart. Watch as it killed you. I thought it was over. I thought you–” his voice cracks and he shakes his head, biting down on his lip to keep his eyes from welling up, because he’s not doing this, he can’t do this – but he is anyway, his ribs constricting around his lungs painfully, his throat working uselessly against a lump. Everything inside him is chaos, knocked asunder with the knowledge of how Ronan – this miraculous boy, this god-like dreamer – is ultimately just as fragile as any human, perhaps more so because of how much life he holds within himself.

He sees, again, Ronan unmade by the demon, but he also sees Ronan drowning in Cabeswater, sinking in acid to try to save Opal; he remembers the desperation with which he’d tethered himself to the ley line and asked Cabeswater to please save him please please save him just save him. He remembers Ronan’s dream double, lying on the floor of the church they’re standing above just now, convulsing and bleeding out, looking so much like the real Ronan that even the memory twists Adam’s stomach painfully. He remembers rushing to the hospital after getting a panicked phone call from Gansey and seeing Ronan in a hospital bed, pale as death, his arms bandaged with red-stained gauze.

He remembers his own hands clenching around Ronan’s throat to choke the life out of him.

The fear and disgust are an almost physical weight on his chest, and he still can’t bring himself to look at Ronan, even as he finds his voice.

“I know maybe you don’t care about your life right now,” he says quietly. “But if you care about me at all, even a little bit– please, please, just– stay alive.” He closes his eyes, recognising the battle as lost when he feels dampness against his eyelashes but too tired to care, sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion and emotional upheaval getting the better of him.

The next moment, Ronan’s hands are on his, taking hold of his fists and gently teasing them open. Adam looks up through slightly blurry eyes to see angry red crescent marks on his palms, and Ronan running his thumbs over them. Ronan’s face is doing complicated things, regret and confusion and grief warring with each other, his eyes still wide with something like wonder. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking helpless, like he doesn’t think that’s enough. Adam blinks back more tears and thinks somewhat hysterically that this is the first time Ronan’s ever apologised first for a fight.

“God, don’t– I’m the one who should–” Adam stumbles, then heaves out a ragged sigh. “Don’t be sorry. Be safe.”

He allows himself to look at Ronan’s face more steadily, and watches his expression shift through something like shame, then pain, his eyes very bright, like maybe he’s close to crying as well, and Adam’s heart flips over in his chest, wishing desperately he could undo the entire night, go back to before they ever fought. Ronan brings Adam’s hand up to his cheek, presses the palm there, then turns his head just enough to brush his lips to it, barely a kiss.

“It hurts,” Ronan says in a very small voice, breath warm against his hand. It’s vague, and he doesn’t offer any clarification, but Adam knows what he means. Losing Aurora, losing Cabeswater, losing Gansey without knowing how they were going to get him back, his treacherous dreams telling him he’s going to lose Adam as well.

Adam is new to love, but he thinks he’s starting to understand loss, because for the first time in his life he feels he has things to lose. He thinks about Persephone, the first adult to ever be good to him. He thinks about Cabeswater, whose absence still feels like a gaping hole in his chest. He thinks again about the possibility of losing Ronan, losing Gansey, losing Blue, losing Opal, and his hands tighten around Ronan’s.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He means it in more ways than he can put words to, his eyes dropping to the floor again. But Ronan, perceptive as he can sometimes be – and Adam knows this by now, should be used to it, but it somehow always blindsides him – seems to pick up on it anyway.

“Parrish,” he says softly, “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know,” Adam murmurs. Unlike Ronan, he’s no stranger to lying. He knows that it’s not his fault – not technically. But all he can think of is the demon using his hands to strangle Ronan, the demon using his eyes to spy on them. Ronan’s hands covered in Aurora’s blood and Adam standing by, unable to help, a useless magician.

“Adam,” Ronan says, more steady now. “It’s not your fault.” He slides Adam’s hand down, to rest against his neck, thumb pressed to the pulse point. Fear lurches deep in Adam’s gut as he instinctively recoils, trying to take his hand back. Ronan doesn’t let him.

Instead, Ronan – stubborn, impossible Ronan – takes his other hand and places it on his throat as well, an achingly tender mimicry of Adam’s worst nightmare.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, conviction weighing in every word. “That was not you. It could never be you.”

“Ronan,” Adam tries to protest, with a note of pleading. Ronan’s throat is warm and smooth and alive, and he forces his hands to stay as limp as they can and resist the urge to touch.

“Adam.”

They just look at each other for a long moment. It probably looks stupid from the outside, Adam thinks distantly; but all he wants right now is to collapse against Ronan’s chest, to hide his face into his shoulder, to listen to his heartbeat’s constant reminder that they’ve won, they’re alive, they get to have this.

“I trust you,” Ronan says, his tone gentler than it is on most occasions. Adam is reminded fleetingly of baby mice and baby ravens, back when he was still discovering that Ronan wasn’t all sharp edges and thorns.

“What if I don’t trust myself?”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Ronan replies easily. “But it’s okay, because I trust you enough for both of us.”

Adam swallows, the motion almost painful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I trust you more than anyone.” It’s the truth, because Ronan never lies.

Adam wants to cry again, but he doesn’t. Instead he allows his hands to move, to settle more firmly around Ronan’s neck, not pushing but feeling, gently pressing his index fingertips to the spot behind Ronan’s ears, his thumbs to the pulse under his chin, all smooth skin and rough stubble.

Ronan closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale from his mouth, letting his hands fall off of Adam’s as if giving Adam control has dislodged a weight from his shoulders, allowing him to breathe more easily.

The sudden surge of love clutching at Adam’s heart right then is stronger than even the ley line coming to life inside him, and he can’t help himself from chasing that exhale, pressing his lips to Ronan’s, softly at first, then more firmly, again and again and again. When they part for breath, their foreheads stay touching, Adam’s head tilted back slightly with the height difference he pretends to be bothered by.

“Can we like, go for hot chocolate or somethin’?” He almost kicks himself for how trivial of a question that is to alight upon, his Henrietta accent making it even more prosaic, but right now, all he wants is to stay close to Ronan, to forget about demons and death and sorrow and just revel in everything they haven’t lost, sitting together like two normal teenagers in the booth of a 24 hour diner.

Ronan lets out a surprised laugh, and when Adam looks up to see, with relief, Ronan’s eyes crinkling up with a smile, he thinks maybe that wasn’t the wrong question to ask after all.

“Thought you had homework,” Ronan says, his voice rough.

“Fuck homework,” Adam replies, and Ronan sucks in a breath, only half for show.

“Parrish,” he says, “you’ve literally never been hotter to me than in this exact moment.”

“Fuck off,” Adam laughs.

“Damn, it gets better and better,” Ronan comments on a wolf-whistle, not missing a beat.

Adam rolls his eyes at him, grinning, but then a thought makes him sober up for a moment. “I think we need to get better. At this talking thing, I mean.”

Ronan makes a face of exaggerated distaste, everything in him rebelling at the idea of conversations about feelings.

“You know I’m right,” Adam says.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Ronan mutters, then offers: “I’ll… pick up my phone?”

“It’s a start,” Adam concedes, amusedly, even though that’s not the real problem and they both know it.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t survive Latin class without my help,” Ronan shrugs with false modesty.

“Right,” Adam drawls. “Anyway. I’ll… try not to freak out about things?”

“Sounds fake,” Ronan hums, poking his nose at Adam’s cheek.

“Your face sounds fake.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Parrish. Maybe they shouldn’t make you valedictorian after all.”

“Maybe, but your ass better stay alive till graduation, ‘cause I want you there anyway.”

“Yeah. I guess I better,” Ronan replies simply, but his tone is serious; it’s a promise, and they both know it.

Adam nods. “Hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” Ronan nods back. “Whipped cream and a metric fuckton of marshmallows?”

Adam’s stomach growls at a frankly ridiculous level of decibels, which would be mortifying except for the carefree way Ronan laughs at that, which kind of makes it worth it.

“Shut up,” Adam mutters without any heat, trying to hold back a smile. His ears feel warm.

“Let’s get some marshmallows in you, Einstein,” Ronan chuckles, kissing his cheek.

The drive to the diner is quiet, and Ronan keeps carefully below the speed limit. That’s not new per se, as he’s taken to doing it more and more when Adam’s in the car with him, but it feels especially significant tonight. Like an assurance, maybe. Adam stares at Ronan’s profile in the dim light, all sharp and handsome lines, and enjoys the simple pleasure of knowing that they have each other, that moments like these are theirs and theirs alone.

“I used to wonder how long it would take before we fought again,” he says, without really deciding to. “I think maybe I thought we wouldn’t, but clearly that was dumb of me.”

“Ah.” Ronan’s tone gives nothing away, but the tightening of his jaw loudly broadcasts his fears – that Adam will decide this is too much effort, that it’s too much work, that it’s more trouble than Ronan’s worth.

“Yeah. How else are we supposed to do better if we never fuck up?”

It’s clearly not what Ronan was expecting, and as he takes the last turn for the diner, a small, almost surprised smile plays around his lips. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eyes, the motion practiced and familiar; Adam, as always, looks back, feeling a burst of simple, uncomplicated satisfaction bloom in his chest as he rests his head on top of Ronan’s on the gear stick.

They’re going to be okay.

[esselley]

Kinktober #1: Aphrodisiacs | Sleepy Sex [NSFW below cut]

"Ship's log, stardate 2291. Second Officer Kageyama reporting from the planet Cary… Caryo-fill—filla—"

"Just call it the Pink Planet."

"Shut up, dumbass, I've got to use its name—"

"You can't even pronounce its name, give me that—"

"Hinata, STOP—"

The ship's log plays from Kageyama's personal recording device. The audio is tinny and underwhelming, but it seems almost too loud in the otherwise silent med bay. A scuffle seems to be occurring over the recording, before the talking resumes.

"Ship's log, stardate 2291. Second Second Officer, once removed, Hinata reporting—"

He seems to be running. Distantly heard: "You are not an officer!"  

"Everything on this planet is pink, looks the same, and Kageyama got us lost because he—"

Hinata's voice cuts off into a wheeze, presumably due to being tackled by Kageyama. The sounds of Kageyama swearing loudly while Hinata screeches carry on for a few more seconds, before the whole thing cuts off entirely.

Captain Oikawa and First Officer Iwaizumi look, with a certain mix of exasperation and dull amusement, first down at the PDR, then at each other, and then, finally, at the other two occupants of the med bay.

Second Officer Kageyama and Second Second Officer (once removed) Hinata, do not meet their eyes. The two of them stand there, stark naked, hands clasped in front of their bodies to preserve whatever slight shred of modesty they may have remaining. Oikawa doesn't see the point.

"I knew sending them there was a mistake," Iwaizumi says. He seems mostly exasperated. “Can you... explain... what happened on the planet?”

"It would have been fine if they'd read the handbook," Oikawa says. He's definitely amused.

Hinata blinks at him. "What handbook?"

"This," Kageyama says, "this is why you aren't an officer."

Caryophyllaceae is a class L planet, which means the atmosphere supports human life and the air can be breathed outside of an extraterrestrial environment suit, but the planet still remains unsuitable for human population. Oftentimes, this is due to the flora and fauna inhabiting the planet. Though Kageyama has read the handbook (he still has trouble with the name), he knows that nearly every species of plant on the entire planet is poisonous.

Hinata, unsurprisingly, has not read the handbook. Hinata is an engineer, and strictly speaking should not be allowed to accompany Kageyama on a mission to scout a new planet as it is. But Oikawa has taken a liking to him, ever since Hinata managed to save the ship from almost certain destruction at the hands of some less than friendly intergalactic visitors while the rest of the crew was captured (Kageyama helped, but repairing damaged spacecraft is not his forte).

Oikawa calls Hinata "chibi-chan", and apparently thinks they make a good team. Kageyama disagrees, nevermind the fact that he and Hinata have been sleeping together for going on four months now (if fucking in the engine room can count as sleeping together). Oikawa is almost definitely aware of it. Kageyama is only becoming more sure letting Hinata tag along was a mistake, after two hours of exploratory overtures.

So far, Hinata has succeeded in nothing aside from being annoying, interrupting Kageyama's ship's logs, and blaming Kageyama for getting lost (not Kageyama's fault). He also will not shut up about how pink everything is, because he's never been planetside anywhere but Earth, so an alien landscape is blowing his already easily blown mind.

Caryophyllaceae is definitely pink. In the early days of the planet's rotation around the sun, before it was knocked into a different orbit, most likely by a small meteor, it had developed a very specific hue across the board for all living things upon its surface. All the plants, the trees, the spongy vegetation below their feet, the occasional insects and small reptilian species Kageyama has spotted—everything is colored in bright, candy-coated shades of pink. It's so lurid it all seems unnatural, but on this planet, the color is nature itself, like green and blue on Earth. Even the sky above has not entirely escaped, a pale, milky color reminiscent of strawberry milk. It makes Kageyama instinctively thirsty.

Hinata has been gawking openly, ooh-ing and aah-ing over every single weed as though each is a masterpiece previously undiscovered. This leaves Kageyama to do all the actual work, like collecting samples and documenting his findings, which is another reason he resents Hinata being given leave to come along. He's useless.

Possibly more than useless. Kageyama hears him utter another delighted squawk, turns, and shouts, "HINATA!"

Hinata has stuck his face deep within the blossoms of an enormous, Valentine's-day-pink hanging flower—the stalk is taller than he is, the bud is bigger than his whole head. He pulls back, and Kageyama sees his nose and mouth are covered in hot pink pollen.

"Kageyama!" he yelps, "It smells like—"

Kageyama doesn't get to find out what it smells like, because Hinata, without warning, pitches straight forward onto his face, like a freshly pollinated, and probably very poisoned, pancake.

Fuck. Kageyama lets out a yell of frustration. He rapidly transmits a distress signal to the bridge of the Apex, before rushing forward, crouching to roll Hinata over onto his back.

"Hinata? Hinata!"  

Hinata is still awake, but barely. He is, however, smiling, and when he sees Kageyama hovering over him, the loopy grin he's wearing only widens.

"Ka-ge-ya-maaaa," he babbles, and then yanks Kageyama down by the front of his shirt and kisses him.

Kageyama is not prepared for it. He thinks, in the back of his mind, that he should be better at intercepting these surprise attacks—because even when not under the influence of whatever toxin is currently in his system, Hinata is prone to randomly sticking his tongue in Kageyama's mouth at every available opportunity. But Kageyama was not prepared, and now, they must pay the price.

It's like… the sensation of a large, overstressed bubble bursting in the back of Kageyama's mind—a sudden and rounded pop that unleashes a tidal wave of warmth across all his senses, like standing under a low power showerhead when its first turned on. He feels light and heavy at the same time, a little bit sweet—the flavor, not the disposition, if it is possible to feel like a flavor. He supposes Tsukishima is salty all the time, and Oikawa is pretty bitter, so maybe it is possible after all.

Following on the heels of the sweetness is a sudden ambush of lethargy—not exhaustion, but contentedness, the kind that makes it a happy occurrence to laze about with nothing to do and nowhere to be because life is good. Kageyama rarely, if ever, feels this way, and it is this second sensation that puts him back on his guard.

"H'nata," he mumbles, "Na… ta… we—we need—back to the Apex—"

"Nooo," Hinata moans, from somewhere underneath him. Dimly, Kageyama realizes that he has also fallen, right on top of the engineer.

"We're… poisoned…" Kageyama tells him. And then, to punctuate this urgent and shocking statement, he yawns.

"Whatever," Hinata responds, "we gotta have sex."

This at first makes no sense to Kageyama's sleep-addled mind, until very suddenly, it does. In multiple ways.

The first way is that, as soon as Hinata says this, Kageyama realizes that he does have a very urgent need to put his cock in, on, or around Hinata, at least once, but probably more like a lot. The second way is that he is now acutely aware of the fact that he is harder than a diamond, with Hinata's soft… softness squeezed up under him, and he groans because the thought makes him ache. This leads to the third way it makes sense—he feels like he's been blue-balled for hours, maybe days, with the level of agony he's in, just thinking about sinking his dick into all of Hinata's heat—Hinata always feels so good around him, so tight and hot, hole sucking him in so needily—

"The—poison—" Kageyama gasps, "it's making us—"

"IgottacomeorI'mgonnadie—" Hinata says all in one breath, and yes, that is probably a very realistic assessment of their current situation.

But Kageyama is so sleepy.

"H-help," he mumbles, trying to rub his face against Hinata's face, his chin, his neck. Everything feels so good but it's not enough. "Hinata… clothes…"

With their uniforms in the way, he can't feel Hinata properly, but it's all that he can do to weakly squirm around on top of him while fighting off falling into some kind of forced slumber. Hinata, who probably inhaled more of the pollen than he did, is even worse off. He just lies there looking absolutely silly, expression utterly blissed out, a tiny, rapturous smile on his face as Kageyama painstakingly peels them both out of their clothes. They're both sweating like they've got high fevers—actually, maybe they do, Kageyama realizes, when he splats his body on top of Hinata's and feels the way he's absolutely burning.

"Mmm," Hinata sighs, slowly starfishing his arms and legs out at his sides like he's trying to make a foliage angel in the soft pink moss beneath him. "Mmm, naked Kageyama… makes me so happy…" He keeps tossing his head lazily from side to side, laughing at random intervals, stretching his arms out above his head as he starts to roll his hips. His hair has fanned out under him against the moss, clashing terribly.

If the poison doesn't kill Kageyama, Hinata might.

"You are such—an idiot—" he says, "f-ffff-fuck—"

It feels like he is discovering heaven as he writhes, stupidly and slowly and sweatily all over Hinata's slick body underneath him. But maybe Hinata is the angel, sent to him amidst this obscenely rosy hell—his whole body matches at any rate, thighs flushing, nipples like rose petals, stomach and chest turning a darker shade of red.

"I really… want you inside me…" Hinata mumbles into the air, almost too soft for Kageyama to hear.

"No," Kageyama gasps, "no lube—"

"Then later," Hinata whines, "when we get back—"

This is an optimistic statement, considering Hinata has just poisoned them both, which renders both his bargaining leverage and possibly their chances of survival rather low. But Hinata is ever the optimist.

"I was really excited," he sighs, as Kageyama reaches down to palm his balls, before slipping a finger against his entrance, rubbing it lightly. Hinata keens and Kageyama can feel the way the ring of tight muscle quivers at his touch. "It's m-my—my first time on a mission. I w-wanted to… nnhh… wanted to celebrate with you… oh—I—was gonna ride you… so hard…"

Kageyama feels like he blasts his brains out through his cock when he comes, metaphorically suckerpunched by Hinata's revelation of his plans. It's like the unbearable heat is rushing out of him through his dick, taking some of the pink-hazed fog in his brain with it, and then he’s moaning, splattering Hinata’s stomach in a truly ridiculous amount of cum.

When he finally manages to blink his eyes open and look at Hinata again, it’s to see that Hinata has actually managed to fall asleep while Kageyama was busy orgasming.

“Hinata,” he says. Hinata doesn’t stir. Kageyama hopes he isn’t dead, and starts rapidly smacking him lightly, on his cheeks, then his stomach. Hinata jerks awake very suddenly, and keeps talking, like he’d never stopped in the first place.

"I wanna," he whispers, very slowly and painstakingly raising his hand so he can smear his sweaty fingers aimlessly all over Kageyama's face. Kageyama refuses to find this adorable. "Wanna ride you like a rocket…"

"You're the worst," Kageyama tells him, and Hinata's eyes roll back into his head.

Kageyama is momentarily terrified that he's actually finally succumbing to the poison, as his whole body heaves up and he arches his back like a cupid's bow—but then Hinata comes in a hot, sticky rush that seems to last forever, while he shakes like a leaf in a gale, pulling up whole handfuls of moss in his ecstasy. The whole time he cries out, wordless bliss, except for the few times Kageyama manages to make out his own name.

When he's done, he slumps back against the ground, breathing evening out, eyes shut. Kageyama leans in closer—he's starting to feel a little bit back to normal, but Hinata has again passed out cold. Unsurprisingly—the toxin was probably a shock to his system. Neither of them is dead, though.

As Kageyama thinks this, he notices something strange. The cum on their stomachs, instead of drying, or doing any other normal, cum-like things, seems to be—evaporating. It ghosts upwards into the air, turning cloudy and buoyant, before being whisked away on the breeze.

"What the fuck…" he mutters, right before swirling blue lights surround their two bodies, and he realizes, they're about to be teleported. Frantically, he starts grabbing for their clothes, his data findings, the PDR. "Shit, wait, wait—"

They disappear.

"Sex pollination," Oikawa informs them with an air of superiority, having now been told the story (sans most of the finer details). "The plant induces the urges, and once the act is completed, the resulting fluids act as both fertilizer and a way for it to spread its pollen to the surrounding area."

"Basically, you two are bees," Iwaizumi explains.

"Ohhh," Hinata says. "Cool!"

"It is not cool," Kageyama hisses. "What if we'd died from—from—our dicks exploding, or something?!"

"Crass," Oikawa sniffs. "And unlikely. The symptoms probably would have just faded after several hours. Poison doesn't always lead to death, Tobio; you should really do some further studying."

"Can we be dismissed?" Kageyama demands. He is entirely ready to end this debriefing, and put on some pants.

"I suppose so," Oikawa agrees, "if only because I don’t want to be present when the second wave hits."

Kageyama blinks. "Second wave?"

"You have to flush all the toxins from your body, obviously," Oikawa says, and then smirks. "I doubt you'll get much rest tonight, but make no mistake, you will still be expected for your morning shift on the bridge."

"I'll be there," Kageyama vows, then spins on his heel. "Come on, Hinata."

Hinata bounces along after him readily. Other parts of Hinata also bounce in turn, rather distractingly, and Kageyama wonders if the second wave Oikawa was talking about is hitting, or if this is just a normal reaction to Hinata in the nude. Either way, they need to grab their clothes and get out of there, fast.

"Where are we going?" Hinata asks.

"My… quarters," Kageyama grunts. "I need you to help me flush out the rest of this shit."

Hinata's face lights up. "Yes! I still get to celebrate!" he cheers, and Kageyama feels himself start to burn.  

The captain and first officer watch them go.

"When do you think they'll figure out there's no second wave?" Iwaizumi wonders.

"Honestly," Oikawa says, "I'm not sure they will. But I am looking forward to seeing how grumpy Tobio will be tomorrow morning."

If you’re curious about all that engine room sex, I have another fic set in this verse here! Caution: contains hyperjump orgasms.

Apex verse felt like a nice beginning to Kinktober -- “boldly going”, and all that :D We’re kicking OFF!  

[ruins-in-rome]

We sit in a round table, a spotlight illuminating the center. A toddler, too young to even know what’s happening, her future on the table. A man bound by dedication, and… devotion (could it be love?), his stability on the table. Me… An adolescent with confusion in her eyes, heart torn apart between two worlds (for what?), my… growth and relationship on the table. I bet a lot of questions, I gave up knowledge, and put it on the table. A woman, tied to her chair, hands held up by strings, her… everything is on the table. An elderly woman, wearing the tragedy and comedy mask on, one of her hands holding the control paddle which I assume is what controls the other woman, the other hand is tied to a bunch of other people at the back. This woman doesn’t have anything on the table. How can that be? Is she a coward to refuse to gamble? There are spectators. Men in black suits, and women in cocktail dresses wear masks to cover their eyes, the same malicious smiles and smug smirks plastered on their lips. Is this some sort of show? There are a handful with scowls imprinted on their faces, teeth grazing lips as if holding back a snarl, eyes narrowed, and jaws clenched. Why are they so angry? At the heart of it all, there’s a revolver, a silent beckoning, “let’s play a game, shall we?”

The first to go is the woman. It’s funny how to puppet gains the will to go. But really, when has the master get on their bare hands and do the dirty work? She takes the gun with no hesitation, as if she has been wanting this – to put an end to everything. She loads the bullet. She spins the cylinder. She points it to her head and pulls the trigger.

She looks up to face me, mouthing the words, ‘I’m sorry.’ I am thrown into more confusion. Why has she said that? What did she do? This is the first time I’ve seen her features: stray grey hairs frame her face, almost too dry lips, cracked cheeks – must be from the dried tears, eyes lined with the color red – she has been crying. Time hasn’t been kind, but so was she. There is her beauty mark in between the hairs of her eyebrows and I knew. It was a normal day in my normal life with my normal family when my mother barged in the room and hugged us tight. She had said some cryptic words that I didn’t know the meaning of. Was she going to die? Where is she going? What happened? But at the thought that she will leave, I let myself cry. Even my sibling, who didn’t know anything, but felt the misery in the air, came to hug us. I didn’t even know the story but I cried. It was a day in my life with my family when we held each other and cried.

Just like waterfalls, the water continues to cascade down, splashing on the rocks with sounds that hurt the ears. In this tiny room, the shouts begin. Shouts of a grown man, insults thrown by the same man, the harsh whispers of the women draped in riches, eyes of jewels, and tongues of snakes – they all feel like a door slammed closed, leaving you in a suffocating room. The woman is silent. She is choking on her sobs. The shouts always fill the house. It makes me think that they are just filling up the space inside. Every other day is like this, and I don’t know what to do anymore. Hidden away in the safety of my own room, I can hear the words coming out of a man’s mouth like bullets. He drops bombs on her like she is a battlefield. What are you fighting for? Why are we going to war? I wonder if she can even feel the eyes on her, or the words directed at her. I want to hold her and tell her that I’m here, she can lean on me when the world seems against her.

The man is the second to go. His eyes rest on me when he pulls the trigger. His eyes are devoid of any emotions, but I want to ask him, why, simply why, why are you doing this, why are you continuing to do this? And yes, I do remember. The story is like an origami crane. It has too many folds and too many sides. But… the first to unfold the story to me is my father.

My room is my safe haven. The white walls paired with bright colors made the whole room come to life. It is filled with my memories, little trinkets to decorate my desks, words painted on the walls, my dreams and my hopes and my ambitions and my achievements all out in the open. There are pieces of me everywhere. There are pieces of everyone in the little things in my room. The little magnet given by a friend, a portrait drawn by my best friend, candies I haven’t eaten because of the words on them, keychains from my previous teachers, a t-shirt as remembrance for either my best or worst years – an origami star. And that day, there was a moment added to the room of mine with every little and big thing that captures a moment in my life. My father went in my room, sat down in the brown chair I’ve sat when I felt I needed to think – maybe this is what we needed: to think. His first words were, “I know that you want to know.” My first words were, “I know.” ‘I’ve put the pieces together, papa’ was left unsaid. And he did tell me everything.

When I was a child, I never believed that money made the world go ‘round. I was taught to be practical, reasonable, logical. I was taught when a mass is trapped in the gravitational field of another body, a set of equations from Johann Kepler tell us that certain stable orbits can result. When this happens, as is the case with our planet, the momentum that the planet had continues until something steels it away. So wasn’t it conservation of angular momentum? But… On that day, at 2 in the afternoon when my curtains were draped, my world suddenly stopped. And on that day, I realized I was wrong. Money made the world go ‘round. Debts mean that your world will be turned upside down – our world is turned upside down. The story almost flew over my head because I chose to hold on to the raw emotions of some of his commentaries.

“I’m trying to fix the broken pieces but she keeps breaking them.” There is a static silence. And silence can only hold so much. The man cries. I don’t know if it’s for relief or for anger.

I look at the people around me. I know the woman and the man’s sides. The people around is another story. Their laughs fill my ears and I can’t help but think that it’s mockery. I stare at a woman, her mouth in a straight line, and her brows furrowed. She is pitying us. I don’t need your sympathy, lady. The lady and her groupie looks at the woman in both pity and anger. They are seeing her as a villain. The women clad in dresses call out her name in reminder. Money, money, money. The men wearing fancy suits places their hands on the man’s shoulder. Some hold their own knives and guns behind their back, a sign of betrayal for the man. The others offer their hand in front of the man, giving him genuine help to get back up to his feet. But just like my father said, when the foundation for a new start is done, someone ends up knocking them over. I don’t know which side I should be on. I stick with holding both of the woman and man’s hands, an unspoken phrase, “I’m here.”

The next is the old woman in the mask. She effortlessly points the revolver to her head, like she has done this so many times that it doesn’t affect her anymore, like she just knows she won’t die. She keeps her face straight forward. Her comedy mask taunts me. Is this fun to you, woman? When she eventually fires the gun, it shoots somebody else in the room. Their cries echo out into the room and that’s when I noticed that the gun isn’t directly pointing on her head – it’s angled ever so slightly that it misses her… and ends up taking someone else’s life instead. Her tragedy mask jeer at me. You of all people shouldn’t mourn over the deceased when you yourself were the reason behind it. I glare at her with hardened eyes, fury dancing like fire. That’s when it all clicked. The mastermind of it all. The master, the controller, the one working behind the scenes, manipulating the game in order to work in her favour, is that old hag.

In the many memories of my father and I talking, the blurred visions in my mind, his eyes holding so much pain and sadness, the mechanical cogs in my brain tossing and turning, trying to make sense of everything, the crack in his voice, my silence as an urge for him to continue – to let it all out, his frustrations, his sorrows, his worries, and oh, his defeat, the bitter defeat that came with it all, there is one person that unraveled the threads in our family tapestry. Maybe… maybe this is part of our fate. Maybe in between the threads that hold the tapestry together, there was a person – a termite, a parasite disentangling the threads.

The story starts with her. We all knew of her money problems long before we have been thrown into the mix. She’s always running around, looking for people, asking them for money. With every large sum of money withdrawn, she is slowly digging her own grave, eventually falling into hell. This witch, suffering in her own form of Tartarus, decided it was too lonely and came back into the mortal realm to find someone to accompany her in her eternal damnation. I know how important it is to seek for guidance, for assistance – it’s healthy to know when to ask for help and to accept that help. But I also know that after we are helped, we have to learn. We have to learn to crawl back up to the surface, to finally breathe the fresh air. Now what did she do? She, with her vice-like grip. She, with her pleading eyes. She, with her begging. She, with her convincing act of the victim. And her. When people, innocent people go into the wrong crowds, falling for the false promises those people made, they can’t help but try it. “It’s going to be successful, I promise!” “We’ll be rich in no time!” “I have already planned this out, so there’s no way it’s going to fail!” Sometimes… the lines between obligation and love blur as one, and you think it’s for love, but what you feel is that you’re indebted to others, that you need to do this thing for them in order to repay them for every good thing they have for you. Her, with the shattering resolve. Her, with the same blood as the witch’s that courses through her veins. Her, with the thought of “I love you and love means sacrificing.” Her… with the feeling of “You have raised me and you have given up heart and soul for me, so I will gladly ruin myself for you.”

This crone in front of me, sitting in a chair of both needles and roses – I don’t care if you’re in pain – do you feel sorry for what you did? I know you are hurting as well, but isn’t this your own doing? I couldn’t care less. You have ruined our lives. When they think their children aren’t listening, the shouting starts. The walls hear them; they tell me what the adults are talking about. The days pass with tension in the air. There are unanswered questions hanging in the air, “what happens next? Is someone going to leave? Will you change? Will you forgive me?” I am made the messenger, delivering commands from opposite sides of the war. You have ruined your daughter’s image. Women circle her like predators; your daughter has her head held up high, and her body shaking. Women are throwing arrows at her heart; your daughter becomes merely a shell of what she used to be. Women are angry for the delayed payments; your daughter’s mind is breaking. You have ruined my father. As a lover, he gives and he gives, and he gives and he gives… until there is nothing left for himself. Mother shoots him in his heart. You are behind her, guiding her hands. His blood, his lifeline spills out. He thinks he has made a fool of himself and yet he himself takes out his heart and offers it. ‘It’s not enough,’ is what you think. You have ruined my mother. The world has turned against her. The people she has helped has crossed her, leaving more headaches for her. On the rare occasion that I stare at my mother, I think, “time moves on.” She looks older. There are eye bags under her eyes, a few more gray hairs – why aren’t there any laugh lines? She’s always tired now, too. I know she just wants rest now. I think, everyone needs it. And I guess, you can’t make emotional labour and mental stress disappear.

The gun slides over the table; it stops right in front of me. Oh, it’s my turn now. There is a new bullet in one of the chambers of the revolver. What does all of this mean to me? Why am I somehow connected to this web of lies? I pull the trigger.

Somehow, with my luck, it was like Pluto passing directly behind Jupiter, in relation to the earth. They all lined up and their combined gravitational force exerts a stronger tidal pull, which would temporarily counteract gravity here on earth. And I’m floating. I feel like I’m floating. These planets aligned themselves like how the loaded chamber aligned with the primer percussion mechanism and the barrel – the weapon is discharged. I imagine the bullet to be a beautiful comet, passing through me, and landing into something else – someone else. It was the toddler. What a beautiful tragedy. I meet the eyes of the people inside this room. They are filled with panic in the audience, madness in the man’s, shame in the woman’s, and is that guilt in the old woman’s? She doesn’t have the right to feel guilty.

I know why the chambers didn’t align with the others. It was because of their actions that led to this – the children dying. I know why the toddler has the future bet on the table. My sister is robbed of the future that I had the privilege to experience– the weekend getaways, the overflowing amount of toys, the endless support to try new things, the unstrained relationship with the other side of the family, the absence of worries, and… the atmosphere of true love between partners in a home.

The adults may not feel the direct attack of the actions, only dragging themselves through the battlefield, but we… the future generation, (is there even a future?), can feel the aftereffects of the nuclear bomb that has been dropped on us. The men and women here might have been atlas holding the world on their shoulders, but we are Andromeda, the chained princess, an offered sacrifice for the peace of everyone else.

I know why the shattered pieces of my heart and mind are on the table. On the other side, I’m walking on a tight rope; my back turned from the past, and walking to the unknown future. I hold a pole in my hands, my father’s side on the right, and my mother’s side on the left. Despite being on opposing sides, the outcome is the same: I fall to my doom. Despite going in the direction of what lies ahead, my head is held down, and my legs are wobbling on the thinning rope of my relationships. I – we – are in a dilemma. It is an unstoppable force – the criticism and judgmental thoughts thrown, the pleas of my father to think of us for the first time, the heavy tension carried in the silence versing an immovable object – the stubbornness of my mother, the unrelenting voice of my grandmother, both of their wills to make amends with the victims of their crime. Mother hasn’t stopped helping. Her golden heart will be the death of her. Father hasn’t stopped covering the holes my mother has left. His commitment is the bane of his existence. Mother tries to stitch my thread back into her side of the family. I have to sit through the occasions with the old hag. Perhaps I can make use of the comedy mask here. I have to be the perfect innocent doll, a smile plastered on my face, voice sickening sweet as if nothing is wrong. Mother looks at me with unspoken instructions, “please be nice.” How do you say “thank you” to the person who turned the fire inside my family into dying embers? How do I stay with the person who turned my little peaceful kingdom into ruins only told in legends and myths?

Blood drips down my head – I’m feeling kind of dizzy. My sister is matching the same expression as I have. This is it, this is the aftermath of the war. This is the consequences of their actions. And there is nothing good that happens in war. Only pain. Only sadness. Only guilt. Only regret. What good has come from this game? I learned the bloody truth. But in this game… we are infinitely waiting for our time when the stars align, and everything ends. This is a losing battle, everyone’s guns are at each other, hands around each other, ready to kill. In my dying breaths, I look around the room once more, the light illuminates the darkness that was once ignorance, and for the first time, I see them fully. My sister, her future taken away from her, sits beside me, covered in her own blood. My father, his devotion still drives him to move on, has his head in his hands, questioning where we had gone wrong. I take his hand and tell him, “It’s okay, I’m still here and I thank you.” My mother, the promise that everything will be okay maybe fades away, and I take her hand in mine, “I still love you,” slips out of my mouth in the softest voice. Grandmother, still in the safety of anonymity, lurks in the shadows, still following us. I place a kiss on the crown of my sister’s forehead. Everything is in fast pace, everything is chaos, and I’m left to wonder, is this how we fall apart?

[ghiblisprite88]

To the Stars Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Staying a safe distance away from the alliance compound orbiting the planet; Jimin ordered for all exterior lighting be cut making the ship a part of the darkness. Hoseok was sitting at the radio area clearing his throat in mock seriousness preparing for his role as general Jung of the Galactic Alliance. Taehyung snickered as he watched; the rest rolled their eyes at his theatrics. Silence fell over the ship as Hoseok got patched through to the compound; he followed the chain of command until he reached the captain of the compound. Using his ability as a siren to draw in the captain; he had the man believing that a ship was going to be arriving to port soon with two people there to do maintenance on the compound and inspect the place. The man was helpless against the voice of Hoseok; affirmatives received Hoseok ended the call and spun in his chair with a shit eating grin on his lips waiting for his praise.

“(Y/n) and Kook go get geared up. Nice work Hobi.” Jimin spoke quickly as everyone jumped to get to their places to put the plan in motion.

You followed Jungkook down the halls until you reached the small shuttle ship already loaded with your weapons and “uniforms”. Jungkook got in the cockpit and started to engage the startup programming to get the ship ready to go; doing a last minute inspection of the ship you were stopped by Jimin. He motioned his head for you to follow him; Jungkook didn’t question his captain but he did raise a brow at him curious. Following Jimin to a secluded area for privacy; you waited for him to explain himself, weren’t you supposed to be in a hurry to get this mission on the road?

“So...whats up?” You question cautiously.

Jimin faced you with his leopard shining through in his eyes; his body was tense and restless making you a bit nervous. Rushing forward he had you in a crushing bear hug; you knew he would never say it but you could feel he was nervous about you leaving. If there was anything you were good at it was reading people and Jimin did a horrible job at hiding himself from you. Whether it be in his sleep or small gestures you had quickly learned what kind of person he was; tough on the outside but caring and mushy on the inside.

“Be careful...come back to me.” His hoarse voice whispered in your ear.

“Like I would leave Yoongi with you lot!” You joked trying to lighten the mood.

“Right. Just don’t do anything unnecessary and come back.” Jimin smiled.

You gave in and agreed; but who were you to guess what would happen? You had a job to do and you would see it through regardless. Jimin nuzzled you in a silent farewell before leading you back to the ship. You gave him a smile over your shoulder as you closed up the ship and joined Jungkook in the cockpit.

“What was that all about?” Kook asked.

“He was being all mushy and crap; like I don’t know what I’m doing or something.” You laugh.

“Ew.”

“Shut up you’ll see one day you’ll get so caught up in a girl you will be all mushy and lovey-dovey too.” You joked.

“I think the fuck not!”

While you laughed to yourself Jungkook engaged the systems and your small ship was ejected from Jimin’s on a direct course for the compound. Excitement and nerves making you a giddy idiot; Jungkook only rolled his eyes and sighed at your jittering.

The compound was a lot larger up close than you thought; it was round like a small moon that cast a shadow down on the surface of the planet; the alliance was disgusting to you. Using such tactics were ridiculous and tyrannical. Jungkook set the ship on autopilot before smacking your shoulder; following him you both slipped on your uniform jumpsuits on. You had to wrap your tail around your waist and tuck the end into your pants under your jumpsuit; can’t have the alliance suspecting a cat was involved right? You pulled a hat over your ears to hide them; Jungkook had the same ensemble going on as well. His blades were hidden in easy to reach areas much like your own; concealed from the naked eye. His guns were in his duffle bag ready to be used along with the bombs the two of you would be deploying.

“You fuckers ready yet?” Yoongi echoed in your ear.

Communications were important so Yoongi had given you both ear comms to keep in touch with the ship and captain. Jungkook sighed yet again just feeling done with the day already.

“Yes needy we are. Waiting for the compound to reel us in.” Jungkook spoke monotonously.

You could feel the slight pull on the ship as it was; the compound was guiding you into their docking bay. Your pulse was racing in both excitement and nerves; you were practically bouncing in your place. Jungkook rolled his shoulders ready to get the show on the road.

“We’re docked,” Jungkook spoke quickly to Yoongi.

Soon enough you were opening the ship door and met with a general of sorts welcoming you to the compound. You had a pre-rehearsed story and quickly rattled that off for your purpose of being there and confirming the information that Hobi had fed them. Jungkook was led by one general toward the western side of the compound while you were led to the eastern side by a staff sergeant.

“So why does the alliance need to inspect the compound now of all times?” The sergeant said a bit annoyed.

Giving him your smile that was practiced since your waitressing days you fed him some crap about some of the materials used to build the compound could be faulty and it was your job to ensure they were up to quality standards. He huffed about it but led you through the building anyway. His presence was annoying you already; you could sense he was a self-entitled little man inside that felt the galaxy owed him something.

After being led to a boiler room of sorts you dismissed the man politely as you went into the room to get to work explaining it could be potentially dangerous to his health. He gave you a skeptical eye but turned his back and guarded the door as you slipped inside. Wow, the galaxy alliance sure knew how to pick their employees don't they?

You looked around the room and found the support studs you were taught to look for by Namjoon. Lightly tapping on the walls until you heard the tone you needed to help you locate where they were; you pulled out the small bombs from your bag and placed one at each stud. Looking at the equipment for heating and air purification in the room you smiled to yourself evilly as you cooked up something to do with them. Pure oxygen, when mixed with a flame, makes for a lovely bonfire you thought; you rigged up the systems with a delay to allow for you to finish your job and get yourself and Jungkook out of there before it went off.

“Kook?”

“What?”

“I put in a boobie trap for a little extra flair.” You smiled through the comms.

“Ah fuck...how long we got?”

“Mmmmm like twenty to thirty minutes maybe.”

“Shit...hurry up then.”

You slipped out the door to be met with the sergeant’s back; a devilish smiled pulled at your lips as you used your elbow to knock him in the back of the head knocking him out cold. Pulling him into the room and locking him in there you continued on your way to the other rooms you had to get too according to Namjoon’s plans. By the third room, you finished setting up you could hear an alarm sounded.

“Looks like the gig is up; get your asses out of there!” Yoongi yelled over the comms.

Zipping up your bag you could hear Jungkook cursing under his breath over the comms; maybe that sergeant didn’t stay knocked as long as you needed or he was maybe found, by someone. The point was you needed to find a way to book it out of there. You knew there was no way for you to get back to the ship and meet up with Jungkook...you were going to have to deviate from the plan a bit and find your own way. Running down the halls you used your watch to guide you through the compound; didn’t take long before Yoongi called you out.

“(y/n) what are you doing? Where are you going?” His tone aggravated.

“Improvising.” You respond your tone breathless from running.

A few soldiers spotted you; stalling you grabbed your blades from their hidden places and got ready to tussle. The excitement running through your veins should have scared you but you couldn’t help the high you got from fighting. Ripping your hat off and shedding the jumpsuit you got ready for them as they advanced with guns blazing; you dodged lasers as you closed in going in for the kill. Slicing your way through the small squad you continued on your way to the bay that showed shuttles that you could hijack and make a clean escape with.

“It's a damn cat! Catch her!” More soldiers had spotted you.

A slightly crazed smile took over your features as you pulled out a few bombs from your bag using a small pistol you packed for “just in case” to ignite them to give you a few extra seconds to escape.

“(y/n) what did you do the place is shaking like crazy!” Jungkook yelled.

“I hooked up the oxygen system to the heating system...time to go Kook it's gonna blow.” You laugh.

“You’re fucking insane!” He yelled.

Finding the bay with the shuttles you dodged a few shots fired your way before skidding into one of the shuttles. Firing up the defenses and engaging the systems you knew it would be a miracle if you made it out in one piece. Jimin was going to have your ass if he could get to it. Perhaps you were feeling a bit rebellious. Using your watch you set off the timer for the bombs feeling the whole place rumble as you disengaged the dock and felt your shuttle fall out into space. Nothing like your stomach falling to your toes.

“Kook! You out?” You called.

“Not yet the dock is stuck.”

Shit you couldn’t leave him behind the place was going to blow; you maneuvered your shuttle to the main docking back and could see Jungkook’s shuttle was indeed stuck. Taking a deep breath to calm your racing heart you aimed your lasers at the bracket holding him in place and watched as he fell out into open space.

“Book it Kook I’ll cover.”

Jungkook shot off toward the ship while you covered; lasers were being fired at you now and you could feel it bouncing off your little shuttle; it wouldn’t be able to hold up much longer. Soon more shuttles were coming out of the compound headed your way. Checking to see where Jungkook was; you could see he was nearly to the ship where you should be as well. The shuttles were closing in; you couldn’t let them get to the ship...to Jimin.

“(y/n) what are you doing? Get your ass back here.” Yoongi growled.

“Sorry, suga gotta do something first.”

“(y/n) don’t.” He warned.

“Just get out of here I got this.”

Yoongi began to yell at you but you pulled out your comms and flew toward the other shuttles in front of you firing at them and passing through them in the opposite direction of Jimin’s ship. Sure it was a stupid move you would admit but you couldn’t let anything happen to your small adoptive family not now after finally finding a place for yourself. No, you had to do this for everyone.

[thursdayplaid]

The Narrow Line Chapter 14

This is the end of Wee Doctor as a fanwork.  I’ve loved your likes and reblogs, your kudos and comments, fan essays and encouragement, your tweets and your amazing art.  I love all of you and I hope this last foray into Wee Doctor was as good a gift as it felt for me to get 1000 followers.  So here it is, the thrilling conclusion!

Summary: Thursday gets meta, things get mental, and Sherlock gets something out of the experience.

Words: 4788

Sherlock waited in a convenient mausoleum until it was dark, then grabbed his shovel.  He hoped his assumptions were correct, if they weren’t this could become a bit messy. He’d considered what he’d seen of the Watson family, what little Roost had told him of this not-a-gun, and his own knowledge of John.  Tried to apply it to this Johnny, who already looked too used to knowing too much and not mentioning it out of politeness, with the same kindly exasperation of Sherlock’s John.  Sherlock had looked at Bad Davey with his perfect suit and his suffering eyes tinted pink from crying.  Sherlock recognized the look in Davey’s eyes what had been lately staring back at him in the mirror, Johnny would have too.

So the question wasn’t where would Davey hide the thing, but where would Johnny put it.  That was what the boy had wanted to talk to him about after coming back from his little errand.   Being the fifth.  W had been the fifth and now John had needed someone he could rely on, someone who was curious enough to do the unrecommendable.  

 So Sherlock stood at the foot of the grave bearing the name of J Hamish Watson (Father, Brother, Friend) and admired the tactical position. It had Davey written all over it.  Up on a hill, complete visibility of the area, and a convenient mausoleum to hide in if it came to it.  He shone the light in a broad sweep, only one gravestone in the sight of Hamish faced the wrong direction.  When he got to it the other side was blank as well, like there had been some clerical error. Or like it was a cold shoulder, a final forgetting.  

 This was it.

 He set his coat aside and got to work.  Digging was hard work alone, and it took forever.  He would have liked to do this with Molly.  The older, wider, more authoritative Molly who directed him and the Watsons with equal familiarity.  This Molly, he suspected, would have found the whole thing funny. Maybe not funny, maybe just interesting. The sort of thing a person familiar with the history and culture of her profession, her art, would appreciate. Alone, the digging took until he become concerned about the sun rising and getting caught.  He’d had the vague sense of hitting something early on, the shock of metal jangling against metal, but it had been as momentary as a flash of lightning and once the vertigo had passed nothing had been there.  He checked his watch, it was almost half past two. He looked up toward the sky.  The hole was so far up it was a tiny rectangle, he could block it with his raised thumb.  He stared at it and took a moment to discern if he was high.  He looked at his watch.  It was 2:21.  Probably not him then.

Rooster and Johnny had both implied the not-gun did something to the mind, was this it?�� The fantastical clinging to the familiar.

 “This level of hallucination implies a level of intelligence,” he said.  “Someone is watching me.  Friend or foe?”

 He considered the silence. The hole smelled of rich earth, but the hole wasn’t as dark as it should have been.  He didn’t feel in danger, but then his sense of danger wasn’t the best.

 “I don’t know what to do about that.  I only agreed because I was curious and I wanted answers.”

 The wall in front of him shivered and there stood the door to 221B, brass numbers and hanger at a tilt.  John had been here.  Well, he thought, that was as much of an invitation as he was going to get.  

 On the other side of the door a tableau was set up.  221B, almost.  There was a plaid blanket he didn’t recognize over John’s chair, and a finely combed neatness to the flat.  As if it had been too carefully arranged into itself, into a home.  A facsimile of him and John sat side by side, their heads together, Johnny leaning against this tableau Sherlock’s other side - tucked under his arm.  Beyond them where the hall should be rose a vault door, studded and chained like something out of John’s ridiculous films.  It might as well have been a challenge.

 A sense of deep dread rushed over him as he reached toward the chained door.  There was a shift on the sofa, a shuffle of wool and upholstery.  Sherlock reached out a hand toward the door as a roar of sound reverberated through it in a wave he felt down to his bones, so loud his knees went out from under him and his teeth knocked against each other.  A knot of terror tied itself in his chest as he curled up, tried to protect his head with his arms.  The chains held for now, but how long could they hold against something that powerful, something that could make that sort of sound?

Someone on the sofa shifted.  The sound from behind the door went abruptly silent.

 “Careful of that,” said someone, with John’s familiar humor. Sherlock opened an eye.

 The man on the sofa watched Sherlock, his face burned inside out somehow.  Sherlock sank into his eyes the way a stone sank into the ocean.  He felt at once satisfied and a curious.  The weighted pull between those two extremes left him feeling spread thin over too much emotional space.  The weight of that gaze drove Sherlock back from the sofa, the little family, into his chair.  

 This wasn’t John.  This couldn’t have been John.

 He scrunched his eyes shut as everything tilted.

 The man that wasn’t John sat in John’s chair and folded John’s hands and leaned forward with John’s body.  The gravity of the whole room shifted, the air grew warmer, that flash of heat like getting into a hot garden shed on a hot day.  It felt like sitting at the edge of a great abyss.  A conversation without words.  Sherlock covered his eyes.

 “I don’t want to look,” Sherlock whispered.

 “You’re going to have to, Sherlock,” the man told him.

 The man’s voice rolled over Sherlock like the waves of the shore, like the waves against the side of a pirate ship floating and moving and rolling in its orbit like some planet.

 “I thought you had deleted the solar system,” the man said.

 Behind Sherlock’s eyes worlds shifted. “What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem?”

 “No,” the man said.  “The center will hold.  The gyre will tighten.  I’ll make it. There’s hook and there’s crook and there’s always a third choice.”

 Sherlock turned his head.  The other Sherlock sat alone now, no, not alone.  His hand rested on the top of little John’s head.  The boy looking younger than the one that had been at the house.  He’d say seven, except for his nose, eight then and almost nine.  This Johnny was a memory.  Johnny looked at him with his father’s eyes, but the demand felt more immediate.  Other Sherlock tilted his head down to rest for a moment against the soft fluff of the boy’s hair.  Murmuring to the boy back to sleep.  There was take out on the table and a stack of DVDs.  The other Sherlock smiled, the expression soft, tired.  Kind.  That was a memory too.  Sherlock didn’t know if he was kind like that.  That he had that potential.  To be kind.

 The boy slumped back into the other Sherlock’s shoulder, sleeping even deeper now and Sherlock’s mouth ticked up at the corner, gentle, as he got out his phone.

 “What’s behind the door?” Sherlock asked.

 “I thought you’d want to talk.”  Watson’s amusement warmed him like sunlight on a cold day.  Sherlock looked back at him, at the smile lines around his eyes and the grief bracketing his mouth.

 “I’m getting down to business.”

 Watson laughed.  It was a tired sound, belligerently hopeful and worn in like old shoes.  “That’s you all right, business.”

 “I was told I needed to find where the gun was leaking to get back home.”

 “Why do you always want to leave?” Watson asked, the humor leaving his face.

 “I’m not your Sherlock, you’re not my John.  We don’t belong here.”  He stopped to swallow, resettle himself.  “I owe it to my John to get him back home where he belongs.”

 “You owe him because you left him?” Watson asked.

 “I’d rather not talk about it.”

 “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”  Watson tried to smile.

 “You left him in this world.”

 “I had to choose one, one or the other.”

 “Why did there have to be one or the other?” Sherlock asked. “Wasn’t there a third choice?”

 “Very good, Sherlock, always were a fast learner.  Nice try, but this isn’t about me, not for you. Why did your John chose her over you, you mean?”

 Sherlock looked at the man’s eyes again and winced back, his mind pulling away from what he saw.  Too much, too much everything and he saw it all at once.  This wasn’t John, or Hamish, it was just-

 “It’s alright,” the man said.  “It’s harder without a psychopomp.  Just ride the gyre again, it’ll get easier.”

 Sherlock relaxed and he was back in 221B.  His 221B, the familiar one, the one with the labeled shelf for experiments and the neat sitting room.

 Hamish tilted his head.  “There you are.  You were always a hung up about these sorts of things.”

 “What things?” Sherlock snapped.

 “Names.  What they mean, what they are.  Still, well done.”

 Sherlock blinked at him.  He looked a great deal more like John if one were willing to ignore how big he looked under his skin.  Sherlock leaned forward to get a good look at him, but all he could see was !!!, !!!!!!!, !!!!!, over and over again “How are you still alive?”

 Hamish threw his head back and laughed, delighted. “Didn’t you hear?  Hamish Watson, W, the great and powerful is dead.  He helped his brother destroy the gun and then he jumped off the roof of St Bart’s.  Did they really put the last part of the gun in Grendel’s false grave? How poetic.  Was there anything buried there, other than the obvious? David said he’d take care of Grendel’s body when he took care of mine.”  He made a face.  “Not at the same time obviously.”

 “Your body was taken advantage of enough while you lived. They would have kept the two of you far apart.  I assume one of the boys destroyed your body out of respect for you?”

 Hamish laughed again as if Sherlock had said something clever, something wonderful.  “Of course. Bad Davey.  He’s very sweet.”

 “He’s cruel.”

 “He’s practical.  He never lets himself get pinned in, there’s always another option you know.  With people especially.”  Hamish’s composure almost slipped, but his expression turned just in time.

 “You care about him a lot,” Sherlock said.

 “A father loves all his children.”

 “He’s like you,” Sherlock told him.

 Hamish just smiled.  Sherlock wondered how the smile was constructed.

 “You knew I wasn’t your Sherlock.”

 “I figured that when you didn’t immediately start asking about John.  The poor man has an obsessive approach to parenting.  Keeps John on his toes, otherwise the boy will try to be the grown up.” Hamish turned to the tableau of his son and his… Sherlock?  “I need Johnny to be able to be a child.  To start again fresh.  Young enough to be remade.”

 “How did you deal with it?  Taking care of him?”

 Hamish gave him an annoyed look.  “I don’t know Sherlock, I’m a conglomeration of the captured memories of a dead man filtered through your personal experiences and expectations. You’re dreaming up a magic person to tell you things you can’t know. You’re lucky you’re getting full sentences.”

 “You do remember a little bit though.”

 “If I hadn’t I would have let the door open.”

 “What’s on the other side?” Sherlock asked.

 “Alright,” Hamish gave him the sort of look that spoke all too knowing volumes.  “If you want me to admit it, I remember a lot.”

 “What are you then?”  Sherlock leaned forward again so he barely hovered on his chair.

 “Human, just human.  Dead.  A tall shadow on a short man.  Pick the best of the three to get what you want.  What does it matter?  All this, it is what it is.”

 “It matters to me.”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “I want to know what I can ask you.”

 “Anything you want.”

 Sherlock growled, John raised his eyebrows.

 “I don’t understand you and Sherlock.  You weren’t co-parents in the usual sense.  What were you?”

 Hamish burst out a sound, a laugh, a sob.  Sherlock couldn’t tell.  It echoed, as if Hamish was really very big and had just been tucked down very small to fit.  “Anything. We could have been anything I wanted. Didn’t they tell you what I do?”

 “Empathy weaponized.”

 “Not on purpose.”  Hamish leaned forward, his hands on Sherlock’s.  His eyes were black and blue and dark like a bruise.  “It’s not on purpose.  I just see people and understand them.  And I want them to be something, do something, and they just-  They’d do anything I wanted.  If I want them to be helpful, or be angry, or kill themselves.”

 “Or love you,” Sherlock said.

 Hamish covered his own mouth with both hands, his head bowed. The noise he made was supernatural, subhuman.  An anguish which set off from his diaphragm, caught sail with the air caught in the bottom of his lungs, and surged forward on a whole sea of grief.  Time and measures felt set off, everything too early, too late.  Everything out of step.  And that sound, the worst of all.  

 “Even love me,” Hamish finally agreed.  “Except Tim, Tim’s too stubborn, he loves me out of pugnaciousness.”  

 If Sherlock ever needed to be strong, to keep John safe, and the way was hard or terrible or awful, if that happened he’d remember Hamish’s bowed head.  Remember its vulnerability.  Remember the soft dip from neck to skull.  

 “People aren’t.”  Hamish gasped in air, the sound fibrous and gory.  Sherlock could hear the tack of the blood on the man’s lips. “People aren’t things.  They aren’t boxes to unlock, secrets to expose.  I couldn’t do that to Sherlock. Couldn’t-  People aren’t things, I just wanted people to stop being things and start over.  Give myself time to learn how to control whatever this is.  And Sherlock.  He was someone I can focus on, someone alive. I wanted to-  I wanted a friend.  I had no one.  No one but Tim who’s always had one foot in some other family.  He collects them you know, I was just another one.”

 Sherlock blinked.  He gasped in breath, his vertigo spreading out from the inward curl of his shoulders.  A dizziness that Sherlock seemed to catch from the bend of Hamish’s body.  That he could feel as if it were his own, was it his own?  It must be.

 “I just wanted Sherlock to be my friend.  I’m just human.  I thought if we were friends it would be okay.  But.  When a man is a father it’s different.  And it was a relief.  It was just a relief to be done and bury myself.”

 “What about Sherlock?  You could have relied on him.”

 “I tried.”

 “You sent me away,” said Johnny from the sofa.  “You sent me away.  I was scared.  I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what I did wrong.”

 “I was so helpless,” Hamish said into his hands, as if he was finishing his son’s thought.  His voice was tiny enough to fit in Sherlock’s hand, tiny enough he could close a fist and hide it. “I was so helpless and small.  If it hadn’t been for Tim...  I don’t know what would have happened if it hadn’t been for Tim.”

 There was so much suffering in Hamish’s voice.  So much gratitude conjoined with anger simmered down to pain.

 “That’s all I wanted.  A friend I could belong with.  A friend who would be separate, complimentary,” Sherlock felt out the words, spoke them for Hamish.

 It was hard for Sherlock to believe in kindness when he saw people’s vices on their sleeves and upper lip and the way they tied their shoes. Hamish though.  The thought of even accidentally treading on Sherlock’s consent wracked him with torment.  Filled him with anguish.

 Sherlock believed him.  That something had happened and his empathy had surged out of his control.  That slipping up terrified him, the way it would have become easier and easier.  The path of least resistance.  The line would have kept blurring.  He could never have been sure.

 Sherlock would have to prove his agency constantly, but he had neither the personality nor predilection for that sort of long term consistent check pointing.  Sherlock liked romanticism in his philosophy and pragmatism in his routine, as long as he was satisfied he wouldn’t disturb a working model.  He would bend in ways that had nothing to do with petri dishes in the refrigerator and everything to do with his life slowly rotating around Hamish.

 Sherlock remembered the hollow-eyed man calmly talking about how right and correct it was for a man to pull out his own teeth and swallow them like so many bitter pills.  That was what Hamish had tried to protect his Sherlock from.  The worst kind of yes sir.  The kind that Sherlock would find comfort in as he plasticized by increments.  Until Hamish had killed him.

 Had anyone ever loved Sherlock that much in his life? Loved him so much they would refused to risk dehumanizing him?  Denied themselves to avoid overwhelming Sherlock, controlling him in the way Sherlock had shown he detested in a thousand little ways.

 Maybe someone already did.

 Maybe they already were.

 “Oh,” Sherlock said.  Then a sick feeling hit his stomach.

 “What a clever boy,” Hamish told him.  They were sitting in the Diogenes, Hamish was in Mycroft’s chair. (The door back out to the lobby was the door with the chains on it.)  He tilted his head at Sherlock.  Smiled. It went all the way into his eyes in a way Sherlock hadn’t seen in a long time.  

“You were faking.”

“Come on, detective, you can do better than that.” He traced words in the air with his finger over the clouds of !!!, hand scrawled and bright white.

“You were… helping?”

Hamish blinked, looked away, there was a blur and shudder to him like old film played too fast.

“You’re dying.”

“I told a truth to help you see the truth.  You wanted to know why he chose her over you, you wanted to know why he was so furious.”

“Because he was giving me space, he knew I’m not good with… people and he let me chose.  But then I didn’t even give him a chance to chose.”

“I want you to be happy,” Hamish closed his eyes, turned his head so he was in profile.  “You made me so happy.  Watching you at crime scenes.  You’re so curious.  And you keep trying.  Even when you’re pretending you’re not scared.  Even when you’re pretending you’re not lonely.  The work!  The game! It’s when you’re at your best. And then you took care of John. The boys needed a stable point, something fixed, but every fixed point needs to be fixed to something.”  He breathed out.  Pain scrawled out in chalk over his breath.  Tremor appeared over his hand.  “And you need to let go, you need to let yourself be happy with them, with him.  You can’t go back.  ”

“You say that like you have personal experience,” Sherlock said.  “Roost told me Grendel wanted to go back to something, what was it?”

 “I think for him it was freedom.  That if he could just kill you, destroy you, he would be free.”

 “Who was he?”

“He was a lot of things. His name was Doyle.  He knew you once, a version of you, some versions of you. Something changed, he believed you trapped him.  If he could destroy you and go back, scrap you like a bad draft and start all over again, then everything would be fine. ”

 “But it wasn’t.”

 “No.”

 “And he couldn’t.”

 “No.”

 “The story you’re letting the others believe about you isn’t true.”

 “Of course not,” Hamish said.  “It’s not just my story and I’m a father and a brother first.  That’s the way of things.  Besides, Doyle died long ago.  Ages before Grendel became Grendel.”

 “How did you keep him from killing me then?” Sherlock asked.  His hands curled over the vulnerability of his belly, his heels pulled close to his body.

 “I told your story.  You were too well loved,” Hamish told him.

 He stared at Hamish.

 Hamish stared back.

 “That’s it?”

 As Hamish turned his head to look away there was a cascade of images that finally settled back into himself.  “You gave me everything I could ever, ever have wanted.  A chance to be close to someone without hurting them.  A third choice.  So yes, that’s it.  You were loved too well to die.”

 “And you weren’t?”

 “I was tired, Sherlock. I’ve been fighting Doyle for years with words and sympathy.  Struggling to get one more word on the page of your life, one more line.  I held out until others could take over.”

 “Your family,” Sherlock said.

 “Your family.  Your friends.  I almost died myself more than once.  I went to dark places.  He had a terrible memory for people and facts, he’d make a mess and I’d have to wade through it.  Married or not married?  Orphan or parents?  He made more than a few mistakes that had to be cleaned up.”

 “You’re not real at all, are you?  You’re just a convenient face.”

 Hamish looked at him.

 “You know, they tried to catch Jack the Ripper once by shining a light through the lens of the eye of one of his victims.  They thought the last thing a person saw would be trapped there,” Sherlock told him.

 “Did it work?”

 “How long do you have until you’re gone?”

 “Not long now.  I’m not sure how that translates to real time. But I can feel it,” he wiggled his fingers.  “The border of memory.”

 “Then help me before you go. We were brought here from another universe.  Your sons told me a part of the gun is leaking.”

 “It’s here.  I trapped what’s left of Grendel here.  He became the door the Big Bad Wolf keeps huffing and puffing against.  I had to contain the part of him that didn’t self-destruct on the roof.”

 “What will happen when you disappear then, it’ll break out again?”

 “Something like that. I don’t know.  As I weaken so do the walls keeping it in, the energy bleed is helping The Thing keep from burning up what’s left of Grendel.  I can guess based on what I learn, I can’t begin to imagine how it would unravel in your world where my boys aren’t there to apply pressure.  To keep order.”

 “To keep the third option.”

 “Very good, Sherlock.” Hamish looked nearly heartbroken. “Always a quick study.  Out of your siblings you were always the one closest to me.”

 “Then help me.”

 “What should I do, Sherlock?” Hamish asked.  “You decide.”

 “I don’t want to,” Sherlock said, stomped his foot, felt eight.  Felt younger.  Felt the tide on his shoes.  Felt the blue of the ocean.  The pirate ship on an infinity of sea, a planet cushioned along its starry orbit. “You already know what needs to be done, why can’t you tell me the answer?”

 “Because it’s not something I can ask you.”

 “How long will you be here?” Sherlock asked.

 “I’m not really here, Sherlock.  I’m just a man at a door, holding it closed.  A shadow of a man.”

 “Holding the door closed on a hole in time and space?  That’s quite the shadow.”

 “I was quite the man,” Hamish told him, closed his eyes.  They fell back into the embrace of 221B.  A shadow Sherlock snoozed next to Hamish on the sofa.  The smell of tea and tomato sauce filled the air.  Some details were sloppy, others meticulous beyond realism.  Sherlock watched them from his chair.

 The man – the other Sherlock - looked warm, luminous, happy.  

 “What would happen if you left suddenly instead of fading slowly?”

 Hamish opened his eyes and rested his head on the false Sherlock’s shoulder.  The Sherlock sighed and started scrolling through his phone.

 “What would happen if you and the door and the walls disappeared all at once?  Would the thing destroy what’s left of Grendel?  Would it destroy its own door in?”

 Hamish took a ragged breath in, then out.

 Sherlock stared past him. “I have to take you out with me. I have to pull you into my head and leave with you, quick enough the gun will devour itself before it realizes.”

“I’m sorry.  Whatever you chose, I trust you, trust you to be strong, to be good, to make your own choices and have a reason for them,” Hamish whispered.

 “But it’ll work,” Sherlock clarified.  “Carrying you out inside me will work.  If you’ll help me.”

 “He’ll always help you,” the Other Sherlock told him as one might tell the family of a dying man. “All he’s ever wanted is to help you. But you’ll have to be brave.”

 “I’m known for my bravery,” Sherlock told him.

 The pretend Sherlock shifted, changed.  There was a sharpness to his features that was unreal, a Sherlock boiled down to bone and shadow and too high cheekbones.  “You won’t remember.”

 “What won’t I remember?” he asked.

 “This, this whole thing,” Hamish told him.  Waved his hand through the air like a monarch, 221B rippled.  “Coming here, seeing it.  Once I’ve dissipated you’ll forget this ever happened. Self-defense you know. Your brain will rewrite it into something else.”

 “It’ll be totally gone?” Sherlock breathed out.

 “Nothing totally leaves organic matter,” Hamish assured him.

 Sherlock let out a breath of epiphany, his hands coming together in front of him.  When he leaned back it was against a mast, Baker Street disappearing in the wake of a pirate ship.  “You’ll change my brain, you’ll leave a footprint of yourself.  I’ll be more like you, less like me.”

 “That’s why I couldn’t ask, you had to choose.  Do you feel the tide?” Hamish looked out at the sea, hands tight on the railing, his face tense.  The phantom Sherlock had left them.  It was only the two of them now.

 “Take my hand, Hamish.” Sherlock reached out.  “I’ve made my choice.”

 Hamish’s hand was dry, strong, controlled.   “It’s okay, right?  It’s not really me.”  He closed his eyes, breathed in deep.  “I’ve already escaped.  I’m not really dying, right?”

 Sherlock clasped Hamish’s hand tight in his.  “You must let go.”

 “I want to,” Hamish sobbed. “He wants to have me.  My children.”

 “John’s Sherlock is taking care of them.  Let me take care of you.  Help me be strong.”  Where their hands touched there was a shock, a burn.

 “I’m alone,” Hamish’s voice cracked.  “I’ve been so alone.”

 Sherlock took him into his arms.  “So have I. Hold tight to me.  Hold tight.”

 “I love you,” Hamish told him, arms set round him like a universal law.

 Sherlock tried to hold on just as sure, tried to be just as brave.  There was a roar of rage over the horizon as some terrible thing began to tear itself asunder in its fury.  “What will happen to us?”

 “We’ll be a thousand different people and a thousand different things, and they’ll all be wonderful, and all of them will be loved too much to ever die.”

 “Sounds dangerous,” Sherlock told him already feeling the world go solid around him, already feeling pavement under his feet.

 Hamish laughed.  “And yet here you are.”

 There was a tingle like an electric shock and Sherlock stood next to John and Mary on a street corner. Somehow he knew they were back even as he wondered back from where even as the ghost of memory solidified as he focused on it.  Three bright sons, Molly and Greg, that he could be happy.  There was a voice in the back of his mind, distant, almost fading, that told him to go on then and be happy.  It sounded a bit like John if more tired and more affectionate.

 “That’s it then?” Mary said, looking a bit surprised at the whole thing and a little put out she had missed the action even as her brow furrowed trying to hold the memory.

 “Yes,” said Sherlock. “That was it.”

[burclay]

Halfway Between

Jenny’s radioed ahead, knows where to land, steps out of her spaceship and checks herself in as a visitor to the planet, and then she steps outside, onto purple grass, and looks around.

And that’s where she sees the ghost, blonde, distant. Only half-there. -- Women the Doctor almost saved, seeing the stars.

AO3

The first one Jenny meets looks like a ghost.

She’s only just set off in her spaceship, leaving the orbit of her home planet, still breathing wisps of emerald-gold light, when she sees a strange blue light through the port side window. She’s moving at thousands of miles a minute, but the blue light seems to be following her, chasing her, keeping pace perfectly.

Jenny can’t stop and take a look, as much as she wants to. She’s going thousands of miles a minute. She can only hope the blue light will follow her to the nearest planet.

Sure enough, as she enters the atmosphere of what her computer tells her is Alethen 2, she sees a wink of blue amidst the flames of reentry. She’s radioed ahead, knows where to land, steps out of her spaceship and checks herself in as a visitor to the planet, and then she steps outside, onto purple grass, and looks around.

And that’s where she sees the ghost, blonde, distant. Only half-there.

“Hello?” Jenny says, stepping closer.

“Hello,” the ghost says. Her face is expressionless.

“Are you all right?” Jenny asks. She’s not sure what to do in this situation. “Are you dead? You know, I am, too, technically.”

The ghost smiles at that.

“Yes,” she says. “I have just enough life to see the stars. I’m flying, you see.”

Grinning, Jenny sticks out a hand, even though she knows the ghost won’t be able to touch it.

“I’m Jenny,” she says. “I’m flying, too.”

“Astrid,” the ghost tells her, and she meets Jenny’s hand with her own. Jenny doesn’t feel anything, but she mimics a handshake anyway, and then she invites Astrid to come with her, on this adventure and maybe some of the others.

It turns out Astrid knows Jenny’s dad. Jenny mentions him offhandedly, her immortal Time Lord father with a title for a name, and Astrid says she’s met him.

“Years ago,” she says. “He said he was going to show me the stars.”

“Never got the chance?” Jenny asks. “Me, too.”

Astrid smiles.

“I can see them for myself now,” she says. “There’s so much to the universe. I’ve been exploring for hundreds of years and haven’t seen everything.”

“I’ve barely got started,” Jenny says with a grin.

Astrid comes with Jenny, inside the spaceship, this time. She dissolves back into a stream of blue light and flies around the cockpit while Jenny, laughing, tries to fly.

They go everywhere. They see everything. Astrid directs Jenny to some of her favorite places, and they discover new ones together. Sometimes Astrid goes off on her own, and sometimes Jenny rockets about without her, but they always meet up again eventually. The

They’re at an amusement park in a galaxy neither of them has visited before when they see it. Neither of them know what it is at first, the strange building with its rounded edges and neon lights. Astrid says it looks vaguely like a sort of restaurant she saw on Earth a few times; Jenny just knows it doesn’t match the sharp angles and bright colors of the park around them.

Of course, neither of them can resist a good mystery. Jenny marches right up to the door, Astrid drifting behind her, and knocks three times. They wait almost a full minute until the door pops open and a woman pokes her head out at an angle, brown hair swinging as she speaks.

“Hello,” she says. “Sorry it took me a moment, I was all the way back in the library. Did you need something?”

Jenny glances at Astrid.

“We were just wondering about your building,” Astrid says. “It doesn’t match the others.”

“That’s because mine is special,” the woman says. She has big brown eyes, Jenny notices, and long eyelashes, and when she smiles, her eyes sparkle and half her mouth quirks up. “It’s not from around here.”

“Neither are we,” Jenny says.

“Want to come inside?” the woman asks.

Jenny and Astrid glance at each other and nod.

The inside isn’t at all what Jenny expected. From the outside, she thought it’d be some kind of restaurant, but instead it looks like a spaceship of some sort, maybe, or a highly specialized physics lab. The walls and floor are white, and in the middle is a huge column surrounded by a 360-degree control panel.

“I’ve only just gotten it,” the woman explains. “Haven’t had time to customize.”

“What is it?” Jenny asks.

“My TARDIS,” the woman says. Something about that rings a bell in Jenny’s head, but she can’t figure out where. “I stole it.”

“What’s a TARDIS?” Astrid asks.

“Stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space,” the woman says. “But between you and me, I think they just needed a convenient acronym.” She winks. “I’m Clara, by the way. Clara Oswald.”

“I’m Jenny,” Jenny says, “and this is my friend Astrid. It’s lovely to meet you, Clara Oswald.”

Clara figures out what Astrid is right away-- something to do with the imprint of a teleport. She says she had an old friend who used to tell her about things like that, who had a library full of books from all over space and time.

“I’m trying to build up my own collection,” she explains. “That’s why I’m here-- this planet has some excellent universities.”

“At the amusement park?” Astrid asks.

“What, a girl can’t have some fun?” Clara retorts with a smile.

Clara joins them at the amusement park-- she and Jenny ride roller coasters together, and Astrid flies alongside them, a streak of blue. Clara is delighted when she sees Astrid keeping up with the coaster-- she’s arguably more excited about that than the ride itself.

The next day, Jenny and Astrid join Clara in going from university to university, looking for new books. Jenny finds a few on genetics and cloning that she buys for herself; she’s been trying to learn more about her own creation. Astrid’s been interested in speculative fiction lately; she can’t hold books herself, but Jenny went to a workshop on one of the planets they visited together and managed to rig up a page-turning device for her that works psychically. So she buys the books Astrid wants, too, and by the end she has two full bags.

Not that she can rival Clara’s collection, of course, which Jenny thinks might just wind up breaking Clara’s back. She has a stuffed backpack and three canvas bags besides.

“Good thing the TARDIS is bigger on the inside,” she says to Jenny and Astrid with a wink.

“How do you mean, bigger on the inside?” Jenny asks.

“I don’t know how it works,” Clara says. “Although eventually I’ll get some books on dimensional engineering. It’s just bigger on the inside than it is on the outside.”

“That’s amazing,” Astrid says, eyes wide.

Clara grins.

“Isn’t it?”

Clara invites them to go along with her, then, in her TARDIS. She can travel in time, she explains, but she’s still learning the controls, so it might be a bit bumpy.

“Although I used to fly with the most experienced pilot there is,” she says, “and he got lost all the time.”

Astrid and Jenny don’t mind getting lost. After all, it’s all they’ve been doing.

It takes them ages to realize that the “friend” Clara is always talking about is the Doctor. It takes them even longer to realize that Clara’s half-dead too, her heart stopped before her final breath. When they find out, they both laugh-- Clara looks offended until they explain why. It’s just such a coincidence, they say. A funny coincidence. All of them have met the Doctor, and all of them are half-dead.

Although maybe it’s not a coincidence-- after all, if you have all of time and space to contend with, you’re bound to bump into others like you eventually.

They go everywhere. They go back to see Astrid’s family on Sto before they died-- Astrid keeps her distance, scattered into blue light, and afterwards she cries on the floor of the TARDIS while Jenny tries to console her. They see the aurora of Broxton Maiora, and they find a planet where half the people have the faces of cats, and they get tangled up in a civil war that reminds Jenny uncomfortably of home.

They sit in the TARDIS, in the space between adventures-- Astrid and Clara don’t sleep, and Jenny doesn’t need nearly as much rest as most humans, so they just sit in the growing library. Clara’s found a sofa somewhere, and usually Jenny lies across it, her feet on Clara’s lap at one end, while Astrid floats nearby, and they talk until Jenny either goes to bed or falls asleep. (Either way, she always wakes up in a warm bed.)

“Do you ever feel like a leftover?” Clara asks one day. Astrid and Jenny don’t know what she means, but once she explains, they both agree.

“We’re what’s left when the Doctor leaves,” Astrid says, her eyes trained on the ceiling, or maybe on the stars.

“Better that than dead because he wasn’t there,” Jenny says. Clara’s told them enough stories by now that Jenny has a picture of what the Doctor does for people. He saves worlds, Clara says. (She hasn’t said it, but Jenny gets the feeling that Clara’s saved her share, too.)

“I wonder sometimes,” Clara says. “I wasn’t ready to die, but I don’t know that I was ready to be immortal, either.”

“Can’t you go back and face the raven anytime?” Jenny asks.

“I suppose,” Clara says. “But it could always be a mistake. I haven’t seen everything yet.”

“Maybe we’re not leftovers,” Astrid says. “We’ve found each other. We’re living for ourselves. I think we’re just travelers.”

“I like that,” Jenny says. “I love our traveling.”

“Me, too,” Astrid admits, a gleam in her eye.

It’s a few adventures after that conversation, on a crowded walkway through a forest of trees bigger around than Jenny’s old spaceship and as tall as anything she’s seen, that she feels something wet brush against her. She looks up, but the sun is streaming through the branches; she looks to either side, but she just sees a crowd of people.

But then she catches something out of the corner of her eye, and she turns. A confused Clara taps her on the shoulder, but Jenny is distracted by the two women right next to her, looking up at the trees with water absolutely dripping from every inch of their skin. Jenny taps one of them on the shoulder-- her hand sort of goes through, like the woman’s actually made of water. But she turns, and Jenny realizes she doesn’t know what to say now.

Luckily, Clara’s picked up on what’s happening.

“Are you made of water?” she asks, her face the picture of innocent curiosity.

“Sort of,” the woman says. “Not really.”

Just then, Astrid, who’s been floating above them as blue light, materializes fully next to Jenny, and the woman raises both her eyebrows.

“What’re you, then?” she asks.

“Teleportation energy,” Astrid says. “I’m sort of a ghost.”

“How’d you get that way?”

“How’d you get to be water?” Jenny asks.

“Who says I wasn’t always?” the woman retorts. “Could be a-- a water alien.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” her companion says, one hand on the woman’s arm, an affectionate note in her voice. “Of course we weren’t always water. We might not always be water, either. That’s what’s beautiful about us. We’re so temporary.”

“That’s a bit deep,” the woman says. “I’m Bill, by the way. And this is my girlfriend Heather.”

Heather smiles. She looks a little like a puzzle, Jenny thinks. She wonders whether it’s on purpose.

“I’m Jenny,” she says. “And these are my friends, Astrid and Clara. We’re all dead.”

“Me too,” Bill says, a smile beginning to form on her face. It’s not necessarily a joyous smile, or a malicious one. It’s more-- a curious smile. An interested smile. A smile Jenny’s seen a million times on Clara or Astrid, but not so much on anyone else. She smiles back with just as much curiosity, and Bill and Heather join Jenny, Clara, and Astrid on their walk.

Bill and Heather turn out to be fascinating. They’ve been traveling together for years, and separately before that, Heather says, and they have all sorts of stories. They’ve been all over the universe. Jenny can’t quite figure out the physics of their travel-- or their existence-- but then again, she’s never quite worked out how Astrid’s ghost thing works, either, or how it is that Clara doesn’t need to breathe.

She knows what’s going to happen before it does. She feels like she shares something with Bill and Heather, the same way she feels about Astrid and Clara. There’s a sort of nebulousness that they all five have, a sort of liminal existence. Hovering between life and death, traveling the stars.

So it’s not a surprise when Bill mentions the Doctor, and it’s not a surprise when Clara asks if they want to join the next adventure in the TARDIS. And it’s not a surprise when Bill and Heather agree.

They go off together, a TARDIS full of liminal women.

And that’s it: the five of them, traveling, seeing the stars together. They all come from different places, they all have different stories, but they love each other like a family.  They've all died, or come close, and they're all still dealing with what that means, but they deal with it together. 

Eventually, of course,  Clara decides it’s time for her to die. Jenny feels herself, ever so slowly, beginning to age. But they pick up more stragglers, more liminal women, all of whom have fantastical stories about almost being saved, and their number waxes and wanes, throughout all of time and space.

[stark-industries-intern]

The Beginnings of a Sick Day

[Aka a Character draft/drabble]

“How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons, that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us. So you must not be frightened if sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen. If a restiveness; like light and cloud-shadows, passes over your hands and all that you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and that it will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any miseries or any depressions? For after all, you do not know what work these conditions are doing inside of you…”-Rainer Maria Rilke

Peter Parker has always felt a little uncomfortable within his own skin; his head of unruly curls barely meeting the upper-lip of most of the girls within his year. His limbs never really coordinated with his inner-demands, always knocking into broader shoulders and locker doors and his brain (too eager…too sharp) always seemed to plow forward without the slightest regard for the knotting of his inept tongue. Unless of course, it came to the naming of the 1065 known planets that formed a part of the Galactic Empire, coupled with their respective orbital periods. Cough. It was a feat not to cringe at the dusting of his ruddy, Parker-Brand freckles, the high-pitched wheeze of his lungs when he had to pick up the pace as Mister Dawson’s dog came barreling down the staircase to nip at his heels; or to stab (prod earnestly) at the indents on either side of his nose due to falling asleep with his glasses on for the utmost time that week. Needless to say self-esteem was always an issue with Peter when it came to his physical prowess and attributes (be it genetic or no)—but this—this was taking it to plain, ludicrous, could-never-hope-to-forgive-oneself levels. A grunt clawed its way past his lips as he adjusted the straps of his backpack for the fiftieth time since waving goodbye to Ned and stumbling away from the bus stop, his sneakers scuffing gum from gravel as it was just too much effort to bend his knees, much less lift his feet. Thin beads of sweat were already pooling along the nape of his neck, despite the crisp, autumn air and his vision (indent causing glasses be damned) was starting to blur people and fire hydrants together.

Two streets from the train station, Peter actually had to stop to suck in some air, a hand coming up to clutch at the fence he was leaning against. God, a C in gym class couldn’t possibly warrant this much fatigue, could it? He didn’t even have PE that day as it was mostly spent on a bus to and from Oscorp…but oh he was spent, small tremors starting to rake their way through his fingers as he continued to struggle for breath. Perhaps the common cold got the jump on him? Backtracking through the motions of the day whilst blinking at a crumpled wrapper stuck to the underside of his worn tennis shoes, Peter vaguely recalled Betty Brant dabbing at her nose a few times during one of their guide’s rants on the OZ Serum; in addition to a hazy image of Sally coughing (laughing?) into the crook of her arm—An unfortunate state of affairs with his Spanish test coming up, but with no other alternative popping up for Peter’s frail, possibly-shot (at least more so than usual. Cough x2) biometrics, the teen could only heave himself up with bitter acceptance and start to stagger forward once again. The quicker he got home, the better for the headache starting to bloom behind his sockets.

Slumping onto the hard, plastic seat could only be likened to ‘Nirvana’, a choir of seraphs bursting into song somewhere/everywhere as the teen’s sweaty forehead instantly pressed against the window. In a span of just fifteen minutes Peter has gone from tremors and clattering teeth, to accumulating enough sweat to fill up the Grand Canyon. His hair stuck to his face in sleek tendrils, his clothes feeling like mummy binds. He would have up and undressed if it wasn’t such a sin to lift his arms. Peter just couldn’t/wouldn’t do it. So death by drowning it was–drowning in one’s own salty exudate, but by god, death sounded amazing.

Three seats down, someone was scribbling on a notepad, feet constantly scraping and tapping out a random rhythm. The vibration of sound was enough to cause the teen’s brows to lift and furrow as he tried (and failed) to fold more into himself. Just let the drowning commence. Please, please. We all have to become one with the Force some time. Despite the train not being all that crowded and despite his desperate inner-musings, an older gentlemen still chose to drop into the seat next to him, darkened hues appraising him for a moment, before unfurling a ratty copy of the Bugle. Grinding against a sudden wave of nausea, Peter refused to acknowledge his pointed over-the-paper glances. He wanted sixteen Tylenols and a hug; he wanted the train to start moving. It was hot, sweltering even, shaky digits coming up to wipe some of the wetness from his eyes, before settling on a raised bump at the back of his neck; another foible in this bizarre, super cold and seemed to be where all of the unbearable heat was pulsing from. Peter’s lips parted in a weary (disgusted) moan, sticky fingers flittering more gently over the warm raise of skin a second time. What the…what even was that? A mosquito bite? Did he like, contract Malaria over an eight hour period?’ The thoughts tumbled together, half-processed, as the boy twisted and turned listlessly within his seat in an attempt to peer at his neck via his reflection. The only given blessing was that the train finally lurched forward, each passing blur signalling the comfort of Peter’s unmade sheets.

Neurons halted and latched onto the logic of a terrible, horrible flu once exhaustion caused the teen to decline back against the plastic trim of his seat, his muscles unwilling to stretch and bend any further and his orbs stinging due to the overhead cart florescents. Passing roofs and windows soon muddled into the familiar memory of a playground, his legs dangling from his perch on top of the red, metal bars. Ben and May used to bring him to said park every afternoon since his parents died. It was vast, with many different climbers, slides and an impressive merry-go-round, hitherto Peter always went straight for the towering, iron dome, heaving himself to the very top, before he settled. He would sit in that same spot for hours, brown hues flittering between the different clusters of families and their erstwhile pets. Sometimes Ben would sit with him, sometimes May, but every time there would be double cheese sandwiches to end off the trip, whilst neither one tried to make him go on any of the other playground structures, not even once. Peter honestly loved them all the more for it.

It wasn’t until he felt an unfamiliar weight press against his shoulder that Peter startled, realizing that the train had stopped and that he had fallen asleep somewhere mid-ride. Murky, doe orbs blinked up at his elderly co-passenger as he held out his backpack towards him, cogs trying to turn and shift back into place. Swallowing a few times (two, maybe three?) Peter barely managed to croak an embarrassed ‘thanks’, before taking hold of his pack straps. His headache has escalated considerably whilst drowsing and a new wave of panic hit the teen at the thought of rising to his feet. If Peter could he would honestly just nest there against the cool surface of the window. He could live out the rest of High School from within his seat, ace his finals, attend prom, even apply to colleges—video calling interviews were a definite thing these days—Just as long as he didn’t have to put any weight on his anything. But, alas, ‘Parker Luck’ was always in play, more so when his literal, whole world was tremulous and scalding. Mister Co-passenger upped his Samaritan ways by coercing Peter to his feet and into the isle and it was just as well, since he highly doubted May would have taken kindly to his desired habitat.

Aunt May. He really /needed/ to get back.

The need didn’t deter the fact that each step taken was a battle, each blink of his lids causing more weight to settle within every fiber of his young being. It was almost like his very DNA was being reshuffled and set like cheap Scrabble tiles to spell out naught but ‘Pb’—which is what his backpack and his arms were made of, apparently. He definitely tripped a few times, clammy hands grabbing at the rails and/or random New Yorkers to try and steady himself. Disgruntled shouts and curses flew over his head, breathes coming in too short and too scarce to waste on empty apologies. The boy couldn’t tell you what happened to the elderly man with the Bugle if you threatened to maim a stray puppy, nor could he tell you how he managed to navigate the last few blocks from the station to find himself swaying in front of the Parker residence. He could only confirm that he has never been so utterly relieved to drink in the paint-specked wood and fraying ‘welcome!’ mat. It took another few agonizing attempts at willing his arms to rise and function (just one more time) before he managed to collapse across the threshold, his chest quaking and features scrunched in exertion. The bed of cheap carpet fibers felt like needle-points against his skin, but moving any further was no longer an option.

His mouth gaped a few times, but no words came out–or perhaps Peter just couldn’t hear anything over the churning/bubbling of blood within his ears. Once he finally managed to pry his lids apart, the teen found the lights to be a lot dimmer than when he first stumbled within his home, his safe haven. Heavy fingers flayed out before they were met with cold, cold porcelain, yet still not cold enough and the jerking of his shins caused water to ripple and heave onto tile. Blunt nails bit into the brim as Peter tried to push himself up and out of the lapping waters, but his shoulders were met with a warm (too warm) resistance when a sturdy palm pushed him back into the tub once more.

It felt like hours, years, eons before the wetness gave way. His teeth rattled and clanged noisily as a gust of air bellowed over his sensitive skin. That same rush of air was soon chased off by the familiar smell of fabric softener and even softer arms. A broken sob gurgled up from his gullet, echoing about the small bathroom, afore he was tilting again, knees digging awkwardly into the ground, as his face was pressed into the crook of a neck. Soft murmurs vibrated against his cheek while practiced digits started to card through his clammy curls. Peter tried to focus on the mutters, tried to zone in on the elegiac brushing of pads against his scalp; of another heart-beat other than his own thrumming against his chest. Except there was only the hot sting of tears dribbling down his chin, the deep ache exuding within every Peter-atom and the queasiness building with every steady rock of his frame.

Nonetheless the whispers always won out at the end, notwithstanding the pain and confusion.

They trickled into his ears, down his throat and over the uneasy flutter of his stomach. He could not comprehend their meaning, could not reply in any way other than in garbled moans and pants. But he did not need to. The whispers understood anyways, always, as the gentle stroking of his hair paused long enough for another pair of hands to adjust the towel wound about his body like a burrito blanket, before lifting him up and away from the damp ground. The teen, already used to feeling utterly adrift and untethered since the start of his field trip, did not flail as much. Instead he grabbed on, pale hands wounding into cotton like he could root himself into place; imbed, burrow and fix his consciousness even as the edges of his vision started to grow hazy like a fog. And then there was the dip of his mattress, the scent of his worn sheets and a subtle warmth; not scalding, not prickling at his skin, but consoling like that of a nice cocoon and Peter finally relented; grip going slack once the fog swelled, unfurling into an unending blackness.

He would sleep. For now.

Sleep, until he was free from the sudden, ever altering temperatures and the ceaseless pang within the depths of his skull and nape of his neck. Until his biometrics reconciled with the ways of the world again and his only worries revolved around his lack of height and decent eye-sight. Yes, he would sleep, for now.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Direct approach not needed

Humans are weird: Direct approach not needed

For seven years the Human/Iltick war had been raging across the cosmos. Planets had fallen, reconquered, sacked, reinforced, pillaged, burned, and then rebuilt countless times all the while the space between the two galactic empires became an ever increasing grave yard of destroyed vessels.

Humans said it started when an Iltick security detail murdered a diplomatic mission, while Iltick said they were protecting themselves from hired mercenaries. In the end the who and the why didn’t matter anymore, only how it would end.

Aboard the Iltick flagship Crimson Prow, commander Gnarl would ensure that it was the Iltick that would emerge victorious.

Gnarl had learned through his spy networks that a human strike force had split off from their main fleet in a desperate gamble to strike at the Iltick homeworld. By making of series of random jumps that bypassed the advanced warning network employed by their alien foes, the humans had planned to emerge upon the unsuspecting Iltick forces and overwhelm their birth planet and strike a crippling morale blow to their foe.

To that end Gnarl had amassed a fleet of battleships, war spheres, heavy cruisers, and whatever other fleet fairing vessels that were within reach. This armada now circled the Iltick homeworld like rings of iron and patiently waited for their foe to wander into their trap.

Several days had passed since the spy networks warning when the human fleet finally arrived. Gnarl was sitting in his command throne when the first of the enemy vessels broke from their transition and returned to real space.

Unlike the Iltick vessels whose metal hulls had been carved from solid metal rather than pieced together the human vessels were ugly and bulky. Gun emplacements appeared across their decks like spuds of an overly ripe vegetable while the bridge held reinforced glass instead of being solid metal.

One by one the vessels began appearing, all the while the Iltick fleet began amassing to meet their foe. The Iltick held station above their worlds capital Jova and known well in advance that the humans would most likely strike it from orbit. Powerful shields had been erected on the planets surface  ensuring that even if the humans tried to bombard it nothing would get through.

As the final human vessel arrive the final numbers appear to be 30 human vessels built around a core of three battleships, and 123 Iltick vessels.

Gnarl watched as the smaller human vessels, mostly light cruisers and destroyers, rapidly began their attempts to form a battle line. Gnarl imagined the sheer terror and surprise going through the human captains as they realized their sneak attack had become a death trap for them.

On board his vessel and many other Iltick ships were camera crews who were recording the events as they unfolded which would then be turned into propaganda videos. Not wishing to prolong the battle and risk a potential setback that would reflect badly, Gnarl ordered his full force to assault the now formed human battle line.

Swarms of missiles and energy bursts shot out towards the human strike force as the swarm of Iltick vessels rushed in. Most had been repelled by activate shields, but some struck home and a human destroy erupted into a fireball after an energy lance struck the aft reactor before the shields could be fully raised.

Uncoordinated return fire greeted the onrushing Iltick as individual ships began picking their own targets and opening fire. Gnarl smiled at this now finding proof of the humans fear. Had they been of sound mind they would have grouped their shots to overwhelm the shields and fully destroy enemy vessels, but by targeting so many different ships at once the vast majority of the return fire was likewise being deflected by Iltick shields.

As the two forces closed the combat increased in intensity. While his sub commanders were laughing and smiling at the coming victory something was bothering Gnarl. Throughout the entire battle so far the human battleships had yet to fire a single shot.

Gnarl rose from his seat and strode to the tactical display. Looking at the placement of the enemy vessels, Gnarl noticed that rather than a standard battle line the human vessels had formed a protective perimeter around the battleships. He looked up from the display to the visual link and saw a human cruiser move out of line to place itself between an energy burst shot that had been aiming for the battleships in the rear. The cruiser’s shields flared and then shattered under the attack and the starboard gun emplacements melted away from the super heated energy.

Gnarl’s eyes widened as he gained a somewhat insight into the enemy plans. The enemy destroyers and cruisers were nothing to them for it was their battleships that held whatever key was needed for their victory. So much so that they were willing to sacrifice their own vessels and comrades to protect it.

Just as Gnarl saw the danger the human battleships guns finally fired. Their massive barrels had slowly traversed silently in the cold void of space before releasing a blind blast of light.

Gnarl braced for an impact that would be his last, but nothing came. He opened his eyes to see that he was still among the living and that none of his ships had been destroyed in the salvo. Smiling at his good fortune, Gnarl shouted commands for all Iltick vessels to target the human battleships.

A second salvo was fired and this time luck had run out for some unlucky Iltick. A warsphere took a round straight to the core and it simply imploded like a popped children’s balloon. Debris from the shattered sphere impacted surrounding Iltick ships causing secondary explosions which only seemed to urge Gnarl’s previous orders even more.

The third salvo was unleashed just as the Iltick ships met the human battle line head on and attempted to pass through it. Some ships colliding with each other while others unleashed devastating broadsides from point blank range. It was here that the human resolve for the battle finally broke and one by one the human vessels broke off and began jumping away.

While none of the battleships had been damaged before they jumped away, several more destroyers and cruisers vanished under a hail of fire before the last of the active human vessels retreated.

Over the communication links Gnarl could hear the cheers and praise being issued by the crew members of the Iltick fleet as what had been intended as a devastating blow against the Iltick had been turned into a black mark of defeat for the humans. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (8 hours later)

The massed throngs of Iltick citizens crowding the plaza made Gnarl feel claustrophobic as he stood behind the stage waiting to be introduced.

Following the battle he had performed a standard mop up operation of the remaining enemy vessels, but aside from a few strange energy readings the enemy fleet was entirely dead.

Gnarl had then been summoned by the Iltick high command to appear at a celebration at the capital he had saved from the human invaders.

With the energy shield down the night sky was glittering with countless stars and running lights of orbiting ships. Gnarl looked up and though some would say he was mad he tried to pick out the lights of his flagship which was no doubt watching over him as an honor guard.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder Gnarl looked down to see a stage hand motioning him to the stage as the speaker had just announced his name. The cheers of the crowd were loud enough to make the buttons of Gnarl’s parade uniform vibrate as he stepped on to the stage.

He waved his hand and smiled sheepishly to the crowd as he approached the podium, the effect somehow making the crowd cheer louder than before. Gnarl reached the podium and looked out over the crowds as his chest swelled with pride. Seeing the support of his people there was nay a doubt in his heart nor his mind of their inevitable victory over the treacherous humans and that one day soon the Iltick flag would wave high over their miserable dirt pile of a world.

As the crowds cheers began dying down Gnarl prepared to deliver his rehearsed opening remarks honoring his crew and those that had lost their lives in battle.

He had barely uttered the first syllable when the first warhead struck the city and his world turned to white.......   ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (8 hours earlier)

Marcus saw the Radiance move out of line and take the energy burst meant for his ship full on. He could nearly feel the aches and pains the tortured vessel must be going through.

“Weapons master Frig!” He shouted between issuing commands to the rest of his fleet. “We need those firing solutions five minutes ago!”

Not even bothering to look up from her console weapons master Frig continued performing calculations. “The planet’s data does not match the files we were given!” she angrily shouted back as she dashed from console to console. Th enemy shots were starting to find their home against the battleships shields and as she dashed she had to catch herself with each impact shudder that ran through the ship. “One wrong miscalculation and this entire operation was for nothing!”

Though Marcus wanted to challenge the weapons master she was right. Rather than arguing a point he couldn’t win he tapped the command keys of his ear mounted com device.

“This is Admiral Marcus of the Retribution hailing the Talwar and Deutschland, respond.”

“This is captain Anika of Talwar, good for go.”

“This is captain Emil of Deutschland, go to receive.”

“Prepare to receive targeting data for your main guns. Do not fire until you have the data, repeat, do not fire until you have the data.” “Roger. holding for data.” came both replied.

The viewport lit up as another destroyers shields were overwhelmed and torn to ribbons. The closeness of the explosion sent a shock wave through the Retribution and knocked Marcus off his feet.

He unsteadily regained his footing as the wall of enemy ships had now decided that a headlong rush was the best tactic.

“Weapons master!” he shouted as he found his way back to his command chair.

Frig’s hand shot a thumbs up as she reached the final terminal. “Uploading data now!”

From his command chair a screen of data began streaming in which was then fed down to the gunner crews not only aboard his ship but to the Deutschland and Talwar as well. As the ships gun icons flashed green one by one Marcus thrust out his arm and shouted “Fire!”

Though the void could not hear the roar of the guns the crew of the Retribution could feel the mighty ships weapons vibrate the entire ship as they spat burning fury towards their foe.

“Reload and fire!”

The command wasn’t necessary for Marcus to shout, but now at the peak of the battle it was all he could do. Days of calculated jumps and maneuvers had all led to this climatic battle that would decide the fate of the war.

“Belay that!” Frig shouted. “Enemy warsphere is blocking trajectory! I must recalculate around it!”

“Belay that belay that!” Marcus shouted over her. “We do not have time to wait, they’ll be on us in minutes!”

The enemy vessels had redoubled their efforts to close the gap and the shield wall the destroyers and cruisers were providing was steadily being chipped away.

“Talwar, Deutschland; wait until after the warsphere has been destroyed then fire your next two salvos. After our third the strike force is to break orbit and make for the rendezvous point!”

A chorus of replies came in as the Retribution fired its second salvo and utterly destroyed the enemy warsphere.

The following salvos from the other battleships easily passed through the gap now opened by the absent warsphere. As the three warships reloaded for their third and final salvo the enemy fleet was now mixing within the battle line. All Marcus could do was pray that the plan would work and that those who had died had not died in vain... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (8 hours later)

High in orbit, circling the planet for the last several hours since the battle had ended, the warheads fired from the battleships had slowly begun their descent.

Fired from hard shells rather than from rockets, the shells had bypassed the energy scanners of the enemy fleet that had scoured the battlefield after the human fleet had fled. The radiation signatures being the only give away but were thankfully masked by the debris clouds.

Carried by the planets gravity along specifically calculated routes, the shells flown around the planet several times before impacting at their target location.

The capital city had their shields deployed during the entire battle and for several hours after in case of falling debris, but with the passage of time the shields had been deactivated and thus allowing the warheads to impact the capital directly.

Space ships were designed to in some cases withstand warhead explosions if done correctly; the capital city was not.

The rain of warheads dotted the entire city reducing what had once been the nerve center of the greatest threat to humanity to a irradiated pile of waste and the once proud cheers from across their empire were turned into cries of despair as the wrath of humanity was brought to bear.

[domina-alba]

Domina Alba

Hey Everyone, These are the chapters that were initially posted to Ao3 and FFN so if you’ve already read Domina Alba feel free to skip! If you haven’t read Domina Alba you can find information about the fic Here.

I

It wasn’t often that the gem Homeworld attempted to colonize worlds with intelligent life. As White Diamond ran through the halls of the hastily constructed base, her black hair sticking out even more with her own speed,  she wondered yet again if the Gem Empire needed to reconsider where they drew the line at intelligent. 

The beasts, ‘Flail Legs’ as the gems stationed there had taken to calling them, may not have been capable of discernible speech but they were certainly capable of strategizing enough to have overrun much of the eastern section of the base before any of the rest of the base had noticed.

“Fall Back!” White Diamond bellowed as she blew past a squad of Ruby’s coming in from a patrol. “Fall back to the ship now! There's been a breach” The Ruby’s panicked until her order reached the ears of one of the Agates who shoved them in the direction of the drop ship. The evacuation alarm was sounded and White Diamond kept running, her quarters and Pearl were at the back of the base. Behind her she could hear the sounds of battle and Agates barking orders. She rounded a corner and ran smack into a tall white and grey gem, the recoil knocking her to the floor.

“My Diamond! I’m sorry, so sorry” Milky Quartz 3NY said helping White Diamond to her feet. White Diamond rubbed her nose, checking that she hadn’t broken it, again.

“It’s fine I’m fine we need to get out of here.” White Diamond said waving off the quartz, She looked and saw another Milky Quartz, 6GS staring at her worried.

“What happened.”

“It’s those Flail legs, they’ve broken through the walls, the eastern section is gone,” White Diamond said, then looked around, usually there was a third with them. “Wheres 9ZQ?” She asked. 6GS and 3NY looked at each other then back at their diamond.

“She was in the Eastern section.”

“Frack.” White said. She looked behind her at the chaos then at the two quartzes. “Alright. I’m going to find her, you two get Pearl on the ship, don’t let her wait for me, get her on the drop ship. 9ZQ and I will catch up.”

“My Diamond, Me and 6GS will go, you really shouldn-” 3NY began.

“Don’t tell me what to do Quartz.” White diamond said reaching to her gem and drawing a long blue bladed sword from it. “I’m going to find my soldier, I’ll catch up. That’s an order.” Both quartzes pursed their lips and nodded, then saluted her.

“Yes My Diamond!”

“Go!” She said before turning back and heading into the fray.

Where she had just been moments before was devoid of life either Gem or Flail Leg. She ran into the first of the creatures moments after she had passed the room where the Rubies had been. It was on the ceiling above her and flipped down in front of her face, snapping at her with three mouths moments before she ran it through with her sword. The creature fell with an shriek of pain and it’s acidic blood ate through White Diamonds boots.

She jumped away from the body and saw that it was not alone, dozens of the creatures filled the hall, she could see the glint of gems on the floor, some of them in the creatures mouths. Dread shivered up White Diamonds spine. There was no way she could save them all. She glanced around as she backed away from the creatures. She saw openings, in the floors, in the creature's defenses and saw red jewels lying untouched for now. She couldn’t save them all, but she would save what she could.

White Diamond let out battle cry from deep inside her as she ran forward, and leaped over the first line of the Flail Legs,. She drew another sword. She swung with long calculated swings to attack as many of the creatures as possible. She reached the clump of rubies ,dropped the sword in her left hand, grabbed them, and shoved them in the pocket of her coat hoping beyond hope that the gems would wait until they were back on the ship to reform. She bounced with one foot off the now empty space. Drew another sword and allowed herself to glide through the enemies cutting down all that reached for her.

She landed with a roll into the empty space in the Eastern section.

She gathered a Lapis’ gem and an agates along with a hand full of assorted quartzes that weren't cracked too badly. Her pockets we're getting full but she still hadn’t found 9ZQ. The Eastern section was unrecognizable. Tables and workstations overturned, bodies and shards covered the floor. And unlike the deafening tunnel of death she had just gone through it was quiet. White Diamond walked softly through the gore and shards, wincing as the monsters blood leaked into her shoe and she cut her feet on chunks of gems.

She poked her head into each room, scanning it for 9ZQ, poofed or un-poofed. She rounded one corner and saw the flash of a blade heading for her face. White Diamond sprung back into a defensive position and then relaxed when she saw a Milky Quartz with a slightly uneven bicep gem holding it.

“Oh,” 9ZQ said with relief “it's you, sorry about that Domina.” the quartz was holding another passel of gems in the crook of the arm that wasn’t holding a push sword.

“Rather you than one of those things.” White Diamonds said “Any others?”

“Nah just me, have the ships left yet?”

“I really hope not” she said turning to find an exit to the outside of the planet.

“Not that I'm not thankful” Milky Quartz said following her out a hole in the wall and into the desert that surrounded the base, “But you really shouldn’t be doing this my diamond.”

“Father always told me that all good leaders fight alongside their people, so that’s what I’m going to do.” White Diamond said, the ships were still there thank goodness, the last of the gems being loaded on, she started to jog towards the crowds.

“Uh huh, pretty sure your going to get yourself hurt if your not careful though” Milky Quartz asked keeping up with her easily. White diamond waved it off.

“Eh, wouldn’t be the first time.” She said before sliding into the ship’s cargo bay. “Everyone out Mossy?” She asked, She handed the gems from her pocket to a nearby Peridot and nodded to 6GS and 3NY who were reuniting with their comrade.

“You and 9ZQ are the last ones my Diamond” Mossy Agate said, gesturing for the door to be closed.

“Good, Tell a Nephrite to get us into orbit while I figure out how to salvage this.” White Diamond said already making for her quarters above the command center, a relieved looking Pearl following her.

Her quarters were set up a little bit different than the other diamonds, White had more needs than your average diamond. But the privacy from the rest of the ship was worth the walk. Pearl opened the door for her without White having to say anything which boded poorly. Usually they went through a whole charade of White Diamond opening the door for her when they were alone. Her suspicions were proved right when, as soon as the door closed Pearl let her guard drop.

“What in stars name do you think you were doing Domina!” Pearl shouted at her. White Diamond, Domina to those who bothered to use the name her father gave her, held up her hands in defense to the tiny pale pink Pearl.

“I had to do something we couldn’t just leave 9ZQ behind!”

“She’s a Quartz, it’s her job, She’s replaceable, Rubies are replaceable, Pearl’s are replaceable,” The Pearl said gesticulating wildly “Your White Diamond, Domina, You are not!” Domina rolled her eyes.

“Yes yes so you tell but you know it’s not true. No one is replaceable.” Domina said. Pearl gave her a world weary sigh.

“You know other Pearls don’t have to deal with their owners being so reckless”

“Yeah but really.” Domina said letting a smile creep onto her lips “Would you have it any other way?” Pink Pearl shook her head and hugged the 6’10” Diamond, her ovaluar belly gem bumping into the buttons on Domina’s coat.

“Promise me you won’t scare me like that again.” she muttered.

“I’ll do my best.” Domina said squeezing Pearl gently.

“You better,” She said pulling away, “I will see if I can find you another set of clothes that haven’t been savaged by the local wildlife.”  Domina nodded.

“I’m going to clean up and take a nap. If any one important calls tell them I’m contemplating how best to recover from this momentary setback.” Domina said removing her coat and handed it to Pearl.

“And if they're not important my diamond?” Pearl asked with a quirk of her lips.

“You have my full permission to tell them to go frack themselves.”